miss philly firkin, the china-woman. by mary russell mitford in belford regis, as in many of those provincial capitals of the south of england, whose growth and importance have kept pace with the increased affluence and population of the neighbourhood, the principal shops will be found clustered in the close, inconvenient streets of the antique portion of the good town; whilst the more showy and commodious modern buildings are quite unable to compete in point of custom with the old crowded localities, which seem even to derive an advantage from the appearance of business and bustle occasioned by the sharp turnings, the steep declivities, the narrow causeways, the jutting-out windows, and the various obstructions incident to the picturesque but irregular street-architecture of our ancestors. accordingly, oriel street, in belford,--a narrow lane, cribbed and confined on the one side by an old monastic establishment, now turned into alms-houses, called the oriel, which divided the street from that branch of the river called the holy brook, and on the other bounded by the market-place, whilst one end abutted on the yard of a great inn, and turned so sharply up a steep acclivity that accidents happened there every day, and the other _terminus_ wound with an equally awkward curvature round the churchyard of st stephen's,--this most strait and incommodious avenue of shops was the wealthiest quarter of the borough. it was a provincial combination of regent street and cheapside. the houses let for double their value; and, as a necessary consequence, goods sold there at pretty nearly the same rate; horse-people and foot-people jostled upon the pavement; coaches and phaetons ran against each other in the road. nobody dreamt of visiting belford without wanting something or other in oriel street; and although noise, and crowd, and bustle, be very far from usual attributes of the good town, yet in driving through this favoured region on a fine day, between the hours of three and five, we stood a fair chance of encountering as many difficulties and obstructions from carriages, and as much din and disorder on the causeway as we shall often have the pleasure of meeting with out of london. one of the most popular and frequented shops in the street, and out of all manner of comparison the prettiest to look at, was the well-furnished glass and china warehouse of philadelphia firkin, spinster. few things are indeed more agreeable to the eye than the mixture of glittering cut glass, with rich and delicate china, so beautiful in shape, colour, and material, which adorn a nicely-assorted showroom of that description. the manufactures of sèvres, of dresden, of derby, and of worcester, are really works of art, and very beautiful ones too; and even the less choice specimens have about them a clearness, a glossiness, and a nicety, exceedingly pleasant to look upon; so that a china-shop is in some sense a shop of temptation: and that it is also a shop of necessity, every housekeeper who knows to her cost the infinite number of plates, dishes, cups, and glasses, which contrive to get broken in the course of the year, (chiefly by that grand demolisher of crockery ware called nobody,) will not fail to bear testimony. miss philadelphia's was therefore a well accustomed shop, and she herself was in appearance most fit to be its inhabitant, being a trim, prim little woman, neither old nor young, whose dress hung about her in stiff regular folds, very like the drapery of a china shepherdess on a mantel-piece, and whose pink and white complexion, skin, eyebrows, eyes, and hair, all tinted as it seemed with one dash of ruddy colour, had the same professional hue. change her spruce cap for a wide-brimmed hat, and the damask napkin which she flourished in wiping her wares, for a china crook, and the figure in question might have passed for a miniature of the mistress. in one respect they differed the china shepherdess was a silent personage. miss philadelphia was not; on the contrary, she was reckoned to make, after her own mincing fashion, as good a use of her tongue as any woman, gentle or simple, in the whole town of belford. she was assisted in her avocations by a little shopwoman, not much taller than a china mandarin, remarkable for the height of her comb, and the length of her earrings, whom she addressed sometimes as miss wolfe, sometimes as marianne, and sometimes as polly, thus multiplying the young lady's individuality by three; and a little shopman in apron and sleeves, whom, with equal ingenuity, she called by the several appellations of jack, jonathan, and mr. lamb--mister!--but who was really such a cock-o'-my-thumb as might have been served up in a tureen, or baked in a pie-dish, without in the slightest degree abridging his personal dimensions. i have known him quite hidden behind a china jar, and as completely buried, whilst standing on tip-toe, in a crate, as the dessert-service which he was engaged in unpacking. whether this pair of originals was transferred from a show at a fair to miss philips warehouse, or whether she had picked them up accidentally, first one and then the other, guided by a fine sense of congruity, as she might match a wineglass or a tea-cup, must be left to conjecture. certain they answered her purpose, as well as if they had been the size of gog and magog; were attentive to the customers, faithful to their employer, and crept about amongst the china as softly as two mice. the world went well with miss philly firkin in the shop and out. she won favour in the sight of her betters by a certain prim, demure, simpering civility, and a power of multiplying herself as well as her little officials, like yates or matthews in a monopolologue, and attending to half-a-dozen persons at once; whilst she was no less popular amongst her equals in virtue of her excellent gift in gossiping. nobody better loved a gentle tale of scandal, to sweeten a quiet cup of tea. nobody evinced a finer talent for picking up whatever news happened to be stirring, or greater liberality in its diffusion. she was the intelligencer of the place--a walking chronicle. in a word, miss philly firkin was certainly a prosperous, and, as times go, a tolerably happy woman. to be sure, her closest intimates, those very dear friends, who as our confidence gives them the opportunity, are so obliging as to watch our weaknesses and report our foibles,--certain of these bosom companions had been heard to hint, that miss philly, who had refused two or three good matches in her bloom, repented her of this cruelty, and would probably be found less obdurate now that suitors had ceased to offer. this, if true, was one hidden grievance, a flitting shadow upon a sunny destiny; whilst another might be found in a circumstance of which she was so far from making a secret, that it was one of her most frequent topics of discourse. the calamity in question took the not un-frequent form of a next-door neighbour. on her right dwelt an eminent tinman with his pretty daughter, two of the most respectable, kindest, and best-conducted persons in the town; but on her left was an open bricked archway, just wide enough to admit a cart, surmounted by a dim and dingy representation of some horned animal, with "the old red cow" written in white capitals above, and "james tyler, licensed to sell beer, ale, wine, and all sorts of spirituous liquors," below; and down the aforesaid passage, divided only by a paling from the spacious premises where her earthenware and coarser kinds of crockery were deposited, were the public-house, stables, cowhouses, and pigsties of mr. james tyler, who added to his calling of publican, the several capacities of milkman, cattle dealer, and pig merchant, so that the place was one constant scene of dirt and noise and bustle without and within;--this old red cow, in spite of its unpromising locality, being one of the best frequented houses in belford, the constant resort of drovers, drivers, and cattle dealers, with a market dinner on wednesdays and saturdays, and a club called the jolly tailors, every monday night. master james tyler--popularly called jem--was the very man to secure and increase this sort of custom. of vast stature and extraordinary physical power, combined with a degree of animal spirits not often found in combination with such large proportions, he was at once a fit ruler over his four-footed subjects in the yard, a miscellaneous and most disorderly collection of cows, horses, pigs, and oxen, to say nothing of his own five boys, (for jem was a widower,) each of whom, in striving to remedy, was apt to enhance the confusion, and an admirable lord of misrule at the drovers' dinners and tradesmen's suppers over which he presided. there was a mixture of command and good-humour, of decision and fun, in the gruff, bluff, weather-beaten countenance, surmounted with its rough shock of coal-black hair, and in the voice loud as a stentor, with which he now guided a drove of oxen, and now roared a catch, that his listeners in either case found irresistible. jem tyler was the very spirit of vulgar jollity, and could, as he boasted, run, leap, box, wrestle, drink, sing, and shoot (he had been a keeper in his youth, and still retained the love of sportsmanship which those who imbibe it early seldom lose) with any man in the county. he was discreet, too, for a man of his occupation; knew precisely how drunk a journeyman tailor ought to get, and when to stop a fight between a somersetshire cattle-dealer and an irish pig-driver. no inquest had ever sat upon any of his customers. small wonder, that with such a landlord the old red cow should be a hostelry of unmatched resort and unblemished reputation. the chief exception to jem tyler's almost universal popularity was beyond all manner of doubt his fair neighbour miss philadelphia firkin. she, together with her trusty adherents, miss wolfe and mr. lamb, held jem, his alehouse, and his customers, whether tailor, drover, or dealer, his yard and its contents, horse or donkey, ox or cow, pig or dog, in unmeasured and undisguised abhorrence: she threatened to indict the place as a nuisance, to appeal to the mayor; and upon "some good-natured friend" telling her that mine host had snapped his fingers at her as a chattering old maid, she did actually go so far as to speak to her landlord, who was also jem's, upon the iniquity of his doings. this worthy happening, however, to be a great brewer, knew better than to dismiss a tenant whose consumption of double x was so satisfactory. so that miss firkin took nothing by her motion beyond a few of those smoothening and pacificatory speeches, which, when administered to a person in a passion, have, as i have often observed, a remarkable tendency to exasperate the disease. at last, however, came a real and substantial grievance, an actionable trespass; and although miss philly was a considerable loser by the mischance, and a lawsuit is always rather a questionable remedy for pecuniary damage, yet such was the keenness of her hatred towards poor jem, that i am quite convinced that in her inmost heart (although being an excellent person in her way, it is doubtful whether she told herself the whole truth in the matter) she rejoiced at a loss which would enable her to take such signal vengeance over her next-door enemy. an obstreperous cow, walking backward instead of forward, as that placid animal when provoked has the habit of doing, came in contact with a weak part of the paling which divided miss firkin's back premises from master tyler's yard, and not only upset mr. lamb into a crate of crockery which he was in the act of unpacking, to the inexpressible discomfiture of both parties, but miss wolfe, who, upon hearing the mixture of crash and squall, ran to the rescue, found herself knocked down by a donkey who had entered at the breach, and was saluted as she rose by a peal of laughter from young sam tyler, jem's eldest hope, a thorough pickle, who, accompanied by two or three other chaps as unlucky as himself, sat quietly on a gate surveying and enjoying the mischief. "i'll bring an action against the villain!" ejaculated miss philly, as soon as the enemy was driven from her quarters, and her china and her dependants set upon their feet:--"i'll take the law of him!" and in this spirited resolution did mistress, shopman, and shopwoman, find comfort for the losses, the scratches, and the bruises of the day. this affray commenced on a thursday evening towards the latter end of march; and it so happened that we had occasion to send to miss philly early the next morning for a cart-load of garden-pots for the use of my geraniums. our messenger was, as it chanced, a certain lad by name dick barnett, who has lived with us off and on ever since he was the height of the table, and who originally a saucy, lively, merry boy, arch, quick-witted, and amusing, has been indulged in giving vent to all manner of impertinences until he has become a sort of privileged person, and takes, with high or low, a freedom of speech that might become a lady's page or a king's jester. every now and then we feel that this licence, which in a child of ten years old we found so diverting, has become inconvenient in a youth of seventeen, and favour him and ourselves with a lecture accordingly. but such is the force of inveterate habit that our remonstrances upon this subject are usually so much gravity wasted upon him and upon ourselves. he, in the course of a day or two, comes forth with some fresh prank more amusing than before, and we (i grieve to confess such a weakness) resume our laughter. to do justice, however, to this modern robin goodfellow, there was most commonly a fund of goodnature at the bottom of his wildest tricks or his most egregious romances,--for in the matter of a jest he was apt to draw pretty largely from an inventive faculty of remarkable fertility; he was constant in his attachments, whether to man or beast, loyal to his employers, and although idle and uncertain enough in other work, admirable in all that related to the stable or the kennel--the best driver, best rider, best trainer of a greyhound, and best finder of a hare, in all berkshire. he was, as usual, accompanied on this errand by one of his four-footed favourites, a delicate snow-white greyhound called mayfly, of whom miss philly flatteringly observed, that "she was as beautiful as china;" and upon the civil lady of the shop proceeding to inquire after the health of his master and mistress, and the general news of aberleigh, master ben, who well knew her proficiency in gossiping, and had the dislike of a man and a rival to any female practitioner in that art, checked at once this condescending overture to conversation by answering with more than his usual consequence: "the chief news that i know, miss firkin, is, that our geraniums are all pining away for want of fresh earth, and that i am sent in furious haste after a load of your best garden-pots. there's no time to be lost, i can tell you, if you mean to save their precious lives. miss ada is upon her last legs, and master diomede in a galloping consumption--two of our prime geraniums, ma'am!" quoth dick, with a condescending nod to miss wolfe, as that lilliputian lady looked up at him with a stare of unspeakable mystification; "queerish names, a'nt they? well, there are the patterns of the sizes, and there's the order; so if your little gentleman will but look the pots out, i have left the cart in jem tyler's yard, (i've a message to jem from master,) and we can pack 'em over the paling. i suppose you've a ladder for the little man's use, in loading carts and waggons, if not jem or i can take them from him. there is not a better-natured fellow in england than jem tyler, and he'll be sure to do me a good turn any day, if it's only for the love of our mayfly here. he bred her, poor thing, and is well nigh as fond of her as if she was a child of his own; and so's sam. nay, what's the matter with you all?" pursued dick, as at the name of jem tyler miss wolfe turned up her hands and eyes, mr. lamb let fall the pattern pots, and miss philly flung the order upon the counter--"what the deuce is come to the people?" and then out burst the story of the last night's adventure, of mr. lamb's scratched face, which indeed was visible enough, of miss wolfe's bruises, of the broken china, the cow, the donkey, and the action at law. "whew!" whistled dick in an aside whistle; "going to law is she? we must pacify her if we can," thought he, "for a lawsuit's no joke, as poor jem would find. jem must come and speechify. it's hard if between us we can't manage a woman." "sad affair, indeed, miss firkin," said dick, aloud, in a soft, sympathising tone, and with a most condoling countenance; "it's unknown what obstropolous creatures cows and donkies are, and what mischief they do amongst gim-cracks. a brute of a donkey got into our garden last summer, and ate up half-a-dozen rose-trees and fuchsias, besides trampling over the flower-beds. one of the roses was a present from france, worth five guineas. i hope mr. lamb and miss wolfe are not much hurt. very sad affair! strange too that it should happen through jem tylers cattle--poor jem, who had such a respect for you!" "respect for me!" echoed miss philly, "when he called me a chattering old maid,--mrs. loveit heard him. respect for me!" "aye," continued dick, "it was but last monday was a fortnight that kit mahony, the tall pig-dealer, was boasting of the beauty of the tipperary lasses, and crying down our english ladies, whereupon, although the tap was full of irish chaps, jem took the matter up, and swore that he could show kit two as fine women in this very street--you, ma'am, being one, and miss parsons the other--two as fine women as ever he saw in tipperary. nay, he offered to lay any wager, from a pot of double x to half a score of his own pigs, that kit should confess it himself. now, if that's not having a respect i don't know what is," added dick, with much gravity; "and i put it to your good sense, whether it is not more likely that mrs. loveit, who is as deaf as a post, should be mistaken, than that he should offer to lay such a wager respecting a lady of whom he had spoken so disparagingly." "this will do," thought dick to himself as he observed the softening of miss philly's features and noted her very remarkable and unnatural silence--"this will do;" and reiterating his request that the order might be got ready, he walked out of the shop. "you'll find that i have settled the matter," observed the young gentleman to jem tyler, after telling him the story, "and you have nothing to do but to follow up my hints. did not i manage her famously? 'twas well i recollected your challenge to mahony, about that pretty creature, harriet parsons. it had a capital effect, i promise you. now go and make yourself decent; put on your sunday coat, wash your face and hands, and don't, spare for fine speeches. be off with you." "i shall laugh in her face," replied jem. "not you," quoth his sage adviser: "just think of the length of a lawyer's bill, and you'll be in no danger of laughing. besides, she's really a niceish sort of a body enough, a tidyish little soul in her way, and you're a gay widower--so who knows?" and home went dick, chuckling all the way, partly at his own good management, partly at the new idea which his quick fancy had started. about a fortnight after, i had occasion to drive into belford, attended as usual by master richard. the bells of st. stephen's were ringing merrily as we passed down oriel street, and happening to look up at the well-known sign of the old red cow, we saw that celebrated work of art surmounted by a bow of white ribbons--a bridal favour. looking onward to miss philly's door, what should we perceive but mr. lamb standing on the step with a similar cockade, half as big as himself, stuck in his hat; whilst miss wolfe stood simpering behind the counter, dispensing to her old enemy sam, and four other grinning boys in their best apparel, five huge slices of bridecake. the fact was clear. jem tyler and miss philly were married. transcriber's note: the original text noted chapters as , , etc. in the toc, and i, ii, iii etc. in chapter headers. these have been retained. * * * * * the love affairs of an old maid by lilian bell "_some ships reach happy ports that are not steered_" new york harper & brothers publishers copyright, , by harper & brothers. _all rights reserved._ dedication this book is dedicated very fondly to my beloved family, who, in their anxiety to render me material assistance, have offered me such diverse opinions as to its merit that their criticisms radiate from me in as many directions as there are spokes to a wheel. this leaves the distraught hub with no opinion of its own, and with flaring, ragged edges. nevertheless, thus must it appear before the public, whose opinion will be the tire which shall enable my wheel to revolve. if it be favorable, one may look for smooth riding; if unfavorable, one must expect jolts. preface it is a pity that there is no prettier term to bestow upon a girl bachelor of any age than old maid. "spinster" is equally uncomfortable, suggesting, as it does, corkscrew curls and immoderate attenuation of frame; while "maiden lady," which the ultra-punctilious substitute, is entirely too mincing for sensible, whole-souled people to countenance. i dare say that more women would have the courage to remain unmarried were there so euphonious a title awaiting them as that of "bachelor," which, when shorn of its accompanying adjective "old," simply means unmarried. the word "bachelor," too, has somewhat of a jaunty sound, implying to the sensitive ear that its owner could have been married--oh, several times over--if he had wished. but both "spinster" and "old maid" have narrow, restricted attributes, which, to say the least, imply doubt as to past opportunity. names are covertly responsible for many overt acts. carlyle, when he said, "the name is the earliest garment you wrap around the earth-visiting me. names? not only all common speech, but science, poetry itself, if thou consider it, is no other than a right naming," sounded a wonderful note in moral philosophy, which rings false many a time in real life, when to ring true would change the whole face of affairs. thus i boldly affirm, that were there a proper sounding title to cover the class of unmarried women, many a marriage which now takes place, with either moderate success or distinct failure, would remain in pleasing embryo. of the three evils among names for my book, therefore, i leave you to determine whether i have chosen the greatest or least. the writing of it came about in this way. in a conversation concerning modern marriage, the unwisdom people display in choice, and the complicated affair it has come to be from a pastoral beginning, i said lightly, "i shall write a book upon this subject some fine day, and i shall call it 'the love affairs of an old maid,' because popular prejudice decrees that the love affairs of an old maid necessarily are those of other people." no sooner had the name suggested in broad jest taken form in my mind than straightway every thought i possessed crystallized around it, and i found myself impelled by a malevolent fate to begin it. it became a fixed intention on a sunday morning in church during a most excellent sermon, the text and substance of which i have forgotten. doubtless more of real worth and benefit to mankind was pent up in that sermon than four books of my own writing could accomplish. but, with the delightful candor of john kendrick bangs, i explain my lapse of memory thus-- "i dote on milton and on robert burns; i love old marryat--his tales of pelf; i live on byron; but my heart most yearns towards those sweet things that i've penned myself." so the book has been written. the existence of the old maid often has been a precarious one; she has been surrounded by danger, once narrowly escaping cremation. but my humanity towards dumb brutes saved her. i might have sacrificed a woman, but i could not kill a cat. so she lives, unconsciously owing her life to her cat. thus she comes to you, bearing her friends in her heart. i should scarcely dare ask you to welcome her, did i not suspect that her friends are yours. you have your flossy and your charlie hardy without doubt. pray heaven you have a rachel to outweigh them. chicago, _march, _. contents chapter page . i introduce me to myself . i come into my kingdom . matrimony in harness . women as lovers . the heart of a coquette . the lonely childhood of a clever child . a study in human geese . a game of hearts . the madonna of the quiet mind . the pathos of faith . the hazard of a human die . in which i willingly turn my face westward the love affairs of on old maid * * * i i introduce me to myself "there is a luxury in self-dispraise; and inward self-disparagement affords to meditative spleen a grateful feast." to-morrow i shall be an old maid. what a trying thing to have to say even to one's self, and how vexed i should be if anybody else said it to me! nevertheless, it is a comfort to be brutally honest once in a while to myself. i do not dare, i do not care, to be so to everybody. but with my own self, i can feel that it is strictly a family affair. if i hurt my feelings, i can grieve over it until i apologize. if i flatter myself, i am only doing what every other woman in the world is doing in her innermost consciousness, and flattery as honest as flattery from one's own self naturally would be could not fail to please me. besides, it would have the unique value of being believed by both sides--a situation in the flattery line which i fancy has no rival. it is well to become acquainted with one's self at all hazards, and as i am going to be my own partner in the rubber of life, i can do nothing better than to study my own hand. so, to harrow up my feelings as only i dare to do, i write down that it is really true of me that i passed the first corner five years ago, and to-morrow i shall be . what a disagreeable figure a is; i never noticed it before. it looks so self-satisfied. and as to that fat, hollow which follows it--i always did detest round numbers. ; there it goes again. i must accustom myself to it privately, so i write it down once more, and it laughs in my face and mocks me. then i laugh back at it and say aloud that it is true, and for the time being i have cowed it and become its master. what boots it if the laughter is a trifle hollow? there is no harm in deceiving two miserable little figures. let me revel in my youth while i may. to-night i am a gay young thing of twenty-nine. to-morrow i shall be an old maid. i have very little time left in which to make myself ridiculous and have it excused on account of my youth. but somehow i do not feel very gay. i have a curious feeling about my heart, as if i were at a burial--one where i was burying something that i had always loved very dearly, but secretly, and which would always be a sweet and tender memory with me. i feel nervous, too, quite as if i did not know whether to laugh or to cry. i remember that alice asbury said she was hysterical just before she was married. i wonder if a woman's feelings on the eve of being an old maid are unlike those of one about to become a bride. my cat sits eying me with sleepy approval. i always liked cats. and tea. why have i never thought of it before? it is not my fault that i am an old maid. i was cut out for one. all my tendencies point that way. please don't blame me, good people. come here, tabby. you and missis will grow old together. after all, it is a sad thing when one realizes for the first time that one's youth is slipping away. but why? why do women of great intelligence, of intellect even, blush with pleasure at the implication of youth? there are fashions in thought as well as in dress, and the best of us follow both, as sheep follow their leader. we will sometimes follow our neighbor's line of insular prejudice, when worlds could not bribe us to copy her grammar or her gowns. dull people admire youth. they excuse its follies; they adore its prettiness. that it is only a period of education, and that real life begins with maturity, does not enter into their minds. the odor of bread and butter does not nauseate them. dull people, i say--and god pity us, most of us are dull--admire youth. men love it. therefore we all want to be young. we strive to be young, nay, we _will_ be young. i am no better than my neighbors. i, too, am young when i am with people. but there are times when i am alone when the strain of being young relaxes, and i luxuriate in being old, old, old, when i cease being contemporary, and look back fondly to the time when the world and i were in embryo. and yet i wonder if extreme age is as repulsive to everybody as it is to me. forty seems a long way off. i fancy people at forty become very uninteresting to the oncoming generation. fifty is grandmotherly and suitable for little else. sixty, seventy, and beyond seem to me one horrible jumble of wrinkles and wheezes and false beauty and general unpleasantness. oh, i hope, if i should live to be over fifty, that i may be a pleasant old person. i hope my teeth will fit me, and the parting to my wave be always in the middle. i hope my fingers will always come fully to the ends of my gloves, and that i never shall wear my spectacles on top of my head. but i hope more than all that it isn't wicked to wish to die before i come to these things. before i entirely lose my youth--in other words, before i become an old maid, let me see what i must give up. lovers, of course. that goes without saying. and if i give them up, it will not do to have their photographs standing around. they must be--oh! and their letters--must they too be destroyed? dear me, no! i'll just fold them all together and lay them away, like a wedding-dress which never has been worn. and i'll put girls' pictures or missionaries' or martyrs' into the empty frames. martyrs' would be most appropriate. now for a box to put them in. a pretty box, so that one who runs may read? not so, you sentimental elderly person. take this tin box with a lock on it. there you are, done up in a japanned box and padlocked. i would say that it looks like a little coffin if i wasn't afraid of what my alter ego would say. she seems cross to-night. i wonder what is the matter with her. she must be getting old. i should like to hang the key around my neck on a blue ribbon, but i am afraid. "what if you should be run over and killed," she says, "or should faint away in church? remember that you are an old maid." how disagreeable old maids can be! and i've got to live with this one always. i'll put the key in my purse. nice, sensible, prosaic place, a purse. how late it grows! i have only a little time left. i believe that clock is fast. dear, dear! do i want to just sit still and watch myself turn? i meant to have old age overtake me in my sleep. i think i'll stop that clock and let my youth fade from me unawares. ii i come into my kingdom "there is no compensation for the woman who feels that the chief relation of her life has been no more than a mistake. she has lost her crown. the deepest secret of human blessedness has half whispered itself to her and then forever passed her by." i have become an old maid, and really it is a relief. i feel as if i had left myself behind me, and that now i have a right to the interests of other people when they are freely offered. my friends always have confided in me. i suppose it is because i am receptive. men tell me their old love affairs. girls tell me the whole story of their engagements--how they came to take this man, and why they did not take that one. and even the most ordinary are vitally interesting. before i know it, i am rent with the same despair which agitates the lover confiding in me; or i am wreathed in the smiles of the engaged girl who is getting her absorbing secret comfortably off her mind. it seems to comfort them to air their emotion, and sometimes i am convinced that they leave the most of it with me. now i can feel at liberty to enjoy and sympathize as i will. well, the love affairs of other people are the rightful inheritance of old maids. in sharing them i am only coming into my kingdom. alice asbury has made shipwreck of hers. the girl is actively miserable and her husband is indifferently uncomfortable, which is the habit this married couple have of experiencing the same emotion. alice is a mass of contradictions to those who do not understand her--now in the clouds, now in the depths. bad weather depresses her; so does a sad story, the death of a kitten, solemn music. she is correspondingly volatile in the opposite direction and often laughs at real calamities with wonderful courage. she has a fund of romance in her nature which has led her to the pass she now is in. she is clever, too, at introspection and analysis--of herself chiefly. she studies her own sensations and dissects her moods. her selfishness is of the peculiar sort which should have kept her from marrying until she found the hundredth man who could appreciate her genius and bend it into nobler channels. unfortunately she married one of the ninety-nine. she is not, perhaps, more selfish than many another woman, but her selfishness is different. she is mentally cross-eyed from turning her eyes inward so constantly. she became engaged to brandt--a man in every way worthy of her--and they loved each other devotedly. then during a quarrel she broke the engagement, and he, being piqued by her withdrawal, immediately married may lawrence, who had been patiently in love with him for five years, and who was only waiting for some such turn as this to deliver him into her hands. a poetic justice visits him with misery, for he still cares for alice. may, however, is not conscious of this fact as yet. alice, being doubly stung by his defection, was just in the mood to do something desperate, when she began to see a great deal of asbury, fresh from being jilted by sallie cox. asbury was moody, and confided in alice. alice was foolish, and confided in him. they both decided that their hearts were ashes, love burned out, and life a howling wilderness, and then proceeded to exchange these empty hearts of theirs, and to go through the howling wilderness together. alice came to tell me about it. they had no love to give each other, she said sadly, but they were going to be married. i would have laughed at her if she had not been so tragic. but there is something about alice, in spite of her romantic folly, (which she has adapted from the french to suit her american needs,) which forbids ridicule. nevertheless i felt, with one of those sudden flashes of intuition, that this choice of hers was a hideous mistake. the situation repelled me. but the very strangeness of it seemed to attract the morbid alice. and it was this one curious strain of unexplained foolishness marring her otherwise strong and in many ways beautiful character which prevented my loving her completely and safely. nevertheless, i cared for her enough to enter my feeble and futile protest; but it was waved aside with the superb effrontery of a woman who feels that she controls the situation with her head, and whose heart is not at liberty to make uncomfortable complications. i would rather argue with a woman who is desperately in love, to prevent her marrying the man of her choice, than to try to dissuade a woman from marrying a man she has set her head upon. you feel sympathy with the former, and you have human nature and the whole glorious love-making past at your back, to give you confidence and eloquence. but with the latter you are cowed and beaten beforehand, and tongue-tied during the contest. so she became alice asbury, and these two blighted beings took a flat. before they had been at home from their honeymoon a week she came down to see me, and told me that she hated asbury. imagine a bride whose bouquet, only a month before, you had held at the altar, and heard her promise to love, honor, and obey a man until death did them part, coming to you with a confession like that. still, if but one half she tells me of him is true, i do not wonder that she hates him. with her revolutionary, anarchistic completeness, she has renounced the idea of compromise or adaptability as finally as if she had seen and passed the end of the world. there is no more pliability in her with regard to asbury than there is in a steel rod. how different she used to be with brandt! how she consulted his wishes and accommodated herself to him! when a woman born to be ruled by love only passes by her master spirit, she becomes an anomaly in woman--she makes complications over which the psychologist wastes midnight oil, and if he never discovers the solution, it is because of its very simplicity. all the sweetness seems to have left alice's nature. she keeps somebody with her every moment. that one guest chamber in her flat has been occupied by all the girls that she can persuade to visit her. asbury dislikes company, but she says she does not care. she cannot keep visitors long, because as soon as they discover that they are unwelcome to asbury, naturally they go home. fortunately, asbury does not care for sallie cox any more. when his vanity was wounded, his love died instantly. i think he is more in love with himself than he ever was with any woman. there are men, you know, whose one grand passion in life is for themselves. but alice knows that brandt still cares for her, and she feeds her romantic fancy on this fact, and has her introspective miseries to her heart's content. she is far too cool-headed a woman to do anything rash. sometimes i think her morbid nature obtains more real satisfaction out of her joyless situation than positive happiness would compensate her for. she appears to take a certain negative pleasure in it. their marriage is the product of a false civilization, and i pity them--at a distance--from the bottom of my heart. i am sorry for brandt, too, for he honestly loved alice and might have proved the hundredth man--who knows? i do not quite know whether to be sorry for may brandt or not, for she made complications and made them purposely. she made them so promptly, too, that she precluded the possibility of a reconciliation between alice and brandt. if brandt had remained single, i doubt whether alice would have had the courage to form an engagement with any other man. she loved him too truly to take the first step towards an eternal separation. women seldom dare make that first move, except as a decoy. they are naturally superstitious, and even when curiously free from this trait in everything else, they cling to a little in love, and dare not tempt fate too insolently. a woman who has quarrelled with her lover, in her secret heart expects him back daily and hourly, no matter what the cause of the estrangement, until he becomes involved with another woman. then she lays all the blame of his defection at the door of the alien, where, in the opinion of an old maid, it generally belongs. if other women would let men alone, constancy would be less of a hollow mockery. (query, but is it constancy where there is no temptation to be fickle?) nevertheless, let "another woman" sympathize with an estranged lover, and place a little delicate blame upon his sweetheart and flatter him a great deal, and _presto!_ you have one of those criss-cross engagements which turns life to a dull gray for the aching heart which is left out. if, too, when this honestly loving woman appears to take the first step, her actions and mental processes could be analyzed and timed, it frequently would prove that, with her quicker calculations, she foresaw the fatal effect of the "other-woman" element, and, desirous of protecting her vanity, reached blindly out to the nearest man at her command, and married him with magnificent effrontery, just to circumvent humiliation and to take a little wind out of the other woman's sails. but could you make her lover believe that? never. and so may lawrence played the "other woman" in the asbury tragedy. i wonder if she is satisfied with her rôle. a girl who wilfully catches a man's heart on the rebound, does the thing which involves more risk than anything else malevolent fate could devise. on the whole, i think i am sorry for her, for she has apples of sodom in her hand, although as yet to her delighted gaze they appear the fairest of summer fruit. iii matrimony in harness "what eagles are we still in matters that belong to other men; what beetles in our own!" the more i know of horses, the more natural i think men and women are in the unequalness of their marriages. i never yet saw a pair of horses so well matched that they pulled evenly all the time. the more skilful the driver, the less he lets the discrepancy become apparent. going up hill, one horse generally does the greater share of work. if they pull equally up hill, sometimes they see-saw and pull in jerks on a level road. and i never saw a marriage in which both persons pulled evenly all the time, and the worst of it is, i suppose this unevenness is only what is always expected. having no marriage of my own to worry over, it is gratuitous when i worry over other people's. old maids, you know, like to air their views on matrimony and bringing up children. their theories on these subjects have this advantage--that they always hold good because they never are tried. there never was such an unequal yoking together as the herricks'. nobody has told me. this is one of the affairs which has not been confided to me. only, i knew them both so well before they were married. i knew bronson herrick best, however, because i never used to see any more of flossy than was necessary. to begin with, i never liked her name. i have an idea that names show character. could anybody under heaven be noble with such a name as flossy? i believe names handicap people. i believe children are sometimes tortured by hideous and unmeaning names. but give them strong, ugly names in preference to ina and bessie and flossy and such pretty-pretty names, with no meaning and no character to them. take my own name, ruth. if i wanted to be noble or heroic i could be; my name would not be an anomalous nightmare to attract attention to the incongruity. we cannot be too thankful to our mothers who named us mary and dorothy and constance. what an inspiration to be "faithful over a few things" such a name as constance must be! but flossy's mother named her--not florence, but flossy. i suppose she was one of those fluffy, curly, silky babies. she grew to be that kind of a girl--a flossy girl. it speaks for itself. i suppose with that name she never had any incentive to outgrow her nature. it came out on her wedding cards: "mr. and mrs. charles fay carleton request you to be present at the marriage of their daughter flossy to mr. bronson sturgis herrick." the contrast between the two names, hers so nonsensical and his so dignified and strong, was no greater than that between the two people. in truth, their names were symbolic of their natures. it looked really pitiful to me. i wondered if anybody besides rachel english and me looked into their future with apprehension. our misgivings, i must admit, were all for bronson. ah, well-a-day! it is so easy to feel sympathy for a man you admire, especially if he is strong and loyal, and does not ask or desire it of you. flossy was one of those cuddling girls. she appealed to you with her eyes, and you found yourself petting her and sympathizing with her, when, if you stopped to think, you would see that she had more of everything than you had. she possessed a rich father, a beautiful house, and perfect health. nevertheless, you found yourself asking after "poor flossy," and your voice commiserated her if your words did not. she invariably had some trifling ill to tell you of. she had hurt her arm, or scratched her hand, or the snow made her eyes ache, or she was tired. she never seemed at liberty to enjoy herself, although she went everywhere, and seemed to do so successfully in spite of her imaginary ills, if you let her enjoy herself by telling you of them. everybody helped flossy to live. everybody protected and looked after her. there was some one on his knees continually, removing invisible brambles from her rose-leaf path. she didn't know how to do anything for herself. she never buttoned her own boots. when her maid was not with her, other people put her jacket on for her, and carried her umbrella and buttoned her gloves. men always buttoned her gloves, and her gloves always had more buttons, and more unruly buttons, than any other gloves i ever saw. but then i am elderly. i never knew flossy to do anything for anybody. she never gave things away, but on christmas and her birthdays she received remembrances from everybody. i used to make her presents without knowing why or even thinking of it. flossy's name was on all the christmas lists, and she used to shed tears over the kindness of her friends, and write the prettiest notes to them, so plaintive and self-deprecatory. then they took her to drive, or did something more for her. flossy read poetry and cried over it. she wrote poetry too, and other people cried over that. when bronson herrick told me he was going to marry her, i wanted to say, "no, you are not." but i didn't. i did not even seem to be surprised, for he is so proud he would have resented any surprise on my part. he told me about it of course, knowing that i could not fail to be pleased. (his photograph is in that japanned box of mine. this smile on my face, tabby, is rather sardonic. why is it that men expect an old sweetheart to take an active interest in their bride-elect, and are so deadly sure that they will like each other?) "she is the most sympathetic little thing," he said enthusiastically. "she reminds me of you in so many ways. you are very much alike." "oh, thank you, bronson sturgis herrick! i assure you i would cheerfully drown myself if i thought you were right about that," i exclaimed mentally. he repeated over and over that she was "so sympathetic." he meant, of course, that she had wept over him. flossy's tears flow like rain if you crook your finger at her, and tears wring the heart of a man like bronson. to think he was going to marry her! i just looked at him, i remember, as he stood so straight and tall before me, and said to myself, "well, you dear, honest, loyal, clever man! you are just the kind of a man that women fool most unmercifully. but it's nature, and you can't help it. go and marry this flossy girl, and commit mental suicide if you must." "sympathetic!" so he married her five years ago, and became her man-servant. when they had been married about a year, people said that bronson was working himself to death. i, being an old maid, and liking to meddle with other people's business, told him that i thought he ought to take a vacation. he said he couldn't afford it. i was honestly surprised at that, because, while he was not rich, he was extremely well-to-do, with a rapidly increasing law practice. and then flossy's father had been very generous when she married him. he was considerate enough to reply to my look. "you know i married a rich girl. flossy's money is her own. she has saved it--i wished her to save it, i _wished_ it--and i am doing my level best to support her as nearly as possible in the way in which she has been accustomed to live. she ought to have an easier time, poor child." so he did not take a vacation, and the summer was very hot, and when flossy came home from rye she found him wretchedly ill, and discovered that he had had a trained nurse for two weeks before he let her know anything about it. then people pitied flossy for having her summer interrupted, and flossy felt that it was a shame; but she very willingly sat and fanned bronson for as much as an hour every day and answered questions languidly and was pale, and people sent her flowers and were extremely sorry for her. when bronson became well enough to go away, as his doctors ordered, for a complete rest, rachel english happened to go on the same train with them, and the next day i received a letter, or rather an envelope, from her, with this single sentence enclosed: "and if she didn't make him hold her in his arms in broad daylight every step of the way, because the train jarred her back!" (tabby, there is no use in talking. i must stop and pull your ears. come here and let missis be really rough with you for a minute.) there are some women who prefer a valet to a husband; who think that the more menial are his services in public, the more apparent is his devotion. it is a roman-chariot-wheel idea, which degrades both the man and the woman in the eyes of the spectators. i wrote to rachel, and said in the letter, "one horse in the span always does most of the pulling, you know, especially uphill." and rachel wrote back, "wouldn't i just like to drive this pair, though!" bronson had his ideals before he was married, as most men have, concerning the kind of a home he hoped for. he always said that it was not so much what your home was, as how it was. he believed that a home consisted more in the feelings and aims of its inmates than in rugs and jardinières. he said to me once, "the oneness of two people could make a home in sahara." he was ambitious, too, feeling within himself that power which makes orators and statesmen, but needing the approval and encouragement of some one who also realized his capabilities, to enable him to do his best. he himself was the one who was sympathetic, if he had only known it. his nature responded with the utmost readiness to whatever appealed to him from the side of right or justice. he had noble hopes in many directions, hopes which inspired me to believe in his truth and goodness, aside from his capabilities for achieving greatness. his eagle sight, which read through other men's shams and pretences; his moral sense, which bade him shun even the appearance of evil, not only permitted, but urged him, seemingly, into this marriage with flossy, by which he effectually cut himself off from his dearest aspirations. one by one i have seen him relinquish them, holding to them lovingly to the last. the hours at home, which he intended to give to study and research, have been sacrificed to the petting and nursing of a perfectly well woman, who demanded it of him. his home life, where he had dreamed of a congenial atmosphere, where the centripetal force should be the love of wife and children, merged into frequent journeys for flossy--who would have been happy if she never had been obliged to stay in one place over a week--and a shifting of their one child rachel into the care of nurses, because flossy fretted at the care of her and demanded all of bronson's time for herself. thus was bronson's life being twisted and bent from its natural course. was it a weakness in him? to be sure he might have shown his strength by breaking loose from family ties, and, hardening his heart to his wife's plaints, have carried out his ambitions with some degree of success. he did attempt this, nor did he fail in his career. he was called a fairly successful man. i dare say the majority of people never knew that he was created for grander things. but something was sapping his energy at the fountain-head. was he realizing that he had helped to shatter his ideals with his own hand? i never am so well satisfied with my lot of single-blessedness as when i contemplate the sort of wife flossy makes. that may sound arrogant, but this is a secret session of human nature, when arrogance and all native-born sins are permissible. flossy is perfectly unconscious of the spectacle she presents to the world. ah, me! i know it is said, "judge not, that ye be not judged." i might have made him just such a wife, i suppose. o heavens! no, i shouldn't. tabby, that is making humility go a little too far. iv women as lovers "in every clime and country there lives a man of pain, whose nerves, like chords of lightning, bring fire into his brain: to him a whisper is a wound, a look or sneer, a blow; more pangs he feels in years or months than dunce-throng'd ages know." i have had such a curious experience. i have been confided in, twice in one day. two more bits out of other lives have been given to me, and it is astonishing to see how well they piece into mine. to begin with, rachel english came in early. there is something particularly auspicious about rachel. she fits me like a glove. she never jars nor grates. when she is here, i am comfortable; when she is gone, i miss something. if i see a fine painting, or hear magnificent music, i think of rachel before any other thought comes into my mind. one involuntarily associates her with anything wonderfully fine in art or literature, with the perfect assurance that she will be sympathetic and appreciative. she understands the deep, inarticulate emotions in the kindred way you have a right to expect of your lover, and which you are oftenest disappointed in, if you do expect it of him. if i were a man, i should be in love with rachel. her sensitiveness through every available channel makes her of no use to general society. blundering people tread on her; malicious ones tear her to pieces. rachel ought to be caged, and only approached by clever people who have brains enough to appreciate her. i should like to be her keeper. but her organization is too closely allied to that of genius to be happy, unless with certain environments which it is too good to believe will ever surround her. she is so clever that she is perfectly helpless. if you knew her, this would not be a paradox. possibly it isn't anyway. i do not say that rachel is perfect. she would be desperately uncomfortable as a friend if she were. her failings are those belonging to a frank, impulsive, generous nature, which i myself find it easy to forgive. her gravest fault is a witty tongue. that which many people would give years of their lives to possess is what she has shed the most tears over and which she most liberally detests in herself. she calls it her private demon, and says she knows that one of the devils, in the woman who was possessed of seven, was the devil of wit. wit is a weapon of defence, and was no more intended to be an attribute of woman than is a knowledge of fire-arms or a fondness for mice. a witty woman is an anomaly, fit only for literary circles and to be admired at a distance. it is of no use to advise rachel to curb her tongue. so tender-hearted that the sight of an animal in pain makes her faint; so humble-minded that she cannot bear to receive an apology, but, no matter what has been the offence, cuts it off short and hastens to accept it before it is uttered, with the generous assurance that she, too, has been to blame; yet she wounds cruelly, but unconsciously, with her tongue, which cleaves like a knife, and holds up your dearest, most private foibles on stilettos of wit for the public to mock at. not that she is personal in her allusions, but her thorough knowledge of the philosophy of human nature and the deep, secret springs of human action lead her to witty, satirical generalizations, which are so painfully true that each one of her hearers goes home hugging a personal affront, while poor rachel never dreams of lacerated feelings until she meets averted faces or hears a whisper of her heinous sin. this grieves her wofully, but leaves her with no mode of redress, for who dare offer balm to wounded vanity? i believe her when she says she "never wilfully planted a thorn in any human breast." she scarcely had entered before i saw that she had something on her mind. and it was not long before she began to confide, but in an impersonal way. there is something which makes you hold your breath before you enter the inner nature of some one who has extraordinary depth. you feel as if you were going to find something different and interesting, and possibly difficult or explosive. it is dark, too, yet you feel impelled to enter. it is like going into a cave. most people are afraid of rachel. sometimes i am. but it is the alluring, hysterical fear which makes a child say, "scare me again." imagine such a girl in love. rachel is in love. she would not say with whom--naturally. at least, naturally for rachel. i felt rather helpless, but as i knew that all she wanted was an intelligent sympathizer, not verbal assistance, i was willing to blunder a little. i knew she would speedily set me right. "you are too clever to marry," i said at a hazard. "that is one of the most popular of fallacies," she answered me crushingly. "why can't clever women marry, and make just as good wives as the others? why can't a woman bend her cleverness to see that her house is in order, and her dinners well cooked, and buttons sewed on, as well as to discuss new books and keep pace with her husband intellectually? do you suppose because i know greek that i cannot be in love? do you suppose because i went through higher mathematics that i never pressed a flower he gave me? do you imagine that biology kills blushing in a woman? do you think that philosophy keeps me from crying myself to sleep when i think he doesn't care for me, or growing idiotically glad when he tells me he does? what rubbish people write upon this subject! even pope proved that he was only a man when he said, "'love seldom haunts the breast where learning lies, and venus sets ere mercury can rise.' "did you ever read such foolishness?" "often, my dear, often. but console yourself. a wiser than pope says, 'the learned eye is still the loving one.'" "browning, of course. i ought not to be surprised that the prince of poets should be clever enough to know that. it is from his own experience. 'who writes to himself, writes to an eternal public.' you see, ruth, men can't help looking at the question from the other side, because they form the other side. you might cram a woman's head with all the wisdom of the ages, and while it would frighten every man who came near her into hysterics, it wouldn't keep her from going down abjectly before some man who had sense enough to know that higher education does not rob a woman of her womanliness. depend upon it, ruth, when it does, she would have been unwomanly and masculine if she hadn't been able to read. and it is the man who marries a woman of brains who is going to get the most out of this life." "men don't want clever wives," i said feebly. "clever men don't. why is it that all the brightest men we know have selected girls who looked pretty and have coddled them? look at bronson and flossy. that man is lonesome, i tell you, ruth. he actually hungers and thirsts for his intellectual and moral affinity, and yet even he did not have the sense--the astuteness--to select a wife who would have stood at his side, instead of one who lay in a wad at his feet. oh, the bungling marriages that we see! i believe one reason is that like seldom marries like. for my part i do not believe in the marriage of opposites. look at robert browning and his wife. that is my ideal marriage. their art and brains were married, as well as their hands and hearts. it is pure music to think of it. and, to me, the most pathetic poem in the english language is browning's 'andrea del sarto.'" "isn't it strange to see the kind of men who love clever women like you? you never could have brought yourself to marry any of them, expecting to find them congenial. they would have admired you in dumb silence, until they grew tired of feeling your superiority; after that--what?" "the deluge, i suppose. ruth, i don't see how a woman with any self-respect can marry until she meets her master. that is high treason, isn't it? but it is one of those sentient bits of truth which we never mention in society. the man i marry must have a stronger will and a greater brain than i have, or i should rule him. i'll never marry until i find a man who knows more than i do. yet, as to these other men who have loved me--you know what a tender place a woman has in her heart for the men who have wanted to marry her. my intellect repudiated, but my heart cherishes them still. odd things, hearts. sometimes i wish we didn't have any when they ache so. i feel like disagreeing with all the poets to-day, because they will not say what i believe. do you remember this, from beaumont and fletcher, "'of all the paths that lead to woman's love pity's the straightest'? "men are fond of saying that, i notice, but i don't think we women bear out the truth. i couldn't love a man i pitied. i could love one i was proud of, or afraid of, but one i pitied? never. it is more true to say it of men. i believe plenty of girls obtain husbands by virtue of their weakness, their loneliness, their helplessness, their--anything which makes a man pity them. pleasant thought, isn't it, for a woman who loves her own sex and wishes it held its head up better! you may say that it is this sort who receive more of the attentions that women love, chivalry and tenderness and devotion. but if all or any of these were inspired by pity, i'd rather not have them. i would rather a man would be rough and brusque with me, if he loved me heroically, than to see him fling his coat in the mud for me to step on, because he pitied my weakness. do you know, ruth, i think men are a good deal more human than women. you can work them out by algebra (for they never have more than one unknown quantity, and in the woman problem there would be more _x_'s than anything else), and you can go by rules and get the answer. but nothing ever calculated or evolved can get the final answer to one woman--though they do say she is fond of the last word! we understand ourselves intuitively, and we understand men by study, yet we are made the receivers, not the givers; the chosen, not the choosers. it really is an absurd dispensation when you view it apart from sentiment, yet i, for one, would not have it changed. i should not mind being cupid for a while, though, and giving him a few ideas in the mating line. "i think women are often misjudged. men seem to think that all we want is to be loved. now, it isn't all that i want. if i had to choose between being loved by a man--_the_ man, let us say--and not loving him at all, or loving him very dearly and not being loved by him, i would choose the latter, for i think that more happiness comes from loving than from being loved." "why _don't_ you marry somebody?" i asked in an agony of entreaty, for fear all of this would be wasted on me, an old maid, rather than upon some man. she shook her head. "it needs a compelling, not a persuasive, power to win a woman. no man who takes me like this," closing her thumb and forefinger as if holding a butterfly, "can have me. the one who dares to take me like this," clenching her hand, "will get me. but he will not come." then i walked with her to the door, and she bent over me, and whispered something about my being a "blessed comfort" to her, and went away. ah, tabby, my dear, it is worth while being an old maid to be a blessed comfort to anybody. but i would just like to ask you, as a cat of intelligence, what in the world i did for her! imagine some man making that girl care for him so much. for, of course, it is somebody. a girl does not say such things about the abstract man. i was in an uplifted state of mind all day, as i am always after a talk with rachel, and when percival came in the evening, i felt that i could deluge him with my gathered sentiment, and he would be receptive. besides, percival has a positive genius for understanding. i did not know it, however, this morning. i seldom know as much in the morning as i do at night. percival approves of sentiment. he said once that a life which had principle and sentiment needed little else, for principle was to stand upon, and sentiment was to beautify with. he said this after i had told him rather apologetically that i wished there was more sentiment in the world, because i liked it. is it strange that i like percival? you can't help admiring people who approve of you. percival is a genius. people in general do not recognize this fact. he is an inarticulate genius. men feel that he is in some occult way different from them, yet they do not know just how. nor will they ever take the trouble to study out a problem in human nature, either in man or woman, unless they are philosophers. women care for percival in proportion to their intuitions. you must comprehend him synthetically. you cannot dissect him. with generous appreciation and sympathetic encouragement, percival's genius would become articulate. to discover it he must needs marry--but he must wait for the hundredth woman. this, of course, he will not do. if he can find a flossy, he will go down on his knees to her, when she ought to be on hers to him; metaphorical knees, in this case. i am very much afraid he has found her. he is in love. you can always tell when a man is in love, tabby, especially if he is not the lovering kind and has never been troubled in that way before. the best kind of love has to be so intuitive that it often is grandly, heroically awkward. depend upon it, tabby, a man who is dainty and pretty and unspeakably smooth when he makes love to you, has had altogether too much practice. percival knows that he is in love--that is one great step in the right direction. but he is in that first partly alarmed, partly curious frame of mind that a man would be in who touched his broken arm for the first time to see how much it hurt. whoever she is, he loves her deeply and thinks she never can care for him. he did not tell me this. if he thought that i knew it, he would wonder how in the world i found it out. women are born lovers. they have to do the bulk of the loving all through the world. i told percival so. at first he seemed surprised; then he said that it was true. i believe some men could go through life without loving anybody on earth. but the woman never lived who could do it. a woman must love something--even if she hasn't anything better to love than a pug-dog or herself. "why aren't women the choosers?" said percival seriously. the same question twice in one day, tabby. "whenever i think of understanding the question of love, i wish for a woman's intuitions. women know so much about it. they absorb the whole question at a glance. but, with so many different kinds of women, how is a man to know anything?" i always liked percival, but a woman never likes a man so well as when he acknowledges his helplessness in her particular line of knowledge, and throws himself on her mercy. mentally, i at once began to feel motherly towards percival, and clucked around him like an old hen. he went on to say that men often are not so blind that they cannot see the prejudices and complexities of a woman's nature, but they are not constituted to understand them by intuition as women understand men. "the masculine mind," he said, "is but ill-attuned to the subtle harmonies of the feminine heart." i was secretly very much pleased at this remark, but i made myself answer as became an old maid, just to make him continue without self-consciousness. if i had blushed and thanked him, he would have gone home. "they set these things down to the natural curiousness and contrariness of women, and often despise what they cannot comprehend." he answered me with the heightened consciousness and slight irritation of a man who has been in that fault, but has seen and mended it. "all men do not. still, how can they help it at times?" then, tabby, i went a-sailing. i launched out on my favorite theme. "men must needs study women. often the terror with which some men regard these--to us--perfectly transparent complexities, could be avoided if they would analyze the cause with but half the patience they display in the case of an ailing trotter. but no; either they edge carefully away from such dangers as they previously have experienced, or, if they blunder into new ones, they give the woman a sealskin and trust to time to heal the breach." i thought of the asburys when i said that. but percival ruminated upon it, as if it touched his own case. a very good thing about percival is that he does not think he knows everything. it encourages me to believe in his genius. to rouse him from a brown-study over this flossy girl, i said rather recklessly, "i should like to be a man for a while, in order to make love to two or three women. i would do it in a way which should not shock them with its coarseness or starve them with its poverty. as it is now, most women deny themselves the expression of the best part of their love, because they know it will be either a puzzle or a terror to their lovers." percival was vitally interested at once. "is that really so?" he asked. "do you suppose any of them withhold anything from such a fear?" his face was so uplifted that i plunged on, thoroughly in the dark, but, like barkis, "willin'." if i could be of use to him in an emergency, i was only too happy. "men never realize the height of the pedestal where women in love place them, nor do they know with how many perfections they are invested nor how religiously women keep themselves deceived on the subject. they cannot comprehend the succession of little shocks which is caused by the real man coming in contact with the ideal. and if they did understand, they would think that such mere trifles should not affect the genuine article of love, and that women simply should overlook foibles, and go on loving the damaged article just as blindly as before. but what man could view his favorite marble tumbling from its pedestal continually, and losing first a finger, then an arm, then a nose, and would go on setting it up each time, admiring and reverencing in the mutilated remains the perfect creation which first enraptured him? he wouldn't take the trouble to fill up the nicks and glue on the lost fingers as women do to their idols. he wouldn't even try to love it as he used to do. when it began to look too battered up, he would say, 'here, put this thing in the cellar and let's get it out of the way.'" percival listened with specific interest, and admitted its truth with a fair-mindedness surprising even in him. "do you suppose it is possible for a man ever to thoroughly understand a woman?" he asked, with a retrospective slowness, directed, i was sure, towards that empty-headed sweetheart of his. "i really do not know," i said honestly. "i think if he tried with all his might he could." "do you think--you know me better than any one else does--do you think _i_ could, if i gave my whole mind to it?" "you, if anybody." i answered him with the occasional absolute truthfulness which occurs between a man and a woman when they are completely lifted out of themselves. something more than mere pleasure shone in his eyes. it was as if i had reached his soul. "if no man ever has been all that a woman in love really believes him, the best a man could do would be to take care that she never found out her mistake," he said slowly. "exactly," i said; "you are getting on. it is only another way of making yourself live up to her ideal of you." "supposing after all, that the woman i love will have none of me," he said, unconsciously slipping from the third person to the first. "i wouldn't admit even the possibility if i were a man. i would besiege the fortress. i would sit on her front doorstep until she gave in. don't ask her to have you. tell her you are going to have her whether or no," i cried, thinking of rachel's words. he looked so encouraged that i am afraid i have sent him post-haste to the flossy girl, and gotten him into life-long trouble. but i had gone too far. i quite hurried, in my accidental endeavor to shipwreck him. "men do not understand these things, because they will not give time enough to them. real love-making requires the patience, the tenderness, the sympathy which women alone possess in the highest degree. possibly she loves you deeply, only you do not believe it. gauged by a woman's love, many men love, marry, and die, without even approximating the real grand passion themselves, or comprehending that which they have inspired, for no one but a woman can fathom a woman's love." i couldn't help going on after i started, for he was thinking of the other woman, and looking at me in a way that would have made my heart turn over, if i hadn't been an old maid, and known that his look was not for me. then he ground my rings into my hand until i nearly shrieked with the pain, and said, "god bless you!" very hoarsely, and dashed out of the house before i could pull myself together. _i_ say so too. god bless me, what have i done? i've sent him straight to that flossy girl. i feel it. i've smoothed out something between them. i have accidentally made him articulate, and articulation in such a man as percival is overpowering. he is a murdered man, and mine is the hand that slew him. tabby, old maids are a public nuisance, not to say dangerous. they ought to be suppressed. * * * * * i wonder if he will burst in upon her with that look upon his face! v the heart of a coquette "strange, that a film of smoke can blot a star!" he did. and the woman was--rachel. tabby, i never was better pleased with myself in my life. i love old maids. i think that whenever they are accidental they are perfectly lovely. but _what_ a risk i ran! i did not know a thing about it until i received their wedding-cards. it was just like rachel not to tell me, and it was insufferably stupid in me not to use the few wits i am possessed of, and see how matters stood. but my fears and tremors were that frankie taliaferro would get him, so i have watched her all this time. percival laughed almost scornfully when i told him this, and said i had been barking up the wrong tree. i retaliated by saying that if they had been ordinary lovers, i never could have made such a mistake, and they took it as a great compliment. when i consider the general run of engaged people, i am inclined to agree with them. everybody seems to think they are making an experiment of marriage, because they are so much alike. but, then, doesn't every one who marries at all, jew or gentile, black or white, bond or free, make an experiment? i myself have no fear as to how the percival experiment will turn out. rachel says that they are so similar in all their tastes and ideals that if she were a man she would be percival, and if he were a woman he would be rachel. "then you still would have a chance to marry each other," i said frivolously. but she assented with a depth of feeling which ignored my feeble attempt to be cheerful. "yet," she continued, "there is a subtle, alluring difference in our thoughts; just enough to add piquancy, not irritation, to a discussion. i do not love white, and he does not love black, as so many husbands and wives do. we both love gray; different tones of gray, but still gray. it is very restful." the percivals are not only restful to themselves, but to others. they used to be in the highly irritable, nervous state of those whose sensitive organisms are a little too fine for this world. i never objected to it myself, but i have said before that rachel was of no use to ordinary society, and percival was little better. when people failed to understand her, she retired into herself with a dignity which was mistaken for ill-temper. she is too refined and high-minded to defend herself against the "slings and arrows of outrageous" people, although if she would, she could exterminate them with her wit. and some could so easily be spared. it seems, too, that she is great enough to be a target, so she is under fire continually. this, while it causes her exquisite suffering, is from no fault of her own--save the unforgivable one of being original. "a frog spat at a glow-worm. 'why do you spit at me?' said the glow-worm. 'why do you shine so?' said the frog." and as to percival--the man i used to know was percival in embryo. he is maturing now, and is radiant in rachel's sympathetic comprehension of him. he refers to the time before he knew her as his "protoplasmic state," as indeed it was. but there are a good many of us who would be willing to remain protoplasm all our lives to possess a tithe of his genius--you and i among the number, tabby. you needn't look at me so reproachfully out of your old-gold eyes. you know you would. you have seen sallie cox, haven't you? then you know how it jarred my nerves to have her rush in upon me when my mind was full of the percivals. sallie has flirted joyously through life thus far, and has appeared to have about as little heart as any girl i ever knew. sallie is the _sauce piquante_ in one's life--absolutely necessary at times to make things taste at all, but a little of her goes a long way. at least so i thought until to-day. "i've got something to tell you, ruth," she said, "so come with me, and we will take a little drive before going to cooking-school." i went, knowing, of course, that she wanted to confide something about some of her lovers. "i am going to be married," she announced coldly. "it's payson osborne this time, and i'm really going to see the thing through. it's rather a joke on me, because it commenced this way. i was sick of lovers, and some of the last had been so unpleasant, not to say rude, when i threw them over, that i thought i would take a vacation. so when i met payson, i said, 'what do you say to a platonic friendship?' it sounds harmless, you know, ruth, and he, not knowing me at all, assented. if he had been a man who knew of my checkered career, he would have refused, suspecting, of course, that i was going to flirt with him under a new name. but, as i was serious this time, i knew it was all right. so we began. i suppose you know he is enormously rich, besides being so handsome, and there will not be a girl in town who won't say i raised heaven and earth to get him; but i don't mind telling you, ruth--because you are such an old dear, and never are bothered with lovers(!); besides, it will do me good to tell it, and i know you will never betray me--that i never cared for any man on earth except winston percival. you needn't jump, and look as though the house was on fire. it's the solemn truth, and i never dreamed that he cared for rachel until he married her. mind you, he never pretended to love me. it is every bit one-sided, and i don't care if it is. i am glad that a frivolous, shallow-minded, rattle-brained thing like me had sense enough to fall in love with the most glorious man that ever came into her life. i shouldn't have made him half as good a wife as rachel does--i really feel as if they were made for each other--but he would have made a woman of me. i'm honestly glad he is so happy, and things are much more suitable as they are, for payson is a thorough-going society man, and doesn't ask much in a wife or he wouldn't have me, and he doesn't expect much from a wife or he couldn't get me. "perhaps you don't know that a girl who makes a business of wearing scalps at her belt never stands a bit of a chance with a man she really loves, for she is afraid to practise on him the wiles which she knows from experience have been successful with scores of others, because she feels that he will see through them, and scorn her as she scorns herself in his presence. she loses her courage, she loses control of herself, and, being used to depend on 'business,' as actors say, to carry out her rôle successfully, she finds that she is only reading her lines, and reading them very badly too. if you could have seen me with percival, you would know what i mean. i was dull, uninteresting, poky--no more the sallie cox that other men know than i am you. he absorbed my personality. i didn't care for myself or how i appeared. i only wanted him to shine and be his natural, brilliant self. i never could have helped him in his work. the most i could have hoped to do would have been not to hinder him. i would have been the gainer--it would have been the act of a home missionary for him to marry me." she laughed drearily. "isn't it horribly immoral in me to sit here and talk in this way about a married man? it's a wonder it doesn't turn the color of the cushions. if you hear of my having the brougham relined, ruth, you will know why. ruth, i am so miserable at times it seems to me that i shall die. i'd love to cry this minute--cry just as hard as i could, and scream, and beat my head against something hard--how do you do, mrs. asbury?--but instead, i have to bow from the windows to people, and remember that i am supposed to be the complaisant bride-elect of the catch of the season. it is a judgment on me, ruth, to find that i have a heart, when i have always gone on the principle that nobody had any. yes--how-de-do, miss culpepper? excuse me a minute, ruth, while i hate that girl. what has she done to me? oh, nothing to speak of--she only had the bad taste to fall in love with the man i am going to marry. writes him notes all the time, making love to him, which he promptly shows to me--oh, we are not very honorable, or very upright, or very anything good in the osborne matrimonial arrangement. anybody but you would hate me for all this i've told you, but i know you are pitying me with all your soul, because you know the empty-headed sallie cox carries with her a very sore heart, and that it will take more than payson osborne has got to give to heal it. i call him pay sometimes, but he hates it. i only do it when i think how much he does pay for a very bad bargain. but he doesn't care, so why should i? "it really does seem odd, when i look back on it, to see how easy it was to get him, when all the time i was perfectly indifferent to him, and received his attentions on the platonic basis to keep him from making love to me. i really think i never had any one to care for me in so exactly the way i like, and to be so easy in his demands, and to think me so altogether perfect and charming, no matter what i do. it was because i was absolutely indifferent to him. i never cared when he came. i never cared when he went. other lovers fussed and quarrelled and were jealous and disagreeable when i flirted with other men, but payson never cared. he didn't tease me, you know. and whenever he said anything, i could look innocent and say, 'is that platonic friendship?' so he would have to subside. i know he thought some of my indifference was assumed, for when he told me about miss culpepper he thought i would be vexed. i _was_ vexed, but i had presence of mind not to show it. i only laughed and made no comment at all--asked him what time it was, i believe. then when he looked so disappointed and sulky, i knew i was right, and i patted sallie cox on the head for being so clever--so clever as not to care, chiefly. there is nothing, absolutely nothing, you cannot do with a man who loves you, if you don't care a speck for him. and the luxury of perfect indifference! emotions are awfully wearing, ruth. i wonder that these emotional women like rachel get on at all. i should think they would die of the strain. men are always deadly afraid of such women. i believe payson wouldn't stop running till he got to california if i should burst into tears and not be able to tell him instantly just exactly where my neuralgia had jumped to. no unknown waverings and quaverings of the heart for my good osborne. there goes alice asbury again. i am dying to tell you something. you know why she hates me, and understand why she treats me so abominably? well, asbury gave her the same engagement ring he gave me, and she doesn't know it. rich, isn't it? here we are at the cooking-school. i am so glad i can slam a carriage-door without being rude. it is such a relief to one's overcharged feelings." tabby, dear, if your head ever spun round and round at some of the confidences i have bestowed upon you, i can sympathize with you, for, as i went into that class, my feelings were so wrenched and twisted that i was as limp as cooked macaroni. you will excuse the simile, but that was one of the articles at cooking-school to-day, and when the teacher took it up on a fork, it did express my state of mind so exquisitely that i cannot forbear to use it. sallie cox! well, i am amazed. who would think that that bright, saucy, clever little flirt, who rides on the crest of the wave always, could have such a heart history? and percival of all men! i wonder what he would say if he knew. i don't know what to think about her marrying payson osborne. the last thing she whispered to me as we came out of cooking-school was, "don't be too sorry for me because i am going to marry him. believe me, it is the very best thing that could happen to me." i am very fond of the girl to-night. what a pity it is that everybody does not know her as she really is! no one understands her, and she has flirted so outrageously with most of the men that the girls' friendship for her is very hollow. a few, of whom alice asbury is one, dare to show this quite plainly, and of course sallie doesn't like it. she pretends not to care for women's friendship, but she does. she would love to be friendly with all the girls, but they remember the misery she has made them suffer, and won't have it. still, there is no doubt that she is marrying the man most of them want, so that again she triumphs. but, unless i am much mistaken, even as mrs. payson osborne it will take her a long time to recover her place with the women which she has lost by having so many of their sweethearts and brothers in love with her. ah, tabby, what a deal of secret misery there is in the world! everybody will envy sallie cox and think that she is the luckiest girl, and sallie will smile and pretend--for what other course is left to her, and who can blame women who pretend under such circumstances? perhaps there are reasons just as good for many other pretenders in this world. who knows? we would be gentler if we knew more. there will be other sore hearts besides sallie's at her wedding. i had heard before that miss culpepper was quite desperate over osborne, but, as she was a girl whom everybody thought a lady, i had no idea that she had gone so far as sallie says. osborne probably didn't object to being made love to. a man of his stamp would not be over-refined. strange, now, sallie does not love osborne herself, but she promptly hates every other girl who dares to do it. aren't girls queer? then there are a score of men who will gnash their teeth for sallie--so many men love these sallie coxes. frankie taliaferro, the kentucky beauty, who is staying with her this winter, tells me that sallie has had several dreadful scenes with discarded suitors--that one said he would forbid the banns, and another threatened to shoot himself if she really married osborne. i wonder how many marriages there really are where both are perfectly free to marry. i mean, no secret entanglements on either side, no other man wanting the bride, no girl bitterly jealous of her. i never heard of one--not among the people _i_ know, at least. oh, tabby, think of all the fusses people keep out of who promptly settle down at the appointed time and become peaceful old maids. how sensible we were, tabby, you and missis. but doesn't it seem to you that people marry from very mixed motives? i used to have an idea--when i was painfully young, of course--that they married because they were so fortunate as to fall in love with each other. are you quite sure that foolish notion is out of your head too? vi the lonely childhood of a clever child "is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood?... to be great is to be misunderstood." i have been away since early last summer, and consequently never had seen flossy's new baby until the newness had worn off, and it had arrived at the dignity of a backbone, and had left its wobbly period far behind. i am in mortal terror of a very little baby. it feels so much like a sponge, yet lacks the sponge's recuperative qualities. i am always afraid if i dent it the dents will stay in. you know they don't in a sponge. as soon as i came home, of course i went to see flossy's baby, and was very much disconcerted to discover that she had named it for me. i was afraid, i remember, that she would want to name the first girl for me, but she did not. she named her after rachel. i had an uncomfortable idea, however, that my name had been discussed and vetoed, by either flossy or bronson. but this time the baby is named ruth, and i found that it was all flossy's doing. i was irritated without knowing why. i didn't want anybody to know it though, and so i was vexed when bronson said to me, "i couldn't help it, ruth." there was no use in pretending not to understand. i could with some men, but not with bronson. he is too magnificently honest himself, and uplifts me by expecting me to be equally so. nevertheless i failed him in one particular, for i answered him in my loftiest manner, "i am not at all displeased. it is a great compliment, i am sure." there is nothing so uncivil at times as to be cuttingly polite. what i said wasn't so at all. but a woman is obliged to defend herself from a man who reads her like an open book. flossy does not like children, and poor little rachel never has had a life of roses. flossy says children are such a care and require so much attention. "rachel was all that i could attend to, and here all winter i have had another one on my hands to keep me at home, and make me lose sleep, and grow old before my time. i don't see why such burdens have to be put upon people. children are too thick in this world any way." she fretted on in this strain for some time, until bronson looked up and said, "don't, flossy. you don't mean what you say. do tell her the little thing is welcome." "i do mean what i say," answered flossy. then, as bronson left the room abruptly, flossy said, "and i was determined to name her after you. bronson didn't want me to. he said you wouldn't thank me for it, but i told him that rachel percival was quite delighted with her namesake." i hid my indignantly smarting eyes in the folds of the baby's dress, as i held her up before my face, and made her laugh at the flowers in my hat. flossy thought i was not listening to her with sufficient interest; so she got up and crossed the room with that little stumble of hers, which used to be so taking with the men when she was a girl, and took ruth away from me. there was a great contrast between the two children. rachel herrick is a shy child, with a delicate, refined face, lighted by wonderful gray eyes like bronson's. i do not understand her. she seems afraid of me, and i confess i am equally afraid of her. even rachel percival does not get on with her very well, although she has bravely tried. the child spends most of her time in the library, devouring all the books she can lay her hands on. little ruth is a round, soft, fluffy baby, all dimples and smiles and good-nature, willing to roll or crawl into anybody's lap or affections. a very good baby to exhibit, for strangers delight in her, and pet her just as people always have petted flossy. rachel stands mutely watching all such demonstrations, her pale face rigid with some emotion, and her eyes brilliant and hard. she is not a child one would dare take liberties with. no one ever pets her. flossy complains continually of her to visitors and to bronson, so that bronson has gotten into the way of reproving her mechanically whenever his eye rests upon her. her very presence, always silent, always inwardly critical, seems to irritate her parents. she was not doing a thing, but sitting sedately, with a heavy book on her lap, watching the baby, with that curious expression on her face; but flossy couldn't let her alone. "baby loves her mother, doesn't she? she is not like naughty sister rachel, who won't do anything but read, and never loves anybody but herself. sister says bad things to poor sick mamma, and mamma can't love her, can she? but mamma loves her pretty, sweet baby, so she does." rachel glanced at me with a hunted look in her eyes which wrung my heart. but, before i could think, she slid down and the big book fell with a crash to the floor. she ran towards the baby with a wicked look on her small face, and the baby leaped and held out its hands, but rachel clenched her teeth, and slapped the outstretched hand as she rushed past her and out of the room. poor little ruth looked at the red place on her hand a minute, then her lip quivered, and she began to cry pitifully. i instinctively looked to see flossy gather her up to comfort her. it is so easy to dry a child's tears with a little love. but she rang for the nurse and fretfully exclaimed, "isn't that just like her! i declare i can't see why a child of mine should have such a wicked temper. here, simpson, take this young nuisance and stop her crying. oh, poor little me! ruth, i'm thankful that you have no children to wear your life out." i dryly remarked that i too considered it rather a cause for gratitude, and came away. poor little rachel herrick! unlovely as her action was, i cannot help thinking that it was unpremeditated; that it was the unexpected result of some strong inward feeling. she looked like one who was justly indignant, and, considering what flossy had said, i felt that her anger was righteous. that her disposition is unfortunate cannot be denied. she seems already to be an ishmaelite, for whenever she speaks it is to fling out a remark so biting in its sarcasm, so bitter and satirical, that flossy is afraid of her, and bronson reproves her with unnecessary severity, because her offence is that of a grown person, which her childish stature mocks. other children both fear and hate her. they resent her cleverness. they like to use her wits to organize their plays, but they never include her, for she always wants to lead, feeling, doubtless, that she inherently possesses the qualities of a leader, and chafing, as a heroic soul must, under inferior management. flossy makes her go out to play regularly with them every day, but it is a pitiful sight, for she feels her unpopularity, and children are cruel to each other with the cruelty of vindictive dulness; so rachel, after standing about among them forlornly for a while, like a stray robin among a flock of little owls, comes creeping in alone, and sits down in the library with a book. she is the loneliest child i ever knew. if she cared, people would at least be sorry for her; but she seems to love no one, never seeks sympathy if she is hurt, repels all attempts to ease pain, and cures herself with her beloved books. i never saw any one kiss or offer to pet her, but they make a great fuss over the baby, and rachel watches them with glittering eyes. i thought once that it was jealousy, and, going up to her, laid my hand on her head, but she shook it off as if it had been a viper, and ran out of the room. i had grown very fond of my namesake, and used to go there when flossy was away, and sit in the nursery. the nurse told me once that mrs. herrick saw so little of the baby that it was afraid, and cried at the sight of her. i reproved her for speaking in that manner of her mistress, but she only tossed her head knowingly, and i dropped the subject. servants often are aware of more than we give them credit for. saturday before easter i stopped at flossy's, but she was not at home. i left some flowers for her, and asked to see the baby, but the nurse said she was asleep. easter morning i did not go to church, and rachel percival came early in the afternoon to see if i were ill. while she was here this note arrived by a messenger: "dear ruth,--i know you will grieve for me when i tell you that our baby went away from us quite suddenly this morning, while the easter bells were ringing so joyfully. they rang the knell of a mother's heart, for they rang my baby's spirit into paradise. "i feel, through my tears, that it is better so, for she will bind me closer to heaven when i think that she, in her purity, awaits me there. "hoping to see you very soon, i am "your loving flossy. "p.s.--bronson seems to feel the baby's death to a truly astonishing degree. f. h." i flung the note across to rachel, and, putting my head down on my two arms, i cried just as hard as i could cry. rachel read it, then tore it into twenty bits, and ground her heel into the fragments. "why, rachel percival! what is the matter?" "she wasn't even at home. she was at church. she must have been. she told me that bronson was afraid to have her leave the baby, and wouldn't come himself, but that she didn't think anything was the matter with it, and wouldn't be tied down. then such a note so soon afterwards! ruth, what is that woman made of?" we went together to flossy's. she came across the room to meet us, supported by bronson. she stumbled two or three times in the attempt. tears were running down bronson's face, and he wiped them away quite humbly, as if he did not mind our seeing them in the least. i could not bear to watch him, so i slipped out of the room and went upstairs. "in here, 'm," said the nurse; "and miss rachel is here too. she won't move that far from the cradle, and she hasn't shed a tear." ruth lay peacefully in her little lace crib, covered with violets, and beside her, rigid and white and tearless, stood rachel. i was almost afraid of the child as i looked at her. she turned her great eyes upon me dumbly, with so exactly bronson's expression in them that all at once i understood her. i knelt down beside her, and gathering her little tense frame all up in my arms, i began whispering to her. the tears rolled down her cheeks, and soon she was crying hysterically. bronson came bounding upstairs at the sound, but she seized me more tightly around the neck and held me chokingly. i motioned him back, and succeeded in carrying her away to a quiet place, where i sat down with her in my arms, and made love to her for hours. i never heard a more pitiful story than she told me, between strangling sobs, of her hungry life. the child has been yearning for affection all the time, but has unconsciously repelled it by her manner. she said nobody on earth loved her except the baby, and now the baby was dead. "there is no use of your trying to make things different," she said, "especially with mamma. she wouldn't care if i was dead too. but papa could understand, i think, if he would only try to love me. but i love you--oh! i love you so much that it hurts me. nobody ever came and hugged me up the way you did, in my whole life. you have made things over for me, and i'll love you for it till i die. why is it that everybody gives mamma and the baby so much love, when they never cared for it, and i care so much and never get a single bit? nobody understands me, and every one--every one calls me bad. i'm not bad. i love plenty of people who can't love me. i am not bad, i tell you!" she cried herself nearly sick, and then, exhausted, fell asleep, with her face pressed against mine. thus bronson found us. he offered to take her, and i put her into his arms. then i told him all that she had said, and asked him to hold her until she wakened, and give her some of the love her little heart was hungering for. he couldn't speak when i finished, and i went down, to find rachel bathing flossy's head with cologne, and looking worn and tired. percival came for rachel, and one could see that the mere sight of him rested her. she told him all about it, in her wonderfully comprehensive way, and he felt the whole thing, and we were all very quiet and peaceful and sad, as we drove home through the early darkness of that easter day. they left me at my door, and i went in alone, with the memory of that grieving household--the lonely father, and the selfish mother, and the unloved child--hallowed and made tender by the presence of the little dead baby, asleep under its weight of violets. i feel very much alone sometimes; but the percivals carry their world with them. vii a study in human geese "i am myself indifferent honest." i have just made two startling discoveries. one is that i am not honest myself, and the other is that i detest honesty in other people. to-day i was sitting peacefully in my room, harming nobody, when i saw little pet winterbotham drive up in her cart and come running up to the door. i supposed she had come with a message from her sister, and went down, thinking to be detained about ten minutes. it seems but a few years ago since pet was in the kindergarten. i was surprised to see that she wore her dresses very long, and that she looked almost grown up. "my dear pet," i exclaimed, "what is the matter?" "oh, miss ruth, i am in such a scrape," she answered me. "i hope you won't think it's queer that i came to you, but the fact is, i've watched you in church, and you always look as if you knew, and would help people if they would ask you to; so i thought i'd try you. "ever and ever so long ago, when i was a little bit of a thing, and played with other children, and you and sister grace went out together, i used to 'choose' you from all the other young ladies, because you wore such lovely hats, and always had on pearl-colored gloves. i suppose it is so long ago that you were a young lady and had beaux that you've forgotten it. but i know you used to have lovers, for i heard mrs. herrick and mrs. payson osborne talking about you once, and mrs. herrick said you seemed so tranquil and contented that she supposed you never had had any really good offers, or you would be all the time wishing you had taken one. and mrs. osborne spoke up in her quick way, and said, 'don't deceive yourself so comfortably, my dear flossy. i know positively that ruth has had several offers that you and i would have jumped at.' and then she turned away and laughed and laughed, although i didn't see anything so very funny in what she said, and neither did mrs. herrick. "i do think mrs. osborne is the loveliest person i know. she is my ideal young married woman. she always has a smile and a pretty word for every one, and young men like her better than they do the buds. why, your face is as red as fire. i hope i haven't said anything unpleasant. mamma says i blunder horribly, but she always is too busy to tell me how not to blunder. "now, i want to know which of these two men you would advise me to marry. i've got to take one, i suppose." "marry!" i exclaimed, so explosively that pet started. "why, child, how old are you?" "i'm nineteen," she said, in rather an injured tone, "and i've always made up my mind to marry young, if i got a good enough offer. i hate old maids. oh, excuse me. i don't mean you, of course. i wouldn't marry a clerk, you understand, just to be marrying. i'm not so silly. i have plenty of common-sense in other things, and i'm going to put some of it into the marriage question. don't you think i'm sensible?" "very," i answered; but i didn't, tabby. i thought she was a goose. "well now," proceeded my young caller, settling her ribbons with a pretty air of importance, and looking at me out of the most innocent eyes in the world, "my sister grace married brian beck because he had such a lot of money. but you know he is dissipated, and at first grace almost went distracted. then she made up her mind to let him go his own gait, and she has as good a time as she can on his money. his irish name brian is her thorn in the flesh, and he teases her nearly out of her wits about it. we have great fun on the yacht every summer. brian is awfully good to me, and invites nice men to take with us; still, much as i like brian as a brother-in-law, i shouldn't care to have a husband like him. now, i suppose you wonder why on earth i am telling you these things, and why i don't tell one of the girls i go with." "oh, no!" i exclaimed in protest. "of course. i see you think it wouldn't be safe. girls just can't help telling, to save their lives. sometimes they don't intend to, and then it's bad enough. but sometimes they do it just to be mean, and you can't help yourself. i have plenty of confidence in you though, and you don't look as if you'd be easily shocked. you look as though you could tell a good deal if you wanted to. you're an awfully comfortable sort of a person. now, let me tell you. i have two offers. one is from clinton frost, and the other is from jack whitehouse. you have seen me with mr. frost, haven't you? a dark, fierce, melancholy man, with black eyes and hair, and very distinguished looking. "i think he has a history. he throws out hints that way. he is gloomy with everybody but me, and brian will do nothing but joke with him. there is nothing mr. frost dislikes as much as to laugh or to see other people laugh. brian calls him 'pet's nightmare,' and threatens to give him ink to drink. "i believe mr. frost hates brian. he says the name of our yacht, _hittie magin_, is unspeakably vulgar. nothing pleases brian more than to force mr. frost or grace to tell strangers the name of it. their mere speaking the words throws brian into convulsions of laughter. then, if people comment on it, he tells them that the name is of his wife's selection, in deference to his irish family. and grace almost faints with mortification. mr. frost says he will give me a yacht twice as good as brian's. he adores me. he says i am the only thing in life which makes him smile." i felt that i could sympathize with mr. frost on this point. "then there's jack whitehouse, norris whitehouse's nephew. mr. norris whitehouse is a great friend of yours, isn't he? do you know, i never think of him as an 'eligible,' although he is a bachelor. i should as soon think of a king in that light. he impresses me more than any man i ever knew. don't you consider him odd? no? i do. he is so clever that you would be afraid of him, if it wasn't for his lovely manners, which make you feel as though what you are saying is just what he has been wanting to know, and he is so glad he has met some one who is able to tell him. actually he treats me with more respect than some of the young men do. he makes me feel as if i were a woman, and he had a right to expect something good of me. i never said that to anybody before, but i can talk to you and feel that you understand me. i like to feel that people think there is something to me, even if i know that it isn't much. mrs. asbury says that mr. whitehouse is the courtliest man she knows. you know the story of the whitehouse money, don't you? jack told it to me with tears in his eyes, and i don't wonder at it. you know jack's father and mother died when he was very young. norris was his father's favorite, and the old gentleman made a most unjust will, leaving only a life interest in the property to jack's father; then it all went to his favorite younger son, norris. now, you know what most men would do under the circumstances. they would acknowledge the injustice of the will, but they would keep the money. this proves to me what an unusual man mr. norris whitehouse is, for he immediately made over to his little nephew jack one half of the property--just what his father ought to have been able to leave him--and jack is to come into that when he is twenty-five. don't you think that was noble? jack worships him. he says no father could have been more devoted to an only son than his uncle norris has been to him. he travelled with him, and gave up years of his life to superintending jack's education. "now, whoever marries jack will really be at the head of that elegant house, for you know it hasn't had a mistress since jack's mother died, years ago. i should like that, although i do wish more of the expense was in furniture instead of in pictures and tapestries. but that is his uncle's taste. "poor jack talks so beautifully about his young mother, whom he can scarcely remember. he says his uncle has kept her alive to him. he is perfectly lovely with other fellows' mothers, and with mine. he treats them all, he says, as he should like to have had others treat his mother. of course it is only sentiment with him. if she had lived, he might have given her as much trouble as other boys give theirs. she must have been lovely. mamma says she was. but i'd just as soon not have any mother-in-law to tell me to wrap up, and wear rubbers if it looked like rain. you know there isn't a bit of sentiment in me. i'm practical. my father says if i had been a boy he would have taken me into business at fifteen. jack thinks i am all sentiment. he says nobody could have a face like mine and not possess an innate love of the beautiful in art and poetry and all that. i have forgotten just what he said about that part of it. but i know he meant to praise me. i didn't say anything in reply, but i smiled to myself at the idea of pet winterbotham being credited with fine sentiment. "jack is horribly young--only twenty-two--so he won't have his money for three years, and mr. frost is thirty-nine. jack has curly hair, and when he wears a white tennis suit and puts his cap on the back of his head and holds a cigarette in his hand, he looks as if he had just stepped out of one of the pictures in _life_. he looks so 'chappie.' he is a good deal easier to get along with than mr. frost, and will have more money some day, although mr. frost has enough. now, which would you take?" "why, my dear pet," i said in an unguarded moment, "which do you love?" i shrivelled visibly under the look of scorn she cast upon me. "i don't love either of them. i've had one love affair and i don't care for another until i make sure which man i'm going to marry." "can you fall in love to order?" i asked in dismay. "not exactly. 'to order!' why, no. anybody would think you were having boots made. but it's being with a man, and having him awfully good to you, and admiring everything you say, and having lots of good clothes, and not being in love with any other fellow, that makes you love a man. i'm sure from your manner that you like jack whitehouse the best, so i think i'll take him. you are awfully sweet, and not a bit like an old maid. i tell everybody so." "am i called an old maid?" i asked quickly. i could have bitten my tongue out for it afterwards. "oh, yes indeed, by all the younger set. you see you belonged to grace's set and they are all married. it makes you seem like a back number to us, but you don't look like an old maid. i suppose you can look back ages and ages and remember when you had lovers, can't you? or have you forgotten? i can't imagine you ever getting love-letters or flowers or any such things. i hope i haven't offended you. i am horribly honest, you know. i say just what i think, and you mustn't mind it. mamma says i am too truthful to be pleasant. but i like honesty myself, don't you?" and with that, tabby, she went away. how terrible the child is! now, pet is one of those persons who go about lacerating people and clothing their ignorance, or their insolence, in the garb of honesty. "i am honest," say they, "so you must not be offended, but is it true that your grandfather was hanged for being a pirate?" or, "i believe in being perfectly honest with people. how cross-eyed you are!" this is why honesty is so disreputable. when you say of a woman, "she is one of those honest, outspoken persons," it means that she will probably hurt your feelings, or insult you in your first interview with her. i don't like to admit it even to you, tabby, but i am horribly shaken up. after all these years of talking about myself to you as an old maid, and knowing that i am one, to hear myself called such, and to catch a glimpse of the way i appear to the oncoming generation, shakes me to the foundation of my being. soon _i_ shall be pushed to the wall, as something too worn out to be needed by bright young people. soon _i_ shall be one of the old people whom i have so dreaded all my life. dear tabby-cat! you can remember when missis received love-letters, can't you? they are not all in the japanned box, are they? do i seem old to you, kitty? why, there is actually a tear on your gray fur. dear me, what a silly old maid missis is! you see, after all, i have not been honest, even with myself. and, just between you and me, i will say that i abominate honesty in other people. there! viii a game of hearts "man proposes, but heaven disposes." tabby, did you ever hear me speak of charlie hardy? no, of course not. your mother must have been a kitten when i knew charlie the best. he is a nice boy. boy! what am i talking about? he is as old as i am. but he is the kind of man who always seems a boy, and everybody who has known him two days calls him charlie. rachel percival never thought much of him. she said he was weak, and weakness in a man is something rachel never excuses. she says it is trespassing on one of the special privileges of our sex. thus she disposed of charlie hardy. "look at his chin," said rachel; "could a man be strong with a chin like that?" "but he is so kind-hearted and easy to get along with," i urged. "very likely. he hasn't strength of mind to quarrel. he is unwilling, like most easy-going men, to inflict that kind of pain. but he could be as cruel as the grave in other ways. look at him. he always is in hot water about something, and never does as people expect him to do." "but he doesn't do wrong on purpose, and he makes charming excuses and apologies." "he ought to; he has had enough practice," answered rachel, with her beautiful smile. "he has what i call a conscience for surface things. he regards life from the wrong point of view, and, as to his always intending to do right--you know the place said to be paved with good intentions. no, no, ruth. charlie hardy is a dangerous man, because he is weak. through such men as he comes very bitter sorrow in this world." that conversation, tabby, took place, if not before you were created, at least in your early infancy--the time when your own weight threw you down if you tried to walk, and when ears and tail were the least of your make-up. all these years charlie has never married, but was always with the girls. he dropped with perfect composure from our set to sallie cox's--was her slave for two years, though sallie declares that she never was engaged to him. "what's the use of being engaged to a man that you can keep on hand without?" quoth sallie. but charlie bore no malice. "i didn't stand the ghost of a show with a girl like sallie, when she had such men as winston percival and those literary chaps around her. it was great sport to watch her with those men. you know what a little chatterbox she is. by jove! when that fellow percival began to talk, sallie never had a word to say for herself. it must have been awfully hard for her, but she certainly let him do all the talking, and just sat and listened, looking as sweet as a peach. oh! i never had any chance with sallie." nevertheless, he was usher at her wedding, then dropped peacefully to the next younger set, and now is going with girls of pet winterbotham's age. i thoroughly like the boy, but i can't imagine myself falling in love with him. if i were married to another man--an indiscreet thing for an old maid to say, tabby, but i only use it for illustration--i should not mind charlie hardy's dropping in for sunday dinner every week, if he wanted to. he never bothers. he never is in the way. he is as deft at buttoning a glove as he is amiable at playing cards. you always think of charlie hardy first if you are making up a theatre party. he serves equally well as groomsman or pall-bearer--although i do not speak from experience in either instance. he never is cross or sulky. he makes the best of everything, and i think men say that he is "an all-round good fellow." i depend a great deal upon other men's opinion of a man. i never thoroughly trust a man who is not a favorite with his own sex. i wish men were as generous to us in that respect, for a woman whom other women do not like is just as dangerous. and i never knew simple jealousy--the reason men urge against accepting our verdict--to be universal enough to condemn a woman. there always are a few fair-minded women in every community--just enough to be in the minority--to break continuous jealousy. be that as it may, the man i am talking about has kept up his acquaintance with rachel and alice asbury and me in a desultory way, and occasionally he grows confidential. the last time i saw him he said: "sometimes i wish i were a woman, ruth, when i get into so much trouble with the girls. women never seem to have any worry over love affairs. all they have to do is to lean back and let men wait on them until they see one that suits them. it is like ordering from a _menu_ card for them to select husbands. you run over a list for a girl--oysters, clams, or terrapin--and she takes terrapin. in the other case she runs over her own list--smith, jones, or robinson--and likewise takes the rarest. but she is not at all troubled about it. marrying is so easy for a girl. it comes natural to her." tabby, i did wish that he knew as much of the internal mechanism of the engagements that you and i have participated in, by proxy, as we do--if he would understand, profit by, and speedily forget the knowledge. but, like the hypocrite i am, i only smiled indulgently at him, as if, for women, marrying was mere reposing on eider-down cushions, with the tiller ropes in their hands, while men did the rowing. i was not going to admit, tabby, that the most of the girls we know never worked harder in their lives than during that indefinite and mysterious period known as "making up their minds." you see i uphold my own sex at all hazards--to men. he was standing up to go when he said that, but there was something about him which led me to suspect that he was in a condition when he needed some woman to straighten out his affairs. i made no reply, which threw the burden of continuing the conversation upon him. i was in that passive state which made me perfectly willing to have him say good-night and go home or stay and confess to me, just as he chose. i knew he needed me; a good many men need their mothers once in a while as much as they ever did when boys. there was something whimsically boyish about charlie as he leaned over the back of a tall chair and debated secretly whether or not he should confide in me. "why don't you ask me why i said that?" he said. "because i know without asking. you were induced to say it by what you have been thinking of all the evening. it sounded like a beginning, but really it was an ending." he looked as though he thought me a mind-reader, but i fancy the knack of divining when people need a confidant is preternaturally developed in old maids. "how good you are, ruth." "you men always think women are good when they understand you. but it isn't goodness." "no, you're right. it's more comfortable than goodness. it's odd how you do it. may i tell you about it? you won't think half as well of me as you do now, but it needs just such women as you to keep men straight, and if you will give me your opinion i vow i'll do as you say, even if it kills me." i was afraid from that desperate ending that it was something serious, and it was. he made several attempts before he could begin. finally he burst out with, "although you are the easiest person in the world to talk to, and i've known you always, it is pretty hard to lay this case before you so that you won't think me a conceited prig. that is because you are a woman and can't help looking at it from a woman's standpoint. for a good many reasons it would be easier to tell it to some man, who would know how it was himself; but you see i want a woman's conscience and a woman's judgment, because you can put yourself in another woman's place." he grew quite red as he talked, and i waited patiently for him to go on, but gave him no help. "well, here goes. if you hate me afterwards i can't help it. i had no idea it would be so hard to tell you or i shouldn't have attempted it. but since you have been sitting there looking at me i am beginning to think differently of it myself, and i'm sure that, with all your kindness, you will be very hard on me, and tell me to accept the hardest alternative. now, ruth, you'd better shake hands with me and say good-by while you like me, because you will think of me as another charlie hardy when i've finished." he actually held out his hand, but i folded mine together. "no," i said, smiling, "i shall not bid you good-by until i really am through with you. don't look so discouraged. come; possibly i may be a better friend to you than you think." "you are awfully good," he said again. i don't know when i have so impressed a man with my extraordinary goodness as i did by listening to charlie while he did all the talking. if i could have held my tongue another hour, he would have called me an angel. "well, although you may not know it, i am engaged to louise king. i always have been very fond of her, and when i found i couldn't get sallie, i was sure i cared as much for louise as i ever could care for anybody, and i was perfectly satisfied with her--thought she would make me an awfully good wife, and all that. but while miss taliaferro was up here visiting sallie, i was with her a good deal, and the first thing i knew we were dead in love with each other. you know we were both in sallie's wedding-party, and i tell you, ruth, to stand up at the altar with a girl he is already half in love with, plays the very deuce with a man. kentucky girls are all pretty, i suppose--everybody says so, and you have to make believe you think so whether you do or not; but this one--you know her? isn't she the prettiest thing you ever saw? well, of course she didn't know i was engaged, and i kept putting off telling her, until the first thing i knew i was letting her see how much i thought of her. i don't suppose it was at all difficult to see, but girls are keen on such subjects, and a man can't be in love with one more than a week before she knows more about it than he does. then, after she told me that she loved me, how could i tell her that, in spite of what i had said, i was engaged to another girl? wouldn't she have thought i was a rascal? no; i had to let her go home thinking that, if we were not already engaged, we should be some time, and i went part way with her, and--it was a mean trick to play, but the nonsensical things that unthinking people do precipitate affairs which perhaps without their means might never fully develop. brian beck heard that i was going a few miles with her, and he and sallie and payson came down to the train to see us off. just as we pulled out of the station, brian made the most frantic signs for me to open the window, and when i did so, he threw a tissue-paper package at me. frankie and i both made an effort to catch it. of course it burst when we touched it, and a good pound of rice was scattered all over us. you never saw such a sight. it flew in every direction; her hat and my hair were full of it. some went down my collar. of course everybody in the car roared and--well, i'm not done blushing at it yet. frankie took it much better than i, and only laughed at it. but i--i felt more like crying. i saw instantly how it complicated things. it was a nail driven into my coffin. "we had no more than settled down from that and were just having a good little talk, after the passengers had stopped looking at us, when the porter appeared, bringing a basket of white flowers with two turtle-doves suspended from the handle, and brian beck's card on it. i wish you could have heard the people laugh. i declare to you, ruth, when i saw that great white thing coming and knew what it meant, it looked as big as a billiard-table to me. i was going to pay the fellow to take it out again, but no--frankie wanted it. she made me put it down on the opposite seat and there it stood. those sickening birds were too much for me, so i jerked them off and threw them out of the window, conscious that my face was very red and that i was amusing more people than i had bargained for. "when the time came for me to get off and take the train back, frankie implored me to go on with her, urging how strange it would look to people, who all thought we were married, to see me disappear and have her go on alone. i railed at the idea, but she was in earnest, and when i told her positively that i couldn't--thinking more, i must admit, of the state of my affairs than of hers--she began to cry under her veil. that settled it. of course i couldn't stand it to see the girl i loved cry, so i went home with her, fell deeper in love every minute i was there, and came away feeling like a cur because i had not spoken to her father. her people met me in the cordial, honest manner of those who have faith in mankind, but i couldn't look them in the face without flinching. "since i came back, of course, i've been visiting louise as usual. i told her all about the rice and flowers, thinking that if she quarrelled with me about the affair she would break off the engagement. but she only laughed and said it served me right for flirting with every girl that came along, and didn't even reproach me. she has absolute faith in me. she doesn't believe i could sink so low as i have, any more than she could. she has idealized me until i don't dare to breathe for fear of destroying the illusion. she thinks that i love her in the way she loves me, but i couldn't. it isn't in me, ruth. i don't even love frankie that way. to tell the truth, louise is too good for me. she is magnificent, but i am rather afraid of her. she has so many ideals and is so intense. her faith in me makes me shiver. i am not a bit comfortable with her. i do not even understand how she can love me so much. i am nothing extraordinary, but if you knew the way she treats me, you would think i was achilles or some of those greek fellows. she has refused better and richer men than i. norris whitehouse has loved her all her life, and you know what a splendid man he is, but louise ridicules the idea of ever caring for anybody but me. she is so perfect that there is absolutely no flaw in her for me to recognize and feel friendly with. she reads me like a book, but i am less acquainted with her than i was before we were engaged. she says such beautiful things to me sometimes, things that are far beyond my comprehension, and she can get so uplifted that i feel as if i never had met her. there's no use in talking; after a girl falls in love with a man she often ceases to be the girl he courted." i recalled what i had said to percival--"often a woman denies herself the expression of the best part of her love, for fear that it will be either a puzzle or a terror to her lover." such a saying belonged to percival. i shouldn't think of repeating it to charlie, for he could not comprehend it. i should puzzle him as much as louise did. it made me heartsick. how could even charlie hardy so persistently misunderstand the grandeur of louise king? yet how could such a glorious girl imagine herself in love with nice, weak, agreeable charlie hardy? louise is a younger, handsomer, more impetuous, less clever edition of rachel percival; but she is of that order. she is less concentrated and more emotional than rachel. i did not quite know how a great sorrow would affect louise. rachel would use it as a stepping-stone towards heaven. i have seen a young, untried race-horse with small, pointed, restless ears; with delicate nostrils where the red blood showed; with full, soft eyes where fire flashed; with a satin skin so thin and glossy that even the lightest hand would cause it to quiver to the touch; where pride and fire and royal blood seemed to urge a trial of their powers; and i have thought: "you are capable of passing anything on the track and coming under the wire triumphant and victorious; or you might fulfil your prophecy equally well by falling dead in your first heat, with the red blood gushing from those thin nostrils. we can be sure of nothing until you are tried, but it is a quivering delight to look at you and to share your impatience and to wonder what you will do." occasionally i see women who affect me in the same way--idealists, capable of being wounded through their sensitiveness by things which we ordinary mortals accept philosophically; capable also of greater heights of happiness and lower depths of misery, but of suffering most through being misunderstood. to this class rachel and louise belong. rachel, in percival, has reached a haven where she rides at anchor, sheltered from such storms as had hitherto almost engulfed her, and growing more heroically beautiful in character day by day. poor louise is still at sea, with a great storm brewing. how hard, how terribly hard, to talk to charlie hardy about her, when, after the solemnity of an engagement tie between them, he was capable of misunderstanding, not only her, but the whole situation so blindly! but what a calamity it would be if louise should marry him! "go on, ruth. say something, do. i imagine all sorts of things while you just sit there looking at me so solemnly. i realize that i am in a tight place. i did hope that you could see some way out of it for me; but i know, by the way you act, that you think i ought to give up frankie--dear little girl!--and marry louise, and by jove! if you say it's the handsome thing to do, i'll do it." this still more effectually closed my lips. he so evidently thought that he was being heroic. he added rather reluctantly, "i must say that i suppose frankie taliaferro would get over it much more easily than louise could." "charlie," i said slowly, "you don't mean to be, but you are too conceited to live. i wonder that you haven't died of conceit before this." charlie's blond face flushed and he looked deeply offended. "conceited!" he burst out. "why, ruth, there isn't a fellow going who has a worse opinion of himself than i have. i don't see what either of those girls sees in me to love, i tell you. i am not proud of it. i wish to heaven they didn't love me. _i_ haven't made them." "'haven't made them'! yes, you have. you are just the kind of man who does. you say pretty things even to old women, and bring them shawls and put footstools under their feet with the air of a lover. and if you only hand a woman an ice you look unutterable things. you have a dozen girls at a time in that indefinite state when three words to any one of them would engage you to her, and she would think you had deliberately led up to it; whereas all the past had been idle admiration on your part, and it was a rose in her hair or a moment in the conservatory that upset you, and there you are. oh, these girls, these girls, who believe every time a man at a ball says he loves them that he means it! why can't you be satisfied to have some of them friends, and not all sweethearts?" "it can't be done. i've tried and i know. sallie tried it and it married her off--a thing not one of her flirtations could have accomplished. this is the way it goes. you arrange with a girl not to have any nonsense, but just to be good friends. you take her to the theatre, drive with her, dance with her. soon her chaperon begins to eye you over. fellows at the club drop a remark now and then. you explain that you are only friends, and they wink at you and you feel foolish. next time they see you with her, they look knowing, and you see, to your horror, that the girl is blushing. evidently she is under fire too. still, you keep it up. she makes a better comrade than any of the men. you feel that you are out of mischief when you are with her. she keeps you alert. you never are bored, but really you are not as fond of her as you were of your college chum even. she treats you a trifle, just a trifle, differently from all the other men. this goes to your head. you begin to make a little difference yourself. you take her hand when you say good-night, just as you would one of the men. but it is not the same. the girl has needles or electricity in her hand. you can't let go. you begin to feel that friendship, too, can be dangerous. next day you send her flowers, with some lines about the delights of friendship. she accepts both beautifully, but you have a guilty feeling that you did it to remind her. she does not seem to understand that there had been any necessity. still, you feel rather mean, and to make up for it you try to atone by your manner. she is looking perfectly lovely. she wears white. you particularly like white. she knows it. you think perhaps she wore it to please you. _how_ pretty she is! you lose your head a little and say something. she looks innocent and surprised. she 'thought we were just friends. surely,' she says, 'you have said so often enough. why change? friends are so much more comfortable.' she wants to 'stay a friend.' you are miserable at the idea, although that morning it was just what you wanted. you were even afraid she would think differently. what an ass a man can be! you fling discretion to the winds and tell her--you tell her--well, you go home engaged to her. that's how a friendship ends. bah!" "a realistic recital. from hearsay, of course! the next day the man wishes he were well out of it, i suppose?" "not quite so soon as that, but soon enough." "ah, i wish you knew, charlie hardy, how all this sounds even to such a good friend of yours as i am. it is such men as you who lower the standard of love and of men in general. do you suppose a girl who has had an encounter with you, and seen how trifling you are, can have her first beautiful faith to give to the truly grand hero when he comes? no; it has been bruised and beaten down by what you call 'a little flirtation,' and possibly her unwillingness to trust a second time may force her true lover into withdrawing his suit. how dare men and women trifle with the shekinah of their lives? and when it has been dulled by abuse, what a pitiful shekinah it appears to the one who approaches it reverently, confidently expecting it to be the uncontaminated holy of holies! it is this sort of thing which makes infidels about love." charlie began to look sulky, feeling, i suppose, that i was piling the sins of the universe on to his already burdened shoulders. "i dare say you are right, but what am i to do?" "there is only one thing for you to do, but i know you won't do it." "yes, i will. only try me," he said, brightening up. "you must go and tell louise that you are in love with frankie taliaferro." "tell louise? why, ruth, it would kill her. you don't know her. she wouldn't let me off. you don't know how a girl in love feels. ruth, were you ever in love?" "that is not a pertinent question," i said. "it comes quite near being the other thing. but let me tell you, charlie hardy, i know louise king, and it won't kill her. you know 'men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love.' that might be said of women." (i didn't know, tabby, whether it might or might not. i couldn't afford to let him see my doubts, if i had any.) "we don't die as easily as you men seem to think." "but is this your view of what is right?" he asked. "i was sure you would counsel the other. i've been fortifying myself to give frankie up and marry louise, and, with all due respect to you, i must say that i think you are wrong here. you must remember that my honor is involved." "bother your honor!" i cried explosively. charlie seemed rather pleased than otherwise at my inelegance. "i am tired to death of hearing men fall back on nonsense about their honor. i notice they seldom feel called upon to refer to it unless they are involved in something disreputable." charlie straightened up at this and settled his coat with an indignant jerk. "i hardly think," he began stiffly, "that i am involved in anything disreputable in being engaged to miss king." "what are a man's debts of honor?" i went on with growing excitement. "gaming debts and things he would scarcely care to explain to the public at large. your honor is involved in this, is it? and you must save your honor at all hazards, no matter who goes to the wall in the process! i suppose if you made the rash vow that, if your horse won the race, you would cut your mother's head off, while you were still in the flush of victory, you would seize your bowie-knife and go to work! no? oh, yes, charlie. your honor, as you call it, is involved. i insist upon it. you must do it. oh, i am going too far, am i? not one step further than men go in the mire whither their honor leads them. debts of honor, indeed! debts of dishonor i call them. so do most women." "yes, but, ruth," interrupted charlie uneasily, "an engagement is different. i don't dispute what you say in regard to gambling debts--" "you can't," i murmured rebelliously. "--but a man can't, with any decency, ask a girl to release him when he has sought her out and asked her to marry him." "perhaps not with decency. but it is a place where this precious honor of yours might come into play. it would at least be honorable." "there isn't a man who would agree with you," he cried. "nor is there a woman who would agree with you," i retorted. but both of us stretched things a little at this point. he thought over the situation for a few minutes, then said, "you understand that, in my opinion, louise loves me the best." "the best--yes. for that very reason you must not marry her. o charlie! try to understand," i pleaded. "she must love the best when she loves at all. she has loved the best in you, until she has put it out of your reach ever to attain to it. it would not be fair to the girl, it would be robbing her, to accept all this beautiful love for you, and give her in return--your love for another girl. do you suppose for an instant that you could continue to deceive her after you were married? supposing she found out afterwards, then what? she might die of that. i cannot say. it would be enough to kill her. but not if you are honest and manly enough to tell her in time to save her self-respect. you are powerless to touch it now. you could kill it if you were married." "honest and manly enough to confess myself a rascal? i don't see where it would come in," he replied gloomily. "it is the nearest approach to it which lies in your power." "if the girls' places were only reversed now! i could tell frankie that i had been false to our engagement and had fallen in love with louise. she would know how it was herself. but louise couldn't comprehend such things. i believe she has been as true to me, even in thought, as if she had been my wife. how can i tell her?" "the more you say, the plainer you make it your duty. i say, how can you not tell her?" "i might go away for a year and not let her know and not write to her. then she would know without my having to tell her." "you wouldn't stand it if a man called you a coward. don't try my woman's friendship for you too far. you insult me by offering such a suggestion." "gently, gently, ruth. i beg your pardon." (rachel was right in saying he would not quarrel. i wished he would. i never wanted to quarrel so much in my life.) "i am a coward," he broke down at last. "i'll spare you the trouble of saying so. but oh, ruth, you don't know how i dread a scene! you go and tell her. i can't. i couldn't even write it." "how unselfish you are! spare yourself at all hazards, charlie, for of course it was not your fault that things got into such a state." "oh, ruth, don't!" "well, i won't. but do you realize how i should insult her if i went to her? it's bad enough for you, the man she loves, to tell her. from any one else it would be unforgivable. do as you like. you promised to follow my advice. take it and do as you will with it. but i will guarantee the result if you will do as i say. come, charlie. one hour, and it will all be over, and you can marry frankie." it was like getting him into a dentist's chair. i felt a wholesome self-contempt as i thus sugar-coated his pill, but he was so abject in his misery. charlie brightened up perceptibly at the alluring prospect. he shut his eyes to the dark path which led to happiness, and was revelling in its glory. "ruth, you dear thing! i don't see how i ever can thank you enough," he said, taking both my hands in his. "i ought to have stuck to you, that's what i ought to have done. you would have kept me straight. do you know, i used to be awfully in love with you. you really were my first love. i was about eighteen then. you don't look a day older, and you are just as sweet as ever." i laughed outright. "what did i tell you?" i cried. "you can't help making love to save your life. your gratitude is getting you into deeper water every minute. go home, do. run for your life, or you'll be engaged to me too. _then_ who'll help you out?" he acted upon my suggestion and went hastily. tabby, did you ever? he never was in love with me, never on this earth. whatever possessed him to say such a thing? he loses his head, that's what he does. i hope he won't meet any woman younger than his grandmother before he gets home, or he might propose to her. * * * * * my heart stands still when i think of louise king. ix the madonna of the quiet mind "it is not true that love makes all things easy, but it makes us choose what is difficult." across the street, in plain view from my window, has come to dwell a little brown wren of a woman with her five babies. the house, hitherto inconspicuous among its finer neighbors, at the advent of the mayo family suddenly bloomed into a home. the lawn blossomed with living flowers and the windows framed faces which shamed, in their dimpling loveliness, the painted cherubs on the wall. it was a delight to see nellie mayo in the midst of her children. hers were all babies, such dear, amiable, kissable babies, each of whom seemed personally anxious to prove to every one how much sweetness one small morsel of humanity could hold. but with five of them, bless me! the house was one glowing radiance of sunshine, in which the little mother lived and loved, until they absorbed each other's personality, and it was difficult to think of one without the others. sometimes in a street-car or on the elevated train i have seen women who i felt convinced had little babies at home. it is because of the peculiar look they wear, the rapturous mother-look, which has its home in the eyes during the most helpless period of babyhood--an indescribable look, in which dreams and prophecy and heaven are mingled. it is the sweetest look which can come to a woman's face, saying plainly, "oh, i have such a secret in my heart! would that every one knew its rapture with me!" it wears off sooner or later, but with nellie mayo, whether because there always was a baby, or because each was welcomed with such a world of love, the look remained until it seemed a part of her face. long ago we knew her as an unworldly girl, whose peachblow coloring gave to her face its chief beauty, although her plaintive blue eyes and smooth brown hair called forth a certain protective faith in her simplicity and goodness. sometimes girlhood is a mysterious chaos of traits, out of which no one can foretell what sort of cosmos will follow, or whether there will be a cosmos at all or only intelligent chaos to the end. but this girl seemed to carry her future in her face. she was a little mother to us all. it was a tribute to her gentleness and dignity that, although she was a poor girl among a bevy of rich ones, she was a favorite; unacknowledged perhaps, but still a favorite. she always stood ready with her unostentatious help. she was everybody's understudy. flossy carleton, as she was then, fastened herself like a leech upon nellie's capacity for aid, and was a likely subject for the exercise of nellie's swifter brain and willing feet; for to see any one's unspoken need was to her like a thrilling cry for help, and was the only thing which could completely draw her from her shy reserve. the chief reason she was popular was that she had a faculty of keeping herself in the shadow. you never knew where she was until you wanted her, when she would seem to rise out of the earth to your side. but, in spite of your intense gratitude at the moment, you really found yourself taking her as a matter of course. she was one of those who are fully appreciated only when they are dead, and who then call forth the bitterest remorse that we have not made them know in life how dear they were and how painfully necessary to our happiness. it is rather a sad commentary upon those same girls, who accepted nellie's assistance most readily, to record that, when they were launched into society and were deep in the mysteries of full-fledged young-ladyhood, little nellie maddox was seldom invited to their most fashionable gatherings, but came in, at first, before their memory grew too rusty, for the simpler luncheons and teas. this is not a history of intentional or systematic neglect, but a mere statement of the way things drifted along. not one of the girls would wilfully have omitted her, if she had been in the habit of being asked; but it was easy to let her name slip when all the rest did it, and so gradually it came to pass that we seldom saw her. then she married frank mayo, who would not be offended if he heard a newsboy refer to him as "a gent," or a maid-servant describe him as "a pretty man." of such a one it is scarcely necessary to add that he was selfish, inordinately conceited, and, to complete the description, a trifle vulgar. he never suspected his wife's cleverness nor appreciated her worship. it almost made me doubt her cleverness to see how she idolized him, but this instance went far towards proving that love, with some women, is entirely an affair of the heart. it irritates rachel to hear any one say so. she says it argues ignorance of a nice distinction in terms, and that when the brain is not concerned it should be called by a baser name. i doubt if she could have brought herself to say so if she had been looking into nellie mayo's blue eyes, which looked tired and a little less blue than as i remembered them. they had pathetic purple shadows under them, which told of sleepless nights with the babies, and there were fine lines around her mouth; but her light-brown hair was as smooth and her dress as plain and neat as ever. it was like watching a nest of birds. i felt my own love expand to see the wealth of affection nellie had for her precious family. her unselfish zeal never flagged. she flitted from one want to another as naturally as she breathed and with as little consciousness of the process. her household machinery ran no more smoothly than many another's, but nellie met and surmounted all obstacles with an unruffled brow. her outward calm was the result of some great inward peace. she simply had developed naturally from the girl we had known before we grew up and went away to be "finished by travel." nothing could go so wrongly, no nerves throb so pitilessly, that they prevented her meeting her husband with the smile reserved for him alone. none of the babies could call it forth. when he came home tired, nellie fluttered around him making him comfortable, as if life held for her no sweeter task. being a woman myself, and having no husband to wait upon until it became natural, i used to feel somewhat vexed that he never served her, instead of receiving the best of everything so complacently. he never seemed to realize that she might be tired or needed a change of routine. that household revolved around him. of course it was partly nellie's fault that he had fallen into the habit of receiving everything and making no return. fallen into it? no. with that kind of a man, an only son, and considered by the undiscriminating to be good-looking, his wife had only to take up his mother's unfinished work of spoiling him. it is true that these unselfish women inculcate a system of selfishness in their families which often works their ruin. they rob the children of their rightful virtue of self-sacrifice. so nellie idolized her husband. he was her king, and the king could do no wrong. she taught the babies a sweet system of idolatry, which so far had been harmless. he cared very little for children; so, when yearning to express their love for the hero of all their mother's stories, with their little hearts almost bursting with affection, their love was most frequently tested by being obliged to keep away from their idol in order "not to bother him" with their kisses. fortunately these same withheld kisses were dear to nellie, and she never was too busy to accept and return them. thus they never knew how busy she was. she was sure to be about some sweet task for others. if she ever rested, it was with the cosiest corner occupied by somebody else. i wonder what will happen when, in heaven, one of these selfless mothers is led in triumph to a solid gold throne, all lined with eider-down cushions, where she can take the rest she never had on earth. won't she stagger back against the glittering walls of the new jerusalem and say, "not for me. not for me. surely it must be for my husband?" but there, where places are appointed, she will not be allowed to give it up--which may make her miserable even in heaven. ah me, these mothers! it brings tears to my eyes to think of their unending love, which wraps around and shelters and broods over every one, whose helplessness clings to their help, whose need depends upon their exhaustless supply. theirs it is to bear the invisible but princely crest, "ich dien." nellie had no time for literary classes. her music, of which we used to predict great things, had resolved itself into lullabies and kindergarten ditties for the children. she seldom found an opportunity to visit even me. so it was i who went there and saw how her life was literally bound by the four walls of that little brown house; yet i never felt any inclination to pity her, because she was so contented. i knew of others who seemed happier--that is, the word seemed to describe them better--but none of them possessed nellie mayo's placid content. still, i did not like her husband. he was not of nellie's fine fibre. he was dull, while she was delightfully clever. his eyes were rather good, but he had a way of throwing expressive glances at me, as he talked upon trifling subjects, which disgusted me. i reluctantly made up my mind that he considered himself a "lady-killer," but i felt outraged that he should waste his ammunition upon me. i tried to be amused by it, when i found indignation was useless with him. i used to call him "simon tappertit" to myself, until i once forgot and referred to him as "simon" before nellie, when i gave up being amused and let it bore me naturally. i always had treated him with unusual consideration for nellie's sake, and even had tried genuinely to admire him because it gave her such pleasure; but when i discovered that the jackanapes took it as an evidence that he was progressing in my esteem, i did not know whether to laugh or cry with vexation. all at once, without any explanation or preface, sallie began calling upon mrs. mayo and sending her flowers from her conservatories. often when sallie came to see me her coachman had orders to be at mrs. mayo's disposal, to take the children for a drive, while sallie and i sat and talked about everything except why she had embarked upon this venture. i was sure there was something in it which must be kept out of sight, because sallie never would talk about them. i noticed that whenever frank was away from home--which grew more and more frequent--an invitation was sure to come for the mayos from sallie. but nellie never accepted without him, whether from pride or timidity i could not then determine, and all sallie's efforts to persuade her were unavailing. it was such an unusual proceeding in mrs. payson osborne to seek out any one that it excited my wonder. but she was not to be balked by anything; moreover, i had great faith in her motives, which were sound and good, even if her plans of carrying them out inclined to the frivolous. but all at once her frivolity seemed to reach a climax. she issued invitations for a lawn fête, to be followed by a very private, very select dinner, after which came the cotillon. she had decorators from new york, and otherwise ordered the most extravagant setting for her entertainment. this might not seem unusual to every one, but with us, who are accustomed to extracting our enjoyment from one party at a time, this seemed rather a superb affair. pet winterbotham was almost wild with delight. "only think," she cried, "she has asked jack and me to lead the cotillon! isn't that sweet of her? oh, i do think she is the dearest thing! though i must say i'd rather have been asked to the dinner. that's going to be perfectly elegant. i heard it was to be given for somebody, but i don't know who it could be. it might be for frankie taliaferro. mrs. osborne has asked her to come up for it." pet's remarks rushed on until i soon found myself carried along the tide of her enthusiasm, which she assured me was shared by every girl in town. i shall not attempt to describe sallie's success. the weather, the people, fortune itself, was in her favor, and the whole afternoon was admirable. i confess, however, that it was with some slight curiosity that i awaited the dinner. sallie's cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone with an unusual brilliancy as she greeted us, but the proverbial feather would have felled any one of her guests when payson offered his arm to mrs. frank mayo, who rose out of a shadowy corner in a high-throated gown and led us to the dining-room. i caught sallie's eye as she laid her hand on frank mayo's arm, and she gave me a comical look, half imploring, half defiant. i was guilty of wondering if sallie had been demented when she planned that dinner-table, for this is the way we found ourselves: next to frank mayo came alice asbury, encased in freezing dignity. brian beck, at his worst, supported her on the other hand. after brian were louise king and charlie hardy, both looking to my practised eyes exceedingly stiff and uncomfortable. i had no time to wonder if the blow had fallen, in casting a glance at the other guests. nellie mayo was admirably situated between charlie hardy and payson osborne, both of whom were deference itself to her. the difference in her simple attire from the full dress all around her in no wise disturbed her unworldly spirit. she looked with quiet admiration at the handsome shoulders of louise and rachel, evidently never dreaming that the babies' mother might be expected to follow their example in dress. [illustration: seating plan.] grace beck, sitting by norris whitehouse, would have an excellent opportunity of cementing or breaking off the prospective match, which as yet was unannounced, between her sister and his nephew. rachel would be polite, but not wildly entertaining, to asbury; but he could count on me to be decent to him, while i snatched crumbs of intellectual comfort from percival on my other hand. but sallie had placed the funereal clinton frost between that rattle-pated frankie taliaferro and her lively self, probably with the laudable intention of seeing whether his face would be permanently disfigured by a smile. nor was the poor wretch out of brian beck's reach, but was made the objective point of brian's liveliest sallies, the hero of his most piquant and impossible stories, which convulsed us until i felt sure that the irritated mr. frost must cherish a secret but lively desire to punch his head. possibly brian was the only one who thoroughly enjoyed himself at that ill-starred dinner, for he is keen on the scent of a precarious situation which is liable to involve everybody in total collapse. in this instance he seemed to snuff the battle from afar and stirred up all the slumbering elements of discord with unctuous satisfaction; and if it had not been for the wicked twinkle in his irish blue eyes, which none of his victims could withstand, it might have resulted seriously. he gayly rallied charlie hardy on his flirtations; predicted seeing him yet brought up with a round turn in a breach-of-promise case; seemed highly edified by frankie taliaferro's efforts to appear unconcerned at these pleasantries; railed openly at clinton frost's being so unresponsive to the general mirth around him; shivered visibly at that gentleman's icy retorts; playfully called attention to his wife's endeavors to frown him into silence; and, in spite of sallie's angry glances, really saved her dinner from proving a dismal failure. indeed, the cases were too real, and too much genuine misery was concealed behind impassive faces, not to prove a dangerous situation, the tension of which was relieved by brian's extravagant nonsense. percival and norris whitehouse were sincerely amused by the wit in which brian clothed his droll remarks. but the greatest misfortune of the dinner-giver was realized in frank mayo, the man who thinks he can tell a good story. the mayos were so new to all of us that this peculiarity was not suspected until brian discovered it and dragged it forth. he persuaded frank to talk, listened with absorbing interest to the flattest tales, encouraged him if he flagged, and laughed until the tears came if he by chance forgot or slurred a point. however, no one seemed to think that there was anything seriously amiss except sallie, who is a human barometer when she has guests. she knows by instinct when they are or are not being entertained. nor was her tact at fault in seating the people, for i was the only one laden with almost unbearable knowledge, and i fell asleep that night thinking that possibly the situation was not so unusual as it appeared to me. i dare say plenty of dinners are given with just as many unsuspected trap-doors to sensationalism. x the pathos of faith "to him who is shod the whole world is covered with leather." the next afternoon i was resting and thinking over the brilliancy of the payson osborne entertainment, when sallie came in, dressed from head to foot in black. there was not a suspicion of white at wrist or throat. i was too startled to ask a question until her burst of laughter relieved me. "you poor thing!" she cried, "did i frighten you? but i _am_ in mourning; yes, truly, for my dinner-party. ruth, ruth, what was the matter with it?" "why, nothing. it was exquisitely served, and oh, sallie, your lawn fête and the cotillon were beautiful. they were perfect. truly, you do give the most successful entertainments in town." "certainly--why shouldn't i," said sallie sharply, "when i have never done anything, _anything_ all my life but go to parties and study how to give them? oh, ruth, dear, i do get so tired of it all. but," taking on a brisker tone, "all the more reason why i should never give such a sad affair as that dinner. that dinner, ruth, was what brian beck calls a howling failure. payson never criticises anything that i do, but even he came to me quite gingerly this morning, after i had read what the papers had to say about it, and said, 'my dear child, what was the matter with your tea-party?' now, let us admit the success of the other two, and weep a little in a friendly way over the 'tea-party.'" "i had a lovely time--" i began, but sallie interrupted me. "hypocrite!" she cried vehemently. "you know you didn't. your eyes were as big as turkey platters with apprehension." "my dear sallie," i expostulated. "don't you dare put on airs with me, then," she said mutinously. "now, what ailed them all? it couldn't have been the advent of the mayos. i've launched more ticklish craft than they. nor could it have been that abominable brian beck, who would spoil paradise and be the utter ruin of a respectable funeral. every one seemed to conspire to make my dinner a failure." "oh, sallie, i think percival especially exerted himself. he was in his most exquisite mood." "oh, percival, of course. he must have suspected that something was going wrong. did you ever notice, when he talks, how rachel turns her head away? but you can see the color creep up into her face. she is too proud and shy to let people see how much she cares for him. but when _she_ speaks percival looks at her with all his eyes, and positively leans forward so that he shall not miss a word. i love to watch those two. sometimes when i have been with them i feel as if i had been to church." "then, too, payson's manner to nellie mayo was the most chivalric thing i ever saw. he treated her as if the best in the land were not too good for her." "nor is it," said sallie warmly. "i'm glad you think so. what a sweet, unworldly spirit she has! almost any woman would have been distressed because of her gown; but she was so superior to her dress, with that uplifted face of hers, that i felt ashamed to think of it myself. you gave her a rare pleasure last night, for she never meets clever men and women. the percivals and mr. whitehouse delighted her, and you saw how well she sustained her part of the conversation. you see she thinks, if she doesn't have time to study. she was particularly fortunate in having payson to take her out, for he has a faculty of putting people at their ease. do you know, sallie, payson osborne has come out wonderfully since you married him. he is more thoughtful, more considerate, and his manners always have been _so_ good. i declare, last night i caught him looking at you in a way which made me quite fond of him." "i'm fond of him myself," said sallie candidly. "he undoubtedly is a dear old thing, and he is tremendously good to me. by the way, did you notice how red frankie taliaferro's eyes were last night? she had the toothache, poor girl. it came on quite suddenly just before dinner, and it alarmed me for fear she couldn't appear. just before dinner i was naming over the way the people were to go in, and i said that i had to put engaged people together and separate husbands and wives, after the manner of real life, and payson asked if i was sure louise king and charlie hardy were engaged, and i said yes, although it never had been announced, and just then frankie burst into tears. it was a suspicious time for crying, especially as that egregious flirt had paid her a great deal of attention; but frankie would tell _me_, i am sure, and then she really had been to the dentist's that morning. so i gave her something for it which she said cured it. i was so vexed at her for making her eyes red, for her blue dress brought it out. if she had been crying over the other, she might have spared her tears, for i don't believe charlie and louise are engaged. i think they have quarrelled, for when charlie offered his arm to louise, she looked up with that way she has of throwing her head back, and i declare to you, ruth, i saw, i positively saw, forked lightnings shoot from her eyes. they blazed so i was afraid they would set his tie on fire. as for charlie, he turned first green, then magenta, then a rich and lively purple. i give you my word they did not speak to each other during that dinner, nor would louise stay to the cotillon. charlie danced it with frankie. nice state of affairs, isn't it?" i felt myself grow weak. but sallie proceeded gayly: "then you know how hard i have tried to propitiate those miserable asburys. i declare, i think alice might meet me half way. perhaps she didn't like being seated between frank mayo and brian beck, but both she and that awful frost man sat as stiff and unsmiling as if they had swallowed curtain-poles by the dozen." sallie does not mind an extra word or two to strengthen a simile. i tried to imagine alice and mr. frost gulping down the articles sallie mentioned, but mine was no match for sallie's nimble fancy and i gave it up. "i do hope that pet winterbotham will not marry that man. i should as soon see her led to the altar by a satin-lined casket. i had to invite him when i found that frankie could come. wasn't brian beck dreadful, and didn't you think you would go to sleep under frank mayo's stories? and didn't grace beck's airs with mr. whitehouse amuse you? oh, she will hold that head of hers so high if pet marries jack. how bored asbury looked, didn't he? so selfish of him not to pretend to be pleased. even rachel vexed me by not being nicer to asbury. i declare, ruth, i was so irritated at the queer way every one acted, i felt as if it would be a relief to make faces at them, instead of beaming on them the hospitable beam of a hostess. i wonder how they would have liked it." "they might have considered it rather unconventional perhaps." sallie smiled absent-mindedly, pressed her hand to her flushed cheek, looked over towards the mayo house, and then, meeting my inquiring glance, dropped her eyes in confusion. "well," i said tentatively. sallie leaned back in her chair, put her hands behind her head, and closed her eyes. "i wonder," she said dreamily, "why i ever attempt to do things. why can't people let me alone, and why don't i let them alone? most of all, why do i ever try to keep a secret?" i knew then that she had been rattling on because her mind was full of something else. i don't believe she knew half that she had said. presently to my surprise i saw a tear steal down her cheek. "o sallie!" i exclaimed, now really worried, "what is it?" "i'll tell you, ruth, for you are the only one who seems really to know and love that dear little nellie mayo and those blessed babies. ruth, there is a damocles sword hanging over that nest of birds, and it is liable to fall at any moment. oh, it has weighed on my heart like lead ever since i discovered the secret. i know you don't like frank mayo, but you will despise him when i tell you the mischief he is up to, and that poor little wife of his trusting him as if he were an archangel. oh, he is common, ruth, and horrid, and if it is ever found out it will kill nellie. but he is carrying on dreadfully with a soubrette in new york. he is wasting his money on her--and you know he has none to spare--and seems to be infatuated with her; while she, of course, is only using him to advertise herself. in fact, that is how i found it out. payson is in a syndicate which is trying to buy one of those up-town theatres in new york and turn it into something else; i forget just what they want to do with it, but any way, he came in contact with the manager of the theatre where this woman was playing. he gave them a dinner and afterwards they occupied his box, and while this woman was on the stage her manager told how some man was causing nightly sensations by the flowers he sent her, and he said that he--her manager--thought he would have it written up for the papers to advertise her before she started out on her tour. he said the man was making a fool of himself, but the actress didn't care, and when he pointed out the fellow to them, payson saw to his horror that it was frank mayo. he didn't say a word before the other gentlemen, but the next day he went to the manager and begged him to advertise the woman in some other way. he told him who frank was and all about his poor little wife and the children, and the manager, who seems to be a good hearted man, said it was a shame and promised not to allow it. he even went so far as to offer to speak to the actress herself and request her to refuse to be interviewed on the subject. so payson came home quite relieved. but the next time he saw the manager payson asked him how things were going, and he said worse than ever as far as frank himself was concerned, and he added that when he mentioned the subject to the actress she tossed her head and said mayo must take care of himself. "then i thought i would do what i could to introduce him into society here, for you know he is ambitious in that line, and perhaps i might get him away from the creature. so i gave that whole thing yesterday for the mayo family, with what result you know, except that i haven't told you that the presumptuous dolt made love mawkishly to me all the evening. yes, actually! did you ever hear of such impertinence? oh, the man is simply insufferable, ruth. "now, what i am constantly afraid of is that it will get into the papers after all. i read them, i fairly study them, so that it shall not escape me; but, if it does come out, what shall we do for nellie? it will break her heart." i looked at sallie with gnawing conscience that i had ever called her lawn fête the climax of frivolity. the dear little soul! who would have suspected that she had such a worthy motive for her ball? but, do you know, sometimes in fashionable life we catch a glimpse of the simple-minded, homely kindliness which we are taught to believe exists only among horny-handed farmers, rough miners, and hardy mountaineers. "sallie, dear child," i said, "i beg your pardon for not knowing how noble you are." "noble? i? sallie cox? now, nobody except payson ever hinted at such a thing, and i hushed him up instantly. no, ruth, it was nothing. i dare say rachel or you would have thought of some grand project which would have been effectual, but _i_ couldn't think of anything to do but to tickle his vanity by making him the guest of honor at the best affair of the season." "indeed, i think neither rachel nor i could have thought of anything so sure to captivate a shallow mortal like frank mayo." "set a thief to catch a thief," said sallie merrily. "i'm shallow myself, _i_ knew how it would feel to have such a fine thing given for me. my dear, if the ball were only fine enough it would cure a broken heart." "not if the heart were really broken, sallie." "well, you must admit that it would help _some_," she said whimsically. and so she went away and left the burden upon me. then i, too, fell to devouring the papers, as i knew sallie was doing with me. i went more than ever to the little brown house which lay in such peril, and i never saw nellie with a paper in her hand that i did not shudder. at last the thing we so dreaded came to pass. in the evening paper there was quite a sensational account of it. thank heaven, no name was given; but alas, the description of him, of his wife and five little children, was unmistakable. i felt as though i had sat still and watched a cat kill a bird. it was raining, not hard, but drearily, and the dead leaves fluttered against the windows as the chill wind blew them from where they clung. i was lonesome, and the autumn evening intensified my feelings. i glanced over to where a red glow came from nellie's windows. i fancied her sitting there with the paper in her hand, as she always did in the one spare moment of her busy day, with her heart crushed by the news. she would be alone, too, for frank was out of town. poor child! poor child! i started up and decided to go and see her. if she didn't want me i could come back, but what if she did want me and i was not there? i found her sitting, as i had expected, alone. the paper, with the fatal page uppermost, lay in her lap, as if she had read it and laid it down. there was only the firelight in the room. "come in, dear," she said gladly. "i was just thinking of you and wondering if such weather did not make you blue. sit down here by the fire. it was sweet of you to come in the rain." she searched my distressed face anxiously as she spoke. i made no reply. my heart was too full at being comforted when i had come to comfort. as i sat on a low stool at her side she seemed to divine my mood, for she drew my head against her knee with a mother touch, and threaded my hair with a mother hand, and pressed down my eyelids as i have seen her do when she puts her baby to sleep. and though she must have felt the tears come, she did not appear to know. "dear ruth," she said, "i have been sitting here thinking about you, and wondering if you were satisfied, such a loving heart as you have, to face the rest of your life without the love you deserve. you won't be vexed with me for speaking of it to you, for you know i am so old-fashioned that i think love is the only thing in this world worth having. it is all that i live for. of course my children love me, but, until they grow older, theirs is only an instinctive love. it isn't like the love of a husband, which singles you out of all the other countless women in the world to be his and only his forever. there is power enough in that thought to nerve the weakest woman to do a giant's task. the mere fact that you are all in all, the _only_ woman, to the man you so dearly love, the one person who can make his world; when you think that your being away from one meal or out of the house when he comes in will make him miss you till his heart aches--this will keep down a moan of pain when it is almost beyond bearing, for fear it might cause him to suffer with you; it will nerve you to stand up and smile into his eyes when you are ready to drop with exhaustion. love, such as a husband's love for his wife, is the most precious, the most supporting thing a woman can have. you never hear me talk much about my husband, but he is all this and more to me. i cannot begin to tell you about it. i read about unhappy marriages--why, i read a dreadful thing to-night in the paper, which set me to thinking how safe and happy i am, and how thankful i ought to be that i can trust my husband so. it was about a man who was unfaithful to his wife, and they had five children just as we have. i know such things do occur, but how or why is a mystery to me. i hope i am not too hard when i say that in such a case it must be the wife's fault. surely if she had been a good wife, an unselfish and loving wife, he could not have been enticed away. poor thing! i wonder how she felt when she heard it. probably she wouldn't believe it. probably she had too much faith in him. you shake your head. why, ruth, you dear thing, you don't know anything about it. a wife _couldn't_ believe such a thing. why, i wouldn't believe it if told by an angel from heaven. but then my husband is so dear to me. i do sometimes wonder if all women care as much for their husbands as i do for mine. do you know, dear, i think about you so much. i know that there have been several hearts in which you have reigned, and yet you have not cared. but the true love, the right lover, has not come, or you could not have passed him by. he is waiting for you; somewhere, somehow, he will come to you, i am sure, and you will know then that you have belonged to each other all this time; that this love has been coming down the ages from eternity for just you two. you will not refuse it then. why, i could never have refused to marry frank when i found that i was as much to him as he was to me! he is so handsome, so good. i shall never cease to thank god that he made him turn aside into the quiet places to find me. but, in spite of all this, you know i don't think he is perfect. he doesn't care for books as much as i wish he did. he has no ear for music, and he cannot tell a story straight to save his life, the dear boy! love does not blind my eyes, but this is what it does do. it makes me overlook in him what would annoy me in others. when, at that beautiful dinner of mrs. osborne's, frank told those stories of his that i've heard for years, i don't think any one cared to hear them except mr. beck and me. i knew they were not well told, but it was my husband who was telling them, and i could listen to his voice, even if i couldn't sit next him. "how the wind blows. don't you think it has a lonesome sound to-night? there isn't a glimmer of light from any of your windows yet, and see what a lovely glow this fire casts all through the room. it makes the cold walls look warm, and if it makes shadows, it chases them away when it blazes its brightest. it is your fault that there is no light in your windows, and your fault that you have closed your heart against love. you could have the glow that lights my house and my heart if you only would. you know, dear, i am not talking to you as a neighbor now or even as a friend, but as a woman talks to a woman out of her inmost heart. it is only because i love you so and because i have seen you with my babies that i know what a home-maker you are. you seem so sad sometimes, and i know your heart is wistful if your eyes are not. how can you have the courage to shut out love? how can you see the happiness of all your friends and not want a share of it yourself? why do you cry so, my dear? is there some one you love? has any trouble come between you? no? no? well, there, there! it was selfish of me to show you the way i look at things and to try to make you dissatisfied. never mind. you are stronger than i. i could not live without love; i should die. but if you can, it may be that you are fulfilling your destiny more nobly than many another who has more of what i should choose. "oh, must you go? forgive me if i have said what i should not. good-night, and god bless you, my dear." xi the hazard of a human die "the tallest trees are most in the power of the wind." last night at the theatre there were theatricals all over the house. my eyes followed the play on the stage, but my mind was filled with the farce in the next box and with the tragedy in the one opposite. i was with the ford-burkes, and, hearing familiar voices, i pulled aside the curtain, and in the next box were the payson osbornes, pet winterbotham, and jack whitehouse. pet thrust her hand over the railing and whispered, "i'm engaged. put your hand here and feel the size of my ring. you can get an idea of it through my glove. i'd take it off and show it to you, only i think it would look rather pronounced, don't you?" "rather," i assented faintly. i glanced beyond her into the fresh blue eyes of young jack whitehouse, and i wondered if the alert, manly young fellow, with his untried but inherited capabilities, knew that he had been accepted as a husband because his hair curled and he looked "chappie." "i suppose you have heard the news, haven't you?" she went on. "nothing in particular. what news?" "look across the house and you will see." just entering their box opposite were louise king and norris whitehouse, jack's uncle. "what do you mean?" i asked, with a wrench at pet's little hand which made her wince. "it's an engagement. uncle and nephew engaged the same season. isn't it rich? think of louise king being my aunt. she is only twenty-three." then they saw us and bowed. i felt faint as my mind adjusted itself to this new arrangement. i levelled my glass at them. louise, magnificently tall and handsome, looked quite self-contained. she is one of the best-bred girls i know, but it required a stronger imagination than mine to fathom what mysterious change had transformed her from the impulsive, loving creature of charlie hardy's story to this serene-eyed woman, who had deliberately elected to marry at the funeral of her own heart. as i looked across at her during that long evening, i felt that it was impertinent to probe her heart with my wonderings and surmises. i knew instinctively just how carefully she was hiding her hurt from all human eyes. i knew how her fierce pride was bearing up under the cruelty of it. i felt how she had rushed from the humiliation one man had brought her to the waiting love of the one who should have been her first choice by the divine right of natural selection. this strong man had loved her for years, but he would never allow her to imperil either his dignity or her own. he was just the man her impulsive, high-strung nature could accept as a refuge, beat against and buffet if need be, then learn to appreciate and cling to. i had an impression that he was not totally ignorant of the state of affairs. he was older and wiser than she, and capable of the bravery of this venture. no, he was not being deceived. i was sure of it. louise was too high minded to attempt it. she would be scornfully honest with him. her scorn would be for herself, not for him, and he had accepted her joyfully on these terms. his daring was tempered with prudence, and his clear vision doubtless forecast the end. his insight must have shown him that, with a girl like louise, the rebound from the self-disdain to which charlie hardy's confession must have reduced her would be as intense as her humiliation had been, and that her passionate gratitude to the man who restored her self-respect would be boundless. not every man--not even every man who loved her--could do this. he must possess strong nerves who descends into a volcano. he must have a more unbending will who tames any wild thing; but what an intoxicating thrill of pride must come to him who, having confidence in his own powers, makes the attempt and succeeds. perhaps if louise had been strong enough to fight this cruel battle out with herself as rachel would have done, and win as rachel would have won, she might have been able to choose differently. she might then, strong in her own strength, marry a man of lesser personality, a younger man, and they two could have adjusted their lives to each other gradually. now it must be louise who would be adjusted, and norris whitehouse was just the man to know the curious fact that the more fiery and impetuous a woman is, the more easily, if she is in love, will she mould herself to circumstances. the more untamed and unbending she seems, the more helpless will she be under the strong excitement of love or grief. a strong-minded woman is easier to persuade than a weak one. the grander the nature the greater its pliability towards truth. the longer i sat and gazed into the opposite box the clearer it grew in my mind that the suddenness of this venture did not imply rashness, but serene-eyed faith only, and such faith would captivate louise king more than would love. the only impossible thing about it to a sceptical old maid was that it was the man who was proving himself such a hero, and who was upsetting my favorite theory that men never understand emotional women. still, it was not difficult to except as unusual a man like norris whitehouse, and yet have my theory hold good. in imagination i leaped forward to the peaceful outcome of this turbulent beginning, and overlooked the way which led to it. i found myself hoping, with painful intensity, that this venture in which norris whitehouse and i had embarked would prove successful. i had known and loved louise king all her life. i had loved her dear mother before her, and the beautiful daughterhood of this girl had always touched me as the highest and sweetest type i ever had known. i did not want to be the one to bring her face to face with her first great sorrow, although i dared not interfere to less purpose. for "'tis an awkward thing to play with souls, and matter enough to save one's own. yet think of my friend and the burning coals we played with for bits of stone." they could not know that i had had anything to do with it; yet, if ill came of it, i should blame myself all the rest of my life. not long afterwards they were married very quietly and went away for a few weeks. when they returned i sought louise with eagerness, and found that my fears were not groundless. i tried to think what to do. if it would have eased matters, i would willingly have gone to her and confessed that i instigated charlie hardy's confession. but i felt that the root of the matter lay deeper than that, so i said nothing that could be construed into an unwelcome knowledge of her affairs. in the short time which elapsed between their return and the date set for their departure for europe, where they were to stay a year, i saw louise continually. she sought me as if she liked to be with me, although her eyes never lost the anxious, hunted expression which you sometimes see in the eyes of some trapped wild creature. it was a raw morning, with a chill wind blowing, when their steamer was to sail. mr. whitehouse, thinking i might have some last private word to say to louise, skilfully detached everybody else and strolled with them beyond earshot, but where his eyes could continually rest upon his wife's face. as louise and i walked up and down i took in mine the small hand which emerged from the great fur cuff of her boat cloak, and gradually its rigidity relaxed under my friendly pressure. i remembered, as i occasionally tightened my grasp upon it, that my dear little baby sister lois, who was taken away from us before she outgrew her babyhood, used to squeeze my hand in this fashion, and when i asked her what it meant, she invariably said, "it means dat it loves you." i wondered if the same inarticulate language could be conveyed to poor, suffering louise. suddenly she turned to me and said, "you have thrown something gentle, a softness around me this morning. i can feel it. what is it, ruth?" "i don't know, dear, unless it is my love for you." "it is something more. your eyes look into mine as if you knew all about it and wished to comfort me." as i made no answer, she turned and looked down at me from her superb height. "tell me," she said quite gently; "i shall not be angry. tell me, _do_ you know?" "yes, louise, i know." she hesitated a moment as if she really had not believed it. then she said slowly, "if any other person on earth except you had told me that, i should die. i could not live in the knowledge. but you--well, your pity is not an insult somehow." "because it is not pity, louise," i said steadily. "there is a difference between pity and sympathy. one is thrown at you--the other walks with you." she only pressed my hand gratefully. suddenly she turned and said impulsively, "then you must know how utterly wretched i am." glancing over her shoulder i could see the eyes of her husband fastened upon her with an expression which stirred me to put forth my best efforts. then it came over me how pent-up all this intensity of feeling must be. i realized how impossible it would seem to her to speak of it. taking my life in my hand--for i was mortally afraid--i rushed in, after the manner of my kind, where angels fear to tread. "did you love him then so much?" the pupils of her eyes enlarged until they were all black with excitement. she caught both my hands in hers. "only god himself knows how i loved him," she whispered. i knew then that all charlie had said was true, and, weak coward that i was, if i could have undone the past, i would have given him back to her. i was borne away by a glimpse of such love. o charlie hardy! and you cast this from you for a pair of blue eyes! "how came you to love such a weak man?" i asked tremblingly. "that is what i want to know. how could i? how can girls of my sort love so hopelessly beneath us? i've thought and wondered over that question until my brain has almost turned, and the only consolation i find is that i am not the only one. other women, cleverer than i, have loved the most contemptible of men and have been deceived just as i was. oh, if he or i had only died before i discovered the truth! if i could have mourned him honorably and felt that my grief was dignified! but i won't allow myself to grieve over him. i tell myself that i am well out of it and that i ought to be glad. but instead of gladness there is a dull, miserable ache in my heart, which i feel even in my sleep. not for him; i don't mourn for him, but for myself--for my fallen idols and my shattered ideals. what will such men have to answer for? i doubt if i ever can believe in anything human again." "anything _human_," i repeated gladly. louise looked down. "he was not omnipotent," she said huskily. "he ruled my heart only, not my soul." "i suppose you have tried to love your husband?" i said. "tried? oh, ruth, i have tried so hard! he is so good to me. he knows everything. of course i told him. that was why we were married so suddenly. he wished it and urged such excellent reasons, and i had so much respect for him and his wisdom in what is best, that i married him. i thought i could love him. i always thought that if i didn't love--the other one--i should love norris; but i can't. i believe my power of love is gone forever. i feel sometimes as if the best part of me had been killed--not died of its own accord, but as if it had been murdered." "poor child!" i said. "why don't you talk this over with your husband?" "oh, ruth, how could i?" "well, may i talk to you? will it hurt you?" "nothing that you would say can hurt me, dear." "then let me say just this. you have been trying to do in weeks what nature would take years to do. in real life you cannot lose your love and heal your worse than widowed heart and love anew as you would in private theatricals. you have outraged your own delicate sensibilities, but not with your husband's consent. he does not want you to try to love him. no good man does. he wants you to love him because you can't help yourself--because it seems to your heart to be the only natural thing to do. 'when the song's gone out of your life, you can't start another while it's a-ringing in your ears. it's best to have a bit o' silence, and out of that maybe a psalm'll come by and by.'" "oh, ruth, dear ruth, say that again," she cried, turning towards me with tears in her lovely eyes. i repeated it. "how restful to dare to take 'a bit o' silence'!" "no one can prevent you doing so but yourself. mr. whitehouse married you to give you just that, confident that he loved you so much that the psalm would come by and by." "i believe he did," said louise gently, with color rising in her cheeks. "another thing. don't try not to grieve. don't repress yourself. it is right that you should mourn over your lost ideals. nothing on earth brings more poignant grief than that. you will never get them back. do not expect what is impossible. they were false ideals, none the less beautiful and dear to you for being that, but truly they were distorted. you will see this some time. you have begun to see it now. you realize that this man was in no way what you thought him. you had idealized him, had almost crowned him. now you can't help trying to invest mr. whitehouse with the same unnamable, invisible qualities. but no man has them. your husband is a thousand times more worthy than the other, yet even he does not deserve worship. let the man do the crowning if you can, although a woman of your temperament would find even that difficult--that which the most inane of women could accept with calmness and a smile. you have the magnificent humility of the truly great. still it is not appreciated in this world. try resting for a while and let your husband love you." i knew that i was saying, though perhaps in a different way, things which norris whitehouse had urged upon her. not that she said so. she would have regarded that as sacrilege. but it was a look, a little trembling smile, which betrayed the ingenuous young creature to me. i felt that i was in the presence of a nature very fair and exquisitely pure. it was a sacred feeling. i almost felt as if i ought not to read the signs in her face, because she had no idea that they were there. "i have such horrible doubts," she said suddenly with suppressed bitterness. "i do not belittle my love. i know that i loved him with all my heart and soul, and that i gave him more than most women would have done, because love means infinitely more to me than it does to them. i knew all the time that i loved him more than he loved me, but i did not care, for i believed, blind as i was, that we loved each other all we were capable of doing, and if i had more love to give it was only because i was richer than he, and i meant to make him the greater by my treasure. now i feel that both i and my love have been wasted. oh, it was a cruel thing, ruth. i feel so poor, so poor." "louise, you think, but you do not think rightly. _are_ you poorer for having loved him? what is his unworth compared with your worth? isn't your love sweeter and truer for having grown and expanded? no love was ever wasted. it enriches the giver involuntarily. you are a sweeter, better woman than before you loved, unless you made the mistake of small natures and let it embitter you. you have no right to feel that it has been wasted." "do you think so?" she said doubtfully. "that is an uplifting thought." then she added in a low voice, "there is one thing more. it is very unworthy, i am afraid, but it is a canker that is eating my heart out. and that is the mortification of it. can you picture the thing to yourself? can you form any idea of how i felt? it grows worse the more i think of it." "i know, i know. but, dear child, there is where i am powerless to help you. if i were in your place i think i should feel just as you do. it was a cruel thing. i wonder that you bore it as well as you did." "what! should _you_ feel that way? then you do not blame me?" "why mention blame in connection with yourself? you are singularly free from it. but did you ever consider what an honor the love of such a man as your husband is? do you know how he is admired by great men? do you realize how he must love you, and what magnificent faith he must have to wish to marry a young girl like you who admits that she does not love him? if you never do anything else in this world except to deserve the faith he has in you, you will live a worthy life." we were standing still now, and louise was looking at her husband at a distance with a look in her eyes which was good to see. "you never can love him as you loved the other one. a first love never comes again. would you want it to? when you love your husband, as he and i both know that you will do some time--perhaps not soon, but he is very patient--still, i say, when you love him you will love him in a gentler, truer way." "can you tell me why such a bitter experience should have been sent to me so early in life?" "to save you pain later and to make of you what you were planned to be." tears rolled down her cheeks and she bent to kiss me, for the last mail had been put aboard and we had only a moment more. what she whispered in my ear i shall never tell to any one, but it will sweeten my whole life. as we went towards mr. whitehouse louise involuntarily quickened her pace a little and held out her hand to him with a smile. it was good to see his face change color and to view the quiet delight with which he received her. then there were good-byes and hurried steps and a great deal of shouting and hauling of ropes, and there were waving of hands and a tossing of roses from the decks above and a few furtive tears and many heart-aches, and then--the great steamer had sailed. xii in which i willingly turn my face westward "grow old along with me. the best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. our times are in his hand who saith, 'a whole i planned, youth shows but half; trust god, see all, nor be afraid.'" the years cannot go on without destroying the old landmarks, and i am so old-fashioned that change of any kind saddens me. people move away, strangers take their houses, the girls marry, children grow up, and everything is so mutable that sometimes my cheerfulness has a haze to it. i am in a mood of retrospection to-night. i am living over the past and knitting up the ravelled ends. dear rachel! i am thankful that she and percival continue so happy. it is wonderful how every one recognizes and speaks of the completeness of these two. they do not parade their affection. they seem rather to try to hide it even from me, as if it were almost too sacred for even my kindly eyes. it is in the atmosphere, and, though they go their separate ways, they are more thoroughly together than any other married people i know. both percival and rachel are becoming very generally recognized now. people are discovering how wonderfully clever their work is, and they share themselves with the public, although it is a sacrifice every time they do so. rachel's rather turbulent cleverness has softened down. she says it is because it is "billowed in another greater and gentler sort." she looks at me rather wistfully sometimes. i know what she thinks, but she does not bore me with questions. i wonder if she thinks i regret anything. unless i consider that the percivals have redeemed the record i am keeping, there is nothing especially tempting in the marriages i am watching. i cannot think that they are any happier than i am. sallie cox seems contented most of the time. she has a magnificent establishment, handsomer than all the rest of the girls' put together. her husband "doesn't bother" her, she says, and the osbornes are very popular. "i'm glad i'm shallow," she said to me once. "shallow hearts do not ache long. if i had a deep nature i should go mad or turn into a saint. as it is, i wear the scars." once, when i went with her to rachel's, she sat and looked around the simple, inexpensive house, with the walls all lined with books and no room too good to live in every day, and she said, "this is the prettiest home i ever was in in my life, and there is not a lace curtain in the house!" we laughed--everybody laughs at sallie--and rachel said gently, "we don't need them." sallie looked up quickly and took in the full significance of the words, as she answered in the same tone, "no, you do not, but i do." and each woman had told her heart history. now, rachel must know almost as much about sallie as i do; but she never will know all. sallie said she went home and hated every room in her house separately and specifically; then she had a good cry over "the perfectness of the percivals," and issued invitations to a masked ball. "that ball was full of significance, ruth," she told me afterwards with her most whimsically knowing look. "it was bristling with it. but nobody thought of it except a certain little goose i know named sara cox osborne." jack whitehouse and pet winterbotham are married. they had the most beautiful wedding i ever saw; but it was like watching the babes in the wood, for they are _such_ a young-looking pair. i understand better now what pet meant when she talked about jack's appearance so much. i think he expressed to her the idea of perpetual youth and eternal spring-time. to me, too, it seems as if he ought always to be yachting in blue and white, or lying at full length on the grass at some girl's feet. and pet herself makes an admirable companion-piece. when i see her in a misty white ball-dress, with one man bringing her an ice and another holding her flowers and a third bearing her filmy wraps, i feel that things are quite as they should be. some people seem to be born for fair weather and smooth sailing. it is too soon to judge them finally. norris whitehouse's nephew will outgrow the ball-room, and pet will find in louise an incentive to grow womanly. the asburys have built a fine house since alice's father died, and go about a great deal, but seldom together. asbury lives at the club, and alice has her mother with her. alice has embraced theosophy and spells her name "alys." she always is interested in something new and advanced, and whenever i meet her i am prepared to go into ecstasies over a plan to save men's souls by electricity, or something equally speedy in the moral line. she is daft on spiritual rapid transit. she does these things because she is a disappointed, clever, ambitious woman, who would have made a noble character if she had been surrounded by right influences. what would have been the result if alice had taken as her creed: "the situation that has not its duty, its ideals, was never yet occupied by man. yes, here in this poor, miserable, hampered, despicable actual, wherein thou even now standest, here or nowhere is thy ideal; work it out therefrom, and working, live, be free. fool! the ideal is in thyself; thy condition is but the stuff thou art to shape that same ideal out of; what matters whether such stuff be of this sort or that, so the form thou give it be heroic, be poetic? oh, thou that pinest in the imprisonment of the actual and criest bitterly to the gods for a kingdom wherein to rule and create, know this of a truth: the thing thou seekest is already with thee, 'here or nowhere,' couldst thou only see"? ah, well, she could not. she still is crying to the gods and spelling her name "alys." her cleverness must have an outlet, and, with worse than no husband to lavish it upon, she scatters it to the four winds of heaven and gets herself talked about as "queer." may brandt has bitten into her apples of sodom, and the taste of ashes is bitter indeed to her. she knows now that brandt never loved her, and did love alice. i do not know whether she thinks he still cares for alice or not. may never had much beauty to lose, but she looks worn and unhappy, and watches alice with a degree of feeling which would appear vulgar to me if i did not know just how miserable she is. she is hopelessly plain now, and alice is still like a tall, stately lily. brandt devours her with his eyes, but alice makes him keep his distance. sallie cox has been diplomatic and harmless enough to make alice forgive her, and they are quite good friends; but alice is magnificent in her scorn of brandt's wife, who almost cowers in her presence. poor may! i wish i could take that look of suffering from her little pinched, three-cornered face for just one hour. but how could i? how could anybody who knew all about it? she does not understand alice in all her moods and vagaries, and alice does not condescend to explain herself even to her friends. i do not believe that alice and brandt have ever spoken on the subject which occupies three minds whenever they two are thrown together. yet i imagine it would be a relief to may if she were told that. however, she is scarcely noble enough to believe it, even if alice herself should tell her. but alice never will. she never gives it a thought. brandt, too, has honor, though, even if he had not, alice would have it for him and forbid a word. it is a fortunate thing for some people's chances for a future life that there are a reasonable number of consciences distributed through the world, although it would be an old maid's suggestion that sometimes they be allowed to drive instead of being used as a liveried tiger--for ornament and always behind. it is a great pity that people who are supplied with them--and well-cultivated consciences too--have not the courage to live up to them, but allow themselves to be gently and feebly miserable all their lives. now, charlie hardy has periods of being the most miserable man i ever knew. his last interview with louise must have been as serious a thing as he ever experienced. he has married frankie taliaferro, and she makes the sweetest little kitten of a wife you ever saw. in louise he would have been protected by a coat of mail. in frankie he finds it turned into a pale-blue eider-down quilt, which suits his temperament much better. louise whitehouse is coming home soon. her year abroad has lengthened into several years, and they have been the most beautiful of her life, she writes. "living with a song in one's life may be the sweetest while it lasts and before one thinks; but to live by a psalm is to find life infinitely more beautiful and worthier. i never can be thankful enough that my life was taken out of my hands at the time when i clung to it most blindly, and ordered anew by one stronger and wiser than i." tears come to my eyes whenever i think of this girl. i do not quite know why, unless it is that there always is something sad in watching the tempering of a bright young enthusiasm, even though it becomes more useful than when so sparkling and high-strung. i have been at great pains to have charlie hardy realize how happy louise is, but his conscience still troubles him at times. he says he knows he did the right thing for every one concerned, but he dislikes the idea of himself in so disagreeable a rôle; and louise's opinion of him now, after the one she did have, is a constant humiliation to him. women always have admired him, and he objects very strongly to any exception to the rule. i think he misses the mental ozone which he found in louise. i often wonder if men who have loved superior women and married average ones do not have occasional wonderings and yearnings over lost "might have beens." the mayos still live in the brown house, which has been enlarged and greatly beautified recently. i have an enthusiastic friendship with the children, who are growing into slim slips of girls and sturdy, clear-eyed boys, and their house is still a home. frank's admiration for soubrettes died a sudden and violent death at the masked notoriety of his initial escapade, and for a time he was shocked into better behavior. we hear odd rumors floating around, however, of whose truth we never can be sure, but which we shake our heads over, after the fashion of those whose confidence has been caught napping once. we never knew whether nellie discovered the truth or not. if frank denied it, it would not affect matters with her if the world rang with it. her idolatry has a certain blind stubbornness in it which i should not care to beat against. bronson does not stand as straight as he did when i first knew him. rachel says he has "a scholarly stoop." but she knows, and i know, that something besides law-books and parchment has taken the elasticity out of his step. many years have gone by since i became an old maid. i want to call my alter ego's attention to this fact gently but firmly, because i have an idea that she still considers herself "only thirty," and that she thinks she has just begun to be an old maid. whereas she is old and so am i. i do not mind it at all. neither does she; it is only that she had not realized it. we have so much to think about more important than our stupid ages. people have grown used to seeing us about, and we like the same things, and keep going at about the same pace and in the same road, and i think we have come to be an institution. i have no worries which i do not borrow from my married friends. i keep up with the fashions; my clothes fit me; my fingers still come to the ends of my gloves; i feel no leaning towards all-over cloth shoes; i have not gone permanently into bonnets. i have tried to be a pleasant old maid, and my reward is that my friends make me feel as if they liked to have me about. i am not made to feel that i am _passé_. one's clothes and one's feelings are all that ever make one _passé_. nevertheless, i have turned my face resolutely towards the setting sun. i am resting now. i have given up struggling against the inevitable. that is a privilege and an attribute of youth. i feel as though i were only beginning to live, now that i have passed through the period of turmoil and come out from the rapids into gently gliding water. there is so much in life which we could not see at the beginning, but which grows with our growth and bears us company in the richness of evening-tide. i have learned to love my life and to cultivate it. who knows what is in her life until she has tended it and made it know that she expects something from it in return for all her aspirations and endeavors? even my wasted efforts are dear to me. "'tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours, and ask them what report they bore to heaven, and how they might have borne more welcome news." yet there is a sadness in looking back. i see the many lost opportunities lifting to me their wistful faces, and dumbly pleading with me to accept them and their promises; yet i carelessly passed them by. i see worse. i see the rents in the hedge, where i forced my wilful way into forbidden fields, and only regained my path after weary wandering, brier-torn, and none the better for my folly. lost faces come before me which i might have gladdened oftener. voices sound in my ear whose tones i might have made happier if i would. withheld sympathy rises up before me deploring its wasted treasure. how can any one be happy in looking back? the only pleasure in looking forward is in hope. yet now both grief and joy are tempered with a softness which enfolds my fretted spirit gratefully. "time has laid his hand upon my heart gently; not smiting it, but as a harper lays his open palm upon his harp to deaden its vibrations." and so i am looking forward to-night to an old age more peaceful, less turbulent, than my youth has been. i reach forward gladly, too, for life holds much that is sweet to old age, which youth can in no wise comprehend. possibly this is one reason why youth is so anxious to concentrate enjoyment. but i am tired of concentration. there is a wear and tear about it which precludes the possibility of pleasure. i want to take the rest of my life gently, and by redoubled tenderness repay it for rude handling in my youth--that youth which lies very far away from me to-night and is wrapped in a rainbow mist. the end love-letters of a worldly woman. by mrs. w. k. clifford, author of "aunt anne," "mrs. keith's crime," etc. mo, cloth, ornamental, uncut edges and gilt top, $ . this volume contains three brilliant love-stories well worth reading.... the letters are original and audacious, and are full of a certain intellectual "abandon" which is sure to charm the cultivated reader.... we trust that mrs. w. k. clifford will give us more fiction in this delicately humorous, subtle, and analytic vein.--_literary world_, boston. mrs. clifford's literary style is excellent, and the love-letters always have their special interest.--_n.y. times._ there is abundant cleverness in it. the situations are presented with skill and force, and the letters are written with great dramatic propriety and much humor.--_st. james's gazette_, london. in short analytical stories of this kind mrs. clifford has come to take a unique position in england. in the delicate, ingenious, forcible use of language, to express the results of an unusual range of observation, she stands to our literature as de maupassant and bourget stand to the literature of france.--_black and white_, london. the study of character is so acute, the analysis of motives and conduct so skilful, and, withal, the wit and satire so keen, that the reader does not tire.--_christian intelligencer_, n.y. * * * _published by harper & brothers, new york._ _the above work will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the united states, canada, or mexico, on receipt of the price._ unhappy loves of men of genius. by thomas hitchcock. with twelve portraits. mo, cloth, ornamental, $ . a fascinating book. so taking are its rapidly interchanging lights and shadows that one reads it from beginning to end without any thought of possible intrusion.--_observer_, n.y. the simple and perspicuous style in which mr. hitchcock tells these stories of unhappy loves is not less admirable than the learning and the extensive reading and investigation which have enabled him to gather the facts presented in a manner so engaging. his volume is an important contribution to literature, and it is of universal interest.--_n.y. sun._ the stories are concisely and sympathetically told, and the book presents in small compass what, in lieu of it, must be sought through many volumes.--_dial_, chicago. a very interesting little book.... the studies are carefully and aptly made, and add something to one's sense of personal acquaintanceship with those men and women who were before not strangers.--_evangelist_, n.y. * * * _published by harper & brothers, new york._ _the above work will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the united states, canada, or mexico, on receipt of the price._ the transfiguration of miss philura [illustration: mrs. smart's theme was thought forces and the infinite [_see page _] the transfiguration of miss philura _by_ florence morse kingsley _thirteenth edition_ funk & wagnalls company new york and london copyright, , by florence m. kingsley _registered at stationers' hall, london, england_ [printed in the united states of america] hour-glass stories edition. published march, * * * * * chapter one miss philura rice tied her faded bonnet-strings under her faded chin with hands that trembled a little; then she leaned forward and gazed anxiously at the reflection which confronted her. a somewhat pinched and wistful face it was, with large, light-lashed blue eyes, arched over with a mere pretense at eyebrows. more than once in her twenties miss philura had ventured to eke out this scanty provision of nature with a modicum of burned match stealthily applied in the privacy of her virgin chamber. but the twenties, with their attendant dreams and follies, were definitely past; just how long past no one knew exactly--miss philura never informed the curious on this point. as for the insufficient eyebrows, they symbolized, as it were, a meagre and restricted life, vaguely acknowledged as the dispensation of an obscurely hostile but consistent providence; a providence far too awful and exalted--as well as hostile--to interest itself benignantly in so small and neutral a personality as stared back at her from the large, dim mirror of cousin maria van deuser's third-story back bedroom. not that miss philura ever admitted such dubious thoughts to the select circle of her conscious reflections; more years ago than she cared to count she had grappled with her discontent, had thrust it resolutely out of sight, and on the top of it she had planted a big stone marked resignation. nevertheless, at times the stone heaved and trembled ominously. * * * * * at sound of a brisk tap at her chamber door the lady turned with a guilty start to find the fresh-colored, impertinent face of the french maid obtruding itself into the room. "ze madame waits," announced this individual, and with a coldly comprehensive eye swept the small figure from head to foot. "yes, yes, my dear, i am quite ready--i am coming at once!" faltered miss philura, with a propitiatory smile, and more than ever painfully aware that the skirt of her best black gown was irremediably short and scant, that her waist was too flat, her shoulders too sloping, her complexion faded, her forehead wrinkled, and her bonnet unbecoming. as she stepped uncertainly down the dark, narrow stairway she rebuked herself severely for these vain and worldly thoughts. "to be a church member, in good and regular standing, and a useful member of society," she assured herself strenuously, "should be and _is_ sufficient for me." ten minutes later, miss philura, looking smaller and more insignificant than usual, was seated in the carriage opposite mrs. j. mortimer van deuser--a large, heavily upholstered lady of majestic deportment, paying diligent heed to the words of wisdom which fell from the lips of her hostess and kinswoman. "during your short stay in boston," that lady was remarking impressively, "you will, of course, wish to avail yourself of those means of culture and advancement so sadly lacking in your own environment. this, my dear philura, is pre-eminently the era of progressive thought. we can have at best, i fear, but a faint conception of the degree to which mankind will be able, in the years of the coming century, to shake off the gross and material limitations of sense." mrs. van deuser paused to settle her sables preliminary to recognizing with an expansive smile an acquaintance who flashed by them in a victoria; after which she adjusted the diamonds in her large, pink ears, and proceeded with unctuous tranquillity. "on this occasion, my dear philura, you will have the pleasure of listening to an address by mrs. b. isabelle smart, one of our most advanced thinkers along this line. you will, i trust, be able to derive from her words aliment which will influence the entire trend of your individual experience." "where--in what place will the lady speak--i mean, will it be in the church?" ventured miss philura in a depressed whisper. she sighed apprehensively as she glanced down at the tips of her shabby gloves. "the lecture will take place in the drawing-room of the woman's ontological club," responded mrs. van deuser, adding with austere sweetness of tone: "the club deals exclusively with those conceptions or principles which lie at the base of all phenomena; including being, reality, substance, time, space, motion, change, identity, difference, and cause--in a word, my dear philura, with ultimate metaphysical philosophy." a majestic and conclusive sweep of a perfectly gloved hand suggested infinity and reduced miss philura into shrinking silence. * * * * * when mrs. b. isabelle smart began to speak she became almost directly aware of a small, wistful face, with faded blue eyes and a shabby, unbecoming bonnet, which, surrounded as it was on all sides by tossing plumes, rich velvets and sparkling gems, with their accompaniments of full-fleshed, patrician countenances, took to itself a look of positive distinction. mrs. smart's theme, as announced by the president of the ontological club, was thought forces and the infinite, a somewhat formidable-sounding subject, but one which the pale, slight, plainly dressed but singularly bright-eyed lady, put forward as the speaker of the afternoon, showed no hesitancy in attacking. before three minutes had passed miss philura rice had forgotten that such things as shabby gloves, ill-fitting gowns, unbecoming bonnets and superfluous birthdays existed. in ten minutes more she was leaning forward in breathless attention, the faded eyes aglow, the unbecoming bonnet pushed back from a face more wistful than ever, but flushed with a joyful excitement. * * * * * "this unseen good hems us about on every side," the speaker was saying, with a comprehensive sweep of her capable-looking hands. "it presses upon us, more limitless, more inexhaustible, more free than the air that we breathe! out of it _every_ need, _every_ want, _every_ yearning of humanity can be, must be, supplied. to you, who have hitherto led starved lives, hungering, longing for the good things which you believe a distant and indifferent god has denied you--to you i declare that in this encircling, ever-present, invisible, exhaustless beneficence is already provided a lavish abundance of everything which you can possibly want or think! nay, desire itself is but god--good--love, knocking at the door of your consciousness. it is impossible for you to desire anything that is not already your own! it only remains for you to bring the invisible into visibility--to take of the everlasting substance what you will! "and how must you do this? ask, and _believe that you have_! you have asked many times, perhaps, and have failed to receive. why? you have failed to _believe_. ask, then, for what you will! ask, and at once return thanks for what you have asked! in the asking and _believing_ is the thing itself made manifest. declare that it is yours! expect it! believe it! hold to it without wavering--no matter how empty your hands may seem! _it is yours_, and god's infinite creation shall lapse into nothingness; his stars shall fall from high heaven like withered leaves sooner than that you shall fail to obtain all that you have asked!" when, at the close of the lecture, mrs. b. isabelle smart became the center of a polite yet insistent crush of satins, velvets and broadcloths, permeated by an aroma of violets and a gentle hum of delicate flattery, she was aware of a timid hand upon her arm, and turned to look into the small, eager face under the unfashionable bonnet. "you--you meant religious gifts, did you not?" faltered the faint, discouraged voice; "faith, hope and--and--the--the being resigned to god's will, and--and endeavoring to bear the cross with patience." * * * * * "i meant _everything_ that _you_ want," answered the bright-eyed one with deliberate emphasis, the bright eyes softening as they took in more completely the pinched outlines and the eager child's look shining from out the worn and faded woman's face. "but--but there is so much! i--i never had anything that i really wanted--things, you know, that one could hardly mention in one's prayers." "have them now. have them all. god is all. all is god. you are god's. god is yours!" then the billowing surges of silk and velvet swept the small, inquiring face into the background with the accustomed ease and relentlessness of billowing surges. having partaken copiously of certain "material beliefs" consisting of salads and sandwiches, accompanied by divers cups of strong coffee, mrs. j. mortimer van deuser had become pleasantly flushed and expansive. "a most unique, comprehensive and uplifting view of our spiritual environment," she remarked to miss philura when the two ladies found themselves on their homeward way. her best society smile still lingered blandly about the curves and creases of her stolid, high-colored visage; the dying violets on her massive satin bosom gave forth their sweetest parting breath. the little lady on the front seat of the carriage sat very erect; red spots glowed upon her faded cheeks. "i think," she said tremulously, "that it was just--wonderful! i--i am so very happy to have heard it. thank you a thousand times, dear cousin maria, for taking me." mrs. van deuser raised her gold-rimmed glasses and settled them under arching brows, while the society smile faded quite away. "of course," she said coldly, "one should make due and proper allowance for facts--as they exist. and also--er--consider above all what interpretation is best suited to one's individual station in life. truth, my dear philura, adapts itself freely to the needs of the poor and lowly as well as to the demands of those upon whom devolve the higher responsibilities of wealth and position; our dear master himself spoke of the poor as always with us, you will remember. a lowly but pious life, passed in humble recognition of god's chastening providence, is doubtless good and proper for many worthy persons." * * * * * miss philura's blue eyes flashed rebelliously for perhaps the first time in uncounted years. she made no answer. as for the long and presumably instructive homily on the duties and prerogatives of the lowly, lasting quite up to the moment when the carriage stopped before the door of mrs. van deuser's residence, it fell upon ears which heard not. indeed, her next remark was so entirely irrelevant that her august kinswoman stared in displeased amazement. "i am going to purchase some--some necessaries to-morrow, cousin maria; i should like fifine to go with me." miss philura acknowledged to herself, with a truthfulness which she felt to be almost brazen, that her uppermost yearnings were of a wholly mundane character. during a busy and joyous evening she endeavored to formulate these thronging desires; by bedtime she had even ventured--with the aid of a stubbed lead-pencil--to indite the most immediate and urgent of these wants as they knocked at the door of her consciousness. the list, hidden guiltily away in the depths of her shabby purse, read something as follows: "i wish to be beautiful and admired. i want two new dresses; a hat with plumes, and a silk petticoat that rustles. i want some new kid gloves and a feather boa (a long one made of ostrich feathers). i wish----" the small, blunt pencil had been lifted in air for the space of three minutes before it again descended; then, with cheeks that burned, miss philura had written the fateful words: "i wish to have a lover and to be married." "there, i have done it!" she said to herself, her little fingers trembling with agitation. "he must already exist in the encircling good. he is mine. i am engaged to be married at this very moment!" to lay this singular memorandum before her maker appeared to miss philura little short of sacrilegious; but the thought of the mysterious abundance of which the seeress had spoken, urging itself, as it were, upon her acceptance, encouraged her. she arose from her evening orisons with a glowing face. "i have asked," she said aloud, "and i _believe_ i shall have." * * * * * mademoiselle fifine passed a very enjoyable morning with miss philura. to choose, to purchase, and above all to transform the ugly into the beautiful, filled the french woman's breast with enthusiasm. her glance, as it rested upon her companion's face and figure, was no longer coldly critical, but cordially appreciative. "ze madame," she declared, showing her white teeth in a pleasant smile, "has very many advantage. _voilà_, ze hair--_c'est admirable_, as any one may perceive! pardon, while for one little minute i arrange! ah--_mon dieu!_ regard ze difference!" the two were at this moment in a certain millinery shop conducted by a discreet and agreeable compatriot of fifine's. this individual now produced a modest hat of black, garnished with plumes, which, set lightly on the loosened bands of golden-brown hair, completed the effect "_délicieusement!_" declared the french women in chorus. with a beating heart miss philura stared into the mirror at her changed reflection. "it is quite--quite true!" she said aloud. "it is all true." fifine and the milliner exchanged delighted shrugs and grimaces. in truth, the small, erect figure, in its perfectly fitting gown, bore no resemblance to the plain, elderly miss philura of yesterday. as for the face beneath the nodding plumes, it was actually radiant--transfigured--with joy and hope. mrs. j. mortimer van deuser regarded the apparition which greeted her at luncheon with open disapproval. this new miss philura, with the prettily flushed cheeks, the bright eyes, the fluff of waving hair, and--yes, actually a knot of fragrant violets at her breast, had given her an unpleasant shock of surprise. "i am sure i hope you can _afford_ all this," was her comment, with a deliberate adjustment of eyebrows and glasses calculated to add mordant point and emphasis to her words. "oh, yes," replied miss philura tranquilly, but with heightened color; "i can afford whatever i like now." mrs. van deuser stared hard at her guest. she found herself actually hesitating before philura rice. then she drew her massive figure to its full height, and again bent the compelling light of her gold-rimmed glasses full upon the small person of her kinswoman. "what--er--i do not understand," she began lamely. "_where_ did you obtain the money for all this!" miss philura raised her eyebrows ever so little--somehow they seemed to suit the clear blue eyes admirably today. "the money?" she repeated, in a tone of surprise. "why, out of the bank, of course." upon the fact that she had drawn out and expended in a single morning nearly the whole of the modest sum commonly made to supply her meager living for six months miss philura bestowed but a single thought. "in the all-encircling good," she said to herself serenely, "there is plenty of money for me; why, then, should i not spend this?" chapter two the village of innisfield was treated to a singular surprise on the sunday morning following, when miss philura rice, newly returned from her annual visit to boston, walked down the aisle to her accustomed place in the singers' seat. whispered comment and surmise flew from pew to pew, sandwiched irreverently between hymn, prayer and sermon. indeed, the last-mentioned portion of the service, being of unusual length and dullness, was utilized by the female members of the congregation in making a minute inventory of the amazing changes which had taken place in the familiar figure of their townswoman. "philury's had money left her, i shouldn't wonder;" "her cousin van deuser's been fixin' her up;" "she's a-goin' to be married!" were some of the opinions, wholly at variance with the text of the discourse, which found their way from mouth to mouth. miss electa pratt attached herself with decision to her friend, miss rice, directly the service was at an end. "i'm just _dying_ to hear all about it!" she exclaimed, with a fond pressure of the arm linked within her own--this after the two ladies had extricated themselves from the circle of curious and critical faces at the church door. miss philura surveyed the speaker with meditative eyes; it seemed to her that miss pratt was curiously altered since she had seen her last. "_have_ you had a fortune left you?" went on her inquisitor, blinking enviously at the nodding plumes which shaded miss philura's blue eyes. "everybody _says_ you have; and that you are going to get married soon. i'm sure you'll tell _me_ everything!" miss philura hesitated for a moment. "i haven't exactly had money left me," she began; then her eyes brightened. "i have all that i need," she said, and straightened her small figure confidently. "and _are_ you going to be married, dear?" "yes," said miss philura distinctly. "well, i _never_--philura rice!" almost screamed her companion. "do tell me _when_; and _who_ is it?" "i can not tell you that--now," said miss philura simply. "he is in----" she was about to add "the encircling good," but she reflected that miss pratt might fail to comprehend her. "i will introduce you to him--later," she concluded with dignity. to follow the fortunes of miss philura during the ensuing weeks were a pleasant though monotonous task; the encircling good proved itself wholly adequate to the demands made upon it. though there was little money in the worn purse, there were numerous and pressing invitations to tea, to dinner, and to spend the day, from hosts of friends who had suddenly become warm, affectionate, and cordially appreciative; and not even the new methodist minister's wife could boast of such lavish donations, in the shape of new-laid eggs, frosted cakes, delicate biscuit, toothsome crullers and choice fruits as found their way to miss philura's door. * * * * * the recipient of these manifold favors walked, as it were, upon air. "for unto every one that hath shall be given," she read in the privacy of her own shabby little parlor, "and he shall have abundance." "everything that i want is mine!" cried the little lady, bedewing the pages of holy writ with happy tears. the thought of the lover and husband who, it is true, yet lingered in the invisible, brought a becoming blush to her cheek. "i shall see him soon," she reflected tranquilly. "he is mine--mine!" at that very moment miss electa pratt was seated in the awe-inspiring reception-room of mrs. j. mortimer van deuser's residence in beacon street. the two ladies were engaged in earnest conversation. * * * * * "what you tell me with regard to philura fills me with surprise and alarm," mrs. van deuser was remarking with something more than her accustomed majesty of tone and mien. "philura rice certainly did _not_ become engaged to be married during her stay in boston. neither has she been the recipient of funds from myself, nor, to the best of my knowledge, from any other member of the family. personally, i have always been averse to the encouragement of extravagance and vanity in those destined by a wise providence to pass their lives in a humble station. i fear exceedingly that philura's visits to boston have failed to benefit her as i wished and intended." "but she _said_ that she had money, and that she was going to get married," persisted miss pratt. "you don't suppose"--lowering her strident tones to a whisper--"that the poor thing is going crazy?" * * * * * mrs. van deuser had concentrated her intellectual and penetrating orbs upon a certain triangular knob that garnished the handle of her visitor's umbrella; she vouchsafed no reply. when she did speak, after the lapse of some moments, it was to dismiss that worthy person with a practiced ease and adroitness which permitted of nothing further, either in the way of information or conjecture. "philura is, after all, a distant relative of my own," soliloquized mrs. van deuser, "and _as such_ is entitled to consideration." her subsequent cogitations presently took shape to themselves and became a letter, dispatched in the evening mail and bearing the address of the rev. silas pettibone, innisfield. mrs. van deuser recalled in this missive miss philura's "unfortunate visit" to the ontological club, and the patent indications of its equally unfortunate consequences. "i should be inclined to take myself severely to task in the matter," wrote the excellent and conscientious lady, "if i had not improved the opportunity to explain at length, in the hearing of my misguided relative, the nature and scope of god's controlling providence, as signally displayed in his dealings with the humbler classes of society. as an under-shepherd of the lowly flock to which miss rice belongs, my dear mr. pettibone, i lay her spiritual state before you, and beg that you will at once endeavor to set right her erroneous views of the overruling guidance of the supreme being. i shall myself intercede for philura before the throne of grace." * * * * * the rev. silas pettibone read this remarkable communication with interest; indeed, after returning it to its envelope and bestowing it in his most inaccessible coat-pocket, the under-shepherd of the lowly flock of innisfield gave himself the task of resurrecting and reperusing the succinct yet weighty words of mrs. van deuser. if the rev. silas had been blessed with a wife, to whose nimbler wits he might have submitted the case, it is probable that he would not have sat for so long a time in his great chair brooding over the contents of the violet-tinted envelope from boston. but unfortunately the good minister had been forced to lay his helpmate beneath the rough sods of the village churchyard some three years previous. since this sad event, it is scarcely necessary to state, he had found it essential to his peace of mind to employ great discretion in his dealings with the female members of his flock. he viewed the matter in hand with vague misgivings. strangely enough, he had not heard of miss philura's good fortune, and to his masculine and impartial vision there had appeared no especial change in the aspect or conduct of the the little woman. "let me think," he mused, passing his white hand through the thick, dark locks, just touched with gray, which shaded his perplexed forehead. he was a personable man, was the rev. silas pettibone. "let me think: miss philura has been very regular in her attendance at church and prayer-meeting of late. no, i have observed nothing wrong--nothing blameworthy in her walk and conversation. but i can not approve of these--ah--clubs." he again cast his eye upon the letter. "ontology, now, is certainly not a fit subject for the consideration of the female mind." * * * * * having delivered himself of this sapient opinion, the reverend gentleman made ready for a round of parochial visits. foremost on his list appeared the name of miss philura rice. as he stood upon the door-step, shaded on either side by fragrant lilac plumes, he resolved to be particularly brief, though impressive, in his pastoral ministrations. if this especial member of his flock had wandered from the straight and narrow way into forbidden by-paths, it was his manifest duty to restore her in the spirit of meekness; but he would waste no unnecessary time or words in the process. the sunshine, pleasantly interrupted by snowy muslin curtains, streamed in through the open windows of miss philura's modest parlor, kindling into scarlet flame the blossoms of the thrifty geranium which stood upon the sill, and flickered gently on the brown head of the little mistress of the house, seated with her sewing in a favorite rocking-chair. miss philura was unaffectedly glad to see her pastor. she told him at once that last sunday's sermon was inspiring; that she felt sure that after hearing it the unconverted could hardly fail to be convinced of the error of their ways. the rev. silas pettibone seated himself opposite miss philura and regarded her attentively. the second-best new dress was undeniably becoming; the blue eyes under the childish brows beamed upon him cordially. "i am pleased to learn--ah--that you can approve the discourse of sabbath morning," he began in somewhat labored fashion. "i have had occasion to--that is--er, my attention has been called of late to the fact that certain members of the church have--well, to put it briefly, some have fallen grievously away from the faith." miss philura's sympathy and concern were at once apparent. "i do not see," she said simply, "how one can fall away from the faith. it is so beautiful to believe!" * * * * * the small, upturned face shone with so sweet and serene a light that the under-shepherd of the innisfield flock leaned forward and fixed his earnest brown eyes on the clear blue eyes of the lady. in treatises relating to the affections this stage of the proceedings is generally conceded to mark a crisis. it marked a crisis on this occasion; during that moment the rev. silas pettibone forgot at once and for all time the violet-tinted envelope in his coat-tail pocket. it was discovered six month's later and consigned to oblivion by--but let us not anticipate. "god is so kind, _so generous_!" pursued miss philura softly. "if we once know him as our father we can never again be afraid, or lonely, or poor, or lacking for any good thing. how is it possible to fall away? i do not understand. is it not because they do not know him?" it is altogether likely that the pastor of the innisfield presbyterian church found conditions in the spiritual state of miss philura which necessitated earnest and prolonged admonition; at all events, the sun was sinking behind the western horizon when the reverend gentleman slowly and thoughtfully made his way toward the parsonage. curiously enough, this highly respectable domicile had taken on during his absence an aspect of gloom and loneliness unpleasantly apparent. "a scarlet geranium in the window might improve it," thought the vaguely dissatisfied proprietor, as he put on his dressing-gown and thrust his feet into his newest pair of slippers. (presented by miss electa pratt "to my pastor, with grateful affection.") "i believe i failed to draw miss philura's attention to the obvious relation between faith and works," cogitated the reverend silas, as he sat before his lonely hearth, placidly scorching the soles of his new slippers before the cheerful blaze. "it will be altogether advisable, i think, to set her right on that point without delay. i will--ah--just look in again for a moment to-morrow afternoon." * * * * * "god's purposes will ripen fast, unfolding every hour. the bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flower!" sang the choir of the innisfield presbyterian church one sunday morning a month later. and miss philura rice--as was afterward remarked--sang the words with such enthusiasm and earnestness that her high soprano soared quite above all the other voices in the choir, and this despite the fact that miss electa pratt was putting forth her nasal contralto with more than wonted insistence. the last-mentioned lady found the sermon--on the text, "little children, love one another, for love is of god"--so extremely convincing, and her own subsequent spiritual state in such an agitated condition, that she took occasion to seek a private conversation with her pastor in his study on that same sunday afternoon. "i don't know _when_ i've been so wrought up!" declared miss pratt, with a preliminary display of immaculate handkerchief. "i cried _and cried_ after i got home from church this morning. ma she sez to me, sez she, 'what ails you lecty?' and i sez to ma, sez i, 'ma, it was that _blessed_ sermon. i don't know _when_ i ever heard anything like it! that dear pastor of ours is just ripening for a better world!'" miss electa paused a moment to shed copious tears over this statement. "it does seem to me, _dear_ mr. pettibone," she resumed, with a tender glance and a comprehensive sniff, "that you ain't looking as well as usual. i said so to philura rice as we was coming out of church, and i really hate to tell you how she answered me; only i feel as though it was my duty. 'mr. pettibone is perfectly well!' she says, and tossed those feathers of hers higher'n ever. philura's awful worldly, i _do grieve_ to say--_if not worse_. i've been a-thinking for some time that it was my christian duty (however painful) to tell you what mis' van deuser, of boston, said about----" the rev. silas pettibone frowned with awful dignity. he brought down his closed fist upon his open bible with forensic force and suddenness. "miss philura rice," he said emphatically, "is one of the most spiritual--the most lovely and consistent--christian characters it has ever been my privilege to know. her faith and unworldliness are absolutely beyond the comprehension of--of--many of my flock. i must further tell you that i hope to have the great happiness of leading miss rice to the matrimonial altar in the near future." miss electa pratt sank back in her chair petrified with astonishment. "well, i _must say_!" she gasped. "and she was engaged to you _all this time_ and i never knew it!" the rev. pettibone bent his eyes coldly upon his agitated parishioner. "i am at a loss to comprehend your very strange comment, miss pratt," he said; "the engagement has been of such very short duration that i can not regard it as surprising that you should not have heard of it. it--ah--took place only yesterday." miss electa straightened her angular shoulders with a jerk. "yesterday!" she almost screamed. "well! i can tell _you_ that philura rice told _me_ that she was engaged to be married more than three months ago!" "you are certainly mistaken, madam," began the minister in a somewhat perturbed tone, which did not escape the notice of the now flushed and triumphant spinster. "more than three months ago!" she repeated with incisive emphasis. "_now_ maybe you'll listen to me while i tell you what i know about philura rice!" but the lady had reckoned without her host. the rev. silas arose to his feet with decision. "i certainly will _not_ listen to anything derogatory to miss rice," he said sternly. "she is my promised wife, you will remember." with that the prudent minister beat a hasty retreat, to entrench himself without apology or delay in the inner fastnesses of the parsonage. * * * * * miss electa rolled her greenish orbs about the chamber of learning with a thoughtful smile. "if philura rice ain't crazy," she said aloud; "an' i guess she ain't far from it. she's told a wicked lie! in either case, it's my christian duty to see this thing put a stop to!" that evening after service miss philura, her modest cheeks dyed with painful blushes, confessed to her promised husband that she had indeed announced her intentions of matrimony some three months previous. "i wanted somebody to--to love me," she faltered; "somebody in particular, you know; and--and i asked god to give me--a--a husband. after i had asked, of course i _believed_ that _i had_. he--he was already in the encircling good, you know, or i should not have wanted him! when electa asked me point blank, what could i say without--without denying--_god_?" the brave voice faltered more than once during this recital; and finally broke down altogether when the rev. silas pettibone, his brown eyes shining, exclaimed in joyful yet solemn tones, "and god sent me!" the encircling good was perfectly manifest at that moment in the shape of two strong arms. miss philura rested in them and was glad. the hour-glass stories * * * * * the courtship of sweet anne page by ellen v. talbot. a brisk little love story incidental to "the merry wives of windsor," full of fun and frolic, and telling of the courtship of sweet anne page by three rivals lovers chosen by her father, her mother, and herself. the sandals by rev. zelotes grenell. a beautiful little idyl of sacred story dealing with the sandals of christ. the transfiguration of miss philura by florence morse kingsley. this clever story is based on the theory that every physical need and every desire of the human heart can be claimed and received from the "encircling good" by the true believer. the herr doctor by robert macdonald. a novelette of artistic literary merit, narrating the varied experiences of an american girl in her effort toward capturing a titled husband. esarhaddon by count leo tolstoy. three allegorical stories illustrating tolstoy's theories of non-resistance, and the essential unity of all forms of life. the czar's gift by william ordway partridge. how freedom was obtained for an exiled brother. the emancipation of miss susana an entrancing love story that ends in a most romantic marriage. the old darnman by charles l. goodell, d.d. a character known to many a new england boy and girl, in which the "lost bride" is the occasion for a lifelong search from door to door. balm in gilead by florence morse kingsley. a very touching story of a mother's grief over the loss of her child of tender years, and her search for comfort, which she finds at last in her husband's loyal christian faith. miserere by mabel wagnalls. the romantic story of a sweet voice that thrilled great audiences in operatic paris, berlin, etc. parsifal by h. r. haweis. an intimate study of the great operatic masterpiece. the trouble woman by clara morris. a pathetic little story full of heart interest. the return of caroline by florence morse kingsley. companion story to the "transfiguration of miss philura," by the same author. * * * * * _small l mo, dainty cloth binding, illustrated._ _ cents each_ funk & wagnalls company, pubs. new york and london the lady of the basement flat, by mrs george de horne vaizey. ________________________________________________________________________ the scene opens with the marriage of one of a pair of sisters, and her departure for north america. the other sister is left feeling very much at a loss, but she hits on the idea of renting a small london flat in a poor area, making herself look like a very elderly woman, and finding acts of kindness to do for her neighbours. she takes the name of miss harding. however the married sister's marriage founders, and she comes back to england. both the sisters rent a nice place in the country and spend a lot of effort in decorating it. so miss harding has occasional spells of living as her original young self with her sister, before returning to her basement flat. as usual with this author, with her fascination with illness, a child of one of the neighbours, billie, becomes very ill and needs roound-the-clock nursing. miss harding plays a big part in this. but one day a chance remark by another of the tenants in the block of flats makes it clear that the reason why the married sister's marriage had foundered was no more than a misunderstanding. so miss harding is able to fix her sister's problems, and miss harding herself finds a husband, in her true and original identity, and so ends her parallel existence as miss harding. ________________________________________________________________________ the lady of the basement flat, by mrs george de horne vaizey. chapter one. why not? at three o'clock this afternoon evelyn wastneys died. i am evelyn wastneys, and i died, standing at the door of an old country home in ireland, with my hands full of ridiculous little silver shoes and horseshoes, and a paris hat on my head, and a trembling treble voice whispering in my ear:-- "good-bye, evelyn darling--darling! thank you--thank you for all you have been to me! oh, evelyn, _promise_ you will not be unhappy!" then some mysterious hidden muscle, whose existence i had never before suspected, pulled two little strings at the corners of my mouth, and my lips smiled--a marionette smile--and a marionette voice cried jauntily:-- "unhappy? never! why, i am free! i am going to begin to live." then i watched a tall bridegroom in tweeds tenderly help a little bride in mole-coloured taffeta and sable furs into the waiting car, the horn blew, the engines whirled, a big hand and a little one flourished handkerchiefs out of the window, a white satin shoe danced ridiculously after the wheels, and aunt emmeline cried sensibly:-- "that's over, thank goodness! the wind _is_ sharp! let's have tea!" she hurried into the house to give orders, and the old evelyn wastneys stood staring after the car, as it sped down the drive, passed through the lodge gates, and spun out into the high road. she had the strangest, most curious feeling that it was only the ghost of herself who stood there--a ghost in a paris hat and gown, with long suede gloves wrinkled up her arms, and a pendant of mingled initials sparkling on her lace waistcoat. the real, true evelyn--a little, naked, shivering creature--was skurrying after that car, bleating piteously to be taken in. but the car rolled on quicker and quicker, its occupants too much taken up with themselves to have time to waste on dull other people. in another minute it was out of sight, but the ghost did not come back. the new evelyn lingered upon the steps, waiting for it to return. there was such a blank, empty ache in the place where her heart used to be. it seemed impossible that that skurrying little ghost would not come back, nestle again in its own place, and warm up the empty void. but it never came back. the new evelyn turned and walked into the house. "well, it has all gone off very well! kathleen looked quite nice, though i always do say that a real lace veil is less becoming than tulle. there was a rose and thistle pattern right across her nose, and personally i think those sheaves of lilies are too large. i hope she'll be happy, i am sure! mr anderson seems a nice man; but one never knows. it's always a risk going abroad. a young canadian proposed to me as a girl. i said to him, `do you think you could be nice enough to make up to me for home, and country, and relations and friends, and associations and customs, and everything i have valued all my life?' he said it was a matter of opinion. what did _i_ think? i said it was ridiculous nonsense. _no_ man was nice enough! so he married rosa bates, and i hear their second boy is a hunchback. you are eating nothing, my dear. take a scone. let's hope it's all for the best!" "best or worst, it's done now," i said gloomily. basil anderson was certainly "nice," and, unlike aunt emmeline, my sister kathleen entertained no doubt that he could fill every gap--home, country, friends, a selection of elderly aunts, and even that only sister who had so far acted as buffer between herself and the storms of life. at this very moment the mole-coloured toque was probably reclining comfortably on the tweed shoulder, and a smile was replacing tears as a big booming voice cried comfortably:-- "evelyn! oh, _she'll_ be all right! don't worry about evelyn, honey. think of _me_!" following the line of the least resistance, i took the scone and chewed it vacantly. figuratively speaking, it tasted of dust and ashes; literally, it tasted of nothing at all, and the tea was just a hot fluid which had to be swallowed at intervals, as medicine is swallowed of necessity. aunt emmeline helped herself systematically from each of the plates in turn, working steadily through courses of bread and butter, sandwiches, scone, _petits fours_, and wedding cake. she was a scraggy woman, with the appetite of a giant. kathie and i used to wonder where the food went! probably to her tongue! "of course," said aunt emmeline, continuing her thoughts aloud, as was her disconcerting habit, "kathleen has money, and that gives a wife a whip hand. i begged her only yesterday to stand up for herself. those little fair women are so apt to be bullied. i knew a case. well, mind, we'll hope it mayn't come to _that_! if she is sensible and doesn't expect too much, things may work out all right. especially for the first years. if anything _does_ go wrong, it will be your fault, evelyn, for spoiling her as you have done." "thanks very much for the cheering thought," i said snappily. aunt emmeline helped herself to a sandwich, and blinked with exasperating forbearance. "not cheerful, perhaps, but it may be _useful_! if you'd taken my advice. it's never too late to mend, evelyn." "even at twenty-six?" aunt emmeline surveyed me critically. she was taking stock, and considering just how young, how old, how fresh, how damaged those lengthy years had left my physical charms. i looked in a long glass opposite, and took stock at the same time. a smart young woman--oh, very smart indeed, for as kathie had argued, if you can't "blow" expense for your only sister's wedding, when on earth are you going to do it? light brown hair, "still untouched by grey," hazel eyes with very long, very finely marked eyebrows (secretly they are the joy of my life!) good features, and a sulky expression. the old evelyn used to be very good-looking--(she's dead now, so i can say so, as much as i like)--this new one is good-looking too, in a disagreeable, unattractive kind of way. if you saw her dining at the next table in an hotel you would say, "rather a fine-looking girl!" and the man with you would reply, "think so! too much of a temper for my fancy. glad she don't belong to me." i realised as much as i looked in the glass, and that made me crosser than ever. if i had been alone, able to cry, or storm, or grizzle, or go to bed just as i liked, i could have borne it better; but fancy losing your home, and your occupation, and the only person in all the world you really loved, all in one day, and coming straight from the wreck to have tea with aunt emmeline! the sandwich was finished before the inspection. a piece of scone followed. "of course," said aunt emmeline, "you are _not_ in your first bloom. _that_ we can't expect. your colour is a little harder and more fixed" (the figure in the glass gave a spasmodic jerk. the sulky expression was pierced by a gleam of fear. "_fixed_!" good gracious! she might be talking of those old people who have little red lines over their cheek-bones in the place of "bloom". it's _ridiculous_ to say i am "fixed". it is a matter of indifference to me how i look, but i do insist on truth!) "and your air of pride and independence is unbecoming in an unmarried girl. men like to see a girl sweet, clinging, pliant." "what men?" "_all_ men!" "oh! and in my case, for instance, to whom would you suggest i should proceed to cling?" "that," said aunt emmeline briskly, "is precisely what i wish to discuss." she lifted the last morsel of scone from the plate, stared at it, and popped it into her mouth. "my dear, has it ever occurred to you to think what you are going to _do_?" "aunt emmeline, for the last months it has rarely occurred to me to think of anything else!" "very well then, that's all to the good. as i said to aunt eliza, let us leave her alone till kathleen has gone. evelyn is obstinate, and if you interfere she will only grow more pig-headed. let her find things out for herself. experience, eliza, will do more than either you or i. sooner or later, even evelyn must realise that you can't run a house, and garden, and stable, in the same way on half the ordinary income. now that kathleen is married, she naturally takes with her her own fortune." she looked at me expectantly, and i smiled, another stiff, marionette smile--and said:-- "how true! curiously enough, that fact has already penetrated to my dull brain!" "now i do hope and pray, evelyn, that you are not going to argue with me," cried aunt emmeline, with a sudden access of energy which was positively startling. "it's ridiculous saying that because there is only one mistress instead of two, expense will therefore be halved. i have kept house for thirty-three years, and have never once allowed an order at the door, so i may be supposed to know. nonsense! the rent is the same, i suppose, and the rates, and the taxes. you must sit down to a decent meal even if you are alone, and it takes the same fire to cook four potatoes as eight. your garden must be kept going, and if you do away with one horse, you still require a groom, i suppose, to look after the rest. don't talk to me of economising; you'd be up to your neck in debt before a year was over--if you weren't in a lunatic asylum with nervous depression, living alone in that hole-in-a-corner old house, with not a soul but servants to speak to from morning till night. you have a nervous temperament, evelyn. you may not realise it, but i remember as a child how you used to fidget and dash about. dear kathie sat still and sucked her thumb. i said at the time, `evelyn is better-looking, but mark my words, kathie will be married first!' and you see! it's because i love you, my dear, and you are my dear sister's child that i warn you to beware of living alone in that house!" "thank you so much," i said nastily. (when people presage a remark by saying that they only say it because they love you, you may lay long odds that it's going to be disagreeable!) "it certainly sounds a gruesome prospect. not even a choice between bankruptcy and mania, but a certainty of _both_! and within a year, too! such a short run for one's money! aunt eliza had some suggestion to make, then? and you evidently approved. would you mind telling me exactly what it was?" "that is what i am trying to do, but you _will_ interrupt. naturally, your home is with us, your mother's sisters. you shall have the blue room over the porch. if you wish it, we are willing that you should bring your own pictures. the silver and valuables you can send to the bank, and the furniture can be sold. you shall pay us five guineas a week, and we will keep your horse, and house old bridget if you don't want to part from her. she can attend to your room, and sleep in the third attic. there would be no extras except washing, and a fire in your room. you know how we live; every comfort, but no excess. i disapprove of excess. eliza and i have often regretted that you and kathie have such extravagant ways. early tea, as if you were old women, and bare shoulders for dinner. you may laugh, my dear, but it's no laughing matter. one thing leads to another. you can't wear an evening dress and sit down to a chop. soup and fish and an _entree_ before you know where you are. we have high tea. you would save money on evening gowns alone. a dressy blouse is all that is required." aunt emmeline paused to draw breath, twitched, jerked, and resolutely braced herself to say a difficult thing. "and--and we shall welcome you, my dear! we shall be p-pleased to have you!" through all her protestation of welcome, through all her effort at warmth, the plain, unflattering truth forced its way out. to entertain a young independent niece beneath their roof might seem to the two aunts a duty, but, most certainly, most obviously, it would _not_ be a pleasure! i was quite convinced that for myself it would be a fiery trial to accept the offer; but it was a shock to realise that the aunts felt the same! i reviewed the situation from the two points of view, the while aunt emmeline feverishly hacked at the hard sugar coating of the cake. for a young, comparatively young woman, to go from the liberty of her own home to share the stuffy, conventional, dull, proper, do-nothing-but-fuss-and-talk-for-ever-about-nothing life of two old ladies in a country town would obviously be a change for the worse; but for the aforesaid old ladies to have their trivial life enriched by the advent of a young, attractive, and (when she is in a good temper!) lively and amusing niece, this should surely be a joy and a gain! but it _wasn't_ a joy. the poor old dears were shuddering at the thought that their peaceful routine might be spoiled. they didn't _want_ "a bright young influence!" they wanted to be free to do as they liked-- sup luxuriously on cocoa and an _egg_, turn up black cashmere skirts over wadded petticoats, and doze before the fire, discuss the servants' failings by the hour, drink glasses of hot water, and go to bed at ten o'clock.--as she hacked at the sugar crust, the corners of aunt emmeline's lips turned more and more downward. my silence had been taken for consent, and in the recesses of her heart she was saying to herself, "farewell! a long farewell to all our frowstings!" i felt sorry for the poor old soul, and hastened to put her out of her misery. "it's very good of you, aunt emmeline. and aunt eliza. thank you _very_ much, but i have quite decided to have a home of my own, even though i can't afford to keep on the clough. i am going to live in london." just for one second, uncontrollable relief and joy gleamed from the watching eyes, then the mask fell, and she valiantly tried to look distressed. "ah, evelyn! obstinate again! setting yourself up to know better than your elders. there'll be a bitter awakening for you some day, my dear, and when it comes you will be glad enough of your old aunties' help. well! the door will never be closed against you. however hard and ungrateful you may be, we shall remember our duty to our sister's child. whenever you choose to return--" "i shall see the candle burning in the casement window!" she looked so pained, so shocked, that if i had had any heart left i should have put my arms round her neck, and begged her pardon with a kiss; but i had no heart, only something cold, and hard, and tight, which made it impossible to be loving or kind, so i said hastily:-- "i shall certainly want to pay you a visit some day. it is very kind of you to promise to have me. after living in london, ferbay will seem quite a haven of rest." aunt emmeline accepted the olive branch with a sniff. "but why london?" she inquired. "why not?" i replied. it was the only answer it seemed possible to make! chapter two. aunt eliza speaks. it is two days after the wedding. kathie has been mrs basil anderson for forty-eight hours, and no doubt looks back upon her spinster existence as a vague, unsatisfactory dream. she is reclining on a deck-chair on board the great ship which is bearing her to her new home, and her devoted husband is hovering by her side. i can just imagine how she looks, in her white blanket coat, and the blue hood--_just_ the right shade to go with her eyes--an artful little curl, which has taken her quite three minutes to arrange, falling over one temple, and her spandy little shoes stretched out at full length. i know those shoes! by special request i rubbed the soles on the gravel paths, so that they might not look _too_ newly married. quite certainly kathie will be throwing an occasional thought to the girl she left behind her, a "poor old evelyn!" with a dim, pitiful little ache at the thought of my barren lot. quite certainly, too, for one moment when she remembers, there will be twenty when she forgets. quite right, of course! quite natural, and wife-like, and just as it should be, and only a selfish, ungenerous wretch could wish it to be otherwise. all the same-- i wrenched myself out of the aunts' clutches yesterday morning on the plea of going home to tidy up. though the wedding took place from their house, all the preparatory muddle happened here, and it will take days and days to go through kathie's rooms alone, and decide what to keep, what to give away, and what to burn outright. the drawers were littered with pretty rubbish--oddments of ribbon, old gloves, crumpled flowers, and the like. it goes against the principles of any right-minded female to give away tawdry fineries, and yet--and yet--_could_ i bear to destroy them? to see those little white gloves shrivel up in the flames, the high heeled little slippers crumple and split? it would seem like making a bonfire of kathie herself. i tidied, and arranged, and packed into fresh parcels, working at fever heat with my hands, while all the time the voice in my brain kept repeating, "now, evelyn, what are you going to do? what are you going to do, my dear, with your blank new life?" to leave the old home and start afresh--that is as far as i have got so far--but i must make up my mind, and quickly too, for this house is too full of memories to be a healthy shelter. kathie and i have lived here ever since we left school, first with father, then after his death with an old governess-companion. since her marriage a year ago we have been alone, luxuriating in our freedom, and soothing the protestations of aunts by constant promises to look out for a successor. then kathie met basil anderson, and no one was cruel enough to grudge us our last months together. now i am alone, with no one in the world to consider beside myself, with my own home to make, my own work to find, my own happiness to discover. does it make it better or worse, i wonder, that i am rich, and the question of money does not enter in? ninety-nine people out of a hundred would answer at once that it is better, but i'm not so sure. if i had a tiny income, just enough to ensure me from absolute want, hard regular work would be necessary, and might be good for body and brain. i _want_ work! i must have it if i am to keep going, but the mischief is, i have never been taught to be useful, and i have no idea what i could do! i can drive a car. i can ride anything that goes on four legs. i can dance, and skate, and arrange flowers with taste. i can re-trim a hat, and at a pinch make a whole blouse. i can order a nice meal, and grumble when it is spoiled. i can strum on the piano and paint christmas cards. i can entertain a house-party of big-wigs. i have also (it seems a queer thing to say!) a kind of genius for simply--being kind! the poor people in the village call me "the kind one," to distinguish me from kathie, who, poor lamb! never did an unkind thing in her life. but she didn't always _understand_, that was the difference. when they did wrong she was shocked and estranged, while i felt dreadfully, dreadfully sorry, and more anxious than ever to help them again. kathie used to think me too mild, but i don't know! the consequences of sin are so terrible in themselves, that i always long to throw in a lot of help with the blame. the people about here seem to know this by instinct, for they come to me in their troubles and anxieties and--_shames_, poor souls! and open their hearts as they do to nobody else. "sure then, most people are kind in patches," an old woman said to me one day; "'tis yourself that is kind _all round_!" i don't know that it's much credit to do what is no effort, and certainly if i could choose a role in life it would be to play the part of a good fairy, comforting people, cheering them up, helping them over stiles, springing delightful little surprises upon them, just where the road looked blocked! the trouble is that i've no gift for organised charity. i have a pretty middling strong will of my own ("pigheadedness" aunt emmeline calls it!) and committees drive me daft. they may be useful things in their way, but it's not my way. i want to get to work on my own, and not to sit talk, talk, talking over every miserable, piffling little detail. no! if i play fairy, i must at least be free to wave my own wand, and to find my own niche where i can wave it to the best advantage. the great, all-absorbing question is--_where_ and _how_ to begin? advertisements are the orthodox refuge of the perplexed. suppose, for the moment, that i advertised, stating my needs and qualifications in the ordinary shilling-a-line fashion. it would run something like this:-- "lady. young. healthy. good appearance. seeks occupation for a loving heart. town or country. travel if required." it sounds like an extract from a matrimonial paper. i wonder how many, or, to speak more accurately, how _few_ bachelors would exhibit any anxiety to occupy the vacancy. i might add "private means," and _then_ the answers would arrive in sacks, i should have the offer of a hundred husbands, and a dozen kind homes, with hot and cold water, cheerful society, a post office within a mile, and a golf course in the neighbourhood. a hundred mothers of families would welcome me to their bosoms, and a hundred spinsters would propose the grand tour and intellectual companionship; but i want to be loved for myself, and in return to love, and to help-- i am not thinking of marriage. some day i shall probably fall in love, like everyone else, and be prepared to go off to the ural mountains or kamtschatka, or any other remote spot, for the privilege of accompanying my jock. i shall probably be just as mad, and deluded, and happy, and ridiculous as any other girl, when my turn comes; but it hasn't come _yet_, and i'm not going to sit still and twiddle my thumbs pending its approach. i'm in no hurry! it is in my mind that i should prefer a few preliminary independent years. aunt eliza drove over this afternoon to "cheer me up". she means well, but her cheering capacities are not great. her mode of attack is first to enlarge on every possible ill, and reduce one to a state of collapse from pure self-pity, and then to proceed to waft the same troubles aside with a casual flick of the hand. she sat down beside me, stroked my hand (i hate being pawed!) and set plaintively to work. "_poor dear_! i know you are feeling desolate. it's so hard for you, isn't it, dear, having no other brother or sister? makes it all the harder, doesn't it, dear! and kathie _leant_ on you so! you must feel that your work is gone. stranded! that's the feeling, isn't it? i _do_ understand. but"--(sudden change to major key)--"_she_ is happy! you must forget yourself in her joy!" i said, "oh! yes," and removed my hand under pretence of feeling for a handkerchief. her face lengthened again, and she drew a deep sigh. (minor.) "i always feel it is the last straw for a woman when she has to give up her home in a time of trouble. a home is a refuge, and you have made the clough so charming. it will be a wrench to move all the dear old furniture, and to leave the garden where you and kathie were so happy together. wherever you look, poor dear, you must feel a fresh stab. associations!--so precious, aren't they, to a woman's heart? (major.) but material things are of _small_ value, after all, dear. we learn that as we grow _old_! a true woman can make a home wherever she goes--" "i--i suppose she can." (minor.) "but of course the loneliness _is_ a handicap. having no one who needs you, no one to welcome you home. so sad! especially in the evenings! solitary people are apt to grow morose. you will miss kathie's bright happy ways. (quick change!) well! well! no one _need_ be lonely in this world. there are thousands of suffering souls fainting by the wayside for lack of the very help which it is in your power to give. if i could just tell you of some cases i know!" i pricked up my ears. "i wish you would. i like to hear about other people's troubles!" "my dear! such a startling way of putting things! you don't mean it. i know your tender heart! of course the worst cases are in the big cities. london, now! every time i go to london, and travel as one is obliged to do from one end of the city to the other, i look out upon those endless rows and rows of streets of small houses, and at the great towering blocks of flats at every turn, and feel _appalled_ at the thought of the misery that goes on inside!" "and the joy!" "my dear, what kind of joy _can_ there be in such places?" "not your kind perhaps, nor mine, but real enough all the same. people love one another, and have their own pleasures and interests. little clerks come home to little wives and tell of little successes. women in ugly houses buy some new piece of ugliness, and find it beautiful, and rejoice. babies toddle about--fat, pretty things, with curly mops." she stared at me blankly. "curly mops! what does it matter whether their hair curls or not? ah, my dear, in such circumstances children are not all joy. i had a letter from a friend the other day--lady templar. we were at school together. her nephew, wenham thorold, has lost his wife. married at twenty-three. so silly! a clergyman's daughter, without a sou. now, of course, she dies, and leaves him with five small children." "very inconsiderate!" "very inconvenient for the poor man! only thirty-five, and a baby in arms. how will it help him if its hair curls? he puts the elder children to bed himself after his day's work. quite pathetic to hear of! wouldn't he have been happier with one?" "possibly--for the present. later on the five will help _him_, and he will be glad and proud." "children dragged up by strangers are not always a credit and pride. i hope these may be, but--if you'd heard my friend's tales! they live in a flat. quite a cheap block in some unfashionable neighbourhood. _no_ society. he has one small maid and a housekeeper to look after the children. most inefficient, adela says. holes in their stockings, and shrieks the moment their father is out of the building!" "what was he like?" "he? who? oh, the poor father! handsome, she said, but haggard. the templar nose. poor, helpless man!" a horrible feeling surged over me. i felt it rise, swell, crash over my head like a flood of water--a conviction that i was listening to no tale, but to a _call_--that providence had heard my cry for work, and had answered it in the person of wenham thorold--handsome and haggard-- in the person of little thorold girls with holes in their stockings, of little thorold boys who shrieked, and a thorold baby with problematic hair that might, or might not, curl. i cowered at the prospect. all very well to talk of my own way, and my own niche, all very well to dream of fairy wands, and of the soothing, self-ingratiating role of transforming other people's grey into gold, while the said people sat agape, transfixed with gratitude and admiration, _but_--how extraordinarily prosaic and unromantic the process became when worked out in sober black and white. to mend stockings, to stifle shrieks, to be snubbed by a cross housekeeper; probably, in addition, to be sent to coventry by the handsome and haggard one, under suspicion of manoeuvring for his affections. yes, at the slightest interference he would certainly put me down as a designing female, with designs on his hand. at this last thought i sniggered, and aunt eliza looked severe. "_no_ subject for mirth, evelyn. i'm surprised! _you_ who are always talking of wanting to help--" "but could i help him? i will, if i can. i have money and time, and am longing for work. could i banish the housekeeper, and introduce a variation by paying to take her place?" aunt eliza looked at the ceiling, and informed it obviously, though dumbly, that when nieces talked nonsense it was waste of breath to reply. outraged dignity spoke in her rigid back, in the thin contour of her cheek. "a wastneys to speak of being a housekeeper!" i realised that i had gone too far, for to jest at the expense of the family pride was an unpardonable offence, so i added hastily:-- "or i might take a flat hard by, and do good by stealth! win the housekeeper's heart, and then take charge of the five when she gads forth. some of the other tenants might need help too. in those great big buildings, where scores of families live under one roof, there must always be _somebody_ who needs a helping hand. it would be rather a charming role to play good fairy to the mansions!" even as i spoke a flash of inspiration seemed to light up my dark brain. my own careless words had created a picture which charmed, which intrigued. it was as though a veil had lifted, and i caught sight of beckoning hands. i saw before me a great, grim building, storey after storey rising in unbroken line, the dusty windows staring into the windows of a twin building across the road, just as tall, just as unlovely, just as desolate. i saw a bare entrance hall, in which pale-faced men and women came and went. i passed with them into so-called "homes" where electric light burned day and night, and little children played in nurseries about the size of a comfortable bed. everybody, as it seemed, was worn down with the burden of the inevitable daily task, so that there was no energy left for beauty, for gaiety, for joy. suppose--oh, suppose there lived in that building one tenant whose mission it was to supply that need, to be a happiness-monger, a fairy godmother, a--a--a living bran pie of unexpected and stimulating _helps_. for the first moment since that motor car turned out of the gate, bearing away the bride and bridegroom, a glow of warmth took the place of the blank ache in the place where my heart used to be. it hurt a little, just as it hurts when the circulation returns to frozen limbs, but it was a wholesome hurt, a hundred times better than the calm that had gone before. there glowed through my veins the exultation of the martyr. now farewell to ease and luxury, to personal desires and ambitions. henceforth i lived only to serve the race! "oh, auntie, it's a glorious idea. why didn't i think of it before? my vocation is ready and waiting for me, but i should never have found it if it hadn't been for you! why shouldn't i take a little flat in some unfashionable block, and play good fairy to my neighbours? a free, unmarried woman is _so_ useful! there ought to be one in every family, a permanent `aunt mary,' to lend a hand in its joys and sorrows, its spring cleanings, and its--jams! nowadays aunt marys are so scarce. they are absorbed in their own schemes. why shouldn't i take up the role, and be a universal fairy to the mansions--devoting my idle time to other people who need me, ready to love and to scold, to bake and to brew, to put my fingers in other people's pies, leaving behind sugar for them, and pulling out plums for myself of soothing, and comfort, and joy!" my voice broke suddenly. i was awfully lonely, and the thought of those figurative plums cut to the heart. the tears trickled down my cheeks; i forgot where i was, and to whom i was speaking, and just sobbed out all that was in my heart. "oh! oh! to be needed again! to have some one to care for! that would help--that would fill the gap--that would make life worth while." instinctively i stretched out my hands, in appeal for sympathy and understanding. "oh, don't be silly!" said aunt eliza. chapter three. charmion fane intervenes. during the next days the idea of making my home in london, and playing fairy godmother to the tenants in a block of flats, took an ever-deepening root in my heart. i pondered on it incessantly and worked out plans as to ways and means. bridget should go with me as general factotum, for my method of living must be as simple as possible, since the neighbours would be more likely to confide their troubles to the ear of one who was, apparently, in the same position of life as themselves. smart clothing would be unnecessary also, and a hundred and one luxuries of a leisured life. i mentally drew up a list of things taboo, and regarded it with--let me be honest--lingering regret. i was quite, quite willing to deny myself, but it is folly to pretend that it didn't cost a pang. i _like_ good clothes and dainty meals, and motor-cars, and space, and luxury, and people to wait upon me when i'm tired, and unlimited supplies of flowers, and fruit, and hot water, to say nothing of my own little share of variety and fun. down at the bottom of my heart, a lurking doubt of myself stirred into life, and spoke with insistent voice:-- "all very well, evelyn, but can you _keep it up_? are you brave enough, strong enough, unselfish enough to give up all that has hitherto made your life, and to be satisfied with living through others? won't the time come when nature will rebel, and demand a turn for yourself? and _then_, evelyn, _then_ what are you going to do? could you ever respect yourself again if, having put your shoulder to the wheel, you drew back and lapsed into selfish indifference?" as for aunt emmeline, she turned on the cold tap, and kept it on at a continuous trickle. "exaggerated nonsense! you always _were_ exaggerated, evelyn, from a child. be kind, of course; that's only your duty, but i call it officious and presumptuous to interfere in other people's lives. _you_ of all people! at your age! with your looks--" "what have my looks to do with it?" "my dear, it is not your fault, but i've said it before, and i say it again--you are _showy_! there is something about you which makes people stare. dear kathie could pass along quietly, or sit in a corner of a room and be conveniently overlooked, but you--i am not paying you a compliment, my dear, i consider it is a misfortune!--you _take the_ _eye_! wherever you go, people will notice you and gossip about your movements. at twenty-six, and with your appearance, i ask you candidly, as aunt to niece--_do_ you consider yourself a suitable person to live alone, and minister to widowers?" "well, if you put it like that, i _don't_! but what of the children who shriek, and have holes in their stockings? mightn't they like me better just because i _am_ young and look nice?" i laughed as i spoke, but aunt emmeline was so pleased that i showed some glimmerings of reason, that she said suavely:-- "wait ten years, dear! till your hair is grey! you will age early with those sharp features. in ten or twelve years you can do as you please." i thought, but did not say:-- "my dear aunt, but i shall do it _now_!" a week passed by, while i pondered and worried, and then at last came a "lead" from without. a morning dawned when bridget brought my letters with my early tea, and set them down on the table by my bed. "four letters this morning, and only one of the lot you'll be caring to see." bridget takes a deep interest in my correspondence, and always introduces a letter with a note of warning or congratulation: "that bothering creature is worrying at you again!" "there's a laugh you'll be having over master george's fun!" "you paid that bill before. don't be letting them come over you with their tricks!" it is, of course, reprehensible behaviour on the part of a maid, presumptuous, familiar, interfering; but bridget is bridget, and i might as soon command her not to use her tongue, as to stop taking an interest in anything that concerns "herself". as a matter of fact, i don't try. servility, and decorum, and a machine-like respect are to be hired for cash at any registry office; but bridget's red-hot devotion, her child-like, unshakable conviction that everything that miss evelyn does and says, or doesn't say and doesn't do, is absolutely right--ah, that is beyond price! no poor forms and ceremony shall stand between bridget and me! i lifted the letters, and had no difficulty in selecting the one which would "give me joy". strangely enough, it was written by one of the newest of my friends, one whose very existence had been unknown to me two years before. we had met at a summer hotel where kathie and i chanced to be staying, and never shall i forget my first sight of charmion fane as she trailed into the dining-room and seated herself at a small table opposite our own. she was so tall and pale and shadowy in the floating grey chiffon cloak that covered her white dress, she lay back in her chair with such languor, and drooped her heavy eyelids with an air of such superfine indifference to her fellow-men, that kathie and i decided then and there that she was succumbing to the effects of a dangerous operation, and-- with care--might be expected to last six or eight weeks. we held fast to this conclusion till the next morning, when we met our invalid striding over the moors, clad in abbreviated tweeds, and the manniest of hard felt hats. kathie said that she was plain. i said, "well, not plain exactly, but _queer_!" at dinner the same night, we amended the verdict, and voted her "rather nice". twenty-four hours later she represented our ideal of female charm, and we figuratively wept and rent our garments because she exhibited no interest in our charming selves. an inspection of the visitors' book proved that her name was "mrs fane," but that was not particularly enlightening, especially as no home address was given. but on the third day, just as we were beginning to concoct dark schemes by means of which we could force acquaintanceship, the "grey lady" entered the lounge, marched unhesitatingly across to our corner, stood staring down at us as we sat on the sofa, and said shortly:-- "this is ridiculous! we are wasting time! we three are the only really interesting people in the hotel; we are dying to know each other--and we know it! come for a walk!" and lo! in another minute we were on the high road, kathie on one side, i on the other, gazing at her with adoring eyes, while she said briskly:-- "my name is charmion fane. i am quite alone. no children. thirty-two. i don't live anywhere in particular. just prowl round from one place to another. if there are any other dull, necessary details that you want to know, ask!--and get them over. then we can talk!" we laughed, and replied with similar biographical sketches on our own account, and then we _did_ talk--about books, and travels, and hobbies, and mankind in general, and gradually, growing more and more intimate (or rather _conscious_ of our intimacy, for we were friends after the first hour!) of our personal hopes, fears, difficulties, and mental outlooks. when we came in, kathie and i faced each other in our bedroom, almost incoherent with pleasure and excitement. "_well_! what an afternoon! my dear, isn't she--" kathie waved her hands to express a superlative beyond the power of words. "she is!" "the most fascinating, the most interesting, the most original--" "and she likes us, too! as much as we like her. isn't it glorious?" "she hasn't spoken to another soul. how could we have called her plain! evelyn, did you notice that she never spoke of her husband? she wears grey and violet, so he has probably been dead for some years, but she never referred to him in the slightest possible way." "would it be likely, kathie, in our very first talk?" "yes!" declared kathie sturdily. "not intentionally, perhaps, but with ordinary people it would have slipped out. `_we_ went to italy. my husband liked this or that.' she never advanced even as far as the `we'. she must have been dreadfully, dreadfully fond of him!" i wondered! the death of a beloved husband or wife is a devastating blow; but when the memory is beautiful, time softens it into a hallowed sweetness. it is the bitter sorrow which refuses to be healed, which fills the heart with a ceaseless unrest. not even to kathie would i express my doubts, but the conviction weighed upon me that the cloud which hung over charmion fane was the remembrance of unhappiness rather than joy! for the next fortnight the greater part of our time was spent in charmion's company; generally we were a party of three, but in every day there came a precious hour or so when i had her alone, and hugged the secret confidence that the _tete-a-tete_ was as welcome to her as to myself. everything that was to be told about my own uneventful life she knew before many days were passed, but of her own past she never spoke. from incidental remarks we found that she had been the godchild of a well-known politician long since dead, and that at eighteen she had been presented at court, which two discoveries proved useful, as they were enough to convince the aunts that charmion was a safe and desirable acquaintance. before she was twenty the scene had apparently shifted to america, where she had lived for several years, and presumably--though she never said so--had met her husband and spent her brief married life. widowed-- childless--thirty-two. those few words supplied all that i knew of charmion fane, except the obvious facts which were patent to the eye. she was oddly undemonstrative, and for all her charm had a manner which made it impossible to approach one step nearer than she herself decreed. even when it came to the moment of saying good-bye, i could not tell whether she wished to continue our friendship, or would be content to let it drop as a passing incident of travel; but to my joy she held on to my hand with a grip which was almost an appeal, and her thin, finely-cut lips twitched once and again. she looked full into my face with her strange eyes, the pupil large, the iris a light grey, ringed with an edge of black, and said simply, "i'll miss you! but--it will go on. we will always be friends." that was all, and during the two years which had passed since that day we had met only once, for another short summer holiday, and repeated invitations to the clough had received the same refusal--"i am not ready for visit-making." letters i had received in plenty, and she had sent kathie a handsome-- really an extraordinarily handsome gift on her marriage, and to me the dearest of letters, understanding everything without being told, entering into my varying moods with exquisite comprehension. in return, i had poured out my heart, telling her of my loneliness, my difficulty about the next step, and now, at last, here came the reply. i sent bridget away, drank my tea at a gulp, and settled down to read in luxurious enjoyment. it was a longer letter than i had yet received, and i had a premonition that it would clear the way. but i did not realise how epoch-making it was to prove. "dear evelyn wastneys,--i've been through it, my dear, and i know! it doesn't bear talking of, so we _won't_ talk, but just pass on. what next? you ask. i have been trying to solve that problem for the last four years, and am no nearer a solution, so i can't tell you, my dear, but i have an idea which might possibly provide a half-way house for us both till the clouds lift. "this summer i happened--literally happened!--upon a small country place about two hours' rail from town. an agent would describe it as a `desirable gentleman's residence, comprising four entertaining rooms and eight bedrooms, glass, stabling, and grounds of four acres, artistically laid out'. but never mind the agent; take it from me that that house is ideal. long, low, irregular rooms just waiting to be made beautiful; no set garden, but a wilderness of flowers, and a belt of real woodland; dry soil, all the sun that is to be had, and an open country-side agreeably free from villadom. i was tempted--badly tempted, but could not face settling down alone. only last week the agent wrote to me again. "evelyn, we fit each other; we are friends by instinct. how would you like to take that house with me for the next two or three years, and furnish it between us with our best `bits'? "understand, before we go any further--not for a moment do i suggest that we settle down to a definite home, and a jog-trot country life. i couldn't stand it for one, and i doubt whether you could either, but--we suit each other, evelyn; there's that mysterious psychological link between us which makes it good to be together. i have a feeling that we could put in some good times in that house! "financially, it would be an economy--we should save storage of furniture, and have a convenient refuge in case of illness. the place is cheap, and could be run with quite a small staff, and would be a pleasant means of returning hospitalities. we could settle down for as long as it suited us--three months, two months, a few weeks, as the case might be--and then, when the impulse to roam came upon us, we should simply rise up and depart. i should never ask where you were going. if you asked me, i should not reply. probably i should not know. on certain months of the year the house might become the exclusive property of one owner, when she might invite her own friends, and disport herself as she pleased. again, we might devote a certain period to charity, and entertain lame dogs. there's no end to the good and the pleasure that might be got out of that house. `pastimes' is its name; isn't it quaint and suggestive? and on the enclosed sheet you will behold elaborate calculations of the sum which it would cost to run. the figures are _over_ the mark, for i never delude myself by under-calculating in money matters. for my own part, i can pay up, and have enough over to wander at will. can you do the same? if not, say no at once, and the project is buried for evermore. you must not be tied. i refuse to be a party to shutting you up in the depths of the country for the whole year round. you have had enough of that. what you need now is movement, and the jostle of other lives; but if, in addition, you can afford a rest-house, a summer lodgment, a sanatorium for mind and body, and a meeting-place with a friend, then pack your box, evelyn, come and look at pastimes with me! "your friend, charmion fane." i threw down the letter and seized the sheet of calculations in an agony of eagerness. a glance at the final addition brought relief. yes! i could do it--pay my full share, and still have a handsome margin left over. once satisfied on that point, there could not be a moment's hesitation, for it would be glorious to share a house with charmion, and to have her companionship for some months of each year. my whole life was transfixed by the prospect, and yet she was right! i could not have accepted the offer if it had meant a permanent settling down to a luxurious country life. i was too restless, too eager for experience, too anxious to discover my very own work, and to do it in my very own way. the picture of that old english house, with its panelled rooms, set in a surrounding wealth of flowers and green, gripped hold of my imagination; but here was an odd thing. it was powerless to banish another picture, in which there was no rose and no blue, but only dull neutral tints--the picture of a basement flat in a grey london road, with electric burners instead of sun, and for view, a vista of passing feet belonging to bodies cut off from sight. i could not, even for charmion, give up the prospect of that flat, and all that it had come to mean; but--let me acknowledge it honestly--it was balm and relief to know that i could have a means of escape, and that at culminating moments of weariness, when everything seemed wry and disappointing, and the whole weight of seven storeys seemed to be pressing down on my brains, i could bang my door, turn the key, and fly off to peace and beauty, and a healing pandering to personal tastes! woman is a complex character, and i am no better than my kind. i feel it in me to be an angel of self-denial and patience for, say, the third of the year! i know for a certain fact that i should have a bad lapse if i tried to keep it up for the remaining thirds. now, thanks to charmion, the way was made easy, and i could put my hand to the plough without fear of drawing back. i leapt out of bed in a tingle of excitement. impossible to lie still when things were happening at such a rapid rate. the sun was shining, and, looking at a belt of trees in the distance, i could catch a faint shimmer of green. it is perhaps the most intoxicating moment of the year, when that first gleam of spring greets the eye, and this special year it held an added exhilaration, for it seemed to speak of the budding of fresh personal life. i laughed; i sang; the depression of the last weeks fell from me like a cloak, and i faced the future glad and undismayed. with the reading of that letter had come an end to indecision. i now knew exactly what i was about to do. write to charmion, and fix the earliest possible date for a meeting in town. from town we would inspect pastimes, the while i instituted inquiries for a suitable flat. the two homes secured, i would then return to the clough, and divide my furniture into two batches, send them off to their several destinations, and follow myself, hot foot. it would take some time to put both dwellings in order, but it would be interesting work. i love the making of interiors, and if pastimes must be fitted beautifully to do justice to itself, still more would it be needful to turn the uninspiring "flat" into a haven of comfort and cheer. at this precise moment my prancing brought me in front of the long mirror, and what i beheld therein brought me up with a gasp. twenty-six is quite a venerable age, but at moments of happiness and exhilaration it has a disconcerting trick of switching back to seventeen. that smiling, bright-eyed, pink-and-white-cheeked girl in the glass, with two long pigtails of hair hanging to her waist, looked really absurdly juvenile! given a small stretch of imagination, you might have believed that she was a flapper preparing for her last term at school; by no possible mental effort could you have placed her as a douce maiden lady, living alone in london, devoting herself to good works in a manner as adventurous as it was unusual. mothers of children would insinuate that i was a child myself; troubled matrons would purse their lips, and say, "i can't tell _you_, my dear. you are too young." certainly, oh, most certainly, men of all ages would put me down as a designing minx! in vain industry, self-sacrifice and generosity--that young face, that bright youthful colouring would nullify all my efforts. it was true--it was true! i looked, as aunt eliza had pointed out, a dozen years too young for the part. people would stare, people would talk, people would advise me to go back and live with my aunts, and wait ten years. in a frenzy of impatience i seized the two long plaits, and twisted them now this way, now that. astonishing the difference which hair-dressing can make! i have read of a heroine who passed successfully as her own twin sister by the simple device of plainly brushed hair and puritanical garments, the sister, of course, sporting marcelle waves and parisian costumes. i dipped my brush in the water-jug and dragged back my own hair in a plastered mass, clamping the plaits to my head. i looked like a dutch doll! clean and chubby, and, alas! considerably younger than before. i parted it in the middle, and glued it over my ears. i looked like a naughty schoolgirl, who had had her hair dressed by a maiden aunt. i piled the plaits in a coronet over my forehead; i looked like a portrait of a norwegian damsel dressed for her bridal. i threw down the brush in disgust, and stamped with impatience. no use! not a bit of use! all the hair-dressing in the world could not make me look old, or even approximately middle-aged. the ugliest flannel blouse that was ever made, while it would certainly be hideously unbecoming, could not add one year, let alone ten, to my age. it was a bitter blow. all that morning i went about pondering the desperate question of how to look old. aunt emmeline had prophesied that i should know soon enough, "with those beaked features," but i wanted to know _now_, not in any permanent, disagreeable fashion, but as a kind of sleight-of-hand trick, by which i could be mature one day and the next in blooming youth. elderly in london, young at pastimes. a douce, unremarkable "body" in the basement flat, and in surrey a lady of leisure, rings on her fingers and bells on her toes! aunt eliza would have cried once more, "oh, don't be silly!" if i had confronted her with such a problem. i said, "don't be silly!" to myself many times over in the course of that day, but i persisted in being silly all the same. at the back of my mind lingered the conviction that if i went on thinking long enough a solution would come. _how could i manage to look old_? i asked the question of myself every hour of the next few days. i asked it of everyone i met, and was fatuously assured that i demanded the impossible; at long last i asked it of old bridget, whose sound common sense had come to my rescue times and again. "sure, my dear, your husband will manage that for you!" was bridget's instant solution. "not the husband i shall choose!" i replied with easy assurance. a moment's pause was devoted to the problematical prince charming whose mission it would be to keep _me young_, then i asked tentatively:-- "what shall i look like, bridget, when i am old?" bridget folded her arms and regarded me with a critical stare. "your hair will turn grey, and them fine straight brows of yours will grow thin, or maybe fall out altogether, and leave you with none. an' you'll wear spectacles, and have lines round your eyes. but it's neither the grey hairs nor the specs that spoils the looks. it's not _them_ that's the worst!" i stared at her open-mouthed, trembling between shrinking and curiosity. "_it's the shape of the cheeks_!" said bridget darkly. "yourself now, and the ladies of your age, it's pretty, slim bits of faces you have, going to a peak at the chin. when you're old, it runs to squares and doubles. look to your cheeks, miss, if you wants to keep young!" she unfolded her arms, stretched them at full length, and comfortably folded them again. her broad chest heaved in a cackle of amused reminiscence. "sure, d'ye reminder miss kathleen when she play-acted the ould lady, the last christmas party?" poor old bridget! she got the surprise of her life in my reception of that simple question. jumping out of my chair, dancing round, whooping and hurraying "like a daft thing," as she afterwards described my movements. then to find herself at one moment enthusiastically patted on the back, and at the next to be pushed towards the door, and exhorted to hurry!--hurry!--to mount to the attic, and bring down the old tin box--well, it was disconcerting, to say the least of it, and bridget's dignity was visibly upset. she had forgotten that all the "make ups" which we had used for various christmas festivals were stored away in that old tin box, and consequently could not guess that i was fired with an ambition to try on kathie's disguise forthwith. ten minutes later i was standing before the glass and enthusiastically acclaiming the truth of bridget's statement, as i stared at the reflection of a spectacled dame with grizzled eyebrows, grey hair banded smoothly over the ears, and a bulging fullness at the base of each cheek! it _was_ the cheeks that made the disguise! spectacles and hair still left the personality of the face untouched; even the bushy eyebrows were but a partial disguise, but with the insertion of those small india-rubber pads came an utter and radical change. that chubby, square-faced woman was not evelyn wastneys. never by any possibility could she see forty again. so far as propriety went, she might roam alone from one end of the world to the other. if she lived in the largest block of flats that was ever erected, her neighbours would regard her comings and goings with serene indifference. admirable woman! she did _not_ "take the eye". i met her spectacled glance with a beam of approval. "i have it!--i have it! i must _dress_ for the part! in london i'll be a middle-aged aunt; in surrey, a niece--my own niece and namesake, who, of her charity, consents to receive some of her auntie's _protegees_ and give them a good time!" the wildness, the audacity of the project made to me its chief appeal. my life interest had been so sheltered, so hedged round by convention, that at times it had seemed as though there was a wall of division between me and every other human creature. it was so difficult to show oneself in one's _real_ colours, to see and know other people as they really were. but now!--oh, what a unique and exhilarating experience it would be to taste at the same time the romance of youth and the freedom of age, to witness the different sides of other characters as exhibited in their treatment of aunt and niece. that one illuminating suggestion of bridget's has cleared the way. from the moment of hearing there had been no real hesitation; before night fell my plans were made, and a telegram to charmion was speeding on its way. a new life lay before me--a dual life, teeming with interest and possibility. on one hand, my fate must be to some extent bound up with that of charmion fane, the most interesting and, in a sense, mysterious woman i had ever met; on the other, i was plunging into the unknown, and transforming myself into a new personality, to meet the new circumstances. i stared at myself in the glass and solemnly shook my grey head. "evelyn, my dear, be prepared! you are going to have an adventurous time!" chapter four. a talk in london. the aunts expressed a mitigated approval of charmion's proposal. mrs fane came of a good family, and was "very well left". her married estate, moreover, gave her the privilege of chaperonage, so that the dual establishment might be quite a good arrangement, all things considered, "until--" "_until_!" echoed aunt eliza eloquently, nodding coyly at me, while i stared into space with basilisk calm. i object to references to my problematical marriage--especially by aunts. the great "until" never arrived for them, yet they feel quite annoyed because twenty-six has found me still a spinster! i made my journey to london with a sense of great adventure, bridget going with me in the dual role of maid and mentor. she was the only person who was to accompany me into the new life, and experience had proved that her sound common sense might be trusted to act as a brake on the wheels of my own impetuosity. we stayed the morning in town, when i interviewed a house agent, and set him on the search for suitable flats, and then we adjourned to the west end to buy a becoming new hat. it always soothes me to buy hats. in times of doubt and depression it is an admirable tonic to the feminine mind. at three o'clock we left waterloo for our two hours' journey, and arrived at the old-fashioned inn, which was to act as rendezvous, before half-past five. charmion was awaiting us in a private sitting-room, long, oak-beamed, spotlessly clean, and a trifle musty, with that faint but unmistakable mustiness which hangs about old rooms and old furniture. tea was set out on one half of the oak dining-table. the china was of the old-fashioned white and gold order, the cups very wide at the brim and cramped at the handle, and possessing a dear little surprise rose at the base, which peeped out through a hoar frost of sugar as you drained the last gulp. charmion laughed at my delight over that rose, but i was in the mood to be pleased, to see happy auguries in trivial happenings. i hailed that rose as a type of unexpected joys. charmion was dressed in business-like grey tweeds, with a soft grey felt hat slouched over her head. she looked very pale, very frail, intensely, vibratingly alive. this extraordinary contradiction between body and mind made a charm and mystery which it is difficult to express in words. one longed to protect and shield her, to tuck her up on a sofa, and tend her like a fragile child, at the very same moment that mentally one was sitting at her feet, domineered by the influence of a master mind! i ate an enormous tea, and charmion crumbled a piece of cake upon her plate; then we had the things taken away, and drew up to the fire, and toasted our toes, and looked into each other's eyes, and exclaimed simultaneously--"_well_?" hitherto we had talked on general subjects, kathleen's marriage, the break-up of the old home, my own journey, etcetera, but now we were free from interruption for an hour at least, and the great subject could be safely tackled. "evelyn! do you realise that _nothing_ is settled, and that nothing need be, unless you are absolutely, whole-heartedly _sure_?" "i am absolutely whole-hearted about several things already. what sort of things were _you_ thinking about?" "well, take the house first. it meets my ideal, but it mayn't be yours. you must promise to give an unvarnished opinion." "make your mind easy! if there is one thing that i may claim to be above all others, it is `unvarnished'. i have a brutal frankness in expressing my own opinion. if, through nice feeling, i try to disguise it, my manner shrieks it aloud!" "that's all right then. i'm glad to hear it. next comes the question of time. we should have to take a lease of three years. i don't know if you'd care to bind yourself for so long." that reminded me of the aunts' "until", and i said solemnly, "charmion, tell me the worst. _is_ there an eligible bachelor who owns the next `place' ready to discover me picking his roses, or trespassing on his side of the stream, and to make love to me forthwith? they always _do_ in books, you know, when girls go to live in country houses." charmion smiled her slow, languorous smile. "i have amused myself with looking up the names of the people living in all the big houses around: they seem uniformly made up of couples. to the best of my belief, there is not a single man, bachelor or widower, within many miles." i said, "oh!" and felt the faint, natural dismay which any human girl would feel in the circumstances. charmion herself was enough romance for the present, and a precipitate "lover next door" would for the moment have been _de trop_, but still-- my expression (unvarnished!) evidently betrayed my feelings, for charmion smiled, sighed, and stretched out a caressing hand. "let's be honest. it is foolish to set up a partnership in the dark. is there _anyone_, evelyn, who may swoop down upon us at a moment's notice, and carry you off to share _his_ house?" "to the best of my knowledge there is not a solitary one. i'm quite sure of one thing, and that is, that however wildly he swooped, i wouldn't go!" "but there must be--you are so pretty, evelyn, and so attractive--there must _have_ been." "oh yes; two. but not real lovers, charmion, only--_pretendus_. one was young and needy and ambitious, and thought that i should look very well sitting at the head of his table. incidentally, that my money would be useful to provide the table and the things upon it. the other--he was rather a dear, and he cared enough to give me a pang. but he was happily married last year to a girl who is as _un_-like me in every respect as you can possibly imagine. they are both ancient history now." "and you? you yourself? you have never been in love?" if any other woman had asked me such a question there would have been short shrift with her. charmion herself had never before attempted such personalities; but now, when she deemed it necessary, she spoke without a flicker of hesitation, her grey eyes staring full into mine. it would have seemed ridiculous to take offence. "once. at first sight. quite bowled over. we met at an hotel." she knew what i meant, made a dainty little grimace, and bent her head in a small bow of acknowledgment, which somehow managed to look quite regal and stately. i longed to put one or two questions in return. widows _have_ been known to marry again! why should i not wish to be reassured on my own account? why should it be wrong for me to force confidences, when she herself had led the way? it would _not_ be wrong; it would be right, and prudent, and praiseworthy. the only objection was, _i could not do it_. after that little bow of acknowledgment, charmion threw back her head until it rested on the high cushioned back of her chair. "that's settled then," she said quietly. her heavy lids drooped over her eyes, her fine white hands were folded in her lap. there was in voice and manner an air of finality, which was as impervious as a barrier of barbed wire. not for any bribe in the world would i have attempted to scale it. the next morning, bright and early, we chartered a "fly," and lumbered along two miles of country lanes, and then, suddenly turning a corner, found ourselves at the gate of pastimes. it was a dull, grey day, of which i was glad, for _any_ place can look attractive in spring sunshine. i have seen even a third-rate london square look quite frisky and inviting with a shimmer of green over the black trees, and the spring-cleaned windows sending out flashes of light; it's a very different spectacle on a november afternoon. five minutes' acquaintanceship with pastimes showed, however, that its predominating quality was cheerfulness. there was a great deal of panelling on the walls, but it was of white wood, not oak, and the old, small latticed windows had been converted into deep bays, filled with great panes of plate glass--a pagan proceeding from an artistic point of view, but infinitely cheerful and healthy. there was a large central hall from either side of which opened two rooms of medium size, facing respectively east and west; a quaint descent of two steps led the way to a really spacious drawing-room, through the great windows of which was a lovely vista of velvet lawn, and a great cedar drooping its green branches to the ground. parallel with the drawing-room, and also facing south, was a long glassed-in apartment which had evidently been used to harbour plants, garden-chairs, and impedimenta, but which revealed itself to our eyes as an ideal sun-parlour for chilly days. sheltered from draughts by the outstanding walls, yet with a glass roof and frontage to catch every ray of sun, the parlour would be an ideal refuge for spring and autumn. so far as public rooms went, we were well off with five apartments at the disposal of two people. "mine!--yours!--_ours_!" cried charmion, waving her hands descriptively, first towards the two smaller rooms, and then to the other three in turn. "in the hall we will eat; the big room shall be no ordinary formal drawing-room, but a living-room _a deux_. the sun-parlour also we shall share, but the `sulkies' shall be private ground, hermetically sealed against intruders! there is a spare room upstairs which can be spared for muddles. i have a fastidiously tidy eye. it _offends_ me to see things scattered about, but my hands _will_ go on scattering them, so it is necessary for my peace of mind to have a muddle-room where i can deposit bundles at a moment's notice, and feel sure that they will not be tidied away. well, shall we go upstairs and see the bedrooms?" "where _are_ the stairs?" i asked curiously, for from no corner of the hall was there a glimpse of staircase visible. i had not thought about it before, but now i realised that it was just this absence which gave that touch of comfort and privacy which is wanting in the ordinary entrance "lounge". there was no draughty well, no galleried space overhead, from which curious ears could overhear private confidences. i stared round mystified, till charmion opened yet another doorway, and behold! there was the staircase, the oddest, curliest specimen of its kind, mounting up and up within a narrow well, for all the world like the steps in a church tower, except that these were wide and shallow, and that a thick brass rod had been placed on the outer wall to act as a banister in the case of need. whoever had built pastimes had plainly believed that stairs were needed for the purpose of transit only, and had refused to waste space on their adornment. on the first landing were several good bedrooms, two of which possessed big sunny balconies, facing south. "that settles it!" i told charmion. "if i had had any doubts before, the balconies would have decided me, once for all. all my life i have yearned to have a bedroom opening on to a really big balcony. i'm crazy about balconies! think of the happy hours one has spent on balconies in switzerland and italy! to have been in a room without one would have been to lose half the joy. and even in england--think of all the things one can do on a balcony of one's very own. sleep out when it is hot. air your mattress. hang up your sponge. grow your pet flowers. dry your hair. cry it out quietly when you feel blue. sentimentalise over the railings when you feel _rose_." charmion's fine brows arched, her lids drooped over her eyes. i recognised the same expression which her face had worn the night before, when for a moment i had seemed on the point of questioning her about her own romance. once more i felt myself up against an impenetrable wall of reserve, and hastily switched the conversation to the more prosaic topic of cupboards. the very sound of a balcony bristles with romance, but cupboards may be discussed with safety under the most lacerating circumstances. there is something comfortably safe and stodgy about them. and pastimes was so rich in this respect that we spent a happy half-hour appointing their future uses, and jotting down notes for their improvement. later on we visited the gardens, beautiful even in their sleep, and promising a very paradise for summer days. the lawns and flower beds immediately around the house were exquisitely in order, but by far the greater part of the grounds was uncultivated. there was a strip of _real_ woodland, where the light filtered down through the branches of tall old trees on to a carpet of dried leaves and bracken, through which could be seen the close-growing green shoots which foretold a harvest of bulbs. later on no doubt there would be primroses and bluebells, and when summer came, if i knew anything about it, there would be two hammocks swinging between spreading branches, and two happy women reposing therein. it was this _real_ country air which gave pastimes its chief charm. that evening charmion came to my room, and we sat together by the fire and talked for three solid hours. as a rule, i get fidgety in the evening when talk is the only amusement, but i can sit and listen to charmion for as long as she chooses to go on. she is--interesting! she says things in an interesting way, and has interesting things to say. i have met extraordinarily clever and well-informed people who are terrible bores. charmion would be interesting if she told one how to make an egg flip! as i watched the delicate play of expression on the tired face, which was yet so thrillingly alive, as i listened to the slow soft drawl of her voice, i felt a sudden rush of thankfulness and exhilaration. "charmion!" i cried suddenly, "aren't you _thankful_ to be rich?" she flinched as though i had struck her, and turned upon me a wild-eyed look of affront. "rich? who says i am rich? who has been talking about my affairs? have you--have you been making inquiries to find out what i am worth?" i stared, deeply offended. "i have not. perhaps it would have been more business-like if i _had_, but i accepted your word. i asked a simple question because at the moment i happened to be feeling particularly thankful that i could afford to share pastimes with you, and i imagined that you might possibly feel the same." i paused, waiting expectantly for words of apology and excuse, but none came. charmion stared at me below knitted brows, and said shortly:-- "yes, it is true. you ought to have business references. you shall _have_ them! my lawyer shall write to you at once. i was a wretch to speak so sharply, evelyn, but--you touched a sore point! thankful? no, indeed! money is a curse. the greatest handicap a woman can have. if i had my life to live again, i should choose to be a penniless working girl!" she had taken off her rings and dropped them in a sparkling little heap on her lap, the while she softly polished her long pink nails. her padded kimona was of pink silk, heavily embroidered with roses, her feet were thrust into slippers of the same shade and material. a more luxurious figure it would be difficult to imagine. i rolled an expressive eye, and she shrugged her shoulders in response. "oh, of course, i am an artificial product, and the chains hold fast. i don't take any particular interest in my appearance, but it is an ingrained habit to go through a certain routine. it would annoy me to have dull nails, so i polish them as you see; also, though i am dead tired, i shall have my hair brushed for half an hour before going to bed, and then steam my foolish face. it bores me profoundly, but it would bore me more to feel unkempt. so far as that goes, i should do exactly the same on twopence a week!" "minus a maid and appliances?" charmion shrugged daintily. "soap and water are cheap, fortunately." "i beg your pardon! not _your_ kind of soap. you might find even hot water a difficulty. i imagine that girls on twopence a week have to consider the price of boiling a kettle. their hot water is not `laid on'. moreover, the poor dears must be `dead tired,' in a way which you and i cannot even imagine." "it is their life," charmion said loftily. "excuse me--i mean to _live_! that's why i am thankful to have money, because it gives me more scope to live thoroughly." "poor innocent! what a delusion. money shuts the door of your cage. a golden cage, excellently padded, but--_its bars shut out all the best things of life_!" i laughed again, for the statement was so opposed to all accepted theories. "_what_ best things, for example?" "confidence," said charmion solemnly. "trust in one's fellow-creatures." she lifted her heavy lids as she spoke, and her eyes looked into mine. in their grey depths was a blank, empty expression, which once seen is never forgotten, for it speaks of a hurt so deep and keen that the memory of it breaks the heart. i leapt from my seat and wrapped charmion in my arms. "oh, my dear, my dear, there is one person you can trust! whatever happens, charmion, you can count on me! darling! i know you have had troubles. i don't ask to hear about them. i only want to be allowed to love you, and to do all i can to help and to comfort. never, never be afraid to ask for anything i can do. i would put you before myself, charmion, if it ever came to a choice between our different interests--i would indeed! don't you believe it is true?" she laid her two hands on my shoulders and smiled. "you dear thing! i believe it is. you would sacrifice yourself for me, and i should accept the sacrifice. it is the way we are made. you to give, and i to demand. let us pray, my dear, that the day may never come when our interests do clash. of a certainty, poor evelyn, you would come off worse!" chapter five. pastimes--and mr maplestone. the next morning, bright and early, we called on the house-agent to sign and seal the agreement which should make us the happy owners of pastimes for a term of years agreeably elastic. mr edwards was a small, dapper little man, typically house-agenty in manner, even to the point of assuring us gravely that another tenant was urgently in the field, and that we had secured our lease by the very skin of our teeth. charmion lifted incredulous eyebrows. "but, mr edwards, you wrote to me a second time, only a fortnight ago, to say the house was still on your hands!" "quite so, madam. and it was. but only on monday mr maplestone motored over from wembly. mr maplestone is squire there--a very influential gentleman in these parts. he is looking out a house for a relative, and had only just heard that pastimes was vacant. he drove over, as i say, and telegraphed to his friend that the house was too good to lose. he expected a reply this evening." "when it will be too late!" charmion said calmly. "you told him, of course, that you were in treaty with another tenant?" "i did, madam. quite so. but"--the little man hesitated, and fidgeted uncomfortably--"mr maplestone is--er--accustomed to get his own way! i explained that i must accept a definite offer, and that you had the first option, but i am afraid that he hardly realises--" charmion waved an imperial hand. "we are not concerned with mr maplestone, or what he expects. pastimes is ours, and that settles the question. to-morrow morning miss wastneys and i will meet you at eleven o'clock, to go over the house together. it is in good order, but we shall require a little decoration and painting here and there. you will be able to advise us how to get it done well and quickly. when i say quickly i _mean_ quickly! plenty of men must be put on to begin the work and finish it in a few days' time, not one or two who will drag on for weeks. you can get us an estimate for time, as well as for cost." mr edwards bowed, murmured, and waved his hands. he looked overcome, poor man, as well he might, for if one would-be client demanded his own way, the other was obviously determined to have hers. between the two his path was not easy! i smiled at him ingratiatingly, just to help things along, but he took little notice of me. obviously, in charmion's company i did _not_ "take the eye!" on the way home i expressed sympathy for the disappointed mr maplestone, but charmion refused to agree. "i don't know the man, so his pleasures and disappointments don't enter into my sphere. promiscuous universal sympathy is too great a tax on the nervous system. why should i distress myself about a man i have never seen?" "not distress yourself exactly, but you might cast a kindly thought. he will be disappointed, and the poor little agent will have a bad half-hour." "now you are asking sympathy for the agent, too! evelyn, aren't you the least little bit in the world inclined to wear your heart on your sleeve?" "charmion, aren't you the least little bit inclined to be hard?" she agreed with unflinching candour. "i am. it's the safer plan if one doesn't want to be hurt!" "but--what about the other people? mayn't they be hurt instead?" she looked at me gravely for a moment, then with a smile which grew gradually broad and roguish. "we ought to strike a happy mean between us, eh, evelyn? you are all credulity and gush, and i refuse to disturb myself about other people, or their affairs." "that's not true! you disturbed yourself about me!" "because it affected myself. i had grown fond of you, and so you entered into my life. pure selfishness, my dear!" "i don't believe it! i won't believe it! it's no good trying to disillusion me, charmion. i've put you on a topmost pinnacle, and it would take a mighty effort to tumble you down!" "dear thing!" murmured charmion fondly. "well--suppose we talk of the drawing-room walls? i'm a great believer in occupying oneself with the next step. revelations of character will follow in due course--i plump for white!" "white certainly. a warm cream white, with not a touch of blue in it. and the prevailing colour?" "let's count three quickly, and then each say what we think!" we counted, and the two words leapt crisply forth. "rose!" said i. "purple!" said charmion. then we looked at one another beneath puckered brows. "rose lights up better!" "purple is more uncommon." "rose is more cheerful in winter!" "purple is restful in summer!" it seemed for a moment as if we had reached an _impasse_, then came an illuminating thought. "why not--both? they harmonise well. purple curtains and carpet--the plain colour, very soft and subdued, and cushions and shades of the right rose. with our united treasures we ought to have a lovely room. where _are_ your things, charmion?" "stored," she said shortly. "i tried a house for a few months, but it was too lonely an experience. but i have a passion for beautiful furniture. it has amused me to pick up good specimens here and there. now we shall enjoy them together! wait till you see my spanish leather screen!" "wait till you see my chinese cabinet!" i retorted, and we talked "things" industriously for the next hour. after luncheon charmion settled herself to write business letters, drawing a big screen round her writing-table, the better, as she informed me, to protect herself against my chatter. "you promise to be quiet, but in five minutes' time you begin again! now please to remember that to all intents and purposes i am in another room, and that until i choose to come forth, i am dead to you and everyone else! do you understand? these letters positively must get off to-night!" "dear me! i don't want to talk! i shall be thankful to sit by the fire and enjoy a quiet read," i said loftily, and promptly drew up an old arm-chair, and buried myself in the book which i had bought to while away the hours of my journey, and then left unread, because my own affairs were at the moment so much more absorbing than those of a fictitious heroine. now that my mind was more at ease, i found the story interesting enough, and had read on for about an hour with undisturbed enjoyment, when suddenly the door was flung open, and a voice announced:-- "mr maplestone!" i leapt up, putting up a hasty hand to smooth my ruffled hair. that was the worst of having only one sitting-room! visitors were hurled in upon one without a moment's warning. happy charmion behind the screen! i stared across the room and beheld a tall--very tall--thin man, with short reddish hair and light blue, angry-looking eyes. he was dressed in riding costume, which, so far as his figure went, became him exceedingly well. he was probably somewhere about thirty-five, and one glance at his tightly-set lips and firm square chin was enough to demonstrate the truth of mr edwards' assertion that he was "a gentleman who likes his own way". he had probably heard by now that for once he was to be thwarted, and had come to tell me what he thought about it. at this moment i forgot to be sorry for his disappointment in my exceeding sympathy for myself! i glanced helplessly at the screen. "mrs fane, i believe." "i am miss wastneys. mrs fane is engaged. perhaps it is something that i--" he laid his hat and stick on the table. "may i have a few minutes' conversation? you will allow me to sit down?" "certainly." i pushed aside the easy-chair and seated myself on one of the six "uprights" which were ranged about the room. it felt so much more business-like and supporting. mr maplestone seated himself opposite to me, and rested his hands on his knees. "i am told that you have some idea of renting a house called pastimes, near here!" "we have taken pastimes. mrs fane and myself have this morning signed the lease." he waved an impatient hand. "this morning! so i am told. edwards has behaved very badly. i warned him that things should not be hurried through." "they have not been hurried. it is several months since mrs fane first saw the house, and three weeks since negotiations were opened a second time." "i only heard this week that the house was vacant." "and should mr edwards"--(the innocent inquiry of my voice was growing more and more marked)--"was it his duty to have told you?" his eyes sent out a flash. i could see the muscles of his hand clench against his knee. i had scored a point, and his anger was correspondingly increased. "perhaps i had better explain," he began in a tone of elaborate forbearance. "i live at wembly. most of the land between here and there belongs to me. pastimes happens to be outside the limit, and so it escaped my memory. i have not been over it before. i did not know the last tenants. for the last few weeks i have been looking for a house for my friend--a member of the family who is returning from abroad. invalided!" he pronounced the last word with emphasis, staring fixedly at me the while. i adapted my features to express polite commiseration. "it is natural that he should wish to live within driving distance of his friends." "oh, quite!" "the moment that i saw pastimes i knew for a sure thing that it would be just his house--" "i am sorry, but as he has not seen it, he can't be disappointed. there must be other houses--" "i have already said i have been searching round for--the--last--three-- weeks," mr maplestone repeated, in the carefully deliberate tone which disguises irritation. "nothing else will suit anything like so well." i murmured indefinitely, and glanced at the screen. mentally i could see charmion leaning back in her chair, smiling her slow fine smile, inquisitively waiting to see just how firm or how weak i could be. i was not inclined to be weak. there was something in the personality of this big domineering man which roused an imp of contradiction. we sat silent, eyeing one another across the room. "i believe you and--er--mrs fane are strangers to this neighbourhood?" "yes! that is so." "you have no--er--special link or attraction?" i saw the trap, and protested blandly. "oh, yes! we are delighted with pastimes. it exactly suits our requirements." mr maplestone frowned, and fidgeted to and fro, then suddenly leant forward, straightening his face into what was obviously intended to be a smile. "miss wastneys! will you forgive me if i am perfectly frank and honest, and tell you exactly what is in my mind?" "of course i will. i am sure," i declared mendaciously, "there can be nothing to forgive!" he had the grace to look a trifle ashamed, but his resolution did not waver. not a bit! he looked straight in my eyes, and said deliberately:-- "i want pastimes! for the moment it has slipped through my fingers, but a couple of hours cannot seriously affect your arrangements. on my cousin's behalf i am anxious to take over the lease. it would be an act of grace on your part if you would agree to this arrangement, and deal with me as his representative!" the audacity of it! for a moment i was silent for sheer want of breath, but i could feel the blood rushing into my cheeks, and knew that my eyes were sending out flashes to meet his own. my appearance must have prepared him for my answer before it came, uttered in a very calm, very haughty, aggravatingly deliberate tone. "we are not in the habit of changing our plans in a couple of hours. pastimes suits us. it is unnecessary to look for another house. the matter was decided this morning." "you understand that my cousin is an invalid, and that he has a special reason for wishing to live in this neighbourhood?" "there are other houses. pastimes is not the only one that is vacant." "it is the only one that is suitable," he repeated doggedly, and there followed a silence during which he sat back in his chair, staring at me with the light blue eyes, which of all eyes in the world can look at once the coldest and the most angry. if he could have done what he wanted at that moment, he would have taken me by the shoulders and shaken me well. to have made up his mind that a thing must be, and to find himself thwarted by a bit of a girl--it was unsupportable!--so unsupportable, that even now he refused to believe it could be true. giving himself a little shake, like a dog who rouses himself to fresh efforts, he again made that industrious attempt at a smile, and began slowly:-- "i am afraid i have made a bad beginning! please forgive me if i have seemed discourteous. when we have talked things over quietly, i have no doubt that we shall be able to reach a satisfactory agreement." "i'm afraid i can't see how that can be! there is only one pastimes, so one of us is bound to be disappointed!" he pounced on that as if scenting a hopeful weakness. "exactly. yes; but the disappointment would vary in intensity. that is what i am anxious to point out. when edwards told me that the tenant was a lady i felt reassured, for it is a matter in which a woman's kindliness and good heart--" my eyes roved to the screen. charmion's ears were assuredly open at this moment, straining to hear my reply. i raised my eyebrows, and said frostily:-- "we are speaking of a business arrangement. i am afraid that is the only light in which we can consider the matter. we shall honourably fulfil our part of the agreement which we have signed." "you refuse to show any consideration for an invalid returning home-- after many years?" "not at all. if it is ever in our power, as neighbours, to show him any kindness, we shall be eager to do all that is possible--short of giving up our own house for his benefit. would you do it yourself, mr maplestone--for the sake of a stranger you had never seen?" he stood staring at me, his cheeks bulging with the moving lumps which show that people are swallowing down words which they dare not allow themselves to say. with the same air of elaborate patience which he had shown before, he explained slowly:-- "my cousin has been stationed in india. in a border regiment. he has served his country for thirty years. now he has had a paralytic stroke, and is making his way home by slow stages. a man who has worked and suffered as he has done deserves a home, and the gratitude of his fellow-countrymen." "there are two sides to every question, mr maplestone. if i chose to go into details, i might convince you that mrs fane and i have our own claims, which seem to us equally strong." he leapt from his seat, and advanced until he stood directly facing my chair. "that finishes it! it is no use appealing to your feelings. let us make it pure business then! i offer you a hundred pounds down for the reversion of the lease!" so it had come to this. bribery undisguised! i lowered my eyelids, and sat silent, an image of outraged dignity. "you refuse! it is not enough? two hundred then! three!" still silence. but my listening ears caught a threatening rustle behind the screen. "three hundred! it is a good offer. you are not bound to this neighbourhood. you can find other houses to suit you. still not enough? name your own terms then. how much will you take?" "a million pounds!" the words leapt out of my mouth as it seemed of their own volition. i was tired of this farcical bargaining, and determined to put an end to it, once for all. i stood up and faced his blank stare of amazement, without at least any outward shrinking. "surely it is useless to prolong this bargaining. it is very unpleasant and humiliating." mr maplestone set his square jaw. "you are only one partner to this transaction. mrs fane is probably your senior. if i were to see her, she might be induced to name a more--er--shall i say reasonable (oh, the cutting sarcasm of that tone!) figure." "_two_ millions." the high clear tone struck across the room. mr maplestone wheeled round and beheld charmion standing just outside the opening of the screen, one hand raised to rest lightly on the curved wood coping. she might have posed as a picture of graceful, imperturbed ease, so calm, so smiling, so absolutely unflurried and detached in both manner and bearing did she appear. mr maplestone looked at her and--this was a curious thing--at one glance realised his defeat. all my efforts at dignity and firmness had failed to convince him, but behind charmion's frail, essentially feminine exterior, those keen eyes had at once detected that strain of inflexibility which i was only slowly beginning to realise. it was hopeless to bandy words. the squire knew as much, and turned to the table to lift his hat and whip. he gave a short scornful laugh. "the terms seem a trifle--high! i am afraid i must retire from the bidding. pastimes is yours. i hope"--he looked from me to charmion, and his expression was not pleasant to see--"i hope you may not have cause to repent your bargain!" we bowed. he bowed. the door opened and shut. charmion looked at me and shrugged her shoulders. "a declaration of war! we have begun our campaign by quarrelling with the most `influential gentleman in these parts!' things are getting exciting, evelyn!" i did not speak. reaction had set in, and i felt a pang of remorse. i did not want to quarrel with anyone, influential or uninfluential. i was sorry i had been ungracious. i felt a pang of sympathy for the poor, big, bad-tempered man riding homeward after his defeat. i wondered when and how we should meet him again. chapter six. hunting the flat. leaving the workmen to carry out the necessary decorations at pastimes, charmion and i adjourned to london to buy carpets and curtains, and a score of necessary oddments. we found it a fascinating occupation, and grew more and more complimentary to each other as each day passed by. "charmion, you have exquisite taste! that's just the shade i had chosen myself." "you have a perfect eye for colouring, evelyn. i always know that your choice will be exactly my own." sometimes we saw the humour of these self-satisfied compliments, sometimes we were so busy and engrossed that we accepted them open-mouthed. i suppose in every mind personal preference is magnified into the standard of perfection, and all the arguing in the world will fail to convince a that he is--artistically speaking--colour-blind, or b that her drawing-room is a bazaar of trumpery odds and ends! all the more reason to be thankful that we agreed. we were convinced that our taste was unique; but supposing for one moment that it was bad, we should at least share a comfortable delusion! the oak entrance hall was to be ornamented with old delft. the curtains and chair coverings were to be of the same shade of blue. the parquet floor was to be supplied with rugs of warm eastern colours. exactly the right shade of violet-purple had been found for the drawing-room, and i should be ashamed to say how many shops we ransacked for the chair coverings, until at last we found the identical pattern to satisfy our demands. certainly i should be ashamed to confess what we paid for the piece. charmion was appallingly extravagant! that was another discovery which i had made in the last days. it seemed as if she found a positive satisfaction in paying abnormal prices, not with the purse-proud bombast of the _nouveau riche_, but rather with the almost savage relief of a slave who shakes off a few links of a hated chain. i was a little alarmed at the total to which our purchases amounted; but i comforted myself with the thought, nothing new would be required for a long, long time, and that, if i found my income running short, i could always retire to my flat, and live on a figurative twopence under bridget's clever management. charmion had heard all about the flat by this time, and had hurt my feelings by treating the whole proposal as a ridiculous joke. she made no attempt to dissuade me--had we not agreed never to interfere in each other's doings?--but she laughed, and said, "dear goose," and arched her fine brows expressively as she asked how long a lease i proposed to take, "or, rather, i should say, how _short_?" now i had myself inclined to a short lease with the option of staying on, but opposition stiffened my back, and i there and then decided to go and look at several possibilities which i had hitherto put aside as impracticable because they had to be taken for a term of three to five years. bridget would go with me--dear, lawless, laughter-loving bridget, who entered into the play with refreshing zest. bridget had the real characteristic irish faculty of looking upon life as an amusing game, and the more novel and unorthodox the game was, the better she was pleased. "sure it's your own face! it's for you to do what you please with it!" was the easy comment with which she accepted my proposed disguise. she undertook to do most of the work of the flat without a qualm, and shed an easy tear of emotion over the sorrows and difficulties which it was to be my mission to reduce. "oh, the poor creatures! will they be starving around us, miss evelyn, and the little children crying out for bread?" "n-not exactly that," i explained. "i want to work among gentlefolk, bridget--poor gentlefolk, who suffer most of all, because they are too proud to ask for help. but they will probably be short of time, and service, and probably of strength, too, and when i get to know them, they will let me help them in these ways, though they would not accept my money--" bridget looked sceptical. "i wouldn't put it past them!" i laughed, and dropped the subject. "oh, well, time will show. meantime you understand, don't you, bridget, that they are not _cheerful_ places that we are going to see? cheerful positions in london mean big rents, and i mean to live among people who have to count every penny several times over, and try hard to make it into a sixpenny bit. you and i will have sunshine and light at pastimes--you won't mind putting up with dullness for part of the year?" "what would be the good of minding? you'd go, whether or not, now you'd got your head set!" returned bridget bluntly. she added after a pause, "and besides, we'll be getting our own way. i'm thinking we shall be glad of the change. it's not as much as a thought of your own will be left to you, with mrs fane by your side." "you are entirely wrong, bridget, and it is not your place to make remarks about mrs fane. please don't let me hear you do it again." "yes, ma'am," murmured bridget, turning instantly from a friend into an automaton, as was her custom on the rare occasions when i hardened myself to find fault. the words were submissive enough, but her manner announced that she had said her say, and would stick to it, though herself, poor thing, must be humoured when she took the high horse. as usual, i retired from the conflict with a consciousness of coming off second best! the next day i told charmion that i was "engaged," and true to our delightful agreement, she asked no questions, but quietly disappeared into space. then, with a ponderous feeling of running the blockade, i put on wig and spectacles and the venerable costume which had been provided for the occasion. appropriately enough, it had originally belonged to an aunt--aunt eliza, to wit--who had handed it to me in its mellowed age, to be bequeathed to one of my many _protegees_. it was brown in colour--i detest brown, and it cordially detests me in return-- and by way of further offence the material was roughened and displayed a mottled check. the cut was that of a country tailor, the coat accentuating the curve of aunt eliza's back, while the skirt showed a persistent tendency to sag at the back. when i fastened the last button of the horror and surveyed myself in the glass, i chuckled sardonically at the remembrance of heroines of fiction whose exquisite grace of outline refused to be concealed by the roughest of country garments. certainly my grace did not survive the ordeal. what good looks i possessed suffered a serious eclipse even before wig and spectacles went on, and as a crowning horror, a venerable "boat-shaped" hat (another relic of aunt eliza) and a draggled chenille veil. bridget was hysterical with enjoyment over the whole abject effect, but i descended the stairs and passed through the great hall of the hotel with a miserable feeling of running the blockade. suppose i met anyone! suppose anyone _knew_ me! suppose--i flushed miserably at the thought--charmion herself was discovered sitting in the hall, and raised her lorgnon to quiz me as i passed by! i need not have troubled. not a soul blinked an eye in my direction. if by chance a wandering glance met mine, it stared past and through me as though i were impalpable as a ghost. my disguise was a success in one important respect at least--there was no longer anything conspicuous about me; i was just a humble member of society, one of the throng of dun-coloured, ordinary-looking females, who may be seen by the thousand in every thoroughfare in the land, but who, as a matter of fact, are not seen at all, because no one troubles to look. by bridget's side i passed through the streets of london as through a desert waste. half an hour's journey by tube brought us to the first of the flats on my list. it was also the first specimen of its kind which irish bridget had ever seen, and the shock was severe. i found myself in the painful position of expecting "a decent body" to live in a kitchen two yards square, with a coal "shed" under the table on which she was supposed to cook, and to sleep in a cupboard, screened in merciful darkness, since, when the electric light was turned on, the vista seen through the grimy panes was so inimitably depressing that one's only longing was to turn it off forthwith! "preserve us! indeed, if it was to die in it we were trying, it would be easy enough, but i'm thinking we'd make a poor show of living, miss evelyn! and used to the best as we are, too," said poor bridget dolefully. i sprang a good ten pounds in rent at the sound of her pitiful voice, and ran my pencil through every address below that figure. ten separate flats did we visit in the course of that day, and it was a proof of what aunt emmeline would call my stubbornness that i came through the ordeal without wavering. regardless of bridget's appealing eyes, i led the way forward, always affecting a buoyant hope that our next visit would be successful, while mentally i was holding a jekyll and hyde argument with my inner self, as follows:-- "impossible to live in such warrens!" "_other people_ manage to live in them all the year round!" "but, as bridget says, i have been used to the best." "quite time, then, that you take your share of the worst!" "my health might suffer--" "you have a good chance to recruit." "i might lose my looks--" "disagreeable--but the world would go on, even if you did. incidentally, you might improve the looks of other women!" "it would be awfully dull!" "at first--yes! not when you get into stride. helping other people is the most exhilarating of tonics." "i have never lived in a town. i should feel cramped, prisoned, stifled for air." "but think how you would feel when the day came to return to pastimes! wouldn't that first hour in the garden be glorious enough to repay you for all the exile?" bridget's wheedling voice broke in on my argument:-- "miss evelyn, dear, i've been thinking--wouldn't it be a duty-like, to be having a bit of sun? seems like we could wrestle along a bit better if we faced the right way!" poor dear! above all the drawbacks, it was the darkness of the interiors of those small flats which most perplexed the good countrywoman: the passages lighted only through the ground glass panels of bedroom doors; the windows shadowed by walls of other buildings, which towered up at but a few yards' distance; the kitchens staring blankly into a "well," ornamented with the suggestive spirals of a fire-escape. "if we could maybe face somewhere where there was a bit of green!" pleaded the eloquent irish voice. "sure the leddies and gentlemen you are meaning to help--you'll be more likely to find them in the place you'd choose yourself, if you were settling in earnest?" bridget rolled an eye at blocks e, f, and g of a colossal pile of buildings which stretched their inky length over the two blocks of a narrow thoroughfare. "cast your eye over them window curtains!" said she scathingly. "ye can tell what's inside without troubling to look. a dirty, idle set that will sponge on you, and laugh behind your back!" i looked, and shuddered, and was thankfully convinced. in my efforts not to aim too high, my standard had fallen impossibly low, and bridget's keen common sense had been right in prophesying that i was more likely to find a congenial type of people in a neighbourhood which appealed to my own taste. no sooner said than done! i escorted bridget to a restaurant, and fed her and myself with lots of good hot food, and then straightway hired a taxi, and drove back to the agents to demand addresses of flats a little further afield, which should have at least a modicum of light and air. it appeared that i had demanded the thing above all others for which tens of thousands of other women were already clamouring! "everybody wants a cheap flat in an open and airy situation. for one that is to let we have a hundred applicants. of course, if you are prepared to pay a long price--" "but i am not." "quite so. otherwise i have some fine sites in campden hill. lift. central heating. every convenience." "seventy pounds is the utmost--" "quite so. then we must rule out campden hill, or hampstead, or kensington." the agent switched over the leaves of his book, ran his finger down a list, and hesitated, frowning. "there is _one_ vacancy which might suit--a small block of flats on the borders of hammersmith. the postal address is kensington. i don't know if you are particular as to address?" "not a bit." "ah!" the agent evidently thought small beer of me for the admission. "most ladies are. in this case we can ask an extra five pounds a year because of the kensington address, and the class of tenants is much better than in the adjoining blocks a few hundred yards off, where the postal address is hammersmith." bridget coughed in an impressive fashion which was intended to say, "better class! hark to that now! that's the place for us!" as for me, i was torn between amusement at the rank snobbery of it all, and a tender pity for the pathos that lay behind! poor strugglers, clinging on to the fringe of society, squeezing out the extra pounds so badly needed for necessities, for--what? the satisfaction of seeing a certain word written on an envelope, or of impressing a shop assistant with its sound. in some cases no doubt there were deeper reasons than snobbishness, and it was thought of them which supplied the pathos. some careworn men and women had weighed that extra rent in the balance, and had considered that it was "worth while," since a good address might prove an asset in the difficult fight for existence, or perchance some loved one far away had vicariously suffered in past privations, and might be deluded into believing in a false prosperity by the high-sounding address. my ready imagination pictured the image of an invalid mother contentedly informing her neighbours: "my daughter has moved to kensington. yes! such a charming neighbourhood. the gardens, you know. _and_ the royal palace!" five pounds a year might be worthily expended on such a gain as this! well, there seemed nothing for it but to prospect weltham mansions at once, so we chartered yet another taxi, and hurried off without delay to have daylight for our inspection. we drove for miles, through streets at first wide and handsome, then growing ever dingier and more "decayed". is there anything in the world more depressing than a third-rate english suburb? i can imagine being poor contentedly in almost every other land--in india, for instance, i know of impecunious couples who have lived in two tents beneath two mango trees with comfort and enjoyment, but it takes a super mark tapley to enjoy poverty in london! we had left the gardens a long way behind before at long last we reached a block of dull red buildings, the various doorways of which were decorated with different letters and numbers. a to --c to --d to --etcetera, etcetera. the windows were flat, giving a prison-like effect to the exterior, and i was just saying devoutly to myself, "thank goodness, _that's_ not--" when the taxi stopped, and my eyes caught the fateful letters carved on a dull grey stone! it _was_ weltham mansions, and there were two flats to be let. the porter produced the keys and led us up, up, endless flights of stairs to a crow's nest near the roof, and then down, down again to what was described as the "sub-basement," which, being interpreted, meant that the level of the rooms was a few feet beneath that of the road. now i had always set my affections on a basement flat, chiefly--let me confess--because the sound of it appealed to my ears as so suitable and appropriate to my new role. also, to be able to walk in and out, without mounting the stairs, minimised the risk of discovery, which was no light point under the circumstances, but it was a distinct surprise to find that the flat itself appealed to me more than any which i had yet seen. why? not because of the rooms themselves, for they were ordinary and prosaic enough, but because the bank which sloped from the floor of the area to the street railings was of _grass_, closely-growing, well-conditioned grass, broken here and there by tiny, sprouting leaves of--yes! extraordinary as it seems, there could be no doubt about it, for both bridget and i recognised them in one lightning glance--_primroses_! some former tenant who loved the country had planted those roots in a hopeful mood, and they had taken hold, and grown, and multiplied. when spring came the owner of that basement flat would have a primrose bank between herself and the world outside those high railings. she had also a strip of cement area in which she could place tubs filled with soil which would provide blossom for later days. the exposure was south, and the railings were high, so that the tiny garden would be assured of sun and security. the soot would fall, and the dust lie thick, but there would be colour and life, and on the air faint wafts of perfume. we went back to the porter's room to hear the particulars of the lease, and on my way i stopped to read the list of names printed on little slides on a mahogany board. there were forty in all, and they were as illuminating as such names usually are, when suddenly, three parts down the list, i came upon one which made my heart leap into my mouth. i stood reading the few words over and over, actually _spelling_ the letters in my incredulous surprise, but there it was; there was no doubt about it--the words plainly printed for every one to see-- "number . mr wenham thorold." well, talk about fate! there are some circumstances under which one realises at once that it is useless to struggle. this was one! i turned to the porter with an air of resignation. "i will take the flat. please prepare the necessary papers, and send them to me to sign." then i gave him my new name. after due deliberation i had determined to be "miss mary harding," as wastneys is unusual, and might draw undesirable attention. miss mary harding, of a basement flat! chapter seven. hostilities? our removal into pastimes--like every other removal since the time when man began to live beneath a roof--took far longer than we expected. i went back to ireland to gather my possessions, and say good-bye, and charmion stayed in london to hurry up tradesmen, and make uninteresting purchases of pots and pans, and dusters and door scrapers, and the other needfuls which every house must have, but which are so dull to buy. when i joined her in the hotel, i found her in a state of haughty displeasure over the extraordinary delay which was attending the work at pastimes itself. in another person this state of mind would have found vent in "fuming," but charmion never fumed. she folded her hands, and drooped her white lids, and drawled in a tone of incredulous disgust:-- "i can't understand it. i _told_ them to be quick. i expressly stipulated that they were not to potter." "apparently they are not even `pottering'! they have not begun at all!" i said grimly, as i ran my eye down the letter just received from the "man in charge". it was the ordinary, ultra-polite, ultra-servile production of the tradesman who has _not_ kept his word. "dear madam,--owing to a press of other work, i regret that i have not been able to commence--" "commence! odious word. it is adding insult to injury to use it. and what can he mean? he seemed so keen about the order. said he was so slack that he would be able to put on all his hands!" "i shall write and tell him to do so at once," said charmion magnificently, and i held my peace and let her do it, knowing that it would be no use to object, and hoping that at least her letter might succeed in extracting some more definite information. it did! this was it:-- "madam,--i beg to inform you that mr maplestone having rented the house known as `uplands,' on behalf of general underwood, and placed urgent orders with us for its re-decoration, we are regretfully compelled to delay operations at pastimes for some weeks. we are making all possible speed with the present contract, and beg to assure you that your work shall then be finished with all despatch. "we have the honour to remain, etcetera." charmion and i looked at one another, and looked, and looked, and looked. we were both thinking hard--thinking backward, thinking ahead. exactly what we thought neither of us put into words; we just sat silently and stared, until presently charmion rose, marched over to her writing-table, and scribbled a few words on a telegram form. then she held it out for me to read:-- "order for decorations at pastimes cancelled herewith." "do you approve?" "er--oh, yes, of course--i suppose so. but how shall we--" "that's easily arranged. any town firm will be glad of the order. it will be more expensive, but will probably be better done. in any case we have no choice." "it's such a tiny village. where could the men sleep?" "i haven't the slightest idea. that is their business, not mine. we shan't have any difficulty about that," charmion declared, and she was right, for the west end firm who received our instructions waved aside the question with smiling assurance. they were accustomed to sending workmen all over the country. to the loneliest places. all could be easily arranged. we were left with the impression that if it had been our pleasure to pitch our tent in the sahara, the frock-coated manager would have executed our wishes with equal ease. so far, so good; but as we left the shop charmion turned to me, and said darkly:-- "i think, under the circumstances, it might be wise to change our minds about employing country maids, and to engage london ones instead." "you are afraid--" "i am afraid of nothing, but i think it probable that the local girls who wrote to us about situations may now be `urgently' bespoken for service at uplands." "well, he will need servants," i said feebly, and fell to thinking of uplands itself, and of how unfortunate it seemed that general underwood should be settling so near ourselves. we had noticed the house, indeed, we could not fail to do so, as it lay a quarter of a mile along the high road from pastimes, on the direct route from escott, which was mr maplestone's village. it was a handsome-looking house, but painfully prosaic, built of grey stone, unsoftened by creepers, and showing a row of windows flat and narrow, and extraordinarily high. one could just imagine the rooms, like so many boxes, and the hall flag-tiled, and the house full of draughts, for the windows of the principal living-rooms faced perversely towards the north. i hoped the poor general would instal a heating system and a generous supply of rugs; but what chiefly concerned me at the moment was the thought that every time--every single time--that cross, red-headed man came over to visit his relative, he must pass our door! my imagination immediately conjured up half a dozen irritating encounters. evelyn returning home on a wet day, bedraggled, _not_ at her best, toiling along the wet lane, and being splashed with mud by the wheels of a giant car, from the cushioned seat of which the squire and his wife regarded her with lofty disdain. there _was_ a mrs maplestone, and i had drawn a mental picture of her, which i felt sure was true to life. small, meek, rather pretty, with big brown eyes which held a chronic expression of being rather frightened by what had just gone before, and exceedingly anxious as to what should come next. she would probably wear handsome furs, and a hat three seasons old. encounter number two represented evelyn in her best hat and coat, feeling rather spry and pleased with herself, until presently, clinketty clank, round the bend of the road came the quick, staccato beat of horses' hoofs. mr and mrs maplestone cantering past in hunting kit, which at one glimpse killed complacency and substituted disgust for the poor fripperies of town. encounter number three was most obnoxious of all. it represented evelyn _solus_ encountering mr maplestone _solus_ and on foot. approaching him on the unsheltered road, torn by the problem, "will he bow? shall _i_ bow? will he pretend? shall i pretend?" moving nearer and nearer, and in a final moment of discomfort meeting the stare of blank, angry eyes. poor man! it must be exhausting to have such a violent temper. i wondered what he looked like when by chance he was happy and pleased! the west end firm got through their work in record time, and at the end of three weeks charmion and i took possession, and set to work at the task of putting our house in order. every woman delights in this work in _prospect_; in reality, every one comes full tilt against a score of irritating, aggravating _contretemps_ which baulk her carefully-laid schemes. our _contretemps_ appeared in a very usual form. the cook and gardener, who had been definitely engaged to meet us on our arrival, and whom we had, therefore, not replaced in town, sent missives instead, to "hope they didn't inconvenience, but they had changed their minds". the two town servants who _had_ arrived were immediately plunged into woe, and, looking into their set, dour faces, one could _hear_ the inward thought, "don't believe anyone ever _was_ engaged! just one of their tricks to get us down here to do the work alone." we left them sitting like monuments of woe in the kitchen, and shut ourselves up in the drawing-room to consult. "uplands, i conclude," said charmion coldly. "oh, no! i don't believe it. he wouldn't condescend to _that_!" "why not? he stopped the work in the house." "that was different! after all, he _is_ the squire, and when it was a case of inconveniencing him, or a stranger--a local tradesman could hardly be expected to put us first. at least, you can _understand_ his position." "does the same argument apply to local domestics?" "it might do; but i don't believe it was used. to give a tradesman an order for now or never, and to--to stoop to bribe a servant to break an engagement--surely they are two different things! i do _not_ believe mr maplestone would do it!" "well!--we shall see. in the meantime, what about dinner?" i went back to the kitchen and talked to the londoners, smiling radiantly the while. i said it was upsetting, but we must expect upsets. no one ever settled into a new house without one. i said there would be no difficulty in getting another cook--we would telegraph for one to-morrow; in the meantime we would just picnic, and do the best we could. i looked from one sulky face to another, and asked confidently:-- "now, which of you is the better cook?" the parlour-maid said she was a parlour-maid. she had never been _asked_ to cook. she could make tea. i said, "thank you!" and turned to the housemaid. the housemaid said she was a housemaid, and didn't understand stoves. she had always lived where kitchen-maids were kept. i said calmly, "oh, well, it's fortunate that i am a woman, and can cook for the lot of you until help comes. perhaps you will kindly bring tea into the hall, and then get your own as quickly as possible. i shall require the kitchen by six o'clock." they were horribly discomposed, and i left them murmuring vaguely in protest, very pleased with myself and my fine womanly attitude, though at the bottom of my heart i knew quite well that bridget would come to the rescue, and never a saucepan should i be allowed to touch. as a matter of fact the good soul descended on the slackers like a whirlwind, and the while she drove them before her, treated them to an eloquent lecture upon the future sufferings, privations, rebellions, and retaliations of the prospective husbands of females who had grown to woman's estate, and yet could not cook a meal. through the green baize door i could hear the continuous torrent of invective, broken at first by protest, later on by soft exclamations of surprise, and finally--oh, the relief of that moment!--by an uncontrollable explosion of laughter. the cockney mind is keenly alive to humour, and when a racy irishwoman gets fairly started on a favourite subject, the delicious contradictions of her denunciations are hard to beat! that laughter saved the situation, and the domestic wheels began to move. charmion wrote to an emergency lady in town. i didn't see the letter, but i diagnosed its tone. peremptory and--lavish! wages no object, but speed essential, or words to that effect. anyway, in two days' time a married couple arrived, were pleased to approve of us, and settled down with the air of coming to stay. she was an excellent cook, and he seemed a rather indifferent gardener, which just suited our views. if gardeners are experts they want their own way, insist on bedding-out, carpet-beds, and similar atrocities. we meant to run our garden on different lines! hurrah! i am so relieved. the truants have _not_ gone to uplands. i met the cook in the village to-day, recognised her, and tackled her to her face. she flushed and wriggled, looked uncomfortable, but not as penitent as i should have liked to have seen. "was it necessary to wait until we had actually arrived, before letting us know that you had changed your mind?" she stood on one foot, and drew circles on the road with the other. "didn't decide myself till just the last minute." "you hadn't taken another place then? i understood from your note--" "i'm staying on with my mother. i may go to a lady at guildford." silence. one department of my brain felt an immense relief, the other an immense exasperation. "then you were free all the time! doesn't it strike you as wrong and dishonourable to show such a want of concern for other people's convenience?" she muttered. i caught the sound of a few words--"_i'm not the only one_!" and put on my most dignified air. "however, it is all for the best. you certainly would not have suited us. i hope for your own sake you will learn to keep your word." i walked on, nose in the air, aggressively complacent in appearance, but those words rankled! "_not the only one_!" now what did she mean by that? obviously the insinuation was meant to go home, but how and where had we been to blame? not in our treatment of the woman herself. we had offered good wages, and to pay for the time she had been kept waiting; yet something had happened which had made her willing to lose money and time, and that something was not another place! i felt puzzled, and, at the bottom of my heart, _worried_ about it all! later on i paid my first visit to the little draper's shop, and ran the fire of a universal scrutiny from the staff. the "young ladies" knew who i was, and were devoured by curiosity, but it was not a friendly curiosity! instead of the eager smiles which usually greet a new customer, there was a pursed-up gravity, a stolid attention to business, which was decidedly blighting. at home in ireland every tradesman was more or less a friend, and what they did not know of kathie's affairs and mine was not worth hearing. "pastimes, i believe!" said the sales-woman with the pasty face, when i directed the parcel to be sent home. was it fancy which read a note of reproach in her intonation? coming home, i met general underwood in a bath-chair, being pushed along by a man in livery. he has white hair and a yellow face. he looks tired and ill, and lonely and sad. i'm sure he hates the bath-chair, and fights horribly with his doctor, who insists on fresh air. he rolled his tired eyes at me as i passed, and said something in a low voice to his attendant. i was misguided enough to turn my head, and behold! the bath-chair was tilted round so that he might look after _me_. the man knew me by sight, and was laying bare the whole horrible truth. "that's her, sir! the lady from pastimes!" i felt ruffled, and went straight into my "sulky," where i stayed till lunch-time. we had a delicious _souffle_, and charmion asked no questions, and went out of the way to be particularly sweet. i felt better every moment, and by the time coffee arrived had quite recovered my spirits. if the general _had_ lived in pastimes, he would have had to use the bath-chair just the same, and his hair would have been quite as white! pastimes could not have made him young! charmion is right. i wear my heart on my sleeve. i must learn to be more callous and matter-of-fact! chapter eight. the vicarage calls. on sunday we went to the parish church. at breakfast, charmion seemed silent and depressed; but, true to our agreement, i asked no questions, and she volunteered no explanation. she said she was not going to church, but later on she changed her mind. i think she saw that i was disappointed, and a trifle shy at going alone, so off we went together-- charmion a marvel of unobtrusive elegance in grey, and i "taking the eye" in sapphire-blue--along the breezy lane, past the closed gates of uplands, through the shuttered high street into the tiny square, in a corner of which the church was nooked, with the vicarage garden adjoining the churchyard. the congregation was assembling from different parts, and everybody who passed stared at us, the men stolidly enough, the women with a curiosity which, to my mind at least, had something antagonistic in its nature. their pursed lips, their sidelong glances, reminded me of the assistants in the draper's shop; of the cook who muttered that she was not "the only one". i looked at charmion to see if she felt the atmosphere, but her eyes held the blank, far-off expression which marked her dark hours. she had no attention to spare for village worthies: nothing that they could do or think was of sufficient importance to arouse her attention. inside, the church was bare and uninteresting, and the musical service poor, but the vicar himself attracted me greatly. a plain-looking man nearing forty, but with a most expressive and eloquent voice. he read the service exquisitely--so exquisitely, that words which one knew by heart seemed suddenly filled with new meaning. when the time came for the sermon i expected great things. it seemed to me that the man who could so wonderfully interpret the words of others, must be endued with the gift of eloquence for himself. i even braced myself for a mental effort, in case his argument should soar above my head. and then--a child could have followed him! it was absolutely the simplest, plainest, and most intimate address which i had ever heard from a church pulpit. incidentally, it was also the shortest! it was ten minutes to twelve o'clock when he folded his arms on top of the open bible, and leant forward for a long, silent moment, looking earnestly from side to side into the upturned faces of his hearers. then he began to talk--to _talk_, not to preach, speaking every word with an inflection of the truest sincerity. the text was "forgetting the things that are behind, i press towards the mark," and the "talk" ran pretty much like this:-- "how has this week gone with you, brothers and sisters? to some it has brought success, to others failure. bad weather, bad temper, lost control, a host of tiny troubles have sprung upon us unprepared; have worked their will, and left us discouraged and weak. thank god for beginnings! new years, new months, new weeks--after every twenty-four hours, a new day, with the sun rising over a new world! last week is dead. all the grieving in the world cannot revive it into life. bury it! remember only the lessons it has taught. forget the things that lie behind. _press forward_! this week is alive. this week brings opportunity. live! work! pray! with god's grace make it the best, the truest, the kindliest week you have ever lived." the clock struck twelve, and the sermon was over. a bare ten minutes, but if he had preached for an hour on end he could not have added to its effect. the congregation listened in tense silence, as though afraid of losing a word. one _felt_ the electric thrill of hope and courage and high resolve which, flooded their hearts; felt it oneself; went out from the church braced in heart and soul. i want to know more of that man. he could help one along. i have got my wish. he called with his wife this afternoon--the first callers since we arrived. they were shown into the drawing-room, where charmion and i were lolling over our tea. there was fruit on the table, besides a selection of cakes from town, and as we had been gardening in the earlier part of the afternoon, and got thoroughly grubby and untidy, we had changed into the tea-gowns which we wear in the evening when we are too lazy to put on more elaborate clothes. they are very nice tea-gowns, and, though i say so who shouldn't, we look exceedingly nice in them, but to the eye of a hard-working country clergyman the whole interior may have looked _too_ luxurious to be approved! his face looked very grave as he shook hands. mrs merrivale is a surprise. the vicar figures on the church board as the reverend john c. merrivale, but she has her cards printed, "mrs j. courtney merrivale," and she calls him "jacky" in public. she is very young--twenty-two or three at the most--and has a very long neck and a pretty little face, with huge pale-blue eyes, and a minute mouth with coral-pink lips. she is dressed in cheap clothes made in the latest fashion, and she asks questions all the time, and doesn't wait for an answer. when you tell her a definite fact, such as that you have been planting tulips in the garden, she says, "not really!" or as a change, "fancy!" or "just think!" _he adores her_. every time he meets her eyes, his grave, strong face softens and glows in a way which makes one feel inclined to cry. lonely women feel so _very_ lonely at such moments as these! she contradicts him over the most futile things, and says, "no, jacky, it was three o'clock, not four; i was just getting up from my rest," and he smiles, and doesn't mind a bit. they had tea, but refused fruit, with an air of being rather outraged by the offer. mrs merrivale surreptitiously studied the details of charmion's tea-gown, and the vicar and i laboured assiduously at conversation. i had liked him so much on sunday, and had hoped he would be a real friend; but--things didn't go! i had a miserable feeling that he had paid the call as a matter of duty, that he disapproved of us, that he dreaded our influence on his precious little goose of a wife. there was certainly a restraint in his manner. _everybody_ seemed restrained in this funny little place. i wonder if it was something in the air! having made mental notes concerning the tea-gown, mrs merrivale next turned her attention to the room, and stared around with frank curiosity and a barely concealed envy. "your room looks so pretty. jacky, that's exactly the material i wanted for our curtains. you have beautiful china. i'm collecting, too; but"--she gave an expressive shrug. "of course, this room lends itself; it is so big, and get's _all_ the sun. you remember, jacky"--she looked at her husband with widened eyes--"mr maplestone called it a `sun trap'." it seemed an innocent enough remark, but the vicar's grave assent implied a deeper meaning. mrs merrivale sighed, and elaborately lengthened her chin. "uplands is so _bleak_. general underwood feels the cold so much. all the windows of the entertaining rooms seem to look the wrong way." "he should have some more put in, facing the sun," charmion suggested in her regal way, and mrs merrivale looked as much aghast as if she had suggested pulling down the whole house and building it afresh. i burst hastily into the conversation. "i think i met general underwood the other day. in a bath-chair. i was glad that he was well enough to get out. i hope he will soon be quite well." the vicar said gravely:-- "he will never be well. the most that can be hoped is that he will not grow worse rapidly. he is a fine man, and has done good service. we are proud to have him back amongst us, but i am afraid, for his own sake, it has been a bad move. he ought to have settled in a kindlier climate." "yes, but--" mrs merrivale began impulsively, and pulled herself up, and bit her red lip. "jacky," she said hurriedly, "i'm afraid we must go." they went, and i felt a worm. it was plain to me now that the parish in general, from the vicar downward, had absorbed the idea that the strange ladies at pastimes had played a mean trick on their local hero, and were not inclined to smile upon the ladies in consequence. the vicar had probably heard the squire's prejudiced story direct, and from the manor house and the vicarage reports had percolated, as such reports _will_ percolate, to the draper's assistants, and the man in the street, down and down to the truant cook herself. now the feudal feeling still lingers in english villages, and no self-respecting tenant chooses to range herself against the squire. the cook's mother, no doubt, lived in a cottage owned by the squire, and enjoyed perquisites of various sorts which she had no disposition to throw away. beside the kitchen fire there had, no doubt, been a lengthy conference over that rumour, and the mother had said, "don't you do it, mary jane. if the ladies are across with the squire, how'll he take it if he hears my daughter's in their service? and half a dozen people with their eyes on this cottage as it is. a nice thing it would be for me if i got notice to quit!" the gardener's mother had probably presented the same argument to him, and the good people who had eyed us askance on sunday morning were probably reflecting to themselves, "they _look_ all right, but you never know! there was evidently something _very_ unpleasant about that lease. poor general underwood, too. well, we won't be in a hurry to call. we will just wait and see!" i felt horribly depressed, and somehow charmion's utter indifference made me feel worse. i do love to be liked; it would poison me to live in an atmosphere of prejudice and suspicion, but she doesn't appear to care. i have a curious conviction that to be socially ostracised would be just what she would prefer. books, the garden, my companionship-- these would supply her need. new claims would be rather a bore. i am not made like that. i need more. i feel horribly depressed. charmion saw it, and spoke out before we went to bed. "you are worrying, evelyn. that disagreeable autocrat has succeeded in prejudicing our neighbours against us, and it hurts you. well, nothing is irrevocable. say the word, and we will leave the house to-morrow, and put up a bill--to let!" i jumped nearly out of my skin, with horror and amazement. "never! not for the world. my pride wouldn't let me even if i wanted to do it, and i don't--i don't! i love the house and the life with you even more than i expected, it's only that i'm sorry about. i _do_ like to live at peace with all men. doesn't it worry you, charmion, to feel yourself unjustly accused?" "it would have done once. at your age. since then"--her eyes took the blank, far-away look which always attended even the faintest allusion to the past--"since then i have lost the power of caring. when one has borne the one big hurt, the gnats have no power to sting." i looked up eagerly, but she rose from her seat, pressing one hand gently over my eyes. "no! don't ask me! you have been very sweet, very forbearing. one great reason why my heart went out to you, evelyn, was that you never questioned, never tried to probe. go on being patient! some day you shall know. i should like to tell you now, but i can't, i can't! you must wait. some day the impulse will come, then it may be a relief. till then, evelyn, you must wait!" chapter nine. an encounter in force. it is three months since we came to pastimes, and until last week the days have slipped by happily and peacefully enough, but without any happenings worthy of record. we returned the vicar's call, and were asked to tea to meet ourselves, when mrs merrivale took the opportunity to ask me the address of my dressmaker! two staid dames, who lived in small villa residences, left cards at the door, an attention which we duly returned in kind. the important people in the neighbourhood have left us severely alone, whirling past our gates to pay assiduous calls on general underwood. he is the local hero, and we are the hard-hearted strangers who did _something_--nobody knows precisely _what_--but _something_ mean, and underhand, and altogether unwomanly about a lease, and so forced the poor dear general to endure draughts and cold rooms, and seriously retarded his progress towards health! it's no use pretending that i am not sorry about it, for i _am_; but all the same, they have been happy months. charmion has seemed so much brighter and more contented, and that itself means much to me, and we have been as happy as bees in our beloved garden, bullying our one man into preparing what he considers absolutely mad effects, and working with him to keep him up to the mark. we have flagged one path, and turfed over another, raised some beds, and sunk others, and contrived a really glorious hot-weather arbour, a good six yards in diameter, and open on three sides, to secure plenty of fresh air and an absence of flies. charmion has hardly gone out of the gate, except to church on sundays, but i take a constitutional every day, and scour the country-side. my first encounter with the squire came off about the third week we were here, and my imaginings were wrong in all but two unimportant points. mrs maplestone wears voluminous sables and clothes of antique cut; but they look quite charming and appropriate, for--she is antique herself! she is the squire's mother, not his wife. he hasn't got a wife; never has had one, and never will. hates all women and their ways. avoids feminine society, and has never been known to pay a girl five minutes' attention in his life! such is the village verdict as repeated to me through bridget, who has a _flair_ for gossip, and is one of those wonderful people who cannot walk half a mile along a solitary country lane, without hearing, or seeing, or mentally absorbing some interesting item about the lives of her fellow-creatures! every night when she brushes my hair she recounts these items to me, and i pretend to be uninterested, and listen with all my ears. in any case, mr maplestone seems very kind and attentive to his mother. i met them (as fancy painted!) when i was coming home from a trudge along the damp lanes, and was looking considerably blown and dishevelled. they were getting out of their car just outside the gates of uplands--a most malapropos position!--but without the least hesitation he lifted his hat, and bowed, so that i was spared the troubled uncertainty which i had imagined. i can't say he looked _amiable_, but at least he was polite, and i was so relieved that i bowed back with quite a broad smile. mrs maplestone looked at me more in sorrow than in anger. i suppose she was thinking, "so young and so unkind!" an hour later, from an upstairs window, i saw the car whizzing homewards along the road. it did not stop at our gate. i rather wished it would. after that we were constantly meeting. there seemed a fate in it. if i darted into the post office to buy a penny stamp, he was there buying tobacco. (you _do_ buy tobacco in village post offices!) if i cut across fields and sat on a stile to rest, he came whistling from the opposite direction, and i had to get up to let him pass. if in leaving the house i turned to the right, i met him advancing to the left. if i turned to the left, behold he was striding manfully to the right! each meeting was the result of absolute chance, but mistress chance can play curious pranks at times, and it really seemed as though she was taking a mischievous delight in bringing about these unwished-for encounters. we always bow ceremoniously to each other; he always frowns, and i always smile. theoretically i am annoyed and indignant; but at the critical moment the comical side of the situation sweeps over me, and out flashes the smile before i can force it back. it is so absurd to see a big grown man sulking like a child! quite a good thing he does not intend to marry. his wife would have a nerve-racking time. well, as i said before, three months have passed by. spring has turned into summer, and every day the garden brings fresh, delightful surprises. uninteresting green sprouts burst into unexpected bloom; the rock garden is a blaze of purple and gold; blackened stems of creepers have disappeared beneath festoons of leaves and flowers. charmion and i wear muslin dresses, and eat our meals in the arbour, and lie in hammocks in the little orchard, and rejoice in every moment of the long sunshiny days. down at the bottom of our hearts, i think we both have a feeling that this is just a little rest by the way. it won't last; we don't even wish it to last. life is too strenuous to pass in a summer garden; but we needed a rest and it is very, very good for a change. we pack boxes of flowers and send them to the hospitals, and every saturday afternoon we invite parties of working girls from the nearest towns. they arrive in weird garments, very loud as to colour, and befeathered as to hats, and the village worthies look askance at them, shrug their shoulders, and think small beer of us for entertaining such odd guests. for three months our lives have been indeed the "annals of a quiet neighbourhood," and then suddenly, last week, something happened! i said suddenly--i might have said instantaneously, without any exaggeration. the position was this. scene, a sloping roadway just outside the village area. the stage set with the three principal figures. enter from left wing, general underwood, reclining in his bath-chair, being taken for a short ride by his affectionate kinsman, robert maplestone. enter from right wing, evelyn wastneys, bearing for home. so far, so good. a similar encounter has happened many times before, but this time the sight of my white-robed figure seemed to upset the squire's equanimity. he stopped the chair, and turned his head over his shoulder, looking backward over the road along which he had come. it afterwards transpired that the general's valet had been left behind to finish some small duty, and was momentarily expected to follow. at that moment he did appear, and involuntarily mr maplestone lifted his hands to wave an imperious summons. i have said that the road is sloping; just at this point it is very sloping indeed, therefore the bath-chair darted forward, and spun downward with incredible speed. i have a kaleidoscopic picture in my brain which seems to consist of a lot of waving arms--the poor general's arms waving for help, the squire's arms sawing the air as he raced in pursuit, further back in the road the valet's arms thrown to the sky in an agony of dismay, while down towards me, ever faster and faster, spun that runaway chair. i had to stop it somehow! there was no one else to do it, so it was "up to me" to do my best. there was no time to be nervous, no time even to think. i stood braced in the middle of the road, and caught at the steering handle as it flashed by. my weight was light, and the general was heavy. i expected to have to hold hard, but what really happened was startling and unexpected, for the steering handle whirled straight round, struck me a severe blow on the arm, and--toppled me right over on to the foot of the chair! i sat down heavily on the general's feet, and the front wheel tore whirling streamers from the bottom of my skirt. the chair swayed, jerked, slackened its speed; two strong hands stretched out and checked it still further; a second pair of hands gripped hold, and brought it to a stand. now came the moment when i ought to have been acclaimed, and overwhelmed with grateful acknowledgments as an heroic rescuer, who had risked her own life to save a feeble and suffering old man; but not at all! quite the contrary! no sooner was his flight safely stopped than the general turned and roared at me with furious voice:-- "you sat on _my feet_! you are sitting on my _feet_!--i, with the gout! get up! _get up_!" then he turned to mr maplestone, and roared at him:-- "what on earth did you _mean_ by letting go?" then mr maplestone turned to the valet, and roared at him:-- "why the dickens couldn't you _come_, instead of hanging about all day?" then they all turned on me, and chorused, "get up! _get up_!" and i tried to get up, and the caught streamers of my dress held me fast, and i sat down heavily again--_plop_, right on top of the poor gouty feet. the general roared more loudly than before, the two other men called out, "oh, oh!" and i felt as if i should go into hysterics myself. it was a most lacerating scene. mr maplestone took out his penknife and hacked at the ends of my skirt; the valet, who was the only calm and sensible one of the party, lifted me up, and supported me in his arms till i was set free. then he let go suddenly, and i was so weak and giddy that i nearly fell down a third time. the general closed his eyes and emitted heart-rending groans, and the valet nipped hold of the handle of the chair and made for home as fast as he could go. i stood in the midst of my rags and tatters, and mr maplestone stood by my side. "i hope you are not hurt." "oh, not at all!" i said bitterly. i was aching from head to foot. to judge from my sensations, my right arm was paralysed for life. in some mysterious way a wheel seemed to have passed over my feet, and my toes burned like fire. perhaps they were broken--i could not tell. i had likewise several scrapes and a whole army of bruises, and the skirt of one of my nicest afternoon frocks was torn into ribbons. and not one word of thanks or appreciation. no wonder i was riled. "oh, not at all. i _like_ it! i am only sorry that i have contrived to hurt general underwood. perhaps you will kindly convey my apologies." he looked at me critically. aches don't show on the surface, and i expect i looked rather red than pale. the only visible signs of damage were the ends of muslin and lace which strewed the road. he looked at them and said solemnly:-- "your dress is spoiled! i'm afraid it was partly my fault. i had to get you free, and it was not a moment for deliberation. i'm sorry!" he really _sounded_ sorry, and that smoothed me down. i murmured that it didn't matter--only a muslin dress--not his fault, while he went on staring fixedly. then at last he spoke, and what he said gave me an electric shock of surprise. "it's a good thing," he said, "it wasn't the one with the frills!" _the one with the frills_! for a moment my mind was a whirling void; i was too stupefied to think. then gradually it dawned upon me that he must be alluding to a dress the skirt of which was composed entirely of tiers of flounces. it was a new and favourite possession, and i also was glad that it was spared. but--why should mr maplestone-- i gaped at him, and said:-- "_why_?" and he said lucidly:-- "well, there would have been more to catch, wouldn't there? besides--" he flushed, and lapsed into silence. evidently it was inadvisable to continue the subject. i gathered together my jagged ends, and turned to walk homeward, rather wondering what was going to happen when i began to move. i found i _could_ walk, however, which proved that no bones were broken; but it was a halting performance, and hurt more than i chose to show. if i limped _too_ much, in common politeness mr maplestone would be obliged to offer help. i had a vision of charmion's face if she looked out of the window and beheld us walking arm in arm up the drive! "why do you smile?" cried the voice by my side. there was positive offence in the tone, and, as i looked my amazement, he continued accusingly, "you always smile. every time we meet. it must be an annoyance to stumble against me wherever you go. yet you smile! and to-day you are hurt, and you still smile!" "i smile at my thoughts," i said grandiloquently. "and you are wrong, mr maplestone. it doesn't annoy me at all. why should it? you are as free to walk about as i am. i have no right to complain. and my conscience is clear! _i_ have done nothing of which i have reason to be ashamed." "you mean," he cried, "you mean that?--" then his voice broke off sharply, and his forehead wrinkled in dismay. "_what's that_? that mark on your arm. _blood_?" he pointed. i looked, and sure enough a dull red patch was spreading over the muslin sleeve of my dress. the blow had evidently cut the skin, and this was the result. i felt dreadfully sorry for myself, and rather faint, and altogether considerably worse than i had done before, as a result of beholding these visible signs of injury. so, i was content to see, did mr maplestone himself. he really looked horribly worried and distressed, and kept glancing at me with anxious eyes, as if every moment he expected me to collapse. but he never offered his arm! he came with me as far as the gate, and then held out his hand in farewell. it would have been churlish to refuse, so i put my own hand in his just for a moment. "don't shake it, please," i said. "it hurts." and then, because it _did_ seem such an odd thing to say, i smiled again, a feeble watery smile. he dropped my hand like a hot coal, and fled. i limped into the house and told charmion all about it, and cried quarts. i was mottled all over, black and blue. chapter ten. mrs merrivale confesses. next morning a groom came over with kind inquiries from the hall. mr and mrs maplestone were anxious to hear if miss wastneys had recovered from the shock of yesterday. miss wastneys returned thanks for kind inquiries. she was suffering a good deal of pain, but her injuries were not serious. recovered, indeed! when i was a mass of bruises and aches, to say nothing of jumpy nerves. i was not inclined to make light of my injuries to mr robert maplestone. later on the general's valet made his appearance. "general underwood was anxious to hear how miss wastneys was this morning. he was distressed to hear that she had been hurt." that was more tactful! moreover, on receiving the bulletin, the man informed our maid that the old gentleman was rarely upset because he had been rude to the young lady. as soon as he was able he was coming in person to apologise. charmion listened quietly to the repetition of this announcement. when the maid left the room, she turned to me as i lay on the sofa, being very sorry for myself, and lifted inquiring brows. "well, evelyn. you know what this means?" i did, or thought i did, but prevaricated, feeling self-conscious. "what?" "you have cut the knot with your heroic rescue! the squire will call; the general will call; the neighbouring sheep will follow in their train. we shall be graciously `forgiven' and admitted into the fold. our quiet, sent-to-coventry existence is at an end." i looked at her anxiously. from voice and manner it was impossible to tell what she was really feeling. above all things i wanted to please her. but still-- "are you sorry, charmion? would you be sorry? i suppose they _will_ come, but there is no necessity to receive them, if you would rather not. after ignoring us so long, they could not complain. i will leave it to you to decide." "then they shall come," she said firmly. "you've been a brick about it, dear, but i'm not blind. i know that it has been a trial for you to be cut off from general society. you are a sociable creature, and need friends around you. we have had a happy _tete-a-tete_, and i've enjoyed it thoroughly, but it couldn't go on. i should not have _allowed_ it to go on. i am a selfish woman in many ways, but not selfish enough to make a hermit of you at twenty-six. so!--let them all come. in any case, we shall probably be making a move before very long, so we can't be drawn very deeply into the rustic maelstrom!" "_we shall be making a move_." the words gave me a jar. my "kensington" flat is now in order, and ready to receive my furniture whenever i care to send it in. i am still in love with the pixie scheme; but, while summer lasts, and the garden grows more beautiful every day, i want to stay here! in my own mind i had settled down till september at least. i had believed that charmion was as happy as myself, but now the old restlessness sounded in her voice. i looked at her, and saw her eyes staring wearily into space. oh dear, oh dear, the narcotic of the new life is already losing its power; the grim spectre of the past is casting its shadow between us! they have called! this afternoon, when we were having tea in the garden, general underwood's bath-chair appeared suddenly on the scene. first came a crunching of gravel, and when we turned our heads to discover the cause, the front wheel was already turning the corner of the path, and the next moment there was the general smiling benevolently upon us, the valet pushing the handle, and walking by his side the squire himself, very red in the face and puckered about the brow, exactly like a naughty boy who is being dragged forward to say he is "sorry." fortunately there was no time to consider the situation. we shook hands, and found a chair for mr maplestone, and ordered more tea, and discussed the weather in its various branches, all with the utmost propriety, until gradually the ice thawed. charmion is a gracious hostess, and the general is as genial and simple in manner as most men who have spent their lives "east of the suez". after five minutes in his society one understands why he is the idol of the neighbourhood. he looks ill, poor dear, but his blue eyes are still clear and alert, and he twinkles them at you in such a shrewd, kindly fashion. not a word did he say about the accident until tea was half over and i handed him some cake, when he looked full at me, and asked slyly:-- "how is the poor arm?" "progressing beautifully, thank you. _and_--the poor feet?" "ah," he said eloquently, "that was a moment! i am ashamed of my ingratitude; but, my dear young lady, if you could have felt--" "i know," i said humbly. "eight stone six. but i had no choice; and at the worst, it was not so bad as being spilt into the road." "indeed, yes. i am under the impression that i owe you a great deal. it is difficult to express--" "please don't!" i said hastily. "i could hardly have done less, but i could very easily have done it in a less clumsy way; and--it's so embarrassing to be thanked! let us talk of something else. would you care to see our garden? we have worked very hard at it all spring, and are so proud of our effects. we love showing people round!" then i suddenly remembered and blushed, and glanced guiltily at the squire, to discover that he was doing exactly the same at me, and we all three got up in a hurry, and disputed who should push the bath-chair. the squire did it, of course, and charmion and i walked one on each side and played show-women, and the dear old man admired everything he saw, and asked for seeds in the autumn, and offered _us_ seeds in return, and did everything nice and polite that nice polite people do do on garden visits. as for the squire, he kept on saying nothing. our tour ended at the gate, and when we said our final good-byes, general underwood explained he was not up to calling, as he was often unable to go out, but that at any time, if we could spare half an hour to visit _him_, it would be doing a kindness to a lonely old man. "and will you allow me to wish you much happiness and prosperity in your beautiful home?" charmion thanked him with serene unconsciousness, and the squire and i stared elaborately into space, so elaborately that on parting we made two separate dives before we succeeded in finding each other's hands. then the valet came forward, and the little procession turned out of the gate. "charmion," i said solemnly, "i feel a worm. that dear, heroic old man! i wish we had let him have `pastimes' ten times over." "mistaken heroism, my dear. he can be still more heroic at `uplands'." "er--what do you think of--the other one?" "er--honestly, evelyn, i don't think of him at all!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ mrs maplestone has called, and the three or four other county magnates, none of them particularly interesting from our point of view. we are now formally and definitely "received," and the first result has been a violent increase of intimacy on the part of the vicar's wife. i think she has always "hankered" to know us, but not having enough individuality to act for herself, she has waited for a lead before taking the plunge. now it appears that she is organising a garden fete and wants us to help. it is her own idea, and she says it is for the organ fund. i don't want to be uncharitable, but i think it is equally designed for the amusement and diversion of delphine merrivale! i am uneasy about that girl. nature never designed her for a clergyman's wife; she is restless and bored, while that dear, good, fine man, who loves her so much, is as blind as a bat, and believes that all is well. to-day she sent for me to come to tea, and he came into the room while she was volubly discussing various plans, which struck me as likely to cost more money than they were ever likely to gain. when he appeared she gave a little shrug of impatience, and for a few moments lapsed into silence, but her self-control being soon exhausted, she took up her tale and babbled on as enthusiastically as before. it appears that every summer a "sale" is held in the vicarage garden to dispose of the articles manufactured by the "working party" throughout the winter session. they consist of serviceable garments for the poor, which are eagerly purchased by the members of the needlework guild, and also of a selection of "fancy" articles which nobody wants, such as brush and comb bags of pink and white crochet, shaving paper cases with embroidered backs (first catch the man who uses them!) and handkerchief sachets of white satin, on which are painted (badly) sprays of wild roses and maidenhair fern! the parish has always meekly assembled itself together for the fray, paid threepence for a plain tea, and departed peacefully on its way; but this year--_this_ year, there is to be a band, and a man to cut out silhouettes, and ices, and strawberries and cream, and quite a variety of excitements. "a treasure hunt for one, at an entrance fee of a shilling a head. the treasures to be supplied as voluntary offerings by the ladies of the neighbourhood." mrs merrivale paused and cocked an interrogative eye at me, and her husband said gently:-- "dear, aren't you too ambitious? our ordinary quiet sale has done very well until now. why land yourself with a great deal of extra work and fatigue, to say nothing of expense, for an altogether problematical result!" "oh, jacky," she cried deeply. "it is not problematical. we shall make pounds and pounds. i don't mind the work. i like it. think how lovely it would be if we could clear off the whole debt!" he smiled at her with the tenderest appreciation. oh, if any man looked at me like that, i would work my fingers to the bone to help him. honestly and truly, he believed that she was bracing herself to the fray out of the purest, most disinterested motives. never for one moment did it occur to him that a grown woman could hanker after such ploys for her own amusement. there is much in his unconsciousness which is beautiful, but--there is danger, too! surely, surely when two people live together in such a terribly close relationship as husband and wife, before all things it must be necessary to understand! "then i leave it to you, dearest," he said. "arrange as you think best. and now, if miss wastneys will excuse me, i must say good-bye. poor mrs evans is worse this afternoon. they fear that an operation may be necessary. she has had terrible pain." mrs merrivale threw out her hand impulsively. i was amazed to see that she had grown quite white. "don't, jacky--don't! you know _i_ can't bear it. _why_ will you speak of such things when i have begged you not?" "i'm sorry, darling. i forgot. my mind was so engrossed." he laid his hand on her shoulder as he passed, and said to me, in an apologetic voice, "this poor child is so sensitive. the pain of the world wounds her tender heart. i am inconsiderate in bringing my burdens to her." the door shut behind him, and we stared at one another for a long tense moment. i _knew_, and she knew that i knew, and suddenly the long strain of pretending to be what she was not reached the snapping point, and she spoke out in a burst of impotent irritation:-- "it's not true! i'm _not_ tender-hearted. they don't wound me at all, all these sordid miserable details; they just irritate and disgust and asphyxiate. oh, i'm so tired of it all--so _tired_--and he doesn't see, doesn't understand! he puts me on a pedestal, and burns incense at my feet, and believes that i am as interested as himself, and all the time--all the time i am smothered with boredom and impatience. i don't know why i am saying all this to you. yes, i do. i saw in your eyes that you saw through me, and knew what i really felt. now i suppose you are horribly shocked?" "not a bit. i don't understand enough to judge you one way or another; but i wish, as you have begun, you would tell me a little more. i'm young myself, you see, so i should probably understand. lots of people tell me their secrets, and i'm always sorry, and very rarely shocked. we all have our own faults. why should we be so very hard on other people because theirs are a different brand from our own?" she stared at me with her big blue eyes. "what are your faults?" "well," i laughed, "the list would take a long time! shall we leave it for another day? what i want to know now is, why, with your temperament, did you come to marry a country parson?" "because i loved him, of course," came the ready reply. "he came to take duty in our church while our own clergyman was ill, and he stayed in our house. he was so much older than i--fifteen years--that i never thought of him--like that! i just thought he was a dear, and liked to talk to him, and show him about the garden, and get him to help me in little odd ways. he was so learned and serious and staid that all the others were in awe of him, but i ordered him about, and made him wait on me, and teased him because he did it so badly. it was such fun! i enjoyed myself frightfully. mother read me a long lecture one night, and said mr merrivale would be pained to see father's daughter was such a frivolous girl. but he wasn't. he fell in love with me instead. doesn't that seem queer?" i didn't think it was queer at all. imagination conjured up scenes in the summer garden where the gay pretty girl had held her little court, and queened it over the grave, silent man. it was a thousand to one on his falling under the spell. the mischief of it was that he had expected the marriage ceremony to convert a butterfly into a staid, parochial wife. john courtney merrivale had a thousand virtues, but imagination was not his strong point. "i think it was extremely natural. just what i should have expected to happen. you are very pretty, you know, and i expect you made a charming task-mistress. and, of course, any sane girl must have been interested in him. but--what did you think about the life in this little place?" "oh! i didn't think about it at all," she said calmly. "i was so happy, and--excited. and so busy getting my clothes, and the presents, and arranging for the wedding. i had a lovely wedding. eight bridesmaids carrying rose-staves. and jacky took me to switzerland for the honeymoon, and was so young and gay himself. like a boy. i had a perfectly glorious three months, and then--" she paused, and the pink and white face puckered into a grimace as she cast an expressive glance to right and left. "we came _home_! that was the first shock, seeing all this dingy, hideous furniture, and realising that it had to stay. jacky likes it because it belonged to his mother, and he thinks it would be wicked waste to sell it for nothing, and buy new. i tried to brighten things up, but--if you look round this room you will realise that a few new things made the effect _worse_! i gave it up in despair, and all my pretty cushions and embroideries, and pictures and ornaments are hidden away in boxes in the attic." "oh, that's hard! you have my unbounded sympathy. i should hate to live in uncongenial surroundings. isn't there _any_ room in the house you could have for your own, and furnish just exactly as you like?" "all the rooms are full. i've given up trying to change things _now_, but they irritate me all the same. when i've been out all the day at meetings and guilds, it would be a rest to come home to a pretty room. i look at those maroon curtains, and this hideous patterny carpet, and feel all nervy and on edge; then jacky thinks i am tired, and brings me hot milk." she opened her speedwell blue eyes to their fullest width, and stared at me dolefully. "oh, miss wastneys, it is so strenuous to have to live up to an ideal!" "it would be still more strenuous to--_fall short_," i said curtly, and she gave a start of dismay. "oh, goodness, yes! anything rather than that! i wouldn't for the world have jacky find me out." i felt like an aged grandam admonishing a silly child. of course in the long run he was bound to find out, for delphine's discontent was obviously increasing, and the hour was at hand when her self-control would come to a sudden and violent end. then there would be hasty words and recriminations, the memory of which no after remorse could wipe away. i was sure of it, and said so plainly, qualifying my prophecy with a big "unless." "unless you can make up your mind to be honest _now_, and tell your husband the whole truth. there is nothing to be ashamed of in being young and needing variety in life. tell him frankly that too much parish gets on your nerves, and that you could do your work better if you went away for a few weeks every three or four months. there must be friends whom you could visit, and who would be glad to have you. after a change of scene and occupation you would come home braced and refreshed, and ready to make a fresh start. and you might speak about the room at the same time. you need not suggest selling any furniture, but just storing some of it away in an attic or cellar, so that you could have a little boudoir of your own. do be sensible, and tell him to-night. he loves you. he wants you to be happy. he would understand." she shook her head. "no. he would be kind and patient. he would agree at once, and never say a word of reproach, but--he wouldn't understand. that's just it. his whole idea of me would be shocked out of existence. he would be disappointed to the bottom of his soul. i--i can't do it, miss wastneys; but it's been a relief to grumble to you. thank you for letting me do it. things have been just a little better since you and mrs fane came to `pastimes'. i haven't seen much of you, of course, but i have enjoyed watching you. you wear such lovely clothes, and you are young and interesting. most of the people are so dull and settled down. i wish you would call me `delphine,' and come to see me as often as you can. just run in any time you are passing, and let me come to you in the same way. i've been so bored. well, never mind," she brightened suddenly; "the fete will be a little excitement. i _am_ looking forward to that." an idea flashed into my head. i was sorry for the girl, and intensely, forebodingly sorry for her husband. if one could help to avert the threatened tragedy. "i am just wondering," i began tentatively. "of course i can make no definite offer without consulting mrs fane, but--would you like it if we lent our grounds for the fete? the extra space might be an advantage, and we could save you trouble by arranging for the tents and refreshments, and perhaps organise some little stall on our own account." i really thought that might save a good deal of expense, and so add to the profit of the afternoon, and also that with our wider experience we might run the fete on more advanced lines, and so give her, as well as the rest of the parish, a more amusing time; but to my disappointment she flushed, and looked far from pleased. "oh, thanks, but--really, this is my affair! if i have all the duty and responsibility of being the vicar's wife, i don't see why i should give up the fun of being hostess and arranging my own fete in my own way. it's very sweet of you, of course, and i'm very grateful. i hope you won't be offended." i began to laugh. "offended! why--delphine, i was thinking entirely of you. i'm immensely relieved, if you want the real truth. that's settled then, and we'll give you some treasures for the hunt. what would you like? make up an appropriate list and send it along. anything you like, up to--say five pounds!" "oh, you angel! will you really?" she cried ecstatically. i had risen this time, and she slid her hand through my arm, and accompanied me to the door. seen close at hand, her face looked almost child-like in its clear soft tints. i noticed also that her blouse was very fine and delicate, a very different thing from the cheap lace fineries which she had worn when i first saw her. she followed the direction of my eye, stroked down an upstarting frill, and coloured furiously. "ah, my blouse! do you admire it? i wrote to town for it, to your dressmaker, and i've ordered a lovely frock. you'll see. for once in my life i shall be really well dressed! seeing you and mrs fane has made me discontented with my dowdy old rags!" chapter eleven. the garden fete. the garden fete came off yesterday, and on the surface was a roaring success. the weather was ideal; the vicarage garden proved all that was necessary in the way of a background, and the arrangements were so extraordinarily complete that my practical mind was constantly confronted with the question, "won't this _cost_ far more than it gains?" in a big city a charity entertainment may throw out expensive baits with a fair chance of catching a shoal of fat and unwary fish; but in a small village the catch can be calculated to a sou. the big fish of the neighbourhood will heave a sigh of duteous resignation, put a five-pound note in the purse, and start for the fray prepared to spend it all, but not one penny more! the smaller fry carry out the same policy with ten or fifteen shillings. the minnows take half-a-crown, with which they pay for tea, and purchase soap at the provision stall, reporting to their husbands at night that, after all, the money was not wasted. the vicar might just as well have it as the grocer. all the attractions in the world cannot worm shillings out of a public which is so prudent and canny that it has self-guarded itself by leaving its cash at home! many times over yesterday afternoon i saw the flicker of longing in feminine eyes as they gazed upon the tempting novelties displayed upon the stalls, but the next moment the lips would screw, the feet pass by. guild garments must be bought; tea paid for; tickets bought for the novel treasure hunt, wherein--with luck!--one might actually _gain_ by the outlay. the visitors lingered to gaze at the pretty china, and glass, and embroideries with which delphine had filled her stall; but the afternoon wore on, and it looked as full as ever--horribly full! there were none of those bare, blank spaces which stall-holders love to see. at five o'clock we marked off the odd sixpences; at six o'clock we dropped a whole shilling, but still--hardly a sale! delphine looked--a vision! at the first glimpse of her in her cobweb fineries, i was ill-bred enough to gape, whereat she blushed and said hurriedly:-- "_your_ dressmaker! yes! isn't it a duck?" and knowing the prices which celeste charges for ducks with such feathers, i wondered, and--feared! did the vicar know? was it possible that with his small stipend he could afford such extravagances? had the silly little thing ordered, and never _asked_? was it my fault for having given the address? could i have helped doing so, when i was asked? i _had_ said she was expensive. it was some small comfort to remember that, and charmion would say it was no concern of mine. a dozen such disconcerting thoughts raced through my mind, but i shook them off, and said heartily:-- "it is lovely! _you_ are lovely! i had no idea you were such a beauty. what does your husband say?" her face clouded. "nothing. doesn't notice. likes me as much in an old print. but i--_love_ it! oh, you don't know what bliss it is to feel `finished off'. everything new, good, pretty, and to match!" she gave a rapid swirling movement of the hand to call my attention to such details as shoes and stockings, embroidered bag, and glorified garden hat. "it's nothing to _you_. you have had them all your life, but i have only longed and--_starved_!" she spoke with a passionate emphasis, which to many people would seem out of all keeping with the subject; but i am young, and a girl, so i understood. there are many empty-headed women in whom the craving for pretty things is as strong as the masculine craving for drink and cards. circumstances have compelled these women to wear the plainest, most useful of clothes, while every shop window shows a tantalising display of colour and beauty, and other women not half so pretty as themselves bloom with a borrowed radiance! no mere man can understand the inborn feminine joy in the feel of fine smooth fabric, nor the blending of delicate colours, the dainty ruffling of lace. to the rich these things come as a matter of course, and the working classes are satisfied with garish imitations; it is the poor gentlewoman with the cultivated taste, the cultivated longing for beauty, to whom temptation comes in its keenest form. it had come to delphine, and she had succumbed. i devoutly hoped and prayed that the shock of the coming bill would prevent further extravagances! charmion and i took charge of the treasure hunt. we had given the treasures, which were laboriously chosen with a view to suitability. umbrellas (lashed flat to the trunks of trees!) bags, photograph frames, writing cases, boxes of handkerchiefs, chocolate, cigarettes, scent, and--this was a cunning idea!--cash orders on a big london store. there was a great rush for tickets, and the vicar--very flurried, and out of his element, poor man!--dragged in the squire to help us. the squire had arrived with his mother an hour before, and had sat under a cedar, drinking tea with a selection of old ladies and gentlemen, looking as though he liked it quite well. whenever he met my eye, he glowered, as if to say, "how dare you look at me!" and i smiled back, as that seemed to annoy him most. now, as the vicar brought him up, i could hear his muttered protests: "rather not! can't _you_--isn't there something else?" pleasing thing, i must say, to have a man forced to help you against his will! well, it was no use making a fuss before a score of curious eyes, so for the next half-hour we stood side by side, selling tickets, explaining the rules of the hunt, marshalling the seekers in readiness for the signal to start. he is capable enough, i will say that for him, and has a patent knack of silencing garrulous questioners. it was the funniest thing in the world to stand at the end of the lawn, and watch these rustic backs--young, old, and fat middle-aged--all poised on one leg, swaying to and fro, straining to be off! excruciatingly funny to watch the stampede, after the loud "one--two--three--and away!" the plunges, the waddles, the skelter of flying heels! one might have thought the gold of klondyke was hidden in the kitchen garden. i laughed, and laughed, in a good old irish paroxysm of merriment, until the tears rolled down my cheeks. mr maplestone stared, turned on his heel, and stalked away. i strolled back to the upper lawn, and the first person i saw was old general underwood sitting in his bath-chair, which had been drawn under the shade of a tree, so that he might see everything, and yet be well out of the way. he was too much out of the way, poor old dear! to judge by his looks, and agreeably pleased to see my approach. "well, young lady, and how are you to-day? you look very fresh and charming!" "that's very nice of you, general! i do like to be admired. isn't this rather a dull corner for you? wouldn't you like to be moved?" he looked around with his old, blue eyes. "everyone seems to have gone. there was quite a crowd here a few minutes ago. i sent my man to the village to post some letters." "we can manage without him. there is a treasure hunt going on at the other end of the garden. that is why this part is so empty. mrs merrivale has hidden a lot of parcels among the trees and shrubs, and everyone who pays a shilling can go and search for a treasure." "ha!" his face lit up with the hunting instinct, which seems dormant in us all. "treasures--i see! a good idea. worth more, i presume, than the entrance shilling?" "oh, much, much more." the pride of the donor sounded in my voice; then i looked at the poor, old, tired, wistful face, and had a brilliant idea. "general, shall _we_ go hunting--you and i? i'll push and you'll steer, and we'll both look, and if it's a man's present, it's yours, and if it's a woman's, it's mine, and if it's neutral, we'll toss! they've only just started, so we're in time." he gripped the handle involuntarily, then loosened it to say:-- "my dear, i'm too heavy. wait till my man--" "nonsense! i'm as strong as a horse. who waits is lost. to the right, please, general. straight down this path, and into the herbaceous garden. _quite_ slowly, and keep a sharp eye between the branches." he quite chuckled with delight. viewed from the vantage ground of a bath-chair, a treasure hunt was delirious excitement, but he _was_ heavy! i remembered a sharp upward curve some way further on, and had a vision of myself pushing, with arms extended to full length, and feet at a considerable distance between the arms, as i have seen small nursemaids push pram-loads of fat twins. how undignified it would be if i slipped half-way, and the chair backed over my prone body! then, of course, the thing happened which i might have been sure and certain _would_ happen under the circumstances. we came face to face with mr maplestone, and the general called out:-- "hi, ralph! there you are. just the man we want. miss wastneys and i are hunting. come and give a hand." "oh, if you have the squire, you won't need me. i'll go off on my own," i cried quickly; but it was no use, the old man wanted both, and both he would have. the squire was to push behind; i was to take the handle and pull in front; he himself must be free to hunt, since he was handicapped by old eyes. he issued orders with the assurance of a commander-in-chief, and we listened and obeyed. i started by feeling annoyed and impatient, but honestly, after the first few minutes, it was great fun. the squire was an abominable pusher; first he pushed too little and left all the work to me; and then, being upbraided, he pushed too hard and tilted me into a run; then we changed places, and he took the wrong turnings, wheeled past plain grass beds where nothing could possibly be hidden; then we _both_ took the back, and the general peered from side to side, and saw nothing, and grew discouraged, and sighed, and said his luck had gone. no treasures for him any more! i will say for ralph maplestone that he is sweet to that old man! he treats him just in the right way, as deferentially as though he were in full health and strength, a martial figure riding gloriously to conquest! we cheered him up between us (i did it rather nicely, too!) and became quite friendly in the process. two people can't join in pushing a bath-chair and remain _de haut en bas_. the thing is impossible. i was most nice to ralph maplestone, and he appeared to be nice to me. suddenly, in the middle of a bush, i saw a glint of brighter green, the tissue-paper wrapping of a treasure, and instantly my fingers gripped the chair. mr maplestone would have pushed on, but i frowned and grimaced, and he looked and saw too, and we both puffed and panted, and demanded a rest, during which i stood elaborately at one side of the bush, and he stood at the other, so that the old dear could hardly miss seeing the paper. even then i had to give, it a surreptitious push before discovery came; but he had no suspicions, not one, and was as pleased as a boy at the thought that his old eyes had been sharper than our young ones. we all took a turn at opening the parcel, and it turned out to be a vanity bag, fitted with a mirror and other frivolities, so of course it was presented to me, and i arranged my hair in the mirror, and powdered my nose with the puff, just to shock them, which, by the way, it fully succeeded in doing. "girls didn't do that in my day!" croaked the general. "_all_ girls don't do it now!" grunted the squire. "my dear, you look far nicer without it." this was the general's second venture. i turned to the squire and asked solemnly, "_do_ i?" and he gave one quick look, and then stared past me--through me--blankly into space. "i am no judge," he said curtly. well, let me be honest! it _was_ flirtatious of me, i knew it was, and hurried to rub off the powder, and get back to my briskest, most business-like manner. as we had paid three entrance fees, we were entitled to a treasure apiece, if we could find them, and i insisted upon keeping up the search to the very last moment. it amused the general; it amused me; i honestly believe that it amused mr maplestone, as far as he was capable of being amused. he was quite human; once or twice, as we rushed after a "scent," he was even _lively_. i began to think he might really be quite nice. we found one other parcel--a box of cigarettes--and then made our way back to the lawn, where the general's valet was waiting, and took over the chair. delphine came up to me and slipped her hand through my arm. "evelyn, you have managed beautifully, but you must be dead tired and longing for tea. i'm going to stand over you and make you rest. stupid of jacky to send the squire to help you! you'd have been happier with anyone else, but he's so dense, so in the clouds, that he doesn't notice these things. evelyn, isn't it strange how he dislikes you?" "who? your husband?" "nonsense. no. you know quite well--mr maplestone. at first, of course, one can understand he was prejudiced; but _now_! and when you have been so nice!" "thank you for that. i'm glad you appreciate me. why are you so sure the squire does not?" "because," she said imperturbably, "he tells me so!" curiosity is a terrible thing. it's bad enough when it concerns itself about other people, but when it comes to oneself, it's ten times worse. i _ached_ to ask, "when?" and "where?" and "how?" and exactly in what words mr maplestone's dislike had been expressed, but pride closed my lips, and i would not let myself go. of course i had known before, but i had imagined that after the chair episode--what stings is not the dislike itself, but the putting it into words to such a confidante as delphine. no, let me be honest; the dislike itself _does_ sting. i have my own petty feminine craving, and it is to be liked, to have people appreciate and approve of me, if they do nothing more. even indifference is difficult to bear, but _dislike_--well, thank goodness, i have lived in a warm-hearted country among warm-hearted people who have loved me for my name if for nothing else. really and truly, i believe this ugly, red-headed man is the first person who has ever dared to speak openly of dislike for evelyn wastneys! i pity and despise him. i wouldn't have his approval if i could. henceforth i shall never think of him, nor mention his name. to me he is dead. all is over between us before anything ever began! it is finished. this is the end. the fete ended at nine o'clock, and charmion and i, with the other stall-holders, went into the vicarage to enjoy a supper of scraps. as a rule i adore scrap suppers after everyone has gone, and the servants have gone to bed, and the guests make sorties into the pantry, and bring out plates of patties and fruit, and derelict meringues, and wobbling halves of jellies and creams. they taste so _good_, eaten in picnic fashion before the fire, with a shortage of forks and spoons, and a plate as a lucky chance. but somehow last night things didn't go! i think perhaps there were too many "scraps" which should by rights have been sold and paid for in good hard cash. the vicar was full of hospitable zeal, and evidently enjoyed pressing the good things upon his guests, but there was something in delphine's pale glance which checked merriment. she had had her fun, the interest of planning, the excitement of playing hostess to the country-side, the satisfaction of knowing herself to be the best-dressed, most admired woman present, and of queening it over women who had hitherto patronised herself. poor little butterfly! she had enjoyed her hour, but now the sun had gone down, and she was counting the cost. the treasurer added up the coins handed in from the various stalls and announced the total. there was a little pause. "ah!" said the vicar slowly. "more than last year, but not so much as we hoped. how will it work out, dear, after paying expenses?" "oh, jacky, i'm _tired_! can't we have supper in peace, before worrying about money!" she cried pettishly. not another word was said. when we were driving home, charmion gave me a shock. "i rather like mrs maplestone," she said dreamily. "she is stiff and conventional, and it has never even occurred to her that anyone can disagree with her views, and still have a glimmering of right, but, at least, she is sincere. if one could burrow deep enough beneath the surface, she'd be worth knowing." "i don't like people who have to be burrowed. life is too short. and i am perfectly certain that i should shock her into fits. personally, i don't intend to take the trouble of excavating!" "that's unfortunate, for she wishes to know you. she has invited us to dinner next wednesday to meet some friends." "charmion! you didn't accept?" "certainly i did. wasn't it your express desire to be sociable, and to know your neighbours?" "oh, not them--not there! it's pleasant knowing a few people, but one is at liberty to choose. i think you might have consulted me!" in the soft dusk she laughed, and stretched out a caressing hand. "tired, dear, and--cross? i thought you'd be pleased. why and wherefore? tell me the truth?" "oh, don't be so tiresome, charmion. of course i am tired. i've been on my feet all day long. cross! why should i be cross? only--i don't choose to accept hospitality from that man. i tell you plainly i won't go." she bowed her head, deliberately, once and again. "oh, yes, evelyn, you will! i gave you your choice, and having made it you will play fair. i should have preferred to remain peacefully at coventry, but having taken the first step at your request, i don't propose to allow you to force me into society _alone_." what could i say? what was it _possible_ to say? there is no way out of it. i shall just have to go! chapter twelve. a revelation. the vicar has called to tell us that delphine has made up her accounts, and that the fete has cleared fifty pounds more than the smaller affair last year. he seemed pleased and proud, and i was delighted, too, and immensely relieved, because i had really been horribly afraid there would be no profit at all! curious to think where all the money came from to pay heavy expenses, and still clear so much! it just shows how small sums add up. i asked if delphine were very pleased, and he hesitated, and said:-- "she seems tired. feeling the reaction, no doubt. she worked so hard." an imp of curiosity tempted me to see if he were really as blind as he appeared. "she made a splendid hostess. and didn't she look charming, too? i am sure you were proud of her in that lovely new frock!" his eyes softened with a deep _glowey_ look, which was reserved for delphine alone. "i am always proud of her. she always looks charming; but the dress--i am afraid i must plead guilty. i know nothing about her dress." "really? truly? you couldn't tell what it was like?" "not for a thousand pounds!" i stared at him, frowning. "if i had a husband i should _like_ him to know. i should be furious if i made a special effort, and he didn't even notice that i had anything new." he smiled with a forbearing air. "surely not! i think better of you, miss wastneys. dress is altogether unimportant." "not to me. not to your wife. there are some women to whom it is the greatest temptation in life." he looked outraged, disgusted, and changed the subject with a resolute air, but i was glad that i had spoken. a husband can be too unworldly, and lost in the clouds. it would be the best thing in the world for delphine if he _did_ notice, and that in more ways than one! in the afternoon charmion and i called at the vicarage to congratulate delphine, and found her distinctly the worse for wear. pale, heavy-eyed, and inclined to snap, a very different creature from the radiant butterfly of three days ago. she was glad to see me, however, i was someone to snap at, which was what she wanted most at the moment, and she worked off quite a lot of steam, hectoring me about things i might have done better, or not done at all, and impressing on me _for_ future occasions that i should be less independent, and take more advice. she likewise informed us, quite incidentally and "by the way," that mrs ross had disliked my hat and mrs bruce had asked if charmion were anaemic--such a colourless skin!--and mrs someone else thought it so "queer" that we should live together! altogether she behaved like a spoiled, ill-tempered child, but she looked so young and worried and pretty through it all, that on the whole i felt more sorry for her than myself. as for charmion, she smiled, with an air of listening from an illimitable distance, which i can quite understand has an exasperating effect on people who do not understand and care. it exasperated delphine now. i saw the blue eyes flash, and the pink lips set, with a peevish desire to "hit back!" "mrs bruce said her family know the fane family quite well. they come from the same county. she was telling them about you, but, of course, not knowing your husband's christian name made it difficult. she thought it so queer to have your own christian name printed on your cards--" "did she?" said charmion blandly. "it is an american custom," i put in hastily. "i should do the same if i had such a fascinating name." "i wouldn't!" delphine said--"it's so queer. unless, of course, one's husband had a hideous name--elisha, or jonathan, or something like that. even then one might leave it out." "i shouldn't dream of marrying anyone called elisha." "what was--is--your favourite man's name?" "jacky," said charmion naughtily. delphine's eyes flashed. "was that your husband's name?" "oh no." the pink lips opened to ask a further, more definite question, but it died unsaid. the steady gaze of charmion's eyes prevented that. she would be a bold woman who could defy that silent challenge! we made our escape, and walked home in silence. charmion seemed very depressed, and went to bed at nine o'clock. next time i see delphine merrivale, i shall tell her plainly that i will--not--have mrs fane annoyed with questions about the past! last night we dined at the hall. last night things happened. we started feeling quite festive and excited, for, after a strictly domestic life for nearly five months, it becomes quite thrilling to dine in another house, and to eat food which one has not ordered oneself. as we drove along the lanes, we amused ourselves like schoolgirls, guessing what we "would have," and who would "take us in". charmion, as the married woman, would obviously fall to the squire. i hoped i should be at the other end of the table, with a partner who was sweet tempered and appreciative. bridget had come back from posting a letter, bearing the thrilling news that the squire's car had been to the station to meet a party of guests. two fine, upstanding ladies, and a gentleman with a figure like a wooden noah in the ark. the shoulders of him!--that square you might have cut them with a knife! it was refreshing to know that we were to meet people who did _not_ live within a radius of five miles. i rather hoped those shoulders would fall to my share! they did. he is an american. i might have guessed that by the description, and one of the "fine upstanding ones" is his bride, and they have been "doing" england for a few weeks, before starting on a year's honeymoon in the east. the explanation of their appearance at the hall is that they "chanced" to have met the squire years ago in america, and wished to renew the acquaintance. so things came about! mr elliott is an interesting man, and, like all americans, loves to talk about his own country. he was pained and shocked to hear i had never crossed the atlantic, until i told him that half myself, in the person of an only sister, had gone in my place. i was just going to add that charmion also had spent a great part of her life in the states, when--something stopped me--one of those mysterious impulses which, at times, lay a finger on our lips, and check the coming words. charmion sat on one side of the squire, mrs elliott on the other. i was half-way down the table, sandwiched in between a dozen comfortable, middle-aged worthies, who were all intimate friends, if not actually related to each other, and their conversation, though interesting to themselves, was not thrilling to an outsider. i saw the american's quick eye dart from one to the other, and hoped he was not classifying the company as typical english wits! the dinner itself was long, heavy, and unenterprising; a victorian feast, even to the "specimen glass" decorations. one rose and one spray of maidenhair, in a tall thin glass, before each separate diner. charmion and the squire talked and laughed together, and seemed quite happy. she is a lovely creature when she is animated; there is a dainty charm about every movement which makes her seem of a different clay from human creatures. even to see charmion _eat_ is a beautiful thing! all the same, that dinner was a trial of patience, and i was thankful when it was over. in the old-fashioned way, we left the men to their smoke, and wandered through the drawing-room into a big domed palm-house, which in its fragrant dimness, with the giant palms reaching to the very roof, looked much more inviting than the drawing-room with its glaring incandescent lights. the american bride attached herself to me and chatted amusingly enough. before her marriage she had lived "out west," so i plied her with questions about ranch life. kathie writes regularly enough, but she is a wretch about answering questions, and is not half detailed enough to satisfy my curiosity. we stood leaning against one of the tiered flower-stands, enjoying the scent and the beauty, chatting together so lightly and calmly, blankly unsuspicious, as we so often are in the big moments of life, of what lies immediately ahead. between the spreading branches i caught sight of charmion looking at me with raised, inquiring brows. she had noted my eagerness, and was wondering what point of interest had been discovered between the wordy american and myself. i raised my voice, and cried happily:-- "oh, charmion! mrs elliott knows kathie's home. she has stayed there herself. i am asking her all about it." she smiled, and moved forward as if to join us. mrs elliott gave a little start, and repeated curiously, "_charmion_! is mrs fane called charmion? that's a very unusual name. i have only heard it once before. very sweet, isn't it, but association goes for so much!" "it does. in this case it makes the name all the more charming." "why, yes, that is so. mrs fane is a lovely woman. but i guess i was less fortunate in my specimen. i never met her myself, but she married a man i knew well, and--ran away from him on their honeymoon!" i laughed. i am so glad i laughed. so glad there was time to say lightly, "she _was_ soon tired!" before, between the spreading leaves of a palm, i caught charmion's eyes--my charmion!--staring into mine, and knew that she had overheard--knew more--knew, in a blundering flash of intuition, that the words which had just been spoken referred to no stranger, but to herself! fortunately for us both, mrs elliott was facing me, so she did not see, as i did, the sudden pause, the blanching face, the dumb appeal of the stricken eyes. i flashed back reassurement, and at once led the way forward--out of the conservatory, back to the drawing-room, affecting to be tired, to want to sit down. mrs elliott followed, unperturbed. it didn't matter to her where she went, the one indispensable necessity was to talk, and to have someone to listen. she continued her history with voluble emphasis. "i should think it _was_ soon! well, i guess she might have thought it out before she went so far. too hard on a man to be treated like that. kind of humiliates him before his friends, that a woman couldn't put up with him one month--" "i shouldn't worry about _his_ pride," i said curtly. "what about hers? it would be worse than humiliating for a woman to be _obliged_ to go! he must have been a poor thing!" "well, i don't know. he was a real popular man. he may have been a bit careless and extravagant; quite a good many young men are that, but they settle down into staid, steady-going husbands if the right woman comes along to help. doesn't seem to me, miss wastneys, that it's _possible_ for any man to be so bad, that in three weeks the woman who had promised to stick to him till death should throw up the sponge!" it did not seem so to me, either, so i made no comment. i should not have been human if i had not burned to ask questions, but i would not allow myself to do it. what charmion wished me to hear, she would tell me herself. the time had come when she _would_ tell me. i knew that. this chance encounter had decided the moment when her silence should be broken. mrs elliott smothered a yawn, and straightened a diamond bracelet on her wrist. the diamonds were massed together so heavily that the weight dragged them to the inside of her arm, leaving only the plain gold band in sight, a hiding of treasures which did not please the owner. "well," she said deliberately once more, "i guess it was a real cruel trick. whatever he'd done, she put herself in the wrong that time. the poor fellow's not done a mite of good ever since." i had to hold myself tight to prevent a start. _not done_! she talked of the man in the present case, as though he were alive, as though-- stupefying thought!--_charmion was not a widow after all_! the thought was stupefying, but even as it passed through my brain, i realised that no word of her own had been responsible for my conviction that her husband was dead. it was rather because she never _did_ mention him that kathie and i had made so sure that he did not exist. my thoughts dived into the past, recalling faded impressions. i remembered how kathie had said, "she must have loved him dreadfully not to be able to refer to him even now!" and how i had been silent, fighting the impression that it was the ghost of sorrow, rather than of joy, which sealed charmion's lips. the door opened, and the men came into the room. the different groups broke up and drifted here and there; into the palm-house to look at the flowers, back into the drawing-room to talk, drink coffee, and glance surreptitiously at the clock. in this old-fashioned household, no one thought of providing any other amusement for a dinner party than the dinner itself. having been well fed, the guests were expected to amuse themselves for the hour that remained. in an ordinary way i could have taken my share in the amusing; i like talking, and am never troubled by not knowing what to say. given people to listen, and look appreciative, i can monologue for an indefinite time. but--to-night! inside the palm-house i could see charmion's grey figure reclining in a wicker chair, her face ivory-white against the cushions. she was waving her fan to and fro, and listening with apparent attention to the conversation of her companions. i guessed how little she would hear; how bitter must be the dread at her heart; how endlessly, interminably long the moments must seem. "miss wastneys, would you care to see the picture we were talking about at dinner?" it was mr maplestone's voice. i looked up and saw him standing by my side, and rose at once, thankful for any movement which would pass the time. we left the room together, walked to the end of the long corridor, and drew up before the picture of an uninteresting old man with several chins, and the small, steel-blue eyes which seem a family inheritance. this was a celebrated romney, which had been the subject of a protracted law-suit between different branches of the family, which had cost the losing party over a thousand pounds. i thought, but did not say, that i would have been obliged to anyone who would have taken him away, free, gratis, for nothing, rather than that he should hang on my walls. spoken comment, under the circumstances, was a little difficult and halting! "this is the romney." "oh yes." "my grandfather." "i see. yes. how interesting." he laughed--a short, derisive bark. "that's the last thing you can call it! a more uninteresting production i never beheld. what right had he to waste good canvas? that is one point in which we do show more common sense than our ancestors. we do not consider it necessary to inflict our portraits on posterity." "no. we don't. at least--" he swung round, facing me, with his back to the open drawing-room door, his face suddenly keen and alert. "miss wastneys--never mind the picture! i brought you out as an excuse. i wanted to ask--_whats the matter_?" the question rapped out, short and sharp. i looked at him, made a big effort to be bright, and natural, and defiant, and realised suddenly that i was trembling; that, while my cheeks were hot, my hands were cold as ice; that, in short, the shock and excitement of the last half-hour was taking its physical revenge. for two straws i could have burst out crying there and then. it is a ridiculous feminine weakness to be given to tears at critical moments, but if you have it, you have it, and so far i have not discovered a cure. i could have kept going if he had taken no notice, and gone on talking naturally; but that question knocked me over, so i just stared at him and gulped, and pressed my hands together, with that awful, awful sensation which comes over one when one knows it is madness to give way, and yet feels that the moment after next you are just going to _do_ it, and nothing can stop you! i thought of charmion, sitting calm and quiet in the palm-house; i thought of that first horrible interview in the inn parlour; i thought of my heroic ancestors. it was no use; every moment i drew, nearer and nearer to the breaking-point. i still stared, but the squire's face was growing misty, growing into a big, red-brown blur. then suddenly a hand gripped my arm, and a voice said sharply:-- "don't cry, please! no necessity to cry. you are tired. i will order the car. it shall be round in five minutes. you can surely pull yourself together for five minutes?" the voice was like a douche of cold water. i shivered under it, but felt wonderfully braced. "oh, thank you, but we ordered a fly." "that's all right. i'll see to that. no one shall know anything about it. you will leave earlier than you expected--that's all. i'm sorry"-- his lean face twitched--"the time has seemed so long!" "it's not"--i said feebly--"it's not that!" but he led the way back to the drawing-room, taking no notice. five minutes later "mrs fane's carriage" was announced, and we bade a protesting hostess good-night. charmion and i sat silent, hand in hand, all the way home. she felt cold as ice, but she clung to me; her fingers closed over mine. just as we reached our own door she whispered a few words. "i'll come to your room, dear. wait up for me." the time had come when i was to hear charmion's story from her own lips! chapter thirteen. more bitter than death. charmion came to my room in her white dressing-gown, with her long hair hanging plaited down her back. remembering the icy hands i had held in mine, i had lit the gas fire, and she cowered gratefully over its warmth. "kind of you, dear! warmth is comforting. well, evelyn, so the time has come. i have waited, screwing up my courage; but the hour has been decided for us." "not unless you choose," i cried hastily. "i would far rather never hear--" she checked me with a wan smile. "i _do_ choose. when it is over, it will be a relief. i want you to know. you will understand better, and i shall not pain you so much, dear, kind evelyn, by my harsh ways. so all this time you have believed that i was a happy widow?" the expression jarred. she saw the shrinking in my eyes, and smiled again, in the same wan, hopeless fashion. "oh, i _mean_ it. death comes like a sword, but in the end it is merciful, for it brings peace. the one who is left suffers many pangs, but in time--in time, learns to be thankful for all that the beloved is spared. it is the living troubles which sear the heart. i have envied the widows who could look up and say, `it is well with him. we shall meet again.' with me it has been all bitterness, all rebellion." i sat silent, not daring to interrupt, and after a moment's pause she began again, speaking in a still, level tone, with hardly any variety of expression. "i am an orphan like you, evelyn. both my parents died before i was fourteen, and i was sent over to america to live with a grandmother aunt. i was an heiress, unfortunately--you know my views about riches!--and by my father's will i came into my money at eighteen. my aunt was a wise woman, and even to her intimate friends she never gave a hint of my fortune. she was a wealthy woman herself, and had no daughter, only one son, so it seemed natural that she should give me a good time, dress me prettily, and take me about. she had a horror of fortune-hunters, and wanted me to be loved for myself, and be as happily married as she had been before me. when i came out she brought me over to london for a season, and i was presented; but that was my one and only visit to england in fifteen years. i was glad to go back to new york, for my real friends were there. we had grown up together, and had the associations of years. in england i had only acquaintances. well! so it went on, the happiest of lives, till i was twenty-four. several men wanted to marry me, but i never met anyone whom it was possible to think of as a husband until--" "your husband?" "yes. we were away for the summer--a whole party of us--camping in the most delicious spot. i wish you could join an american camping party some time, evelyn. it's just the happiest, freest, most ideal of lives! he came down as the guest of some other people. the daughter was one of my own friends. i thought at first that she cared for him herself, but he never paid her any attention--not the slightest; rather avoided her indeed, even before--" "he cared for you. did it begin--_soon_--charmion?" "i cared for him the first moment we met. i was sitting at a long tea-table set out in the open, and my friend brought him up to a seat right opposite to mine. she said, `charmion, this is phil--phil, this is charmion!' it was one of the rules of the camp that we called each other by our christian names. the life was so informal that `mr' and `miss' seemed out of place. i looked up and met his eyes, and--it was different from anything i had felt before. "he came for a week, but he stayed on and on until it was nearly a month. i can't talk about it, evelyn. such times can never last. even at the best it is impossible that they can last. perfect happiness is not for this world. it was all beautiful. the place where we camped was like another garden of eden; the weather was exquisite, such days, such mornings! oh, evelyn, such nights! the sky a dome of deepest blue, with the stars shining as you never saw them in this damp, misty atmosphere. and he and i--" her voice broke. her hand went up to her face to hide the quivering of her lips. it was a petrifying thing to see charmion break down. i turned away my eyes, unable to bear it. there was silence in the room for several moments, then she began again. "nothing was said in words. i didn't want him to speak. i was perfectly happy, perfectly sure, and i dreaded the publicity of an engagement. every one talking, questioning, teasing. it would have seemed profanation. besides--if marjorie had really cared as i suspected, it would have been painful for her. i wouldn't _let_ him speak until we got back to new york, and then, the very night i arrived, aunt mary was taken dangerously ill. she lingered a few weeks, but there was never any hope. then she died and i was left alone, for her son, my cousin, lived in india. "all that time he--my husband--had been coming to see me every day. the doctor insisted that i should go out to be braced by the fresh air, so he took me long drives, long walks, and then sat by me indoors, comforting me, helping, advising. he was everything to me, evelyn! aunt mary was dying, and she had been like a mother, but when he was with me i was satisfied; i was content. when she died, he urged an immediate marriage, and i was quite ready. she had left no money to me, but i told him i had some of my own. he kissed me, and"--again her hand went up to hide that quivering lip--"he said that did not concern him. he could keep his wife. what money i had i must keep for myself, to pay for `little extravagancies'. "i was thankful that he did not know, thankful that he did not care. i looked forward to telling him after we were married, and seeing his face of surprise. we had planned to live in an apartment until we had time to choose a house for ourselves. i laughed to think how much bigger and finer it would be than the little house of his dreams. he was not at all rich--did i tell you that? he had had a pretty hard struggle all his life, and had only quite a moderate income. i went to my lawyer and settled a fourth of my income on him for life. i knew if we lived in a bigger way there would be calls upon him which he would not otherwise have had. calls for subscriptions, for charities, a dozen other claims. i hated to think that he should have to come to me for money, or that cheques should be drawn in my name. he asked me what i was going to give him as a wedding present, and i laughed, and said, `nothing interesting. only a little note!' the settlement was to be my gift." silence again. i felt for her hand and held it tight? tragedy was coming; i knew it. i waited, tense with suspense. "we were married very quietly. only two or three people in the church. he called for me. it was unconventional, but i was nervous and weak, and he knew he could give me strength. we went up the aisle together, hand in hand. the man who was to give me away followed behind. many people in america are married in their own homes, but i preferred a church. i've been sorry since. it has seemed a profanation. to stand before the altar in god's house and take those solemn vows, while all the time--all the time--" she shuddered, and paused to regain self-possession. "well, evelyn--well! i had two weeks' happiness, two weeks in my fool's paradise, and then--the end came! he had gone over to new york for a day. some important business had arisen and he was obliged to go. he said good-bye." she paused again, struggling for composure. "it _was_ good-bye--good-bye for ever. he did not know that, but he parted from me as--a husband might from the wife of his heart. it was impossible to doubt. i was as sure of him, evelyn--as sure as that the sun is in the sky! "after he had gone a letter was handed to me. i did not know the writing, but inside--i could not understand it--was a letter in his own writing. nothing else, just this one sheet, with one long passage underscored. i did not stop to think; the words leapt at me, my own name first of all; and after i had begun to read there was no stopping short. it was the second sheet of a letter, so i could not tell to whom it had been written; but evidently it was to a man to whom money was owing, and who had been pressing for a settlement. it was full of apologies for having failed to pay before; and then--then came the passage that had been underlined. perhaps, he said, in a few months' time things would look up. _there was a girl_. in a roundabout way, through an english acquaintance, he had heard that she had a pile of money, though the fact had been kept dark in america. there was no doubt about it, since his informant was a member of the legal firm who had wound up her father's estate. by a stroke of good luck the girl was staying at a summer camp with some of his own friends. he had engineered an invitation, and was there at the moment of writing. "think of it, evelyn--at that very moment i was, perhaps, sitting innocently by his side. we used to scribble our letters together, sitting out in the woods, and break off every few minutes to laugh and chatter. probably, after it was finished, we walked together to the nearest post, and as we went he looked at me--_he looked_. oh!"--she winced in irrepressible misery--"is it _possible_--is it _possible_ that any man could act so well? can you wonder that i am hard and cold--that i have so little sympathy for outside troubles? i was once as loving and impetuous as you are yourself, but that shock turned me to stone. it killed my faith in human nature!" she was silent, struggling for composure, and i laid my hand on her knee, and sat silent, not daring to speak. what was there to say? i realised now how infinitely more bitter than death was the loss which charmion had to bear. "well,"--she roused herself to go on with her story--"you can imagine the rest. `the heiress was,' he wrote, `_quite a possible girl_,' and seemed `_agreeably disposed_'. there was evidently no previous entanglement, and the circumstances were propitious. it was his intention to go in and win. if it came off he would be in a position to pay up old scores and to start life afresh. it would be worth giving up his liberty, to end the everlasting worry of the last ten years. the letter ended with more promises and his signature. no loophole of doubt was left, you see. there could be no mistaking that signature. i had been married exactly two weeks, and had believed myself the happiest woman in the world. i now discovered that i had been tracked down by an adventurer, who had married me only because, unfortunately, it was impossible to get hold of my fortune without putting up with me at the same time." "what did he say, how did he look, when you told him about your money and the settlement? of course, you _had_ told him by that time." "not much. very little indeed. i thought at the time that he was overwhelmed, and a little sorry that the wealth was on my side. looking back, i do him the justice to believe that he was ashamed! even such a deliberate schemer might well feel a pang under the circumstances. i remember that he put his elbows on the table, and hid his face in his hands. he never alluded to the subject again, neither did i. there seemed plenty of time. i loved him all the more because he was not wildly elated. all my life i had been trained to dread fortune-hunters, to value sincerity above every other virtue." "but during those two weeks _after_ you were married, he still seemed to--_care_? you believed in him still?" "absolutely! utterly! i must be easily duped, evelyn, for with all my heart i believed that that man loved me as deeply as i loved him. every word--every look! oh, he was a finished actor! it all seemed so real-- so real--" "charmion, after you had read that letter and understood all that it meant, what did you do?" "i went to my room, packed a bag with a few changes of clothing, collected all the money i had with me, quite a large sum in notes, and caught the afternoon train for new york. i had no idea where i was going. my one longing was to escape before he came back, but things were decided for me. the shock made me faint, and in the heat of the train i felt worse every hour. when we stopped at a half-way station i stepped out on to the platform in the same dull, dazed way, hardly realising what i was doing, and carried my bag out into the street. half a mile away i saw a notice of rooms to let in the window of a small house, and i knocked and went in. "i stayed in that house for over six months, evelyn. the woman was a saint--the kindliest, gentlest creature i have ever met. i told her that i was ill and in trouble, and wanted to rest, and she put me to bed and nursed me like a child. i was a long time in getting well. the very strings of my being seemed to have snapped. i lay torpid week after week, and the good soul took care of me and asked no questions. she was one of those rare spirits who pray to god to guide them day by day, and mean literally what they ask. god had sent me to her in my need--that was her firm belief--and what she did for me she did for him. i had left no message behind--only that terrible letter sealed up, to be given to my husband on his return. i heard afterwards that he had searched for me far and wide, had even crossed over to england, thinking i must be here. when i was well enough i sent for my aunt's lawyer and took him into my confidence. he let me know when my husband returned to america, and as soon as possible after that i came to england myself, under another name. i was no longer his wife in heart. why should i keep a name which was given to me under false pretences? five years have passed since then. it seems like a century, and--here i am!" "and all this time you have heard nothing? nothing has happened?" "yes. i have heard. he seems to have--felt it a good deal! it is always painful to be discovered, and for a man's wife to leave him before the honeymoon is over is hurtful to his pride. he makes periodic efforts to find me, but my lawyers are loyal, and will give no clue." "and the settlement? the money you made over to him? does he draw that still?" she flushed and frowned. "no. it appears not. he tells the lawyers that he will never touch it. i suppose if he changed his manner of living it would be remarked, and people might guess something of the truth. his object is, of course, to throw all the blame on me." the bitterness of her voice hurt me so that i ventured a timid protest. "charmion, i am not taking his part. i think he was contemptible beyond words; but--_isn't_ it possible that he has regretted, that he has not taken the money because he was _ashamed_?" "possible, of course; but i should say extremely improbable. however, i am no longer concerned in his motives. he gave up his liberty for a certain price, and the price is his. the money accumulates at the bank. some day, no doubt, he will find it convenient to draw it." i felt a movement of revolt, and cried quickly:-- "there is one person i despise even more than the man himself, and that is the creature who kept that letter, and sent it to you too late to prevent the marriage! if it were to be done at all, why could it not have been done before?" her lips curved. "yes. it was very cruel. that was another disillusion, evelyn. i have always been convinced that marjorie was the sender. probably the letter had been written to her brother, or to some near relation, and in some way had come into her possession. she behaved very strangely about our engagement. but i had been her friend--how she could find it in her heart! if there had been any possibility of doubt i would have gone straight to her, and demanded the truth, but--what was the use? the letter was _there_. i should only have brought more suffering upon myself. she wanted him for herself, and could not forgive me for taking him away; but if she had come to me at the beginning, when she saw how things might go, i should have gone away myself and left the coast clear. even if it hurt myself, i should have been loyal to another woman who had _cared first_! even now i have done my best for her. i offered, through my lawyers, to make no objection if he chose to free himself legally. it _could_ be done in america, you know. i explained that it would make no difference to the settlement. that was made, and should remain unchanged!" i looked at her sharply, for the sneer in her voice hurt me more than the pain. "charmion! forgive me, dearest. you have been cruelly treated, but-- don't be vexed--aren't you in the wrong, too, in feeling so bitter after all these years?" to my surprise she assented instantly. "oh, yes; very wrong. more wrong than they, perhaps, for i have had so long to think; and what they did was done on an impulse. don't think i excuse myself, evelyn. i don't! i see quite well how hard and bitter i am, but--" "you can't forgive?" she hesitated, her grey eyes gazing into space. "what exactly _is_ forgiveness? if by lifting a little finger i could make him suffer as he has made me, nothing would induce me to do it. if by lifting a little finger i could bring him happiness and success, i think--no, i am _sure_ that i would not hesitate. but to purge my heart of bitterness, that is beyond me! it's always there, deep down, a hard, hard wall, hiding the light, shutting me out from man--and from god!" the last words came in a whisper. i knew the effort with which they were spoken, and sat silent, clinging to her hand. what could i say? i, with my easy, sunshiny life; how dared i dictate to her great grief. and yet i knew--i knew only in one way could peace come back. the remembrance of the vicar's first sermon came back to my heart like a breath of fresh air. "forgetting the things that are behind!" i said softly. "couldn't you try that, charmion? forgetting, and--pressing forward! if forgiving seems beyond you for the moment, couldn't you take the first step?" for the first time since she entered the room her face lightened into something like her own natural smile. "ah, evelyn, that's like you! thank you, dear, for the reminder. that was the text on our first sunday here. there is one thing i would like you to know. _you_ have helped me more than anything else. you attracted me because you possess to excess the very qualities which i have lost--trust, faith, overflowing kindliness and love. it has been a tonic to be with you. there have been times--working in the garden by your side, seeing all the live green things springing out of darkness-- when i've been happy again, better than happy--_at peace_! but now-- this upheaval--it has renewed it all. evelyn, do you think she suspected? do you think she will talk?" "i am sure she won't. absolutely sure. she had not a flickering doubt. the name is different, you see, and she is too much absorbed in herself and her own affairs to waste any thought upon us. in a few days they sail for india." "yes." she drew a sigh of relief. "that's good. i'm thankful. it would have been so hard to be uprooted again. but you can understand, evelyn, that for a time--" she rose, stretched herself to her full height, and threw out her arms restlessly. "the roving fit is on me. i must be off into the wilds and fight it out by myself." i had known it was coming--subconsciously had known it for weeks, but it was hard all the same. we had been so happy, and in six short months my roots seemed to have gone down surprisingly deep. i hated the idea of leaving "pastimes," but i reminded myself that it was only for a time-- only for a time. "_of course_" charmion assured me heartily. "it is august now. we will make a rendezvous for christmas. perhaps i may turn up before that, like a bad penny, but you may depend on me for christmas. you--you will go to your flat, evelyn?" i nodded silently. the pixie scheme had for the moment lost its charm, but i would not give in. "silly one!" murmured charmion fondly. "you dear goose! well, good luck to you. may you make other people as happy as you have made me." chapter fourteen. a young wife's dilemma. not another word about herself did charmion say, but she began at once to make preparations for going abroad, and before a week is over she will be off. she has friends in italy, it appears, and will probably spend some time near them, but even i am only to have an official address, from which letters are to be forwarded. she warns me that i may hear very seldom, since when a "dark mood" is on, the very essence of a cure seems to be to hide herself in utter solitude. well, i also am going to hide, and to shelter myself behind an official address, so i ought not to complain; but all the same i do feel lorn and lone. first kathie torn away to another continent, and now charmion, who is so wonderfully dear! the next thing will be that bridget will announce, some fine morning, that she is going to marry the gardener! i told her so, in a moment of dejection, and she petrified me by replying calmly:-- "indeed, and he's been after pestering me to do it since the moment we set foot. there's a deal worse things i might do!" "_bridget_!" i gasped; and i lay back in my chair. i had spoken in the most absolute unbelief. there were no illusions between bridget and me, each knew the other's age to an hour, and queen anne herself had not seemed to me more dead to romance than my staid maid. i stared at her broad, worn face, her broad, elderly figure in a petrified surprise. "bridget, do you really mean--do you honestly mean that you like him, too?" she simpered like any bit of a girl. "and why wouldn't i be liking him, miss evelyn? isn't he the fine figure of a man, and as pleasant a way with him as if he'd been irish himself?" "but, bridget, you're forty-five! do women--can women--is it possible to--to _care_ at forty-five?" bridget chuckled; not a bit offended, but simply amused and superior. "what's forty-foive, but the proime of life? _care_--are you asking? 'deed, it's not forty-five that's going to see a heart frozen stiff. ye mind me of the old dame of eighty, who was asked what was the age when a woman stopped caring about a man. `'deed,' says she, `i can't tell ye that. you'll have to be asking someone older than me!'" she laughed again, and i took my turn at looking superior. "then, of course, under the circumstances, you will not be inclined to come with me to town?" "'deed, and i will then. i'd rather be with you than any man that walks. and besides," added bridget shrewdly, "won't he be all the keener for doing without me a bit?" i jumped up and marched out of the room, feeling jarred and irritated, and utterly out of sympathy. that's the worst of being a spinster, you can never count on your companions as a continuance! kathie left me at the invitation of a man she had known a few months; charmion regards me as a narcotic to distract her thoughts from another man, and flies off the moment his memory becomes troublesome; and now even bridget! men are a nuisance. they upset everything. i've come to the vicarage. when delphine heard of our departure from "pastimes" she developed a sudden and violent desire to have me for a visitor for a short time before i left. she is nervy and depressed ("tired out after her hard work!" the dear vicar translates it), and has got it into her head that my society is the one and only thing that can set her right. it is flattering, and convenient into the bargain, for we are lending "pastimes" to the widow of a poor clergyman, and it will be a help to her to have me at hand until she has settled down. it seemed a waste of good things to leave the house empty through all the lovely autumn months. this poor soul is delighted to come; we are delighted to have her; the cook and housemaid are--_resigned_ to the change of mistress; more one cannot expect. i've been here a week, and am already endorsing the theory that you can never really know a person until you have lived together beneath the same roof. before i came, i thought the vicar as nearly perfect a husband as a man could be, and delphine about as unsatisfactory a wife. now, after studying them for one short week, i have modified both opinions. she is a lovable, warm-hearted, well-meaning, weak, vain, dissatisfied child! he is a very fine, a very noble, a very blind, and irritatingly inconsiderate man! on wednesday he ordered dinner an hour earlier for his own convenience, and he never came home at all. on friday he said he would be out all day, and walked in at one o'clock, bringing three visitors in his train, demanding a hot lunch. he also, it appears, is difficult about money, which is not in any sense meant to imply that he is mean, but simply that he wishes to give away as much as possible to other people, and to deny his own household in order to be able to do it. i was in the room one day when delphine presented the monthly bills, and his face was a network of worry and depression. the grocer's book was not included; he asked for it, and said it had been missing some time. delphine prevaricated. i knew as well as if i'd been told that she was afraid to show it! after he had gone out her mood changed. she lifted the little red books from the table, flung them one after the other to the ceiling, caught them with an agile hand, and sent them spinning into the corner of the room. this done, she danced round the table, came to a standstill in front of my chair, and defiantly snapped her fingers. "i--don't--care! i don't care a snap! i've done my best, and now i shan't worry any more. it isn't as if it were necessary. he could allow me more if he chose. why should a man stint his wife to give the money away to outsiders? charity begins at home. he expects me to manage on a pittance, yet there must always be plenty of everything-- soup to send at a moment's notice to anyone who is ill, puddings and jellies. and all the stupid old bores coming to meals. could _you_ keep house for this household on--" i was startled at the smallness of the sum she mentioned; horrified when i contrasted it with our own bills at "pastimes." "my dear--no! my opinion of you has gone up by leaps and bounds if you can keep anywhere near that. you manage wonderfully. i had no idea you were so clever!" "oh, well!" she said uncomfortably. "oh, well, perhaps not so clever as you think. one gets tired of struggling after the impossible. in for a penny, in for a pound! life is too short to worry oneself over halfpennies. i shall tell the men to send in the books quarterly after this. i'm tired of being hectored every month. better get it over in one big dose." i thought of the vicar's pensive "darling, isn't this very high?" and laughed at the idea of "hectoring"; but the quarterly bills seemed a dangerous remedy. "won't your husband object? men hate bills to run on." "oh!" she waved a complacent hand, "i'll put him off. he'll remember every now and then, and then it will float out of his mind. it's always an effort to jacky to come down to mundane things. evelyn, be warned by me, and never, never marry an unworldly man. it's impossible to live with them with any peace or comfort." "well, if i do, i'll see to it that he is worldly enough to understand household bills. i'll keep house for a month within his own limits, and let him see how he likes the fare." delphine stared. "jacky wouldn't mind. so long as there was enough to give away, he'd eat cold meat, and mashed potatoes, and contentment withal, every day of the week, and never complain. i should punish myself, not him, evelyn." she subsided on the floor at my feet, laid her hands on my knee, and lifted her flushed, childish face to mine. such a delicate rose-leaf of a face, more like a child's than that of a grown-up woman. "now that you've stayed here, and seen for yourself what it's like, truthfully, aren't you just a little sorry for me? week after week, month after month, always the same routine of meeting and parish work, and keeping house. it is jacky's work--his vocation; but for me, a girl of twenty-two, do you think it is quite _fair_?" "i don't think you ought to ask me such questions. i would rather not interfere," i said feebly. i knew it was feeble, but it is a very, very delicate business to interfere between husband and wife, and moreover the blame seemed fairly evenly divided. the vicar had undoubtedly made a mistake in marrying a young girl for her beauty and charm, without considering if she were a true helpmeet for his life's work. delphine had undoubtedly made a mistake in "never thinking" of her future as a clergyman's wife; and now he was blindly expecting a miraculous transformation of the butterfly into a drone, while the butterfly was poising her wings, impatient for flight. i sat silent, and delphine said pettishly:-- "i don't ask you to interfere. only to sympathise. is this a life for a girl of my age?" "it depends entirely upon the girl and her ideas of `life'. some girls would--" "what?" "love what you call `parish'. find in it her greatest interest." she stared at me, the colour slowly mounting to her face. her voice dropped to a whisper. "yes, i know. if i were good, and really cared! evelyn, i am going to confess something dreadful. at home, when i had no responsibility, i cared far more than i do now. i thought it would be the other way about, but the feeling that i _must_ do things, _must_ go to meetings and committees, _must_ go to church for all the services, makes me feel that i'd rather not! i daren't say so to jacky. he'd be so grieved. i'm grieved myself. i daren't tell anyone but you. do you think any clergyman's wife ever felt the same before?" i laughed. "i'm sure of it! thousands of them. it's not right to expect a clergyman's wife to be an unpaid curate--plus a housekeeper, and it needs special grace to stand a succession of committees. how would it be to drop some of the most boring duties and concentrate upon the things that you could do with all your heart? you'd be happier, and would do more good!" "do you think i should?" she clutched eagerly at the suggestion. "really, i believe you are right. as you say, i have not the strength to play the part of an unpaid curate." but that misquotation roused me, and i contradicted her sharply. "excuse me! i said nothing of the sort. you are strong enough to do anything you chose. it is not strength that is wanting, but--" "go on! you might as well finish, now you've begun. but what?" "_love_!" she gave a little gasp of astonishment. "love! for whom?" "your neighbours. your husband. god!" "oh, _it you_ are going to preach next!" she cried impatiently. she jumped up from her seat, whirled round, and flounced from the room. mr maplestone came in to tea. he is quite a frequent visitor here i find. besides the fact that he is a vicar's churchwarden, it appears that he has known delphine since she was a child, so that he is absolutely at home with her, and evidently very fond of her, too, in a cousinly, elder-brotherly, absolutely matter-of-fact way. the first time i saw him was quite early one morning when, hearing unusual sounds of merriment from the dining-room, i opened the door, and beheld the vicar seated in an arm-chair, looking on with much amusement, while the squire held a box of chocolates in one upraised hand, and delphine capered round him, snatching, and leaping into the air like an excited little dog. it was a festive little scene until my head came peeping round the corner of the door, and then the fun collapsed like the pricking of a bubble. the squire's face fell, likewise his hand; he jerked stiffly to attention, stiffly handed over the chocolates, stiffly bowed to me, stared at my uncovered head. "oh, i didn't tell you! evelyn is staying here for a fortnight before going away." he mumbled. i mumbled. the vicar rose from his seat and made for the door. "well, we shall see you to lunch to-morrow, ralph. i have several points to discuss. delphine, we shall meet at the parish room at twelve?" "oh! that committee? i suppose so," delphine said ungraciously. she tore open her box, helped herself to the largest chocolate in the centre row, and offered me the next choice. ralph maplestone took up his hat. "oh, for goodness sake, don't you run away, too! _you_ haven't a committee. there are heaps of things i want to say still. ralph"--she went to his side and stared eagerly in his face--"did you mean what you said the other day, about teaching me to ride?" "why not?" he said easily. "if you'd care about it, i'd be only too glad. bess would carry you well, and she's as safe as a house. you could come up and practise in the park. if i were busy, jevons could take you round. he'd teach you quite as well, or better, than i should myself." "oh!"--she beamed at him, a picture of happiness--"it will be fine! i've always longed to ride. and afterwards, when i'm quite good--i feel it in my bones that i _shall_ be good--will you still--" he laughed good-naturedly. he is extraordinarily good-natured to delphine. "lend you bess? certainly. as often as you like. do her good to have the exercise." "and when i'm _very_ good--very good indeed--will you--" he shook his head. "ah, hunting is a different matter. rather a responsibility. what? we must see what john says. in the meantime, you'll get a habit?" "yes." she glanced at me quickly, and glanced away. "where shall i go? would matthews--" matthews was the local tailor. the squire waved aside the suggestion with masculine scorn. "certainly not. do the thing properly when you are about it. nothing worse than a badly-cut habit. better go up to town!" again delphine glanced at me. the obvious thing was for me to return her invitation and invite her to stay with me for the transaction, but obviously i couldn't do it. moreover i did not _want_ to, so i stared blankly before me, and resigned myself to being thought a mean thing. "oh, well--i'll manage somehow," delphine said in a tone of finality, which was obviously intended to stop the discussion. mr maplestone looked at me and said:-- "mrs fane has already left, i believe. i suppose you will join her later." "i think not. she has gone abroad. i shall remain in england." delphine gave a short, irritable laugh. i had annoyed her, and child-like, she wished to hit back. "abroad, and england! that's all the address we are vouchsafed. mrs fane and miss wastneys evidently wish to shake off the dust of this village as soon as they drive away from `pastimes'. even if we wish to communicate with them, we shall not be able to do it." "oh, yes, delphine, you will," i contradicted. "i have told you that letters will always reach us through our lawyers." "lawyers!" she repeated eloquently. "as if one could send ordinary letters in a roundabout way like that! i wouldn't dare to write through a lawyer, unless it were a matter of life and death. i must say, evelyn, you are queer! when we have got to know each other so well, too!" "you thought it `queer' that charmion and i should live here together; and now you think it `queer' when we go away. isn't that a little unreasonable?" "it is `queer' to be so mysterious about where you are going. people ordinarily--" "very well, then! we are _not_ ordinary. let us leave it at that. it is much more interesting to be mysterious. perhaps we are really two authors of world-wide fame, who but ourselves in the country for a short rest now and then between our dazzling spells of industry." delphine gaped, hesitated, then laughed complacently. "oh, well, mrs fane is the sort of person who might be _anything_. but not you, evelyn; certainly not you! you are not--" "what?" "clever enough!" she cried bluntly. the next minute, with one of the swift, child-like impulses which made her so lovable, she threw her arms round my neck and kissed me vehemently. "but you are good--good and kind. that's better than all the cleverness. forgive me, evelyn; i'm a rude, bad-tempered thing. kiss and be friends!" ralph maplestone seized his hat and marched out of the room. chapter fifteen. a startling proposal of marriage. his afternoon the squire, in his capacity of churchwarden, spent an hour with the vicar in his study, and then joined us for tea on the lawn. it was a hot, airless, summer afternoon, and we were all rather silent and disinclined to eat, and i felt my eyes wandering to the big grey car which stood waiting outside the gate and wishing--many things! i wished that i had a car of my own. i wished i had my dear old dinah, on whose back i had been wont to roam the country-side. so long as charmion and the garden had absorbed my attention i had been contented enough, but now an overwhelming restlessness seized me. i was tired of the slow movement of my own feet. i longed to move quickly, to feel the refreshing rush of air on my cheeks once more. i wished the woman-hating, unappreciative ralph maplestone, had been a kind, considerate, understanding, put-your-self-in-her-place sort of man, who would have offered his time, and his car, and his services as chauffeur. "delphine, would you like to have a run in the car for a couple of hours or so before dinner?" we jumped on our chairs, delphine and i, automatically, like marionettes, the one from pleasure, the other from surprise. had he seen? had he noticed? the light blue eyes stared coolly ahead. for pure callous indifference their expression could not have been beaten. coincidence! nothing more. "oh, ralph, you dear! how angelic of you! i should love it of all things. it's so close and stuffy in this garden. it will be perfectly delicious to have a blow. which way shall we go?" "if you are not in a hurry we might get as far as the ponds." he paused, frowned, glanced hesitatingly towards me. "perhaps miss wastneys--is there any special place you would like to see?" "dearest!" the vicar's voice broke gently into the conversation, "i'm sorry, but was not it this afternoon you arranged to meet mrs rawlins at the `hall,' to discuss the new coverings for the library books? i think you said half-past five. it is nearly five now. you would not have time." "i can send down word that i can't come. i'll meet her to-morrow at the same time." "i think not." the vicar's face set; his voice did not lose its gentle tone, but it was full of decision. "i think not. mrs rawlins is a busy woman, and she has a long distance to come. you would not wish to inconvenience her for the sake of a trifling pleasure!" delphine gave him a look, the look of a thwarted child, flushed to the roots of her hair, and turned hastily aside. open rebellion was useless, but it spoke in every line of her body, every movement of the small, graceful head. i was sorry for her, for being young and feminine myself, i could understand how dull was the claim of linen covers for injured bindings, compared with that swift, exhilarating rush. i looked at the vicar, and began pleadingly, "couldn't i--"; then the squire looked at me, pulled out his watch, and said sharply:-- "ten minutes to five. hurry up, delphine! if you put on your hat at once you can have half an hour. it will freshen you up for your duties. i'll land you at the `hall,' and"--he switched his eyes on me with a keen, gimlet-like glance--"take miss wastneys a little further while you are engaged." i blinked, but did not speak; delphine frowned; the vicar said happily, "that will do well. that will do very well! now, darling, we shall all be pleased!" deluded man! two less-pleased-looking females it would have been difficult to find, as we made our way to the house, and up the narrow, twisting staircase. delphine was injured at the prospective shortness of her drive; i was appalled at the length of mine. why had he asked me? why hadn't i refused, and what--oh! what should we ever find to say? "it's always the same thing; if a bit of pleasure comes along, there's bound to be a committee meeting in the way! half an hour! pleased, indeed! i've always been longing for ralph to take me drives, and now that he has been disappointed like this, the very first time, is he likely to try again? of course, evelyn" (tardy sense of hospitality!) "i am glad for you to have the change. it's awfully good of him." "quite heroic, isn't it?" i said tartly, as i turned into my room. no doubt the poor man was disappointed, but she need not have rubbed it in! i leave it to psychologists to decide whether or no there was any connection between my natural annoyance at the slight, and the fact that i went to the trouble of opening a special box in order to put on my best and newest motor bonnet and coat; but there it is, i did do it, and they were all the more becoming for the accompaniment of flushed cheeks and extra bright eyes. the colour was a soft dove grey, the bonnet a delicious concoction of drawn silk, which looked as if it had begun life meaning to adorn a quaker's head, and had then suddenly succumbed to the fascinations of a pink lining and a wreath of tiny pink roses. when delphine came into the room a moment later, she stopped short on the threshold, and gasped with astonishment. "goodness!" her face flushed, she stared with wide, bright eyes; admiring, critical, disapproving, all at once. "evelyn, what a get up! i never saw anything like it. you look--you look--" "well! how do i look?" there was an edge in my voice. she felt it, and softened at once, in her quick lovable fashion. "you look a duck! simply a duck. but, my dear, it's too good! why waste it here? any old thing will do for these lanes. there's time to change!" "i don't intend to change," i said obstinately, and at that very moment there sounded an imperious whistle from below. without another word we marched downstairs and out to the front gate, where the two men stood waiting beside the car. automatically their eyes rolled towards my bonnet; the vicar smiled, and bent his head in a courtly little bow, which said much without the banality of words. the squire had no expression! whether he approved, disapproved, or furiously disliked, he remained insoluble as the sphinx. oh, some day--somehow--some one--i hope, will wake him into life, and whoever she is, may she shake him well up, and ride rough-shod over him for a long, long time before she gives in! he _needs_ taking down! after a faint--very faint--protest, delphine took her seat in front, while i sat in solitary state inside, leaning back against the cushions with an outward appearance of ease, but inwardly uncomfortably conscious of a heart which beat more quickly than necessary. this was all very well, but what next? what was to happen when the half-hour was up, and delphine went off to her library books and left us alone? could i sit still where i was? it would seem absurd, not to say discourteous. would he ask me to change seats? would he expect me to suggest it? suppose he did? suppose he didn't? and when we were settled, what should i find to say? my mind mentally rehearsed possible openings. "how beautiful the country is looking." "english villages are so charming." "how was the general when you saw him last?" on and on like a whirligig went the silly, futile thoughts, while before me the two heads wagged, and nodded, and tossed, and a laughing conversation was kept up with apparently equal enjoyment on both sides. delphine had a child's capacity for enjoying the present; even when the car pulled up and she alighted before the door of the "parish hall," the smile was still on her face. the little treat had blown away the cobwebs; she was refreshed and ready, if not precisely anxious, for work. "thanks awfully, ralph. that was as good as a hundred tonics! i do think a car is a glorious possession." then she looked at me and nodded encouragingly. "now it is your turn! it's ever so much more fun in front. ralph will be quite proud of sitting beside your bonnet!" so after all neither of us said it, and i should never have the satisfaction of knowing if he had meant-- he opened the door, and i meekly got out and took the other seat. what was the use of making a fuss? delphine disappeared behind the oak door, the engines whirled, and we were off again, steaming out of the village, and down the sloping road which led to the lovely sweep of the heath, the speed steadily increasing, until we were travelling at a good forty miles an hour. four milestones flashed past before either of us spoke a word; then in desperation i made a beginning. "she needs change, doesn't she? it's quite touching to see how it cheers her up." "she?" he repeated. "who?" he turned his eyes on me as he spoke, and they were absolutely, genuinely blank. astounding as it appeared, he really did not know. "delphine, of course! who else could i mean?" "oh-oh. yes, i had forgotten all about her." he might have been talking of a fly that for a moment had buzzed by his side. the cruel indifference of his manner stung me into quick retort. "yet you seemed very kind--you _were_ very kind to her a few minutes ago. do you always forget so quickly?" a movement of his hand reduced the speed of the engine. we had left the village far behind, and the wide high road stretched before us like a brown ribbon, sloping gently up and down the grassy slopes. for miles ahead there was not a soul in view. ralph maplestone stared at me and i stared back at him. seen close at hand, his plain face had an attraction of its own. it looked strong and honest; its tints were all fresh and clean, speaking of a healthy, out-of-door life. no little child had ever clearer eyes. they didn't look so stern as i had believed. "what have i to remember? delphine came for a drive; i'm glad she enjoyed it, but it is over. why should i think of her any more?" "oh, no reason at all!" i said testily. i felt testy, as if from a personal injury. "only when one has a friend, it is agreeable to believe that out of sight is not immediately out of mind. but, of course, i am a woman. women's memories are proverbially longer than men's." the speed slackened still further. now we were rumbling along at a speed which made conversation easy. the blue eyes gave me another keen glance. "women burden their memories with a thousand trivialities. men brush them aside, and keep to the few that count. in the big things of life they are less forgetful than women!" i smiled, a slow, superior smile, and spoke in a forbearing voice:-- "do you think you--er--_really_ understand very much about women?" "no--i don't. how can i? i don't know any," he replied bluntly, and the answer was so surprisingly, illogically different from what i expected, that involuntarily i laughed, and went on laughing while he stammered and tried to explain. "of course i have my opinion--every fellow has. one has eyes. one can't go through life without _seeing_. but, personally, it's quite true. i _don't_ know any. never have done!" "your mother?" "you would think so, but we are too much alike--tongue-tied--can't say what we feel. she is more at home with my sister, who chatters from morning till night, and has no reticences, no susceptibilities. we care for each other; to a point we are good friends, but beyond that-- strangers." i didn't laugh any more. "your sister, then. don't you two--?" "no. she was educated abroad. she married the year she came out. she lives in scotland. nominally we are brother and sister; actually the merest acquaintances. she's a nice girl--generous, affectionate. but we don't touch." "delphine?" "that child!" his shoulders moved with a gesture of dismissal, as if the suggestion was too absurd for discussion. poor delphine, how her vanity would have suffered if she had been there at the moment! i suppose my face was expressive, for he added in quick explanation: "she's a nice child. i'm fond of her, but she is still waiting to grow up. it's perfectly true, miss wastneys, i know no women. they have been a sealed book to me." i was sorry for the big lonely thing. it must be hard to be born with a temperament which keeps one closed, as it were, within iron doors, while all the time the poor hungry soul longs to get out. i felt glad that i was made the other way round. at the same time it seemed a good opportunity to put in a word for my own sex. i straightened my back, and tried to look solemn and elderly. i spoke in deep, impressive tones:-- "mr maplestone, i'm sorry, but you are illogical. you acknowledge that this is a subject about which you know nothing, yet almost in the same breath you criticise and condemn. men blame women for having no sense of justice, but they are just as bad. they are worse, and with less excuse. women's perceptions are so keen that they see every side of a situation, so it happens sometimes that they get confused, and appear contradictory. men are so blind that they only see _one_ side--their own side--and in utter ignorance of all the others they proceed to lay down the law. for my part, i prefer the woman's standpoint." such a blankly amazed face stared into mine! the blue eyes widened, a glimpse of strong white teeth showed between the parted lips. he gaped like a child, and said vaguely:-- "yes, but--i don't understand! that may all be quite true, but what on earth has it got to do with what we were talking of last?" i bridled. nothing on earth is more exasperating than to enlarge on one's own pet theories, and then to find that they have fallen flat. i made my voice as chilling as possible. "to me the connection seems obvious." "sorry. my stupidity, i suppose. i fail to grasp it. will you explain?" "you said that delphine was not a woman. if that is so, it's her husband's fault--and yours! and every other man's with whom she comes in contact. you all treat her like a child, and expect her to behave as a child, and then turn round and abuse her because she dances to your tune." "excuse me. who abuses her?" "you did. you said--" "i said she was a charming child of whom i was very fond. is that abuse?" "in the--er--the connection in which you used it--in the way in which you said it, and meant it, and avoided saying something else--yes, it is." for a moment he looked as if he were going to laugh, then met my eyes, thought better of it, and grunted instead. "sorry. again i don't quite follow. but no doubt it is my illogical mind. i should be interested to know in what way you hold me responsible for delphine's shortcomings?" "i have just told you. you treat her as a child who must be fed on sweetmeats, and bribed with treats and diversions; conversationally you talk down to her level. it never occurs to you to expect her to be in earnest about any one thing." "well?" "well! isn't that enough? can't you see how such an attitude must affect her character and development?" "no, i can't. to my mind it wouldn't matter what the whole world thought. for good or ill, i stand for myself. what other people happened to think about me wouldn't affect me one jot." i said loftily:-- "you are a man. women are different. we _do_ care. we _are_ affected. that's why it is so dreadfully important that we should be understood. i know it by experience. in different surroundings, with different people, i myself am two or three totally different women--" he asked no questions, but looked at me, silent, expectant, and lured by that fatal love of talking about oneself which exists in so many feminine hearts, i fell into the trap, and prattled thoughtlessly on:-- "at home with my younger sister, i was the one who had all the responsibility and management. she depended on me. i was the autocrat of the household, and everything i said was law." "you would like that?" i gave him a withering glance. "pray what makes you think so?" "you like your own way, don't you? i--er--i have received that impression." "i was about to add," i said coldly, "that, since i have lived at `pastimes,' i have not had my own way at all. i have not wanted it. mrs fane's character is stronger than mine. i have been content to abdicate in her favour. if you asked her opinion of me, she would probably tell you that i was too pliable--too easily influenced." silence. the blunt, roughly-hewn profile stared stolidly ahead. a granite wall would have shown as much expression. i was seized with an immense, a devastating curiosity to discover what he was thinking. i fixed my eyes steadily upon him, mentally willing him to turn round. he knew i was doing it. i could see the red rise above his collar rim, and mount steadily to his ears. he was determined that he would not speak. i was equally determined that he should. "mr maplestone! i am waiting for a remark." "miss wastneys, i--er--i have no remark to make." "you don't recognise me in the latter _role_?" "i--er--i can't say that i do! on the few occasions on which we have met, you have appeared to me to be abundantly--er--to be, in short, the ruling spirit." i thought of that first interview in the inn when the brunt of the bargaining had fallen on me; i thought of the tragic evening at the "hall," when i had arranged a hurried departure, without apparently consulting charmion's wishes. appearances were against me, and it was impossible to explain them away. i said, in a cross, hurt voice:-- "oh, of course, you think me everything that is disagreeable and domineering. it is just as i said--men see only one thing, and it colours their whole view. if i lived a lifetime of meekness and self-abnegation, you would never forget that affair of the lease. and it was your own fault, too! you were the unreasonable one, not i; but all the same, you have never forgiven. delphine told me how much you disliked me." his eyes met mine, frankly, without a flicker of shame. "did she? that was wrong of her. she had no business to repeat--" "you acknowledge it, then! you _did_ say so?" "i did. oh, yes. it's quite true." it was a shock. at that moment i realised that, in my vanity, i had never really believed delphine's statement. the squire had made some casual remark which she had misunderstood, misquoted--such had been the subconscious explanation with which i had assuaged my complacency; but now out of his own lips, openly, unhesitatingly, the verdict was confirmed! i felt as if a pail of water had been emptied over my head. "and you--you really meant--" "if i had not meant it, i should hardly have said--" "i can't think why! what had i done? if it was that affair of the lease--" "it was not. i was amazed at the time, but i got over that. it was just--" "what?" "it is difficult to say. it's not an easy subject to discuss. need we go on?" "i think so. i think it is my right. in justice to myself, i think you ought to tell me how i have made myself so disagreeable. it might be useful to me in the future!" for all answer he steered the car to the side of the road, brought it to a standstill, and descended from his seat. there was an air of deliberation about the proceeding which sent a shiver down my spine. the inference was that the enumeration of my faults was so lengthy a business that it could not be undertaken by a man who had other work in hand. i sat in nervous fascination, watching him slowly cross to my side of the car, lean forward, and place both hands on the screen. his face was quite close to mine. it looked suddenly white and tense. he opened his lips and spoke:-- "evelyn, will you be my wife?" if i live to be a hundred, never--no, never shall i forget the electric shock of that moment! to be prepared to listen to a lecture on one's faults and failings, and to hear in its place a proposal of marriage-- could anything be more paralysing? and to have it hurled at one with no warning, no preliminary "leading up," and from ralph maplestone of all people--the most reserved, the most unsusceptible, the most woman-hating of mankind! i sat petrified, unable to move or to speak, unable to do anything but stare, and stare, and stare, and listen with incredulous ears to a string of passionate protestations. half of what he said was lost in the dazed bewilderment of the moment, but what i _did_ hear, went something like this:-- "you are the first woman--the only woman. before you came i was content. since we met, i have been in torment. you woke me up. when a man is roused from a trance it gives him pain. you brought pain to me-- sleeplessness, discontent, a craving that grew and grew. i wished we had never met--you had upset my life; i believed that i hated you for it. delphine questioned me. it was then i told her that i disliked you. i meant it--i _thought_ i meant it! i longed for you to disappear and leave me in peace, yet all the time i thought of you more and more. your smile! whenever we met, you smiled, and the remembrance of it followed me home. wherever i went your face haunted me. i planned to go away, to travel, to break myself loose; but it was no use, i could not go. i dreaded to see you, but i dreaded more to go away. i hung about the places you might pass. that dress with the flounces! i could see the blue of it coming toward me through the branches. that night you were ill! all the colour went out of your cheeks. i would have given my life--my life! i have never loved before. i did not know what love meant, but you have taught me. you have waked me from sleep. i'm not good enough--a surly brute! couldn't expect any girl to care; but for seven years--twice seven years--i'd serve, i'd wait. oh, my beautiful, my beautiful--if you could see yourself! how can i stay here, and let you go? marry me! marry me! this week, to-morrow--what are conventions to us? i'll be good to you. all the love of my life is waiting--i've never squandered it away. it has been stored up in my heart for you." i held up my hand, imploring him to stop. "oh, mr maplestone, don't! it's all a mistake. it must be! how can you care? you know so little of me; we have met so seldom. how can you possibly know that you would like me as a wife?" he gave a quick, excited laugh. "it's all true what those poet fellows write about love! i used to laugh and call it nonsense; but when it comes to one's own turn, it's the truest thing in the whole world! how do i know? i can't tell you, evelyn; but i _do_ know. it's just the one certain fact in life. i want you! i'm going to have you!" he stretched out his arms as if to seize me then and there, and i shrank back, looking, i suppose, as i felt, frightened to death, for instantly his manner changed, his arms dropped to his side, and he cried in the gentlest, softest of tones:-- "don't be frightened of me! don't be frightened! forgive me if i seem rough. rough to _you_! oh, my sweet, give me a chance to show what i could be! you have done enough caring for other people; now let me take care of you! be my wife, _evelyn_!" it was all too painful and miserable, and--yes, too beautiful to put into words. i cried, and said, no! no! i was sorry, but i didn't love him; i had never thought. there was no one else--oh, no; but it was hopeless all the same. i could never--never--oh, indeed, i was not worth being miserable about. he must forget me. on wednesday i was going away. he would find when i was not there that he would soon forget. he looked at me with sad, stern eyes. "that's not true! you know it's not true. i am not the sort to forget. and if there is no one else, why should i try? evelyn, you don't know me, if you think one `no' will put me off. i said i would wait seven years, and i meant what i said. if you go away, i shall follow. what's this nonsense of leaving no address? do you imagine, if i choose to look for you, you can hide yourself from me?" he looked so big and masterful that for a moment i felt a qualm of doubt; then i comforted myself with the reflection that it would be impossible to discover what did not exist. for a period of time evelyn wastneys was about to disappear from the face of the earth. the spinster of the basement flat was about to take her place. "i don't love you! i don't love you!" i repeated helplessly. "i have never once thought of you except as a--a rather cross, overbearing man who had taken a dislike to me at first sight. how can i turn round all in a moment and look upon you as a--a lover? and i have my friend and my work--and we have just taken our house. i don't want to be married! i couldn't be married even if i cared!" "you are going to be married. you are going to marry me! what is this `work' of which you talk? a woman's work is to make a home, and to help a man to find his soul. evelyn, do you imagine for one moment that i am going to let you go?" he was himself again: self-confident, resolute, overbearing. i took refuge in silence, and argued no more. "have you enjoyed your drive?" delphine asked. "was ralph civil? it was unfortunate that i had to leave you alone. where did you buy your bonnet, evelyn? i must get one like it for myself. does your head ache, dear? you look quite pale." i said it did. _something_ ached! it kept me awake all night with a dreary, heavy pain. i lay and thought, and thought, until my brain was in a whirl. had i been to blame in the past? honestly i could not see that i had. what was i to do in the future? must i tell charmion? how could i ever return to "pastimes"? round and round the questions whirled in a never-ending circle, but no solutions came. then i said my prayers, with a special plea for guidance for a very lonely, very worried girl, and gradually, surely, i grew calmer. i reminded myself that there was no need to worry over the future; and that all i had to do for the moment was to decide on my duty for to-morrow. for everybody's sake it appeared best that i should excuse myself to delphine and escape to town, since nothing could be gained by another interview with ralph maplestone. i would send him a letter, repeating my protestations that i could never be his wife, and begging him to forget me with all possible speed. when he called at the vicarage to answer it, he would find that the bird had fled. the early morning sunlight was stealing in at the window. i closed my tired eyes and fell asleep. chapter sixteen. a glorious thing. the first day after taking possession of my flat, i paid a visit to a celebrated expert in theatrical "make up," and paid for his help and advice. it is not an easy thing for a young woman to transform herself into an old one, and i have a weakness for doing a thing well, when i set about it. he was a delightful man! i remember him with the liveliest appreciation. i was nervous and embarrassed, but in two minutes he put me at my ease. from his manner you would have supposed that my errand was as ordinary and conventional as buying a postage stamp, while his keenness, his cleverness, his professional zest were refreshing to behold. he stared at, and criticised my face, with as much impersonality as if it had been a picture on the wall. "always look for the predominant factor--the feature, or features, which give personality to the face. in your case they are undoubtedly the eyebrows and the curve of the upper lip. a few judicious touches to these will alter the whole expression to a surprising extent. a few more lines will give age. the wig and spectacles are the refuges of the amateur. in themselves they can do little, but with the touches i suggest, and a deep-toned powder to darken the skin, your disguise will be complete. you shall see--you shall see!" he motioned to a chair before a mirror, and set to work, explaining each detail as he went along. it was marvellous to see how beneath the sweep of a tiny brush my youth and good looks faded and disappeared! then he made me wash it all off, and do the same thing for myself. three times over the process was repeated before i "passed" to his satisfaction. to my relief he laughed at the idea of the india-rubber pads, and indeed they were no longer required, but he gave me a small appliance which could be used when i especially desired to alter my voice. then he sent me to a woman expert, who designed a nice little pad to round my shoulders. i can't say that it was exactly a hilarious afternoon! and now a month has passed by. for a whole month mary harding has resolutely ignored evelyn wastneys, and devoted her time to the service of others. i was just going to say "her whole thought" also, but stopped short just in time. the plain truth is that the ignoring of evelyn engrosses many thoughts. she is a regular jack-in-the-box, who is no sooner shut in, than up bobs her head again, wailing miserably:-- "i'm lonely! i'm lonely! i want to go home!" then mary, the aunt, snaps the lid more tightly than ever, but through the chink a persistent whisper makes itself heard: "i'm lonely! i'm lonely! i want some one to think of me." the flat is comfortable enough, and i am well served with bridget as housekeeper, and a clean young orphan of seventeen to work under her and open the door. the orphan was procured as much as a safety-guard for myself, as an assistant to bridget. in case anyone who knows me in my true _role_ should by any possibility discover my hiding-place, and appear suddenly at the door, it is better to keep bridget in the background, and as emily knows me only in the character of aunt, i am necessarily kept up to the mark in the matter of disguise. i wear elderly clothes, tinted spectacles, and a dowdy wig, and with a few touches alter the shape of my upper lip. that is all that is necessary for ordinary life. the cheek pads are reserved for occasions of special need! emily considers me a "nice old lady, and young in my ways". she likewise confides to bridget that she shouldn't wonder if i'd been quite good-looking in my day. why did i never marry? was it a disappointment like? in outdoor dress especially i look genuinely middle-aged. young women get up in the tubes and offer me their seats! volumes could say no more. as regards my work, i have discovered that in london it is as difficult to get to know one's neighbours as it is to avoid knowing them in the country. in my rustic ignorance i had imagined that all the inhabitants of the "mansions" would be keenly interested in the advent of a new tenant, and curious about her personality. i imagined them talking together about me, and saying, "have you seen the new lady in the basement? what does she look like? when shall you call?" but in reality no one cared a jot. there has been another removal since i came, and i overheard one or two comments in the hall. "bother these removals. they make such a mess!" "those tiresome vans block the way for my pram!" not one word of interest in the removal itself! not one word of inquiry as to the newcomers. so far as interest or sympathy went, each little shut-in-dwelling is as isolated as a lighthouse. for the past few weeks i have been haunted by a vision of myself beating an ignominious retreat, after having altogether failed in my mission. to console myself i began a second course of red cross training, to revive what i had learnt two years before. perhaps some day one of the tenants will be ill, or have an accident, which will give me a chance. watching the stream of children coming in and out of the "mansions," i almost found it in my heart to wish that one of them would tumble down and break, not his crown, but just some minor, innocent, little bone, so that his mother could behold how promptly and efficiently i could render first aid! a month passed by--four long, lonely weeks. not a line from charmion. not a line from delphine. not a line from the big, blustering lover who had vowed never, no, never, to give up the pursuit. with one and all, out of sight was apparently out of mind, and i am the sort of woman who needs to be remembered and appreciated, and who feels reduced to the lowest ebb when nobody takes any notice. i wondered what charmion was doing, i wondered how delphine was faring, i wondered--did he really care so much? would he go on caring? suppose i had cared, too? then another long, lonely day came to an end, and i crawled into bed and cried. whatever my virtues may be, i am afraid i am not strong-minded! but at the end of a month--hurrah! i started full tilt into a new and engrossing profession, a profession which i may really claim to have invented, and which offers a wide field for idle women. it is healthy, moreover, and in its pursuit its followers can be of immense service to their overtaxed sisters. the vocation is called "pram-pushing for penurious parents," and it consists simply of taking charge of tommy, or bobby, or baby for his morning or afternoon promenade, and thereby setting his mother free to take a much-needed rest! the way it began was natural enough. i smiled at a pretty baby in the hall, and the baby smiled back at me, and threw a ball at my feet. i picked it up, and gave it back to a worried-looking little mother who was endeavouring to arrange the wrapping in the perambulator with one hand, while with the other she clutched firmly at the arm of an obstreperous person of three. she smiled at me in wan acknowledgment, and i said, "may i help?" and tucked in one side of the shawl. two mornings later i met the same trio returning from their morning's walk, a third time i picked the small boy out of a puddle, and helped to wipe off the mud. that broke the ice, and the mother began to bow to me, and to exchange a passing word. she is a delicate creature, and has the exhausted air of one whose life is all work and no play. one day we walked the length of the block together, and she told me that she had been married for four years, had had three children and lost one; that she kept only one maid, and so had to take the children out herself. it was tiring work, pram-pushing for four or five hours a day, but they must have fresh air. nowadays doctors insisted that children should never stay in, even on wet days. she smiled mirthlessly. "they are covered up and protected from damp. it's different for the poor mothers!" she coughed as she spoke, and then and there the great idea leapt into my head. i did not disclose it; she would probably have put me down for a baby-snatcher at once; but i made a point of meeting her on her daily outings, and of ingratiating myself with the children, and waited eagerly for an opportunity, which came in the shape of an increasing cough and cold. then i pounced. "why shouldn't _i_ take the children out this afternoon, and let you go home and rest? you are not fit to push this heavy pram." she gaped at me, amazed and embarrassed. "you? oh, i couldn't possibly! why should _you_--" "because i should love it. i have nothing to do, and the days seem so long. i'd be very careful." "oh, it's not that! i am sure you would! and the children would love it. they are so fond of you already; but--" "well?" "i couldn't! it is too much. but i do thank you all the same. it's sweet of you to have thought of it!" for the moment it was plainly tactless to urge her further, so i just repeated:-- "well, i _mean_ it! please send for me if you change your mind," and retreated forthwith. behold the reward of diplomacy. that very evening mr manners, the papa, knocked at my door and requested to see miss harding. i was reading comfortably, _sans_ wig and _sans_ spectacles, behind the locked door of my bedroom. the little maid, having been repeatedly instructed that all callers were to be shown into the drawing-room, was no doubt elated to have an opportunity of turning precept into practice. i arose, hastily made myself look as elderly and discreet as possible, and sallied forth to greet him. it was the funniest interview! he had brought down a copy of _punch_ (a week old), with his wife's compliments "in case i should like to see it". that was the excuse; the real reason was obviously to survey the extraordinary spinster of the basement flat, and discover if she were quite mad or just innocently eccentric. i could see him peering at me out of his tired, worried eyes, and if ever i worked hard to worm myself into a man's good graces, i did it during the next half-hour. i pricked my ears, listening for "clues," and when one came, i played up to it with all my skill, agreeing with him, soothing him, hanging on his words. he looked almost as tired as his wife; there were shiny patches on his coat; his hair was turning white above the ears; he had the look of a man driven beyond his strength. i made him a cup of coffee, good coffee! over which he sighed appreciatively. i told him i liked the smell of smoke. i offered him the _spectator_ in exchange for _punch_. at the end of half an hour he was looking at me wistfully, and saying in quite a natural, boyish voice:-- "i say, it was nailing good of you to offer to take out the kiddies to save my wife. she was quite touched. she does need a rest, poor girl, but, of course--" "don't say `of course' you cannot accept! the only `of course' is to take me at my word. mr manners, may i say exactly what i think?" he looked startled and said, "please do!" (mem. i must try to remember that an impulsive manner is not suitable to grey hairs!) "well, it's just this; if you won't allow me to help your wife to have a little rest now, she will be obliged to take a longer one later on! that cough needs care. i know something about nursing, and i'm sure that if she goes on as she is doing now, she'll break down altogether." "i know it," he said miserably. "i've been feeling the same myself. that was why--to-night--when she told me, i--" "came down to see for yourself if i could be trusted!" i said laughing. "and what is your verdict, mr manners? do i look as if i would kidnap babies? do i look as if i had strength enough to push a pram?" he glanced at my grey locks, and said tactfully:-- "bobby could walk part of the time. kensington is fortunately flat. miss harding, i--i am very grateful. it's most awfully good of you to worry about such perfect strangers. if you _will_ relieve my wife for a few days, i shall be most awfully grateful!" so it was arranged. i danced a jig of joy when i went back to my room, and caught sight of my elderly reflection doing it in the glass, and laughed till i cried. my work had begun. the thin end of the wedge had wormed its way in. now to push forward. mrs manners has another malady besides her cough. it's an obscure disease, but i have diagnosed it as "chronic inflammation of the conscience". for four long years she has been kept incessantly at work, looking after house and children, and has been unable to have one undisturbed hour, either by day or by night. now, when she gets the chance, her conscience is horrified at the prospect. the first time i took the children for their afternoon walk i found, on my return, that she had used the time to turn out a cupboard, and looked more tired than ever. the next day i sent the maid downstairs to settle the children in the perambulator, when i produced a hot-water bottle from under my coat, and had a heart to heart talk with her there and then. "mrs manners, i am going to take you into your bedroom, tuck you up under the quilt, give you this hot-water bottle to cuddle, pull down the blinds, and leave you to rest there till we come in." she positively shook with horror. "oh, miss harding, i _can't_. it is quite impossible! all that time? if you knew all i have to do. there is another cupboard--" "mrs manners, if you think i am taking charge of the children out of consideration for your cupboards, you are mistaken. i am doing it so that you may rest. a bargain is a bargain, and you are not playing fair. now, are you coming, or are you not?" she came, not daring to refuse, but protesting all the way. "well, if i must--for a little time. for half an hour. i couldn't _possibly_ rest more than half an hour." "you've got to try. if i'm on duty for two hours, so are you. don't dare to move from this bed till i give you leave." it was pathetic to see her thin little face peering at me over the edge of the eider-down, quite dazed, if you please, at the idea of a two hours' rest! i felt as happy as a grig as i ran downstairs; happier still when we re-entered the flat two hours later, and not a sound came from behind that closed door. i undressed the children, and the maid tiptoed in with their tea with the air of a conspirator in a dark and stealthy plot. "not a sound out of her since you left! poor thing! first chance of a bit of peace and quietness she's had for many a long day." "well, mary, you and i are going to give her plenty more!" i said graciously, and mary made me a slice of buttered toast on the spot to seal the partnership. tea was over when the door opened, and a sleepy, flushed face peeped round the door to look at the clock. when she saw the hands pointing to five, she looked as guilty as if she had robbed the bank. oh, it's a glorious thing to be able to help other people! it gives one a warm, glowey feeling about the heart which comes in no other way. these last days i have just lived for the moment when i could tuck that poor little woman in her cosy bed, and the other moment when i saw her rested, freshened face on rising. even at the end of one week she looked a different creature, and felt it too. "actually, dear miss harding, i begin to feel as if i--i should like a new hat!" she said to me one day over tea. "do you know the feeling? i think it is the best sign of convalescence a woman could have. for months, almost for years, i have not cared what i wore. something to cover my head--that was all that was needed. to be always tired-- deadly, hopelessly tired--takes the spirit out of one." "no one should go on being too tired. it's very wrong to allow it." she looked at me; a long look, affectionate, grateful, reproachfully amused. "my dear, you live alone, and you have two maids. evidently--excuse me--you have a comfortable income. my husband's business has been steadily falling off for the last two years. it is not his fault; he works like a horse; no man could have done more, but circumstances have been against him. we keep one maid, who washes, bakes, and cooks, while i tend the babies, make their clothes and my own, knit, and mend, and patch, and darn, take the children out, bathe them, put them to bed, attend to them through the night, do the housekeeping by day, and struggle over the bills when they are in bed. bobby is three years and a half old, and has had bronchitis and measles. baby is eleven months, and cuts her teeth with croup. between them came the little one who died. and then you sit there and tell me i ought not to be tired!" "i beg your pardon. i'm sorry. i spoke without thinking. you are quite right--i know nothing about it. people who preach to others very often don't. forgive me!" "don't be so penitent! it is really almost a relief to meet a woman who _doesn't_ understand. all my friends are in pretty much the same case as myself, and they haven't got"--she stretched out her hand and timidly patted my arm--"my kind neighbour to help. miss harding, i think you must have been a fascinating girl!" "oh, i was!" i said warmly, and then made haste to change the conversation. "what about that hat? i'm quite a good amateur milliner. look out your oddments and let me see what i can do." chapter seventeen. neighbours--and real work. the fame of me has gone abroad. i have been observed taking the manners' infants in and out, and the result has been a simultaneous increase of interest, and--loss of prestige. number , like mrs manners, pushes her own "pram," but there the resemblance ends. she is a healthy, full-blown young woman, smartly--and unsuitably--attired in the very latest fashion of kensington high street. she wears large artificial pearls round her neck, and wafts a strong odour of lily of the valley perfume. never for the fraction of a second did it occur to me to offer to relieve _her_ of any of her duties; but she cast a pale-blue eye at me, and wove her own little schemes. one afternoon, as i was tucking the coverings round baby margaret's feet, she came up to my side, and said in an exceedingly casual manner:-- "oh, good afternoon. you are miss harding? i was just wondering--have you any engagement for the mornings?" i looked at her calmly, and said i had. several! most householders had. she jerked her head, and said impatiently:-- "i didn't mean that. you take mrs manners' children out, i see. i might be glad of a little help myself. it's such a bore pram-pushing every day. how much do you charge?" it is difficult to look haughty through blue spectacles, and while i was trying, it occurred to me that it was a waste of time. it was a plain business question. she did not mean to be insulting, so i smiled instead--rather feebly, i confess--and said:-- "i don't charge. mrs manners is not well. it is a pleasure to me to take charge of the children, so that she may have a little rest." she "begged pardon" hastily, and with repetition, staring the while with incredulous eyes. quite evidently she considered me a benevolent lunatic, and marked me down as a useful prey. i might not be willing to push her pram, but--the very next evening a small servant knocked at the door with mrs lorrimer's compliments, and could miss harding lend her a fresh egg? (her name is lorrimer, and the children are called claudia, moreen, and eric, and look it.) a fortnight has passed since that encounter, and the tale of her indebtedness to me is now as follows:-- one egg. a cup of sugar. two lemons. "a bit of butter, as we're run out." a box of matches and a candle. "one scuttle of nice cobbles, please. we have only slack left." three stamps. "just a pinch or two of tea, as we forgot to order over sunday." bridget opines that it will go from bad to worse, and recommends putting a foot down. gossip from the "well" has it that if you "give in to them, they'll take the very dinner off the table". when it comes to that point, i shall certainly stamp hard; but in the meantime i let things slide. i suspect mrs lorrimer of being too much engrossed in herself to trouble about such a detail as providing meals for her spouse. without my aid he would probably have eaten his pancakes without any lemons, and feasted on dry bread by a smouldering fire. i like myself in the _role_ of an unknown benefactor! number , who lives directly overhead, does not borrow my food or hire my services, but she does something far worse. whenever i dare to poke a fire, or play on the piano, or shut a window, or let a door bang, as any ordinary domestic door is bound to bang in the course of a windy day, rap, rap, rap comes a premonitory knocking on the floor, as if to say, "inconsiderate and selfish worm! how dare you attend to your own comfort at the expense of your neighbours overhead? have the goodness to be quiet at once!" it's awfully unfair, because when they stoke their anthracite stoves, or throw their boots on the floor at a.m. over my sleeping head, i could only retaliate by climbing to the top of my wardrobe, and knocking the whitewash off my own ceiling. such are the ironies of life for the tenants of basement flats. besides the shoe-dropping, i am often kept awake at night by the sound of angry voices. i sadly fear that mr and mrs do not live together in the peace and harmony which could be desired. subjects of dissension seem generally to arise about p.m., and thereafter deep masculine growls and shrill feminine yaps alternate until the small hours. on these occasions i make up my mind never, never to marry. especially a bad-tempered man. especially _one_ bad-tempered man! but, of course, that question was settled long ago. hurrah! i am getting on. a most exciting thing has happened. the manners know mr thorold, and last night, when i was sitting with then after dinner (by request!) he came in to call, and we were introduced. he is a delicate, wearied-to-death, and wish-i-were-out-of-it-looking man, but when he smiles or gets interested his face lights up, and he is handsome and interesting. he looked profoundly bored at finding me installed by the fire, but thawed later on, and asked my advice on various domestic problems which lie heavily on his soul. "my housekeeper has such sensitive feelings. if i find fault, or even mildly suggest an improvement, she collapses into tears, and the children have a poor time of it for the rest of the day. sometimes i think i must send her away, but i might get some one worse; and i am busy in the city, and have no time to look round." i did not feel capable of giving advice on this subject, but said soothingly:-- "i wish you would allow the little girls to come to tea with me sometimes. i have seen them coming in and out, and have longed to know them. i'm fond of children, and mrs manners will tell you that i can be trusted." his face lit up; he actually beamed. "it is good of you! they get so few changes. it would be the greatest treat! if i may i'll bring them myself next saturday." shades of aunt eliza! for a moment i felt quite guilty; then i raised my eyes to the chippendale mirror hanging on the opposite wall, and beheld the douce figure of miss harding with a paisley shawl draped over her black silk shoulders, and i breathed again, and said primly that i should be very pleased, and were the dear little ones allowed currants, or were they limited to plain sponge cake? he said impatiently:-- "oh, poor kiddies! anything you like. if they're ill afterwards, it's worth it. i'm afraid i am not much of a disciplinarian, miss harding. life takes that _role_ out of one's hands. let them be happy--that's what i ask." his face puckered; he looked so sad, so helpless, so baffled, poor, big, helpless thing, that my heart just ached for him. aunt eliza was right--evelyn wastneys is _not_ a suitable person to play good fairy to good-looking widowers! if this one looked particularly helpless and harassed for an hour at a stretch, and then asked her to marry him on tuesday week, she would not have the strength of mind to say no, however much she dreaded the prospect. as he is a susceptible, appealing type of a man, and tired to death of that housekeeper, and evelyn has--she really has!--a "way with her," it would probably have come to that in the end. but evelyn harding may serenely do her best. she will never be put to the test. the little girls are called winifred and marion. they have long pale faces, long fair hair, and charming dark-lashed eyes. winifred looks delicate, and has an insinuating little lisp; marion, when amused, has a deep, fat chuckle, which makes one long to hug her on the spot. they are badly dressed, badly shod, their stockings lie in wrinkles all the way up, but they look thorough little ladies despite of all, and "behave as sich". they came to tea on saturday, and we had hot scones, and jam sandwiches, and cake, and biscuits, and a box of crackers containing gorgeous rings and brooches and tie-pins and bracelets, and of the whole party i honestly believe "father" enjoyed himself the most. he had four cups of tea, and ate steadily from every plate; and we all played games together afterwards, in the most happy, domestic fashion. quite evidently he is a home lover, a man whose deepest interests will always centre round his own fireside. poor little dead wife! it seems sad that she should be taken away, while unhappy women like mrs live on and on. if the issues of life and death were in mortal hands, how differently we should arrange things! i know at this moment half a dozen weary old creatures whose lives are no pleasure to themselves or to anyone else, but they live on, while the young and the happy fall by the way. oh, how many mysteries there are around us! how wonderful, how absorbingly interesting it will be, when the time comes, to hear the explanation of all that seems so tangled to our present understanding! when i realise how uncertain life is, i am all in a tingle to be up and doing, to make myself of real, real use while i am still here. a married woman has her work cut out to make a home; a real happy home is as big an achievement as any one can wish, but when one is single and lonely-- pause to shed a few self-pitying tears. pause to wonder if it might not be better to make a man happy rather than to live alone, even if one were not really in love? pause to decide. certainly not! don't be weak-minded. a grave injustice to him, as well as to yourself. pause to dream of charmion and kathie, and feel lone and lorn because they don't write. grand decision. always to be kind and considerate. to write regularly to lonely friends. never to wax cross or impatient, neglect a duty, nor fail to render a service. to devote special attention and lavish special sympathy on spinsters in basement flats. the orphan came into the room just as i was in the full flush of my resolutions. i snapped her head off, and found fault for five minutes on end. she departed--in tears. three weeks have passed by. i have written to charmion, a letter full of love, and without one complaining word. i have written to kathie, taking an interest in all the details of her new life; i have written to delphine, dropping words in season. i have worked hard for the red cross classes. i have wheeled out the small manners, and dispensed various teas to winifred and marion thorold. i have met their father several times at the manners' flat, and have likewise--low be it spoken--received two evening calls from him in my own domain. he says it is such a comfort to find a kind, motherly woman with whom to talk over his difficulties! he hesitates to trouble mrs manners, who is already overworked. winifred holds one shoulder a little higher than the other. does that mean anything wrong with the spine? ought she to lie down flat? billie, the curly two-year-old, is always catching cold. do i think his perambulator gets damp in the basement store-room? the grocer's bill was nineteen shillings last week. in "my girl's time" (i love to hear him say "my girl!") it was never above thirteen. miss brown, the housekeeper, is hinting that she needs a holiday. it would be a relief to be rid of her, but--who would take charge while she was away? "why not make it a general holiday? lend me the little girls, farm out the babies to relations, throw off responsibilities, and have a real laze yourself. you know you would love it!" i said. "haven't you a man friend who would take you away?" "oh, rather. the best of fellows. we were boys together. he's had a stiff time, too, so he understands. miss harding, what a brick you are! will you really take the girls? i say"--his face lit up with the boyish smile--"it would be a chance to buy them some clothes. would you do it? miss brown has no taste. it's been one of my trials. my girl was so dainty. a pretty hat apiece, and a frock, and stockings to match--that wouldn't break the bank, would it? do you think five pounds--" i waved a protesting hand. "heaps! heaps! leave it to me. i'll make them as pretty as pictures. when--er--when i was young, i was fond of dress. i was considered to have good taste." he smiled at me in the kind, forbearing manner in which people do smile at elderly women who exploit their own youth, and said vaguely:-- "yes, i am sure--i am quite sure. well, i must be off. thank you for all your kindness." he departed, but the very next night the maid brought a message to ask if miss harding had a thermometer. if so, would she be so very kind as to take billie's temperature, as he seemed restless and feverish? i draped myself in the paisley shawl in which i flatter myself i look my plainest and most ancient, ran upstairs, and was shown into billie's bedroom. he was sitting up in his cot, looking so pretty with his dishevelled golden curls, his big bright eyes, and the fever flush on his cheeks. i guessed at sight; but it was worse than that--close on . i gave the thermometer the professional shake, looking, as i felt, pretty serious and troubled, whereupon miss brown took alarm at once, being evidently the useful kind of woman who loses her head in illness. "is he going to be ill? i don't understand poultices and fomentations; couldn't take the responsibility! as things are, there is more work than i can get through. i hope you will tell mr thorold that if billie is going to be ill, it is absolutely necessary to have help." i calmed her, and went into the dining-room to report. the air was full of smoke, and mr thorold was sitting at one side of the fireplace, talking to another man who was facing him from another big leather chair. they both sprang up at my entrance, and mr thorold said:-- "this is my friend, mr hallett, of whom i spoke to you lately. we are discussing the possibility of a short trip. edgar, this is miss harding, a very kind neighbour. she has come up on an errand of mercy to see one of the babies, who is a bit off colour. how do you find the small man, miss harding?" he was not a bit anxious. in the interest of the talk with an old friend, the baby ailment had faded from his mind. i hated to bring the shadow to his face, but it had to be done. "billie has a high temperature, mr thorold. i think a doctor ought to see him." he looked shocked--incredulous. "to-night! wouldn't to-morrow morning--?" "i should advise you to see him to-night. it may be nothing but a feverish cold, but it is half the battle to start treatment in time. he is nearly ." "i will telephone at once," he said shortly, and marched out of the room. the tenants of heath mansions do not, as a rule, run to the extravagance of possessing a private telephone, but down in the basement there is a species of ice cupboard, where, in surroundings of abject dreariness, we deposit our pence and shout messages, to the entertainment and enlightenment of the maids at "well" windows. mr thorold was bound for this haunt, and the nice mr hallett and i sat down to entertain one another during his absence. he is nice! i liked him the moment i saw him, and i went on liking him more and more. he is a big, powerfully-built man, but his face is thin, the fine moulding of the bones showing distinctly beneath their slight covering. the clean line of his jaw is a joy to behold; his eyes are dark and unusually deep-set--i would say "cavernous," if i had not a particular dislike to the word. he has large, expressive hands, and a low-pitched, unusually deliberate way of talking. "i hope the youngster is not going to develop anything serious!" "i hope not. he is a dear little fellow. it is so sad to see a child ill." "it is; but--frankly!" he said, with a slow, grave glance, "i was thinking more of my friend. he has had more than his share of trouble, and another spell of anxiety would be hard luck. it's a big strain on a man to play father _and_ mother to a growing family." "there is one thing which would be harder! to have no growing family to look after, and to take his mind off himself." he looked at me sharply, and as sharply looked away. i had a lightning impression that i had touched a tender spot, but it passed the next moment at sound of the perfectly calm, perfectly controlled voice:-- "you think that is so? i should be glad to agree, but frank has lost an ideal companion. i did not imagine that such young children could fill the gap--" "in a sense they never can, but they fill so many smaller gaps that it is impossible to think of the big one all the time. if you had any idea what it is to live in a flat this size, with five small children tumbling over each other all day long, laughing and quarrelling and getting into mischief on every conceivable occasion, behaving like perfect little fiends one hour and angels straight from heaven the next--well, you would realise that there isn't much time left over to sit down and nurse a private woe!" he smiled. he smiles, as the scotch say, "with deefficulty". the lines of his face are all set for gravity and reserve. "that is so. but at night? after such a tornado the solitary evenings must seem lonelier than ever." "i don't imagine there is much time for reflection. there is generally some work to keep him going. rupert has a weakness for dropping things down the sinks. last week, for a change, he drove a nail into a gas-pipe. and there are the bills to pay, and new things to order, and endless notes of inquiry and arrangements to be written. his evenings are well filled up." "i see you are a believer in counter-irritants." the deep-set eyes rested on me with a speculative glance. a practical, unimaginative woman, who has neither understanding nor sympathy for romance--that was obviously the verdict. if he only knew! if he only knew! presently mr thorold came back and said the doctor would come round almost at once. would i be so very good as to stay to hear his verdict? miss brown was not much use in cases of illness. she lost her head. the trouble to me seems to be that she has lost her heart--if she ever had one to lose! the doctor said that billie had bronchitis, and that his lungs were not quite clear. someone must sit up with him, keep a bronchitis kettle going, and see that he did not kick off the clothes. his temperature must be taken at certain hours. a great deal might depend upon the next few hours. he was afraid it might be difficult to get in a nurse before morning. was there anyone who could-- miss brown promptly put herself out of the running, so what was there left for me to do but modestly to confess that i had passed two red cross examinations, could flick a thermometer with the best, and baffle the tricks of the most obstinate bronchitis kettle that ever overbalanced itself, or spat hot water instead of steam. the three men stood round looking at me with big, grateful eyes, and though i was honestly sorry about billie, deep down at the bottom of my heart i _glowed_. this was in very deed being of use! here was real work lying ready at my hand! chapter eighteen. a struggle for a life. billie has been desperately ill. for three weeks he has lain at the point of death, his little life hanging by a thread. two trained nurses have been in attendance, and a third unofficial one, in the person of old miss harding! winifred and marion are living in my flat; bridget looks after them, and does our own housekeeping, and also supplements miss brown's efforts, which are, to put it mildly, inadequate for the occasion. she does not seem to realise that when people are torn with anxiety they don't appreciate boiled mutton; and that when they sit up half the night, waiting in sickening suspense to hear the next temperature, a hot cup of chocolate can be more precious than rubies. therefore bridget and i manufacture dainties, and carry them upstairs to supplement the supplies. for the first few days the illness took a normal course, and anxiety, though real, was not acute; but on the fourth day strength failed noticeably, and oxygen was ordered to help the clogged lungs to work. at first it was given every two hours, then hourly, then every half-hour, and every woman who knows anything about nursing understands what _that_ means, plus doses of brandy, struggles to pour as much milk as possible down an unwilling throat, and a constant taking of pulse and temperature, to say nothing of hypodermic injections at those awful moments when there seems no pulse to feel. it means that no one woman, be she ever so competent, can keep up the fight single-handed for twelve hours at a stretch, and that an understudy to work under her may mean the very turning of the scale. i have been understudy by night, and proud i am to record that nurse proclaims me unusually "handy" for a member of the "laity". hour after hour we have fought together for the little darling's life, while he lay unconscious against the piled cushions, a waxen image, unrecognisable as the bonnie curly-headed billie we had loved. we racked our brains to think of new means and new contrivances to fight the ever-increasing danger. with the aid of screens and a sheet we contrived a tent over his cot, through a hole in which the elongated cardboard funnel of the steam-kettle could enter and give increased relief to the breathing. we made mustard poultices with white of egg instead of water, to save needless irritation of the skin; we used the french expedient of putting quinine pads under the armpits to reduce the terrible temperature. nurse was indefatigable--a miracle of energy and resource--but through all her anxiety and tenderness for the little patient, it was impossible not to recognise the keen professional zest in a "good case." "give me a bad pneumonia, and i'm happy!" said she, frankly, and she meant what she said. at those rare intervals when billie fell into a fitful sleep, i used to steal out of the room and pay a visit to the dining-room, where, on two arm-chairs on opposite sides of the fire, the poor father and his friend sat drearily smoking, and waiting until the small hours of the morning. it was useless to tell mr thorold to go to bed. his wife had breathed her last at two o'clock in the morning, and he was possessed by a dread that billie would do the same. at three or thereabouts he might be persuaded to move, but until then it was but a waste of breath to ask it. poor fellow! to have his old friend by his side was the best comfort that was left, but how he must have missed his wife, and how endlessly, breathlessly long the hours must have seemed, sitting with folded hands, with nothing to do but to wait! even i--an outsider--was oppressed by the difference in the atmosphere of the two rooms. in the sick-room there was suffering indeed, but there was also a constant, earnest fight; here, the heavy, smoke-filled air seemed to breathe of despair! on those midnight visits, the first thing i did after giving my report, was to open the window, and the second to make a jug of chocolate, beating the powder in the milk till it foamed, in tempting continental fashion. the men shivered and protested. they were in a draught; they were not hungry; they wanted neither chocolate nor sandwiches; but i went on with my preparations in an elderly, persistent fashion, and said if they didn't--well, i did, and i hoped they would not grudge me a little refreshment in the midst of my labours. by the time that the little meal was prepared, the smoke had cleared away and left a little air to breathe, so then i made a favour of shutting the window and poking the fire, and we would sit down together, and--it was wonderful how much we could eat! if aunt eliza could have seen me then, what--oh, what would she have said! how i blessed the grey wig and the spectacles, and the few deft, disfiguring touches which made my presence so easy and comfortable, not only for myself but for those two poor, sad, helpless young men. however much one may rail against convention, it remains an unalterable fact that youth and good looks are _not_ the best qualification for indiscriminate work among one's fellow-creatures. i must remember this fact when i grow really old, and apply it as balm to my wounded vanity. over the chocolate and sandwiches we would talk--not about billie, if possible; and i learnt that the two men had first met at harrow, had then been separated for many years, and had renewed the old friendship during the last two years. there is evidently a strong sympathy between them--a sympathy of suffering, i think, for with all his charm, it is evident that mr hallett is not a happy man. he says little about himself, but i gather that he travels a great deal, that he writes for various reviews, and that--to say the least of it--he is not overburdened with wealth. he never mentions any "belongings," and is evidently unmarried. i wonder why, for he is certainly unusually attractive. sometimes when we have been sitting talking together, i have been so conscious of this attraction that i have had quite a violent longing to be evelyn wastneys once more, and to meet him, so to speak, on his own ground! he is most nice to me--oh, most nice! he thinks me a kind, sensible, generous old dear; says i deserve a victoria cross, and that no block of mansions is complete without me. one night he asked me smilingly if i would come and nurse him if he were ill; another time he said he could almost find it in his heart to wish that my money would disappear, so that he could engage me as a permanent housekeeper. then mr thorold interrupted, and said that the first claim was his, and that if my services were to be bought, no other man should have them unless over his own dead body. they argued jestingly, while i blushed--a hot, overwhelming blush, and seeing it, they paused, looking mystified and distressed, and abruptly changed the conversation. did they think me ridiculous and a prude, or did that blush for the moment obliterate the sham signs of age, and show them for the moment the face of a girl? i should like to know, but probably i never shall. for four long weeks billie's life hung in the balance, for after the pneumonia crisis was passed, unconsciousness continued, and the terrible word "meningitis" was whispered from lip to lip. there were heart-breaking days to be lived through, when the terror was no longer that he might die, but that he might live--deprived of speech, of hearing, possibly of reason itself. never while i live shall i forget those days; but looking back, i can realise that they have taught me one great lesson, branded it on heart and brain so that i can never, never forget. the lesson is that death is not the last and worst enemy which we are so apt to think it when our dear ones are in its grasp. oh, there were hours of darkness in which death seemed to us a lovely and beautiful thing, when we blamed ourselves for shrinking from the wrench of giving back a little child into god's tender care. who could compare a darkened life on earth with the perfected powers, the unimaginable glories of eternity? there were times when our prayers were reversed, and we asked god to take billie home! but he lived; he spoke; he opened his dark eyes and smiled upon us; he demanded a battered "boy stout" doll, and hugged it to his pneumonia jacket; he drank his milk, and said "more!" he grew cross and fractious--oh, welcome, gladdening sign!--and said, "doe away! no more daddies! no more nursies! don't want nobodies! boo-hoo-hoo!" and we went and wept for gladness. illness, the really critical touch-and-go illness which nurses call "a good case," turns a home into an isolation camp. the outer world retreats to an immeasurable distance, and the watchers stare out of the windows, and behold with stupefaction hard-hearted men and women walking abroad on two legs, with hats on their heads, and umbrellas in their hands, talking and laughing and pursuing their petty avocations, not in the least affected by the fact that the temperature had again soared up to , and the doctor spoke gravely about heart strain. it seems inconceivable that human creatures, living a few yards away, are actually going to parties, and attending theatres, trying on new clothes, and worrying about cracked cups. it was with much the same shock of incredulity that, on descending to my flat one afternoon, i was met with the news that a gentleman was in the drawing-room waiting to see me. bridget was out walking with the little girls, and the orphan, as usual, had opened the door. i demanded to be told "all about it," upon which she inhaled a deep breath, and set forth her tale after the manner of a witness in the police court. "he says to me, `is miss harding at home?' i says, `yes, sir, she's at home, but she's out at the moment nursing a little boy upstairs'. he says to me, `is miss evelyn wastneys at home?' i says, `she don't live here, sir. there has some letters come--' he says, `when will miss harding be in?' i says, `she generally gives us a look, as it might be, about six, before the young ladies settles to bed'. `then i'll wait!' he says, takes off his hat, and walked in. i said, `what name shall i say, please?' he said, `it doesn't matter about my name. she doesn't know it.'" i stood silent, digesting the news. "what sort of a gentleman is he? what does he look like?" the orphan considered, silently chewing the cud. "he looks," she opined deliberately, "as if he could give you _what for_!" at that, without one second's pause, i scuttled into my own room and locked the door behind me. (i would have "locked and double locked" it, as heroines of fiction do on such occasions, but it has always remained a mystery to me how they manage to do it!) that being done i fell into a chair, and breathlessly confronted--the worst! it was the squire! i knew it without a doubt. if the orphan had devoted an hour to her description, she could not have been more apt. in some mysterious way he had tracked me to my lair. i might have known he would do it! he was not the sort of man to be daunted by a closed door. he would put out the whole of his big, indomitable force, till by hook or by crook it flew open, and the secret was revealed. mercifully, however, it was so far only miss harding whom he had discovered; evelyn wastneys still eluded his grasp, and if i could summon enough nerve and courage to carry through one final interview, all might yet be well. it was useless to say i would not see him. he would simply wait until i did. the only result would be to arouse his suspicions. i rose slowly and confronted myself in the glass. the disguise was good, but was it good enough? i hastily opened my "make up" case, and accentuated the lines which the expert had shown were most telling--the curve of the upper lip, the kink in the eyebrow, the long wrinkle from nose to chin. i wrapped my paisley scarf round my shoulders, took my courage in both hands, and opened the door. i decided to go into the dining-room, draw the casement curtains, seat myself with my back to the light, and--send the orphan to summon him to my presence! i was nervous and scared, but--let me confess it--the moment was not without a fearful joy! my heart was beating with quick, excited throbs. it was the oddest, most inexplicable thing, but i--i really wanted to see him. if a wish could have spirited him away, i could not have brought myself to breathe it. it seemed suddenly as if, unknown to myself, i had missed him, been missing him for a long, long time-- the door opened and he came in. chapter nineteen. a double excitement. he wore a dark suit, and carried a silk hat in his hand. the conventional dress made a great difference in his appearance; it always does when one is accustomed to see a man in the easy, becoming garb of the country. he looked older, more imposing; in the dim light it seemed to me that he was thinner too, had lost some of his deep tan. i rose from my chair and bowed. he bowed too, and said:-- "miss harding, i believe?" long might he believe it! i waved him to a chair, and said suavely, "pray sit down." "i--er--i called to ask if you would be kind enough to give me miss wastneys' address. i believe her letters are sent to this address." "may i ask who gave you that information?" "i'm sorry; but i'm not at liberty to say. it was a discovery which has given me considerable difficulty to make." "excuse me, mr--er--" i stopped short with an admirable air of inquiry. "my name is maplestone." "thank you! i presume, mr maplestone, that you are aware of miss wastneys' wish to keep her address private for the moment. do you consider yourself justified in acting in direct opposition to her wishes?" "i do," he said sturdily. "i warned her that i would do everything in my power to find her. i am only sorry that i have been so long in doing it." "i am afraid she would not share your regret. in any case, i cannot take the responsibility of helping you any further." "you refuse to tell me where to find her?" "i am sorry to appear discourteous, mr maplestone, but i have no choice." he looked at me, a cool, casual glance, and impatiently frowned. there was no flicker of recognition in his look. to him i was obviously a mere figure-head, an obstinate, elderly woman who stood as an obstacle in his path. he hesitated for a moment, and then said emphatically:-- "my business is imperative. it is absolutely necessary to see miss wastneys." "i think she must decide this point." "madam!"--he glared at me reproachfully--"you are probably not aware that i have asked miss wastneys to be my wife?" "i was not aware, mr maplestone, that miss wastneys had accepted that offer." "she has not. that is just the point. if she had, i should not need help. but she is going to! that is why i am so anxious to find her--to prevent further waste of time." braced against my cushions, i gasped in mingled exasperation and dismay. that tone of certainty impressed me against my will. it required an effort to preserve an unruffled appearance. "i cannot give you any help, mr maplestone. to the best of my belief, you are wrong in your expectations." "evelyn--miss wastneys is your niece, i believe?" i bowed, mentally quoting the orphan's qualification:-- "sort of!" "may i ask if she has confided in you--told you the history of our acquaintance?" for one moment i hesitated, then:-- "i think i may say that i know practically all that there is to tell." he leant forward suddenly, rested an arm on the table, and fixed me with eager eyes. "miss harding, i want a friend! i want an ally. i came here to-day, hoping to find one in you. will you be on my side?" i drew back; but, before i had time to protest, he hurled another crisp, sharp question at my head:-- "do you love your niece?" the question appealed to me. i answered promptly, as it were mentally licking my lips:-- "i _do_! i may say i am much attached to evelyn. she has faults (judicially), but she is a pleasant, well-meaning girl. she has been (unctuously) very kind to me." "she is kind to everyone," he said shortly, "except myself! of course she has faults! plenty of them. you could not know her without seeing that." i glared, outraged. oh, indeed! if my faults are so many and so obvious, why on earth does he--? "you are very keen-sighted for a lover, mr maplestone," i said coldly. "if i were evelyn, i should prefer the idealism which is usual under the circumstances. but perhaps you do not pose as an ordinary lover." "i don't know," he said shortly--"i don't know. this is a new experience to me. i can only say one thing"--his voice softened, swelled into deep, low notes--"she is my life. she means everything-- the beginning and the end. i shall fight on and on until she is mine." miss harding coughed, and twitched at her shawl, and blinked at the ceiling, and feebly shook her grey head. "it is a pity," she said weakly, "to make too sure! in these matters force is--er--is out of place. evelyn must decide. she should not be coerced. if i know her nature, coercion will do no good. she is inclined to obstinacy." "coercion would fail, but _love_--your niece is very feminine. she would be unhappy alone. she needs to be loved. i have love to give her--enough to satisfy any girl--more than enough! at the bottom of her heart she knows it. she ran away because she was afraid. left no address." "mr maplestone, i am sorry to appear unkind, but miss wastneys' plans were made before she guessed your wishes." that was true, and hit him hard. his face fell, and he looked so quelled, so dejected, that my heart ached with remorse. what foolish thing i might have said i don't know, but at that moment the door burst open, and winifred and marion precipitated themselves into my arms. taking no notice of the strange man, they proceeded to confide the adventures of their walk. it was "miss harding, this; darling miss harding, that; miss harding, dear, the other," while i undid their mufflers, and smoothed their hair, and smiled in benevolent interest. what could be a finer testimony to miss harding's verisimilitude than the blandishments of these sweet innocents? for some minutes mr maplestone's presence was ignored, but when i looked at him again it was to realise with surprised curiosity that his bearing had undergone a startling change. his cheeks had flushed, the weary lines had disappeared, he looked young, brisk, assured. nothing had happened to account for it; nothing had been said, bearing in the remotest sense on his affairs. i had made no slip of any kind, but had been laboriously elderly and restrained, and yet, there it was--an unmistakable air of satisfaction and relief. he rose, held out his hand. "i see you are busy. i won't detain you longer. if you will allow me i will call again." "mr maplestone, excuse my want of hospitality, but it is quite useless." he retained my hand in his; he spoke in a pleading voice. "i am a very lonely man. i have no one else to whom i can speak. it would be a pleasure just to see anyone who belonged--i will promise not to be a nuisance. please let me come!" "well!" i said helplessly. "well!" short of being absolutely brutal, what else could i say? besides--it may be a pleasure to me, too! that same evening a letter arrived from charmion. nothing like having all one's excitements at the same time. it was good to see the dear writing again, and i was in the mood when i badly needed some words of comfort. i tore open the envelope, hoping to find them inside. this is the letter:-- "evelyn, dear,--how is it faring with you, i wonder, in your grey london world, while i laze beneath italian skies? it is a rest to know that you understand my silence, and don't need to be reminded that it does not mean forgetfulness. that big heart of yours can be very patient and forbearing. i have good cause to know that, but i also know that no one in the world more keenly enjoys a word of love and appreciation, so here's a confession for you, dear. read it, lock it up in your heart, and never, never refer to it in words! this is it, then. during these last weeks, when i have been fighting the old battle of the last six years, i have discovered to my surprise, and--let me confess it--dismay, that my point of view has strangely altered. i still consider that i have been the victim of one of the cruellest deceptions which a woman could endure; i still believe that in that first ghastly hour of discovery, flight was justified and natural, but--well, evelyn, dear! i have been living for months in very close intimacy with a little girl who thinks no evil, and is always ready to find a good explanation for what may on the surface appear to be unkind, and it has had its effect. "i keep asking myself, `in my place, what would evelyn have done?' and the answer disturbs my sleep. you are impulsive, my dear, and your temper is not beyond reproach. if you loved deeply you would be exacting, and would fiercely resent deceit. you would have run away even more impetuously than i did myself, but--but--you would not have kept up your resentment for six long years, or refused the offender a right to speak! if i know my evelyn, before a month had passed her heart would have softened, and she would be turning special pleader in his defence, racking her brain for extenuating explanations. and if there had been none--i can imagine you, evelyn, shouldering your burden with a set, gallant little face, going back to your husband, and saying to yourself, `am i a coward to be daunted by the failure of one little month? he married me for my money--very well, he shall have his price! i will give it to him, freely and willingly, but i will give him other things too--companionship, interest, sympathy, so that in time to come he shall love me for myself! i am young and pretty and intelligent--i can do it if i care enough to be patient and unselfish. i married him for better or worse. with god's help, i will turn this "worse" into "better" before our lives are done!' "oh, i assure you, my dear, i cut a poor figure in my own eyes, when i contrast my conduct with what yours would have been in my place. if we had met years ago things might have gone differently, but now it is too late. too late for apologies and recantations, that is to say, for they would not be acceptable, even if i could bring myself to the point of offering them. this sounds as if your example had had no real effect after all, but it is not so. outward circumstances may remain the same, but some of the inward bitterness has gone! do you remember the old fairy story about the unfortunate king who had three iron bands clamped tightly round his heart? it was the result of a spell, of course, and the only thing which could break their hold was when some mortal did some really fine and noble deed, then with a great bang one of the bands broke loose and conveniently disappeared. "well, dear little girl, if your present crack-brained mission is not working out to your satisfaction, if your neighbours in the `mansions' (?) are unappreciative or appreciative in objectionable ways--comfort yourself with the reflection that your sweet example has burst one of charmion's iron bands. i think on reflection one might almost say _two_, and that she daily blesses you for the relief! "i can't send you an address. i have no idea where i am going next, but before very long you will see me again. i'll burst in upon you some day, with a paris hat on my head (and another in my box for a pretty friend!) and snatch you away from your fads and fancies, and carry you off to `pastimes,' to gloat over, all to myself! don't have anything to say to any presumptuous man who may try to lure you away. for the period of our lease you belong to me, and i am not going to give you up. "charmion." i smiled, wiped a furtive tear, and carefully folded up the sheet. it _did_ comfort me to know that i had helped charmion. i thought happily of seeing her again, of all the long interesting talks we would have together. incidentally i thought of our lease. if we paid a penalty, we could break it at three years. chapter twenty. strange conversations. billie is slowly recovering. he is sitting up in his cot, languidly permitting himself to be adored, waited upon by obsequious attendants, and fed upon the fat of the land. this is the period when outsiders cry gushingly to an invalid's relations, "how happy you must be!" but as a cold matter of fact they usually feel very depressed and snappy and bored. this sounds thankless, but it is nothing of the sort; the thankfulness is all there, stored up for later realisation, but for the moment tired nerves are in the ascendant, and pay one out for the long-drawn strain. relieved from acute anxiety, mr thorold began to think of the cost, count up doctors' visits, and sigh like a furnace; miss brown gave notice. "she wasn't blind and she wasn't deaf. she was aware that she was not giving satisfaction, and it would be better for both parties--" the general servant, who had been quite heroic during the time when work went on the twenty-four hours round, now took to banging dishes and muttering as she left the room. old miss harding, having lost much sleep, and spent her few leisure hours in reading aloud to her small guests, exhibited a tendency to tears and self-pity. mr hallett, disappointed of a hoped-for holiday with his friend as companion, shrugged his shoulders, and inquired dismally: "what can you expect? things always go wrong in this miserable world!" each man in turns paid visits to my flat, and discussed his troubles at length. mr thorold's were mostly financial. what could he do to cut down expenses? would i recommend sending the children to live in the country? ridiculously cheap houses could be had, if one did not mind living miles from a station. he himself must, of course, remain in town; but in a cheap boarding-house he could manage to live on very little--say a hundred a year--and when he took a holiday he could "run down to the country". it would be good for the children. "while it lasted," i said drily. "their father might live--with luck-- for a year or eighteen months. it seems hardly worth while having the expense of a removal for such a short time." he sighed, looked for a moment as if he were going to declare that he would be glad to be out of it, then pulled himself together and said:-- "well, but i must pull in somehow to pay for all these extra expenses! have you anything to suggest?" "you might let this flat furnished for a few months in spring. the porters tell me there are tenants to be found at that time. odd, isn't it, that the season should affect `weltham mansions'? it's the lap of the waves, i suppose, but it seems a long way to flow. i could help you to find cheap country quarters, and you could fit in your own holiday at the same time, and so save travelling expenses. lazing about in a garden may not be exciting, but it's the rest you need. i knew a very tired man who went off for a golfing week with a friend. his wife told me he took a fortnight to recover. she said so to the doctor, and he said, `of course! what did you expect? it would have been better if he had gone to bed.'" he shrugged impatiently. "maybe it is quite true. i suppose it is. but when a man has only one fortnight in the year, he might be allowed to enjoy it in his own way! it's an idea, though--letting the flat. thanks for the suggestion. i'll speak to an agent." mr hallett rested his big shoulders against my cushions, and said in his low, grave tones:-- "you are a woman--you understand these things. is there any way in which i can help? it's pretty tough to see an old friend worried to death, and just sit and look on--but thorold's proud, and it's difficult to interfere. it seems a cruel thing that illness should fall so heavily upon the middle classes. the rich are independent, the poor have hospitals; but a man in thorold's position is no sooner through with the mental torture than he is up against an army of bills. it seems that billie is bound to keep his nurses for several weeks longer. that's a big item in itself." it was! often during these last weeks i had thought to myself what a grand occupation it would be for an independent woman to train as a nurse, and then give one or two doctors leave to call her in to serve-- without payment--in cases like the present, where need was great and means were small. i went off into a day-dream in which i saw myself, in cap and apron, acting as ministering angel to the suffering middle class, to be roused by mr hallett's voice saying tentatively:-- "i'm a poor man, but i am alone in the world, so there's no object in saving. why shouldn't i settle a few of the bills for billie's illness and say nothing about it?" i shook my head. "mr thorold would find out and be furious. you must help openly, or not at all. you have helped by keeping him company all these weeks." he hitched his shoulders, and made a grimace of disparagement. "it's a long time since my company could be called cheering, i'm afraid. thorold is `down and out' himself, and he ought to have happy people about him." he turned his dark eyes upon me with sudden interest. "like _you_!" he said emphatically, "like _you_! excuse a personal remark, miss harding, but you seem to have an eternal flow of vitality. thorold and i were talking about you last night, comparing you with other women of your--er--your generation. we agreed that you left an extraordinary impression of youth!" he looked at me with wistful eyes. he was a lonely man, and i was a woman, conveniently at hand, and possessed of a "feeling heart". an impulse towards confidence struggled to birth. in his eyes i could see it grow. "i suppose," he began tentatively, "you have had an easy life?" "in a material sense--yes! but i have had my trials." a wave of self-pity engulfed me and quivered in my voice. "i have been separated, by death or distance, from all my relatives. my best friend is abroad." "death--or distance!" he repeated the words in his deep, slow tones, as though they had struck a note in his own heart. "but distance _is_ death, miss harding! the worst kind of death. desolation without peace! thorold thinks himself brokenhearted, but there are men who would envy him his clean, sweet grief. his sorrow is for himself alone. she is at peace!" "ah," i said quickly, "i know what you mean. when we are quite young, death seems the crowning loss, but there are worse things--i've discovered that! i realised it in those terrible days when we feared for billie's brain. when you love people very much, it would be a daily death to know that they were suffering." he gazed gloomily into the fire. "it is extraordinary--the capacity for suffering of the human heart! physically we are so easily destroyed. an invisible germ will do it, the prick of a finger, a draught of cold air; but a man can live on, suffering mental torture, month after month, year after year, and his weight will hardly decrease by a pound. you read of broken hearts, but there are no such things! hearts are invulnerable, torture-proof, guaranteed to endure all shocks!" it occurred to me that it was time that miss harding exerted her vitality and stopped this flow of repining. the poor man had evidently had some tragedy in his life which had warped his outlook. he needed cheering--we all needed cheering; proverbially the surest way of cheering yourself is to cheer other people; therefore the sane and obvious way of spending his money was in providing cheer for the company. i said as much, and he said, "certainly; but how? it was winter time. a winter's day in london holds an insuperable barrier against any possibility of enjoyment." i said, "not at all! there were heaps of things--heaps of ways." he said, "would i kindly specify one or two of the `heaps'?" i said, "certainly not! the essence of a treat lay in its quality of surprise. it was for him to think." he smiled at me with whimsical amusement, and cried, "you said that just like a girl. you are a girl at heart, miss harding, in spite of your grey hairs. what a pity you did not marry, you would have given some man and some kiddies such a thundering good time. i know, of course, that it was your own doing. there must have been--" "oh, there were!" i cried glibly. "several!" "but you couldn't--you were never tempted?" "no, never. at least--" suddenly i found that it was necessary to qualify that denial. "there are two things which are always tempting to a woman, mr hallett--love and strength! every woman would be glad to have a strong, loving man to take care of her--if he were the right man!" "well!" he sighed, and rose heavily from his seat. "no doubt you knew best, but--i hope you gave him his chance! we men have many sides, but the best side is apt to remain hidden until some woman brings it out. if he loved you, you owed him something. i hope you played fair and gave him his chance!" he turned towards the door; we shook hands, and he left without another word. i turned back to the fire, sat me down, and thought. ralph maplestone had demanded his chance, and i had thought myself noble and brave in refusing to give it. he was strong and he was loving; he had asked nothing better than to take care of me. would the time ever come, when i was really old, when i should sit by a lonely hearth and look back and regret? i thought of mr hallett's voice as he spoke those last words, and saw a vision of his face. it is a beautiful face, and i dearly love beauty. what a satisfaction it would be to go through life looking at the curve of that nose and the modelling of that chin and jaw! i thought of the squire's stern voice, and his blunt, plain-featured face. always, always, so long as i lived, i should long to take a pair of pincers and tweak that nose into shape, and nip little pieces of flesh from the neck, and pad them on the hollows beneath the cheek-bones. suddenly i began to laugh. i imagined myself doing it-- saw the expression in the blue, startled eyes. strange how plain faces can fascinate more than beautiful ones! my laughter died away. it is difficult to keep on laughing by oneself. i was tired, and had been giving out sympathy all day; depression clutched me, and a restless irritability. at this auspicious moment the orphan knocked at the door and announced that number would be glad to speak a few words. "show her in!" i said, and in she came--a pretty, thin, little woman, with a tempery eye. "i am sorry to intrude, but you must really understand that this is too much! when people live in flats, it is essential that they show some consideration for their neighbours. will you kindly listen to that?" i listened. winifred and marion were playing at "bears," and chasing bridget to her death. engrossed in my own thoughts, i had paid no attention, beyond a subconscious satisfaction that they were enjoying themselves. the roars did not annoy me, but they were certainly fairly loud. i tendered a civil explanation. "it's mr thorold's little girls. their brother has been dangerously ill. they are staying with me." "is there any necessity for them to shriek at the pitch of their voices?" "they are out for hours every day. this is their play-time before they go to bed. they go at seven." "and wake at six! for the last fortnight we have been disturbed every morning. my husband wishes me to say that if it goes on he will complain to the landlord. i have complained before, as you know, but without effect. ever since you came we have been annoyed." i was furious. whatever had happened during the last fortnight, no one could have been quieter before. "and what about themselves?" i said coldly. "do you imagine that the landlord will be able to make children sleep beyond their usual hour?" "certainly not, but they can be kept quiet. when people go to bed late"--she stopped short, arrested by my expression, stared for a moment, and then concluded--"they naturally object to being disturbed in the morning. we breakfast at nine. this morning we were kept awake by quarrelling voices for over an hour." i bowed politely. "i am sorry. it is most disagreeable. i have had the same experience myself, but at the beginning of the night." the words jumped out. the moment i had said them i was sorry, and when i saw her poor startled face i could have cried. the slow red rose in her cheeks; we stared into each other's eyes, and both spoke at the same time. she said:-- "oh-oh! can you _hear_?" i said:-- "oh, i'm sorry! i should not have said it. forgive me! i'm tired and cross after nursing upstairs. i want to quarrel myself. i'm sorry! i'll keep the children quiet. they will soon be going home. please always let me know if i'm a bother. i'll do everything i can!" she looked at me--a puzzled look--and mumbled cold thanks. this was a case when my apparent years were against me. if i had been evelyn--a girl like herself--we would have clasped hands and made friends. as it was, she distrusted the elderly woman who showed an impulsiveness foreign to her years. she departed hurriedly, leaving me plunged in fresh woe. a nice person _i_ am, to blame a man for having a bad temper! i have hurt a sister woman, who has the hardest lot which any woman can have in life--a loveless home! chapter twenty one. mr maplestone is pleased. as a result of my suggestion, mr hallett has taken mr thorold to several concerts, and as a crowning effort actually lured him to a week-end at brighton. that was last week; and as the day was mild and-- almost!--sunny, i suggested to the little girls that we should go holiday-making on our own account, and pay a visit to the zoo. the proposal excited great enthusiasm, and an early lunch was ordered so that we could set forth in good time, so as to have a couple of hours with the animals before adjourning to a confectioner's for tea. i remembered my own childhood too well to suggest returning home for the meal. to drink tea out of strange cups, in a strange room, to have a practically unlimited choice of strange cakes--this is a very orgie of bliss to anything "in one figure," and when the tea is followed by a drive home in a taxi, satisfaction approaches delirium. i remembered mr thorold's pathetic "make them happy!" and determined that, if it were in my power, this should be a day to be remembered. lunch was finished, i dressed the little girls in their new hats and coats, wriggled their fingers into new gloves, saw to it that there was not a crease in their stockings nor a chink in the lacing of their boots, and had just settled them on the sofa in the drawing-room to wait quietly until i rushed through my own hasty toilette, when--the door opened, and who should walk in but ralph maplestone himself! for different reasons his appearance struck consternation into the breasts of all three beholders. i was naturally overcome with embarrassment as to what he had come for now; the little girls were seized with a devastating fear lest his arrival should interfere with their treat. they leapt to their feet, and rent the air with protestations. "oh, oh! it's the same man!" "we're going out! we're going out! we've got on our hats." "to the zoo! so's miss harding. she's just going to put on her hat." "it's our treat. father's away. he's having a treat, and she promised--she promised we could go!" tears sounded in the voices, showed in suspicious redness round the eyes. mr maplestone smiled--like many grave people he has a beautiful smile--he laid one big hand on the top of each little hat, and swayed them gently to and fro. "well, and why not? of course you are going! all good little girls go to the zoo, and ride on the elephants, and throw buns to the bears. you are extra good little girls, and so you can see something else--a little bird, not much bigger than a canary, who can talk and say words almost as well as you can yourselves. and think of the monkeys!" he withdrew one hand and held it out to me across the children's heads, smiling and apologetic. "i'm afraid i am looked upon as an obstacle. please don't let me detain you. i would not disappoint them for the world. i can call another day." but by this time fear had given place to gratitude and the quick affection which children show to grown-ups who understand! winifred and marion leapt at his arms, clung, wheedled, and implored. "you come too! you come too! show us the bird that talks. we want you. we want you to come with us. miss harding wants you. you _do_ want him, don't you, miss harding?" the leap of my heart showed that i did! the very suggestion had been enough to give an altogether different aspect to the expedition; to invest it with a spice of adventure, not to say romance, which was most refreshing to a spinster living in a basement flat! i fought down an inclination to laugh, _hoped_ that i conquered an inclination to blush, and said primly:-- "my dears, you must not be exacting. mr milestone has no doubt engagements--" "not one!" he contradicted eagerly. "not one! please let me come, miss harding. it would be a charity, for if you turn me away i shall be at a loose end all the afternoon. i am like a fish out of water in town!" "you should return to the country," i said sternly. "it is wasting time to remain here." the children caught at the last sentence, naturally applied it to their own plans, and pranced with renewed impatience. "yes! yes! you said directly after lunch. put on your hat, miss harding--do put it on! we want to see the bird." he looked at me, lifted his eyebrows, and smiled as if to say that further protest was useless, and indeed it seemed that it was. there was nothing for it but to retire to my room, and put on the boat-shaped hat, the thick, unbecoming veil, and the badly-cut coat, which aided my outdoor disguise. i looked plain to a degree. nothing in the world can disfigure a woman more successfully than an unbecoming hat and a cheap black veil, which imparts a dingy, leaden tint to the complexion. i had every reason to be satisfied with my disguise that afternoon, but i wasn't. not a bit! i felt cross, and irritated, and balked! we took a taxi and drove straight to the albert road entrance, made our way down the steep incline, under the bridge, and up again towards the lion houses. marion and winifred hung, one on each of ralph's arms, chattering in a continuous stream. child-like, they ignored me in the fascinations of a new friend; also--and this interested me very much!-- he was charming with them, hitting just the right combination of sense and nonsense, entering into their ideas, and adapting himself with an enjoyment which was obviously real, not feigned. i reminded myself that this was the first time i had seen him in the company of children. _mem_. every woman ought to see a man in several circumstances before she accepts him as a husband. . in his own home. . with his dependents. with children and old people. with his best friend. . when he is angry. . tried by the money test. . flirted with by a woman prettier than herself. we visited the larger animals in turns, and whenever there was a seat the squire thoughtfully pressed me to sit down, while the children pranced about to let off the steam of their enjoyment. after a few minutes he invariably joined me, and led the conversation to the same topic. above the roar of the lions, above the jabber of the monkeys, he shouted in my ears to know if i were still obdurate. wouldn't i help him? why wouldn't i help him? if i really loved evelyn, and cared for her welfare, how could i stand aside? i must see--surely i must see that she belonged to the essentially feminine type of women who needed a home! "i believe there are many women nowadays who are honestly satisfied with an independent career, but she is not one. she is made to love and be loved. she needs a man to look after her." "the right kind of man!" i said primly. "i agree with your diagnosis, mr maplestone, but evelyn's nature makes it peculiarly essential that she should make a wise choice. if her marriage was a failure, she would suffer greatly. no one but herself can decide who is the right man." feeding hour was approaching; a furious outburst of roars proclaimed the lions' knowledge of the fact. mr maplestone leant his arm on the back of the seat and shouted into my ear:-- "but you know her so well; she has spoken to you. there could be no harm in giving me some hints. some things might be altered, though others could not. does she think me an ugly brute?" his face was close to mine. i looked at the blunt features, the clear, healthful tints, and found nothing that offended my eye. as i had realised in mr hallett's presence, expression counts for more than mere correctness of outline. i turned aside and shook my head. "the question of appearance does not count. in that respect you have the one qualification which a woman demands." "which is?" "manliness--strength. evelyn would care little for handsome features." he sighed relief. "disposition then! i made a bad impression at our first meeting. my temper is hasty. i dislike opposition, but if we loved one another we should agree. there would be no opposition." i smiled at his innocence. it is astonishing how guileless these big, strong men can be. i was about to undeceive him, but before i had time to speak the children were back with a rush, dragging at our arms, and demanding to move on. for the next half-hour we had no private conversation, but at the first chance he began once more. "evelyn has been accustomed to the country. i could give her the life she likes. if she wished it i would take a house in town for the season. to a certain extent i believe in women's rights. i should not interfere with her pursuits. i should want her to be happy in her own way." "always providing that her husband was the chief consideration, and came before everything else?" "of course!" he cried loudly. "why, of course! what else could you expect?" i waved my thick dogskin gloves. "oh, mr maplestone, what is the use of arguing? it all comes back to the one thing. if she loved you the other things would adjust themselves. without love, without sympathy, all would go wrong." "there is sympathy. she may not realise it, perhaps, but if she thinks, if you ask her to think, she must acknowledge that, in spite of small surface disagreements, our real selves have drawn together, closer and closer. ask her if she feels to me as she does towards other men? if there seems no difference between us? i know she does not love me--_yet_; but if she gave me my chance, i could make her. no, she would not need to be made. you can at least tell her that." mr hallett's words sounded warningly in my ears. i hesitated, weakly compromised. "yes--i might go so far. she shall hear what you say, and judge for herself. and now we have really talked enough. suppose we hear your bird for a change?" an hour later we drove to fuller's and indulged in tea. it was curiously enough the sight of one of the well-known angel cakes which recalled delphine merrivale to my memory, for she had shown a child-like appreciation of these dainties when they had appeared on our tea-table at "pastimes". poor little delphine! i felt a pang of compunction when i remembered what store she had set on my friendship, and how little, how very little, i had concerned myself about her during the last months! with due caution i proceeded to seek information. "i hope the tenants at `pastimes' are well, and the vicar and his wife-- that pretty little `delphine' of whom evelyn is so fond?" "the vicar is not well; been ailing all autumn, but delphine is going strong. quite launched out this autumn. become quite a leader of fashion in our small world." i felt another pang--of foreboding this time, and said sharply:-- "how very unsuitable! are you speaking figuratively, mr maplestone? surely a clergyman's wife--" "clergymen's wives differ, miss harding, as greatly as the wives of other members of society. they are not turned out by a machine, and this particular one is very young, and not particularly wise." "apparently not. in what way has she `launched out'?" "oh-oh--" he vaguely waved his hands. "smart clothes, you know. lots of 'em. dinner parties. luncheons. less parish work, and more amusement. always trotting over to the `moat'." the present owners of the "moat" were rich city people who gave lavish entertainments, and obviously chose their friends with a consideration of how much amusement could be counted upon in return. pretty, gay delphine was a valuable addition to a house-party, and would no doubt receive as many invitations as she cared to accept; but the influence could not be good. continual association with smart, worldly people would of a certainty heighten her discontent, and lure her into extravagance. i munched my cake in gloomy silence, which was not lightened by the next remark. "i'm sorry for delphine's sake that--she--is away! if you worry it out, this development is her doing. she ought to be there to put on the brake!" "what do you mean? in what possible way is evelyn to blame?" "who spoke of blame? i didn't! it is natural to her to be dainty and beautiful. she has the money, and she has the taste. what is wrong for the wife of a poor man is a virtue in a rich woman. even i--a man--who never noticed such things before, found pleasure in her clothes. she had one blue muslin--" he looked at me with dumb, awed eyes. surely never did a muslin gown at somewhere about a shilling a yard, reap such a harvest of appreciation. i shall preserve that dress in lavender and rose leaves for evermore. "until she came, delphine had the field to herself in our little village. any comparisons must have been in her favour. then suddenly she found herself up against a new standard. being young and-- er--_vain_, she evidently felt it necessary to her peace of mind to follow the leader. from a spectacular point of view the effect is good." spectacular indeed! i was too perturbed, too anxious to speak. evidently delphine had been going in for an orgie of extravagance; a pretty serious one too, since it had attracted the attention of a mere man; and some of the responsibility seemed to fall on my own shoulders! i determined to write her a letter that very night, and in absent-minded fashion began to compose its sentences as i poured out second cups of tea. "although i have not written, you must not think that i have forgotten you. i am leading a busy life, and have little time to spare, but if you should ever need me; if there ever comes a time when you feel i can be of real help, write to me through my lawyers, and i could meet you in town, or even run down for the day." yes, that would do! that would open the way for confidences, if she were in a mood to make them. in any case, i should feel more satisfied in my own mind when i had sent off the message, and shown that i was to be found if needed. looking up suddenly from the tea tray i beheld ralph maplestone smiling to himself across the table, with precisely the same mysterious accession of complaisance that i had noticed on his first visit to the flat. our eyes met, and he turned aside, drawing in his lips to hide the smile, but the light danced in his eyes, and refused to be quenched. most mysterious and perplexing! his moods are evidently very variable. i am glad he was pleased, but i should very much like to know why! chapter twenty two. mrs merrivale's appeal. every one has noticed that the thought of a friend after a spell of forgetfulness is frequently the harbinger of a sudden meeting, or of the receipt of a letter or message. such happenings are called "curious coincidences"; but personally i don't consider them curious at all, or at least no more curious than it is to send a message by telephone, and to hear in reply a familiar voice speaking across the space. when the heart sends forth a wireless message of love and goodwill, surely, if we have in any sense grasped the wonderful power of thought, we must believe that the message reaches its destination, and calls forth a response! right thoughts--thoughts of love and pity and helpfulness-- are prayers winged to heaven and earth; bad thoughts--mean and grudging and censorious--well, they injure the person who thinks them so much, that there can't be much poison left for the recipient. in any case, such leaden things can't rise. this moralising leads up to the fact that while my own letter to delphine lay unfinished on my desk, a note arrived from ralph maplestone, to give me grave news of her husband. "i am summoned home," he wrote, "in my capacity of vicar's warden. while i have been in town, poor merrivale has had an attack of influenza, which has been pretty serious, and has left him rather alarmingly weak. i insisted upon calling in a consultant from b--, whose verdict is that the lungs are seriously threatened. i have feared it for some time, and am glad that he is now forced to take care. he is ordered complete rest, and is to get out of england for the spring months. i shall be kept busy here for some weeks, but expect to run up to town for a day's business now and then, when i will give myself the pleasure of calling on you. meanwhile, will you kindly pass on the news to miss wastneys. i know she will be interested. i rely on you to fulfil your kind promise." by the same post came a letter from charmion, tentatively breaking the news that she would not return for christmas. several minor reasons had contributed to this decision, but the big one was that she was still "working out her cure" and could do it better in solitude. what about me? would i go to ireland? could i work in a visit to friends? rather than think of me sitting alone in my dreary little flat, she would put everything on one side, and come rushing home. "dreary little flat, indeed!" i looked round the dainty, rose-lit room, and laughed a derisive laugh. it was strange. i did not feel a bit depressed. life in the basement flat was very full, very interesting, of late days thrillingly exciting into the bargain. i was not at all sure that i wanted to go back to "pastimes" so soon. christmas in the flat offered endless possibilities. i would have a tree! mrs manners should help me. her children would come, and all the thorolds, and their father, and mr hallett. there should be lots of toys, and lots of baubles, but useful things too! things which should truthfully be "just what i wanted!" perhaps i would be noble and forgiving and ask eric and claudia and moreen. poor mites, it wasn't their fault that their mother wore false pearls! the tree should be on christmas eve, and on christmas night i would invite the grown-ups to dinner, and give them a light, dainty feast, with never a shadow of roast beef or plum pudding! they could do their duty by convention at the midday meal. in two minutes' time i had thought out the whole menu, even the decorations on the table. what fun it would be! how they would all enjoy it! how little mrs manners would revel in the shopping expeditions! her present should be a pretty blouse--something pretty, bought with a view to what is becoming, and not to what will be useful, and wear for several seasons, and then cut up into dusters. an occasional extravagance _is_ such a tonic to a feminine mind! as for the men, mr thorold should have a box of cigars. mr hallett should have the same. and in the deadliest secrecy i would commission each to buy for the other. then they would be sure to get the right brand. as for "pastimes"--our guest tenant would be delighted to have her stay extended. i wondered if the gardener would pine for bridget! i wondered if--_anyone_--would pine for me! personally the prospect of occasional "calls" pleased me better than the thought of meetings in the country, under the argus eye of village gossips. in the latter case one would be self-conscious and restrained; in the former, safe from observation, doubly sheltered behind wig and spectacles, there could be no doubt as to which position afforded the better opportunity of getting to know a man's character. i wrote a letter to charmion, reassuring her as to christmas in my "dreary flat"; i tore up the unfinished note to delphine, and sent another, assuring her of my sympathy, repeating my offers of help. poor little girl! her real love for "jacky" would be in the ascendant now, and all the pleasure and vanities for which she had pined would seem trivial things, compared with his dear life. i did not write to mr maplestone. the difficulty of handwriting came in, and there was no real necessity to answer his note. if i knew delphine, she would find it a relief to pour forth her woes on paper. i waited confidently for a letter to appear. two days passed by, three; i was growing anxious, and debating if i should write again, when there came a loud rat-tat at the door, and a reply-paid telegram was handed in, addressed to miss wastneys:-- "letter received. need urgent. unable to leave. can you come to-morrow. beg you not to refuse. delphine." i seized a pencil, scribbled a hasty "expect me by train arriving twelve," and having despatched the promise, sat down to consider how i was to keep it. what an excitement to think of feeling young again, and being able to devote my attention to looking as nice as i could, instead of laboriously contriving disfigurements! under my bed lived a box wardrobe on wheels, in which, carefully stretched and padded to avoid creases, reposed a selection of garments which were certainly not suited to old miss harding's requirement. mentally i reviewed them, selected the prettiest and most becoming, saw a vision of myself putting the last touches before the glass, with bridget's beaming face watching every stage. oh, it would be an exhilarating variety, and easy, too-- perfectly easy. i would give the orphan leave of absence for two days, and send her rejoicing to stay with "me aunt". then in leisurely enjoyment i would make my toilette and march complacently into the street. we possess no porter in our modest mansions; ten to one i should pass through the hall unseen, and even if i had the ill-luck to encounter a neighbour--well, if my disguise is good enough to deceive ralph maplestone, it can surely defy less interested eyes! bridget was as excited as i was. she hustled the orphan out of the flat, and superintended my toilette as eagerly as though i were dressing for a wedding, instead of a country visit. "praise the fates, we'll see you looking yourself again! i never was in favour of this dressing up, and playing tricks with a face which anyone else would be proud to have, and to take care of. not that you hadn't more sense than i gave you credit for! we've been a godsend to this place, and if anyone doubts it, let 'em look at the kitchen book, and see the pounds of good meat i've made into beef tea with me own hands. and you running about by day and by night, waiting on 'em all in turns. there's no doubt but we've done good, but what i say is--why not do it with your own face?" "don't be foolish, bridget! i couldn't do it! look at me now!"--i swirled round to face her, with a rustle of silk and a flare of skirts. "_do_ i look the sort of person to wheel out prams, and give tea parties to widowers, and be looked upon as a prop and support by my neighbours?" bridget chuckled. "go away wid you then!" said she, and that was the end of the discussion. i met no one in the hall. i met no one in the street. i jumped into a taxi at the corner and drove off to the station without running the remotest chance of detection. it was so easy that i determined to do it again! every now and then just for a change--just to remember what it was like to look nice! i arrived at the station and took my ticket. there was no one i knew upon the platform. i walked to the further end, and took a seat in an empty first-class carriage. the collector came round and looked at the tickets; there was a banging all down the length of the train, a sharp call, "take your seats, please; take your seats!" the door of my compartment opened and shut. ralph maplestone seated himself in the corner opposite mine! "how do you do, miss wastneys," said he, as cool as a cucumber. "how do you do, mr maplestone," said i, as red as a beetroot. was it chance? was it coincidence? was it a deep and laborious plan? had he heard from delphine of my coming and rushed to town for the express purpose of returning in my company? it looked very like it. my wire could not have arrived at the vicarage until after five in the afternoon, and the next train to town left at nine p.m. there was also an early morning one at eight-thirty. my brain seethed with curious questions, but there seemed only a moment's pause before i spoke again:-- "have you been staying in town?" "er--" his eyes showed a faint flicker of amusement--"not long. you are going down to see delphine, i suppose. that's good of you. she needs bucking up. the vicar's pretty bad, but with rest and change there's no reason why he shouldn't pick up. we are arranging to make things easy for them. it will do him no good if she makes herself miserable." "that's the sort of futile remark that outsiders generally make on these occasions. they make me furious!" i cried, glad of an excuse to work off my self-consciousness in a show of indignation. "perhaps it won't; but as he belongs to her, and she loves him, she can hardly be expected to be happy! in illness all the sympathy is lavished on the invalid. in reality, the relations are more to be pitied. it's far easier to lie still and bear physical pain than it is to be wracked with anxiety, and fatigue, and responsibility all at the same time." he said, looking at me with an air of the most profound attention:-- "you are thinner than you were. your face is thinner--" "we were not talking about my face. how long has mr merrivale really been ill?" "it's difficult to say. he is the sort of fellow who never thinks about himself, and delphine is not--not exactly noticing! i fancy she blames herself now; but he never complained, and always went on working at full pressure, till this attack came on, and he went down with a crash." "and now? how does he seem now?" his forehead wrinkled into lines. "depressed. nervous. inclined to be jumpy. he has lived for his work, and hates the idea of giving up, even for a time. he has overtaxed his strength for years, and his nerves are bound to play up. however, once we get them off to the sun, he'll soon pull round." "and when do they--" "as soon as possible. it is delphine who is putting things off. so far as merrivale himself is concerned, the sooner he starts the better. he'll not grow any stronger where he is. when are you coming back to `pastimes'?" "it's uncertain. not before christmas. is your mother quite well?" "quite, thanks. you know that i have made miss harding's acquaintance. she is a charming old lady." "i'm so glad you like her. i knew you had called. nice little flat, isn't it?" he growled, his face eloquent with disapproval. "if you call it `nice' to live burrowed underground! how sane people can consent to live in town, herded together in a building more like a prison than a home--" "`the goodness and the grace' did not make us _all_ country squires!" i said shortly, whereat he laughed--quite an easy, genial laugh, and twinkled at me with his blue eyes. it was extraordinary how natural and at his ease he appeared; so different from the stiff, silent man i had known at escott! the journey takes exactly sixty minutes, and we talked the whole way. for the first twenty minutes i was on my guard, nerving myself to say "no" for the second time, with due firmness and finality. for the next twenty i was friendly and natural. he was behaving so well that he deserved encouragement. during the third twenty i said less, stared out of the carriage window, and felt a disagreeable feeling of irritation and depression. he went on talking about books and gardens and parish difficulties, and i wasn't interested one bit. one may not wish a man to propose to one for the second time; but, with the echo of vows of undying devotion ringing in one's ears, it _is_ rather daunting to go through an hour's _tete-a-tete_ without one personal remark! he had said that i was thin. perhaps he found me changed in other ways. perhaps on meeting me again he found he did not like me as much as he had believed. perhaps he was glad that i had said "no". we parted at the vicarage gate; he apparently quite comfortable and composed, i in the lowest depths. what a change from last time! the door opened, and before i had time to blink delphine's arms were round me, and a hot, wet cheek pressed against mine. she was sobbing in a hard, breathless way which made my heart leap; but even on the way to her sitting-room i gathered that my first fear was unfounded. "jacky was--the same! in bed. so tired--always so tired! seems to care for nothing. hardly even"--the blue eyes opened in incredulous misery--"for _me_!" "when people are very weak, they can't care. it takes strength even to love--at least, to realise that one loves. i never knew a man who adored his wife more than mr merrivale does you; but i expect it suits him better just now to lie quietly and snooze rather than to hold your hand and watch you cry." she looked guilty at that, and tossed her head with a spice of her old spirit. but the next moment her breath caught in a sob, and she cried desperately:-- "oh, evelyn, it's all awful! other things--everything--far worse than you know. i'm the most miserable creature in the world. i think i shall go mad. i sent for you because--" "hold hard for one moment! i'm hungry! i need my lunch! so do you, by the look of you. shall we have it first, and tackle the serious business afterwards in your room, where we shan't be interrupted. there will be plenty of time; i needn't leave till five." "i ordered cutlets, and an omelette, and coffee afterwards. all the things you liked best when you were here. but i can't eat a bite. it would choke me. i hate the sight of food." "very well then--you can watch me eat mine," i said, with the callousness of one who had heard dozens of people declare the same thing, and then watched them tuck into a square meal. delphine proved another protester to add to the list. she ate her share of the meal with no sign of choking, and brightened into acutest interest at hearing of my escort from town. the fork stopped half-way to her mouth; her eyes widened to saucer size. in the sheer surprise of the moment she forgot her grief and anxieties. "but--but--how _could_ he be there? he was here last night. quite late. ten o'clock. walked down after dinner to hear how jacky was!" i made a vague sweeping gesture, which was designed to express a lack of all responsibility concerning the squire's eccentricities, but delphine's suspicions were aroused, and she was not to be easily put off. "he must have gone up by the workman's train. and yours left at eleven. how very peculiar! and he said nothing last night. ... did i tell him you were coming?" she wrinkled her brows in the effort to remember. "yes, i did. he said something about taking me for a drive to freshen me up, and i said you would be here before lunch. evelyn, he couldn't possibly have gone to meet you!" evidently she suspected nothing. i tried to look composed and natural, and said lightly:-- "it seems preposterous, doesn't it. he certainly did not say so." she stared at me curiously. "what did you talk about? about us? did he say anything about me?" "of course. what do you suppose? we had quite an argument, because he seemed to think it a pity that you should injure yourself by fretting, and i said i didn't see how you could do anything else." she smiled, and tilted her head, her complacency restored. "that was it, i suppose! he wanted to talk to you before you saw me. he is good. and you argued with him, you say? disagreed, i suppose. oh, well--men are always more tender-hearted than women." i felt annoyed, and munched in silence, staring fixedly at my plate. if this particular man was so much more understanding, why had she summoned me from town? after lurch delphine ran upstairs to see her husband for a few minutes, and then returned to me in her little sitting-room. he was tired, she said, and hoped to sleep until tea. she had not told him of my visit; he was so listless and apathetic that it worried him to talk, or to have people talk to him. "i don't believe he will ever be the same again!" "people always say that in the middle of an illness, but they find their mistake later on. after a long rest the vicar will be better than he has been for years, and it will be your business to see that he never works so hard again. you were always longing for a change, delphine. think how you will enjoy switzerland, sitting out in the crisp clear air, looking at those glorious mountains, with no house or parish to worry over--nothing to do but wait on your dear man, and watch him growing stronger every day!" she looked at me dumbly, while the colour faded out of her cheeks, and the pretty curved lips twitched and trembled. i saw her clasp her hands, and brace herself against her chair, and knew that the moment for confession had come, and that it was difficult to find words. "no worry!" she repeated slowly. "no worry! but that's just what is killing me. i'm so worried, so worried that i feel sometimes, evelyn, as if i were going out of my mind!" "you mean--about your husband?" i asked, but the question was really put as a lead; i knew she was not referring to illness. delphine shook her head. "that is bad enough, but it is not the worst. the worst is that through me--through my wretched, selfish, vain, discontented folly, i--i have made it difficult for him even to get well. i--i have got into a horrible mess, evelyn, and when he hears of it--when he has to hear, he will be so worried, so miserable, so disappointed, that it will bring on a relapse, and he will probably be worse than before. we can neither of us be happy again--never, never, any more!" "sounds pretty bad!" i said, startled. "but there must be some way out, or you would not have sent for me to help you. you are going to tell me the whole truth, delphine! half confidences are no use. you will speak honestly, and--let me speak honestly to you?" "oh, yes! you _will_ do, whether i allow you or not. i know you!" "well, then"--i bent forward, staring full in her face--"let's get to the point. is it another man?" her face answered, without the need of words. amazed resentment blazed out of her blue eyes. "another man! i should think not! how hateful of you, evelyn! i'm despicable enough, but i love jacky. there's no other man in the world for me. of course," she paused, and faintly smiled, as at a soothing recollection, "people admire me. i can't help that, and there's no harm so long as i don't flirt. there's the squire. i think if i were not married, he might want--but i _am_ married, and it's the honest truth that i've never said a word to a man since our marriage that i shouldn't be willing for jacky to hear. no! it's not that--" "it's money, then," i said quickly. (so the squire would "want," would he? oh, indeed!) "delphine! you have been getting into debt?" "oh, how did you guess?" she turned her head over her shoulder, as though afraid some one might overhear. "oh, evelyn, nobody knows but you. i think i have been mad. goodness knows what i expected to happen in the end. i was in a crazy, rebellious mood, tired to death of being dull and careful, and i had a wild spell of extravagance, ordered whatever i wanted, ran up bills in town. i went to your dressmaker. i was sick of making my own clothes, and looking a frump. i'm young, and i'm pretty, i wanted to look nice while i could. every one said i _did_ look nice; but she is a terror, that woman of yours! i had no idea of the bill!" "you did not ask for estimates in advance?" "how could i? i didn't even know what to order. i just said, `a pretty dress for the afternoon.' `a hat with roses.' `an evening cloak.' descriptions like that. and there was the habit, too, and little things--oddments. they grow into mountains! and i bought furniture to make my room look pretty and homelike. you remember you said i deserved to have one nice room!" apparently this extravagance also could be traced to my influence! it was useless to waste any more words. i went straight to the point. "how much?" "oh!" she started and shivered. "i'm ashamed to say. and now--we are going away, and the bills have to be paid. i'm a new customer, and they keep sending them in. and the house books! they have run on. jacky gave me some money. i _meant_ to pay them, honestly i did, evelyn, but somehow the money frittered away till there wasn't enough left. i paid some--but there are others left. jacky would hate it, if we left the parish in debt." "how much?" i repeated, and she flushed to the roots of her hair. "over--a hundred! nearer--_two_, i'm afraid, evelyn!" it was more than i had expected. i had to make fresh calculations, and revise several plans. subconsciously, i had known that the trouble was monetary, and had made a special study of my pass book before leaving the flat. "i can let you have a hundred at once, and settle the rest of the bills for you next month, if that will do." she looked at me with tear-filled eyes. "do you think i deserve it?" "i'm not sure that you do, but mr merrivale _does_! he shan't have any new worry just now, if i can prevent it. you are sure you have told me everything, delphine? that is _all_!" "i'll show you the bills. i knew you would help. you were the only person i could bear to ask; but you did not wait to be asked. i do love you, evelyn, and i shall never forget! you understand, don't you, that it is only a loan? i shall pay you back!" "i know you will, when you can. it's a comfort that you need not hurry. i can wait for years." "you will have to, i'm afraid. three years! i hadn't a penny of my own when i married, but an old aunt left us all two hundred and fifty pounds, to be paid when we were twenty-five. that's my fortune! jacky teases me about it, for i was always planning what i will do when it comes. i had decided to buy a tiny two-seater, and learn to drive. i told him that it would be useful in the parish, but really i was thinking of the fun for myself. are you shocked?" "not a bit!" "well, it would be a waste of energy if you were, for i shall never have it now. the money will go to repay you--and to pay interest on the loan. i shall pay five per cent." "i only get four." "i insist upon five! i should like to feel that you had made a good investment." she waved her hand with a lordly air which made me laugh. and she laughed, too, with obvious enjoyment. "oh, my dear, what a relief! i shall sleep happily to-night for the first time for weeks. i can never tell you how wretched i've felt; so worried, and guilty, and trapped! honestly it will be a lesson for life. you have helped me for the moment, but my worst punishment is to come. when he is well again, quite strong and fit, i must tell jacky!" her face clouded. "he won't say much, but his face! it will be an awful ordeal, but i suppose it will be good for me!" i thought--but did not say--that it would be good for him too. the shock might teach him to be more understanding in his treatment of his girl wife. soon after that i suggested paying a flying call on the general, and delphine assented eagerly, no doubt feeling, as i did myself, that it would be a relief to be spared a further _tete-a-tete_. the dear old man was delighted to see me, and was eager to hear when charmion and i were coming back to "pastimes". something in his manner, in the way his old eyes searched my face, made me suspect that he knows. i travelled to town alone, and arrived at the flat feeling tired and dispirited. bridget wanted to know if i had seen anything of her man. she also seemed a trifle out of temper. "some people," she said darkly, "don't know when they are well off!" chapter twenty three. a brute--and a revelation. christmas has come and gone. the little girls left us a fortnight before, and the flat felt very quiet without them, but i busied myself arranging for the fray. the tree was a huge success; so was the dinner next day. nevertheless, i shed tears on my pillow when i went to bed, for if a solitary woman is ever justified in feeling "lone and lorn," it is certainly at the season when everybody who possesses a family rushes to it as a matter of course. it was very gratifying to have made other people happy, but i had a hungry longing to be made happy myself. by an unfortunate coincidence, neither kathie's greeting, nor charmion's, nor delphine's, arrived until the twenty-seventh, and aunt eliza's turkey never arrived at all, having presumably lost its label, and been eaten by the postman as treasure trove. the one and only parcel from a distance came from--mr maplestone! he had called the week before, and asked permission to send evergreens from the "hall". he said it was so difficult to get holly with berries on it in town, and all children loved red berries. presumably his trees grew crackers as well as berries, for about a dozen boxes of the most gorgeous varieties were enclosed in the crate. there was no letter, but just a card with "for the children," written in a corner. on boxing day i made winifred and marion write letters of thanks--a weary process from which they emerged splattered with tears and ink. "why are you laughing, miss harding?" they inquired resentfully. i did not tell them that i was chuckling at my own cleverness in avoiding a personal acknowledgment. i did not know that the squire had ever seen my writing, but he might have done. no risks should be run. delphine and her husband are settled at davos, and he is beginning to improve. she writes sweet little letters, and i'm sure this illness has arrived at a providential moment. the shock of realising that her jacky's life was in danger was like a lightning flash lighting up a dark landscape. in its blaze she saw revealed the true value of things, and the sloping path on which her feet were set. i don't expect her to grow up all at once, settle down to all work and no play, and behave as though she were forty instead of twenty-two; i don't expect the vicar to give up being absent-minded and exacting; but i do honestly believe that it will do him good to have his shock, and that he is just enough to realise his own share of the blame. then they will kiss and begin again, and things will go better, because there will be understanding to leaven love. talking of understandings, there was a marvellous calm in the flat overhead for some nights in early january, and bridget informed me that mr nineteen had been taken to a nursing home to have an operation. since our tragic encounter, mrs nineteen (her real name is travers) and i have exchanged furtive bows when we have met in the hall. i always felt guilty, and anxious to "make it up," and had an instinct that she felt the same, though neither had the courage to speak; but, of course, after the operation i had to stop and inquire. she flushed, and said, "pretty well, thank you. the doctors are satisfied, but it will be a long cure." a week later i met her coming in with a book under her arm. she had been "reading aloud. her husband felt the time so long. for an active man, it was a great trial to lie in bed." to judge by her face, it was an exhausting experience to his wife to sit by his side. i said impetuously: "if mr travers would allow me, i should be so glad to read aloud to him sometimes, when you are not able to go. i am fond of reading aloud; i believe i do it pretty well." "i don't," she said dejectedly. "it makes me yawn. john says i mumble." she looked at me sharply, distrustfully. "you are very kind, but--it's too much! why should you--" "i'd like to, if you will let me. i--i was rude to you--that day! i've been remorseful ever since. if you'd allow me to do this, i should feel that i was forgiven." "you spoke the truth," she said shortly. "and i brought it on myself. i had no business to complain about those poor children, knowing why they were here; but there are some moods in which one is bound to have a vent. you hurt my pride, of course, but--it's not the first time!" she bit her lip, turned aside for a moment, then added quickly, "i didn't tell john!" "thank you. i'm glad of that. he'll be more willing to let me come. please tell him that i'm so sorry to have disturbed him, and want to `make up' by helping him while he is ill. my time is my own. i can go any day--at any time--to read any book." she made no promise, and for several days seemed to avoid meeting me face to face, then one morning she came to the door and asked to see me. some business had arisen which necessitated a day out of town. her husband dreaded being left alone. did i really mean my kind offer, and if so would to-morrow afternoon-- i went. he is a dark, sharp-featured man, with thick eyebrows and a chronic scowl. he also looks shockingly ill, and is growing a beard. the combination is enough to strike terror into the feminine soul. the very maid who opened the door looked pityingly at me when i pronounced his name; as for his nurse, she fairly bounced with relief when i was announced. her expression said as plainly as words, "i've had my turn-- now you can have yours!" "harding?" he said graciously. "oh, yes! you are the woman who bangs the doors." he let me read for two hours on end, and then said, "stupid book. i can't think how they ever get published!" but when i left, he asked, "when will you come again?" which was as far in the way of thanks as it is possible for him to get. for the next three weeks i went constantly to the home, and never once did that man say a gracious word. if i arrived late, he growled and said, "thought you were never coming! hardly worth beginning at all." if i was early, his greeting was, "i was just having a nap! haven't closed my eyes since two this morning, and now you have roused me up!" if i read a book, he preferred a newspaper. if i read a newspaper, it crackled, and worried his head. if i made a remark, he disagreed; if i was silent, "was there _no_ news?--_nothing_ going on to tell a poor wretch tied to his bed?" if i said he looked better, he would have me to know that nurses and doctors alike were deluding him with lies. he knew for a fact that he was dying fast. if i said he looked tired, he felt better than he had done all the week. it was impossible to please him--impossible to win a smile or a gracious word. never have i met a human being so twisted and warped in mind. to go into his room is like entering a black tunnel--one leaves it with the feeling of breaking bonds. the matron of the home is a brisk, capable woman, with a face full of kindly strength; we generally met and exchanged a few words on stairs or landing, and it was easy to see that her patience was wearing thin. there came a day when she met me with a red face, beckoned me into her private room, and poured forth a stream of angry confidences. "i really must speak to some one about mr travers. his poor wife has enough to bear. i can't trouble her. the man is insufferable; he upsets the whole house. his nurse has just been to me in tears. nothing will please him. he rings his bell all day, and half the night, and for nothing--literally nothing! just an excuse to give trouble. we have honestly done our best--more than our best. with such a patient it is easier to give in than to protest, but i'm beginning to think we've been wrong. he is not getting on as quickly as he should. i believe his temper is keeping him back." "i'm sure of it! you are an expert at healing, and i'm a beginner, but i'm a great believer in the power of the mind. he is poisoning himself." "he is poisoning every one else! i can't submit to have my whole house upset. if he were fit to be moved, he should be out of it to-day. it's all i can do to be civil, and not blaze out, and tell him what i think!" "i shouldn't try!" "what?" she looked at me sharply. "ah! you agree? you feel the same? you think i dare?" "i do. i go a step further, and say it's your duty. he is a bully, and probably no one has ever dared to show him how he appears to other people, but for the time being you are in command; while he is here, he is supposed to obey. give it to him hot and strong! tell him that he is injuring himself, and is a misery to every one else--that you are only keeping him, because it would do him harm to be removed." "it's true!" she cried. "it's every word true. the man is a miasma." she stared at me in sudden amaze. "why do you laugh?" "oh, i was just thinking! thinking of a man whom i used to denounce as bad-tempered! a dear, kind, thoughtful, unselfish englishman with a--a bluster! i can never call it temper again, after knowing mr travers! he has taught me a lesson." she laughed, too, and shrugged her shoulders. "oh, that! i like a man with a will of his own, and the pluck to speak out. a `bluster,' as you call it, clears the air, and is quite a healthful influence; but this other!--well, miss harding, you have given the casting vote. when are you coming again?" "thursday afternoon, i think. mrs travers is busy then. has to go out of town." "that's all right! then i'll have it out with him before lunch, and leave you to calm him down in the afternoon." "oh--_mean_!" i cried, but she only laughed, opened the door, and hustled me into the hall. evidently her mind was made up. when thursday afternoon arrived, it found miss harding entering the ogre's bedroom with a smile tightly glued on her lips, and a heart beating uncomfortably fast beneath her ugly flannel blouse. from the bed a pair of gimlet-like eyes surveyed her sharply, pale lips twisted, and showed a snarl of teeth. he volunteered no remark, however, and i wasted not a second in opening my book, and beginning to read as a refuge against conversation. i could feel the scrutiny of his eyes on my face, but i read on steadily, never looking up for nearly an hour, when the story came to an end. "have you had enough reading for to-day, or would you care to hear one of the articles in this review?" he glared at me, and said coldly:-- "so you are in the conspiracy, too! women are all alike! sitting here, all smiles and flummery to my face, and then going away to abuse me behind my back!" "that's not true!" i cried hotly. "at least, it's a very unfair representation. there was no necessity for me to come here at all. i have done it because you were a neighbour, and ill, and i wanted to help you--and even more to help your wife. as for `smiles and flummery,' as you express it, there has been no chance of anything so friendly. you have allowed no chance!" "you don't deny, i suppose, that you joined with matron in abusing me as a monster of wickedness?" "i said you had the worst temper i had ever met. so you have. i said i believed that you poisoned yourself, as well as every one near you. so i do. all the more credit to me for giving you so much of my time." he lay silent, staring into my face. it was plain that the man had received a shock. for once in his life he had been shown a picture of himself as others saw him, and in the seeing _something_ had been hurt-- conscience, vanity, _amour-propre_--it was impossible to say which, and now his brain was at work, trying to assimilate the new thought. all the time i had been reading, he had been pondering and raging. probably he had not heard a single word. "you women," he began again. "you women! talk of ministering angels-- all very fine for a few days, while the novelty lasts--after that a poor beggar can suffer tortures, and get nothing but revilings for bad temper. would you be an angel of meekness if you had to go through what i am bearing now?" "i should probably be exceedingly difficult and fretful. at times! there would be other times--especially when i was getting better--when i should feel overflowing with gratitude, and should say so, to the people who had been patient with me through the bad times!" "words! words!" he snarled scornfully. "men judge by deeds. if you want my character, you can hear it from the men with whom i have had to do. i am a churchman. i go to church every sunday of my life. i was once vicar's churchwarden for three years." poor vicar! what those three years must have been! i have known whole parishes "set by the ears" by just one warped, self-opinionated man, who put his own pet theories before anything else, and went about sowing dissension--splitting up a hitherto united people into two opposing camps. i said, with an air of polite inquiry:-- "and--did you part good friends?" he did not answer, but the expression on his face was eloquent enough. i _knew_, without being told. suddenly he broke out at a fresh tangent. "i suppose my wife--" i held up my hand authoritatively. "no, please! don't blame your wife. she has never _mentioned_ you, except to pity and sympathise. her one thought has been for you--how to help, how to please. of course, mr travers, the people here and myself have only known you lately, and this illness must have been coming on for some time. probably it has--well, it has made you bad-tempered, hasn't it? but your wife knew you before, when you were loving and gentle, so her judgment must be more true." with my usual "softness" i was beginning to pity the poor wretch, and to try to let him down gently; but once again his face was eloquent. at the words "loving and gentle," an involuntary grimace twisted the grim features. memory refused to reproduce the picture. he said abruptly:-- "my wife is a good woman. that virago of a matron told me this morning that if she'd been in her place, she'd have run away years ago. well, mary has stuck to me. she doesn't want to go! it's not always the softest-spoken men who make the best husbands. that hallett fellow, whom thorold is so thick with--he belongs to my club; i knew something about him when i lived in america long ago. how do you suppose _he_ treated his wife?" "his wife? he hasn't got a wife!" "oh, hasn't he? not now, perhaps. but he had! a little of him went a long way. she ran away from him on her honeymoon. what do you think of that? what kind of a man can he have been to make a woman leave him in a month?" something happened inside my head. there was a shock, a whirl, a blinding darkness, followed by a flash of light. mr travers had said "america," and the word had a terrible significance. i sat stunned into silence, and mr travers obviously gloated over my discomfiture. "pretty condemning, eh? she was an heiress--pots of money. fine-looking girl, too. i saw her once. too pale and washed out for my taste, but with an air. forget her name--something high-flown and romantic, like herself. well, she left him, and that was the end of it. never heard a word of her since." romantic name--an heiress--fine-looking--pale. one by one the clues accumulated--step by step the evidence mounted up. i said faintly:-- "has he tried?" "tried to find her? searched the world! almost went off his head, i believe. he'd made a mess of it, of course, but he was crazy about her--broken his heart ever since. you can see it in his face. my wife has no patience with her. she'd married for better or worse. whatever happened, she was a poor thing to throw up the sponge in a month. what's the matter? you look faint." "i--i am! i must go. some other day," i gasped vaguely. i went out into the passage, and sat down on an oak chest. the world seemed rocking around me. i was so stunned that i could _not feel_! chapter twenty four. it's a queer world. edward hallett and--charmion! charmion and--edward hallett! the combination of those two names struck me dumb. oh, it was madness--the most inconceivable, the most preposterous madness. and yet, and yet-- the more i thought, the more the links seemed to "fit in". he was of the right age, the right nationality: the few words of description which had fallen from her lips applied accurately to his appearance. i went home, and sat in stunned silence, staring into space. i went to bed and lay awake for hours, still pondering, still puzzling. i rose in the morning, and wandered about the flat like a lost dog, unable to work, unable to rest, unable to eat. by evening i was in such a state of nerves that it seemed impossible to endure the suspense a moment longer. the prospect of another wakeful night gave the final touch to my impatience. i scribbled a note to mr thorold, begging him to come down at once, and sent the orphan upstairs to deliver it. he came at once; quite anxious and perturbed. was i ill? had i had bad news? was there anything he could do? i motioned him to a chair, and began vaguely:-- "not bad news--at least--a shock! i've had a shock! it has distressed me terribly! i couldn't sleep. it was mr travers. i was reading to him again yesterday, and he said something about mr hallett. it appears that he knew him years ago." mr thorold's face hardened. i had seen him in almost every phase of sadness and anxiety, but never with that flash in the eye, that sternness of the lips. his voice was cold and sharp. "travers? indeed! and what had travers to say? nothing good, if i know the man." "he--he spoke of mr hallett's wife--" "and you were not aware that he had a wife? it is an old story, miss harding; an old sore. is it necessary to tell one's whole life history to--er--an--" "an acquaintance? no, no--of course not. don't think me presumptuous and inquisitive. i should never have mentioned it, if i had not a reason--a good reason. have i ever seemed to pry into your affairs?" he softened at that. "never! never! you have been all that is tactful--all that is kind. i do trust you, miss harding, but this affair of hallett's gets me on the raw. he has suffered tortures. i have seen his suffering, and i can't help feeling bitter against that woman. she--left him! that's what you heard, i suppose?" "yes. and so soon! it was a tragedy indeed. mr thorold, will you answer just one question? it can do no harm; it can give away no secrets. what was her christian name?" he looked at me keenly for a moment, and then said quietly:-- "charmion." i lay back in my chair, and shut my eyes. never in my life have i fainted, but i think i must have come very near it then. everything turned black; for a moment my very heart seemed to stop. mr thorold's voice sounded far away, as he cried anxiously:-- "you are ill--faint! i'll open the window--give you more air." then with an eagerness which could not be suppressed, "you know her? hallett's wife? is it possible? you have met her; or--have you only heard--" his anxiety made his voice shake. he was as much overcome as i was myself. "for six years," he added tragically--"six years he has searched the world--." "i--i know a charmion. she left her husband. it may be a coincidence, but it seems strange. she had good cause--" "oh, i don't deny it. enough to alienate any woman. i don't wonder at her going--at first--but, it was cruel to give him no chance to explain." "it was about money. he pretended to love her for herself, to know nothing about her fortune, and afterwards--a letter came. that is my charmion's story. is it his?" "yes! yes! this is a wonderful thing! that the discovery should have come through you, and that you should have appealed to me of all people--the only man on this side who can tell you the truth! is it coincidence, miss harding?" i clasped my hands to still their trembling. "better than coincidence! it is providence. we have prayed for them, you and i, for the friends we love most, and now--now it seems as if through us--oh, mr thorold, explain! explain! you believe in him still, yet you confess that he was wrong. what `explanation' can he give!" "i love hallett," he said solemnly, "like a brother--more than a brother! i believe him to be, at this moment, the best man i know. we were at school together. he was the only son of a wealthy man. until he was twenty-one he was brought up in an atmosphere of such luxury as we in england can hardly imagine. americans are fond of going `one better' than the rest of the world. in some cases the extravagance of their moneyed classes amounts to profligacy. hallett's father was a notorious example for many years, then--just as edward came of age, there was a colossal smash; he lost everything, practically fretted himself to death, left the lad to fight his own way. "to expect the boy to understand economy after such an upbringing was preposterous. he literally did not understand the value of money. he got into debt, more and more deeply into debt, as the years went on. i am not defending him as blameless; of course, he should have pulled up, faced the worst, and started afresh; but i do say that it was a hard test, and that he had many excuses." i nodded. ideas of economy, like most other ideas, are comparative. i have never known fabulous riches, but i should manage badly as a poor woman. up to this point i could sympathise with edward hallett. mr thorold continued eagerly:-- "well! just when matters were at their worst, a casual acquaintance happened to speak of a young english heiress, and it occurred to edward for the first time that marriage might cut the knot. he arranged to meet the girl--it was a deliberate plan. ah! i see you have heard her story; but what she evidently _did_ not, would not, understand, was, that when they did meet, he fell in love with her for herself! she was his mate, his ideal, the one woman in the world who had power to awake his best self; to make him selfless, and in earnest about life. he was overcome with shame at the remembrance of his own scheming. at one time he believed it to be his duty to punish himself by leaving her without saying a word, but his passion was too strong, and circumstances hurried on the marriage. her aunt died--" "yes. she told me. oh, but _why_ did he pretend? _why_ didn't he tell her that he knew about the money?" his face fretted into lines. he looked terribly distressed. "ah! that hits me hard. he wrote to me, miss harding--we had kept up a correspondence at intervals since our school days--and he had an exaggerated faith in my advice. his conscience was torturing him. he put the whole case to me. should he tell her--should he confess? he hated the idea of marrying under false pretences. on the other hand he hated, as any lover would hate, to lower her opinion, perhaps to plant the seeds of future suspicions. her silence as to her own wealth seemed to show that she had dreaded a mercenary love, that it was sweet to her to feel that he was in ignorance. he guessed that she was storing up the news as a sweet secret to be revealed to her husband. well, as i say, he put the whole case before me, and i--i advised him to keep silent. he had wronged her in intent, but not in deed, for no man could love more deeply, more disinterestedly than he then loved her. every word proved that. it was a wonderful letter, written straight from the heart--" i interrupted in breathless haste:-- "have you got it? did you keep it? can you find it now?" to my unspeakable relief he nodded his head. "i can. it's not often that i keep letters, but this was an exception. i was naturally anxious about giving the right advice. i put the letter in my pocket-book, to read and re-read. then, just the day before the wedding, i caught a chill, was in bed for a month with pleurisy. the first news i heard on getting up was--that she had gone! at once i thought of the letter, and was thankful i had kept it; i locked it away in my safe. i felt that some day, when she was found--later on i wrote to her lawyers, and tried to bully them into giving me her address. i meant to send it to her myself, and force her to believe. but they swore that they knew no more than i did myself. liars!" "no! it was true. she was ill for months; in bed! absolutely cut off--" "ah, well!" he shrugged helplessly. "we were all at cross purposes, it seems. i believed that they were lying, and would continue to lie. i never tried them again. but the letter is there in my safe, and it is his best witness, miss harding. where is she? how do you come to know her?" "she's in italy. she's coming home. to me. she's my friend. we--we live together. not here, but in the country. we share a house--" he stared. i realised how incongruous the arrangement must appear. i realised something else, too, and that was that the time had come when to this man, at least, miss harding must show herself in her true colours. charmion must hurry home. i must wire to demand her presence. happiness was waiting for her, and not one day, one hour, should the darling wait in ignorance. the dreary little flat was about to become the scene of blissful reconciliation; of a new radiance of life and hope. it was not conceivable that i could mar the sacredness of such a time by masquerading in an assumed character. as mr thorold was bound to know, it would simplify arrangements if he knew at once! i jumped up; tingling with excitement, almost too impatient to speak. "mr thorold--this is a most adventurous afternoon! i have something to tell you about myself. it will explain how it comes about that charmion and i--wait for me here for a quarter of an hour. i'll come back,--but there is something i must do first. you'll understand when i come back. please wait!" i hurried out, rang for bridget, ordered her to get rid of the orphan, and come back to help. the wardrobe was pulled from beneath the bed, off came spectacles and wig, my face was washed free from the disfiguring marks, my hair was coiled, a dainty blue gown slipped over my head. the quarter of an hour grew into a half, the sound of pacing footsteps sounded through the wall. i laughed, slipped my feet into satin slippers, and threw open the drawing-room door. he had his back towards me at that moment; he wheeled round, started, stared, made a curious jerking bow. his face showed no sign of recognition, only surprise and a veiled impatience. "mr thorold, i believe?" i said smiling. his forehead knitted into lines; he stared more closely. "billy's father, i believe?" i said, smiling more broadly. "the man who ate up my sandwiches!" "oh! you--you--you minx!" he gasped loudly. oh! it was gloriously amusing! edward hallett and charmion were nowhere for the moment; he could do nothing but gasp and stare, walk round me, examine me from one point of view and then another, gasp and exclaim again. "you--; _you_ are miss harding! miss harding was you! am i dreaming, or is this real life? how did you do it? _why_ did you do it? but your mouth is a different shape! this beats anything i ever knew! you used to look round-shouldered. why? why? _why_? how could you be so mad?" then i made him sit down, and told him the whole story from the beginning; and, like every one else, he disapproved violently at first, and then, by slow degrees, came round to my own point of view. like bridget, he wanted to know why i couldn't play fairy godmother to the "mansions" with my own face; but when i asked him if i could have done so much for _him_, he acknowledged hastily that i could not. his expression, half horrified, half shy, spoke more eloquently than his words. "no! you see it would not have worked. old miss harding had a pull over evelyn wastneys. my name is evelyn wastneys, by the way, but that is a secret between us for the moment. and i am charmion fane's friend, just as you are edward hallett's, and the good, good god is going to give us the joy of seeing them happy together again. mr thorold! they have both been to blame, they have both had a share in spoiling their own lives--we won't give them another chance! you and i, as staid, level-headed outsiders, are going to stage-manage their reconciliation." "how are we going to manage it?" "listen!" i said. "listen!" it's a queer world. it's a very queer world! people have said so before, but i wish to say it again, to shout it aloud at the pitch of my voice. hardly had i changed back into miss harding, and finished my evening meal, when a knock came to the door, and there entered mrs travers. furious! she had returned from her day in the country; had seen her husband that afternoon; had heard from his lips what i had dared to think and to _say_! if she had been defending a homing dove, she could not have been more outraged, more aflame. she wished me to understand, once and for all, that for the future _no_ communication, no acquaintance of any kind was possible between us. she would pass me by in the street without a glance. oh, very well! chapter twenty five. two glorified beings. i wired to charmion, "return at once. urgently needed," and her reply came back with all possible speed, "meet me euston--thursday". i knew she would come! she would imagine that the need was mine, and, bless her! would speed night and day to my aid. and what would she find? my reeling brain refused to realise the dramatic scenes which lay ahead! after much cogitation i determined to close the flat, and take a small suite of rooms at an hotel for the next week. under the circumstances, it would be a relief to be among strangers, and away from interested neighbours who might take it into their heads to pay a call at the most crucial moment, to say nothing of the orphan and her friends in adjoining flats, who would be exercised about the strange doings in the basement flat! so it was as evelyn wastneys that i sallied to euston on that eventful thursday, and a somewhat tired and sleepy charmion was obviously a trifle disappointed to find that she was not to be taken "home." "i have had such a dose of hotels!" "darling, you talked of my `dreary little flat!'" "and you wrote back that it was a bower! it has suited you--it is easy to see that, and your mad scheme has been a success. you were very vague in your reports; gave me no particulars." "you didn't want letters. for a long time you didn't write at all." "oh, well! now we can talk. you must tell me all your adventures. you look well--very well! what's the trouble, evelyn?" "i never said it was trouble." she looked at me sharply, fearfully. instead of being reassured, my answer seemed to have excited her fears. "not trouble! then--evelyn! what is it? tell me quickly. don't quibble! are you in love--engaged?" "don't be absurd. i've been miss harding, remember! wait till you see me! i had lessons in making up, and i really look the part. in love, indeed!" but i knew that my colour was mounting, i could feel the burn of it in my cheeks. charmion's lips twitched, and her dear eyes grew misty and sad. "it's hateful of me, but--i don't want to lose you! i'd be a lonely soul!" i put my hand over hers, but said nothing. her words had saddened me, for they accurately described my own feelings. "you are well--there is no trouble--you are not in love. then what was the urgent need?" "are you sorry to be here?" "yes! if you are going to prevaricate and hedge. i've thrown every plan to the winds to come tearing back. the least you can do--" "i know!--i know! and i _will_--after dinner. give me till eight o'clock, to enjoy you, and to calm my nerves. it's good news, but--it upsets our plans. i needed you here to talk over and to arrange. can't you leave business, and just be `homey' with me for an hour or two, after all this time?" she laughed. how good it was to hear that soft, low laugh, and to feast my eyes on her exquisite self! even after a two days' journey charmion looked elegant. i believe she would look well groomed on a desert island. some women seem born with this gift. it wasn't given to me. i can be untidy on the slightest provocation! "indeed i can. there's any amount of chit-chat to get through, apart from serious problems. you have done me out of my paris shopping, evelyn, but i've a box full of trophies for you all the same. wherever i went, i picked up some token to prove that i remembered you all the time." "oh! cheers! cheers!" i cried fervently. "that's a good hearing! it _is_ more blessed to give than to receive, but now and then, as a variety, it is refreshing to have an innings one's self!" she laughed at that, gripped my arm, and said:--"oh, evelyn, you are a dear! it's good to be with you. it's good to be back." and we chatted in great contentment for the rest of the drive. there were several hours to spare before dinner. i made charmion take a bath, and then go really and truly to bed, until seven o'clock, when i woke her and issued orders for her prettiest, most becoming frock, grey, of course, a mist of silver and cloudy gauze. when she came into the little sitting-room she looked fresh and radiant--younger than i had ever beheld her. looking at her, i was suddenly reminded of a line in one of dear robert louis stevenson's beautiful prayers--"cleanse from our hearts the lurking grudge!" how can any immortal being, made in god's own image, expect to be happy and healthful while he or she is cherishing bitter grudging feelings against a fellow-man? charmion's battle had been a long, up-hill fight, but it was won at last. the sign of victory was in her face. now for the victor's crown! dinner was cleared away. the waiter placed coffee on a small table and disappeared. charmion piled up the cushions at one end of the sofa, nestled against them, and said smilingly:-- "_now_! i've been very patient, but not another moment can i wait. there's an air of mystery about you, evelyn, a muffled excitement which intrigues me vastly. oh! you've tried very hard! you kept up the chatter, but it's been hard work. your thoughts have strayed; half the time you have not heard my replies. your eyes are dark and big-- dilated, like an excited child's! if you had not denied it so stoutly, i should feel convinced that there was a man--" "my dear, this concerns you, not me. charmion, can't you guess? it is wonderful, wonderful news. can't you imagine whom it is about? you told me your story, but not his name--your name! when i heard it, it conveyed nothing to me. when i met him--" she held out her hands, as if to ward off a blow. after all my fencing, the great news had come blurting out, without preface or preparation. white as a sheet, she stared at me with anguished eyes. "met! you? edward? you have met, and--spoken?" "i know him well. he is a close friend, almost a brother of the man whose child was ill, and whom i helped to nurse--another tenant in the flats. i think i mentioned him--a darling child. we thought he would die. we grew intimate, comforting one another, waiting day after day--" "you mentioned me? he recognised the name?" "no! i was miss harding. evelyn and her life were things apart. i have never spoken of them to my neighbours. it was pure chance--pure providence!" "but he knows? you have told him. he knows i am here?" "not yet. you had to know first, and to hear--to _read_ his defence; but he is to know to-night. his friend will tell him. it will break your heart, charmion, for you have done him a wrong, and have wasted all these years; but it will fill you with joy as well, for at last you can believe--you _must_ believe in his loyalty. it is there for you to see, in a letter to his friend, received just before you were married. mr thorold has kept it--he gave it to me, so that you might see it with your own eyes." but still she sat motionless, half paralysed, it would appear, by the suddenness, the unexpectedness of the revelation, making no effort to take the letters which i held out. i put them into her hand, speaking in slow, gentle tones:-- "read, darling--read! there are two letters, for mr thorold has drafted out the substance of his own reply. he feels that much of the responsibility lies on his shoulder. it is such a joy to him--such a joy!--to feel that he has this chance to `make good'. it's not a dream, darling--it's true! the long, long nightmare is over; read your letters and--wake up!" i pressed the envelope into her slack hands, kissed her cold cheek, and hurried from the room. she must be alone when she read those healing words; even the dearest friend would be an intruder at that moment! my own heart was beating at express speed as i descended the stairs, and walked along the corridors which led to the drawing-room. i did not hurry, but rather intentionally lingered by the way. the great mirrors on the walls reflected a bright-eyed, eager girl, whom even at this engrossed moment it was a pleasure to recognise as myself. i am so tired of the reflection of old miss harding! in a far corner of the room the two men were waiting. mr thorold came quickly forward. i nodded, and he took his friend by the arm, and led him towards the door. edward hallett's face was fixed--tense with emotion. he glanced neither to right nor to left--was oblivious of the outer world. mr thorold was to lead him to the room where charmion sat, close the door, and leave them face to face. hardly would she have finished reading the letters than her husband would stand before her. oh, what a meeting--what a meeting! what a rolling away of the stone! thank god for giving me my share in bringing it about! wenham thorold came back, and sat by my side. we were both shaking with excitement, but we talked resolutely to pass the time. i asked him if mr hallett had been told of my dual personality, and he smiled, and said:-- "oh, yes, he was interested--as much interested as he could be in anything outside! but not surprised! he and i were constantly puzzled by your extraordinary youth! the get-up was excellent, but your manner, your movements--they did not belong to an elderly woman. circumstances favoured you, of course! you were naturally quiet and reserved on our first meeting, and then billy's illness cast a gloom over us all. every one seems older in a period of anxiety; but as soon as the cloud lifted your vitality asserted itself." he looked at me anxiously. "this--this reunion will make a difference to your life? it will take away your friend." "yes, it will. my friends all go," i said a little bitterly. "i am trying not to think of myself, but only to rejoice for her; but it is hard!" "that house in the country! you shared it together? couldn't you make it your home instead of the flat? it would be more--suitable. this fairy godmother scheme is possible for a few months, with a home in the background, to which you can return at any moment, but now that you will be alone, you are too young. it does not seem right. couldn't you"--he looked at me apologetically--"carry on the same work in the country in your own name? make the house a country resort for lame dogs who need a rest, for example? there would be plenty of applicants." "it's impossible! i can't explain. i can never return to `pastimes' alone." i spoke shortly. the subject was difficult. so far, i had not thrashed it out even in thought. mr thorold shot a quick, keen glance. instinctively, i knew where his thoughts were wandering. he was thinking of the bluff country squire who had been so kind to his own little girls, remembering that he came from the same neighbourhood; that evelyn wastneys and he had been friends. the stupid colour flamed in my cheeks. i made haste to turn the conversation from myself. "it will make a difference to you, too. you will miss your friend!" "yes, but--i have borne the great loss, miss wastneys; i can spare him gladly, to _his joy_. when one has known the completeness of a real marriage, and then been left alone, it would be impossible to grudge--my friends urge me to marry again; my girl herself said she wished it. if i had been less completely happy, i might have done it for the children's sake. as it is, i can never put another in her place. but i need a woman in my life. i feel that--but i want a mother, a sister, not a wife. can't you evolve a _real_ miss harding, who will look after me and my poor bairns?" it was an hour later when the message came summoning us to return to the sitting-room. the two were standing to receive us--glorified beings, exalted above the earth. oh, i can't write about it! we clung together. they spoke glowing words of love and thanks and appreciation; they looked past us into each other's eyes. it was wonderful, wonderful; but, oh, it made me feel desperately, desperately lonely! chapter twenty six. love's a new life. late that night, after the two men had left, charmion and i sat together over the bedroom fire, and talked and talked. her lips were opened now, and she could talk without the old restraint. it seemed a relief to her to talk. i asked if "edward" had ever discovered who was the sender of the fatal letter. "no," she said, "not actually. he is practically certain, but he did not trouble to bring it home. the mischief was done. anyone who had a heart must have been sufficiently punished by the knowledge of the misery she had caused. he left her to that, but, oh! evelyn, what a conception of _love_! to try to poison a man's home because he had chosen another woman as his wife! not that i am much better! i have no right to speak." her lips quivered. she confessed to me that, on reading the two letters, she had been overcome with sorrow and remorse, but that edward had refused to listen to her laments. they had both been wrong; each had an equal need of forgiveness, the suffering in either case had been intense--not another moment must be wasted! away with bitterness, away with remorse, the future lay ahead, it should not be wasted in vain regrets. then, blushing and aglow, she told me her plans. "to-morrow-- to-day," she raised her eyes to the clock, and glowed anew, "we are going by train to a sunny bay in cornwall, to spend a second honeymoon. edward's writing engagement could be fulfilled better in the country than in town. he had lingered in london for thorold's sake, not his own. one month, two months to themselves, they must have, and then"-- she straightened herself as in eager anticipation--"america! i must take him back, evelyn! back to his old home, and his old friends--to let them all see! oh! all my life must be spent in making good the shame i have brought upon him, the misery and blame!" i laid a restraining touch on her arm. "remember you are not to grieve! you have promised. that is forbidden ground!" "yes--yes, i know, but my heart, evelyn! my heart will always remember." she turned to me tenderly. "darling girl! we talked about you--it is through you that this happiness has come. we cannot be parted. when we are settled in our new home we want you to come over, to pay us a long, long visit. you could see your sister, too. you would enjoy that?" i felt a momentary rising of bitterness, a momentary impulse to say caustically that it would indeed be soothing for a lonely woman to visit two devoted married couples, but there was a wistful tone in her voice which showed that she understood. i made a big effort to laugh naturally, and made a vague promise. this was charmion's night. i should be a poor thing if i damped her joy! "and about `pastimes,'" she said slowly. "the agreement stands, of course. i pay half expenses for the next three years. live in it, lend it, rent it as you think best. i should love best to think of you living there, until you come to us. you could find some friend--" "oh, yes! i have made enough friends at the `mansions' to keep me supplied with visitors for months to come. _if_ i go back. but i'm not sure. this has come upon me with a rush, charmion. i shall have to sit down, and think quietly. i shall see you again before you sail?" "of course." she looked at me with reproach. "you are the dearest person in the world to me, evelyn--except _one_. do you suppose i could leave england without seeing you again? we'll arrange a meeting somewhere, and have a week together. you and i, and mr thorold, and edward." she turned a sudden scrutinising glance upon me. "evelyn, i have a haunting conviction that you are changed; that some man has come into your life. you aren't by any possibility going to marry wenham thorold?" "indeed i am not. he hasn't the faintest desire to marry me, or i to marry him. we are excellent friends, but nothing more. i honestly believe he regrets miss harding. you are growing too personal, my dear. i shall go to bed." she laughed, kissed me, but refused to move. "i'm not tired. i don't want to sleep. sleep means forgetfulness," she said. "it will rest me more to remember!" i left her leaning forward, with hands clasped round her knees, gazing into the fire. charmion left the next morning, and i prepared, with the strangest reluctance, to turn back into miss harding, and return to the basement flat. for the last week i had been living in an atmosphere of romance, which had put me out of tune with ordinary life. bridget showed her usual understanding. "'deed, i always _did_ say a wedding was the most upsetting thing in life!" she declared. "a funeral's not in it for upsetting your nerves, and setting you on to grizzle, the same as a wedding. not that mrs fane's--hallett, i suppose--was a wedding exactly, but it sort of churned you up more than if it was. to see her all a-smiling and a-flushing, and looking so young! her as always held herself so cold. and now to have to go back to live underground, with you mumping about in a shawl!" "cheer up, bridget dear," i said soothingly. "it won't be for long. i feel myself that i need a change. perhaps we'll go to ireland. the aunts are grumbling because i don't go. just a few weeks more, while i think things over and make my plans. make the best of it, there's a good soul!" she looked at me, more in sorrow than in anger. "i'll make the best of it, _with_ the best, when there's a call to do it," she said firmly; "but you'll only be young once, my dear. you may throw away things now as you'll pine to get back all the days of your life. when you're thinking things over just remember that!" she stumped from the room, leaving me to digest her words. the next week passed heavily. i saw little of mr thorold, and suspected that the revelation of evelyn would work against further intimacy. it was impossible that he could feel the same freedom and ease; impossible that he should commandeer my help as he had done in days past. there was no blame attached to the position, it was natural and inevitable; but the loss of the easy, pleasant intercourse left a gap in my life. mrs manners had gone with her children to visit her mother; mrs travers cut me in the hall. poor miss harding was having a bad time! nobody needed her; her absence had passed unnoticed; her return awoke no welcome. bridget besought me to go out and amuse myself, but i obstinately refused to go, and stayed glued in the flat. not for worlds would i have acknowledged it to a living creature, but--i was afraid that while i was out some one might call. ralph maplestone had said that business would bring him to town. now that the merrivales were in switzerland, and that anxiety was off his hands, he could come when he liked. if he did not come it must be because he did _not_ like! the reflection did not help to raise my spirits, nor to pass the long-houred days; but it did give me an insight into my own heart. for the first time i was honest with myself, and acknowledged that i _wanted_ him to come! i faced the possibility that i might wait in vain, and felt suddenly faint and weak. it had come to this, that i _needed_ his strength, that i felt it impossible to face life without him by my side. i determined, if he _did_ come, to show signs of weakness in my resolution; possibly to go so far as to arrange a meeting with my niece. he came one afternoon when i was darning stockings by the dining-room table, and the disobedient orphan showed him straight in on the domestic scene. i hurriedly hitched round my chair and drew the casement curtains, making an excuse of "too much sun," then folded the shawl round my shoulders, and sat at attention. he said he was pleased to see me. was i quite well? the weather was very bright. good news from switzerland, wasn't it? general underwood was suffering from gout. what were miss wastneys' plans for the summer? "she--she doesn't know herself!" i sighed vaguely. "circumstances have--er--altered. her friend mrs fane"--(i realised that escott would have to hear some explanation of charmion's departure, but was loth to set tongues wagging)--"has decided to return to america. she has spent most of her life there, and has many ties." he looked supremely uninterested. mrs fane might go to kamtschatka for all he cared! "and will miss wastneys keep on the house alone?" "nothing is yet decided; but i think--not!" he looked unperturbed. showed none of the agitation i had hoped to see. "does she intend to join mrs fane in america?" now i felt hurt! obviously, oh, quite obviously, he did not like me so much as he did! it was nothing to him where i lived--nothing to him where i went! a terrible feeling of loneliness overwhelmed me. nobody cared! i pressed my lips together to prevent their trembling; behind my spectacles i blinked smarting eyes. a big brown hand stretched out and was laid over mine; a big soft voice asked tenderly:-- "_evelyn! how long is this tomfoolery to go on_?" we were standing facing one another across the table. i had darted behind its shelter in that first moment of shock and dismay. his face was lit with a mischievous smile; his hands were thrust into his trouser pockets; his eyes surveyed me with a horrible, twinkling triumph. "oh! oh! oh! you know!" "of course i know!" "you have known all the time? from the very beginning?" "not just at first! i'll give you credit for taking me in for a short time--a very short time! then you gave yourself away." "how? how?" "when you do a thing at all, you ought to do it thoroughly. your disguise was incomplete." "incomplete? but i had lessons. i paid to be taught." "then your instructor, whoever he may be, omitted one important item. the moment i noticed it, the whole thing became plain. i knew i was talking to evelyn wastneys, and not to her aunt." i remembered the sudden flashes of complacency which had mystified me so completely. this was the explanation! i was devoured with curiosity. "what was it? you must tell me!" "your hands!" he smiled, showing his strong, white teeth. "your pretty hands, with the dimples, and the pink nails, and--the sapphire ring!" "ah!" i looked down at the big square stone in its setting of diamonds, and felt inclined to stamp with rage at my own forgetfulness. it was my mother's engagement ring, and for years i had worn it every day. to my new friends, of course, it had no associations; but for this man who had noticed it on evelyn's finger, who had gazed with a lover's admiration at evelyn's hand, the clue was unmistakable! so far as ralph maplestone was concerned, all my care, all my pains, had been rendered useless by that one stupid little omission! i stood dumb and discomfited, and the chippendale mirror on the opposite wall reflected a round-shouldered figure, a spectacled, disfigured face. i felt a sudden, overwhelming impatience with my disguise. "for pity's sake, evelyn, run away and turn into yourself!" came the command from the big voice. (it is extraordinary how he follows my thoughts!) "i can't make love to you in those things." "i don't want you to make love to me!" i said--and lied! "but i do, you see, and it's my turn! i've waited long enough." he crossed the room, opened the door, and stood with the knob in his hand, waiting for me to pass through. i stiffened my back and stood still. i told myself that to give in--_after that_--meant that i agreed--practically gave my consent. i would _not_ do it! i would _not_! i would stand all day rather than move an inch. nothing should induce me. he rattled the knob, and stared steadily in my face. i turned and--_went_! "evelyn wastneys, will you take this man to be your wedded husband?" i had come back again--in my blue dress!--and he met me on the threshold, where i verily believe he had been standing waiting, all the time i changed. he took both my hands in his, and asked the question so deeply and seriously that it brought the tears to my eyes. "i think i--will!" i said shakily. "but you must not be too sudden with me, please, because i was so certain that i never would. you must give me time to get used to the idea." "you can really love me? you can really manage to care?" "i can! the difficulty lately has been--the other way! when you didn't come i was afraid. i had a horrible conviction that you'd changed your mind." he laughed, and drew me closer, wrapping me close in his strong arms. i lay still, and felt as if all my burdens were rolling away, and a big strong barrier hedged me in and protected me from the buffets and responsibilities of life. it was a blissful feeling--full of joy, full of rest. now it seemed worth while having been a lonely woman. no sheltered, home-living girl could possibly have rejoiced as i rejoiced. "you are mine! i'll take care of you. no more rushing about, and living in disguise." "i don't want to ramble. never did! i want a home, and my own man. do you remember when you said you would give me my own way--in reason?" "and you objected that i would wish to come first? i do." "bless your lonely heart! so do i. i'm afraid i shall spoil you, ralph!" "oh, do!" he cried, and there was a hunger in his voice that sank deep in my heart. he needed me! how good it was to know that, to realise that in all the teeming millions in the world no woman could be to him that i was! later on--after a blissful interlude--i began to ask questions:-- "what will your mother say? will she be surprised?" "she'll be delighted, for my sake, and her own! at the bottom of her heart she has always longed to be with her girl. and she's prepared. she recognised the signs." "as charmion did in me. why? do we show it in our faces?" "of course we do. why not? love's a new sense, a new life. if one has any expression at all it _must_ show. i've gone about feeling as if i were labelled `evelyn wastneys. by express route,' for a year past! now i've got you! you're coming back to take care of me at the `hall'!" i rather liked the idea of myself as mistress of that old house! with my head on his shoulder i devoted several moments to the consideration of how i should arrange the drawing-room. it was amazing that i could not conjure up one pang of regret for dear "pastimes!" "there's a lot to be done first," i told him. "two homes to break up. i shall have to find new tenants." "what about general underwood for `pastimes'?" he asked. i raised my head and looked at him. he was manfully trying to smile. "wretch!" i exclaimed. "so you've got your way after all!" patricia brent, spinster by herbert jenkins herbert jenkins limited york street, london s.w. a herbert jenkins' book _fifteenth printing completing , copies_ made and printed in great britain by purnell and sons, paulton (somerset) and london contents chapter i. patricia's indiscretion ii. the bonsor-triggs' menage iii. the adventure at the quadrant grill-room iv. the madness of lord peter bowen v. patricia's revenge vi. the intervention of aunt adelaide vii. lord peter promises a solution viii. lord peter's s.o.s. ix. lady tanagra takes a hand x. miss brent's strategy xi. the defection of mr. triggs xii. a bombshell xiii. a tactical blunder xiv. galvin house meets a lord xv. mr. triggs takes tea in kensington gardens xvi. patricia's inconstancy xvii. lady peggy makes a friend xviii. the air raid xix. galvin house after the raid xx. a race with spinsterhood xxi. the greatest indiscretion what this story is about patricia brent is a "paying guest" at the galvin house residential hotel. one day she overhears two of her fellow "guests" pitying her because she "never has a nice young man to take her out." in a thoughtless moment of anger she announced that on the following night she is dining at the quadrant with her fiancé. when in due course she enters the grill-room, she finds some of galvin houseites there to watch her. rendered reckless by the thought of the humiliation of being found out, she goes up to a young staff-officer, and asks him to help her by "playing up." this is how she meets lt.-col. lord peter bowen, d.s.o. the story is a comedy concerned with the complications that ensue from patricia's thoughtless act. patricia brent, spinster chapter i patricia's indiscretion "she never has anyone to take her out, and goes nowhere, and yet she can't be more than twenty-seven, and really she's not bad-looking." "it's not looks that attract men," there was a note of finality in the voice; "it's something else." the speaker snapped off her words in a tone that marked extreme disapproval. "what else?" enquired the other voice. "oh, it's--well, it's something not quite nice," replied the other voice darkly, "the french call it being _très femme_. however, she hasn't got it." "well, i feel very sorry for her and her loneliness. i am sure she would be much happier if she had a nice young man of her own class to take her about." patricia brent listened with flaming cheeks. she felt as if someone had struck her. she recognised herself as the object of the speakers' comments. she could not laugh at the words, because they were true. she _was_ lonely, she had no men friends to take her about, and yet, and yet---- "twenty-seven," she muttered indignantly, "and i was only twenty-four last november." she identified the two speakers as miss elizabeth wangle and mrs. mosscrop-smythe. miss wangle was the great-niece of a bishop, and to have a bishop in heaven is a great social asset on earth. this ecclesiastical distinction seemed to give her the right of leadership at the galvin house residential hotel. whenever a new boarder arrived, the unfortunate bishop was disinterred and brandished before his eyes. one facetious young man in the "commercial line" had dubbed her "the body-snatcher," and, being inordinately proud of his _jeu d'esprit_, he had worn it threadbare, and miss wangle had got to know of it. the result was the sudden departure of the wit. miss wangle had intimated to mrs. craske-morton, the proprietress, that if he remained she would go. mrs. craske-morton considered that miss wangle gave tone to galvin house. miss wangle was acid of speech and barren of pity. scandal and "the dear bishop" were her chief preoccupations. she regularly read _the morning post_, which she bought, and _the times_, which she borrowed. in her attitude towards royalty she was a jacobite, and of the aristocracy she knew no wrong. mrs. mosscrop-smythe was miss wangle's toady; but she wrapped her venom in christian charity, thus making herself the more dangerous of the two. at galvin house none dare gainsay these two in their pronouncements. they were disliked; but more feared than hated. during the zeppelin scare mr. bolton, who was the humorist of galvin house, had fixed a notice to the drawing-room door, which read: "zeppelin commanders are requested to confine their attentions to rooms and ." rooms and were those occupied by miss wangle and mrs. mosscrop-smythe. there had been a great fuss about this harmless and rather feeble joke; but fortunately for mr. bolton, he had taken care to pin his jest on the door when no one was looking, and he took the additional precaution of being foremost in his denunciation of the bad taste shown by the person responsible for the jest. patricia brent was coming downstairs in response to the dinner-gong, when, through the partly open door of the lounge, she overheard the amiable remarks concerning herself. she passed quietly into the dining-room and took her seat at the table in silence, mechanically acknowledging the greetings of her fellow-guests. at galvin house the word "guest" was insisted upon. mrs. craske-morton, in announcing the advent of a new arrival, reached the pinnacle of refinement. "we have another guest coming," she would say, "a most interesting man," or "a very cultured woman," as the case might be. when the man arrived without his interest, or the woman without her culture, no one was disappointed; for no one had expected anything. the conventions had been observed and that was all that mattered. dinner at galvin house was rather a dismal affair. the separate tables heresy, advocated by a progressive-minded guest, had been once and for all discouraged by miss wangle, who announced that if separate tables were introduced she, for one, would not stay. "i remember the dear bishop once saying to me," she remarked, "'my dear, if people can't say what they have to say at a large table and in the hearing of others, then let it for ever remain unsaid.'" "but if someone's dress is awry, or their hair is not on straight, would you announce the fact to the whole table?" patricia had questioned with an innocence that was a little overdone. miss wangle had glared; for she wore the most obvious auburn wig, which failed to convince anyone, and served only to enhance the pallor of her sharp features. in consequence of the table arrangements, conversation during meal-times was general--and dull. mr. bolton joked, miss wangle poured vinegar on oily waters, mrs. mosscrop-smythe "dripped with the oil of forbearance." mr. cordal ate noisily, miss sikkum simpered and mrs. craske-morton strove to appear a real hostess entertaining real guests without the damning prefix "paying." the remaining guests, there were usually round about twenty-five, looked as they felt they ought to look, and never failed to show a befitting reverence for miss wangle's ecclesiastical relic; for it was miss wangle who issued the social birth certificates at galvin house. that evening patricia was silent. mr. bolton endeavoured to draw her out, but failed. as a rule she was the first to laugh at his jokes in order "to encourage the poor little man," as she expressed it; "for a man who is fat and bald and a bachelor and thinks he's a humorist wants all the pity that the world can lavish upon him." patricia glanced round the table, from miss wangle, lean as a winter wolf, to mrs. mosscrop-smythe, fair, chubby and faded, and on to mr. cordal, lantern-jawed and ravenous. "were they not all lonely--the left of god?" patricia asked herself; and yet two of these solitary souls had dared to pity her, patricia brent. at least she had something they did not possess--youth. the more she thought of the words that had drifted to her through the half-closed door of the lounge, the more humiliating they appeared. her day had been particularly trying and she was tired. she was in a mood to see a cyclone in a zephyr, and in a ripple a gigantic wave. she looked about her once more. what a fate to be cast among such people! the table appointments seemed more than usually irritating that evening. the base metal that peeped slyly through the silver of the forks and spoons, the tapering knives, victims of much cleaning, with their yellow handles, the salt-cellars, the mustard, browning with three days' age (mustard was replenished on sundays only), the anæmic ferns in "artistic" pots, every defect seemed emphasized. how she hated it; but most of all the many-shaped and multi-coloured napkin-rings, at galvin house known as "serviette-rings." variety was necessary to ensure each guest's personal interest in one particular napkin. did they ever get mixed? patricia shuddered at the thought. at the end of the week, a "serviette" had become a sort of gastronomic diary. by saturday evening (new "serviettes" were served out on sunday at luncheon) the square of grey-white fabric had many things recorded upon it; but above all, like a monarch dominating his subjects, was the ineradicable aroma of monday's kipper. on this particular evening galvin house seemed more than ever grey and depressing. patricia found herself wondering if god had really made all these people in his own image. they seemed so petty, so ungodlike. the way they regarded their food, as it was handed to them, suggested that they were for ever engaged in a comparison of what they paid with what they received. did god make people in his own image and then leave the rest to them? was that where free will came in? "----lonely!" the word seemed to crash in upon her thoughts with explosive force. someone had used it--whom she did not know, or in what relation. it brought her back to earth and galvin house. "lonely," that was at the root of her depression. she was an object of pity among her fellow-boarders. it was intolerable! she understood why girls "did things" to escape from such surroundings and such fox-pity. had she been a domestic servant she could have hired a soldier, that is before the war. had she been a typist or a shop-girl--well, there were the park and tubes and things where gallant youth approached fair maiden. no, she was just a girl who could not do these things, and in consequence became the pitied of the miss wangles and the mrs. mosscrop-smythes of bayswater. she was quite content to be manless, she did not like men, at least not the sort she had encountered. there were boltons and cordals in plenty. there were the "haven't-we-met-before?" kind too, the hunters who seemed cheerfully to get out at the wrong station, or pay twopence on a bus for a penny fare in order to pursue some face that had attracted their roving eye. she sighed involuntarily at the ugliness of it all, this cheapening of the things worthy of reverence and respect. she looked across at miss sikkum, whose short skirts and floppy hats had involved her in many unconventional adventures that one glance at her face had corrected as if by magic. a back view of miss sikkum was deceptive. suddenly patricia made a resolve. had she paused to think she would have seen the danger; but she was by nature impulsive, and the conversation she had overheard had angered and humiliated her. her resolve synchronised with the arrival of the sweet stage. turning to mrs. craske-morton she remarked casually, "i shall not be in to dinner to-morrow night, mrs. morton." mrs. craske-morton always liked her guests to tell her when they were not likely to be in to dinner. "it saves the servants laying an extra cover," she would explain. as a matter of fact it saved mrs. craske-morton preparing for an extra mouth. if patricia had hurled a bomb into the middle of the dining-table, she could not have attracted to herself more attention than by her simple remark that she was not dining at galvin house on the morrow. everybody stopped eating to stare at her. miss sikkum missed her aim with a trifle of apple charlotte, and spent the rest of the evening in endeavouring to remove the stain from a pale blue satin blouse, which in brixton is known as "a paris model." it was miss wangle who broke the silence. "how interesting," she said. "we shall quite miss you, miss brent. i suppose you are working late." the whole table waited for patricia's response with breathless expectancy. "no!" she replied nonchalantly. "i know," said mrs. mosscrop-smythe, in her even tones, and wagging an admonitory finger at her. "you're going to a revue, or a music-hall." "or to sow her wild oats," added mr. bolton. then some devil took possession of patricia. she would give them something to talk about for the next month. they should have a shock. "no," she replied indifferently, attracting to herself the attention of the whole table by her deliberation. "no, i'm not going to a revue, a music-hall, or to sow my wild oats. as a matter of fact," she paused. they literally hung upon her words. "as a matter of fact i am dining with my fiancé." the effect was electrical. miss sikkum stopped dabbing the front of her brixton "paris model." miss wangle dropped her pince-nez on the edge of her plate and broke the right-hand glass. mr. cordal, a heavy man who seldom spoke, but enjoyed his food with noisy gusto, actually exclaimed, "what?" almost without exception the others repeated his exclamation. "your fiancé?" stuttered miss wangle. "but, dear miss brent," said mrs. mosscrop-smythe, "you never told us that you were engaged." "didn't i?" enquired patricia indifferently. "and you don't wear a ring," interposed miss sikkum eagerly. "i hate badges of servitude," remarked patricia with a laugh. "but an engagement ring," insinuated miss sikkum with a self-conscious giggle. "one is freer without a ring," replied patricia. miss wangle's jaw dropped. "marriages are----" she began. "made in heaven. i know," broke in patricia, "but you try wearing turkish slippers in london, miss wangle, and you'll soon want to go back to the english boots. it's silly to make things in one place to be worn in another; they never fit." mrs. craske-morton coughed portentously. "really, miss brent," she exclaimed. whenever conversation seemed likely to take an undesirable turn, or she foresaw a storm threatening, mrs. craske-morton's "really, mr. so-and-so" invariably guided it back into a safe channel. "but do they?" persisted patricia. "can you, mrs. morton, seriously regard marriage in this country as a success? it's all because marriages are made in heaven without taking into consideration our climatic conditions." miss wangle had lost the power of speech. mrs. mosscrop-smythe was staring at patricia as if she had been something strange and unclean upon which her eyes had never hitherto lighted. in the eyes of little mrs. hamilton, a delightfully french type of old lady, there was a gleam of amusement. mrs. mosscrop-smythe was the first to recover the power of speech. "is your fiancé in the army?" "yes," replied patricia desperately. she had long since thrown over all caution. "oh, tell us his name," giggled miss sikkum. "brown," said patricia. "is his knapsack number ?" enquired mr. bolton. "he doesn't wear one," said patricia, now thoroughly enjoying herself. "oh, he's an officer, then," this from mrs. mosscrop-smythe. "is he a first or a second lieutenant?" enquired mrs. craske-morton. "major," responded patricia laconically. "what's he in?" was the next question. "west loamshires." "what battalion?" enquired miss wangle, who had now regained the power of speech. "i have a cousin in the fifth." "i am sure i can't remember," said patricia, "i never could remember numbers." "not remember the number of the battalion in which your fiancé is?" there was incredulous disapproval in miss wangle's voice. "no! i'm awfully sorry," replied patricia, "i suppose it's very horrid of me; but i'll go upstairs and look it up if you like." "oh please don't trouble," said miss wangle icily. "i remember the dear bishop once saying----" "and i suppose after dinner you'll go to a theatre," interrupted mrs. mosscrop-smythe, for the first time in the memory of the oldest guest indifferent to the bishop and what he had said, thought, or done. "oh, no, it's war time," said patricia, "we shall just dine quietly at the quadrant grill-room." a meaning glance passed between mrs. mosscrop-smythe and miss wangle. why she had fixed upon the quadrant grill-room patricia could not have said. "and now," said patricia, "i must run upstairs and see that my best bib and tucker are in proper condition to be worn before my fiancé. i'll tell him what you say about the ring. good night, everybody, if we don't meet again." "patricia brent," admonished patricia to her reflection in the looking-glass, as she brushed her hair that night, "you're a most unmitigated little liar. you've told those people the wickedest of wicked lies. you've engaged yourself to an unknown major in the british army. you're going to dine with him to-morrow night, and heaven knows what will be the result of it all. a single lie leads to so many. oh, patricia, patricia!" she nodded her head admonishingly at the reflection in the glass. "you're really a very wicked young woman." then she burst out laughing. "at least, i have given them something to talk about, any old how. by now they've probably come to the conclusion that i'm a most awful rip." patricia never confessed it to herself, but she was extremely lonely. instinctively shy of strangers, she endeavoured to cover up her self-consciousness by assuming an attitude of nonchalance, and the result was that people saw only the artificiality. she had been brought up in the school of "men are beasts," and she took no trouble to disguise her indifference to them. with women she was more popular. if anyone were ill at galvin house, it was always patricia brent who ministered to them, sat and read to them, and cheered them through convalescence back to health. her acquaintance with men had been almost entirely limited to those she had found in the various boarding-houses, glorified in the name of residential hotels, at which she had stayed. five years previously, on the death of her father, a lawyer in a small country town, she had come to london and obtained a post as secretary to a blossoming politician. there she had made herself invaluable, and there she had stayed, performing the same tasks day after day, seldom going out, since the war never at all, and living a life calculated to make an acid spinster of a venus or a juno. "oh, bother to-morrow!" said patricia as she got into bed that night; "it's a long way off and perhaps something will happen before then," and with that she switched off the light. chapter ii the bonsor-triggs' menage the next morning patricia awakened with a feeling that something had occurred in her life. for a time she lay pondering as to what it could be. suddenly memory came with a flash, and she smiled. that night she was dining out! as suddenly as it had come the smile faded from her lips and eyes, and she mentally apostrophised herself as a little idiot for what she had done. then, remembering miss wangle's remark and the expression on mrs. mosscrop-smythe's face, the lines of her mouth hardened, and there was a determined air about the tilt of her chin. she smiled again. "patricia brent! no, that won't do," she broke off. then springing out of bed she went over to the mirror, adjusted the dainty boudoir cap upon her head and, bowing elaborately to her reflection, said, "patricia brent, i invite you to dine with me this evening at the quadrant grill-room. i hope you'll be able to come. how delightful. we shall have a most charming time." then she sat on the edge of the bed and pondered. of course she would have to come back radiantly happy, girls who have been out with their fiancé's always return radiantly happy. "that will mean two _crèmes de menthes_ instead of one, that's another shilling, perhaps two," she murmured. then she must have a good dinner or else the _crème de menthe_ would get into her head, that would mean about seven shillings more. "oh! patricia, patricia," she wailed, "you have let yourself in for an expense of at least ten shillings, the point being is a major in the british army worth an expenditure of ten shillings? we shall----" she was interrupted by the maid knocking at the door to inform her that it was her turn for the bath-room. as patricia walked across the park that morning on her way to eaton square, where the politician lived who employed her as private secretary whilst he was in the process of rising, she pondered over her last night's announcement. she was convinced that she had acted foolishly, and in a way that would probably involve her in not only expense, but some trouble and inconvenience. at the breakfast-table the conversation had been entirely devoted to herself, her fiancé, and the coming dinner together. miss wangle, mrs. mosscrop-smythe, and miss sikkum, supported by mrs. craske-morton, had returned to the charge time after time. patricia had taken refuge in her habitual breakfast silence and, finding that they could draw nothing from her her fellow-guests had proceeded to discuss the matter among themselves. it was with a feeling of relief that patricia rose from the table. there was an east wind blowing, and patricia had always felt that an east wind made her a materialist. this morning she was depressed; there was in her heart a feeling that fate had not been altogether kind to her. her childhood had been spent in a small town on the east coast under the care of her father's sister who, when mrs. brent died, had come to keep house for mr. john brent and take care of his five-year-old daughter. in her aunt patricia found a woman soured by life. what it was that had soured her patricia could never gather; but aunt adelaide was for ever emphasizing the fact that men were beasts. later patricia saw in her aunt a disappointed woman. she could remember as a child examining with great care her aunt's hard features and angular body, and wondering if she had ever been pretty, and if anyone had kissed her because they wanted to and not because it was expected of them. the lack of sympathy between aunt and niece had driven patricia more and more to seek her father's companionship. he was a silent man, little given to emotion or demonstration of affection. he loved patricia, but lacked the faculty of conveying to her the knowledge of his love. as she walked across the park patricia came to the conclusion that, for some reason or other, love, or the outward visible signs of love, had been denied her. warm-hearted, impetuous, spontaneous, she had been chilled by the self-repression of her father, and the lack of affection of her aunt. she had been schooled to regard god as the god of punishment rather than the god of love. one of her most terrifying recollections was that of the sundays spent under the paternal roof. to her father, religion counted for nothing; but to her aunt it counted for everything in the world; the hereafter was to be the compensation for renunciation in this world. miss brent's attitude towards prayer was that of one who regards it as a means by which she is able to convey to the almighty what she expects of him in the next world as a reward for what she has done, or rather not done, in this. patricia had once asked, in a childish moment of speculation, "but, aunt adelaide, suppose god doesn't make us happy in the next world, what shall we do then?" "oh! yes he will," was her aunt's reply, uttered with such grimness that patricia, though only six years of age, had been satisfied that not even god would dare to disappoint aunt adelaide. patricia had been a lonely child. she had come to distrust spontaneity and, in consequence, became shy and self-conscious, with the inevitable result that other children, the few who were in aunt adelaide's opinion fit for her to associate with, made it obvious that she was one by herself. patricia had fallen back on her father's library, where she had read many books that would have caused her aunt agonies of stormy anguish, had she known. patricia early learnt the necessity for dissimulation. she always carefully selected two books, one that she could ostensibly be reading if her aunt happened to come into the library, and the other that she herself wanted to read, and of which she knew her aunt would strongly disapprove. miss brent regarded boarding-schools as "hotbeds of vice," and in consequence patricia was educated at home, educated in a way that she would never have been at any school; for miss brent was thorough in everything she undertook. the one thing for which patricia had to be grateful to her aunt was her general knowledge, and the sane methods adopted with her education. but for this she would not have been in the position to accept a secretaryship to a politician. when patricia was twenty-one her father had died, and she inherited from her mother an annuity of a hundred pounds a year. her aunt had suggested that they should live together; but patricia had announced her intention of working, and with the money that she realised from the sale of her father's effects, particularly his library, she came to london and underwent a course of training in shorthand, typewriting, and general secretarial work. this was in march, . before she was ready to undertake a post, the war broke out upon europe like a cataclysm, and a few months later patricia had obtained a post as private secretary to mr. arthur bonsor, m.p. mr. bonsor was the victim of marriage. destiny had ordained that he should spend his life in golf and gardening, or in breeding earless rabbits and stingless bees. he was bucolic and passive. mrs. bonsor, however, after a slight altercation with destiny, had decided that mr. bonsor was to become a rising politician. thus it came about that, pushed on from behind by mrs. bonsor and led by patricia, whose general knowledge was of the greatest possible assistance to him, mr. bonsor was in the elaborate process of rising at the time when patricia determined to have a fiancé. mr. bonsor was a small, fair-haired man, prematurely bald, an indifferent speaker; but excellent in committee. instinctively he was gentle and kind. mrs. bonsor disliked patricia and patricia was indifferent to mrs. bonsor. mrs. bonsor, however, recognised that in patricia her husband had a remarkably good secretary, one whom it would be difficult to replace. mrs. bonsor's attitude to everyone who was not in a superior position to herself was one of patronage. patricia she looked upon as an upper servant, although she never dare show it. patricia, on the other hand, showed very clearly that she had no intention of being treated other than as an equal by mrs. bonsor, and the result was a sort of armed neutrality. they seldom met; when by chance they encountered each other in the house mrs. bonsor would say, "good morning, miss brent; i hope you walked across the park." patricia would reply, "yes, most enjoyable; i invariably walk across the park when i have time"; and with a forced smile mrs. bonsor would say, "that is very wise of you." never did mrs. bonsor speak to patricia without enquiring if she had walked across the park. one day patricia anticipated mrs. bonsor's inevitable question by announcing, "i walked across the park this morning, mrs. bonsor, it was most delightful," and mrs. bonsor had glared at her, but, remembering patricia's value to her husband, had made a non-committal reply and passed on. henceforth, mrs. bonsor dropped all reference to the park. on the first day of patricia's entry into the bonsor household, mrs. bonsor had remarked, "of course you will stay to lunch," and patricia had thanked her and said she would. but when she found that her luncheon was served on a tray in the library, where mr. bonsor did his work, she had decided that henceforth exercise in the middle of the day was necessary for her, and she lunched out. mr. bonsor had married beneath him. his father, a land-poor squire in the north of england, had impressed upon all his sons that money was essential as a matrimonial asset, and mr. bonsor, not having sufficient individuality to starve for love, had determined to follow the parental decree. how he met miss triggs, the daughter of the prosperous streatham builder and contractor, samuel triggs, nobody knew, but his father had congratulated him very cordially about having contrived to marry her. miss triggs's friends to a woman were of the firm conviction that it was miss triggs who had married mr. bonsor. "'ettie's so ambitious." remarked her father soon after the wedding, "that it's almost a relief to get 'er married." mr. bonsor was scarcely back from his honeymoon before he was in full possession of the fact that mrs. bonsor had determined that he should become famous. she had read how helpful many great men's wives had been in their career, and she determined to be the power behind the indeterminate arthur bonsor. poor mr. bonsor, who desired nothing better than a peaceable life and had looked forward to a future of ease and prosperity when he married miss triggs, discovered when too late that he had married not so much miss triggs, as an abstract sense of ambition. domestic peace was to be purchased only by an attitude of entire submission to mrs. bonsor's schemes. he was not without brains, but he lacked that impetus necessary to "getting on." mrs. bonsor, who was not lacking in shrewdness, observed this and determined that she herself would be the impetus. mr. bonsor came to dread meal-times, that is meal-times _tête-à-tête_. during these symposiums he was subjected to an elaborate cross-examination as to what he was doing to achieve greatness. mrs. bonsor insisted upon his being present at every important function to which he could gain admittance, particularly the funerals of the illustrious great. egged on by her he became an inveterate writer of letters to the newspapers, particularly _the times_. sometimes his letters appeared, which caused mrs. bonsor intense gratification: but editors soon became shy of a man who bombarded them with letters upon every conceivable subject, from the submarine menace to the question of "should women wear last year's frocks?" mr. triggs had once described his daughter very happily: "'ettie's one of them that ain't content with pressing a bell, but she must keep 'er thumb on the bell-push." that was mrs. bonsor all over; she lacked restraint, both physical and artistic, and she conceived that if you only make noise enough people will, sooner or later, begin to take notice. within three years of his marriage, mr. bonsor entered the house of commons. he had first of all fought in a radical constituency and been badly beaten; but the second time he had, by some curious juggling of chance, been successful in an almost equally strong radical division, much to the delight of mrs. bonsor. the success had been largely due to her idea of flooding the constituency with pretty girl-canvassers; but she had been very careful to keep a watchful eye on mr. bonsor. one of her reasons for engaging patricia, for really mrs. bonsor was responsible for the engagement, had been that she had decided that patricia was indifferent to men, and she decided that mr. bonsor might safely be trusted with patricia brent for long periods of secretarial communion. mr. bonsor, although not lacking in susceptibility, was entirely devoid of that courage which subjugates the feminine heart. once he had permitted his hand to rest upon patricia's; but he never forgot the look she gave him and, for weeks after, he felt a most awful dog, and wondered if patricia would tell mrs. bonsor. when she married, mrs. bonsor saw that it would be necessary to drop her family, that is as far as practicable. it could not be done entirely, because her father was responsible for the allowance which made it possible for the bonsors to live in eaton square. the old man was not lacking in shrewdness, and he had no intention of being thrown overboard by his ambitious daughter. it occasionally happened that mr. triggs would descend upon the bonsor household and, although mrs. bonsor did her best to suppress him, that is without in any way showing she was ashamed of her parent, he managed to make patricia's acquaintance and, from that time, made a practice of enquiring for and having a chat with her. mrs. bonsor was grateful to providence for having removed her mother previous to her marriage. mrs. triggs had been a homely soul, with a marked inclination to be "friendly." she overflowed with good-humour, and was a woman who would always talk in an omnibus, or join a wedding crowd and compare notes with those about her. she addressed mr. triggs as "pa," which caused her daughter a mental anguish of which mrs. triggs was entirely unaware. it was not until miss triggs was almost out of her teens that her mother was persuaded to cease calling her "girlie." in mrs. bonsor the reforming spirit was deeply ingrained; but she had long since despaired of being able to influence her father's taste in dress. she groaned in spirit each time she saw him, for his sartorial ideas were not those of mayfair. he leaned towards checks, rather loud checks, trousers that were tight about the calf, and a coat that was a sporting conception of the morning coat, with a large flapped pocket on either side. he invariably wore a red tie and an enormous watch-chain across his prosperous-looking figure. his hat was a high felt, an affair that seemed to have set out in life with the ambition of being a top hat, but losing heart had compromised. if mrs. bonsor dreaded her father's visits, patricia welcomed them. she was genuinely fond of the old man. mr. triggs radiated happiness from the top of his shiny bald head, with its fringe of sandy-grey hair, to his square-toed boots that invariably emitted little squeaks of joy. he wore a fringe of whiskers round his chubby face, otherwise he was clean-shaven, holding that beards were "messy" things. he had what patricia called "crinkly" eyes, that is to say each time he smiled there seemed to radiate from them hundreds of little lines. he always addressed patricia as "me dear," and not infrequently brought her a box of chocolates, to the scandal of mrs. bonsor, who had once expostulated with him that that was not the way to treat her husband's secretary. "tut, tut, 'ettie," had been mr. triggs's response. "she's a fine gal. if i was a bit younger i shouldn't be surprised if there was a second mrs. triggs." "father!" mrs. bonsor had expostulated in horror. "remember that she is arthur's secretary." mr. triggs had almost choked with laughter; mirth invariably seemed to interfere with his respiration and ended in violent and wheezy coughings and gaspings. had mrs. bonsor known that he repeated the conversation to patricia, she would have been mortified almost to the point of discharging her husband's secretary. "you see, me dear," mr. triggs had once said to patricia, "'ettie's so busy bothering about aitches that she's got time for nothing else. she ain't exactly proud of her old father," he had added shrewdly, "but she finds 'is brass a bit useful." mr. triggs was under no delusion as to his daughter's attitude towards him. one day he had asked patricia rather suddenly, "why don't you get married, me dear?" patricia had started and looked up at him quickly. "married, me, mr. triggs? oh! i suppose for one thing nobody wants me, and for another i'm not in love." mr. triggs had pondered a little over this. "that's right, me dear!" he said at length. "never you marry except you feel you can't 'elp it, then you'll know it's the right one. don't you marry a chap because he's got a lot of brass. you marry for the same reason that me and my missis married, because we felt we couldn't do without each other," and the old man's voice grew husky. "you wouldn't believe it, me dear, 'ow i miss 'er, though she's been dead eight years next may." patricia had been deeply touched and, not knowing what to say, had stretched out her hand to the old man, who took and held it for a moment in his. as she drew her hand away she felt a tear splash upon it, and it was not her own. "ever hear that song 'my old dutch'?" he asked after a lengthy silence. patricia nodded. "i used to sing it to 'er--god bless my soul! what an old fool i'm gettin', talkin' to you in this way. now i must be gettin' off. lor! what would 'ettie say if she knew?" but mrs. bonsor did not know. chapter iii the adventure at the quadrant grill-room that evening as patricia looked in at the lounge on the way to her room, she found it unusually crowded. on a normal day her appearance would scarcely have been noticed; but this evening it was the signal for a sudden cessation in the buzz of conversation, and all eyes were upon her. for a moment she stood in the doorway and then, with a nod and a smile, she turned and proceeded upstairs, conscious of the whispering that broke out as soon as her back was turned. as she stood before the mirror, wondering what she should wear for the night's adventure, she recalled a remark of miss wangle's that no really nice-minded woman ever dressed in black and white unless she had some ulterior motive. upon the subject of sex-attraction miss wangle posed as an authority, and hinted darkly at things that thrilled miss sikkum to ecstatic giggles, and mrs. mosscrop-smythe to pianissimo moans of anguish that such things could be. with great deliberation patricia selected a black charmeuse costume that miss wangle had already confided to the whole of galvin house was at least two and a half inches too short; but as patricia had explained to mrs. hamilton, if you possess exquisitely fitting patent boots that come high up the leg, it's a sin for the skirt to be too long. she selected a black velvet hat with a large white water-lily on the upper brim. "you look bad enough for a vicar's daughter," she said, surveying herself in the glass as she fastened a bunch of red carnations in her belt. "white at the wrists and on the hat, yes, it looks most improper. i wonder what the major-man will think?" swift movements, deft touches, earnest scrutiny followed one another. patricia was an artist in dress. finally, when her gold wristlet watch had been fastened over a white glove she subjected herself to a final and exhaustive examination. "now, patricia!"--it had become with her a habit to address her reflection in the mirror--"shall we carry an umbrella, or shall we not?" for a few moments she regarded herself quizzically, then finally announced, "no: we will not. an umbrella suggests a bus, or the tube, and when a girl goes out with a major in the british army, she goes in a taxi. no, we will not carry an umbrella." she still lingered in front of the mirror, looking at herself with obvious approval. "yes, patricia! you are looking quite nice. your eyes are violeter, your hair more sunsetty and your lips redder than usual, and, yes, your face generally looks happier." when she entered the lounge it was twenty minutes to eight and, although dinner was at seven-thirty, the room was full. everybody stared at her as with flushed cheeks she walked to the centre of the room. then suddenly turning to miss wangle, she said, "do you think i shall do, miss wangle, or do i look too wicked for a major?" miss wangle merely stared. mrs. hamilton smiled and mrs. mosscrop-smythe looked sympathetically at miss wangle. mr. bolton laughed. "i wish i was a major, miss brent," he remarked, at which patricia turned to him and made an elaborate curtsy. "that girl will come to a bad end," remarked miss wangle with conviction to mrs. mosscrop-smythe, as with a smile over her shoulder patricia made a dramatic exit. she had noticed, however, that miss wangle and mrs. mosscrop-smythe were in hats and jackets. they, too, were apparently going out, although she had not heard them tell mrs. craske-morton so. mr. bolton also had his hat in his hand. during the day patricia had thought out very carefully the part she had set herself to play. if she were going to meet her fiancé back from the front, she must appear radiantly happy, vide conventional opinion. but she had admonished her reflection in the mirror, "you mustn't overdo it. women, especially tabbies, are very acute." it had been patricia's intention to go by bus but at the entrance of the lounge she saw gustave who ingratiatingly enquired, "taxi, mees?" with a smile she nodded her head, and gustave disappeared. "there goes another two shillings. oh, bother major brown! soldiers are costly luxuries," she muttered under her breath. a moment after gustave reappeared with the intimation that the taxi was at the door. a group of her fellow-guests gathered in the hall to see her off. patricia thought their attitude more appropriate to a wedding than the fact that one of their fellow-boarders was going out to dinner. "it is clear," she thought, "that patricia brent, man-catcher, is a much more important person than is patricia brent, inveterate spinster." she noticed that there was a second taxi at the door, and while her own driver was "winding-up" his machine, which took some little time, the other taxi got off in front. she had seen get into it miss wangle, mrs. mosscrop-smythe, and mr. bolton. as the taxi sped eastward, patricia began to speculate as to what she really intended doing. she had no appointment, she was in a taxi which would cost her two shillings at least, and she had given the address of the quadrant grill-room. she was still considering what she should do when the taxi drew up. fate and the taxi driver had decided the matter between them, and patricia determined to go through with it and disappoint neither. having paid the man and tipped him handsomely, she descended the stairs to the grill-room. she had no idea of what it cost to dine at the quadrant; but remembered with a comfortable feeling that she had some two pounds upon her. with moderation, she decided, it might be possible to get a meal for that sum without attracting the adverse criticism of the staff. it had not struck her that it might appear strange for a girl to dine alone at such a restaurant as the quadrant, and that she was laying herself open to criticism. she was too excited at this new adventure into which she had been precipitated for careful reasoning. as she descended the stairs she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror. she started. surely that could not be patricia brent, secretary to a rising politician, that stylish-looking girl in black, with a large bunch of carnations. that red-haired creature with sparkling eyes and a colour that seemed to have caught the reflection of the carnations in her belt! she entered the lounge at the foot of the stairs with increased confidence, and she was conscious that several men turned to look at her with interest. then suddenly the bottom fell out of her world. there, standing in the vestibule, were miss wangle, mrs. mosscrop-smythe, and mr. bolton. in a flash she saw it all. they had come to spy upon her. they would find her out, and the whole humiliating story would probably have to be told. thoughts seemed to spurt through her mind. what was she to do? it was too late to retreat. miss wangle had already fixed her with a stony stare through her lorgnettes, which she carried only on special occasions. patricia was conscious of bowing and smiling sweetly. some sub-conscious power seemed to take possession of her. still wondering what she should do, she found herself walking head in the air and perfectly composed, in the direction of the grill-room. she was conscious of being followed by miss wangle and her party. as patricia rounded the glass screen a superintendent came up and enquired if she had a table. she heard a voice that seemed like and yet unlike her own answer, "yes, thank you," and she passed on looking from right to left as if in search of someone, unconscious of the many glances cast in her direction. when about half-way up the long room, just past the bandstand, the terrible thought came to her of a possible humiliating retreat. what was she to do? why was she there? what were her plans? she looked about her, hoping that she did not appear so frightened as she felt. she was conscious of the gaze of a man seated at a table a few yards off. he was fair and in khaki. that was all she knew. yes, he was looking at her intently. "no, that table won't do! it is too near to the band." it was miss wangle's voice behind her. without a moment's hesitation her sub-conscious self once more took possession of patricia, and she marched straight up to the fair-haired man in khaki and in a voice loud enough for miss wangle and her party to hear cried: "hullo! so here you are, i thought i should never find you." then as he rose she murmured under her breath, "please play up to me, i'm in an awful hole. i'll explain presently." without a moment's hesitation the man replied, "you're very late. i waited for you a long time outside, then i gave you up." with a look of gratitude and a sigh of content, patricia sank down into the chair a waiter had placed for her. if there had been no chair, she would have fallen to the floor, her legs refusing further to support her body. she was trembling all over. miss wangle had selected the next table. patricia was conscious of hoping that somewhere in the next world miss wangle's sufferings would transcend those of dives as a hundred to one. as she was pulling off her gloves her companion held a low-toned colloquy with the waiter. she stole a glance at him. what must he be thinking? how had he classified her? her heart was pounding against her ribs as if determined to burst through. suddenly she remembered that the others were watching and, leaning upon the table, she said: "please pretend to be very pleased to see me. we must talk a lot. you know--you know--" then she turned aside in confusion; but with an effort she said, "you--you are supposed to be my fiancé, and you've just come back from france, and--and---- oh! what are you thinking of me? please--please----" she broke off. very gravely and with smiling eyes he replied, "i quite understand. please don't worry. something has happened, and if i can do anything to help, you have only to tell me. my name is bowen, and i'm just back from france." "are you a major?" enquired patricia, to whom stars and crowns meant nothing. "i'm afraid i'm a lieutenant-colonel," he replied, "on the staff." "oh! what a pity," said patricia, "i said you were a major." "couldn't you say i've been promoted?" patricia clapped her hands. "oh! how splendid! of course! you see i said that you were major brown, i can easily tell them that they misunderstood and that it was major bowen. they are such awful cats, and if they found out i should have to leave. you see that's some of them at the next table there. that's miss wangle with the lorgnettes and the other woman is mrs. mosscrop-smythe, who is her echo, and the man is mr. bolton. he's nothing in particular." "i see," said bowen. "and--and--of course you've got to pretend to be most awfully glad to see me. you see we haven't met for a long time and--and--we're engaged." "i quite understand," was the reply. then suddenly patricia caught his eye and saw the smile in it. "oh, how dreadful!" she cried. "of course you don't know anything about it. i'm talking like a schoolgirl. you see my name's patricia, patricia brent," and then she plunged into the whole story, telling him frankly of her escapade. he was strangely easy to talk to. "and--and--" she concluded, "what do you think of me?" "i think i'd sooner not tell you just now," he smiled. "is it as bad as that," she enquired. then suddenly the smile faded from his face and he leaned across to her, saying: "miss brent----" "i'm afraid you must call me patricia," she interrupted with a comical look, "in case they overhear. it seems rather sudden, doesn't it, and i shall have to call you----" "peter," he said. he had nice eyes patricia decided. "er--er--peter," she made a dash at the name. bowen sat back in his chair and laughed. miss wangle fixed upon him a stare through her lorgnettes, not an unfavourable stare, she was greatly impressed by his rank and red tabs. after that the ice seemed broken and patricia and her "fiancé" chatted merrily together, greatly impressing patricia's fellow-boarders. bowen was a good talker and a sympathetic listener and, above all, his attitude had in it that deference which put patricia entirely at her ease. she told him all there was to tell about herself and he, in return, explained that he came of an army family, and had been sent out to france soon after mons. he was then a captain in the yeomanry. he was wounded, promoted, and later received the d.s.o. and m.c. he had now been brought back to england and attached to the general staff. "now i think you know all that is necessary to know about your fiancé," he had concluded. patricia laughed. "oh, by the way," she said, "you have never given me an engagement ring. please don't forget that. they asked me where my ring was, and i told them i didn't care about rings, as they were badges of servitude. you see it is quite possible that miss wangle will come over to us presently. she's just that sort, and she might ask awkward questions, that is why i am telling you all about myself." "i'll remember," said bowen. "i'm glad you're a d.s.o., though," she went on, half to herself, "that's sure to interest them, and it's nice to think you're more than a major. miss wangle and mrs. mosscrop-smythe are most worldly-minded. of course it would have been nicer had you been a field-marshal; but i suppose you couldn't be promoted from a major to a field-marshal in the course of a few days, could you?" "well, it's not usual," he confessed. when the meal was over bowen looked at his watch. "i'm afraid it's too late for a show, it's a quarter to ten." "a quarter to ten!" cried patricia. "how the time has flown. i shall have to be going home." he noticed preparations for a move at the wangle table. "oh, please, don't hurry! let's go upstairs and sit and smoke for a little time." "do you think i ought," enquired patricia critically, her head on one side. "well," replied bowen, "i think that you might safely do so as we are engaged," and that settled it. they went upstairs, and it was a quarter to eleven before patricia finally decided that she must make a move. "do you know," she said as she rose, "i am afraid i have enjoyed this most awfully; but oh! to-morrow morning." "shall you be tired?" he enquired. "tired!" she queried, "i shall be hot with shame. i shall not dare to look at myself in the glass. i--i shall give myself a most awful time. for days i shall live in torture. you see i'm excited now and--and--you seem so nice, and you've been so awfully kind; but when i get alone, then i shall start wondering what was in your mind, what you have been thinking of me, and--and--oh! it will be awful. no; i'll come with you while you get your hat. i daren't be left alone. it might come on then and--and i should probably bolt. of course i shall have to ask you to see me home, if you will, because--because----" "i'm your fiancé," he smiled. "ummm," she nodded. both were silent as they sped along westward in the taxi, neither seeming to wish to break the spell. "thinking?" enquired bowen at length, as they passed the marble arch. "i was thinking how perfectly sweet you've been," replied patricia gravely. "you have understood everything and--and--you see i was so much at your mercy. shall i tell you what i was thinking?" "please do." "it sounds horribly sentimental." "never mind," he replied. "well, i was thinking that your mother would like to know that you had done what you have done to-night. and now, please, tell me how much my dinner was." "your dinner!" "yes, _ple-e-e-e-ase_," she emphasised the "please." "you insist?" and then patricia did a strange thing. she placed her hand upon bowen's and pressed it. "please go on understanding," she said, and he told her how much the dinner was and took the money from her. "may i pay for the taxi?" he enquired comically. for a moment she paused and then replied, "yes, i think you may do that, and now here we are," as the taxi drew up, "and thank you very much indeed, and good-bye." they were standing on the pavement outside galvin house. "good-bye," he enquired. "do you really mean it?" "yes, _ple-e-e-ase_," again she emphasised the "please." "patricia," he said in a serious tone, as the door flew open and gustave appeared silhouetted against the light, "don't you think that sometimes we ought to think of the other fellow?" "i shall always think of the other fellow," and with a pressure of the hand, patricia ran up the steps and disappeared into the hall, the door closing behind her. bowen turned slowly and re-entered the taxi. "where to, sir?" enquired the man. "oh, to hell!" burst out bowen savagely. "yes, sir; but wot about my petrol?" "your petrol? oh! i see," bowen laughed. "well! the quadrant then." in the hall patricia hesitated. should she go into the lounge, where she was sure galvin house would be gathered in full force, or should she go straight to bed? miss wangle decided the matter by appearing at the door of the lounge. "oh! here you are, miss brent; we thought you had eloped." "wasn't it strange we should see you to-night?" lisped mrs. mosscrop-smythe, who had followed miss wangle. patricia surveyed mrs. mosscrop-smythe with calculating calmness. "if two people go to the same grill-room at the same time on the same evening, it would be strange if they did not see each other. don't you think so, miss wangle?" "did you say you were going there?" lisped mrs. mosscrop-smythe, coming to miss wangle's assistance. "we forgot." "oh, do come in, miss brent!" it was mrs. craske-morton who spoke. patricia entered the lounge and found, as she had anticipated, the whole establishment collected. not one was missing. even gustave fluttered about from place to place, showing an unwonted desire to tidy up. patricia was conscious that her advent had interrupted a conversation of absorbing interest, furthermore that she herself had been the subject of that conversation. "miss wangle has been telling us all about your fiancé." it was miss sikkum who spoke. "fancy your saying he was a major when he's a staff lieutenant-colonel." "oh!" replied patricia nonchalantly, as she pulled off her gloves, "they've been altering him. they always do that in the army. you get engaged to a captain and you find you have to marry a general. it's so stupid. it's like buying a kitten and getting a kangaroo-pup sent home." "but aren't you pleased?" enquired mrs. craske-morton, at a loss to understand patricia's mood. "no!" snapped patricia, who was already feeling the reaction. "it's like being engaged to a chameleon, or a quick-change artist. they've made him a 'r.s.o.' as well." under her lashes patricia saw, with keen appreciation, the quick glances that were exchanged. "you mean a d.s.o., distinguished service order," explained mr. bolton. "an r.s.o. is er--er--something you put on letters." "is it?" enquired patricia innocently, "i'm so stupid at remembering such things." "he was wearing the ribbon of the military cross, too," bubbled mrs. mosscrop-smythe. "was he?" patricia was afraid of overdoing the pose of innocence she had adopted. "what a nuisance." "a nuisance!" there was surprised impatience in miss wangle's voice. patricia turned to her sweetly. "yes, miss wangle. it gives me such a lot to remember. now let me see." she proceeded to tick off each word upon her fingers. "he's a lieutenant-colonel peter bowen, d.s.o., m.c. is that right?" "bowen," almost shrieked miss wangle. "you said brown." "did i? i'm awfully sorry. my memory's getting worse than ever." then a wave of mischief took possession of her. "do you know when i went up to him to-night i hadn't the remotest idea of what his christian name was." "then what on earth do you call him then?" cried mrs. craske-morton. "call him?" queried patricia, as she rose and gathered up her gloves. "oh!" indifferently, "i generally call him 'old thing,'" and with that she left the lounge, conscious that she had scored a tactical victory. chapter iv the madness of lord peter bowen when patricia awakened the next morning, it was with the feeling that she had suffered some terrible disappointment. as a child she remembered experiencing the same sensation on the morning after some tragedy that had resulted in her crying herself to sleep. she opened her eyes and was conscious that her lashes were wet with tears. suddenly the memory of the previous night's adventure came back to her with a rush and, with an angry dab of the bedclothes, she wiped her eyes, just as the maid entered with the cup of early-morning tea she had specially ordered. with inspiration she decided to breakfast in bed. she could not face a whole table of wide-eyed interrogation. "oh, the cats!" she muttered under her breath. "i hate women!" later she slipped out of the house unobserved, with what she described to herself as a "morning after the party" feeling. she was puzzled to account for the tears. what had she been dreaming of to make her cry? every time the thought of her adventure presented itself, she put it resolutely aside. she was angry with herself, angry with the world, angry with one lieutenant-colonel peter bowen. why, she could not have explained. "oh, bother!" she exclaimed, as she made a fourth correction in the same letter. "going out is evidently not good for you, patricia." she spent the day alternately in wondering what bowen was thinking of her, and deciding that he was not thinking of her at all. finally, with a feeling of hot shame, she remembered to what thoughts she had laid herself open. her one consolation was that she would never see him again. then, woman-like, she wondered whether he would make an effort to see her. would he be content with his dismissal? for the first time during their association, the rising politician was conscious that his secretary was anxious to get off sharp to time. at five minutes to five she resolutely put aside her notebook, and banged the cover on to her typewriter. mr. bonsor looked up at this unwonted energy and punctuality on patricia's part, and with a tactful interest in the affairs of others that he was endeavouring to cultivate for political purposes, he enquired: "going out?" "no," snapped patricia, "i'm going home." mr. bonsor raised his eyebrows in astonishment. he was a mild-mannered man who had learned the value of silence when faced by certain phases of feminine psychological phenomena. he therefore made no comment; but he watched his secretary curiously as she swiftly left the room. jabbing the pins into her hat and throwing herself into her coat, patricia was walking down the steps of the rising politician's house in eaton square as the clock struck five. she walked quickly in the direction of sloane square railway station. suddenly she slackened her speed. why was she hurrying home? she felt herself blushing hotly, and became furiously angry as if discovered in some humiliating act. then with one of those odd emotional changes characteristic of her, she smiled. "patricia brent," she murmured, "i think a little walk won't do you any harm," and she strolled slowly up sloane street and across the park to bayswater. her hand trembled as she put the key in the door and opened it. she looked swiftly in the direction of the letter-rack; but her eyes were arrested by two boxes, one very large and obviously from a florist. a strange excitement seized her. "were they----?" at that moment miss sikkum came out of the lounge simpering. "oh, miss brent! have you seen your beautiful presents?" then patricia knew, and she became angry with herself on finding how extremely happy she was. glancing almost indifferently at the labels she proceeded to walk upstairs. miss sikkum looked at her in amazement. "but aren't you going to open them?" she blurted out. "oh! presently," said patricia in an off-hand way, "i had no idea it was so late," and she ran upstairs, leaving miss sikkum gazing after her in petrified astonishment. that evening patricia took more than usual pains with her toilette. had she paused to ask herself why, she would have been angry. when she came downstairs, the other boarders were seated at the table, all expectantly awaiting her entrance. on the table, in the front of her chair, were the two boxes. "i had your presents brought in here, miss brent," explained mrs. craske-morton. "oh! i had forgotten all about them," said patricia indifferently, "i suppose i had better open them," which she proceeded to do. the smaller box contained chocolates, as mr. bolton put it, "evidently bought by the hundred-weight." the larger of the boxes was filled with an enormous spray-bunch of white and red carnations, tied with green silk ribbon, and on the top of each box was a card, "with love from peter." patricia's cheeks burned. she was angry, she told herself, yet there was a singing in her heart and a light in her eyes that oddly belied her. he had not forgotten! he had dared to disobey her injunction; for, she told herself, "good-bye" clearly forbade the sending of flowers and chocolates. she was unconscious that every eye was upon her, and the smile with which she regarded now the flowers, now the chocolates, was self-revelatory. mrs. mosscrop-smythe glanced significantly at miss wangle, who, however, was too occupied in watching patricia with hawk-like intentness to be conscious of anything but the quarry. suddenly patricia remembered, and her face changed. the flowers faded, the chocolates lost their sweetness and the smile vanished. the parted lips set in a firm but mobile line. what had before been a tribute now became in her eyes an insult. men sent chocolates and flowers to--to "those women"! if he respected her he would have done as she commanded him, instead of which he had sent her presents. oh! it was intolerable. "if i sent flowers and chocolates to a lady friend," said mr. bolton, "i should expect her to look happier than you do, miss brent." with an effort patricia gathered herself together and with a forced smile replied, "ah! mr. bolton, but you are different," which seemed to please mr. bolton mightily. she was conscious that everyone was looking at her in surprise not unmixed with disapproval. she was aware that her attitude was not the conventional pose of the happily-engaged girl. the situation was strange. even mr. cordal was bestowing upon her a portion of his attention. it is true that he was eating curry with a spoon, which required less accuracy than something necessitating a knife and fork; still at meal times it was unusual of him to be conscious even of the existence of his fellow-boarders. it was gustave who relieved the situation by handing to patricia a telegram on the little tray where the silver had long since given up the unequal struggle with the base metal beneath. patricia with assumed indifference laid it beside her plate. "the boy ees waiting, mees," insinuated gustave. patricia tore open the envelope and read: "may i come and see you this evening dont say no peter." patricia was conscious of her flushed face and she felt irritated at her own weakness. with a murmured apology to mrs. morton she rose from the table and went into the lounge where she wrote the reply: "regret impossible remember your promise," then she paused. she did not want to sign her full name, she could not sign her christian name she decided, so she compromised by using initials only, "p.b." she took the telegram to the door herself, knowing that otherwise poor gustave's life would be a misery at the hands of miss wangle, mrs. mosscrop-smythe and the others. "why had she given the boy sixpence?" she asked herself as she slowly returned to the dining-room. telegraph boys were paid. it was ridiculous to tip them, especially when they brought undesirable messages. "was the message undesirable?" someone within seemed to question. of course it was, and she was very angry with bowen for not doing as she had commanded him. when patricia returned to the table and proceeded with the meal, she was conscious of the atmosphere of expectancy around her. everybody wanted to know what was in the telegram. at last miss wangle enquired, "no bad news i hope, miss brent." patricia looked up and fixed miss wangle with a deliberate stare, which she meant to be rude. "none, miss wangle, thank you," she replied coldly. the dinner proceeded until the sweet was being served, when gustave approached her once more. "you are wanted, mees, on the telephone, please," he said. patricia was conscious once more of crimsoning as she turned to gustave. "please say that i'm engaged," she said. gustave left the dining-room. everybody watched the door in a fever of expectancy. two minutes later gustave reappeared and, walking softly up to patricia's chair, whispered in a voice that could be clearly heard by everyone, "it ees colonel baun, mees. he wish to speak to you." "tell him i'm at dinner," replied patricia calmly. she could literally hear the gasp that went round the table. "but, miss brent," began mrs. craske-morton. patricia turned and looked straight into mrs. craske-morton's eyes interrogatingly. gustave hesitated. mrs. craske-morton collapsed. miss wangle and mrs. mosscrop-smythe exchanged meaning glances. little mrs. hamilton looked concerned, almost a little sad. patricia turned to gustave. "you heard, gustave?" "yes, mees," replied gustave and, turning reluctantly towards the door, he disappeared. there was something in patricia's demeanour that made it clear she would resent any comment on her action, and the meal continued in silence. mr. bolton made some feeble endeavours to lighten the atmosphere; but he was not successful. in the lounge a quarter of an hour later, gustave once more approached patricia, this time with a note. "the boy ees waiting, mees," he announced. patricia tore open the envelope and read: "dear patricia, "won't you let me see you? please remember that even the under-dog has his rights. "yours ever, "peter." "there is no answer, gustave," said patricia, and gustave left the room disconsolately. half an hour later gustave returned once more. on his tray were three telegrams. patricia looked about her wildly. "had the man suddenly gone mad?" she asked herself. "tell the boy not to wait, gustave," she said. "there ees three boys, mees." the atmosphere was electrical. mr. bolton laughed, then stopped suddenly. miss sikkum simpered. patricia turned to gustave with a calmness that was not reflected in her cheeks. "tell the three boys not to wait, gustave." "yes, mees!" gustave slowly walked to the door. it was clear that he could not reconcile with his standard of ethics the allowing of three telegrams to remain unopened, and to dismiss three boys without knowing whether or no there really were replies. the same feeling was reflected in the faces of patricia's fellow-boarders. "miss brent must be losing a lot of relatives, or coming into a lot of fortunes," remarked mr. bolton to mrs. hamilton. patricia preserved an outward calm she was far from feeling. she rose and went up to her room to discover from the three orange envelopes what was the latest phase of colonel bowen's madness. seated on her bed she opened the telegrams. the first read: "will you go motoring with me on sunday peter." no, she would do nothing of the kind. the second said: "if i have done anything to offend you please tell me and forgive me peter." of course he had done nothing, and it was all very absurd. why was he behaving like a schoolboy? the third was longer. it ran: "i so enjoyed last night it was the most delightful evening i have spent for many a day please do not be too hard upon me peter." this was a tactical error. it brought back to patricia the whole incident. it was utter folly to have placed herself in such an impossible position. obviously bowen knew nothing of women, or he would not have made such a blunder as to remind her of what took place on the previous night, unless--unless---- she hardly dare breathe the thought to herself. what if he thought her different from what she actually was? could he confuse her with those---- it was impossible! she was angry; angry with him, angry with herself, angry with the quadrant grill-room; but angriest of all with galvin house, which had precipitated her into this adventure. why did silly women expect every girl to marry? why was it assumed because a woman did not marry that no one wanted to marry her? patricia regarded herself in the looking-glass. was she really the sort of girl who might be taken for an inveterate old maid? her hands and feet were small. her ankles well-shaped. her figure had been praised, even by women. her hair was a natural red-auburn. her features regular, her mouth mobile, well-shaped with very red lips. her eyes a violet-blue with long dark lashes and eyebrows. "you're not so bad, patricia brent," she remarked as she turned from the glass. "but you will probably be a secretary to the end of your days, drink cold weak tea, keep a cat and get hard and angular, skinny most likely. you're just the sort that runs to skin and bone." she was interrupted in her meditations by a knock at the door. "come in," she called. the door was softly opened and mrs. hamilton entered. "may i come in, dear?" she enquired in an apologetic voice, as she stood on the threshold. "come in!" cried patricia, "why of course you may, you dear. you can do anything you like with me." mrs. hamilton was small and white and fragile, with a ray of sunlight in her soul. she invariably dressed in grey, or blue-grey. everything she wore seemed to be as soft as her own expression. "i--i came up--i--i--hope it is not bad news. i don't want to meddle in your affairs, my dear; but i am concerned. if there is anything i can do, you will tell me, won't you? you won't think me inquisitive, will you?" "why you dear, silly little thing, of course i don't. still it's just like your sweet self to come up and enquire. it is only that ridiculous colonel bowen who is showering telegrams on me in this way, in order, i suppose, to benefit the revenue. i think he has gone mad. perhaps it's shell-shock, poor thing. there will most likely be another shower before we go to bed. now we will go downstairs and stop those old pussies talking." "my dear!" expostulated mrs. hamilton. patricia laughed. "yes, aren't i getting acid and spinsterish?" as they walked downstairs mrs. hamilton said: "i'm so anxious to see him, my dear. miss wangle says he is so distinguished-looking." "who?" enquired patricia, with mock innocence. "colonel bowen, dear." "oh! yes, he's quite a decent-looking old thing, and he's given galvin house something to talk about, hasn't he?" in the lounge patricia soon became the centre of a group anxious for information; but no one was daring enough to put direct questions to her. mrs. craske-morton ventured a suggestion that colonel bowen might be coming to dine with patricia, and that she hoped miss brent would let her know in good time, so that she might make special preparations. patricia replied without enthusiasm. none was better aware than she that had her fiancé turned out to be a private, mrs. craske-morton would have been the last even to suggest that he should dine at galvin house. there would have been no question of special preparations. about ten o'clock gustave entered and approached patricia. she groaned in spirit. "you are wanted on the telephone, mees." patricia thought she detected a note of reproach in his voice, as if he were conscious that a fellow-male was being badly treated. "will you say that i'm engaged?" replied patricia. "it's colonel baun, mees." for a moment patricia hesitated. she was conscious that galvin house was against her to a woman. after all there were limits beyond which it would be unwise to go. galvin house had its standards, which had already been sorely tried. patricia felt rather than heard the whispered criticism passing between miss wangle and mrs. mosscrop-smythe. rising slowly with an air of reconciled martyrdom, patricia went to the telephone at the end of the hall, followed by the smiling gustave, who, like the rest of galvin house, had found his sense of decorum sorely outraged by patricia's conduct. "hullo!" cried patricia into the mouthpiece of the telephone, her heart thumping ridiculously. gustave walked tactfully away. "that you, patricia?" came the reply. patricia was conscious that all her anger had vanished. "yes, who is speaking?" "peter." "yes." "how are you?" "did you ring me up to ask after my health?" there was a laugh at the other end. "well!" enquired patricia, who knew she was behaving like a schoolgirl. "did you get my message?" "i'm very angry." "why?" "because you've made me ridiculous with your telegrams, messenger-boys, and telephoning." "may i call?" "no." "i'm coming to-morrow night." "i shall be out." "then i'll wait until you return." "are you playing the game, do you think?" "i must see you. expect me about nine." "i shall do nothing of the sort." "please don't be angry, patricia." "well! you mustn't come, then. thank you for the chocolates and flowers." "that's all right. don't forget to-morrow at nine." "i tell you i shall be out." "right-oh!" "good-bye!" without waiting for a reply, patricia hung up the receiver. when she returned to the lounge her cheeks were flushed, and she was feeling absurdly happy. then a moment after she asked herself what it was to her whether he remembered or forgot her. he was an entire stranger--or at least he ought to be. just as she was going up to her room for the night, another telegram arrived. it contained three words: "good night peter." "of all the ridiculous creatures!" she murmured, laughing in spite of herself. chapter v patricia's revenge galvin house dined at seven-thirty. miss wangle had used all her arts in an endeavour to have the hour altered to eight-fifteen, or eight-thirty. "it would add tone to the establishment," she had explained to mrs. craske-morton. "it is dreadfully suburban to dine at half-past seven." conscious of the views of the other guests, mrs. craske-morton had held out, necessitating the bringing up of miss wangle's heavy artillery, the bishop, whose actual views miss wangle shrouded in a mist of words. as far as could be gathered, the illustrious prelate held out very little hope of salvation for anyone who dined earlier than eight-thirty. just as mrs. craske-morton was wavering, mr. bolton had floored miss wangle and her ecclesiastical relic with the simple question, "and who'll pay for the biscuits i shall have to eat to keep going until half-past eight?" that had clinched the matter. galvin house continued to dine at the unfashionable hour of seven-thirty. miss wangle had resigned herself to the inevitable, conscious that she had done her utmost for the social salvation of her fellow-guests, and mentally reproaching providence for casting her lot with the cordals and the boltons, rather than with the de veres and the montmorencies. mr. bolton confided to his fellow-boarders what he conceived to be the real cause of mrs. craske-morton's decision. "she's afraid of what miss wangle would eat if left unfed for an extra hour," he had said. miss wangle's appetite was like dominie sampson's favourite adjective, "prodigious." so it came about that on the friday evening on which colonel peter bowen had announced his intention of calling on patricia, galvin house, all unconscious of the event, sat down to its evening meal at its usual time, in its usual coats and blouses, with its usual vacuous smiles and small talk, and above all with its usual appetite--an appetite that had caused mrs. craske-morton to bless the inauguration of food-control, and to pray devoutly to providence for food-tickets. had anyone suggested to patricia that she had dressed with more than usual care that evening, she would have denied it, she might even have been annoyed. her simple evening frock of black voile, unrelieved by any colour save a ribbon of st. patrick's green that bound her hair, showed up the paleness of her skin and the redness of her lips. at the last moment, as if under protest, she had pinned some of bowen's carnations in her belt. as she entered the dining-room, miss wangle and mrs. mosscrop-smythe exchanged significant glances. woman-like they sensed something unusual. galvin house did not usually dress for dinner. "going out?" enquired mrs. mosscrop-smythe sweetly. "probably," was patricia's laconic reply. soup had not been disposed of (it was soup on mondays, wednesdays, and fridays; fish on tuesdays, thursdays, and saturdays, and neither on sundays at galvin house) before gustave entered with an enormous bouquet of crimson carnations. it might almost be said that the carnations entered propelled by gustave, as there was very little but gustave's smiling face above and the ends of his legs below the screen of flowers. instinctively everybody looked at patricia. "for you, mees, with colonel baun's compliments." gustave stood irresolute, the crimson blooms cascading before him. "you've forgotten the conservatory, gustave," laughed mr. bolton. it was always easy to identify the facetious from the serious mr. bolton; his jokes were always heralded by a laugh. "sir?" interrogated the literal-minded gustave. "never mind, gustave. mr. bolton was joking," said mrs. craske-morton. "yes, madame." gustave smiled a mechanical smile: he overflowed with tact. "where will you have the flowers, miss brent?" enquired mrs. craske-morton. "they are exquisite." "try the bath," suggested mr. bolton. "sir?" from gustave. it was alice, gustave's assistant in the dining-room during meals, who created the diversion for which patricia had been devoutly praying. an affected little laugh from miss sikkum called attention to alice, standing just inside the door, with an enormous white and gold box tied with bright green ribbon. patricia regarded the girl in dismay. "put them in the lounge, please," she said. "you are lucky, miss brent," giggled miss sikkum enviously. "i wonder what's in the box." "a chest protector," mr. bolton's laugh rang out. "really, mr. bolton!" from mrs. craske-morton. patricia wondered was she lucky? why should she be made ridiculous in this fashion? "i should say chocolates." the suggestion came from mr. cordal through a mouthful of roast beef and brussels sprouts. everyone turned to the speaker, whose gastronomic silence was one of the most cherished traditions of galvin house. "he must have plenty of money," remarked mrs. mosscrop-smythe to miss wangle in a whisper, audible to all. "those flowers and chocolates must have cost a lot." "ten pounds." the remark met a large brussels sprout that mr. cordal was conveying to his mouth and summarily ejected it. as mr. cordal was something on the stock exchange (mr. bolton had once said he must be a "bear") he was, at galvin house, the recognised authority upon all matters of finance. "really, mr. cordal!" expostulated mrs. craske-morton, rather outraged at this open discussion of patricia's affairs. "sure of it," was all mr. cordal vouchsafed as he shovelled in another mouthful. "you've been a goer in your time, mr. cordal," said mr. bolton. mr. cordal grunted, which may have meant anything, but in all probability meant nothing. for a quarter of an hour the inane conversation so characteristic of meal-times at galvin house continued without interruption. how patricia hated it. was this all that life held for her? was she always to be a drudge to the bonsors, a victim of the wangles and a target for the boltons of life? it was to escape such drab existences that girls went on the stage, or worse; and why not? she had only one life, so far as she knew, and here she was sacrificing it to the jungle people, as she called them. was there no escape? what st. george would rescue her from this dragon of----? "colonel baun, mees." patricia looked up with a start from the apple tart with which she was trifling. gustave stood beside her, his face glowing in a way that hinted at a handsome tip. he was all-unconscious that he had answered a very difficult question in a manner entirely unsatisfactory to patricia. "i haf show him in the looaunge, mees. he will wait." patricia believed him. was ever man so persistent? she saw through the move. he had come an hour earlier to be sure of catching her before she went out. patricia was once more conscious of the ridiculous behaviour of her heart. it thumped and pounded against her ribs as if determined to compromise her with the rest of the boarders. "very well, gustave, say we are at dinner." "yes, mees," and gustave proceeded with his duties. "he's clever," was patricia's inward comment. "he's bought gustave, and in an hour he'll have the whole blessed place against me." if the effect upon patricia of gustave's announcement had been startling, that upon the rest of the company was galvanic. each felt aggrieved that proper notice had not been given of so auspicious an event. there was a general feeling of resentment against patricia for not having told them that she expected bowen to call. there were covert glances at their garments by the ladies, and among the men a consciousness that the clothes they were wearing were not those they had upstairs. miss sikkum's playful fancy was with the brixton "paris model," which only that day she had taken to the cleaners; miss wangle was conscious that she had not hung herself with her full equipment of chains and accoutrements; mrs. mosscrop-smythe thought regretfully of the pale blue evening-gown upstairs, a garment that had followed the course of fashion for nearly a quarter of a century. mr. bolton had doubts about his collar and his boots, whilst mr. cordal, with the aid of his napkin and some water from a drinking glass, strove to remove from his waistcoat reminiscences of bygone repasts. the other members of the company all had something to regret. mr. archibald sefton, whose occupation was a secret between himself and providence, was dubious about the creases in his trousers; mrs. barnes wondered if the gallant colonel would discover the ink she had that day applied to the seams of her dress. everyone was constrained and anxious to get to his or to her room for repairs. "did you know colonel bowen was coming?" enquired mrs. craske-morton, quite at her ease in the knowledge that "something had told her" to put on her best black silk and the large cameo pendant that made her look like a wine-steward at a fashionable restaurant. "he said he might drop in; but he's so casual that i didn't think it worth mentioning," said patricia, conscious that the reply was unanimously regarded as unconvincing. having finished her coffee patricia rose in a leisurely manner. she was no sooner out of the door than a veritable stampede ensued. every one intended "just to slip upstairs for a moment," and each glared at the other on discovering that all seemed inspired by the same idea. mrs. craske-morton went to her "boudoir" out of tactful consideration for the young lovers; mrs. hamilton went up to the drawing-room for the same reason. patricia paused for a moment outside the door of the lounge. she put her cool hands to her hot cheeks, wondering why her heart should show so little regard for her feelings. she felt an impulse to run away and lock herself in her own room and cry "go away!" to anyone who might knock. she strove to work herself into a state of anger with bowen for daring to come an hour before the time appointed. as she entered the lounge, bowen sprang up and came towards her. there was a spirit of boyish mischief lurking in his eyes. "i suppose," said patricia as they shook hands, "you think this is very clever." "please, patricia, don't bully me." patricia laughed in spite of herself at the humility and appeal in his voice. she was conscious that she was not behaving as she ought, or had intended to behave. "it seems an age since i saw you," he continued. "forty-eight hours, to be exact," commented patricia, forgetful of all the reproachful things she had intended to say. "you got the flowers?" as his eye fell on the carnations which gustave had placed in a large bowl. "yes, thank you very much indeed, they're exquisite. they made miss sikkum quite envious." "who's miss sikkum?" "time, in all probability, will show," replied patricia, seating herself on a settee. bowen drew up a chair and sat opposite to her. she liked him for that. had he sat beside her, she told herself, she would have hated him. "you're not angry with me, patricia, are you?" there was an anxious note in his voice. "do you appreciate that you've made me extremely ridiculous with your telegrams, messenger-boys, conservatories, and confectioner's-shops? why did you do it?" "i don't know," he confessed with unconscious gaucherie, "i simply couldn't get you out of my thoughts." "which shows that you tried," commented patricia, the lightness of her words contradicted by the blush that accompanied them. "the king's regulations do not provide for patricias," he replied, "and i had to try. that is how i knew." "do you think i'm a cormorant, as well as an abandoned person?" she demanded. "a cormorant?" queried bowen, ignoring the second question. "i don't understand." "within twenty-four hours you have sent me enough chocolates to last for a couple of months." "poor patricia!" he laughed. "you mustn't call me patricia, colonel bowen," she said primly. "what will people think?" "what would they think if they heard the man you're engaged to call you miss brent?" "we are not engaged," said patricia hotly. "we are," his eyes smiled into hers. "i can bring all these people here to prove it on your own statement." she bit her up. "are you going to be mean? are you going to play the game?" she awaited his reply with an anxiety she strove to disguise. bowen looked straight into her eyes until they fell beneath his gaze. "i'm afraid i've got to be mean, patricia," he said quietly. "may we smoke?" as she took a cigarette from his case and he lighted it for her, patricia found herself experiencing a new sensation. without apparent effort he had assumed control of the situation, and then with a masterfulness that she felt rather than acknowledged, had put the subject aside as if requiring no further comment. this was a side of bowen's character that she had not yet seen. as she was debating with herself whether or no she liked it, the door opened, giving access to a stream of galvin houseites. "oh!" gasped patricia hysterically, "they're all dressed up, and it's in your honour." "what's that?" enquired bowen, less mentally agile than patricia, as he turned round to gaze at the string of paying guests that oozed into the room. "they've put on their best bibs and tuckers for you," she cried. "oh! please don't even smile, _ple-e-e-ase_!" the first to enter was miss wangle. although she had not changed her dress, it was obvious that she had taken considerable pains with her personal appearance. on her fingers were more than the usual weight of rings; round her neck were flung a few additional chains; on her arms hung an extra bracelet or two and, as a final touch, she had added a fan to her equipment. to patricia's keen eyes it was clear that she had re-done her hair, and she carried her lorgnettes, things that in themselves betokened a ceremonial occasion. following miss wangle like an echo came mrs. mosscrop-smythe. she had evidently taken her courage in both hands and donned the blue evening frock, to which she had added a pair of white gloves which reached barely to the elbow, although the frock ended just below her shoulders. miss wangle bowed graciously to patricia, mrs. mosscrop-smythe followed suit. they moved over to the extreme end of the room. mr. cordal was the next arrival, closely followed by mr. bolton. at the sight of mr. cordal patricia started and bit her lower lip. he had assumed a vivid blue tie, and had obviously changed his collar. from the darker spots on his waistcoat and coat it was evident that he had subjected his clothes to a vigorous process of cleaning. mr. bolton, on the other hand, had followed mrs. mosscrop-smythe's lead, and made a clean sweep. he had assumed a black frock-coat; but had apparently not thought it worth while to change his brown tweed trousers, which hung about his boots in shapeless folds, as if conscious that they had no right there. he, too, had donned a clean collar and, by way of adding to his splendour, had assumed a white satin necktie threaded through a "diamond" ring. his thin dark hair was generously oiled and, as he passed over to the side of the room occupied by miss wangle and mrs. mosscrop-smythe, he left behind him a strong odour of verbena. mrs. barnes came next and, one by one, the other guests drifted in. all had assumed something in the nature of a wedding garment in honour of patricia's fiancé. miss sikkum had selected a pea-green satin blouse, which caused bowen to screw his eyeglass vigorously into his eye and gaze at her in wonder. "do you like them?" it was patricia who broke the silence. with a start bowen turned to her. "er--er--they seem an er--awfully decent crowd." patricia laughed. "yes, aren't they? dreadfully decent. how would you like to live among them all? why they haven't the pluck to break a commandment among them." bowen looked at patricia in surprise. "really!" was the only remark he could think of. "and now i've shocked you!" cried patricia. "you must not think that i like people who break commandments. i don't know exactly what i do mean. oh, here you are!" and she ran across as mrs. hamilton entered and drew her towards bowen. "now i know what i meant. this dear little creature has never broken a commandment, i wouldn't mind betting everything i have, and she has never been uncharitable to anyone who has. isn't that so?" she turned to mrs. hamilton, who was regarding her in astonishment. "oh, i'm so sorry! i'm quite mad to-night, you mustn't mind. you see colonel bowen's mad and he makes me mad." turning to bowen she introduced him to mrs. hamilton. "this is my friend, mrs. hamilton." then to mrs. hamilton. "you know all about colonel bowen, don't you, dear? he's the man who sends me conservatories and telegrams and boy-messengers and things." mrs. hamilton smiled up sweetly at bowen, and held out her hand. patricia glanced across at the group at the other end of the lounge. the scene reminded her of napoleon on the _bellerophon_. suddenly she had an idea. it synchronised with the entry of gustave, who stood just inside the door smiling inanely. "call a taxi for colonel bowen, please, gustave," she said coolly. gustave looked surprised, the group looked disappointed, bowen looked at patricia with a puzzled expression. "i'm sorry you're in a hurry," said patricia, holding out her hand to bowen. "i'm busy also." "but----" began bowen. "oh! don't trouble." patricia advanced, and he had perforce to retreat towards the door. "see you again sometime. good-bye," and bowen found himself in the hall. "damn!" he muttered. "sir?" interrogated gustave anxiously. as bowen was replying to gustave in coin, mrs. craske-morton appeared at the head of the stairs on her way down to the lounge after her tactful absence. for a moment she hesitated in obvious surprise, then, with the air of a would-be traveller who hears the guard's whistle, she threw dignity aside and made for bowen. "colonel bowen?" she interrogated anxiously. bowen turned and bowed. "i am mrs. craske-morton. miss brent did not tell me that you were making so short a call, or i would----" mrs. craske-morton's pause implied that nothing would have prevented her from hurrying down. "you are very kind," murmured bowen absently, not yet recovered from his unceremonious dismissal. he was brought back to realities by mrs. craske-morton expressing a hope that he would give her the pleasure of dining at galvin house one evening. "shall we say friday?" she continued without allowing bowen time to reply, "and we will keep it as a delightful surprise for miss brent." mrs. craske-morton exposed her teeth and felt romantic. when bowen left galvin house that evening he was pledged to give patricia "a delightful surprise" on the following friday. "that will teach them to pity me!" murmured patricia that night as she brushed her hair with what seemed entirely unnecessary vigour. she was conscious that she was the best-hated girl in bayswater, as she recalled the angry and reproachful looks directed towards her by her fellow-guests after bowen's departure. in an adjoining room miss wangle, a black cap upon her head, was also engaged in brushing her hair with a gentleness foreign to most of her actions. "the cat!" she murmured as she lay it in its drawer, and then as she locked the drawer she repeated, "the cat!" chapter vi the intervention of aunt adelaide sunday at galvin house was a day of bodily rest but acute mental activity. the day of god seemed to draw out the worst in everybody; all were in their best clothes and on their worst behaviour. mr. cordal descended to breakfast in carpet slippers with fur tops. miss wangle regarded this as a mark of disrespect towards the grand-niece of a bishop. she would glare at mr. cordal's slippers as if convinced that the cloven hoof were inside. mr. bolton sported a velvet smoking-jacket, white at the elbows, light grey trousers and a manner that seemed to say, "ha! here's sunday again, good!" after breakfast he added a fez and a british cigar to his equipment, and retired to the lounge to read _lloyd's news_. both the cigar and the newspaper lasted him throughout the day. somewhere at the back of his mind was the conviction that in smoking a cigar, which he disliked, he was making a fitting distinction between the sabbath and week-days. he went even further, for whereas on secular days he lit his inexpensive cigarettes with matches, on the sabbath he used only fusees. "i love the smell of fusees," miss sikkum would simper, regardless of the fact that a hundred times before she had taken galvin house into her confidence on the subject. "i think they're so romantic." patricia wondered if mr. bolton's fusee were an offering to heaven or to miss sikkum. on sunday mornings miss wangle and mrs. mosscrop-smythe went to divine service at westminster abbey, and mr. cordal went to sleep in the lounge. mrs. barnes wandered aimlessly about, making anxious enquiry of everyone she encountered. if it were cloudy, did they think it would rain? if it rained, did they think it would clear up? if it were fine, did they think it would last? mrs. barnes was always going to do something that was contingent upon the weather. every sunday she was going for a walk in the park, or to church; but her constitutional indecision of character intervened. mr. archibald sefton, who showed the qualities of a landscape gardener in the way in which he arranged his thin fair hair to disguise the desert of baldness beneath, was always vigorous on sundays. he descended to the dining-room rubbing his hands in a manner suggestive of a dickens christmas. after breakfast he walked in the park, "to give the girls a treat," as mr. bolton had once expressed it, which had earned for him a stern rebuke from miss wangle. in the afternoon mr. sefton returned to the park, and in the evening yet again. mr. sefton had a secret that was slowly producing in him misanthropy. his nature was tropical and his courage arctic, which, coupled with his forty-five years, was a great obstacle to his happiness. in dress he was a dandy, at heart he was a craven and, never daring, he was consumed with his own fire. the other guests at galvin house drifted in and out, said the same things, wore the same clothes, with occasional additions, had the same thoughts; whilst over all, as if to compose the picture, brooded the reek of cooking. the atmosphere of galvin house was english, the cooking was english, and the lack of culinary imagination also was english. there were two and a half menus for the one o'clock sunday dinner. roast mutton, onion sauce, cabbage, potatoes, fruit pie, and custard; alternated for four weeks with roast beef and yorkshire pudding, cauliflower, roast potatoes, and lemon pudding. then came roast pork, apple sauce, potatoes, greens with stewed fruit and cheese afterwards. the cuisine was in itself a calendar. if your first sunday were a roast-pork sunday, you knew without mental effort on every roast-pork sunday exactly how many months you had been there. if for a moment you had forgotten the day, and found yourself toying with a herring at dinner, you knew it was a tuesday, just as you knew it was friday from the scotch broth placed before you. nobody seemed to mind the dreary reiteration, because everybody was so occupied in keeping up appearances. sunday was the day of reckoning and retrospection. "were they getting full value for their money?" was the unuttered question. there were whisperings and grumblings, sometimes complaints. then there was another aspect. each guest had to enquire if the expenditure were justified by income. all these things, like the weekly mending, were kept for sundays. by tea-time the atmosphere was one of unrest. mr. sefton returned from the park disappointed, miss sikkum from sunday-school, breathless from her flight before some alleged admirer, patricia from her walk, conscious of a dissatisfaction she could not define. mr. cordal awoke unrefreshed, mrs. craske-morton emerged from her "boudoir," where she balanced the week's accounts, convinced that ruin stared her in the face owing to the tonic qualities of bayswater air, and mr. bolton emerged from _lloyd's news_ facetious. miss wangle was acid, mrs. mosscrop-smythe ultra-forbearing, whilst mrs. barnes found it impossible to decide between a heart-cake and a rusk. only mrs. hamilton, at work upon her inevitable knitting, seemed human and content. on returning to galvin house patricia had formed a habit of instinctively casting her eyes in the direction of the letter-rack, beneath which was the table on which parcels were placed that they might be picked up as the various guests entered on their way to their rooms. she took herself severely to task for this weakness, but in spite of her best efforts, her eyes would wander towards the table and letter-rack. at last she had to take stern measures with herself and deliberately walk along the hall with her face turned to the left, that is to the side opposite from that of the letter-rack table. on the sunday afternoon following her adventure at the quadrant grill-room, patricia entered galvin house, her head resolutely turned to the left, and ran into gustave. "oh, mees!" he exclaimed, his gentle, cow-like face expressing pained surprise, rather than indignation. gustave was a swiss, a french-swiss, he was emphatic on this point. patricia said he was swiss wherever he wasn't french, and german wherever he wasn't swiss and french. "i am so sorry, gustave," apologised patricia. "i wasn't looking where i was going." gustave smiled amiably, patricia was a great favourite of his. "there is a lady in the looaunge, mees brent, the same as you." gustave smiled broadly as if he had discovered some subtle joke in the duplication of patricia's name. "oh, bother!" muttered patricia to herself. "aunt adelaide, imagine aunt adelaide on an afternoon like this." she entered the lounge wearily, to find miss brent the centre of a group, the foremost in which were mrs. craske-morton, miss wangle, and mrs. mosscrop-smythe. patricia groaned in spirit; she knew exactly what had been taking place, and now she would have to explain everything. could she explain? had she for one moment paused to think of aunt adelaide, no amount of frenzy or excitement would have prompted her to such an adventure. miss brent would probe the mystery out of a ghost. material, practical, levelheaded, victorious, she would strip romance from a legend, or glamour from a myth. as she entered the lounge, patricia saw by the movement of miss wangle's lips that she was saying "ah! here she is." miss brent turned and regarded her niece with a long, non-committal stare. patricia walked over to her. "hullo, aunt adelaide! who would have thought of seeing you here." miss brent looked up at her, received the frigid kiss upon one cheek and returned it upon the other. "a peck for a peck," muttered patricia to herself under her breath. "we've been talking about you," said mrs. mosscrop-smythe ingratiatingly. "how strange," announced patricia indifferently. "well, aunt adelaide," she continued, turning to miss brent, "this is an unexpected pleasure. how is it you are dissipating in town?" "i want to speak to you, patricia. is there a quiet corner where we shall not be overheard?" miss wangle started, mrs. craske-morton rose hurriedly and made for the door. mrs. mosscrop-smythe looked uncomfortable. miss brent's directness was a thing dreaded by all who knew her. "you had better come up to my room, aunt adelaide," said patricia. as she reached the door, mrs. craske-morton turned. "oh! miss brent," she said, addressing patricia, "would you not like to take your aunt into my boudoir? it is entirely at your disposal." mrs. craske-morton's "boudoir" was a small cupboard-like apartment in which she made up her accounts. it was as much like a boudoir as a starveling mongrel is like an aristocratic chow. patricia smiled her thanks. one of patricia's great points was that she could smile an acknowledgment in a way that was little less than inspiration. when they reached the "boudoir," miss brent sat down with a suddenness and an air of aggression that left patricia in no doubt as to the nature of the talk she desired to have with her. miss brent was a tall, angular woman, with spinster shouting from every angle of her uncomely person. no matter what the fashion, she seemed to wear her clothes all bunched up about her hips. her hair was dragged to the back of her head, and crowned by a hat known in the dim recesses of the victorian past as a "boater." a veil clawed what remained of the hair and hat towards the rear, and accentuated the sharpness of her nose and the fleshlessness of her cheeks. miss brent looked like nothing so much as an aged hawk in whom the lust to prey still lingered, without the power of making the physical effort to capture it. "patricia," she demanded, "what is all this i hear?" "if you've been talking to miss wangle and mrs. mosscrop-smythe, aunt adelaide, heaven only knows what you've heard," replied patricia calmly. "patricia." miss brent invariably began her remarks by uttering the name of the person whom she addressed. "patricia, you know perfectly well what i mean." "i should know better, if you would tell me," murmured patricia with a patient sigh as she seated herself in the easiest of the uneasy chairs, and proceeded to pull off her gloves. "patricia, i refer to these stories about your being engaged." "yes, aunt adelaide?" "have you nothing to say?" "nothing in particular. people get engaged, you know. i suppose it is because they've got nothing else to do." "patricia, don't be frivolous." "frivolous! me frivolous! aunt adelaide! if you were a secretary to a brainless politician, who is supposed to rise, but who won't rise, can't rise, and never will rise, from ten until five each day, for the magnificent salary of two and a half guineas a week, even you wouldn't be able to be frivolous." "patricia!" there was surprised disapproval in miss brent's voice. "are you mad?" "no, aunt adelaide, just bored, just bored stiff." patricia emphasised the word "stiff" in a way that brought miss brent into an even more upright position. "patricia, i wish you would change your idiom. your flagrant vulgarity would have deeply pained your poor, dear father." patricia made no response; she simply looked as she felt, unutterably bored. she was incapable even of invention. supposing she told her aunt the whole story, at least she would have the joy of seeing the look of horror that would overspread her features. "patricia," continued miss brent, "i repeat, what is this i hear about your being engaged?" "oh!" replied patricia indifferently, "i suppose you've heard the truth; i've got engaged." "without telling me a word about it." "oh, well! those are nasty things, you know, that one doesn't advertise." "patricia!" "well, aunt, you say that all men are beasts, and if you associate with beasts, you don't like the world to know about it." "patricia!" repeated miss brent. "aunt adelaide!" cried patricia, "you make me feel that i absolutely hate my name. i wish i'd been numbered. if you say 'patricia' again i shall scream." "is it true that you are engaged to lord peter bowen?" "good lord, no." patricia sat up in astonishment. "then that woman in the lounge is a liar." there was uncompromising conviction in miss brent's tone. patricia leaned forward and smiled. "aunt adelaide, you are singularly discriminating to-day. she is a liar, and she also happens to be a cat." miss brent appeared not to hear patricia's remark. she was occupied with her own thoughts. she possessed a masculine habit of thinking before she spoke, and in consequence she was as devoid of impulse and spontaneity as a snail. patricia watched her aunt covertly, her mind working furiously. what could it mean? lord peter bowen! miss wangle was not given to making mistakes in which the aristocracy were concerned. at galvin house she was the recognised authority upon anything and everything concerned with royalty and the titled and landed gentry. county families were her hobbies and the peerage her obsession. it would be just like peter, thought patricia, to turn out a lord, just the ridiculous, inconsequent sort of thing he would delight in. she was unconscious of any incongruity in thinking of him as peter. it seemed the natural thing to do. she saw by the signs on her aunt's face that she was nearing a decision. conscious that she must not burn her boats, patricia burst in upon miss brent's thoughts with a suddenness that startled her. "if miss wangle desires to discuss my friends with you in future, aunt adelaide, i think she should adopt the names by which they prefer to be known." patricia watched the surprised look upon her aunt's face, and with dignity met the keen hawk-like glance that flashed from her eyes. "if, for reasons of his own," continued patricia, "a man chooses to drop his title in favour of his rank in the army, that i think is a matter for him to decide, and not one that requires discussion at miss wangle's hands." miss brent's stare convinced patricia that she was carrying things off rather well. "patricia, where did you meet this colonel peter bowen?" the question came like a thunder-clap to patricia's unprepared ears. all her self-complacency of a moment before now deserted her. she felt her face crimsoning. how she envied girls who did not blush. what on earth could she tell her aunt? why had an undiscriminating providence given her an aunt adelaide at all? why had it not bestowed this inestimable treasure upon someone more deserving? what could she say? as well think of lying to rhadamanthus as to miss brent. then patricia had an inspiration. she would tell her aunt the truth, trusting to her not to believe it. "where did i meet him, aunt adelaide?" she remarked indifferently. "oh! i picked him up in a restaurant; he looked nice." "patricia, how dare you say such a thing before me." a slight flush mantled miss brent's sallow cheeks. all the proprieties, all the chastities and all the moralities banked up behind her in moral support. "you ought to feel ashamed of yourself, patricia. london has done you no good. what would your poor dear father have said?" "i'm sorry, aunt adelaide; but please remember i've had a very tiring week, trying to leaven an unleavenable politician. shall we drop the subject of colonel bowen for the time being?" "certainly not," snapped miss brent. "it is my duty as your sole surviving relative," how patricia deplored that word "surviving," why had her aunt adelaide survived? "as your sole surviving relative," repeated miss brent, "it is my duty to look after your welfare." "but," protested patricia, "i'm nearly twenty-five, and i am quite able to look after myself." "patricia, it is my duty to look after you." miss brent spoke as if she were about to walk over heated ploughshares rather than to satisfy a natural curiosity. "i repeat," proceeded miss brent, "where did you meet colonel bowen?" "i have told you, aunt adelaide, but you won't believe me." "i want to know the truth, patricia. is he really lord peter?" persisted miss brent. "to be quite candid, i've never asked him," replied patricia. miss brent stared at her niece. the obviously feminine thing was to express surprise; but miss brent never did the obvious thing. instead of repeating, "never asked him!" she remained silent for some moments while patricia, with great intentness, proceeded to jerk her gloves into shape. "patricia, you are mad!" miss brent spoke with conviction. patricia glanced up from her occupation and smiled at her aunt as if entirely sharing her conviction. "it's the price of spinsterhood with some women," was all she said. miss brent glared at her; but there was more than a spice of curiosity in her look. "then you decline to tell me?" she enquired. there was in her voice a note that told of a mind made up. patricia knew from past experience that her aunt had made up her mind as to her course of action. "tell you what?" she enquired innocently. "whether or no the colonel bowen you are engaged to is lord peter bowen." patricia determined to temporise in order to gain time. she knew aunt adelaide to be capable of anything, even to calling upon lord peter bowen's family and enquiring if it were he to whom her niece was engaged. she was too bewildered to know how to act. it would be so like this absurd person to turn out to be a lord and make her still more ridiculous. if he were lord peter, why on earth had he not told her? had he thought she would be dazzled? suddenly there flashed into patricia's mind an explanation which caused her cheeks to flame and her eyes to flash. she strove to put the idea aside as unworthy of him; but it refused to leave her. she had heard of men giving false names to girls they met--in the way she and bowen had met. he had, then, in spite of his protestations, mistaken her. in all probability he was not staying at the quadrant at all. what a fool she had been. she had told all about herself, whereas he had told her nothing beyond the fact that his name was peter bowen. oh, it was intolerable, humiliating! the worst of it was that she seemed unable to extricate herself from the ever-increasing tangle arising out of her folly. miss wangle and galvin house had been sufficiently serious factors, requiring all her watchfulness to circumvent them; but now aunt adelaide had thrown herself precipitately into the mêlée, and heaven alone knew what would be the outcome! had her aunt been a man or merely a woman, patricia argued, she would not have been so dangerous; but she possessed the deliberate logic of the one and the quickness of perception of the other. with her feminine eye she could see, and with her man-like brain she could judge. patricia felt that the one thing to do was to get rid of her aunt for the day and then think things over quietly and decide as to her plan of campaign. "please, aunt adelaide," she said, "don't let's discuss it any more to-day, i've had such a worrying time at the bonsors', and my head is so stupid. come to tea to-morrow afternoon at half-past five and i will tell you all, as they say in the novelettes; but for heaven's sake don't get talking to those dreadful old tabbies. they have no affairs of their own, and at the present moment they simply live upon mine." "very well, patricia," replied miss brent as she rose to go, "i will wait until to-morrow; but, understand me, i am your sole surviving relative and i have a duty to perform by you. that duty i shall perform whatever it costs me." as patricia looked into the hard, cold eyes of her aunt, she believed her. at that moment miss brent looked as if she represented all the aggressive virtues in christendom. "it's very sweet of you, aunt adelaide, and i very much appreciate your interest. i am all nervy to-day; but i shall be all right to-morrow. don't forget, half-past five here. that will give me time to get back from the bonsors'." miss brent pecked patricia's right cheek and moved towards the door. "remember, patricia," she said, as a final shot, "to-morrow i shall expect a full explanation. i am deeply concerned about you. i cannot conceive what your poor dear father would have said had he been alive." with this parting shot miss brent moved down the staircase and left galvin house. as she stalked to the temperance hotel in bloomsbury, where she was staying, she was fully satisfied that she had done her duty as a woman and a christian. "sole surviving relative," muttered patricia as she turned back after seeing her aunt out. and then she remembered with a smile that her father had once said that "relatives were the very devil." a softness came into her eyes at the thought of her father, and she remembered another saying of his, "when you lose your sense of humour and your courage at the same time, you have lost the game." for a moment patricia paused, deliberating what she would do. finally, she walked to the telephone at the end of the hall. there was a grimness about her look indicative of a set purpose, taking down the receiver she called "gerrard ." there was a pause. "that the quadrant hotel?" she enquired. "is lord peter bowen in?" the clerk would enquire. patricia waited what seemed an age. at last a voice cried, "hullo!" "is that lord peter bowen?" "is that you, patricia?" came the reply from the other end of the wire. "oh, so it is true then!" said patricia. "what's true?" queried bowen at the other end. "what i've just said." "what do you mean? i don't understand." "i must see you this evening," said patricia in an even voice. "that's most awfully good of you." "it's nothing of the sort." bowen laughed. "shall i come round?" "no." "will you dine with me?" "no." "well, where shall i see you?" patricia thought for a moment. "i will meet you at lancaster gate tube at twenty minutes to nine." "all right, i'll be there. shall i bring the car?" for a moment patricia hesitated. she did not want to go to a restaurant with him, she wanted merely to talk and see how she was to get out of the difficulty with aunt adelaide. the car seemed to offer a solution. they could drive out to some quiet place and then talk without a chance of being overheard. "yes, please, i think that will do admirably." "mind you bring a thick coat. won't you let me pick you up? please do, then you can bring a fur coat and all that sort of thing, you know." again patricia hesitated for a moment. "perhaps that would be the better way," she conceded grudgingly. "right-oh! will half-past eight do?" "yes, i'll be ready." "it's awfully kind of you; i'm frightfully bucked." "you had better wait and see, i think," was patricia's grim retort. "good-bye." "au revoir." patricia put the receiver up with a jerk. she returned to her room conscious that she was never able to do herself justice with bowen. her most righteous anger was always in danger of being dissipated when she spoke to him. his personality seemed to radiate good nature, and he always appeared so genuinely glad to see her, or hear her voice that it placed her at a disadvantage. she ought to be stronger and more tenacious of purpose, she told herself. it was weak to be so easily influenced by someone else, especially a man who had treated her in the way that bowen had treated her; for patricia had now come to regard herself as extremely ill-used. nothing, she told herself, would have persuaded her to ring up bowen in the way she had done, had it not been for aunt adelaide. in her heart she had to confess that she was very much afraid of aunt adelaide and what she might do. patricia dreaded dinner that evening. she knew instinctively that everybody would be full of miss wangle's discovery. she might have known that miss wangle would not be satisfied until she had discovered everything there was to be discovered about bowen. as patricia walked along the hall to the staircase, mrs. hamilton came out of the lounge. patricia put her arm round the fragile waist of the old lady and they walked upstairs together. "well," said patricia gaily, "what are the old tabbies doing this afternoon?" "my dear!" expostulated mrs. hamilton gently, "you mustn't call them that, they have so very little to interest them that--that----" "oh, you dear, funny little thing!" said patricia, giving mrs. hamilton a squeeze which almost lifted her off her feet. "i think you would find an excuse for anyone, no matter how wicked. when i get very, very bad i shall come and ask you to explain me to myself. i think if you had your way you would prove every wolf a sheep underneath. come into my room and have a pow-wow." inside her room patricia lifted mrs. hamilton bodily on to the bed. "now lie there, you dear little thing, and have a rest. dad used to say that every woman ought to lie on her back for two hours each day. i don't know why. i suppose it was to keep her quiet and get her out of the way. in any case you have got to lie down there." "but your bed, my dear," protested mrs. hamilton. "never mind my bed, you just do as you're told. now what are the old cats--i beg your pardon, what have the--lambs been saying?" mrs. hamilton smiled in spite of herself. "well, of course, dear, we're all very interested to hear that you are engaged to--lord peter bowen." "how did they find out?" interrupted patricia. "well, it appears that miss wangle has a friend who has a cousin in the war office." "oh, dear!" groaned patricia. "i believe miss wangle has a friend who has a cousin in every known place in the world, and a good many unknown places," she added. "she has got a bishop in heaven, innumerable connections in mayfair, acquaintances at court, cousins of friends at the war office; the only place where she seems to have nobody who has anybody else is hell." "my dear!" said mrs. hamilton in horror, "you mustn't talk like that." "but isn't it true?" persisted patricia. "well, i'm sorry if i've shocked you. tell me all about it." "well," began mrs. hamilton, "soon after you had gone out miss wangle's friend telephoned in reply to her letter of enquiry. she told her all about lord peter bowen, how he had distinguished himself in france, won the military cross, the d.s.o., how he had been promoted to the rank of lieutenant-colonel, and brought back to the war office and given a position on the general staff. he's a very clever young man, my dear." patricia laughed outright at mrs. hamilton's earnestness. "why of course he's clever, otherwise he wouldn't have taken up with such a clever young woman." "well, my dear, i hope you'll be happy," said mrs. hamilton earnestly. "i doubt it," said patricia. "doubt it!" there was horror in mrs. hamilton's voice. she half raised herself on the bed. patricia pushed her back again. "never mind, your remark reminds me of a story about a great-great-grandmother of mine. a granddaughter of hers had become engaged and there was a great family meeting to introduce the poor victim to his future "in-laws." the old lady was very deaf and had formed the habit of speaking aloud quite unconscious that others could hear her. the wretched young man was brought up and presented, and everybody was agog to hear the grandmotherly pronouncement, for the old lady was as shrewd as she was frank. she looked at the young man keenly and deliberately, whilst he stood the picture of discomfort, and turning to her granddaughter, said, "well, my dear, i hope you'll be happy, i hope you'll be very happy," then to herself in an equally loud voice she added, "but he wouldn't have been my choice, he wouldn't have been my choice." "oh! the poor dear," said mrs. hamilton, seeing only the tragic side of the situation. patricia laughed. "how like you, you dear little grey lady," and she bent down and kissed the pale cheeks, bringing a slight rose flush to them. it was half-past seven before mrs. hamilton left patricia's room. "heigh-ho!" sighed patricia as she undid her hair, "i suppose i shall have to run the gauntlet during dinner." chapter vii lord peter promises a solution sunday supper at galvin house was a cold meal timed for eight o'clock; but allowed to remain upon the table until half-past nine for the convenience of church-goers. patricia had dawdled over her toilette, realising, however, to admit that she dreaded the ordeal before her in the dining-room. when at last she could find no excuse for remaining longer in her room, she descended the stairs slowly, conscious of a strange feeling of hesitancy about her knees. outside the dining-room door she paused. her instinct was to bolt; but the pad-pad of gustave's approaching footsteps cutting off her retreat decided her. as she entered the dining-room the hum of excited conversation ceased abruptly and, amidst a dead silence, patricia walked to her seat conscious of a heightened colour and a hatred of her own species. looking round the table, and seeing how acutely self-conscious everyone seemed, her self-possession returned. she noticed a new deference in gustave's manner as he placed before her a plate of cold shoulder of mutton and held the salad-bowl at her side. having helped herself patricia turned to miss wangle, and for a moment regarded her with an enigmatical smile that made her fidget. "how clever of you, miss wangle," she said sweetly. "in future no one will ever dare to have a secret at galvin house." miss wangle reddened. mr. bolton's laugh rang out. "miss wangle, private enquiry agent," he cried, "i----" "really, mr. bolton!" protested mrs. craske-morton, looking anxiously at miss wangle's indrawn lips and angry eyes. mr. bolton subsided. "we're so excited, dear miss brent," simpered miss sikkum. "you'll be lady bowen----" "lady peter bowen," corrected mrs. craske-morton with superior knowledge. "lady peter," gushed miss sikkum. "oh how romantic, and i shall see your portrait in _the mirror_. oh! miss brent, aren't you happy?" patricia smiled across at miss sikkum, whose enthusiasm was too genuine to cause offence. "and you'll have cars and all sorts of things," remarked mrs. mosscrop-smythe, thinking of he solitary blue evening frock, "he's very rich." "worth ten thousand a year," almost shouted mr. cordal, striving to regain control over a piece of lettuce-leaf that fluttered from his lips, and having eventually to use his fingers. "you'll forget all about us," said miss pilkington, who in her capacity as a post-office supervisor daily showed her contempt for the public whose servant she was. "if you're nice to her," said mr. bolton, "she may buy her stamps at your place." again mrs. craske-morton's "really, mr. bolton!" eased the situation. patricia was for the most part silent. she was thinking of the coming talk with bowen. in spite of herself she was excited at the prospect of seeing him again. miss wangle also said little. from time to time she glanced in patricia's direction. "the wangle's off her feed," whispered mr. bolton to miss sikkum, producing from her a giggle and an "oh! mr. bolton, you _are_ dreadful." mrs. barnes was worrying as to whether a lord should be addressed as "my lord" or "sir," and if you curtsied to him, and if so how you did it with rheumatism in the knee. patricia noticed with amusement the new deference with which everyone treated her. mrs. craske-morton, in particular, was most solicitous that she should make a good meal. miss wangle's silence was in itself a tribute. patricia nervously waited the moment when bowen's presence should be announced. when the time came gustave rose to the occasion magnificently. throwing open the dining-room door impressively and speaking with great distinctness he cried: "ees lordship is 'ere, mees," and then after a moment's pause he added, "'e 'as brought 'is car, mees. it is at the door." patricia smiled in spite of herself at gustave's earnestness. "very well, gustave, say i will not be a moment," she replied and, with a muttered apology to mrs. craske-morton, she left the table and the dining-room, conscious of the dramatic tension of the situation. patricia ran down the passage leading to the lounge, then, suddenly remembering that haste and happiness were not in keeping with anger and reproach, entered the lounge with a sedateness that even aunt adelaide could not have found lacking in maidenly decorum. bowen came across from the window and took both her hands. "why was she allowing him to do this?" she asked herself. "why did she not reproach him, why did she thrill at his touch, why----?" she withdrew her hands sharply, looked up at him and then for no reason at all laughed. how absurd it all was. it was easy to be angry with him when he was at the quadrant and she at galvin house; but with him before her, looking down at her with eyes that were smilingly confident and gravely deferential by turn, she found her anger and good resolutions disappear. "i know you are going to bully me, patricia." bowen's eyes smiled; but there was in his voice a note of enquiry. "oh! please let us escape before the others come in sight," said patricia, looking over her shoulder anxiously. "they'll all be out in a moment. i left them straining at their leashes and swallowing scalding coffee so as to get a glimpse of a real, live lord at close quarters." as she spoke patricia stabbed on a toque. "shall i want anything warmer than this?" she enquired as bowen helped her into a long fur-trimmed coat. "i brought a big fur coat for you in case it gets cold," he replied, and he held open the door for her to pass. "quick," she whispered, "they're coming." as she ran down the steps she nodded brightly to gustave, who stood almost bowed down with the burden of his respect for an english lord. as bowen swung the car round, patricia was conscious that at the drawing-room and lounge windows galvin house was heavily massed. unable to find a space, miss sikkum and mr. bolton had come out on to the doorstep and, as the car jerked forward, miss sikkum waved her pocket handkerchief. patricia shuddered. for some time they were silent. patricia was content to enjoy the unaccustomed sense of swift movement coupled with the feeling of the luxury of a rolls royce. from time to time bowen glanced at her and smiled, and she was conscious of returning the smile, although in the light of what she intended to say she felt that smiles were not appropriate. the car sped along the bayswater road, threaded its way through hammersmith broadway and passed over the bridge, across barnes common into priory lane, and finally into richmond park. bowen had not mentioned where he intended to take her, and patricia was glad. she was essentially feminine, and liked having things decided for her, the more so as she invariably had to decide for herself. half-way across the park bowen turned in the direction of kingston gate and, a minute later, drew up just off the roadway. having stopped the engine he turned to her. "now, patricia," he said with a smile, "i am at your mercy. there is no one within hail." bowen's voice recalled her from dreamland. she was thinking how different everything might have been, but for that unfortunate unconvention. with an effort she came down to earth to find bowen smiling into her eyes. it was an effort for her to assume the indignation she had previously felt. bowen's presence seemed to dissipate her anger. why had she not written to him instead of endeavouring to express verbally what she knew she would fail to convey? "please don't be too hard on me, patricia," pleaded bowen. patricia looked at him. she wished he would not smile at her in that way and assume an air of penitence. it was so disarming. it was unfair. he was taking a mean advantage. he was always taking a mean advantage of her, always putting her in the wrong. by keeping her face carefully averted from his, she was able to tinge her voice with indignation as she demanded: "why did you not tell me who you were?" "but i did," he protested. "you said that you were colonel bowen, and you are not." patricia was pleased to find her sense of outraged indignation increasing. "you have made me ridiculous in the eyes of everyone at galvin house." "but," protested bowen. "it's no good saying 'but,'" replied patricia unreasonably, "you know i'm right." "but i told you my name was bowen," he said, "and later i told you that my rank was that of a lieutenant-colonel, both of which are quite correct." "you are lord peter bowen, and you've made me ridiculous," then conscious of the absurdity of her words, patricia laughed; but there was no mirth in her laughter. "made you ridiculous," said bowen, concern in his voice. "but how?" "oh, i am not referring to your boy-messengers and telegrams, florists' shops, confectioners' stocks," said patricia, "but all the tabbies in galvin house set themselves to work to find out who you were and--and--look what an absurd figure i cut! then of course aunt adelaide must butt in." "aunt adelaide!" repeated bowen, knitting his brows. "tabbies at galvin house!" "if you repeat my words like that i shall scream," said patricia. "i wish you would try and be intelligent. miss wangle told aunt adelaide that i'm engaged to lord peter bowen. aunt adelaide then asked me about my engagement, and i had to make up some sort of story about colonel bowen. she then enquired if it were true that i was engaged to lord peter bowen. of course i said 'no,' and that is where we are at present, and you've got to help me out. you got me into the mess." "might i enquire who aunt adelaide is, please, patricia?" bowen's humility made him very difficult to talk to. "aunt adelaide is my sole surviving relative, vide her own statement," said patricia. "if i had my way she would be neither surviving nor a relative; but as it happens she is both, and to-morrow afternoon at half-past five she is coming to galvin house to receive a full explanation of my conduct." bowen compressed his lips and wrinkled his forehead; but there was laughter in his eyes. "it's difficult, isn't it, patricia?" he said. "it's absurd, and please don't call me patricia." "but we're engaged and----" "we're nothing of the sort," she said. "but we are," protested bowen. "i can----" "never mind what you can do," she retorted. "what am i to tell aunt adelaide at half-past five to-morrow evening?" "why not tell her the truth?" said bowen. "isn't that just like a man?" patricia addressed the query to a deer that was eyeing the car curiously from some fifty yards distance. "tell the truth," she repeated scornfully. "but how much will that help us?" "well! let's tell a lie," protested bowen, smiling. and then patricia did a weak and foolish thing, she laughed, and bowen laughed. finally they sat and looked at each other helplessly. "however you got those," she nodded at the ribbons on his breast, "i don't know. it was certainly not for being intelligent." for a minute bowen did not reply. he was apparently lost in thought. presently he turned to patricia. "look here," he said, "by half-past five to-morrow afternoon i'll have found a solution. now can't we talk about something pleasant?" "there is nothing pleasant to talk about when aunt adelaide is looming on the horizon. she's about the most unpleasant thing next to chilblains that i know." "i suppose," said bowen tentatively, "you couldn't solve the difficulty by marrying me by special licence." "marry you by special licence!" cried patricia in amazement. "yes, it would put everything right." "i think you must be mad," said patricia with decision; but conscious that her cheeks were very hot. "i think i must be in love," was bowen's quiet retort. "will you?" "not even to escape aunt adelaide's interrogation would i marry you by special, or any other licence," said patricia with decision. bowen turned away, a shadow falling across his face. then a moment after, drawing his cigarette-case from his pocket, he enquired, "shall we smoke?" patricia accepted the cigarette he offered her. she watched him as he lighted first hers, then his own. she saw the frown that had settled upon his usually happy face, and noted the staccatoed manner in which he smoked. then she became conscious that she had been lacking in not only graciousness but common civility. instinctively she put out her hand and touched his coat-sleeve. "please forgive me, i was rather a beast, wasn't i?" she said. he looked round and smiled; but the smile did not reach his eyes. "please try and understand," she said, "and now will you drive me home?" bowen looked at her for a moment, then, getting out of the car, started the engine, and without a word climbed back to his seat. the journey back was performed in silence. at galvin house gustave, who was on the look-out, threw open the door with a flourish. in saying good night neither referred to the subject of their conversation. as patricia entered, the lounge seemed suddenly to empty its contents into the hall. "i hope you enjoyed your ride," said mr. bolton. "i hate motoring," said patricia. then she walked upstairs with a curt "good night," leaving a group of surprised people speculating as to the cause of her mood, and deeply commiserating with bowen. chapter viii lord peter's s.o.s. "the bath is ready, my lord." lord peter bowen opened his eyes as if reluctant to acknowledge that another day had dawned. he stretched his limbs and yawned luxuriously. for the next few moments he lay watching his man, peel, as he moved noiselessly about the room, idly speculating as to whether such precision and self-repression were natural or acquired. to bowen peel was a source of never-ending interest. no matter at what hour bowen had seen him, peel always appeared as if he had just shaved. in his every action there was purpose, and every purpose was governed by one law--order. he was noiseless, wordless, selfless. bowen was convinced that were he to die suddenly and someone chance to call, peel would merely say: "his lordship is not at home, sir." thin of face, small of stature, precise of movement, peel possessed the individuality of negation. he looked nothing in particular, seemed nothing in particular, did everything to perfection. his face was a barrier to intimacy, his demeanour a gulf to the curious: he betrayed neither emotion nor confidence. in short he was the most perfect gentleman's servant in existence. "what's the time, peel?" enquired bowen. "seven forty-three, my lord," replied the meticulous peel, glancing at the clock on the mantel-piece. "have i any engagements to-day?" queried his master. "no, my lord. you have refused to make any since last thursday morning." then bowen remembered. he had pleaded pressure at the war office as an excuse for declining all invitations. he was determined that nothing should interfere with his seeing patricia should she unbend. with the thought of patricia returned the memory of the previous night's events. bowen cursed himself for the mess he had made of things. every act of his had seemed to result only in one thing, the angering of patricia. even then things might have gone well if it had not been for his wretched bad luck in being the son of a peer. as he lay watching peel, bowen felt in a mood to condole with himself. confound it! surely it could not be urged against him as his fault that he had a wretched title. he had been given no say in the matter. as for telling patricia, could he immediately on meeting her blurt out, "i'm a lord?" supposing he had introduced himself as "lieutenant-colonel lord peter bowen." how ridiculous it would have sounded. he had come to hate the very sound of the word "lord." "it's ten minutes to eight, my lord." it was peel's voice that broke in upon his reflections. "oh, damn!" cried bowen as he threw his legs out of bed and sat looking at peel. "i beg pardon, my lord?" "i said damn!" replied bowen. "yes, my lord." bowen regarded peel narrowly. he was confoundedly irritating this morning. he seemed to be my-lording his master specially to annoy him. there was, however, no sign upon peel's features or in his watery blue eyes indicating that he was other than in his normal frame of mind. why couldn't patricia be sensible? why must she take up this absurd attitude, contorting every action of his into a covert insult? why above all things couldn't women be reasonable? bowen rose, stretched himself and walked across to the bath-room. as he was about to enter he looked over his shoulder. "if," he said, "you can arrange to remind me of my infernal title as little as possible during the next few days, peel, i shall feel infinitely obliged." "yes, my lord," was the response. bowen banged the door savagely, and peel rang to order breakfast. during the meal bowen pondered over the events of the previous evening, and in particular over patricia's unreasonableness. his one source of comfort was that she had appealed to him to put things right about her aunt. that would involve his seeing her again. he did not, or would not, see that he was the only one to whom she could appeal. bowen always breakfasted in his own sitting-room; he disliked his fellow-men in the early morning. looking up suddenly from the table he caught peel's expressionless eye upon him. "peel." "yes, my lord." "why is it that we englishmen dislike each other so at breakfast?" peel paused for a moment. "i've heard it said, my lord, that we're half an inch taller in the morning, perhaps our perceptions are more acute also." bowen looked at peel curiously. "you're a philosopher," he said, "and i'm afraid a bit of a cynic." "i hope not, my lord," responded peel. bowen pushed back his chair and rose, receiving from peel his cap, cane, and gloves. "by the way," he said, "i want you to ring up lady tanagra and ask her to lunch with me at half-past one. tell her it's very important, and ask her not to fail me." "yes, my lord: it shall be attended to." bowen went out. lady tanagra was bowen's only sister. as children they had been inseparable, forced into an alliance by the overbearing nature of their elder brother, the heir, viscount bowen, who would succeed to the title as the eighth marquess of meyfield. bowen was five years older than his sister, who had just passed her twenty-third birthday and, as a frail sensitive child, she had instinctively looked to him for protection against her elder brother. their comradeship was that of mutual understanding. for one to say to the other, "don't fail me," meant that any engagement, however pressing, would be put off. there was a tacit acknowledgment that their comradeship stood before all else. each to the other was unique. thus when bowen sent the message to lady tanagra through peel asking her not to fail him, he knew that she would keep the appointment. he knew equally well that it would involve her in the breaking of some other engagement, for there were few girls in london so popular as lady tanagra bowen. whenever there was an important social function, lady tanagra bowen was sure to be there, and it was equally certain that the photographers of the illustrated and society papers would so manoeuvre that she came into the particular group, or groups, they were taking. the seventh marquess of meyfield was an enthusiastic collector of tanagra figurines and, overruling his lady's protestations, he had determined to call his first and only daughter tanagra. lady meyfield had begged for a second name; but the marquess had been resolute. "tanagra i will have her christened and tanagra i will have her called," he had said with a smile that, if it mitigated the sternness of his expression, did not in my way undermine his determination. lady meyfield knew her lord, and also that her only chance of ruling him was by showing unfailing tact. she therefore bowed to his decision. "poor child!" she had remarked as she looked down at the frail little mite in the hollow of her arm, "you're certainly going to be made ridiculous; but i've done my best," and lord meyfield had come across the room and kissed his wife with the remark, "there you're wrong, my dear, it's going to help to make her a great success. imagine, the lady tanagra bowen; why it would make a celebrity of the most commonplace female," whereat they had both smiled. as a child lady tanagra had been teased unmercifully about her name, so much so that she had almost hated it; but later when she had come to love the figurines that were so much part of her father's life, she had learned, not only to respect, but to be proud of the name. to her friends and intimates she was always tan, to the less intimate lady tan, and to the world at large lady tanagra bowen. she had once found the name extremely useful, when in process of being proposed to by an undesirable of the name of black. "it's no good," she had said, "i could never marry you, no matter what the state of my feelings. think how ridiculous we should both be, everybody would call us black and tan. ugh! it sounds like a whisky as well as a dog." whereat mr. black had laughed and they remained friends, which was a great tribute to lady tanagra. exquisitely pretty, sympathetic, witty, human! lady tanagra bowen was a favourite wherever she went. she seemed incapable of making enemies even amongst her own sex. her taste in dress was as unerring as in literature and art. everything she did or said was without effort. she had been proposed to by "half the eligibles and all the ineligibles in london," as bowen phrased it; but she declared she would never marry until peter married, and had thus got somebody else to mother him. at a quarter-past one when bowen left the war office, he found lady tanagra waiting in her car outside. "hullo, tan!" he cried, "what a brainy idea, picking up the poor, tired warrior." "it'll save you a taxi, peter. i'll tell you what to do with the shilling as we go along." lady tanagra smiled up into her brother's face. she was always happy with peter. as she swung the car across whitehall to get into the north-bound stream of traffic, bowen looked down at his sister. she handled her big car with dexterity and ease. she was a dainty creature with regular features, violet-blue eyes and golden hair that seemed to defy all constraint. there was a tilt about her chin that showed determination, and that about her eyebrows which suggested something more than good judgment. "i hope you weren't doing anything to-day, tan," said bowen as they came to a standstill at the top of whitehall, waiting for the removal of a blue arm that barred their progress. "i was lunching with the bolsovers; but i'm not well enough, i'm afraid, to see them. it's measles, you know." "good heavens, tan! what do you mean?" "well, i had to say something that would be regarded as a sufficient excuse for breaking a luncheon engagement of three weeks' standing. quite a lot of people were invited to meet me." "i'm awfully sorry," began bowen apologetically. "oh, it's all right!" was the reply as the car jumped forward. "i shall be deluged with fruit and flowers now from all sorts of people, because the bolsovers are sure to spread it round that i'm in extremis. to-morrow, however, i shall announce that it was a wrong diagnosis." lady tanagra drew the car up to the curb outside dent's. "i think," she said, indicating an old woman selling matches, "we'll give her the shilling for the taxi, peter, shall we?" peter beckoned the old woman and handed her a shilling with a smile. "does it make you feel particularly virtuous to be charitable with another's money?" he enquired. lady tanagra made a grimace. over lunch they talked upon general topics and about common friends. lady tanagra made no reference to the important matter that had caused her to be summoned to lunch, even at the expense of having measles as an excuse. that was characteristic of her. she had nothing of a woman's curiosity, at least she never showed it, particularly with peter. after lunch they went to the lounge for coffee. when they had been served and both were smoking, bowen remarked casually, "got any engagement for this afternoon, tan?" "tea at the carlton at half-past four, then i promised to run in to see the grahams before dinner. i'm afraid it will mean more flowers and fruit. oh!" she replied, "i suppose i must stick to measles. i shall have to buy some thanks for kind enquiries cards as i go home." during lunch bowen had been wondering how he could approach the subject of patricia. he could not tell even tanagra how he had met her--that was patricia's secret. if she chose to tell, that was another matter; but he could not. as a rule he found it easy to talk to tanagra and explain things; but this was a little unusual. lady tanagra watched him shrewdly for a minute or two. "i think i should just say it as it comes, peter," she remarked in a casual, matter-of-fact tone. bowen started and then laughed. "what i want is a sponsor for an acquaintanceship between myself and a girl. i cannot tell you everything, tan, she may decide to; but of course you know it's all right." "why, of course," broke in lady tanagra with an air of conviction which contained something of a reproach that he should have thought it necessary to mention such a thing. "well, you've got to do a bit of lying, too, i'm afraid." "oh! that will be all right. the natural consequence of a high temperature through measles." lady tanagra saw that bowen was ill at ease, and sought by her lightness to simplify things for him. "how long have i known her?" she proceeded. "oh! that you had better settle with her. all that is necessary is for you to have met her somewhere, or somehow, and to have introduced me to her." "and who is to receive these explanations?" enquired lady tanagra. "her aunt, a gorgon." "does the girl know that you are--that i am to throw myself into the breach?" "no," said peter, "i didn't think to tell her. i said that i would arrange things. her name's patricia brent. she's private secretary to arthur bonsor of eaton square, and she lives at galvin house residential hotel, to give it its full title, galvin street, bayswater. her aunt is to be at galvin house at half-past five this afternoon, when i have to be explained to her. oh! it's most devilish awkward, tan, because i can't tell you the facts of the case. i wish she were here." "that's all right, peter. i'll put things right. what time does she leave eaton square?" "five o'clock, i think." "good! leave it to me. by the way, where shall you be if i want to get at you?" "when?" "say six o'clock." "i'll be back here at six and wait until seven." "that will do. now i really must be going. i've got to telephone to these people about the measles. shall i run you down to whitehall?" "no, thanks, i think i'll walk," and with that he saw her into her car and turned to walk back to whitehall, thanking his stars for being possessed of such a sister and marvelling at her wisdom. he had not the most remote idea of how she would achieve her purpose; but achieve it he was convinced she would. it was notorious that lady tanagra never failed in anything she undertook. while bowen and his sister were lunching at the quadrant, patricia was endeavouring to concentrate her mind upon her work. "the egregious arthur," as she called him to herself in her more impatient moments, had been very trying that morning. he had been in a particularly indeterminate mood, which involved the altering and changing of almost every sentence he dictated. in the usual way he was content to tell patricia what he wanted to say, and let her clothe it in fitting words; but this morning he had insisted on dictating every letter, with the result that her notes had become hopelessly involved and she was experiencing great difficulty in reading them. added to this was the fact that she could not keep her thoughts from straying to aunt adelaide. what would happen that afternoon? what was bowen going to do to save the situation? he had promised to see her through; but how was he going to do it? chapter ix lady tanagra takes a hand at a quarter to five patricia left the library to go upstairs to put on her hat and coat. in the hall she encountered mrs. bonsor. "finished?" interrogated that lady in a tone of voice that implied she was perfectly well aware of the fact that it wanted still a quarter of an hour to the time at which patricia was supposed to be free. "no; there is still some left; but i'm going home," said patricia. there was something in her voice and appearance that prompted mrs. bonsor to smile her artificial smile and remark that she thought patricia was quite right, the weather being very trying. when she left the bonsors' house, patricia was too occupied with her own thoughts to notice the large grey car standing a few yards up the square with a girl at the steering-wheel. patricia turned in the opposite direction from that in which the car stood, making her way towards sloane street to get her bus. she had not gone many steps when the big car slid silently up beside her, and she heard a voice say, "can't i give you a lift to galvin house?" she turned round and saw a fair-haired girl smiling at her from the car. "i--i----" "jump in, won't you?" said the girl. "but--but i think you've made a mistake." "you're patricia brent, aren't you?" "yes," said patricia, smiling, "that's my name." "well then, jump in and i'll run you up to galvin house. don't delay or you'll be too late for your aunt." patricia looked at the girl in mute astonishment, but proceeded to get into the car, there seemed nothing else to be done. as she did so, the fair-haired girl laughed brightly. "it's awfully mean of me to take such an advantage, but i couldn't resist it. i'm peter's sister, tanagra." "oh!" said patricia, light dawning upon her and turning to tanagra with a smile, "then you're the solution?" "yes," said lady tanagra, "i'm going to see you two out of the mess you've somehow or other got into." suddenly patricia stiffened. "did he--did he--er--tell you?" "not he," said lady tanagra, shoving on the brake suddenly to avoid a crawling taxi that had swung round without any warning. "peter doesn't talk." "but then, how do you----?" "well," said lady tanagra, "he told me that i was to be the one who had introduced him to you and explain him to your aunt. it's all over london that i've got measles, and there will be simply piles of flowers and fruit arriving at grosvenor square by every possible conveyance." "measles!" cried patricia uncomprehendingly. "yes, you see when peter wants me i always have to throw up any sort of engagement, and he does the same for me. when he asked me to lunch with him to-day and said it was important, i had to give some reasonable excuse to three lots of people to whom i had pledged myself, and i thought measles would do quite nicely." patricia laughed in spite of herself. "so you don't know anything except that you have got to----" "sponsor you," interrupted lady tanagra. for some time patricia was silent. she felt she could tell her story to this girl who was so trustful that everything was all right, and who was willing to do anything to help her brother. "can't we go slowly whilst i talk to you," said patricia, as they turned into the park. "we'll do better than that," said lady tanagra, "we'll stop and sit down for five minutes." she pulled up the car near the stanhope gate and they found a quiet spot under a tree. "i cannot allow you to enter into this affair," said patricia, "without telling you the whole story. what you will think of me afterwards i don't know; but i've got myself into a most horrible mess." she then proceeded to explain the whole situation, how it came about that she had come to know bowen and the upshot of the meeting. lady tanagra listened without interruption and without betraying by her expression what were her thoughts. "and now what do you think of me?" demanded patricia when she had concluded. for a moment lady tanagra rested her hand upon patricia's. "i think, you goose, that had you known peter better there would not have been so much need for you to worry; but there isn't much time and we've got to prepare. now listen carefully. first of all you must call me tan or tanagra, and i must call you patricia or pat, or whatever you like. secondly, as it would take too long to find out if we've got any friends in common, you went to the v.a.d. depot in st. george's crescent to see if you could do anything to help. there you met me. i'm quite a shining light there, by the way, and we palled up. this led to my introducing peter and--well all the rest is quite easy." "but--but there isn't any rest," said patricia. "don't you see how horribly awkward it is? i'm supposed to be engaged to him." "oh!" said lady tanagra quietly, "that's a matter for you and peter to settle between you. i'm afraid i can't interfere there. all i can do is to explain how you and he came to know each other; and now we had better be getting on as your aunt will not be pleased if you keep her waiting. what i propose to do is to pick her up and take her up to the quadrant where we shall find peter." "but," protested patricia, "that's simply getting us more involved than ever." "well, i'm afraid it's got to be," said lady tanagra, smiling mischievously; "it's much better that they should meet at the quadrant than at galvin house, where you say everybody is so catty." patricia saw the force of lady tanagra's argument, and they were soon whirling on their way towards galvin house. she wanted to pinch herself to be quite sure that she was not dreaming. everything seemed to be happening with such rapidity that her brain refused to keep pace with events. why had she not met these people in a conventional way so that she might preserve their friendship? it was hard luck, she told herself. "would you mind telling me what you propose doing?" enquired patricia. "i promised peter to gather up the pieces," was the response. "all you've got to do is to remain quiet." lady tanagra brought the car up in front of galvin house with a magnificent sweep. gustave, who had been on the watch, swung open the door in his most impressive manner. as patricia and lady tanagra entered the lounge, miss wangle and mrs. mosscrop-smythe were addressing pleasantries to a particularly grim miss brent. "oh, here you are!" miss brent's exclamation was uttered in such a voice as to pierce even the thick skin of miss wangle, who having instantly recognised lady tanagra, retired with mrs. mosscrop-smythe a few yards, where they carried on a whispered conversation, casting significant glances at lady tanagra, miss brent and patricia. "i told patricia that it was time the families met," said lady tanagra, "and so i insisted on coming when i heard you were to be here." "i think you are quite right." patricia was surprised at the change in her aunt. much of her usual uncompromising downrightness had been shed, and she appeared almost gracious. for one thing she was greatly impressed at the thought that patricia was to become lady peter bowen. as the aunt of lady peter bowen, miss brent saw that her own social position would be considerably improved. she saw herself taking precedence at little milstead and issuing its social life and death warrants. apart from these considerations miss brent was not indifferent to lady tanagra's personal charm. "tan's parlour tricks," as godfrey elton called them, were notorious. everyone was aware of their existence; yet everyone fell an instant victim. a compound of earnestness, deference, pleading, irresistible impertinence and dignity, they formed a dangerous weapon. lady tanagra's position among her friends and acquaintance was unique. when difficulties and contentions arose, the parties' instinctive impulse was to endeavour to invest her interest. "tanagra is so sensible," outraged parenthood would exclaim; "tan's such a sport. she'll understand," cried rebellious youth. people not only asked lady tanagra's advice, but took it. the secret of her success, unknown to herself, was her knowledge of human nature. even those against whom she gave her decisions bore her no ill-will. her manner towards miss brent was a mixture of laughter and seriousness, with deft little touches of deference. "i've come to apologize for everybody and everything, miss brent," she cried; "but in particular for myself." lady tanagra chatted on gaily, "sparring for an opening," elton called it. "you mustn't blame patricia," she bubbled in her soft musical voice, "it's all peter's fault, and where it's not his fault it's mine," she proceeded illogically. "you won't be hard on us, will you?" she looked up at miss brent with the demureness of a child expecting severe rebuke for some naughtiness. miss brent's eyes narrowed and the firm line of her lips widened. patricia recognised this as the outward evidences of a smile. "i confess, i am greatly puzzled," began miss brent. "of course you must be," continued lady tanagra, "and if you were not so kind you would be very cross, especially with me. now," she continued, without giving miss brent a chance of replying, "i want you to do me a very great favour." lady tanagra paused impressively, and gave miss brent her most pleading look. miss brent looked at lady tanagra with just a tinge of suspicion in her pea-soup coloured eyes. "may i ask what it is?" she enquired guardedly. "i want you to let me carry you off to a quiet place where we can talk." miss brent rose at once. she disliked calvin house and the inquisitive glances of its inmates. "i told peter to be at the quadrant until seven. he is very anxious to meet you," continued lady tanagra as they moved towards the door. "i would not let him come here as i thought, from that patricia has told me, that you would not care--to----" she paused. "you are quite right, lady tanagra," said miss brent with decision. "i do not like boarding-houses. they are not the places for the discussion of family affairs." patricia descended the steps of galvin house, not quite sure whether this were reality or a dream. she watched miss brent seat herself beside lady tanagra, whilst she herself entered the tonneau of the car. as the door clicked and the car sprang forward, she caught a glimpse of eager faces at the windows of galvin house. as they swung into the park and hummed along the even road, patricia endeavoured to bring herself to earth. she pinched herself until it hurt. what had happened? she felt like someone present at her own funeral. her fate was being decided without anyone seeming to think it necessary to consult her. "by half-past five to-morrow afternoon i shall have found a solution." bowen's words came back to her. he was right. lady tanagra was indeed a solution. patricia and miss brent were merely lay-figures. it must be wonderful to be able to make people do what you wished, she mused. she wondered what would have happened had bowen possessed his sister's powers. at the quadrant peel was waiting in the vestibule. with a bow that impressed miss brent, he conducted them to bowen's suite. as they entered bowen sprang up from a writing-table. patricia noticed that there was no smell of tobacco smoke. the bowens were a wonderful family, she decided, remembering her aunt's prejudices. "i have only just heard you were in town," she heard bowen explaining to miss brent. "i rang up patricia this morning, but she could not remember your address." patricia gasped; but, seeing the effect of the "grey lie" (it was not quite innocent enough to be called a white lie, she told herself) she forgave it. during tea lady tanagra and bowen set to to "play themselves in," as lady tanagra afterwards expressed it. "poor aunt adelaide," patricia murmured to herself, "they'll turn her giddy young head." "and now," lady tanagra began when bowen had taken miss brent's cup from her. "i must explain all about this little romance and how it came about." patricia caught bowen's eye, and saw in it a look of eager interest. "patricia wanted to do war work in her spare time," continued lady tanagra, "so she applied to the v.a.d. at st. george's crescent. i am on the committee and, by a happy chance," lady tanagra smiled across to patricia, "she was sent to me. i saw she was not strong and dissuaded her." miss brent nodded approval. "i explained," continued lady tanagra, "that the work was very hard, and that it was not necessarily patriotic to overwork so as to get ill. doctors have quite enough to do." again miss brent nodded agreement. "i think we liked each other from the first," again lady tanagra smiled across at patricia, "and i asked her to come and have tea with me, and we became friends. finally, one day when we were enjoying a quiet talk here in the lounge, this big brother of mine comes along and spoils everything." lady tanagra regarded bowen with reproachful eyes. "spoiled everything?" enquired miss brent. "yes; by falling in love with my friend, and in a most treacherous manner she must do the same." lady tanagra's tone was matter-of-fact enough to deceive a misanthropist. patricia's cheeks burned and her eyes fell beneath the gaze of the others. she felt as a man might who reads his own obituary notices. "and why was i not told, her sole surviving relative?" miss brent rapped out the question with the air of a counsel for the prosecution. "that was my fault," broke in bowen. three pairs of eyes were instantly turned upon him. miss brent suspicious, lady tanagra admiring, patricia wondering. "and why, may i ask?" enquired miss brent. "i wanted it to be a secret between patricia and me," explained bowen easily. "but, lady tanagra----" there was a note in miss brent's voice that patricia recognised as a soldier does the gas-gong. "oh!" replied bowen, "she finds out everything; but i only told her at lunch to-day." "and he told me as if i had not already discovered the fact for myself," laughed lady tanagra. "patricia wanted to tell you," continued bowen. "she has often talked of you (patricia felt sure aunt adelaide must hear her start of surprise); but i wanted to wait until we could go to you together and confess." bowen smiled straight into his listener's eyes, a quiet, friendly smile that would have disarmed a gorgon. for a few moments there was silence. miss brent was thinking, thinking as a judge thinks who is about to deliver sentence. "and lady meyfield, does she know?" she enquired. without giving bowen a chance to reply lady tanagra rushed in as if fearful that he might make a false move. "that is another of peter's follies, keeping it from mother. he argued that if the engagement were officially announced, the family would take up all patricia's time, and he would see nothing of her. oh! peter's very selfish sometimes, i am to say; but," she added with inspiration, "every thing will have to come out now." "of course!" patricia started at the decision in miss brent's tone. she looked across at bowen, who was regarding lady tanagra with an admiration that amounted almost to reverence. as he looked up patricia's eyes fell. what was happening to her? she was getting further into the net woven by her own folly. lady tanagra was getting them out of the tangle into which they had got themselves; but was she not involving them in a worse? patricia knew her aunt, lady tanagra did not. therein lay the key to the whole situation. miss brent rose to go. patricia saw that judgment was to be deferred. she shook hands with lady tanagra and bowen and, finally, turning to patricia said: "i think, patricia, that you have been very indiscreet in not taking me into your confidence, your sole surviving relative," and with that she went, having refused lady tanagra's offer to drive her to her hotel, pleading that she had another call to make. when bowen returned from seeing miss brent into a taxi, the three culprits regarded each other. all felt that they had come under the ban of miss brent's displeasure. it was lady tanagra who broke the silence. "well, we're all in it now up to the neck," she laughed. bowen smiled happily; but patricia looked alarmed. lady tanagra went over to her and bending down kissed her lightly on the cheek. patricia looked up, and bowen saw that her eyes were suspiciously moist. with a murmured apology about a note he was expecting he left the room. that night the three dined at the quadrant, "to get to know each other," as lady tanagra said. when patricia reached galvin house, having refused to allow bowen to see her home, she was conscious of having spent another happy evening. "up to the neck in it," she murmured as she tossed back her hair and began to brush it for the night, "over the top of our heads, i should say." chapter x miss brent's strategy having become reconciled to what she regarded as patricia's matrimonial plans, although strongly disapproving of her deplorable flippancy, miss brent decided that her niece's position must be established in the eyes of her prospective relatives-in-law. miss brent was proud of her family, but still prouder of the fact that the founder had come over with that extremely dubious collection of notables introduced into england by william of normandy. to miss brent, william the conqueror was what _the mayflower_ is to all ambitious americans--a social jumping-off point. there were no army lists in , or passengers' lists in . no one could say with any degree of certainty what it was that geoffrey brent did for, or knew about, his ducal master; but it was sufficiently important to gain for him a grant of lands, which he had no more right to occupy than the norman had to bestow. after careful thought miss brent had decided upon her line of operations. geoffrey brent was to be used as a corrective to patricia's occupation. no family, miss brent argued, could be expected to welcome with open arms a girl who earned her living as the secretary of an unknown member of parliament. she foresaw complications, fierce opposition, possibly an attempt to break off the engagement. to defeat this geoffrey brent was to be disinterred and flung into the conflict, and patricia was to owe to her aunt the happiness that was to be hers. incidentally miss brent saw in this circumstance a very useful foundation upon which to build for herself a position in the future. miss brent had made up her mind upon two points. one that she would call upon lady meyfield, the other that patricia's engagement must be announced. debrett told her all she wanted to know about the bowens, and she strongly disapproved of what she termed "hole-in-the-corner engagements." the marriage of a brent to a bowen was to her an alliance, carrying with it certain social responsibilities, consequently society must be advised of what was impending. romance was a by-product that did not concern either miss brent or society. purpose and decision were to miss brent what wings and tail are to the swallow: they propelled and directed her. her mind once made up, to change it would have appeared to miss brent an unpardonable sign of weakness. circumstances might alter, thrones totter, but miss brent's decisions would remain unshaken. on the day following her meeting with lady tanagra and bowen, miss brent did three things. she transferred to "the mayfair hotel" for one night, she prepared an announcement of the engagement for _the morning post_, and she set out to call upon lady meyfield in grosvenor square. the transference to "the mayfair hotel" served a double purpose. it would impress the people at the newspaper office, and it would also show that patricia's kinswoman was of some importance. as patricia was tapping out upon a typewriter the halting eloquence of mr. arthur bonsor, miss brent was being whirled in a taxi first to the office of _the morning post_ and then on to grosvenor square. "i fully appreciate," tapped patricia with wandering attention, "the national importance of pigs." "miss brent!" announced lady meyfield's butler. miss brent found herself gazing into a pair of violet eyes that were smiling a greeting out of a gentle face framed in white hair. "how do you do!" lady meyfield was endeavouring to recall where she could have met her caller. "i felt it was time the families met," announced miss brent. lady meyfield smiled, that gentle reluctant smile so characteristic of her. she was puzzled; but too well-bred to show it. "won't you have some tea?" she looked about her, then fixing her eyes upon a dark man in khaki, with smouldering eyes, called to him, introduced him, and had just time to say: "godfrey, see that miss brent has some tea," when a rush of callers swept miss brent and captain godfrey elton further into the room. miss brent looked about her with interest. she had read of how lady meyfield had turned her houses, both town and country, into convalescent homes for soldiers; but she was surprised to see men in hospital garb mixing freely with the other guests. elton saw her surprise. "lady meyfield has her own ideas of what is best," he remarked as he handed her a cup of tea. miss brent looked up interrogatingly. "she had some difficulty at first," continued elton; "but eventually she got her own way as she always does. now the official hospitals send her their most puzzling cases and she cures them." "how?" enquired miss brent with interest. "imagination," said elton, bowing to a pretty brunette at the other side of the room. "she is too wise to try and fatten a canary on a dog biscuit." "does she keep canaries then?" enquired miss brent. "i'm afraid that was only my clumsy effort at metaphor," responded elton with a disarming smile. "she adopts human methods. they are generally successful." elton went on to describe something of the success that had attended lady meyfield's hostels, as she called them. they were famous throughout the service. when war broke out someone had suggested that she should use her tact and knowledge of human nature in treating cases that defied the army m.o.'s. "a tyrant is the first victim of tact," godfrey elton had said of lord meyfield, and in his ready acquiescence in his lady's plans lord meyfield had tacitly concurred. lady meyfield had conferred with her lord in respect to all her plans and arrangements, until he had come to regard the hostels as the children of his own brain, admirably controlled and conducted by his wife. he seldom appeared, keeping to the one place free from the flood of red, white, and blue--his library. here with his books and terra-cottas he "grew old with a grace worthy of his rank," as elton phrased it. lady meyfield's "cases" were mostly those of shell-shock, or nervous troubles. she studied each patient's needs, and decided whether he required diversion or quiet: if diversion, he was sent to her town house; if quiet, he went to one of her country houses. at first it had been thought that a woman could not discipline a number of men; but lady meyfield had settled this by allowing them to discipline themselves. all misdemeanours were reported to and judged by a committee of five elected by ballot from among the patients. their decisions were referred to lady meyfield for ratification. the result was that in no military hospital, or convalescent home, in the country was the discipline so good. miss brent listened perfunctorily to elton's description of lady meyfield's success. she had not come to grosvenor square to hear about hostels, or the curing of shell-shocked soldiers, and her eyes roved restlessly about the room. "you know lord peter?" she enquired at length. "intimately," elton replied as he took her cup from her. "do you like him?" miss brent was always direct. "unquestionably." elton's tone was that of a man who found nothing unusual either in the matter or method of interrogation. "is he steady?" was the next question. "as a rock," responded elton, beginning to enjoy a novel experience. "why doesn't he live here?" demanded miss brent. "who, peter?" miss brent nodded. "no room. the soldiers, you know," he added. "no room for her own son?" miss brent's tone was in itself an accusation against lady meyfield of unnaturalness. "oh! peter understands," was elton's explanation. "oh!" miss brent looked sharply at him. for a minute there was silence. "you have been wounded?" miss brent indicated the blue band upon his arm. her question arose, not from any interest she felt; but she required time in which to reorganise her attack. "i am only waiting for my final medical board, as i hope," elton replied. "you know lady tanagra?" miss brent was feeling some annoyance with this extremely self-possessed young man. "yes," was elton's reply. he wondered if the next question would deal with her steadiness. "i suppose you are a friend of the family?" was miss brent's next question. elton bowed. "good afternoon, sir." the speaker was a soldier in hospital blue, a rugged little man known among his fellows as "uncle." "hullo! uncle, how are you?" said elton, shaking hands. miss brent noticed a warmth in elton's tone that was in marked contrast to the even tone of courtesy with which he had answered her questions. "oh, just 'oppin' on to 'eaven, sir," replied uncle. "sort of sittin' up an' takin' notice." elton introduced uncle to miss brent, an act that seemed to her quite unnecessary. "and where were you wounded?" asked miss brent conventionally. "clean through the buttocks, mum," replied uncle simply. miss brent flushed and cast a swift glance at elton, whose face showed no sign. she turned to uncle and regarded him severely; but he was blissfully unaware of having offended. "can't sit down now, mum, without it 'urtin'," added uncle, interpreting miss brent's steady gaze as betokening interest. "oh, goddy! i've been trying to fight my way across to you for hours." the pretty brunette to whom elton had bowed joined the group. "i've been giving you the glad eye all the afternoon and you merely bow. well, uncle, how's the wound?" miss brent gasped. she was unaware that uncle's wound was the standing joke among all lady meyfield's guests. "oh! i'm gettin' on, thank you," said uncle cheerfully. "mustn't complain." "isn't he a darling?" the girl addressed herself to miss brent, who merely stared. "do you refer to uncle or to me?" enquired elton. "why both, of course; but--" she paused and, screwing up her piquante little face in thought she added, "but i think uncle's the darlinger though, don't you?" again she challenged miss brent. "good job my missis can't 'ear 'er," was uncle's comment to elton. "there, you see!" cried the girl gaily, "uncle talks about his wife when i make love to him, and as for goddy," she turned and regarded elton with a quizzical expression, "he treats my passion with a look that clearly says prunes and prisms." miss brent's head was beginning to whirl. somewhere at the back of her mind was the unuttered thought, what would little milstead think of such conversation? she was brought back to lady meyfield's drawing-room by hearing the brunette once more addressing her. "they're the two most interesting men in the room. i call them the dove and the serpent. uncle has the guilelessness of the dove, whilst godfrey has all the wisdom of the serpent. the three of us together would make a most perfect garden of eden. wouldn't we, goddy?" "you are getting a little confused, peggy," said elton. "this is not a fancy dress----" "stop him, someone!" cried the brunette, "he's going to say something naughty." elton smiled, miss brent continued to stare, whilst uncle with a grin of admiration cried: "lor', don't she run on!" "now come along, uncle!" cried the girl. "i've found some topping chocolates, a new kind. they're priceless," and she dragged uncle off to the end of the table. "who was that?" demanded miss brent of elton, disapproval in her look and tone. "lady peggy bristowe," replied elton. miss brent was impressed. the bristowes traced their ancestry so far back as to make william the norman's satellites look almost upstarts. "she is a little overpowering at first, isn't she?" remarked elton, smiling in spite of himself at the conflicting emotions depicted upon miss brent's face; but lady peggy gave her no time to reply. she was back again like a shaft of april sunshine. "here, open your mouth, goddy," she cried, "they're delicious." elton did as he was bid, and lady peggy popped a chocolate in, then wiping her finger and thumb daintily upon a ridiculously small piece of cambric, she stood in front of elton awaiting his verdict. "like it?" she demanded, her head on one side like a bird, and her whole attention concentrated upon elton. "apart from a suggestion of furniture polish," began elton, "it is----" "hun!" cried lady peggy as she whisked over to where she had left uncle. "lady peggy is rather spoiled," said elton to miss brent. "i fear she trades upon having the prettiest ankles in london." miss brent turned upon elton one glance, then with head in air and lips tightly compressed, she stalked away. elton watched her in surprise, unconscious that his casual reference to the ankles of the daughter of a peer had been to miss brent the last straw. "hate at the prow and virtue at the helm," he murmured as she disappeared. miss brent was now convinced beyond all power of argument to the contrary that her call had landed her in the very midst of an ultra-fast set. she was unaware that godfrey elton was notorious among his friends for saying the wrong thing to the right people. "you never know what godfrey will say," his aunt caroline had remarked on one occasion when he had just confided to the vicar that all introspective women have thick ankles, "and the dear vicar is so sensitive." it seemed that whenever elton elected to emerge from the mantle of silence with which he habitually clothed himself, it was in the presence of either a sensitive vicar or someone who was sensitive without being a vicar. once when lady gilcray had rebuked him for openly admiring jenny adam's legs, which were displayed each night to an appreciative public at the futility theatre, elton had replied, "a woman's legs are to me what they are to god," which had silenced her ladyship, who was not quite sure whether it was rank blasphemy or a classical quotation; but she never forgave him. miss brent made several efforts to approach lady meyfield to have a few minutes' talk with her about the subject of her call; but without success. she was always surrounded either by arriving or departing guests, and soldiers seemed perpetually hovering about ready to pounce upon her at the first opportunity. at last miss brent succeeded in attracting her hostess' attention, and before she knew exactly what had happened, lady meyfield had shaken hands, thanked her for coming, hoped she would come again soon, and miss brent was walking downstairs her mission unaccomplished. her only consolation was the knowledge that within the next day or two _the morning post_ would put matters upon a correct footing. a mile away patricia was tapping out upon her typewriter that "pigs are the potential saviours of the empire." chapter xi the defection of mr. triggs "well, me dear, how goes it?" patricia looked up from a blue book, from which she was laboriously extracting statistics. mr. triggs stood before her, florid and happy. he was wearing a new black and white check suit, a white waistcoat and a red tie, whilst in his hand he carried a white felt top-hat with a black band. "it doesn't go at all well," said patricia, smiling. "what's the matter, me dear?" he enquired anxiously. "you look fagged out." "oh! i'm endeavouring to extract information about potatoes from stupid blue books," said patricia, leaning back in her chair. "why can't they let potatoes grow without writing about them?" she asked plaintively, screwing up her eyebrows. "'e ain't much good, is 'e?" enquired mr. triggs. "who?" asked patricia in surprise. "a. b.," said mr. triggs, lowering his voice and looking round furtively, "dull, 'e strikes me." "well, you see, mr. triggs, he's rising, and you can't rise and be risen at the same time, can you?" mr. triggs shook his head doubtfully. "'e'll no more rise than your salary, me dear," he said. "oh! what a gloomy person you are to-day, mr. triggs, and you look like a ray of sunshine." "d'you like it?" enquired mr. triggs, smiling happily as he stood back that patricia might obtain a good view of his new clothes. she now saw that over his black boots he wore a pair of immaculate white spats. "you look just like a duke. but where are you going, and why all this splendour?" asked patricia. mr. triggs beamed upon her. "i'm glad you like it, me dear. i was thinking about you when i ordered it." patricia looked up and smiled. there was something to her strangely lovable in this old man's simplicity. "i come to take you to the zoo," he announced. "to the zoo?" cried patricia in unfeigned surprise. mr. triggs nodded, hugely enjoying the effect of the announcement. "now run away and get your hat on." "but i couldn't possibly go, i've got heaps of things to do," protested patricia. "why mrs. bonsor would be----" "never you mind about 'ettie; i'll manage 'er. she'll----" "i thought i heard your voice, father." both patricia and mr. triggs started guiltily; they had not heard mrs. bonsor enter the room. "'ullo, 'ettie!" said mr. triggs, recovering himself. "i just come to take this young lady to the zoo." "do i look as bad as all that?" asked patricia, conscious that her effort was a feeble one. "don't you worry about your looks, me dear," said mr. triggs, "i'll answer for them. now go and get your 'at on." "but i really couldn't, mr. triggs," protested patricia. "i'm afraid it's impossible for miss brent to go to-day, father," said mrs. bonsor evenly; but flashing a vindictive look at patricia. "why?" enquired mr. triggs. "i happen to know," continued mrs. bonsor, "that arthur is very anxious for some work that miss brent is doing for him." "what work?" enquired mr. triggs. "oh--er--something about----" mrs. bonsor looked appealingly at patricia; but patricia had no intention of helping her out. "well! if you can't remember what it is, it can't matter much, and i've set my mind on going to the zoo this afternoon." "very well, father. if you will wait a few minutes i will go with you myself." "you!" exclaimed mr. triggs in consternation. "you and me at the zoo! why you said once the smell made you sick." "father! how can you suggest such a thing?" "but you did," persisted mr. triggs. "i once remarked that i found the atmosphere a little trying." "won't you come into the morning-room, father, there's something i want to speak to you about." "no, i won't," snapped mr. triggs like a spoilt child, "i'm going to take miss brent to the zoo." "but arthur's work, father----" began mrs. bonsor. "very well then, 'ettie," said mr. triggs, "you better tell a. b. that i'd like to 'ave a little talk with 'im to-morrow afternoon at streatham, at three o'clock sharp. see? don't forget!" mr. triggs was angry, and mrs. bonsor realised that she had gone too far. turning to patricia she said: "do you think it would matter if you put off what you are doing until to-morrow, miss brent?" she enquired. "i think i ought to do it now, mrs. bonsor," replied patricia demurely, determined to land mrs. bonsor more deeply into the mire if possible. "well, if you'll run away and get your hat on, i will explain to mr. bonsor when he comes in." patricia looked up, mrs. bonsor smiled at her, a frosty movement of her lips, from which her eyes seemed to dissociate themselves. during patricia's absence mr. triggs made it abundantly clear to his daughter that he was displeased with her. "look 'ere, 'ettie, if i 'ear any more of this nonsense," he said, "i'll take on miss brent as my own secretary, then i can take her to the zoo every afternoon if i want to." a look of fear came into mrs. bonsor's eyes. one of the terrors of her life was that some designing woman would get hold of her father and marry him. it did not require a very great effort of the imagination to foresee that the next step would be the cutting off of the allowance mr. triggs made his daughter. suppose patricia were to marry her father? what a scandal and what a humiliation to be the stepdaughter of her husband's ex-secretary. mrs. bonsor determined to capitulate. "i'm very sorry, father; but if you had let us know we could have arranged differently. however, everything is all right now." "no, it isn't," said mr. triggs peevishly. "you've tried to spoil my afternoon. fancy you a-coming to the zoo with me. you with your 'igh and mighty ways. the truth is you're ashamed of your old father, although you ain't ashamed of 'is money." it was with a feeling of gratitude that mrs. bonsor heard patricia enter the room. "i'm ready, mr. triggs," she announced, smiling. mr. triggs followed her out of the room without a word. "you'll explain to mr. bonsor that i've been kidnapped, will you not?" said patricia to mrs. bonsor, rather from the feeling that something should be said than from any particular desire that mr. bonsor should be placated. "certainly, miss brent," replied mrs. bonsor, with another unconvincing smile. "i hope you'll have a pleasant afternoon." "tried to spoil my afternoon, she did," mumbled mr. triggs in the tone of a child who has discovered that a playmate has endeavoured to rob him of his marbles. patricia laughed and, slipping her hand through his arm, said: "now, you mustn't be cross, or else you'll spoil my afternoon, and we're going to have such a jolly time together." instantly the shadow fell from mr. triggs's face and he turned upon patricia and beamed, pressing her hand against his side. then with another sudden change he said, "'ettie annoys me when she's like that; but i've given 'er something to think about," he added, pleased at the recollection of his parting shot. patricia smiled at him, she never made any endeavour to probe into the domestic difficulties of the triggs-bonsor menage. "do you know what i told 'er?" enquired mr. triggs. patricia shook her head. "i said that if she wasn't careful i'd engage you as my own secretary. that made 'er sit up." he chuckled at the thought of his master-stroke. "but you've got nothing for me to secretary, mr. triggs," said patricia, not quite understanding where the joke came. "ah! 'ettie understands. 'ettie knows that every man that ain't married marries 'is secretary, and she's dead afraid of me marrying." "am i to take that as a proposal, mr. triggs?" asked patricia demurely. mr. triggs chuckled. "now we'll forget about everything except that we are truants," cried patricia. "i've earned a holiday, i think. on sunday and monday there was aunt adelaide, yesterday it was national importance of pigs and----" "hi! hi! taxi! taxi!" mr. triggs yelled, dashing forward and dragging patricia after him. a taxi was crossing a street about twenty yards distance. mr. triggs was impulsive in all things. having secured the taxi and handed patricia in, he told the man to drive to the zoo, and sank back with a sigh of pleasure. "now we're going to 'ave a very 'appy afternoon, me dear," he said. "don't you worry about pigs." arrived at the zoo, mr. triggs made direct for the monkey-house. patricia, a little puzzled at his choice, followed obediently. arrived there he walked round the cages, looking keenly at the animals. finally selecting a little monkey with a blue face, he pointed it out to patricia. "they was just like that little chap," he said eagerly. "that one over there, see 'im eating a nut?" "yes, i see him," said patricia; "but who was just like him?" "i'll tell you when we get outside. now come along." patricia followed mr. triggs, puzzled to account for his strange manner and sudden lack of interest in the monkey-house. they walked along for some minutes in silence, then, when they came to a quiet spot, mr. triggs turned to patricia. "you see, me dear," he said, "it was there that i asked her." "that you asked who what?" enquired patricia, utterly at a loss. "you see we'd been walking out for nearly a year; i was a foreman then. i 'ad tickets given me for the zoo one sunday, so i took 'er. when we was in the monkey-house there was a couple of little chaps just like that blue-faced little beggar we saw just now." there was a note of affection in mr. triggs's voice as he spoke of the little blue-faced monkey. "and one of 'em 'ad 'is arm round the other and was a-making love to 'er as 'ard as ever 'e could go," continued mr. triggs. "and i says to emily, just to see 'ow she'd take it, 'that might be you an' me, emily,' and she blushed and looked down, and then of course i knew, and i asked 'er to marry me. i don't think either of us 'ad cause to regret it," added the old man huskily. "god knows i 'adn't." patricia felt that she wanted both to laugh and to cry. she could say nothing, words seemed so hopelessly inadequate. "you see this is our wedding-day, that's why i wanted to come," continued mr. triggs, blinking his eyes, in which there was a suspicious moisture. "oh! thank you so much for bringing me," said patricia, and she knew as she saw the bright smile with which mr. triggs looked at her that she had said the right thing. "thirty years and never a cross word," he murmured. "she'd 'ave liked you, me dear," he added; "she 'ad wonderful instinct, and everybody loved her. 'ere, but look at me," he suddenly broke off, "spoilin' your afternoon, and you lookin' so tired. come along," and mr. triggs trotted off in the direction of the seals, who were intimating clearly that they thought that something must be wrong with the official clock. they were quite ready for their meal. for two hours patricia and mr. triggs wandered about the zoo, roving from one group of animals to another, behaving rather like two children who had at last escaped from the bondage of the school-room. after tea they strolled through regent's park, watching the squirrels and talking about the thousand and one things that good comrades have to talk about. mr. triggs told something of his early struggles, how his wife had always believed in him and been his helpmate and loyal comrade, how he missed her, and how, when she had died, she had urged him to marry again. "sam," she had said, "you want a woman to look after you; you're nothing but a great, big baby." "and she was right, me dear," said mr. triggs huskily, "she was right as she always was, only she didn't know that there couldn't ever be anyone after 'er." slowly and tactfully patricia guided the old man's thoughts away from the sad subject of his wife's death, and soon had him laughing gaily at some stories she had heard the night previously from the bowens. mr. triggs was as easily diverted from sadness to laughter as a child. it was half-past seven when they left the park gates, and patricia, looking suddenly at her wristlet watch, cried out, "oh! i shall be late for dinner, i must fly!" "you're going to dine with me, me dear," announced mr. triggs. "oh, but i can't," said patricia; "i--i----" "why can't you?" "well, i haven't told mrs. craske-morton." "who's she?" enquired mr. triggs. "of course it doesn't matter, how stupid of me," said patricia; "i should love to dine with you, mr. triggs, if you will let me." "that's all right," said mr. triggs, heaving a sigh of relief. they walked down portland place and regent street until they reached the quadrant. "we'll 'ave dinner in the grill-room at the quadrant," announced mr. triggs, with the air of a man who knows his way about town. "oh, no, not there, please!" cried patricia, in a panic. "not there!" mr. triggs looked at her, surprise and disappointment in his voice. "why not?" "oh! i'd sooner not go there if you don't mind. couldn't we go somewhere else?" for a moment mr. triggs did not reply. "there's someone there i don't want to meet," said patricia, then a moment afterwards she realised her mistake. mr. triggs looked down at his clothes. "i suppose they are a bit out of it for the evening," he remarked in a hurt voice. "oh, mr. triggs, how could you?" said patricia. "now i shall insist on dining in the quadrant grill-room. if you won't come with me i'll go alone." "not if you don't want to go, me dear, it doesn't matter. though i do like to 'ear the band. we can go anywhere." "no, quadrant or nothing," said patricia, hoping that bowen would be dining out. "are you sure, me dear?" said mr. triggs, hesitating on the threshold. "nothing will change me," announced patricia, with decision. "now you can see about getting a table while i go and powder my nose." when patricia rejoined mr. triggs in the vestibule of the grill-room he was looking very unhappy and downcast. "there ain't a table nowhere," he said. "oh, what a shame!" cried patricia. "whatever shall we do?" "i don't know," said mr. triggs helplessly. "are you sure?" persisted patricia. "that red-'eaded fellow over there said there wasn't nothing to be 'ad." "i am sorry," said patricia, seeing triggs's disappointment. "i suppose we shall have to go somewhere else after all." "won't you and your friend share my table, patricia?" patricia turned round as if someone had hit her, her face flaming. "oh!" she cried. "you?" "i have a table booked, and if you will dine with me you will be conferring a real favour upon a lonely fellow-creature." bowen smiled from patricia to mr. triggs, who was looking at him in surprise. "oh! where are my manners?" cried patricia as she introduced the two men. mr. triggs's eyes bulged at the mention of bowen's title. "now, mr. triggs," said bowen, "won't you add the weight of your persuasion to mine, and persuade miss brent that the only thing to do is for you both to dine with me and save me from boredom?" "well, it was to 'ave been my treat," said mr. triggs, not quite sure of his ground. "but you can afford to be generous. can't you share her with me, just for this evening?" mr. triggs beamed and turned questioningly to patricia, who, seeing that if she declined it would be a real disappointment to him, said: "well, i suppose we must under the circumstances." "you're not very gracious, patricia, are you?" said bowen comically. patricia laughed. "well, come along, i'm starving," she said. many heads were turned to look at the curious trio, headed by the obsequious maître d'hôtel, as they made their way towards bowen's table. "i wonder what 'ettie would say," whispered mr. triggs to patricia, "me dining with a lord, and 'im being a pal of yours, too." patricia smiled. she was wondering what trick fate would play her next. the meal was a gay one. bowen and mr. triggs immediately became friends and pledged each other in champagne. mr. triggs told of their visit to the zoo and of the anniversary it celebrated. "then you are a believer in marriage, mr. triggs," said bowen. "a believer in it! i should just think i am," said mr. triggs. "i wish she'd get married," he added, nodding his head in the direction of patricia. "she's going to," said bowen quietly. mr. triggs sat up as if someone had hit him in the small of the back. "going to," he cried. "who's the man?" "you have just pledged him in moet and chandon," replied bowen quietly. "you going to marry 'er?" unconsciously mr. triggs raised his voice in his surprise, and several people at adjacent tables turned and looked at the trio. "hush! mr. triggs," said patricia, feeling her cheeks burn. bowen merely smiled. "well i _am_ glad," said mr. triggs heartily, and seizing bowen's hand he shook it cordially. "god bless my soul!" he added, "and you never told me." he turned reproachful eyes upon patricia. "it--it----" she began. "you see, it's only just been arranged," said bowen. patricia flashed him a grateful look, he seemed always to be coming to her rescue. "god bless my soul!" repeated mr. triggs. "but you'll be 'appy, both of you, i'll answer for that." "then i may take it that you're on my side, mr. triggs," said bowen. "on your side?" queried mr. triggs, not understanding. "yes," said bowen, "you see patricia believes in long engagements, whereas i believe in short ones. i want her to marry me at once; but she will not. she wants to wait until we are both too old to enjoy each other's society, and she is too deaf to hear me say how charming she is." "if you love each other you'll never be too old to enjoy each other's company," said mr. triggs seriously. "still, i'm with you," he added, "and i'll do all i can to persuade 'er to hurry on the day." "oh, mr. triggs!" cried patricia reproachfully, "you have gone over to the enemy." "i think he has merely placed himself on the side of the angels," said bowen. "and now," said mr. triggs, "you must both of you dine with me one night to celebrate the event. oh lor'!" he exclaimed. "what will 'ettie say?" then turning to bowen he added oy way of explanation, "'ettie's my daughter, rather stiff, she is. she looks down on miss brent because she's only a. b.'s secretary. 'ettie's got to learn a lot about the world," he added oracularly. "my, this'll be a shock to 'er." "i'm afraid i can't----" began patricia. "you're not going to say you can't both dine with me?" said mr. triggs, blankly disappointed. "i think patricia will reconsider her decision," said bowen quietly. "she wouldn't be so selfish as to deny two men an evening's happiness." "she's one of the best," said mr. triggs, with decision. "mr. triggs, i think you and i have at least one thing in common," said bowen. chapter xii a bombshell "good morning, miss brent." patricia was surprised at the graciousness of mrs. bonsor's salutation, particularly after the episode of the zoo on the previous afternoon. "good morning," she responded, and made to go upstairs to take off her hat and coat. "i congratulate you," proceeded mrs. bonsor in honeyed tones; "but i'm just a little hurt that you did not confide in me." mrs. bonsor's tone was that of a trusted friend of many years' standing. "confide!" repeated patricia in a matter-of-fact tone. "confide what, mrs. bonsor?" "your engagement to lord peter bowen. such a surprise. you're a very lucky girl. i hope you'll bring lord peter to call." patricia listened mechanically to mrs. bonsor's inanities. suddenly she realised their import. what had happened? how did she know? had mr. triggs told her? "how did you know?" patricia enquired. "haven't you seen _the morning post_?" enquired mrs. bonsor. "_the morning post_!" repeated patricia, in consternation; "but--but i don't understand." "then isn't it true?" enquired mrs. bonsor, scenting a mystery. "i--i----" began patricia, then with inspiration added, "i must be getting on, i've got a lot to do to make up for yesterday." "but isn't it true, miss brent?" persisted mrs. bonsor. then from half-way up the stairs patricia turned and, in a spurt of mischief, cried, "if you see it in _the morning post_ it is so, mrs. bonsor." when patricia entered the library mr. bonsor was fussing about with letters and papers, a habit he had when nervous. "i'm so sorry about yesterday afternoon, mr. bonsor," said patricia; "but mrs. bonsor seemed to wish me to----" "not at all, not at all, miss brent," said mr. bonsor nervously. "i--i----" then he paused. "i know what you're going to say, mr. bonsor, but please don't say it." mr. bonsor looked at her in surprise. "not say it?" he said. "oh! everybody's congratulating me, and i'm tired. shall we get on with the letters?" mr. bonsor was disappointed. he had prepared a dainty little speech of congratulation, which he had intended to deliver as patricia entered the room. mr. bonsor was always preparing speeches which he never delivered. there was not an important matter that had been before the house since he had represented little dollington upon which he had not prepared a speech. he had criticised every member of the government and opposition. he had prepared party speeches and anti-party speeches, patriotic speeches and speeches of protest. he had called upon the house of commons to save the country, and upon the country to save the house of commons. he had woven speeches of splendid optimism and speeches of gloomy foreboding. he had attacked ministers and defended ministers, seen himself attacked and had routed his enemies. he had prepared speeches to be delivered to his servants for domestic misdemeanour, speeches for mr. triggs, even for mrs. bonsor. he had conceived speeches on pigs, speeches on potatoes, speeches on oil-cake, and speeches on officers' wives; in short, there was nothing in the world of his thoughts about which he had not prepared a speech. the one thing he did not do was to deliver these speeches. they were wonderful things of his imagination, which seemed to defy crystallization into words. so it was with the speech of congratulation that he had prepared for patricia. that morning patricia was distraite. her thoughts continued to wander to _the morning post_ announcement, and she was anxious to get out to lunch in order to purchase a copy and see what was actually said. then her thoughts ran on to who was responsible for such an outrage; for patricia regarded it as an outrage. it was obviously bowen who had done it in order to make her position still more ridiculous. it was mean, she was not sure that it was not contemptible. patricia was in the act of transcribing some particulars about infant mortality in england and wales compared with that of scotland, when the parlourmaid entered with a note. mr. bonsor stretched out his hand for it. "it is for miss brent, sir," said the maid. patricia looked up in surprise. it was unusual for her to receive a note at the bonsors'. she opened the envelope mechanically and read:-- "dearest, "i have just seen _the morning post_. it is sweet of you to relent. you have made me very happy. will you dine with me to-night and when may i take you to grosvenor square? my mother will want to see her new daughter-in-law. "i so enjoyed last night. surely the gods are on my side. "peter." patricia read and re-read the note. for a moment she felt ridiculously happy, then, with a swift change of mood she saw the humiliation of her situation. bowen thought it was she who had inserted the notice of the engagement. what must he think of her? it looked as if she had done it to burn his boats behind him. then suddenly she seized a pen and wrote:-- "dear lord peter, "i know nothing whatever about the announcement in _the morning post_, and i only heard of it when i arrived here. i cannot dine with you to-night, and i am very angry and upset that anyone should have had the impertinence to interfere in my affairs. i shall take up the matter with _the morning post_ people and insist on a contradiction immediately. "yours sincerely, "patricia brent." with quick, decisive movements patricia folded the note, addressed the envelope and handed it to the maid, then she turned to mr. bonsor. "i am sorry to interrupt work, mr. bonsor; but that was rather an important note that i had to answer." mr. bonsor smiled sympathetically. at lunch-time patricia purchased a copy of _the morning post_, and there saw in all its unblushing mendacity the announcement. "a marriage has been arranged and will shortly take place between lord peter bowen, d.s.o., m.c., attached to the general staff, son of the th marquess of meyfield, and patricia brent, daughter of the late john brent, of little milstead." "why on earth must the ridiculous people put it at the top of the column?" she muttered aloud. a man occupying an adjoining table at the place where she was lunching turned and looked at her. "and now i must go back to potatoes, pigs, and babies," said patricia to herself as she paid her bill and rose. "ugh!" she had scarcely settled down to her afternoon's work when the maid entered and announced, "lord peter bowen to see you, miss." "oh bother!" exclaimed patricia. "tell him i'm busy, will you please?" the maid's jaw dropped; she was excellently trained, but no maid-servant could be expected to rise superior to such an extraordinary attitude on the part of a newly-engaged girl. nothing short of a butler who had lived in the best families could have risen to such an occasion. "but, miss brent----" began mr. bonsor. patricia turned and froze him with a look. "will you give him my message, please, fellers?" she said, and fellers walked out a disillusioned young woman. two minutes later mrs. bonsor entered the room, flushed and excited. "oh, miss brent, that silly girl has muddled up things somehow! lord peter bowen is waiting for you in the morning-room. i have just been talking to him and saying that i hope you will both dine with us one day next week." "the message was quite correct, mrs. bonsor. i am very busy with pigs, and babies, and potatoes. i really cannot add lord peter to my responsibilities at the moment." mrs. bonsor looked at patricia as if she had suddenly gone mad. "but miss brent-----" began mrs. bonsor, scandalised. "i suppose i shall have to see him," said patricia, rising with the air of one who has to perform an unpleasant task. "i wish he'd stay at the war office and leave me to do my work. i suppose i shall have to write to lord derby about it." mrs. bonsor glanced at mr. bonsor, who, however, was busily engaged in preparing an appropriate speech upon war office methods, suggested by patricia's remark about lord derby. as patricia entered the morning-room, bowen came forward. "oh, patricia! why will you persist in being a cold douche? why this morning i absolutely scandalised peel by singing at the top of my voice whilst in my bath, and now. look at me now!" patricia looked at him, then she was forced to laugh. he presented such a woebegone appearance. "but what on earth have i to do with your singing in your bath?" she enquired. "it was _the morning post_ paragraph. i thought everything was going to be all right after last night, and now i'm a door-mat again." "who inserted that paragraph?" enquired patricia. "i rang up _the morning post_ office and they told me that it was handed in by miss brent, who is staying at the mayfair hotel." "aunt adelaide!" there was a depth of meaning in patricia's tone as she uttered the two words, then turning to bowen she enquired, "did you tell them to contradict it?" "they asked me whether it were correct," he said, refusing to meet patricia's eyes. "what did you say?" "i said it was." he looked at her quizzically, like a boy who is expecting a severe scolding. patricia had to bite her lips to prevent herself from laughing. "you told _the morning post_ people that it was correct when you knew that it was wrong?" bowen hung his head. "but it isn't wrong," he muttered. "you know very well that it is wrong and that i am not engaged to you, and that no marriage has been arranged or ever will be arranged. now i shall have to write to the editor and insist upon the statement being contradicted." "good lord! don't do that, patricia," broke in bowen. "they'll think we've all gone mad." "and for once a newspaper editor will be right," was patricia's comment. "and will you dine to-night, pat?" patricia looked up. this was the first time bowen had used the diminutive of her name. somehow it sounded very intimate. "i am afraid i have an--an----" the hesitation was her undoing. "no; don't tell me fibs, please. you will dine with me and then, afterwards, we will go on and see the mater. she is dying to know you." how boyish and lover-like bowen was in spite of his twenty-eight years, and--and--how different everything might have been if---- patricia was awakened from her thoughts by hearing bowen say: "shall i pick you up here in the car?" "no, i--i've just told you i am engaged," she said. "and i've just told you that i won't allow you to be engaged to anyone but me," was bowen's answer. "if you won't come and dine with me i'll come and play my hooter outside galvin house until they send you out to get rid of me. you know, patricia, i'm an awful fellow when i've set my mind on anything, and i'm simply determined to marry you whether you like it or not." "very well, i will dine with you to-night at half-past seven." "i'll pick you up at galvin house at a quarter-past seven with the car." "very well," said patricia wearily. it seemed ridiculous to try and fight against her fate, and at the back of her mind she had a plan of action, which she meant to put into operation. "now i must get back to my work. good-bye." bowen opened the door of the morning-room. mrs. bonsor was in the hall. patricia walked over to the library, leaving bowen in mrs. bonsor's clutches. "oh, lord peter!" mrs. bonsor gushed. "i hope you and miss brent will dine with us----" patricia shut the library door without waiting to hear bowen's reply. at five o'clock she gave up the unequal struggle with infant mortality statistics and walked listlessly across the park to galvin house. she was tired and dispirited. it was the weather, she told herself, london in june could be very trying, then there had been all that fuss over _the morning post_ announcement. at galvin house she knew the same ordeal was awaiting her that she had passed through at eaton square. mrs. craske-morton would be effusive, miss wangle would unbend, miss sikkum would simper, mr. bolton would be facetious, and all the others would be exactly what they had been all their lives, only a little more so as a result of _the morning post_ paragraph. only the fact of miss wangle taking breakfast in bed had saved patricia from the ordeal at breakfast. miss wangle was the only resident at galvin house who regularly took _the morning post_, it being "the dear bishop's favourite paper." arrived at galvin house patricia went straight to her room. dashing past gustave, who greeted her with "oh, mees!" struggling at the same time to extract from his pocket a newspaper. patricia felt that she should scream. had everyone in galvin house bought a copy of that day's _morning post_, and would they all bring it out of their pockets and point out the passage to her? she sighed wearily. suddenly she jumped up from the bed where she had thrown herself, seized her writing-case and proceeded to write feverishly. at the end of half an hour she read and addressed three letters, stamping two of them. the first was to the editor of _the morning post_, and ran:-- "dear sir, "in your issue of to-day's date you make an announcement regarding a marriage having been arranged between lord peter bowen and myself, which is entirely inaccurate. "i am given to understand that this announcement was inserted on the authority of my aunt, miss adelaide brent, and i must leave you to take what action you choose in relation to her. as for myself, i will ask you to be so kind as to insert a contradiction of the statement in your next issue. "i am, "yours faithfully, "patricia brent." patricia always prided herself on the business-like quality of her letters. the second letter was to miss brent. it ran:-- "dear aunt adelaide, "i have written to the editor of _the morning post_ informing him that he must take such action as he sees fit against you for inserting your unauthorised statement that a marriage has been arranged between lord peter bowen and me. it may interest you to know that the engagement has been broken off as a result of your impulsive and ill-advised action. personally i think you have rather presumed on being my 'sole surviving relative.' "your affectionate niece, "patricia." the third letter was to bowen. "dear lord peter, "i have written to the editor of _the morning post_, asking him to contradict the inaccurate statement published in to-day's issue. i am consumed with humiliation that such a thing should have been sent to him by a relative of mine, more particularly by a 'sole surviving relative.' my aunt unfortunately epitomises in her personality all the least desirable characteristics to be found in relatives. "i cannot tell you how sorry i am about--oh, everything! if you really want to save me from feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself you will not only forget me, but also a certain incident. "you have done me a great honour, i know, and you will add to it a great service if you will do as i ask and forget all about a folly that i have had cause bitterly to regret. "please forgive me for not dining with you to-night and for breaking my word; but i am feeling very unwell and tired and i have gone to bed. "yours sincerely, "patricia brent." patricia's plan was to post the letters to aunt adelaide and _the morning post_, and leave the other with gustave to be given to bowen when he called, she would then shut herself in her room and plead a headache as an excuse for not being disturbed. thus she would escape miss wangle and her waves of interrogation. as patricia descended the stairs, gustave was in the act of throwing open the door to lady tanagra. it was too late to retreat. "ah! there you are," exclaimed lady tanagra as she passed the respectful gustave in the hall. patricia descended the remaining stairs slowly and with dragging steps. lady tanagra looked at her sharply. "aren't we a nuisance?" cried she. "there's nothing more persistent in nature than a bowen. bruce's spider is quite a parochial affair in comparison," and she laughed lightly. patricia smiled as she welcomed lady tanagra. for a moment she hesitated at the door of the lounge, then with a sudden movement she turned towards the stairs. "come up to my room," she said, "we can talk there." there was no cordiality in her voice. lady tanagra noticed that she looked worn-out and ill. once the bedroom door was closed she turned to patricia. "my poor patricia! whatever is the matter? you look thoroughly done up. now lie down on the bed like a good girl, and i will assume my best bedside manner." patricia shook her head wearily, and indicating a chair by the window, seated herself upon the bed. "i'm afraid i am rather tired," she said. "i was just going to lock myself up for the night." "now i'm going to cheer you up," cried lady tanagra. "was there ever a more tactless way of beginning, but i've got something to tell you that is so exquisitely funny that it would cheer up an oyster, or even a radical." "first," said patricia, "i think i should like you to read these letters." slowly and wearily she ripped open the three letters and handed them to lady tanagra, who read them through slowly and deliberately. this done, she folded each carefully, returned it to its envelope and handed them to patricia. "well!" said patricia. lady tanagra smiled. reaching across to the dressing-table she took a cigarette from patricia's box and proceeded to light it. patricia watched her curiously. "i think you must have been meant for a man, tanagra," she said after a pause. "you have the gift of silence, and nothing is more provoking to a woman." "what do you want me to say?" enquired lady tanagra. "i like these cigarettes," she added. "if you are not careful, you'll make me scream in a minute," said patricia, with a smile. "i showed you those letters and now you don't even so much as say 'thank you.'" "thank you very much indeed, patricia," said lady tanagra meekly. "you don't approve of them?" there was undisguised challenge in patricia's voice. "i think the one to miss brent is admirable, specially if you will add a postscript after what i tell you." "but the other two," persisted patricia. "i do not think i am qualified to express an opinion, am i?" said lady tanagra calmly. "why not?" "well, you see, i am an interested party." "you!" cried patricia, then with a sudden change, "oh, if you are not careful i shall come over and shake you!" "i think that would be very good for both of us," was lady tanagra's reply. "tell me what you mean," persisted patricia. "well, in the first place, the one to the editor of _the morning post_ will make poor peter ridiculous, and the other will hurt his feelings, and as i am very fond of peter you cannot expect me to be enthusiastic with either of them, can you?" lady tanagra rose and going over to patricia put her arm round her and kissed her on the cheek, then patricia did a very foolish thing. without a word of warning she threw her arms around lady tanagra's neck and burst into tears. "oh, i'm so wretched, tanagra! i know i'm a beast and i want to hurt everybody and every thing. i think i should like to hurt you even," she cried, her mood of crying passing as quickly as it had come. "don't you think we had better just talk the thing out? now since you have asked my view," continued lady tanagra, "i will give it. your letter to _the morning post_ people will make poor peter the laughing-stock of london. he has many enemies among ambitious mamas. never have i known him to be attracted towards a girl until you came along. he's really paying you a very great compliment." patricia sniffed ominously. "then the letter to peter would hurt him because--you must forgive me--it is rather brutal, isn't it?" patricia nodded her head vigorously. "well," continued lady tanagra, "what do you say if we destroy them both?" "but--but--that would leave _the morning post_ announcement and p-peter----" "don't you think they might both be left, just for the moment? later you can wipe the floor with them." "but--but--you don't understand, tanagra," began patricia. "don't you think that half the troubles of the world are due to people wanting to understand?" said lady tanagra calmly. "i never want to understand. there are certain things i know and these are sufficient for me. in this case i know that i have a very good brother and he wants to marry a very good girl; but for some reason she won't have anything to do either with him or with me." she looked up into patricia's face with a smile so wholly disarming that patricia was forced to laugh. "if you knew patricia's opinion of herself," she said to lady tanagra, "you would be almost shocked." "well, now, will you do something just to please me?" insinuated lady tanagra. "you see this big brother of mine has always been more or less my adopted child, and you have it in your power to hurt him more than i want to see him hurt." there was an unusually serious note in lady tanagra's voice. "why not let things go on as they are for the present, then later the engagement can be broken off if you wish it. i'll speak to peter and see that he is not tiresome." "oh, but he's never been that!" protested patricia, then she stopped suddenly in confusion. lady tanagra smiled to herself. "well, if he's never been tiresome i'm sure you wouldn't like to hurt him, would you?" she was speaking as if to a child. "the only person i want to hurt is aunt adelaide," said patricia with a laugh. lady tanagra noticed with pleasure that the mood seemed to be dropping from her. "well, may i be the physician for to-day?" continued lady tanagra. patricia nodded her head. "very well, then, i prescribe a dinner this evening with one tanagra bowen, peter bowen and godfrey elton, on the principle of 'eat thou and drink, to-morrow thou shalt die.'" "who is godfrey elton?" asked patricia with interest. "my dear patricia, if i were to start endeavouring to describe godfrey we should be at it for hours. you can't describe godfrey, you can only absorb him. he is a sort of wise youth rapidly approaching childhood." "what on earth do you mean?" cried patricia, laughing. "you will discover for yourself later. we are all dining at the quadrant to-night at eight." "dining at the quadrant?" repeated patricia in amazement. "yes, and i have to get home to dress and you have to dress and i will pick you up in a taxi at a quarter to eight." "but--but--peter--your brother said that he was coming----" "peter has greater faith in his sister than in himself, he therefore took me into his confidence and i am his emissary." "oh, you bowens, you bowens!" moaned patricia in mock despair. "there is no avoiding us, i confess," said lady tanagra gaily. "now i must tell you about your charming aunt. she called upon mother yesterday." "what!" gasped patricia. "she called at grosvenor square and announced to poor, un-understanding mother that she thought the families ought to know one another. but she got rather badly shocked by godfrey and one of the soldier boys, whom we call 'uncle,' and left with the firm conviction that our circle is a pernicious one." "it's--it's--perfectly scandalous!" cried patricia. "no, it's not as bad as that," said lady tanagra calmly. "what?" began patricia. "oh! i mean aunt adelaide's conduct, it's humiliating, it's----" "wait until you hear," said lady tanagra with a smile. "when peter ran in to see mother, she said that she had had a call from a miss brent and could he place her. so poor old peter blurts out that he's going to marry miss brent. poor mother nearly had a fit on the spot. she was too tactful to express her disapproval; but she showed it in her amazement. the result was that peter was deeply hurt and left the room and the house. i am the only one who saw the exquisite humour of the joke. my poor darling mother had the impression that peter has gone clean off his head and wanted to marry your most excellent aunt adelaide," and lady tanagra laughed gaily. for a moment patricia gazed at her blankly, then as she visualised aunt adelaide and bowen side by side at the altar she laughed hysterically. "i kept mother in suspense for quite a long time. then i told her, and i also rang up peter and told him. and now i must fly," cried lady tanagra. "i will be here at a quarter to eight, and if you are not ready i shall be angry; but if you have locked yourself in your room i shall batter down the door. we are going to have a very happy evening and you will enjoy yourself immensely. i think it quite likely that godfrey will fall in love with you as well as peter, which will still further increase your embarrassments." then with a sudden change of mood she said, "please cheer up, patricia, happiness is not a thing to be taken lightly. you have been a little overwrought of late, and now, good-bye." "one moment, please," said patricia. "don't you understand that nothing can possibly be built up on such a foundation as--as----?" "your picking up peter in the grill-room of the quadrant," said lady tanagra calmly. patricia gasped. "oh!" she cried. "let's call things by their right names," said lady tanagra. "at the present moment you're putting up rather a big fight against your own inclination, and you are causing yourself a lot of unnecessary unhappiness. is it worth it?" she asked. "one's self-respect is always worth any sacrifice," said patricia. "except when you are in love, and then you take pride in trampling it under foot." with this oracular utterance lady tanagra departed with a bright nod, a smile and an insistence that patricia should not come downstairs. chapter xiii a tactical blunder "i often think," remarked lady tanagra as she helped herself a second time to hors d'oeuvres, "that if godfrey could only be condensed or desiccated he would save the world from ennui." elton looked up from a sardine he was filleting with great interest and care; concentration was the foundation of godfrey elton's character. "does that mean that he is a food or a stimulant?" enquired patricia, elton having returned to his sardine. lady tanagra regarded elton with thoughtful brow. "i think," she said deliberately, "i should call him a habit." "does that imply that he is a drug upon the market?" retorted patricia. bowen laughed. elton continued to fillet his sardine. "you see," continued lady tanagra, "godfrey has two qualities that to a woman are maddening. the first is the gift of silence, and the second is a perfect genius for making everyone else feel that they are in the wrong. some day he'll fall in love, and then something will snap and--well, he will give up dissecting sardines as if they were the one thing in life worthy of a man's attention." elton looked up again straight into lady tanagra's eyes and smiled. "look at him now!" continued lady tanagra, "that very smile makes me feel like a naughty child." the four were dining in bowen's sitting-room at the quadrant, lady tanagra having decided that this would be more pleasant than in the public dining-room. "can you," continued lady tanagra, who was in a wilful mood, "can you imagine godfrey in love? i don't think any man ought to be allowed to fall in love until he has undergone an examination as to whether or no he can say the right thing the right way. no, it takes an irishman to make love." "but an irishman says what he cannot possibly mean," said patricia, with the air of one of vast experience in such matters. "and many englishmen mean what they cannot possibly say," said elton, looking at lady tanagra. "oh," cried lady tanagra, clapping her hands. "you have drawn him, patricia. now he will talk to us instead of concentrating himself upon his food. ah!" she exclaimed suddenly, turning to elton. "i promised that you should fall in love with patricia, godfrey." "now that tanagra has come down to probabilities the atmosphere should lighten," elton remarked. "isn't that godfrey all over?" demanded lady tanagra of bowen. "he will snub one woman and compliment another in a breath. patricia," she continued, "i warn you against godfrey. he is highly dangerous. he should always be preceded by a man with a red flag." "but why?" asked bowen. "because of his reticence. a man has no right t to be reticent; it piques a woman's curiosity, and with us curiosity is the first step to surrender." "why hesitate at the first step?" asked elton. "think of it, patricia," continued lady tanagra, ignoring elton's remark. "although godfrey has seen _the morning post_ he has not yet congratulated peter." "i did not know then that i had cause to congratulate him," said elton quietly. "what mental balance!" cried lady tanagra. "i'm sure he reads the deaths immediately after the births, and the divorces just after the marriages so as to preserve his sense of proportion." elton looked first at lady tanagra and then on to patricia, and smiled. "can you not see godfrey choosing a wife?" demanded lady tanagra, laughing. "weighing the shape of her head with the size of her ankles, he's very fussy about ankles. he would dissect her as he would a sardine, demanding perfection, mental, moral, and physical, and in return he could give _himself_." lady tanagra emphasized the last word. "most men take less time to choose a wife than they would a trousering," said elton quietly. "i think mr. elton is right," said patricia. "then you don't believe in love at first sight," said bowen to patricia. "miss brent did not say that," interposed elton. "she merely implied that a man who falls in love at first sight should choose trouserings at first sight. is that not so?" he looked across at patricia. patricia nodded. "an impetuous man will be impetuous in all things," said bowen. "he who hesitates may lose a wife," said lady tanagra, "and----" "and by analogy, go without trousers," said elton quietly. "that might explain a greek; but scarcely a scotsman," said patricia. "no one has ever been able to explain a scotsman," said elton. "we content ourselves with misunderstanding him." "we were talking about love," broke in lady tanagra, "and i will not have the conversation diverted." turning to patricia she demanded, "can you imagine godfrey in love?" "i think so," said patricia quietly, looking across at elton. "only----" "only what?" cried lady tanagra with excited interest. "oh, please, patricia, explain godfrey to me! no one has ever done so." "don't you think he is a little like the scotsman we were talking about just now?" said patricia. "difficult to explain; but easy to misunderstand." "oh, peter, peter!" wailed lady tanagra, looking across at bowen. "she's caught it." "caught what?" asked bowen in surprise. "the vagueness of generalities that is godfrey," replied lady tanagra. "now, patricia, you must explain that 'only' at which you broke off. you say you can imagine godfrey in love, only----" "i think he would place it on the same plane as honour and sportsmanship, probably a little above both." elton looked up from the bread he was crumbling, and gave patricia a quick penetrating glance, beneath which her eyes fell. lady tanagra looked at patricia in surprise, but said nothing. "can you imagine tan in love, patricia?" enquired bowen. "we bowens are notoriously backward in matters of the heart," he added. "i shall fall in love when the man comes along who--who----" lady tanagra paused. "will compel you," said patricia, concluding the sentence. again elton looked quickly across at her. "what do you mean?" demanded lady tanagra. "i think," said patricia deliberately, "that you are too primitive to fall in love. you would have to be stormed, carried away by force, and wooed afterwards." "it doesn't sound very respectable, does it?" said lady tanagra thoughtfully, then turning to bowen she demanded, "peter, would you allow me to be carried away by force, stormed, and wooed afterwards?" "i think, tanagra, you sometimes forget that your atmosphere is too exotic for most men," said elton. "godfrey," said lady tanagra reproachfully, "i have had quite a lot of proposals, and i won't be denied my successes." "we were talking about love, not offers of marriage," said elton with a smile. "cynic," cried lady tanagra. "you imply that the men who have proposed to me wanted my money and not myself." "suppose, tanagra, there were a right man," said patricia, "and he was poor and honourable. what then?" "i suppose i should have to ask him to marry me," said lady tanagra dubiously. "but, tan, we've just decided," said bowen, "that you have to be carried away by force, and cannot love until force has been applied." "i think i've had enough of this conversation," said lady tanagra. "you're trying to prove that i'm either going to lose my reputation, or die an old maid, and i'm not so sure that you're wrong, about the old maid, i mean," she added. "i shall depend upon you, godfrey, then," she said, turning to elton, "and we will hobble about the park together on sunday mornings, comparing notes upon rheumatism and gout. ugh!" she looked deliberately round the table, from one to the other. "has it ever struck you what we shall look like when we grow very old?" she asked. "no one need ever grow old," said patricia. "how can you prevent it?" asked bowen. "there is morphia and the fountain of eternal youth," suggested elton. "please don't let's be clever any more," said lady tanagra. "it's affecting my brain. now we will play bridge for a little while and then all go home and get to bed early." in spite of her protests bowen insisted on seeing patricia to galvin house. for some time they did not speak. as the taxi turned into oxford street bowen broke the silence. "patricia, my mother wants to know you," he said simply. patricia shivered. the words came as a shock. they recalled the incident of her meeting with bowen. she seemed to see a grey-haired lady with bowen's eyes and quiet manner, too well-bred to show the disapproval she felt on hearing the story of her son's first meeting with his fiancé. she shuddered again. "are you cold?" bowen enquired solicitously, leaning forward to close the window nearest to him. "no, i was thinking what lady meyfield will think when she hears how you made the acquaintance of--of--me," she finished lamely. "there is no reason why she should know," said bowen. "do you think i would marry----?" patricia broke off suddenly in confusion. "but why----?" began bowen. "if ever i meet lady meyfield i shall tell her exactly how i--i--met you," said patricia with decision. "well, tell her then," said bowen good-humouredly. "she has a real sense of humour." the moment bowen had uttered the words he saw his mistake. patricia drew herself up coldly. "it was rather funny, wasn't it?" she said evenly; "but mothers do not encourage their sons to develop such acquaintances. now shall we talk about something else?" "but my mother wants to meet you," protested bowen. "she----" "tell her the story of our acquaintance," replied patricia coldly. "i think that will effectually overcome her wish to know me. ah! here we are," she concluded as the taxi drew up at galvin house. with a short "good night!" patricia walked up the steps, leaving bowen conscious that he had once more said the wrong thing. that night, as patricia prepared for bed, she mentally contrasted the bowens' social sphere with that of galvin house and she shuddered for the third time that evening. "patricia brent," she apostrophised her reflection in the mirror. "you're a fool! and you have not even the saving grace of being an old fool. high society has turned your giddy young head," and with a laugh that sounded hard even to her own ears, she got into bed and switched off the light. chapter xiv galvin house meets a lord the effect of _the morning post_ announcement upon galvin house had been little short of sensational. although all were aware of the engagement, to see the announcement in print seemed to arouse them to a point of enthusiasm. everyone from the servants upwards possessed a copy of _the morning post_, with the single exception of mrs. barnes, who had mislaid hers and made everybody's life a misery by insisting on examining their copy to make quite sure that they had not taken hers by mistake. had not patricia been so preoccupied, she could not have failed to notice the atmosphere of suppressed excitement at galvin house. many glances were directed at her, glances of superior knowledge, of which she was entirely unconscious. woman-like she never paused to ask herself what she really felt or what she really meant. her thoughts ran in a circle, coming back inevitably to the maddening question, "what does he really think of me?" why had fate been so unkind as to undermine a possible friendship with that damning introduction? after all, she would ask herself indifferently, what did it matter? bowen was nothing to her. then back again her thoughts would rush to the inevitable question, what did he really think? since the night of her adventure, patricia had formed the habit of dressing for dinner. she made neither excuse nor explanation to herself as to why she did so. miss wangle and mrs. mosscrop-smythe, however, had covertly remarked upon the fact; but patricia had ignored them. she had reached that state in her psychological development when she neither explained nor denied things. with delicacy and insight providence has withheld from woman the uncomfortable quality of introspection. had patricia subjected her actions to the rigid test of reason, she would have found them strangely at variance with her determination. with a perversity characteristic of her sex, she forbade bowen to see her, and then spent hours in speculating as to when and how he would disobey her. a parcel in the hall at galvin house sent the colour flooding to her cheeks, whilst gustave, entering the lounge, bearing his flamboyant nickle-plated apology for the conventional silver salver, set her heart thumping with expectation. as the day on which bowen was to dine at galvin house drew near, the excitement became intense, developing into a panic when the day itself dawned. all were wondering how this or that garment would turn out when actually worn, and those who were not in difficulties with their clothes were troubled about their manners. at galvin house manners were things that were worn, like a gardenia or a patent hook-and-eye. patricia had once explained to an uncomprehending aunt adelaide that galvin house had more manners than breeding. on the friday evening when patricia returned to galvin house, gustave was in the hall. "oh, mees!" he involuntarily exclaimed. patricia waited for more; but after a moment of hesitation, gustave disappeared along the hall as if there were nothing strange in his conduct, leaving patricia staring after him in surprise. at that moment mrs. craske-morton bustled out of the lounge, full of an unwonted importance. "oh, miss brent!" she exclaimed. "i am so glad you've come. i have a few friends coming to dinner this evening and we are dressing." without waiting for a reply mrs. craske-morton turned and disappeared along the passage leading to the servants' regions. at that moment mr. bolton appeared at the top of the stairs in his shirt sleeves; but at the sight of patricia he turned and bolted precipitately out of sight. patricia walked slowly upstairs and along the corridor to her room, unconscious that each door she passed was closed upon a tragedy. in one room mrs. barnes sat on her bed in an agony of indecision and a camisole, wondering how the seams of her only evening frock could be made black with the blue-black ink that had been given her at the stationer's shop in error. mr. james harris, a little bearded man with long legs and a short body, stood in front of his glass, frankly baffled by the problem of how to keep the top of his trousers from showing above the opening of his low-cut evening waistcoat, an abandoned garment that seemed determined to show all that it was supposed to hide. miss sikkum was engaged in a losing game with delicacy. on her lap lay the brixton "paris model blouse," which she had adorned with narrow black velvet ribbon. should she or should she not enlarge the surface of exposure? if she did miss wangle might think her fast; if she did not lord peter might think her suburban. mr. sefton was at work upon his back hair, striving to remove from his reflection in the glass a likeness to a sandy cockatoo. mr. cordal was vainly struggling with a voluminous starched shirt, which as he bent seemed determined to give him the appearance of a pouter pigeon. to each his tragedy and to all their anguish. even miss wangle had her problem. should she or should she not remove the lace from the modest v in her black silk evening gown. the thought of the bishop, however, proved too much for her, and her collar-bones continued to remain a mystery to galvin house. the dinner-gong found everyone anxious and unprepared. all had a vision of bowen sitting in judgment upon them and mentally comparing galvin house with park lane; for in bayswater park lane is the pinnacle of culture and social splendour. a few minutes after the last strain of the gong, sounded by gustave in a manner worthy of the occasion, had subsided, miss sikkum crept out from her room feeling very "undressed." the sight of mr. sefton nearly drove her back precipitately to the maiden fastness of her chamber. "was she really too undressed?" she asked herself. slowly the guests descended, each anxious to cede to others the pride of place, all absorbed with his or her particular tragedy. by the aid of pins mr. cordal had overcome his likeness to a pigeon, but he had not allowed for movement, which tore the pins from their hold, allowing his shirt-front to balloon out joyfully before him, for the rest of the evening obscuring his boots. miss wangle looked at miss sikkum and mentally thanked heaven and the bishop that she had restrained her abandoned impulse to remove the black lace from her own neck. mr. bolton's attention was concentrated upon the centre stud of his shirt. the button-hole was too large, and the head of the stud insisted on disappearing in a most coquettish and embarrassing manner. mr. bolton was not sure that bowen would approve of blue underwear, and consequently kept a finger and thumb upon his stud for the greater part of the evening. as each entered the lounge, it was with a hurried glance round to see if the guest of the evening had arrived, followed by a sigh of relief on discovering that he had not. mrs. craske-morton had taken the precaution of deferring the dinner until eight o'clock. she wished bowen's entry to be dramatic. mrs. craske-morton had asked a few friends of her own to meet her distinguished guest; a miss plimsoll, who was composed in claret colour and royal blue trimming, and mr. and mrs. samuel ragbone. mrs. ragbone was a stout, jolly woman with a pronounced cockney accent. mr. ragbone was a man whose eyebrows seemed to rise higher with each year, and whose manner of patient suffering became more pathetically unreal with the passage of each season. mrs. craske-morton always explained him as a solicitor. morton, gofrim and bowett, of lincoln's inn, knew him as their chief clerk. the atmosphere of the lounge was one of nervous tension. all were listening for the bell which would announce the arrival of bowen. when at last he came, everybody was taken by surprise, mr. bolton's stud eluded his grasp, mr. sefton felt his back hair, whilst miss sikkum blushed rosily at her own daring. a dead silence spread over the company, broken by gustave, who, throwing open the door with a flourish, announced "lieutenant-colonel lord peter bowen, d.s.o." bowen gave him a quick glance with widened eyes, then coming forward, shook hands with mrs. craske-morton. miss sikkum was disappointed to find that he was in khaki. she had a vague idea that the nobility adopted different evening clothes from the ordinary rank and file. it would have pleased her to see bowen with velvet stripes down his trousers, a velvet collar and velvet cuffs. a coloured silk waistcoat would have convinced her. mrs. craske-morton was determined to do her work thoroughly. she had taken the precaution of telling patricia that dinner would not be served until a few minutes after eight, that would give her time to introduce bowen to all the guests. she proceeded to conduct him round to everyone in turn. in her flurry she quite forgot the careful schooling to which she had subjected herself for a week past, and she introduced miss wangle to bowen. "lord peter, allow me to introduce miss wangle. miss wangle, lord peter bowen," and this was the form adopted with the rest of the company. bowen's sixth bow had just been interrupted by mr. cordal grasping him warmly by the hand, when patricia entered. for a moment she looked about her regarding the strange toilettes, then she saw bowen. she felt herself crimsoning as he slipped away from mr. cordal's grasp and came across to her. all the guests hung back as if this were the meeting between wellington and blücher. "i've done six, there are about twenty more to do. if you save me, patricia, i'll forgive you anything after we're married." patricia shook hands sedately. mrs. craske-morton bustled up to re-claim bowen. "a little surprise, miss brent; i hope you will forgive me." patricia smiled at her in anything but a forgiving spirit. "and now, lord peter, i want to introduce you to----" "deenair is served, madame." gustave was certainly doing the thing in style. at a sign from mrs. craske-morton, miss wangle secured mr. samuel ragbone and they started for the dining-room. the remainder of the guests paired off in accordance with mrs. craske-morton's instructions, written and verbal, she left nothing to chance, and the procession was brought up by mrs. craske-morton herself and bowen. patricia fell to the lot of mr. sefton. as soon as the guests were seated a death-like stillness reigned. bowen was looking round with interest as he unfolded his napkin into which had been deftly inserted a roll. miss sikkum, mrs. mosscrop-smythe and mr. bolton each lost their rolls, which were retrieved from underneath the table by gustave and alice. mr. sefton, also unconscious of the secreted roll, opened his napkin with a debonair jerk to show that he was quite at his ease. the bread rose in the air. he made an unsuccessful clutch, touched but could not hold it, and watched with horror the errant roll hit miss wangle playfully on the side of the nose, just as she was beginning to tell bowen about "the dear bishop." patricia bit her lip, bowen bent solicitously over the angry miss wangle, whilst mr. bolton threatened to report mr. sefton to the food controller. gustave created a diversion by arriving with the soup. his white cotton gloves, several sizes too large even for his hands, caused him great anxiety. every spare moment during the evening he spent in clutching them at the wrists, just as they were on the point of slipping off. nothing, however, could daunt his courage or mitigate his good-humour. for the first time in his life he was waiting upon a real lord, and from the circumstance he was extracting every ounce of satisfaction it possessed. in serving bowen his attitude was that of one self-convicted of unworthiness. accustomed to the complaints and bickerings of a bayswater boarding-house, bowen's matter-of-fact motions of acceptance or refusal impressed him profoundly. so this was how lords behaved. nothing so impressed him as the little incident of the champagne. at galvin house it was the custom for the guests to have their own drinks. mr. cordal, for instance, drank what the label on the bottle announced to be "gumton's superior light dinner ale." mrs. mosscrop-smythe favoured guinness's stout, miss sikkum took hot water, whilst miss wangle satisfied herself with a claret bottle. there is refinement in claret, the dear bishop always drank it, with water: but as claret costs money miss wangle made a bottle last for months. the thought of the usual heterogeneous collection of bottles on the occasion of lord peter's visit had filled mrs. craske-morton with horror, and she had decided to "spring" wine, as mr. bolton put it. in other words, she supplied for the whole company four bottles of one-and-eightpenny claret, the bottles rendered beautifully old by applied dust and cobwebs. to this she had added a bottle of grocer's champagne for bowen. gustave had been elaborately instructed that this was for the principal guest and the principal guest only, and mrs. craske-morton had managed to convey to him in some subtle way that if he poured so much as a drop of the precious fluid into any other person's glass, the consequences would be too terrifying even to contemplate. whilst galvin house was murmuring softly over its soup, gustave approached bowen with the champagne bottle swathed in a white napkin, and looking suspiciously like an infant in long clothes. holding the end of the bottle's robes with the left hand so that it should not tickle bowen's ear, gustave bent anxiously to his task. bowen, however, threw a bomb-shell at the earnest servitor. he motioned that he did not desire champagne. gustave hesitated and looked enquiringly at his mistress. here was an unlooked-for development. "you'll take champagne?" enquired mrs. craske-morton ingratiatingly. gustave breathed again, and whilst bowen's attention was distracted in explaining to mrs. craske-morton that he preferred water, he had a delicate taste in wine, gustave filled the glass happily. of course, it was all right, he told himself, the lord merely wanted to be pressed. if he had really meant "no," he would have put his hand over his glass, as miss sikkum always did when she refused some of mr. cordal's "light dinner ale." gustave retired victorious with the champagne bottle, which he placed upon the sideboard. at every interval in his manifold duties, gustave returned with the white-clothed bottle, and strove to squeeze a few more drops into bowen's untouched glass. the terrifying constraint with which the meal had opened gradually wore off as the wine circulated. following the path of least resistance, it mounted to mrs. mosscrop-smythe's head; but with miss sikkum it seemed to stop short at her nose. mr. cordal's shirt-front announced that he had temporarily given up gumton in favour of the red, red wine of the smoking-concert baritone. mrs. barnes seemed on the point of tears, whilst mr. sefton's attentions to patricia were a direct challenge to bowen. conversation at galvin house was usually general; but it now became particular. every remark was directed either to or at bowen, and each guest strove to hear what he said. those who were fortunate enough to catch his replies told those who were not. a smile or a laugh from anyone who might be in conversation with bowen rippled down the table. mr. cordal was less intent upon his food, and his inaccuracy of aim became more than ever noticeable. "oh, lord bowen!" simpered miss sikkum, "do tell us where you got the d.s.o." bowen screwed his glass into his eye and looked across at miss sikkum, at the redness of her nose and the artificial rose in her hair. everyone was waiting anxiously for bowen's reply. mr. cordal grunted approval. "at buckingham palace," said bowen, "from the king. they give you special leave, you know." patricia looked across at him and smiled. what was he thinking of galvin house refinement? what did he think of her for being there? well, he had brought it on himself and he deserved his punishment. at first patricia had been amused: but as the meal dragged wearily on, amusement developed into torture. would it never end? she glanced from miss wangle, all graciousness and smiles, to mrs. mosscrop-smythe, in her faded blue evening-frock, on to miss sikkum bare and abandoned. she heard mr. sefton's chatter, mr. bolton's laugh, mr. cordal's jaws and lips. she shuddered. why did not she accept the opening of escape that now presented itself and marry bowen? he could rescue her from all this and what it meant. "and shall we all be asked to the wedding, lord bowen?" it was again miss sikkum's thin voice that broke through the curtain of patricia's thoughts. "i hope all miss brent's friends will be there," replied bowen diplomatically. "and now we shall all have to fetch and carry for miss brent," laughed mr. bolton. "am i your friend, miss brent?" he enquired. "she always laughs at your jokes when nobody else can," snapped miss pilkington. everybody turned to the speaker, who during the whole meal had silently nursed her resentment at having been placed at the bottom of the table. mr. bolton looked crestfallen. bowen looked across at patricia and saw her smile sympathetically at mr. bolton. "i think from what i have heard, mr. bolton," he said, "that you may regard yourself as one of the elect." patricia flashed bowen a grateful look. mr. bolton beamed and, turning to miss pilkington, said with his usual introductory laugh: "then i shall return good for evil, miss pilkington, and persuade lady peter to buy her stamps at your place." miss pilkington flushed at this reference to her calling, a particularly threadbare joke of mr. bolton's. "when is it to be, lord peter?" enquired mrs. craske-morton. miss sikkum looked down modestly at her plate, not quite certain whether or no this were a delicate question. "that rests with miss brent," replied bowen, smiling. "if you, her friends, can persuade her to make it soon, i shall be very grateful." miss sikkum simpered and murmured under her breath, "how romantic." "now, miss brent," said mr. bolton, "it's up to you to name the happy day." patricia smiled, conscious that all eyes were upon her; but particularly conscious of bowen's gaze. "i believe in long engagements," she said, stealing a glance at bowen and thrilling at the look of disappointment on his face. "didn't jacob serve seven years for rachel?" "yes, and got the wrong girl then," broke in mr. bolton. "you'll have to be careful, miss brent, or miss sikkum will get ahead of you." "really, mr. bolton!" said mrs. craske-morton, looking anxiously at bowen. miss sikkum's cheeks had assumed the same tint as her nose, and her eyes were riveted upon her plate. miss pilkington muttered something under her breath about mr. bolton's remark being outrageous. "i think we'll take coffee in the lounge," said mrs. craske-morton, rising. turning to bowen, she added, "we follow the american custom, lord peter, the gentlemen always leave the dining-room with the ladies." there was a pushing back of chairs and a shuffling of feet and galvin house rose from its repast. "coffee will not be served for half an hour, and if you and miss brent would like to--to----" mrs. craske-morton paused significantly. "my boudoir is at your service." bowen looked at her and then at patricia. he saw the flush on her cheeks and the humiliation in her eyes. "i think we should much prefer not to interrupt our pleasant conversation. what do you say, patricia?" he enquired, turning to patricia, who smiled her acquiescence. they all trooped into the lounge, where everybody except patricia, bowen and mrs. craske-morton stood about in awkward poses. the arrival of gustave with coffee relieved the tension. for the next hour each guest endeavoured to attract to himself or herself bowen's attention, and each was disappointed when at length he rose to go and shook hands only with mrs. craske-morton, including the others in a comprehensive bow. still more were they disappointed and surprised when patricia did not go out into the hall to see him off. "oh, miss brent!" simpered miss sikkum, "aren't you going to say good night to him?" "good night!" interrogated patricia, "but i did." "yes; but i mean----" began miss sikkum. "oh, you know," she said with a simper, but patricia had passed over to a chair, where she seated herself and began to read a newspaper upside down. miss sikkum's romantic soul had received a shock. chapter xv mr. triggs takes tea in kensington gardens i "well, me dear, 'ow goes it?" mr. triggs flooded the room with his genial person, mopping his brow with a large bandana handkerchief, and blowing a cheerful protest against the excessive heat. patricia looked up from her work and greeted him with a tired smile, as he collapsed heavily upon a chair, which creaked ominously beneath his weight. "when you're sixty-two in the shade it ain't like being twenty-five in the sun," he said, laughing happily at his joke. "now you must sit quiet and be good," admonished patricia. "i'm busy with beetles." "busy with what?" demanded mr. triggs arresting the process of fanning himself with his handkerchief. "the potato-beetle," explained patricia. "there is no lack of variety in the life of an m.p.'s secretary: babies and beetles, pigs and potatoes, meat and margarine, they all have their allotted place." "arthur works you too 'ard, me dear, i'm afraid," said mr. triggs. "i must speak to 'im about it." "oh, mr. triggs! you mustn't do anything of the sort. he's most kind and considerate, and if i am here i must do what he wants." "but beetles and babies and potatoes, me dear," said mr. triggs. "that's more than a joke." "oh! you don't know what a joke a beetle can be," said patricia, looking up and laughing in spite of herself at the expression of anxiety on mr. triggs's face. mr. triggs mumbled something to himself. "god bless my soul!" he exclaimed a moment after. "'ere am i, forgetting what i come about. i've seen _the morning post_, me dear." patricia pushed back her chair from the table and turned and faced mr. triggs. "mr. triggs," she said, "if you mention the words _morning post_ to me again i think i shall kill you." mr. triggs's hands dropped to his side as he gazed at her in blank astonishment. "but, me dear----" he began. "the engagement has been broken off," announced patricia. mr. triggs's jaw dropped, and he gazed at patricia in amazement. "broken off," he repeated. "engagement broken off. why, damn 'im, i'll punch 'is 'ead," and he made an effort to rise. patricia laughed, a little hysterically. "you mustn't blame lord peter," she said. "it is i who have broken it off." mr. triggs collapsed into the chair again. "you broke it off," he exclaimed. "you broke off the engagement with a nice young chap like 'im?" patricia nodded. "well, i'm blowed!" mr. triggs sat staring at patricia as if she had suddenly become transformed into a dodo. after nearly a minute's contemplation of patricia, a smile slowly spread itself over his features, like the sun breaking through a heavy cloud-laden sky. "you been 'avin' a quarrel, that's what's the matter," he announced with a profound air of wisdom. patricia shook her head with an air of finality; but mr. triggs continued to nod his head wisely. "that's what's the matter," he muttered. "why," he added, "you'll never get another young chap like 'im. took a great fancy to 'im, i did. now all you've got to do is just to kiss and make it up. then you'll feel 'appier than ever afterwards." patricia realised the impossibility of conveying to mr. triggs that her decision was irrevocable. furthermore she was anxious that he should go, as she had promised to get out certain statistics for mr. bonsor. "now you really must go, mr. triggs. you won't think me horrid, will you, but i had a half-holiday the other day, and now i must work and make up for it. that's only fair, isn't it?" "very well, me dear, i can't stay. i'll be off and get out of your way. now don't forget. make it up, kiss and be friends. that's my motto." "it isn't a quarrel, mr. triggs; but it's no use trying to explain to anyone so sweet and nice as you. anyhow, i have broken off the engagement, and lord peter is in no way to blame." "well, good-bye, me dear. i'll see you again soon," said mr. triggs, still nodding his head with genial conviction as to the rightness of his diagnosis. "and now i'll be trottin'. don't forget," and with a final look over his shoulder and another nod of wisdom he floated out of the room, seeming to leave it cold and bare behind him. "well, i'm blowed!" he muttered as he walked away from eaton square. arrived at the corner of eaton place, he stood still as if uncertain what direction to take. seeing a crawling taxi he suddenly seemed inspired with an idea. "hi! hi! taxi!" he shouted, waving his umbrella. having secured the taxi and given the man instructions to drive to the quadrant, he hauled himself in and sat down with a sigh of satisfaction. it was a few minutes to one as he asked for lord peter bowen at the enquiry-office of the quadrant. two minutes later peel descended in the lift to inform him that his lordship had not yet returned to lunch. was mr. triggs expected? "well, no," confessed mr. triggs, looking at peel a little uncertainly. "'e wasn't expecting me; but 'e asked me the other night if i'd call in when i was passing, and as i was passing i called in, see?" for a moment peel seemed to hesitate. "his lordship has a luncheon engagement, sir," he said; "but he could no doubt see you for two or three minutes if he asked you to call. perhaps you will step this way." before mr. triggs had a chance of doing as was suggested, peel had turned aside. "no, my lady, his lordship is not in yet; but he will not be more than a minute or two. this gentleman," he looked at the card, "mr. triggs, is----" "oh, mr. triggs, how do you do?" cried lady tanagra, extending her hand. mr. triggs looked at the exquisite little vision before him in surprise and admiration. he took the proffered hand as if it had been a piece of priceless porcelain. "i'm lord peter's sister, you know. i've heard all about you from patricia. do come up and let us have a chat before my brother comes." mr. triggs followed lady tanagra into the lift, too surprised and bewildered to make any response to her greeting. as the lift slid upwards he mopped his brow vigorously with his handkerchief. when they were seated in bowen's sitting-room he at last found voice. "i just been to see 'er," he said. "who, patricia?" asked lady tanagra. mr. triggs nodded, and there was a look in his eyes which implied that he was not at all satisfied with what he had seen. "quarrelled, 'aven't they?"' he asked. "well," began lady tanagra, not quite knowing how much mr. triggs actually knew of the circumstances of the case. "said she'd broken it off. i gave her a talking to, i did. she'll never get another young chap like 'im." "did you tell her so?" asked lady tanagra. "tell her so, i should think i did!" said mr. triggs, "and more than once too." "oh, you foolish, foolish man!" cried lady tanagra, wringing her hands in mock despair. a moment afterwards she burst out laughing at the comical look of dismay on mr. triggs's face. "what 'ave i done?" he cried in genuine alarm. "why, don't you see that you have implied that all the luck is on her side, and that will make her simply furious?" "but--but----" began mr. triggs helplessly, looking very much like a scolded child. "now sit down," ordered lady tanagra with an irresistible smile, "and i'll tell you. my brother wants to marry patricia, and patricia, for some reason best known to herself, says that it can't be done. now i'm sure that she is fond of peter; but he has been so impetuous that he has rather taken her breath away. i've never known him like it before," said lady tanagra plaintively. "but 'e's an awfully lucky fellow if 'e gets 'er," broke in mr. triggs, as if feeling that something were required of him. "why, of course he is," said lady tanagra. "now will you help us, mr. triggs?" lady tanagra looked at him with an expression that would have extracted a promise of help from st. anthony himself. "of course i will, me dear. i--i beg your pardon," stuttered mr. triggs. "never mind, let it stand at that," said lady tanagra gaily. "i'm sure we're going to be friends, mr. triggs." "knew it the moment i set eyes on you," said mr. triggs with conviction. "well, we've got to arrange this affair for these young people," said lady tanagra with a wise air. "first of all we've got to prove to patricia that she is really in love with peter. if she's not in love with him, then we've got to make her in love with him. do you understand?" mr. triggs nodded his head with an air that clearly said he was far from understanding. "well, now," said lady tanagra. "patricia knows only three people that know peter. there is you, godfrey elton, and myself. now if she's in love with him she will want to hear about him, and----" "but ain't she going to see 'im?" demanded mr. triggs incredulously. "no, she says that she doesn't want peter ever to see her, write to her, telephone to her, or, as far as i can see, exist on the same planet with her." "but--but----" began mr. triggs. "it's no good reasoning with a woman, mr. triggs, we women are all as unreasonable as the income tax. now if you'll do as you are told we will prove that patricia is wrong." "very well, me dear," began mr. triggs. "now this is my plan," interrupted lady tanagra. "if patricia really cares for peter she will want to hear about him from friends. she will, very cleverly, as she thinks, lead up the conversation to him when she meets you, or when she meets godfrey elton, or when she meets me. now what we have to do is just as carefully to avoid talking about him. turn the conversation on to some other topic. now we've all got to plot and scheme and plan like--like----" "germans," interrupted mr. triggs. "splendid!" cried lady tanagra, clapping her hands. "but why has she changed her mind?" asked mr. triggs. "you must never ask a woman why she changes her frock, or why she changes her mind, because she never really knows," said lady tanagra. "probably she does it because she hasn't got anything else particular to do at the moment. ah! here's peter," she cried. bowen came forward and shook hands cordially with mr. triggs. "this is splendid of you!" he said. "you'll lunch with us, of course." "oh no, no," said mr. triggs. "i just ran in to--to----" "to get to know me," said lady tanagra with a smile. "of course! that's it," cried mr. triggs, beaming. "i can't stop to lunch though, i'm afraid. i must be going to----" "have you got a luncheon engagement?" asked lady tanagra. "er--well, yes." "please don't tell fibs, mr. triggs. you're not engaged to lunch with anybody, and you're going to lunch with us, so that's settled." "why, bless my soul!" blew mr. triggs helplessly as he mopped his head with his handkerchief. "why, bless my soul!" "it's no good, mr. triggs. when tanagra wants anything she has it," said bowen with a laugh. "it doesn't matter whether it's the largest pear or the nicest man!" lady tanagra laughed. "now we'll go down into the dining-room." for an hour and a half they talked of patricia, and at the end of the meal both lady tanagra and bowen knew that they had a firm ally in mr. triggs. "don't forget, mr. triggs," cried lady tanagra as she bade him good-bye in the vestibule. "you're a match-maker now, and you must be very careful." and mr. triggs lifted his hat and waved his umbrella as, wreathed in smiles, he trotted towards the revolving doors and out into the street. after he had gone lady tanagra extracted from bowen a grudging promise of implicit obedience. he must not see, telephone, write or telegraph to patricia. he was to eliminate himself altogether. "but for how long, tan?" he enquired moodily. "it may be for years and it may be for ever," cried lady tanagra gaily as she buttoned her gloves. "anyhow, it's your only chance." "damn!" muttered bowen under his breath as he watched her disappear; "but i'll give it a trial." ii the next afternoon as patricia walked down the steps of number eaton square and turned to the left, she was conscious that in spite of the summer sunshine the world was very grey about her. she had not gone a hundred yards before lady tanagra's grey car slid up beside her. "will you take pity on me, patricia? i'm at a loose end," cried lady tanagra. patricia turned with a little cry of pleasure. "jump in," cried lady tanagra. "it's no good refusing a bowen. our epidermises are too thick, or should it be epidermi?" patricia shook her head and laughed as she seated herself beside lady tanagra. the car crooned its way up sloane street and across into knightsbridge, lady tanagra intent upon her driving. "is it indiscreet to ask where you are taking me?" enquired patricia with elaborate humility. lady tanagra laughed as she jammed on the brake to avoid running into the stern of a motor-omnibus. "i feel like a pirate to-day. i want to run away with someone, or do something desperate. have you ever felt like that?" "a politician's secretary must not encourage such unrespectable instincts," she replied. lady tanagra looked at her quickly, noting the flatness of her voice. "a wise hen should never brood upon being a hen," she remarked oracularly. patricia laughed. "it is all very well for dives to tell lazarus that it is noble to withstand the pangs of hunger," she replied. "now let us go and get tea," said lady tanagra, as she turned the car into the road running between kensington gardens and hyde park. "tea!" cried patricia, "why it's past five." "tea is a panacea for all ills and a liquid for all hours. you have only to visit a government department for proof of that," said lady tanagra, as she descended from the car and walked towards the umbrella-sheltered tea-tables dotted about beneath the trees. "and now i want to have a talk with you for a few minutes," she said as they seated themselves at an empty table. "i feel in the mood for listening," said patricia, "provided it is not to be good advice," she added. "i've been having a serious talk with peter," said lady tanagra. patricia looked up at her. overhead white, fleecy clouds played a game of hide-and-seek with the sunshine. the trees rustled languidly in the breeze, and in the distance a peacock screamed ominously. "i have told him," continued lady tanagra, "that i will not have you worried, and he has promised me not to see you, write to you, telephone to you, send you messenger-boys, chocolates, flowers or anything else in the world, in fact he's out of your way for ever and ever." patricia looked across at lady tanagra in surprise, but said nothing. "i told him," continued lady tanagra evenly, "that i would not have my friendship with you spoiled through his impetuous blundering. i think i told him he was suburban. in fact i quite bullied the poor boy. so now," she added with the air of one who has earned a lifelong debt of gratitude, "you will be able to go your way without fear of the ubiquitous peter." still patricia said nothing as she sat looking down upon the empty plate before her. "now we will forget all about peter and talk and think of other things. ah! here he is," she cried suddenly. patricia looked round quickly; but at the sight of godfrey elton she was conscious of a feeling of disappointment that she would not, however, admit. her greeting of elton was a trifle forced. patricia was never frank with herself. if it had been suggested that for a moment she hoped that lady tanagra's remark referred to bowen, she would instantly have denied it. "no, godfrey, don't look at me like that," cried lady tanagra. "i am not so gauche as to arrange a parti-à-trois. i've got someone very nice coming for patricia." again patricia felt herself thrill expectantly. five minutes later mr. triggs was seen sailing along among the tables as if in search of someone. again patricia felt that sense of disappointment she had experienced on the arrival of godfrey elton. suddenly mr. triggs saw the party and streamed towards them, waving his red silk handkerchief in one hand and his umbrella in the other. "he has found something better than the fountain of eternal youth," said elton to patricia. "whatever it is he is unconscious of possessing it," replied patricia as she turned to greet mr. triggs. "i'm late, i know," explained mr. triggs as he shook hands. "i 'ad to run in and see 'ettie and tell 'er i was coming. it surprised 'er," and mr. triggs chuckled as if at some joke he could not share with the others. "now let us have tea," said lady tanagra. "i'm simply dying for it." mr. triggs sank down heavily into a basket chair. he looked about anxiously, as it creaked beneath his weight, as if in doubt whether or no it would bear him. "all we want now is----" mr. triggs stopped suddenly and looked apprehensively at lady tanagra. "what is it you want, mr. triggs?" enquired patricia quickly. "er--er--i--i forget, i--i forget," floundered mr. triggs, still looking anxiously at lady tanagra. "when you're in the company of women, mr. triggs, you should never appear to want anything else. it makes an unfavourable impression upon us." "god bless my soul, i don't!" cried mr. triggs earnestly. "i've been looking forward to this ever since i got your wire yesterday afternoon." "now he has given me away," cried lady tanagra. "how like a man!" "given you away, me dear!" cried mr. triggs anxiously. "what 'ave i done?" "why, you have told these two people here that made an assignation with you by telegram." "made a what, me dear?" enquired mr. triggs, his forehead corrugated with anxiety. "lady tanagra is taking a mean advantage of the heat, mr. triggs," said elton. "anyway, i'll forgive you anything, mr. triggs, as you have come," said lady tanagra. mr. triggs's brow cleared and he smiled. "come! i should think i would come," he said. lady tanagra then explained her meeting with mr. triggs and how he had striven to avoid her company at luncheon on the previous day. mr. triggs protested vigorously. during the tea the conversation was entirely in the hands of lady tanagra, elton and mr. triggs. patricia sat silently listening to the others. several times lady tanagra and mr. triggs exchanged meaning glances. "why ain't you talking, me dear?" mr. triggs once asked. "i like to hear you all," said patricia, smiling across at him. "you're all too clever for me," she added. "me clever!" cried mr. triggs, and then as if the humour of the thing had suddenly struck him he went off into gurgles of laughter. "you ought to tell 'ettie that," he spluttered. "she thinks 'er old father's a fool. me clever!" he repeated, and again he went off into ripples of mirth. "what are your views on love, mr. triggs?" demanded lady tanagra suddenly. mr. triggs gazed at her in surprise. then he looked from patricia to elton, as if not quite sure whether or no he were expected to be serious. "if i were you i should decline to reply. lady tanagra treats serious subjects flippantly," said elton. "her attitude towards life is to prepare a pancake as if it were a soufflé." "that proves the celt in me," cried lady tanagra. "if i were english i should make a soufflé as if it were a pancake." mr. triggs looked from one to the other in obvious bewilderment. "i am perfectly serious in my question," said lady tanagra, without the vestige of a smile. "mr. triggs is elemental." "to be elemental is to be either indelicate or overbearing," murmured elton, "and mr. triggs is neither." "love, me dear?" said mr. triggs, not in the least understanding the trend of the conversation. "i don't think i've got any ideas about it." "surely you are not a cynic. mr. triggs," demanded lady tanagra. "a what?" enquired mr. triggs. "surely you believe in love," said lady tanagra. "me and mrs. triggs lived together 'appily for over thirty years," he replied gravely, "and when a man an' woman 'ave lived together for all that time they get to believe in love. it's never been the same since she died." his voice became a little husky, and elton looked at lady tanagra, who lowered her eyes. "i'm sorry, mr. triggs. will you tell us about--about----?" she broke off. "well, you see, me dear," said mr. triggs in an uncertain voice, "i was a foreman when i met 'er, and she was a servant; but--somehow or other it seemed that we were just made for each other. once i knew 'er, i didn't seem to be able to see things without her. when i was at work--i was in the building trade, foreman-carpenter," he explained, "i used to be thinking of 'er all the time. if i went anywhere without 'er--she only had one night off a week and one day a month--i would always keep thinking of how she would like what i was seeing, or eating. it was a funny feeling," he added reminiscently as if entirely unable to explain it. "somehow or other i always wanted to 'ave 'er with me, so that she might share what i was 'aving. it was a funny feeling," he repeated, and he looked from one to another with moist eyes. "of course," he added, "i can't explain things like that. i'm not clever." "i think, mr. triggs, that you've explained love in--in----" lady tanagra broke off and looked at elton, who was unusually grave. "mr. triggs has explained it," he replied, "in the only way in which it can be explained, and that is by being defined as unexplainable." mr. triggs looked at elton for a moment, then nodded his head violently. "that's it, mr. elton, that's it. it's a feeling, not a thing that you can put into words." lady tanagra looked at patricia, who was apparently engrossed in the waving tops of the trees. "i shall always remember your definition of love, mr. triggs," said lady tanagra with a far away look in her eyes. "i think you and mrs. triggs must have been very happy together." "'appy, me dear, that wasn't the word for it," said mr. triggs. "and when she was taken, i--i----" he broke off huskily and blew his nose vigorously. "suppose you were very poor, mr. triggs," began patricia. "i was when i married," interrupted mr. triggs. "suppose you were very poor," continued patricia, "and you loved someone very rich. what would you do?" "god bless my soul! i never thought of that. you see emily 'adn't anything. she only got sixteen pounds a year." lady tanagra turned her head aside and blinked her eyes furiously. "but suppose, mr. triggs," persisted patricia, "suppose you loved someone who was very rich and you were very poor. what would you do? would you tell them?" for a moment patricia allowed her eyes to glance in the direction of elton, and saw that his gaze was fixed upon mr. triggs. "but what 'as money got to do with it?" demanded mr. triggs, a puzzled expression on his face. "exactly!" said patricia. "that's what i wanted to know." "money sometimes has quite a lot to do with life," remarked elton to no one in particular. "with life, mr. elton," said mr. triggs; "but not with love." "you are an idealist," said lady tanagra. "am i?" said mr. triggs, with a smile. "and he is also a dear," said patricia. mr. triggs looked at her and smiled. lady tanagra and elton drove off, patricia saying that she wanted a walk. mr. triggs also declined lady tanagra's offer of a lift. "she wanted me to bring 'er with me," announced mr. triggs as they strolled along by the serpentine. "who did?"' enquired patricia. "'ettie. ran up to change 'er things and sent out for a taxi." "and what did you say?" enquired patricia. "i didn't say anything; but when the taxi come i just slipped in and came along 'ere. fancy 'ettie and lady tanagra!" said mr. triggs. "no," he added a moment later. "it's no good trying to be what you ain't. if 'ettie was to remember she's a builder's daughter, and not think she's a great lady, she'd be much 'appier," said mr. triggs with unconscious wisdom. "suppose i was to try and be like mr. elton," continued mr. triggs, "i'd look like a fool." "we all love to have you just as you are, mr. triggs, and we won't allow you to change," said patricia. mr. triggs smiled happily. he was as susceptible to flattery as a young girl. "well, it ain't much good trying to be what you're not. i've been a working-man, and i'm not ashamed of it, and you and lady tanagra and mr. elton ain't ashamed of being seen with me. but 'ettie, she'd no more be seen with 'er old father in hyde park than she'd be seen with 'im in a turkish bath." "we all have our weaknesses, don't you think?" said patricia. and mr. triggs agreed. "you, for instance, have a weakness for high society," continued patricia. "me, me dear!" exclaimed mr. triggs in surprise. "yes," said patricia, "it's no good denying it. don't you like knowing lord peter and lady tanagra, mr. elton and all the rest of them?" "it's not because they're in society," began mr. triggs. "oh, yes it is! you imagine that you are now a very great personage. soon you will be moving from streatham into park lane, and then you will not know me." "oh, me dear!" said mr. triggs in distress. "it's no good denying it," continued patricia. "look at the way you made friends with lord peter." patricia was priding herself on the way in which she had led the conversation round to bowen; but mr. triggs was not to be drawn. "god bless my soul!" he cried, stopping still and removing his hat, mopping his brow vigorously. "i don't mind whether anyone has a title or not. it's just them i like. now look at lady tanagra. no one would think she was a lady." "really, mr. triggs! i shall tell her if you take her character away in this manner. she's one of the most exquisitely bred people i have ever met." mr. triggs looked reproachfully at patricia. "it's a bit 'ard on a young gal when she finds 'er father drops 'is aitches," he remarked, reverting to his daughter. "i often wonder whether i was right in giving 'ettie such an education. she went to an 'igh school at eastmouth," he added. "it only made 'er dissatisfied. it was 'ard luck 'er 'aving me for a father," he concluded more to himself than to patricia. "i am perfectly willing to adopt you as a father, mr. triggs, if you are in want of adoption," said patricia. mr. triggs turned to her with a sunny smile. "ah! you're different, me dear. you see you're a lady born, same as lady tanagra; but 'ettie ain't. that's what makes 'er sensitive like. it's a funny world," mr. triggs continued; "if you go about with one boot, and you 'appen to be a duke, people make a fuss of you because you're a character; but if you 'appen to be a builder and go about in the same way they call you mad." that evening patricia was particularly unresponsive to mr. bolton's attempts to engage her in conversation. chapter xvi patricia's inconstancy patricia's engagement and approaching marriage were the sole topics of conversation at galvin house, at meal-times in particular. bowen was discussed and admired from every angle and aspect. questions rained upon patricia. when was she likely to get married? where was the wedding to take place? would she go abroad for her honeymoon? who was to provide the wedding-cake? where did she propose to get her trousseau? would the king and queen be present at the wedding? at first patricia had endeavoured to answer coherently; but finding this useless, she soon drifted into the habit of replying at random, with the result that galvin house received much curious information. miss wangle's olive-branch was an announcement of how pleased the dear bishop would have been to marry miss brent and lord peter had he been alive. mr. bolton joked as feebly as ever. mr. cordal masticated with his wonted vigour. mr. sefton became absorbed in the prospect of the raising of the military age limit, and strove to hearten himself by constant references to the time when he would be in khaki. miss sikkum continued to surround herself with an atmosphere of romance, and invariably returned in the evening breathless from her chaste endeavours to escape from some "awful man" who had pursued her. the reek of cooking seemed to become more obvious, and the dreariness of sundays more pronounced. some times patricia thought of leaving galvin house for a place where she would be less notorious; but something seemed to bind her to the old associations. as she returned each evening, her eyes instinctively wandered towards the table and the letter-rack. if there were a parcel, her heart would bound suddenly, only to resume its normal pace when she discovered that it was for someone else. of lady tanagra she saw little, news of bowen she received none. her most dexterous endeavours to cross-examine mr. triggs ended in failure. he seemed to have lost all interest in bowen. lady tanagra never even mentioned his name. whatever the shortcomings of lady tanagra and mr. triggs in this direction, however, they were more than compensated for by mrs. bonsor. her effusive friendliness patricia found overwhelming, and her insistent hospitality, which took the form of a flood of invitations to patricia and bowen to lunch, dine or to do anything they chose in her house or elsewhere, was bewildering. at last in self-defence patricia had to tell mrs. bonsor that bowen was too much occupied with his duties even to see her; but this seemed to increase rather than diminish mrs. bonsor's hospitable instincts, which included lady tanagra as well as her brother. would not miss brent bring lady tanagra to tea or to luncheon one day? perhaps they would take tea with mrs. bonsor at the ritz one afternoon? could they lunch at the carlton? to all of these invitations patricia replied with cold civility. in her heart mrs. bonsor was raging against the "airs" of her husband's secretary; but she saw that lady tanagra and lord peter might be extremely useful to her and to her husband in his career. consequently she did not by any overt sign show her pique. one day when patricia was taking down letters for mr. bonsor, mr. triggs burst into the library in a state of obvious excitement. "where's 'ettie?" he demanded, after having saluted patricia and mr. bonsor. mr. bonsor looked at him reproachfully. "'ere, ring for 'ettie, a. b., i've got something to show you all." mr. bonsor pressed the bell. as he did so mrs. bonsor entered the room, having heard her father's voice. with great empressement mr. triggs produced from the tail pocket of his coat a folded copy of the "illustrated universe". flattening it out upon the table he moistened his thumb and finger and, with great deliberation, turned over several leaves, then indicating a page he demanded: "what do you think of that?" "that," was a full-page picture of lady tanagra walking in the park with mr. triggs. the portrait of lady tanagra was a little indistinct; but that of mr. triggs was as clear as daylight, and a remarkable likeness. underneath was printed "lady tanagra bowen and a friend walking in the park." mrs. bonsor devoured the picture and then looked up at her father, a new respect in her eyes. "what do you think of it, 'ettie?" enquired mr. triggs again. "it's a very good likeness, father," said mrs. bonsor weakly. it was patricia, however, who expressed what mr. triggs had anticipated. "you're becoming a great personage, mr. triggs," she cried. "if you are not careful you will compromise lady tanagra." mr. triggs chuckled with glee as he mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "i rang 'er up this morning," he said. "rang who up, father?" enquired mrs. bonsor. "lady tan," said mr. triggs, watching his daughter to see the effect of the diminutive upon her. "was she annoyed?" enquired mrs. bonsor. "annoyed!" echoed mr. triggs. "annoyed! she was that pleased she's asked me to lunch to-morrow. why, she introduced me to a duchess last week, an' i'm goin' to 'er place to tea." "i wish you would bring lady tanagra here one day, father," said mrs. bonsor. "why not ask her to lunch here to-morrow?" "not me, 'ettie," said mr. triggs wisely. "if you want the big fish, you've got to go out and catch 'em yourself." there was a pause. patricia hid a smile in her handkerchief. mr. bonsor was deep in a speech upon the question of rationing fish. "well, a. b., what 'ave you got to say?" "dear fish may mean revolution," murmured mr. bonsor. mr. triggs looked at his son-in-law in amazement. "what's that you say?" he demanded. "i--i beg your pardon. i--i was thinking," apologised mr. bonsor. "now, father," said mrs. bonsor, "will you come into the morning-room? i want to talk to you, and i'm sure arthur wants to get on with his work." mr. triggs was reluctantly led away, leaving patricia to continue the day's work. patricia now saw little of mr. triggs, in fact since lady tanagra had announced that bowen would no longer trouble her, she found life had become singularly grey. things that before had amused and interested her now seemed dull and tedious. mr. bolton's jokes were more obvious than ever, and mr. cordal's manners more detestable. the constant interrogations levelled at her as to where bowen was, and why he had not called to see her, she found difficult to answer. several times she had gone alone to the theatre, or to a cinema, in order that it might be thought she was with bowen. at last the strain became so intolerable that she spoke to mrs. craske-morton, hinting that unless galvin house took a little less interest in her affairs, she would have to leave. the effect of her words was instantly manifest. wherever she moved she seemed to interrupt whispering groups. when she entered the dining-room there would be a sudden cessation of conversation, and everyone would look up with an innocence that was too obvious to deceive even themselves. if she went into the lounge on her return from eaton square, the same effect was noticeable. when she was present the conversation was forced and artificial. sentences would be begun and left unfinished, as if the speaker had suddenly remembered that the subject was taboo. patricia found herself wishing that they would speak out what was in their minds. anything would be preferable to the air of mystery that seemed to pervade the whole place. she could not be unaware of the significant glances that were exchanged when it was thought she was not looking. several times she had been asked if she were not feeling well, and her looking-glass reflected a face that was pale and drawn, with dark lines under the eyes. one evening, when she had gone to her room directly after dinner, there was a gentle knock at her door. she opened it to find mrs. hamilton, looking as if it would take only a word to send her creeping away again. "come in, you dear little grey lady," cried patricia, putting her arm affectionately round mrs. hamilton's small shoulders, and leading her over to a basket-chair by the window. for some time they talked of nothing in particular. at last mrs. hamilton said: "i--i hope you won't think me impertinent, my dear; but--but----" "i should never think anything you said or did impertinent," said patricia, smiling. "you know----" began mrs. hamilton, and then broke off. "anyone would think you were thoroughly afraid of me," said patricia with a smile. "i don't like interfering," said mrs. hamilton, "but i am very worried." she looked so pathetic in her anxiety that patricia bent down and kissed her on the cheek. "you dear little thing," she cried, "tell me what is on your mind, and i will do the best i can to help you." "i am very--er--worried about you, my dear," began mrs. hamilton hesitatingly. "you are looking so pale and tired and worn. i--i fear you have something on your mind and--and----" she broke off, words failing her. "it's the summer," replied patricia, smiling. "i always find the hot weather trying, more trying even than mr. bolton's jokes," she smiled. "are you--are you sure it's nothing else?" said mrs. hamilton. "quite sure," said patricia. "what else should it be?" she was conscious of her reddening cheeks. "you ought to go out more," said mrs. hamilton gently. "after sitting indoors all day you want fresh air and exercise." and with that mrs. hamilton had to rest content. patricia could not explain the absurd feeling she experienced that she might miss something if she left the house. it was all so vague, so intangible. all she was conscious of was some hidden force that seemed to bind her to the house, or, when by an effort of will she broke from its influence, seemed to draw her back again. she could not analyse the feeling, she was only conscious of its existence. from miss brent she had received a characteristic reply to her letter. "dear patricia," she wrote, "i have read with pain and surprise your letter. what your poor dear father would have thought i cannot conceive. "what i did was done from the best motives, as i felt you were compromising yourself by a secret engagement. "i am sorry to find that you have become exceedingly self-willed of late, and i fear london has done you no good. "as your sole surviving relative, it is my duty to look after your welfare. this i promised your dear father on his death-bed. "gratitude i do not ask, nor do i expect it; but i am determined to do my duty by my brother's child. i cannot but deplore the tone in which you last wrote to me, and also the rather foolish threat that your letter contained. "your affectionate aunt, "adelaide brent. "p.s.--i shall make a point of coming up to london soon. even your rudeness will not prevent me from doing my duty by my brother's child.--a. b." as she tore up the letter, patricia remembered her father once saying, "your aunt's sense of duty is the most offensive sense i have ever encountered." one day as patricia was endeavouring to sort out into some sort of coherence a sheaf of notes that mr. bonsor had made upon botulism, mr. triggs entered the library. after his cheery "how goes it, me dear?" he stood for some moments gazing down at her solicitously. "you ain't lookin' well, me dear," he said with conviction. "that's a sure way to a woman's heart," replied patricia gaily. "'ow's that, me dear?" he questioned. "why, telling her that she's looking plain," retorted patricia. mr. triggs protested. "all i want is a holiday," went on patricia. "there are only three weeks to wait and then----" there was, however, no joy of anticipation in her voice. "you're frettin'!" patricia turned angrily upon mr. triggs. "fretting! what on earth do you mean, mr. triggs?" she demanded. mr. triggs sat down suddenly, overwhelmed by patricia's indignation. "don't be cross with me, me dear." mr. triggs looked so like a child fearing rebuke that she was forced to smile. "you must not say absurd things then," she retorted. "what have i got to fret about?" mr. triggs quailed beneath her challenging glance. "i--i'm sorry, me dear," he said contritely. "don't be sorry, mr. triggs," said patricia severely; "be accurate." "i'm sorry, me dear," repeated mr. triggs. "but that doesn't answer my question," patricia persisted. "what have i to fret about?" mr. triggs mopped his brow vigorously. he invariably expressed his emotions with his handkerchief. he used it strategically, tactically, defensively, continuously. it was to him what the lines of torres vedras were to wellington. he retired behind its sheltering folds, to emerge a moment later, his forces reorganised and re-arrayed. when at a loss what to say or do, it was his handkerchief upon which he fell back; if he required time in which to think, he did it behind its ample and protecting folds. "you see, me dear," said mr. triggs at length, avoiding patricia's relentless gaze, as he proceeded to stuff away the handkerchief in his tail pocket. "you see, me dear----" again he paused. "you see, me dear," he began for a third time, "i thought you was frettin' over your work or something, when you ought to be enjoyin' yourself," he lied. patricia looked at him, her conscience smiting her. she smiled involuntarily. "i never fret about anything except when you don't come to see me," she said gaily. mr. triggs beamed with good-humour, his fears now quite dispelled. "you're run down, me dear," he said with decision. "you want an 'oliday. i must speak to a. b. about it." "if you do i shall be very angry," said patricia; "mr. bonsor is always very kind and considerate." "it--it isn't----" began mr. triggs, then paused. "it isn't what?" patricia smiled at his look of concern. "if--if it is," began mr. triggs. again he paused, then added with a gulp, "couldn't i lend you some?" for a moment patricia failed to follow the drift of his remark, then when she appreciated that he was offering to lend her money she flushed. for a moment she did not reply, then seeing the anxiety stamped upon his kindly face, she said with great deliberation: "i think you must be quite the nicest man in all the world. if ever i decide to borrow money i'll come to you first." mr. triggs blushed like a schoolboy. he had fully anticipated being snubbed. he had found from experience that patricia had of late become very uncertain in her moods. they were interrupted by the entrance of mr. bonsor. "'ere, a. b.!" cried mr. triggs. "what do you mean by it?" "mean by what?" enquired mr. bonsor, busy with an imaginary speech upon street noises, suggested by a barrel-piano in the distance. "you're working 'er too 'ard, a. b.," said mr. triggs with conviction. "working who too hard?" mr. bonsor looked helplessly at patricia. he was always at a disadvantage with his father-in-law, whose bluntness of speech seemed to demoralise him. "mr. triggs thinks that you are slowly killing me," laughed patricia. mr. bonsor looked uncertainly at patricia, and mr. triggs gazed at mr. bonsor. he had no very high opinion of his daughter's husband. "well, mind you don't overwork 'er," said mr. triggs as he rose to go. a few minutes later patricia was deep in the absorbing subject of the life history of the potato-beetle. "ugh!" she cried as the clock in the hall chimed five. "i hate beetles, and," she paused a moment to tuck away a stray strand of hair, "i never want to see a potato as long as i live." that evening when she reached galvin house she went to her room, and there subjected herself to a searching examination in the looking-glass, she was forced to confess to the paleness of her face and dark marks beneath her eyes. she explained them by summer in london, coupled with the dreariness of arthur bonsor, m.p., and his mania for statistics. "you're human yeast, patricia!" she murmured to her reflection; "at least you're paid two-and-a-half guineas a week to try to leaven the unleavenable, and you mustn't complain if sometimes you get a little tired. fretting!" there was indignation in her voice. "what have you got to fret about?" with the passage of each day, however, she grew more listless and weary. she came to dread meal-times, with their irritating chatter and uninspiring array of faces that she had come almost to dislike. she was conscious of whisperings and significant looks among her fellow-boarders. she resented even gustave's cow-like gaze of sympathetic anxiety as she declined the food he offered her. lady tanagra and mr. triggs never asked her out. everybody seemed suddenly to have deserted her. sometimes she would catch a glimpse of them in the park on sunday morning once she saw bowen; but he did not see her. "the daily round and common task" took on a new and sinister meaning for her. sometimes her thoughts would travel on a few years into the future. what did it hold for her? instinctively she shuddered at the loneliness of it all. one afternoon on her return to galvin house, gustave opened the door. he had evidently been on the watch. his kindly face was beaming with goodwill. "oh, mees!" he cried. "mees brent is here." "aunt adelaide!" cried patricia, her heart sinking. then seeing the comical lock of indecision upon gustave's face caused by her despairing exclamation she laughed. when she entered the lounge, it was to find miss brent sitting upright upon the stiffest chair in the middle of the room. miss wangle and mrs. mosscrop-smythe were seated together in the extreme corner, mrs. barnes and two or three others were grouped by the window. the atmosphere was tense. something had apparently happened. patricia learned that from the grim set of miss brent's mouth. "i want to talk to you, patricia," miss brent announced after the customary greeting. "yes, aunt adelaide," said patricia, sinking into a chair with a sigh of resignation. "somewhere private," said miss brent. "there is no privacy at galvin house," murmured patricia, "except in the bathroom." "patricia, don't be indelicate," snapped miss brent. "i'm not indelicate, aunt adelaide, i'm merely being accurate," said patricia wearily. "cannot we go to your room?" enquired miss brent. "impossible!" announced patricia. "it's like an oven by now. the sun is on it all the afternoon. besides," continued patricia, "my affairs are public property here. we are quite a commune. we have everything in common--except our toothbrushes," she added as an afterthought. "well! let us get over there." miss brent rose and made for the corner farthest from miss wangle and mrs. mosscrop-smythe. patricia followed her wearily. "i've just snubbed those two women," announced miss brent, as she seated herself in a basket-chair that squeaked protestingly. "there were indications of electricity in the air," remarked patricia calmly. "i want to have a serious talk with you, patricia," said miss brent in her best it's-my-duty-cost-it-what-it-may manner. "how can anyone be serious in this heat?" protested patricia. "i owe it to your poor dear father to----" "this debtor and creditor business is killing romance," murmured patricia. "i have your welfare to consider," proceeded miss brent. "i----" "don't you think you've done enough mischief already, aunt adelaide?" enquired patricia coolly. "mischief! i?" exclaimed miss brent in astonishment. patricia nodded. "as your sole surviving relative it is my duty----" "don't you think," interrupted patricia, "that just for once you could neglect your duty? sin is wonderfully exhilarating." "patricia!" almost shrieked miss brent, horror in her eyes. "are you mad?" "no," replied patricia, "only a little weary." "you must have a tonic," announced miss brent. patricia shuddered. she still remembered her childish sufferings resulting from miss brent's interpretation and application of the doctor at home. she was convinced that she had swallowed every remedy the book contained, and been rubbed with every liniment its pages revealed. "no, aunt adelaide," she said evenly. "all i require is that you should cease interfering in my affairs." "how dare you! how----" miss brent paused wordless. "i am prepared to accept you as an aunt," continued patricia, outwardly calm; but almost stifled by the pounding of her heart. "it is god's will; but if you persist in assuming the mantle of mrs. grundy, combined with the infallibility of the pope, then i must protest." "protest!" repeated miss brent, repeating the word as if not fully comprehending its meaning. "if i am able to earn my own living, then i am able to conduct my own love affairs." "but----" began miss brent. "i am sorry to appear rude, aunt adelaide, but it is much better to be frank. i am sure you mean well; but the fact of your being my sole surviving relative places me at a disadvantage. if there were two of you or three, you could quarrel about me, and thus preserve the balance. now let us talk about something else." for once in her life miss brent was nonplussed. she regarded her niece as if she had been a two-tailed giraffe, or a double-headed mastodon. had she been american she would have known it to be brain-storm; as it was she decided that patricia was sickening for some serious illness that had produced a temperature. in all her experience of "the family" never once had miss brent been openly defied in this way, and she had no reserves upon which to fall back. she held personal opinion and inclination must always take secondary place to "the family." the individual must be sacrificed to the group, provided the individual were not herself. births, deaths, marriages, christenings, funerals, weddings, were solemn functions that must be regarded as involving not the principals themselves so much as their relatives. her doctrine was, although she would not have expressed it so philosophically, that the individual is mortal; but the family is immortal. that anyone lived for himself or herself never seemed to occur to miss brent. if their actions were acceptable to the family and at the same time pleased the principals, then so much the better for the principals; if, on the other hand, the family disapproved, then the duty of the principals was clear. this open flouting of her prides and her prejudices was to miss brent a great blow. it seemed to stun her. she was at a loss how to proceed; all she realised was that she must save "the family" at any cost. "now tell me what happened when you came in," said patricia sweetly. "i must be going," said miss brent solemnly. "must you?" enquired patricia politely; but rising lest her aunt should change her mind. "now remember," said patricia as they walked along the hall, "you've lost me one matrimonial fish. if i get another nibble you must keep out of----" but miss brent had fled. "well, that's that!" sighed patricia as she walked slowly upstairs. chapter xvii lady peggy makes a friend one sunday morning as patricia was sitting in the park watching the promenaders and feeling very lonely, she saw coming across the grass towards her godfrey elton accompanied by a pretty dark girl in an amber costume and a black hat. she bowed her acknowledgment of elton's salute, and watched the pair as they passed on in the direction of marble arch. suddenly the girl stopped and turned. for a moment elton stood irresolute, then he also turned and they both walked in patricia's direction. "lady peggy insisted that we should break in upon your solitude," said elton, having introduced the two girls. "you will forgive me, won't you?" said lady peggy, "but i so wanted to know you. you see peter has the reputation of being invulnerable. we're all quite breathless from our fruitless endeavours to entangle him, and i wanted to see what you were like." "i'm afraid you'll find i'm quite common-place," said patricia, smiling. it was impossible to be annoyed with lady peggy. her frankness was disarming, and her curiosity that of a child. "i always say," bubbled lady peggy, "that there are only two men in london worth marrying, and they neither of them will have me, although i've worked most terribly hard." "who are they?" enquired patricia. "oh! goddy's one," she said, indicating elton with a nod, "and peter's the other. they are both prepared to be brothers to me; but they're not sufficiently generous to save me from dying an old maid." "i must apologise for inflicting peggy upon you, miss brent," said elton; "but when you get to know her you may even like her." "i'm not going to wait until i know her," said patricia. "bravo!" cried lady peggy, clapping her hands. "that's a snub for you, goddy," she said, then turning again to patricia, "i know we're going to be friends, and you can afford to be generous to a defeated rival." "i must warn you against lady peggy," said elton quietly. "she's a most dangerous young woman." "and now, patricia," said lady peggy, "i'm going to call you patricia, and you must call me peggy. i want you to do me a very great favour." patricia looked at the girl, rather bewildered and breathless by the precipitancy with which she made friends. "i'm sure i will if i possibly can," she replied. "i want you to come and lunch with us," said lady peggy. "it's very kind of you, i shall be delighted some day," replied patricia conventionally. "no, now!" said lady peggy. "this very day that ever is. i want you to meet daddy. he's such a dear. goddy will come, so you won't be lonely," she added. "i'm afraid i've got----" began patricia. "please don't be afraid you've got anything," pleaded lady peggy. "if you've got an engagement throw it over. everybody throws over engagements for me." "but----" began patricia. "oh, please don't be tiresome," said lady peggy, screwing up her eyebrows. "i shall have all i can do to persuade goddy to come, and it's so exhausting." "i will come with pleasure," said elton, "if only to protect miss brent from your overwhelming friendliness." "oh, you odious creature!" cried lady peggy, then turning to patricia she added with mock tragedy in her voice, "oh! the love i've languished on that man, the gladness of the eyes i have turned upon him, the pressures of the hand i've been willing to bestow on him, and this is how he treats me." then with a sudden change she added, "but you will come, won't you? i do so want you to meet daddy." "if the truth must be told," said elton, "peggy merely wants to be able to exploit you, as everybody is wanting to know about you and what you are like. now she will be a celebrity, and able to describe you in detail to all her many men friends and to her women enemies." lady peggy deliberately turned her back upon elton. "now we are going to have another little walk and then we'll go and get our nosebags on," she announced. "no, you're not going to walk between us"--this to elton--"i want to be next to patricia," she announced. patricia felt bewildered by the suddenness with which lady peggy had descended upon her. she scarcely listened to the flow of small talk she kept up. she was conscious that elton's hand was constantly at the salute, and that lady peggy seemed to be indulging in a series of continuous bows. "oh! do let's get away somewhere," cried lady peggy at length. "my neck aches, and i feel my mouth will set in a silly grin. why on earth do we know so many people, goddy? do you know," she added mischievously, "i'd love to have a big megaphone and stand on a chair and cry out who you are. then everybody would flock round, because they all want to know who it is that has captured peter the hermit, as we call him." she looked at patricia appraisingly. "i think i can understand now," she said. "understand what?" said patricia. "what it is in you that attracts peter." patricia gasped. "really," she began. "yes, we girls have all been trying to make love to peter and fuss over him, whereas you would rather snub him, and that's very good for peter. it's just the sort of thing that would attract him." then with another sudden change she turned to elton and said, "goddy, in future i'm going to snub you, then perhaps you'll love me." patricia laughed outright. she felt strongly drawn to this inconsequent child-girl. she found herself wondering what would be the impression she would create upon the galvin house coterie, who would find all their social and moral virtues inverted by such directness of speech. she could see miss wangle's internal struggle, disapproval of lady peggy's personality mingling with respect for her rank. "oh, there's tan!" lady peggy broke in upon patricia's thoughts "goddy, call to her, shout, wave your hat. haven't you got a whistle?" but lady tanagra had seen the party, and was coming towards them accompanied by mr. triggs. lady peggy danced towards lady tanagra. "oh, tan, i've found her!" she cried, nodding to mr. triggs, whom she appeared to know. "found whom?" enquired lady tanagra. "patricia. the captor of st. anthony, and we're going to be friends, and she's coming to lunch with me to meet daddy, and goddy's coming too, so don't you dare to carry him off. oh, mr. triggs! isn't it a lovely day," she cried, turning to mr. triggs, who, hat in hand, was mopping his brow. "beautiful, me dear, beautiful," he exclaimed, beaming upon her and turning to shake hands with patricia. "well, me dear, how goes it?" he enquired. then looking at her keenly he added, "why, you're looking much better." patricia smiled, conscious that the improvement in her looks was not a little due to lady peggy and her bright chatter. "you've become such a gad-about, mr. triggs, that you forget poor me," she said. "oh no, he doesn't!" broke in lady peggy, "he's always talking about you. whenever i try to make love to him he always drags you in. i've really come to hate you, patricia, because you seem to come between me and all my love affairs. oh! i wish we could find peter," cried lady peggy suddenly, "that would complete the party." patricia hoped fervently that they would not come across bowen. she saw that it would make the situation extremely awkward. "and now we must dash off for lunch," cried lady peggy, "or we shall be late and daddy will be cross." she shook hands with mr. triggs, blew a kiss at lady tanagra and, before patricia knew it, she was walking with lady peggy and elton in the direction of curzon street. patricia was in some awe of meeting the duke of gayton. hitherto she had encountered only the smaller political fry, friends and acquaintances of mr. bonsor, who had always treated her as a secretary. the duke had been in the first coalition ministry, but had been forced to retire on account of a serious illness. "look whom i've caught!" cried lady peggy as she bubbled into the dining-room, where some twelve or fourteen guests were in process of seating themselves at the table. "look whom i've caught! daddy," she addressed herself to a small clean-shaven man, with beetling eyebrows and a broad, intellectual head. "it's the captor of peter the hermit." the duke smiled and shook hands with patricia. "you must come and sit by me," he said in particularly sweet and well-modulated voice, which seemed to give the lie to the somewhat stern and searching appearance of his eyes. "peter is a great friend of mine." patricia was conscious of flushed cheeks as she took her seat next to the duke. later she discovered that these sunday luncheons were always strictly informal, no order of precedence being observed. young and old were invited, grave and gay. the talk was sometimes frivolous, sometimes serious. sunday was, in the duke's eyes, a day of rest, and conversation must follow the path of least resistance. whilst the other guests were seating themselves, patricia looked round the table with interest. she recognised a well-known cabinet minister and a bishop. next to her on the other side was a man with hungry, searching eyes, whose fair hair was cropped so closely to his head as to be almost invisible. later she learned that he was a serbian patriot, who had prepared a wonderful map of new serbia, which he always carried with him. elton had described it as "the map that passeth all understanding." it embraced bulgaria, roumania, transylvania, montenegro, greece, albania, bessarabia, and portions of other countries. "it's a sort of game," lady peggy explained later. "if you can escape without his having produced his map, then you've won," she added. at first the duke devoted himself to patricia, obviously with the object of placing her at her ease. she was fascinated by his voice. he had the reputation of being a brilliant talker; but patricia decided that even if he had possessed the most commonplace ideas, he would have invested them with a peculiar interest on account of the whimsical tones in which he expressed them. he was a man of remarkable dignity of bearing, and patricia decided that she would be able to feel very much afraid of him. in answer to a question patricia explained that she had only met lady peggy that morning. "and what do you think of peggy's whirlwind methods?" asked the duke with a smile. "i think they are quite irresistible," replied patricia. "she makes friends quicker than anyone i ever met and keeps them longer," said the duke. presently the conversation turned on the question of the re-afforestation of great britain, springing out of a remark made by the cabinet minister to the duke. soon the two, aided by a number of other guests, were deep in the intricacies of politics. during a lull in the conversation the duke turned to patricia. "i am afraid this is all very dull for you, miss brent," he remarked pleasantly. "on the contrary," said patricia, "i am greatly interested." "interested in politics?" questioned the duke with a tinge of surprise in his voice. gradually patricia found herself drawn into the conversation. for the first time in her life she found her study of blue books and her knowledge of statistics of advantage and use. the cabinet minister leaned forward with interest. the other guests had ceased their local conversation to listen to what it was that was so clearly interesting their host and the cabinet minister. in patricia's remarks there was the freshness of unconvention. the old political war-horses saw how things appeared to an intelligent contemporary who was not trammelled by tradition and parliamentary procedure. suddenly patricia became aware that she had monopolised the conversation and that everyone was listening to her. she flushed and stopped. "please go on," said the cabinet minister; "don't stop, it's most interesting." but patricia had become self-conscious. however, the duke with great tact picked up the thread, and soon the conversation became general. as they rose from the table the duke whispered to patricia, "don't hurry away, please, i want to have a chat with you after the others have gone." as they went to the drawing-room, lady peggy came up to patricia and linking her arm in hers, said: "i'm dreadfully afraid of you now, patricia. why everybody was positively drinking in your words. wherever did you learn so much?" "you cannot be secretary to a rising politician," said patricia with a smile, "without learning a lot of statistics. i have to read up all sorts of things about pigs and babies and beet-root and street-noises and all sorts of objectionable things." "what do you think of her, goddy?" cried lady peggy to elton as he joined them. "i'm afraid she has made me feel very ignorant," replied elton. "just as you, peggy, always make me feel very wise." in the drawing-room the serbian attached himself to patricia and produced his "map of obliteration," as the duke had once called it, explaining to her at great length how nearly all the towns and cities in europe were for the most part populated by serbs. it was obvious to her, from the respect with which she was treated, that her remarks at luncheon had made a great impression. when most of the other guests had departed, the duke walked over to her, and dismissing peggy, entered into a long conversation on political and parliamentary matters. he was finally interrupted by lady peggy. "look here, daddy, if you steal my friends i shall----" she paused, then turning to elton she said, "what shall i do, goddy?" "well, you might marry and leave him," suggested elton helpfully. "that's it. i will marry and leave you all alone, daddy." "cannot we agree to share miss brent?" suggested the duke, smiling at patricia. "isn't he a dear?" enquired lady peggy of patricia. "when other men propose to me, and quite a lot have," she added with almost childish simplicity, "i always mentally compare them with daddy, and then of course i know i don't want them." "that is my one reason, peggy, for not proposing," said elton. "i could never enter the lists with the duke." "you're a pair of ridiculous children," laughed the duke. in response to a murmur from patricia that she must be going, lady peggy insisted that she should first come upstairs and see her den. the "den" was a room of orderly disorder, which seemed to possess the freshness and charm of its owner. lady peggy looked at patricia, a new respect in her eyes. "you must be frightfully clever," she said with accustomed seriousness. "i wish i were like that. you see i should be more of a companion to daddy if i were." "i think you are an ideal companion for him you are," said patricia. "oh! he's so wonderful," said lady peggy dreamily. "you know i'm not always such a fool i appear," she added quite seriously, "and i do sometimes think of other things than frills and flounces and chocolates." then with a sudden change of mood she cried, "wasn't it clever of me capturing you to-day? as soon as you're alone daddy will tell me what he thinks of you, and i shall feel so self-important." as patricia looked about the room, charmed with its dainty freshness, her eyes lighted upon a large metal tea-tray. lady peggy following her gaze cried: "oh, the magic carpet!" "the what?" enquired patricia. "that's the magic carpet. come, i'll show you," and seizing it she preceded patricia to the top of the stairs. "now sit on it," she cried, "and toboggan down. it's priceless." "but i couldn't." "yes you could. everybody does," cried lady peggy. not quite knowing what she was doing patricia found herself forced down upon the tea-tray, and the next thing she knew was she was speeding down the stairs at a terrific rate. just as she arrived in the hall with flushed cheeks and a flurry of skirts, the door of the library opened and the duke and elton came out. patricia gathered herself together, and with flaming cheeks and downcast eyes stood like a child expecting rebuke, instead of which the duke merely smiled. turning to elton he remarked: "so miss brent has received her birth certificate." as he spoke the butler with sedate decorum picked up the tray and carried it into his pantry as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world for guests to toboggan down the front staircase. "to ride on peggy's 'magic carpet,' as she calls it," said the duke, "is to be admitted to the household as a friend. come again soon," he added as he shook hands in parting. "any sunday at lunch you are always sure to catch us. we never give special invitations to the friends we want, do we, peggy? and i want to have some more talks with you." as patricia and elton walked towards the park he explained that lady peggy's tea-tray had figured in many little comedies. bishops, cabinet ministers, great generals and admirals had all descended the stairs in the way patricia had. "in fact," he added, "when the duke was in the cabinet, it was the youngest and brightest collection of ministers in the history of the country. every one of them was devoted to peggy, and i think they would have made war or peace at her command." when patricia arrived at galvin house, she was conscious of the world having changed since the morning. all her gloom had been dispelled, the drawn look had passed from her face, and she felt that a heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders. chapter xviii the air raid "miss brent, please get up. there's an air raid." mechanically patricia sat up in bed and listened. outside a police-whistle was droning its raucous warning; within there was the sound of frightened whispers and the noise of the opening and shutting of doors. suddenly there was a shriek, followed by a low murmur of several voices. the sound of the police-whistle continued, gradually dying away in the distance, and the noises within the house ceased. patricia strained her ears to catch the first sound of the defensive guns. she had no intention of getting up for a false alarm. for some minutes there was silence, then came a slight murmur, half sob, half sigh, as if london were breathing heavily in her sleep, another followed, then half a dozen in quick succession growing louder with every report. suddenly came the scream of a "whiz-bang" and the thunder of a large gun. soon the orchestra was in full swing. still patricia listened. she was fascinated. why did guns sound exactly as if large plank were being dropped? why did the report seem as if something were bouncing? suddenly a terrific report, a sound as if a giant plank had been dropped and had "bounced." a neighbouring gun had given tongue, another followed. she jumped out of bed and proceeded to pull on her stockings. there was a gentle tapping at her door, not the peremptory summons that had awakened her and which, by the voice that had accompanied it, she recognised as that of mrs. craske-morton. "what is it?" she called out. "it's me, mees." patricia could scarcely recognise in the terrified accents the voice of gustave. "it's a raid. oh! mees, please come down." "all right, gustave. i shall be down in a minute," replied patricia, and she heard a flurry of retreating footsteps. gustave was descending to safety. there was about him nothing of the roman sentry. patricia proceeded with her toilette, hastened, in spite of herself, by a tremendous crash which she recognised as a bomb. at galvin house "raid instructions" had been posted in each room. guests were instructed to hasten with all possible speed downstairs to the basement-kitchen, where tea and coffee would be served and, if necessary, bandages and first-aid applied. miss sikkum had made a superficial study of red cross work from a shilling manual but as, according to her own confession, she fainted at the sight of blood, no very great reliance was placed in her ministrations. as patricia entered the kitchen her first inclination was to laugh at the amazing variety, not only of toilettes, but of expressions that met her eyes. self-confident in the knowledge that she was fully dressed, she looked about her with interest. "oh, here you are, miss brent!" exclaimed mrs. craske-morton, who was busily engaged in preparing the tea and coffee of the "raid instructions." "gustave would insist on going up to call you a second time. we were----" mrs. craske-morton broke off her sentence and dashed for the gas-stove, where the milk was boiling over. "oh, mees!" patricia turned to gustave. she bit her lip fiercely to restrain the laugh that bubbled up at the sight of the major-domo of galvin house. above a pair of black trousers, tucked in the tops of unlaced boots, and from which the braces flapped aimlessly, was visible the upper part of a red flannel night-shirt. the remainder was bestowed beneath the upper part of the trousers, giving to his figure a curiously knobbly appearance. his face was leaden-coloured and his upstanding hair more erect than ever, whilst in his eyes was fear. he was trembling in every limb, and his jaw shook as he uttered his expression of relief at the sight of patricia. she smiled at him, then suddenly remembering that, in spite of his terror, he had voluntarily gone up to the top of the house to call her, she felt something strangely uncomfortable at the back of her throat. "come along, gustave!" she cried brightly. "let us help get the tea. i'm so thirsty." from that moment gustave appeared to take himself in hand, and save for a violent start, at the more vigorous reports, seemed to have overcome his terror. as patricia proceeded to assist mrs. craske-morton, a veritable heroine in a pink flannel wrapper, she took stock of her fellows. miss wangle was engaged in prayer and tears, her wig was awry, her face drawn and yellow and her clothes the garb of advanced maidenhood. on her feet were bed-socks, half thrust into felt slippers. from beneath a black quilted dressing-gown peeped with virtuous pride the longcloth of a nightdress of victorian severity. mrs. mosscrop-smythe was in curl-papers and a faded blue kimono that allowed no suggestion to escape of the form beneath. miss sikkum had seized a grey raincoat, above which a forest of curl papers looked strangely out of place. her fingers moved restlessly. the two top buttons of the raincoat were missing, displaying a wealth of blue ribbon and openwork that none had suspected in her. the lateness at which the ribbon and openwork began gave an interesting demonstration in feminine bone structure. mr. sefton was splendid in a purple dressing-gown with orange cord and tassels, and red and white striped pyjamas beneath. mr. sefton had chosen his raid-costume with elaborate care; but the suddenness of the alarm had not allowed of the arrangement of his hair, most of which hung down behind in a sandy cascade. his manner was the forced heroic. he was smoking a cigarette with a too obvious nonchalance to deceive. the heroes of mr. sefton's imagination always lit cigarettes when facing death. they were of the type that seizes a revolver when the ship is sinking and, with one foot placed negligently upon the capstan (mr. sefton had not the most remote idea of what a capstan was like) shouted, "women and children first." he walked about the kitchen with what he meant to be a smile upon his pale lips. the cigarette he found a nuisance. if he held it between his lips the smoke got in his eyes and made them stream with water; if, on the other hand, he held it between his fingers, it emphasized the shaking of his hand. he compromised by letting it go out between his lips, arguing that the effect was the same. mr. bolton had donned his fez and velvet smoking-jacket above creased white pyjama trousers that refused to meet the tops of his felt slippers. mr. bolton continued to make "jokes," for the same reason that mr. sefton smoked a cigarette. mr. cordal was negative in a big ulster with a hem of nightshirt beneath, leaving about eight inches of fleshless shin before his carpet slippers with the fur-tops were reached. he sat gazing with unseeing eyes at the cook huddled up opposite, moaning as she held her heart with a fat, dirty hand. mrs. barnes, the victim of indecision, had leapt straight out of bed, gathered her clothes in her arms and had flown to safety. she walked about the kitchen aimlessly, dropping and retrieving various garments, which she stuffed back again into the bundle she carried under her arm. mrs. craske-morton was practical and courageous. her one thought was to prepare the promised refreshments. her staff, with the exception of gustave, was useless, and she was grateful to patricia for her assistance. outside pandemonium was raging, the noise of the barrage was diabolical, the "bouncing" of the heavy guns, the screams of the "whiz-bangs," the cackle of machine-guns from aeroplanes overhead; all seemed to tell of death and chaos. suddenly the puny sound of guns was drowned in one gigantic uproar. for a moment the place was plunged in darkness, then the electric light shuddered into being again. the glass flew from the windows, the house rocked as if uncertain whether or no it should collapse. miss wangle slipped on to her knees, her wig slipped on to her left ear. "oh, my god!" screamed the cook, as if to ensure exclusive rights to the deity's attention. jenny, the housemaid, entirely unconscious that her nightdress was her sole garment, threw herself flat on her face. mrs. craske-morton, who was pouring out tea, let the teapot slip from her hand, smashing the cup and pouring the contents on to the table. gustave's knees refused their office and he sank down, grasping with both hands the edge of the table. mrs. barnes dropped her clothes without troubling to retrieve them. suddenly there was a terrifying scream outside, then a motor-car drew up and the sound of men's voices was heard. still the guns thundered. patricia felt herself trembling. for a moment a rush of blood seemed to suffocate her, then she found herself gazing at miss wangle, wondering whether she were praying to god or to the bishop. she laughed in a voice unrecognisable to herself. she looked about the kitchen. mr. sefton had sunk down upon a chair, the cigarette still attached to his bloodless lower lip, his arms hanging limply down beside him. mr. cordal was looking about him as if dazed, whilst mr. bolton was gazing at the glassless window-frames, as if expecting some apparition to appear. "it's a bomb next door," gasped mrs. craske-morton, then remembering her responsibilities, she caught patricia's eye. there was appeal in her glance. "come along, gustave," cried patricia in a voice that she still found it difficult to recognise as her own. gustave, still on his knees, looked round and up at her with the eyes of a dumb animal that knows it is about to be tortured. "gustave, get up and help with the tea," said patricia. a look of wonder crept into gustave's eyes at the unaccustomed tone of patricia's voice. slowly he dragged himself up, as if testing the capacity of each knee to support the weight of his body. "there's brandy there," said mrs. craske-morton, pointing to a spirit-case she had brought down with her. "here's the key." patricia took the key from her trembling hand, noting that her own was shaking violently. "mrs. morton," she whispered, "you are splendid." mrs. morton smiled wanly, and patricia felt that in that moment she had got to know the woman beneath the boarding-house keeper. "shall we put it in their tea?" enquired patricia, holding the decanter of brandy. mrs. craske-morton nodded. "now, gustave!" cried patricia, "make everybody drink tea." gustave looked at his own hands, and then down at his knees as if in doubt as to whether he possessed the power of making them obey his wishes. miss wangle was still on her knees, the cook was appealing to the almighty with tiresome reiteration. jenny had developed hysterics, and was seated on the ground drumming with her heels upon the floor, miss sikkum gazing at her as if she had been some phenomenon from another world. mr. bolton had valiantly pulled himself together and was endeavouring to persuade mrs. barnes to accept the various garments that he was picking up from the floor. her only acknowledgment of his gallantry was to gaze at him with dull, unseeing eyes, and to wag her head from side to side as if in repudiation of the ownership of what he was striving to get her to take from him. mr. sefton, valiant to the end, was with trembling fingers endeavouring to extract a cigarette from his case, apparently unconscious that one was still attached to his lip. mrs. craske-morton, patricia and gustave set themselves to work to pour tea and brandy down the throats of the others. mr. sefton took his mechanically and put it to his lips, oblivious of the cigarette that still dangled there. finding an obstruction he put up his hand and pulled the cigarette away and with it a portion of the skin of his lip. for the rest of the evening he was dabbing his mouth with his pocket-handkerchief. gustave had valiantly gone to the assistance of jenny, and was endeavouring to pour tea through her closed teeth, with the result that it streamed down the neck of her nightdress. the effect was the same, however. as she felt the hot fluid on her chest she screamed, stopped drumming with her heels and looked about the kitchen. "you've scalded me, you beast!" she cried, whereat gustave, who was sitting on his heels, started and fell backwards, bringing miss sikkum down on top of him together with her cup of tea. mrs. craske-morton was ministering to miss wangle and mrs. mosscrop-smythe. mr. bolton and mr. cordal were both drinking neat brandy out of teacups. outside the guns still thundered and screamed. patricia went to the assistance of the cook; kneeling down she persuaded her to drink a cup of tea and brandy, which had the effect of silencing her appeals to the almighty. for an hour the "guests" of galvin house waited, exactly what for no one knew. then the noise of the firing began to die away in waves of sound. there would be a few minutes' silence but for the distant rumble of guns, then suddenly a spurt of firing as if the guns were reluctant to forget their former anger. another period of silence would follow, then two or three isolated reports, like the snarl of dogs that had been dragged from their prey. finally quiet. for a further half-hour galvin house waited, praying that the attack would not be renewed. there were little spurts of conversation. mr. sefton was slowly returning to the "foot on the capstan" attitude, and actually had a cigarette alight. mr. bolton and mr. cordal were speculating as to where the bomb had fallen. mrs. craske-morton was wondering if the government would pay promptly for the damage to her glass. outside there were sounds of life and movement, cars were throbbing and passing to and fro, and men's voices could be heard. suddenly there was a loud peal of the street-door bell. all looked at each other in consternation. gustave looked about him as if he had lost a puppy. mrs. craske-morton looked at gustave. "gustave!" said patricia, surprised at her own calm. gustave looked at her for a moment then, remembering his duties, went slowly to the door, listening the while as if expecting a further bombardment to break out. with the exception of miss wangle and the cook, everybody was on the qui vive of expectation. "it's the police," suggested mrs. craske-morton, with conviction. "or the ambulance," ventured miss sikkum in a trembling voice. "they're collecting the dead," she added optimistically. all eyes were riveted upon the kitchen door. steps were heard descending the stairs. a moment later the door was thrown open and gustave in a voice strangely unlike his own announced: "'ees lordship, madame." bowen entered the kitchen and cast a swift look about him. a light of relief passed over his face as he saw patricia. some instinct that she could neither explain nor control caused her to go over to him, and before she knew what was taking place both her hands were in his. "thank god!" he breathed. "i was afraid it was this house. i heard a bomb had dropped here. oh, my dear! i've been in hell!" there was something in his voice that thrilled her as she had never been thrilled before. she looked up at him smiling, then suddenly with a great content she remembered that she had dressed herself with care. bowen looked about him, and seeing mrs. craske-morton, went over and shook hands. "she's a regular heroine, peter," said patricia, unconscious that she had used his name. "she's been so splendid." mrs. craske-morton smiled at patricia, again her human smile. "oh! go away, make him go away!" it was mrs. mosscrop-smythe who spoke. her words had an electrifying effect upon everyone. miss wangle sat up and made feverish endeavours to straighten her wig. jenny, the housemaid, looked round for cover that was nowhere available. the cook became aware of her lack of clothing. miss sikkum strove to minimise the exhibition of feminine bone-structure. mrs. barnes made a dive for mr. bolton, who was still holding various of her garments that he had retrieved. these she seized from him as if he had been a pickpocket, and thrust them under her arm. "oh, please go away!" moaned the cook. "come upstairs," said patricia as she led the way out of the kitchen, to the relief of those whose reawakened modesty saw in bowen's presence an outrage to decorum. switching on the light in the lounge, patricia threw herself into a chair. she was beginning to feel the reaction. "why did you come?" she asked. "i heard that a bomb had fallen in this street and---well, i had to come. i was never in such a funk in all my life." "how did you get round here; did you bring the car?" "no, i couldn't get the car out, i walked it," said bowen briefly. "that was very sweet of you," said patricia gratefully, looking up at him in a way she had never looked at him before. "and now i think you must be going. we must all go to bed again." "yes, the 'all clear' will sound soon, i think," replied bowen. they moved out into the hall. for a moment they stood looking at each other, then bowen took both her hands in his. "i am so glad, patricia," he said, gazing into her eyes, then suddenly he bent down and kissed her full on the lips. dropping her hands and without another word he picked up his cap and let himself out, leaving patricia standing gazing in front of her. for a moment she stood, then turning as one in a dream, walked slowly upstairs to her room. "i wonder why i let him do that?" she murmured as she stood in front of the mirror unpinning her hair. chapter xix galvin house after the raid the next day and for many days galvin house abandoned itself to the raid. the air was full of rumours of the appalling casualties resulting from the bomb that had been dropped in the next street. no one knew anything, everyone had heard something. the horrors confided to each other by the residents at galvin house would have kept the grand guignol in realism for a generation. silent herself, patricia watched with interest the ferment around her. with the exception of mrs. craske-morton, all seemed to desire most of all to emphasize their own attitude of splendid intellectual calm during the raid. they spoke scornfully of acquaintances who had flown from london because of the danger from bomb-dropping gothas, they derided the thames valley aliens, they talked heroically and patriotically about "standing their bit of bombing." in short galvin house had become a harbour of heroism. mrs. craske-morton, who had shown a calmness and courage that none of the others seemed to recognise, had nothing to say except about her broken glass; on this subject, however, she was eloquent. miss wangle managed to convey to those who would listen that her own safety, and in fact that of galvin house, was directly due to the intercession of the bishop, who when alive was particularly noted for the power and sustained eloquence of his prayers. mr. bolton was frankly sceptical. if the august prelate was out to save galvin house, he suggested, it wasn't quite cricket to let them drop a bomb in the next street. everyone was extremely critical of everyone else. mr. bolton said things about mrs. barnes and her clothes that made miss sikkum blush, particularly about the nose, where, with her, emotion always first manifested itself. mr. sefton had permanently returned to the "women and children first" phase and, as two cigarettes were missing from his case, he was convinced that he had acquitted himself with that air of reckless bravado that endeared a man to women. he talked pityingly and tolerantly of gustave's obvious terror. mr. bolton saw in the adventure material for jokes for months to come. he laboured at the subject with such misguided industry that patricia felt she almost hated him. some of his allusions, particularly to the state of sartorial indecision in which the maids had sought cover, were "not quite nice," as mrs. mosscrop-smythe expressed it to mrs. hamilton, who returned from a visit the day following. at breakfast everyone had talked, and in consequence everyone who worked was late for work; the general opinion being, what was the use of a raid unless you could be late for work? punctuality on such occasions being regarded as the waste of an opportunity, and a direct rebuke to providence who had placed it there. patricia did not take part in the general babel, beyond pointing out, when gustave was coming under discussion, that it was he who had gone to the top of the house to call her. she looked meaningly at mr. bolton and mr. sefton, who had the grace to appear a little ashamed of themselves. when patricia returned in the evening, she found lady tanagra awaiting her in the lounge, literally bombarded with different accounts of what had happened--all narrated in the best "eye-witness" manner of the alarmist press. following the precept of charles lamb, galvin house had apparently striven to correct the bad impression made through lateness in beginning work by leaving early. it was obvious that lady tanagra had made herself extremely popular. everyone was striving to gain her ear for his or her story of personal experiences. "ah, here you are!" cried lady tanagra as patricia entered. "i hear you behaved like a heroine last night." mrs. craske-morton nodded her head with conviction. "mrs. morton was the real heroine," said patricia. "she was splendid!" mrs. craske-morton flushed. to be praised before so distinguished a caller was almost embarrassing, especially as no one had felt it necessary to comment upon her share in the evening's excitement. "come up with me while i take off my things," said patricia, as she moved towards the door. she saw that any private talk between herself and lady tanagra would be impossible in the lounge with galvin house in its present state of ferment. in patricia's room lady tanagra subsided into a chair with a sigh. "i feel as if i were a celebrity arriving at new york," she laughed. "they're rather excited," smiled patricia, "but then we live such a humdrum life here--the expression is mrs. mosscrop-smythe's--and much should be forgiven them. a book could be written on the boarding-house mind, i think. it moves in a vicious circle. if someone would only break out and give the poor dears something to talk about." "didn't you do that?" enquired lady tanagra slily. patricia smiled wearily. "i take second place now to the raid. think of living here for the next few weeks. they will think raid, read raid, talk raid and dream raid." she shuddered. "thank heavens i'm off to-morrow." "off to-morrow?" lady tanagra raised her eyes in interrogation. "yes, to eastbourne for a fortnight's holiday as provided for in the arrangement existing between one patricia brent and arthur bonsor, esquire, m.p. it's part of the wages of the sin of secretaryship." patricia sighed. "i hope you'll enjoy----" "please don't be conventional," interrupted patricia. "i shall not enjoy it in the least. within twenty-four hours i shall long to be back again. i shall get up in the morning and i shall go to bed at night. in between i shall walk a bit, read a bit, get my nose red (thank heavens it doesn't peel) and become bored to extinction. one thing i won't do, that is wear openwork frocks. the sun shall not print cheap insertion kisses upon patricia brent." "you're quite sure that it is a holiday," lady tanagra looked up quizzically at patricia as she stood gazing out of the window. "a holiday!" repeated patricia, looking round. "it sounded just a little depressing," said lady tanagra. "it will be exactly what it sounds," patricia retorted; "only depressing is not quite the right word, it's too polite. you don't know what it is to be lonely, tanagra, and live at galvin house, and try to haul or push a politician into a rising posture. it reminds me of carlyle on the dutch." there was a note of fierce protest in her voice. "you have all the things that i want, and i wonder i don't scratch your face and tear your hair out. we are all primitive in our instincts really." then she laughed. "well! i had to cry out to someone, and i shall feel better. it's rather a beastly world for some of us, you know; but i suppose i ought to be spanked for being ungrateful." "do you know why i've come?" enquired lady tanagra, thinking it wise to change the subject. patricia shook her head. "a more conceited person might have suggested that it was to see me," she said demurely. "to apologise for peter," said lady tanagra. "he disobeyed orders and i am very angry with him." patricia flushed at the memory of their good-night. for a few seconds she stood silent, looking out of the window. "i think it was rather sweet of him," she said without looking round. lady tanagra smiled slightly. "then i may forgive him, you think?" she enquired. patricia turned and looked at her. lady tanagra met the gaze innocently. "he wanted to write to you and send some flowers and chocolates; but i absolutely forbade it. we almost had our first quarrel," she added mendaciously. for the space of a second patricia hated lady tanagra. she would have liked to turn and rend her for interfering in a matter that could not possibly be regarded as any concern of hers. the feeling, however, was only momentary and, when lady tanagra rose to go, patricia was as cordial as ever. from galvin house lady tanagra drove to the quadrant. "peter!" she cried as she entered the room and threw herself into an easy chair, "if ever i again endeavour to divert true love from its normal----" "how is she?"' interrupted bowen. "now you've spoiled it," cried lady tanagra, "and it was----" "spoiled what?" demanded bowen. "my beautiful phrase about true love and its normal channel, and i have been saying it over to myself all the way from galvin house." she looked reproachfully at her brother. "how's patricia?" demanded bowen eagerly. "fair to moderately fair, rain later, i should describe her," replied lady tanagra, helping herself to a cigarette which bowen lighted. "she's going away." "good heavens! where?" cried bowen. "eastbourne." "when?" "to-morrow." "damn!" "my dear peter," remarked lady tanagra lazily, "this primitive profanity ill becomes----" "please don't rot me, tan," he pleaded. "i've had a rotten time lately." there was helpless and hopeless pain in bowen's voice that caused lady tanagra to spring up from her chair and go over to him. "carry on, old boy," she cried softly, as she caressed his coat-sleeve. "it's your only chance. you're going to win." "i must see her!" blurted out bowen. "if you do you'll spoil everything," announced lady tanagra with conviction. "but, last night," began bowen and paused. "last night, i think," said lady tanagra, "was a master-stroke. she is touched; it's taken us forward at least a week." "but look here, tan," said bowen gloomily, "you told me to leave it all in your hands and you make me treat her rottenly, then you say----" "that you know about as much of how to make a woman like patricia fall in love with you as an ostrich does of geology," said lady tanagra calmly. "but what will she think?" demanded bowen. "at present she is thinking that eastbourne will be a nightmare of loneliness." "i'll run down and see her," announced bowen. "if you do, peter!" there was a note of warning in lady tanagra's voice. "all right," he conceded gloomily. "i'll give you another week, and then i'll go my own way." "peter, if you were smaller and i were bigger i think i should spank you," laughed lady tanagra. then with great seriousness she said, "i want you to marry her, and i'm going the only way to work to make her let you. do try and trust me, peter." bowen looked down at her with a smile, touched by the look in her eyes. for a moment his arm rested across her shoulders. then he pushed her towards the door. "clear out, tan. i'm not fit for a bear-pit to-night." the bowens were never demonstrative with one another. for half an hour bowen sat smoking one cigarette after another until he was interrupted by the entrance of peel, who, after a comprehensive glance round the room, proceeded to administer here and there those deft touches that emphasize a patient and orderly mind. bowen watched him as he moved about on the balls of his feet. "have you ever been to eastbourne, peel?" enquired bowen presently. just why he asked the question he could not have said. "only once, my lord," replied peel as he replaced the full ash-tray on the table by bowen with a clean one. there was a note in his voice implying that nothing would ever tempt him to go there again. "you don't like it?" suggested bowen. "i dislike it intensely, my lord," replied peel as he refolded a copy of _the times_. "why?" "it has unpleasant associations, my lord," was the reply. bowen smiled. after a moment's silence he continued: "been sowing wild oats there?" "no, my lord, not exactly." "well, if it's not too private," said bowen, "tell me what happened. at the moment i'm particularly interested in the place." peel gazed reproachfully at a copy of _the sphere_, which had managed in some strange way to get its leaves dog-eared. as he proceeded to smooth them out he continued: "it was when i was young, my lord. i was engaged to be married. i thought her a most excellent young woman, in every way suitable. she went down to eastbourne for a holiday." he paused. "well, there doesn't seem much wrong in that," said bowen. "from eastbourne she wrote, saying that she had changed her mind," proceeded peel. "the devil she did!" exclaimed bowen. "and what did you do?" "i went down to reason with her, my lord," said peel. "does one reason with a woman, peel?" enquired bowen with a smile. "i was very young then, my lord, not more than thirty-two." peel's tone was apologetic. "i discovered that she had received an offer of marriage from another." "hard luck!" murmured bowen. "not at all, my lord, really," said peel philosophically. "i discovered that she had re-engaged herself to a butcher, a most offensive fellow. his language when i expostulated with him was incredibly coarse, and i am sure he used marrow for his hair." "and what did you do?" enquired bowen. "i had taken a return ticket, my lord. i came back to london." bowen laughed. "i'm afraid you couldn't have been very badly hit, peel, or you would not have been able to take it quite so philosophically." "i have never allowed my private affairs to interfere with my professional duties, my lord," replied peel unctuously. for five minutes bowen smoked in silence. "so you do not believe in marriage," he said at length. "i would not say that, my lord; but i do not think it suitable for a man of temperament such as myself. i have known marriages quite successful where too much was not required of the contracting parties." "but don't you believe in love?" enquired bowen. "love, my lord, is like a disease. if you are on the look out for it you catch it, if you ignore it, it does not trouble you. i was once with a gentleman who was very nervous about microbes. he would never eat anything that had not been cooked, and he had everything about him disinfected. he even disinfected me," he added as if in proof of the extreme eccentricity of his late employer. "so i suppose you despise me for having fallen in love and contemplating marriage," said bowen with a smile. "there are always exceptions, my lord," responded peel tactfully. "i have prepared the bath." "peel," remarked bowen as he rose and stretched himself, "disinfected or not disinfected, you are safe from the microbe of romance." "i hope so, my lord," responded peel as he opened the door. "i wonder if history will repeat itself," murmured bowen as he walked through his bedroom into the bathroom. "i, too, hate eastbourne." chapter xx a race with spinsterhood before she had been at eastbourne twenty-four hours patricia was convinced that she had made a mistake in going there. with no claims upon her time, the restlessness that had developed in london increased until it became almost unbearable. the hotel at which she was staying was little more than a glorified boarding-house, full of "the most jungly of jungle-people," as she expressed it to herself. their well-meant and kindly efforts to engage her in their pursuits and pleasures she received with apathetic negation. at length her fellow-guests, seeing that she was determined not to respond to their overtures, left her severely alone. the men were the last to desist. she came to dislike the pleasure-seekers about her and grew critical of everything she saw, the redness of the women's faces, the assumed youthfulness of the elderly men, the shapelessness of matrons who seemed to delight in bright open-work blouses and juvenile hats. she remembered elton's remark that fashion uncovers a multitude of shins. the shins exposed at eastbourne were she decided, sufficient to undermine one's belief in the early chapters of genesis. at one time she would have been amused at the types around her, and their various conceptions of "one crowded hour of glorious life." as it was, everything seemed sordid and trivial. why should people lose all sense of dignity and proportion at a set period of the year? it was, she decided, almost as bad as being a hare. all she wanted was to be alone, she told herself; yet as soon as she had discovered some secluded spot and had settled herself down to read, the old restlessness attacked her, and fight against it as she might, she was forced back again to the haunts of men. for the first few days she watched eagerly for letters. none came. she would return to the hotel several times a day, look at the letter-rack, then, to hide her disappointment, make a pretence of having returned for some other purpose. "why had not bowen written?" she asked herself, then a moment after she strove to convince herself that he had forgotten, or at least that she was only an episode in his life. his sudden change from eagerness to indifference caused her to flush with humiliation; yet he had gone to galvin house during the raid to assure himself of her safety. why had he not written after what had occurred? perhaps aunt adelaide was right about men after all. patricia wrote to lady tanagra, mrs. hamilton, lady peggy, mr. triggs, even to miss sikkum. in due course answers arrived; but in only miss sikkum's letter was there any reference to bowen, a gush of sentiment about "how happy you must be, dear miss brent, with lord bowen running down to see you every other day. i know!" she added with maidenly prescience. patricia laughed. mr. triggs committed himself to nothing more than two and three-quarter pages, mainly about his daughter and "a. b.," mr. triggs was not at his best as a correspondent. lady tanagra ran to four pages; but as her handwriting was large, five lines filling a page, her letter was disappointing. lady peggy was the most productive. in the course of twelve pages of spontaneity she told patricia that the duke and the cabinet minister had almost quarrelled about her, patricia. "peter has been to lunch with us and daddy has told him how lucky he is, and how wonderful you are. if peter is not very careful, i shall have you presented to me as a stepmother. wouldn't it be priceless!" she wrote. "oh! what am i writing?" she ended with the duke's love, and an insistence that patricia should lunch at curzon street the first sunday after her return. patricia found lady peggy's letter charming. she was pleased to know that she had made a good impression and was admired--by the right people. twenty-four hours, however, found her once more thrown back into the trough of her own despondency. instinctively she began to count the days until this "dire compulsion of infertile days" should end. she could not very well return to london and say that she was tired of holiday-making. galvin house would put its own construction upon her action and words, and whatever that construction might be, it was safe to assume that it would be an unpleasant one. there were moments when a slight uplifting of the veil enabled her to see herself as she must appear to others. "patricia!" she exclaimed one morning to her reflection in a rather dubious mirror. "you're a cumberer of the earth and, furthermore, you've got a beastly temper," and she jabbed a pin through her hat and partly into her head. as the days passed she found herself wondering what was the earliest day she could return. if she made it the friday night, would it arouse suspicion? she decided that it would, and settled to leave eastbourne on the saturday afternoon. as the train steamed out of the station she made a grimace in the direction of the town, just as an inoffensive and prematurely bald little man opposite looked up from his paper. he gave patricia one startled look through his gold-rimmed spectacles and, for the rest of the journey, buried himself behind his paper, fearful lest patricia should "make another face at him," as he explained to his mother that evening. "she's come home in a nice temper!" was miss wangle's diagnosis of the mood in which patricia reached galvin house. gustave regarded her with anxious concern. the first dinner drove her almost mad. the raid, as a topic of conversation, was on the wane, although mr. bolton worked at it nobly, and patricia found herself looked upon to supply the necessary material for the evening's amusement. what had she done? where had she been? had she bathed? were the dresses pretty? how many times had bowen been down? had she met any nice people? was it true that the costumes of the women were disgraceful? at last, with a forced laugh, patricia told them that she must have "notice" of such questions, and everybody had looked at her in surprise, until mr. bolton's laugh rang out, and he explained the parliamentary allusion. when at last, under pretence of being tired, she was able to escape to her room, she felt that another five minutes would have turned her brain. sunday dawned, and with it the old panorama of iterations unfolded itself: mr. bolton's velvet coat and fez, mr. cordal's carpet slippers with the fur tops, mrs. barnes' indecision, mr. sefton's genial and romantic optimism, miss sikkum's sumptuary excesses; all presented themselves in due sequence just as they had done for--"was it centuries?" patricia asked herself. to crown all it was a roast-pork sunday, and the reek of onions preparing for the seasoning filled the house. patricia felt that the fates were fighting against her. in nerving herself for the usual human sunday ordeal, she had forgotten the vegetable menace, in other words that it was "pork sunday." mr. bolton was always more than usually trying on sundays; but reinforced by onions he was almost unbearable. patricia fled. it was the sunday before august bank holiday. patricia shuddered at the remembrance. it meant that people were away. she did not pause to think that her world was at home, pursuing its various paths whereby to cultivate an appetite worthy of the pork that was even then sizzling in the galvin house kitchen under the eagle eye of the cook, who prided herself on her "crackling," which galvin house crunched with noisy gusto. patricia sank down upon a chair far back under the trees opposite the stanhope gate. here she remained in a vague way watching the people, yet unconscious of their presence. from time to time some snatch of meaningless conversation would reach her. "you know betty's such a sport?" one man said to another. patricia found herself wondering what betty was like and what, to the speaker's mind, constituted being a sport. was betty pretty? she must be, patricia decided; no one cared whether or no a plain girl were a sport. she found herself wanting to know betty. what were the lives of all these people, these shadows, that were moving to and fro in front of her, each intent upon something that seemed of vital importance? were they----? "i doubt if cassandra could have looked more gloomily prophetic." she turned with a start and saw geoffrey elton smiling down upon her. "did i look as bad as that?" she enquired, as he took a seat beside her. "you looked as if you were gratuitously settling the destinies of the world," he replied. "in a way i suppose i was," she said musingly. "you see they all mean something," indicating the paraders with a nod of her head, "tragedy, comedy, farce, sometimes all three. if you only stop to think about life, it all seems so hopeless. i feel sometimes that i could run away from it all." "that in the middle ages would have been diagnosed as the monastic spirit," said elton. "it arose, and no doubt continues in most cases to arise from a sluggish liver." "how dreadful!" laughed patricia. "the inference is obvious." "the world's greatest achievements and greatest tragedies could no doubt be traced directly to rebellious livers: waterloo and 'hamlet' are instances." "are you serious?" enquired patricia. she was never quite certain of elton. "in a way i suppose i am," he replied. "if i were a pathologist i should write a book upon _the influence of disease upon the destinies of the world_. the supreme monarch is the microbe. the germans have shown that they recognise this." "ugh!" patricia shuddered. "of course you have to make some personal sacrifice in the matter of self-respect first," continued elton, "but after that the rest becomes easy." "i suppose that is what a german victory would mean," said patricia. "yes; we should give up lead and nickel and t.n.t., and invent germ distributors. essen would become a great centre of germ-culture, and----" "oh! please let us talk about something else," cried patricia. "it's horrible!" "well!" said elton with a smile, "shall we continue our talk over lunch, if you have no engagement?" "lady peggy asked me----" began patricia. "they're away in somerset," said elton, "so now i claim you as my victim. it is your destiny to save me from my own thoughts." "and yours to save me from roast pork and apple sauce," said patricia, rising. as they walked towards hyde park corner she explained the galvin house cuisine. they lunched at the ritz and, to her surprise patricia found herself eating with enjoyment, a thing she had not done for weeks past. she decided that it must be a revulsion of feeling after the menace of roast pork. elton was a good talker, with a large experience of life and a considerable fund of general information. "i should like to travel," said patricia as she sipped her coffee in the lounge. "why?" elton held a match to her cigarette. "oh! i suppose because it is enjoyable," replied patricia; "besides, it educates," she added. "that is too conventional to be worthy of you," said elton. "how?" queried patricia. "most of the dull people i know ascribe their dullness to lack of opportunities for travel. they seem to think that a voyage round the world will make brilliant talkers of the toughest bores." "am i as tedious as that?" enquired patricia, looking up with a smile. "your friend, mr. triggs, for instance," continued elton, passing over patricia's remark. "he has not travelled, and he is always interesting. why?" "i suppose because he is mr. triggs," said patricia half to herself. "exactly," said elton. "if you were really yourself you would not be----" "so dull," broke in patricia with a laugh. "so lonely," continued elton, ignoring the interruption. "why do you say that?" demanded patricia. "it's not exactly a compliment." "intellectual loneliness may be the lot of the greatest social success." "but why do you think i am lonely?" persisted patricia. "let us take mr. triggs as an illustration. he is direct, unversed in diplomacy, golden-hearted, with a great capacity for friendship and sentiment. when he is hurt he shows it as plainly as a child, therefore we none of us hurt him." "he's a dear!" murmured patricia half to herself. "if he were in love he would never permit pride to disguise it." patricia glanced up at elton: but he was engaged in examining the end of his cigarette. "he would credit the other person with the same sincerity as himself," continued elton. "the biggest rogue respects an honest man, that is why we, who are always trying to disguise our emotions, admire mr. triggs, who would just as soon wear a red beard and false eyebrows as seek to convey a false impression." patricia found herself wondering why elton had selected this topic. she was conscious that it was not due to chance. "is it worth it?" elton's remark, half command, half question, seemed to stab through her thoughts. she looked up at him, her eyes a little widened with surprise. "is what worth what?" she enquired. "i was just wondering," said elton, "if the triggses are not very wise in eating onions and not bothering about what the world will think." "eating onions!" cried patricia. "my medical board is on tuesday up north," said elton, "and i shall hope to get back to france. you see things in a truer perspective when you're leaving town under such conditions." patricia was silent for some time. elton's remarks sometimes wanted thinking out. "you think we should take happiness where we can find it?" she asked. "well! i think we are too much inclined to render unto cæsar the things which are god's," he replied gravely. "do you appreciate that you are talking in parables?" said patricia. "that is because i do not possess mr. triggs's golden gift of directness." suddenly patricia glanced at her watch. "why, it's five minutes to three!" she cried. "i had no idea it was so late." "i promised to run round to say good-bye to peter at three," elton remarked casually, as he passed through the lounge. "good-bye!" cried patricia in surprise. "he is throwing up his staff appointment, and has applied to rejoin his regiment in france." for a moment patricia stopped dead, then with a great effort she passed through the revolving door into the sunlight. her knees seemed strangely shaky, and she felt thankful when she saw the porter hail a taxi. elton handed her in and closed the door. "galvin house?" he interrogated. "when does he go?" asked patricia in a voice that she could not keep even in tone. "as soon as the war office approves," said elton. "does lady tanagra know?" she asked. "no, peter will not tell her until everything is settled," he replied. as the taxi sped westwards patricia was conscious that some strange change had come over her. she had the feeling that follows a long bout of weeping. peter was going away! suddenly everything was changed! everything was explained! she must see him! prevent him from going back to france! he was going because of her! he would be killed and it would be her fault! arrived at galvin house she went straight to her room. for two hours she lay on her bed, her mind in a turmoil, her head feeling as if it were being compressed into a mould too small for it. no matter how she strove to control them, her thoughts inevitably returned to the phrase, "peter is going to france." unknown to herself, she was fighting a great fight with her pride. she must see him, but how? if she telephoned it would be an unconditional surrender. she could never respect herself again. "when you are in love you take pleasure in trampling your pride underfoot." the phrase persisted in obtruding itself. where had she heard it? what was pride? she asked herself. one might be very lonely with pride as one's sole companion. what would mr. triggs say? she could see his forehead corrugated with trying to understand what pride had to do with love. even elton, self-restrained, almost self-sufficient, admitted that mr. triggs was right. if she let peter go? a year hence, a month perhaps, she might have lost him. of what use would her pride be then? she had not known before; but now she knew how much peter meant to her. since he had come into her life everything had changed, and she had grown discontented with the things that, hitherto, she had tacitly accepted as her portion. "you're fretting, me dear!" mr. triggs's remark came back to her. she recalled how indignant she had been. why? because it was true. she had been cross. she remembered the old man's anxiety lest he had offended her. she almost smiled as she recalled his clumsy effort to explain away his remark. she had heard someone knock gently at her door, once, twice, three times. she made no response. then gustave's voice whispered, "tea is served in the looaunge, mees." she heard him creep away with clumsy stealth. there was a sweet-natured creature. he could never disguise an emotion. he had come upstairs during the raid, though in obvious terror, in order to save her. mr. triggs, gustave, elton, all were against her. she knew that in some subtle way they were working to fight _her_ pride. for some time longer she lay, then suddenly she sprang up. first she bathed her face, then undid her hair, finally she changed her frock and powdered her nose. "hurry up, patricia! or you may think better of it," she cried to her reflection in the glass. "this is a race with spinsterhood." going downstairs quietly she went to the telephone. "gerrard ," she called, conscious that both her voice and her knees were unsteady. after what seemed an age there came the reply, "quadrant hotel." "is lord peter bowen in?" she enquired. "thank you," she added in response to the clerk's promise to enquire. her hand was shaking. she almost dropped the receiver. he must be out, she told herself, after what seemed to her an age of waiting. if he were in they would have found him. perhaps he had already started for---- "who is that?" it was bowen's voice. patricia felt she could sing. so he had not gone! would her knees play her false and cheat her? "it's--it's me," she said, regardless of grammar. "that's delightful; but who is me?" came the response. no wonder woman liked him if he spoke like that to them, she decided. suddenly she realised that even she herself could not recognise as her own the voice with which she was speaking. "patricia," she said. "patricia!" there was astonishment, almost incredulity in his voice. so elton had said nothing. "where are you? can i see you?" patricia felt her cheeks burn at the eagerness of his tone. "i'm--i'm going out. i--i'll call for you if you like," she stammered. "i say, how ripping of you. come in a taxi or shall i come and fetch you?" "no, i--i'm coming now, i'm----" then she put up the receiver. what was she going to do or say? for a moment she swayed. was she going to faint? a momentary deadly sickness seemed to overcome her. she fought it back fiercely. she must get to the quadrant. "i shall have to be a sort of reincarnation of mrs. triggs, i think," she murmured as she staggered past the astonished gustave, who was just coming from the lounge, and out of the front door, where she secured a taxi. chapter xxi the greatest indiscretion i in the vestibule of the quadrant stood peel, looking a veritable colossus of negation. as patricia approached he bowed and led the way to the lift. as it slid upwards patricia wondered if peel could hear the thumping of her heart, and if so, what he thought of it. she followed him along the carpeted corridor conscious of a mad desire to turn and fly. what would peel do? she wondered. possibly in the madness of the moment his mantle of discretion might fall from him, and he would dash after her. what a sensation for the quadrant! a girl tearing along as if for her life pursued by a gentleman's servant. it would look just like the poster of "charley's aunt." peel opened the door of bowen's sitting-room, and patricia entered with the smile still on her lips that the thought of "charley's aunt" had aroused. something seemed to spring towards her from inside the room, and she found herself caught in a pair of arms and kissed. she remembered wondering if peel were behind, or if he had closed the door, then she abandoned herself to bowen's embrace. everything seemed somehow changed. it was as if someone had suddenly shouldered her responsibilities, and she would never have to think again for herself. her lips, her eyes, her hair, were kissed in turn. she was being crushed; yet she was conscious only of a feeling of complete content. suddenly the realisation of what was happening dawned upon her, and she strove to free herself. with all her force she pushed bowen from her. he released her. she stood back looking at him with crimson cheeks and unseeing eyes. she was conscious that something unusual was happening to her, something in which she appeared to have no voice. perhaps it was all a dream. she swayed a little. the same sensation she had fought back at the telephone was overcoming her. was she going to faint? it would be ridiculous to faint in bowen's rooms. why did people faint? was it really, as aunt adelaide had told her, because the heart missed a beat? one beat---- she felt bowen's arm round her, she seemed to sway towards a chair. was the chair really moving away from her? then the mist seemed to clear. someone was kneeling beside her. bowen gazed at her anxiously. her face was now colourless, and her eyes closed wearily. she sighed as a tired child sighs before falling asleep. "patricia! what is the matter?" cried bowen in alarm. "you haven't fainted, have you?" she was conscious of the absurdity of the question. she opened her eyes with a curious fluttering movement of the lids, as if they were uncertain how long they could remain unclosed. a slow, tired smile played across her face, like a passing shaft of sunshine, then the lids closed again and the life seemed to go out of her body. bowen gently withdrew his arm and, rising, strode across to a table on which was a decanter of whisky and syphon of soda. with unsteady hands, he poured whisky and soda into a glass and, returning to patricia, he passed his arm gently behind her head, placing the glass against her lips. she drank a little and then, with a shudder, turned her head aside. a moment later her eyes opened again. she looked round the room, then fixed her gaze on bowen as if trying to explain to herself his presence. gradually the colour returned to her cheeks and she sighed deeply. she shook her head as bowen put the glass against her lips. "i nearly fainted," she whispered, sighing again. "i've never done such a thing." then after a pause she added, "i wonder what has happened. my head feels so funny." "it's all my fault," said bowen penitently. "i've waited so long, and i seemed to go mad. you will forgive me, dearest, won't you?" his voice was full of concern. patricia smiled. "have i been here long?" she asked. "it seems ages since i came." "no; only about five minutes. oh, patricia! you won't do it again, will you?" bowen drew her nearer to him and upset the glass containing the remains of the whisky and soda that he had placed on the floor beside him. "i didn't quite faint, really," she said earnestly, as if defending herself from a reproach. "i mean throw me over," explained bowen. "it's been hell!" "please go and sit down," she said, moving restlessly. "i'm all right now. i--i want to talk and i can't talk like this." again she smiled, and bowen lifted her hand and kissed it gently. rising he drew a chair near her and sat down. "you see all this comes of trying to be a mrs. triggs," she said regretfully. "mrs. triggs!" bowen looked at her anxiously. slowly and a little wearily patricia explained her conversation with elton. "didn't he tell you he had seen me?" "no," replied bowen, relieved at the explanation; "godfrey is a perfect dome of silence on occasion." "why did you suddenly leave me all alone, peter?" patricia enquired presently. "i couldn't understand. it hurt me terribly. i didn't realise"--she paused--"oh, everything, until i heard you were going away. oh, my dear!" she cried in a low voice, "be gentle with me. i'm all bruises." bowen bent across to her. "i'm a brute," he said, "but----" she shook her head. "not that sort," she said. "it's my pride i've bruised. i seem to have turned everything upside down. you'll have to be very gentle with me at first, please." she looked up at him with a flicker of a smile. "not only at first, dear, but always," said bowen gently as he rose and seated himself beside her. "patricia, when did you--care?" he blurted out the last word hurriedly. "i don't know," she replied dreamily. "you see," she continued after a pause, "i've not been like other girls. do you know, peter," she looked up at him shyly, "you're the first man who has ever kissed me, except my father. isn't it absurd?" "it's nothing of the sort," bowen declared, tilting up her chin and gazing down into her eyes. "but you haven't answered my question." "well!" continued patricia, speaking slowly, "when you sent me flowers and messengers and telegraph-boys and things i was angry, and then when you didn't i----" she paused. "wanted them," he suggested. "u-m-m-m!" she nodded her head. "i suppose so," she conceded. "but," she added with a sudden change of mood, "i shall always be dreadfully afraid of peel. he seems so perfect." bowen laughed. "i'll try and balance matters," he said. "but you haven't told me," said patricia, "why you left me alone all at once. why did you?" she looked up enquiringly at him. during the next half an hour patricia slowly drew from bowen the whole story of the plot engineered by lady tanagra. "but why," questioned patricia, "were you going away if you knew that--that everything would come all right?" "i had given up hope, and i couldn't break my promise to tan. i convinced myself that you didn't care." patricia held out her hand with a smile. bowen bent and kissed it. "i wonder what you are thinking of me?" she looked up at him anxiously. "i'm very much at your mercy now, peter, aren't i? you won't let me ever regret it, will you?" "do you regret it?" he whispered, bending towards her, conscious of the fragrance of her hair. "it's such an unconditional surrender," she complained. "all my pride is bruised and trampled underfoot. you have me at such a disadvantage." "so long as i've got you i don't care," he laughed. "peter," said patricia after a few minutes of silence, "i want you to ring up tanagra and godfrey elton and ask them to dine here this evening. they must put off any other engagement. tell them i say so." "but can't we----?" began bowen. "there, you are making me regret already," she said with a flash of her old vivacity. bowen flew to the telephone. by a lucky chance elton was calling at grosvenor square, and bowen was able to get them both with one call. he was a little disappointed, however, at not having patricia to himself that evening. "when shall we get married?" bowen asked eagerly, as patricia rose and announced that she must go and repair damages to her face and garments. "i will tell you after dinner," she said as she walked towards the door. ii "it is only the impecunious who are constrained to be modest," remarked elton as the four sat smoking in bowen's room after dinner. "is that an apology, or merely a statement of fact?" asked lady tanagra. "i think," remarked patricia quietly, "that it is an apology." elton looked across at her with one of those quick movements of his eyes that showed how alert his mind was, in spite of the languid ease of his manner. "and now," continued patricia, "i have something very important to say to you all." "oh!" groaned lady tanagra, "spare me from the self-importance of the newly-engaged girl." "it has come to my knowledge, tanagra," proceeded patricia, "that you and mr. elton did deliberately and wittingly conspire together against my peace of mind and happiness. there!" she added, "that's almost legal in its ambiguity, isn't it?" lady tanagra and elton exchanged glances. "what do you mean?" demanded lady tanagra gaily. patricia explained that she had extracted from bowen the whole story. lady tanagra looked reproachfully at her brother. then turning to patricia she said with unwonted seriousness: "i saw that was the only way to--to--well get you for a sister-in-law and," she paused a moment uncertainly. "i knew you were the only girl for that silly old thing there, who was blundering up the whole business." "your mania for interfering in other people's affairs will be your ruin, tanagra," said patricia as she turned to elton, her look clearly enquiring if he had any excuse to offer. "the old garden of eden answer," he said. "a woman tempted me." "then we will apply the old garden of eden punishment," announced patricia. elton, who was the first to grasp her meaning, looked anxiously at lady tanagra, who with knitted brows was endeavouring to penetrate to patricia's meaning. bowen was obviously at sea. suddenly lady tanagra's face flamed and her eyes dropped. elton stroked the back of his head, a habit he had when preoccupied--he was never nervous. "you two," continued patricia, now thoroughly enjoying herself, "have precipitated yourselves into my most private affairs, and in return i am going to take a hand in yours. peter has asked me when i will marry him. i said i would tell him after dinner this evening." bowen looked across at her eagerly, elton lit another cigarette, lady tanagra toyed nervously with her amber cigarette-holder. "i will marry peter," announced patricia, "when you, tanagra," she paused slightly, "marry godfrey elton." lady tanagra looked up with a startled cry. her eyes were wide with something that seemed almost fear, then without warning she turned and buried her head in a cushion and burst into uncontrollable sobbing. bowen started up. with a swift movement patricia went over to his side and, before he knew what was happening, he was in the corridor stuttering his astonishment to patricia. for an hour the two sat in the lounge below, talking and listening to the band. patricia explained to bowen how from the first she had known that elton and tanagra were in love. "but we've known him all our lives!" expostulated bowen. "the very thing that blinded you all to a most obvious fact." "but why didn't he----?" began bowen. "because of her money," explained patricia. "anyhow," she continued gaily, "i had lost my own tail, and i wasn't going to see tanagra wagging hers before my eyes. now let's go up and see what has happened." just as bowen's hand was on the handle of the sitting-room door, patricia cried out that she had dropped a ring. when they entered the room elton and lady tanagra were standing facing the door. one glance at their faces, told patricia all she wanted to know. without a word elton came forward and bending low, kissed her hand. there was something so touching in his act of deference that patricia felt her throat contract. she went across to lady tanagra and put her arm round her. "you darling!" whispered lady tanagra. "how clever of you to know." "i knew the first time i saw you together," whispered patricia. lady tanagra hugged her. "and now we must all run round to grosvenor square. poor mother--what a surprise for her!" iii elton's medical board took a more serious view of his state of health than was anticipated, and he was temporarily given an appointment in the intelligence department. bowen's application to be allowed to rejoin his regiment was refused, and thus the way was cleared for the double wedding that took place at st. margaret's, westminster. patricia was given away by the duke of gayton. lady peggy declared that it would rank as the most heroic act he had ever performed. mr. triggs reached the highest sartorial pinnacle of his career in a light grey, almost white frock-coated suit with a high hat to match, a white waistcoat, and a white satin tie. as elton expressed it, he looked like a musical-comedy conception of a bookmaker turned philanthropist. galvin house was there in force. even gustave obtained an hour off and, with a large white rose in his button-hole, beamed on everyone and everything with the utmost impartiality. miss brent, like achilles, sulked in her tent. "the only two men i ever loved," wailed lady peggy to a friend, "and both gone at one shot." "she's a lucky girl," said an old dowager, "and only a secretary." "some girl. what!" muttered an embryo field-marshal to a one-pip strategist in the uniform of the irish guards, who concurred with an emphatic, "lucky devil!" at galvin house for the rest of the chapter they talked, dreamed and lived the bowen-brent marriage. it was the one ineffaceable sunspot in the greyness of their lives. herbert jenkins' shilling library bindle herbert jenkins without mercy john goodwin piccadilly jim p. g. wodehouse the fringe of the desert r. s. macnamara the charing cross mystery j. s. fletcher the man with the clubfoot valentine williams alf's button w. a. darlington hidden fires mrs. patrick macgill the luck of the vails e. f. benson the whiskered footman edgar jepson the diamond cross mystery chester k. s. steele the mystery of the scented death roy vickers anthony trent, master criminal wyndham martyn the markenmore mystery j. s. fletcher a daughter in revolt john goodwin the bartered bride mrs. patrick macgill a damsel in distress p. g. wodehouse his other wife roy vickers the compulsory wife john glyder the winning clue james hay, jun. patricia brent, spinster herbert jenkins the secret of the silver car wyndham martyn isaacs joseph gee playing with souls countess de chambrun the mysterious chinaman j. s. fletcher the flame of life mrs. patrick macgill blackmail john goodwin that red-headed girl louise heilgers moleskin joe patrick macgill sally on the rocks winifred boggs the unlighted house james hay, jun. the edge of the world edith blinn york street st. james's london s.w. reflections of a bachelor girl the average man looks on matrimony as a hitching post where he can tie a woman and leave her until he comes home nights. strange, how joyfully a man will pay a lawyer five hundred dollars for untying the knot that he begrudged paying a clergyman fifty dollars for tying. reflections _of_ a bachelor girl _by_ helen rowland _decorated by_ henry s. eddy "just once more" is the devil's best argument. [illustration] new york dodge publishing company east d street [illustration] copyright, , by dodge publishing company [reflections of a bachelor girl] a man buttons a woman's dress up the back with almost the same grace and alacrity that a woman displays in climbing a barbed wire fence. [illustration] reflections of a bachelor girl "just once more" is the devil's best argument. variety is the spice of love. the only people who believe in a personal devil, nowadays, are the ones who are married to that kind. the girl who marries for money is bought; but the girl who marries for love is sold. a wise lover, like a good cook, is one who knows when the fire is out. alimony is the price of peace. in marriage, the love-light so often goes out as soon as the gas bills begin to come in. [illustration] the only way to be happy with a husband is to learn to be happy without him most of the time. love is just the shine on the jewel of matrimony; but, after all, the shine on a jewel is the whole thing. a man firmly believes that, if he can only keep his wife in the straight and narrow path, he can go out and zig-zag all over the downward one without falling from grace. a girl is never so surprised when a man proposes to her as he is. love doesn't really "make the world go 'round," it only makes us so dizzy that everything seems to be going round. ennui is "that tired feeling" that a girl has when the right man doesn't show up and the wrong one does. [illustration] strange, how joyfully a man will pay a lawyer five hundred dollars for untying the knot that he begrudged paying a clergyman fifty dollars for tying. when a girl marries, she exchanges the attentions of all the other men of her acquaintance for the inattention of just one. it gives a girl silver threads among the gold to marry her ardent admirer and find out afterward that she has tied herself to a life-critic. as far as men are concerned, a woman's reputation for brains is worse than no reputation at all. alas, if husbands were only like sewing machines, and we could have them sent up on trial! [illustration] kissing a girl, without first telling her that you love her, is as small and mean as letting a salesman take you for a free ride in an automobile when you have no intention of buying it. divorce is the "great divide," over which many men think they will pass into heaven. a man can never be made to understand why a woman will pay fifty dollars for a hat containing ten dollars worth of material and forty dollars worth of style. youth will be youth; a young man chases temptation, folly, and chorus girls as naturally as a kitten chases its tail. flinging yourself at a man's head is like flinging a bone at a cat; it doesn't fascinate him, it frightens him. [illustration] men say they admire a woman with high ideals and principles; but it's the kind with high heels and dimples that a wife hesitates to introduce to her husband. marriage is the black coffee that a man takes to settle him after the love-feast. love is the feeling that makes a man turn on the hot water when he meant to light the gas, go hunting for a collar when what he wanted was a pair of socks, shave every day, and forget whether or not he has had any lunch. happiness is at high-tide at the full of the honeymoon. somehow, a man who has been thrown over always lands on his knees to another girl. [illustration] a confirmed bachelor girl is one who hasn't married--yet. too many "flames" dry up the well-spring of love. it is difficult for an old horse to learn new tricks--but an old _man_ hasn't sense enough not to try. the tenderest spot in a man's make-up is sometimes the bald spot on top of his head. never worry for fear you have broken a man's heart; at the worst it is only sprained and a week's rest will put it in perfect working condition again. a rich girl need not bother to cultivate the art of conversation in order to be fascinating. her money will do the talking. [illustration] nothing can exceed the grace and tenderness with which men make love--in novels--, except the off-hand commonplaceness with which they do it in real life. about the only sign of personal individuality that the average woman is allowed to retain after she marries is her toothbrush. there are just three brands of masculine affection: platonic, which is love without kisses; plutonic, which is kisses without love, and kisses with love--which is almost extinct. of course women should marry; no home is complete without a husband any more than it is without a cuckoo clock or a cat. "home" is any four walls that enclose the right person. [illustration] no man can understand why a woman shouldn't prefer a good reputation to a good time. the original fox was a man and the original grapes were the girls he couldn't kiss. a man's desire for a son is usually nothing but the wish to duplicate himself in order that such a remarkable pattern may not be lost to the world. it isn't the girls whom he has loved and lost that a man sighs for; it's those whom he has loved and never won. lazy men fancy that the wheel of life is a roulette wheel, on which fortunes are won only by chance. every time a woman gives a man a piece of her mind she loses a piece of his heart. [illustration] when a man spends his time giving his wife criticism and advice instead of compliments, he forgets that it was not his good judgment, but his charming manners, that won her heart. a man never marries when he ought to; he waits until some woman comes along and gets him so tangled up that he has to. the shortest way to heaven or to hell is via the love route, limited. it may be bad form for a man to pay his wife compliments and call her pet-names in the presence of other women, but it's awfully good policy. many a foolish runaway match has been prevented by the fact that a girl didn't have on her best silk stockings at the critical moment. [illustration] remorse is the feeling a man has when the bottle is empty or he has tired of the girl. husbands are like christmas gifts: you can't choose them; you've just got to sit down and wait until they arrive and then appear perfectly delighted with what you get. the beauty of variety in love or wine is that the moment a man discovers a new brand or a new girl, he forgets all about the others and honestly believes that he is tasting the real thing for the first time. matrimony should not be a prison but a privilege, and husbands and wives should not be jailors but jolliers. that lump which a man feels in his throat when he is about to propose is the "don't" lump. [illustration] a man may read everything that ever was written about women and yet not know enough to avoid asking his wife a question when her mouth is full of pins. the oftener a man falls in love, the more easily and gracefully he does it; exercise seems to keep the heart in good working condition. it is always a surprise to a woman when her husband sues for $ , for the alienation of her affections, which he never seemed to consider worth two cents. matrimony is a revolving door, round which husband and wife follow one another without ever meeting on the same side of any question. marrying an old bachelor is like buying second-hand furniture. [illustration] love always must end sooner or later--usually sooner than the girl expected and later than the man intended. the woman who insists on playing solitaire in conversation is likely to end by playing old maid. from the number of virtues and accomplishments that a man expects to find in one wife, you'd fancy he was marrying a harem. don't worry for fear you may freeze a man's love out; the colder the wind you blow upon it, the higher you fan the flames. the saddest thing about married life is the opportunity it gives two otherwise agreeable people for telling one another the disagreeable truth. [illustration] there never was a man big and strong enough to get out his clean shirt and collar and fix the water for his bath. it's when the game becomes a trifle stale that a man begins to feel conscientious qualms about flirting with a woman. the woman who pins her faith to a man won't find a safety-pin strong enough to stand the strain. in love, the best way to erase one face from the tablet of memory is to draw another across it. a man's ideal woman is the one he couldn't get. a man may feel like a brute at taking a kiss from a nice girl--but it isn't until after he's gotten the kiss. [illustration] why should matrimony interfere with pleasure in this day of self-rocking cradles, self-cooking ranges--and self-supporting wives? most men write a love-letter as cautiously as though they were writing for publication, or fame, or posterity. the man who breaks his social engagements with you before marriage, will break everything from his word to your heart, afterward. platonic friendship is a ship that starts for nowhere and nearly always ends by being wrecked in the port of love. to a man, marriage means giving up four out of five of the chiffonier drawers; to a woman, giving up four out of five of her opinions. [illustration] a man's conscience is like his head; it never bothers him until "the morning after." a man's shoulders are not always as broad as they're padded. men say they hate anything loud about a woman; it must be disgust that makes them always turn around to stare after a peroxide blonde. the saddest sight on earth is an old bachelor trying to sew on a button with a blunt needle and a piece of string. there are some men who, before marriage, will risk their lives to pick up your parasol from in front of a whizzing automobile who wouldn't get off the sofa after marriage to pick up anything you might drop, from a hint, to a baby. [illustration] a husband gets so used to his wife's conversation that after a while it doesn't interrupt his reading of the newspaper any more than the plunking in the steam pipes. of course men admire a circumspect woman above all things, but they seldom invite her out to supper. nothing bores a man worse than the devotion of the girl before the last. it's rather sad to see how easily a man gets "that tired feeling" after a love affair has become a bit stale. a man may send you a gold-handled umbrella with your monogram on it in diamonds and mean nothing but good-fellowship, but if he offers to put it up and carry it over you for fear the mist will spoil your feathers you may be sure he's in love. [illustration] love letters lead to all sorts of complications, but post cards tell no tales. asking a girl if you may kiss her before doing it is an insulting way of laying all the responsibility on her. a married man thinks that if he concedes to smooth his top hair and carry a cane he is sufficiently dressy to go out anywhere with his wife. bridegrooms have that sheepish look because every one of them is morally certain that he is a lamb being led to the slaughter. a wife sort of loses her awe and admiration for men after she has seen her husband without a collar and with his face covered with shaving lather and his top hair sticking up in tufts. [illustration] a man seldom discovers that he hasn't married his affinity until his wife begins to get crow's-feet around the eyes. if you want to be really popular pat a bald man on the head; call an old man "naughty boy"; treat a young man with timid respect; cling to a little man like the vine to the mighty oak, and tell a fat man how you love to dance with him. the man who declares a friend innocent even when he knows he is guilty, and defends a woman's reputation even when it is scarcely worth defending, is not written down a liar by the recording angel. odd how a man always gets remorse confused with reform; a cold bath, a dose of bromo-selzer, and his wife's forgiveness will make him feel so moral that he will begin to patronize you. [illustration] it's as hard to get a man to stay home after you've married him as it was to get him to go home before you married him. a man hates emotions; when a girl pours her heart out to him he feels as if she has emptied the warm water jug or the molasses cruet over him. a woman will lie to anybody else on earth sooner than to the man she loves; but a man will lie to the woman he loves sooner than to anybody else on earth. matrimony is a bargain--and somebody has got to get the worst of the bargain. the most uncomfortable thing about being married is that you can never tell whether your friends are envying you or pitying you. [illustration] all a man asks for in the love-game is beginner's luck. poker and love are both games of bluff. a man has so many more temptations than a woman--because he knows where to go and find them. a man will sit on the edge of the bed, holding one shoe in his hand and gazing into space for half an hour, and then send the cook into hysterics and the waitress into nervous prostration because he has only ten minutes left in which to eat his breakfast. most bridal couples pile enough honey into the first month of matrimony to last a whole lifetime if thinned out and spread on economically. [illustration] wonder if adam ever scolded eve for her extravagance in fig leaves. a baby's kisses taste of stale milk, a boy's of jam, a young man's of cigarettes and a husband's of cocktails. of course people can't carry their party manners into marriage; but if they could, marriage would be more like a party and less like a prize fight. some marriages of convenience turn out to be about the most inconvenient things that could possibly have happened. when perfect frankness comes in at the door love flies out of the window. might as well hail a broadway car on the wrong side of the street as to hail a man on the wrong side of his vanity. [illustration] divorce is getting to be as painless as dentistry. two people pack each other's trunks, genially shake hands farewell, wish each other luck, and then go off to europe while the lawyers fight it out. a man forgets all about how to make love after ten years of matrimony; but it's wonderful how quickly he can get into practice again after his wife dies. don't flatter yourself because he calls every sunday evening that it is a sign that he's getting serious. it may only be a sign that everything else is closed. no doubt when a man puts his cheek against a girl's he always imagines that it feels as smooth as hers does. getting married is so easy that most men are suspicious of it. [illustration] a mother-in-law may be the serpent in the garden of eden; but if it hadn't been for the serpent whom would adam have had to blame for all his troubles? when two people marry they "lock their hearts together and throw away the key;" then they begin looking around for some old legal nail to pick the lock with. luck in love consists in getting not the person you want, but the person who wants you. if you don't believe it try being married to somebody who is not in love with you. a man's idea of an engagement is a chance to find out whether or not he really enjoys kissing that particular girl. it's not his understanding of the plot of the opera that makes a man appreciate it, but the "understanding" of the chorus ladies. [illustration] a man thinks that by marrying a woman he proves he loves her, and that therefore nothing more need ever be said about it. the average man looks on matrimony as a hitching post where he can tie a woman and leave her until he comes home nights. there is nothing so uninteresting to a a man as a contentedly married woman. a man's sweethearts are like his cigars; he has many of each of them, loves each one as tenderly as the preceding, and appreciates each according to its expensiveness. a husband can always find fault with his wife, but, then, even archangels could pick flaws in one another if they had to drink coffee at the same table every morning. [illustration] matrimony is, like the weather, mighty uncertain, and the happiest people are those who are neither looking for storms nor banking on sunshine, but are just willing to go along sensibly and take what comes. it may mean nothing, but it's very mortifying to a woman when she takes her husband's dog for a walk and he tries to go into every corner saloon. it's easier to hide your light under a bushel than to keep your shady side dark. funny how a married man who is trying to flirt with you always begins by telling you what a trying disposition his wife has. it's harder to get around a husband without flattery than to get around cape horn without a compass. [illustration] a man marries a girl for what she is, and then invariably tries to make her over into something else which he thinks she ought to be. when an ordinary man does not smoke, drink, nor swear, be careful to find out what worse folly it is that he is addicted to. a man gets his sentiment for a woman so mixed up with the brand of perfume she uses that half the time he doesn't know which is which. husbands are like the pictures in the anti-fat advertisements--so different before and after taking. there are moments when the meanest of women may feel a sisterly sympathy for her husband's first wife. [illustration] a woman may have a great deal of difficulty getting married the first time, but after that it's easy, because where one man leads the others will follow like a flock of sheep. there are so many ways of punishing a refractory wife that the husband who cannot find one is either a timid, mawkish creature or--a gentleman. when a lawyer is slow about getting a pretty woman her divorce it is because he wants a chance to make love to her before she is in a position to start a breach of promise suit. some men feel that the only thing they owe the woman who marries them is a grudge. blue beard isn't the only bridegroom who ever went to the altar with a closet full of dead loves on his conscience. [illustration] it isn't what a man can see through the holes in a peek-a-boo waist that makes the garment attractive, but what he tries to see and can't. a man who would turn up his nose at an overdone chop or an overdone biscuit will swallow an overdone compliment with the keenest relish. tobacco and love and olives are all acquired tastes; your first smoke makes you sick, your first olive tastes bitter, and your first love affair makes you unhappy. most men fancy that being married to a woman means merely seeing her in the mornings instead of in the evenings. a reformed rake is like a made-over hat or made-over tea--he has lost his style and his flavor. [illustration] a man is always advising his wife to wear common-sense shoes, but that isn't the kind he turns around in the street to stare after. it isn't the man who is willing to stay up late to talk to you, but the one who is willing to get up early to work for you, that you ought to waste your powder on. when a woman is pretty and married an optimistic man can always console himself with the thought that perhaps she is unhappy because her husband doesn't appreciate her. men used to marry good cooks and flirt with chorus girls; now they marry chorus girls and hire good cooks. it's an ill wind that teaches a man the value of hatpins. [illustration] if we could all pay the price of matrimony in a lump sum it wouldn't be so bad; but paying it in daily instalments is what wearies us. a married man soon learns enough not to let the barber put lilac water on his hair; it's wonderful how sharp they get about exciting suspicion. love always comes to a man as a surprise; he feels like a person who has been hit in the dark, and his one thought is for a means of escape. if the average husband were half as attentive, solicitous and devoted as his coachman, there would be fewer scandals of the drawing-room-stable variety. flirting is the gentle art of making a man feel pleased with himself. [illustration] some men are such bunglers at love-making that they cannot make a sentimental remark without tripping over it, or take your hand or a kiss without making you feel as though they had taken your pocketbook. the average man's ideas of what a woman ought to be are as old-fashioned and set as two china vases on a parlor mantel. it takes a mighty dishonorable man not to lie to a woman about where he saw her husband the night before. near-love-making is the scientific masculine method of saying a great deal and promising nothing. it's so hard to reform a man when he hasn't any great fault but just a little of all of them. [illustration] a man who devotes his youth to ambition and cuts out love, finds out that he has been eating the bread of life without any jam on it. it's so easy for a man to get engaged that he is always disagreeably surprised when he finds out how difficult it is to get disengaged. a man buttons a woman's dress up the back with almost the same grace and alacrity that a woman displays in climbing a barbed wire fence. it isn't cupid, but cupidity, that is to blame for those unhappy international marriages. a man is absolutely certain that a woman is perfectly proper when she refuses to kiss him because in his simple, childlike vanity he can't think of any other reason why she shouldn't want to. [illustration] give me a man with a dark brown past--one who has tasted the spice in life's pudding, and won't begin to long for it the moment he has been put on the matrimonial diet of bread and milk. the man who fancies himself completely understood is as unhappy as the woman who thinks she is misunderstood. if st. peter is really an old man, no girl over seventeen need apply for admission to heaven. a kiss may be anything from an insult to a benediction; and yet a man never can understand why a girl is indignant sometimes when she is kissed and isn't at others. even a dead husband gives a widow some advantage over an old maid. [illustration] the kind of wife every man is looking for is one who can peel potatoes with one hand, curl her hair with the other, rock the cradle with her foot and accompany herself on the piano. it isn't conscience, but the fear of consequences that keeps a man from trifling with a pretty woman. poverty is a love charm; you never know how great a thing love is until you haven't anything else in the world. women take awful chances in matrimony--because that's the only kind they get nowadays. a man's past is always quite past and his dead loves are so dead that he wouldn't recognize them if he should meet their corpses on the street. [illustration] a man always holds a woman at her own valuation; if she sets a high price on herself he is eager to pay it, but he doesn't want anything that looks as though it came off a bargain counter. a man always considers himself mighty clever when he can glide through the shallows of love-making without foundering on the rocks of matrimony. choosing a husband is like picking out the combination on a lottery ticket; your first guess is apt to be as good as your last. a man's idea of success is to be able to run his business by touching the electric button at the side of his desk. man is a mysterious chemical combination; add matrimony and you never can tell what he will turn into. [illustration] there is nothing which falls with such a dull sickening thud on a man's vanity as his wife's dead silence after he has made one of his characteristically brilliant remarks. it is always a shock to a girl when her fiancé's sister takes her into his den and she sees her photograph standing on the mantelpiece between an actress in green tights and a cigarette ad. a girl who has a brother has a great advantage over one who hasn't; she gets a working knowledge of men without having to go through the matrimonial inquisition in order to acquire it. a man always pats himself on the back when he has composed a letter that breathes devotion, but would not be negotiable in a breach of promise suit. [illustration] there is nothing so easy for a man as forgetting; he scarcely takes time to throw a shovelful of dirt on the grave of a dead love before he is off pursuing a new one. to a man love is only a side dish; to a woman it's the whole feast. there are few men constituted strong enough romantically to stand a daily diet of kisses, without getting sentimental nausea. genius, like anything else, needs distance to lend it enchantment; and the longer you are married to one, the more distance you are likely to give him. before marrying a man, ask yourself if you could love him if he lost his front hair, went without a collar, smoked an old pipe, and wore a ready-made suit; all of these things are likely to happen. [illustration] it's a funny thing about being in love, that the minute a man begins to get serious he begins to get foolish. a husband always expects his wife to look up to him, even if she has to get down on her knees to do it. courting is like cooking; you've got to be born with the knack; brains don't take the prizes and theory doesn't count. the greatest proof that marriage is not a failure is that widows and widowers are always anxious to try it again. the only way to be happy with a husband is to believe everything he tells you--even when you know it isn't so. in love, a man's interest in the game is always deeper than his interest in the girl. [illustration] a man may like a girl ever so much until he finds out she likes him ever so much; then like cures like. see "simple homoeopathy." proposing is like making welsh-rarebit; there isn't any reliable recipe for it and you can only tell whether or not you have done properly by the way it turns out. after a man has seen you cry two or three times it ceases to move him--except to move him out of the house. the color of a friend's finger nails or his socks has very much more weight with a snob than the color of his soul or his reputation. if a man would stick to his wife as he sticks to his seat in a street car, there wouldn't be much need for an alimony bureau. [illustration] an old bachelor's looks may be well preserved, but his heart is always embalmed. it takes an awfully big man to own up to his wife that he was a little at fault in a quarrel. when a man gets a wife who makes him happy, he lays it to his perspicacity; when he doesn't, he lays it on fate. life is a game in four rubbers: hearts are trumps when a man is very young; clubs are trumps after he marries; diamonds are trumps as he waxes rich and gouty; and lastly--spades. to flirt inartistically is like stepping on a woman's toes when you are waltzing with her; it gives her real pain. a man seldom marries when he loses his heart; he waits until he loses his head. [illustration] a man is like a cat; chase him and he'll run; sit still and ignore him and he'll come purring at your feet. what a girl, who would be really popular, should do, is to wave a red danger flag at a man and then start to run in the opposite direction. there are some men who regard their wives' accomplishments with the same patronizing complacency that they feel toward the tricks of the educated monkey at the circus. don't always imagine that the man and woman who walk side by side without speaking to each other are angry; they may be only married. masculinity covereth a multitude of sins. [illustration] the man who whips his small son for lying to shield a girl, has a mental vision as narrow as a rocky mountain path and side walls of dogmatism as high as the colorado cañon. satan and cupid are chums, who go about together looking for people who have nothing to do. many a woman has divorced her husband for "desertion" who cheerfully helped pack his trunk and pay for his railway ticket when he left her. a man's conscience is made of india rubber--warranted to stretch as long as the fun lasts. some men think that by putting on a silk hat and a white ascot tie they are disguised as gentlemen. [illustration] the average man is about as good a judge of women as a woman is of race horses; he picks the favorites by their shape and color. love is like gambling; you want to be sure that you are a good loser before you go in for the game. a man's idea of honor is so peculiar; he would die rather than steal a friend's money or cheat him at cards, but he will steal his wife or cheat him out of his daughter with perfect equanimity. when you see what some girls marry, you realize how they must hate to work for a living. flirtation is like a cocktail with no headache in it, champagne with no "next morning." [illustration] all men are the same after ten years of matrimony; they all smell of cloves and tobacco, talk in monosyllables, and tell the same stories when they come home late. a reckless lover and an automobile scorcher may run all the risks--but they have all the excitement. of course, bigamy is very reprehensible; but the man who marries two women deserves a little credit for trying to make up to the sex for the selfishness of the old bachelor who won't marry even one. in a domestic quarrel, it is not the one who can hold out, but the one who can hold in, who usually wins. the boy who has been brought up to button his sister's frocks down the back cherishes no illusions about women. [illustration] a man is never content with a fortune of less than six figures; but a woman is satisfied with one figure--if it has the proper curves. it's a wise woman that knows how little she knows about her husband. one advantage of a bull-dog over a baby is that you are not haunted by the fear that he will grow up to be just like his father. the way to a man's heart is a zig-zag road, leading through his stomach twice around his vanity, across his discretion and straight over his determination not to marry. failing to be "there" when a man wants her, is the greatest sin a woman can commit--except being there when doesn't want her. [illustration] the best men always seem to get the worst wives and vice versa; that's nature's little way of spreading the virtues and the vices around equally, like the jam and the butter on the bread. a man's idea of being "master" in his own house is asserting his right to put his muddy feet on the best divan and his pipe ashes on the parlor mantelpiece. a woman may scoff at her husband's religion, insult his friends, absorb his income and pry into his secrets, and still retain his love, if she regards his pipe and his razor as sacred. you can always find somebody to share your money and your pleasures with; but you've got to have somebody tied to you to share your sorrows and troubles with; that's the excuse for matrimony. [illustration] a marriage of convenience is the safety-pin with which a woman fastens on her self-respect when the hooks of love are broken. there never was a man so small that he couldn't call his two-hundred pound wife "little one" with a perfectly serious face. god made the first man; but he must have seen his mistake, for the scriptures say nothing of his having had anything to do with the rest of them. a man's idea of a thrifty wife is one who can make lobster salad out of left-over veal and a new hat out of an old fruit basket. love is the spur, matrimony the whip that drive a man to hard work and successful accomplishment. [illustration] the longest way 'round the saloon and the stage door is the shortest way home for some men. there never was a man living who wouldn't marry venus, and then expect her to stay home and do the cooking. once a fool, twice married. when a girl marries she usually has to choose whether she prefers to sit at the foot of a throne or to stand on a door-mat. of course, you can't expect two people to keep step all their lives to the wedding march; but it's a pity the joy-bells get out of tune so soon. nine tailors may make a man, but they can't make a gentleman. [illustration] before marriage a man inquires, "what is that fascinating perfume?" afterward, "what is that sickening stuff?" it isn't the troubles and sorrows they share, but the bridge parties and midnight suppers they don't share, which separate most married couples. there is no pity on earth so heartfelt as that with which the bachelor and the newly-married man regard one another. love is a delirious spin in an automobile, marriage the accident of which you are always in danger. a woman can get so used to that sort of thing that she would feel almost neglected if some day her husband should fail to offer up the usual morning and evening growl. [illustration] a woman will go on a starvation diet and have herself skinned alive in order to retain her husband's admiration; but a man considers himself a martyr if he resists a boiled onion. the sentiment a society woman wastes in baby-talk to her dog and the money a society man wastes on gasoline for his automobile would keep half a dozen babies in love and milk. a cynic can always find flaws in a woman and weeds in a rose garden. the lower a man's forehead, the higher his collar. no matter how much a man dislikes children before marriage, after marriage he always imagines that he is going to improve on the human race. [illustration] a girl's idea of a proposal of marriage is so different from any she ever gets, that, even after she is married she often wonders how it happened. venus may have been the most popular lady of her time; but it takes a clever huntress, like diana, to get any attention nowadays. nothing makes a woman feel so old as watching the bald spot daily increase on the top of her husband's head. love is not really blind, it is only nearsighted; and marriage is the optician that furnishes it with a strong pair of lenses, warranted to dispel all illusions and make defects perfectly clear. whom the gods wish to destroy they first infatuate with a chorus girl. [illustration] a wise jilt wears his scalp beneath his waistcoat, and a wise girl keeps her mittens carefully hidden; only a savage or a fool flaunts the trophies of the love-chase. cock robin isn't the only chap who ever promised to feed a girl on jelly-cake and wine when he knew perfectly well that the moment they were married she would have to go out and grub for worms. patching up a shattered love-affair is as foolish as trying to mend cobwebs. matrimony is a see-saw; and the secret of happiness lies in keeping yourself so carefully balanced that you neither fly into the air nor come down with a sickening thud. the softer a man's head, the louder his socks. [illustration] from the latest divorce cases it appears that as soon as a married couple get rich enough to keep two automobiles they at once begin to travel separate roads. don't think your husband has ceased to love you merely because he has begun to lie to you; it's when he stops taking the trouble to whitewash himself that you have real grounds for that suspicion. many a woman thinks she has married a hero until she tries to get him to go out and reason with the janitor. a good husband may be the "salt of the earth," but he often seems more like the pepper. the trouble with the marriage tie is that it's so tight that most people get tangled up or frazzled out trying to loosen it. [illustration] when a young man rails at marriage, listen for the wedding bells; a confirmed bachelor is too indifferent on the subject to be bitter about it. a man doesn't think he has had a good time unless he has a headache the next morning. there is no such thing as a confirmed bachelor in the countries where harems are fashionable. it isn't tying himself to one woman that a man dreads when he thinks of marrying; it's separating himself from all the others. what a man considers his "personal distinction," and a girl refers to as his "charming personality," is often nothing more than a good tailor and a smart haberdasher. [illustration] being good is merely keeping up with the styles; what was immoral ten years ago is only fashionable now, and what is shocking now will be only fashionable ten years hence. wonder how many wives have been awakened from love's young dream by a snore. it's the men who are least particular about their own morals who are the most particular about a woman's; if satan should come up here seeking a wife, he would probably demand an angel with gilt wings instead of a nice congenial little devil. appealing to a man's sense of humor when he has just lathered his face for shaving, is about as effective as appealing to a cat's sense of honor when she sees a chance to steal the milk. [illustration] a man loses his illusions first, his teeth second and his follies last. somehow, the wagon a woman hitches to a star always turns out a baby carriage. a good lie in time saves nine poor ones next morning. when a girl refuses a man his chagrin is always tempered by his astonishment that she could be so blind to her own good fortune. the troublesome part of love and everything nice is that it always must end; but then that's the _nice_ part of matrimony and everything troublesome. that old saw about marrying a man to get rid of him isn't a joke. it's the best way. [illustration] absence may make the heart grow fonder, but it is more likely to make the head grow steadier; there is nothing like total abstinence to cure you of "that dizzy feeling" that comes from either love or cocktails. by the awkwardness with which some men make love, you would fancy they had learned how in a correspondence school. as lovers men are inclined to be general practitioners rather than specialists. it may be possible to patch up a wornout love affair, but the darned places will always rub even if they don't show. if a man would display the same patience in catering to a wife that he does in coloring an old meerschaum pipe matrimony would be as pleasant as a pipe dream. [illustration] there's an old superstition that it's bad luck to be married in may; why not include the other eleven months? the only contract a man considers so unimportant that he will sign it without first reading it over is the marriage contract. a woman whose husband gives her cause for jealousy should not shed tears; she should shed the husband. a man is never really old until his rosy hopes have turned gray and he has begun to get wrinkles in his disposition. a good woman is known by what she does; a good man by what he doesn't. rich men and their wives are soon parted; matrimony plus money has such a way of developing into alimony. [illustration] one way to a man's heart is through your father's pocketbook. love is the sparkle in the wine; matrimony, the headache that follows. better be a young man's slave than an old man's nurse. there is something about one cocktail that makes a man want another the moment he has swallowed it; and there is something about one woman that makes a man want another the moment he has married her. a man plays his part in his first love affair as an actor plays his first star rôle with fire and enthusiasm, but without poise or method; later he becomes so technical that he can make his pretty speeches backward without a single thrill. [illustration] the only common ground on which some married people ever meet is the burying ground. love is like a good dinner; the only way to get any satisfaction out of it is to enjoy it while it lasts, have no regrets when it is over and pay the price with good grace. husbands and wives may meet in heaven--but some of them won't if they see each other first. the hardest part about the "next morning" is not the headache; it's the effort to recall what particular story you told your wife the night before. poor people don't have to economize on love, kisses nor enthusiasm; and with plenty of those one can cover all the bare spots on the walls of poverty. [illustration] flatter a husband a little and he will adore you; flatter him too much and he will soon begin to wonder why such a combination of solomon and the apollo belvidere ever stooped to marry an insignificant little thing like you. it's the hours a woman spends making frocks that her husband never looks at, and the hours a man spends making jokes that his wife never laughs at, that make the matrimonial years drag so heavily. the reason that a woman who takes the downward path has so much attention is that there are so many men going that way. a man makes a virtue of necessity when he prides himself on his devotion to a wife who is so fascinating that he can't help it. [illustration] a man's wife, like any other sort of stimulant, ceases to have that exhilarating effect after she has become a steady diet. no man knows the shock that a woman receives when she finds that she has got to live up to a standard that is half angel and half cook. men declare they admire common sense in a woman; but a physical culturist with a perfect digestion and a thirty-inch waist hasn't a chance in the world against a foolish, unhealthy little thing in a french corset, a princess frock and open-work stockings. the ultimate proof of a man's love is the self-restraint he shows when he allows a girl to run her fingers through his hair without putting up his hand to see if the part is still there. [illustration] a little knowledge makes a man a fool--but it makes a woman suspicious. the best way to cure a man's love is to return it with interest--and then watch him lose the interest. a man seldom escapes temptation because he is so careful not to let any interesting temptations escape him. self-sacrifice is the soul of love, and a real soul-mate is one who is willing to get up and take the milk off the dumb-waiter, wait until you have finished with the morning paper and give you the seat nearest the radiator. it must be awful to live with a man after you have reformed him and he has become so superlatively good that you don't feel superior to him any more. [illustration] good husbands are like tracts, comforting but uninteresting; the other kind are like dime novels, exciting, but apt to keep you in a constant fever of dread, anticipation and curiosity. if a woman were like a serial novel and a man could read only one chapter at a time, honeymoons would last forever. a man doesn't demand common sense from a woman; he is satisfied with incense. when a girl marries a man because he is the best she can do it is the irony of fate to have him blame her because they are ill-mated. dakota is the state that cuts a woman's troubles in half--and kindly takes away the better half. [illustration] wonderful how soon after marriage a man gets to look upon the morning and evening kiss as one of his daily chores. what is the happiest state in life? why, dakota, of course. college boys are addicted to cigarettes and flirtations, bachelors to cigars and sweethearts; it takes a married man to get real joy out of anything so economical as a pipe or a wife. marriage is the "commencement exercise" at which we take our diplomas in love; thereafter, like the college graduate, we begin to learn how little we know about it all. half the divorces are founded right on the wedding journey, just as half of indigestion is founded on too much sugar. [illustration] what do they know--about one another that makes every man who kisses a girl warn her so darkly and impressively not to trust any of the others? poverty is only a relative affair, after all; it is x minus the things you want. heaven must be something like an afternoon tea, as far as the dearth of men is concerned. figures do lie; especially if they are the ones that express a woman's age--or the time a man gets home at night. a man's favorite way of answering a woman's accusations is to tell her how pretty she looks when she gets excited. matrimony is the price of love--divorce, the rebate. [illustration] when a millionaire's heart is touched it makes a hollow sound. the woman who is wedded to an art and also to a man pays the full penalty for that kind of bigamy. in the love game nobody knows exactly what he wants; but a wise man tries to get what he thinks he wants and a wise woman tries to think she wants what she gets. a man isn't as curious as a woman--because usually a woman tells him everything before he has a chance to become curious. the only original thing about some men is original sin. hold on tight to your temper 'round the curves of matrimony. [illustration] cold water never cured a fever and a woman's indifference never put out the divine fire of a man's love. love is a sort of club sandwich affair, composed of large slices of selfishness, seasoned with passion, spiced with jealousy and covered with thin layers of sentiment. a man may admire a superior woman, but when it comes to marrying he prefers a goose who will cackle at his jokes to an owl who is likely to hoot at them. a man always remembers a girl's first kiss the longest--because usually that's the only one he had any trouble in getting. to keep a man's interest at high pressure deal yourself out to him in homoeopathic doses; one only wants more of anything that one cannot get enough of. [illustration] those who have tried matrimony, like those who have finished with the morning paper, always say, "there's nothing in it;" but somehow that never keeps the rest of us from wanting to see for ourselves. wonder if it never occurs to the woman who marries a man to reform him that the sort of person who is headstrong enough to have made a "past" for himself isn't likely to sit quietly by and let somebody else carve out his future for him. it is so much easier for some men to go to the devil for a woman than to go to work for her. alas that the fever of love should so often be followed by a chill! in the modern love affair woman proposes, god disposes and man--just dozes. [illustration] a man doesn't need to swear at a woman in order to express his opinion of her; he can shut the front door behind him in the morning so that it sounds just like a "damn!" by a man's vows of devotion ye shall not know him; the lover who promises a girl a life of roses is usually the one who allows her to pick off all the thorns for herself. man is such a paradox that a woman is forced to make him believe that she doesn't take him seriously--or she won't get a chance to take him at all. a man cannot keep his grouch and his friends at the same time. the woman who marries a dandy soon discovers that a thing of beauty is not necessarily a joy forever. [illustration] a man never selects a wife with any judgment or reason, because by the time he has reached the marrying fever all judgment and reason have fled. it is a wise fool who rushes in and a fool angel who fears to tread when it comes to love making; the woman who can't be coaxed can always be captured. it may not be immoral for a girl to say "damn," but it affects a man just as it would to hear a dove or a canary bird shrieking like a parrot. a man in the act of putting his wife on the train for her summer vacation feels like the bad boy who has just heard the bell clang for recess; he doesn't know exactly what he is going to do, but he knows it will be something against the rules and hence very fascinating. [illustration] it's awfully hard for a girl, with her mind all made up and her thoughts at the altar, to sit silently by and wait for the love idea to penetrate the thick layers of resistance that cover the masculine brain. as long as satan can make a woman believe that it is possible to reform a rake and make a roué over into a doting husband the ladies will keep his majesty's business running. if anything could make a woman willing to exchange her curves for a little muscle it would be that maddening, "there, there, now!" attitude with which the average man greets her righteous wrath. many a man would be dumbfounded if he should discover that the ideal in his wife's heart didn't have a double chin, a bald spot and turned-in toes just like himself. [illustration] the music of the spheres isn't loud enough to drown the din of some matrimonial squabbles. a knowledge of all the ologies and isms isn't worth half as much to a girl in the game of life as a knowledge of how to use her eyes and how to keep her pompadour in curl. when a man discovers that a woman knows more than he does it strikes him dumb--but not with admiration. heart-to-heart talks between platonic friends are as apt to lead to lip-to-lip silences that plato never dreamed of. man may be the noblest work of god--in the abstract; but in a bathing suit--well, it takes blind love to make a girl think he looks like that. [illustration] a man's surprise at the calmness with which his wife receives the announcement that he has failed in business is only equaled by his astonishment at her hysteria when a dress comes home that doesn't fit. a girl always keeps a tender spot in her heart for the man she has once loved; but to a man nothing is so cold as cooled affection. you would fancy a girl were a species of ostrich from the amount of flattery a man feeds her before marriage and the two-edged cynicisms he expects her to swallow afterward. the average woman goes from the altar into total eclipse from which she never emerges until she becomes a widow--since husbands never look at their wives and other men don't dare. [illustration] the man who is most in love is most apt to get over it, just as the man who drinks most champagne has the worst headache next morning. all this talk about trial marriages seems so superfluous--considering that marriage has always been a trial. a man's sense of honor is so peculiar that it gets out of working condition the minute he comes near a pretty woman. man--as far as his opinions and emotions go--is the noblest work of woman. a kiss and its thrills are soon parted--after the honeymoon. every woman is born an actress; and actresses are twice as attractive to men as other women because they are twice women. [illustration] a dark brown "past" is sometimes a good insurance against a black future; the man who has "seen life" is not quite so likely to be looking for it. happiness in marriage doesn't depend half so much on whether or not a man keeps the ten commandments and goes to church as on whether or not he keeps a pretty stenographer and comes home to dinner. when a man declares that he knows his own mind, his wife may sometimes wonder why he seems so proud of the acquaintance. marrying a widower is like inheriting an heirloom; marrying a grass widower is like getting second-hand goods that somebody else has been anxious to get rid of. [illustration] matrimony is a life job with long hours, small pay, hard work, no holidays and no chance to "give notice" if you get tired of it. after all, a wife has her uses--even if its only as a protection against other ladies' breach of promise suits. a pretty wife in a soiled kimono affects a man like a pâté de fois gras served on an old tin plate; it takes away his appetite--for love. it always surprises a woman when the son who has been tied to her apron strings suddenly gets tangled up in some chorus girl's shoe strings. a man's idea of a perfectly loyal, devoted woman is one who will deceive another man for his sake. [illustration] a girl's idea of business is a place where she can meet some man who will take her out of it. in the "relation of the sexes" a man is so likely to regard his wife as the "poor relation." no man refuses to give a good wife all the credit she deserves; but some of them are rather shy about giving her cash to the same amount. a woman on her summer vacation soon discovers that a husband is not "a man of letters," but a man of off-hand notes and telegrams. a lover looks at women through rose-colored spectacles, an old bachelor through blue glasses, and a married man--through a microscope. [illustration] a man always feels deeply injured when his wife refuses to believe the story that he has worked at all the way up in the cab to make sound interesting and perfectly plausible. it inspires a man with real awe and admiration, after he has spent all day sunday and broken half the family tools fussing over a fractious lock, to see his wife come along and pick it with one hand and a hairpin. whenever a man makes up his mind to give up anything, from a woman to a vice, it suddenly becomes so attractive to him that he begins to take a new and violent interest in it. the hard part of separating from a husband or wife for summer vacation is trying to look sorry about it when you say good-by at the station. [illustration] train up a son in the way he should go--and then watch him go some other woman's way. making hay while the sun shines is very tame sport beside making love while the moon shines. the dollar sign is the only sign in which the modern man appears to have any real faith. it is a mistake to propose to a girl with whom you have been mooning all morning on the beach until you discover whether that pang you feel is really heart hunger or only the other kind of hunger; the two have such similar effects. you can lead a husband to the restaurant, but you can't make him order champagne--unless it's another woman's husband. [illustration] love seldom follows marriage, unless marriage follows love. when a man says that "circumstances" have forced him to break his engagement with you, it is pretty safe to conclude that "circumstances" wears smarter frocks or has a more fascinating way of doing her hair. some bright day women will learn that it is as impossible to revive a man's interest in a girl whom he has ceased to love as to make him want stale champagne with all the fizz gone out of it. all the great tragedies are written about the woman who isn't married to some man, but ought to be; when as a matter of fact the most tragic figure on earth is the woman who is married to him and oughtn't to be. [illustration] there are two kinds of masculine hearts; the kind like a peach, soft and impressionable on the outside, but stony at the core; and the kind like a nut, seemingly impenetrable, but sweet and satisfying once you get through the shell. a man doesn't object to a girl who smokes cigarettes, wears three-ply collars and calls him "old chap" because he considers her immoral, but because he considers her just a bad imitation of himself. a woman can do nothing wrong, as long as a man is in love with her, and nothing right after he ceases to be. the only way to be happy with a man is to have such blind faith that you can believe him when he vows he never kissed another woman, even though the scent of the last girl's sachet still clings to his coat lapel. [illustration] marrying a woman, after you have kept her ten years waiting, is like buying a doll that has stood too long in the showcase. when a man asks a girl for a kiss, she _has_ to refuse him, but when he simply takes it, she has to take it, too. nobody scorns a woman for marrying money or a title; what they scorn is the sort of thing she usually marries along with it. the woman whom a man idealizes is the one who keeps him guessing; who never lets him see how the wheels go round at her toilet table nor in her heart and head. some men regard home as nothing but a "rest cure." [illustration] taxing bachelors only encourages them; a man always values anything more, even freedom, when he has to pay for it. there is a time of the year when a man will pay thirty dollars for a panama hat that makes him look like thirty cents, and thirty cents for a drink that makes him feel like a millionaire. the knots in the marriage tie which rub a man the wrong way are the "shalt nots"; those which chafe a woman are the "ought nots." the social swim at present appears to be a whirlpool, wherein a man gets soaked with either weak tea or cocktails. in a man's opinion a kiss is an end that justifies any means. [illustration] when a man makes a woman his wife it's the highest compliment he can pay her--and usually it's the last. the happiest wife is not always the one who marries the best man, but the one who makes the best of the man she marries. "who findeth a wife findeth a good thing," saith the scriptures. well, that's what most men are looking for nowadays. it isn't the big vague vows he makes at the altar which a man finds it so difficult to keep or to get around, but the little foolish promises he made before he ever got there. it is as foolish to try to reform a man after he has lost his front hair as to try to tame a lion after he has gotten his second teeth. [illustration] it isn't the things a man says that proves he loves you, but the things he tries to say and can't--the things that choke right up in his throat and leave him sitting dumb and miserable on your parlor divan. physicians say the heart is an organ; but by the way some men manage to grind out the same old love songs over and over again it would seem to be more like a street piano. one whiff of an onion will do more to kill love than the breaking of the ten commandments. all a man demands of a woman is a knowledge of what she ought not to do, what she ought not to say and what she ought not to think. all a woman need know in order to wear a halo in her husband's eyes is how to keep it on straight. [illustration] married men should make the most successful fiction writers, because it takes a highly developed imagination to invent a different story for one's wife every night. don't marry a man merely because he can write nice long, soul-satisfying letters; wait until you find out if he can write equally nice long satisfactory checks. one man's folly is often another man's wife. the woman who makes a man perfectly happy is the one who cares just enough to respond when he is interested and not enough to be interested when he doesn't respond. marriage is like twirling a baton, turning a handspring or eating with chopsticks; it looks so easy until you try it. [illustration] a married woman is always impressionable, because she has become so used to a total abstinence from flattery that a compliment from a man goes to her head like wine to the head of the teetotaler. refinement is what makes a man turn on his heel and go off to the club instead of staying at home and having a good, old-fashioned row with his wife. the man who keeps his sentiment bottled up and his money lying in the bank is so narrow that he wouldn't take a broad view of anything, even if he saw it on a bargain counter at half price. the biggest, boldest man that ever lived is built like a barge, and any little woman who puffs up steam enough can attach him to her and tow him all the way up the river of life. [illustration] a man is always able to restrain his jealousy as long as his wife wears untrimmed cotton flannel lingerie. take a spoonful of violet perfume, a pound or so of lace, a dash of music, and serve under a summer moon--and almost any man will call it "love." a wife always feels perfectly safe in going driving with her husband, because she knows by sad experience that he will devote both hands and all his attention to the horses. a man whom wild horses cannot drag from the path of duty will sometimes get so tangled up in a pink ribbon that he will trip and fall right out of it. kisses are love's assets, quarrels its liabilities. [illustration] beauties of the soul may be very fascinating, but somehow they aren't the kind a man looks for when he invites a girl out to dinner or for a spin in his automobile. an old maid is an unmarried woman who has more wrinkles than money. there is nothing like a halo of gold dollars to keep a woman attractive to a green old age. the things for which there is "the devil to pay," are the only sort which most men seem to consider really worth the price. as a soul-companion, the main difference between a bulldog and a husband is that the dog can't talk--and the husband won't. a man loves a woman first tenderly, then madly, then dearly, then comfortably, and last dutifully. [illustration] some men are born for marriage, some achieve marriage; but all of them live in the deadly fear that marriage is going to be thrust upon them. distance lends enchantment; but too much distance between husband and wife is sure to end by one or the other of them finding another "enchantment." in the mathematics of matrimony two plus a baby equals a family; two plus a mother-in-law equals a mob; and two plus an affinity equals--a divorce. it is something of a shock to the sweet girl graduate who has spent her youth in digging up the latin roots, studying the greek forms and acquiring a working knowledge of french, german and hebrew, to discover that the only language her lover really appreciates is baby talk. [illustration] when a man tells his wife that he is "sorry" about anything he has done he doesn't mean that he's sorry he did it, but that he's sorry she found it out. flirtation is like a pink tea, harmless but not exciting; love is like a dinner with seven kinds of wine, satisfying and exhilarating but apt to leave you with an uncomfortable feeling that you ought to have stayed away from it. a man's wife is something like his teeth, in that he seems to be aware of her presence only when it becomes annoying or painful. one advantage in being a married man is that you are not haunted by the harrowing suspicion that every pretty single woman you meet may have matrimonial designs upon you. [illustration] a man's sentiment is like cologne; he always offers you the cheap kind in large quantities. a few years with the "george washington" type of husband, who goes about with a hatchet and is too honest to flatter his wife, must make her long for a nice, comfortable companion like ananias. being clever at repartee means being able to say at the moment the brilliant thing which you usually don't think of until ten minutes later. analyzing your love for a woman is like dissecting a flower; by the time you have picked it to pieces and found out what it is composed of, its perfume and beauty are all gone. sentimental botanists get about as much satisfaction out of life as dietetics out of a good dinner. [illustration] a summer resort is a place where a man will resort to anything from croquet to cocktails for amusement and where a girl will resort to anything from a half-grown boy to an aged paralytic for an escort. when a man becomes a confirmed old bachelor it is not because he has never met the one woman he could live with, but because he has never met the one woman he couldn't live without. many a man who promises before marriage to lift every care off a girl's shoulders won't even begin by lifting the ice off the dumb-waiter after marriage. one comfort in being a woman is that you have the right to cry; when a man sheds tears the poor thing always looks and feels as if he had been guilty of an immodest exposure of the soul. [illustration] don't fancy a man is serious merely because he treats you to french dinners and talks sentiment; wait until he begins to take you to cheap tables d'hôte and talks economy. a man likes a wife who appeals to his lighter side, but the average man has so many lighter sides that no one woman could appeal to them all; and even if she could there is always his darker side and a peroxide blonde waiting around to appeal to it. a woman's idea in marrying a man is that she may save his soul; his idea in marrying her is that she may save his socks and his digestion. people who marry "for a joke" certainly must be blessed with an awfully keen sense of humor. [illustration] the girl whose hair is a little too gold, whose chin is a little too pink and whose laugh is a little too gay, apparently doesn't realize that even a siren couldn't attract a man if she sang too loud. the "measure of a man" can usually be taken in half an hour's acquaintance, but the true measure of a woman is something that is known only to her husband and her dressmaker. "the worst of certainty is better than the best of doubt," says the proverb; but when it comes to man's love for a woman the worst of uncertainty is better for it than the best of security. a man's past is written on a slate which can be washed clean at will, but a woman's is written in indelible ink in mrs. grundy's reference book. [illustration] many a woman who cannot be bought with any amount of gold can be won with just a little amount of brass. if men were absolutely certain that angels wear the sort of mother hubbard draperies in which they are usually painted instead of french corsets and sheath skirts, not one of them would bother about trying to get to heaven. the poet who sang of "woman's infinite variety" must at some time have been the only young man at a summer hotel. the man who lets the tailor pad his shoulders is very contemptuous of the woman who lets the dressmaker pad her skirts. nowadays love is a matter of chance, matrimony a matter of money and divorce a matter of course. [illustration] some men are so material that a beautiful sunset would remind them of nothing but neapolitan ice cream, and a flock of sheep on a green hillside would suggest nothing more inspiring than lamb with mint sauce. in ancient times one drink of lethe water made a man lose his memory and forget even his name. oh, well, one drink will do that nowadays--but it isn't lethe and it isn't water. "joy cometh in the morning"--but more often to the widow in second mourning. everybody has adopted modern improvements and new methods nowadays except the stork, and he goes right along carrying on business in the same old way. no wonder he has lost so much of his fashionable trade to the up-to-date dog fancier. [illustration] a pretty girl in a peek-a-boo waist and a merry widow hat on her way downtown can sometimes create more excitement in the business district than a wall street panic or a fire. before marriage it fills a man with tenderness to have a girl slip her hand confidingly into his coat pocket; but after marriage somehow it fills him only with distrust. it is one of the mockeries of matrimony that the moment two people begin to be awfully courteous to one another round the house it is a sign they are awfully mad. a man's idea of being perfectly noble and honest with a woman is to be able to make her think he loves her without indulging in any incriminating statements to that effect. [illustration] most women appear to think that "'tis better to have been loved and bossed" than never to have been married at all. disagreeable habits, like disagreeable husbands and wives, are so much easier to acquire than the other kind and so much harder to get rid of. a wife's indignation at the women who flirt with her husband is often tempered by her pity and astonishment that they should be so hard up as to waste time on a man like him. the average husband has an idea that economy should begin at home--and end at the corner café. many a wife would be glad to exchange places with her cook on that lady's salary days and her evenings off. [illustration] a man's idea of showing real consideration for his wife is to make sure that she won't find out what he is doing before he does anything that she would disapprove of. the first child makes a man proud, the second makes him happy, the third makes him hustle, and the fourth makes him desperate. when a man declares that making love to a particular woman "wouldn't be right," he really means that it wouldn't be safe; but he is too polite to say that. in tragic moments we think of trifles; no doubt a girl who is being run down by an automobile stops to thank heaven that there are no holes in her stockings and a man that there are no incriminating letters in his pockets. [illustration] a month of poker parties and summer girls can make a married man as anxious to get his wife back home again as a diet of champagne and ice cream would make him for a square meal of roast beef and baked potatoes. between lovers a little confession is a dangerous thing. call a woman weak-minded and a man will wonder if you aren't jealous of her; but call her strong-minded and he will take your word without stopping to investigate. the wife who insists on being useful instead of concentrating on being beautiful and amusing will soon find herself relegated to the shelf like a medicine bottle, instead of being kept near at hand like a wine bottle. [illustration] that sad, patient smile one sees on the face of a married woman may not come so much from heart-hunger as from a daily effort to listen to her husband's latest joke at the same time that she pacifies the cook, soothes the baby and looks for his lost collar button. hope springs eternal in the feminine breast as long as a woman has ambition enough to continue to curl her hair, and in the masculine breast as long as a man has self-respect enough to keep on shaving his chin. the things a man wants in a sweetheart are no more like those he wants in a wife than the things he wants for breakfast are like those he wants for dinner; yet he never seems to despair of warming over the light menu and making it do for a regular diet. [illustration] why is a woman always so jealous of her husband's stenographer when his real affinity is just as likely to be somebody else's stenographer? it is not a man's morals but the manners that make him comfortable or otherwise to live with. a burglar or an embezzler can make his wife fairly happy if he will be prompt to dinner, agreeable at breakfast and will put up the portieres with a pleasant smile. nothing makes a woman so green with envy and mortification as her husband's ability to turn over and snore five minutes after they have had an exciting quarrel. old love, like old lamps, is apt to burn low and fitfully; it takes a new heart interest now and then to keep up the glow of life. [illustration] the balance of power in the family usually goes to the husband or wife who has the largest balance in the bank. among a man's sweethearts the first shall never be last, and the last can always be sure that she isn't the first. the larger a man's girth the more expensive his flirtations; nothing but orchids and grand opera tickets can make a girl forget real embonpoint long enough to be sentimental. men don't talk about one another as women do--perhaps because they find it so much more interesting to talk about themselves. a frank husband and a kodak fiend teach a woman that truth is indeed stranger and more terrible than fiction. [illustration] one touch of highball makes the whole world spin. a man's sense of honor is so peculiar that it gets out of working condition the minute he comes near a pretty woman. the man who kisses a woman at the first opportunity is either a fool or a cad; the man who waits for the second opportunity is a philosopher; the man who waits for the third opportunity is a speculator; and the man who waits any longer is--a freak. the girl who has entertained her fiancé every evening for a three years' engagement may console herself with the hope that she won't be liable to see so much of him after marriage. 'tis best for a man to be square, but a woman is more lucky to be round. [illustration] when a man has waked up the whole family and half the neighborhood flinging empty beer bottles at a cat on the back fence he feels so refreshed that he can go right back to sleep and snore straight through a fire or a thunderstorm. in the face of a man's childlike vanity it is so difficult for a girl to decide to be ready when he arrives and thereby look as though she had been waiting for him, or to keep him waiting and look as though she had been primping for him. a man will tell his troubles first to his god, next to his lawyer, then to his valet, and lastly--to his wife. a little "absent treatment" now and then is the best tonic for conjugal love; an ounce of summer vacation is worth a pound of divorce. [illustration] it may cause a man sincere regret to get into a foolish flirtation, but the only thing that causes him real downright repentance is not to be able to get out of it. to fascinate an intelligent man pretend to be silly; to attract a good man pretend to be naughty; to win a fool pretend to be clever; and to charm the devil pretend to be a saint. a girl loves to spell her soul out on paper, but a man can't see the use of writing a love-letter when he can compress his whole passion into one paragraph on a post card. it is a sad fact that two people who go into matrimony with the noble idea of sharing one another's joys and ambitions so often end by sharing nothing but one another's towels and brushes and grouches. [illustration] a modern love affair is something like english plum pudding: it contains very little spice and sweetness and is mostly a matter of "dough." a flirt and his conscience are soon parted. a man's idea of constancy is being perfectly devoted to some woman who is either dead or too indifferent to demand anything of him. the whole art of winning at either cards or love consists in keeping a level head and not taking the game seriously; but, alas--when a man is playing for money and a woman for matrimony they are bound to take it seriously. when mothers-in-law come in at the door love flies out at the window. [illustration] a clever woman can sometimes make a fool of a man, but it takes a fluffy little thing with a baby face and no brains or morals to speak of to make him make a fool of himself. faint praise ne'er won fair lady. going through life without love is like going through a good dinner without an appetite--everything seems so flat and tasteless. it is most provoking to a woman who is winning in a quarrel to have a man suddenly turn round and take the argument right out of her mouth--with a kiss. where do all of the lost hearts go? well, most of the masculine ones go "down where the wurzburger flows." [illustration] the hardest problem of a girl's life is to find out why a man seems bored if she doesn't respond to him and frightened if she does. mental science never cured a man of love-sickness, because in the average man's love mentality plays so small a part. a married woman has an awfully small chance of learning anything about her husband's english vocabulary, for the simple reason that he never addresses her except in baby talk or swear words. a $ -a-week clerk always feels it incumbent to take a girl to the theatre in a taxicab. it requires a bona-fide millionaire to drag her about in a five-cent street car with perfect éclat and no apologies. [illustration] whether a girl looks indignant or happy after you have kissed her depends a great deal on how long she has been waiting for you to get up the courage to do it. turned-down lovers tell no tales. when a woman says "there are no secrets between my husband and me," it is a sure sign that she hasn't found out any of his. there are dozens of systems for winning at roulette, but the only system for winning at love is systematic flattery. love in a cottage doesn't seem so appalling when you come to consider that there is such a thing as matrimony in a modern flat. [illustration] no man is a really artistic lover who hasn't enough dramatic instinct to forget all other women while he is making love to one. if it weren't for the tiresome wedding journey and the monotonous honeymoon, bridal couples could begin being happy right away. even though the dulcet iciness in her voice ought to be more effective than a shriek of warning, a man will go right on telling his stout, blonde wife that she ought to dress like the slim brunette next door. there is something about a wife's tears that washes all the color and starch out of a man's love. when married people can't come to terms marriage should come to a termination. [illustration] the longest way round matrimony is the shortest way to happiness. the reason a man is so often tempted is because most of the time that is what he is sitting around waiting for. from the stony silence into which the average husband sinks after the honeymoon there must be something almost unspeakable about matrimony. a woman looks upon her first kiss as a consecration; a man regards it as a desecration. time and tide wait for no man, but the untied woman has to wait for any man who chooses to keep her waiting. in fashionable circles one wife and a dog constitute a "family." [illustration] it may be very noble of a man to have no secrets from the woman he loves, but it's rather hard on all the other women he has gotten over loving. a man who can marry the right girl and won't marry her somehow always ends by being made to marry the wrong one. many a good husband hasn't the nerve or the courage to be anything else. widows have all the honors without any of the trials of matrimony; a live husband is sometimes a necessity, but a dead one is a real luxury. many a man's idea of a wife is something decorative to be kept around the house and only taken out on show occasions like the jewels in his safe and the horses in his racing stable. [illustration] in olden times sacrifices were made at the altar--a custom which is still continued. of course every woman knows that the man she loves is a "brute"--but unfortunately that is one of the reasons why she loves him. the kind of woman who holds a man's devotion forever is like a silky, self-satisfied angora cat who takes her petting as a matter of course, never returns it, and never gets on his nerve by asking for more. it isn't so much a man's sins and failings, but the air of conscious pride with which he accepts her comments on them that a woman can't forgive. that will be a great novel in which the author can make the man who owns the machine as fascinating as the chauffeur. [illustration] every man honestly believes that franchise in the hands of a woman is like a loaded gun in the hands of a small boy--utterly useless and sure to do damage to somebody. wad some power the giftie gie us to see ourselves as men's mothers see us--but it wouldn't make us happy. one reason why a dainty little thing like a woman wastes her love on man-creature with a rough chin, stubbly hair and a smell of tobacco about his clothes is that he is the only thing in that line. a man will forgive a woman for almost any indiscretion sooner than for leaving her hair in the comb and for breaking the ten commandments sooner than for leaving her hot curling tongs where his fingers can get on them. [illustration] the man who tries to mix his women friends has about the same unfortunate results as the man who tries to mix his drinks. 'tis better to have kissed and paid the cost than never to have kissed at all. the word "court," whether it refers to the way her husband won her or the place where he lost her, always has a pleasant sound to a grass widow. if a woman could veil her thoughts and feelings as effectively as she veils her face she would be so fascinating that no man could resist her. when it comes to love-making men are so unoriginal, that a sage, a fool and a "lovers' letter-writer" all sound exactly alike. [illustration] husbands are like christmas gifts: you can't choose them; you've just got to sit down and wait until they arrive and then appear perfectly delighted with what you get. the only way to be happy with a husband is to learn to be happy without him most of the time. * * * * * transcriber's notes: book title was added to top of text so that it did not begin only with the quotes printed on the inside covers. page , "marying" changed to "marrying" (idea in marrying a) page , opening quotation mark added ("the worst of certainty) page , "blond" changed to "blonde" (blonde wife that she) none the headless horseman a strange tale of texas by captain mayne reid published by george routledge and sons, london, glasgow and new york.. this edition dated . the headless horseman, by captain mayne reid. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ the headless horseman, by captain mayne reid. prologue. the stag of texas, reclining in midnight lair, is startled from his slumbers by the hoofstroke of a horse. he does not forsake his covert, nor yet rise to his feet. his domain is shared by the wild steeds of the savannah, given to nocturnal straying. he only uprears his head; and, with antlers o'ertopping the tall grass, listens for a repetition of the sound. again is the hoofstroke heard, but with altered intonation. there is a ring of metal--the clinking of steel against stone. the sound, significant to the ear of the stag, causes a quick change in his air and attitude. springing clear of his couch, and bounding a score of yards across the prairie, he pauses to look back upon the disturber of his dreams. in the clear moonlight of a southern sky, he recognises the most ruthless of his enemies--man. one is approaching upon horseback. yielding to instinctive dread, he is about to resume his flight: when something in the appearance of the horseman--some unnatural seeming-- holds him transfixed to the spot. with haunches in quivering contact with the sward, and frontlet faced to the rear, he continues to gaze--his large brown eyes straining upon the intruder in a mingled expression of fear and bewilderment. what has challenged the stag to such protracted scrutiny? the horse is perfect in all its parts--a splendid steed, saddled, bridled, and otherwise completely caparisoned. in it there appears nothing amiss--nothing to produce either wonder or alarm. but the man-- the rider? ah! about him there _is_ something to cause both--something weird--something _wanting_! by heavens! it is the head! even the unreasoning animal can perceive this; and, after gazing a moment with wildered eyes--wondering what abnormal monster thus mocks its cervine intelligence--terror-stricken it continues its retreat; nor again pauses, till it has plunged through the waters of the leona, and placed the current of the stream between itself and the ghastly intruder. heedless of the affrighted deer--either of its presence, or precipitate flight--the headless horseman rides on. he, too, is going in the direction of the river. unlike the stag, he does not seem pressed for time; but advances in a slow, tranquil pace: so silent as to seem ceremonious. apparently absorbed in solemn thought, he gives free rein to his steed: permitting the animal, at intervals, to snatch a mouthful of the herbage growing by the way. nor does he, by voice or gesture, urge it impatiently onward, when the howl-bark of the prairie-wolf causes it to fling its head on high, and stand snorting in its tracks. he appears to be under the influence of some all-absorbing emotion, from which no common incident can awake him. there is no speech--not a whisper--to betray its nature. the startled stag, his own horse, the wolf, and the midnight moon, are the sole witnesses of his silent abstraction. his shoulders shrouded under a _serape_, one edge of which, flirted up by the wind, displays a portion of his figure: his limbs encased in "water-guards" of jaguar-skin: thus sufficiently sheltered against the dews of the night, or the showers of a tropical sky, he rides on--silent as the stars shining above, unconcerned as the cicada that chirrups in the grass beneath, or the prairie breeze playing with the drapery of his dress. something at length appears to rouse from his reverie, and stimulate him to greater speed--his steed, at the same time. the latter, tossing up its head, gives utterance to a joyous neigh; and, with outstretched neck, and spread nostrils, advances in a gait gradually increasing to a canter. the proximity of the river explains the altered pace. the horse halts not again, till the crystal current is surging against his flanks, and the legs of his rider are submerged knee-deep under the surface. the animal eagerly assuages its thirst; crosses to the opposite side; and, with vigorous stride, ascends the sloping bank. upon the crest occurs a pause: as if the rider tarried till his steed should shake the water from its flanks. there is a rattling of saddle-flaps, and stirrup-leathers, resembling thunder, amidst a cloud of vapour, white as the spray of a cataract. out of this self-constituted _nimbus_, the headless horseman emerges; and moves onward, as before. apparently pricked by the spur, and guided by the rein, of his rider, the horse no longer strays from the track; but steps briskly forward, as if upon a path already trodden. a treeless savannah stretches before--selvedged by the sky. outlined against the azure is seen the imperfect centaurean shape gradually dissolving in the distance, till it becomes lost to view, under the mystic gloaming of the moonlight! chapter one. the burnt prairie. on the great plain of texas, about a hundred miles southward from the old spanish town of san antonio de bejar, the noonday sun is shedding his beams from a sky of cerulean brightness. under the golden light appears a group of objects, but little in unison with the landscape around them: since they betoken the presence of human beings, in a spot where there is no sign of human habitation. the objects in question are easily identified--even at a great distance. they are waggons; each covered with its ribbed and rounded tilt of snow-white "osnaburgh." there are ten of them--scarce enough to constitute a "caravan" of traders, nor yet a "government train." they are more likely the individual property of an emigrant; who has landed upon the coast, and is wending his way to one of the late-formed settlements on the leona. slowly crawling across the savannah, it could scarce be told that they are in motion; but for their relative-position, in long serried line, indicating the order of march. the dark bodies between each two declare that the teams are attached; and that they are making progress is proved, by the retreating antelope, scared from its noonday _siesta_, and the long-shanked curlew, rising with a screech from the sward--both bird and beast wondering at the string of strange _behemoths_, thus invading their wilderness domain. elsewhere upon the prairie, no movement may be detected--either of bird or quadruped. it is the time of day when all tropical life becomes torpid, or seeks repose in the shade; man alone, stimulated by the love of gain, or the promptings of ambition, disregarding the laws of nature, and defying the fervour of the sun. so seems it with the owner of the tilted train; who, despite the relaxing influence of the fierce mid-day heat, keeps moving on. that he is an emigrant--and not one of the ordinary class--is evidenced in a variety of ways. the ten large waggons of pittsburgh build, each hauled by eight able-bodied mules; their miscellaneous contents: plenteous provisions, articles of costly furniture, even of _luxe_, live stock in the shape of coloured women and children; the groups of black and yellow bondsmen, walking alongside, or straggling foot-sore in the rear; the light travelling carriage in the lead, drawn by a span of sleek-coated kentucky mules, and driven by a black jehu, sweltering in a suit of livery; all bespeak, not a poor northern-states settler in search of a new home, but a rich southerner who has already purchased one, and is on his way to take possession of it. and this is the exact story of the train. it is the property of a planter who has landed at indianola, on the gulf of matagorda; and is now travelling overland--_en route_ for his destination. in the _cortege_ that accompanies it, riding habitually at its head, is the planter himself--woodley poindexter--a tall thin man of fifty, with a slightly sallowish complexion, and aspect proudly severe. he is simply though not inexpensively clad: in a loosely fitting frock of alpaca cloth, a waistcoat of black satin, and trousers of nankin. a shirt of finest linen shows its plaits through the opening of his vest-- its collar embraced by a piece of black ribbon; while the shoe, resting in his stirrup, is of finest tanned leather. his features are shaded by a broad-brimmed leghorn hat. two horsemen are riding alongside--one on his right, the other on the left--a stripling scarce twenty, and a young man six or seven years older. the former is his son--a youth, whose open cheerful countenance contrasts, not only with the severe aspect of his father, but with the somewhat sinister features on the other side, and which belong to his cousin. the youth is dressed in a french blouse of sky-coloured "cottonade," with trousers of the same material; a most appropriate costume for a southern climate, and which, with the panama hat upon his head, is equally becoming. the cousin, an ex-officer of volunteers, affects a military undress of dark blue cloth, with a forage cap to correspond. there is another horseman riding near, who, only on account of having a white skin--not white for all that--is entitled to description. his coarser features, and cheaper habiliments; the keel-coloured "cowhide" clutched in his right hand, and flirted with such evident skill, proclaim him the overseer--and whipper up--of the swarthy pedestrians composing the _entourage_ of the train. the travelling carriage, which is a "carriole"--a sort of cross between a jersey waggon and a barouche--has two occupants. one is a young lady of the whitest skin; the other a girl of the blackest. the former is the daughter of woodley poindexter--his only daughter. she of the sable complexion is the young lady's handmaid. the emigrating party is from the "coast" of the mississippi--from louisiana. the planter is not himself a native of this state--in other words a _creole_; but the type is exhibited in the countenance of his son--still more in that fair face, seen occasionally through the curtains of the carriole, and whose delicate features declare descent from one of those endorsed damsels--_filles a la casette_--who, more than a hundred years ago, came across the atlantic provided with proofs of their virtue--in the _casket_! a grand sugar planter of the south is woodley poindexter; one of the highest and haughtiest of his class; one of the most profuse in aristocratic hospitalities: hence the necessity of forsaking his mississippian home, and transferring himself and his "penates,"--with only a remnant of his "niggers,"--to the wilds of south-western texas. the sun is upon the meridian line, and almost in the zenith. the travellers tread upon their own shadows. enervated by the excessive heat, the white horsemen sit silently in their saddles. even the dusky pedestrians, less sensible to its influence, have ceased their garrulous "gumbo;" and, in straggling groups, shamble listlessly along in the rear of the waggons. the silence--solemn as that of a funereal procession--is interrupted only at intervals by the pistol-like crack of a whip, or the loud "wo-ha," delivered in deep baritone from the thick lips of some sable teamster. slowly the train moves on, as if groping its way. there is no regular road. the route is indicated by the wheel-marks of some vehicles that have passed before--barely conspicuous, by having crushed the culms of the shot grass. notwithstanding the slow progress, the teams are doing their best. the planter believes himself within less than twenty miles of the end of his journey. he hopes to reach it before night: hence the march continued through the mid-day heat. unexpectedly the drivers are directed to pull up, by a sign from the overseer; who has been riding a hundred yards in the advance, and who is seen to make a sudden stop--as if some obstruction had presented itself. he comes trotting back towards the train. his gestures tell of something amiss. what is it? there has been much talk about indians--of a probability of their being encountered in this quarter. can it be the red-skinned marauders? scarcely: the gestures of the overseer do not betray actual alarm. "what is it, mr sansom?" asked the planter, as the man rode up. "the grass air burnt. the prairy's been afire." "_been_ on fire! is it on fire _now_?" hurriedly inquired the owner of the waggons, with an apprehensive glance towards the travelling carriage. "where? i see no smoke!" "no, sir--no," stammered the overseer, becoming conscious that he had caused unnecessary alarm; "i didn't say it air afire now: only thet it hez been, an the hul ground air as black as the ten o' spades." "ta--tat! what of that? i suppose we can travel over a black prairie, as safely as a green one? "what nonsense of you, josh sansom, to raise such a row about nothing-- frightening people out of their senses! ho! there, you niggers! lay the leather to your teams, and let the train proceed. whip up!--whip up!" "but, captain calhoun," protested the overseer, in response to the gentleman who had reproached him in such chaste terms; "how air we to find the way?" "find the way! what are you raving about? we haven't lost it--have we?" "i'm afeerd we hev, though. the wheel-tracks ain't no longer to be seen. they're burnt out, along wi' the grass." "what matters that? i reckon we can cross a piece of scorched prairie, without wheel-marks to guide us? we'll find them again on the other side." "ye-es," naively responded the overseer, who, although a "down-easter," had been far enough west to have learnt something of frontier life; "if theer air any other side. i kedn't see it out o' the seddle--ne'er a sign o' it." "whip up, niggers! whip up!" shouted calhoun, without heeding the remark; and spurring onwards, as a sign that the order was to be obeyed. the teams are again set in motion; and, after advancing to the edge of the burnt tract, without instructions from any one, are once more brought to a stand. the white men on horseback draw together for a consultation. there is need: as all are satisfied by a single glance directed to the ground before them. far as the eye can reach the country is of one uniform colour--black as erebus. there is nothing green--not a blade of grass--not a reed nor weed! it is after the summer solstice. the ripened culms of the _gramineae_, and the stalks of the prairie flowers, have alike crumbled into dust under the devastating breath of fire. in front--on the right and left--to the utmost verge of vision extends the scene of desolation. over it the cerulean sky is changed to a darker blue; the sun, though clear of clouds, seems to scowl rather than shine--as if reciprocating the frown of the earth. the overseer has made a correct report--there is no trail visible. the action of the fire, as it raged among the ripe grass, has eliminated the impression of the wheels hitherto indicating the route. "what are we to do?" the planter himself put this inquiry, in a tone that told of a vacillating spirit. "do, uncle woodley! what else but keep straight on? the river must be on the other side? if we don't hit the crossing, to a half mile or so, we can go up, or down the bank--as the case may require." "but, cassius: if we should lose our way?" "we can't. there's but a patch of this, i suppose? if we do go a little astray, we must come out somewhere--on one side, or the other." "well, nephew, you know best: i shall be guided by you." "no fear, uncle. i've made my way out of a worse fix than this. drive on, niggers! keep straight after _me_." the ex-officer of volunteers, casting a conceited glance towards the travelling carriage--through the curtains of which appears a fair face, slightly shadowed with anxiety--gives the spur to his horse; and with confident air trots onward. a chorus of whipcracks is succeeded by the trampling of fourscore mules, mingled with the clanking of wheels against their hubs. the waggon-train is once more in motion. the mules step out with greater rapidity. the sable surface, strange to their eyes, excites them to brisker action--causing them to raise the hoof, as soon as it touches the turf. the younger animals show fear-- snorting, as they advance. in time their apprehensions become allayed; and, taking the cue from their older associates, they move on steadily as before. a mile or more is made, apparently in a direct line from the point of starting. then there is a halt. the self-appointed guide has ordered it. he has reined up his horse; and is sitting in the saddle with less show of confidence. he appears to be puzzled about the direction. the landscape--if such it may be called--has assumed a change; though not for the better. it is still sable as ever, to the verge of the horizon. but the surface is no longer a plain: it _rolls_. there are ridges--gentle undulations--with valleys between. they are not entirely treeless--though nothing that may be termed a tree is in sight. there have been such, before the fire--_algarobias, mezquites_, and others of the acacia family--standing solitary, or in copses. their light pinnate foliage has disappeared like flax before the flame. their existence is only evidenced by charred trunks, and blackened boughs. "you've lost the way, nephew?" said the planter, riding rapidly up. "no uncle--not yet. i've only stopped to have a look. it must lie in this direction--down that valley. let them drive on. we're going all right--i'll answer for it." once more in motion--adown the slope--then along the valley--then up the acclivity of another ridge--and then there is a second stoppage upon its crest. "you've lost the way, cash?" said the planter, coming up and repeating his former observation. "damned if i don't believe i have, uncle!" responded the nephew, in a tone of not very respectful mistrust. "anyhow; who the devil could find his way out of an ashpit like this? no, no!" he continued, reluctant to betray his embarrassment as the carriole came up. "i see now. we're all right yet. the river must be in this direction. come on!" on goes the guide, evidently irresolute. on follow the sable teamsters, who, despite their stolidity, do not fail to note some signs of vacillation. they can tell that they are no longer advancing in a direct line; but circuitously among the copses, and across the glades that stretch between. all are gratified by a shout from the conductor, announcing recovered confidence. in response there is a universal explosion of whipcord, with joyous exclamations. once more they are stretching their teams along a travelled road--where a half-score of wheeled vehicles must have passed before them. and not long before: the wheel-tracks are of recent impress--the hoof-prints of the animals fresh as if made within the hour. a train of waggons, not unlike their own, must have passed over the burnt prairie! like themselves, it could only be going towards the leona: perhaps some government convoy on its way to fort inge? in that case they have only to keep in the same track. the fort is on the line of their march--but a short distance beyond the point where their journey is to terminate. nothing could be more opportune. the guide, hitherto perplexed--though without acknowledging it--is at once relieved of all anxiety; and with a fresh exhibition of conceit, orders the route to be resumed. for a mile or more the waggon-tracks are followed--not in a direct line, but bending about among the skeleton copses. the countenance of cassius calhoun, for a while wearing a confident look, gradually becomes clouded. it assumes the profoundest expression of despondency, on discovering that the four-and-forty wheel-tracks he is following, have been made by ten pittsburgh waggons, and a carriole--the same that are now following him, and in whose company he has been travelling _all the way from the gulf of matagorda_! chapter two. the trail of the lazo. beyond doubt, the waggons of woodley poindexter were going over ground already traced by the tiring of their wheels. "our own tracks!" muttered calhoun on making the discovery, adding a fierce oath as he reined up. "our own tracks! what mean you, cassius? you don't say we've been travelling--" "on our own tracks. i do, uncle; that very thing. we must have made a complete circumbendibus of it. see! here's the hind hoof of my own horse, with half a shoe off; and there's the foot of the niggers. besides, i can tell the ground. that's the very hill we went down as we left our last stopping place. hang the crooked luck! we've made a couple of miles for nothing." embarrassment is no longer the only expression upon the face of the speaker. it has deepened to chagrin, with an admixture of shame. it is through him that the train is without a regular guide. one, engaged at indianola, had piloted them to their last camping place. there, in consequence of some dispute, due to the surly temper of the ex-captain of volunteers, the man had demanded his dismissal, and gone back. for this--as also for an ill-timed display of confidence in his power to conduct the march--is the planter's nephew now suffering under a sense of shame. he feels it keenly as the carriole comes up, and bright eyes become witnesses of his discomfiture. poindexter does not repeat his inquiry. that the road is lost is a fact evident to all. even the barefooted or "broganned" pedestrians have recognised their long-heeled footprints, and become aware that they are for the second time treading upon the same ground. there is a general halt, succeeded by an animated conversation among the white men. the situation is serious: the planter himself believes it to be so. he cannot that day reach the end of his journey--a thing upon which he had set his mind. that is the very least misfortune that can befall them. there are others possible, and probable. there are perils upon the burnt plain. they may be compelled to spend the night upon it, with no water for their animals. perhaps a second day and night--or longer--who can tell how long? how are they to find their way? the sun is beginning to descend; though still too high in heaven to indicate his line of declination. by waiting a while they may discover the quarters of the compass. but to what purpose? the knowledge of east, west, north, and south can avail nothing now: they have lost their _line of march_. calhoun has become cautious. he no longer volunteers to point out the path. he hesitates to repeat his pioneering experiments--after such manifest and shameful failure. a ten minutes' discussion terminates in nothing. no one can suggest a feasible plan of proceeding. no one knows how to escape from the embrace of that dark desert, which appears to cloud not only the sun and sky, but the countenances of all who enter within its limits. a flock of black vultures is seen flying afar off. they come nearer, and nearer. some alight upon the ground--others hover above the heads of the strayed travellers. is there a boding in the behaviour of the birds? another ten minutes is spent in the midst of moral and physical gloom. then, as if by a benignant mandate from heaven, does cheerfulness re-assume its sway. the cause? a horseman riding in the direction of the train! an unexpected sight: who could have looked for human being in such a place? all eyes simultaneously sparkle with joy; as if, in the approach of the horseman, they beheld the advent of a saviour! "he's coming this way, is he not?" inquired the planter, scarce confident in his failing sight. "yes, father; straight as he can ride," replied henry, lifting the hat from his head, and waving it on high: the action accompanied by a shout intended to attract the horseman. the signal was superfluous. the stranger had already sighted the halted waggons; and, riding towards them at a gallop, was soon within speaking distance. he did not draw bridle, until he had passed the train; and arrived upon the spot occupied by the planter and his party. "a mexican!" whispered henry, drawing his deduction from the habiliments of the horseman. "so much the better," replied poindexter, in the same tone of voice; "he'll be all the more likely to know the road." "not a bit of mexican about him," muttered calhoun, "excepting the rig. i'll soon see. _buenos dias, cavallero! esta v. mexicano_?" (good day, sir! are you a mexican?) "no, indeed," replied the stranger, with a protesting smile. "anything but that. i can speak to you in spanish, if you prefer it; but i dare say you will understand me better in english: which, i presume, is your native tongue?" calhoun, suspecting that he had spoken indifferent spanish, or indifferently pronounced it, refrains from making rejoinder. "_american_, sir," replied poindexter, his national pride feeling slightly piqued. then, as if fearing to offend the man from whom he intended asking a favour, he added: "yes, sir; we are all americans-- from the _southern states_." "that i can perceive by your following." an expression of contempt-- scarce perceptible--showed itself upon the countenance of the speaker, as his eye rested upon the groups of black bondsmen. "i can perceive, too," he added, "that you are strangers to prairie travelling. you have lost your way?" "we have, sir; and have very little prospect of recovering it, unless we may count upon your kindness to direct us." "not much kindness in that. by the merest chance i came upon your trail, as i was crossing the prairie. i saw you were going astray; and have ridden this way to set you right." "it is very good of you. we shall be most thankful, sir. my name is poindexter--woodley poindexter, of louisiana. i have purchased a property on the leona river, near fort inge. we were in hopes of reaching it before nightfall. can we do so?" "there is nothing to hinder you: if you follow the instructions i shall give." on saying this, the stranger rode a few paces apart; and appeared to scrutinise the country--as if to determine the direction which the travellers should take. poised conspicuously upon the crest of the ridge, horse and man presented a picture worthy of skilful delineation. a steed, such as might have been ridden by an arab sheik--blood-bay in colour--broad in counter--with limbs clean as culms of cane, and hips of elliptical outline, continued into a magnificent tail sweeping rearward like a rainbow: on his back a rider--a young man of not more than five-and-twenty--of noble form and features; habited in the picturesque costume of a mexican _ranchero_--spencer jacket of velveteen--_calzoneros_ laced along the seams--_calzoncillos_ of snow-white lawn--_botas_ of buff leather, heavily spurred at the heels-- around the waist a scarf of scarlet crape; and on his head a hat of black glaze, banded with gold bullion. picture to yourself a horseman thus habited; seated in a deep tree-saddle, of moorish shape and mexican manufacture, with housings of leather stamped in antique patterns, such as were worn by the caparisoned steeds of the conquistadores; picture to yourself such a _cavallero_, and you will have before your mind's eye a counterpart of him, upon whom the planter and his people were gazing. through the curtains of the travelling carriage he was regarded with glances that spoke of a singular sentiment. for the first time in her life, louise poindexter looked upon that--hitherto known only to her imagination--a man of heroic mould. proud might he have been, could he have guessed the interest which his presence was exciting in the breast of the young creole. he could not, and did not. he was not even aware of her existence. he had only glanced at the dust-bedaubed vehicle in passing--as one might look upon the rude incrustation of an oyster, without suspecting that a precious pearl may lie gleaming inside. "by my faith!" he declared, facing round to the owner of the waggons, "i can discover no landmarks for you to steer by. for all that, i can find the way myself. you will have to cross the leona five miles below the fort; and, as i have to go by the crossing myself, _you_ can follow the tracks of my horse. good day, gentlemen!" thus abruptly bidding adieu, he pressed the spur against the side of his steed; and started off at a gallop. an unexpected--almost uncourteous departure! so thought the planter and his people. they had no time to make observations upon it, before the stranger was seen returning towards them! in ten seconds he was again in their presence--all listening to learn what had brought him back. "i fear the tracks of my horse may prove of little service to you. the _mustangs_ have been this way, since the fire. they have made hoof-marks by the thousand. mine are shod; but, as you are not accustomed to trailing, you may not be able to distinguish them--the more so, that in these dry ashes all horse-tracks are so nearly alike." "what are we to do?" despairingly asked the planter. "i am sorry, mr poindexter, i cannot stay to conduct you, i am riding express, with a despatch for the fort. if you _should_ lose my trail, keep the sun on your right shoulders: so that your shadows may fall to the left, at an angle of about fifteen degrees to your line of march. go straight forward for about five miles. you will then come in sight of the top of a tall tree--a _cypress_. you will know it by its leaves being _in the red_. head direct for this tree. it stands on the bank of the river; and close by is the crossing." the young horseman, once more drawing up his reins, was about to ride off; when something caused him to linger. it was a pair of dark lustrous eyes--observed by him for the first time--glancing through the curtains of the travelling carriage. their owner was in shadow; but there was light enough to show that they were set in a countenance of surpassing loveliness. he perceived, moreover, that they were turned upon himself--fixed, as he fancied, in an expression that betokened interest--almost tenderness! he returned it with an involuntary glance of admiration, which he made but an awkward attempt to conceal. lest it might be mistaken for rudeness, he suddenly faced round; and once more addressed himself to the planter--who had just finished thanking him for his civility. "i am but ill deserving thanks," was his rejoinder, "thus to leave you with a chance of losing your way. but, as i've told you, my time is measured." the despatch-bearer consulted his watch--as though not a little reluctant to travel alone. "you are very kind, sir," said poindexter; "but with the directions you have given us, i think we shall be able to manage. the sun will surely show us--" "no: now i look at the sky, it will not. there are clouds looming up on the north. in an hour, the sun may be obscured--at all events, before you can get within sight of the cypress. it will not do. stay!" he continued, after a reflective pause, "i have a better plan still: _follow the trail of my lazo_!" while speaking, he had lifted the coiled rope from his saddlebow, and flung the loose end to the earth--the other being secured to a ring in the pommel. then raising his hat in graceful salutation--more than half directed towards the travelling carriage--he gave the spur to his steed; and once more bounded off over the prairie. the lazo, lengthening out, tightened over the hips of his horse; and, dragging a dozen yards behind, left a line upon the cinereous surface-- as if some slender serpent had been making its passage across the plain. "an exceedingly curious fellow!" remarked the planter, as they stood gazing after the horseman, fast becoming hidden behind a cloud of sable dust. "i ought to have asked him his name?" "an exceedingly conceited fellow, i should say," muttered calhoun; who had not failed to notice the glance sent by the stranger in the direction of the carriole, nor that which had challenged it. "as to his name, i don't think it matters much. it mightn't be his own he would give you. texas is full of such swells, who take new names when they get here--by way of improvement, if for no better reason." "come, cousin cash," protested young poindexter; "you are unjust to the stranger. he appears to be educated--in fact, a gentleman--worthy of bearing the best of names, i should say." "a gentleman! deuced unlikely: rigged out in that fanfaron fashion. i never saw a man yet, that took to a mexican dress, who wasn't a _jack_. he's one, i'll be bound." during this brief conversation, the fair occupant of the carriole was seen to bend forward; and direct a look of evident interest, after the form of the horseman fast receding from her view. to this, perhaps, might have been traced the acrimony observable in the speech of calhoun. "what is it, loo?" he inquired, riding close up to the carriage, and speaking in a voice not loud enough to be heard by the others. "you appear impatient to go forward? perhaps you'd like to ride off along with that swaggering fellow? it isn't too late: i'll lend you my horse." the young girl threw herself back upon the seat--evidently displeased, both by the speech and the tone in which it was delivered. but her displeasure, instead of expressing itself in a frown, or in the shape of an indignant rejoinder, was concealed under a guise far more galling to him who had caused it. a clear ringing laugh was the only reply vouchsafed to him. "so, so! i thought there must be something--by the way you behaved yourself in his presence. you looked as if you would have relished a _tete-a-tete_ with this showy despatch-bearer. taken with his stylish dress, i suppose? fine feathers make fine birds. his are borrowed. i may strip them off some day, along with a little of the skin that's under them." "for shame, cassius! your words are a scandal!" "'tis you should think of scandal, loo! to let your thoughts turn on a common scamp--a masquerading fellow like that! no doubt the letter carrier, employed by the officers at the fort!" "a letter carrier, you think? oh, how i should like to get love letters by such a postman!" "you had better hasten on, and tell him so. my horse is at your service." "ha! ha! ha! what a simpleton you show yourself! suppose, for jesting's sake, i _did_ have a fancy to overtake this prairie postman! it couldn't be done upon that dull steed of yours: not a bit of it! at the rate he is going, he and his blood-bay will be out of sight before you could change saddles for me. oh, no! he's not to be overtaken by me, however much i might like it; and perhaps i _might like it_!" "don't let your father hear you talk in that way." "don't let him hear _you_ talk in that way," retorted the young lady, for the first time speaking in a serious strain. "though you _are_ my cousin, and papa may think you the pink of perfection, i don't--not i! i never told you i did--did i?" a frown, evidently called forth by some unsatisfactory reflection, was the only reply to this tantalising interrogative. "you _are_ my cousin," she continued, in a tone that contrasted strangely with the levity she had already exhibited, "but you are nothing more--nothing more--captain cassius calhoun! you have no claim to be my counsellor. there is but one from whom i am in duty bound to take advice, or bear reproach. i therefore beg of you, master cash, that you will not again presume to repeat such sentiments--as those you have just favoured me with. i shall remain mistress of my own thoughts--and actions, too--till i have found a master who can control them. it is not you!" having delivered this speech, with eyes flashing--half angrily, half contemptuously--upon her cousin, the young creole once more threw herself back upon the cushions of the carriole. the closing curtains admonished the ex-officer, that further conversation was not desired. quailing under the lash of indignant innocence, he was only too happy to hear the loud "gee-on" of the teamsters, as the waggons commenced moving over the sombre surface--not more sombre than his own thoughts. chapter three. the prairie finger-post. the travellers felt no further uneasiness about the route. the snake-like trail was continuous; and so plain that a child might have followed it. it did not run in a right line, but meandering among the thickets; at times turning out of the way, in places where the ground was clear of timber. this had evidently been done with an intent to avoid obstruction to the waggons: since at each of these windings the travellers could perceive that there were breaks, or other inequalities, in the surface. "how very thoughtful of the young fellow!" remarked poindexter. "i really feel regret at not having asked for his name. if he belong to the fort, we shall see him again." "no doubt of it," assented his son. "i hope we shall." his daughter, reclining in shadow, overheard the conjectural speech, as well as the rejoinder. she said nothing; but her glance towards henry seemed to declare that her heart fondly echoed the hope. cheered by the prospect of soon terminating a toilsome journey--as also by the pleasant anticipation of beholding, before sunset, his new purchase--the planter was in one of his happiest moods. his aristocratic bosom was moved by an unusual amount of condescension, to all around him. he chatted familiarly with his overseer; stopped to crack a joke with "uncle" scipio, hobbling along on blistered heels; and encouraged "aunt" chloe in the transport of her piccaninny. "marvellous!" might the observer exclaim--misled by such exceptional interludes, so pathetically described by the scribblers in lucifer's pay--"what a fine patriarchal institution is slavery, after all! after all we have said and done to abolish it! a waste of sympathy--sheer philanthropic folly to attempt the destruction of this ancient edifice-- worthy corner-stone to a `chivalric' nation! oh, ye abolition fanatics! why do ye clamour against it? know ye not that some must suffer--must work and starve--that others may enjoy the luxury of idleness? that some must be slaves, that others may be free?" such arguments--at which a world might weep--have been of late but too often urged. woe to the man who speaks, and the nation that gives ear to them! the planter's high spirits were shared by his party, calhoun alone excepted. they were reflected in the faces of his black bondsmen, who regarded him as the source, and dispenser, of their happiness, or misery--omnipotent--next to god. they loved him less than god, and feared him more; though he was by no means a bad master--that is, _by comparison_. he did not absolutely take delight in torturing them. he liked to see them well fed and clad--their epidermis shining with the exudation of its own oil. these signs bespoke the importance of their proprietor--himself. he was satisfied to let them off with an occasional "cow-hiding"--salutary, he would assure you; and in all his "stock" there was not one black skin marked with the mutilations of vengeance--a proud boast for a mississippian slave-owner, and more than most could truthfully lay claim to. in the presence of such an exemplary owner, no wonder that the cheerfulness was universal--or that the slaves should partake of their master's joy, and give way to their garrulity. it was not destined that this joyfulness should continue to the end of their journey. it was after a time interrupted--not suddenly, nor by any fault on the part of those indulging in it, but by causes and circumstances over which they had not the slightest control. as the stranger had predicted: the sun ceased to be visible, before the cypress came in sight. there was nothing in this to cause apprehension. the line of the lazo was conspicuous as ever; and they needed no guidance from the sun: only that his cloud-eclipse produced a corresponding effect upon their spirits. "one might suppose it close upon nightfall," observed the planter, drawing out his gold repeater, and glancing at its dial; "and yet it's only three o'clock! lucky the young fellow has left us such a sure guide. but for him, we might have floundered among these ashes till sundown; perhaps have been compelled to sleep upon them." "a black bed it would be," jokingly rejoined henry, with the design of rendering the conversation more cheerful. "ugh! i should have such ugly dreams, were i to sleep upon it." "and i, too," added his sister, protruding her pretty face through the curtains, and taking a survey of the surrounding scene: "i'm sure i should dream of tartarus, and pluto, and proserpine, and--" "hya! hya! hya!" grinned the black jehu, on the box--enrolled in the plantation books as _pluto poindexter_--"de young missa dream 'bout _me_ in de mids' ob dis brack praira! golly! dat am a good joke--berry! hya! hya! hya!" "don't be too sure, all of ye," said the surly nephew, at this moment coming up, and taking part in the conversation--"don't be too sure that you won't have to make your beds upon it yet. i hope it may be no worse." "what mean you, cash?" inquired the uncle. "i mean, uncle, that that fellow's been misleading us. i won't say it for certain; but it looks ugly. we've come more than five miles--six, i should say--and where's the tree? i've examined the horizon, with a pair of as good eyes as most have got, i reckon; and there isn't such a thing in sight." "but why should the stranger have deceived us?" "ah--why? that's just it. there may be more reasons than one." "give us one, then!" challenged a silvery voice from the carriole. "we're all ears to hear it!" "you're all ears to take in everything that's told you by a stranger," sneeringly replied calhoun. "i suppose if i gave my reason, you'd be so charitable as to call it a false alarm!" "that depends on its character, master cassius. i think you might venture to try us. we scarcely expect a false alarm from a soldier, as well as traveller, of your experience." calhoun felt the taunt; and would probably have withheld the communication he had intended to make, but for poindexter himself. "come, cassius, explain yourself!" demanded the planter, in a tone of respectful authority. "you have said enough to excite something more than curiosity. for what reason should the young fellow be leading us astray?" "well, uncle," answered the ex-officer, retreating a little from his original accusation, "i haven't said for certain that he _is_; only that it looks like it." "in what way?" "well, one don't know what may happen. travelling parties as strong, and stronger than we, have been attacked on these plains, and plundered of every thing--murdered." "mercy!" exclaimed louise, in a tone of terror, more affected than real. "by indians," replied poindexter. "ah--indians, indeed! sometimes it may be; and sometimes, too, they may be whites who play at that game--not all mexican whites, neither. it only needs a bit of brown paint; a horsehair wig, with half a dozen feathers stuck into it; that, and plenty of hullabalooing. if we were to be robbed by a party of _white_ indians, it wouldn't be the first time the thing's been done. we as good as half deserve it--for our greenness, in trusting too much to a stranger." "good heavens, nephew! this is a serious accusation. do you mean to say that the despatch-rider--if he be one--is leading us into--into an ambuscade?" "no, uncle; i don't say that. i only say that such things have been done; and it's possible he _may_." "but not _probable_," emphatically interposed the voice from the carriole, in a tone tauntingly quizzical. "no!" exclaimed the stripling henry, who, although riding a few paces ahead, had overheard the conversation. "your suspicions are unjust, cousin cassius. i pronounce them a calumny. what's more, i can prove them so. look there!" the youth had reined up his horse, and was pointing to an object placed conspicuously by the side of the path; which, before speaking, he had closely scrutinised. it was a tall plant of the _columnar cactus_, whose green succulent stem had escaped scathing by the fire. it was not to the plant itself that henry poindexter directed the attention of his companions; but to a small white disc, of the form of a parallelogram, impaled upon one of its spines. no one accustomed to the usages of civilised life could mistake the "card." it was one. "hear what's written upon it!" continued the young man, riding nearer, and reading aloud the directions pencilled upon the bit of pasteboard. "the cypress in sight!" "where?" inquired poindexter. "there's a hand," rejoined henry, "with a finger pointing--no doubt in the direction of the tree." all eyes were instantly turned towards the quarter of the compass, indicated by the cipher on the card. had the sun been shining, the cypress might have been seen at the first glance. as it was, the sky--late of cerulean hue--was now of a leaden grey; and no straining of the eyes could detect anything along the horizon resembling the top of a tree. "there's nothing of the kind," asserted calhoun, with restored confidence, at the same time returning to his unworthy accusation. "it's only a dodge--another link in the chain of tricks the scamp is playing us." "you mistake, cousin cassius," replied that same voice that had so often contradicted him. "look through this lorgnette! if you haven't lost the sight of those superior eyes of yours, you'll see something _very like a tree_--a tall tree--and a cypress, too, if ever there was one in the swamps of louisiana." calhoun disdained to take the opera glass from the hands of his cousin. he knew it would convict him: for he could not suppose she was telling an untruth. poindexter availed himself of its aid; and, adjusting the focus to his failing sight, was enabled to distinguish the red-leafed cypress, topping up over the edge of the prairie. "it's true," he said: "the tree is there. the young fellow is honest: you've been wronging him, cash. i didn't think it likely he should have taken such a queer plan to make fools of us. he there! mr sansom! direct your teamsters to drive on!" calhoun, not caring to continue the conversation, nor yet remain longer in company, spitefully spurred his horse, and trotted off over the prairie. "let me look at that card, henry?" said louise, speaking to her brother in a restrained voice. "i'm curious to see the cipher that has been of such service to us. bring it away, brother: it can be of no further use where it is--now that we have sighted the tree." henry, without the slightest suspicion of his sister's motive for making the request, yielded obedience to it. releasing the piece of pasteboard from its impalement, he "chucked" it into her lap. "_maurice gerald_!" muttered the young creole, after deciphering the name upon the card. "maurice gerald!" she repeated, in apostrophic thought, as she deposited the piece of pasteboard in her bosom. "whoever you are--whence you have come--whither you are going--what you may be--_henceforth there is a fate between us_! i feel it--i know it-- sure as there's a sky above! oh! how that sky lowers! am i to take it as a type of this still untraced destiny?" chapter four. the black norther. for some seconds, after surrendering herself to the sybilline thoughts thus expressed, the young lady sate in silence--her white hands clasped across her temples, as if her whole soul was absorbed in an attempt, either to explain the past, or penetrate the future. her reverie--whatever might be its cause--was not of long duration. she was awakened from it, on hearing exclamations without--mingled with words that declared some object of apprehension. she recognised her brother's voice, speaking in tones that betokened alarm. "look, father! don't you see them?" "where, henry--where?" "yonder--behind the waggons. you see them now?" "i do--though i can't say what they are. they look like--like--" poindexter was puzzled for a simile--"i really don't know what." "waterspouts?" suggested the ex-captain, who, at sight of the strange objects, had condescended to rejoin the party around the carriole. "surely it can't be that? it's too far from the sea. i never heard of their occurring on the prairies." "they are in motion, whatever they be," said henry. "see! they keep closing, and then going apart. but for that, one might mistake them for huge obelisks of black marble!" "giants, or ghouls!" jokingly suggested calhoun; "ogres from some other world, who've taken a fancy to have a promenade on this abominable prairie!" the ex-officer was only humorous with an effort. as well as the others, he was under the influence of an uneasy feeling. and no wonder. against the northern horizon had suddenly become upreared a number of ink-coloured columns--half a score of them--unlike anything ever seen before. they were not of regular columnar form, nor fixed in any way; but constantly changing size, shape, and place--now steadfast for a time--now gliding over the charred surface like giants upon skates--anon, bending and balancing towards one another in the most fantastic figurings! it required no great effort of imagination, to fancy the titans of old, resuscitated on the prairies of texas, leading a measure after some wild carousal in the company of bacchus! in the proximity of phenomena never observed before--unearthly in their aspect--unknown to every individual of the party--it was but natural these should be inspired with alarm. and such was the fact. a sense of danger pervaded every bosom. all were impressed with a belief: that they were in the presence of some _peril of the prairies_. a general halt had been made on first observing the strange objects: the negroes on foot, as well as the teamsters, giving utterance to shouts of terror. the animals--mules as well as horses, had come instinctively to a stand--the latter neighing and trembling--the former filling the air with their shrill screams. these were not the only sounds. from the sable towers could be heard a hoarse swishing noise, that resembled the sough of a waterfall--at intervals breaking into reverberations like the roll of musketry, or the detonations of distant thunder! these noises were gradually growing louder and more distinct. the danger, whatever it might be, was drawing nearer! consternation became depicted on the countenances of the travellers, calhoun's forming no exception. the ex-officer no longer pretended levity. the eyes of all were turned towards the lowering sky, and the band of black columns that appeared coming on to crush them! at this crisis a shout, reaching their ears from the opposite side, was a source of relief--despite the unmistakable accent of alarm in which it was uttered. turning, they beheld a horseman in full gallop--riding direct towards them. the horse was black as coal: the rider of like hue, even to the skin of his face. for all that he was recognised: as the stranger, upon the trail of whose lazo they had been travelling. the perceptions of woman are quicker than those of man: the young lady within the carriole was the first to identify him. "onward!" he cried, as soon as within speaking distance. "on--on! as fast as you can drive!" "what is it?" demanded the planter, in bewildered alarm. "is there a danger?" "there is. i did not anticipate it, as i passed you. it was only after reaching the river, i saw the sure signs of it." "of what, sir?" "the _norther_." "you mean the storm of that name?" "i do." "i never heard of its being dangerous," interposed calhoun, "except to vessels at sea. it's precious cold, i know; but--" "you'll find it worse than cold, sir," interrupted the young horseman, "if you're not quick in getting out of its way. mr poindexter," he continued, turning to the planter, and speaking with impatient emphasis, "i tell you, that you and your party are in peril. a norther is not always to be dreaded; but this one--look yonder! you see those black pillars?" "we've been wondering--didn't know what to make of them." "they're nothing--only the precursors of the storm. look beyond! don't you see a coal-black cloud spreading over the sky? that's what you have to dread. i don't wish to cause you unnecessary alarm: but i tell you, there's death in yonder shadow! it's in motion, and coming this way. you have no chance to escape it, except by speed. if you do not make haste, it will be too late. in ten minutes' time you may be enveloped, and then--quick, sir, i entreat you! order your drivers to hurry forward as fast as they can! the sky--heaven itself--commands you!" the planter did not think of refusing compliance, with an appeal urged in such energetic terms. the order was given for the teams to be set in motion, and driven at top speed. terror, that inspired the animals equally with their drivers, rendered superfluous the use of the whip. the travelling carriage, with the mounted men, moved in front, as before. the stranger alone threw himself in the rear--as if to act as a guard against the threatening danger. at intervals he was observed to rein up his horse, and look back: each time by his glances betraying increased apprehension. perceiving it, the planter approached, and accosted him with the inquiry: "is there still a danger?" "i am sorry to answer you in the affirmative," said he: "i had hopes that the wind might be the other way." "wind, sir? there is none--that i can perceive." "not here. yonder it is blowing a hurricane, and this way too--direct. by heavens! it is nearing us rapidly! i doubt if we shall be able to clear the burnt track." "what is to be done?" exclaimed the planter, terrified by the announcement. "are your mules doing their best?" "they are: they could not be driven faster." "i fear we shall _be too late, then_!" as the speaker gave utterance to this gloomy conjecture, he reined round once more; and sate regarding the cloud columns--as if calculating the rate at which they were advancing. the lines, contracting around his lips, told of something more than dissatisfaction. "yes: too late!" he exclaimed, suddenly terminating his scrutiny. "they are moving faster than we--far faster. there is no hope of our escaping them!" "good god, sir! is the danger so great? can we do nothing to avoid it?" the stranger did not make immediate reply. for some seconds he remained silent, as if reflecting--his glance no longer turned towards the sky, but wandering among the waggons. "is there no chance of escape?" urged the planter, with the impatience of a man in presence of a great peril. "there is!" joyfully responded the horseman, as if some hopeful thought had at length suggested itself. "there _is a chance_. i did not think of it before. we cannot shun the storm--the danger we may. quick, mr poindexter! order your men to muffle the mules--the horses too-- otherwise the animals will be blinded, and go mad. blankets--cloaks-- anything will do. when that's done, let all seek shelter within the waggons. let the tilts be closed at the ends. i shall myself look to the travelling carriage." having delivered this chapter of instructions--which poindexter, assisted by the overseer, hastened to direct the execution of--the young horseman galloped towards the front. "madame!" said he, reining up alongside the carriole, and speaking with as much suavity as the circumstances would admit of, "you must close the curtains all round. your coachman will have to get inside; and you, gentlemen!" he continued, addressing himself to henry and calhoun--"and you, sir;" to poindexter, who had just come up. "there will be room for all. inside, i beseech you! lose no time. in a few seconds the storm will be upon us!" "and you, sir?" inquired the planter, with a show of interest in the man who was making such exertions to secure them against some yet unascertained danger. "what of yourself?" "don't waste a moment upon me. i know what's coming. it isn't the first time i have encountered it. in--in, i entreat you! you haven't a second to spare. listen to that shriek! quick, or the dust-cloud will be around us!" the planter and his son sprang together to the ground; and retreated into the travelling carriage. calhoun, refusing to dismount, remained stiffly seated in his saddle. why should _he_ skulk from a visionary danger, that did not deter a man in mexican garb? the latter turned away; as he did so, directing the overseer to get inside the nearest waggon--a direction which was obeyed with alacrity-- and, for the first time, the stranger was left free to take care of himself. quickly unfolding his _serape_--hitherto strapped across the cantle of his saddle--he flung it over the head of his horse. then, drawing the edges back, he fastened it, bag-fashion, around the animal's neck. with equal alertness he undid his scarf of china crape; and stretched it around his sombrero--fixing it in such a way, that one edge was held under the bullion band, while the other dropped down over the brim--thus forming a silken visor for his face. before finally closing it, he turned once more towards the carriole; and, to his surprise, saw calhoun still in the saddle. humanity triumphed over a feeling of incipient aversion. "once again, sir, i adjure you to get inside! if you do not you'll have cause to repent it. within ten minutes' time, you may be a dead man!" the positive emphasis with which the caution was delivered produced its effect. in the presence of mortal foeman, cassius calhoun was no coward. but there was an enemy approaching that was not mortal--not in any way understood. it was already making itself manifest, in tones that resembled thunder--in shadows that mocked the darkness of midnight. who would not have felt fear at the approach of a destroyer so declaring itself? the ex-officer was unable to resist the united warnings of earth and heaven; and, slipping out of his saddle with a show of reluctance-- intended to save appearances--he clambered into the carriage, and ensconced himself behind the closely-drawn curtains. to describe what followed is beyond the power of the pen. no eye beheld the spectacle: for none dared look upon it. even had this been possible, nothing could have been seen. in five minutes after the muffling of the mules, the train was enveloped in worse than cimmerian darkness. the opening scene can alone be depicted: for that only was observed by the travellers. one of the sable columns, moving in the advance, broke as it came in collision with the waggon-tilts. down came a shower of black dust, as if the sky had commenced raining gunpowder! it was a foretaste of what was to follow. there was a short interval of open atmosphere--hot as the inside of an oven. then succeeded puffs, and whirling gusts, of wind--cold as if projected from caves of ice, and accompanied by a noise as though all the trumpets of aeolus were announcing the advent of the storm-king! in another instant the _norther_ was around them; and the waggon train, halted on a subtropical plain, was enveloped in an atmosphere, akin to that which congeals the icebergs of the arctic ocean! nothing more was seen--nothing heard, save the whistling of the wind, or its hoarse roaring, as it thundered against the tilts of the waggons. the mules having instinctively turned stern towards it, stood silent in their traces; and the voices of the travellers, in solemn converse inside, could not be distinguished amid the howling of the hurricane. every aperture had been closed: for it was soon discovered, that to show a face from under the sheltering canvas was to court suffocation. the air was surcharged with ashes, lifted aloft from the burnt plain, and reduced, by the whirling of the wind, to an impalpable but poisonous powder. for over an hour did the atmosphere carry this cinereous cloud; during which period lasted the imprisonment of the travellers. at length a voice, speaking close by the curtains of the carriole, announced their release. "you can come forth!" said the stranger, the crape scarf thrown back above the brim of his hat. "you will still have the storm to contend against. it will last to the end of your journey; and, perhaps, for three days longer. but you have nothing further to fear. the ashes are all swept off. they've gone before you; and you're not likely to overtake them this side the rio grande." "sir!" said the planter, hastily descending the steps of the carriage, "we have to thank you for--for--" "our lives, father!" cried henry, supplying the proper words. "i hope, sir, you will favour us with your name?" "_maurice gerald_!" returned the stranger; "though, at the fort, you will find me better known as _maurice the mustanger_." "a mustanger!" scornfully muttered calhoun, but only loud enough to be heard by louise. "only a mustanger!" reflected the aristocratic poindexter, the fervour of his gratitude becoming sensibly chilled. "for guide, you will no longer need either myself, or my lazo," said the hunter of wild horses. "the cypress is in sight: keep straight towards it. after crossing, you will see the flag over the fort. you may yet reach your journey's end before night. i have no time to tarry; and must say adieu." satan himself, astride a tartarean steed, could not have looked more like the devil than did maurice the mustanger, as he separated for the second time from the planter and his party. but neither his ashy envelope, nor the announcement of his humble calling, did aught to damage him in the estimation of one, whose thoughts were already predisposed in his favour--louise poindexter. on hearing him declare his name--by presumption already known to her-- she but more tenderly cherished the bit of cardboard, chafing against her snow-white bosom; at the same time muttering in soft pensive soliloquy, heard only by herself:-- "maurice the mustanger! despite your sooty covering--despite your modest pretence--you have touched the heart of a creole maiden. _mon dieu_--_mon dieu! he is too like lucifer for me to despise him_!" chapter five. the home of the horse-hunter. where the _rio de nueces_ (river of nuts) collects its waters from a hundred tributary streams--lining the map like the limbs of a grand genealogical tree--you may look upon a land of surpassing fairness. its surface is "rolling prairie," interspersed with clumps of post-oak and pecan, here and there along the banks of the watercourses uniting into continuous groves. in some places these timbered tracts assume the aspect of the true _chapparal_--a thicket, rather than a forest--its principal growth being various kinds of acacia, associated with copaiva and creosote trees, with wild aloes, with eccentric shapes of cereus, cactus, and arborescent yucca. these spinous forms of vegetation, though repulsive to the eye of the agriculturist--as proving the utter sterility of the soil--present an attractive aspect to the botanist, or the lover of nature; especially when the cereus unfolds its huge wax-like blossoms, or the _fouquiera splendens_ overtops the surrounding shrubbery with its spike of resplendent flowers, like a red flag hanging unfolded along its staff. the whole region, however, is not of this character. there are stretches of greater fertility; where a black calcareous earth gives nourishment to trees of taller growth, and more luxuriant foliage. the "wild china"--a true _sapindal_--the pecan, the elm, the hackberry, and the oak of several species--with here and there a cypress or cottonwood--form the components of many a sylvan scene, which, from the blending of their leaves of various shades of green, and the ever changing contour of their clumps, deserves to be denominated fair. the streams of this region are of crystal purity--their waters tinted only by the reflection of sapphire skies. its sun, moon, and stars are scarcely ever concealed behind a cloud. the demon of disease has not found his way into this salubrious spot: no epidemic can dwell within its borders. despite these advantages, civilised man has not yet made it his home. its paths are trodden only by the red-skinned rovers of the prairie-- lipano or comanche--and these only when mounted, and upon the _maraud_ towards the settlements of the lower nueces, or leona. it may be on this account--though it would almost seem as if they were actuated by a love of the beautiful and picturesque--that the true children of nature, the wild animals, have selected this spot as their favourite habitat and home. in no part of texas does the stag bound up so often before you; and nowhere is the timid antelope so frequently seen. the rabbit, and his gigantic cousin, the mule-rabbit, are scarcely ever out of sight; while the polecat, the opossum, and the curious peccary, are encountered at frequent intervals. birds, too, of beautiful forms and colours, enliven the landscape. the quail whirrs up from the path; the king vulture wheels in the ambient air; the wild turkey, of gigantic stature, suns his resplendent gorget by the side of the pecan copse, and the singular tailor-bird--known among the rude rangers as the "bird of paradise"--flouts his long scissors-like tail among the feathery fronds of the acacia. beautiful butterflies spread their wide wings in flapping flight; or, perched upon some gay corolla, look as if they formed part of the flower. huge bees (_meliponae_), clad in velvet liveries, buzz amid the blossoming bushes, disputing possession with hawkmoths and humming-birds not much larger than themselves. they are not all innocent, the denizens of this lovely land. here the rattlesnake attains to larger dimensions than in any other part of north america, and shares the covert with the more dangerous _moccasin_. here, too, the tarantula inflicts its venomous sting; the scorpion poisons with its bite; and the centipede, by simply crawling over the skin, causes a fever that may prove fatal! along the wooded banks of the streams may be encountered the spotted ocelot, the puma, and their more powerful congener, the jaguar; the last of these _felidae_ being here upon the northern limit of its geographical range. along the edges of the chapparal skulks the gaunt texan wolf--solitarily and in silence; while a kindred and more cowardly species, the _coyote_, may be observed, far out upon the open plain, hunting in packs. sharing the same range with these, the most truculent of quadrupeds, may be seen the noblest and most beautiful of animals--perhaps nobler and more beautiful than man--certainly the most distinguished of man's companions--the horse! here--independent of man's caprice, his jaw unchecked by bit or curb, his back unscathed by pack or saddle--he roams unrestrained; giving way to all the wildness of his nature. but even in this, his favourite haunt, he is not always left alone. man presumes to be his pursuer and tamer: for here was he sought, captured, and conquered, by _maurice the mustanger_. on the banks of the _alamo_--one of the most sparkling streamlets that pay tribute to the nueces--stood a dwelling, unpretentious as any to be found within the limits of texas, and certainly as picturesque. its walls were composed of split trunk of the arborescent yucca, set stockade-fashion in the ground; while its roof was a thatch furnished by the long bayonet-shaped loaves of the same gigantic lily. the interstices between the uprights, instead of being "chinked" with clay--as is common in the cabins of western texas--were covered by a sheeting of horse-skins; attached, not by iron tacks, but with the sharp spines that terminate the leaves of the _pita_ plant. on the bluffs, that on both sides overlooked the rivulet--and which were but the termination of the escarpment of the higher plain--grew in abundance the material out of which the hut had been constructed: tree yuccas and _magueys_, amidst other rugged types of sterile vegetation; whereas the fertile valley below was covered with a growth of heavy timber--consisting chiefly of red-mulberry, post-oak, and pecan, that formed a forest of several leagues in length. the timbered tract was, in fact, conterminous with the bottom lands; the tops of the trees scarce rising to a level with the escarpment of the cliff. it was not continuous. along the edge of the streamlet were breaks-- forming little meads, or savannahs, covered with that most nutritious of grasses, known among mexicans as _grama_. in the concavity of one of these, of semicircular shape--which served as a natural lawn--stood the primitive dwelling above described; the streamlet representing the chord; while the curve was traced by the trunks of the trees, that resembled a series of columns supporting the roof of some sylvan coliseum. the structure was in shadow, a little retired among the trees; as if the site had been chosen with a view to concealment. it could have been seen but by one passing along the bank of the stream; and then only with the observer directly in front of it. its rude style of architecture, and russet hue, contributed still further to its _inconspicuousness_. the house was a mere cabin--not larger than a marquee tent--with only a single aperture, the door--if we except the flue of a slender clay chimney, erected at one end against the upright posts. the doorway had a door, a light framework of wood, with a horse-skin stretched over it, and hung upon hinges cut from the same hide. in the rear was an open shed, thatched with yucca leaves, and supported by half a dozen posts. around this was a small enclosure, obtained by tying cross poles to the trunks of the adjacent trees. a still more extensive enclosure, containing within its circumference more than an acre of the timbered tract, and fenced in a similar manner, extended rearward from the cabin, terminating against the bluff. its turf tracked and torn by numerous hoof-prints--in some places trampled into a hard surface--told of its use: a "corral" for wild horses--_mustangs_. this was made still more manifest by the presence of a dozen or more of these animals within the enclosure; whose glaring eyeballs, and excited actions, gave evidence of their recent capture, and how ill they brooked the imprisonment of that shadowy paddock. the interior of the hut was not without some show of neatness and comfort. the sheeting of mustang-skins that covered the walls, with the hairy side turned inward, presented no mean appearance. the smooth shining coats of all colours--black, bay, snow-white, sorrel, and skewbald--offered to the eye a surface pleasantly variegated; and there had evidently been some taste displayed in their arrangement. the furniture was of the scantiest kind. it consisted of a counterfeit camp bedstead, formed by stretching a horse-hide over a framework of trestles; a couple of stools--diminutive specimens on the same model; and a rude table, shaped out of hewn slabs of the yucca-tree. something like a second sleeping place appeared in a remote corner--a "shakedown," or "spread," of the universal mustang-skin. what was least to be expected in such a place, was a shelf containing about a score of books, with pens, ink, and _papeterie_; also a newspaper lying upon the slab table. further proofs of civilisation, if not refinement, presented themselves in the shape of a large leathern portmanteau, a double-barrelled gun, with "westley richards" upon the breech; a drinking cup of chased silver, a huntsman's horn, and a dog-call. upon the floor were a few culinary utensils, mostly of tin; while in one corner stood a demijohn, covered with wicker, and evidently containing something stronger than the water of the alamo. other "chattels" in the cabin were perhaps more in keeping with the place. there was a high-peaked mexican saddle; a bridle, with headstall of plaited horsehair, and reins to correspond; two or three spare _serapes_, and some odds and ends of raw-hide rope. such was the structure of the mustanger's dwelling--such its surroundings--such its interior and contents, with the exception of its living occupants--two in number. on one of the stools standing in the centre of the floor was seated a man, who could not be the mustanger himself. in no way did he present the semblance of a proprietor. on the contrary, the air of the servitor--the mien of habitual obedience--was impressed upon him beyond the chance of misconstruction. rude as was the cabin that sheltered him, no one entering under its roof would have mistaken him for its master. not that he appeared ill clad or fed, or in any way stinted in his requirements. he was a round plump specimen, with a shock of carrot-coloured hair and a bright ruddy skin, habited in a suit of stout stuff--half corduroy, half cotton-velvet. the corduroy was in the shape of a pair of knee-breeches, with gaiters to correspond; the velveteen, once bottle green, now faded to a brownish hue, exhibited itself in a sort of shooting coat, with ample pockets in the breast and skirts. a "wide-awake" hat, cocked over a pair of eyes equally deserving the appellation, completed the costume of the individual in question--if we except a shirt of coarse calico, a red cotton kerchief loosely knotted around his neck, and a pair of irish _brogues_ upon his feet. it needed neither the brogues, nor the corduroy breeches, to proclaim his nationality. his lips, nose, eyes, air, and attitude, were all unmistakably milesian. had there been any ambiguity about this, it would have been dispelled as he opened his mouth for the emission of speech; and this he at intervals did, in an accent that could only have been acquired in the shire of galway. as he was the sole human occupant of the cabin, it might be supposed that he spoke only in soliloquy. not so, however. couched upon a piece of horse-skin, in front of the fire, with snout half buried among the ashes, was a canine companion, whose appearance bespoke a countryman--a huge irish staghound, that looked as if he too understood the speech of connemara. whether he did so or not, it was addressed to him, as if he was expected to comprehend every word. "och, tara, me jewel!" exclaimed he in the corduroys, fraternally interrogating the hound; "hadn't yez weesh now to be back in ballyballagh? wadn't yez loike to be wance more in the coortyard av the owld castle, friskin' over the clane stones, an bein' tripe-fed till there wasn't a rib to be seen in your sides--so different from what they are now--when i kyan count ivery wan av them? sowl! it's meself that ud loike to be there, anyhow! but there's no knowin' when the young masther 'll go back, an take us along wid him. niver mind, tara! he's goin' to the sittlements soon, ye owld dog; an he's promised to take us thare; that's some consolashun. be japers! it's over three months since i've been to the fort, meself. maybe i'll find some owld acquaintance among them irish sodgers that's come lately; an be me sowl, av i do, won't there be a dhrap betwane us--won't there, tara?" the staghound, raising his head at hearing the mention of his name, gave a slight sniff, as if saying "yes" in answer to the droll interrogatory. "i'd like a dhrap now," continued the speaker, casting a covetous glance towards the wickered jar; "mightily i wud that same; but the dimmyjan is too near bein' empty, an the young masther might miss it. besides, it wudn't be raal honest av me to take it widout lave--wud it, tara?" the dog again raised his head above the ashes, and sneezed as before. "why, that was _yis_, the last time ye spoke! div yez mane is for the same now? till me, tara!" once more the hound gave utterance to the sound--that appeared to be caused either by a slight touch of influenza, or the ashes having entered his nostrils. "`yis' again? in trath that's just fwhat the dumb crayther manes! don't timpt me, ye owld thief! no--no; i won't touch the whisky. i'll only draw the cork out av the dimmyjan, an take a smell at it. shure the masther won't know anything about that; an if he did, he wudn't mind it! smellin' kyant do the pothyeen any harm." during the concluding portion of this utterance, the speaker had forsaken his seat, and approached the corner where stood the jar. notwithstanding the professed innocence of his intent, there was a stealthiness about his movements, that seemed to argue either a want of confidence in his own integrity, or in his power to resist temptation. he stood for a short while listening--his eyes turned towards the open doorway; and then, taking up the demijohn, he drew out the stopper, and held the neck to his nose. for some seconds he remained in this attitude: giving out no other sign than an occasional "sniff," similar to that uttered by the hound, and which he had been fain to interpret as an affirmative answer to his interrogatory. it expressed the enjoyment he was deriving from the _bouquet_ of the potent spirit. but this only satisfied him for a very short time; and gradually the bottom of the jar was seen going upwards, while the reverse end descended in like ratio in the direction of his protruding lips. "be japers!" he exclaimed, once more glancing stealthily towards the door, "flesh and blood cudn't stand the smell av that bewtiful whisky, widout tastin' it. trath! i'll chance it--jist the smallest thrifle to wet the tap av my tongue. maybe it'll burn the skin av it; but no matther--here goes!" without further ado the neck of the demijohn was brought in contact with his lips; but instead of the "smallest thrifle" to wet the top of his tongue, the "gluck--gluck" of the escaping fluid told that he was administering a copious saturation to the whole lining of his larynx, and something more. after half a dozen "smacks" of the mouth, with other exclamations denoting supreme satisfaction, he hastily restored the stopper; returned the demijohn to its place; and glided back to his seat upon the stool. "tara, ye owld thief!" said he, addressing himself once more to his canine companion, "it was you that timpted me! no matther, man: the masther 'll niver miss it; besides, he's goin' soon to the fort, an can lay in a fresh supply." for a time the pilferer remained silent; either reflecting on the act he had committed, or enjoying the effects which the "potheen" had produced upon his spirits. his silence was of short duration; and was terminated by a soliloquy. "i wondher," muttered he, "fwhat makes masther maurice so anxious to get back to the sittlements. he says he'll go wheniver he catches that spotty mustang he has seen lately. sowl! isn't he bad afther that baste! i suppose it must be somethin' beyant the common--the more be token, as he has chased the crayther three times widout bein' able to throw his rope over it--an mounted on the blood-bay, too. he sez he won't give it up, till he gets howlt of it. trath! i hope it'll be grupped soon, or wez may stay here till the marnin' av doomsday. hush! fwhat's that?" tara springing up from his couch of skin, and rushing out with a low growl, had caused the exclamation. "phelim!" hailed a voice from the outside. "phelim!" "it's the masther," muttered phelim, as he jumped from his stool, and followed the dog through the doorway. chapter six. the spotted mustang. phelim was not mistaken as to the voice that had hailed him. it was that of his master, maurice gerald. on getting outside, he saw the mustanger at a short distance from the door, and advancing towards it. as the servant should have expected, his master was mounted upon his horse--no longer of a reddish colour, but appearing almost black. the animal's coat was darkened with sweat; its counter and flanks speckled with foam. the blood-bay was not alone. at the end of the lazo--drawn taut from the saddle tree--was a companion, or, to speak more accurately, a captive. with a leathern thong looped around its under jaw, and firmly embracing the bars of its mouth, kept in place by another passing over its neck immediately behind the ears, was the captive secured. it was a mustang of peculiar appearance, as regarded its markings; which were of a kind rarely seen--even among the largest "gangs" that roam over the prairie pastures, where colours of the most eccentric patterns are not uncommon. that of the animal in question was a ground of dark chocolate in places approaching to black--with white spots distributed over it, as regularly as the contrary colours upon the skin of the jaguar. as if to give effect to this pleasing arrangement of hues, the creature was of perfect shape--broad chested, full in the flank, and clean limbed--with a hoof showing half a score of concentric rings, and a head that might have been taken as a type of equine beauty. it was of large size for a mustang, though much smaller than the ordinary english horse; even smaller than the blood-bay--himself a mustang--that had assisted in its capture. the beautiful captive was a mare--one of a _manada_ that frequented the plains near the source of the alamo; and where, for the third time, the mustanger had unsuccessfully chased it. in his case the proverb had proved untrue. in the third time he had not found the "charm"; though it favoured him in the fourth. by the fascination of a long rope, with a running noose at its end, he had secured the creature that, for some reason known only to himself, he so ardently wished to possess. phelim had never seen his master return from a horse-hunting excursion in such a state of excitement; even when coming back--as he often did-- with half a dozen mustangs led loosely at the end of his lazo. but never before at the end of that implement had phelim beheld such a beauty as the spotted mare. she was a thing to excite the admiration of one less a connoisseur in horse-flesh than the _ci-devant_ stable-boy of castle ballagh. "hooch--hoop--hoora!" cried he, as he set eyes upon the captive, at the same time tossing his hat high into the air. "thanks to the howly vargin, an saint pathrick to boot, masther maurice, yez have cotched the spotty at last! it's a mare, be japers! och! the purthy crayther! i don't wondher yez hiv been so bad about gettin' howlt av her. sowl! if yez had her in ballinasloe fair, yez might ask your own price, and get it too, widout givin' sixpence av luckpenny. oh! the purty crayther! where will yez hiv her phut, masther? into the corral, wid the others?" "no, she might get kicked among them. we shall tie her in the shed. castro must pass his night outside among the trees. if he's got any gallantry in him he won't mind that. did you ever see anything so beautiful as she is, phelim--i mean in the way of horseflesh?" "niver, masther maurice; niver, in all me life! an' i've seen some nice bits av blood about ballyballagh. oh, the purty crayther! she looks as if a body cud ate her; and yit, in trath, she looks like she wud ate you. yez haven't given her the schoolin' lesson, have yez?" "no, phelim: i don't want to break her just yet--not till i have time, and can do it properly. it would never do to spoil such perfection as that. i shall tame her, after we've taken her to the settlements." "yez be goin' there, masther maurice? when?" "to-morrow. we shall start by daybreak, so as to make only one day between here and the fort." "sowl! i'm glad to hear it. not on me own account, but yours, masther maurice. maybe yez don't know that the whisky's on the idge of bein' out? from the rattle av the jar, i don't think there's more than three naggins left. them sutlers at the fort aren't honest. they chate ye in the mizyure; besides watherin' the whisky, so that it won't bear a dhrap more out av the strame hare. trath! a gallon av innishowen wud last ayqual to three av this amerikin _rotgut_, as the yankees themselves christen it." "never mind about the whisky, phelim--i suppose there's enough to last us for this night, and fill our flasks for the journey of to-morrow. look alive, old ballyballagh! let us stable the spotted mare; and then i shall have time to talk about a fresh supply of `potheen,' which i know you like better than anything else--except yourself!" "and you, masther maurice!" retorted the galwegian, with a comical twinkle of the eye, that caused his master to leap laughingly out of the saddle. the spotted mare was soon stabled in the shed, castro being temporarily attached to a tree; where phelim proceeded to groom him after the most approved prairie fashion. the mustanger threw himself on his horse-skin couch, wearied with the work of the day. the capture of the "yegua pinta" had cost him a long and arduous chase--such as he had never ridden before in pursuit of a mustang. there was a motive that had urged him on, unknown to phelim--unknown to castro who carried him--unknown to living creature, save himself. notwithstanding that he had spent several days in the saddle--the last three in constant pursuit of the spotted mare--despite the weariness thus occasioned, he was unable to obtain repose. at intervals he rose to his feet, and paced the floor of his hut, as if stirred by some exciting emotion. for several nights he had slept uneasily--at intervals tossing upon his _catre_--till not only his henchman phelim, but his hound tara, wondered what could be the meaning of his _unrest_. the former might have attributed it to his desire to possess the spotted mare; had he not known that his master's feverish feeling antedated his knowledge of the existence of this peculiar quadruped. it was several days after his last return from the fort that the "yegua pinta" had first presented herself to the eye of the mustanger. that therefore could not be the cause of his altered demeanour. his success in having secured the animal, instead of tranquillising his spirit, seemed to have produced the contrary effect. at least, so thought phelim: who--with the freedom of that relationship known as "foster-brother"--had at length determined on questioning his master as to the cause of his inquietude. as the latter lay shifting from side to side, he was saluted with the interrogatory-- "masther maurice, fwhat, in the name of the howly vargin, is the matther wid ye?" "nothing, phelim--nothing, _mabohil_! what makes you think there is?" "_alannah_! how kyan i help thinkin' it! yez kyant get a wink av sleep; niver since ye returned the last time from the sittlement. och! yez hiv seen somethin' there that kapes ye awake? shure now, it isn't wan av them mixikin girls--_mowchachas_, as they call them? no, i won't believe it. you wudn't be wan av the owld geralds to care for such trash as them." "nonsense, my good fellow! there's nothing the matter with me. it's all your own imagination." "trath, masther, yez arr mistaken. if there's anything asthray wid me imaginashun, fhwat is it that's gone wrong wid your own? that is, whin yez arr aslape--which aren't often av late." "when i'm asleep! what do you mean, phelim?" "what div i mane? fwhy, that wheniver yez close your eyes an think yez are sleepin', ye begin palaverin', as if a preast was confessin' ye!" "ah! is that so? what have you heard me say?" "not much, masther, that i cud make sinse out av. yez be always tryin' to pronounce a big name that appares to have no indin', though it begins wid a _point_!" "a name! what name?" "sowl! i kyan't till ye exakly. it's too long for me to remimber, seein' that my edicashun was intirely neglicted. but there's another name that yez phut before it; an that i kyan tell ye. it's a wuman's name, though it's not common in the owld counthry. it's looaze that ye say, masther maurice; an then comes _the point_." "ah!" interrupted the young irishman, evidently not caring to converse longer on the subject. "some name i may have heard--somewhere, accidentally. one does have such strange ideas in dreams!" "trath! yez spake the truth there; for in your drames, masther, ye talk about a purty girl lookin' out av a carriage wid curtains to it, an tellin' her to close them agaynst some danger that yez are going to save her from." "i wonder what puts such nonsense into my head?" "i wondher meself," rejoined phelim, fixing his eyes upon his young master with a stealthy but scrutinising look. "shure," he continued, "if i may make bowld to axe the quistyun--shure, masther maurice, yez haven't been makin' a judy fitzsummon's mother av yerself, an fallin' in love wid wan of these yankee weemen out hare? och an-an-ee! that wud be a misforthune; an thwat wud she say--the purty colleen wid the goodlen hair an blue eyes, that lives not twinty miles from ballyballagh?" "poh, poh! phelim! you're taking leave of your senses, i fear." "trath, masther, i aren't; but i know somethin' i wud like to take lave av." "what is that? not me, i hope?" "you, _alannah_? niver! it's tixas i mane. i'd like to take lave of that; an you goin' along wid me back to the owld sad. arrah, now, fhwat's the use av yer stayin' here, wastin' the best part av yer days in doin' nothin'? shure yez don't make more than a bare livin' by the horse-catchin'; an if yez did, what mathers it? yer owld aunt at castle ballagh can't howld out much longer; an when she's did, the bewtiful demane 'll be yours, spite av the dhirty way she's thratin' ye. shure the property's got a tail to it; an not a mother's son av them can kape ye out av it!" "ha! ha! ha!" laughed the young irishman: "you're quite a lawyer, phelim. what a first-rate attorney you'd have made! but come! you forget that i haven't tasted food since morning. what have you got in the larder?" "trath! there's no great stock, masther. yez haven't laid in anythin' for the three days yez hiv been afther spotty. there's only the cowld venison an the corn-bread. if yez like i'll phut the venison in the pat, an make a hash av it." "yes, do so. i can wait." "won't yez wait betther afther tastin' a dhrap av the crayther?" "true--let me have it." "will yez take it nate, or with a little wather? trath! it won't carry much av that same." "a glass of grog--draw the water fresh from the stream." phelim took hold of the silver drinking-cup, and was about stepping outside, when a growl from tara, accompanied by a start, and followed by a rush across the floor, caused the servitor to approach the door with a certain degree of caution. the barking of the dog soon subsided into a series of joyful whimperings, which told that he had been gratified by the sight of some old acquaintance. "it's owld zeb stump," said phelim, first peeping out, and then stepping boldly forth--with the double design of greeting the new-comer, and executing the order he had received from his master. the individual, who had thus freely presented himself in front of the mustanger's cabin, was as unlike either of its occupants, as one from the other. he stood fall six feet high, in a pair of tall boots, fabricated out of tanned alligator skin; into the ample tops of which were thrust the bottoms of his pantaloons--the latter being of woollen homespun, that had been dyed with "dog-wood ooze," but was now of a simple dirt colour. a deerskin under shirt, without any other, covered his breast and shoulders; over which was a "blanket coat," that had once been green, long since gone to a greenish yellow, with most of the wool worn off. there was no other garment to be seen: a slouch felt hat, of greyish colour, badly battered, completing the simple, and somewhat scant, collection of his wardrobe. he was equipped in the style of a backwoods hunter, of the true daniel boone breed: bullet-pouch, and large crescent-shaped powder-horn, both suspended by shoulder-straps, hanging under the right arm; a waist-belt of thick leather keeping his coat closed and sustaining a skin sheath, from which protruded the rough stag-horn handle of a long-bladed knife. he did not affect either mocassins, leggings, nor the caped and fringed tunic shirt of dressed deerskin worn by most texan hunters. there was no embroidery upon his coarse clothing, no carving upon his accoutrements or weapons, nothing in his _tout ensemble_ intended as ornamental. everything was plain almost to rudeness: as if dictated by a spirit that despised "fanfaron." even the rifle, his reliable weapon--the chief tool of his trade--looked like a rounded bar of iron, with a piece of brown unpolished wood at the end, forming its stock; stock and barrel, when the butt rested on the ground, reaching up to the level of his shoulder. the individual thus clothed and equipped was apparently about fifty years of age, with a complexion inclining to dark, and features that, at first sight, exhibited a grave aspect. on close scrutiny, however, could be detected an underlying stratum of quiet humour; and in the twinkle of a small greyish eye there was evidence that its owner could keenly relish a joke, or, at times, perpetrate one. the irishman had pronounced his name: it was zebulon stump, or "old zeb stump," as he was better known to the very limited circle of his acquaintances. "kaintuck, by birth an raisin',"--as he would have described himself, if asked the country of his nativity--he had passed the early part of his life among the primeval forests of the lower mississippi--his sole calling that of a hunter; and now, at a later period, he was performing the same _metier_ in the wilds of south-western texas. the behaviour of the staghound, as it bounded before him, exhibiting a series of canine welcomes, told of a friendly acquaintance between zeb stump and maurice the mustanger. "evenin'!" laconically saluted zeb, as his tail figure shadowed the cabin door. "good evening', mr stump!" rejoined the owner of the hut, rising to receive him. "step inside, and take a seat!" the hunter accepted the invitation; and, making a single stride across the floor, after some awkward manoeuvring, succeeded in planting himself on the stool lately occupied by phelim. the lowness of the seat brought his knees upon a level with his chin, the tall rifle rising like a pikestaff several feet above his head. "durn stools, anyhow!" muttered he, evidently dissatisfied with the posture; "an' churs, too, for thet matter. i likes to plant my starn upon a log: thur ye've got somethin' under ye as ain't like to guv way." "try that," said his host, pointing to the leathern portmanteau in the corner: "you'll find it a firmer seat." old zeb, adopting the suggestion, unfolded the zigzag of his colossal carcase, and transferred it to the trunk. "on foot, mr stump, as usual?" "no: i got my old critter out thur, tied to a saplin'. i wa'n't a huntin'." "you never hunt on horseback, i believe?" "i shed be a greenhorn if i dud. anybody as goes huntin' a hossback must be a durnation fool!" "but it's the universal fashion in texas!" "univarsal or no, it air a fool's fashion--a durned lazy fool's fashion! i kill more meat in one day afut, then i ked in a hul week wi' a hoss atween my legs. i don't misdoubt that a hoss air the best thing for you--bein' as yur game's entire different. but when ye go arter baar, or deer, or turkey eyther, ye won't see much o' them, trampin' about through the timmer a hossback, an scarrin' everythin' es hes got ears 'ithin the circuit o' a mile. as for hosses, i shodn't be bothered wi' ne'er a one no how, ef twa'n't for packin' the meat: thet's why i keep my ole maar." "she's outside, you say? let phelim take her round to the shed. you'll stay all night?" "i kim for that purpiss. but ye needn't trouble about the maar: she air hitched safe enuf. i'll let her out on the laryitt, afore i take to grass." "you'll have something to eat? phelim was just getting supper ready. i'm sorry i can't offer you anything very dainty--some hash of venison." "nothin' better 'n good deermeat, 'ceptin it be baar; but i like both done over the coals. maybe i can help ye to some'at thet'll make a roast. mister pheelum, ef ye don't mind steppin' to whar my critter air hitched, ye'll find a gobbler hangin' over the horn o' the seddle. i shot the bird as i war comin' up the crik." "oh, that is rare good fortune! our larder has got very low--quite out, in truth. i've been so occupied, for the last three days, in chasing a very curious mustang, that i never thought of taking my gun with me. phelim and i, and tara, too, had got to the edge of starvation." "whet sort o' a mustang?" inquired the hunter, in a tone that betrayed interest, and without appearing to notice the final remark. "a mare; with white spots on a dark chocolate ground--a splendid creature!" "durn it, young fellur! thet air's the very bizness thet's brung me over to ye." "indeed!" "i've seed that mustang--maar, ye say it air, though i kedn't tell, as she'd niver let me 'ithin hef a mile o' her. i've seed her several times out on the purayra, an i jest wanted ye to go arter her. i'll tell ye why. i've been to the leeona settlements since i seed you last, and since i seed her too. wal, theer hev kum thur a man as i knowed on the mississippi. he air a rich planter, as used to keep up the tallest kind o' doin's, 'specially in the feestin' way. many's the jeint o' deermeat, and many's the turkey-gobbler this hyur coon hes surplied for his table. his name air peintdexter." "poindexter?" "thet air the name--one o' the best known on the mississippi from orleens to saint looey. he war rich then; an, i reck'n, ain't poor now--seein' as he's brought about a hunderd niggers along wi' him. beside, thur's a nephew o' hisn, by name calhoun. he's got the dollars, an nothin' to do wi' 'em but lend 'em to his uncle--the which, for a sartin reezun, i think he _will_. now, young fellur, i'll tell ye why i wanted to see _you_. thet 'ere planter hev got a darter, as air dead bent upon hossflesh. she used to ride the skittishest kind o' cattle in loozeyanner, whar they lived. she heern me tellin' the old 'un 'bout the spotted mustang; and nothin' would content her thur and then, till he promised he'd offer a big price for catchin' the critter. he sayed he'd give a kupple o' hunderd dollars for the anymal, ef 'twur anythin like what i sayed it wur. in coorse, i knowed thet 'ud send all the mustangers in the settlement straight custrut arter it; so, sayin' nuthin' to nobody, i kim over hyur, fast as my ole maar 'ud fetch me. you grup thet 'ere spotty, an zeb stump 'll go yur bail ye'll grab them two hunderd dollars." "will you step this way, mr stump?" said the young irishman, rising from his stool, and proceeding in the direction of the door. the hunter followed, not without showing some surprise at the abrupt invitation. maurice conducted his visitor round to the rear of the cabin; and, pointing into the shed, inquired-- "does that look anything like the mustang you've been speaking of?" "dog-gone my cats, ef 'taint the eyedenticul same! grupped already! two hunderd dollars, easy as slidin' down a barked saplin'! young fellur, yur in luck: two hunderd, slick sure!--and durn me, ef the anymal ain't worth every cent o' the money! geehosofat! what a putty beest it air! won't miss peintdexter be pleezed! it'll turn that young critter 'most crazy!" chapter seven. nocturnal annoyances. the unexpected discovery, that his purpose had been already anticipated by the capture of the spotted mustang, raised the spirits of the old hunter to a high pitch of excitement. they were further elevated by a portion of the contents of the demijohn, which held out beyond phelim's expectations: giving all hands an appetising "nip" before attacking the roast turkey, with another go each to wash it down, and several more to accompany the post-cenal pipe. while this was being indulged in, a conversation was carried on; the themes being those that all prairie men delight to talk about: indian and hunter lore. as zeb stump was a sort of living encyclopaedia of the latter, he was allowed to do most of the talking; and he did it in such a fashion as to draw many a wondering ejaculation, from the tongue of the astonished galwegian. long before midnight, however, the conversation was brought to a close. perhaps the empty demijohn was, as much as anything else, the monitor that urged their retiring to rest; though there was another and more creditable reason. on the morrow, the mustanger intended to start for the settlements; and it was necessary that all should be astir at an early hour, to make preparation for the journey. the wild horses, as yet but slightly tamed, had to be strung together, to secure against their escaping by the way; and many other matters required attending to previous to departure. the hunter had already tethered out his "ole maar"--as he designated the sorry specimen of horseflesh he was occasionally accustomed to bestride--and had brought back with him an old yellowish blanket, which was all he ever used for a bed. "you may take my bedstead," said his courteous host; "i can lay myself on a skin along the floor." "no," responded the guest; "none o' yer shelves for zeb stump to sleep on. i prefer the solid groun'. i kin sleep sounder on it; an bus-sides, thur's no fear o' fallin' over." "if you prefer it, then, take the floor. here's the best place. i'll spread a hide for you." "young fellur, don't you do anythin' o' the sort; ye'll only be wastin' yur time. this child don't sleep on no floors. his bed air the green grass o' the purayra." "what! you're not going to sleep outside?" inquired the mustanger in some surprise--seeing that his guest, with the old blanket over his arm, was making for the door. "i ain't agoin' to do anythin' else." "why, the night is freezing cold--almost as chilly as a norther!" "durn that! it air better to stan' a leetle chillishness, than a feelin' o' suffercation--which last i wud sartintly hev to go through ef i slep inside o' a house." "surely you are jesting, mr stump?" "young fellur!" emphatically rejoined the hunter, without making direct reply to the question. "it air now nigh all o' six yeer since zeb stump hev stretched his ole karkiss under a roof. i oncest used to hev a sort o' a house in the hollow o' a sycamore-tree. that wur on the massissippi, when my ole ooman wur alive, an i kep up the 'stablishment to 'commerdate her. arter she went under, i moved into loozeyanny; an then arterward kim out hyur. since then the blue sky o' texas hev been my only kiver, eyther wakin' or sleepin'." "if you prefer to lie outside--" "i prefar it," laconically rejoined the hunter, at the same time stalking over the threshold, and gliding out upon the little lawn that lay between the cabin and the creek. his old blanket was not the only thing he carried along with him. beside it, hanging over his arm, could be seen some six or seven yards of a horsehair rope. it was a piece of a _cabriesto_--usually employed for tethering horses--though it was not for this purpose it was now to be used. having carefully scrutinised the grass within a circumference of several feet in diameter--which a shining moon enabled him to do--he laid the rope with like care around the spot examined, shaping it into a sort of irregular ellipse. stepping inside this, and wrapping the old blanket around him, he quietly let himself down into a recumbent position. in an instant after he appeared to be asleep. and he was asleep, as his strong breathing testified: for zeb stump, with a hale constitution and a quiet conscience, had only to summon sleep, and it came. he was not permitted long to indulge his repose without interruption. a pair of wondering eyes had watched his every movement--the eyes of phelim o'neal. "mother av mozis!" muttered the galwegian; "fwhat can be the manin' av the owld chap's surroundin' himself wid the rope?" the irishman's curiosity for a while struggled with his courtesy, but at length overcame it; and just as the slumberer delivered his third snore, he stole towards him, shook him out of his sleep, and propounded a question based upon the one he had already put to himself. "durn ye for a irish donkey!" exclaimed stump, in evident displeasure at being disturbed; "ye made me think it war mornin'! what do i put the rope roun' me for? what else wud it be for, but to keep off the varmints!" "what varmints, misther stump? snakes, div yez mane?" "snakes in coorse. durn ye, go to your bed!" notwithstanding the sharp rebuke, phelim returned to the cabin apparently in high glee. if there was anything in texas, "barrin' an above the indyins themselves," as he used to say, "that kept him from slapin', it was them vinamous sarpints. he hadn't had a good night's rest, iver since he'd been in the counthry for thinkin' av the ugly vipers, or dhramin' about thim. what a pity saint pathrick hadn't paid tixas a visit before goin' to grace!" phelim in his remote residence, isolated as he had been from all intercourse, had never before witnessed the trick of the _cabriesto_. he was not slow to avail himself of the knowledge thus acquired. returning to the cabin, and creeping stealthily inside--as if not wishing to wake his master, already asleep--he was seen to take a _cabriesto_ from its peg; and then going forth again, he carried the long rope around the stockade walls--paying it out as he proceeded. having completed the circumvallation, he re-entered the hut; as he stepped over the threshold, muttering to himself-- "sowl! phalim o'nale, you'll slape sound for this night, spite ov all the snakes in tixas!" for some minutes after phelim's soliloquy, a profound stillness reigned around the hut of the mustanger. there was like silence inside; for the countryman of saint patrick, no longer apprehensive on the score of reptile intruders, had fallen asleep, almost on the moment of his sinking down upon his spread horse-skin. for a while it seemed as if everybody was in the enjoyment of perfect repose, tara and the captive steeds included. the only sound heard was that made by zeb stump's "maar," close by cropping the sweet _grama_ grass. presently, however, it might have been perceived that the old hunter was himself stirring. instead of lying still in the recumbent attitude to which he had consigned himself, he could be seen shifting from side to side, as if some feverish thought was keeping him awake. after repeating this movement some half-score of times, he at length raised himself into a sitting posture, and looked discontentedly around. "dod-rot his ignorance and imperence--the irish cuss!" were the words that came hissing through his teeth. "he's spoilt my night's rest, durn him! 'twould sarve him 'bout right to drag him out, an giv him a duckin' in the crik. dog-goned ef i don't feel 'clined torst doin' it; only i don't like to displeeze the other irish, who air a somebody. possible i don't git a wink o' sleep till mornin'." having delivered himself of this peevish soliloquy, the hunter once more drew the blanket around his body, and returned to the horizontal position. not to sleep, however; as was testified by the tossing and fidgeting that followed--terminated by his again raising himself into a sitting posture. a soliloquy, very similar to his former one, once more proceeded from his lips; this time the threat of ducking phelim in the creek being expressed with a more emphatic accent of determination. he appeared to be wavering, as to whether he should carry the design into execution, when an object coming under his eye gave a new turn to his thoughts. on the ground, not twenty feet from where he sate, a long thin body was seen gliding over the grass. its serpent shape, and smooth lubricated skin--reflecting the silvery light of the moon--rendered the reptile easy of identification. "snake!" mutteringly exclaimed he, as his eye rested upon the reptilian form. "wonder what sort it air, slickerin' aboout hyur at this time o' the night? it air too large for a _rattle_; though thur air some in these parts most as big as it. but it air too clur i' the colour, an thin about the belly, for ole rattle-tail! no; 'tain't one o' them. hah--now i ree-cog-nise the varmint! it air a _chicken_, out on the sarch arter eggs, i reck'n! durn the thing! it air comin' torst me, straight as it kin crawl!" the tone in which the speaker delivered himself told that he was in no fear of the reptile--even after discovering that it was making approach. he knew that the snake would not cross the _cabriesto_; but on touching it would turn away: as if the horsehair rope was a line of living fire. secure within his magic circle, he could have looked tranquilly at the intruder, though it had been the most poisonous of prairie serpents. but it was not. on the contrary, it was one of the most innocuous-- harmless as the "chicken," from which the species takes its trivial title--at the same time that it is one of the largest in the list of north-american _reptilia_. the expression on zeb's face, as he sat regarding it, was simply one of curiosity, and not very keen. to a hunter in the constant habit of couching himself upon the grass, there was nothing in the sight either strange or terrifying; not even when the creature came close up to the _cabriesto_, and, with head slightly elevated, rubbed its snout against the rope! after that there was less reason to be afraid; for the snake, on doing so, instantly turned round and commenced retreating over the sward. for a second or two the hunter watched it moving away, without making any movement himself. he seemed undecided as to whether he should follow and destroy it, or leave it to go as it had come--unscathed. had it been a rattlesnake, "copperhead," or "mocassin," he would have acted up to the curse delivered in the garden of eden, and planted the heel of his heavy alligator-skin boot upon its head. but a harmless chicken-snake did not come within the limits of zeb stump's antipathy: as was evidenced by some words muttered by him as it slowly receded from the spot. "poor crawlin' critter; let it go! it ain't no enemy o' mine; though it do suck a turkey's egg now an then, an in coorse scarcities the breed o' the birds. thet air only its nater, an no reezun why i shed be angry wi' it. but thur's a durned good reezun why i shed be wi' thet irish-- the dog-goned, stinkin' fool, to ha' woke me es he dud! i feel dod-rotted like sarvin' him out, ef i ked only think o' some way as wudn't diskermode the young fellur. stay! by geehosofat, i've got the idee--the very thing--sure es my name air zeb stump!" on giving utterance to the last words, the hunter--whose countenance had suddenly assumed an expression of quizzical cheerfulness--sprang to his feet; and, with bent body, hastened in pursuit of the retreating reptile. a few strides brought him alongside of it; when he pounced upon it with all his ten digits extended. in another moment its long glittering body was uplifted from the ground, and writhing in his grasp. "now, mister pheelum," exclaimed he, as if apostrophising the serpent, "ef i don't gi'e yur irish soul a scare thet 'll keep ye awake till mornin', i don't know buzzart from turkey. hyur goes to purvide ye wi' a bedfellur!" on saying this, he advanced towards the hut; and, silently skulking under its shadow, released the serpent from his gripe--letting it fall within the circle of the _cabriesto_, with which phelim had so craftily surrounded his sleeping-place. then returning to his grassy couch, and once more pulling the old blanket over his shoulders, he muttered-- "the varmint won't come out acrost the rope--thet air sartin; an it ain't agoin' to leave a yurd o' the groun' 'ithout explorin' for a place to git clur--thet's eequally sartin. ef it don't crawl over thet irish greenhorn 'ithin the hef o' an hour, then ole zeb stump air a greenhorn hisself. hi! what's thet? dog-goned of 'taint on him arready!" if the hunter had any further reflections to give tongue to, they could not have been heard: for at that moment there arose a confusion of noises that must have startled every living creature on the alamo, and for miles up and down the stream. it was a human voice that had given the cue--or rather, a human howl, such as could proceed only from the throat of a galwegian. phelim o'neal was the originator of the infernal _fracas_. his voice, however, was soon drowned by a chorus of barkings, snortings, and neighings, that continued without interruption for a period of several minutes. "what is it?" demanded his master, as he leaped from the _catre_, and groped his way towards his terrified servitor. "what the devil has got into you, phelim? have you seen a ghost?" "oh, masther!--by jaysus! worse than that: i've been murdhered by a snake. it's bit me all over the body. blessed saint pathrick! i'm a poor lost sinner! i'll be shure to die!" "bitten you, you say--where?" asked maurice, hastily striking a light, and proceeding to examine the skin of his henchman, assisted by the old hunter--who had by this time arrived within the cabin. "i see no sign of bite," continued the mustanger, after having turned phelim round and round, and closely scrutinised his epidermis. "ne'er a scratch," laconically interpolated stump. "sowl! then, if i'm not bit, so much the better; but it crawled all over me. i can feel it now, as cowld as charity, on me skin." "was there a snake at all?" demanded maurice, inclined to doubt the statement of his follower. "you've been dreaming of one, phelim-- nothing more." "not a bit of a dhrame, masther: it was a raal sarpint. be me sowl, i'm shure of it!" "i reck'n thur's been snake," drily remarked the hunter. "let's see if we kin track it up. kewrious it air, too. thur's a hair rope all roun' the house. wonder how the varmint could ha' crossed thet? thur--thur it is!" the hunter, as he spoke, pointed to a corner of the cabin, where the serpent was seen spirally coiled. "only a chicken!" he continued: "no more harm in it than in a suckin' dove. it kedn't ha' bit ye, mister pheelum; but we'll put it past bitin', anyhow." saying this, the hunter seized the snake in his hands; and, raising it aloft, brought it down upon the floor of the cabin with a "thwank" that almost deprived it of the power of motion. "thru now, mister pheelum!" he exclaimed, giving it the finishing touch with the heel of his heavy boot, "ye may go back to yur bed agin, an sleep 'ithout fear o' bein' disturbed till the mornin'--leastwise, by snakes." kicking the defunct reptile before him, zeb stump strode out of the hut, gleefully chuckling to himself, as, for the third time, he extended his colossal carcase along the sward. chapter eight. the crawl of the alacran. the killing of the snake appeared to be the cue for a general return to quiescence. the howlings of the hound ceased with those of the henchman. the mustangs once more stood silent under the shadowy trees. inside the cabin the only noise heard was an occasional shuffling, when phelim, no longer feeling confidence in the protection of his _cabriesto_, turned restlessly on his horseskin. outside also there was but one sound, to disturb the stillness though its intonation was in striking contrast with that heard within. it might have been likened to a cross between the grunt of an alligator and the croaking of a bull-frog; but proceeding, as it did, from the nostrils of zeb stump, it could only be the snore of the slumbering hunter. its sonorous fulness proved him to be soundly asleep. he was--had been, almost from the moment of re-establishing himself within the circle of his _cabriesto_. the _revanche_ obtained over his late disturber had acted as a settler to his nerves; and once more was he enjoying the relaxation of perfect repose. for nearly an hour did this contrasting duet continue, varied only by an occasional _recitative_ in the hoot of the great horned owl, or a _cantata penserosa_ in the lugubrious wail of the prairie wolf. at the end of this interval, however, the chorus recommenced, breaking out abruptly as before, and as before led by the vociferous voice of the connemara man. "meliah murdher!" cried he, his first exclamation not only startling the host of the hut, but the guest so soundly sleeping outside. "howly mother! vargin av unpurticted innocence! save me--save me!" "save you from what?" demanded his master, once more springing from his couch and hastening to strike a light. "what is it, you confounded fellow?" "another snake, yer hanner! och! be me sowl! a far wickeder sarpent than the wan misther stump killed. it's bit me all over the breast. i feel the place burnin' where it crawled across me, just as if the horse-shoer at ballyballagh had scorched me wid a rid-hot iron!" "durn ye for a stinkin' skunk!" shouted zeb stump, with his blanket about his shoulder, quite filling the doorway. "ye've twicest spiled my night's sleep, ye irish fool! 'scuse me, mister gerald! thur air fools in all countries, i reck'n, 'merican as well as irish--but this hyur follerer o' yourn air the durndest o' the kind iver i kim acrost. dog-goned if i see how we air to get any sleep the night, 'less we drownd _him_ in the crik fust!" "och! misther stump dear, don't talk that way. i sware to yez both there's another snake. i'm shure it's in the kyabin yit. it's only a minute since i feeled it creepin' over me." "you must ha' been dreemin?" rejoined the hunter, in a more complacent tone, and speaking half interrogatively. "i tell ye no snake in texas will cross a hosshair rope. the tother 'un must ha' been inside the house afore ye laid the laryitt roun' it. 'taint likely there keel ha' been two on 'em. we kin soon settle that by sarchin'." "oh, murdher! luk hare!" cried the galwegian, pulling off his shirt and laying bare his breast. "thare's the riptoile's track, right acrass over me ribs! didn't i tell yez there was another snake? o blissed mother, what will become av me? it feels like a strake av fire!" "snake!" exclaimed stump, stepping up to the affrighted irishman, and holding the candle close to his skin. "snake i'deed! by the 'tarnal airthquake, it air no snake! it air wuss than that!" "worse than a snake?" shouted phelim in dismay. "worse, yez say, misther stump? div yez mane that it's dangerous?" "wal, it mout be, an it moutn't. thet ere 'll depend on whether i kin find somethin' 'bout hyur, an find it soon. ef i don't, then, mister pheelum, i won't answer--" "oh, misther stump, don't say thare's danger!" "what is it?" demanded maurice, as his eyes rested upon a reddish line running diagonally across the breast of his follower, and which looked as if traced by the point of a hot spindle. "what is it, anyhow?" he repeated with increasing anxiety, as he observed the serious look with which the hunter regarded the strange marking. "i never saw the like before. is it something to be alarmed about?" "all o' thet, mister gerald," replied stump, motioning maurice outside the hut, and speaking to him in a whisper, so as not to be overheard by phelim. "but what is it?" eagerly asked the mustanger. "_it air the crawl o' the pisen centipede_." "the poison centipede! has it bitten him?" "no, i hardly think it hez. but it don't need thet. the _crawl_ o' itself air enuf to kill him!" "merciful heaven! you don't mean that?" "i do, mister gerald. i've seed more 'an one good fellur go under wi' that same sort o' a stripe acrost his skin. if thur ain't somethin' done, an thet soon, he'll fust get into a ragin' fever, an then he'll go out o' his senses, jest as if the bite o' a mad dog had gin him the hydrophoby. it air no use frightenin' him howsomdever, till i sees what i kin do. thur's a yarb, or rayther it air a plant, as grows in these parts. ef i kin find it handy, there'll be no defeequilty in curin' o' him. but as the cussed lack wud hev it, the moon hez sneaked out o' sight; an i kin only get the yarb by gropin'. i know there air plenty o' it up on the bluff; an ef you'll go back inside, an keep the fellur quiet, i'll see what kin be done. i won't be gone but a minute." the whispered colloquy, and the fact of the speakers having gone outside to carry it on, instead of tranquillising the fears of phelim, had by this time augmented them to an extreme degree: and just as the old hunter, bent upon his herborising errand, disappeared in the darkness, he came rushing forth from the hut, howling more piteously than ever. it was some time before his master could get him tranquillised, and then only by assuring him--on a faith not very firm--that there was not the slightest danger. a few seconds after this had been accomplished, zeb stump reappeared in the doorway, with a countenance that produced a pleasant change in the feelings of those inside. his confident air and attitude proclaimed, as plainly as words could have done, that he had discovered that of which he had gone in search--the "yarb." in his right hand he held a number of oval shaped objects of dark green colour--all of them bristling with sharp spines, set over the surface in equidistant clusters. maurice recognised the leaves of a plant well known to him--the _oregano_ cactus. "don't be skeeart, mister pheelum!" said the old hunter, in a consolatory tone, as he stepped across the threshold. "thur's nothin' to fear now. i hev got the bolsum as 'll draw the burnin' out o' yur blood, quicker 'an flame ud scorch a feather. stop yur yellin', man! ye've rousted every bird an beast, an creepin' thing too, i reckon, out o' thar slumbers, for more an twenty mile up an down the crik. ef you go on at that grist much longer, ye'll bring the kumanchees out o' thur mountains, an that 'ud be wuss mayhap than the crawl o' this hunderd-legged critter. mister gerald, you git riddy a bandige, whiles i purpares the powltiss." drawing his knife from its sheath, the hunter first lopped off the spines; and then, removing the outside skin, he split the thick succulent leaves of the cactus into slices of about an eighth of an inch in thickness. these he spread contiguously upon a strip of clean cotton stuff already prepared by the mustanger; and then, with the ability of a hunter, laid the "powltiss," as he termed it, along the inflamed line, which he declared to have been made by the claws of the centipede, but which in reality was caused by the injection of venom from its poison-charged mandibles, a thousand times inserted into the flesh of the sleeper! the application of the _oregano_ was almost instantaneous in its effect. the acrid juice of the plant, producing a counter poison, killed that which had been secreted by the animal; and the patient, relieved from further apprehension, and soothed by the sweet confidence of security-- stronger from reaction--soon fell off into a profound and restorative slumber. after searching for the centipede and failing to find it--for this hideous reptile, known in mexico as the _alacran_, unlike the rattlesnake, has no fear of crossing a _cabriesto_--the improvised physician strode silently out of the cabin; and, once more committing himself to his grassy couch, slept undisturbed till the morning. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ at the earliest hour of daybreak all three were astir--phelim having recovered both from his fright and his fever. having made their matutinal meal upon the _debris_ of the roast turkey, they hastened to take their departure from the hut. the quondam stable-boy of ballyballagh, assisted by the texan hunter, prepared the wild steeds for transport across the plains--by stringing them securely together--while maurice looked after his own horse and the spotted mare. more especially did he expend his time upon the beautiful captive--carefully combing out her mane and tail, and removing from her glossy coat the stains that told of the severe chase she had cost him before her proud neck yielded to the constraint of his lazo. "durn it, man!" exclaimed zeb, as, with some surprise, he stood watching the movements of the mustanger, "ye needn't ha' been hef so purtickler! wudley pointdexter ain't the man as 'll go back from a barg'in. ye'll git the two hunderd dollars, sure as my name air zeblun stump; an dog-gone my cats, ef the maar ain't worth every red cent o' the money!" maurice heard the remarks without making reply; but the half suppressed smile playing around his lips told that the kentuckian had altogether misconstrued the motive for his assiduous grooming. in less than an hour after, the mustanger was on the march, mounted on his blood-bay, and leading the spotted mare at the end of his lazo; while the captive _cavallada_, under the guidance of the galwegian groom, went trooping at a brisk pace over the plain. zeb stump, astride his "ole maar," could only keep up by a constant hammering with his heels; and tara, picking his steps through the spinous _mezquite_ grass, trotted listlessly in the rear. the hut, with its skin-door closed against animal intruders, was left to take care of itself; its silent solitude, for a time, to be disturbed only by the hooting of the horned owl, the scream of the cougar, or the howl-bark of the hungering coyote. chapter nine. the frontier fort. the "star-spangled banner" suspended above fort inge, as it flouts forth from its tall staff, flings its fitful shadow over a scene of strange and original interest. it is a picture of pure frontier life--which perhaps only the pencil of the younger vernet could truthfully portray--half military, half civilian--half savage, half civilised--mottled with figures of men whose complexions, costumes, and callings, proclaim them appertaining to the extremes of both, and every possible gradation between. even the _mise-en-scene_--the fort itself--is of this _miscegenous_ character. that star-spangled banner waves not over bastions and battlements; it flings no shadow over casemate or covered way, fosse, scarpment, or glacis--scarce anything that appertains to a fortress. a rude stockade, constructed out of trunks of _algarobia_, enclosing shed-stabling for two hundred horses; outside this a half-score of buildings of the plainest architectural style--some of them mere huts of "wattle and daub"--_jacales_--the biggest a barrack; behind it the hospital, the stores of the commissary, and quartermaster; on one side the guardhouse; and on the other, more pretentiously placed, the messroom and officers' quarters; all plain in their appearance-- plastered and whitewashed with the lime plentifully found on the leona-- all neat and clean, as becomes a cantonment of troops wearing the uniform of a great civilised nation. such is fort inge. at a short distance off another group of houses meets the eye--nearly, if not quite, as imposing as the cluster above described bearing the name of "the fort." they are just outside the shadow of the flag, though under its protection--for to it are they indebted for their origin and existence. they are the germ of the village that universally springs up in the proximity of an american military post--in all probability, and at no very remote period, to become a town--perhaps a great city. at present their occupants are a sutler, whose store contains "knick-knacks" not classed among commissariat rations; an hotel-keeper whose bar-room, with white sanded floor and shelves sparkling with prismatic glass, tempts the idler to step in; a brace of gamblers whose rival tables of _faro_ and _monte_ extract from the pockets of the soldiers most part of their pay; a score of dark-eyed senoritas of questionable reputation; a like number of hunters, teamsters, _mustangers_, and nondescripts--such as constitute in all countries the hangers-on of a military cantonment, or the followers of a camp. the houses in the occupancy of this motley corporation have been "sited" with some design. perhaps they are the property of a single speculator. they stand around a "square," where, instead of lamp-posts or statues, may be seen the decaying trunk of a cypress, or the bushy form of a hackberry rising out of a _tapis_ of trodden grass. the leona--at this point a mere rivulet--glides past in the rear both of fort and village. to the front extends a level plain, green as verdure can make it--in the distance darkened by a bordering of woods, in which post-oaks and pecans, live oaks and elms, struggle for existence with spinous plants of cactus and anona; with scores of creepers, climbers, and parasites almost unknown to the botanist. to the south and east along the banks of the stream, you see scattered houses: the homesteads of plantations; some of them rude and of recent construction, with a few of more pretentious style, and evidently of older origin. one of these last particularly attracts the attention: a structure of superior size-- with flat roof, surmounted by a crenelled parapet--whose white walls show conspicuously against the green background of forest with which it is half encircled. it is the hacienda of _casa del corvo_. turning your eye northward, you behold a curious isolated eminence--a gigantic cone of rocks--rising several hundred feet above the level of the plain; and beyond, in dim distance, a waving horizontal line indicating the outlines of the guadalupe mountains--the outstanding spurs of that elevated and almost untrodden plateau, the _llano estacado_. look aloft! you behold a sky, half sapphire, half turquoise; by day, showing no other spot than the orb of its golden god; by night, studded with stars that appear clipped from clear steel, and a moon whose well-defined disc outshines the effulgence of silver. look below--at that hour when moon and stars have disappeared, and the land-wind arrives from matagorda bay, laden with the fragrance of flowers; when it strikes the starry flag, unfolding it to the eye of the morn--then look below, and behold the picture that should have been painted by the pencil of vernet--too varied and vivid, too plentiful in shapes, costumes, and colouring, to be sketched by the pen. in the tableau you distinguish soldiers in uniform--the light blue of the united states infantry, the darker cloth of the dragoons, and the almost invisible green of the mounted riflemen. you will see but few in full uniform--only the officer of the day, the captain of the guard, and the guard itself. their comrades off duty lounge about the barracks, or within the stockade enclosure, in red flannel shirts, slouch hats, and boots innocent of blacking. they mingle with men whose costumes make no pretence to a military character: tall hunters in tunics of dressed deerskin, with leggings to correspond--herdsmen and mustangers, habited _a la mexicaine_--mexicans themselves, in wide _calzoneros_, _serapes_ on their shoulders, _botas_ on their legs, huge spurs upon their heels, and glazed _sombreros_ set jauntily on their crowns. they palaver with indians on a friendly visit to the fort, for trade or treaty; whose tents stand at some distance, and from whose shoulders hang blankets of red, and green, and blue-- giving them a picturesque, even classical, appearance, in spite of the hideous paint with which they have bedaubed their skins, and the dirt that renders sticky their long black hair, lengthened by tresses taken from the tails of their horses. picture to the eye of your imagination this jumble of mixed nationalities--in their varied costumes of race, condition, and calling; jot in here and there a black-skinned scion of ethiopia, the body servant of some officer, or the emissary of a planter from the adjacent settlements; imagine them standing in gossiping groups, or stalking over the level plain, amidst some half-dozen halted waggons; a couple of six-pounders upon their carriages, with caissons close by; a square tent or two, with its surmounting fly--occupied by some eccentric officer who prefers sleeping under canvas; a stack of bayoneted rifles belonging to the soldiers on guard,--imagine all these component parts, and you will have before your mind's eye a truthful picture of a military fort upon the frontier of texas, and the extreme selvedge of civilisation. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ about a week after the arrival of the louisiana planter at his new home, three officers were seen standing upon the parade ground in front of fort inge, with their eyes turned towards the hacienda of casa del corvo. they were all young men: the oldest not over thirty years of age. his shoulder-straps with the double bar proclaimed him a captain; the second, with a single cross bar, was a first lieutenant; while the youngest of the two, with an empty chevron, was either a second lieutenant or "brevet." they were off duty; engaged in conversation--their theme, the "new people" in casa del corvo--by which was meant the louisiana planter and his family. "a sort of housewarming it's to be," said the infantry captain, alluding to an invitation that had reached the fort, extending to all the commissioned officers of the garrison. "dinner first, and dancing afterwards--a regular field day, where i suppose we shall see paraded the aristocracy and beauty of the settlement." "aristocracy?" laughingly rejoined the lieutenant of dragoons. "not much of that here, i fancy; and of beauty still less." "you mistake, hancock. there are both upon the banks of the leona. some good states families have strayed out this way. we'll meet them at poindexter's party, no doubt. on the question of aristocracy, the host himself, if you'll pardon a poor joke, is himself a host. he has enough of it to inoculate all the company that may be present; and as for beauty, i'll back his daughter against anything this side the sabine. the commissary's niece will be no longer belle about here." "oh, indeed!" drawled the lieutenant of rifles, in a tone that told of his being chafed by this representation. "miss poindexter must be deuced good-looking, then." "she's all that, i tell you, if she be anything like what she was when i last saw her, which was at a bayou lafourche ball. there were half a dozen young creoles there, who came nigh crossing swords about her." "a coquette, i suppose?" insinuated the rifleman. "nothing of the kind, crossman. quite the contrary, i assure you. she's a girl of spirit, though--likely enough to snub any fellow who might try to be too familiar. she's not without some of the father's pride. it's a family trait of the poindexters." "just the girl i should cotton to," jocosely remarked the young dragoon. "and if she's as good-looking as you say, captain sloman, i shall certainly go in for her. unlike crossman here, i'm clear of all entanglements of the heart. thank the lord for it!" "well, mr hancock," rejoined the infantry officer, a gentleman of sober inclinings, "i'm not given to betting; but i'd lay a big wager you won't say that, after you have seen louise poindexter--that is, if you speak your mind." "pshaw, sloman! don't you be alarmed about me. i've been too often under the fire of bright eyes to have any fear of them." "none so bright as hers." "deuce take it! you make a fellow fall in love with this lady without having set eyes upon her. she must be something extraordinary-- incomparable." "she was both, when i last saw her." "how long ago was that?" "the lafourche ball? let me see--about eighteen months. just after we got back from mexico. she was then `coming out' as society styles it:-- "a new star in the firmament, to light and glory born!" "eighteen months is a long time," sagely remarked crossman--"a long time for an unmarried maiden--especially among creoles, where they often get spliced at twelve, instead of `sweet sixteen.' her beauty may have lost some of its bloom?" "i believe not a bit. i should have called to see; only i knew they were in the middle of their `plenishing,' and mightn't desire to be visited. but the major has been to casa del corvo, and brought back such a report about miss poindexter's beauty as almost got him into a scrape with the lady commanding the post." "upon my soul, captain sloman!" asseverated the lieutenant of dragoons, "you've excited my curiosity to such a degree, i feel already half in love with louise poindexter!" "before you get altogether into it," rejoined the officer of infantry, in a serious tone, "let me recommend a little caution. there's a _bete noir_ in the background." "a brother, i suppose? that is the individual usually so regarded." "there is a brother, but it's not he. a free noble young fellow he is-- the only poindexter i ever knew not eaten up with pride, he's quite the reverse." "the aristocratic father, then? surely he wouldn't object to a quartering with the hancocks?" "i'm not so sure of that; seeing that the hancocks are yankees, and he's a _chivalric southerner_! but it's not old poindexter i mean." "who, then, is the black beast, or what is it--if not a human?" "it is human, after a fashion. a male cousin--a queer card he is--by name cassius calhoun." "i think i've heard the name." "so have i," said the lieutenant of rifles. "so has almost everybody who had anything to do with the mexican war-- that is, who took part in scott's campaign. he figured there extensively, and not very creditably either. he was captain in a volunteer regiment of mississippians--for he hails from that state; but he was oftener met with at the _monte-table_ than in the quarters of his regiment. he had one or two affairs, that gave him the reputation of a bully. but that notoriety was not of mexican-war origin. he had earned it before going there; and was well known among the desperadoes of new orleans as a _dangerous man_." "what of all that?" asked the young dragoon, in a tone slightly savouring of defiance. "who cares whether mr cassius calhoun be a dangerous man, or a harmless one? not i. he's only the girl's cousin, you say?" "something more, perhaps. i have reason to think he's her lover." "accepted, do you suppose?" "that i can't tell. i only know, or suspect, that he's the favourite of the father. i have heard reasons why; given only in whispers, it is true, but too probable to be scouted. the old story--influence springing from mortgage money. poindexter's not so rich as he has been--else we'd never have seen him out here." "if the lady be as attractive as you say, i suppose we'll have captain cassius out here also, before long?" "before long! is that all you know about it? he _is_ here; came along with the family, and is now residing with them. some say he's a partner in the planting speculation. i saw him this very morning--down in the hotel bar-room--`liquoring up,' and swaggering in his old way." "a swarthy-complexioned man, of about thirty, with dark hair and moustaches; wearing a blue cloth frock, half military cut, and a colt's revolver strapped over his thigh?" "ay, and a bowie knife, if you had looked for it, under the breast of his coat. that's the man." "he's rather a formidable-looking fellow," remarked the young rifleman. "if a bully, his looks don't belie him." "damn his looks!" half angrily exclaimed the dragoon. "we don't hold commissions in uncle sam's army to be scared by looks, nor bullies either. if he comes any of his bullying over me, he'll find i'm as quick with a trigger as he." at that moment the bugle brayed out the call for morning parade--a ceremony observed at the little frontier fort as regularly as if a whole _corps-d'armee_ had been present--and the three officers separating, betook themselves to their quarters to prepare their several companies for the inspection of the major in command of the cantonment. chapter ten. casa del corvo. the estate, or "hacienda," known as casa del corvo, extended along the wooded bottom of the leona river for more than a league, and twice that distance southwards across the contiguous prairie. the house itself--usually, though not correctly, styled the _hacienda_-- stood within long cannon range of fort inge; from which its white walls were partially visible; the remaining portion being shadowed by tall forest trees that skirted the banks of the stream. its site was peculiar, and no doubt chosen with a view to defence: for its foundations had been laid at a time when indian assailants might be expected; as indeed they might be, and often are, at the present hour. there was a curve of the river closing upon itself, like the shoe of a racehorse, or the arc of a circle, three parts complete; the chord of which, or a parallelogram traced upon it, might be taken as the ground-plan of the dwelling. hence the name--casa del corvo--"the house of the curve" (curved river). the facade, or entrance side, fronted towards the prairie--the latter forming a noble lawn that extended to the edge of the horizon--in comparison with which an imperial park would have shrunk into the dimensions of a paddock. the architecture of casa del corvo, like that of other large country mansions in mexico, was of a style that might be termed morisco-mexican: being a single story in height, with a flat roof--_azotea_--spouted and parapeted all round; having a courtyard inside the walls, termed _patio_, open to the sky, with a flagged floor, a fountain, and a stone stairway leading up to the roof; a grand entrance gateway--the _saguan_--with a massive wooden door, thickly studded with bolt-heads; and two or three windows on each side, defended by a _grille_ of strong iron bars, called _reja_. these are the chief characteristics of a mexican hacienda; and casa del corvo differed but little from the type almost universal throughout the vast territories of spanish america. such was the homestead that adorned the newly acquired estate of the louisiana planter--that had become his property by purchase. as yet no change had taken place in the exterior of the dwelling; nor much in its interior, if we except the _personnel_ of its occupants. a physiognomy, half anglo-saxon, half franco-american, presented itself in courtyard and corridor, where formerly were seen only faces of pure spanish type; and instead of the rich sonorous language of andalusia, was now heard the harsher guttural of a semi-teutonic tongue-- occasionally diversified by the sweeter accentuation of creolian french. outside the walls of the mansion--in the village-like cluster of yucca-thatched huts which formerly gave housing to the _peons_ and other dependants of the hacienda--the transformation was more striking. where the tall thin _vaquero_, in broad-brimmed hat of black glaze, and chequered _serape_, strode proudly over the sward--his spurs tinkling at every step--was now met the authoritative "overseer," in blue jersey, or blanket coat--his whip cracking at every corner; where the red children of azteca and anahuac, scantily clad in tanned sheepskin, could be seen, with sad solemn aspect, lounging listlessly by their _jacales_, or trotting silently along, were now heard the black sons and daughters of ethiopia, from morn till night chattering their gay "gumbo," or with song and dance seemingly contradicting the idea: that slavery is a heritage of unhappiness! was it a change for the better upon the estate of casa del corvo? there was a time when the people of england would have answered--no; with a unanimity and emphasis calculated to drown all disbelief in their sincerity. alas, for human weakness and hypocrisy! our long cherished sympathy with the slave proves to have been only a tissue of sheer dissembling. led by an oligarchy--not the true aristocracy of our country: for these are too noble to have yielded to such, deep designings--but an oligarchy composed of conspiring plebs, who have smuggled themselves into the first places of power in all the four estates--guided by these prurient conspirators against the people's rights--england has proved untrue to her creed so loudly proclaimed--truculent to the trust reposed in her by the universal acclaim, of the nations. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ on a theme altogether different dwelt the thoughts of louise poindexter, as she flung herself into a chair in front of her dressing-glass, and directed her maid florinda to prepare her for the reception of guests-- expected soon to arrive at the hacienda. it was the day fixed for the "house-warming," and about an hour before the time appointed for dinner to be on the table. this might have explained a certain restlessness observable in the air of the young creole--especially observed by florinda; but it did not. the maid had her own thoughts about the cause of her mistress's disquietude--as was proved by the conversation that ensued between them. scarce could it be called a conversation. it was more as if the young lady were thinking aloud, with her attendant acting as an echo. during all her life, the creole had been accustomed to look upon her sable handmaid as a thing from whom it was not worth while concealing her thoughts, any more than she would from the chairs, the table, the sofa, or any other article of furniture in the apartment. there was but the difference of florinda being a little more animated and companionable, and the advantage of her being able to give a vocal response to the observations addressed to her. for the first ten minutes after entering the chamber, florinda had sustained the brunt of the dialogue on indifferent topics--her mistress only interfering with an occasional ejaculation. "oh, miss looey!" pursued the negress, as her fingers fondly played among the lustrous tresses of her young mistress's hair, "how bewful you hair am! like de long 'panish moss dat hang from de cyprus-tree; only dat it am ob a diff'rent colour, an shine like the sugar-house 'lasses." as already stated, louise poindexter was a creole. after that, it is scarce necessary to say that her hair was of a dark colour; and--as the sable maid in rude speech had expressed it--luxuriant as spanish moss. it was not black; but of a rich glowing brown--such as may be observed in the tinting of a tortoise-shell, or the coat of a winter-trapped sable. "ah!" continued florinda, spreading out an immense "hank" of the hair, that glistened like a chestnut against her dark palm, "if i had dat lubbly hair on ma head, in'tead ob dis cuss'd cully wool, i fotch em all to ma feet--ebbry one oh dem." "what do you mean, girl?" inquired the young lady, as if just aroused from some dreamy reverie. "what's that you've been saying? fetch them to your feet? fetch whom?" "na, now; you know what dis chile mean?" "'pon honour, i do not." "make em lub me. dat's what i should hab say." "but whom?" "all de white gen'l'm. de young planter, de officer ob de fort--all ob dem. wif you hair, miss looey, i could dem all make conquess." "ha--ha--ha!" laughed the young lady, amused at the idea of florinda figuring under that magnificent chevelure. "you think, with my hair upon your head, you would be invincible among the men?" "no, missa--not you hair alone--but wif you sweet face--you skin, white as de alumbaster--you tall figga--you grand look. oh, miss looey, you am so 'plendidly bewful! i hear de white gen'l'm say so. i no need hear em say it. i see dat for masef." "you're learning to flatter, florinda." "no, 'deed, missa--ne'er a word ob flattery--ne'er a word, i swa it. by de 'postles, i swa it." to one who looked upon her mistress, the earnest asseveration of the maid was not necessary to prove the sincerity of her speech, however hyperbolical it might appear. to say that louise poindexter was beautiful, would only be to repeat the universal verdict of the society that surrounded her. a single glance was sufficient to satisfy any one upon this point--strangers as well as acquaintances. it was a kind of beauty that needed no _discovering_--and yet it is difficult to describe it. the pen cannot portray swell a face. even the pencil could convey but a faint idea of it: for no painter, however skilled, could represent upon cold canvas the glowing ethereal light that emanated from her eyes, and appeared to radiate over her countenance. her features were purely classic: resembling those types of female beauty chosen by phidias or praxiteles. and yet in all the grecian pantheon there is no face to which it could have been likened: for it was not the countenance of a goddess; but, something more attractive to the eye of man, the face of a woman. a suspicion of sensuality, apparent in the voluptuous curving of the lower lip--still more pronounced in the prominent rounding beneath the cheeks--while depriving the countenance of its pure spiritualism, did not perhaps detract from its beauty. there are men, who, in this departure from the divine type, would have perceived a superior charm: since in louise poindexter they would have seen not a divinity to be worshipped, but a woman to be loved. her only reply vouchsafed to florinda's earnest asseveration was a laugh--careless, though not incredulous. the young creole did not need to be reminded of her beauty. she was not unconscious of it: as could be told by her taking more than one long look into the mirror before which her toilet was being made. the flattery of the negress scarce called up an emotion; certainly not more than she might have felt at the fawning of a pet spaniel; and she soon after surrendered herself to the reverie from which the speech had aroused her. florinda was not silenced by observing her mistress's air of abstraction. the girl had evidently something on her mind--some mystery, of which she desired the _eclaircissement_--and was determined to have it. "ah!" she continued, as if talking to herself; "if florinda had half de charm ob young missa, she for nobody care--she for nobody heave do deep sigh!" "sigh!" repeated her mistress, suddenly startled by the speech. "what do you mean by that?" "pa' dieu, miss looey, florinda no so blind you tink; nor so deaf neider. she you see long time sit in de same place; you nebber 'peak no word--you only heave de sigh--de long deep sigh. you nebba do dat in de ole plantashun in loozyanny." "florinda! i fear you are taking leave of your senses, or have left them behind you in louisiana? perhaps there's something in the climate here that affects you. is that so, girl?" "pa' dieu, miss looey, dat question ob youself ask. you no be angry case i 'peak so plain. florinda you slave--she you lub like brack sisser. she no happy hear you sigh. dat why she hab take de freedom. you no be angry wif me?" "certainly not. why should i be angry with you, child? i'm not. i didn't say i was; only you are quite mistaken in your ideas. what you've seen, or heard, could be only a fancy of your own. as for sighing, heigho! i have something else to think of just now. i have to entertain about a hundred guests--nearly all strangers, too; among them the young planters and officers whom you would entangle if you had my hair. ha! ha! ha! _i_ don't desire to enmesh them--not one of them! so twist it up as you like--without the semblance of a snare in it." "oh! miss looey, you so 'peak?" inquired the negress with an air of evident interest. "you say none ob dem gen'l'm you care for? dere am two, tree, berry, berry, berry han'som'. one planter dar be, and two ob de officer--all young gen'l'm. you know de tree i mean. all ob dem hab been 'tentive to you. you sure, missa, tain't one ob dem dat you make sigh?" "sigh again! ha! ha! ha! but come, florinda, we're losing time. recollect i've got to be in the drawing-room to receive a hundred guests. i must have at least half an hour to compose myself into an attitude befitting such an extensive reception." "no fear, miss looey--no fear. i you toilette make in time--plenty ob time. no much trouble you dress. pa' dieu, in any dress you look 'plendid. you be de belle if you dress like one ob de fiel' hand ob de plantashun." "what a flatterer you are grown, florinda! i shall begin to suspect that you are after some favour. do you wish me to intercede, and make up your quarrel with pluto?" "no, missa. i be friend nebber more wid pluto. he show hisseff such great coward when come dat storm on de brack prairee. ah, miss looey! what we boaf do if dat young white gen'l'm on de red hoss no come ridin' dat way?" "if he had not, cher florinde, it is highly probable neither of us should now have been here." "oh, missa! wasn't he real fancy man, dat 'ere? you see him bewful face. you see him thick hair, jess de colour ob you own--only curled leetle bit like mine. talk ob de young planter, or dem officer at de fort! de brack folk say he no good for nuffin, like dem--he only poor white trash. who care fo' dat? he am de sort ob man could dis chile make sigh. ah! de berry, berry sort!" up to this point the young creole had preserved a certain tranquillity of countenance. she tried to continue it; but the effort failed her. whether by accident or design, florinda had touched the most sensitive chord in the spirit of her mistress. she would have been loth to confess it, even to her slave; and it was a relief to her, when loud voices heard in the courtyard gave a colourable excuse for terminating her toilette, along with the delicate dialogue upon which she might have been constrained to enter. chapter eleven. an unexpected arrival. "say, ye durnationed nigger! whar's yur master?" "mass poindex'er, sar? de ole massr, or de young 'un?" "young 'un be durned! i mean mister peintdexter. who else shed i? whar air he?" "ho--ho! sar! dey am boaf at home--dat is, dey am boaf away from de house--de ole massr an de young massr henry. dey am down de ribber, wha de folk am makin' de new fence. ho! ho! you find 'em dar." "down the river! how fur d'ye reck'n?" "ho! ho! sar. dis nigga reck'n it be 'bout tree or four mile--dat at de berry leas'." "three or four mile? ye must be a durnationed fool, nigger. mister peintdexter's plantation don't go thet fur; an i reck'n he ain't the man to be makin' a fence on some'dy else's clarin'. lookee hyur! what time air he expected hum? ye've got a straighter idee o' thet, i hope?" "dey boaf 'pected home berry soon, de young massr and de ole massr, and mass ca'houn too. ho! ho! dar's agwine to be big dooin's 'bout dis yar shanty--yer see dat fo' yeseff by de smell ob de kitchen. ho! ho! all sorts o' gran' feassin'--do roas' an de bile, an de barbecue; de pot-pies, an de chicken fixins. ho! ho! ain't thar agwine to go it hyar jess like de ole times on de coass ob de massippy! hoora fo' ole mass poindex'er! he de right sort. ho! ho! 'tranger! why you no holla too: you no friend ob de massr?" "durn you, nigger, don't ye remember me? now i look into yur ugly mug, i recollex you." "gorramighty! 'tain't mass 'tump--'t use to fotch de ven'son an de turkey gobbla to de ole plantashun? by de jumbo, it am, tho'. law, mass 'tump, dis nigga 'members you like it wa de day afore yesserday. ise heern you called de odder day; but i war away from 'bout de place. i'm de coachman now--dribes de carriage dat carries de lady ob de 'tablishment--de bewful missy loo. lor, massr, she berry fine gal. dey do say she beat florinday into fits. nebba mind, mass 'tump, you better wait till ole massr come home. he am _a bound to be hya_, in de shortess poss'ble time." "wal, if thet's so, i'll wait upon him," rejoined the hunter, leisurely lifting his leg over the saddle--in which up to this time he had retained his seat. "now, ole fellur," he added, passing the bridle into the hands of the negro, "you gi'e the maar half a dozen yeers o' corn out o' the crib. i've rid the critter better 'n a score o' miles like a streak o' lightnin'--all to do yur master a sarvice." "oh, mr zebulon stump, is it you?" exclaimed a silvery voice, followed by the appearance of louise poindexter upon the verandah. "i thought it was," continued the young lady, coming up to the railings, "though i didn't expect to see you so soon. you said you were going upon a long journey. well--i am pleased that you are here; and so will papa and henry be. pluto! go instantly to chloe, the cook, and see what she can give you for mr stump's dinner. you have not dined, i know. you are dusty--you've been travelling? here, morinda! haste you to the sideboard, and pour out some drink. mr stump will be thirsty, i'm sure, this hot day. what would you prefer--port, sherry, claret? ah, now, if i recollect, you used to be partial to monongahela whisky. i think there is some. morinda, see if there be! step into the verandah, dear mr stump, and take a seat. you were inquiring for papa? i expect him home every minute. i shall try to entertain you till he come." had the young lady paused sooner in her speech, she would not have received an immediate reply. even as it was, some seconds elapsed before zeb made rejoinder. he stood gazing upon her, as if struck speechless by the sheer intensity of his admiration. "lord o' marcy, miss lewaze!" he at length gasped forth, "i thort when i used to see you on the massissippi, ye war the puttiest critter on the airth; but now, i think ye the puttiest thing eyther on airth or in hewing. geehosofat!" the old hunter's praise was scarce exaggerated. fresh from the toilette, the gloss of her luxuriant hair untarnished by the notion of the atmosphere; her cheeks glowing with a carmine tint, produced by the application of cold water; her fine figure, gracefully draped in a robe of india muslin--white and semi-translucent--certainly did louise poindexter appear as pretty as anything upon earth--if not in heaven. "geehosofat!" again exclaimed the hunter, following up his complimentary speech, "i hev in my time seed what i thort war some putty critters o' the sheemale kind--my ole 'ooman herself warn't so bad-lookin' when i fast kim acrost her in kaintuck--thet she warn't. but i will say this, miss lewaze: ef the puttiest bits o' all o' them war clipped out an then jeined thegither agin, they wudn't make up the thousanth part o' a angel sech as you." "oh--oh--oh! mr stump--mr stump! i'm astonished to hear _you_ talk in this manner. texas has quite turned you into a courtier. if you go on so, i fear you will lose your character for plain speaking! after that i am sure you will stand in need of a very big drink. haste, morinda! i think you said you would prefer whisky?" "ef i didn't say it, i thunk it; an that air about the same. yur right, miss, i prefar the corn afore any o' them thur furrin lickers; an i sticks to it whuriver i kin git it. texas hain't made no alterashun in me in the matter o' lickerin'." "mass 'tump, you it hab mix wif water?" inquired florinda, coming forward with a tumbler about one-half full of "monongahela." "no, gurl. durn yur water! i hev hed enuf o' thet since i started this mornin'. i hain't hed a taste o' licker the hul day--ne'er as much as the smell o' it." "dear mr stump! surely you can't drink it that way? why, it will burn your throat! have a little sugar, or honey, along with it?" "speil it, miss. it air sweet enuf 'ithout that sort o' docterin'; 'specially arter you hev looked inter the glass. yu'll see ef i can't drink it. hyur goes to try!" the old hunter raised the tumbler to his chin; and after giving three gulps, and the fraction of a fourth, returned it empty into the hands of florinda. a loud smacking of the lips almost drowned the simultaneous exclamations of astonishment uttered by the young lady and her maid. "burn my throat, ye say? ne'er a bit. it hez jest eiled thet ere jugewlar, an put it in order for a bit o' a palaver i wants to hev wi' yur father--'bout thet ere spotty mow-stang." "oh, true! i had forgotten. no, i hadn't either; but i did not suppose you had time to have news of it. have you heard anything of the pretty creature?" "putty critter ye may well pernounce it. it ur all o' thet. besides, it ur a maar." "a ma-a-r! what is that, mr stump? i don't understand." "a maar i sayed. shurly ye know what a maar is?" "ma-a-r--ma-a-r! why, no, not exactly. is it a mexican word? _mar_ in spanish signifies the sea." "in coorse it air a mexikin maar--all mowstangs air. they air all on 'em o' a breed as wur oncest brought over from some european country by the fust o' them as settled in these hyur parts--leesewise i hev heern so." "still, mr stump, i do not comprehend you. what makes this mustang a ma-a-r?" "what makes her a _maar_? 'case she ain't a _hoss_; thet's what make it, miss peintdexter." "oh--now--i--i think i comprehend. but did you say you have heard of the animal--i mean since you left us?" "heern o' her, seed her, an feeled her." "indeed!" "she air grupped." "ah, caught! what capital news! i shall be so delighted to see the beautiful thing; and ride it too. i haven't had a horse worth a piece of orange-peel since i've been in texas. papa has promised to purchase this one for me at any price. but who is the lucky individual who accomplished the capture?" "ye mean who grupped the maar?" "yes--yes--who?" "why, in coorse it wur a mowstanger." "a mustanger?" "ye-es--an such a one as thur ain't another on all these purayras-- eyther to ride a hoss, or throw a laryitt over one. yo may talk about yur mexikins! i never seed neery mexikin ked manage hoss-doin's like that young fellur; an thur ain't a drop o' thur pisen blood in his veins. he ur es white es i am myself." "his name?" "wal, es to the name o' his family, that i niver heern. his christyun name air maurice. he's knowed up thur 'bout the fort as maurice the mowstanger." the old hunter was not sufficiently observant to take note of the tone of eager interest in which the question had been asked, nor the sudden deepening of colour upon the cheeks of the questioner as she heard the answer. neither had escaped the observation of florinda. "la, miss looey!" exclaimed the latter, "shoo dat de name ob de brave young white gen'l'm--he dat us save from being smodered on de brack prairee?" "geehosofat, yes!" resumed the hunter, relieving the young lady from the necessity of making reply. "now i think o't, he told me o' thet suckumstance this very mornin', afore we started. he air the same. thet's the very fellur es hev trapped spotty; an he air toatin' the critter along at this eyedentical minnit, in kump'ny wi' about a dozen others o' the same cavyurd. he oughter be hyur afore sundown. i pushed my ole maar ahead, so 's to tell yur father the spotty war comin', and let him git the fust chance o' buyin'. i know'd as how thet ere bit o' hosdoin's don't get druv fur into the settlements efore someb'dy snaps her up. i thort o' _you_, miss lewaze, and how ye tuk on so when i tolt ye 'bout the critter. wal, make yur mind eezy; ye shell hev the fast chance. ole zeb stump 'll be yur bail for thet." "oh, mr stump, it is so kind of you! i am very, very grateful. you will now excuse me for a moment. father will soon be back. we have a dinner-party to-day; and i have to prepare for receiving a great many people. florinda, see that mr stump's luncheon is set out for him. go, girl--go at once about it!" "and, mr stump," continued the young lady, drawing nearer to the hunter, and speaking in a more subdued tone of voice, "if the young-- young gentleman should arrive while the other people are here--perhaps he don't know them--will you see that he is not neglected? there is wine yonder, in the verandah, and other things. you know what i mean, dear mr stump?" "durned if i do, miss lewaze; that air, not adzackly. i kin unnerstan' all thet ere 'bout the licker' an other fixins. but who air the young gen'leman yur speakin' o'? thet's the thing as bamboozles me." "surely you know who i mean! the young gentleman--the young man--who, you say, is bringing in the horses." "oh! ah! maurice the mowstanger! that's it, is it? wal, i reck'n yur not a hundred mile astray in calling _him_ a gen'leman; tho' it ain't offen es a mowstanger gits thet entitlement, or desarves it eyther. _he air one_, every inch o' him--a gen'leman by barth, breed, an raisin'-- tho' he air a hoss-hunter, an irish at thet." the eyes of louise poindexter sparkled with delight as she listened to opinions so perfectly in unison with her own. "i must tell ye, howsomdiver," continued the hunter, as some doubt had come across his mind, "it won't do to show that 'ere young fellur any sort o' second-hand hospertality. as they used to say on the massissippi, he air `as proud as a peintdexter.' excuse me, miss lewaze, for lettin' the word slip. i did think o't thet i war talkin' to a peintdexter--not the proudest, but the puttiest o' the name." "oh, mr stump! you can say what you please to me. you know that i could not be offended with you, you dear old giant!" "he'd be meaner than a dwurf es ked eyther say or do anythin' to offend you, miss." "thanks! thanks! i know your honest heart--i know your devotion. perhaps some time--some time, mr stump,"--she spoke hesitatingly, but apparently without any definite meaning--"i might stand in need of your friendship." "ye won't need it long afore ye git it, then; thet ole zeb stump kin promise ye, miss peintdexter. he'd be stinkiner than a skunk, an a bigger coward than a coyoat, es wouldn't stan' by sech as you, while there wur a bottle-full o' breath left in the inside o' his body." "a thousand thanks--again and again! but what were you going to say? you spoke of second-hand hospitality?" "i dud." "you meant--?" "i meaned thet it 'ud be no use o' my inviting maurice the mowstanger eyther to eat or drink unner this hyur roof. unless yur father do that, the young fellur 'll go 'ithout tastin'. you unnerstan, miss lewaze, he ain't one o' thet sort o' poor whites as kin be sent roun' to the kitchen." the young creole stood for a second or two, without making rejoinder. she appeared to be occupied with some abstruse calculation, that engrossed the whole of her thoughts. "never mind about it," she at length said, in a tone that told the calculation completed. "never mind, mr stump. you need not invite him. only let _me_ know when he arrives--unless we be at dinner, and then, of course, he would not expect any one to appear. but if he _should_ come at that time, _you_ detain him--won't you?" "boun' to do it, ef you bid me." "you will, then; and let me know he is here. _i_ shall ask him to eat." "ef ye do, miss, i reck'n ye'll speil his appetite. the sight o' you, to say nothin' o' listenin' to your melodyus voice, ud cure a starvin' wolf o' bein' hungry. when i kim in hyur i war peckish enuf to swaller a raw buzzart. neow i don't care a durn about eatin'. i ked go 'ithout chawin' meat for month." as this exaggerated chapter of euphemism was responded to by a peal of clear ringing laughter, the young lady pointed to the other side of the patio; where her maid was seer emerging from the "cocina," carrying a light tray--followed by pluto with one of broader dimensions, more heavily weighted. "you great giant!" was the reply, given in a tone of sham reproach; "i won't believe you have lost your appetite, until you have eaten jack. yonder come pluto and morinda. they bring something that will prove more cheerful company than i; so i shall leave you to enjoy it. good bye, zeb--good bye, or, as the natives say here, _hasta luego_!" gaily were these words spoken--lightly did louise poindexter trip back across the covered corridor. only after entering her chamber, and finding herself _chez soi-meme_, did she give way to a reflection of a more serious character, that found expression in words low murmured, but full of mystic meaning:-- "it is my destiny: i feel--i know that it is! i dare not meet, and yet i cannot shun it--i may not--i would not--i _will not_!" chapter twelve. taming a wild mare. the pleasantest _apartment_ in a mexican house is that which has the roof for its floor, and the sky for its ceiling--the _azotea_. in fine weather--ever fine in that sunny clime--it is preferred to the drawing-room; especially after dinner, when the sun begins to cast rose-coloured rays upon the snow-clad summits of orizava, popocatepec, toluca, and the "twin sister;" when the rich wines of xeres and madeira have warmed the imaginations of andalusia's sons and daughters-- descendants of the conquistadores--who mount up to their house-tops to look upon a land of world-wide renown, rendered famous by the heroic achievements of their ancestors. then does the mexican "cavallero," clad in embroidered habiliments, exhibit his splendid exterior to the eyes of some senorita--at the same time puffing the smoke of his paper cigarito against her cheeks. then does the dark-eyed doncella favourably listen to soft whisperings; or perhaps only pretends to listen, while, with heart distraught, and eye wandering away, she sends stealthy glances over the plain towards some distant hacienda--the home of him she truly loves. so enjoyable a fashion, as that of spending the twilight hours upon the housetop, could not fail to be followed by any one who chanced to be the occupant of a mexican dwelling; and the family of the louisiana planter had adopted it, as a matter of course. on that same evening, after the dining-hall had been deserted, the roof, instead of the drawing-room, was chosen as the place of re-assemblage; and as the sun descended towards the horizon, his slanting rays fell upon a throng as gay, as cheerful, and perhaps as resplendent, as ever trod the azotea of casa del corvo. moving about over its tessellated tiles, standing in scattered groups, or lined along the parapet with faces turned towards the plain, were women as fair and men as brave as had ever assembled on that same spot--even when its ancient owner used to distribute hospitality to the _hidalgos_ of the land--the _bluest_ blood in coahuila and texas. the company now collected to welcome the advent of woodley poindexter on his texan estate, could also boast of this last distinction. they were the _elite_ of the settlements--not only of the leona, but of others more distant. there were guests from gonzales, from castroville, and even from san antonio--old friends of the planter, who, like him, had sought a home in south-western texas, and who had ridden--some of them over a hundred miles--to be present at this, his first grand "reception." the planter had spared neither pains nor expense to give it _eclat_. what with the sprinkling of uniforms and epaulettes, supplied by the fort--what with the brass band borrowed from the same convenient repository--what with the choice wines found in the cellars of casa del corvo, and which had formed part of the purchase--there could be little lacking to make poindexter's party the most brilliant ever given upon the banks of the leona. and to insure this effect, his lovely daughter louise, late belle of louisiana--the fame of whose beauty had been before her, even in texas-- acted as mistress of the ceremonies--moving about among the admiring guests with the smile of a queen, and the grace of a goddess. on that occasion was she the cynosure of a hundred pairs of eyes, the happiness of a score of hearts, and perhaps the torture of as many more: for not all were blessed who beheld her beauty. was she herself happy? the interrogatory may appear singular--almost absurd. surrounded by friends--admirers--one, at least, who adored her--a dozen whose incipient love could but end in adoration--young planters, lawyers, embryo statesmen, and some with reputation already achieved--sons of mars in armour, or with armour late laid aside--how could she be otherwise than proudly, supremely happy? a stranger might have asked the question; one superficially acquainted with creole character--more especially the character of the lady in question. but mingling in that splendid throng was a man who was no stranger to either; and who, perhaps, more than any one present, watched her every movement; and endeavoured more than any other to interpret its meaning. cassius calhoun was the individual thus occupied. she went not hither, nor thither, without his following her--not close, like a shadow; but by stealth, flitting from place to place; upstairs, and downstairs; standing in corners, with an air of apparent abstraction; but all the while with eyes turned askant upon his cousin's face, like a plain-clothes policeman employed on detective duty. strangely enough he did not seem to pay much regard to her speeches, made in reply to the compliments showered upon her by several would-be winners of a smile--not even when these were conspicuous and respectable, as in the case of young hancock of the dragoons. to all such he listened without visible emotion, as one listens to a conversation in no way affecting the affairs either of self or friends. it was only after ascending to the azotea, on observing his cousin near the parapet, with her eye turned interrogatively towards the plain, that his detective zeal became conspicuous--so much so as to attract the notice of others. more than once was it noticed by those standing near: for more than once was repeated the act which gave cause to it. at intervals, not very wide apart, the young mistress of casa del corvo might have been seen to approach the parapet, and look across the plain, with a glance that seemed to interrogate the horizon of the sky. why she did so no one could tell. no one presumed to conjecture, except cassius calhoun. he had thoughts upon the subject--thoughts that were torturing him. when a group of moving forms appeared upon the prairie, emerging from the garish light of the setting sun--when the spectators upon the azotea pronounced it a drove of horses in charge of some mounted men--the ex-officer of volunteers had a suspicion as to who was conducting that _cavallada_. another appeared to feel an equal interest in its advent, though perhaps from a different motive. long before the horse-drove had attracted the observation of poindexter's guests, his daughter had noted its approach--from the time that a cloud of dust soared up against the horizon, so slight and filmy as to have escaped detection by any eye not bent expressly on discovering it. from that moment the young creole, under cover of a conversation carried on amid a circle of fair companions, had been slyly scanning the dust-cloud as it drew nearer; forming conjectures as to what was causing it, upon knowledge already, and as she supposed, exclusively her own. "wild horses!" announced the major commandant of fort inge, after a short inspection through his pocket telescope. "some one bringing them in," he added, a second time raising the glass to his eye. "oh! i see now--it's maurice the mustanger, who occasionally helps our men to a remount. he appears to be coming this way--direct to your place, mr poindexter." "if it be the young fellow you have named, that's not unlikely," replied the owner of casa del corvo. "i bargained with him to catch me a score or two; and maybe this is the first instalment he's bringing me." "yes, i think it is," he added, after a look through the telescope. "i am sure of it," said the planter's son. "i can tell the horseman yonder to be maurice gerald." the planter's daughter could have done the same; though she made no display of her knowledge. she did not appear to be much interested in the matter--indeed, rather indifferent. she had become aware of being watched by that evil eye, constantly burning upon her. the _cavallada_ came up, maurice sitting handsomely on his horse, with the spotted mare at the end of his lazo. "what a beautiful creature!" exclaimed several voices, as the captured mustang was led up in front of the house, quivering with excitement at a scene so new to it. "it's worth a journey to the ground to look at such an animal!" suggested the major's wife, a lady of enthusiastic inclinings. "i propose we all go down! what say you, miss poindexter?" "oh, certainly," answered the mistress of the mansion, amidst a chorus of other voices crying out-- "let us go down! let us go down!" led by the majoress, the ladies filed down the stone stairway--the gentlemen after; and in a score of seconds the horse-hunter, still seated in his saddle, became, with his captive, the centre of the distinguished circle. henry poindexter had hurried down before the rest, and already, in the frankest manner, bidden the stranger welcome. between the latter and louise only a slight salutation could be exchanged. familiarity with a horse-dealer--even supposing him to have had the honour of an introduction--would scarce have been tolerated by the "society." of the ladies, the major's wife alone addressed him in a familiar way; but that was in a tone that told of superior position, coupled with condescension. he was more gratified by a glance--quick and silent-- when his eye changed intelligence with that of the young creole. hers was not the only one that rested approvingly upon him. in truth, the mustanger looked splendid, despite his travel-stained habiliments. his journey of over twenty miles had done little to fatigue him. the prairie breeze had freshened the colour upon his cheeks; and his full round throat, naked to the breast-bone, and slightly bronzed with the sun, contributed to the manliness of his mien. even the dust clinging to his curled hair could not altogether conceal its natural gloss, nor the luxuriance of its growth; while a figure tersely knit told of strength and endurance beyond the ordinary endowment of man. there were stolen glances, endeavouring to catch his, sent by more than one of the fair circle. the pretty niece of the commissary smiled admiringly upon him. some said the commissary's wife; but this could be only a slander, to be traced, perhaps, to the doctor's better half--the lady teazle of the cantonment. "surely," said poindexter, after making an examination of the captured mustang, "this must be the animal of which old zeb stump has been telling me?" "it ur thet eyedenticul same," answered the individual so described, making his way towards maurice with the design of assisting him. "ye-es, mister peintdexter; the eyedenticul critter--a maar, es ye kin all see for yurselves--" "yes, yes," hurriedly interposed the planter, not desiring any further elucidation. "the young fellur hed grupped her afore i got thur; so i wur jess in the nick o' time 'bout it. she mout a been tuck elswhar, an then miss lewaze thur mout a missed hevin' her." "it is true indeed, mr stump! it was very thoughtful of you. i know not how i shall ever be able to reciprocate your kindness?" "reciperkate! wal, i spose thet air means to do suthin in return. ye kin do thet, miss, 'ithout much difeequilty. i han't dud nothin' for you, ceptin' make a bit o' a journey acrost the purayra. to see yur bewtyful self mounted on thet maar, wi' yur ploomed het upon yur head, an yur long-tailed pettykote streakin' it ahint you, 'ud pay old zeb stump to go clur to the rockies, and back agin." "oh, mr stump! you are an incorrigible flatterer! look around you! you will see many here more deserving of your compliments than i." "wal, wal!" rejoined zeb, casting a look of careless scrutiny towards the ladies, "i ain't a goin' to deny thet thur air gobs o' putty critters hyur--dog-goned putty critters; but es they used to say in ole loozyanney, thur air but one lewaze peintdexter." a burst of laughter--in which only a few feminine voices bore part--was the reply to zeb's gallant speech. "i shall owe you two hundred dollars for this," said the planter, addressing himself to maurice, and pointing to the spotted mare. "i think that was the sum stipulated for by mr stump." "i was not a party to the stipulation," replied the mustanger, with a significant but well-intentioned smile. "i cannot take your money. _she_ is not for sale." "oh, indeed!" said the planter, drawing back with an air of proud disappointment; while his brother planters, as well as the officers of the fort, looked astonished at the refusal of such a munificent price. two hundred dollars for an untamed mustang, when the usual rate of price was from ten to twenty! the mustanger must be mad? he gave them no time to descant upon his sanity. "mr poindexter," he continued, speaking in the same good-humoured strain, "you have given me such a generous price for my other captives-- and before they were taken too--that i can afford to make a present-- what we over in ireland call a `luckpenny.' it is our custom there also, when a horse-trade takes place at the house, to give the _douceur_, not to the purchaser himself, but to one of the fair members of his family. may i have your permission to introduce this hibernian fashion into the settlements of texas?" "certainly, by all means!" responded several voices, two or three of them unmistakably with an irish accentuation. "oh, certainly, mr gerald!" replied the planter, his conservatism giving way to the popular will--"as you please about that." "thanks, gentlemen--thanks!" said the mustanger, with a patronising look towards men who believed themselves to be his masters. "this mustang is my luckpenny; and if miss poindexter will condescend to accept of it, i shall feel more than repaid for the three days' chase which the creature has cost me. had she been the most cruel of coquettes, she could scarce have been more difficult to subdue." "i accept your gift, sir; and with gratitude," responded the young creole--for the first time prominently proclaiming herself, and stepping freely forth as she spoke. "but i have a fancy," she continued, pointing to the mustang--at the same time that her eye rested inquiringly on the countenance of the mustanger--"a fancy that your captive is not yet _tamed_? she but trembles in fear of the unknown future. she may yet kick against the traces, if she find the harness not to her liking; and then what am i to do--poor i?" "true, maurice!" said the major, widely mistaken as to the meaning of the mysterious speech, and addressing the only man on the ground who could possibly have comprehended it; "miss poindexter speaks very sensibly. that mustang has not been tamed yet--any one may see it. come, my good fellow! give her the lesson. "ladies and gentlemen!" continued the major, turning towards the company, "this is something worth your seeing--those of you who have not witnessed the spectacle before. come, maurice; mount, and show us a specimen of prairie horsemanship. she looks as though she would put your skill to the test." "you are right, major: she does!" replied the mustanger, with a quick glance, directed not towards the captive quadruped, but to the young creole; who, with all her assumed courage, retired tremblingly behind the circle of spectators. "no matter, my man," pursued the major, in a tone intended for encouragement. "in spite of that devil sparkling in her eye, i'll lay ten to one you'll take the conceit out of her. try!" without losing credit, the mustanger could not have declined acceding to the major's request. it was a challenge to skill--to equestrian prowess--a thing not lightly esteemed upon the prairies of texas. he proclaimed his acceptance of it by leaping lightly out of his saddle, resigning his own steed to zeb stump, and exclusively giving his attention to the captive. the only preliminary called for was the clearing of the ground. this was effected in an instant--the greater part of the company--with all the ladies--returning to the azotea. with only a piece of raw-hide rope looped around the under jaw, and carried headstall fashion behind the ears--with only one rein in hand-- maurice sprang to the back of the wild mare. it was the first time she had ever been mounted by man--the first insult of the kind offered to her. a shrill spiteful scream spoke plainly her appreciation of and determination to resent it. it proclaimed defiance of the attempt to degrade her to the condition of a slave! with equine instinct, she reared upon her hind legs, for some seconds balancing her body in an erect position. her rider, anticipating the trick, had thrown his arms around her neck; and, close clasping her throat, appeared part of herself. but for this she might have poised over upon her back, and crushed him beneath her. the uprearing of the hind quarters was the next "trick" of the mustang-- sure of being tried, and most difficult for the rider to meet without being thrown. from sheer conceit in his skill, he had declined saddle and stirrup, that would now have stood him in stead; but with these he could not have claimed accomplishment of the boasted feat of the prairies--_to tame the naked steed_. he performed it without them. as the mare raised her hind quarters aloft, he turned quickly upon her back, threw his arms around the barrel of her body, and resting his toes upon the angular points of her fore shoulders, successfully resisted her efforts to unhorse him. twice or three times was the endeavour repeated by the mustang, and as often foiled by the skill of the mustanger; and then, as if conscious that such efforts were idle, the enraged animal plunged no longer; but, springing away from the spot, entered upon a gallop that appeared to have no goal this side the ending of the earth. it must have come to an end somewhere; though not within sight of the spectators, who kept their places, waiting for the horse-tamer's return. conjectures that he might be killed, or, at the least, badly "crippled," were freely ventured during his absence; and there was one who wished it so. but there was also one upon whom such an event would have produced a painful impression--almost as painful as if her own life depended upon his safe return. why louise poindexter, daughter of the proud louisiana sugar-planter--a belle--a beauty of more than provincial repute--who could, by simply saying yes, have had for a husband the richest and noblest in the land--why she should have fixed her fancy, or even permitted her thoughts to stray, upon a poor horse-hunter of texas, was a mystery that even her own intellect--by no means a weak one--was unable to fathom. perhaps she had not yet gone so far as to fix her fancy upon him. she did not think so herself. had she thought so, and reflected upon it, perhaps she would have recoiled from the contemplation of certain consequences, that could not have failed to present themselves to her mind. she was but conscious of having conceived some strange interest in a strange individual--one who had presented himself in a fashion that favoured fanciful reflections--one who differed essentially from the common-place types introduced to her in the world of social distinctions. she was conscious, too, that this interest--originating in a word, a glance, a gesture--listened to, or observed, amid the ashes of a burnt prairie--instead of subsiding, had ever since been upon the increase! it was not diminished when maurice the mustanger came riding back across the plain, with the wild mare between his legs--no more wild--no longer desiring to destroy him--but with lowered crest and mien submissive, acknowledging to all the world that she had found her master! without acknowledging it to the world, or even to herself, the young creole was inspired with a similar reflection. "miss poindexter!" said the mustanger, gliding to the ground, and without making any acknowledgment to the plaudits that were showered upon him--"may i ask you to step up to her, throw this lazo over her neck, and lead her to the stable? by so doing, she will regard you as her tamer; and ever after submit to your will, if you but exhibit the sign that first deprived her of her liberty." a prude would have paltered with the proposal--a coquette would have declined it--a timid girl have shrunk back. not so louise poindexter--a descendant of one of the _filles-a-la-casette_. without a moment's hesitation--without the slightest show of prudery or fear--she stepped forth from the aristocratic circle; as instructed, took hold of the horsehair rope; whisked it across the neck of the tamed mustang; and led the captive off towards the _caballeriza_ of casa del corvo. as she did so, the mustanger's words were ringing in her ears, and echoing through her heart with a strange foreboding weird signification. "_she will regard you as her tamer; and ever after submit to your will, if you but exhibit the sign that first deprived her of her liberty_." chapter thirteen. a prairie pic-nic. the first rays from a rosy aurora, saluting the flag of fort inge, fell with a more subdued light upon an assemblage of objects occupying the parade-ground below--in front of the "officers' quarters." a small sumpter-waggon stood in the centre of the group; having attached to it a double span of tight little mexican mules, whose quick impatient "stomping," tails spitefully whisked, and ears at intervals turning awry, told that they had been for some time in harness, and were impatient to move off--warning the bystanders, as well, against a too close approximation to their heels. literally speaking, there were no bystanders--if we except a man of colossal size, in blanket coat, and slouch felt hat; who, despite the obscure light straggling around his shoulders, could be identified as zeb stump, the hunter. he was not standing either, but seated astride his "ole maar," that showed less anxiety to be off than either the mexican mules or her own master. the other forms around the vehicle were all in motion--quick, hurried, occasionally confused--hither and thither, from the waggon to the door of the quarters, and back again from the house to the vehicle. there were half a score of them, or thereabouts; varied in costume as in the colour of their skins. most were soldiers, in fatigue dress, though of different arms of the service. two would be taken to be mess-cooks; and two or three more, officers' servants, who had been detailed from the ranks. a more legitimate specimen of this profession appeared in the person of a well-dressed darkie, who moved about the ground in a very authoritative manner; deriving his importance, from his office of _valet de tout_ to the major in command of the cantonment. a sergeant, as shown by his three-barred chevron, was in charge of the mixed party, directing their movements; the object of which was to load the waggon with eatables and drinkables--in short, the paraphernalia of a pic-nic. that it was intended to be upon a grand scale, was testified by the amplitude and variety of the _impedimenta_. there were hampers and baskets of all shapes and sizes, including the well known parallelopipedon, enclosing its twelve necks of shining silver-lead; while the tin canisters, painted spanish brown, along with the universal sardine-case, proclaimed the presence of many luxuries not indigenous to texas. however delicate and extensive the stock of provisions, there was one in the party of purveyors who did not appear to think it complete. the dissatisfied lucullus was zeb stump. "lookee hyur, surgint," said he, addressing himself confidentially to the individual in charge, "i hain't seed neery smell o' corn put inter the veehicle as yit; an', i reck'n, thet out on the purayra, thur'll be some folks ud prefar a leetle corn to any o' thet theer furrin french stuff. sham-pain, ye call it, i b'lieve." "prefer corn to champagne! the horses you mean?" "hosses be durned. i ain't talkin' 'bout hoss corn. i mean m'nongaheela." "oh--ah--i comprehend. you're right about that, mr stump. the whisky mustn't be forgotten, pomp. i think i saw a jar inside, that's intended to go?" "yaw--yaw, sagint," responded the dark-skinned domestic; "dar am dat same wesicle. hya it is!" he added, lugging a large jar into the light, and swinging it up into the waggon. old zeb appearing to think the packing now complete, showed signs of impatience to be off. "ain't ye riddy, surgint?" he inquired, shifting restlessly in his stirrups. "not quite, mr stump. the cook tells me the chickens want another turn upon the spit, before we can take 'em along." "durn the chickens, an the cook too! what air any dung-hill fowl to compare wi' a wild turkey o' the purayra; an how am i to shoot one, arter the sun hev clomb ten mile up the sky? the major sayed i war to git him a gobbler, whativer shed happen. 'tain't so durnation eezy to kill turkey gobbler arter sun-up, wi' a clamjamferry like this comin' clost upon a fellur's heels? ye mustn't surpose, surgint, that thet ere bird air as big a fool as the sodger o' a fort. of all the cunnin' critters as ferquents these hyur purayras, a turkey air the cunninest; an to git helf way roun' one o' 'em, ye must be up along wi' the sun; and preehap a leetle urlier." "true, mr stump. i know the major wants a wild turkey. he told me so; and expects you to procure one on the way." "no doubt he do; an preehap expex me likeways to purvid him wi' a baffler's tongue, an hump--seein' as thur ain't sech a anymal on the purayras o' south texas--nor hain't a been for good twenty yurs past-- noterthstandin' what eur-op-ean writers o' books hev said to the contrary, an 'specially french 'uns, as i've heern. thur ain't no burner 'bout hyur. thur's baar, an deer, an goats, an plenty o' gobblers; but to hev one o' these critters for yur dinner, ye must git it urly enuf for yur breakfist. unless i hev my own time, i won't promise to guide yur party, an git gobbler both. so, surgint, ef ye expex yur grand kumpny to chaw turkey-meat this day, ye'll do well to be makin' tracks for the purayra." stirred by the hunter's representation, the sergeant did all that was possible to hasten the departure of himself and his parti-coloured company; and, shortly after, the provision train, with zeb stump as its guide, was wending its way across the extensive plain that lies between the leona and the "river of nuts." the parade-ground had been cleared of the waggon and its escort scarce twenty minutes, when a party of somewhat different appearance commenced assembling upon the same spot. there were ladies on horseback; attended, not by grooms, as at the "meet" in an english hunting-field, but by the gentlemen who were to accompany them--their friends and acquaintances--fathers, brothers, lovers, and husbands. most, if not all, who had figured at poindexter's dinner party, were soon upon the ground. the planter himself was present; as also his son henry, his nephew cassius calhoun, and his daughter louise--the young lady mounted upon the spotted mustang, that had figured so conspicuously on the occasion of the entertainment at casa del corvo. the affair was a reciprocal treat--a simple return of hospitality; the major and his officers being the hosts, the planter and his friends the invited guests. the entertainment about to be provided, if less pretentious in luxurious appointments, was equally appropriate to the time and place. the guests of the cantonment were to be gratified by witnessing a spectacle--grand as rare--a chase of wild steeds! the arena of the sport could only be upon the wild-horse prairies--some twenty miles to the southward of fort inge. hence the necessity for an early start, and being preceded by a vehicle laden with an ample _commissariat_. just as the sunbeams began to dance upon the crystal waters of the leona, the excursionists were ready to take their departure from the parade-ground--with an escort of two-score dragoons that had been ordered to ride in the rear. like the party that preceded them, they too were provided with a guide--not an old backwoodsman in battered felt hat, and faded blanket coat, astride a scraggy roadster; but a horseman completely costumed and equipped, mounted upon a splendid steed, in every way worthy to be the chaperone of such a distinguished expedition. "come, maurice!" cried the major, on seeing that all had assembled, "we're ready to be conducted to the game. ladies and gentlemen! this young fellow is thoroughly acquainted with the haunts and habits of the wild horses. if there's a man in texas, who can show us how to hunt them, 'tis maurice the mustanger." "faith, you flatter me, major!" rejoined the young irishman, turning with a courteous air towards the company; "i have not said so much as that. i can only promise to show you where you may _find_ them." "modest fellow!" soliloquised one, who trembled, as she gave thought to what she more than half suspected to be an untruth. "lead on, then!" commanded the major; and, at the word, the gay cavalcade, with the mustanger in the lead, commenced moving across the parade-ground--while the star-spangled banner, unfurled by the morning breeze, fluttered upon its staff as if waving them an elegant adieu! a twenty-mile ride upon prairie turf is a mere bagatelle--before breakfast, an airing. in texas it is so regarded by man, woman, and horse. it was accomplished in less than three hours--without further inconvenience than that which arose from performing the last few miles of it with appetites uncomfortably keen. fortunately the provision waggon, passed upon the road, came close upon their heels; and, long before the sun had attained the meridian line, the excursionists were in full pic-nic under the shade of a gigantic pecan tree, that stood near the banks of the nueces. no incident had occurred on the way--worth recording. the mustanger, as guide, had ridden habitually in the advance; the company, with one or two exceptions, thinking of him only in his official capacity--unless when startled by some feat of horsemanship--such as leaping clear over a prairie stream, or dry arroyo, which others were fain to ford, or cross by the crooked path. there may have been a suspicion of bravado in this behaviour--a desire to exhibit. cassius calhoun told the company there was. perhaps the ex-captain spoke the truth--for once. if so, there was also some excuse. have you ever been in a hunting-field, at home, with riding habits trailing the sward, and plumed hats proudly nodding around you? you have: and then what? be cautious how you condemn the texan mustanger. reflect, that he, too, was under the artillery of bright eyes--a score pair of them--some as bright as ever looked love out of a lady's saddle. think, that louise poindexter's were among the number--think of that, and you will scarce feel surprised at the ambition to "shine." there were others equally demonstrative of personal accomplishments--of prowess that might prove manhood. the young dragoon, hancock, frequently essayed to show that he was not new to the saddle; and the lieutenant of mounted rifles, at intervals, strayed from the side of the commissary's niece for the performance of some equestrian feat, without looking exclusively to her, his reputed sweetheart, as he listened to the whisperings of applause. ah, daughter of poindexter! whether in the _salons_ of civilised louisiana, or the prairies of savage texas, peace could not reign in thy presence! go where thou wilt, romantic thoughts must spring up--wild passions be engendered around thee! chapter fourteen. the manada. had their guide held the prairies in complete control--its denizens subject to his secret will--responsible to time and place--he could not have conducted the excursionists to a spot more likely to furnish the sport that had summoned them forth. just as the sparkling johannisberger--obtained from the german wine-stores of san antonio--had imparted a brighter blue to the sky, and a more vivid green to the grass, the cry "mustenos!" was heard above the hum of conversation, interrupting the half-spoken sentiment, with the peal of merry laughter. it came from a mexican _vaquero_, who had been stationed as a vidette on an eminence near at hand. maurice--at the moment partaking of the hospitality of his employers, freely extended to him--suddenly quaffed off the cup; and springing to his saddle, cried out-- "_cavallada_?" "no," answered the mexican; "_manada_." "what do the fellows mean by their gibberish?" inquired captain calhoun. "_mustenos_ is only the mexican for mustangs," replied the major; "and by `manada' he means they are wild mares--a drove of them. at this season they herd together, and keep apart from the horses; unless when--" "when what?" impatiently asked the ex-officer of volunteers, interrupting the explanation. "when they are attacked by asses," innocently answered the major. a general peal of laughter rendered doubtful the _naivete_ of the major's response--imparting to it the suspicion of a personality not intended. for a moment calhoun writhed under the awkward misconception of the auditory; but only for a moment. he was not the man to succumb to an unlucky accident of speech. on the contrary, he perceived the chance of a triumphant reply; and took advantage of it. "indeed!" he drawled out, without appearing to address himself to any one in particular. "i was not aware that mustangs were so dangerous in these parts." as calhoun said this, he was not looking at louise poindexter or he might have detected in her eye a glance to gratify him. the young creole, despite an apparent coolness towards him, could not withhold admiration at anything that showed cleverness. his case might not be so hopeless? the young dragoon, hancock, did not think it so; nor yet the lieutenant of rifles. both observed the approving look, and both became imbued with the belief that cassius calhoun had--or might have--in his keeping, the happiness of his cousin. the conjecture gave a secret chagrin to both, but especially to the dragoon. there was but short time for him to reflect upon it; the manada was drawing near. "to the saddle!" was the thought upon every mind, and the cry upon every tongue. the bit was rudely inserted between teeth still industriously grinding the yellow corn; the bridle drawn over shoulders yet smoking after the quick skurry of twenty miles through the close atmosphere of a tropical morn; and, before a hundred could have been deliberately counted, every one, ladies and gentlemen alike, was in the stirrup, ready to ply whip and spur. by this time the wild mares appeared coming over the crest of the ridge upon which the vidette had been stationed. he, himself a horse-catcher by trade, was already mounted, and in their midst--endeavouring to fling his lazo over one of the herd. they were going at mad gallop, as if fleeing from a pursuer--some dreaded creature that was causing them to "whigher" and snort! with their eyes strained to the rear, they saw neither the sumpter waggon, nor the equestrians clustering around it, but were continuing onward to the spot; which chanced to lie directly in the line of their flight. "they are chased!" remarked maurice, observing the excited action of the animals. "what is it, crespino?" he cried out to the mexican, who, from his position, must have seen any pursuer that might be after them. there was a momentary pause, as the party awaited the response. in the crowd were countenances that betrayed uneasiness, some even alarm. it might be indians who were in pursuit of the mustangs! "_un asino cimmaron_!" was the phrase that came from the mouth of the mexican, though by no means terminating the suspense of the picknickers. "_un macho_!" he added. "oh! that's it! i thought it was!" muttered maurice. "the rascal must be stopped, or he'll spoil our sport. so long as he's after them, they'll not make halt this side the sky line. is the macho coming on?" "close at hand, don mauricio. making straight for myself." "fling your rope over him, if you can. if not, cripple him with a shot--anything to put an end to his capers." the character of the pursuer was still a mystery to most, if not all, upon the ground: for only the mustanger knew the exact signification of the phrases--"un asino cimmaron," "un macho." "explain, maurice!" commanded the major. "look yonder!" replied the young irishman, pointing to the top of the hill. the two words were sufficient. all eyes became directed towards the crest of the ridge, where an animal, usually regarded as the type of slowness and stupidity, was seen advancing with the swiftness of a bird upon the wing. but very different is the "asino cimmaron" from the ass of civilisation--the donkey be-cudgelled into stolidity. the one now in sight was a male, almost as large as any of the mustangs it was chasing; and if not fleet as the fleetest, still able to keep up with them by the sheer pertinacity of its pursuit! the tableau of nature, thus presented on the green surface of the prairie, was as promptly produced as it could have been upon the stage of a theatre, or the arena of a hippodrome. scarce a score of words had passed among the spectators, before the wild mares were close up to them; and then, as if for the first time, perceiving the mounted party, they seemed to forget their dreaded pursuer, and shied off in a slanting direction. "ladies and gentlemen!" shouted the guide to a score of people, endeavouring to restrain their steeds; "keep your places, if you can. i know where the herd has its haunt. they are heading towards it now; and we shall find them again, with a better chance of a chase. if you pursue them at this moment, they'll scatter into yonder chapparal; and ten to one if we ever more get sight of them. "hola, senor crespino! send your bullet through that brute. he's near enough for your _escopette_, is he not?" the mexican, detaching a short gun--"escopeta"--from his saddle-flap, and hastily bringing its butt to his shoulder, fired at the wild ass. the animal brayed on hearing the report; but only as if in defiance. he was evidently untouched. crespino's bullet had not been truly aimed. "i must stop him!" exclaimed maurice, "or the mares will run on till the end of daylight." as the mustanger spoke, he struck the spur sharply into the flanks of his horse. like an arrow projected from its bow, castro shot off in pursuit of the jackass, now galloping regardlessly past. half a dozen springs of the blood bay, guided in a diagonal direction, brought his rider within casting distance; and like a flash of lightning, the loop of the lazo was seen descending over the long ears. on launching it, the mustanger halted, and made a half-wheel--the horse going round as upon a pivot; and with like mechanical obedience to the will of his rider, bracing himself for the expected pluck. there was a short interval of intense expectation, as the wild ass, careering onward, took up the slack of the rope. then the animal was seen to rise erect on its hind legs, and fall heavily backward upon the sward--where it lay motionless, and apparently as dead, as if shot through the heart! it was only stunned, however, by the shock, and the quick tightening of the loop causing temporary strangulation; which the mexican mustanger prolonged to eternity, by drawing his sharp-edged _machete_ across its throat. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the incident caused a postponement of the chase. all awaited the action of the guide; who, after "throwing" the macho, had dismounted to recover his lazo. he had succeeded in releasing the rope from the neck of the prostrate animal, when he was seen to coil it up with a quickness that betokened some new cause of excitement--at the same time that he ran to regain his saddle. only a few of the others--most being fully occupied with their own excited steeds--observed this show of haste on the part of the mustanger. those who did, saw it with surprise. he had counselled patience in the pursuit. they could perceive no cause for the eccentric change of tactics, unless it was that louise poindexter, mounted on the spotted mustang, had suddenly separated from the company, and was galloping off after the wild mares, as if resolved on being foremost of the field! but the hunter of wild horses had not construed her conduct in this sense. that uncourteous start could scarce be an intention--except on the part of the spotted mustang? maurice had recognised the manada, as the same from which he had himself captured it: and, no doubt, with the design of rejoining its old associates, it was running away with its rider! so believed the guide; and the belief became instantly universal. stirred by gallantry, half the field spurred off in pursuit. calhoun, hancock, and crossman leading, with half a score of young planters, lawyers, and legislators close following--each as he rode off reflecting to himself, what a bit of luck it would be to bring up the runaway. but few, if any, of the gentlemen felt actual alarm. all knew that louise poindexter was a splendid equestrian; a spacious plain lay before her, smooth as a race-track; the mustang might gallop till it tired itself down; it could not throw her; there could be little chance of her receiving any serious injury? there was one who did not entertain this confident view. it was he who had been the first to show anxiety--the mustanger himself. he was the last to leave the ground. delayed in the rearrangement of his lazo--a moment more in remounting--he was a hundred paces behind every competitor, as his horse sprang forward upon the pursuit. calhoun was a like distance in the lead, pressing on with all the desperate energy of his nature, and all the speed he could extract from the heels of his horse. the dragoon and rifleman were a little in his rear; and then came the "ruck." maurice soon passed through the thick of the field, overlapped the leaders one by one; and forging still further ahead, showed cassius calhoun the heels of his horse. a muttered curse was sent hissing through the teeth of the ex-officer of volunteers, as the blood bay, bounding past, concealed from his sight the receding form of the spotted mustang. the sun, looking down from the zenith, gave light to a singular tableau. a herd of wild mares going at reckless speed across the prairie; one of their own kind, with a lady upon its back, following about four hundred yards behind; at a like distance after the lady, a steed of red bay colour, bestridden by a cavalier picturesquely attired, and apparently intent upon overtaking her; still further to the rear a string of mounted men--some in civil, some in military, garb; behind these a troop of dragoons going at full gallop, having just parted from a mixed group of ladies and gentlemen--also mounted, but motionless, on the plain, or only stirring around the same spot with excited gesticulations! in twenty minutes the tableau was changed. the same personages were upon the stage--the grand _tapis vert_ of the prairie--but the grouping was different, or, at all events, the groups were more widely apart. the manada had gained distance upon the spotted mustang; the mustang upon the blood bay; and the blood bay--ah! his competitors were no longer in sight, or could only have been seen by the far-piercing eye of the _caracara_, soaring high in the sapphire heavens. the wild mares--the mustang and its rider--the red horse, and his--had the savanna to themselves! chapter fifteen. the runaway overtaken. for another mile the chase continued, without much change. the mares still swept on in full flight, though no longer screaming or in fear. the mustang still uttered an occasional neigh, which its old associates seemed not to notice; while its rider held her seat in the saddle unshaken, and without any apparent alarm. the blood bay appeared more excited, though not so much as his master; who was beginning to show signs either of despondency or chagrin. "come, castro!" he exclaimed, with a certain spitefulness of tone. "what the deuce is the matter with your heels--to-day of all others? remember, you overtook her before--though not so easily, i admit. but now she's weighted. look yonder, you dull brute! weighted with that which is worth more than gold--worth every drop of your blood, and mine too. the yegua pinta seems to have improved her paces. is it from training; or does a horse run faster when ridden? "what if i lose sight of her? in truth, it begins to look queer! it would be an awkward situation for the young lady. worse than that-- there's danger in it--real danger. if i should lose sight of her, she'd be in trouble to a certainty!" thus muttering, maurice rode on: his eyes now fixed upon the form still flitting away before him; at intervals interrogating, with uneasy glances, the space that separated him from it. up to this time he had not thought of hailing the rider of the runaway. his shouts might have been heard; but no words of warning, or instruction. he had refrained: partly on this account; partly because he was in momentary expectation of overtaking her; and partly because he knew that acts, not words, were wanted to bring the mustang to a stand. all along he had been flattering himself that he would soon be near enough to fling his lazo over the creature's neck, and control it at discretion. he was gradually becoming relieved of this hallucination. the chase now entered among copses that thickly studded the plain, fast closing into a continuous chapparal. this was a new source of uneasiness to the pursuer. the runaway might take to the thicket, or become lost to his view amid the windings of the wood. the wild mares were already invisible--at intervals. they would soon be out of sight altogether. there seemed no chance of their old associate overtaking them. "what mattered that? a lady lost on a prairie, or in a chapparal-- alone, or in the midst of a manada--either contingency pointed to certain danger." a still more startling peril suggested itself to the mind of the mustanger--so startling as to find expression in excited speech. "by heavens!" he ejaculated, his brow becoming more clouded than it had been from his first entering upon the chase. "_if the stallions should chance this way_! 'tis their favourite stamping ground among these mottos. they were here but a week ago; and this--yes--'tis the month of their madness!" the spur of the mustanger again drew blood, till its rowels were red; and castro, galloping at his utmost speed, glanced back upbraidingly over his shoulder. at this crisis the manada disappeared from, the sight both of the blood-bay and his master; and most probably at the same time from that of the spotted mustang and its rider. there was nothing mysterious in it. the mares had entered between the closing of two copses, where the shrubbery hid them from view. the effect produced upon the runaway appeared to proceed from some magical influence. as if their disappearance was a signal for discontinuing the chase, it suddenly slackened pace; and the instant after came to a standstill! maurice, continuing his gallop, came up with it in the middle of a meadow-like glade--standing motionless as marble--its rider, reins in hand, sitting silent in the saddle, in an attitude of easy elegance, as if waiting for him to ride up! "miss poindexter!" he gasped out, as he spurred his steed within speaking distance: "i am glad that you have recovered command of that wild creature. i was beginning to be alarmed about--" "about what, sir?" was the question that startled the mustanger. "your safety--of course," he replied, somewhat stammeringly. "oh, thank you, mr gerald; but i was not aware of having been in any danger. was i really so?" "any danger!" echoed the irishman, with increased astonishment. "on the back of a runaway mustang--in the middle of a pathless prairie!" "and what of that? the thing couldn't throw me. i'm too clever in the saddle, sir." "i know it, madame; but that accomplishment would have availed you very little had you lost yourself, a thing you were like enough to have done among these chapparal copses, where the oldest texan can scarce find his way." "oh--_lost myself_! that was the danger to be dreaded?" "there are others, besides. suppose you had fallen in with--" "indians!" interrupted the lady, without waiting for the mustanger to finish his hypothetical speech. "and if i had, what would it have mattered? are not the comanches _en paz_ at present? surely they wouldn't have molested me, gallant fellows as they are? so the major told us, as we came along. 'pon my word, sir, i should seek, rather than shun, such an encounter. i wish to see the noble savage on his native prairie, and on horseback; not, as i've hitherto beheld him, reeling around the settlements in a state of debasement from too freely partaking of our fire-water." "i admire your courage, miss; but if i had the honour of being one of your friends, i should take the liberty of counselling a little caution. the `noble savage' you speak of, is not always sober upon the prairies; and perhaps not so very gallant as you've been led to believe. if you had met him--" "if i had met him, and he had attempted to misbehave himself, i would have given him the go-by, and ridden, straight back to my friends. on such a swift creature as this, he must have been well mounted to have overtaken me. you found some difficulty--did you not?" the eyes of the young irishman, already showing astonishment, became expanded to increased dimensions--surprise and incredulity being equally blended in their glance. "but," said he, after a speechless pause, "you don't mean to say that you could have controlled--that the mustang was not running away with you? am i to understand--" "no--no--no!" hastily rejoined the fair equestrian, showing some slight embarrassment. "the mare certainly made off with me--that is, at the first--but i--i found, that is--at the last--i found i could easily pull her up. in fact i did so: you saw it?" "and could you have done it sooner?" a strange thought had suggested the interrogatory; and with more than ordinary interest the questioner awaited the reply. "perhaps--perhaps--i might; no doubt, if i had dragged a little harder upon the rein. but you see, sir, i like a good gallop--especially upon a prairie, where there's no fear of running over pigs, poultry, or people." maurice looked amaze. in all his experience--even in his own native land, famed for feminine _braverie_--above all in the way of bold riding--he had met no match for the clever equestrian before him. his astonishment, mixed with admiration, hindered him from making a ready rejoinder. "to speak truth," continued the young lady, with an air of charming simplicity, "i was not sorry at being run off with. one sometimes gets tired of too much talk--of the kind called complimentary. i wanted fresh air, and to be alone. so you _see_, mr gerald, it was rather a bit of good fortune: since it saved explanations and adieus." "you wanted to be alone?" responded the mustanger, with a disappointed look. "i am sorry i should have made the mistake to have intruded upon you. i assure you, miss poindexter, i followed, because i believed you to be in danger." "most gallant of you, sir; and now that i know there _was_ danger, i am truly grateful. i presume i have guessed aright: you meant the indians?" "no; not indians exactly--at least, it was not of them i was thinking." "some other danger? what is it, sir? you will tell me, so that i may be more cautious for the future?" maurice did not make immediate answer. a sound striking upon his ear had caused him to turn away--as if inattentive to the interrogatory. the creole, perceiving there was some cause for his abstraction, likewise assumed a listening attitude. she heard a shrill scream, succeeded by another and another, close followed by a loud hammering of hoofs--the conjunction of sounds causing the still atmosphere to vibrate around her. it was no mystery to the hunter of horses. the words that came quick from his lips--though not designed--were a direct answer to the question she had put. "_the wild stallions_!" he exclaimed, in a tone that betokened alarm. "i knew they must be among those mottes; and they are!" "is that the danger of which you have been speaking?" "it is." "what fear of them? they are only mustangs!" "true, and at other times there is no cause to fear them. but just now, at this season of the year, they become as savage as tigers, and equally as vindictive. ah! the wild steed in his rage is an enemy more to be dreaded than wolf, panther, or bear." "what are we to do?" inquired the young lady, now, for the first time, giving proof that she felt fear--by riding close up to the man who had once before rescued her from a situation of peril, and gazing anxiously in his face, as she awaited the answer. "if they should charge upon us," answered maurice, "there are but two ways of escape. one, by ascending a tree, and abandoning our horses to their fury." "the other?" asked the creole, with a _sang froid_ that showed a presence of mind likely to stand the test of the most exciting crisis. "anything but abandon our animals! 'twould be but a shabby way of making our escape!" "we shall not have an opportunity of trying it, i perceive it is impracticable. there's not a tree within sight large enough to afford us security. if attacked, we have no alternative but to trust to the fleetness of our horses. unfortunately," continued he, with a glance of inspection towards the spotted mare, and then at his own horse, "they've had too much work this morning. both are badly blown. that will be our greatest source of danger. the wild steeds are sure to be fresh." "do you intend us to start now?" "not yet. the longer we can breathe our animals the better. the stallions may not come this way; or if so, may not molest us. it will depend on their mood at the moment. if battling among themselves, we may look out for their attack. then they have lost their reason--if i may so speak--and will recklessly rush upon one of their own kind--even with a man upon his back. ha! 'tis as i expected: they are in conflict. i can tell by their cries! and driving this way, too!" "but, mr gerald; why should we not ride off at once, in the opposite direction?" "'twould be of no use. there's no cover to conceal us, on that side-- nothing but open plain. they'll be out upon it before we could get a sufficient start, and would soon overtake us. the place we must make for--the only safe one i can think of--lies the other way. they are now upon the direct path to it, if i can judge by what i hear; and, if we start too soon, we may ride into their teeth. we must wait, and try to steal away behind them. if we succeed in getting past, and can keep our distance for a two-mile gallop, i know a spot, where we shall be as safe as if inside the corrals of casa del corvo. you are sure you can control the mustang?" "quite sure," was the prompt reply: all idea of deception being abandoned in presence of the threatening peril. chapter sixteen. chased by wild stallions. the two sat expectant in their saddles--she, apparently, with more confidence than he: for she confided in him. still but imperfectly comprehending it, she knew there must be some great danger. when such a man showed sign of fear, it could not be otherwise. she had a secret happiness in thinking: that a portion of this fear was for her own safety. "i think we may venture now;" said her companion, after a short period spent in listening; "they appear to have passed the opening by which we must make our retreat. look well to your riding, i entreat you! keep a firm seat in the saddle, and a sure hold of the rein. gallop by my side, where the ground will admit of it; but in no case let more than the length of my horse's tail be between us. i must perforce go ahead to guide the way. ha! they are coming direct for the glade. they're already close to its edge. our time is up!" the profound stillness that but a short while before pervaded the prairie, no longer reigned over it. in its stead had arisen a fracas that resembled the outpouring of some overcrowded asylum; for in the shrill neighing of the steeds might have been fancied the screams of maniacs--only ten times more vociferous. they were mingled with a thunder-like hammering of hoofs--a swishing and crashing of branches-- savage snorts, accompanied by the sharp snapping of teeth--the dull "thud" of heels coming in contact with ribs and rounded hips--squealing that betokened spite or pain--all forming a combination of sounds that jarred harshly upon the ear, and caused the earth to quake, as if oscillating upon its orbit! it told of a terrible conflict carried on by the wild stallions; who, still unseen, were fighting indiscriminately among themselves, as they held their way among the mottes. not much longer unseen. as maurice gave the signal to start, the speckled crowd showed itself in an opening between two copses. in a moment more it filled the gangway-like gap, and commenced disgorging into the glade, with the impetus of an avalanche! it was composed of living forms--the most beautiful known in nature: for in this man must give way to the horse. not the unsexed horse of civilisation, with hunched shoulders, bandied limbs, and bowed frontlet--scarce one in a thousand of true equine shape--and this, still further, mutilated by the shears of the coper and gentleman jockey--but the wild steed of the savannas, foaled upon the green grass, his form left free to develop as the flowers that shed their fragrance around him. eye never beheld a more splendid sight than a _cavallada_ of wild stallions, prancing upon a prairie; especially at that season when, stirred by strong passions, they seek to destroy one another. the spectacle is more than splendid--it is fearful--too fearful to be enjoyed by man, much less by timid woman. still more when the spectator views it from an exposed position, liable to become the object of their attack. in such situation were the riders of the blood bay and spotted mustang. the former knew it by past experience--the latter could not fail to perceive it by the evidence before her. "this way!" cried maurice, lancing his horse's flanks with the spur, and bending so as to oblique to the rear of the cavallada. "by heaven--they've discovered us! on--on! miss poindexter! remember you are riding for your life!" the stimulus of speech was not needed. the behaviour of the stallions was of itself sufficient to show, that speed alone could save the spotted mustang and its rider. on coming out into the open ground, and getting sight of the ridden horses, they had suddenly desisted from their internecine strife; and, as if acting under the orders of some skilled leader, come to a halt. in line, too, like cavalry checked up in the middle of a charge! for a time their mutual hostility seemed to be laid aside--as if they felt called upon to attack a common enemy, or resist some common danger! the pause may have proceeded from surprise; but, whether or no, it was favourable to the fugitives. during the twenty seconds it continued, the latter had made good use of their time, and accomplished the circuit required to put them on the path of safety. only on the path, however. their escape was still problematical: for the steeds, perceiving their intention, wheeled suddenly into the line of pursuit, and went galloping after, with snorts and screams that betrayed a spiteful determination to overtake them. from that moment it became a straight unchanging chase across country--a trial of speed between the horses without riders, and the horses that were ridden. at intervals did maurice carry his chin to his shoulder; and though still preserving the distance gained at the start, his look was not the less one of apprehension. alone he would have laughed to scorn his pursuers. he knew that the blood-bay--himself a prairie steed--could surpass any competitor of his race. but the mare was delaying him. she was galloping slower than he had ever seen her--as if unwilling, or not coveting escape--like a horse with his head turned away from home! "what can it mean?" muttered the mustanger, as he checked his pace, to accommodate it to that of his companion. "if there should be any baulk at the crossing, we're lost! a score of seconds will make the difference." "we keep our distance, don't we?" inquired his fellow-fugitive, noticing his troubled look. "so far, yes. unfortunately there's an obstruction ahead. it remains to be seen how we shall get over it. i know you are a clever rider, and can take a long leap. but your mount? i'm not so sure of the mare. you know her better than i. do you think she can carry you over--" "over what, sir?" "you'll see in a second. we should be near the place now." the conversation thus carried on was between two individuals riding side by side, and going at a gallop of nearly a mile to the minute! as the guide had predicted, they soon came within sight of the obstruction; which proved to be an arroyo--a yawning fissure in the plain full fifteen feet in width, as many in depth, and trending on each side to the verge of vision. to turn aside, either to the right or left, would be to give the pursuers the advantage of the diagonal; which the fugitives could no longer afford. the chasm must be crossed, or the stallions would overtake them. it could only be crossed by a leap--fifteen feet at the least. maurice knew that his own horse could go over it--he had done it before. but the mare? "do you think she can do it?" he eagerly asked, as, in slackened pace, they approached the edge of the barranca. "i am sure she can," was the confident reply. "but are you sure you can sit her over it?" "ha! ha! ha!" scornfully laughed the creole. "what a question for an irishman to ask! i'm sure, sir, one of your own countrywomen would be offended at your speech. even i, a native of swampy louisiana, don't regard it as at all gallant. sit her over it! sit her anywhere she can carry me." "but, miss poindexter," stammered the guide, still doubting the powers of the spotted mustang, "suppose she cannot? if you have any doubts, had you not better abandon her? i know that my horse can bear us both to the other side, and with safety. if the mustang be left behind, in all likelihood we shall escape further pursuit. the wild steeds--" "leave luna behind! leave her to be trampled to death, or torn to pieces--as you say she would! no--no, mr gerald. i prize the spotted mare too much for that. she goes with me: over the chasm, if we can. if not, we both break our necks at the bottom. come, my pretty pet! this is he who chased, captured, and conquered you. show him you're not yet so _subdued_, but that you can escape, when close pressed, from the toils of either friend or enemy. show him one of those leaps, of which you've done a dozen within the week. now for a flight in the air!" without even waiting for the stimulus of example, the courageous creole rode recklessly at the arroyo; and cleared it by one of those leaps of which she had "done a dozen within the week." there were three thoughts in the mind of the mustanger--rather might they be called emotions--as he sate watching that leap. the first was simple astonishment; the second, intense admiration. the third was not so easily defined. it had its origin in the words--"_i prize the spotted mare too much for that_." "why?" reflected he, as he drove his spur-rowels into the flanks of the blood bay; and the reflection lasted as long as castro was suspended in mid-air over the yawning abysm. cleverly as the chasm was crossed, it did not ensure the safety of the fugitives. it would be no obstruction to the steeds. maurice knew it, and looked back with undiminished apprehension. rather was it increased. the delay, short as it was, had given the pursuers an advantage. they were nearer than ever! they would not be likely to make a moment's pause, but clear the crevasse at a single bound of their sure-footed gallop. and then--what then? the mustanger put the question to himself. he grew paler, as the reply puzzled him. on alighting from the leap, he had not paused for a second, but gone galloping on--as before, close followed by his fugitive companion. his pace, however, was less impetuous. he seemed to ride with irresolution, or as if some half-formed resolve was restraining him. when about a score lengths from the edge of the arroyo, he reined up and wheeled round--as if he had suddenly formed the determination to ride back! "miss poindexter!" he called out to the young lady, at that moment just up with him. "you must ride on alone." "but why, sir?" asked she, as she jerked the muzzle of the mustang close up to its counter, bringing it almost instantaneously to a stand. "if we keep together we shall be overtaken. i must do something to stay those savage brutes. here there is a chance--nowhere else. for heaven's sake don't question me! ten seconds of lost time, and 'twill be too late. look ahead yonder. you perceive the sheen of water. 'tis a prairie pond. ride straight towards it. you will find yourself between two high fences. they come together at the pond. you'll see a gap, with bars. if i'm not up in time, gallop through, dismount, and put the bars up behind you." "and you, sir? you are going to undergo some great danger?" "have no fear for me! alone, i shall run but little risk. 'tis the mustang.--for mercy's sake, gallop forward! keep the water under your eyes. let it guide you like a beacon fire. remember to close the gap behind you. away--away!" for a second or two the young lady appeared irresolute--as if reluctant to part company with the man who was making such efforts to ensure her safety--perhaps at the peril of his own. by good fortune she was not one of those timid maidens who turn frantic at a crisis, and drag to the bottom the swimmer who would save them. she had faith in the capability of her counsellor--believed that he knew what he was about--and, once more spurring the mare into a gallop, she rode off in a direct line for the prairie pond. at the same instant, maurice had given the rein to his horse, and was riding in the opposite direction--back to the place where they had leaped the arroyo! on parting from his companion, he had drawn from his saddle holster the finest weapon ever wielded upon the prairies--either for attack or defence, against indian, buffalo, or bear. it was the six-chambered revolver of colonel colt--not the spurious _improvement_ of deane, adams, and a host of retrograde imitators--but the genuine article from the "land of wooden nutmegs," with the hartford brand upon its breech. "they must get over the narrow place where we crossed," muttered he, as he faced towards the stallions, still advancing on the other side of the arroyo. "if i can but fling one of them in his tracks, it may hinder the others from attempting the leap; or delay them--long enough for the mustang to make its escape. the big sorrel is leading. he will make the spring first. the pistol's good for a hundred paces. he's within range now!" simultaneous with the last words came the crack of the six-shooter. the largest of the stallions--a sorrel in colour--rolled headlong upon the sward; his carcass falling transversely across the line that led to the leap. half-a-dozen others, close following, were instantly brought to a stand; and then the whole cavallada! the mustanger stayed not to note their movements. taking advantage of the confusion caused by the fall of their leader, he reserved the fire of the other five chambers; and, wheeling to the west, spurred on after the spotted mustang, now far on its way towards the glistening pond. whether dismayed by the fall of their chief--or whether it was that his dead body had hindered them from approaching the only place where the chasm could have been cleared at a leap--the stallions abandoned the pursuit; and maurice had the prairie to himself as he swept on after his fellow fugitive. he overtook her beyond the convergence of the fences on the shore of the pond. she had obeyed him in everything--except as to the closing of the gap. he found it open--the bars lying scattered over the ground. he found her still seated in the saddle, relieved from all apprehension for his safety, and only trembling with a gratitude that longed to find expression in speech. the peril was passed. chapter seventeen. the mustang trap. no longer in dread of any danger, the young creole looked interrogatively around her. there was a small lake--in texan phraseology a "pond"--with countless horse-tracks visible along its shores, proving that the place was frequented by wild horses--their excessive number showing it to be a favourite watering place. there was a high rail fence--constructed so as to enclose the pond, and a portion of the contiguous prairie, with two diverging wings, carried far across the plain, forming a funnel-shaped approach to a gap; which, when its bars were up, completed an enclosure that no horse could either enter or escape from. "what is it for?" inquired the lady, indicating the construction of split rails. "a mustang trap," said maurice. "a mustang trap?" "a contrivance for catching wild horses. they stray between the _wings_; which, as you perceive, are carried far out upon the plain. the water attracts them; or they are driven towards it by a band of mustangers who follow, and force them on through the gap. once within the _corral_, there is no trouble in taking them. they are then lazoed at leisure." "poor things! is it yours? you are a mustanger? you told us so?" "i am; but i do not hunt the wild horse in this way. i prefer being alone, and rarely consort with men of my calling. therefore i could not make use of this contrivance, which requires at least a score of drivers. my weapon, if i may dignify it by the name, is this--the lazo." "you use it with great skill? i've heard that you do; besides having myself witnessed the proof." "it is complimentary of you to say so. but you are mistaken. there are men on these prairies `to the manner born'--mexicans--who regard, what you are pleased to call skill, as sheer clumsiness." "are you sure, mr gerald, that your modesty is not prompting _you_ to overrate your rivals? i have been told the very opposite." "by whom?" "your friend, mr zebulon stump." "ha--ha! old zeb is but indifferent authority on the subject of the lazo." "i wish i could throw the lazo," said the young creole. "they tell me 'tis not a lady-like accomplishment. what matters--so long as it is innocent, and gives one a gratification?" "not lady-like! surely 'tis as much so as archery, or skating? i know a lady who is very expert at it." "an american lady?" "no; she's mexican, and lives on the rio grande; but sometimes comes across to the leona--where she has relatives." "a young lady?" "yes. about your own age, i should think, miss poindexter." "size?" "not so tall as you." "but much prettier, of course? the mexican ladies, i've heard, in the matter of good looks, far surpass us plain _americanos_." "i think creoles are not included in that category," was the reply, worthy of one whose lips had been in contact with the famed boulder of blarney. "i wonder if i could ever learn to fling it?" pursued the young creole, pretending not to have been affected by the complimentary remark. "am i too old? i've been told that the mexicans commence almost in childhood; that that is why they attain to such wonderful skill?" "not at all," replied maurice, encouragingly. "'tis possible, with a year or two's practice, to become a proficient lazoer. i, myself, have only been three years at; and--" he paused, perceiving he was about to commit himself to a little boasting. "and you are now the most skilled in all texas?" said his companion, supplying the presumed finale of his speech. "no, no!" laughingly rejoined he. "that is but a mistaken belief on the part of zeb stump, who judges my skill by comparison, making use of his own as a standard." "is it modesty?" reflected the creole. "or is this man mocking me? if i thought so, i should go mad!" "perhaps you are anxious to get back to your party?" said maurice, observing her abstracted air. "your father may be alarmed by your long absence? your brother--your cousin--" "ah, true!" she hurriedly rejoined, in a tone that betrayed either pique, or compunction. "i was not thinking of that. thanks, sir, for reminding me of my duty. let us go back!" again in the saddle, she gathered up her reins, and plied her tiny spur--both acts being performed with an air of languid reluctance, as if she would have preferred lingering a little longer in the "mustang trap." once more upon the prairie, maurice conducted his protegee by the most direct route towards the spot where they had parted from the picnic party. their backward way led them across a peculiar tract of country--what in texas is called a "weed prairie," an appellation bestowed by the early pioneers, who were not very choice in their titles. the louisianian saw around her a vast garden of gay flowers, laid out in one grand parterre, whose borders were the blue circle of the horizon--a garden designed, planted, nurtured, by the hand of nature. the most plebeian spirit cannot pass through such a scene without receiving an impression calculated to refine it. i've known the illiterate trapper--habitually blind to the beautiful--pause in the midst of his "weed prairie," with the flowers rising breast high around him, gaze for a while upon their gaudy corollas waving beyond the verge of his vision; then continue his silent stride with a gentler feeling towards his fellow-man, and a firmer faith in the grandeur of his god. "_pardieu_! 'tis very beautiful!" exclaimed the enthusiastic creole, reining up as if by an involuntary instinct. "you admire these wild scenes, miss poindexter?" "admire them? something more, sir! i see around me all that is bright and beautiful in nature: verdant turf, trees, flowers, all that we take such pains to plant or cultivate; and such, too, as we never succeed in equalling. there seems nothing wanting to make this picture complete--'tis a park perfect in everything!" "except the mansion?" "that would spoil it for me. give me the landscape where there is not a house in sight--slate, chimney, or tile--to interfere with the outlines of the trees. under their shadow could i live; under their shadow let me--" the word: "love" uppermost in her thoughts--was upon the tip of her tongue. she dexterously restrained herself from pronouncing it--changing it to one of very different signification--"die." it was cruel of the young irishman not to tell her that she was speaking his own sentiments--repeating them to the very echo. to this was the prairie indebted for his presence. but for a kindred inclination-- amounting almost to a passion--he might never have been known as _maurice the mustanger_. the romantic sentiment is not satisfied with a "sham." it will soon consume itself, unless supported by the consciousness of reality. the mustanger would have been humiliated by the thought, that he chased the wild horse as a mere pastime--a pretext to keep him upon the prairies. at first, he might have condescended to make such an acknowledgment--but he had of late become thoroughly imbued with the pride of the professional hunter. his reply might have appeared chillingly prosaic. "i fear, miss, you would soon tire of such a rude life--no roof to shelter you--no society--no--" "and you, sir; how is it _you_ have not grown tired of it? if i have been correctly informed--your friend, mr stump, is my authority--you've been leading this life for several years. is it so?" "quite true: i have no other calling." "indeed! i wish i could say the same. i envy you your lot. i'm sure i could enjoy existence amid these beautiful scene for ever and ever!" "alone? without companions? without even a roof to shelter you?" "i did not say that. but, you've not told me. how do you live? have _you_ a house?" "it does not deserve such a high-sounding appellation," laughingly replied the mustanger. "shed would more correctly serve for the description of my _jacale_, which may be classed among the lowliest in the land." "where is it? anywhere near where we've been to-day?" "it is not very far from where we are now. a mile, perhaps. you see those tree-tops to the west? they shade my hovel from the sun, and shelter it from the storm." "indeed! how i should like to have a look at it! a real rude hut, you say?" "in that i have but spoken the truth." "standing solitary?" "i know of no other within ten miles of it." "among trees, and picturesque?" "that depends upon the eye that beholds it." "i should like to see it, and judge. only a mile you say?" "a mile there--the same to return--would be two." "that's nothing. it would not take us a score of minutes." "should we not be trespassing on the patience of your people?" "on your hospitality, perhaps? excuse me, mr gerald!" continued the young lady, a slight shadow suddenly overcasting her countenance. "i did not think of it! perhaps you do not live _alone_? some other shares your--jacale--as you call it?" "oh, yes, i have a companion--one who has been with me ever since i--" the shadow became sensibly darker. before the mustanger could finish his speech, his listener had pictured to herself a certain image, that might answer to the description of his companion: a girl of her own age--perhaps more inclining to _embonpoint_--with a skin of chestnut brown; eyes of almond shade, set piquantly oblique to the lines of the nose; teeth of more than pearly purity; a tinge of crimson upon the cheeks; hair like castro's tail; beads and bangles around neck, arms, and ankles; a short kirtle elaborately embroidered; mocassins covering small feet; and fringed leggings, laced upon limbs of large development. such were the style and equipments of the supposed companion, who had suddenly become outlined in the imagination of louise poindexter. "your fellow tenant of the jacale might not like being intruded upon by visitors--more especially a stranger?" "on the contrary, he's but too glad to see visitors at any time--whether strangers or acquaintances. my foster-brother is the last man to shun society; of which, poor fellow! he sees precious little on the alamo." "your foster-brother?" "yes. phelim o'neal by name--like myself a native of the emerald isle, and shire of galway; only perhaps speaking a little better brogue than mine." "oh! the irish brogue. i should so like to hear it spoken by a native of galway. i am told that theirs is the richest. is it so, mr gerald?" "being a galwegian myself, my judgment might not be reliable; but if you will condescend to accept phelim's hospitality for half-an-hour, he will, no doubt, give you an opportunity of judging for yourself." "i should be delighted. 'tis something so new. let papa and the rest of them wait. there are plenty of ladies without me; or the gentlemen may amuse themselves by tracing up our tracks. 'twill be as good a horse hunt as they are likely to have. now, sir, i'm ready to accept your hospitality." "there's not much to offer you, i fear. phelim has been several days by himself, and as he's but an indifferent hunter, his larder is likely to be low. 'tis fortunate you had finished luncheon before the _stampede_." it was not phelim's larder that was leading louise poindexter out of her way, nor yet the desire to listen to his connemara pronunciation. it was not curiosity to look at the jacale of the mustanger; but a feeling of a far more irresistible kind, to which she was yielding, as if she believed it to be her fate! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ she paid a visit to the lone hut, on the alamo; she entered under its roof; she scanned with seeming interest its singular _penates_; and noted, with pleased surprise, the books, writing materials, and other chattels that betokened the refinement of its owner; she listened with apparent delight to the _palthogue_ of the connemara man, who called her a "coleen bawn;" she partook of phelim's hospitality--condescendingly tasting of everything offered, except that which was most urgently pressed upon her, "a dhrap of the crayther, drawn fresh from the dimmyjan;" and finally made her departure from the spot, apparently in the highest spirits. alas! her delight was short-lived: lasting only so long as it was sustained by the excitement of the novel adventure. as she recrossed the flower prairie, she found time for making a variety of reflections; and there was one that chilled her to the very core of her heart. was it the thought that she had been acting wrongly in keeping her father, her brother, and friends in suspense about her safety? or had she become conscious of playing a part open to the suspicion of being unfeminine? not either. the cloud that darkened her brow in the midst of that blossoming brightness, was caused by a different, and far more distressing, reflection. during all that day, in the journey from the fort, after overtaking her in the chase, in the pursuit while protecting her, lingering by her side on the shore of the lake, returning across the prairie, under his own humble roof--in short everywhere--her companion had only been polite--_had only behaved as a gentleman_! chapter eighteen. jealousy upon the trail. of the two-score rescuers, who had started in pursuit of the runaway, but few followed far. having lost sight of the wild mares, the mustang, and the mustanger, they began to lose sight of one another; and before long became dispersed upon the prairie--going single, in couples, or in groups of three and four together. most of them, unused to tracking up a trail, soon strayed from that taken by the manada; branching off upon others, made, perhaps, by the same drove upon some previous stampede. the dragoon escort, in charge of a young officer--a fresh fledgling from west point--ran astray upon one of these ramifications, carrying the hindmost of the field along with it. it was a rolling prairie through which the pursuit was conducted, here and there intersected by straggling belts of brushwood. these, with the inequalities of the surface, soon hid the various pursuing parties from one another; and in twenty minutes after the start, a bird looking from the heavens above, might have beheld half a hundred horsemen, distributed into half a score of groups--apparently having started from a common centre--spurring at full speed towards every quarter of the compass! but one was going in the right direction--a solitary individual, mounted upon a large strong-limbed chestnut horse; that, without any claim to elegance of shape, was proving the possession both of speed and bottom. the blue frock-coat of half military cut, and forage cap of corresponding colour, were distinctive articles of dress habitually worn by the ex-captain of volunteer cavalry--cassius calhoun. he it was who directed the chestnut on the true trail; while with whip and spur he was stimulating the animal to extraordinary efforts. he was himself stimulated by a thought--sharp as his own spurs--that caused him to concentrate all his energies upon the abject in hand. like a hungry hound he was laying his head along the trail, in hopes of an issue that might reward him for his exertions. what that issue was he had but vaguely conceived; but on occasional glance towards his holsters--from which protruded the butts of a brace of pistols--told of some sinister design that was shaping itself in his soul. but for a circumstance that assisted him, he might, like the others, have gone astray. he had the advantage of them, however, in being guided by two shoe-tracks he had seen before. one, the larger, he recollected with a painful distinctness. he had seen it stamped upon a charred surface, amid the ashes of a burnt prairie. yielding to an undefined instinct, he had made a note of it in his memory, and now remembered it. thus directed, the _ci-devant_ captain arrived among the copses, and rode into the glade where the spotted mustang had been pulled up in such a mysterious manner. hitherto his analysis had been easy enough. at this point it became conjecture. among the hoof-prints of the wild mares, the shoe-tracks were still seen, but no longer going at a gallop. the two animals thus distinguished must have been halted, and standing in juxtaposition. whither next? along the trail of the manada, there was no imprint of iron; nor elsewhere! the surface on all sides was hard, and strewn with pebbles. a horse going in rude gallop, might have indented it; but not one passing over it at a tranquil pace. and thus had the spotted mustang and blood bay parted from that spot. they had gone at a walk for some score yards, before starting on their final gallop towards the mustang trap. the impatient pursuer was puzzled. he rode round and round, and along the trail of the wild mares, and back again, without discovering the direction that had been taken by either of the ridden horses. he was beginning to feel something more than surprise, when the sight of a solitary horseman advancing along the trail interrupted his uncomfortable conjectures. it was no stranger who was drawing near. the colossal figure, clad in coarse habiliments, bearded to the buttons of his blanket coat, and bestriding the most contemptible looking steed that could have been found within a hundred miles of the spot, was an old acquaintance. cassius calhoun knew zebulon stump, and zeb stump knew cash calhoun, long before either had set foot upon the prairies of texas. "you hain't seed nuthin' o' the young lady, hev ye, mister calhoun?" inquired the hunter, as he rode up, with an unusual impressiveness of manner. "no, ye hain't," he continued, as if deducing his inference from the blank looks of the other. "dog-gone my cats! i wonder what the hell hev becomed o' her! kewrious, too; sech a rider as she air, ter let the durned goat o' a thing run away wi' her. wal! thur's not much danger to be reeprehended. the mowstanger air putty sartin to throw his rope aroun' the critter, an that 'll put an eend to its capers. why hev ye stopped hyur?" "i'm puzzled about the direction they've taken. their tracks show they've been halted here; but i can see the shod hoofs no farther." "whoo! whoo! yur right, mister cashus! they hev been halted hyur; an been clost thegither too. they hain't gone no further on the trail o' the wild maars. sartin they hain't. what then?" the speaker scanned the surface of the plain with an interrogative glance; as if there, and not from cassius calhoun, expecting an answer to his question. "i cannot see their tracks anywhere," replied the ex-captain. "no, kan't ye? i kin though. lookee hyur! don't ye see them thur bruises on the grass?" "no." "durn it! thur plain es the nose on a jew's face. thur's a big shoe, an a little un clost aside o' it. thet's the way they've rud off, which show that they hain't follered the wild maars no further than hyur. we'd better keep on arter them?" "by all means!" without further parley, zeb started along the new trail; which, though still undiscernible to the eye of the other, was to him as conspicuous as he had figuratively declared it. in a little while it became visible to his companion--on their arrival at the place where the fugitives had once more urged their horses into a gallop to escape from the cavallada, and where the shod tracks deeply indented the turf. shortly after their trail was again lost--or would have been to a scrutiny less keen than that of zeb stump--among the hundreds of other hoof-marks seen now upon the sward. "hilloo!" exclaimed the old hunter, in some surprise at the new sign. "what's been a doin' hyur? this air some 'at kewrious." "only the tracks of the wild mares!" suggested calhoun. "they appear to have made a circuit, and come round again?" "if they hev it's been arter the others rud past them. the chase must a changed sides, i reck'n." "what do you mean, mr stump?" "that i'stead o' them gallupin' arter the maars, the maars hev been gallupin' arter them." "how can you tell that?" "don't ye see that the shod tracks air kivered by them o' the maars? maars--no! by the 'turnal airthquake!--them's not maar-tracks. they air a inch bigger. thur's been _studs_ this way--a hul cavayurd o' them. geehosofat! i hope they hain't--" "haven't what?" "gone arter spotty. if they hev, then thur will be danger to miss peintdexter. come on!" without waiting for a rejoinder, the hunter started off at a shambling trot, followed by calhoun, who kept calling to him for an explanation of his ambiguous words. zeb did not deign to offer any--excusing himself by a backward sweep of the hand, which seemed to say, "do not bother me now: i am busy." for a time he appeared absorbed in taking up the trail of the shod horses--not so easily done, as it was in places entirely obliterated by the thick trampling of the stallions. he succeeded in making it out by piecemeal--still going on at a trot. it was not till he had arrived within a hundred yards of the arroyo that the serious shadow disappeared from his face; and, checking the pace of his mare, he vouchsafed the explanation once more demanded from him. "oh! that was the danger," said calhoun, on hearing the explanation. "how do you know they have escaped it?" "look thur!" "a dead horse! freshly killed, he appears? what does that prove?" "that the mowstanger hes killed him." "it frightened the others off, you think, and they followed no further?" "they follered no further; but it wa'n't adzackly thet as scared 'em off. thur's the thing as kep them from follerin'. ole hickory, what a jump!" the speaker pointed to the arroyo, on the edge of which both riders had now arrived. "you don't suppose they leaped it?" said calhoun. "impossible." "leaped it clur as the crack o' a rifle. don't ye see thur toe-marks, both on this side an the t'other? an' miss peintdexter fust, too! by the jumpin' geehosofat, what a gurl she air sure enuf! they must both a jumped afore the stellyun war shot; else they kedn't a got at it. thur's no other place whar a hoss ked go over. geeroozalem! wa'n't it cunnin' o' the mowstanger to throw the stud in his tracks, jest in the very gap?" "you think that he and my cousin crossed here together?" "not adzackly thegither," explained zeb, without suspecting the motive of the interrogatory. "as i've sayed, spotty went fust. you see the critter's tracks yonner on t'other side?" "i do." "wal--don't ye see they air kivered wi' them o' the mowstanger's hoss?" "true--true." "as for the stellyuns, they hain't got over--ne'er a one o' the hul cavayurd. i kin see how it hez been. the young fellur pulled up on t'other side, an sent a bullet back inter this brute's karkidge. 'twar jest like closin' the gap ahint him; an the pursooers, seein' it shet, guv up the chase, an scampered off in a different direckshun. thur's the way they hev gone--up the side o' the gully!" "they may have crossed at some other place, and continued the pursuit?" "if they dud, they'd hev ten mile to go, afore they ked git back hyur-- five up, an five back agin. not a bit o' that, mister calhoun. to needn't be uneezy 'bout miss lewaze bein' pursooed by _them_ any further. arter the jump, she's rud off along wi' the mowstanger--both on 'em as quiet as a kupple o' lambs. thur wa'n't no danger then; an by this time, they oughter be dog-goned well on torst rejoinin' the people as stayed by the purvision waggon." "come on!" cried calhoun, exhibiting as much impatience as when he believed his cousin to be in serious peril. "come on, mr stump! let us get back as speedily as possible!" "not so fast, if you pleeze," rejoined zeb, permitting himself to slide leisurely out of his saddle, and then drawing his knife from his sheath. "i'll only want ye to wait for a matter o' ten minutes, or thereabout." "wait! for what?" peevishly inquired calhoun. "till i kin strip the hide off o' this hyur sorrel. it appear to be a skin o' the fust qualerty; an oughter fetch a five-dollar bill in the settlements. five-dollar bills ain't picked up every day on these hyur purayras." "damn the skin!" angrily ejaculated the impatient southerner. "come on, an leave it!" "ain't a goin' to do anythin' o' the sort," coolly responded the hunter, as he drew the sharp edge of his blade along the belly of the prostrate steed. "you kin go on if ye like, mister calhoun; but zeb stump don't start till he packs the hide of this hyur stellyun on the krupper o' his old maar. thet he don't." "come, zeb; what's the use of talking about my going back by myself? you know i can't find my way?" "that air like enough. i didn't say ye ked." "look here, you obstinate old case! time's precious to me just at this minute. it 'll take you a full half-hour to skin the horse." "not twenty minutes." "well, say twenty minutes. now, twenty minutes are of more importance to me than a five-dollar bill. you say that's the value of the skin? leave it behind; and i agree to make good the amount." "wal--that air durned gin'rous, i admit--dog-goned gin'rous. but i mussent except yur offer. it 'ud be a mean trick o' me--mean enuf for a yeller-bellied mexikin--to take yur money for sech a sarvice as thet: the more so es i ain't no stranger to ye, an myself a goin' the same road. on the t'other hand, i kan't afford to lose the five dollars' worth o' hoss-hide which ud be rotten as punk--to say nuthin' o' it's bein' tored into skreeds by the buzzarts and coyoats--afore i mout find a chance to kum this way agin." "'tis very provoking! what am i to do?" "you _air_ in a hurry? wal--i'm sorry to discommerdate ye. but--stay! thur's no reezun for yur waitin' on me. thur's nuthin' to hinder ye from findin' yur way to the waggon. ye see that tree stannin' up agin the sky-line--the tall poplar yonner?" "i do." "wal; do you remember ever to hev seed it afore? it air a queery lookin' plant, appearin' more like a church steeple than a tree." "yes--yes!" said calhoun. "now you've pointed it out, i do remember it. we rode close past it while in pursuit of the wild mares?" "you dud that very thing. an' now, as ye know it, what air to hinder you from ridin' past it agin; and follering the trail o' the maars back'ard? that ud bring ye to yur startin'-peint; where, ef i ain't out o' my reck'nin', ye'll find yur cousin, miss peintdexter, an the hul o' yur party enjoying themselves wi' that 'ere french stuff, they call shampain. i hope they'll stick to it, and spare the monongaheela--of which licker i shed like to hev a triflin' suck arter i git back myself." calhoun had not waited for the wind-up of this characteristic speech. on the instant after recognising the tree, he had struck the spurs into the sides of his chestnut, and gone off at a gallop, leaving old zeb at liberty to secure the coveted skin. "geeroozalem!" ejaculated the hunter, glancing up, and noticing the quick unceremonious departure. "it don't take much o' a head-piece to tell why he air in sech a durned hurry. i ain't myself much guv torst guessin'; but if i ain't doggonedly mistaken it air a clur case o' jellacy on the trail!" zeb stump was not astray in his conjecture. it _was_ jealousy that urged cassius calhoun to take that hasty departure--black jealousy, that had first assumed shape in a kindred spot--in the midst of a charred prairie; that had been every day growing stronger from circumstances observed, and others imagined; that was now intensified so as to have become his prevailing passion. the presentation and taming of the spotted mustang; the acceptance of that gift, characteristic of the giver, and gratifying to the receiver, who had made no effort to conceal her gratification; these, and other circumstances, acting upon the already excited fancy of cassius calhoun, had conducted him to the belief: that in maurice the mustanger he would find his most powerful rival. the inferior social position of the horse-hunter should have hindered him from having such belief, or even a suspicion. perhaps it might have done so, had he been less intimately acquainted with the character of louise poindexter. but, knowing her as he did-- associating with her from the hour of childhood--thoroughly understanding her independence of spirit--the _braverie_ of her disposition, bordering upon very recklessness--he could place no reliance on the mere idea of gentility. with most women this may be depended upon as a barrier, if not to _mesalliance_, at least to absolute imprudence; but in the impure mind of cassius calhoun, while contemplating the probable conduct of his cousin, there was not even this feeble support to lean upon! chafing at the occurrences of the day--to him crookedly inauspicious--he hurried back towards the spot where the pic-nic had been held. the steeple-like tree guided him back to the trail of the manada; and beyond that there was no danger of straying. he had only to return along the path already trodden by him. he rode at a rapid pace--faster than was relished by his now tired steed--stimulated by bitter thoughts, which for more than an hour were his sole companions--their bitterness more keenly felt in the tranquil solitude that surrounded him. he was but little consoled by a sight that promised other companionship: that of two persons on horseback, riding in advance, and going in the same direction as himself, upon the same path. though he saw but their backs--and at a long distance ahead--there was no mistaking the identity of either. they were the two individuals that had brought that bitterness upon his spirit. like himself they were returning upon the trail of the wild mares; which, when first seen, they had just struck, arriving upon it from a lateral path. side by side--their saddles almost chafing against each other--to all appearance absorbed in a conversation of intense interest to both, they saw not the solitary horseman approaching them in a diagonal direction. apparently less anxious than he to rejoin the party of picknickers, they were advancing at a slow pace--the lady a little inclining to the rear. their proximity to one another--their attitudes in the saddle--their obvious inattention to outward objects--the snail-like pace at which they were proceeding--these, along with one or two other slighter circumstances observed by calhoun, combined to make an impression on his mind--or rather to strengthen one already made--that almost drove him mad. to gallop rapidly up, and rudely terminate the _tete-a-tete_, was but the natural instinct of the _chivalric_ southerner. in obedience to it he spitefully plied the spur; and once more forced his jaded chestnut into an unwilling canter. in a few seconds, however, he slackened pace--as if changing his determination. the sound of his horse's hoofs had not yet warned the others of his proximity--though he was now less than two hundred yards behind them! he could hear the silvery tones of his cousin's voice bearing the better part of the conversation. how interesting it must be to both to have hindered them from perceiving his approach! if he could but overhear what they were saying? it seemed a most unpropitious place for playing eavesdropper; and yet there might be a chance? the seeming interest of the dialogue to the individuals engaged in it gave promise of such opportunity. the turf of the savannah was soft as velvet. the hoof gliding slowly over it gave forth not the slightest sound. calhoun was still too impatient to confine himself to a walk; but his chestnut was accustomed to that gait, peculiar to the horse of the south-western states--the "pace"; and into this was he pressed. with hoofs horizontally striking the sward--elevated scarce an inch above the ground--he advanced swiftly and noiselessly; so quick withal, that in a few seconds he was close upon the heels of the spotted mustang, and the red steed of the mustanger! he was then checked to a pace corresponding to theirs; while his rider, leaning forward, listened with an eagerness that evinced some terrible determination. his attitude proclaimed him in the vein for vituperation of the rudest kind--ready with ribald tongue; or, if need be, with knife and pistol! his behaviour depended on a contingency--on what might be overheard. as chance, or fate, willed it, there was nothing. if the _two_ equestrians were insensible to external sounds, their steeds were not so absorbed. in a walk the chestnut stepped heavily--the more so from being fatigued. his footfall proclaimed his proximity to the sharp ears, both of the blood-bay and spotted mustang; that simultaneously flung up their heads, neighing as they did so. calhoun was discovered. "ha! cousin cash!" cried the lady, betraying more of pique than surprise; "you there? where's father, and harry, and the rest of the people?" "why do you ask that, loo? i reckon you know as well as i." "what! haven't you come out to meet us? and they too--ah! your chestnut is all in a sweat! he looks as if you had been riding a long race--like ourselves?" "of coarse he has. i followed you from the first--in hopes of being of some service to you." "indeed! i did not know that you were after us. thank you, cousin! i've just been saying thanks to this gallant gentleman, who also came after, and has been good enough to rescue both luna and myself from a very unpleasant dilemma--a dreadful danger i should rather call it. do you know that we've been chased by a drove of wild steeds, and had actually to ride for our lives?" "i am aware of it." "you saw the chase then?" "no. i only knew it by the tracks." "the tracks! and were you able to tell by that?" "yes--thanks to the interpretation of zeb stump." "oh! he was with you? but did you follow them to--to--how far did you follow them?" "to a crevasse in the prairie. you leaped over it, zeb said. did you?" "luna did." "with you on her back?" "i _wasn't anywhere else_! what a question, cousin cash! where would you expect me to have been? clinging to her tail? ha! ha! ha!" "did _you_ leap it?" inquired the laugher, suddenly changing tone. "did you follow us any farther?" "no, loo. from the crevasse i came direct here, thinking you had got back before me. that's how i've chanced to come up with you." the answer appeared to give satisfaction. "ah! i'm glad you've overtaken us. we've been riding slowly. luna is so tired. poor thing! i don't know how i shall ever get her back to the leona." since the moment of being joined by calhoun, the mustanger had not spoken a word. however pleasant may have been his previous intercourse with the young creole, he had relinquished it, without any apparent reluctance; and was now riding silently in the advance, as if by tacit understanding he had returned to the performance of the part for which he had been originally engaged. for all that, the eye of the ex-captain was bent blightingly upon him-- at times in a demoniac glare--when he saw--or fancied--that another eye was turned admiringly in the same direction. a long journey performed by that trio of travellers might have led to a tragical termination. such finale was prevented by the appearance of the picknickers; who soon after surrounding the returned runaway, put to flight every other thought by the chorus of their congratulations. chapter nineteen. whisky and water. in the embryo city springing up under the protection of fort inge, the "hotel" was the most conspicuous building. this is but the normal condition of every texan town--whether new or founded forty years ago; and none are older, except the sparse cities of hispano-mexican origin-- where the _presidio_ and convent took precedence, now surpassed by, and in some instances transformed into, the "tavern." the fort inge establishment, though the largest building in the place, was, nevertheless, neither very grand nor imposing. its exterior had but little pretence to architectural style. it was a structure of hewn logs, having for ground-plan the letter t according to the grotesque alphabet--the shank being used for eating and sleeping rooms, while the head was a single apartment entirely devoted to drinking--smoking and _expectorating_ included. this last was the bar-room, or "saloon." the sign outside, swinging from the trunk of a post-oak, that had been _pollarded_ some ten feet above the ground, exhibited on both sides the likeness of a well known military celebrity--the hero of that quarter of the globe--general zachariah taylor. it did not need looking at the lettering beneath to ascertain the name of the hotel. under the patronage of such a portrait it could only be called "rough and ready." there was a touch of the apropos about this designation. outside things appeared rough enough; while inside, especially if you entered by the "saloon," there was a readiness to meet you half way, with a mint julep, a sherry cobbler, a gin sling, or any other _mixed_ drink known to trans-mississippian tipplers--provided always that you were ready with the _picayunes_ to pay for them. the saloon in question would not call for description, had you ever travelled in the southern, or south-western, states of america. if so, no lethean draught could ever efface from your memory the "bar-room" of the hotel or _tavern_ in which you have had the unhappiness to sojourn. the counter extending longitudinally by the side; the shelved wall behind, with its rows of decanters and bottles, containing liquors, of not only all the colours of the prism, but every possible combination of them; the elegant young fellow, standing or sidling between counter and shelves, ycleped "clerk"--don't call him a "barkeeper," or you may get a decanter in your teeth--this elegant young gentleman, in blouse of blue _cottonade_, or white linen coat, or maybe in his shirt sleeves--the latter of finest linen and lace--ruffled, in the year of our lord eighteen hundred and fifty--this elegant young gentleman, who, in mixing you a sherry cobbler, can look you straight in the face, talk to you the politics of the day, while the ice, and the wine, and the water, are passing from glass to glass, like an iris sparkling behind his shoulders, or an aureole surrounding his perfumed head! traveller through the southern states of america you; cannot fail to remember him? if so, my words will recall him, along with his surroundings--the saloon in which he is the presiding administrator, with its shelves and coloured decanters; its counter; its floor sprinkled with white sand, at times littered with cigar stumps, and the brown asterisks produced by _expectoration_--its odour of mint, absinthe, and lemon-peel, in which luxuriate the common black fly, the blue-bottle, and the sharp-tongued mosquito. all these must be sharply outlined on the retina of your memory. the hotel, or tavern, "rough and ready," though differing but little from other texan houses of entertainment, had some points in particular. its proprietor, instead of being a speculative yankee, was a german--in this part of the world, as elsewhere, found to be the best purveyors of food. he kept his own bar; so that on entering the saloon, instead of the elegant young gentleman with ruffled shirt and odorous chevelure, your "liquor" was mixed for you by a staid teuton, who looked as sober as if he never tasted--notwithstanding the temptation of wholesale price--the delicious drinks served out to his customers. oberdoffer was the name he had imported with him from his fatherland; transformed by his texan customers into "old duffer." there was one other peculiarity about the bar-room of the "rough and ready," though it scarce deserved to be so designated; since it was not uncommon elsewhere. as already stated, the building was shaped like a capital t; the saloon representing the head of the letter. the counter extended along one side, that contiguous to the shank; while at each end was a door that opened outward into the public square of the incipient city. this arrangement had been designed to promote the circulation of the air--a matter of primary importance in an atmosphere where the thermometer for half the year stands at degrees in the shade. the hotels of texas or the south-western states--i may say every part of the american union--serve the double purpose of exchange and club-house. indeed, it is owing to the cheap accommodation thus afforded--often of the most convenient kind--that the latter can scarce be said to exist. even in the larger cities of the atlantic states the "club" is by no means a necessity. the moderate charges of the hotels, along with their excellent _cuisine_ and elegant accommodations, circumscribe the prosperity of this institution; which in america is, and ever must be, an unhealthy exotic. the remark is still more true of the southern and south-western cities; where the "saloon" and "bar-room" are the chief places of resort and rendezvous. the company, too, is there of a more miscellaneous character. the proud planter does not disdain--for he does not dare--to drink in the same room with the "poor white trash;" often as proud as himself. there is no _peasant_ in that part of the world--least of all in the state called texas; and in the saloon of "rough and ready" might often be seen assembled representatives of every class and calling to be met with among the settlements. perhaps not upon any occasion since "old duffer" had hung out the sign of his tavern, was he favoured with a larger company, or served more customers across his counter, than upon that night, after the return of the horse-hunting party to fort inge. with the exception of the ladies, almost every one who had taken part in the expedition seemed to think that a half-hour spent at the "rough and ready" was necessary as a "nightcap" before retiring to rest; and as the dutch clock, quaintly ticking among the coloured decanters, indicated the hour of eleven, one after another--officers of the fort--planters living near along the river--sutlers--commissariat contractors--"sportsmen"--and others who might be called nondescripts-- came dropping in; each as he entered marching straight up to the counter, calling for his favourite drink, and then falling back to converse with some group already occupying the floor. one of these groups was conspicuous. it consisted of some eight or ten individuals, half of them in uniform. among the latter were the three officers already introduced; the captain of infantry, and the two lieutenants--hancock of the dragoons, and crossman of the mounted rifles. along with these was an officer older than any of them, also higher in authority, as could be told by the embroidery on his shoulder-strap, that proclaimed him of the rank of major. as he was the only "field officer" at fort inge, it is unnecessary to say he was the commandant of the cantonment. these gentlemen were conversing as freely as if all were subalterns of equal rank--the subject of the discourse being the incidents of the day. "now tell us, major!" said hancock: "you must know. where did the girl gallop to?" "how should i know?" answered the officer appealed to. "ask her cousin, mr cassius calhoun." "we have asked him, but without getting any satisfaction. it's clear he knows no more than we. he only met them on the return--and not very far from the place where we had our bivouac. they were gone a precious long time; and judging by the sweat of their horses they must have had a hard ride of it. they might have been to the rio grande, for that matter, and beyond it." "did you notice calhoun as he came back?" inquired the captain of infantry. "there was a scowl upon his face that betokened some very unpleasant emotion within his mind, i should say." "he did look rather unhappy," replied the major; "but surely, captain sloman, you don't attribute it to--?" "jealousy. i do, and nothing else." "what! of maurice the mustanger? poh--poh! impossible--at least, very improbable." "and why, major?" "my dear sloman, louise poindexter is a lady, and maurice gerald--" "may be a gentleman for aught that is known to the contrary." "pshaw!" scornfully exclaimed crossman; "a trader in horses! the major is right--the thing's improbable--impossible." "ah, gentlemen!" pursued the officer of infantry, with a significant shake of the head. "you don't know miss poindexter, so well as i. an eccentric young lady--to say the least of her. you may have already observed that for yourselves." "come, come, sloman!" said the major, in a bantering way; "you are inclined to be talking scandal, i fear. that would be a scandal. perhaps you are yourself interested in miss poindexter, notwithstanding your pretensions to be considered a joseph? now, i could understand your being jealous if it were handsome hancock here, or crossman-- supposing him to be disengaged. but as for a common mustanger--poh-- poh!" "he's an irishman, major, this mustanger; and if he be what i have some reason to suspect--" "whatever he be," interrupted the major, casting a side glance towards the door, "he's there to answer for himself; and as he's a sufficiently plain-spoken fellow, you may learn from him all about the matter that seems to be of so much interest to you." "i don't think you will," muttered sloman, as hancock and two or three others turned towards the new-comer, with the design of carrying out the major's suggestion. silently advancing across the sanded floor, the mustanger had taken his stand at an unoccupied space in front of the counter. "a glass of whisky and water, if you please?" was the modest request with which to saluted the landlord. "visky und vachter!" echoed the latter, without any show of eagerness to wait upon his new guest. "ya, woe, visky und vachter! it ish two picayunsh the glass." "i was not inquiring the price," replied the mustanger, "i asked to be served with a glass of whisky and water. have you got any?" "yesh--yesh," responded the german, rendered obsequious by the sharp rejoinder. "plenty--plenty of visky und vachter. here it ish." while his simple potation was being served out to him, maurice received nods of recognition from the officers, returning them with a free, but modest air. most of them knew him personally, on account of his business relations with the fort. they were on the eve of interrogating him--as the major had suggested-- when the entrance of still another individual caused them to suspend their design. the new-comer was cassius calhoun. in his presence it would scarce have been delicacy to investigate the subject any further. advancing with his customary swagger towards the mixed group of military men and civilians, calhoun saluted them as one who had spent the day in their company, and had been absent only for a short interval. if not absolutely intoxicated, it could be seen that the ex-officer of volunteers was under the influence of drink. the unsteady sparkle of his eyes, the unnatural pallor upon his forehead--still further clouded by two or three tossed tresses that fell over it--with the somewhat grotesque set of his forage cap--told that he had been taking one beyond the limits of wisdom. "come, gentlemen!" cried he, addressing himself to the major's party, at the same time stepping up to the counter; "let's hit the waggon a crack, or old dunder-und-blitzen behind the bar will say we're wasting his lights. drinks all round. what say you?" "agreed--agreed!" replied several voices. "you, major?" "with pleasure, captain calhoun." according to universal custom, the intended imbibers fell into line along the counter, each calling out the name of the drink most to his liking at the moment. of these were ordered almost as many kinds as there were individuals in the party; calhoun himself shouting out--"brown sherry for me;" and immediately adding--"with a dash of bitters." "prandy und pitters, you calls for, mishter calhoun?" said the landlord, as he leant obsequiously across the counter towards the reputed partner of an extensive estate. "certainly, you stupid dutchman! i said brown sherry, didn't i?" "all rights, mein herr; all rights! prandy und pitters--prandy und pitters," repeated the german boniface, as he hastened to place the decanter before his ill-mannered guest. with the large accession of the major's party, to several others already in the act of imbibing, the whole front of the long counter became occupied--with scarce an inch to spare. apparently by accident--though it may have been design on the part of calhoun--he was the outermost man on the extreme right of those who had responded to his invitation. this brought him in juxtaposition with maurice gerald, who alone--as regarded boon companionship--was quietly drinking his whisky and water, and smoking a cigar he had just lighted. the two were back to back--neither having taken any notice of the other. "a toast!" cried calhoun, taking his glass from the counter. "let us have it!" responded several voices. "america for the americans, and confusion to all foreign interlopers-- especially the damned irish!" on delivering the obnoxious sentiment, he staggered back a pace; which brought his body in contact with that of the mustanger--at the moment standing with the glass raised to his lips. the collision caused the spilling of a portion of the whisky and water; which fell over the mustanger's breast. was it an accident? no one believed it was--even for a moment. accompanied by such a sentiment the act could only have been an affront intended and premeditated. all present expected to see the insulted man spring instantly upon his insulter. they were disappointed, as well as surprised, at the manner in which the mustanger seemed to take it. there were some who even fancied he was about to submit to it. "if he does," whispered hancock in sloman's ear, "he ought to be kicked out of the room." "don't you be alarmed about that," responded the infantry officer, in the same _sotto voce_. "you'll find it different. i'm not given to betting, as you know; but i'd lay a month's pay upon it the mustanger don't back out; and another, that mr cassius calhoun will find him an ugly customer to deal with, although just now he seems more concerned about his fine shirt, than the insult put upon him. odd devil he is!" while this whispering was being carried on, the man to whom it related was still standing by the bar--to use a hackneyed phrase, "the observed of all observers." having deposited his glass upon the counter, he had drawn a silk handkerchief from his pocket, and was wiping from his embroidered shirt bosom the defilement of the spilt whisky. there was an imperturbable coolness about the action, scarce compatible with the idea of cowardice; and those who had doubted him perceived that they had made a mistake, and that there was something to come. in silence they awaited the development. they had not long to wait. the whole affair--speculations and whisperings included--did not occupy twenty seconds of time; and then did the action proceed, or the speech which was likely to usher it in. "_i_ am an irishman," said the mustanger, as he returned his handkerchief to the place from which he had taken it. simple as the rejoinder may have appeared, and long delayed as it had been, there was no one present who mistook its meaning. if the hunter of wild horses had tweaked the nose of cassius calhoun, it would not have added emphasis to that acceptance of his challenge. its simplicity but proclaimed the serious determination of the acceptor. "you?" scornfully retorted calhoun, turning round, and standing with his arms _akimbo_. "you?" he continued, with his eye measuring the mustanger from head to foot, "you an irishman? great god, sir, i should never have thought so! i should have taken you for a mexican, judging by your rig, and the elaborate stitching of your shirt." "i can't perceive how my rig should concern you, mr cassius calhoun; and as you've done my shirt no service by spilling half my liquor upon it, i shall take the liberty of unstarching yours in a similar fashion." so saying, the mustanger took up his glass; and, before the ex-captain of volunteers could duck his head, or get out of the way, the remains of the mixed monongahela were "swilled" into his face, sending him off into a fit of alternate sneezing and coughing that appeared to afford satisfaction to more than a majority of the bystanders. the murmur of approbation was soon suppressed. the circumstances were not such as to call for speech; and the exclamations that accompanied the act were succeeded by a hush of silence. all saw that the quarrel could not be otherwise than a serious one. the affair must end in a fight. no power on earth could prevent it from coming to that conclusion. chapter twenty. an unsafe position. on receiving the alcoholic douche, calhoun had clutched his six-shooter, and drawn it from its holster. he only waited to get the whisky out of his eyes before advancing upon his adversary. the mustanger, anticipating this action, had armed himself with a similar weapon, and stood ready to return the fire of his antagonist-- shot for shot. the more timid of the spectators had already commenced making their escape out of doors tumbling over one another, in their haste to get out of harm's way. a few stayed in the saloon from sheer irresolution; a few others, of cooler courage, from choice; or, perhaps, actuated by a more astute instinct, which told them that in attempting to escape they might get a bullet in the back. there was an interval--some six seconds--of silence, during which a pin might have been heard falling upon the floor. it was but the interlude that often occurs between resolution and action; when the mind has completed its task, and the body has yet to begin. it might have been more brief with other actors on the scene. two ordinary men would have blazed away at once, and without reflection. but the two now confronting each other were not of the common kind. both had seen _street fighting_ before--had taken part in it--and knew the disadvantage of an idle shot. each was determined to take sure aim on the other. it was this that prolonged the interval of inaction. to those outside, who dared not even look through the doors, the suspense was almost painful. the cracking of the pistols, which they expected every moment to hear, would have been a relief. it was almost a disappointment when, instead, they heard the voice of the major--who was among the few who had stayed inside--raised in a loud authoritative tone. "hold!" commanded he, in the accent of one accustomed to be obeyed, at the same time whisking his sabre out of its scabbard, and interposing its long blade between the disputants. "hold your fire--i command you both. drop your muzzles; or by the almighty i'll take the arm off the first of you that touches trigger! hold, i say!" "why?" shouted calhoun, purple with angry passion. "why, major ringwood? after an insult like that, and from a low fellow--" "you were the first to offer it, captain calhoun." "damn me if i care! i shall be the last to let it pass unpunished. stand out of the way, major. the quarrel is not yours--you have no right to interfere!" "indeed! ha! ha! sloman! hancock! crossman! hear that? i have no right to interfere! hark ye, mr cassius calhoun, ex-captain of volunteers! know you where you are, sir? don't fancy yourself in the state of mississippi--among your slave-whipping chivalry. this, sir, is a military post--under military law--my humble self its present administrator. i therefore command you to return your six-shooter to the holster from which you have taken it. this instant too, or you shall go to the guard-house, like the humblest soldier in the cantonment!" "indeed!" sneeringly replied the mississippian. "what a fine country you intend texas to become! i suppose a man mustn't fight, however much aggrieved, without first obtaining a licence from major ringwood? is that to be the law of the land?" "not a bit of it," retorted the major. "i'm not the man--never was--to stand in the way of the honest adjustment of a quarrel. you shall be quite at liberty--you and your antagonist--to kill one another, if it so please you. but not just now. you must perceive, mr calhoun, that your sport endangers the lives of other people, who have not the slightest interest in it. i've no idea of being bored by a bullet not intended for me. wait till the rest of us can withdraw to a safe distance; and you may crack away to your heart's content. now, sir, will that be agreeable to you?" had the major been a man of ordinary character his commands might have been disregarded. but to his official weight, as chief officer of the post, was added a certain reverence due to seniority in age--along with respect for one who was himself known to wield a weapon with dangerous skill, and who allowed no trilling with his authority. his sabre had not been unsheathed by way of empty gesticulation. the disputants knew it; and by simultaneous consent lowered the muzzles of their pistols--still holding them in hand. calhoun stood, with sullen brow, gritting his teeth, like a beast of prey momentarily withheld from making attack upon its victim; while the mustanger appeared to take things as coolly as if neither angry, nor an irishman. "i suppose you are determined upon fighting?" said the major, knowing that, there was not much chance of adjusting the quarrel. "i have no particular wish for it," modestly responded maurice. "if mr calhoun will apologise for what he has said, and also what he has done--" "he ought to do it: he began the quarrel!" suggested several of the bystanders. "never!" scornfully responded the ex-captain. "cash calhoun ain't accustomed to that sort of thing. apologise indeed! and to a masquerading monkey like that!" "enough!" cried the young irishman, for the first time showing serious anger; "i gave him a chance for his life. he refuses to accept it: and now, by the mother of god, we don't both leave this room alive! major! i insist that you and your friends withdraw. i can stand his insolence no longer!" "ha--ha--ha!" responded the southerner, with a yell of derisive laughter; "a chance for my life! clear out, all of ye--clear out; and let me at him!" "stay!" cried the major, hesitating to turn his back upon the duellist. "it's not quite safe. you may fancy to begin your game of touch-trigger a second too soon. we must get out of doors before you do. besides, gentlemen!" he continued, addressing himself to those around him, "there should be some system about this. if they are to fight, let it be fair for both sides. let them be armed alike; and go at it on the square!" "by all means!" chorused the half-score of spectators, turning their eyes towards the disputants, to see if they accepted the proposal. "neither of you can object?" continued the major, interrogatively. "i sha'n't object to anything that's fair," assented the irishman--"devil a bit!" "i shall fight with the weapon i hold in my hand," doggedly declared calhoun. "agreed! the very weapon for me!" was the rejoinder of his adversary. "i see you both carry colt's six-shooter number ," said the major, scanning the pistols held in hand. "so far all right! you're armed exactly alike." "have they any other weapons?" inquired young hancock, suspecting that under the cover of his coat the ex-captain had a knife. "i have none," answered the mustanger, with a frankness that left no doubt as to his speaking the truth. all eyes were turned upon calhoun, who appeared to hesitate about making a reply. he saw he must declare himself. "of course," he said, "i have my toothpick as well. you don't want me to give up that? a man ought to be allowed to use whatever weapon he has got." "but, captain calhoun," pursued hancock, "your adversary has no knife. if you are not afraid to meet him on equal terms you should surrender yours." "certainly he should!" cried several of the bystanders. "he must! he must!" "come, mr calhoun!" said the major, in a soothing tone. "six shots ought to satisfy any reasonable man; without having recourse to the steel. before you finish firing, one or the other of you--" "damn the knife!" interrupted calhoun, unbuttoning his coat. then drawing forth the proscribed weapon, and flinging it to the farthest corner of the saloon, he added, in a tone of bravado, intended to encowardice his adversary. "i sha'n't want it for such a spangled jay-bird as that. i'll fetch him out of his boots at the first shot." "time enough to talk when you've done something to justify it. cry boo to a goose; but don't fancy your big words are going to frighten me, mr calhoun! quick, gentlemen! i'm impatient to put an end to his boasting and blasphemy!" "hound!" frantically hissed out the chivalric southerner. "low dog of an irish dam! i'll send you howling to your kennel! i'll--" "shame, captain calhoun!" interrupted the major, seconded by other voices. "this talk is idle, as it is unpolite in the presence of respectable company. have patience a minute longer; and you may then say what you like. now, gentlemen!" he continued, addressing himself to the surrounding, "there is only one more preliminary to be arranged. they must engage not to begin firing till we have got out of their way?" a difficulty here presented itself. how was the engagement to be given? a simple promise would scarce be sufficient in a crisis like that? the combatants--one of them at least--would not be over scrupulous as to the time of pulling trigger. "there must be a signal," pursued the major. "neither should fire till that be given. can any one suggest what it is to be?" "i think. i can," said the quiet captain sloman, advancing as he spoke. "let the gentlemen go outside, along with us. there is--as you perceive--a door at each end of the room. i see no difference between them. let them enter again--one at each door, with the understanding that neither is to fire before setting foot across the threshold." "capital! the very thing!" replied several voices. "and what for a signal?" demanded the major. "a shot?" "no. ring the tavern bell!" "nothing could be better--nothing fairer," conclusively declared the major, making for one of the doors, that led outward into the square. "mein gott, major!" screamed the german boniface, rushing out from behind his bar; where, up to this time, he had been standing transfixed with fear. "mein gott--surely the shentlemens pe not going to shoot their pisthols inside the shaloon: ach! they'll preak all my pottles, and my shplendid looking-glashes, an my crystal clock, that hash cost me von--two hundred dollars. they'll shpill my pesht liquors--ach! major, it'll ruin me--mein gott--it will!" "never fear, oberdoffer!" rejoined the major, pausing to reply. "no doubt you'll be paid for the damage. at all events, you had better betake yourself to some place of safety. if you stay in your saloon you'll stand a good chance of getting a bullet through your body, and that would be worse than the preaking of your pottles." without further parley the major parted from the unfortunate landlord, and hurried across the threshold into the street, whither the combatants, who had gone out by separate doors, had already preceded him. "old duffer," left standing in the middle of his sanded floor, did not remain long in that perilous position. in six seconds after the major's coat-tail had disappeared through the outer door, an inner one closed upon his own skirts; and the bar-room, with its camphine lamps, its sparkling decanters, and its costly mirrors, was left in untenanted silence--no other sound being heard save the ticking of its crystal clock. chapter twenty one. a duel within doors. once outside, the major took no further part in the affair. as the commanding officer of the post, it would have been out of place for him to have given encouragement to a fight--even by his interfering to see that it should be a fair one. this, however, was attended to by the younger officers; who at once set about arranging the conditions of the duel. there was not much time consumed. the terms had been expressed already; and it only remained to appoint some one of the party to superintend the ringing of the bell, which was to be the signal for the combat to commence. this was an easy matter, since it made no difference who might be entrusted with the duty. a child might have sounded the summons for the terrible conflict that was to follow. a stranger, chancing at that moment to ride into the rude square of which the hotel "rough and ready" formed nearly a side, would have been sorely puzzled to comprehend what was coming to pass. the night was rather dark, though there was still light enough to make known the presence of a conglomeration of human beings, assembled in the proximity of the hotel. most were in military garb: since, in addition to the officers who had lately figured inside the saloon, others, along with such soldiers as were permitted to pass the sentries, had hastened down from the fort on receiving intelligence that something unusual was going on within the "square." women, too, but scantily robed--soldiers' wives, washerwomen, and "senoritas" of more questionable calling--had found their way into the street, and were endeavouring to extract from those who had forestalled them an explanation of the _fracas_. the conversation was carried on in low tones. it was known that the commandant of the post was present, as well as others in authority; and this checked any propensity there might have been for noisy demonstration. the crowd, thus promiscuously collected, was not in close proximity with the hotel; but standing well out in the open ground, about a dozen yards from the building. towards it, however, the eyes of all were directed, with that steady stare which tells of the attention being fixed on some engrossing spectacle. they were watching the movements of two men, whose positions were apart--one at each end of the heavy blockhouse, known to be the bar-room of the hotel; and where, as already stated, there was a door. though separated by the interposition of two thick log walls, and mutually invisible, these men were manoeuvring as if actuated by a common impulse. they stood contiguous to the entrance doors, at opposite ends of the bar-room, through both of which glared the light of the camphine lamps--falling in broad divergent bands upon the rough gravel outside. neither was in front of the contiguous entrance; but a little to one side, just clear of the light. neither was in an upright attitude, but crouching--not as if from fear, but like a runner about to make a start, and straining upon the spring. both were looking inwards--into the saloon, where no sound could be heard save the ticking of a clock. their attitudes told of their readiness to enter it, and that they were only restrained by waiting for some preconcerted signal. that their purpose was a serious one could be deduced from several circumstances. both were in their shirt sleeves, hatless, and stripped of every rag that might form an impediment to action; while on their faces was the stamp of stern determination--alike legible in the attitudes they had assumed. but there was no fine reflection needed to discover their design. the stranger, chancing to come into the square, could have seen at a glance that it was deadly. the pistols in their hands, cocked and tightly clutched; the nervous energy of their attitudes; the silence of the crowd of spectators; and the concentrated interest with which the two men were regarded, proclaimed more emphatically than words, that there was danger in what they were doing--in short, that they were engaged in some sort of a strife, with death for its probable consummation! so it was at that moment when the crisis had come. the duellists stood, each with eye intent upon the door, by which he was to make entrance-- perhaps into eternity! they only waited for a signal to cross the threshold; and engage in a combat that must terminate the existence of one or the other--perhaps both. were they listening for that fatal formulary:--one--two--fire? no. another signal had been agreed upon; and it was given. a stentorian voice was heard calling out the simple monosyllable-- "ring!" three or four dark figures could be seen standing by the shorn trunk on which swung the tavern bell. the command instantly set them in motion; and, along with the oscillation of their arms--dimly seen through the darkness--could be heard the sonorous tones of a bell. that bell, whose sounds had been hitherto heard only as symbols of joy--calling men together to partake of that which perpetuates life--was now listened to as a summons of death! the "ringing in" was of short duration. the bell had made less than a score of vibrations, when the men engaged at the rope saw that their services were no longer required. the disappearance of the duellists, who had rushed inside the saloon, the quick, sharp cracking of pistols; the shivering of broken glass, admonished the ringers that theirs was but a superfluous noise; and, dropping the rope, they stood like the rest of the crowd, listening to the conflict inside. no eyes--save those of the combatants themselves--were witnesses to that strange duel. at the first dong of the bell both combatants had re-entered the room. neither made an attempt to skulk outside. to have done so would have been a ruin to reputation. a hundred eyes were upon them; and the spectators understood the conditions of the duel--that neither was to fire before crossing the threshold. once inside, the conflict commenced, the first shots filling the room with smoke. both kept their feet, though both were wounded--their blood spurting out over the sanded floor. the second shots were also fired simultaneously, but at random, the smoke hindering the aim. then came a single shot, quickly followed by another, and succeeded by an interval of quiet. previous to this the combatants had been heard rushing about through the room. this noise was no longer being made. instead there was profound silence. had they killed one another? were both dead? no! once more the double detonation announced that both still lived. the suspension had been caused as they stood peering through the smoke in the endeavour to distinguish one another. neither spoke or stirred in fear of betraying his position. again there was a period of tranquillity similar to the former, but more prolonged. it ended by another exchange of shots, almost instantly succeeded by the falling of two heavy bodies upon the floor. there was the sound of sprawling--the overturning of chairs--then a single shot--the eleventh--and this was the last that was fired! the spectators outside saw only a cloud of sulphurous smoke oozing out of both doors, and dimming the light of the camphine lamps. this, with an occasional flash of brighter effulgence, close followed by a crack, was all that occurred to give satisfaction to the eye. but the ear--that was gratified by a greater variety. there were heard shots--after the bell had become silent, other sounds: the sharp shivering of broken glass, the duller crash of falling furniture, rudely overturned in earnest struggle--the trampling of feet upon the boarded floor--at intervals the clear ringing crack of the revolvers; but neither of the voices of the men whose insensate passions were the cause of all this commotion! the crowd in the street heard the confused noises, and noted the intervals of silence, without being exactly able to interpret them. the reports of the pistols were all they had to proclaim the progress of the duel. eleven had been counted; and in breathless silence they were listening for the twelfth. instead of a pistol report their ears were gratified by the sound of a voice, recognised as that of the mustanger. "my pistol is at your head! i have one shot left--an apology, or you die!" by this the crowd had become convinced that the fight was approaching its termination. some of the more fearless, looking in, beheld a strange scene. they saw two men lying prostrate on the plank floor; both with bloodstained habiliments, both evidently disabled; the white sand around them reddened with their gore, tracked with tortuous trails, where they had crawled closer to get a last shot at each other--one of them, in scarlet scarf and slashed velvet trousers, slightly surmounting the other, and holding a pistol to his head that threatened to deprive him of life. such was the tableau that presented itself to the spectators, as the sulphurous smoke, drifted out by the current between the two doors, gave them a chance of distinguishing objects within the saloon. at the same instant was heard a different voice from the one which had already spoken. it was calhoun's--no longer in roistering bravado, but in low whining accents, almost a whisper. "enough, damn it! drop your shooting-iron--i apologise." chapter twenty two. an unknown donor. in texas a duel is not even a nine days' wonder. it oftener ceases to be talked about by the end of the third day; and, at the expiration of a week, is no longer thought of, except by the principals themselves, or their immediate friends and relatives. this is so, even when the parties are well known, and of respectable standing in society. when the duellists are of humble position--or, as is often the case, strangers in the place--a single day may suffice to doom their achievement to oblivion; to dwell only in the memory of the combatant who has survived it--oftener one than both--and perhaps some ill-starred spectator, who has been bored by a bullet, or received the slash of a knife, not designed for him. more than once have i been witness to a "street fight"--improvised upon the pavement--where some innocuous citizen, sauntering carelessly along, has become the victim--even unto death--of this irregular method of seeking "satisfaction." i have never heard of any punishment awarded, or damages demanded, in such cases. they are regarded as belonging to the "chapter of accidents!" though cassius calhoun and maurice gerald were both comparatively strangers in the settlement--the latter being only seen on occasional visits to the fort--the affair between them caused something more than the usual interest; and was talked about for the full period of the nine days, the character of the former as a noted bully, and that of the latter as a man of singular habitudes, gave to their duello a certain sort of distinction; and the merits and demerits of the two men were freely discussed for days after the affair had taken place nowhere with more earnestness than upon the spot where they had shed each other's blood--in the bar-room of the hotel. the conqueror had gained credit and friends. there were few who favoured his adversary; and not a few who were gratified at the result for, short as had been the time since calhoun's arrival, there was more than one saloon lounger who had felt the smart of his insolence. for this it was presumed the young irishman had administered a cure; and there was almost universal satisfaction at the result. how the ex-captain carried his discomfiture no one could tell. he was no longer to be seen swaggering in the saloon of the "rough and ready;" though the cause of his absence was well understood. it was not chagrin, but his couch; to which he was confined by wounds, that, if not skilfully treated, might consign him to his coffin. maurice was in like manner compelled to stay within doors. the injuries he had received, though not so severe as those of his antagonist, were nevertheless of such a character as to make it necessary for him to keep to his chamber--a small, and scantily furnished bedroom in "old duffer's" hotel; where, notwithstanding the _eclat_ derived from his conquest, he was somewhat scurvily treated. in the hour of his triumph, he had fainted from loss of blood. he could not be taken elsewhere; though, in the shabby apartment to which he had been consigned, he might have thought of the luxurious care that surrounded the couch of his wounded antagonist. fortunately phelim was by his side, or he might have been still worse attended to. "be saint pathrick! it's a shame," half soliloquised this faithful follower. "a burnin' shame to squeeze a gintleman into a hole like this, not bigger than a pig-stoy! a gintleman like you, masther maurice. an' thin such aytin' and drinkin'. och! a well fid oirish pig wud turn up its nose at such traytment. an' fwhat div yez think i've heerd owld duffer talkin' about below?" "i hav'n't the slightest idea, my dear phelim; nor do i care straw to know what you've heard mr oberdoffer saying below; but if you don't want him to hear what you are saying above, you'll moderate your voice a little. remember, _ma bohil_, that the partitions in this place are only lath and plaster." "divil take the partitions; and divil burn them, av he loikes. av yez don't care fur fwhat's sed, i don't care far fwhat's heeurd--not the snappin' av me fingers. the dutchman can't trate us any worse than he's been doin' already. for all that, masther maurice, i thought it bist to lit you know." "let me know then. what is it he has been saying?" "will, thin; i heerd him tellin' wan av his croneys that besoides the mate an the dhrink, an the washin', an lodgin', he intinded to make you pay for the bottles, and glasses, an other things, that was broke on the night av the shindy." "me pay?" "yis, yerself, masther maurice; an not a pinny charged to the yankee. now i call that downright rascally mane; an nobody but a dhirty dutchman wud iver hiv thought av it. av there be anythin' to pay, the man that's bate should be made to showldor the damage, an that wasn't a discindant av the owld geralds av ballyballagh. hoo--hooch! wudn't i loike to shake a shaylaylah about duffer's head for the matther of two minutes? wudn't i?" "what reason did he give for saying that i should pay? did you hear him state any?" "i did, masther--the dhirtiest av all raisuns. he sid that you were the bird in the hand; an he wud kape ye till yez sittled the score." "he'll find himself slightly mistaken about that; and would perhaps do better by presenting his bill to the bird in the bush. i shall be willing to pay for half the damage done; but no more. you may tell him so, if he speak to you about it. and, in troth, phelim, i don't know how i am to do even that. there must have been a good many breakages. i remember a great deal of jingling while we were at it. if i don't mistake there was a smashed mirror, or clock dial, or something of the kind." "a big lookin'-glass, masther; an a crystal somethin', that was set over the clock. they say two hunderd dollars. i don't belave they were worth wan half av the money." "even so, it is a serious matter to me--just at this crisis. i fear, phelim, you will have to make a journey to the alamo, and fetch away some of the household gods we have hidden there. to get clear of this scrape i shall have to sacrifice my spurs, my silver cup, and perhaps my gun!" "don't say that, masther! how are we to live, if the gun goes?" "as we best can, _ma bohil_. on horseflesh, i suppose: and the lazo will supply that." "be japers! it wudn't be much worse than the mate owld duffer sits afore us. it gives me the bellyache ivery time i ate it." the conversation was here interrupted by the opening of the chamber door; which was done without knocking. a slatternly servant--whose sex it would have been difficult to determine from outward indices--appeared in the doorway, with a basket of palm sinnet held extended at the termination of a long sinewy arm. "fwhat is it, gertrude?" asked phelim, who, from some previous information, appeared to be acquainted with the feminine character of the intruder. "a shentlemans prot this." "a gentleman! who, gertrude?" "not know, mein herr; he wash a stranger shentlemans." "brought by a gentleman. who can he be? see what it in, phelim." phelim undid the fastenings of the lid, and exposed the interior of the basket. it was one of considerable bulk: since inside were discovered several bottles, apparently containing wines and cordials, packed among a paraphernalia of sweetmeats, and other delicacies--both of the confectionery and the kitchen. there was no note accompanying the present--not even a direction--but the trim and elegant style in which it was done up, proved that it had proceeded from the hands of a lady. maurice turned over the various articles, examining each, as phelim supposed, to take note of its value. little was he thinking of this, while searching for the "invoice." there proved to be none--not a scrap of paper--not so much as a _card_! the generosity of the supply--well-timed as it was--bespoke the donor to be some person in affluent circumstances. who could it be? as maurice reflected, a fair image came uppermost in his mind; which he could not help connecting with that of his unknown benefactor. could it be louise poindexter? in spite of certain improbabilities, he was fain to believe it might; and, so long as the belief lasted, his heart was quivering with a sweet beatitude. as he continued to reflect, the improbabilities appeared too strong for this pleasant supposition; his faith became overturned; and there remained only a vague unsubstantial hope. "a gintleman lift it," spoke the connemara man, in semi-soliloquy. "a gintleman, she sez; a kind gintleman, i say! who div yez think he was, masther?" "i haven't the slightest idea; unless it may have been some of the officers of the port; though i could hardly expect one of them to think of me in this fashion." "nayther yez need. it wasn't wan av them. no officer, or gintleman ayther, phut them things in the basket." "why do you think that?" "pwhy div i think it! och, masther! is it yerself to ask the quistyun? isn't there the smell av swate fingers about it? jist look at the nate way them papers is tied up. that purty kreel was niver packed by the hand av a man. it was done by a wuman; and i'll warrant a raal lady at that." "nonsense, phelim! i know no lady who should take so much interest in me." "aw, murdher! what a thumpin' big fib! i know won that shud. it wud be black ungratytude av she didn't--afther what yez did for her. didn't yez save her life into the bargain?" "of whom are you speaking?" "now, don't be desateful, masther. yez know that i mane the purty crayther that come to the hut ridin' spotty that you presinted her, widout resavin' a dollar for the mare. if it wasn't her that sint ye this hamper, thin phaylim onale is the biggest numskull that was iver born about ballyballagh. be the vargin, masther, speakin' of the owld place phuts me in mind of its paple. pwhat wud the blue-eyed colleen say, if she knew yez were in such danger heeur?" "danger! it's all over. the doctor has said so; and that i may go out of doors in a week from this time. don't distress yourself about that." "troth, masther, yez be only talkin'. that isn't the danger i was drhamin' av. yez know will enough what i mane. maybe yez have resaved a wound from bright eyes, worse than that from lid bullets. or, maybe, somebody ilse has; an that's why ye've had the things sint ye." "you're all wrong, phelim. the thing must have come from the fort; but whether it did, or not, there's no reason why we should stand upon ceremony with its contents. so, here goes to make trial of them!" notwithstanding the apparent relish with which the invalid partook of the products--both of collar and _cuisine_--while eating and drinking, his thoughts were occupied with a still more agreeable theme; with a string of dreamy conjectures, as to whom he was indebted for the princely present. could it be the young creole--the cousin of his direst enemy as well as his reputed sweetheart? the thing appeared improbable. if not she, who else could it be? the mustanger would have given a horse--a whole drove--to have been assured that louise poindexter was the provider of that luxurious refection. two days elapsed, and the donor still remained unknown. then the invalid was once more agreeably surprised, by a second present--very similar to the first--another basket, containing other bottles, and crammed with fresh "confections." the bavarian wench was again questioned; but with no better result. a "shentlemans" had "prot" it--the same "stranger shentlemans" as before. she could only add that "the shentlemans" was very "_schwartz_," wore a glazed hat, and came to the tavern mounted upon a mule. maurice did not appear to be gratified with this description of the unknown donor; though no one--not even phelim--was made the confidant of his thoughts. in two days afterwards they were toned down to their former sobriety--on the receipt of a third basket, "prot by the schwartz gentleman" in the glazed hat, who came mounted upon a mule. the change could not be explained by the belongings in the basket-- almost the counterpart of what had been sent before. it might be accounted for by the contents of a _billet doux_, that accompanied the gift--attached by a ribbon to the wickerwork of palm-sinnet. "'tis only isidora!" muttered the mustanger, as he glanced at the superscription upon the note. then opening it with an air of indifference, he read:-- "_querido senor_! "_soy quedando por una semana en la casa del tio silvio. de questra desfortuna he oido--tambien que v. esta mal ciudado en la fonda. he mandado algunas cositas. sea graciosa usarlos, coma una chiquitita memoria del servicio grande de que vuestra deudor estoy. en la silla soy escribando, con las espuelas preparadas sacar sangre de las ijadas del mio cavallo. en un momento mas, partira por el rio grande_. "_bienhichor_--_de mi vida salvador_--_y de que a una mujer esa mas querida, la honra_--_adios_--_adios_! "isidora covarubio de los llanos. "_al senor don mauricio gerald_." literally translated, and in the idiom of the spanish language, the note ran thus:-- "dear sir,--i have been staying for a week at the house of uncle silvio. of your mischance i have heard--also, that you are indifferently cared for at the hotel. i have sent you some little things. be good enough to make use of them, as a slight souvenir of the great service for which i am your debtor. i write in the saddle, with my spurs ready to draw blood from the flanks of my horse. in another moment i am off for the rio grande! "benefactor--preserver of my life--of what to a woman is dearer--my honour--adieu! adieu! "isidora covarubio de los llanos." "thanks--thanks, sweet isidora!" muttered the mustanger, as he refolded the note, and threw it carelessly upon the coverlet of his couch. "ever grateful--considerate--kind! but for louise poindexter, i might have loved you!" chapter twenty three. vows of vengeance. calhoun, chafing in his chamber, was not the object of such assiduous solicitude. notwithstanding the luxurious appointments that surrounded him, he could not comfort himself with the reflection: that he was cared for by living creature. truly selfish in his own heart, he had no faith in friendships; and while confined to his couch--not without some fears that it might be his death-bed--he experienced the misery of a man believing that no human being cared a straw whether he should live or die. any sympathy shown to him, was upon the score of relationship. it could scarce have been otherwise. his conduct towards his cousins had not been such as to secure their esteem; while his uncle, the proud woodley poindexter, felt towards him something akin to aversion, mingled with a subdued fear. it is true that this feeling was only of recent origin; and rose out of certain relations that existed between uncle and nephew. as already hinted, they stood to one another in the relationship of debtor and creditor--or mortgagor and mortgagee--the nephew being the latter. to such an extent had this indebtedness been carried, that cassius calhoun was in effect the real owner of casa del corvo; and could at any moment have proclaimed himself its master. conscious of his power, he had of late been using it to effect a particular purpose: that is, the securing for his wife, the woman he had long fiercely loved--his cousin louise. he had come to know that he stood but little chance of obtaining her consent: for she had taken but slight pains to conceal her indifference to his suit. trusting to the peculiar influence established over her father, he had determined on taking no slight denial. these circumstances considered, it was not strange that the ex-officer of volunteers, when stretched upon a sick bed, received less sympathy from his relatives than might otherwise have been extended to him. while dreading, death--which for a length of time he actually did--he had become a little more amiable to those around him. the agreeable mood, however, was of short continuance; and, once assured of recovery, all the natural savageness of his disposition was restored, along with the additional bitterness arising from his recent discomfiture. it had been the pride of his life to exhibit himself as a successful bully--the master of every crowd that might gather around him. he could no longer claim this credit in texas; and the thought harrowed his heart to its very core. to figure as a defeated man before all the women of the settlement-- above all in the eyes of her he adored, defeated by one whom he suspected of being his rival in her affections--a more nameless adventurer--was too much to be endured with equanimity. even an ordinary man would have been pained by the infliction. calhoun writhed under it. he had no idea of enduring it, as an ordinary man would have done. if he could not escape from the disgrace, he was determined to revenge himself upon its author; and as soon as he had recovered from the apprehensions entertained about the safety of his life, he commenced reflecting upon this very subject. maurice, the mustanger, must die! if not by his (calhoun's) own hand, then by the hand of another, if such an one was to be found in the settlement. there could not be much difficulty in procuring a confederate. there are _bravoes_ upon the broad prairies of texas, as well as within the walls of italian cities. alas! there is no spot upon earth where gold cannot command the steel of the assassin. calhoun possessed gold--more than sufficient for such a purpose; and to such purpose did he determine upon devoting at least a portion of it. in the solitude of his sick chamber he set about maturing his plans; which comprehended the assassination of the mustanger. he did not purpose doing the deed himself. his late defeat had rendered him fearful of chancing a second encounter with the same adversary--even under the advantageous circumstances of a surprise. he had become too much encowardised to play the assassin. he wanted an accomplice--an arm to strike for him. where was he to find it? unluckily he knew, or fancied he knew, the very man. there was a mexican at the time making abode in the village--like maurice himself--a mustanger; but one of those with whom the young irishman had shown a disinclination to associate. as a general rule, the men of this peculiar calling are amongst the greatest reprobates, who have their home in the land of the "lone star." by birth and breed they are mostly mexicans, or mongrel indians; though, not unfrequently, a frenchman, or american, finds it a congenial calling. they are usually the outcasts of civilised society--oftener its outlaws--who, in the excitement of the chase, and its concomitant dangers, find, perhaps, some sort of _salvo_ for a conscience that has been severely tried. while dwelling within the settlements, these men are not unfrequently the pests of the society that surrounds them--ever engaged in broil and debauch; and when abroad in the exercise of their calling, they are not always to be encountered with safety. more than once is it recorded in the history of texas how a company of mustangers has, for the nonce, converted itself into a band of _cuadrilla_ of _salteadores_; or, disguised as indians, levied black mail upon the train of the prairie traveller. one of this kidney was the individual who had become recalled to the memory of cassius calhoun. the latter remembered having met the man in the bar-room of the hotel; upon several occasions, but more especially on the night of the duel. he remembered that he had been one of those who had carried him home on the stretcher; and from some extravagant expressions he had made use of, when speaking of his antagonist, calhoun had drawn the deduction, that the mexican was no friend to maurice the mustanger. since then he had learnt that he was maurice's deadliest enemy--himself excepted. with these data to proceed upon the ex-captain had called the mexican to his counsels, and the two were often closeted together in the chamber of the invalid. there was nothing in all this to excite suspicion--even had calhoun cared for that. his visitor was a dealer in horses and horned cattle. some transaction in horseflesh might be going on between them. so any one would have supposed. and so for a time thought the mexican himself: for in their first interview, but little other business was transacted between them. the astute mississippian knew better than to declare his ultimate designs to a stranger; who, after completing an advantageous horse-trade, was well supplied with whatever he chose to drink, and cunningly cross-questioned as to the relations in which he stood towards maurice the mustanger. in that first interview, the ex-officer volunteers learnt enough, to know that he might depend upon his man for any service he might require--even to the committal of murder. the mexican made no secret of his heartfelt hostility to the young mustanger. he did not declare the exact cause of it; but calhoun could guess, by certain innuendos introduced during the conversation, that it was the same as that by which he was himself actuated--the same to which may be traced almost every quarrel that has occurred among men, from troy to texas--a woman! the helen in this case appeared to be some dark-eyed _doncella_ dwelling upon the rio grande, where maurice had been in the habit of making an occasional visit, in whose eyes he had found favour, to the disadvantage of her own _conpaisano_. the mexican did not give the name; and calhoun, as he listened to his explanations, only hoped in his heart that the damsel who had slighted him might have won the heart of his rival. during his days of convalescence, several interviews had taken place between the ex-captain and the intended accomplice in his purposes of vengeance--enough, one might suppose, to have rendered them complete. whether they were so, or not, and what the nature of their hellish designs, were things known only to the brace of kindred confederates. the outside world but knew that captain cassius calhoun and miguel diaz--known by the nickname "el coyote," appeared to have taken a fancy for keeping each other's company; while the more respectable portion of it wondered at such an ill-starred association. chapter twenty four. on the azotea. there are no sluggards on a texan plantation. the daybreak begins the day; and the bell, conch, or cow-horn, that summons the dark-skinned proletarians to their toil, is alike the signal for their master to forsake his more luxurious couch. such was the custom of casa del corvo under its original owners: and the fashion was followed by the family of the american planter--not from any idea of precedent, but simply in obedience to the suggestions of nature. in a climate of almost perpetual spring, the sweet matutinal moments are not to be wasted in sleep. the _siesta_ belongs to the hours of noon; when all nature appears to shrink under the smiles of the solar luminary--as if surfeited with their superabundance. on his reappearance at morn the sun is greeted with renewed joy. then do the tropical birds spread their resplendent plumage--the flowers their dew-besprinkled petals--to receive his fervent kisses. all nature again seems glad, to acknowledge him as its god. resplendent as any bird that flutters among the foliage of south-western texas--fair as any flower that blooms within it--gladdest was she who appeared upon the housetop of casa del corvo. aurora herself, rising from her roseate couch, looked not fresher than the young creole, as she stood contemplating the curtains of that very couch, from which a texan sun was slowly uplifting his globe of burning gold. she was standing upon the edge of the azotea that fronted towards the east; her white hand resting upon the copestone of the parapet still wet with the dews of the night, under her eyes was the garden, enclosed within a curve of the river; beyond the bluff formed by the opposite bank; and further still, the wide-spreading plateau of the prairie. was she looking at a landscape, that could scarce fail to challenge admiration? no. equally was she unconscious of the ascending sun; though, like some fair pagan, did she appear to be in prayer at its apprising! listened she to the voices of the birds, from garden and grove swelling harmoniously around her? on the contrary, her ear was not bent to catch any sound, nor her eye intent upon any object. her glance was wandering, as if her thoughts went not with it, but were dwelling upon some theme, neither present nor near. in contrast with the cheerful brightness of the sky, there was a shadow upon her brow; despite the joyous warbling of the birds, there was the sign of sadness on her cheek. she was alone. there was no one to take note of this melancholy mood, nor inquire into its cause. the cause was declared in a few low murmured words, that fell, as if involuntarily, from her lips. "he may be dangerously wounded--perhaps even to death?" who was the object of this solicitude so hypothetically expressed? the invalid that lay below, almost under her feet, in a chamber of the hacienda--her cousin cassius calhoun? it could scarce be he. the doctor had the day before pronounced him out of danger, and on the way to quick recovery. any one listening to her soliloquy--after a time continued in the same sad tone--would have been convinced it was not he. "i may not send to inquire. i dare not even ask after him. i fear to trust any of our people. he may be in some poor place--perhaps uncourteously treated--perhaps neglected? would that i could convey to him a message--something more--without any one being the wiser! i wonder what has become of zeb stump?" as if some instinct whispered her, that there was a possibility of zeb making his appearance, she turned her eyes towards the plain on the opposite side of the river--where a road led up and down. it was the common highway between fort inge and the plantations on the lower leona. it traversed the prairie at some distance from the river bank; approaching it only at one point, where the channel curved in to the base of the bluffs. a reach of the road, of half a mile in length, was visible in the direction of the fort; as also a cross-path that led to a ford; thence running on to the hacienda. in the opposite direction-- down the stream--the view was open for a like length, until the chapparal on both sides closing in, terminated the savanna. the young lady scanned the road leading towards fort inge. zeb stump should come that way. he was not in sight; nor was any one else. she could not feel disappointment. she had no reason to expect him. she had but raised her eyes in obedience to an instinct. something more than instinct caused her, after a time, to turn round, and scrutinise the plain in the opposite quarter. if expecting some one to appear that way, she was not disappointed. a horse was just stepping out from among the trees, where the road debouched from the chapparal. he was ridden by one, who, at first sight, appeared to be a man, clad in a sort of arab costume; but who, on closer scrutiny, and despite the style of equitation--_a la duchesse de berri_--was unquestionably of the other sex--a lady. there was not much of her face to be seen; but through the shadowy opening of the _rebozo_--rather carelessly _tapado_--could be traced an oval facial outline, somewhat brownly "complected," but with a carmine tinting upon the cheeks, and above this a pair of eyes whose sparkle appeared to challenge comparison with the brightest object either on the earth, or in the sky. neither did the loosely falling folds of the lady's scarf, nor her somewhat _outre_ attitude in the saddle, hinder the observer from coming to the conclusion, that her figure was quite as attractive as her face. the man following upon the mule, six lengths of his animal in the rear, by his costume--as well as the respectful distance observed--was evidently only an attendant. "who can that woman be?" was the muttered interrogatory of louise poindexter, as with quick action she raised the lorgnette to her eyes, and directed it upon the oddly apparelled figure. "who _can_ she be?" was repeated in a tone of greater deliberation, as the glass came down, and the naked eye was entrusted to complete the scrutiny. "a mexican, of course; the man on the mule her servant. some grand senora, i suppose? i thought they had all gone to the other side of the rio grande. a basket carried by the attendant. i wonder what it contains; and what errand she can have to the port--it may be the village. 'tis the third time i've seen her passing within this week? she must be from some of the plantations below!" what an outlandish style of riding! _par dieu_! i'm told it's not uncommon among the daughters of anahuac. what if i were to take to it myself? no doubt it's much the easiest way; though if such a spectacle were seen in the states it would be styled unfeminine. how our puritan mammas would scream out against it! i think i hear them. ha, ha, ha! the mirth thus begotten was but of momentary duration. there came a change over the countenance of the creole, quick as a drifting cloud darkens the disc of the sun. it was not a return to that melancholy so late shadowing it; though something equally serious--as might be told by the sudden blanching of her cheeks. the cause could only be looked for in the movements of the scarfed equestrian on the other side of the river. an antelope had sprung up, out of some low shrubbery growing by the roadside. the creature appeared to have made its first bound from under the counter of the horse--a splendid animal, that, in a moment after, was going at full gallop in pursuit of the affrighted "pronghorn;" while his rider, with her rebozo suddenly flung from her face, its fringed ends streaming behind her back, was seen describing, with her right arm, a series of circular sweeps in the air! "what is the woman going to do?" was the muttered interrogatory of the spectator upon the house-top. "ha! as i live, 'tis a lazo!" the senora was not long in giving proof of skill in the use of the national implement:--by flinging its noose around the antelope's neck, and throwing the creature in its tracks! the attendant rode up to the place where it lay struggling; dismounted from his mule; and, stooping over the prostrate pronghorn, appeared to administer the _coup de grace_. then, flinging the carcass over the croup of his saddle, he climbed back upon his mule, and spurred after his mistress--who had already recovered her lazo, readjusted her scarf, and was riding onward, as if nothing had occurred worth waiting for! it was at that moment--when the noose was seen circling in the air--that the shadow had reappeared upon the countenance or the creole. it was not surprise that caused it, but an emotion of a different character--a thought far more unpleasant. nor did it pass speedily away. it was still there--though a white hand holding the lorgnette to her eye might have hindered it from being seen--still there, as long as the mounted figures were visible upon the open road; and even after they had passed out of sight behind the screening of the acacias. "i wonder--oh, i wonder if it be she! my own age, he said--not quite so tall. the description suits--so far as one may judge at this distance. has her home on the rio grande. comes occasionally to the leona, to visit some relatives. who are they? why did i not ask him the name? _i wonder--oh, i wonder if it be she_!" chapter twenty five. a gift ungiven. for some minutes after the lady of the lazo and her attendant had passed out of sight, louise poindexter pursued the train of reflection--started by the somewhat singular episode of which she had been spectator. her attitude, and air, of continued dejection told that her thoughts had not been directed into a more cheerful channel. rather the reverse. once or twice before had her mind given way to imaginings, connected with that accomplished _equestrienne_; and more than once had she speculated upon her purpose in riding up the road. the incident just witnessed had suddenly changed her conjectures into suspicions of an exceedingly unpleasant nature. it was a relief to her, when a horseman appeared coming out of the chapparal, at the point where the others had ridden in; a still greater relief, when he was seen to swerve into the cross path that conducted to the hacienda, and was recognised, through the lorgnette, as zeb stump the hunter. the face of the creole became bright again--almost to gaiety. there was something ominous of good in the opportune appearance of the honest backwoodsman. "the man i was wanting to see!" she exclaimed in joyous accents. "_he_ can bear me a message; and perhaps tell who _she_ is. he must have met her on the road. that will enable me to introduce the subject, without zeb having any suspicion of my object. even with him i must be circumspect--after what has happened. ah, me! not much should i care, if i were sure of _his_ caring for me. how provoking his indifference! and to me--louise poindexter! _par dieu_! let it proceed much further, and i shall try to escape from the toils if--if--i should crush my poor heart in the attempt!" it need scarce be said that the individual, whose esteem was so coveted, was not zeb stump. her next speech, however, was addressed to zeb, as he reined up in front of the hacienda. "dear mr stump!" hailed a voice, to which the old hunter delighted to listen. "i'm so glad to see you. dismount, and come up here! i know you're a famous climber, and won't mind a flight of stone stairs. there's a view from this housetop that will reward you for your trouble." "thur's suthin' on the house-top theear," rejoined the hunter, "the view o' which 'ud reward zeb stump for climbin' to the top o' a steamboat chimbly; 'an thet's yurself, miss lewaze. i'll kum up, soon as i ha' stabled the ole maar, which shall be dud in the shakin' o' a goat's tail. gee-up, ole gal!" he continued, addressing himself to the mare, after he had dismounted, "hold up yur head, an may be plute hyur 'll gie ye a wheen o' corn shucks for yur breakfist." "ho--ho! mass 'tump," interposed the sable coachman, making his appearance in the _patio_. "dat same do dis nigga--gub um de shucks wi' de yaller corn inside ob dem. ho--ho! you gwup 'tairs to de young missa; an plute he no 'gleck yar ole mar." "yur a dod-rotted good sample o' a nigger, plute; an the nix occashun i shows about hyur, i'll fetch you a 'possum--wi' the meat on it as tender as a two-year old chicken. thet's what i'm boun' ter do." after delivering himself of this promise, zeb commenced ascending the stone stairway; not by single steps, but by two, and sometimes three, at a stride. he was soon upon the housetop; where he was once more welcomed by the young mistress of the mansion. her excited manner, and the eagerness with which she conducted him to a remote part of the azotea, told the astute hunter, that he had been summoned thither for some other purpose than enjoying the prospect. "tell me, mr stump!" said she, as she clutched the sleeve of the blanket coat in her delicate fingers, and looked inquiringly into zeb's grey eye--"you must know all. how is he? are his wounds of a dangerous nature?" "if you refar to mister cal-hoon--" "no--no--no. i know all about him. it's not of mr calhoun i'm speaking." "wall, miss lewasse; thur air only one other as i know of in these parts thet hev got wownds; an thet air's maurice the mowstanger. mout it be thet ere individooal yur inquirin' abeout?" "it is--it is! you know i cannot be indifferent to his welfare, notwithstanding the misfortune of his having quarrelled with my cousin. you are aware that he rescued me--twice i may say--from imminent peril. tell me--is he in great danger?" such earnestness could no longer be trifled with. zeb without further parley, made reply:-- "ne'er a morsel o' danger. thur's a bullet-hole jest above the ankle-jeint. it don't signerfy more'n the scratch o' a kitting. thur's another hev goed through the flesh o' the young fellur's left arm. it don't signerfy neyther--only thet it drawed a good sup o' the red out o' him. howsomdever, he's all right now; an expecks to be out o' doors in a kupple o' days, or tharabout. he sez that an hour in the seddle, an a skoot acrosst the purayra, 'ud do him more good than all the docters in texas. i reckon it wud; but the docter--it's the surgint o' the fort as attends on him--he won't let him git to grass yit a bit." "where is he?" "he air stayin' at the hotel--whar the skrimmage tuk place." "perhaps he is not well waited upon? it's a rough place, i've heard. he may not have any delicacies--such as an invalid stands in need of? stay here, mr stump, till i come up to you again. i have something i wish to send to him. i know i can trust you to deliver it. won't you? i'm sure you will. i shall be with you in six seconds." without waiting to note the effect of her speech, the young lady tripped lightly along the passage, and as lightly descended the stone stairway. presently she reappeared--bringing with her a good-sized hamper; which was evidently filled with eatables, with something to send them down. "now dear old zeb, you will take this to mr gerald? it's only some little things that florinda has put up; some cordials and jellies and the like, such as sick people at times have a craving for. they are not likely to be kept in the hotel. don't tell _him_ where they come from--_neither him, nor any one else_. you won't? i know you won't, you dear good giant." "he may depend on zeb stump for thet, miss lewaze. nobody air a goin' to be a bit the wiser about who sent these hyur delekissies; though, for the matter o' cakes an kickshaws, an all that sort o' thing, the mowstanger hain't had much reezun to complain. he hev been serplied wi' enuf o' them to hev filled the bellies o' a hul school o' shugar-babbies." "ha! supplied already! by whom?" "wal, thet theer this chile can't inform ye, miss lewaze; not be-knowin' it hisself. i on'y hyurd they wur fetched to the tavern in baskets, by some sort o' a sarving-man as air a mexikin. i've seed the man myself. fact, i've jest this minnit met him, ridin' arter a wuman sot stridy legs in her seddle, as most o' these mexikin weemen ride. i reck'n he be her sarvingt, as he war keepin' a good ways ahint, and toatin' a basket jest like one o' them maurice hed got arready. like enuf it air another lot o' rickshaws they wur takin' to the tavern." there was no need to trouble zeb stump with further cross-questioning. a whole history was supplied by that single speech. the case was painfully clear. in the regard of maurice gerald, louise poindexter had a rival--perhaps something more. the lady of the lazo was either his _fiancee_, or his mistress! it was not by accident--though to zeb stump it may have seemed so--that the hamper, steadied for a time, upon the coping of the balustrade, and still retained in the hand of the young creole, escaped from her clutch, and fell with a crash upon the stones below. the bottles were broken, and their contents spilled into the stream that surged along the basement of the wall. the action of the arm that produced this effect, apparently springing from a spasmodic and involuntary effort, was nevertheless due to design; and louise poindexter, as she leant over the parapet, and contemplated the ruin she had caused, felt as if her heart was shattered like the glass that lay glistening below! "how unfortunate!" said she, making a feint to conceal her chagrin. "the dainties are destroyed, i declare! what will florinda say? after all, if mr gerald be so well attended to, as you say he is, he'll not stand in need of them. i'm glad to hear he hasn't been neglected--one who has done me a service. but, mr stump, you needn't say anything of this, or that i inquired after him. you know his late antagonist is our near relative; and it might cause scandal in the settlement. dear zeb, you promise me?" "swa-ar it ef ye like. neery word, miss lewaze, neery word; ye kin depend on ole zeb." "i know it. come! the sun is growing hot up here. let as go down, and see whether we can find you such a thing as a glass of your favourite monongahela. come!" with an assumed air of cheerfulness, the young creole glided across the azotea; and, trilling the "new orleans waltz," once more commenced descending the _escalera_. in eager acceptance of the invitation, the old hunter followed close upon her skirts; and although, by habit, stoically indifferent to feminine charms--and with his thoughts at that moment chiefly bent upon the promised monongahela--he could not help admiring those ivory shoulders brought so conspicuously under his eyes. but for a short while was he permitted to indulge in the luxurious spectacle. on reaching the bottom of the stair his fair hostess bade him a somewhat abrupt adieu. after the revelations he had so unwittingly made, his conversation seemed no longer agreeable; and she, late desirous of interrogating, was now contented to leave him alone with the monongahela, as she hastened to hide her chagrin in the solitude of her chamber. for the first time in her life louise poindexter felt the pangs of jealousy. it was her first real love: for she was in love with maurice gerald. a solicitude like that shown for him by the mexican senora, could scarce spring from simple friendship? some closer tie must have been established between them? so ran the reflections of the now suffering creole. from what maurice had said--from what she had herself seen--the lady of the lazo was just such a woman as should win the affections of such a man. hers were accomplishments he might naturally be expected to admire. her figure had appeared perfect under the magnifying effect of the lens. the face had not been so fairly viewed, and was still undetermined. was it in correspondence with the form? was it such as to secure the love of a man so much master of his passions, as the mustanger appeared to be? the mistress of casa del corvo could not rest, till she had satisfied herself on this score. as soon as zeb stump had taken his departure, she ordered the spotted mare to be saddled; and, riding out alone, she sought the crossing of the river; and thence proceeded to the highway on the opposite side. advancing in the direction of the fort, as she expected, she soon encountered the mexican senora on her return; no _senora_ according to the exact signification of the term, but a _senorita_--a young lady, not older than herself. at the place of their meeting, the road ran under the shadow of the trees. there was no sun to require the coifing of the rebozo upon the crown of the mexican equestrian. the scarf had fallen upon her shoulders, laying bare a head of hair, in luxuriance rivalling the tail of a wild steed, in colour the plumage of a crow. it formed the framing of a face, that, despite a certain darkness of complexion, was charmingly attractive. good breeding permitted only a glance at it in passing; which was returned by a like courtesy on the part of the stranger. but as the two rode on, back to back, going in opposite directions, neither could restrain herself from turning round in the saddle, and snatching a second glance at the other. their reflections were not very dissimilar: if louise poindexter had already learnt something of the individual thus encountered, the latter was not altogether ignorant of _her_ existence. we shall not attempt to portray the thoughts of the senorita consequent on that encounter. suffice it to say, that those of the creole were even more sombre than when she sallied forth on that errand of inspection; and that the young mistress of casa del corvo rode back to the mansion, all the way seated in her saddle in an attitude that betokened the deepest dejection. "beautiful!" said she, after passing her supposed rival upon the road. "yes; too beautiful to be his friend!" louise was speaking to her own conscience; or she might have been more chary of her praise. "i cannot have any doubt," continued she, "of the relationship that exists between them--he loves her!--he loves her! it accounts for his cold indifference to me? i've been mad to risk my heart's happiness in such an ill-starred entanglement! "and now to disentangle it! now to banish him from my thoughts! ah! 'tis easily said! can i?" "i shall see him no more. that, at least, is possible. after what has occurred, he will not come to our house. we can only meet by accident; and that accident i must be careful to avoid. oh, maurice gerald! tamer of wild steeds! you have subdued a spirit that may suffer long--perhaps never recover from the lesson!" chapter twenty six. still on the azotea. to banish from the thoughts one who has been passionately loved is a simple impossibility. time may do much to subdue the pain of an unreciprocated passion, and absence more. but neither time, nor absence, can hinder the continued recurrence of that longing for the lost loved one--or quiet the heart aching with that void that has never been satisfactorily filled. louise poindexter had imbibed a passion that could not be easily stifled. though of brief existence, it had been of rapid growth-- vigorously overriding all obstacles to its indulgence. it was already strong enough to overcome such ordinary scruples as parental consent, or the inequality of rank; and, had it been reciprocated, neither would have stood in the way, so far as she herself was concerned. for the former, she was of age; and felt--as most of her countrywomen do-- capable of taking care of herself. for the latter, who ever really loved that cared a straw for class, or caste? love has no such meanness in its composition. at all events, there was none such in the passion of louise poindexter. it could scarce be called the first illusion of her life. it was, however, the first, where disappointment was likely to prove dangerous to the tranquillity of her spirit. she was not unaware of this. she anticipated unhappiness for a while-- hoping that time would enable her to subdue the expected pain. at first, she fancied she would find a friend in her own strong will; and another in the natural buoyancy of her spirit. but as the days passed, she found reason to distrust both: for in spite of both, she could not erase from her thoughts the image of the man who had so completely captivated her imagination. there were times when she hated him, or tried to do so--when she could have killed him, or seen him killed, without making an effort to save him! they were but moments; each succeeded by an interval of more righteous reflection, when she felt that the fault was hers alone, as hers only the misfortune. _no_ matter for this. it mattered not if he had been her enemy--the enemy of all mankind. if lucifer himself--to whom in her wild fancy she had once likened him--she would have loved him all the same! and it would have proved nothing abnormal in her disposition--nothing to separate her from the rest of womankind, all the world over. in the mind of man, or woman either, there is no connection between the _moral_ and the _passional_. they are as different from each other as fire from water. they may chance to run in the same channel; but they may go diametrically opposite. in other words, we may love the very being we hate--ay, the one we despise! louise poindexter could neither hate, nor despise, maurice gerald. she could only endeavour to feel indifference. it was a vain effort, and ended in failure. she could not restrain herself from ascending to the azotea, and scrutinising the road where she had first beheld the cause of her jealousy. each day, and almost every hour of the day, was the ascent repeated. still more. notwithstanding her resolve, to avoid the accident of an encounter with the man who had made her miserable, she was oft in the saddle and abroad, scouring the country around--riding through the streets of the village--with no other object than to meet him. during the three days that followed that unpleasant discovery, once again had she seen--from the housetop as before--the lady of the lazo _en route_ up the road, as before accompanied by her attendant with the pannier across his arm--that pandora's box that had bred such mischief in her mind--while she herself stood trembling with jealousy--envious of the other's errand. she knew more now, though not much. only had she learnt the name and social standing of her rival. the dona isidora covarubio de los llanos--daughter of a wealthy haciendado, who lived upon the rio grande, and niece to another whose estate lay upon the leona, a mile beyond the boundaries of her father's new purchase. an eccentric young lady, as some thought, who could throw a lazo, tame a wild steed, or anything else excepting her own caprices. such was the character of the mexican senorita, as known to the american settlers on the leona. a knowledge of it did not remove the jealous suspicions of the creole. on the contrary, it tended to confirm them. such practices were her own predilections. she had been created with an instinct to admire them. she supposed that others must do the same. the young irishman was not likely to be an exception. there was an interval of several days--during which the lady of the lazo was not seen again. "he has recovered from his wounds?" reflected the creole. "he no longer needs such unremitting attention." she was upon the azotea at the moment of making this reflection-- lorgnette in hand, as she had often been before. it was in the morning, shortly after sunrise: the hour when the mexican had been wont to make her appearance. louise had been looking towards the quarter whence the senorita might have been expected to come. on turning her eyes in the opposite direction, she beheld--that which caused her something more than surprise. she saw maurice gerald, mounted on horseback, and riding down the road! though seated somewhat stiffly in the saddle, and going at a slow pace, it was certainly he. the glass declared his identity; at the same time disclosing the fact, that his left arm was suspended in a sling. on recognising him, she shrank behind the parapet--as she did so, giving utterance to a suppressed cry. why that anguished utterance? was it the sight of the disabled arm, or the pallid face: for the glass had enabled her to distinguish both? neither one nor the other. neither could be a cause of surprise. besides, it was an exclamation far differently intoned to those of either pity or astonishment. it was an expression of sorrow, that had for its origin some heartfelt chagrin. the invalid was convalescent. he no longer needed to be visited by his nurse. he was on the way to visit _her_! cowering behind the parapet--screened by the flower-spike of the _yucca_--louise poindexter watched the passing horseman. the lorgnette enabled her to note every movement made by him--almost to the play of his features. she felt some slight gratification on observing that he turned his face at intervals and fixed his regard upon casa del corvo. it was increased, when on reaching a copse, that stood by the side of the road, and nearly opposite the house, he reined up behind the trees, and for a long time remained in the same spot, as if reconnoitring the mansion. she almost conceived a hope, that he might be thinking of its mistress! it was but a gleam of joy, departing like the sunlight under the certain shadow of an eclipse. it was succeeded by a sadness that might be appropriately compared to such shadow: for to her the world at that moment seemed filled with gloom. maurice gerald had ridden on. he had entered the chapparal; and become lost to view with the road upon which he was riding. whither was he bound? whither, but to visit dona isidora covarubio de los llanos? it mattered not that he returned within less than an hour. they might have met in the woods--within eyeshot of that jealous spectator--but for the screening of the trees. an hour was sufficient interview--for lovers, who could every day claim unrestricted indulgence. it mattered not, that in passing upwards he again cast regards towards casa del corvo; again halted behind the copse, and passed some time in apparent scrutiny of the mansion. it was but mockery--or exultation. he might well feel triumphant; but why should he be cruel, with kisses upon his lips--the kisses he had received from the dona isidora covarubio de los llanos? chapter twenty seven. i love you!--i love you! louise poindexter upon the azotea again--again to be subjected to a fresh chagrin! that broad stone stairway trending up to the housetop, seemed to lead only to spectacles that gave her pain. she had mentally vowed no more to ascend it--at least for a long time. something stronger than her strong will combatted--and successfully--the keeping of that vow. it was broken ere the sun of another day had dried the dew from the grass of the prairie. as on the day before, she stood by the parapet scanning the road on the opposite side of the river; as before, she saw the horseman with the slung arm ride past; as before, she crouched to screen herself from observation. he was going downwards, as on the day preceding. in like manner did he cast long glances towards the hacienda, and made halt behind the clump of trees that grew opposite. her heart fluttered between hope and fear. there was an instant when she felt half inclined to show herself. fear prevailed; and in the next instant he was gone. whither? the self-asked interrogatory was but the same as of yesterday. it met with a similar response. whither, if not to meet dona isidora covarubio de los llanos? could there be a doubt of it? if so, it was soon to be determined. in less than twenty minutes after, a parded steed was seen upon the same road--and in the same direction-- with a lady upon its back. the jealous heart of the creole could hold out no longer. no truth could cause greater torture than she was already suffering through suspicion. she had resolved on assuring herself, though the knowledge should prove fatal to the last faint remnant of her hopes. she entered the chapparal where the mustanger had ridden in scarce twenty minutes before. she rode on beneath the flitting shadows of the acacias. she rode in silence upon the soft turf--keeping close to the side of the path, so that the hoof might not strike against stones. the long pinnate fronds, drooping down to the level of her eyes, mingled with the plumes in her hat. she sate her saddle crouchingly, as if to avoid being observed--all the while with earnest glance scanning the open space before her. she reached the crest of a hill which commanded a view beyond. there was a house in sight surrounded by tall trees. it might have been termed a mansion. it was the residence of don silvio martinez, the uncle of dona isidora. so much had she learnt already. there were other houses to be seen upon the plain below; but on this one, and the road leading to it, the eyes of the creole became fixed in a glance of uneasy interrogation. for a time she continued her scrutiny without satisfaction. no one appeared either at the house, or near it. the private road leading to the residence of the haciendado, and the public highway, were alike without living forms. some horses were straying over the pastures; but not one with a rider upon his back. could the lady have ridden out to meet him, or maurice gone in? were they at that moment in the woods, or within the walls of the house? if the former, was don silvio aware of it? if the latter, was he at home--an approving party to the assignation? with such questions was the creole afflicting herself, when the neigh of a horse broke abruptly on her ear, followed by the chinking of a shod hoof against the stones of the causeway. she looked below: for she had halted upon the crest, a steep acclivity. the mustanger was ascending it--riding directly towards her. she might have seen him sooner, had she not been occupied with the more distant view. he was alone, as he had ridden past casa del corvo. there was nothing to show that he had recently been in company--much less in the company of an _inamorata_. it was too late for louise to shun him. the spotted mustang had replied to the salutation of an old acquaintance. its rider was constrained to keep her ground, till the mustanger came up. "good day, miss poindexter?" said he--for upon the prairies it is _not_ etiquette for the lady to speak first. "alone?" "alone, sir. and why not?" "'tis a solitary ride among the chapparals. but true: i think i've heard you say you prefer that sort of thing?" "you appear to like it yourself, mr gerald. to you, however, it is not so solitary, i presume?" "in faith i do like it; and just for that very reason. i have the misfortune to live at a tavern, or `hotel,' as mine host is pleased to call it; and one gets so tired of the noises--especially an invalid, as i have the bad luck to be--that a ride along this quiet road is something akin to luxury. the cool shade of these acacias--which the mexicans have vulgarised by the name of _mezquites_--with the breeze that keeps constantly circulating through their fan-like foliage, would invigorate the feeblest of frames. don't you think so, miss poindexter?" "you should know best, sir," was the reply vouchsafed, after some seconds of embarrassment. "you, who have so often tried it." "often! i have been only twice down this road since i have been able to sit in my saddle. but, miss poindexter, may i ask how you knew that i have been this way at all?" "oh!" rejoined louise, her colour going and coming as she spoke, "how could i help knowing it? i am in the habit of spending much time on the housetop. the view, the breeze, the music of the birds, ascending from the garden below, makes it a delightful spot--especially in the cool of the morning. our roof commands a view of this road. being up there, how could i avoid seeing you as you passed--that is, so long as you were not under _the shade of the acacias_?" "you saw me, then?" said maurice, with an embarrassed air, which was not caused by the innuendo conveyed in her last words--which he could not have comprehended--but by a remembrance of how he had himself behaved while riding along the reach of open road. "how could i help it?" was the ready reply. "the distance is scarce six hundred yards. even a lady, mounted upon a steed much smaller than yours, was sufficiently conspicuous to be identified. when i saw her display her wonderful skill, by strangling a poor little antelope with her lazo, i knew it could be no other than she whose accomplishments you were so good as to give me an account of." "isidora?" "isidora!" "ah; true! she has been here for some time." "and has been very kind to mr maurice gerald?" "indeed, it is true. she has been very kind; though i have had no chance of thanking her. with all her friendship for poor me, she is a great hater of us foreign invaders; and would not condescend to step over the threshold of mr oberdoffer's hotel." "indeed! i suppose she preferred meeting you under the _shade of the acacias_!" "i have not met her at all; at least, not for many months; and may not for months to come--now that she has gone back to her home on the rio grande." "are you speaking the truth, sir? you have not seen her since--she is gone away from the house of her uncle?" "she has," replied maurice, exhibiting surprise. "of course, i have not seen her. i only knew she was here by her sending me some delicacies while i was ill. in truth, i stood in need of them. the hotel _cuisine_ is none of the nicest; nor was i the most welcome of mr oberdoffer's guests. the dona isidora has been but too grateful for the slight service i once did her." "a service! may i ask what it was, mr gerald?" "oh, certainly. it was merely a chance. i had the opportunity of being useful to the young lady, in once rescuing her from some rude indians-- wild oat and his seminoles--into whose hands she had fallen, while making a journey from the rio grande to visit her uncle on the leona-- don silvio martinez, whose house you can see from here. the brutes had got drunk; and were threatening--not exactly her life--though that was in some danger, but--well, the poor girl was in trouble with them, and might have had some difficulty in getting away, had i not chanced to ride up." "a slight service, you call it? you are modest in your estimate, mr gerald. a man who should do that much for _me_!" "what would you do for _him_?" asked the mustanger, placing a significant emphasis on the final word. "i should _love_ him," was the prompt reply. "then," said maurice, spurring his horse close up to the side of the spotted mustang, and whispering into the ear of its rider, with an earnestness strangely contrasting to his late reticence, "i would give half my life to see you in the hands of wild cat and his drunken comrades--the other half to deliver you from the danger." "do you mean this, maurice gerald? do not trifle with me: i am not a child. speak the truth! do you mean it?" "i do! as heaven is above me, i do!" the sweetest kiss i ever had in my life, was when a woman--a fair creature, in the hunting field--leant over in her saddle and kissed me as i sate in mine. the fondest embrace ever received by maurice gerald, was that given by louise poindexter; when, standing up in her stirrup, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, she cried in an agony of earnest passion-- "_do with me as thou wilt: i love you, i love you_!" chapter twenty eight. a pleasure forbidden. ever since texas became the scene of an anglo-saxon immigration--i might go a century farther back and say, from the time of its colonisation by the descendants of the conquistadores--the subject of primary importance has been the disposition of its aborigines. whether these, the lawful lords of the soil, chanced to be in a state of open war--or whether, by some treaty with the settlers they were consenting to a temporary peace--made but slight difference, so far as they were talked about. in either case they were a topic of daily discourse. in the former it related to the dangers to be hourly apprehended from them; in the latter, to the probable duration of such treaty as might for the moment be binding them to hold their tomahawks entombed. in mexican times these questions formed the staple of conversation, at _desayuno, almuerzo, comida, y cena_; in american times, up to this present hour, they have been the themes of discussion at the breakfast, dinner, and supper tables. in the planter's piazza, as in the hunter's camp, bear, deer, cougar, and peccary, are not named with half the frequency, or half the fear-inspiring emphasis, allotted to the word "indian." it is this that scares the texan child instead of the stereotyped nursery ghost, keeping it awake upon its moss-stuffed mattress--disturbing almost as much the repose of its parent. despite the surrounding of strong walls--more resembling those of a fortress than a gentleman's dwelling--the inmates of casa del corvo were not excepted from this feeling of apprehension, universal along the frontier. as yet they knew little of the indians, and that little only from report; but, day by day, they were becoming better acquainted with the character of this natural "terror" that interfered with the slumbers of their fellow settlers. that it was no mere "bogie" they had begun to believe; but if any of them remained incredulous, a note received from the major commanding the fort--about two weeks after the horse-hunting expedition--was calculated to cure them of their incredulity. it came in the early morning, carried by a mounted rifleman. it was put into the hands of the planter just as he was about sitting down to the breakfast-table, around which were assembled the three individuals who composed his household--his daughter louise, his son henry, and his nephew cassius calhoun. "startling news!" he exclaimed, after hastily reading, the note. "not very pleasant if true; and i suppose there can be no doubt of that, since the major appears convinced." "unpleasant news, papa?" asked his daughter, a spot of red springing to her cheek as she put the question. the spoken interrogatory was continued by others, not uttered aloud. "what can the major have written to him? i met him yesterday while riding in the chapparal. he saw me in company with--can it be that? _mon dieu_! if father should hear it--" "`the comanches on the war trail'--so writes the major." "oh, that's all!" said louise, involuntarily giving voice to the phrase, as if the news had nothing so very fearful in it. "you frightened us, sir. i thought it was something worse." "worse! what trifling, child, to talk so! there is nothing worse, in texas, than comanches on the war trail--nothing half so dangerous." louise might have thought there was--a danger at least as difficult to be avoided. perhaps she was reflecting upon a pursuit of wild steeds-- or thinking of the _trail of a lazo_. she made no reply. calhoun continued the conversation. "is the major sure of the indians being up? what does he say, uncle?" "that there have been rumours of it for some days past, though not reliable. now it is certain. last night wild cat, the seminole chief, came to the fort with a party of his tribe; bringing the news that the painted pole has been erected in the camps of the comanches all over texas, and that the war dance has been going on for more than a month. that several parties are already out upon the maraud, and may be looked for among the settlements at any moment." "and wild cat himself--what of him?" asked louise, an unpleasant reminiscence suggesting the inquiry. "is that renegade indian to be trusted, who appears to be as much an enemy to the whites as to the people of his own race?" "quite true, my daughter. you have described the chief of the seminoles almost in the same terms as i find him spoken of, in a postscript to the major's letter. he counsels us to beware of the two-faced old rascal, who will be sure to take sides with the comanches, whenever it may suit his convenience to do so." "well," continued the planter, laying aside the note, and betaking himself to his coffee and waffles, "i trust we sha'n't see any redskins here--either seminoles or comanches. in making their marauds, let us hope they will not like the look of the crenelled parapets of casa del corvo, but give the hacienda a wide berth." before any one could respond, a sable face appearing at the door of the dining-room--which was the apartment in which breakfast was being eaten--caused a complete change in the character of the conversation. the countenance belonged to pluto, the coachman. "what do you want, pluto?" inquired his owner. "ho, ho! massr woodley, dis chile want nuffin 't all. only look in t' tell missa looey dat soon's she done eat her brekfass de spotty am unner de saddle, all ready for chuck de bit into him mouf. ho! ho! dat critter do dance 'bout on de pave stone as ef it wa' mad to 'treak it back to de smoove tuff ob de praira." "going out for a ride, louise?" asked the planter with a shadow upon his brow, which he made but little effort to conceal. "yes, papa; i was thinking of it." "you must not." "indeed!" "i mean, that you must not ride out _alone_. it is not proper." "why do you think so, papa? i have often ridden out alone." "yes; perhaps too often." this last remark brought the slightest tinge of colour to the cheeks of the young creole; though she seemed uncertain what construction she was to put upon it. notwithstanding its ambiguity, she did not press for an explanation. on the contrary, she preferred shunning it; as was shown by her reply. "if you think so, papa, i shall not go out again. though to be cooped up here, in this dismal dwelling, while you gentlemen are all abroad upon business--is that the life you intend me to lead in texas?" "nothing of the sort, my daughter. i have no objection to your riding out as much as you please; but henry must be with you, or your cousin cassius. i only lay an embargo on your going alone. i have my reasons." "reasons! what are they?" the question came involuntarily to her lips. it had scarce passed them, ere she regretted having asked it. by her uneasy air it was evident she had apprehensions as to the answer. the reply appeared partially to relieve her. "what other reasons do you want," said the planter, evidently endeavouring to escape from the suspicion of duplicity by the statement of a convenient fact--"what better, than the contents of this letter from the major? remember, my child, you are not in louisiana, where a lady may travel anywhere without fear of either insult or outrage; but in texas, where she may dread both--where even her life may be in danger. here there are indians." "my excursions don't extend so far from the house, that i need have any fear of indians. i never go more than five miles at the most." "five miles!" exclaimed the ex-officer of volunteers, with a sardonic smile; "you would be as safe at fifty, cousin loo. you are just as likely to encounter the redskins within a hundred yards of the door, as at the distance of a hundred miles. when they are on the war trail they may be looked for anywhere, and at any time. in my opinion, uncle woodley is rights you are very foolish to ride out alone." "oh! _you_ say so?" sharply retorted the young creole, turning disdainfully towards her cousin. "and pray, sir, may i ask of what service your company would be to me in the event of my encountering the comanches, which i don't believe there's the slightest danger of my doing? a pretty figure we'd cut--the pair of us--in the midst of a war-party of painted savages! ha! ha! the danger would be yours, not mine: since i should certainly ride away, and leave you to your own devices. danger, indeed, within five miles of the house! if there's a horseman in texas--savages not excepted--who can catch up with my little luna in a five mile stretch, he must ride a swift steed; which is more than you do, mr cash!" "silence, daughter!" commanded poindexter. "don't let me hear you talk in that absurd strain. take no notice of it, nephew. even if there were no danger from indians, there are other outlaws in these parts quite as much to be shunned as they. enough that i forbid you to ride abroad, as you have of late been accustomed to do." "be it as you will, papa," rejoined louise, rising from the breakfast-table, and with an air of resignation preparing to leave the room. "of course i shall obey you--at the risk of losing my health for want of exercise. go, pluto!" she added, addressing herself to the darkey, who still stood grinning in the doorway, "turn luna loose into the corral--the pastures--anywhere. let her stray back to her native prairies, if the creature be so inclined; she's no longer needed here." with this speech, the young lady swept out of the _sala_, leaving the three gentlemen, who still retained their seats by the table, to reflect upon the satire intended to be conveyed by her words. they were not the last to which she gave utterance in that same series. as she glided along the corridor leading to her own chamber, others, low murmured, mechanically escaped from her lips. they were in the shape of interrogatories--a string of them self-asked, and only to be answered by conjecture. "what can papa have heard? is it but his suspicions? can any one have told him? does he knew that we have met?" chapter twenty nine. el coyote at home. calhoun took his departure from the breakfast-table, almost as abruptly as his cousin; but, on leaving the _sala_ instead of returning to his own chamber, he sallied forth from the house. still suffering from wounds but half healed, he was nevertheless sufficiently convalescent to go abroad--into the garden, to the stables, the corrals--anywhere around the house. on the present occasion, his excursion was intended to conduct him to a more distant point. as if under the stimulus of what had turned up in the conversation--or perhaps by the contents of the letter that had been read--his feebleness seemed for the time to have forsaken him; and, vigorously plying his crutch, he proceeded up the river in the direction of fort inge. in a barren tract of land, that lay about half way between the hacienda and the fort--and that did not appear to belong to any one--he arrived at the terminus of his limping expedition. there was a grove of _mezquit_, with, some larger trees shading it; and in the midst of this, a rude hovel of "wattle and dab," known in south-western texas as a _jacale_. it was the domicile of miguel diaz, the mexican mustanger--a lair appropriate to the semi-savage who had earned for himself the distinctive appellation of _el coyote_ ("prairie wolf.") it was not always that the wolf could be found in his den--for his _jacale_ deserved no better description. it was but his occasional sleeping-place; during those intervals of inactivity when, by the disposal of a drove of captured mustangs, he could afford to stay for a time within the limits of the settlement, indulging in such gross pleasures as its proximity afforded. calhoun was fortunate in finding him at home; though not quite so fortunate as to find him in a state of sobriety. he was not exactly intoxicated--having, after a prolonged spell of sleep, partially recovered from this, the habitual condition of his existence. "_h'la nor_!" he exclaimed in his provincial patois, slurring the salutation, as his visitor darkened the door of the _jacale_. "_p'r dios_! who'd have expected to see you? _sientese_! be seated. take a chair. there's one. a chair! ha! ha! ha!" the laugh was called up at contemplation of that which he had facetiously termed a chair. it was the skull of a mustang, intended to serve as such; and which, with another similar piece, a rude table of cleft yucca-tree, and a couch of cane reeds, upon which the owner of the _jacale_ was reclining, constituted the sole furniture of miguel diaz's dwelling. calhoun, fatigued with his halting promenade, accepted the invitation of his host, and sate down upon the horse-skull. he did not permit much time to pass, before entering upon the object of his errand. "senor diaz!" said he, "i have come for--" "senor americano!" exclaimed the half-drunken horse-hunter, cutting short the explanation, "why waste words upon that? _carrambo_! i know well enough for what you've come. you want me to _wipe out_ that devilish _irlandes_!" "well!" "well; i promised you i would do it, for five hundred _pesos_--at the proper time and opportunity. i will. miguel diaz never played false to his promise. but the time's not come, _nor capitan_; nor yet the opportunity, _carajo_! to kill a man outright requires skill. it can't be done--even on the prairies--without danger of detection; and if detected, ha! what chance for me? you forget, _nor capitan_, that i'm a mexican. if i were of your people, i might slay don mauricio; and get clear on the score of its being a quarrel. _maldita_! with us mexicans it is different. if we stick our machete into a man so as to let out his life's blood, it is called murder; and you americanos, with your stupid juries of twelve _honest_ men, would pronounce it so: ay, and hang a poor fellow for it. _chingaro_! i can't risk that. i hate the irlandes as much as you; but i'm not going to chop off my nose to spite my own face. i must wait for the time, and the chance--_carrai_, the time and the chance." "both are come!" exclaimed the tempter, bending earnestly towards the bravo. "you said you could easily do it, if there was any indian trouble going on?" "of course i said so. if there was that--" "you have not heard the news, then?" "what news?" "that the comanches are starting on the war trail." "_carajo_!" exclaimed el coyote, springing up from his couch of reeds, and exhibiting all the activity of his namesake, when roused by the scent of prey. "_santissima virgen_! do you speak the truth, _nor capitan_?" "neither more nor less. the news has just reached the fort. i have it on the best authority--the officer in command." "in that case," answered the mexican reflecting!--"in that case, don mauricio may die. the comanches can kill him. ha! ha! ha!" "you are sure of it?" "i should be surer, if his scalp were worth a thousand dollars, instead of five hundred." "it _is_ worth that sum." "what sum?" "a thousand dollars." "you promise it?" "i do." "then the comanches _shall_ scalp him, _nor capitan_. you may return to casa del corvo, and go to sleep with confidence that whenever the opportunity arrives, your enemy will lose his hair. you understand?" "i do." "get ready your thousand _pesos_." "they wait your acceptance." "_carajo_! i shall earn them in a trice. adios! adios!" "_santissima virgen_!" exclaimed the profane ruffian, as his visitor limped out of sight. "what a magnificent fluke of fortune! a perfect _chiripe_. a thousand dollars for killing the man i intended to kill on my own account, without charging anybody a single _claco_ for the deed! "the comanches upon the war trail! _chingaro_! can it be true? if so, i must look up my old disguise--gone to neglect through these three long years of accursed peace. _viva la guerra de los indios_! success to the pantomime of the prairies!" chapter thirty. a sagittary correspondence. louise poindexter, passionately addicted to the sports termed "manly," could scarce have overlooked archery. she had not. the how, and its adjunct the arrow, were in her hands as toys which she could control to her will. she had been instructed in their _manege_ by the houma indians; a remnant of whom--the last descendants of a once powerful tribe--may still be encountered upon the "coast" of the mississippi, in the proximity of point coupe and the _bayou_ atchafalaya. for a long time her bow had lain unbent--unpacked, indeed, ever since it had formed part of the paraphernalia brought overland in the waggon train. since her arrival at casa del corvo she had found no occasion to use the weapon of diana; and her beautiful bow of osage-orange wood, and quiver of plumed arrows, had lain neglected in the lumber-room. there came a time when they were taken forth, and honoured with some attention. it was shortly after that scene at the breakfast table; when she had received the paternal command to discontinue her equestrian excursions. to this she had yielded implicit obedience, even beyond what was intended: since not only had she given up riding out alone, but declined to do so in company. the spotted mustang stood listless in its stall, or pranced frantically around the corral; wondering why its spine was no longer crossed, or its ribs compressed, by that strange caparison, that more than aught else reminded it of its captivity. it was not neglected, however. though no more mounted by its fair mistress, it was the object of her daily--almost hourly--solicitude. the best corn in the _granaderias_ of casa del corvo was selected, the most nutritions grass that grows upon the lavanna--the _gramma_-- furnished for its manger; while for drink it had the cool crystal water from the current of the leona. pluto took delight in grooming it; and, under his currycomb and brushes, its coat had attained a gloss which rivalled that upon pluto's own sable skin. while not engaged attending upon her pet, miss poindexter divided the residue of her time between indoor duties and archery. the latter she appeared to have selected as the substitute for that pastime of which she was so passionately fond, and in which she was now denied indulgence. the scene of her sagittary performances was the garden, with its adjacent shrubbery--an extensive enclosure, three sides of which were fenced in by the river itself, curving round it like the shoe of a racehorse, the fourth being a straight line traced by the rearward wall of the hacienda. within this circumference a garden, with ornamental grounds, had been laid out, in times long gone by--as might have been told by many ancient exotics seen standing over it. even the statues spoke of a past age-- not only in their decay, but in the personages they were intended to represent. equally did they betray the chisel of the spanish sculptor. among them you might see commemorated the figure and features of the great conde; of the campeador; of ferdinand and his energetic queen; of the discoverer of the american world; of its two chief _conquistadores_--cortez and pizarro; and of her, alike famous for her beauty and devotion, the mexican malinche. it was not amidst these sculptured stones that louise poindexter practised her feats of archery; though more than once might she have been seen standing before the statue of malinche, and scanning the voluptuous outline of the indian maiden's form; not with any severe thought of scorn, that this dark-skinned daughter of eve had succumbed to such a conqueror as cortez. the young creole felt, in her secret heart, that she had no right to throw a stone at that statue. to one less famed than cortez--though in her estimation equally deserving of fame--she had surrendered what the great conquistador had won from marina--her heart of hearts. in her excursions with the bow, which were of diurnal occurrence, she strayed not among the statues. her game was not there to be found; but under the shadow of tall trees that, keeping the curve of the river, formed a semicircular grove between it and the garden. most of these trees were of indigenous growth--wild chinas, mulberries, and pecans-- that in the laying out of the grounds had been permitted to remain where nature, perhaps some centuries ago, had scattered their seed. it was under the leafy canopy of these fair forest trees the young creole delighted to sit--or stray along the edge of the pellucid river, that rolled dreamily by. here she was free to be alone; which of late appeared to be her preference. her father, in his sternest mood, could not have denied her so slight a privilege. if there was danger upon the outside prairie, there could be none within the garden--enclosed, as it was, by a river broad and deep, and a wall that could not have been scaled without the aid of a thirty-round ladder. so far from objecting to this solitary strolling, the planter appeared something more than satisfied that his daughter had taken to these tranquil habits; and the suspicions which he had conceived--not altogether without a cause--were becoming gradually dismissed from his mind. after all he might have been misinformed? the tongue of scandal takes delight in torturing; and he may have been chosen as one of its victims? or, perhaps, it was but a casual thing--the encounter of which he had been told, between his daughter and maurice the mustanger? they may have met by accident in the chapparal? she could not well pass, without speaking to, the man who had twice rescued her from a dread danger. there might have been nothing in it, beyond the simple acknowledgment of her gratitude? it looked well that she had, with such willingness, consented to relinquish her rides. it was but little in keeping with her usual custom, when crossed. obedience to that particular command could not have been irksome; and argued innocence uncontaminated, virtue still intact. so reasoned the fond father; who, beyond conjecture, was not permitted to scrutinise too closely the character of his child. in other lands, or in a different class of society, he might possibly have asked direct questions, and required direct answers to them. this is not the method upon the mississippi; where a son of ten years old--a daughter of less than fifteen--would rebel against such scrutiny, and call it inquisition. still less might woodley poindexter strain the statutes of parental authority--the father of a creole belle--for years used to that proud homage whose incense often stills, or altogether destroys, the simpler affections of the heart. though her father, and by law her controller, he knew to what a short length his power might extend, if exerted in opposition to her will. he was, therefore, satisfied with her late act of obedience--rejoiced to find that instead of continuing her reckless rides upon the prairie, she now contented herself within the range of the garden--with bow and arrow slaying the small birds that were so unlucky as to come under her aim. father of fifty years old, why reason in this foolish fashion? have you forgotten your own youth--the thoughts that then inspired you--the deceits you practised under such inspiration--the counterfeits you assumed--the "stories" you told to cloak what, after all, may have been the noblest impulse of your nature? the father of the fair louise appeared to have become oblivious to recollections of this kind: for his early life was not without facts to have furnished them. they must have been forgotten, else he would have taken occasion to follow his daughter into the garden, and observe her-- himself unobserved--while disporting herself in the shrubbery that bordered the river bank. by doing so, he would have discovered that her disposition was not so cruel as may have been supposed. instead of transfixing the innocent birds that fluttered in such foolish confidence around her, her greatest feat in archery appeared to be the impaling of a piece of paper upon the point of her arrow, and sending the shaft thus charged across the river, to fall harmlessly into a thicket on the opposite side. he would have witnessed an exhibition still more singular. he would have seen the arrow thus spent--after a short interval, as if dissatisfied with the place into which it had been shot, and desirous of returning to the fair hand whence it had taken its departure--come back into the garden with the same, or a similar piece of paper, transfixed upon its shaft! the thing might have appeared mysterious--even supernatural--to an observer unacquainted with the spirit and mechanism of that abnormal phenomenon. there was no observer of it save the two individuals who alternately bent the bow, shooting with a single arrow; and by them it was understood. "love laughs at locksmiths." the old adage is scarce suited to texas, where lock-making is an unknown trade. "where there's a will, there's a way," expresses pretty much the same sentiment, appropriate to all time and every place. never was it more correctly illustrated than in that exchange of bow-shots across the channel of the leona. louise poindexter had the will; maurice gerald had suggested the way. chapter thirty one. a stream cleverly crossed. the sagittary correspondence could not last for long. they are but lukewarm lovers who can content themselves with a dialogue carried on at bowshot distance. hearts brimful of passion must beat and burn together--in close proximity--each feeling the pulsation of the other. "if there be an elysium on earth, it is this!" maurice gerald was not the man--nor louise poindexter the woman--to shun such a consummation. it came to pass: not under the tell-tale light of the sun, but in the lone hour of midnight, when but the stars could have been witnesses of their social dereliction. twice had they stood together in that garden grove--twice had they exchanged love vows--under the steel-grey light of the stars; and a third interview had been arranged between them. little suspected the proud planter--perhaps prouder of his daughter than anything else he possessed--that she was daily engaged in an act of rebellion--the wildest against which parental authority may pronounce itself. his own daughter--his only daughter--of the best blood of southern aristocracy; beautiful, accomplished, everything to secure him a splendid alliance--holding nightly assignation with a horse-hunter! could he have but dreamt it when slumbering upon his soft couch, the dream would have startled him from his sleep like the call of the eternal trumpet! he had no suspicion--not the slightest. the thing was too improbable-- too monstrous, to have given cause for one. its very monstrosity would have disarmed him, had the thought been suggested. he had been pleased at his daughter's compliance with his late injunctions; though he would have preferred her obeying them to the letter, and riding out in company with her brother or cousin--which she still declined to do. this, however, he did not insist upon. he could well concede so much to her caprice: since her staying at home could be no disadvantage to the cause that had prompted him to the stern counsel. her ready obedience had almost influenced him to regret the prohibition. walking in confidence by day, and sleeping in security by night, he fancied, it might be recalled. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ it was one of those nights known only to a southern sky, when the full round moon rolls clear across a canopy of sapphire; when the mountains have no mist, and look as though you could lay your hand upon them; when the wind is hushed, and the broad leaves of the tropical trees droop motionless from their boughs; themselves silent as if listening to the concert of singular sounds carried on in their midst, and in which mingle the voices of living creatures belonging to every department of animated nature--beast, bird, reptile, and insect. such a night was it, as you would select for a stroll in company with the being--the one and only being--who, by the mysterious dictation of nature, has entwined herself around your heart--a night upon which you feel a wayward longing to have white arms entwined around your neck, and bright eyes before your face, with that voluptuous gleaming that can only be felt to perfection under the mystic light of the moon. it was long after the infantry drum had beaten tattoo, and the cavalry bugle sounded the signal for the garrison of fort inge to go to bed--in fact it was much nearer the hour of midnight--when a horseman rode away from the door of oberdoffer's hotel; and, taking the down-river road, was soon lost to the sight of the latest loiterer who might have been strolling through the streets of the village. it is already known, that this road passed the hacienda of casa del corvo, at some distance from the house, and on the opposite side of the river. it is also known that at the same place it traversed a stretch of open prairie, with only a piece of copsewood midway between two extensive tracts of chapparal. this clump of isolated timber, known in prairie parlance as a "motte" or "island" of timber, stood by the side of the road, along which the horseman had continued, after taking his departure from the village. on reaching the copse he dismounted; led his horse in among the underwood; "hitched" him, by looping his bridle rein around the topmost twigs of an elastic bough; then detaching a long rope of twisted horsehair from the "horn" of his saddle, and inserting his arm into its coil, he glided out to the edge of the "island," on that side that lay towards the hacienda. before forsaking the shadow of the copse, he cast a glance towards the sky, and at the moon sailing supremely over it. it was a glance of inquiry, ending in a look of chagrin, with some muttered phrases that rendered it more emphatic. "no use waiting for that beauty to go to bed? she's made up her mind, she won't go home till morning--ha! ha!" the droll conceit, which has so oft amused the nocturnal inebriate of great cities, appeared to produce a like affect upon the night patroller of the prairie; and for a moment the shadow, late darkening his brow, disappeared. it returned anon; as he stood gazing across the open space that separated him from the river bottom--beyond which lay the hacienda of casa del corvo, clearly outlined upon the opposite bluff, "if there _should_ be any one stirring about the place? it's not likely at this hour; unless it be the owner of a bad conscience who can't sleep. troth! there's one such within those walls. if he be abroad there's a good chance of his seeing me on the open ground; not that i should care a straw, if it were only myself to be compromised. by saint patrick, i see no alternative but risk it! it's no use waiting upon the moon, deuce take her! she don't go down for hours; and there's not the sign of a cloud. it won't do to keep _her_ waiting. no; i must chance it in the clear light. here goes?" saying this, with a swift but stealthy step, the dismounted horseman glided across the treeless tract, and soon readied the escarpment of the cliff, that formed the second height of land rising above the channel of the leona. he did not stay ten seconds in this conspicuous situation; but by a path that zigzagged down the bluff--and with which he appeared familiar--he descended to the river "bottom." in an instant after he stood upon the bank; at the convexity of the river's bend, and directly opposite the spot where a skiff was moored, under the sombre shadow of a gigantic cotton-tree. for a short while he stood gazing across the stream, with a glance that told of scrutiny. he was scanning the shrubbery on the other side; in the endeavour to make out, whether any one was concealed beneath its shadow. becoming satisfied that no one was there, he raised the loop-end of his lazo--for it was this he carried over his arm--and giving it half a dozen whirls in the air, cast it across the stream. the noose settled over the cutwater of the skiff; and closing around the stem, enabled him to tow the tiny craft to the side on which he stood. stepping in, he took hold of a pair of oars that lay along the planking at the bottom; and, placing them between the thole-pins, pulled the boat back to its moorings. leaping out, he secured it as it had been before, against the drift of the current; and then, taking stand under the shadow of the cotton-tree, he appeared to await either a signal, or the appearance of some one, expected by appointment. his manoeuvres up to this moment, had they been observed, might have rendered him amenable to the suspicion that he was a housebreaker, about to "crack the crib" of casa del corvo. the phrases that fell from his lips, however, could they have been heard, would have absolved him of any such vile or vulgar intention. it is true he had designs upon the hacienda; but these did not contemplate either its cash, plate, or jewellery--if we except the most precious jewel it contained--the mistress of the mansion herself. it is scarce necessary to say, that the man who had hidden his horse in the "motte," and so cleverly effected the crossing of the stream, was maurice the mustanger. chapter thirty two. light and shade. he had not long to chafe under the trysting-tree, if such it were. at the very moment when he was stepping into the skiff, a casement window that looked to the rear of the hacienda commenced turning upon its hinges, and was then for a time held slightly ajar; as if some one inside was intending to issue forth, and only hesitated in order to be assured that the "coast was clear." a small white hand--decorated with jewels that glistened under the light of the moon--grasping the sash told that the individual who had opened the window was of the gentler sex; the tapering fingers, with their costly garniture, proclaimed her a lady; while the majestic figure--soon after exhibited outside, on the top of the stairway that led down to the garden--could be no other than that of louise poindexter. it was she. for a second or two the lady stood listening. she heard, or fancied she heard, the dip of an oar. she might be mistaken; for the stridulation of the cicadas filled the atmosphere with confused sound. no matter. the hour of assignation had arrived; and she was not the one to stand upon punctilios as to time--especially after spending two hours of solitary expectation in her chamber, that had appeared like as many. with noiseless tread descending the stone stairway, she glided sylph-like among the statues and shrubs; until, arriving under the shadow of the cotton-wood, she flung herself into arms eagerly outstretched to receive her. who can describe the sweetness of such embrace--strange to say, sweeter from being stolen? who can paint the delicious emotions experienced at such a moment--too sacred to be touched by the pen? it is only after long throes of pleasure had passed, and the lovers had begun to converse in the more sober language of life, that it becomes proper, or even possible to report them. thus did they speak to each other, the lady taking the initiative:-- "to-morrow night you will meet me again--to-morrow night, dearest maurice?" "to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,--if i were free to say the word." "and why not? why are you not free to say it?" "to-morrow, by break of day, i am off for the alamo." "indeed! is it imperative you should go?" the interrogatory was put in a tone that betrayed displeasure. a vision of a sinister kind always came before the mind of louise poindexter at mention of the lone hut on the alamo. and why? it had afforded her hospitality. one would suppose that her visit to it could scarce fail to be one of the pleasantest recollections of her life. and yet it was not! "i have excellent reasons for going," was the reply she received. "excellent reasons! do you expect to meet any one there?" "my follower phelim--no one else. i hope the poor fellow is still above the grass. i sent him out about ten days ago--before there was any tidings of these indian troubles." "only phelim you expect to meet? is it true, gerald? dearest! do not deceive me! only him?" "why do you ask the question, louise?" "i cannot tell you why. i should die of shame to speak my secret thoughts." "do not fear to speak them! i could keep no secret from you--in truth i could not. so tell me what it is, love!" "do you wish me, maurice?" "i do--of course i do. i feel sure that whatever it may be, i shall be able to explain it. i know that my relations with you are of a questionable character; or might be so deemed, if the world knew of them. it is for that very reason i am going back to the alamo." "and to stay there?" "only for a single day, or two at most. only to gather up my household gods, and bid a last adieu to my prairie life." "indeed!" "you appear surprised." "no! only mystified. i cannot comprehend you. perhaps i never shall!" "'tis very simple--the resolve i have taken. i know you will forgive me, when i make it known to you." "forgive you, maurice! for what do you ask forgiveness?" "for keeping it a secret from you, that--that i am not what i seem." "god forbid you should be otherwise than what you seem to me--noble, grand, beautiful, rare among men! oh, maurice! you know not how i esteem--how i love you!" "not more than i esteem and love you. it is that very esteem that now counsels me to a separation." "a separation?" "yes, love; but it is to be hoped only for a short time." "how long?" "while a steamer can cross the atlantic, and return." "an age! and why this?" "i am called to my native country--ireland, so much despised, as you already know. 'tis only within the last twenty hours i received the summons. i obey it the more eagerly, that it tells me i shall be able soon to return, and prove to your proud father that the poor horse-hunter who won his daughter's heart--have i won it, louise?" "idle questioner! won it? you know you have more than won it-- conquered it to a subjection from which it can never escape. mock me not, maurice, nor my stricken heart--henceforth, and for evermore, your slave!" during the rapturous embrace that followed this passionate speech, by which a high-born and beautiful maiden confessed to have surrendered herself--heart, soul, and body--to the man who had made conquest of her affections, there was silence perfect and profound. the grasshopper amid the green herbage, the cicada on the tree-leaf, the mock-bird on the top of the tall cotton-wood, and the nightjar soaring still higher in the moonlit air, apparently actuated by a simultaneous instinct, ceased to give utterance to their peculiar cries: as though one and all, by their silence, designed to do honour to the sacred ceremony transpiring in their presence! but that temporary cessation of sounds was due to a different cause. a footstep grating upon the gravelled walk of the garden--and yet touching it so lightly, that only an acute ear could have perceived the contact-- was the real cause why the nocturnal voices had suddenly become stilled. the lovers, absorbed in the sweet interchange of a mutual affection, heard it not. they saw not that dark shadow, in the shape of man or devil, flitting among the flowers; now standing by a statue; now cowering under cover of the shrubbery, until at length it became stationary behind the trunk of a tree, scarce ten paces from the spot where they were kissing each other! little did they suspect, in that moment of celestial happiness when all nature was hushed around them, that the silence was exposing their passionate speeches, and the treacherous moon, at the same time, betraying their excited actions. that shadowy listener, crouching guilty-like behind the tree, was a witness to both. within easy earshot, he could hear every word--even the sighs and soft low murmurings of their love; while under the silvery light of the moon, with scarce a sprig coming between, he could detect their slightest gestures. it is scarce necessary to give the name of the dastardly eavesdropper. that of cassius calhoun will have suggested itself. it was he. chapter thirty three. a torturing discovery. how came the cousin of louise poindexter to be astir at that late hour of the night, or, as it was now, the earliest of the morning? had he been forewarned of this interview of the lovers; or was it merely some instinctive suspicion that had caused him to forsake his sleeping-chamber, and make a tour of inspection within the precincts of the garden? in other words, was he an eavesdropper by accident, or a spy acting upon information previously communicated to him? the former was the fact. chance alone, or chance aided by a clear night, had given him the clue to a discovery that now filled his soul with the fires of hell. standing upon the housetop at the hour of midnight--what had taken him up there cannot be guessed--breathing vile tobacco-smoke into an atmosphere before perfumed with the scent of the night-blooming _cereus_; the ex-captain of cavalry did not appear distressed by any particular anxiety. he had recovered from the injuries received in his encounter with the mustanger; and although that bit of evil fortune did not fail to excite within him the blackest chagrin, whenever it came up before his mind, its bitterness had been, to some extent, counteracted by hopes of revenge--towards a plan for which he had already made some progress. equally with her father, he had been gratified that louise was contented of late to stay within doors: for it was himself who had secretly suggested the prohibition to her going abroad. equally had he remained ignorant as to the motive of that garden archery, and in a similar manner had misconceived it. in fact, he had begun to flatter himself, that, after all, her indifference to himself might be only a feint on the part of his cousin, or an illusion upon his. she had been less cynical for some days; and this had produced upon him the pleasant impression, that he might have been mistaken in his jealous fears. he had as yet discovered no positive proof that she entertained a partiality for the young irishman; and as the days passed without any renewed cause for disquiet, he began to believe that in reality there was none. under the soothing influence of this restored confidence, had he mounted up to the azotea; and, although it was the hour of midnight, the careless _insouciance_ with which he applied the light to his cigar, and afterwards stood smoking it, showed that he could not have come there for any very important purpose. it may have been to exchange the sultry atmosphere of his sleeping-room for the fresher air outside; or he may have been tempted forth by the magnificent moon--though he was not much given to such romantic contemplation. whatever it was, he had lighted his cigar, and was apparently enjoying it, with his arms crossed upon the coping of the parapet, and his face turned towards the river. it did not disturb his tranquillity to see a horseman ride out from the chapparal on the opposite side, and proceed onward across the open plain. he knew of the road that was there. some traveller, he supposed, who preferred taking advantage of the cool hours of the night--a night, too, that would have tempted the weariest wayfarer to continue his journey. it might be a planter who lived below, returning home from the village, after lounging an hour too long in the tavern saloon. in daytime, the individual might have been identified; by the moonlight, it could only be made out that there was a man on horseback. the eyes of the ex-officer accompanied him as he trotted along the road; but simply with mechanical movement, as one musingly contemplates some common waif drifting down the current of a river. it was only after the horseman had arrived opposite the island of timber, and was seen to pull up, and then ride into it, that the spectator upon the housetop became stirred to take an interest in his movements. "what the devil can that mean?" muttered calhoun to himself, as he hastily plucked the cigar stump from between his teeth. "damn the man, he's dismounted!" continued he, as the stranger re-appeared, on foot, by the inner edge of the copse. "and coming this way--towards the bend of the river--straight as he can streak it! "down the bluff--into the bottom--and with a stride that shows him well acquainted with the way. surely to god he don't intend making his way across into the garden? he'd have to swim for that; and anything he could get there would scarce pay him for his pains. what the old scratch can be his intention? a thief?" this was calhoun's first idea--rejected almost as soon as conceived. it is true that in spanish-american countries even the beggar goes on horseback. much more might the thief? for all this, it was scarce probable, that a man would make a midnight expedition to steal fruit, or vegetables, in such cavalier style. what else could he be after? the odd manoeuvre of leaving his horse under cover of the copse, and coming forward on foot, and apparently with caution, as far as could be seen in the uncertain light, was of itself evidence that the man's errand could scarce be honest and that he was approaching the premises of casa del corvo with some evil design. what could it be? since leaving the upper plain he had been no longer visible to calhoun upon the housetop. the underwood skirting the stream on the opposite side, and into which he had entered, was concealing him. "what can the man be after?" after putting this interrogatory to himself, and for about the tenth time--each with increasing emphasis--the composure of the ex-captain was still further disturbed by a sound that reached his ear, exceedingly like a plunge in the river. it was slight, but clearly the concussion of some hard substance brought in contact with water. "the stroke of an oar," muttered he, on hearing it. "is, by the holy jehovah! he's got hold of the skiff, and's crossing over to the garden. what on earth can he be after?" the questioner did not intend staying on the housetop to determine. his thought was to slip silently downstairs--rouse the male members of the family, along with some of the servants; and attempt to capture the intruder by a clever ambuscade. he had raised his arm from the copestone, and was in the act of stepping back from the parapet, when his ear was saluted by another sound, that caused him again to lean forward and look into the garden below. this new noise bore no resemblance to the stroke of an oar; nor did it proceed from the direction of the river. it was the creaking of a door as it turned upon its hinge, or, what is much the same, a casement window; while it came from below--almost directly underneath the spot where the listener stood. on craning over to ascertain the cause, he saw, what blanched his cheeks to the whiteness of the moonlight that shone upon them--what sent the blood curdling through every corner of his heart. the casement that had been opened was that which belonged to the bed-chamber of his cousin louise. he knew it. the lady herself was standing outside upon the steps that led to the level of the garden, her face turned downward, as if she was meditating a descent. loosely attired in white, as though in the neglige of a _robe de chambre_, with only a small kerchief coifed over her crown, she resembled some fair nymph of the night, some daughter of the moon, whom luna delighted to surround with a silvery effulgence! calhoun reasoned rapidly. he could not do otherwise than connect her appearance outside the casement with the advent of the man who was making his way across the river. and who could this man be? who but maurice the mustanger? a clandestine meeting! and by appointment! there could be no doubt of it; and if there had, it would have been dissolved, at seeing the white-robed figure glide noiselessly down the stone steps, and along the gravelled walks, till it at length disappeared among the trees that shadowed the mooring-place of the skiff. like one paralysed with a powerful stroke, the ex-captain continued for some time upon the azotea--speechless and without motion. it was only after the white drapery had disappeared, and he heard the low murmur of voices rising from among the trees, that he was stimulated to resolve upon some course of proceeding. he thought no longer of awaking the inmates of the house--at least not then. better first to be himself the sole witness of his cousin's disgrace; and then--and then-- in short, he was not in a state of mind to form any definite plan; and, acting solely under the blind stimulus of a fell instinct, he hurried down the _escalera_, and made his way through the house, and out into the garden. he felt feeble as he pressed forward. his legs had tottered under him while descending the stone steps. they did the same as he glided along the gravelled walk. they continued to tremble as he crouched behind the tree trunk that hindered him from being seen--while playing spectator of a scene that afflicted him to the utmost depths of his soul. he heard their vows; their mutual confessions of love; the determination of the mustanger to be gone by the break of the morrow's day; as also his promise to return, and the revelation to which that promise led. with bitter chagrin, he heard how this determination was combated by louise, and the reasons why she at length appeared to consent to it. he was witness to that final and rapturous embrace, that caused him to strike his foot nervously against the pebbles, and make that noise that had scared the cicadas into silence. why at that moment did he not spring forward--put a termination to the intolerable _tete-a-tete_--and with a blow of his bowie-knife lay his rival low--at his own feet and that of his mistress? why had he not done this at the beginning--for to him there needed no further evidence, than the interview itself, to prove that his cousin had been dishonoured? there was a time when he would not have been so patient. what, then, was the _punctilio_ that restrained him? was it the presence of that piece of perfect mechanism, that, with a sheen of steel, glistened upon the person of his rival, and which under the bright moonbeams, could be distinguished as a "colt's six-shooter?" perhaps it may have been. at all events, despite the terrible temptation to which his soul was submitted, something not only hindered him from taking an immediate vengeance, but in the mid-moments of that maddening spectacle--the final embrace--prompted him to turn away from the spot, and with an earnestness, even keener than he had yet exhibited, hurry back in the direction of the house: leaving the lovers, still unconscious of having been observed, to bring their sweet interview to an ending--sure to be procrastinated. chapter thirty four. a chivalrous dictation. where went cassius calhoun? certainly not to his own sleeping-room. there was no sleep for a spirit suffering like his. he went not there; but to the chamber of his cousin. not hers--now untenanted, with its couch unoccupied, its coverlet undisturbed--but to that of her brother, young henry poindexter. he went direct as crooked corridors would permit him--in haste, without waiting to avail himself of the assistance of a candle. it was not needed. the moonbeams penetrating through the open bars of the _reja_, filled the chamber with light--sufficient for his purpose. they disclosed the outlines of the apartment, with its simple furniture--a washstand, a dressing-table, a couple of chairs, and a bed with "mosquito curtains." under those last was the youth reclining; in that sweet silent slumber experienced only by the innocent. his finely formed head rested calmly upon the pillow, over which lay scattered a profusion of shining curls. as calhoun lifted the muslin "bar," the moonbeams fell upon his face, displaying its outlines of the manliest aristocratic type. what a contrast between those two sets of features, brought into such close proximity! both physically handsome; but morally, as hyperion to the satyr. "awake, harry! awake!" was the abrupt salutation extended to the sleeper, accompanied by a violent shaking of his shoulder. "oh! ah! you, cousin cash? what is it? not the indiana, i hope?" "worse than that--worse! worse! quick! rouse yourself, and see! quick, or it will be too late! quick, and be the witness of your own disgrace--the dishonour of your house. quick, or the name of poindexter will be the laughing-stock of texas!" after such summons there could be no inclination for sleep--at least on the part of a poindexter; and at a single bound, the youngest representative of the family cleared the mosquito curtains, and stood upon his feet in the middle of the floor--in an attitude of speechless astonishment. "don't wait to dress," cried his excited counsellor, "stay, you may put on your pants. damn the clothes! there's no time for standing upon trifles. quick! quick!" the simple costume the young planter was accustomed to wear, consisting of trousers and creole blouse of attakapas _cottonade_, were adjusted to his person in less than twenty seconds of time; and in twenty more, obedient to the command of his cousin--without understanding why he had been so unceremoniously summoned forth--he was hurrying along the gravelled walks of the garden. "what is it, cash?" he inquired, as soon as the latter showed signs of coming to a stop. "what does it all mean?" "see for yourself! stand close to me! look through yonder opening in the trees that leads down to the place where your skiff is kept. do you see anything there?" "something white. it looks like a woman's dress. it is that. it's a woman!" "it _is_ a woman. who do you suppose she is?" "i can't tell. who do you say she is?" "there's another figure--a dark one--by her side." "it appears to be a man? it is a man!" "and who do you suppose _he_ is?" "how should i know, cousin cash? do you?" "i do. that man is maurice the mustanger!" "and the woman?" "_is louise--your sister--in his arms_!" as if a shot had struck him through the heart, the brother bounded upward, and then onward, along the path. "stay!" said calhoun, catching hold of, and restraining him. "you forget that you are unarmed! the fellow, i know, has weapons upon him. take this, and this," continued he, passing his own knife and pistol into the hands of his cousin. "i should have used them myself, long ere this; but i thought it better that you--her brother--should be the avenger of your sister's wrongs. on, my boy! see that you don't hurt _her_; but take care not to lose the chance at him. don't give him a word of warning. as soon as they are separated, send a bullet into his belly; and if all six should fail, go at him with the knife. i'll stay near, and take care of you, if you should get into danger. now! steal upon him, and give the scoundrel hell!" it needed not this blasphemous injunction to inspire henry poindexter to hasty action. the brother of a sister--a beautiful sister--erring, undone! in six seconds he was by her side, confronting her supposed seducer. "low villain!" he cried, "unclasp your loathsome arm from the waist of my sister. louise! stand aside, and give me a chance of killing him! aside, sister! aside, i say!" had the command been obeyed, it is probable that maurice gerald would at that moment have ceased to exist--unless he had found heart to kill henry poindexter; which, experienced as he was in the use of his six-shooter, and prompt in its manipulation, he might have done. instead of drawing the pistol from its holster, or taking any steps for defence, he appeared only desirous of disengaging himself from the fair arms still clinging around him, and for whose owner he alone felt alarm. for henry to fire at the supposed betrayer, was to risk taking his sister's life; and, restrained by the fear of this, he paused before pulling trigger. that pause produced a crisis favourable to the safety of all three. the creole girl, with a quick perception of the circumstances, suddenly released her lover from the protecting embrace; and, almost in the same instant, threw her arms around those of her brother. she knew there was nothing to be apprehended from the pistol of maurice. henry alone had to be held doing mischief. "go, go!" she shouted to the former, while struggling to restrain the infuriated youth. "my brother is deceived by appearances. leave me to explain. away, maurice! away!" "henry poindexter," said the young irishman, as he turned to obey the friendly command, "i am not the sort of villain you have been pleased to pronounce me. give me but time, and i shall prove, that your sister has formed a truer estimate of my character than either her father, brother, or cousin. i claim but six months. if at the end of that time i do not show myself worthy of her confidence--her love--then shall i make you welcome to shoot me at sight, as you would the cowardly coyote, that chanced to cross your track. till then, i bid you adieu." henry's struggle to escape from his sister's arms--perhaps stronger than his own--grew less energetic as he listened to these words. they became feebler and feebler--at length ceasing--when a plunge in the river announced that the midnight intruder into the enclosed grounds of casa del corvo was on his way back to the wild prairies he had chosen for his home. it was the first time he had recrossed the river in that primitive fashion. on the two previous occasions he had passed over in the skiff; which had been drawn back to its moorings by a delicate hand, the tow-rope consisting of that tiny lazo that had formed part of the caparison presented along with the spotted mustang. "brother! you are wronging him! indeed you are wronging him!" were the words of expostulation that followed close upon his departure. "oh, henry--dearest hal, if you but knew how noble he is! so far from desiring to do me an injury, 'tis only this moment he has been disclosing a plan to--to--prevent--scandal--i mean to make me happy. believe me, brother, he is a gentleman; and if he were not--if only the common man you take him for--i could not help what i have done--i could not, for _i love him_!" "louise! tell me the truth! speak to me, not as to your brother, but as to your own self. from what i have this night seen, more than from your own words, i know that you love this man. has he taken advantage of your--your--unfortunate passion?" "no--no--no. as i live he has not. he is too noble for that--even had i--henry! he is innocent! if there be cause for regret, i alone am to blame. why--oh! brother! why did you insult him?" "have i done so?" "you have, henry--rudely, grossly." "i shall go after, and apologise. if you speak truly, sister, i owe him that much. i shall go this instant. i liked him from the first--you know i did? i could not believe him capable of a cowardly act. i can't now. sister! come back into the house with me. and now, dearest loo! you had better go to bed. as for me, i shall be off _instanter_ to the hotel, where i may still hope to overtake him. i cannot rest till i have made reparation for my rudeness." so spoke the forgiving brother; and gently leading his sister by the hand, with thoughts of compassion, but not the slightest trace of anger, he hastily returned to the hacienda--intending to go after the young irishman, and apologise for the use of words that, under the circumstances, might have been deemed excusable. as the two disappeared within the doorway, a third figure, hitherto crouching among the shrubbery, was seen to rise erect, and follow them up the stone steps. this last was their cousin, cassius calhoun. he, too, had thoughts of _going after_ the mustanger. chapter thirty five. an uncourteous host. "the chicken-hearted fool! fool myself, to have trusted to such a hope! i might have known she'd cajole the young calf, and let the scoundrel escape. i could have shot him from behind the tree--dead as a drowned rat! and without risking anything--even disgrace! not a particle of risk. uncle woodley would have thanked me--the whole settlement would have said i had done right. my cousin, a young lady, betrayed by a common scamp--a horse, trader--who would have said a word against it? such a chance! why have i missed it? death and the devil--it may not trump up again!" such were the reflections of the ex-captain of cavalry, while at some paces distance following his two cousins on their return to the hacienda. "i wonder," muttered he, on re-entering the _patio_, "whether the blubbering baby be in earnest? going after to apologise to the man who has made a fool of his sister! ha--ha! it would be a good joke were it not too serious to be laughed at. he _is_ in earnest, else why that row in the stable? 'tis he bringing but his horse! it is, by the almighty!" the door of the stable, as is customary in mexican haciendas opened upon the paved _patio_. it was standing ajar; but just as calhoun turned his eye upon it, a man coming from the inside pushed it wide open; and then stepped over the threshold, with a saddled horse following close after him. the man had a panama hat upon his head, and a cloak thrown loosely around his shoulders. this did not hinder calhoun from recognising his cousin henry, as also the dark brown horse that belonged to him. "fool! so--you've let him off?" spitefully muttered the ex-captain, as the other came within whispering distance. "give me back my bowie and pistol. they're not toys suited to such delicate fingers as yours! bah! why did you not use them as i told you? you've made a mess of it!" "i have," tranquilly responded the young planter. "i know it. i've insulted--and grossly too--a noble fellow." "insulted a noble fellow! ha--ha--ha! you're mad--by heavens, you're mad!" "i should have been had i followed your counsel, cousin cash. fortunately i did not go so far. i have done enough to deserve being called worse than fool; though perhaps, under the circumstances, i may obtain forgiveness for my fault. at all events, i intend to try for it, and without losing time." "where are you going?" "after maurice the mustanger--to apologise to him for my misconduct." "misconduct! ha--ha--ha! surely you are joking?" "no. i'm in earnest. if you come along with me, you shall see!" "then i say again you are mad! not only mad, but a damned natural-born idiot! you are, by jesus christ and general jackson!" "you're not very polite, cousin cash; though, after the language i've been lately using myself, i might excuse you. perhaps you will, one day imitate me, and make amends for your rudeness." without adding another word, the young gentleman--one of the somewhat rare types of southern chivalry--sprang to his saddle; gave the word, to his horse; and rode hurriedly through the _saguan_. calhoun stood upon the stones, till the footfall of the horse became but faintly distinguishable in the distance. then, as if acting under some sudden impulse, he hurried along the verandah to his own room; entered it; reappeared in a rough overcoat; crossed back to the stable; went in; came out again with his own horse saddled and bridled; led the animal along the pavement, as gently as if he was stealing him; and once outside upon the turf, sprang upon his back, and rode rapidly away. for a mile or more he followed the same road, that had been taken by henry poindexter. it could not have been with any idea of overtaking the latter: since, long before, the hoofstrokes of henry's horse had ceased to be heard; and proceeding at a slower pace, calhoun did not ride as if he cared about catching up with his cousin. he had taken the up-river road. when about midway between casa del corvo and the fort, he reined up; and, after scrutinising the chapparal around him, struck off by a bridle-path leading back toward the bank of the river. as he turned into it he might have been heard muttering to himself-- "a chance still left; a good one, though not so cheap as the other. it will cost me a thousand dollars. what of that, so long as i get rid of this irish curse, who has poisoned every hour of my existence! if true to his promise, he takes the route to his home by an early hour in the morning. what time, i wonder. these men of the prairies call it late rising, if they be abed till daybreak! never mind. there's yet time for the coyote to get before him on the road! i know that. it must be the same as we followed to the wild horse prairies. he spoke of his hut upon the alamo. that's the name of the creek where we had our pic-nic. the hovel cannot be far from there! the mexican must know the place, or the trail leading to it; which last will be sufficient for his purpose and mine. a fig for the shanty itself! the owner may never reach it. there may be indians upon the road! there _must_ be, before daybreak in the morning!" as calhoun concluded this string of strange reflections, he had arrived at the door of another "shanty"--that of the mexican mustanger. the _jacale_ was the goal of his journey. having slipped out of his saddle, and knotted his bridle to a branch, he set foot upon the threshold. the door was standing wide open. from the inside proceeded a sound, easily identified as the snore of a slumberer. it was not as of one who sleeps either tranquilly, or continuously. at short intervals it was interrupted--now by silent pauses--anon by hog-like gruntings, interspersed with profane words, not perfectly pronounced, but slurred from a thick tongue, over which, but a short while before, must have passed a stupendous quantity of alcohol. "_carrambo! carrai! carajo--chingara! mil diablos_!" mingled with more-- perhaps less--reverential exclamations of "_sangre de cristo! jesus! santissima virgen! santa maria! dios! madre de dios_!" and the like, were uttered inside the _jacale_, as if the speaker was engaged in an apostrophic conversation with all the principal characters of the popish pantheon. calhoun paused upon the threshold, and listened. "_mal--dit--dit--o_!" muttered the sleeper, concluding the exclamation with a hiccup. "_buen--buenos nove-dad-es_! good news, _por sangre chrees--chreest--o! si s'nor merican--cano! nove--dad--es s'perbos! los indyos co--co--manchees_ on the war-trail--_el rastro de guerra_. god bless the co--co--manchees!" "the brute's drunk!" said his visitor, mechanically speaking aloud. "_h'la s'nor_!" exclaimed the owner of the _jacale_, aroused to a state of semi-consciousness by the sound of a human voice. "_quien llama_! who has the honour--that is, have i the happiness--i, miguel diaz--el co--coyote, as the _leperos_ call me. ha, ha! coyo--coyot. bah! what's in a name? yours, s'nor? _mil demonios_! who are you?" partially raising himself from his reed couch, the inebriate remained for a short time in a sitting attitude--glaring, half interrogatively, half unconsciously, at the individual whose voice had intruded itself into his drunken dreams. the unsteady examination lasted only for a score of seconds. then the owner of the _jacale_, with an unintelligible speech, subsided into a recumbent position; when a savage grunt, succeeded by a prolonged snore, proved him to have become oblivious to the fact that his domicile contained a guest. "another chance lost!" said the latter, hissing the words through his teeth, as he turned disappointedly from the door. "a sober fool and a drunken knave--two precious tools wherewith, to accomplish a purpose like mine! curse the luck! all this night it's been against me! it maybe three long hours before this pig sleeps off the swill that has stupefied him. three long hours, and then what would be the use of him? 'twould be too late--too late!" as he said this, he caught the rein of his bridle, and stood by the head of his horse, as if uncertain what course to pursue. "no use my staying here! it might be daybreak before the damned liquor gets out of his skull. i may as well go back to the hacienda and wait there; or else--or else--" the alternative, that at this crisis presented itself, was nor, spoken aloud. whatever it may have been, it had the effect of terminating the hesitancy that living over him, and stirring him to immediate action. roughly tearing his rein from the branch, and passing it over his horse's head, he sprang into the saddle, and rode off from the _jacale_ in a direction the very opposite to that in which he had approached it. chapter thirty six. three travellers on the same track. no one can deny, that a ride upon a smooth-turfed prairie is one of the most positive pleasures of sublunary existence. no one _will_ deny it, who has had the good fortune to experience the delightful sensation. with a spirited horse between your thighs, a well-stocked valise strapped to the cantle of your saddle, a flask of french brandy slung handy over the "horn," and a plethoric cigar-case protruding from under the flap of your pistol holster, you may set forth upon a day's journey, without much fear of feeling weary by the way. a friend riding by your side--like yourself alive to the beauties of nature, and sensitive to its sublimities--will make the ride, though long, and otherwise arduous, a pleasure to be remembered for many, many years. if that friend chance to be some fair creature, upon whom you have fixed your affections, then will you experience a delight to remain in your memory for ever. ah! if all prairie-travellers were to be favoured with such companionship, the wilderness of western texas would soon become crowded with tourists; the great plains would cease to be "pathless,"--the savannas would swarm with snobs. it is better as it is. as it is, you may launch yourself upon the prairie: and once beyond the precincts of the settlement from which you have started--unless you keep to the customary "road," indicated only by the hoof-prints of half a dozen horsemen who have preceded you--you may ride on for hours, days, weeks, months, perhaps a whole year, without encountering aught that bears the slightest resemblance to yourself, or the image in which you have been made. only those who have traversed the great plain of texas can form a true estimate of its illimitable vastness; impressing the mind with sensations similar to those we feel in the contemplation of infinity. in some sense may the mariner comprehend my meaning. just as a ship may cross the atlantic ocean--and in tracks most frequented by sailing craft--without sighting a single sail, so upon the prairies of south-western texas, the traveller may journey on for months, amid a solitude that seems eternal! even the ocean itself does not give such an impression of endless space. moving in its midst you perceive no change--no sign to tell you you are progressing. the broad circular surface of azure blue, with the concave hemisphere of a tint but a few shades lighter, are always around and above you, seeming ever the same. you think they _are_ so; and fancy yourself at rest in the centre of a sphere and a circle. you are thus to some extent hindered from having a clear conception of "magnificent distances." on the prairie it is different. the "landmarks"--there are such, in the shape of "mottes," mounds, trees, ridges, and rocks--constantly changing before your view, admonish you that you are passing through space; and this very knowledge imbues you with the idea of vastness. it is rare for the prairie traveller to contemplate such scenes alone-- rarer still upon the plains of south-western texas. in twos at least-- but oftener in companies of ten or a score--go they, whose need it is to tempt the perils of that wilderness claimed by the comanches as ancestral soil. for all this, a solitary traveller may at times be encountered: for on the same night that witnessed the tender and stormy scenes in the garden of casa del corvo, no less than three such made the crossing of the plain that stretches south-westward from the banks of the leona river. just at the time that calhoun was making his discontented departure from the _jacale_ of the mexican mustanger, the foremost of these nocturnal travellers was clearing the outskirts of the village--going in a direction which, if followed far enough, would conduct him to the nueces river, or one of its tributary streams. it is scarcely necessary to say, that he was on horseback. in texas there are no pedestrians, beyond the precincts of the town or plantation. the traveller in question bestrode a strong steed; whose tread, at once vigorous and elastic, proclaimed it capable of carrying its rider through a long journey, without danger of breaking down. whether such a journey was intended, could not have been told by the bearing of the traveller himself. he was equipped, as any texan cavalier might have been, for a ten-mile ride--perhaps to his own house. the lateness of the hour forbade the supposition, that he could be going from it. the serape on his shoulders--somewhat carelessly hanging--might have been only put on to protect them against the dews of the night. but as there was no dew on that particular night--nor any outlying settlement in the direction he was heading to--the horseman was more like to have been a real traveller--_en route_ for some distant point upon the prairies. for all this he did not appear to be in haste; or uneasy as to the hour at which he might reach his destination. on the contrary, he seemed absorbed in some thought, that linked itself with the past; sufficiently engrossing to render him unobservant of outward objects, and negligent in the management of his horse. the latter, with the rein lying loosely upon his neck, was left to take his own way; though instead of stopping, or straying, he kept steadily on, as if over ground oft trodden before. thus leaving the animal to its own guidance, and pressing it neither with whip nor spur, the traveller rode tranquilly over the prairie, till lost to view--not by the intervention of any object, but solely through the dimness of the light, where the moon became misty in the far distance. almost on the instant of his disappearance--and as if the latter had been taken for a cue--a second horseman spurred out from the suburbs of the village; and proceeded along the same path. from the fact of his being habited in a fashion to defend him against the chill air of the night, he too might have been taken for a traveller. a cloak clasped across his breast hung over his shoulders, its ample skirts draping backward to the hips of his horse. unlike the horseman who had preceded him, he showed signs of haste-- plying both whip and spur as he pressed on. he appeared intent on overtaking some one. it might be the individual whose form had just faded out of sight? this was all the more probable from the style of his equitation--at short intervals bending forward in his saddle, and scanning the horizon before him, as if expecting to see some form outlined above the line of the sky. continuing to advance in this peculiar fashion, he also disappeared from view--exactly at the same point, where his precursor had ceased to be visible--to any one whose gaze might have been following him from the fort or village. an odd contingency--if such it were--that just at that very instant a third horseman rode forth from the outskirts of the little texan town, and, like the other two, continued advancing in a direct line across the prairie. he, also, was costumed as if for a journey. a "blanket-coat" of scarlet colour shrouded most of his person from sight--its ample skirts spread over his thighs, half concealing a short jager rifle, strapped aslant along the flap of his saddle. like the foremost of the three, he exhibited no signs of a desire to move rapidly along the road. he was proceeding at a slow pace--even for a traveller. for all that, his manner betokened a state of mind far from tranquil; and in this respect he might be likened to the horseman who had more immediately preceded him. but there was an essential difference between the actions of the two men. whereas the cloaked cavalier appeared desirous of overtaking some one in advance, he in the red blanket coat seemed altogether to occupy himself in reconnoitring towards his rear. at intervals he would slue himself round in the stirrups--sometimes half turn his horse--and scan the track over which he had passed; all the while listening, as though he expected to hear some one who should be coming after him. still keeping up this singular surveillance, he likewise in due time reached the point of disappearance, without having overtaken any one, or been himself overtaken. though at nearly equal distances apart while making the passage of the prairie, not one of the three horsemen was within sight of either of the others. the second, half-way between the other two, was beyond reach of the vision of either, as they were beyond his. at the same glance no eye could have taken in all three, or any two of them; unless it had been that of the great texan owl perched upon the summit of some high eminence, or the "whip-poor-will" soaring still higher in pursuit of the moon-loving moth. an hour later, and at a point of the prairie ten miles farther from fort inge, the relative positions of the three travellers had undergone a considerable change. the foremost was just entering into a sort of alley or gap in the chapparal forest; which here extended right and left across the plain, far as the eye could trace it. the alley might have been likened to a strait in the sea: its smooth turfed surface contrasting with the darker foliage of the bordering thickets; as water with dry land. it was illumined throughout a part of its length--a half mile or so--the moon showing at its opposite extremity. beyond this the dark tree line closed it in, where it angled round into sombre shadow. before entering the alley the foremost of the trio of travellers, and for the first time, exhibited signs of hesitation. he reined up; and for a second or two sate in his saddle regarding the ground before him. his attention was altogether directed to the opening through the trees in his front. he made no attempt at reconnoitring his rear. his scrutiny, from whatever cause, was of short continuance. seemingly satisfied, he muttered an injunction to his horse, and rode onward into the gap. though he saw not him, he was seen by the cavalier in the cloak, following upon the same track, and now scarce half a mile behind. the latter, on beholding him, gave utterance to a slight exclamation. it was joyful, nevertheless; as if he was gratified by the prospect of at length overtaking the individual whom he had been for ten miles so earnestly pursuing. spurring his horse to a still more rapid pace, he also entered the opening; but only in time to get a glimpse of the other, just passing under the shadow of the trees, at the point where the avenue angled. without hesitation, he rode after; soon disappearing at the same place, and in a similar manner. it was a longer interval before the third and hindmost of the horsemen approached the pass that led through the chapparal. he did approach it, however; but instead of riding into it, as the others had done, he turned off at an angle towards the edge of the timber; and, after leaving his horse among the trees, crossed a corner of the thicket, and came out into the opening on foot. keeping along it--to all appearance still more solicitous about something that might be in his rear than anything that was in front of him--he at length arrived at the shadowy turning; where, like the two others, he abruptly disappeared in the darkness. an hour elapsed, during which the nocturnal voices of the chapparal-- that had been twice temporarily silenced by the hoofstroke of a horse, and once by the footsteps of a man--had kept up their choral cries by a thousand stereotyped repetitions. then there came a further interruption; more abrupt in its commencement, and of longer continuance. it was caused by a sound, very different from that made by the passage of either horseman or pedestrian over the prairie turf. it was the report of a gun, quick, sharp, and clear--the "spang" that denotes the discharge of a rifle. as to the authoritative wave of the conductor's baton the orchestra yields instant obedience, so did the prairie minstrels simultaneously take their cue from that abrupt detonation, that inspired one and all of them with a peculiar awe. the tiger cat miaulling in the midst of the chapparal, the coyote howling along its skirts; even the jaguar who need not fear any forest foe that might approach him, acknowledged his dread of that quick, sharp explosion--to him unexplainable--by instantly discontinuing his cries. as no other sound succeeded the shot--neither the groan of a wounded man, nor the scream of a stricken animal--the jaguar soon recovered confidence, and once more essayed to frighten the denizens of the thicket with his hoarse growling. friends and enemies--birds, beasts, insects, and reptiles--disregarding his voice in the distance, reassumed the thread of their choral strain; until the chapparal was restored to its normal noisy condition, when two individuals standing close together, can only hold converse by speaking in the highest pitch of their voices! chapter thirty seven. a man missing. the breakfast bell of casa del corvo had sounded its second and last summons--preceded by a still earlier signal from a horn, intended to call in the stragglers from remote parts of the plantation. the "field hands" labouring near had collected around the "quarter;" and in groups, squatted upon the grass, or seated upon stray logs, were discussing their diet--by no means spare--of "hog and hominy" corn-bread and "corn-coffee," with a jocosity that proclaimed a keen relish of these, their ordinary comestibles. the planter's family assembled in the _sala_ were about to begin breakfast, when it was discovered that one of its members was missing. henry was the absent one. at first there was but little notice taken of the circumstance. only the conjecture: that he would shortly make his appearance. as several minutes passed without his coming in, the planter quietly observed that it was rather strange of henry to be behind time, and wonder where he could be. the breakfast of the south-western american is usually a well appointed meal. it is eaten at a fixed hour, and _table-d'hote_ fashion--all the members of the family meeting at the table. this habit is exacted by a sort of necessity, arising out of the nature of some of the viands peculiar to the country; many of which, as "virginia biscuit," "buckwheat cakes," and "waffles," are only relished coming fresh from, the fire: so that the hour when breakfast is being eaten in the dining-room, is that in which the cook is broiling her skin in the kitchen. as the laggard, or late riser, may have to put up with cold biscuit, and no waffles or buckwheat cakes, there are few such on a southern plantation. considering this custom, it _was_ somewhat strange, that henry poindexter had not yet put in an appearance. "where can the boy be?" asked his father, for the fourth time, in that tone of mild conjecture that scarce calls for reply. none was made by either of the other two guests at the table. louise only gave expression to a similar conjecture. for all that, there was a strangeness in her glance--as in the tone of her voice--that might have been observed by one closely scrutinising her features. it could scarce be caused by the absence of her brother from the breakfast-table? the circumstance was too trifling to call up an emotion; and clearly at that moment was she subject to one. what was it? no one put the inquiry. her father did not notice anything odd in her look. much less calhoun, who was himself markedly labouring to conceal some disagreeable thought under the guise of an assumed _naivete_. ever since entering the room he had maintained a studied silence; keeping his eyes averted, instead of, according to his usual custom, constantly straying towards his cousin. he sate nervously in his chair; and once or twice might have been seen to start, as a servant entered the room. beyond doubt he was under the influence of some extraordinary agitation. "very strange henry not being here to his breakfast!" remarked the planter, for about the tenth time. "surely he is not abed till this hour? no--no--he never lies so late. and yet if abroad, he couldn't be at such a distance as not to have heard the horn. he _may_ be in his room? it is just possible. pluto!" "ho--ho! d'ye call me, mass' woodley? i'se hya." the sable coachee, acting as table waiter, was in the _sala_, hovering around the chairs. "go to henry's sleeping-room. if he's there, tell him we're at breakfast--half through with it." "he no dar, mass' woodley." "you have been to his room?" "ho--ho! yas. dat am i'se no been to de room itseff; but i'se been to de 'table, to look atter massa henry hoss; an gib um him fodder an corn. ho--ho! dat same ole hoss he ain't dar; nor han't a been all ob dis mornin'. i war up by de fuss skreek ob day. no hoss dar, no saddle, no bridle; and ob coass no massa henry. ho--ho! he been an gone out 'fore anb'dy wor 'tirrin' 'bout de place." "are you sure?" asked the planter, seriously stirred by the intelligence. "satin, shoo, mass' woodley. dar's no hoss doins in dat ere 'table, ceppin de sorrel ob massa cahoon. spotty am in de 'closure outside. massa henry hoss ain't nowha." "it don't follow that master henry himself is not in his room. go instantly, and see!" "ho--ho! i'se go on de instum, massr; but f'r all dat dis chile no speck find de young genl'um dar. ho! ho! wha'ebber de ole hoss am, darr massr henry am too." "there's something strange in all this," pursued the planter, as pluto shuffled out of the sala. "henry from home; and at night too. where can he have gone? i can't think of any one he would be visiting at such unseasonable hours! he must have been out all night, or very early, according to the nigger's account! at the port, i suppose, with those young fellows. not at the tavern, i hope?" "oh, no! he wouldn't go there," interposed calhoun, who appeared as much mystified by the absence of henry as was poindexter himself. he refrained, however, from suggesting any explanation, or saying aught of the scenes to which he had been witness on the preceding night. "it is to be hoped _he_ knows nothing of it," reflected the young creole. "if not, it may still remain a secret between brother and myself. i think i can manage henry. but why is he still absent? i've sate up all night waiting for him. he must have overtaken maurice, and they have fraternised. i hope so; even though the tavern may have been the scene of their reconciliation. henry is not much given to dissipation; but after such a burst of passion, followed by his sudden repentance, he may have strayed from his usual habits? who could blame him if he has? there can be little harm in it: since he has gone astray in good company?" how far the string of reflections might have extended it is not easy to say: since it did not reach its natural ending. it was interrupted by the reappearance of pluto; whose important air, as he re-entered the room, proclaimed him the bearer of eventful tidings. "well!" cried his master, without waiting for him to speak, "is he there?" "no, mass' woodley," replied the black, in a voice that betrayed a large measure of emotion, "he are not dar--massa henry am not. but--but," he hesitatingly continued, "dis chile grieb to say dat--dat--_him hoss am dar_." "his horse there! not in his sleeping-room, i suppose?" "no, massa; nor in de 'table neider; but out da, by de big gate." "his horse at the gate? and why, pray, do you grieve about that?" "'ecause, mass' woodley, 'ecause de hoss--dat am massa henry hoss--'ecause de anymal--" "speak out, you stammering nigger! what because? i suppose the horse has his head upon him? or is it his tail that is missing?" "ah, mass' woodley, dis nigga fear dat am missin' wuss dan eider him head or him tail. i'se feer'd dat de ole hoss hab loss him rider!" "what! henry thrown from his horse? nonsense, pluto! my son is too good a rider for that. impossible that _he_ should have been pitched out of the saddle--impossible!" "ho! ho! i doan say he war frown out ob de saddle. gorramity! i fear de trouble wuss dan dat. o! dear ole massa, i tell you no mo'. come to de gate ob do hashashanty, and see fo youseff." by this time the impression conveyed by pluto's speech--much more by his manner--notwithstanding its ambiguity, had become sufficiently alarming; and not only the planter himself, but his daughter and nephew, hastily forsaking their seats, and preceded by the sable coachman, made their way to the outside gate of the hacienda. a sight was there awaiting them, calculated to inspire all three with the most terrible apprehensions. a negro man--one of the field slaves of the plantation--stood holding a horse, that was saddled and bridled. the animal wet with the dews of the night, and having been evidently uncared for in any stable, was snorting and stamping the ground, as if but lately escaped from some scene of excitement, in which he had been compelled to take part. he was speckled with a colour darker than that of the dewdrops--darker than his own coat of bay-brown. the spots scattered over his shoulders--the streaks that ran parallel with the downward direction of his limbs, the blotches showing conspicuously on the saddle-flaps, were all of the colour of coagulated blood. blood had caused them--spots, streaks, and blotches! whence came that horse? from the prairies. the negro had caught him, on the outside plain, as, with the bridle trailing among his feet, he was instinctively straying towards the hacienda. to whom did he belong? the question was not asked. all present knew him to be the horse of henry poindexter. nor did any one ask whose blood bedaubed the saddle-flaps. the three individuals most interested could think only of that one, who stood to them in the triple relationship of son, brother, and cousin. the dark red spots on which they were distractedly gazing had spurted from the veins of henry poindexter. they had no other thought. chapter thirty eight. the avengers. hastily--perhaps too truly--construing the sinister evidence, the half-frantic father leaped into the bloody saddle, and galloped direct for the fort. calhoun, upon his own horse, followed close after. the hue and cry soon spread abroad. rapid riders carried it up and down the river, to the remotest plantations of the settlement. the indians were out, and near at hand, reaping their harvest of scalps! that of young poindexter was the firstfruits of their sanguinary gleaning! henry poindexter--the noble generous youth who had not an enemy in all texas! who but indians could have spilled such innocent blood? only the comanches could have been so cruel? among the horsemen, who came quickly together on the parade ground of port inge, no one doubted that the comanches had done the deed. it was simply a question of how, when, and where. the blood drops pretty clearly, proclaimed the first. he who had shed them must have been shot, or speared, while sitting in his saddle. they were mostly on the off side; where they presented an appearance, as if something had been slaked over them. this was seen both on the shoulders of the horse, and the flap of the saddle. of course it was the body of the rider as it slipped lifeless to the earth. there were some who spoke with equal certainty as to the time--old frontiersmen experienced in such matters. according to them the blood was scarce "ten hours old:" in other words, must have been shed about ten hours before. it was now noon. the murder must have been committed at _two_ o'clock in the morning. the third query was, perhaps, the most important--at least now that the deed was done. _where_ had it been done? where was the body to be found? after that, where should the assassins be sought for? these were the questions discussed by the mixed council of settlers and soldiers, hastily assembled at port inge, and presided over by the commandant of the fort--the afflicted father standing speechless by his side. the last was of special importance. there are thirty-two points in the compass of the prairies, as well as in that which guides the ocean wanderer; and, therefore, in any expedition going in search of a war-party of comanches, there would be thirty-two chances to one against its taking the right track. it mattered not that the home of these nomadic savages was in the west. that was a wide word; and signified anywhere within a semicircle of some hundreds of miles. besides, the indians were now upon the _war-trail_; and, in an isolated settlement such as that of the leona, as likely to make their appearance from the east. more likely, indeed, since such is a common strategic trick of these astute warriors. to have ridden forth at random would have been sheer folly; with such odds against going the right way, as thirty-two to one. a proposal to separate the command into several parties, and proceed in different directions, met with little favour from any one. it was directly negatived by the major himself. the murderers might be a thousand, the avengers were but the tenth of that number: consisting of some fifty dragoons who chanced to be in garrison, with about as many mounted civilians. the party must be kept together, or run the risk of being attacked, and perhaps cut off, in detail! the argument was deemed conclusive. even, the bereaved father--and cousin, who appeared equally the victim of a voiceless grief--consented to shape their course according to the counsels of the more prudent majority, backed by the authority of the major himself. it was decided that the searchers should proceed in a body. in what direction? this still remained the subject of discussion. the thoughtful captain of infantry now became a conspicuous figure, by suggesting that some inquiry should be made, as to what direction had been last taken by the man who was supposed to be murdered. who last saw henry poindexter? his father and cousin were first appealed to. the former had last seen his son at the supper table; and supposed him to have gone thence to his bed. the answer of calhoun was less direct, and, perhaps, less satisfactory. he had conversed with his cousin at a later hour, and had bidden him good night, under the impression that he was retiring to his room. why was calhoun concealing what had really occurred? why did he refrain from giving a narration of that garden scene to which he had been witness? was it, that he feared humiliation by disclosing the part he had himself played? whatever was the reason, the truth was shunned; and an answer given, the sincerity of which was suspected by more than one who listened to it. the evasiveness might have been more apparent, had there been any reason for suspicion, or had the bystanders been allowed longer time to reflect upon it. while the inquiry was going on, light came in from a quartet hitherto unthought of. the landlord of the rough and ready, who had come uncalled to the council, after forcing his way through the crowd, proclaimed himself willing to communicate some facts worth their hearing--in short, the very facts they were endeavouring to find out: when henry poindexter had been last seen, and what the direction he had taken. oberdoffer's testimony, delivered in a semi-teutonic tongue, was to the effect: that maurice the mustanger--who had been staying at his hotel ever since his fight with captain calhoun--had that night ridden out at a late hour, as he had done for several nights before. he had returned to the hotel at a still later hour; and finding it open--on account of a party of _bons vivants_ who had supped there--had done that which he had not done for a long time before--demanded his bill, and to old duffer's astonishment--as the latter naively confessed--settled every cent of it! where he had procured the money "gott" only knew, or why he left the hotel in such a hurry. oberdoffer himself only knew that he had left it, and taken all his `trapsh' along with him--just as he was in the habit of doing, whenever he went off upon one of his horse-catching expeditions. on one of these the village boniface supposed him to have gone. what had all this to do with the question before the council? much indeed; though it did not appear till the last moment of his examination, when the witness revealed the more pertinent facts:--that about twenty minutes after the mustanger had taken his departure from the hotel, "heinrich poindexter" knocked at the door, and inquired after mr maurice gerald;--that on being told the latter was gone, as also the time, and probable direction he had taken, the "young gentlemans" rode off a a quick pace, as if with the intention of overtaking him. this was all mr oberdoffer knew of the matter; and all he could be expected to tell. the intelligence, though containing several points but ill understood, was nevertheless a guide to the expeditionary party. it furnished a sort of clue to the direction they ought to take. if the missing man had gone off with maurice the mustanger, or after him, he should be looked for on the road the latter himself would be likely to have taken. did any one know where the horse-hunter had his home? no one could state the exact locality; though there were several who believed it was somewhere among the head-waters of the nueces, on a creek called the "alamo." to the alamo, then, did they determine upon proceeding in quest of the missing man, or his dead body--perhaps, also, to find that of maurice the mustanger; and, at the same time, avenge upon the savage assassins two murders instead of one. chapter thirty nine. the pool of blood. notwithstanding its number--larger than usual for a party of borderers merely in search of a strayed neighbour--the expedition pursued its way with, considerable caution. there was reason. the indians were upon the war-trail. scouts were sent out in advance; and professed "trackers" employed to pick up, and interpret the "sign." on the prairie, extending nearly ten miles to the westward of the leona, no trail was discovered. the turf, hard and dry, only showed the tracks of a horse when going in a gallop. none such were seen along the route. at ten miles' distance from the fort the plain is traversed by a tract of chapparal, running north-west and south-east. it is a true texan jungle, laced by llianas, and almost impenetrable for man and horse. through this jungle, directly opposite the fort, there is an opening, through which passes a path--the shortest that leads to the head waters of the nueces. it is a sort of natural avenue among the trees that stand closely crowded on each side, but refrain from meeting. it may be artificial: some old "war-trail" of the comanches, erst trodden by their expeditionary parties on the maraud to tamaulipas, coahuila, or new leon. the trackers knew that it conducted to the alamo; and, therefore, guided the expedition into it. shortly after entering among the trees, one of the latter, who had gone afoot in the advance, was seen standing by the edge of the thicket, as if waiting to announce some recently discovered fact. "what is it?" demanded the major, spurring ahead of the others, and riding up to the tracker. "sign?" "ay, that there is, major; and plenty of it. look there! in that bit of sottish ground you see--" "the tracks of a horse." "of two horses, major," said the man, correcting the officer with an air of deference. "true. there are two." "farther on they become four; though they're all made by the same two horses. they have gone up this openin' a bit, and come back again." "well, spangler, my good fellow; what do you make of it?" "not much," replied spangler, who was one of the paid scouts of the cantonment; "not much of _that_; i hav'n't been far enough up the openin' to make out what it means--only far enough to know that _a man has been murdered_." "what proof have you of what you say? is there a dead body?" "no. not as much as the little finger; not even a hair of the head, so fur as i can see." "what then?" "blood, a regular pool of it--enough to have cleared out the carcass of a hull buffalo. come and see for yourself. but," continued the scout in a muttered undertone, "if you wish me to follow up the sign as it ought to be done, you'll order the others to stay back--'specially them as are now nearest you." this observation appeared to be more particularly pointed at the planter and his nephew; as the tracker, on making it, glanced furtively towards both. "by all means," replied the major. "yes, spangler, you shall have every facility for your work. gentlemen! may i request you to remain where you are for a few minutes. my tracker, here, has to go through a performance that requires him to have the ground to himself. he can only take me along with him." of course the major's request was a command, courteously conveyed, to men who were not exactly his subordinates. it was obeyed, however, just as if they had been; and one and all kept their places, while the officer, following his scout, rode away from the ground. about fifty yards further on, spangler came to a stand. "you see that, major?" said he, pointing to the ground. "i should be blind if i didn't," replied the officer. "a pool of blood--as you say, big enough to have emptied the veins of a buffalo. if it has come from those of a man, i should say that whoever shed it is no longer in the land of the living." "dead!" pronounced the tracker. "dead before that blood had turned purple--as it is now." "whose do you think it is, spangler?" "that of the man we're in search of--the son of the old gentleman down there. that's why i didn't wish him to come forward." "he may as well know the worst. he must find it out in time." "true what you say, major; but we had better first find out how the young fellow has come to be thrown in his tracks. that's what is puzzling me." "how! by the indians, of course? the comanches have done it?" "not a bit of it," rejoined the scout, with an air of confidence. "hu! why do you say that, spangler?" "because, you see, if the indyins had a been here, there would be forty horse-tracks instead of four, and them made by only two horses." "there's truth in that. it isn't likely a single comanch would have had the daring, even to assassinate--" "no comanche, major, no indyin of any kind committed this murder. there are two horse-tracks along the opening. as you see, both are shod; and they're the same that have come back again. comanches don't ride shod horses, except when they've stolen them. both these were ridden by white men. one set of the tracks has been made by a mustang, though it it was a big 'un. the other is the hoof of an american horse. goin' west the mustang was foremost; you can tell that by the overlap. comin' back the states horse was in the lead, the other followin' him; though it's hard to say how fur behind. i may be able to tell better, if we keep on to the place whar both must have turned back. it can't be a great ways off." "let us proceed thither, then," said the major. "i shall command the people to stay where they are." having issued the command, in a voice loud enough to be heard by his following, the major rode away from the bloodstained spot, preceded by the tracker. for about four hundred yards further on, the two sets of tracks were traceable; but by the eye of the major, only where the turf was softer under the shadow of the trees. so far--the scout said the horses had passed and returned in the order already declared by him:--that is, the mustang in the lead while proceeding westward, and in the rear while going in the opposite direction. at this point the trail ended--both horses, as was already known, having returned on their own tracks. before taking the back track, however, they had halted, and stayed some time in the same place--under the branches of a spreading cottonwood. the turf, much trampled around the trunk of the tree, was evidence of this. the tracker got off his horse to examine it; and, stooping to the earth, carefully scrutinised the sign. "they've been here thegither," said he, after several minutes spent in his analysis, "and for some time; though neither's been out of the saddle. they've been on friendly terms, too; which makes it all the more unexplainable. they must have quarrelled afterwards." "if you are speaking the truth, spangler, you must be a witch. how on earth can you know all that?" "by the sign, major; by the sign. it's simple enough. i see the shoes of both horses lapping over each other a score of times; and in such a way that shows they must have been thegither--the animals, it might be, restless and movin' about. as for the time, they've taken long enough to smoke a cigar apiece--close to the teeth too. here are the stumps; not enough left to fill a fellow's pipe." the tracker, stooping as he spoke, picked up a brace of cigar stumps, and handed them to the major. "by the same token," he continued, "i conclude that the two horsemen, whoever they were, while under this tree could not have had any very hostile feelins, the one to the tother. men don't smoke in company with the design of cutting each other's throats, or blowing out one another's brains, the instant afterwards. the trouble between them must have come on after the cigars were smoked out. that it did come there can be no doubt. as sure, major, as you're sittin' in your saddle, one of them has wiped out the other. i can only guess which has been wiped out, by the errand we're on. poor mr poindexter will niver more see his son alive." "'tis very mysterious," remarked the major. "it is, by jingo!" "and the body, too; where can _it_ be?" "that's what purplexes me most of all. if 't had been indyins, i wouldn't a thought much o' its being missin'. they might a carried the man off wi them to make a target of him, if only wounded; and if dead, to eat him, maybe. but there's been no indyins here--not a redskin. take my word for it, major, one o' the two men who rid these horses has wiped out the other; and sartinly he _have_ wiped him out in the litterlest sense o' the word. what he's done wi' the body beats me; and perhaps only hisself can tell." "most strange!" exclaimed the major, pronouncing the words with emphasis--"most mysterious!" "it's possible we may yet unravel some o' the mystery," pursued spangler. "we must follow up the tracks of the horses, after they started from this--that is, from where the deed was done. we may make something out of that. there's nothing more to be learnt here. we may as well go back, major. am i to tell _him_?" "mr poindexter, you mean?" "yes. you are convinced that his son is the man who has been murdered?" "oh, no; not so much as that comes to. only convinced that the horse the old gentleman is now riding is one of the two that's been over this ground last night--the states horse i feel sure. i have compared the tracks; and if young poindexter was the man who was on _his back_, i fear there's not much chance for the poor fellow. it looks ugly that the other _rid after_ him." "spangler! have you any suspicion as to who the other may be?" "not a spark, major. if't hadn't been for the tale of old duffer i'd never have thought of maurice the mustanger. true, it's the track o' a shod mustang; but i don't know it to be hisn. surely it can't be? the young irishman aint the man to stand nonsense from nobody; but as little air he the one to do a deed like this--that is, if it's been cold-blooded killin'." "i think as you about that." "and you may think so, major. if young poindexter's been killed, and by maurice gerald, there's been a fair stand-up fight atween them, and the planter's son has gone under. that's how i shed reckon it up. as to the disappearance o' the dead body--for them two quarts o' blood could only have come out o' a body that's now dead--that _trees me_. we must follow the trail, howsoever; and maybe it'll fetch us to some sensible concloosion. am i to tell the old gentleman what i think o't?" "perhaps better not. he knows enough already. it will at least fall lighter upon him if he find things out by piecemeal. say nothing of what we've seen. if you can take up the trail of the two horses after going off from the place where the blood is, i shall manage to bring the command after you without any one suspecting what we've seen." "all right, major," said the scout, "i think i can guess where the off trail goes. give me ten minutes upon it, and then come on to my signal." so saying the tracker rode back to the "place of blood;" and after what appeared a very cursory examination, turned off into a lateral opening in the chapparal. within the promised time his shrill whistle announced that he was nearly a mile distant, and in a direction altogether different from the spot that had been profaned by some sanguinary scene. on hearing the signal, the commander of the expedition--who had in the meantime returned to his party--gave orders to advance; while he himself, with poindexter and the other principal men, moved ahead, without his revealing to any one of his retinue the chapter of strange disclosures for which he was indebted to the "instincts" of his tracker. chapter forty. the marked bullet. before coming up with the scout, an incident occurred to vary the monotony of the march. instead of keeping along the avenue, the major had conducted his command in a diagonal direction through the chapparal. he had done this to avoid giving unnecessary pain to the afflicted father; who would otherwise have looked upon the life-blood of his son, or at least what the major believed to be so. the gory spot was shunned, and as the discovery was not yet known to any other save the major himself, and the tracker who had made it, the party moved on in ignorance of the existence of such a dread sign. the path they were now pursuing was a mere cattle-track, scarce broad enough for two to ride abreast. here and there were glades where it widened out for a few yards, again running into the thorny chapparal. on entering one of these glades, an animal sprang out of the bushes, and bounded off over the sward. a beautiful creature it was, with its fulvous coat ocellated with rows of shining rosettes; its strong lithe limbs supporting a smooth cylindrical body, continued into a long tapering tail; the very type of agility; a creature rare even in these remote solitudes--the jaguar. its very rarity rendered it the more desirable as an object to test the skill of the marksman; and, notwithstanding the serious nature of the expedition, two of the party were tempted to discharge their rifles at the retreating animal. they were cassius calhoun, and a young planter who was riding by his side. the jaguar dropped dead in its tracks: a bullet having entered its body, and traversed the spine in a longitudinal direction. which of the two was entitled to the credit of the successful shot? calhoun claimed it, and so did the young planter. the shots had been fired simultaneously, and only one of them had hit. "i shall show you," confidently asserted the ex-officer, dismounting beside the dead jaguar, and unsheathing his knife. "you see, gentlemen, the ball is still in the animal's body? if it's mine, you'll find my initials on it--c.c.--with a crescent. i mould my bullets so that i can always tell when i've killed my game." the swaggering air with which he held up the leaden missile after extracting it told that he had spoken the truth. a few of the more curious drew near and examined the bullet. sure enough it was moulded as calhoun had declared, and the dispute ended in the discomfiture of the young planter. the party soon after came up with the tracker, waiting to conduct them along a fresh trail. it was no longer a track made by two horses, with shod hooves. the turf showed only the hoof-marks of one; and so indistinctly, that at times they were undiscernible to all eyes save those of the tracker himself. the trace carried them through the thicket, from glade to glade--after a circuitous march--bringing them back into the lane-like opening, at a point still further to the west. spangler--though far from being the most accomplished of his calling-- took it; up as fast as the people could ride after him. in his own mind he had determined the character of the animal whose footmarks he was following. he knew it to be a mustang--the same that had stood under the cottonwood whilst its rider was smoking a cigar--the same whose hoof-mark he had seen deeply indented in a sod saturated with human blood. the track of the states horse he had also followed for a short distance--in the interval, when he was left alone. he saw that it would conduct him back to the prairie through which they had passed; and thence, in all likelihood, to the settlements on the leona. he had forsaken it to trace the footsteps of the shod mustang; more likely to lead him to an explanation of that red mystery of murder-- perhaps to the den of the assassin. hitherto perplexed by the hoof-prints of two horses alternately overlapping each other, he was not less puzzled now, while scrutinising the tracks of but one. they went not direct, as those of an animal urged onwards upon a journey; but here and there zigzagging; occasionally turning upon themselves in short curves; then forward for a stretch; and then circling again, as if the mustang was either not mounted, or its rider was asleep in the saddle! could these be the hoof-prints of a horse with a man upon his back--an assassin skulking away from the scene of assassination, his conscience freshly excited by the crime? spangler did not think so. he knew not what to think. he was mystified more than ever. so confessed he to the major, when being questioned as to the character of the trail. a spectacle that soon afterwards came under his eyes--simultaneously seen by every individual of the party--so far from solving the mystery, had the effect of rendering it yet more inexplicable. more than this. what had hitherto been but an ambiguous affair--a subject for guess and speculation--was suddenly transformed into a horror; of that intense kind that can only spring from thoughts of the supernatural. no one could say that this feeling of horror had arisen without reason. when a man is seen mounted on a horse's back, seated firmly in the saddle, with limbs astride in the stirrups, body erect, and hand holding the rein--in short, everything in air and attitude required of a rider; when, on closer scrutiny, it is observed: that there is something wanting to complete the idea of a perfect equestrian; and, on still closer scrutiny, that this something is the _head_, it would be strange if the spectacle did not startle the beholder, terrifying him to the very core of his heart. and this very sight came before their eyes; causing them simultaneously to rein up, and with as much suddenness, as if each had rashly ridden within less than his horse's length of the brink of an abyss! the sun was low down, almost on a level with the sward. facing westward, his disc was directly before them. his rays, glaring redly in their eyes, hindered them from having a very accurate view, towards the quarter of the west. still could they see that strange shape above described--a horseman without a head! had only one of the party declared himself to have seen it, he would have been laughed at by his companions as a lunatic. even two might have been stigmatised in a similar manner. but what everybody saw at the same time, could not be questioned; and only he would have been thought crazed, who should have expressed incredulity about the presence of the abnormal phenomenon. no one did. the eyes of all were turned in the same direction, their gaze intently fixed on what was either a horseman without the head, or the best counterfeit that could have been contrived. was it this? if not, what was it? these interrogatories passed simultaneously through the minds of all. as no one could answer them, even to himself, no answer was vouchsafed. soldiers and civilians sate silent in their saddles--each expecting an explanation, which the other was unable to supply. there could be heard only mutterings, expressive of surprise and terror. no one even offered a conjecture. the headless horseman, whether phantom or real, when first seen, was about entering the avenue--near the debouchure of which the searchers had arrived. had he continued his course, he must have met them in the teeth--supposing their courage to have been equal to the encounter. as it was, he had halted at the same instant as themselves; and stood regarding them with a mistrust that may have been mutual. there was an interval of silence on both sides, during which a cigar stump might have been heard falling upon the sward. it was then the strange apparition was most closely scrutinised by those who had the courage: for the majority of the men sate shivering in their stirrups-- through sheer terror, incapable even of thought! the few who dared face the mystery, with any thought of accounting for it, were baffled in their investigation by the glare of the setting sun. they could only see that there was a horse of large size and noble shape, with a man upon his back. the figure of the man was less easily determined, on account of the limbs being inserted into overalls, while his shoulders were enveloped in an ample cloak-like covering. what signified his shape, so long as it wanted that portion most essential to existence? a man without a head--on horseback, sitting erect in the saddle, in an attitude of ease and grace--with spurs sparkling upon his heels--the bridle-rein held in one hand--the other where it should be, resting lightly upon his thigh! great god! what could it mean? was it a phantom? surely it could not be human? they who viewed it were not the men to have faith either in phantoms, or phantasmagoria. many of them had met nature in her remotest solitudes, and wrestled with her in her roughest moods. they were not given to a belief in ghosts. but the confidence of the most incredulous was shaken by a sight so strange--so absolutely unnatural--and to such an extent, that the stoutest hearted of the party was forced mentally to repeat the words:-- "_is it a phantom? surely it cannot be human_?" its size favoured the idea of the supernatural. it appeared double that of an ordinary man upon an ordinary horse. it was more like a giant on a gigantic steed; though this might have been owing to the illusory light under which it was seen--the refraction of the sun's rays passing horizontally through the tremulous atmosphere of the parched plain. there was but little time to philosophise--not enough to complete a careful scrutiny of the unearthly apparition, which every one present, with hand spread over his eyes to shade them from the dazzling glare, was endeavouring to make. nothing of colour could be noted--neither the garments of the man, nor the hairy coat of the horse. only the shape could be traced, outlined in sable silhouette against the golden background of the sky; and this in every change of attitude, whether fronting the spectators, or turned stern towards them, was still the same--still that inexplicable phenomenon: _a horseman without a head_! was it a phantom? surely it could not be human? "'tis old nick upon horseback!" cried a fearless frontiersman, who would scarce have quailed to encounter his satanic majesty even in that guise. "by the 'tarnal almighty, it's the devil himself." the boisterous laugh which succeeded the profane utterance of the reckless speaker, while it only added to the awe of his less courageous comrades, appeared to produce an effect on the headless horseman. wheeling suddenly round--his horse at the same time sending forth a scream that caused either the earth or the atmosphere to tremble--he commenced galloping away. he went direct towards the sun; and continued this course, until only by his motion could he be distinguished from one of those spots that have puzzled the philosopher--at length altogether disappearing, as though he had ridden into the dazzling disc! chapter forty one. cuatro cavalleros. the party of searchers, under the command of the major, was not the only one that went forth from fort inge on that eventful morning. nor was it the earliest to take saddle. long before--in fact close following the dawn of day--a much smaller party, consisting of only four horsemen, was seen setting out from the suburbs of the village, and heading their horses in the direction of the nueces. these could not be going in search of the dead body of henry poindexter. at that hour no one suspected that the young man was dead, or even that he was missing. the riderless horse had not yet come in to tell the tale of woe. the settlement was still slumbering, unconscious that innocent blood had been spilt. though setting out from nearly the same point, and proceeding in a like direction, there was not the slightest similarity between the two parties of mounted men. those earliest a-start were all of pure iberian blood; or this commingled with aztecan. in other words they were mexicans. it required neither skill nor close scrutiny to discover this. a glance at themselves and their horses, their style of equitation, the slight muscular development of their thighs and hips--more strikingly observable in their deep-tree saddles--the gaily coloured serapes shrouding their shoulders, the wide velveteen calzoneros on their legs, the big spurs on their boots, and broad-brimmed sombreros on their heads, declared them either mexicans, or men who had adopted the mexican costume. that they were the former there was not a question. the sallow hue; the pointed vandyke beard, covering the chin, sparsely--though not from any thinning by the shears--the black, close-cropped _chevelure_; the regular facial outline, were all indisputable characteristics of the hispano-moro-aztecan race, who now occupy the ancient territory of the moctezumas. one of the four was a man of larger frame than any of his companions. he rode a better horse; was more richly apparelled; carried upon his person arms and equipments of a superior finish; and was otherwise distinguished, so as to leave no doubt about his being the leader of the _cuartilla_. he was a man of between thirty and forty years of age, nearer to the latter than the former; though a smooth, rounded cheek--furnished with a short and carefully trimmed whisker--gave him the appearance of being younger than he was. but for a cold animal eye, and a heaviness of feature that betrayed a tendency to behave with brutality--if not with positive cruelty--the individual in question might have been described as handsome. a well formed mouth, with twin rows of white teeth between the lips, even when these were exhibited in a smile, did not remove this unpleasant impression. it but reminded the beholder of the sardonic grin that may have been given by satan, when, after the temptation had succeeded, he gazed contemptuously back upon the mother of mankind. it was not his looks that had led to his having become known among his comrades by a peculiar nick-name; that of an animal well known upon the plains of texas. his deeds and disposition had earned for him the unenviable soubriquet "el coyote." how came he to be crossing the prairie at this early hour of the morning--apparently sober, and acting as the leader of others--when on the same morning, but a few hours before, he was seen drunk in his jacale--so drunk as to be unconscious of having a visitor, or, at all events, incapable of giving that visitor a civil reception? the change of situation though sudden--and to some extent strange--is not so difficult of explanation. it will be understood after an account has been given of his movements, from the time of calhoun's leaving him, till the moment of meeting him in the saddle, in company with his three _conpaisanos_. on riding away from his hut, calhoun had left the door, as he had found it, ajar; and in this way did it remain until the morning--el coyote all the time continuing his sonorous slumber. at daybreak he was aroused by the raw air that came drifting over him in the shape of a chilly fog. this to some extent sobered him; and, springing up from his skin-covered truck, he commenced staggering over the floor--all the while uttering anathemas against the cold, and the door for letting it in. it might be expected that he would have shut to the latter on the instant; but he did not. it was the only aperture, excepting some holes arising from dilapidation, by which light was admitted into the interior of the jacale; and light he wanted, to enable him to carry out the design that had summoned him to his feet. the grey dawn, just commencing to creep in through the open doorway, scarce sufficed for his purpose; and it was only after a good while spent in groping about, interspersed with a series of stumblings, and accompanied by a string of profane exclamations, that he succeeded in finding that he was searching for: a large two-headed gourd, with a strap around its middle, used as a canteen for carrying water, or more frequently _mezcal_. the odour escaping from its uncorked end told that it had recently contained this potent spirit; but that it was now empty, was announced by another profane ejaculation that came from the lips of its owner, as he made the discovery. "_sangre de cristo_!" he cried, in an accent of angry disappointment, giving the gourd a shake to assure himself of its emptiness. "not a drop--not enough to drown a chiga! and my tongue sticking to my teeth. my throat feels as if i had bolted a _brazero_ of red-hot charcoal. por dios! i can't stand it. what's to be done? daylight? it is. i must up to the _pueblita_. it's possible that senor doffer may have his trap open by this time to catch the early birds. if so, he'll find a customer in the coyote. ha, ha, ha!" slinging the gourd strap around his neck, and thrusting his head through the slit of his serape, he set forth for the village. the tavern was but a few hundred yards from his hut, on the same side of the river, and approachable by a path, that he could have travelled with his eyes under "tapojos." in twenty minutes after, he was staggering past the sign-post of the "rough and ready." he chanced to be in luck. oberdoffer was in his bar-room, serving some early customers--a party of soldiers who had stolen out of quarters to swallow their morning dram. "mein gott, mishter dees!" said the landlord, saluting the newly arrived guest, and without ceremony forsaking six _credit_ customers, for one that he knew to be _cash_. "mein gott! is it you i sees so early ashtir? i knowsh vat you vant. you vant your pig coord fill mit ze mexican spirits--ag--ag--vat you call it?" "_aguardiente_! you've guessed it, cavallero. that's just what i want." "a tollar--von tollar ish the price." "_carrambo_! i've paid it often enough to know that. here's the coin, and there's the canteen. fill, and be quick about it!" "ha! you ish in a hurry, mein herr. fel--i von't keeps you waitin'; i suppose you ish off for the wild horsh prairish. if there's anything goot among the droves, i'm afeart that the irishmans will pick it up before you. he went off lasht night. he left my housh at a late hour-- after midnight it wash--a very late hour, to go a shourney! but he's a queer cushtomer is that mushtanger, mister maurish sherralt. nobody knows his ways. i shouldn't say anythings againsht him. he hash been a goot cushtomer to me. he has paid his bill like a rich man, and he hash plenty peside. mein gott! his pockets wash cramm mit tollars!" on hearing that the irishman had gone off to the "horsh prairish," as oberdoffer termed them, the mexican by his demeanour betrayed more than an ordinary interest in the announcement. it was proclaimed, first by a slight start of surprise, and then by an impatience of manner that continued to mark his movements, while listening to the long rigmarole that followed. it was clear that he did not desire anything of this to be observed. instead of questioning his informant upon the subject thus started, or voluntarily displaying any interest in it, he rejoined in a careless drawl-- "it don't concern me, cavallero. there are plenty of _mustenos_ on the plains--enough to give employment to all the horse-catchers in texas. look alive, senor, and let's have the aguardiente!" a little chagrined at being thus rudely checked in his attempt at a gossip, the german boniface hastily filled the gourd canteen; and, without essaying farther speech, handed it across the counter, took the dollar in exchange, chucked the coin into his till, and then moved back to his military customers, more amiable because drinking _upon the score_. diaz, notwithstanding the eagerness he had lately exhibited to obtain the liquor, walked out of the bar-room, and away from the hotel, without taking the stopper from his canteen, or even appearing to think of it! his excited air was no longer that of a man merely longing for a glass of ardent spirits. there was something stronger stirring within, that for the time rendered him oblivious of the appetite. whatever it may have been it did not drive him direct to his home: for not until he had paid a visit to three other hovels somewhat similar to his own--all situated in the suburbs of the _pueblita_, and inhabited by men like himself--not till then, did he return to his jacale. it was on getting back, that he noticed for the first time the tracks of a shod horse; and saw where the animal had been tied to a tree that stood near the hut. "_carrambo_!" he exclaimed, on perceiving this sign, "_the capitan americano_ has been here in the night. por dios! i remember something--i thought i had dreamt it. i can guess his errand. he has heard of don mauricio's departure. perhaps he'll repeat his visit, when he thinks i'm in a proper state to receive him? ha! ha! it don't matter now. the thing's all understood; and i sha'n't need any further instructions from him, till i've earned his thousand dollars. _mil pesos_! what a splendid fortune! once gained, i shall go back to the rio grande, and see what can be done with isidora." after delivering the above soliloquy, he remained at his hut only long enough to swallow a few mouthfuls of roasted _tasajo_, washing them down with as many gulps of mezcal. then having caught and caparisoned his horse, buckled on his huge heavy spurs, strapped his short carbine to the saddle, thrust a pair of pistols into their holsters, and belted the leathern sheathed machete on his hip, he sprang into the stirrups, and rode rapidly away. the short interval that elapsed, before making his appearance on the open plain, was spent in the suburbs of the village--waiting for the three horsemen who accompanied him, and who had been forewarned of their being wanted to act as his coadjutors, in some secret exploit that required their assistance. whatever it was, his trio of _confreres_ appeared to have been made acquainted with the scheme; or at all events that the scene of the exploit was to be on the alamo. when a short distance out upon the plain, seeing diaz strike off in a diagonal direction, they called out to warn him, that he was not going the right way. "i know the alamo well," said one of them, himself a mustanger. "i've hunted horses there many a time. it's southwest from here. the nearest way to it is through an opening in the chapparal you see out yonder. you are heading too much to the west, don miguel!" "indeed!" contemptuously retorted the leader of the cuartilla. "you're a _gringo_, senor vicente barajo! you forget the errand we're upon; and that we are riding shod horses? indians don't go out from port inge and then direct to the alamo to do--no matter what. i suppose you understand me?" "oh true!" answered senor vicente barajo, "i beg your pardon, don miguel. _carrambo_! i did not think of that." and without further protest, the three coadjutors of el coyote fell into his tracks, and followed him in silence--scarce another word passing between him and them, till they had struck the chapparal, at a point several miles above the opening of which barajo had made mention. once under cover of the thicket, the four men dismounted; and, after tying their horses to the trees, commenced a performance that could only be compared to a scene in the gentlemen's dressing-room of a suburban theatre, preliminary to the representation of some savage and sanguinary drama. chapter forty two. vultures on the wing. he who has travelled across the plains of southern texas cannot fail to have witnessed a spectacle of common occurrence--a flock of black vultures upon the wing. an hundred or more in the flock, swooping in circles, or wide spiral gyrations--now descending almost to touch the prairie award, or the spray of the chapparal--anon soaring upward by a power in which the wing bears no part--their pointed pinions sharply cutting against the clear sky--they constitute a picture of rare interest, one truly characteristic of a tropical clime. the traveller who sees it for the first time will not fail to rein up his horse, and sit in his saddle, viewing it with feelings of curious interest. even he who is accustomed to the spectacle will not pass on without indulging in a certain train of thought which it is calculated to call forth. there is a tale told by the assemblage of base birds. on the ground beneath them, whether seen by the traveller or not, is stretched some stricken creature--quadruped, or it may be _man_--dead, or it may be _dying_. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ on the morning that succeeded that sombre night, when the three solitary horsemen made the crossing of the plain, a spectacle similar to that described might have been witnessed above the chapparal into which they had ridden. a flock of black vultures, of both species, was disporting above the tops of the trees, near the point where the avenue angled. at daybreak not one could have been seen. in less than an hour after, hundreds were hovering above the spot, on widespread wings, their shadows sailing darkly over the green spray of the chapparal. a texan traveller entering the avenue, and observing the ominous assemblage, would at once have concluded, that there was death upon his track. going farther, he would have found confirmatory evidence, in a pool of blood trampled by the hooves of horses. not exactly over this were the vultures engaged in their aerial evolutions. the centre of their swoopings appeared to be a point some distance off among the trees; and there, no doubt, would be discovered the quarry that had called them together. at that early hour there was no traveller--texan, or stranger--to test the truth of the conjecture; but, for all that, it was true. at a point in the chapparal, about a quarter of a mile from the blood-stained path, lay stretched upon the ground the object that was engaging the attention of the vultures. it was not carrion, nor yet a quadruped; but a human being--a man! a young man, too, of noble lineaments and graceful shape--so far as could be seen under the cloak that shrouded his recumbent form--with a face fair to look upon, even in death. was he dead? at first sight any one would have said so, and the black birds believed it. his attitude and countenance seemed to proclaim it beyond question. he was lying upon his back, with face upturned to the sky--no care being taken to shelter it from the sun. his limbs, too, were not in a natural posture; but extended stiffly along the stony surface, as if he had lost the power to control them. a colossal tree was near, a live oak, but it did not shadow him. he was outside the canopy of its frondage; and the sun's beams, just beginning to penetrate the chapparal, were slanting down upon his pale face--paler by reflection from a white panama hat that but partially shaded it. his features did not seem set in death: and as little was it like sleep. it had more the look of death than sleep. the eyes were but half closed; and the pupils could be seen glancing through the lashes, glassy and dilated. was the man dead? beyond doubt, the black birds believed that he was. but the black birds were judging only by appearances. their wish was parent to the thought. they were mistaken. whether it was the glint of the sun striking into his half-screened orbs, or nature becoming restored after a period of repose, the eyes of the prostrate man were seen to open to their full extent, while a movement was perceptible throughout his whole frame. soon after he raised himself a little; and, resting upon his elbow, stared confusedly around him. the vultures soared upward into the air, and for the time maintained a higher flight. "am i dead, or living?" muttered he to himself. "dreaming, or awake? which is it? where am i?" the sunlight was blinding him. he could see nothing, till he had shaded his eyes with his hand; then only indistinctly. "trees above--around me! stones underneath! that i can tell by the aching of my bones. a chapparal forest! how came i into it? "now i have it," continued he, after a short spell of reflection. "my head was dashed against a tree. there it is--the very limb that lifted me out of the saddle. my left leg pains me. ah! i remember; it came in contact with the trunk. by heavens, i believe it is broken!" as he said this, he made an effort to raise himself into an erect attitude. it proved a failure. his sinister limb would lend him no assistance: it was swollen at the knee-joint--either shattered or dislocated. "where is the horse? gone off, of course. by this time, in the stables of casa del corvo. i need not care now. i could not mount him, if he were standing by my side. "the other?" he added, after a pause. "good heavens! what a spectacle it was! no wonder it scared the one i was riding! "what am i to do? my leg may be broken. i can't stir from this spot, without some one to help me. ten chances to one--a hundred--a thousand--against any one coming this way; at least not till i've become food for those filthy birds. ugh! the hideous brutes; they stretch out their beaks, as if already sure of making a meal upon me! "how long have i been lying here? the surf don't seem very high. it was just daybreak, as i climbed into the saddle. i suppose i've been unconscious about an hour. by my faith, i'm in a serious scrape? in all likelihood a broken limb--it feels broken--with no surgeon to set it; a stony couch in the heart of a texan chapparal--the thicket around me, perhaps for miles--no chance to escape from it of myself--no hope of human creature coming to help me--wolves on the earth, and vultures in the air! great god! why did i mount, without making sure of the rein? i may have ridden my last ride!" the countenance of the young man became clouded; and the cloud grew darker, and deeper, as he continued to reflect upon the perilous position in which a simple accident had placed him. once more he essayed to rise to his feet, and succeeded; only to find, that he had but one leg on which he could rely! it was no use, standing upon it; and he lay down again. two hours were passed without any change in his situation; during which he had caused the chapparal to ring with a loud hallooing. he only desisted from this, under the conviction: that there was no one at all likely to hear him. the shouting caused thirst; or at all events hastened the advent of this appetite--surely coming on as the concomitant of the injuries he had received. the sensation was soon experienced to such an extent that everything else--even the pain of his wounds--became of trifling consideration. "it will kill me, if i stay here?" reflected the sufferer. "i must make an effort to reach water. if i remember aright there's a stream somewhere in this chapparal, and not such a great way off. i must get to it, if i have to crawl upon my hands and knees. knees! and only one in a condition to support me! there's no help for it but try. the longer i stay here, the worse it will be. the sun grows hotter. it already burns into my brain. i may lose my senses, and then--the wolves--the vultures--" the horrid apprehension caused silence and shuddering. after a time he continued: "if i but knew the right way to go. i remember the stream well enough. it runs towards the chalk prairie. it should be south-east, from here. i shall try that way. by good luck the sun guides me. if i find water all may yet be well. god give me strength to reach it!" with this prayer upon his lips, he commenced making his way through the thicket--creeping over the stony ground, and dragging after him his disabled leg, like some huge saurian whose vertebrae have been disjointed by a blow! lizard-like, he continued his crawl. the effort was painful in the extreme; but the apprehension from which he suffered was still more painful, and urged him to continue it. he well knew there was a chance of his falling a victim to thirst-- almost a certainty, if he did not succeed in finding water. stimulated by this knowledge he crept on. at short intervals he was compelled to pause, and recruit his strength by a little rest. a man does not travel far, on his hands and knees, without feeling fatigued. much more, when one of the four members cannot be employed in the effort. his progress was slow and irksome. besides, it was being made under the most discouraging circumstances. he might not be going in the right direction? nothing but the dread of death could have induced him to keep on. he had made about a quarter of a mile from the point of starting, when it occurred to him that a better plan of locomotion might be adopted-- one that would, at all events, vary the monotony of his march. "perhaps," said he, "i might manage to hobble a bit, if i only had a crutch? ho! my knife is still here. thank fortune for that! and there's a sapling of the right size--a bit of blackjack. it will do." drawing the knife--a "bowie"--from his belt, he cut down the dwarf-oak; and soon reduced it to a rude kind of crutch; a fork in the tree serving for the head. then rising erect, and fitting the fork into his armpit, he proceeded with his exploration. he knew the necessity of keeping to one course; and, as he had chosen the south-east, he continued in this direction. it was not so easy. the sun was his only compass; but this had now reached the meridian, and, in the latitude of southern texas, at that season of the year, the midday sun is almost in the zenith. moreover, he had the chapparal to contend with, requiring constant detours to take advantage of its openings. he had a sort of guide in the sloping of the ground: for he knew that downward he was more likely to find the stream. after proceeding about a mile--not in one continued march, but by short stages, with intervals of rest between--he came upon a track made by the wild animals that frequent the chapparal. it was slight, but running in a direct line--a proof that it led to some point of peculiar consideration--in all likelihood a watering-place--stream, pond, or spring. any of these three would serve his purpose; and, without longer looking to the sun, or the slope of the ground, he advanced along the trail--now hobbling upon his crutch, and at times, when tired of this mode, dropping down upon his hands and crawling as before. the cheerful anticipations he had indulged in, on discovering the trail, soon, came to a termination. it became _blind_. in other words it ran out--ending in a glade surrounded by impervious masses of underwood. he saw, to his dismay, that it led _from_ the glade, instead of _towards_ it. he had been following it the wrong way! unpleasant as was the alternative, there was no other than to return upon his track. to stay in the glade would have been to die there. he retraced the trodden path--going on beyond the point where he had first struck it. nothing but the torture of thirst could have endowed him with strength or spirit to proceed. and this was every moment becoming more unendurable. the trees through which he was making way were mostly acacias, interspersed with cactus and wild agave. they afforded scarce any shelter from the sun, that now in mid-heaven glared down through their gossamer foliage with the fervour of fire itself. the perspiration, oozing through every pore of his skin, increased the tendency to thirst--until the appetite became an agony! within reach of his hand were the glutinous legumes of the _mezquites_, filled with mellifluous moisture. the agaves and cactus plants, if tapped, would have exuded an abundance of juice. the former was too sweet, the latter too acrid to tempt him. he was acquainted with the character of both. he knew that, instead of allaying his thirst, they would only have added to its intensity. he passed the depending pods, without plucking them. he passed the succulent stalks, without tapping thorn. to augment his anguish, he now discovered that the wounded limb was, every moment, becoming more unmanageable. it had swollen to enormous dimensions. every step caused him a spasm of pain. even if going in the direction of the doubtful streamlet, he might never succeed in reaching it? if not, there was no hope for him. he could but lie down in the thicket, and die! death would not be immediate. although suffering acute pain in his head, neither the shock it had received, nor the damage done to his knee, were like to prove speedily fatal. he might dread a more painful way of dying than from wounds. thirst would be his destroyer--of all shapes of death perhaps the most agonising. the thought stimulated him to renewed efforts; and despite the slow progress he was able to make--despite the pain experienced in making it--he toiled on. the black birds hovering above, kept pace with his halting step and laborious crawl. now more than a mile from the point of their first segregation, they were all of them still there--their numbers even augmented by fresh detachments that had become warned of the expected prey. though aware that the quarry still lived and moved, they saw that it was stricken. instinct--perhaps rather experience--told them it must soon succumb. their shadows crossed and recrossed the track upon which he advanced-- filling him with ominous fears for the end. there was no noise: for these birds are silent in their flight--even when excited by the prospect of a repast. the hot sun had stilled the voices of the crickets and tree-toads. even the hideous "horned frog" reclined listless along the earth, sheltering its tuberculated body under the stones. the only sounds to disturb the solitude of the chapparal were those made by the sufferer himself--the swishing of his garments, as they brushed against the hirsute plants that beset the path; and occasionally his cries, sent forth in the faint hope of their being heard. by this time, blood was mingling with the sweat upon his skin. the spines of the cactus, and the clawlike thorns of the agave, had been doing their work; and scarce an inch of the epidermis upon his face, hands, and limbs, that was not rent with a laceration. he was near to the point of despondence--in real truth, he had reached it: for after a spell of shouting he had flung himself prostrate along the earth, despairingly indifferent about proceeding farther. in all likelihood it was the attitude that saved him. lying with his ear close to the surface, he heard a sound--so slight, that it would not have been otherwise discernible. slight as it was, he could distinguish it, as the very sound for which his senses were sharpened. it was the murmur of moving water! with an ejaculation of joy, he sprang to his feet, as if nothing were amiss; and made direct towards the point whence proceeded the sound. he plied his improvised crutch with redoubled energy. even the disabled leg appeared to sustain him. it was strength and the love of life, struggling against decrepitude and the fear of death. the former proved victorious; and, in ten minutes after, he lay stretched along the sward, on the banks of a crystal streamlet-- wondering why the want of water could have caused him such indescribable agony! chapter forty three. the cup and the jar. once more the mustanger's hut! once more his henchman, astride of a stool in the middle of the floor! once more his hound lying astretch upon the skin-covered hearth, with snout half buried in the cinders! the relative positions of the man and the dog are essentially the same-- as when seen on a former occasion--their attitudes almost identical. otherwise there is a change in the picture since last painted--a transformation at once striking and significant. the horse-hide door, standing ajar, still hangs upon its hinges; and the smooth coats of the wild steeds shine lustrously along the walls. the slab table, too, is there, the trestle bedstead, the two stools, and the "shake down" of the servitor. but the other "chattels" wont to be displayed against the skin tapestry are either out of sight, or displaced. the double gun has been removed from its rack; the silver cup, hunting horn, and dog-call, are no longer suspended from their respective pegs; the saddle, bridles, ropes, and serapes are unslung; and the books, ink, pens, and _papeterie_ have entirely disappeared. at first sight it might be supposed that indians have paid a visit to the jacale, and pillaged it of its _penates_. but no. had this been the case, phelim would not be sitting so unconcernedly on the stool, with his carroty scalp still upon his head. though the walls are stripped nothing has been carried away. the articles are still there, only with a change of place; and the presence of several corded packages, lying irregularly over the floor--among which is the leathern portmanteau--proclaims the purpose of the transposition. though a clearing out has not been made, it is evident that one is intended. in the midst of the general displacement, one piece of plenishing was still seen in its accustomed corner--the demijohn. it was seen by phelim, oftener than any other article in the room: for no matter in what direction he might turn his eyes, they were sure to come round again to that wicker-covered vessel that stood so temptingly in the angle. "ach! me jewel, it's there yez are!" said he, apostrophising the demijohn for about the twentieth time, "wid more than two quarts av the crayther inside yer bewtifull belly, and not doin' ye a bit av good, nayther. if the tinth part av it was inside av me, it wud be a moighty binnefit to me intistines. trath wud it that same. wudn't it, tara?" on hearing his name pronounced, the dog raised his head and looked inquiringly around, to see what was wanted of him. perceiving that his human companion was but talking to himself, he resumed his attitude of repose. "faix! i don't want any answer to that, owld boy. it's meself that knows it, widout tillin'. a hape av good a glass of that same potyeen would do me; and i dar'n't touch a dhrap, afther fwhat the masther sid to me about it. afther all that packin', too, till me throat is stickin' to me tongue, as if i had been thryin' to swallow a pitch plaster. sowl! it's a shame av masther maurice to make me promise agaynst touchin' the dhrink--espacially when it's not goin' to be wanted. didn't he say he wudn't stay more than wan night, whin he come back heeur; an shure he won't conshume two quarts in wan night--unless that owld sinner stump comes along wid him. bad luck to his greedy gut! he gets more av the manongahayla than the masther himsilf. "there's wan consolashun, an thank the lord for it, we're goin' back to the owld _sad_, an the owld place at ballyballagh. won't i have a skinful when i get thare--av the raal stuff too, instid of this amerikyan rotgut! hooch--hoop--horoo! the thought av it's enough to sit a man mad wid deloight. hooch--hoop--horoo!" tossing his wide-awake up among the rafters, and catching it as it came down again, the excited galwegian several times repeated his ludicrous shibboleth. then becoming tranquil he sate for awhile in silence--his thoughts dwelling with pleasant anticipation on the joys that awaited him at ballyballagh. they soon reverted to the objects around him--more especially to the demijohn in the corner. on this once more his eyes became fixed in a gaze, in which increasing covetousness was manifestly visible. "arrah, me jewel!" said he, again apostrophising the vessel, "ye're extramely bewtifull to look at--that same ye arr. shure now, yez wudn't till upon me, if i gave yez a thrifle av a kiss? ye wudn't be the thraiter to bethray me? wan smack only. thare can be no harum in that. trath, i don't think the masther 'ud mind it--when he thinks av the throuble i've had wid this packin', an the dhry dust gettin' down me throat. shure he didn't mane me to kape that promise for this time-- which differs intirely from all the rest, by razon av our goin' away. a dhry flittin', they say, makes a short sittin'. i'll tell the masther that, whin he comes back; an shure it 'll pacify him. besoides, there's another ixcuse. he's all av tin hours beyant his time; an i'll say i took a thriflin' dhrap to kape me from thinkin' long for him. shure he won't say a word about it. be sant pathrick! i'll take a smell at the dimmyjan, an trust to good luck for the rist. loy down, tara, i'm not agoin' out." the staghound had risen, seeing the speaker step towards the door. but the dumb creature had misinterpreted the purpose--which was simply to take a survey of the path by which the jacale was approached, and make sure, that, his master was not likely to interrupt him in his intended dealings with the demijohn. becoming satisfied that the coast was clear, he glided back across the floor; uncorked the jar; and, raising it to his lips, swallowed something more than a "thriflin' dhrap av its contints." then putting it back in its place, he returned to his seat on the stool. after remaining quiescent for a considerable time, he once more proceeded to soliloquise--now and then changing his speech to the apostrophic form--tara and the demijohn being the individuals honoured by his discourse. "in the name av all the angels, an the divils to boot, i wondher what's kapin' the masther! he sid he wud be heeur by eight av the clock in the marnin', and it's now good six in the afthernoon, if thare's any truth in a tixas sun. shure thare's somethin' detainin' him? don't yez think so, tara?" this time tara did vouchsafe the affirmative "sniff"--having poked his nose too far into the ashes. "be the powers! then, i hope it's no harum that's befallen him! if there has, owld dog, fwhat 'ud become av you an me? thare might be no ballyballagh for miny a month to come; unliss we cowld pay our passage wid these thraps av the masther's. the drinkin' cup--raal silver it is--wud cover the whole expinse av the voyage. be japers! now that it stroikes me, i niver had a dhrink out av that purty little vessel. i'm shure the liquor must taste swater that way. does it, i wondher--trath, now's just the time to thry." saying this, he took the cup out of the portmanteau, in which he had packed it; and, once more uncorking the demijohn, poured out a portion of its contents--of about the measure of a wineglassful. quaffing it off at a single gulp, he stood smacking his lips--as if to assure himself of the quality of the liquor. "sowl! i don't know that it _does_ taste betther," said he, still holding the cup in one hand, and the jar in the other. "afther all, i think, it's swater out av the dimmyjan itself, that is, as far as i cyan remimber. but it isn't givin' the gawblet fair play. it's so long since i had the jar to me mouth, that i a'most forget how it tasted that way. i cowld till betther if i thryed thim thegither. i'll do that, before i decoide." the demijohn was now raised to his lips; and, after several "glucks" was again taken away. then succeeded a second series of smacking, in true connoisseur fashion, with the head held reflectingly steadfast. "trath! an i'm wrong agane!" said he, accompanying the remark with another doubtful shake of the head. "althegither asthray. it's swater from the silver. or, is it only me imaginayshin that's desavin' me? it's worth while to make shure, an i can only do that by tastin' another thrifle out av the cup. that wud be givin' fair play to both av the vessels; for i've dhrunk twice from the jar, an only wanst from the silver. fair play's a jewil all the world over; and thare's no raison why this bewtiful little mug showldn't be trated as dacently as that big basket av a jar. be japers! but it shall tho'!" the cup was again called into requisition; and once more a portion of the contents of the demijohn were transferred to it--to be poured immediately after down the insatiable throat of the unsatisfied connoisseur. whether he eventually decided in favour of the cup, or whether he retained his preference for the jar, is not known. after the fourth potation, which was also the final one, he appeared to think he had tasted sufficiently for the time, and laid both vessels aside. instead of returning to his stool, however, a new idea came across his mind; which was to go forth from the hut, and see whether there was any sign to indicate the advent of his master. "come, tara!" cried he, striding towards the door. "let us stip up to the bluff beyant, and take a look over the big plain. if masther's comin' at all, he shud be in sight by this. come along, ye owld dog! masther maurice 'll think all the betther av us, for bein' a little unazy about his gettin' back." taking the path through the wooded bottom--with the staghound close at his heels--the galwegian ascended the bluff, by one of its sloping ravines, and stood upon the edge of the upper plateau. from this point he commanded a view of a somewhat sterile plain; that stretched away eastward, more than a mile, from the spot where he was standing. the sun was on his back, low down on the horizon, but shining from a cloudless sky. there was nothing to interrupt his view. here and there, a stray cactus plant, or a solitary stem of the arborescent yucca, raised its hirsute form above the level of the plain. otherwise the surface was smooth; and a coyote could not have crossed it without being seen. beyond, in the far distance, could be traced the darker outline of trees--where a tract of chapparal, or the wooded selvedge of a stream stretched transversely across the _llano_. the galwegian bent his gaze over the ground, in the direction in which he expected his master should appear; and stood silently watching for him. ere long his vigil was rewarded. a horseman was seen coming out from among the trees upon the other side, and heading towards the alamo. he was still more than a mile distant; but, even at that distance, the faithful servant could identify his master. the striped serape of brilliant hues--a true navajo blanket, which maurice was accustomed to take with him when travelling--was not to be mistaken. it gleamed gaudily under the glare of the setting sun--its bands of red, white, and blue, contrasting with the sombre tints of the sterile plain. phelim only wondered, that his master should have it spread over his shoulders on such a sultry evening instead of folded up, and strapped to the cantle of his saddle! "trath, tara! it looks quare, doesn't it? it's hot enough to roast a stake upon these stones; an yit the masther don't seem to think so. i hope he hasn't caught a cowld from stayin' in that close crib at owld duffer's tavern. it wasn't fit for a pig to dwill in. our own shanty's a splindid parlour to it." the speaker was for a time silent, watching the movements of the approaching horseman--by this time about half a mile distant, and still drawing nearer. when his voice was put forth again it was in a tone altogether changed. it was still that of surprise, with an approach towards merriment. but it was mirth that doubted of the ludicrous; and seemed to struggle under restraint. "mother av moses!" cried he. "what can the masther mane? not contint with havin' the blankyet upon his showldhers, be japers, he's got it over his head! "he's playin' us a thrick, tara. he wants to give you an me a surproise. he wants to have a joke agaynst us! "sowl! but it's quare anyhow. it looks as if he _had_ no head. in faix does it! ach! what cyan it mane? be the howly virgin! it's enough to frighten wan, av they didn't know it was the masther! "_is_ it the masther? be the powers, it's too short for him! the head? saint patrick presarve us, whare is it? it cyan't be smothered up in the blankyet? thare's no shape thare! be jaysus, thare's somethin' wrong! what does it mane, tara?" the tone of the speaker had again undergone a change. it was now close bordering upon terror--as was also the expression of his countenance. the look and attitude of the staghound were not very different. he stood a little in advance--half cowering, half inclined to spring forward--with eyes glaring wildly, while fixed upon the approaching horseman--now scarce two hundred yards from the spot! as phelim put the question that terminated his last soliloquy, the hound gave out a lugubrious howl, that seemed intended for an answer. then, as if urged by some canine instinct, he bounded off towards the strange object, which puzzled his human companion, and was equally puzzling him. rushing straight on, he gave utterance to a series of shrill yelps; far different from the soft sonorous baying, with which he was accustomed to welcome the coming home of the mustanger. if phelim was surprised at what he had already seen, he was still further astonished by what now appeared to him. as the dog drew near, still yelping as he ran, the blood-bay--which the ex-groom had long before identified as his master's horse--turned sharply round, and commenced galloping back across the plain! while performing the wheel, phelim saw--or fancied he saw--that, which not only astounded him, but caused the blood to run chill through his veins, and his frame to tremble to the very tips of his toes. it was a head--that of the man on horseback; but, instead of being in its proper place, upon his shoulders, it was held in the rider's hand, just behind the pommel of the saddle! as the horse turned side towards him, phelim saw, or fancied he saw, the face--ghastly and covered with gore--half hidden behind the shaggy hair of the holster! he saw no more. in another instant his back was turned towards the plain; and, in another, he was rushing down the ravine, as fast as his enfeebled limbs would carry him! chapter forty four. a quartette of comanches. with his flame-coloured curls bristling upward--almost raising the hat from his head--the galwegian continued his retreat--pausing not--scarce looking back, till he had re-entered the jacale, closed the skin door behind him, and barricaded it with several large packages that lay near. even then he did not feel secure. what protection could there be in a shut door, barred and bolted besides, against that which was not earthly? and surely what he had seen was not of the earth--not of this world! who on earth had ever witnessed such a spectacle--a man mounted upon horseback, and carrying his head in his hand? who had ever heard of a phenomenon so unnatural? certainly not "phaylim onale." his horror still continuing, he rushed to and fro across the floor of the hut; now dropping down upon the stool, anon rising up, and gliding to the door; but without daring either to open it, or look out through the chinks. at intervals he tore the hair out of his head, striking his clenched hand against his temples, and roughly rubbing his eyes--as if to make sure that he was not asleep, but had really seen the shape that was horrifying him. one thing alone gave him a moiety of comfort; though it was of the slightest. while retreating down the ravine, before his head had sunk below the level of the plain, he had given a glance backward. he had derived some gratification from that glance; as it showed the headless rider afar off on the prairie, and with back turned toward the alamo, going on at a gallop. but for the remembrance of this, the galwegian might have been still more terrified--if that were possible--while striding back and forth upon the floor of the jacale. for a long time he was speechless--not knowing what to say--and only giving utterance to such exclamations as came mechanically to his lips. as the time passed, and he began to feel, not so much a return of confidence, as of the power of ratiocination, his tongue became restored to him; and a continuous fire of questions and exclamations succeeded. they were all addressed to himself. tara was no longer there, to take part in the conversation. they were put, moreover, in a low whispered tone, as if in fear that his voice might be heard outside the jacale. "ochone! ochone! it cyan't av been him! sant pathrick protict me, but fwhat was it thin? "thare was iverything av his--the horse--the sthriped blankyet--them spotted wather guards upon his legs--an the head itself--all except the faytures. thim i saw too, but wasn't shure about eyedintifycashin; for who kud till a face all covered over wid rid blood? "ach! it cudn't be masther maurice at all, at all! "it's all a dhrame. i must have been aslape, an dhramin? or, was it the whisky that did it? "shure, i wasn't dhrunk enough for that. two goes out av the little cup, an two more from the dimmyjan--not over a kupple av naggins in all! that wudn't make me dhrunk. i've taken twice that, widout as much as thrippin in my spache. trath have i. besoides, if i had been the worse for the liquor, why am i not so still? "thare's not half an hour passed since i saw it; an i'm as sober as a judge upon the binch av magistrates. "sowl! a dhrap 'ud do me a power av good just now. if i don't take wan, i'll not get a wink av slape. i'll be shure to kape awake all the night long thinkin' about it. ochone! ochone! what cyan it be anyhow? an' where cyan the masther be, if it wasn't him? howly sant pathrick! look down an watch over a miserable sinner, that's lift all alone be himself, wid nothin' but ghosts an goblins around him!" after this appeal to the catholic saint, the connemara man addressed himself with still more zealous devotion to the worship of a very different divinity, known among the ancients as bacchus. his suit in this quarter proved perfectly successful; for in less than an hour after he had entered upon his genuflexions at the shrine of the pagan god--represented by the demijohn of monongahela whisky--he was shrived of all his sufferings--if not of his sins--and lay stretched along the floor of the jacale, not only oblivious of the spectacle that had so late terrified him to the very centre of his soul, but utterly unconscious of his soul's existence. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ there is no sound within the hut of maurice the mustanger--not even a clock, to tell, by its continuous ticking, that the hours are passing into eternity, and that another midnight is mantling over the earth. there are sounds outside; but only as usual. the rippling of the stream close by, the whispering of the leaves stirred by the night wind, the chirrup of cicadas, the occasional cry of some wild creature, are but the natural voices of the nocturnal forest. midnight has arrived, with a moon that assimilates it to morning. her light illumines the earth; here and there penetrating through the shadowy trees, and flinging broad silvery lists between them. passing through these alternations of light and shadow--apparently avoiding the former, as much as possible--goes a group of mounted men. though few in number--as there are only four of them--they are formidable to look upon. the vermilion glaring redly over their naked skins, the striped and spotted tatooing upon their cheeks, the scarlet feathers standing stiffly upright above their heads, and the gleaming of weapons held in their hands, all bespeak strength of a savage and dangerous kind. whence come they? they are in the war costume of the comanche. their paint proclaims it. there is the skin fillet around the temples, with the eagle plumes stuck behind it. the bare breasts and arms; the buckskin breech-clouts-- everything in the shape of sign by which these ishmaelites of texas may be recognised, when out upon the _maraud_. they must be comanches: and, therefore, have come from the west. whither go they? this is a question more easily answered. they are closing in upon the hut, where lies the unconscious inebriate. the jacale of maurice gerald is evidently the _butt_ of their expedition. that their intentions are hostile, is to be inferred from the fact of their wearing the war costume. it is also apparent from their manner of making approach. still further, by their dismounting at some distance from the hut, securing their horses in the underwood, and continuing their advance on foot. their stealthy tread--taking care to plant the foot lightly upon the fallen leaves--the precaution to keep inside the shadow--the frequent pauses, spent in looking ahead and listening--the silent gestures with which these movements are directed by him who appears to be the leader-- all proclaim design, to reach the jacale unperceived by whoever may chance to be inside it. in this they are successful--so far as may be judged by appearances. they stand by the stockade walls, without any sign being given to show that they have been seen. the silence inside is complete, as that they are themselves observing. there is nothing heard--not so much as the screech of a hearth-cricket. and yet the hut is inhabited. but a man may get drunk beyond the power of speech, snoring, or even audibly breathing; and in this condition is the tenant of the jacale. the four comanches steal up to the door; and in skulking attitudes scrutinise it. it is shut; but there are chinks at the sides. to these the savages set their ears--all at the same time--and stand silently listening. no snoring, no breathing, no noise of any kind! "it is possible," says their chief to the follower nearest him--speaking in a whisper, but in good grammatical castilian, "just possible he has not yet got home; though by the time of his starting he should have reached here long before this. he may have ridden out again? now i remember: there's a horse-shed at the back. if the man be inside the house, the beast should be found in the shed. stay here, _camarados_, till i go round and see." six seconds suffice to examine the substitute for a stable. no horse in it. as many more are spent in scrutinising the path that leads to it. no horse has been there--at least not lately. these points determined, the chief returns to his followers--still standing by the doorway in front. "_maldito_!" he exclaims, giving freer scope to his voice, "he's _not_ here, nor has he been this day." "we had better go inside, and make sure?" suggests one of the common warriors, in spanish fairly pronounced. "there can be no harm in our seeing how the _irlandes_ has housed himself out here?" "certainly not!" answers a third, equally well versed in the language of cervantes. "let's have a look at his larder too. i'm hungry enough to eat raw tasajo." "_por dios_!" adds the fourth and last of the quartette, in the same sonorous tongue. "i've heard that he keeps a cellar. if so--" the chief does not wait for his follower to finish the hypothetical speech. the thought of a cellar appears to produce a powerful effect upon him--stimulating to immediate action. he sets his heel upon the skin door, with the intention of pushing it open. it resists the effort. "_carrambo_! it's barred inside! done to keep out intruders in his absence! lions, tigers, bears, buffaloes--perhaps indians. ha! ha! ha!" another kick is given with greater force. the door still keeps its place. "barricaded with something--something heavy too. it won't yield to kicking. no matter. i'll soon see what's inside." the machete is drawn from its sheath; and a large hole cut through the stretched skin, that covers the light framework of wood. into this the indian thrusts his arm; and groping about, discovers the nature of the obstruction. the packages are soon displaced, and the door thrown open. the savages enter, preceded by a broad moonbeam, that lights them on their way, and enables them to observe the condition of the interior. a man lying in the middle of the floor! "_carajo_!" "is he asleep?" "he must be dead not to have heard us?" "neither," says the chief, after stooping to examine him, "only dead drunk--_boracho--embriaguado_! he's the servitor of the irlandes. i've seen this fellow before. from his manner one may safely conclude, that his master is not at home, nor has been lately. i hope the brute hasn't used up the cellar in getting himself into this comfortable condition. ah! a jar. and smelling like a rose! there's a rattle among these rods. there's stuff inside. thank the lady guadaloupe for this!" a few seconds suffice for distributing what remains of the contents of the demijohn. there is enough to give each of the four a drink, with two to their chief; who, notwithstanding his high rank, has not the superior politeness to protest against this unequal distribution. in a trice the jar is empty. what next? the master of the house must come home, some time or other. an interview with him is desired by the men, who have made a call upon him--particularly desired, as may be told by the unseasonable hour of their visit. the chief is especially anxious to see him. what can four comanche indians want with maurice the mustanger? their talk discloses their intentions: for among themselves they make no secret of their object in being there. _they have come to murder him_! their chief is the instigator; the others are only his instruments and assistants. the business is too important to permit of his trifling. he will gain a thousand dollars by the deed--besides a certain gratification independent of the money motive. his three braves will earn a hundred each--a sum sufficient to tempt the cupidity of a comanche, and purchase him for any purpose. the travesty need not be carried any further. by this time the mask must have fallen off. our comanches are mere mexicans; their chief, miguel diaz, the mustanger. "we must lie in wait for him." this is the counsel of el coyote. "he cannot be much longer now, whatever may have detained him. you, barajo, go up to the bluff, and keep a look-out over the plain. the rest remain here with me. he must come that way from the leona. we can meet him at the bottom of the gorge under the big cypress tree. 'tis the best place for our purpose." "had we not better silence _him_?" hints the bloodthirsty barajo, pointing to the galwegian--fortunately unconscious of what is transpiring around him. "dead men tell no tales!" adds another of the conspirators, repeating the proverb in its original language. "it would tell a worse tale were we to kill him," rejoins diaz. "besides, it's of no use. he's silent enough as it is, the droll devil. let the dog have his day. i've only bargained for the life of his master. come, barajo! _vayate! vayate_! up to the cliff. we can't tell the moment don mauricio may drop in upon us. a miscarriage must not be made. we may never have such a chance again. take your stand at the top of the gorge. from that point you have a view of the whole plain. he cannot come near without your seeing him, in such a moonlight as this. as soon as you've set eyes on him, hasten down and let us know. be sure you give us time to get under the cypress." barajo is proceeding to yield obedience to this chapter of instructions, but with evident reluctance. he has, the night before, been in ill luck, having lost to el coyote a large sum at the game of _monte_. he is desirous of having his _revanche_: for he well knows how his _confreres_ will spend the time in his absence. "quick. senor vicente!" commands diaz, observing his dislike to the duty imposed upon him; "if we fail in this business, you will lose more than you can gain at an _albur_ of monte. go, man!" continues el coyote, in an encouraging way. "if he come not within the hour, some one will relieve you. go!" barajo obeys, and, stepping out of the jacale, proceeds to his post upon the top of the cliff. the others seat themselves inside the hut--having already established a light. men of their class and calling generally go provided with the means of killing time, or, at all events, hindering it from hanging on their hands. the slab table is between them, upon which is soon displayed, not their supper, but a pack of spanish cards, which every mexican _vagabondo_ carries under his serape. _cavallo_ and _soto_ (queen and knave) are laid face upward; a monte table is established; the cards are shuffled; and the play proceeds. absorbed in calculating the chances of the game, an hour passes without note being taken of the time. el coyote is banker, and also croupier. the cries "_cavallo en la puerta_!" "_soto mozo_!" "the queen in the gate!" "the knave winner!"--at intervals announced in set phrase--echo from the skin-covered walls. the silver dollars are raked along the rough table, their sharp chink contrasting with the soft shuffle of the cards. all at once a more stentorous sound interrupts the play, causing a cessation of the game. it is the screech of the inebriate, who, awaking from his trance of intoxication, perceives for the first time the queer company that share with him the shelter of the jacale. the players spring to their feet, and draw their machetes. phelim stands a fair chance of being skewered on three long toledos. he is only saved by a contingency--another interruption that has the effect of staying the intent. barajo appears in the doorway panting for breath. it is scarce necessary for him to announce his errand, though he contrives to gasp out-- "he is _coming_--on the bluff already--at the head of the _canada_-- quick, comrades, quick!" the galwegian is saved. there is scarce time to kill him--even were it worth while. but it is not--at least so think the masqueraders; who leave him to resume his disturbed slumber, and rush forth to accomplish the more profitable assassination. in a score of seconds they are under the cliff, at the bottom of the sloping gorge by which it must be descended. they take stand under the branches of a spreading cypress; and await the approach of their victim. they listen for the hoofstrokes that should announce it. these are soon heard. there is the clinking of a shod hoof--not in regular strokes, but as if a horse was passing over an uneven surface. one is descending the slope! he is not yet visible to the eyes of the ambuscaders. even the gorge is in gloom--like the valley below, shadowed by tall trees. there is but one spot where the moon throws light upon the turf--a narrow space outside the sombre shadow that conceals the assassins. unfortunately this does not lie in the path of their intended victim. he must pass under the canopy of the cypress! "don't kill him!" mutters miguel diaz to his men, speaking in an earnest tone. "there's no need for that just yet. i want to have him alive-- for the matter of an hour or so. i have my reasons. lay hold of him and his horse. there can be no danger, as he will be taken by surprise, and unprepared. if there be resistance, we must shoot him down; but let me fire first." the confederates promise compliance. they have soon an opportunity of proving the sincerity of their promise. he for whom they are waiting has accomplished the descent of the slope, and is passing under the shadow of the cypress. "_abajo las armas! a tierra_!" ("down with your weapons. to the ground!") cries el coyote, rushing forward and seizing the bridle, while the other three fling themselves upon the man who is seated in the saddle. there is no resistance, either by struggle or blow; no blade drawn; no shot discharged: not even a word spoken in protest! they see a man standing upright in the stirrups; they lay their hands upon limbs that feel solid flesh and bone, and yet seem insensible to the touch! the horse alone shows resistance. he rears upon his hind legs, makes ground backward, and draws his captors after him. he carries them into the light, where the moon is shining outside the shadow. merciful heaven! what does it mean? his captors let go their hold, and fall back with a simultaneous shout. it is a scream of wild terror! not another instant do they stay under the cypress; but commence retreating at top speed towards the thicket where their own steeds have been left tied. mounting in mad haste, they ride rapidly away. they have seen that which has already stricken terror into hearts more courageous than theirs--_a horseman without a head_! chapter forty five. a trail gone blind. was it a phantom? surely it could not be human? so questioned el coyote and his terrified companions. so, too, had the scared galwegian interrogated himself, until his mind, clouded by repeated appeals to the demijohn, became temporarily relieved of the terror. in a similar strain had run the thoughts of more than a hundred others, to whom the headless horseman had shown himself--the party of searchers who accompanied the major. it was at an earlier hour, and a point in the prairie five miles farther east, that to these the weird figure had made itself manifest. looking westward, with the sun-glare in their eyes, they had seen only its shape, and nothing more--at least nothing to connect it with maurice the mustanger. viewing it from the west, with the sun at his back, the galwegian had seen enough to make out a resemblance to his master--if not an absolute identification. under the light of the moon the four mexicans, who knew maurice gerald by sight, had arrived at a similar conclusion. if the impression made upon the servant was one of the wildest awe, equally had it stricken the conspirators. the searchers, though less frightened by the strange phenomenon, were none the less puzzled to explain it. up to the instant of its disappearance no explanation had been attempted--save that jocularly conveyed in the bizarre speech of the borderer. "what _do_ you make of it, gentlemen?" said the major, addressing those that had clustered around him: "i confess it mystifies me." "an indian trick?" suggested one. "some decoy to draw us into an ambuscade?" "a most unlikely lure, then;" remarked another; "certainly the last that would attract me." "i don't think it's indian," said the major; "i don't know what to think. what's your opinion of it, spangler?" the tracker shook his head, as if equally uncertain. "do you think it's an indian in disguise?" urged the officer, pressing him for an answer. "i know no more than yourself, major," replied he. "it _should_ be somethin' of that kind: for what else _can_ it be? it must eyther be a man, or a dummy!" "that's it--a dummy!" cried several, evidently relieved by his hypothesis. "whatsomever it is--man, dummy, or devil," said the frontiersman, who had already pronounced upon it, "thar's no reason why we should be frightened from followin' its trail. has it left any, i wonder?" "if it has," replied spangler, "we'll soon see. ours goes the same way--so fur as can be judged from here. shall we move forr'ad, major?" "by all means. we must not be turned from our purpose by a trifle like that. forward!" the horsemen again advanced--some of them not without a show of reluctance. there were among them men, who, if left to themselves, would have taken the back track. of this number was calhoun, who, from the first moment of sighting the strange apparition, had shown signs of affright even beyond the rest of his companions. his eyes had suddenly assumed an unnatural glassiness; his lips were white as ashes; while his drooping jaw laid bare two rows of teeth, which he appeared with difficulty to restrain from chattering! but for the universal confusion, his wild manner might have been observed. so long as the singular form was in sight, there were eyes only for it; and when it had at length disappeared, and the party advanced along the trail, the ex-captain hung back, riding unobserved among the rearmost. the tracker had guessed aright. the spot upon which the ghostly shape had for the moment stood still, lay direct upon the trail they were already taking up. but, as if to prove the apparition a spirit, on reaching the place there were no tracks to be seen! the explanation, however, was altogether natural. where the horse had wheeled round, and for miles beyond, the plain was thickly strewn with white shingle. it was, in trapper parlance, a "chalk prairie." the stones showed displacement; and here and there an abrasion that appeared to have been made by the hoof of a horse. but these marks were scarce discernible, and only to the eyes of the skilled tracker. it was the case with the trail they had been taking up--that of the shod mustang; and as the surface had lately been disturbed by a wild herd, the particular hoof-marks could no longer be distinguished. they might have gone further in the direction taken by the headless rider. the sun would have been their guide, and after that the evening star. but it was the rider of the shod mustang they were desirous to overtake; and the half hour of daylight that followed was spent in fruitless search for his trail--gone blind among the shingle. spangler proclaimed himself at fault, as the sun disappeared over the horizon. they had no alternative but to ride back to the chapparal, and bivouac among the bushes. the intention was to make a fresh trial for the recovery of the trail, at the earliest hour of the morning. it was not fulfilled, at least as regarded time. the trial was postponed by an unexpected circumstance. scarce had they formed camp, when a courier arrived, bringing a despatch for the major. it was from the commanding officer of the district, whose head-quarters were at san antonio do bexar. it had been sent to fort inge, and thence forwarded. the major made known its tenor by ordering "boots and saddles" to be sounded; and before the sweat had become dry upon the horses, the dragoons were once more upon their backs. the despatch had conveyed the intelligence, that the comanches were committing outrage, not upon the leona, but fifty miles farther to the eastward, close to the town of san antonio itself. it was no longer a mere rumour. the maraud had commenced by the murder of men, women, and children, with the firing of their houses. the major was commanded to lose no time, but bring what troops he could spare to the scene of operations. hence his hurried decampment. the civilians might have stayed; but friendship--even parental affection--must yield to the necessities of nature. most of them had set forth without further preparation than the saddling of their horses, and shouldering their guns; and hunger now called them home. there was no intention to abandon the search. that was to be resumed as soon as they could change horses, and establish a better system of commissariat. then would it be continued--as one and all declared, to the "bitter end." a small party was left with spangler to take up the trail of the american horse, which according to the tracker's forecast would lead back to the leona. the rest returned along with the dragoons. before parting with poindexter and his friends, the major made known to them--what he had hitherto kept back--the facts relating to the bloody sign, and the tracker's interpretation of it. as he was no longer to take part in the search, he thought it better to communicate to those who should, a circumstance so important. it pained him to direct suspicion upon the young irishman, with whom in the way of his calling he had held some pleasant intercourse. but duty was paramount; and, notwithstanding his disbelief in the mustanger's guilt, or rather his belief in its improbability, he could not help acknowledging that appearances were against him. with the planter and his party it was no longer a suspicion. now that the question of indians was disposed of, men boldly proclaimed maurice gerald a murderer. that the deed had been done no one thought of doubting. oberdoffer's story had furnished the first chapter of the evidence. henry's horse returning with the blood-stained saddle the last. the intermediate links were readily supplied--partly by the interpretations of the tracker, and partly by conjecture. no one paused to investigate the motive--at least with any degree of closeness. the hostility of gerald was accounted for by his quarrel with calhoun; on the supposition that it might have extended to the whole family of the poindexters! it was very absurd reasoning; but men upon the track of a supposed murderer rarely reason at all. they think only of destroying him. with this thought did they separate; intending to start afresh on the following morning, throw themselves once more upon the trail of the two men who were missing, and follow it up, till one or both should be found--one or both, living or dead. the party left with spangler remained upon the spot which the major had chosen as a camping ground. they were in all less than a dozen. a larger number was deemed unnecessary. comanches, in that quarter, were no longer to be looked for; nor was there any other danger that called for a strength of men. two or three would have been sufficient for the duty required of them. nine or ten stayed--some out of curiosity, others for the sake of companionship. they were chiefly young men--sons of planters and the like. calhoun was among them--the acknowledged chief of the party; though spangler, acting as guide, was tacitly understood to be the man to whom obedience should be given. instead of going to sleep, after the others had ridden away, they gathered around a roaring fire, already kindled within the thicket glade. among them was no stint for supper--either of eatables or drinkables. the many who had gone back--knowing they would not need them--had surrendered their haversacks, and the "heel-taps" of their canteens, to the few who remained. there was liquor enough to last through the night--even if spent in continuous carousing. despite their knowledge of this--despite the cheerful crackling of the logs, as they took their seats around the fire--they were not in high spirits. one and all appeared to be under some influence, that, like a spell, prevented them from enjoying a pleasure perhaps not surpassed upon earth. you may talk of the tranquil joys of the domestic hearth. at times, upon the prairie, i have myself thought of, and longed to return to them. but now, looking back upon both, and calmly comparing them, one with the other, i cannot help exclaiming: "give me the circle of the camp-fire, with half-a-dozen of my hunter comrades around it--once again give me that, and be welcome to the wealth i have accumulated, and the trivial honours i have gained--thrice welcome to the care and the toil that must still be exerted in retaining them." the sombre abstraction of their spirits was easily explained. the weird shape was fresh in their thoughts. they were yet under the influence of an indefinable awe. account for the apparition as they best could, and laugh at it--as they at intervals affected to do--they could not clear their minds of this unaccountable incubus, nor feel satisfied with any explanation that had been offered. the guide spangler partook of the general sentiment, as did their leader calhoun. the latter appeared more affected by it than any of the party! seated, with moody brow, under the shadow of the trees, at some distance from the fire, he had not spoken a word since the departure of the dragoons. nor did he seem disposed to join the circle of those who were basking in the blaze; but kept himself apart, as if not caring to come under the scrutiny of his companions. there was still the same wild look in his eyes--the same scared expression upon his features--that had shown itself before sunset. "i say, cash calhoun!" cried one of the young fellows by the fire, who was beginning to talk "tall," under the influence of the oft-repeated potations--"come up, old fellow, and join us in a drink! we all respect your sorrow; and will do what we can to get satisfaction, for you and yours. but a man mustn't always mope, as you're doing. come along here, and take a `smile' of the monongaheela! it'll do you a power of good, i promise you." whether it was that he was pleased at the interpretation put upon his silent attitude--which the speech told him had been observed--or whether he had become suddenly inclined towards a feeling of good fellowship, calhoun accepted the invitation; and stepping up to the fire, fell into line with the rest of the roysterers. before seating himself, he took a pull at the proffered flask. from that moment his air changed, as if by enchantment. instead of showing sombre, he became eminently hilarious--so much so as to cause surprise to more than one of the party. the behaviour seemed odd for a man, whose cousin was supposed to have been murdered that very morning. though commencing in the character of an invited guest, he soon exhibited himself as the host of the occasion. after the others had emptied their respective flasks, he proved himself possessed of a supply that seemed inexhaustible. canteen after canteen came forth, from his capacious saddle-bags--the legacy left by many departed friends, who had gone back with the major. partaking of these at the invitation of their leader--encouraged by his example--the young planter "bloods" who encircled the camp fire, talked, sang, danced, roared, and even rolled around it, until the alcohol could no longer keep them awake. then, yielding to exhausted nature, they sank back upon the sward, some perhaps to experience the dread slumber of a first intoxication. the ex-officer of volunteers was the last of the number who laid himself along the grass. if the last to lie down, he was the first to get up. scarce had the carousal ceased--scarce had the sonorous breathing of his companions proclaimed them asleep--when he rose into an erect attitude, and with cautious steps stole out from among them. with like stealthy tread he kept on to the confines of the camp--to the spot where his horse stood "hitched" to a tree. releasing the rein from its knot, and throwing it over the neck of the animal, he clambered into the saddle, and rode noiselessly away. in all these actions there was no evidence that he was intoxicated. on the contrary, they proclaimed a clear brain, bent upon some purpose previously determined. what could it be? urged by affection, was he going forth to trace the mystery of the murder, by finding the body of the murdered man? did he wish to show his zeal by going alone? some such design might have been interpreted from a series of speeches that fell carelessly from his lips, as he rode through the chapparal. "thank god, there's a clear moon, and six good hours before those youngsters will think of getting to their feet! i'll have time to search every corner of the thicket, for a couple of miles around the place; and if the body be there i cannot fail to find it. but what could that thing have meant? if i'd been the only one to see it, i might have believed myself mad. but they all saw it--every one of them. almighty heavens! what could it have been?" the closing speech ended in an exclamation of terrified surprise-- elicited by a spectacle that at the moment presented itself to the eyes of the ex-officer--causing him to rein up his horse, as if some dread danger was before him. coming in by a side path, he had arrived on the edge of the opening already described. he was just turning into it, when he saw, that he was not the only horseman, who at that late hour was traversing the chapparal. another, to all appearance as well mounted as himself, was approaching along the avenue--not slowly as he, but in a quick trot. long before the strange rider had come near, the moonlight, shining fall upon him, enabled calhoun to see that he was _headless_! there could be no mistake about the observation. though quickly made, it was complete. the white moon beams, silvering his shoulders, were reflected from no face, above or between them! it could be no illusion of the moon's light. calhoun had seen that same shape under the glare of the sun. he now saw more--the missing head, ghastly and gory, half shrouded behind the hairy holsters! more still--he recognised the horse--the striped serape upon the shoulders of the rider--the water-guards upon his legs--the complete caparison--all the belongings of maurice the mustanger! he had ample time to take in these details. at a stand in the embouchure of the side path, terror held him transfixed to the spot. his horse appeared to share the feeling. trembling in its tracks, the animal made no effort to escape; even when the headless rider pulled up in front, and, with a snorting, rearing steed, remained for a moment confronting the frightened party. it was only after the blood bay had given utterance to a wild "whigher"--responded to by the howl of a hound close following at his heels--and turned into the avenue to continue his interrupted trot--only then that calhoun became sufficiently released from the spell of horror to find speech. "god of heaven!" he cried, in a quivering voice, "what can it mean? is it man, or demon, that mocks me? has the whole day been a dream? or am i mad--mad--mad?" the scarce coherent speech was succeeded by action, instantaneous but determined. whatever the purpose of his exploration, it was evidently abandoned: for, turning his horse with a wrench upon the rein, he rode back by the way he had come--only at a far faster pace,--pausing not till he had re-entered the encampment. then stealing up to the edge of the fire, he lay down among the slumbering inebriates--not to sleep, but to stay trembling in their midst, till daylight disclosed a haggard pallor upon his cheeks, and ghastly glances sent forth from his sunken eyes. chapter forty six. a secret confided. the first dawn of day witnessed an unusual stir in and around the hacienda of casa del corvo. the courtyard was crowded with men--armed, though not in the regular fashion. they carried long hunting rifles, having a calibre of sixty to the pound; double-barrelled shot guns; single-barrelled pistols; revolvers; knives with long blades; and even tomahawks! in their varied attire of red flannel shirts, coats of coloured blanket, and "kentucky jeans," trowsers of brown "homespun," and blue "cottonade," hats of felt and caps of skin, tall boots of tanned leather, and leggings of buck--these stalwart men furnished a faithful picture of an assemblage, such as may be often seen in the frontier settlements of texas. despite the _bizarrerie_ of their appearance, and the fact of their carrying weapons, there was nothing in either to proclaim their object in thus coming together. had it been for the most pacific purpose, they would have been armed and apparelled just the same. but their object is known. a number of the men so met, had been out on the day before, along with the dragoons. others had now joined the assemblage--settlers who lived farther away, and hunters who had been from home. the muster on this morning was greater than on the preceding day--even exceeding the strength of the searching party when supplemented by the soldiers. though all were civilians, there was one portion of the assembled crowd that could boast of an organisation. irregular it may be deemed, notwithstanding the name by which its members were distinguished. these were the "_regulators_." there was nothing distinctive about them, either in their dress, arms, or equipments. a stranger would not have known a regulator from any other individual. they knew one another. their talk was of murder--of the murder of henry poindexter--coupled with the name of maurice the mustanger. another subject was discussed of a somewhat cognate character. those who had seen it, were telling those who had not--of the strange spectacle that had appeared to them the evening before on the prairie. some were at first incredulous, and treated the thing as a joke. but the wholesale testimony--and the serious manner in which it was given-- could not long be resisted; and the existence of the _headless horseman_ became a universal belief. of course there was an attempt to account for the odd phenomenon, and many forms of explanation were suggested. the only one, that seemed to give even the semblance of satisfaction, was that already set forward by the frontiersman--that the horse was real enough, but the rider was a counterfeit. for what purpose such a trick should be contrived, or who should be its contriver, no one pretended to explain. for the business that had brought them togther, there was but little time wasted in preparation. all were prepared already. their horses were outside--some of them held in hand by the servants of the establishment, but most "hitched" to whatever would hold them. they had come warned of their work, and only waited for woodley poindexter--on this occasion their chief--to give the signal for setting forth. he only waited in the hope of procuring a guide; one who could conduct them to the alamo--who could take them to the domicile of maurice the mustanger. there was no such person present. planters, merchants, shopkeepers, lawyers, hunters, horse and slave-dealers, were all alike ignorant of the alamo. there was but one man belonging to the settlement supposed to be capable of performing the required service--old zeb stump. but zeb could not be found. he was absent on one of his stalking expeditions; and the messengers sent to summon him were returning, one after another, to announce a bootless errand. there was a _woman_, in the hacienda itself, who could have guided the searchers upon their track--to the very hearthstone of the supposed assassin. woodley poindexter knew it not; and perhaps well for him it was so. had the proud planter suspected that in the person of his own child, there was a guide who could have conducted kim to the lone hut on the alamo, his sorrow for a lost son would have been stifled by anguish for an erring daughter. the last messenger sent in search of stump came back to the hacienda without him. the thirst for vengeance could be no longer stayed, and the avengers went forth. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ they were scarce out of sight of casa del corvo, when the two individuals, who could have done them such signal service, became engaged in conversation within the walls of the hacienda itself. there was nothing clandestine in the meeting, nothing designed. it was a simple contingency, zeb stump having just come in from his stalking excursion, bringing to the hacienda a portion of the "plunder"--as he was wont to term it--procured by his unerring rifle. of course to zeb stump, louise poindexter was at home. she was even eager for the interview--so eager, as to have kep almost a continual watch along the river road, all the day before, from the rising to the setting of the sun. her vigil, resumed on the departure of the noisy crowd, was soon after rewarded by the sight of the hunter, mounted on his old mare--the latter laden with the spoils of the chase--slowly moving along the road on the opposite side of the river, and manifestly making for the hacienda. a glad sight to her--that rude, but grand shape of colossal manhood. she recognised in it the form of a true friend--to whose keeping she could safely entrust her most secret confidence. and she had now such a secret to confide to him; that for a night and a day had been painfully pent up within her bosom. long before zeb had set foot upon the flagged pavement of the patio, she had gone out into the verandah to receive him. the air of smiling nonchalance with which he approached, proclaimed him still ignorant of the event which had cast its melancholy shadow over the house. there was just perceptible the slightest expression of surprise, at finding the outer gate shut, chained, and barred. it had not been the custom of the hacienda--at least during its present proprietary. the sombre countenance of the black, encountered within the shadow of the saguan, strengthened zeb's surprise--sufficiently to call forth an inquiry. "why, pluto, ole fellur! whatsomdiver air the matter wi' ye? yur lookin' like a 'coon wi' his tail chopped off--clost to the stump at thet! an' why air the big gate shet an barred--in the middle o' breakfist time? i hope thur hain't nuthin' gone astray?" "ho! ho! mass 'tump, dat's jess what dar hab goed stray--dat's preecise de ting, dis chile sorry t' say--berry much goed stray. ho! berry, berry much!" "heigh!" exclaimed the hunter, startled at the lugubrious tone. "thur air sommeat amiss? what is't, nigger? tell me sharp quick. it can't be no wuss than yur face shows it. nothin' happened to yur young mistress, i hope? miss lewaze--" "ho--ho! nuffin' happen to de young missa looey. ho--ho! bad enuf 'thout dat. ho! de young missa inside de house yar, 'tep in, mass' 'tump. she tell you de drefful news herseff." "ain't yur master inside, too? he's at home, ain't he?" "golly, no. dis time no. massa ain't 'bout de house at all nowhar. he wa' hya a'most a quarrer ob an hour ago. he no hya now. he off to de hoss prairas--wha de hab de big hunt 'bout a momf ago. you know, mass' zeb?" "the hoss purayras! what's tuk him thur? who's along wi' him?" "ho! ho! dar's mass cahoon, and gobs o' odder white genlum. ho! ho! dar's a mighty big crowd ob dem, dis nigga tell you." "an' yur young master henry--air he gone too?" "o mass' 'tump! dat's wha am be trubble. dat's de whole ob it. mass' hen' he gone too. he nebber mo' come back. de hoss he been brought home all kibbered over wif blood. ho! ho! de folks say massa henry he gone dead." "dead! yur jokin'? air ye in airnest, nigger?" "oh! i is, mass' 'tump. sorry dis chile am to hab say dat am too troo. dey all gone to sarch atter de body." "hyur! take these things to the kitchen. thur's a gobbler, an some purayra chickens. whar kin i find miss lewaze?" "here, mr stump. come this way!" replied a sweet voice well known to him, but now speaking in accents so sad he would scarce have recognised it. "alas! it is too true what pluto has been telling you. my brother is missing. he has not been seen since the night before last. his horse came home, with spots of blood upon the saddle. o zeb! it's fearful to think of it!" "sure enuf that _air_ ugly news. he rud out somewhar, and the hoss kim back 'ithout him? i don't weesh to gie ye unneedcessary pain, miss lewaze; but, as they air still sarchin' i mout be some help at that ere bizness; and maybe ye won't mind tellin' me the particklers?" these were imparted, as far as known to her. the gardes scene and its antecedents were alone kept back. oberdoffer was given as authority for the belief, that henry had gone off after the mustanger. the narrative was interrupted by bursts of grief, changing to indignation, when she came to tell zeb of the suspicion entertained by the people--that maurice was the murderer. "it air a lie!" cried the hunter, partaking of the same sentiment: "a false, parjured lie! an he air a stinkin' skunk that invented it. the thing's impossible. the mowstanger ain't the man to a dud sech a deed as that. an' why shed he have dud it? if thur hed been an ill-feelin' atween them. but thur wa'n't. i kin answer for the mowstanger--for more'n oncest i've heern him talk o' your brother in the tallest kind o' tarms. in coorse he hated yur cousin cash--an who doesn't, i shed like to know? excuse me for sayin' it. as for the other, it air different. ef thar hed been a quarrel an hot blood atween them--" "no--no!" cried the young creole, forgetting herself in the agony of her grief. "it was all over. henry was reconciled. he said so; and maurice--" the astounded look of the listener brought a period to her speech. covering her face with her hands, she buried her confusion in a flood of tears. "hoh--oh!" muttered zeb; "thur _hev_ been somethin'? d'ye say, miss lewaze, thur war a--a--quarrel atween yur brother--" "dear, dear zeb!" cried she, removing her hands, and confronting the stalwart hunter with an air of earnest entreaty, "promise me, you will keep my secret? promise it, as a friend--as a brave true-hearted man! you will--you will?" the pledge was given by the hunter raising his broad palm, and extending it with a sonorous slap over the region of his heart. in five minutes more he was in possession of a secret which woman rarely confides to man--except to him who can profoundly appreciate the confidence. the hunter showed less surprise than might have been expected; merely muttering to himself:-- "i thort it wild come to somethin' o' the sort--specially arter thet ere chase acrost the purayra." "wal, miss lewaze," he continued, speaking in a tone of kindly approval, "zeb stump don't see anythin' to be ashamed o' in all thet. weemen will be weemen all the world over--on the purayras or off o' them; an ef ye have lost yur young heart to the mowstanger, it wud be the tallest kind o' a mistake to serpose ye hev displaced yur affeckshuns, as they calls it. though he air irish, he aint none o' the common sort; thet he aint. as for the rest ye've been tellin' me, it only sarves to substantify what i've been sayin'--that it air parfickly unpossible for the mowstanger to hev dud the dark deed; that is, ef thur's been one dud at all. let's hope thur's nothin' o' the kind. what proof hez been found? only the hoss comin' home wi' some rid spots on the seddle?" "alas! there is more. the people were all out yesterday. they followed a trail, and saw something, they would not tell me what. father did not appear as if he wished me to know what they had seen; and i--i feared, for reasons, to ask the others. they've gone off again--only a short while--just as you came in sight on the other side." "but the mowstanger? what do it say for hisself?" "oh, i thought you knew. he has not been found either. _mon dieu! mon dieu_! he, too, may have fallen by the same hand that has struck down my brother!" "ye say they war on a trail? his'n i serpose? if he be livin' he oughter be foun' at his shanty on the crik. why didn't they go thar? ah! now i think o't, thur's nobody knows the adzack sittavashun o' that ere domycile 'ceptin' myself i reckon: an if it war that greenhorn spangler as war guidin' o' them he'd niver be able to lift a trail acrost the chalk purayra. hev they gone that way agin?" "they have. i heard some of them say so." "wal, if they're gone in sarch o' the mowstanger i reck'n i mout as well go too. i'll gie tall odds i find him afore they do." "it is for that i've been so anxious to see you. there am many rough men along with papa. as they went away i heard them use wild words. there were some of those called `regulators.' they talked of lynching and the like. some of them swore terrible oaths of vengeance. o my god! if they should find _him_, and he cannot make clear his innocence, in the height of their angry passions--cousin cassius among the number-- you understand what i mean--who knows what may be done to him? dear zeb, for my sake--for his, whom you call friend--go--go! reach the alamo before them, and warn him of the danger! your horse is slow. take mine--any one you can find in the stable--" "thur's some truth in what ye say," interrupted the hunter, preparing to move off. "thur mout be a smell o' danger for the young fellur; an i'll do what i kin to avart it. don't be uneezay, miss lewaze. thur's not sech a partickler hurry. thet ere shanty ain't agoin' ter be foun' 'ithout a spell o' sarchin'. as to ridin' yur spotty i'll manage better on my ole maar. beside, the critter air reddy now if plute hain't tuk off the saddle. don't be greetin' yur eyes out--thet's a good chile! maybe it'll be all right yit 'bout yur brother; and as to the mowstanger, i hain't no more surspishun o' his innersense than a unborn babby." the interview ended by zeb making obeisance in backwoodsman style, and striding out of the verandah; while the young creole glided off to her chamber, to soothe her troubled spirit in supplications for his success. chapter forty seven. an intercepted epistle. urged by the most abject fear, had el coyote and his three comrades rushed back to their horses, and scrambled confusedly into the saddle. they had no idea of returning to the jacale of maurice gerald. on the contrary, their only thought was to put space between themselves and that solitary dwelling--whose owner they had encountered riding towards it in such strange guise. that it was "don mauricio" not one of them doubted. all four knew him by sight--diaz better than any--but all well enough to be sure it was the _irlandes_. there was his horse, known to them; his _armas de agua_ of jaguar-skin; his _navajo_ blanket, in shape differing from the ordinary serape of saltillo;--and his _head_! they had not stayed to scrutinise the features; but the hat was still in its place--the sombrero of black glaze which maurice was accustomed to wear. it had glanced in their eyes, as it came under the light of the moon. besides, they had seen the great dog, which diaz remembered to be his. the staghound had sprung forward in the midst of the struggle, and with a fierce growl attacked the assailant--though it had not needed this to accelerate their retreat. fast as their horses could carry them, they rode through the bottom timber; and, ascending the bluff by one of its ravines--not that where they had meant to commit murder--they reached the level of the upper plateau. nor did they halt there for a single second; but, galloping across the plain, re-entered the chapparal, and spurred on to the place where they had so skilfully transformed themselves into comanches. the reverse metamorphosis, if not so carefully, was more quickly accomplished. in haste they washed the war-paint from their skins-- availing themselves of some water carried in their canteens;--in haste they dragged their civilised habiliments from the hollow tree, in which they had hidden them; and, putting them on in like haste, they once more mounted their horses, and rode towards the leona. on their homeward way they conversed only of the headless horseman: but, with their thoughts under the influence of a supernatural terror, they could not satisfactorily account for an appearance so unprecedented; and they were still undecided as they parted company on the outskirts of the village--each going to his own jacale. "_carrai_!" exclaimed the coyote, as he stepped across the threshold of his, and dropped down upon his cane couch. "not much chance of sleeping after that. _santos dios_! such a sight! it has chilled the blood to the very bottom of my veins. and nothing here to warm me. the canteen empty; the posada shut up; everybody in bed! "_madre de dios_! what can it have been? ghost it could not be; flesh and bones i grasped myself; so did vicente on the other side? i felt that, or something very like it, under the tiger-skin. _santissima_! it could not be a cheat! "if a contrivance, why and to what end? who cares to play carnival on the prairies--except myself, and my camarados? _mil demonios_! what a grim masquerader! "_carajo_! am i forestalled? has some other had the offer, and earned the thousand dollars? was it the irlandes himself, dead, decapitated, carrying his head in his hand? "bah! it could not be--ridiculous, unlikely, altogether improbable! "but what then? "ha! i have it! a hundred to one i have it! he may have got warning of our visit, or, at least, had suspicions of it. 'twas a trick got up to try us!--perhaps himself in sight, a witness of our disgraceful flight? _maldito_! "but who could have betrayed us? no one. of course no one could tell of _that_ intent. how then should he have prepared such an infernal surprise? "ah! i forget. it was broad daylight as we made the crossing of the long prairie. we may have been seen, and our purpose suspected? just so--just so. and then, while we were making our toilet in the chapparal, the other could have been contrived and effected. that, and that only, can be the explanation! "fools! to have been frightened at a scarecrow! "_carrambo_! it shan't long delay the event. to-morrow i go back to the alamo. i'll touch that thousand yet, if i should have to spend twelve months in earning it; and, whether or not, the _deed_ shall be done all the same. enough to have lost isidora. it may not be true; but the very suspicion of it puts me beside myself. if i but find out that she loves him--that they have met since--since--mother of god! i shall go mad; and in my madness destroy not only the man i hate, but the woman i love! o dona isidora covarubio de los llanos! angel of beauty, and demon of mischief! i could kill you with my caresses--i can kill you with my steel! one or other shall be your fate. it is for you to choose between them!" his spirit becoming a little tranquillised, partly through being relieved by this conditional threat--and partly from the explanation he had been able to arrive at concerning the other thought that had been troubling it--he soon after fell asleep. nor did he awake until daylight looked in at his door, and along with it a visitor. "jose!" he cried out in a tone of surprise in which pleasure was perceptible--"you here?" "_si, senor; yo estoy_." "glad to see you, good jose. the dona isidora here?--on the leona, i mean?" "_si, senor_." "so soon again! she was here scarce two weeks ago, was she not? i was away from the settlement, but had word of it. i was expecting to hear from you, good jose. why did you not write?" "only, senor don miguel, for want of a messenger that could be relied upon. i had something to communicate, that could not with safety be entrusted to a stranger. something, i am sorry to say, you won't thank me for telling you; but my life is yours, and i promised you should know all." the "prairie wolf" sprang to his feet, as if pricked with a sharp-pointed thorn. "of her, and him? i know it by your looks. your mistress has met him?" "no, senor, she hasn't--not that i know of--not since the first time." "what, then?" inquired diaz, evidently a little relieved, "she was here while he was at the posada. something passed between them?" "true, don miguel--something did pass, as i well know, being myself the bearer of it. three times i carried him a basket of _dulces_, sent by the dona isidora--the last time also a letter." "a letter! you know the contents? you read it?" "thanks to your kindness to the poor _peon_ boy, i was able to do that; more still--to make a copy of it." "you have one?" "i have. you see, don miguel, you did not have me sent to school for nothing. this is what the dona isidora wrote to him." diaz reached out eagerly, and, taking hold of the piece of paper, proceeded to devour its contents. it was a copy of the note that had been sent among the sweetmeats. instead of further exciting, it seemed rather to tranquillise him. "_carrambo_!" he carelessly exclaimed, as he folded up the epistle. "there's not much in this, good jose. it only proves that your mistress is grateful to one who has done her a service. if that's all--" "but it is not all, senor don miguel; and that's why i've come to see you now. i'm on an errand to the _pueblita_. this will explain it." "ha! another letter?" "_si, senor_! this time the original itself, and not a poor copy scribbled by me." with a shaking hand diaz took hold of the paper, spread it out, and read:-- al senor don mauricio gerald. _querido amigo_! _otra vez aqui estoy--con tio silvio quedando! sin novedades de v. no puedo mas tiempo existir. la incertitud me malaba. digame que es v. convalescente! ojala, que estuviera asi! suspiro en vuestros ojos mirar, estos ojos tan lindos y tan espresivos--a ver, si es restablecido vuestra salud. sea graciosa darme este favor. hay--opportunidad. en una cortita media de hora, estuviera quedando en la cima de loma, sobre la cosa del tio. ven, cavallero, ven_! isidora covarubio de los llanos. with a curse el coyote concluded the reading of the letter. its sense could scarce be mistaken. literally translated it read thus:-- "dear friend,--i am once more here, staying with uncle silvio. without hearing of you i could not longer exist. the uncertainty was killing me. tell me if you are convalescent. oh! that it may be so. i long to look into your eyes--those eyes so beautiful, so expressive--to make sure that your health is perfectly restored. be good enough to grant me this favour. there is an opportunity. in a short half hour from this time, i shall be on the top of the hill, above my uncle's house. come, sir, come! "isidora covarubio de los llanos." "_carajo_! an assignation!" half shrieked the indignant diaz. "that and nothing else! she, too, the proposer. ha! her invitation shall be answered; though not by him for whom it is so cunningly intended. kept to the hour--to the very minute; and by the divinity of vengeance-- "here, jose! this note's of no use. the man to whom it is addressed isn't any longer in the pueblita, nor anywhere about here. god knows where he is! there's some mystery about it. no matter. you go on to the posada, and make your inquiries all the same. you must do that to fulfil your errand. never mind the _papelcito_; leave it with me. you can have it to take to your mistress, as you come back this way. here's a dollar to get you a drink at the inn. senor doffer keeps the best kind of aguardiente. _hasta luejo_!" without staying to question the motive for these directions given to him, jose, after accepting the _douceur_, yielded tacit obedience to them, and took his departure from the jacale. he was scarce out of sight before diaz also stepped over its threshold. hastily setting the saddle upon his horse, he sprang into it, and rode off in the opposite direction. chapter forty eight. isidora. the sun has just risen clear above the prairie horizon, his round disc still resting upon the sward, like a buckler of burnished gold. his rays are struggling into the chapparal, that here and there diversifies the savanna. the dew-beads yet cling upon the acacias, weighting their feathery fronds, and causing them to droop earthward, as if grieving at the departure of the night, whose cool breeze and moist atmosphere are more congenial to them than the fiery sirocco of day. though the birds are stirring--for what bird could sleep under the shine of such glorious sunrise?--it is almost too early to expect human being abroad--elsewhere than upon the prairies of texas. there, however, the hour of the sun's rising is the most enjoyable of the day; and few there are who spend it upon the unconscious couch, or in the solitude of the chamber. by the banks of the leona, some three miles below fort inge, there is one who has forsaken both, to stray through the chapparal. this early wanderer is not afoot, but astride a strong, spirited horse, that seems impatient at being checked in his paces. by this description, you may suppose the rider to be a man; but, remembering that the scene is in southern texas still sparsely inhabited by a spano-mexican population-- you are equally at liberty to conjecture that the equestrian is a woman. and this, too, despite the round hat upon the head--despite the serape upon the shoulders, worn as a protection against the chill morning air-- despite the style of equitation, so _outre_ to european ideas, since the days of la duchesse de berri; and still further, despite the crayon-like colouring on the upper lip, displayed in the shape of a pair of silken moustaches. more especially may this last mislead; and you may fancy yourself looking upon some spanish youth, whose dark but delicate features bespeak the _hijo de algo_, with a descent traceable to the times of the cid. if acquainted with the character of the spano-mexican physiognomy, this last sign of virility does not decide you as to the sex. it may be that the rider in the texan chapparal, so distinguished, is, after all, a woman! on closer scrutiny, this proves to be the case. it is proved by the small hand clasping the bridle-rein; by the little foot, whose tiny toes just touch the "estribo"--looking less in contrast with the huge wooden block that serves as a stirrup; by a certain softness of shape, and pleasing rotundity of outline, perceptible even through the thick serape of saltillo; and lastly, by the grand luxuriance of hair coiled up at the back of the head, and standing out in shining clump beyond the rim of the sombrero. after noting these points, you become convinced that you are looking upon a woman, though it may be one distinguished by certain idiosyncrasies. you are looking upon the dona isidora covarubio de los llanos. you are struck by the strangeness of her costume--still more by the way she sits her horse. in your eyes, unaccustomed to mexican modes, both may appear odd--unfeminine--perhaps indecorous. the dona isidora has no thought--not even a suspicion--of there being anything odd in either. why should she? she is but following the fashion of her country and her kindred. in neither respect is she peculiar. she is young, but yet a woman. she has seen twenty summers, and perhaps one more. passed under the sun of a southern sky, it is needless to say that her girlhood is long since gone by. in her beauty there is no sign of decadence. she is fair to look upon, as in her "buen quince" (beautiful fifteen), perhaps fairer. do not suppose that the dark lining on her lip damages the feminine expression of her face. rather does it add to its attractiveness. accustomed to the glowing complexion of the saxon blonde, you may at first sight deem it a deformity. do not so pronounce, till you have looked again. a second glance, and--my word for it--you will modify your opinion. a third will do away with your indifference; a fourth change it to admiration! continue the scrutiny, and it will end in your becoming convinced: that a woman wearing a moustache--young, beautiful, and brunette--is one of the grandest sights which a beneficent nature offers to the eye of man. it is presented in the person of isidora covarubio de los llanos. if there is anything unfeminine in her face, it is not this; though it may strengthen a wild, almost fierce, expression, at times discernible, when her white teeth gleam conspicuously under the sable shadow of the "bigotite." even then is she beautiful; but, like that of the female jaguar, 'tis a beauty that inspires fear rather than affection. at all times it is a countenance that bespeaks for its owner the possession of mental attributes not ordinarily bestowed upon her sex. firmness, determination, courage--carried to the extreme of reckless daring--are all legible in its lines. in those cunningly-carved features, slight, sweet, and delicate, there is no sign of fainting or fear. the crimson that has struggled through the brown skin of her cheeks would scarce forsake them in the teeth of the deadliest danger. she is riding alone, through the timbered bottom of the leona. there is a house not far off; but she is leaving it behind her. it is the hacienda of her uncle, don silvio martinez, from the portals of which she has late issued forth. she sits in her saddle as firmly as the skin that covers it. it is a spirited horse, and has the habit of showing it by his prancing paces. but you have no fear for the rider: you are satisfied of her power to control him. a light lazo, suited to her strength, is suspended from the saddle-bow. its careful coiling shows that it is never neglected. this almost assures you, that she understands how to use it. she does--can throw it, with the skill of a mustanger. the accomplishment is one of her conceits; a part of the idiosyncrasy already acknowledged. she is riding along a road--not the public one that follows the direction of the river. it is a private way leading from the hacienda of her uncle, running into the former near the summit of a hill--the hill itself being only the bluff that abuts upon the bottom lands of the leona. she ascends the sloping path--steep enough to try the breathing of her steed. she reaches the crest of the ridge, along which trends the road belonging to everybody. she reins up; though not to give her horse an opportunity of resting. she has halted, because of having reached the point where her excursion is to terminate. there is an opening on one side of the road, of circular shape, and having a superficies of some two or three acres. it is grass-covered and treeless--a prairie in _petto_. it is surrounded by the chapparal forest--very different from the bottom timber out of which she has just emerged. on all sides is the enclosing thicket of spinous plants, broken only by the embouchures of three paths, their triple openings scarce perceptible from the middle of the glade. near its centre she has pulled up, patting her horse upon the neck to keep him quiet. it is not much needed. the scaling of the "cuesta" has done that for him. he has no inclination either to go on, or tramp impatiently in his place. "i am before the hour of appointment," mutters she, drawing a gold watch from under her serape, "if, indeed, i should expect him at all. he may not come? god grant that he be able! "i am trembling! or is it the breathing of the horse? _valga me dios_, no! 'tis my own poor nerves! "i never felt so before! is it fear? i suppose it is. "'tis strange though--to fear the man i love--the only one i over have loved: for it could not have been love i had for don miguel. a girl's fancy. fortunate for me to have got cured of it! fortunate my discovering him to be a coward. that disenchanted me--quite dispelled the romantic dream in which he was the foremost figure. thank my good stars, for the disenchantment; for now i hate him, now that i hear he has grown--_santissima_! can it be true that he has become--a--a _salteador_? "and yet i should have no fear of meeting him--not even in this lone spot! "_ay de mi_! fearing the man i love, whom i believe to be of kind, noble nature--and having no dread of him i hate, and know to be cruel and remorseless! 'tis strange--incomprehensible! "no--there is nothing strange in it. i tremble not from any thought of danger--only the danger of not being beloved. that is why i now shiver in my saddle--why i have not had one night of tranquil sleep since my deliverance from those drunken savages. "i have never told _him_ of this; nor do i know how he may receive the confession. it must, and shall be made. i can endure the uncertainty no longer. in preference i choose despair--death, if my hopes deceive me! "ha! there is a hoof stroke! a horse comes down the road! it is his? yes. i see glancing through the trees the bright hues of our national costume. he delights to wear it. no wonder; it so becomes him! "_santa virgin_! i'm under a serape, with a sombrero on my head. he'll mistake me for a man! off, ye ugly disguises, and let me seem what i am--a woman." scarce quicker could be the transformation in a pantomime. the casting off the serape reveals a form that hebe might have envied; the removal of the hat, a head that would have inspired the chisel of canova! a splendid picture is exhibited in that solitary glade; worthy of being framed, by its bordering of spinous trees, whose hirsute arms seem stretched out to protect it. a horse of symmetrical shape, half backed upon his haunches, with nostrils spread to the sky, and tail sweeping the ground; on his back one whose aspect and attitude suggest a commingling of grand, though somewhat incongruous ideas, uniting to form a picture, statuesque as beautiful. the _pose_ of the rider is perfect. half sitting in the saddle, half standing upon the stirrup, every undulation of her form is displayed-- the limbs just enough relaxed to show that she is a woman. notwithstanding what she has said, on her face there is no fear--at least no sign to betray it. there is no quivering lip--no blanching of the cheeks. the expression is altogether different. it is a look of love--couched under a proud confidence, such as that with which the she-eagle awaits the wooing of her mate. you may deem the picture overdrawn--perhaps pronounce it unfeminine. and yet it is a copy from real life--true as i can remember it; and more than once had i the opportunity to fix it in my memory. the attitude is altered, and with the suddenness of a _coup d'eclair_; the change being caused by recognition of the horseman who comes galloping into the glade. the shine of the gold-laced vestments had misled her. they are worn not by maurice gerald, but by miguel diaz! bright looks become black. from her firm seat in the saddle she subsides into an attitude of listlessness--despairing rather than indifferent; and the sound that escapes her lips, as for an instant they part over her pearl-like teeth, is less a sigh than an exclamation of chagrin. there is no sign of fear in the altered attitude--only disappointment, dashed with defiance. el coyote speaks first. "_h'la! s'norita_, who'd have expected to find your ladyship in this lonely place--wasting your sweetness on the thorny chapparal?" "in what way can it concern you, don miguel diaz?" "absurd question, s'norita! you know it can, and does; and the reason why. you well know how madly i love you. fool was i to confess it, and acknowledge myself your slave. 'twas that that cooled you so quickly." "you are mistaken, senor. i never told you i loved you. if i did admire your feats of horsemanship, and said so, you had no right to construe it as you've done. i meant no more than that i admired _them_--not you. 'tis three years ago. i was a girl then, of an age when such things have a fascination for our sex--when we are foolish enough to be caught by personal accomplishments rather than moral attributes. i am now a woman. all that is changed, as--it ought to be." "_carrai_! why did you fill me with false hopes? on the day of the _herradero_, when i conquered the fiercest bull and tamed the wildest horse in your father's herds--a horse not one of his _vaqueros_ dared so much as lay hands upon--on that day you smiled--ay, looked love upon me. you need not deny it, dona isidora! i had experience, and could read the expression--could tell your thoughts, as they were then. they are changed, and why? because i was conquered by your charms, or rather because i was the silly fool to acknowledge it; and you, like all women, once you had won and knew it, no longer cared for your conquest. it is true, s'norita; it is true." "it is not, don miguel diaz. i never gave you word or sign to say that i loved, or thought of you otherwise than as an accomplished cavalier. you appeared so then--perhaps were so. what are you now? you know what's said of you, both here and on the rio grande!" "i scorn to reply to calumny--whether it proceeds from false friends or lying enemies. i have come here to seek explanations, not to give them." "prom whom?" "prom your sweet self, dona isidora." "you are presumptive, don miguel diaz! think, senor, to whom you are addressing yourself. remember, i am the daughter of--" "one of the proudest _haciendados_ in tamaulipas, and niece to one of the proudest in texas. i have thought of all that; and thought too that i was once a haciendado myself and am now only a hunter of horses. _carrambo_! what of that? you're not the woman to despise a man for the inferiority of his rank. a poor mustanger stands as good a chance in your eyes as the owner of a hundred herds. in that respect, _i have proof of your generous spirit_!" "what proof?" asked she, in a quick, entreating tone, and for the first time showing signs of uneasiness. "what evidence of the generosity you are so good as to ascribe to me?" "this pretty epistle i hold in my hand, indited by the dona isidora covarubio de los llanos, to one who, like myself, is but a dealer in horseflesh. i need not submit it to very close inspection. no doubt you can identify it at some distance?" she could, and did; as was evinced by her starting in the saddle--by her look of angry surprise directed upon diaz. "senor! how came you in possession of this?" she asked, without any attempt to disguise her indignation. "it matters not. i am in possession of it, and of what for many a day i have been seeking; a proof, not that you had ceased to care for me--for this i had good reason to know--but that you had begun to care for him. this tells that you love him--words could not speak plainer. you long to look into his beautiful eyes. _mil demonios_! you shall never see them again!" "what means this, don miguel diaz?" the question was put not without a slight quivering of the voice that seemed to betray fear. no wonder it should. there was something in the aspect of el coyote at that moment well calculated to inspire the sentiment. observing it, he responded, "you may well show fear: you have reason. if i have lost you, my lady, no other shall enjoy you. i have made up my mind about that." "about what?" "what i have said--that no other shall call you his, and least of all maurice the mustanger." "indeed!" "ay, indeed! give me a promise that you and he shall never meet again, or you depart not from this place!" "you are jesting, don miguel?" "i am in earnest, dona isidora." the manner of the man too truly betrayed the sincerity of his speech. coward as he was, there was a cold cruel determination in his looks, whilst his hand was seen straying towards the hilt of his machete. despite her amazonian courage, the woman could not help a feeling of uneasiness. she saw there was a danger, with but slight chance of averting it. something of this she had felt from the first moment of the encounter; but she had been sustained by the hope, that the unpleasant interview might be interrupted by one who would soon change its character. during the early part of the dialogue she had been eagerly listening for the sound of a horse's hoof--casting occasional and furtive glances through the chapparal, in the direction where she hoped to hear it. this hope was no more. the sight of her own letter told its tale: it had not reached its destination. deprived of this hope--hitherto sustaining her--she next thought of retreating from the spot. but this too presented both difficulties and dangers. it was possible for her to wheel round and gallop off; but it was equally possible for her retreat to be intercepted by a bullet. the butt of el coyote's pistol was as near to his hand as the hilt of his machete. she was fully aware of the danger. almost any other woman would have given way to it. not so isidora covarubio de los llanos. she did not even show signs of being affected by it. "nonsense!" she exclaimed, answering his protestation with an air of well dissembled incredulity. "you are making sport of me, senor. you wish to frighten me. ha! ha! ha! why should i fear _you_? i can ride as well--fling my lazo as sure and far as you, look at this i see how skilfully i can handle it!" while so speaking--smiling as she spoke--she had lifted the lazo from her saddle-bow and was winding it round her head, as if to illustrate her observations. the act had a very different intent, though it was not perceived by diaz; who, puzzled by her behaviour, sate speechless in his saddle. not till he felt the noose closing around his elbows did he suspect her design; and then too late to hinder its execution. in another instant his arms were pinioned to his sides--both the butt of his pistol and the hilt of his machete beyond the grasp of his fingers! he had not even time to attempt releasing himself from the loop. before he could lay hand upon the rope, it tightened around his body, and with a violent pluck jerked him out of his saddle--throwing him stunned and senseless to the ground. "now, don miguel diaz!" cried she who had caused this change of situation, and who was now seen upon her horse, with head turned homeward, the lazo strained taut from the saddle-tree. "menace me no more! make no attempt to release yourself. stir but a finger, and i spur on! cruel villain! coward as you are, you would have killed me--i saw it in your eye. ha! the tables are turned, and now--" perceiving that there was no rejoinder, she interrupted her speech, still keeping the lazo at a stretch, with her eyes fixed upon the fallen man. el coyote lay upon the ground, his arms enlaced in the loop, without stirring, and silent as a stick of wood. the fall from his horse had deprived him of speech, and consciousness at the same time. to all appearance he was dead--his steed alone showing life by its loud neighing, as it reared back among the bushes. "holy virgin! have i killed him?" she exclaimed, reining her horse slightly backward, though still keeping him headed away, and ready to spring to the spur. "mother of god! i did not intend it--though i should be justified in doing even that: for too surely did he intend to kill _me_! is he dead, or is it a _ruse_ to get me near? by our good guadaloupe! i shall leave others to decide. there's not much fear of his overtaking me, before i can reach home; and if he's in any danger the people of the hacienda will get back soon enough to release him. good day, don miguel diaz! _hasta luego_!" with these words upon her lips--the levity of which proclaimed her conscience clear of having committed a crime she drew a small sharp-bladed knife from beneath the bodice of her dress; severed the rope short off from her saddle-bow; and, driving the spur deep into the flanks of her horse, galloped off out of the glade--leaving diaz upon the ground, still encircled by the loop of the lazo! chapter forty nine. the lazo unloosed. an eagle, scared from its perch on a scathed cottonwood, with a scream, soars upward into the air. startled by the outbreak of angry passions, it has risen to reconnoitre. a single sweep of its majestic wing brings it above the glade. there, poised on tremulous pinions, with eye turned to earth, it scans both the open space and the chapparal that surrounds it. in the former it beholds that which may, perhaps, be gratifying to its glance--a man thrown from his horse, that runs neighing around him--prostrate-- apparently dead. in the latter two singular equestrians: one a woman, with bare head and chevelure spread to the breeze, astride a strong steed, going away from the glade in quick earnest gallop; the other, also a woman, mounted on a spotted horse, in more feminine fashion, riding towards it: attired in hat and habit, advancing at a slower pace, but with equal earnestness in her looks. such is the _coup d'oeil_ presented to the eye of the eagle. of these fair equestrians both are already known. she galloping away is isidora covarubio de los llanos; she who approaches, louise poindexter. it is known why the first has gone out of the glade. it remains to be told for what purpose the second is coming into it. after her interview with zeb stump, the young creole re-entered her chamber, and kneeling before an image of the madonna, surrendered her spirit to prayer. it is needless to say that, as a creole, she was a catholic, and therefore a firm believer in the efficacy of saintly intercession. strange and sad was the theme of her supplication--the man who had been marked as the murderer of her brother! she had not the slightest idea that he was guilty of the horrid crime. it could not be. the very suspicion of it would have lacerated her heart. her prayer was not for pardon, but protection. she supplicated the virgin to save him from his enemies--her own friends! tears and choking sobs were mingled with her words, low murmured in the ear of heaven. she had loved her brother with the fondest sisterly affection. she sorrowed sorely; but her sorrow could not stifle that other affection, stronger than the ties of blood. while mourning her brother's loss she prayed for her lover's safety. as she rose from her knees, her eye fell upon the bow--that implement so cunningly employed to despatch sweet messages to the man she loved. "oh! that i could send one of its arrows to warn him of his danger! i may never use it again!" the reflection was followed by a thought of cognate character. might there not remain some trace of that clandestine correspondence in the place where it had been carried on? she remembered that maurice swam the stream, instead of recrossing in the skiff, to be drawn back again by her own lazo. he must have been left in the boat! on the day before, in the confusion of her grief, she had not thought of this. it might become evidence of their midnight meeting; of which, as she supposed, no tongue but theirs--and that for ever silent--could tell the tale. the sun was now fairly up, and gleaming garishly through the glass. she threw open the casement and stepped out, with the design of proceeding towards the skiff. in the _balcon_ her steps were arrested, on hearing voices above. two persons were conversing. they were her maid florinde, and the sable groom, who, in the absence of his master, was taking the air of the _azotea_. their words could be heard below, though their young mistress did not intentionally listen to them. it was only on their pronouncing a name, that she permitted their patois to make an impression upon her ear. "dey calls de young fella jerrad. mors jerrad am de name. dey do say he irish, but if folks 'peak de troof, he an't bit like dem irish dat works on de lebee at new orlean. ho, ho! he more like bos gen'lum planter. dat's what he like." "you don't tink, pluto, he been gone kill massa henry?" "i doan't tink nuffin ob de kind. ho, ho! he kill massa henry! no more dan dis chile hab done dat same. goramity--goramity! 'peak ob de debbil and he dar--de berry individible we talkin' 'bout. ho, ho! look florinde; look yonner!" "whar?" "dar--out dar, on todder side ob de ribber. you see man on horseback. dat's mors jerrad, de berry man we meet on de brack praira. de same dat gub missa loode 'potted hoss; de same dey've all gone to sarch for. ho, ho! dey gone dey wrong way. dey no find him out on dem prairas dis day." "o, pluto! an't you glad? i'm sure he innocent--dat brave bewful young gen'lum. he nebba could been de man--" the listener below stayed to hear no more. gliding back into her chamber she made her way towards the _azotea_. the beating of her heart was almost as loud as the fall of her footsteps while ascending the _escalera_. it was with difficulty she could conceal her emotion from the two individuals whose conversation had caused it. "what have you seen, that you talk so loudly?" said she, trying to hide her agitation under a pretended air of severity, "ho, ho! missa looey--look ober dar. de young fella!" "what young fellow?" "him as dey be gone sarch for--him dat--" "i see no one." "ho, ho! he jess gone in 'mong de tree. see yonner--yonner! you see de black glaze hat, de shinin' jacket ob velvet, an de glancin' silver buttons--dat's him. i sartin sure dat's de same young fella." "you may be mistaken for all that, master pluto. there are many here who dress in that fashion. the distance is too great for you to distinguish; and now that he's almost out of sight--never mind, florinde. hasten below--get out my hat and habit. i'm going out for a ride. you, pluto! have the saddle on luna in the shortest time. i must not let the sun get too high. haste! haste!" as the servants disappeared down the stairway, she turned once more towards the parapet, her bosom heaving under the revulsion of thoughts. unobserved she could now freely scan the prairie and chapparal. she was too late. the horseman had ridden entirely out of sight. "it was very like him, and yet it was not. it can scarce be possible. if it be he, why should he be going that way?" a new pang passed through her bosom. she remembered once before having asked herself the same question. she no longer stayed upon the _azotea_ to watch the road. in ten minutes' time she was across the river, entering the chapparal where the horseman had disappeared. she rode rapidly on, scanning the causeway far in the advance. suddenly she reined up, on nearing the crest of the hill that overlooked the leona. the act was consequent on the hearing of voices. she listened. though still distant, and but faintly heard, the voices could be distinguished as those of a man and woman. what man? what woman? another pang passed through her heart at these put questions. she rode nearer; again halted; again listened. the conversation was carried on in spanish. there was no relief to her in this. maurice gerald would have talked in that tongue to isidora covarubio de los llanos. the creole was acquainted with it sufficiently to have understood what was said, had she been near enough to distinguish the words. the tone was animated on both sides, as if both speakers were in a passion. the listener was scarce displeased at this. she rode nearer; once more pulled up; and once more sate listening. the man's voice was heard no longer. the woman's sounded dear and firm, as if in menace! there was an interval of silence, succeeded by a quick trampling of horses--another pause--another speech on the part of the woman, at first loud like a threat, and then subdued as in a soliloquy--then another interval of silence, again broken by the sound of hoofs, as if a single horse was galloping away from the ground. only this, and the scream of an eagle, that, startled by the angry tones, had swooped aloft, and was now soaring above the glade. the listener knew of the opening--to her a hallowed spot. the voices had come out of it. she had made her last halt a little way from its edge. she had been restrained from advancing by a fear--the fear of finding out a bitter truth. her indecision ending, she spurred on into the glade. a horse saddled and bridled rushing to and fro--a man prostrate upon the ground, with a lazo looped around his arms, to all appearance dead--a _sombrero_ and _serape_ lying near, evidently not the man's! what could be the interpretation of such a tableau? the man was dressed in the rich costume of the mexican _ranchero_--the horse also caparisoned in this elaborate and costly fashion. at sight of both, the heart of the louisianian leaped with joy. whether dead or living, the man was the same she had seen from the _azotea_; and he was _not_ maurice gerald. she had doubted before--had hoped that it was not he; and her hopes were now sweetly confirmed. she drew near and examined the prostrate form. she scanned the face, which was turned up--the man lying upon his back. she fancied she had seen it before, but was not certain. it was plain that he was a mexican. not only his dress but his countenance--every line of it betrayed the spanish-american physiognomy. he was far from being ill-featured. on the contrary, he might have been pronounced handsome. it was not this that induced louise poindexter to leap down from her saddle, and stoop over him with a kind pitying look. the joy caused by his presence--by the discovery that he was not somebody else--found gratification in performing an act of humanity. "he does not seem dead. surely he is breathing?" the cord appeared to hinder his respiration. it was loosened on the instant--the noose giving way to a woman's strength. "now, he can breathe more freely. pardieu! what can have caused it? lazoed in his saddle and dragged to the earth? that is most probable. but who could have done it? it was a woman's voice. surely it was? i could not be mistaken about that. "and yet there is a man's hat, and a _serape_, not this man's! was there another, who has gone away with the woman? only one horse went off. "ah! he is coming to himself! thank heaven for that! he will be able to explain all. you are recovering, sir?" "s'norita! who are you?" asked don miguel diaz, raising his head, and looking apprehensively around. "where is she?" he continued. "of whom do you speak? i have seen no one but yourself." "_carrambo_! that's queer. haven't you met a woman astride a grey horse?" "i heard a woman's voice, as i rode up." "say rather a she-devil's voice: for that, sure, is isidora covarubio de los llanos." "was it she who has done this?" "maldito, yes! where is she now? tell me that, s'norita." "i cannot. by the sound of the hoofs i fancy she has gone down the hill. she must have done so, as i came the other way myself." "ah--gone down the hill--home, then, to --. you've been very kind, s'norita, in loosening this lazo--as i make no doubt you've done. perhaps you will still further assist me by helping me into the saddle? once in it, i think i can stay there. at all events, i must not stay here. i have enemies, not far off. come, carlito!" he cried to his horse, at the same time summoning the animal by a peculiar whistle. "come near! don't be frightened at the presence of this fair lady. she's not the same that parted you and me so rudely--_en verdad_, almost for ever! come on, _cavallo_! come on!" the horse, on hearing the whistle, came trotting up, and permitted his master--now upon his feet--to lay hold of the bridle-rein. "a little help from you, kind s'norita, and i think i can climb into my saddle. once there, i shall be safe from their pursuit." "you expect to be pursued?" "_quien sale_? i have enemies, as i told you. never mind that. i feel very feeble. you will not refuse to help me?" "why should i? you are welcome, sir, to any assistance i can give you." "_mil gracias, s'norita! mil, mil gracias_!" the creole, exerting all her strength, succeeded in helping the disabled horseman into his saddle; where, after some balancing, he appeared to obtain a tolerably firm seat. gathering up his reins, he prepared to depart. "adios, s'norita!" said he, "i know not who you are. i see you are not one of our people. americano, i take it. never mind that. you are good as you are fair; and if ever it should chance to be in his power, miguel diaz will not be unmindful of the service you have this day done him." saying this el coyote rode off, not rapidly, but in a slow walk, as if he felt some difficulty in preserving his equilibrium. notwithstanding the slowness of the pace--he was soon out of sight,--the trees screening him as he passed the glade. he went not by any of the three roads, but by a narrow track, scarce discernible where it entered the underwood. to the young creole the whole thing appeared like a dream--strange, rather than disagreeable. it was changed to a frightful reality, when, after picking up a sheet of paper left by diaz where he had been lying, she read what was written upon it. the address was "don mauricio gerald;" the signature, "isidora covarubio de los llanos." to regain her saddle, louise poindexter was almost as much in need of a helping hand as the man who had ridden away. as she forded the leona, in returning to casa del corvo, she halted her horse in the middle of the stream; and for some time sate gazing into the flood that foamed up to her stirrup. there was a wild expression upon her features that betokened deep despair. one degree deeper, and the waters would have covered as fair a form as was ever sacrificed to their spirit! chapter fifty. a conflict with coyotes. the purple shadows of a texan twilight were descending upon the earth, when the wounded man, whose toilsome journey through the chapparal has been recorded, arrived upon the banks of the streamlet. after quenching his thirst to a surfeit, he stretched himself along the grass, his thoughts relieved from the terrible strain so long and continuously acting upon them. his limb for the time pained him but little; and his spirit was too much worn to be keenly apprehensive as to the future. he only desired repose; and the cool evening breeze, sighing through the feathery fronds of the acacias, favoured his chances of obtaining it. the vultures had dispersed to their roosts in the thicket; and, no longer disturbed by their boding presence, he soon after fell asleep. his slumber was of short continuance. the pain of his wounds, once more returning, awoke him. it was this--and not the cry of the coyote--that kept him from sleeping throughout the remainder of the night. little did he regard the sneaking wolf of the prairies--a true jackal-- that attacks but the dead; the living, only when dying. he did not believe that he was dying. it was a long dismal night to the sufferer; it seemed as if day would never dawn. the light came at length, but revealed nothing to cheer him. along with it came the birds, and the beasts went not away. over him, in the shine of another sun the vultures once more extended their shadowy wings. around him he heard the howl-bark of the coyote, in a hundred hideous repetitions. crawling down to the stream, he once more quenched his thirst. he now hungered; and looked round for something to eat. a pecan tree stood, near. there were nuts upon its branches, within six feet of the ground. he was able to reach the pecan upon his hands and knees; though the effort caused agony. with his crutch he succeeded in detaching some of the nuts; and on these broke his fast. what was the next step to be taken? to stir away from the spot was simply impossible. the slightest movement gave him pain; at the same time assuring him of his utter inability to go anywhere. he was still uncertain as to the nature of the injuries he had sustained--more especially that in his leg, which was so swollen that he could not well examine it. he supposed it to be either a fracture of the knee-cap, or a dislocation of the joint. in either case, it might be days before he could use the limb; and what, meanwhile, was he to do? he had but little expectation of any one coming that way. he had shouted himself hoarse; and though, at intervals, he still continued to send forth a feeble cry, it was but the intermittent effort of hope struggling against despair. there was no alternative but stay where he was; and, satisfied of this, he stretched himself along the sward, with the resolve to be as patient as possible. it required all the stoicism of his nature to bear up against the acute agony he was enduring. nor did he endure it altogether in silence. at intervals it elicited a groan. engrossed by his sufferings, he was for a while unconscious of what was going on around him. still above him wheeled the black birds; but he had become accustomed to their presence, and no longer regarded it--not even when, at intervals, some of them swooped so near, that he could hear the "wheep" of their wings close to his ears. ha! what was that--that sound of different import? it resembled the pattering of little feet upon the sandy channel of the stream, accompanied by quick breathings, as of animal in a state of excitement. he looked around for an explanation. "only the coyotes!" was his reflection, on seeing a score of these animals flitting to and fro, skulking along both banks of the stream, and "squatting" upon the grass. hitherto he had felt no fear--only contempt--for these cowardly creatures. but his sentiments underwent a change, on his noticing their looks and attitudes. the former were fierce; the latter earnest and threatening. clearly did the coyotes mean mischief. he now remembered having heard, that these animals--ordinarily innocuous, from sheer cowardice--will attack man when disabled beyond the capability of defending himself. especially will they do so when stimulated by the smell of blood. his had flowed freely, and from many veins--punctured by the spines of the cactus. his garments were saturated with it, still but half dry. on the sultry atmosphere it was sending forth its peculiar odour. the coyotes could not help scenting it. was it this that was stirring them to such excited action--apparently making them mad? whether or not, he no longer doubted that it was their intention to attack him. he had no weapon but a bowie knife, which fortunately had kept its place in his belt. his rifle and pistols, attached to the saddle, had been carried off by his horse. he drew the knife; and, resting upon his right knee, prepared to defend himself. he did not perform the action a second too soon. emboldened by having been so long left to make their menaces unmolested--excited to courage by the smell of blood, stronger as they drew nearer--stimulated by their fierce natural appetites--the wolves had by this time reached the turning point of their determination: which was, to spring forward upon the wounded man. they did so--half a dozen of them simultaneously--fastening their teeth upon his arms, limbs, and body, as they made their impetuous onset. with a vigorous effort he shook them off, striking out with his knife. one or two were gashed by the shining blade, and went howling away. but a fresh band had by this time entered into the fray, others coming up, till the assailants counted a score. the conflict became desperate, deadly. several of the animals were slain. but the fate of their fallen comrades did not deter the survivors from continuing the strife. on the contrary, it but maddened them the more. the struggle became more and more confused--the coyotes crowding over one another to lay hold of their victim. the knife was wielded at random; the arm wielding it every moment becoming weaker, and striking with less fatal effect. the disabled man was soon further disabled. he felt fear for his life. no wonder--death was staring him in the face. at this crisis a cry escaped his lips. strange it was not one of terror, but joy! and stranger still that, on hearing it, the coyotes for an instant desisted from their attack! there was a suspension of the strife--a short interval of silence. it was not the cry of their victim that had caused it, but that which had elicited the exclamation. there was the sound of a horse's hoofs going at a gallop, followed by the loud baying of a hound. the wounded man continued to exclaim,--in shouts calling for help. the horse appeared to be close by. a man upon his back could not fail to hear them. but there was no response. the horse, or horseman, had passed on. the hoof-strokes became less distinct. despair once more returned to the antagonist of the coyotes. at the same time his skulking assailants felt a renewal of their courage, and hastened to renew the conflict. once more it commenced, and was soon raging fiercely as before--the wretched man believing himself doomed, and only continuing the strife through sheer desperation. once more was it interrupted, this time by an intruder whose presence inspired him with fresh courage and hope. if the horseman had proved indifferent to his calls for help, not so the hound. a grand creature of the staghound species--of its rarest and finest breed--was seen approaching the spot, uttering a deep sonorous bay, as with impetuous bound it broke through the bushes. "_a friend! thank heaven, a friend_!" the baying ceased, as the hound cleared the selvage of the chapparal, and rushed open-mouthed among the cowed coyotes--already retreating at his approach! one was instantly seized between the huge jaws; jerked upward from the earth; shaken as if it had been only a rat; and let go again, to writhe over the ground with a shattered spine! another was served in a similar manner; but ere a third could be attacked, the terrified survivors dropped their tails to the sward, and went yelping away; one and all retreating whence they had come--into the silent solitudes of the chapparal. the rescued man saw no more. his strength was completely spent. he had just enough left to stretch forth his arms, and with a smile close them around the neck of his deliverer. then, murmuring some soft words, he fainted gradually away. his syncope was soon over, and consciousness once more assumed away. supporting himself on his elbow, he looked inquiringly around. it was a strange, sanguinary spectacle that met his eyes. but for his swoon, he would have seen a still stranger one. during its continuance a horseman had ridden into the glade, and gone out again. he was the same whose hoofstroke had been heard, and who had lent a deaf ear to the cries for help. he had arrived too late, and then without any idea of offering assistance. his design appeared to be the watering of his horse. the animal plunged straight into the streamlet, drank to its satisfaction, climbed out on the opposite bank, trotted across the open ground, and disappeared in the thicket beyond. the rider had taken no notice of the prostrate form; the horse only by snorting, as he saw it, and springing from side to side, as he trod amidst the carcases of the coyotes. the horse was a magnificent animal, not large, but perfect in all his parts. the man was the very reverse--having no head! there was a head, but not in its proper place. it rested against the holster, seemingly held in the rider's hand! a fearful apparition. the dog barked, as it passed through the glade, and followed it to the edge of the underwood. he had been with it for a long time, straying where it strayed, and going where it went. he now desisted from this fruitless fellowship; and, returning to the sleeper, lay down by his side. it was then that the latter was restored to consciousness, and remembered what had made him for the moment oblivious. after caressing the dog he again sank into a prostrate position; and, drawing the skirt of the cloak over his face to shade it from the glare of the sun, he fell asleep. the staghound lay down at his feet, and also slumbered; but only in short spells. at intervals it raised its head, and uttered an angry growl, as the wings of the vultures came switching too close to its ears. the young man muttered in his sleep. they were wild words that came from his unconscious lips, and betokened a strange commingling of thoughts: now passionate appeals of love--now disjointed speeches, that pointed to the committal of murder! chapter fifty one. twice intoxicated. our story takes us back to the lone hut on the alamo, so suddenly forsaken by the gambling guests, who had made themselves welcome in the absence of its owner. it is near noon of the following day, and he has not yet come home. the _ci-devant_ stable-boy of bally-ballagh is once more sole occupant of the _jacale_--once more stretched along the floor, in a state of inebriety; though not the same from which we have seen him already aroused. he has been sober since, and the spell now upon him has been produced by a subsequent appeal to the divinity of drink. to explain, we must go back to that hour between midnight and morning, when the monte players made their abrupt departure. the sight of three red savages, seated around the slab table, and industriously engaged in a game of cards, had done more to restore phelim to a state of sobriety than all the sleep he had obtained. despite a certain grotesqueness in the spectacle, he had not seen such a ludicrous sight, as was proved by the terrific screech with which he saluted them. there was nothing laughable in what followed. he had no very clear comprehension of what _did_ follow. he only remembered that the trio of painted warriors suddenly gave up their game, flung their cards upon the floor, stood over him for a time with naked blades, threatening his life; and then, along with a fourth who had joined them, turned their backs abruptly, and rushed pellmell out of the place! all this occupied scarce twenty seconds of time; and when he had recovered from his terrified surprise, he found himself once more alone in the _jacale_! was the sleeping, or awake? drunk, or dreaming? was the scene real? or was it another chapter of incongruous impossibilities, like that still fresh before his mind? but no. the thing was no fancy. it could not be. he had seen the savages too near to be mistaken as to their reality. he had heard them talking in a tongue unknown to him. what could it be but indian jargon? besides, there were the pieces of pasteboard strewn over the floor! he did not think of picking one up to satisfy himself of _their_ reality. he was sober enough, but not sufficiently courageous for that. he could not be sure of their not burning his fingers--those queer cards? they might belong to the devil? despite the confusion of his senses, it occurred to him that the hut was no longer a safe place to stay in. the painted players might return to finish their game. they had left behind not only their cards, but everything else the _jacale_ contained; and though some powerful motive seemed to have caused their abrupt departure, they might re-appear with equal abruptness. the thought prompted the galwegian to immediate action; and, blowing out the candle, so as to conceal his movements, he stole softly out of the hut. he did not go by the door. the moon was shining on the grass-plat in front. the savages might still be there. he found means of exit at the back, by pulling one of the horse hides from its place, and squeezing himself through the stockade wall. once outside, he skulked off under the shadow of the trees. he had not gone far when a clump of dark objects appeared before him. there was a sound, as of horses champing their bitts, and the occasional striking of a hoof. he paused in his steps, screening his body behind the trunk of a cypress. a short observation convinced him, that what he saw was a group of horses. there appeared to be four of them; no doubt belonging to the four warriors, who had turned the mustanger's hut into a gaming-house. the animals appeared to be tied to a tree, but for all that, their owners might be beside them. having made this reflection, he was about to turn back and go the other way; but just at that moment he heard voices in the opposite direction-- the voices of several men speaking in tones of menace and command. then came short, quick cries of affright, followed by the baying of a hound, and succeeded by silence, at intervals interrupted by a swishing noise, or the snapping of a branch--as if several men were retreating through the underwood in scared confusion! as he continued to listen, the noises sounded nearer. the men who made them were advancing towards the cypress tree. the tree was furnished with buttresses all around its base, with shadowy intervals between. into one of these he stepped hastily; and, crouching close, was completely screened by the shadow. he had scarce effected his concealment, when four men came rushing up; and, without stopping, hastened on towards the horses. as they passed by him, they were exchanging speeches which the irishman could not understand; but their tone betrayed terror. the excited action of the men confirmed it. they were evidently retreating from some enemy that had filled them with fear. there was a glade where the moon-beams fell upon the grass. it was just outside the shadow of the cypress. to reach the horses they had to cross it; and, as they did so, the vermilion upon their naked skins flashed red under the moonlight. phelim identified the four gentlemen who had made so free with the hospitality of the hut. he kept his place till they had mounted, and rode off--till he could tell by the tramp of their horses that they had ascended the upper plain, and gone off in a gallop--as men who were not likely to come back again. "doesn't that bate banagher?" muttered he, stepping out from his hiding-place, and throwing up his arms in astonishment. "be japers! it diz. mother av moses! fwhat cyan it mane anyhow? what are them divvils afther? an fwhat's afther them? shure somethin' has given them a scare--that's plain as a pikestaff. i wondher now if it's been that same. be me sowl it's jist it they've encounthered. i heerd the hound gowlin, an didn't he go afther it. o lard! what cyan _it_ be? may be it'll be comin' this way in purshoot av them?" the dread of again beholding the unexplained apparition, or being beheld by it, caused him to shrink once more under the shadow of the tree; where he remained for some time longer in a state of trembling suspense. "afther all, _it_ must be some thrick av masther maurice. maybe to give me a scare; an comin' back he's jist been in time to frighten off these ridskins that intinded to rub an beloike to murther us too. sowl! i hope it is that. how long since i saw it first? trath! it must be some considerable time. i remimber having four full naggins, an that's all gone off. i wondher now if them indyins has come acrass av the dimmyjan? i've heerd that they're as fond of the crayther as if their skins was white. sowl! if they've smelt the jar there won't be a dhrap in it by this time. i'll jist slip back to the hut an see. if thare's any danger now it won't be from them. by that tarin' gallop, i cyan tell they've gone for good." once more emerging from the shadowy stall, he made his way back towards the _jacale_. he approached it with caption, stopping at intervals to assure himself that no one was near. notwithstanding the plausible hypothesis he had shaped out for himself, he was still in dread of another encounter with the headless horseman-- who twice on his way to the hut might now be inside of it. but for the hope of finding a "dhrap" in the demijohn, he would not have ventured back that night. as it was, the desire to obtain a drink was a trifle stronger than his fears; and yielding to it, he stepped doubtfully into the darkness. he made no attempt to rekindle the light. every inch of the floor was familiar to him; and especially that corner where he expected to find the demijohn. he tried for it. an exclamation uttered in a tone of disappointment told that it was not there. "be dad!" muttered he, as he grumblingly groped about; "it looks as if they'd been at it. av coorse they hav, else fwhy is it not in its place? i lift it thare--shure i lift it thare." "ach, me jewel! an it's thare yez are yet," he continued, as his hand came in contact with the wickerwork; "an' bad luck to their imperence-- impty as an eggshill! ach! ye greedy gutted bastes! if i'd a known yez were goin' to do that, i'd av slipped a thrifle av shumach juice into the jar, an made raal firewater av it for ye--jist fwhat yez wants. divil burn ye for a set av rid-skinned thieves, stalin' a man's liquor when he's aslape! och-an-anee! fwhat am i to do now? go to slape agane? i don't belave i cyan, thinkin' av tham an the tother, widout a thrifle av the crayther to comfort me. an' thare isn't a dhrap widin twenty--fwhat--fwhat! howly mary! mother av moses! sant pathrick and all the others to boot, fwhat am i talkin' about? the pewther flask-- the pewther flask! be japers! it's in the thrunk--full to the very neck! didn't i fill it for masther maurice to take wid him the last time he went to the sittlements? and didn't he forget to take it? lard have mercy on me! if the indyins have laid their dhirty claws upon _that_ i shall be afther takin' lave at me sinses." "hoo--hoop--hoorro!" he cried, after an interval of silence, during which he could be heard fumbling among the contents of the portmanteau. "hoo--hoop--hoorro! thanks to the lord for all his mercies. the rid-skins haven't been cunnin' enough to look thare. the flask as full as a tick--not wan av them has had a finger on it. hoo--hoop--hoorro!" for some seconds the discoverer of the spirituous treasure, giving way to a joyous excitement, could be heard in the darkness, dancing over the floor of the _jacale_. then there was an interval of silence, succeeded by the screwing of a stopper, and after that a succession of "glucks," that proclaimed the rapid emptying of a narrow-necked vessel. after a time this sound was suspended, to be replaced by a repeated, smacking of lips, interlarded with grotesque ejaculations. again came the gluck-gluck, again the smackings, and so on alternately, till an empty flask was heard falling upon the floor. after that there were wild shouts--scraps of song intermingled with cheers and laughter--incoherent ravings about red indians and headless horsemen, repeated over and over again, each time in more subdued tones, till the maudlin gibberish at length ended in loud continuous snoring! chapter fifty two. an awakener. phelim's second slumber was destined to endure for a more protracted term than his first. it was nearly noon when he awoke from it; and then only on receiving a bucket of cold water full in his face, that sobered him almost as quickly as the sight of the savages. it was zeb stump who administered the _douche_. after parting from the precincts of casa del corvo, the old hunter had taken the road, or rather _trail_, which he knew to be the most direct one leading to the head waters of the nueces. without staying to notice tracks or other "sign," he rode straight across the prairie, and into the avenue already mentioned. prom what louise poindexter had told him--from a knowledge of the people who composed the party of searchers--he knew that maurice gerald was in danger. hence his haste to reach the alamo before them--coupled with caution to keep out of their way. he knew that if he came up with the regulators, equivocation would be a dangerous game; and, _nolens volens_, he should be compelled to guide them to the dwelling of the suspected murderer. on turning the angle of the avenue, he had the chagrin to see the searchers directly before him, clumped up in a crowd, and apparently engaged in the examination of "sign." at the same time he had the satisfaction to know that his caution was rewarded, by himself remaining unseen. "durn them!" he muttered, with bitter emphasis. "i mout a know'd they'd a bin hyur. i must go back an roun' the tother way. it'll deelay me better'n a hour. come, ole maar! this air an obstruckshun _you_, won't like. it'll gi'e ye the edition o' six more mile to yur journey. ee-up, ole gal! roun' an back we go!" with a strong pull upon the rein, he brought the mare short round, and rode back towards the embouchure of the avenue. once outside, he turned along the edge of the chapparal, again entering it by the path which on the day before had been taken by diaz and his trio of confederates. from this point he proceeded without pause or adventure until he had descended to the alamo bottom-land, and arrived within a short distance, though still out of sight of the mustanger's dwelling. instead of riding boldly up to it, he dismounted from his mare; and leaving her behind him, approached the _jacale_ with his customary caution. the horse-hide door was closed; but there was a large aperture in the middle of it, where a portion of the skin had been cut out. what was the meaning of that? zeb could not answer the question, even by conjecture. it increased his caution; and he continued his approach with as much stealth, as if he had been stalking an antelope. he kept round by the rear--so as to avail himself of the cover afforded by the trees; and at length, having crouched into the horse-shed at the back, he knelt down and listened. there was an opening before his eyes; where one of the split posts had been pushed out of place, and the skin tapestry torn off. he saw this with some surprise; but, before he could shape any conjecture as to its cause, his ears were saluted with a sonorous breathing, that came out through the aperture. there was also a snore, which he fancied he could recognise, as proceeding from irish nostrils. a glance through the opening settled the point. the sleeper was phelim. there was an end to the necessity for stealthy manoeuvring. the hunter rose to his feet, and stepping round to the front, entered by the door-- which he found unbolted. he made no attempt to rouse the sleeper, until after he had taken stock of the paraphernalia upon the floor. "thur's been packin' up for some purpiss," he observed, after a cursory glance. "ah! now i reccollex. the young fellur sayed he war goin' to make a move from hyur some o' these days. thet ere anymal air not only soun' asleep, but dead drunk. sartin he air--drunk as backis. i kin tell that by the smell o' him. i wonder if he hev left any o' the licker? it air dewbious. not a drop, dog-gone him! thur's the jar, wi' the stop plug out o' it, lyin' on its side; an thur's the flask, too, in the same preedikamint--both on 'em fall o' empiness. durn him for a drunken cuss! he kin suck up as much moister as a chalk purayra. "spanish curds! a hul pack on 'em scattered abeout the place. what kin he ha' been doin' wi' them? s'pose he's been havin' a game o' sollatury along wi' his licker." "but what's cut the hole in the door, an why's the tother broken out at the back? i reckon he kin tell. i'll roust him, an see. pheelum! pheelum!" phelim made no reply. "pheelum, i say! pheelum!" still no reply. although the last summons was delivered in a shout loud enough to have been heard half a mile off, there was no sign made by the slumberer to show that he even heard it. a rude shaking administered by zeb had no better effect. it only produced a grunt, immediately succeeded by a return to the same stentorous respiration. "if 'twa'n't for his snorin' i mout b'lieve him to be dead. he _air_ dead drunk, an no mistake; intoxerkated to the very eends o' his toe-nails. kickin' him 'ud be no use. dog-goned, ef i don't try _this_." the old hunter's eye, as he spoke, was resting upon a pail that stood in a corner of the cabin. it was full of water, which phelim, for some purpose, had fetched from the creek. unfortunately for himself, he had not wasted it. with a comical expression in his eye, zeb took up the pail; and swilled the whole of its contents right down upon the countenance of the sleeper. it had the effect intended. if not quite sobered, the inebriate was thoroughly awakened; and the string of terrified ejaculations that came from his lips formed a contrasting accompaniment to the loud cachinnations of the hunter. it was some time before sufficient tranquillity was restored, to admit of the two men entering upon a serious conversation. phelim, however, despite his chronic inebriety, was still under the influence of his late fears, and was only too glad to see zeb stump, notwithstanding the unceremonious manner in which he had announced himself. as soon as an understanding was established between them, and without waiting to be questioned, he proceeded to relate in detail, as concisely as an unsteady tongue and disordered brain would permit, the series of strange sights and incidents that had almost deprived him of his senses. it was the first that zeb stump had heard of the _headless horseman_. although the report concerning this imperfect personage was that morning broadly scattered around fort inge, and along the leona, zeb, having passed through the settlement at an early hour, and stopped only at casa del corvo, had not chanced upon any one who could have communicated such a startling item of intelligence. in fact, he had exchanged speech only with pluto and louise poindexter; neither of whom had at that time heard anything of the strange creature encountered, on the evening before, by the party of searchers. the planter, for some reason or another, had been but little communicative, and his daughter had not held converse with any of the others. at first zeb was disposed to ridicule the idea of a man without a head. he called it "a fantassy of pheelum's brain, owin' to his havin' tuk too much of the corn-juice." he was puzzled, however, by phelim's persistence in declaring it to be a fact--more especially when he reflected on the other circumstances known to him. "arrah, now, how could i be mistaken?" argued the irishman. "didn't i see masther maurice, as plain as i see yourself at this minnit? all except the hid, and that i had a peep at as he turned to gallop away. besides, thare was the mexican blanket, an the saddle wid the rid cloth, and the wather guards av spotted skin; and who could mistake that purty horse? an' havn't i towld yez that tara went away afther him, an thin i heerd the dog gowlin', jist afore the indyins--" "injuns!" exclaimed the hunter, with a contemptuous toss of the head. "injuns playin' wi' spanish curds! white injuns, i reck'n." "div yez think they waren't indyins, afther all?" "ne'er a matter what i think. thur's no time to talk o' that now. go on, an tell me o' all ye seed an heern." when phelim had at length unburdened his mind, zeb ceased to question him; and, striding out of the hut, squatted down, indian fashion, upon the grass. his object was, as he said himself, to have "a good think;" which, he had often declared, he could not obtain while "hampered wi' a house abeout him." it is scarcely necessary to say, that the story told by the galwegian groom only added to the perplexity he already experienced. hitherto there was but the disappearance of henry poindexter to be accounted for; now there was the additional circumstance of the non-return of the mustanger to his hut--when it was known that he had started for it, and should, according to a notice given to his servant, have been there at an early hour on the day before. far more mystifying was the remarkable story of his being seen riding about the prairie without a head, or with one carried in his hands! this last might be a trick. what else could it be? still was it a strange time for tricks--when a man had been murdered, and half the population of the settlement wore out upon the track of the murderer--more especially improbable, that the supposed assassin should be playing them! zeb stump had to deal with, a difficult concatenation--or rather conglomeration of circumstances--events without causes--causes without sequence--crimes committed without any probable motive--mysteries that could only be explained by an appeal to the supernatural. a midnight meeting between maurice gerald and louise poindexter--a quarrel with her brother, occasioned by the discovery--maurice having departed for the prairies--henry having followed to sue for forgiveness--in all this the sequence was natural and complete. beyond began the chapter of confusions and contradictions. zeb stump knew the disposition of maurice gerald in regard to henry poindexter. more than once he had heard the mustanger speak of the young planter. instead of having a hostility towards him, he had frequently expressed admiration of his ingenuous and generous character. that he could have changed from being his friend to become his assassin, was too improbable for belief. only by the evidence of his eyes could zeb stump have been brought to believe it. after spending a full half hour at his "think," he had made but little progress towards unravelling the network of cognate, yet unconnected, circumstances. despite an intellect unusually clear, and the possession of strong powers of analysis, he was unable to reach any rational solution of this mysterious drama of many acts. the only thing clear to him was, that four mounted men--he did not believe them to be indians--had been making free with the mustanger's hut; and that it was most probable that these had something to do with the murder that had been committed. but the presence of these men at the _jacale_, coupled with the protracted absence of its owner, conducted his conjectures to a still more melancholy conclusion: that more than one man had fallen a sacrifice to the assassin, and that the thicket might be searched for two bodies, instead of one! a groan escaped from the bosom of the backwoodsman as this conviction forced itself upon his mind. he entertained for the young irishman a peculiar affection--strong almost as that felt by a father for his son; and the thought that he had been foully assassinated in some obscure corner of the chapparal, his flesh to be torn by the beak of the buzzard and the teeth of the coyote, stirred the old hunter to the very core of his heart. he groaned again, as he reflected upon it; until, without action, he could no longer bear the agonising thought, and, springing to his feet, he strode to and fro over the ground, proclaiming, in loud tones, his purpose of vengeance. so absorbed was he with his sorrowful indignation, that he saw not the staghound as it came skulking up to the hut. it was not until he heard phelim caressing the hound in his grotesque irish fashion, that he became aware of the creature's presence. and then he remained indifferent to it, until a shout of surprise, coupled with his own name, attracted his attention. "what is it, pheelum? what's wrong? hes a snake bit ye?" "oh, misther stump, luk at tara! see! thare's somethin' tied about his neck. it wasn't there when he lift. what do yez think it is?" the hunter's eyes turned immediately upon the hound. sure enough there was something around the animal's neck: a piece of buckskin thong. but there was something besides--a tiny packet attached to the thong, and hanging underneath the throat! zeb drawing his knife, glided towards the dog. the creature recoiled in fear. a little coaxing convinced him that there was no hostile intent; and he came up again. the thong was severed, the packet laid open; it contained a _card_! there was a name upon the card, and writing--writing in what appeared to be red ink; but it was _blood_! the rudest backwoodsman knows how to read. even zeb stump was no exception; and he soon deciphered the characters traced upon the bit of pasteboard. as he finished, a cry rose from his lips, in strange contrast with the groans he had been just uttering. it was a shout of gladness, of joy! "thank the almighty for this!" he added; "and thank my ole katinuck schoolmaster for puttin' me clar through my webster's spellin'-book. he lives, pheelum! he lives! look at this. oh, _you_ can't read. no matter. he lives! he lives!" "who? masther maurice? thin the lord be thanked--" "wagh! thur's no time to thank him now. get a blanket an some pieces o' horse-hide thong. ye kin do it while i catch up the ole maar. quick! helf an hour lost, an we may be too late!" chapter fifty three. just in time. "half-an-hour lost, and we may be too late!" they were the last words of the hunter, as he hurried away from the hut. they were true, except as to the time. had he said half-a-minute, he would have been nearer the mark. even at the moment of their utterance, the man, whose red writing had summoned assistance, was once more in dread danger--once more surrounded by the coyotes. but it was not these he had need to fear. a far more formidable foe was threatening his destruction. maurice gerald--by this time recognised as the man in the cloak and panama hat--after doing battle with the wolves, as already described, and being rescued by his faithful tara, had fought repose in sleep. with full confidence in the ability of his canine companion to protect him against the black birds, or the more dangerous quadrupeds, with which he had been in conflict, he soon found, and for several hours enjoyed it. he awoke of his own accord. finding his strength much restored, he once more turned his attention to the perils that surrounded him. the dog had rescued him from the jackals, and would still protect him against their attacks, should they see fit to renew it. but to what end? the faithful creature could not transport him from the spot; and to stay there would be to die of hunger--perhaps of the wounds he had received? he rose to his feet, but found that he could not stand upright. feebleness was now added to his other infirmity; and after struggling a pace or two, he was glad to return to a recumbent position. at this crisis a happy thought occurred to him. tara might take a message to the hut! "if i could but get him to go," said he, as he turned inquiringly towards the dog. "come hither, old fellow!" he continued, addressing himself to the dumb animal; "i want you to play postman for me--to carry a letter. you understand? wait till i've got it written. i shall then explain myself more fully." "by good luck i've got a card," he added, feeling for his case. "no pencil! that don't matter. there's plenty of ink around; and for a pen i can use the thorn of yonder maguey." he crept up to the plant thus designated; broke off one of the long spines terminating its great leaves; dipped it in the blood of a coyote that lay near; and drawing forth a card, traced some characters upon it. with a strip of thong, the card was then attached to the neck of the staghound, after being wrapped up in a piece of oilcloth torn from the lining of the panama hat. it only remained to despatch the canine post upon his errand. this proved a somewhat difficult task. the dumb creature, despite a wondrous intelligence, could not comprehend why he should forsake the side of one he had so faithfully befriended; and for a long time resisted the coaxings and chidings, meant to warn him away. it was only after being scolded in a tone of assumed anger, and beaten by the black-jack crutch--stricken by the man whose life he had so lately saved, that he had consented to leave the spot. even canine affection could not endure this; and with repeated looks of reproach, cast backwards as he was chased off, he trotted reluctantly into the chapparal. "poor fellow!" soliloquised maurice, as the dog disappeared from his view. "'tis like boating one's self, or one's dearest friend! well, i shall make up for it in extra kindness if i have the good fortune to see him again. "and now, that he is gone, i must provide against the coming back of these villainous coyotes. they will be sure to come, once they discover that i'm alone." a scheme had been already considered. a tree stood near--the pecan already alluded to--having two stout branches that extended horizontally and together, at six or seven feet from the ground. taking off his cloak, and spreading it out upon the grass, with his knife he cut a row of holes along each edge. then unwinding from his waist the sash of china crape, he tore it up the middle, so as to make two strips, each several yards long. the cloak was now extended between the branches, and fast tied by the strips of crape--thus forming a sort of hammock capable of containing the body of a man laid out at full length. the maker of it knew that the coyotes are not tree climbers; and, reclining on his suspended couch, he could observe with indifference their efforts to assail him. he took all this trouble, feeling certain they would return. if he had any doubt, it was soon set at rest, by seeing them, one after the other, come skulking out of the chapparal, lopping a pace or two, at intervals, pausing to reconnoitre, and then advancing towards the scene of their late conflict. emboldened by the absence of the enemy most dreaded by them, the pack was soon reassembled, once more exhibiting the truculent ferocity for which these cowardly creatures are celebrated. it was first displayed in a very unnatural manner--by the devouring of their own dead--which was done in less time than it would have taken the spectator in the tree to have counted a score. to him their attention was next directed. in swinging his hammock, he had taken no pains to conceal it. he had suspended it high enough to be out of their reach; and that he deemed sufficient for his purpose. the cloak of dark cloth was conspicuous, as well as the figure outlined within it. the coyotes clustered underneath--their appetites whetted by the taste of blood. it was a sight to see them lick their red lips after their unnatural repast--a fearful sight! he who saw it scarce regarded them--not even when they were springing up to lay hold of his limbs, or at times attempting to ascend by the trunk of the tree! he supposed there was no danger. there _was_ danger, however, on which he had not reckoned; and not till the coyotes have desisted from their idle attempts, and stretched themselves, panting, under the tree, did he begin to perceive it. of all the wild denizens, either of prairie or chapparal, the coyote is that possessed of the greatest cunning. the trapper will tell you it is the "cunningest varmint in creation." it is a fox in astuteness--a wolf in ferocity. it may be tamed, but it will turn at any time to tear the hand that caresses it. a child can scare it with a stick, but a disabled man may dread its attack. alone it has the habit of a hare; but in packs--and it hunts only in packs--its poltroonery is less observable; sometimes under the influence of extreme hunger giving place to a savageness of disposition that assumes the semblance of courage. it is the coyotes' cunning that is most to be feared; and it was this that had begun to excite fresh apprehension in the mind of the mustanger. on discovering that they could not reach him--a discovery they were not long in making--instead of scattering off from the spot, the wolves, one and all, squatted down upon the grass; while others, stragglers from the original troop, were still coming into the glade. he saw that they intended a siege. this should not have troubled him, seeing that he was secure in his suspended couch. nor would it, but for another source of trouble, every moment making itself more manifest--that from which he had so lately had such a narrow escape. he was once more on the eve of being tortured by thirst. he blamed himself for having been so simple, as not to think of this before climbing up to the tree. he might easily have carried up a supply of water. the stream was there; and for want of a better vessel, the concave blades of the maguey would have served as a cistern. his self-reproaches came too late. the water was under his eyes, only to tantalise him; and by so doing increase his eagerness to obtain it. he could not return to the stream, without running the gauntlet of the coyotes, and that would be certain death. he had but faint hopes that the hound would return and rescue him a second time--fainter still that his message would reach the man for whom it was intended. a hundred to one against that. thirst is quick in coming to a man whose veins are half-emptied of their blood. the torture proclaimed itself apace. how long was it to continue? this time it was accompanied by a straying of the senses. the wolves, from being a hundred, seemed suddenly to have increased their number tenfold. a thousand appeared to encompass the tree, filling the whole ground of the glade! they came nearer and nearer. their eyes gave out a lurid light. their red tongues lapped the hanging cloth; they tore it with their teeth. he could feel their fetid breath, as they sprang up among the branches! a lucid interval told him that it was all fancy. the wolves were still there; but only a hundred of them--as before, reclining upon the grass, pitiably awaiting a crisis! it came before the period of lucidity had departed; to the spectator unexpected as inexplicable. he saw the coyotes suddenly spring to their feet, and rush off into the thicket, until not one remained within the glade. was this, too, a fancy? he doubted the correctness of his vision. he had begun to believe that his brain was distempered. but it was clear enough now. there were no coyotes. what could have frightened them off? a cry of joy was sent forth from his lips, as he conjectured a cause. tara had returned? perhaps phelim along with him? there had been time enough for the delivery of the message. for two hours he had been besieged by the coyotes. he turned upon his knee, and bending over the branch, scanned the circle around him. neither hound nor henchman was in sight. nothing but branches and bushes! he listened. no sound, save an occasional howl, sent back by the coyotes that still seemed to continue their retreat! more than ever was it like an illusion. what could have caused their scampering? no matter. the coast was clear. the streamlet could now be approached without danger. its water sparkled under his eyes--its rippling sounded sweet to his ears. descending from the tree, he staggered towards its bank, and reached it. before stooping to drink, he once more looked around him. even the agony of thirst could not stifle the surprise, still fresh in his thoughts. to what was he indebted for his strange deliverance? despite his hope that it might be the hound, he had an apprehension of danger. one glance, and he was certain of it. the spotted yellow skin shining among the leaves--the long, lithe form crawling like a snake out of the underwood was not to be mistaken. it was the tiger of the new world-- scarce less dreaded than his congener of the old--the dangerous jaguar. its presence accounted for the retreat of the coyotes. neither could its intent be mistaken. it, too, had scented blood, and was hastening to the spot where blood had been sprinkled, with that determined air that told it would not be satisfied till after partaking of the banquet. its eyes were upon him, who had descended from the tree--its steps were towards him--now in slow, crouching gait; but quicker and quicker, as if preparing for a spring. to retreat to the tree would have been sheer folly. the jaguar can climb like a cat. the mustanger knew this. but even had he been ignorant of it, it would have been all the same, as the thing was no longer possible. the animal had already passed that tree, upon which he had found refuge, and there was t'other near that could be reached in time. he had no thought of climbing to a tree--no thought of any thing, so confused were his senses--partly from present surprise, partly from the bewilderment already within his brain. it was a simple act of unreasoning impulse that led him to rush on into the stream, until he stood up to his waist in the water. had he reasoned, he would have known that this would do nothing to secure his safety. if the jaguar climbs like a cat, it also swims with the ease of an otter; and is as much to be dreaded in the water as upon the land. maurice made no such reflection. he suspected that the little pool, towards the centre of which he had waded, would prove but poor protection. he was sure of it when the jaguar, arriving upon the bank above him, set itself in that cowering attitude that told of its intention to spring. in despair he steadied himself to receive the onset of the fierce animal. he had nought wherewith to repel it--no knife--no pistol--no weapon of any kind--not even his crutch! a struggle with his bare arms could but end in his destruction. a wild cry went forth from his lips, as the tawny form was about launching itself for the leap. there was a simultaneous scream from the jaguar. something appeared suddenly to impede it; and instead of alighting on the body of its victim, it fell short, with a dead plash upon the water! like an echo of his own, a cry came from the chapparal, close following a sound that had preceded it--the sharp "spang" of a rifle. a huge dog broke through the bushes, and sprang with a plunge into the pool where the jaguar had sunk below the surface. a man of colossal size advanced rapidly towards the bank; another of lesser stature treading close upon his heels, and uttering joyful shouts of triumph. to the wounded man these sights and sounds were more like a vision than the perception of real phenomena. they were the last thoughts of that day that remained in his memory. his reason, kept too long upon the rack, had given way. he tried to strangle the faithful hound that swam fawningly around him and struggled against the strong arms that, raising him out of the water, bore him in friendly embrace to the bank! his mind had passed from a horrid reality, to a still more horrid dream--the dream of delirium. chapter fifty four. a prairie palanquin. the friendly arms, flung around maurice gerald, were those of zeb stump. guided by the instructions written upon the card, the hunter had made all haste towards the rendezvous there given. he had arrived within sight, and fortunately within rifle-range of the spot, at that critical moment when the jaguar was preparing to spring. his bullet did not prevent the fierce brute from making the bound--the last of its life--though it had passed right through the animal's heart. this was a thing thought of afterwards--there was no opportunity then. on rushing into the water, to make sure that his shot had proved fatal, the hunter was himself attacked; not by the claws of the jaguar, but the hands of the man just rescued from them. fortunate for zeb, that the mustanger's knife had been left upon land. as it was, he came near being throttled; and only after throwing aside his rifle, and employing all his strength, was he able to protect himself against the unlooked-for assault. a struggle ensued, which ended in zeb flinging his colossal arms around the young irishman, and bearing him bodily to the bank. it was not all over. as soon as the latter was relieved from the embrace, he broke away and made for the pecan tree;--as rapidly as if the injured limb no longer impeded him. the hunter suspected his intent. standing over six feet, he saw the bloody knife-blade lying along the cloak. it was for that the mustanger was making! zeb bounded after; and once more enfolding the madman in his bear-like embrace, drew him back from the tree. "speel up thur, pheelum!" shouted he. "git that thing out o' sight. the young fellur hev tuck leeve o' his seven senses. thur's fever in the feel o' him. he air gone dullerious!" phelim instantly obeyed; and, scrambling up the tree-trunk took possession of the knife. still the struggle was not over. the delirious man wrestled with his rescuer--not in silence, but with shouts and threatening speeches--his eyes all the time rolling and glaring with a fierce, demoniac light. for full ten minutes did he continue the mad wrestling match. at length from sheer exhaustion he sank back upon the grass; and after a few tremulous shiverings, accompanied by sighs heaved from the very bottom of his breast, he lay still, as if the last spark of life had departed from his body! the galwegian, believing it so, began uttering a series of lugubrious cries--the "keen" of connemara. "stop yur gowlin, ye durned cuss!" cried zeb. "it air enuf to scare the breath out o' his karkidge. he's no more dead than you air--only fented. by the way he hev fit me, i reck'n there ain't much the matter wi' him. no," he continued, after stooping down and giving a short examination, "i kin see no wound worth makin' a muss about. thur's a consid'able swellin' o' the knee; but the leg ain't fructered, else he kudn't a stud up on it. as for them scratches, they ain't much. what kin they be? 'twarnt the jegwur that gin them. they air more like the claws o' a tom cat. ho, ho! i sees now. thur's been a bit o' a skrimmage afore the spotted beest kim up. the young fellur's been attakted by coyoats! who'd a surposed that the cowardly varmints would a had the owdacity to attakt a human critter? but they _will_, when they gits the chance o' one krippled as he air--durn 'em!" the hunter had all the talking to himself. phelim, now overjoyed to know that his master still lived--and furthermore was in no danger of dying--suddenly changed his melancholy whine to a jubilant hullaballoo, and commenced dancing over the ground, all the while snapping his fingers in the most approved connemara fashion. his frenzied action provoked the hound to a like pitch of excitement; and the two became engaged in a sort of wild irish jig. zeb took no notice of these grotesque demonstrations; but, once more bending over the prostrate form, proceeded to complete the examination already begun. becoming satisfied that there was no serious wound, he rose to his feet, and commenced taking stock of the odd articles around him. he had already noticed the panama hat, that still adhered to the head of the mustanger; and a strange thought at seeing it there, had passed through his mind. hats of guayaquil grass--erroneously called panama--were not uncommon. scores of southerners wore them, in texas as elsewhere. but he knew that the young irishman was accustomed to carry a mexican _sombrero_--a very different kind of head-gear. it was possible he might have seen fit to change the fashion. still, as zeb continued to gaze upon it, he fancied he had seen _that_ hat before, and on some other head. it was not from any suspicion of its being honestly in possession of him now wearing it that the hunter stooped down, and took it off with the design to examine it. his object was simply to obtain some explanation of the mystery, or series of mysteries, hitherto baffling his brain. on looking inside the hat he read two names; first, that of a new orleans hatter, whose card was pasted in the crown; and then, in writing, another well known to him:-- "henry poindexter." the cloak now came under his notice. it, too, carried marks, by which he was able to identify it as belonging to the same owner. "dog-goned kewrious, all this!" muttered the backwoodsman, as he stood with his eyes turned upon the ground, and apparently buried in a profound reflection. "hats, heads, an everythin'. hats on the wrong head; heads i' the wrong place! by the 'tarnal thur's somethin' goed astray! ef 'twa'nt that i feel a putty consid'able smartin' whar the young fellur gin me a lick over the left eye, i mout be arter believin' my own skull-case wa'nt any longer atween my shoulders!" "it air no use lookin' to him," he added, glancing towards maurice, "for an explanation; leastwise till he's slep' off this dullerium thet's on him. when that'll be, ole nick only knows. "wal," he continued after another interval spent in silent reflection, "it won't do no good our stayin' hyur. we must git him to the shanty, an that kin only be did by toatin' him. he sayed on the curd, he cudn't make neer a track. it war only the anger kep' him up a bit. that leg looks wusser and wusser. he's boun to be toated." the hunter seemed to cogitate on how he was to effect this purpose. "'taint no good expektin' _him_ to help think it out," he continued looking at the galwegian, who was busy talking to tara. "the dumb brute hev more sense than he. neer a mind. i'd make him take his full share o' the carryin' when it kum to thet. how air it to be done? we must git him on a streetcher. that i reck'n we kin make out o' a kupple o' poles an the cloak; or wi' the blanket pheelum fetch'd from the shanty. ye-es! a streetcher. that's the eydentikul eyedee." the connemara man was now summoned to lend assistance. two saplings of at least ten feet in length were cut from the chapparal, and trimmed clear of twigs. two shorter ones were also selected, and lashed crosswise over the first; and upon these there spread, first the serape, and afterwards the cloak, to give greater strength. in this way a rude stretcher was constructed, capable of carrying either an invalid or an inebriate. in the mode of using it, it more resembled the latter than the former: since he who was to be borne upon it, again deliriously raging, had to be strapped to the trestles! unlike the ordinary stretcher, it was not carried between two men; but a man and a mare--the mare at the head, the man bearing behind. it was he of connemara who completed the ill-matched team. the old hunter had kept his promise, that phelim should "take his full share o' the carryin', when it kum to thet." he was taking it, or rather getting it--zeb having appointed himself to the easier post of conductor. the idea was not altogether original. it was a rude copy from the mexican _litera_, which in southern texas zeb may have seen--differing from the latter only in being without screen, and instead of two mules, having for its _atelage_ a mare and a man! in this improvised palanquin was maurice gerald transported to his dwelling. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ it was night when the grotesque-looking group arrived at the _locale_. in strong but tender arms the wounded man was transferred from the stretcher to the skin couch, on which he had been accustomed to repose. he was unconscious of where he was, and knew not the friendly faces bending over him. his thoughts were still astray, though no longer exciting him to violent action. he was experiencing an interval of calm. he was not silent; though he made no reply to the kind questions addressed to him, or only answered them with an inconsequence that might have provoked mirth. but there were wild words upon his lips that forbade it--suggesting only serious thoughts. his wounds received such rude dressing as his companions were capable of administering to them; and nothing more could be done but await the return of day. phelim went to sleep upon his shake-down; while the other sate up to keep watch by the bedside of the sufferer. it was not from any unfaithfulness on the part of the foster-brother, that he seemed thus to disregard his duty; but simply because zeb had requested him to lie down--telling him there was no occasion for both to remain awake. the old hunter had his reasons. he did not desire that those wild words should be heard even by phelim. better he should listen to them alone. and alone he sate listening to them--throughout the live-long night. he heard speeches that surprised him, and names that did not. he was not surprised to hear the name "louise" often repeated, and coupled with fervent protestations of love. but there was another name also often pronounced--with speeches less pleasant to his ear. it was the name of louise's brother. the speeches were disjointed--incongruous, and almost unintelligible. comparing one with the other, however, and assisted by the circumstances already known to him, before the morning light had entered the _jacale_, zeb stump had come to the conclusion: that henry poindexter was no longer a living man! chapter fifty five. un dia de novedades. don silvio martinez was one of the few mexican _ricos_, who had chosen to remain in texas, after the conquest of that country by the stalwart colonisers from the north. a man of more than mature age, of peaceful habits, and taking no part in politics, he accepted the new situation without any great regret. he was the more easily reconciled to it, from a knowledge, that his loss of nationality was better than counterbalanced by his gain of security against comanche incursions; which, previous to the coming of the new colonists, had threatened the complete depopulation of the country. the savage was not yet entirely subdued; but his maraud was now intermittent, and occurred only at long intervals. even this was an improvement on the old _regime_. don silvio was a _ganadero_,--a grazier, on a grand scale. so grand that his _ganaderia_ was leagues in length and breadth, and contained within its limits many thousands of horses and horned cattle. he lived in a large rectangular one-storied house--more resembling a jail than a dwelling--surrounded by extensive enclosures--_corrales_. it was usually a quiet place; except during the time of the _herradero_, or cattle-branding; when for days it became the scene of a festivity almost homeric. these occasions were only of annual occurrence. at all other times the old haciendado--who was a bachelor to boot--led a tranquil and somewhat solitary life; a sister older than himself being his only companion. there were occasional exceptions to this rule: when his charming _sobrina_ rode across from the rio grande to pay him and his sister a visit. then the domicile of don silvio became a little more lively. isidora was welcome whenever she came; welcome to come and go when she pleased; and do as she pleased, while under her uncle's roof. the sprightliness of her character was anything but displeasing to the old haciendado; who was himself far from being of a sombre disposition. those traits, that might have appeared masculine in many other lands, were not so remarkable in one, where life is held by such precarious tenure; where the country house is oft transformed into a fortress, and the domestic hearth occasionally bedewed with the blood of its inmates! is it surprising that in such a land women should be found, endowed with those qualities that have been ascribed to isidora? if so, it is not the less true that they exist. as a general thing the mexican woman is a creature of the most amiable disposition; _douce_--if we may be allowed to borrow from a language that deals more frequently with feminine traits--to such an extent, as to have become a national characteristic. it is to the denizens of the great cities, secure from indian incursion, that this character more especially applies. on the frontiers, harried for the last half century by the aboriginal freebooter, the case is somewhat different. the amiability still exists; but often combined with a _bravourie_ and hardihood masculine in seeming, but in reality heroic. since malinche, more than one fair heroine has figured in the history of anahuac. don silvio martinez had himself assisted at many a wild scene and ceremony. his youth had been passed amid perils; and the courage of isidora--at times degenerating into absolute recklessness--so far from offending, rather gave him gratification. the old gentleman loved his darling _sobrina_, as if she had been his own child; and had she been so, she would not have been more certain of succeeding to his possessions. every one knew, that, when don silvio martinez should take leave of life, isidora covarubio de los llanos would be the owner of--not his broad acres, but--his _leagues_ of land, as also his thousands of horses and horned cattle. with this understanding, it is needless to say, that the senorita carried respect with her wherever she went, or that the vassals of the hacienda martinez honoured her as their future mistress. independently of this was she regarded. hers were just the qualities to win the esteem of the dashing _rancheros_; and there was not one upon the estate, but would have drawn his _machete_ at her nod, and used it to the shedding of blood. miguel diaz spoke the truth, when he said he was in danger. well might he believe it. had it pleased isidora to call together her uncle's _vaqueros_, and send them to chastise him, it would have been speedily done--even to hanging him upon the nearest tree! no wonder he had made such haste to get away from the glade. as already stated, the real home of isidora was upon the other side of the rio grande--separated by some three-score miles from the hacienda martinez. but this did not hinder her from paying frequent visits to her relations upon the leona. there was no selfishness in the motive. the prospect of the rich inheritance had nothing to do with it. she was an expectant heiress without that: for her own father was a _rico_. but she liked the company of her uncle and aunt. she also enjoyed the ride from river to river--oft made by her between morning and night, and not unfrequently alone! of late these visits had become of much more frequent occurrence. had she grown fonder of the society of her texan relatives--fonder as they grew older? if not, what was her motive? imitating her own frankness of character, it may at once be declared. she came oftener to the leona, in the hope of meeting with maurice gerald. with like frankness may it be told, that she _loved_ him. beyond doubt, the young irishman was in possession of her heart. as already known, he had won it by an act of friendship; though it may have been less the service he had done, than the gallantry displayed in doing it, that had put the love-spell on the daring isidora. perhaps, too, she saw in him other captivating qualities, less easily defined. whether these had been undesignedly exhibited, or with the intention to effect a conquest, he alone can tell. he has himself said, no; and respect is due to his declaration. but it is difficult to believe, that mortal man could have gazed into the eyes of isidora de los llanos without wishing them to look longingly upon him. maurice may have spoken the truth; but we could better believe him, had he seen louise poindexter before becoming acquainted with isidora. the episode of the burnt prairie was several weeks subsequent to the adventure with the intoxicated indians. certainly something appears to have occurred between him and the mexican maiden, that leads her to believe she has a hope--if not a claim--upon his affections. it has come to that crisis, that she can no longer rest satisfied. her impulsive spirit cannot brook ambiguity. she knows that she loves _him_. she has determined to make frank confession of it; and to ask with like frankness whether her passion be reciprocated. hence her having made an appointment that could not be kept. for that day don miguel diaz had interfered between her and her purpose. so thought she, as she galloped out of the glade, and hastened back to the hacienda of her uncle. astride her grey steed she goes at a gallop. her head is bare; her coiffure disarranged; her rich black tresses streaming back beyond her shoulders, no longer covered by scarf or serape. the last she has left behind her, and along with it her _vicuna_ hat. her eyes are flashing with excitement; her cheeks flushed to the colour of carmine. the cause is known. and also why she is riding in such hot haste. she has herself declared it. on nearing the house, she is seen to tighten her rein. the horse is pulled in to a slower pace--a trot; slower still--a walk; and, soon after, he is halted in the middle of the road. his rider has changed her intention; or stops to reflect whether she should. she sits reflecting. "on second thoughts--perhaps--better not have him taken? it would create a terrible scandal, everywhere. so far, no one knows of --. besides, what can i say myself--the only witness? ah! were i to tell these gallant texans the story, my own testimony would be enough to have him punished with a harsh hand. no! let him live. _ladron_ as he is, i do not fear him. after what's happened he will not care to come near me. _santa virgen_! to think that i could have felt a fancy for this man--short-lived as it was! "i must send some one back to release him. one who can keep my secret-- who? benito, the mayor-domo--faithful and brave. _gracias a dios_! yonder's my man--as usual busied in counting his cattle. benito! benito!" "at your orders, s'norita?" "good benito, i want you to do me a kindness. you consent?" "at your orders, s'norita?" repeats the mayor-domo, bowing low. "not _orders_, good benito. i wish you to do me a _favour_." "command me, s'norita!" "you know the spot of open ground at the top of the hill--where the three roads meet?" "as well as the corral of your uncle's hacienda." "good! go there. you will find a man lying upon the ground, his arms entangled in a lazo. release, and let him go free. if he be hurt--by a harsh fall he has had--do what you can to restore him; but don't tell him who sent you. you may know the man--i think you do. no matter for that. ask him no questions, nor answer his, if he should put any. once you have seen him on his legs, let him make use of them after his own fashion. you understand?" "_perfectamente, s'norita_. your orders shall be obeyed to the letter." "thanks, good benito. uncle silvio will like you all the better for it; though _you_ mustn't tell him of it. leave that to me. if he shouldn't--if he shouldn't--well! one of these days there may be an estate on the rio grande that will stand in need of a brave, faithful steward--such an one as i know you to be." "every one knows that the dona isidora is gracious as she is fair." "thanks--thanks! one more request. the service i ask you to do for me must be known to only three individuals. the third is he whom you are sent to succour. you know the other two?" "s'norita, i comprehend. it shall be as you wish it." the mayor-domo is moving off on horseback, it need scarce be said. men of his calling rarely set foot to the earth--never upon a journey of half a league in length. "stay! i had forgotten!" calls out the lady, arresting him. "you will find a hat and serape. they are mine. bring them, and i shall wait for you here, or meet you somewhere along the way." bowing, he again rides away. again is he summoned to stop. "on second thoughts, senor benito, i've made up my mind to go along with you. _vamos_!" the steward of don silvio is not surprised at caprice, when exhibited by the niece of his employer. without questioning, he obeys her command, and once more heads his horse for the hill. the lady follows. she has told him to ride in the advance. she has her reason for departing from the aristocratic custom. benito is astray in his conjecture. it is not to caprice that he is indebted for the companionship of the senorita. a serious motive takes her back along the road. she has forgotten something more than her wrapper and hat--that little letter that has caused her so much annoyance. the "good benito" has not had _all_ her confidence; nor can he be entrusted with this. _it_ might prove a scandal, graver than the quarrel with don miguel diaz. she rides back in hopes of repossessing herself of the epistle. how stupid not to have thought of it before! how had el coyote got hold of it? he must have had it from jose! was her servant a traitor? or had diaz met him on the way, and forced the letter from him? to either of these questions an affirmative answer might be surmised. on the part of diaz such an act would have been natural enough; and as for jose, it is not the first time she has had reason for suspecting his fidelity. so run her thoughts as she re-ascends the slope, leading up from the river bottom. the summit is gained, and the opening entered; isidora now riding side by side with the mayor-domo. no miguel diaz there--no man of any kind; and what gives her far greater chagrin, not a scrap of paper! there is her hat of vicuna wool--her seraph of saltillo, and the loop end of her lazo--nothing more. "you may go home again, senor benito! the man thrown from his horse must have recovered his senses--and, i suppose, his saddle too. blessed be the virgin! but remember, good benito _secrecy all the same. entiende, v_?" "_yo entiendo, dona isidora_." the mayor-domo moves away, and is soon lost to sight behind the crest of the hill. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the lady of the lazo is once more alone in the glade. she springs out of her saddle; dons serape and sombrero; and is again the _beau-ideal_ of a youthful hidalgo. she remounts slowly, mechanically--as if her thoughts do not company the action. languidly she lifts her limb over the horse. the pretty foot is for a second or two poised in the air. her ankle, escaping from the skirt of her _enagua_, displays a tournure to have crazed praxiteles. as it descends on the opposite side of the horse, a cloud seems to overshadow the sun. simon stylites could scarce have closed his eyes on the spectacle. but there is no spectator of this interesting episode; not even the wretched jose; who, the moment after, comes skulking into the glade. he is questioned, without circumlocution, upon the subject of the strayed letter. "what have you done with it, sirrah?" "delivered it, my lady." "to whom?" "i left it at--at--the _posada_," he replies, stammering and turning pale. "don mauricio had gone out." "a lie, _lepero_! you gave it to don miguel diaz. no denial, sir! i've seen it since." "o senora, pardon! pardon! i am not guilty--indeed i am not." "stupid, you should have told your story better. you have committed yourself. how much did don miguel pay you for your treason?" "as i live, lady, it was not treason. he--he--forced it from me--by threats--blows. i--i--was not paid." "you shall be, then! i discharge you from my service; and for wages take that, and that, and that--" for at least ten times are the words repeated--the riding whip at each repetition descending upon the shoulders of the dishonest messenger. he essays to escape by running off. in vain. he is brought up again by the dread of being ridden over, and trampled under the hoofs of the excited horse. not till the blue wheals appear upon his brown skin, does the chastisement cease. "now, sirrah; from my sight! and let me see you no more. _al monte! al monte_!" with ludicrous alacrity the command is obeyed. like a scared cat the discharged servitor rushes out of the glade; only too happy to hide himself, and his shame, under the shadows of the thorny thicket. but a little while longer does isidora remain upon the spot--her anger giving place to a profound chagrin. not only has she been baffled from carrying out her design; but her heart's secret is now in the keeping of traitors! once more she heads her horse homeward. she arrives in time to be present at a singular spectacle. the people--peons, vaqueros, and employes of every kind--are hurrying to and fro, from field to corral, from corral to courtyard one and all giving tongue to terrified ejaculations. the men are on their feet arming in confused haste; the woman on their knees, praying pitifully to heaven--through the intercession of a score of those saints, profusely furnished by the mexican hierarchy to suit all times and occasions. "what is causing the commotion?" this is the question asked by isidora. the mayor-domo--who chances to be the first to present himself--is the individual thus interrogated. a man has been murdered somewhere out upon the prairie. the victim is one of the new people who have lately taken possession of caso del corvo--the son of the american haciendado himself. indians are reported to have done the deed. indians! in this word is the key to the excitement among don silvio's servitors. it explains both the praying and the hurried rushing to arms. the fact that a man has been murdered--a slight circumstance in that land of unbridled emotions--would have produced no such response--more especially when the man was a stranger, an "americano." but the report that indians are abroad, is altogether a different affair. in it there is an idea of danger. the effect produced on isidora is different. it is not fear of the savages. the name of the "asesinado" recalls thoughts that have already given her pain. she knows that there is a sister, spoken of as being wonderfully beautiful. she has herself looked upon this beauty, and cannot help believing in it. a keener pang proceeds from something else she has heard: that this peerless maiden has been seen in the company of maurice gerald. there is no fresh jealousy inspired by the news of the brother's death--only the old unpleasantness for the moment revived. the feeling soon gives place to the ordinary indifference felt for the fate of those with whom we have no acquaintance. some hours later, and this indifference becomes changed to a painful interest; in short, an apprehension. there are fresh reports about the murder. it has been committed, not by comanches; but by a white man--by _maurice the mustanger_! there are no indians near. this later edition of "novedades," while tranquilising don silvio's servants, has the contrary effect upon his niece. she cannot rest under the rumour; and half-an-hour afterwards, she is seen reining up her horse in front of the village hotel. for some weeks, with motive unknown, she has been devoting herself to the study of _la lengua americana_. her vocabulary of english words, still scanty, is sufficient for her present purpose; which is to acquire information, not about the murder, but the man accused of committing it. the landlord, knowing who she is, answers her inquiries with obsequious politeness. she learns that maurice gerald is no longer his guest, with "full particulars of the murder," so far as known. with a sad heart she rides back to the hacienda martinez. on reaching the house, she finds its tranquillity again disturbed. the new cause of excitement might have been deemed ludicrous; though it is not so regarded by the superstitious _peons_. a rare rumour has reached the place. a man without a head--_un hombre descabezado_--has been seen riding about the plains, somewhere near the rio nueces! despite its apparent absurdity, there can be no doubting the correctness of the report. it is rife throughout the settlement. but there is still surer confirmation of it. a party of don silvio's own people-- herdsmen out in search of strayed cattle--have seen the _cavallero descabezado_; and, desisting from their search, had ridden away from him, as they would have done from the devil! the _vaqueros_--there are three of them--are all ready to swear to the account given. but their scared looks furnish a more trustworthy evidence of its truthfulness. the sun goes down upon a _congeries_ of frightful rumours. neither these nor the protestations of don silvio and his sister can prevent their capricious niece from carrying out a resolution she seems suddenly to have formed--which is, to ride back to the rio grande. it makes no difference to her, that a murder has been committed on the road she will have to take; much less that near it has been seen the ghastly apparition of a headless horseman! what to any other traveller should cause dismay, seems only to attract isidora. she even proposes making the journey _alone_! don silvio offers an escort--half a score of his _vaqueros_, armed to the teeth. the offer is rejected. will she take benito? no. she prefers journeying alone. in short, she is determined upon it. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ next morning she carries out this determination. by day-break she is in the saddle; and, in less than two hours after, riding, not upon the direct road to the rio grande, but along the banks of the alamo! why has she thus deviated from her route? is she straying? she looks not like one who has lost her way. there is a sad expression upon her countenance, but not one of inquiry. besides, her horse steps confidently forward, as if under his rider's direction, and guided by the rein. isidora is not straying. she has not lost her way. happier for her, if she had. chapter fifty six. a shot at the devil. all night long the invalid lay awake; at times tranquil, at times giving way to a paroxysm of unconscious passion. all night long the hunter sate by his bedside, and listened to his incoherent utterances. they but confirmed two points of belief already impressed upon zeb's mind: that louise poindexter was beloved; that her brother had been murdered! the last was a belief that, under any circumstances, would have been painful to the backwoodsman. coupled with the facts already known, it was agonising. he thought of the quarrel--the hat--the cloak. he writhed as he contemplated the labyrinth of dark ambiguities that presented itself to his mind. never in his life had his analytical powers been so completely baffled. he groaned as he felt their impotence. he kept no watch upon the door. he knew that if _they_ came, it would not be in the night. once only he went out; but that was near morning, when the light of the moon was beginning to mingle with that of the day. he had been summoned by a sound. tara, straying among the trees, had given utterance to a long dismal "gowl," and come running scared-like into the hut. extinguishing the light, zeb stole forth, and stood listening. there was an interruption to the nocturnal chorus; but that might have been caused by the howling of the hound? what had caused _it_? the hunter directed his glance first upon the open lawn; then around its edge, and under the shadow of the trees. there was nothing to be seen there, except what should be. he raised his eyes to the cliff, that in a dark line trended along the horizon of the sky--broken at both ends by the tops of some tall trees that rose above its crest. there were about fifty paces of clear space, which he knew to be the edge of the upper plain terminating at the brow of the precipice. the line separating the _chiaro_ from the _oscuro_ could be traced distinctly as in the day. a brilliant moon was beyond it. a snake could have been seen crawling along the top of the cliff. there was nothing to be seen there. but there was something to be heard. as zeb stood listening there came a sound from the upper plain, that seemed to have been produced not far back from the summit of the cliff. it resembled the clinking of a horse's shoe struck against a loose stone. so conjectured zeb, as with open ears he listened to catch its repetition. it was not repeated; but he soon saw what told him his conjecture was correct--a horse, stepping out from behind the treetops, and advancing along the line of the bluff. there was a man upon his back--both horse and man distinctly seen in dark _silhouette_ against the clear sapphire sky. the figure of the horse was perfect, as in the outlines of a skilfully cast medallion. that of the man could be traced--only from the saddle to the shoulders. below, the limbs were lost in the shadow of the animal though the sparkle of spur and stirrup told that they were there. above, there was nothing--not even the semblance of a head! zeb stump rubbed his eyes and looked; and rubbed them and looked again. it did not change the character of the apparition. if he had rubbed them fourscore times, he would have seen the same--a horseman without a head. this very sight he saw, beyond the possibility of disbelieving--saw the horse advancing along the level line in a slow but steady pace--without footfall--without sound of any kind--as if gliding rather than walking-- like the shifting scene of a cosmorama! not for a mere instant had he the opportunity of observing the spectral apparition; but a period long enough to enable him to note every detail--long enough to satisfy him that it could be no illusion of the eye, or in any way a deception of his senses. nor did it vanish abruptly from his view; but slowly and gradually: first the head of the horse; then the neck and shoulders; then the shape, half ghastly, half grotesque, of the rider; then the hind-quarters of the animal; the hips; and last of all the long tapering tail! "geehosophat!" it was not surprise at the disappearance of the headless horseman that extorted this exclamation from the lips of zeb stump. there was nothing strange about this. the spectacle had simply passed behind the proscenium--represented by the tope of tree tops rising above the bluff. "geehosophat!" twice did the backwoodsman give utterance to this, his favourite expression of surprise; both times with an emphasis that told of an unlimited astonishment. his looks betrayed it. despite his undoubted courage, a shiver passed through his colossal frame; while the pallor upon his lips was perceptible through their brown priming of tobacco juice. for some time he stood speechless, as if unable to follow up his double ejaculation. his tongue at length returned to him. "dog-gone my cats!" he muttered, but in a very low tone, and with eyes still fixed upon the point where the horse's tail had been last seen. "if that ere don't whip the hul united creashun, my name ain't zeb'lon stump! the irish hev been right arter all. i tho't he hed dreemt o' it in his drink. but no. he hev seed somethin'; and so hev i meself. no wonner the cuss war skeeart. i feel jest a spell shaky in my own narves beout this time. geehosophat! what kin the durned thing be?" "what _kin_ it be?" he continued, after a period spent in silent reflection. "dog-goned, ef i kin detarmine one way or the tother. ef 't hed been only i' the daylight, an i ked a got a good sight on't; or eft hed been a leetle bit cloaster! ha! why moutn't i git cloaster to _it_? dog-goned, ef i don't hev a try! i reck'n it won't eet me--not ef it air ole nick; an ef it _air_ him, i'll jest satersfy meself whether a bullet kin go custrut thro' his infernal karkidge 'ithout throwin' him out o' the seddle. hyur go for a cloaster akwaintance wi' the varmint, whatsomiver it be." so saying, the hunter stalked off through the trees--upon the path that led up to the bluff. he had not needed to go inside for his rifle--having brought that weapon out with him, on hearing the howl of the hound. if the headless rider was real flesh and blood--earthly and not of the other world--zeb stump might confidently count upon seeing him again. when viewed from the door of the _jacale_, he was going direct towards the ravine, that permitted passage from the higher level to the bottom lands of the alamo. as zeb had started to avail himself of the same path, unless the other should meantime change direction, or his tranquil pace to a trot or gallop, the backwoodsman would be at the head of the pass as soon as he. before starting, zeb had made a calculation of the distance to be done, and the time to do it in. his estimate proved correct--to a second, and an inch. as his head was brought nearly on a level with the upland plain, he saw the _shoulders_ of the horseman rising above it. another step upward, and the body was in view. another, and the horse was outlined against the sky, from hoof to forelock. he stood at a halt. he was standing, as zeb first came in sight of him. he was fronting towards the cliff, evidently intending to go down into the gorge. his rider appeared to have pulled him up as a measure of precaution; or he may have heard the hunter scrambling up the ravine; or, what was more likely, scented him. for whatever reason, he was standing, front face to the spectator. on seeing him thus, zeb stump also came to a stand. had it been many another man, the same might have been said of his hair; and it is not to be denied, that the old hunter was at that moment, as he acknowledged himself, "a spell shaky 'beout the narves." he was firm enough, however, to carry out the purpose that had prompted him to seek that singular interview; which was, to discover whether he had to deal with a human being, or the devil! in an instant his rifle was at his shoulder, his eye glancing along the barrel; the sights, by the help of a brilliant moonlight, bearing upon the heart of the headless horseman. in another, a bullet would have been through it; but for a thought that just then flashed across the brain of the backwoodsman. maybe he was about to commit _murder_? at the thought he lowered the muzzle of his piece, and remained for a time undecided. "it mout be a man?" muttered he, "though it don't look like it air. thur ain't room enuf for a head under that ere mexikin blanket, no how. ef it be a human critter he hev got a tongue i reck'n, though he ain't much o' a head to hold it in. hilloo stronger! ye're out for a putty lateish ride, ain't ye? hain't yo forgot to fetch yur head wi ye?" there was no reply. the horse snorted, on hearing the voice. that was all. "lookee hyur, strenger! ole zeb stump from the state o' kintucky, air the individooal who's now speakin' to ye. he ain't one o' thet sort ter be trifled wi'. don't try to kum none o' yer damfoolery over this hyur coon. i warn ye to declur yur game. if ye're playin possum, ye'd better throw up yur hand; or by the jumpin' geehosophat, ye may lose both yur stake an yur curds! speak out now, afore ye gits plugged wi' a piece o' lead!" less response than before. this time the horse, becoming accustomed to the voice, only tossed up his head. "then dog-gone ye!" shouted the hunter, exasperated by what he deemed an insulting silence. "six seconds more--i'll gie ye six more; an ef ye don't show speech by that time, i'll let drive at yur guts. ef ye're but a dummy it won't do ye any harm. no more will it, i reckun, ef ye _air_ the devil. but ef ye're a man playin' possum, durn me ef ye don't desarve to be shot for bein' sech a damned fool. sing out!" he continued with increasing anger, "sing out, i tell ye! ye won't? then hyur goes! one--two--three--four--five--six!" where "seven" should have come in, had the count been continued, was heard the sharp crack of a rifle, followed by the sibillation of a spinning bullet; then the dull "thud" as the deadly missile buried itself in some solid body. the only effect produced by the shot, appeared to be the frightening of the horse. the rider still kept his seat in the saddle! it was not even certain the horse was scared. the clear neigh that responded to the detonation of the rifle, had something in it that sounded derisive! for all that, the animal went off at a tearing gallop; leaving zeb stump a prey to the profoundest surprise he had ever experienced. after discharging his rifle, he remained upon his knees, for a period of several seconds. if his nerves were unsteady before the shot, they had become doubly so now. he was not only surprised at the result, but terrified. he was certain that his bullet had passed through the man's heart--or where it should be--as sure as if his muzzle had been held close to the ribs. it could not be a man? he did not believe it to be one; and this thought might have reassured him, but for the behaviour of the horse. it was that wild unearthly neigh, that was now chilling his blood, and causing his limbs to shake, as if under an ague. he would have retreated; but, for a time, he felt absolutely unable to rise to his feet; and he remained kneeling, in a sort of stupefied terror--watching the weird form till it receded out of sight far off over the moonlit plain. not till then did he recover sufficient courage, to enable him to glide back down the gorge, and on towards the _jacale_. and not till he was under its roof, did he feel sufficiently himself, to reflect with any calmness on the odd encounter that had occurred to him. it was some time before his mind became disabused of the idea that he had been dealing with the devil. reflection, however, convinced him of the improbability of this; though it gave him no clue as to what the thing really was. "shurly," muttered he, his conjectural form of speech showing that he was still undecided, "shurly arter all it can't be a thing o' the tother world--else i kedn't a heern the _cothug_ o' my bullet? sartin the lead struck agin somethin' solid; an i reck'n thur's nothin' solid in the karkidge o' a ghost?" "wagh!" he concluded, apparently resigning the attempt to obtain a solution of the strange physical phenomenon. "let the durned thing slide! one o' two things it air boun' to be: eyther a bunnel o' rags, or ole harry from hell?" as he re-entered the hut, the blue light of morning stole in along with him. it was time to awaken phelim, that he might take his turn by the bedside of the invalid. the connemara man, now thoroughly restored to sobriety, and under the impression of having been a little derelict in his duty, was ready to undertake the task. the old hunter, before consigning his charge to the care of his unskilled successor, made a fresh dressing of the scratches--availing himself of the knowledge that a long experience had given him in the pharmacopoeia of the forest. the _nopal_ was near; and its juice inspissated into the fresh wounds would not fail to effect their speedy cure. zeb knew that in twenty-four hours after its application, they would be in process of healing; and in three days, entirely cicatrised. with this confidence--common to every denizen of the cactus-covered land of mexico--he felt defiant as to doctors; and if a score of them could have been procured upon the instant, he would not have summoned one. he was convinced that maurice gerald was in no danger--at least not from his wounds. there was a danger; but that was of a different kind. "an' now, mister pheelum," said he, on making a finish of his surgical operations; "we hev dud all thet kin be dud for the outard man, an it air full time to look arter the innard. ye say thur ain't nuthin to eet?" "not so much as a purtaty, misther stump. an' what's worse thare's nothin' to dhrink--not a dhrap lift in the whole cyabin." "durn ye, that's _yur_ fault," cried stump, turning upon the irishman with a savage scowl that showed equal regret at the announcement. "eft hadn't a been for you, thur war licker enough to a lasted till the young fellur got roun' agin. what's to be dud now?" "sowl, misther stump! yez be wrongin' _me_ althegither intirely. that same yez are. i hadn't a taste exciptin what came out av the little flask. it wus thim indyins that imptied the dimmyjan. trath was it." "wagh! ye cudn't a got drunk on what wur contained i' the flask. i know yur durned guts too well for thet. ye must a had a good pull at the tother, too." "be all the saints--" "durn yur stinkin' saints! d'you s'pose any man o' sense believes in sech varmint as them? "wal; 'tain't no use talkin' any more beout it. ye've sucked up the corn juice, an thur's an end o't. thur ain't no more to be hed 'ithin twenty mile, an we must go 'ithout." "be jaysus, but it's bad!" "shet up yur head, durn ye, an hear what i've got to say. we'll hev to go 'ithout drinkin'; but thet air no reezun for sturvin' ourselves for want o' somethin' to eet. the young fellur, i don't misdoubt, air by this time half starved hisself. thur's not much on his stummuk, i reck'n, though thur may be on his mind. as for meself, i'm jest hungry enough to eat coyoat; an i ain't very sure i'd turn away from turkey buzzart; which, as i reck'n, wud be a wusser victual than coyoat. but we ain't obleeged to eet turkey buzzart, whar thur's a chance o' gettin' turkey; an thet ain't so dewbious along the alamo. you stay hyur, an take care o' the young fellur, whiles i try up the crik, an see if i kin kum acrosst a gobbler." "i'll do that, misther stump, an no mistake. be me trath--" "keep yur palaver to yurself, till i've finished talkin' to ye." "sowl! i won't say a word." "then don't, but lissen! thur's somethin 'bout which i don't wait ye to make any mistake. it air this. ef there shed anybody stray this way dyurin my absince, ye'll let me know. you musn't lose a minnit o' time, but let me know." "shure i will--sowl, yis." "wal, i'll depend on ye." "trath, yez may;--but how misther stump? how am i to lit yez know, if you're beyant hearin' av me voice? how thin?" "wal, i reck'n, i shan't need to go so fur as thet. thur ought to be gobblers cloast by--at this time o' the mornin'. "an yit there moutent," continued zeb, after reflecting a while. "ye ain't got sech a thing as a gun in the shanty? a pistol 'ud do." "nayther wan nor the tother. the masther tuk both away wid him, when he went last time to the sittlements. he must have lift them thare." "it air awk'ard. i mout _not_ heer yur shout." zeb, who had by this time passed through the doorway, again stopped to reflect. "heigh!" he exclaimed, after a pause of six seconds. "i've got it. i've treed the eydee. ye see my ole maar, tethered out thur on the grass?" "shure i do, misther stump. av coorse i do." "wal, ye see thet ere prickly cacktis plant growin' cloast to the edge o' the openin'?" "faith, yis." "wal, that's sensible o' ye. now lissen to what i say. ye must keep a look out at the door; an ef anybody kums up whiles i'm gone, run straight custrut for the cacktis, cut off one o' its branches--the thorniest ye kin see--an stick it unner the maar's tail." "mother av moses! for what div yez want me to do that?" "wal, i reck'n i'd better explain," said zeb, reflectingly; "otherwise ye'll be makin' a mess o' it." "ye see, pheelum, ef anybody interlopes durin' my absince i hed better be hyur. i ain't a goin' fur off. but howsomediver near, i moutn't hear yur screech; thurfore the maar's 'll do better. you clap the cacktis under her tail, cloast up to the fundament; and ef she don't squeal loud enuf to be heern by me, then ye may konklude that this coon air eyther rubbed out, or hev both his lugs plugged wi picket pins. so, pheelum; do you adzactly as i've tolt ye." "i'll do it, be japers!" "be sure now. yur master's life may depend upon it." after delivering this last caution, the hunter shouldered his long rifle, and walked away from the hut. "he's a cute owld chap that same," said phelim as soon as zeb was out of hearing. "i wonder what he manes by the master bein' in danger from any wan comin' to the cyabin. he sed, that his life moight depend upon it? yis--he sed that." "he towlt me to kape a luk out. i suppose he maned me to begin at wance. i must go to the inthrance thin." so saying, he stepped outside the door; and proceeded to make an ocular inspection of the paths by which the _jacale_ might be approached. after completing this, he returned to the threshold; and there took stand, in the attitude of one upon the watch. chapter fifty seven. sounding the signal. phelim's vigil was of short duration. scarce ten minutes had he been keeping it, when he became warned by the sound of a horse's hoof, that some one was coming up the creek in the direction of the hut. his heart commenced hammering against his ribs. the trees, standing thickly, hindered him from having a view of the approaching horseman; and he could not tell what sort of guest was about to present himself at the _jacale_. but the hoofstroke told him there was only _one_; and this it was that excited his apprehension. he would have been less alarmed to hear the trampling of a troop. though well assured it could no longer be his master, he had no stomach for a second interview with the cavalier who so closely resembled him--in everything except the head. his first impulse was to rush across the lawn, and carry out the scheme entrusted to him by zeb. but the indecision springing from his fears kept him to his place--long enough to show him that they were groundless. the strange horseman had a head. "shure an that same he hez," said phelim, as the latter rode out from among the trees, and halted on the edge of the opening; "a raal hid, an a purty face in front av it. an' yit it don't show so plazed nayther. he luks as if he'd jist buried his grandmother. sowl! what a quare young chap he is, wid them toiny mowstacks loike the down upon a two days' goslin'! o lard! luk at his little fut! _be jaysus, he's a woman_!" while the irishman was making these observations--partly in thought, partly in muttered speech--the equestrian advanced a pace or two, and again paused. on a nearer view of his visitor, phelim saw that he had correctly guessed the sex; though the moustache, the manner of the mount, the hat, and serape, might for the moment have misled a keener intellect than his of connemara. it _was_ a woman. it was isidora. it was the first time that phelim had set eyes on the mexican maiden-- the first that hers had ever rested upon him. they were equally unknown to one another. he had spoken the truth, when he said that her countenance did not display pleasure. on the contrary, the expression upon it was sad-- almost disconsolate. it had shown distrust, as she was riding under the shadow of the trees. instead of brightening as she came out into the open ground, the look only changed to one of mingled surprise and disappointment. neither could have been caused by her coming within sight of the _jacale_. she knew of its existence. it was the goal of her journey. it must have been the singular personage standing in the doorway. he was not the man she expected to see there. in doubt she advanced to address him: "i may have made a mistake?" said she, speaking in the best "americana" she could command. "pardon me, but--i--i thought--that don mauricio lived here." "dan marryshow, yez say? trath, no. thare's nobody av that name lives heeur. dan marryshow? thare was a man they called marrish had a dwillin' not far out av ballyballagh. i remimber the chap will, bekase he chated me wanst in a horse thrade. but his name wasn't dan. no; it was pat. pat marrish was the name--divil burn him for a desaver!" "don mauricio--mor-rees--mor-ees." "oh! maurice! maybe ye'd be after spakin' av the masther--misther gerrald!" "si--si! senor zyerral." "shure, thin, an if that's fwhat ye're afther, misther gerrald diz dwill in this very cyabin--that is, whin he comes to divart hisself, by chasin' the wild horses. he only kapes it for a huntin' box, ye know. arrah, now; if yez cud only see the great big cyastle he lives in whin he's at home, in owld ireland; an thy bewtiful crayther that's now cryin' her swate blue eyes out, bekase he won't go back thare. sowl, if yez saw _her_!" despite its _patois_, phelim's talk was too well understood by her to whom it was addressed. jealousy is an apt translator. something like a sigh escaped from isidora, as he pronounced that little word "her." "i don't wish to see _her_," was the quick rejoinder; "but him you mention. is he at home? is he inside?" "is he at home? thare now, that's comin' to the point--straight as a poike staff. an' supposin' i wuz to say yis, fwhat ud yez be afther wantin' wid him?" "i wish to see him." "div yez? maybe now ye'll wait till yez be asked. ye're a purty crayther, notwithstandin' that black strake upon yer lip. but the masther isn't in a condishun jist at this time to see any wan--unless it was the praste or a docthur. yez cyant see him." "but i wish very much to see him, senor." "trath div yez. ye've sayed that alriddy. but yez cyant, i till ye. it isn't phaylim onale ud deny wan av the fair six--espacially a purty black-eyed colleen loike yerself. but for all that yez cyant see the masther now." "why can i not?" "why cyant yez not? will--thare's more than wan rayzon why yez cyant. in the first place, as i've towlt you, he's not in a condishun to resave company--the liss so av its bein' a lady." "but why, senor? why?" "bekase he's not dacently drissed. he's got nothin' on him but his shirt--exceptin' the rags that misther stump's jist tied all roun' him. be japers! thare's enough av them to make him a whole shoot--coat, waiscoat, and throwsers--trath is thare." "senor, i don't understand you." "yez don't? shure an i've spoke plain enough! don't i till ye that the masther's in bid?" "in bed! at this hour? i hope there's nothing--" "the matther wid him, yez wur goin' to say? alannah, that same is there--a powerful dale the matther wid him--enough to kape him betwane the blankets for weeks to come." "oh, senor! do not tell me that he is ill?" "don't i till ye! arrah now me honey; fwhat ud be the use av consalin' it? it ud do it no good; nayther cyan it do him any harm to spake about it? yez moight say it afore his face, an he won't conthradict ye." "he _is_ ill, then. o, sir, tell me, what is the nature of his illness--what has caused it?" "shure an i cyant answer only wan av thim interrogataries--the first yez hiv phut. his disaze pursades from some ugly tratement he's been resavin--the lord only knows what, or who administhered it. he's got a bad lig; an his skin luks as if he'd been tied up in a sack along wid a score av angry cats. sowl! thare's not the brenth av yer purty little hand widout a scratch upon it. worse than all, he's besoide hisself." "beside himself?" "yis, that same. he's ravin' loike wan that had a dhrap too much overnight, an thinks thare's the man wid the poker afther him. be me trath, i belave the very bist thing for him now ud be a thrifle av potheen--if wan cud only lay hands upon that same. but thare's not the smell av it in the cyabin. both the dimmy-jan an flask. arrah, now; _you_ wouldn't be afther havin' a little flask upon yer sweet silf? some av that agwardinty, as yer people call it. trath, i've tasted worse stuff than it. i'm shure a dhrink av it ud do the masther good. spake the truth, misthress! hiv yez any about ye?" "no, senor. i have nothing of the kind. i am sorry i have not." "faugh! the more's the pity for poor masther maurice. it ud a done him a dale av good. well; he must put up widout it." "but, senor; surely i can see him?" "divil a bit. besides fwhat ud be the use? he wudn't know ye from his great grandmother. i till yez agane, he's been badly thrated, an 's now besoide hisself!" "all the more reason why i should see him. i may be of service. i owe him a debt--of--of--" "oh! yez be owin' him somethin? yez want to pay it? faith, that makes it intirely different. but yez needn't see _him_ for that. i'm his head man, an thransact all that sort av bizness for him. i cyant write myself, but i'll give ye a resate on the crass wid me mark--which is jist as good, among the lawyers. yis, misthress; yez may pay the money over to me, an i promise ye the masther 'll niver axe ye for it agane. trath! it'll come handy jist now, as we're upon the ave av a flittin, an may want it. so if yez have the pewther along wid ye, thare's pins, ink, an paper insoide the cyabin. say the word, an i'll giv ye the resate!" "no--no--no! i did not mean money. a debt of--of--gratitude." "faugh! only that. sowl, it's eezy paid, an don't want a resate. but yez needn't return that sort av money now: for the masther woudn't be sinsible av fwhat ye wur sayin. whin he comes to his sinses, i'll till him yez hiv been heeur, and wiped out the score." "surely i can see him?" "shurely now yez cyant." "but i must, senor!" "divil a must about it. i've been lift on guard, wid sthrict ordhers to lit no wan go inside." "they couldn't have been meant for me. i am his friend--the friend of don mauricio." "how is phaylum onale to know that? for all yer purty face, yez moight be his didliest innemy. be japers! its loike enough, now that i take a second luk at ye." "i must see him--i must--i will--i shall!" as isidora pronounced these words, she flung herself out of the saddle, and advanced in the direction of the door. her air of earnest determination combined with the fierce--scarce feminine--expression upon her countenance, convinced the galwegian, that the contingency had arrived for carrying out the instructions left by zeb stump, and that he had been too long neglecting his cue. turning hurriedly into the hut, he came out again, armed with a tomahawk; and was about to rush past, when he was brought to a sudden stand, by seeing a pistol in the hands of his lady visitor, pointed straight at his head! "_abajo la hacha_!" (down with the hatchet), cried she. "_lepero_! lift your arm to strike me, and it will be for the last time!" "stroike ye, misthress! stroike _you_!" blubbered the _ci-devant_ stable-boy, as soon as his terror permitted him to speak. "mother av the lard! i didn't mane the waypon for you at all, at all! i'll sware it on the crass--or a whole stack av bibles if yez say so. in trath misthress; i didn't mane the tammyhauk for you!" "why have you brought it forth?" inquired the lady, half suspecting that she had made a mistake, and lowering her pistol as she became convinced of it. "why have you thus armed yourself?" "as i live, only to ixecute the ordhers, i've resaved--only to cut a branch off av the cyacktus yez see over yander, an phut it undher the tail av the owld mare. shure yez won't object to my doin' that?" in her turn, the lady became silent--surprised at the singular proposition. the odd individual she saw before her, could not mean mischief. his looks, attitude, and gestures were grotesque, rather than threatening; provocative of mirth--not fear, or indignation. "silince gives consint. thank ye," said phelim, as, no longer in fear of being shot down in his tracks, he ran straight across the lawn, and carried out to the letter, the parting injunctions of zeb stump. the mexican maiden hitherto held silent by surprise, remained so, on perceiving the absolute idleness of speech. further conversation was out of the question. what with the screaming of the mare--continuous from the moment the spinous crupper was inserted under her tail--the loud trampling of her hoofs as she "cavorted" over the turf--the dismal howling of the hound--and the responsive cries of the wild forest denizens--birds, beasts, insects, and reptiles--only the voice of a stentor could have been heard! what could be the purpose of the strange proceeding? how was it to terminate? isidora looked on in silent astonishment. she could do nothing else. so long as the infernal fracas continued, there was no chance to elicit an explanation from the queer creature who had caused it. he had returned to the door of the jacale; and once more taken his stand upon the threshold; where he stood, with the tranquil satisfied air of an actor who has completed the performance of his part in the play, and feels free to range himself among the spectator. chapter fifty eight. recoiling from a kiss. for full ten minutes was the wild chorus kept up, the mare all the time squealing like a stuck pig; while the dog responded in a series of lugubrious howls, that reverberated along the cliffs on both sides of the creek. to the distance of a mile might the sounds have been heard; and as zeb stump was not likely to be so far from the hut, he would be certain to hear them. convinced of this, and that the hunter would soon respond to the signal he had himself arranged, phelim stood square upon the threshold, in hopes that the lady visitor would stay outside--at least, until he should be relieved of the responsibility of admitting her. notwithstanding her earnest protestations of amity, he was still suspicious of some treasonable intention towards his master; else why should zeb have been so particular about being summoned back? of himself, he had abandoned the idea of offering resistance. that shining pistol, still before his eyes, had cured him of all inclination for a quarrel with the strange equestrian; and so far as the connemara man was concerned, she might have gone unresisted inside. but there was another from connemara, who appeared more determined to dispute her passage to the hut--one whom a whole battery of great guns would not have deterred from protecting its owner. this was tara. the staghound was not acting as if under the excitement of a mere senseless alarm. mingling with his prolonged sonorous "gowl" could be heard in repeated interruptions a quick sharp bark, that denoted anger. he had witnessed the attitude of the intruder--its apparent hostility-- and drawing his deductions, had taken stand directly in front of phelim and the door, with the evident determination that neither should be reached except over his own body, and after running the gauntlet of his formidable incisors. isidora showed no intention of undertaking the risk. she had none. astonishment was, for the time, the sole feeling that possessed her. she remained transfixed to the spot, without attempting to say a word. she stood expectingly. to such an eccentric prelude there should be a corresponding _finale_. perplexed, but patiently, she awaited it. of her late alarm there was nothing left. what she saw was too ludicrous to allow of apprehension; though it was also too incomprehensible to elicit laughter. in the mien of the man, who had so oddly comported himself, there was no sign of mirth. if anything, a show of seriousness, oddly contrasting with the comical act he had committed; and which plainly proclaimed that he had not been treating her to a joke. the expression of helpless perplexity that had become fixed upon her features, continued there; until a tall man, wearing a faded blanket coat, and carrying a six-foot rifle, was seen striding among the tree-trunks, at the rate of ten miles to the hour. he was making direct for the _jacale_. at sight of the new-comer her countenance underwent a change. there was now perceptible upon it a shade of apprehension; and the little pistol was clutched with renewed nerve by the delicate hand that still continued to hold it. the act was partly precautionary, partly mechanical. nor was it unnatural, in view of the formidable-looking personage who was approaching, and the earnest excited manner with which he was hurrying forward to the hut. all this became altered, as he advanced into the open ground, and suddenly stopped on its edge; a look of surprise quite as great as that upon the countenance of the lady, supplanting his earnest glances. some exclamatory phrases were sent through his teeth, unintelligible in the tumult still continuing, though the gesture that accompanied them seemed to proclaim them of a character anything but gentle. on giving utterance to them, he turned to one side; strode rapidly towards the screaming mare; and, laying hold of her tail--which no living man save himself would have dared to do--he released her from the torments she had been so long enduring. silence was instantly restored; since the mare, abandoned by her fellow choristers, as they became accustomed to her wild neighs, had been, for some time, keeping up the solo by herself. the lady was not yet enlightened. her astonishment continued; though a side glance given to the droll individual in the doorway told her, that he had successfully accomplished some scheme with which he had been entrusted. phelim's look of satisfaction was of short continuance. it vanished, as zeb stump, having effected the deliverance of the tortured quadruped, faced round to the hut--as he did so, showing a cloud upon the corrugations of his countenance, darkly ominous of an angry storm. even the presence of beauty did not hinder it from bursting. "durn, an dog-gone ye, for a irish eedyit! air this what ye've brought me back for! an' jest as i wur takin' sight on a turkey, not less 'n thirty poun' weight, i reck'n; skeeart afore he ked touch trigger, wi' the skreek o' thet cussed critter o' a maar. damned little chance for breakfust now." "but, misther stump, didn't yez till me to do it? ye sid if any wan showld come to the cyabin--" "bah! ye fool! ye don't serpose i meened weemen, did ye?" "trath! i didn't think it wus wan, whin she furst presented hersilf. yez showld a seen the way she rid up--sittin' astraddle on her horse." "what matter it, how she wur sittin'! hain't ye seed thet afore, ye greenhorn? it's thur usooal way 'mong these hyur mexikin sheemales. ye're more o' a woman than she air, i guess; an twenty times more o' a fool. thet i'm sartint o'. i know _her_ a leetle by sight, an somethin' more by reeport. what hev fetched the critter hyur ain't so difeequilt to comprehend; tho' it may be to git it out o' her, seein' as she kin only talk thet thur mexikin lingo; the which this chile can't, nor wudn't ef he kud." "sowl, misther stump! yez be mistaken. she spakes english too. don't yez, misthress?" "little inglees," returned the mexican, who up to this time had remained listening. "inglees _poco pocito_." "o--ah!" exclaimed zeb, slightly abashed at what he had been saying. "i beg your pardin, saynoritta. ye kin _habla_ a bit o' amerikin, kin ye? _moocho bono_--so much the betterer. ye'll be able to tell me what ye mout be a wantin' out hyur. ye hain't lost yur way, hev ye?" "no, senor," was the reply, after a pause. "in that case, ye know whar ye air?" "_si, senor--si_--yes, of don mauricio zyerral, this the--house?" "thet air the name, near as a mexikin mouth kin make it, i reck'n. 'tain't much o' a house; but it air his'n. preehaps ye want to see the master o't?" "o, senor--yees--that is for why i here am--_por esta yo soy aqui_." "wal; i reck'n, thur kin be no objecshun to yur seein' him. yur intenshuns ain't noways hostile to the young fellur, i kalklate. but thur ain't much good in yur talkin' to him now. he won't know yo from a side o' sole-leather." "he is ill? has met with some misfortune? _el guero_ has said so." "yis. i towlt her that," interposed phelim, whose carroty hair had earned for him the appellation "el guero." "sartin," answered zeb. "he air wounded a bit; an jest now a leetle dulleerious. i reck'n it ain't o' much consekwence. he'll be hisself agin soon's the ravin' fit's gone off o' him." "o, sir! can i be his nurse till then? _por amor dios_! let me enter, and watch over him? i am his friend--_un amigo muy afficionado_." "wal; i don't see as thur's any harm in it. weemen makes the best o' nusses i've heern say; tho', for meself, i hain't hed much chance o' tryin' 'em, sincst i kivered up my ole gurl unner the sods o' massissipi. ef ye want to take a spell by the side o' the young fellur, ye're wilkim--seein' ye're his friend. ye kin look arter him, till we git back, an see thet he don't tummel out o' the bed, or claw off them thur bandidges, i've tied roun him." "trust me, good sir, i shall take every care of him. but tell me what has caused it? the indians? no, they are not near? has there been a quarrel with any one?" "in thet, saynoritta; ye're beout as wise as i air meself. thur's been a quarrel wi' coyeats; but that ain't what's gin him the ugly knee. i foun' him yesterday, clost upon sun-down, in the chapparal beyont. when we kim upon him, he war up to his waist in the water o' a crik as runs through thur, jest beout to be attakted by one o' them spotty critters yur people call tigers. wal, i relieved him o' that bit o' danger; but what happened afore air a mystery to me. the young fellur had tuk leeve o' his senses, an ked gie no account o' hisself. he hain't rekivered them yet; an', thurfore, we must wait till he do." "but you are sure, sir, he is not badly injured? his wounds--they are not dangerous?" "no danger whatsomediver. nuthin' beyont a bit o' a fever, or maybe a touch o' the agey, when that goes off o' him. as for the wounds, they're only a wheen o' scratches. when the wanderin' hev gone out o' his senses, he'll soon kum roun, i reck'n. in a week's time, ye'll see him as strong as a buck." "oh! i shall nurse him tenderly!" "wal, that's very kind o' you; but--but--" zeb hesitated, as a queer thought came before his mind. it led to a train of reflections kept to himself. they were these: "this air the same she, as sent them kickshaws to the tavern o' rough an ready. thet she air in love wi' the young fellur is clur as massissipi mud--in love wi' him to the eends o' her toe nails. so's the tother. but it air equally clur that he's thinkin' o' the tother, an not o' her. now ef she hears him talk about tother, as he hev been a doin' all o' the night, thur'll be a putty consid'able rumpus riz inside o' her busom. poor thing! i pity her. she ain't a bad sort. but the irish-- irish tho' he be--can't belong to both; an i _know_ he freezes to the critter from the states. it air durned awkurd--better ef i ked pursuade her not to go near him--leastwise till he gets over ravin' about lewaze. "but, miss," he continued, addressing himself to the mexican, who during his long string of reflections had stood impatiently silent, "don't ye think ye'd better ride home agin; an kum back to see him arter he gits well. he won't know ye, as i've sayed; an it would be no use yur stayin', since he ain't in any danger o' makin' a die of it." "no matter, that he may not know me. i should tend him all the same. he may need some things--which i can send, and procure for him." "ef ye're boun' to stay then," rejoined zeb, relentingly, as if some new thought was causing him to consent, "i won't interfere to say, no. but don't you mind what he'll be palaverin' about. ye may hear some queer talk out o' him, beout a man bein' murdered, an the like. that's natral for any one as is dulleerious. don't be skeeart at it. beside, ye may hear him talkin' a deal about a woman, as he's got upon his mind." "a woman!" "jest so. ye'll hear him make mention o' her name." "her name! senor, what name?" "wal, it air the name o' his sister, i reck'n. fact, i'm sure o' it bein' his sister." "oh! misther stump. if yez be spakin' av masther maurice--" "shut up, ye durned fool! what is't to you what i'm speakin' beout? you can't unnerstan sech things. kum along!" he continued, moving off, and motioning the connemara man to follow him. "i want ye a leetle way wi' me. i killed a rattle as i wur goin' up the crik, an left it thur. kum you, an toat it back to the shanty hyur, lest some varmint may make away wi' it; an lest, arter all, i moutn't strike turkey agin." "a rattle. div yez mane a rattle-snake?" "an' what shed i mean?" "shure, misther stump, yez wudn't ate a snake. lard! wudn't it poison yez?" "pisen be durned! didn't i cut the pisen out, soon 's i killed the critter, by cuttin' off o' its head?" "trath! an for all that, i wudn't ate a morsel av it, if i was starvin'." "sturve, an be durned to ye! who axes ye to eet it. i only want ye to toat it home. kum then, an do as i tell ye; or dog-goned, ef i don't make ye eet the head o' the reptile,--pisen, fangs an all!" "be japers, misther stump, i didn't mane to disobey you at all--at all. shure it's phaylim o'nale that's reddy to do your biddin' anyhow. i'm wid ye for fwhativer yez want; aven to swallowin the snake whole. saint pathrick forgive me!" "saint patrick be durned! kum along!" phelim made no farther remonstrance; but, striking into the tracks of the backwoodsman, followed him through the wood. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ isidora entered the hut; advanced towards the invalid reclining upon his couch; with fierce fondness kissed his fevered brow, fonder and fiercer kissed his unconscious lips; and then recoiled from them, as if she had been stung by a scorpion! worse than scorpion's sting was that which had caused her to spring back. and yet 'twas but a word--a little word--of only two syllables! there was nothing strange in this. oft, on one word--that soft short syllabic "yes"--rests the happiness of a life; while oft, too oft, the harsher negative is the prelude to a world of war! chapter fifty nine. another who cannot rest. a dark day for louise poindexter--perhaps the darkest in the calendar of her life--was that in which she released don miguel diaz from the lazo. sorrow for a brother's loss, with fears for a lover's safety, were yesterday commingled in the cup. to-day it was further embittered by the blackest passion of all--jealousy. grief--fear--jealousy--what must be the state of the soul in which these emotions are co-existent? a tumult of terrible imaginings. so was it in the bosom of louise poindexter after deciphering the epistle which contained written evidence of her lover's disloyalty. true, the writing came not from him; nor was the proof conclusive. but in the first burst of her frenzied rage, the young creole did not reason thus. in the wording of the letter there was strong presumption, that the relationship between maurice gerald and the mexican was of a more affectionate character than he had represented it to be--that he had, in fact, been practising a deception. why should _that_ woman write to him in such free strain--giving bold, almost unfeminine, licence to her admiration of his eyes: "_essos ojos tan lindos y tan espresivos_?" these were no phrases of friendship; but the expressions of a prurient passion. as such only could the creole understand them: since they were but a paraphrase of her own feelings. and then there was the appointment itself--solicited, it is true, in the shape of a request. but this was mere courtesy--the coquetry of an accomplished _maitresse_. moreover, the tone of solicitation was abandoned towards the close of the epistle; which terminated in a positive command: "come, sir! come!" something more than jealousy was aroused by the reading of this. a spirit of revenge seemed to dictate the gesture that followed,--and the stray sheet was crushed between the aristocratic fingers into which it had fallen. "ah, me!" reflected she, in the acerbity of her soul, "i see it all now. 'tis not the first time he has answered a similar summons; not the first they have met on that same ground, `the hill above my uncle's house'--slightly described, but well understood--oft visited before." soon the spirit of vengeance gave place to a profound despair. her heart had its emblem in the piece of paper that lay at her feet upon the floor--like it, crushed and ruined. for a time she surrendered herself to sad meditation. wild emotions passed through her mind, suggesting wild resolves. among others she thought of her beloved louisiana--of going back there to bury her secret sorrow in the cloisters of the _sacre coeur_. had the creole convent been near, in that hour of deep despondency, she would, in all probability, have forsaken the paternal home, and sought an asylum within its sacred walls. in very truth was it the darkest day of her existence. after long hours of wretchedness her spirit became calmer, while her thoughts returned to a more rational tone. the letter was re-read; its contents submitted to careful consideration. there was still a hope--the hope that, after all, maurice gerald might _not_ be in the settlement. it was at best but a faint ray. surely _she_ should know--she who had penned the appointment, and spoken so confidently of his keeping it? still, as promised, he might have gone away; and upon this supposition hinged that hope, now scintillating like a star through the obscurity of the hour. it was a delicate matter to make direct inquiries about--to one in the position of louise poindexter. but no other course appeared open to her; and as the shadows of twilight shrouded the grass-covered square of the village, she was seen upon her spotted palfrey, riding silently through the streets, and reining up in front of the hotel--on the same spot occupied but a few hours before by the grey steed of isidora! as the men of the place were all absent--some on the track of the assassin, others upon the trail of the comanche, oberdoffer was the only witness of her indiscretion. but he knew it not as such. it was but natural that the sister of the murdered man should be anxious to obtain news; and so did he construe the motive for the interrogatories addressed to him. little did the stolid german suspect the satisfaction which his answers at first gave to his fair questioner; much less the chagrin afterwards caused by that bit of information volunteered by himself, and which abruptly terminated the dialogue between him and his visitor. on hearing she was not the first of her sex who had that day made inquiries respecting maurice the mustanger, louise poindexter rode back to casa del corvo, with a heart writhing under fresh laceration. a night was spent in the agony of unrest--sleep only obtained in short snatches, and amidst the phantasmagoria of dreamland. though the morning restored not her tranquillity, it brought with it a resolve, stern, daring, almost reckless. it was, at least, daring, for louise poindexter to ride to the alamo alone; and this was her determination. there was no one to stay her--none to say nay. the searchers out all night had not yet returned. no report had come back to casa del corvo. she was sole mistress of the mansion, as of her actions--sole possessor of the motive that was impelling her to this bold step. but it may be easily guessed. hers was not a spirit to put up with mere suspicion. even love, that tames the strongest, had not yet reduced it to that state of helpless submission. unsatisfied it could no longer exist; and hence her resolve to seek satisfaction. she might find peace--she might chance upon ruin. even the last appeared preferable to the agony of uncertainty. how like to the reasoning of her rival! it would have been idle to dissuade her, had there been any one to do it. it is doubtful even if parental authority could at that moment have prevented her from carrying out her purpose. talk to the tigress when frenzied by a similar feeling. with a love unhallowed, the will of the egyptian queen was not more imperious than is that of the american creole, when stirred by its holiest passion. it acknowledges no right of contradiction--regards no obstruction save death. it is a spirit rare upon earth. in its tranquil state, soft as the rays of the aurora--pure as the prayer of a child; but when stirred by love,--or rather by its too constant concomitant--it becomes proud and perilous as the light of lucifer! of this spirit louise poindexter was the truest type. where love was the lure, to wish was to have, or perish in the attempt to obtain. jealousy resting upon doubt was neither possible to her nature, or compatible with her existence. she must find proofs to destroy, or confirm it--proofs stronger than those already supplied by the contents of the strayed epistle, which, after all, were only presumptive. armed with this, she was in a position to seek them; and they were to be sought upon the alamo. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the first hour of sunrise saw her in the saddle, riding out from the enclosures of casa del corvo, and taking a trail across the prairie already known to her. on passing many a spot, endeared to her--sacred by some of the sweetest souvenirs of her life--her thoughts experienced more than one revulsion. these were moments when she forgot the motive that originally impelled her to the journey--when she thought only of reaching the man she loved, to rescue him from enemies that might be around him! ah! these moments--despite the apprehension for her lover's safety--were happy, when compared with those devoted to the far more painful contemplation of his treachery. from the point of starting to that of her destination, it was twenty miles. it might seem a journey, to one used to european travelling-- that is in the saddle. to the prairie equestrian it is a ride of scarce two hours--quick as a scurry across country, after a stag or fox. even with an unwilling steed it is not tedious; but with that lithe-limbed, ocellated creature, luna, who went willingly towards her prairie home, it was soon over--too soon, perhaps, for the happiness of her rider. wretched as louise poindexter may have felt before, her misery had scarce reached the point of despair. through her sadness there still shone a scintillation of hope. it was extinguished as she set foot upon the threshold of the _jacale_; and the quick suppressed scream that came from her lips, was like the last utterance of a heart parting in twain. _there was a woman within the hut_! from the lips of this woman an exclamation had already escaped, to which her own might have appeared an echo--so closely did the one follow the other--so alike were they in anguish. like a second echo, still more intensified, was the cry from isidora; as turning, she saw in the doorway that woman, whose name had just been pronounced--the "louise" so fervently praised, so fondly remembered, amidst the vagaries of a distempered brain. to the young creole the case was clear--painfully clear. she saw before her the writer of that letter of appointment--which, after all, _had been kept_. in the strife, whose sounds had indistinctly reached her, there may have been a third party--maurice gerald? that would account for the condition in which she now saw him; for she was far enough inside the hut to have a view of the invalid upon his couch. yes; it was the writer of that bold epistle, who had called maurice gerald "querido;"--who had praised his eyes--who had commanded him to come to her side; and who was now by his side, tending him with a solicitude that proclaimed her his! ah! the thought was too painful to be symbolised in speech. equally clear were the conclusions of isidora--equally agonising. she already knew that she was supplanted. she had been listening too long to the involuntary speeches that told her so, to have any doubt as to their sincerity. on the door-step stood the woman who had succeeded her! face to face, with flashing eyes, their bosoms rising and falling as if under one impulse--both distraught with the same dire thought--the two stood eyeing each other. alike in love with the same man--alike jealous--they were alongside the object of their burning passion unconscious of the presence of either! each believed the other successful: for louise had not heard the words, that would have given her comfort--those words yet ringing in the ears, and torturing the soul, of isidora! it was an attitude of silent hostility--all the more terrible for its silence. not a word was exchanged between them. neither deigned to ask explanation of the other; neither needed it. there are occasions when speech is superfluous, and both intuitively felt that this was one. it was a mutual encounter of fell passions; that found expression only in the flashing of eyes, and the scornful curling of lips. only for an instant was the attitude kept up. in fact, the whole scene, inside, scarce occupied a score of seconds. it ended by louise poindexter turning round upon the doorstep, and gliding off to regain her saddle. the hut of maurice gerald was no place for her! isidora too came out, almost treading upon the skirt of the other's dress. the same thought was in her heart--perhaps more emphatically felt. the hut of maurice gerald was no place for her! both seemed equally intent on departure--alike resolved on forsaking the spot, that had witnessed the desolation of their hearts. the grey horse stood nearest--the mustang farther out. isidora was the first to mount--the first to move off; but as she passed, her rival had also got into the saddle, and was holding the ready rein. glances were again interchanged--neither triumphant, but neither expressing forgiveness. that of the creole was a strange mixture of sadness, anger, and surprise; while the last look of isidora, that accompanied a spiteful "_carajo_!"--a fearful phrase from female lips-- was such as the ephesian goddess may have given to athenaia, after the award of the apple. chapter sixty. a fair informer. if things physical may be compared with things moral, no greater contrast could have been found, than the bright heavens beaming over the alamo, and the black thoughts in the bosom of isidora, as she hastened away from the _jacale_. her heart was a focus of fiery passions, revenge predominating over all. in this there was a sort of demoniac pleasure, that hindered her from giving way to despair; otherwise she might have sunk under the weight of her woe. with gloomy thoughts she rides under the shadow of the trees. they are not less gloomy, as she gazes up the gorge, and sees the blue sky smiling cheerfully above her. its cheerfulness seems meant but to mock her! she pauses before making the ascent. she has reined up under the umbrageous cypress--fit canopy for a sorrowing heart. its sombre shade appears more desirable than the sunlight above. it is not this that has caused her to pull up. there is a thought in her soul darker than the shadow of the cypress. it is evinced by her clouded brow; by her black eyebrows contracted over her black flashing eyes; above all, by an expression of fierceness in the contrast of her white teeth gleaming under the moustached lip. all that is good of woman, except beauty, seems to have forsaken--all that is bad, except ugliness, to have taken possession of her! she has paused at the prompting of a demon--with an infernal purpose half formed in her mind. her muttered speeches proclaim it. "i should have killed her upon the spot! shall i go back, and dare her to deadly strife?" "if i killed her, what would it avail? it could not win me back _his_ heart--lost, lost, without hope! yes; those words were from the secret depths of his soul; where her image alone has found an abiding place! oh! there is no hope for me! "'tis he who should die; he who has caused my ruin. if i kill him? ah, then; what would life be to me? prom that hour an endless anguish! "oh! it is anguish now! i cannot endure it. i can think of no solace-- if not in revenge. not only she, he also--both must die! "but not yet--not till he know, by whose hand it is done. oh! he shall feel his punishment, and know whence it comes. mother of god, strengthen me to take vengeance!" she lances the flank of her horse, and spurs him, up the slope of the ravine. on reaching the upper plain, she does not stop--even for the animal to breathe itself--but goes on at a reckless gait, and in a direction that appears undetermined. neither hand nor voice are exerted in the guidance of her steed--only the spur to urge him on. left to himself, he returns in the track by which he came. it leads to the leona. is it the way he is wanted to go? his rider seems neither to know nor care. she sits in the saddle, as though she were part of it; with head bent down, in the attitude of one absorbed in a profound reverie, unconscious of outward things--even of the rude pace at which she is riding! she does not observe that black cohort close by; until warned of its proximity by the snorting of her steed, that suddenly comes to a stand. she sees a _caballada_ out upon the open prairie! indians? no. white men--less by their colour, than the caparison of their horses, and their style of equitation. their beards, too, show it; but not their skins, discoloured by the "stoor" of the parched plain. "_los tejanos_!" is the muttered exclamation, as she becomes confirmed in regard to their nationality. "a troop of their _rangers_ scouring the country for comanches, i suppose? the indians are not here? if i've heard aright at the settlement, they should be far on the other side." without any strong reason for shunning them, the mexican maiden has no desire to encounter "los tejanos." they are nothing to her, or her purposes; and, at any other time, she would not go out of their way. but in this hour of her wretchedness, she does not wish to run the gauntlet of their questionings, nor become the butt of their curiosity. it is possible to avoid them. she is yet among the bushes. they do not appear to have observed her. by turning short round, and diving back into the chapparal, she may yet shun being seen. she is about to do so, when the design is frustrated by the neighing of her horse. a score of theirs respond to him; and he is seen, along with his rider. it might be still possible for her to escape the encounter, if so inclined. she would be certain of being pursued, but not so sure of being overtaken--especially among the winding ways of the chapparal, well known to her. at first she _is_ so inclined; and completes the turning of her steed. almost in the same instant, she reins round again; and faces the phalanx of horsemen, already in full gallop towards her. her muttered words proclaim a purpose in this sudden change of tactics. "rangers--no! too well dressed for those ragged _vagabundos_? must be the party of `searchers,' of which i've heard--led by the father of-- yes--yes it is they. _ay dios_! here is a chance of revenge, and without my seeking it; god wills it to be so!" instead of turning back among the bushes, she rides out into the open ground; and with an air of bold determination advances towards the horsemen, now near. she pulls up, and awaits their approach; a black thought in her bosom. in another minute she is in their midst--the mounted circle close drawn around her. there are a hundred horsemen, oddly armed, grotesquely attired--uniform only in the coating of clay-coloured dust which adheres to their habiliments, and the stern seriousness observable in the bearing of all; scarce relieved by a slight show of curiosity. though it is an _entourage_ to cause trembling--especially in a woman-- isidora does not betray it. she is not in the least alarmed. she anticipates no danger from those who have so unceremoniously surrounded her. some of them she knows by sight; though not the man of more than middle age, who appears to be their leader, and who confronts, to question her. but she knows him otherwise. instinct tells her he is the father of the murdered man--of the woman, she may wish to gee slain, but assuredly, shamed. oh! what an opportunity! "can you speak french, mademoiselle?" asks woodley poindexter, addressing her in this tongue--in the belief that it may give him a better chance of being understood. "speak better inglees--very little, sir." "oh! english. so much the better for us. tell me, miss; have you seen anybody out here--that is--have you met any one, riding about, or camped, or halted anywhere?" isidora appears to reflect, or hesitate, before making reply. the planter pursues the interrogative, with such politeness as the circumstances admit. "may i ask where you live?" "on the rio grande, senor?" "have you come direct from there?" "no; from the leona." "from the leona!" "it's the niece of old martinez," interposes one of the party. "his plantation joins yours, mister poindexter." "si--yes--true that. _sobrina_--niece of don silvio martinez. _yo soy_." "then you've come from his place, direct? pardon me for appearing rude. i assure you, miss, we are not questioning you out of any idle curiosity, or impertinence. we have serious reasons--more than serious: they are solemn." "from the hacienda martinez direct," answers isidora, without appearing to notice the last remark. "two hours ago--_un pocito mas_--my uncle's house i leave." "then, no doubt, you have heard that there has been a--murder-- committed?" "si, senor. yesterday at uncle silvio's it was told." "but to-day--when you left--was there any fresh news in the settlement? we've had word from there; but not so late as you may bring. have you heard anything, miss?" "that people were gone after the _asesinado_. your party, senor?" "yes--yes--it meant us, no doubt. you heard nothing more?" "oh, yes; something very strange, senores; so strange, you may think i am jesting." "what is it?" inquire a score of voices in quick simultaneity; while the eyes of all turn with eager interest towards the fair equestrian. "there is a story of one being seen without a head--on horseback--out here too. _valga me dios_! we must now be near the place? it was by the nueces--not far from the ford--where the road crosses for the rio grande. so the vaqueros said." "oh; some vaqueros have seen it?" "si, senores; three of them will swear to having witnessed the spectacle." isidora is a little surprised at the moderate excitement which such a strange story causes among the "tejanos." there is an exhibition of interest, but no astonishment. a voice explains: "we've seen it too--that headless horseman--at a distance. did your vaqueros get close enough to know what it was?" "_santissima_! no." "can _you_ tell us, miss?" "i? not i. i only heard of it, as i've said. what it may be, _quien sabe_?" there is an interval of silence, during which all appear to reflect on what they have heard. the planter interrupts it, by a recurrence to his original interrogatory. "have you met, or seen, any one, miss--out here, i mean?" "si--yes--i have." "you have! what sort of person? be good enough to describe--" "a lady." "lady!" echo several voices. "si, senores." "what sort of a lady?" "una americana." "an american lady!--out here? alone?" "si, senores." "who?" "_quien sabe_?" "you don't know her? what was she like?" "like?--like?" "yes; how was she dressed?" "_vestido de caballo_." "on horseback, then?" "on horseback." "where did you meet the lady you speak of?" "not far from this; only on the other side of the chapparal." "which way was she going? is there any house on the other side?" "a _jacale_. i only know of that." poindexter to one of the party, who understands spanish: "_a jacale_?" "they give that name to their shanties." "to whom does it belong--this _jacale_?" "_don mauricio, el mustenero_." "maurice the mustanger!" translates the ready interpreter. a murmur of mutual congratulation runs through the crowd. after two days of searching--fruitless, as earnest--they have struck a trail,--the trail of the murderer! those who have alighted spring back into their saddles. all take up their reins, ready to ride on. "we don't wish to be rude, miss martinez--if that be your name; but you must guide us to this place you speak of." "it takes me a little out of my way--though not far. come on, cavalleros! i shall show you, if you are determined on going there." isidora re-crosses the belt of chapparal--followed by the hundred horsemen, who ride stragglingly after her. she halts on its western edge; between which and the alamo there is a stretch of open prairie. "yonder!" says she, pointing over the plain; "you see that black spot on the horizon? it is the top of an _alhuehuete_. its roots are in the bottom lands of the alamo. go there! there is a canon leading down the cliff. descend. you will find, a little beyond, the _jacale_ of which i've told you." the searchers are too much in earnest to stay for further directions. almost forgetting her who has given them, they spur off across the plain, riding straight for the cypress. one of the party alone lingers--not the leader, but a man equally interested in all that has transpired. perhaps more so, in what has been said in relation to the lady seen by isidora. he is one who knows isidora's language, as well as his own native tongue. "tell me, _nina_," says he, bringing his horse alongside hers, and speaking in a tone of solicitude--almost of entreaty--"did you take notice of the horse ridden by this lady?" "_carrambo_! yes. what a question, cavallero! who could help noticing it?" "the colour?" gasps the inquirer. "_un musteno pintojo_." "a spotted mustang! holy heaven!" exclaims cassius calhoun, in a half shriek, half groan, as he gallops after the searchers--leaving isidora in the belief, that, besides her own, there is one other heart burning with that fierce fire which only death can extinguish! chapter sixty one. angels on earth. the retreat of her rival--quick and unexpected--held louise poindexter, as if spell-bound. she had climbed into the saddle, and was seated, with spur ready to pierce the flanks of the fair luna. but the stroke was suspended, and she remained in a state of indecision--bewildered by what she saw. but the moment before she had looked into the _jacale_--had seen her rival there, apparently at home; mistress both of the mansion and its owner. what was she to think of that sudden desertion? why that took of spiteful hatred? why not the imperious confidence, that should spring from a knowledge of possession? in place of giving displeasure, isidora's looks and actions had caused her a secret gratification. instead of galloping after, or going in any direction, louise poindexter once more slipped down from her saddle, and re-entered the hut. at sight of the pallid cheeks and wild rolling eyes, the young creole for the moment forgot her wrongs. "_mon dieu! mon dieu_!" she cried, gliding up to the _catre_. "maurice--wounded--dying! who has done this?" there was no reply: only the mutterings of a madman. "maurice! maurice! speak to me! do you not know me? louise! your louise! you have called me so? say it--o say it again!" "ah! you are very beautiful, you angels here in heaven! very beautiful. yes, yes; you look so--to the eyes--to the eyes. but don't say there are none like you upon the earth; for there are--there are. i know one--ah! more--but one that excels you all, you angels in heaven! i mean in beauty--in goodness, that's another thing. i'm not thinking of goodness--no; no." "maurice, dear maurice! why do you talk thus? you are not in heaven; you are here with me--with louise." "i _am_ in heaven; yes, in heaven! i don't wish it, for all they say; that is, unless i can have _her_ with me. it may be a pleasant place. not without her. if she were here, i could be content. hear it, ye angels, that come hovering around me! very beautiful, you are, i admit; but none of you like her--her--my angel. oh! there's a devil, too; a beautiful devil--i don't mean that. i'm thinking only of the angel of the prairies." "do you remember her name?" perhaps never was question put to a delirious man, where the questioner showed so much interest in the answer. she bent over him with ears upon the strain--with eyes that marked every movement of his lips. "name? name? did some one say, name? have you any names here? oh! i remember--michael, gabriel, azrael--men, all men. angels, not like my angel--who is a woman. her name is--" "is?" "louise--louise--louise. why should i conceal it from you--you up here, who know everything that's down there? surely you know her--louise? you should: you could not help loving her--ah! with all your hearts, as i with all mine--all--all!" not when these last words were once before spoken--first spoken under the shade of the acacia trees--the speaker in full consciousness of intellect--in the full fervour of his soul--not then were they listened to with such delight. o, happy hour for her who heard them! again were soft kisses lavished upon that fevered brow--upon those wan lips; but this time by one who had no need to recoil after the contact. she only stood up erect--triumphant;--her hand pressing upon her heart, to stay its wild pulsations. it was pleasure too complete, too ecstatic: for there was pain in the thought that it cannot be felt for ever--in the fear of its being too soon interrupted. the last was but the shadow thrown before, and in such shape it appeared--a shadow that camp darkling through the doorway. the substance that followed was a man; who, the moment after, was seen standing upon the stoup. there was nothing terrible in the aspect of the new-comer. on the contrary, his countenance and costume were types of the comical, heightened by contrast with the wild associations of the time and place. still further, from juxtaposition with the odd objects carried in his hands; in one a tomahawk; in the other a huge snake; with its tail terminating in a string of bead-like rattles, that betrayed its species. if anything could have added to his air of grotesque drollery, it was the expression of puzzled surprise that came over his countenance; as, stepping upon the threshold, he discovered the change that had taken place in the occupancy of the hut. "mother av moses!" he exclaimed, dropping both snake and tomahawk, and opening his eyes as wide as the lids would allow them; "shure i must be dhramin? trath must i! it cyant be yersilf, miss pointdixther? shure now it cyant?" "but it is, mr o'neal. how very ungallant in you to have forgotten me, and so soon!" "forgotten yez! trath, miss, yez needn't accuse me of doin' chat which is intirely impossible. the oirishman that hiz wance looked in yer swate face will be undher the necissity iver afther to remimber it. sowl! thare's wan that cyant forgit it, even in his dhrames!" the speaker glanced significantly towards the couch. a delicious thrill passed through the bosom of the listener. "but fwhat diz it all mane?" continued phelim, returning to the unexplained puzzle of the transformation. "fwhare's the tother--the young chap, or lady, or wuman--whichsomiver she art? didn't yez see nothin' av a wuman, miss pointdixther?" "yes--yes." "oh! yez did. an fwhere is she now?" "gone away, i believe." "gone away! be japers, thin, she hasn't remained long in the wan mind. i lift her heeur in the cyabin not tin minnits ago, takin' aff her bonnit--that was only a man's hat--an sittlin' hersilf down for a stay. gone, yez say? sowl! i'm not sorry to hear it. that's a young lady whose room's betther than her company, any day in the twilmonth. she's a dale too handy wid her shootin'-iron. wud yez belave it, miss pointdixther; she prisinted a pistol widin six inches av me nose?" "_pardieu_! for what reason?" "fwhat rayzun? only that i thried to hindher her from inthrudin' into the cyabin. she got in for all that; for whin owld zeb come back, he made no objecshun to it. she sayed she was a frind av the masther, an wanted to nurse him." "indeed! oh! it is strange--very strange!" muttered the creole, reflectingly. "trath, is it. and so is iverything in these times, exciptin' yez own swate silf; that i hope will niver be sthrange in a cyabin frequinted by phaylim onale. shure, now, i'm glad to see yez, miss; an shure so wud the masther, if--" "dear phelim! tell me all that has happened." "trath! thin miss, if i'm to till all, ye'll hiv to take off your bonnet, and make up your moind for a long stay--seein' as it 'ut take the big ind av a whole day to relate all the quare things that's happened since the day afore yesthirday." "who has been here since then?" "who has been heeur?" "except the--the--" "exceptin' the man-wuman, ye mane?" "yes. has any one else been to this place?" "trath has thare--plinty besoides. an av all sorts, an colours too. first an foremost there was wan comin' this way, though he didn't git all the way to the cyabin. but i daren't tell you about him, for it moight frighten ye, miss." "tell me. i have no fear." "be dad! and i can't make it out meself quite intirely. it was a man upon horseback widout a hid." "without a head!" "divil a bit av that same on his body." the statement caused phelim to be suspected of having lost his. "an' what's more, miss, he was for all the world like masther maurice himself. wid his horse undher him, an his mexikin blanket about his showlders, an everything just as the young masther looks, when he's mounted, sowl! wasn't i scared, whin i sit my eyes on him." "but where did you see this, mr o'neal?" "up thare on the top av the bluff. i was out lookin' for the masther to come back from the sittlement, as he'd promised he wud that mornin', an who showld i see but hisself, as i supposed it to be. an' thin he comes ridin' up, widout his hid, an' stops a bit, an thin goes off at a tarin' gallop, wid tara gowlin' at his horse's heels, away acrass the big plain, till i saw no more av him. thin i made back for the cyabin heeur, an shut meself up, and wint to slape; and just in the middle av me dhrames, whin i was dhramin' of--but trath, miss, yez'll be toired standin' on yer feet all this time. won't yez take aff yer purty little ridin' hat, an sit down on the thrunk thare?--it's asier than the stool. do plaze take a sate; for if i'm to tell yez all--" "never mind me--go on. please tell me who else has been here besides this strange cavalier; who must have been some one playing a trick upon you, i suppose." "a thrick, miss! trath that's just what owld zeb sayed." "he has been here, then?" "yis--yis--but not till long afther the others." "the others?" "yis, miss. zeb only arroived yestherday marnin'. the others paid their visit the night afore, an at a very unsayzonable hour too, wakin' me out av the middle av my slape." "but who?--what others?" "why the indyens, to be shure." "there have been indians, then?" "trath was there--a whole tribe av thim. well, as i've been tillin' yez, miss, jest as i wus in a soun' slape, i heerd talkin' in the cyabin heern, right over my hid, an the shufflin' av paper, as if somebody was dalin' a pack av cards, an--mother av moses! fwhat's that?" "what?" "didn't yez heear somethin'? wheesht! thare it is agane! trath, it's the trampin' av horses! they're jist outside." phelim rushed towards the door. "be sant pathrick! the place is surrounded wid men on horseback. thare's a thousand av them! an more comin' behind! be japers! them's the chaps owld zeb--now for a frish spell av squeelin! o lard! i'll be too late!" seizing the cactus-branch--that for convenience he had brought inside the hut--he dashed out through the doorway. "_mon dieu_!" cried the creole, "'tis they! my father, and i here! how shall i explain it? holy virgin, save me from shame!" instinctively she sprang towards the door, closing it, as she did so. but a moment's reflection showed her how idle was the act. they who were outside would make light of such obstruction. already she recognised the voices of the regulators! the opening in the skin wall came under her eye. should she make a retreat through that, undignified as it might be? it was no longer possible. the sound of hoofs also in the rear! there were horsemen behind the hut! besides, her own steed was in front--that ocellated creature not to be mistaken. by this time they must have identified it! but there was another thought that restrained her from attempting to retreat--one more generous. _he_ was in danger--from which even the unconsciousness of it might not shield him! who but she could protect him? "let my good name go!" thought she. "father--friends--all--all but him, if god so wills it! shame, or no shame, to him will i be true!" as these noble thoughts passed through her mind, she took her stand by the bedside of the invalid, like a second dido, resolved to risk all-- even death itself--for the hero of her heart. chapter sixty two. waiting for the cue. never, since its erection, was there such a trampling of hoofs around the hut of the horse-catcher--not even when its corral was filled with fresh-taken mustangs. phelim, rushing out from the door, is saluted by a score of voices that summon him to stop. one is heard louder than the rest, and in tones of command that proclaim the speaker to be chief of the party. "pull up, damn you! it's no use--your trying to escape. another step, and ye'll go tumbling in your tracks. pull up, i say!" the command takes effect upon the connemara man, who has been making direct for zeb stump's mare, tethered on the other side of the opening. he stops upon the instant. "shure, gintlemen, i don't want to escyape," asseverates he, shivering at the sight of a score of angry faces, and the same number of gun-barrels bearing upon his person; "i had no such intinshuns. i was only goin' to--" "run off, if ye'd got the chance. ye'd made a good beginning. here, dick tracey! half-a-dozen turns of your trail-rope round him. lend a hand, shelton! damned queer-looking curse he is! surely, gentlemen, this can't be the man we're in search of?" "no, no! it isn't. only his man john." "ho! hilloa, you round there at the back! keep your eyes skinned. we havn't got him yet. don't let as much as a cat creep past you. now, sirree! who's inside?" "who's insoide? the cyabin div yez mane?" "damn ye! answer the question that's put to ye!" says tracey, giving his prisoner a touch of the trail-rope. "who's inside the shanty?" "o lard! needs must whin the divvel dhrives. wil, then, thare's the masther for wan--" "ho! what's this?" inquires woodley poindexter, at this moment, riding up, and seeing the spotted mare. "why--it--it's looey's mustang!" "it is, uncle," answers cassius calhoun, who has ridden up along with him. "i wonder who's brought the beast here?" "loo herself, i reckon." "nonsense! you're jesting, cash?" "no, uncle; i'm in earnest." "you mean to say my daughter has been here?" "has been--still is, i take it." "impossible?" "look yonder, then!" the door has just been opened. a female form is seen inside. "good god, it is my daughter!" poindexter drops from his saddle, and hastens up to the hut--close followed by calhoun. both go inside. "louises what means this? a wounded man! is it he--henry?" before an answer can be given, his eye falls upon a cloak and hat-- henry's! "it is; he's alive! thank heaven!" he strides towards the couch. the joy of an instant is in an instant gone. the pale face upon the pillow is not that of his son. the father staggers back with a groan. calhoun seems equally affected. but the cry from him is an exclamation of horror; after which he slinks cowed-like out of the cabin. "great god!" gasps the planter; "what is it? can you explain, louise?" "i cannot, father. i've been here but a few minutes. i found him as you see. he is delirious." "and--and--henry?" "they have told me nothing. mr gerald was alone when i entered. the man outside was absent, and has just returned. i have not had time to question him." "but--but, how came _you_ to be here?" "i could not stay at home. i could not endure the uncertainty any longer. it was terrible--alone, with no one at the house; and the thought that my poor brother--_mon dieu_! _mon dieu_!" poindexter regards his daughter with a perplexed, but still inquiring, look. "i thought i might find henry here." "here! but how did you know of this place? who guided you? you are by yourself!" "oh, father! i knew the way. you remember the day of the hunt--when the mustang ran away with me. it was beyond this place i was carried. on returning with mr gerald, he told me he lived here. i fancied i could find the way back." poindexter's look of perplexity does not leave him, though another expression becomes blended with it. his brow contracts; the shadow deepens upon it; though whatever the dark thought, he does not declare it. "a strange thing for you to have done, my daughter. imprudent--indeed dangerous. you have acted like a silly girl. come--come away! this is no place for a lady--for you. get to your horse, and ride home again. some one will go with you. there may be a scene here, you should not be present at. come, come!" the father strides forth from the hut, the daughter following with reluctance scarce concealed; and, with like unwillingness, is conducted to her saddle. the searchers, now dismounted, are upon the open ground in front. they are all there. calhoun has made known the condition of things inside; and there is no need for them to keep up their vigilance. they stand in groups--some silent, some conversing. a larger crowd is around the connemara man; who lies upon the grass, last tied in the trail-rope. his tongue is allowed liberty; and they question him, but without giving much credit to his answers. on the re-appearance of the father and daughter, they face towards them, but stand silent. for all this, they are burning with eagerness to have an explanation of what is passing. their looks proclaim it. most of them know the young lady by sight--all by fame, or name. they feel surprise--almost wonder--at seeing her there. the sister of the murdered man under the roof of his murderer! more than ever are they convinced that this is the state of the case. calhoun, coming forth from the hut, has spread fresh intelligence among them--facts that seem to confirm it. he has told them of the hat, the cloak--of the murderer himself, injured in the death-struggle! but why is louise poindexter there--alone--unaccompanied by white or black, by relative or slave? a guest, too: for in this character does she appear! her cousin does not explain it--perhaps he cannot. her father--can he? judging by his embarrassed air, it is doubtful. whispers pass from lip to ear--from group to group. there are surmises--many, but none spoken aloud. even the rude frontiersmen respect the feelings--filial as parental--and patiently await the _eclaircissement_. "mount, louise! mr yancey will ride home with you." the young planter thus pledged was never more ready to redeem himself. he is the one who most envies the supposed happiness of cassius calhoun. in his soul he thanks poindexter for the opportunity. "but, father!" protests the young lady, "why should i no wait for you? you are not going to stay here?" yancey experiences a shock of apprehension. "it is my wish, daughter, that you do as i tell you. let that be sufficient." yancey's confidence returns. not quite. he knows enough of that proud spirit to be in doubt whether it may yield obedience--even to the parental command. it gives way; but with an unwillingness ill disguised, even in the presence of that crowd of attentive spectators. the two ride off; the young planter taking the lead, his charge slowly following--the former scarce able to conceal his exultation, the latter her chagrin. yancey is more distressed than displeased, at the melancholy mood of his companion. how could it be otherwise, with such a sorrow at her heart? of course he ascribes it to that. he but half interprets the cause. were he to look steadfastly into the eye of louise poindexter, he might there detect an expression, in which sorrow for the past is less marked, than fear for the future. they ride on through the trees--but not beyond ear-shot of the people they have left behind them. suddenly a change comes over the countenance of the creole--her features lighting up, as if some thought of joy, or at least of hope, had entered her soul. she stops reflectingly--her escort constrained to do the same. "mr yancey," says she, after a short pause, "my saddle has got loose. i cannot sit comfortably in it. have the goodness to look to the girths!" yancey leaps to the ground, delighted with the duty thus imposed upon him. he examines the girths. in his opinion they do not want tightening. he does not say so; but, undoing the buckle, pulls upon the strap with all his strength. "stay!" says the fair equestrian, "let me alight. you will get better at it then." without waiting for his assistance, she springs from her stirrup, and stands by the side of the mustang. the young man continues to tug at the straps, pulling with all the power of his arms. after a prolonged struggle, that turns him red in the face, he succeeds in shortening them by a single hole. "now, miss poindexter; i think it will do." "perhaps it will," rejoins the lady, placing her hand upon the horn of her saddle, and giving it a slight shake. "no doubt it will do now. after all 'tis a pity to start back so soon. i've just arrived here after a fast gallop; and my poor luna has scarce had time to breathe herself. what if we stop here a while, and let her have a little rest? 'tis cruel to take her back without it." "but your father? he seemed desirous you should--" "that i should go home at once. that's nothing. 'twas only to get me out of the way of these rough men--that was all. he won't care; so long as i'm out of sight. 'tis a sweet place, this; so cool, under the shade of these fine trees--just now that the sun is blazing down upon the prairie. let us stay a while, and give luna a rest! we can amuse ourselves by watching the gambols of these beautiful silver fish in the stream. look there, mr yancey! what pretty creatures they are!" the young planter begins to feel flattered. why should his fair companion wish to linger there with him? why wish to watch the _iodons_, engaged in their aquatic cotillon--amorous at that time of the year? he conjectures a reply conformable to his own inclinations. his compliance is easily obtained. "miss poindexter," says he, "it is for you to command me. i am but too happy to stay here, as long as you wish it." "only till luna be rested. to say the truth, sir, i had scarce got out of the saddle, as the people came up. see! the poor thing is still panting after our long gallop." yancey does not take notice whether the spotted mustang is panting or no. he is but too pleased to comply with the wishes of its rider. they stay by the side of the stream. he is a little surprised to perceive that his companion gives but slight heed, either to the silver fish, or the spotted mustang. he would have liked this all the better, had her attentions been transferred to himself. but they are not. he can arrest neither her eye nor her ear. the former seems straying upon vacancy; the latter eagerly bent to catch every sound that comes from the clearing. despite his inclinations towards her, he cannot help listening himself. he suspects that a serious scene is there being enacted--a trial before judge lynch, with a jury of "regulators." excited talk comes echoing through the tree-trunks. there is an earnestness in its accents that tells of some terrible determination. both listen; the lady like some tragic actress, by the side-scene of a theatre, waiting for her cue. there are speeches in more than one voice; as if made by different men; then one longer than the rest--a harangue. louise recognises the voice. it is that of her cousin cassius. it is urgent--at times angry, at times argumentative: as if persuading his audience to something they are not willing to do. his speech comes to an end; and immediately after it, there are quick sharp exclamations--cries of assent--one louder than the rest, of fearful import. while listening, yancey has forgotten the fair creature by his side. he is reminded of her presence, by seeing her spring away from the spot, and, with a wild but resolute air, glide towards the _jacale_! chapter sixty three. a jury of regulators. the cry, that had called the young creole so suddenly from the side of her companion, was the verdict of a jury--in whose rude phrase was also included the pronouncing of the sentence. the word "hang" was ringing in her ears, as she started away from the spot. while pretending to take an interest in the play of the silver fish, her thoughts were upon that scene, of less gentle character, transpiring in front of the jacale. though the trees hindered her from having a view of the stage, she knew the actors that were on it; and could tell by their speeches how the play was progressing. about the time of her dismounting, a tableau had been formed that merits a minute description. the men, she had left behind, were no longer in scattered groups; but drawn together into a crowd, in shape roughly resembling the circumference of a circle. inside it, some half-score figures were conspicuous--among them the tall form of the regulator chief, with three or four of his "marshals." woodley poindexter was there, and by his side cassius calhoun. these no longer appeared to act with authority, but rather as spectators, or witnesses, in the judicial drama about being enacted. such in reality was the nature of the scene. it was a trial for murder--a trial before _justice lynch_--this grim dignitary being typified in the person of the regulator chief--with a jury composed of all the people upon the ground--all except the prisoners. of these there are two--maurice gerald and his man phelim. they are inside the ring, both prostrate upon the grass; both fast bound in raw-hide ropes, that hinder them from moving hand or foot. even their tongues are not free. phelim has been cursed and scared into silence; while to his master speech is rendered impossible by a piece of stick fastened bitt-like between his teeth. it has been done to prevent interruption by the insane ravings, that would otherwise issue from his lips. even the tight-drawn thongs cannot keep him in place. two men, one at each shoulder, with a third seated upon his knees, hold him to the ground. his eyes alone are free to move; and these rolling in their sockets glare upon his guards with wild unnatural glances, fearful to encounter. only one of the prisoners is arraigned on the capital charge; the other is but doubtfully regarded as an accomplice. the servant alone has been examined--asked to confess all he knows, and what he has to say for himself. it is no use putting questions to his master. phelim has told his tale--too strange to be credited; though the strangest part of it--that relating to his having seen a horseman without ahead--is looked upon as the least improbable! he cannot explain it; and his story but strengthens the suspicion already aroused--that the spectral apparition is a part of the scheme of murder! "all stuff his tales about tiger-fights and indians!" say those to whom he has been imparting them. "a pack of lies, contrived to mislead us-- nothing else." the trial has lasted scarce ten minutes; and yet the jury have come to their conclusion. in the minds of most--already predisposed to it--there is a full conviction that henry poindexter is a dead man, and that maurice gerald is answerable for his death. every circumstance already known has been reconsidered; while to these have been added the new facts discovered at the jacale--the ugliest of which is the finding of the cloak and hat. the explanations given by the galwegian, confused and incongruous, carry no credit. why should they? they are the inventions of an accomplice. there are some who will scarce stay to hear them--some who impatiently cry out, "let the murderer be hanged!" as if this verdict had been anticipated, a rope lies ready upon the ground, with a noose at its end. it is only a lazo; but for the purpose calcraft could not produce a more perfect piece of cord. a sycamore standing near offers a horizontal limb--good enough for a gallows. the vote is taken _viva voce_. eighty out of the hundred jurors express their opinion: that maurice gerald must die. his hour appears to have come. and yet the sentence is not carried into execution. the rope is suffered to lie guileless on the grass. no one seems willing to lay hold of it! why that hanging back, as if the thong of horse-hide was a venomous snake, that none dares to touch? the majority--the _plurality_, to use a true western word--has pronounced the sentence of death; some strengthening it with rude, even blasphemous, speech. why is it not carried out? why? for want of that unanimity, that stimulates to immediate action-- for want of the proofs to produce it. there is a minority not satisfied--that with less noise, but equally earnest emphasis, have answered "no." it is this that has caused a suspension of the violent proceedings. among this minority is judge lynch himself--sam manly, the chief of the regulators. he has not yet passed sentence; or even signified his acceptance of the acclamatory verdict. "fellow citizens!" cries he, as soon as he has an opportunity of making himself heard, "i'm of the opinion, that there's a doubt in this case; and i reckon we ought to give the accused the benefit of it--that is, till he be able to say his own say about it. it's no use questioning him now, as ye all see. we have him tight and fast; and there's not much chance of his getting clear--_if_ guilty. therefore, i move we postpone the trial, till--" "what's the use of postponing it?" interrupts a voice already loud for the prosecution, and which can be distinguished as that of cassius calhoun. "what's the use, sam manly? it's all very well for you to talk that way; but if _you_ had a friend foully murdered--i won't say cousin, but a son, a brother--you might not be so soft about it. what more do you want to show that the skunk's guilty? further proofs?" "that's just what we want, captain calhoun." "cyan _you_ give them, misther cashius calhoun?" inquires a voice from the outside circle, with a strong irish accent. "perhaps i can." "let's have them, then!" "god knows you've had evidence enough. a jury of his own stupid countrymen--" "bar that appellashun!" shouts the man, who has demanded the additional evidence. "just remember, misther calhoun, ye're in texas, and not mississippi. bear that in mind; or ye may run your tongue into trouble, sharp as it is." "i don't mean to offend any one," says calhoun, backing out of the dilemma into which his irish antipathies had led him; "even an englishman, if there's one here." "thare ye're welcome--go on!" cries the mollified milesian. "well, then, as i was saying, there's been evidence enough--and more than enough, in my opinion. but if you want more, i can give it." "give it--give it!" cry a score of responding voices; that keep up the demand, while calhoun seems to hesitate. "gentlemen!" says he, squaring himself to the crowd, as if for a speech, "what i've got to say now i could have told you long ago. but i didn't think it was needed. you all know what's happened between this man and myself; and i had no wish to be thought revengeful. i'm not; and if it wasn't that i'm sure he has done the deed--sure as the head's on my body--" calhoun speaks stammeringly, seeing that the phrase, involuntarily escaping from his lips, has produced a strange effect upon his auditory--as it has upon himself. "if not sure--i--i should still say nothing of what i've seen, or rather heard: for it was in the night, and i saw nothing." "what did you hear, mr calhoun?" demands the regulator chief, resuming his judicial demeanour, for a time forgotten in the confusion of voting the verdict. "your quarrel with the prisoner, of which i believe everybody has heard, can have nothing to do with your testimony here. nobody's going to accuse you of false swearing on that account. please proceed, sir. what did you hear? and where, and when, did you hear it?" "to begin, then, with the time. it was the night my cousin was missing; though, of course, we didn't miss him till the morning. last tuesday night." "tuesday night. well?" "i'd turned in myself; and thought henry had done the same. but what with the heat, and the infernal musquitoes, i couldn't get any sleep. "i started up again; lit a cigar; and, after smoking it awhile in the room, i thought of taking a turn upon the top of the house. "you know the old hacienda has a flat roof, i suppose? well, i went up there to get cool; and continued to pull away at the weed. "it must have been then about midnight, or maybe a little earlier. i can't tell: for i'd been tossing about on my bed, and took no note of the time. "just as i had smoked to the end of my cigar, and was about to take a second out of my case, i heard voices. there were two of them. "they were up the river, as i thought on the other side. they were a good way off, in the direction of the town. "i mightn't have been able to distinguish them, or tell one from 'tother, if they'd been talking in the ordinary way. but they weren't. there was loud angry talk; and i could tell that two men were quarrelling. "i supposed it was some drunken rowdies, going home from oberdoffer's tavern, and i should have thought no more about it. but as i listened, i recognised one of the voices; and then the other. the first was my cousin henry's--the second that of the man who is there--the man who has murdered him." "please proceed, mr calhoun! let us hear the whole of the evidence you have promised to produce. it will be time enough then to state your opinions." "well, gentlemen; as you may imagine, i was no little surprised at hearing my cousin's voice--supposing him asleep in his bed. so sure was i of its being him, that i didn't think of going to his room, to see if he was there. i knew it was his voice; and i was quite as sure that the other was that of the horse-catcher. "i thought it uncommonly queer, in henry being out at such a late hour: as he was never much given to that sort of thing. but out he was. i couldn't be mistaken about that. "i listened to catch what the quarrel was about; but though i could distinguish the voices, i couldn't make out anything that was said on either side. what i did hear was henry calling _him_ by some strong names, as if my cousin had been first insulted; and then i heard the irishman threatening to make him rue it. each loudly pronounced the other's name; and that convinced me about its being them. "i should have gone out to see what the trouble was; but i was in my slippers; and before i could draw on a pair of boots, it appeared to be all over. "i waited for half an hour, for henry to come home. he didn't come; but, as i supposed he had gone back to oberdoffer's and fallen in with some of the fellows from the fort, i concluded he might stay there a spell, and i went back to my bed. "now, gentlemen, i've told you all i know. my poor cousin never came back to casa del corvo--never more laid his side on a bed,--for that we found by going to his room next morning. his bed that night must have been somewhere upon the prairie, or in the chapparal; and there's the only man who knows where." with a wave of his hand the speaker triumphantly indicated the accused-- whose wild straining eyes told how unconscious he was of the terrible accusation, or of the vengeful looks with which, from all sides, he was now regarded. calhoun's story was told with a circumstantiality, that went far to produce conviction of the prisoner's guilt. the concluding speech appeared eloquent of truth, and was followed by a clamourous demand for the execution to proceed. "hang! hang!" is the cry from fourscore voices. the judge himself seems to waver. the minority has been diminished--no longer eighty, out of the hundred, but ninety repeat the cry. the more moderate are overborne by the inundation of vengeful voices. the crowd sways to and fro--resembling a storm fast increasing to a tempest. it soon comes to its height. a ruffian rushes towards the rope. though none seem to have noticed it, he has parted from the side of calhoun-- with whom he has been holding a whispered conversation. one of those "border ruffians" of southern descent, ever ready by the stake of the philanthropist, or the martyr--such as have been late typified in the _military murderers_ of jamaica, who have disgraced the english name to the limits of all time. he lays hold of the lazo, and quickly arranges its loop around the neck of the condemned man--alike unconscious of trial and condemnation. no one steps forward to oppose the act. the ruffian, bristling with bowie-knife and pistols, has it all to himself or, rather, is he assisted by a scoundrel of the same kidney--one of the _ci-devant_ guards of the prisoner. the spectators stand aside, or look tranquilly upon the proceedings. most express a mute approval--some encouraging the executioners with earnest vociferations of "up with him! hang him!" a few seem stupefied by surprise; a less number show sympathy; but not one dares to give proof of it, by taking part with the prisoner. the rope is around his neck--the end with the noose upon it. the other is being swung over the sycamore. "soon must the soul of maurice gerald go back to its god!" chapter sixty four. a series of interludes. "soon the soul of maurice gerald must go back to its god!" it was the thought of every actor in that tragedy among the trees. no one doubted that, in another moment, they would see his body hoisted into the air, and swinging from the branch of the sycamore. there was an interlude, not provided for in the programme. a farce was being performed simultaneously; and, it might be said, on the same stage. for once the tragedy was more attractive, and the comedy was progressing without spectators. not the less earnest were the actors in it. there were only two--a man and a mare. phelim was once more re-enacting the scenes that had caused surprise to isidora. engrossed by the arguments of calhoun--by the purposes of vengeance which his story was producing--the regulators only turned their attention to the chief criminal. no one thought of his companion-- whether he was, or was not, an accomplice. his presence was scarce perceived--all eyes being directed with angry intent upon the other. still less was it noticed, when the ruffians sprang forward, and commenced adjusting the rope. the galwegian was then altogether neglected. there appeared an opportunity of escape, and phelim was not slow to take advantage of it. wriggling himself clear of his fastenings, he crawled off among the legs of the surging crowd. no one seemed to see, or care about, his movements. mad with excitement, they were pressing upon each other--the eyes of all turned upward to the gallows tree. to have seen phelim skulking off, it might have been supposed, that he was profiting by the chance offered for escape--saving his own life, without thinking of his master. it is true he could have done nothing, and he knew it. he had exhausted his advocacy; and any further interference on his part would have been an idle effort, or only to aggravate the accusers. it was but slight disloyalty that he should think of saving himself--a mere instinct of self-preservation--to which he seemed yielding, as he stole off among the trees. so one would have conjectured. but the conjecture would not have done justice to him of connemara. in his flight the faithful servant had no design to forsake his master-- much less leave him to his fate, without making one more effort to effect his delivery from the human bloodhounds who had hold of him. he knew he could do nothing of himself. his hope lay in summoning zeb stump, and it was to sound that signal--which had proved so effective before--that he was now stealing off from the scene, alike of trial and execution. on getting beyond the selvedge of the throng, he had glided in among the trees; and keeping these between him and the angry crowd, he ran on toward the spot where the old mare still grazed upon her tether. the other horses standing "hitched" to the twigs, formed a tolerably compact tier all round the edge of the timber. this aided in screening his movements from observation, so that he had arrived by the side of the mare, without being seen by any one. just then he discovered that he had come without the apparatus necessary to carry out his design. the cactus branch had been dropped where he was first captured, and was still kicking about among the feet of his captors. he could not get hold of it, without exposing himself to a fresh seizure, and this would hinder him from effecting the desired end. he had no knife--no weapon of any kind--wherewith he might procure another _nopal_. he paused, in painful uncertainty as to what he should do. only for an instant. there was no time to be lost. his master's life was in imminent peril, menaced at every moment. no sacrifice would be too great to save him; and with this thought the faithful phelim rushed towards the cactus-plant; and, seizing one of its spinous branches in his naked hands, wrenched it from the stem. his fingers were fearfully lacerated in the act; but what mattered that, when weighed against the life of his beloved master? with equal recklessness he ran up to the mare; and, at the risk of being kicked back again, took hold of her tail, and once more applied the instrument of torture! by this time the noose had been adjusted around the mustanger's neck, carefully adjusted to avoid fluke or failure. the other end, leading over the limb of the tree, was held in hand by the brace of bearded bullies--whose fingers appeared itching to pull upon it. in their eyes and attitudes was an air of deadly determination. they only waited for the word. not that any one had the right to pronounce it. and just for this reason was it delayed. no one seemed willing to take the responsibility of giving that signal, which was to send a fellow-creature to his long account. criminal as they might regard him--murderer as they believed him to be--all shied from doing the sheriff's duty. even calhoun instinctively held back. it was not for the want of will. there was no lack of that on the part of the ex-officer, or among the regulators. they showed no sign of retreating from the step they had taken. the pause was simply owing to the informality of the proceedings. it was but the lull in the storm that precedes the grand crash. it was a moment of deep solemnity--every one silent as the tomb. they were in the presence of death, and knew it,--death in its most hideous shape, and darkest guise. most of them felt that they were abetting it. all believed it to be nigh. with hushed voice, and hindered gesture, they stood rigid as the tree-trunks around them. surely the crisis had come? it had; but not that crisis by everybody expected, by themselves decreed. instead of seeing maurice gerald jerked into the air, far different was the spectacle they were called upon to witness,--one so ludicrous as for a time to interrupt the solemnity of the scene, and cause a suspension of the harsh proceedings. the old mare--that they knew to be zeb stump's--appeared to have gone suddenly mad. she had commenced dancing over the sward, flinging her heels high into the air, and screaming with all her might. she had given the cue to the hundred horses that stood tied to the trees; and all of them had commenced imitating: her wild capers, while loudly responding to her screams! enchantment could scarce have produced a quicker transformation than occurred in the tableau formed in front of the jacale hut. not only was the execution suspended, but all other proceedings that regarded the condemned captive. nor was the change of a comical character. on the contrary, it was accompanied by looks of alarm, and cries of consternation! the regulators rushed to their arms--some towards their horses. "indians!" was the exclamation upon every lip, though unheard through the din. nought but the coming of comanches could have caused such a commotion--threatening to result in a _stampede_ of the troop! for a time men ran shouting over the little lawn, or stood silent with scared countenances. most having secured their horses, cowered behind them--using them by way of shield against the chances of an indian arrow. there were but few upon the ground accustomed to such prairie escapades; and the fears of the many were exaggerated by their inexperience to the extreme of terror. it continued, till their steeds, all caught up, had ceased their wild whighering; and only one was heard--the wretched creature that had given them the cue. then was discovered the true cause of the alarm; as also that the connemara man had stolen off. fortunate for phelim he had shown the good sense to betake himself to the bushes. only by concealment had he saved his skin: for his life was now worth scarce so much as that of his master. a score of rifles were clutched with angry energy,--their muzzles brought to bear upon the old mare. but before any of them could be discharged, a man standing near threw his lazo around her neck, and choked her into silence. tranquillity is restored, and along with it a resumption of the deadly design. the regulators are still in the same temper. the ludicrous incident, whilst perplexing, has not provoked their mirth; but the contrary. some feel shame at the sorry figure they have cut, in the face of a false alarm; while others are chafed at the interruption of the solemn ceremonial. they return to it with increased vindictiveness--as proved by their oaths, and angry exclamations. once more the vengeful circle closes around the condemned--the terrible tableau is reconstructed. once more the ruffians lay hold of the rope; and for the second time every one is impressed with the solemn thought: "soon must the soul of maurice gerald go back to its god!" thank heaven, there is another interruption to that stern ceremonial of death. how unlike to death is that bright form flitting under the shadows,-- flashing out into the open sunlight. "a woman! a beautiful woman!" 'tis only a silent thought; for no one essays to speak. they stand rigid as ever, but with strangely altered looks. even the rudest of them respect the presence of that fair intruder. there is submission in their attitude, as if from a consciousness of guilt. like a meteor she pauses through their midst--glides on without giving a glance on either side--without speech, without halt--till she stoops over the condemned man, still lying gagged the grass. with a quick clutch she lays hold of the lazo; which the two hangmen, taken by surprise, have let loose. grasping it with both her hands, she jerks it from theirs. "texans! cowards!" she cries, casting a scornful look upon the crowd. "shame! shame!" they cower under the stinging reproach. she continues:-- "a trial indeed! a fair trial! the accused without counsel--condemned without being heard! and this you call justice? texan justice? my scorn upon you--not men, but murderers!" "what means this?" shouts poindexter, rushing up, and seizing his daughter by the arm. "you are mad--loo--mad! how come you to be here? did i not tell you to go home? away--this instant away; and do not interfere with what does not concern you!" "father, it does concern me!" "how?--how?--oh true--as a sister! this man is the murderer of your brother." "i will not--_cannot_ believe it. never--never! there was no motive. o men! if you be men, do not act like savages. give him a fair trial, and then--then--" "he's had a fair trial," calls one from the crowd, who seems to speak from instigation; "ne'er a doubt about his being guilty. it's him that's killed your brother, and nobody else. and it don't look well, miss poindexter--excuse me for saying it;--but it don't look just the thing, that _you_ should be trying to screen him from his deserving." "no, that it don't," chime in several voices. "justice must take its course!" shouts one, in the hackneyed phrase of the law courts. "it must!--it must!" echoes the chorus. "we are sorry to disoblige you, miss; but we must request you to leave. mr poindexter, you'd do well to take your daughter away." "come, loo! 'tis not the place you must come away. you refuse! good god! my daughter; do you mean to disobey me? here, cash; take hold of her arm, and conduct her from the spot. if you refuse to go willingly, we must use force, loo. a good girl now. do as i tell you. go! go!" "no, father, i will not--i shall not--till you have promised--till these men promise--" "we can't promise you anything, miss--however much we might like it. it ain't a question for women, no how. there's been a crime committed--a murder, as ye yourself know. there must be no cheating of justice. there's no mercy for a murderer!" "no mercy!" echo a score of angry voices. "let him be hanged--hanged-- hanged!" the regulators are no longer restrained by the fair presence. perhaps it has but hastened the fatal moment. the soul of cassius calhoun is not the only one in that crowd stirred by the spirit of envy. the horse hunter is now hated for his supposed good fortune. in the tumult of revengeful passion, all gallantry is forgotten,--that very virtue for which the texan is distinguished. the lady is led aside--dragged rather than led--by her cousin, and at the command of her father. she struggles in the hated arms that hold her--wildly weeping, loudly protesting against the act of inhumanity. "monsters! murderers!" are the phrases that fall from her lips. her struggles are resisted; her speeches unheeded. she is borne back beyond the confines of the crowd--beyond the hope of giving help to him, for whom she is willing to lay down her life! bitter are the speeches calhoun is constrained to hear--heartbreaking the words now showered upon him. better for him he had not taken hold of her. it scarce consoles him--that certainty of revenge. his rival will soon be no more; but what matters it? the fair form writhing in his grasp can never be consentingly embraced. he may kill the hero of her heart, but not conquer for himself its most feeble affection! chapter sixty five. still another interlude. for a third time is the tableau reconstructed--spectators and actors in the dread drama taking their places as before. the lazo is once more passed over the limb; the same two scoundrels taking hold of its loose end--this time drawing it towards them till it becomes taut. for the third time arises the reflection: "soon must the soul of maurice gerald go back to its god!" now nearer than ever does the unfortunate man seem to his end. even love has proved powerless to save him! wha power on earth can be appealed to after this? none likely to avail. but there appears no chance of succour--no time for it. there is no mercy in the stern looks of the regulators--only impatience. the hangmen, too, appear in a hurry--as if they were in dread of another interruption. they manipulate the rope with the ability of experienced executioners. the physiognomy of either would give colour to the assumption, that they had been accustomed to the calling. in less than sixty seconds they shall have finished the "job." "now then, bill! are ye ready?" shouts one to the other--by the question proclaiming, that they no longer intend to wait for the word. "all right!" responds bill. "up with the son of a skunk! up with him!" there is a pull upon the rope, but not sufficient to raise the body into an erect position. it tightens around the neck; lifts the head a little from the ground, but nothing more! only one of the hangmen has given his strength to the pull. "haul, damn you!" cries bill, astonished at the inaction of his assistant. "why the hell don't you haul?" bill's back is turned towards an intruder, that, seen by the other, has hindered him from lending a hand. he stands as if suddenly transformed into stone! "come!" continues the chief executioner. "let's go at it again--both together. yee--up! up with him!" "_no ye don't_!" calls out a voice in the tones of a stentor; while a man of colossal frame, carrying a six-foot rifle, is seen rushing out from among the trees, in strides that bring him almost instantly into the thick of the crowd. "no ye don't!" he repeats, stopping over the prostrate body, and bringing his long rifle to bear upon the ruffians of the rope. "not yet a bit, as this coon kalkerlates. you, bill griffin; pull that piece o' pleeted hoss-hair but the eighth o' an inch tighter, and ye'll git a blue pill in yer stummuk as won't agree wi' ye. drop the rope, durn ye! drop it!" the screaming of zeb stump's mare scarce created a more sudden diversion than the appearance of zeb himself--for it was he who had hurried upon the ground. he was known to nearly all present; respected by most; and feared by many. among the last were bill griffin, and his fellow rope-holder. no longer holding it: for at the command to drop it, yielding to a quick perception of danger, both had let go; and the lazo lay loose along the sward. "what durned tom-foolery's this, boys?" continues the colossus, addressing himself to the crowd, still speechless from surprise. "ye don't mean hangin', do ye?" "we do," answers a stern voice. "and why not?" asks another. "why not! ye'd hang a fellur-citizen 'ithout trial, wud ye?" "not much of a fellow-citizen--so far as that goes. besides, he's had a trial--a fair trial." "i'deed. a human critter to be condemned wi' his brain in a state o' dulleerium! sent out o' the world 'ithout knowin' that he's in it! ye call that a fair trial, do ye?" "what matters it, if we know he's guilty? we're all satisfied about that." "the hell ye air! wagh! i aint goin' to waste words wi' sech as you, jim stoddars. but for _you_, sam manly, an yerself, mister peintdexter--shurly ye aint agreed to this hyur proceeding which, in my opeenyun, 'ud be neyther more nor less 'n murder?" "you haven't heard all, zeb stump," interposes the regulator chief, with the design to justify his acquiescence in the act. "there are facts--!" "facts be durned! an' fancies, too! i don't want to hear 'em. it'll be time enuf for thet, when the thing kum to a reg'lar trial; the which shurly nob'dy hyur'll objeck to--seein' as thur aint the ghost o' a chance for _him_ to git off. who air the individooal that objecks?" "you take too much upon you, zeb stump. what is it your business, we'd like to know? the man that's been murdered wasn't _your_ son; nor your brother, nor your cousin neither! if he had been, you'd be of a different way of thinking, i take it." it is calhoun who has made this interpolation--spoken before with so much success to his scheme. "i don't see that it concerns you," he continues, "what course we take in this matter." "but _i do_. it consarns me--fust, because this young fellur's a friend o' mine, though he air irish, an a strenger; an secondly, because zeb stump aint a goin' to stan' by, an see foul play--even tho' it be on the purayras o' texas." "foul play be damned! there's nothing of the sort. and as for standing by, we'll see about that. boys! you're not going to be scared from your duty by such swagger as this? let's make a finish of what we've begun. the blood of a murdered man cries out to us. lay hold of the rope!" "do; an by the eturnal! the fust that do 'll drop it a leetle quicker than he grups it. lay a claw on it--one o' ye--if ye darr. ye may hang this poor critter as high's ye like; but _not_ till ye've laid zeb'lon stump streetched dead upon the grass, wi' some o' ye alongside o' him. now then! let me see the skunk thet's goin' to tech thet rope!" zeb's speech is followed by a profound silence. the people keep their places--partly from the danger of accepting his challenge, and partly from the respect due to his courage and generosity. also, because there is still some doubt in the minds of the regulators, both as to the expediency, and fairness, of the course which calhoun is inciting them to take. with a quick instinct the old hunter perceives the advantage he has gained, and presses it. "gie the young fellur a fair trial," urges he. "let's take him to the settlement, an hev' him tried thur. ye've got no clur proof, that he's had any hand in the black bizness; and durn me! if i'd believe it unless i seed it wi' my own eyes. i know how he feeled torst young peintdexter. instead o' bein' his enemy, thur aint a man on this ground hed more o' a likin' for him--tho' he did hev a bit o' shindy wi' his precious cousin thur." "you are perhaps not aware, mr stump," rejoins the regulator chief, in a calm voice, "of what we've just been hearing?" "what hev ye been hearin'?" "evidence to the contrary of what you assert. we have proof, not only that there was bad blood between gerald and young poindexter, but that a quarrel took place on the very night--" "who sez thet, sam manly?" "i say it," answers calhoun, stepping a little forward, so as to be seen by stump. "o, you it air, mister cash calhoun! you know thur war bad blood atween 'em? you seed the quarrel ye speak o'?" "i haven't said that i saw it, zeb stump. and what's more i'm not going to stand any cross-questioning by you. i have given my evidence, to those who have the right to hear it; and that's enough. i think, gentlemen, you're satisfied as to the verdict. i don't see why this old fool should interrupt--" "ole fool!" echoes the hunter, with a screech; "ole fool! hell an herrikins! ye call me an ole fool? by the eturnal god! ye'll live to take back that speech, or my name aint zeblun stump, o' kaintucky. ne'er a mind now; thur's a time for everythin', an yur time may come, mister cash calhoun, sooner than ye surspecks it." "as for a quarrel atween henry peintdexter an the young fellur hyur," continues zeb, addressing himself to the regulator chief, "i don't believe a word on't; nor won't, so long's thur's no better proof than _his_ palaverin'. from what this chile knows, it don't stan' to reezun. ye say ye've got new facks? so've i too. facks i reck'n thet'll go a good way torst explicatin o' this mysteerus bizness, twisted up as it air." "what facts?" demands the regulator chief. "let's hear them, stump." "thur's more than one. fust place what do ye make o' the young fellur bein' wownded hisself? i don't talk o' them scratches ye see; i believe them's done by coyoats that attackted him, arter they see'd he wur wownded. but look at his knee somethin' else than coyoats did _that_. what do _you_ make o' it, sam manly?" "well, that--some of the boys here think there's been a struggle between him and--" "atween him an who?" sharply interrogates zeb. "why, the man that's missing." "yes, that's he who we mean," speaks one of the "boys" referred to. "we all know that harry poindexter wouldn't a stood to be shot down like a calf. they've had a tussle, and a fall among the rocks. that's what's given him the swellin' in the knee. besides, there's the mark of a blow upon his head--looks like it had been the butt of a pistol. as for the scratches, we can't tell what's made them. thorns may be; or wolves if you like. that foolish fellow of his has a story about a tiger; but it won't do for us." "what fellur air ye talkin' o'? ye mean irish pheelum? where air _he_?" "stole away to save his carcass. we'll find him, as soon as we've settled this business; and i guess a little hanging will draw the truth out of him." "if ye mean abeout the tiger, ye'll draw no other truth out o' him than hat ye've got a'ready. i see'd thet varmint myself, an war jest in time to save the young fellur from its claws. but thet aint the peint. ye've had holt o' the irish, i 'spose. did he tell ye o' nothin' else he seed hyur?" "he had a yarn about indians. who believes it?" "wal; he tolt me the same story, and that looks like some truth in't. besides, he declurs they wur playin' curds, an hyur's the things themselves. i found 'em lying scattered about the floor o' the shanty. spanish curds they air." zeb draws the pack out of his pocket, and hands it over to the regulator chief. the cards, on examination, prove to be of mexican manufacture--such as are used in the universal game of _monte_--the queen upon horseback "cavallo"--the spade represented by a sword "espada"--and the club "baston" symbolised by the huge paviour-like implement, seen in picture-books in the grasp of hairy orson. "who ever heard of comanches playing cards?" demands he, who has scouted the evidence about the indians. "damned ridiculous!" "ridiklus ye say!" interposes an old trapper who had been twelve months a prisoner among the comanches. "ridiklus it may be; but it's true f'r all that. many's the game this coon's seed them play, on a dressed burner hide for their table. that same mexikin _montay_ too. i reckon they've larned it from thar mexikin captives; of the which they've got as good as three thousand in thar different tribes. yes, sirree!" concludes the trapper. "the keymanchees _do_ play cards--sure as shootin'." zeb stump is rejoiced at this bit of evidence, which is more than he could have given himself. it strengthens the case for the accused. the fact, of there having been indians in the neighbourhood, tends to alter the aspect of the affair in the minds of the regulators--hitherto under the belief that the comanches were marauding only on the other side of the settlement. "sartin sure," continues zeb, pressing the point in favour of an adjournment of the trial, "thur's been injuns hyur, or some thin' durned like--geesus geehosofat! whar's _she_ comin' from?" the clattering of hoofs, borne down from the bluff, salutes the ear of everybody at the same instant of time. no one needs to inquire, what has caused stump to give utterance to that abrupt interrogatory. along the top of the cliff, and close to its edge, a horse is seen, going at a gallop. there is a woman--a lady-- upon his back, with hat and hair streaming loosely behind her--the string hindering the hat from being carried altogether away! so wild is the gallop--so perilous from its proximity to the precipice-- you might suppose the horse to have run away with his rider. but no. you may tell that he has not, by the actions of the equestrian herself. she seems not satisfied with the pace; but with whip, spur, and voice keeps urging him to increase it! this is plain to the spectators below; though they are puzzled and confused by her riding so close to the cliff. they stand in silent astonishment. not that they are ignorant of who it is. it would be strange if they were. that woman equestrian-- man-seated in the saddle--once seen was never more to be forgotten. she is recognised at the first glance. one and all know the reckless galloper to be the guide--from whom, scarce half-an-hour ago, they had parted upon the prairie. chapter sixty six. chased by comanches. it was isidora who had thus strangely and suddenly shown herself. what was bringing her back? and why was she riding at such a perilous pace? to explain it, we must return to that dark reverie, from which she was startled by her encounter with the "tejanos." while galloping away from the alamo, she had not thought of looking back, to ascertain whether she was followed. absorbed in schemes of vengeance, she had gone on--without even giving a glance behind. it was but slight comfort to her to reflect: that louise poindexter had appeared equally determined upon parting from the jacale. with a woman's intuitive quickness, she suspected the cause; though she knew, too well, it was groundless. still, there was some pleasure in the thought: that her rival, ignorant of her happy fortune, was suffering like herself. there was a hope, too, that the incident might produce estrangement in the heart of this proud creole lady towards the man so condescendingly beloved; though it was faint, vague, scarce believed in by her who conceived it. taking her own heart as a standard, she was not one to lay much stress on the condescension of love: her own history was proof of its levelling power. still was there the thought that her presence at the jacale had given pain, and might result in disaster to the happiness of her hated rival. isidora had begun to dwell upon this with a sort of subdued pleasure; that continued unchecked, till the time of her rencontre with the texans. on turning back with these, her spirits underwent a change. the road to be taken by louise, should have been the same as that, by which she had herself come. but no lady was upon it. the creole must have changed her mind, and stayed by the jacale--was, perhaps, at that very moment performing the _metier_ isidora had so fondly traced out for herself? the belief that she was about to bring shame upon the woman who had brought ruin upon her, was the thought that now consoled her. the questions put by poindexter, and his companions, sufficiently disclosed the situation. still clearer was it made by the final interrogations of calhoun; and, after her interrogators had passed away, she remained by the side of the thicket--half in doubt whether to ride on to the leona, or go back and be the spectator of a scene, that, by her own contrivance, could scarce fail to be exciting. she is upon the edge of the chapparal, just inside the shadow of the timber. she is astride her grey steed, that stands with spread nostril and dilated eye, gazing after the _cavallada_ that has late parted from the spot--a single horseman in the rear of the rest. her horse might wonder why he is being thus ridden about; but he is used to sudden changes in the will of his capricious rider. she is looking in the same direction--towards the _alhuehuete_;--whose dark summit towers above the bluffs of the alamo. she sees the searchers descend; and, after them, the man who has so minutely questioned her. as his head sinks below the level of the plain, she fancies herself alone upon it. in this fancy she is mistaken. she remains irresolute for a time--ten--fifteen--twenty minutes. her thoughts are not to be envied. there is not much sweetness in the revenge, she believes herself instrumental in having accomplished. if she has caused humiliation to the woman she hates, along with it she may have brought ruin upon the man whom she loves? despite all that has passed, she cannot help loving him! "_santissima virgen_!" she mutters with a fervent earnestness. "what have i done? if these _men_--_los reguladores_--the dreaded judges i've heard of--if they should find him guilty, where may it end? in his death! mother of god! i do not desire that. not by their hands--no! no! how wild their looks and gestures--stern--determined! and when i pointed out the way, how quickly they rode off, without further thought of me! oh, they have made up their minds. don mauricio is to die! and he a stranger among them--so have i heard. not of their country, or kindred; only of the same race. alone, friendless, with many enemies. _santissima_! what am i thinking of? is not he, who has just left me, that cousin of whom i've heard speak! _ay de mi_! now do i understand the cause of his questioning. his heart, like mine own--like mine own!" she sits with her gaze bent over the open plain. the grey steed still frets under restraint, though the _cavallada_ has long since passed out of sight. he but responds to the spirit of his rider; which he knows to be vacillating--chafing under some irresolution. 'tis the horse that first discovers a danger, or something that scents of it. he proclaims it by a low tremulous neigh, as if to attract her attention; while his head, tossed back towards the chapparal, shows that the enemy is to be looked for in that direction. who, or what is it? warned by the behaviour of her steed, isidora faces to the thicket, and scans the path by which she has lately passed through it. it is the road, or trail, leading to the leona. 'tis only open to the eye for a straight stretch of about two hundred yards. beyond, it becomes screened by the bushes, through which it goes circuitously. no one is seen upon it--nothing save two or three lean coyotes, that skulk under the shadow of the trees--scenting the shod tracks, in the hope of finding some scrap, that may have fallen from the hurrying horsemen. it is not these that have caused the grey to show such excitement. he sees them; but what of that? the prairie-wolf is a sight to him neither startling, nor rare. there is something else--something he has either scented, or heard. isidora listens: for a time without hearing aught to alarm her. the howl-bark of the jackal does not beget fear at any time; much less in the joy of the daylight. she hears only this. her thoughts again return to the "tejanos"--especially to him who has last parted from her side. she is speculating on the purpose of his earnest interrogation; when once more she is interrupted by the action of her horse. the animal shows impatience at being kept upon the spot; snuffs the air; snorts; and, at length, gives utterance to a neigh, far louder than before! this time it is answered by several others, from horses that appear to be going along the road--though still hidden behind the trees. their hoof-strokes are heard at the same time. but not after. the strange horses have either stopped short, or gone off at a gentle pace, making no noise! isidora conjectures the former. she believes the horses to be ridden; and that their riders have checked them up, on hearing the neigh of her own. she quiets him, and listens. a humming is heard through the trees. though indistinct, it can be told to be the sound of men's voices--holding a conversation in a low muttered tone. presently it becomes hushed, and the chapparal is again silent. the horsemen, whoever they are, continue halted--perhaps hesitating to advance. isidora is scarce astonished at this, and not much alarmed. some travellers, perhaps, _en route_ for the rio grande--or, it may be, some stragglers from the texan troop--who, on hearing a horse neigh, have stopped from an instinct of precaution. it is only natural--at a time, when indians are known to be on the war-path. equally natural, that she should be cautious about encountering the strangers--whoever they may be; and, with this thought, she rides softly to one side--placing herself and her horse under cover of a mezquit tree; where she again sits listening. not long, before discovering that the horsemen have commenced advancing towards her--not along the travelled trail, but through the thicket! and not all together, but as if they had separated, and were endeavouring to accomplish a surround! she can tell this, by hearing the hoof-strokes in different directions: all going gently, but evidently diverging from each other; while the riders are preserving a profound silence, ominous either of cunning or caution--perhaps of evil intent? they may have discovered her position? the neighing of her steed has betrayed it? they may be riding to get round her--in order to advance from different sides, and make sure of her capture? how is she to know that their intent is not hostile? she has enemies-- one well remembered--don miguel diaz. besides, there are the comanches--to be distrusted at all times, and now no longer _en paz_. she begins to feel alarm. it has been long in arising; but the behaviour of the unseen horsemen is at least suspicious. ordinary travellers would have continued along the trail. these are sneaking through the chapparal! she looks around her, scanning her place of concealment. she examines, only to distrust it. the thin, feathery frondage of the mezquit will not screen her from an eye passing near. the hoof-strokes tell, that more than one cavalier is coming that way. she must soon be discovered. at the thought, she strikes the spur into her horse's side, and rides out from the thicket. then, turning along the trail, she trots on into the open plain, that extends towards the alamo. her intention is to go two or three hundred yards--beyond range of arrow, or bullet--then halt, until she can discover the character of those who are advancing--whether friends, or to be feared. if the latter, she will trust to the speed of her gallant grey to carry her on to the protection of the "tejanos." she does not make the intended halt. she is hindered by the horsemen, at that moment seen bursting forth from among the bushes, simultaneously with each other, and almost as soon as herself! they spring out at different points; and, in converging lines, ride rapidly towards her! a glance shows them to be men of bronze-coloured skins, and half naked bodies--with red paint on their faces, and scarlet feathers sticking up out of their hair. "_los indios_!" mechanically mutters the mexican, as, driving the rowels against the ribs of her steed, she goes off at full gallop for the _alhuehuete_. a quick glance behind shows her she is pursued; though she knows it without that. the glance tells her more,--that the pursuit is close and earnest--so earnest that the indians, contrary to their usual custom, _do not yell_! their silence speaks of a determination to capture her; and as if by a plan already preconcerted! hitherto she has had but little fear of an encounter with the red rovers of the prairie. for years have they been _en paz_--both with texans and mexicans; and the only danger to be dreaded from them was a little rudeness when under the influence of drink--just as a lady, in civilised life, may dislike upon a lonely road, to meet a crowd of "navigators," who have been spending their day at the beer-house. isidora has passed through a peril of this kind, and remembers it--with less pain from the thought of the peril itself, than the ruin it has led to. but her danger is different now. the peace is past. there is war upon the wind. her pursuers are no longer intoxicated with the fire-water of their foes. they are thirsting for blood; and she flies to escape not only dishonour, but it may be death! on over that open plain, with all the speed she can take out of her horse,--all that whip, and spur, and voice can accomplish! she alone speaks. her pursuers are voiceless--silent as spectres! only once does she glance behind. there are still but four of them; but four is too many against one--and that one a woman! there is no hope, unless she can get within hail of the texans. she presses on for the _alhuehuete_. chapter sixty seven. los indios! the chased equestrian is within three hundred yards of the bluff, over which the tree towers. she once more glances behind her. "_dios me ampare_!" (god preserve me.) god preserve her! she will be too late! the foremost of her pursuers has lifted the lazo from his saddle horn: he is winding it over his head! before she can reach the head of the pass, the noose will be around her neck, and then-- and then, a sudden thought flashes into her mind--thought that promises escape from the threatened strangulation. the cliff that overlooks the alamo is nearer than the gorge, by which the creek bottom must be reached. she remembers that its crest is visible from the jacale. with a quick jerk upon the rein, she diverges from her course; and, instead of going on for the _alhuehuete_, she rides directly towards the bluff. the change puzzles her pursuers--at the same time giving them gratification. they well know the "lay" of the land. they understand the trending of the cliff; and are now confident of a capture. the leader takes a fresh hold of his lazo, to make more sure of the throw. he is only restrained from launching it, by the certainty she cannot escape. "_chingaro_!" mutters he to himself, "if she go much farther, she'll be over the precipice!" his reflection is false. she goes farther, but not over the precipice. with another quick pull upon the rein she has changed her course, and rides along the edge of it--so close as to attract the attention of the "tejanos" below, and elicit from zeb stump that quaint exclamation--only heard upon extraordinary occasions-- "geesus geehosofat!" as if in answer to the exclamation of the old hunter--or rather to the interrogatory with which he has followed it up--comes the cry of the strange equestrian who has shown herself on the cliff. "_los indios! los indios_!" no one who has spent three days in southern texas could mistake the meaning of that phrase--whatever his native tongue. it is the alarm cry which, for three hundred years, has been heard along three thousand miles of frontier, in three different languages--"les indiens! los indios! the indians!" dull would be the ear, slow the intellect, that did not at once comprehend it, along with the sense of its associated danger. to those who hear it at the jacale it needs no translation. they know that she, who has given utterance to it, is pursued by indians--as certain as if the fact had been announced in their own saxon vernacular. they have scarce time to translate it into this--even in thought--when the same voice a second time salutes their ears:--"tejanos! cavalleros! save me! save me! los indios! i am chased by a troop. they are behind me--close--close--" her speech, though continued, is no longer heard distinctly. it is no longer required to explain what is passing upon the plain above. she has cleared the first clump of tree tops by scarce twenty yards, when the leading savage shoots out from the same cover, and is seen, going in full gallop, against the clear sky. like a sling he spins the lazo loop around his head. so eager is he to throw it with sure aim, that he does not appear to take heed of what the fugitive has said--spoken as she went at full speed: for she made no stop, while calling out to the "tejanos." he may fancy it has been addressed to himself--a final appeal for mercy, uttered in a language he does not understand: for isidora had spoken in english. he is only undeceived, as the sharp crack of a rifle comes echoing out of the glen,--or perhaps a little sooner, as a stinging sensation in his wrist causes him to let go his lazo, and look wonderingly for the why! he perceives a puff of sulphureous smoke rising from below. a single glance is sufficient to cause a change in his tactics. in that glance he beholds a hundred men, with the gleam of a hundred gun barrels! his three followers see them at the same time; and as if moved by the same impulse, all four turn in their tracks, and gallop away from the cliff--quite as quickly as they have been approaching it. "'tur a pity too," says zeb stump, proceeding to reload his rifle. "if 't hedn't a been for the savin' o' her, i'd a let 'em come on down the gully. ef we ked a captered them, we mout a got somethin' out o' 'em consarnin' this queer case o' ourn. thur aint the smell o' a chance now. it's clur they've goed off; an by the time we git up yander, they'll be hellurd." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the sight of the savages has produced another quick change in the tableau formed in front of the mustanger's hut--a change squally sudden in the thoughts of those who compose it. the majority who deemed maurice gerald a murderer has become transformed into a minority; while those who believed him innocent are now the men whose opinions are respected. calhoun and his bullies are no longer masters of the situation; and on the motion of their chief the regulator jury is adjourned. the new programme is cast in double quick time. a score of words suffice to describe it. the accused is to be carried to the settlement--there to be tried according to the law of the land. and now for the indians--whose opportune appearance has caused this sudden change, both of sentiment and design. are they to be pursued? that of course. but when? upon the instant? prudence says, no. only four have been seen. but these are not likely to be alone. they may be the rear-guard of four hundred? "let us wait till the woman comes down," counsels one of the timid. "they have not followed her any farther. i think i can hear her riding this way through the gulley. of course she knows it--as it was she who directed us." the suggestion appears sensible to most upon the ground. they are not cowards. still there are but few of them, who have encountered the wild indian in actual strife; and many only know his more debased brethren in the way of trade. the advice is adopted. they stand waiting for the approach of isidora. all are now by their horses; and some have sought shelter among the trees. there are those who have an apprehension: that along with the mexican, or close after her, may still come a troop of comanches. a few are otherwise occupied--zeb stump among the number. he takes the gag from between the teeth of the respited prisoner, and unties the thongs hitherto holding him too fast. there is one who watches him with a strange interest, but takes no part in the proceeding. her part has been already played--perhaps too prominently. she shuns the risk of appearing farther conspicuous. where is the niece of don silvio mortimez? she has not yet come upon the ground! the stroke of her horse's hoof is no longer heard! there has been time--more than time--for her to have reached the jacale! her non-appearance creates surprise--apprehension--alarm. there are men there who admire the mexican maiden--it is not strange they should--some who have seen her before, and some who never saw her until that day. can it be, that she has been overtaken and captured? the interrogatory passes round. no one can answer it; though all are interested in the answer. the texans begin to feel something like shame. their gallantry was appealed to, in that speech sent them from the cliff, "tejanos! cavalleros!" has she who addressed it succumbed to the pursuer? is that beauteous form in the embrace of a paint-bedaubed savage? they listen with ears intent,--many with pulses that beat high, and hearts throbbing with a keen anxiety. they listen in vain. there is no sound of hoof--no voice of woman--nothing, except the champing of bitts heard close by their side! can it be that she is taken? now that the darker design is stifled within their breasts, the hostility against one of their own race is suddenly changed into a more congenial channel. their vengeance, rekindled, burns fiercer than ever--since it is directed against the hereditary foe. the younger and more ardent--among whom are the admirers of the mexican maiden--can bear the uncertainty no longer. they spring into their saddles, loudly declaring their determination to seek her--to save her, or perish in the attempt. who is to gainsay them? her pursuers--her captors perhaps--may be the very men they have been in search of--the murderers of henry poindexter! no one opposes their intent. they go off in search of isidora--in pursuit of the prairie pirates. those who remain are but few in number; though zeb stump is among them. the old hunter is silent, as to the expediency of pursuing the indians. he keeps his thoughts to himself: his only seeming care is to look after the invalid prisoner--still unconscious--still guarded by the regulators. zeb is not the only friend who remains true to the mustanger in his hour of distress. there are two others equally faithful. one a fair creature, who watches at a distance, carefully concealing the eager interest that consumes her. the other, a rude, almost ludicrous individual, who, close by his side, addresses the respited man as his "masther." the last is phelim, who has just descended from his perch among the parasites of an umbrageous oak--where he has for some time stayed--a silent spectator of all that has been transpiring. the change of situation has tempted him back to earth, and the performance of that duty for which he came across the atlantic. no longer lies our scene upon the alamo. in another hour the jacale is deserted--perhaps never more to extend its protecting roof over maurice the mustanger. chapter sixty eight. the disappointed campaigners. the campaign against the comanches proved one of the shortest--lasting only three or four days. it was discovered that these ishmaelites of the west did not mean war--at least, on a grand scale. their descent upon the settlements was only the freak of some young fellows, about to take out their degree as _braves_, desirous of signalising the event by "raising" a few scalps, and capturing some horses and horned cattle. forays of this kind are not unfrequent among the texan indians. they are made on private account--often without the knowledge of the chief, or elders of the tribe--just as an ambitious young mid, or ensign, may steal off with a score of companions from squadron or camp, to cut out an enemy's craft, or capture his picket guard. these _marauds_ are usually made by young indians out on a hunting party, who wish to return home with something to show besides the spoils of the chase; and the majority of the tribe is often ignorant of them till long after the event. otherwise, they might be interdicted by the elders; who, as a general thing, are averse to such _filibustering_ expeditions--deeming them not only imprudent, but often injurious to the interests of the community. only when successful are they applauded. on the present occasion several young comanches had taken out their war-diploma, by carrying back with them the scalps of a number of white women and boys. the horses and horned cattle were also collected; but these, being less convenient of transport than the light scalp-locks, had been recaptured. the red-skinned filibusters, overtaken by a detachment of mounted rifles, among the hills of the san saba, were compelled to abandon their four-footed booty, and only saved their own skins by a forced retreat into the fastnesses of the "llano estacado." to follow them beyond the borders of this sterile tract would have required a _commissariat_ less hastily established than that with which the troops had sallied forth; and, although the relatives of the scalped settlers clamoured loudly for retaliation, it could only be promised them after due time and preparation. on discovering that the comanches had retreated beyond their neutral ground, the soldiers of uncle sam had no choice but to return to their ordinary duties--each detachment to its own fort--to await further commands from the head-quarters of the "department." the troops belonging to port inge--entrusted with the guardianship of the country as far as the rio nueces--were surprised on getting back to their cantonment to discover that they had been riding in the wrong direction for an encounter with the indians! some of them were half mad with disappointment: for there were several--young hancock among the number--who had not yet run their swords through a red-skin, though keenly desirous of doing so! no doubt there is inhumanity in the idea. but it must be remembered, that these ruthless savages have given to the white man peculiar provocation, by a thousand repetitions of three diabolical crimes--rape, rapine, and murder. to talk of their being the aborigines of the country--the real, but dispossessed, owners of the soil--is simple nonsense. this sophism, of the most spurious kind, has too long held dominion over the minds of men. the whole human race has an inherent right to the whole surface of the earth: and if any infinitesimal fraction of the former by chance finds itself idly roaming over an extended portion of the latter, their exclusive claim to it is almost too absurd for argument--even with the narrowest-minded disciple of an aborigines society. admit it--give the _hunter_ his half-dozen square miles--for he will require that much to maintain him--leave him in undisputed possession to all eternity--and millions of fertile acres must remain untilled, to accommodate this whimsical theory of _national_ right. nay, i will go further, and risk reproach, by asserting:--that not only the savage, so called, but civilised people should be unreservedly dispossessed-- whenever they show themselves incapable of turning to a good account the resources which nature has placed within their limits. the _exploitation_ of earth's treasures is a question not confined to nations. it concerns the whole family of mankind. in all this there is not one iota of agrarian doctrine--not a thought of it. he who makes these remarks is the last man to lend countenance to _communism_. it is true that, at the time spoken of, there were ruffians in texas who held the life of a red-skin at no higher value than an english gamekeeper does that of a stoat, or any other vermin, that trespasses on his preserves. no doubt these ruffians are there still: for ten years cannot have effected much change in the morality of the texan frontier. but, alas! we must now be a little cautious about calling names. our own story of jamaica--by heaven! the blackest that has blotted the pages of history--has whitewashed these border _filibusteros_ to the seeming purity of snow! if things are to be judged by comparison, not so fiendish, then, need appear the fact, that the young officers of fort inge were some little chagrined at not having an opportunity to slay a score or so of red-skins. on learning that, during their absence, indians had been seen on the other side, they were inspired by a new hope. they might yet find the opportunity of fleshing their swords, transported without stain--without sharpening, too--from the military school of west point. it was a fresh disappointment to them, when a party came in on the same day--civilians who had gone in pursuit of the savages seen on the alamo--and reported: that no indians had been there! they came provided with proofs of their statement, which otherwise would have been received with incredulity--considering what had occurred. the proofs consisted in a collection of miscellaneous articles--an odd lot, as an auctioneer would describe it--wigs of horse-hair, cocks' feathers stained blue, green, or scarlet, breech-clouts of buckskin, mocassins of the same material, and several packages of paint, all which they had found concealed in the cavity of a cottonwood tree! there could be no new campaign against indians; and the aspiring spirits of fort inge were, for the time, forced to content themselves with such incidents as the situation afforded. notwithstanding its remoteness from any centre of civilised life, these were at the time neither tame nor uninteresting. there were several subjects worth thinking and talking about. there was the arrival, still of recent date, of the most beautiful woman ever seen upon the alamo; the mysterious disappearance and supposed assassination of her brother; the yet more mysterious appearance of a horseman without a head; the trite story of a party of white men "playing indian"; and last, though not of least interest, the news that the suspected murderer had been caught, and was now inside the walls of their own guardhouse--mad as a maniac! there were other tales told to the disappointed campaigners--of sufficient interest to hinder them from thinking: that at fort inge they had returned to dull quarters. the name of isidora covarubio do los llanos--with her masculine, but magnificent, beauty--had become a theme of conversation, and something was also said, or surmised, about her connection with the mystery that occupied all minds. the details of the strange scenes upon the alamo--the discovery of the mustanger upon his couch--the determination to hang him--the act delayed by the intervention of louise poindexter--the respite due to the courage of zeb stump--were all points of the most piquant interest--suggestive of the wildest conjectures. each became in turn the subject of converse and commentary, but none was discussed with more earnestness than that which related to the innocence, or guilt, of the man accused of murder. "murder," said the philosophic captain sloman, "is a crime which, in my opinion, maurice the mustanger is incapable of committing. i think, i know the fellow well enough to be sure about that." "you'll admit," rejoined crossman, of the rifles, "that the circumstances are strong against him? almost conclusive, i should say." crossman had never felt friendly towards the young irishman. he had an idea, that on one occasion the commissary's niece--the belle of the fort--had looked too smilingly on the unknown adventurer. "i consider it anything but conclusive," replied sloman. "there's no doubt about young poindexter being dead, and having been murdered. every one believes that. well; who else was likely to have done it? the cousin swears to having overheard a quarrel between him and gerald." "that precious cousin would swear to anything that suited his purpose," interposed hancock, of the dragoons. "besides, his own shindy with the same man is suggestive of suspicion--is it not?" "and if there _was_ a quarrel," argued the officer of infantry, "what then? it don't follow there was a murder." "then you think the fellow may have killed poindexter in a fair fight?" "something of the sort is possible, and even probable. i will admit that much." "but what did they have a difficulty about?" asked hancock. "i heard that young poindexter was on friendly terms with the horse-hunter-- notwithstanding what had happened between him and calhoun. what could they have quarrelled about?" "a singular interrogation on _your_ part, lieutenant hancock!" answered the infantry officer, with a significant emphasis on the pronoun. "as if men ever quarrelled about anything except--" "except women," interrupted the dragoon with a laugh. "but which woman, i wonder? it could not be anything relating to young poindexter's sister?" "_quien sabe_?" answered sloman, repeating the spanish phrase with an ambiguous shrug of the shoulders. "preposterous!" exclaimed crossman. "a horse-catcher daring to set his thoughts on miss poindexter! preposterous!" "what a frightful aristocrat you are, crossman! don't you know that love is a natural democrat; and mocks your artificial ideas of distinction. i don't say that in this case there's been anything of the kind. miss poindexter's not the only woman that might have caused a quarrel between the two individuals in question. there are other damsels in the settlement worth getting angry about--to say nothing of our own fair following in the fort; and why not--" "captain sloman," petulantly interrupted the lieutenant of rifles. "i must say that, for a man of your sense, you talk very inconsiderately. the ladies of the garrison ought to be grateful to you for the insinuation." "what insinuation, sir?" "do you suppose it likely that there's one of them would condescend to speak to the person you've named?" "which? i've named two." "you understand me well enough, sloman; and i you. our ladies will, no doubt, feel highly complimented at having their names connected with that of a low adventurer, a horse-thief, and suspected assassin!" "maurice the mustanger may be the last--suspected, and that is all. he is neither of the two first; and as for our ladies being above speech with him, in that as in many other things, you may be mistaken, mr crossman. i've seen more of this young irishman than you--enough to satisfy me that, so far as _breeding_ goes, he may compare notes with the best of us. our grand dames needn't be scared at the thought of his acquaintance; and, since you have raised the question, i don't think they would shy from it--some of them at least--if it were offered them. it never has. so far as i have observed, the young fellow has behaved with a modesty that betokens the true gentleman. i have seen him in their presence more than once, and he has conducted himself towards them as if fully sensible of his position. for that matter, i don't think he cares a straw about one or other of them." "indeed! how fortunate for those, who might otherwise have been his rivals!" "perhaps it is," quietly remarked the captain of infantry. "who knows?" asked hancock, intentionally giving a turn to the ticklish conversation. "who knows but the cause of quarrel--if there's been one--might not be this splendid senorita so much talked about? i haven't seen her myself; but, by all accounts, she's just the sort to make two fellows as jealous as a pair of tiger-cats." "it might be--who knows?" drawled crossman, who found contentment in the thought that the handsome irishman might have his amorous thoughts turned in any other direction than towards the commissary's quarters. "they've got him in the guard-house," remarked hancock, stating a fact that had just been made known to him: for the conversation above detailed occurred shortly after their return from the comanche campaign. "his droll devil of a serving man is along with him. what's more; the major has just issued an order to double the guard! what does it mean, captain sloman--you who know so much of this fellow and his affairs? surely there's no danger of his making an attempt to steal out of his prison?" "not likely," replied the infantry officer, "seeing that he hasn't the slightest idea that he's inside of one. i've just been to the guard-house to have a look at him. he's mad as a march hare; and wouldn't know his own face in a looking-glass." "mad! in what way?" asked hancock and the others, who were yet but half enlightened about the circumstances of the mustanger's capture. "a brain fever upon him--delirious?" "is that why the guards have been doubled? devilish queer if it is. the major himself must have gone mad!" "maybe it's the suggestion--command i should rather say--of the majoress. ha! ha! ha!" "but what _does_ it mean? is the old maje really afraid of his getting out of the guard-house?" "no--not that, i fancy. more likely an apprehension of somebody else getting into it." "ah! you mean, that--" "i mean that for maurice the mustanger there's more safety inside than out. some queer characters are about; and there's been talk of another lynch trial. the regulators either repent of having allowed him a respite; or there's somebody hard at work in bringing about this state of public opinion. it's lucky for him that the old hunter has stood his friend; and it's but a continuation of his good luck that we've returned so opportunely. another day, and we might have found the guardhouse empty--so far as its present occupants are concerned. now, thank god! the poor fellow shall have a fair trial." "when is it to take place?" "whenever he has recovered his senses, sufficiently to know that he's being tried!" "it may be weeks before that." "and it may be only days--hours. he don't appear to be very bad--that is, bodily. it's his mind that's out of order--more, perhaps, from some strange trouble that has come over him, than any serious hurt he has received. a day may make all the difference; and, from what i've just heard, the regulators will insist on his being tried as soon as he shows a return to consciousness. they say, they won't wait for him to recover from his wounds!" "maybe he'll be able to tell a story that'll clear him. i hope so." this was said by hancock. "i doubt it," rejoined crossman, with an incredulous shake of the head. "_nous verrons_!" "i'm sure of it," said sloman. "_nos veremos_!" he added, speaking in a tone that seemed founded less upon confidence than a wish that was father to the thought. chapter sixty nine. mystery and mourning. there is mourning in the mansion of casa del corvo, and mystery among the members of woodley poindexter's family. though now only three in number, their intercourse is less frequent than before, and marked by a degree of reserve that must spring from some deep-seated cause. they meet only at the hour of meals--then conversing only on such topics as cannot well be shunned. there is ample explanation of the sorrow, and much of the solemnity. the death--no longer doubted--of an only son--an only brother-- unexpected and still unexplained--should account for the melancholy mien both of father and daughter. it might also explain the shadow seated constantly on the brow of the cousin. but there is something beyond this. each appears to act with an irksome restraint in the presence of the others--even during the rare occasions, on which it becomes necessary to converse on the family misfortune! beside the sorrow common to all three, they appear to have separate griefs that do not, and cannot, commingle. the once proud planter stays within doors--pacing from room to room, or around, the enclosed corridor--bending beneath a weight of woe, that has broken down his pride, and threatens to break his heart. even strong paternal affection, cruelly bereaved, can scarce account for the groans, oft accompanied by muttered curses, that are heard to issue from his lips! calhoun rides abroad as of yore; making his appearance only at the hours of eating and sleeping, and not regularly then. for a whole day, and part of a night, he has been absent from the place. no one knows where; no one has the right to inquire. louise confines herself to her own room, though not continuously. there are times when she may be seen ascending to the azotea--alone and in silent meditation. there, nearer to heaven, she seeks solace for the sorrows that have assailed her upon earth--the loss of a beloved brother--the fear of losing one far more beloved, though in a different sense--perhaps, a little also, the thought of a scandal already attaching to her name. of these three sorrows the second is the strongest. the last but little troubles her; and the first, for a while keenly felt, is gradually growing calmer. but the second--the supreme pain of all--is but strengthened and intensified by time! she knows that maurice gerald is shut up within the walls of a prison-- the strong walls of a military guard-house. it is not their strength that dismays her. on the contrary, she has fears for their weakness! she has reasons for her apprehension. she has heard of the rumours that are abroad; rumours of sinister significance. she has heard talk of a second trial, under the presidency of judge lynch and his rude coadjutors--not the same judge lynch who officiated in the alamo, nor all of the same jury; but a court still less scrupulous than that of the regulators; composed of the ruffianism, that at any hour can be collected within the bounds of a border settlement--especially when proximate to a military post. the reports that have thus gone abroad are to some a subject of surprise. moderate people see no reason why the prisoner should be again brought to trial in that irregular way. the facts, that have late come to light, do not alter the case--at least, in any way to strengthen the testimony against him. if the four horsemen seen were not indians--and this has been clearly shown by the discovery of the disguises--it is not the less likely that they have had to do with the death of young poindexter. besides, there is nothing to connect _them_ with the mustanger, any more than if they had been real comanches. why, then, this antipathy against the respited prisoner, for the second time surging up? there is a strangeness about the thing that perplexes a good many people. there are a few that understand, or suspect, the cause. a very few: perhaps only three individuals. two of them are zeb stump and louise poindexter; the third captain cassius calhoun. the old hunter, with instinct keenly on the alert, has discovered some underhanded action--the actors being miguel diaz and his men, associated with a half-score of like characters of a different race--the "rowdies" of the settlement. zeb has traced the action to its instigator--the ex-captain of volunteer cavalry. he has communicated his discovery to the young creole, who is equal to the understanding of it. it is the too clear comprehension of its truth that now inspires her with a keen solicitude. anxiously she awaits every word of news--watches the road leading from the fort to casa del corvo, as if the sentence of her own death, or the security of her life, hung upon the lips of some courier to come that way! she dares not show herself at the prison. there are soldiers on guard, and spectators around it--a crowd of the idle curious, who, in all countries, seem to feel some sort of sombre enjoyment in the proximity of those who have committed great crimes. there is an additional piquancy in the circumstances of this one. the criminal is insane; or, at all events, for the time out of his senses. the guard-house doors are at all hours besieged--to the great discomfort of the sentries--by people eager to listen to the mutterings of the delirious man. a lady could not pass in without having scores of eyes turned inquiringly upon her. louise poindexter cannot run the gauntlet of those looks without risk to her reputation. left to herself, perhaps she would have attempted it. watched by a father whose suspicions are already awakened; by a near relation, equally interested in preserving her spotless, before the eyes of the world--she has no opportunity for the act of imprudence. she can only stay at home; now shut up in her solitary chamber, solaced by the remembrance of those ravings to which she had listened upon the alamo; now upon the azotea, cheered by the recollection of that sweet time spent among the _mezquite_ trees, the spot itself almost discernible, where she had surrendered the proudest passion of her heart; but saddened by the thought that he to whom she surrendered it is now humiliated--disgraced--shut up within the walls of a gaol--perchance to be delivered from it only unto death! to her it was happy tidings, when, upon the morning of the fourth day, zeb stump made his appearance at casa del corro, bringing the intelligence; that the "hoss-sogers hed kum back to the fort." there was significance in the news thus ungrammatically imparted. there was no longer a danger of the perpetration of that foul act hitherto apprehended: a prisoner taken from his guards, not for rescue, but ruin! "ee needn't be uneezy 'beout thet ere ewent," said zeb, speaking with a confidence he had not shown for some time. "thur's no longer a danger o' it comin' to pass, miss lewaze. i've tuk preecaushins agin it." "precautions! how, zeb?" "wal; fust place, i've seed the major clost arter his comin' back, an gied him a bit o' my mind. i tolt him the hul story, as fur's i know it myself. by good luck he ain't agin the young fellur, but the tother way i reck'n. wal, i tolt him o' the goin's on o' the hul crew--amerikins, mexikins, an all o' them--not forgettin' thet ugly spanyard o' the name o' dee-ez, thet's been one o' the sarciest o' the lot. the ree-sult's been thet the major hez doubled the sentries roun' the prison, an's goin' to keep 'em doubled." "i am so glad! you think there is no longer any fear from that quarter?" "if you mean the quarter o' mister migooel dee-ez, i kin swar to it. afore he thinks o' gittin' any b'dy else out o' a prison, he's got to git hisself out." "what; diaz in prison! how? when? where?" "you've asked three seprit questyuns, miss lewaze, all o' a heep. wal; i reck'n the conveenientest way to answer 'em 'll be to take 'em backurds. an' fust as to the _whar_. as to thet, thur's but one prison in these parts, as 'ud be likely to hold him. thet is the guard-house at the fort. he's thur." "along with--" "i know who ye're goin' to name--the young fellur. jest so. they're in the same buildin', tho' not 'zackly in the same room. thur's a purtition atween 'em; tho' for thet matter they kin convarse, ef they're so inclined. thur's three others shet up along wi' the mexikin--his own cussed cummarades. the three 'll have somethin' to talk 'beout 'mong themselves, i reck'n." "this is good news, zeb. you told me yesterday that diaz was active in--" "gittin' hisself into a scrape, which he hev been successful in effectuatin'. he's got hisself into the jug, or someb'y else hev did thet bizness for him." "but how--when--you've not told me?" "geehosophat! miss lewaze. gi' me a leetle time. i hain't drew breath yit, since i kim in. yur second questyun war _when_. it air eezy answered. 'beout a hour agone thet ere varmint wur trapped an locked up. i war at the shettin' o' the door ahint him, an kum straight custrut hyur arter it war done." "but you have not yet said why he is arrested." "i hain't hed a chance. it air a longish story, an 'll take a leetle time in the tellin'. will ye listen to it now, or arter--?" "after what, mr stump?" "wal, miss lewaze, i only meened arter--arter--i git the ole mare put up. she air stannin' thur, as if she'd like to chaw a yeer o' corn, an somethin' to wet it down. both she 'nd me's been on a longish tramp afore we got back to the fort; which we did scace a hour ago." "pardon me, dear mr stump, for not thinking of it. pluto; take mr stump's horse to the stable, and see that it is fed. florinde! florinde! what will you eat, mr stump?" "wal, as for thet, miss lewaze, thank ye all the same, but i ain't so partikler sharp set. i war only thinkin' o' the maar. for myself, i ked go a kupple o' hours longer 'ithout eetin', but ef thur's sech a thing as a smell o' monongaheely 'beout the place, it 'ud do this ole karkidge o' mine a power o' good." "monongahela? plenty of it. surely you will allow me to give you something better?" "better 'n monongaheely!" "yes. some sherry--champagne--brandy if you prefer it." "let them drink brandy as like it, and kin' git it drinkable. thur may be some o' it good enuf; an ef thur air, i'm shor it'll be foun' in the house o' a peintdexter. i only knows o' the sort the sutler keeps up at the fort. ef thur ever wur a medicine, thet's one. it 'ud rot the guts out o' a alleygatur. no; darn thur french lickers; an specially thur brandy. gi' me the pure corn juice; an the best o' all, thet as comes from pittsburgh on the monongaheely." "florinde! florinde!" it was not necessary to tell the waiting-maid for what she was wanted. the presence of zeb stump indicated the service for which she had been summoned. without waiting to receive the order she went off, and the moment after returned, carrying a decanter half-filled with what zeb called the "pure corn juice," but which was in reality the essence of rye--for from this grain is distilled the celebrated "monongahela." zeb was not slow to refresh himself. a full third of the contents of the decanter were soon put out of sight--the other two-thirds remaining for future potations that might be required in the course of the narration upon which he was about to enter. chapter seventy. go, zeb, and god speed you! the old hunter never did things in a hurry. even his style of drinking was not an exception; and although there was no time wasted, he quaffed the monongahela in a formal leisurely manner. the creole, impatient to hear what he had to relate, did not wait for him to resume speech. "tell me, dear zeb," said she, after directing her maid to withdraw, "why have they arrested this mexican--miguel diaz i mean? i think i know something of the man. i have reasons." "an' you ain't the only purson may hev reezuns for knowin' him, miss lewaze. yur brother--but never mind 'beout that--leastwise not now. what zeb stump _do_ know, or strongly surspect, air, thet this same-mentioned migooel dee-ez hev had somethin' to do wi'--you know what i'm refarrin' to?" "go on, mr stump!" "wal, the story air this. arter we kim from the alamo crik, the fellurs that went in sarch o' them injuns, foun' out they wan't injuns at all. ye hev heern that yurself. from the fixins that war diskevered in the holler tree, it air clur that what we seed on the bluff war a party o' whites. i hed a surspishun o't myself--soon as i seed them curds they'd left ahint 'em in the shanty." "it was the same, then, who visited the jacale at night--the same phalim saw?" "ne'er a doubt o' it. them same mexikins." "what reason have you to think they were mexicans?" "the best o' all reezuns. i foun' 'em out to be; traced the hul kit o' 'em to thur _cache_." the young creole made no rejoinder. zeb's story promised a revelation that might be favourable to her hopes. she stood resignedly waiting for him to continue. "ye see, the curds, an also some words, the which the irish war able to sort o' pernounce, arter a fashun o' his own, tolt me they must a been o' the yeller-belly breed; an sartint 'bout that much, i war able to gie a tol'able guess as to whar they hed kim from. i know'd enuf o' the mexikins o' these parts to think o' four as answered thar descripshun to a t. as to the injun duds, thar warn't nuthin' in them to bamboozle me. arter this, i ked a gone straight to the hul four fellurs, an pinted 'em out for sartin. one o' 'em, for sure sartin. on him i'd made my mark. i war confident o' havin' did thet." "your mark! how, zeb?" "ye remimber the shot i fired from the door o' the shanty?" "oh, certainly! i did not see the indians. i was under the trees at the time. i saw you discharge your rifle at something." "wal, miss lewaze; this hyur coon don't often dischurge thet thur weepun 'ithout drawin' blood. i know'd i hut the skunk; but it war rayther fur for the carry o' the piece, an i reckon'd the ball war a bit spent. f'r all that, i know'd it must a stung him. i seed him squirm to the shot, an i says to myself: ef ther ain't a hole through his hide somewhar, this coon won't mind changin' skins wi' him. wal, arter they kim home wi' the story o' whites instead o' red-skins, i hed a tol'able clur idee o' who the sham injuns wur, an ked a laid my claws on 'em at any minnit. but i didn't." "and why not, mr stump? surely you haven't allowed them to get away? they might be the very men who are guilty of my poor brother's--" "that's jest what this coon thort, an it war for that reezun i let 'em slide. there war another reezun besides. i didn't much like goin' fur from the port, leest somethin' ugly mout turn up in my absince. you unnerstan'? there war another reezun still for not prospectin' arter them jest then. i wanted to make shur o' my game." "and you have?" "shur as shootin'. i guessed thur wan't goin' to be any rain, an thurfor thur war no immeedyit hurry as to what i intended doin'. so i waited till the sogers shed get back, an i ked safely leave him in the guard-house. soon as they kim in, i tuk the ole maar and rud out to the place whar our fellurs had struck upon the fixing. i eezy foun' it by thur descripshun. wal; as they'd only got that greenhorn, spangler, to guide 'em, i war putty sure the sign hedn't been more'n helf read; an that _i'd_ get somethin' out o' it, beside what they'd brought away." "i wan't disappinted. the durndest fool as ever set fut upon a purayra, mout a follered the back track o' them make-believe kimanchees. a storekeeper ked a traced it acrost the purayra, though it appears neyther mister spangler nor any o' the others did. i foun' it eezy as fallin' off o' a log, not 'ithstandin' thet the sarchers had rud all over it. i tracked every hoss o' the four counterfits to his own stable." "after that?" "arter doin' thet i hed a word wi' the major; an in helf an hour at the most the four beauties wur safe shot up in the guardhouse--the chief o' 'em bein' jugged fust, leest he mout get wind o' what wur goin' forrard, an sneak out o' the way. i wan't fur astray 'beout mister migooel dee-ez bearin' my mark. we foun' the tar o' a bullet through the fleshy part o' his dexter wing; an thet explained why he wur so quick at lettin' go his laryette." "it was he, then!" mechanically remarked louise, as she stood reflecting. "very strange!" she continued, still muttering the words to herself. "he it was i saw in the chapparal glade! yes, it must have been! and the woman--this mexican--isidora? ah! there is some deep mystery in all this--some dark design! who can unravel it?" "tell me, dear zeb," she asked, stepping closer to the old hunter, and speaking with a cartain degree of hesitancy. "that woman--the mexican lady i mean--who--who was out there. do you know if she has often visited him?" "him! which him, miss lewaze?" "mr gerald, i mean." "she mout, an she moutn't--'ithout my knowin' eyther one or the tother. i ain't often thur myself. the place air out o' my usooal huntin' ground, an i only go now an then for the sake o' a change. the crik's fust rate for both deer an gobbler. if ye ask my opeenyun, i'd say that thet ere gurl heven't never been thur afore. leestwise, i hain't heern o' it; an eft hed been so, i reckun irish pheelum ud a hed somethin' to say abeout it. besides, i hev other reezuns for thinkin' so. i've only heern o' one o' the shemale sex bein' on a visit to thet shanty." "who?" quickly interrogated the creole, the instant after regretting that she had asked the question--the colour coming to her cheeks, as she noticed the significant glance with which zeb had accompanied his concluding remark. "no matter," she continued, without waiting for the answer. "so, zeb," she went on, giving a quick turn to the conversation, "you think that these men have had to do with that which is causing sorrow to all of us,--these mexicans?" "to tell ye the truth, miss lewaze, i don't know zackly what to think. it air the most musteeriousest consarn as iver kim to pass on these hyur purayras. sometimes i hev the idea that the mexikins must a did it; while at others, i'm in the opposite way o' thinkin', an thet some'dy else hev hed a han' in the black bizness. i won't say who." "not _him_, zeb; not _him_!" "not the mowstanger. no, neer a bit o' thet. spite o' all that's sayed agin him, i hain't the leest surspishun o' his innersense." "oh! how is he to prove it? it is said, that the testimony is all against him! no one to speak a word in his behalf!" "wal, it ain't so sartint as to thet. keepin' my eye upon the others, an his prison; i hain't hed much chance o' gettin' abeout. thur's a opportunity now; an i mean to make use o' it. the purayra's a big book, miss peintdexter--a wonderful big book--for them as knows how to read the print o't. if not much o' a scholar otherways, zeb'lon stump hev larnt to do thet. thur may be some testymoney that mout help him, scattered over the musquit grass--jest as i've heern a methody preecher say, thur `war sarmints in stones, an books in runnin' brutes.' eft air so, thur oughter be somethin' o' the kind scared up on the alamo crik." "you think you might discover some traces?" "wal; i'm goin' out to hev a look 'roun' me--speecially at the place whur i foun' the young fellur in the claws o' the spotted painter. i oughter gone afore now, but for the reezun i've tolt ye. thank the awlmighty! thur's been no wet--neer y drop; an whatsomiver sign's been made for a week past, kin be understood as well, as if it war did yisterday--that is by them as knows how to read it. i must start straight away, miss lewaze. i jest runned down to tell ye what hed been done at the fort. thur's no time to be throwed away. they let me in this mornin' to see the young fellur; an i'm sartin his head air gettin' clurrer. soon as it air all right, the reg'lators say, they'll insist on the trial takin' place. it may be in less'n three days; an i must git back afore it begins." "go, zeb, and god speed you on your generous errand! come back with proofs of _his_ innocence, and ever after i shall feel indebted to you for--for--more than life!" chapter seventy one. the sorell horse. inspired by this passionate appeal, the hunter hastened towards the stable, where he had stalled his unique specimen of horseflesh. he found the "critter" sonorously shelling some corn-cobs, which pluto had placed liberally before her. pluto himself was standing by her side. contrary to his usual habit, the sable groom was silent: though with an air anything but tranquil. he looked rather _triste_ than excited. it might be easily explained. the loss of his young master--by pluto much beloved--the sorrow of his young mistress, equally estimated-- perhaps some scornful speeches which he had lately been treated to from the lips of morinda--and still more likely a kick he had received from the boot-toe of captain cassius--for several days assuming sole mastery over the mansion--amply accounted for the unquiet expression observable on his countenance. zeb was too much occupied with his own thoughts to notice the sorrowful mien of the domestic. he was even in too great a hurry to let the old mare finish her meal of maize, which she stood greatly in need of. grasping her by the snout, he stuck the rusty snaffle between her teeth; pulled her long ears through the cracked leathern headstraps; and, turning her in the stall, was about to lead her out. it was a reluctant movement on the part of the mare--to be dragged away from such provender as she rarely chanced to get between her jaws. she did not turn without a struggle; and zeb was obliged to pull vigorously on the bridle-rein before he could detach her muzzle from the manger. "ho! ho! mass' tump!" interposed pluto. "why you be go 'way in dat big hurry? de poor ole ma' she no half got u'm feed. why you no let her fill her belly wif de corn? ha! ha! it do her power o' good." "han't got time, nigger. goin' off on a bit o' a jurney. got abeout a hunderd mile to make in less 'an a kupple o' hours." "ho! ho! dat ere de fassest kind o' trabbelin'. you 'm jokin', mass' tump?" "no, i ain't." "gorramity! wa--dey do make won'full journey on dese hyur prairas. i reck'n dat ere hoss must a trabbled _two_ hunner mile de odder night." "what hoss?" "de ole sorrel dere--in dat furrest 'tand from de doos--massa cahoon hoss." "what makes ye think he travelled two hunder mile?" "kase he turn home all kibbered ober wif de froff. beside, he wa _so_ done up he scace able walk, when dis chile lead um down to de ribba fo' gib um drink. hee 'tagger like new-drop calf. ho! ho! he wa broke down--he wa!" "o' what night air ye palaverin', plute?" "wha night? le'ss see! why, ob coas de night massa henry wa missed from de plantashun. dat same night in de mornin', 'bout an hour atter de sun git up into de hebbings. i no see de ole sorrel afore den, kase i no out ob my skeeta-bar till after daylight. den i kum 'cross to de 'table hya, an den i see dat quadrumpid all kibbered ober wif sweet an froff--lookin' like he'd swimmed through de big ribba, an pantin' 's if he jes finish a fo' mile race on de metairie course at new orlean." "who had him out thet night?" "doan know, mass' tump. only dat nobody 'lowed to ride de sorrel 'cept massa cahoon hisself. ho! ho! ne'er a body 'lowed lay leg ober dat critter." "why, wan't it himself that tuk the anymal out?" "doan know, massa tump; doan know de why nor de whafor. dis chile neider see de cap'n take um out nor fotch um in." "if yur statement air true 'beout his bein' in sech a sweat, someb'dy must a hed him out, an been ridin' o' him." "ha! ha! someb'dy muss, dat am certing." "looke hyur, plute! ye ain't a bad sort o' a darkie, though your skin air o' a sut colour. i reck'n you're tellin' the truth; an ye don't know who rud out the sorrel that night. but who do ye _think_ it war? i'm only axin' because, as ye know, mr peintdexter air a friend o' mine, an i don't want his property to be abused--no more what belongs to capen calhoun. some o' the field niggers, i reck'n, hev stole the anymal out o' the stable, an hev been ridin' it all roun' the country. that's it, ain't it?" "well, no, mass' tump. dis chile doan believe dat am it. de fiel' hands not 'lowed inside hyur. _dey_ darn't kum in to de 'table no how. 'twan't any nigger upon dis plantashun as tooked out de sorrel dat night." "durn it, then, who ked a tuk him out? maybe the overseer? war it him d'ye think?" "'twan't him needer." "who then ked it be; unless it war the owner o' the hoss hisself? if so, thur's an end o' it. he hed the right to ride his critter wharever he pleased, an gallop it to hell ef thet war agreeable to him. it ain't no bizness o' myen." "ho! ho! nor myen, needer, mass' tump. wish i'd thought dat way dis mornin'." "why do ye weesh that? what happened this mornin' to change yur tune?" "ho! what happen dis mornin'? dar happen to dis nigga a great misfortin'. ho!--ho! berry great misfortin'." "what war it?" "golly, massa tump, i'se got kicked--dis berry mornin', jes 'bout an hour arter twelve o'clock in de day." "kicked?" "dat i did shoo--all round de 'table." "oh! by the hosses! which o' the brutes kicked ye?" "ho!--ho! you mistaken! not any ob de hosses, but de massa ob dem all--'cept little spotty da, de which he doan't own. i wa kicked by mass' cahoon." "the hell ye wur! for what reezun? ye must hev _been_ misbehavin' yurself, nigger?" "dis nigga wan't mis-b'avin' 't all; not as he knows on. i only ask de cap'n what put de ole sorrel in such a dreful condishin dat ere night, an what make 'im be tired down. he say it not my bizness; an den he kick me; an den he larrup me wif de cow-hide; an den he threaten; an den he tell me, if i ebber 'peak bout dat same ting odder time, he gib me hunder lashes ob de wagon whip. he swa; oh! how he swa! dis chile nebba see mass cahoon so mad--nebba, in all 'im life!" "but whar's he now? i don't see him nowhar' beout the premises; an i reck'n he ain't rud out, seein' as the sorrel's hyur?" "golly, yes, mass tump; he jess am rode out at dis time. he ob late go berry much away from de house an tay long time." "a hossback?" "jess so. he go on de steel grey. ha!--ha! he doan' ride de sorrel much now. he hain't mount 'im once since de night de ole hoss wa out-- dat night we been 'peakin' 'bout. maybe he tink he hab enuf hard ridin' den, an need long 'pell ob ress." "look'ee hyur, plute," said zeb, after standing silent for a second or two, apparently engaged in some abstruse calculation. "arter all, i reck'n i'd better let the ole maar hev another yeer or two o' the corn. she's got a long spell o' travellin' afore her; an she mout break down on the jurney. the more haste air sometimes the wusser speed; an thurfor, i kalkerlate, i'd better gie the critter her time. while she's munchin' a mouthful, i ked do the same myself. 'spose, then, you skoot acrosst to the kitchen, an see ef thur ain't some chawin' stuff thur--a bit o' cold meat an a pone o' corn bread 'll do. yur young mistress wanted me to hev somethin' to eet; but i war skeert abeout delayin', an refused. now, while i'm waitin' on the maar, i reck'n i ked pick a bone,--jest to pass the time." "sartin' ye cud, mass tump. i go fotch 'im in de hundreth part ob an instant." so saying the black-skinned jehu started off across the _patio_, leaving zeb stump sole "master of the stole." the air of indifference with which he had concluded his dialogue with pluto disappeared, the moment the latter was outside the door. it had been altogether assumed: as was proved by the earnest attitude that instantly replaced it. striding across the paved causeway, that separated the two rows of stalls, he entered that occupied by the sorrel. the animal shied off, and stood trembling against the wall--perhaps awed by the look of resolution with which the hunter had approached it. "stan' still, ye brute!" chided zeb. "i don't mean no harm to _you_, tho' by yur looks i reck'n ye're as vicious as yur master. stan' still, i say, an let's hev a look at yur fut-gear!" so saying, he stooped forward, and made an attempt to lay hold of one of the fore-legs. it was unsuccessful. the horse suddenly drew up his hoof; and commenced hammering the flags with it, snorting--as if in fear that some trick was about to be played upon him. "durn your ugly karkidge!" cried zeb, angrily venting the words. "why don't ye stan' still? who's goin' to hurt ye? come, ole critter!" he continued coaxingly, "i only want to see how youv'e been shod." again he attempted to lift the hoof, but was prevented by the restive behaviour of the horse. "wal, this air a difeequilty i didn't expeck," muttered he, glancing round to see how it might be overcome. "what's to be did? it'll never do to hev the nigger help me--nor yet see what i'm abeout--the which he will ef i don't get quick through wi' it. dog-gone the hoss! how am i to git his feet up?" for a short while he stood considering, his countenance showing a peevish impatience. "cuss the critter!" he again exclaimed. "i feel like knockin' him over whar he stan's. ha! now i hev it, if the nigger will only gie time. i hope the wench will keep him waitin'. durn ye! i'll make ye stan' still, or choke ye dead ef ye don't. wi' this roun' yur jugewlar, i reck'n ye won't be so skittish." while speaking he had lifted the trail-rope from his own saddle; and, throwing its noose over the head of the sorrel, he shook it down till it encircled the animal's neck. then hauling upon the other end, he drew it taut as a bowstring. the horse for a time kept starting about the stall, and snorting with rage. but his snorts were soon changed into a hissing sound, that with difficulty escaped through his nostrils; and his wrath resolved itself into terror. the rope tightly compressing his throat was the cause of the change. zeb now approached him without fear; and, after making the slip fast, commenced lifting his feet one after the other--scrutinising each, in great haste, but at the same time with sufficient care. he appeared to take note of the shape, the shoeing, the number and relative position of the nails--in short, everything that might suggest an idiosyncrasy, or assist in a future identification. on coming to the off hind foot--which he did last of the four--an exclamation escaped him that proclaimed some satisfactory surprise. it was caused by the sight of a broken shoe--nearly a quarter of which was missing from the hoof, the fracture having occurred at the second nail from the canker. "ef i'd know'd o' _you_," he muttered in apostrophe to the imperfect shoe, "i mout a' saved myself the trouble o' examinin' the tothers. thur ain't much chance o' mistakin' the print you'd be likely to leave ahint ye. to make shur, i'll jest take ye along wi me." in conformity with this resolve, he drew out his huge hunting knife--the blade of which, near the hilt, was a quarter of an inch thick--and, inserting it under the piece of iron, he wrenched it from the hoof. taking care to have the nails along, he transferred it to the capacious pocket of his coat. then nimbly gliding back to the trail-rope, he undid the knot; and restored the interrupted respiration of the sorrel. pluto came in the moment after, bringing a plentiful supply of refreshments--including a tumbler of the monongahela; and to these zeb instantly applied himself, without saying a word about the interlude that had occurred during the darkey's absence. the latter, however, did not fail to perceive that the sorrel was out of sorts: for the animal, on finding itself released, stood shivering in the stall, gazing around in a sort of woe-begone wonder after the rough treatment, to which he had been submitted. "gorramity!" exclaimed the black, "what am de matter wif de ole hoss? ho! ho! he look like he wa afeerd ob you, mass tump!" "oh, ye-es!" drawled zeb, with seeming carelessness. "i reck'n he air a bit afeerd. he war makin' to get at my ole maar, so i gied him a larrup or two wi' the eend o' my trail rope. thet's what has rousted him." pluto was perfectly satisfied with the explanation, and the subject was permitted to drop. "look hyur, plute!" said zeb, starting another. "who does the shoein' o' yur cattle? thars some o' the hands air a smith, i reck'n?" "ho! ho! dat dere am. yella jake he do shoein'. fo what you ask, mass tump?" "wal; i war thinkin' o' havin' a kupple o' shoes put on the hind feet o' the maar. i reck'n jake ud do it for me." "ho! ho! he do it wif a thousan' welkim--dat he will, i'se shoo." "questyun is, kin i spare the time to wait. how long do it take him to put on a kupple?" "lor, mass tamp, berry short while. jake fust-rate han' lit de bizness. ebberybody say so." "he moutn't have the mateerils riddy? it depends on whether he's been shoein' lately. how long's it since he shod any o' yourn?" "more'n a week i blieb, mass' zeb. ho--ho! do last war missa looey hoss--de beautiful 'potty dar. but dat won't make no differens. i know he hab de fixins all ready. i knows it, kase he go for shoe de sorrel. de ole hoss hab one ob de hind shoe broke. he hab it so de lass ten day; an mass cahoon, he gib orders for it be remove. ho--ho! dis berry mornin' i hear um tell jake." "arter all," rejoined zeb, as if suddenly changing his mind, "i moutn't hev the time to spare. i reck'n i'll let the ole critter do 'ithout till i kum back. the tramp i'm goin' on--most part o' it--lies over grass purayra; an won't hurt her." "no, i hevn't time," he added, after stepping outside and glancing up towards the sky. "i must be off from hyur in the shakin' o' a goat's tail. now, ole gal! you've got to stop yur munchin' an take this bit o' iron atwixt yur teeth. open yur corn trap for it. that's the putty pet!" and so continuing to talk--now to pluto, now to the mare--he once more adjusted the headstall; led the animal out; and, clambering into the saddle, rode thoughtfully away. chapter seventy two. zeb stump on the trail. after getting clear of the enclosures of casa del corvo, the hunter headed his animal up stream--in the direction of the port and town. it was the former he intended to reach--which he did in a ride of less than a quarter of an hour. commonly it took him three to accomplish this distance; but on this occasion he was in an unusual state of excitement, and he made speed to correspond. the old mare could go fast enough when required--that is when zeb required her and he had a mode of quickening her speed--known only to himself, and only employed upon extraordinary occasions. it simply consisted in drawing the bowie knife from his belt, and inserting about in inch of its blade into the mare's hip, close to the termination of the spine. the effect was like magic; or, if you prefer the figure--electricity. so spurred, zeb's "critter" could accomplish a mile in three minutes; and more than once had she been called upon to show this capability, when her owner was chased by comanches. on the present occasion there was no necessity for such excessive speed; and the fort was reached after fifteen minutes' sharp trotting. on reaching it, zeb slipped out of the saddle, and made his way to the quarters of the commandant; while the mare was left panting upon the parade ground. the old hunter had no difficulty in obtaining an interview with the military chief of fort inge. looked upon by the officers as a sort of privileged character, he had the entree at all times, and could go in without countersign, or any of the other formalities usually demanded from a stranger. the sentry passed him, as a matter of course--the officer of the guard only exchanged with him a word of welcome; and the adjutant at once announced his name to the major commanding the cantonment. from his first words, the latter appeared to have been expecting him. "ah! mr stump! glad to see you so soon. have you made any discovery in this queer affair? from your quick return, i can almost say you have. something, i hope, in favour of this unfortunate young fellow. notwithstanding that appearances are strongly against him, i still adhere to my old opinion--that he's innocent. what have you learnt?" "wal, maje," answered zeb, without making other obeisance than the simple politeness of removing his hat; "what i've larnt aint much, tho' enough to fetch me back to the fort; where i didn't intend to come, till i'd gone a bit o' a jurney acrosst the purayras. i kim back hyur to hev a word wi' yurself." "in welcome. what is it you have to say?" "that ye'll keep back this trial as long's ye kin raisonably do so. i know thur's a pressyur from the outside; but i know, too, that ye've got the power to resist it, an what's more, maje--yo've got the will." "i have. you speak quite truly about that, mr stump. and as to the power, i have that, too, in a certain sense. but, as you are aware, in our great republic, the military power must always be subservient to the civil--unless under martial-law, which god forbid should ever be required among us--even here in texas. i can go so far as to hinder any open violation of the law; but i cannot go against the law itself." "t'ant the law i want ye to go agin. nothin' o' the sort, maje. only them as air like to take it into thur own hands, an twist it abeout to squar it wi' thur own purpisses. thur's them in this settlement as 'ud do thet, ef they ain't rustrained. one in espeecial 'ud like to do it; an i knows who thet one air--leestwise i hev a tolable clur guess o' him." "who?" "yur good to keep a seecret, maje? i know ye air." "mr stump, what passes here is in confidence. you may speak your mind freely." "then my mind air: thet the man who hez dud this murder ain't maurice the mowstanger." "that's my own belief. you know it already. have you nothing more to communicate?" "wal, maje, preehaps i ked communerkate a leetle more ef you insist upon it. but the time ain't ripe for tellin' ye what i've larnt--the which, arter all, only mounts to surspishuns. i may be wrong; an i'd rayther you'd let me keep 'em to myself till i hev made a short exkurshun acrost to the nooeces. arter thet, ye'll be welkum to what i know now, besides what i may be able to gather off o' the parayras." "so far as i am concerned, i'm quite contented to wait for your return; the more willingly that i know you are acting on the side of justice. but what would you have me do?" "keep back the trial, maje--only that. the rest will be all right." "how long? you know that it must come on according to the usual process in the criminal court. the judge of this circuit will not be ruled by me, though he may yield a little to my advice. but there is a party, who are crying out for vengeance; and he may be ruled by them." "i know the party ye speak o'. i know their leader; an maybe, afore the trial air over, _he_ may be the kriminal afore the bar." "ah! you do not believe, then, that these mexicans are the _men_!" "can't tell, maje, whether they air or ain't. i do b'lieve thet they've hed a hand in the bizness; but i don't b'lieve thet they've been the prime movers in't. it's _him_ i want to diskiver. kin ye promise me three days?" "three days! for what?" "afore the trial kims on." "oh! i think there will be no difficulty about that. he is now a prisoner under military law. even if the judge of the supreme court should require him to be delivered up inside that time, i can make objections that will delay his being taken from the guard-house. i shall undertake to do that." "maje! ye'd make a man a'most contented to live under marshul law. no doubt thur air times when it air the best, tho' we independent citizens don't much like it. all i've got to say air, thet ef ye stop this trial for three days, or tharahout, preehaps the prisoner to kim afore the bar may be someb'y else than him who's now in the guard-house--someb'y who jest at this mom't hain't the smallest serspishun o' bein' hisself surspected. don't ask me who. only say ye'll streetch a pint, an gi' me three days?" "i promise it, mr stump. though i may risk my commission as an officer in the american army, i give you an officer's promise, that for three days maurice the mustanger shall not go out of my guard-house. innocent or guilty, for that time he shall be protected." "yur the true grit, maje; an dog-gone me, ef i don't do my beest to show ye some day, thet i'm sensible o't. i've nuthin' more to say now, 'ceptin' to axe thet ye'll not tell out o' doors what i've been tellin' you. thur's them outside who, ef they only knew what this coon air arter, 'ud move both heving an airth to circumwent his intenshuns." "they'll have no help from me--whoever it is you are speaking of. mr stump, you may rely upon my pledged word." "i know't, maje, i know't. god bless ye for a good 'un. _yer_ the right sort for texas!" with this complimentary leave-taking the hunter strode out of head-quarters, and made his way back to the place where he had left his old mare. once more mounting her, he rode rapidly away. having cleared the parade ground, and afterwards the outskirts of the village, he returned on the same path that had conducted him from casa del corvo. on reaching the outskirts of poindexter's plantation, he left the low lands of the leona bottom, and spurred his old mare 'gainst the steep slope ascending to the upper plain. he reached it, at a point where the chapparal impinged upon the prairie, and there reined up under the shade of a mezquit tree. he did not alight, nor show any sign of an intention to do so; but sate in the saddle, stooped forward, his eyes turned upon the ground, in that vacant gaze which denotes reflection. "dog-gone my cats!" he drawled out in slow soliloquy. "thet ere sarkimstance are full o' signiferkince. calhoun's hoss out the same night, an fetched home a' sweetin' all over. what ked that mean? durn me, ef i don't surspect the foul play hev kum from that quarter. i've thort so all along; only it air so ridiklous to serpose thet he shed a killed his own cousin. he'd do that, or any other villinous thing, ef there war a reezun for it. there ain't--none as i kin think o'. ef the property hed been a goin' to the young un, then the thing mout a been intellygible enuf. but it want. ole peintdexter don't own a acre o' this hyur groun'; nor a nigger thet's upon it. thet i'm sartin' 'beout. they all belong to that cuss arready; an why shed he want to get shot o' the cousin? thet's whar this coon gets flummixed in his kalkerlations. thar want no ill will atween 'em, as ever i heerd o'. thur's a state o' feelin' twixt him an the gurl, thet _he_ don't like, i know. but why shed it temp him to the killin' o' her brother? "an' then thur's the mowstanger mixed in wi' it, an that shindy 'beout which she tolt me herself; an the sham injuns, an the mexikin shemale wi' the har upon her lip; an the hossman 'ithout a head, an hell knows what beside! geesus geehosofat! it 'ud puzzle the brain pan o' a looeyville lawyer! "wal--there's no time to stan' speklatin' hyur. wi' this bit o' iron to assiss me, i may chance upon somethin' thet'll gie a clue to a part o' the bloody bizness, ef not to the hul o' it; an fust, as to the direcshun in which i shed steer?" he looked round, as if in search of some one to answer the interrogatory. "it air no use beginnin' neer the fort or the town. the groun' abeout both on 'em air paddled wi' hoss tracks like a cattle pen. i'd best strike out into the purayra at onst, an take a track crossways o' the rio grande route. by doin' thet i may fluke on the futmark i'm in search o'. yes--ye-es! thet's the most sensiblest idee." as if fully satisfied on this score, he took up his bridle-rein, muttered some words to his mare, and commenced moving off along the edge of the chapparal. having advanced about a mile in the direction of the nueces river, he abruptly changed his course; but with a coolness that told of a predetermined purpose. it was now nearly due west, and at right angles to the different trails going towards the rio grande. there was a simultaneous change in his bearing--in the expression of his features--and his attitude in the saddle. no longer looking listlessly around, he sate stooping forward, his eye carefully scanning the sward, over a wide space on both sides of the path he was pursuing. he had ridden about a mile in the new direction, when something seen upon the ground caused him to start, and simultaneously pull upon the bridle-rein. nothing loth, the "critter" came to a stand; zeb, at the same time, flinging himself out of the saddle. leaving the old mare to ruminate upon this eccentric proceeding, he advanced a pace or two, and dropped down upon his knees. then drawing the piece of curved iron out of his capacious pocket, he applied it to a hoof-print conspicuously outlined in the turf. it fitted. "fits!" he exclaimed, with a triumphant gesticulation, "dog-goned if it don't!" "tight as the skin o' a tick!" he continued, after adjusting the broken shoe to the imperfect hoof-print, and taking it up again. "by the eturnal! that ere's _the track o' a creetur--mayhap a murderer_!" chapter seventy three. the prairie island. a herd of a hundred horses--or three times the number--pasturing upon a prairie, although a spectacle of the grandest kind furnished by the animal kingdom, is not one that would strike a texan frontiersman as either strange, or curious. he would think it stranger to see a _single_ horse in the same situation. the former would simply be followed by the reflection: "a drove of mustangs." the latter conducts to a different train of thought, in which there is an ambiguity. the solitary steed might be one of two things: either an exiled stallion, kicked out of his own _cavallada_, or a roadster strayed from some encampment of travellers. the practised eye of the prairie-man would soon decide which. if the horse browsed with a bit in his mouth, and a saddle on his shoulders, there would be no ambiguity--only the conjecture, as to how he had escaped from his rider. if the rider were upon his back, and the horse still browsing, there would be no room for conjecture--only the reflection, that the former must be a lazy thick-headed fellow, not to alight and let his animal graze in a more commodious fashion. if, however, the rider, instead of being suspected of having a thick head, was seen to have _no head at all_, then would there be cue for a thousand conjectures, not one of which might come within a thousand miles of the truth. such a horse; and just such a rider, were seen upon the prairies of south-western texas in the year of our lord something. i am not certain as to the exact year--the unit of it--though i can with unquestionable certainty record the decade. i can speak more precisely as to the place; though in this i must be allowed latitude. a circumference of twenty miles will include the different points where the spectral apparition made itself manifest to the eyes of men--both on prairie and in chapparal--in a district of country traversed by several northern tributaries of the rio de nueces, and some southern branches of the rio leona. it was seen not only by many people; but at many different times. first, by the searchers for henry poindexter and his supposed murderer; second, by the servant of maurice the mustanger; thirdly, by cassius calhoun, on his midnight exploration of the chapparal; fourthly, by the sham indians on that same night: and, fifthly, by zeb stump on the night following. but there were others who saw it elsewhere and on different occasions-- hunters, herdsmen, and travellers--all alike awed, alike perplexed, by the apparition. it had become the talk not only of the leona settlement, but of others more distant. its fame already reached on one side to the rio grande, and on the other was rapidly extending to the sabine. no one doubted that such a thing had been seen. to have done so would have been to ignore the evidence of two hundred pairs of eyes, all belonging to men willing to make affidavit of the fact--for it could not be pronounced a fancy. no one denied that it had been seen. the only question was, how to account for a spectacle so peculiar, as to give the lie to all the known laws of creation. at least half a score of theories were started--more or less feasible-- more or less absurd. some called it an "indian dodge;" others believed it a "lay figure;" others that it was not that, but a real rider, only so disguised as to have his head under the serape that shrouded his shoulders, with perhaps a pair of eye-holes through which he could see to guide his horse; while not a few pertinaciously adhered to the conjecture, started at a very early period, that the headless horseman was lucifer himself! in addition to the direct attempts at interpreting the abnormal phenomenon, there was a crowd of indirect conjectures relating to it. some fancied that they could see the head, or the shape of it, down upon the breast, and under the blanket; others affirmed to having actually seen it carried in the rider's hand; while others went still further, and alleged: that upon the head thus seen there was a hat--a black-glaze sombrero of the mexican sort, with a band of gold bullion above the brim! there were still further speculations, that related less to the apparition itself than to its connection with the other grand topic of the time--the murder of young poindexter. most people believed there was some connection between the two mysteries; though no one could explain it. he, whom everybody believed, could have thrown some light upon the subject, was still ridden by the night-mare of delirium. and for a whole week the guessing continued; during which the spectral rider was repeatedly seen; now going at a quick gallop, now moving in slow, tranquil pace, across the treeless prairie: his horse at one time halted and vaguely gazing around him; at another with teeth to the ground, industriously cropping the sweet _gramma_ grass, that makes the pasturage of south-western texas (in my opinion) the finest in the world. rejecting many tales told of the headless horseman--most of them too grotesque to be recorded--one truthful episode must needs be given-- since it forms an essential chapter of this strange history. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ in the midst of the open, prairie there is a "motte"--a coppice, or clump of trees--of perhaps three or four acres in superficial extent. a prairie-man would call it an "island," and with your eyes upon the vast verdant sea that surrounds it, you could not help being struck with the resemblance. the aboriginal of america might not perceive it. it is a thought of the colonist transmitted to his descendants; who, although they may never have looked upon the great ocean, are nevertheless _au fait_ to its phraseology. by the timber island in question--about two hundred yards from its edge--a horse is quietly pasturing. he is the same that carries the headless rider; and this weird equestrian is still bestriding him, with but little appearance of change, either in apparel or attitude, since first seen by the searchers. the striped blanket still hangs over his shoulders, cloaking the upper half of his person; while the _armas-de-agua_, strapped over his limbs, cover them from thigh to spur, concealing all but their outlines. his body is bent a little forward, as if to ease the horse in getting his snout to the sward; which the long bridle-rein, surrendered to its full length, enables him to do, though still retained in hand, or resting over the "horn" of the saddle. those who asserted that they saw a head, only told the truth. there is a head; and, as also stated, with a hat upon it--a black sombrero, with bullion band as described. the head rests against the left thigh, the chin being nearly down on a level with the rider's knee. being on the near side it _can_ only be seen, when the spectator is on the same; and not always then, as it is at times concealed by a corner of the serape. at times too can a glimpse be obtained of the face. its features are well formed, but wearing a sad expression; the lips of livid colour, slightly parted, showing a double row of white teeth, set in a grim ghastly smile. though there is no perceptible change in the _personnel_ of the headless horseman there is something new to be noted. hitherto he has been seen going alone. now he is in company. it cannot be called agreeable;--consisting as it does of wolves--half a score of them squatting closely upon the plain, and at intervals loping around him. by the horse they are certainly not liked; as is proved by the snorting and stamping of his hoof, when one of them ventures upon a too close proximity to his heels. the rider seems more indifferent to a score of birds--large dark birds-- that swoop in shadowy circles around his shoulders. even when one bolder than the rest has the audacity to alight upon him, he has made no attempt to disturb it, raising neither hand nor arm to drive it away! three times one of the birds has alighted thus--first upon the right shoulder, then upon the left, and then midway between--upon the spot where the head should be! the bird does not stay upon its singular perch, or only for an instant. if the rider does not feel the indignity the steed does; and resists it by rearing upward, with a fierce neighing, that frights the vultures off--to return again only after a short interval of shyness. his steed thus browsing, now in quiet, now disturbed by the too near approach of the wolves--anon by the bold behaviour of the birds--goes the headless horseman, step by step, and with long pauses of pasturing, around the prairie island. chapter seventy four. a solitary stalker. the singular spectacle described--extraordinary it might be termed--was too grave to appear grotesque. there was some thing about it that savoured of the _outre-monde_. human eyes could not have beholden it, without the shivering of a human frame, and the chilling of human blood. was it seen by human eyes in this fresh phase--with the wolves below, and the vultures above? it was. by one pair; and they belonging to the only man in all texas who had arrived at something like a comprehension of the all-perplexing mystery. it was not yet altogether clear to him. there were points that still puzzled him. he but know it was neither a dummy, nor the devil. his knowledge did not except him from the universal feeling of dread. despite the understanding of what the thing was, he shuddered as he gazed upon it. he gazed upon it from the "shore" of the prairie-island; himself unseen under its shadows, and apparently endeavouring to remain so. and yet, with all his trembling and the desire to keep concealed, he was following it round and round, on the circumference of an inner circle, as if some magnetic power was constraining him to keep on the same radius, of which the point occupied by the headless horseman was a prolongation! more than this. he had seen the latter before entering the island. he had seen him far off, and might easily have shunned him. but instead of doing so, he had immediately commenced making approach towards him! he had continued it--using the timber as a screen, and acting as one who stalks the timid stag, with the difference of a heart-dread which no deer-stalker could ever know. he had continued it; until the shelter of the _motte_ gave him a momentary respite, not from fear, but the apprehension of a failure. he had not ridden ten miles across the prairie without a design; and it was this that caused him to go so cautiously--guiding his horse over the softest turf, and through the selvedge of the chapparal--in such a way as neither to expose his person to view, nor cause a rustle among the branches, that might be heard to the distance of ten yards. no one observing his manoeuvres as he moved amid the timber island, could have mistaken their meaning--at least so far as related to the object for which they were being made. his eye was upon the headless horseman, his whole soul absorbed in watching the movements of the latter--by which he appeared to regulate his own. at first, fear seemed to be his prevailing thought. after a time, it was succeeded by an impatience that partially emboldened him. the latter plainly sprang from his perceiving, that the headless horseman, instead of approaching the timber, still kept at a regular distance of two hundred yards from its edge. that this chafed him was evident from a string of soliloquies, muttered half aloud. they were not free from blasphemy; but that was characteristic of the man who pronounced them. "damn the infernal brute! if he'd only come twenty yards nearer, i could fetch him. my gun won't carry that distance. i'd miss him for sure, and then it'll be all up. i may never get the chance again. confound him! he's all of twenty yards too far off." as if the last was an ambiguity rather than a conviction, the speaker appeared to measure with his eye the space that separated him from the headless rider--all the while holding in hand a short yager rifle, capped and cocked--ready for instant discharge. "no use," he continued, after a process of silent computation. "i might hit the beast with a spent ball, but only to scare without crippling him. i must have patience, and wait till he gets a little nearer. damn them wolves! he might come in, if it wasn't for them. so long as they're about him, he'll give the timber a wide berth. it's the nature of these texas howes--devil skin them! "i wonder if coaxing would do any good?" he proceeded, after a pause. "maybe the sound of a man's voice would bring the animal to a stand? doubtful. he's not likely to 've heard much of that lately. i suppose it would only frighten him! the sight of my horse would be sure to do it, as it did before; though that was in the moonlight. besides, he was chased by the howling staghound. no wonder his being wild, then, ridden as he is by hell knows what; for it can't be--bah! after all, there must be some trick in it; some damned infernal trick!" for a while the speaker checked his horse with a tight rein. and, leaning forward, so as to get a good view through the trees, continued to scan the strange shape that was slowly skirting the timber. "it's _his_ horse--sure as shootin'! his saddle, serape, and all. how the hell could they have come into the possession of the other?" another pause of reflection. "trick, or no trick, it's an ugly business. whoever's planned it, must know all that happened that night; and by god, if that thing lodged there, i've got to get it back. what a fool; to have bragged about it as i did! curse the crooked luck! "he _won't_ come nearer. he's provokingly shy of the timber. like all his breed, he knows he's safest in the open ground. "what's to be done? see if i can call him up. may be he may like to hear a human voice. if it'll only fetch him twenty yards nearer, i'll be satisfied. hanged if i don't try." drawing a little closer to the edge of the thicket, the speaker pronounced that call usually employed by texans to summon a straying horse. "proh--proh--proshow! come kindly! come, old horse!" the invitation was extended to no purpose. the texan steed did not seem to understand it; at all events, as an invitation to friendly companionship. on the contrary, it had the effect of frightening him; for no sooner fell the "proh" upon his ear, than letting go the mouthful of grass already gathered, he tossed his head aloft with a snort that proclaimed far greater fear than that felt for either wolf or vulture! a mustang, he knew that his greatest enemy was man--a man mounted upon a horse; and by this time his scent had disclosed to him the proximity of such a foe. he stayed not to see what sort of man, or what kind of horse. his first instinct had told him that both were enemies. as his rider by this time appeared to have arrived at the same conclusion, there was no tightening of the rein; and he was left free to follow his own course--which carried him straight off over the prairie. a bitter curse escaped from the lips of the unsuccessful stalker as he spurred out into the open ground. still more bitter was his oath, as he beheld the headless horseman passing rapidly beyond reach--unscathed by the bullet he had sent to earnestly after him. chapter seventy five. on the trail. zeb stump stayed but a short while on the spot, where he had discovered the hoof-print with the broken shoe. six seconds sufficed for its identification; after which he rose to his feet, and continued along the trail of the horse that had made it. he did not re-mount, but strode forward on foot; the old mare, obedient to a signal he had given her, keeping at a respectful distance behind him. for more than a mile he moved on in this original fashion--now slowly, as the trail became indistinct--quickening his pace where the print of the imperfect shoe could be seen without difficulty. like an archaeologist engaged upon a tablet of hieroglyphic history, long entombed beneath the ruins of a lost metropolis--whose characters appear grotesque to all except himself--so was it with zeb stump, as he strode on, translating the "sign" of the prairie. absorbed in the act, and the conjectures that accompanied it, he had no eyes for aught else. he glanced neither to the green savannah that stretched inimitably around, nor to the blue sky that spread specklessly above him. alone to the turf beneath his feet was his eye and attention directed. a sound--not a sight--startled him from his all-engrossing occupation. it was the report of a rifle; but so distant, as to appear but the detonation of a percussion-cap that had missed fire. instinctively he stopped; at the same time raising his eyes, but without unbending his body. with a quick glance the horizon was swept, along the half dozen points whence the sound should have proceeded. a spot of bluish smoke--still preserving its balloon shape--was slowly rolling up against the sky. a dark blotch beneath indicated the outlines of an "island" of timber. so distant was the "motte," the smoke, and the sound, that only the eye of an experienced prairie-man would have seen the first, or his ear heard the last, from the spot where zeb stump was standing. but zeb saw the one, and heard the other. "durned queery!" he muttered, still stooped in the attitude of a gardener dibbing in his young cabbage-plants. "dog-goned queery, to say the leest on't. who in ole nick's name kin be huntin' out thur--whar theer ain't game enuf to pay for the powder an shet? i've been to thet ere purayra island; an i know there ain't nothin' thur 'ceptin' coyoats. what _they_ get to live on, only the eturnal kin tell!" "wagh!" he went on, after a short silence. "some storekeeper from the town, out on a exkurshun, as he'd call it, who's proud o' poppin' away at them stinkin' varmints, an 'll go hum wi' a story he's been a huntin' _wolves_! wal. 'tain't no bizness o' myen. let yurd-stick hev his belly-ful o' sport. heigh! thur's somethin' comin' this way. a hoss an somebody on his back--streakin' it as if hell war arter him, wi' a pitchfork o' red-het lightnin'! what! as i live, it air the headless! it is, by the jumpin' geehosophat!" the observation of the old hunter was quite correct. there could be no mistake about the character of the cavalier, who, just clearing himself from the cloud of sulphureous smoke--now falling, dispersed over the prairie--came galloping on towards the spot where zeb stood. it was the horseman without a head. nor could there be any doubt as to the direction he was taking--as straight towards zeb as if he already saw, and was determined on coming up with him! a braver man than the backwoodsman could not have been found within the confines of texas. cougar, or jaguar--bear, buffalo, or red indian--he could have encountered without quailing. even a troop of comanches might have come charging on, without causing him half the apprehension felt at sight of that solitary equestrian. with all his experience of nature in her most secret haunts--despite the stoicism derived from that experience--zeb stump was not altogether free from superstitious fancies. who is? with the courage to scorn a human foe--any enemy that might show itself in a natural shape, either of biped or quadruped--still was he not stern enough to defy the _abnormal_; and bayard himself would have quailed at sight of the cavalier who was advancing to the encounter--apparently determined upon its being deadly! zeb stump not only quailed; but, trembling in his tall boots of alligator leather, sought concealment. he did so, long before the headless horseman had got within hailing distance; or, as he supposed, within _sight_ of him. some bushes growing close by gave him the chance of a hiding place; of which, with instinctive quickness, he availed himself. the mare, standing saddled by his side, might still have betrayed him? but, no. he had not gone to his knees, without thinking of that. "hunker down!" he cried, addressing himself to his dumb companion, who, if wanting speech, proved herself perfect in understanding. "squat, ye ole critter; or by the eturnal ye'll be switched off into hell!" as if dreading some such terrible catastrophe, the scraggy quadruped dropped down upon her fore knees; and then, lowering her hind quarters, laid herself along the grass, as though thinking her day's work done-- she was free to indulge in a fiesta. scarce had zeb and his roadster composed themselves their new position, when the headless horseman came charging up. he was going at full speed; and zeb was but too well pleased to perceive that he was likely to continue it. it was sheer chance that had conducted him that way; and not from having seen either the hunter or his sorry steed. the former--if not the latter--was satisfied at being treated in that cavalier style; but, long before the headless horseman had passed out of sight, zeb had taken his dimensions, and made himself acquainted with his character. though he might be a mystery to all the world beside, he was no longer so to zebulon stump. as the horse shot past in fleet career, the skirt of the serape, flouted up by the wind, displayed to stump's optics a form well known to him--in a dress he had seen before. it was a blouse of blue cottonade, box-plaited over the breast; and though its vivid colour was dashed with spots of garish red, the hunter was able to recognise it. he was not so sure about the face seen low down upon the saddle, and resting against the rider's leg. there was nothing strange in his inability to recognise it. the mother, who had oft looked fondly on that once fair countenance, would not have recognised it now. zeb stump only did so by deduction. the horse, the saddle, the holsters, the striped blanket, the sky-blue coat and trousers--even the hat upon the head--were all known to him. so, too, was the figure that stood almost upright in the stirrups. the head and face must belong to the same--notwithstanding their unaccountable displacement. zeb saw it by no uncertain glance. he was permitted a full, fair view of the ghastly spectacle. the steed, though going at a gallop, passed within ten paces of him. he made no attempt to interrupt the retreating rider--either by word or gesture. only, as the form became unmasked before his eyes, and its real meaning flashed across his mind, he muttered, in a slow, sad tone: "gee-hos-o-phat! it air true, then! _poor young fellur--dead--dead_!" chapter seventy six. lost in the chalk. still continuing his fleet career, the headless horseman galloped on over the prairie--zeb stump following only with his eyes; and not until he had passed out of sight, behind some straggling groves of mezquite, did the backwoodsman abandon his kneeling position. then only for a second or two did he stand erect--taking council with himself as to what course he should pursue. the episode--strange as unexpected--had caused some disarrangement in his ideas, and seemed to call for a change in his plans. should he continue along the trail he was already deciphering; or forsake it for that of the steed that had just swept by? by keeping to the former, he might find out much; but by changing to the latter he might learn more? he might capture the headless horseman, and ascertain from _him_ the why and wherefore of his wild wanderings? while thus absorbed, in considering what course he had best take, he had forgotten the puff of smoke, and the report heard far off over the prairie. only for a moment, however. they were things to be remembered; and he soon remembered them. turning his eyes to the quarter where the smoke had appeared, he saw that which caused him to squat down again; and place himself, with more _impressement_ than ever, under cover of the mezquites. the old mare, relishing the recumbent attitude, had still kept to it; and there was no necessity for re-disposing of her. what zeb now saw was a man on horseback--a real horseman, with a head upon his shoulders. he was still a long way off; and it was not likely he had seen the tall form of the hunter, standing shored up among the bushes--much less the mare, lying beneath them. he showed no signs of having done so. on the contrary, he was sitting stooped in the saddle, his breast bent down to the pommel, and his eyes actively engaged in reading the ground, over which he was guiding his horse. there could be no difficulty in ascertaining his occupation. zeb stump guessed it at a glance. he was tracking the headless rider. "ho, ho!" muttered zeb, on making this discovery; "i ain't the only one who's got a reezun for solvin' this hyur myst'ry! who the hell kin _he_ be? i shed jest like to know that." zeb had not long to wait for the gratification of his wish. as the trail was fresh, the strange horseman could take it up at a trot--in which pace he was approaching. he was soon within identifying distance. "gee--hosophat!" muttered the backwoodsman; "i mout a know'd it wud be him; an ef i'm not mistook about it, hyurs goin' to be a other chapter out o' the same book--a other link as 'll help me to kumplete the chain o' evydince i'm in sarch for. lay clost, ye critter! ef ye make ere a stir--even to the shakin' o' them long lugs o' yourn--i'll cut yur darned throat." the last speech was an apostrophe to the "maar"--after which zeb waxed silent, with his head among the spray of the acacias, and his eyes peering through the branches in acute scrutiny of him who was coming along. this was a man, who, once seen, was not likely to be soon forgotten. scarce thirty years old, he showed a countenance, scathed, less with care than the play of evil passions. but there was care upon it now--a care that seemed to speak of apprehension--keen, prolonged, yet looking forward with a hope of being relieved from it. withal it was a handsome face: such as a gentleman need not have been ashamed of, but for that sinister expression that told of its belonging to a blackguard. the dress--but why need we describe it? the blue cloth frock of semi-military cut--the forage cap--the belt sustaining a bowie-knife, with a brace of revolving pistols--all have been mentioned before as enveloping and equipping the person of captain cassius calhoun. it was he. it was not the _batterie_ of small arms that kept zeb stump from showing himself. he had no dread of an encounter with the ex-officer of volunteers. though he instinctively felt hostility, he had as yet given no reason to the latter for regarding him as an enemy. he remained in shadow, to have a better view of what was passing under the sunlight. still closely scrutinising the trail of the headless horseman, calhoun trotted past. still closely keeping among the acacias, zeb stump looked after, till the same grove, that had concealed the former, interposed its verdant veil between him and the ex-captain of cavalry. the backwoodsman's brain having become the recipient of new thoughts, required a fresh exercise of its ingenuity. if there was reason before for taking the trail of the headless horseman, it was redoubled now. with but short time spent in consideration, so zeb concluded; and commenced making preparations for a stalk after cassius calhoun. these consisted in taking hold of the bridle, and giving the old mare a kick; that caused her to start instantaneously to her feet. zeb stood by her side, intending to climb into the saddle and ride out into the open plain--as soon as calhoun should be out of sight. he had no thoughts of keeping the latter in view. he needed no such guidance. the two fresh trails would be sufficient for him; and he felt as sure of finding the direction in which both would lead, as if he had ridden alongside the horseman without a head, or him without a heart. with this confidence he cleared out from among the acacias, and took the path just trodden by calhoun. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ for once in his life, zeb stump had made a mistake. on rounding the mezquite grove, behind which both had made disappearance, he discovered he had done so. beyond, extended a tract of chalk prairie; over which one of the horsemen appeared to have passed--him without the head. zeb guessed so, by seeing the other, at some distance before him, riding to and fro, in transverse stretches, like a pointer quartering the stubble in search of a partridge. he too had lost the trail, and was endeavouring to recover it. crouching under cover of the mezquites, the hunter remained a silent spectator of his movements. the attempt terminated in a failure. the chalk surface defied interpretation--at least by skill such as that of cassius calhoun. after repeated quarterings he appeared to surrender his design; and, angrily plying the spur, galloped off in the direction of the leona. as soon as he was out of sight, zeb also made an effort to take up the lost trail. but despite his superior attainments in the tracking craft, he was compelled to relinquish it. a fervid sun was glaring down upon the chalk; and only the eye of a salamander could have withstood the reflection of its rays. dazed almost to blindness, the backwoodsman determined upon turning late back; and once more devoting his attention to the trail from which he had been for a time seduced. he had learnt enough to know that this last promised a rich reward for its exploration. it took him but a short time to regain it. nor did he lose any in following it up. he was too keenly impressed with its value; and with this idea urging him, he strode rapidly on, the mare following as before. once only did he make pause; at a point where the tracks of two horses converged with that he was following. from this point the three coincided--at times parting and running parallel, for a score of yards or so, but again coming together and overlapping one another. the horses were all shod--like that which carried the broken shoe--and the hunter only stopped to see what he could make out of the hoof marks. one was a "states horse;" the other a mustang--though a stallion of great size, and with a hoof almost as large as that of the american. zeb had his conjectures about both. he did not stay to inquire which had gone first over the ground. that was as clear to him, as if he had been a spectator at their passing. the stallion had been in the lead,--how far zeb could not exactly tell; but certainly some distance beyond that of companionship. the states horse had followed; and behind him, the roadster with the broken shoe-- also an american. all three had gone over the same ground, at separate times, and each by himself. this zeb stump could tell with as much ease and certainty, as one might read the index of a dial, or thermometer. whatever may have been in his thoughts, he said nothing, beyond giving utterance to the simple exclamation "good!" and, with satisfaction stamped upon his features, he moved on, the old mare appearing to mock him by an imitative stride! "hyur they've seppurated," he said, once again coming to a stop, and regarding the ground at his feet. "the stellyun an states hoss hev goed thegither--thet air they've tuk the same way. broken-shoe hev strayed in a diffrent direkshun." "wonder now what thet's for?" he continued, after standing awhile to consider. "durn me ef i iver seed sech perplexin' sign! it ud puzzle ole dan'l boone hisself." "which on 'em shed i foller fust? ef i go arter the two i know whar they'll lead. they're boun' to kim up in thet puddle o' blood. let's track up tother, and see whether he hev rud into the same procksimmuty! to the right abeout, ole gal, and keep clost ahint me--else ye may get lost in the chapparal, an the coyoats may make thur supper on yur tallow. ho! ho! ho!" with this apostrophe to his "critter," ending in a laugh at the conceit of her "tallow," the hunter turned off on the track of the third horse. it led him along the edge of an extended tract of chapparal; which, following all three, he had approached at a point well known to him, as to the reader,--where it was parted by the open space already described. the new trail skirted the timber only for a short distance. two hundred yards from the embouchure of the avenue, it ran into it; and fifty paces further on zeb came to a spot where the horse had stood tied to a tree. zeb saw that the animal had proceeded no further: for there was another set of tracks showing where it had returned to the prairie--though not by the same path. the rider had gone beyond. the foot-marks of a man could be seen beyond--in the mud of a half-dry _arroyo_--beside which the horse had been "hitched." leaving his critter to occupy the "stall" where broken-shoe had for some time fretted himself, the old hunter glided off upon the footmarks of the dismounted rider. he soon discovered two sets of them--one going--another coming back. he followed the former. he was not surprised at their bringing him out into the avenue--close to the pool of blood--by the coyotes long since licked dry. he might have traced them right up to it, but for the hundreds of horse tracks that had trodden the ground like a sheep-pen. but before going so far, he was stayed by the discovery of some fresh "sign"--too interesting to be carelessly examined. in a place where the underwood grew thick, he came upon a spot where a man had remained for some time. there was no turf, and the loose mould was baked hard and smooth, evidently by the sole of a boot or shoe. there were prints of the same sole leading out towards the place of blood, and similar ones coming back again. but upon the branches of a tree between, zeb stump saw something that had escaped the eyes not only of the searchers, but of their guide spangler--a scrap of paper, blackened and half-burnt--evidently the wadding of a discharged gun! it was clinging to the twig of a locust-tree, impaled upon one of its spines! the old hunter took it from the thorn to which, through rain and wind, it had adhered; spread it carefully across the palm of his horny hand; and read upon its smouched surface a name well known to him; which, with its concomitant title, bore the initials, "c.c.c." chapter seventy seven. another link. it was less surprise, than gratification, that showed itself on the countenance of zeb stump, as he deciphered the writing on the paper. "that ere's the backin' o' a letter," muttered he. "tells a goodish grist o' story; more'n war wrote inside, i reck'n. been used for the wad' o' a gun! wal; sarves the cuss right, for rammin' down a rifle ball wi' a patchin' o' scurvy paper, i'stead o' the proper an bessest thing, which air a bit o' greased buckskin." "the writin' air in a sheemale hand," he continued, looking anew at the piece of paper. "don't signerfy for thet. it's been sent to _him_ all the same; an he's hed it in purzeshun. it air somethin' to be tuk care o'." so saying, he drew out a small skin wallet, which contained his tinder of "punk," along with his flint and steel; and, after carefully stowing away the scrap of paper, he returned the sack to his pocket. "wal!" he went on in soliloquy, as he stood silently considering, "i kalkerlate as how this ole coon 'll be able to unwind a good grist o' this clue o' mystery, tho' thur be a bit o' the thread broken hyur an thur, an a bit o' a puzzle i can't clurly understan'. the man who hev been murdered, whosomdiver _he_ may be, war out thur by thet puddle o' blood, an the man as did the deed, whosomdiver _he_ be, war a stannin' behint this locust-tree. but for them greenhorns, i mout a got more out o' the sign. now thur ain't the ghost o' a chance. they've tramped the hul place into a durnationed mess, cuvortin' and caperin' abeout. "wal, 'tair no use goin' furrer thet way. the bessest thing now air to take the back track, if it air possable, an diskiver whar the hoss wi' the broke shoe toted his rider arter he went back from this leetle bit o' still-huntin'. thurfor, ole zeb'lon stump, back ye go on the boot tracks!" with this grotesque apostrophe to himself, he commenced retracing the footmarks that had guided him to the edge of the opening. only in one or two places were the footprints at all distinct. but zeb scarce cared for their guidance. having already noted that the man who made them had returned to the place where the horse had been left, he knew the back track would lead him there. there was one place, however, where the two trails did not go over the same ground. there was a forking in the open list, through which the supposed murderer had made his way. it was caused by an obstruction,--a patch of impenetrable thicket. they met again, but not till that on which the hunter was returning straggled off into an open glade of considerable size. having become satisfied of this, zeb looked around into the glade--for a time forsaking the footsteps of the pedestrian. after a short examination, he observed a trail altogether distinct, and of a different character. it was a well-marked path entering the opening on one side, and going out on the other: in short, a cattle-track. zeb saw that several shod horses had passed along it, some days before: and it was this that caused him to come back and examine it. he could tell to a day--to an hour--_when_ the horses had passed; and from the sign itself. but the exercise of his ingenuity was not needed on this occasion. he knew that the hoof-prints were those of the horses ridden by spangler and his party--after being detached from the main body of searchers who had gone home with the major. he had heard the whole story of that collateral investigation--how spangler and his comrades had traced henry poindexter's horse to the place where the negro had caught it--on the outskirts of the plantation. to an ordinary intellect this might have appeared satisfactory. nothing more could be learnt by any one going over the ground again. zeb stump did not seem to think so. as he stood looking along it, his attitude showed indecision. "if i ked make shur o' havin' time," he muttered, "i'd foller it fust. jest as like as not i'll find a _fluke_ thur too. but thur's no sartinty 'beout the time, an i'd better purceed to settle wi' the anymal as cast the quarter shoe." he had turned to go out of the glade, when a thought once more stayed him. "arter all, it kin be eezy foun' at any time. i kin guess whar it'll lead, as sartint, as if i'd rud 'longside the skunk thet made it-- straight custrut to the stable o' caser corver. "it's a durned pity to drop this un,--now whiles i'm hyur upon the spot. it'll gie me the makin' o' another ten-mile jurney, an thur moutn't be time. dog-goned ef i don't try a leetle way along it. the ole maar kin wait till i kum back." bracing himself for a new investigation, he started off upon the cattle-track, trodden by the horses of spangler and his party. to the hoof-marks of these he paid but slight attention; at times, none whatever. his eye only sought those of henry poindexter's horse. though the others were of an after time, and often destroyed the traces he was most anxious to examine, he had no difficulty in identifying the latter. as he would have himself said, any greenhorn could do that. the young planter's horse had gone over the ground at a gallop. the trackers had ridden slowly. as far as zeb stump could perceive, the latter had made neither halt nor deviation. the former had. it was about three-quarters of a mile from the edge of the venue. it was not a halt the galloping horse had made, but only a slight departure from his direct course; as if something he had seen--wolf, jaguar, cougar, or other beast of prey--had caused him to shy. beyond he had continued his career; rapid and reckless as ever. beyond the party along with spangler had proceeded--without staying to inquire why the horse had shied from his track. zeb stump was more inquisitive, and paused upon this spot. it was a sterile tract, without herbage, and covered with shingle and sand. a huge tree overshadowed it, with limbs extending horizontally. one of these ran transversely to the path over which the horses had passed--so low that a horseman, to shun contact with it, would have to lower his head. at this branch zeb stump stood gazing. he observed an abrasion upon the bark; that, though very slight, must have been caused by contact with some substance, as hard, if not sounder, than itself. "thet's been done by the skull o' a human critter," reasoned he--"a human critter, that must a been on the back o' a hoss--this side the branch, an off on the t'other. no livin' man ked a stud sech a cullizyun as thet, an kep his seat i' the seddle. "hooraw!" he triumphantly exclaimed, after a cursory examination of the ground underneath the tree. "i thort so. thur's the impreshun o' the throwed rider. an' thur's whar he hez creeped away. now i've got a explication o' thet big bump as hez been puzzlin' me. i know'd it wan't did by the claws o' any varmint; an it didn't look like the blow eyther o' a stone or a stick. thet ere's the stick that hez gi'n it." with an elastic step--his countenance radiant of triumph--the old hunter strode away from the tree, no longer upon the cattle path, but that taken by the man who had been so violently dismounted. to one unaccustomed to the chapparal, he might have appeared going without a guide, and upon a path never before pressed by human foot. a portion of it perhaps had not. but zeb was conducted by signs which, although obscure to the ordinary eye, were to him intelligible as the painted lettering upon a finger-post. the branch contorted to afford passage for a human form--the displaced tendrils of a creeping plant-- the scratched surface of the earth--all told that a man had passed that way. the sign signified more--that the man was disabled--had been crawling--a cripple! zeb stump continued on, till he had traced this cripple to the banks of a running stream. it was not necessary for him to go further. he had made one more splice of the broken thread. another, and his clue would be complete! chapter seventy eight. a horse-swop. with an oath, a sullen look, and a brow black as disappointment could make it, calhoun turned away from the edge of the chalk prairie, where he had lost the traces of the headless horseman. "no use following further! no knowing where he's gone now! no hope of finding him except by a _fluke_! if i go back to the creek i might see him again; but unless i get within range, it'll end as it's done before. the mustang stallion won't let me come near him--as if the brute knows what i'm wanting! "he's even cunninger than the wild sort--trained to it, i suppose, by the mustanger himself. one fair shot--if i could only get that, i'd settle his courses. "there appears no chance of stealing upon him; and as to riding him down, it can't be done with a slow mule like this. "the sorrel's not much better as to speed, though he beats this brute in bottom. i'll try him to-morrow, with the new shoe. "if i could only get hold of something that's fast enough to overtake the mustang! i'd put down handsomely for a horse that could do it. "there must be one of the sort in the settlement. i'll see when i get back. if there be, a couple of hundred, ay or three, won't hinder me from having him." after he had made these mutterings calhoun rode away from the chalk prairie, his dark countenance strangely contrasting with its snowy sheen. he went at a rapid rate; not sparing his horse, already jaded with a protracted journey--as could be told by his sweating coat, and the clots of half-coagulated blood, where the spur had been freely plied upon his flanks. fresh drops soon appeared as he cantered somewhat heavily on--his head set for the hacienda of casa del corvo. in less than an hour after, his rider was guiding him among the mezquites that skirted the plantation. it was a path known to calhoun. he had ridden over it before, though not upon the same horse. on crossing the bed of an arroyo--dry from a long continuance of drought--he was startled at beholding in the mud the tracks of another horse. one of them showed a broken shoe, an old hoof-print, nearly eight days old. he made no examination to ascertain the time. he knew it to an hour. he bent over it, with a different thought--a feeling of surprise commingled with a touch of superstition. the track looked recent, as if made on the day before. there had been wind, rain, thunder, and lightning. not one of these had wasted it. even the angry elements appeared to have passed over without destroying it--as if to spare it for a testimony against the outraged laws of nature--their god. calhoun dismounted, with the design to obliterate the track of the three-quarter shoe. better for him to have spared himself the pains. the crease of his boot-heel crushing in the stiff mud was only an additional evidence as to who had ridden the broken-shoed horse. there was one coming close behind capable of collecting it. once more in his saddle, the ex-officer rode on--reflecting on his own astuteness. his reflections had scarce reached the point of reverie, when the hoof-stroke of a horse--not his own--came suddenly within hearing. not within sight: for the animal making them was still screened by the chapparal. plainly was it approaching; and, although at a slow pace, the measured tread told of its being guided, and not straying. it was a horse with a rider upon his back. in another instant both were in view; and calhoun saw before him isidora covarubio de los llanos; she at the same instant catching sight of him! it was a strange circumstance that these two should thus encounter one another--apparently by chance, though perhaps controlled by destiny. stranger still the thought summoned up in the bosoms of both. in calhoun, isidora saw the man who loved the woman she herself hated. in isidora, calhoun saw the woman who loved him he both hated and had determined to destroy. this mutual knowledge they had derived partly from report, partly from observation, and partly from the suspicious circumstances under which more than once they had met. they were equally convinced of its truth. each felt certain of the sinister entanglement of the other; while both believed their own to be unsuspected. the situation was not calculated to create a friendly feeling between them. it is not natural that man, or woman, should like the admirer of a rival. they can only be friends at that point where jealousy prompts to the deadliest vengeance; and then it is but a sinister sympathy. as yet no such had arisen between cassius calhoun and isidora covarubio de los llanos. if it had been possible, both might have been willing to avoid the encounter. isidora certainly was. she had no predilection for the ex-officer of dragoons; and besides the knowledge that he was the lover of her rival, there was another thought that now rendered his presence, if not disagreeable, at least not desirable. she remembered the chase of the sham indians, and its ending. she knew that among the texans there had been much conjecture as to her abrupt disappearance, after appealing to them for protection. she had her own motive for that, which she did not intend to declare; and the man about meeting her might be inclined to ask questions on the subject. she would have passed with a simple salutation--she could not give less than that. and perhaps he might have done the same; but for a thought which at that moment came into his mind, entirely unconnected with the reflections already there engendered. it was not the lady herself who suggested the thought. despite her splendid beauty, he had no admiration for her. in his breast, ruthless as it might have been, there was no space left for a second passion--not even a sensual one--for her thus encountered in the solitude of the chapparal, with nature whispering wild, wicked suggestions. it was no idea of this that caused him to rein up in the middle of the path; remove the cap from his crown; and, by a courtly salutation, invite a dialogue with isidora. so challenged, she could not avoid the conversation; that commenced upon the instant--calhoun taking the initiative. "excuse me, senorita," said he, his glance directed more upon her steed than herself; "i know it's very rude thus to interrupt your ride; especially on the part of a stranger, as with sorrow i am compelled to call myself." "it needs no apology, senor. if i'm not mistaken, we have met before-- upon the prairie, out near the nueces." "true--true!" stammered calhoun, not caring to dwell upon the remembrance. "it was not of that encounter i wished to speak; but what i saw afterwards, as you came galloping along the cliff. we all wondered what became of you." "there was not much cause for wonder, cavallero. the shot which some of your people fired from below, disembarrassed me of my pursuers. i saw that they had turned back, and simply continued my journey." calhoun exhibited no chagrin at being thus baffled. the theme upon which he designed to direct his discourse had not yet turned up; and in it he might be more successful. what it was might have been divined from his glance--half _connoisseur_, half horse-jockey--still directed toward the steed of isidora. "i do not say, senorita, that i was one of those who wondered at your sudden disappearance. i presumed you had your own reasons for not coming on to us; and, seeing you ride as you did, i felt no fear for your safety. it was your riding that astonished me, as it did all of my companions. such a horse you had! he appeared to glide, rather than gallop! if i mistake not, it's the same you are now _astride of_. am i right, senora? pardon me for asking such an insignificant question." "the same? let me see? i make use of so many. i think i was riding this horse upon that day. yes, yes; i am sure of it. i remember how the brute betrayed me." "betrayed you! how?" "twice he did it. once as you and your people were approaching. the second time, when the indians--_ay dios_! not indians, as i've since heard--were coming through the chapparal." "but how?" "by neighing. he should not have done it. he's had training enough to know better than that. no matter. once i get him back to the rio grande he shall stay there. i shan't ride _him_ again. he shall return to his pastures." "pardon me, senorita, for speaking to you on such a subject; but i can't help thinking that it's a pity." "what's a pity?" "that a steed so splendid as that should be so lightly discarded. i would give much to possess him." "you are jesting, cavallero. he is nothing beyond the common; perhaps a little pretty, and quick in his paces. my father has five thousand of his sort--many of them prettier, and, no doubt, some faster than he. he's a good roadster; and that's why i'm riding him now. if it weren't that i'm on my way home to the rio grande, and the journey is still before me, you'd be welcome to have him, or anybody else who cared for him, as you seem to do. be still, _musteno mio_! you see there's somebody likes you better than i do." the last speech was addressed to the mustang, who, like its rider, appeared impatient for the conversation to come to a close. calhoun, however, seemed equally desirous of prolonging, or, at all events, bringing it to a different termination. "excuse me, senorita," said he, assuming an air of businesslike earnestness, at the same time speaking apologetically; "if that be all the value you set upon the grey mustang, i should be only too glad to make an exchange with you. my horse, if not handsome, is estimated by our texan dealers as a valuable animal. though somewhat slow in his paces, i can promise that he will carry you safely to your home, and will serve you well afterwards." "what, senor!" exclaimed the lady, in evident astonishment, "exchange your grand american _frison_ for a mexican mustang! the offer is too generous to appear other than a jest. you know that on the rio grande one of your horses equals in value at least three, sometimes six, of ours?" calhoun knew this well enough; but he knew also that the mustang ridden by isidora would be to him worth a whole stableful of such brutes as that he was bestriding. he had been an eye-witness to its speed, besides having heard of it from others. it was the thing he stood in need of--the very thing. he would have given, not only his "grand _frison_" in exchange, but the full price of the mustang by way of "boot." fortunately for him, there was no attempt at extortion. in the composition of the mexican maiden, however much she might be given to equestrian tastes, there was not much of the "coper." with five thousand horses in the paternal stables, or rather straying over the patrimonial plains, there was but slight motive for sharp practice; and why should she deny such trifling gratification, even though the man seeking it was a stranger--perhaps an enemy? she did not. "if you are in earnest, senor," was her response, "you are welcome to what you want." "i am in earnest, senorita." "take him, then!" said she, leaping out of her saddle, and commencing to undo the girths, "we cannot exchange saddles: yours would be a mile too big for me!" calhoun was too happy to find words for a rejoinder. he hastened to assist her in removing the saddle; after which he took off his own. in less than five minutes the horses were exchanged--the saddles and bridles being retained by their respective owners. to isidora there was something ludicrous in the transference. she almost laughed while it was being carried on. calhoun looked upon it in a different light. there was a purpose present before his mind--one of the utmost importance. they parted without much further speech--only the usual greetings of adieu--isidora going off on the _frison_; while the ex-officer, mounted on the grey mustang, continued his course in the direction of casa del corvo. chapter seventy nine. an untiring tracker. zeb was not long in arriving at the spot where he had "hitched" his mare. the topography of the chapparal was familiar to him; and he crossed it by a less circuitous route than that taken by the cripple. he once more threw himself upon the trail of the broken shoe, in full belief that it would fetch out not a hundred miles from casa del corvo. it led him along a road running almost direct from one of the crossings of the rio grande to fort inge. the road was a half-mile in width--a thing not uncommon in texas, where every traveller selects his own path, alone looking to the general direction. along one edge of it had gone the horse with the damaged shoe. not all the way to fort inge. when within four or five miles of the post, the trail struck off from the road, at an angle of just such degree as followed in a straight line would bring out by poindexter's plantation. so confident was zeb of this, that he scarce deigned to keep his eye upon the ground; but rode forwards, as if a finger-post was constantly by his side. he had long before given up following the trail afoot. despite his professed contempt for "horse-fixings"--as he called riding--he had no objection to finish his journey in the saddle--fashed as he now was with the fatigue of protracted trailing over prairie and through chapparal. now and then only did he cast a glance upon the ground--less to assure himself he was on the track of the broken shoe, than to notice whether something else might not be learnt from the sign, besides its mere direction. there were stretches of the prairie where the turf, hard and dry, had taken no impression. an ordinary traveller might have supposed himself the first to pass over the ground. but zeb stump was not of this class; and although he could not always distinguish the hoof marks, he knew within an inch where they would again become visible--on the more moist and softer patches of the prairie. if at any place conjecture misled him, it was only for a short distance, and he soon corrected himself by a traverse. in this half-careless, half-cautious way, he had approached within a mile of poindexter's plantation. over the tops of the mezquite trees the crenelled parapet was in sight; when something he saw upon the ground caused a sudden change in his demeanour. a change, too, in his attitude; for instead of remaining on the back of his mare, he flung himself out of the saddle; threw the bridle upon her neck; and, rapidly passing in front of her, commenced taking up the trail afoot. the mare made no stop, but continued on after him--with an air of resignation, as though she was used to such eccentricities. to an inexperienced eye there was nothing to account for this sudden dismounting. it occurred at a place where the turf appeared untrodden by man, or beast. alone might it be inferred from zeb's speech, as he flung himself out of the saddle: "his track! goin' to hum!" were the words muttered in a slow, measured tone; after which, at a slower pace, the dismounted hunter kept on along the trail. in a little time after it conducted him into the chapparal; and in less to a stop--sudden, as if the thorny thicket had been transformed into a _chevaux-de-frise_, impenetrable both to him and his "critter." it was not this. the path was still open before him--more open than ever. it was its openness that had furnished him with a cause for discontinuing his advance. the path sloped down into a valley below--a depression in the prairie, along the concavity of which, at times, ran a tiny stream--ran arroyo. it was now dry, or only occupied by stagnant pools, at long distances apart. in the mud-covered channel was a man, with a horse close behind him--the latter led by the bridle. there was nothing remarkable in the behaviour of the horse; he was simply following the lead of his dismounted rider. but the man--what was he doing? in his movements there was something peculiar--something that would have puzzled an uninitiated spectator. it did not puzzle zeb stump; or but for a second of time. almost the instant his eye fell upon it, he read the meaning of the manoeuvre, and mutteringly pronounced it to himself. "oblitturatin' the print o' the broken shoe, or tryin' to do thet same! 'taint no use, mister cash calhoun--no manner o' use. ye've made yur fut marks too deep to deceive _me_; an by the eturnal i'll foller them, though they shed conduck me into the fires o' hell?" as the backwoodsman terminated his blasphemous apostrophe, the man to whom it pointed, having finished his task of obscuration, once more leaped into his saddle, and hurried on. on foot the tracker followed; though without showing any anxiety about keeping him in sight. there was no need for that. the sleuth hound on a fresh slot could not be more sure of again viewing his victim, than was zeb stump of coming up with his. no chicanery of the chapparal--no twistings or doublings-- could save calhoun now. the tracker advanced freely; not expecting to make halt again, till he should come within sight of casa del corvo. little blame to him that his reckoning proved wrong. who could have foretold such an interruption as that occasioned by the encounter between cassius calhoun and isidora covarubio de los llanos? though at sight of it, taken by surprise--perhaps something more--zeb did not allow his feelings to betray his presence near the spot. on the contrary, it seemed to stimulate him to increased caution. turning noiselessly round, he whispered some cabalistic words into the care of his "critter;" and then stole silently forward under cover of the acacias. without remonstrance, or remark, the mare followed. he soon came to a fall stop--his animal doing the same, in imitation so exact as to appear its counterpart. a thick growth of mezquite trees separated him from the two individuals, by this time engaged in a lively interchange of speech. he could not see them, without exposing himself to the danger of being detected in his eaves-dropping; but he heard what they said all the same. he kept his place--listening till the _horse trade_ was concluded, and for some time after. only when they had separated, and both taken departure did he venture to come forth from his cover. standing upon the spot lately occupied by the "swoppers," and looking "both ways at once," he exclaimed-- "geehosophat! thur's a compack atween a _he_ an' _she_-devil; an' durn'd ef i kin tell, which hez got the bessest o' the bargin!" chapter eighty. a doorway well watched. it was some time before zeb stump sallied forth from the covert where he had been witness to the "horse swop." not till both the bargainers had ridden entirely out of sight. then he went not after either; but stayed upon the spot, as if undecided which he should follow. it was not exactly this that kept him to the place; but the necessity of taking what he was in the habit of calling a "good think." his thoughts were about the exchange of the horses: for he had heard the whole dialogue relating thereto, and the proposal coming from calhoun. it was this that puzzled, or rather gave him reason for reflection. what could be the motive? zeb knew to be true what the mexican had said: that the states horse was, in market value, worth far more than the mustang. he knew, moreover, that cassius calhoun was the last man to be "coped" in a horse trade. why, then, had he done the "deal?" the old hunter pulled off his felt hat; gave his hand a twist or two through his unkempt hair; transferred the caress to the grizzled beard upon his chin--all the while gazing upon the ground, as if the answer to his mental interrogatory was to spring out of the grass. "thur air but one explication o't," he at length muttered: "the grey's the faster critter o' the two--ne'er a doubt 'beout thet; an mister cash wants him for his fastness: else why the durnation shed he a gin a hoss thet 'ud sell for four o' his sort in any part o' texas, an twicet thet number in mexiko? i reck'n he's bargained for the heels. why? durn me, ef i don't suspect why. he wants--he--heigh--i hev it--somethin' as kin kum up wi' the headless! "thet's the very thing he's arter--sure as my name's zeb'lon stump. he's tried the states hoss an foun' him slow. thet much i knowd myself. now he thinks, wi' the mowstang, he may hev a chance to overhaul the tother, ef he kin only find him agin; an for sartin he'll go in sarch o' him. "he's rad on now to casser corver--maybe to git a pick o' somethin' to eat. he won't stay thur long. 'fore many hours hev passed, somebody 'll see him out hyur on the purayra; an thet somebody air boun' to be zeb'lon stump. "come, ye critter!" he continued, turning to the mare, "ye thort ye wur a goin' hum, did ye? yur mistaken 'beout that. ye've got to squat hyur for another hour or two--if not the hul o' the night. never mind, ole gurl! the grass don't look so had; an ye shell hev a chance to git yur snout to it. thur now--eet your durned gut-full!" while pronouncing this apostrophe, he drew the head-stall over the ears of his mare; and, chucking the bridle across the projecting tree of the saddle, permitted her to graze at will. having secured her in the chapparal where he had halted, he walked on-- along the track taken by calhoun. two hundred yards farther on, and the jungle terminated. beyond stretched an open plain; and on its opposite side could be seen the hacienda of casa del corvo. the figure of a horseman could be distinguished against its whitewashed facade--in another moment lost within the dark outline of the entrance. zeb knew who went in. "from this place," he muttered, "i kin see him kum out; an durn me, ef i don't watch till he do kum out--ef it shed be till this time o' the morrow. so hyur goes for a spell o' patience." he first lowered himself to his knees. then, "squirming" round till his back came in contact with the trunk of a honey-locust, he arranged himself into a sitting posture. this done, he drew from his capacious pocket a wallet, containing a "pone" of corn-bread, a large "hunk" of fried "hog-meat," and a flask of liquor, whose perfume proclaimed it "monongahela." having eaten about half the bread, and a like quantity of the meat, he returned the remaining moieties to the wallet; which he suspended over head upon a branch. then taking a satisfactory swig from the whiskey-flask, and igniting his pipe, he leant back against the locust-- with arms folded over his breast, and eyes bent upon the gateway of casa del corvo. in this way he kept watch for a period of full two hours; never changing the direction of his glance; or not long enough for any one to pass out unseen by him. forms came out, and went in--several of them--men and women. but even in the distance their scant light-coloured garments, and dusky complexions, told them to be only the domestics of the mansion. besides, they were all on foot; and he, for whom zeb was watching, should come on horseback--if at all. his vigil was only interrupted by the going down of the sun; and then only to cause a change in his post of observation. when twilight began to fling its purple shadows over the plain, he rose to his feet; and, leisurely unfolding his tall figure, stood upright by the stem of the tree--as if this attitude was more favourable for "considering." "thur's jest a posserbillity the skunk mout sneak out i' the night?" was his reflection. "leastways afore the light o' the mornin'; an i must make sure which way he takes purayra. "'taint no use my toatin' the maar after me," he continued, glancing in the direction where the animal had been left. "she'd only bother me. beside, thur's goin' to be a clurrish sort o' moonlight; an she mout be seen from the nigger quarter. she'll be better hyur--both for grass and kiver." he went back to the mare; took off the saddle; fastened the trail-rope round her neck, tying the other end to a tree; and then, unstrapping his old blanket from the cantle, he threw it across his left arm, and walked off in the direction of casa del corvo. he did not proceed _pari passu_; but now quicker, and now more hesitatingly--timing himself, by the twilight--so that his approach might not be observed from the hacienda. he had need of this caution: for the ground which he had to pass was like a level lawn, without copse or cover of any kind. here and there stood a solitary tree--dwarf-oak or _algarobia_, but not close enough to shelter him from being seen through the windows--much less from the azotea. now and then he stopped altogether--to wait for the deepening of the twilight. working his way in this stealthy manner, he arrived within less than two hundred yards of the walls--just as the last trace of sunlight disappeared from the sky. he had reached the goal of his journey--for that day--and the spot on which he was likely to pass the night. a low stemless bush grew near; and, laying himself down behind it, he resumed the espionage, that could scarce be said to have been interrupted. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ throughout the live-long night zeb stump never closed both eyes at the same time. one was always on the watch; and the unflagging earnestness, with which he maintained it, proclaimed him to be acting under the influence of some motive beyond the common. during the earlier hours he was not without sounds to cheer, or at least relieve, the monotony of his lonely vigil. there was the hum of voices from the slave cabins; with now and then a peal of laughter. but this was more suppressed than customary; nor was it accompanied by the clear strain of the violin, or the lively tink-a-tink of the banjo--sounds almost characteristic of the "negro-quarter," at night. the sombre silence that hung over the "big house" extended to the hearths of its sable retainers. before midnight the voices became hushed, and stillness reigned everywhere; broken only at intervals by the howl of a straying hound-- uttered in response to the howl-bark of a coyote taking care to keep far out upon the plain. the watcher had spent a wearisome day, and could have slept--but for his thoughts. once when these threatened to forsake him, and he was in danger of dozing, he started suddenly to his feet; took a turn or two over the sward; and, then lying down again, re-lit his pipe; stuck his head into the heart of the bush; and smoked away till the bowl was burnt empty. during all this time, he kept his eyes upon the great gateway of the mansion; whose massive door--he could tell by the moonlight shining upon it--remained shut. again did he change his post of observation; the sun's rising--as its setting had done--seeming to give him the cue. as the first tint of dawn displayed itself on the horizon, he rose gently to his feet; clutched the blanket so as to bring its edges in contact across his breast; and, turning his back upon casa del corvo, walked slowly away--taking the same track by which he had approached it on the preceding night. and again with unequal steps: at short intervals stopping and looking back--under his arm, or over his shoulder. nowhere did he make a prolonged pause; until reaching the locust-tree, under whose shade he had made his evening meal; and there, in the same identical attitude, he proceeded to break his fast. the second half of the "pone" and the remaining moiety of the pork, soon disappeared between his teeth; after which followed the liquor that had been left in his flask. he had refilled his pipe, and was about relighting it, when an object came before his eyes, that caused him hastily to return his flint and steel to the pouch from which he had taken them. through the blue mist of the morning the entrance of casa del corvo showed a darker disc. the door had been drawn open. almost at the same instant a horseman was seen to sally forth, mounted upon a small grey horse; and the door was at once closed behind him. zeb stump made no note of this. he only looked to see what direction the early traveller would take. less than a score of seconds sufficed to satisfy him. the horse's head and the face of the rider were turned towards himself. he lost no time in trying to identify either. he did not doubt of its being the same man and horse, that had passed that spot on the evening before; and he was equally confident they were going to pass it again. what he did was to shamble up to his mare; in some haste get her saddled and bridled; and then, having taken up his trail rope, lead her off into a cover--from which he could command a view of the chapparal path, without danger of being himself seen. this done, he awaited the arrival of the traveller on the grey steed-- whom he knew to be captain cassius calhoun. he waited still longer--until the latter had trotted past; until he had gone quite through the belt of chapparal, and in the hazy light of the morning gradually disappeared on the prairie beyond. not till then did zeb stump clamber into his saddle; and, "prodding" his solitary spur against the ribs of his roadster, cause the latter to move on. he went after cassius calhoun; but without showing the slightest concern about keeping the latter in sight! he needed not this to guide him. the dew upon the grass was to him a spotless page--the tracks of the grey mustang a type, as legible as the lines of a printed book. he could read them at a trot; ay, going at a gallop! chapter eighty one. heads down--heels up! without suspicion that he had been seen leaving the house--except by pluto, who had saddled the grey mustang--calhoun rode on across the prairie. equally unsuspicious was he, in passing the point where zeb stump stood crouching in concealment. in the dim light of the morning he supposed himself unseen by human eye; and he recked not of any other. after parting from the timbered border, he struck off towards the nueces; riding at a brisk trot--now and then increasing to a canter. por the first six or eight miles he took but little note of aught that was around. an occasional glance along the horizon seemed to satisfy him; and this extended only to that portion of the vast circle before his face. he looked neither to the right nor the left; and only once behind--after getting some distance from the skirt of the chapparal. before him was the object--still unseen--upon which his thoughts were straying. what that object was he and only one other knew--that other zeb stump-- though little did calhoun imagine that mortal man could have a suspicion of the nature of his early errand. the old hunter had only conjectured it; but it was a conjecture of the truth of which he was as certain, as if the ex-captain had made him his confidant. he knew that the latter had gone off in search of the headless horseman--in hopes of renewing the chase of yesterday, with a better chance of effecting a capture. though bestriding a steed fleet as a texan stag, calhoun was by no means sanguine of success. there were many chances against his getting sight of the game he intended to take: at least two to one; and this it was that formed the theme of his reflections as he rode onward. the uncertainty troubled him; but he was solaced by a hope founded upon some late experiences. there was a particular place where he had twice encountered the thing he was in search of. it might be there again? this was an embayment of green sward, where the savannah was bordered by the chapparal, and close to the embouchure of that opening--where it was supposed the murder had been committed! "odd he should always make back there?" reflected calhoun, as he pondered upon the circumstance. "damned ugly odd it is! looks as if he knew--. bah! it's only because the grass is better, and that pond by the side of it. well! i hope he's been thinking that way this morning. if so, there'll be a chance of finding him. if not, i must go on through the chapparal; and hang me if i like it--though it be in the daylight. ugh! "pish! what's there to fear--now that he's safe in limbo? nothing but the _bit of lead_; and _it_ i must have, if i should ride this thing till it drops dead in its tracks. holy heaven! what's that out yonder?" these last six words were spoken aloud. all the rest had been a soliloquy in thought. the speaker, on pronouncing them, pulled up, almost dragging the mustang on its haunches; and with eyes that seemed ready to start from their sockets, sate gazing across the plain. there was something more than surprise in that stedfast glance--there was horror. and no wonder: for the spectacle upon which it rested was one to terrify the stoutest heart. the sun had stolen up above the horizon of the prairie, and was behind the rider's back, in the direct line of the course he had been pursuing. before him, along the heaven's edge, extended a belt of bluish mist-- the exhalation arising out of the chapparal--now not far distant. the trees themselves were unseen--concealed under the film floating over them, that like a veil of purple gauze, rose to a considerable height above their tops--gradually merging into the deeper azure of the sky. on this veil, or moving behind it--as in the transparencies of a stage scene--appeared a form strange enough to have left the spectator incredulous, had he not beheld it before. it was that of the headless horseman. but not as seen before--either by calhoun himself, or any of the others. no. it was now altogether different. in shape the same; but in size it was increased to tenfold its original dimensions! no longer a man, but a colossus--a giant. no longer a horse, but an animal of equine shape, with the towering height and huge massive bulk of a mastodon! nor was this all of the new to be noted about the headless horseman. a still greater change was presented in his appearance; one yet more inexplicable, if that could possibly be. he was no longer walking upon the ground, but against the sky; both horse and rider moving in an inverted position! the hoofs of the former were distinctly perceptible upon the upper edge of the film; while the shoulders--i had almost said _head_--of the latter were close down to the line of the horizon! the serape shrouding them hung in the right direction--not as regarded the laws of gravity, but the attitude of the wearer. so, too, the bridle reins, the mane, and sweeping tail of the horse. all draped _upwards_! when first seen, the spectral form--now more spectre-like than ever--was going at a slow, leisurely walk. in this pace it for some time continued--calhoun gazing upon it with a heart brimful of horror. all of a sudden it assumed a change. its regular outlines became confused by a quick transformation; the horse having turned, and gone off at a trot in the opposite direction, though still with his heels against the sky! the spectre had become alarmed, and was retreating! calhoun, half palsied with fear, would have kept his ground, and permitted it to depart, but for his own horse; that, just then shying suddenly round, placed him face to face with the explanation. as he turned, the tap of a shod hoof upon the prairie turf admonished him that a real horseman was near--if that could be called real, which had thrown such a frightful shadow. "it's the _mirage_!" he exclaimed, with the addition of an oath to give vent to his chagrin. "what a fool i've been to let it humbug me! there's the damned thing that did it: the very thing i'm in search of. and so close too! if i'd known, i might have got hold of him before he saw me. now for a chase; and, by god, i'll _grup_ him, if i have to gallop to the other end of texas!" voice, spur, and whip were simultaneously exerted to prove the speaker's earnestness; and in five minutes after, two horsemen were going at full stretch across the prairie--their horses both to the prairie born--one closely pursuing the other--the pursued without a head; the pursuer with a heart that throbbed under a desperate determination. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the chase was not a long one--at least, so far as it led over the open prairie; and calhoun had begun to congratulate himself on the prospect of a capture. his horse appeared the swifter; but this may have arisen from his being more earnestly urged; or that the other was not sufficiently scared to care for escaping. certainly the grey steed gained ground--at length getting so close, that calhoun made ready his rifle. his intention was to shoot the horse down, and so put an end to the pursuit. he would have fired on the instant, but for the fear of a miss. but having made more than one already, he restrained himself from pulling trigger, till he could ride close enough to secure killing shot. while thus hesitating, the chase veered suddenly from off the treeless plain, and dashed into the opening of the timber. this movement, unexpected by the pursuer, caused him to lose ground; and in the endeavour to regain it, more than a half mile of distance was left behind him. he was approaching a spot well, too well, known to him--the place where blood had been spilt. on any other occasion he would have shunned it; but there was in his heart a thought that hindered him from dwelling upon memories of the past--steeling it against all reflection, except a cold fear for the future. the capture of the strange equestrian could alone allay this fear--by removing the danger he dreaded. once more he had gained ground in the chase. the spread nostrils of his steed were almost on a line with the sweeping tail of that pursued. his rifle lay ready in his left hand, its trigger guard covered by the fingers of his right. he was searching for a spot to take aim at. in another second the shot would have been fired, and a bullet sent between the ribs of the retreating horse, when the latter, as if becoming aware of the danger, made a quick curvet to the off side; and then, aiming a kick at the snout of his pursuer, bounded on in a different direction! the suddenness of the demonstration, with the sharp, spiteful "squeal" that accompanied it--appearing almost to speak of an unearthly intelligence--for the moment disconcerted calhoun; as it did the horse he was riding. the latter came to a stop; and refused to go farther; till the spur, plunged deep between his ribs, once more forced him to the gallop. and now more earnestly than ever did his rider urge him on; for the pursued, no longer keeping to the path, was heading direct for the thicket. the chase might there terminate, without the chased animal being either killed or captured. hitherto calhoun had only been thinking of a trial of speed. he had not anticipated such an ending, as was now both possible and probable; and with a more reckless resolve, he once more raised his rifle for the shot. by this time both were close in to the bushes--the headless horseman already half-screened by the leafy branches that swept swishing along his sides. only the hips of his horse could be aimed at; and upon these was the gun levelled. the sulphureous smoke spurted forth from its muzzle; the crack was heard simultaneously; and, as if caused by the discharge, a dark object came whirling through the cloud, and fell with a dull "thud" upon the turf. with a bound and a roll--that brought it among the feet of calhoun's horse--it became stationary. stationary, but not still. it continued to oscillate from side to side, like a top before ceasing to spin. the grey steed snorted, and reared back. his rider uttered a cry of intensified alarm. and no wonder. if read in shakespearean lore, he might have appropriately repeated the words "shake not those gory locks": for, on the ground beneath, was the head of a man--still sticking in its hat-- whose stiff orbicular brim hindered it from staying still. the face was toward calhoun--upturned at just such an angle as to bring it full before him. the features were bloodstained, wan, and shrivelled; the eyes open, but cold and dim, like balls of blown glass; the teeth gleaming white between livid lips, yet seemingly set in an expression of careless contentment. all this saw cassius calhoun. he saw it with fear and trembling. not for the supernatural or unknown, but for the real and truly comprehended. short was his interview with that silent, but speaking head. ere it had ceased to oscillate on the smooth sward, he wrenched his horse around; struck the rowels deep; and galloped away from the ground! no farther went he in pursuit of the headless horseman--still heard breaking through the bushes--but back--back to the prairie; and on, on, to casa del corvo! chapter eighty two. a queer parcel. the backwoodsman, after emerging from the thicket, proceeded as leisurely along the trail, as if he had the whole day before him, and no particular motive for making haste. and yet, one closely scrutinising his features, might there have observed an expression of intense eagerness; that accorded with his nervous twitching in the saddle, and the sharp glances from time to time cast before him. he scarce deigned to look upon the "sign" left by calhoun. it he could read out of the corner of his eye. as to following it, the old mare could have done that without him! it was not this knowledge that caused him to hang back; for he would have preferred keeping calhoun in sight. but by doing this, the latter might see _him_; and so frustrate the end he desired to attain. this end was of more importance than any acts that might occur between; and, to make himself acquainted with the latter, zeb stump trusted to the craft of his intellect, rather than the skill of his senses. advancing slowly and with caution--but with that constancy that ensures good speed--he arrived at length on the spot where the _mirage_ had made itself manifest to calhoun. zeb saw nothing of this. it was gone; and the sky stretched down to the prairie--the blue meeting the green in a straight unbroken line. he saw, however, what excited him almost as much as the spectre would have done: two sets of horse-tracks going together--those that went after being the hoof-marks of calhoun's new horse--of which zeb had already taken the measure. about the tracks _underneath_ he had no conjecture--at least as regarded their identification. these he knew, as well as if his own mare had made them. "the skunk's hed a find!" were the words that escaped him, as he sate gazing upon the double trail. "it don't foller from thet," he continued, in the same careless drawl, "thet he hez made a catch. an' yit, who knows? durn me, ef he moutn't! thur's lots o' chances for his doin' it. the mowstang may a let him come clost up--seein' as he's ridin' one o' its own sort; an ef it dud--ay, ef it dud-- "what the durnation am i stannin' hyur for? thur ain't no time to be wasted in shiller-shallerin'. ef he shed grup thet critter, an git what he wants from it, then i mout whissel for what i want, 'ithout the ghost o' a chance for gettin' it. "i must make a better rate o' speed. gee-up, ole gurl; an see ef ye can't overtake that ere grey hoss, as scuttled past half-a-hour agone. now for a spell o' yur swiftness, the which you kin show along wi' any o' them, i reckon--thet air when ye're pressed. gee-up!" instead of using the cruel means employed by him when wanting his mare to make her best speed, he only drove the old spur against her ribs, and started her into a trot. he had no desire to travel more rapidly than was consistent with caution; and while trotting he kept his eyes sharply ranging along the skyline in front of him. "from the way his track runs," was his reflection, "i kin tell pretty nigh whar it's goin' to fetch out. everything seems to go that way; an so did he, poor young fellur--never more to come back. ah, wal! ef t'aint possible to ree-vive him agin, may be it air to squar the yards wi' the skunk as destroyed him. the scripter sez, `a eye for a eye, an a tooth for a tooth,' an i reckin i'll shet up somebody's daylights, an spoil the use o' thur ivories afore i hev done wi' him. somebody as don't suspeeshun it neyther, an that same--. heigh! yonner he goes! an' yonner too the headless, by geehosophat! full gallup both; an durn me, if the grey aint a overtakin' him! "they aint comin' this way, so 'tain't no use in our squattin', ole gurl. stan' steady for all that. he _mout_ see us movin'. "no fear. he's too full o' his frolic to look anywhar else, than straight custrut afore him. ha! jest as i expected--into the openin'! right down it, fast as heels kin carry 'em! "now, my maar, on we go agin!" another stage of trotting--with his eyes kept steadfastly fixed upon the chapparal gap--brought zeb to the timber. although the chase had long since turned the angle of the avenue, and was now out of sight, he did not go along the open ground; but among the bushes that bordered it. he went so as to command a view of the clear track for some distance ahead; at the same time taking care that neither himself, nor his mare, might be seen by any one advancing from the opposite direction. he did not anticipate meeting any one--much less the man who soon after came in sight. he was not greatly surprised at hearing a shot: for he had been listening for it, ever since he had set eyes on the chase. he was rather in surprise at not hearing it sooner; and when the crack did come, he recognised the report of a yager rifle, and knew whose gun had been discharged. he was more astonished to see its owner returning along the lane--in less than five minutes after the shot had been fired--returning, too, with a rapidity that told of retreat! "comin' back agin--an so soon!" he muttered, on perceiving calhoun. "dog-goned queery thet air! thur's somethin' amiss, more'n a miss, i reck'n. ho, ho, ho! goin', too, as if hell war arter him! maybe it's the headless hisself, and thur's been a changin' about in the chase--tit for tat! darn me, ef it don't look like it! i'd gie a silver dollar to see thet sort o' a thing. he, he, he, ho, ho, hoo!" long before this, the hunter had slipped out of his saddle, and taken the precaution to screen both himself and his animal from the chance of being seen by the retreating rider--who promise soon to pass the spot. and soon did he pass it, going at such a gait, and with such a wild abstracted air, that zeb would scarce have been perceived had he been standing uncovered in the avenue! "geehosophat!" mentally ejaculated the backwoodsman, as the passion-scathed countenance came near enough to be scrutinised. "if hell ain't _arter_, it's _inside_ o' him! durn me, ef thet face ain't the ugliest picter this coon ever clapped eyes on. i shed pity the wife as gets him. poor miss peintdexter! i hope she'll be able to steer clur o' havin' sech a cut-throat as him to be her lord an master. "what's up anyhow? thar don't 'pear to be anythin' arter him? an' he still keeps on! whar's he boun' for now? i must foller an see. "to hum agin!" exclaimed the hunter, after going on to the edge of the chapparal, and observed calhoun still going at a gallop, with head turned homeward. "hum agin, for sartin! "now, ole gurl!" he continued, having remained silent till the grey horse was nearly out of sight, "you an me goes t'other way. we must find out what thet shot wur fired for." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ in ten minutes after, zeb had alighted from his mare, and lifted up from the ground an object, the stoutest heart might have felt horror in taking hold of--disgust, even, in touching! not so the old hunter. in that object he beheld the lineaments of a face well known to him--despite the shrivelling of the skin, and the blood streaks that so fearfully falsified its expression--still dear to him, despite death and a merciless mutilation. he had loved that face, when it belonged to a boy; he now cherished it, belonging not to anybody! clasping the rim of the hat that fitted tightly to the temples--zeb endeavoured to take it off. he did not succeed. the head was swollen so as almost to burst the bullion band twisted around it! holding it in its natural position, zeb stood for a time gazing tenderly on the face. "lord, o lordy!" he drawlingly exclaimed, "what a present to take back to _his_ father, to say nothin' o' the sister! i don't think i'll take it. it air better to bury the thing out hyur, an say no more abeout it. "no; durn me ef i do! what am i thinkin' o'? tho' i don't exackly see how it may help to sarcumstantiate the chain o' evvydince, it may do somethin' torst it. durned queery witness _it_ 'll be to purduce in a coort o' justis!" saying this, he unstrapped his old blanket; and, using it as a wrapper, carefully packed within it head, hat, and all. then, hanging the strange bundle over the horn of his saddle, he remounted his mare, and rode reflectingly away. chapter eighty three. limbs of the law. on the third day after maurice gerald became an inmate of the military prison the fever had forsaken him, and he no longer talked incoherently. on the fourth he was almost restored to his health and strength. the fifth was appointed for his trial! this haste--that elsewhere would have been considered indecent--was thought nothing of in texas; where a man may commit a capital offence, be tried, and hanged within the short space of four-and-twenty hours! his enemies, who were numerous, for some reason of their own, insisted upon despatch: while his friends, who were few, could urge no good reason against it. among the populace there was the usual clamouring for prompt and speedy justice; fortified by that exciting phrase, old as the creation itself: "that the blood of the murdered man was calling from the ground for vengeance." the advocates of an early trial were favoured by a fortuitous circumstance. the judge of the supreme court chanced just then to be going his circuit; and the days devoted to clearing the calendar at fort inge, had been appointed for that very week. there was, therefore, a sort of necessity, that the case of maurice gerald, as of the other suspected murderers, should be tried within a limited time. as no one objected, there was no one to ask for a postponement; and it stood upon the docket for the day in question--the fifteenth of the month. the accused might require the services of a legal adviser. there was no regular practitioner in the place: as in these frontier districts the gentlemen of the long robe usually travel in company with the court; and the court had not yet arrived. for all that, a lawyer had appeared: a "counsellor" of distinction; who had come all the way from san antonio, to conduct the case. as a volunteer he had presented himself! it may have been generosity on the part of this gentleman, or an eye to congress, though it was said that gold, presented by fair fingers, had induced him to make the journey. when it rains, it rains. the adage is true in texas as regards the elements; and on this occasion it was true of the lawyers. the day before that appointed for the trial of the mustanger, a second presented himself at fort inge, who put forward his claim to be upon the side of the prisoner. this gentleman had made a still longer journey than he of san antonio; a voyage, in fact: since he had crossed the great atlantic, starting from the metropolis of the emerald isle. he had come for no other purpose than to hold communication with the man accused of having committed a murder! it is true, the errand that had brought him did not anticipate this; and the dublin solicitor was no little astonished when, after depositing his travelling traps under the roof of mr oberdoffer's hostelry, and making inquiry about maurice gerald, he was told that the young irishman was shut up in the guard-house. still greater the attorney's astonishment on learning the cause of his incarceration. "fwhat! the son of a munsther gerald accused of murdher! the heir of castle ballagh, wid its bewtiful park and demesne. fwy, i've got the papers in my portmantyee here. faugh-a-ballagh! show me the way to him!" though the "texan" boniface was inclined to consider his recently arrived guest entitled to a suspicion of lunacy, he assented to his request; and furnished him with a guide to the guard-house. if the irish attorney was mad, there appeared to be method in his madness. instead of being denied admittance to the accused criminal, he was made welcome to go in and out of the military prison--as often as it seemed good to him. some document he had laid before the eyes of the major-commandant, had procured him this privilege; at the same time placing him _en rapport_, in a friendly way, with the texan "counsellor." the advent of the irish attorney at such a crisis gave rise to much speculation at the port, the village, and throughout the settlement. the bar-room of the "rough and ready" was rife with conjecturers--_quidnuncs_ they could scarcely be called: since in texas the genus does not exist. a certain grotesqueness about the man added to the national instinct for guessing--which had been rendered excruciatingly keen through some revelations, contributed by "old duffer." for all that, the transatlantic limb of the law proved himself tolerably true to the traditions of his craft. with the exception of the trifling imprudences already detailed--drawn from him in the first moments of surprise--he never afterwards committed himself; but kept his lips close as an oyster at ebb tide. there was not much time for him to use his tongue. on the day after his arrival the trial was to take place; and during most of the interval he was either in the guard-house along with the prisoner, or closeted with the san antonio counsel. the rumour became rife that maurice gerald had told them a tale--a strange weird story--but of its details the world outside remained in itching ignorance. there was one who knew it--one able to confirm it--zeb stump the hunter. there may have been another; but this other was not in the confidence either of the accused or his counsel. zeb himself did not appear in their company. only once had he been seen conferring with them. after that he was gone--both from the guard-house and the settlement, as everybody supposed, about his ordinary business-- in search of deer, "baar," or "gobbler." everybody was in error. zeb for the time had forsaken his usual pursuits, or, at all events, the game he was accustomed to chase, capture, and kill. it is true he was out upon a stalking expedition; but instead of birds or beasts, he was after an animal of neither sort; one that could not be classed with creatures either of the earth or the air--a horseman without a head! chapter eighty four. an affectionate nephew. "tried to-morrow--to-morrow, thank god! not likely that anybody 'll catch that cursed thing before then--to be hoped, never. "_it_ is all i've got to fear. i defy them to tell what's happened without that. hang me if i know myself! enough only to--. "queer, the coming of this irish pettifogger! "queer, too, the fellow from san antonio! wonder who and what's brought him? somebody's promised him his costs? "damn 'em! i don't care, not the value of a red cent. they can make nothing out of it, but that gerald did the deed. everything points that way; and everybody thinks so. they're bound to convict him. "zeb stump don't think it, the suspicious old snake! he's nowhere to be found. wonder where he has gone? on a hunt, they say. 'tain't likely, such time as this. what if he be hunting it? what if he should catch it? "i'd try again myself, if there was time. there ain't. before to-morrow night it'll be all over; and afterwards if there should turn up--. damn afterwards! the thing is to make sure now. let the future look to itself. with one man hung for the murder, 'tain't likely they'd care to accuse another. even if something suspicious _did_ turn up! they'd be shy to take hold of it. it would be like condemning themselves! "i reckon, i've got all right with the regulators. sam manley himself appears pretty well convinced. i knocked his doubts upon the head, when i told him what i'd heard that night. a little more than i did hear; though that was enough to make a man stark, staring mad. damn! "it's no use crying over spilt milk. she's met the man, and there's an end of it. she'll never meet him again, and that's another end of it-- except she meet him in heaven. well; that will depend upon herself. "i don't think _anything has happened between them_. she's not the sort for that, with all her wildness; and it may be what that yellow wench tells me--only _gratitude_. no, no, no! it can't be. gratitude don't get out of its bed in the middle of the night--to keep appointments at the bottom of a garden? she loves him--she loves him! let her love and be damned! she shall never have him. she shall never see him again, unless she prove obstinate; and then it will be but to condemn him. a word from her, and he's a hanged man. "she shall speak it, if she don't say that other word, i've twice asked her for. the third time will be the last. one more refusal, and i show my hand. not only shall this irish adventurer meet his doom; but she shall be his condemner; and the plantation, house, niggers, everything--. ah! uncle woodley; i wanted to see you." the soliloquy above reported took place in a chamber, tenanted only by cassius calhoun. it was woodley poindexter who interrupted it. sad, silent, straying through the corridors of casa del corvo, he had entered the apartment usually occupied by his nephew--more by chance than from any premeditated purpose. "want me! for what, nephew?" there was a tone of humility, almost obeisance, in the speech of the broken man. the once proud poindexter--before whom two hundred slaves had trembled every day, every hour of their lives, now stood in the presence of his master! true, it was his own nephew, who had the power to humiliate him--his sister's son. but there was not much in that, considering the character of the man. "i want to talk to you about loo," was the rejoinder of calhoun. it was the very subject woodley poindexter would have shunned. it was something he dreaded to think about, much less make the topic of discourse; and less still with him who now challenged it. nevertheless, he did not betray surprise. he scarce felt it. something said or done on the day before had led him to anticipate this request for a conversation--as also the nature of the subject. the manner in which calhoun introduced it, did not diminish his uneasiness. it sounded more like a demand than a request. "about loo? what of her?" he inquired, with assumed calmness. "well," said calhoun, apparently in reluctant utterance, as if shy about entering upon the subject, or pretending to be so, "i--i--wanted--" "i'd rather," put in the planter, taking advantage of the other's hesitancy, "i'd rather not speak of _her_ now." this was said almost supplicatingly. "and why not now, uncle?" asked calhoun, emboldened by the show of opposition. "you know my reasons, nephew?" "well, i know the time is not pleasant. poor henry missing--supposed to be--after all, he may turn up yet, and everything be right again." "never! we shall never see him again--living or dead. i have no longer a son?" "you have a daughter; and she--" "has disgraced me!" "i don't believe it, uncle--no." "what means those things i've heard--myself seen? what could have taken her there--twenty miles across the country--alone--in the hut of a common horse-trader--standing by his bedside? o god! and why should she have interposed to save him--him, the murderer of my son--her own brother? o god!" "her own story explains the first--satisfactorily, as i think." calhoun did _not_ think so. "the second is simple enough. any woman would have done the same--a woman like loo." "there is _none_ like her. i, her father, say so. oh! that i could think it is, as you say! my poor daughter! who should now be dearer to me than ever--now that i have no son!" "it is for her to find you a son--one already related to you; and who can promise to play the part--with perhaps not so much affection as him you have lost, but with all he has the power to give. i won't talk to you in riddles, uncle woodley. you know what i mean; and how my mind's made up about this matter. _i want loo_!" the planter showed no surprise at the laconic declaration. he expected it. for all that, the shadow became darker on his brow. it was evident he did not relish the proposed alliance. this may seem strange. up to a late period, he had been its advocate-- in his own mind--and more than once, delicately, in the ear of his daughter. previous to the migration into texas, he had known comparatively little of his nephew. since coming to manhood, calhoun had been a citizen of the state of mississippi--more frequently a dweller in the dissipated city of new orleans. an occasional visit to the louisiana plantation was all his uncle had seen of him; until the developing beauty of his cousin louise gave him the inducement to make these visits at shorter intervals--each time protracting them to a longer stay. there was then twelve months of campaigning in mexico; where he rose to the rank of captain; and, after his conquests in war, he had returned home with the full determination to make a conquest in love--the heart of his creole cousin. from that time his residence under his uncle's roof had been more permanent. if not altogether liked by the young lady, he had made himself welcome to her father, by means seldom known to fail. the planter, once rich, was now poor. extravagance had reduced his estate to a hopeless indebtedness. with his nephew, the order was reversed: once poor, he was now rich. chance had made him so. under the circumstances, it was not surprising, that money had passed between them. in his native place, and among his old neighbours, woodley poindexter still commanded sufficient homage to shield him from the suspicion of being _under_ his nephew; as also to restrain the latter from exhibiting the customary arrogance of the creditor. it was only after the move into texas, that their relations began to assume that peculiar character observable between mortgagor and mortgagee. it grew more patent, after several attempts at love-making on the part of calhoun, with corresponding repulses on the part of louise. the planter had now a better opportunity of becoming acquainted with the true character of his nephew; and almost every day; since their arrival at casa del corvo, had this been developing itself to his discredit. calhoun's quarrel with the mustanger, and its ending, had not strengthened his uncle's respect for him; though, as a kinsman, he was under the necessity of taking sides with him. there had occurred other circumstances to cause a change in his feelings--to make him, notwithstanding its many advantages, _dislike_ the connection. alas! there was much also to render it, if not agreeable, at least not to be slightingly set aside. indecision--perhaps more than the sorrow for his son's loss dictated the character of his reply. "if i understand you aright, nephew, you mean _marriage_! surely it is not the time to talk of it now--while death is in our house! to think of such a thing would cause a scandal throughout the settlement." "you mistake me, uncle. i do not mean marriage--that is, not _now_. only something that will secure it--when the proper time arrives." "i do not understand you, cash." "you'll do that, if you only listen to me a minute." "go on." "well; what i want to say is this. i've made up my mind to get married. i'm now close upon thirty--as you know; and at that time a man begins to get tired of running about the world. i'm damnably tired of it; and don't intend to keep single any longer. _i'm willing to have loo for my wife_. there need be no hurry about it. all i want now is her promise; signed and sealed, that there may be no _fluke_, or uncertainty. i want the thing settled. when these _bothers_ blow past, it will be time enough to talk of the wedding business, and that sort of thing." the word "bothers," with the speech of which it formed part, grated harshly on the ear of a father, mourning for his murdered son! the spirit of woodley poindexter was aroused--almost to the resumption of its old pride, and the indignation that had oft accompanied it. it soon cowered again. on one side he saw land, slaves, wealth, position; on the other, penury that seemed perdition. he did not yield altogether; as may be guessed by the character of his reply. "well, nephew; you have certainly spoken plain enough. but i know not my daughter's disposition towards you. you say you are willing to have her for your wife. is she willing to have you? i suppose there is a question about that?" "i think, uncle, it will depend a good deal upon yourself. you are her father. surely you can _convince_ her?" "i'm not so sure of that. she's not of the kind to be convinced-- against her will. you, cash, know that as well as i." "well, i only know that i intend getting `spliced,' as the sailors say; and i'd like loo for the _mistress of casa del corvo_, better than any other woman in the settlement--in all texas, for that matter." woodley poindexter recoiled at the ungracious speech. it was the first time he had been told, that he was not the _master_ of casa del corvo! indirectly as the information had been conveyed, he understood it. once more rose before his mind the reality of lands, slaves, wealth, and social status--alongside, the apparition of poverty and social abasement. the last looked hideous; though not more so than the man who stood before him--his own nephew--soliciting to become his son! for purposes impossible to comprehend, god often suffers himself to be defeated by the devil. in this instance was it so. the good in poindexter's heart succumbed to the evil. he promised to assist his nephew, in destroying the happiness of his daughter. "loo!" "father!" "i come to ask a favour from you." "what is it, father?" "you know that your cousin cash loves you. he is ready to die for--more and better still, to marry you." "but i am not ready to marry _him_. no, father; _i_ shall die first. the presumptuous wretch! i know what it means. and he has sent _you_ to make this proposal! tell him in return, that, sooner than consent to become his wife, i'd go upon the prairies--and seek my living by lassoing wild horses! tell him that!" "reflect, daughter! you are, perhaps, not aware that--" "that my cousin is your creditor. i know all that, dear father. but i know also that you are woodley poindexter, and i your daughter." delicately as the hint was given, it produced the desired effect. the spirit of the planter surged up to its ancient pride, his reply was:-- "dearest louise! image of your mother! i had doubted you. forgive me, my noble girl! let the past be forgotten. i shall leave it to yourself. you are free to refuse him!" chapter eighty five. a kind cousin. louise poindexter made fall use of the liberty allowed by her father. in less than an hour after, calhoun was flatly refused. it was his third time of asking. twice before had the same suit been preferred; informally, and rather by a figure of speech than in the shape of a direct declaration. it was the third time; and the answer told it would be the last. it was a simple "no," emphatically followed by the equally simple "never!" there was no prevarication about the speech--no apology for having made it. calhoun listened to his rejection, without much show of surprise. possibly--in all probability--he expected it. but instead of the blank look of despair usually observable under the circumstances, his features remained firm, and his cheeks free from blanching. as he stood confronting his fair cousin, a spectator might have been reminded of the jaguar, as it pauses before springing on its prey. there was that in his eye which seemed to say:-- "in less than sixty seconds, you'll change your tune." what he did say was:-- "you're not in earnest, loo?" "i am, sir. have i spoken like one who jests?" "you've spoken like one, who hasn't taken pains to reflect." "upon what?" "many things." "name them!" "well, for one--the way i love you." she made no rejoinder. "a love," he continued, in a tone half explanatory, half pleading; "a love, loo, that no man can feel for a woman, and survive it. it can end only with my life. it could not end with _yours_." there was a pause, but still no reply. "'tis no use my telling you its history. it began on the same day--ay, the same hour--i first saw you. "i won't say it grew stronger as time passed. it could not. on my first visit to your father's house--now six years ago--you may remember that, after alighting from my horse, you asked me to take a walk with you round the garden--while dinner was being got ready. "you were but a stripling of a girl; but oh, loo, you were a woman in beauty--as beautiful as you are at this moment. "no doubt you little thought, as you took me by the hand, and led me along the gravelled walk, under the shade of the china trees, that the touch of your fingers was sending a thrill into my soul; your pretty prattle making an impression upon my heart, that neither time, nor distance, nor yet _dissipation_, has been able to efface." the creole continued to listen, though not without showing sign. words so eloquent, so earnest, so full of sweet flattery, could scarce fail to have effect upon a woman. by such speech had lucifer succeeded in the accomplishment of his purpose. there was pity, if not approval, in her look! still did she keep silence. calhoun continued:-- "yes, loo; it's true as i tell you. i've tried all three. six years may fairly be called time. from mississippi to mexico was the distance: for i went there with no other purpose than to forget you. it proved of no avail; and, returning, i entered upon a course of dissipation. new orleans knows that. "i won't say, that my passion grew stronger by these attempts to stifle it. i've already told you, it could not. from the hour you first caught hold of my hand, and called me cousin--ah! you called me _handsome_ cousin, loo--from that hour i can remember no change, no degrees, in the fervour of my affection; except when jealousy has made me hate--ay, so much, that i could have _killed_ you!" "good gracious, captain calhoun! this is wild talk of yours. it is even silly!" "'tis serious, nevertheless. i've been so jealous with you at times, that it was a task to control myself. my temper i could not--as you have reason to know." "alas, cousin, i cannot help what has happened. i never gave you cause, to think--" "i know what you are going to say; and you may leave it unspoken. i'll say it for you: `to think that you ever loved me.' those were the words upon your lips. "i don't say you did," he continued, with deepening despair: "i don't accuse you of tempting me. something did. god, who gave you such beauty; or the devil, who led me to look upon it." "what you say only causes me pain. i do not suppose you are trying to flatter me. you talk too earnestly for that. but oh, cousin cassius, 'tis a fancy from which you will easily recover. there are others, far fairer than i; and many, who would feel complimented by such speeches. why not address yourself to them?" "why not?" he echoed, with bitter emphasis. "what an idle question!" "i repeat it. it is not idle. far more so is your affection for me: for i must be candid with you, cassius. i do not--i _cannot_, love you." "you will not marry me then?" "that, at least, is an idle question. i've said i do not love you. surely that is sufficient." "and i've said i love _you_. i gave it as one reason why i wish you for my wife: but there are _others_. are you desirous of hearing them?" as calhoun asked this question the suppliant air forsook him. the spirit of the jaguar was once more in his eye. "you said there were other reasons. state them! do not be backward. i'm not afraid to listen." "indeed!" he rejoined, sneeringly. "you're not afraid, ain't you?" "not that i know of. what have i to fear?" "i won't say what _you_ have; but what your father has." "let me hear it? what concerns him, equally affects me. i am his daughter; and now, alas, his only--. go on, cousin calhoun! what is this shadow hanging over him?" "no shadow, loo; but something serious, and substantial. a trouble he's no longer able to contend with. you force me to speak of things you shouldn't know anything about." "oh! don't i? you're mistaken, cousin cash. i know them already. i'm aware that my father's in debt; and that you are his creditor. how could i have remained in ignorance of it? your arrogance about the house--your presumption, shown every hour, and in presence of the domestics--has been evidence sufficient to satisfy even them, that there is something amiss. you are master of casa del corvo. i know it. you are not master of _me_!" calhoun quailed before the defiant speech. the card, upon which he had been counting, was not likely to gain the trick. he declined playing it. he held a still stronger _in_ his hand; which was exhibited without farther delay. "indeed!" he retorted, sneeringly. "well; if i'm not master of your heart, i am of your happiness--or shall be. i know the worthless wretch that's driven you to this denial--" "who?" "how innocent you are!" "of that at least i am; unless by worthless wretch you mean yourself. in that sense i can understand you, sir. the description is too true to be mistaken." "be it so!" he replied, turning livid with rage, though still keeping himself under a certain restraint. "well; since you think me so worthless, it won't, i suppose, better your opinion of me, when i tell you what i'm going to do with you?" "do with me! you are presumptuous, cousin cash! you talk as if i were your _protegee_, or slave! i'm neither one, nor the other!" calhoun, cowering under the outburst of her indignation, remained silent. "_pardieu_!" she continued, "what is this threat? tell me what you are _going to do with me_! i should like to know that." "you shall." "let me hear it! am i to be turned adrift upon the prairie, or shut up in a convent? perhaps it may be a prison?" "you would like the last, no doubt--provided your incarceration was to be in the company of--" "go on, sir! what is to be my destiny? i'm impatient to have it declared." "don't be in a hurry. the first act shall be rehearsed tomorrow." "so soon? and where, may i ask?" "in a court of justice." "how, sir?" "by your standing before a judge, and in presence of a jury." "you are pleased to be facetious, captain calhoun. let me tell you that i don't like such pleasantries--" "pleasantries indeed! i'm stating plain facts. to-morrow is the day of trial. mr maurice gerald, or mcsweeney, or o'hogerty, or whatever's his name, will stand before the bar--accused of murdering your brother." "'tis false! maurice gerald never--" "did the deed, you are going to say? well, that remains to be proved. it _will_ be; and from your own lips will come the words that'll prove it--to the satisfaction of every man upon the jury." the great gazelle-eyes of the creole were opened to their fullest extent. they gazed upon the speaker with a look such as is oft given by the gazelle itself--a commingling of fear, wonder, and inquiry. it was some seconds before she essayed to speak. thoughts, conjectures, fears, fancies, and suspicions, all had to do in keeping her silent. "i know not what you mean," she at length rejoined. "you talk of my being called into court. for what purpose? though i am the sister of him, who--i know nothing--can tell no more than is in the mouth of everybody." "yes can you; a great deal more. it's not in the mouth of everybody: that on the night of the murder, you gave gerald a meeting at the bottom of the garden. no more does all the world know what occurred at that stolen interview. how henry intruded upon it; how, maddened, as he might well be, by the thought of such a disgrace--not only to his sister, but his family--he threatened to kill the man who had caused it; and was only hindered from carrying out that threat, by the intercession of the woman so damnably deluded! "all the world don't know what followed: how henry, like a fool, went after the low hound, and with what intent. besides themselves, there were but two others who chanced to be spectators of that parting." "two--who were they?" the question was asked mechanically--almost with a tranquil coolness. it was answered with equal _sang froid_. "one was cassius calhoun--the other louise poindexter." she did not start. she did not even show sign of being surprised. what was spoken already had prepared her for the revelation. her rejoinder was a single word, pronounced in a tone of defiance. "well!" "well!" echoed calhoun, chagrined at the slight effect his speeches had produced; "i suppose you understand me?" "not any more than ever." "you wish me to speak further?" "as you please, sir." "i shall then. i say to you, loo, there's but one way to save your father from ruin--yourself from shame. you know what i mean?" "yes; i know that much." "you will not refuse me now?" "_now_ more than _ever_!" "be it so! before this time to-morrow--and, by heaven! i mean it-- before this time _to-morrow_, you shall stand in the witness-box?" "vile spy! anywhere but in your presence! out of my sight! this instant, or i call my father!" "you needn't put yourself to the trouble. i'm not going to embarrass you any longer with my company--so disagreeable to you. i leave you to reflect. perhaps before the trial comes on, you'll see fit to change your mind. if so, i hope you'll give notice of it--in time to stay the summons. good night, loo! i'll sleep thinking of you." with these words of mockery upon his lips--almost as bitter to himself as to her who heard them--calhoun strode out of the apartment, with an air less of triumph than of guilt. louise listened, until his footsteps died away in the distant corridor. then, as if the proud angry thoughts hitherto sustaining her had become suddenly relaxed, she sank into a chair; and, with both hands pressing upon her bosom, tried to still the dread throbbings that now, more than ever, distracted it. chapter eighty six. a texan court. it is the dawn of another day. the aurora, rising rose-coloured from the waves of a west indian sea, flings its sweetest smile athwart the savannas of texas. almost on the same instant that the rosy light kisses the white sand-dunes of the mexican gulf, does it salute the flag on fort inge, nearly a hundred leagues distant: since there is just this much of an upward inclination between the coast at matagorda and the spurs of the guadalupe mountains, near which stand this frontier post. the aurora has just lighted up the flag, that at the same time flouting out from its staff spreads its broad field of red, white, and blue to the gentle zephyrs of the morning. perhaps never since that staff went up, has the star-spangled banner waved over a scene of more intense interest than is expected to occur on this very day. even at the early hour of dawn, the spectacle may be said to have commenced. along with the first rays of the aurora, horsemen may be seen approaching the military post from all quarters of the compass. they ride up in squads of two, three, or half a dozen; dismount as they arrive; fasten their horses to the stockade fences, or picket them upon the open prairie. this done, they gather into groups on the parade-ground; stand conversing or stray down to the village; all, at one time or another, taking a turn into the tavern, and paying their respects to boniface behind the bar. the men thus assembling are of many distinct types and nationalities. almost every country in europe has furnished its quota; though the majority are of that stalwart race whose ancestors expelled the indians from the "bloody ground;" built log cabins on the sites of their wigwams; and spent the remainder of their lives in felling the forests of the mississippi. some of them have been brought up to the cultivation of corn; others understand better the culture of cotton; while a large number, from homes further south, have migrated into texas to speculate in the growth and manufacture of sugar and tobacco. most are planters by calling and inclination; though there are graziers and cattle-dealers, hunters and horse-dealers, storekeepers, and traders of other kinds--not a few of them traffickers in human flesh! there are lawyers, land-surveyors, and land-speculators, and other speculators of no proclaimed calling--adventurers ready to take a hand in whatever may turn up--whether it be the branding of cattle, a scout against comanches, or a spell of filibustering across the rio grande. their costumes are as varied as their callings. they have been already described: for the men now gathering around fort inge are the same we have seen before assembled in the courtyard of casa del corvo--the same with an augmentation of numbers. the present assemblage differs in another respect from that composing the expedition of searchers. it is graced by the presence of women--the wives, sisters, and daughters of the men. some are on horseback; and remain in the saddle--their curtained cotton-bonnets shading their fair faces from the glare of the sun; others are still more commodiously placed for the spectacle--seated under white waggon-tilts, or beneath the more elegant coverings of "carrioles" and "jerseys." there is a spectacle--at least there is one looked for. it is a trial long talked of in the settlement. superfluous to say that it is the trial of maurice gerald--known as _maurice the mustanger_. equally idle to add, that it is for the murder of henry poindexter. it is not the high nature of the offence that has attracted such a crowd, nor yet the characters of either the accused or his victim-- neither much known in the neighbourhood. the same court--it is the supreme court of the district, uvalde--has been in session there before--has tried all sorts of cases, and all kinds of men--thieves, swindlers, homicides, and even murderers--with scarce fourscore people caring to be spectators of the trial, or staying to hear the sentence! it is not this which has brought so many settlers together; but a series of strange circumstances, mysterious and melodramatic; which seem in some way to be connected with the crime, and have been for days the sole talk of the settlement. it is not necessary to name these circumstances: they are already known. all present at fort inge have come there anticipating: that the trial about to take place will throw light on the strange problem that has hitherto defied solution. of course there are some who, independent of this, have a feeling of interest in the fate of the prisoner. there are others inspired with a still sadder interest--friends and relatives of the man _supposed to have been_ murdered: for it must be remembered, that there is yet no evidence of the actuality of the crime. but there is little doubt entertained of it. several circumstances-- independent of each other--have united to confirm it; and all believe that the foul deed has been done--as firmly as if they had been eye-witnesses of the act. they only wait to be told the details; to learn the how, and the when, and the wherefore. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ten o'clock, and the court is in session. there is not much change in the composition of the crowd; only that a sprinkling of military uniforms has become mixed with the more sober dresses of the citizens. the soldiers of the garrison have been dismissed from morning parade; and, free to take their recreation for the day, have sought it among the ranks of the civilian spectators. there stand they side by side--soldiers and citizens--dragoons, riflemen, infantry, and artillery, interspersed among planters, hunters, horse-dealers, and desperate adventurers, having just heard the "oyez!" of the court crier--grotesquely pronounced "o yes!"--determined to stand there till they hear the last solemn formulary from the lips of the judge: "may god have mercy on your soul!" there is scarce one present who does not expect ere night to listen to this terrible final phrase, spoken from under the shadow of that sable cap, that denotes the death doom of a fellow creature. there may be only a few who wish it. but there are many who feel certain, that the trial will end in a conviction; and that ere the sun has set, the soul of maurice gerald will go back to its god! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the court is in session. you have before your mind's eye a large hall, with a raised dais at one side; a space enclosed between panelled partitions; a table inside it; and on its edge a box-like structure, resembling the rostrum of a lecture-room, or the reading-desk in a church. you see judges in ermine robes; barristers in wigs of grey, and gowns of black, with solicitors attending on them; clerks, ushers, and reporters; blue policemen with bright buttons standing here and there; and at the back a sea of heads and faces, not always kempt or clean. you observe, moreover, a certain subdued look on the countenances of the spectators--not so much an air of decorum, as a fear of infringing the regulations of the court. you must get all this out of your mind, if you wish to form an idea of a court of justice on the frontiers of texas--as unlike its homonym in england as a bond of guerillas to a brigade of guardsmen. there is no court-house, although there is a sort of public room used for this and other purposes. but the day promises to be hot, and the court has decided to _sit under a tree_! and under a tree has it established itself--a gigantic live-oak, festooned with spanish moss--standing by the edge of the parade-ground, and extending its shadow afar over the verdant prairie. a large deal table is placed underneath, with half a score of skin-bottomed chairs set around it, and on its top a few scattered sheets of foolscap paper, an inkstand with goose-quill pens, a well-thumbed law-book or two, a blown-glass decanter containing peach-brandy, a couple of common tumblers, a box of havannah cigars, and another of lucifer-matches. behind these _paraphernalia_ sits the judge, not only un-robed in ermine, but actually un-coated--the temperature of the day having decided him to try the case in his _shirt-sleeves_! instead of a wig, he wears his panama hat, set slouchingly over one cheek, to balance the half-smoked, half-chewed havannah projecting from the other. the remaining chairs are occupied by men whose costume gives no indication of their calling. there are lawyers among them--attorneys, and _counsellors_, there called--with no difference either in social or legal status; the sheriff and his "deputy"; the military commandant of the fort; the chaplain; the doctor; several officers; with one or two men of undeclared occupations. a little apart are twelve individuals grouped together; about half of them seated on a rough slab bench, the other half "squatted" or reclining along the grass. it is the _jury_--an "institution" as germane to texas as to england; and in texas ten times more true to its trust; scorning to submit to the dictation of the judge--in england but too freely admitted. around the texan judge and jury--close pressing upon the precincts of the court--is a crowd that may well be called nondescript. buckskin hunting-shirts; blanket-coats--even under the oppressive heat; frocks of "copperas stripe" and kentucky jeans; blouses of white linen, or sky-blue _cottonade_; shirts of red flannel or unbleached "domestic"; dragoon, rifle, infantry, and artillery uniforms, blend and mingle in that motley assemblage. here and there is seen a more regular costume--one more native to the country--the _jaqueta_ and _calzoneros_ of the mexican, with the broad _sombrero_ shading his swarthy face of _picaresque_ expression. time was--and that not very long ago--when men assembled in this same spot would all have been so attired. but then there was no jury of twelve, and the judge--_juez de letras_-- was a far more important personage, with death in his nod, and pardon easily obtained by those who could put _onzas_ in his pocket. with all its rude irregularity--despite the absence of effete forms--of white ermine, and black silk--of uniformed _alguazils_, or bright-buttoned policemen--despite the presence of men that, to the civilised eye, may appear uncouth--even savage i hesitate not to say, that among these red flannel-shirts and coats of kentucky jean, the innocent man is as safe--ay far safer--to obtain justice, and the guilty to get punished, than amidst the formalities and hair-splitting chicaneries of our so-called civilisation. do not mistake those men assembled under the texan tree--however rough their exterior may seem to your hypercritical eye--do not mistake them for a mob of your own "masses," brutalised from their very birth by the curse of over-taxation. do not mistake them, either, for things like yourselves--filled to the throat with a spirit of flunkeyism--would that it choked you!--scorning all that is grand and progressive--revering only the effete, the superficial, and the selfish. i am talking to you, my middle-class friend, who fancy yourself a _citizen_ of this our english country. a citizen, forsooth; without even the first and scantiest right of citizenship--that of choosing your parliamentary representative. you fancy you _have_ this right. i have scarce patience to tell you, you are mistaken. ay, grandly mistaken, when you imagine yourself standing on the same political platform with those quasi-rude frontiersmen of texas. nothing of the kind. _they_ are "sovereign citizens"--the peers of your superiors, or of those who assume so to call themselves, and whose assumption you are base enough to permit without struggle--almost without protest! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ in most assemblies the inner circle is the more select. the gem is to be found in the centre at port inge. in that now mustered the order is reversed. outside is the elegance. the fair feminine forms, bedecked in their best dresses, stand up in spring waggons, or sit in more elegant equipages, sufficiently elevated to see over the heads of the male spectators. it is not upon the judge that their eyes are bent, or only at intervals. the glances are given to a group of three men, placed near the jury, and not very far from the stem of the tree. one is seated, and two standing. the former is the prisoner at the bar; the latter the sheriff's officers in charge of him. it was originally intended to try several other men for the murder; miguel diaz and his associates, as also phelim o'neal. but in the course of a preliminary investigation the mexican mustanger succeeded in proving an _alibi_, as did also his trio of companions. all four have been consequently discharged. they acknowledged having disguised themselves as indians: for the fact being proved home to them, they could not do less. but they pretended it to have been a joke--a _travestie_; and as there was proof of the others being at home--and diaz dead drunk--on the night of henry poindexter's disappearance, their statement satisfied those who had been entrusted with the inquiry. as to the connemara man, it was not thought necessary to put him upon trial. if an accomplice, he could only have acted at the instigation of his master; and he might prove more serviceable in the witness-box than in the dock. before the bar, then--if we may be permitted the figure of speech--there stands but one prisoner, maurice gerald--known to those gazing upon him as _maurice the mustanger_. chapter eighty seven. a false witness. there are but few present who have any personal acquaintance with the accused; though there are also but a few who have never before heard his name. perhaps not any. it is only of late that this has become generally known: for previous to the six-shot duel with calhoun, he had no other reputation than that of an accomplished horse-catcher. all admitted him to be a fine young fellow--handsome, dashing, devoted to a fine horse, and deeming it no sin to look fondly on a fair woman-- free of heart, as most irishmen are, and also of speech, as will be more readily believed. but neither his good, nor evil, qualities were carried to excess. his daring rarely exhibited itself in reckless rashness; while as rarely did his speech degenerate into "small talk." in his actions there was observable a certain _juste milieu_. his words were alike well-balanced; displaying, even over his cups, a reticence somewhat rare among his countrymen. no one seemed to know whence he came; for what reason he had settled in texas; or why he had taken to such a queer "trade," as that of catching wild horses--a calling not deemed the most reputable. it seemed all the more strange to those who knew: that he was not only educated, but evidently a "born gentleman"--a phrase, however, of but slight significance upon the frontiers of texas. there, too, was the thing itself regarded with no great wonder; where "born noblemen," both of france and the "faderland," may oft be encountered seeking an honest livelihood by the sweat of their brow. a fig for all patents of nobility--save those stamped by the true die of nature! such is the sentiment of this far free land. and this sort of impress the young irishman carries about him--blazoned like the broad arrow. there is no one likely to mistake him for either fool or villain. and yet he stands in the presence of an assembly, called upon to regard him as an assassin--one who in the dead hour of night has spilled innocent blood, and taken away the life of a fellow-creature! can the charge be true? if so, may god have mercy on his soul! some such reflection passes through the minds of the spectators, as they stand with eyes fixed upon him, waiting for his trial to begin. some regard him with glances of simple curiosity; others with interrogation; but most with a look that speaks of anger and revenge. there is one pair of eyes dwelling upon him with an expression altogether unlike the rest--a gaze soft, but steadfast--in which fear and fondness seem strangely commingled. there are many who notice that look of the lady spectator, whose pale face, half hid behind the curtains of a _caleche_, is too fair to escape observation. there are few who can interpret it. but among these, is the prisoner himself; who, observing both the lady and the look, feels a proud thrill passing through his soul, that almost compensates for the humiliation he is called upon to undergo. it is enough to make him, for the time, forget the fearful position in which he is placed. for the moment, it is one of pleasure. he has been told of much that transpired during those dark oblivious hours. he now knows that what he had fancied to be only a sweet, heavenly vision, was a far sweeter reality of earth. that woman's face, shining dream-like over his couch, was the same now seen through the curtains of the _caleche_; and the expression upon it tells him: that among the frowning spectators he has one friend who will be true to the end--even though it be death! the trial begins. there is not much ceremony in its inception. the judge takes off his hat strikes a lucifer-match; and freshly ignites his cigar. after half a dozen draws, he takes the "weed" from between his teeth, lays it still smoking along the table, and says-- "gentlemen of the jury! we are here assembled to try a case, the particulars of which are, i believe, known to all of you. a man has been murdered,--the son of one of our most respected citizens; and the prisoner at the bar is accused of having committed the crime. it is my duty to direct you as to the legal formalities of the trial. it is yours to decide--after hearing the evidence to be laid before you-- whether or not the accusation be sustained." the prisoner is asked, according to the usual formality,--"_guilty, or not guilty_?" "not guilty," is the reply; delivered in a firm, but modest tone. cassius calhoun, and some "rowdies" around him, affect an incredulous sneer. the judge resumes his cigar, and remains silent. the counsel for the state, after some introductory remarks, proceeds to introduce the witnesses for the prosecution. first called is franz oberdoffer. after a few unimportant interrogatories about his calling, and the like, he is requested to state what he knows of the affair. this is the common routine of a texan trial. oberdoffer's evidence coincides with the tale already told by him: how on the night that young poindexter was missed, maurice gerald had left his house at a late hour--after midnight. he had settled his account before leaving; and appeared to have plenty of money. it was not often oberdoffer had known him so well supplied with cash. he had started for his home on the nueces; or wherever it was. he had not said where he was going. he was not on the most friendly terms with witness. witness only supposed he was going there, because his man had gone the day before, taking all his traps upon a pack-mule--everything, except what the mustanger himself carried off on his horse. what had he carried off? witness could not remember much in particular. he was not certain of his having a gun. he rather believed that he had one--strapped, mexican fashion, along the side of his saddle. he could speak with certainty of having seen pistols in the holsters, with a bowie-knife in the mustanger's belt. gerald was dressed as he always went--in mexican costume, and with a striped mexican blanket. he had the last over his shoulders as he rode off. the witness thought it strange, his leaving at that late hour of the night. still stranger, that he had told witness of his intention to start the next morning. he had been out all the early part of the night, but without his horse-- which he kept in the tavern stable. he had started off immediately after returning. he stayed only long enough to settle his account. he appeared excited, and in a hurry. it was not with drink. he filled his flask with _kirschenwasser_; but did not drink of it before leaving the hotel. witness could swear to his being sober. he knew that he was excited by his manner. while he was saddling his horse--which he did for himself--he was all the time talking, as if angry. witness didn't think it was at the animal. he believed he had been crossed by somebody, and was angry at something that had happened to him, before coming back to the hotel. had no idea where gerald had been to; but heard afterwards that he had been seen going out of the village, and down the river, in the direction of mr poindexter's plantation. he had been seen going that way often for the last three or four days of his sojourn at the hotel--both by day and night--on foot as well as horseback--several times both ways. such are the main points of oberdoffer's evidence relating to the movements of the prisoner. he is questioned about henry poindexter. knew the young gentleman but slightly, as he came very seldom to the hotel. he was there on the night when last seen. witness was surprised to see him there--partly because he was not in the habit of coming, and partly on account of the lateness of the hour. young poindexter did not enter the house. only looked inside the saloon; and called witness to the door. he asked after mr gerald. he too appeared sober, but excited; and, upon being told that the mustanger was gone away, became very much more excited. said he wished very much to see gerald that very night; and asked which way he had gone. witness directed him along the rio grande trace--thinking the mustanger had taken it. said he knew the road, and went off, as if intending to overtake the mustanger. a few desultory questions, and oberdoffer's evidence is exhausted. on the whole it is unfavourable to the accused; especially the circumstance of gerald's having changed his intention as to his time of starting. his manner, described as excited and angry,--perhaps somewhat exaggerated by the man who naively confesses to a grudge against him. that is especially unfavourable. a murmur through the court tells that it has made this impression. but why should henry poindexter have been excited too? why should he have been following after gerald in such hot haste, and at such an unusual hour--unusual for the young planter, both as regarded his haunts and habits? had the order been reversed, and gerald inquiring about and going after him, the case would have been clearer. but even then there would have been an absence of motive. who can show this, to satisfy the jury? several witnesses are called; but their testimony rather favours the reverse view. some of them testify to the friendly feeling that existed between the prisoner and the man he stands charged with having murdered. one is at length called up who gives evidence of the opposite. it is captain cassius calhoun. his story produces a complete change in the character of the trial. it not only discloses a motive for the murder, but darkens the deed tenfold. after a craftily worded preface, in which he declares his reluctance to make the exposure, he ends by telling all: the scene in the garden; the quarrel; the departure of gerald, which he describes as having been accompanied by a threat; his being followed by henry; everything but the true motive for this following, and his own course of action throughout. these two facts he keeps carefully to himself. the scandalous revelation causes a universal surprise--alike shared by judge, jury, and spectators. it exhibits itself in an unmistakable manner--here in ominous whisperings, there in ejaculations of anger. these are not directed towards the man who has testified; but against him who stands before them, now presumptively charged with a double crime: the assassination of a son--the defilement of a daughter! a groan had been heard as the terrible testimony proceeded. it came from a man of more than middle age--of sad subdued aspect--whom all knew to be the father of both these unfortunates. but the eyes of the spectators dwell not on him. they look beyond, to a curtained _caleche_, in which is seen seated a lady: so fair, as long before to have fixed their attention. strange are the glances turned upon her; strange, though not inexplicable: for it is louise poindexter who occupies the carriage. is she there of her own accord--by her own free will? so runs the inquiry around, and the whispered reflections that follow it. there is not much time allowed them for speculation. they have their answer in the crier's voice, heard pronouncing the name-- "louise poindexter!" calhoun has kept his word. chapter eighty eight. an unwilling witness. before the monotonous summons has been three times repeated, the lady is seen descending the steps of her carriage. conducted by an officer of the court, she takes her stand on the spot set apart for the witnesses. without flinching--apparently without fear--she faces towards the court. all eyes are upon her: some interrogatively; a few, perhaps, in scorn: but many in admiration--that secret approval which female loveliness exacts, even when allied with guilt! one regards her with an expression different from the rest: a look of tenderest passion, dashed with an almost imperceptible distrust. it is the prisoner himself. from him her eyes are averted as from everybody else. only one man she appears to think worthy of her attention--he who has just forsaken the stand she occupies. she looks at calhoun, her own cousin--as though with her eyes she would kill him. cowering under the glance, he slinks back, until the crowd conceals him from her sight. "where were you, miss poindexter, on the night when your brother was last seen?" the question is put by the state counsellor. "at home,--in my father's house." "may i ask, if on that night you went into the garden?" "i did." "perhaps you will be good enough to inform the court at what hour?" "at the hour of midnight--if i rightly remember." "were you alone?" "not all the time." "part of it there was some one with you?" "there was." "judging by your frankness, miss poindexter, you will not refuse to inform the court who that person was?" "certainly not." "may i ask the name of the individual?" "there was more than one. my brother was there." "but before your brother came upon the ground, was there not some one else in your company?" "there was." "it is _his_ name we wish you to give. i hope you will not withhold it." "why should i? you are welcome to know that the gentleman, who was with me, was mr maurice gerald." the answer causes surprise, and something more. there is a show of scorn, not unmixed with indignation. there is one on whom it produces a very different effect--the prisoner at the bar--who looks more triumphant than any of his accusers! "may i ask if this meeting was accidental, or by appointment?" "by appointment." "it is a delicate question, miss poindexter; you will pardon me for putting it--in the execution of my duty:--what was the nature--the object i should rather term it--of this appointment?" the witness hesitates to make answer. only for an instant. braising herself from the stooping attitude she has hitherto held, and casting a careless glance upon the faces around her, she replies-- "motive, or object, it is all the same. i have no intention to conceal it. i went into the garden to meet the man i loved--whom i still love, though he stands before you an accused criminal! now, sir, i hope you are satisfied?" "not quite," continues the prosecuting counsel, unmoved by the murmurs heard around him; "i must ask you another question, miss poindexter. the course i am about to take, though a little irregular, will save the time of the court; and i think no one will object to it. you have heard what has been said by the witness who preceded you. is it true that your brother parted in anger with the prisoner at the bar?" "quite true." the answer sends a thrill through the crowd--a thrill of indignation. it confirms the story of calhoun. it establishes the _motive_ of the murder! the bystanders do not wait for the explanation the witness designs to give. there is a cry of "hang--hang him!" and, along with it, a demonstration for this to be done without staying for the verdict of the jury, "order in the court!" cries the judge, taking the cigar from between his teeth, and looking authoritatively around him. "my brother did not _follow him in anger_," pursues the witness, without being further questioned. "he had forgiven mr gerald; and went after to apologise." "_i_ have something to say about that," interposes calhoun, disregarding the irregularity of the act; "they quarrelled _afterwards_. i heard them, from where i was standing on the top of the house." "mr calhoun!" cries the judge rebukingly; "if the counsel for the prosecution desire it, you can be put in the box again. meanwhile, sir, you will please not interrupt the proceedings." after a few more questions, eliciting answers explanatory of what she has last alleged, the lady is relieved from her embarrassing situation. she goes back to her carriage with a cold heaviness at her heart: for she has become conscious that, by telling the truth, she has damaged the cause of him she intended to serve. her own too: for in passing through the crowd she does not fail to perceive eyes turned upon her, that regard her with an expression too closely resembling contempt! the "chivalry" is offended by her condescension; the morality shocked by her free confession of that midnight meeting; to say nought of the envy felt for the _bonne fortune_ of him who has been so daringly endorsed. calhoun is once more called to the stand; and by some additional perjury, strengthens the antipathy already felt for the accused. every word is a lie; but his statements appear too plausible to be fabrications. again breaks forth the clamour of the crowd. again is heard the cry, "hang!"--this time more vociferous, more earnest, than ever. this time, too, the action is more violent. men strip off their coats, and fling their hats into the air. the women in the waggons--and even those of gentle strain in the carriages--seem, to share the frenzied spite against the prisoner--all save that one, who sits screened behind the curtain. she too shows indignation; but from a different cause. if she trembles at the commotion, it is not through fear; but from the bitter consciousness that she has herself assisted in stirring it up. in this dark hour she remembers the significant speech of calhoun: that from her own lips were to come the words that would prove maurice gerald a murderer! the clamour continues, increasing in earnestness. there are things said aloud--insinuations against the accused--designed to inflame the passions of the assembly; and each moment the outcry grows fiercer and more virulent. judge roberts--the name of him who presides--is in peril of being deposed; to be succeeded by the lawless lynch! and then what must follow? for maurice gerald no more trial; no condemnation: for that has been done already. no shrift neither; but a quick execution, occupying only the time it will take half a score of expert rope-men to throw a noose around his neck, and jerk him up to the limb of the live-oak stretching horizontally over his head! this is the thought of almost everybody on the ground, as they stand waiting for some one to say the word--some bad, bold borderer daring enough to take the initiative. thanks be to god, the spectators are not _all_ of this mind. a few have determined on bringing the affair to a different finale. there is a group of men in uniform, seen in excited consultation. they are the officers of the fort, with the commandant in their midst. only for a score of seconds does their council continue. it ends with the braying of a bugle. it is a signal sounded by command of the major. almost at the same instant a troop of two-score dragoons, with a like number of mounted riflemen, is seen filing out from the stockade enclosure that extends rearward from the fort. having cleared the gateway, they advance over the open ground in the direction of the live-oak. silently, and as though acting under an instinct, they deploy into an alignment--forming three sides of a square, that partially encloses the court! the crowd has ceased its clamouring; and stands gazing at a spectacle, which might be taken for a _coup de theatre_. it produces not only silence, but submission: for plainly do they perceive its design, and that the movement is a precautionary measure due to the skill of the commanding officer of the post. equally plain is it, that the presidency of justice lynch is no longer possible; and that the law of the land is once more in the ascendant. without further opposition judge roberts is permitted to resume his functions, so rudely interrupted. "fellow citizens!" he cries, with a glance towards his auditory, now more reproachful than appealing, "the law is bound to take its course-- just the same in texas as in the states. i need not tell you that, since most of you, i reckon, have seen corn growing on the other side of the mississippi. well, taking this for granted, you wouldn't hang a man without first hearing what he's got to say for himself? that would neither be law, nor justice, but downright murder!" "and hasn't he done murder?" asks one of the rowdies standing near calhoun. "it's only sarvin' him, as he sarved young poindexter." "there is no certainty about that. you've not yet heard all the testimony. wait till we've examined the witnesses on the other side. crier!" continues he, turning to the official; "call the witnesses for the defence." the crier obeys; and phelim o'neal is conducted to the stand. the story of the _ci-devant_ stable-boy, confusedly told, full of incongruities--and in many parts altogether improbable--rather injures the chances of his master being thought innocent. the san antonio counsel is but too anxious for his testimony to be cut short--having a firmer reliance on the tale to be told by another. that other is next announced. "zebulon stump!" before the voice of the summoning officer has ceased to reverberate among the branches of the live-oak, a tall stalwart specimen of humanity is seen making his way through the throng--whom all recognise as zeb stump, the most noted hunter of the settlement. taking three or four strides forward, the backwoodsman comes to a stand upon the spot set apart for the witnesses. the sacred volume is presented to him in due form; which, after repeating the well-known words of the "affidavit," zeb is directed to kiss. he performs this operation with a smack sufficiently sonorous to be heard to the extreme outside circle of the assemblage. despite the solemnity of the scene, there is an audible tittering, instantly checked by the judge; a little, perhaps, by zeb himself, whose glance, cast inquiringly around, seems to search for some one, that may be seen with a sneer upon his face. the character of the man is too well known, for any one to suppose he might make merry at his expense; and before his searching glance the crowd resumes, or affects to resume, its composure. after a few preliminary questions, zeb is invited to give his version of the strange circumstances, which, have been keeping the settlement in a state of unwonted agitation. the spectators prick up their ears, and stand in expectant silence. there is a general impression that zeb holds the key to the whole mystery. "wal, mister judge!" says he, looking straight in the face of that cigar-smoking functionary; "i've no objection to tell what i know 'beout the bizness; but ef it be all the same to yurself, an the jewry hyur, i'd preefar that the young fellur shed gie his varsion fust. i kud then foller wi' mine, the which mout sartify and confirm him." "of what young fellow do you speak?" inquires the judge. "the mowstanger thur, in coorse. him as stan's 'cused o' killin' young peintdexter." "it would be somewhat irregular," rejoins the judge--"after all, our object is to get at the truth. for my part, i haven't much faith in old-fashioned forms; and if the jury don't object, let it be as you say." the "twelve," speaking through their foreman, profess themselves of the same way of thinking. frontiersmen are not noted for strict adherence to ceremonious forms; and zeb's request is conceded _nemine dissentiente_. chapter eighty nine. the confession of the accused. acting under the advice of his counsel, the accused prepares to avail himself of the advantage thus conceded. directed by the judge, he stands forward; the sheriff's officers in charge falling a step or two into the rear. it is superfluous to say that there is universal silence. even the tree crickets, hitherto "chirping" among the leaves of the live-oak, desist from their shrill stridulation--as if awed by the stillness underneath. every eye is fixed upon the prisoner; every ear bent to catch the first words of, what may be termed, his _confession_. "judge, and gentlemen of the jury!" says he, commencing his speech in true texan style; "you are good enough to let me speak for myself; and in availing myself of the privilege, i shall not long detain you. "first, have i to say: that, notwithstanding the many circumstances mentioned during the course of this trial--which to you appear not only odd, but inexplicable--my story is simple enough; and will explain some of them. "not all of the statements you have heard are true. some of them are false as the lips from which they have fallen." the speaker's glance, directed upon cassius calhoun, causes the latter to quail, as if standing before the muzzle of a six-shooter. "it is true that i met miss poindexter, as stated. that noble lady, by her own generous confession, has saved me from the sin of perjuring myself--which otherwise i might have done. in all else i entreat you to believe me. "it is also true that our interview was a stolen one; and that it was interrupted by him who is not here to speak to what occurred after. "it is true that angry words passed between us, or rather from him to me: for they were all on his side. "but it is _not_ true that the quarrel was afterwards renewed; and the man who has so sworn dared not say it, were i free to contradict him as he deserves." again are the eyes of the accused turned towards calhoun, still cowering behind the crowd. "on the contrary," continues he, "the next meeting between henry poindexter and myself, was one of apology on his part, and friendship--i might say affection--on mine. "who could have helped liking him? as to forgiving him for the few words he had rashly spoken, i need hardly tell you how grateful i felt for that reconciliation." "there was a reconciliation, then?" asks the judge, taking advantage of a pause in the narration. "where did it take place?" "about four hundred yards from the spot _where the murder was committed_." the judge starts to his feet. the jury do the same. the spectators, already standing, show signs of a like exciting surprise. it is the first time any one has spoken positively of the spot where the murder was committed; or even that a murder has been committed at all! "you mean the place where some blood was found?" doubtingly interrogates the judge. "i mean the place where _henry poindexter was assassinated_." there is a fresh exhibition of astonishment in the court--expressed in muttered speeches and low exclamations. one louder than the rest is a groan. it is given by woodley poindexter; now for the first time made certain he has no longer a son! in the heart of the father has still lingered a hope that his son may be alive: that he might be only missing--kept out of the way by accident, illness, indians, or some other circumstance. as yet there has been no positive proof of his death--only a thread of circumstantial evidence, and it of the slightest. this hope, by the testimony of the accused himself, is no longer tenable. "you are sure he is dead, then?" is the question put to the prisoner by the prosecuting counsel. "quite sure," responds the accused. "had you seen him as i did, you would think the interrogatory a very idle one." "you saw the body?" "i must take exception to this course of examination," interposes the counsel for the accused. "it is quite irregular." "faith! in an owld country court it wouldn't be allowed," adds the cis-atlantic attorney. "the counsel for the prosecution wouldn't be permitted to spake, till it came to the cross-examination." "that's the law here, too," says the judge, with a severe gesture towards him who has erred. "prisoner at the bar! you can continue your story. your own counsel may ask you what question he pleases; but nobody else, till you have done. go on! let us hear all you have to say." "i have spoken of a reconciliation," resumes the accused, "and have told you where it took place. i must explain how it came to be there. "it has been made known to you how we parted--miss poindexter, her brother, and myself. "on leaving them i swam across the river; partly because i was too excited to care how i went off, and partly that i did not wish _him_ to know how i had got into the garden. i had my reasons for that. i walked on up stream, towards the village. it was a very warm night--as may be remembered by many of you--and my clothes had got nearly dry by the time i reached the hotel. "the house was still open, and the landlord behind his bar; but as up to that day i had no reason to thank him for any extra hospitality, and as there was nothing to detain me any longer under his roof, i took it into my head to set out at once for the alamo, and make the journey during the cool hours of the night. "i had sent my servant before, and intended to follow in the morning; but what happened at casa del corvo made me desirous of getting away as soon as possible; and i started off, after settling my account with mr oberdoffer." "and the money with which you paid him?" asks the state prosecutor, "where did you get--?" "i protest against this!" interrupts the counsel for the accused. "bedarrah!" exclaims the milesian lawyer, looking daggers, or rather _duelling pistols_, at the state counsellor; "if yez were to go on at that rate in a galway assize, ye'd stand a nate chance of gettin' conthradicted in a different style altogether!" "silence, gentlemen!" commands the judge, in an authoritative tone. "let the accused continue his statement." "i travelled slowly. there was no reason for being in a hurry. i was in no mood for going to sleep that night; and it mattered little to me where i should spend it--on the prairie, or under the roof of my _jacale_. i knew i could reach the alamo before daybreak; and that would be as soon as i desired. "i never thought of looking behind me. i had no suspicion that any one was coming after; until i had got about half a mile into the chapparal-- where the rio grande trace runs through it. "then i heard the stroke of a horse's hoof, that appeared hurrying up behind. "i had got round the corner--where the trace makes a sharp turn--and was hindered from seeing the horseman. but i could tell that he was coming on at a trot. "it might be somebody i wouldn't care to encounter? "that was the reflection i made; though i wasn't much caring who. it was more from habit--by living in the neighbourhood of the indians--that i drew in among the trees, and waited until the stranger should show himself. "he did so shortly after. "you may judge of my surprise when, instead of a stranger, i saw the man from whom i had so lately parted in anger. when i say anger, i don't speak of myself--only him. "was he still in the same temper? had he been only restrained by the presence of his sister from attacking me? relieved of this, had he come after me to demand satisfaction for the injury he supposed her to have sustained? "gentlemen of the jury! i shall not deny, that this was the impression on my mind when i saw who it was. "i was determined there should be no concealment--no cowardly shrinking on my part. i was not conscious of having committed crime. true i had met his sister clandestinely; but that was the fault of others--not mine--not hers. i loved her with a pure honest passion, and with my whole heart. i am not afraid to confess it. in the same way i love her still!" louise poindexter, seated in her carriage behind the outer circle of spectators, is not so distant from the speaker, nor are the curtains so closely drawn, but that she can hear every word passing from his lips. despite the sadness of her heart, a gleam of joy irradiates her countenance, as she listens to the daring declaration. it is but the echo of her own; and the glow that comes quickly to her cheeks is not shame, but the expression of a proud triumph. she makes no attempt to conceal it. rather does she appear ready to spring up from her seat, rush towards the man who is being tried for the murder of her brother, and with the _abandon_ that love alone can impart, bid defiance to the boldest of his accusers! if the signs of sorrow soon reappear, they are no longer to be traced to jealousy. those sweet ravings are well remembered, and can now be trusted as truth. they are confirmed by the confession of restored reason--by the avowal of a man who may be standing on the stoup of death, and can have no earthly motive for a deception such as that! chapter ninety. a court quickly cleared. if the last speech has given satisfaction to louise poindexter, there are few who share it with her. upon most of the spectators it has produced an impression of a totally different character. it is one of the saddest traits of our ignoble nature; to feel pain in contemplating a love we cannot share--more especially when exhibited in the shape of a grand absorbing passion. the thing is not so difficult of explanation. _we_ know that he, or she, thus sweetly possessed, can feel no interest in ourselves. it is but the old story of self-esteem, stung by the thought of indifference. even some of the spectators unaffected by the charms of the beautiful creole, cannot restrain themselves from a certain feeling of envy; while others more deeply interested feel chagrined to the heart's core, by what they are pleased to designate an impudent avowal! if the story of the accused contains no better proofs of his innocence it were better untold. so far, it has but helped his accusers by exciting the antipathy of those who would have been otherwise neutral. once more there is a murmuring among the men, and a movement among the rowdies who stand near calhoun. again seems maurice gerald in danger of being seized by a lawless mob, and hanged without farther hearing! the danger exists only in seeming. once more the major glances significantly towards his well-trained troop; the judge in an authoritative voice commands "silence in the court!" the clamouring is subdued; and the prisoner is permitted to proceed. he continues his recital:-- "on seeing who it was, i rode out from among the trees, and reined up before him. "there was light enough for him to see who i was; and he at once recognised me. "instead of the angry scene i expected--perhaps had reason to expect--i was joyfully surprised by his reception of me. his first words were to ask if i would forgive him for what he had said to me--at the same time holding out his hand in the most frank and friendly manner. "need i tell you that i took that hand? or how heartily i pressed it? i knew it to be a true one; more than that, i had a hope it might one day be the hand of a brother. "it was the last time, but one, i ever grasped it alive. the last was shortly after--when we bade each other good night, and parted upon the path. i had no thought it was to be for ever. "gentlemen of the jury! you do not wish me to take up your time with the conversation that occurred between us? it was upon matters that have nothing to do with this trial. "we rode together for a short distance; and then drew up under the shadow of a tree. "cigars were exchanged, and smoked; and there was another exchange--the more closely to cement the good understanding established between us. it consisted of our hats and cloaks. "it was a whim of the moment suggested by myself--from a fashion i had been accustomed to among the comanches. i gave henry poindexter my mexican sombrero and striped blanket--taking his cloth cloak and panama hat. "we then parted--he riding away, myself remaining. "i can give no reason why i stayed upon the spot; unless that i liked it, from being the scene of our reconciliation--by me so little looked for and so much desired. "i no longer cared for going on to the alamo that night. i was happy enough to stay under the tree; and, dismounting, i staked out my horse; wrapped myself up in the cloak; and with the hat upon my head, lay down upon the grass. "in three seconds i was asleep. "it was rare for sleep to come on me so readily. half an hour before, and the thing would have been impossible. i can only account for the change by the feeling of contentment that was upon me--after the unpleasant excitement through which i had passed. "my slumbers could not have been very sound; nor were they long undisturbed. "i could not have been unconscious for more than two minutes, when a sound awoke me. it was the report of a gun. "i was not quite sure of its being this. i only fancied that it was. "my horse seemed to know better than i. as i looked up, he was standing with ears erect, snorting, as if he had been fired at! "i sprang to my feet, and stood listening. "but as i could hear nothing more, and the mustang soon quieted down, i came to the conclusion that we had both been mistaken. the horse had heard the footsteps of some straying animal; and that which struck upon my ear might have been the snapping of a branch broken by its passage through the thicket; or perhaps one of the many mysterious sounds-- mysterious, because unexplained--often heard in the recesses of the chapparal. "dismissing the thing from my mind, i again lay down along the grass; and once more fell asleep. "this time i was not awakened until the raw air of the morning began to chill me through the cloak. "it was not pleasant to stay longer under the tree; and, recovering my horse, i was about to continue my journey. "but the shot seemed still ringing in my ears--even louder than i had heard it while half asleep! "it appeared, too, to be in the direction in which henry poindexter had gone. "fancy or no fancy, i could not help connecting it with him; nor yet resist the temptation to go back that way and seek for an explanation of it. "i did not go far till i found it. oh, heavens! what a sight! "i saw--" "_the headless horseman_!" exclaims a voice from the outer circle of the spectators, causing one and all to turn suddenly in that direction. "_the headless horseman_!" respond fifty others, in a simultaneous shout. is it mockery, this seeming contempt of court? there is no one who takes it in this sense; for by this time every individual in the assemblage has become acquainted with the cause of the interruption. it is the headless horseman himself seen out upon the open plain, in all his fearful shape! "yonder he goes--yonder! yonder!" "no, he's coming this way! see! he's making straight for the fort!" the latest assertion seems the truer; but only for an instant. as if to contradict it, the strange equestrian makes a sudden pause upon the prairie, and stands eyeing the crowd gathered around the tree. then, apparently not liking the looks of what is before him, the horse gives utterance to his dislike with a loud snort, followed by a still louder neighing. the intense interest excited by the confession of the accused is for the time eclipsed. there is a universal impression that, in the spectral form thus opportunely presenting itself, will be found the explanation of all that has occurred. three-fourths of the spectators forsake the spot, and rush towards their horses. even the jurymen are not exempt from taking part in the general _debandade_, and at least six out of the twelve go scattering off to join in the chase of the headless horseman. the latter has paused only for an instant--just long enough to scan the crowd of men and horses now moving towards him. then repeating his wild "whigher," he wheels round, and goes off at full speed--followed by a thick clump of shouting pursuers! chapter ninety one. a chase through a thicket. the chase leads straight across the prairie--towards the tract of chapparal, ten miles distant. before reaching it, the ruck of riders becomes thinned to a straggling line--one after another falling off,--as their horses become blown by the long sweltering gallop. but few get within sight of the thicket; and only two enter it, in anything like close proximity to the escaping horseman; who, without making halt, plunges into the timber. the pursuer nearest him is mounted upon a grey mustang; which is being urged to its utmost speed by whip, spur, and voice. the one coming after--but with a long interval between--is a tall man in a slouched hat and blanket coat, bestriding a rawboned roadster, that no one would suspect to be capable of such speed. it is procured not by whip, spur, and voice; but by the more cruel prompting of a knife-blade held in the rider's hand, and at intervals silently applied to the animal's spine, just behind the croup. the two men, thus leading the chase, are cassius calhoun and zeb stump. the swiftness of the grey mustang has given calhoun the advantage; aided by a determination to be in at the death--as if some desperate necessity required it. the old hunter appears equally determined. instead of being contented to proceed at his usual gait, and trusting to his skill as a tracker, he seems aiming to keep the other in sight--as if a like stern necessity was prompting him to do so. in a short time both have entered the chapparal, and are lost to the eyes of those riding less resolutely behind. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ on through the thicket rush the three horsemen; not in a straight line, but along the lists and cattle tracks--now direct, now in sweeping curves, now sharply zigzagging to avoid the obstructions of the timber. on go they, regardless of bush or brake--fearlessly, buffeted by the sharp spines of the cactus, and the stinging thorns of the mezquites. the branches snap and crackle, as they cleave their way between; while the birds, scared by the rude intrusion, fly screaming to some safer roost. a brace of black vultures, who have risen with a croak from their perch upon a scathed branch, soar up into the air. instinct tells them, that a pursuit so impetuous can end only in death. on broad shadowy wings they keep pace with it. it is now a chase in which the pursued has the advantage of the pursuers. he can choose his path; while they have no choice but to follow him. less from having increased the distance, than by the interposition of the trees, he is soon out of sight of both; as each is of the other. no one of the three can see either of the other two; though all are under the eyes of the vultures. out of sight of his pursuers, the advantage of the pursued is greater than ever. he is free to keep on at full speed; while they must submit to the delay of riding along a trail. he can still be followed by the sound of his hoofstrokes ahead, and the swishing of the branches as he breaks through between them; but for all that the foremost of his two pursuers begins to despair. at every turning of the track, he appears to have gained distance; until at length his footfall ceases to be heard. "curse the damned thing!" cries calhoun, with a gesture of chagrin. "it's going to escape me again! not so much matter, if there were nobody after it but myself. but there _is_ this time. that old hell-hound's coming on through the thicket. i saw him as i entered it-- not three hundred yards behind me. "is there no chance of shaking him off? no. he's too good a tracker for that. "by god! _but there is a chance_!" at the profane utterance, the speaker reins up; wrenches his horse half round; and scans the path over which he has just passed. he examines it with the look of one who has conceived a scheme, and is reconnoitring the _terrain_, to see if it will suit. at the same time, his fingers close nervously around his rifle, which he manipulates with a feverish impatience. still is there irresolution in his looks; and he hesitates about throwing himself into a fixed attitude. on reflection the scheme is abandoned. "it won't do!" he mutters. "there's too many of them fellows coming after--some that can track, too? they'd find his carcase, sure,--maybe hear the shot? "no--no. it won't do!" he stays a while longer, listening. there is no sound heard either before or behind--only that overhead made by the soft waving of the vulturine wings. strange, the birds should keep above _him_! "yes--he must be coming on? damn the crooked luck, that the others should be so close after him! but for that, it would have been just the time to put an end to his spying on me! and so easy, too!" not so easy as you think, cassius calhoun; and the birds above--were they gifted with the power of speech--could tell you so. they see zeb stump coming on; but in a fashion to frustrate any scheme for his assassination. it is this that hinders him from being heard. "i'll be in luck, if he should lose the trail!" reflects calhoun, once more turning away. "in any case, i must keep on till it's lost to me: else some of those fools may be more fortunate. "what a fool _i've_ been in wasting so much time. if i don't look sharp, the old hound will be up with me; and then it would be no use if i did get the chance of a shot. hell! that would be worse than all!" freshly spurring the grey mustang, he rides forward--fast as the circuitous track will allow him. two hundred paces further on, and he again comes to a halt--surprise and pleasure simultaneously lighting up his countenance. the headless horseman is in sight, at less than twenty paces' distance! he is not advancing either; but standing among some low bushes that rise only to the flaps of the saddle. his horse's head is down. the animal appears to be browsing upon the bean-pods of the mezquites. at first sight, so thinks calhoun. his rifle is carried quickly to his shoulder, and as quickly brought down again. the horse he intends firing at is no longer at rest, nor is he browsing upon the beans. he has become engaged in a sort of spasmodic struggle--with his head half buried among the bushes! calhoun sees that it is _held_ there, and by the bridle-rein,--that, dragged over the pommel of the saddle, has become entangled around the stem of a mezquite! "caught at last! thank god--thank god!" he can scarce restrain himself from shout of triumph, as he spurs forward to the spot. he is only withheld by the fear of being heard from behind. in another instant, he is by the side of the headless horseman--that spectral shape he has so long vainly pursued! chapter ninety two. a reluctant return. calhoun clutches at the trailing bridle. the horse tries to avoid him, but cannot. his head is secured by the tangled rein; and he can only bound about in a circle, of which his nose is the centre. the rider takes no heed, nor makes any attempt to elude the capture; but sits stiff and mute in the saddle, leaving the horse to continue his "cavortings." after a brief struggle the animal is secured. the captor utters an exclamation of joy. it is suddenly checked, and by a thought. he has not yet fully accomplished his purpose. what is this purpose? it is a secret known only to himself; and the stealthy glance cast around tells, that he has no wish to share it with another. after scanning the selvedge of the thicket, and listening a second or two, he resumes action. a singular action it might appear, to one ignorant of its object. he draws his knife from its sheath; clutches a corner of the serape; raises it above the breast of the headless rider; and then bends towards him, as if intending to plunge the blade into his heart! the arm is uplifted. the blow is not likely to be warded off. for all that it is not struck. it is stayed by a shout sent forth from the chapparal--by the edge of which a man has just made his appearance. the man is zeb stump. "stop that game!" cries the hunter, riding out from the underwood and advancing rapidly through the low bushes; "stop it, durn ye!" "what game?" rejoins the ex-officer with a dismayed look, at the same time stealthily returning his knife to its sheath. "what the devil are you talking about? this brute's got caught by the bridle. i was afraid he might get away again. i was going to cut his damned throat--so as to make sure of him." "ah, thet's what ye're arter. wal, i reck'n thur's no need to cut the critter's throat. we kin skewer it 'ithout thet sort o' bloody bizness. it air the hoss's throat ye mean, i s'pose?" "of course i mean the horse." "in coorse. as for the man, someb'y's dud thet for him arready--_if it be a man_. what do _you_ make o' it, mister cash calhoun?" "damned if i know what to make of it. i haven't had time to get a good look at it. i've just this minute come up. by heaven!" he continues, feigning a grand surprise, "i believe it's the body of a man; and dead!" "thet last air probibble enuf. 'tain't likely he'd be alive wi' no head on his shoulders. thar's none under the blanket, is thar?" "no; i think not. there cannot be?" "lift it a leetle, an see." "i don't like touching it. it's such a cursed queer-looking thing." "durn it, ye wan't so partickler a minnit ago. what's kim over ye now?" "ah!" stammers calhoun, "i was excited with chasing it. i'd got angry at the damned thing, and was determined to put an end to its capers." "never mind then," interposes zeb,--"i'll make a inspecshun o' it. ye-es," he continues, riding nearer, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the strange shape. "ye-es, it's the body o' a man, an no mistake! dead as a buck, an stiff as a hunch o' ven'son in a hard frost!" "hullo!" he exclaims, on raising the skirt of the serape, "it's the body o' the man whose murder's bein' tried--yur own cousin--young peintdexter! it is, by the eturnal god!" "i believe you are right. by heaven it is he!" "geehosophat!" proceeds zeb, after counterfeiting surprise at the discovery, "this air the mysteeriousest thing o' all. wal; i reck'n thur's no use in our stayin' hyur to spek'late upon it. bessest thing we kin do 's to take the body back, jest as it's sot in the seddle-- which it appears putty firm. i know the hoss too; an i reck'n, when he smell my ole maar a bit, he'll kum along 'ithout much coaxin'. gee up, ole gurl! an make yurself know'd to him. thur now! don't ye see it's a preevious acquaintance o' yourn; though sarting the poor critter appears to hev hed rough usage o' late; an ye mout well be excused for not reconisin' him. 'tair some time since he's hed a curry to his skin." while the hunter is speaking, the horse bestridden by the dead body, and the old mare, place their snouts in contact--then withdraw them with a sniff of recognition. "i thort so," exclaims zeb, taking hold of the strayed bridle, and detaching it from the mezquite; "the stellyun's boun to lead quietly enuf--so long as he's in kumpny with the maar. 't all events, 'twon't be needcessary to cut his throat to keep him from runnin' away. now, mister calhoun," he continues, glancing stealthily at the other, to witness the effect produced by his speeches; "don't ye think we'd better start right away? the trial may still be goin' on; an', ef so, we may be wanted to take a part in it. i reck'n thet we've got a witness hyur, as 'll do somethin' torst illoocidatin' the case--either to the hangin' the mowstanger, or, what air more likely, clurrin' him althogither o' the churge. wal, air ye riddy to take the back track?" "oh, certainly. as you say, there's no reason for our remaining here." zeb moves off first, leading the captive alongside of him. the latter makes no resistance; but rather seems satisfied at being conducted in company. calhoun rides slowly--a close observer might say reluctantly in the rear. at a point where the path angles abruptly round a clump of trees, he reins up, and appears to consider whether he should go on, or gallop back. his countenance betrays terrible agitation. zeb stump, admonished by the interrupted footfall, becomes aware that his travelling companion has stopped. he pulls up his mare; and facing round, regards the loiterer with a look of interrogation. he observes the agitated air, and perfectly comprehends its cause. without saying a word, he lowers his long rifle from its rest upon his left shoulder; lays it across the hollow of his arm, ready at an instant's notice to be carried to his cheek. in this attitude he sits eyeing the ex-captain of cavalry. there is no remark made. none is needed. zeb's gesture is sufficient. it plainly says:--"go back if ye dare!" the latter, without appearing to notice it, takes the hint; and moves silently on. but no longer is he permitted to ride in the rear. without saying it, the old hunter has grown suspicious, and makes an excuse for keeping behind--with which his _compagnon du voyage_ is compelled to put up. the cavalcade advances slowly through the chapparal. it approaches the open prairie. at length the sky line comes in sight. something seen upon the distant horizon appears to impress calhoun with a fresh feeling of fear; and, once more reining up, he sits considering. dread is the alternative that occupies his mind. shall he plunge back into the thicket, and hide himself from the eyes of men? or go on and brave the dark storm that is fast gathering around him? he would give all he owns in the world--all that he ever hopes to own-- even louise poindexter herself--to be relieved of the hated presence of zeb stump--to be left for ten minutes alone with the headless horseman! it is not to be. the sleuth-hound, that has followed him thus far, seems more than ever inexorable. though loth to believe it, instinct tells him: that the old hunter regards _him_ as the real captive, and any attempt on his part to steal away, will but end in his receiving a bullet in the back! after all, what can zeb stump say, or do? there is no certainty that the backwoodsman knows anything of the circumstance that is troubling him? and after all, there may be nothing to be known? it is evident that zeb is suspicious. but what of that? only the friendless need fear suspicion; and the ex-officer is not one of these. unless that little tell-tale be discovered, he has nothing to fear; and what chance of its being discovered? one against ten. in all likelihood it stayed not where it was sent, but was lost in the secret recesses of the chapparal? influenced by this hope, calhoun regains courage; and with an air of indifference, more assumed than real, he rides out into the open prairie--close followed by zeb stump on his critter--the dead body of henry poindexter bringing up the rear! chapter ninety three. a body beheaded. forsaken by two-thirds of its spectators--abandoned, by one-half of the jury--the trial taking place under the tree is of necessity interrupted. there is no adjournment of the court--only an interregnum, unavoidable, and therefore tacitly agreed to. the interlude occupies about an hour; during which the judge smokes a couple of cigars; takes about twice that number of drinks from the bottle of peach brandy; chats familiarly with the counsel, the fragment of a jury, and such spectators as, not having horses, or not caring to give them a gallop, have stayed by the tree. there is no difficulty in finding a subject of conversation. that is furnished by the incident that has just transpired--strange enough to be talked about not only for an hour, but an age. the spectators converse of it, while with excited feelings they await the return of those who have started on the chase. they are in hopes that the headless horseman will be captured. they believe that his capture will not only supply a clue to the mystery of his being, but will also throw light on that of the murder. there is one among them who could explain the first--though ignorant of the last. the accused could do this; and will, when called upon to continue his confession. under the direction of the judge, and by the advice of his counsel, he is for the time preserving silence. after a while the pursuers return; not all together, but in straggling squads--as they have despairingly abandoned the pursuit. all bring back the same story. none of them has been near enough to the headless rider to add one iota to what is already known of him. his entity remains mythical as ever! it is soon discovered that two who started in the chase have not reappeared. they are the old hunter and the ex-captain of volunteers. the latter has been last seen heading the field, the former following not far behind him. no one saw either of them afterward. are they still continuing on? perhaps they may have been successful? all eyes turn towards the prairie, and scan it with inquiring glances. there is an expectation that the missing men may be seen on their way back--with a hope that the headless horseman may be along with them. an hour elapses, and there is no sign of them--either with or without the wished-for captive. is the trial to be further postponed? the counsel for the prosecution urges its continuance; while he for the accused is equally desirous of its being delayed. the latter moves an adjournment till to-morrow; his plea the absence of an important witness in the person of zeb stump, who has not yet been examined. there are voices that clamour for the case to be completed. there are paid _claquers_ in the crowd composing a texan court, as in the pit of a parisian theatre. the real tragedy has its supporters, as well as the sham! the clamourers succeed in carrying their point. it is decided to go on with the trial--as much of it as can be got through without the witness who is absent. he may be back before the time comes for calling him. if not, the court can then talk about adjournment. so rules the judge; and the jury signify their assent. the spectators do the same. the prisoner is once more directed to stand up, and continue the confession so unexpectedly interrupted. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "you were about to tell us what you saw," proceeds the counsel for the accused, addressing himself to his client. "go on, and complete your statement. what was it you saw?" "a man lying at full length upon the grass." "asleep?" "yes; in the sleep of death." "dead?" "more than dead; if that were possible. on bending over him, i saw that he had been beheaded!" "what! his head cut off?" "just so. i did not know it, till i knelt down beside him. he was upon his face--with the head in its natural position. even the hat was still on it! "i was in hopes he might be asleep; though i had a presentiment there was something amiss. the arms were extended too stiffly for a sleeping man. so were the legs. besides, there was something red upon the grass, that in the dim light i had not at first seen. "as i stooped low to look at it, i perceived a strange odour--the salt smell that proceeds from human blood. "i no longer doubted that it was a dead body i was bending over; and i set about examining it. "i saw there was a gash at the back of the neck, filled with red, half-coagulated blood. i saw that the head was severed from the shoulders!" a sensation of horror runs through the auditory--accompanied by the exclamatory cries heard on such occasions. "did you know the man?" "alas! yes." "without seeing his face?" "it did not need that. the dress told who it was--too truly." "what dress?" "the striped blanket covering his shoulders and the hat upon his head. they were my own. but for the exchange we had made, i might have fancied it was myself. it was henry poindexter." a groan is again heard--rising above the hum of the excited hearers. "proceed, sir!" directs the examining counsel. "state what other circumstances came under your observation." "on touching the body, i found it cold and stiff. i could see that it had been dead for some length of time. the blood was frozen nearly dry; and had turned black. at least, so it appeared in the grey light: for the sun was not yet up. "i might have mistaken the cause of death, and supposed it to have been by the _beheading_. but, remembering the shot i had heard in the night, it occurred to me that another wound would be found somewhere--in addition to that made by the knife. "it proved that i was right. on turning the body breast upward, i perceived a hole in the serape; that all around the place was saturated with blood. "on lifting it up, and looking underneath, i saw a livid spot just over the breast-bone. i could tell that a bullet had entered there; and as there was no corresponding wound at the back, i knew it must be still inside the body." "in your opinion, was the shot sufficient to have caused death, without the mutilation that, you think, must have been done afterwards?" "most certainly it was. if not instantaneous, in a few minutes--perhaps seconds." "the head was cut off, you say. was it quite severed from the body?" "quite; though it was lying close up--as if neither head nor body had moved after the dismemberment." "was it a clean out--as if done by a sharp-edged weapon?" "it was." "what sort of weapon would you say?" "it looked like the cut of a broad axe; but it might have been done with a bowie-knife; one heavily weighted at the back of the blade." "did you notice whether repeated strokes had been given? or had the severance been effected by a single cut?" "there might have been more than one. but there was no appearance of chopping. the first cut was a clean slash; and must have gone nearly, if not quite, through. it was made from the back of the neck; and at right angles to the spine. from that i knew that the poor fellow must have been down on his face when the stroke was delivered." "had you any suspicion why, or by whom, the foul deed had been done?" "not then, not the slightest. i was so horrified, i could not reflect. i could scarce think it real. "when i became calmer, and saw for certain that a murder had been committed, i could only account for it by supposing that there had been comanches upon the ground, and that, meeting young poindexter, they had killed him out of sheer wantonness. "but then there was his scalp untouched--even the hat still upon his head!" "you changed your mind about its being indians?" "i did." "who did you then think it might be?" "at the time i did not think of any one. i had never heard of henry poindexter having an enemy--either here or elsewhere. i have since had my suspicions. i have them now." "state them." "i object to the line of examination," interposes the prosecuting counsel. "we don't want to be made acquainted with, the prisoner's suspicions. surely it is sufficient if he be allowed to proceed with his _very plausible tale_?" "let him proceed, then," directs the judge, igniting a fresh havannah. "state how you yourself acted," pursues the examiner. "what did you do, after making the observations you have described?" "for some time i scarce knew what to do--i was so perplexed by what i saw beside me. i felt convinced that there had been a murder; and equally so that it had been done by the shot--the same i had heard. "but who could have fired it? not indians. of that i felt sure. "i thought of some _prairie-pirate_, who might have intended plunder. but this was equally improbable. my mexican blanket was worth a hundred dollars. that would have been taken. it was not, nor anything else that poindexter had carried about him. nothing appeared to have been touched. even the watch was still in his waistcoat pocket, with the chain around his neck glistening through the gore that had spurted over it! "i came to the conclusion: that the deed must have been done for the satisfaction of some spite or revenge; and i tried to remember whether i had ever heard of any one having a quarrel with young poindexter, or a grudge against him. "i never had. "besides, why had the head been cut off? "it was this that filled me with astonishment--with horror. "without attempting to explain it, i bethought me of what was best to be done. "to stay by the dead body could serve no purpose. to bury it would have been equally idle. "then i thought of galloping back to the fort, and getting assistance to carry it to casa del corvo. "but if i left it in the chapparal, the coyotes might discover it; and both they and the buzzards would be at it before we could get back. already the vultures were above--taking their early flight. they appeared to have espied it. "mutilated as was the young man's form, i could not think of leaving it, to be made still more so. i thought of the tender eyes that must soon behold it--in tears." chapter ninety four. the mystery made clear. the accused pauses in his recital. no one offers any observation-- either to interrupt, or hurry him on. there is a reluctance to disturb the chain of a narrative, all know to be unfinished; and every link of which has been binding them to a closer and more earnest attention. judge, jury, and spectators remain breathlessly silent; while their eyes--many with mouths agape--are attentively turned upon the prisoner. amidst solemn stillness he is permitted to proceed. "my next idea was to cover the body with the cloak--as well as the serape still around the shoulders. by so doing it would be protected from both wolves and buzzards--at least till we could get back to fetch it away. "i had taken off the cloak for this purpose; when a different plan suggested itself--one that appeared in every way better. "instead of returning to the port alone, i should take the body along with me. i fancied i could do this, by laying it across the croup, and lashing it to the saddle with my lazo. "i led my horse up to the spot, and was preparing to put the body upon him, when i perceived that there was another horse upon the ground. it was that lately ridden by him who was now no more. "the animal was near by, browsing upon the grass--as tranquilly as if nothing had happened to disturb it. "as the bridle trailed upon the ground, i had no difficulty in catching hold of it. there was more in getting the horse to stand still-- especially when brought alongside what lay upon the ground. "holding the reins between my teeth, i lifted the body up, and endeavoured to place it crosswise in the saddle. "i succeeded in getting it there, but it would not remain. it was too stiff to bend over, and there was no way to steady it. "besides, the _horse_ became _greatly excited_, at sight of the strange load he was being called upon to carry. "after several attempts, i saw i could not succeed. "i was about to give up the idea, when another occurred to me--one that promised better. it was suggested by a remembrance of something i had read, relating to the gauchos of south america. when one dies, or is killed by accident, in some remote station of the pampas, his comrades carry his corpse to their distant home--strapped in the saddle, and seated in the same attitude, as though he were still alive. "why should i not do the same with the body of henry poindexter? "i made the attempt--first trying to set him on his own horse. "but the saddle being a flat one, and the animal still remaining restive, i did not succeed. "there was but one other chance of our making the home journey together: by exchanging horses. "i knew that my own would not object. besides, my mexican saddle, with its deep tree, would answer admirably for the purpose. "in a short while i had the body in it, seated erect,--in the natural position. its stiffness, that had obstructed me before, now served to keep it in its place. the rigid limbs were easily drawn into the proper stride; and with the feet inserted into the stirrups, and the water-guards buckled tightly over the thighs, there was little chance of the body slipping off. "to make it thoroughly secure, i cut a length from my lazo; and, warping it round the waist, fastened one end to the pommel in front, the other to the cantle behind. "a separate piece tied to the stirrups, and passing under the belly of the horse, kept the feet from swinging about. "the head still remained to be dealt with. it too must be taken along. "on lifting it from the ground, and endeavouring to detach it from the hat, i found that this could not be done. it was swollen to enormous dimensions; and the sombrero adhered to it--close as the skin itself. "having no fear that they would fall apart, i tied a piece of string to the buckle of the band; and hung both hat and head over the horn of the saddle. "this completed my preparations for the journey. "i mounted the horse of the murdered man; and, calling upon my own to follow me--he was accustomed to do so without leading--i started to ride back to the settlement. "in less than five minutes after, i was knocked out of my saddle--and my senses at the same time. "but for that circumstance i should not be standing here,--at all events, not in the unpleasant position i now hold." "knocked out of your saddle!" exclaims the judge. "how was that?" "a simple accident; or rather was it due to my own carelessness. on mounting the strange horse i neglected to take hold of the bridle. accustomed to guide my own--often with only my voice and knees--i had grown regardless of the reins. i did not anticipate an occurrence of the kind that followed. "the horse i was on, had only stopped three lengths of itself, from the place where i had bestridden him, when something caused him to shy to one side, and break into a gallop. "i need not say _something_; for i knew what it was. he had looked round, and seen the other coming on behind, with that strange shape upon his back, that now in the broad light of day was enough to frighten horse or man. "i clutched at the bridle; but, before i could lay my hand upon it, the horse was at his full speed. "at first i was but little alarmed; indeed not at all. i supposed i should soon recover the reins, and bring the runaway to a stand. "but i soon found this could not be so easily done. they had strayed forward, almost to the animal's ears; and i could not reach them, without laying myself flat along the neck. "while endeavouring to secure the bridle, i took no heed of the direction in which the horse was taking me. it was only when i felt a sharp twitching against my cheeks, that i discovered he had forsaken the open tract, and was carrying me through the chapparal. "after that i had no time to make observations--no chance even to look after the lost reins. i was enough occupied in dodging the branches of the mezquites, that stretched out their spinous arms as if desiring to drag me from the saddle. "i managed to steer clear of them, though not without getting scratches. "but there was one i could not avoid--the limb of a large tree that projected across the path. it was low down--on a level with my breast-- and the brute, shying from something that had given him a fresh start, shot right under it. "where he went afterwards i do not attempt to say. you all know that--i believe, better than i. i can only tell you, that, after unhorsing, he left me under the limb, with a lump upon my forehead and a painful swelling in the knee; neither of which i knew anything about till two hours afterwards. "when my senses came back to me, i saw the sun high up in the heavens, and some scores of turkey buzzards wheeling in circles above me. i could tell by the craning of their necks what was the prey they were expecting. "the sight of them, as well as my thirst--that was beginning to grow painful--prompted me to move away from the place. "on rising to my feet, i discovered that i could not walk. worse still, i was scarce able to stand. "to stay on that spot was to perish--at least i so thought at the time. "urged by the thought, i exerted all the strength left me, in an effort to reach water. "i knew there was a stream near by; and partly by crawling,--partly by the help of a rude crutch procured in the thicket--i succeeded in reaching it. "having satisfied my thirst, i felt refreshed; and soon after fell asleep. "i awoke to find myself surrounded by coyotes. "there were at least two score of them; and although at first i had no fear--knowing their cowardly nature--i was soon brought to a different way of thinking. "they saw that i was disabled; and for this reason had determined upon attacking me. "after a time they did so--clustering around and springing upon me in a simultaneous onslaught. "i had no weapon but my knife; and it was fortunate i had that. altogether unarmed, i must have been torn to pieces, and devoured. "with the knife i was able to keep them off, stabbing as many as i could get a fair stroke at. half-a-dozen, i should think, were killed in this way. "for all that it would have ended ill for me. i was becoming enfeebled by the blood fast pouring from my veins, and must soon have succumbed, but for an unexpected chance that turned up in my favour. "i can scarce call it chance. i am more satisfied, to think it was the hand of god." on pronouncing this speech the young irishman turns his eyes towards heaven, and stands for a time as if reflecting reverentially. solemn silence around tells that the attitude is respected. the hearts of all, even the rudest of his listeners, seem touched with the confidence so expressed. "it showed itself," he continues, "in the shape of an old comrade--one ofttimes more faithful than man himself--my staghound, tara. "the dog had been straying--perhaps in search of me--though i've since heard a different explanation of it, with which i need not trouble you. at all events, he found me; and just in time to be my rescuer. "the coyotes scattered at his approach; and i was saved from a fearful fate--i may say, out of the jaws of death. "i had another spell of sleep, or unconsciousness--whichever it may have been. "on awaking i was able to reflect. i knew that the dog must have come from my jacale; which i also knew to be several miles distant. he had been taken thither, the day before, by my servant, phelim. "the man should still be there; and i bethought me of sending him a message--the staghound to be its bearer. "i wrote some words on a card, which i chanced to have about me. "i was aware that my servant could not read; but on seeing the card he would recognise it as mine, and seek some one who could decipher what i had written upon it. "there would be the more likelihood of his doing so, seeing that the characters were traced in blood. "wrapping the card in a piece of buckskin, to secure it against being destroyed, i attached it to tara's neck. "with some difficulty i succeeded in getting the animal to leave me. but he did so at length; and, as i had hoped, to go home to the hut. "it appears that my message was duly carried; though it was only yesterday i was made acquainted with the result. "shortly after the dog took his departure, i once more fell asleep-- again awaking to find myself in the presence of an enemy--one more terrible than i had yet encountered. "it was a jaguar. "a conflict came off between us; but how it ended, or after what time, i am unable to tell. i leave that to my brave rescuer, zeb stump; who, i hope, will soon return to give an account of it--with much besides that is yet mysterious to me, as to yourselves. "all i can remember since then is a series of incongruous dreams-- painful phantasmagoria--mingled with pleasant visions--ah! some that were celestial--until the day before yesterday, when i awoke to find myself the inmate of a prison--with a charge of murder hanging over my head! "gentlemen of the jury! i have done." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "_si non vero e ben trovato_," is the reflection of judge, jury, and spectators, as the prisoner completes his recital. they may not express it in such well-turned phrase; but they feel it-- one and all of them. and not a few believe in the truth, and reject the thought of contrivance. the tale is too simple--too circumstantial--to have been contrived, and by a man whose brain is but just recovered from the confusion of fevered fancies. it is altogether improbable he should have concocted such a story. so think the majority of those to whom it has been told. his confession--irregular as it may have been--has done more for his defence than the most eloquent speech his counsel could have delivered. still it is but his own tale; and other testimony will be required to clear him. where is the witness upon whom so much is supposed to depend. where is zeb stump? five hundred pairs of eyes turn towards the prairie, and scan the horizon with inquiring gaze. five hundred hearts throb with a mad impatience for the return of the old hunter--with or without cassius calhoun--with or without the headless horse, man--now no longer either myth or mystery, but a natural phenomenon, explained and comprehended. it is not necessary to say to that assemblage, that the thing is an improbability--much less to pronounce it impossible. they are texans of the south-west--denizens of the high upland plateau, bordering upon the "staked plain," from which springs the lovely leona, and where the river of nuts heads in a hundred crystal streams. they are dwellers in a land, where death can scarce be said to have its successor in decay; where the stag struck down in its tracks--or the wild steed succumbing to some hapless chance--unless by wild beasts devoured, will, after a time, bid defiance both to the laws of corruption and the teeth of the coyote; where the corpse of mortal man himself, left uncoffined and uncovered, will, in the short period of eight-and-forty hours, exhibit the signs, and partake of the qualities, of a mummy freshly exhumed from the catacombs of egypt! but few upon the ground who are not acquainted with this peculiarity of the texan climate--that section of it close to the sierra madro--and more especially among the spurs of the llano estacado. should the headless horseman be led back under the live oak, there is not one who will be surprised to see the dead body of henry poindexter scarce showing the incipient signs of decomposition. if there be any incredulity about the story just told them, it is not on this account; and they stand in impatient expectation, not because they require it to be confirmed. their impatience may be traced to a different cause--a suspicion, awakened at an early period of the trial, and which, during its progress, has been gradually growing stronger; until it has at length assumed almost the shape of a belief. it is to confirm, or dissipate this, that nearly every man upon the ground--every woman as well--chafes at the absence of that witness, whose testimony is expected to restore the accused to his liberty, or consign him to the gallows tree. under such an impression, they stand interrogating the level line--where sky and savannah mingle the soft blue of the sapphire with the vivid green of the emerald. chapter ninety five. the last witness. the watchful air is kept up for a period of full ten minutes, and along with it the solemn silence. the latter is at intervals interrupted by a word or exclamation--when some one sees, or fancies, a spot upon the prairie. then there is a buzz of excitement; and men stand on tiptoe to obtain a better view. thrice is the crowd stirred by warnings that have proved false. its patience is becoming exhausted, when a fourth salutes the ear, spoken in a louder voice and more confident tone. this time the tale is true. there are shadows upon the skyline--shadows fast assuming shape, substance, and motion. a wild shout--the old saxon "huzza," swells up among the branches of the live oak, as the figures of three horsemen emerging from the film of the sun-parched prairie are seen coming in the direction of the tree! two of them are easily recognised, as zeb stump and cassius calhoun. the third still more easily: for far as eye can see, that fantastic form cannot be mistaken. the first cry of the crowd, which but signalled the return of the two men, is followed by another, yet more significant--when it is seen that they are accompanied by a creature, so long the theme of weird thoughts, and strange conjecturings. though its nature is now known, and its cause understood still is it regarded with feelings akin to awe. the shout is succeeded by an interregnum of silence--unbroken, till the three horsemen have come close up; and then only by a hum of whisperings, as if the thoughts of the spectators are too solemn to be spoken aloud. many go forward to meet the approaching cortege; and with wondering gaze accompany it back upon the ground. the trio of equestrians comes to a halt outside the circle of spectators; which soon changes centre, closing excitedly around them. two of them dismount; the third remains seated in the saddle. calhoun, leading his horse to one side, becomes commingled with the crowd. in the presence of such a companion, he is no longer thought of. all eyes, as well as thoughts, dwell upon the headless horseman. zeb stump, abandoning the old mare, takes hold of his bridle-rein, and conducts him under the tree--into the presence of the court. "now, judge!" says he, speaking as one who has command of the situation, "an' you twelve o' the jury! hyur's a witness as air likely to let a glimp o' daylight into yur dulliberashuns. what say ye to examinin' _him_?" an exclamation is heard, followed by the words, "o god, it is he!" a tall man staggers forward, and stands by the side of the headless horseman. _it is his father_! a cry proceeds from a more distant point--a scream suddenly suppressed, as if uttered by a woman before swooning. _it is his sister_! after a time, woodley poindexter is led away--unresisting,--apparently unconscious of what is going on around him. he is conducted to a carriage drawn up at a distance, and placed upon a seat beside its only occupant--his daughter. but the carriage keeps its place. she who commands the check-string intends to stay there, till the court has declared its sentence--ay, till the hour of execution, if that is to be the end! zeb stump is officially directed to take his place in the "witness-box." by order of the judge, the examination proceeds--under direction of the counsel for the accused. many formalities are dispensed with. the old hunter, who has been already sworn, is simply called to tell what he knows of the affair; and left to take his own way in the telling it; which he does in curt phrases--as if under the belief that such is required by the technicalities of the law! after the following fashion does zeb proceed:-- "fust heerd o' this ugly bizness on the second day arter young peint war missin'. heerd on it as i war reeturnin' from a huntin' spell down the river. heerd thar wur a suspeeshun 'beout the mowstanger hevin' kermitted the murder. knowd he wan't the man to do sech; but, to be saterfied, rud out to his shanty to see him. he wan't at home, though his man pheelum war; so skeeart 'beout one thing an the tother he ked gie no clur account o' anythin'. "wal, whiles we war palaverin', in kim the dog, wi' somethin' tied roun' his neck--the which, on bein' 'zamined, proved to be the mowstanger's curd. thur war words on it; wrote in red ink, which i seed to be blood. "them words tolt to whosomedever shed read 'em, whar the young fellur war to be foun'. "i went thar, takin' the other two--thet air pheelum an the houn'--along wi' me. "we got to the groun' jest in time to save the mowstanger from hevin' his guts clawed out by one o' them ere spotted painters--the mexikins call tigers--tho' i've heern the young fellur hisself gie 'em the name o' jug-wars. "i put a bullet through the brute; an thet wur the eend o' it. "wal, we tuk the mowstanger to his shanty. we hed to toat him thar on a sort o' streetcher; seein' as he wan't able to make trades o' hisself. beside, he wur as much out o' his senses as a turkey gobber at treadin' time. "we got him hum; an thur he stayed, till the sarchers kim to the shanty an foun' him." the witness makes pause: as if pondering within himself, whether he should relate the series of extraordinary incidents that took place during his stay at the jacale. would it be for the benefit of the accused to leave them untold? he resolves to be reticent. this does not suit the counsel for the prosecution, who proceeds to cross-examine him. it results in his having to give a full and particular account of everything that occurred--up to the time of the prisoner being taken out of his hands, and incarcerated in the guard-house. "now," says he, as soon as the cross-questioning comes to a close, "since ye've made me tell all i know 'beout thet part o' the bizness, thur's somethin' ye haint thought o' askin', an the which this child's boun' to make a clean breast o'." "proceed, mr stump!" says he of san antonio, entrusted with the direct examination. "wal, what i'm goin' to say now haint so much to do wi' the prisoner at the bar, as wi' a man thet in my opeenyun oughter be stannin' in his place. i won't say who thet man air. i'll tell ye what i know, an hev foun' out, an then you o' the jury may reckon it up for yurselves." the old hunter makes pause, drawing a long breath--as if to prepare himself for a full spell of confession. no one attempts either to interrupt or urge him on. there is an impression that he can unravel the mystery of the murder. that of the headless horseman no longer needs unravelling. "wal, fellur citizens!" continues zeb, assuming a changed style of apostrophe, "arter what i heerd, an more especially what i seed, i knowd that poor young peint wur gone under--struck down in his tracks--wiped out o' the world. "i knowd equally well thet he who did the cowardly deed wan't, an kedn't be, the mowstanger--maurice gerald. "who war it, then? thet war the questyun thet bamboozled me, as it's done the rest o' ye--them as haint made up thur minds 'ithout reflekshun. "wal; thinkin' as i did that the irish wur innocent, i bekim detarmined to diskiver the truth. i ain't goin' to say thet appearances wan't agin him. they wur dog-gonedly agin him. "for all thet, i wan't goin' to rely on them; an so i tuk purayra to hev a squint at the sign. "i knowd thur must be hoss-tracks leadin' to the place, an hoss tracks goin' from it; an damn 'em! thur wur too many o' 'em, goin' everywhur-- else the thing mout a been eezy enough. "but thar wur one partickler set i'd got a _down_ upon; an them i detarmined to foller up to the eend o' creashun. "they war the footmarks o' an amerikin hoss, hevin' three shoes to the good, an a fourth wi' a bit broken off the eend o' it. this hyur's the eyedentikul piece o' iron!" the witness draws his hand from the pocket of his blanket coat, in which it has been some time buried. in the fingers are seen the shoe of a horse, only three quarters complete. he holds it on high--enough for judge, jury, and spectators to see what it is. "now, mr judge," he continues, "an' you o' the jury, the hoss that carried this shoe went acrosst the purayra the same night thet the murder war committed. he went arter the man thet air murdered, as well as him thet stans thar accused o' it. he went right upon the track o' both, an stopped short o' the place whur the crime wur committed. "but the man that rud him didn't stop short. he kep on till he war clost up to the bloody spot; an it war through him it arterwards bekim bloody. it war the third hoss--him wi' the broken shoe--thet carried the murderer!" "go on, mr stump!" directs the judge. "explain what you mean by this extraordinary statement." "what i mean, judge, air jest this. the man i'm speakin' o' tuk stan' in the thicket, from which stan' he fired the shet thet killed poor young peintdexter." "what man? who was it? his name! give his name!" simultaneously interrogate twenty voices. "i reckon yu'll find it thar." "where?" "whar! in thet thur body as sits 'ithout a head, lookin' dumbly down on ye! "ye kin all see," continues the witness, pointing to the silent shape, "ye kin all see a red patch on the breast o' the striped blanket. thur's a hole in the centre o' it. ahint that hole i reck'n thur'll be another, in the young fellur's karkidge. thar don't appear any to match it at the back. thurfor i konklude, thet the bullet as did his bizness air still inside o' him. s'posin' we strip off his duds, an see!" there is a tacit consent to this proposition of the witness. two or three of the spectators--sam manly one of them--step forward; and with due solemnity proceed to remove the serape. as at the inauguration of a statue--whose once living original has won the right of such commemoration--the spectators stand in respectful silence at its uncovering, so stand they under the texan tree, while the serape is being raised from the shoulders of the headless horseman. it is a silence solemn, profound, unbroken even by whispers. these are heard only after the unrobing is complete, and the dead body becomes revealed to the gaze of the assemblage. it is dressed in a blouse of sky-blue _cottonade_--box plaited at the breast, and close buttoned to the throat. the limbs are encased in a cloth of the like colour, with a lighter stripe along the seams. but only the thighs can be seen--the lower extremities being concealed by the "water-guards" of spotted skin tightly stretched over them. around the waist--twice twined around it--is a piece of plaited rope, the strands of horse's hair. before and behind, it is fastened to the projections of the high-peaked saddle. by it is the body retained in its upright attitude. it is further stayed by a section of the same rope, attached to the stirrups, and traversing--surcingle fashion--under the belly of the horse. everything as the accused has stated--all except the head. where is this? the spectators do not stay to inquire. guided by the speech of zeb stump, their eyes are directed towards the body, carefully scrutinising it. two bullet holes are seen; one over the region of the heart; the other piercing the breast-bone just above the abdomen. it is upon this last that the gaze becomes concentrated: since around its orifice appears a circle of blood with streams straying downward. these have saturated the soft _cottonade_--now seemingly desiccated. the other shot-hole shows no similar signs. it is a clear round cut in the cloth--about big enough for a pea to have passed through, and scarce discernible at the distance. there is no blood stain around it. "_it_," says zeb stump, pointing to the smaller, "it signifies nothin'. it's the bullet i fired myself out o' the gully; the same i've ben tellin' ye o'. ye obsarve thar's no blood abeout it: which prove thet it wur a dead body when it penetrated. the other air different. it wur the shot as settled him; an ef i ain't dog-gonedly mistaken, ye'll find the bit o' lead still inside o' the corp. suppose ye make a incizyun, an see!" the proposal meets with no opposition. on the contrary, the judge directs it to be done as zeb has suggested. the stays, both fore and back, are unloosed; the water-guards unbuckled; and the body is lifted out of the saddle. it feels stark and stiff to those who take part in the unpacking,--the arms and limbs as rigid as if they had become fossilised. the lightness tells of desiccation: for its specific gravity scarce exceeds that of a mummy! with respectful carefulness it is laid at full length along the grass. the operators stoop silently over it--sam manly acting as the chief. directed by the judge, he makes an incision around the wound--that with the circle of extravasated blood. the dissection is carried through the ribs, to the lungs underneath. in the left lobe is discovered the thing searched for. something firmer than flesh is touched by the probe--the point of a bowie-knife. it has the feel of a leaden bullet. it is one! it is extracted; rubbed clean of its crimson coating; and submitted to the examination of the jury. despite the abrasion caused by the spirally-grooved bore of the barrel-- despite an indentation where it came in contact with a creased rib-- there is still discernible the outlines of a stamped crescent, and the letters c.c. oh! those tell-tale initials! there are some looking on who remember to have heard of them before. some who can testify to that boast about a marked bullet--when the killing of the jaguar was contested! he who made that boast has now reason to regret it! "but where is he?" the question is beginning to be asked. "what's your explanation, mr stump?" is another question put by the counsel for the accused. "don't need much, i reck'n," is the reply. "he'd be a durnationed greenhorn as can't see, clur as the light o' day, thet young peint war plugged by thet ere bullet." "by whom fired, do you think?" "wal; thet appear to be eeqully clur. when a man signs his name to a message, thar's no chance o' mistakin' who it kums from. thar's only the ineeshuls thur; but they're plain enuf, i reck'n, an speak for theirselves." "i see nothing in all this," interposes the prosecuting counsel. "there's a marked bullet, it is true--with a symbol and certain letters, which may, or may not, belong to a gentleman well known in the settlement. for the sake of argument, let us suppose them to be his--as also the ball before us. what of that? it wouldn't be the first time that a murder has been committed--by one who has first stolen his weapon, and then used it to accomplish the deed. it is but a piece of ordinary cunning--a common trick. who can say that this is not something of the same sort?" "besides," continues the specious pleader, "where is the motive for a murder such as this would be--supposing it to have been committed by the man you are now called upon to suspect? without mentioning names, we all know to whom these initials belong. i don't suppose the gentleman will deny that they are his. but that signifies nothing: since there is no other circumstance to connect him in any way with the committal of the crime." "ain't thar though?" asks stump, who has been impatiently awaiting the wind up of the lawyer's speech. "what do ye call this?" zeb, on delivering himself, takes from his tinder-pouch a piece of paper--crumpled--scorched along the edges--and blackened as with gunpowder. "this i foun'," says he, surrendering it to the jury, "stuck fast on the thorn o' a muskeet tree, whar it hed been blowed out o' the barrel o' a gun. it kim out o' the same gun as discharged thet bullet--to which it hed served for waddin'. as this chile takes it, it's bin the backin' o' a letter. thur's a name on it, which hev a kewrious correspondings wi' the ineeshuls on the bit o' lead. the jury kin read the name for tharselves." the foreman takes the scrap of paper; and, smoothing out the creases, reads aloud:-- captain cassius calhoun! chapter ninety six. stole away! the announcement of the name produces a vivid impression upon the court. it is accompanied by a cry--sent up by the spectators, with a simultaneity that proclaims them animated by a common sentiment. it is not a cry of surprise; but one of far different augury. it has a double meaning, too: at once proclaiming the innocence of the accused, and the guilt of him who has been the most zealous amongst the accusers. against the latter, the testimony of zeb stump has done more than direct suspicion. it confirms that already aroused; and which has been growing stronger, as fact after fact has been unfolded: until the belief becomes universal: that maurice gerald is not the man who should be on trial for the murder of henry poindexter. equally is it believed that calhoun is the man. the scrap of smeared paper has furnished the last link in the chain of evidence; and, though this is but circumstantial, and the motive an inconceivable mystery, there is now scarce any one who has a doubt about the doer of the deed. after a short time spent in examining the envelope--passed from hand to hand among the jurymen--the witness who has hinted at having something more to tell, is directed to continue his narration. he proceeds to give an account of his suspicions--those that originally prompted him to seek for "sign" upon the prairie. he tells of the shot fired by calhoun from the copse; of the chase that succeeded; and the horse trade that came after. last of all, he describes the scene in the chapparal, where the headless horseman has been caught--giving this latest episode in all its details, with his own interpretation of it. this done, he makes a pause, and stands silent, as if awaiting the court to question him. but the eyes of the auditory are no longer fixed upon him. they know that his tale is completed; or, if not so, they need no further testimony to guide their conclusions. they do not even stay for the deliberations of the court, now proceeding to sift the evidence. its action is too slow for men who have seen justice so near being duped--themselves along with it; and--swayed by a bitter reactionary spirit--revenge, proceeding from self-reproach--they call loudly for a change in the programme. the court is assailed with the cries:-- "let the irishman go--he is innocent! we don't want any farther evidence. we're convinced of it. let him go free!" such is the talk that proceeds from the excited spectators. it is followed by other speeches equally earnest:-- "let cassius calhoun be arrested, and put upon his trial! it's he that's done the deed! that's why he's shown so bitter against the other! if he's innocent, he'll be able to prove it. he shall have a fair trial; but tried he shall be. come, judge; we're waiting upon you! order mr calhoun to be brought before the court. an innocent man's been there long enough. let the guilty take his place!" the demand, at first made by some half dozen voices, soon becomes a clamour, universally endorsed by the assemblage. the judge dares not refuse compliance with a proposal so energetically urged: and, despite the informality, cassius calhoun is called upon to come before the court. the summons of the crier, thrice loudly pronounced, receives no response; and all eyes go in search of calhoun. there is only one pair that looks in the right direction--those of zeb stump. the _ci-devant_ witness is seen suddenly to forsake the spot on which he has been giving his testimony, and glide towards his old mare--still alongside the horse late relieved of his ghastly rider. with an agility that surprises every one, the old hunter springs upon the mare's back, and spurs her from under the tree. at the same instant the spectators catch sight of a man, moving among the horses that stand picketed over the plain. though proceeding stealthily, as if to avoid being observed, he moves at a rapid rate--making for a particular quarter of the _cavallada_. "'tis he! 'tis calhoun!" cries the voice of one who has recognised him. "trying to steal off!" proclaims another. "follow him!" shouts the judge, in a tone of stern command. "follow, and bring him back!" there is no need for the order to be repeated. ere the words are well out, it is in the act of being obeyed--by scores of men who rush simultaneously towards their horses. before reaching them, calhoun has reached his--a grey mustang, standing on the outskirts of the _cavallada_. it is the same he has lately ridden in chase of the headless horseman. the saddle is still upon its back, and the bitt between its teeth. from the commotion observable under the tree, and the shouting that accompanies it, he has become cognisant of that terrible signal--the "hue and cry." concealment is no longer possible; and, changing from the stealthy pace to a quick earnest run, he bounds upon the animal's back. giving a wild glance backward, he heads it towards the prairie--going off at a gallop. fifty horses are soon laid along his track--their riders roused to the wildest excitement by some words pronounced at their parting. "bring him back--dead or alive!" was the solemn phrase,--supposed to have been spoken by the major. no matter by whom. it needs not the stamp of official warrant to stimulate the pursuers. their horror of the foul deed is sufficient for this--coupled with the high respect in which the victim of it had been held. each man spurs onward, as if riding to avenge the death of a relative--a brother; as if each was himself eager to become an instrument in the execution of justice! never before has the ex-captain of cavalry been in such danger of his life; not while charging over the red battle-field of buena vista; not while stretched upon the sanded floor of oberdoffer's bar-room, with the muzzle of the mustanger's pistol pointed at his head! he knows as much; and, knowing it, spurs on at a fearful pace--at intervals casting behind a glance, quick, furtive, and fierce. it is not a look of despair. it has not yet come to this; though at sight of such a following--within hearing of their harsh vengeful cries--one might wonder he could entertain the shadow of a hope. he has. he knows that he is mounted on a fleet horse, and that there is a tract of timber before him. true, it is nearly ten miles distant. but what signify ten miles? he is riding at the rate of twenty to the hour; and in half an hour he may find shelter in the chapparal? is this the thought that sustains him? it can scarce be. concealment in the thicket--with half a score of skilled trackers in pursuit--zeb stump at their head! no: it cannot be this. there is no hiding-place for him; and he knows it. what, then, hinders him from sinking under despair, and at once resigning himself to what must be his ultimate destiny? is it the mere instinct of the animal, giving way to a blind unreasoning effort at impossible escape? nothing of the kind. the murderer of henry poindexter is not mad. in his attempt to elude the justice he now dreads, he is not trusting to such slender chances as either a quick gallop across the prairie, or a possible concealment in the timber beyond. there is a still farther beyond--a _border_. upon this his thoughts are dwelling, and his hopes have become fixed. there are, indeed, two _borders_. one that separates two nations termed civilised. there is a law of extradition between them. for all this the red-handed assassin may cheat justice--often does--by an adroit migration from one to the other--a mere change of residence and nationality. but it is not this course calhoun intends to take. however ill observed the statute between texas and mexico, he has no intention to take advantage of its loose observance. he dreads to risk such a danger. with the consciousness of his great crime, he has reason. though riding toward the rio grande, it is not with the design of crossing it. he has bethought him of the _other border_--that beyond which roams the savage comanche--the ishmaelite of the prairies--whose hand is against every man with a white skin; but will be lifted lightly against him, who has spilled the white man's blood! in his tent, the murderer may not only find a home, but hope for hospitality--perhaps promotion, in the red career of his adoption! it is from an understanding of these circumstances, that calhoun sees a chance of escape, that support him against despair; and, though he has started in a direct line for the rio grande, he intends, under cover of the chapparal, to flee towards the _llano estacado_. he does not dread the dangers of this frightful desert; nor any others that may lie before him. they can be but light compared with those threatening behind. he might feel regret at the terrible expatriation forced upon him--the loss of wealth, friends, social status, and civilisation--more than all, the severance from one too wildly, wickedly loved--perhaps never to be seen again! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ but he has no time to think even of _her_. to his ignoble nature life is dearer than love. he fancies that life is still before him; but it is no fancy that tells him, death is behind--fast travelling upon his tracks! the murderer makes haste--all the haste that can be taken out of a mexican mustang--swift as the steeds of arabia, from which it can claim descent. ere this the creature should be tired. since the morning it has made more than a score miles--most of them going at a gallop. but it shows no signs of fatigue. like all its race--tough as terriers--it will go fifty--if need be a hundred--without staggering in its tracks. what a stroke of good fortune--that exchange of horses with the mexican maiden! so reflects its rider. but for it he might now be standing under the sombre shadow of the live oak, in the stern presence of a judge and jury, abetted and urged on to convict him, by the less scrupulous lynch and his cohort of regulators. he is no longer in dread of such a destiny. he begins to fancy himself clear of all danger. he glances back over the plain, and sees his pursuers still far behind him. he looks forward, and, in the dark line looming above the bright green of the savannah, descries the chapparal. he has no doubt of being able to reach it, and then his chance of escape will be almost certain. even if he should not succeed in concealing himself within the thicket, who is there to overtake him? he believes himself to be mounted on the fastest horse that is making the passage of the prairie. who, then, can come up with him? he congratulates himself on the _chance_ that has given him such a steed. he may ascribe it to the devil. he cannot attribute it to god! and will god permit this red-handed ruffian to escape? will he not stretch forth his almighty arm, and stay the assassin in his flight? chapter ninety seven. the chase of the assassin. will god permit the red-handed ruffian to escape? will he not stretch forth his almighty arm, and stay the assassin in his flight? these interrogatories are put by those who have remained under the tree. they are answered by an instinct of justice--the first negatively, the second in the affirmative. he will not, and he will. the answers are but conjectural; doubtfully so, as calhoun goes galloping off; a little less doubtful as zeb stump is descried starting after him; and still less, when a hundred horsemen--soldiers and civilians--spring forward in the pursuit. the doubt diminishes as the last of the pursuers is seen leaving the ground. all seem to believe that the last at starting will be first in the chase: for they perceive that it is maurice the mustanger mounted on a horse whose fleetness is now far famed. the exclamations late ringing through the court have proclaimed not only a fresh postponement of his trial, but its indefinite adjournment. by the consent of the assemblage, vociferously expressed, or tacitly admitted, he feels that he is free. the first use he makes of his liberty is to rush towards the horse late ridden by the headless rider--as all know--his own. at his approach the animal recognises its master; proclaims it by trotting towards him, and giving utterance to a glad "whigher!" despite the long severance, there is scarce time to exchange congratulations. a single word passes the lips of the mustanger, in response to the neigh of recognition; and in the next instant he is on the back of the blood-bay, with the bridle in his grasp. he looks round for a lazo; asks for it appealingly, in speech directed to the bystanders. after a little delay one is thrown to him, and he is off. the spectators stand gazing after. there is no longer a doubt as to the result. the wish, almost universal, has become a universal belief. god has decreed that the assassin shall not escape; but that he will be overtaken, captured, and brought back before that same tribunal, where he so late stood a too willing witness! and the man, so near suffering death through his perjured testimony, is the instrument chosen to carry out the divine decree! even the rude regulators--with their practical habitudes of life, but little regarding the idea of divine interference--cannot help having the impression of this poetical justice. one and all give way to it, as the red stallion springs off over the prairie, carrying maurice gerald upon his back. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ after his departure, an episode occurs under the shadow of the live oak. it is not this that hinders it from being observed; but because every one has turned face towards the plain, and watches the chase, fast receding from view. there is one scanning it with a look unlike the others. a lady strains her eyes through the curtains of a _caleche_--her glance telling of a thought within dissimilar to that felt by the common spectators. it is no mere curiosity that causes her twin breasts to sink and swell in quick spasmodic breathing. in her eye, still showing sadness, there is a gleam of triumph as it follows the pursuer--tempered with mercy, as it falls upon the pursued; while from her lips, slightly parted, escapes the prayer: "_god have mercy on the guilty man_!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ delayed a little at mounting--and more in procuring the lazo--maurice gerald is the very latest to leave the ground. on clearing the skirt of the crowd, now dispersed over the parade, he sees the others far ahead-- a distance of several hundred yards separating him from the rearmost. he thinks nothing of this. confident in the qualities of his steed, he knows he will not long ride in the rear. and the blood-bay answers his expectations. as if joyed at being relieved from his inert load--to him an incubus inexplicable--and inspired by the pressure of his master's knees, the noble horse springs off over the prairie turf--in long sinewy strides, showing that his body still retains its strength, and his limbs their elasticity. he soon closes upon the hindmost; overtakes one; then another, and another, till he has surged far ahead of the "field." still on, over the rolling ridges--across the stream-beds between--on, over soft turf, and sharp shingle, till at length his competitors lose sight of him--as they have already done of the grey mustang and its rider. there is but one of the pursuing party who continues to keep him in view--a tall man, mounted upon what might be taken for the sorriest of steeds--an old mustang mare. her speed tells a different tale; produced though it be by the strangest of spurs--the keen blade of a bowie-knife. it is zeb stump who makes use of this quaint, but cruel, means of persuasion. still the old mare cannot keep pace with the magnificent stallion of the mustanger. nor does zeb expect it. he but aims at holding the latter in sight; and in this he is so far successful. there is yet another who beholds the blood-bay making his vigorous bounds. he beholds him with "beard upon the shoulder." it is he who is pursued. just as he has begun to feel hopeful of escape, calhoun, looking back, catches sight of the red stallion; no longer with that strange shape upon his back, but one as well recognised, and to him even more terrible. he perceives it to be maurice, the mustanger--the man he would have devoted--was so near devoting--to the most disgraceful of deaths! he sees this man coming after--his own conscience tells him--as an avenger! is it the hand of god that directs this enemy on his track? he trembles as he asks himself the question. from any other pursuer there might have been a chance of escaping. there is none from maurice gerald! a cold shiver runs through the frame of the fugitive. he feels as if he were fighting against fate; and that it is idle to continue the contest! he sits despairingly in his saddle; scarce caring to ply the spur; no longer believing that speed can avail him! his flight is now merely mechanical--his mind taking no part in the performance. his soul is absorbed with the horror of a dread death--not less dread, from his knowing that he deserves it. the sight of the chapparal, close at hand, inspires him with a fresh hope; and, forcing the fatigued horse into a last feeble effort, he struggles on towards it. an opening presents itself. he enters it; and continues his gallop for a half mile further. he arrives at a point, where the path turns sharply round some heavy timber. beyond that, he might enter the underwood, and get out of sight of his pursuer. he knows the place, but too well. it has been fatal to him before. is it to prove so again? it is. he feels that it is, and rides irresolutely. he hears the hoofstroke of the red horse close upon the heels of his own; and along with it the voice of the avenging rider, summoning him to stop! he is too late for turning the corner,--too late to seek concealment in the thicket,--and with a cry he reins up. it is a cry partly of despair, partly of fierce defiance--like the scream of a chased jaguar under bay of the bloodhounds. it is accompanied by a gesture; quick followed by a flash, a puff of white smoke, and a sharp detonation, that tell of the discharge of a revolver. but the bullet whistles harmlessly through the air; while in the opposite direction is heard a hishing sound--as from the winding of a sling--and a long serpent seems to uncoil itself in the air! calhoun sees it through the thinning smoke. it is darting straight towards him! he has no time to draw trigger for a second shot--no time even to avoid the lazo's loop. before he can do either, he feels it settling over his shoulders; he hears the dread summons, "_surrender, you assassin_!" he sees the red stallion turn tail towards him; and, in the next instant, experiences the sensation of one who has been kicked from a scaffold! beyond this he feels, hears, and sees nothing more. he has been jerked out of his saddle; and the shock received in his collision with the hard turf has knocked the breath out of his body, as well as the sense out of his soul! chapter ninety eight. not dead yet. the assassin lies stretched along the earth--his arms embraced by the raw-hide rope--to all appearance dead. but his captor does not trust to this. he believes it to be only a faint--it may be a feint--and to make sure it is not the latter, he remains in his saddle, keeping his lazo upon the strain. the blood-bay, obedient to his will, stands firm as the trunk of a tree--ready to rear back, or bound forward, on receiving the slightest sign. it is a terrible tableau; though far from being strange in that region of red-handed strife, that lies along the far-stretching frontier of tamaulipas and texas. oft--too oft--has the soaring vulture looked down upon such a scene-- with joy beholding it, as promising a banquet for its filthy beak! even now half a score of these ravenous birds, attracted by the report of the pistol, are hovering in the air--their naked necks elongated in eager anticipation of a feast! one touch of the spur, on the part of him seated in the saddle, would give them what they want. "it would serve the scoundrel right," mutters the mustanger to himself. "great god, to think of the crime he has committed! killed his own cousin, and then cut off his head! there can be no doubt that he has done both; though from what motive, god only can tell,--or himself, if he be still alive. "i have my own thoughts about it. i know that he loves _her_; and it may be that the brother stood in his way. "but how, and why? that is the question that requires an answer. perhaps it can only be answered by god and himself?" "yur mistaken beout thet, young fellur," interposes a voice breaking in on the soliloquy. "thur's one who kin tell the how and the why, jest as well as eyther o' them ye've made mention o'; and thet individooal air ole zeb stump, at your sarvice. but 'taint the time to talk o' sech things now; not hyur ain't the place neythur. we must take _him_ back unner the live oak, whar he'll git treated accordin' to his desarvins. durn his ugly picter! it would sarve him right to make it uglier by draggin' him a spell at the eend o' yur trail-rope. "never mind beout that. we needn't volunteer to be henry peintdexter's 'vengers. from what they know now, i reck'n that kin be trusted to the regulators." "how are we to get him back? his horse has galloped away!" "no difeequilty beout that, mister gerald. he's only fainted a bit; or maybe, playin' possum. in eyther case, i'll soon roust him. if he ain't able to make tracks on the hoof he kin go a hossback, and hyur's the critter as 'll carry him. i'm sick o' the seddle myself, an i reck'n the ole gal's a leetle bit sick o' me--leestwise o' the spur i've been a prickin' into her. i've made up my mind to go back on shanks's maar, an as for mister cash calhoun, he's welkim to hev my seat for the reeturn jerney. ef he don't stop shammin an sit upright, we kin pack him acrost the crupper, like a side o' dead buck-meat. yo-ho! he begins to show sign! he'll soon rekiver his senses--all seven o' 'em, i reck'n--an then he kin mount the maar o' hisself. "yee-up, ole hoss!" continues zeb, grasping calhoun by the collar of his coat, and giving him a vigorous shake. "yee-up, i say; an kum along wi' us! ye're wanted. thar's somebody desirin' to have a talk wi' you!" "who? where?" inquires the captive, slowly recovering consciousness, and staring unsteadily around him. "who wants me?" "wal; i do for one; an--" "ah! you it is, zeb stump! and--and--?" "an' that air's mister maurice gerald the mowstanger. you've seed him afore, i reck'n? he wants ye for two. beside, thar's a good grist o' others as ud like to see ye agin--back thar by the port. so ye'd best get upon yur legs, an' go along wi' us." the wretched man rises to his feet. in so doing, he discovers that his arms are encircled by a lazo. "my horse?" he exclaims, looking inquiringly around. "where is my horse?" "ole nick only knows whar _he_ air by this time. like enuf gone back to the grand, whar he kim from. arter the gallupin ye've gi'n him, i reck'n he air sick o' the swop; an's goed off to take a spell o' rest on his native pasters." calhoun gazes on the old hunter with something more than astonishment. the swop! even this, too, is known to him! "now, then," pursues zeb, with a gesture of impatience. "'twon't do to keep the court a-waitin'. are ye riddy?" "ready for what?" "fust an foremost, to go back along wi' me an mister gerald. second an second-most, to stan' yur trial." "trial! i stand trial!" "you, mister cash calhoun." "on what charge?" "the churge o' killin' henry peintdexter--yur own cousin." "it's a lie! a damned slanderous lie; and whoever says it--!" "shet up yur head!" cries zeb, with an authoritative gesture. "ye're only wastin' breath. ef this chile ain't mistook about it, ye'll need all ye've got afore long. kum, now! make riddy to reeturn wi' us! the judge air awaitin'; the jury air awaitin'; an _justice_ air waitin', too--in the shape o' three score reg'lators." "i'm not going back," doggedly responds calhoun. "by what authority do you command me? you have no warrant?" "hain't i, though?" interrupts zeb. "what d'ye call this?" he adds, pointing to his rifle. "thur's my warrant, by the grace o' god; an by thet same, this chile air a goin' to execute it. so no more o' yur durned palaver: for i ain't the sort to stan' it. take yur choice, mister cash calhoun. mount thet old maar o' mine, an kum along quickly; or try the toother dodge, an git toated like a packidge o' merchandice: for back yur boun' to go--i swar it by the eturnal!" calhoun makes no reply. he glances at stump--at gerald--despairingly around him; then stealthily towards a six-shooter, protruding from the breast-pocket of his coat--the counterpart of that shaken out of his hand, as the rope settled around him. he makes an effort to reach the pistol--feeble, because only half resolved. he is restrained by the lazo; perhaps more by a movement on the part of zeb; who, with a significant gesture, brings his long gun to the level. "quick!" exclaims the hunter. "mount, mister calhoun! thur's the maar awaitin' for ye. inter the seddle, i say!" like a puppet worked by the wires of the showman, the ex-captain of cavalry yields compliance with the commands of the backwoodsman. he does so, from a consciousness that there is death--certain death--in disobeying them. mechanically he mounts the mare; and, without resistance, suffers her to be led away from the spot. zeb, afoot, strides on in advance. the mare, at bridle-length, follows upon his tracks. the mustanger rides reflectingly behind; thinking less of him held at the end of his lazo, than of her, who by a generous self-sacrifice, has that day riveted around his heart a golden chain--only by death to be undone! chapter ninety nine. attempted murder and suicide. after its second involuntary recess--less prolonged than the first--the court has once more resumed its functions under the great evergreen oak. it is now evening; and the sunbeams, falling aslant, intrude upon the space canopied by the tree. from the golden brightness, displayed by them at noon, they have changed to a lurid red--as if there was anger in the sky! it is but an accident of the atmosphere--the portent of an approaching storm. for all this, it is remarked as singular, that a storm should be coming at the time: since it symbolises the sentiment of the spectators, who look on with sullenness in their hearts, and gloom in their glances. it would seem as if heaven's wrath was acting in concert with the passions of earth! maurice gerald is no longer the cynosure of those scowling eyes. he has been clamorously acquitted, and is henceforth only one of the witnesses. in the place late occupied by him another stands. cassius calhoun is now the prisoner at the bar! this is the only change observable. the judge is the same, the jury the same, and the spectators as before; though with very different feelings in regard to the criminality of the accused. his guilt is no longer the question that is being considered. it has been established beyond the shadow of a doubt. the evidence is already before them; and though entirely circumstantial--as in most cases of murder--the circumstances form a chain irresistibly conclusive and complete. there is but one missing link--if link it may be called--the _motive_. the motive both for the murder and the mutilation: for the testimony of gerald has been confirmed by a subsequent examination of the dead body. the surgeon of the cantonment has pronounced the two distinct, and that henry poindexter's death must have ensued, almost instantaneously after his receiving the shot. why should cassius calhoun have killed his own cousin? _why_ cut off his head? no one can answer these questions, save the murderer himself. no one expects him to do so--save to his maker. before him he must soon stand: for a knowledge of the motive is not deemed essential to his condemnation, and he has been condemned. the trial has come to a close; the verdict _guilty_ has been given; and the judge, laying aside his panama hat, is about to put on the black cap--that dread emblem of death--preparatory to pronouncing the sentence. in the usual solemn manner the condemned man is invited to make his final speech; to avail himself, as it were, of the last forlorn hope for sentence. he starts at the invitation--falling, as it does, like a death-knell upon his ear. he looks wildly around. despairingly: when on the faces that encircle him he sees not one wearing an expression of sympathy. there is not even pity. all appear to frown upon him. his confederates--those payed ruffians who have hitherto supported him-- are of no use now, and their sympathy of no consequence. they have shrunk out of sight--before the majesty of the law, and the damning evidence of his guilt. despite his social standing--and the wealth to sustain it--he sees himself alone; without friend or sympathiser: for so stands the assassin in texas! his demeanour is completely changed. in place of that high haughty air--oft exhibited in bold brutal bullyism--he looks cowed and craven. and not strange that he should. he feels that there is no chance of escape; that he is standing by the side of his coffin--on the edge of an eternity too terrible to contemplate. to a conscience like his, it cannot be otherwise than appalling. all at once a light is seen to flask into his eyes--sunken as they are in the midst of two livid circles. he has the air of one on the eve of making confession. is it to be an acknowledgment of guilt? is he about to unburden his conscience of the weight that must be on it? the spectators, guessing his intention, stand breathlessly observing him. there is silence even among the cicadas. it is broken by the formalised interrogatory of the judge? "_have you anything to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced upon you_?" "no!" he replies, "i have not. the jury has given a just verdict. i acknowledge that i have forfeited my life, and deserve to lose it." not during all the day--despite its many strange incidents and startling surprises--have the spectators been so astonished. they are confounded beyond the power of speech; and in silence permit the condemned man to proceed, with what they now perceive to be his confession. "it is quite true," continues he, "that i killed henry poindexter--shot him dead in the chapparal." the declaration is answered by a cry from the crowd. it is altogether involuntary, and expresses horror rather than indignation. alike involuntary is the groan that goes with it--proceeding from a single individual, whom all know to be the father of the murdered man-- once more in their midst. beyond these sounds, soon ceasing, there is nothing to hinder the confession from being continued. "i know that i've got to die," proceeds the prisoner, with an air of seeming recklessness. "you have decreed it; and i can tell by your looks you have no intention to change your minds. "after what i've confessed, it would be folly in me to expect pardon; and i don't. i've been a bad fellow; and no doubt have done enough to deserve my fate. but, bad as i may have been, i'm not vile enough to be sent out of the world, and leave behind me the horrid imputation of having _murdered_ my own cousin. i did take his life, as i've told you. you are all asking why, and conjecturing about the motive. there was none." a new "sensation" makes itself manifest among the spectators. it partakes of surprise, curiosity, and incredulity. no one speaks, or in any way attempts interruption. "you wonder at that. it's easily explained. _i killed him by mistake_!" the surprise culminates in a shout; suppressed as the speaker proceeds. "yes, by mistake; and god knows i was sorry enough, on discovering that i had made it. i didn't know myself till long after." the condemned man looks up, as if in hopes that he has touched a chord of mercy. there is no sign of it, on the faces that surround him--still solemnly austere. "i don't deny," continues he; "i needn't--that i intended to kill some one. i did. nor am i going to deny who it was. it was the cur i _see_ standing before me." in a glance of concentrated hatred, the speaker rests his eye upon gerald; who only answers with a look, so calm as almost to betray indifference. "yes. i intended to kill _him_. i had my reasons. i'm not going to say what they were. it's no use now. "i thought i _had_ killed him; but, as hell's luck would have it, the irish hound had changed cloaks with my cousin. "you know the rest. by mistake i fired the shot--meant for an enemy, and fatal to a friend. it was sure enough; and poor henry dropped from his horse. but to make more sure, i drew out my knife; and the cursed serape still deceiving me, i hacked off his head." the "sensation" again expresses itself in shuddering and shouts--the latter prolonged into cries of retribution--mingled with that murmuring which proclaims a story told. there is no more mystery, either about the murder or its motive; and the prisoner is spared further description of that fiendish deed, that left the dead body of henry poindexter without a head. "now!" cries he, as the shouting subsides, and the spectators stand glaring upon him, "you know all that's passed; but not what's to come. there's another scene yet. you see me standing on my grave; but i don't go into it, till i've sent _him_ to _his_. i don't, by god!" there is no need to guess at the meaning of this profane speech--the last of calhoun's life. its meaning is made clear by the act that accompanies it. while speaking he has kept his right hand under the left breast of his coat. along with the oath it comes forth, holding a revolver. the spectators have just time to see the pistol--as it glints under the slanting sunbeams--when two shots are heard in quick succession. with a like interval between, two men fall forward upon their faces; and lie with their heads closely contiguous! one is maurice gerald, the mustanger,--the other cassius calhoun, ex-captain of volunteer cavalry. the crowd closes around, believing both to be dead; while through the stillness that succeeds is heard a female voice, in those wild plaintive tones that tell of a heart nigh parting in twain! chapter one hundred. joy. joy! there was this under the evergreen oak, when it was discovered that only the suicide was a success, and the attempt at assassination a failure. there was this in the heart of louise poindexter, on learning that her lover still lived. though saddened by the series of tragedies so quickly transpiring, she was but human; and, being woman, who can blame her for giving way to the subdued happiness that succeeded? not i. not you, if you speak truly. the passion that controlled her may not be popular under a strictly puritan standard. still is it according to the dictates of nature-- universal and irresistible--telling us that father, mother, sister, and brother, are all to be forsaken for that love illimitable; on earth only exceeded--sometimes scarce equalled--by the love of self. do not reproach the young creole, because this passion was paramount in her soul. do not blame her for feeling pleasure amidst moments that should otherwise have been devoted to sadness. nor, that her happiness was heightened, on learning from the astonished spectators, how her lover's life had been preserved--as it might seem miraculously. the aim of the assassin had been true enough. he must have felt sure of it, before turning the muzzle towards his own temples, and firing the bullet that had lodged in his brain. right over the heart he had hit his intended victim, and through the heart would the leaden missile have made its way, but that a _gage d'amour_--the gift of her who alone could have secured it such a place--turned aside the shot, causing it to _ricochet_! not harmlessly, however: since it struck one of the spectators standing too close to the spot. not quite harmless, either, was it to him for whom it had been intended. the stunning shock--with the mental and corporeal excitement--long sustained--did not fail to produce its effect; and the mind of maurice gerald once more returned to its delirious dreaming. but no longer lay his body in danger--in the chapparal, surrounded by wolves, and shadowed by soaring vultures,--in a hut, where he was but ill attended--in a jail, where he was scarce cared for at all. when again restored to consciousness, it was to discover that the fair vision of his dreams was no vision at all, but a lovely woman--the loveliest on the leona, or in all texas if you like--by name louise poindexter. there was now no one to object to her nursing him; not even her own father. the spirit of the aristocratic planter--steeped in sorrow, and humiliated by misfortune--had become purged of its false pride; though it needed not this to make him willingly acquiesce in an alliance, which, instead of a "nobody," gave him a nobleman for his son. such, in reality, was sir maurice gerald--erst known as maurice the mustanger! in texas the title would have counted for little; nor did its owner care to carry it. but, by a bit of good fortune--not always attendant on an irish baronetcy--it carried along with it an endowment--ample enough to clear casa del corvo of the mortgage held by the late cassius calhoun, and claimed by his nearest of kin. this was not woodley poindexter: for after calhoun's death, it was discovered that the ex-captain had once been a benedict; and there was a young scion of his stock--living in new orleans--who had the legal right to say he was his son! it mattered not to maurice gerald; who, now clear of every entanglement, became the husband of the fair creole. after a visit to his native land--including the european tour--which was also that of his honeymoon--sir maurice, swayed by his inclinations, once more returned to texas, and made casa del corvo his permanent home. the "blue-eyed colleen" of castle ballagh must have been a myth--having existence only in the erratic fancy of phelim. or it may have been the bud of a young love, blighted ere it reached blooming--by absence, oft fatal to such tender plants of passion? whether or no, louise poindexter--lady gerald she must now be called-- during her sojourn in the emerald isle saw nothing to excite her to jealousy. only once again did this fell passion take possession of her spirit; and then only in the shape of a shadow soon to pass away. it was one day when her husband came home to the hacienda--bearing in his arms the body of a beautiful woman! not yet dead; though the blood streaming from a wound in her bared bosom showed she had not long to live. to the question, "who has done this?" she was only able to answer, "diaz--diaz!" it was the last utterance of isidora covarubio de los llanos! as the spirit of the unhappy _senorita_ passed into eternity, along with it went all rancour from that of her more fortunate rival. there can be no jealousy of the dead. that of lady gerald was at rest, and for ever. it was succeeded by a strong sympathy for the ill-fated isidora; whose story she now better comprehended. she even assisted her lord in the saddling of his red-bay steed, and encouraged him in the pursuit of the assassin. she joyed to see the latter led back at the end of a lazo--held in the hand of her husband; and refused to interfere, when a band of regulators, called hastily together, dealt out summary chastisement--by hanging him to a tree! it was not cruelty--only a crude kind of justice:--"an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth." and what a poor compensation it seemed, to those who had taken part in exacting it! as they stood gazing upon the remains of the villain, and his victim-- the swarth ruffian dangling from the branch above, and the fair form lying underneath--the hearts of the texans were touched--as perhaps they had never been before. there was a strange thought passing through their minds; a sadness independent of that caused by the spectacle of a murder. it was regret at having so hastily despatched the assassin! beautiful, even in death, was isidora. such features as she possessed, owe not everything to the light of life. that voluptuous shape--the true form divine--may be admired in the cold statue. men stood gazing upon her dead body--long gazing--loth to go away--at length going with thoughts not altogether sacred! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ in the physical world time is accounted the destroyer; though in the moral, it is oft the restorer. nowhere has it effected greater changes than in texas--during the last decade--and especially in the settlements of the nueces and leona. plantations have sprung up, where late the _chapparal_ thickly covered the earth; and cities stand, where the wild steed once roamed over a pathless prairie. there are new names for men, places, and things. for all this, there are those who could conduct you to an ancient hacienda--still known as casa del corvo. once there, you would become the recipient of a hospitality, unequalled in european lands. you would have for your host one of the handsomest men in texas; for your hostess one of its most beautiful women--both still this side of middle life. residing under their roof you would find an old gentleman, of aristocratic air and venerable aspect--withal chatty and cheerful--who would conduct you around the _corrales_, show you the stock, and never tire of talking about the hundreds--ay thousands--of horses and horned cattle, seen roaming over the pastures of the plantation. you would find this old gentleman very proud upon many points: but more especially of his beautiful daughter--the mistress of the mansion--and the half-dozen pretty prattlers who cling to his skirts, and call him their "dear grandpa." leaving him for a time, you would come in contact with two other individuals attached to the establishment. one is the _groom_ of the "stole,"--by name phelim o'neal--who has full charge of the horses. the other a coachman of sable skin, yclept pluto poindexter; who would scorn to look at a horse except when perched upon the "box," and after having the "ribbons" deftly delivered into his hands. since we last saw him, the gay pluto has become tamed down to a staid and sober benedict--black though he be. florinda--now the better half of his life--has effected the transformation. there is one other name known at casa del corvo, with which you cannot fail to become acquainted. you will hear it mentioned, almost every time you sit down to dinner: for you will be told that the turkey at the head of the table, or the venison at its opposite end, is the produce of a rifle that rarely misses its aim. during the course of the meal--but much more over the wine--you will hear talk of "zeb stump the hunter." you may not often see him. he will be gone from the hacienda, before you are out of your bed; and back only after you have retired. but the huge gobbler seen in the "smoke-house," and the haunch of venison hanging by its side, are evidence he has been there. while sojourning at casa del corvo, you may get hints of a strange story connected with the place--now almost reduced to a legend. the domestics will tell it you, but only in whispers: since they know that it is a theme _tabooed_ by the master and mistress of the mansion, in whom it excites sad souvenirs. it is the story of the headless horseman. a question of marriage, by mrs george de horne vaizey. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ a question of marriage, by mrs george de horne vaizey. chapter one. the ban. the grey london sunlight shone on the face of the patient as she sat facing the long window of the consulting-room, on the finely cut features, sensitive lips, and clear, dilated eyes. the doctor sat in the shadow, leaning back in his chair, tapping softly with his fingers upon the desk. "and you must not be afraid," he said, following a vigorous cross-questioning with his skilled advice. "that is the most important lesson which you have to learn. banish fear. live it down; if necessary, crowd it out. don't allow yourself time to think and grow morbid. i tell you frankly that the chances are quite good that you may entirely _escape_ this curse of your family, but you must understand that the power is in your own hands to increase or diminish those chances. anxiety, depression, loneliness--these will be your worst enemies. you say that you have sufficient means; that makes things easier all round. cultivate interests; cultivate friends. search for congenial occupation, and when you have found it--work! work hard; hard enough to make rest grateful when the day is over, and sleep sound--_not_ hard enough to feel worn out. avoid fatigue as carefully as you would idleness. take a good holiday twice a year, and as many little breaks as possible. be a hard task-mistress of your mind, but of your body a careful, even an indulgent, guardian. the two continually act and react on each other. a diseased mind imagines illness where there is none; a diseased body taints and demoralises the mind. look after both. you must allow yourself to be somewhat self-indulgent as regards health. there will be other matters which will demand all your courage and self-denial..." the girl did not speak, but her eyelashes flickered nervously over her dilated eyes. the doctor looked down at the tips of those tapping fingers. "marriage," he said slowly--"marriage is not for you. it is better that you should face that fact at once. such a family history as the one you have just related is a standing evidence of selfishness and cruelty. your parents, your grandparents, outraged a great moral law, and you and others are here to pay the price. you must not follow their example. this handing on of disease must come to an end. you may think that in the case of your possible marriage there might not be children; i will not discuss that point to-day--it is not needful. you are my patient, and you yourself would run a more serious risk of developing the malady as a wife. even the happiest of married lives has responsibilities, anxieties, physical and mental strains, which might easily prove too much for your mental balance. it would not be fair to a man to bring that dread into his life. marriage for you would be a cruel and cowardly act. for the man's sake, for your own sake, you must put the idea out of your life." there was a moment's silence in the room, then the girl spoke in a low, faint voice: "thank you!" she said softly. with a hand that moved in mechanical fashion she took a little paper packet from her muff, laid it down on the corner of the desk, and rose to her feet. "one moment!" cried the doctor hastily. in that room, seated in that chair, it had been his lot to speak many sentences of death, but he had not yet hardened himself to maim a life unmoved. having dealt his blow, he was anxious to speak a word of comfort to the girl who had said "thank you," in that quiet voice. his keen, hawk-like face wrinkled into a network of lines as he looked at her across the room. "one moment! what i have said may appear hard; but before you allow yourself to grieve at a possible sorrow, look around at the women whom you know--married and unmarried--compare their lives, make what you can out of the contrast. there is a large, an increasing number of unmarried women who consider that their own is the fuller and easier lot; they refuse to give up their liberty to become what is called the `slave of a household.' there are some unlovely features connected with their cult; but remember there is always a modicum of truth behind such axioms. a married woman, if she is worth her salt, lives not for herself, but for her household. if she has wider possibilities of joy, she has also infinitely greater possibilities of pain. even putting the husband apart--and he as a rule comes first of all--if she has ten children, she must needs suffer with each of the ten. give her every ease and luxury in the world, and if one of the brood is in trouble, the poor soul must go down to the depths by his side. to be a wife and mother is the hardest profession in the world; some people also consider it the worst repaid. don't allow yourself to be blinded by sentiment concerning the married life. remember its drawbacks; exaggerate them if you will. your best medicine is content; to secure that, cultivate, if needs be, a little intentional blindness. never allow yourself to believe that your happiness is necessarily sacrificed!" "thank you," repeated the girl once more. it was the great man's duty to exhort, and preach cheerfulness and resignation, but to-day his trained physiological eye gave the lie to his words. this was not a woman whom nature had framed to live alone. hers was a tender and appealing grace; long sweeping lashes lent a veiled softness to her eyes; her lips were red and curved; her figure, though slim, was gracefully rounded; an atmosphere of feminine charm enveloped her whole personality. men would love her, children would love her; but she must turn from them and live alone. the doctor's thoughts over-leapt professional bounds, and took an intimate, personal tone. "you say you are a comparative stranger in town," he said abruptly. "you ought to have friends--plenty of friends. my wife is at home every sunday afternoon. will you come to see us sometimes, and let us do what we can to help your life?" "thank you," said the girl for the third time. after a moment's hesitation she added quickly, "you are very good. i should like to come." "that's well. come soon. we shall expect you next sunday, or the one following. good afternoon." the door opened and shut, and the girl found herself once more in the big, grim entrance hall. a table of carved oak strewed with cards and letters occupied the centre position; plaster busts of well-known scientific men stood on brackets to right and left, a glass case containing stuffed birds and fish testified to the doctor's holiday recreation. at the girl's approach the butler rose from a bench near the door, his expression unconsciously sobering, to match her own. all day long he ushered patients into that dull back room, and escorted them to the door after the all-important interview; he had grown skilful in divining the nature of the verdict which each one had received. occasionally a friend or a relation of the patient came out from that room in tears, but the patient himself rarely wept. he walked with mechanical steps; he stared before him with blank, unseeing eyes, as this young lady stared to-day. she was young, too, good-looking, nicely dressed; the butler was moved to a sigh of regret as he flung open the heavy oak door. the girl who was never to marry walked out into the glare of the streets, and turned mechanically towards the west. chapter two. facing the music. jean goring sat in her boudoir, awaiting the return of her friend and guest, sunblinds were drawn over the windows, the chairs and sofas were covered with linen, the cushions with dainty muslins; the carpet was a stretch of dull, moss-like green; the only bright notes of colour in the room were to be found in the masses of freshly cut roses which adorned the various tables, and in that most radiant flower of all, jean goring's face. the laces of the white peignoir, the muslin of the frilled cushion showed out in almost startling beauty the dark mist of hair; the exquisitely flushed cheeks, dark brows, and curling lashes gave a deepened shade to the violet blue of the eyes. the rich brunette colouring had a somewhat un-english aspect, yet there was not a drop of foreign blood in the girl's veins--she was irish "all through, except my mother, who was scotch," as she herself was accustomed to describe her lineage. the contour of her face was oval, the profile showed the delicate fineness of a cameo. happy jean! her beauty was no light gift to pass away with her loss of youth; beautiful she was now, beautiful she must always remain. age, sorrow, suffering might do their worst; those who looked on would ever find her the perfection of her type. if she lived to be eighty she would be as essentially an artist's model as she was now at twenty-two. the clock struck four. jean put down her book and raised her head from the cushion to listen to the sound of an approaching footstep. the door opened, and she beheld vanna strangeways' white, strained face. the horrid doctor had given a depressing verdict. so much was evident at a glance; but jean had too much tact to allow her knowledge to betray itself at this moment. "well, my dearie, back again! i was longing for you. sit down in that nice low chair, and let me be lady's-maid. the streets must be a grill this afternoon, but you'll soon cool down up here. there; you'll feel better without that hat. your hair looks charming--don't worry. it couldn't look untidy if it tried. now your gloves. i shall peel them right off. it will be occupation for an idle hour to turn out the fingers. if i were a queen i'd never, never wear gloves a second time. now those dusty little shoes. your slippers are here all ready. sit still. i'm _going_ to undo them. i love to do it." her white, ringed fingers untied the laces, and pulled off one shoe after another so deftly and daintily that they hardly seemed to touch the surface. then, bending still lower, she gave a deft little pull to the tip of each stocking, thereby altering its position, and giving a wonderful sense of comfort to the tired feet, vanna strangeways had sat silent and unresponsive till that moment, but something in the simple thoughtfulness of that last action melted the ice. she laid her hands on her friend's shoulders and spoke in a quivering voice: "jean, i've had a blow." "yes, dear," said jean softly. she knelt by vanna's side, caressing her face with her lovely eyes. "i saw. would you rather tell me now, or wait till later on? you are tired, you know, and after a rest, and some tea. later on--" "jean, it's not what you expected--what i expected myself. i'm not going to die; i'm going to live. he thinks there is a good chance that i shall escape the curse. he wants me to lead a full, active life--the fuller the better. but--there is one thing forbidden. i may never marry!" jean's lips quivered, but she said never a word. it seemed to her there was nothing to say. few girls of the early seventies knew any desire for independent careers; and to jean to love and to be loved seemed the stun and substance of life. she would marry, and her dear vanna would marry also. of course! they would be loved and won, whispering happy confidences into the other's ear; they would bring up their children side by side, with motherly comparisons, consultations, planning for the future; they would grow old, and boast concerning their grandchildren. to be told that one could never marry seemed to jean the crash of all things. she had no consolation to offer. vanna laughed feebly; a dreary-sounding little laugh. "i don't understand why i feel so quelled," she said musingly. "marriage has never entered definitely into my calculations. i have been content with the present, and have felt no need of it; but i suppose it lay all the time in the background of my mind, firmly settled, as a thing that was to be. i took for granted that i should enjoy my youth; fly about here and there as the mood took me, enjoying my liberty to the full, and then, when i'd had my fling, about twenty-six or seven, perhaps, marry some dear man and settle down to real, serious living. now i can't, and something has gone out of me and left a big gap. i feel like a surgeon who has lost his right arm. it's my profession that has gone--my work in life. i shall have to begin again." jean trembled, and drew nearer, leaning caressingly against her friend's knee. "is he _sure_, dear? why is he sure? is there no chance?" "no! he was not thinking of children. for my own sake it would be dangerous. i should have a worse chance. he said it would be a sin to put such a dread into a man's life. that finishes it, you see, jean! the more one loved the less it would be possible." "yes," breathed jean softly. her woman's heart realised at once the finality of that argument; she saw the shutters descend over her friend's life, and knew too deep a sorrow for words. the pressure of her hands, the quiver of her lips, were the most eloquent signs of fellow feeling. vanna went on speaking in quiet, level tones: "i was in the house only half an hour, but when i came out the whole world seemed changed... the people who passed me in the streets, the ordinary little groups that one sees every day, all launched a dart as they passed. a husband and wife strolling along together--not young and romantic at all, just prosaic and middle-aged, and--_content_. they were not any happier than i, perhaps, but they had had their time--they had lived. they had not that restless, craving expression which one sees on so many faces. they were content... it hurt to see them, and a big schoolboy, too, walking with his mother. i'm not fond of boys, and etons are the ugliest of clothes. he was a lanky, freckled, graceless thing; but--i wanted him! i wanted to be able to say, `_my son_'... one always loves the tots in the park--little white bundles with curly heads; but to-day i envied the nursemaids. i wanted to be tired, wheeling my bundle. i tried not to look at the people. i stared into the shop windows instead; but they hurt too. you know my craze for furniture? i've whiled away many hours mentally furnishing my home of the future. i had decided the colour for each room, and the scheme of decoration. when anything worried me in another house, i consoled myself that it would be different in mine; when i admired a thing, i made a mental note. jean, i shall have _no_ home! a boarding-house, an apartment, perhaps a solitary cottage in the wilds, never, never a real warm home with some one to love, and to love me back... how should you feel if it were you; if any one had put a blank wall before _your_ life?" "as you do, dear--dazed and broken; worse, perhaps, for i should not take it so calmly. i should storm and rage." "yes! you are _revoltee_. it doesn't help, jean, or i would shriek with the best. there is only one thing which rouses my wrath--i ought to have known before. aunt mary thought it was kind to bring me up in ignorance. when i asked questions about my relations she put me off with generalities. i thought it was strange that so many of them had been invalids... i never could understand why i had not seen father for years before his death. when i was a child i took for granted that he had been abroad; later, i scented a mystery and was afraid to ask. i suffered tortures, jean, puzzling over it at nights, trying to piece together scattered bits of information. i had terrible thoughts--the blackest thoughts. i had visions of him as a forger, shut up in a cell. when the bell rang late at night i used to tremble, wondering if it were he escaped from prison, coming to us for shelter... then at the end, as so often happens, it came out just by chance. some people were sitting behind a screen at a reception, and they spoke of me--just a few words, and before i could move i had heard the great secret. `interesting-looking girl! it is to be hoped she won't go mad, too. so many of that family--' it was like a flashlight over the past. i looked back, and understood. all the bits fitted, and the mystery was solved. i was not the daughter of a criminal--only of a maniac, who had been shut up for five years before his death. that was my grandmother's mysterious illness, and aunt bertha's too--pretty aunt bertha, who disappeared for a year at a time, for a `cure,' and came back looking so worn and sad. that was the explanation of my boy cousin's violent temper, and of the misery of his father and mother after each explosion. and i, arrogant young schoolgirl, used to criticise their weakness, and expatiate on the firmness with which i should bring up my own children, and aunt mary would look at me so wistfully over the top of her spectacles. heigho! well, then i _knew_, and after that i could not rest. i grew nervous about myself; i got into the habit of watching myself, as it were--waiting for danger-signals, for symptoms. i had sense enough left to know that that was the best way to develop all that i dreaded, and this last year i have been waiting for a chance to consult a specialist and thrash out the question, i could not leave aunt mary while she was so ill; after her death there was so much to be arranged; now at last i've had my interview, and this is the result, jean, is it strange? i never once thought of this verdict. it seemed the right and the wise thing to take skilled advice, but what i expected was to be soothed and reassured. aunt mary always laid such emphasis on the fact that i was my mother's child. it delighted her so, poor soul, to see my quiet, level-headed ways. whenever i had been particularly controlled and sensible, she would repeat, `yes, yes! you are a thorough neale; there is not one scrap of strangeways in you.' i expected dr greatman to realise as much, and assure me that i had nothing to fear; that i was not the type; that some fortunate members of the family always escaped. i thought he would perhaps lay down certain rules, restrictions, cautions against over-excitement. never, never for one moment did i expect this." jean was silent. she had feared. ever since receiving her friend's confidence, her thoughts had hovered round this one absorbing question. would vanna be justified in marrying? now the greatest living authority had answered strongly in the negative, and there was no escaping his decree. she looked ahead, seeing her friend throughout the years, a charming girl, a more charming woman; later on losing her freshness and grace, and becoming faded and tired; later again, becoming old and infirm, the senses failing--and always alone, for ever alone. the slow tears welled to her eyes, a drop brimmed over and fell on her friend's hand. vanna brushed it away with impatient fingers, straightened her back, and flung back her head. "oh, don't cry--don't cry over me, jean. we are poor things, we women, if we can't face the prospect of making our own lives. put a man into my place. would he pine? you know very well he would do nothing of the kind. a man never wants to marry until he meets the right woman, and even then he struggles before he succumbs. when he once loves it is different--he is all fire and impatience, but until that hour arrives he enjoys his liberty, pities the poor fellows who are handicapped with a wife and family, and privately determines to keep clear. here am i-- twenty-three, comfortably off, strong, intelligent, fancy-free. why can't i take a leaf out of his book and be content and happy? why need i consider myself a martyr because i must live alone, rather than as the wife of some man unknown, who perhaps in even the ordinary course of events might have persistently evaded my path, or had the bad taste to prefer another woman when he _was_ found? it is not as if i were already in love." jean drew her brows together in wistful inquiry. the doubt in her mind was so transparently expressed that vanna referred to it as to a spoken question. "i know what you are thinking. edward verney! you think my regrets hover round him. it's not true, jean, it's not true. i had forgotten his very existence until i saw your face. if i had cared, surely my thoughts would have flown to him first of all. he is only a `might-have-been.' i had reached the length of noticing the way his hair grows on his forehead, and his nice, close ears--that was a danger-signal, i suppose; and i acknowledge that i have dressed with an eye to his taste, but it has gone no deeper. i shall be sorry, but it won't _hurt_ to end our friendship." "then why need you--" "oh!" vanna laughed lightly. "i think he admires my--ears also! if we saw more of each other we should grow nearer; i realise that, therefore we must separate with all speed. as things are, he won't suffer any more than i. he is just a dear, simple, unimaginative englishman, who needs to have things pushed very conspicuously before his eyes before he can see them. he knows that i have gone away for a long change after the strain of aunt mary's illness. it will be some months before it dawns upon him that my holiday is exceeding its limit; and by that time my image will have lost its freshness. he will be sorry, but he won't attempt to follow. he'll say to his friends, `pity miss strangeways has left the place. she was a jolly girl.' but if all had been well, i might have been his wife--" there was silence for several minutes. each girl was thinking deeply of the future; pondering over the difficulty of mapping out a life which seemed to have no settled direction, vanna had many gifts, but no one outstanding talent. until this moment she had never dreamt of taking up any work outside the domestic circle; but it would be impossible to fritter away life in the care of self alone. what could she do? she herself had announced her decision of leaving her native town. where could she live? after puzzling the problem in a circle for several minutes, jean ventured another timid question. "have you thought, dear; have you any idea what you will do?" "i have thought. yes! i know i must leave coverley, but that is as far as i can get. i must wait until i have calmed down and can think it out quietly. but i should like to be near you, jean. you are the person i care for most on earth, and failing a personal romance i must take you for my lifelong love. you won't want me always. when you are happy you will be independent of my services; but you can't always be happy. there must come times when you are ill, or anxious, or miserable, when i shall have my chance. you will need a woman then. when the babies are teething; when the boiler bursts on christmas eve, and the cook leaves at an hour's notice; when you want to make jam, or re-cover the furniture, or to leave everything behind, and go off honeymooning with your husband, `send for vanna' must be a household word. i shall be your `affliction female,' always ready to be called in in an emergency. fancy _me_ an `affliction female.'" "a consolation female!" corrected jean softly, and vanna looked at her with a lightening eye. "that's better. thank you, jean. well, that will be one object in life--to help you, when you need help. you will marry, of course. it is impossible to think that any man could refuse to love you if you wished it, and the time will come when you _will_ wish. it will be a tremendous interest to know your home, and your husband, and children. dr greatman told me that i was to compare my life as a spinster with the life of married women... i'll compare it with yours. there will be moments when i shall be gnawed with envy, but perhaps, who knows? there may be times when you may envy me in return. at any rate, you'll be sweet to me, dear--i know that; and you must let me help you to entertain the dull bores, and keep the charming eligibles out of my way. i don't want to be driven away by a second edward verney. it's a mercy i am only `interesting,' and not a beauty, like you." "yes, it is," sighed jean, in unthinking agreement. vanna's lips twitched, her eyes flashed a humorous glance at her own reflection in the glass at the opposite end of the room. chapter three. the rose waits. the evening after her interview with the doctor, vanna strangeways accompanied her friend to a ball, and had her first experience of society under the altered mental conditions of her life. her first impulse had been to excuse herself and stay at home, but she was an unusually reasoning creature for her twenty-three years, and a short mental cross-examination was sufficient to reject the idea, "can i go to her and say, `jean, i am sorry; it is impossible that i can marry any of the men at the ball, so i would rather not go'? what nonsense, what folly, what degradation!" she put on her prettiest frock, spent an extra ten minutes over her hair; and even beside the radiant beauty of jean in her pale pink tarlatan, attracted notice as one of the most interesting and distinguished of the dancers. the floor was good, the music inspiriting, her programme was filled from beginning to end. she tried bravely to enjoy the evening in her old, unthinking fashion, and was furious with herself because she failed. there was no use denying the fact: something had disappeared which had been there before, the absence of which strangely transformed the scene--an interest, a zest, a sense of mystery and uncertainty. they had lain so far in the background that she had not realised their presence, but they had been present all the same. each strange man to whom she had been introduced held within his black-coated form a dazzling possibility; her young eyes searched his face even as his searched hers--alert, critical, inquiring; for the moment each represented to the other the mystery, the fascination of sex. after the dance, as they sat talking lightly in some cool shade the inner voice in each brain was holding a council of its own: "who, and what are you, inside that smiling form; what sort of a man, what sort of a woman? do you, can you, by any possible chance, belong to _me_?" the modern young man and maiden may indignantly deny that such a feeling, conscious or unconscious, has any bearing on their social joys. vanna belonged to an age far more frankly sentimental than to-day, but she also protested, and felt humiliated when convicted against her will. yet what shame can there be in the acknowledgment of a natural magnetic force? empty a ballroom of all except relations within the prescribed calendar, set a man to dance with his sisters and aunts, a girl with her brothers and uncles--would any one of the number dare to maintain that enjoyment continued in the same ratio? vanna was fond of dancing, but not to the same extent as jean, who often declared that she would waltz with a clothes-prop sooner than not waltz at all. with vanna the enjoyment of movement was always subservient to the mental pleasure of meeting and talking to new partners. she preferred a good conversationalist to a good waltzer, but this evening the ordinary topics of the ballroom seemed painfully lacking in savour; she could feel in them no interest, no merriment, no curiosity; her partner's words seemed to float past, a dull, wearisome echo that had no meaning in her ears. she was as one who had returned home after long wandering in a foreign land, to find herself helplessly out of her element. she looked at the gay stream of dancers as across a gulf. two days ago she had been one of themselves, as carelessly happy, as confidently gay; now, after the passage of a few short hours, she stood apart, conscious through all her nature that she had outgrown a stage; had passed on, and left her friends behind. vanna's partners were at a loss to understand her dullness and lack of response, for she had the reputation of wit and charm. failing in their efforts to excite her interest, they shortened the time of waiting between the dances, by leading her back to the ballroom, and hastening off in search of a livelier companion. she saw through their devices, and smiled to herself with dreary amusement. "this is no place for you, my dear. you must give up these frivolities. you have to fill a gap and discover a solace. you'll never find it in a ballroom." at twelve o'clock supper was in full swing in the big dining-room of the house. in the seventies, hosts had not acquired the present-day convenient, if less hospitable habit of entertaining their friends in a hotel. they contentedly suffered days of discomfort, and turned out every room in the house to gain the desired effect. in the present case the floors of the two great drawing-rooms, which ran the entire length of the house, were covered with a white waxed cloth, while the walls, with their treasures of water-colours, miniatures in cases, and old brass sconces, made a picturesque background to the scene. leading out of the second drawing-room was a spacious conservatory, in which seats were placed, on which the guests could rest in comparative coolness and quiet between the dances, while the conservatory itself gave access to a balcony hung with coloured lanterns. vanna sat beside the door of the first dancing-room, and saw with a sigh of relief that the hands of a clock near at hand pointed to half-past twelve o'clock. only half an hour more and the evening would be over, for jean, with her usual tact, had suggested an early return, and at one o'clock the two friends had agreed to meet and make their adieux together. thank heaven for that! but the half-hour that remained promised to be unusually long, for, mindful of her early departure, vanna had refused to fill her programme beyond a certain point, and now supper arrangements had upset the sequence of dances, substituting for the printed items a number of extras, for which she had made no engagements. she had all a normal girl's hatred of the part of wallflower, and was contemplating a retreat upstairs, when the daughter of the house suddenly approached and addressed her by name: "miss strangeways, is it possible that you have a dance to spare? i have a truant here who has just made his appearance, and expects me to find partners at this hour of the night. he doesn't deserve any mercy, but if you could take pity upon him, it would be very noble." vanna looked past the speaker and beheld a tall, spare man, with a sunburnt face, out of which a pair of brown eyes smiled at her with the frankness of a lifelong friend, rather than a complete stranger. it was impossible not to smile back, and it was with a reviving thrill of interest that she held out her programme, saying laughingly: "my partners for the regular dances are busy eating boned turkey, while i am left lamenting. i am not engaged for the extras." "ah! that is fortunate! let me introduce you, then, in due form. mr gloucester--miss strangeways... you are a lucky man, rob, to find miss strangeways disengaged." she rustled away, and the tall man seated himself by vanna's side with a sigh of content. he did not ask for dances, however, and it was she who made the first move towards conversation. "have you really just arrived, or is that merely a figure of speech? you have not been dancing at all?" he shook his head. "i have not been in the room five minutes. i am an even worse offender than you suppose, for i am staying in the house. i did not intend to come down at all. i was going to bed, but there was such a confounded noise going on that there seemed no chance of sleep--" for the first time that evening vanna found herself surprised into a bright, natural laugh. the man's utter unconsciousness redeemed his remark from any hint of rudeness; and she felt nothing but pure refreshment in so unusual a point of view. she leant back in her chair, looking at him over the top of a waving fan, with a scrutiny as frankly unembarrassed as his own. the deep tan of his skin spoke of a sojourn under eastern skies, as did also the lines round the eyes--the result of constant puckerings to avoid the sun's glare. his hair was brushed in a straight line across his forehead, the chin itself was slightly square, but the line of the jaw was finely, even delicately rounded; he was clean shaven, and his mouth was good to look at, the lips well shaped, and fitting closely together. his age might have been anything from thirty to thirty-five, but there was something inherently boyish in manner and expression. "you evidently don't care for dancing." "no! i'm out of practice. i have been abroad for the last ten years, in out-of-the-way places for the most part, where balls don't come into the programme. i'm afraid i'm not much of a partner, but if you will be good enough to try--" "but i am not anxious to dance any more. i am tired and hot. if you are contented to talk--" "you mean it? really? that _is_ jolly!" he cried eagerly. "then, what do you say--shall we go to the balcony? it's quieter there, and we may get a breath of air. there are some comfortable chairs, i know, for i helped to arrange them." vanna rose, nothing loath. the evening was closing more pleasantly than she had anticipated, for this mr gloucester was a distinct change from the ordinary habitue of the ballroom, and his conversation promised to afford some interest. she seated herself in a corner of the balcony and put a leading question: "you say you have lived abroad. where does that mean? india?" "india mostly; but i have done a lot of wandering about." "are you by any chance a soldier?" "thank heaven, no!" she was both startled and amused by the vehemence of his denial, and looked at him curiously with her wide, grey eyes. "why this fervour? most men would consider it a compliment to be asked such a question. do you despise soldiers so heartily?" "no, i don't. as the times go, they are a necessary evil, and there are fine fellows among them--splendid fellows, one ought to be grateful to them for their self-sacrifice; but for my own part i'm unspeakably thankful to have escaped. think of spending all one's life preparing for, playing at, a need which may never arise--which one _hopes_ may never arise. i couldn't endure it. give me active service the whole time--the more active the better." "service in what capacity? as a--" "oh, i have no profession. i am just an ordinary business man--buying and selling, and watching the markets, like the rest." "humph!" vanna pursed her lips with a militant air. "i think a very good case might be made for the soldier _versus_ the merchant. he works, or waits, for the good of his country. there is precious little to be made out of it from a personal point of view. a merchant's aim is entirely selfish. he is absorbed in piling up his own fortune." mr gloucester laughed. "oh, you are too down on the poor merchants, miss strangeways. they have their own share in helping on the country, and it's not every man who can get a fortune to pile. i can't, for one. the faculty of gaining money is as inherent as the writing of poetry. some fellows like myself can never attain to it." he held out his right hand, pointing smilingly at the hollow palm. "look at that. palmists would tell you that with that hand i shall never `hold money.' the day may come when i should be thankful to exchange my fortune for the soldier's shilling a day." vanna did not reply. she was looking at that hollowed palm with puckered, thoughtful glance. "palmist!" she repeated slowly, "fortune-telling! it's not often one hears a man quoting such an authority; but you have lived in the east. i suppose that unconsciously alters the point of view. india is the land of--what should one call it?--superstition, mysticism, the occult. it is a subject which fascinates me intensely. i know very little about it; i'm not at all sure that it is good to know more; but--it beckons. tell me, have you seen anything, had any extraordinary experiences? are the stories true, for instance, that one hears of these native jugglers?" "snake-charming, you mean, the boy in the basket, the mango trick? oh, yes. i've seen them often, on the deck of a ship, as well as on the open plain. people say it is hypnotism, that the fellow doesn't really do it, only makes you _think_ he does; but that's rubbish. it's sleight-of-hand, uncommonly clever, of course, but pure and simple conjuring. the mango is chosen because he can get dried-up specimens, several specimens, of different sizes, to which he attaches false roots, and it is a plant which will quickly expand beneath the water with which he deluges the ground. all that sort of tricks can be explained, but there are other things more mysterious: the transmission of news from station to station, so that it is known in the bazaars before the post can bring the letters, the power of reading others' minds, of seeing into the future." "but you don't believe, you can't seriously believe that that is possible?" robert gloucester bent forward, his elbows crossed on his knees, his brown, extraordinarily clear eyes fixed on her face. "why not? how shall one dare to put a limit to what is possible even in material things? look at this new electricity, for instance. one cannot imagine all that it may mean in improved facilities for the world. its power seems immense--illimitable. if we live to grow old, miss strangeways, we shall see things as everyday occurrences which would seem fairy-tale impossibilities to-day. the most conservative man would hardly deny that; then why should he be presumptuous enough to suppose that in the spiritual plane we have reached the limits of our powers? it is unthinkable. there are forces--binding forces, electric forces--hidden away in the most commonplace human soul, only awaiting development, powers which may revolutionise our lives, even as this new electricity will revolutionise the world." vanna stared out into the night with rapt, unseeing eyes. life, which a few minutes ago had seemed so dreary in the flat barrenness of outlook, became suddenly illumined with interest. she felt the stirrings within of new life, new powers, and reached out eagerly to meet them. "you have had experiences yourself--_personal_ experiences--which prove to you the existence of such powers. can you tell me about them? i don't ask out of curiosity alone; but if it is too sacred, too private, i shall quite understand." he smiled at her with an utter absence of embarrassment. "oh, there is nothing private. my convictions are not founded on any definite occurrence; but as it happens, i _have_ had one experience which defies explanation. not in india, but by all that is _mal a propos_ and out of place, in the most modern and material of cities--new york. i'll tell it to you with pleasure. it's an uncommonly good tale, and it has the merit of being first-hand, and capable of proof. it came about like this. a man asked me to dine in a private room at a hotel with two or three other men, bachelors--mutual friends. while we were sitting over dessert, he said, `i've got a little excitement for you fellows this evening. i've engaged a conjurer--thought-reading sort of fellow, to come in and give you an exhibition. he's quite the most uncanny thing in that line that i've ever met. i never believed in second-sight before, but it makes one think. he'll give you a new sensation; i can promise you that.' "well, he came about half an hour after that. an ordinary-looking fellow--a white man; nothing in the least unusual about him except his eyes--light, colourless-looking eyes, extraordinarily wide and clear-- eyes that gave one an uncanny sort of thrill when they were fixed upon you. you felt that those eyes could see a lot more than would ever fall to your own vision. well, he told us to sit against the wall at the far end of the room, and each to write something as personal as possible on slips of paper, which were afterwards to be shuffled and handed round. while we were writing he would leave the room. when we had finished, we were to ring a bell and he would return. we ranged our chairs as he said. there were no windows on that side, only the bare papered wall. i couldn't think what to write. it puzzles one when one is suddenly told to do a thing like that. eventually i put my mother's maiden name, `mary winifred fielding,' and the date of her marriage, . the fellow next me showed me his slip, `i don't believe in any of this trickery.' we chuckled together while i read it. we folded up the papers, put them in a bowl, and drew out the first that came. then we rang the bell, and the fellow came back. he first shut the door and leant back against it. there were a good eight or ten yards between him and the end of the room where we sat. he looked across at me, and we all laughed together. "`the words written on the paper in your hand are: "burmah! to the memory of a good old time!" you did not write it yourself--you have never been in burmah; it was the gentleman to your left who wrote it-- the gentleman with the grey hair. am i not right, sir?' "`you are,' said my friend, gasping. we did not laugh any more. he pointed to another fellow, and read out what i had written. "`that was written by the gentleman with the brown eyes. it is his mother's name,' he said; and i felt cold all down my spine. the man who had showed me his paper had drawn his own slip when they were shuffled together in the bowl. the conjurer knew that too. he pointed at him and said: `you have written your own opinion of me in the paper you hold. "_i don't believe in any of this trickery_."' he paused for a moment, and then said quietly: `you are prejudiced, sir; but you will learn wisdom. a year from to-day you will understand my secrets.' he drew himself up, and his eyes flashed; he turned to us, each in turn, and said a few, short, prophetic words. there was a poor barrister among us, a clever fellow, but he had no luck; he was in a very tight place at that time. he said to him: `on the nd of february, , you will put your foot on the first step of the ladder which leads to fortune.' that was five years later on. the poor fellow smiled and said: `can't you hurry it on a bit?' the man who was dining us came next. he didn't like his share. it sounded cryptic enough to the rest of us, but _he_ understood. you could see that by his face. my own message--" he stopped short, laughing softly, but with an utter absence of embarrassment, and vanna's eager glance bespoke her curiosity. "my own message was equally cryptic, but i did _not_ understand. i don't understand it now. i have not been too fortunate in money matters, and it refers to that, no doubt. he said: `you will seek fortune, and find it not. where the rose blooms beneath the palm, there awaits your treasure.'" "`where the rose blooms beneath the palm!'" vanna repeated the words in a breathless whisper. "but how thrilling--how exciting! what could he mean? aren't you anxious; aren't you curious? don't you go about daily waiting to see what will happen?" mr gloucester laughed with boyish abandon. "rather not! it is a good eight years ago, and it has less chance of being fulfilled at this moment than it has ever had before, for i have said goodbye to the land of palms. i should never think of it again but for the fact,"--his face sobered swiftly--"that two out of those five prophecies did, as a matter of fact, come true. three out of the six men who were there that evening i have never seen again. i can't tell you what happened in their cases, but by the most absolute chance i ran up against the barrister fellow two years ago. we talked about our last meeting, and he said: "`you remember what that fellow said to me? it came true to the very hour. i had to speak in my first good brief that morning. i made a hit, carried the case, got a heap of kudos, and have never looked back from that hour.' the second man was the one who had said he did not believe in such trickery. he--" "yes?" "he died. within a year from our meeting." vanna shivered, and drew her scarf more closely round her shoulders. there was silence for several minutes, while the beating of invisible wings seemed to throb in the air around. her thoughts strayed away on a long, rambling excursion, from which a sudden crash of music from the band awoke her with a shock of remembrance. "you look quite scared. i hope i haven't depressed you with my reminiscences. it was an uncanny experience, but you said you were interested." "and i am. immensely. thank you so much for telling me. i only hope your fulfilment, when it comes, may be as satisfactory as your barrister friend's. are you sorry to leave india and settle at home? most men seem to find it difficult to get back into the old ways." mr gloucester shrugged carelessly. "oh, i don't mind. it doesn't trouble me. one does one's work; one is tired; one rests. what does it matter what country one does it in? they both have their points. i can be happy in either." a glance at his face proved the truth of his words. his was one of the unexacting, sweet-tempered natures, which was content to take life as it was; enjoying each good which came, and troubling nothing for sorrows ahead. "if he were in my place he would not be sad! his life has not gone too smoothly; he has not found success, but he is content. i must learn his lesson," vanna told herself mentally. "go on talking!" she said dreamily. "do you mind? tell me about things that have happened. i have lived all my life in a little english hamlet, and it's so good to hear. i could listen for hours." he gave her a bright, pleased look, and without question or protest went on talking easily and pleasantly about indian customs, peculiarities, and rites. he had lived in the great cities and in the wilds; had worked and played, hunted elephants and climbed himalayan peaks; had come through hair-breadth dangers, had drunk bass's beer on a steaming plain, and, as he himself expressed it, "come out smiling every time." "i'm as strong as a horse," he added. "a fellow has no right to grumble when he doesn't know the meaning of pain." "i should not think you ever grumbled," replied vanna, smiling. the next moment she started as the chime of a distant clock struck on her ear. "what time was that? the half-hour, wasn't it--half-past one? have we been here nearly an hour? it seems impossible. it is a great compliment to your powers of conversation, mr gloucester, for before we met i was feeling terribly tired and bored; but i am afraid i must run away now. i arranged to leave at one o'clock, and i must be already in disgrace." "i'm awfully grateful to you for having listened to me so kindly. i hope we shall meet again, and continue the conversation. i am staying with these people for a few weeks. they are old family friends. it's the nearest approach to a home i have left." "thank you. i hope we may meet. i am only a guest in town like yourself, but i am making a longish stay." vanna led the way through the conservatory, walking with somewhat rapid footsteps, her eyes looking forward through the door leading into the ballroom. she had reached the centre of the floor when she was arrested by the sound of a laugh, and a light, flute-like voice breaking across the crash and clatter of the band. "well!" cried the voice. "have you come at last? i am waiting for you. how long must i wait?" vanna wheeled round. beneath the shade of a great palm tree, whose leaves swept the glass roof, stood jean in her rose draperies, a wreath of roses crowning her dark head. "i am waiting!" she said once more, and her eyes, passing by vanna, rested on robert gloucester's face. vanna looking at him, saw his teeth clench, and his cheeks pale beneath their tan. chapter four. rival interests. that night vanna lay awake long after lying down, living over again the dramatic happening of the last few days. "`it's a mad world, my masters,'" she said to herself between a smile and a sigh. "no sooner do i receive a sentence of celibacy for life than i am promptly introduced to a new and interesting personality, a nice man, a superlatively nice man, a man, moreover, who shows every sign of returning the compliment and thinking me a superlatively nice girl into the bargain--when, presto! he discovers himself in the light of jean's future husband. i know it, and she doesn't. the drollness of the situation! at this moment she is sleeping in placid innocence, while i am a-thrill at the dawning of her romance. she will marry him-- oh, yes! she will marry him; as certainly as she stood under that palm tree waiting to-night. what a lovely rose she made, and how his eyes glowed as he looked at her! superstition or no superstition, that big, simple heart has accepted her as his wife as unquestionably as if a trumpet blast from heaven had proclaimed her name. it's such an easy thing to tumble into love with jean; the trouble is for any masculine thing to keep steady on his feet. he will worship her, and she must love him in return, as the perfect complement of herself. he so calm, and trustful, and serene; she, airy, impulsive, rebellious; but even in her naughtiest moods so lovable and feminine a thing. well! as i am never to have a romance of my own, i must needs find double interest in jean's and enjoy myself vicariously through her. it will be quick work. that dramatic meeting carried him in a flash past all the initial stage of wonder and uncertainty. it's rather a pity, i should have loved to watch it grow; but it has sprung into life full-grown. oh, jean, jean, how little you know--how little you guess!" then vanna's thoughts flew back to the moment when, on the way through the ballroom, she had found herself alone with robert gloucester after the dramatic encounter in the conservatory. their eyes had met, and she had spoken a few words on the flood of an overwhelming impulse. "i won't tell her. i promise not to tell." "thank you," he had replied warmly. "it will be better. i would rather--" he paused at that, but there was about him a transparency of candour which made it easy to divine what he had been about to say, "i'll would rather tell her myself!" vanna's heart knew a little cramp of envy at all which that sentence implied. next morning, over a late and leisurely breakfast, jean had much to say on the subject of her last night's experiences. "i danced a hole in my slippers--a little one, and quite a big one in captain gregson's heart. he is, like all sailors, absurdly susceptible. i made only my second-best eyes at him. like this! in my best effort i look up helplessly, appealingly, and then, down, quite a long time down, because curling dark eyelashes look so well when one's cheeks are flushed. i just opened them rather widely at the captain once or twice as we sat out after a dance, and he fell down flat. dear, big, stupid thing, he can't take care of himself one bit. he asked if he might call, but i shan't be at home. i always stop short of the danger-point, as you know quite well, so don't make faces at me, my dear, and, above all things, don't preach. if you preached, i might be capable of seeing him, and showing my eyelashes. opposition always drives me hard the other way. you looked tired, dear. were you bored? three separate men asked me who you were. i dissembled, and said you were `a miss strangeways,' and listened with all my ears to what they would say next. one said, `she is not exactly pretty, but one notices her. she has an air.' another said, `i do like to see a girl well groomed. it's refreshing to look at her head.' the third said, `that girl would be worth knowing. it's a fine face.'" vanna's smile was a somewhat laboured effort. "you mustn't repeat masculine compliments, jean. they are forbidden sweets. i shall never settle down into a steady-going `affliction female' if you dangle worldly gauds before my eyes. i'm not going to any more balls. my capacity for frivol has died a violent death, and i feel all `out of the picture' in a ballroom. i must find more serious occupations for my life." "vanna, what rubbish! you are only twenty-three; you have your whole long life ahead. if it's going to be dull, that's all the more reason why you should enjoy yourself now. i thought you would live in town, and we should do everything together. can't you forget the future, dear, and enjoy the hour--buying pretty things and wearing them, and music, and flowers, and dancing, and talking things over afterwards? that has always been one of the best bits--comparing notes after the fray; making fun of other people, and ourselves! _don't_ fall out, vanna, and leave me to go on alone!" "you won't be alone!" the words were spoken instinctively, but vanna drew herself up with instant compunction. "you have so many other friends, jean, and i shall fall out for the festivities only. in all other respects we shall be as much together as before. perhaps in time to come i may be festive once more, but for the moment i'm knocked out of time, and must hide my head like the ostrich. i made myself go to the ball last night, but it was not a success. i shan't try it again." jean lifted her chin, with the slightly obstinate expression in which she took refuge when her will was questioned. "oh-h! well, you know best--or at least, you imagine you do. i should have thought, however, being of a simple and credulous nature, that you were enjoying yourself excessively when you walked through that conservatory last night. if you wished to hide your head at that moment you were a remarkably modest ostrich, for it looked most animated and attractive. who was your partner, by the way? he looked quite nice." "quite nice!" vanna lifted her coffee-cup to hide a twitching lip. behold the historic moment, and the heroine's romantic impression of her future spouse. "i must remember this," was the mental resolve, as she answered tranquilly: "he was more than nice, he was a delightful man. i was not introduced to him until after twelve o'clock, but our talk together was the best part of the evening. his name is gloucester." jean dropped her fork with a little clatter of surprise. "gloucester? not robert gloucester? surely not! he could not possibly have been there." "he was, though. very much there, for he is staying in the house. he naively observed that he had intended to go to bed, but as the `confounded noise' had kept him awake, he came downstairs in desperation, and miss morton introduced him to me. you did not look as if you recognised each other." "we didn't! i have never seen him before, but i have heard--oh, my dear, libraries about him! he is the mortons' theme. we all have themes, on which we fall back on every possible pause of the conversation. my theme, poor butterfly, is fun and clothes; yours, my angel, has been the same, plus a tinge of duty and maiden aunt; the mortons' is robert gloucester, his words, deeds, thoughts, looks, ideas. he's been abroad for years and years, chiefly occupied in losing his money, so far as i can understand. he seems to have a specialty for losing money, but their infatuation is such that it is counted to him as an added charm. the boring times i have had listening to prosy accounts of his trials and adventures, when i have wanted to discuss a hat! and then at last he was coming home, the ball was arranged so that he should be there, i expected him to dance half the night with me: it was the least he could do, considering how i had suffered for him; and behold he hides upstairs, and creeps down to sit on balconies with another girl! wretch! why on earth could they not have introduced him to me, instead of to you?" "you were not sitting by your lone, a dejected wallflower, while your partners gorged in the supper-room. i was. we took pity on one another, and determined to talk, not dance." "and pray, what did you talk about?" again vanna's lip gave a quick, involuntary twitch. "different things. he told me that he had just returned to england, and spoke of foreign countries--his adventures--" "oh, but this must be stopped!" jean shook her head with would-be solemnity. "the mortons have advertised him sufficiently in advance; he really cannot be allowed to be egotistical on his own account. i shall take him in hand. i shall say to him gently but firmly, `my excellent youth, your biography has already run through many editions. let it rest. variety is refreshing for mind as well as body. allow your thoughts to stray for a moment to some one besides your wonderful self. think, for example, of _me_!'" she waved her hand in dramatic fashion as she spoke, flashing a mischievous glance at her friend, her face a-sparkle with mischief. jean's vivid young beauty seemed ever to be asserting itself in fresh phases, so that even those who lived in the same house and looked upon her every day of their lives were continually evoked to fresh admiration. as in watching the movements of an exquisite child, moments of satiety seemed impossibly remote. vanna thought with a leaping pulse: "how he will love her!" and smiled back tenderly into the glowing face. how soon, and in what fashion would the dramatic meeting take place? she was possessed with an immense curiosity to forecast the events of the next few days. robert gloucester would not, she was convinced, be content to wait upon chance, but having been vouchsafed a glimpse of his treasure, would not rest until he had furthered the acquaintance. in a light, unsuspicious manner it was evident that jean's expectation had also been aroused, for as the visiting hour of the afternoon drew near she displayed an unwillingness to leave the house, donned her prettiest dress, and seated herself in the drawing-room, in what was evidently a waiting mood. "put a rose in your belt, jean. you ought always to wear a rose," vanna said, holding out a bowl of fragrant blooms for approval, and jean obeyed, casting the while a smilingly defiant glance at the angular woman who sat knitting near at hand. if ever the word spinster was written large over a human creature, it was written over mrs goring, wife of the genial philip, and stepmother to his daughter jean. yet she was not only a wife, but a mother, and her husband and the two growing schoolboys regarded her with a sincere if somewhat prosaic affection. jean's mental position with regard to her stepmother was somewhat more complicated. "i love her with my head, with my judgment, with my conscience; on sundays, when the sermon is extra good; when she has asthma, and gasps for breath; when the boys are ill, and she looks white and trembly; at other times--_no_! with my heart--_never_! we are miles apart, and no bridge is long enough to bring us together. i am her husband's daughter, so it is her duty to feel an affection for me; she never shirks a duty, so she tries hard morning and evening to love me as she should, and asks forgiveness every night because she can't manage to do it. i don't try--because i'm bad, you'll say; really, because i'm too wise. it's no use _trying_ to love; but i'm far more obedient and docile than i should be if she were my own dear mother. i should have teased her, and argued, and been cross and perverse--every naughty thing in turn, as the mood took me; and then i should have been sorry, and cried, and she would have forgiven me, and we'd have loved each other harder than ever. but the mater and i never quarrel. that ought to score a great big mark to our credit." on the present occasion mrs goring justified her character for keeping her temper, for, trying as it was to her practical nature to behold her stepdaughter decking herself with flowers in the afternoon, and idling over a piece of useless crewel work, she made no spoken protest, but contented herself with pursing her thin lips, and clicked her knitting-needles together as she worked. presently a visitor was announced, and then another; tea was served, and it was after five o'clock when at last the announcement came for which both girls had been impatiently waiting. "miss morton, mr gloucester." the girl swept in with the assurance of an intimate friend. robert gloucester followed slowly, his spare figure towering above hers, his face set and strained. vanna saw at a glance that he was consumed with nervousness, and during the first ten minutes of his stay he hardly allowed himself a glance in jean's direction. when she handed tea he took it with eyes fixed on the cup, and promptly sought the corner by vanna's side to mumble platitudes about the weather, and listen absently to her replies. how long would jean allow so unsatisfactory a state of affairs? "i'll give her five minutes," was vanna's verdict; but before that time had elapsed jean had so cleverly manipulated the conversation that vanna was being questioned across the length of the drawing-room, so that it seemed the most natural thing in the world to suggest a change of seats. "come over here, vanna, dear, and tell them all about it! i'll talk to mr gloucester!" jean floated across the room in her white dress, and laid a caressing hand on her friend's shoulder. it was a pure impulse of coquetry which made her take the rose from her belt as she seated herself in the discarded corner of the sofa. one could make such pretty by-play with a flower, twirling it to and fro, stroking the petals, daintily drinking in its fragrance. to the woman that rose gave an added consciousness of power; from the man the sight of it took away what little composure he retained. his hand shook until the teaspoon rattled against the cup; and he placed it unemptied on the table by his side. he stammered; he was unhinged, tongue-tied. jean, who had been prepared to rebuke self-confidence, adopted an instant change of tactics. her little airs and graces died a rapid death; the tilt of the head was replaced by a gentle droop, her complacent smile changed to an artless appeal. the poor, dear man must be encouraged. he had been buried in the wilds, with lions and elephants for companions; he was all unnerved to find himself in an english drawing-room, face to face with a pretty girl. "i've waited such a long time to see you," said jean softly. "edith and i are great friends and she has told me so much about you. i could stand quite a stiff examination on your doings and goings of the last few years. some day you shall cross-question me and see. when i've been particularly good i've even heard extracts from your letters. i can't possibly treat you as a stranger!" "i--i ought to apologise. i hope you have not been bored." he looked up as he spoke, and for the first time met the full gaze of jean's eyes--those eyes which were a revelation of beauty even to dull elderly members of her own sex. gloucester's gaze lingered with an intensity which held her bound in return; but mingling with his eagerness was an expression of humility, almost of awe, which jean found strangely disconcerting. she lowered her lids at his glance, forgetful for once of the effect of fringed ladies, and made her reply with a little tremble of nervousness in her voice. "not at all bored, but very interested. are you glad to be back in england; and how does it look to you after your long absence? are you going to stay at home?" "i'm glad--immensely glad! yes, i shall stay," he said with abrupt, almost violent emphasis. then more quietly, "the country looks--_neat_! such neat little fields on either side the line. i should grow impatient in the country, but london enthrals. i love the dull old roar, and the smoke, and the misty light of this weak little sun. a man who has lived long abroad seldom cares for rural england, but he never loses his love of london. it is the best of its kind--there's something in that; but the country is tame." jean mused, a smile twitching her lips. "i have always said that if i could choose an exact site for my home of the future i'd have the front windows facing west over a range of mountains, the bigger the better--the himalayas for choice--and the back windows over piccadilly! our tastes agree, it appears; but for pity's sake don't let our sun hear you speaking in such disrespectful tones. it is so touchy and difficile that it is capable of sulking and hiding for weeks together, and we have been paying it such compliments these last days. `blazing!' we preferred to stay indoors this afternoon because it was `blazing.' soon we shall declare that it is impossible to stay in town, and shall fly away to the country. in a couple of weeks london will be emptied of every one who is not chained to a desk." "where shall you go?" he asked directly. jean glanced at him, and discovered to her surprise that the question was no idle inquiry put to help in a lagging conversation, but a request for information seriously desired. she was not offended, but a feminine impulse prompted her to prevaricate. "oh, to the sea, i suppose. i possess two small brothers who insist upon the sea for their holidays. i suppose you will be going to hampshire with the mortons. the moat will seem a haven of rest and green after the east. the gardens are more entrancing than ever. such flowers!" she lifted the rose to her face as if reminded of its presence, stroked her cheek with its velvety petals, and let it drop into her lap. a heightened voice sounded from the end of the room, and the quick movement of interest with which she turned to see what was happening sent the rose spray rolling softly to the ground. she bent forward to regain it, but gloucester was quicker than she; he held it firmly in his big brown hand, not offering a return, but looking down at it with an expression which jean found strangely eloquent. "it is a long time since you have seen english flowers. to an englishman nothing can ever be quite so beautiful. you must be glad you came home in the time of roses!" the intentionally soft tone of the girl's voice threw into greater contrast the man's hoarse accents. "will you give it to me? may i keep it?" jean stared, her delicate brows arched in dignified surprise. certainly she would not give a flower which she had been wearing to a perfect stranger, and that in the presence of three pairs of watching eyes. this robert gloucester was disconcertingly direct, and must be kept in his place--gently, however, for he had other points in his favour, such as being young and handsome, and transparently impressed by herself. "not this one, i think. it is too faded and tired. i am cruel to flowers when i wear them. i can't leave them alone. please take your choice from any in that bowl. they are all quite fresh!" she held out her hand, gently imperious, and gloucester mutely returned the rose. he could do no less; but his air was so discouraged, so out of all proportion abashed, that the girl felt a swift remorse. it was like disappointing an eager child, and watching the shadowing of the happy face. now it was not her own wish, but simply the presence of onlookers which prevented the refusal from being changed into consent. she laid the recovered flower on the table beside the fragrant bowl of roses, almost disliking it for having been the cause of this check in the conversation. her eyes softened, she smiled into gloucester's troubled face with her sweetest, most childlike expression, and prattled dainty nonsense, unchecked by his lack of response. presently he began to smile; it was impossible to resist jean when she set herself to charm, but once and again the murmured answers missed the point, and she was conscious that, though his thoughts were absorbed in herself, he was paying scant heed to her words. the mysterious nervousness which had affected her at his first gaze returned to jean once more in the process of this one-sided conversation; she turned her head to where the three ladies were sitting, and met edith morton's eyes fixed upon herself with an intensity of scrutiny which aroused a quick suspicion. edith did not care to see her guest monopolised; she was not content to be banished to the end of the room. jean smiled and raised her voice, addressing her directly by name, so as to show her desire for a general conversation. "i have been telling mr gloucester, edith, that when i was very good you used to read me extracts from his letters, and thrill me by repeating his adventures. they were such nice, full, detaily letters. i think you would get a prize in a foreign correspondence competition, mr gloucester. most men write such scrappy notes." "ah, i should have been ungrateful if i had done that, for edith sent me such splendid letters from home. no one knows how a fellow appreciates letters when he is abroad--a blank mail is a blighting experience. edith has been a brick to me in that way; as good as any sister." he smiled at the girl as he spoke, and edith morton smiled bravely back. gloucester saw nothing strained or unnatural in that smile, but the three women divined its secret with lightning intuition. poor edith who had watched and waited all these years, counting each day as it passed, enduring a grey present in the hope of a golden future which would surely begin when the prince returned to his own. and now her long wish was fulfilled--her hero was restored to her side, not unconscious of her care, but full of gratitude and affection. he smiled at her with kindly eyes, he paid her public thanks, he compared her to a sister, and edith's heart cramped with despair. she was a tall, slight girl, with dark hair, a dull complexion, and pretty eyes. she dressed tastefully, though without style, and spoke with a delightfully clear, musical intonation. when addressed she had a trick of drooping her head, which gave her a somewhat timid and shrinking air, and her hands were small and white. women admired and loved her, and constantly asked of each other, "why is she not married?" men passed her by as if unconscious of her presence. the mysterious quality which attracts masculine approval was lacking in her case, and until the present she had not regretted its absence. the while gloucester continued an easy flow of conversation, the same thought passed through the mind of each feminine hearer. if edith wished to appropriate this man for herself, why had she so hastened to bring him into the temptation of jean goring's presence? jean, with her characteristic impulsiveness made a dozen impossible resolutions to keep out of robert's path; to be cold to him, to refuse to speak. vanna sighed over the hardness of fate which ever advances to its festivals over the corpses of the slain. mrs goring, with tightened lips, sneered at the blindness of men whose vision was blinded by a pretty face. edith, with a sad pride, told herself that above all things sincerity was the most precious, and that if gloucester were to be hers, it must be of his own unbiased will. if he loved her--if he were even beginning to love her--jean's beauty would leave him untouched. every day one beheld ordinary-looking women wooed by men who had passed by others infinitely more favoured, to seek them out. beauty meant much, but it was not all. the mystic tie of affinity in no way depended on its presence. robert and jean were bound to meet during the next few weeks; her own influence should be used to make those meetings more frequent, rather than less. she would condescend to no scheming to attain what was worth having only if it came as a free-will gift. when she spoke again it was to invite jean and her friend to dinner the next evening. "we are expecting some of robert's old friends, and we need you two girls to balance numbers. you must come!" jean hesitated. she had just decided to refuse all invitations; but this was put in the light of a favour, which it would seem discourteous to refuse. besides, vanna had seemed interested in robert gloucester. she must consider poor, dear vanna! "you are sure you want us? really? it seems so soon to come again. if any of the men drop out, be sure to let us know. we shall quite understand," she replied, assuaging her conscience with this loophole of escape, and edith rose to say good-bye, smiling another difficult smile. it was jean's usual custom to accompany her friend downstairs at the end of each visit, linking arms, and standing long in the hall as one item of news after another presented itself for discussion; but to-day she rang the bell for a maid, and made her adieux at the drawing-room door; the most careless and perfunctory of adieux to the man, to the girl a kiss, and an eloquent grip of the hand. edith was her friend, a friend of years' standing; and jean, for all her flirtatious nature, was loyal to her sex. the last thing she would wish to do would be to annex another girl's lover. nevertheless it was with a sigh and an unusual sense of depression that she re-entered the drawing-room. vanna was standing by the sofa in the corner, looking down on the carved oak table. jean's eyes followed hers, and her heart gave a sudden, startling leap. the bowl of roses was untouched, but the table was bare, the faded bud had disappeared! chapter five. jean runs away. the next day jean displayed an inexplicable unwillingness to accept edith morton's invitation to dinner. all morning she affected to expect a letter announcing a cancelling of the plan. when afternoon came and no letter arrived, she fell back upon the usual feminine subterfuge. "i think," she announced thoughtfully, "i'm almost sure, i have a headache!" the two girls were seated alone in the upstairs boudoir, and anything less suffering than jean's appearance would have been difficult to imagine. vanna smiled, and put an incredulous question: "poor, puzzled darling. it is trying for you. how do you manage to decide these knotty points?" for answer jean ducked her head, and shook it violently from side to side. this singular process over, she raised a flushed, sparkling face, and pronounced slowly: "yes, it does; i can feel it. i can always tell when i do that." vanna's clear laugh rang out mockingly. to one who knew what it was to suffer from prostrating headache, which made it impossible to move, to speak, almost to breathe, the sight of jean's ducked, shaking head was irresistibly comic. she brushed aside the frail pretence. "my dear, it's no use. i see through you. better confess at once. you don't want to go. why?" jean looked at her in silence. her eyes dilated, the colour paled on the rounded cheeks. it was pretence no longer, but real unaffected earnest. "vanna, he frightens me--that robert gloucester! he behaved like, like they do, you know--at the end. it's absurd, at the very first meeting. he couldn't possibly--_care_! i don't want to meet him again." "you didn't like him, then?" "oh, yes, i did. dreadfully. that's just why--" "enigma! will you graciously explain?" "edith!" said jean, in a low voice, almost a whisper. it seemed treacherous to speak of edith's secret, but vanna was as another self, to whom so far every thought had been confessed, and she was the most loyal of confidantes. besides, if robert gloucester were to be successfully avoided, vanna's co-operation would be needed. "i am sure edith cares for him, and if she does, she has had such a long, long wait. imagine how it would feel, to love a man with those eyes, and wait alone at the other end of the world for six long years! it would make me wretched to spoil edith's happiness; but if he came often, and looked at me like that, i--i should look back, vanna, i know i should. i might make all the resolutions in the world, but they wouldn't last. i'm a born flirt. it's shocking, but it's true; therefore you perceive there's only one thing for it--to avoid temptation. you must go alone to-night, and say that i'm ill." "which would bring edith round post-haste to-morrow morning, accompanied by her guest. you must think of a better excuse than that if you really wish to avoid him, my dear," replied vanna derisively. there was no contradicting this statement, for jean was one of those rare and blessed mortals who did not know the meaning of illness. as a child she had romped gaily through the list of juvenile ailments, thereafter for a dozen years she had bloomed in radiant flower-like health, without a single day's illness, or a nearer approach to pain than a headache whose reality had to be diagnosed in the novel manner already described. to announce herself too unwell to keep a social engagement would indeed arouse alarmed attention. she mused in silence for several moments then said slowly: "yes! quite true! i should have to stay in bed, and that would be too boring. i couldn't immolate myself to that extent even for edith. vanna, what do you say to running off to the country to-morrow--you and i? miggles is there already, getting ready the house. theoretically she would chaperone us, practically we would bully her, and make her do whatever we liked. you are not keen on festivities just now, and the season will soon be over. i shouldn't mind giving up the few things that remain. we'd have lovely times together, and lead the simple life, and drink milk, and go to bed early, and give our poor tired hair a rest. it would be fun, wouldn't it, dear? say you would like it too!" vanna looked thoughtfully at the lovely face. jean was in earnest; and to one of her warmhearted, impulsive nature to be in earnest meant to be content with no half measures, but to insist upon wholesale surrender. it would be useless to protest, and indeed she had no wish to do so. jean's flight would not avail; the fates had decreed that she and robert gloucester should meet, and would not be coerced from their plan--of that she was quietly convinced; at the same time, she felt a keen sympathy with the shattering of edith's romance, and was content that jean should put herself beyond the reach of blame. "oh, yes, i'd love to go," she replied. "it will be delightful to have you all to myself, and i'm in no mood for functions. but are you quite sure you won't be bored? you won't find it too lonely?" "oh, well!" replied jean, laughing. "incidentally, there is piers rendall! he went down last week to fish, and to cheer his mother. he shall cheer us, too. well, then, it's all settled. you'll go alone to-night, and to-morrow morning bright and early we'll set off for the sea. i wish i had not bought that white dress..." so it was arranged, and at eight o'clock that evening, vanna entered mrs morton's drawing-room alone, and saw a shadow fall over robert gloucester's face, while edith listened to the offered explanations with a surprise from which she loyally strove to banish any trace of relief. a shy girl of sixteen was summoned from the schoolroom to fill the vacant place at the table, and, putting aside his own disappointment, gloucester insisted upon claiming her as his own partner, and kept her happy and amused throughout the meal. in the drawing-room his laugh was as cheery and content as if he had never known a care, and vanna noticed that in a tactful, unobtrusive fashion he performed many of the duties overlooked by the host of the evening. it was he who observed that the draught from an open window was too strong for a delicate guest; he who turned aside from a laughing group to speak to the solitary occupant of a sofa; he who started an interesting topic of conversation, when the old showed signs of wearing thin; and the mortons, old and young, regarded him with glowing eyes and punctuated their sentences with "robert says," "robert thinks," as though his opinion was sufficient to settle the most knotty point. it was towards the end of the evening, when vanna had her first quiet word with the hero of the occasion. "what does it mean?" he asked at once. "is it serious?" and when she queried blankly, "her headache?" he replied, with such a transparency of distress, that she was ashamed to confess the unreality of the excuse. "oh, no--no. nothing serious. a very passing thing." "then why is she leaving town so suddenly?" vanna looked at him, and the impulse came to speak the unvarnished truth, unconventional though it might be. "to avoid you! you should not be so precipitate. it is disconcerting, to put it mildly, to have a man make violent love to one at a first meeting." "i did not make love." "not in so many words, perhaps." gloucester blushed, remembering the rosebud at that moment pressed between the leaves of his pocket-book. for a few moments he was silent, gazing before him in puzzled fashion, then suddenly the shadow passed, he turned towards her with a smile, his eyes clear and untroubled. "and so she is going to run away, a make-believe little journey of two or three hours? does she imagine that she can hide herself so easily? there is no corner of the earth where i would not follow to find her at the end. she belongs to me. do you imagine i shall give her up?" vanna was silent. in her heart of hearts she had no doubt on the point, and believed jean's fate already settled; but she saw edith's eyes fixed upon her from across the room, and felt a keen sympathy with the disappointment in store. edith was no longer young; edith had waited; for edith the chances of life might be few and far between, while jean held the open sesame of charm and beauty. "may i give you some advice?" she said quickly. "you will probably refuse to take it, but it's on my mind to give it all the same. don't be in a hurry. let jean go; don't try to see her. stay behind, and think things over. she is beautiful, and your meeting was dramatic. even i felt carried away. but marriage!--that is terribly serious. one ought to be so sure. you have her happiness to remember, as well as your own. jean is impetuous and romantic. if she knew what we know, she would feel that all was settled, and that she had no choice. you don't want that. if she is to be your wife, it ought to be because she chooses you of her own deliberate will. wait quietly for a few weeks and--drift! you may find in a few weeks' time that the impression fades--that there are other possibilities, other attractions." gloucester looked her in the face, and laughed, a full-throated, derisive laugh. "you don't believe one word that you are saying. you are talking because you think you _ought_. don't! what is the use of keeping up pretences--you and i? we have seen behind the scenes. can't we stick to the truth?" "you won't take my advice?" "no, i won't." "you refuse to be prudent in regard to the most important happening of your life?" "i do. it's not a matter for prudence. it belongs to another sphere. i am thirty-five. i have waited long enough. why should i squander more weeks to satisfy a convention? she shan't be hurried--she shall feel no obligation. i will not breathe a word about that old prophecy unless, _until_ she consents of her own will; but she must know what i want. i would tell her to-day if i had the chance." "which you shall not, if i can prevent it. it's not fair; it's not kind. what is jean to think? that you are attracted by her face, and her face alone? that's a poor compliment. if she is worth winning she is worth knowing; and she has plenty of character. so far as i can judge, her nature and yours are quite unlike. are you quite sure that you can make her happy? in fairness to her, you ought to give her a chance of knowing you before she takes the plunge." "i can make her happy. i have no shadow of doubt about that. i'll tell you something more, if you like, miss strangeways--i am the only man who _can_! she belongs to me, and i am not going to stand aside for any man--or woman--on the face of the earth!" vanna shrugged her shoulders, half laughing, half annoyed. "very well, then, now we know where we are. for the moment please understand that i have joined the opposition. i shall run off with jean and hide her, and instil principles of prudence and caution into her ear, coupled with a due suspicion of men who make up their minds in a hurry. don't count upon my good offices." "i shan't need them, thank you," he returned calmly. vanna reflected that it would be as easy to attempt to depress an india-rubber ball. chapter six. enter miggles. three days later the two girls were ensconced in their country quarters, and jean was beginning to suffer from the effects of reaction. her impressionable nature was capable of generous impulses, which found vent in such actions of self-abnegation as the present flight from town, but long-continued effort was too heavy a trial. once settled down in the quiet house by the sea, and past the excitement of the first arrival, she began to droop and to fret, and to demand of herself and every one with whom she came in contact why she had been so foolish as to abandon her last weeks in town. "to-night is the listers' ball. i was going to wear the new white. at this very moment i should have been preening before the glass. i feel a horrid conviction that it would have suited me to distraction, that i should have had the night of my life. i can't think what you were dreaming about, vanna, to let me rush off in that undignified way. i'm impulsive; but a word from you would have kept me straight. and you never spoke it. i don't think i can ever forgive you. if you hadn't any consideration for me, you might have thought of edith. for _her_ sake i should have stayed in town and been as nice as possible to robert gloucester. if a man can't run the gauntlet of other women, he would make a poor sort of husband. when i fall in love, i shall make a point of introducing the man to the most charming women of my acquaintance, and if he shows any sign of being attracted by a special one, i'll throw them together. i will! you see if i don't! if he didn't like me better than them all put together, i should be glad, thankful, delighted to let him go. any girl would, who had a spirit. i feel that i have behaved very meanly and unkindly to poor dear edith. why don't you speak? what's the good of sitting there like a mummy? can't you hear?" "perfectly, thank you. i am listening with great interest and attention. being of a generous nature, i refrain from repeating the remarks which you made when i _did_ venture to expostulate, but if you will cast back your thoughts--" "oh, well," interrupted jean naughtily, "i shall just flirt with piers. i deserve some distraction after being such a monument of virtue, and i'll have it, or know the reason why. i wrote to tell him we were here, so he'll come over this afternoon, and we'll go for a walk by the sad sea waves. you might twist your ankle on the pebbles, a little innocent twist, you know, just enough to make it wise to sit down and rest while we have our _tete-a-tete_. since you've brought me here against my will, it's the least you can do. piers shall have tea with us before we start. miggles adores piers." "miggles," formally known as miss miggs, was a well-known character in the goring _menage_, having been in succession, governess to jean, housekeeper during the period of mr goring's widowerhood, and afterwards governess to the two sons of the second marriage. after so many years of faithful service it seemed impossible to dispense with miggles's services, and in truth no one wished to do so, for she was one of the cheery souls who carry sunshine as an atmosphere. according to ordinary ideas, miggles might have grumbled with the best, and demanded a universal toll of sympathy, for she was the most solitary of units--a woman who could not claim relationship with a angle soul in her own hemisphere. she had passed her sixtieth birthday, and despite rigid economies, possessed only a few hundred pounds between herself and want; her health, never strong, showed signs of growing more precarious, and an affection of the eyes shut her off from her loved pastimes of reading and needlework. nevertheless, miggles was so far from being depressed by such circumstances, that it had not even occurred to her that she deserved to be pitied. this blessed state of mind had been achieved by no conflict and struggle of the soul--no noble effort of will; religion itself had contributed little towards it. miggles's disposition was a birthright for which she was seemingly as little responsible as for the colour of her hair. as a child, when circumstances had offered a choice between smiles and tears, she had instinctively elected to smile; as a girl, the mere facts of life and movement had seemed sufficient to ensure complete happiness; while later on she had been so much occupied with being thankful for silver linings that the clouds themselves flitted by attracting but scanty attention. in cheery, non-consequent fashion, _she_ would discourse of her blessings by the hour together. "now, would you believe it, my dear, not a soul belonging to me nearer than australia--my nephew henry, dear boy, but rash--such a pity! always was, from a child. thomas now--the elder brother--he would always save. my mother was so particular about bringing us up to save. `_instil_ good principles from the beginning' she would say. but however--what was i talking about? ah, yes! not a soul nearer than australia, and _three_ letters by this morning's post. isn't it wonderful? people are so kind. really, except monday, when there was a fashion-book from a shop--i do like seeing the fashions--there's been something on my plate every morning. that's so cheering to begin the day. you know some one has been thinking of you, and caring enough to sit down and write." jean cast a twinkling glance across the table at vanna. "what did they want this time, miggles? i bet anything you like, that every second letter was to beg for something that you have no business to give, and that you were weak enough to say yes all round. can you deny it?" "why should i, dear child? such a privilege. most kind of them to have given me the opportunity. old clothes! i don't suppose you ever _have_ old clothes, miss vanna--they always look so fresh and new. i like to see a girl in pretty clothes. when i was young, shallis were in fashion. i don't suppose you ever saw shallis--very stiff, not nearly so graceful as your delaines. a dear lady gave me a brown shalli, trimmed with pipings. brown was never my colour, but it wore for years--so very kind. nowadays i have to wear wool for my poor bones. wool always did irritate my skin. it took me weeks to get accustomed to sleep in blankets. i used to lie awake at nights tossing from side to side, and thinking of all the poor creatures who had no warm coverings-- and mine the very best whitney, the ones from the spare room, jean, with the blue stripes. mrs goring said i was to have them. i'm sure if i'd been the queen--" "oh, it's wonderful to think of. real whitney blankets with blue stripes, on which to toss about and groan! what luck you have, miggles, and how thankful you ought to be that you have bones to _ache_. if you hadn't had that bad feverish attack, you might have been left stranded with your own bedding. it is piteous to think of." miggles shook her large, ugly head with elephantine playfulness. "naughty child! naughty child! you are laughing at me, i can see. it is very painful, especially during the night, and i used to be so proud of my hands. i've had to give up wearing my turquoise ring, the knuckles are so enlarged. that really was a trial; but when you think what other people have to bear... there's that poor man at oxford circus, who wheels about on a board. i always wonder if there are any legs inside his trousers, they lie so very flat; but of course one couldn't ask. how monotonous it would be, my dear, to sit on a board from morning till night. when i thought of that, it seemed so foolish to fret about a ring... your dear mother gave it to me one christmas, because i had such a desire to possess a ring. it was the only one i ever had." "dear miggles," cried jean fondly, "i wonder you didn't have a dozen. i wonder that every man you met didn't press one upon you. they would have done so, if they had known what was good for them. you would have made the dearest wife!" miggles smiled appreciatively. "well, dear, i _should_, though i say it myself. i should have made him very comfortable. i have such a sympathy with men, poor dears, working all day long, and banks failing, and upsetting their plans, and all the bills to pay. they do deserve a little comfort at home. my nephew's wife--henry's--i can't help feeling she's been a little to blame. of course there's no denying that henry _is_ rash, but he could have been _guided_, and florence is hasty. a nice girl, too--very nice. i wouldn't say a word against her, but you can't help thinking sometimes, and i'm sorry for henry. yes! i've always regretted that i never had an offer. i was never pretty, like you, my dears; but personable, quite personable. a gentleman once passed the remark that if he had been young he would have wished nothing better than that nice, wholesome-looking girl; but he was quite old--a colonel, home from india, with a liver. when they are like that they admire a fresh complexion. and of course he had a wife already. it would have been pleasant to look back and remember that some one had wished to make me his wife." miggles gazed at the coffeepot with an air of placid regret, which quickly melted into smiles. "but, however--he mightn't have turned out well. one never knows, and i read a sweet little poem in a magazine which might have been written to meet my case. she said (a lady wrote it; i should think she had had a disappointment), `if i never have a child of my own, with its little hands, and pattering feet, still all the children of the world are mine, to love and to mother.' such a beautiful thought, was it not?" "beautiful, indeed, and so original. she was a great poet, my miggles. talking of suitors, piers rendall is coming to tea. we'll have it here, please. piers likes a nursery tea set out on the table, with plenty of apricot jam, and thick sensible bread-and-butter; no shavings. plum-cake; not plain--he detests caraway seeds, and two lumps of sugar in his tea." "i know. i've poured out tea for him since he was so high," cried miggles, waving her hand indefinitely in the air. "he had it with me here two days before you came. it's not many young men who would care to walk three miles to see an old woman, but i can't say he looks well. thin--worried! a man ought to be full of life at that age." "fretting for me, dear! he'll be all right this afternoon. you'll see," announced miss jean confidently. she would have said the same of any other young man of her acquaintance, nevertheless vanna waited with some anxiety for the events of the afternoon. strive as she might, she could not divest her mind of a feeling of responsibility towards robert gloucester; of the conviction that jean was his by right, and that separation could end only in disaster. at three o'clock that afternoon piers rendall walked up the garden path, and jean rushed out to meet him. vanna, from her seat in the hall, could hear the merry exchange of greetings. "halloa, princess!" "halloa, slave! how are you feeling?" "hugging my chains! this is a piece of luck, your coming down so soon. what brought you away from the gay capital before the end of the season?" "the train, sir! people who ask personal questions must expect to be snubbed. i ran away, but not alone. i've a friend with me--miss strangeways. come and be introduced." they had entered the hall while jean was speaking, and vanna caught the quick frown of annoyance on the man's face. he had a strong, well-knit figure, and a thin, nervous face. his hair was dark, his features were sharply aquiline, the whole effect was handsome and distinguished, but not altogether agreeable. the dark blue eyes had a somewhat irritable expression, and the features were subject to an occasional nervous twitching. they twitched at sight of vanna seated in the deep cane chair facing the door, and his lips straightened themselves eloquently. vanna knew that he was mentally wishing her at jericho, and seeing his hoped-for _tete-a-tete_ turned into a dull trio. but the revelation was but momentary, and nothing could have been more courteous than his greeting. "how do you do, miss strangeways? i have heard so constantly about you from jean that it is a double pleasure to find you here." vanna murmured a conventional acknowledgment and felt mentally antagonistic. to feel oneself _de trop_ is never an agreeable experience, and unreasonable though it might be, she resented both mr rendall's attitude and his courteous disguise of the same. during the meal which followed she remained stiff and silent, while her three companions chatted and laughed with the ease of old friendship. jean sparkled, her depression dispersed by the presence of a companion of the opposite sex, miggles beamed from behind the tea-tray, and indulged in reminiscent anecdotes, to which the young man lent the most flattering attention. his bright eyes softened in genuine kindliness as he looked into her large, good-natured face, and he waited upon her with the utmost solicitude. evidently there was a real bond of affection between the homely old woman and the handsome man. towards jean his attitude was more complex. vanna, watching with jealous, anxious eyes--jealous on behalf of that other suitor whose claims she had denied--could not decide how much or how little his feelings were involved. he admired her, of course--what man would not admire jean? they bandied words together, joked, teased, protested, without a suspicion of self-consciousness; at times they smiled at each other with undisguised affection; at other times some light word uttered by the girl seemed to strike a false note, and the irritable expression in the man's eyes flamed into sudden anger. "he has a passionate nature; he could feel very deeply. i think he is not happy." such was vanna's diagnosis of piers rendall's character as she drank her tea and ate her plum-cake in almost uninterrupted silence. her companions had endeavoured to draw her into the conversation. jean had grimaced eloquently across the table, but vanna made only a feeble response. it seemed as though jean's depression had been suddenly shifted on to her own shoulders; the peaceful content of the last few days had disappeared; she felt solitary, wounded, jarred. when the meal was over and the three young people started out on their walk, these feelings deepened. had she not already received her instructions--that she was to feign an accident as an excuse for obliterating herself for the others' benefit? vanna set her lips with an obstinate little resolve to do nothing of the kind. she would not obtrude her society where it was not desired, but she would stoop to no pretence by way of excuse. when they had walked about a mile along the sea-front, she quietly announced her intention of sitting down. "i don't think i shall go any farther. i've brought a book. i shall sit here and rest, and you can pick me up as you come back." "oh, vanna! why? are you tired, dear? aren't you well?" demanded naughty jean. "perfectly well, thank you," replied vanna coldly, and had the satisfaction of seeing that piers rendall thought her exceedingly disagreeable for her pains. the two figures crossed the belt of pebbly stones, and walked over the sunny sands to the water's side. hitherto they had kept to the levelled promenade, and to vanna's irritated senses it appeared an added offence that, once released from her presence, they should at once hasten into solitude. she turned her eyes away and stared drearily into space. revolt surged in her heart. it was not fair. jean had everything-- home, parents, beauty, strength, the right to be wooed and won. the world was cruel--unjust. why should such differences exist? her own lot was too hard. she had not deserved it. she had done her best. circumstances had not been too easy--always there had hung a shadow; life in the little country hamlet with aunt mary, delicate and sad, had been by no means ideal for a young girl. without conceit she knew herself to have been dutiful, affectionate, kind. she had put her own wishes in the background, content to minister to an old woman's declining years. her own turn would come. life lay ahead, crowded with golden possibilities; when they came they would be all the sweeter for the consciousness of duty well done. and now? ah, well, in converse with one's nearest friend one might affect to be brave and independent, but in the solitude of one's own woman's heart it seemed as if those possibilities had been wiped away, and left nothing behind. in times of trouble and upheaval the sufferer is constantly exhorted by sympathetic friends to turn resolutely away from the sad past, and look ahead. onward! they are told--press onward! life lies not in the past, but in the future. despair comes of looking back, courage with expectation. poor vanna recalled these axioms with a weary heart. that was just what she dared not do. what could the future hold for her? she sat very still, her hands clasped on her lap, her eyes shut against the glare. the sun seemed cruel to-day; the dance of golden light across the sands, the sight of those two light-stepping figures in the distance. she would help jean, help others, who were in need. there was no lack of work in the world for hands which were willing and free. she could make other people happy; could live a noble, selfless life. even so, and at the thought, the lips of three-and-twenty quivered, and the salt tears flowed. she wanted to be happy herself--longed to be happy. the selfless life sounded barren and cold; it roused no flicker of joy. "how shall i bear it?" asked vanna of herself. "how can i live, looking on, always looking on, having no part? even to-day with jean--my darling jean--and that strange man, i felt sore and angry and--_bad_! he thought me a cross, ungracious girl. his opinion does not matter, but other people will think so too if i behave in the same way; and that would be terrible. i could not exist if people did not care for me. in self-defence i must overcome. but how to do it?" vanna leant her head on her hands and sent up a wordless prayer. in her own fashion she was deeply religious, but it was not the fashion of her day. her aunt had been shocked and distressed by her heterodox sentiments, and had spent many hours in prayer for her niece's conversion, while vanna, in her turn, had been fully as shocked at the old woman's conventional ideas. aunt mary had been the most tender and forgiving of mortals. her memory, tenacious till death of the smallest kindness shown towards her, was absolutely incapable of retaining an injury. if any one offended, her own anxiety was to find for them a means of reform; to her charity there seemed literally no end. when a trusted servant repaid endless kindnesses by a flagrant theft, aunt mary was bowed down with penitence for occasional carelessness on her own part which might possibly have led the sinner into temptation. "i remember distinctly one sunday night when i left my purse in the dining-room, and was too lazy to go downstairs to fetch it, and at other times i have left change lying about. it was wrong of me--terribly wrong. one never knows what need there may be--what _pressing_ need-- and to see the money lying there before her eyes!" to the scandal of the neighbourhood, instead of giving the offender in charge, or at least dismissing her in shame and ignominy, aunt mary tearfully apologised for her own share in the crime, and proposed a future partnership in which both should endeavour to amend their ways. jane was sullen and unresponsive, too much overcome by surprise perhaps to be able to express any gratitude. that she felt it all the same was testified by her dog-like devotion to her mistress. all went well until another year had passed, when in a sudden burst of emotion the maid confessed to a fresh peccadillo. now, indeed, any sane person would have realised the folly of keeping such a sinner in the house, and, hurling reproaches on her head, would have promptly ejected her from the threshold; but aunt mary was once more content to play the part of comforter. "i have my own besetting sins, jane," she said gently, "and i fear i have given way to them many times during this past year. you have kept straight until the last week, and you have confessed your fault. have courage! you have made a good start. i shall treat you exactly as before, and trust you more fully!" that was the end of jane's offences. henceforth to the day of her mistress's death she remained the most faithful and loyal of handmaids. such was aunt mary, who devoutly worshipped a god whom she believed capable of torturing for eternity a sinner who had transgressed during a few short years of life, or a helpless infant who had chanced to die unbaptised! she was likewise convinced that the whole non-protestant world was irrevocably damned, and harboured serious doubts with regard to dissenters and the high church party. she accepted as final and irrefutable every doctrine which she had been taught as a child, and would have been as ready to believe that jonah swallowed the whale as the accepted version of the story, if it had been so inscribed in the bible. to think for oneself on matters religious she considered profane; to expect fuller light with fuller knowledge--a blasphemy. to her mind the whole duty of man was comprised in attending his parish church, supporting his vicar, and subscribing to the creeds--athanasian included. aunt and niece had had the nearest approach to a quarrel which they had ever known one day when the girl's intolerance had broken forth into words: "aunt mary," she had cried, "your religion is _wicked_! you are good in spite of it. you don't _really_ believe it. you only think you do. you subscribe ten and sixpence a year to the south american mission, and lie down in peace and sleep, believing the whole continent to be damned, while if one poor dog were suffering outside your gate you could not rest until you had rescued it. can ten and sixpence buy peace, while a continent perishes? your creed is unworthy of you!" "my dear, you forget yourself. you shock me deeply. such words from a young girl's lips are terrible to hear. profane! rebellious! the poor, dear vicar! i must ask you never again to allow yourself to speak in this way. if the wicked thoughts arise, at least let them not find vent in words." after this vanna was careful to avoid religious discussions with her aunt, but she noted with amusement that next year the good lady's south american subscription had been increased by half a crown. now aunt mary had been moved up to a higher class, and the scales of ignorance had fallen from her eyes. the puzzles of life were solved for her, but her niece was still struggling with her tasks, and they were hard to learn. she sat with her hands clasped round her knees, the sea breeze blowing back the hair from the set, white face. aunt mary would have said that this trouble was god's will--his direct dispensation; but vanna could not accept this explanation. it was surely _not_ god's will that in past generations two people had put their own happiness before duty. aunt mary would have said again that as regards herself this punishment for the sins of others was "permitted," and intended to be. well!--one had only to look around the world, at everyday happenings, to realise that the almighty did _not_ interfere with natural laws. thrust an arm into the fire, and that arm burns; infect your child with disease, and that child suffers, despite your prayers and entreaties. it is inevitable; but the sufferings were surely of men's causing, "the thing of all others which, according to my light, must most `grieve' the spirit of god is the way in which his own children misjudge him," vanna told herself slowly. "dear, sweet aunt mary, who believed him capable of things to which she herself would never condescend--all the good people who look out upon a sky full of worlds, and believe that their own particular tiny sect hold the monopoly of truth, and that every one who differs from them must inevitably be lost. perhaps--who knows? it is misjudging him just as cruelly to believe that the ghastly happenings of our life are of his choice. he has given us free-will; we make mistakes and suffer for them, and make others suffer too; but that's our own doing, and--reverently speaking--outside his power. he is sorry for us--infinitely sorry, waiting and longing to send help, when our eyes are open to receive it. perhaps i'm wrong, i can't tell; but it's the belief that helps me most, and removes the sting. i have such a big trouble for a woman to face--a lonely life; such a big effort to make-- to look at happiness through the eyes of others, and keep sweet, and generous, and ungrudging. i need so much help..." the minutes passed, while vanna sat motionless, buried in thought. passers-by cast curious glances at the still figure seated upon the pebbly beach above the fringed line of seaweed--her scarlet cloak gathered round her shoulders, her dark hair blown back from her face. it was not a beautiful nor even a pretty face in the usual acceptance of the words: the features were neither good enough to be noticeable, nor bad enough to jar. the only beauties were found in the dark, finely arched eyebrows, the oval shape of the face, and the stag-like setting of the small head, to which characteristics vanna owed that air of distinction which redeemed her from the commonplace. piers rendall had paid little attention to the quiet girl who had sat beside him at the tea-table, and afterwards made an unwelcome third in the walk along the sea-front; but as he and jean retraced their steps across the sands an hour later, his eyes turning towards the waiting figure fastened on the pale face, and lingered there. we all own a mental picture-gallery which we carry about with us till death. some of the pictures are ours by deliberate choice, printed on memory by loving intent; others, pain has stamped in undying lines; a few have gained their place as it were by accident. we had no intention of yielding them a place, no interest in the purchase; quietly and all uninvited they ranged themselves against the walls, and refused to be dislodged. piers rendall's glance had been turned in indifference, almost dislike; but to the end of his life the picture of vanna remained with him, as she sat on the grey stones, above the belt of seaweed, with the scarlet cloak round her shoulders, and the hair blown back from her face. jean's merry banter fell on deaf ears; he was not listening; had for the moment forgotten her existence. her eye followed his, divining the explanation; she smiled expectantly, waiting until he should speak. "what is the matter with that girl?" "tiredness, i should say. bored! sick of waiting so long. it was _your_ fault. you would go on." "nonsense. it's more than that. what has happened to her?" "nothing; i told you so. she has serious bouts sometimes. she has one now. so would you have, if you sat in this wind, getting chilled through for an hour on end." "i am sorry to hear that. if it has not already happened, it must be still before her. it is written in her face." "piers, how tiresome! leave my vanna alone. _what_ is in her face?" "tragedy!" said piers rendall. chapter seven. "the happy land." the next event was the receipt of a letter from mr rendall's _mere_, containing an invitation for lunch. jean read it aloud to vanna as they sat together on the tiny lawn where the postman had been intercepted. "... please excuse the formality of a call. i am getting old, and these hilly roads try my nerves. we hope you will all come over to lunch on wednesday, at one o'clock. i shall be pleased to meet miss miggs again, and to make the acquaintance of your young friend. the carriage shall call at twelve-thirty. believe me, my dear jean, your attached friend--" "good for her! we accept with pleasure, of course." "i don't." "vanna! how disagreeable you can be when you try. why were you so bleak and crusty to piers yesterday? i wanted you to be nice." "you told me to keep out of the way, and i did it. i didn't take to him, nor he to me." "humph! i don't know," jean considered, her chin resting upon the cup of her hand. "he was a trifle quelled to find you here--that was natural, for he thought i would be alone; but he was impressed. when we came back from our walk you were staring out to sea with such big, sad eyes, and he looked at you, and wondered. you impressed him, vanna." "you are not to tell him! i forbid you to tell him about me!" vanna spoke with a headlong impetuosity which surprised herself. she did not understand why she shrank from the idea of piers rendall listening to an account of her family history; but the prospect stung, and she could not control her impatience. jean looked at her with quiet reproach. "i should not dream of such a thing. i shall _never_ speak of it, never--except at your express request." "i'm sorry, dear. i'm very irritable these days. write your acceptance, and i'll do my utmost to behave. what is she like--this mamma? a female piers?" "not one bit. a little shrinking creature, very proper, very dull--in a gentle fashion, appallingly obstinate. she and miggles together are as good as a play. you'll hear. they'll get entangled in a dual conversation, and all i ask is--don't look at me! mrs rendall would never forgive me if i laughed. she's a trying little person, and piers is sweet to her; never loses his patience. he deserves a halo for that." vanna raised protesting eyebrows. "well, i hardly knew my parents, but i have realised the want of them so badly all my life that i can't screw myself up to an access of admiration for a son who is decently polite to his mother. suppose she does try his patience at times--that's inevitable, i should say, between a young man and an old woman--how many times has she borne and forborne with him; what mountains of patience has she expended on his training? it's not a virtue, it's mere common decency that he should be kind to her now. he would be despicable if he failed." "quite true, every word true. you are theorising, dear, and there's not an argument against you. but leave theories alone for a moment and look at facts. how many parents and children--grown-up children--do you find who live together in sympathy and understanding? precious few. sometimes there's an open feud; that's rare, and can't go on in the nature of things; sometimes there's an armed truce; sometimes there are successions of jars; almost always there's a gulf. they see with different eyes, and hear with different ears, and each side thinks the other blind and deaf. one side lacks sympathy, the other imagination. it seems the most difficult thing in the world to `put yourself in his place.'" "i don't know. if i'd had my own mother, it seems to me we would have been _friends_. it wouldn't have needed a great exercise of sympathy to realise that she was old and tired, tired with looking after _me_; and if i had made a friend of her and talked to her, and--_told_ her things, she would have sympathised with me in return. i _know_ she would. i feel it!" "did you, `tell things' to aunt mary?" "no, of course not. that was different." "ah, you think so; but it is not. it's the generation that's the bar, not the person," cried jean with one of her quick flashes of intuition. "youth wants youth and looks for it, and finds it easier to confide in a girl after a week's acquaintance than in her very own mother, i've seen it not once, but dozens of times. it doesn't mean that she loves her more, or a tenth part as much, but in a curious, inexplicable way she's _nearer_. it's hard on the parents. every age has its own trials: love troubles when you are young; weakness when you are old; when you are middle-aged it must be just this, to yearn after your children, to long to help and comfort, and to see them prefer some one else! i'm sorry for parents; but why do they grow so old? if i have a daughter, i shall keep young for her sake. at least i shall remember that i _was_ young. i shall never say: `the rain is coming down in sheets, the wind is in the east. i can't think why you can't be content by your own fireside, instead of racing half over the town,' i shan't be overcome with surprise when she forgets to order the fish on the eve of a proposal, or expect her to look a fright in mackintosh and goloshes when she goes out with men friends. i shall remember how i preferred to look nice, even if my feet _were_ soaked!" "you may also remember that you suffered from rheumatism thereby, and wish her to profit from your experience." "no use, my dear. her rheumatism's her own, and if it comes she will bear it, but never my goloshes! a parent can be wise and prosy, and expound the law; but he can't do more. if he tries, he loses instead of gains. i shall school myself to the fact that my little girl is bound to err, and that we are bound to suffer in consequence, she in deed, and i in looking on. that's the price of being a mother. then when she's had her own way and been buffeted, she'll come to me and i'll help her. dear little girl!" the lovely face was aglow with tenderness: it was easy to see that the maternal instinct was strong in jean's heart, and that she would rise to her fullest height as wife and mother. the next moment she raised herself, flashed an anxious look at vanna's face, and deftly turned the conversation. "well, anyway you'll see for yourself that mrs rendall's a trial. when she and miggles get started, don't interrupt--let them have it out by themselves. piers loves to listen, and so do i." the next day an old-fashioned barouche bore the three ladies over several miles of hilly roads to the square white mansion where the widowed mrs rendall lived in peaceful seclusion from the world. after the style of old-fashioned houses, it was situated in a hollow, sheltered from the wind, but also cut off from a view of the surrounding country. the entrance hall was bleak and uninteresting, the rooms, so many big square boxes, furnished with early victorian heaviness, and an astonishing absence of individuality. vanna counted eleven little tables in the drawing-room, each bearing a weight of senseless ornaments. on the marble chimney-piece a pair of red glass "lustres," a pair of parian marble figures, male and female, were mathematically arranged on each side of a bohemian glass centre-piece, bearing a medallion portrait of a simpering brunette. a bannerette of crimson cross-stitch, on which was worked a cluster of steel-bead roses, hung pendant from a brass rod; the water-colour paintings on the walls were encircled by large white mounts; the drab carpet was garlanded with flowers; in the air was the sweet, somewhat musty flavour of potpourri. mrs rendall wore a large widow's cap on the top of a small grey head, and was the sort of woman who is instinctively connected with a shoulder-shawl and mittens. it was difficult to imagine her the mother of the handsome man with the bright, irritable-looking eyes, who stood by her side to welcome the guests on their arrival. the dining-room was a distinct improvement on the drawing-room, as is invariably the case when the mistress of the house is devoid of taste. the mahogany furniture was solid and purposeful, and the family portraits on the red flock walls added an air of richness to the prevailing comfort. the table itself was beautifully spread with the finest of napery and some treasured pieces of old family silver. six specimen glasses were set at equal distances, each bearing a head of geranium and a spray of maidenhair fern; two white-capped maids stood stiffly at attention. "piers, my dear," said mrs rendall primly, "will you ask a blessing?" during the progress of the first course the conversation was general and futile. the party was too small to allow of separate conversations: the young people seemed inclined to allow their elders to lead the way, and as one old lady seemed determined to cling tenaciously to one subject, and the other to dash continually to pastures new, the result was something confusing. vanna felt the pressure of jean's foot on her own, and received a twinkling glance of amusement. "now!" said the glance as plainly as words could speak. "the fun's beginning. let them have it to themselves." "no! i never disturb my borders," announced mrs rendall firmly. "neither bulbs nor perennials. my gardener says--" "but you remember the totteridges!" miggles interrupted, insistently smiling. "emily mackintosh. she married the son of the old man, rev totteridge, vicar of newley. my sister susan was bridesmaid. pink taffetas. all the go. he went out to india and was killed by a tiger. poor emily! you know their garden. that border by the church wall--" "_my_ gardener says--" "emily always divided the bulbs. some people leave them for three years. our old landlord over at sutton--did you know the dixons? _charming_ family! they used to come over and play croquet with us at my old home. the second son was a dear fellow, but stuttered. so sad when a man stutters. what was i saying, dear? i _do_ wander! oh, yes! old mr dixon moved them every autumn--" "my gardener says--" "but they grew so matted. you know! _matted_! jungles! i always say take a middle course. when i was spending my holiday in devonshire i had tea in a lovely old garden. clotted cream. did you ever try it with marmalade? de-licious! all the lilies in one bed, and a stream running through. `cool siloam.' couldn't help thinking of it, you know, but not in an irreverent spirit. wouldn't be irreverent for the world. it's the spirit that matters, isn't it, dear--the spirit, not the letter? the scent of those lilies--" "my gardener says--" "yes, dear, and of course he _has_ experience, but we must judge by results--judge by results. stands to reason, as i say, and you had so few blooms. what can you expect if they never get any attention? poor things. we all like attention. i do, i'm sure. and if they're matted, _can_ they bloom? now try it one year! you're mistress. i don't approve of being overruled. consideration, but not concession. hear all that other people have to say, and take your own way afterwards, as my dear mother used to say. jean, you are laughing! naughty girl! what is so funny about bulbs?" "my gardener says that well-established bulbs bloom better than those which are continually removed," said mrs rendall firmly. "i intend to follow his advice." "certainly, dear. why not, if you wish it? the garden's your own. hope he appreciates his place. people always say gardeners are despotic; my dear father would have no interference. discharged three men in succession for giving advice, and when the fourth came for orders the first morning--i remember it so well; i was a girl at the time, about fourteen--`d'ye see that row of gooseberry bushes?' he said. `dig 'em all up, and plant 'em back again head downward.' `very good, sir,' said the man. at lunch time there they were--poor things! roots sticking up in the air--you never saw such a sight--obliged to laugh, you know, obliged to laugh, though daren't show it. `you're the man for me,' said my father. `there's a shilling for you; go and get a drink.' my mother was an abstainer, but he would never join. a pity, but men, my dear, men, can't be coerced--!" "piers," said mrs rendall coldly, "return thanks." in the face of such an interruption miggles was perforce reduced to silence, and the luncheon party broke up. coffee was served in the drawing-room, and vanna mentally resolved to plead fatigue as an excuse for spending the next two hours with the old ladies; but she was not allowed to carry her plan into execution. "i want to take you the round of our little estate, miss strangeways," piers announced when the coffee-cups had been put aside. "jean knows it of old, but we always seize the opportunity of showing it to strangers. i won't ask you to come with us, miggles, for the paths are distinctly rough, and you will be more comfortable sitting quietly on the verandah with mother. what sort of heels are you wearing this afternoon, jean?" "flat, ugly, english! i have too much sense of fitness to sport `louis quinze' in country roads; but why do english bootmakers set their faces so sternly against insteps? i'm never comfortable out of a french shoe," said jean with a sigh. she slid her hand through vanna's arm with an affectionate pressure which was intended to show her agreement in piers's invitation, and the three young people walked across the lawn, leaving the old ladies seated in their low cane chairs. "sleep sweetly--and dream of bulbs!" quoth jean, peering at them over her shoulder. "piers, i don't want to grow old. it doesn't seem possible that a time can _ever_ come when i shall be content to wear cashmere boots and sleep on a verandah while other people play in the sun. do you believe that i shall really grow old?" piers rendall looked at her and his lips twitched, but his eyes did not soften--the hard brilliancy, which was their chief characteristic, became if anything a trifle more accentuated. it was a curious look for a man to cast at a girl with whom he was in love. _was_ he in love with jean? vanna asked herself curiously for the hundredth time in the course of the last few days. if she had but known it, rendall was engaged in asking himself the same question, and finding it almost as difficult to answer. at times, yes! he would have been less than a man if he had not been occasionally swept off his feet by the vivid beauty of that upturned face. jean present--laughing, teasing, cajoling--could hold him captive. ear and eye alike were busy in her presence, busy and charmed; haunting, everyday cares were thrust into the background, and discontent transformed into joy. for the hour it would seem as if the whole happiness of life were to laugh, and dance, and to rejoice in the sunshine. so far so good, but--jean absent, the spell dissolved. the thought of her had no power to hold him; he could live tranquilly for months together, indifferent to, almost forgetful of, her existence. here there was surely something wrong. this could be no real passion, which was so lightly dispelled. if he really loved as a man should love, the thought of her should be as chains drawing him to her side. piers rendall sighed. "perhaps," he told himself with weary self-depredation--"perhaps i am incapable of real passion. it is the same story all round. i never get far enough. nature made me in a mocking mood, cursing me with high aims and poor achievements. what i long for is never accomplished, what i attain never satisfies. if i am to find any happiness from life, i must adjust the balance and be satisfied with smaller things. it's time i married. most men can live alone, but i'm sick of solitude. ten years of life in chambers is enough for any man. jean is a darling, a delight to the eyes; she's only a child, but she's sweet all through, and she'll grow. she'll be a dear woman. i am always happy in her company--it's only when we are apart that i have doubts. if she would have me, we should always be together. _would_ she have me, i wonder?" he looked down at the girl as she walked by his side, critically, questioningly, with a certain wistfulness of expression, yet without a throb of the desperate, death-and-life tension which another man might have felt, which he himself understood enough to miss and to covet. "shall i _never_ feel?" he asked himself, and his thin face twitched and twitched again. "you don't speak," cried jean lightly. "poor piers! he thinks it a silly question, but he is too kind to speak the truth. does the girl expect to be immortal? he is saying to himself, and trying to conjure up a picture--the picture of jean goring, _old_! ah, well, it will be only my husk that alters; and even when it's withered and dry there'll be _this_ comfort; you'll be withered, too! we shall all grow old together, and we'll be friends still, and cling together, and sympathise, and think the young so--crude!" she laughed, and pointed forward with an outstretched hand. "here's the tennis-lawn, and there's the fernery, and here's a prosaic gravel path dividing the two. you've seen fifty thousand other gardens like it before. now shut your eyes--keep them shut, and let me guide you for the next two minutes. then prepare for a surprise." vanna shut her eyes obediently, and surrendered herself to the guiding hand. for some yards the path stretched smooth and straight beneath her feet, then suddenly it curved and took a downward dope. at the same time the well-rolled smoothness disappeared, and her feet tripped against an occasional stone. the second time this happened a hand touched her shoulder with the lightest, most passing of pressures--that was piers rendall, who had evidently crossed the path at the opposite side from jean, to be a further security to her steps. vanna flushed, and trod with increased care, but the path was momentarily becoming more difficult, and despite all her precautions she slipped again, more heavily than before. this time the hand grasped her arm without pretence, and at the same moment she stopped short, and cried quickly: "oh, it's too rough. i can't go on. i'm going to open my eyes." "open!" cried jean's voice dramatically, and with a hand placed on each elbow twisted her round to face the west. vanna gave a cry of delight, and stood transfixed with admiration. the commonplace white house with its tennis-lawn and beds of geraniums had disappeared; she stood on a path looking across a narrow glen illuminated by sunshine, which streamed down through the delicate foliage of a grove of aspens. the dappled light danced to and fro over carpets of softest moss, through which peeped patches of violets and harebells. the trunks of the aspens shone silvery white; here and there on the crest of the hills stood a grave scotch fir, grey-blue against the green. from below came the melodious splash of water; the faint hum and drone of insect life rose from the ground; from overhead floated down the sweet, shrill chorus of birds. vanna gazed, her face illumined with admiration, and her companions in their turn gazed at her face. it also was good to look at at that moment, and eloquent as only a usually quiet face can be. "oh! how wonderful! it's a _dell_--a glade--a fairy glade! the unexpectedness of it! only a few yards from those beds of geraniums! one feels as if anything like a house or bedding-out plants must be at the other end of the world... and down there the little stream..." she lifted her head with a sudden glance of inquiry. "the stream grows wider surely--there are stepping-stones--at the end there's a lake. i am _sure_ there is a lake--!" before piers had time to reply, jean had interrupted with a quick exclamation: "vanna! how did you know? how did you guess? you have never been here before?" "perhaps miss strangeways thinks that she has. have you visited our glen in another incarnation, miss strangeways, that you remember its details so distinctly?" vanna shook her head. "no; i have never known that feeling. one hears of it, but it doesn't come to me. it's more like--_expectation_. i seemed for the moment to see ahead. it must really be a fairy glen, for there's enchantment in the air. something--something is going to happen here. i feel it! something _good_! we are going to be happy!" piers looked at her curiously, but jean remained charmingly matter-of-fact. "of course we are, and we are going to begin at once. let's sit down and talk. it's cool tinder these trees, and i'm sleepy after lunch. so you don't remember being here before, vanna? how stupid of you! you must have a very short memory. we've played here together scores of times, when there was no white house, and no smooth lawn, and the grandparents of these old trees were gay young saplings. i was a wood-nymph, and danced about with the other nymphs all day long, and flirted with the elves--elves are masculine, i'm sure! and feasted on nuts. (that habit lasts. i adore them still.) when winter came, i curled up into a tight little ball in the hollow of an oak, and slept till spring came back. where is that old oak, i wonder? i long to meet it again. and all the long summer days we ate wild strawberries, and drank out of the stream, and played hide-and-seek among the trees. and one day, piers, _you_ came along--do you remember? i peered out from behind the leaves, and saw you coming." "i was not an elf then--one of the number who was honoured by your attentions?" "oh, dear me, no! nothing so frivolous. you an elf! you were a woodcutter with a solemn face, and a long white beard, and a big strong axe, and you came trespassing into my glade with intent to kill my dear tree friends. but i circumvented you. when you took up your axe i swung on the branches till the sunshine danced on your eyes, and dazzled them so that you could not see." "the same old trick! i seem to have no difficulty in remembering you in that guise. it has a flavour of to-day." "poof!" jean blew disdain from pursed-up lips. "so much for you. if you are so clever at remembering, tell me something about vanna as she was at that time. she was there that day--quite close to me. what was she like?" piers looked across to where vanna sat, and, for the first time in the short history of their acquaintance, their eyes met with smiling ease and friendliness. each felt a sense of relief to see the other in happier mood, and with it an increased appreciation of the other's charm. "if he were always happy, how handsome he would be!" "she is charming when she smiles. she should always smile!" "so we are old friends, miss strangeways. we have jean's word for it, so it must be true. my memory is not very clear. let me think. i was a woodcutter with a long grey beard. i must have looked rather striking in a beard. and i invaded jean's glade with intent to kill, and made your acquaintance there. what can you have been? not a nymph, i think; perhaps a flower--" vanna lifted a protesting hand. whence came this sudden tide of happiness; this swift rush of blood through the veins? the last year's burden of sorrow had weighed heavily upon her shoulders; the harley street interview had seemed to put a definite end to youth and joy; but now suddenly, unreasonably, the mist lifted, she knew a feeling not only of mental but of actual physical lightness; hard-won composure gave place to the old gay impulse toward laughter and merriment. "no--no. i guess what you are going to say; but spare me, i pray you! i was _not_ `a violet by a mossy dell.' it is the inevitable comparison, but it does _not_ apply. whatever i was, i am sure i was never content to nestle in that mossy bed." piers rendall looked at her reflectively, the smile still lingering round his mouth. "no-o," he said slowly. "i should not think the violet was exactly your counterpart. we must leave it to jean--" "she was a scotch fir," said jean firmly. "she stood up straight and stiff against the sky, and there were little sharp spikes on her boughs, and if you ran against her, she pricked; but when the storms came, and the aspens bent and swayed, she stood firm, and the little needles fell on the ground, and made a soft, soft bed, and we lay there sheltered, and slept till the storm passed by. there! you never knew how poetic i could be. i'm quite exhausted with the effort, and so sleepy! i positively must have a nap. run away, you two! explore the glen for half an hour, and leave me in peace. if there's one thing in the world i adore, it's sleeping out-of-doors." she curled up on the ground as she spoke, nestling her cheek in her hand, and yawning like a tired child, without disguise or apology. evidently there was no pretence about her statement, for already her eyelids had begun to droop, until dark lashes rested on the flushed cheeks; she moved her head to and fro seeking for greater comfort; peered upward, and exclaimed with added emphasis: "go away! i told you to go." jean was accustomed to issue queenly commands, and her friends were accustomed to obey. piers and vanna strolled down the sloping path, leaving her to her dreams. a day before vanna would have felt unhappily that piers was chafing at the change of companionship, and condoling with himself in advance on a half-hour's boredom; to-day she was troubled by no such doubts. self-confidence had returned, and with it the old stimulating consciousness of charm. piers rendall deserved no pity at her hands. the path grew steeper, strewn with pebbles, interspersed with crawling roots of trees; the gentle trickle of water deepened in tone as it swirled in rapid flow round the mossy stones; banks of old-fashioned purple rhododendron framed the margin of the lake. a rustic bench stood at a corner, whence the most extensive view could be obtained; the two seated themselves thereon, and slid easily into conversation. "so you have pleasant anticipations concerning our glen? we are used to admiration, but i think that it is quite the most charming compliment it has received. if it had recalled a dim memory it would not have been half so interesting, for when the good things arrive we are bound to have a share in them, if only the pleasure of looking on while you enjoy. what form does it take--this presentiment of yours? have you any definite idea of what is to happen--or when?" vanna shook her head. "nothing! i only know that the moment i opened my eyes and looked round i felt a throb of--not surprise, something bigger than surprise, and a quite extraordinary rush of happiness and hope. things have not been cheery with me of late, so it is all the more striking. i feel about ten years younger than when i left the house." he looked at her searchingly, and vanna entered it to his credit that he spared her the obvious flattering retort. instead, his own expression seemed to cloud; he leant his arms on his knees and, bending forward, stared gloomily into space. "what sports of circumstances we are! i was looking round the table at lunch to-day and puzzling for the hundredth time over the question of temperament. does it interest you at all? do you find it a difficulty? why are some of us born into the world handicapped with temperaments which hold us in chains all our days, and others with some natural charm or quality of mind which acts as an open sesame wherever they go? look at miggles! a plain, lonely old woman, without a sou. if she had been born with a `difficult' temper, she might have worked, and slaved, and fought with evil passions, and gone to bed every night of her life wearied out with the stress of battle, and when the need of her was past, her employers would have heaved a sigh of relief, and packed her off with a year's salary. can't you hear her requiem? `a good creature, most painstaking--what a relief to be alone!' but miggles! no sane creature would willingly send her away. you would as soon brick up windows to keep out the sun. she radiates happiness and content, without--this is the point--without effort on her own part! the effort to her would be to grumble and be disagreeable, yet she receives all the credit and appreciation which she would have more truly deserved in the other case. and jean! look at jean! honestly--we are both her devoted slaves--but honestly, is it by any virtue of her own? does she reign by merit or by chance?" vanna smiled. "i know what you mean. jean is charming, but it is easier for her to be charming than for most people. every glance in the glass must be as reviving as a tonic. she has no difficulty in making friends, for people advance three quarters of the way to meet her; and if by chance she is in a bad mood--well, she is charming still. of course, if she were plain--" "exactly! she reigns in a kingdom of chance, and by no merit of her own. doesn't that seem rather hard on the unfortunates who start with a handicap--a restless, unsatisfied nature, for example--a nature which longs for the affection and appreciation which it seems fated never to receive; which suffers and struggles, and honestly sees no reason why life should be harder for it than for another? yet there it is--the inequality, the handicap from the beginning. jean has beauty and charm, but even these don't weigh so heavily in the balance as happiness; the aura of happiness and content which radiates from miggles and her kind-- the mark tapleys of the world, who triumph over every sort of physical and material difficulty. you smile! are you thinking of some one you know, some particular person who is included in this happy category?" "yes; of a man i met only the other day--a man over thirty, with eyes like a child; clear, and unclouded, and happy. yet he had known many anxieties; in a worldly sense i suppose he would be counted a failure, but, as you say, one _felt_ it, the aura of radiant happiness and content." "lucky beggar! the world which counts him a failure would think me a success, because i have plenty of money, and was born to a decent position; but looking back over my life i can't remember one single occasion when i have been really _content_. there has always seemed something wanting, a final touch of completeness floating out of reach. yet i give you my word, if at this moment a wish would bring me anything i chose, i should not know what to ask!" vanna looked at him searchingly, noting the lean cheeks, the hollow brow, the deep lines around eyes and mouth. "isn't that partly physical, don't you think? you don't look strong. the body affects the mind." her voice involuntarily took a softer tone, the feminine tribute to weakness in any form; but piers rendall would not accept the excuse. "on the contrary, it's my mind that affects my body. i'm strong enough. my body was born free of microbes--the poison was in my mind. that seems a hard theory, but it's true. have you never noticed how one child in a family seems to have inherited all the weaknesses and failings, while the others get off scot free? he is plain, while they are handsome; sullen, where they are genial; underhand, while they are open. i know such cases where one can only look on and marvel--where there is no blame to be cast, where the parents have broken no law--are healthy, no relation--" vanna winced. a shadow passed across her face, as if cast by a flickering bough. "_don't_ talk of it," she cried urgently. "don't! it is too pitiful, here in this glen. i can't discuss such things here. another time, perhaps, but let me be happy here. talk of happy things. there is so much sorrow..." piers looked at her, and as he did so there arose in his mind the swift remembrance of her face as she had sat upon the pebbly beach a few days before--the face on which he had read tragedy. remorse seized him. he hastened to retrieve his mistake. "forgive me. you are quite right--the scene is not appropriate. miss strangeways, by the laws of appreciation, this glen is yours. i have a conviction that these trees recognise you as their queen. lay down a law, and we will keep it. come what may, when you and i enter this glen, we will leave our troubles behind. it shall be a space apart, in which to be busy over nothing but being happy. we will talk of happy things, happy memories, happy prospects; best of all, the happy present. it shall be a sin against the realm and its sovereign to mention one painful fact. is it agreed?" vanna looked around with wistful glance. "the happy land! that is a charming idea--to keep one spot on earth sacred to happiness! why has not one thought of that before? yes, indeed, mr rendall, i'll agree. the only pity is that i shall be here so seldom. one ought to keep one's happy land within reach." "i hope you may come more often than you think. mr goring is talking of buying the cottage, and if that comes off you will be constantly with them. my visits also are only occasional. for nine months of the year i am in town. it will be an extra attraction to come down to a place where i am bound to be happy. where is your settled home?" "i have no home at present." vanna vouchsafed no further explanation, and piers did not ask for one, for which she was grateful. more than once this tactful reservation of the obvious had arrested her attention, and been mentally noted as the man's best point. vanna felt sorry for him, tender over him, as a woman will do over something that is suffering or weak. the nervous, restless face looked far indeed from content, yet he had declared that if he had power to wish he would not know what to desire. that might mean that he was dwelling in that unrecognised stage of love, that period of discomfort, doubt, and upheaval, which precedes the final illumination. it would go hard with him if he loved and were disappointed. she put the thought aside with resolute effort. was not the glen dedicated to happy thoughts? the half-hour slipped quickly away, and presently jean herself descended to seat herself on the bench by vanna's side, and take the conversation under her own control. at four o'clock they returned to the house, mounting the steep path, and entering with a sigh the stiff precincts of the garden. on the verandah the two stout, black-robed figures of the old ladies could be seen reposing in their wickerwork chairs, but, behold, the distance between those chairs was largely increased, and between the two, the obvious centre of attraction, sat a third form--a masculine form, clad in light grey clothes, towards whom both glances were directed, who gesticulated with his hands, and bent from side to side. the face of this newcomer could not be distinguished; his figure was half hidden by the encircling chairs. "who the dickens?" ejaculated piers blankly. he stared beneath frowning brows, searching memory, without response. "none of the neighbours. some one from town. how has he come?" vanna looked, but without interest. in a short time the carriage would be at the door to carry the three ladies back to the cottage by the sea. the advent of a stranger could not affect them for good or ill. she turned to exchange a casual remark with jean, and behold, jean's cheeks were damask--flaming, as if with a fever. now what was this? the effect of that nap on the mossy ground? but not a moment before jean's colour had been normal. had anything been said to arouse her wrath? was she by chance annoyed at this interruption to the visit? and then, nearer already by a score of yards, vanna turned once more towards the verandah, and understood. there, sandwiched between the two old ladies, smiling, debonair, at ease, a stranger, yet apparently on terms of easy friendship, sat--not the wraith of robert gloucester, as for a moment seemed the only possible explanation, but the man himself, in veritable flesh and blood. incredible, preposterous as it appeared, it was nevertheless true. one could not doubt the evidence of one's own senses, of the eyes which beheld him, the ears which listened to his words, as in characteristic simplicity he offered his explanation. "how do you do? you are surprised to see me here. i came down by the twelve train. mr goring and i have arranged to have some fishing together. i'm putting up at the inn. i called at the cottage and found you were out. the maid told me where you were to be found, and i thought i would walk over, and perhaps have the pleasure of escorting you home. i have introduced myself as you see!" so far he had addressed himself pointedly to vanna, casting never a glance in the direction of jean, but now he turned towards piers with the frankest of smiles. "my name's gloucester. i'm just home from abroad. i'm going to fish with mr goring. hope you don't mind my intruding. i am at a loose end down here." "not at all--not at all! pleased to see you. sit down. we'll have some tea." piers spoke cordially; what was more to the point, he looked cordial into the bargain. of a shy, reserved nature, cherishing an active dislike of strangers, he yet appeared to find nothing extraordinary or offensive in the intrusion of this man "just home from abroad," who had raided his mother's privacy in the hope of gaining for himself the pleasure of meeting her invited guests. vanna looked past him to the faces of the two old ladies seated on the basket chairs, and beheld them benign, smiling, unperturbed. they also had fallen beneath the spell of gloucester's personality, and had placidly accepted his explanations. jean walked to the farthest of the row of chairs, pushed it back out of the line of vision, and seated herself in silence. piers strolled towards the house to hurry the arrival of tea, and miggles declared genially: "so nice for gentlemen to fish! such an interest, especially getting on in years like mr goring. gout, you know! such a handicap. i believe the inn is comfortable. quite clean; but always mutton. you will have to take meals with us." "i--i've lost my handkerchief. i'll look upstairs," mumbled vanna hurriedly. she dived through the open window, fled upstairs to the shelter of the bedroom where she had laid aside her wraps three hours before, and sinking down on the bed pressed both hands against her lips. for the first time for many weeks, laughter overcame her in paroxysms which could not be repressed. she laughed and laughed; the tears poured down her cheeks; she laughed again and again. chapter eight. a narrow escape. suddenly jean wrapped herself in a mantle of reserve. not even to vanna, her chosen confidante, did she express surprise at gloucester's sudden appearance, or make one single comment, favourable or the reverse. driving home in mrs rendall's carriage, she maintained her fair share in the conversation, and betrayed no sign of embarrassment. that she was embarrassed vanna knew by the tone of her voice, which was wont to take a higher, shriller note on such occasions; but neither gloucester nor miggles was likely to recognise so subtle a betrayal. the old lady was evidently greatly taken with the new acquaintance, and invited him to dinner at the end of the drive. "we are only three women, very dull for a young man, but as you are alone in the inn--so unhomelike, inn-parlours!--if you _would_ care to dine at seven o'clock, pot luck, just a simple meal! don't dress; it's a picnic life down here, and the girls like to run about as long as it keeps light." miggles had reigned as mistress of mr goring's home for so many years that, failing the second wife's presence, she still managed the household, without any attempt at interference from her old pupil. jean had no ambition for domestic responsibilities; looking after a house was dull, stodgy work, miggles liked it, then for goodness' sake let her do it; she had no wish to exercise her prerogative. it was miggles, therefore, who gave the newcomer his first invitation to the cottage, but when robert's eyes turned to the girl with an involuntary question, jean was ready with a gracious support. "we are very quiet, as miss miggs says. next week father brings down the family, and it will be livelier; but if you care to risk it, we shall be pleased." "seven o'clock. thank you!" said robert simply. he took his leave for the time being, and the ladies entered the cottage. "we had better get our letters written, as we shall not have time later on," said jean calmly. even when seated with vanna at the same writing-table she made no reference to the event of the afternoon. it might have been the most natural thing in the world for robert gloucester to leave his old friends in less than a week after his return from india, in order to have the privilege of fishing with a strange elderly gentleman. when the letters were finished, she talked on indifferent subjects, gaily, lovingly, intimately as ever, yet with a certain carriage of the head, a set of the lips which seemed to send forth an unspoken warning, "until now my heart has lain bare before you, but to-day there has entered into it something so intimate, so sacred, that it cannot be revealed to any human gaze. _touch me not_!" and vanna understood, and was silent. robert gloucester came back to dinner and sat at the head of the table opposite miggles, the two girls seated one on either side. a bowl of roses stood in the centre of the table; roses twined round the framework of the opened window; tiny sprays of roses wandered over the muslin of jean's gown. they talked of books, of pictures, of foreign lands, of things extraordinary, and things prosaic. when robert recounted experiences abroad, the two girls questioned him as to scenery and environment, and miggles wished to know what he had had to eat, and if there was any means of drying his clothes. gloucester also entered into details about his business life, and the failure of his investments, explaining his present monetary position with an incredible frankness. "it seemed an awfully good thing, perfectly sound, but it came a jolly big crash. i was fortunate to get out of it as well as i did. i haven't been fortunate in my speculations. between them i've dropped almost all my capital. i have a share or two in a bank paying rattling good interest, and the firm pay me a fair salary, and that's all that is left." "oh, we know you don't mean _that_," laughed miggles easily. "it will all go on quite nicely, i am sure, and you will be settling down and marrying, of course." "of course," said robert gloucester. there was something so exquisitely unusual about his frank avowal of poverty that vanna had hard work to keep a straight face. what to another man would have been a secret between himself and his banker weighed so heavily on robert gloucester's candid soul that he must needs blurt it out on the first possible occasion. vanna knew intuitively the exact workings of his mind: he had come down to seacliff to woo jean for his wife. jean must know from the beginning exactly what he had to offer; not for a single evening could she be allowed to think of him in a setting which did not exist. "he had not been lucky in his speculations." unnecessary explanation! it was from guileless natures such as his that the fraudulent made their hoards. the national savings bank would be the only safe resting-place for robert gloucester's money. when the simple meal was over the two girls accompanied their guest into the garden and sat beside him while he smoked. he neither offered cigarettes to them, nor did they dream of providing them on their own account. in the seventies it was still a rare and petrifying experience to see a young girl smoke. the heroine of to-day is depicted to us as making dainty play with her cigarette, or blowing smoke-rings with unequalled grace. if the tips of her fingers are also stained yellow with nicotine, and her clothes diffuse an atmosphere of a smoking-carriage, these details are mercifully concealed. jean and vanna at least had no hankerings after this masculine amusement. once and again as the time passed by, robert looked fixedly at vanna, and grey eyes and brown exchanged an unspoken duel. "leave us alone!" entreated the brown. "you know; you understand! as you are wise be merciful..." "not one step!" replied the grey. "here i am, and here i stay. this is my post, and i will stick to it." "be hanged to your post! you take too much upon yourself. hand over your post to me. think of the difficulties, the contrivings, the explainings i have had to undergo before getting away from town!" "you had no business to leave..." vanna stuck obstinately to her guns, and at last gloucester abandoned his efforts. another man would have been angry, impatient, would have eyed her with cold antagonism, but robert betrayed no irritation. rather did his brown eyes dilate with mischievous amusement as they met her own. "please yourself," they seemed to say. "do your little best. erect your puny barriers. a day or two more or less--what does it matter? the end is sure." the cottage with its sloping garden was perched high on the side of one of two outstanding cliffs which formed a deep, narrow bay. so far did these chalk-walls jut out, so narrow was the space between, that the view from the land had a confined, stage-like effect. the coast-line on either side was completely hidden from sight, only the blue-green waters stretched ahead, but these waters were one of the highways of a nation's life, and o'er its surface all kinds of craft passed to and fro, in endless panorama. when the tide was up, the great steamers could safely take the inshore channel, while near at hand, and looking as if one could, in nautical language, "throw a biscuit aboard," the smaller craft plied their way to and fro. now it would be a small sailing barge, with captain, mate, and crew, comprised in one single hand, anon a white-sailed yacht, with gleaming brass-work and spotless paint, or a coasting collier, grimy and drab, her screw out of water, as she churned her homeward way. in fine weather coasting passenger-boats ventured near shore, while farther off the pilot-boats of many nations could be discerned, decked with gay strings of signalling flags, and the busy tugs plied far and near, endlessly on the watch for chances of salvage. one misty day as jean sat perched alone on the edge of the railed-in garden, at a point from which she could have dropped a stone into the sea beneath, a smooth grey keel glided noiselessly round the corner of the cliff, and another, and yet a third--low-built, ominous-looking monsters, the colour of the fog, the colour of the waves, her majesty's battleships, each bearing on board its complement of seven hundred men. to-night, as the daylight faded slowly away, the different lights at sea attracted the watching eye. from the left came a merry, starlike twinkle, as from a faithful friend who kept firmly to his post; beyond him in the dim distance was the humourist, who for ten seconds on end indulged in a stony stare, then darkened, gave two cunning winks, and so again to his stare. right ahead was the big revolving light which, like a constable afloat, divided the traffic--"this way for the river, that for the north sea!" high over all swung the rays from the great lighthouse on the downs. presently round the farther cliff came a great ocean liner, its cabin windows showing out a blaze of light, the throb, throb of its engines heard distinctly in the distance, a floating city, bearing home an army of men: the man who had toiled and reaped his reward; the man who had toiled and failed, the idler, the drone, the remittance man back again to prey on his friends; the bridegroom speeding to his bride; the trembler, to whom the wires had flashed a message of tragedy; the sinner, fleeing from justice, the pleasure lover seeking a new world. those brilliantly lighted rooms held them all. up the long channel they sailed; past the shifty sand-banks, past the hidden rocks; gliding smoothly along the beaten track, while the captain stood on his bridge and grew pale beneath his tan. until the dangerous channel was navigated, he would not leave his post. the three who were seated on the garden bench watched the great vessel in silence until she disappeared behind the cliff. "a week ago," said robert softly, "a week ago i was steaming along this very coast. only one little week!" he broke off suddenly, and there was no response, but vanna felt jean's fingers twitch within her arm. was she too beginning to realise the bearing of this week upon her own life? during the days which elapsed before mr and mrs goring and the two schoolboys arrived at the cottage, jean kept sedulously by her friend's side, and allowed robert gloucester no chance of a _tete-a-tete_. instead of being ordered to keep her distance, as on the occasion of piers rendall's visit, vanna was held firmly by the arm, invited to join every expedition, considered so necessary that, without her company no expedition could be faced. where jean went, vanna must needs go also; who wished to see one, must see the other also. but when the family arrived, the chaperonage could no longer be preserved. the cottage was crowded to its fullest limit. miggles was busy with household affairs. mr goring, his wife, the two schoolboys, all made their own demands on the girls' time. if jean were bidden to accompany her father for a walk along the downs, vanna must needs hunt for crabs among the rocks below. if vanna was writing letters to tradespeople, jean must run to the village and order cakes for tea. young girls should make themselves useful; a daughter should be ready to wait on her father; a sister should be glad to amuse her brothers in their holidays. in these days it was worth while for an occupant of the inn-parlour to keep a sharp lookout on the winding path leading from the cliff to the village, for if by chance a girl's graceful form were seen descending, there was time to snatch hat and stick, and reach the corner of the road at the same moment as herself. jean, intercepted on her way to fulfil a commission, and without possibility of escape, would promptly adopt an air of freezing dignity, reply in monosyllables, and hurry through her work in the shortest possible space of time; but no amount of coldness, of snubbing, or neglect could damp the ardour of gloucester's pursuit. before a week was past, the budding romance was discerned not only by the different members of the household, but by the village _en bloc_; and while parents discussed prospects and settlements, and the schoolboys planned holiday visits to "jean's house," mrs jones of the general stores moved the position of a row of sweet-bottles in the shop window, in order to enjoy a better view of the daily encounter, and the boatmen waiting impatiently for customers consulted their watches on the appearance of either of the interesting couple, and indulging an apparently ingrained habit, bet pennies together concerning the time which would elapse before the advent of "t'other," and still jean wrapped herself in her mantle of reserve, and refused to mention gloucester's name even in private conclave with her friend. piers rendall often walked over to the cottage to spend some hours of the day with his friends, and, strange as it might appear, the two young men seemed mutually attracted to each other. vanna believing them both to be in love with the same girl, was constantly watching for signs of jealousy and irritation, but none appeared. if piers was occasionally somewhat silent and distrait, the fact did not interfere with his transparent enjoyment of gloucester's company; while robert himself seemed to take a positive pride and pleasure in the knowledge of the other's devotion. "he admires her desperately, doesn't he? every one does. there are dozens of fellows head over heels in love with her, i suppose. scores! she must be kept busy refusing them, poor fellows! hard lines for a girl, especially when she is so sweet and sensitive, and sympathetic, and--" vanna threw up her hand with a comical little grimace of appeal. "that's enough, that's enough! three adjectives are quite a good allowance for one sentence. spare me the rest. miss goring has a charming disposition, and she is duly appreciated. that's settled. now we'll talk of something else. how did the fishing go this morning? a good haul?" they looked at each other and laughed with mischievous enjoyment. each time they found themselves alone the same thing happened. gloucester persistently endeavoured to talk about jean; vanna as persistently turned the subject. on both sides the contest was conducted with absolute good humour. it was as amusing as a game, in which each tried to outwit the other, to set for him an unconscious trap and pitfall. to-day they walked along the country lanes, jean and piers rendall ahead, miggles bringing up the rear, with a schoolboy hanging on each arm. these two lads, jack and pat, adored the old woman who had been their confidante and mentor from their earliest years, and there was literally no end to the sympathetic interest which she bestowed upon them. father and mother might weary of eternal cricket and sixth-form reminiscences, and impatiently suggest bed or a book. jean might, and did, wax frankly cross and bored, but miggles never failed to produce a due display of surprise; never denied the expected admiration, nor shirked a question which gave the conversation a new turn of life. at this moment vanna could hear pat's voice reeling off the everlasting details: "smith, major, was bowling his hardest--he's a terror to bowl--and the pitch was fast, and a ball got up, and got me on the shoulder--" "dear, dear, think of that! and you went on playing? you _are_ brave! and made a fine score too, i'll be bound!" how much of miggles's happiness did she owe to this blessed capacity for sympathy in the interests of others? the destination of this afternoon's walk was a little wood lying about a mile inland, and as a short cut across country, jean and piers led the way through a farmyard, and thence on to a winding lane, sunk deep between two hedgerows, fragrant with honeysuckle and wild rose. to right and left lay the fields belonging to the farm; pleasant fields of wheat and corn, of delicate, green-eared barley, of sweet-smelling beans. it was a typical english lane; a perfect english afternoon, not typical, alas! except so far as it demonstrated the perfection to which our erratic climate can occasionally attain. the sky overhead was deeply, uncloudedly blue; the sea in the distance the clear, soft green of an aquamarine, sparkling with a thousand points of light; all that the eye could see was beautiful and harmonious; all that the ear could hear, peaceful and serene; laughter, happy voices, the soaring notes of a lark; all things animate and inanimate seemed to speak of peace and happiness; and then suddenly, horribly, the scene changed. what had appeared the distant lowing of cattle, swelled into a threatening roar; a man shouted loudly, and his call was echoed by many voices, by a clamour of sound, by high, warning cries. from the far end of the narrow lane came the sound of galloping feet--heavy, thundering feet seeming to shake the ground; light, racing feet pursuing; swifter footsteps, which were yet mysteriously left behind. borne on the air came the cries of men's voices, and ever and anon that deep, dull roar. nearer and nearer drew the danger, but the tall hedges hid it from sight. jean and piers turned hurriedly back; miggles and the boys hurried forward to where vanna and gloucester stood, the centre of the group. the two men exchanged swift, anxious glances, divining, without consultation, the nature of the danger--a bull, escaped from its chain, rushing towards them. what could be done? the towering hedges gave no chance of escape, and so far as the eye could reach there was neither gate nor entrance into the fields. before there was time to consult or to issue directions, the danger was upon them. with incredible swiftness, within as it seemed one moment from the time when the first cry had burst upon their ears, the danger was at hand. round a corner of the road the huge beast rushed into view; a terrible, nerve-shattering sight, filling up, as it seemed, the whole space of the narrow path, pawing the earth, sending up clouds of dust, bellowing with rage and fear. breathless with horror, they stood and watched it come. and then a strange thing happened. at that moment of strain and terror the thoughts of the four elders of the little party flew instinctively towards jean. danger and jean! death and jean! the idea was insupportable. jean, who was in herself the embodiment of youth, of health, of joy. the woman who had been to her as a second mother; the girl who was her lifelong friend; the man who until now had been the most favoured of her admirers, turned with a common impulse to succour jean, and jean, white-faced, trembling, primitive woman, stripped in one moment of conventions and pretence, indifferent, oblivious of them all, leapt forward into gloucester's arms. they closed round her; she clung to him, hiding her head on his breast; he pressed a hand on her hair, screening her eyes till the danger should have passed. in another moment it was upon them. an agonised gasp of fear passed from one to another. the danger was past! the great brute went plunging down the lane, his head bent low, his small eyes blinking, foam upon his lips; in his anxiety to escape his pursuers, taking no heed of the figures flattened against the hedge. with shouts and oaths, brandished sticks and panting breath, the farm hands galloped in his rear. they passed out of sight, and the quiet lane, sunk beneath its flowering hedges, regained its wonted peace. not so the human beings for whom that moment had been fraught with such startling emotions. jean's revulsion of feeling was as swift as the impulse which had preceded. hardly had the pursuit clattered by than she had wrenched herself from robert's grasp, and with crimson cheeks and haughtily tilted head, taken shelter by miggles's side. vanna, still trembling, leant back against the hedge, gazing from side to side. robert gloucester turned and walked down the lane, following the line of pursuit. she caught a glimpse of his face as he went--radiant, aglow! at the other man she would not look. sympathy for his discomfiture and pain withheld her gaze. she knew exactly how piers rendall would look at this moment: his eyes brilliantly hard, his lips a-twitch. for her own sake she would not look. she hated to see that twitch. miggles leant against the hedge, and burst into unrestrained tears. blessed miggles, who could always be trusted to come to the rescue! her sobs, her tears, her simple oblivion to the subject which was engrossing the minds of her companions were the saving of the situation. "oh, my dear jean--a bull! a runaway bull! never in all my life--and to think that to-day, of all others. this narrow lane! oh dear! oh dear! your poor dear father! if you had worn your red dress! it might so easily have happened! thank god! thank god! your arm, dear, your arm. i do so tremble! my poor old heart feels as if it would burst. what a providence! what a providence!" "what a wicked, wretched man to leave the gate unlocked! i'll ask father to have him discharged at once," cried jean hotly. "it's wicked, criminal carelessness. we might all have been killed." from the bottom of the hedge crawled the scratched and blackened figures of the two schoolboys. "i say!" gasped jack, breathless. "what a lark! what a blooming lark!" chapter nine. treasure trove! miggles did not easily recover from her fright. the good body was in precarious health: it was only the power of mind over body which kept her going, and when the motive power was temporarily eclipsed it was startling, even alarming, to behold the corresponding physical change. the light faded from the eyes; the chin dropped; a dozen unsuspected lines furrowed the face; beaming middle-age was transformed in a moment into suffering age. "i think, my dears," she announced apologetically, "so sorry to spoil your walk, but i _think_ i'll go home! bulls, you know, bulls! they _are_ disconcerting. when you've lived all your life in towns you are not accustomed... i've got a little," she gasped painfully, "stitch in my side! it will soon be gone." the grey hue of her face showed only too plainly the explanation of that stitch. miggles knew it herself, but, as ever, preferred to make light of her ailments. she leant on piers's arm, glancing affectionately in his face, and made no objections when vanna came forward to support her on the other side. "i _am_ honoured! quite a triumphal procession!" she gasped, with blue lips. the two schoolboys had scampered off to join in the chase. jean was preparing to follow miggles and her supporters, when a hand was laid on her arm, and robert gloucester's voice spoke in her ear: "you and i are going on to the wood." jean jerked herself free with a haughty air. "excuse me, i am going home. i must look after miss miggs." "miss miggs has plenty of helpers. she doesn't need you. i do. be kind to me, jean. i've waited so long." so long! it was not yet a fortnight since he had arrived in england; but time has different values, as jean had discovered for herself. these last days had counted for more in life than all the years which had gone before. she looked for one moment into the brown eyes bent upon her, then hastily lowered her lids. but she turned down hill in the direction of the wood. there was nothing in the world so mad or impossible that she could have refused robert gloucester when he looked at her with his clear eyes lighted by that flame. they walked in silence along the quiet lane, golden with buttercups, into the cool shadow of the wood. "now!" said jean's heart, beating painfully against her side. "now!" she was not unversed in occasions of the kind, and as a rule had no difficulty in "heading off" her suitor by a baffling flow of conversation, but to-day no words would come. she looked at the soft carpet of moss beneath her feet; she looked at the branches overhead; she looked down the gladelike vista, and saw ahead a green space encircled by trees--a sunlit, sun-kissed space, doubly bright from contrast with the surrounding shade. "there!" said the voice in her heart. "it will be there." it seemed fitting that robert gloucester should tell his love in the light and the sun. right into the centre of the sunny space they walked, and as by a mutual impulse halted, face to face. for once robert's radiant calm was eclipsed. before the tremendous purport of the moment, confidence, tranquillity, all the varied qualities which combined to sustain the equilibrium of his character, were swept aside as though they had never been. the world held but one person, and that was jean; if jean failed him, nothing was left. at that moment the physical strain of long sojourn abroad showed itself painfully in sunken cheek and pallid hue. in the light grey clothes, which hung so loosely on his thin form, he looked like the ghost of a man, a ghost with living eyes--glowing, burning eyes, aflame with love and dread. he stood with hands clasped at his back, not daring a touch. "jean!" he said breathlessly, "i am a beggar at your gate, i am starving, jean, and i have nothing to offer you--nothing but myself and my love!" afterwards jean had many criticisms to make concerning the fashion of robert's avowal--criticisms at which she would make him blush when his hair was grey; but at the moment she was conscious of one thing only-- that robert was in torture and that she could ease him. with a smile which was divine in its abandon she held out her hands towards him. "but that's all i want," said jean, trembling. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ they sat for an hour by the side of an old oak, the sunshine flickering through the branches on the illumined loveliness of jean's face, on robert's rapturous joy. even to a cold, outside eye they would have appeared an ideal couple: what wonder that to each the other seemed the crowning miracle of the world! the perfect moment was theirs; the ineffable content, the amazement of joy which god in his mercy vouchsafes to all true lovers. the love lasts, but the glory wanes; of necessity it must wane in a material world, but the memory of it can never die. it lives to sweeten life, to be a memory of perfect union, a foretaste of the life beyond! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ they talked in the tongue of angels, in such words as can never be transcribed in print; they marvelled and soared, and then at last came down to facts. a shadow flitted across robert's face; his voice took an anxious note. "i am a poor man, jean. until now i have not cared, but i'm grieved for your sake. i should like to have kept you like a queen, but i am poor, and i fear shall never be otherwise. we shall have to live in a small house with a couple of servants, and think twice of every sovereign we spend." "shall we?" asked jean absently. she was occupied in measuring her small white hand against robert's sunburnt palm, and had no attention to spare for such minor details. her own dress allowance of a hundred a year had invariably to be supplemented by an indulgent father, but it seemed to her a matter of supreme unimportance whether robert were rich or poor. at that moment she would have received with equanimity the news that he was a huckster of goods, and that she would be expected to follow his barrow through the streets. monetary conditions simply did not exist; but on another point there was no end to her exactions. "_how_ much do you love me?" "beyond all words, and all measures, beyond the capacity of mortal man. that is why i feel a giant at this moment--a god! there's no room for my love in a man's poor frame." jean dimpled deliriously. this was just as it should be, and such good hearing that it could bear endless repetition. "and am i the first? have you never loved any one before?" "not for a moment. the thought of marriage never entered my head. i thought i was far better off as i was. oh, jean, imagine it!" jean smiled at him with shy, lovely eyes. "and never flirted, nor run after a pretty girl?" "goodness, _yes_!" the emphasis of robert's affirmative was a trifle disconcerting to jean's complacence. "what do you take me for, jean? i adore pretty girls. i should be a fool if i didn't. at balls and picnics it's part of the programme to get up a passing flirtation. i wish i had a sovereign for every one i've enjoyed in the last ten years. half a dozen dances and supper, and forget all about her next day--you know the sort of thing! it doesn't enter into _our_ calculations." jean stared, considered, and finally laughed. "no, it doesn't! thank goodness i am not jealous. i have dozens of faults, as you will find out to your cost, poor boy; but that's not one. i don't mind how many pretty girls you admire. we'll admire them together. you are mine; we belong to each other. as you say, that sort of thing doesn't _enter_." she sat silent, musing with parted lips. a bird hopped lightly across the grass, peered at them for a moment with bright, curious eyes, and soared up to the blue. the air was sweet with the fresh, pungent scent of the earth. "what _is_ it?" questioned jean, as every lover has questioned since the days of eve. "what is it that makes the difference, the yawning, illimitable difference between just one person and all the rest of the world? why do we love each other like this? you have seen hundreds of girls, but you have never wished to marry one. men have loved me, and i hated them the moment they began to make love. but you--if _you_ hadn't!--robert, what should i have done? i should have lived on--i am so strong, but my heart would have died; there would have been nothing left. and a fortnight ago we had not met! people will say that it is madness, that we cannot know our own minds; but the marvel of it is--we knew at once! i was frightened, and ran away, but i knew; deep down in my heart i knew that you would follow. tell me when _you_ began to know--the very first moment!" and then robert retold the story to which vanna had listened on the night of the ball, with the thrilling addition of the encounter in the conservatory, and jean listened, thrilled, and trembling with agitation. "yes, it is true. i was waiting for you. it was meant to be. we were made to meet and love each other." "from the beginning of the world, my rose, my treasure!" said robert gloucester. chapter ten. the wedding day. jean goring and robert gloucester were married in the early days of october, after a bare three months' engagement. they themselves found the period one of ideal happiness, but, as is usually the case, it was somewhat trying to their relations and friends. jean, in her gay young beauty, had filled the centre of the stage for many friends, who were bound to suffer when the light shone no more upon them, and jean had neither eyes, ears, nor heart for any one but her _fiance_. mr goring gave his consent to the engagement with a readiness which was largely based upon the affection which his prospective son-in-law had already awakened. "he's a splendid fellow--a man in a thousand. thank heaven you've chosen a man who won't bore me to death hanging about the house. it's a poor match in a worldly sense, but that's your affair. you had chances of rich men before now, and wouldn't look at them. i believe in letting people live their own lives, in their own way. i'll give you a good trousseau, and allow you two hundred a year; but i can't do more. there's the boys' education coming on." "oh, thank you, father. that's sweet of you. i never expected so much. we shall be poor, of course, but i shan't mind. it will be rather fun living in a small house and playing at housekeeping. i never cared much for money." mr goring grimaced expressively. jean had not cared for money, simply because she had never realised its value. every want had been supplied, and there had been a comfortable certainty of a lenient parent in the background when her own generous allowance ran short. graceless mortals never realise the value of the blessings which are theirs in abundance. jean had enjoyed easy means and perfect health all her life, and took them as much for granted as light and air. "hadn't you better take some cooking lessons, or something?" asked her father uneasily. it crossed his mind at that moment that he had not done his duty by the man whom jean was about to marry, in allowing his girl to grow up in absolute ignorance of her work in the world. "gloucester doesn't strike me as a man likely to make money, and you ought to be trained. talk to miggles. ask her. she has about as good an idea of running a house as any woman i know. it's a good thing you are going to live within reach of home. i'm thankful gloucester thinks of settling in town." "yes, oh, yes! of course, if they gave him a really good offer for india--i should rather like to live in india!" jean smiled into space, blissfully unconscious of the pain on her father's face. he was not a demonstrative man, and no one but himself knew how he had loved and cherished this child of his youth--the daughter who had inherited the beauty and charm of the girl-wife with whom he had spent the golden year of his life. to his own heart he acknowledged that jean was his dearest possession--dearer than wife, dearer than sons, dearer than life itself, and jean could leave him without a pang--would "rather like" to put the width of the world between them! "india's a long way off, jean. i should miss you if you went." "but we'd come home, father. we'd have a long holiday every five years." well! well! mr goring reminded himself that in his own youth he had been equally callous. he recalled the day of his first marriage, and saw again the twisted face of his mother as she bade him adieu at the door. he had known a pang of regret at the sight, regret for _her_ suffering, her loss; not for his own. for himself, the moment had been one of unalloyed triumph; he had heaved a sigh of relief as the carriage bore him away and he was alone with his bride. it was natural that it should be so--natural and right; but when one came to stand in the parent's place, how it hurt! he set his teeth in endurance. mrs goring regarded the engagement and prospective marriage primarily as a disagreeable upset to domestic routine, and did not rest until she had secured vanna's consent to prolong her visit until the bride had departed. "there will be so much to arrange, endless letters to write, and people to see. jean will be worse than useless, and poor dear miss miggs is not fit to rush about. if you _would_ stay and help, my dear, i should be unutterably grateful. when you undertake a thing it is always well done." "i should like to stay," replied vanna simply. the first days of jean's rapturous happiness had been hard for her friend. it was not in human nature to avoid a feeling of loss, of loneliness, of hopeless longing for such happiness for herself, but it was a comfort to know that she could be of real practical help. jean, of course, had declared in words that nothing, no, nothing, could ever lessen the warmth of her friendship, and vanna had faith to believe that in the years to come the love between them would increase rather than diminish. in the meantime, however, she must needs stand aside, and be content to be neglected, ignored, regarded at times as an unwelcome intruder--a difficult lesson to learn. at the very first meeting after the engagement the difference of relationship had made itself felt, for jean had shown a distinct annoyance when vanna referred to the prophecy of the rose. "he had told you--you knew? he talked about it to you afterwards. you knew how he felt--" her face flushed with resentment; there was a cool aloofness in her glance, as though a friend whom she had trusted had been discovered prying into hidden treasures. "please don't speak of it again; don't let any one else know. promise me never to mention it." that was all, but her manner said as plainly as words, "it is our secret--robert's and mine. what right have you on our holy ground?" vanna was by nature just and reasonable, and she told herself that in jean's place she might have felt the same irritation, though perhaps she would have been more chary about showing it. she held herself in check, and was careful never again to refer to the forbidden topic. on another occasion, when called to give her advice on a matter in consultation between the lovers, robert had addressed his _fiancee_ as "rose" when vanna, looking up quickly, surprised a swift glance of reproach on jean's face. "you have forgotten," said that look. "we are not alone. that name is not for the ears of a stranger. it is for use only between you and me, when we are alone in our own kingdom, with the world shut out." the lonely ones of the world smart under many darts planted by these wordless arrows. and piers rendall? vanna was perplexed and mystified by his reception of the news. she had dreaded to see him amazed, broken down, despairing, and when he arrived at the cottage the day after the great event, had felt her heart throb with a sympathy that was painful in its intensity. they were seated in the hall drinking tea, a happy family group, the lovers side by side on an old oak settle, when the gate clicked, and piers's tall figure was seen walking up the path. he looked anxiously towards the open door, and vanna felt convinced that he had noticed the absence of the couple the afternoon before, and had a premonition of the news which lay in store. she lowered her eyes, and braced herself, as if it had been upon her own shoulders that the blow were about to fall. "oh, it's piers! i must tell piers!" cried jean gaily. now that the deed was done, her former reserve had given way to an abandon of light-hearted joy. she told the great news to every one she met; it was her great joy to tell it, her regret that there were so few to listen. now, at sight of her old friend, she sprang from her seat. "robert, come," she cried, stretching out a beckoning hand, and standing proudly linked together, the lovers met the unconscious piers on the threshold. "piers! piers! i'm so glad you came. i did so want to see you. guess what has happened! guess--quick! we are so happy--so ridiculously happy. guess!" piers stood still, looking from one to the other with a swift, questioning glance. despite herself, despite her dread, vanna felt it impossible to restrain from one look at his face. she turned shrinking eyes upon him, but what she saw was strangely, wonderfully different from what she had expected. piers stood looking from one to the other of the triumphant lovers, and for the first time since she had known him, vanna saw his face illumined with happiness and content. it seemed incredible, but it was true. the dark eyes had lost their hard, irritable brilliance, and shone deep and soft; the discontent of the mouth was turned into a happy smile. "you mean--you mean--" he stammered incredulously. "by jove! you are engaged--you two! is it really possible?" "yes! yes!" jean jumped on her feet, like a small excited child. "you've guessed it; it's true. congratulate us, piers. we love to be congratulated." "by jove!" ejaculated piers once more. jean's assumption of haughtiness had evidently put him off the scent, for the news appeared to take him completely by surprise. "by jove, i _do_ congratulate you. you deserve congratulations. gloucester, you are the luckiest man on earth. jean, he is the only man i have ever met who is worthy of you. you're a wise girl; you've done the right thing. i do congratulate you with all my heart." jean jumped again, while robert looked down at her, his soul in his eyes. "oh, you nice piers! how nicely you say it. i knew you would be pleased. come in, come in; we're having tea. come and congratulate the family." piers duly went the round, repeating his congratulations in more formal manner to mr and mrs goring; but it was not until tea was over and they had adjourned into the garden that he and vanna had any conversation together. he was still overflowing with excitement and pleasure, and eager to discuss the great news with jean's chosen friend. "i saw that he admired her, of course--every one does; but she was so off-hand and casual that i never imagined that things were near a _denouement_. i've seen her more encouraging to half a dozen other fellows. but it's splendid; the best news i've heard for an age. jean and gloucester--those two together--it's poetry, romance, the ideal! he is a man in a thousand; she will be safe with him. humanly speaking, her future is assured. you feel that, don't you--the absolute goodness and sincerity of the fellow?" "oh, yes! i told you so once before. it was of him that i spoke when we were discussing temperaments, and i told you of a man i had just met whose `aura' was so radiantly attractive--that afternoon in the glen." "the happy land," he corrected, looking down at her with a smile. "so that was gloucester, and we agree in our estimate of his character. that's good! dear little jean, i'm so glad of her happiness." vanna laughed, an inexplicable sense of relief sending her spirits racing upwards. "and i'm so glad that _you're_ glad. i was so afraid that this would give you pain. i expected--i imagined--i thought you also were in love with jean." his face sobered swiftly. "and so did i; but it was only imagination. it gave me no pain to hear this news, and if it had, i should deserve no pity. i've known her for years; i had my chance, but i never took it; was never even sure that i _wanted_ to take it; was contented to drift. gloucester carried the camp in fourteen days." the old shadow of discontent was clouding his face once more; he was seeing in imagination robert's face as he looked at jean, and telling himself drearily: "love is a gift, as much as other great powers. it is not in every nature to rise to a wonderful, transforming passion. he can, that man. one can read it in his face. he has not frittered away his gift; it was all there, unused, unsullied, waiting for jean, until she should appear. he has a genius for loving, and like all geniuses he makes his power felt. jean felt it. it is that that has drawn her to him. to gain jean in a fortnight, while i, poor weakling, wavered for years, asking myself if i loved her! _love_! i don't understand the meaning of the word. i never shall. it's the same there as in everything else: i only half-way--never to the end..." vanna was doubly relieved to be assured of piers's well-being when the family returned to town, and she saw edith morton's suffering behind her gallant assumption of content. can anything be more pitiful than the position of a woman who loves, and finds herself passed over in favour of a chosen friend? she cannot escape to distant scenes, as a man may do in a similar strait; her pride forbids her to withdraw from accustomed pursuits; day by day, night by night, she must smile while her heart is torn, while her eyes smart with the tears she dare not shed, while her soul cries out for the sympathy she may not ask. vanna's heart ached for edith during those weeks, when every conversation turned upon preparations for the forthcoming wedding, and the lovers were blissfully engaged in the finding and furnishing of their home; but jean herself exhibited a curious _volte-face_. "we were quite mistaken about edith," she informed vanna casually one day. "robert and she have been like brother and sister all their lives; there was never any question of sentiment on either side. i can't think why we imagined anything so foolish." vanna did not reply. she divined, what was indeed the truth, that jean's disbelief was the result, not of conviction, but of deliberate intent. she simply did not choose to allow a painful thought to disturb the unclouded sunshine of her day. she was selfish--frankly, openly, designedly selfish, as young things are apt to be to whom love comes before suffering has taught it lessons; to whom it appears a right, a legitimate inheritance, rather than a gift to be received with awe, to be held with trembling. and so the weeks passed. summer turned into autumn, and one october morning jean and robert stood side by side before the altar of a dim old church, and spoke the words which made them one for life, while vanna strangeways and edith morton stood among the group of white-robed bridesmaids, hiding the ache in their hearts behind smiling faces. to one was given the best gift of life; from the others was taken away, by the saddest of ironies, that which they had never possessed. the church and the house were crowded with guests; the paraphernalia of a "smart wedding" was duly and ceremoniously enacted. the newly married pair stood backed against the drawing-room fireplace to receive their guests, who passed by in a line, thence defiling into the library to regard a glittering display of gifts; thence again to the dining-room to partake of the formal, sit-down luncheon which was the fashion of the day. the bride and bridegroom sat at the top of the horseshoe table with the bridesmaids and their attendant groomsmen ranged on either side, vanna and piers rendall, as foremost couple, occupying the place of honour. at the conclusion of the meal jean stood up in her place, her gauze-like veil floating behind her, and cut the great white cake, while the spectators broke into cheers of applause. there were certain points at which it was the custom to cheer at these wedding feasts--this was one of them; another, perhaps the most popular, was when it came to the turn of the stammering bridegroom to return thanks for the speech in which his health had been proposed. it was at the point when the inevitable reference was made to the newly made partner that the laughter was timed to break out; but no one laughed when robert gloucester pronounced for the first time those magic words "_my wife_!" down the length of the long tables more than one of the elder guests hurriedly glanced aside, or bit at the end of a moustache, hearing in that voice a magic note which wafted them back through the long years of prose and difficulty to the day when they, too, stood upon the glad threshold of life. later on jean disappeared to died her bridal trappings, and came down half an hour later in hat and coat, to run the blockade of the assembled guests in the hall, _en route_ to the carriage at the door. her cheeks were pink, her eyes were shining; as each hand was stretched out she pressed it warmly in her own; to each good wish she returned a gracious acknowledgment; when a face was held forward expectantly she was ready with a kiss and a caress. every one praised her graciousness, her affectionate remembrance of old friends. "she kissed me _so_ lovingly." "she said goodbye to me _so_ sweetly." a buzz of appreciation followed her as she went; but in reality jean had walked in a dream, seeing an indistinct blur of faces, hearing a meaningless babble of words, conscious only of robert's figure waiting for her at the door. mr goring had escaped from the crowd and bustle to stand bare-headed on the pavement, whence he could catch a last glimpse of his daughter as she drove away from the house which had been her home. his face looked pinched and worn in the keen autumn air; he smiled and joked with the men by his side, but his eyes were restless, and kept turning back to the door through which jean would pass for the last time as a daughter of the house. another moment and she was there; the crowd surged after her on to the pavement. he stood before her, and held out his hand. she held up her cheek, smiled, and leapt lightly into the carriage, the door of which robert was holding open. he sprang to his seat, there was a vision of two heads bent forward, of two radiant, illumined faces; the coachman flicked up his horses--they had passed out of sight. mr goring shivered, and turned back to the house. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "the happiest moment of my wedding day?" answered jean to a question put to her some months later. "the happiest moment of all was when the carriage drove off from the door, and left you all behind!" chapter eleven. contrasted fates. while jean was blissfully enjoying the first weeks of her married life, the friend who had been to her as a second mother was lying dangerously ill in her upper room. the bustle of the last few months, culminating in the excitement of the wedding, had proved too much for miggles's weak heart; and having gallantly kept on her feet until the supreme need was past, she had the less strength left with which to fight the enemy. "don't tell jean. promise not to tell jean!" that was her first and most insistent cry; and being satisfied on the point, she laid herself down, and spoke no more for many weary days and nights. once again vanna found herself bound to the household, and had the consolation or feeling of help to the mistress and of comfort to the invalid, who seemed to cling pathetically to jean's friend in the absence of her own dear nursling. hospital nurses were much rarer luxuries in the seventies than at the present day, and in this case the duty of nursing the invalid was undertaken by mrs goring, her maid, and vanna, equally. the maid slept in the sick-room, ready to pay any attention which was required during the night; mrs goring was exact and punctilious in administering medicines and food at the right intervals, and in seeing that the sick-room was kept scrupulously in order; it devolved upon vanna to ease the invalid by the innumerable, gentle little offices which seem to come by instinct to women of sympathetic natures, and later on as she grew stronger, to amuse her by reading aloud, talking, and--what in this case was even more welcome--lending an attentive ear while the other discoursed. the sudden breakdown had called attention to the state of miggles's heart, which had troubled her at times for some years back. the result was serious, so serious that the doctor had warned her that her days of active service were over. henceforth she must be content to live an idle life, in some quiet country spot, where she would be free from the bustle and excitement of town life. mr and mrs goring proposed that she should live in the cottage at seacliff, where the capable woman who acted as caretaker could wait upon her and do the work of the house, and miggles, as usual, was full of gratitude for the suggestion. "a haven, my dear, opened out to me at the very moment i need it," she said ardently to vanna. "it's been like that with me all my life. goodness and mercy! i've always loved that dear little house by the sea; there's no place on earth where i would rather end my days. the doctor says i shall go off quite suddenly. he didn't want to tell me, but i explained that i was not at all afraid. from battle, murder, and _lingering_ death, that's the way i've always said it--not that i wish to put myself above the prayer book, but one must be honest, and that's how i felt in my heart. i've no claim upon any one, and a long, expensive illness is a great drag. i'd be so ashamed! `our times are in his hand,' my dear; but if it's not presumptuous, i hope he'll take me soon. next summer, perhaps, before the boys want to come down for the holidays. i should like to have the winter just to be quiet and prepare. june, now! june would be a sweet month to pass away in. would it not, my dear?" "miggles!" cried vanna, half laughing, half in tears. "miggles, how can you be so callous? i absolutely refuse to discuss the date of your death. it's not a cheerful subject for us, whatever it may be for you; and i hope you'll be spared for a long, long rest after your busy life. how can you talk about dying in that matter-of-fact way, as if it were a removal from one house to another? have you no dread, not of the mere act of death--that is often a real `falling asleep,' but of the leap in the dark, the unknown change, the mystery behind?" miggles lay back against her pillow, a large, unwieldy figure, with thin bands of hair brushed back beneath an old-fashioned night-cap, her hands clasped peacefully on her knee. "no, my dear," she said tranquilly; "the mystery doesn't trouble me. i'm a poor, weak creature, and i was never clever at understanding. i only know that it's going to be a change for the better, so of course i'm ready to go. when i hear people talk of shrinking and trembling at the thought of death, i think they can't really believe what they profess, or why should they prefer to live on, lonely, and suffering, and poor, rather than make a little journey to gain peace and rest? it's not reason, my dear, it's not reason." miggles was silent, blinking her little eyes, and panting after the exertion of talking. gradually a pucker gathered on her forehead, and an expression of anxiety spread over her face. "there is only one thing that troubles me--only one thing; but it's very serious. i can't"--she turned solemn, innocent eyes upon the girl's face--"i can't feel myself a sinner! that's a great secret, my dear, but you've been so kind to me this last week that i feel i can make the confidence. of course i should not wish it repeated. no! isn't it sad? i've tried my best, but i can't do it. it seems to me that i have done my best. i was a good daughter. my dear mother died blessing my name; and with the dear gorings i've done my duty--for love, i've done it, far more than money. all through i've done my duty, and i have loved god and the people round me. i've never felt ill-will towards a living creature; and when i come to search for my sins, dear--really and truly--i tell you in confidence, _i can't find them_," cried miggles sadly. she lowered her chin, glancing sideways at vanna as a shamed child might do discovered in the perpetration of an infantile peccadillo, and vanna smiled a tender, humorous response. "can't you, miggles? not if you try very hard? i can't help you, i'm afraid. my bad memory refuses to remind me of your crimes. it's a serious state of affairs." "it is, dear," agreed miggles gravely. "i've been taking myself to task, lying here upon this bed, and examining into the state of my soul. i fed very grateful, and full of faith, and quite tranquil and happy at the thought of passing away. i could not fed that, you know, if i had a `conviction of sin,' like all the good people in books. it has always put me so terribly out of the way when i have failed to please any one, and they have been cold and stand-off in their manner. it does happen like that sometimes, even with the best intentions... if i believed i had grieved my dear heavenly father, how wretched i should be! but i don't, dear, i don't. i am quite happy, quite at peace. the question is, _am i justified_? it would be rather a comfort to be a catholic sometimes--would it not, dear?--and confess to a dear, saintly old priest. not, of course, that i could subscribe to their creed i can tell you that i've been quite upset in church sometimes when they intone the litany, and call themselves miserable sinners in such very despondent tones. i did not feel myself a miserable sinner, and it was no use pretending that i did. that made me wretched in another way, for i thought i must be a pharisee, which would be worst of all!" "dear miggles, the litany was written at the time of the plague of london, and was meant to be a sort of national penitential psalm. the plague was believed to have been sent as a punishment for the sins of the nation, and the priests marched in procession through the streets intoning this cry for mercy. it was never intended to be used as a regular part of the church service in times of peace and prosperity; and i think a good many people feel like you, who would not have the courage to put their thoughts into words. a service of praise would often seem more dignified and inspiring. dear, good, kind little soul, why trouble yourself to find trouble? if you have peace, you have the greatest of all blessings, and a blessing that is never enjoyed, dear miggles, until it has been won. i'm struggling for it now, but it's a long way off. i have still many battles to fight." the old woman looked at the young one with a long, questioning glance. "yes, dear child! i have seen it, and wondered. but you are so young still, and your life is ahead. we shall see you happy like jean, starting your home with a fine young husband--" "no!" vanna held up a warning hand. "miggles, you have confided in me. i'll tell you something about myself, but you must never allude to it again. it doesn't bear speaking of. there is a reason why i can never marry. i can't tell you what it is, but it is fixed--irrevocable. i shall never be happy like jean." miggles stretched out her hand and laid it upon the dark head, smoothing the hair with gentle touch. but she did not speak. in the course of her sixty years she had heard many such assertions from the lips of girls who had afterwards lived to become happy wives and mothers. she told herself that dear vanna had no doubt suffered a disappointment, and was feeling cast-down and hopeless in consequence. quite natural, poor dear--quite; but in time youth would reassert itself; she would meet some one else, such an attractive girl as she was, and would find that the heart which she supposed dead was still capable of love and joy. oh, certainly she would marry and be happy; but for the moment one could not tell her so. that would be cruel. time! time! that was the best medicine. she smoothed and stroked with tender, motherly touch, and vanna, blessing her for her silence, felt the sudden crystallising of an idea which had been growing quietly in her mind during the past week. "miggles," she said quietly, turning her head sideways, so as to be able to look the other in the face without disturbing that caressing hand. "miggles, how would you like it if i came down to live with you at seacliff? carter can look after the house and make you comfortable, but you would have no companion, and might feel lonely sometimes. evenings seem very long and dreary when one is alone. we are two solitary women, alone in the world, without any ties; we might help each other. what do you say?" miggles subsided into instant tears. "it's too good of you. oh, my dear, my dear, i couldn't--i couldn't let you. it's too good of you, too sweet. i shall always remember and bless you for thinking of it, but it would be too selfish--too grasping. i could not allow it." "miggles, listen! i've been puzzling what to do with myself this next year; i have no home, now that my aunt is dead, and no tie to any special place. that's a lonely feeling, miggles, when you are only twenty-three. it would be a solution of the problem if you could let me come to you. i sounded mr goring and he was willing; more than willing, delighted at the idea. and i have some money of my own, you know, dear, and as mr goring would not hear of my paying anything towards the household expenses, i am going to spend it on pleasures and luxuries. i have a lovely plan--to buy a comfortable little pony carriage in which to drive you along the lanes, and give you fresh air without fatigue. then, when you don't feel inclined to go out i'll use the horse for riding. i love riding, and it will be good exercise to scour the countryside. perhaps sometimes there'll be a meet. if there were hunting i should feel quite gay. i _want_ to come, if you care to have me." "care!" miggles laughed, cried, gasped, ejaculated, panted, in such extravagance of joy, such depths of humility, such paeans of gratitude, that vanna had to exercise her prerogative as nurse, administer a soothing draught, and insist upon a rest forthwith. "not another word. if you are good and obedient, i'll come; if you are not, i won't. i am not going to saddle myself with a rebellious patient. so now you know. kiss me, and shut your eyes--" "but," protested miggles, "but--but--" long after vanna had left the room she lay awake, staring with wistful, puzzled eyes at the opposite wall. a social creature, devoted to her kind, no one but herself knew how heavily the prospect of loneliness had weighed upon her. vanna's proposition had been like a flash of sunshine lighting up a grey country, but she could not rejoice with a full heart until she was satisfied of the girl's happiness. "a young thing like that shut up with an old, ailing woman--it's not right, not fitting. i must not be selfish. i need quiet at the end of my days, but at twenty-three! to take her to that lonely place, away from all her friends: can it be right? i'd love her, and mother her, but with all my will i can't do the thing she needs most of all--be young with her again. she is sad, dear child, and it's only a friend of her own age who can comfort and cheer--" suddenly miggles jerked in her bed; the fixed eyes brightened; the heavy cheeks broadened into a smile. "ah-h!" she murmured happily. "ah-h! _that_ is well, _that's_ well. that will bring it all right"; and nestling down in the pillows, she composed herself happily to sleep. across the trouble of her mind there had flashed the remembrance of the visits of piers rendall. chapter twelve. the cottage on the cliff. for the next two years vanna lived quietly in the cottage on the cliff, five miles from the nearest railway station, and as many more from anything in the shape of a town. the hamlet in which she had lived with her aunt had been quiet and uneventful, but in comparison with seacliff it was a whirl of gaiety. during the summer months there was indeed a small influx of visitors, but seacliff had not as yet sprung into popularity, and accommodation was limited to a few scattered houses along the sea-front and the big red hotel on the top of the cliff. the hotel was closed in the winter months, and the first day that vanna looked across the bay and beheld the smoke rising from the chimneys, she knew a thrill of joy in the realisation that the long grey winter was at an end. long and grey, yet not unhappy. looking back over the monotonous record of the months, and remembering her own tranquillity and content, vanna marvelled, as many of us have done in our time, at the unlooked for manner in which our prayers have met their response. she had asked for guidance; had pleaded, with a very passion of earnestness, for some miracle of grace to fill her empty life, but no miracle had happened, no flash of light had illumined the darkness; the heavens had appeared as brass to her cry--and yet, yet, had not the answer been vouchsafed? it would not have been her own choice to pass the best years of her youth in seclusion, with no other companion than a homely, unsophisticated old woman, over whom the shadow of death crept nearer and nearer. she had dreamt of romance and adventure, and not of a home bounded by two cliff walls; nevertheless, in this companionship and in this seclusion she had found peace, and as the time passed by a returning sense of joy and interest in life. she was loved, she was needed, she was understood; and the human creature of whom so much can be said is fortunate among his fellows. in addition to her sunny temperament, miggles possessed the great gift of tact, and when the shadow of depression fell over the girl's spirits she asked no questions, made no comment thereon, but ministered to her generously with the meed of appreciation. "what should i do without you, child?" "ah, my dear, how i thank god for sending you to me these last years!" such words as these, uttered with the good-night kiss, dried many a tear on the girl's cheeks, and sent her to bed revived and peaceful. as the weeks passed by vanna found friends out of doors also, and was surprised to discover the importance of her presence to the community in the little village. "well, now, i tell you, i can't think what we did without you all the dull old winters," said mrs jones of the grocer's emporium one day, as she scribbled down the weekly order with the much-battered stump of a lead pencil. "you've been a regular godsend, cheering us up, and giving us something to think of, instead of moping along from september to june. i'm sure we've cause to be grateful for all you've done." vanna flushed, surprised and a trifle overwhelmed by so gushing a compliment. "really, mrs jones, i don't feel that i deserve any thanks. i have been so much occupied with miss miggs that i have had no time to spare. i can't think of anything i have done to help you." "oh, miss!" protested mrs jones, in accents of strong reproach. "oh, miss; _and three new hats since autumn_!" blessed sense of humour! that reply was sufficient to brighten vanna's whole day. it did more, for it served to nip in the bud that lassitude concerning the toilette, that feeling that "anything will do," which creeps over those who dwell in lonely places. henceforth vanna realised that to the natives of this little sea-bound village she stood as a type of the great world of fashion, and that it was a real pleasure in their quiet lives to behold her moving about in their midst in pretty, tasteful attire. the knowledge proved beneficial to her appearance, and to her spirits. the pony carriage proved of less use than had been hoped, as the invalid's nerves grew less and less able to face the precipitous road leading up to the house; but some time every day vanna found time for a scamper on the back of her beloved dinah, saddling her herself, rubbing her down, and giving her a feed of oats on her return. miggles did not care for indoor pets, so that it was an extra pleasure to make friends with dinah, to rub her soft nose, and bequeath odd gifts of sugar. her informal riding-costume was composed of a dark green habit and a felt hat of the same shade, which, being somewhat battered out of the original shape, she had twisted into a napoleonic tricorn, which proved surprisingly becoming on her small, daintily poised head. "i've never seen a riding-hat like that before. that's the very _latest_ from paris, i suppose, miss?" said mrs jones of the emporium; and vanna had not the heart to undeceive her. once or twice a week, instead of mounting to the downs, vanna would turn inland to pay a visit to mrs rendall. the old lady was not an interesting personality, but she was lonely, which fact made perhaps the strongest of all appeals to vanna's sympathy at this period of her life. it grew to be an accepted custom that these visits should be paid on wednesday and saturday afternoons, and as she trotted up the long avenue leading to the house vanna never failed to see the white-capped figure at the library window watching for her approach. the conversation was almost identically the same on each of these visits. mrs rendall would discuss the weather of the last three days, inquire into miss miggs's symptoms, relate accurately the behaviour of her own cough and the tiresome rheumatic pains in her left shoulder, chronicle the progress in the garden, and the delinquencies of her servant maids. vanna seemed to herself to do little more than murmur a conventional yes and no from time to time; nevertheless mrs rendall invariably pleaded with her to prolong her visit, and never failed to add to her farewell the urgent reminder: "you'll come on wednesday? you won't forget." if the visitor chanced to turn her head at the bend of the avenue, the white-capped figure was again at the window, watching for the last, the very last glimpse of her retreating figure. at the sight of that watching figure a faint realisation came to vanna of one of life's tragedies--the pathetic dependence of the old upon the young; the detachment and indifference of youth to age. to herself these weekly visits were a duty and, frankly speaking, a bore. to the old woman, alone in her luxurious home, they formed the brightness and amusement of life, the epochs upon which she lived in hope and recollection. "poor, dull old soul! i must go regularly. i must not shirk," determined vanna conscientiously, but she loved her duty none the more. it was towards the end of her third month's residence at seacliff that, on cantering up the drive of the manor house, vanna noticed a change in the position of the white-capped figure. it was there, watching as usual, but at the side, instead of the centre, of the library window, and by her stood a tall, dark figure. vanna's heart leapt within her; the blood rushed through her veins; in one moment languid indifference was changed to tingling vitality. she straightened herself on the saddle, and as piers's figure appeared in the porch, lifted her gauntleted hand to her hat in merry salute. the episode of jean's marriage, with the association of chief bridesmaid and groomsman, had brought the two friends of the bride into closer intimacy, so that the greeting between them was frank and cordial. "salaam, diana!" "salaam, oh, knight of the--!" vanna paused, for it was no knight of the rueful countenance who looked into her face as she drew rein by the door. the dark eyes looking into hers were alight with pleasure--with something more than pleasure. vanna recognised a gleam of surprised admiration and thrilled at the sight even as it forced itself into words. "by jove, how well you are looking." "rusticating suits me, you see." she leapt lightly to the ground, and, gathering up the graceful long riding-skirt of that day, entered the house before him. as she passed along the ugly, commonplace hall, vanna was confronted by her own reflection in the glass of the old-fashioned hat-stand, and started at the sight. this was not the girl whom she was accustomed to see in that same glass--the girl with the pale face, and listless eyes; this girl walked with a quick, lightsome tread; her daintily poised head, crowned by the picturesque green hat, assumed a new charm; the grey eyes were sparkling beneath the arched brows; the cheeks were flushed to the colour of a wild rose. this was the vision which piers rendall had beheld, the vision at which his hard eyes had softened in admiration. vanna blushed at the sight of her own fairness, and felt the thrill of pure, undiluted joy which every true daughter of eve knows at such moments. she tilted her head over her shoulder to answer piers's question, with a smile and a glance which would have done credit to jean herself. what he asked she hardly knew--some of the conventional, unimportant questions which are tossed to and fro on such occasions. what she answered mattered still less; the mere fact of his presence eclipsed all. the bigness of him, the strongness, the firm, dark face, the deep bass voice, the masculine presence after the long, monotonous months, with no companionship save that of two old women. it was as if a part of the girl's being which had been drugged to sleep awoke suddenly and clamoured for existence. at the door of the library vanna knew a momentary pause. conscious of her own transformed face, she shrank with something like shame from facing old mrs rendall. what would she say? what would she think? another moment proved the needlessness of her dread, for on this happy day of reunion the mother had no eyes for any one but her son. in a mechanical fashion she went through the ordinary list of questions, and vanna vouchsafed the ordinary replies; but the ordinary interest was impossible while piers stood with his back to the fire, puffing at his cigarette, listening with a smile on his face. that smell of smoke impregnating an atmosphere which was usually equally reminiscent of furniture polish and paregoric--how intoxicating it smelt in vanna's nostrils! she kept her eyes riveted on the old lady's face so long as conversation between them continued, but the moment that mother and son were engrossed with each other, her eyes returned greedily to the long, straight limbs, the close-cropped head, the strong, sinewy hands. youth called to youth. sex called to sex. at the end of ten minutes' general conversation piers made the move for which vanna had anxiously been waiting. "when will lunch be ready, mother? miss strangeways must stay to lunch in honour of my return. we'll go a little turn round the grounds and be back in half an hour. then i'll ride over with her, and see miggles while you have your rest." a shade of disappointment passed over mrs rendall's face. it was hard to allow her son to pass out of her sight for even half an hour, but she assented quietly, after the manner of mothers of grown-up sons, and the two young people strolled out into the garden. the geranium beds were bare and brown, but the lawn was still a velvety green and the belt of evergreen trees presented a similitude of summer. piers led the way forward, and vanna followed, a smile upon her lips. "the happy land?" "the happy land. naturally! it is an appropriate walk for you to-day. no need to ask how it goes. you look blooming--a different girl from when you were here last. and you really like it--this buried-alive existence? when i heard of the arrangement i could not believe it would last beyond a few weeks. it seemed unnatural--unfair. but you have stood it out. you have not been lonely?" vanna hesitated. they stood at the entrance to the glen, looking down through a network of bare branches on the stream beneath. the ground was covered with a carpet of leaves, the sweet, soft smell of earth rose refreshingly in the wintry air. "yes," she said slowly. "i have been lonely, but--remember that i am bound to look on the bright side of things in this place!--i have had compensations. i am needed here. miggles could not be left alone with a servant, and there is a great satisfaction in feeling oneself necessary. this new home was offered to me at a moment when i was adrift in the world, and every one in it is kind and loving. i have every comfort, and a dear luxury in the shape of dinah. i am becoming quite an experienced horsewoman, and it is impossible to feel depressed after a gallop across the downs. and you know miggles! it's rather wonderful to live beside a person who is preparing for death as cheerfully and happily as most people prepare for a holiday. we talk about it every day, but never gloomily. in a peaceful kind of way she's excited at the prospect. quite suddenly she will exclaim, `oh, i shall see emma. i haven't seen emma since we were girls at school. i shall have so _much_ to tell emma.' and she is full of interest as to her new work. it is to be helping her earth friends. that's quite decided. `it's what i have been trained for, dear. it stands to reason i must go on.' and she has quite definite ideas of what ought to be done--things that, according to her judgment, have been overlooked, and concerning which she can--very tactfully!--drop a gentle reminder. she has a mission on hand for each one of us. you are to receive special attention." the young man smiled affectionately. "bless her old heart! that's well. i am thankful she is happy. it's a great thing for her to have you; that's natural enough, but--" he stopped short with that air of reservation which vanna _found_ so attractive. never once had he descended to the banality of a compliment in words; always it had been left to her to divine his approval from eyes and voice--a gratification delightfully freed from embarrassment. he bit his lip, frowned, and demanded suddenly, "how long do you mean to stay?" "i hope, as long as she lives. for my own sake as well as hers, for i've grown to love her, and she is a delightful companion. beyond her simplicity and sweetness, she has such a pretty sense of humour. she makes me laugh in my darkest mood, and--which is equally important--she laughs at me. it would be too boring to live with a person who received one's best sallies with silence or a strained smile; but miggles is nothing if not appreciative. i shall certainly not leave her by any act of my own." "and--afterwards?" vanna looked up at him: her eyes were brave, but her lips trembled. from his tall stature he looked down upon the struggle on her face, the trembling lips, the brave, gallant eyes. "i don't know--i can't say. i don't want to think. it's a subject i can't discuss--_here_. talk of something else--something cheerful. tell me about jean. have you seen her lately? when did you see her? how is she looking? tell me everything you can about her." piers lifted his brows and slightly shrugged his shoulders. "jean is--robert! robert is--jean! there you have the situation in a word! bound up in each other--blind, deaf, dumb to every other interest. i've called once or twice. their house is charming. she is lovelier than ever; he is, if possible, still more radiantly content. they seem unfeignedly pleased to see one--for ten minutes! after that their attention begins to flag, and at the end of half an hour you feel that you would be a perfect brute to stay another second. i have come to the conclusion that it is kinder to leave them alone." "i'm sure of it. i don't even trouble jean with letters more than once a month. i send constant bulletins of miggles to mrs goring, so that she knows how things go, and for the rest--i bide my time. when a year or so has passed away, i hope they will still be as much in love; but there will be more room for outsiders. it's just as well that i am away from town. it is easier to be philosophical at a distance. if i were in town and felt myself unwanted and out in the cold, i should probably be huffy and jealous. as it is, i look forward, and tell myself she will want me another day. one can afford to wait when there's a surety at the end." "yes, that's easy. if one were ever sure--" his brow darkened, but meeting her eyes, he smiled, throwing aside the dark thought, with an effort to match her own. "doubt is forbidden, i suppose, with other repinings? well! the queen must be obeyed. do you remember saying that it was little use to possess a happy land so far away that you could rarely see it? and behold the next move in the game is that you are plumped down at its very gates! how many times have you visited your domain since we were here together in summer?" "not once. when i have ridden over it has been to see your mother, and i don't care to leave miggles for long at a time. besides, i think i shirked it. it was winter, and the trees were bare, and i was alone, and it is difficult to be very happy all by oneself, and sometimes i was in a contrary mood, when i did not even want to _try_. but i am glad to be here to-day. i am glad you brought me." "i must bring you again. i must come down oftener. as you are giving up your life to help miggles, it is the duty of all her friends to make things as easy as possible. i shall feel that seacliff has a double claim on me if i can help you as well as my mother. it will be good for us both to come here and be compelled towards happiness." vanna's smile of acknowledgment was somewhat forced. it would have been unmixed joy to look forward to the promised visits, but for those two words which stood out in such jarring prominence that they seemed to obscure her joy. "duty," "claim." when in the history of woman did she appreciate a service thus offered by a member of the opposite sex? "that is very kind of you," she answered formally. "after the excitements of london, seacliff must seem very dull at this time of year. how long are you going to stay this time?" "until--" he hesitated for a moment--"until monday." that evening, when vanna went up to her own room, she sat for an hour beside her little window facing the bay, living over again the events of the day. duty! claim! for the hundredth time the words tolled in her ears. she looked over the grey waste of waters and saw in them a type of her own colourless life. duty! claim! but then the scene shifted. she was back again in the library of the manor house, listening to old mrs rendall's words of lament. "he is no sooner here than he has gone. he tells me he must positively leave on friday." why had piers elected to stay on? she was back again in the dining-room, feeling his gaze upon her--a gaze so deep, so pregnant with meaning that it had forced the question from her lips, "what is it? what are you thinking about?" "you! here! in this house. the difference it makes--the astounding difference--" _what_ difference was it which her presence made? his eyes told her that it was a difference of gain. a twinkling light shone out on the darkness, flashed and waned, flashed again into brighter glow. the waste of waters was illumined with light. chapter thirteen. the sanest woman. during the remainder of the winter piers rendall paid frequent visits to seacliff, appearing at unexpected moments, sometimes after but a week's interval, sometimes but once in the month. the feeling that he might arrive at any moment brought an element of excitement into vanna's quiet life. it was delightful to awake in the morning and feel that there was something to which she could look forward--an object towards which to move. when he came there would be invigorating gallops across the downs, visits to the happy land, where each was bound to cast care to the winds; happy tea-parties in the dining-room; cosy chats round the fire, miggles lying on her sofa, vanna seated on the footstool by her side, piers in his favourite position on the hearthrug, his long legs stretched out, his back resting against the wall. sometimes he would recount the doings of the great city, and discuss politics up to date for the edification of the two women, who were keenly interested in the course of events. sometimes he would read aloud from a book in which miggles was interested; sometimes they would roast chestnuts, and laugh and jest and cap amusing anecdotes like a party of merry children. looking at piers's face illumined by the firelight on one of these occasions, a sudden vision flashed before vanna's eyes of that face as she had seen it first. the tightly drawn skin, the down-turned lips, the hard brilliancy of the eyes, the nervous twitching of the features. this man smiling upon her looked strong, and happy, and glad. whence had come the change? at whitsuntide jean and robert came down for a three days' visit--the first since their marriage, and the little cottage was filled with the atmosphere of spring and joy. two people more utterly content, more beautiful in their happiness, it would be impossible to conceive. jean was in her gayest, least responsible mood, full of histories of her own failures as housekeeper, her difficulty with bills, her hopeless exceeding of the weekly allowance--the which she recounted with triumphant amusement, while robert sat looking on with an air of penitence and guilt. that he should dare to inflict petty economies upon this goddess among women! towards her old friend jean's manner was composed of a mingling of tenderness and wonder. "there's no question about this place suiting you, vanna," she said the last evening, as the two girls enjoyed a short _tete-a-tete_ in the garden. "i have never seen you look so well; nor so pretty. robert says so, too. somehow--i don't know how it is, but you look different, i keep looking at you to see the cause. you have not changed your hair?" "no; my hair is as you last saw it. it won't `go' any other way. there's no difference that i know of. it exists only in your imagination." "no!" jean was obstinate. "you look different. dear old thing, it's a comfort to see you so sweet and blooming. i was afraid i should find you all gone to pieces. i _do_ admire you. when i think of your life, and mine! i should be such a beast. miggles says you are an angel. so does piers. not in so many words, of course. piers never says what he feels. he is such a silent, shut-up creature, but i could see that he was simply bursting with admiration of your life down here. doesn't he look well? i have never seen him so bright. robert says he goes a great deal to the van dusens'. they have such a pretty daughter. i've wondered so often if he could be in love at last. that would account for it all. i hope he is--old piers! i should like him to be happy." "very probably it is. he is certainly changed," said vanna briefly. the next day the gloucesters took their departure, and left behind a sense of loss and blank. miggles struggled under a weight of depression at the thought that this might be the last time that she would ever behold her beloved child and pupil; the maid covered up the furniture of the guest-room with dull regret; vanna was racked by an access of bitterness and jealousy. all the dearly won composure of the past eight months seemed swept aside. she was back again in the slough of despond which had followed the memorable visit to the doctor. every sight, every sound, every word that was uttered seemed to press against her nerves with unbearable jar; she felt a sense of enmity against miggles, the village, the whole human race; above all, against jean and her husband. she shut herself within the walls of a cold and sullen reserve, never speaking unless spoken to, answering with the curtest of monosyllables. for three long days she hardened herself against the pleading of miggles's eyes and the tenderness in the feeble voice, but on the afternoon of the third day she brought her footstool to the side of the sofa, and laid her head against the old woman's knee. "comfort me, miggles! my heart is so sore. i'm sad, and i'm bad, and i've made you miserable, and now i come to you for help. i'm so _tired_. say something to help me along!" "what is it, dearie? grieving after jean, and feeling lonely to be left without your friend? it was such a short visit. so good of them to spare the time, but from our point of view it was _rather_ aggravating. you want her back again, as i do, and grieve that she's so far away." "no, i don't! i don't want to see her. i'm glad she's in town. i hope she won't come again. the contrast is too great. i can't stand it. she has everything, and i have nothing. it's not fair. she doesn't deserve it any more than i do. why should she be beautiful, and strong, and happy, and adored, while i am lonely, and sad, and tainted by disease? i can't bear it. i wish she had never come." miggles's face showed a network of lines of distress and bewilderment. "but--but i don't understand! you love jean; she is your best friend. you are not _sorry_ that she is happy? you don't grudge her her good fortune? that wouldn't be possible. you are far too sweet." vanna gave a short, despairing laugh. "no, i'm not sweet. i'm bitter, bitter to the core; and you might as well know the truth--at this minute i _do_ grudge her happiness. i grudge it so much that my very love seems changed to gall. you are an angel, miggles, but you are old, and your life is over. i'm young, and it's all ahead. it's the most difficult lesson of all to stand aside and look at happiness through the eyes of others. it's easy enough to weep with those that weep. if we are whole ourselves we are thankful that we have escaped; if we are under the ban, there's a companionship in suffering. we understand each other, and help each other along; but to rejoice with those who rejoice demands a nobility of which at the moment i am simply incapable. this world is unfair and unjust. things are too horribly uneven." "dear child, this world is not all. it's only the beginning, and so soon over." "oh, no, miggles, that's not true. it may seem so from the standpoint of eternity; but we are human creatures, and from our standpoint it's terribly, terribly long. fourscore years, and how slow those years are in the passing! when i think i may have fifty more!... besides, even eternity doesn't right things. how can it? if we are all going to be happy in heaven, jean will be as happy as i. there will be no difference between us, but she will have had the earth-joy which i have missed, the dear, sweet, simple, domestic joys for which i was made, for which my body was fashioned, for which i crave. they are gone--gone for ever! eternity itself can't make them up. there seems no compensation." the old woman pressed her hand on the girl's dark head, but for some minutes she did not speak. into her placid, gentle nature, such upheavals had never come; she had been content to walk along the narrow way, taking each day as it came, without bitterness or repining, but the natural shrewdness which relieved her character from insipidity would not allow her to take the credit of this attribute to herself. "it's because i was given that disposition," she told herself humbly. "vanna is clever and ambitious. it's more difficult for her." she shut her eyes, and prayed that the right words might be sent to her feeble lips. "but, dearie, i'm not so sure that we _shall_ all be equally happy in heaven, any more than on earth. i never could believe that just because your body died you were going to wake up a perfected saint. we've got to learn our lessons, and perhaps happiness isn't the quickest way. i can't argue--never could; the dear boys found that out, and used to lay traps for me, asking me to explain; but life is only a little voyage--a trial trip, as the papers say. you may have fine weather, or you may have storms; the only thing that matters is to get safe to the haven. sometimes when we've been down here for the summer it has rained persistently; was one year--the time pat broke his leg! we've been cross and disappointed, and at the time it has seemed hard, but looking back after a few years it has faded into nothing. `wasn't it wet?' we say, and laugh. it was only for a month--such a little time! who would think of looking back and grizzling over a little disappointment twelve years old! and perhaps, dear, just because we couldn't go out in the sunshine to pick the dear flowers, because we had to stay indoors and be quiet and patient, we learnt something, found out something, that helped us along, and made us fitter for the haven. i'm very stupid--i can't explain--" "dear miggles, you are very wise! i am fortunate to have you. be patient with me, and love me a little bit in spite of my naughty words." "a little bit! indeed, my dear, i have grown to love you with all my heart. after jean, i really believe you are my dearest on earth." after jean! that stung. jean had so much. she might surely have spared the first place in one old woman's heart; and what a sweetness it would have been to come first to just one person in the world! vanna's sense of justice pointed out that it was not reasonable to expect a few months' devotion to eclipse the association of a lifetime; but though reason may convince the brain, it leaves the heart untouched. jean had robert; miggles had a whole family of adopted children; mrs rendall had her son; piers had--a sharp stab of pain penetrated through the dull misery of her mood, a stab which had pierced her at every recollection of jean's light words--"always at the van dusens'--such a pretty daughter--i believe he is in love." was it true? and if so, how did it affect herself? vanna went out into the garden and seated herself in her favourite seat, at the edge of the cliff, whence the winding steps cut out in the face of the chalk descended steeply to the shore. the tide was out, and a few village children scrambled barefoot over the slippery boulders, searching for treasures in the pools between; the sound of their happy voices floated up to her ears. what was it to her if piers rendall loved and wedded another woman? he was her friend; during the last few months he had given a hundred signs of his care for her, his anxiety to help and cheer her life. she in return must be equally generous. she must rejoice over his happiness, and pray for its coming. why not? it was no loss to her. she herself might never marry. piers rendall could be nothing to her. vanna threw back her head and burst into a peal of high, unnatural laughter. the children playing on the rocks glanced up in amaze, and stood staring at the strange spectacle of "the cottage lady" laughing all to herself, and vanna laughed on and on, with ever harder, higher notes. piers could be nothing to her. no, nothing! nothing but life, and sun, and air, and food, and raiment, and hope, and comfort. nothing but that. everything in the world, and nothing more. unutterable joy, unfathomable loss. she knew now. the scales had fallen from her eyes. in a blinding flash of light she saw her own heart, and knew that it held but one thought, one image, one hope. how long had she loved him? she recalled their first meeting, when he had frowned at the sight of her, and she had watched him walk along the shore by jean's side with resentment in her heart. their acquaintance had begun with prejudice and dislike, yet almost at once her sympathy had gone out towards him; almost from the first it had distressed her to see his depression; that nervous twitch of the features had been a positive pain, she had turned away her head to avoid the sight. later on, when jean was engaged, he had drawn nearer, and looking back on the day of the wedding, she knew that it had been for his sake that she had taken an interest in her costume, from a desire to appear fair in his eyes. at the moment of entering the church it had been his face which had stood out from all the rest. she had been so thankful to see his smile. all that afternoon and evening he had been quietly, unostentatiously attentive, as if divining her sense of loss, and striving, in so far as might be, to fill the gap. twice again she had seen him before leaving town, and then had come the morning when he had appeared at the manor house window, and she had seen her own transfigured face in the glass. that was the day when the last barrier had broken down, and friendship had finally made place for love. nature, which had decreed that she might never marry, had not at the same time been merciful enough to take away the power of loving; rather had it bestowed it upon her in a deeper, fuller fashion than is possessed by nine women out of ten. every power of her being surged towards this man in a passion of love and longing. she stretched out her hands as if to grasp him, and sobbed to feel them empty. laughter turned to tears--the slow, difficult tears of a breaking heart. for ever and ever these hands must remain empty. as if the present were not sufficiently painful, vanna then projected herself into the future. in imagination she saw piers engaged to this pretty, strange girl; listened to his mother's endless prattle concerning her beauty, his happiness, the coming wedding; saw him located at the manor with his bride by his side, bringing her over to the cottage, sitting beside her in the happy land. the future was desolated; and the past? the past also crumbled to nothingness before this shock of self-revelation. where now was the peace and conquest on which she had congratulated herself during the last few months? not only had they disappeared, but it appeared that they had never existed. that lightsome frame of mind, which she believed to have been gained as a reward for duty well done, had in reality been nothing more or less than the dawnings of love; the deep undercurrent of joy and hope which had lain beneath the surface of her life. vanna hid her face in her hands. at that moment the sight of the gay, smiling scene seemed but to mock her grief. she felt a wild longing for winter, for the stormy sky and sea, the frowning cliff, which would be a fit setting for her life. how could she go on tending miggles, sitting quietly in the house, separated from piers, seeing him with another? the sound of footsteps startled her from her trance--ascending footsteps, scaling upwards from the beach. she straightened herself, thrust back her hair, and struggled to compose her features. it seemed part of the same dull trance that it should be piers's face which rose into sight, his dark eyes which turned anxiously to her face. she had not known of his coming, but she was not surprised; a stupor of indifference had succeeded the passion of despair; she felt no surprise, no embarrassment, but sat watching him stonily, until he reached the last step and stood by her side. "was that _you_ laughing just now? i heard you as i came along the shore. it _was_ you?" "yes, it was i." "and now you are crying!" his tone was quick and tense with anxiety. "what is the matter? you are not well. something has been troubling you. it is not like you to be hysterical." vanna's lips curled, her eyes stared steadily into his. a sudden impulse seized her, and she gave herself no time to pause. "and why not? on the contrary, it is just what you might expect. there is no counting on what i may do. my moods are very variable, but you must make excuses for me. there is madness in my family. my father died in an asylum, and my grandmother, and two aunts. i have been warned that i may have the same fate in store. you can hardly expect me to behave like a normal creature. it is no wonder if i wax hysterical at times. it's not exactly a pleasant prospect to look forward and picture _that_ fate in store. you must make allowances for occasional outbursts." he stood above her, looking down with dark, intent eyes as though he would see into the very heart of her being. "when were you warned? lately? since i was here last? is that what is troubling you now?" "i saw the doctor last summer. he warned me then, but i had known the facts for two years before that. they had been hidden from me, but i found them out, and went to the doctor for advice." "a year ago! you have known all these months when you have been happy and gay? then this has nothing to do with to-day. what is troubling you to-day?" she looked at him blankly. on his face was a great sympathy, a great tenderness, but no sign of the horror and amazement which she had expected. the great tragedy of her family seemed to weigh as nothing as compared to her grief of to-day. the tears rose in her eyes, but they were tears of relief. her voice faltered in pitiful, childlike fashion. "i was lonely, and i remembered, and i was afraid--afraid to look forward..." he bent down and took her hands in his with a firm but gentle pressure. "get up! you are not lonely any more. my horse is in the village. go and get ready, and we will have a ride." he strengthened his grasp, looking deep into her eyes. "what does it matter to me if every soul belonging to you were mad? you are the sweetest, the _sanest_ woman i have ever met." chapter fourteen. the company of saints. from that day forward vanna deliberately shut her eyes to the barriers which blocked her life, and gave herself up to the joy of the present. piers knew her dread secret, and the knowledge would surely be sufficient to put any thought of her as a wife out of his mind, if indeed such a thought had existed. her conscience being clear that he at least would not suffer through a continuance of their intimacy, she for her own part was ready to pay the price of future suffering for the rich joy of the present. the joy would not, could not last, but it was better, a thousand times better, to taste the full flavour of life, even if but for a few short months, than to drag on to old age ignorant of the deepest experiences which can stir the human soul. if suffering must come, knowledge would come with it--comprehension, sympathy, and to the end of time the memory of golden hours. piers's visits increased in number, and he was unceasing in his efforts for all that concerned the welfare of the two inmates of the cottage. in his presence vanna expanded like a flower in the sun. love, the magician, worked his spell upon mind and body, so that beholding her own likeness in the glass she would often blush again, as she had blushed on the afternoon of piers's first visit. her pale cheeks were tinged with colour, her eyes shone, her very hair showed rich russet gleams as she wandered bare-headed in the sun. the sound of her own laugh, the aptness of her own words, astonished and delighted no one so much as herself: it was as if a hundred unsuspected beauties and charms, after lying latent all her life, had sprung suddenly to birth. there were moments when, from sheer pride and self-congratulation, she came near following gwendoline harleth's historic example, and kissing her own reflection in the glass. "i am happy!" she told herself triumphantly. "this is happiness--the best i shall ever know. i must realise it, enjoy every moment, enjoy it to the full. i must guard it preciously, shut my eyes and ears to all the little jars and frets, and not _allow_ them to interrupt. it is my golden time. in years to come, i must be able to look back and remember that i made the most of it when it was mine. it would be madness to waste an hour..." meanwhile the two old ladies looked on with silent understanding. mrs rendall had been in her own way an ardent admirer of vanna in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but a mother looks with changed eyes upon a girl whom she suspects her son of honouring with his love. no one is worthy of that honour, and it is rarely indeed that an element of coolness and jealousy does not tinge the former affection. mrs rendall pursed her lips at the mention of vanna strangeways, and no longer pressed for repetitions of the weekly visits. to miggles it was unalloyed joy to behold the growing attachment between the two young people whom she loved so dearly. never by word or deed did she hint at her desire; but as the months passed by and her health steadily declined, she hugged the thought that when her hour came the dear child who had comforted her last days would find another and a sweeter home. an ever-increasing feebleness warned her that her days were numbered, though so far she had been spared severe suffering. the local doctor confided in vanna that such immunity could not be expected to the end, for in such cases violent paroxysms of pain were almost inevitable. vanna shrank with fear from the prospect; but the god in whom miggles so sweetly trusted had decreed an easier release for his child. sitting beside an open window in the second spring of her sojourn at the cottage, miggles contracted a chill, which quickly developed into bronchitis. the attack did not appear serious to onlookers; but some premonition of the end seemed to visit the invalid herself, for she called vanna to her bedside, and whispered an eager request: "my keys, dear! on the ring! i want them here." vanna brought the big, jingling bunch from its place in the work-basket with its red silk linings. miggles had the slavish devotion to locking up which characterised her time, and it was seldom indeed that any of her possessions could be reached without the aid of at least two keys. now with feeble fingers she separated two from the rest, and held them out for the girl's inspection. "this big one with the red thread, that's for the cupboard in the spare room. this little one--the smallest but two--that's for the bottom drawer inside. if i die this time--one can never tell--go at once and open that drawer. _at once_! to save you trouble." vanna nodded, and put back the bunch in the basket. she herself had no fear that this illness would end fatally, until in the still hours of the night she crept to the bedside and beheld on her friend's face the grey shadow which, once seen, can never be mistaken. the doctor was summoned, with piers rendall, who by good providence was staying at the manor, and the dread sentence was pronounced in the little sitting-room in which so many peaceful hours had been spent. "slipping away! heart failure! the heart is too weak to stand the extra strain caused by this oppression on the lungs. she will not last out the day. don't grieve, miss strangeways. it's a merciful release. if she had lived she would have had great suffering. we must be thankful for her sake." vanna and piers sat together by the bedside during the long hours of that morning. a telegram of warning had been dispatched to mr and mrs goring, but it was not possible that they could reach the secluded village before late in the afternoon. miggles lay with closed eyes, breathing heavily, but without further sign of distress. for the most part she seemed to sleep, but once, when piers bent over her, she opened her eyes and essayed to smile. "how are you now, dear? how do you feel?" asked the young man anxiously; and miggles struggled bravely to reply. "quite--well!" said the feeble voice; and after a moment's pause--"and very happy!" after that she sank ever deeper and deeper into unconsciousness, while the watchers sat on either side, watching the still face. it was just as the clock struck five, and the sun passing beyond the barrier of the cliff left the little room grey and dull, that with a movement of surprise, as if wakened by the touch of an invisible hand, miggles suddenly lifted her lids and gazed around. the heavy, bulging cheeks had wasted away, and the eyes, which in health had appeared small and insignificant, now stared out, large and wide from the hollow sockets. as she looked, the first surprise was superseded by a great and incredulous joy. she turned her head from side to side, the faint smile deepening to rapture, while her panting lips gasped out the same word--once, a second time, and again a third: "_angels! angels! angels_!" the two who looked on bowed their heads, and were still. to them it was a small, dull room, prosaic in furnishing, grey, with the shadow of night and death, but miggles's opening eyes beheld therein the company of saints. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ piers and the faithful maid turned vanna out of the room. she had done enough, they said. it was not for her to be pained by the last sad rites. she allowed herself to be led on to the little landing; but when piers tried to lead her downstairs she refused to move. remembrance had come to her of miggles's request with respect to the keys, and the search which was to be made "_at once_." she had no idea what she was to find as she knelt beside that bottom drawer, while piers stood watchfully at her side; it was the impulse of obedience pure and simple which guided her movements. the first glance brought no illumination, for a strip of muslin hid the contents from view. with its removal came the scent of lavender, and there, neatly ranged in order, lay a pair of fine linen sheets with pillow cases to match, a nightgown, and a cap with a border of pleated lace, its muslin strings neatly folded and secured in place with a pin. miggles's burial clothes! prepared long since with her own hands, and put aside to "save trouble" to those left behind. vanna bowed her head, and burst into a passion of tears. chapter fifteen. vanna's kingdom. miggles was buried at seacliff by her own written request. a letter addressed to mr goring was discovered after her death, in which her wishes were expressed with the simple candour and consideration for others which had ever characterised her utterances. "i wish to be buried here at seacliff. it will be less trouble than taking me to town, and i have always loved the little place. i don't wish money wasted on an elaborate coffin, but i should love all the flowers which people find it in their hearts to send. i don't wish any one to wear mourning, or to give up their pleasures or amusements because of my death. i always loved to see you dear ones happy and gay, and if i can still see you from the other world, it would grieve me to see you sad. i want you to go on with your lives in the usual way, and not think it necessary to mourn for me. but i should like to be remembered. i hope you will still let me share your lives. talk of me sometimes when you are together--not sadly, but quite cheerfully and happily. say sometimes, `miggles would like that!' `miggles would say that!' `how miggles would laugh!' just as if i were in another room. i may be even nearer, and it seems to me now that even heaven itself could not make me happy if i saw you sad..." mr and mrs goring, the two schoolboys, piers rendall, his mother, and vanna were the chief mourners. jean was expecting a baby, and had been somewhat alarmingly delicate during the last months, so that it was impossible for her to travel to seacliff, and robert refused to leave her even for a day. the little burial-ground lay inland, nearer the manor house than the cottage on the cliff, and after the service was over the mourners returned to lunch with mrs rendall. piers and vanna followed slowly after the others until a side gate was reached leading into the grounds, when piers produced a key from his pocket, and, entering, led the way, not towards the house, but down hill in the direction of the glen, but vanna stood still in the path, looking at him with surprised, reproachful eyes. "_to-day_?" "to-day! why not? she is happy; it was her great wish for us that we should be happy, too. come!" he took her hand in his, and she made no attempt to withdraw it. worn out as she was with the strain and grief of the last few days, the firm clasp seemed to bring with it strength and comfort. hand-in-hand they descended the sloping path and stood beneath the shelter of the trees. as on the day of their first visit together, the delicate beauty of early summer surrounded them on every side. the foliage still retained the fresh green of springtime, the grass was dotted over with patches of fragrant violets and anemones, the water of the stream babbled musically over the mossy stones. as piers gazed around there was on his face an expression which vanna had never seen before--an expression of exaltation, of almost incredulous content. "vanna," he cried breathlessly, "it is _true_! all my life i have feared and doubted. even as a child, when my mother taught me at her knee, the doubts arose in my mind, and the questions. you have wondered why i never went to church. it would have been a mockery when i could not believe. i have read, and listened, and discussed; and out of it all came only more doubt, more confusion. it is my nature to mistrust--_was_ my nature, till i met you." his hand tightened on hers with almost painful pressure. "you have taught me the reality of goodness and truth, and now, through you, this has come--this revelation. it is true! there is another life. this world is not all. i have doubted all other evidence, but i cannot doubt what i have _seen_. they were there, vanna, close around us, the spirits--the `angels' of miggles's sweet old faith! we were too blind to see, but they were there, and she saw them. that light in her eyes! can you ever forget? that was not death--it was life--the coming of life! oh, my darling, my darling, what this means to me! a new heaven--a new earth. the falling of the scales!" he lifted his quivering face to the sky as though asking forgiveness of the god whom he had denied; but the woman by his side had no thought at that moment for anything in heaven or earth but himself. amazement of joy following so hard upon grief seemed to sap the last remnant of strength. she trembled violently, and gripped at piers's arm. he turned in alarm, but the face looking up to his was quivering with joy, not pain. "vanna! what is it?" "you called me--you called me--" she broke off, trembling, shaking, blushing to the roots of her hair. "_what_ did you call me?" for a moment he stared bewildered; then remembrance came--the echo of his own words throbbed in his ear, bringing with them a second revelation, the revelation of his own heart. he seized her in a grasp violent in its intensity, and drew her towards him, gazing deep into her eyes. "vanna, my beloved! this too! my love, and yours! a new earth indeed. the words said themselves, darling; they have lived so long in my heart that they slipped from my lips before i had realised my wealth. i who thought i could never love, to have walked into it, step after step, deliberately, blindly, until i found myself so deep down, so engulfed, that i could not be free if i would. vanna, i have only lived since i knew you. it was you i needed all those empty years: you have given me life, joy, hope; you must give me the last thing, too--your love! after this vision i can't live without it. you are mine, vanna; i can't give you up." he drew her head to his shoulder and pressed passionate kisses on her lips, her hair, her white, closed lids, and she clung to him, forgetting everything in the bliss of certainty, the intoxicating nearness, the touch of his lips on her own. "vanna! was it _this_ you felt--a foretaste of this joy--when you walked into your kingdom and read its message? it's in your happy land, my dearest, you have found your love. may it be an omen of the future! speak to me!... tell me in words. i have never heard a woman's lips speak to me of love." vanna looked up at him, a wealth of devotion in the depths of her eloquent eyes, but her lips trembled over the words: "what can i say? the words won't come. i was lonely, too, and you are everything--everything. from the very first day you filled my mind. i thought it was friendship. when i found out, i struggled, but it was no use, so i gave in, and let myself love you more and more. it was my best happiness--the only happiness i could look for. i never ventured to hope that you could love me." he laughed, a low, tender laugh, and framing her face between his hands, lifted it towards his own. "was i blind and deaf? could i see you, and talk to you, and listen to your praises from far and near, and keep my head? do you know in the least what you are like? i'll carry a little mirror in my pocket and let you see yourself some time when you are animated and happy. i'll make you admire yourself." "have you fallen in love with me for my looks?" "partly. certainly. i love your looks, and i won't have them depreciated. and with your goodness, and sweetness, and strength, and your unreasonableness, and temper, and weaknesses--and which i love the most i really can't say. there's not a bit of you i don't love, or would have altered if i could." vanna shivered. already the golden moment had passed, and a shadow fell across her joy. this climax of bliss--what could it be but a presage of the end? she drew herself away from piers's encircling arms. "ah, what have i done? piers, what have i done? i have forgotten--we have both forgotten. i told you my secret that day on the cliff when you heard me cry. do you know _why_ i cried? because jean had spoken of a girl in town, with whom she thought you were in love. it tortured me; i was nearly wild with jealousy and despair. and then you came, and i blurted it all out. no! it was not noble. i was thinking of myself. i wanted to get the weight off my mind, that i might enjoy you with an easy mind. i felt that if you knew the worst, and cared to be with me after that, the responsibility was yours, not mine; and i tried--i _tried_ to make you care! i deluded myself, but i know now that i _did_ try. i thought i could not help it, but it was selfish--cowardly. i should have thought of your good. piers, i can never be your wife; you can never marry me. i have only brought fresh trouble. can you ever forgive me?" he smiled at her, and, disregarding the outstretched hands, drew her back into his arms. "forgive you, my best of blessings! for the moment i can think of nothing but love. my mind isn't big enough to grasp anything beyond that tremendous fact. the present is ours, darling; be content in that. we are here together in our happy land--you and i. nothing can rob us of this hour. if it ended here, this minute, i should still bless god for his goodness. to know you love me, to hold you here in my arms-- it's worth living for, vanna. but it's not going to end. trust to me. i will go up to town. i will interview the doctor. i will find a way. you are mine, and all the world shall not keep you from me." vanna smiled in his face with happy, love-lit eyes. he was a god in her eyes, and the gods are omnipotent. if piers willed a thing it did not seem possible that he could fail. reason fled discomfited. she loved, and was blind. chapter sixteen. the second best. piers lost no time in going to town to interview dr greatman, but the result was not encouraging. he came back to vanna with a worn face, and the restless discontent of older days eclipsing the happiness of his eyes. "if it were only my own risk, i would take it a thousand times over," he declared; "but when he tells me that it would be worse for you, that i should be increasing your danger, there is nothing to be said. i would kill myself rather than do that. i have racked my brain, i paced the floor the whole of last night, but no inspiration will come. there seems no way out." "there is no way," said vanna quietly. they were sitting in the morning-room in the cottage, that little room which seemed so empty without the familiar figure on the sofa by the window. in deference to miggles's wishes, vanna was wearing a simple white dress; but although the melancholy aspect of mourning robes was removed, her face also looked bleached and wan. the waiting hours had been terribly long to the woman whose fate hung on the verdict. "there is no way! you made me hope in spite of myself, for it seemed impossible that any one could refuse you what you wished; but nothing is changed since i saw him last. there was no reason why he should alter his opinion. i can see now that he spoke to me so plainly just to try to avoid this crisis; but it has come, and it is my fault. i ran away from another man who was beginning to love me, but when it came to my own turn my courage gave way. i knew that the day would come when i should have to suffer for every hour of joy, but i was prepared to pay the price. i am prepared still. i have had my day. i know what happiness is--the greatest happiness which a human soul can know; and nothing can take that away. i never dared to think that you would love me, but you do; and it's such perfect bliss to know that, and to feel your arms round me, and to be able to say all i feel, instead of bottling it up in my heart as i have had to do all these months, that for my own sake i can't regret. only for yours, dearest; only for yours!" "what do you think it means to me? before i met you i was lonely and dissatisfied--you know what i was like! people talk of _joie de vivre_. i never knew it--never until this last year, since i have known you. when we have been together i've wanted nothing. i've been more than happy: i've been content. when we have been apart i have lived for the time when i should see you again. if you love me, how can you regret having given me the great joy of my life?" "if it could last! if it could last! but when it is only to bring a worse pain upon you, how can i help regretting? oh, it is hard. to think what this moment means to other couples, and that we should be shut out. i feel like you--my own risk is nothing; it is the dread of its consequences for you that weighs, and he said--he said, that the worst time, the time of the worst danger lay ahead. piers, how _can_ you love me with that knowledge in your mind? i thought when i told you, i honestly thought that it would stop every possibility of your caring." "nothing could have stopped me. i told you then, as i tell you now, that you are the sweetest, the sanest woman i have ever met, and you are mine. i will never give you up; never to my dying day." "piers, piers, we have no choice." he drew her towards him, a hand on each arm; drew her roughly, passionately, his dark face twitching with emotion. "no! it is true. we have no choice. you have said it, and it is the truth. we belong to each other, and nothing that any one can say or do can alter that. for better or worse we belong; till death us do part. there is no choice. you can't get away--vanna, does it strike you that we are doing a wrong, a wicked thing? we are killing our golden hour almost as soon as it is born. those other lovers that you speak of, do they trouble their heads about marriage the first moment they are alone with their love? i don't believe they do. i don't believe it is even mentioned. it is enough joy, enough wonder, to realise the present. can't we follow their example? can't we be content just to be together--like this? isn't the present rich enough to content us? it is more, a hundred times more than i ever dared to expect. you could not be so cruel, vanna, as to take it from me." "if it could last! if it could last!" moaned vanna once more. "oh, piers, it is heaven just to sit here, with my head on your shoulder, and your arms around me; but i must go away, far away to the other end of the world. we can't even be `engaged' like other people, and have the right to meet and be alone. how could we be engaged when we can never marry?" "how could we not? if we cannot have the best thing, we must take the next. do all engaged lovers marry and live happily ever after? you know they don't. they can't see what is waiting one day ahead. there are a hundred risks. at the last moment death may divide them. the only thing that is secure is the present; they grasp that, and are happy. that's the philosophy of life, darling; that must be our philosophy. you are mine. i am not going to give up my rights. we must be able to meet, to see each other when we wish. if to do that and satisfy conventions, we must call ourselves `engaged,' engaged we will be. i shall tell my mother to-night, you must tell the gorings. we are engaged, and we adore one another, and are gloriously happy. do you remember jean when she was engaged? weren't _they_ gloriously happy?" "for three months!" cruel memory flashed back echoes of impatient words and sighs which had escaped the lovers' lips even during that short period: "these eternal good-byes, these eternal interruptions! when shall we be alone?"--"for three months! if it had been three years-- thirteen--thirty! i can't imagine robert waiting for long indefinite years. oh, piers, you would grow tired--impatient--" he pressed her to him with a groan of anguish. "of course i shall be tired; of course i shall be impatient. don't torture me, darling--and yourself. it's a second best, and it must be hard; but it is all that's left, and for a time at least it will be bliss. one never knows what may happen. we are not particularly strong people, you and i; we may not have long to live. vanna, knowing the uncertainty of life, dare you, _dare_ you refuse me my joy? you say this has come upon us by your fault; then surely you feel your responsibility also. you owe me something, and you must pay. vanna, is it so hard?" "hard! do you think i want to refuse? do you think it would not be bliss to me to give way too? for myself it would be all gain--your love, your companionship, your help; but for you it would be a barrier, shutting out better things--a wife, children, a home. you need them, piers; you are not made for solitude. as you grow older you will need them more. how dare i shut them out?" he did not answer. vanna felt his cheek twitch against her own, heard the sharp indrawing of the breath. her words had gone home; she felt a wild surge of anger against herself--against the morbid conscientiousness which had sought to wreck her own joy. the gods had thrust a gift into her hands, and because it was not pure gold she had thrust it aside, leaving herself to starve. the slackening of piers's arms brought with it a stab of anguish. had she convinced him against his will? was he about to take her at her word? but instead of turning away he drew her to her feet, holding her by both hands so that they stood face to face. "vanna, you remember what i said to you about miggles? the lesson of her death? you believe--i believe that this world is not all; that it is only a beginning--the portal of life. can't we lift our love above the ordinary human conception? can't we be content to wait--to suffer if it must be, in the hope of all that is to come? i don't pretend that it will be easy; but we have no choice. the love has come; we can't alter it; we don't want to alter it. we belong to each other for life and eternity; we must help each other to live on the heights. we must not allow ourselves to regret and to pine for what we cannot have; we must be thankful, and look forward. you are so good, so strong; you must help me! we must go on with our lives; but if this love is worth anything, it will be a strength to us--not a bar. it would be folly to part. should we think of each other any the less because we were at opposite ends of the world? vanna! surely you of all women should be the last to deny the possibility of a spiritual love." but vanna did not answer. her head fell forward until her face was hidden from sight; her hands burned within his. she was a woman, and for the moment there was no place in her heart for piers's lofty self-abnegation. a spiritual love--self-sacrifice and suffering in the hope of future bliss! and she was to be strong and brave, and help him when he failed; she, who was filled with a passion of longing for the dear, human, everyday joys; to whom for the moment they towered above the far-off, spiritual gain. the woman's birthright of intuition revealed the future with flashlight clarity. her heart was torn with a presage of the pangs which would rend it afresh, as she beheld happy wives, rich in home, husband, and children, while she wandered outcast, unsatisfied, athirst. the man, with shorter vision, could content himself in the present, and in the fulness of love's revelations delude himself that joy would remain; but to the woman, for whom the love of him was an aching longing of body and soul, the sharpest pang of all came from the certainty of his mistake. she looked forward and beheld him restless and rebellious, chafing against his chains--the old, irritable discontent on lips and eyes. he would suffer; of a certainty he would suffer. so surely as he was made in man's image, the day would dawn when his joy would be changed into despair. a wild longing seized vanna to give her lover happiness while she might; to give him such a summer of joy and content that when the winter came he should look back and feel the price well paid. her fingers tightened on his arm, her eyes sought his in feverish entreaty. "piers! if i do give in--i have no strength to oppose you--if i give in, swear to me that if the time comes when you regret--when you feel bound, because there is some one"--she gulped painfully--"some one else whom you could take for a wife--swear that you will be honest with me; that you will not let me spoil your life! swear that you will tell me the truth." he smiled into her troubled face, taking possession of her hands in a close, comforting grasp. "what would you think if i asked the same promise of you? can't you give me credit for as much consistency as yourself? is it possible that i could grow tired of _you_?" but at that moment vanna had no ears for the sweet protestations of love. her grasp grew but the tighter, her gaze the more distressed. "swear to me! swear!" piers gave a short, half-impatient laugh. "i swear it. now are you content?" chapter seventeen. a false position. vanna begged a month's grace before the announcement of her engagement was made public, and before half that time had passed, had said good-bye to the seaside cottage in which she had known such peaceful, happy days, and, in response to an urgent invitation, had gone to pay a long visit to jean. "you said the time would come when i should need you," wrote jean, in a long pencilled scrawl, "and it has arrived! i need you badly, dear; i crave for you. at this moment i feel i must either have a kind, understanding woman near me, or die! i am so ill, vanna, and so weak, and so frightened! it has been such a long, long time, and i never knew before what it was like to be ill. one does not grow used to it--it grows harder and harder, and the days are so eternally long. i don't apologise for asking you to exchange one invalid for another; another person might think it hard, but not you, you dear angel--it will be an inducement to you. and you'll stay until it is over, won't you, and keep house, and look after robert, when i'm upstairs? oh, the joy, and the ease, and the comfort it would be to see you walk in at this moment, and to know that you'd come to stay! i want you more than i've ever wanted you before; and if you say no, i'll collapse at once, and it will be your fault, and you'll repent for ever after. wire your reply." vanna smiled happily as she read the characteristic words. yes, her time had come. she had waited to a good purpose. jean needed her, and she needed jean; she was longing eagerly for long, heart-to-heart talks with her only woman friend. except those few short days at seacliff, the two friends had not met since the day of the wedding, and there would be so much to hear, so much to say. what would jean have to say to her great news? she recalled jean's face of dismay as, kneeling on the ground, she had listened to dr greatman's verdict; heard again the tremble in her voice as she asked, "is there no escape?" surely jean would not blame her, because when happiness had been placed into her hand she had not had strength to thrust it away? surely out of the riches of her own wealth she would rejoice that some crumbs had fallen to her friend? what would robert say? he was a man: he would judge from a man's standpoint, with his head rather than with his heart. vanna shrank nervously from robert's disapproval. he was one of the simple, upright men who are apt to be hard judges. to them there are but two courses in life--a right and a wrong. they have neither sympathy nor understanding for those who pitifully essay to find byways by which to escape the rigours of the path. yet when love had seized robert in its grip he had made short work of obstacles--had laughed to scorn vanna's prudent advice. when she had condemned him, and refused her help, he had replied that it was not needed. he required no help from outside. well! vanna lifted her chin with proud resolve; she herself could be equally independent. it would make the future more difficult if robert and jean adopted a disapproving attitude, but for the moment she need not trouble herself about such a contingency. she would allow jean time for the discussion of her own affairs before seizing a quiet opportunity for telling her own great news. the tall town house, with its narrow staircase, and high, box-like rooms, felt close and stuffy after the wind-swept cottage, but it glowed with the colour dear to the heart of its mistress, and was refreshingly different from the ordinary houses of that most inartistic age. jean had copied her interior from pictures rather than from upholsterers' catalogues, and her principal furniture had been made from her own designs. robert had placed no limit on her expenditure; he could not afford a large house, but she was to have "everything she wanted" for the small one which she had graciously consented to occupy. such were his instructions, and jean had proceeded to carry them into effect with a literal interpretation of the words. being one of the happy people who always know exactly what they want, no time was wasted in discussion, the only difficulty being to procure fabrics as beautiful and artistically tinted as those which were pictured in her fertile brain. when the last treasure had been discovered, and fitted into its niche, the completed whole was a triumph of good taste, beautiful and restful; a home of which any man might be proud. robert was proud of it because it was jean's doing, and spectators waxed enthusiastic in jean's praise. for himself, he would have been as well satisfied with a walnut suite and moreen curtains, perhaps more so, for he felt uneasily that he should never be able to smoke comfortably in such fine surroundings, nor to cross a floor without pausing to rub his boots. neither of the two had a glimmering of an idea of what it cost to furnish a house; but when the bills came in robert had a disagreeable shock. the sum which he had laid aside was ludicrously inadequate, and he was obliged to have recourse to "selling a share or two," and so reduce his already slender capital. but jean was content. jean was proud of her house; all other considerations were second to that. vanna met her friend in the drawing-room, which, being situated at the back of the house, with a depressing outlook, had the ordinary window replaced by one of rich stained glass. gas jets had been arranged outside the window, which, being lit at dusk, served to show the glowing colours of the design through the evening hours. on this summer afternoon the mellowed light, and absence of prospect, combined to give the room the aspect of a shrine, and jean moving slowly forward was certainly beautiful enough for a high-priestess. she wore a wonderful flowing robe of a dull blue, softly falling silk, the long open sleeves hanging almost to the ground, and showing her slim arms encased in some thin metallic substance, in which gold shot into silver, and silver back to gold. the folds at the neck were caught together with a metal clasp and chains, and slippers of the same colour peeped out beneath the sweeping skirts. the first glance at her face, however, brought with it a thrill of fear, for suffering and weariness were written there with an eloquence beyond the power of words. the eyes were haggard and encircled with violet shadows, the cheeks had lost their curves, the lips drooped, yet, as ever, jean's beauty rose triumphant over all drawbacks. vanna asked herself if she were not more beautiful than ever, for the childlike pathos of expression added the needed touch of softness to her features. "oh, vanna, you blessing! you have come at last." "i've come, darling. come to stay! as long as you want me." jean kissed her again and again, the tears gathering in the lovely eyes, but she dashed them away, and in another minute was laughing and chattering in her old gay voice. "bring tea, bring tea! and i'm engaged, remember! not a soul is to disturb me this afternoon. vanna, you look sweet. if you go on improving at this rate, you'll soon beat me hollow. sit here, opposite, where i can see you. oh, you look so fresh, and happy, and well! you are like a breath of sea air. i've been stifling for months in this stuffy room, with not even a tree to look at, to remind me that it's spring." she threw an impatient glance at the stained-glass window which had made such a deep hole in robert's purse. "robert goes out at nine, and gets home at seven. oh, my dear, such days! i've had such a dose of my own society that i'm sickened. if there's a person on earth i detest at this moment, it's jean gloucester." vanna smiled whimsically. "it doesn't look like it. you seem to me to take a very fair amount of interest in her still. you look as charming as ever, you wonderful person. what a marvellous gown! where in the name of mystery did you evolve it? and how many coffers of gold did you squander in the purchase?" jean had the grace to blush. "oh, well! one must be respectable. it _is_ rather a marvel. it was designed for me by an artist woman who has gone in for gowns; but no earthly inducement will ever make me tell what it cost. it's so soothing to have something becoming that it's been as good as medicine. looked at in that way, it's _cheap_! and i have been so good about money all the year. rob balanced our books last week, and we were only a hundred out. very good, i call it, when you remember that i had _no_ experience. the first time we had asparagus for dinner i couldn't eat a bit. i just sat staring at every stick. you have always to pay for experience. besides, as i said to rob, you are only newly married once, and it would be a sin to rub off the bloom worrying about pennies. it's silly to spoil the present for the sake of what may happen in a dozen years. we may be dead, or if we are not, we shall probably be better off. rob's position will be improved, the boys' education will be finished, and father can allow me more. men are so fussy about capital... vanna, do you realise that it is a whole year since i've seen you? you have told me very little about yourself in your letters. there's so much i want to hear. not about miggles to-day--we'll leave that. i don't want to cry. tell me about yourself!" "oh, not yet! one thing at a time. i've not half finished with you," said vanna with a thrill of nervousness, which she tried her best to conceal. "there are a hundred things that i am longing to hear. but first about robert. how is he? well--flourishing--giving satisfaction--as nice as ever?" "nice!" jean tossed her head in disdain. "what a paltry word. he is the best man out of heaven, my dear. that is the only description for _him_. i've lived with him for eighteen months, and have not discovered one single, solitary fault. that's simple truth, not exaggeration. i honestly believe he is perfect." "and with you for a wife! you are a darling, jean; but method was never your strong point, and by your own account your housekeeping hasn't always been a success. does he continue to smile through all the upsets, and forgettings, and domestic crises, such as you described to us at seacliff? i can't believe it of a mere man!" "oh, i didn't mean to say that he preserves a dead-level calm. i should hate him if he did. he is rather irritable in small ways. you can excite him to frenzy--comparatively speaking--by moving the matches from his dressing-room, or mislaying his sponge or nail scissors; but then it is the servants who get blamed--never me; and in big things he is great! if he became paralysed to-morrow, or lost every penny he possessed, or if!"--jean's face sobered--"_died_, he might suffer tortures, but he would not speak one word of rebellion, and he would keep his interest in other people, and be truly, unfeignedly, ungrudgingly glad that they were so much more fortunate than himself. oh, he is a marvel! i adore him. i would give worlds to be like him. i am bursting with pride at being the woman he has chosen out of all the world; but he spoils me so, that it's becoming second nature to want all my own way, so i keep falling farther and farther behind." "robert wouldn't admit that! no doubt he thinks himself the laggard, and you just such another paragon as you have described." jean pursed her lips in a whimsical grimace. "no! the droll part of it is, he does _not_. he doesn't understand me one bit; i'm a continual enigma to him. half the time he is puzzled out of his wits, and the other half he is--_shocked_. such eyes! you should see them staring at me, growing bigger and bigger, when i let myself go, and grumble or rage. he disapproves, but he makes excuses, because i am i, and he loves me, and wouldn't change me for the greatest paragon alive." she was silent, smiling mischievously to herself for several minutes, then burst out suddenly: "can you imagine it, vanna? i sometimes wish he were not quite so good! it's aggravating for a sinner like me to be shown up continually against such a contrast. and sometimes it lands one in such fixes... i could tell you such stories of this year!" she snuggled back against her cushions. "ah, it _is_ good to have you here. i have so longed for a girl to talk to... the first six months we went about a great deal, paying visits to his friends. the first time i asked him to describe the people, as i knew them only by name. `oh, meg!' he said, `meg is the simplest of creatures: kindly, and easy-going as you find 'em. you'll feel at home in five minutes. no fuss, no ceremony. the sort of house where you feel absolutely at home.' well, what would _you_ expect from that description? i saw a vision of a suburban villa, and a stout, frumpy woman with a fat smile, and packed a modest little semi-evening frock to let her down gently. my dear! it was a mansion, and she was the very smartest creature i have ever beheld. the first glimpse of her in afternoon clothes took away my breath; but there was worse to come. she had asked a dozen people to dinner to meet us, and while we were dressing--it was a summer evening, and quite light--i saw carriages bowling up to the door, and visions in satin dresses trailing up the steps. there was nothing for it; i put on my wretched little frock, eating my heart out the while at the thought of all my trousseau grandeurs lying useless at home, and descended--the bride, the guest of honour--the worst dressed woman in the room! can you imagine my suffering?" vanna smiled. she could; and also the manner in which jean would upbraid her husband after the fray. "and robert? what had he to say? how did he look when he first saw you alone?" "radiant, my dear. beaming! absolutely, utterly content. blankly astonished and dismayed to find that i was not the same. utterly unconscious that my dress had been any different from the rest. blindly convinced that there had not been one in the room to touch it!" they both laughed, a tender indulgence shining in their eyes. it was the look with which women condone the indiscretion of a child; but jean was still anxious to expound her own side of the situation. "yes! it's charming; but you've no idea how trying it can be at times. other women lament because their husbands complain of their meals. i wish to goodness robert _would_ complain. it would make things easier with the maids. good plain cooks need so much keeping up to the mark, and i never get a chance of grumbling. when the things are unusually bad, and i am mentally rehearsing what i shall say in the kitchen next morning--`you really must make the soup stronger. the gravy was quite white... why did the pudding fall to pieces?'--you know the kind of thing--robert will lean back with a sigh, and say, `i _have_ had a good dinner. you've eclipsed yourself to-night. i am getting quite spoiled.' i glare at him, but it's no use. he says, `what is the matter, dear?' and i see a smug smile on brewster's face, and know she will go straight into the kitchen and repeat the whole tale. how can i grumble after that? the wind is taken completely out of my sails. sometimes i think that for practical, everyday life a saint is even more trouble than a sinner. then the friends he brings here! you never knew such a motley throng. it may be any one from a duke (figuratively a duke. he has met all sorts of bigwigs, `east of suez') to a vagrant with broken boots, and not an `h' in his composition. and it's always the same description: `do you mind if i bring a man home to dinner to-night? i met him at --' some outlandish place--`and he was awfully decent to me. he is passing through town, and i should like to have him here. such a good fellow!' then, of course, if i have rice pudding, it's the duke; or if i order in an ice, it's the vagrant. once or twice i've tried cross-questioning, but it's no use. if i ask, `is he a gentleman, robert?' he looks at me with his biggest eyes, and asks, `would i ask any one to meet _you_, who was not?' but, bless him! his ideas and mine on that point do _not_ agree. so here, my dear, you behold the novel spectacle of a woman who has only one complaint to make of her husband, that he is _too_ good! but he loves me, vanna, more than ever. we haven't grown a bit stodgy, only just lately i've been so ill and depressed. it will be better now you are here... now tell me about yourself. you've had a sad time, but you don't look sad. you look happy and well. vanna! you are blushing. what is it? tell me. there is something--i know there is. tell me at once!" "yes, there is something." vanna braced herself against the chair, a thrill of nervous foreboding coursing through her veins. she drew off her left glove, which she had purposely left on during tea, and held out the hand, on the third finger of which sparkled a large square diamond. "there is that!" "vanna! a ring? on your engagement finger! who gave you that?" "piers rendall!" the colour rushed in a crimson flood over jean's face; her lips parted in breathless, incredulous surprise. "_piers_! vanna! you _mean_ it? piers? piers and you? you are engaged? when? where? for how long?" "at seacliff. a fortnight ago. but we have loved each other from the first." "and you never told me; you never said a word." "no. i have not seen you; but even if i had i could not have spoken. remember how _you_ felt! could you have discussed robert with me while you were waiting? i asked piers not to announce the engagement until i had told you. no one has been told so far, except his mother." "mrs rendall? she knows? it is settled then? really absolutely settled?" "certainly. i told you so. a fortnight ago." a little chill of offence sounded in vanna's voice. jean's congratulations were a trifle too long delayed; her surprise too blank to be flattering. "aren't you going to congratulate me, jean?" "but--but--you told me--you said--the doctor said--" "that i should never marry. just so! that fact remains. piers knows; i did not deceive him; he knew months ago. he came up to interview dr greatman himself. we know that we can never marry, but we love each other, and mean to take what happiness remains. no one ever forbade me to be engaged." "how can you be engaged? what for? engaged _not_ to be married? it's absurd. what could you say? how could you explain? what would people think?" vanna laughed--a short, hard laugh. still jean had not congratulated her, nor said one loving word. "if it is a false position, it is just those `people' of whom you speak who force us into it. the conventions of society don't allow a man and a woman to enjoy each other's society undisturbed. to be engaged is the only way in which they can gain the liberty. therefore that is the way we must take. there is nothing else to be done." "and--when you _don't_ marry? you are both well off, and not too young. people will expect you to marry at once, and when you don't--" "that is our own affair. they will be told at the beginning that it will be a long engagement, and however much they may wonder among themselves, they will hardly have the impertinence to question us on the subject. i imagine they will be polite, and kind, and congratulate us. i don't think there will be many who will hear the news without speaking _one_ kind word." the inference was undisguised--was intended to be undisguised. jean flushed again, and knitted her delicate brows. "i don't mean to be unkind, but it sounds so wild, so impracticable, so utterly unlike you, vanna. where will you live? how can you meet? you are only twenty-five. people are so ready to talk. what do you propose to _do_?" "to go on with our lives. i have money, thank goodness. i must have a little house--it won't be rich and luxurious like yours--just a little corner where i can put my things, and feel at home. i must make a sacrifice to convention and have a sheep dog, too, i suppose--some lonely woman like myself, who will be thankful for a home. she can look after the servants, and the cleaning, and understand from the first that she leaves _me_ alone. then i shall find some work. i have an idea working out in my head which i hope will bring interest and occupation. and piers shall come to see me. we shall have a place where we can meet in peace and comfort." "vanna, you won't have peace--it's impossible. oh, i know it's hard that your life should be spoiled, terribly, terribly hard; but remember what the doctor said--that you had no right to spoil the man's life also. when you repeated that to me that afternoon you said there was no fighting against it. if you hold piers to you now, you will steal his chance of wife and home and children." "ah, there they are again--those children!" vanna's lip curled in bitter passion. "those visionary children who are for ever cropping up to block the way. no legal form can make a wife and home. i am more to piers than any other woman, despite all my limitations; his home is where i am. why should i be sacrificed, a live woman, with all my powers strong within me, for the sake of problematic infants who may never arrive? and if they did, is it all joy to be a father? are you sure that the joy equals the pain? your father was broken-hearted that day when you left him with a smile. you did not trouble about him; why should i give up everything for the sake of possible children?" there was silence for several moments; then jean spoke: "vanna, you talk as if i did not _want_ you to be happy. ask robert! he'll tell you how often i have spoken about you; how i've cried in the midst of my own happiness to think you could never have the same. but this! oh, it's a mistake, dear; it's a mistake; it will land you in worse trouble. piers will never be content; you won't be content yourself; it won't be happiness, but a long, long fret." "other people--married people, happy married people--look back and call the years of their engagement the happiest time of their lives. i've heard them. you've heard them yourself." "yes. but why? they lived in the future, building castles, the castles in which they were to live. if you could have heard them talking when they were alone, you would have found that it was almost always about the future--when shall we be married? where shall we go for our honeymoon? where shall we live? they imagined it all sunshine, all joy; and when the reality came, and its shadows, and ups and downs, they looked back, and realised how happy and unburdened they had been. but, vanna dear, if you take away the future--if there is no looking forward--a dread, instead of a hope--" vanna shivered, but she held herself erect, and took no heed of the hand held out towards her. she looked round the beautiful, luxurious room, at the glowing stained-glass window, which shut out the grey aspect of the outer world, and as she did so, bitterness arose. once more the knife-edged question cleft her heart. why should the ugliness of life be turned into colour and beauty for one traveller, while the other might not even take to herself a crumb of life's feast without reproach and misgiving? a moment before she had craved for jean's sympathy; now she felt cold, and hard, and resentful, unwilling to accept such sympathy if it were offered. jean was too happy to understand. she was one of fortune's favourites, for whom life had always been smooth and easy. how could she realise the hunger of one who had stood continually outside the feast? of what use were sweet words if understanding were lacking? her voice when she spoke again sounded chill and aloof: "you need not enlarge. piers and i realise too well that our lot is different from other happy lovers, but we have both known what it is to feel lonely and sad, and we believe that we shall find consolation in each other's love. we mean to try, at least. our minds are firmly made up on that point, whatever our friends may think. if you wish to cast me off, jean--i shall be sorry--but, i tell you frankly, it will make no difference." "vanna, _don't_! don't be so bitter; don't speak to me in that voice; i can't bear it," cried jean with gasping breath. the sound of her voice brought vanna's eyes upon her in startled inquiry, and at the sight of her face resentment vanished, in a spasm of love and fear. so white she looked, so spent, so pitifully frail and broken. jean was ill: this was no moment to trouble her with exhausting mental problems. vanna felt a swift pang of penitence at the thought that she who had arrived in the character of nurse and consoler had already contrived to bring about a crisis of weakness. in a trice her arms were supporting the lovely head, her lips pressed to the white cheek, her lips cooing out tenderest reassurements. "there, darling, there! i was a brute, a mean, bitter, grudging brute. forgive me, and we'll never quarrel again. i know it, jean! all you have said, and _morel_ i did make a stand; i refused to listen, but i love him so; i'm so hungry for happiness--i couldn't stand out! whatever comes, whatever happens in the future, we shall have _some_ time together. think how you would feel in my place, and you'll understand. you and robert mean so much to us both, you _must_ wish us well." jean cried, and clung to vanna's hands with feverish protests of love and fealty; but she allowed herself to be soothed and petted and waited upon with a docility as new as it was touching. when vanna skilfully led the conversation to brighter topics, she slowly regained her composure, and some of her old brightness, but her face still showed signs of her distress, and vanna inwardly quailed at the thought of robert's wrath when he returned and discovered the manner in which she had inaugurated her arrival. for every one's sake she considered it wise to avoid a second argument that night, and returned to her own room to unpack before robert arrived, leaving jean to break the news to him as she pleased. the sound of his cheery whistle came up to her from the hall; she heard the doors open and shut, and flushed and paled as she followed in imagination the conversation in the room below. a quarter of an hour passed, then came footsteps, and a tap at the door. "vanna! it's i! may i speak to you for a moment?" the voice was cordial, with its old cheery note. at the sound of it vanna dropped the bundle of clothes which she was holding, and hurried to fling open the door. robert was standing before her, pale and, if possible, thinner than ever, but with a great tenderness shining in his eyes. without preamble he took both her hands in his, and said: "jean has told me. she is your oldest friend. we want you to feel that this is your home until you have one of your own. ask piers whenever you like. he will always be welcome. there's the little den; it is at your service. we'll do everything we can for you, vanna." but he did not congratulate her, and the lack smote on vanna's heart. "thank you, robert," she said wistfully. "that's like you. i am very grateful, but, but can't you say you are _glad_? piers and i love each other very much, and we have been very lonely. robert, you, of all people, ought to be able to understand the possibility of a spiritual love!" but robert only flushed, and looked distressed. "we are not spiritual beings yet, vanna. that's the trouble. i understand the temptation. i don't presume to judge. piers is a better man than i. he may be able to rise where i should sink." "what would _you_ do if you were in our place? if jean were like me, and you loved her, but could not marry?" robert's eyes craved pardon, but his lips did not hesitate: "i should take a passage in the first boat, and put the width of the world between us." chapter eighteen. the reaper. robert and jean made no further remonstrance, but the consciousness of their disapproval was a weight from which vanna could only escape in the company of piers himself. alone with him in the shelter of the den she tasted content, all the more perfect from the contrast with darker hours. encircled by piers's arms, with piers's eyes looking into hers, the world itself had no power to touch her, and she found herself translated into that woman's kingdom where everything that _she_ did was right and beautiful. "jean does not approve of me, piers. she thinks i am acting unfairly by you." "my heart, why worry about jean? she is a child--the most charming and lovable of children, but still a child. you have more brains in your little finger than she has in her whole head. she is incapable of understanding your sentiments." "robert doesn't approve!" "robert doesn't count. he is an echo of jean. he judges you from her standpoint." "if you get tired of me, piers, you have promised to speak!" "i've sworn it. i'll swear it again, ten thousand times over. does one grow tired of the sun?" then vanna would abandon argument and talk delicious nonsense, and tell herself a hundred times over that, come what might, she was the happiest, the most blessed of women, to have gained the heaven of piers rendall's love. the days drifted past, quiet and peaceful except for the growing fear about jean. the doctor shook his head, pronounced her condition "not normal," and robert, though invariably cheerful in his wife's presence, grew haggard with suspense. and then suddenly, some weeks before it was expected, came the end--a ghastly day, a day of hasty comings and goings, of urgent summons for further help, of anguish of body for jean, and for those who loved her, the mental anguish of sitting still hour after hour waiting with trembling for the verdict of life or death. it was four o'clock in the morning, the soft grey dawn of a summer's day, when at last the waiting ended. the doctor opened the door of the den, and faced robert's hungry eyes. "it is all over, mr gloucester. your wife is coming round. she is young, and has a good constitution. i think she will pull through. she is very low--that is only to be expected; but we have nature on our side, and must hope for the best. unfortunately, circumstances are not so favourable for her recovery as one could wish. i regret to say that in spite of all our care we could not save the child. a fine boy! i deeply regret; but you will be thankful that your wife is spared." the tears flooded robert's eyes, but they were tears of joy, not grief. at that moment he had no room in his mind for the little son whom he had never seen. after the blackness of those hours when he had seen a vision of life without jean, he could do nothing but rejoice and thank god. but vanna's heart contracted with a spasm of sympathy. poor jean! poor jean! what a bitter awakening would be hers! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ and jean lay on her bed, bruised, aching, incredibly fatigued. she asked no questions, displayed no interest; with eyelids closed over sunken eyes, pale lips apart, she lay like a broken flower, indifferent to everything in heaven or earth. at intervals of a few hours the doctor came and felt her pulse; at times some one put the tube of a feeding-cup to her mouth, and she swallowed, shuddering with distaste; at intervals it was dark, at intervals it was light. once an urgent voice spoke in her ear telling of robert's presence, and she opened her eyes and tried to smile. all her life long jean remembered that smile. an effort was required of her; she realised as much, and with all the force of her feeble will endeavoured to twist her lips into the looked-for greeting. they were stiff as iron, heavy as lead; she struggled wearily--was it for hours she struggled?--and at last mechanically felt them part. she smiled, and robert cried! it seemed a poor reward, and she shut her eyes in weary despair. at times she slept, to awake with a gasp and a cry. always she was falling--falling from the high gallery of a cathedral, from the top of a pile of scaffolding, from the topmost crag of a precipice. then some one wiped her brow, and spoke soothing words, and she cried, weakly, without cause. four days of nightmare, then at last rest--a real sleep, without dreams or fear; peace in the troubled frame, appetite instead of nausea. the fire burned brightly on the hearth, the curtains were drawn, nurse was drinking tea comfortably beside the fire. the old homely, everyday life, how good and natural it looked after the black, nightmare dreams. "nurse!" whispered jean weakly, "where is my baby?" the white-capped nurse leapt to her feet; it must be uncomfortable, thought jean, to feel those stiff, white bows for ever pinned beneath one's chin. she came to the bedside, and looked down at her patient with an expression of mingled anxiety and relief. "ah, you look better! you have had a deep. you will be ready for some food--" "my baby--i want my baby! why is it not in the room?" "you have been too ill. we had to keep you quiet. you are getting on nicely now, but you must still be careful. be good now, and drink this milk, and try to sleep again." "is it a girl or a boy?" "a boy." "oh!" jean's voice thrilled with joy. "i knew it. i knew it. i _said_ it could not be a girl. a boy--a son! oh, bring him to me, nurse; bring him! i can't wait a moment longer." "you have waited four days; you can wait a few more minutes. drink your milk, and i will call your husband. poor man, he has been so wretched! you would like to see him _first_." nurse was masterful, and jean was weak. she swallowed the milk, and impatiently waited for robert's arrival, hugging the thought of the burden in his arms. surely he would bring him to her--the hard-won treasure, the tiny, precious son for whose sake she had gone down to the gates of death! the door opened, and robert entered. his face was drawn and aged, his hazel eyes haggard with suffering; but for once jean had no thought for him--her eyes saw only his empty arms. "where is he?" robert went down on his knees by the bedside. "jean, darling, speak to me! i have been hungering all these days... thank god you are better. oh, jean, nothing matters in all the world if i have you." jean smiled, and her fingers feebly returned his caress. "poor lad! poor lad! you have suffered, too, but he will comfort us. bring him to me! put him here, between us on the bed. let us look at him together." "jean, sweetheart! we have been happy together; sufficient for each other all these months. am i not more to thee than ten sons?" then in a flash fear dawned on jean's heart; her great eyes widened, her lips fell apart. "my baby! don't torture me. where is my baby?" "with god," said robert softly. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the nurse had cleared away the tea things. after a due interval she had returned to the room, and been relieved to find the patient lying quietly on her pillow. mr gloucester sitting by her side looked more agitated and distressed than she did. his face wore the pitiful, baffled expression of a child whose overtures have been rejected. it was with an air of absolute timidity that he bent forward to kiss his wife's cheek when bidden to depart by the autocrat of the situation. "i must go, darling. i'll come back soon." jean's head moved slightly on the pillow, but the movement was away from him, not nearer. she spoke no word. nurse emma moved about the room, performing necessary duties in the deft, noiseless manner of her kind. from time to time she cast a curious glance at the still face on the pillow. "poor thing! too weak, no doubt, to take it in! yet she had seemed excited at the thought of the boy. a pity, after such a hard time, but there would be plenty more." she shook out some dainty, lace-frilled garments before the fire, and approached the bed, judiciously cheerful. "now, it is six o'clock! you are so much better this afternoon--what do you say? could you fancy a nice cup of tea?" jean opened her eyes, and looked at her. it was not a look, it was a glare; the grey eyes were dry, tearless, blazing. at the sight nurse emma was positively shaken with surprise. "oh, my dear, don't look at me like that! it was not my fault. we did our best for you--more than our best. i never saw dr erroll so anxious. you owe your life to him. it's sad, of course; a great disappointment, but you are so young, and you have your good husband. you mustn't fret." "i am not fretting." "not? what then? you look--" "furious! i'm furious. i have been cheated. it's not fair." "oh, my dear! don't talk like that. these things happen, you know. you're not the first. we all have our troubles, and you are pulling round so nicely. there was a time when we feared for you, too. you must be thankful that your life was spared for your poor husband's sake. it's been most trying for him, with your weakness, and the funeral, and all. come now, have a little cry. it will do you good. then you shall have some tea." jean glared at her again--glared with an intensity that was almost hatred. "you are a foolish woman," she said coldly. "you have no right to be a nurse. go away!" nurse emma bit her lip and went back to her seat by the fire. really! but it was her duty to ignore the outbursts of irritable patients, and preserve an unruffled calm, and she honestly strove to live up to her creed. half an hour later she renewed her offer of tea. when her second and third attempt alike failed to produce any response, she determined once more to summon the husband to second her efforts. outside the bedroom door was a small square landing, the sort of landing, unworthy the name of hall, which one finds in most small, middle-class houses. the gas was not yet lighted, and it had a dreary, depressing air. before the window, gazing blankly into the street, stood robert gloucester, every line of his body eloquent of fatigue and depression. nurse emma looked at him sympathetically; but her first thought was for her patient. "i think you had better go to mrs gloucester, sir. i can't get her to eat. the food is ready on the table. perhaps she will take it for you." robert passed her without a word, shutting the door behind him. jean stared at him across the room. "darling! nurse is distressed that you won't eat. she has sent me to persuade you." "she is a stupid woman--stupid and heartless. she has no right to be a nurse." "don't say that, dear. she has nursed you well--been most devoted. for three nights she has not had off her clothes." jean's upper lip curled in scorn. a strong, self-contained woman, who had lost three nights' rest in performance of her paid duty. three nights! for how many weary months had she herself missed her sleep, dreading the night, dreading the day, travelling wearily nearer and nearer a martyrdom of pain, and now--nothing! hungry arms, hungry heart, incredible disappointment! she pushed aside the offered cup with impatient hand. "i don't want it. it would choke me." "but you are so weak; you will be worse again. for my sake, sweetheart!" "no! i am better. you can see for yourself. i feel really stronger." and strange as it appeared, jean spoke the truth. in some mysterious fashion the flood of anger coursing through her body seemed to have brought with it fresh life and energy. the tone of her voice was clearer, a tinge of colour showed on her cheeks. she looked her husband in the face with cold, challenging eyes. "you took away my baby--my baby, and hid him for ever, without letting me have one sight of his face! was that just? was that fair? does a woman wait all those months to be cheated at the end? it was a cruel thing to do." "but you were ill. your own life was in danger. it would have killed you to be roused to hear that news. if you think it over, dear, you will understand." "it's easy to talk. you saw him. you can remember. i can't." robert's face twitched. yes! he remembered. all his life he would remember the small, dank face of his first-born--that pitiful image, so cruelly unlike the cherub of jean's dreams. he had another memory also--the memory of a grey, rainy morning when he stood by his son's grave in the dreary city cemetery, while his wife lay unconscious at home, grudging each moment in his longing to be back beside her-- dreading to return to hear a worse report. jean had been spared more than she knew--more than she would ever guess, for no word of his would enlighten her. it was not robert gloucester's custom to speak of his own woes. he sat by the bed holding jean's slack hand, gazing at her with wistful, puzzled eyes. he loved her as surely no man had loved a woman before, but he could not comfort her. that was the tragic, the inexplicable fact. in the first great sorrow of life she thrust him aside. it was terribly hard for her, poor darling; a crushing blow, _but_ there was still so much for which to be thankful. her own life was spared; they were given back to each other's love. could she not realise, and be consoled? poor robert! as well expect the dead child to rise from its grave as jean to develop patience in the crash of her first great grief. if she had fallen from one deep faint to another, if she had hysterically cried and sobbed, he could have understood and sympathised; but this bitter cry of rebellion was beyond his comprehension. at the moment when he most longed to draw near, the great barrier of temperament shut him out from his wife's heart. the darkness deepened in the room; the face of jean on the pillow became dim and blurred, her hand lay slack and unresponsive in his grasp. robert sat silent, his whole being expended in a prayer for strength and wisdom--for the power to say the right word to meet his wife's needs. "beloved," he whispered softly. "be patient! be content with me a little longer. there will be others..." but what woman fresh from her fiery trial can take comfort in that thought? with a cry of pain jean wrenched away her hand. "oh, you don't, you _don't_ understand! i want vanna--i want a woman. send vanna to me." so once again he had said the wrong thing. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ vanna crept in through the doorway, and knelt down by jean's side. the gas was lighted now, turned up just high enough to make visible the various objects in the room, without dazzling the patient's eyes. those eyes were raised with strained appeal to the other girl's face, as if mutely asking help. here was another woman, a woman who loved her, a woman who would never have a child of her own. would she understand? what words of comfort would she offer in her turn? but vanna said no words. she laid her face down on jean's hand, and the hot tears poured from her eyes. the trembling of her form shook the bed, and jean trembled in response. a spasm of weakness threatened her, but she would not succumb. she pressed her lips together, and stared fixedly with burning eyes. was this the "little cry" which was to act as the prelude to the "nice cup of tea"? what comfort had vanna to offer? "well!" she said in that cold, faint voice which sounded so poor an echo of her usual full, musical tones. "well! what have you to say? i sent for you, you know. my baby is dead. he is _dead_. i have no baby. it has been all useless, for nothing! nothing is left--" "jean! jean! my poor little jean!" "is that all you have to say? you ought to tell me to be brave, to be brave and not fret. i am not the first person!... can you believe it, vanna; _can_ you? that little chest of drawers is full of his things. i've stitched at them for months, and dreamt of him with every stitch. i've turned them over a hundred times, waiting, looking forward to to-day. there's his cot in the corner, and his little bath. it's all ready--but he is not here. my baby is dead. they took him away, and hid him where i can never see. think of it, vanna! all those months, and never even to see his face. to have had a little son, and never to have touched him, given him one kiss--" "poor little mother! poor little hungry mother. oh, my poor jean." jean shut her eyes, and pressed her head against the pillow. "vanna, vanna! how shall i bear it? i was so happy, so content; i wanted nothing but robert, and then _this_ came. i had never been ill before--it was dreadful to be ill, but i looked forward: you know how i looked forward. i thought and thought; it seemed at last as if one thought of nothing else. it grew so real, so near; it filled one's heart, and then--_nothing_! nothing but pain and loss. you don't understand; you can't guess the horror of it--the baffled, incredible horror. you'll never know it, vanna. thank god for that! when you grieve because you can never marry, remember this day, and what you have escaped. my little son, that i shall never see! what can you say to me, vanna? what can you say to comfort me?" "nothing!" said vanna. "nothing!" she raised her tear-stained face, and laid it beside jean's on the pillow, and at that touch, at the sound of the broken voice, the hard composure broke down. jean trembled, gasped, and clinging tightly to the outstretched arms, sobbed out her heart in a paroxysm of grief. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ an hour later robert was again summoned to the sick-room; but this time it was by jean's request, and when he entered she stretched out her hand towards him, and pitifully endeavoured to smile. "poor darling! i'm sorry i was unkind. i will try, i _will_ try to be good! i am calmer now." "vanna helped you?" jean nodded. robert sat gazing at her, his eyes wistful, like his voice. it was not jealousy which he felt, nor anger, nor impatience-- but simplest, saddest humiliation. he had failed and vanna had succeeded. with all his soul he longed to find the secret of her power. "how did she help you, dear? what did she say?" "nothing! she cried. the tears rolled down her face." robert sat silent, holding his wife's hand, and striving, hopelessly, pitifully, to understand. chapter nineteen. life work. after the first few weeks were over jean recovered her strength more quickly than had been expected, and by the end of the second month was able to take her usual place in the household. one of the first things which she had done after being pronounced convalescent was to fold away with her own hands all the tiny garments which had been prepared with such joy, and to cover the dainty new furnishings of the nursery with careful wrappings. this done, the key was turned in the lock, and henceforward there was a ghost-chamber in the house--a chamber haunted by the ghost of a dead hope. jean spoke but little of her loss--the wound went too deep for words; and as time went on some of the old interest in life began to revive, aided by the joys of recovered health, and of robert's devotion, if possible more ardent than before. nevertheless no one could look upon her without realising the change wrought by the last few months. she had been a merry, thoughtless girl, to whom grief and pain were but abstract words conveying no definite impression: now the great revelation had come, anguish of body, anguish of soul, and she emerged from the shadows, sobered and thoughtful. "what women have to suffer! the thought of it haunts me. i can't get away from it," she said to vanna one afternoon as they sat together in the autumn gloaming, enjoying that quiet _tete-a-tete_ which was the most intimate moment of the day. "i walk along the streets staring at the women i meet, and marvel! there they are--thousands of them, british matrons, plain, ordinary, commonplace creatures with dolmans, and bonnets far back on their heads, each with a family of--what? four, six, eight, sometimes _ten_ children! for years and years of their lives they have been chronic invalids, goaded on by the precepts that it is `only natural,' and that they have no right to shirk their work on that account. the courage of them, and the patience, and the humility! they never seem to consider that they deserve any praise. if they read in the newspaper of a soldier who saved a life in the rush and excitement of battle, and was wounded in the act, they rave of him by the hour together; but if you offered _them_ the victoria cross, they would think you were mad! yet every life given to the world means nearly a year of suffering for some poor mother!" vanna was silent. it was inevitable that in her position she should see the other side of the question, and feel that a year would be a light price to pay for the joy of holding piers's son in her arms; but jean had lost that great recompense which wipes away the remembrance of the anguish. her heart was still hungry and sore. having no words of comfort to offer, vanna deftly turned the conversation to a safer channel. "apropos of suffering, jean, i have been waiting to talk to you about my own plans. i've been here over four months, dear, and it's time i moved on. i told you i had a plan in my head which was slowly working itself out. well! at last, i think i can see daylight. i have my life to live, and i can't be content just to fritter it away. i must find something that is worth doing, and which will justify my existence. i've thought of many things, but it always comes back to nursing as the likeliest and most suitable. for the last four years that's been my work, and i know i did it well. every doctor i have met told me i was a born nurse. one sunday when you were ill i went to dr greatman, and had a long talk. he had asked me to go. i told him what i wanted-- technical training to add to what i had learnt by experience, and then when i was properly equipped to _give_ my services to poor gentlewomen who could not afford to pay to be properly cared for." "a nurse! a hospital nurse! _you_!" jean's tone was eloquent with dismay. the day of lady nurses was but in its dawn, and public opinion had yet to be reconciled to the thought. "vanna, you could not stand the everlasting strain. and you spoke of a home, a house of your own! if you were at the hospital--" "let me finish my story, dear. don't interrupt half through. dr greatman was most kind and understanding. i think in a kind of way he feels that he owes me some compensation, as it was he who laid the bar on my life. i took him letters from the doctors who know me, giving my character as professional nurse. they were rather nice, jean. i was proud of them, and dr greatman said he wished he could speak as highly of many of his certificated nurses. he advises me to take a two years' course of training at a hospital. i should have to `live in,' and give up all my time; but as soon as the two years are over i will look out for a house and a sheep dog, and gather together my treasures to make a real little home of my own. you shall help me to arrange it, jean! it shall be in town, as near to you as rents will allow, in a quiet street, with at least two spare rooms facing south. then i shall be ready for work as it comes along. sometimes i shall go to a patient's house, and nurse her there; sometimes--if her own house is unsuitable, or if she is a poor governess, or a worker who hasn't got a home--i'll take her in, and look after her in my own rooms. at other times i'll have convalescents who want kitchen food and kindness. sometimes i'll have guests--poor, dull drones who are suffering from all work and no play, and dose them with kindness and amusement. then i shall fed of some use, and that my house is doing good to other people besides myself." "they'll sponge upon you, and tire you out, and take everything they can get, and then go away, and slander you behind your back." "_tant pis_! let's hope they'll do it sufficiently far away to let me continue in my blissful delusion that i've done some good." "you'll get sick of it. it's no use pretending; you were as fond of gaiety and amusement as i was myself. you'll get sick of everlasting invalids." "then i'll take a spell off, and do nothing, and be as selfish as i please. i'm not bound. if a roving fit seizes me i can shut up house and go off on my travels. i don't intend to spend all my life in a rut. i'm a poor gentlewoman myself, and need my own medicine. don't imagine that i'm tying myself down to continual drudgery, for i'm not; but i must, i must have an object in life!" "and for two whole years you propose to shut yourself up in a hospital?" "i do; with the exception of an afternoon a week, a day a fortnight, and three weeks' annual holiday." "may i ask what piers has to say?" vanna's smile was both whimsical and pathetic. "you may; but i shan't answer. several volumes of very strong language, poor dear man; but he knows--at the bottom of his heart he knows that i am right!" not even to jean could vanna confess that her plans for the future had a nearer and more personal object than mere philanthropy. the conservation of love! this was the great problem with which she struggled in secret. her clear, far-sighted brain realised the truth, despised by most lovers, that love is a plant which needs careful and assiduous tending if it is to live and retain its bloom. kindred interests, kindred hopes, kindred efforts and aims--these are the foods by which it is nourished in happy home-life; but if these be wanting--if instead of the hill tops there stretches ahead a long flat plain, what then can nourish the plant and guard it from decay? piers had sworn that his troth should not bind him if his heart grew tired; but, having received that promise, vanna never again allowed herself to allude to the subject. her woman's instinct taught her that no good could come of continually putting such a possibility into words. she must write, act, speak, as if the eternity of the love between them was beyond doubt-- fixed as the hills. what precautions seemed advisable to keep it so she must take upon herself, and with as slight an appearance of intention as might be. piers might rage and fume at the prospect of her years in hospital, but she knew that the scarcity of their meetings would be a gain rather than a loss. once a week they would meet for a few hours; once a fortnight there would come a long happy day, which would make an epoch to be anticipated and remembered with tenderest thought. better so than to run the risk of satiety, and the hastening of that day when the dread question might arise: "what next?" this conviction, deeply rooted in vanna's mind, made her strong to resist all arguments and reproaches, and the end of the year found her established as a nurse at one of the largest and most advanced of the great london hospitals. chapter twenty. after five years. five years later vanna strangeways and piers rendall were taking tea with robert and jean gloucester in their london home. those years of busy living had left their trace on all four friends; but, as is usually the case, these changes were most marked on the faces of the women. a man of forty is almost invariably handsomer than the same man at the age of twenty-five; but though a woman may gain in expression, the delicate bloom of youth is a charm which can never be replaced. jean gloucester would always be beautiful, but already in her thirtieth year she wore a worn and fragile air. the two children who now occupied the nursery upstairs had made heavy demands on her strength. jean was one of the women who, though naturally robust, seem totally unfitted for the strain of child-bearing. her figure was slight almost to emaciation, and her cheeks had lost their bloom, but she was still a picture fascinating to the eye as she leant back against the cushions of the sofa--bright rose-coloured cushions, newly covered to show off the beauty of a wonderful grey gown made in the long flowing folds which she affected, and which were in striking contrast to the inartistic dresses of the period. in whatever direction jean economised it was never in dress or household decorations. she was one of the women in whom the beauty instinct takes precedence above other tastes. if it had been her lot to live in a garret on ten shillings a week she would have deprived herself of food until she had saved enough money to paper the walls with a harmonious colour, and to buy a strip of curtaining to match. to purchase a prosaic garment for five pounds, when an artistic one could be procured for ten, was to her practically an impossibility. she stifled any pangs of conscience by arguing that the outlay was economical in the end. good things wore longer, one did not grow wearied of them as of cheaper designs; and, to do her justice, these theories were invariably supported by her husband. his wife's beauty was a continual joy to robert gloucester, and he took a boyish delight in the moments when, walking by her side, he encountered chance city friends, and watched the first casual glance brighten into surprised admiration. it appeared to him but another instance of jean's surprising cleverness that she always "hit upon such stunning clothes," and he pitied from his heart the poor fellows who possessed dull, dowdy wives. jean looked like a queen beside them; but a queen is an expensive luxury in the home of a struggling business man. the process of "selling out a share or two" had been resorted to several times in the course of the last few years, and robert had begun to lie awake at nights, pondering uneasily about the future. the lines in his forehead had deepened into furrows, but his eyes were clear and bright as ever; he moved in the same quick, alert fashion, and his laugh rang full and joyous as a boy's. piers rendall's dark hair had turned grey--a curious dark shade of grey which gave an effect of _poudre_. the change gave an added distinction to his appearance, and showed the dark eyes and eyebrows in striking contrast. he was thin, however, and the nervous twitching of the features was more frequent than of old. as for vanna, what attractions she possessed had never been of the golden-haired, pink-cheeked category, and there was consequently little change visible at a casual glance. she was prettily dressed in a soft blue gown, and the stag-like setting of the head, the arched black brows, and the delicate oval of the face were untouched. love and work had filled her life, and her expression was both sweet and strong; but there were new lines written on her face--lines whose secret no one knew but herself. all these years vanna had been fighting a battle--a battle against self and fate. when at the end of her hospital course _she_ had settled down in her own house, piers had been hotly indignant at discovering that the same embargo as of old was to be laid against his visits. one night a week! the thing was preposterous. he had given way to her wishes, had been patient and self-sacrificing, more patient than ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have been under the circumstances. he had waited, marking off the months as they passed, counting on the future to reward him for his abstinence, and now was she going to put him off again, to forbid him the house, to treat him like a common acquaintance? he stormed and argued, vanna stood firm. they parted for the first time in coldness and anger, but the next day piers took back his words, and begged for forgiveness. "you may be right, i don't know. women are so confoundedly calm and reasoning; but it's hard, vanna! if you knew how i long for you--what a lost, aimless wretch i feel hanging about, knowing that you are alone--a few streets off! it was easier when you were shut up in hospital and i couldn't get to you; but now! sometimes it drives me half mad. you can't blame me for flaring out. it's because i love you, darling--love you so wildly. you wouldn't have me love you less?" "no! a thousand times no." yet no persuasion could move vanna from her point. on that one evening a week she was all that the most ardent lover could desire; with every power she possessed she strove to secure the perfection of that hour. piers's favourite dishes appeared at dinner; his favourite flowers decked the rooms; she rested during the day, so as to be at her best and brightest in the evening, dressed herself in his favourite colours, lavished love upon him in generous, unstinted flow. every evening he left her aglow with love, chafing at the thought of the time which must elapse before their next meeting, breathing out threats of rebellion. now and again he did indeed break through the rule, making an excuse of an opportunity to take vanna to some special entertainment; but these occasions had the excitement of stolen pleasures, and were not allowed to become common. sometimes when piers was visited by one of his black fits of depression; when she realised that these fits grew more frequent with each year as it passed, vanna knew a terrible sinking of the heart. but she strove valiantly to disguise it even from herself, for she realised that for her wisdom lay in living in the present and resolutely shutting her eyes to the future. piers also she strove to inoculate with this doctrine, forcing him to see outside reasons for his depression. "our love is more perfect, we mean more to each other than nine out of ten married couples. if we have not their joys, we are spared their griefs. dearest, is any human being really content? is he _meant_ to be content? the animals are peaceful and satisfied to browse, and eat, and lie down and sleep; they are in their rightful environment, but we as spiritual beings are wandering adrift. the divine spark within is eternally urging us on, further, higher--casting aside the baubles. it is not a fault; it's a birthright. we can be patient, but never, never content." "robert--" "no! he has jean, and she has his heart, but he wants her to be stronger; he wants to be richer for her sake. he craves for the perfection which he can never know." but it was hard to be always strong, to be compelled to reason and argue, and fight down self, instead of claiming her woman's privilege of being cared for and protected. there were hours when vanna would have given all she possessed to break down and cry her heart out in piers's arms; but it was an indulgence she dared not claim. a fuller knowledge of her lover's character had shown that his powers of endurance were less than her own. he would have been all tenderness and compassion, but she would have paid for that hour by weeks of heavy depression. so vanna fought on, and was silent. in one respect her circumstances were happier than her lover's; for while piers's interest in business was of the perfunctory order of the already rich man, her own work was a continual delight. from time to time she visited a patient, but by far the greater number came to her to be housed and tended. they were a pathetic crowd; middle-aged and elderly women of gentle birth, worn out with the struggle of life, shrinking with terror from bodily illness, not because of the suffering involved, but from the fear of loss of employment and subsequent want which it involved. to be nursed, housed, and fed free of charge was a godsend indeed, and jean's prophecy of ingratitude was rarely fulfilled. sometimes, indeed, vanna felt that ingratitude would have been easier to bear than the trembling blessings called down on her head by those poor souls for whom perforce she could do so little. she grew to dread the last few days of a visit, to shrink afore-hand from the pitiful glances which the departing guest would cast around the pretty, cosy rooms, as if storing up memories to brighten barren days. her charity had the sting of all such work, the inability to do more; but in it she found interest and occupation, and a continual object-lesson. these poor waifs and strays, who were thankful for a few weeks' haven, would think themselves rich beyond measure if they owned one half the blessings she herself possessed. ought she not to be grateful too? on this autumn afternoon jean had an exciting piece of news to tell to her visitors. "guess who is engaged! some one you know--know very well: an intimate friend." "fine or superfine?" "both, of course; but you know her best. a very old friend. near here--" "don't tell, jean; don't be in such a hurry. let them guess," cried robert, laughing; but already vanna was gasping in incredulous tones: "_not_ edith morton!" "yes! yes!" jean clapped her hands with her old childlike abandon. "isn't it lovely? aren't you pleased? she came round last night to tell me. to mr mortimer. she has seen a lot of him at their literary society. he is a clever man; every one speaks highly of him, and he is rich. it's all as charming as possible, and most suitable." mr mortimer! vanna knitted her brows, recalling a grave, middle-aged figure, and striving to imagine him in the new role of edith morton's lover. edith had sailed for canada shortly after jean's marriage to pay a visit to a married sister, and had returned at the end of two years, apparently heart-whole; but vanna knew that her life had been empty of interest, and feared lest the attraction of a home of her own and a definite place in the world might have induced her to give her promise without love. "mr mortimer! he is a fine man; i like him--but for edith? he seems so old, so settled down. i never dreamt of his getting engaged." "nonsense! he is forty-five and she is thirty-two. very suitable. a woman ages more quickly than a man. he will look years younger with a wife to smarten him up; and they are as much in love as if they were twenty; beaming, both of them--the picture of happiness. the wedding is to be almost at once. he says they have waited long enough, and can't afford to waste another day. i shouldn't wonder if they rushed it through in six weeks, and took a furnished house till they had time to look round. much the best plan." "much!" agreed vanna quietly. jean's impetuous speech often planted a dart of which she was the first to repent; but as she would ruefully confess to robert, it was so difficult to think of vanna and piers as an engaged couple. they were so much more like a settled-down, married couple, living on quietly from day to day, taking life as it came, making no plans. it was only when she saw the shadow fall on the faces of the two listeners that she realised her mistake. she sprang to her feet and pulled loudly at the bell. "we'll have the children! lorna would never forgive me if i let you go. babs looks too sweet in her new frock..." "just for a moment. i must be taking vanna home. it's damp, and i can't let her risk cold." piers spoke hastily, and rose to his feet as if in preparation for saying adieu. jean's children were dainty little creatures, to whom he and vanna were truly attached; but each shrank from seeing them in the presence of the other. the family group of the lovely mother, with her golden-haired babies, the proud, happy father, was so perfect, so complete, that less happy mortals looking on might well be excused a stab of envy. vanna and piers each knew the pang of the childless, which was doubled in intensity in the knowledge of the other's suffering. the two little girls entered the room side by side. their sex had been a grievous disappointment to jean, who had the overpowering desire for a son which possesses many women; but the little maids were pretty and charming enough to satisfy any parent. lorna, dark, glowing, with her mother's wonderful eyes; the baby joyce, a delicious fat ball crowned with a mop of yellow curls. they were delightfully free from shyness, and greeted the two visitors with sweet, moist kisses, and "bears' hugs" from tiny white arms. vanna took joyce on her knee and tried bravely to talk baby-talk, and keep her eyes averted from piers's lowering face; but at the end of ten minutes she gave up the struggle, made her farewells and followed him into the street. it was a dark, misty evening--one of those evenings when the cold penetrates to the marrow, and the great city is at its worst and dreariest. piers turned up the collar of his coat, so that vanna could see little of his face; but his walk, his bearing, the forward droop of his head were painfully eloquent. during the whole of the ten minutes' walk he did not speak a word, but vanna knew that when they were alone in her own quiet room the floodgates would open, and trembled at the thought of yet another scene. when the door was opened she went straight to her bedroom, lingering purposely over her toilette, in the hope that piers would have time to calm down, and remember his resolution made so ardently after each fresh outburst. of what avail to rail against fate, when the effort could only revert on one's own head in weariness and remorse? was it not he who had first preached the beauty of a spiritual love? this was the view on which she must lay fullest stress to-night, this the pure and lofty ideal to which she must raise his thoughts. and then vanna--a woman through and through--stood another five minutes before the glass, carefully bestowing those little touches to her toilette which would add to her physical charm, and evoke piers's admiration to the uttermost. he was pacing the room from end to end. the sound of his footsteps reached her ears before the door opened, and the moment she appeared he came towards her with outstretched arms. "vanna! this must end. it is unsupportable. we cannot endure it any longer. why can every one be happy except us? edith morton married in six weeks! good god, and we have waited five years; may wait for ever. to hear jean prattling of its being so wise, so sensible, and you agreeing in a calm, even voice--it drove me wild! there are some things a man cannot stand. i have come to the end of my tether." vanna stood like a statue, eyes cast down, hands clenched by her sides. no! this was not one of the scenes to which she was accustomed; this was something more. there was a note in piers's voice which she had not heard before--a note of determination, of finality. within her soul she heard the knell of the end. "vanna, you must feel for yourself that things are impossible. we must marry. we must risk all. this farce cannot go on. we have done our best, and we have failed. nothing that could happen could be worse than to go on through the years wasting our lives. we must take our risks, and face them together. we must marry!" to the last day of her life vanna never ceased to marvel at her own courage and calmness at this moment of supreme temptation. a hundred times over she had tremblingly acknowledged to herself that if piers made a violent attack upon her determination she could not answer for the result. the temptation to consent, to gain happiness at whatever cost, would be so immense that continued resistance would be next to impossible; but at this moment there was no feeling of temptation. the steady, persistent effort of years finds its reward in these crises of life--in a strength of character, a stiffening of the mental muscles, which changes tumult into calm. vanna ceased to tremble; she stood motionless before her lover, oblivious of his outstretched arms, her whole being projected into the thought of the future. it was as if on a darkened night a sudden flash of light had been vouchsafed, by which the landscape was revealed, with the pitfalls yawning at her feet. a tranquil, trustful soul like robert gloucester might have taken on himself the burden of her life, and have come unscathed through the ordeal--calm himself, calm in his influence, a true doctor in the home; but piers, by reason of those very qualities which endeared him to her woman's heart, was the last man on earth to support the strain. his fear, his anxiety, though expressed in tenderest devotion, must inevitably act and react on both. at this moment the great question appealed to her woman's heart less in its abstract than in the personal form, as affecting the happiness of the beloved. whatever he might feel at this moment of stress and passion, it could not be for piers rendall's ultimate happiness to marry a woman over whom hung the deep cloud of inherited madness. his aim accomplished, joy would be speedily eclipsed in dread. in imagination she could see his haggard looks, feel the dark eyes brooding over her with fearful care. so far he had been free. if the chains fretted too sorely he had only to drop them, and go forth. how would he bear it if there were no escape? how could _she_ bear it for his sake? vanna lifted her head and looked deep into her lover's eyes. her voice was clear and steady: "no, piers! i will never marry you. never, to the end of time. but i will not bind you. you are quite free--" "free!" he turned from her with a loud, harsh laugh. "good god, how you quibble with words! i have loved you, i have given you my life--how can i be free? what have i left if you cast me off? what have _you_ left? how can you insult me with such words? how can you be so cold, so cruel? women have no hearts. they don't know what it is to love--" the wild words flowed on in breathless torrent. then suddenly came the collapse: he turned towards her, met the glance of her piteous eyes, and melted into remorse. "my poor vanna, i am hurting you. forgive me, darling! i am a brute, a selfish brute; i am half mad myself... oh, this world! what a hell it can be! what have we done to be cursed and set aside? it is cruel--unjust. if we can never marry, why did we ever meet?" vanna shivered. "_why did we ever meet_?" was it piers who had spoken those words?--piers, who had declared that to love her was a higher joy than to be the husband of any other woman! once again the knell-like bell tolled in her ears. it was almost a relief when, after a few more incoherent words, piers suddenly turned to depart. "i won't stay. i am hurting you. i'll go now, and come back when i am calm. you'll be better alone--" for the first time in five years he left her without a kiss or a caress, and vanna sat, stunned and motionless, gazing on the ruins of her life. no one came near to interrupt her solitude. it was a rule that she should be uninterrupted when piers was present, and his departure had apparently passed unnoticed by the household. a dense, overhanging shadow possessed her spirit, out of which one thought alone was clear. piers was unhappy. she, who would have sheltered him from every ill, had brought upon him the keenest suffering of his life. two hours later, when piers himself opened the door, he found vanna in practically the same attitude in which he had left her, crouched in the corner of the sofa. the fire had died out in the grate, and the air of the little room struck bleak and chill. the face turned towards him had the delicacy of an etching, the dark brows arched above the deep-set eyes, the finely moulded cheeks white and wan. unlike most women, vanna's attraction was distinct from colour; she looked her best, not her worst, in minutes of mental strain. piers closed the door, approached her hastily, and, taking her hands in his, drew her to his side. he spoke but two words, but they were prompted by the force which is the greatest diviner of the needs of the human heart, and the whole wealth of the language could not have added to their eloquence. "_my joy_!" he said, in that deep, full voice which vanna had heard but once or twice before, in the great moments of their love. they wept, and clung together, and vanna's hungry heart found comfort once more. after all, would she have been more content if piers had _not_ rebelled? chapter twenty one. parted. the next year passed slowly and heavily. in the spring jean had an illness which made it necessary for her to spend several months on the sofa--a decree which she accepted with extraordinary resignation. nothing could have demonstrated so powerfully the change which the last seven years had wrought in her physical condition as this willingness to be shut off from social life. "i've been so tired," she confided in vanna, letting her head fall back on the pillow, and closing her eyes with a long-drawn sigh, "so tired, that it's been a struggle to get through each day. it's bliss to be lazy, and to feel that one is justified. when i wake up in the morning and remember that i needn't get up for breakfast, i could whoop with joy. the doctor expected me to rebel. goodness! i wonder how many thousand tired women would hail such a prescription--to lie in bed until eleven; dress quietly, and go down to the sofa; read amusing books; have a friend to tea; sleep again, to be fresh for the husband's return; to bed at nine; and _you must not be worried_! my dear, it's heaven begun below! i don't say i should like it as a permanency, but as a change from general servants' work (which is plain english for a middle-class wife and mother) it is highly refreshing. we'll have to get an extra maid, of course. i've worked like a slave to keep the house as it must be kept if i'm to have any peace in life. we have such heaps of silver and in town it needs constant cleaning, and the mending is everlasting, and the making for the children, _and_ the shopping, and helping in the nursery to set nurse free to do some washing. the laundry bills are ruinous; but you _must_ have children in white! it's a nuisance having to spend more. it always happens like that with us. just as we say, `the next quarter must be lighter; we shall need nothing new,' bang comes another big drain, and sends us back farther than ever. money _is_ a trial! you don't half realise how much you are saved by having a comfortable income, vanna. that's a _big_ blessing, and you ought to be thankful for it." vanna considered. no! she was not actively thankful. when at any special moment the subject was brought before her, she could indeed realise the benefit of a sufficiency of money, which enabled her to choose and carry on the work which was most congenial; but as a rule the accustomed good was calmly taken for granted, and brought no feeling of joy. she made a mental note, and passed on to the consideration of jean's problem. "couldn't you contrive to reduce work while you are laid up, dear? lock up all the silver that is not absolutely needed, and let the children wear coloured overalls. i'd make them for you, of a pretty, becoming blue, which would save half their washing. you might shut up the drawing-room, too. you can't entertain, and you are comfier here in the den. it would be so nice if you could avoid extra help. another servant in the house would be a trial." but jean only smiled with indulgent patronage. "oh, my dear, i can't upset everything. and i shall need some one to wait upon me, and run up and down. it would be very poor economy to save a few pounds, and be worried to death. you have no idea how difficult it is to get any rest when you are the mother of a family. one day--i've often intended to tell you about this, and make you laugh!--you know how you have told me how lonely and sad you feel when _you_ are ill, and lie all day alone in your room, never seeing a soul except when your meals are brought up. _well_, at the beginning of this attack i awoke one morning with a crashing headache. i struggled up, hoping it would go off after breakfast, but it grew worse. robert brought me in here and tucked me up on the sofa, and ordered a `quiet day.' he said it was such a comfort to think that i _could_ be quiet, and need do nothing but lie still and rest. he could not have borne to go away and leave me ill if he had not been sure of that. dear, blind bat! he had not been gone five minutes when cook arrived for `orders.' there was nothing in the house except the bit of mutton, and she thought that was going bad. would i like to look at it? she stood there gazing before her in that calm, detached way they have--it is so maddening!-- never making one single suggestion, while i wrestled with it all-- children's dinner, kitchen dinner, dining-room dinner, kitchen supper, to-morrow's breakfast... i was so worn out that i forgot all about my own lunch. so did she! after she went it took about ten minutes before the horrible throbbing in my head calmed down to what it had been before, and by that time nurse appeared to say that joyce had some spots on her chest, and did i think it was wise for her to go out? would i be able to keep her for an hour while she promenaded with lorna? lorna got so fratchety if she was in all day. i investigated the spots. i sent for the doctor, and said they were _all_ to stay in, and nurse was cross, and slammed the doors all day long. i lay down again, and sniffed smelling-salts, till cook came back to say the fishman was very sorry, but he _had_ no smelts, and what would i have instead? after that i slept for a good quarter of an hour, till a parcel arrived with tenpence to pay. i had only a sovereign in my purse, and no one had change. there was nothing for it but to get the keys and go upstairs to my bureau. after that the piano-tuner arrived. he comes once a quarter, and picks his visits with demoniacal cunning for the very _worst_ times in the whole three months. mason hadn't the sense to send him away, and i didn't know he was there until the awful _arpeggios_ began. then i worked myself into a fever trying to decide whether i should send him away, whether he would charge twice over if i did, whether it would be bad for the piano, whether he would be long, whether i could bear it if i covered my head. at last the strum, strum, on one note began, and i rang and told mason to send him away at once, and _she_ was cross. half an hour later some one sent a note with, `bearer waits reply' on the envelope, and i had to sit up and write. the doctor came at twelve, and said joyce was perfectly well, but i looked feverish; couldn't i lie down and rest? i could not look at lunch, which was just as well, as there was none for me, and joyce fell off her high-chair just over my head, and i thought she was killed. she screamed for an age, and i forgot my own head, thinking of hers; but afterwards! i cried to myself with sheer pain and misery, and i thought of your `long, solitary day' with such envy. the afternoon was the same story, and when robert came home he was _so_ disappointed to find me worse! i didn't tell _him_ my experiences; he doesn't see the humour of them when they affect me, but i said miserably to myself, `some day i'll tell vanna, and we'll laugh.' dear me, what a comfort it is to have a woman friend!" vanna smiled at her affectionately. it was good to hear jean rattle away in her old racy fashion, but her skilled eye was quick to note the signs of fragility in the lovely face, which paled and flushed with such suspicious rapidity. "i think sister vanna had better apply for the vacant `place,' and take possession until you are strong. would you like to have me with you, dear? we have been having rather a strenuous time lately, and when the present inmates leave at the end of this week, i should be quite glad to shut the house and give the staff a rest. it's a poor thing if i give my life to nursing, and can't wait upon my one friend when she needs me. would you like to have me?" needless to say, jean was enchanted at the prospect; so was robert when he returned at the close of the day; so also, more inexplicably, was piers himself. vanna had been prepared for expostulations against a proposal which would leave her less free for his visits, but none came, and their absence added to the dull weight of oppression which had hung over her ever since the evening when she had heard of edith morton's engagement. try as she would to live in the present, and avoid vain imaginings, she could not blind herself to a certain change in piers, which seemed to increase rather than diminish. it was not a lessening of love; never had she known him more devoted, more passionately her own; but in his tenderness was an element of sorrow, of self-reproach, which chilled her heart. piers was sorry for her! some thing was working in his mind, the knowledge of which must give her pain. what could it be? the revelation came one evening after she had been located for some weeks in the gloucester _menage_, and for all her forebodings, found her unprepared. "vanna, i have something to tell you to-night. i have been trying to say it for some time. darling, can you be brave?" vanna looked at him sharply. they were sitting together on a sofa drawn up before the fire, and the kindly glow hid the sudden whitening of her cheeks. she leant back against the pillows, feeling faint and sick with the rapid beating of her heart. "not--very, piers! tell me quickly. don't wait." "vanna, i'm going abroad." her eyes dilated with surprise. this was not what she had expected. compared with the greater dread, the announcement came almost as a relief. she struggled with the oppression in her throat and breathed a breathless, "where?" "to india. i have a chance. a junior partner is invalided home. i can take his place for a few years. it is the best thing--i am sure of it. i have made up my mind." "is it because you are--_tired_ of me, piers?" he turned upon her in passionate protest. "tired? heaven knows i am tired; tired to the soul of waiting for the woman i love; of eternal fighting against self! it's more than i can bear. i can't go on without some change, some break." "you would find it easier to leave me?" he hesitated, shrinking, then braced himself to a painful effort. "yes! it would be easier. you think me brutal, but i am a man. i cannot endure this life. if you cannot be my wife, i must go. it is hard to part, but it will help us both, and after a year or two we can begin afresh. i have been trying to tell you. i was thankful to know you were to be here, with jean, for i must sail soon. in a few weeks." "yes." vanna had a sudden rending remembrance of the moment when she sat in dr greatman's consulting-room, and heard her life laid waste. now, as then, she felt no disposition to weep or lament; the fountains of her heart were frozen, and she was numb with pain. "yes; i suppose so. the best time for the red sea. you must avoid the heat... you will enjoy the voyage, piers." her frozen calm was more piteous than tears. piers groaned, and buried his face in his hands. "oh, vanna, vanna! my poor, poor darling! what must you think of me? i have failed you after all my vows; and yet, god knows, it is _because_ i love you, because my love is stronger than myself, that i must go! you will never understand, but can't you believe me? can't you trust me still?" "i know you love me, piers. will you write to me when you are away?" "will i write? do you need to ask? i shall live for your letters. there will be nothing else to look for but their arrival, and being able to write back, and tell you all my thoughts. i'll make a diary for you, dearest; write something every day, so that each mail shall bring you a small volume. we have always maintained that distance could make no difference to our love, but it does this much, darling--it silences angry words! i have made you miserable with my repinings many times these last years; but whatever i might feel, i could never endure to send a hard word travelling to you across the world. it may be happier for you, darling--more peaceful." she smiled--a wan, strained smile. "i won't try to keep you, piers, if you want to go, but--i can't pretend! letters can never make up. i have been happy--happier than i even thought i could be; but jean was right, robert was right--it has not been fair to you. i should not have consented, but i loved you so; i was so tempted. even now i am not sorry. no; i am _not_ sorry! even if i never see you again, i have had these years--six years of happiness and love, and you are still young, you have your life ahead--" he stopped her with his lips on hers. "you don't meant it, you don't believe it. don't hurt me, my heart! be generous; be patient; and i'll come back more your own than ever. it's because i love you--because i love you--." that was the strain which he dinned into her ears--the one fundamental fact on which all arguments hung; but vanna's sore heart could find in it no solid comfort. a love which finds separation easier than loving intercourse is incomprehensible to a woman's mind. chapter twenty two. marking time. robert and jean were not surprised. that was the fact which, for vanna, stood out in conspicuous relief. they were grieved, sympathetic, unspeakably tender towards her; but she divined that if they felt any surprise, it was not that piers had found his present position untenable, but rather that he should have been able to endure it so long. that they should feel so, who were her dearest, most admiring friends, planted a sharp stab in vanna's heart, yet it was to them that she owed what poor comfort was to be found during the long intolerable weeks before piers's departure. jean said little. in her own hour of blackness she had discovered the futility of words, but in a hundred quiet, exquisitely tactful ways she forced upon vanna the importance of what remained: of the place which she occupied in so many lives; of her own love and need. "you will never know what you have been to me, vanna! i have often wanted to tell you; but it isn't easy to speak of these things. i think after one has married and settled down, one needs a woman friend more than ever. there is so much that even the best and tenderest of men can't understand. you've been my safety-valve and my prop. multiply my gratitude by the number of all the poor souls whom you have nursed and tended, and you will realise your riches. thoughts _help_, vanna--i'm convinced of that--loving, thankful thoughts going out towards you from all parts of the land. it's impossible that your life should be cold or bald--" "is it, jean, is it? it sounds very sweet, dear, and very lofty; but put yourself in my place. would all the gratitude in the world cheer you if robert went away?" the colour flooded jean's face, then slowly ebbed away, leaving her pale and wan. "no," she sighed, breathlessly. "no; nothing! there would be no comfort. he is everything to me--everything! more, a thousand times more, than when we were married; but, vanna, can you believe it? there have been times during these last years when i have envied _you_. the balance hasn't been _all_ on my side. to be well; to be strong; to be able to run about, and plan out one's life; to say `i will do this, i will do that'; to shut up house at a day's notice, shake off responsibilities, and go away for long, lovely rests--oh, it has seemed so _good_! when we were young we took health for granted: one has to be ill to realise how it counts; how desperately it counts. love is said to triumph over all; but, vanna dear, one needs to be well to be able even to love. that sounds strange, but it's true; there's no feeling left. often and often i've longed all day for robert to come home, and after he has been in the room for five minutes, i've longed for him to go away again. i've been too tired! of course every woman does not suffer as i have done; but then how many have a husband like robert? i tell him sometimes that my bad health is the price i've had to pay for having a saint for my husband. if i'd kept well, it would have been too perfect. one does not get everything... and the children--little pets! they love me now; i am a sort of god to them; all that i do is right; but sometimes as i hold them a pang goes through my heart; such a pang! _i know it won't last_! i shall go on loving them more and more, _needing_ them more; but they will grow past me. they will make their own lives, their own friends, and i shall retreat farther and farther into the background. they will love me still; i shall be the `dear old mater; but they won't need me any more.' i won't really touch their lives. i remember how father loved me, and how i left him without a pang! is it _possible_ that he felt as i should do, if lorna or joyce... the young are cruel to the old--" thus jean, with many tender, loving words; but vanna noted with a pang that she never once expressed the belief which alone could have brought comfort--the belief that piers would speedily return home, and remain faithful until death. the last day came--a blur of pain and grief. piers spent his last hour alone with vanna in the den, in which the first happy hours of their engagement had been passed, demanding of her a dozen impossible promises--that she would stay with jean until his return, that she would not tire herself, that she would be happy; and if at times a bitter reply trembled on her lips, she repressed it valiantly, knowing that by so doing she was saving herself an added sting. his last words imprinted themselves in her brain, and were sweet to remember: "... if i am ever any good in this world or the next, it is your doing. you have given me faith, you have given me joy, the revelation of heaven and earth. everything that i have, that is worth possessing, is your gift...!" when the door closed behind him--oh, the knell of that closing door!-- jean left her friend alone until an hour had passed, and then sent her children as missioners of comfort--the two dainty little maidens in their sublime innocence of untoward happening. lorna had acquired two new pieces of "poentry"--"oh, mary, go and call the kettle home," and "anozzer one" called, "twice ones is two"--which she must needs recite without delay. joyce developed earache, and remembering former help in need, expressed a wailing desire to sleep in "wanna's bed," for "wanna to _stwoke_ me!" the little, soft, warm body clinging to her, the touch of the baby lips were unspeakable comfort to vanna during those long wakeful hours when every moment carried piers farther and farther away. a week later vanna returned to the hospital where she had been trained, to fill a temporary vacancy for a few months. hard work was her best medicine--hard, incessant work, which left no time for thought, and sent her to bed so weary that sleep came almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. a nurse by instinct, it was not in her nature to perform her duties in mechanical fashion. the human aspect of a case made a direct appeal to her heart, and, surrounded on every hand by suffering and want, she was forced into a realisation of her own blessings. she was alone, but youth, health, and money remained to help her on her way, and piers's letters arrived by each mail--long, closely written sheets, detailing every day of his life, drawing word-pictures of home surroundings, new acquaintances; above all, breathing the tenderest, most faithful love. each letter was read and reread until it was known by heart, was answered with a length equal to its own, and by the time this was dispatched--wonderfully, surprisingly soon--another letter was due. she read of the arrival of the mail at brindisi, and counted over the hours. the first shock of parting was over, six months had already passed by. six months was half a year, a quarter of the time of piers's probable absence! when the half was over, what joy to strike off the months which must elapse before his return; and meantime could any other man in the world have written such delightful, heart-satisfying letters? vanna was keenly interested also in the changes in hospital treatment which had taken place during the four years since she had finished her course, and felt that the six months' experience had been valuable from a medical as well as a mental point of view. nevertheless, it was with no regret that she saw the nurse return whose place she had taken, and made her own preparations for departure. at thirty-two the unaccustomed strain of hospital life told heavily on a constitution weakened by mental strain, and she thought with joy of the comfort of her own home, of long, restful hours, when she could write to piers at her ease, of talks with jean, of play with the children. she drove straight from the hospital to the gloucesters', where she had arranged to spend a week in idleness before the effort of reopening her own home. the rooms were _en fete_, profusely decorated with flowers. jean and the children rushed to the door to receive her--a charming trio, all dressed alike, in a flutter of white muslins and blue ribbons. the whole made an entrancing picture to one accustomed to the bare austerity of a hospital ward; and vanna felt her spirits soar upwards with a delightful sense of exhilaration. she hugged jean with schoolgirl effusion, swung the children about in a merry dance, and gave herself up with undisguised zest to the pleasures of the moment: the daintily spread, daintily provided tea, the luxurious appointments of the little house, her own comfortable bedroom, the easy laxity of hours. the first long chat with jean seemed but to open out the way for a hundred other subjects which both were longing to discuss, and when it was over, the agreeable task remained of dressing herself in a pretty gown to partake of the sociable evening meal. "oh, dear! the pomps and vanities of this world, how i love them; how good they are," she sighed happily. "what a delight it is to sit at a dear little table bright with silver and flowers, and eat indigestible dainties, and know you can sit still and be lazy all evening, and go to bed when you like, and get up, no, _not_ get up, stay in bed and have breakfast, and snoodle down to sleep again if you feel so inclined! i _shall_ be lazy to-morrow! and to wear a pretty dress, and a necklace, on a nice bare neck, instead of a stiff starched bow sticking into one's chin. have my strings marked my neck? how do i look? i seemed to myself a perfect vision of beauty, but jean looks at me askance. i don't fancy she looks flattering." "no, not a bit," said jean bluntly. "you look a wreck, like most discharged patients--fit for nothing but a convalescent home. don't talk of necks! it's nothing but bones, a perfect disgrace. i shall feed you up, and forbid work for weeks to come. what you need is a good, bracing change. i need a change, too. couldn't we three go off together, and do something _nice_? i've had nothing but seaside holidays with the babies since we were married. a month in switzerland, in high, bracing air, in good hotels, among the mountains--oh, how good it sounds. say yes, rob, like a darling. i _want_ it so!" but robert did not speak. it was the first time in the history of their acquaintance that vanna had known him show even a moment's hesitation in granting a request from jean's lips, and _she_ looked at him in surprise. distress was written upon his face, and a wistful appeal for forgiveness, but stronger than all, an air of decision which gave no promise of weakening. "i'm sorry, darling; but it's impracticable. it will be hard enough to squeeze out any holiday this year; an extra trip abroad is out of the question. expenses have been heavy lately"--he shrugged his shoulders with a smile. "they always _are_ heavy, somehow, and we must be careful not to launch into fresh extravagance." "we have _not_ been extravagant. the money has gone in uninteresting, disagreeable _necessities_. no one can call a doctor's bill extravagance, or a new cistern, or stair carpets. _au contraire_, we've been so dull and prudent that it would be a tonic to spend a little money on fun, for a change. can't we manage it, somehow, rob? do! sell a share, or something. it _would_ be a treat." the lines on robert's face deepened suddenly; his smile flickered out. "no; i've done that too often. that must come to an end. my shares are painfully near an end. i'm sorry, dear, but it's impossible." jean shrugged her shoulders. the lines deepened on her face also, and her lip quivered with disappointment, but she made no fruitless protestation. for the rest of the meal she was silent, leaving the conversation to be carried on by vanna and robert; but before leaving the room she went out of her way to pass robert's chair and lay a caressing hand on his shoulder. he lifted his face to her with the old adoring expression in his brown eyes, and the tired lines disappeared from his brow. he had kept up the conversation out of consideration for vanna's feelings, but his attention had really been engrossed by jean, and his own regrets at being obliged to refuse her request. now he evidently felt himself forgiven, and was transparently grateful for his wife's forbearance. chapter twenty three. disaster. it was the first of october, , a day of fateful memory. jean gloucester stood before the mirror in her bedroom, surveying a new gown which she was wearing for the first time. the soft grey crepe was swathed and draped in absolute disregard of the stiff fashion of the day, two quaint silver buckles of norman design held the folds together over the breast, an old lace tucker was tied by a silver cord. jean affected delicate shades of grey, and the neutral colour formed a perfect background for the vivid beauty of her face. she stood back from the mirror, turning slowly round and round, patting, smoothing, pressing with careful, deliberate touch, but the light in her eyes spoke more of expectation than complacence. jean was not vain. really beautiful people are seldom victims of this sin. it is your "rather pretty" woman who spends her life in the effort to add to her charms. jean was accustomed to her beauty, and accepted it--with other such blessings--as a matter of course, but robert's fervid admiration was a factor in her life. this afternoon she was feeling unusually well, and as usual under these circumstances, was fired by the old girlish spirit of mischief. jean was ever a child at heart, loving to play tricks, to plan surprises, and weave pretty, dramatic _denouements_ out of the prose of life. a hundred times had she so taken robert by storm, and the hundredth time had found him as astounded, as unprepared, as blankly mystified as the first. after years of matrimony jean was still an enigma, concerning which nothing could be foretold but the unexpected; but the mystery added strength to her charm. life with jean might at times be somewhat difficult and trying, but never by any possibility could it become dull. this evening jean amused herself by planning an effective appearance for herself in her new gown. instead of awaiting robert in the den, she would stay in her bedroom until he was safely inside the hall, and would then sweep down the staircase in all her bravery, while he stood gazing upward with the glow of delight she loved to see shining in his hazel eyes. then he would affect to be overcome with surprise, would stagger against the wall, and lean there helplessly while she stood beneath the lamp, revolving slowly round and round to show herself from every point of view. then they would retreat into the den, and he would kiss her, and call her his beautiful darling, his bonnie, bonnie jean, and she would preen herself, and ask if he were not a proud man to be allowed the privilege of paying the bill for such a heavenly gown, and they would laugh and spar, like a couple of happy children, rather than a staid old married couple, jean gave a little skip of anticipation even as she crept to the head of the staircase to listen for robert's return. he was due now--this minute! she failed to catch his usual whistle, but presently the key turned in the latch, and she drew back her head, not wishing to be seen until the dramatic moment should arrive. robert shut the door and advanced a few steps into the hall. he did not whistle again, which seemed curious, as no wife had appeared to greet him, neither did he advance towards the carved oak armoire in which he was used to hang his coat and hat. jean gathered her skirts round her, and stretched forward her lovely, laughing face to spy what was happening. what she saw smote the smile from her lips in a flash of agonised fear. robert had not taken off his hat. he stood still just within the threshold, in the attitude of a man unable to move a step, the light of the lamp shilling full on his face--the face of an old man, haggard, contorted, vacant-eyed. for one moment jean stood still, paralysed with horror; at the next the blood raced through her veins, and her heart swelled within her in an anguish of love and longing. in the history of the last eight years jean had invariably been the one to need pity and help; robert, the one to strengthen and console. she had suffered, and he had ministered; she had despaired, and he had consoled; she had repined, and he had gallantly borne her burden as well as his own. until this moment his strength had made no demand on her weakness. but now, now it had come. he was in trouble--her robert--in desperate, aching need, and jean's whole being rushed out towards him in a passion of love and longing. dropping her skirts, she skimmed down the stairway, scarcely seeming to touch the ground, so light and swift were her steps. out of her white face her eyes gleamed with unnatural light. there was something almost tigerish in the flame of jean's love at that moment. some one had been cruel to her mate, her man. she must fly to the rescue--hold him safe in her arms. "robert! what is it?" the vacant eyes looked into hers, those clear, brown eyes, which more than any other eyes she had ever seen were the windows of the soul within, and for the first time since their meeting there came no lightening to greet hers. jean's thoughts flew backward to that afternoon years ago when she had seen the same dazed look in vanna's eyes. her heart contracted with a sickening dread. "robert, are you ill? have you seen a doctor? has he said--" he shook his head blankly. "no! no--not that!" jean drew a long, thankful breath. relieved of this dread, she felt prepared to face all other ills; but first she must be alone with robert, behind shut doors, safe from intruding eyes. she slid her arm through his, and leading him into the den, pushed him gently into his own big chair. his hat was still on his head, she lifted it off, smoothed the hair on his forehead with a swift, caressing touch, then sinking on her knees before him, lifted her face to his. "robert, we are here together--you and i, in our own dear home. the children are upstairs. there is nothing, nothing in all the world worth grieving for so much!" he looked at her hopelessly, blankly. "but it's gone, jean--it's gone. the home's gone! it's all gone-- everything! gone! ruined!" "what, darling? what has gone? tell me! i want to know--i want to help!" "the bank, jean! the glasgow bank. to-day! ruin for us; ruin for thousands." jean rested her hands on the arms of the chair, and braced herself to thought. the glasgow bank! father had disapproved of it from the first, and had wished robert to sell his shares, but he had objected because of the high interest given. they were always hard up, and needed every penny they could get. besides, robert declared that it was perfectly safe--as safe as the bank of england; it was absurd to doubt it. and now it had stopped, and he talked of ruin. jean's knowledge of finance had not increased with her years of matrimony, and after the first shock of surprise she told herself with a sigh of relief that, after all, there could not be so much to lose. when she had spoken of selling shares a few weeks ago, robert had refused on the score that there were so few left. robert was so dazed, poor man, that he was exaggerating his loss. he must be calmed and soothed. "dearest boy, i'm sorry--dreadfully, dreadfully sorry for all those poor people; but you and i have not much to lose, have we? we have rubbed along quite comfortably without a big balance at the bank, and if a few hundreds have gone--well, we'll do without them, too. i'll turn over a new leaf, and be economical. we'll have no holiday, no new things, the bills for the new furniture are all paid--we need nothing more. don't grieve so, dear. i'll help you. i _will_ help!" robert stretched out his arms and folded her close to his heart. the dazed expression was beginning to give way to a yearning tenderness. jean had yet to be enlightened as to the full extent of the calamity. he must brace himself to the task of explanation. "jean, it is not an ordinary bank--it's unlimited; that was why your father disapproved. but i thought i knew best--i stuck to my own way. if i could bear the consequences alone i wouldn't grumble; it's for you, and the children. i have only five shares, but i'm responsible, to my last penny. they can clean me out of everything i possess, can sell our furniture above our heads--every stick in the house, leave us without a bed. and they'll do it. the calls will be enormous--must be enormous. i've ruined you, jean, by my self-willed folly." jean lifted her lips and kissed him softly on the cheek. she felt faint and limp, as though suddenly overpowered by fatigue; but the predominant feeling was still that robert was in trouble, that he was appealing to her for strength, that whatever trials were to come, she must not fail him now. "you've given me everything worth having. all the riches in the world couldn't give me happiness without you. if the money goes, we'll have to love each other more, and no bank, no bank, can touch that. robert!"--her voice broke on a note of exquisite tenderness--"remember what you called me that first day--remember the prophecy! if fortune has gone, you have still your treasure!" and robert, blessing her, shedding tears of mingled joy and sorrow, declared that he was rich indeed. chapter twenty four. the feet of clay. time did nothing to soften the severity of the blow which had fallen upon the shareholders of the glasgow bank; rather, with every day as it passed did the situation become more hopeless and terrible. defalcations of three years' standing left a deficit so abysmal that nothing short of the uttermost farthing could hope to fill it, and even the enormous preliminary call spelt ruin to many small holders, of whom robert gloucester was one. when every copper which he possessed had been realised, he was still far behind the amount demanded, and a bill of sale was issued on his household effects. to mr goring the disaster came at once as a shock and a confirmation of old fears. he found himself in the position of being able to say "i told you so"; but there was little pleasure in the advantage when the chief sufferer was his dearest child, and the transgressor so humble and penitent as his son-in-law. his chief grief was that, owing to decreasing income from his own investments, and the expenses of two big sons at oxford, he could not increase the allowance of two hundred a year which he had regularly contributed towards the gloucester _menage_. jean expected him to offer to buy her furniture at a valuation, but, to her intense disappointment, he made no such proposition. "get rid of the things as best you can--they'll sell well, or ought to, considering the price robert paid. they wouldn't fit into a small house, and you'll want a different style of thing altogether--plain, simple furniture, that can be kept in order by less experienced maids. all these curios and odds and ends are very well in their way, but they mean work--work! there'll be no time for dusting old china and polishing brasses. get rid of them all, and i'll see what i can do towards helping you to a fresh start. we have been looking through the rooms at home, and there are a lot of odds and ends which we can share. you'll have to lie low for a time, and be satisfied with usefuls; but i'll see that you are comfortable, my dear. i'll see to that." "thank you, sir, thank you indeed," cried robert warmly. "it's most good and kind of you. you have always been most generous. you are quite right about this furniture, it would be unsuitable under the new conditions. it's all one to me--i don't notice these things, and jean has been heroic about it all--she doesn't mind either. she's quite prepared for the change. aren't you, dear?" jean assented with a small, strained smile, and robert continued to discuss the subject with philosophic calm. jean had declared with her own lips that worldly goods were of no importance in her eyes when compared to the treasure of their love, and in simple faith he had taken her at her word. it was beyond his powers of comprehension to realise that the last few minutes, with their calm condemnation of her lares and penates, had been one of acute agony to his wife's soul--the worst moment she had known, since the springing of the bad news. when she was silent and distrait for the rest of the day, he asked her tenderly if her head ached, and enlarged enthusiastically on the goodness of mr and mrs goring in proposing to despoil their own home. "you'll find life easier, i hope, darling, in a smaller house. they've been a worry to you sometimes, all these collections, keeping them cleaned and dusted, and that kind of thing. we'll go in for the simple life, and be done with useless ornamentation," he declared cheerily. now that the first shock of the misfortune had spent itself, his invincible optimism was slowly but surely beginning to make itself felt. the worst had happened; every penny that could be scraped together had already been confiscated; he faced the situation, and calmly and courageously set his face towards a fresh start. "jean doesn't mind. jean says she is prepared. that takes away the sting. so long as she is happy, it doesn't matter a rap to me where we live. after all, we ought to consider ourselves jolly lucky. it's only the extras which we shall have to shed, while many poor wretches will be in actual need. we ought to be thankful!" as the weeks passed by, robert's complacence increased, just as, in inverse ratio, jean's courage collapsed. it was one thing to declare the world well lost, when her husband lay in her arms, broken-hearted, dependent on her support; but it required a vastly more difficult effort to maintain that attitude during the painful process of hunting for a house at about a third of the old rent, and arranging her treasured possessions for an auction sale. to vanna, her invariable safety-valve, jean poured forth her feelings, in characteristic, highly coloured language. "i feel sometimes as if i could not bear it another moment--as if i must shriek, as if i must scream, as if i must take rob by the arms and shake him till i drop! it's so maddening to be taken so literally at one's word, and to be expected to sit smiling on the top of a pedestal while the world rocks. yesterday, going over that hateful, stuffy little house, when he would persistently make the best of everything, even the view of the whitewashed yard and i had to go on smiling and smiling as if i agreed, i felt as if something in my head would snap... i believe it will some day, and i shall lose control, and rage, and say terrible things, and he will be broken hearted with sorrow--and surprise! he hasn't an idea, not a glimmering ghost of an idea, what i'm suffering! i said i didn't care, and he _believed_ it, just as simply as if i'd told him the time. oh, dear! the blindness of men." "and the strangeness of women!" vanna looked at her with her tender, whimsical smile. "you believed it yourself at the time, dear girl. i can imagine how eloquent you would be. no wonder poor robert was convinced. i was overcome with admiration for you that first week, but being a woman, i knew that the reaction must come. that's inevitable; but you must live up to yourself, jean; you've created a precedent by being magnificently brave, and you must keep it up." "i--_can't_!" said jean, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. "that night i could think of nothing but rob--his poor face! i would have cut off my hand to make him smile, but my home--my home! to have to break it up! my home where we came after we were married, where the babies were born... it breaks my heart to leave it, and to give up all my treasures that i collected with such joy... and robert doesn't see, he doesn't know--that seems hardest of all. if he just realised--" "he would suffer again! is _that_ what you want?" jean cast a startled glance, and sat silent, considering the problem. her eyes were circled by dark violet stains, as from long wakeful nights; there were hollows at her temples which the cloudy hair could not altogether conceal. "it sounded rather like it," she said slowly at last, "but _no_! indeed i don't--i love him far too much. but just sympathetic a little, vanna--and _appreciative_ of my loss! yesterday when we stood in that little back dining-room if he had said to me: `it's awfully hard on you, darling, but it's only for a time: put up with it for a time!' i should have hugged him, and felt a heroine. but he looked out on that awful backyard, and said serenely, `oh, it doesn't matter about views! you never cared about looking out of windows,' and went on calmly planning where we could put a sideboard. and i wanted to scream! he doesn't _understand_, vanna. he doesn't understand--" "men don't, dear! it's no use expecting more than they can give. they pull a wry face, accept a situation, and say no more about it. it would seem to them contemptible to go on grizzling. it's a fine attitude-- much finer than ours; and if you look upon it in the right light, robert's unconsciousness is a great compliment. he simply gives you credit for being as good as your word, as he is himself." but jean pouted, and protruded her chin in the old pugnacious fashion. "but--in our case, i'm not so sure that it _is_ finer! this upheaval is not one hundredth part so great a trial to rob as it is to me. he's sorry, of course, and regrets that he did not sell out his shares; but it will be no trial to him to have a small house, with a greengrocer's shop at the corner of the road. _he_ won't mind a marble paper in the hall; it won't cost him a thought to have a drawing-room composed of odd hideosities, instead of my lovely chippendale. he won't even notice if the little girls are shabby, and i wear a hat two years. is there much credit in being calm and resigned over a thing you don't _feel_? i nag at the servants, and snap at the children, and grizzle to you, and any one looking on would say: what a saint! what a wretch! but really and truly i'm fighting hard, and slaying dragons every hour of the day; and if i succeed in stifling my feelings and being decently agreeable for an hour or two in the evening, i've won a big victory; and it's i who am the saint, not he! vanna--do you think i am a beast?" vanna's laugh was very sweet and tender. "not i! i quite agree; but i want to help you, dear, to fight to the end. grumble to me as much as you like. i'm a woman, and understand; but play the game with robert. you are his ideal, his treasure. be pure gold! hide the feet of clay--" "don't preach! don't preach!" cried jean; but before the words were out of her mouth, she had rushed across the room and thrown her arms impetuously round vanna's neck. "yes; i will! i will! oh, vanna, how you help! scold me! make me ashamed! i don't want anything in the world but to be a good wife to rob." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ a month later the removal was accomplished, and jean struggled valiantly to make the best of the altered conditions. she rarely complained-- never in robert's presence; set herself diligently to the study of economy, and put aside embroidery and painting in favour of plain sewing and mending. in six months' time the new _menage_ was running as smoothly as if it had been in existence for years, and neither the master of the house nor his children had suffered any diminution of comfort from the change. robert's special little fads were attended to as scrupulously as in the larger establishment; the little girls were invariably spick-and-span, but no observant eyes could fail to notice the change in jean herself. she was older, graver, less ready to sparkle with mischievous gaiety. she had hidden her trouble out of sight, as years before she had hidden the baby clothes destined for the little dead son, but it had left its mark. with the best will in the world she could not change her nature, and her artistic sensibilities met a fresh wound every time she walked up and down stairs, every time she entered a room, every time she walked down the dull suburban street. she was in the wrong environment, and her beauty-loving nature was starved and hungry. robert was happily unconscious of the change, or if he noticed it was content to ascribe it to a more obvious reason. he himself was ready to welcome his fourth child with an ardour undamped by considerations of money. he adored children, and was delighted that the three-year-old joyce should have a successor; but jean's satisfaction was dependent on a possibility--"if it is a boy!" a live son would compensate a hundred times over for the added strain and burden involved by the addition to the nursery. but the son was not forthcoming, and when a third little daughter was put into her arms jean shed weak tears of disappointment. "she's the prettiest of all your babies, jean," vanna declared a week later as she nursed the little flannel bundle on her arm, and gazed down at the small downy head. "she has just your eyes." "all babies' eyes are the same." "this baby's aren't; and she has the daintiest little head! lorna's head was ugly at this stage. and her nose! her nose is perfect." "is it?" the voice from the bed was so listless and faint that vanna held up the little face, insisting upon notice. "look at her! look for yourself. acknowledge that she is a duck!" jean's lip quivered. "i wanted a boy, a little son to make up... it seems so hard--" vanna pressed the downy head to her heart. "poor little superfluous woman! you are not wanted, it seems. give her to me, jean--she'd be worth the whole world. i mean it, you know! say the word and i'll take her home this moment, and adopt her for life." but at this jean opened wide, protesting eyes. "as if i would! my own little child! she _isn't_ superfluous. i shall adore her as much as the others, but just at first it _is_ a disappointment. but i'll call her after you this time, vanna, say what you will, and you shall be her second mother." "yes! i'd like this one to have my name, and she _is_ mine, for i wanted her, and you didn't. remember that, if you please. no one pays one penny piece for anything this baby wears, or wants, or learns, but her mother vanna. i'm going to have a _real_ claim, not only sentiment. she's going to mean a great, great deal in my life!" jean smiled, well content. for herself it would be a relief to be freed from extra expense; and she realised that in giving her consent she was enriching rather than impoverishing her friend's life. and so little vanna adopted a second mother. chapter twenty five. the indian mail. two years had passed since piers rendall had left england, and still there came no word of his return. vanna heard from him regularly every mail, letters as long, as intimate, as tender as during the first month after his sailing, yet gradually there dawned in them a difference which made itself surely, increasingly felt. what was it? in the depths of her own heart, where alone the change was admitted, vanna pondered the question, but could find no reply. the first zest of interest and occupation in a new world had died an inevitable death; that was natural enough and could raise no surprise. the effects of a hot climate were beginning to make themselves felt, he had been overworked, overstrained--natural again; but in this case the remedy lay in his own hands. why did he not use it? vanna had never allowed herself to ask one questioning word on the subject of piers's return; but she could not avoid knowing that the junior partner whose place he had taken was entirely recovered, and most anxious to return to his post. old mrs rendall, too, was growing sadly impatient, and, on the rare occasions when they met, treated vanna with frigid disapproval. it was this girl's doing that her son was homeless and exiled--deprived of the joys of manhood. there was some mystery about this long, dragging engagement--a mystery which had been purposely concealed, a mystery which in some inexplicable fashion referred to vanna herself. what could it be? the consciousness of this underlying curiosity had been one of vanna's greatest trials in her social intercourse during the last few years, and its presence heightened the ever-growing longing for piers's return. the evening of mail-day often found her depressed rather than cheered, though the three closely written sheets had arrived as usual; for weary and disconsolate as was piers's mood, there was still no reference to a return; but during the week hope would again lift up its head and whisper encouragement concerning "next time." so elastic a thing is the human heart, that a bracing wind, a gleam of sunshine through the fog, will send the spirits racing upwards, and open out possibilities where the road has appeared hopelessly barred. it was in such a mood that vanna greeted her weekly letter one grey morning in february. the night before she had spent a particularly happy evening with jean and robert, who had appeared in better spirits than since the beginning of their trouble. little vanna had developed a fresh set of baby charms, and had allowed herself to be nursed with bland complacence, and on returning to her own house robert had spoken a few memorable words when saying good-bye: "every day of my life i thank god for you, vanna! such a friend is a big gift. you have been a good angel to us this last year." the memory of those words had been a good sleeping-draught; the warmth of them remained to cheer her as she dressed in the morning, and when her eye fell on the well-known envelope on the breakfast table, a little leap of the heart prophesied good news. to-day it seemed fitting that her waiting should come to an end. it was a thin envelope. one sheet of paper replaced the usual three. so much the better. four words would be sufficient to say all that she wanted to know. vanna seated herself at the table, and bent eagerly over the sheet. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "my dearest and best-- "i have your last letter beside me, and have been reading it over and over, wondering how to answer all that is written between the lines. i can read it, vanna; i have read it for a long time, but have not had courage to reply. you are too sweet and unselfish to allow yourself to write what is really in your thoughts, but i know you so well--you are no calm, equable, cold-blooded saint; you must have known many moments of bitterness, of anger, of resentment. i know it; i understand; i bless you for your patience. _why have i not come home to you_? that is the question you are asking me across the world; the question i can almost hear spoken in my ear. you know by my letters that i am miserable and alone; you must have heard by this time that brentford is anxious to get back. he wrote to me last mail. it is for me as senior partner to make my choice, and i have made it. i wrote to-day to say that i preferred to stay on--" the paper trembled in vanna's hand; her lips lost their curves and straightened into a thin red line. she shut her eyes for a moment before she could see clearly to continue her reading: "there! it is out. it is terrible to write it. i feel as if with the writing i have cut myself off from the best and happiest years of my life. for that is what it means, vanna--the end! i have suffered tortures this last year, fighting it out, arguing it over and over again in my heart. i could not have borne it if it had not been for your letters, and yet in a fashion they have added to my suffering. if ever a man loved a woman, with his soul and strength, i have loved you. i have waited eight years, and it would have seemed as a day if there had been hope at the end. i would wait twenty years to gain you in the end. but, vanna, when hope is dead!... i am very sad, very lonely; i miss you every hour, but i dare not come home to endure a worse pain. the years are passing; my youth is over; i cannot face a solitary age. vanna, dearest, i promised you to be honest. i swore it. i must keep my word. if the best is denied me, i must be content with what i can have. there is a girl here--" vanna's arm dropped on to the table, the fluttering sheet fell from her fingers, the dull, heavy thuds with which her heart had been beating for the last few minutes seemed suddenly to cease. she lifted her hand to her head, and brushed back her hair. "a _girl_!" for one moment the room seemed to swim; consciousness appeared about to desert her, the next _she_ was tinglingly alert, devouring the remaining words with hot, smarting eyes. "--the daughter of our colonel. i have seen a good deal of her these last months. she is not pretty, but she is sweet and kind, and has an echo of _your_ charm. if i tried, i think i could love that girl. _vanna, i am going to try_!... do you despise me? do you think me a faithless hound? can you understand in the faintest degree that it is just because you have shown me what love can mean that i cannot live my life alone? will you care to write to me still? i don't know; i can't tell. i dare not think how you may feel. i, who longed above all else in life to shield and guard you, to have to deal you this blow!... forgive me, vanna--my dearest, dearest love..." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ vanna laid the letter on the table once more, and raised a grey face, from which the lingering youth had been stricken at a blow. her eyes stared through her window. the dull vista of chimney-tops stretched away into an illimitable distance. dun banks of smoke hung pall-like over the city. the rain was falling. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ how does one live through the first days of an intolerable grief? looking forward, looking back, it appears impossible that reason itself could remain, yet in reality the automaton with the broken heart eats and sleeps, clothes itself, speaks in an ordinary voice, performs its necessary work. throughout the hours of that tortured morning vanna told herself repeatedly that she would go mad, she would certainly go mad. it was impossible that any human creature could endure such anguish. she, in whose blood ran the fatal taint, must surely succumb sooner than others. she would go mad, and piers would be justified. all the world would pity him. all the world would hail his escape. but she did not go mad. she was not even ill. during the whole time of that awful soul-sickness there was not one hour when she was physically incapacitated. this extraordinary immunity of the flesh, over which each mourner marvels afresh, seemed at the time a fresh grievance. to be too ill to think, too ill to care, would have been heaven as compared with this hell of bitter, rambling thoughts. her hero had fallen; his protestations had been empty words; there was no faith, or truth in this world, or the next; no mercy, no justice! she shut her doors and would admit no one. jean and robert would grieve for, and with her. jean would cry. robert's face would cloud over with that pained, shrinking expression which it wore when any one dear to him was in grief, _but they would not be surprised_! in conclave one with another they would absolve piers's conduct, and say it was "natural." vanna laughed--a harsh, bitter laugh at the thought. so easy, so easy, when one had all the world could give, to be calm and judicial for others less fortunate! she hated jean. she hated robert. she hated the whole world. she hated god himself. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ days and nights of darkness, weeks of black anger and despair, then slowly, quietly, like the coming of the dawn, the clouds began to melt, and the struggling light to make itself felt. first shame, and a shuddering horror of evil thoughts; secondly, bitterness thrust aside, instead of welcomed; finally the search-light turned upon herself, instead of on others. at that moment healing began, though it would be long indeed before any comfort from the process could be sensibly felt. to a just and generous nature it is impossible to cherish a heart-grudge where the head has pronounced absolution; and when vanna's first flame of anger had burnt itself out she had little blame in her heart for piers rendall. if he had fallen short of the ideal, was not she herself open to the same reproach? she who had always insisted upon the possibility of a spiritual love, was it consistent that she should wish to keep him sad and dissatisfied, or grudge him happiness because it was given by other hands than her own? he had given her eight years of his life; he had been honest with her. could she not bear to stand aside, and say "god speed"? but the light was still flickering and uncertain; the black clouds hung overhead ready to engulf her in fresh storms; a chance word or sound would open up the wound with a piercing anguish of pain. why dwell upon the picture of a soul in torment? vanna struggled on as thousands have done before her; but it was not until five weeks had passed that her return letter was dispatched to piers in india. "you are right, and you are brave. thank you for being brave. thank you for sparing me from the doom of spoiling your life. don't pity me too much. you have given me more than you know, far more; something greater even than love--understanding! now i can feel; now i can sympathise; now i can help. this is your doing, your gift to me, so be comforted! all my life long i shall be thankful for these eight years. "no! i will not write; not yet! in time to come we may meet and be friends, but this is her day, it belongs to her--to that young girl who will be your wife. i'm not perfect, dear; you know my faults. i should be jealous--that's only natural, i think. it would hurt me to hear her praises, and perhaps (i'm very feminine!) i might in revenge put out all my wiles--and i know how to charm you, piers!--to keep you a little longer to myself. i'm honest, you see; as you say, we have always been honest with each other--for all our sakes, we'll leave letters alone. when it is settled--it _will_ be settled, i feel that--you can write and let me know, and tell me her name, and send me her photograph. i'm so poor and mean a thing that i am glad she is not pretty; glad that for the last time you called me your `dearest love.' "i am quite well, and jean is good to me, and so--good-bye...!" chapter twenty six. the supreme secret. on the evening of her thirty-eighth birthday vanna strangeways said adieu to her last patient, and slowly traversed the streets leading towards jean gloucester's home. it was a dull and dreary evening, but her thoughts were not sad. the years which had passed by since the receipt of piers rendall's farewell letter, and the subsequent news of his engagement and marriage, had marked the various stages which attend all great griefs. first the storm, with the roar of the wind, which threatens to destroy the very foundations of life; then the desert; loneliness; an outlook of flat, colourless sand; finally, slowly and surely, the inflowing calm. hopeless, long-cherished grief is impossible to a soul who has tasted of love for god and its fellow-men. however severely a tree has been pruned, its leaves shoot forth bravely at the call of the spring, and in a few years' time strength is gathered for another blossoming. vanna had put much good hard work into these last years. in the great metropolis of the world, a woman who is willing to work for others, and to work without pay, need never know a moment's idleness, and dr greatman had always a list of patients who were in dire need of help-- patients belonging to that section of humanity to whom in especial vanna's sympathies went out. every day of her life she was brought into contact with women compared with whom her own lot was unspeakably calm and happy--poor waifs on life's ocean, perishing not only for lack of physical help, but also for the want of love, and sympathy, and brightness; and vanna, as a free agent, blessed with health and means, had it in her power to minister to mind as well as body. she was that rare thing, a voluntary worker on whom one might depend for regular, systematic service; and in her work she found her best and sweetest comfort. jean's old epithet, "consolation female," was truly descriptive of vanna in these first years of her sorrow; but as time passed by, and the inevitable healing began to make itself felt, there came moments of restlessness and rebellion--moments when a life of philanthropy no longer satisfied, when the inner ego awoke, and clamoured for recognition. a duller woman might have looked upon these outbursts as backslidings, and have taken herself severely to task for faltering in the path, but vanna, more clear-sighted, recognised in them a natural and healthy revival of her old spirit. she made no attempt to stifle the growth of this unrest, but rather welcomed it as a sign of recovered strength, and took a keen natural joy in ministering to herself, even as she had done to others. the first longing for a pretty new dress, the first time that a social gathering became a pleasure instead of a bore, the first interested planning for the future on her own behalf--she congratulated herself on each impulse as it came, and so far as might be, gratified it to the full. "you are the sanest woman i ever met." piers's words were echoed by more than one person who knew vanna at this period of her life--by dr greatman himself, between a frown and a sigh. "absolutely sane; no extremes--a perfectly balanced woman, sweet and capable, and humorous-- one in ten thousand! it seems as though she had inherited the extra share of ballast which her relations have lacked; and yet it is there, the danger, the shadow. i was right. if i were consulted again i should say the same. even in the last year another cousin has developed symptoms. such a family ought to be stamped out. but i'd give five years of my life to see that woman happy." this evening as she paced the muddy streets, vanna's thoughts were engaged with half a dozen details of her busy life. from ten o'clock in the morning she had been hurrying from house to house, yet had not been able to finish the list with which she had started the day. more people had been waiting for her, longing for her coming, than she had been able to visit; the memory of grateful words sounded in her ears. she was returning home to rest and ease, or, if she pleased, to go forth in search of amusement and distraction of mind. for the hundredth time she told herself that she was one of the fortunates of earth; and for the hundredth time "_but i am alone_" answered the woman's heart, and could find no solace to fill that void. vanna threw back her head with the quick, defiant gesture which had grown habitual in years of struggle. this was the direction in which thought could not be allowed to turn, the direction of earthquake and upheaval; the death of peace. even as the pain cramped her heart she had decided on her medicine. "i will go to see my baby! there is still half an hour before her bedtime." little vanna, jean's youngest daughter, had been brought up by her parents to consider herself as equally the child of themselves and "mother wanna" and had shown herself delightfully eager to avail herself of the privilege. "you've gotten only one mummie; i'se two!" was one of the earliest boasts by which she endeavoured to demonstrate her superiority over her sisters. she was a delightful little person, pretty, as were all jean's children, with her mother's dark, cloud-like hair, and her father's hazel eyes; affectionate, strong-willed, and already, at five years old, amusingly conscious of the powers of a dimpled cheek and a beguiling lisp, to gain for her the ambition of the minute. jean had faithfully kept her promise of allowing her friend to adopt the small vanna financially as well as mentally; and if it was a delightful task to purchase her small garments, it was still more thrilling to plan for years ahead. little vanna must have an education to fit her for her place in life. her talents from the beginning should receive the most skilful training; she should be taken abroad to learn languages in the only way in which they can be truly mastered; if her attainments justified she should go on to college; if she preferred a social life, she should enjoy it to the full. privately vanna cherished the hope that her fledgling might develop not into a grave student but into a natural, light-hearted girl, whose happiness might atone to her in some wise for her own blighted youth. all that love, and money, and the most careful forethought could do, should be done to secure for the second vanna an unclouded girlhood. in imagination she pictured her in the various stages of growth; the schoolgirl coming home from school, to be taken for holiday trips abroad; the gayest, least responsible of companions, running short of pocket-money, mislaying her effects, full of wild, impractical plans; later on the debutante, a tall, dim maiden, reviving memories of her lovely mother at the same age, attiring herself in a filmy white gown, peeping with sparkling eyes inside a jeweller's case, showering sweet kisses as thanks. later on, the coming of prince charming--a prince charming who could be welcomed without a pang, for, thank god, there were no dark pages in the history of this second vanna. finally a marriage, with its happy bustle of preparation, trousseau buying, and furnishings, the interests of the young home; children of the third generation. the future could not be blank with such an interest as this in prospect! the church clock at the corner of the street had just struck five as vanna knocked at the door of robert gloucester's house. it was the children's hour, when jean was sure to be found in the den striving to amuse her three little daughters, while each vied with each other in the effort to attract the largest share of attention. they crowded into the hall at the sound of vanna's patent knock, and drew her into the room in a clamour of welcome. each one of the four had a budget of news to unfold, and was eager, for the privilege of first innings. jean made several futile efforts to send the children back to their several games, but soon abandoned the effort and lay back comfortably in her chair, content to bide her time. as usual, she was beautifully dressed, though more simply than of old. in the shaded lamplight it was impossible to believe that her fortieth birthday was well in sight. her soft dark hair was as abundant as ever, and the thinness of her face seemed but to show more plainly the exquisite moulding of her features. vanna glanced at her with the old, never-dying admiration, as she held her godchild on her knee, and listened to the eager confidences of her sisters, and jean smiled back with affectionate languor. behind her in a recess of the wall stood a medley of photographs, large and small: mr goring, white-haired and spectacled, proudly holding his eldest grandchild on his knee; the two tall, handsome brothers; robert, with uplifted head and happy, smiling eyes; baby faces nestled closely together. at her feet in front of the old brass fender lay robert's dippers waiting his return, but jean had no thought of any of these things. she had an air of snatching the moment's leisure, as something precious which should not be wasted, and her eyes showed a dreamy indifference to the children's sallies--an abstraction which, with juvenile sharpness, they were quick to note. vanna was a newcomer, and could always be counted on as an interested audience; but no normal child can be satisfied for long if there remains one person in the room who is not paying the due meed of attention. before ten minutes were passed the trio were once more swarming over their mother's chair, tugging at her gown to attract attention. "jean!" asked vanna suddenly, "are you happy?" jean stared at her with stolid surprise. "of course i am happy," she said flatly. "what do you mean?" "but are you blissfully, ecstatically, unspeakably happy--almost too happy to live?" jean's stare took on a tinge of affront. "no! of course not. why should i be?" "why should you not? if such a thing is possible to any one on earth, it ought to be to you. you have everything that is worth having-- everything! robert--his wonderful love; these children, interest in life, hope, expectation. you are so _rich_!" jean's face softened. she looked at the white-robed figures at her feet, and for a moment her eyes shone; for a moment, and then once more the shadow fell. "yes," she said. "oh, yes, i know! i _am_ well off, but one can't live on the heights; and, oh, dear! oh, dear, there are such worries! morton has given me notice. it's so difficult to find a decent cook for small wages. i shall have to begin the weary old hunt once more. and lorna keeps complaining of her eyes. robert says she must see an oculist, but i do so dread it. if _she_ has to wear spectacles it will break my heart. and you remember those dining-room curtains that i sent to be dyed? they came back to-day the wrong shade--simply shrieking at the walls. ruined! isn't it maddening--i feel so depressed--" she looked across the room with a transparent appeal for sympathy, but with a quick, glad laugh vanna leapt to her feet and swept towards the door. "good-bye. i'm going. thank you so much!" "_going_!" jean rushed after her in dismay. "vanna, you've just come. thank me for _what_? you mad creature, what do you mean?" "my lesson! don't stop me, jean, i'll come again--i must go." she fled into the street, and the sound of her laughter floated back to jean as she stood by the open door. "_the dining-room curtains don't match_!" jean, the beloved, had said these astounding words; had advanced them in all seriousness as a reason for unhappiness! in the midst of plenty, this infinitesimal crumb could mar her joy. and jean was but a type of her class. all over london while their lonely sisters were eating their hearts with envy, the women rich in home, husband, and children, were allowing pigmy trials to obstruct the sun, squandering their joy, wasting the precious days. and at the other end of the world that young girl who was piers rendall's wife, the mother of his child, she too, perchance, was vexing herself over many things, bemoaning her trials, so dulled by custom that she no longer appreciated her joys. the great, the supreme secret of life, came home to vanna with overwhelming force as she walked through the quiet streets. not without, but within, must man look for happiness; in himself, the divine soul of him, or nowhere lies his joy. all outer possessions are as naught--the baubles, the playthings of a child, which, once gathered, grow tame and lose their gilt. vanna had known great grief, and had travelled on bleeding feet through the desert of loneliness, but from the rough journey she had reaped her spoil. her eyes were opened; she saw the riches of this world at their true worth; her heart was filled with an immense, encompassing love. it was impossible that she should ever again be lonely. she thanked god, and took courage. the house of mirth by edith wharton book one chapter selden paused in surprise. in the afternoon rush of the grand central station his eyes had been refreshed by the sight of miss lily bart. it was a monday in early september, and he was returning to his work from a hurried dip into the country; but what was miss bart doing in town at that season? if she had appeared to be catching a train, he might have inferred that he had come on her in the act of transition between one and another of the country-houses which disputed her presence after the close of the newport season; but her desultory air perplexed him. she stood apart from the crowd, letting it drift by her to the platform or the street, and wearing an air of irresolution which might, as he surmised, be the mask of a very definite purpose. it struck him at once that she was waiting for some one, but he hardly knew why the idea arrested him. there was nothing new about lily bart, yet he could never see her without a faint movement of interest: it was characteristic of her that she always roused speculation, that her simplest acts seemed the result of far-reaching intentions. an impulse of curiosity made him turn out of his direct line to the door, and stroll past her. he knew that if she did not wish to be seen she would contrive to elude him; and it amused him to think of putting her skill to the test. "mr. selden--what good luck!" she came forward smiling, eager almost, in her resolve to intercept him. one or two persons, in brushing past them, lingered to look; for miss bart was a figure to arrest even the suburban traveller rushing to his last train. selden had never seen her more radiant. her vivid head, relieved against the dull tints of the crowd, made her more conspicuous than in a ball-room, and under her dark hat and veil she regained the girlish smoothness, the purity of tint, that she was beginning to lose after eleven years of late hours and indefatigable dancing. was it really eleven years, selden found himself wondering, and had she indeed reached the nine-and-twentieth birthday with which her rivals credited her? "what luck!" she repeated. "how nice of you to come to my rescue!" he responded joyfully that to do so was his mission in life, and asked what form the rescue was to take. "oh, almost any--even to sitting on a bench and talking to me. one sits out a cotillion--why not sit out a train? it isn't a bit hotter here than in mrs. van osburgh's conservatory--and some of the women are not a bit uglier." she broke off, laughing, to explain that she had come up to town from tuxedo, on her way to the gus trenors' at bellomont, and had missed the three-fifteen train to rhinebeck. "and there isn't another till half-past five." she consulted the little jewelled watch among her laces. "just two hours to wait. and i don't know what to do with myself. my maid came up this morning to do some shopping for me, and was to go on to bellomont at one o'clock, and my aunt's house is closed, and i don't know a soul in town." she glanced plaintively about the station. "it is hotter than mrs. van osburgh's, after all. if you can spare the time, do take me somewhere for a breath of air." he declared himself entirely at her disposal: the adventure struck him as diverting. as a spectator, he had always enjoyed lily bart; and his course lay so far out of her orbit that it amused him to be drawn for a moment into the sudden intimacy which her proposal implied. "shall we go over to sherry's for a cup of tea?" she smiled assentingly, and then made a slight grimace. "so many people come up to town on a monday--one is sure to meet a lot of bores. i'm as old as the hills, of course, and it ought not to make any difference; but if i'm old enough, you're not," she objected gaily. "i'm dying for tea--but isn't there a quieter place?" he answered her smile, which rested on him vividly. her discretions interested him almost as much as her imprudences: he was so sure that both were part of the same carefully-elaborated plan. in judging miss bart, he had always made use of the "argument from design." "the resources of new york are rather meagre," he said; "but i'll find a hansom first, and then we'll invent something." he led her through the throng of returning holiday-makers, past sallow-faced girls in preposterous hats, and flat-chested women struggling with paper bundles and palm-leaf fans. was it possible that she belonged to the same race? the dinginess, the crudity of this average section of womanhood made him feel how highly specialized she was. a rapid shower had cooled the air, and clouds still hung refreshingly over the moist street. "how delicious! let us walk a little," she said as they emerged from the station. they turned into madison avenue and began to stroll northward. as she moved beside him, with her long light step, selden was conscious of taking a luxurious pleasure in her nearness: in the modelling of her little ear, the crisp upward wave of her hair--was it ever so slightly brightened by art?--and the thick planting of her straight black lashes. everything about her was at once vigorous and exquisite, at once strong and fine. he had a confused sense that she must have cost a great deal to make, that a great many dull and ugly people must, in some mysterious way, have been sacrificed to produce her. he was aware that the qualities distinguishing her from the herd of her sex were chiefly external: as though a fine glaze of beauty and fastidiousness had been applied to vulgar clay. yet the analogy left him unsatisfied, for a coarse texture will not take a high finish; and was it not possible that the material was fine, but that circumstance had fashioned it into a futile shape? as he reached this point in his speculations the sun came out, and her lifted parasol cut off his enjoyment. a moment or two later she paused with a sigh. "oh, dear, i'm so hot and thirsty--and what a hideous place new york is!" she looked despairingly up and down the dreary thoroughfare. "other cities put on their best clothes in summer, but new york seems to sit in its shirtsleeves." her eyes wandered down one of the side-streets. "someone has had the humanity to plant a few trees over there. let us go into the shade." "i am glad my street meets with your approval," said selden as they turned the corner. "your street? do you live here?" she glanced with interest along the new brick and limestone house-fronts, fantastically varied in obedience to the american craving for novelty, but fresh and inviting with their awnings and flower-boxes. "ah, yes--to be sure: the benedick. what a nice-looking building! i don't think i've ever seen it before." she looked across at the flat-house with its marble porch and pseudo-georgian facade. "which are your windows? those with the awnings down?" "on the top floor--yes." "and that nice little balcony is yours? how cool it looks up there!" he paused a moment. "come up and see," he suggested. "i can give you a cup of tea in no time--and you won't meet any bores." her colour deepened--she still had the art of blushing at the right time--but she took the suggestion as lightly as it was made. "why not? it's too tempting--i'll take the risk," she declared. "oh, i'm not dangerous," he said in the same key. in truth, he had never liked her as well as at that moment. he knew she had accepted without afterthought: he could never be a factor in her calculations, and there was a surprise, a refreshment almost, in the spontaneity of her consent. on the threshold he paused a moment, feeling for his latchkey. "there's no one here; but i have a servant who is supposed to come in the mornings, and it's just possible he may have put out the tea-things and provided some cake." he ushered her into a slip of a hall hung with old prints. she noticed the letters and notes heaped on the table among his gloves and sticks; then she found herself in a small library, dark but cheerful, with its walls of books, a pleasantly faded turkey rug, a littered desk and, as he had foretold, a tea-tray on a low table near the window. a breeze had sprung up, swaying inward the muslin curtains, and bringing a fresh scent of mignonette and petunias from the flower-box on the balcony. lily sank with a sigh into one of the shabby leather chairs. "how delicious to have a place like this all to one's self! what a miserable thing it is to be a woman." she leaned back in a luxury of discontent. selden was rummaging in a cupboard for the cake. "even women," he said, "have been known to enjoy the privileges of a flat." "oh, governesses--or widows. but not girls--not poor, miserable, marriageable girls!" "i even know a girl who lives in a flat." she sat up in surprise. "you do?" "i do," he assured her, emerging from the cupboard with the sought-for cake. "oh, i know--you mean gerty farish." she smiled a little unkindly. "but i said marriageable--and besides, she has a horrid little place, and no maid, and such queer things to eat. her cook does the washing and the food tastes of soap. i should hate that, you know." "you shouldn't dine with her on wash-days," said selden, cutting the cake. they both laughed, and he knelt by the table to light the lamp under the kettle, while she measured out the tea into a little tea-pot of green glaze. as he watched her hand, polished as a bit of old ivory, with its slender pink nails, and the sapphire bracelet slipping over her wrist, he was struck with the irony of suggesting to her such a life as his cousin gertrude farish had chosen. she was so evidently the victim of the civilization which had produced her, that the links of her bracelet seemed like manacles chaining her to her fate. she seemed to read his thought. "it was horrid of me to say that of gerty," she said with charming compunction. "i forgot she was your cousin. but we're so different, you know: she likes being good, and i like being happy. and besides, she is free and i am not. if i were, i daresay i could manage to be happy even in her flat. it must be pure bliss to arrange the furniture just as one likes, and give all the horrors to the ash-man. if i could only do over my aunt's drawing-room i know i should be a better woman." "is it so very bad?" he asked sympathetically. she smiled at him across the tea-pot which she was holding up to be filled. "that shows how seldom you come there. why don't you come oftener?" "when i do come, it's not to look at mrs. peniston's furniture." "nonsense," she said. "you don't come at all--and yet we get on so well when we meet." "perhaps that's the reason," he answered promptly. "i'm afraid i haven't any cream, you know--shall you mind a slice of lemon instead?" "i shall like it better." she waited while he cut the lemon and dropped a thin disk into her cup. "but that is not the reason," she insisted. "the reason for what?" "for your never coming." she leaned forward with a shade of perplexity in her charming eyes. "i wish i knew--i wish i could make you out. of course i know there are men who don't like me--one can tell that at a glance. and there are others who are afraid of me: they think i want to marry them." she smiled up at him frankly. "but i don't think you dislike me--and you can't possibly think i want to marry you." "no--i absolve you of that," he agreed. "well, then----?" he had carried his cup to the fireplace, and stood leaning against the chimney-piece and looking down on her with an air of indolent amusement. the provocation in her eyes increased his amusement--he had not supposed she would waste her powder on such small game; but perhaps she was only keeping her hand in; or perhaps a girl of her type had no conversation but of the personal kind. at any rate, she was amazingly pretty, and he had asked her to tea and must live up to his obligations. "well, then," he said with a plunge, "perhaps that's the reason." "what?" "the fact that you don't want to marry me. perhaps i don't regard it as such a strong inducement to go and see you." he felt a slight shiver down his spine as he ventured this, but her laugh reassured him. "dear mr. selden, that wasn't worthy of you. it's stupid of you to make love to me, and it isn't like you to be stupid." she leaned back, sipping her tea with an air so enchantingly judicial that, if they had been in her aunt's drawing-room, he might almost have tried to disprove her deduction. "don't you see," she continued, "that there are men enough to say pleasant things to me, and that what i want is a friend who won't be afraid to say disagreeable ones when i need them? sometimes i have fancied you might be that friend--i don't know why, except that you are neither a prig nor a bounder, and that i shouldn't have to pretend with you or be on my guard against you." her voice had dropped to a note of seriousness, and she sat gazing up at him with the troubled gravity of a child. "you don't know how much i need such a friend," she said. "my aunt is full of copy-book axioms, but they were all meant to apply to conduct in the early fifties. i always feel that to live up to them would include wearing book-muslin with gigot sleeves. and the other women--my best friends--well, they use me or abuse me; but they don't care a straw what happens to me. i've been about too long--people are getting tired of me; they are beginning to say i ought to marry." there was a moment's pause, during which selden meditated one or two replies calculated to add a momentary zest to the situation; but he rejected them in favour of the simple question: "well, why don't you?" she coloured and laughed. "ah, i see you are a friend after all, and that is one of the disagreeable things i was asking for." "it wasn't meant to be disagreeable," he returned amicably. "isn't marriage your vocation? isn't it what you're all brought up for?" she sighed. "i suppose so. what else is there?" "exactly. and so why not take the plunge and have it over?" she shrugged her shoulders. "you speak as if i ought to marry the first man who came along." "i didn't mean to imply that you are as hard put to it as that. but there must be some one with the requisite qualifications." she shook her head wearily. "i threw away one or two good chances when i first came out--i suppose every girl does; and you know i am horribly poor--and very expensive. i must have a great deal of money." selden had turned to reach for a cigarette-box on the mantelpiece. "what's become of dillworth?" he asked. "oh, his mother was frightened--she was afraid i should have all the family jewels reset. and she wanted me to promise that i wouldn't do over the drawing-room." "the very thing you are marrying for!" "exactly. so she packed him off to india." "hard luck--but you can do better than dillworth." he offered the box, and she took out three or four cigarettes, putting one between her lips and slipping the others into a little gold case attached to her long pearl chain. "have i time? just a whiff, then." she leaned forward, holding the tip of her cigarette to his. as she did so, he noted, with a purely impersonal enjoyment, how evenly the black lashes were set in her smooth white lids, and how the purplish shade beneath them melted into the pure pallour of the cheek. she began to saunter about the room, examining the bookshelves between the puffs of her cigarette-smoke. some of the volumes had the ripe tints of good tooling and old morocco, and her eyes lingered on them caressingly, not with the appreciation of the expert, but with the pleasure in agreeable tones and textures that was one of her inmost susceptibilities. suddenly her expression changed from desultory enjoyment to active conjecture, and she turned to selden with a question. "you collect, don't you--you know about first editions and things?" "as much as a man may who has no money to spend. now and then i pick up something in the rubbish heap; and i go and look on at the big sales." she had again addressed herself to the shelves, but her eyes now swept them inattentively, and he saw that she was preoccupied with a new idea. "and americana--do you collect americana?" selden stared and laughed. "no, that's rather out of my line. i'm not really a collector, you see; i simply like to have good editions of the books i am fond of." she made a slight grimace. "and americana are horribly dull, i suppose?" "i should fancy so--except to the historian. but your real collector values a thing for its rarity. i don't suppose the buyers of americana sit up reading them all night--old jefferson gryce certainly didn't." she was listening with keen attention. "and yet they fetch fabulous prices, don't they? it seems so odd to want to pay a lot for an ugly badly-printed book that one is never going to read! and i suppose most of the owners of americana are not historians either?" "no; very few of the historians can afford to buy them. they have to use those in the public libraries or in private collections. it seems to be the mere rarity that attracts the average collector." he had seated himself on an arm of the chair near which she was standing, and she continued to question him, asking which were the rarest volumes, whether the jefferson gryce collection was really considered the finest in the world, and what was the largest price ever fetched by a single volume. it was so pleasant to sit there looking up at her, as she lifted now one book and then another from the shelves, fluttering the pages between her fingers, while her drooping profile was outlined against the warm background of old bindings, that he talked on without pausing to wonder at her sudden interest in so unsuggestive a subject. but he could never be long with her without trying to find a reason for what she was doing, and as she replaced his first edition of la bruyere and turned away from the bookcases, he began to ask himself what she had been driving at. her next question was not of a nature to enlighten him. she paused before him with a smile which seemed at once designed to admit him to her familiarity, and to remind him of the restrictions it imposed. "don't you ever mind," she asked suddenly, "not being rich enough to buy all the books you want?" he followed her glance about the room, with its worn furniture and shabby walls. "don't i just? do you take me for a saint on a pillar?" "and having to work--do you mind that?" "oh, the work itself is not so bad--i'm rather fond of the law." "no; but the being tied down: the routine--don't you ever want to get away, to see new places and people?" "horribly--especially when i see all my friends rushing to the steamer." she drew a sympathetic breath. "but do you mind enough--to marry to get out of it?" selden broke into a laugh. "god forbid!" he declared. she rose with a sigh, tossing her cigarette into the grate. "ah, there's the difference--a girl must, a man may if he chooses." she surveyed him critically. "your coat's a little shabby--but who cares? it doesn't keep people from asking you to dine. if i were shabby no one would have me: a woman is asked out as much for her clothes as for herself. the clothes are the background, the frame, if you like: they don't make success, but they are a part of it. who wants a dingy woman? we are expected to be pretty and well-dressed till we drop--and if we can't keep it up alone, we have to go into partnership." selden glanced at her with amusement: it was impossible, even with her lovely eyes imploring him, to take a sentimental view of her case. "ah, well, there must be plenty of capital on the look-out for such an investment. perhaps you'll meet your fate tonight at the trenors'." she returned his look interrogatively. "i thought you might be going there--oh, not in that capacity! but there are to be a lot of your set--gwen van osburgh, the wetheralls, lady cressida raith--and the george dorsets." she paused a moment before the last name, and shot a query through her lashes; but he remained imperturbable. "mrs. trenor asked me; but i can't get away till the end of the week; and those big parties bore me." "ah, so they do me," she exclaimed. "then why go?" "it's part of the business--you forget! and besides, if i didn't, i should be playing bezique with my aunt at richfield springs." "that's almost as bad as marrying dillworth," he agreed, and they both laughed for pure pleasure in their sudden intimacy. she glanced at the clock. "dear me! i must be off. it's after five." she paused before the mantelpiece, studying herself in the mirror while she adjusted her veil. the attitude revealed the long slope of her slender sides, which gave a kind of wild-wood grace to her outline--as though she were a captured dryad subdued to the conventions of the drawing-room; and selden reflected that it was the same streak of sylvan freedom in her nature that lent such savour to her artificiality. he followed her across the room to the entrance-hall; but on the threshold she held out her hand with a gesture of leave-taking. "it's been delightful; and now you will have to return my visit." "but don't you want me to see you to the station?" "no; good bye here, please." she let her hand lie in his a moment, smiling up at him adorably. "good bye, then--and good luck at bellomont!" he said, opening the door for her. on the landing she paused to look about her. there were a thousand chances to one against her meeting anybody, but one could never tell, and she always paid for her rare indiscretions by a violent reaction of prudence. there was no one in sight, however, but a char-woman who was scrubbing the stairs. her own stout person and its surrounding implements took up so much room that lily, to pass her, had to gather up her skirts and brush against the wall. as she did so, the woman paused in her work and looked up curiously, resting her clenched red fists on the wet cloth she had just drawn from her pail. she had a broad sallow face, slightly pitted with small-pox, and thin straw-coloured hair through which her scalp shone unpleasantly. "i beg your pardon," said lily, intending by her politeness to convey a criticism of the other's manner. the woman, without answering, pushed her pail aside, and continued to stare as miss bart swept by with a murmur of silken linings. lily felt herself flushing under the look. what did the creature suppose? could one never do the simplest, the most harmless thing, without subjecting one's self to some odious conjecture? half way down the next flight, she smiled to think that a char-woman's stare should so perturb her. the poor thing was probably dazzled by such an unwonted apparition. but were such apparitions unwonted on selden's stairs? miss bart was not familiar with the moral code of bachelors' flat-houses, and her colour rose again as it occurred to her that the woman's persistent gaze implied a groping among past associations. but she put aside the thought with a smile at her own fears, and hastened downward, wondering if she should find a cab short of fifth avenue. under the georgian porch she paused again, scanning the street for a hansom. none was in sight, but as she reached the sidewalk she ran against a small glossy-looking man with a gardenia in his coat, who raised his hat with a surprised exclamation. "miss bart? well--of all people! this is luck," he declared; and she caught a twinkle of amused curiosity between his screwed-up lids. "oh, mr. rosedale--how are you?" she said, perceiving that the irrepressible annoyance on her face was reflected in the sudden intimacy of his smile. mr. rosedale stood scanning her with interest and approval. he was a plump rosy man of the blond jewish type, with smart london clothes fitting him like upholstery, and small sidelong eyes which gave him the air of appraising people as if they were bric-a-brac. he glanced up interrogatively at the porch of the benedick. "been up to town for a little shopping, i suppose?" he said, in a tone which had the familiarity of a touch. miss bart shrank from it slightly, and then flung herself into precipitate explanations. "yes--i came up to see my dress-maker. i am just on my way to catch the train to the trenors'." "ah--your dress-maker; just so," he said blandly. "i didn't know there were any dress-makers in the benedick." "the benedick?" she looked gently puzzled. "is that the name of this building?" "yes, that's the name: i believe it's an old word for bachelor, isn't it? i happen to own the building--that's the way i know." his smile deepened as he added with increasing assurance: "but you must let me take you to the station. the trenors are at bellomont, of course? you've barely time to catch the five-forty. the dress-maker kept you waiting, i suppose." lily stiffened under the pleasantry. "oh, thanks," she stammered; and at that moment her eye caught a hansom drifting down madison avenue, and she hailed it with a desperate gesture. "you're very kind; but i couldn't think of troubling you," she said, extending her hand to mr. rosedale; and heedless of his protestations, she sprang into the rescuing vehicle, and called out a breathless order to the driver. chapter in the hansom she leaned back with a sigh. why must a girl pay so dearly for her least escape from routine? why could one never do a natural thing without having to screen it behind a structure of artifice? she had yielded to a passing impulse in going to lawrence selden's rooms, and it was so seldom that she could allow herself the luxury of an impulse! this one, at any rate, was going to cost her rather more than she could afford. she was vexed to see that, in spite of so many years of vigilance, she had blundered twice within five minutes. that stupid story about her dress-maker was bad enough--it would have been so simple to tell rosedale that she had been taking tea with selden! the mere statement of the fact would have rendered it innocuous. but, after having let herself be surprised in a falsehood, it was doubly stupid to snub the witness of her discomfiture. if she had had the presence of mind to let rosedale drive her to the station, the concession might have purchased his silence. he had his race's accuracy in the appraisal of values, and to be seen walking down the platform at the crowded afternoon hour in the company of miss lily bart would have been money in his pocket, as he might himself have phrased it. he knew, of course, that there would be a large house-party at bellomont, and the possibility of being taken for one of mrs. trenor's guests was doubtless included in his calculations. mr. rosedale was still at a stage in his social ascent when it was of importance to produce such impressions. the provoking part was that lily knew all this--knew how easy it would have been to silence him on the spot, and how difficult it might be to do so afterward. mr. simon rosedale was a man who made it his business to know everything about every one, whose idea of showing himself to be at home in society was to display an inconvenient familiarity with the habits of those with whom he wished to be thought intimate. lily was sure that within twenty-four hours the story of her visiting her dress-maker at the benedick would be in active circulation among mr. rosedale's acquaintances. the worst of it was that she had always snubbed and ignored him. on his first appearance--when her improvident cousin, jack stepney, had obtained for him (in return for favours too easily guessed) a card to one of the vast impersonal van osburgh "crushes"--rosedale, with that mixture of artistic sensibility and business astuteness which characterizes his race, had instantly gravitated toward miss bart. she understood his motives, for her own course was guided by as nice calculations. training and experience had taught her to be hospitable to newcomers, since the most unpromising might be useful later on, and there were plenty of available oubliettes to swallow them if they were not. but some intuitive repugnance, getting the better of years of social discipline, had made her push mr. rosedale into his oubliette without a trial. he had left behind only the ripple of amusement which his speedy despatch had caused among her friends; and though later (to shift the metaphor) he reappeared lower down the stream, it was only in fleeting glimpses, with long submergences between. hitherto lily had been undisturbed by scruples. in her little set mr. rosedale had been pronounced "impossible," and jack stepney roundly snubbed for his attempt to pay his debts in dinner invitations. even mrs. trenor, whose taste for variety had led her into some hazardous experiments, resisted jack's attempts to disguise mr. rosedale as a novelty, and declared that he was the same little jew who had been served up and rejected at the social board a dozen times within her memory; and while judy trenor was obdurate there was small chance of mr. rosedale's penetrating beyond the outer limbo of the van osburgh crushes. jack gave up the contest with a laughing "you'll see," and, sticking manfully to his guns, showed himself with rosedale at the fashionable restaurants, in company with the personally vivid if socially obscure ladies who are available for such purposes. but the attempt had hitherto been vain, and as rosedale undoubtedly paid for the dinners, the laugh remained with his debtor. mr. rosedale, it will be seen, was thus far not a factor to be feared--unless one put one's self in his power. and this was precisely what miss bart had done. her clumsy fib had let him see that she had something to conceal; and she was sure he had a score to settle with her. something in his smile told her he had not forgotten. she turned from the thought with a little shiver, but it hung on her all the way to the station, and dogged her down the platform with the persistency of mr. rosedale himself. she had just time to take her seat before the train started; but having arranged herself in her corner with the instinctive feeling for effect which never forsook her, she glanced about in the hope of seeing some other member of the trenors' party. she wanted to get away from herself, and conversation was the only means of escape that she knew. her search was rewarded by the discovery of a very blond young man with a soft reddish beard, who, at the other end of the carriage, appeared to be dissembling himself behind an unfolded newspaper. lily's eye brightened, and a faint smile relaxed the drawn lines of her mouth. she had known that mr. percy gryce was to be at bellomont, but she had not counted on the luck of having him to herself in the train; and the fact banished all perturbing thoughts of mr. rosedale. perhaps, after all, the day was to end more favourably than it had begun. she began to cut the pages of a novel, tranquilly studying her prey through downcast lashes while she organized a method of attack. something in his attitude of conscious absorption told her that he was aware of her presence: no one had ever been quite so engrossed in an evening paper! she guessed that he was too shy to come up to her, and that she would have to devise some means of approach which should not appear to be an advance on her part. it amused her to think that any one as rich as mr. percy gryce should be shy; but she was gifted with treasures of indulgence for such idiosyncrasies, and besides, his timidity might serve her purpose better than too much assurance. she had the art of giving self-confidence to the embarrassed, but she was not equally sure of being able to embarrass the self-confident. she waited till the train had emerged from the tunnel and was racing between the ragged edges of the northern suburbs. then, as it lowered its speed near yonkers, she rose from her seat and drifted slowly down the carriage. as she passed mr. gryce, the train gave a lurch, and he was aware of a slender hand gripping the back of his chair. he rose with a start, his ingenuous face looking as though it had been dipped in crimson: even the reddish tint in his beard seemed to deepen. the train swayed again, almost flinging miss bart into his arms. she steadied herself with a laugh and drew back; but he was enveloped in the scent of her dress, and his shoulder had felt her fugitive touch. "oh, mr. gryce, is it you? i'm so sorry--i was trying to find the porter and get some tea." she held out her hand as the train resumed its level rush, and they stood exchanging a few words in the aisle. yes--he was going to bellomont. he had heard she was to be of the party--he blushed again as he admitted it. and was he to be there for a whole week? how delightful! but at this point one or two belated passengers from the last station forced their way into the carriage, and lily had to retreat to her seat. "the chair next to mine is empty--do take it," she said over her shoulder; and mr. gryce, with considerable embarrassment, succeeded in effecting an exchange which enabled him to transport himself and his bags to her side. "ah--and here is the porter, and perhaps we can have some tea." she signalled to that official, and in a moment, with the ease that seemed to attend the fulfilment of all her wishes, a little table had been set up between the seats, and she had helped mr. gryce to bestow his encumbering properties beneath it. when the tea came he watched her in silent fascination while her hands flitted above the tray, looking miraculously fine and slender in contrast to the coarse china and lumpy bread. it seemed wonderful to him that any one should perform with such careless ease the difficult task of making tea in public in a lurching train. he would never have dared to order it for himself, lest he should attract the notice of his fellow-passengers; but, secure in the shelter of her conspicuousness, he sipped the inky draught with a delicious sense of exhilaration. lily, with the flavour of selden's caravan tea on her lips, had no great fancy to drown it in the railway brew which seemed such nectar to her companion; but, rightly judging that one of the charms of tea is the fact of drinking it together, she proceeded to give the last touch to mr. gryce's enjoyment by smiling at him across her lifted cup. "is it quite right--i haven't made it too strong?" she asked solicitously; and he replied with conviction that he had never tasted better tea. "i daresay it is true," she reflected; and her imagination was fired by the thought that mr. gryce, who might have sounded the depths of the most complex self-indulgence, was perhaps actually taking his first journey alone with a pretty woman. it struck her as providential that she should be the instrument of his initiation. some girls would not have known how to manage him. they would have over-emphasized the novelty of the adventure, trying to make him feel in it the zest of an escapade. but lily's methods were more delicate. she remembered that her cousin jack stepney had once defined mr. gryce as the young man who had promised his mother never to go out in the rain without his overshoes; and acting on this hint, she resolved to impart a gently domestic air to the scene, in the hope that her companion, instead of feeling that he was doing something reckless or unusual, would merely be led to dwell on the advantage of always having a companion to make one's tea in the train. but in spite of her efforts, conversation flagged after the tray had been removed, and she was driven to take a fresh measurement of mr. gryce's limitations. it was not, after all, opportunity but imagination that he lacked: he had a mental palate which would never learn to distinguish between railway tea and nectar. there was, however, one topic she could rely on: one spring that she had only to touch to set his simple machinery in motion. she had refrained from touching it because it was a last resource, and she had relied on other arts to stimulate other sensations; but as a settled look of dulness began to creep over his candid features, she saw that extreme measures were necessary. "and how," she said, leaning forward, "are you getting on with your americana?" his eye became a degree less opaque: it was as though an incipient film had been removed from it, and she felt the pride of a skilful operator. "i've got a few new things," he said, suffused with pleasure, but lowering his voice as though he feared his fellow-passengers might be in league to despoil him. she returned a sympathetic enquiry, and gradually he was drawn on to talk of his latest purchases. it was the one subject which enabled him to forget himself, or allowed him, rather, to remember himself without constraint, because he was at home in it, and could assert a superiority that there were few to dispute. hardly any of his acquaintances cared for americana, or knew anything about them; and the consciousness of this ignorance threw mr. gryce's knowledge into agreeable relief. the only difficulty was to introduce the topic and to keep it to the front; most people showed no desire to have their ignorance dispelled, and mr. gryce was like a merchant whose warehouses are crammed with an unmarketable commodity. but miss bart, it appeared, really did want to know about americana; and moreover, she was already sufficiently informed to make the task of farther instruction as easy as it was agreeable. she questioned him intelligently, she heard him submissively; and, prepared for the look of lassitude which usually crept over his listeners' faces, he grew eloquent under her receptive gaze. the "points" she had had the presence of mind to glean from selden, in anticipation of this very contingency, were serving her to such good purpose that she began to think her visit to him had been the luckiest incident of the day. she had once more shown her talent for profiting by the unexpected, and dangerous theories as to the advisability of yielding to impulse were germinating under the surface of smiling attention which she continued to present to her companion. mr. gryce's sensations, if less definite, were equally agreeable. he felt the confused titillation with which the lower organisms welcome the gratification of their needs, and all his senses floundered in a vague well-being, through which miss bart's personality was dimly but pleasantly perceptible. mr. gryce's interest in americana had not originated with himself: it was impossible to think of him as evolving any taste of his own. an uncle had left him a collection already noted among bibliophiles; the existence of the collection was the only fact that had ever shed glory on the name of gryce, and the nephew took as much pride in his inheritance as though it had been his own work. indeed, he gradually came to regard it as such, and to feel a sense of personal complacency when he chanced on any reference to the gryce americana. anxious as he was to avoid personal notice, he took, in the printed mention of his name, a pleasure so exquisite and excessive that it seemed a compensation for his shrinking from publicity. to enjoy the sensation as often as possible, he subscribed to all the reviews dealing with book-collecting in general, and american history in particular, and as allusions to his library abounded in the pages of these journals, which formed his only reading, he came to regard himself as figuring prominently in the public eye, and to enjoy the thought of the interest which would be excited if the persons he met in the street, or sat among in travelling, were suddenly to be told that he was the possessor of the gryce americana. most timidities have such secret compensations, and miss bart was discerning enough to know that the inner vanity is generally in proportion to the outer self-depreciation. with a more confident person she would not have dared to dwell so long on one topic, or to show such exaggerated interest in it; but she had rightly guessed that mr. gryce's egoism was a thirsty soil, requiring constant nurture from without. miss bart had the gift of following an undercurrent of thought while she appeared to be sailing on the surface of conversation; and in this case her mental excursion took the form of a rapid survey of mr. percy gryce's future as combined with her own. the gryces were from albany, and but lately introduced to the metropolis, where the mother and son had come, after old jefferson gryce's death, to take possession of his house in madison avenue--an appalling house, all brown stone without and black walnut within, with the gryce library in a fire-proof annex that looked like a mausoleum. lily, however, knew all about them: young mr. gryce's arrival had fluttered the maternal breasts of new york, and when a girl has no mother to palpitate for her she must needs be on the alert for herself. lily, therefore, had not only contrived to put herself in the young man's way, but had made the acquaintance of mrs. gryce, a monumental woman with the voice of a pulpit orator and a mind preoccupied with the iniquities of her servants, who came sometimes to sit with mrs. peniston and learn from that lady how she managed to prevent the kitchen-maid's smuggling groceries out of the house. mrs. gryce had a kind of impersonal benevolence: cases of individual need she regarded with suspicion, but she subscribed to institutions when their annual reports showed an impressive surplus. her domestic duties were manifold, for they extended from furtive inspections of the servants' bedrooms to unannounced descents to the cellar; but she had never allowed herself many pleasures. once, however, she had had a special edition of the sarum rule printed in rubric and presented to every clergyman in the diocese; and the gilt album in which their letters of thanks were pasted formed the chief ornament of her drawing-room table. percy had been brought up in the principles which so excellent a woman was sure to inculcate. every form of prudence and suspicion had been grafted on a nature originally reluctant and cautious, with the result that it would have seemed hardly needful for mrs. gryce to extract his promise about the overshoes, so little likely was he to hazard himself abroad in the rain. after attaining his majority, and coming into the fortune which the late mr. gryce had made out of a patent device for excluding fresh air from hotels, the young man continued to live with his mother in albany; but on jefferson gryce's death, when another large property passed into her son's hands, mrs. gryce thought that what she called his "interests" demanded his presence in new york. she accordingly installed herself in the madison avenue house, and percy, whose sense of duty was not inferior to his mother's, spent all his week days in the handsome broad street office where a batch of pale men on small salaries had grown grey in the management of the gryce estate, and where he was initiated with becoming reverence into every detail of the art of accumulation. as far as lily could learn, this had hitherto been mr. gryce's only occupation, and she might have been pardoned for thinking it not too hard a task to interest a young man who had been kept on such low diet. at any rate, she felt herself so completely in command of the situation that she yielded to a sense of security in which all fear of mr. rosedale, and of the difficulties on which that fear was contingent, vanished beyond the edge of thought. the stopping of the train at garrisons would not have distracted her from these thoughts, had she not caught a sudden look of distress in her companion's eye. his seat faced toward the door, and she guessed that he had been perturbed by the approach of an acquaintance; a fact confirmed by the turning of heads and general sense of commotion which her own entrance into a railway-carriage was apt to produce. she knew the symptoms at once, and was not surprised to be hailed by the high notes of a pretty woman, who entered the train accompanied by a maid, a bull-terrier, and a footman staggering under a load of bags and dressing-cases. "oh, lily--are you going to bellomont? then you can't let me have your seat, i suppose? but i must have a seat in this carriage--porter, you must find me a place at once. can't some one be put somewhere else? i want to be with my friends. oh, how do you do, mr. gryce? do please make him understand that i must have a seat next to you and lily." mrs. george dorset, regardless of the mild efforts of a traveller with a carpet-bag, who was doing his best to make room for her by getting out of the train, stood in the middle of the aisle, diffusing about her that general sense of exasperation which a pretty woman on her travels not infrequently creates. she was smaller and thinner than lily bart, with a restless pliability of pose, as if she could have been crumpled up and run through a ring, like the sinuous draperies she affected. her small pale face seemed the mere setting of a pair of dark exaggerated eyes, of which the visionary gaze contrasted curiously with her self-assertive tone and gestures; so that, as one of her friends observed, she was like a disembodied spirit who took up a great deal of room. having finally discovered that the seat adjoining miss bart's was at her disposal, she possessed herself of it with a farther displacement of her surroundings, explaining meanwhile that she had come across from mount kisco in her motor-car that morning, and had been kicking her heels for an hour at garrisons, without even the alleviation of a cigarette, her brute of a husband having neglected to replenish her case before they parted that morning. "and at this hour of the day i don't suppose you've a single one left, have you, lily?" she plaintively concluded. miss bart caught the startled glance of mr. percy gryce, whose own lips were never defiled by tobacco. "what an absurd question, bertha!" she exclaimed, blushing at the thought of the store she had laid in at lawrence selden's. "why, don't you smoke? since when have you given it up? what--you never---- and you don't either, mr. gryce? ah, of course--how stupid of me--i understand." and mrs. dorset leaned back against her travelling cushions with a smile which made lily wish there had been no vacant seat beside her own. chapter bridge at bellomont usually lasted till the small hours; and when lily went to bed that night she had played too long for her own good. feeling no desire for the self-communion which awaited her in her room, she lingered on the broad stairway, looking down into the hall below, where the last card-players were grouped about the tray of tall glasses and silver-collared decanters which the butler had just placed on a low table near the fire. the hall was arcaded, with a gallery supported on columns of pale yellow marble. tall clumps of flowering plants were grouped against a background of dark foliage in the angles of the walls. on the crimson carpet a deer-hound and two or three spaniels dozed luxuriously before the fire, and the light from the great central lantern overhead shed a brightness on the women's hair and struck sparks from their jewels as they moved. there were moments when such scenes delighted lily, when they gratified her sense of beauty and her craving for the external finish of life; there were others when they gave a sharper edge to the meagreness of her own opportunities. this was one of the moments when the sense of contrast was uppermost, and she turned away impatiently as mrs. george dorset, glittering in serpentine spangles, drew percy gryce in her wake to a confidential nook beneath the gallery. it was not that miss bart was afraid of losing her newly-acquired hold over mr. gryce. mrs. dorset might startle or dazzle him, but she had neither the skill nor the patience to effect his capture. she was too self-engrossed to penetrate the recesses of his shyness, and besides, why should she care to give herself the trouble? at most it might amuse her to make sport of his simplicity for an evening--after that he would be merely a burden to her, and knowing this, she was far too experienced to encourage him. but the mere thought of that other woman, who could take a man up and toss him aside as she willed, without having to regard him as a possible factor in her plans, filled lily bart with envy. she had been bored all the afternoon by percy gryce--the mere thought seemed to waken an echo of his droning voice--but she could not ignore him on the morrow, she must follow up her success, must submit to more boredom, must be ready with fresh compliances and adaptabilities, and all on the bare chance that he might ultimately decide to do her the honour of boring her for life. it was a hateful fate--but how escape from it? what choice had she? to be herself, or a gerty farish. as she entered her bedroom, with its softly-shaded lights, her lace dressing-gown lying across the silken bedspread, her little embroidered slippers before the fire, a vase of carnations filling the air with perfume, and the last novels and magazines lying uncut on a table beside the reading-lamp, she had a vision of miss farish's cramped flat, with its cheap conveniences and hideous wall-papers. no; she was not made for mean and shabby surroundings, for the squalid compromises of poverty. her whole being dilated in an atmosphere of luxury; it was the background she required, the only climate she could breathe in. but the luxury of others was not what she wanted. a few years ago it had sufficed her: she had taken her daily meed of pleasure without caring who provided it. now she was beginning to chafe at the obligations it imposed, to feel herself a mere pensioner on the splendour which had once seemed to belong to her. there were even moments when she was conscious of having to pay her way. for a long time she had refused to play bridge. she knew she could not afford it, and she was afraid of acquiring so expensive a taste. she had seen the danger exemplified in more than one of her associates--in young ned silverton, for instance, the charming fair boy now seated in abject rapture at the elbow of mrs. fisher, a striking divorcee with eyes and gowns as emphatic as the head-lines of her "case." lily could remember when young silverton had stumbled into their circle, with the air of a strayed arcadian who has published charming sonnets in his college journal. since then he had developed a taste for mrs. fisher and bridge, and the latter at least had involved him in expenses from which he had been more than once rescued by harassed maiden sisters, who treasured the sonnets, and went without sugar in their tea to keep their darling afloat. ned's case was familiar to lily: she had seen his charming eyes--which had a good deal more poetry in them than the sonnets--change from surprise to amusement, and from amusement to anxiety, as he passed under the spell of the terrible god of chance; and she was afraid of discovering the same symptoms in her own case. for in the last year she had found that her hostesses expected her to take a place at the card-table. it was one of the taxes she had to pay for their prolonged hospitality, and for the dresses and trinkets which occasionally replenished her insufficient wardrobe. and since she had played regularly the passion had grown on her. once or twice of late she had won a large sum, and instead of keeping it against future losses, had spent it in dress or jewelry; and the desire to atone for this imprudence, combined with the increasing exhilaration of the game, drove her to risk higher stakes at each fresh venture. she tried to excuse herself on the plea that, in the trenor set, if one played at all one must either play high or be set down as priggish or stingy; but she knew that the gambling passion was upon her, and that in her present surroundings there was small hope of resisting it. tonight the luck had been persistently bad, and the little gold purse which hung among her trinkets was almost empty when she returned to her room. she unlocked the wardrobe, and taking out her jewel-case, looked under the tray for the roll of bills from which she had replenished the purse before going down to dinner. only twenty dollars were left: the discovery was so startling that for a moment she fancied she must have been robbed. then she took paper and pencil, and seating herself at the writing-table, tried to reckon up what she had spent during the day. her head was throbbing with fatigue, and she had to go over the figures again and again; but at last it became clear to her that she had lost three hundred dollars at cards. she took out her cheque-book to see if her balance was larger than she remembered, but found she had erred in the other direction. then she returned to her calculations; but figure as she would, she could not conjure back the vanished three hundred dollars. it was the sum she had set aside to pacify her dress-maker--unless she should decide to use it as a sop to the jeweller. at any rate, she had so many uses for it that its very insufficiency had caused her to play high in the hope of doubling it. but of course she had lost--she who needed every penny, while bertha dorset, whose husband showered money on her, must have pocketed at least five hundred, and judy trenor, who could have afforded to lose a thousand a night, had left the table clutching such a heap of bills that she had been unable to shake hands with her guests when they bade her good night. a world in which such things could be seemed a miserable place to lily bart; but then she had never been able to understand the laws of a universe which was so ready to leave her out of its calculations. she began to undress without ringing for her maid, whom she had sent to bed. she had been long enough in bondage to other people's pleasure to be considerate of those who depended on hers, and in her bitter moods it sometimes struck her that she and her maid were in the same position, except that the latter received her wages more regularly. as she sat before the mirror brushing her hair, her face looked hollow and pale, and she was frightened by two little lines near her mouth, faint flaws in the smooth curve of the cheek. "oh, i must stop worrying!" she exclaimed. "unless it's the electric light----" she reflected, springing up from her seat and lighting the candles on the dressing-table. she turned out the wall-lights, and peered at herself between the candle-flames. the white oval of her face swam out waveringly from a background of shadows, the uncertain light blurring it like a haze; but the two lines about the mouth remained. lily rose and undressed in haste. "it is only because i am tired and have such odious things to think about," she kept repeating; and it seemed an added injustice that petty cares should leave a trace on the beauty which was her only defence against them. but the odious things were there, and remained with her. she returned wearily to the thought of percy gryce, as a wayfarer picks up a heavy load and toils on after a brief rest. she was almost sure she had "landed" him: a few days' work and she would win her reward. but the reward itself seemed unpalatable just then: she could get no zest from the thought of victory. it would be a rest from worry, no more--and how little that would have seemed to her a few years earlier! her ambitions had shrunk gradually in the desiccating air of failure. but why had she failed? was it her own fault or that of destiny? she remembered how her mother, after they had lost their money, used to say to her with a kind of fierce vindictiveness: "but you'll get it all back--you'll get it all back, with your face." . . . the remembrance roused a whole train of association, and she lay in the darkness reconstructing the past out of which her present had grown. a house in which no one ever dined at home unless there was "company"; a door-bell perpetually ringing; a hall-table showered with square envelopes which were opened in haste, and oblong envelopes which were allowed to gather dust in the depths of a bronze jar; a series of french and english maids giving warning amid a chaos of hurriedly-ransacked wardrobes and dress-closets; an equally changing dynasty of nurses and footmen; quarrels in the pantry, the kitchen and the drawing-room; precipitate trips to europe, and returns with gorged trunks and days of interminable unpacking; semi-annual discussions as to where the summer should be spent, grey interludes of economy and brilliant reactions of expense--such was the setting of lily bart's first memories. ruling the turbulent element called home was the vigorous and determined figure of a mother still young enough to dance her ball-dresses to rags, while the hazy outline of a neutral-tinted father filled an intermediate space between the butler and the man who came to wind the clocks. even to the eyes of infancy, mrs. hudson bart had appeared young; but lily could not recall the time when her father had not been bald and slightly stooping, with streaks of grey in his hair, and a tired walk. it was a shock to her to learn afterward that he was but two years older than her mother. lily seldom saw her father by daylight. all day he was "down town"; and in winter it was long after nightfall when she heard his fagged step on the stairs and his hand on the school-room door. he would kiss her in silence, and ask one or two questions of the nurse or the governess; then mrs. bart's maid would come to remind him that he was dining out, and he would hurry away with a nod to lily. in summer, when he joined them for a sunday at newport or southampton, he was even more effaced and silent than in winter. it seemed to tire him to rest, and he would sit for hours staring at the sea-line from a quiet corner of the verandah, while the clatter of his wife's existence went on unheeded a few feet off. generally, however, mrs. bart and lily went to europe for the summer, and before the steamer was half way over mr. bart had dipped below the horizon. sometimes his daughter heard him denounced for having neglected to forward mrs. bart's remittances; but for the most part he was never mentioned or thought of till his patient stooping figure presented itself on the new york dock as a buffer between the magnitude of his wife's luggage and the restrictions of the american custom-house. in this desultory yet agitated fashion life went on through lily's teens: a zig-zag broken course down which the family craft glided on a rapid current of amusement, tugged at by the underflow of a perpetual need--the need of more money. lily could not recall the time when there had been money enough, and in some vague way her father seemed always to blame for the deficiency. it could certainly not be the fault of mrs. bart, who was spoken of by her friends as a "wonderful manager." mrs. bart was famous for the unlimited effect she produced on limited means; and to the lady and her acquaintances there was something heroic in living as though one were much richer than one's bank-book denoted. lily was naturally proud of her mother's aptitude in this line: she had been brought up in the faith that, whatever it cost, one must have a good cook, and be what mrs. bart called "decently dressed." mrs. bart's worst reproach to her husband was to ask him if he expected her to "live like a pig"; and his replying in the negative was always regarded as a justification for cabling to paris for an extra dress or two, and telephoning to the jeweller that he might, after all, send home the turquoise bracelet which mrs. bart had looked at that morning. lily knew people who "lived like pigs," and their appearance and surroundings justified her mother's repugnance to that form of existence. they were mostly cousins, who inhabited dingy houses with engravings from cole's voyage of life on the drawing-room walls, and slatternly parlour-maids who said "i'll go and see" to visitors calling at an hour when all right-minded persons are conventionally if not actually out. the disgusting part of it was that many of these cousins were rich, so that lily imbibed the idea that if people lived like pigs it was from choice, and through the lack of any proper standard of conduct. this gave her a sense of reflected superiority, and she did not need mrs. bart's comments on the family frumps and misers to foster her naturally lively taste for splendour. lily was nineteen when circumstances caused her to revise her view of the universe. the previous year she had made a dazzling debut fringed by a heavy thunder-cloud of bills. the light of the debut still lingered on the horizon, but the cloud had thickened; and suddenly it broke. the suddenness added to the horror; and there were still times when lily relived with painful vividness every detail of the day on which the blow fell. she and her mother had been seated at the luncheon-table, over the chaufroix and cold salmon of the previous night's dinner: it was one of mrs. bart's few economies to consume in private the expensive remnants of her hospitality. lily was feeling the pleasant languor which is youth's penalty for dancing till dawn; but her mother, in spite of a few lines about the mouth, and under the yellow waves on her temples, was as alert, determined and high in colour as if she had risen from an untroubled sleep. in the centre of the table, between the melting marrons glaces and candied cherries, a pyramid of american beauties lifted their vigorous stems; they held their heads as high as mrs. bart, but their rose-colour had turned to a dissipated purple, and lily's sense of fitness was disturbed by their reappearance on the luncheon-table. "i really think, mother," she said reproachfully, "we might afford a few fresh flowers for luncheon. just some jonquils or lilies-of-the-valley--" mrs. bart stared. her own fastidiousness had its eye fixed on the world, and she did not care how the luncheon-table looked when there was no one present at it but the family. but she smiled at her daughter's innocence. "lilies-of-the-valley," she said calmly, "cost two dollars a dozen at this season." lily was not impressed. she knew very little of the value of money. "it would not take more than six dozen to fill that bowl," she argued. "six dozen what?" asked her father's voice in the doorway. the two women looked up in surprise; though it was a saturday, the sight of mr. bart at luncheon was an unwonted one. but neither his wife nor his daughter was sufficiently interested to ask an explanation. mr. bart dropped into a chair, and sat gazing absently at the fragment of jellied salmon which the butler had placed before him. "i was only saying," lily began, "that i hate to see faded flowers at luncheon; and mother says a bunch of lilies-of-the-valley would not cost more than twelve dollars. mayn't i tell the florist to send a few every day?" she leaned confidently toward her father: he seldom refused her anything, and mrs. bart had taught her to plead with him when her own entreaties failed. mr. bart sat motionless, his gaze still fixed on the salmon, and his lower jaw dropped; he looked even paler than usual, and his thin hair lay in untidy streaks on his forehead. suddenly he looked at his daughter and laughed. the laugh was so strange that lily coloured under it: she disliked being ridiculed, and her father seemed to see something ridiculous in the request. perhaps he thought it foolish that she should trouble him about such a trifle. "twelve dollars--twelve dollars a day for flowers? oh, certainly, my dear--give him an order for twelve hundred." he continued to laugh. mrs. bart gave him a quick glance. "you needn't wait, poleworth--i will ring for you," she said to the butler. the butler withdrew with an air of silent disapproval, leaving the remains of the chaufroix on the sideboard. "what is the matter, hudson? are you ill?" said mrs. bart severely. she had no tolerance for scenes which were not of her own making, and it was odious to her that her husband should make a show of himself before the servants. "are you ill?" she repeated. "ill?---- no, i'm ruined," he said. lily made a frightened sound, and mrs. bart rose to her feet. "ruined----?" she cried; but controlling herself instantly, she turned a calm face to lily. "shut the pantry door," she said. lily obeyed, and when she turned back into the room her father was sitting with both elbows on the table, the plate of salmon between them, and his head bowed on his hands. mrs. bart stood over him with a white face which made her hair unnaturally yellow. she looked at lily as the latter approached: her look was terrible, but her voice was modulated to a ghastly cheerfulness. "your father is not well--he doesn't know what he is saying. it is nothing--but you had better go upstairs; and don't talk to the servants," she added. lily obeyed; she always obeyed when her mother spoke in that voice. she had not been deceived by mrs. bart's words: she knew at once that they were ruined. in the dark hours which followed, that awful fact overshadowed even her father's slow and difficult dying. to his wife he no longer counted: he had become extinct when he ceased to fulfil his purpose, and she sat at his side with the provisional air of a traveller who waits for a belated train to start. lily's feelings were softer: she pitied him in a frightened ineffectual way. but the fact that he was for the most part unconscious, and that his attention, when she stole into the room, drifted away from her after a moment, made him even more of a stranger than in the nursery days when he had never come home till after dark. she seemed always to have seen him through a blur--first of sleepiness, then of distance and indifference--and now the fog had thickened till he was almost indistinguishable. if she could have performed any little services for him, or have exchanged with him a few of those affecting words which an extensive perusal of fiction had led her to connect with such occasions, the filial instinct might have stirred in her; but her pity, finding no active expression, remained in a state of spectatorship, overshadowed by her mother's grim unflagging resentment. every look and act of mrs. bart's seemed to say: "you are sorry for him now--but you will feel differently when you see what he has done to us." it was a relief to lily when her father died. then a long winter set in. there was a little money left, but to mrs. bart it seemed worse than nothing--the mere mockery of what she was entitled to. what was the use of living if one had to live like a pig? she sank into a kind of furious apathy, a state of inert anger against fate. her faculty for "managing" deserted her, or she no longer took sufficient pride in it to exert it. it was well enough to "manage" when by so doing one could keep one's own carriage; but when one's best contrivance did not conceal the fact that one had to go on foot, the effort was no longer worth making. lily and her mother wandered from place to place, now paying long visits to relations whose house-keeping mrs. bart criticized, and who deplored the fact that she let lily breakfast in bed when the girl had no prospects before her, and now vegetating in cheap continental refuges, where mrs. bart held herself fiercely aloof from the frugal tea-tables of her companions in misfortune. she was especially careful to avoid her old friends and the scenes of her former successes. to be poor seemed to her such a confession of failure that it amounted to disgrace; and she detected a note of condescension in the friendliest advances. only one thought consoled her, and that was the contemplation of lily's beauty. she studied it with a kind of passion, as though it were some weapon she had slowly fashioned for her vengeance. it was the last asset in their fortunes, the nucleus around which their life was to be rebuilt. she watched it jealously, as though it were her own property and lily its mere custodian; and she tried to instil into the latter a sense of the responsibility that such a charge involved. she followed in imagination the career of other beauties, pointing out to her daughter what might be achieved through such a gift, and dwelling on the awful warning of those who, in spite of it, had failed to get what they wanted: to mrs. bart, only stupidity could explain the lamentable denouement of some of her examples. she was not above the inconsistency of charging fate, rather than herself, with her own misfortunes; but she inveighed so acrimoniously against love-matches that lily would have fancied her own marriage had been of that nature, had not mrs. bart frequently assured her that she had been "talked into it"--by whom, she never made clear. lily was duly impressed by the magnitude of her opportunities. the dinginess of her present life threw into enchanting relief the existence to which she felt herself entitled. to a less illuminated intelligence mrs. bart's counsels might have been dangerous; but lily understood that beauty is only the raw material of conquest, and that to convert it into success other arts are required. she knew that to betray any sense of superiority was a subtler form of the stupidity her mother denounced, and it did not take her long to learn that a beauty needs more tact than the possessor of an average set of features. her ambitions were not as crude as mrs. bart's. it had been among that lady's grievances that her husband--in the early days, before he was too tired--had wasted his evenings in what she vaguely described as "reading poetry"; and among the effects packed off to auction after his death were a score or two of dingy volumes which had struggled for existence among the boots and medicine bottles of his dressing-room shelves. there was in lily a vein of sentiment, perhaps transmitted from this source, which gave an idealizing touch to her most prosaic purposes. she liked to think of her beauty as a power for good, as giving her the opportunity to attain a position where she should make her influence felt in the vague diffusion of refinement and good taste. she was fond of pictures and flowers, and of sentimental fiction, and she could not help thinking that the possession of such tastes ennobled her desire for worldly advantages. she would not indeed have cared to marry a man who was merely rich: she was secretly ashamed of her mother's crude passion for money. lily's preference would have been for an english nobleman with political ambitions and vast estates; or, for second choice, an italian prince with a castle in the apennines and an hereditary office in the vatican. lost causes had a romantic charm for her, and she liked to picture herself as standing aloof from the vulgar press of the quirinal, and sacrificing her pleasure to the claims of an immemorial tradition. . . . how long ago and how far off it all seemed! those ambitions were hardly more futile and childish than the earlier ones which had centred about the possession of a french jointed doll with real hair. was it only ten years since she had wavered in imagination between the english earl and the italian prince? relentlessly her mind travelled on over the dreary interval. . . . after two years of hungry roaming mrs. bart had died----died of a deep disgust. she had hated dinginess, and it was her fate to be dingy. her visions of a brilliant marriage for lily had faded after the first year. "people can't marry you if they don't see you--and how can they see you in these holes where we're stuck?" that was the burden of her lament; and her last adjuration to her daughter was to escape from dinginess if she could. "don't let it creep up on you and drag you down. fight your way out of it somehow--you're young and can do it," she insisted. she had died during one of their brief visits to new york, and there lily at once became the centre of a family council composed of the wealthy relatives whom she had been taught to despise for living like pigs. it may be that they had an inkling of the sentiments in which she had been brought up, for none of them manifested a very lively desire for her company; indeed, the question threatened to remain unsolved till mrs. peniston with a sigh announced: "i'll try her for a year." every one was surprised, but one and all concealed their surprise, lest mrs. peniston should be alarmed by it into reconsidering her decision. mrs. peniston was mr. bart's widowed sister, and if she was by no means the richest of the family group, its other members nevertheless abounded in reasons why she was clearly destined by providence to assume the charge of lily. in the first place she was alone, and it would be charming for her to have a young companion. then she sometimes travelled, and lily's familiarity with foreign customs--deplored as a misfortune by her more conservative relatives--would at least enable her to act as a kind of courier. but as a matter of fact mrs. peniston had not been affected by these considerations. she had taken the girl simply because no one else would have her, and because she had the kind of moral mauvaise honte which makes the public display of selfishness difficult, though it does not interfere with its private indulgence. it would have been impossible for mrs. peniston to be heroic on a desert island, but with the eyes of her little world upon her she took a certain pleasure in her act. she reaped the reward to which disinterestedness is entitled, and found an agreeable companion in her niece. she had expected to find lily headstrong, critical and "foreign"--for even mrs. peniston, though she occasionally went abroad, had the family dread of foreignness--but the girl showed a pliancy, which, to a more penetrating mind than her aunt's, might have been less reassuring than the open selfishness of youth. misfortune had made lily supple instead of hardening her, and a pliable substance is less easy to break than a stiff one. mrs. peniston, however, did not suffer from her niece's adaptability. lily had no intention of taking advantage of her aunt's good nature. she was in truth grateful for the refuge offered her: mrs. peniston's opulent interior was at least not externally dingy. but dinginess is a quality which assumes all manner of disguises; and lily soon found that it was as latent in the expensive routine of her aunt's life as in the makeshift existence of a continental pension. mrs. peniston was one of the episodical persons who form the padding of life. it was impossible to believe that she had herself ever been a focus of activities. the most vivid thing about her was the fact that her grandmother had been a van alstyne. this connection with the well-fed and industrious stock of early new york revealed itself in the glacial neatness of mrs. peniston's drawing-room and in the excellence of her cuisine. she belonged to the class of old new yorkers who have always lived well, dressed expensively, and done little else; and to these inherited obligations mrs. peniston faithfully conformed. she had always been a looker-on at life, and her mind resembled one of those little mirrors which her dutch ancestors were accustomed to affix to their upper windows, so that from the depths of an impenetrable domesticity they might see what was happening in the street. mrs. peniston was the owner of a country-place in new jersey, but she had never lived there since her husband's death--a remote event, which appeared to dwell in her memory chiefly as a dividing point in the personal reminiscences that formed the staple of her conversation. she was a woman who remembered dates with intensity, and could tell at a moment's notice whether the drawing-room curtains had been renewed before or after mr. peniston's last illness. mrs. peniston thought the country lonely and trees damp, and cherished a vague fear of meeting a bull. to guard against such contingencies she frequented the more populous watering-places, where she installed herself impersonally in a hired house and looked on at life through the matting screen of her verandah. in the care of such a guardian, it soon became clear to lily that she was to enjoy only the material advantages of good food and expensive clothing; and, though far from underrating these, she would gladly have exchanged them for what mrs. bart had taught her to regard as opportunities. she sighed to think what her mother's fierce energies would have accomplished, had they been coupled with mrs. peniston's resources. lily had abundant energy of her own, but it was restricted by the necessity of adapting herself to her aunt's habits. she saw that at all costs she must keep mrs. peniston's favour till, as mrs. bart would have phrased it, she could stand on her own legs. lily had no mind for the vagabond life of the poor relation, and to adapt herself to mrs. peniston she had, to some degree, to assume that lady's passive attitude. she had fancied at first that it would be easy to draw her aunt into the whirl of her own activities, but there was a static force in mrs. peniston against which her niece's efforts spent themselves in vain. to attempt to bring her into active relation with life was like tugging at a piece of furniture which has been screwed to the floor. she did not, indeed, expect lily to remain equally immovable: she had all the american guardian's indulgence for the volatility of youth. she had indulgence also for certain other habits of her niece's. it seemed to her natural that lily should spend all her money on dress, and she supplemented the girl's scanty income by occasional "handsome presents" meant to be applied to the same purpose. lily, who was intensely practical, would have preferred a fixed allowance; but mrs. peniston liked the periodical recurrence of gratitude evoked by unexpected cheques, and was perhaps shrewd enough to perceive that such a method of giving kept alive in her niece a salutary sense of dependence. beyond this, mrs. peniston had not felt called upon to do anything for her charge: she had simply stood aside and let her take the field. lily had taken it, at first with the confidence of assured possessorship, then with gradually narrowing demands, till now she found herself actually struggling for a foothold on the broad space which had once seemed her own for the asking. how it happened she did not yet know. sometimes she thought it was because mrs. peniston had been too passive, and again she feared it was because she herself had not been passive enough. had she shown an undue eagerness for victory? had she lacked patience, pliancy and dissimulation? whether she charged herself with these faults or absolved herself from them, made no difference in the sum-total of her failure. younger and plainer girls had been married off by dozens, and she was nine-and-twenty, and still miss bart. she was beginning to have fits of angry rebellion against fate, when she longed to drop out of the race and make an independent life for herself. but what manner of life would it be? she had barely enough money to pay her dress-makers' bills and her gambling debts; and none of the desultory interests which she dignified with the name of tastes was pronounced enough to enable her to live contentedly in obscurity. ah, no--she was too intelligent not to be honest with herself. she knew that she hated dinginess as much as her mother had hated it, and to her last breath she meant to fight against it, dragging herself up again and again above its flood till she gained the bright pinnacles of success which presented such a slippery surface to her clutch. chapter the next morning, on her breakfast tray, miss bart found a note from her hostess. "dearest lily," it ran, "if it is not too much of a bore to be down by ten, will you come to my sitting-room to help me with some tiresome things?" lily tossed aside the note and subsided on her pillows with a sigh. it was a bore to be down by ten--an hour regarded at bellomont as vaguely synchronous with sunrise--and she knew too well the nature of the tiresome things in question. miss pragg, the secretary, had been called away, and there would be notes and dinner-cards to write, lost addresses to hunt up, and other social drudgery to perform. it was understood that miss bart should fill the gap in such emergencies, and she usually recognized the obligation without a murmur. today, however, it renewed the sense of servitude which the previous night's review of her cheque-book had produced. everything in her surroundings ministered to feelings of ease and amenity. the windows stood open to the sparkling freshness of the september morning, and between the yellow boughs she caught a perspective of hedges and parterres leading by degrees of lessening formality to the free undulations of the park. her maid had kindled a little fire on the hearth, and it contended cheerfully with the sunlight which slanted across the moss-green carpet and caressed the curved sides of an old marquetry desk. near the bed stood a table holding her breakfast tray, with its harmonious porcelain and silver, a handful of violets in a slender glass, and the morning paper folded beneath her letters. there was nothing new to lily in these tokens of a studied luxury; but, though they formed a part of her atmosphere, she never lost her sensitiveness to their charm. mere display left her with a sense of superior distinction; but she felt an affinity to all the subtler manifestations of wealth. mrs. trenor's summons, however, suddenly recalled her state of dependence, and she rose and dressed in a mood of irritability that she was usually too prudent to indulge. she knew that such emotions leave lines on the face as well as in the character, and she had meant to take warning by the little creases which her midnight survey had revealed. the matter-of-course tone of mrs. trenor's greeting deepened her irritation. if one did drag one's self out of bed at such an hour, and come down fresh and radiant to the monotony of note-writing, some special recognition of the sacrifice seemed fitting. but mrs. trenor's tone showed no consciousness of the fact. "oh, lily, that's nice of you," she merely sighed across the chaos of letters, bills and other domestic documents which gave an incongruously commercial touch to the slender elegance of her writing-table. "there are such lots of horrors this morning," she added, clearing a space in the centre of the confusion and rising to yield her seat to miss bart. mrs. trenor was a tall fair woman, whose height just saved her from redundancy. her rosy blondness had survived some forty years of futile activity without showing much trace of ill-usage except in a diminished play of feature. it was difficult to define her beyond saying that she seemed to exist only as a hostess, not so much from any exaggerated instinct of hospitality as because she could not sustain life except in a crowd. the collective nature of her interests exempted her from the ordinary rivalries of her sex, and she knew no more personal emotion than that of hatred for the woman who presumed to give bigger dinners or have more amusing house-parties than herself. as her social talents, backed by mr. trenor's bank-account, almost always assured her ultimate triumph in such competitions, success had developed in her an unscrupulous good nature toward the rest of her sex, and in miss bart's utilitarian classification of her friends, mrs. trenor ranked as the woman who was least likely to "go back" on her. "it was simply inhuman of pragg to go off now," mrs. trenor declared, as her friend seated herself at the desk. "she says her sister is going to have a baby--as if that were anything to having a house-party! i'm sure i shall get most horribly mixed up and there will be some awful rows. when i was down at tuxedo i asked a lot of people for next week, and i've mislaid the list and can't remember who is coming. and this week is going to be a horrid failure too--and gwen van osburgh will go back and tell her mother how bored people were. i did mean to ask the wetheralls--that was a blunder of gus's. they disapprove of carry fisher, you know. as if one could help having carry fisher! it was foolish of her to get that second divorce--carry always overdoes things--but she said the only way to get a penny out of fisher was to divorce him and make him pay alimony. and poor carry has to consider every dollar. it's really absurd of alice wetherall to make such a fuss about meeting her, when one thinks of what society is coming to. some one said the other day that there was a divorce and a case of appendicitis in every family one knows. besides, carry is the only person who can keep gus in a good humour when we have bores in the house. have you noticed that all the husbands like her? all, i mean, except her own. it's rather clever of her to have made a specialty of devoting herself to dull people--the field is such a large one, and she has it practically to herself. she finds compensations, no doubt--i know she borrows money of gus--but then i'd pay her to keep him in a good humour, so i can't complain, after all." mrs. trenor paused to enjoy the spectacle of miss bart's efforts to unravel her tangled correspondence. "but it is only the wetheralls and carry," she resumed, with a fresh note of lament. "the truth is, i'm awfully disappointed in lady cressida raith." "disappointed? had you known her before?" "mercy, no--never saw her till yesterday. lady skiddaw sent her over with letters to the van osburghs, and i heard that maria van osburgh was asking a big party to meet her this week, so i thought it would be fun to get her away, and jack stepney, who knew her in india, managed it for me. maria was furious, and actually had the impudence to make gwen invite herself here, so that they shouldn't be quite out of it--if i'd known what lady cressida was like, they could have had her and welcome! but i thought any friend of the skiddaws' was sure to be amusing. you remember what fun lady skiddaw was? there were times when i simply had to send the girls out of the room. besides, lady cressida is the duchess of beltshire's sister, and i naturally supposed she was the same sort; but you never can tell in those english families. they are so big that there's room for all kinds, and it turns out that lady cressida is the moral one--married a clergy-man and does missionary work in the east end. think of my taking such a lot of trouble about a clergyman's wife, who wears indian jewelry and botanizes! she made gus take her all through the glass-houses yesterday, and bothered him to death by asking him the names of the plants. fancy treating gus as if he were the gardener!" mrs. trenor brought this out in a crescendo of indignation. "oh, well, perhaps lady cressida will reconcile the wetheralls to meeting carry fisher," said miss bart pacifically. "i'm sure i hope so! but she is boring all the men horribly, and if she takes to distributing tracts, as i hear she does, it will be too depressing. the worst of it is that she would have been so useful at the right time. you know we have to have the bishop once a year, and she would have given just the right tone to things. i always have horrid luck about the bishop's visits," added mrs. trenor, whose present misery was being fed by a rapidly rising tide of reminiscence; "last year, when he came, gus forgot all about his being here, and brought home the ned wintons and the farleys--five divorces and six sets of children between them!" "when is lady cressida going?" lily enquired. mrs. trenor cast up her eyes in despair. "my dear, if one only knew! i was in such a hurry to get her away from maria that i actually forgot to name a date, and gus says she told some one she meant to stop here all winter." "to stop here? in this house?" "don't be silly--in america. but if no one else asks her--you know they never go to hotels." "perhaps gus only said it to frighten you." "no--i heard her tell bertha dorset that she had six months to put in while her husband was taking the cure in the engadine. you should have seen bertha look vacant! but it's no joke, you know--if she stays here all the autumn she'll spoil everything, and maria van osburgh will simply exult." at this affecting vision mrs. trenor's voice trembled with self-pity. "oh, judy--as if any one were ever bored at bellomont!" miss bart tactfully protested. "you know perfectly well that, if mrs. van osburgh were to get all the right people and leave you with all the wrong ones, you'd manage to make things go off, and she wouldn't." such an assurance would usually have restored mrs. trenor's complacency; but on this occasion it did not chase the cloud from her brow. "it isn't only lady cressida," she lamented. "everything has gone wrong this week. i can see that bertha dorset is furious with me." "furious with you? why?" "because i told her that lawrence selden was coming; but he wouldn't, after all, and she's quite unreasonable enough to think it's my fault." miss bart put down her pen and sat absently gazing at the note she had begun. "i thought that was all over," she said. "so it is, on his side. and of course bertha has been idle since. but i fancy she's out of a job just at present--and some one gave me a hint that i had better ask lawrence. well, i did ask him--but i couldn't make him come; and now i suppose she'll take it out of me by being perfectly nasty to every one else." "oh, she may take it out of him by being perfectly charming--to some one else." mrs. trenor shook her head dolefully. "she knows he wouldn't mind. and who else is there? alice wetherall won't let lucius out of her sight. ned silverton can't take his eyes off carry fisher--poor boy! gus is bored by bertha, jack stepney knows her too well--and--well, to be sure, there's percy gryce!" she sat up smiling at the thought. miss bart's countenance did not reflect the smile. "oh, she and mr. gryce would not be likely to hit it off." "you mean that she'd shock him and he'd bore her? well, that's not such a bad beginning, you know. but i hope she won't take it into her head to be nice to him, for i asked him here on purpose for you." lily laughed. "merci du compliment! i should certainly have no show against bertha." "do you think i am uncomplimentary? i'm not really, you know. every one knows you're a thousand times handsomer and cleverer than bertha; but then you're not nasty. and for always getting what she wants in the long run, commend me to a nasty woman." miss bart stared in affected reproval. "i thought you were so fond of bertha." "oh, i am--it's much safer to be fond of dangerous people. but she is dangerous--and if i ever saw her up to mischief it's now. i can tell by poor george's manner. that man is a perfect barometer--he always knows when bertha is going to----" "to fall?" miss bart suggested. "don't be shocking! you know he believes in her still. and of course i don't say there's any real harm in bertha. only she delights in making people miserable, and especially poor george." "well, he seems cut out for the part--i don't wonder she likes more cheerful companionship." "oh, george is not as dismal as you think. if bertha did worry him he would be quite different. or if she'd leave him alone, and let him arrange his life as he pleases. but she doesn't dare lose her hold of him on account of the money, and so when he isn't jealous she pretends to be." miss bart went on writing in silence, and her hostess sat following her train of thought with frowning intensity. "do you know," she exclaimed after a long pause, "i believe i'll call up lawrence on the telephone and tell him he simply must come?" "oh, don't," said lily, with a quick suffusion of colour. the blush surprised her almost as much as it did her hostess, who, though not commonly observant of facial changes, sat staring at her with puzzled eyes. "good gracious, lily, how handsome you are! why? do you dislike him so much?" "not at all; i like him. but if you are actuated by the benevolent intention of protecting me from bertha--i don't think i need your protection." mrs. trenor sat up with an exclamation. "lily!----percy? do you mean to say you've actually done it?" miss bart smiled. "i only mean to say that mr. gryce and i are getting to be very good friends." "h'm--i see." mrs. trenor fixed a rapt eye upon her. "you know they say he has eight hundred thousand a year--and spends nothing, except on some rubbishy old books. and his mother has heart-disease and will leave him a lot more. oh, lily, do go slowly," her friend adjured her. miss bart continued to smile without annoyance. "i shouldn't, for instance," she remarked, "be in any haste to tell him that he had a lot of rubbishy old books." "no, of course not; i know you're wonderful about getting up people's subjects. but he's horribly shy, and easily shocked, and--and----" "why don't you say it, judy? i have the reputation of being on the hunt for a rich husband?" "oh, i don't mean that; he wouldn't believe it of you--at first," said mrs. trenor, with candid shrewdness. "but you know things are rather lively here at times--i must give jack and gus a hint--and if he thought you were what his mother would call fast--oh, well, you know what i mean. don't wear your scarlet crepe-de-chine for dinner, and don't smoke if you can help it, lily dear!" lily pushed aside her finished work with a dry smile. "you're very kind, judy: i'll lock up my cigarettes and wear that last year's dress you sent me this morning. and if you are really interested in my career, perhaps you'll be kind enough not to ask me to play bridge again this evening." "bridge? does he mind bridge, too? oh, lily, what an awful life you'll lead! but of course i won't--why didn't you give me a hint last night? there's nothing i wouldn't do, you poor duck, to see you happy!" and mrs. trenor, glowing with her sex's eagerness to smooth the course of true love, enveloped lily in a long embrace. "you're quite sure," she added solicitously, as the latter extricated herself, "that you wouldn't like me to telephone for lawrence selden?" "quite sure," said lily. the next three days demonstrated to her own complete satisfaction miss bart's ability to manage her affairs without extraneous aid. as she sat, on the saturday afternoon, on the terrace at bellomont, she smiled at mrs. trenor's fear that she might go too fast. if such a warning had ever been needful, the years had taught her a salutary lesson, and she flattered herself that she now knew how to adapt her pace to the object of pursuit. in the case of mr. gryce she had found it well to flutter ahead, losing herself elusively and luring him on from depth to depth of unconscious intimacy. the surrounding atmosphere was propitious to this scheme of courtship. mrs. trenor, true to her word, had shown no signs of expecting lily at the bridge-table, and had even hinted to the other card-players that they were to betray no surprise at her unwonted defection. in consequence of this hint, lily found herself the centre of that feminine solicitude which envelops a young woman in the mating season. a solitude was tacitly created for her in the crowded existence of bellomont, and her friends could not have shown a greater readiness for self-effacement had her wooing been adorned with all the attributes of romance. in lily's set this conduct implied a sympathetic comprehension of her motives, and mr. gryce rose in her esteem as she saw the consideration he inspired. the terrace at bellomont on a september afternoon was a spot propitious to sentimental musings, and as miss bart stood leaning against the balustrade above the sunken garden, at a little distance from the animated group about the tea-table, she might have been lost in the mazes of an inarticulate happiness. in reality, her thoughts were finding definite utterance in the tranquil recapitulation of the blessings in store for her. from where she stood she could see them embodied in the form of mr. gryce, who, in a light overcoat and muffler, sat somewhat nervously on the edge of his chair, while carry fisher, with all the energy of eye and gesture with which nature and art had combined to endow her, pressed on him the duty of taking part in the task of municipal reform. mrs. fisher's latest hobby was municipal reform. it had been preceded by an equal zeal for socialism, which had in turn replaced an energetic advocacy of christian science. mrs. fisher was small, fiery and dramatic; and her hands and eyes were admirable instruments in the service of whatever causes she happened to espouse. she had, however, the fault common to enthusiasts of ignoring any slackness of response on the part of her hearers, and lily was amused by her unconsciousness of the resistance displayed in every angle of mr. gryce's attitude. lily herself knew that his mind was divided between the dread of catching cold if he remained out of doors too long at that hour, and the fear that, if he retreated to the house, mrs. fisher might follow him up with a paper to be signed. mr. gryce had a constitutional dislike to what he called "committing himself," and tenderly as he cherished his health, he evidently concluded that it was safer to stay out of reach of pen and ink till chance released him from mrs. fisher's toils. meanwhile he cast agonized glances in the direction of miss bart, whose only response was to sink into an attitude of more graceful abstraction. she had learned the value of contrast in throwing her charms into relief, and was fully aware of the extent to which mrs. fisher's volubility was enhancing her own repose. she was roused from her musings by the approach of her cousin jack stepney who, at gwen van osburgh's side, was returning across the garden from the tennis court. the couple in question were engaged in the same kind of romance in which lily figured, and the latter felt a certain annoyance in contemplating what seemed to her a caricature of her own situation. miss van osburgh was a large girl with flat surfaces and no high lights: jack stepney had once said of her that she was as reliable as roast mutton. his own taste was in the line of less solid and more highly-seasoned diet; but hunger makes any fare palatable, and there had been times when mr. stepney had been reduced to a crust. lily considered with interest the expression of their faces: the girl's turned toward her companion's like an empty plate held up to be filled, while the man lounging at her side already betrayed the encroaching boredom which would presently crack the thin veneer of his smile. "how impatient men are!" lily reflected. "all jack has to do to get everything he wants is to keep quiet and let that girl marry him; whereas i have to calculate and contrive, and retreat and advance, as if i were going through an intricate dance, where one misstep would throw me hopelessly out of time." as they drew nearer she was whimsically struck by a kind of family likeness between miss van osburgh and percy gryce. there was no resemblance of feature. gryce was handsome in a didactic way--he looked like a clever pupil's drawing from a plaster-cast--while gwen's countenance had no more modelling than a face painted on a toy balloon. but the deeper affinity was unmistakable: the two had the same prejudices and ideals, and the same quality of making other standards non-existent by ignoring them. this attribute was common to most of lily's set: they had a force of negation which eliminated everything beyond their own range of perception. gryce and miss van osburgh were, in short, made for each other by every law of moral and physical correspondence----"yet they wouldn't look at each other," lily mused, "they never do. each of them wants a creature of a different race, of jack's race and mine, with all sorts of intuitions, sensations and perceptions that they don't even guess the existence of. and they always get what they want." she stood talking with her cousin and miss van osburgh, till a slight cloud on the latter's brow advised her that even cousinly amenities were subject to suspicion, and miss bart, mindful of the necessity of not exciting enmities at this crucial point of her career, dropped aside while the happy couple proceeded toward the tea-table. seating herself on the upper step of the terrace, lily leaned her head against the honeysuckles wreathing the balustrade. the fragrance of the late blossoms seemed an emanation of the tranquil scene, a landscape tutored to the last degree of rural elegance. in the foreground glowed the warm tints of the gardens. beyond the lawn, with its pyramidal pale-gold maples and velvety firs, sloped pastures dotted with cattle; and through a long glade the river widened like a lake under the silver light of september. lily did not want to join the circle about the tea-table. they represented the future she had chosen, and she was content with it, but in no haste to anticipate its joys. the certainty that she could marry percy gryce when she pleased had lifted a heavy load from her mind, and her money troubles were too recent for their removal not to leave a sense of relief which a less discerning intelligence might have taken for happiness. her vulgar cares were at an end. she would be able to arrange her life as she pleased, to soar into that empyrean of security where creditors cannot penetrate. she would have smarter gowns than judy trenor, and far, far more jewels than bertha dorset. she would be free forever from the shifts, the expedients, the humiliations of the relatively poor. instead of having to flatter, she would be flattered; instead of being grateful, she would receive thanks. there were old scores she could pay off as well as old benefits she could return. and she had no doubts as to the extent of her power. she knew that mr. gryce was of the small chary type most inaccessible to impulses and emotions. he had the kind of character in which prudence is a vice, and good advice the most dangerous nourishment. but lily had known the species before: she was aware that such a guarded nature must find one huge outlet of egoism, and she determined to be to him what his americana had hitherto been: the one possession in which he took sufficient pride to spend money on it. she knew that this generosity to self is one of the forms of meanness, and she resolved so to identify herself with her husband's vanity that to gratify her wishes would be to him the most exquisite form of self-indulgence. the system might at first necessitate a resort to some of the very shifts and expedients from which she intended it should free her; but she felt sure that in a short time she would be able to play the game in her own way. how should she have distrusted her powers? her beauty itself was not the mere ephemeral possession it might have been in the hands of inexperience: her skill in enhancing it, the care she took of it, the use she made of it, seemed to give it a kind of permanence. she felt she could trust it to carry her through to the end. and the end, on the whole, was worthwhile. life was not the mockery she had thought it three days ago. there was room for her, after all, in this crowded selfish world of pleasure whence, so short a time since, her poverty had seemed to exclude her. these people whom she had ridiculed and yet envied were glad to make a place for her in the charmed circle about which all her desires revolved. they were not as brutal and self-engrossed as she had fancied--or rather, since it would no longer be necessary to flatter and humour them, that side of their nature became less conspicuous. society is a revolving body which is apt to be judged according to its place in each man's heaven; and at present it was turning its illuminated face to lily. in the rosy glow it diffused her companions seemed full of amiable qualities. she liked their elegance, their lightness, their lack of emphasis: even the self-assurance which at times was so like obtuseness now seemed the natural sign of social ascendency. they were lords of the only world she cared for, and they were ready to admit her to their ranks and let her lord it with them. already she felt within her a stealing allegiance to their standards, an acceptance of their limitations, a disbelief in the things they did not believe in, a contemptuous pity for the people who were not able to live as they lived. the early sunset was slanting across the park. through the boughs of the long avenue beyond the gardens she caught the flash of wheels, and divined that more visitors were approaching. there was a movement behind her, a scattering of steps and voices: it was evident that the party about the tea-table was breaking up. presently she heard a tread behind her on the terrace. she supposed that mr. gryce had at last found means to escape from his predicament, and she smiled at the significance of his coming to join her instead of beating an instant retreat to the fire-side. she turned to give him the welcome which such gallantry deserved; but her greeting wavered into a blush of wonder, for the man who had approached her was lawrence selden. "you see i came after all," he said; but before she had time to answer, mrs. dorset, breaking away from a lifeless colloquy with her host, had stepped between them with a little gesture of appropriation. chapter the observance of sunday at bellomont was chiefly marked by the punctual appearance of the smart omnibus destined to convey the household to the little church at the gates. whether any one got into the omnibus or not was a matter of secondary importance, since by standing there it not only bore witness to the orthodox intentions of the family, but made mrs. trenor feel, when she finally heard it drive away, that she had somehow vicariously made use of it. it was mrs. trenor's theory that her daughters actually did go to church every sunday; but their french governess's convictions calling her to the rival fane, and the fatigues of the week keeping their mother in her room till luncheon, there was seldom any one present to verify the fact. now and then, in a spasmodic burst of virtue--when the house had been too uproarious over night--gus trenor forced his genial bulk into a tight frock-coat and routed his daughters from their slumbers; but habitually, as lily explained to mr. gryce, this parental duty was forgotten till the church bells were ringing across the park, and the omnibus had driven away empty. lily had hinted to mr. gryce that this neglect of religious observances was repugnant to her early traditions, and that during her visits to bellomont she regularly accompanied muriel and hilda to church. this tallied with the assurance, also confidentially imparted, that, never having played bridge before, she had been "dragged into it" on the night of her arrival, and had lost an appalling amount of money in consequence of her ignorance of the game and of the rules of betting. mr. gryce was undoubtedly enjoying bellomont. he liked the ease and glitter of the life, and the lustre conferred on him by being a member of this group of rich and conspicuous people. but he thought it a very materialistic society; there were times when he was frightened by the talk of the men and the looks of the ladies, and he was glad to find that miss bart, for all her ease and self-possession, was not at home in so ambiguous an atmosphere. for this reason he had been especially pleased to learn that she would, as usual, attend the young trenors to church on sunday morning; and as he paced the gravel sweep before the door, his light overcoat on his arm and his prayer-book in one carefully-gloved hand, he reflected agreeably on the strength of character which kept her true to her early training in surroundings so subversive to religious principles. for a long time mr. gryce and the omnibus had the gravel sweep to themselves; but, far from regretting this deplorable indifference on the part of the other guests, he found himself nourishing the hope that miss bart might be unaccompanied. the precious minutes were flying, however; the big chestnuts pawed the ground and flecked their impatient sides with foam; the coachman seemed to be slowly petrifying on the box, and the groom on the doorstep; and still the lady did not come. suddenly, however, there was a sound of voices and a rustle of skirts in the doorway, and mr. gryce, restoring his watch to his pocket, turned with a nervous start; but it was only to find himself handing mrs. wetherall into the carriage. the wetheralls always went to church. they belonged to the vast group of human automata who go through life without neglecting to perform a single one of the gestures executed by the surrounding puppets. it is true that the bellomont puppets did not go to church; but others equally important did--and mr. and mrs. wetherall's circle was so large that god was included in their visiting-list. they appeared, therefore, punctual and resigned, with the air of people bound for a dull "at home," and after them hilda and muriel straggled, yawning and pinning each other's veils and ribbons as they came. they had promised lily to go to church with her, they declared, and lily was such a dear old duck that they didn't mind doing it to please her, though they couldn't fancy what had put the idea in her head, and though for their own part they would much rather have played lawn tennis with jack and gwen, if she hadn't told them she was coming. the misses trenor were followed by lady cressida raith, a weather-beaten person in liberty silk and ethnological trinkets, who, on seeing the omnibus, expressed her surprise that they were not to walk across the park; but at mrs. wetherall's horrified protest that the church was a mile away, her ladyship, after a glance at the height of the other's heels, acquiesced in the necessity of driving, and poor mr. gryce found himself rolling off between four ladies for whose spiritual welfare he felt not the least concern. it might have afforded him some consolation could he have known that miss bart had really meant to go to church. she had even risen earlier than usual in the execution of her purpose. she had an idea that the sight of her in a grey gown of devotional cut, with her famous lashes drooped above a prayer-book, would put the finishing touch to mr. gryce's subjugation, and render inevitable a certain incident which she had resolved should form a part of the walk they were to take together after luncheon. her intentions in short had never been more definite; but poor lily, for all the hard glaze of her exterior, was inwardly as malleable as wax. her faculty for adapting herself, for entering into other people's feelings, if it served her now and then in small contingencies, hampered her in the decisive moments of life. she was like a water-plant in the flux of the tides, and today the whole current of her mood was carrying her toward lawrence selden. why had he come? was it to see herself or bertha dorset? it was the last question which, at that moment, should have engaged her. she might better have contented herself with thinking that he had simply responded to the despairing summons of his hostess, anxious to interpose him between herself and the ill-humour of mrs. dorset. but lily had not rested till she learned from mrs. trenor that selden had come of his own accord. "he didn't even wire me--he just happened to find the trap at the station. perhaps it's not over with bertha after all," mrs. trenor musingly concluded; and went away to arrange her dinner-cards accordingly. perhaps it was not, lily reflected; but it should be soon, unless she had lost her cunning. if selden had come at mrs. dorset's call, it was at her own that he would stay. so much the previous evening had told her. mrs. trenor, true to her simple principle of making her married friends happy, had placed selden and mrs. dorset next to each other at dinner; but, in obedience to the time-honoured traditions of the match-maker, she had separated lily and mr. gryce, sending in the former with george dorset, while mr. gryce was coupled with gwen van osburgh. george dorset's talk did not interfere with the range of his neighbour's thoughts. he was a mournful dyspeptic, intent on finding out the deleterious ingredients of every dish and diverted from this care only by the sound of his wife's voice. on this occasion, however, mrs. dorset took no part in the general conversation. she sat talking in low murmurs with selden, and turning a contemptuous and denuded shoulder toward her host, who, far from resenting his exclusion, plunged into the excesses of the menu with the joyous irresponsibility of a free man. to mr. dorset, however, his wife's attitude was a subject of such evident concern that, when he was not scraping the sauce from his fish, or scooping the moist bread-crumbs from the interior of his roll, he sat straining his thin neck for a glimpse of her between the lights. mrs. trenor, as it chanced, had placed the husband and wife on opposite sides of the table, and lily was therefore able to observe mrs. dorset also, and by carrying her glance a few feet farther, to set up a rapid comparison between lawrence selden and mr. gryce. it was that comparison which was her undoing. why else had she suddenly grown interested in selden? she had known him for eight years or more: ever since her return to america he had formed a part of her background. she had always been glad to sit next to him at dinner, had found him more agreeable than most men, and had vaguely wished that he possessed the other qualities needful to fix her attention; but till now she had been too busy with her own affairs to regard him as more than one of the pleasant accessories of life. miss bart was a keen reader of her own heart, and she saw that her sudden preoccupation with selden was due to the fact that his presence shed a new light on her surroundings. not that he was notably brilliant or exceptional; in his own profession he was surpassed by more than one man who had bored lily through many a weary dinner. it was rather that he had preserved a certain social detachment, a happy air of viewing the show objectively, of having points of contact outside the great gilt cage in which they were all huddled for the mob to gape at. how alluring the world outside the cage appeared to lily, as she heard its door clang on her! in reality, as she knew, the door never clanged: it stood always open; but most of the captives were like flies in a bottle, and having once flown in, could never regain their freedom. it was selden's distinction that he had never forgotten the way out. that was the secret of his way of readjusting her vision. lily, turning her eyes from him, found herself scanning her little world through his retina: it was as though the pink lamps had been shut off and the dusty daylight let in. she looked down the long table, studying its occupants one by one, from gus trenor, with his heavy carnivorous head sunk between his shoulders, as he preyed on a jellied plover, to his wife, at the opposite end of the long bank of orchids, suggestive, with her glaring good-looks, of a jeweller's window lit by electricity. and between the two, what a long stretch of vacuity! how dreary and trivial these people were! lily reviewed them with a scornful impatience: carry fisher, with her shoulders, her eyes, her divorces, her general air of embodying a "spicy paragraph"; young silverton, who had meant to live on proof-reading and write an epic, and who now lived on his friends and had become critical of truffles; alice wetherall, an animated visiting-list, whose most fervid convictions turned on the wording of invitations and the engraving of dinner-cards; wetherall, with his perpetual nervous nod of acquiescence, his air of agreeing with people before he knew what they were saying; jack stepney, with his confident smile and anxious eyes, half way between the sheriff and an heiress; gwen van osburgh, with all the guileless confidence of a young girl who has always been told that there is no one richer than her father. lily smiled at her classification of her friends. how different they had seemed to her a few hours ago! then they had symbolized what she was gaining, now they stood for what she was giving up. that very afternoon they had seemed full of brilliant qualities; now she saw that they were merely dull in a loud way. under the glitter of their opportunities she saw the poverty of their achievement. it was not that she wanted them to be more disinterested; but she would have liked them to be more picturesque. and she had a shamed recollection of the way in which, a few hours since, she had felt the centripetal force of their standards. she closed her eyes an instant, and the vacuous routine of the life she had chosen stretched before her like a long white road without dip or turning: it was true she was to roll over it in a carriage instead of trudging it on foot, but sometimes the pedestrian enjoys the diversion of a short cut which is denied to those on wheels. she was roused by a chuckle which mr. dorset seemed to eject from the depths of his lean throat. "i say, do look at her," he exclaimed, turning to miss bart with lugubrious merriment--"i beg your pardon, but do just look at my wife making a fool of that poor devil over there! one would really suppose she was gone on him--and it's all the other way round, i assure you." thus adjured, lily turned her eyes on the spectacle which was affording mr. dorset such legitimate mirth. it certainly appeared, as he said, that mrs. dorset was the more active participant in the scene: her neighbour seemed to receive her advances with a temperate zest which did not distract him from his dinner. the sight restored lily's good humour, and knowing the peculiar disguise which mr. dorset's marital fears assumed, she asked gaily: "aren't you horribly jealous of her?" dorset greeted the sally with delight. "oh, abominably--you've just hit it--keeps me awake at night. the doctors tell me that's what has knocked my digestion out--being so infernally jealous of her.--i can't eat a mouthful of this stuff, you know," he added suddenly, pushing back his plate with a clouded countenance; and lily, unfailingly adaptable, accorded her radiant attention to his prolonged denunciation of other people's cooks, with a supplementary tirade on the toxic qualities of melted butter. it was not often that he found so ready an ear; and, being a man as well as a dyspeptic, it may be that as he poured his grievances into it he was not insensible to its rosy symmetry. at any rate he engaged lily so long that the sweets were being handed when she caught a phrase on her other side, where miss corby, the comic woman of the company, was bantering jack stepney on his approaching engagement. miss corby's role was jocularity: she always entered the conversation with a handspring. "and of course you'll have sim rosedale as best man!" lily heard her fling out as the climax of her prognostications; and stepney responded, as if struck: "jove, that's an idea. what a thumping present i'd get out of him!" sim rosedale! the name, made more odious by its diminutive, obtruded itself on lily's thoughts like a leer. it stood for one of the many hated possibilities hovering on the edge of life. if she did not marry percy gryce, the day might come when she would have to be civil to such men as rosedale. if she did not marry him? but she meant to marry him--she was sure of him and sure of herself. she drew back with a shiver from the pleasant paths in which her thoughts had been straying, and set her feet once more in the middle of the long white road.... when she went upstairs that night she found that the late post had brought her a fresh batch of bills. mrs. peniston, who was a conscientious woman, had forwarded them all to bellomont. miss bart, accordingly, rose the next morning with the most earnest conviction that it was her duty to go to church. she tore herself betimes from the lingering enjoyment of her breakfast-tray, rang to have her grey gown laid out, and despatched her maid to borrow a prayer-book from mrs. trenor. but her course was too purely reasonable not to contain the germs of rebellion. no sooner were her preparations made than they roused a smothered sense of resistance. a small spark was enough to kindle lily's imagination, and the sight of the grey dress and the borrowed prayer-book flashed a long light down the years. she would have to go to church with percy gryce every sunday. they would have a front pew in the most expensive church in new york, and his name would figure handsomely in the list of parish charities. in a few years, when he grew stouter, he would be made a warden. once in the winter the rector would come to dine, and her husband would beg her to go over the list and see that no divorcees were included, except those who had showed signs of penitence by being re-married to the very wealthy. there was nothing especially arduous in this round of religious obligations; but it stood for a fraction of that great bulk of boredom which loomed across her path. and who could consent to be bored on such a morning? lily had slept well, and her bath had filled her with a pleasant glow, which was becomingly reflected in the clear curve of her cheek. no lines were visible this morning, or else the glass was at a happier angle. and the day was the accomplice of her mood: it was a day for impulse and truancy. the light air seemed full of powdered gold; below the dewy bloom of the lawns the woodlands blushed and smouldered, and the hills across the river swam in molten blue. every drop of blood in lily's veins invited her to happiness. the sound of wheels roused her from these musings, and leaning behind her shutters she saw the omnibus take up its freight. she was too late, then--but the fact did not alarm her. a glimpse of mr. gryce's crestfallen face even suggested that she had done wisely in absenting herself, since the disappointment he so candidly betrayed would surely whet his appetite for the afternoon walk. that walk she did not mean to miss; one glance at the bills on her writing-table was enough to recall its necessity. but meanwhile she had the morning to herself, and could muse pleasantly on the disposal of its hours. she was familiar enough with the habits of bellomont to know that she was likely to have a free field till luncheon. she had seen the wetheralls, the trenor girls and lady cressida packed safely into the omnibus; judy trenor was sure to be having her hair shampooed; carry fisher had doubtless carried off her host for a drive; ned silverton was probably smoking the cigarette of young despair in his bedroom; and kate corby was certain to be playing tennis with jack stepney and miss van osburgh. of the ladies, this left only mrs. dorset unaccounted for, and mrs. dorset never came down till luncheon: her doctors, she averred, had forbidden her to expose herself to the crude air of the morning. to the remaining members of the party lily gave no special thought; wherever they were, they were not likely to interfere with her plans. these, for the moment, took the shape of assuming a dress somewhat more rustic and summerlike in style than the garment she had first selected, and rustling downstairs, sunshade in hand, with the disengaged air of a lady in quest of exercise. the great hall was empty but for the knot of dogs by the fire, who, taking in at a glance the outdoor aspect of miss bart, were upon her at once with lavish offers of companionship. she put aside the ramming paws which conveyed these offers, and assuring the joyous volunteers that she might presently have a use for their company, sauntered on through the empty drawing-room to the library at the end of the house. the library was almost the only surviving portion of the old manor-house of bellomont: a long spacious room, revealing the traditions of the mother-country in its classically-cased doors, the dutch tiles of the chimney, and the elaborate hob-grate with its shining brass urns. a few family portraits of lantern-jawed gentlemen in tie-wigs, and ladies with large head-dresses and small bodies, hung between the shelves lined with pleasantly-shabby books: books mostly contemporaneous with the ancestors in question, and to which the subsequent trenors had made no perceptible additions. the library at bellomont was in fact never used for reading, though it had a certain popularity as a smoking-room or a quiet retreat for flirtation. it had occurred to lily, however, that it might on this occasion have been resorted to by the only member of the party in the least likely to put it to its original use. she advanced noiselessly over the dense old rug scattered with easy-chairs, and before she reached the middle of the room she saw that she had not been mistaken. lawrence selden was in fact seated at its farther end; but though a book lay on his knee, his attention was not engaged with it, but directed to a lady whose lace-clad figure, as she leaned back in an adjoining chair, detached itself with exaggerated slimness against the dusky leather upholstery. lily paused as she caught sight of the group; for a moment she seemed about to withdraw, but thinking better of this, she announced her approach by a slight shake of her skirts which made the couple raise their heads, mrs. dorset with a look of frank displeasure, and selden with his usual quiet smile. the sight of his composure had a disturbing effect on lily; but to be disturbed was in her case to make a more brilliant effort at self-possession. "dear me, am i late?" she asked, putting a hand in his as he advanced to greet her. "late for what?" enquired mrs. dorset tartly. "not for luncheon, certainly--but perhaps you had an earlier engagement?" "yes, i had," said lily confidingly. "really? perhaps i am in the way, then? but mr. selden is entirely at your disposal." mrs. dorset was pale with temper, and her antagonist felt a certain pleasure in prolonging her distress. "oh, dear, no--do stay," she said good-humouredly. "i don't in the least want to drive you away." "you're awfully good, dear, but i never interfere with mr. selden's engagements." the remark was uttered with a little air of proprietorship not lost on its object, who concealed a faint blush of annoyance by stooping to pick up the book he had dropped at lily's approach. the latter's eyes widened charmingly and she broke into a light laugh. "but i have no engagement with mr. selden! my engagement was to go to church; and i'm afraid the omnibus has started without me. has it started, do you know?" she turned to selden, who replied that he had heard it drive away some time since. "ah, then i shall have to walk; i promised hilda and muriel to go to church with them. it's too late to walk there, you say? well, i shall have the credit of trying, at any rate--and the advantage of escaping part of the service. i'm not so sorry for myself, after all!" and with a bright nod to the couple on whom she had intruded, miss bart strolled through the glass doors and carried her rustling grace down the long perspective of the garden walk. she was taking her way churchward, but at no very quick pace; a fact not lost on one of her observers, who stood in the doorway looking after her with an air of puzzled amusement. the truth is that she was conscious of a somewhat keen shock of disappointment. all her plans for the day had been built on the assumption that it was to see her that selden had come to bellomont. she had expected, when she came downstairs, to find him on the watch for her; and she had found him, instead, in a situation which might well denote that he had been on the watch for another lady. was it possible, after all, that he had come for bertha dorset? the latter had acted on the assumption to the extent of appearing at an hour when she never showed herself to ordinary mortals, and lily, for the moment, saw no way of putting her in the wrong. it did not occur to her that selden might have been actuated merely by the desire to spend a sunday out of town: women never learn to dispense with the sentimental motive in their judgments of men. but lily was not easily disconcerted; competition put her on her mettle, and she reflected that selden's coming, if it did not declare him to be still in mrs. dorset's toils, showed him to be so completely free from them that he was not afraid of her proximity. these thoughts so engaged her that she fell into a gait hardly likely to carry her to church before the sermon, and at length, having passed from the gardens to the wood-path beyond, so far forgot her intention as to sink into a rustic seat at a bend of the walk. the spot was charming, and lily was not insensible to the charm, or to the fact that her presence enhanced it; but she was not accustomed to taste the joys of solitude except in company, and the combination of a handsome girl and a romantic scene struck her as too good to be wasted. no one, however, appeared to profit by the opportunity; and after a half hour of fruitless waiting she rose and wandered on. she felt a stealing sense of fatigue as she walked; the sparkle had died out of her, and the taste of life was stale on her lips. she hardly knew what she had been seeking, or why the failure to find it had so blotted the light from her sky: she was only aware of a vague sense of failure, of an inner isolation deeper than the loneliness about her. her footsteps flagged, and she stood gazing listlessly ahead, digging the ferny edge of the path with the tip of her sunshade. as she did so a step sounded behind her, and she saw selden at her side. "how fast you walk!" he remarked. "i thought i should never catch up with you." she answered gaily: "you must be quite breathless! i've been sitting under that tree for an hour." "waiting for me, i hope?" he rejoined; and she said with a vague laugh: "well--waiting to see if you would come." "i seize the distinction, but i don't mind it, since doing the one involved doing the other. but weren't you sure that i should come?" "if i waited long enough--but you see i had only a limited time to give to the experiment." "why limited? limited by luncheon?" "no; by my other engagement." "your engagement to go to church with muriel and hilda?" "no; but to come home from church with another person." "ah, i see; i might have known you were fully provided with alternatives. and is the other person coming home this way?" lily laughed again. "that's just what i don't know; and to find out, it is my business to get to church before the service is over." "exactly; and it is my business to prevent your doing so; in which case the other person, piqued by your absence, will form the desperate resolve of driving back in the omnibus." lily received this with fresh appreciation; his nonsense was like the bubbling of her inner mood. "is that what you would do in such an emergency?" she enquired. selden looked at her with solemnity. "i am here to prove to you," he cried, "what i am capable of doing in an emergency!" "walking a mile in an hour--you must own that the omnibus would be quicker!" "ah--but will he find you in the end? that's the only test of success." they looked at each other with the same luxury of enjoyment that they had felt in exchanging absurdities over his tea-table; but suddenly lily's face changed, and she said: "well, if it is, he has succeeded." selden, following her glance, perceived a party of people advancing toward them from the farther bend of the path. lady cressida had evidently insisted on walking home, and the rest of the church-goers had thought it their duty to accompany her. lily's companion looked rapidly from one to the other of the two men of the party; wetherall walking respectfully at lady cressida's side with his little sidelong look of nervous attention, and percy gryce bringing up the rear with mrs. wetherall and the trenors. "ah--now i see why you were getting up your americana!" selden exclaimed with a note of the freest admiration but the blush with which the sally was received checked whatever amplifications he had meant to give it. that lily bart should object to being bantered about her suitors, or even about her means of attracting them, was so new to selden that he had a momentary flash of surprise, which lit up a number of possibilities; but she rose gallantly to the defence of her confusion, by saying, as its object approached: "that was why i was waiting for you--to thank you for having given me so many points!" "ah, you can hardly do justice to the subject in such a short time," said selden, as the trenor girls caught sight of miss bart; and while she signalled a response to their boisterous greeting, he added quickly: "won't you devote your afternoon to it? you know i must be off tomorrow morning. we'll take a walk, and you can thank me at your leisure." chapter the afternoon was perfect. a deeper stillness possessed the air, and the glitter of the american autumn was tempered by a haze which diffused the brightness without dulling it. in the woody hollows of the park there was already a faint chill; but as the ground rose the air grew lighter, and ascending the long slopes beyond the high-road, lily and her companion reached a zone of lingering summer. the path wound across a meadow with scattered trees; then it dipped into a lane plumed with asters and purpling sprays of bramble, whence, through the light quiver of ash-leaves, the country unrolled itself in pastoral distances. higher up, the lane showed thickening tufts of fern and of the creeping glossy verdure of shaded slopes; trees began to overhang it, and the shade deepened to the checkered dusk of a beech-grove. the boles of the trees stood well apart, with only a light feathering of undergrowth; the path wound along the edge of the wood, now and then looking out on a sunlit pasture or on an orchard spangled with fruit. lily had no real intimacy with nature, but she had a passion for the appropriate and could be keenly sensitive to a scene which was the fitting background of her own sensations. the landscape outspread below her seemed an enlargement of her present mood, and she found something of herself in its calmness, its breadth, its long free reaches. on the nearer slopes the sugar-maples wavered like pyres of light; lower down was a massing of grey orchards, and here and there the lingering green of an oak-grove. two or three red farm-houses dozed under the apple-trees, and the white wooden spire of a village church showed beyond the shoulder of the hill; while far below, in a haze of dust, the high-road ran between the fields. "let us sit here," selden suggested, as they reached an open ledge of rock above which the beeches rose steeply between mossy boulders. lily dropped down on the rock, glowing with her long climb. she sat quiet, her lips parted by the stress of the ascent, her eyes wandering peacefully over the broken ranges of the landscape. selden stretched himself on the grass at her feet, tilting his hat against the level sun-rays, and clasping his hands behind his head, which rested against the side of the rock. he had no wish to make her talk; her quick-breathing silence seemed a part of the general hush and harmony of things. in his own mind there was only a lazy sense of pleasure, veiling the sharp edges of sensation as the september haze veiled the scene at their feet. but lily, though her attitude was as calm as his, was throbbing inwardly with a rush of thoughts. there were in her at the moment two beings, one drawing deep breaths of freedom and exhilaration, the other gasping for air in a little black prison-house of fears. but gradually the captive's gasps grew fainter, or the other paid less heed to them: the horizon expanded, the air grew stronger, and the free spirit quivered for flight. she could not herself have explained the sense of buoyancy which seemed to lift and swing her above the sun-suffused world at her feet. was it love, she wondered, or a mere fortuitous combination of happy thoughts and sensations? how much of it was owing to the spell of the perfect afternoon, the scent of the fading woods, the thought of the dulness she had fled from? lily had no definite experience by which to test the quality of her feelings. she had several times been in love with fortunes or careers, but only once with a man. that was years ago, when she first came out, and had been smitten with a romantic passion for a young gentleman named herbert melson, who had blue eyes and a little wave in his hair. mr. melson, who was possessed of no other negotiable securities, had hastened to employ these in capturing the eldest miss van osburgh: since then he had grown stout and wheezy, and was given to telling anecdotes about his children. if lily recalled this early emotion it was not to compare it with that which now possessed her; the only point of comparison was the sense of lightness, of emancipation, which she remembered feeling, in the whirl of a waltz or the seclusion of a conservatory, during the brief course of her youthful romance. she had not known again till today that lightness, that glow of freedom; but now it was something more than a blind groping of the blood. the peculiar charm of her feeling for selden was that she understood it; she could put her finger on every link of the chain that was drawing them together. though his popularity was of the quiet kind, felt rather than actively expressed among his friends, she had never mistaken his inconspicuousness for obscurity. his reputed cultivation was generally regarded as a slight obstacle to easy intercourse, but lily, who prided herself on her broad-minded recognition of literature, and always carried an omar khayam in her travelling-bag, was attracted by this attribute, which she felt would have had its distinction in an older society. it was, moreover, one of his gifts to look his part; to have a height which lifted his head above the crowd, and the keenly-modelled dark features which, in a land of amorphous types, gave him the air of belonging to a more specialized race, of carrying the impress of a concentrated past. expansive persons found him a little dry, and very young girls thought him sarcastic; but this air of friendly aloofness, as far removed as possible from any assertion of personal advantage, was the quality which piqued lily's interest. everything about him accorded with the fastidious element in her taste, even to the light irony with which he surveyed what seemed to her most sacred. she admired him most of all, perhaps, for being able to convey as distinct a sense of superiority as the richest man she had ever met. it was the unconscious prolongation of this thought which led her to say presently, with a laugh: "i have broken two engagements for you today. how many have you broken for me?" "none," said selden calmly. "my only engagement at bellomont was with you." she glanced down at him, faintly smiling. "did you really come to bellomont to see me?" "of course i did." her look deepened meditatively. "why?" she murmured, with an accent which took all tinge of coquetry from the question. "because you're such a wonderful spectacle: i always like to see what you are doing." "how do you know what i should be doing if you were not here?" selden smiled. "i don't flatter myself that my coming has deflected your course of action by a hair's breadth." "that's absurd--since, if you were not here, i could obviously not be taking a walk with you." "no; but your taking a walk with me is only another way of making use of your material. you are an artist and i happen to be the bit of colour you are using today. it's a part of your cleverness to be able to produce premeditated effects extemporaneously." lily smiled also: his words were too acute not to strike her sense of humour. it was true that she meant to use the accident of his presence as part of a very definite effect; or that, at least, was the secret pretext she had found for breaking her promise to walk with mr. gryce. she had sometimes been accused of being too eager--even judy trenor had warned her to go slowly. well, she would not be too eager in this case; she would give her suitor a longer taste of suspense. where duty and inclination jumped together, it was not in lily's nature to hold them asunder. she had excused herself from the walk on the plea of a headache: the horrid headache which, in the morning, had prevented her venturing to church. her appearance at luncheon justified the excuse. she looked languid, full of a suffering sweetness; she carried a scent-bottle in her hand. mr. gryce was new to such manifestations; he wondered rather nervously if she were delicate, having far-reaching fears about the future of his progeny. but sympathy won the day, and he besought her not to expose herself: he always connected the outer air with ideas of exposure. lily had received his sympathy with languid gratitude, urging him, since she should be such poor company, to join the rest of the party who, after luncheon, were starting in automobiles on a visit to the van osburghs at peekskill. mr. gryce was touched by her disinterestedness, and, to escape from the threatened vacuity of the afternoon, had taken her advice and departed mournfully, in a dust-hood and goggles: as the motor-car plunged down the avenue she smiled at his resemblance to a baffled beetle. selden had watched her manoeuvres with lazy amusement. she had made no reply to his suggestion that they should spend the afternoon together, but as her plan unfolded itself he felt fairly confident of being included in it. the house was empty when at length he heard her step on the stair and strolled out of the billiard-room to join her. she had on a hat and walking-dress, and the dogs were bounding at her feet. "i thought, after all, the air might do me good," she explained; and he agreed that so simple a remedy was worth trying. the excursionists would be gone at least four hours; lily and selden had the whole afternoon before them, and the sense of leisure and safety gave the last touch of lightness to her spirit. with so much time to talk, and no definite object to be led up to, she could taste the rare joys of mental vagrancy. she felt so free from ulterior motives that she took up his charge with a touch of resentment. "i don't know," she said, "why you are always accusing me of premeditation." "i thought you confessed to it: you told me the other day that you had to follow a certain line--and if one does a thing at all it is a merit to do it thoroughly." "if you mean that a girl who has no one to think for her is obliged to think for herself, i am quite willing to accept the imputation. but you must find me a dismal kind of person if you suppose that i never yield to an impulse." "ah, but i don't suppose that: haven't i told you that your genius lies in converting impulses into intentions?" "my genius?" she echoed with a sudden note of weariness. "is there any final test of genius but success? and i certainly haven't succeeded." selden pushed his hat back and took a side-glance at her. "success--what is success? i shall be interested to have your definition." "success?" she hesitated. "why, to get as much as one can out of life, i suppose. it's a relative quality, after all. isn't that your idea of it?" "my idea of it? god forbid!" he sat up with sudden energy, resting his elbows on his knees and staring out upon the mellow fields. "my idea of success," he said, "is personal freedom." "freedom? freedom from worries?" "from everything--from money, from poverty, from ease and anxiety, from all the material accidents. to keep a kind of republic of the spirit--that's what i call success." she leaned forward with a responsive flash. "i know--i know--it's strange; but that's just what i've been feeling today." he met her eyes with the latent sweetness of his. "is the feeling so rare with you?" he said. she blushed a little under his gaze. "you think me horribly sordid, don't you? but perhaps it's rather that i never had any choice. there was no one, i mean, to tell me about the republic of the spirit." "there never is--it's a country one has to find the way to one's self." "but i should never have found my way there if you hadn't told me." "ah, there are sign-posts--but one has to know how to read them." "well, i have known, i have known!" she cried with a glow of eagerness. "whenever i see you, i find myself spelling out a letter of the sign--and yesterday--last evening at dinner--i suddenly saw a little way into your republic." selden was still looking at her, but with a changed eye. hitherto he had found, in her presence and her talk, the aesthetic amusement which a reflective man is apt to seek in desultory intercourse with pretty women. his attitude had been one of admiring spectatorship, and he would have been almost sorry to detect in her any emotional weakness which should interfere with the fulfilment of her aims. but now the hint of this weakness had become the most interesting thing about her. he had come on her that morning in a moment of disarray; her face had been pale and altered, and the diminution of her beauty had lent her a poignant charm. that is how she looks when she is alone! had been his first thought; and the second was to note in her the change which his coming produced. it was the danger-point of their intercourse that he could not doubt the spontaneity of her liking. from whatever angle he viewed their dawning intimacy, he could not see it as part of her scheme of life; and to be the unforeseen element in a career so accurately planned was stimulating even to a man who had renounced sentimental experiments. "well," he said, "did it make you want to see more? are you going to become one of us?" he had drawn out his cigarettes as he spoke, and she reached her hand toward the case. "oh, do give me one--i haven't smoked for days!" "why such unnatural abstinence? everybody smokes at bellomont." "yes--but it is not considered becoming in a jeune fille a marier; and at the present moment i am a jeune fille a marier." "ah, then i'm afraid we can't let you into the republic." "why not? is it a celibate order?" "not in the least, though i'm bound to say there are not many married people in it. but you will marry some one very rich, and it's as hard for rich people to get into as the kingdom of heaven." "that's unjust, i think, because, as i understand it, one of the conditions of citizenship is not to think too much about money, and the only way not to think about money is to have a great deal of it." "you might as well say that the only way not to think about air is to have enough to breathe. that is true enough in a sense; but your lungs are thinking about the air, if you are not. and so it is with your rich people--they may not be thinking of money, but they're breathing it all the while; take them into another element and see how they squirm and gasp!" lily sat gazing absently through the blue rings of her cigarette-smoke. "it seems to me," she said at length, "that you spend a good deal of your time in the element you disapprove of." selden received this thrust without discomposure. "yes; but i have tried to remain amphibious: it's all right as long as one's lungs can work in another air. the real alchemy consists in being able to turn gold back again into something else; and that's the secret that most of your friends have lost." lily mused. "don't you think," she rejoined after a moment, "that the people who find fault with society are too apt to regard it as an end and not a means, just as the people who despise money speak as if its only use were to be kept in bags and gloated over? isn't it fairer to look at them both as opportunities, which may be used either stupidly or intelligently, according to the capacity of the user?" "that is certainly the sane view; but the queer thing about society is that the people who regard it as an end are those who are in it, and not the critics on the fence. it's just the other way with most shows--the audience may be under the illusion, but the actors know that real life is on the other side of the footlights. the people who take society as an escape from work are putting it to its proper use; but when it becomes the thing worked for it distorts all the relations of life." selden raised himself on his elbow. "good heavens!" he went on, "i don't underrate the decorative side of life. it seems to me the sense of splendour has justified itself by what it has produced. the worst of it is that so much human nature is used up in the process. if we're all the raw stuff of the cosmic effects, one would rather be the fire that tempers a sword than the fish that dyes a purple cloak. and a society like ours wastes such good material in producing its little patch of purple! look at a boy like ned silverton--he's really too good to be used to refurbish anybody's social shabbiness. there's a lad just setting out to discover the universe: isn't it a pity he should end by finding it in mrs. fisher's drawing-room?" "ned is a dear boy, and i hope he will keep his illusions long enough to write some nice poetry about them; but do you think it is only in society that he is likely to lose them?" selden answered her with a shrug. "why do we call all our generous ideas illusions, and the mean ones truths? isn't it a sufficient condemnation of society to find one's self accepting such phraseology? i very nearly acquired the jargon at silverton's age, and i know how names can alter the colour of beliefs." she had never heard him speak with such energy of affirmation. his habitual touch was that of the eclectic, who lightly turns over and compares; and she was moved by this sudden glimpse into the laboratory where his faiths were formed. "ah, you are as bad as the other sectarians," she exclaimed; "why do you call your republic a republic? it is a closed corporation, and you create arbitrary objections in order to keep people out." "it is not my republic; if it were, i should have a coup d'etat and seat you on the throne." "whereas, in reality, you think i can never even get my foot across the threshold? oh, i understand what you mean. you despise my ambitions--you think them unworthy of me!" selden smiled, but not ironically. "well, isn't that a tribute? i think them quite worthy of most of the people who live by them." she had turned to gaze on him gravely. "but isn't it possible that, if i had the opportunities of these people, i might make a better use of them? money stands for all kinds of things--its purchasing quality isn't limited to diamonds and motor-cars." "not in the least: you might expiate your enjoyment of them by founding a hospital." "but if you think they are what i should really enjoy, you must think my ambitions are good enough for me." selden met this appeal with a laugh. "ah, my dear miss bart, i am not divine providence, to guarantee your enjoying the things you are trying to get!" "then the best you can say for me is, that after struggling to get them i probably shan't like them?" she drew a deep breath. "what a miserable future you foresee for me!" "well--have you never foreseen it for yourself?" the slow colour rose to her cheek, not a blush of excitement but drawn from the deep wells of feeling; it was as if the effort of her spirit had produced it. "often and often," she said. "but it looks so much darker when you show it to me!" he made no answer to this exclamation, and for a while they sat silent, while something throbbed between them in the wide quiet of the air. but suddenly she turned on him with a kind of vehemence. "why do you do this to me?" she cried. "why do you make the things i have chosen seem hateful to me, if you have nothing to give me instead?" the words roused selden from the musing fit into which he had fallen. he himself did not know why he had led their talk along such lines; it was the last use he would have imagined himself making of an afternoon's solitude with miss bart. but it was one of those moments when neither seemed to speak deliberately, when an indwelling voice in each called to the other across unsounded depths of feeling. "no, i have nothing to give you instead," he said, sitting up and turning so that he faced her. "if i had, it should be yours, you know." she received this abrupt declaration in a way even stranger than the manner of its making: she dropped her face on her hands and he saw that for a moment she wept. it was for a moment only, however; for when he leaned nearer and drew down her hands with a gesture less passionate than grave, she turned on him a face softened but not disfigured by emotion, and he said to himself, somewhat cruelly, that even her weeping was an art. the reflection steadied his voice as he asked, between pity and irony: "isn't it natural that i should try to belittle all the things i can't offer you?" her face brightened at this, but she drew her hand away, not with a gesture of coquetry, but as though renouncing something to which she had no claim. "but you belittle me, don't you," she returned gently, "in being so sure they are the only things i care for?" selden felt an inner start; but it was only the last quiver of his egoism. almost at once he answered quite simply: "but you do care for them, don't you? and no wishing of mine can alter that." he had so completely ceased to consider how far this might carry him, that he had a distinct sense of disappointment when she turned on him a face sparkling with derision. "ah," she cried, "for all your fine phrases you're really as great a coward as i am, for you wouldn't have made one of them if you hadn't been so sure of my answer." the shock of this retort had the effect of crystallizing selden's wavering intentions. "i am not so sure of your answer," he said quietly. "and i do you the justice to believe that you are not either." it was her turn to look at him with surprise; and after a moment--"do you want to marry me?" she asked. he broke into a laugh. "no, i don't want to--but perhaps i should if you did!" "that's what i told you--you're so sure of me that you can amuse yourself with experiments." she drew back the hand he had regained, and sat looking down on him sadly. "i am not making experiments," he returned. "or if i am, it is not on you but on myself. i don't know what effect they are going to have on me--but if marrying you is one of them, i will take the risk." she smiled faintly. "it would be a great risk, certainly--i have never concealed from you how great." "ah, it's you who are the coward!" he exclaimed. she had risen, and he stood facing her with his eyes on hers. the soft isolation of the falling day enveloped them: they seemed lifted into a finer air. all the exquisite influences of the hour trembled in their veins, and drew them to each other as the loosened leaves were drawn to the earth. "it's you who are the coward," he repeated, catching her hands in his. she leaned on him for a moment, as if with a drop of tired wings: he felt as though her heart were beating rather with the stress of a long flight than the thrill of new distances. then, drawing back with a little smile of warning--"i shall look hideous in dowdy clothes; but i can trim my own hats," she declared. they stood silent for a while after this, smiling at each other like adventurous children who have climbed to a forbidden height from which they discover a new world. the actual world at their feet was veiling itself in dimness, and across the valley a clear moon rose in the denser blue. suddenly they heard a remote sound, like the hum of a giant insect, and following the high-road, which wound whiter through the surrounding twilight, a black object rushed across their vision. lily started from her attitude of absorption; her smile faded and she began to move toward the lane. "i had no idea it was so late! we shall not be back till after dark," she said, almost impatiently. selden was looking at her with surprise: it took him a moment to regain his usual view of her; then he said, with an uncontrollable note of dryness: "that was not one of our party; the motor was going the other way." "i know--i know----" she paused, and he saw her redden through the twilight. "but i told them i was not well--that i should not go out. let us go down!" she murmured. selden continued to look at her; then he drew his cigarette-case from his pocket and slowly lit a cigarette. it seemed to him necessary, at that moment, to proclaim, by some habitual gesture of this sort, his recovered hold on the actual: he had an almost puerile wish to let his companion see that, their flight over, he had landed on his feet. she waited while the spark flickered under his curved palm; then he held out the cigarettes to her. she took one with an unsteady hand, and putting it to her lips, leaned forward to draw her light from his. in the indistinctness the little red gleam lit up the lower part of her face, and he saw her mouth tremble into a smile. "were you serious?" she asked, with an odd thrill of gaiety which she might have caught up, in haste, from a heap of stock inflections, without having time to select the just note. selden's voice was under better control. "why not?" he returned. "you see i took no risks in being so." and as she continued to stand before him, a little pale under the retort, he added quickly: "let us go down." chapter it spoke much for the depth of mrs. trenor's friendship that her voice, in admonishing miss bart, took the same note of personal despair as if she had been lamenting the collapse of a house-party. "all i can say is, lily, that i can't make you out!" she leaned back, sighing, in the morning abandon of lace and muslin, turning an indifferent shoulder to the heaped-up importunities of her desk, while she considered, with the eye of a physician who has given up the case, the erect exterior of the patient confronting her. "if you hadn't told me you were going in for him seriously--but i'm sure you made that plain enough from the beginning! why else did you ask me to let you off bridge, and to keep away carry and kate corby? i don't suppose you did it because he amused you; we could none of us imagine your putting up with him for a moment unless you meant to marry him. and i'm sure everybody played fair! they all wanted to help it along. even bertha kept her hands off--i will say that--till lawrence came down and you dragged him away from her. after that she had a right to retaliate--why on earth did you interfere with her? you've known lawrence selden for years--why did you behave as if you had just discovered him? if you had a grudge against bertha it was a stupid time to show it--you could have paid her back just as well after you were married! i told you bertha was dangerous. she was in an odious mood when she came here, but lawrence's turning up put her in a good humour, and if you'd only let her think he came for her it would have never occurred to her to play you this trick. oh, lily, you'll never do anything if you're not serious!" miss bart accepted this exhortation in a spirit of the purest impartiality. why should she have been angry? it was the voice of her own conscience which spoke to her through mrs. trenor's reproachful accents. but even to her own conscience she must trump up a semblance of defence. "i only took a day off--i thought he meant to stay on all this week, and i knew mr. selden was leaving this morning." mrs. trenor brushed aside the plea with a gesture which laid bare its weakness. "he did mean to stay--that's the worst of it. it shows that he's run away from you; that bertha's done her work and poisoned him thoroughly." lily gave a slight laugh. "oh, if he's running i'll overtake him!" her friend threw out an arresting hand. "whatever you do, lily, do nothing!" miss bart received the warning with a smile. "i don't mean, literally, to take the next train. there are ways----" but she did not go on to specify them. mrs. trenor sharply corrected the tense. "there were ways--plenty of them! i didn't suppose you needed to have them pointed out. but don't deceive yourself--he's thoroughly frightened. he has run straight home to his mother, and she'll protect him!" "oh, to the death," lily agreed, dimpling at the vision. "how you can laugh----" her friend rebuked her; and she dropped back to a soberer perception of things with the question: "what was it bertha really told him?" "don't ask me--horrors! she seemed to have raked up everything. oh, you know what i mean--of course there isn't anything, really; but i suppose she brought in prince varigliano--and lord hubert--and there was some story of your having borrowed money of old ned van alstyne: did you ever?" "he is my father's cousin," miss bart interposed. "well, of course she left that out. it seems ned told carry fisher; and she told bertha, naturally. they're all alike, you know: they hold their tongues for years, and you think you're safe, but when their opportunity comes they remember everything." lily had grown pale: her voice had a harsh note in it. "it was some money i lost at bridge at the van osburghs'. i repaid it, of course." "ah, well, they wouldn't remember that; besides, it was the idea of the gambling debt that frightened percy. oh, bertha knew her man--she knew just what to tell him!" in this strain mrs. trenor continued for nearly an hour to admonish her friend. miss bart listened with admirable equanimity. her naturally good temper had been disciplined by years of enforced compliance, since she had almost always had to attain her ends by the circuitous path of other people's; and, being naturally inclined to face unpleasant facts as soon as they presented themselves, she was not sorry to hear an impartial statement of what her folly was likely to cost, the more so as her own thoughts were still insisting on the other side of the case. presented in the light of mrs. trenor's vigorous comments, the reckoning was certainly a formidable one, and lily, as she listened, found herself gradually reverting to her friend's view of the situation. mrs. trenor's words were moreover emphasized for her hearer by anxieties which she herself could scarcely guess. affluence, unless stimulated by a keen imagination, forms but the vaguest notion of the practical strain of poverty. judy knew it must be "horrid" for poor lily to have to stop to consider whether she could afford real lace on her petticoats, and not to have a motor-car and a steam-yacht at her orders; but the daily friction of unpaid bills, the daily nibble of small temptations to expenditure, were trials as far out of her experience as the domestic problems of the char-woman. mrs. trenor's unconsciousness of the real stress of the situation had the effect of making it more galling to lily. while her friend reproached her for missing the opportunity to eclipse her rivals, she was once more battling in imagination with the mounting tide of indebtedness from which she had so nearly escaped. what wind of folly had driven her out again on those dark seas? if anything was needed to put the last touch to her self-abasement it was the sense of the way her old life was opening its ruts again to receive her. yesterday her fancy had fluttered free pinions above a choice of occupations; now she had to drop to the level of the familiar routine, in which moments of seeming brilliancy and freedom alternated with long hours of subjection. she laid a deprecating hand on her friend's. "dear judy! i'm sorry to have been such a bore, and you are very good to me. but you must have some letters for me to answer--let me at least be useful." she settled herself at the desk, and mrs. trenor accepted her resumption of the morning's task with a sigh which implied that, after all, she had proved herself unfit for higher uses. the luncheon table showed a depleted circle. all the men but jack stepney and dorset had returned to town (it seemed to lily a last touch of irony that selden and percy gryce should have gone in the same train), and lady cressida and the attendant wetheralls had been despatched by motor to lunch at a distant country-house. at such moments of diminished interest it was usual for mrs. dorset to keep her room till the afternoon; but on this occasion she drifted in when luncheon was half over, hollowed-eyed and drooping, but with an edge of malice under her indifference. she raised her eyebrows as she looked about the table. "how few of us are left! i do so enjoy the quiet--don't you, lily? i wish the men would always stop away--it's really much nicer without them. oh, you don't count, george: one doesn't have to talk to one's husband. but i thought mr. gryce was to stay for the rest of the week?" she added enquiringly. "didn't he intend to, judy? he's such a nice boy--i wonder what drove him away? he is rather shy, and i'm afraid we may have shocked him: he has been brought up in such an old-fashioned way. do you know, lily, he told me he had never seen a girl play cards for money till he saw you doing it the other night? and he lives on the interest of his income, and always has a lot left over to invest!" mrs. fisher leaned forward eagerly. "i do believe it is some one's duty to educate that young man. it is shocking that he has never been made to realize his duties as a citizen. every wealthy man should be compelled to study the laws of his country." mrs. dorset glanced at her quietly. "i think he has studied the divorce laws. he told me he had promised the bishop to sign some kind of a petition against divorce." mrs. fisher reddened under her powder, and stepney said with a laughing glance at miss bart: "i suppose he is thinking of marriage, and wants to tinker up the old ship before he goes aboard." his betrothed looked shocked at the metaphor, and george dorset exclaimed with a sardonic growl: "poor devil! it isn't the ship that will do for him, it's the crew." "or the stowaways," said miss corby brightly. "if i contemplated a voyage with him i should try to start with a friend in the hold." miss van osburgh's vague feeling of pique was struggling for appropriate expression. "i'm sure i don't see why you laugh at him; i think he's very nice," she exclaimed; "and, at any rate, a girl who married him would always have enough to be comfortable." she looked puzzled at the redoubled laughter which hailed her words, but it might have consoled her to know how deeply they had sunk into the breast of one of her hearers. comfortable! at that moment the word was more eloquent to lily bart than any other in the language. she could not even pause to smile over the heiress's view of a colossal fortune as a mere shelter against want: her mind was filled with the vision of what that shelter might have been to her. mrs. dorset's pin-pricks did not smart, for her own irony cut deeper: no one could hurt her as much as she was hurting herself, for no one else--not even judy trenor--knew the full magnitude of her folly. she was roused from these unprofitable considerations by a whispered request from her hostess, who drew her apart as they left the luncheon-table. "lily, dear, if you've nothing special to do, may i tell carry fisher that you intend to drive to the station and fetch gus? he will be back at four, and i know she has it in her mind to meet him. of course i'm very glad to have him amused, but i happen to know that she has bled him rather severely since she's been here, and she is so keen about going to fetch him that i fancy she must have got a lot more bills this morning. it seems to me," mrs. trenor feelingly concluded, "that most of her alimony is paid by other women's husbands!" miss bart, on her way to the station, had leisure to muse over her friend's words, and their peculiar application to herself. why should she have to suffer for having once, for a few hours, borrowed money of an elderly cousin, when a woman like carry fisher could make a living unrebuked from the good-nature of her men friends and the tolerance of their wives? it all turned on the tiresome distinction between what a married woman might, and a girl might not, do. of course it was shocking for a married woman to borrow money--and lily was expertly aware of the implication involved--but still, it was the mere malum prohibitum which the world decries but condones, and which, though it may be punished by private vengeance, does not provoke the collective disapprobation of society. to miss bart, in short, no such opportunities were possible. she could of course borrow from her women friends--a hundred here or there, at the utmost--but they were more ready to give a gown or a trinket, and looked a little askance when she hinted her preference for a cheque. women are not generous lenders, and those among whom her lot was cast were either in the same case as herself, or else too far removed from it to understand its necessities. the result of her meditations was the decision to join her aunt at richfield. she could not remain at bellomont without playing bridge, and being involved in other expenses; and to continue her usual series of autumn visits would merely prolong the same difficulties. she had reached a point where abrupt retrenchment was necessary, and the only cheap life was a dull life. she would start the next morning for richfield. at the station she thought gus trenor seemed surprised, and not wholly unrelieved, to see her. she yielded up the reins of the light runabout in which she had driven over, and as he climbed heavily to her side, crushing her into a scant third of the seat, he said: "halloo! it isn't often you honour me. you must have been uncommonly hard up for something to do." the afternoon was warm, and propinquity made her more than usually conscious that he was red and massive, and that beads of moisture had caused the dust of the train to adhere unpleasantly to the broad expanse of cheek and neck which he turned to her; but she was aware also, from the look in his small dull eyes, that the contact with her freshness and slenderness was as agreeable to him as the sight of a cooling beverage. the perception of this fact helped her to answer gaily: "it's not often i have the chance. there are too many ladies to dispute the privilege with me." "the privilege of driving me home? well, i'm glad you won the race, anyhow. but i know what really happened--my wife sent you. now didn't she?" he had the dull man's unexpected flashes of astuteness, and lily could not help joining in the laugh with which he had pounced on the truth. "you see, judy thinks i'm the safest person for you to be with; and she's quite right," she rejoined. "oh, is she, though? if she is, it's because you wouldn't waste your time on an old hulk like me. we married men have to put up with what we can get: all the prizes are for the clever chaps who've kept a free foot. let me light a cigar, will you? i've had a beastly day of it." he drew up in the shade of the village street, and passed the reins to her while he held a match to his cigar. the little flame under his hand cast a deeper crimson on his puffing face, and lily averted her eyes with a momentary feeling of repugnance. and yet some women thought him handsome! as she handed back the reins, she said sympathetically: "did you have such a lot of tiresome things to do?" "i should say so--rather!" trenor, who was seldom listened to, either by his wife or her friends, settled down into the rare enjoyment of a confidential talk. "you don't know how a fellow has to hustle to keep this kind of thing going." he waved his whip in the direction of the bellomont acres, which lay outspread before them in opulent undulations. "judy has no idea of what she spends--not that there isn't plenty to keep the thing going," he interrupted himself, "but a man has got to keep his eyes open and pick up all the tips he can. my father and mother used to live like fighting-cocks on their income, and put by a good bit of it too--luckily for me--but at the pace we go now, i don't know where i should be if it weren't for taking a flyer now and then. the women all think--i mean judy thinks--i've nothing to do but to go down town once a month and cut off coupons, but the truth is it takes a devilish lot of hard work to keep the machinery running. not that i ought to complain to-day, though," he went on after a moment, "for i did a very neat stroke of business, thanks to stepney's friend rosedale: by the way, miss lily, i wish you'd try to persuade judy to be decently civil to that chap. he's going to be rich enough to buy us all out one of these days, and if she'd only ask him to dine now and then i could get almost anything out of him. the man is mad to know the people who don't want to know him, and when a fellow's in that state there is nothing he won't do for the first woman who takes him up." lily hesitated a moment. the first part of her companion's discourse had started an interesting train of thought, which was rudely interrupted by the mention of mr. rosedale's name. she uttered a faint protest. "but you know jack did try to take him about, and he was impossible." "oh, hang it--because he's fat and shiny, and has a sloppy manner! well, all i can say is that the people who are clever enough to be civil to him now will make a mighty good thing of it. a few years from now he'll be in it whether we want him or not, and then he won't be giving away a half-a-million tip for a dinner." lily's mind had reverted from the intrusive personality of mr. rosedale to the train of thought set in motion by trenor's first words. this vast mysterious wall street world of "tips" and "deals"--might she not find in it the means of escape from her dreary predicament? she had often heard of women making money in this way through their friends: she had no more notion than most of her sex of the exact nature of the transaction, and its vagueness seemed to diminish its indelicacy. she could not, indeed, imagine herself, in any extremity, stooping to extract a "tip" from mr. rosedale; but at her side was a man in possession of that precious commodity, and who, as the husband of her dearest friend, stood to her in a relation of almost fraternal intimacy. in her inmost heart lily knew it was not by appealing to the fraternal instinct that she was likely to move gus trenor; but this way of explaining the situation helped to drape its crudity, and she was always scrupulous about keeping up appearances to herself. her personal fastidiousness had a moral equivalent, and when she made a tour of inspection in her own mind there were certain closed doors she did not open. as they reached the gates of bellomont she turned to trenor with a smile. "the afternoon is so perfect--don't you want to drive me a little farther? i've been rather out of spirits all day, and it's so restful to be away from people, with some one who won't mind if i'm a little dull." she looked so plaintively lovely as she proffered the request, so trustfully sure of his sympathy and understanding, that trenor felt himself wishing that his wife could see how other women treated him--not battered wire-pullers like mrs. fisher, but a girl that most men would have given their boots to get such a look from. "out of spirits? why on earth should you ever be out of spirits? is your last box of doucet dresses a failure, or did judy rook you out of everything at bridge last night?" lily shook her head with a sigh. "i have had to give up doucet; and bridge too--i can't afford it. in fact i can't afford any of the things my friends do, and i am afraid judy often thinks me a bore because i don't play cards any longer, and because i am not as smartly dressed as the other women. but you will think me a bore too if i talk to you about my worries, and i only mention them because i want you to do me a favour--the very greatest of favours." her eyes sought his once more, and she smiled inwardly at the tinge of apprehension that she read in them. "why, of course--if it's anything i can manage----" he broke off, and she guessed that his enjoyment was disturbed by the remembrance of mrs. fisher's methods. "the greatest of favours," she rejoined gently. "the fact is, judy is angry with me, and i want you to make my peace." "angry with you? oh, come, nonsense----" his relief broke through in a laugh. "why, you know she's devoted to you." "she is the best friend i have, and that is why i mind having to vex her. but i daresay you know what she has wanted me to do. she has set her heart--poor dear--on my marrying--marrying a great deal of money." she paused with a slight falter of embarrassment, and trenor, turning abruptly, fixed on her a look of growing intelligence. "a great deal of money? oh, by jove--you don't mean gryce? what--you do? oh, no, of course i won't mention it--you can trust me to keep my mouth shut--but gryce--good lord, gryce! did judy really think you could bring yourself to marry that portentous little ass? but you couldn't, eh? and so you gave him the sack, and that's the reason why he lit out by the first train this morning?" he leaned back, spreading himself farther across the seat, as if dilated by the joyful sense of his own discernment. "how on earth could judy think you would do such a thing? i could have told her you'd never put up with such a little milksop!" lily sighed more deeply. "i sometimes think," she murmured, "that men understand a woman's motives better than other women do." "some men--i'm certain of it! i could have told judy," he repeated, exulting in the implied superiority over his wife. "i thought you would understand; that's why i wanted to speak to you," miss bart rejoined. "i can't make that kind of marriage; it's impossible. but neither can i go on living as all the women in my set do. i am almost entirely dependent on my aunt, and though she is very kind to me she makes me no regular allowance, and lately i've lost money at cards, and i don't dare tell her about it. i have paid my card debts, of course, but there is hardly anything left for my other expenses, and if i go on with my present life i shall be in horrible difficulties. i have a tiny income of my own, but i'm afraid it's badly invested, for it seems to bring in less every year, and i am so ignorant of money matters that i don't know if my aunt's agent, who looks after it, is a good adviser." she paused a moment, and added in a lighter tone: "i didn't mean to bore you with all this, but i want your help in making judy understand that i can't, at present, go on living as one must live among you all. i am going away tomorrow to join my aunt at richfield, and i shall stay there for the rest of the autumn, and dismiss my maid and learn how to mend my own clothes." at this picture of loveliness in distress, the pathos of which was heightened by the light touch with which it was drawn, a murmur of indignant sympathy broke from trenor. twenty-four hours earlier, if his wife had consulted him on the subject of miss bart's future, he would have said that a girl with extravagant tastes and no money had better marry the first rich man she could get; but with the subject of discussion at his side, turning to him for sympathy, making him feel that he understood her better than her dearest friends, and confirming the assurance by the appeal of her exquisite nearness, he was ready to swear that such a marriage was a desecration, and that, as a man of honour, he was bound to do all he could to protect her from the results of her disinterestedness. this impulse was reinforced by the reflection that if she had married gryce she would have been surrounded by flattery and approval, whereas, having refused to sacrifice herself to expediency, she was left to bear the whole cost of her resistance. hang it, if he could find a way out of such difficulties for a professional sponge like carry fisher, who was simply a mental habit corresponding to the physical titillations of the cigarette or the cock-tail, he could surely do as much for a girl who appealed to his highest sympathies, and who brought her troubles to him with the trustfulness of a child. trenor and miss bart prolonged their drive till long after sunset; and before it was over he had tried, with some show of success, to prove to her that, if she would only trust him, he could make a handsome sum of money for her without endangering the small amount she possessed. she was too genuinely ignorant of the manipulations of the stock-market to understand his technical explanations, or even perhaps to perceive that certain points in them were slurred; the haziness enveloping the transaction served as a veil for her embarrassment, and through the general blur her hopes dilated like lamps in a fog. she understood only that her modest investments were to be mysteriously multiplied without risk to herself; and the assurance that this miracle would take place within a short time, that there would be no tedious interval for suspense and reaction, relieved her of her lingering scruples. again she felt the lightening of her load, and with it the release of repressed activities. her immediate worries conjured, it was easy to resolve that she would never again find herself in such straits, and as the need of economy and self-denial receded from her foreground she felt herself ready to meet any other demand which life might make. even the immediate one of letting trenor, as they drove homeward, lean a little nearer and rest his hand reassuringly on hers, cost her only a momentary shiver of reluctance. it was part of the game to make him feel that her appeal had been an uncalculated impulse, provoked by the liking he inspired; and the renewed sense of power in handling men, while it consoled her wounded vanity, helped also to obscure the thought of the claim at which his manner hinted. he was a coarse dull man who, under all his show of authority, was a mere supernumerary in the costly show for which his money paid: surely, to a clever girl, it would be easy to hold him by his vanity, and so keep the obligation on his side. chapter the first thousand dollar cheque which lily received with a blotted scrawl from gus trenor strengthened her self-confidence in the exact degree to which it effaced her debts. the transaction had justified itself by its results: she saw now how absurd it would have been to let any primitive scruple deprive her of this easy means of appeasing her creditors. lily felt really virtuous as she dispensed the sum in sops to her tradesmen, and the fact that a fresh order accompanied each payment did not lessen her sense of disinterestedness. how many women, in her place, would have given the orders without making the payment! she had found it reassuringly easy to keep trenor in a good humour. to listen to his stories, to receive his confidences and laugh at his jokes, seemed for the moment all that was required of her, and the complacency with which her hostess regarded these attentions freed them of the least hint of ambiguity. mrs. trenor evidently assumed that lily's growing intimacy with her husband was simply an indirect way of returning her own kindness. "i'm so glad you and gus have become such good friends," she said approvingly. "it's too delightful of you to be so nice to him, and put up with all his tiresome stories. i know what they are, because i had to listen to them when we were engaged--i'm sure he is telling the same ones still. and now i shan't always have to be asking carry fisher here to keep him in a good-humour. she's a perfect vulture, you know; and she hasn't the least moral sense. she is always getting gus to speculate for her, and i'm sure she never pays when she loses." miss bart could shudder at this state of things without the embarrassment of a personal application. her own position was surely quite different. there could be no question of her not paying when she lost, since trenor had assured her that she was certain not to lose. in sending her the cheque he had explained that he had made five thousand for her out of rosedale's "tip," and had put four thousand back in the same venture, as there was the promise of another "big rise"; she understood therefore that he was now speculating with her own money, and that she consequently owed him no more than the gratitude which such a trifling service demanded. she vaguely supposed that, to raise the first sum, he had borrowed on her securities; but this was a point over which her curiosity did not linger. it was concentrated, for the moment, on the probable date of the next "big rise." the news of this event was received by her some weeks later, on the occasion of jack stepney's marriage to miss van osburgh. as a cousin of the bridegroom, miss bart had been asked to act as bridesmaid; but she had declined on the plea that, since she was much taller than the other attendant virgins, her presence might mar the symmetry of the group. the truth was, she had attended too many brides to the altar: when next seen there she meant to be the chief figure in the ceremony. she knew the pleasantries made at the expense of young girls who have been too long before the public, and she was resolved to avoid such assumptions of youthfulness as might lead people to think her older than she really was. the van osburgh marriage was celebrated in the village church near the paternal estate on the hudson. it was the "simple country wedding" to which guests are convoyed in special trains, and from which the hordes of the uninvited have to be fended off by the intervention of the police. while these sylvan rites were taking place, in a church packed with fashion and festooned with orchids, the representatives of the press were threading their way, note-book in hand, through the labyrinth of wedding presents, and the agent of a cinematograph syndicate was setting up his apparatus at the church door. it was the kind of scene in which lily had often pictured herself as taking the principal part, and on this occasion the fact that she was once more merely a casual spectator, instead of the mystically veiled figure occupying the centre of attention, strengthened her resolve to assume the latter part before the year was over. the fact that her immediate anxieties were relieved did not blind her to a possibility of their recurrence; it merely gave her enough buoyancy to rise once more above her doubts and feel a renewed faith in her beauty, her power, and her general fitness to attract a brilliant destiny. it could not be that one conscious of such aptitudes for mastery and enjoyment was doomed to a perpetuity of failure; and her mistakes looked easily reparable in the light of her restored self-confidence. a special appositeness was given to these reflections by the discovery, in a neighbouring pew, of the serious profile and neatly-trimmed beard of mr. percy gryce. there was something almost bridal in his own aspect: his large white gardenia had a symbolic air that struck lily as a good omen. after all, seen in an assemblage of his kind he was not ridiculous-looking: a friendly critic might have called his heaviness weighty, and he was at his best in the attitude of vacant passivity which brings out the oddities of the restless. she fancied he was the kind of man whose sentimental associations would be stirred by the conventional imagery of a wedding, and she pictured herself, in the seclusion of the van osburgh conservatories, playing skillfully upon sensibilities thus prepared for her touch. in fact, when she looked at the other women about her, and recalled the image she had brought away from her own glass, it did not seem as though any special skill would be needed to repair her blunder and bring him once more to her feet. the sight of selden's dark head, in a pew almost facing her, disturbed for a moment the balance of her complacency. the rise of her blood as their eyes met was succeeded by a contrary motion, a wave of resistance and withdrawal. she did not wish to see him again, not because she feared his influence, but because his presence always had the effect of cheapening her aspirations, of throwing her whole world out of focus. besides, he was a living reminder of the worst mistake in her career, and the fact that he had been its cause did not soften her feelings toward him. she could still imagine an ideal state of existence in which, all else being superadded, intercourse with selden might be the last touch of luxury; but in the world as it was, such a privilege was likely to cost more than it was worth. "lily, dear, i never saw you look so lovely! you look as if something delightful had just happened to you!" the young lady who thus formulated her admiration of her brilliant friend did not, in her own person, suggest such happy possibilities. miss gertrude farish, in fact, typified the mediocre and the ineffectual. if there were compensating qualities in her wide frank glance and the freshness of her smile, these were qualities which only the sympathetic observer would perceive before noticing that her eyes were of a workaday grey and her lips without haunting curves. lily's own view of her wavered between pity for her limitations and impatience at her cheerful acceptance of them. to miss bart, as to her mother, acquiescence in dinginess was evidence of stupidity; and there were moments when, in the consciousness of her own power to look and to be so exactly what the occasion required, she almost felt that other girls were plain and inferior from choice. certainly no one need have confessed such acquiescence in her lot as was revealed in the "useful" colour of gerty farish's gown and the subdued lines of her hat: it is almost as stupid to let your clothes betray that you know you are ugly as to have them proclaim that you think you are beautiful. of course, being fatally poor and dingy, it was wise of gerty to have taken up philanthropy and symphony concerts; but there was something irritating in her assumption that existence yielded no higher pleasures, and that one might get as much interest and excitement out of life in a cramped flat as in the splendours of the van osburgh establishment. today, however, her chirping enthusiasms did not irritate lily. they seemed only to throw her own exceptionalness into becoming relief, and give a soaring vastness to her scheme of life. "do let us go and take a peep at the presents before everyone else leaves the dining-room!" suggested miss farish, linking her arm in her friend's. it was characteristic of her to take a sentimental and unenvious interest in all the details of a wedding: she was the kind of person who always kept her handkerchief out during the service, and departed clutching a box of wedding-cake. "isn't everything beautifully done?" she pursued, as they entered the distant drawing-room assigned to the display of miss van osburgh's bridal spoils. "i always say no one does things better than cousin grace! did you ever taste anything more delicious than that mousse of lobster with champagne sauce? i made up my mind weeks ago that i wouldn't miss this wedding, and just fancy how delightfully it all came about. when lawrence selden heard i was coming, he insisted on fetching me himself and driving me to the station, and when we go back this evening i am to dine with him at sherry's. i really feel as excited as if i were getting married myself!" lily smiled: she knew that selden had always been kind to his dull cousin, and she had sometimes wondered why he wasted so much time in such an unremunerative manner; but now the thought gave her a vague pleasure. "do you see him often?" she asked. "yes; he is very good about dropping in on sundays. and now and then we do a play together; but lately i haven't seen much of him. he doesn't look well, and he seems nervous and unsettled. the dear fellow! i do wish he would marry some nice girl. i told him so today, but he said he didn't care for the really nice ones, and the other kind didn't care for him--but that was just his joke, of course. he could never marry a girl who wasn't nice. oh, my dear, did you ever see such pearls?" they had paused before the table on which the bride's jewels were displayed, and lily's heart gave an envious throb as she caught the refraction of light from their surfaces--the milky gleam of perfectly matched pearls, the flash of rubies relieved against contrasting velvet, the intense blue rays of sapphires kindled into light by surrounding diamonds: all these precious tints enhanced and deepened by the varied art of their setting. the glow of the stones warmed lily's veins like wine. more completely than any other expression of wealth they symbolized the life she longed to lead, the life of fastidious aloofness and refinement in which every detail should have the finish of a jewel, and the whole form a harmonious setting to her own jewel-like rareness. "oh, lily, do look at this diamond pendant--it's as big as a dinner-plate! who can have given it?" miss farish bent short-sightedly over the accompanying card. "mr. simon rosedale. what, that horrid man? oh, yes--i remember he's a friend of jack's, and i suppose cousin grace had to ask him here today; but she must rather hate having to let gwen accept such a present from him." lily smiled. she doubted mrs. van osburgh's reluctance, but was aware of miss farish's habit of ascribing her own delicacies of feeling to the persons least likely to be encumbered by them. "well, if gwen doesn't care to be seen wearing it she can always exchange it for something else," she remarked. "ah, here is something so much prettier," miss farish continued. "do look at this exquisite white sapphire. i'm sure the person who chose it must have taken particular pains. what is the name? percy gryce? ah, then i'm not surprised!" she smiled significantly as she replaced the card. "of course you've heard that he's perfectly devoted to evie van osburgh? cousin grace is so pleased about it--it's quite a romance! he met her first at the george dorsets', only about six weeks ago, and it's just the nicest possible marriage for dear evie. oh, i don't mean the money--of course she has plenty of her own--but she's such a quiet stay-at-home kind of girl, and it seems he has just the same tastes; so they are exactly suited to each other." lily stood staring vacantly at the white sapphire on its velvet bed. evie van osburgh and percy gryce? the names rang derisively through her brain. evie van osburgh? the youngest, dumpiest, dullest of the four dull and dumpy daughters whom mrs. van osburgh, with unsurpassed astuteness, had "placed" one by one in enviable niches of existence! ah, lucky girls who grow up in the shelter of a mother's love--a mother who knows how to contrive opportunities without conceding favours, how to take advantage of propinquity without allowing appetite to be dulled by habit! the cleverest girl may miscalculate where her own interests are concerned, may yield too much at one moment and withdraw too far at the next: it takes a mother's unerring vigilance and foresight to land her daughters safely in the arms of wealth and suitability. lily's passing light-heartedness sank beneath a renewed sense of failure. life was too stupid, too blundering! why should percy gryce's millions be joined to another great fortune, why should this clumsy girl be put in possession of powers she would never know how to use? she was roused from these speculations by a familiar touch on her arm, and turning saw gus trenor beside her. she felt a thrill of vexation: what right had he to touch her? luckily gerty farish had wandered off to the next table, and they were alone. trenor, looking stouter than ever in his tight frock-coat, and unbecomingly flushed by the bridal libations, gazed at her with undisguised approval. "by jove, lily, you do look a stunner!" he had slipped insensibly into the use of her christian name, and she had never found the right moment to correct him. besides, in her set all the men and women called each other by their christian names; it was only on trenor's lips that the familiar address had an unpleasant significance. "well," he continued, still jovially impervious to her annoyance, "have you made up your mind which of these little trinkets you mean to duplicate at tiffany's tomorrow? i've got a cheque for you in my pocket that will go a long way in that line!" lily gave him a startled look: his voice was louder than usual, and the room was beginning to fill with people. but as her glance assured her that they were still beyond ear-shot a sense of pleasure replaced her apprehension. "another dividend?" she asked, smiling and drawing near him in the desire not to be overheard. "well, not exactly: i sold out on the rise and i've pulled off four thou' for you. not so bad for a beginner, eh? i suppose you'll begin to think you're a pretty knowing speculator. and perhaps you won't think poor old gus such an awful ass as some people do." "i think you the kindest of friends; but i can't thank you properly now." she let her eyes shine into his with a look that made up for the hand-clasp he would have claimed if they had been alone--and how glad she was that they were not! the news filled her with the glow produced by a sudden cessation of physical pain. the world was not so stupid and blundering after all: now and then a stroke of luck came to the unluckiest. at the thought her spirits began to rise: it was characteristic of her that one trifling piece of good fortune should give wings to all her hopes. instantly came the reflection that percy gryce was not irretrievably lost; and she smiled to think of the excitement of recapturing him from evie van osburgh. what chance could such a simpleton have against her if she chose to exert herself? she glanced about, hoping to catch a glimpse of gryce; but her eyes lit instead on the glossy countenance of mr. rosedale, who was slipping through the crowd with an air half obsequious, half obtrusive, as though, the moment his presence was recognized, it would swell to the dimensions of the room. not wishing to be the means of effecting this enlargement, lily quickly transferred her glance to trenor, to whom the expression of her gratitude seemed not to have brought the complete gratification she had meant it to give. "hang thanking me--i don't want to be thanked, but i should like the chance to say two words to you now and then," he grumbled. "i thought you were going to spend the whole autumn with us, and i've hardly laid eyes on you for the last month. why can't you come back to bellomont this evening? we're all alone, and judy is as cross as two sticks. do come and cheer a fellow up. if you say yes i'll run you over in the motor, and you can telephone your maid to bring your traps from town by the next train." lily shook her head with a charming semblance of regret. "i wish i could--but it's quite impossible. my aunt has come back to town, and i must be with her for the next few days." "well, i've seen a good deal less of you since we've got to be such pals than i used to when you were judy's friend," he continued with unconscious penetration. "when i was judy's friend? am i not her friend still? really, you say the most absurd things! if i were always at bellomont you would tire of me much sooner than judy--but come and see me at my aunt's the next afternoon you are in town; then we can have a nice quiet talk, and you can tell me how i had better invest my fortune." it was true that, during the last three or four weeks, she had absented herself from bellomont on the pretext of having other visits to pay; but she now began to feel that the reckoning she had thus contrived to evade had rolled up interest in the interval. the prospect of the nice quiet talk did not appear as all-sufficing to trenor as she had hoped, and his brows continued to lower as he said: "oh, i don't know that i can promise you a fresh tip every day. but there's one thing you might do for me; and that is, just to be a little civil to rosedale. judy has promised to ask him to dine when we get to town, but i can't induce her to have him at bellomont, and if you would let me bring him up now it would make a lot of difference. i don't believe two women have spoken to him this afternoon, and i can tell you he's a chap it pays to be decent to." miss bart made an impatient movement, but suppressed the words which seemed about to accompany it. after all, this was an unexpectedly easy way of acquitting her debt; and had she not reasons of her own for wishing to be civil to mr. rosedale? "oh, bring him by all means," she said smiling; "perhaps i can get a tip out of him on my own account." trenor paused abruptly, and his eyes fixed themselves on hers with a look which made her change colour. "i say, you know--you'll please remember he's a blooming bounder," he said; and with a slight laugh she turned toward the open window near which they had been standing. the throng in the room had increased, and she felt a desire for space and fresh air. both of these she found on the terrace, where only a few men were lingering over cigarettes and liqueur, while scattered couples strolled across the lawn to the autumn-tinted borders of the flower-garden. as she emerged, a man moved toward her from the knot of smokers, and she found herself face to face with selden. the stir of the pulses which his nearness always caused was increased by a slight sense of constraint. they had not met since their sunday afternoon walk at bellomont, and that episode was still so vivid to her that she could hardly believe him to be less conscious of it. but his greeting expressed no more than the satisfaction which every pretty woman expects to see reflected in masculine eyes; and the discovery, if distasteful to her vanity, was reassuring to her nerves. between the relief of her escape from trenor, and the vague apprehension of her meeting with rosedale, it was pleasant to rest a moment on the sense of complete understanding which lawrence selden's manner always conveyed. "this is luck," he said smiling. "i was wondering if i should be able to have a word with you before the special snatches us away. i came with gerty farish, and promised not to let her miss the train, but i am sure she is still extracting sentimental solace from the wedding presents. she appears to regard their number and value as evidence of the disinterested affection of the contracting parties." there was not the least trace of embarrassment in his voice, and as he spoke, leaning slightly against the jamb of the window, and letting his eyes rest on her in the frank enjoyment of her grace, she felt with a faint chill of regret that he had gone back without an effort to the footing on which they had stood before their last talk together. her vanity was stung by the sight of his unscathed smile. she longed to be to him something more than a piece of sentient prettiness, a passing diversion to his eye and brain; and the longing betrayed itself in her reply. "ah," she said, "i envy gerty that power she has of dressing up with romance all our ugly and prosaic arrangements! i have never recovered my self-respect since you showed me how poor and unimportant my ambitions were." the words were hardly spoken when she realized their infelicity. it seemed to be her fate to appear at her worst to selden. "i thought, on the contrary," he returned lightly, "that i had been the means of proving they were more important to you than anything else." it was as if the eager current of her being had been checked by a sudden obstacle which drove it back upon itself. she looked at him helplessly, like a hurt or frightened child: this real self of hers, which he had the faculty of drawing out of the depths, was so little accustomed to go alone! the appeal of her helplessness touched in him, as it always did, a latent chord of inclination. it would have meant nothing to him to discover that his nearness made her more brilliant, but this glimpse of a twilight mood to which he alone had the clue seemed once more to set him in a world apart with her. "at least you can't think worse things of me than you say!" she exclaimed with a trembling laugh; but before he could answer, the flow of comprehension between them was abruptly stayed by the reappearance of gus trenor, who advanced with mr. rosedale in his wake. "hang it, lily, i thought you'd given me the slip: rosedale and i have been hunting all over for you!" his voice had a note of conjugal familiarity: miss bart fancied she detected in rosedale's eye a twinkling perception of the fact, and the idea turned her dislike of him to repugnance. she returned his profound bow with a slight nod, made more disdainful by the sense of selden's surprise that she should number rosedale among her acquaintances. trenor had turned away, and his companion continued to stand before miss bart, alert and expectant, his lips parted in a smile at whatever she might be about to say, and his very back conscious of the privilege of being seen with her. it was the moment for tact; for the quick bridging over of gaps; but selden still leaned against the window, a detached observer of the scene, and under the spell of his observation lily felt herself powerless to exert her usual arts. the dread of selden's suspecting that there was any need for her to propitiate such a man as rosedale checked the trivial phrases of politeness. rosedale still stood before her in an expectant attitude, and she continued to face him in silence, her glance just level with his polished baldness. the look put the finishing touch to what her silence implied. he reddened slowly, shifting from one foot to the other, fingered the plump black pearl in his tie, and gave a nervous twist to his moustache; then, running his eye over her, he drew back, and said, with a side-glance at selden: "upon my soul, i never saw a more ripping get-up. is that the last creation of the dress-maker you go to see at the benedick? if so, i wonder all the other women don't go to her too!" the words were projected sharply against lily's silence, and she saw in a flash that her own act had given them their emphasis. in ordinary talk they might have passed unheeded; but following on her prolonged pause they acquired a special meaning. she felt, without looking, that selden had immediately seized it, and would inevitably connect the allusion with her visit to himself. the consciousness increased her irritation against rosedale, but also her feeling that now, if ever, was the moment to propitiate him, hateful as it was to do so in selden's presence. "how do you know the other women don't go to my dress-maker?" she returned. "you see i'm not afraid to give her address to my friends!" her glance and accent so plainly included rosedale in this privileged circle that his small eyes puckered with gratification, and a knowing smile drew up his moustache. "by jove, you needn't be!" he declared. "you could give 'em the whole outfit and win at a canter!" "ah, that's nice of you; and it would be nicer still if you would carry me off to a quiet corner, and get me a glass of lemonade or some innocent drink before we all have to rush for the train." she turned away as she spoke, letting him strut at her side through the gathering groups on the terrace, while every nerve in her throbbed with the consciousness of what selden must have thought of the scene. but under her angry sense of the perverseness of things, and the light surface of her talk with rosedale, a third idea persisted: she did not mean to leave without an attempt to discover the truth about percy gryce. chance, or perhaps his own resolve, had kept them apart since his hasty withdrawal from bellomont; but miss bart was an expert in making the most of the unexpected, and the distasteful incidents of the last few minutes--the revelation to selden of precisely that part of her life which she most wished him to ignore--increased her longing for shelter, for escape from such humiliating contingencies. any definite situation would be more tolerable than this buffeting of chances, which kept her in an attitude of uneasy alertness toward every possibility of life. indoors there was a general sense of dispersal in the air, as of an audience gathering itself up for departure after the principal actors had left the stage; but among the remaining groups, lily could discover neither gryce nor the youngest miss van osburgh. that both should be missing struck her with foreboding; and she charmed mr. rosedale by proposing that they should make their way to the conservatories at the farther end of the house. there were just enough people left in the long suite of rooms to make their progress conspicuous, and lily was aware of being followed by looks of amusement and interrogation, which glanced off as harmlessly from her indifference as from her companion's self-satisfaction. she cared very little at that moment about being seen with rosedale: all her thoughts were centred on the object of her search. the latter, however, was not discoverable in the conservatories, and lily, oppressed by a sudden conviction of failure, was casting about for a way to rid herself of her now superfluous companion, when they came upon mrs. van osburgh, flushed and exhausted, but beaming with the consciousness of duty performed. she glanced at them a moment with the benign but vacant eye of the tired hostess, to whom her guests have become mere whirling spots in a kaleidoscope of fatigue; then her attention became suddenly fixed, and she seized on miss bart with a confidential gesture. "my dear lily, i haven't had time for a word with you, and now i suppose you are just off. have you seen evie? she's been looking everywhere for you: she wanted to tell you her little secret; but i daresay you have guessed it already. the engagement is not to be announced till next week--but you are such a friend of mr. gryce's that they both wished you to be the first to know of their happiness." chapter in mrs. peniston's youth, fashion had returned to town in october; therefore on the tenth day of the month the blinds of her fifth avenue residence were drawn up, and the eyes of the dying gladiator in bronze who occupied the drawing-room window resumed their survey of that deserted thoroughfare. the first two weeks after her return represented to mrs. peniston the domestic equivalent of a religious retreat. she "went through" the linen and blankets in the precise spirit of the penitent exploring the inner folds of conscience; she sought for moths as the stricken soul seeks for lurking infirmities. the topmost shelf of every closet was made to yield up its secret, cellar and coal-bin were probed to their darkest depths and, as a final stage in the lustral rites, the entire house was swathed in penitential white and deluged with expiatory soapsuds. it was on this phase of the proceedings that miss bart entered on the afternoon of her return from the van osburgh wedding. the journey back to town had not been calculated to soothe her nerves. though evie van osburgh's engagement was still officially a secret, it was one of which the innumerable intimate friends of the family were already possessed; and the trainful of returning guests buzzed with allusions and anticipations. lily was acutely aware of her own part in this drama of innuendo: she knew the exact quality of the amusement the situation evoked. the crude forms in which her friends took their pleasure included a loud enjoyment of such complications: the zest of surprising destiny in the act of playing a practical joke. lily knew well enough how to bear herself in difficult situations. she had, to a shade, the exact manner between victory and defeat: every insinuation was shed without an effort by the bright indifference of her manner. but she was beginning to feel the strain of the attitude; the reaction was more rapid, and she lapsed to a deeper self-disgust. as was always the case with her, this moral repulsion found a physical outlet in a quickened distaste for her surroundings. she revolted from the complacent ugliness of mrs. peniston's black walnut, from the slippery gloss of the vestibule tiles, and the mingled odour of sapolio and furniture-polish that met her at the door. the stairs were still carpetless, and on the way up to her room she was arrested on the landing by an encroaching tide of soapsuds. gathering up her skirts, she drew aside with an impatient gesture; and as she did so she had the odd sensation of having already found herself in the same situation but in different surroundings. it seemed to her that she was again descending the staircase from selden's rooms; and looking down to remonstrate with the dispenser of the soapy flood, she found herself met by a lifted stare which had once before confronted her under similar circumstances. it was the char-woman of the benedick who, resting on crimson elbows, examined her with the same unflinching curiosity, the same apparent reluctance to let her pass. on this occasion, however, miss bart was on her own ground. "don't you see that i wish to go by? please move your pail," she said sharply. the woman at first seemed not to hear; then, without a word of excuse, she pushed back her pail and dragged a wet floor-cloth across the landing, keeping her eyes fixed on lily while the latter swept by. it was insufferable that mrs. peniston should have such creatures about the house; and lily entered her room resolved that the woman should be dismissed that evening. mrs. peniston, however, was at the moment inaccessible to remonstrance: since early morning she had been shut up with her maid, going over her furs, a process which formed the culminating episode in the drama of household renovation. in the evening also lily found herself alone, for her aunt, who rarely dined out, had responded to the summons of a van alstyne cousin who was passing through town. the house, in its state of unnatural immaculateness and order, was as dreary as a tomb, and as lily, turning from her brief repast between shrouded sideboards, wandered into the newly-uncovered glare of the drawing-room she felt as though she were buried alive in the stifling limits of mrs. peniston's existence. she usually contrived to avoid being at home during the season of domestic renewal. on the present occasion, however, a variety of reasons had combined to bring her to town; and foremost among them was the fact that she had fewer invitations than usual for the autumn. she had so long been accustomed to pass from one country-house to another, till the close of the holidays brought her friends to town, that the unfilled gaps of time confronting her produced a sharp sense of waning popularity. it was as she had said to selden--people were tired of her. they would welcome her in a new character, but as miss bart they knew her by heart. she knew herself by heart too, and was sick of the old story. there were moments when she longed blindly for anything different, anything strange, remote and untried; but the utmost reach of her imagination did not go beyond picturing her usual life in a new setting. she could not figure herself as anywhere but in a drawing-room, diffusing elegance as a flower sheds perfume. meanwhile, as october advanced she had to face the alternative of returning to the trenors or joining her aunt in town. even the desolating dulness of new york in october, and the soapy discomforts of mrs. peniston's interior, seemed preferable to what might await her at bellomont; and with an air of heroic devotion she announced her intention of remaining with her aunt till the holidays. sacrifices of this nature are sometimes received with feelings as mixed as those which actuate them; and mrs. peniston remarked to her confidential maid that, if any of the family were to be with her at such a crisis (though for forty years she had been thought competent to see to the hanging of her own curtains), she would certainly have preferred miss grace to miss lily. grace stepney was an obscure cousin, of adaptable manners and vicarious interests, who "ran in" to sit with mrs. peniston when lily dined out too continuously; who played bezique, picked up dropped stitches, read out the deaths from the times, and sincerely admired the purple satin drawing-room curtains, the dying gladiator in the window, and the seven-by-five painting of niagara which represented the one artistic excess of mr. peniston's temperate career. mrs. peniston, under ordinary circumstances, was as much bored by her excellent cousin as the recipient of such services usually is by the person who performs them. she greatly preferred the brilliant and unreliable lily, who did not know one end of a crochet-needle from the other, and had frequently wounded her susceptibilities by suggesting that the drawing-room should be "done over." but when it came to hunting for missing napkins, or helping to decide whether the backstairs needed re-carpeting, grace's judgment was certainly sounder than lily's: not to mention the fact that the latter resented the smell of beeswax and brown soap, and behaved as though she thought a house ought to keep clean of itself, without extraneous assistance. seated under the cheerless blaze of the drawing-room chandelier--mrs. peniston never lit the lamps unless there was "company"--lily seemed to watch her own figure retreating down vistas of neutral-tinted dulness to a middle age like grace stepney's. when she ceased to amuse judy trenor and her friends she would have to fall back on amusing mrs. peniston; whichever way she looked she saw only a future of servitude to the whims of others, never the possibility of asserting her own eager individuality. a ring at the door-bell, sounding emphatically through the empty house, roused her suddenly to the extent of her boredom. it was as though all the weariness of the past months had culminated in the vacuity of that interminable evening. if only the ring meant a summons from the outer world--a token that she was still remembered and wanted! after some delay a parlour-maid presented herself with the announcement that there was a person outside who was asking to see miss bart; and on lily's pressing for a more specific description, she added: "it's mrs. haffen, miss; she won't say what she wants." lily, to whom the name conveyed nothing, opened the door upon a woman in a battered bonnet, who stood firmly planted under the hall-light. the glare of the unshaded gas shone familiarly on her pock-marked face and the reddish baldness visible through thin strands of straw-coloured hair. lily looked at the char-woman in surprise. "do you wish to see me?" she asked. "i should like to say a word to you, miss." the tone was neither aggressive nor conciliatory: it revealed nothing of the speaker's errand. nevertheless, some precautionary instinct warned lily to withdraw beyond ear-shot of the hovering parlour-maid. she signed to mrs. haffen to follow her into the drawing-room, and closed the door when they had entered. "what is it that you wish?" she enquired. the char-woman, after the manner of her kind, stood with her arms folded in her shawl. unwinding the latter, she produced a small parcel wrapped in dirty newspaper. "i have something here that you might like to see, miss bart." she spoke the name with an unpleasant emphasis, as though her knowing it made a part of her reason for being there. to lily the intonation sounded like a threat. "you have found something belonging to me?" she asked, extending her hand. mrs. haffen drew back. "well, if it comes to that, i guess it's mine as much as anybody's," she returned. lily looked at her perplexedly. she was sure, now, that her visitor's manner conveyed a threat; but, expert as she was in certain directions, there was nothing in her experience to prepare her for the exact significance of the present scene. she felt, however, that it must be ended as promptly as possible. "i don't understand; if this parcel is not mine, why have you asked for me?" the woman was unabashed by the question. she was evidently prepared to answer it, but like all her class she had to go a long way back to make a beginning, and it was only after a pause that she replied: "my husband was janitor to the benedick till the first of the month; since then he can't get nothing to do." lily remained silent and she continued: "it wasn't no fault of our own, neither: the agent had another man he wanted the place for, and we was put out, bag and baggage, just to suit his fancy. i had a long sickness last winter, and an operation that ate up all we'd put by; and it's hard for me and the children, haffen being so long out of a job." after all, then, she had come only to ask miss bart to find a place for her husband; or, more probably, to seek the young lady's intervention with mrs. peniston. lily had such an air of always getting what she wanted that she was used to being appealed to as an intermediary, and, relieved of her vague apprehension, she took refuge in the conventional formula. "i am sorry you have been in trouble," she said. "oh, that we have, miss, and it's on'y just beginning. if on'y we'd 'a got another situation--but the agent, he's dead against us. it ain't no fault of ours, neither, but----" at this point lily's impatience overcame her. "if you have anything to say to me----" she interposed. the woman's resentment of the rebuff seemed to spur her lagging ideas. "yes, miss; i'm coming to that," she said. she paused again, with her eyes on lily, and then continued, in a tone of diffuse narrative: "when we was at the benedick i had charge of some of the gentlemen's rooms; leastways, i swep' 'em out on saturdays. some of the gentlemen got the greatest sight of letters: i never saw the like of it. their waste-paper baskets 'd be fairly brimming, and papers falling over on the floor. maybe havin' so many is how they get so careless. some of 'em is worse than others. mr. selden, mr. lawrence selden, he was always one of the carefullest: burnt his letters in winter, and tore 'em in little bits in summer. but sometimes he'd have so many he'd just bunch 'em together, the way the others did, and tear the lot through once--like this." while she spoke she had loosened the string from the parcel in her hand, and now she drew forth a letter which she laid on the table between miss bart and herself. as she had said, the letter was torn in two; but with a rapid gesture she laid the torn edges together and smoothed out the page. a wave of indignation swept over lily. she felt herself in the presence of something vile, as yet but dimly conjectured--the kind of vileness of which people whispered, but which she had never thought of as touching her own life. she drew back with a motion of disgust, but her withdrawal was checked by a sudden discovery: under the glare of mrs. peniston's chandelier she had recognized the hand-writing of the letter. it was a large disjointed hand, with a flourish of masculinity which but slightly disguised its rambling weakness, and the words, scrawled in heavy ink on pale-tinted notepaper, smote on lily's ear as though she had heard them spoken. at first she did not grasp the full import of the situation. she understood only that before her lay a letter written by bertha dorset, and addressed, presumably, to lawrence selden. there was no date, but the blackness of the ink proved the writing to be comparatively recent. the packet in mrs. haffen's hand doubtless contained more letters of the same kind--a dozen, lily conjectured from its thickness. the letter before her was short, but its few words, which had leapt into her brain before she was conscious of reading them, told a long history--a history over which, for the last four years, the friends of the writer had smiled and shrugged, viewing it merely as one among the countless "good situations" of the mundane comedy. now the other side presented itself to lily, the volcanic nether side of the surface over which conjecture and innuendo glide so lightly till the first fissure turns their whisper to a shriek. lily knew that there is nothing society resents so much as having given its protection to those who have not known how to profit by it: it is for having betrayed its connivance that the body social punishes the offender who is found out. and in this case there was no doubt of the issue. the code of lily's world decreed that a woman's husband should be the only judge of her conduct: she was technically above suspicion while she had the shelter of his approval, or even of his indifference. but with a man of george dorset's temper there could be no thought of condonation--the possessor of his wife's letters could overthrow with a touch the whole structure of her existence. and into what hands bertha dorset's secret had been delivered! for a moment the irony of the coincidence tinged lily's disgust with a confused sense of triumph. but the disgust prevailed--all her instinctive resistances, of taste, of training, of blind inherited scruples, rose against the other feeling. her strongest sense was one of personal contamination. she moved away, as though to put as much distance as possible between herself and her visitor. "i know nothing of these letters," she said; "i have no idea why you have brought them here." mrs. haffen faced her steadily. "i'll tell you why, miss. i brought 'em to you to sell, because i ain't got no other way of raising money, and if we don't pay our rent by tomorrow night we'll be put out. i never done anythin' of the kind before, and if you'd speak to mr. selden or to mr. rosedale about getting haffen taken on again at the benedick--i seen you talking to mr. rosedale on the steps that day you come out of mr. selden's rooms----" the blood rushed to lily's forehead. she understood now--mrs. haffen supposed her to be the writer of the letters. in the first leap of her anger she was about to ring and order the woman out; but an obscure impulse restrained her. the mention of selden's name had started a new train of thought. bertha dorset's letters were nothing to her--they might go where the current of chance carried them! but selden was inextricably involved in their fate. men do not, at worst, suffer much from such exposure; and in this instance the flash of divination which had carried the meaning of the letters to lily's brain had revealed also that they were appeals--repeated and therefore probably unanswered--for the renewal of a tie which time had evidently relaxed. nevertheless, the fact that the correspondence had been allowed to fall into strange hands would convict selden of negligence in a matter where the world holds it least pardonable; and there were graver risks to consider where a man of dorset's ticklish balance was concerned. if she weighed all these things it was unconsciously: she was aware only of feeling that selden would wish the letters rescued, and that therefore she must obtain possession of them. beyond that her mind did not travel. she had, indeed, a quick vision of returning the packet to bertha dorset, and of the opportunities the restitution offered; but this thought lit up abysses from which she shrank back ashamed. meanwhile mrs. haffen, prompt to perceive her hesitation, had already opened the packet and ranged its contents on the table. all the letters had been pieced together with strips of thin paper. some were in small fragments, the others merely torn in half. though there were not many, thus spread out they nearly covered the table. lily's glance fell on a word here and there--then she said in a low voice: "what do you wish me to pay you?" mrs. haffen's face reddened with satisfaction. it was clear that the young lady was badly frightened, and mrs. haffen was the woman to make the most of such fears. anticipating an easier victory than she had foreseen, she named an exorbitant sum. but miss bart showed herself a less ready prey than might have been expected from her imprudent opening. she refused to pay the price named, and after a moment's hesitation, met it by a counter-offer of half the amount. mrs. haffen immediately stiffened. her hand travelled toward the outspread letters, and folding them slowly, she made as though to restore them to their wrapping. "i guess they're worth more to you than to me, miss, but the poor has got to live as well as the rich," she observed sententiously. lily was throbbing with fear, but the insinuation fortified her resistance. "you are mistaken," she said indifferently. "i have offered all i am willing to give for the letters; but there may be other ways of getting them." mrs. haffen raised a suspicious glance: she was too experienced not to know that the traffic she was engaged in had perils as great as its rewards, and she had a vision of the elaborate machinery of revenge which a word of this commanding young lady's might set in motion. she applied the corner of her shawl to her eyes, and murmured through it that no good came of bearing too hard on the poor, but that for her part she had never been mixed up in such a business before, and that on her honour as a christian all she and haffen had thought of was that the letters mustn't go any farther. lily stood motionless, keeping between herself and the char-woman the greatest distance compatible with the need of speaking in low tones. the idea of bargaining for the letters was intolerable to her, but she knew that, if she appeared to weaken, mrs. haffen would at once increase her original demand. she could never afterward recall how long the duel lasted, or what was the decisive stroke which finally, after a lapse of time recorded in minutes by the clock, in hours by the precipitate beat of her pulses, put her in possession of the letters; she knew only that the door had finally closed, and that she stood alone with the packet in her hand. she had no idea of reading the letters; even to unfold mrs. haffen's dirty newspaper would have seemed degrading. but what did she intend to do with its contents? the recipient of the letters had meant to destroy them, and it was her duty to carry out his intention. she had no right to keep them--to do so was to lessen whatever merit lay in having secured their possession. but how destroy them so effectually that there should be no second risk of their falling in such hands? mrs. peniston's icy drawing-room grate shone with a forbidding lustre: the fire, like the lamps, was never lit except when there was company. miss bart was turning to carry the letters upstairs when she heard the opening of the outer door, and her aunt entered the drawing-room. mrs. peniston was a small plump woman, with a colourless skin lined with trivial wrinkles. her grey hair was arranged with precision, and her clothes looked excessively new and yet slightly old-fashioned. they were always black and tightly fitting, with an expensive glitter: she was the kind of woman who wore jet at breakfast. lily had never seen her when she was not cuirassed in shining black, with small tight boots, and an air of being packed and ready to start; yet she never started. she looked about the drawing-room with an expression of minute scrutiny. "i saw a streak of light under one of the blinds as i drove up: it's extraordinary that i can never teach that woman to draw them down evenly." having corrected the irregularity, she seated herself on one of the glossy purple arm-chairs; mrs. peniston always sat on a chair, never in it. then she turned her glance to miss bart. "my dear, you look tired; i suppose it's the excitement of the wedding. cornelia van alstyne was full of it: molly was there, and gerty farish ran in for a minute to tell us about it. i think it was odd, their serving melons before the consomme: a wedding breakfast should always begin with consomme. molly didn't care for the bridesmaids' dresses. she had it straight from julia melson that they cost three hundred dollars apiece at celeste's, but she says they didn't look it. i'm glad you decided not to be a bridesmaid; that shade of salmon-pink wouldn't have suited you." mrs. peniston delighted in discussing the minutest details of festivities in which she had not taken part. nothing would have induced her to undergo the exertion and fatigue of attending the van osburgh wedding, but so great was her interest in the event that, having heard two versions of it, she now prepared to extract a third from her niece. lily, however, had been deplorably careless in noting the particulars of the entertainment. she had failed to observe the colour of mrs. van osburgh's gown, and could not even say whether the old van osburgh sevres had been used at the bride's table: mrs. peniston, in short, found that she was of more service as a listener than as a narrator. "really, lily, i don't see why you took the trouble to go to the wedding, if you don't remember what happened or whom you saw there. when i was a girl i used to keep the menu of every dinner i went to, and write the names of the people on the back; and i never threw away my cotillion favours till after your uncle's death, when it seemed unsuitable to have so many coloured things about the house. i had a whole closet-full, i remember; and i can tell to this day what balls i got them at. molly van alstyne reminds me of what i was at that age; it's wonderful how she notices. she was able to tell her mother exactly how the wedding-dress was cut, and we knew at once, from the fold in the back, that it must have come from paquin." mrs. peniston rose abruptly, and, advancing to the ormolu clock surmounted by a helmeted minerva, which throned on the chimney-piece between two malachite vases, passed her lace handkerchief between the helmet and its visor. "i knew it--the parlour-maid never dusts there!" she exclaimed, triumphantly displaying a minute spot on the handkerchief; then, reseating herself, she went on: "molly thought mrs. dorset the best-dressed woman at the wedding. i've no doubt her dress did cost more than any one else's, but i can't quite like the idea--a combination of sable and point de milan. it seems she goes to a new man in paris, who won't take an order till his client has spent a day with him at his villa at neuilly. he says he must study his subject's home life--a most peculiar arrangement, i should say! but mrs. dorset told molly about it herself: she said the villa was full of the most exquisite things and she was really sorry to leave. molly said she never saw her looking better; she was in tremendous spirits, and said she had made a match between evie van osburgh and percy gryce. she really seems to have a very good influence on young men. i hear she is interesting herself now in that silly silverton boy, who has had his head turned by carry fisher, and has been gambling so dreadfully. well, as i was saying, evie is really engaged: mrs. dorset had her to stay with percy gryce, and managed it all, and grace van osburgh is in the seventh heaven--she had almost despaired of marrying evie." mrs. peniston again paused, but this time her scrutiny addressed itself, not to the furniture, but to her niece. "cornelia van alstyne was so surprised: she had heard that you were to marry young gryce. she saw the wetheralls just after they had stopped with you at bellomont, and alice wetherall was quite sure there was an engagement. she said that when mr. gryce left unexpectedly one morning, they all thought he had rushed to town for the ring." lily rose and moved toward the door. "i believe i am tired: i think i will go to bed," she said; and mrs. peniston, suddenly distracted by the discovery that the easel sustaining the late mr. peniston's crayon-portrait was not exactly in line with the sofa in front of it, presented an absent-minded brow to her kiss. in her own room lily turned up the gas-jet and glanced toward the grate. it was as brilliantly polished as the one below, but here at least she could burn a few papers with less risk of incurring her aunt's disapproval. she made no immediate motion to do so, however, but dropping into a chair looked wearily about her. her room was large and comfortably-furnished--it was the envy and admiration of poor grace stepney, who boarded; but, contrasted with the light tints and luxurious appointments of the guest-rooms where so many weeks of lily's existence were spent, it seemed as dreary as a prison. the monumental wardrobe and bedstead of black walnut had migrated from mr. peniston's bedroom, and the magenta "flock" wall-paper, of a pattern dear to the early 'sixties, was hung with large steel engravings of an anecdotic character. lily had tried to mitigate this charmless background by a few frivolous touches, in the shape of a lace-decked toilet table and a little painted desk surmounted by photographs; but the futility of the attempt struck her as she looked about the room. what a contrast to the subtle elegance of the setting she had pictured for herself--an apartment which should surpass the complicated luxury of her friends' surroundings by the whole extent of that artistic sensibility which made her feel herself their superior; in which every tint and line should combine to enhance her beauty and give distinction to her leisure! once more the haunting sense of physical ugliness was intensified by her mental depression, so that each piece of the offending furniture seemed to thrust forth its most aggressive angle. her aunt's words had told her nothing new; but they had revived the vision of bertha dorset, smiling, flattered, victorious, holding her up to ridicule by insinuations intelligible to every member of their little group. the thought of the ridicule struck deeper than any other sensation: lily knew every turn of the allusive jargon which could flay its victims without the shedding of blood. her cheek burned at the recollection, and she rose and caught up the letters. she no longer meant to destroy them: that intention had been effaced by the quick corrosion of mrs. peniston's words. instead, she approached her desk, and lighting a taper, tied and sealed the packet; then she opened the wardrobe, drew out a despatch-box, and deposited the letters within it. as she did so, it struck her with a flash of irony that she was indebted to gus trenor for the means of buying them. chapter the autumn dragged on monotonously. miss bart had received one or two notes from judy trenor, reproaching her for not returning to bellomont; but she replied evasively, alleging the obligation to remain with her aunt. in truth, however, she was fast wearying of her solitary existence with mrs. peniston, and only the excitement of spending her newly-acquired money lightened the dulness of the days. all her life lily had seen money go out as quickly as it came in, and whatever theories she cultivated as to the prudence of setting aside a part of her gains, she had unhappily no saving vision of the risks of the opposite course. it was a keen satisfaction to feel that, for a few months at least, she would be independent of her friends' bounty, that she could show herself abroad without wondering whether some penetrating eye would detect in her dress the traces of judy trenor's refurbished splendour. the fact that the money freed her temporarily from all minor obligations obscured her sense of the greater one it represented, and having never before known what it was to command so large a sum, she lingered delectably over the amusement of spending it. it was on one of these occasions that, leaving a shop where she had spent an hour of deliberation over a dressing-case of the most complicated elegance, she ran across miss farish, who had entered the same establishment with the modest object of having her watch repaired. lily was feeling unusually virtuous. she had decided to defer the purchase of the dressing-case till she should receive the bill for her new opera-cloak, and the resolve made her feel much richer than when she had entered the shop. in this mood of self-approval she had a sympathetic eye for others, and she was struck by her friend's air of dejection. miss farish, it appeared, had just left the committee-meeting of a struggling charity in which she was interested. the object of the association was to provide comfortable lodgings, with a reading-room and other modest distractions, where young women of the class employed in down town offices might find a home when out of work, or in need of rest, and the first year's financial report showed so deplorably small a balance that miss farish, who was convinced of the urgency of the work, felt proportionately discouraged by the small amount of interest it aroused. the other-regarding sentiments had not been cultivated in lily, and she was often bored by the relation of her friend's philanthropic efforts, but today her quick dramatizing fancy seized on the contrast between her own situation and that represented by some of gerty's "cases." these were young girls, like herself; some perhaps pretty, some not without a trace of her finer sensibilities. she pictured herself leading such a life as theirs--a life in which achievement seemed as squalid as failure--and the vision made her shudder sympathetically. the price of the dressing-case was still in her pocket; and drawing out her little gold purse she slipped a liberal fraction of the amount into miss farish's hand. the satisfaction derived from this act was all that the most ardent moralist could have desired. lily felt a new interest in herself as a person of charitable instincts: she had never before thought of doing good with the wealth she had so often dreamed of possessing, but now her horizon was enlarged by the vision of a prodigal philanthropy. moreover, by some obscure process of logic, she felt that her momentary burst of generosity had justified all previous extravagances, and excused any in which she might subsequently indulge. miss farish's surprise and gratitude confirmed this feeling, and lily parted from her with a sense of self-esteem which she naturally mistook for the fruits of altruism. about this time she was farther cheered by an invitation to spend the thanksgiving week at a camp in the adirondacks. the invitation was one which, a year earlier, would have provoked a less ready response, for the party, though organized by mrs. fisher, was ostensibly given by a lady of obscure origin and indomitable social ambitions, whose acquaintance lily had hitherto avoided. now, however, she was disposed to coincide with mrs. fisher's view, that it didn't matter who gave the party, as long as things were well done; and doing things well (under competent direction) was mrs. wellington bry's strong point. the lady (whose consort was known as "welly" bry on the stock exchange and in sporting circles) had already sacrificed one husband, and sundry minor considerations, to her determination to get on; and, having obtained a hold on carry fisher, she was astute enough to perceive the wisdom of committing herself entirely to that lady's guidance. everything, accordingly, was well done, for there was no limit to mrs. fisher's prodigality when she was not spending her own money, and as she remarked to her pupil, a good cook was the best introduction to society. if the company was not as select as the cuisine, the welly brys at least had the satisfaction of figuring for the first time in the society columns in company with one or two noticeable names; and foremost among these was of course miss bart's. the young lady was treated by her hosts with corresponding deference; and she was in the mood when such attentions are acceptable, whatever their source. mrs. bry's admiration was a mirror in which lily's self-complacency recovered its lost outline. no insect hangs its nest on threads as frail as those which will sustain the weight of human vanity; and the sense of being of importance among the insignificant was enough to restore to miss bart the gratifying consciousness of power. if these people paid court to her it proved that she was still conspicuous in the world to which they aspired; and she was not above a certain enjoyment in dazzling them by her fineness, in developing their puzzled perception of her superiorities. perhaps, however, her enjoyment proceeded more than she was aware from the physical stimulus of the excursion, the challenge of crisp cold and hard exercise, the responsive thrill of her body to the influences of the winter woods. she returned to town in a glow of rejuvenation, conscious of a clearer colour in her cheeks, a fresh elasticity in her muscles. the future seemed full of a vague promise, and all her apprehensions were swept out of sight on the buoyant current of her mood. a few days after her return to town she had the unpleasant surprise of a visit from mr. rosedale. he came late, at the confidential hour when the tea-table still lingers by the fire in friendly expectancy; and his manner showed a readiness to adapt itself to the intimacy of the occasion. lily, who had a vague sense of his being somehow connected with her lucky speculations, tried to give him the welcome he expected; but there was something in the quality of his geniality which chilled her own, and she was conscious of marking each step in their acquaintance by a fresh blunder. mr. rosedale--making himself promptly at home in an adjoining easy-chair, and sipping his tea critically, with the comment: "you ought to go to my man for something really good"--appeared totally unconscious of the repugnance which kept her in frozen erectness behind the urn. it was perhaps her very manner of holding herself aloof that appealed to his collector's passion for the rare and unattainable. he gave, at any rate, no sign of resenting it and seemed prepared to supply in his own manner all the ease that was lacking in hers. his object in calling was to ask her to go to the opera in his box on the opening night, and seeing her hesitate he said persuasively: "mrs. fisher is coming, and i've secured a tremendous admirer of yours, who'll never forgive me if you don't accept." as lily's silence left him with this allusion on his hands, he added with a confidential smile: "gus trenor has promised to come to town on purpose. i fancy he'd go a good deal farther for the pleasure of seeing you." miss bart felt an inward motion of annoyance: it was distasteful enough to hear her name coupled with trenor's, and on rosedale's lips the allusion was peculiarly unpleasant. "the trenors are my best friends--i think we should all go a long way to see each other," she said, absorbing herself in the preparation of fresh tea. her visitor's smile grew increasingly intimate. "well, i wasn't thinking of mrs. trenor at the moment--they say gus doesn't always, you know." then, dimly conscious that he had not struck the right note, he added, with a well-meant effort at diversion: "how's your luck been going in wall street, by the way? i hear gus pulled off a nice little pile for you last month." lily put down the tea-caddy with an abrupt gesture. she felt that her hands were trembling, and clasped them on her knee to steady them; but her lip trembled too, and for a moment she was afraid the tremor might communicate itself to her voice. when she spoke, however, it was in a tone of perfect lightness. "ah, yes--i had a little bit of money to invest, and mr. trenor, who helps me about such matters, advised my putting it in stocks instead of a mortgage, as my aunt's agent wanted me to do; and as it happened, i made a lucky 'turn'--is that what you call it? for you make a great many yourself, i believe." she was smiling back at him now, relaxing the tension of her attitude, and admitting him, by imperceptible gradations of glance and manner, a step farther toward intimacy. the protective instinct always nerved her to successful dissimulation, and it was not the first time she had used her beauty to divert attention from an inconvenient topic. when mr. rosedale took leave, he carried with him, not only her acceptance of his invitation, but a general sense of having comported himself in a way calculated to advance his cause. he had always believed he had a light touch and a knowing way with women, and the prompt manner in which miss bart (as he would have phrased it) had "come into line," confirmed his confidence in his powers of handling this skittish sex. her way of glossing over the transaction with trenor he regarded at once as a tribute to his own acuteness, and a confirmation of his suspicions. the girl was evidently nervous, and mr. rosedale, if he saw no other means of advancing his acquaintance with her, was not above taking advantage of her nervousness. he left lily to a passion of disgust and fear. it seemed incredible that gus trenor should have spoken of her to rosedale. with all his faults, trenor had the safeguard of his traditions, and was the less likely to overstep them because they were so purely instinctive. but lily recalled with a pang that there were convivial moments when, as judy had confided to her, gus "talked foolishly": in one of these, no doubt, the fatal word had slipped from him. as for rosedale, she did not, after the first shock, greatly care what conclusions he had drawn. though usually adroit enough where her own interests were concerned, she made the mistake, not uncommon to persons in whom the social habits are instinctive, of supposing that the inability to acquire them quickly implies a general dulness. because a blue-bottle bangs irrationally against a window-pane, the drawing-room naturalist may forget that under less artificial conditions it is capable of measuring distances and drawing conclusions with all the accuracy needful to its welfare; and the fact that mr. rosedale's drawing-room manner lacked perspective made lily class him with trenor and the other dull men she knew, and assume that a little flattery, and the occasional acceptance of his hospitality, would suffice to render him innocuous. however, there could be no doubt of the expediency of showing herself in his box on the opening night of the opera; and after all, since judy trenor had promised to take him up that winter, it was as well to reap the advantage of being first in the field. for a day or two after rosedale's visit, lily's thoughts were dogged by the consciousness of trenor's shadowy claim, and she wished she had a clearer notion of the exact nature of the transaction which seemed to have put her in his power; but her mind shrank from any unusual application, and she was always helplessly puzzled by figures. moreover she had not seen trenor since the day of the van osburgh wedding, and in his continued absence the trace of rosedale's words was soon effaced by other impressions. when the opening night of the opera came, her apprehensions had so completely vanished that the sight of trenor's ruddy countenance in the back of mr. rosedale's box filled her with a sense of pleasant reassurance. lily had not quite reconciled herself to the necessity of appearing as rosedale's guest on so conspicuous an occasion, and it was a relief to find herself supported by any one of her own set--for mrs. fisher's social habits were too promiscuous for her presence to justify miss bart's. to lily, always inspirited by the prospect of showing her beauty in public, and conscious tonight of all the added enhancements of dress, the insistency of trenor's gaze merged itself in the general stream of admiring looks of which she felt herself the centre. ah, it was good to be young, to be radiant, to glow with the sense of slenderness, strength and elasticity, of well-poised lines and happy tints, to feel one's self lifted to a height apart by that incommunicable grace which is the bodily counterpart of genius! all means seemed justifiable to attain such an end, or rather, by a happy shifting of lights with which practice had familiarized miss bart, the cause shrank to a pin-point in the general brightness of the effect. but brilliant young ladies, a little blinded by their own effulgence, are apt to forget that the modest satellite drowned in their light is still performing its own revolutions and generating heat at its own rate. if lily's poetic enjoyment of the moment was undisturbed by the base thought that her gown and opera cloak had been indirectly paid for by gus trenor, the latter had not sufficient poetry in his composition to lose sight of these prosaic facts. he knew only that he had never seen lily look smarter in her life, that there wasn't a woman in the house who showed off good clothes as she did, and that hitherto he, to whom she owed the opportunity of making this display, had reaped no return beyond that of gazing at her in company with several hundred other pairs of eyes. it came to lily therefore as a disagreeable surprise when, in the back of the box, where they found themselves alone between two acts, trenor said, without preamble, and in a tone of sulky authority: "look here, lily, how is a fellow ever to see anything of you? i'm in town three or four days in the week, and you know a line to the club will always find me, but you don't seem to remember my existence nowadays unless you want to get a tip out of me." the fact that the remark was in distinctly bad taste did not make it any easier to answer, for lily was vividly aware that it was not the moment for that drawing up of her slim figure and surprised lifting of the brows by which she usually quelled incipient signs of familiarity. "i'm very much flattered by your wanting to see me," she returned, essaying lightness instead, "but, unless you have mislaid my address, it would have been easy to find me any afternoon at my aunt's--in fact, i rather expected you to look me up there." if she hoped to mollify him by this last concession the attempt was a failure, for he only replied, with the familiar lowering of the brows that made him look his dullest when he was angry: "hang going to your aunt's, and wasting the afternoon listening to a lot of other chaps talking to you! you know i'm not the kind to sit in a crowd and jaw--i'd always rather clear out when that sort of circus is going on. but why can't we go off somewhere on a little lark together--a nice quiet little expedition like that drive at bellomont, the day you met me at the station?" he leaned unpleasantly close in order to convey this suggestion, and she fancied she caught a significant aroma which explained the dark flush on his face and the glistening dampness of his forehead. the idea that any rash answer might provoke an unpleasant outburst tempered her disgust with caution, and she answered with a laugh: "i don't see how one can very well take country drives in town, but i am not always surrounded by an admiring throng, and if you will let me know what afternoon you are coming i will arrange things so that we can have a nice quiet talk." "hang talking! that's what you always say," returned trenor, whose expletives lacked variety. "you put me off with that at the van osburgh wedding--but the plain english of it is that, now you've got what you wanted out of me, you'd rather have any other fellow about." his voice had risen sharply with the last words, and lily flushed with annoyance, but she kept command of the situation and laid a persuasive hand on his arm. "don't be foolish, gus; i can't let you talk to me in that ridiculous way. if you really want to see me, why shouldn't we take a walk in the park some afternoon? i agree with you that it's amusing to be rustic in town, and if you like i'll meet you there, and we'll go and feed the squirrels, and you shall take me out on the lake in the steam-gondola." she smiled as she spoke, letting her eyes rest on his in a way that took the edge from her banter and made him suddenly malleable to her will. "all right, then: that's a go. will you come tomorrow? tomorrow at three o'clock, at the end of the mall. i'll be there sharp, remember; you won't go back on me, lily?" but to miss bart's relief the repetition of her promise was cut short by the opening of the box door to admit george dorset. trenor sulkily yielded his place, and lily turned a brilliant smile on the newcomer. she had not talked with dorset since their visit at bellomont, but something in his look and manner told her that he recalled the friendly footing on which they had last met. he was not a man to whom the expression of admiration came easily: his long sallow face and distrustful eyes seemed always barricaded against the expansive emotions. but, where her own influence was concerned, lily's intuitions sent out thread-like feelers, and as she made room for him on the narrow sofa she was sure he found a dumb pleasure in being near her. few women took the trouble to make themselves agreeable to dorset, and lily had been kind to him at bellomont, and was now smiling on him with a divine renewal of kindness. "well, here we are, in for another six months of caterwauling," he began complainingly. "not a shade of difference between this year and last, except that the women have got new clothes and the singers haven't got new voices. my wife's musical, you know--puts me through a course of this every winter. it isn't so bad on italian nights--then she comes late, and there's time to digest. but when they give wagner we have to rush dinner, and i pay up for it. and the draughts are damnable--asphyxia in front and pleurisy in the back. there's trenor leaving the box without drawing the curtain! with a hide like that draughts don't make any difference. did you ever watch trenor eat? if you did, you'd wonder why he's alive; i suppose he's leather inside too.--but i came to say that my wife wants you to come down to our place next sunday. do for heaven's sake say yes. she's got a lot of bores coming--intellectual ones, i mean; that's her new line, you know, and i'm not sure it ain't worse than the music. some of 'em have long hair, and they start an argument with the soup, and don't notice when things are handed to them. the consequence is the dinner gets cold, and i have dyspepsia. that silly ass silverton brings them to the house--he writes poetry, you know, and bertha and he are getting tremendously thick. she could write better than any of 'em if she chose, and i don't blame her for wanting clever fellows about; all i say is: 'don't let me see 'em eat!'" the gist of this strange communication gave lily a distinct thrill of pleasure. under ordinary circumstances, there would have been nothing surprising in an invitation from bertha dorset; but since the bellomont episode an unavowed hostility had kept the two women apart. now, with a start of inner wonder, lily felt that her thirst for retaliation had died out. if you would forgive your enemy, says the malay proverb, first inflict a hurt on him; and lily was experiencing the truth of the apothegm. if she had destroyed mrs. dorset's letters, she might have continued to hate her; but the fact that they remained in her possession had fed her resentment to satiety. she uttered a smiling acceptance, hailing in the renewal of the tie an escape from trenor's importunities. chapter meanwhile the holidays had gone by and the season was beginning. fifth avenue had become a nightly torrent of carriages surging upward to the fashionable quarters about the park, where illuminated windows and outspread awnings betokened the usual routine of hospitality. other tributary currents crossed the mainstream, bearing their freight to the theatres, restaurants or opera; and mrs. peniston, from the secluded watch-tower of her upper window, could tell to a nicety just when the chronic volume of sound was increased by the sudden influx setting toward a van osburgh ball, or when the multiplication of wheels meant merely that the opera was over, or that there was a big supper at sherry's. mrs. peniston followed the rise and culmination of the season as keenly as the most active sharer in its gaieties; and, as a looker-on, she enjoyed opportunities of comparison and generalization such as those who take part must proverbially forego. no one could have kept a more accurate record of social fluctuations, or have put a more unerring finger on the distinguishing features of each season: its dulness, its extravagance, its lack of balls or excess of divorces. she had a special memory for the vicissitudes of the "new people" who rose to the surface with each recurring tide, and were either submerged beneath its rush or landed triumphantly beyond the reach of envious breakers; and she was apt to display a remarkable retrospective insight into their ultimate fate, so that, when they had fulfilled their destiny, she was almost always able to say to grace stepney--the recipient of her prophecies--that she had known exactly what would happen. this particular season mrs. peniston would have characterized as that in which everybody "felt poor" except the welly brys and mr. simon rosedale. it had been a bad autumn in wall street, where prices fell in accordance with that peculiar law which proves railway stocks and bales of cotton to be more sensitive to the allotment of executive power than many estimable citizens trained to all the advantages of self-government. even fortunes supposed to be independent of the market either betrayed a secret dependence on it, or suffered from a sympathetic affection: fashion sulked in its country houses, or came to town incognito, general entertainments were discountenanced, and informality and short dinners became the fashion. but society, amused for a while at playing cinderella, soon wearied of the hearthside role, and welcomed the fairy godmother in the shape of any magician powerful enough to turn the shrunken pumpkin back again into the golden coach. the mere fact of growing richer at a time when most people's investments are shrinking, is calculated to attract envious attention; and according to wall street rumours, welly bry and rosedale had found the secret of performing this miracle. rosedale, in particular, was said to have doubled his fortune, and there was talk of his buying the newly-finished house of one of the victims of the crash, who, in the space of twelve short months, had made the same number of millions, built a house in fifth avenue, filled a picture-gallery with old masters, entertained all new york in it, and been smuggled out of the country between a trained nurse and a doctor, while his creditors mounted guard over the old masters, and his guests explained to each other that they had dined with him only because they wanted to see the pictures. mr. rosedale meant to have a less meteoric career. he knew he should have to go slowly, and the instincts of his race fitted him to suffer rebuffs and put up with delays. but he was prompt to perceive that the general dulness of the season afforded him an unusual opportunity to shine, and he set about with patient industry to form a background for his growing glory. mrs. fisher was of immense service to him at this period. she had set off so many newcomers on the social stage that she was like one of those pieces of stock scenery which tell the experienced spectator exactly what is going to take place. but mr. rosedale wanted, in the long run, a more individual environment. he was sensitive to shades of difference which miss bart would never have credited him with perceiving, because he had no corresponding variations of manner; and it was becoming more and more clear to him that miss bart herself possessed precisely the complementary qualities needed to round off his social personality. such details did not fall within the range of mrs. peniston's vision. like many minds of panoramic sweep, hers was apt to overlook the minutiae of the foreground, and she was much more likely to know where carry fisher had found the welly brys' chef for them, than what was happening to her own niece. she was not, however, without purveyors of information ready to supplement her deficiencies. grace stepney's mind was like a kind of moral fly-paper, to which the buzzing items of gossip were drawn by a fatal attraction, and where they hung fast in the toils of an inexorable memory. lily would have been surprised to know how many trivial facts concerning herself were lodged in miss stepney's head. she was quite aware that she was of interest to dingy people, but she assumed that there is only one form of dinginess, and that admiration for brilliancy is the natural expression of its inferior state. she knew that gerty farish admired her blindly, and therefore supposed that she inspired the same sentiments in grace stepney, whom she classified as a gerty farish without the saving traits of youth and enthusiasm. in reality, the two differed from each other as much as they differed from the object of their mutual contemplation. miss farish's heart was a fountain of tender illusions, miss stepney's a precise register of facts as manifested in their relation to herself. she had sensibilities which, to lily, would have seemed comic in a person with a freckled nose and red eyelids, who lived in a boarding-house and admired mrs. peniston's drawing-room; but poor grace's limitations gave them a more concentrated inner life, as poor soil starves certain plants into intenser efflorescence. she had in truth no abstract propensity to malice: she did not dislike lily because the latter was brilliant and predominant, but because she thought that lily disliked her. it is less mortifying to believe one's self unpopular than insignificant, and vanity prefers to assume that indifference is a latent form of unfriendliness. even such scant civilities as lily accorded to mr. rosedale would have made miss stepney her friend for life; but how could she foresee that such a friend was worth cultivating? how, moreover, can a young woman who has never been ignored measure the pang which this injury inflicts? and, lastly, how could lily, accustomed to choose between a pressure of engagements, guess that she had mortally offended miss stepney by causing her to be excluded from one of mrs. peniston's infrequent dinner-parties? mrs. peniston disliked giving dinners, but she had a high sense of family obligation, and on the jack stepneys' return from their honeymoon she felt it incumbent upon her to light the drawing-room lamps and extract her best silver from the safe deposit vaults. mrs. peniston's rare entertainments were preceded by days of heart-rending vacillation as to every detail of the feast, from the seating of the guests to the pattern of the table-cloth, and in the course of one of these preliminary discussions she had imprudently suggested to her cousin grace that, as the dinner was a family affair, she might be included in it. for a week the prospect had lighted up miss stepney's colourless existence; then she had been given to understand that it would be more convenient to have her another day. miss stepney knew exactly what had happened. lily, to whom family reunions were occasions of unalloyed dulness, had persuaded her aunt that a dinner of "smart" people would be much more to the taste of the young couple, and mrs. peniston, who leaned helplessly on her niece in social matters, had been prevailed upon to pronounce grace's exile. after all, grace could come any other day; why should she mind being put off? it was precisely because miss stepney could come any other day--and because she knew her relations were in the secret of her unoccupied evenings--that this incident loomed gigantically on her horizon. she was aware that she had lily to thank for it; and dull resentment was turned to active animosity. mrs. peniston, on whom she had looked in a day or two after the dinner, laid down her crochet-work and turned abruptly from her oblique survey of fifth avenue. "gus trenor?--lily and gus trenor?" she said, growing so suddenly pale that her visitor was almost alarmed. "oh, cousin julia . . . of course i don't mean . . ." "i don't know what you do mean," said mrs. peniston, with a frightened quiver in her small fretful voice. "such things were never heard of in my day. and my own niece! i'm not sure i understand you. do people say he's in love with her?" mrs. peniston's horror was genuine. though she boasted an unequalled familiarity with the secret chronicles of society, she had the innocence of the school-girl who regards wickedness as a part of "history," and to whom it never occurs that the scandals she reads of in lesson-hours may be repeating themselves in the next street. mrs. peniston had kept her imagination shrouded, like the drawing-room furniture. she knew, of course, that society was "very much changed," and that many women her mother would have thought "peculiar" were now in a position to be critical about their visiting-lists; she had discussed the perils of divorce with her rector, and had felt thankful at times that lily was still unmarried; but the idea that any scandal could attach to a young girl's name, above all that it could be lightly coupled with that of a married man, was so new to her that she was as much aghast as if she had been accused of leaving her carpets down all summer, or of violating any of the other cardinal laws of housekeeping. miss stepney, when her first fright had subsided, began to feel the superiority that greater breadth of mind confers. it was really pitiable to be as ignorant of the world as mrs. peniston! she smiled at the latter's question. "people always say unpleasant things--and certainly they're a great deal together. a friend of mine met them the other afternoon in the park--quite late, after the lamps were lit. it's a pity lily makes herself so conspicuous." "conspicuous!" gasped mrs. peniston. she bent forward, lowering her voice to mitigate the horror. "what sort of things do they say? that he means to get a divorce and marry her?" grace stepney laughed outright. "dear me, no! he would hardly do that. it--it's a flirtation--nothing more." "a flirtation? between my niece and a married man? do you mean to tell me that, with lily's looks and advantages, she could find no better use for her time than to waste it on a fat stupid man almost old enough to be her father?" this argument had such a convincing ring that it gave mrs. peniston sufficient reassurance to pick up her work, while she waited for grace stepney to rally her scattered forces. but miss stepney was on the spot in an instant. "that's the worst of it--people say she isn't wasting her time! every one knows, as you say, that lily is too handsome and--and charming--to devote herself to a man like gus trenor unless--" "unless?" echoed mrs. peniston. her visitor drew breath nervously. it was agreeable to shock mrs. peniston, but not to shock her to the verge of anger. miss stepney was not sufficiently familiar with the classic drama to have recalled in advance how bearers of bad tidings are proverbially received, but she now had a rapid vision of forfeited dinners and a reduced wardrobe as the possible consequence of her disinterestedness. to the honour of her sex, however, hatred of lily prevailed over more personal considerations. mrs. peniston had chosen the wrong moment to boast of her niece's charms. "unless," said grace, leaning forward to speak with low-toned emphasis, "unless there are material advantages to be gained by making herself agreeable to him." she felt that the moment was tremendous, and remembered suddenly that mrs. peniston's black brocade, with the cut jet fringe, would have been hers at the end of the season. mrs. peniston put down her work again. another aspect of the same idea had presented itself to her, and she felt that it was beneath her dignity to have her nerves racked by a dependent relative who wore her old clothes. "if you take pleasure in annoying me by mysterious insinuations," she said coldly, "you might at least have chosen a more suitable time than just as i am recovering from the strain of giving a large dinner." the mention of the dinner dispelled miss stepney's last scruples. "i don't know why i should be accused of taking pleasure in telling you about lily. i was sure i shouldn't get any thanks for it," she returned with a flare of temper. "but i have some family feeling left, and as you are the only person who has any authority over lily, i thought you ought to know what is being said of her." "well," said mrs. peniston, "what i complain of is that you haven't told me yet what is being said." "i didn't suppose i should have to put it so plainly. people say that gus trenor pays her bills." "pays her bills--her bills?" mrs. peniston broke into a laugh. "i can't imagine where you can have picked up such rubbish. lily has her own income--and i provide for her very handsomely--" "oh, we all know that," interposed miss stepney drily. "but lily wears a great many smart gowns--" "i like her to be well-dressed--it's only suitable!" "certainly; but then there are her gambling debts besides." miss stepney, in the beginning, had not meant to bring up this point; but mrs. peniston had only her own incredulity to blame. she was like the stiff-necked unbelievers of scripture, who must be annihilated to be convinced. "gambling debts? lily?" mrs. peniston's voice shook with anger and bewilderment. she wondered whether grace stepney had gone out of her mind. "what do you mean by her gambling debts?" "simply that if one plays bridge for money in lily's set one is liable to lose a great deal--and i don't suppose lily always wins." "who told you that my niece played cards for money?" "mercy, cousin julia, don't look at me as if i were trying to turn you against lily! everybody knows she is crazy about bridge. mrs. gryce told me herself that it was her gambling that frightened percy gryce--it seems he was really taken with her at first. but, of course, among lily's friends it's quite the custom for girls to play for money. in fact, people are inclined to excuse her on that account----" "to excuse her for what?" "for being hard up--and accepting attentions from men like gus trenor--and george dorset----" mrs. peniston gave another cry. "george dorset? is there any one else? i should like to know the worst, if you please." "don't put it in that way, cousin julia. lately lily has been a good deal with the dorsets, and he seems to admire her--but of course that's only natural. and i'm sure there is no truth in the horrid things people say; but she has been spending a great deal of money this winter. evie van osburgh was at celeste's ordering her trousseau the other day--yes, the marriage takes place next month--and she told me that celeste showed her the most exquisite things she was just sending home to lily. and people say that judy trenor has quarrelled with her on account of gus; but i'm sure i'm sorry i spoke, though i only meant it as a kindness." mrs. peniston's genuine incredulity enabled her to dismiss miss stepney with a disdain which boded ill for that lady's prospect of succeeding to the black brocade; but minds impenetrable to reason have generally some crack through which suspicion filters, and her visitor's insinuations did not glide off as easily as she had expected. mrs. peniston disliked scenes, and her determination to avoid them had always led her to hold herself aloof from the details of lily's life. in her youth, girls had not been supposed to require close supervision. they were generally assumed to be taken up with the legitimate business of courtship and marriage, and interference in such affairs on the part of their natural guardians was considered as unwarrantable as a spectator's suddenly joining in a game. there had of course been "fast" girls even in mrs. peniston's early experience; but their fastness, at worst, was understood to be a mere excess of animal spirits, against which there could be no graver charge than that of being "unladylike." the modern fastness appeared synonymous with immorality, and the mere idea of immorality was as offensive to mrs. peniston as a smell of cooking in the drawing-room: it was one of the conceptions her mind refused to admit. she had no immediate intention of repeating to lily what she had heard, or even of trying to ascertain its truth by means of discreet interrogation. to do so might be to provoke a scene; and a scene, in the shaken state of mrs. peniston's nerves, with the effects of her dinner not worn off, and her mind still tremulous with new impressions, was a risk she deemed it her duty to avoid. but there remained in her thoughts a settled deposit of resentment against her niece, all the denser because it was not to be cleared by explanation or discussion. it was horrible of a young girl to let herself be talked about; however unfounded the charges against her, she must be to blame for their having been made. mrs. peniston felt as if there had been a contagious illness in the house, and she was doomed to sit shivering among her contaminated furniture. chapter miss bart had in fact been treading a devious way, and none of her critics could have been more alive to the fact than herself; but she had a fatalistic sense of being drawn from one wrong turning to another, without ever perceiving the right road till it was too late to take it. lily, who considered herself above narrow prejudices, had not imagined that the fact of letting gus trenor make a little money for her would ever disturb her self-complacency. and the fact in itself still seemed harmless enough; only it was a fertile source of harmful complications. as she exhausted the amusement of spending the money these complications became more pressing, and lily, whose mind could be severely logical in tracing the causes of her ill-luck to others, justified herself by the thought that she owed all her troubles to the enmity of bertha dorset. this enmity, however, had apparently expired in a renewal of friendliness between the two women. lily's visit to the dorsets had resulted, for both, in the discovery that they could be of use to each other; and the civilized instinct finds a subtler pleasure in making use of its antagonist than in confounding him. mrs. dorset was, in fact, engaged in a new sentimental experiment, of which mrs. fisher's late property, ned silverton, was the rosy victim; and at such moments, as judy trenor had once remarked, she felt a peculiar need of distracting her husband's attention. dorset was as difficult to amuse as a savage; but even his self-engrossment was not proof against lily's arts, or rather these were especially adapted to soothe an uneasy egoism. her experience with percy gryce stood her in good stead in ministering to dorset's humours, and if the incentive to please was less urgent, the difficulties of her situation were teaching her to make much of minor opportunities. intimacy with the dorsets was not likely to lessen such difficulties on the material side. mrs. dorset had none of judy trenor's lavish impulses, and dorset's admiration was not likely to express itself in financial "tips," even had lily cared to renew her experiences in that line. what she required, for the moment, of the dorsets' friendship, was simply its social sanction. she knew that people were beginning to talk of her; but this fact did not alarm her as it had alarmed mrs. peniston. in her set such gossip was not unusual, and a handsome girl who flirted with a married man was merely assumed to be pressing to the limit of her opportunities. it was trenor himself who frightened her. their walk in the park had not been a success. trenor had married young, and since his marriage his intercourse with women had not taken the form of the sentimental small-talk which doubles upon itself like the paths in a maze. he was first puzzled and then irritated to find himself always led back to the same starting-point, and lily felt that she was gradually losing control of the situation. trenor was in truth in an unmanageable mood. in spite of his understanding with rosedale he had been somewhat heavily "touched" by the fall in stocks; his household expenses weighed on him, and he seemed to be meeting, on all sides, a sullen opposition to his wishes, instead of the easy good luck he had hitherto encountered. mrs. trenor was still at bellomont, keeping the town-house open, and descending on it now and then for a taste of the world, but preferring the recurrent excitement of week-end parties to the restrictions of a dull season. since the holidays she had not urged lily to return to bellomont, and the first time they met in town lily fancied there was a shade of coldness in her manner. was it merely the expression of her displeasure at miss bart's neglect, or had disquieting rumours reached her? the latter contingency seemed improbable, yet lily was not without a sense of uneasiness. if her roaming sympathies had struck root anywhere, it was in her friendship with judy trenor. she believed in the sincerity of her friend's affection, though it sometimes showed itself in self-interested ways, and she shrank with peculiar reluctance from any risk of estranging it. but, aside from this, she was keenly conscious of the way in which such an estrangement would react on herself. the fact that gus trenor was judy's husband was at times lily's strongest reason for disliking him, and for resenting the obligation under which he had placed her. to set her doubts at rest, miss bart, soon after the new year, "proposed" herself for a week-end at bellomont. she had learned in advance that the presence of a large party would protect her from too great assiduity on trenor's part, and his wife's telegraphic "come by all means" seemed to assure her of her usual welcome. judy received her amicably. the cares of a large party always prevailed over personal feelings, and lily saw no change in her hostess's manner. nevertheless, she was soon aware that the experiment of coming to bellomont was destined not to be successful. the party was made up of what mrs. trenor called "poky people"--her generic name for persons who did not play bridge--and, it being her habit to group all such obstructionists in one class, she usually invited them together, regardless of their other characteristics. the result was apt to be an irreducible combination of persons having no other quality in common than their abstinence from bridge, and the antagonisms developed in a group lacking the one taste which might have amalgamated them, were in this case aggravated by bad weather, and by the ill-concealed boredom of their host and hostess. in such emergencies, judy would usually have turned to lily to fuse the discordant elements; and miss bart, assuming that such a service was expected of her, threw herself into it with her accustomed zeal. but at the outset she perceived a subtle resistance to her efforts. if mrs. trenor's manner toward her was unchanged, there was certainly a faint coldness in that of the other ladies. an occasional caustic allusion to "your friends the wellington brys," or to "the little jew who has bought the greiner house--some one told us you knew him, miss bart,"--showed lily that she was in disfavour with that portion of society which, while contributing least to its amusement, has assumed the right to decide what forms that amusement shall take. the indication was a slight one, and a year ago lily would have smiled at it, trusting to the charm of her personality to dispel any prejudice against her. but now she had grown more sensitive to criticism and less confident in her power of disarming it. she knew, moreover, that if the ladies at bellomont permitted themselves to criticize her friends openly, it was a proof that they were not afraid of subjecting her to the same treatment behind her back. the nervous dread lest anything in trenor's manner should seem to justify their disapproval made her seek every pretext for avoiding him, and she left bellomont conscious of having failed in every purpose which had taken her there. in town she returned to preoccupations which, for the moment, had the happy effect of banishing troublesome thoughts. the welly brys, after much debate, and anxious counsel with their newly acquired friends, had decided on the bold move of giving a general entertainment. to attack society collectively, when one's means of approach are limited to a few acquaintances, is like advancing into a strange country with an insufficient number of scouts; but such rash tactics have sometimes led to brilliant victories, and the brys had determined to put their fate to the touch. mrs. fisher, to whom they had entrusted the conduct of the affair, had decided that tableaux vivants and expensive music were the two baits most likely to attract the desired prey, and after prolonged negotiations, and the kind of wire-pulling in which she was known to excel, she had induced a dozen fashionable women to exhibit themselves in a series of pictures which, by a farther miracle of persuasion, the distinguished portrait painter, paul morpeth, had been prevailed upon to organize. lily was in her element on such occasions. under morpeth's guidance her vivid plastic sense, hitherto nurtured on no higher food than dress-making and upholstery, found eager expression in the disposal of draperies, the study of attitudes, the shifting of lights and shadows. her dramatic instinct was roused by the choice of subjects, and the gorgeous reproductions of historic dress stirred an imagination which only visual impressions could reach. but keenest of all was the exhilaration of displaying her own beauty under a new aspect: of showing that her loveliness was no mere fixed quality, but an element shaping all emotions to fresh forms of grace. mrs. fisher's measures had been well-taken, and society, surprised in a dull moment, succumbed to the temptation of mrs. bry's hospitality. the protesting minority were forgotten in the throng which abjured and came; and the audience was almost as brilliant as the show. lawrence selden was among those who had yielded to the proffered inducements. if he did not often act on the accepted social axiom that a man may go where he pleases, it was because he had long since learned that his pleasures were mainly to be found in a small group of the like-minded. but he enjoyed spectacular effects, and was not insensible to the part money plays in their production: all he asked was that the very rich should live up to their calling as stage-managers, and not spend their money in a dull way. this the brys could certainly not be charged with doing. their recently built house, whatever it might lack as a frame for domesticity, was almost as well-designed for the display of a festal assemblage as one of those airy pleasure-halls which the italian architects improvised to set off the hospitality of princes. the air of improvisation was in fact strikingly present: so recent, so rapidly-evoked was the whole mise-en-scene that one had to touch the marble columns to learn they were not of cardboard, to seat one's self in one of the damask-and-gold arm-chairs to be sure it was not painted against the wall. selden, who had put one of these seats to the test, found himself, from an angle of the ball-room, surveying the scene with frank enjoyment. the company, in obedience to the decorative instinct which calls for fine clothes in fine surroundings, had dressed rather with an eye to mrs. bry's background than to herself. the seated throng, filling the immense room without undue crowding, presented a surface of rich tissues and jewelled shoulders in harmony with the festooned and gilded walls, and the flushed splendours of the venetian ceiling. at the farther end of the room a stage had been constructed behind a proscenium arch curtained with folds of old damask; but in the pause before the parting of the folds there was little thought of what they might reveal, for every woman who had accepted mrs. bry's invitation was engaged in trying to find out how many of her friends had done the same. gerty farish, seated next to selden, was lost in that indiscriminate and uncritical enjoyment so irritating to miss bart's finer perceptions. it may be that selden's nearness had something to do with the quality of his cousin's pleasure; but miss farish was so little accustomed to refer her enjoyment of such scenes to her own share in them, that she was merely conscious of a deeper sense of contentment. "wasn't it dear of lily to get me an invitation? of course it would never have occurred to carry fisher to put me on the list, and i should have been so sorry to miss seeing it all--and especially lily herself. some one told me the ceiling was by veronese--you would know, of course, lawrence. i suppose it's very beautiful, but his women are so dreadfully fat. goddesses? well, i can only say that if they'd been mortals and had to wear corsets, it would have been better for them. i think our women are much handsomer. and this room is wonderfully becoming--every one looks so well! did you ever see such jewels? do look at mrs. george dorset's pearls--i suppose the smallest of them would pay the rent of our girls' club for a year. not that i ought to complain about the club; every one has been so wonderfully kind. did i tell you that lily had given us three hundred dollars? wasn't it splendid of her? and then she collected a lot of money from her friends--mrs. bry gave us five hundred, and mr. rosedale a thousand. i wish lily were not so nice to mr. rosedale, but she says it's no use being rude to him, because he doesn't see the difference. she really can't bear to hurt people's feelings--it makes me so angry when i hear her called cold and conceited! the girls at the club don't call her that. do you know she has been there with me twice?--yes, lily! and you should have seen their eyes! one of them said it was as good as a day in the country just to look at her. and she sat there, and laughed and talked with them--not a bit as if she were being charitable, you know, but as if she liked it as much as they did. they've been asking ever since when she's coming back; and she's promised me----oh!" miss farish's confidences were cut short by the parting of the curtain on the first tableau--a group of nymphs dancing across flower-strewn sward in the rhythmic postures of botticelli's spring. tableaux vivants depend for their effect not only on the happy disposal of lights and the delusive-interposition of layers of gauze, but on a corresponding adjustment of the mental vision. to unfurnished minds they remain, in spite of every enhancement of art, only a superior kind of wax-works; but to the responsive fancy they may give magic glimpses of the boundary world between fact and imagination. selden's mind was of this order: he could yield to vision-making influences as completely as a child to the spell of a fairy-tale. mrs. bry's tableaux wanted none of the qualities which go to the producing of such illusions, and under morpeth's organizing hand the pictures succeeded each other with the rhythmic march of some splendid frieze, in which the fugitive curves of living flesh and the wandering light of young eyes have been subdued to plastic harmony without losing the charm of life. the scenes were taken from old pictures, and the participators had been cleverly fitted with characters suited to their types. no one, for instance, could have made a more typical goya than carry fisher, with her short dark-skinned face, the exaggerated glow of her eyes, the provocation of her frankly-painted smile. a brilliant miss smedden from brooklyn showed to perfection the sumptuous curves of titian's daughter, lifting her gold salver laden with grapes above the harmonizing gold of rippled hair and rich brocade, and a young mrs. van alstyne, who showed the frailer dutch type, with high blue-veined forehead and pale eyes and lashes, made a characteristic vandyck, in black satin, against a curtained archway. then there were kauffmann nymphs garlanding the altar of love; a veronese supper, all sheeny textures, pearl-woven heads and marble architecture; and a watteau group of lute-playing comedians, lounging by a fountain in a sunlit glade. each evanescent picture touched the vision-building faculty in selden, leading him so far down the vistas of fancy that even gerty farish's running commentary--"oh, how lovely lulu melson looks!" or: "that must be kate corby, to the right there, in purple"--did not break the spell of the illusion. indeed, so skilfully had the personality of the actors been subdued to the scenes they figured in that even the least imaginative of the audience must have felt a thrill of contrast when the curtain suddenly parted on a picture which was simply and undisguisedly the portrait of miss bart. here there could be no mistaking the predominance of personality--the unanimous "oh!" of the spectators was a tribute, not to the brush-work of reynolds's "mrs. lloyd" but to the flesh and blood loveliness of lily bart. she had shown her artistic intelligence in selecting a type so like her own that she could embody the person represented without ceasing to be herself. it was as though she had stepped, not out of, but into, reynolds's canvas, banishing the phantom of his dead beauty by the beams of her living grace. the impulse to show herself in a splendid setting--she had thought for a moment of representing tiepolo's cleopatra--had yielded to the truer instinct of trusting to her unassisted beauty, and she had purposely chosen a picture without distracting accessories of dress or surroundings. her pale draperies, and the background of foliage against which she stood, served only to relieve the long dryad-like curves that swept upward from her poised foot to her lifted arm. the noble buoyancy of her attitude, its suggestion of soaring grace, revealed the touch of poetry in her beauty that selden always felt in her presence, yet lost the sense of when he was not with her. its expression was now so vivid that for the first time he seemed to see before him the real lily bart, divested of the trivialities of her little world, and catching for a moment a note of that eternal harmony of which her beauty was a part. "deuced bold thing to show herself in that get-up; but, gad, there isn't a break in the lines anywhere, and i suppose she wanted us to know it!" these words, uttered by that experienced connoisseur, mr. ned van alstyne, whose scented white moustache had brushed selden's shoulder whenever the parting of the curtains presented any exceptional opportunity for the study of the female outline, affected their hearer in an unexpected way. it was not the first time that selden had heard lily's beauty lightly remarked on, and hitherto the tone of the comments had imperceptibly coloured his view of her. but now it woke only a motion of indignant contempt. this was the world she lived in, these were the standards by which she was fated to be measured! does one go to caliban for a judgment on miranda? in the long moment before the curtain fell, he had time to feel the whole tragedy of her life. it was as though her beauty, thus detached from all that cheapened and vulgarized it, had held out suppliant hands to him from the world in which he and she had once met for a moment, and where he felt an overmastering longing to be with her again. he was roused by the pressure of ecstatic fingers. "wasn't she too beautiful, lawrence? don't you like her best in that simple dress? it makes her look like the real lily--the lily i know." he met gerty farish's brimming gaze. "the lily we know," he corrected; and his cousin, beaming at the implied understanding, exclaimed joyfully: "i'll tell her that! she always says you dislike her." the performance over, selden's first impulse was to seek miss bart. during the interlude of music which succeeded the tableaux, the actors had seated themselves here and there in the audience, diversifying its conventional appearance by the varied picturesqueness of their dress. lily, however, was not among them, and her absence served to protract the effect she had produced on selden: it would have broken the spell to see her too soon in the surroundings from which accident had so happily detached her. they had not met since the day of the van osburgh wedding, and on his side the avoidance had been intentional. tonight, however, he knew that, sooner or later, he should find himself at her side; and though he let the dispersing crowd drift him whither it would, without making an immediate effort to reach her, his procrastination was not due to any lingering resistance, but to the desire to luxuriate a moment in the sense of complete surrender. lily had not an instant's doubt as to the meaning of the murmur greeting her appearance. no other tableau had been received with that precise note of approval: it had obviously been called forth by herself, and not by the picture she impersonated. she had feared at the last moment that she was risking too much in dispensing with the advantages of a more sumptuous setting, and the completeness of her triumph gave her an intoxicating sense of recovered power. not caring to diminish the impression she had produced, she held herself aloof from the audience till the movement of dispersal before supper, and thus had a second opportunity of showing herself to advantage, as the throng poured slowly into the empty drawing-room where she was standing. she was soon the centre of a group which increased and renewed itself as the circulation became general, and the individual comments on her success were a delightful prolongation of the collective applause. at such moments she lost something of her natural fastidiousness, and cared less for the quality of the admiration received than for its quantity. differences of personality were merged in a warm atmosphere of praise, in which her beauty expanded like a flower in sunlight; and if selden had approached a moment or two sooner he would have seen her turning on ned van alstyne and george dorset the look he had dreamed of capturing for himself. fortune willed, however, that the hurried approach of mrs. fisher, as whose aide-de-camp van alstyne was acting, should break up the group before selden reached the threshold of the room. one or two of the men wandered off in search of their partners for supper, and the others, noticing selden's approach, gave way to him in accordance with the tacit freemasonry of the ball-room. lily was therefore standing alone when he reached her; and finding the expected look in her eye, he had the satisfaction of supposing he had kindled it. the look did indeed deepen as it rested on him, for even in that moment of self-intoxication lily felt the quicker beat of life that his nearness always produced. she read, too, in his answering gaze the delicious confirmation of her triumph, and for the moment it seemed to her that it was for him only she cared to be beautiful. selden had given her his arm without speaking. she took it in silence, and they moved away, not toward the supper-room, but against the tide which was setting thither. the faces about her flowed by like the streaming images of sleep: she hardly noticed where selden was leading her, till they passed through a glass doorway at the end of the long suite of rooms and stood suddenly in the fragrant hush of a garden. gravel grated beneath their feet, and about them was the transparent dimness of a midsummer night. hanging lights made emerald caverns in the depths of foliage, and whitened the spray of a fountain falling among lilies. the magic place was deserted: there was no sound but the splash of the water on the lily-pads, and a distant drift of music that might have been blown across a sleeping lake. selden and lily stood still, accepting the unreality of the scene as a part of their own dream-like sensations. it would not have surprised them to feel a summer breeze on their faces, or to see the lights among the boughs reduplicated in the arch of a starry sky. the strange solitude about them was no stranger than the sweetness of being alone in it together. at length lily withdrew her hand, and moved away a step, so that her white-robed slimness was outlined against the dusk of the branches. selden followed her, and still without speaking they seated themselves on a bench beside the fountain. suddenly she raised her eyes with the beseeching earnestness of a child. "you never speak to me--you think hard things of me," she murmured. "i think of you at any rate, god knows!" he said. "then why do we never see each other? why can't we be friends? you promised once to help me," she continued in the same tone, as though the words were drawn from her unwillingly. "the only way i can help you is by loving you," selden said in a low voice. she made no reply, but her face turned to him with the soft motion of a flower. his own met it slowly, and their lips touched. she drew back and rose from her seat. selden rose too, and they stood facing each other. suddenly she caught his hand and pressed it a moment against her cheek. "ah, love me, love me--but don't tell me so!" she sighed with her eyes in his; and before he could speak she had turned and slipped through the arch of boughs, disappearing in the brightness of the room beyond. selden stood where she had left him. he knew too well the transiency of exquisite moments to attempt to follow her; but presently he reentered the house and made his way through the deserted rooms to the door. a few sumptuously-cloaked ladies were already gathered in the marble vestibule, and in the coat-room he found van alstyne and gus trenor. the former, at selden's approach, paused in the careful selection of a cigar from one of the silver boxes invitingly set out near the door. "hallo, selden, going too? you're an epicurean like myself, i see: you don't want to see all those goddesses gobbling terrapin. gad, what a show of good-looking women; but not one of 'em could touch that little cousin of mine. talk of jewels--what's a woman want with jewels when she's got herself to show? the trouble is that all these fal-bals they wear cover up their figures when they've got 'em. i never knew till tonight what an outline lily has." "it's not her fault if everybody don't know it now," growled trenor, flushed with the struggle of getting into his fur-lined coat. "damned bad taste, i call it--no, no cigar for me. you can't tell what you're smoking in one of these new houses--likely as not the chef buys the cigars. stay for supper? not if i know it! when people crowd their rooms so that you can't get near any one you want to speak to, i'd as soon sup in the elevated at the rush hour. my wife was dead right to stay away: she says life's too short to spend it in breaking in new people." chapter lily woke from happy dreams to find two notes at her bedside. one was from mrs. trenor, who announced that she was coming to town that afternoon for a flying visit, and hoped miss bart would be able to dine with her. the other was from selden. he wrote briefly that an important case called him to albany, whence he would be unable to return till the evening, and asked lily to let him know at what hour on the following day she would see him. lily, leaning back among her pillows, gazed musingly at his letter. the scene in the brys' conservatory had been like a part of her dreams; she had not expected to wake to such evidence of its reality. her first movement was one of annoyance: this unforeseen act of selden's added another complication to life. it was so unlike him to yield to such an irrational impulse! did he really mean to ask her to marry him? she had once shown him the impossibility of such a hope, and his subsequent behaviour seemed to prove that he had accepted the situation with a reasonableness somewhat mortifying to her vanity. it was all the more agreeable to find that this reasonableness was maintained only at the cost of not seeing her; but, though nothing in life was as sweet as the sense of her power over him, she saw the danger of allowing the episode of the previous night to have a sequel. since she could not marry him, it would be kinder to him, as well as easier for herself, to write a line amicably evading his request to see her: he was not the man to mistake such a hint, and when next they met it would be on their usual friendly footing. lily sprang out of bed, and went straight to her desk. she wanted to write at once, while she could trust to the strength of her resolve. she was still languid from her brief sleep and the exhilaration of the evening, and the sight of selden's writing brought back the culminating moment of her triumph: the moment when she had read in his eyes that no philosophy was proof against her power. it would be pleasant to have that sensation again . . . no one else could give it to her in its fulness; and she could not bear to mar her mood of luxurious retrospection by an act of definite refusal. she took up her pen and wrote hastily: "tomorrow at four;" murmuring to herself, as she slipped the sheet into its envelope: "i can easily put him off when tomorrow comes." judy trenor's summons was very welcome to lily. it was the first time she had received a direct communication from bellomont since the close of her last visit there, and she was still visited by the dread of having incurred judy's displeasure. but this characteristic command seemed to reestablish their former relations; and lily smiled at the thought that her friend had probably summoned her in order to hear about the brys' entertainment. mrs. trenor had absented herself from the feast, perhaps for the reason so frankly enunciated by her husband, perhaps because, as mrs. fisher somewhat differently put it, she "couldn't bear new people when she hadn't discovered them herself." at any rate, though she remained haughtily at bellomont, lily suspected in her a devouring eagerness to hear of what she had missed, and to learn exactly in what measure mrs. wellington bry had surpassed all previous competitors for social recognition. lily was quite ready to gratify this curiosity, but it happened that she was dining out. she determined, however, to see mrs. trenor for a few moments, and ringing for her maid she despatched a telegram to say that she would be with her friend that evening at ten. she was dining with mrs. fisher, who had gathered at an informal feast a few of the performers of the previous evening. there was to be plantation music in the studio after dinner--for mrs. fisher, despairing of the republic, had taken up modelling, and annexed to her small crowded house a spacious apartment, which, whatever its uses in her hours of plastic inspiration, served at other times for the exercise of an indefatigable hospitality. lily was reluctant to leave, for the dinner was amusing, and she would have liked to lounge over a cigarette and hear a few songs; but she could not break her engagement with judy, and shortly after ten she asked her hostess to ring for a hansom, and drove up fifth avenue to the trenors'. she waited long enough on the doorstep to wonder that judy's presence in town was not signalized by a greater promptness in admitting her; and her surprise was increased when, instead of the expected footman, pushing his shoulders into a tardy coat, a shabby care-taking person in calico let her into the shrouded hall. trenor, however, appeared at once on the threshold of the drawing-room, welcoming her with unusual volubility while he relieved her of her cloak and drew her into the room. "come along to the den; it's the only comfortable place in the house. doesn't this room look as if it was waiting for the body to be brought down? can't see why judy keeps the house wrapped up in this awful slippery white stuff--it's enough to give a fellow pneumonia to walk through these rooms on a cold day. you look a little pinched yourself, by the way: it's rather a sharp night out. i noticed it walking up from the club. come along, and i'll give you a nip of brandy, and you can toast yourself over the fire and try some of my new egyptians--that little turkish chap at the embassy put me on to a brand that i want you to try, and if you like 'em i'll get out a lot for you: they don't have 'em here yet, but i'll cable." he led her through the house to the large room at the back, where mrs. trenor usually sat, and where, even in her absence, there was an air of occupancy. here, as usual, were flowers, newspapers, a littered writing-table, and a general aspect of lamp-lit familiarity, so that it was a surprise not to see judy's energetic figure start up from the arm-chair near the fire. it was apparently trenor himself who had been occupying the seat in question, for it was overhung by a cloud of cigar smoke, and near it stood one of those intricate folding tables which british ingenuity has devised to facilitate the circulation of tobacco and spirits. the sight of such appliances in a drawing-room was not unusual in lily's set, where smoking and drinking were unrestricted by considerations of time and place, and her first movement was to help herself to one of the cigarettes recommended by trenor, while she checked his loquacity by asking, with a surprised glance: "where's judy?" trenor, a little heated by his unusual flow of words, and perhaps by prolonged propinquity with the decanters, was bending over the latter to decipher their silver labels. "here, now, lily, just a drop of cognac in a little fizzy water--you do look pinched, you know: i swear the end of your nose is red. i'll take another glass to keep you company--judy?--why, you see, judy's got a devil of a head ache--quite knocked out with it, poor thing--she asked me to explain--make it all right, you know--do come up to the fire, though; you look dead-beat, really. now do let me make you comfortable, there's a good girl." he had taken her hand, half-banteringly, and was drawing her toward a low seat by the hearth; but she stopped and freed herself quietly. "do you mean to say that judy's not well enough to see me? doesn't she want me to go upstairs?" trenor drained the glass he had filled for himself, and paused to set it down before he answered. "why, no--the fact is, she's not up to seeing anybody. it came on suddenly, you know, and she asked me to tell you how awfully sorry she was--if she'd known where you were dining she'd have sent you word." "she did know where i was dining; i mentioned it in my telegram. but it doesn't matter, of course. i suppose if she's so poorly she won't go back to bellomont in the morning, and i can come and see her then." "yes: exactly--that's capital. i'll tell her you'll pop in tomorrow morning. and now do sit down a minute, there's a dear, and let's have a nice quiet jaw together. you won't take a drop, just for sociability? tell me what you think of that cigarette. why, don't you like it? what are you chucking it away for?" "i am chucking it away because i must go, if you'll have the goodness to call a cab for me," lily returned with a smile. she did not like trenor's unusual excitability, with its too evident explanation, and the thought of being alone with him, with her friend out of reach upstairs, at the other end of the great empty house, did not conduce to a desire to prolong their tete-a-tete. but trenor, with a promptness which did not escape her, had moved between herself and the door. "why must you go, i should like to know? if judy'd been here you'd have sat gossiping till all hours--and you can't even give me five minutes! it's always the same story. last night i couldn't get near you--i went to that damned vulgar party just to see you, and there was everybody talking about you, and asking me if i'd ever seen anything so stunning, and when i tried to come up and say a word, you never took any notice, but just went on laughing and joking with a lot of asses who only wanted to be able to swagger about afterward, and look knowing when you were mentioned." he paused, flushed by his diatribe, and fixing on her a look in which resentment was the ingredient she least disliked. but she had regained her presence of mind, and stood composedly in the middle of the room, while her slight smile seemed to put an ever increasing distance between herself and trenor. across it she said: "don't be absurd, gus. it's past eleven, and i must really ask you to ring for a cab." he remained immovable, with the lowering forehead she had grown to detest. "and supposing i won't ring for one--what'll you do then?" "i shall go upstairs to judy if you force me to disturb her." trenor drew a step nearer and laid his hand on her arm. "look here, lily: won't you give me five minutes of your own accord?" "not tonight, gus: you----" "very good, then: i'll take 'em. and as many more as i want." he had squared himself on the threshold, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. he nodded toward the chair on the hearth. "go and sit down there, please: i've got a word to say to you." lily's quick temper was getting the better of her fears. she drew herself up and moved toward the door. "if you have anything to say to me, you must say it another time. i shall go up to judy unless you call a cab for me at once." he burst into a laugh. "go upstairs and welcome, my dear; but you won't find judy. she ain't there." lily cast a startled look upon him. "do you mean that judy is not in the house--not in town?" she exclaimed. "that's just what i do mean," returned trenor, his bluster sinking to sullenness under her look. "nonsense--i don't believe you. i am going upstairs," she said impatiently. he drew unexpectedly aside, letting her reach the threshold unimpeded. "go up and welcome; but my wife is at bellomont." but lily had a flash of reassurance. "if she hadn't come she would have sent me word----" "she did; she telephoned me this afternoon to let you know." "i received no message." "i didn't send any." the two measured each other for a moment, but lily still saw her opponent through a blur of scorn that made all other considerations indistinct. "i can't imagine your object in playing such a stupid trick on me; but if you have fully gratified your peculiar sense of humour i must again ask you to send for a cab." it was the wrong note, and she knew it as she spoke. to be stung by irony it is not necessary to understand it, and the angry streaks on trenor's face might have been raised by an actual lash. "look here, lily, don't take that high and mighty tone with me." he had again moved toward the door, and in her instinctive shrinking from him she let him regain command of the threshold. "i did play a trick on you; i own up to it; but if you think i'm ashamed you're mistaken. lord knows i've been patient enough--i've hung round and looked like an ass. and all the while you were letting a lot of other fellows make up to you . . . letting 'em make fun of me, i daresay . . . i'm not sharp, and can't dress my friends up to look funny, as you do . . . but i can tell when it's being done to me . . . i can tell fast enough when i'm made a fool of . . ." "ah, i shouldn't have thought that!" flashed from lily; but her laugh dropped to silence under his look. "no; you wouldn't have thought it; but you'll know better now. that's what you're here for tonight. i've been waiting for a quiet time to talk things over, and now i've got it i mean to make you hear me out." his first rush of inarticulate resentment had been followed by a steadiness and concentration of tone more disconcerting to lily than the excitement preceding it. for a moment her presence of mind forsook her. she had more than once been in situations where a quick sword-play of wit had been needful to cover her retreat; but her frightened heart-throbs told her that here such skill would not avail. to gain time she repeated: "i don't understand what you want." trenor had pushed a chair between herself and the door. he threw himself in it, and leaned back, looking up at her. "i'll tell you what i want: i want to know just where you and i stand. hang it, the man who pays for the dinner is generally allowed to have a seat at table." she flamed with anger and abasement, and the sickening need of having to conciliate where she longed to humble. "i don't know what you mean--but you must see, gus, that i can't stay here talking to you at this hour----" "gad, you go to men's houses fast enough in broad day light--strikes me you're not always so deuced careful of appearances." the brutality of the thrust gave her the sense of dizziness that follows on a physical blow. rosedale had spoken then--this was the way men talked of her--she felt suddenly weak and defenceless: there was a throb of self-pity in her throat. but all the while another self was sharpening her to vigilance, whispering the terrified warning that every word and gesture must be measured. "if you have brought me here to say insulting things----" she began. trenor laughed. "don't talk stage-rot. i don't want to insult you. but a man's got his feelings--and you've played with mine too long. i didn't begin this business--kept out of the way, and left the track clear for the other chaps, till you rummaged me out and set to work to make an ass of me--and an easy job you had of it, too. that's the trouble--it was too easy for you--you got reckless--thought you could turn me inside out, and chuck me in the gutter like an empty purse. but, by gad, that ain't playing fair: that's dodging the rules of the game. of course i know now what you wanted--it wasn't my beautiful eyes you were after--but i tell you what, miss lily, you've got to pay up for making me think so----" he rose, squaring his shoulders aggressively, and stepped toward her with a reddening brow; but she held her footing, though every nerve tore at her to retreat as he advanced. "pay up?" she faltered. "do you mean that i owe you money?" he laughed again. "oh, i'm not asking for payment in kind. but there's such a thing as fair play--and interest on one's money--and hang me if i've had as much as a look from you----" "your money? what have i to do with your money? you advised me how to invest mine . . . you must have seen i knew nothing of business . . . you told me it was all right----" "it was all right--it is, lily: you're welcome to all of it, and ten times more. i'm only asking for a word of thanks from you." he was closer still, with a hand that grew formidable; and the frightened self in her was dragging the other down. "i have thanked you; i've shown i was grateful. what more have you done than any friend might do, or any one accept from a friend?" trenor caught her up with a sneer. "i don't doubt you've accepted as much before--and chucked the other chaps as you'd like to chuck me. i don't care how you settled your score with them--if you fooled 'em i'm that much to the good. don't stare at me like that--i know i'm not talking the way a man is supposed to talk to a girl--but, hang it, if you don't like it you can stop me quick enough--you know i'm mad about you--damn the money, there's plenty more of it--if that bothers you . . . i was a brute, lily--lily!--just look at me----" over and over her the sea of humiliation broke--wave crashing on wave so close that the moral shame was one with the physical dread. it seemed to her that self-esteem would have made her invulnerable--that it was her own dishonour which put a fearful solitude about her. his touch was a shock to her drowning consciousness. she drew back from him with a desperate assumption of scorn. "i've told you i don't understand--but if i owe you money you shall be paid----" trenor's face darkened to rage: her recoil of abhorrence had called out the primitive man. "ah--you'll borrow from selden or rosedale--and take your chances of fooling them as you've fooled me! unless--unless you've settled your other scores already--and i'm the only one left out in the cold!" she stood silent, frozen to her place. the words--the words were worse than the touch! her heart was beating all over her body--in her throat, her limbs, her helpless useless hands. her eyes travelled despairingly about the room--they lit on the bell, and she remembered that help was in call. yes, but scandal with it--a hideous mustering of tongues. no, she must fight her way out alone. it was enough that the servants knew her to be in the house with trenor--there must be nothing to excite conjecture in her way of leaving it. she raised her head, and achieved a last clear look at him. "i am here alone with you," she said. "what more have you to say?" to her surprise, trenor answered the look with a speechless stare. with his last gust of words the flame had died out, leaving him chill and humbled. it was as though a cold air had dispersed the fumes of his libations, and the situation loomed before him black and naked as the ruins of a fire. old habits, old restraints, the hand of inherited order, plucked back the bewildered mind which passion had jolted from its ruts. trenor's eye had the haggard look of the sleep-walker waked on a deathly ledge. "go home! go away from here"----he stammered, and turning his back on her walked toward the hearth. the sharp release from her fears restored lily to immediate lucidity. the collapse of trenor's will left her in control, and she heard herself, in a voice that was her own yet outside herself, bidding him ring for the servant, bidding him give the order for a hansom, directing him to put her in it when it came. whence the strength came to her she knew not; but an insistent voice warned her that she must leave the house openly, and nerved her, in the hall before the hovering care taker, to exchange light words with trenor, and charge him with the usual messages for judy, while all the while she shook with inward loathing. on the doorstep, with the street before her, she felt a mad throb of liberation, intoxicating as the prisoner's first draught of free air; but the clearness of brain continued, and she noted the mute aspect of fifth avenue, guessed at the lateness of the hour, and even observed a man's figure--was there something half-familiar in its outline?--which, as she entered the hansom, turned from the opposite corner and vanished in the obscurity of the side street. but with the turn of the wheels reaction came, and shuddering darkness closed on her. "i can't think--i can't think," she moaned, and leaned her head against the rattling side of the cab. she seemed a stranger to herself, or rather there were two selves in her, the one she had always known, and a new abhorrent being to which it found itself chained. she had once picked up, in a house where she was staying, a translation of the eumenides, and her imagination had been seized by the high terror of the scene where orestes, in the cave of the oracle, finds his implacable huntresses asleep, and snatches an hour's repose. yes, the furies might sometimes sleep, but they were there, always there in the dark corners, and now they were awake and the iron clang of their wings was in her brain . . . she opened her eyes and saw the streets passing--the familiar alien streets. all she looked on was the same and yet changed. there was a great gulf fixed between today and yesterday. everything in the past seemed simple, natural, full of daylight--and she was alone in a place of darkness and pollution.--alone! it was the loneliness that frightened her. her eyes fell on an illuminated clock at a street corner, and she saw that the hands marked the half hour after eleven. only half-past eleven--there were hours and hours left of the night! and she must spend them alone, shuddering sleepless on her bed. her soft nature recoiled from this ordeal, which had none of the stimulus of conflict to goad her through it. oh, the slow cold drip of the minutes on her head! she had a vision of herself lying on the black walnut bed--and the darkness would frighten her, and if she left the light burning the dreary details of the room would brand themselves forever on her brain. she had always hated her room at mrs. peniston's--its ugliness, its impersonality, the fact that nothing in it was really hers. to a torn heart uncomforted by human nearness a room may open almost human arms, and the being to whom no four walls mean more than any others, is, at such hours, expatriate everywhere. lily had no heart to lean on. her relation with her aunt was as superficial as that of chance lodgers who pass on the stairs. but even had the two been in closer contact, it was impossible to think of mrs. peniston's mind as offering shelter or comprehension to such misery as lily's. as the pain that can be told is but half a pain, so the pity that questions has little healing in its touch. what lily craved was the darkness made by enfolding arms, the silence which is not solitude, but compassion holding its breath. she started up and looked forth on the passing streets. gerty!--they were nearing gerty's corner. if only she could reach there before this labouring anguish burst from her breast to her lips--if only she could feel the hold of gerty's arms while she shook in the ague-fit of fear that was coming upon her! she pushed up the door in the roof and called the address to the driver. it was not so late--gerty might still be waking. and even if she were not, the sound of the bell would penetrate every recess of her tiny apartment, and rouse her to answer her friend's call. chapter gerty farish, the morning after the wellington brys' entertainment, woke from dreams as happy as lily's. if they were less vivid in hue, more subdued to the half-tints of her personality and her experience, they were for that very reason better suited to her mental vision. such flashes of joy as lily moved in would have blinded miss farish, who was accustomed, in the way of happiness, to such scant light as shone through the cracks of other people's lives. now she was the centre of a little illumination of her own: a mild but unmistakable beam, compounded of lawrence selden's growing kindness to herself and the discovery that he extended his liking to lily bart. if these two factors seem incompatible to the student of feminine psychology, it must be remembered that gerty had always been a parasite in the moral order, living on the crumbs of other tables, and content to look through the window at the banquet spread for her friends. now that she was enjoying a little private feast of her own, it would have seemed incredibly selfish not to lay a plate for a friend; and there was no one with whom she would rather have shared her enjoyment than miss bart. as to the nature of selden's growing kindness, gerty would no more have dared to define it than she would have tried to learn a butterfly's colours by knocking the dust from its wings. to seize on the wonder would be to brush off its bloom, and perhaps see it fade and stiffen in her hand: better the sense of beauty palpitating out of reach, while she held her breath and watched where it would alight. yet selden's manner at the brys' had brought the flutter of wings so close that they seemed to be beating in her own heart. she had never seen him so alert, so responsive, so attentive to what she had to say. his habitual manner had an absent-minded kindliness which she accepted, and was grateful for, as the liveliest sentiment her presence was likely to inspire; but she was quick to feel in him a change implying that for once she could give pleasure as well as receive it. and it was so delightful that this higher degree of sympathy should be reached through their interest in lily bart! gerty's affection for her friend--a sentiment that had learned to keep itself alive on the scantiest diet--had grown to active adoration since lily's restless curiosity had drawn her into the circle of miss farish's work. lily's taste of beneficence had wakened in her a momentary appetite for well-doing. her visit to the girls' club had first brought her in contact with the dramatic contrasts of life. she had always accepted with philosophic calm the fact that such existences as hers were pedestalled on foundations of obscure humanity. the dreary limbo of dinginess lay all around and beneath that little illuminated circle in which life reached its finest efflorescence, as the mud and sleet of a winter night enclose a hot-house filled with tropical flowers. all this was in the natural order of things, and the orchid basking in its artificially created atmosphere could round the delicate curves of its petals undisturbed by the ice on the panes. but it is one thing to live comfortably with the abstract conception of poverty, another to be brought in contact with its human embodiments. lily had never conceived of these victims of fate otherwise than in the mass. that the mass was composed of individual lives, innumerable separate centres of sensation, with her own eager reachings for pleasure, her own fierce revulsions from pain--that some of these bundles of feeling were clothed in shapes not so unlike her own, with eyes meant to look on gladness, and young lips shaped for love--this discovery gave lily one of those sudden shocks of pity that sometimes decentralize a life. lily's nature was incapable of such renewal: she could feel other demands only through her own, and no pain was long vivid which did not press on an answering nerve. but for the moment she was drawn out of herself by the interest of her direct relation with a world so unlike her own. she had supplemented her first gift by personal assistance to one or two of miss farish's most appealing subjects, and the admiration and interest her presence excited among the tired workers at the club ministered in a new form to her insatiable desire to please. gerty farish was not a close enough reader of character to disentangle the mixed threads of which lily's philanthropy was woven. she supposed her beautiful friend to be actuated by the same motive as herself--that sharpening of the moral vision which makes all human suffering so near and insistent that the other aspects of life fade into remoteness. gerty lived by such simple formulas that she did not hesitate to class her friend's state with the emotional "change of heart" to which her dealings with the poor had accustomed her; and she rejoiced in the thought that she had been the humble instrument of this renewal. now she had an answer to all criticisms of lily's conduct: as she had said, she knew "the real lily," and the discovery that selden shared her knowledge raised her placid acceptance of life to a dazzled sense of its possibilities--a sense farther enlarged, in the course of the afternoon, by the receipt of a telegram from selden asking if he might dine with her that evening. while gerty was lost in the happy bustle which this announcement produced in her small household, selden was at one with her in thinking with intensity of lily bart. the case which had called him to albany was not complicated enough to absorb all his attention, and he had the professional faculty of keeping a part of his mind free when its services were not needed. this part--which at the moment seemed dangerously like the whole--was filled to the brim with the sensations of the previous evening. selden understood the symptoms: he recognized the fact that he was paying up, as there had always been a chance of his having to pay up, for the voluntary exclusions of his past. he had meant to keep free from permanent ties, not from any poverty of feeling, but because, in a different way, he was, as much as lily, the victim of his environment. there had been a germ of truth in his declaration to gerty farish that he had never wanted to marry a "nice" girl: the adjective connoting, in his cousin's vocabulary, certain utilitarian qualities which are apt to preclude the luxury of charm. now it had been selden's fate to have a charming mother: her graceful portrait, all smiles and cashmere, still emitted a faded scent of the undefinable quality. his father was the kind of man who delights in a charming woman: who quotes her, stimulates her, and keeps her perennially charming. neither one of the couple cared for money, but their disdain of it took the form of always spending a little more than was prudent. if their house was shabby, it was exquisitely kept; if there were good books on the shelves there were also good dishes on the table. selden senior had an eye for a picture, his wife an understanding of old lace; and both were so conscious of restraint and discrimination in buying that they never quite knew how it was that the bills mounted up. though many of selden's friends would have called his parents poor, he had grown up in an atmosphere where restricted means were felt only as a check on aimless profusion: where the few possessions were so good that their rarity gave them a merited relief, and abstinence was combined with elegance in a way exemplified by mrs. selden's knack of wearing her old velvet as if it were new. a man has the advantage of being delivered early from the home point of view, and before selden left college he had learned that there are as many different ways of going without money as of spending it. unfortunately, he found no way as agreeable as that practised at home; and his views of womankind in especial were tinged by the remembrance of the one woman who had given him his sense of "values." it was from her that he inherited his detachment from the sumptuary side of life: the stoic's carelessness of material things, combined with the epicurean's pleasure in them. life shorn of either feeling appeared to him a diminished thing; and nowhere was the blending of the two ingredients so essential as in the character of a pretty woman. it had always seemed to selden that experience offered a great deal besides the sentimental adventure, yet he could vividly conceive of a love which should broaden and deepen till it became the central fact of life. what he could not accept, in his own case, was the makeshift alternative of a relation that should be less than this: that should leave some portions of his nature unsatisfied, while it put an undue strain on others. he would not, in other words, yield to the growth of an affection which might appeal to pity yet leave the understanding untouched: sympathy should no more delude him than a trick of the eyes, the grace of helplessness than a curve of the cheek. but now--that little but passed like a sponge over all his vows. his reasoned-out resistances seemed for the moment so much less important than the question as to when lily would receive his note! he yielded himself to the charm of trivial preoccupations, wondering at what hour her reply would be sent, with what words it would begin. as to its import he had no doubt--he was as sure of her surrender as of his own. and so he had leisure to muse on all its exquisite details, as a hard worker, on a holiday morning, might lie still and watch the beam of light travel gradually across his room. but if the new light dazzled, it did not blind him. he could still discern the outline of facts, though his own relation to them had changed. he was no less conscious than before of what was said of lily bart, but he could separate the woman he knew from the vulgar estimate of her. his mind turned to gerty farish's words, and the wisdom of the world seemed a groping thing beside the insight of innocence. blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see god--even the hidden god in their neighbour's breast! selden was in the state of impassioned self-absorption that the first surrender to love produces. his craving was for the companionship of one whose point of view should justify his own, who should confirm, by deliberate observation, the truth to which his intuitions had leaped. he could not wait for the midday recess, but seized a moment's leisure in court to scribble his telegram to gerty farish. reaching town, he was driven direct to his club, where he hoped a note from miss bart might await him. but his box contained only a line of rapturous assent from gerty, and he was turning away disappointed when he was hailed by a voice from the smoking room. "hallo, lawrence! dining here? take a bite with me--i've ordered a canvas-back." he discovered trenor, in his day clothes, sitting, with a tall glass at his elbow, behind the folds of a sporting journal. selden thanked him, but pleaded an engagement. "hang it, i believe every man in town has an engagement tonight. i shall have the club to myself. you know how i'm living this winter, rattling round in that empty house. my wife meant to come to town today, but she's put it off again, and how is a fellow to dine alone in a room with the looking-glasses covered, and nothing but a bottle of harvey sauce on the side-board? i say, lawrence, chuck your engagement and take pity on me--it gives me the blue devils to dine alone, and there's nobody but that canting ass wetherall in the club." "sorry, gus--i can't do it." as selden turned away, he noticed the dark flush on trenor's face, the unpleasant moisture of his intensely white forehead, the way his jewelled rings were wedged in the creases of his fat red fingers. certainly the beast was predominating--the beast at the bottom of the glass. and he had heard this man's name coupled with lily's! bah--the thought sickened him; all the way back to his rooms he was haunted by the sight of trenor's fat creased hands---- on his table lay the note: lily had sent it to his rooms. he knew what was in it before he broke the seal--a grey seal with beyond! beneath a flying ship. ah, he would take her beyond--beyond the ugliness, the pettiness, the attrition and corrosion of the soul---- gerty's little sitting-room sparkled with welcome when selden entered it. its modest "effects," compact of enamel paint and ingenuity, spoke to him in the language just then sweetest to his ear. it is surprising how little narrow walls and a low ceiling matter, when the roof of the soul has suddenly been raised. gerty sparkled too; or at least shone with a tempered radiance. he had never before noticed that she had "points"--really, some good fellow might do worse . . . over the little dinner (and here, again, the effects were wonderful) he told her she ought to marry--he was in a mood to pair off the whole world. she had made the caramel custard with her own hands? it was sinful to keep such gifts to herself. he reflected with a throb of pride that lily could trim her own hats--she had told him so the day of their walk at bellomont. he did not speak of lily till after dinner. during the little repast he kept the talk on his hostess, who, fluttered at being the centre of observation, shone as rosy as the candle-shades she had manufactured for the occasion. selden evinced an extraordinary interest in her household arrangements: complimented her on the ingenuity with which she had utilized every inch of her small quarters, asked how her servant managed about afternoons out, learned that one may improvise delicious dinners in a chafing-dish, and uttered thoughtful generalizations on the burden of a large establishment. when they were in the sitting-room again, where they fitted as snugly as bits in a puzzle, and she had brewed the coffee, and poured it into her grandmother's egg-shell cups, his eye, as he leaned back, basking in the warm fragrance, lighted on a recent photograph of miss bart, and the desired transition was effected without an effort. the photograph was well enough--but to catch her as she had looked last night! gerty agreed with him--never had she been so radiant. but could photography capture that light? there had been a new look in her face--something different; yes, selden agreed there had been something different. the coffee was so exquisite that he asked for a second cup: such a contrast to the watery stuff at the club! ah, your poor bachelor with his impersonal club fare, alternating with the equally impersonal cuisine of the dinner-party! a man who lived in lodgings missed the best part of life--he pictured the flavourless solitude of trenor's repast, and felt a moment's compassion for the man . . . but to return to lily--and again and again he returned, questioning, conjecturing, leading gerty on, draining her inmost thoughts of their stored tenderness for her friend. at first she poured herself out unstintingly, happy in this perfect communion of their sympathies. his understanding of lily helped to confirm her own belief in her friend. they dwelt together on the fact that lily had had no chance. gerty instanced her generous impulses--her restlessness and discontent. the fact that her life had never satisfied her proved that she was made for better things. she might have married more than once--the conventional rich marriage which she had been taught to consider the sole end of existence--but when the opportunity came she had always shrunk from it. percy gryce, for instance, had been in love with her--every one at bellomont had supposed them to be engaged, and her dismissal of him was thought inexplicable. this view of the gryce incident chimed too well with selden's mood not to be instantly adopted by him, with a flash of retrospective contempt for what had once seemed the obvious solution. if rejection there had been--and he wondered now that he had ever doubted it!--then he held the key to the secret, and the hillsides of bellomont were lit up, not with sunset, but with dawn. it was he who had wavered and disowned the face of opportunity--and the joy now warming his breast might have been a familiar inmate if he had captured it in its first flight. it was at this point, perhaps, that a joy just trying its wings in gerty's heart dropped to earth and lay still. she sat facing selden, repeating mechanically: "no, she has never been understood----" and all the while she herself seemed to be sitting in the centre of a great glare of comprehension. the little confidential room, where a moment ago their thoughts had touched elbows like their chairs, grew to unfriendly vastness, separating her from selden by all the length of her new vision of the future--and that future stretched out interminably, with her lonely figure toiling down it, a mere speck on the solitude. "she is herself with a few people only; and you are one of them," she heard selden saying. and again: "be good to her, gerty, won't you?" and: "she has it in her to become whatever she is believed to be--you'll help her by believing the best of her?" the words beat on gerty's brain like the sound of a language which has seemed familiar at a distance, but on approaching is found to be unintelligible. he had come to talk to her of lily--that was all! there had been a third at the feast she had spread for him, and that third had taken her own place. she tried to follow what he was saying, to cling to her own part in the talk--but it was all as meaningless as the boom of waves in a drowning head, and she felt, as the drowning may feel, that to sink would be nothing beside the pain of struggling to keep up. selden rose, and she drew a deep breath, feeling that soon she could yield to the blessed waves. "mrs. fisher's? you say she was dining there? there's music afterward; i believe i had a card from her." he glanced at the foolish pink-faced clock that was drumming out this hideous hour. "a quarter past ten? i might look in there now; the fisher evenings are amusing. i haven't kept you up too late, gerty? you look tired--i've rambled on and bored you." and in the unwonted overflow of his feelings, he left a cousinly kiss upon her cheek. at mrs. fisher's, through the cigar-smoke of the studio, a dozen voices greeted selden. a song was pending as he entered, and he dropped into a seat near his hostess, his eyes roaming in search of miss bart. but she was not there, and the discovery gave him a pang out of all proportion to its seriousness; since the note in his breast-pocket assured him that at four the next day they would meet. to his impatience it seemed immeasurably long to wait, and half-ashamed of the impulse, he leaned to mrs. fisher to ask, as the music ceased, if miss bart had not dined with her. "lily? she's just gone. she had to run off, i forget where. wasn't she wonderful last night?" "who's that? lily?" asked jack stepney, from the depths of a neighbouring arm-chair. "really, you know, i'm no prude, but when it comes to a girl standing there as if she was up at auction--i thought seriously of speaking to cousin julia." "you didn't know jack had become our social censor?" mrs. fisher said to selden with a laugh; and stepney spluttered, amid the general derision: "but she's a cousin, hang it, and when a man's married--town talk was full of her this morning." "yes: lively reading that was," said mr. ned van alstyne, stroking his moustache to hide the smile behind it. "buy the dirty sheet? no, of course not; some fellow showed it to me--but i'd heard the stories before. when a girl's as good-looking as that she'd better marry; then no questions are asked. in our imperfectly organized society there is no provision as yet for the young woman who claims the privileges of marriage without assuming its obligations." "well, i understand lily is about to assume them in the shape of mr. rosedale," mrs. fisher said with a laugh. "rosedale--good heavens!" exclaimed van alstyne, dropping his eye-glass. "stepney, that's your fault for foisting the brute on us." "oh, confound it, you know, we don't marry rosedale in our family," stepney languidly protested; but his wife, who sat in oppressive bridal finery at the other side of the room, quelled him with the judicial reflection: "in lily's circumstances it's a mistake to have too high a standard." "i hear even rosedale has been scared by the talk lately," mrs. fisher rejoined; "but the sight of her last night sent him off his head. what do you think he said to me after her tableau? 'my god, mrs. fisher, if i could get paul morpeth to paint her like that, the picture'd appreciate a hundred per cent in ten years.'" "by jove,--but isn't she about somewhere?" exclaimed van alstyne, restoring his glass with an uneasy glance. "no; she ran off while you were all mixing the punch down stairs. where was she going, by the way? what's on tonight? i hadn't heard of anything." "oh, not a party, i think," said an inexperienced young farish who had arrived late. "i put her in her cab as i was coming in, and she gave the driver the trenors' address." "the trenors'?" exclaimed mrs. jack stepney. "why, the house is closed--judy telephoned me from bellomont this evening." "did she? that's queer. i'm sure i'm not mistaken. well, come now, trenor's there, anyhow--i--oh, well--the fact is, i've no head for numbers," he broke off, admonished by the nudge of an adjoining foot, and the smile that circled the room. in its unpleasant light selden had risen and was shaking hands with his hostess. the air of the place stifled him, and he wondered why he had stayed in it so long. on the doorstep he stood still, remembering a phrase of lily's: "it seems to me you spend a good deal of time in the element you disapprove of." well--what had brought him there but the quest of her? it was her element, not his. but he would lift her out of it, take her beyond! that beyond! on her letter was like a cry for rescue. he knew that perseus's task is not done when he has loosed andromeda's chains, for her limbs are numb with bondage, and she cannot rise and walk, but clings to him with dragging arms as he beats back to land with his burden. well, he had strength for both--it was her weakness which had put the strength in him. it was not, alas, a clean rush of waves they had to win through, but a clogging morass of old associations and habits, and for the moment its vapours were in his throat. but he would see clearer, breathe freer in her presence: she was at once the dead weight at his breast and the spar which should float them to safety. he smiled at the whirl of metaphor with which he was trying to build up a defence against the influences of the last hour. it was pitiable that he, who knew the mixed motives on which social judgments depend, should still feel himself so swayed by them. how could he lift lily to a freer vision of life, if his own view of her was to be coloured by any mind in which he saw her reflected? the moral oppression had produced a physical craving for air, and he strode on, opening his lungs to the reverberating coldness of the night. at the corner of fifth avenue van alstyne hailed him with an offer of company. "walking? a good thing to blow the smoke out of one's head. now that women have taken to tobacco we live in a bath of nicotine. it would be a curious thing to study the effect of cigarettes on the relation of the sexes. smoke is almost as great a solvent as divorce: both tend to obscure the moral issue." nothing could have been less consonant with selden's mood than van alstyne's after-dinner aphorisms, but as long as the latter confined himself to generalities his listener's nerves were in control. happily van alstyne prided himself on his summing up of social aspects, and with selden for audience was eager to show the sureness of his touch. mrs. fisher lived in an east side street near the park, and as the two men walked down fifth avenue the new architectural developments of that versatile thoroughfare invited van alstyne's comment. "that greiner house, now--a typical rung in the social ladder! the man who built it came from a milieu where all the dishes are put on the table at once. his facade is a complete architectural meal; if he had omitted a style his friends might have thought the money had given out. not a bad purchase for rosedale, though: attracts attention, and awes the western sight-seer. by and bye he'll get out of that phase, and want something that the crowd will pass and the few pause before. especially if he marries my clever cousin----" selden dashed in with the query: "and the wellington brys'? rather clever of its kind, don't you think?" they were just beneath the wide white facade, with its rich restraint of line, which suggested the clever corseting of a redundant figure. "that's the next stage: the desire to imply that one has been to europe, and has a standard. i'm sure mrs. bry thinks her house a copy of the trianon; in america every marble house with gilt furniture is thought to be a copy of the trianon. what a clever chap that architect is, though--how he takes his client's measure! he has put the whole of mrs. bry in his use of the composite order. now for the trenors, you remember, he chose the corinthian: exuberant, but based on the best precedent. the trenor house is one of his best things--doesn't look like a banqueting-hall turned inside out. i hear mrs. trenor wants to build out a new ball-room, and that divergence from gus on that point keeps her at bellomont. the dimensions of the brys' ball-room must rankle: you may be sure she knows 'em as well as if she'd been there last night with a yard-measure. who said she was in town, by the way? that farish boy? she isn't, i know; mrs. stepney was right; the house is dark, you see: i suppose gus lives in the back." he had halted opposite the trenors' corner, and selden perforce stayed his steps also. the house loomed obscure and uninhabited; only an oblong gleam above the door spoke of provisional occupancy. "they've bought the house at the back: it gives them a hundred and fifty feet in the side street. there's where the ball-room's to be, with a gallery connecting it: billiard-room and so on above. i suggested changing the entrance, and carrying the drawing-room across the whole fifth avenue front; you see the front door corresponds with the windows----" the walking-stick which van alstyne swung in demonstration dropped to a startled "hallo!" as the door opened and two figures were seen silhouetted against the hall-light. at the same moment a hansom halted at the curb-stone, and one of the figures floated down to it in a haze of evening draperies; while the other, black and bulky, remained persistently projected against the light. for an immeasurable second the two spectators of the incident were silent; then the house-door closed, the hansom rolled off, and the whole scene slipped by as if with the turn of a stereopticon. van alstyne dropped his eye-glass with a low whistle. "a--hem--nothing of this, eh, selden? as one of the family, i know i may count on you--appearances are deceptive--and fifth avenue is so imperfectly lighted----" "goodnight," said selden, turning sharply down the side street without seeing the other's extended hand. alone with her cousin's kiss, gerty stared upon her thoughts. he had kissed her before--but not with another woman on his lips. if he had spared her that she could have drowned quietly, welcoming the dark flood as it submerged her. but now the flood was shot through with glory, and it was harder to drown at sunrise than in darkness. gerty hid her face from the light, but it pierced to the crannies of her soul. she had been so contented, life had seemed so simple and sufficient--why had he come to trouble her with new hopes? and lily--lily, her best friend! woman-like, she accused the woman. perhaps, had it not been for lily, her fond imagining might have become truth. selden had always liked her--had understood and sympathized with the modest independence of her life. he, who had the reputation of weighing all things in the nice balance of fastidious perceptions, had been uncritical and simple in his view of her: his cleverness had never overawed her because she had felt at home in his heart. and now she was thrust out, and the door barred against her by lily's hand! lily, for whose admission there she herself had pleaded! the situation was lighted up by a dreary flash of irony. she knew selden--she saw how the force of her faith in lily must have helped to dispel his hesitations. she remembered, too, how lily had talked of him--she saw herself bringing the two together, making them known to each other. on selden's part, no doubt, the wound inflicted was inconscient; he had never guessed her foolish secret; but lily--lily must have known! when, in such matters, are a woman's perceptions at fault? and if she knew, then she had deliberately despoiled her friend, and in mere wantonness of power, since, even to gerty's suddenly flaming jealousy, it seemed incredible that lily should wish to be selden's wife. lily might be incapable of marrying for money, but she was equally incapable of living without it, and selden's eager investigations into the small economies of house-keeping made him appear to gerty as tragically duped as herself. she remained long in her sitting-room, where the embers were crumbling to cold grey, and the lamp paled under its gay shade. just beneath it stood the photograph of lily bart, looking out imperially on the cheap gimcracks, the cramped furniture of the little room. could selden picture her in such an interior? gerty felt the poverty, the insignificance of her surroundings: she beheld her life as it must appear to lily. and the cruelty of lily's judgments smote upon her memory. she saw that she had dressed her idol with attributes of her own making. when had lily ever really felt, or pitied, or understood? all she wanted was the taste of new experiences: she seemed like some cruel creature experimenting in a laboratory. the pink-faced clock drummed out another hour, and gerty rose with a start. she had an appointment early the next morning with a district visitor on the east side. she put out her lamp, covered the fire, and went into her bedroom to undress. in the little glass above her dressing-table she saw her face reflected against the shadows of the room, and tears blotted the reflection. what right had she to dream the dreams of loveliness? a dull face invited a dull fate. she cried quietly as she undressed, laying aside her clothes with her habitual precision, setting everything in order for the next day, when the old life must be taken up as though there had been no break in its routine. her servant did not come till eight o'clock, and she prepared her own tea-tray and placed it beside the bed. then she locked the door of the flat, extinguished her light and lay down. but on her bed sleep would not come, and she lay face to face with the fact that she hated lily bart. it closed with her in the darkness like some formless evil to be blindly grappled with. reason, judgment, renunciation, all the sane daylight forces, were beaten back in the sharp struggle for self-preservation. she wanted happiness--wanted it as fiercely and unscrupulously as lily did, but without lily's power of obtaining it. and in her conscious impotence she lay shivering, and hated her friend---- a ring at the door-bell caught her to her feet. she struck a light and stood startled, listening. for a moment her heart beat incoherently, then she felt the sobering touch of fact, and remembered that such calls were not unknown in her charitable work. she flung on her dressing-gown to answer the summons, and unlocking her door, confronted the shining vision of lily bart. gerty's first movement was one of revulsion. she shrank back as though lily's presence flashed too sudden a light upon her misery. then she heard her name in a cry, had a glimpse of her friend's face, and felt herself caught and clung to. "lily--what is it?" she exclaimed. miss bart released her, and stood breathing brokenly, like one who has gained shelter after a long flight. "i was so cold--i couldn't go home. have you a fire?" gerty's compassionate instincts, responding to the swift call of habit, swept aside all her reluctances. lily was simply some one who needed help--for what reason, there was no time to pause and conjecture: disciplined sympathy checked the wonder on gerty's lips, and made her draw her friend silently into the sitting-room and seat her by the darkened hearth. "there is kindling wood here: the fire will burn in a minute." she knelt down, and the flame leapt under her rapid hands. it flashed strangely through the tears which still blurred her eyes, and smote on the white ruin of lily's face. the girls looked at each other in silence; then lily repeated: "i couldn't go home." "no--no--you came here, dear! you're cold and tired--sit quiet, and i'll make you some tea." gerty had unconsciously adopted the soothing note of her trade: all personal feeling was merged in the sense of ministry, and experience had taught her that the bleeding must be stayed before the wound is probed. lily sat quiet, leaning to the fire: the clatter of cups behind her soothed her as familiar noises hush a child whom silence has kept wakeful. but when gerty stood at her side with the tea she pushed it away, and turned an estranged eye on the familiar room. "i came here because i couldn't bear to be alone," she said. gerty set down the cup and knelt beside her. "lily! something has happened--can't you tell me?" "i couldn't bear to lie awake in my room till morning. i hate my room at aunt julia's--so i came here----" she stirred suddenly, broke from her apathy, and clung to gerty in a fresh burst of fear. "oh, gerty, the furies . . . you know the noise of their wings--alone, at night, in the dark? but you don't know--there is nothing to make the dark dreadful to you----" the words, flashing back on gerty's last hours, struck from her a faint derisive murmur; but lily, in the blaze of her own misery, was blinded to everything outside it. "you'll let me stay? i shan't mind when daylight comes--is it late? is the night nearly over? it must be awful to be sleepless--everything stands by the bed and stares----" miss farish caught her straying hands. "lily, look at me! something has happened--an accident? you have been frightened--what has frightened you? tell me if you can--a word or two--so that i can help you." lily shook her head. "i am not frightened: that's not the word. can you imagine looking into your glass some morning and seeing a disfigurement--some hideous change that has come to you while you slept? well, i seem to myself like that--i can't bear to see myself in my own thoughts--i hate ugliness, you know--i've always turned from it--but i can't explain to you--you wouldn't understand." she lifted her head and her eyes fell on the clock. "how long the night is! and i know i shan't sleep tomorrow. some one told me my father used to lie sleepless and think of horrors. and he was not wicked, only unfortunate--and i see now how he must have suffered, lying alone with his thoughts! but i am bad--a bad girl--all my thoughts are bad--i have always had bad people about me. is that any excuse? i thought i could manage my own life--i was proud--proud! but now i'm on their level----" sobs shook her, and she bowed to them like a tree in a dry storm. gerty knelt beside her, waiting, with the patience born of experience, till this gust of misery should loosen fresh speech. she had first imagined some physical shock, some peril of the crowded streets, since lily was presumably on her way home from carry fisher's; but she now saw that other nerve-centres were smitten, and her mind trembled back from conjecture. lily's sobs ceased, and she lifted her head. "there are bad girls in your slums. tell me--do they ever pick themselves up? ever forget, and feel as they did before?" "lily! you mustn't speak so--you're dreaming." "don't they always go from bad to worse? there's no turning back--your old self rejects you, and shuts you out." she rose, stretching her arms as if in utter physical weariness. "go to bed, dear! you work hard and get up early. i'll watch here by the fire, and you'll leave the light, and your door open. all i want is to feel that you are near me." she laid both hands on gerty's shoulders, with a smile that was like sunrise on a sea strewn with wreckage. "i can't leave you, lily. come and lie on my bed. your hands are frozen--you must undress and be made warm." gerty paused with sudden compunction. "but mrs. peniston--it's past midnight! what will she think?" "she goes to bed. i have a latch-key. it doesn't matter--i can't go back there." "there's no need to: you shall stay here. but you must tell me where you have been. listen, lily--it will help you to speak!" she regained miss bart's hands, and pressed them against her. "try to tell me--it will clear your poor head. listen--you were dining at carry fisher's." gerty paused and added with a flash of heroism: "lawrence selden went from here to find you." at the word, lily's face melted from locked anguish to the open misery of a child. her lips trembled and her gaze widened with tears. "he went to find me? and i missed him! oh, gerty, he tried to help me. he told me--he warned me long ago--he foresaw that i should grow hateful to myself!" the name, as gerty saw with a clutch at the heart, had loosened the springs of self-pity in her friend's dry breast, and tear by tear lily poured out the measure of her anguish. she had dropped sideways in gerty's big arm-chair, her head buried where lately selden's had leaned, in a beauty of abandonment that drove home to gerty's aching senses the inevitableness of her own defeat. ah, it needed no deliberate purpose on lily's part to rob her of her dream! to look on that prone loveliness was to see in it a natural force, to recognize that love and power belong to such as lily, as renunciation and service are the lot of those they despoil. but if selden's infatuation seemed a fatal necessity, the effect that his name produced shook gerty's steadfastness with a last pang. men pass through such superhuman loves and outlive them: they are the probation subduing the heart to human joys. how gladly gerty would have welcomed the ministry of healing: how willingly have soothed the sufferer back to tolerance of life! but lily's self-betrayal took this last hope from her. the mortal maid on the shore is helpless against the siren who loves her prey: such victims are floated back dead from their adventure. lily sprang up and caught her with strong hands. "gerty, you know him--you understand him--tell me; if i went to him, if i told him everything--if i said: 'i am bad through and through--i want admiration, i want excitement, i want money--' yes, money! that's my shame, gerty--and it's known, it's said of me--it's what men think of me--if i said it all to him--told him the whole story--said plainly: 'i've sunk lower than the lowest, for i've taken what they take, and not paid as they pay'--oh, gerty, you know him, you can speak for him: if i told him everything would he loathe me? or would he pity me, and understand me, and save me from loathing myself?" gerty stood cold and passive. she knew the hour of her probation had come, and her poor heart beat wildly against its destiny. as a dark river sweeps by under a lightning flash, she saw her chance of happiness surge past under a flash of temptation. what prevented her from saying: "he is like other men?" she was not so sure of him, after all! but to do so would have been like blaspheming her love. she could not put him before herself in any light but the noblest: she must trust him to the height of her own passion. "yes: i know him; he will help you," she said; and in a moment lily's passion was weeping itself out against her breast. there was but one bed in the little flat, and the two girls lay down on it side by side when gerty had unlaced lily's dress and persuaded her to put her lips to the warm tea. the light extinguished, they lay still in the darkness, gerty shrinking to the outer edge of the narrow couch to avoid contact with her bed-fellow. knowing that lily disliked to be caressed, she had long ago learned to check her demonstrative impulses toward her friend. but tonight every fibre in her body shrank from lily's nearness: it was torture to listen to her breathing, and feel the sheet stir with it. as lily turned, and settled to completer rest, a strand of her hair swept gerty's cheek with its fragrance. everything about her was warm and soft and scented: even the stains of her grief became her as rain-drops do the beaten rose. but as gerty lay with arms drawn down her side, in the motionless narrowness of an effigy, she felt a stir of sobs from the breathing warmth beside her, and lily flung out her hand, groped for her friend's, and held it fast. "hold me, gerty, hold me, or i shall think of things," she moaned; and gerty silently slipped an arm under her, pillowing her head in its hollow as a mother makes a nest for a tossing child. in the warm hollow lily lay still and her breathing grew low and regular. her hand still clung to gerty's as if to ward off evil dreams, but the hold of her fingers relaxed, her head sank deeper into its shelter, and gerty felt that she slept. chapter when lily woke she had the bed to herself, and the winter light was in the room. she sat up, bewildered by the strangeness of her surroundings; then memory returned, and she looked about her with a shiver. in the cold slant of light reflected from the back wall of a neighbouring building, she saw her evening dress and opera cloak lying in a tawdry heap on a chair. finery laid off is as unappetizing as the remains of a feast, and it occurred to lily that, at home, her maid's vigilance had always spared her the sight of such incongruities. her body ached with fatigue, and with the constriction of her attitude in gerty's bed. all through her troubled sleep she had been conscious of having no space to toss in, and the long effort to remain motionless made her feel as if she had spent her night in a train. this sense of physical discomfort was the first to assert itself; then she perceived, beneath it, a corresponding mental prostration, a languor of horror more insufferable than the first rush of her disgust. the thought of having to wake every morning with this weight on her breast roused her tired mind to fresh effort. she must find some way out of the slough into which she had stumbled: it was not so much compunction as the dread of her morning thoughts that pressed on her the need of action. but she was unutterably tired; it was weariness to think connectedly. she lay back, looking about the poor slit of a room with a renewal of physical distaste. the outer air, penned between high buildings, brought no freshness through the window; steam-heat was beginning to sing in a coil of dingy pipes, and a smell of cooking penetrated the crack of the door. the door opened, and gerty, dressed and hatted, entered with a cup of tea. her face looked sallow and swollen in the dreary light, and her dull hair shaded imperceptibly into the tones of her skin. she glanced shyly at lily, asking in an embarrassed tone how she felt; lily answered with the same constraint, and raised herself up to drink the tea. "i must have been over-tired last night; i think i had a nervous attack in the carriage," she said, as the drink brought clearness to her sluggish thoughts. "you were not well; i am so glad you came here," gerty returned. "but how am i to get home? and aunt julia--?" "she knows; i telephoned early, and your maid has brought your things. but won't you eat something? i scrambled the eggs myself." lily could not eat; but the tea strengthened her to rise and dress under her maid's searching gaze. it was a relief to her that gerty was obliged to hasten away: the two kissed silently, but without a trace of the previous night's emotion. lily found mrs. peniston in a state of agitation. she had sent for grace stepney and was taking digitalis. lily breasted the storm of enquiries as best she could, explaining that she had had an attack of faintness on her way back from carry fisher's; that, fearing she would not have strength to reach home, she had gone to miss farish's instead; but that a quiet night had restored her, and that she had no need of a doctor. this was a relief to mrs. peniston, who could give herself up to her own symptoms, and lily was advised to go and lie down, her aunt's panacea for all physical and moral disorders. in the solitude of her own room she was brought back to a sharp contemplation of facts. her daylight view of them necessarily differed from the cloudy vision of the night. the winged furies were now prowling gossips who dropped in on each other for tea. but her fears seemed the uglier, thus shorn of their vagueness; and besides, she had to act, not rave. for the first time she forced herself to reckon up the exact amount of her debt to trenor; and the result of this hateful computation was the discovery that she had, in all, received nine thousand dollars from him. the flimsy pretext on which it had been given and received shrivelled up in the blaze of her shame: she knew that not a penny of it was her own, and that to restore her self-respect she must at once repay the whole amount. the inability thus to solace her outraged feelings gave her a paralyzing sense of insignificance. she was realizing for the first time that a woman's dignity may cost more to keep up than her carriage; and that the maintenance of a moral attribute should be dependent on dollars and cents, made the world appear a more sordid place than she had conceived it. after luncheon, when grace stepney's prying eyes had been removed, lily asked for a word with her aunt. the two ladies went upstairs to the sitting-room, where mrs. peniston seated herself in her black satin arm-chair tufted with yellow buttons, beside a bead-work table bearing a bronze box with a miniature of beatrice cenci in the lid. lily felt for these objects the same distaste which the prisoner may entertain for the fittings of the court-room. it was here that her aunt received her rare confidences, and the pink-eyed smirk of the turbaned beatrice was associated in her mind with the gradual fading of the smile from mrs. peniston's lips. that lady's dread of a scene gave her an inexorableness which the greatest strength of character could not have produced, since it was independent of all considerations of right or wrong; and knowing this, lily seldom ventured to assail it. she had never felt less like making the attempt than on the present occasion; but she had sought in vain for any other means of escape from an intolerable situation. mrs. peniston examined her critically. "you're a bad colour, lily: this incessant rushing about is beginning to tell on you," she said. miss bart saw an opening. "i don't think it's that, aunt julia; i've had worries," she replied. "ah," said mrs. peniston, shutting her lips with the snap of a purse closing against a beggar. "i'm sorry to bother you with them," lily continued, "but i really believe my faintness last night was brought on partly by anxious thoughts--" "i should have said carry fisher's cook was enough to account for it. she has a woman who was with maria melson in --the spring of the year we went to aix--and i remember dining there two days before we sailed, and feeling sure the coppers hadn't been scoured." "i don't think i ate much; i can't eat or sleep." lily paused, and then said abruptly: "the fact is, aunt julia, i owe some money." mrs. peniston's face clouded perceptibly, but did not express the astonishment her niece had expected. she was silent, and lily was forced to continue: "i have been foolish----" "no doubt you have: extremely foolish," mrs. peniston interposed. "i fail to see how any one with your income, and no expenses--not to mention the handsome presents i've always given you----" "oh, you've been most generous, aunt julia; i shall never forget your kindness. but perhaps you don't quite realize the expense a girl is put to nowadays----" "i don't realize that you are put to any expense except for your clothes and your railway fares. i expect you to be handsomely dressed; but i paid celeste's bill for you last october." lily hesitated: her aunt's implacable memory had never been more inconvenient. "you were as kind as possible; but i have had to get a few things since----" "what kind of things? clothes? how much have you spent? let me see the bill--i daresay the woman is swindling you." "oh, no, i think not: clothes have grown so frightfully expensive; and one needs so many different kinds, with country visits, and golf and skating, and aiken and tuxedo----" "let me see the bill," mrs. peniston repeated. lily hesitated again. in the first place, mme. celeste had not yet sent in her account, and secondly, the amount it represented was only a fraction of the sum that lily needed. "she hasn't sent in the bill for my winter things, but i know it's large; and there are one or two other things; i've been careless and imprudent--i'm frightened to think of what i owe----" she raised the troubled loveliness of her face to mrs. peniston, vainly hoping that a sight so moving to the other sex might not be without effect upon her own. but the effect produced was that of making mrs. peniston shrink back apprehensively. "really, lily, you are old enough to manage your own affairs, and after frightening me to death by your performance of last night you might at least choose a better time to worry me with such matters." mrs. peniston glanced at the clock, and swallowed a tablet of digitalis. "if you owe celeste another thousand, she may send me her account," she added, as though to end the discussion at any cost. "i am very sorry, aunt julia; i hate to trouble you at such a time; but i have really no choice--i ought to have spoken sooner--i owe a great deal more than a thousand dollars." "a great deal more? do you owe two? she must have robbed you!" "i told you it was not only celeste. i--there are other bills--more pressing--that must be settled." "what on earth have you been buying? jewelry? you must have gone off your head," said mrs. peniston with asperity. "but if you have run into debt, you must suffer the consequences, and put aside your monthly income till your bills are paid. if you stay quietly here until next spring, instead of racing about all over the country, you will have no expenses at all, and surely in four or five months you can settle the rest of your bills if i pay the dress-maker now." lily was again silent. she knew she could not hope to extract even a thousand dollars from mrs. peniston on the mere plea of paying celeste's bill: mrs. peniston would expect to go over the dress-maker's account, and would make out the cheque to her and not to lily. and yet the money must be obtained before the day was over! "the debts i speak of are--different--not like tradesmen's bills," she began confusedly; but mrs. peniston's look made her almost afraid to continue. could it be that her aunt suspected anything? the idea precipitated lily's avowal. "the fact is, i've played cards a good deal--bridge; the women all do it; girls too--it's expected. sometimes i've won--won a good deal--but lately i've been unlucky--and of course such debts can't be paid off gradually----" she paused: mrs. peniston's face seemed to be petrifying as she listened. "cards--you've played cards for money? it's true, then: when i was told so i wouldn't believe it. i won't ask if the other horrors i was told were true too; i've heard enough for the state of my nerves. when i think of the example you've had in this house! but i suppose it's your foreign bringing-up--no one knew where your mother picked up her friends. and her sundays were a scandal--that i know." mrs. peniston wheeled round suddenly. "you play cards on sunday?" lily flushed with the recollection of certain rainy sundays at bellomont and with the dorsets. "you're hard on me, aunt julia: i have never really cared for cards, but a girl hates to be thought priggish and superior, and one drifts into doing what the others do. i've had a dreadful lesson, and if you'll help me out this time i promise you--" mrs. peniston raised her hand warningly. "you needn't make any promises: it's unnecessary. when i offered you a home i didn't undertake to pay your gambling debts." "aunt julia! you don't mean that you won't help me?" "i shall certainly not do anything to give the impression that i countenance your behaviour. if you really owe your dress-maker, i will settle with her--beyond that i recognize no obligation to assume your debts." lily had risen, and stood pale and quivering before her aunt. pride stormed in her, but humiliation forced the cry from her lips: "aunt julia, i shall be disgraced--i--" but she could go no farther. if her aunt turned such a stony ear to the fiction of the gambling debts, in what spirit would she receive the terrible avowal of the truth? "i consider that you are disgraced, lily: disgraced by your conduct far more than by its results. you say your friends have persuaded you to play cards with them; well, they may as well learn a lesson too. they can probably afford to lose a little money--and at any rate, i am not going to waste any of mine in paying them. and now i must ask you to leave me--this scene has been extremely painful, and i have my own health to consider. draw down the blinds, please; and tell jennings i will see no one this afternoon but grace stepney." lily went up to her own room and bolted the door. she was trembling with fear and anger--the rush of the furies' wings was in her ears. she walked up and down the room with blind irregular steps. the last door of escape was closed--she felt herself shut in with her dishonour. suddenly her wild pacing brought her before the clock on the chimney-piece. its hands stood at half-past three, and she remembered that selden was to come to her at four. she had meant to put him off with a word--but now her heart leaped at the thought of seeing him. was there not a promise of rescue in his love? as she had lain at gerty's side the night before, she had thought of his coming, and of the sweetness of weeping out her pain upon his breast. of course she had meant to clear herself of its consequences before she met him--she had never really doubted that mrs. peniston would come to her aid. and she had felt, even in the full storm of her misery, that selden's love could not be her ultimate refuge; only it would be so sweet to take a moment's shelter there, while she gathered fresh strength to go on. but now his love was her only hope, and as she sat alone with her wretchedness the thought of confiding in him became as seductive as the river's flow to the suicide. the first plunge would be terrible--but afterward, what blessedness might come! she remembered gerty's words: "i know him--he will help you"; and her mind clung to them as a sick person might cling to a healing relic. oh, if he really understood--if he would help her to gather up her broken life, and put it together in some new semblance in which no trace of the past should remain! he had always made her feel that she was worthy of better things, and she had never been in greater need of such solace. once and again she shrank at the thought of imperilling his love by her confession: for love was what she needed--it would take the glow of passion to weld together the shattered fragments of her self-esteem. but she recurred to gerty's words and held fast to them. she was sure that gerty knew selden's feeling for her, and it had never dawned upon her blindness that gerty's own judgment of him was coloured by emotions far more ardent than her own. four o'clock found her in the drawing-room: she was sure that selden would be punctual. but the hour came and passed--it moved on feverishly, measured by her impatient heart-beats. she had time to take a fresh survey of her wretchedness, and to fluctuate anew between the impulse to confide in selden and the dread of destroying his illusions. but as the minutes passed the need of throwing herself on his comprehension became more urgent: she could not bear the weight of her misery alone. there would be a perilous moment, perhaps: but could she not trust to her beauty to bridge it over, to land her safe in the shelter of his devotion? but the hour sped on and selden did not come. doubtless he had been detained, or had misread her hurriedly scrawled note, taking the four for a five. the ringing of the door-bell a few minutes after five confirmed this supposition, and made lily hastily resolve to write more legibly in future. the sound of steps in the hall, and of the butler's voice preceding them, poured fresh energy into her veins. she felt herself once more the alert and competent moulder of emergencies, and the remembrance of her power over selden flushed her with sudden confidence. but when the drawing-room door opened it was rosedale who came in. the reaction caused her a sharp pang, but after a passing movement of irritation at the clumsiness of fate, and at her own carelessness in not denying the door to all but selden, she controlled herself and greeted rosedale amicably. it was annoying that selden, when he came, should find that particular visitor in possession, but lily was mistress of the art of ridding herself of superfluous company, and to her present mood rosedale seemed distinctly negligible. his own view of the situation forced itself upon her after a few moments' conversation. she had caught at the brys' entertainment as an easy impersonal subject, likely to tide them over the interval till selden appeared, but mr. rosedale, tenaciously planted beside the tea-table, his hands in his pockets, his legs a little too freely extended, at once gave the topic a personal turn. "pretty well done--well, yes, i suppose it was: welly bry's got his back up and don't mean to let go till he's got the hang of the thing. of course, there were things here and there--things mrs. fisher couldn't be expected to see to--the champagne wasn't cold, and the coats got mixed in the coat-room. i would have spent more money on the music. but that's my character: if i want a thing i'm willing to pay: i don't go up to the counter, and then wonder if the article's worth the price. i wouldn't be satisfied to entertain like the welly brys; i'd want something that would look more easy and natural, more as if i took it in my stride. and it takes just two things to do that, miss bart: money, and the right woman to spend it." he paused, and examined her attentively while she affected to rearrange the tea-cups. "i've got the money," he continued, clearing his throat, "and what i want is the woman--and i mean to have her too." he leaned forward a little, resting his hands on the head of his walking-stick. he had seen men of ned van alstyne's type bring their hats and sticks into a drawing-room, and he thought it added a touch of elegant familiarity to their appearance. lily was silent, smiling faintly, with her eyes absently resting on his face. she was in reality reflecting that a declaration would take some time to make, and that selden must surely appear before the moment of refusal had been reached. her brooding look, as of a mind withdrawn yet not averted, seemed to mr. rosedale full of a subtle encouragement. he would not have liked any evidence of eagerness. "i mean to have her too," he repeated, with a laugh intended to strengthen his self-assurance. "i generally have got what i wanted in life, miss bart. i wanted money, and i've got more than i know how to invest; and now the money doesn't seem to be of any account unless i can spend it on the right woman. that's what i want to do with it: i want my wife to make all the other women feel small. i'd never grudge a dollar that was spent on that. but it isn't every woman can do it, no matter how much you spend on her. there was a girl in some history book who wanted gold shields, or something, and the fellows threw 'em at her, and she was crushed under 'em: they killed her. well, that's true enough: some women looked buried under their jewelry. what i want is a woman who'll hold her head higher the more diamonds i put on it. and when i looked at you the other night at the brys', in that plain white dress, looking as if you had a crown on, i said to myself: 'by gad, if she had one she'd wear it as if it grew on her.'" still lily did not speak, and he continued, warming with his theme: "tell you what it is, though, that kind of woman costs more than all the rest of 'em put together. if a woman's going to ignore her pearls, they want to be better than anybody else's--and so it is with everything else. you know what i mean--you know it's only the showy things that are cheap. well, i should want my wife to be able to take the earth for granted if she wanted to. i know there's one thing vulgar about money, and that's the thinking about it; and my wife would never have to demean herself in that way." he paused, and then added, with an unfortunate lapse to an earlier manner: "i guess you know the lady i've got in view, miss bart." lily raised her head, brightening a little under the challenge. even through the dark tumult of her thoughts, the clink of mr. rosedale's millions had a faintly seductive note. oh, for enough of them to cancel her one miserable debt! but the man behind them grew increasingly repugnant in the light of selden's expected coming. the contrast was too grotesque: she could scarcely suppress the smile it provoked. she decided that directness would be best. "if you mean me, mr. rosedale, i am very grateful--very much flattered; but i don't know what i have ever done to make you think--" "oh, if you mean you're not dead in love with me, i've got sense enough left to see that. and i ain't talking to you as if you were--i presume i know the kind of talk that's expected under those circumstances. i'm confoundedly gone on you--that's about the size of it--and i'm just giving you a plain business statement of the consequences. you're not very fond of me--yet--but you're fond of luxury, and style, and amusement, and of not having to worry about cash. you like to have a good time, and not have to settle for it; and what i propose to do is to provide for the good time and do the settling." he paused, and she returned with a chilling smile: "you are mistaken in one point, mr. rosedale: whatever i enjoy i am prepared to settle for." she spoke with the intention of making him see that, if his words implied a tentative allusion to her private affairs, she was prepared to meet and repudiate it. but if he recognized her meaning it failed to abash him, and he went on in the same tone: "i didn't mean to give offence; excuse me if i've spoken too plainly. but why ain't you straight with me--why do you put up that kind of bluff? you know there've been times when you were bothered--damned bothered--and as a girl gets older, and things keep moving along, why, before she knows it, the things she wants are liable to move past her and not come back. i don't say it's anywhere near that with you yet; but you've had a taste of bothers that a girl like yourself ought never to have known about, and what i'm offering you is the chance to turn your back on them once for all." the colour burned in lily's face as he ended; there was no mistaking the point he meant to make, and to permit it to pass unheeded was a fatal confession of weakness, while to resent it too openly was to risk offending him at a perilous moment. indignation quivered on her lip; but it was quelled by the secret voice which warned her that she must not quarrel with him. he knew too much about her, and even at the moment when it was essential that he should show himself at his best, he did not scruple to let her see how much he knew. how then would he use his power when her expression of contempt had dispelled his one motive for restraint? her whole future might hinge on her way of answering him: she had to stop and consider that, in the stress of her other anxieties, as a breathless fugitive may have to pause at the cross-roads and try to decide coolly which turn to take. "you are quite right, mr. rosedale. i have had bothers; and i am grateful to you for wanting to relieve me of them. it is not always easy to be quite independent and self-respecting when one is poor and lives among rich people; i have been careless about money, and have worried about my bills. but i should be selfish and ungrateful if i made that a reason for accepting all you offer, with no better return to make than the desire to be free from my anxieties. you must give me time--time to think of your kindness--and of what i could give you in return for it----" she held out her hand with a charming gesture in which dismissal was shorn of its rigour. its hint of future leniency made rosedale rise in obedience to it, a little flushed with his unhoped-for success, and disciplined by the tradition of his blood to accept what was conceded, without undue haste to press for more. something in his prompt acquiescence frightened her; she felt behind it the stored force of a patience that might subdue the strongest will. but at least they had parted amicably, and he was out of the house without meeting selden--selden, whose continued absence now smote her with a new alarm. rosedale had remained over an hour, and she understood that it was now too late to hope for selden. he would write explaining his absence, of course; there would be a note from him by the late post. but her confession would have to be postponed; and the chill of the delay settled heavily on her fagged spirit. it lay heavier when the postman's last ring brought no note for her, and she had to go upstairs to a lonely night--a night as grim and sleepless as her tortured fancy had pictured it to gerty. she had never learned to live with her own thoughts, and to be confronted with them through such hours of lucid misery made the confused wretchedness of her previous vigil seem easily bearable. daylight disbanded the phantom crew, and made it clear to her that she would hear from selden before noon; but the day passed without his writing or coming. lily remained at home, lunching and dining alone with her aunt, who complained of flutterings of the heart, and talked icily on general topics. mrs. peniston went to bed early, and when she had gone lily sat down and wrote a note to selden. she was about to ring for a messenger to despatch it when her eye fell on a paragraph in the evening paper which lay at her elbow: "mr. lawrence selden was among the passengers sailing this afternoon for havana and the west indies on the windward liner antilles." she laid down the paper and sat motionless, staring at her note. she understood now that he was never coming--that he had gone away because he was afraid that he might come. she rose, and walking across the floor stood gazing at herself for a long time in the brightly-lit mirror above the mantel-piece. the lines in her face came out terribly--she looked old; and when a girl looks old to herself, how does she look to other people? she moved away, and began to wander aimlessly about the room, fitting her steps with mechanical precision between the monstrous roses of mrs. peniston's axminster. suddenly she noticed that the pen with which she had written to selden still rested against the uncovered inkstand. she seated herself again, and taking out an envelope, addressed it rapidly to rosedale. then she laid out a sheet of paper, and sat over it with suspended pen. it had been easy enough to write the date, and "dear mr. rosedale"--but after that her inspiration flagged. she meant to tell him to come to her, but the words refused to shape themselves. at length she began: "i have been thinking----" then she laid the pen down, and sat with her elbows on the table and her face hidden in her hands. suddenly she started up at the sound of the door-bell. it was not late--barely ten o'clock--and there might still be a note from selden, or a message--or he might be there himself, on the other side of the door! the announcement of his sailing might have been a mistake--it might be another lawrence selden who had gone to havana--all these possibilities had time to flash through her mind, and build up the conviction that she was after all to see or hear from him, before the drawing-room door opened to admit a servant carrying a telegram. lily tore it open with shaking hands, and read bertha dorset's name below the message: "sailing unexpectedly tomorrow. will you join us on a cruise in mediterranean?" book two chapter it came vividly to selden on the casino steps that monte carlo had, more than any other place he knew, the gift of accommodating itself to each man's humour. his own, at the moment, lent it a festive readiness of welcome that might well, in a disenchanted eye, have turned to paint and facility. so frank an appeal for participation--so outspoken a recognition of the holiday vein in human nature--struck refreshingly on a mind jaded by prolonged hard work in surroundings made for the discipline of the senses. as he surveyed the white square set in an exotic coquetry of architecture, the studied tropicality of the gardens, the groups loitering in the foreground against mauve mountains which suggested a sublime stage-setting forgotten in a hurried shifting of scenes--as he took in the whole outspread effect of light and leisure, he felt a movement of revulsion from the last few months of his life. the new york winter had presented an interminable perspective of snow-burdened days, reaching toward a spring of raw sunshine and furious air, when the ugliness of things rasped the eye as the gritty wind ground into the skin. selden, immersed in his work, had told himself that external conditions did not matter to a man in his state, and that cold and ugliness were a good tonic for relaxed sensibilities. when an urgent case summoned him abroad to confer with a client in paris, he broke reluctantly with the routine of the office; and it was only now that, having despatched his business, and slipped away for a week in the south, he began to feel the renewed zest of spectatorship that is the solace of those who take an objective interest in life. the multiplicity of its appeals--the perpetual surprise of its contrasts and resemblances! all these tricks and turns of the show were upon him with a spring as he descended the casino steps and paused on the pavement at its doors. he had not been abroad for seven years--and what changes the renewed contact produced! if the central depths were untouched, hardly a pin-point of surface remained the same. and this was the very place to bring out the completeness of the renewal. the sublimities, the perpetuities, might have left him as he was: but this tent pitched for a day's revelry spread a roof of oblivion between himself and his fixed sky. it was mid-april, and one felt that the revelry had reached its climax and that the desultory groups in the square and gardens would soon dissolve and re-form in other scenes. meanwhile the last moments of the performance seemed to gain an added brightness from the hovering threat of the curtain. the quality of the air, the exuberance of the flowers, the blue intensity of sea and sky, produced the effect of a closing tableau, when all the lights are turned on at once. this impression was presently heightened by the way in which a consciously conspicuous group of people advanced to the middle front, and stood before selden with the air of the chief performers gathered together by the exigencies of the final effect. their appearance confirmed the impression that the show had been staged regardless of expense, and emphasized its resemblance to one of those "costume-plays" in which the protagonists walk through the passions without displacing a drapery. the ladies stood in unrelated attitudes calculated to isolate their effects, and the men hung about them as irrelevantly as stage heroes whose tailors are named in the programme. it was selden himself who unwittingly fused the group by arresting the attention of one of its members. "why, mr. selden!" mrs. fisher exclaimed in surprise; and with a gesture toward mrs. jack stepney and mrs. wellington bry, she added plaintively: "we're starving to death because we can't decide where to lunch." welcomed into their group, and made the confidant of their difficulty, selden learned with amusement that there were several places where one might miss something by not lunching, or forfeit something by lunching; so that eating actually became a minor consideration on the very spot consecrated to its rites. "of course one gets the best things at the terrasse--but that looks as if one hadn't any other reason for being there: the americans who don't know any one always rush for the best food. and the duchess of beltshire has taken up becassin's lately," mrs. bry earnestly summed up. mrs. bry, to mrs. fisher's despair, had not progressed beyond the point of weighing her social alternatives in public. she could not acquire the air of doing things because she wanted to, and making her choice the final seal of their fitness. mr. bry, a short pale man, with a business face and leisure clothes, met the dilemma hilariously. "i guess the duchess goes where it's cheapest, unless she can get her meal paid for. if you offered to blow her off at the terrasse she'd turn up fast enough." but mrs. jack stepney interposed. "the grand dukes go to that little place at the condamine. lord hubert says it's the only restaurant in europe where they can cook peas." lord hubert dacey, a slender shabby-looking man, with a charming worn smile, and the air of having spent his best years in piloting the wealthy to the right restaurant, assented with gentle emphasis: "it's quite that." "peas?" said mr. bry contemptuously. "can they cook terrapin? it just shows," he continued, "what these european markets are, when a fellow can make a reputation cooking peas!" jack stepney intervened with authority. "i don't know that i quite agree with dacey: there's a little hole in paris, off the quai voltaire--but in any case, i can't advise the condamine gargote; at least not with ladies." stepney, since his marriage, had thickened and grown prudish, as the van osburgh husbands were apt to do; but his wife, to his surprise and discomfiture, had developed an earth-shaking fastness of gait which left him trailing breathlessly in her wake. "that's where we'll go then!" she declared, with a heavy toss of her plumage. "i'm so tired of the terrasse: it's as dull as one of mother's dinners. and lord hubert has promised to tell us who all the awful people are at the other place--hasn't he, carry? now, jack, don't look so solemn!" "well," said mrs. bry, "all i want to know is who their dress-makers are." "no doubt dacey can tell you that too," remarked stepney, with an ironic intention which the other received with the light murmur, "i can at least find out, my dear fellow"; and mrs. bry having declared that she couldn't walk another step, the party hailed two or three of the light phaetons which hover attentively on the confines of the gardens, and rattled off in procession toward the condamine. their destination was one of the little restaurants overhanging the boulevard which dips steeply down from monte carlo to the low intermediate quarter along the quay. from the window in which they presently found themselves installed, they overlooked the intense blue curve of the harbour, set between the verdure of twin promontories: to the right, the cliff of monaco, topped by the mediaeval silhouette of its church and castle, to the left the terraces and pinnacles of the gambling-house. between the two, the waters of the bay were furrowed by a light coming and going of pleasure-craft, through which, just at the culminating moment of luncheon, the majestic advance of a great steam-yacht drew the company's attention from the peas. "by jove, i believe that's the dorsets back!" stepney exclaimed; and lord hubert, dropping his single eye-glass, corroborated: "it's the sabrina--yes." "so soon? they were to spend a month in sicily," mrs. fisher observed. "i guess they feel as if they had: there's only one up-to-date hotel in the whole place," said mr. bry disparagingly. "it was ned silverton's idea--but poor dorset and lily bart must have been horribly bored." mrs. fisher added in an undertone to selden: "i do hope there hasn't been a row." "it's most awfully jolly having miss bart back," said lord hubert, in his mild deliberate voice; and mrs. bry added ingenuously: "i daresay the duchess will dine with us, now that lily's here." "the duchess admires her immensely: i'm sure she'd be charmed to have it arranged," lord hubert agreed, with the professional promptness of the man accustomed to draw his profit from facilitating social contacts: selden was struck by the businesslike change in his manner. "lily has been a tremendous success here," mrs. fisher continued, still addressing herself confidentially to selden. "she looks ten years younger--i never saw her so handsome. lady skiddaw took her everywhere in cannes, and the crown princess of macedonia had her to stop for a week at cimiez. people say that was one reason why bertha whisked the yacht off to sicily: the crown princess didn't take much notice of her, and she couldn't bear to look on at lily's triumph." selden made no reply. he was vaguely aware that miss bart was cruising in the mediterranean with the dorsets, but it had not occurred to him that there was any chance of running across her on the riviera, where the season was virtually at an end. as he leaned back, silently contemplating his filigree cup of turkish coffee, he was trying to put some order in his thoughts, to tell himself how the news of her nearness was really affecting him. he had a personal detachment enabling him, even in moments of emotional high-pressure, to get a fairly clear view of his feelings, and he was sincerely surprised by the disturbance which the sight of the sabrina had produced in him. he had reason to think that his three months of engrossing professional work, following on the sharp shock of his disillusionment, had cleared his mind of its sentimental vapours. the feeling he had nourished and given prominence to was one of thankfulness for his escape: he was like a traveller so grateful for rescue from a dangerous accident that at first he is hardly conscious of his bruises. now he suddenly felt the latent ache, and realized that after all he had not come off unhurt. an hour later, at mrs. fisher's side in the casino gardens, he was trying to find fresh reasons for forgetting the injury received in the contemplation of the peril avoided. the party had dispersed with the loitering indecision characteristic of social movements at monte carlo, where the whole place, and the long gilded hours of the day, seem to offer an infinity of ways of being idle. lord hubert dacey had finally gone off in quest of the duchess of beltshire, charged by mrs. bry with the delicate negotiation of securing that lady's presence at dinner, the stepneys had left for nice in their motor-car, and mr. bry had departed to take his place in the pigeon shooting match which was at the moment engaging his highest faculties. mrs. bry, who had a tendency to grow red and stertorous after luncheon, had been judiciously prevailed upon by carry fisher to withdraw to her hotel for an hour's repose; and selden and his companion were thus left to a stroll propitious to confidences. the stroll soon resolved itself into a tranquil session on a bench overhung with laurel and banksian roses, from which they caught a dazzle of blue sea between marble balusters, and the fiery shafts of cactus-blossoms shooting meteor-like from the rock. the soft shade of their niche, and the adjacent glitter of the air, were conducive to an easy lounging mood, and to the smoking of many cigarettes; and selden, yielding to these influences, suffered mrs. fisher to unfold to him the history of her recent experiences. she had come abroad with the welly brys at the moment when fashion flees the inclemency of the new york spring. the brys, intoxicated by their first success, already thirsted for new kingdoms, and mrs. fisher, viewing the riviera as an easy introduction to london society, had guided their course thither. she had affiliations of her own in every capital, and a facility for picking them up again after long absences; and the carefully disseminated rumour of the brys' wealth had at once gathered about them a group of cosmopolitan pleasure-seekers. "but things are not going as well as i expected," mrs. fisher frankly admitted. "it's all very well to say that every body with money can get into society; but it would be truer to say that nearly everybody can. and the london market is so glutted with new americans that, to succeed there now, they must be either very clever or awfully queer. the brys are neither. he would get on well enough if she'd let him alone; they like his slang and his brag and his blunders. but louisa spoils it all by trying to repress him and put herself forward. if she'd be natural herself--fat and vulgar and bouncing--it would be all right; but as soon as she meets anybody smart she tries to be slender and queenly. she tried it with the duchess of beltshire and lady skiddaw, and they fled. i've done my best to make her see her mistake--i've said to her again and again: 'just let yourself go, louisa'; but she keeps up the humbug even with me--i believe she keeps on being queenly in her own room, with the door shut. "the worst of it is," mrs. fisher went on, "that she thinks it's all my fault. when the dorsets turned up here six weeks ago, and everybody began to make a fuss about lily bart, i could see louisa thought that if she'd had lily in tow instead of me she would have been hob-nobbing with all the royalties by this time. she doesn't realize that it's lily's beauty that does it: lord hubert tells me lily is thought even handsomer than when he knew her at aix ten years ago. it seems she was tremendously admired there. an italian prince, rich and the real thing, wanted to marry her; but just at the critical moment a good-looking step-son turned up, and lily was silly enough to flirt with him while her marriage-settlements with the step-father were being drawn up. some people said the young man did it on purpose. you can fancy the scandal: there was an awful row between the men, and people began to look at lily so queerly that mrs. peniston had to pack up and finish her cure elsewhere. not that she ever understood: to this day she thinks that aix didn't suit her, and mentions her having been sent there as proof of the incompetence of french doctors. that's lily all over, you know: she works like a slave preparing the ground and sowing her seed; but the day she ought to be reaping the harvest she over-sleeps herself or goes off on a picnic." mrs. fisher paused and looked reflectively at the deep shimmer of sea between the cactus-flowers. "sometimes," she added, "i think it's just flightiness--and sometimes i think it's because, at heart, she despises the things she's trying for. and it's the difficulty of deciding that makes her such an interesting study." she glanced tentatively at selden's motionless profile, and resumed with a slight sigh: "well, all i can say is, i wish she'd give me some of her discarded opportunities. i wish we could change places now, for instance. she could make a very good thing out of the brys if she managed them properly, and i should know just how to look after george dorset while bertha is reading verlaine with neddy silverton." she met selden's sound of protest with a sharp derisive glance. "well, what's the use of mincing matters? we all know that's what bertha brought her abroad for. when bertha wants to have a good time she has to provide occupation for george. at first i thought lily was going to play her cards well this time, but there are rumours that bertha is jealous of her success here and at cannes, and i shouldn't be surprised if there were a break any day. lily's only safeguard is that bertha needs her badly--oh, very badly. the silverton affair is in the acute stage: it's necessary that george's attention should be pretty continuously distracted. and i'm bound to say lily does distract it: i believe he'd marry her tomorrow if he found out there was anything wrong with bertha. but you know him--he's as blind as he's jealous; and of course lily's present business is to keep him blind. a clever woman might know just the right moment to tear off the bandage: but lily isn't clever in that way, and when george does open his eyes she'll probably contrive not to be in his line of vision." selden tossed away his cigarette. "by jove--it's time for my train," he exclaimed, with a glance at his watch; adding, in reply to mrs. fisher's surprised comment--"why, i thought of course you were at monte!"--a murmured word to the effect that he was making nice his head-quarters. "the worst of it is, she snubs the brys now," he heard irrelevantly flung after him. ten minutes later, in the high-perched bedroom of an hotel overlooking the casino, he was tossing his effects into a couple of gaping portmanteaux, while the porter waited outside to transport them to the cab at the door. it took but a brief plunge down the steep white road to the station to land him safely in the afternoon express for nice; and not till he was installed in the corner of an empty carriage, did he exclaim to himself, with a reaction of self-contempt: "what the deuce am i running away from?" the pertinence of the question checked selden's fugitive impulse before the train had started. it was ridiculous to be flying like an emotional coward from an infatuation his reason had conquered. he had instructed his bankers to forward some important business letters to nice, and at nice he would quietly await them. he was already annoyed with himself for having left monte carlo, where he had intended to pass the week which remained to him before sailing; but it would now be difficult to return on his steps without an appearance of inconsistency from which his pride recoiled. in his inmost heart he was not sorry to put himself beyond the probability of meeting miss bart. completely as he had detached himself from her, he could not yet regard her merely as a social instance; and viewed in a more personal ways she was not likely to be a reassuring object of study. chance encounters, or even the repeated mention of her name, would send his thoughts back into grooves from which he had resolutely detached them; whereas, if she could be entirely excluded from his life, the pressure of new and varied impressions, with which no thought of her was connected, would soon complete the work of separation. mrs. fisher's conversation had, indeed, operated to that end; but the treatment was too painful to be voluntarily chosen while milder remedies were untried; and selden thought he could trust himself to return gradually to a reasonable view of miss bart, if only he did not see her. having reached the station early, he had arrived at this point in his reflections before the increasing throng on the platform warned him that he could not hope to preserve his privacy; the next moment there was a hand on the door, and he turned to confront the very face he was fleeing. miss bart, glowing with the haste of a precipitate descent upon the train, headed a group composed of the dorsets, young silverton and lord hubert dacey, who had barely time to spring into the carriage, and envelop selden in ejaculations of surprise and welcome, before the whistle of departure sounded. the party, it appeared, were hastening to nice in response to a sudden summons to dine with the duchess of beltshire and to see the water-fete in the bay; a plan evidently improvised--in spite of lord hubert's protesting "oh, i say, you know,"--for the express purpose of defeating mrs. bry's endeavour to capture the duchess. during the laughing relation of this manoeuvre, selden had time for a rapid impression of miss bart, who had seated herself opposite to him in the golden afternoon light. scarcely three months had elapsed since he had parted from her on the threshold of the brys' conservatory; but a subtle change had passed over the quality of her beauty. then it had had a transparency through which the fluctuations of the spirit were sometimes tragically visible; now its impenetrable surface suggested a process of crystallization which had fused her whole being into one hard brilliant substance. the change had struck mrs. fisher as a rejuvenation: to selden it seemed like that moment of pause and arrest when the warm fluidity of youth is chilled into its final shape. he felt it in the way she smiled on him, and in the readiness and competence with which, flung unexpectedly into his presence, she took up the thread of their intercourse as though that thread had not been snapped with a violence from which he still reeled. such facility sickened him--but he told himself that it was with the pang which precedes recovery. now he would really get well--would eject the last drop of poison from his blood. already he felt himself calmer in her presence than he had learned to be in the thought of her. her assumptions and elisions, her short-cuts and long detours, the skill with which she contrived to meet him at a point from which no inconvenient glimpses of the past were visible, suggested what opportunities she had had for practising such arts since their last meeting. he felt that she had at last arrived at an understanding with herself: had made a pact with her rebellious impulses, and achieved a uniform system of self-government, under which all vagrant tendencies were either held captive or forced into the service of the state. and he saw other things too in her manner: saw how it had adjusted itself to the hidden intricacies of a situation in which, even after mrs. fisher's elucidating flashes, he still felt himself agrope. surely mrs. fisher could no longer charge miss bart with neglecting her opportunities! to selden's exasperated observation she was only too completely alive to them. she was "perfect" to every one: subservient to bertha's anxious predominance, good-naturedly watchful of dorset's moods, brightly companionable to silverton and dacey, the latter of whom met her on an evident footing of old admiration, while young silverton, portentously self-absorbed, seemed conscious of her only as of something vaguely obstructive. and suddenly, as selden noted the fine shades of manner by which she harmonized herself with her surroundings, it flashed on him that, to need such adroit handling, the situation must indeed be desperate. she was on the edge of something--that was the impression left with him. he seemed to see her poised on the brink of a chasm, with one graceful foot advanced to assert her unconsciousness that the ground was failing her. on the promenade des anglais, where ned silverton hung on him for the half hour before dinner, he received a deeper impression of the general insecurity. silverton was in a mood of titanic pessimism. how any one could come to such a damned hole as the riviera--any one with a grain of imagination--with the whole mediterranean to choose from: but then, if one's estimate of a place depended on the way they broiled a spring chicken! gad! what a study might be made of the tyranny of the stomach--the way a sluggish liver or insufficient gastric juices might affect the whole course of the universe, overshadow everything in reach--chronic dyspepsia ought to be among the "statutory causes"; a woman's life might be ruined by a man's inability to digest fresh bread. grotesque? yes--and tragic--like most absurdities. there's nothing grimmer than the tragedy that wears a comic mask.... where was he? oh--the reason they chucked sicily and rushed back? well--partly, no doubt, miss bart's desire to get back to bridge and smartness. dead as a stone to art and poetry--the light never was on sea or land for her! and of course she persuaded dorset that the italian food was bad for him. oh, she could make him believe anything--anything! mrs. dorset was aware of it--oh, perfectly: nothing she didn't see! but she could hold her tongue--she'd had to, often enough. miss bart was an intimate friend--she wouldn't hear a word against her. only it hurts a woman's pride--there are some things one doesn't get used to . . . all this in confidence, of course? ah--and there were the ladies signalling from the balcony of the hotel.... he plunged across the promenade, leaving selden to a meditative cigar. the conclusions it led him to were fortified, later in the evening, by some of those faint corroborative hints that generate a light of their own in the dusk of a doubting mind. selden, stumbling on a chance acquaintance, had dined with him, and adjourned, still in his company, to the brightly lit promenade, where a line of crowded stands commanded the glittering darkness of the waters. the night was soft and persuasive. overhead hung a summer sky furrowed with the rush of rockets; and from the east a late moon, pushing up beyond the lofty bend of the coast, sent across the bay a shaft of brightness which paled to ashes in the red glitter of the illuminated boats. down the lantern-hung promenade, snatches of band-music floated above the hum of the crowd and the soft tossing of boughs in dusky gardens; and between these gardens and the backs of the stands there flowed a stream of people in whom the vociferous carnival mood seemed tempered by the growing languor of the season. selden and his companion, unable to get seats on one of the stands facing the bay, had wandered for a while with the throng, and then found a point of vantage on a high garden-parapet above the promenade. thence they caught but a triangular glimpse of the water, and of the flashing play of boats across its surface; but the crowd in the street was under their immediate view, and seemed to selden, on the whole, of more interest than the show itself. after a while, however, he wearied of his perch and, dropping alone to the pavement, pushed his way to the first corner and turned into the moonlit silence of a side street. long garden-walls overhung by trees made a dark boundary to the pavement; an empty cab trailed along the deserted thoroughfare, and presently selden saw two persons emerge from the opposite shadows, signal to the cab, and drive off in it toward the centre of the town. the moonlight touched them as they paused to enter the carriage, and he recognized mrs. dorset and young silverton. beneath the nearest lamp-post he glanced at his watch and saw that the time was close on eleven. he took another cross street, and without breasting the throng on the promenade, made his way to the fashionable club which overlooks that thoroughfare. here, amid the blaze of crowded baccarat tables, he caught sight of lord hubert dacey, seated with his habitual worn smile behind a rapidly dwindling heap of gold. the heap being in due course wiped out, lord hubert rose with a shrug, and joining selden, adjourned with him to the deserted terrace of the club. it was now past midnight, and the throng on the stands was dispersing, while the long trails of red-lit boats scattered and faded beneath a sky repossessed by the tranquil splendour of the moon. lord hubert looked at his watch. "by jove, i promised to join the duchess for supper at the london house; but it's past twelve, and i suppose they've all scattered. the fact is, i lost them in the crowd soon after dinner, and took refuge here, for my sins. they had seats on one of the stands, but of course they couldn't stop quiet: the duchess never can. she and miss bart went off in quest of what they call adventures--gad, it ain't their fault if they don't have some queer ones!" he added tentatively, after pausing to grope for a cigarette: "miss bart's an old friend of yours, i believe? so she told me.--ah, thanks--i don't seem to have one left." he lit selden's proffered cigarette, and continued, in his high-pitched drawling tone: "none of my business, of course, but i didn't introduce her to the duchess. charming woman, the duchess, you understand; and a very good friend of mine; but rather a liberal education." selden received this in silence, and after a few puffs lord hubert broke out again: "sort of thing one can't communicate to the young lady--though young ladies nowadays are so competent to judge for themselves; but in this case--i'm an old friend too, you know . . . and there seemed no one else to speak to. the whole situation's a little mixed, as i see it--but there used to be an aunt somewhere, a diffuse and innocent person, who was great at bridging over chasms she didn't see . . . ah, in new york, is she? pity new york's such a long way off!" chapter miss bart, emerging late the next morning from her cabin, found herself alone on the deck of the sabrina. the cushioned chairs, disposed expectantly under the wide awning, showed no signs of recent occupancy, and she presently learned from a steward that mrs. dorset had not yet appeared, and that the gentlemen--separately--had gone ashore as soon as they had breakfasted. supplied with these facts, lily leaned awhile over the side, giving herself up to a leisurely enjoyment of the spectacle before her. unclouded sunlight enveloped sea and shore in a bath of purest radiancy. the purpling waters drew a sharp white line of foam at the base of the shore; against its irregular eminences, hotels and villas flashed from the greyish verdure of olive and eucalyptus; and the background of bare and finely-pencilled mountains quivered in a pale intensity of light. how beautiful it was--and how she loved beauty! she had always felt that her sensibility in this direction made up for certain obtusenesses of feeling of which she was less proud; and during the last three months she had indulged it passionately. the dorsets' invitation to go abroad with them had come as an almost miraculous release from crushing difficulties; and her faculty for renewing herself in new scenes, and casting off problems of conduct as easily as the surroundings in which they had arisen, made the mere change from one place to another seem, not merely a postponement, but a solution of her troubles. moral complications existed for her only in the environment that had produced them; she did not mean to slight or ignore them, but they lost their reality when they changed their background. she could not have remained in new york without repaying the money she owed to trenor; to acquit herself of that odious debt she might even have faced a marriage with rosedale; but the accident of placing the atlantic between herself and her obligations made them dwindle out of sight as if they had been milestones and she had travelled past them. her two months on the sabrina had been especially calculated to aid this illusion of distance. she had been plunged into new scenes, and had found in them a renewal of old hopes and ambitions. the cruise itself charmed her as a romantic adventure. she was vaguely touched by the names and scenes amid which she moved, and had listened to ned silverton reading theocritus by moonlight, as the yacht rounded the sicilian promontories, with a thrill of the nerves that confirmed her belief in her intellectual superiority. but the weeks at cannes and nice had really given her more pleasure. the gratification of being welcomed in high company, and of making her own ascendency felt there, so that she found herself figuring once more as the "beautiful miss bart" in the interesting journal devoted to recording the least movements of her cosmopolitan companions--all these experiences tended to throw into the extreme background of memory the prosaic and sordid difficulties from which she had escaped. if she was faintly aware of fresh difficulties ahead, she was sure of her ability to meet them: it was characteristic of her to feel that the only problems she could not solve were those with which she was familiar. meanwhile she could honestly be proud of the skill with which she had adapted herself to somewhat delicate conditions. she had reason to think that she had made herself equally necessary to her host and hostess; and if only she had seen any perfectly irreproachable means of drawing a financial profit from the situation, there would have been no cloud on her horizon. the truth was that her funds, as usual, were inconveniently low; and to neither dorset nor his wife could this vulgar embarrassment be safely hinted. still, the need was not a pressing one; she could worry along, as she had so often done before, with the hope of some happy change of fortune to sustain her; and meanwhile life was gay and beautiful and easy, and she was conscious of figuring not unworthily in such a setting. she was engaged to breakfast that morning with the duchess of beltshire, and at twelve o'clock she asked to be set ashore in the gig. before this she had sent her maid to enquire if she might see mrs. dorset; but the reply came back that the latter was tired, and trying to sleep. lily thought she understood the reason of the rebuff. her hostess had not been included in the duchess's invitation, though she herself had made the most loyal efforts in that direction. but her grace was impervious to hints, and invited or omitted as she chose. it was not lily's fault if mrs. dorset's complicated attitudes did not fall in with the duchess's easy gait. the duchess, who seldom explained herself, had not formulated her objection beyond saying: "she's rather a bore, you know. the only one of your friends i like is that little mr. bry--he's funny--" but lily knew enough not to press the point, and was not altogether sorry to be thus distinguished at her friend's expense. bertha certainly had grown tiresome since she had taken to poetry and ned silverton. on the whole, it was a relief to break away now and then from the sabrina; and the duchess's little breakfast, organized by lord hubert with all his usual virtuosity, was the pleasanter to lily for not including her travelling-companions. dorset, of late, had grown more than usually morose and incalculable, and ned silverton went about with an air that seemed to challenge the universe. the freedom and lightness of the ducal intercourse made an agreeable change from these complications, and lily was tempted, after luncheon, to adjourn in the wake of her companions to the hectic atmosphere of the casino. she did not mean to play; her diminished pocket-money offered small scope for the adventure; but it amused her to sit on a divan, under the doubtful protection of the duchess's back, while the latter hung above her stakes at a neighbouring table. the rooms were packed with the gazing throng which, in the afternoon hours, trickles heavily between the tables, like the sunday crowd in a lion-house. in the stagnant flow of the mass, identities were hardly distinguishable; but lily presently saw mrs. bry cleaving her determined way through the doors, and, in the broad wake she left, the light figure of mrs. fisher bobbing after her like a row-boat at the stern of a tug. mrs. bry pressed on, evidently animated by the resolve to reach a certain point in the rooms; but mrs. fisher, as she passed lily, broke from her towing-line, and let herself float to the girl's side. "lose her?" she echoed the latter's query, with an indifferent glance at mrs. bry's retreating back. "i daresay--it doesn't matter: i have lost her already." and, as lily exclaimed, she added: "we had an awful row this morning. you know, of course, that the duchess chucked her at dinner last night, and she thinks it was my fault--my want of management. the worst of it is, the message--just a mere word by telephone--came so late that the dinner had to be paid for; and becassin had run it up--it had been so drummed into him that the duchess was coming!" mrs. fisher indulged in a faint laugh at the remembrance. "paying for what she doesn't get rankles so dreadfully with louisa: i can't make her see that it's one of the preliminary steps to getting what you haven't paid for--and as i was the nearest thing to smash, she smashed me to atoms, poor dear!" lily murmured her commiseration. impulses of sympathy came naturally to her, and it was instinctive to proffer her help to mrs. fisher. "if there's anything i can do--if it's only a question of meeting the duchess! i heard her say she thought mr. bry amusing----" but mrs. fisher interposed with a decisive gesture. "my dear, i have my pride: the pride of my trade. i couldn't manage the duchess, and i can't palm off your arts on louisa bry as mine. i've taken the final step: i go to paris tonight with the sam gormers. they're still in the elementary stage; an italian prince is a great deal more than a prince to them, and they're always on the brink of taking a courier for one. to save them from that is my present mission." she laughed again at the picture. "but before i go i want to make my last will and testament--i want to leave you the brys." "me?" miss bart joined in her amusement. "it's charming of you to remember me, dear; but really----" "you're already so well provided for?" mrs. fisher flashed a sharp glance at her. "are you, though, lily--to the point of rejecting my offer?" miss bart coloured slowly. "what i really meant was, that the brys wouldn't in the least care to be so disposed of." mrs. fisher continued to probe her embarrassment with an unflinching eye. "what you really meant was that you've snubbed the brys horribly; and you know that they know----" "carry!" "oh, on certain sides louisa bristles with perceptions. if you'd even managed to have them asked once on the sabrina--especially when royalties were coming! but it's not too late," she ended earnestly, "it's not too late for either of you." lily smiled. "stay over, and i'll get the duchess to dine with them." "i shan't stay over--the gormers have paid for my salon-lit," said mrs. fisher with simplicity. "but get the duchess to dine with them all the same." lily's smile again flowed into a slight laugh: her friend's importunity was beginning to strike her as irrelevant. "i'm sorry i have been negligent about the brys----" she began. "oh, as to the brys--it's you i'm thinking of," said mrs. fisher abruptly. she paused, and then, bending forward, with a lowered voice: "you know we all went on to nice last night when the duchess chucked us. it was louisa's idea--i told her what i thought of it." miss bart assented. "yes--i caught sight of you on the way back, at the station." "well, the man who was in the carriage with you and george dorset--that horrid little dabham who does 'society notes from the riviera'--had been dining with us at nice. and he's telling everybody that you and dorset came back alone after midnight." "alone--? when he was with us?" lily laughed, but her laugh faded into gravity under the prolonged implication of mrs. fisher's look. "we did come back alone--if that's so very dreadful! but whose fault was it? the duchess was spending the night at cimiez with the crown princess; bertha got bored with the show, and went off early, promising to meet us at the station. we turned up on time, but she didn't--she didn't turn up at all!" miss bart made this announcement in the tone of one who presents, with careless assurance, a complete vindication; but mrs. fisher received it in a manner almost inconsequent. she seemed to have lost sight of her friend's part in the incident: her inward vision had taken another slant. "bertha never turned up at all? then how on earth did she get back?" "oh, by the next train, i suppose; there were two extra ones for the fete. at any rate, i know she's safe on the yacht, though i haven't yet seen her; but you see it was not my fault," lily summed up. "not your fault that bertha didn't turn up? my poor child, if only you don't have to pay for it!" mrs. fisher rose--she had seen mrs. bry surging back in her direction. "there's louisa, and i must be off--oh, we're on the best of terms externally; we're lunching together; but at heart it's me she's lunching on," she explained; and with a last hand-clasp and a last look, she added: "remember, i leave her to you; she's hovering now, ready to take you in." lily carried the impression of mrs. fisher's leave-taking away with her from the casino doors. she had accomplished, before leaving, the first step toward her reinstatement in mrs. bry's good graces. an affable advance--a vague murmur that they must see more of each other--an allusive glance to a near future that was felt to include the duchess as well as the sabrina--how easily it was all done, if one possessed the knack of doing it! she wondered at herself, as she had so often wondered, that, possessing the knack, she did not more consistently exercise it. but sometimes she was forgetful--and sometimes, could it be that she was proud? today, at any rate, she had been vaguely conscious of a reason for sinking her pride, had in fact even sunk it to the point of suggesting to lord hubert dacey, whom she ran across on the casino steps, that he might really get the duchess to dine with the brys, if she undertook to have them asked on the sabrina. lord hubert had promised his help, with the readiness on which she could always count: it was his only way of ever reminding her that he had once been ready to do so much more for her. her path, in short, seemed to smooth itself before her as she advanced; yet the faint stir of uneasiness persisted. had it been produced, she wondered, by her chance meeting with selden? she thought not--time and change seemed so completely to have relegated him to his proper distance. the sudden and exquisite reaction from her anxieties had had the effect of throwing the recent past so far back that even selden, as part of it, retained a certain air of unreality. and he had made it so clear that they were not to meet again; that he had merely dropped down to nice for a day or two, and had almost his foot on the next steamer. no--that part of the past had merely surged up for a moment on the fleeing surface of events; and now that it was submerged again, the uncertainty, the apprehension persisted. they grew to sudden acuteness as she caught sight of george dorset descending the steps of the hotel de paris and making for her across the square. she had meant to drive down to the quay and regain the yacht; but she now had the immediate impression that something more was to happen first. "which way are you going? shall we walk a bit?" he began, putting the second question before the first was answered, and not waiting for a reply to either before he directed her silently toward the comparative seclusion of the lower gardens. she detected in him at once all the signs of extreme nervous tension. the skin was puffed out under his sunken eyes, and its sallowness had paled to a leaden white against which his irregular eyebrows and long reddish moustache were relieved with a saturnine effect. his appearance, in short, presented an odd mixture of the bedraggled and the ferocious. he walked beside her in silence, with quick precipitate steps, till they reached the embowered slopes to the east of the casino; then, pulling up abruptly, he said: "have you seen bertha?" "no--when i left the yacht she was not yet up." he received this with a laugh like the whirring sound in a disabled clock. "not yet up? had she gone to bed? do you know at what time she came on board? this morning at seven!" he exclaimed. "at seven?" lily started. "what happened--an accident to the train?" he laughed again. "they missed the train--all the trains--they had to drive back." "well----?" she hesitated, feeling at once how little even this necessity accounted for the fatal lapse of hours. "well, they couldn't get a carriage at once--at that time of night, you know--" the explanatory note made it almost seem as though he were putting the case for his wife--"and when they finally did, it was only a one-horse cab, and the horse was lame!" "how tiresome! i see," she affirmed, with the more earnestness because she was so nervously conscious that she did not; and after a pause she added: "i'm so sorry--but ought we to have waited?" "waited for the one-horse cab? it would scarcely have carried the four of us, do you think?" she took this in what seemed the only possible way, with a laugh intended to sink the question itself in his humorous treatment of it. "well, it would have been difficult; we should have had to walk by turns. but it would have been jolly to see the sunrise." "yes: the sunrise was jolly," he agreed. "was it? you saw it, then?" "i saw it, yes; from the deck. i waited up for them." "naturally--i suppose you were worried. why didn't you call on me to share your vigil?" he stood still, dragging at his moustache with a lean weak hand. "i don't think you would have cared for its denouement," he said with sudden grimness. again she was disconcerted by the abrupt change in his tone, and as in one flash she saw the peril of the moment, and the need of keeping her sense of it out of her eyes. "denouement--isn't that too big a word for such a small incident? the worst of it, after all, is the fatigue which bertha has probably slept off by this time." she clung to the note bravely, though its futility was now plain to her in the glare of his miserable eyes. "don't--don't----!" he broke out, with the hurt cry of a child; and while she tried to merge her sympathy, and her resolve to ignore any cause for it, in one ambiguous murmur of deprecation, he dropped down on the bench near which they had paused, and poured out the wretchedness of his soul. it was a dreadful hour--an hour from which she emerged shrinking and seared, as though her lids had been scorched by its actual glare. it was not that she had never had premonitory glimpses of such an outbreak; but rather because, here and there throughout the three months, the surface of life had shown such ominous cracks and vapours that her fears had always been on the alert for an upheaval. there had been moments when the situation had presented itself under a homelier yet more vivid image--that of a shaky vehicle, dashed by unbroken steeds over a bumping road, while she cowered within, aware that the harness wanted mending, and wondering what would give way first. well--everything had given way now; and the wonder was that the crazy outfit had held together so long. her sense of being involved in the crash, instead of merely witnessing it from the road, was intensified by the way in which dorset, through his furies of denunciation and wild reactions of self-contempt, made her feel the need he had of her, the place she had taken in his life. but for her, what ear would have been open to his cries? and what hand but hers could drag him up again to a footing of sanity and self-respect? all through the stress of the struggle with him, she had been conscious of something faintly maternal in her efforts to guide and uplift him. but for the present, if he clung to her, it was not in order to be dragged up, but to feel some one floundering in the depths with him: he wanted her to suffer with him, not to help him to suffer less. happily for both, there was little physical strength to sustain his frenzy. it left him, collapsed and breathing heavily, to an apathy so deep and prolonged that lily almost feared the passers-by would think it the result of a seizure, and stop to offer their aid. but monte carlo is, of all places, the one where the human bond is least close, and odd sights are the least arresting. if a glance or two lingered on the couple, no intrusive sympathy disturbed them; and it was lily herself who broke the silence by rising from her seat. with the clearing of her vision the sweep of peril had extended, and she saw that the post of danger was no longer at dorset's side. "if you won't go back, i must--don't make me leave you!" she urged. but he remained mutely resistant, and she added: "what are you going to do? you really can't sit here all night." "i can go to an hotel. i can telegraph my lawyers." he sat up, roused by a new thought. "by jove, selden's at nice--i'll send for selden!" lily, at this, reseated herself with a cry of alarm. "no, no, no!" she protested. he swung round on her distrustfully. "why not selden? he's a lawyer isn't he? one will do as well as another in a case like this." "as badly as another, you mean. i thought you relied on me to help you." "you do--by being so sweet and patient with me. if it hadn't been for you i'd have ended the thing long ago. but now it's got to end." he rose suddenly, straightening himself with an effort. "you can't want to see me ridiculous." she looked at him kindly. "that's just it." then, after a moment's pondering, almost to her own surprise she broke out with a flash of inspiration: "well, go over and see mr. selden. you'll have time to do it before dinner." "oh, dinner----" he mocked her; but she left him with the smiling rejoinder: "dinner on board, remember; we'll put it off till nine if you like." it was past four already; and when a cab had dropped her at the quay, and she stood waiting for the gig to put off for her, she began to wonder what had been happening on the yacht. of silverton's whereabouts there had been no mention. had he returned to the sabrina? or could bertha--the dread alternative sprang on her suddenly--could bertha, left to herself, have gone ashore to rejoin him? lily's heart stood still at the thought. all her concern had hitherto been for young silverton, not only because, in such affairs, the woman's instinct is to side with the man, but because his case made a peculiar appeal to her sympathies. he was so desperately in earnest, poor youth, and his earnestness was of so different a quality from bertha's, though hers too was desperate enough. the difference was that bertha was in earnest only about herself, while he was in earnest about her. but now, at the actual crisis, this difference seemed to throw the weight of destitution on bertha's side, since at least he had her to suffer for, and she had only herself. at any rate, viewed less ideally, all the disadvantages of such a situation were for the woman; and it was to bertha that lily's sympathies now went out. she was not fond of bertha dorset, but neither was she without a sense of obligation, the heavier for having so little personal liking to sustain it. bertha had been kind to her, they had lived together, during the last months, on terms of easy friendship, and the sense of friction of which lily had recently become aware seemed to make it the more urgent that she should work undividedly in her friend's interest. it was in bertha's interest, certainly, that she had despatched dorset to consult with lawrence selden. once the grotesqueness of the situation accepted, she had seen at a glance that it was the safest in which dorset could find himself. who but selden could thus miraculously combine the skill to save bertha with the obligation of doing so? the consciousness that much skill would be required made lily rest thankfully in the greatness of the obligation. since he would have to pull bertha through she could trust him to find a way; and she put the fulness of her trust in the telegram she managed to send him on her way to the quay. thus far, then, lily felt that she had done well; and the conviction strengthened her for the task that remained. she and bertha had never been on confidential terms, but at such a crisis the barriers of reserve must surely fall: dorset's wild allusions to the scene of the morning made lily feel that they were down already, and that any attempt to rebuild them would be beyond bertha's strength. she pictured the poor creature shivering behind her fallen defences and awaiting with suspense the moment when she could take refuge in the first shelter that offered. if only that shelter had not already offered itself elsewhere! as the gig traversed the short distance between the quay and the yacht, lily grew more than ever alarmed at the possible consequences of her long absence. what if the wretched bertha, finding in all the long hours no soul to turn to--but by this time lily's eager foot was on the side-ladder, and her first step on the sabrina showed the worst of her apprehensions to be unfounded; for there, in the luxurious shade of the after-deck, the wretched bertha, in full command of her usual attenuated elegance, sat dispensing tea to the duchess of beltshire and lord hubert. the sight filled lily with such surprise that she felt that bertha, at least, must read its meaning in her look, and she was proportionately disconcerted by the blankness of the look returned. but in an instant she saw that mrs. dorset had, of necessity, to look blank before the others, and that, to mitigate the effect of her own surprise, she must at once produce some simple reason for it. the long habit of rapid transitions made it easy for her to exclaim to the duchess: "why, i thought you'd gone back to the princess!" and this sufficed for the lady she addressed, if it was hardly enough for lord hubert. at least it opened the way to a lively explanation of how the duchess was, in fact, going back the next moment, but had first rushed out to the yacht for a word with mrs. dorset on the subject of tomorrow's dinner--the dinner with the brys, to which lord hubert had finally insisted on dragging them. "to save my neck, you know!" he explained, with a glance that appealed to lily for some recognition of his promptness; and the duchess added, with her noble candour: "mr. bry has promised him a tip, and he says if we go he'll pass it onto us." this led to some final pleasantries, in which, as it seemed to lily, mrs. dorset bore her part with astounding bravery, and at the close of which lord hubert, from half way down the side-ladder, called back, with an air of numbering heads: "and of course we may count on dorset too?" "oh, count on him," his wife assented gaily. she was keeping up well to the last--but as she turned back from waving her adieux over the side, lily said to herself that the mask must drop and the soul of fear look out. mrs. dorset turned back slowly; perhaps she wanted time to steady her muscles; at any rate, they were still under perfect control when, dropping once more into her seat behind the tea-table, she remarked to miss bart with a faint touch of irony: "i suppose i ought to say good morning." if it was a cue, lily was ready to take it, though with only the vaguest sense of what was expected of her in return. there was something unnerving in the contemplation of mrs. dorset's composure, and she had to force the light tone in which she answered: "i tried to see you this morning, but you were not yet up." "no--i got to bed late. after we missed you at the station i thought we ought to wait for you till the last train." she spoke very gently, but with just the least tinge of reproach. "you missed us? you waited for us at the station?" now indeed lily was too far adrift in bewilderment to measure the other's words or keep watch on her own. "but i thought you didn't get to the station till after the last train had left!" mrs. dorset, examining her between lowered lids, met this with the immediate query: "who told you that?" "george--i saw him just now in the gardens." "ah, is that george's version? poor george--he was in no state to remember what i told him. he had one of his worst attacks this morning, and i packed him off to see the doctor. do you know if he found him?" lily, still lost in conjecture, made no reply, and mrs. dorset settled herself indolently in her seat. "he'll wait to see him; he was horribly frightened about himself. it's very bad for him to be worried, and whenever anything upsetting happens, it always brings on an attack." this time lily felt sure that a cue was being pressed on her; but it was put forth with such startling suddenness, and with so incredible an air of ignoring what it led up to, that she could only falter out doubtfully: "anything upsetting?" "yes--such as having you so conspicuously on his hands in the small hours. you know, my dear, you're rather a big responsibility in such a scandalous place after midnight." at that--at the complete unexpectedness and the inconceivable audacity of it--lily could not restrain the tribute of an astonished laugh. "well, really--considering it was you who burdened him with the responsibility!" mrs. dorset took this with an exquisite mildness. "by not having the superhuman cleverness to discover you in that frightful rush for the train? or the imagination to believe that you'd take it without us--you and he all alone--instead of waiting quietly in the station till we did manage to meet you?" lily's colour rose: it was growing clear to her that bertha was pursuing an object, following a line she had marked out for herself. only, with such a doom impending, why waste time in these childish efforts to avert it? the puerility of the attempt disarmed lily's indignation: did it not prove how horribly the poor creature was frightened? "no; by our simply all keeping together at nice," she returned. "keeping together? when it was you who seized the first opportunity to rush off with the duchess and her friends? my dear lily, you are not a child to be led by the hand!" "no--nor to be lectured, bertha, really; if that's what you are doing to me now." mrs. dorset smiled on her reproachfully. "lecture you--i? heaven forbid! i was merely trying to give you a friendly hint. but it's usually the other way round, isn't it? i'm expected to take hints, not to give them: i've positively lived on them all these last months." "hints--from me to you?" lily repeated. "oh, negative ones merely--what not to be and to do and to see. and i think i've taken them to admiration. only, my dear, if you'll let me say so, i didn't understand that one of my negative duties was not to warn you when you carried your imprudence too far." a chill of fear passed over miss bart: a sense of remembered treachery that was like the gleam of a knife in the dusk. but compassion, in a moment, got the better of her instinctive recoil. what was this outpouring of senseless bitterness but the tracked creature's attempt to cloud the medium through which it was fleeing? it was on lily's lips to exclaim: "you poor soul, don't double and turn--come straight back to me, and we'll find a way out!" but the words died under the impenetrable insolence of bertha's smile. lily sat silent, taking the brunt of it quietly, letting it spend itself on her to the last drop of its accumulated falseness; then, without a word, she rose and went down to her cabin. chapter miss bart's telegram caught lawrence selden at the door of his hotel; and having read it, he turned back to wait for dorset. the message necessarily left large gaps for conjecture; but all that he had recently heard and seen made these but too easy to fill in. on the whole he was surprised; for though he had perceived that the situation contained all the elements of an explosion, he had often enough, in the range of his personal experience, seen just such combinations subside into harmlessness. still, dorset's spasmodic temper, and his wife's reckless disregard of appearances, gave the situation a peculiar insecurity; and it was less from the sense of any special relation to the case than from a purely professional zeal, that selden resolved to guide the pair to safety. whether, in the present instance, safety for either lay in repairing so damaged a tie, it was no business of his to consider: he had only, on general principles, to think of averting a scandal, and his desire to avert it was increased by his fear of its involving miss bart. there was nothing specific in this apprehension; he merely wished to spare her the embarrassment of being ever so remotely connected with the public washing of the dorset linen. how exhaustive and unpleasant such a process would be, he saw even more vividly after his two hours' talk with poor dorset. if anything came out at all, it would be such a vast unpacking of accumulated moral rags as left him, after his visitor had gone, with the feeling that he must fling open the windows and have his room swept out. but nothing should come out; and happily for his side of the case, the dirty rags, however pieced together, could not, without considerable difficulty, be turned into a homogeneous grievance. the torn edges did not always fit--there were missing bits, there were disparities of size and colour, all of which it was naturally selden's business to make the most of in putting them under his client's eye. but to a man in dorset's mood the completest demonstration could not carry conviction, and selden saw that for the moment all he could do was to soothe and temporize, to offer sympathy and to counsel prudence. he let dorset depart charged to the brim with the sense that, till their next meeting, he must maintain a strictly noncommittal attitude; that, in short, his share in the game consisted for the present in looking on. selden knew, however, that he could not long keep such violences in equilibrium; and he promised to meet dorset, the next morning, at an hotel in monte carlo. meanwhile he counted not a little on the reaction of weakness and self-distrust that, in such natures, follows on every unwonted expenditure of moral force; and his telegraphic reply to miss bart consisted simply in the injunction: "assume that everything is as usual." on this assumption, in fact, the early part of the following day was lived through. dorset, as if in obedience to lily's imperative bidding, had actually returned in time for a late dinner on the yacht. the repast had been the most difficult moment of the day. dorset was sunk in one of the abysmal silences which so commonly followed on what his wife called his "attacks" that it was easy, before the servants, to refer it to this cause; but bertha herself seemed, perversely enough, little disposed to make use of this obvious means of protection. she simply left the brunt of the situation on her husband's hands, as if too absorbed in a grievance of her own to suspect that she might be the object of one herself. to lily this attitude was the most ominous, because the most perplexing, element in the situation. as she tried to fan the weak flicker of talk, to build up, again and again, the crumbling structure of "appearances," her own attention was perpetually distracted by the question: "what on earth can she be driving at?" there was something positively exasperating in bertha's attitude of isolated defiance. if only she would have given her friend a hint they might still have worked together successfully; but how could lily be of use, while she was thus obstinately shut out from participation? to be of use was what she honestly wanted; and not for her own sake but for the dorsets'. she had not thought of her own situation at all: she was simply engrossed in trying to put a little order in theirs. but the close of the short dreary evening left her with a sense of effort hopelessly wasted. she had not tried to see dorset alone: she had positively shrunk from a renewal of his confidences. it was bertha whose confidence she sought, and who should as eagerly have invited her own; and bertha, as if in the infatuation of self-destruction, was actually pushing away her rescuing hand. lily, going to bed early, had left the couple to themselves; and it seemed part of the general mystery in which she moved that more than an hour should elapse before she heard bertha walk down the silent passage and regain her room. the morrow, rising on an apparent continuance of the same conditions, revealed nothing of what had occurred between the confronted pair. one fact alone outwardly proclaimed the change they were all conspiring to ignore; and that was the non-appearance of ned silverton. no one referred to it, and this tacit avoidance of the subject kept it in the immediate foreground of consciousness. but there was another change, perceptible only to lily; and that was that dorset now avoided her almost as pointedly as his wife. perhaps he was repenting his rash outpourings of the previous day; perhaps only trying, in his clumsy way, to conform to selden's counsel to behave "as usual." such instructions no more make for easiness of attitude than the photographer's behest to "look natural"; and in a creature as unconscious as poor dorset of the appearance he habitually presented, the struggle to maintain a pose was sure to result in queer contortions. it resulted, at any rate, in throwing lily strangely on her own resources. she had learned, on leaving her room, that mrs. dorset was still invisible, and that dorset had left the yacht early; and feeling too restless to remain alone, she too had herself ferried ashore. straying toward the casino, she attached herself to a group of acquaintances from nice, with whom she lunched, and in whose company she was returning to the rooms when she encountered selden crossing the square. she could not, at the moment, separate herself definitely from her party, who had hospitably assumed that she would remain with them till they took their departure; but she found time for a momentary pause of enquiry, to which he promptly returned: "i've seen him again--he's just left me." she waited before him anxiously. "well? what has happened? what will happen?" "nothing as yet--and nothing in the future, i think." "it's over, then? it's settled? you're sure?" he smiled. "give me time. i'm not sure--but i'm a good deal surer." and with that she had to content herself, and hasten on to the expectant group on the steps. selden had in fact given her the utmost measure of his sureness, had even stretched it a shade to meet the anxiety in her eyes. and now, as he turned away, strolling down the hill toward the station, that anxiety remained with him as the visible justification of his own. it was not, indeed, anything specific that he feared: there had been a literal truth in his declaration that he did not think anything would happen. what troubled him was that, though dorset's attitude had perceptibly changed, the change was not clearly to be accounted for. it had certainly not been produced by selden's arguments, or by the action of his own soberer reason. five minutes' talk sufficed to show that some alien influence had been at work, and that it had not so much subdued his resentment as weakened his will, so that he moved under it in a state of apathy, like a dangerous lunatic who has been drugged. temporarily, no doubt, however exerted, it worked for the general safety: the question was how long it would last, and by what kind of reaction it was likely to be followed. on these points selden could gain no light; for he saw that one effect of the transformation had been to shut him off from free communion with dorset. the latter, indeed, was still moved by the irresistible desire to discuss his wrong; but, though he revolved about it with the same forlorn tenacity, selden was aware that something always restrained him from full expression. his state was one to produce first weariness and then impatience in his hearer; and when their talk was over, selden began to feel that he had done his utmost, and might justifiably wash his hands of the sequel. it was in this mind that he had been making his way back to the station when miss bart crossed his path; but though, after his brief word with her, he kept mechanically on his course, he was conscious of a gradual change in his purpose. the change had been produced by the look in her eyes; and in his eagerness to define the nature of that look, he dropped into a seat in the gardens, and sat brooding upon the question. it was natural enough, in all conscience, that she should appear anxious: a young woman placed, in the close intimacy of a yachting-cruise, between a couple on the verge of disaster, could hardly, aside from her concern for her friends, be insensible to the awkwardness of her own position. the worst of it was that, in interpreting miss bart's state of mind, so many alternative readings were possible; and one of these, in selden's troubled mind, took the ugly form suggested by mrs. fisher. if the girl was afraid, was she afraid for herself or for her friends? and to what degree was her dread of a catastrophe intensified by the sense of being fatally involved in it? the burden of offence lying manifestly with mrs. dorset, this conjecture seemed on the face of it gratuitously unkind; but selden knew that in the most one-sided matrimonial quarrel there are generally counter-charges to be brought, and that they are brought with the greater audacity where the original grievance is so emphatic. mrs. fisher had not hesitated to suggest the likelihood of dorset's marrying miss bart if "anything happened"; and though mrs. fisher's conclusions were notoriously rash, she was shrewd enough in reading the signs from which they were drawn. dorset had apparently shown marked interest in the girl, and this interest might be used to cruel advantage in his wife's struggle for rehabilitation. selden knew that bertha would fight to the last round of powder: the rashness of her conduct was illogically combined with a cold determination to escape its consequences. she could be as unscrupulous in fighting for herself as she was reckless in courting danger, and whatever came to her hand at such moments was likely to be used as a defensive missile. he did not, as yet, see clearly just what course she was likely to take, but his perplexity increased his apprehension, and with it the sense that, before leaving, he must speak again with miss bart. whatever her share in the situation--and he had always honestly tried to resist judging her by her surroundings--however free she might be from any personal connection with it, she would be better out of the way of a possible crash; and since she had appealed to him for help, it was clearly his business to tell her so. this decision at last brought him to his feet, and carried him back to the gambling rooms, within whose doors he had seen her disappearing; but a prolonged exploration of the crowd failed to put him on her traces. he saw instead, to his surprise, ned silverton loitering somewhat ostentatiously about the tables; and the discovery that this actor in the drama was not only hovering in the wings, but actually inviting the exposure of the footlights, though it might have seemed to imply that all peril was over, served rather to deepen selden's sense of foreboding. charged with this impression he returned to the square, hoping to see miss bart move across it, as every one in monte carlo seemed inevitably to do at least a dozen times a day; but here again he waited vainly for a glimpse of her, and the conclusion was slowly forced on him that she had gone back to the sabrina. it would be difficult to follow her there, and still more difficult, should he do so, to contrive the opportunity for a private word; and he had almost decided on the unsatisfactory alternative of writing, when the ceaseless diorama of the square suddenly unrolled before him the figures of lord hubert and mrs. bry. hailing them at once with his question, he learned from lord hubert that miss bart had just returned to the sabrina in dorset's company; an announcement so evidently disconcerting to him that mrs. bry, after a glance from her companion, which seemed to act like the pressure on a spring, brought forth the prompt proposal that he should come and meet his friends at dinner that evening--"at becassin's--a little dinner to the duchess," she flashed out before lord hubert had time to remove the pressure. selden's sense of the privilege of being included in such company brought him early in the evening to the door of the restaurant, where he paused to scan the ranks of diners approaching down the brightly lit terrace. there, while the brys hovered within over the last agitating alternatives of the menu, he kept watch for the guests from the sabrina, who at length rose on the horizon in company with the duchess, lord and lady skiddaw and the stepneys. from this group it was easy for him to detach miss bart on the pretext of a moment's glance into one of the brilliant shops along the terrace, and to say to her, while they lingered together in the white dazzle of a jeweller's window: "i stopped over to see you--to beg of you to leave the yacht." the eyes she turned on him showed a quick gleam of her former fear. "to leave--? what do you mean? what has happened?" "nothing. but if anything should, why be in the way of it?" the glare from the jeweller's window, deepening the pallour of her face, gave to its delicate lines the sharpness of a tragic mask. "nothing will, i am sure; but while there's even a doubt left, how can you think i would leave bertha?" the words rang out on a note of contempt--was it possibly of contempt for himself? well, he was willing to risk its renewal to the extent of insisting, with an undeniable throb of added interest: "you have yourself to think of, you know--" to which, with a strange fall of sadness in her voice, she answered, meeting his eyes: "if you knew how little difference that makes!" "oh, well, nothing will happen," he said, more for his own reassurance than for hers; and "nothing, nothing, of course!" she valiantly assented, as they turned to overtake their companions. in the thronged restaurant, taking their places about mrs. bry's illuminated board, their confidence seemed to gain support from the familiarity of their surroundings. here were dorset and his wife once more presenting their customary faces to the world, she engrossed in establishing her relation with an intensely new gown, he shrinking with dyspeptic dread from the multiplied solicitations of the menu. the mere fact that they thus showed themselves together, with the utmost openness the place afforded, seemed to declare beyond a doubt that their differences were composed. how this end had been attained was still matter for wonder, but it was clear that for the moment miss bart rested confidently in the result; and selden tried to achieve the same view by telling himself that her opportunities for observation had been ampler than his own. meanwhile, as the dinner advanced through a labyrinth of courses, in which it became clear that mrs. bry had occasionally broken away from lord hubert's restraining hand, selden's general watchfulness began to lose itself in a particular study of miss bart. it was one of the days when she was so handsome that to be handsome was enough, and all the rest--her grace, her quickness, her social felicities--seemed the overflow of a bounteous nature. but what especially struck him was the way in which she detached herself, by a hundred undefinable shades, from the persons who most abounded in her own style. it was in just such company, the fine flower and complete expression of the state she aspired to, that the differences came out with special poignancy, her grace cheapening the other women's smartness as her finely-discriminated silences made their chatter dull. the strain of the last hours had restored to her face the deeper eloquence which selden had lately missed in it, and the bravery of her words to him still fluttered in her voice and eyes. yes, she was matchless--it was the one word for her; and he could give his admiration the freer play because so little personal feeling remained in it. his real detachment from her had taken place, not at the lurid moment of disenchantment, but now, in the sober after-light of discrimination, where he saw her definitely divided from him by the crudeness of a choice which seemed to deny the very differences he felt in her. it was before him again in its completeness--the choice in which she was content to rest: in the stupid costliness of the food and the showy dulness of the talk, in the freedom of speech which never arrived at wit and the freedom of act which never made for romance. the strident setting of the restaurant, in which their table seemed set apart in a special glare of publicity, and the presence at it of little dabham of the "riviera notes," emphasized the ideals of a world where conspicuousness passed for distinction, and the society column had become the roll of fame. it was as the immortalizer of such occasions that little dabham, wedged in modest watchfulness between two brilliant neighbours, suddenly became the centre of selden's scrutiny. how much did he know of what was going on, and how much, for his purpose, was still worth finding out? his little eyes were like tentacles thrown out to catch the floating intimations with which, to selden, the air at moments seemed thick; then again it cleared to its normal emptiness, and he could see nothing in it for the journalist but leisure to note the elegance of the ladies' gowns. mrs. dorset's, in particular, challenged all the wealth of mr. dabham's vocabulary: it had surprises and subtleties worthy of what he would have called "the literary style." at first, as selden had noticed, it had been almost too preoccupying to its wearer; but now she was in full command of it, and was even producing her effects with unwonted freedom. was she not, indeed, too free, too fluent, for perfect naturalness? and was not dorset, to whom his glance had passed by a natural transition, too jerkily wavering between the same extremes? dorset indeed was always jerky; but it seemed to selden that tonight each vibration swung him farther from his centre. the dinner, meanwhile, was moving to its triumphant close, to the evident satisfaction of mrs. bry, who, throned in apoplectic majesty between lord skiddaw and lord hubert, seemed in spirit to be calling on mrs. fisher to witness her achievement. short of mrs. fisher her audience might have been called complete; for the restaurant was crowded with persons mainly gathered there for the purpose of spectatorship, and accurately posted as to the names and faces of the celebrities they had come to see. mrs. bry, conscious that all her feminine guests came under that heading, and that each one looked her part to admiration, shone on lily with all the pent-up gratitude that mrs. fisher had failed to deserve. selden, catching the glance, wondered what part miss bart had played in organizing the entertainment. she did, at least, a great deal to adorn it; and as he watched the bright security with which she bore herself, he smiled to think that he should have fancied her in need of help. never had she appeared more serenely mistress of the situation than when, at the moment of dispersal, detaching herself a little from the group about the table, she turned with a smile and a graceful slant of the shoulders to receive her cloak from dorset. the dinner had been protracted over mr. bry's exceptional cigars and a bewildering array of liqueurs, and many of the other tables were empty; but a sufficient number of diners still lingered to give relief to the leave-taking of mrs. bry's distinguished guests. this ceremony was drawn out and complicated by the fact that it involved, on the part of the duchess and lady skiddaw, definite farewells, and pledges of speedy reunion in paris, where they were to pause and replenish their wardrobes on the way to england. the quality of mrs. bry's hospitality, and of the tips her husband had presumably imparted, lent to the manner of the english ladies a general effusiveness which shed the rosiest light over their hostess's future. in its glow mrs. dorset and the stepneys were also visibly included, and the whole scene had touches of intimacy worth their weight in gold to the watchful pen of mr. dabham. a glance at her watch caused the duchess to exclaim to her sister that they had just time to dash for their train, and the flurry of this departure over, the stepneys, who had their motor at the door, offered to convey the dorsets and miss bart to the quay. the offer was accepted, and mrs. dorset moved away with her husband in attendance. miss bart had lingered for a last word with lord hubert, and stepney, on whom mr. bry was pressing a final, and still more expensive, cigar, called out: "come on, lily, if you're going back to the yacht." lily turned to obey; but as she did so, mrs. dorset, who had paused on her way out, moved a few steps back toward the table. "miss bart is not going back to the yacht," she said in a voice of singular distinctness. a startled look ran from eye to eye; mrs. bry crimsoned to the verge of congestion, mrs. stepney slipped nervously behind her husband, and selden, in the general turmoil of his sensations, was mainly conscious of a longing to grip dabham by the collar and fling him out into the street. dorset, meanwhile, had stepped back to his wife's side. his face was white, and he looked about him with cowed angry eyes. "bertha!--miss bart . . . this is some misunderstanding . . . some mistake . . ." "miss bart remains here," his wife rejoined incisively. "and, i think, george, we had better not detain mrs. stepney any longer." miss bart, during this brief exchange of words, remained in admirable erectness, slightly isolated from the embarrassed group about her. she had paled a little under the shock of the insult, but the discomposure of the surrounding faces was not reflected in her own. the faint disdain of her smile seemed to lift her high above her antagonist's reach, and it was not till she had given mrs. dorset the full measure of the distance between them that she turned and extended her hand to her hostess. "i am joining the duchess tomorrow," she explained, "and it seemed easier for me to remain on shore for the night." she held firmly to mrs. bry's wavering eye while she gave this explanation, but when it was over selden saw her send a tentative glance from one to another of the women's faces. she read their incredulity in their averted looks, and in the mute wretchedness of the men behind them, and for a miserable half-second he thought she quivered on the brink of failure. then, turning to him with an easy gesture, and the pale bravery of her recovered smile--"dear mr. selden," she said, "you promised to see me to my cab." outside, the sky was gusty and overcast, and as lily and selden moved toward the deserted gardens below the restaurant, spurts of warm rain blew fitfully against their faces. the fiction of the cab had been tacitly abandoned; they walked on in silence, her hand on his arm, till the deeper shade of the gardens received them, and pausing beside a bench, he said: "sit down a moment." she dropped to the seat without answering, but the electric lamp at the bend of the path shed a gleam on the struggling misery of her face. selden sat down beside her, waiting for her to speak, fearful lest any word he chose should touch too roughly on her wound, and kept also from free utterance by the wretched doubt which had slowly renewed itself within him. what had brought her to this pass? what weakness had placed her so abominably at her enemy's mercy? and why should bertha dorset have turned into an enemy at the very moment when she so obviously needed the support of her sex? even while his nerves raged at the subjection of husbands to their wives, and at the cruelty of women to their kind, reason obstinately harped on the proverbial relation between smoke and fire. the memory of mrs. fisher's hints, and the corroboration of his own impressions, while they deepened his pity also increased his constraint, since, whichever way he sought a free outlet for sympathy, it was blocked by the fear of committing a blunder. suddenly it struck him that his silence must seem almost as accusatory as that of the men he had despised for turning from her; but before he could find the fitting word she had cut him short with a question. "do you know of a quiet hotel? i can send for my maid in the morning." "an hotel--here--that you can go to alone? it's not possible." she met this with a pale gleam of her old playfulness. "what is, then? it's too wet to sleep in the gardens." "but there must be some one----" "some one to whom i can go? of course--any number--but at this hour? you see my change of plan was rather sudden----" "good god--if you'd listened to me!" he cried, venting his helplessness in a burst of anger. she still held him off with the gentle mockery of her smile. "but haven't i?" she rejoined. "you advised me to leave the yacht, and i'm leaving it." he saw then, with a pang of self-reproach, that she meant neither to explain nor to defend herself; that by his miserable silence he had forfeited all chance of helping her, and that the decisive hour was past. she had risen, and stood before him in a kind of clouded majesty, like some deposed princess moving tranquilly to exile. "lily!" he exclaimed, with a note of despairing appeal; but--"oh, not now," she gently admonished him; and then, in all the sweetness of her recovered composure: "since i must find shelter somewhere, and since you're so kindly here to help me----" he gathered himself up at the challenge. "you will do as i tell you? there's but one thing, then; you must go straight to your cousins, the stepneys." "oh--" broke from her with a movement of instinctive resistance; but he insisted: "come--it's late, and you must appear to have gone there directly." he had drawn her hand into his arm, but she held him back with a last gesture of protest. "i can't--i can't--not that--you don't know gwen: you mustn't ask me!" "i must ask you--you must obey me," he persisted, though infected at heart by her own fear. her voice sank to a whisper: "and if she refuses?"--but, "oh, trust me--trust me!" he could only insist in return; and yielding to his touch, she let him lead her back in silence to the edge of the square. in the cab they continued to remain silent through the brief drive which carried them to the illuminated portals of the stepneys' hotel. here he left her outside, in the darkness of the raised hood, while his name was sent up to stepney, and he paced the showy hall, awaiting the latter's descent. ten minutes later the two men passed out together between the gold-laced custodians of the threshold; but in the vestibule stepney drew up with a last flare of reluctance. "it's understood, then?" he stipulated nervously, with his hand on selden's arm. "she leaves tomorrow by the early train--and my wife's asleep, and can't be disturbed." chapter the blinds of mrs. peniston's drawing-room were drawn down against the oppressive june sun, and in the sultry twilight the faces of her assembled relatives took on a fitting shadow of bereavement. they were all there: van alstynes, stepneys and melsons--even a stray peniston or two, indicating, by a greater latitude in dress and manner, the fact of remoter relationship and more settled hopes. the peniston side was, in fact, secure in the knowledge that the bulk of mr. peniston's property "went back"; while the direct connection hung suspended on the disposal of his widow's private fortune and on the uncertainty of its extent. jack stepney, in his new character as the richest nephew, tacitly took the lead, emphasizing his importance by the deeper gloss of his mourning and the subdued authority of his manner; while his wife's bored attitude and frivolous gown proclaimed the heiress's disregard of the insignificant interests at stake. old ned van alstyne, seated next to her in a coat that made affliction dapper, twirled his white moustache to conceal the eager twitch of his lips; and grace stepney, red-nosed and smelling of crape, whispered emotionally to mrs. herbert melson: "i couldn't bear to see the niagara anywhere else!" a rustle of weeds and quick turning of heads hailed the opening of the door, and lily bart appeared, tall and noble in her black dress, with gerty farish at her side. the women's faces, as she paused interrogatively on the threshold, were a study in hesitation. one or two made faint motions of recognition, which might have been subdued either by the solemnity of the scene, or by the doubt as to how far the others meant to go; mrs. jack stepney gave a careless nod, and grace stepney, with a sepulchral gesture, indicated a seat at her side. but lily, ignoring the invitation, as well as jack stepney's official attempt to direct her, moved across the room with her smooth free gait, and seated herself in a chair which seemed to have been purposely placed apart from the others. it was the first time that she had faced her family since her return from europe, two weeks earlier; but if she perceived any uncertainty in their welcome, it served only to add a tinge of irony to the usual composure of her bearing. the shock of dismay with which, on the dock, she had heard from gerty farish of mrs. peniston's sudden death, had been mitigated, almost at once, by the irrepressible thought that now, at last, she would be able to pay her debts. she had looked forward with considerable uneasiness to her first encounter with her aunt. mrs. peniston had vehemently opposed her niece's departure with the dorsets, and had marked her continued disapproval by not writing during lily's absence. the certainty that she had heard of the rupture with the dorsets made the prospect of the meeting more formidable; and how should lily have repressed a quick sense of relief at the thought that, instead of undergoing the anticipated ordeal, she had only to enter gracefully on a long-assured inheritance? it had been, in the consecrated phrase, "always understood" that mrs. peniston was to provide handsomely for her niece; and in the latter's mind the understanding had long since crystallized into fact. "she gets everything, of course--i don't see what we're here for," mrs. jack stepney remarked with careless loudness to ned van alstyne; and the latter's deprecating murmur--"julia was always a just woman"--might have been interpreted as signifying either acquiescence or doubt. "well, it's only about four hundred thousand," mrs. stepney rejoined with a yawn; and grace stepney, in the silence produced by the lawyer's preliminary cough, was heard to sob out: "they won't find a towel missing--i went over them with her the very day----" lily, oppressed by the close atmosphere, and the stifling odour of fresh mourning, felt her attention straying as mrs. peniston's lawyer, solemnly erect behind the buhl table at the end of the room, began to rattle through the preamble of the will. "it's like being in church," she reflected, wondering vaguely where gwen stepney had got such an awful hat. then she noticed how stout jack had grown--he would soon be almost as plethoric as herbert melson, who sat a few feet off, breathing puffily as he leaned his black-gloved hands on his stick. "i wonder why rich people always grow fat--i suppose it's because there's nothing to worry them. if i inherit, i shall have to be careful of my figure," she mused, while the lawyer droned on through a labyrinth of legacies. the servants came first, then a few charitable institutions, then several remoter melsons and stepneys, who stirred consciously as their names rang out, and then subsided into a state of impassiveness befitting the solemnity of the occasion. ned van alstyne, jack stepney, and a cousin or two followed, each coupled with the mention of a few thousands: lily wondered that grace stepney was not among them. then she heard her own name--"to my niece lily bart ten thousand dollars--" and after that the lawyer again lost himself in a coil of unintelligible periods, from which the concluding phrase flashed out with startling distinctness: "and the residue of my estate to my dear cousin and name-sake, grace julia stepney." there was a subdued gasp of surprise, a rapid turning of heads, and a surging of sable figures toward the corner in which miss stepney wailed out her sense of unworthiness through the crumpled ball of a black-edged handkerchief. lily stood apart from the general movement, feeling herself for the first time utterly alone. no one looked at her, no one seemed aware of her presence; she was probing the very depths of insignificance. and under her sense of the collective indifference came the acuter pang of hopes deceived. disinherited--she had been disinherited--and for grace stepney! she met gerty's lamentable eyes, fixed on her in a despairing effort at consolation, and the look brought her to herself. there was something to be done before she left the house: to be done with all the nobility she knew how to put into such gestures. she advanced to the group about miss stepney, and holding out her hand said simply: "dear grace, i am so glad." the other ladies had fallen back at her approach, and a space created itself about her. it widened as she turned to go, and no one advanced to fill it up. she paused a moment, glancing about her, calmly taking the measure of her situation. she heard some one ask a question about the date of the will; she caught a fragment of the lawyer's answer--something about a sudden summons, and an "earlier instrument." then the tide of dispersal began to drift past her; mrs. jack stepney and mrs. herbert melson stood on the doorstep awaiting their motor; a sympathizing group escorted grace stepney to the cab it was felt to be fitting she should take, though she lived but a street or two away; and miss bart and gerty found themselves almost alone in the purple drawing-room, which more than ever, in its stuffy dimness, resembled a well-kept family vault, in which the last corpse had just been decently deposited. in gerty farish's sitting-room, whither a hansom had carried the two friends, lily dropped into a chair with a faint sound of laughter: it struck her as a humorous coincidence that her aunt's legacy should so nearly represent the amount of her debt to trenor. the need of discharging that debt had reasserted itself with increased urgency since her return to america, and she spoke her first thought in saying to the anxiously hovering gerty: "i wonder when the legacies will be paid." but miss farish could not pause over the legacies; she broke into a larger indignation. "oh, lily, it's unjust; it's cruel--grace stepney must feel she has no right to all that money!" "any one who knew how to please aunt julia has a right to her money," miss bart rejoined philosophically. "but she was devoted to you--she led every one to think--" gerty checked herself in evident embarrassment, and miss bart turned to her with a direct look. "gerty, be honest: this will was made only six weeks ago. she had heard of my break with the dorsets?" "every one heard, of course, that there had been some disagreement--some misunderstanding----" "did she hear that bertha turned me off the yacht?" "lily!" "that was what happened, you know. she said i was trying to marry george dorset. she did it to make him think she was jealous. isn't that what she told gwen stepney?" "i don't know--i don't listen to such horrors." "i must listen to them--i must know where i stand." she paused, and again sounded a faint note of derision. "did you notice the women? they were afraid to snub me while they thought i was going to get the money--afterward they scuttled off as if i had the plague." gerty remained silent, and she continued: "i stayed on to see what would happen. they took their cue from gwen stepney and lulu melson--i saw them watching to see what gwen would do.--gerty, i must know just what is being said of me." "i tell you i don't listen----" "one hears such things without listening." she rose and laid her resolute hands on miss farish's shoulders. "gerty, are people going to cut me?" "your friends, lily--how can you think it?" "who are one's friends at such a time? who, but you, you poor trustful darling? and heaven knows what you suspect me of!" she kissed gerty with a whimsical murmur. "you'd never let it make any difference--but then you're fond of criminals, gerty! how about the irreclaimable ones, though? for i'm absolutely impenitent, you know." she drew herself up to the full height of her slender majesty, towering like some dark angel of defiance above the troubled gerty, who could only falter out: "lily, lily--how can you laugh about such things?" "so as not to weep, perhaps. but no--i'm not of the tearful order. i discovered early that crying makes my nose red, and the knowledge has helped me through several painful episodes." she took a restless turn about the room, and then, reseating herself, lifted the bright mockery of her eyes to gerty's anxious countenance. "i shouldn't have minded, you know, if i'd got the money--" and at miss farish's protesting "oh!" she repeated calmly: "not a straw, my dear; for, in the first place, they wouldn't have quite dared to ignore me; and if they had, it wouldn't have mattered, because i should have been independent of them. but now--!" the irony faded from her eyes, and she bent a clouded face upon her friend. "how can you talk so, lily? of course the money ought to have been yours, but after all that makes no difference. the important thing----" gerty paused, and then continued firmly: "the important thing is that you should clear yourself--should tell your friends the whole truth." "the whole truth?" miss bart laughed. "what is truth? where a woman is concerned, it's the story that's easiest to believe. in this case it's a great deal easier to believe bertha dorset's story than mine, because she has a big house and an opera box, and it's convenient to be on good terms with her." miss farish still fixed her with an anxious gaze. "but what is your story, lily? i don't believe any one knows it yet." "my story?--i don't believe i know it myself. you see i never thought of preparing a version in advance as bertha did--and if i had, i don't think i should take the trouble to use it now." but gerty continued with her quiet reasonableness: "i don't want a version prepared in advance--but i want you to tell me exactly what happened from the beginning." "from the beginning?" miss bart gently mimicked her. "dear gerty, how little imagination you good people have! why, the beginning was in my cradle, i suppose--in the way i was brought up, and the things i was taught to care for. or no--i won't blame anybody for my faults: i'll say it was in my blood, that i got it from some wicked pleasure-loving ancestress, who reacted against the homely virtues of new amsterdam, and wanted to be back at the court of the charleses!" and as miss farish continued to press her with troubled eyes, she went on impatiently: "you asked me just now for the truth--well, the truth about any girl is that once she's talked about she's done for; and the more she explains her case the worse it looks.--my good gerty, you don't happen to have a cigarette about you?" in her stuffy room at the hotel to which she had gone on landing, lily bart that evening reviewed her situation. it was the last week in june, and none of her friends were in town. the few relatives who had stayed on, or returned, for the reading of mrs. peniston's will, had taken flight again that afternoon to newport or long island; and not one of them had made any proffer of hospitality to lily. for the first time in her life she found herself utterly alone except for gerty farish. even at the actual moment of her break with the dorsets she had not had so keen a sense of its consequences, for the duchess of beltshire, hearing of the catastrophe from lord hubert, had instantly offered her protection, and under her sheltering wing lily had made an almost triumphant progress to london. there she had been sorely tempted to linger on in a society which asked of her only to amuse and charm it, without enquiring too curiously how she had acquired her gift for doing so; but selden, before they parted, had pressed on her the urgent need of returning at once to her aunt, and lord hubert, when he presently reappeared in london, abounded in the same counsel. lily did not need to be told that the duchess's championship was not the best road to social rehabilitation, and as she was besides aware that her noble defender might at any moment drop her in favour of a new protegee, she reluctantly decided to return to america. but she had not been ten minutes on her native shore before she realized that she had delayed too long to regain it. the dorsets, the stepneys, the brys--all the actors and witnesses in the miserable drama--had preceded her with their version of the case; and, even had she seen the least chance of gaining a hearing for her own, some obscure disdain and reluctance would have restrained her. she knew it was not by explanations and counter-charges that she could ever hope to recover her lost standing; but even had she felt the least trust in their efficacy, she would still have been held back by the feeling which had kept her from defending herself to gerty farish--a feeling that was half pride and half humiliation. for though she knew she had been ruthlessly sacrificed to bertha dorset's determination to win back her husband, and though her own relation to dorset had been that of the merest good-fellowship, yet she had been perfectly aware from the outset that her part in the affair was, as carry fisher brutally put it, to distract dorset's attention from his wife. that was what she was "there for": it was the price she had chosen to pay for three months of luxury and freedom from care. her habit of resolutely facing the facts, in her rare moments of introspection, did not now allow her to put any false gloss on the situation. she had suffered for the very faithfulness with which she had carried out her part of the tacit compact, but the part was not a handsome one at best, and she saw it now in all the ugliness of failure. she saw, too, in the same uncompromising light, the train of consequences resulting from that failure; and these became clearer to her with every day of her weary lingering in town. she stayed on partly for the comfort of gerty farish's nearness, and partly for lack of knowing where to go. she understood well enough the nature of the task before her. she must set out to regain, little by little, the position she had lost; and the first step in the tedious task was to find out, as soon as possible, on how many of her friends she could count. her hopes were mainly centred on mrs. trenor, who had treasures of easy-going tolerance for those who were amusing or useful to her, and in the noisy rush of whose existence the still small voice of detraction was slow to make itself heard. but judy, though she must have been apprised of miss bart's return, had not even recognized it by the formal note of condolence which her friend's bereavement demanded. any advance on lily's side might have been perilous: there was nothing to do but to trust to the happy chance of an accidental meeting, and lily knew that, even so late in the season, there was always a hope of running across her friends in their frequent passages through town. to this end she assiduously showed herself at the restaurants they frequented, where, attended by the troubled gerty, she lunched luxuriously, as she said, on her expectations. "my dear gerty, you wouldn't have me let the head-waiter see that i've nothing to live on but aunt julia's legacy? think of grace stepney's satisfaction if she came in and found us lunching on cold mutton and tea! what sweet shall we have today, dear--coupe jacques or peches a la melba?" she dropped the menu abruptly, with a quick heightening of colour, and gerty, following her glance, was aware of the advance, from an inner room, of a party headed by mrs. trenor and carry fisher. it was impossible for these ladies and their companions--among whom lily had at once distinguished both trenor and rosedale--not to pass, in going out, the table at which the two girls were seated; and gerty's sense of the fact betrayed itself in the helpless trepidation of her manner. miss bart, on the contrary, borne forward on the wave of her buoyant grace, and neither shrinking from her friends nor appearing to lie in wait for them, gave to the encounter the touch of naturalness which she could impart to the most strained situations. such embarrassment as was shown was on mrs. trenor's side, and manifested itself in the mingling of exaggerated warmth with imperceptible reservations. her loudly affirmed pleasure at seeing miss bart took the form of a nebulous generalization, which included neither enquiries as to her future nor the expression of a definite wish to see her again. lily, well-versed in the language of these omissions, knew that they were equally intelligible to the other members of the party: even rosedale, flushed as he was with the importance of keeping such company, at once took the temperature of mrs. trenor's cordiality, and reflected it in his off-hand greeting of miss bart. trenor, red and uncomfortable, had cut short his salutations on the pretext of a word to say to the head-waiter; and the rest of the group soon melted away in mrs. trenor's wake. it was over in a moment--the waiter, menu in hand, still hung on the result of the choice between coupe jacques and peches a la melba--but miss bart, in the interval, had taken the measure of her fate. where judy trenor led, all the world would follow; and lily had the doomed sense of the castaway who has signalled in vain to fleeing sails. in a flash she remembered mrs. trenor's complaints of carry fisher's rapacity, and saw that they denoted an unexpected acquaintance with her husband's private affairs. in the large tumultuous disorder of the life at bellomont, where no one seemed to have time to observe any one else, and private aims and personal interests were swept along unheeded in the rush of collective activities, lily had fancied herself sheltered from inconvenient scrutiny; but if judy knew when mrs. fisher borrowed money of her husband, was she likely to ignore the same transaction on lily's part? if she was careless of his affections she was plainly jealous of his pocket; and in that fact lily read the explanation of her rebuff. the immediate result of these conclusions was the passionate resolve to pay back her debt to trenor. that obligation discharged, she would have but a thousand dollars of mrs. peniston's legacy left, and nothing to live on but her own small income, which was considerably less than gerty farish's wretched pittance; but this consideration gave way to the imperative claim of her wounded pride. she must be quits with the trenors first; after that she would take thought for the future. in her ignorance of legal procrastinations she had supposed that her legacy would be paid over within a few days of the reading of her aunt's will; and after an interval of anxious suspense, she wrote to enquire the cause of the delay. there was another interval before mrs. peniston's lawyer, who was also one of the executors, replied to the effect that, some questions having arisen relative to the interpretation of the will, he and his associates might not be in a position to pay the legacies till the close of the twelvemonth legally allotted for their settlement. bewildered and indignant, lily resolved to try the effect of a personal appeal; but she returned from her expedition with a sense of the powerlessness of beauty and charm against the unfeeling processes of the law. it seemed intolerable to live on for another year under the weight of her debt; and in her extremity she decided to turn to miss stepney, who still lingered in town, immersed in the delectable duty of "going over" her benefactress's effects. it was bitter enough for lily to ask a favour of grace stepney, but the alternative was bitterer still; and one morning she presented herself at mrs. peniston's, where grace, for the facilitation of her pious task, had taken up a provisional abode. the strangeness of entering as a suppliant the house where she had so long commanded, increased lily's desire to shorten the ordeal; and when miss stepney entered the darkened drawing-room, rustling with the best quality of crape, her visitor went straight to the point: would she be willing to advance the amount of the expected legacy? grace, in reply, wept and wondered at the request, bemoaned the inexorableness of the law, and was astonished that lily had not realized the exact similarity of their positions. did she think that only the payment of the legacies had been delayed? why, miss stepney herself had not received a penny of her inheritance, and was paying rent--yes, actually!--for the privilege of living in a house that belonged to her. she was sure it was not what poor dear cousin julia would have wished--she had told the executors so to their faces; but they were inaccessible to reason, and there was nothing to do but to wait. let lily take example by her, and be patient--let them both remember how beautifully patient cousin julia had always been. lily made a movement which showed her imperfect assimilation of this example. "but you will have everything, grace--it would be easy for you to borrow ten times the amount i am asking for." "borrow--easy for me to borrow?" grace stepney rose up before her in sable wrath. "do you imagine for a moment that i would raise money on my expectations from cousin julia, when i know so well her unspeakable horror of every transaction of the sort? why, lily, if you must know the truth, it was the idea of your being in debt that brought on her illness--you remember she had a slight attack before you sailed. oh, i don't know the particulars, of course--i don't want to know them--but there were rumours about your affairs that made her most unhappy--no one could be with her without seeing that. i can't help it if you are offended by my telling you this now--if i can do anything to make you realize the folly of your course, and how deeply she disapproved of it, i shall feel it is the truest way of making up to you for her loss." chapter it seemed to lily, as mrs. peniston's door closed on her, that she was taking a final leave of her old life. the future stretched before her dull and bare as the deserted length of fifth avenue, and opportunities showed as meagrely as the few cabs trailing in quest of fares that did not come. the completeness of the analogy was, however, disturbed as she reached the sidewalk by the rapid approach of a hansom which pulled up at sight of her. from beneath its luggage-laden top, she caught the wave of a signalling hand; and the next moment mrs. fisher, springing to the street, had folded her in a demonstrative embrace. "my dear, you don't mean to say you're still in town? when i saw you the other day at sherry's i didn't have time to ask----" she broke off, and added with a burst of frankness: "the truth is i was horrid, lily, and i've wanted to tell you so ever since." "oh----" miss bart protested, drawing back from her penitent clasp; but mrs. fisher went on with her usual directness: "look here, lily, don't let's beat about the bush: half the trouble in life is caused by pretending there isn't any. that's not my way, and i can only say i'm thoroughly ashamed of myself for following the other women's lead. but we'll talk of that by and bye--tell me now where you're staying and what your plans are. i don't suppose you're keeping house in there with grace stepney, eh?--and it struck me you might be rather at loose ends." in lily's present mood there was no resisting the honest friendliness of this appeal, and she said with a smile: "i am at loose ends for the moment, but gerty farish is still in town, and she's good enough to let me be with her whenever she can spare the time." mrs. fisher made a slight grimace. "h'm--that's a temperate joy. oh, i know--gerty's a trump, and worth all the rest of us put together; but a la longue you're used to a little higher seasoning, aren't you, dear? and besides, i suppose she'll be off herself before long--the first of august, you say? well, look here, you can't spend your summer in town; we'll talk of that later too. but meanwhile, what do you say to putting a few things in a trunk and coming down with me to the sam gormers' tonight?" and as lily stared at the breathless suddenness of the suggestion, she continued with her easy laugh: "you don't know them and they don't know you; but that don't make a rap of difference. they've taken the van alstyne place at roslyn, and i've got carte blanche to bring my friends down there--the more the merrier. they do things awfully well, and there's to be rather a jolly party there this week----" she broke off, checked by an undefinable change in miss bart's expression. "oh, i don't mean your particular set, you know: rather a different crowd, but very good fun. the fact is, the gormers have struck out on a line of their own: what they want is to have a good time, and to have it in their own way. they gave the other thing a few months' trial, under my distinguished auspices, and they were really doing extremely well--getting on a good deal faster than the brys, just because they didn't care as much--but suddenly they decided that the whole business bored them, and that what they wanted was a crowd they could really feel at home with. rather original of them, don't you think so? mattie gormer has got aspirations still; women always have; but she's awfully easy-going, and sam won't be bothered, and they both like to be the most important people in sight, so they've started a sort of continuous performance of their own, a kind of social coney island, where everybody is welcome who can make noise enough and doesn't put on airs. i think it's awfully good fun myself--some of the artistic set, you know, any pretty actress that's going, and so on. this week, for instance, they have audrey anstell, who made such a hit last spring in 'the winning of winny'; and paul morpeth--he's painting mattie gormer--and the dick bellingers, and kate corby--well, every one you can think of who's jolly and makes a row. now don't stand there with your nose in the air, my dear--it will be a good deal better than a broiling sunday in town, and you'll find clever people as well as noisy ones--morpeth, who admires mattie enormously, always brings one or two of his set." mrs. fisher drew lily toward the hansom with friendly authority. "jump in now, there's a dear, and we'll drive round to your hotel and have your things packed, and then we'll have tea, and the two maids can meet us at the train." it was a good deal better than a broiling sunday in town--of that no doubt remained to lily as, reclining in the shade of a leafy verandah, she looked seaward across a stretch of greensward picturesquely dotted with groups of ladies in lace raiment and men in tennis flannels. the huge van alstyne house and its rambling dependencies were packed to their fullest capacity with the gormers' week-end guests, who now, in the radiance of the sunday forenoon, were dispersing themselves over the grounds in quest of the various distractions the place afforded: distractions ranging from tennis-courts to shooting-galleries, from bridge and whiskey within doors to motors and steam-launches without. lily had the odd sense of having been caught up into the crowd as carelessly as a passenger is gathered in by an express train. the blonde and genial mrs. gormer might, indeed, have figured the conductor, calmly assigning seats to the rush of travellers, while carry fisher represented the porter pushing their bags into place, giving them their numbers for the dining-car, and warning them when their station was at hand. the train, meanwhile, had scarcely slackened speed--life whizzed on with a deafening' rattle and roar, in which one traveller at least found a welcome refuge from the sound of her own thoughts. the gormer milieu represented a social out-skirt which lily had always fastidiously avoided; but it struck her, now that she was in it, as only a flamboyant copy of her own world, a caricature approximating the real thing as the "society play" approaches the manners of the drawing-room. the people about her were doing the same things as the trenors, the van osburghs and the dorsets: the difference lay in a hundred shades of aspect and manner, from the pattern of the men's waistcoats to the inflexion of the women's voices. everything was pitched in a higher key, and there was more of each thing: more noise, more colour, more champagne, more familiarity--but also greater good-nature, less rivalry, and a fresher capacity for enjoyment. miss bart's arrival had been welcomed with an uncritical friendliness that first irritated her pride and then brought her to a sharp sense of her own situation--of the place in life which, for the moment, she must accept and make the best of. these people knew her story--of that her first long talk with carry fisher had left no doubt: she was publicly branded as the heroine of a "queer" episode--but instead of shrinking from her as her own friends had done, they received her without question into the easy promiscuity of their lives. they swallowed her past as easily as they did miss anstell's, and with no apparent sense of any difference in the size of the mouthful: all they asked was that she should--in her own way, for they recognized a diversity of gifts--contribute as much to the general amusement as that graceful actress, whose talents, when off the stage, were of the most varied order. lily felt at once that any tendency to be "stuck-up," to mark a sense of differences and distinctions, would be fatal to her continuance in the gormer set. to be taken in on such terms--and into such a world!--was hard enough to the lingering pride in her; but she realized, with a pang of self-contempt, that to be excluded from it would, after all, be harder still. for, almost at once, she had felt the insidious charm of slipping back into a life where every material difficulty was smoothed away. the sudden escape from a stifling hotel in a dusty deserted city to the space and luxury of a great country-house fanned by sea breezes, had produced a state of moral lassitude agreeable enough after the nervous tension and physical discomfort of the past weeks. for the moment she must yield to the refreshment her senses craved--after that she would reconsider her situation, and take counsel with her dignity. her enjoyment of her surroundings was, indeed, tinged by the unpleasant consideration that she was accepting the hospitality and courting the approval of people she had disdained under other conditions. but she was growing less sensitive on such points: a hard glaze of indifference was fast forming over her delicacies and susceptibilities, and each concession to expediency hardened the surface a little more. on the monday, when the party disbanded with uproarious adieux, the return to town threw into stronger relief the charms of the life she was leaving. the other guests were dispersing to take up the same existence in a different setting: some at newport, some at bar harbour, some in the elaborate rusticity of an adirondack camp. even gerty farish, who welcomed lily's return with tender solicitude, would soon be preparing to join the aunt with whom she spent her summers on lake george: only lily herself remained without plan or purpose, stranded in a backwater of the great current of pleasure. but carry fisher, who had insisted on transporting her to her own house, where she herself was to perch for a day or two on the way to the brys' camp, came to the rescue with a new suggestion. "look here, lily--i'll tell you what it is: i want you to take my place with mattie gormer this summer. they're taking a party out to alaska next month in their private car, and mattie, who is the laziest woman alive, wants me to go with them, and relieve her of the bother of arranging things; but the brys want me too--oh, yes, we've made it up: didn't i tell you?--and, to put it frankly, though i like the gormers best, there's more profit for me in the brys. the fact is, they want to try newport this summer, and if i can make it a success for them they--well, they'll make it a success for me." mrs. fisher clasped her hands enthusiastically. "do you know, lily, the more i think of my idea the better i like it--quite as much for you as for myself. the gormers have both taken a tremendous fancy to you, and the trip to alaska is--well--the very thing i should want for you just at present." miss bart lifted her eyes with a keen glance. "to take me out of my friends' way, you mean?" she said quietly; and mrs. fisher responded with a deprecating kiss: "to keep you out of their sight till they realize how much they miss you." miss bart went with the gormers to alaska; and the expedition, if it did not produce the effect anticipated by her friend, had at least the negative advantage of removing her from the fiery centre of criticism and discussion. gerty farish had opposed the plan with all the energy of her somewhat inarticulate nature. she had even offered to give up her visit to lake george, and remain in town with miss bart, if the latter would renounce her journey; but lily could disguise her real distaste for this plan under a sufficiently valid reason. "you dear innocent, don't you see," she protested, "that carry is quite right, and that i must take up my usual life, and go about among people as much as possible? if my old friends choose to believe lies about me i shall have to make new ones, that's all; and you know beggars mustn't be choosers. not that i don't like mattie gormer--i do like her: she's kind and honest and unaffected; and don't you suppose i feel grateful to her for making me welcome at a time when, as you've yourself seen, my own family have unanimously washed their hands of me?" gerty shook her head, mutely unconvinced. she felt not only that lily was cheapening herself by making use of an intimacy she would never have cultivated from choice, but that, in drifting back now to her former manner of life, she was forfeiting her last chance of ever escaping from it. gerty had but an obscure conception of what lily's actual experience had been: but its consequences had established a lasting hold on her pity since the memorable night when she had offered up her own secret hope to her friend's extremity. to characters like gerty's such a sacrifice constitutes a moral claim on the part of the person in whose behalf it has been made. having once helped lily, she must continue to help her; and helping her, must believe in her, because faith is the main-spring of such natures. but even if miss bart, after her renewed taste of the amenities of life, could have returned to the barrenness of a new york august, mitigated only by poor gerty's presence, her worldly wisdom would have counselled her against such an act of abnegation. she knew that carry fisher was right: that an opportune absence might be the first step toward rehabilitation, and that, at any rate, to linger on in town out of season was a fatal admission of defeat. from the gormers' tumultuous progress across their native continent, she returned with an altered view of her situation. the renewed habit of luxury--the daily waking to an assured absence of care and presence of material ease--gradually blunted her appreciation of these values, and left her more conscious of the void they could not fill. mattie gormer's undiscriminating good-nature, and the slap-dash sociability of her friends, who treated lily precisely as they treated each other--all these characteristic notes of difference began to wear upon her endurance; and the more she saw to criticize in her companions, the less justification she found for making use of them. the longing to get back to her former surroundings hardened to a fixed idea; but with the strengthening of her purpose came the inevitable perception that, to attain it, she must exact fresh concessions from her pride. these, for the moment, took the unpleasant form of continuing to cling to her hosts after their return from alaska. little as she was in the key of their milieu, her immense social facility, her long habit of adapting herself to others without suffering her own outline to be blurred, the skilled manipulation of all the polished implements of her craft, had won for her an important place in the gormer group. if their resonant hilarity could never be hers, she contributed a note of easy elegance more valuable to mattie gormer than the louder passages of the band. sam gormer and his special cronies stood indeed a little in awe of her; but mattie's following, headed by paul morpeth, made her feel that they prized her for the very qualities they most conspicuously lacked. if morpeth, whose social indolence was as great as his artistic activity, had abandoned himself to the easy current of the gormer existence, where the minor exactions of politeness were unknown or ignored, and a man could either break his engagements, or keep them in a painting-jacket and slippers, he still preserved his sense of differences, and his appreciation of graces he had no time to cultivate. during the preparations for the brys' tableaux he had been immensely struck by lily's plastic possibilities--"not the face: too self-controlled for expression; but the rest of her--gad, what a model she'd make!"--and though his abhorrence of the world in which he had seen her was too great for him to think of seeking her there, he was fully alive to the privilege of having her to look at and listen to while he lounged in mattie gormer's dishevelled drawing-room. lily had thus formed, in the tumult of her surroundings, a little nucleus of friendly relations which mitigated the crudeness of her course in lingering with the gormers after their return. nor was she without pale glimpses of her own world, especially since the breaking-up of the newport season had set the social current once more toward long island. kate corby, whose tastes made her as promiscuous as carry fisher was rendered by her necessities, occasionally descended on the gormers, where, after a first stare of surprise, she took lily's presence almost too much as a matter of course. mrs. fisher, too, appearing frequently in the neighbourhood, drove over to impart her experiences and give lily what she called the latest report from the weather-bureau; and the latter, who had never directly invited her confidence, could yet talk with her more freely than with gerty farish, in whose presence it was impossible even to admit the existence of much that mrs. fisher conveniently took for granted. mrs. fisher, moreover, had no embarrassing curiosity. she did not wish to probe the inwardness of lily's situation, but simply to view it from the outside, and draw her conclusions accordingly; and these conclusions, at the end of a confidential talk, she summed up to her friend in the succinct remark: "you must marry as soon as you can." lily uttered a faint laugh--for once mrs. fisher lacked originality. "do you mean, like gerty farish, to recommend the unfailing panacea of 'a good man's love'?" "no--i don't think either of my candidates would answer to that description," said mrs. fisher after a pause of reflection. "either? are there actually two?" "well, perhaps i ought to say one and a half--for the moment." miss bart received this with increasing amusement. "other things being equal, i think i should prefer a half-husband: who is he?" "don't fly out at me till you hear my reasons--george dorset." "oh----" lily murmured reproachfully; but mrs. fisher pressed on unrebuffed. "well, why not? they had a few weeks' honeymoon when they first got back from europe, but now things are going badly with them again. bertha has been behaving more than ever like a madwoman, and george's powers of credulity are very nearly exhausted. they're at their place here, you know, and i spent last sunday with them. it was a ghastly party--no one else but poor neddy silverton, who looks like a galley-slave (they used to talk of my making that poor boy unhappy!)--and after luncheon george carried me off on a long walk, and told me the end would have to come soon." miss bart made an incredulous gesture. "as far as that goes, the end will never come--bertha will always know how to get him back when she wants him." mrs. fisher continued to observe her tentatively. "not if he has any one else to turn to! yes--that's just what it comes to: the poor creature can't stand alone. and i remember him such a good fellow, full of life and enthusiasm." she paused, and went on, dropping her glance from lily's: "he wouldn't stay with her ten minutes if he knew----" "knew----?" miss bart repeated. "what you must, for instance--with the opportunities you've had! if he had positive proof, i mean----" lily interrupted her with a deep blush of displeasure. "please let us drop the subject, carry: it's too odious to me." and to divert her companion's attention she added, with an attempt at lightness: "and your second candidate? we must not forget him." mrs. fisher echoed her laugh. "i wonder if you'll cry out just as loud if i say--sim rosedale?" miss bart did not cry out: she sat silent, gazing thoughtfully at her friend. the suggestion, in truth, gave expression to a possibility which, in the last weeks, had more than once recurred to her; but after a moment she said carelessly: "mr. rosedale wants a wife who can establish him in the bosom of the van osburghs and trenors." mrs. fisher caught her up eagerly. "and so you could--with his money! don't you see how beautifully it would work out for you both?" "i don't see any way of making him see it," lily returned, with a laugh intended to dismiss the subject. but in reality it lingered with her long after mrs. fisher had taken leave. she had seen very little of rosedale since her annexation by the gormers, for he was still steadily bent on penetrating to the inner paradise from which she was now excluded; but once or twice, when nothing better offered, he had turned up for a sunday, and on these occasions he had left her in no doubt as to his view of her situation. that he still admired her was, more than ever, offensively evident; for in the gormer circle, where he expanded as in his native element, there were no puzzling conventions to check the full expression of his approval. but it was in the quality of his admiration that she read his shrewd estimate of her case. he enjoyed letting the gormers see that he had known "miss lily"--she was "miss lily" to him now--before they had had the faintest social existence: enjoyed more especially impressing paul morpeth with the distance to which their intimacy dated back. but he let it be felt that that intimacy was a mere ripple on the surface of a rushing social current, the kind of relaxation which a man of large interests and manifold preoccupations permits himself in his hours of ease. the necessity of accepting this view of their past relation, and of meeting it in the key of pleasantry prevalent among her new friends, was deeply humiliating to lily. but she dared less than ever to quarrel with rosedale. she suspected that her rejection rankled among the most unforgettable of his rebuffs, and the fact that he knew something of her wretched transaction with trenor, and was sure to put the basest construction on it, seemed to place her hopelessly in his power. yet at carry fisher's suggestion a new hope had stirred in her. much as she disliked rosedale, she no longer absolutely despised him. for he was gradually attaining his object in life, and that, to lily, was always less despicable than to miss it. with the slow unalterable persistency which she had always felt in him, he was making his way through the dense mass of social antagonisms. already his wealth, and the masterly use he had made of it, were giving him an enviable prominence in the world of affairs, and placing wall street under obligations which only fifth avenue could repay. in response to these claims, his name began to figure on municipal committees and charitable boards; he appeared at banquets to distinguished strangers, and his candidacy at one of the fashionable clubs was discussed with diminishing opposition. he had figured once or twice at the trenor dinners, and had learned to speak with just the right note of disdain of the big van osburgh crushes; and all he now needed was a wife whose affiliations would shorten the last tedious steps of his ascent. it was with that object that, a year earlier, he had fixed his affections on miss bart; but in the interval he had mounted nearer to the goal, while she had lost the power to abbreviate the remaining steps of the way. all this she saw with the clearness of vision that came to her in moments of despondency. it was success that dazzled her--she could distinguish facts plainly enough in the twilight of failure. and the twilight, as she now sought to pierce it, was gradually lighted by a faint spark of reassurance. under the utilitarian motive of rosedale's wooing she had felt, clearly enough, the heat of personal inclination. she would not have detested him so heartily had she not known that he dared to admire her. what, then, if the passion persisted, though the other motive had ceased to sustain it? she had never even tried to please him--he had been drawn to her in spite of her manifest disdain. what if she now chose to exert the power which, even in its passive state, he had felt so strongly? what if she made him marry her for love, now that he had no other reason for marrying her? chapter as became persons of their rising consequence, the gormers were engaged in building a country-house on long island; and it was a part of miss bart's duty to attend her hostess on frequent visits of inspection to the new estate. there, while mrs. gormer plunged into problems of lighting and sanitation, lily had leisure to wander, in the bright autumn air, along the tree-fringed bay to which the land declined. little as she was addicted to solitude, there had come to be moments when it seemed a welcome escape from the empty noises of her life. she was weary of being swept passively along a current of pleasure and business in which she had no share; weary of seeing other people pursue amusement and squander money, while she felt herself of no more account among them than an expensive toy in the hands of a spoiled child. it was in this frame of mind that, striking back from the shore one morning into the windings of an unfamiliar lane, she came suddenly upon the figure of george dorset. the dorset place was in the immediate neighbourhood of the gormers' newly-acquired estate, and in her motor-flights thither with mrs. gormer, lily had caught one or two passing glimpses of the couple; but they moved in so different an orbit that she had not considered the possibility of a direct encounter. dorset, swinging along with bent head, in moody abstraction, did not see miss bart till he was close upon her; but the sight, instead of bringing him to a halt, as she had half-expected, sent him toward her with an eagerness which found expression in his opening words. "miss bart!--you'll shake hands, won't you? i've been hoping to meet you--i should have written to you if i'd dared." his face, with its tossed red hair and straggling moustache, had a driven uneasy look, as though life had become an unceasing race between himself and the thoughts at his heels. the look drew a word of compassionate greeting from lily, and he pressed on, as if encouraged by her tone: "i wanted to apologize--to ask you to forgive me for the miserable part i played----" she checked him with a quick gesture. "don't let us speak of it: i was very sorry for you," she said, with a tinge of disdain which, as she instantly perceived, was not lost on him. he flushed to his haggard eyes, flushed so cruelly that she repented the thrust. "you might well be; you don't know--you must let me explain. i was deceived: abominably deceived----" "i am still more sorry for you, then," she interposed, without irony; "but you must see that i am not exactly the person with whom the subject can be discussed." he met this with a look of genuine wonder. "why not? isn't it to you, of all people, that i owe an explanation----" "no explanation is necessary: the situation was perfectly clear to me." "ah----" he murmured, his head drooping again, and his irresolute hand switching at the underbrush along the lane. but as lily made a movement to pass on, he broke out with fresh vehemence: "miss bart, for god's sake don't turn from me! we used to be good friends--you were always kind to me--and you don't know how i need a friend now." the lamentable weakness of the words roused a motion of pity in lily's breast. she too needed friends--she had tasted the pang of loneliness; and her resentment of bertha dorset's cruelty softened her heart to the poor wretch who was after all the chief of bertha's victims. "i still wish to be kind; i feel no ill-will toward you," she said. "but you must understand that after what has happened we can't be friends again--we can't see each other." "ah, you are kind--you're merciful--you always were!" he fixed his miserable gaze on her. "but why can't we be friends--why not, when i've repented in dust and ashes? isn't it hard that you should condemn me to suffer for the falseness, the treachery of others? i was punished enough at the time--is there to be no respite for me?" "i should have thought you had found complete respite in the reconciliation which was effected at my expense," lily began, with renewed impatience; but he broke in imploringly: "don't put it in that way--when that's been the worst of my punishment. my god! what could i do--wasn't i powerless? you were singled out as a sacrifice: any word i might have said would have been turned against you----" "i have told you i don't blame you; all i ask you to understand is that, after the use bertha chose to make of me--after all that her behaviour has since implied--it's impossible that you and i should meet." he continued to stand before her, in his dogged weakness. "is it--need it be? mightn't there be circumstances----?" he checked himself, slashing at the wayside weeds in a wider radius. then he began again: "miss bart, listen--give me a minute. if we're not to meet again, at least let me have a hearing now. you say we can't be friends after--after what has happened. but can't i at least appeal to your pity? can't i move you if i ask you to think of me as a prisoner--a prisoner you alone can set free?" lily's inward start betrayed itself in a quick blush: was it possible that this was really the sense of carry fisher's adumbrations? "i can't see how i can possibly be of any help to you," she murmured, drawing back a little from the mounting excitement of his look. her tone seemed to sober him, as it had so often done in his stormiest moments. the stubborn lines of his face relaxed, and he said, with an abrupt drop to docility: "you would see, if you'd be as merciful as you used to be: and heaven knows i've never needed it more!" she paused a moment, moved in spite of herself by this reminder of her influence over him. her fibres had been softened by suffering, and the sudden glimpse into his mocked and broken life disarmed her contempt for his weakness. "i am very sorry for you--i would help you willingly; but you must have other friends, other advisers." "i never had a friend like you," he answered simply. "and besides--can't you see?--you're the only person"--his voice dropped to a whisper--"the only person who knows." again she felt her colour change; again her heart rose in precipitate throbs to meet what she felt was coming. he lifted his eyes to her entreatingly. "you do see, don't you? you understand? i'm desperate--i'm at the end of my tether. i want to be free, and you can free me. i know you can. you don't want to keep me bound fast in hell, do you? you can't want to take such a vengeance as that. you were always kind--your eyes are kind now. you say you're sorry for me. well, it rests with you to show it; and heaven knows there's nothing to keep you back. you understand, of course--there wouldn't be a hint of publicity--not a sound or a syllable to connect you with the thing. it would never come to that, you know: all i need is to be able to say definitely: 'i know this--and this--and this'--and the fight would drop, and the way be cleared, and the whole abominable business swept out of sight in a second." he spoke pantingly, like a tired runner, with breaks of exhaustion between his words; and through the breaks she caught, as through the shifting rents of a fog, great golden vistas of peace and safety. for there was no mistaking the definite intention behind his vague appeal; she could have filled up the blanks without the help of mrs. fisher's insinuations. here was a man who turned to her in the extremity of his loneliness and his humiliation: if she came to him at such a moment he would be hers with all the force of his deluded faith. and the power to make him so lay in her hand--lay there in a completeness he could not even remotely conjecture. revenge and rehabilitation might be hers at a stroke--there was something dazzling in the completeness of the opportunity. she stood silent, gazing away from him down the autumnal stretch of the deserted lane. and suddenly fear possessed her--fear of herself, and of the terrible force of the temptation. all her past weaknesses were like so many eager accomplices drawing her toward the path their feet had already smoothed. she turned quickly, and held out her hand to dorset. "goodbye--i'm sorry; there's nothing in the world that i can do." "nothing? ah, don't say that," he cried; "say what's true: that you abandon me like the others. you, the only creature who could have saved me!" "goodbye--goodbye," she repeated hurriedly; and as she moved away she heard him cry out on a last note of entreaty: "at least you'll let me see you once more?" lily, on regaining the gormer grounds, struck rapidly across the lawn toward the unfinished house, where she fancied that her hostess might be speculating, not too resignedly, on the cause of her delay; for, like many unpunctual persons, mrs. gormer disliked to be kept waiting. as miss bart reached the avenue, however, she saw a smart phaeton with a high-stepping pair disappear behind the shrubbery in the direction of the gate; and on the doorstep stood mrs. gormer, with a glow of retrospective pleasure on her open countenance. at sight of lily the glow deepened to an embarrassed red, and she said with a slight laugh: "did you see my visitor? oh, i thought you came back by the avenue. it was mrs. george dorset--she said she'd dropped in to make a neighbourly call." lily met the announcement with her usual composure, though her experience of bertha's idiosyncrasies would not have led her to include the neighbourly instinct among them; and mrs. gormer, relieved to see that she gave no sign of surprise, went on with a deprecating laugh: "of course what really brought her was curiosity--she made me take her all over the house. but no one could have been nicer--no airs, you know, and so good-natured: i can quite see why people think her so fascinating." this surprising event, coinciding too completely with her meeting with dorset to be regarded as contingent upon it, had yet immediately struck lily with a vague sense of foreboding. it was not in bertha's habits to be neighbourly, much less to make advances to any one outside the immediate circle of her affinities. she had always consistently ignored the world of outer aspirants, or had recognized its individual members only when prompted by motives of self-interest; and the very capriciousness of her condescensions had, as lily was aware, given them special value in the eyes of the persons she distinguished. lily saw this now in mrs. gormer's unconcealable complacency, and in the happy irrelevance with which, for the next day or two, she quoted bertha's opinions and speculated on the origin of her gown. all the secret ambitions which mrs. gormer's native indolence, and the attitude of her companions, kept in habitual abeyance, were now germinating afresh in the glow of bertha's advances; and whatever the cause of the latter, lily saw that, if they were followed up, they were likely to have a disturbing effect upon her own future. she had arranged to break the length of her stay with her new friends by one or two visits to other acquaintances as recent; and on her return from this somewhat depressing excursion she was immediately conscious that mrs. dorset's influence was still in the air. there had been another exchange of visits, a tea at a country-club, an encounter at a hunt ball; there was even a rumour of an approaching dinner, which mattie gormer, with an unnatural effort at discretion, tried to smuggle out of the conversation whenever miss bart took part in it. the latter had already planned to return to town after a farewell sunday with her friends; and, with gerty farish's aid, had discovered a small private hotel where she might establish herself for the winter. the hotel being on the edge of a fashionable neighbourhood, the price of the few square feet she was to occupy was considerably in excess of her means; but she found a justification for her dislike of poorer quarters in the argument that, at this particular juncture, it was of the utmost importance to keep up a show of prosperity. in reality, it was impossible for her, while she had the means to pay her way for a week ahead, to lapse into a form of existence like gerty farish's. she had never been so near the brink of insolvency; but she could at least manage to meet her weekly hotel bill, and having settled the heaviest of her previous debts out of the money she had received from trenor, she had a still fair margin of credit to go upon. the situation, however, was not agreeable enough to lull her to complete unconsciousness of its insecurity. her rooms, with their cramped outlook down a sallow vista of brick walls and fire-escapes, her lonely meals in the dark restaurant with its surcharged ceiling and haunting smell of coffee--all these material discomforts, which were yet to be accounted as so many privileges soon to be withdrawn, kept constantly before her the disadvantages of her state; and her mind reverted the more insistently to mrs. fisher's counsels. beat about the question as she would, she knew the outcome of it was that she must try to marry rosedale; and in this conviction she was fortified by an unexpected visit from george dorset. she found him, on the first sunday after her return to town, pacing her narrow sitting-room to the imminent peril of the few knick-knacks with which she had tried to disguise its plush exuberances; but the sight of her seemed to quiet him, and he said meekly that he hadn't come to bother her--that he asked only to be allowed to sit for half an hour and talk of anything she liked. in reality, as she knew, he had but one subject: himself and his wretchedness; and it was the need of her sympathy that had drawn him back. but he began with a pretence of questioning her about herself, and as she replied, she saw that, for the first time, a faint realization of her plight penetrated the dense surface of his self-absorption. was it possible that her old beast of an aunt had actually cut her off? that she was living alone like this because there was no one else for her to go to, and that she really hadn't more than enough to keep alive on till the wretched little legacy was paid? the fibres of sympathy were nearly atrophied in him, but he was suffering so intensely that he had a faint glimpse of what other sufferings might mean--and, as she perceived, an almost simultaneous perception of the way in which her particular misfortunes might serve him. when at length she dismissed him, on the pretext that she must dress for dinner, he lingered entreatingly on the threshold to blurt out: "it's been such a comfort--do say you'll let me see you again--" but to this direct appeal it was impossible to give an assent; and she said with friendly decisiveness: "i'm sorry--but you know why i can't." he coloured to the eyes, pushed the door shut, and stood before her embarrassed but insistent. "i know how you might, if you would--if things were different--and it lies with you to make them so. it's just a word to say, and you put me out of my misery!" their eyes met, and for a second she trembled again with the nearness of the temptation. "you're mistaken; i know nothing; i saw nothing," she exclaimed, striving, by sheer force of reiteration, to build a barrier between herself and her peril; and as he turned away, groaning out "you sacrifice us both," she continued to repeat, as if it were a charm: "i know nothing--absolutely nothing." lily had seen little of rosedale since her illuminating talk with mrs. fisher, but on the two or three occasions when they had met she was conscious of having distinctly advanced in his favour. there could be no doubt that he admired her as much as ever, and she believed it rested with herself to raise his admiration to the point where it should bear down the lingering counsels of expediency. the task was not an easy one; but neither was it easy, in her long sleepless nights, to face the thought of what george dorset was so clearly ready to offer. baseness for baseness, she hated the other least: there were even moments when a marriage with rosedale seemed the only honourable solution of her difficulties. she did not indeed let her imagination range beyond the day of plighting: after that everything faded into a haze of material well-being, in which the personality of her benefactor remained mercifully vague. she had learned, in her long vigils, that there were certain things not good to think of, certain midnight images that must at any cost be exorcised--and one of these was the image of herself as rosedale's wife. carry fisher, on the strength, as she frankly owned, of the brys' newport success, had taken for the autumn months a small house at tuxedo; and thither lily was bound on the sunday after dorset's visit. though it was nearly dinner-time when she arrived, her hostess was still out, and the firelit quiet of the small silent house descended on her spirit with a sense of peace and familiarity. it may be doubted if such an emotion had ever before been evoked by carry fisher's surroundings; but, contrasted to the world in which lily had lately lived, there was an air of repose and stability in the very placing of the furniture, and in the quiet competence of the parlour-maid who led her up to her room. mrs. fisher's unconventionality was, after all, a merely superficial divergence from an inherited social creed, while the manners of the gormer circle represented their first attempt to formulate such a creed for themselves. it was the first time since her return from europe that lily had found herself in a congenial atmosphere, and the stirring of familiar associations had almost prepared her, as she descended the stairs before dinner, to enter upon a group of her old acquaintances. but this expectation was instantly checked by the reflection that the friends who remained loyal were precisely those who would be least willing to expose her to such encounters; and it was hardly with surprise that she found, instead, mr. rosedale kneeling domestically on the drawing-room hearth before his hostess's little girl. rosedale in the paternal role was hardly a figure to soften lily; yet she could not but notice a quality of homely goodness in his advances to the child. they were not, at any rate, the premeditated and perfunctory endearments of the guest under his hostess's eye, for he and the little girl had the room to themselves; and something in his attitude made him seem a simple and kindly being compared to the small critical creature who endured his homage. yes, he would be kind--lily, from the threshold, had time to feel--kind in his gross, unscrupulous, rapacious way, the way of the predatory creature with his mate. she had but a moment in which to consider whether this glimpse of the fireside man mitigated her repugnance, or gave it, rather, a more concrete and intimate form; for at sight of her he was immediately on his feet again, the florid and dominant rosedale of mattie gormer's drawing-room. it was no surprise to lily to find that he had been selected as her only fellow-guest. though she and her hostess had not met since the latter's tentative discussion of her future, lily knew that the acuteness which enabled mrs. fisher to lay a safe and pleasant course through a world of antagonistic forces was not infrequently exercised for the benefit of her friends. it was, in fact, characteristic of carry that, while she actively gleaned her own stores from the fields of affluence, her real sympathies were on the other side--with the unlucky, the unpopular, the unsuccessful, with all her hungry fellow-toilers in the shorn stubble of success. mrs. fisher's experience guarded her against the mistake of exposing lily, for the first evening, to the unmitigated impression of rosedale's personality. kate corby and two or three men dropped in to dinner, and lily, alive to every detail of her friend's method, saw that such opportunities as had been contrived for her were to be deferred till she had, as it were, gained courage to make effectual use of them. she had a sense of acquiescing in this plan with the passiveness of a sufferer resigned to the surgeon's touch; and this feeling of almost lethargic helplessness continued when, after the departure of the guests, mrs. fisher followed her upstairs. "may i come in and smoke a cigarette over your fire? if we talk in my room we shall disturb the child." mrs. fisher looked about her with the eye of the solicitous hostess. "i hope you've managed to make yourself comfortable, dear? isn't it a jolly little house? it's such a blessing to have a few quiet weeks with the baby." carry, in her rare moments of prosperity, became so expansively maternal that miss bart sometimes wondered whether, if she could ever get time and money enough, she would not end by devoting them both to her daughter. "it's a well-earned rest: i'll say that for myself," she continued, sinking down with a sigh of content on the pillowed lounge near the fire. "louisa bry is a stern task-master: i often used to wish myself back with the gormers. talk of love making people jealous and suspicious--it's nothing to social ambition! louisa used to lie awake at night wondering whether the women who called on us called on me because i was with her, or on her because she was with me; and she was always laying traps to find out what i thought. of course i had to disown my oldest friends, rather than let her suspect she owed me the chance of making a single acquaintance--when, all the while, that was what she had me there for, and what she wrote me a handsome cheque for when the season was over!" mrs. fisher was not a woman who talked of herself without cause, and the practice of direct speech, far from precluding in her an occasional resort to circuitous methods, served rather, at crucial moments, the purpose of the juggler's chatter while he shifts the contents of his sleeves. through the haze of her cigarette smoke she continued to gaze meditatively at miss bart, who, having dismissed her maid, sat before the toilet-table shaking out over her shoulders the loosened undulations of her hair. "your hair's wonderful, lily. thinner--? what does that matter, when it's so light and alive? so many women's worries seem to go straight to their hair--but yours looks as if there had never been an anxious thought under it. i never saw you look better than you did this evening. mattie gormer told me that morpeth wanted to paint you--why don't you let him?" miss bart's immediate answer was to address a critical glance to the reflection of the countenance under discussion. then she said, with a slight touch of irritation: "i don't care to accept a portrait from paul morpeth." mrs. fisher mused. "n--no. and just now, especially--well, he can do you after you're married." she waited a moment, and then went on: "by the way, i had a visit from mattie the other day. she turned up here last sunday--and with bertha dorset, of all people in the world!" she paused again to measure the effect of this announcement on her hearer, but the brush in miss bart's lifted hand maintained its unwavering stroke from brow to nape. "i never was more astonished," mrs. fisher pursued. "i don't know two women less predestined to intimacy--from bertha's standpoint, that is; for of course poor mattie thinks it natural enough that she should be singled out--i've no doubt the rabbit always thinks it is fascinating the anaconda. well, you know i've always told you that mattie secretly longed to bore herself with the really fashionable; and now that the chance has come, i see that she's capable of sacrificing all her old friends to it." lily laid aside her brush and turned a penetrating glance upon her friend. "including me?" she suggested. "ah, my dear," murmured mrs. fisher, rising to push back a log from the hearth. "that's what bertha means, isn't it?" miss bart went on steadily. "for of course she always means something; and before i left long island i saw that she was beginning to lay her toils for mattie." mrs. fisher sighed evasively. "she has her fast now, at any rate. to think of that loud independence of mattie's being only a subtler form of snobbishness! bertha can already make her believe anything she pleases--and i'm afraid she's begun, my poor child, by insinuating horrors about you." lily flushed under the shadow of her drooping hair. "the world is too vile," she murmured, averting herself from mrs. fisher's anxious scrutiny. "it's not a pretty place; and the only way to keep a footing in it is to fight it on its own terms--and above all, my dear, not alone!" mrs. fisher gathered up her floating implications in a resolute grasp. "you've told me so little that i can only guess what has been happening; but in the rush we all live in there's no time to keep on hating any one without a cause, and if bertha is still nasty enough to want to injure you with other people it must be because she's still afraid of you. from her standpoint there's only one reason for being afraid of you; and my own idea is that, if you want to punish her, you hold the means in your hand. i believe you can marry george dorset tomorrow; but if you don't care for that particular form of retaliation, the only thing to save you from bertha is to marry somebody else." chapter the light projected on the situation by mrs. fisher had the cheerless distinctness of a winter dawn. it outlined the facts with a cold precision unmodified by shade or colour, and refracted, as it were, from the blank walls of the surrounding limitations: she had opened windows from which no sky was ever visible. but the idealist subdued to vulgar necessities must employ vulgar minds to draw the inferences to which he cannot stoop; and it was easier for lily to let mrs. fisher formulate her case than to put it plainly to herself. once confronted with it, however, she went the full length of its consequences; and these had never been more clearly present to her than when, the next afternoon, she set out for a walk with rosedale. it was one of those still november days when the air is haunted with the light of summer, and something in the lines of the landscape, and in the golden haze which bathed them, recalled to miss bart the september afternoon when she had climbed the slopes of bellomont with selden. the importunate memory was kept before her by its ironic contrast to her present situation, since her walk with selden had represented an irresistible flight from just such a climax as the present excursion was designed to bring about. but other memories importuned her also; the recollection of similar situations, as skillfully led up to, but through some malice of fortune, or her own unsteadiness of purpose, always failing of the intended result. well, her purpose was steady enough now. she saw that the whole weary work of rehabilitation must begin again, and against far greater odds, if bertha dorset should succeed in breaking up her friendship with the gormers; and her longing for shelter and security was intensified by the passionate desire to triumph over bertha, as only wealth and predominance could triumph over her. as the wife of rosedale--the rosedale she felt it in her power to create--she would at least present an invulnerable front to her enemy. she had to draw upon this thought, as upon some fiery stimulant, to keep up her part in the scene toward which rosedale was too frankly tending. as she walked beside him, shrinking in every nerve from the way in which his look and tone made free of her, yet telling herself that this momentary endurance of his mood was the price she must pay for her ultimate power over him, she tried to calculate the exact point at which concession must turn to resistance, and the price he would have to pay be made equally clear to him. but his dapper self-confidence seemed impenetrable to such hints, and she had a sense of something hard and self-contained behind the superficial warmth of his manner. they had been seated for some time in the seclusion of a rocky glen above the lake, when she suddenly cut short the culmination of an impassioned period by turning upon him the grave loveliness of her gaze. "i do believe what you say, mr. rosedale," she said quietly; "and i am ready to marry you whenever you wish." rosedale, reddening to the roots of his glossy hair, received this announcement with a recoil which carried him to his feet, where he halted before her in an attitude of almost comic discomfiture. "for i suppose that is what you do wish," she continued, in the same quiet tone. "and, though i was unable to consent when you spoke to me in this way before, i am ready, now that i know you so much better, to trust my happiness to your hands." she spoke with the noble directness which she could command on such occasions, and which was like a large steady light thrown across the tortuous darkness of the situation. in its inconvenient brightness rosedale seemed to waver a moment, as though conscious that every avenue of escape was unpleasantly illuminated. then he gave a short laugh, and drew out a gold cigarette-case, in which, with plump jewelled fingers, he groped for a gold-tipped cigarette. selecting one, he paused to contemplate it a moment before saying: "my dear miss lily, i'm sorry if there's been any little misapprehension between us-but you made me feel my suit was so hopeless that i had really no intention of renewing it." lily's blood tingled with the grossness of the rebuff; but she checked the first leap of her anger, and said in a tone of gentle dignity: "i have no one but myself to blame if i gave you the impression that my decision was final." her word-play was always too quick for him, and this reply held him in puzzled silence while she extended her hand and added, with the faintest inflection of sadness in her voice: "before we bid each other goodbye, i want at least to thank you for having once thought of me as you did." the touch of her hand, the moving softness of her look, thrilled a vulnerable fibre in rosedale. it was her exquisite inaccessibleness, the sense of distance she could convey without a hint of disdain, that made it most difficult for him to give her up. "why do you talk of saying goodbye? ain't we going to be good friends all the same?" he urged, without releasing her hand. she drew it away quietly. "what is your idea of being good friends?" she returned with a slight smile. "making love to me without asking me to marry you?" rosedale laughed with a recovered sense of ease. "well, that's about the size of it, i suppose. i can't help making love to you--i don't see how any man could; but i don't mean to ask you to marry me as long as i can keep out of it." she continued to smile. "i like your frankness; but i am afraid our friendship can hardly continue on those terms." she turned away, as though to mark that its final term had in fact been reached, and he followed her for a few steps with a baffled sense of her having after all kept the game in her own hands. "miss lily----" he began impulsively; but she walked on without seeming to hear him. he overtook her in a few quick strides, and laid an entreating hand on her arm. "miss lily--don't hurry away like that. you're beastly hard on a fellow; but if you don't mind speaking the truth i don't see why you shouldn't allow me to do the same." she had paused a moment with raised brows, drawing away instinctively from his touch, though she made no effort to evade his words. "i was under the impression," she rejoined, "that you had done so without waiting for my permission." "well--why shouldn't you hear my reasons for doing it, then? we're neither of us such new hands that a little plain speaking is going to hurt us. i'm all broken up on you: there's nothing new in that. i'm more in love with you than i was this time last year; but i've got to face the fact that the situation is changed." she continued to confront him with the same air of ironic composure. "you mean to say that i'm not as desirable a match as you thought me?" "yes; that's what i do mean," he answered resolutely. "i won't go into what's happened. i don't believe the stories about you--i don't want to believe them. but they're there, and my not believing them ain't going to alter the situation." she flushed to her temples, but the extremity of her need checked the retort on her lip and she continued to face him composedly. "if they are not true," she said, "doesn't that alter the situation?" he met this with a steady gaze of his small stock-taking eyes, which made her feel herself no more than some superfine human merchandise. "i believe it does in novels; but i'm certain it don't in real life. you know that as well as i do: if we're speaking the truth, let's speak the whole truth. last year i was wild to marry you, and you wouldn't look at me: this year--well, you appear to be willing. now, what has changed in the interval? your situation, that's all. then you thought you could do better; now----" "you think you can?" broke from her ironically. "why, yes, i do: in one way, that is." he stood before her, his hands in his pockets, his chest sturdily expanded under its vivid waistcoat. "it's this way, you see: i've had a pretty steady grind of it these last years, working up my social position. think it's funny i should say that? why should i mind saying i want to get into society? a man ain't ashamed to say he wants to own a racing stable or a picture gallery. well, a taste for society's just another kind of hobby. perhaps i want to get even with some of the people who cold-shouldered me last year--put it that way if it sounds better. anyhow, i want to have the run of the best houses; and i'm getting it too, little by little. but i know the quickest way to queer yourself with the right people is to be seen with the wrong ones; and that's the reason i want to avoid mistakes." miss bart continued to stand before him in a silence that might have expressed either mockery or a half-reluctant respect for his candour, and after a moment's pause he went on: "there it is, you see. i'm more in love with you than ever, but if i married you now i'd queer myself for good and all, and everything i've worked for all these years would be wasted." she received this with a look from which all tinge of resentment had faded. after the tissue of social falsehoods in which she had so long moved it was refreshing to step into the open daylight of an avowed expediency. "i understand you," she said. "a year ago i should have been of use to you, and now i should be an encumbrance; and i like you for telling me so quite honestly." she extended her hand with a smile. again the gesture had a disturbing effect upon mr. rosedale's self-command. "by george, you're a dead game sport, you are!" he exclaimed; and as she began once more to move away, he broke out suddenly--"miss lily--stop. you know i don't believe those stories--i believe they were all got up by a woman who didn't hesitate to sacrifice you to her own convenience----" lily drew away with a movement of quick disdain: it was easier to endure his insolence than his commiseration. "you are very kind; but i don't think we need discuss the matter farther." but rosedale's natural imperviousness to hints made it easy for him to brush such resistance aside. "i don't want to discuss anything; i just want to put a plain case before you," he persisted. she paused in spite of herself, held by the note of a new purpose in his look and tone; and he went on, keeping his eyes firmly upon her: "the wonder to me is that you've waited so long to get square with that woman, when you've had the power in your hands." she continued silent under the rush of astonishment that his words produced, and he moved a step closer to ask with low-toned directness: "why don't you use those letters of hers you bought last year?" lily stood speechless under the shock of the interrogation. in the words preceding it she had conjectured, at most, an allusion to her supposed influence over george dorset; nor did the astonishing indelicacy of the reference diminish the likelihood of rosedale's resorting to it. but now she saw how far short of the mark she had fallen; and the surprise of learning that he had discovered the secret of the letters left her, for the moment, unconscious of the special use to which he was in the act of putting his knowledge. her temporary loss of self-possession gave him time to press his point; and he went on quickly, as though to secure completer control of the situation: "you see i know where you stand--i know how completely she's in your power. that sounds like stage-talk, don't it?--but there's a lot of truth in some of those old gags; and i don't suppose you bought those letters simply because you're collecting autographs." she continued to look at him with a deepening bewilderment: her only clear impression resolved itself into a scared sense of his power. "you're wondering how i found out about 'em?" he went on, answering her look with a note of conscious pride. "perhaps you've forgotten that i'm the owner of the benedick--but never mind about that now. getting on to things is a mighty useful accomplishment in business, and i've simply extended it to my private affairs. for this is partly my affair, you see--at least, it depends on you to make it so. let's look the situation straight in the eye. mrs. dorset, for reasons we needn't go into, did you a beastly bad turn last spring. everybody knows what mrs. dorset is, and her best friends wouldn't believe her on oath where their own interests were concerned; but as long as they're out of the row it's much easier to follow her lead than to set themselves against it, and you've simply been sacrificed to their laziness and selfishness. isn't that a pretty fair statement of the case?--well, some people say you've got the neatest kind of an answer in your hands: that george dorset would marry you tomorrow, if you'd tell him all you know, and give him the chance to show the lady the door. i daresay he would; but you don't seem to care for that particular form of getting even, and, taking a purely business view of the question, i think you're right. in a deal like that, nobody comes out with perfectly clean hands, and the only way for you to start fresh is to get bertha dorset to back you up, instead of trying to fight her." he paused long enough to draw breath, but not to give her time for the expression of her gathering resistance; and as he pressed on, expounding and elucidating his idea with the directness of the man who has no doubts of his cause, she found the indignation gradually freezing on her lip, found herself held fast in the grasp of his argument by the mere cold strength of its presentation. there was no time now to wonder how he had heard of her obtaining the letters: all her world was dark outside the monstrous glare of his scheme for using them. and it was not, after the first moment, the horror of the idea that held her spell-bound, subdued to his will; it was rather its subtle affinity to her own inmost cravings. he would marry her tomorrow if she could regain bertha dorset's friendship; and to induce the open resumption of that friendship, and the tacit retractation of all that had caused its withdrawal, she had only to put to the lady the latent menace contained in the packet so miraculously delivered into her hands. lily saw in a flash the advantage of this course over that which poor dorset had pressed upon her. the other plan depended for its success on the infliction of an open injury, while this reduced the transaction to a private understanding, of which no third person need have the remotest hint. put by rosedale in terms of business-like give-and-take, this understanding took on the harmless air of a mutual accommodation, like a transfer of property or a revision of boundary lines. it certainly simplified life to view it as a perpetual adjustment, a play of party politics, in which every concession had its recognized equivalent: lily's tired mind was fascinated by this escape from fluctuating ethical estimates into a region of concrete weights and measures. rosedale, as she listened, seemed to read in her silence not only a gradual acquiescence in his plan, but a dangerously far-reaching perception of the chances it offered; for as she continued to stand before him without speaking, he broke out, with a quick return upon himself: "you see how simple it is, don't you? well, don't be carried away by the idea that it's too simple. it isn't exactly as if you'd started in with a clean bill of health. now we're talking let's call things by their right names, and clear the whole business up. you know well enough that bertha dorset couldn't have touched you if there hadn't been--well--questions asked before--little points of interrogation, eh? bound to happen to a good-looking girl with stingy relatives, i suppose; anyhow, they did happen, and she found the ground prepared for her. do you see where i'm coming out? you don't want these little questions cropping up again. it's one thing to get bertha dorset into line--but what you want is to keep her there. you can frighten her fast enough--but how are you going to keep her frightened? by showing her that you're as powerful as she is. all the letters in the world won't do that for you as you are now; but with a big backing behind you, you'll keep her just where you want her to be. that's my share in the business--that's what i'm offering you. you can't put the thing through without me--don't run away with any idea that you can. in six months you'd be back again among your old worries, or worse ones; and here i am, ready to lift you out of 'em tomorrow if you say so. do you say so, miss lily?" he added, moving suddenly nearer. the words, and the movement which accompanied them, combined to startle lily out of the state of tranced subservience into which she had insensibly slipped. light comes in devious ways to the groping consciousness, and it came to her now through the disgusted perception that her would-be accomplice assumed, as a matter of course, the likelihood of her distrusting him and perhaps trying to cheat him of his share of the spoils. this glimpse of his inner mind seemed to present the whole transaction in a new aspect, and she saw that the essential baseness of the act lay in its freedom from risk. she drew back with a quick gesture of rejection, saying, in a voice that was a surprise to her own ears: "you are mistaken--quite mistaken--both in the facts and in what you infer from them." rosedale stared a moment, puzzled by her sudden dash in a direction so different from that toward which she had appeared to be letting him guide her. "now what on earth does that mean? i thought we understood each other!" he exclaimed; and to her murmur of "ah, we do now," he retorted with a sudden burst of violence: "i suppose it's because the letters are to him, then? well, i'll be damned if i see what thanks you've got from him!" chapter the autumn days declined to winter. once more the leisure world was in transition between country and town, and fifth avenue, still deserted at the week-end, showed from monday to friday a broadening stream of carriages between house-fronts gradually restored to consciousness. the horse show, some two weeks earlier, had produced a passing semblance of reanimation, filling the theatres and restaurants with a human display of the same costly and high-stepping kind as circled daily about its ring. in miss bart's world the horse show, and the public it attracted, had ostensibly come to be classed among the spectacles disdained of the elect; but, as the feudal lord might sally forth to join in the dance on his village green, so society, unofficially and incidentally, still condescended to look in upon the scene. mrs. gormer, among the rest, was not above seizing such an occasion for the display of herself and her horses; and lily was given one or two opportunities of appearing at her friend's side in the most conspicuous box the house afforded. but this lingering semblance of intimacy made her only the more conscious of a change in the relation between mattie and herself, of a dawning discrimination, a gradually formed social standard, emerging from mrs. gormer's chaotic view of life. it was inevitable that lily herself should constitute the first sacrifice to this new ideal, and she knew that, once the gormers were established in town, the whole drift of fashionable life would facilitate mattie's detachment from her. she had, in short, failed to make herself indispensable; or rather, her attempt to do so had been thwarted by an influence stronger than any she could exert. that influence, in its last analysis, was simply the power of money: bertha dorset's social credit was based on an impregnable bank-account. lily knew that rosedale had overstated neither the difficulty of her own position nor the completeness of the vindication he offered: once bertha's match in material resources, her superior gifts would make it easy for her to dominate her adversary. an understanding of what such domination would mean, and of the disadvantages accruing from her rejection of it, was brought home to lily with increasing clearness during the early weeks of the winter. hitherto, she had kept up a semblance of movement outside the main flow of the social current; but with the return to town, and the concentrating of scattered activities, the mere fact of not slipping back naturally into her old habits of life marked her as being unmistakably excluded from them. if one were not a part of the season's fixed routine, one swung unsphered in a void of social non-existence. lily, for all her dissatisfied dreaming, had never really conceived the possibility of revolving about a different centre: it was easy enough to despise the world, but decidedly difficult to find any other habitable region. her sense of irony never quite deserted her, and she could still note, with self-directed derision, the abnormal value suddenly acquired by the most tiresome and insignificant details of her former life. its very drudgeries had a charm now that she was involuntarily released from them: card-leaving, note-writing, enforced civilities to the dull and elderly, and the smiling endurance of tedious dinners--how pleasantly such obligations would have filled the emptiness of her days! she did indeed leave cards in plenty; she kept herself, with a smiling and valiant persistence, well in the eye of her world; nor did she suffer any of those gross rebuffs which sometimes produce a wholesome reaction of contempt in their victim. society did not turn away from her, it simply drifted by, preoccupied and inattentive, letting her feel, to the full measure of her humbled pride, how completely she had been the creature of its favour. she had rejected rosedale's suggestion with a promptness of scorn almost surprising to herself: she had not lost her capacity for high flashes of indignation. but she could not breathe long on the heights; there had been nothing in her training to develop any continuity of moral strength: what she craved, and really felt herself entitled to, was a situation in which the noblest attitude should also be the easiest. hitherto her intermittent impulses of resistance had sufficed to maintain her self-respect. if she slipped she recovered her footing, and it was only afterward that she was aware of having recovered it each time on a slightly lower level. she had rejected rosedale's offer without conscious effort; her whole being had risen against it; and she did not yet perceive that, by the mere act of listening to him, she had learned to live with ideas which would once have been intolerable to her. to gerty farish, keeping watch over her with a tenderer if less discerning eye than mrs. fisher's, the results of the struggle were already distinctly visible. she did not, indeed, know what hostages lily had already given to expediency; but she saw her passionately and irretrievably pledged to the ruinous policy of "keeping up." gerty could smile now at her own early dream of her friend's renovation through adversity: she understood clearly enough that lily was not of those to whom privation teaches the unimportance of what they have lost. but this very fact, to gerty, made her friend the more piteously in want of aid, the more exposed to the claims of a tenderness she was so little conscious of needing. lily, since her return to town, had not often climbed miss farish's stairs. there was something irritating to her in the mute interrogation of gerty's sympathy: she felt the real difficulties of her situation to be incommunicable to any one whose theory of values was so different from her own, and the restrictions of gerty's life, which had once had the charm of contrast, now reminded her too painfully of the limits to which her own existence was shrinking. when at length, one afternoon, she put into execution the belated resolve to visit her friend, this sense of shrunken opportunities possessed her with unusual intensity. the walk up fifth avenue, unfolding before her, in the brilliance of the hard winter sunlight, an interminable procession of fastidiously-equipped carriages--giving her, through the little squares of brougham-windows, peeps of familiar profiles bent above visiting-lists, of hurried hands dispensing notes and cards to attendant footmen--this glimpse of the ever-revolving wheels of the great social machine made lily more than ever conscious of the steepness and narrowness of gerty's stairs, and of the cramped blind alley of life to which they led. dull stairs destined to be mounted by dull people: how many thousands of insignificant figures were going up and down such stairs all over the world at that very moment--figures as shabby and uninteresting as that of the middle-aged lady in limp black who descended gerty's flight as lily climbed to it! "that was poor miss jane silverton--she came to talk things over with me: she and her sister want to do something to support themselves," gerty explained, as lily followed her into the sitting-room. "to support themselves? are they so hard up?" miss bart asked with a touch of irritation: she had not come to listen to the woes of other people. "i'm afraid they have nothing left: ned's debts have swallowed up everything. they had such hopes, you know, when he broke away from carry fisher; they thought bertha dorset would be such a good influence, because she doesn't care for cards, and--well, she talked quite beautifully to poor miss jane about feeling as if ned were her younger brother, and wanting to carry him off on the yacht, so that he might have a chance to drop cards and racing, and take up his literary work again." miss farish paused with a sigh which reflected the perplexity of her departing visitor. "but that isn't all; it isn't even the worst. it seems that ned has quarrelled with the dorsets; or at least bertha won't allow him to see her, and he is so unhappy about it that he has taken to gambling again, and going about with all sorts of queer people. and cousin grace van osburgh accuses him of having had a very bad influence on freddy, who left harvard last spring, and has been a great deal with ned ever since. she sent for miss jane, and made a dreadful scene; and jack stepney and herbert melson, who were there too, told miss jane that freddy was threatening to marry some dreadful woman to whom ned had introduced him, and that they could do nothing with him because now he's of age he has his own money. you can fancy how poor miss jane felt--she came to me at once, and seemed to think that if i could get her something to do she could earn enough to pay ned's debts and send him away--i'm afraid she has no idea how long it would take her to pay for one of his evenings at bridge. and he was horribly in debt when he came back from the cruise--i can't see why he should have spent so much more money under bertha's influence than carry's: can you?" lily met this query with an impatient gesture. "my dear gerty, i always understand how people can spend much more money--never how they can spend any less!" she loosened her furs and settled herself in gerty's easy-chair, while her friend busied herself with the tea-cups. "but what can they do--the miss silvertons? how do they mean to support themselves?" she asked, conscious that the note of irritation still persisted in her voice. it was the very last topic she had meant to discuss--it really did not interest her in the least--but she was seized by a sudden perverse curiosity to know how the two colourless shrinking victims of young silverton's sentimental experiments meant to cope with the grim necessity which lurked so close to her own threshold. "i don't know--i am trying to find something for them. miss jane reads aloud very nicely--but it's so hard to find any one who is willing to be read to. and miss annie paints a little----" "oh, i know--apple-blossoms on blotting-paper; just the kind of thing i shall be doing myself before long!" exclaimed lily, starting up with a vehemence of movement that threatened destruction to miss farish's fragile tea-table. lily bent over to steady the cups; then she sank back into her seat. "i'd forgotten there was no room to dash about in--how beautifully one does have to behave in a small flat! oh, gerty, i wasn't meant to be good," she sighed out incoherently. gerty lifted an apprehensive look to her pale face, in which the eyes shone with a peculiar sleepless lustre. "you look horribly tired, lily; take your tea, and let me give you this cushion to lean against." miss bart accepted the cup of tea, but put back the cushion with an impatient hand. "don't give me that! i don't want to lean back--i shall go to sleep if i do." "well, why not, dear? i'll be as quiet as a mouse," gerty urged affectionately. "no--no; don't be quiet; talk to me--keep me awake! i don't sleep at night, and in the afternoon a dreadful drowsiness creeps over me." "you don't sleep at night? since when?" "i don't know--i can't remember." she rose and put the empty cup on the tea-tray. "another, and stronger, please; if i don't keep awake now i shall see horrors tonight--perfect horrors!" "but they'll be worse if you drink too much tea." "no, no--give it to me; and don't preach, please," lily returned imperiously. her voice had a dangerous edge, and gerty noticed that her hand shook as she held it out to receive the second cup. "but you look so tired: i'm sure you must be ill----" miss bart set down her cup with a start. "do i look ill? does my face show it?" she rose and walked quickly toward the little mirror above the writing-table. "what a horrid looking-glass--it's all blotched and discoloured. any one would look ghastly in it!" she turned back, fixing her plaintive eyes on gerty. "you stupid dear, why do you say such odious things to me? it's enough to make one ill to be told one looks so! and looking ill means looking ugly." she caught gerty's wrists, and drew her close to the window. "after all, i'd rather know the truth. look me straight in the face, gerty, and tell me: am i perfectly frightful?" "you're perfectly beautiful now, lily: your eyes are shining, and your cheeks have grown so pink all of a sudden----" "ah, they were pale, then--ghastly pale, when i came in? why don't you tell me frankly that i'm a wreck? my eyes are bright now because i'm so nervous--but in the mornings they look like lead. and i can see the lines coming in my face--the lines of worry and disappointment and failure! every sleepless night leaves a new one--and how can i sleep, when i have such dreadful things to think about?" "dreadful things--what things?" asked gerty, gently detaching her wrists from her friend's feverish fingers. "what things? well, poverty, for one--and i don't know any that's more dreadful." lily turned away and sank with sudden weariness into the easy-chair near the tea-table. "you asked me just now if i could understand why ned silverton spent so much money. of course i understand--he spends it on living with the rich. you think we live on the rich, rather than with them: and so we do, in a sense--but it's a privilege we have to pay for! we eat their dinners, and drink their wine, and smoke their cigarettes, and use their carriages and their opera-boxes and their private cars--yes, but there's a tax to pay on every one of those luxuries. the man pays it by big tips to the servants, by playing cards beyond his means, by flowers and presents--and--and--lots of other things that cost; the girl pays it by tips and cards too--oh, yes, i've had to take up bridge again--and by going to the best dress-makers, and having just the right dress for every occasion, and always keeping herself fresh and exquisite and amusing!" she leaned back for a moment, closing her eyes, and as she sat there, her pale lips slightly parted, and the lids dropped above her fagged brilliant gaze, gerty had a startled perception of the change in her face--of the way in which an ashen daylight seemed suddenly to extinguish its artificial brightness. she looked up, and the vision vanished. "it doesn't sound very amusing, does it? and it isn't--i'm sick to death of it! and yet the thought of giving it all up nearly kills me--it's what keeps me awake at night, and makes me so crazy for your strong tea. for i can't go on in this way much longer, you know--i'm nearly at the end of my tether. and then what can i do--how on earth am i to keep myself alive? i see myself reduced to the fate of that poor silverton woman--slinking about to employment agencies, and trying to sell painted blotting-pads to women's exchanges! and there are thousands and thousands of women trying to do the same thing already, and not one of the number who has less idea how to earn a dollar than i have!" she rose again with a hurried glance at the clock. "it's late, and i must be off--i have an appointment with carry fisher. don't look so worried, you dear thing--don't think too much about the nonsense i've been talking." she was before the mirror again, adjusting her hair with a light hand, drawing down her veil, and giving a dexterous touch to her furs. "of course, you know, it hasn't come to the employment agencies and the painted blotting-pads yet; but i'm rather hard-up just for the moment, and if i could find something to do--notes to write and visiting-lists to make up, or that kind of thing--it would tide me over till the legacy is paid. and carry has promised to find somebody who wants a kind of social secretary--you know she makes a specialty of the helpless rich." miss bart had not revealed to gerty the full extent of her anxiety. she was in fact in urgent and immediate need of money: money to meet the vulgar weekly claims which could neither be deferred nor evaded. to give up her apartment, and shrink to the obscurity of a boarding-house, or the provisional hospitality of a bed in gerty farish's sitting-room, was an expedient which could only postpone the problem confronting her; and it seemed wiser as well as more agreeable to remain where she was and find some means of earning her living. the possibility of having to do this was one which she had never before seriously considered, and the discovery that, as a bread-winner, she was likely to prove as helpless and ineffectual as poor miss silverton, was a severe shock to her self-confidence. having been accustomed to take herself at the popular valuation, as a person of energy and resource, naturally fitted to dominate any situation in which she found herself, she vaguely imagined that such gifts would be of value to seekers after social guidance; but there was unfortunately no specific head under which the art of saying and doing the right thing could be offered in the market, and even mrs. fisher's resourcefulness failed before the difficulty of discovering a workable vein in the vague wealth of lily's graces. mrs. fisher was full of indirect expedients for enabling her friends to earn a living, and could conscientiously assert that she had put several opportunities of this kind before lily; but more legitimate methods of bread-winning were as much out of her line as they were beyond the capacity of the sufferers she was generally called upon to assist. lily's failure to profit by the chances already afforded her might, moreover, have justified the abandonment of farther effort on her behalf; but mrs. fisher's inexhaustible good-nature made her an adept at creating artificial demands in response to an actual supply. in the pursuance of this end she at once started on a voyage of discovery in miss bart's behalf; and as the result of her explorations she now summoned the latter with the announcement that she had "found something." left to herself, gerty mused distressfully upon her friend's plight, and her own inability to relieve it. it was clear to her that lily, for the present, had no wish for the kind of help she could give. miss farish could see no hope for her friend but in a life completely reorganized and detached from its old associations; whereas all lily's energies were centred in the determined effort to hold fast to those associations, to keep herself visibly identified with them, as long as the illusion could be maintained. pitiable as such an attitude seemed to gerty, she could not judge it as harshly as selden, for instance, might have done. she had not forgotten the night of emotion when she and lily had lain in each other's arms, and she had seemed to feel her very heart's blood passing into her friend. the sacrifice she had made had seemed unavailing enough; no trace remained in lily of the subduing influences of that hour; but gerty's tenderness, disciplined by long years of contact with obscure and inarticulate suffering, could wait on its object with a silent forbearance which took no account of time. she could not, however, deny herself the solace of taking anxious counsel with lawrence selden, with whom, since his return from europe, she had renewed her old relation of cousinly confidence. selden himself had never been aware of any change in their relation. he found gerty as he had left her, simple, undemanding and devoted, but with a quickened intelligence of the heart which he recognized without seeking to explain it. to gerty herself it would once have seemed impossible that she should ever again talk freely with him of lily bart; but what had passed in the secrecy of her own breast seemed to resolve itself, when the mist of the struggle cleared, into a breaking down of the bounds of self, a deflecting of the wasted personal emotion into the general current of human understanding. it was not till some two weeks after her visit from lily that gerty had the opportunity of communicating her fears to selden. the latter, having presented himself on a sunday afternoon, had lingered on through the dowdy animation of his cousin's tea-hour, conscious of something in her voice and eye which solicited a word apart; and as soon as the last visitor was gone gerty opened her case by asking how lately he had seen miss bart. selden's perceptible pause gave her time for a slight stir of surprise. "i haven't seen her at all--i've perpetually missed seeing her since she came back." this unexpected admission made gerty pause too; and she was still hesitating on the brink of her subject when he relieved her by adding: "i've wanted to see her--but she seems to have been absorbed by the gormer set since her return from europe." "that's all the more reason: she's been very unhappy." "unhappy at being with the gormers?" "oh, i don't defend her intimacy with the gormers; but that too is at an end now, i think. you know people have been very unkind since bertha dorset quarrelled with her." "ah----" selden exclaimed, rising abruptly to walk to the window, where he remained with his eyes on the darkening street while his cousin continued to explain: "judy trenor and her own family have deserted her too--and all because bertha dorset has said such horrible things. and she is very poor--you know mrs. peniston cut her off with a small legacy, after giving her to understand that she was to have everything." "yes--i know," selden assented curtly, turning back into the room, but only to stir about with restless steps in the circumscribed space between door and window. "yes--she's been abominably treated; but it's unfortunately the precise thing that a man who wants to show his sympathy can't say to her." his words caused gerty a slight chill of disappointment. "there would be other ways of showing your sympathy," she suggested. selden, with a slight laugh, sat down beside her on the little sofa which projected from the hearth. "what are you thinking of, you incorrigible missionary?" he asked. gerty's colour rose, and her blush was for a moment her only answer. then she made it more explicit by saying: "i am thinking of the fact that you and she used to be great friends--that she used to care immensely for what you thought of her--and that, if she takes your staying away as a sign of what you think now, i can imagine its adding a great deal to her unhappiness." "my dear child, don't add to it still more--at least to your conception of it--by attributing to her all sorts of susceptibilities of your own." selden, for his life, could not keep a note of dryness out of his voice; but he met gerty's look of perplexity by saying more mildly: "but, though you immensely exaggerate the importance of anything i could do for miss bart, you can't exaggerate my readiness to do it--if you ask me to." he laid his hand for a moment on hers, and there passed between them, on the current of the rare contact, one of those exchanges of meaning which fill the hidden reservoirs of affection. gerty had the feeling that he measured the cost of her request as plainly as she read the significance of his reply; and the sense of all that was suddenly clear between them made her next words easier to find. "i do ask you, then; i ask you because she once told me that you had been a help to her, and because she needs help now as she has never needed it before. you know how dependent she has always been on ease and luxury--how she has hated what was shabby and ugly and uncomfortable. she can't help it--she was brought up with those ideas, and has never been able to find her way out of them. but now all the things she cared for have been taken from her, and the people who taught her to care for them have abandoned her too; and it seems to me that if some one could reach out a hand and show her the other side--show her how much is left in life and in herself----" gerty broke off, abashed at the sound of her own eloquence, and impeded by the difficulty of giving precise expression to her vague yearning for her friend's retrieval. "i can't help her myself: she's passed out of my reach," she continued. "i think she's afraid of being a burden to me. when she was last here, two weeks ago, she seemed dreadfully worried about her future: she said carry fisher was trying to find something for her to do. a few days later she wrote me that she had taken a position as private secretary, and that i was not to be anxious, for everything was all right, and she would come in and tell me about it when she had time; but she has never come, and i don't like to go to her, because i am afraid of forcing myself on her when i'm not wanted. once, when we were children, and i had rushed up after a long separation, and thrown my arms about her, she said: 'please don't kiss me unless i ask you to, gerty'--and she did ask me, a minute later; but since then i've always waited to be asked." selden had listened in silence, with the concentrated look which his thin dark face could assume when he wished to guard it against any involuntary change of expression. when his cousin ended, he said with a slight smile: "since you've learned the wisdom of waiting, i don't see why you urge me to rush in--" but the troubled appeal of her eyes made him add, as he rose to take leave: "still, i'll do what you wish, and not hold you responsible for my failure." selden's avoidance of miss bart had not been as unintentional as he had allowed his cousin to think. at first, indeed, while the memory of their last hour at monte carlo still held the full heat of his indignation, he had anxiously watched for her return; but she had disappointed him by lingering in england, and when she finally reappeared it happened that business had called him to the west, whence he came back only to learn that she was starting for alaska with the gormers. the revelation of this suddenly-established intimacy effectually chilled his desire to see her. if, at a moment when her whole life seemed to be breaking up, she could cheerfully commit its reconstruction to the gormers, there was no reason why such accidents should ever strike her as irreparable. every step she took seemed in fact to carry her farther from the region where, once or twice, he and she had met for an illumined moment; and the recognition of this fact, when its first pang had been surmounted, produced in him a sense of negative relief. it was much simpler for him to judge miss bart by her habitual conduct than by the rare deviations from it which had thrown her so disturbingly in his way; and every act of hers which made the recurrence of such deviations more unlikely, confirmed the sense of relief with which he returned to the conventional view of her. but gerty farish's words had sufficed to make him see how little this view was really his, and how impossible it was for him to live quietly with the thought of lily bart. to hear that she was in need of help--even such vague help as he could offer--was to be at once repossessed by that thought; and by the time he reached the street he had sufficiently convinced himself of the urgency of his cousin's appeal to turn his steps directly toward lily's hotel. there his zeal met a check in the unforeseen news that miss bart had moved away; but, on his pressing his enquiries, the clerk remembered that she had left an address, for which he presently began to search through his books. it was certainly strange that she should have taken this step without letting gerty farish know of her decision; and selden waited with a vague sense of uneasiness while the address was sought for. the process lasted long enough for uneasiness to turn to apprehension; but when at length a slip of paper was handed him, and he read on it: "care of mrs. norma hatch, emporium hotel," his apprehension passed into an incredulous stare, and this into the gesture of disgust with which he tore the paper in two, and turned to walk quickly homeward. chapter when lily woke on the morning after her translation to the emporium hotel, her first feeling was one of purely physical satisfaction. the force of contrast gave an added keenness to the luxury of lying once more in a soft-pillowed bed, and looking across a spacious sunlit room at a breakfast-table set invitingly near the fire. analysis and introspection might come later; but for the moment she was not even troubled by the excesses of the upholstery or the restless convolutions of the furniture. the sense of being once more lapped and folded in ease, as in some dense mild medium impenetrable to discomfort, effectually stilled the faintest note of criticism. when, the afternoon before, she had presented herself to the lady to whom carry fisher had directed her, she had been conscious of entering a new world. carry's vague presentment of mrs. norma hatch (whose reversion to her christian name was explained as the result of her latest divorce), left her under the implication of coming "from the west," with the not unusual extenuation of having brought a great deal of money with her. she was, in short, rich, helpless, unplaced: the very subject for lily's hand. mrs. fisher had not specified the line her friend was to take; she owned herself unacquainted with mrs. hatch, whom she "knew about" through melville stancy, a lawyer in his leisure moments, and the falstaff of a certain section of festive club life. socially, mr. stancy might have been said to form a connecting link between the gormer world and the more dimly-lit region on which miss bart now found herself entering. it was, however, only figuratively that the illumination of mrs. hatch's world could be described as dim: in actual fact, lily found her seated in a blaze of electric light, impartially projected from various ornamental excrescences on a vast concavity of pink damask and gilding, from which she rose like venus from her shell. the analogy was justified by the appearance of the lady, whose large-eyed prettiness had the fixity of something impaled and shown under glass. this did not preclude the immediate discovery that she was some years younger than her visitor, and that under her showiness, her ease, the aggression of her dress and voice, there persisted that ineradicable innocence which, in ladies of her nationality, so curiously coexists with startling extremes of experience. the environment in which lily found herself was as strange to her as its inhabitants. she was unacquainted with the world of the fashionable new york hotel--a world over-heated, over-upholstered, and over-fitted with mechanical appliances for the gratification of fantastic requirements, while the comforts of a civilized life were as unattainable as in a desert. through this atmosphere of torrid splendour moved wan beings as richly upholstered as the furniture, beings without definite pursuits or permanent relations, who drifted on a languid tide of curiosity from restaurant to concert-hall, from palm-garden to music-room, from "art exhibit" to dress-maker's opening. high-stepping horses or elaborately equipped motors waited to carry these ladies into vague metropolitan distances, whence they returned, still more wan from the weight of their sables, to be sucked back into the stifling inertia of the hotel routine. somewhere behind them, in the background of their lives, there was doubtless a real past, peopled by real human activities: they themselves were probably the product of strong ambitions, persistent energies, diversified contacts with the wholesome roughness of life; yet they had no more real existence than the poet's shades in limbo. lily had not been long in this pallid world without discovering that mrs. hatch was its most substantial figure. that lady, though still floating in the void, showed faint symptoms of developing an outline; and in this endeavour she was actively seconded by mr. melville stancy. it was mr. stancy, a man of large resounding presence, suggestive of convivial occasions and of a chivalry finding expression in "first-night" boxes and thousand dollar bonbonnieres, who had transplanted mrs. hatch from the scene of her first development to the higher stage of hotel life in the metropolis. it was he who had selected the horses with which she had taken the blue ribbon at the show, had introduced her to the photographer whose portraits of her formed the recurring ornament of "sunday supplements," and had got together the group which constituted her social world. it was a small group still, with heterogeneous figures suspended in large unpeopled spaces; but lily did not take long to learn that its regulation was no longer in mr. stancy's hands. as often happens, the pupil had outstripped the teacher, and mrs. hatch was already aware of heights of elegance as well as depths of luxury beyond the world of the emporium. this discovery at once produced in her a craving for higher guidance, for the adroit feminine hand which should give the right turn to her correspondence, the right "look" to her hats, the right succession to the items of her menus. it was, in short, as the regulator of a germinating social life that miss bart's guidance was required; her ostensible duties as secretary being restricted by the fact that mrs. hatch, as yet, knew hardly any one to write to. the daily details of mrs. hatch's existence were as strange to lily as its general tenor. the lady's habits were marked by an oriental indolence and disorder peculiarly trying to her companion. mrs. hatch and her friends seemed to float together outside the bounds of time and space. no definite hours were kept; no fixed obligations existed: night and day flowed into one another in a blur of confused and retarded engagements, so that one had the impression of lunching at the tea-hour, while dinner was often merged in the noisy after-theatre supper which prolonged mrs. hatch's vigil till daylight. through this jumble of futile activities came and went a strange throng of hangers-on--manicures, beauty-doctors, hair-dressers, teachers of bridge, of french, of "physical development": figures sometimes indistinguishable, by their appearance, or by mrs. hatch's relation to them, from the visitors constituting her recognized society. but strangest of all to lily was the encounter, in this latter group, of several of her acquaintances. she had supposed, and not without relief, that she was passing, for the moment, completely out of her own circle; but she found that mr. stancy, one side of whose sprawling existence overlapped the edge of mrs. fisher's world, had drawn several of its brightest ornaments into the circle of the emporium. to find ned silverton among the habitual frequenters of mrs. hatch's drawing-room was one of lily's first astonishments; but she soon discovered that he was not mr. stancy's most important recruit. it was on little freddy van osburgh, the small slim heir of the van osburgh millions, that the attention of mrs. hatch's group was centred. freddy, barely out of college, had risen above the horizon since lily's eclipse, and she now saw with surprise what an effulgence he shed on the outer twilight of mrs. hatch's existence. this, then, was one of the things that young men "went in" for when released from the official social routine; this was the kind of "previous engagement" that so frequently caused them to disappoint the hopes of anxious hostesses. lily had an odd sense of being behind the social tapestry, on the side where the threads were knotted and the loose ends hung. for a moment she found a certain amusement in the show, and in her own share of it: the situation had an ease and unconventionality distinctly refreshing after her experience of the irony of conventions. but these flashes of amusement were but brief reactions from the long disgust of her days. compared with the vast gilded void of mrs. hatch's existence, the life of lily's former friends seemed packed with ordered activities. even the most irresponsible pretty woman of her acquaintance had her inherited obligations, her conventional benevolences, her share in the working of the great civic machine; and all hung together in the solidarity of these traditional functions. the performance of specific duties would have simplified miss bart's position; but the vague attendance on mrs. hatch was not without its perplexities. it was not her employer who created these perplexities. mrs. hatch showed from the first an almost touching desire for lily's approval. far from asserting the superiority of wealth, her beautiful eyes seemed to urge the plea of inexperience: she wanted to do what was "nice," to be taught how to be "lovely." the difficulty was to find any point of contact between her ideals and lily's. mrs. hatch swam in a haze of indeterminate enthusiasms, of aspirations culled from the stage, the newspapers, the fashion journals, and a gaudy world of sport still more completely beyond her companion's ken. to separate from these confused conceptions those most likely to advance the lady on her way, was lily's obvious duty; but its performance was hampered by rapidly-growing doubts. lily was in fact becoming more and more aware of a certain ambiguity in her situation. it was not that she had, in the conventional sense, any doubt of mrs. hatch's irreproachableness. the lady's offences were always against taste rather than conduct; her divorce record seemed due to geographical rather than ethical conditions; and her worst laxities were likely to proceed from a wandering and extravagant good-nature. but if lily did not mind her detaining her manicure for luncheon, or offering the "beauty-doctor" a seat in freddy van osburgh's box at the play, she was not equally at ease in regard to some less apparent lapses from convention. ned silverton's relation to stancy seemed, for instance, closer and less clear than any natural affinities would warrant; and both appeared united in the effort to cultivate freddy van osburgh's growing taste for mrs. hatch. there was as yet nothing definable in the situation, which might well resolve itself into a huge joke on the part of the other two; but lily had a vague sense that the subject of their experiment was too young, too rich and too credulous. her embarrassment was increased by the fact that freddy seemed to regard her as cooperating with himself in the social development of mrs. hatch: a view that suggested, on his part, a permanent interest in the lady's future. there were moments when lily found an ironic amusement in this aspect of the case. the thought of launching such a missile as mrs. hatch at the perfidious bosom of society was not without its charm: miss bart had even beguiled her leisure with visions of the fair norma introduced for the first time to a family banquet at the van osburghs'. but the thought of being personally connected with the transaction was less agreeable; and her momentary flashes of amusement were followed by increasing periods of doubt. the sense of these doubts was uppermost when, late one afternoon, she was surprised by a visit from lawrence selden. he found her alone in the wilderness of pink damask, for in mrs. hatch's world the tea-hour was not dedicated to social rites, and the lady was in the hands of her masseuse. selden's entrance had caused lily an inward start of embarrassment; but his air of constraint had the effect of restoring her self-possession, and she took at once the tone of surprise and pleasure, wondering frankly that he should have traced her to so unlikely a place, and asking what had inspired him to make the search. selden met this with an unusual seriousness: she had never seen him so little master of the situation, so plainly at the mercy of any obstructions she might put in his way. "i wanted to see you," he said; and she could not resist observing in reply that he had kept his wishes under remarkable control. she had in truth felt his long absence as one of the chief bitternesses of the last months: his desertion had wounded sensibilities far below the surface of her pride. selden met the challenge with directness. "why should i have come, unless i thought i could be of use to you? it is my only excuse for imagining you could want me." this struck her as a clumsy evasion, and the thought gave a flash of keenness to her answer. "then you have come now because you think you can be of use to me?" he hesitated again. "yes: in the modest capacity of a person to talk things over with." for a clever man it was certainly a stupid beginning; and the idea that his awkwardness was due to the fear of her attaching a personal significance to his visit, chilled her pleasure in seeing him. even under the most adverse conditions, that pleasure always made itself felt: she might hate him, but she had never been able to wish him out of the room. she was very near hating him now; yet the sound of his voice, the way the light fell on his thin dark hair, the way he sat and moved and wore his clothes--she was conscious that even these trivial things were inwoven with her deepest life. in his presence a sudden stillness came upon her, and the turmoil of her spirit ceased; but an impulse of resistance to this stealing influence now prompted her to say: "it's very good of you to present yourself in that capacity; but what makes you think i have anything particular to talk about?" though she kept the even tone of light intercourse, the question was framed in a way to remind him that his good offices were unsought; and for a moment selden was checked by it. the situation between them was one which could have been cleared up only by a sudden explosion of feeling; and their whole training and habit of mind were against the chances of such an explosion. selden's calmness seemed rather to harden into resistance, and miss bart's into a surface of glittering irony, as they faced each other from the opposite corners of one of mrs. hatch's elephantine sofas. the sofa in question, and the apartment peopled by its monstrous mates, served at length to suggest the turn of selden's reply. "gerty told me that you were acting as mrs. hatch's secretary; and i knew she was anxious to hear how you were getting on." miss bart received this explanation without perceptible softening. "why didn't she look me up herself, then?" she asked. "because, as you didn't send her your address, she was afraid of being importunate." selden continued with a smile: "you see no such scruples restrained me; but then i haven't as much to risk if i incur your displeasure." lily answered his smile. "you haven't incurred it as yet; but i have an idea that you are going to." "that rests with you, doesn't it? you see my initiative doesn't go beyond putting myself at your disposal." "but in what capacity? what am i to do with you?" she asked in the same light tone. selden again glanced about mrs. hatch's drawing-room; then he said, with a decision which he seemed to have gathered from this final inspection: "you are to let me take you away from here." lily flushed at the suddenness of the attack; then she stiffened under it and said coldly: "and may i ask where you mean me to go?" "back to gerty in the first place, if you will; the essential thing is that it should be away from here." the unusual harshness of his tone might have shown her how much the words cost him; but she was in no state to measure his feelings while her own were in a flame of revolt. to neglect her, perhaps even to avoid her, at a time when she had most need of her friends, and then suddenly and unwarrantably to break into her life with this strange assumption of authority, was to rouse in her every instinct of pride and self-defence. "i am very much obliged to you," she said, "for taking such an interest in my plans; but i am quite contented where i am, and have no intention of leaving." selden had risen, and was standing before her in an attitude of uncontrollable expectancy. "that simply means that you don't know where you are!" he exclaimed. lily rose also, with a quick flash of anger. "if you have come here to say disagreeable things about mrs. hatch----" "it is only with your relation to mrs. hatch that i am concerned." "my relation to mrs. hatch is one i have no reason to be ashamed of. she has helped me to earn a living when my old friends were quite resigned to seeing me starve." "nonsense! starvation is not the only alternative. you know you can always find a home with gerty till you are independent again." "you show such an intimate acquaintance with my affairs that i suppose you mean--till my aunt's legacy is paid?" "i do mean that; gerty told me of it," selden acknowledged without embarrassment. he was too much in earnest now to feel any false constraint in speaking his mind. "but gerty does not happen to know," miss bart rejoined, "that i owe every penny of that legacy." "good god!" selden exclaimed, startled out of his composure by the abruptness of the statement. "every penny of it, and more too," lily repeated; "and you now perhaps see why i prefer to remain with mrs. hatch rather than take advantage of gerty's kindness. i have no money left, except my small income, and i must earn something more to keep myself alive." selden hesitated a moment; then he rejoined in a quieter tone: "but with your income and gerty's--since you allow me to go so far into the details of the situation--you and she could surely contrive a life together which would put you beyond the need of having to support yourself. gerty, i know, is eager to make such an arrangement, and would be quite happy in it----" "but i should not," miss bart interposed. "there are many reasons why it would be neither kind to gerty nor wise for myself." she paused a moment, and as he seemed to await a farther explanation, added with a quick lift of her head: "you will perhaps excuse me from giving you these reasons." "i have no claim to know them," selden answered, ignoring her tone; "no claim to offer any comment or suggestion beyond the one i have already made. and my right to make that is simply the universal right of a man to enlighten a woman when he sees her unconsciously placed in a false position." lily smiled. "i suppose," she rejoined, "that by a false position you mean one outside of what we call society; but you must remember that i had been excluded from those sacred precincts long before i met mrs. hatch. as far as i can see, there is very little real difference in being inside or out, and i remember your once telling me that it was only those inside who took the difference seriously." she had not been without intention in making this allusion to their memorable talk at bellomont, and she waited with an odd tremor of the nerves to see what response it would bring; but the result of the experiment was disappointing. selden did not allow the allusion to deflect him from his point; he merely said with completer fulness of emphasis: "the question of being inside or out is, as you say, a small one, and it happens to have nothing to do with the case, except in so far as mrs. hatch's desire to be inside may put you in the position i call false." in spite of the moderation of his tone, each word he spoke had the effect of confirming lily's resistance. the very apprehensions he aroused hardened her against him: she had been on the alert for the note of personal sympathy, for any sign of recovered power over him; and his attitude of sober impartiality, the absence of all response to her appeal, turned her hurt pride to blind resentment of his interference. the conviction that he had been sent by gerty, and that, whatever straits he conceived her to be in, he would never voluntarily have come to her aid, strengthened her resolve not to admit him a hair's breadth farther into her confidence. however doubtful she might feel her situation to be, she would rather persist in darkness than owe her enlightenment to selden. "i don't know," she said, when he had ceased to speak, "why you imagine me to be situated as you describe; but as you have always told me that the sole object of a bringing-up like mine was to teach a girl to get what she wants, why not assume that that is precisely what i am doing?" the smile with which she summed up her case was like a clear barrier raised against farther confidences: its brightness held him at such a distance that he had a sense of being almost out of hearing as he rejoined: "i am not sure that i have ever called you a successful example of that kind of bringing-up." her colour rose a little at the implication, but she steeled herself with a light laugh. "ah, wait a little longer--give me a little more time before you decide!" and as he wavered before her, still watching for a break in the impenetrable front she presented: "don't give me up; i may still do credit to my training!" she affirmed. chapter "look at those spangles, miss bart--every one of 'em sewed on crooked." the tall forewoman, a pinched perpendicular figure, dropped the condemned structure of wire and net on the table at lily's side, and passed on to the next figure in the line. there were twenty of them in the work-room, their fagged profiles, under exaggerated hair, bowed in the harsh north light above the utensils of their art; for it was something more than an industry, surely, this creation of ever-varied settings for the face of fortunate womanhood. their own faces were sallow with the unwholesomeness of hot air and sedentary toil, rather than with any actual signs of want: they were employed in a fashionable millinery establishment, and were fairly well clothed and well paid; but the youngest among them was as dull and colourless as the middle-aged. in the whole work-room there was only one skin beneath which the blood still visibly played; and that now burned with vexation as miss bart, under the lash of the forewoman's comment, began to strip the hat-frame of its over-lapping spangles. to gerty farish's hopeful spirit a solution appeared to have been reached when she remembered how beautifully lily could trim hats. instances of young lady-milliners establishing themselves under fashionable patronage, and imparting to their "creations" that indefinable touch which the professional hand can never give, had flattered gerty's visions of the future, and convinced even lily that her separation from mrs. norma hatch need not reduce her to dependence on her friends. the parting had occurred a few weeks after selden's visit, and would have taken place sooner had it not been for the resistance set up in lily by his ill-starred offer of advice. the sense of being involved in a transaction she would not have cared to examine too closely had soon afterward defined itself in the light of a hint from mr. stancy that, if she "saw them through," she would have no reason to be sorry. the implication that such loyalty would meet with a direct reward had hastened her flight, and flung her back, ashamed and penitent, on the broad bosom of gerty's sympathy. she did not, however, propose to lie there prone, and gerty's inspiration about the hats at once revived her hopes of profitable activity. here was, after all, something that her charming listless hands could really do; she had no doubt of their capacity for knotting a ribbon or placing a flower to advantage. and of course only these finishing touches would be expected of her: subordinate fingers, blunt, grey, needle-pricked fingers, would prepare the shapes and stitch the linings, while she presided over the charming little front shop--a shop all white panels, mirrors, and moss-green hangings--where her finished creations, hats, wreaths, aigrettes and the rest, perched on their stands like birds just poising for flight. but at the very outset of gerty's campaign this vision of the green-and-white shop had been dispelled. other young ladies of fashion had been thus "set-up," selling their hats by the mere attraction of a name and the reputed knack of tying a bow; but these privileged beings could command a faith in their powers materially expressed by the readiness to pay their shop-rent and advance a handsome sum for current expenses. where was lily to find such support? and even could it have been found, how were the ladies on whose approval she depended to be induced to give her their patronage? gerty learned that whatever sympathy her friend's case might have excited a few months since had been imperilled, if not lost, by her association with mrs. hatch. once again, lily had withdrawn from an ambiguous situation in time to save her self-respect, but too late for public vindication. freddy van osburgh was not to marry mrs. hatch; he had been rescued at the eleventh hour--some said by the efforts of gus trenor and rosedale--and despatched to europe with old ned van alstyne; but the risk he had run would always be ascribed to miss bart's connivance, and would somehow serve as a summing-up and corroboration of the vague general distrust of her. it was a relief to those who had hung back from her to find themselves thus justified, and they were inclined to insist a little on her connection with the hatch case in order to show that they had been right. gerty's quest, at any rate, brought up against a solid wall of resistance; and even when carry fisher, momentarily penitent for her share in the hatch affair, joined her efforts to miss farish's, they met with no better success. gerty had tried to veil her failure in tender ambiguities; but carry, always the soul of candour, put the case squarely to her friend. "i went straight to judy trenor; she has fewer prejudices than the others, and besides she's always hated bertha dorset. but what have you done to her, lily? at the very first word about giving you a start she flamed out about some money you'd got from gus; i never knew her so hot before. you know she'll let him do anything but spend money on his friends: the only reason she's decent to me now is that she knows i'm not hard up.--he speculated for you, you say? well, what's the harm? he had no business to lose. he didn't lose? then what on earth--but i never could understand you, lily!" the end of it was that, after anxious enquiry and much deliberation, mrs. fisher and gerty, for once oddly united in their effort to help their friend, decided on placing her in the work-room of mme. regina's renowned millinery establishment. even this arrangement was not effected without considerable negotiation, for mme. regina had a strong prejudice against untrained assistance, and was induced to yield only by the fact that she owed the patronage of mrs. bry and mrs. gormer to carry fisher's influence. she had been willing from the first to employ lily in the show-room: as a displayer of hats, a fashionable beauty might be a valuable asset. but to this suggestion miss bart opposed a negative which gerty emphatically supported, while mrs. fisher, inwardly unconvinced, but resigned to this latest proof of lily's unreason, agreed that perhaps in the end it would be more useful that she should learn the trade. to regina's work-room lily was therefore committed by her friends, and there mrs. fisher left her with a sigh of relief, while gerty's watchfulness continued to hover over her at a distance. lily had taken up her work early in january: it was now two months later, and she was still being rebuked for her inability to sew spangles on a hat-frame. as she returned to her work she heard a titter pass down the tables. she knew she was an object of criticism and amusement to the other work-women. they were, of course, aware of her history--the exact situation of every girl in the room was known and freely discussed by all the others--but the knowledge did not produce in them any awkward sense of class distinction: it merely explained why her untutored fingers were still blundering over the rudiments of the trade. lily had no desire that they should recognize any social difference in her; but she had hoped to be received as their equal, and perhaps before long to show herself their superior by a special deftness of touch, and it was humiliating to find that, after two months of drudgery, she still betrayed her lack of early training. remote was the day when she might aspire to exercise the talents she felt confident of possessing; only experienced workers were entrusted with the delicate art of shaping and trimming the hat, and the forewoman still held her inexorably to the routine of preparatory work. she began to rip the spangles from the frame, listening absently to the buzz of talk which rose and fell with the coming and going of miss haines's active figure. the air was closer than usual, because miss haines, who had a cold, had not allowed a window to be opened even during the noon recess; and lily's head was so heavy with the weight of a sleepless night that the chatter of her companions had the incoherence of a dream. "i told her he'd never look at her again; and he didn't. i wouldn't have, either--i think she acted real mean to him. he took her to the arion ball, and had a hack for her both ways.... she's taken ten bottles, and her headaches don't seem no better--but she's written a testimonial to say the first bottle cured her, and she got five dollars and her picture in the paper.... mrs. trenor's hat? the one with the green paradise? here, miss haines--it'll be ready right off.... that was one of the trenor girls here yesterday with mrs. george dorset. how'd i know? why, madam sent for me to alter the flower in that virot hat--the blue tulle: she's tall and slight, with her hair fuzzed out--a good deal like mamie leach, on'y thinner...." on and on it flowed, a current of meaningless sound, on which, startlingly enough, a familiar name now and then floated to the surface. it was the strangest part of lily's strange experience, the hearing of these names, the seeing the fragmentary and distorted image of the world she had lived in reflected in the mirror of the working-girls' minds. she had never before suspected the mixture of insatiable curiosity and contemptuous freedom with which she and her kind were discussed in this underworld of toilers who lived on their vanity and self-indulgence. every girl in mme. regina's work-room knew to whom the headgear in her hands was destined, and had her opinion of its future wearer, and a definite knowledge of the latter's place in the social system. that lily was a star fallen from that sky did not, after the first stir of curiosity had subsided, materially add to their interest in her. she had fallen, she had "gone under," and true to the ideal of their race, they were awed only by success--by the gross tangible image of material achievement. the consciousness of her different point of view merely kept them at a little distance from her, as though she were a foreigner with whom it was an effort to talk. "miss bart, if you can't sew those spangles on more regular i guess you'd better give the hat to miss kilroy." lily looked down ruefully at her handiwork. the forewoman was right: the sewing on of the spangles was inexcusably bad. what made her so much more clumsy than usual? was it a growing distaste for her task, or actual physical disability? she felt tired and confused: it was an effort to put her thoughts together. she rose and handed the hat to miss kilroy, who took it with a suppressed smile. "i'm sorry; i'm afraid i am not well," she said to the forewoman. miss haines offered no comment. from the first she had augured ill of mme. regina's consenting to include a fashionable apprentice among her workers. in that temple of art no raw beginners were wanted, and miss haines would have been more than human had she not taken a certain pleasure in seeing her forebodings confirmed. "you'd better go back to binding edges," she said drily. lily slipped out last among the band of liberated work-women. she did not care to be mingled in their noisy dispersal: once in the street, she always felt an irresistible return to her old standpoint, an instinctive shrinking from all that was unpolished and promiscuous. in the days--how distant they now seemed!--when she had visited the girls' club with gerty farish, she had felt an enlightened interest in the working-classes; but that was because she looked down on them from above, from the happy altitude of her grace and her beneficence. now that she was on a level with them, the point of view was less interesting. she felt a touch on her arm, and met the penitent eye of miss kilroy. "miss bart, i guess you can sew those spangles on as well as i can when you're feeling right. miss haines didn't act fair to you." lily's colour rose at the unexpected advance: it was a long time since real kindness had looked at her from any eyes but gerty's. "oh, thank you: i'm not particularly well, but miss haines was right. i am clumsy." "well, it's mean work for anybody with a headache." miss kilroy paused irresolutely. "you ought to go right home and lay down. ever try orangeine?" "thank you." lily held out her hand. "it's very kind of you--i mean to go home." she looked gratefully at miss kilroy, but neither knew what more to say. lily was aware that the other was on the point of offering to go home with her, but she wanted to be alone and silent--even kindness, the sort of kindness that miss kilroy could give, would have jarred on her just then. "thank you," she repeated as she turned away. she struck westward through the dreary march twilight, toward the street where her boarding-house stood. she had resolutely refused gerty's offer of hospitality. something of her mother's fierce shrinking from observation and sympathy was beginning to develop in her, and the promiscuity of small quarters and close intimacy seemed, on the whole, less endurable than the solitude of a hall bedroom in a house where she could come and go unremarked among other workers. for a while she had been sustained by this desire for privacy and independence; but now, perhaps from increasing physical weariness, the lassitude brought about by hours of unwonted confinement, she was beginning to feel acutely the ugliness and discomfort of her surroundings. the day's task done, she dreaded to return to her narrow room, with its blotched wallpaper and shabby paint; and she hated every step of the walk thither, through the degradation of a new york street in the last stages of decline from fashion to commerce. but what she dreaded most of all was having to pass the chemist's at the corner of sixth avenue. she had meant to take another street: she had usually done so of late. but today her steps were irresistibly drawn toward the flaring plate-glass corner; she tried to take the lower crossing, but a laden dray crowded her back, and she struck across the street obliquely, reaching the sidewalk just opposite the chemist's door. over the counter she caught the eye of the clerk who had waited on her before, and slipped the prescription into his hand. there could be no question about the prescription: it was a copy of one of mrs. hatch's, obligingly furnished by that lady's chemist. lily was confident that the clerk would fill it without hesitation; yet the nervous dread of a refusal, or even of an expression of doubt, communicated itself to her restless hands as she affected to examine the bottles of perfume stacked on the glass case before her. the clerk had read the prescription without comment; but in the act of handing out the bottle he paused. "you don't want to increase the dose, you know," he remarked. lily's heart contracted. what did he mean by looking at her in that way? "of course not," she murmured, holding out her hand. "that's all right: it's a queer-acting drug. a drop or two more, and off you go--the doctors don't know why." the dread lest he should question her, or keep the bottle back, choked the murmur of acquiescence in her throat; and when at length she emerged safely from the shop she was almost dizzy with the intensity of her relief. the mere touch of the packet thrilled her tired nerves with the delicious promise of a night of sleep, and in the reaction from her momentary fear she felt as if the first fumes of drowsiness were already stealing over her. in her confusion she stumbled against a man who was hurrying down the last steps of the elevated station. he drew back, and she heard her name uttered with surprise. it was rosedale, fur-coated, glossy and prosperous--but why did she seem to see him so far off, and as if through a mist of splintered crystals? before she could account for the phenomenon she found herself shaking hands with him. they had parted with scorn on her side and anger upon his; but all trace of these emotions seemed to vanish as their hands met, and she was only aware of a confused wish that she might continue to hold fast to him. "why, what's the matter, miss lily? you're not well!" he exclaimed; and she forced her lips into a pallid smile of reassurance. "i'm a little tired--it's nothing. stay with me a moment, please," she faltered. that she should be asking this service of rosedale! he glanced at the dirty and unpropitious corner on which they stood, with the shriek of the "elevated" and the tumult of trams and waggons contending hideously in their ears. "we can't stay here; but let me take you somewhere for a cup of tea. the longworth is only a few yards off, and there'll be no one there at this hour." a cup of tea in quiet, somewhere out of the noise and ugliness, seemed for the moment the one solace she could bear. a few steps brought them to the ladies' door of the hotel he had named, and a moment later he was seated opposite to her, and the waiter had placed the tea-tray between them. "not a drop of brandy or whiskey first? you look regularly done up, miss lily. well, take your tea strong, then; and, waiter, get a cushion for the lady's back." lily smiled faintly at the injunction to take her tea strong. it was the temptation she was always struggling to resist. her craving for the keen stimulant was forever conflicting with that other craving for sleep--the midnight craving which only the little phial in her hand could still. but today, at any rate, the tea could hardly be too strong: she counted on it to pour warmth and resolution into her empty veins. as she leaned back before him, her lids drooping in utter lassitude, though the first warm draught already tinged her face with returning life, rosedale was seized afresh by the poignant surprise of her beauty. the dark pencilling of fatigue under her eyes, the morbid blue-veined pallour of the temples, brought out the brightness of her hair and lips, as though all her ebbing vitality were centred there. against the dull chocolate-coloured background of the restaurant, the purity of her head stood out as it had never done in the most brightly-lit ball-room. he looked at her with a startled uncomfortable feeling, as though her beauty were a forgotten enemy that had lain in ambush and now sprang out on him unawares. to clear the air he tried to take an easy tone with her. "why, miss lily, i haven't seen you for an age. i didn't know what had become of you." as he spoke, he was checked by an embarrassing sense of the complications to which this might lead. though he had not seen her he had heard of her; he knew of her connection with mrs. hatch, and of the talk resulting from it. mrs. hatch's milieu was one which he had once assiduously frequented, and now as devoutly shunned. lily, to whom the tea had restored her usual clearness of mind, saw what was in his thoughts and said with a slight smile: "you would not be likely to know about me. i have joined the working classes." he stared in genuine wonder. "you don't mean--? why, what on earth are you doing?" "learning to be a milliner--at least trying to learn," she hastily qualified the statement. rosedale suppressed a low whistle of surprise. "come off--you ain't serious, are you?" "perfectly serious. i'm obliged to work for my living." "but i understood--i thought you were with norma hatch." "you heard i had gone to her as her secretary?" "something of the kind, i believe." he leaned forward to refill her cup. lily guessed the possibilities of embarrassment which the topic held for him, and raising her eyes to his, she said suddenly: "i left her two months ago." rosedale continued to fumble awkwardly with the tea-pot, and she felt sure that he had heard what had been said of her. but what was there that rosedale did not hear? "wasn't it a soft berth?" he enquired, with an attempt at lightness. "too soft--one might have sunk in too deep." lily rested one arm on the edge of the table, and sat looking at him more intently than she had ever looked before. an uncontrollable impulse was urging her to put her case to this man, from whose curiosity she had always so fiercely defended herself. "you know mrs. hatch, i think? well, perhaps you can understand that she might make things too easy for one." rosedale looked faintly puzzled, and she remembered that allusiveness was lost on him. "it was no place for you, anyhow," he agreed, so suffused and immersed in the light of her full gaze that he found himself being drawn into strange depths of intimacy. he who had had to subsist on mere fugitive glances, looks winged in flight and swiftly lost under covert, now found her eyes settling on him with a brooding intensity that fairly dazzled him. "i left," lily continued, "lest people should say i was helping mrs. hatch to marry freddy van osburgh--who is not in the least too good for her--and as they still continue to say it, i see that i might as well have stayed where i was." "oh, freddy----" rosedale brushed aside the topic with an air of its unimportance which gave a sense of the immense perspective he had acquired. "freddy don't count--but i knew you weren't mixed up in that. it ain't your style." lily coloured slightly: she could not conceal from herself that the words gave her pleasure. she would have liked to sit there, drinking more tea, and continuing to talk of herself to rosedale. but the old habit of observing the conventions reminded her that it was time to bring their colloquy to an end, and she made a faint motion to push back her chair. rosedale stopped her with a protesting gesture. "wait a minute--don't go yet; sit quiet and rest a little longer. you look thoroughly played out. and you haven't told me----" he broke off, conscious of going farther than he had meant. she saw the struggle and understood it; understood also the nature of the spell to which he yielded as, with his eyes on her face, he began again abruptly: "what on earth did you mean by saying just now that you were learning to be a milliner?" "just what i said. i am an apprentice at regina's." "good lord--you? but what for? i knew your aunt had turned you down: mrs. fisher told me about it. but i understood you got a legacy from her----" "i got ten thousand dollars; but the legacy is not to be paid till next summer." "well, but--look here: you could borrow on it any time you wanted." she shook her head gravely. "no; for i owe it already." "owe it? the whole ten thousand?" "every penny." she paused, and then continued abruptly, with her eyes on his face: "i think gus trenor spoke to you once about having made some money for me in stocks." she waited, and rosedale, congested with embarrassment, muttered that he remembered something of the kind. "he made about nine thousand dollars," lily pursued, in the same tone of eager communicativeness. "at the time, i understood that he was speculating with my own money: it was incredibly stupid of me, but i knew nothing of business. afterward i found out that he had not used my money--that what he said he had made for me he had really given me. it was meant in kindness, of course; but it was not the sort of obligation one could remain under. unfortunately i had spent the money before i discovered my mistake; and so my legacy will have to go to pay it back. that is the reason why i am trying to learn a trade." she made the statement clearly, deliberately, with pauses between the sentences, so that each should have time to sink deeply into her hearer's mind. she had a passionate desire that some one should know the truth about this transaction, and also that the rumour of her intention to repay the money should reach judy trenor's ears. and it had suddenly occurred to her that rosedale, who had surprised trenor's confidence, was the fitting person to receive and transmit her version of the facts. she had even felt a momentary exhilaration at the thought of thus relieving herself of her detested secret; but the sensation gradually faded in the telling, and as she ended her pallour was suffused with a deep blush of misery. rosedale continued to stare at her in wonder; but the wonder took the turn she had least expected. "but see here--if that's the case, it cleans you out altogether?" he put it to her as if she had not grasped the consequences of her act; as if her incorrigible ignorance of business were about to precipitate her into a fresh act of folly. "altogether--yes," she calmly agreed. he sat silent, his thick hands clasped on the table, his little puzzled eyes exploring the recesses of the deserted restaurant. "see here--that's fine," he exclaimed abruptly. lily rose from her seat with a deprecating laugh. "oh, no--it's merely a bore," she asserted, gathering together the ends of her feather scarf. rosedale remained seated, too intent on his thoughts to notice her movement. "miss lily, if you want any backing--i like pluck----" broke from him disconnectedly. "thank you." she held out her hand. "your tea has given me a tremendous backing. i feel equal to anything now." her gesture seemed to show a definite intention of dismissal, but her companion had tossed a bill to the waiter, and was slipping his short arms into his expensive overcoat. "wait a minute--you've got to let me walk home with you," he said. lily uttered no protest, and when he had paused to make sure of his change they emerged from the hotel and crossed sixth avenue again. as she led the way westward past a long line of areas which, through the distortion of their paintless rails, revealed with increasing candour the disjecta membra of bygone dinners, lily felt that rosedale was taking contemptuous note of the neighbourhood; and before the doorstep at which she finally paused he looked up with an air of incredulous disgust. "this isn't the place? some one told me you were living with miss farish." "no: i am boarding here. i have lived too long on my friends." he continued to scan the blistered brown stone front, the windows draped with discoloured lace, and the pompeian decoration of the muddy vestibule; then he looked back at her face and said with a visible effort: "you'll let me come and see you some day?" she smiled, recognizing the heroism of the offer to the point of being frankly touched by it. "thank you--i shall be very glad," she made answer, in the first sincere words she had ever spoken to him. that evening in her own room miss bart--who had fled early from the heavy fumes of the basement dinner-table--sat musing upon the impulse which had led her to unbosom herself to rosedale. beneath it she discovered an increasing sense of loneliness--a dread of returning to the solitude of her room, while she could be anywhere else, or in any company but her own. circumstances, of late, had combined to cut her off more and more from her few remaining friends. on carry fisher's part the withdrawal was perhaps not quite involuntary. having made her final effort on lily's behalf, and landed her safely in mme. regina's work-room, mrs. fisher seemed disposed to rest from her labours; and lily, understanding the reason, could not condemn her. carry had in fact come dangerously near to being involved in the episode of mrs. norma hatch, and it had taken some verbal ingenuity to extricate herself. she frankly owned to having brought lily and mrs. hatch together, but then she did not know mrs. hatch--she had expressly warned lily that she did not know mrs. hatch--and besides, she was not lily's keeper, and really the girl was old enough to take care of herself. carry did not put her own case so brutally, but she allowed it to be thus put for her by her latest bosom friend, mrs. jack stepney: mrs. stepney, trembling over the narrowness of her only brother's escape, but eager to vindicate mrs. fisher, at whose house she could count on the "jolly parties" which had become a necessity to her since marriage had emancipated her from the van osburgh point of view. lily understood the situation and could make allowances for it. carry had been a good friend to her in difficult days, and perhaps only a friendship like gerty's could be proof against such an increasing strain. gerty's friendship did indeed hold fast; yet lily was beginning to avoid her also. for she could not go to gerty's without risk of meeting selden; and to meet him now would be pure pain. it was pain enough even to think of him, whether she considered him in the distinctness of her waking thoughts, or felt the obsession of his presence through the blur of her tormented nights. that was one of the reasons why she had turned again to mrs. hatch's prescription. in the uneasy snatches of her natural dreams he came to her sometimes in the old guise of fellowship and tenderness; and she would rise from the sweet delusion mocked and emptied of her courage. but in the sleep which the phial procured she sank far below such half-waking visitations, sank into depths of dreamless annihilation from which she woke each morning with an obliterated past. gradually, to be sure, the stress of the old thoughts would return; but at least they did not importune her waking hour. the drug gave her a momentary illusion of complete renewal, from which she drew strength to take up her daily work. the strength was more and more needed as the perplexities of her future increased. she knew that to gerty and mrs. fisher she was only passing through a temporary period of probation, since they believed that the apprenticeship she was serving at mme. regina's would enable her, when mrs. peniston's legacy was paid, to realize the vision of the green-and-white shop with the fuller competence acquired by her preliminary training. but to lily herself, aware that the legacy could not be put to such a use, the preliminary training seemed a wasted effort. she understood clearly enough that, even if she could ever learn to compete with hands formed from childhood for their special work, the small pay she received would not be a sufficient addition to her income to compensate her for such drudgery. and the realization of this fact brought her recurringly face to face with the temptation to use the legacy in establishing her business. once installed, and in command of her own work-women, she believed she had sufficient tact and ability to attract a fashionable clientele; and if the business succeeded she could gradually lay aside money enough to discharge her debt to trenor. but the task might take years to accomplish, even if she continued to stint herself to the utmost; and meanwhile her pride would be crushed under the weight of an intolerable obligation. these were her superficial considerations; but under them lurked the secret dread that the obligation might not always remain intolerable. she knew she could not count on her continuity of purpose, and what really frightened her was the thought that she might gradually accommodate herself to remaining indefinitely in trenor's debt, as she had accommodated herself to the part allotted her on the sabrina, and as she had so nearly drifted into acquiescing with stancy's scheme for the advancement of mrs. hatch. her danger lay, as she knew, in her old incurable dread of discomfort and poverty; in the fear of that mounting tide of dinginess against which her mother had so passionately warned her. and now a new vista of peril opened before her. she understood that rosedale was ready to lend her money; and the longing to take advantage of his offer began to haunt her insidiously. it was of course impossible to accept a loan from rosedale; but proximate possibilities hovered temptingly before her. she was quite sure that he would come and see her again, and almost sure that, if he did, she could bring him to the point of offering to marry her on the terms she had previously rejected. would she still reject them if they were offered? more and more, with every fresh mischance befalling her, did the pursuing furies seem to take the shape of bertha dorset; and close at hand, safely locked among her papers, lay the means of ending their pursuit. the temptation, which her scorn of rosedale had once enabled her to reject, now insistently returned upon her; and how much strength was left her to oppose it? what little there was must at any rate be husbanded to the utmost; she could not trust herself again to the perils of a sleepless night. through the long hours of silence the dark spirit of fatigue and loneliness crouched upon her breast, leaving her so drained of bodily strength that her morning thoughts swam in a haze of weakness. the only hope of renewal lay in the little bottle at her bed-side; and how much longer that hope would last she dared not conjecture. chapter lily, lingering for a moment on the corner, looked out on the afternoon spectacle of fifth avenue. it was a day in late april, and the sweetness of spring was in the air. it mitigated the ugliness of the long crowded thoroughfare, blurred the gaunt roof-lines, threw a mauve veil over the discouraging perspective of the side streets, and gave a touch of poetry to the delicate haze of green that marked the entrance to the park. as lily stood there, she recognized several familiar faces in the passing carriages. the season was over, and its ruling forces had disbanded; but a few still lingered, delaying their departure for europe, or passing through town on their return from the south. among them was mrs. van osburgh, swaying majestically in her c-spring barouche, with mrs. percy gryce at her side, and the new heir to the gryce millions enthroned before them on his nurse's knees. they were succeeded by mrs. hatch's electric victoria, in which that lady reclined in the lonely splendour of a spring toilet obviously designed for company; and a moment or two later came judy trenor, accompanied by lady skiddaw, who had come over for her annual tarpon fishing and a dip into "the street." this fleeting glimpse of her past served to emphasize the sense of aimlessness with which lily at length turned toward home. she had nothing to do for the rest of the day, nor for the days to come; for the season was over in millinery as well as in society, and a week earlier mme. regina had notified her that her services were no longer required. mme. regina always reduced her staff on the first of may, and miss bart's attendance had of late been so irregular--she had so often been unwell, and had done so little work when she came--that it was only as a favour that her dismissal had hitherto been deferred. lily did not question the justice of the decision. she was conscious of having been forgetful, awkward and slow to learn. it was bitter to acknowledge her inferiority even to herself, but the fact had been brought home to her that as a bread-winner she could never compete with professional ability. since she had been brought up to be ornamental, she could hardly blame herself for failing to serve any practical purpose; but the discovery put an end to her consoling sense of universal efficiency. as she turned homeward her thoughts shrank in anticipation from the fact that there would be nothing to get up for the next morning. the luxury of lying late in bed was a pleasure belonging to the life of ease; it had no part in the utilitarian existence of the boarding-house. she liked to leave her room early, and to return to it as late as possible; and she was walking slowly now in order to postpone the detested approach to her doorstep. but the doorstep, as she drew near it, acquired a sudden interest from the fact that it was occupied--and indeed filled--by the conspicuous figure of mr. rosedale, whose presence seemed to take on an added amplitude from the meanness of his surroundings. the sight stirred lily with an irresistible sense of triumph. rosedale, a day or two after their chance meeting, had called to enquire if she had recovered from her indisposition; but since then she had not seen or heard from him, and his absence seemed to betoken a struggle to keep away, to let her pass once more out of his life. if this were the case, his return showed that the struggle had been unsuccessful, for lily knew he was not the man to waste his time in an ineffectual sentimental dalliance. he was too busy, too practical, and above all too much preoccupied with his own advancement, to indulge in such unprofitable asides. in the peacock-blue parlour, with its bunches of dried pampas grass, and discoloured steel engravings of sentimental episodes, he looked about him with unconcealed disgust, laying his hat distrustfully on the dusty console adorned with a rogers statuette. lily sat down on one of the plush and rosewood sofas, and he deposited himself in a rocking-chair draped with a starched antimacassar which scraped unpleasantly against the pink fold of skin above his collar. "my goodness--you can't go on living here!" he exclaimed. lily smiled at his tone. "i am not sure that i can; but i have gone over my expenses very carefully, and i rather think i shall be able to manage it." "be able to manage it? that's not what i mean--it's no place for you!" "it's what i mean; for i have been out of work for the last week." "out of work--out of work! what a way for you to talk! the idea of your having to work--it's preposterous." he brought out his sentences in short violent jerks, as though they were forced up from a deep inner crater of indignation. "it's a farce--a crazy farce," he repeated, his eyes fixed on the long vista of the room reflected in the blotched glass between the windows. lily continued to meet his expostulations with a smile. "i don't know why i should regard myself as an exception----" she began. "because you are; that's why; and your being in a place like this is a damnable outrage. i can't talk of it calmly." she had in truth never seen him so shaken out of his usual glibness; and there was something almost moving to her in his inarticulate struggle with his emotions. he rose with a start which left the rocking-chair quivering on its beam ends, and placed himself squarely before her. "look here, miss lily, i'm going to europe next week: going over to paris and london for a couple of months--and i can't leave you like this. i can't do it. i know it's none of my business--you've let me understand that often enough; but things are worse with you now than they have been before, and you must see that you've got to accept help from somebody. you spoke to me the other day about some debt to trenor. i know what you mean--and i respect you for feeling as you do about it." a blush of surprise rose to lily's pale face, but before she could interrupt him he had continued eagerly: "well, i'll lend you the money to pay trenor; and i won't--i--see here, don't take me up till i've finished. what i mean is, it'll be a plain business arrangement, such as one man would make with another. now, what have you got to say against that?" lily's blush deepened to a glow in which humiliation and gratitude were mingled; and both sentiments revealed themselves in the unexpected gentleness of her reply. "only this: that it is exactly what gus trenor proposed; and that i can never again be sure of understanding the plainest business arrangement." then, realizing that this answer contained a germ of injustice, she added, even more kindly: "not that i don't appreciate your kindness--that i'm not grateful for it. but a business arrangement between us would in any case be impossible, because i shall have no security to give when my debt to gus trenor has been paid." rosedale received this statement in silence: he seemed to feel the note of finality in her voice, yet to be unable to accept it as closing the question between them. in the silence lily had a clear perception of what was passing through his mind. whatever perplexity he felt as to the inexorableness of her course--however little he penetrated its motive--she saw that it unmistakably tended to strengthen her hold over him. it was as though the sense in her of unexplained scruples and resistances had the same attraction as the delicacy of feature, the fastidiousness of manner, which gave her an external rarity, an air of being impossible to match. as he advanced in social experience this uniqueness had acquired a greater value for him, as though he were a collector who had learned to distinguish minor differences of design and quality in some long-coveted object. lily, perceiving all this, understood that he would marry her at once, on the sole condition of a reconciliation with mrs. dorset; and the temptation was the less easy to put aside because, little by little, circumstances were breaking down her dislike for rosedale. the dislike, indeed, still subsisted; but it was penetrated here and there by the perception of mitigating qualities in him: of a certain gross kindliness, a rather helpless fidelity of sentiment, which seemed to be struggling through the hard surface of his material ambitions. reading his dismissal in her eyes, he held out his hand with a gesture which conveyed something of this inarticulate conflict. "if you'd only let me, i'd set you up over them all--i'd put you where you could wipe your feet on 'em!" he declared; and it touched her oddly to see that his new passion had not altered his old standard of values. lily took no sleeping-drops that night. she lay awake viewing her situation in the crude light which rosedale's visit had shed on it. in fending off the offer he was so plainly ready to renew, had she not sacrificed to one of those abstract notions of honour that might be called the conventionalities of the moral life? what debt did she owe to a social order which had condemned and banished her without trial? she had never been heard in her own defence; she was innocent of the charge on which she had been found guilty; and the irregularity of her conviction might seem to justify the use of methods as irregular in recovering her lost rights. bertha dorset, to save herself, had not scrupled to ruin her by an open falsehood; why should she hesitate to make private use of the facts that chance had put in her way? after all, half the opprobrium of such an act lies in the name attached to it. call it blackmail and it becomes unthinkable; but explain that it injures no one, and that the rights regained by it were unjustly forfeited, and he must be a formalist indeed who can find no plea in its defence. the arguments pleading for it with lily were the old unanswerable ones of the personal situation: the sense of injury, the sense of failure, the passionate craving for a fair chance against the selfish despotism of society. she had learned by experience that she had neither the aptitude nor the moral constancy to remake her life on new lines; to become a worker among workers, and let the world of luxury and pleasure sweep by her unregarded. she could not hold herself much to blame for this ineffectiveness, and she was perhaps less to blame than she believed. inherited tendencies had combined with early training to make her the highly specialized product she was: an organism as helpless out of its narrow range as the sea-anemone torn from the rock. she had been fashioned to adorn and delight; to what other end does nature round the rose-leaf and paint the humming-bird's breast? and was it her fault that the purely decorative mission is less easily and harmoniously fulfilled among social beings than in the world of nature? that it is apt to be hampered by material necessities or complicated by moral scruples? these last were the two antagonistic forces which fought out their battle in her breast during the long watches of the night; and when she rose the next morning she hardly knew where the victory lay. she was exhausted by the reaction of a night without sleep, coming after many nights of rest artificially obtained; and in the distorting light of fatigue the future stretched out before her grey, interminable and desolate. she lay late in bed, refusing the coffee and fried eggs which the friendly irish servant thrust through her door, and hating the intimate domestic noises of the house and the cries and rumblings of the street. her week of idleness had brought home to her with exaggerated force these small aggravations of the boarding-house world, and she yearned for that other luxurious world, whose machinery is so carefully concealed that one scene flows into another without perceptible agency. at length she rose and dressed. since she had left mme. regina's she had spent her days in the streets, partly to escape from the uncongenial promiscuities of the boarding-house, and partly in the hope that physical fatigue would help her to sleep. but once out of the house, she could not decide where to go; for she had avoided gerty since her dismissal from the milliner's, and she was not sure of a welcome anywhere else. the morning was in harsh contrast to the previous day. a cold grey sky threatened rain, and a high wind drove the dust in wild spirals up and down the streets. lily walked up fifth avenue toward the park, hoping to find a sheltered nook where she might sit; but the wind chilled her, and after an hour's wandering under the tossing boughs she yielded to her increasing weariness, and took refuge in a little restaurant in fifty-ninth street. she was not hungry, and had meant to go without luncheon; but she was too tired to return home, and the long perspective of white tables showed alluringly through the windows. the room was full of women and girls, all too much engaged in the rapid absorption of tea and pie to remark her entrance. a hum of shrill voices reverberated against the low ceiling, leaving lily shut out in a little circle of silence. she felt a sudden pang of profound loneliness. she had lost the sense of time, and it seemed to her as though she had not spoken to any one for days. her eyes sought the faces about her, craving a responsive glance, some sign of an intuition of her trouble. but the sallow preoccupied women, with their bags and note-books and rolls of music, were all engrossed in their own affairs, and even those who sat by themselves were busy running over proof-sheets or devouring magazines between their hurried gulps of tea. lily alone was stranded in a great waste of disoccupation. she drank several cups of the tea which was served with her portion of stewed oysters, and her brain felt clearer and livelier when she emerged once more into the street. she realized now that, as she sat in the restaurant, she had unconsciously arrived at a final decision. the discovery gave her an immediate illusion of activity: it was exhilarating to think that she had actually a reason for hurrying home. to prolong her enjoyment of the sensation she decided to walk; but the distance was so great that she found herself glancing nervously at the clocks on the way. one of the surprises of her unoccupied state was the discovery that time, when it is left to itself and no definite demands are made on it, cannot be trusted to move at any recognized pace. usually it loiters; but just when one has come to count upon its slowness, it may suddenly break into a wild irrational gallop. she found, however, on reaching home, that the hour was still early enough for her to sit down and rest a few minutes before putting her plan into execution. the delay did not perceptibly weaken her resolve. she was frightened and yet stimulated by the reserved force of resolution which she felt within herself: she saw it was going to be easier, a great deal easier, than she had imagined. at five o'clock she rose, unlocked her trunk, and took out a sealed packet which she slipped into the bosom of her dress. even the contact with the packet did not shake her nerves as she had half-expected it would. she seemed encased in a strong armour of indifference, as though the vigorous exertion of her will had finally benumbed her finer sensibilities. she dressed herself once more for the street, locked her door and went out. when she emerged on the pavement, the day was still high, but a threat of rain darkened the sky and cold gusts shook the signs projecting from the basement shops along the street. she reached fifth avenue and began to walk slowly northward. she was sufficiently familiar with mrs. dorset's habits to know that she could always be found at home after five. she might not, indeed, be accessible to visitors, especially to a visitor so unwelcome, and against whom it was quite possible that she had guarded herself by special orders; but lily had written a note which she meant to send up with her name, and which she thought would secure her admission. she had allowed herself time to walk to mrs. dorset's, thinking that the quick movement through the cold evening air would help to steady her nerves; but she really felt no need of being tranquillized. her survey of the situation remained calm and unwavering. as she reached fiftieth street the clouds broke abruptly, and a rush of cold rain slanted into her face. she had no umbrella and the moisture quickly penetrated her thin spring dress. she was still half a mile from her destination, and she decided to walk across to madison avenue and take the electric car. as she turned into the side street, a vague memory stirred in her. the row of budding trees, the new brick and limestone house-fronts, the georgian flat-house with flowerboxes on its balconies, were merged together into the setting of a familiar scene. it was down this street that she had walked with selden, that september day two years ago; a few yards ahead was the doorway they had entered together. the recollection loosened a throng of benumbed sensations--longings, regrets, imaginings, the throbbing brood of the only spring her heart had ever known. it was strange to find herself passing his house on such an errand. she seemed suddenly to see her action as he would see it--and the fact of his own connection with it, the fact that, to attain her end, she must trade on his name, and profit by a secret of his past, chilled her blood with shame. what a long way she had travelled since the day of their first talk together! even then her feet had been set in the path she was now following--even then she had resisted the hand he had held out. all her resentment of his fancied coldness was swept away in this overwhelming rush of recollection. twice he had been ready to help her--to help her by loving her, as he had said--and if, the third time, he had seemed to fail her, whom but herself could she accuse? . . . well, that part of her life was over; she did not know why her thoughts still clung to it. but the sudden longing to see him remained; it grew to hunger as she paused on the pavement opposite his door. the street was dark and empty, swept by the rain. she had a vision of his quiet room, of the bookshelves, and the fire on the hearth. she looked up and saw a light in his window; then she crossed the street and entered the house. chapter the library looked as she had pictured it. the green-shaded lamps made tranquil circles of light in the gathering dusk, a little fire flickered on the hearth, and selden's easy-chair, which stood near it, had been pushed aside when he rose to admit her. he had checked his first movement of surprise, and stood silent, waiting for her to speak, while she paused a moment on the threshold, assailed by a rush of memories. the scene was unchanged. she recognized the row of shelves from which he had taken down his la bruyere, and the worn arm of the chair he had leaned against while she examined the precious volume. but then the wide september light had filled the room, making it seem a part of the outer world: now the shaded lamps and the warm hearth, detaching it from the gathering darkness of the street, gave it a sweeter touch of intimacy. becoming gradually aware of the surprise under selden's silence, lily turned to him and said simply: "i came to tell you that i was sorry for the way we parted--for what i said to you that day at mrs. hatch's." the words rose to her lips spontaneously. even on her way up the stairs, she had not thought of preparing a pretext for her visit, but she now felt an intense longing to dispel the cloud of misunderstanding that hung between them. selden returned her look with a smile. "i was sorry too that we should have parted in that way; but i am not sure i didn't bring it on myself. luckily i had foreseen the risk i was taking----" "so that you really didn't care----?" broke from her with a flash of her old irony. "so that i was prepared for the consequences," he corrected good-humouredly. "but we'll talk of all this later. do come and sit by the fire. i can recommend that arm-chair, if you'll let me put a cushion behind you." while he spoke she had moved slowly to the middle of the room, and paused near his writing-table, where the lamp, striking upward, cast exaggerated shadows on the pallour of her delicately-hollowed face. "you look tired--do sit down," he repeated gently. she did not seem to hear the request. "i wanted you to know that i left mrs. hatch immediately after i saw you," she said, as though continuing her confession. "yes--yes; i know," he assented, with a rising tinge of embarrassment. "and that i did so because you told me to. before you came i had already begun to see that it would be impossible to remain with her--for the reasons you gave me; but i wouldn't admit it--i wouldn't let you see that i understood what you meant." "ah, i might have trusted you to find your own way out--don't overwhelm me with the sense of my officiousness!" his light tone, in which, had her nerves been steadier, she would have recognized the mere effort to bridge over an awkward moment, jarred on her passionate desire to be understood. in her strange state of extra-lucidity, which gave her the sense of being already at the heart of the situation, it seemed incredible that any one should think it necessary to linger in the conventional outskirts of word-play and evasion. "it was not that--i was not ungrateful," she insisted. but the power of expression failed her suddenly; she felt a tremor in her throat, and two tears gathered and fell slowly from her eyes. selden moved forward and took her hand. "you are very tired. why won't you sit down and let me make you comfortable?" he drew her to the arm-chair near the fire, and placed a cushion behind her shoulders. "and now you must let me make you some tea: you know i always have that amount of hospitality at my command." she shook her head, and two more tears ran over. but she did not weep easily, and the long habit of self-control reasserted itself, though she was still too tremulous to speak. "you know i can coax the water to boil in five minutes," selden continued, speaking as though she were a troubled child. his words recalled the vision of that other afternoon when they had sat together over his tea-table and talked jestingly of her future. there were moments when that day seemed more remote than any other event in her life; and yet she could always relive it in its minutest detail. she made a gesture of refusal. "no: i drink too much tea. i would rather sit quiet--i must go in a moment," she added confusedly. selden continued to stand near her, leaning against the mantelpiece. the tinge of constraint was beginning to be more distinctly perceptible under the friendly ease of his manner. her self-absorption had not allowed her to perceive it at first; but now that her consciousness was once more putting forth its eager feelers, she saw that her presence was becoming an embarrassment to him. such a situation can be saved only by an immediate outrush of feeling; and on selden's side the determining impulse was still lacking. the discovery did not disturb lily as it might once have done. she had passed beyond the phase of well-bred reciprocity, in which every demonstration must be scrupulously proportioned to the emotion it elicits, and generosity of feeling is the only ostentation condemned. but the sense of loneliness returned with redoubled force as she saw herself forever shut out from selden's inmost self. she had come to him with no definite purpose; the mere longing to see him had directed her; but the secret hope she had carried with her suddenly revealed itself in its death-pang. "i must go," she repeated, making a motion to rise from her chair. "but i may not see you again for a long time, and i wanted to tell you that i have never forgotten the things you said to me at bellomont, and that sometimes--sometimes when i seemed farthest from remembering them--they have helped me, and kept me from mistakes; kept me from really becoming what many people have thought me." strive as she would to put some order in her thoughts, the words would not come more clearly; yet she felt that she could not leave him without trying to make him understand that she had saved herself whole from the seeming ruin of her life. a change had come over selden's face as she spoke. its guarded look had yielded to an expression still untinged by personal emotion, but full of a gentle understanding. "i am glad to have you tell me that; but nothing i have said has really made the difference. the difference is in yourself--it will always be there. and since it is there, it can't really matter to you what people think: you are so sure that your friends will always understand you." "ah, don't say that--don't say that what you have told me has made no difference. it seems to shut me out--to leave me all alone with the other people." she had risen and stood before him, once more completely mastered by the inner urgency of the moment. the consciousness of his half-divined reluctance had vanished. whether he wished it or not, he must see her wholly for once before they parted. her voice had gathered strength, and she looked him gravely in the eyes as she continued. "once--twice--you gave me the chance to escape from my life, and i refused it: refused it because i was a coward. afterward i saw my mistake--i saw i could never be happy with what had contented me before. but it was too late: you had judged me--i understood. it was too late for happiness--but not too late to be helped by the thought of what i had missed. that is all i have lived on--don't take it from me now! even in my worst moments it has been like a little light in the darkness. some women are strong enough to be good by themselves, but i needed the help of your belief in me. perhaps i might have resisted a great temptation, but the little ones would have pulled me down. and then i remembered--i remembered your saying that such a life could never satisfy me; and i was ashamed to admit to myself that it could. that is what you did for me--that is what i wanted to thank you for. i wanted to tell you that i have always remembered; and that i have tried--tried hard . . ." she broke off suddenly. her tears had risen again, and in drawing out her handkerchief her fingers touched the packet in the folds of her dress. a wave of colour suffused her, and the words died on her lips. then she lifted her eyes to his and went on in an altered voice. "i have tried hard--but life is difficult, and i am a very useless person. i can hardly be said to have an independent existence. i was just a screw or a cog in the great machine i called life, and when i dropped out of it i found i was of no use anywhere else. what can one do when one finds that one only fits into one hole? one must get back to it or be thrown out into the rubbish heap--and you don't know what it's like in the rubbish heap!" her lips wavered into a smile--she had been distracted by the whimsical remembrance of the confidences she had made to him, two years earlier, in that very room. then she had been planning to marry percy gryce--what was it she was planning now? the blood had risen strongly under selden's dark skin, but his emotion showed itself only in an added seriousness of manner. "you have something to tell me--do you mean to marry?" he said abruptly. lily's eyes did not falter, but a look of wonder, of puzzled self-interrogation, formed itself slowly in their depths. in the light of his question, she had paused to ask herself if her decision had really been taken when she entered the room. "you always told me i should have to come to it sooner or later!" she said with a faint smile. "and you have come to it now?" "i shall have to come to it--presently. but there is something else i must come to first." she paused again, trying to transmit to her voice the steadiness of her recovered smile. "there is some one i must say goodbye to. oh, not you--we are sure to see each other again--but the lily bart you knew. i have kept her with me all this time, but now we are going to part, and i have brought her back to you--i am going to leave her here. when i go out presently she will not go with me. i shall like to think that she has stayed with you--and she'll be no trouble, she'll take up no room." she went toward him, and put out her hand, still smiling. "will you let her stay with you?" she asked. he caught her hand, and she felt in his the vibration of feeling that had not yet risen to his lips. "lily--can't i help you?" he exclaimed. she looked at him gently. "do you remember what you said to me once? that you could help me only by loving me? well--you did love me for a moment; and it helped me. it has always helped me. but the moment is gone--it was i who let it go. and one must go on living. goodbye." she laid her other hand on his, and they looked at each other with a kind of solemnity, as though they stood in the presence of death. something in truth lay dead between them--the love she had killed in him and could no longer call to life. but something lived between them also, and leaped up in her like an imperishable flame: it was the love his love had kindled, the passion of her soul for his. in its light everything else dwindled and fell away from her. she understood now that she could not go forth and leave her old self with him: that self must indeed live on in his presence, but it must still continue to be hers. selden had retained her hand, and continued to scrutinize her with a strange sense of foreboding. the external aspect of the situation had vanished for him as completely as for her: he felt it only as one of those rare moments which lift the veil from their faces as they pass. "lily," he said in a low voice, "you mustn't speak in this way. i can't let you go without knowing what you mean to do. things may change--but they don't pass. you can never go out of my life." she met his eyes with an illumined look. "no," she said. "i see that now. let us always be friends. then i shall feel safe, whatever happens." "whatever happens? what do you mean? what is going to happen?" she turned away quietly and walked toward the hearth. "nothing at present--except that i am very cold, and that before i go you must make up the fire for me." she knelt on the hearth-rug, stretching her hands to the embers. puzzled by the sudden change in her tone, he mechanically gathered a handful of wood from the basket and tossed it on the fire. as he did so, he noticed how thin her hands looked against the rising light of the flames. he saw too, under the loose lines of her dress, how the curves of her figure had shrunk to angularity; he remembered long afterward how the red play of the flame sharpened the depression of her nostrils, and intensified the blackness of the shadows which struck up from her cheekbones to her eyes. she knelt there for a few moments in silence; a silence which he dared not break. when she rose he fancied that he saw her draw something from her dress and drop it into the fire; but he hardly noticed the gesture at the time. his faculties seemed tranced, and he was still groping for the word to break the spell. she went up to him and laid her hands on his shoulders. "goodbye," she said, and as he bent over her she touched his forehead with her lips. chapter the street-lamps were lit, but the rain had ceased, and there was a momentary revival of light in the upper sky. lily walked on unconscious of her surroundings. she was still treading the buoyant ether which emanates from the high moments of life. but gradually it shrank away from her and she felt the dull pavement beneath her feet. the sense of weariness returned with accumulated force, and for a moment she felt that she could walk no farther. she had reached the corner of forty-first street and fifth avenue, and she remembered that in bryant park there were seats where she might rest. that melancholy pleasure-ground was almost deserted when she entered it, and she sank down on an empty bench in the glare of an electric street-lamp. the warmth of the fire had passed out of her veins, and she told herself that she must not sit long in the penetrating dampness which struck up from the wet asphalt. but her will-power seemed to have spent itself in a last great effort, and she was lost in the blank reaction which follows on an unwonted expenditure of energy. and besides, what was there to go home to? nothing but the silence of her cheerless room--that silence of the night which may be more racking to tired nerves than the most discordant noises: that, and the bottle of chloral by her bed. the thought of the chloral was the only spot of light in the dark prospect: she could feel its lulling influence stealing over her already. but she was troubled by the thought that it was losing its power--she dared not go back to it too soon. of late the sleep it had brought her had been more broken and less profound; there had been nights when she was perpetually floating up through it to consciousness. what if the effect of the drug should gradually fail, as all narcotics were said to fail? she remembered the chemist's warning against increasing the dose; and she had heard before of the capricious and incalculable action of the drug. her dread of returning to a sleepless night was so great that she lingered on, hoping that excessive weariness would reinforce the waning power of the chloral. night had now closed in, and the roar of traffic in forty-second street was dying out. as complete darkness fell on the square the lingering occupants of the benches rose and dispersed; but now and then a stray figure, hurrying homeward, struck across the path where lily sat, looming black for a moment in the white circle of electric light. one or two of these passers-by slackened their pace to glance curiously at her lonely figure; but she was hardly conscious of their scrutiny. suddenly, however, she became aware that one of the passing shadows remained stationary between her line of vision and the gleaming asphalt; and raising her eyes she saw a young woman bending over her. "excuse me--are you sick?--why, it's miss bart!" a half-familiar voice exclaimed. lily looked up. the speaker was a poorly-dressed young woman with a bundle under her arm. her face had the air of unwholesome refinement which ill-health and over-work may produce, but its common prettiness was redeemed by the strong and generous curve of the lips. "you don't remember me," she continued, brightening with the pleasure of recognition, "but i'd know you anywhere, i've thought of you such a lot. i guess my folks all know your name by heart. i was one of the girls at miss farish's club--you helped me to go to the country that time i had lung-trouble. my name's nettie struther. it was nettie crane then--but i daresay you don't remember that either." yes: lily was beginning to remember. the episode of nettie crane's timely rescue from disease had been one of the most satisfying incidents of her connection with gerty's charitable work. she had furnished the girl with the means to go to a sanatorium in the mountains: it struck her now with a peculiar irony that the money she had used had been gus trenor's. she tried to reply, to assure the speaker that she had not forgotten; but her voice failed in the effort, and she felt herself sinking under a great wave of physical weakness. nettie struther, with a startled exclamation, sat down and slipped a shabbily-clad arm behind her back. "why, miss bart, you are sick. just lean on me a little till you feel better." a faint glow of returning strength seemed to pass into lily from the pressure of the supporting arm. "i'm only tired--it is nothing," she found voice to say in a moment; and then, as she met the timid appeal of her companion's eyes, she added involuntarily: "i have been unhappy--in great trouble." "you in trouble? i've always thought of you as being so high up, where everything was just grand. sometimes, when i felt real mean, and got to wondering why things were so queerly fixed in the world, i used to remember that you were having a lovely time, anyhow, and that seemed to show there was a kind of justice somewhere. but you mustn't sit here too long--it's fearfully damp. don't you feel strong enough to walk on a little ways now?" she broke off. "yes--yes; i must go home," lily murmured, rising. her eyes rested wonderingly on the thin shabby figure at her side. she had known nettie crane as one of the discouraged victims of over-work and anaemic parentage: one of the superfluous fragments of life destined to be swept prematurely into that social refuse-heap of which lily had so lately expressed her dread. but nettie struther's frail envelope was now alive with hope and energy: whatever fate the future reserved for her, she would not be cast into the refuse-heap without a struggle. "i am very glad to have seen you," lily continued, summoning a smile to her unsteady lips. "it'll be my turn to think of you as happy--and the world will seem a less unjust place to me too." "oh, but i can't leave you like this--you're not fit to go home alone. and i can't go with you either!" nettie struther wailed with a start of recollection. "you see, it's my husband's night-shift--he's a motor-man--and the friend i leave the baby with has to step upstairs to get her husband's supper at seven. i didn't tell you i had a baby, did i? she'll be four months old day after tomorrow, and to look at her you wouldn't think i'd ever had a sick day. i'd give anything to show you the baby, miss bart, and we live right down the street here--it's only three blocks off." she lifted her eyes tentatively to lily's face, and then added with a burst of courage: "why won't you get right into the cars and come home with me while i get baby's supper? it's real warm in our kitchen, and you can rest there, and i'll take you home as soon as ever she drops off to sleep." it was warm in the kitchen, which, when nettie struther's match had made a flame leap from the gas-jet above the table, revealed itself to lily as extraordinarily small and almost miraculously clean. a fire shone through the polished flanks of the iron stove, and near it stood a crib in which a baby was sitting upright, with incipient anxiety struggling for expression on a countenance still placid with sleep. having passionately celebrated her reunion with her offspring, and excused herself in cryptic language for the lateness of her return, nettie restored the baby to the crib and shyly invited miss bart to the rocking-chair near the stove. "we've got a parlour too," she explained with pardonable pride; "but i guess it's warmer in here, and i don't want to leave you alone while i'm getting baby's supper." on receiving lily's assurance that she much preferred the friendly proximity of the kitchen fire, mrs. struther proceeded to prepare a bottle of infantile food, which she tenderly applied to the baby's impatient lips; and while the ensuing degustation went on, she seated herself with a beaming countenance beside her visitor. "you're sure you won't let me warm up a drop of coffee for you, miss bart? there's some of baby's fresh milk left over--well, maybe you'd rather just sit quiet and rest a little while. it's too lovely having you here. i've thought of it so often that i can't believe it's really come true. i've said to george again and again: 'i just wish miss bart could see me now--' and i used to watch for your name in the papers, and we'd talk over what you were doing, and read the descriptions of the dresses you wore. i haven't seen your name for a long time, though, and i began to be afraid you were sick, and it worried me so that george said i'd get sick myself, fretting about it." her lips broke into a reminiscent smile. "well, i can't afford to be sick again, that's a fact: the last spell nearly finished me. when you sent me off that time i never thought i'd come back alive, and i didn't much care if i did. you see i didn't know about george and the baby then." she paused to readjust the bottle to the child's bubbling mouth. "you precious--don't you be in too much of a hurry! was it mad with mommer for getting its supper so late? marry anto'nette--that's what we call her: after the french queen in that play at the garden--i told george the actress reminded me of you, and that made me fancy the name . . . i never thought i'd get married, you know, and i'd never have had the heart to go on working just for myself." she broke off again, and meeting the encouragement in lily's eyes, went on, with a flush rising under her anaemic skin: "you see i wasn't only just sick that time you sent me off--i was dreadfully unhappy too. i'd known a gentleman where i was employed--i don't know as you remember i did type-writing in a big importing firm--and--well--i thought we were to be married: he'd gone steady with me six months and given me his mother's wedding ring. but i presume he was too stylish for me--he travelled for the firm, and had seen a great deal of society. work girls aren't looked after the way you are, and they don't always know how to look after themselves. i didn't . . . and it pretty near killed me when he went away and left off writing . . . "it was then i came down sick--i thought it was the end of everything. i guess it would have been if you hadn't sent me off. but when i found i was getting well i began to take heart in spite of myself. and then, when i got back home, george came round and asked me to marry him. at first i thought i couldn't, because we'd been brought up together, and i knew he knew about me. but after a while i began to see that that made it easier. i never could have told another man, and i'd never have married without telling; but if george cared for me enough to have me as i was, i didn't see why i shouldn't begin over again--and i did." the strength of the victory shone forth from her as she lifted her irradiated face from the child on her knees. "but, mercy, i didn't mean to go on like this about myself, with you sitting there looking so fagged out. only it's so lovely having you here, and letting you see just how you've helped me." the baby had sunk back blissfully replete, and mrs. struther softly rose to lay the bottle aside. then she paused before miss bart. "i only wish i could help you--but i suppose there's nothing on earth i could do," she murmured wistfully. lily, instead of answering, rose with a smile and held out her arms; and the mother, understanding the gesture, laid her child in them. the baby, feeling herself detached from her habitual anchorage, made an instinctive motion of resistance; but the soothing influences of digestion prevailed, and lily felt the soft weight sink trustfully against her breast. the child's confidence in its safety thrilled her with a sense of warmth and returning life, and she bent over, wondering at the rosy blur of the little face, the empty clearness of the eyes, the vague tendrilly motions of the folding and unfolding fingers. at first the burden in her arms seemed as light as a pink cloud or a heap of down, but as she continued to hold it the weight increased, sinking deeper, and penetrating her with a strange sense of weakness, as though the child entered into her and became a part of herself. she looked up, and saw nettie's eyes resting on her with tenderness and exultation. "wouldn't it be too lovely for anything if she could grow up to be just like you? of course i know she never could--but mothers are always dreaming the craziest things for their children." lily clasped the child close for a moment and laid her back in her mother's arms. "oh, she must not do that--i should be afraid to come and see her too often!" she said with a smile; and then, resisting mrs. struther's anxious offer of companionship, and reiterating the promise that of course she would come back soon, and make george's acquaintance, and see the baby in her bath, she passed out of the kitchen and went alone down the tenement stairs. as she reached the street she realized that she felt stronger and happier: the little episode had done her good. it was the first time she had ever come across the results of her spasmodic benevolence, and the surprised sense of human fellowship took the mortal chill from her heart. it was not till she entered her own door that she felt the reaction of a deeper loneliness. it was long after seven o'clock, and the light and odours proceeding from the basement made it manifest that the boarding-house dinner had begun. she hastened up to her room, lit the gas, and began to dress. she did not mean to pamper herself any longer, to go without food because her surroundings made it unpalatable. since it was her fate to live in a boarding-house, she must learn to fall in with the conditions of the life. nevertheless she was glad that, when she descended to the heat and glare of the dining-room, the repast was nearly over. in her own room again, she was seized with a sudden fever of activity. for weeks past she had been too listless and indifferent to set her possessions in order, but now she began to examine systematically the contents of her drawers and cupboard. she had a few handsome dresses left--survivals of her last phase of splendour, on the sabrina and in london--but when she had been obliged to part with her maid she had given the woman a generous share of her cast-off apparel. the remaining dresses, though they had lost their freshness, still kept the long unerring lines, the sweep and amplitude of the great artist's stroke, and as she spread them out on the bed the scenes in which they had been worn rose vividly before her. an association lurked in every fold: each fall of lace and gleam of embroidery was like a letter in the record of her past. she was startled to find how the atmosphere of her old life enveloped her. but, after all, it was the life she had been made for: every dawning tendency in her had been carefully directed toward it, all her interests and activities had been taught to centre around it. she was like some rare flower grown for exhibition, a flower from which every bud had been nipped except the crowning blossom of her beauty. last of all, she drew forth from the bottom of her trunk a heap of white drapery which fell shapelessly across her arm. it was the reynolds dress she had worn in the bry tableaux. it had been impossible for her to give it away, but she had never seen it since that night, and the long flexible folds, as she shook them out, gave forth an odour of violets which came to her like a breath from the flower-edged fountain where she had stood with lawrence selden and disowned her fate. she put back the dresses one by one, laying away with each some gleam of light, some note of laughter, some stray waft from the rosy shores of pleasure. she was still in a state of highly-wrought impressionability, and every hint of the past sent a lingering tremor along her nerves. she had just closed her trunk on the white folds of the reynolds dress when she heard a tap at her door, and the red fist of the irish maid-servant thrust in a belated letter. carrying it to the light, lily read with surprise the address stamped on the upper corner of the envelope. it was a business communication from the office of her aunt's executors, and she wondered what unexpected development had caused them to break silence before the appointed time. she opened the envelope and a cheque fluttered to the floor. as she stooped to pick it up the blood rushed to her face. the cheque represented the full amount of mrs. peniston's legacy, and the letter accompanying it explained that the executors, having adjusted the business of the estate with less delay than they had expected, had decided to anticipate the date fixed for the payment of the bequests. lily sat down beside the desk at the foot of her bed, and spreading out the cheque, read over and over the ten thousand dollars written across it in a steely business hand. ten months earlier the amount it stood for had represented the depths of penury; but her standard of values had changed in the interval, and now visions of wealth lurked in every flourish of the pen. as she continued to gaze at it, she felt the glitter of the visions mounting to her brain, and after a while she lifted the lid of the desk and slipped the magic formula out of sight. it was easier to think without those five figures dancing before her eyes; and she had a great deal of thinking to do before she slept. she opened her cheque-book, and plunged into such anxious calculations as had prolonged her vigil at bellomont on the night when she had decided to marry percy gryce. poverty simplifies book-keeping, and her financial situation was easier to ascertain than it had been then; but she had not yet learned the control of money, and during her transient phase of luxury at the emporium she had slipped back into habits of extravagance which still impaired her slender balance. a careful examination of her cheque-book, and of the unpaid bills in her desk, showed that, when the latter had been settled, she would have barely enough to live on for the next three or four months; and even after that, if she were to continue her present way of living, without earning any additional money, all incidental expenses must be reduced to the vanishing point. she hid her eyes with a shudder, beholding herself at the entrance of that ever-narrowing perspective down which she had seen miss silverton's dowdy figure take its despondent way. it was no longer, however, from the vision of material poverty that she turned with the greatest shrinking. she had a sense of deeper empoverishment--of an inner destitution compared to which outward conditions dwindled into insignificance. it was indeed miserable to be poor--to look forward to a shabby, anxious middle-age, leading by dreary degrees of economy and self-denial to gradual absorption in the dingy communal existence of the boarding-house. but there was something more miserable still--it was the clutch of solitude at her heart, the sense of being swept like a stray uprooted growth down the heedless current of the years. that was the feeling which possessed her now--the feeling of being something rootless and ephemeral, mere spin-drift of the whirling surface of existence, without anything to which the poor little tentacles of self could cling before the awful flood submerged them. and as she looked back she saw that there had never been a time when she had had any real relation to life. her parents too had been rootless, blown hither and thither on every wind of fashion, without any personal existence to shelter them from its shifting gusts. she herself had grown up without any one spot of earth being dearer to her than another: there was no centre of early pieties, of grave endearing traditions, to which her heart could revert and from which it could draw strength for itself and tenderness for others. in whatever form a slowly-accumulated past lives in the blood--whether in the concrete image of the old house stored with visual memories, or in the conception of the house not built with hands, but made up of inherited passions and loyalties--it has the same power of broadening and deepening the individual existence, of attaching it by mysterious links of kinship to all the mighty sum of human striving. such a vision of the solidarity of life had never before come to lily. she had had a premonition of it in the blind motions of her mating-instinct; but they had been checked by the disintegrating influences of the life about her. all the men and women she knew were like atoms whirling away from each other in some wild centrifugal dance: her first glimpse of the continuity of life had come to her that evening in nettie struther's kitchen. the poor little working-girl who had found strength to gather up the fragments of her life, and build herself a shelter with them, seemed to lily to have reached the central truth of existence. it was a meagre enough life, on the grim edge of poverty, with scant margin for possibilities of sickness or mischance, but it had the frail audacious permanence of a bird's nest built on the edge of a cliff--a mere wisp of leaves and straw, yet so put together that the lives entrusted to it may hang safely over the abyss. yes--but it had taken two to build the nest; the man's faith as well as the woman's courage. lily remembered nettie's words: i knew he knew about me. her husband's faith in her had made her renewal possible--it is so easy for a woman to become what the man she loves believes her to be! well--selden had twice been ready to stake his faith on lily bart; but the third trial had been too severe for his endurance. the very quality of his love had made it the more impossible to recall to life. if it had been a simple instinct of the blood, the power of her beauty might have revived it. but the fact that it struck deeper, that it was inextricably wound up with inherited habits of thought and feeling, made it as impossible to restore to growth as a deep-rooted plant torn from its bed. selden had given her of his best; but he was as incapable as herself of an uncritical return to former states of feeling. there remained to her, as she had told him, the uplifting memory of his faith in her; but she had not reached the age when a woman can live on her memories. as she held nettie struther's child in her arms the frozen currents of youth had loosed themselves and run warm in her veins: the old life-hunger possessed her, and all her being clamoured for its share of personal happiness. yes--it was happiness she still wanted, and the glimpse she had caught of it made everything else of no account. one by one she had detached herself from the baser possibilities, and she saw that nothing now remained to her but the emptiness of renunciation. it was growing late, and an immense weariness once more possessed her. it was not the stealing sense of sleep, but a vivid wakeful fatigue, a wan lucidity of mind against which all the possibilities of the future were shadowed forth gigantically. she was appalled by the intense cleanness of the vision; she seemed to have broken through the merciful veil which intervenes between intention and action, and to see exactly what she would do in all the long days to come. there was the cheque in her desk, for instance--she meant to use it in paying her debt to trenor; but she foresaw that when the morning came she would put off doing so, would slip into gradual tolerance of the debt. the thought terrified her--she dreaded to fall from the height of her last moment with lawrence selden. but how could she trust herself to keep her footing? she knew the strength of the opposing impulses-she could feel the countless hands of habit dragging her back into some fresh compromise with fate. she felt an intense longing to prolong, to perpetuate, the momentary exaltation of her spirit. if only life could end now--end on this tragic yet sweet vision of lost possibilities, which gave her a sense of kinship with all the loving and foregoing in the world! she reached out suddenly and, drawing the cheque from her writing-desk, enclosed it in an envelope which she addressed to her bank. she then wrote out a cheque for trenor, and placing it, without an accompanying word, in an envelope inscribed with his name, laid the two letters side by side on her desk. after that she continued to sit at the table, sorting her papers and writing, till the intense silence of the house reminded her of the lateness of the hour. in the street the noise of wheels had ceased, and the rumble of the "elevated" came only at long intervals through the deep unnatural hush. in the mysterious nocturnal separation from all outward signs of life, she felt herself more strangely confronted with her fate. the sensation made her brain reel, and she tried to shut out consciousness by pressing her hands against her eyes. but the terrible silence and emptiness seemed to symbolize her future--she felt as though the house, the street, the world were all empty, and she alone left sentient in a lifeless universe. but this was the verge of delirium . . . she had never hung so near the dizzy brink of the unreal. sleep was what she wanted--she remembered that she had not closed her eyes for two nights. the little bottle was at her bed-side, waiting to lay its spell upon her. she rose and undressed hastily, hungering now for the touch of her pillow. she felt so profoundly tired that she thought she must fall asleep at once; but as soon as she had lain down every nerve started once more into separate wakefulness. it was as though a great blaze of electric light had been turned on in her head, and her poor little anguished self shrank and cowered in it, without knowing where to take refuge. she had not imagined that such a multiplication of wakefulness was possible: her whole past was reenacting itself at a hundred different points of consciousness. where was the drug that could still this legion of insurgent nerves? the sense of exhaustion would have been sweet compared to this shrill beat of activities; but weariness had dropped from her as though some cruel stimulant had been forced into her veins. she could bear it--yes, she could bear it; but what strength would be left her the next day? perspective had disappeared--the next day pressed close upon her, and on its heels came the days that were to follow--they swarmed about her like a shrieking mob. she must shut them out for a few hours; she must take a brief bath of oblivion. she put out her hand, and measured the soothing drops into a glass; but as she did so, she knew they would be powerless against the supernatural lucidity of her brain. she had long since raised the dose to its highest limit, but tonight she felt she must increase it. she knew she took a slight risk in doing so--she remembered the chemist's warning. if sleep came at all, it might be a sleep without waking. but after all that was but one chance in a hundred: the action of the drug was incalculable, and the addition of a few drops to the regular dose would probably do no more than procure for her the rest she so desperately needed.... she did not, in truth, consider the question very closely--the physical craving for sleep was her only sustained sensation. her mind shrank from the glare of thought as instinctively as eyes contract in a blaze of light--darkness, darkness was what she must have at any cost. she raised herself in bed and swallowed the contents of the glass; then she blew out her candle and lay down. she lay very still, waiting with a sensuous pleasure for the first effects of the soporific. she knew in advance what form they would take--the gradual cessation of the inner throb, the soft approach of passiveness, as though an invisible hand made magic passes over her in the darkness. the very slowness and hesitancy of the effect increased its fascination: it was delicious to lean over and look down into the dim abysses of unconsciousness. tonight the drug seemed to work more slowly than usual: each passionate pulse had to be stilled in turn, and it was long before she felt them dropping into abeyance, like sentinels falling asleep at their posts. but gradually the sense of complete subjugation came over her, and she wondered languidly what had made her feel so uneasy and excited. she saw now that there was nothing to be excited about--she had returned to her normal view of life. tomorrow would not be so difficult after all: she felt sure that she would have the strength to meet it. she did not quite remember what it was that she had been afraid to meet, but the uncertainty no longer troubled her. she had been unhappy, and now she was happy--she had felt herself alone, and now the sense of loneliness had vanished. she stirred once, and turned on her side, and as she did so, she suddenly understood why she did not feel herself alone. it was odd--but nettie struther's child was lying on her arm: she felt the pressure of its little head against her shoulder. she did not know how it had come there, but she felt no great surprise at the fact, only a gentle penetrating thrill of warmth and pleasure. she settled herself into an easier position, hollowing her arm to pillow the round downy head, and holding her breath lest a sound should disturb the sleeping child. as she lay there she said to herself that there was something she must tell selden, some word she had found that should make life clear between them. she tried to repeat the word, which lingered vague and luminous on the far edge of thought--she was afraid of not remembering it when she woke; and if she could only remember it and say it to him, she felt that everything would be well. slowly the thought of the word faded, and sleep began to enfold her. she struggled faintly against it, feeling that she ought to keep awake on account of the baby; but even this feeling was gradually lost in an indistinct sense of drowsy peace, through which, of a sudden, a dark flash of loneliness and terror tore its way. she started up again, cold and trembling with the shock: for a moment she seemed to have lost her hold of the child. but no--she was mistaken--the tender pressure of its body was still close to hers: the recovered warmth flowed through her once more, she yielded to it, sank into it, and slept. chapter the next morning rose mild and bright, with a promise of summer in the air. the sunlight slanted joyously down lily's street, mellowed the blistered house-front, gilded the paintless railings of the door-step, and struck prismatic glories from the panes of her darkened window. when such a day coincides with the inner mood there is intoxication in its breath; and selden, hastening along the street through the squalor of its morning confidences, felt himself thrilling with a youthful sense of adventure. he had cut loose from the familiar shores of habit, and launched himself on uncharted seas of emotion; all the old tests and measures were left behind, and his course was to be shaped by new stars. that course, for the moment, led merely to miss bart's boarding-house; but its shabby door-step had suddenly become the threshold of the untried. as he approached he looked up at the triple row of windows, wondering boyishly which one of them was hers. it was nine o'clock, and the house, being tenanted by workers, already showed an awakened front to the street. he remembered afterward having noticed that only one blind was down. he noticed too that there was a pot of pansies on one of the window sills, and at once concluded that the window must be hers: it was inevitable that he should connect her with the one touch of beauty in the dingy scene. nine o'clock was an early hour for a visit, but selden had passed beyond all such conventional observances. he only knew that he must see lily bart at once--he had found the word he meant to say to her, and it could not wait another moment to be said. it was strange that it had not come to his lips sooner--that he had let her pass from him the evening before without being able to speak it. but what did that matter, now that a new day had come? it was not a word for twilight, but for the morning. selden ran eagerly up the steps and pulled the bell; and even in his state of self-absorption it came as a sharp surprise to him that the door should open so promptly. it was still more of a surprise to see, as he entered, that it had been opened by gerty farish--and that behind her, in an agitated blur, several other figures ominously loomed. "lawrence!" gerty cried in a strange voice, "how could you get here so quickly?"--and the trembling hand she laid on him seemed instantly to close about his heart. he noticed the other faces, vague with fear and conjecture--he saw the landlady's imposing bulk sway professionally toward him; but he shrank back, putting up his hand, while his eyes mechanically mounted the steep black walnut stairs, up which he was immediately aware that his cousin was about to lead him. a voice in the background said that the doctor might be back at any minute--and that nothing, upstairs, was to be disturbed. some one else exclaimed: "it was the greatest mercy--" then selden felt that gerty had taken him gently by the hand, and that they were to be suffered to go up alone. in silence they mounted the three flights, and walked along the passage to a closed door. gerty opened the door, and selden went in after her. though the blind was down, the irresistible sunlight poured a tempered golden flood into the room, and in its light selden saw a narrow bed along the wall, and on the bed, with motionless hands and calm unrecognizing face, the semblance of lily bart. that it was her real self, every pulse in him ardently denied. her real self had lain warm on his heart but a few hours earlier--what had he to do with this estranged and tranquil face which, for the first time, neither paled nor brightened at his coming? gerty, strangely tranquil too, with the conscious self-control of one who has ministered to much pain, stood by the bed, speaking gently, as if transmitting a final message. "the doctor found a bottle of chloral--she had been sleeping badly for a long time, and she must have taken an overdose by mistake.... there is no doubt of that--no doubt--there will be no question--he has been very kind. i told him that you and i would like to be left alone with her--to go over her things before any one else comes. i know it is what she would have wished." selden was hardly conscious of what she said. he stood looking down on the sleeping face which seemed to lie like a delicate impalpable mask over the living lineaments he had known. he felt that the real lily was still there, close to him, yet invisible and inaccessible; and the tenuity of the barrier between them mocked him with a sense of helplessness. there had never been more than a little impalpable barrier between them--and yet he had suffered it to keep them apart! and now, though it seemed slighter and frailer than ever, it had suddenly hardened to adamant, and he might beat his life out against it in vain. he had dropped on his knees beside the bed, but a touch from gerty aroused him. he stood up, and as their eyes met he was struck by the extraordinary light in his cousin's face. "you understand what the doctor has gone for? he has promised that there shall be no trouble--but of course the formalities must be gone through. and i asked him to give us time to look through her things first----" he nodded, and she glanced about the small bare room. "it won't take long," she concluded. "no--it won't take long," he agreed. she held his hand in hers a moment longer, and then, with a last look at the bed, moved silently toward the door. on the threshold she paused to add: "you will find me downstairs if you want me." selden roused himself to detain her. "but why are you going? she would have wished----" gerty shook her head with a smile. "no: this is what she would have wished----" and as she spoke a light broke through selden's stony misery, and he saw deep into the hidden things of love. the door closed on gerty, and he stood alone with the motionless sleeper on the bed. his impulse was to return to her side, to fall on his knees, and rest his throbbing head against the peaceful cheek on the pillow. they had never been at peace together, they two; and now he felt himself drawn downward into the strange mysterious depths of her tranquillity. but he remembered gerty's warning words--he knew that, though time had ceased in this room, its feet were hastening relentlessly toward the door. gerty had given him this supreme half-hour, and he must use it as she willed. he turned and looked about him, sternly compelling himself to regain his consciousness of outward things. there was very little furniture in the room. the shabby chest of drawers was spread with a lace cover, and set out with a few gold-topped boxes and bottles, a rose-coloured pin-cushion, a glass tray strewn with tortoise-shell hair-pins--he shrank from the poignant intimacy of these trifles, and from the blank surface of the toilet-mirror above them. these were the only traces of luxury, of that clinging to the minute observance of personal seemliness, which showed what her other renunciations must have cost. there was no other token of her personality about the room, unless it showed itself in the scrupulous neatness of the scant articles of furniture: a washing-stand, two chairs, a small writing-desk, and the little table near the bed. on this table stood the empty bottle and glass, and from these also he averted his eyes. the desk was closed, but on its slanting lid lay two letters which he took up. one bore the address of a bank, and as it was stamped and sealed, selden, after a moment's hesitation, laid it aside. on the other letter he read gus trenor's name; and the flap of the envelope was still ungummed. temptation leapt on him like the stab of a knife. he staggered under it, steadying himself against the desk. why had she been writing to trenor--writing, presumably, just after their parting of the previous evening? the thought unhallowed the memory of that last hour, made a mock of the word he had come to speak, and defiled even the reconciling silence upon which it fell. he felt himself flung back on all the ugly uncertainties from which he thought he had cast loose forever. after all, what did he know of her life? only as much as she had chosen to show him, and measured by the world's estimate, how little that was! by what right--the letter in his hand seemed to ask--by what right was it he who now passed into her confidence through the gate which death had left unbarred? his heart cried out that it was by right of their last hour together, the hour when she herself had placed the key in his hand. yes--but what if the letter to trenor had been written afterward? he put it from him with sudden loathing, and setting his lips, addressed himself resolutely to what remained of his task. after all, that task would be easier to perform, now that his personal stake in it was annulled. he raised the lid of the desk, and saw within it a cheque-book and a few packets of bills and letters, arranged with the orderly precision which characterized all her personal habits. he looked through the letters first, because it was the most difficult part of the work. they proved to be few and unimportant, but among them he found, with a strange commotion of the heart, the note he had written her the day after the brys' entertainment. "when may i come to you?"--his words overwhelmed him with a realization of the cowardice which had driven him from her at the very moment of attainment. yes--he had always feared his fate, and he was too honest to disown his cowardice now; for had not all his old doubts started to life again at the mere sight of trenor's name? he laid the note in his card-case, folding it away carefully, as something made precious by the fact that she had held it so; then, growing once more aware of the lapse of time, he continued his examination of the papers. to his surprise, he found that all the bills were receipted; there was not an unpaid account among them. he opened the cheque-book, and saw that, the very night before, a cheque of ten thousand dollars from mrs. peniston's executors had been entered in it. the legacy, then, had been paid sooner than gerty had led him to expect. but, turning another page or two, he discovered with astonishment that, in spite of this recent accession of funds, the balance had already declined to a few dollars. a rapid glance at the stubs of the last cheques, all of which bore the date of the previous day, showed that between four or five hundred dollars of the legacy had been spent in the settlement of bills, while the remaining thousands were comprehended in one cheque, made out, at the same time, to charles augustus trenor. selden laid the book aside, and sank into the chair beside the desk. he leaned his elbows on it, and hid his face in his hands. the bitter waters of life surged high about him, their sterile taste was on his lips. did the cheque to trenor explain the mystery or deepen it? at first his mind refused to act--he felt only the taint of such a transaction between a man like trenor and a girl like lily bart. then, gradually, his troubled vision cleared, old hints and rumours came back to him, and out of the very insinuations he had feared to probe, he constructed an explanation of the mystery. it was true, then, that she had taken money from trenor; but true also, as the contents of the little desk declared, that the obligation had been intolerable to her, and that at the first opportunity she had freed herself from it, though the act left her face to face with bare unmitigated poverty. that was all he knew--all he could hope to unravel of the story. the mute lips on the pillow refused him more than this--unless indeed they had told him the rest in the kiss they had left upon his forehead. yes, he could now read into that farewell all that his heart craved to find there; he could even draw from it courage not to accuse himself for having failed to reach the height of his opportunity. he saw that all the conditions of life had conspired to keep them apart; since his very detachment from the external influences which swayed her had increased his spiritual fastidiousness, and made it more difficult for him to live and love uncritically. but at least he had loved her--had been willing to stake his future on his faith in her--and if the moment had been fated to pass from them before they could seize it, he saw now that, for both, it had been saved whole out of the ruin of their lives. it was this moment of love, this fleeting victory over themselves, which had kept them from atrophy and extinction; which, in her, had reached out to him in every struggle against the influence of her surroundings, and in him, had kept alive the faith that now drew him penitent and reconciled to her side. he knelt by the bed and bent over her, draining their last moment to its lees; and in the silence there passed between them the word which made all clear. the end notes: . i have modernized this text by modernizing the contractions: do n't becomes don't, etc. . i have retained the british spelling of words like favour and colour. . i found and corrected one instance of the name "gertie," which i changed to "gerty" to be consistent with rest of the book. linda ruoff internet archive (https://archive.org) note: images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/auntoliveinbohem mooriala aunt olive in bohemia by leslie moore author of "the cloak of convention" and "the notch in the stick" hodder & stoughton new york george h. doran company copyright, by george h. doran company to my mother contents chapter page i. the beginning of the fairy tale ii. ancient history iii. the lady of the blue dress iv. the courtyard v. in bohemia vi. the faun in the garden vii. the six artists of the courtyard viii. a man's conscience ix. visitors x. the casa di corleone xi. a meeting xii. princess pippa awakes xiii. at the world's end xiv. various matters xv. a question of colour xvi. the lady of the blue dress again xvii. the duchessa enters a kingdom xviii. barnabas schemes with cupid xix. the interference of a fairy godmother xx. the heart of nature xxi. the ring of eros xxii. an old man in a garden xxiii. andrew mcandrew xxiv. the cruelty of the fates xxv. in yorkshire xxvi. pippa's mother xxvii. michael makes music xxviii. the peace of the river xxix. some twisted threads xxx. knots untied xxxi. the tune of love xxxii. a wedding day xxxiii. a gift from the dead xxxiv. the music of two courtyards aunt olive in bohemia chapter i the beginning of the fairy tale once upon a time, as the fairy tales have it, there was a certain country town. it was a sleepy little town, where few things happened. it was like a dog grown old and lazy with basking in the sun, undisturbed by motor-cars and modern rush. an occasional event like a fly, and as small and insignificant as that insect, would settle momentarily upon it. for an instant it would be roused, shake itself, and promptly go to sleep again. the houses in the town were all alike--small, detached, and built of red brick. they were named after the shrubs and trees that grew in their gardens. there was the myrtles, the hawthorns, the laurels, the yews, the poplars, and many others. one may morning, when the flowers on the laburnum trees were hanging in a shower of golden rain, and the pink and white blossoms of the hawthorn bushes were filling the air with a sweet and sickly scent, a single cab, drawn by a horse as sleepy as the town to which it belonged, drove up the small, clean street, and turned in at the gate marked the poplars. two small children with satchels on their backs paused to peep up the drive. they saw two black boxes being hoisted by the driver on to the roof of the cab. there was nothing, one would think, of vital interest in the sight, but it proved more attractive than the thought of lesson books and school-room benches. they remained to gaze. in a couple of moments a woman came through the front door. she was clad in a black cashmere dress of ample folds, partly hidden by a blade satin jacket, with large, loose sleeves. a wide, white linen collar adorned with a small black velvet bow surrounded her neck; a mushroom-shaped hat, also black, was tied by broad strings beneath her chin. in one hand she held a large and tightly rolled umbrella, in the other was a black satin bag drawn up by a cord. it bulged in a knobby fashion. it had evidently been stuffed to the extent of its capacities. the woman spoke to the driver, then got into the cab. he climbed to the box, flicked his whip, turned the horse's head, and drove once again through the gate. the children scuttled to one side, and the cab drove up the street. its occupant sat upright within it, clutching tightly at the umbrella and the black satin bag. little thrills of happiness were running through her. the may wind blowing through the window fanned her face, bringing with it great puffs of scent from the hawthorn bushes. sunshine sparkled on the roofs of the houses, birds were singing in the gardens past which she drove. it was a day alive with gladness, warm with the breath of spring, fresh with the sense of youth. and the woman within the cab, whose heart, in spite of her sixty years, was as young as the heart of a child, participated in the gladness. she watched the people in the streets walking leisurely in the sunshine. she saw the shops with the tradesmen standing idle in the doorways. at the fishmonger's only there was a little air of bustle, where a maid in a neat print had run in to buy a couple of soles for lunch. the woman pulled out her watch--a huge affair in solid gold, attached to a black hair chain. for a moment she glanced at it anxiously, then returned it to its place with a little sigh of relief. the horse still trotted on its slow unhurried way. more shops were passed, then more houses. finally the cab drew up with a little jerk. the driver got down and opened the cab door. "here we are, ma'am; and twenty minutes to spare. i'll call a porter." while the boxes were being taken from the cab miss mason opened the black satin bag. from it she extracted a ten-shilling piece. the boxes were wheeled towards the platform. "i've no change, ma'am," said the cabby. "that's all right," said miss mason hurriedly. the cabby stared. "you're very good, ma'am." "it's all right," said miss mason again. ten shillings was a small amount to give a man who had driven her a mile towards happiness. she followed the porter on to the platform. "victoria, second class," she said to the man at the ticket office. "return or single, ma'am?" he demanded. "single," said miss mason firmly. she took the little piece of cardboard from him and thrust it up her glove. she loved the feeling of it. it was her passport to freedom. she watched the boxes being labelled. they were new boxes and hitherto guiltless of station labels. when she had seen them firmly attached, and had been solemnly assured by the porter that the paste was both strong and adhesive, she turned her attention to the bookstall. after a few moments' survey she moved away hurriedly. the pictures on the covers of some of the books distressed her, especially one of a young female with red hair and very insufficient orange attire. for a moment miss mason blushed. but she forgot the objectionable book in looking along the shiny rails in the direction from which the train must arrive. the sudden ringing of a bell made her jump. "train's signalled, ma'am," said the porter. "she'll be here in five minutes now." "you'll be sure and put in my boxes," said miss mason. "sure, ma'am. corner seat facing the engine, did you say?" "y-yes; a seat somewhere," stammered miss mason. the near approach of the train was making her feel nervous. "all right. i'll see to it. second class i think you said." there was a distant whistle; next, the panting as of some great beast, and an engine with its tail of carriages steamed into sight. it drew up slowly at the platform. "here y'are, ma'am. carriage all to yourself. boxes will be in the front part of the train. thank you kindly, ma'am. anything i can get for you? paper or anything? window up or down? will put in the boxes myself. good morning, ma'am." a tip proportionate to the fare miss mason had paid the cabby was responsible for this burst of eloquence. in spite of the porter's assurance that he would see to the boxes himself, miss mason stood with her head through the carriage window till she had seen them actually deposited in the guard's van. then she sat down in the corner of the carriage. the porter reappeared. "they're in, ma'am. you're off now." there was a gentle vibration through the train, and the platform began to recede. the one woman left on it--a stout woman who had been seeing her daughter off on her way to service--waved a large white pocket-handkerchief. its fluttering was the last thing miss mason saw as the train left the station. she heaved a little sigh. she found she was still clutching the large umbrella. she laid it now upon the seat beside her. she was almost too excited to think of the happiness before her. she hardly wanted to do so. it was almost too overpowering. she would realize it by degrees. at the moment there were a thousand trivial delights around her. she examined the carriage in which she was seated. the number on the door was seven hundred and seventy-seven. miss mason had a secret partiality for certain numbers, seven being her favourite. she was seven years old when she had her first silk frock. it was a blue and white check frock, and her hair--miss mason at that time wore it in two plaits--had been tied with blue ribbons. seventeen had been, up to date, the happiest year of her life. but more of that year anon. at twenty-seven she had been allowed the entrance of miss stanhope's library. at thirty-seven she had become the owner of a kitten. at forty-seven miss stanhope had given her the watch she now wore. at fifty-seven a favourite rose-tree had borne the most perfect flowers. trivial enough facts to form landmarks in a life, yet they formed landmarks in miss mason's. she again looked approvingly at the number. from it she turned to a contemplation of the photographs which adorned the walls. they were the usual kind of photographs found in railway carriages--seaside promenades, ruined castles, lakes with mountains beyond. miss mason read the names below them with interest. she looked at the gas-globe in the roof of the carriage, with its black cover which could be drawn over it if the passengers found the light troublesome. she looked at the emergency cord which was to be pulled down to attract the attention of the guard in case of accident. she noted that the penalty for its improper use was five pounds. it seemed to miss mason a large sum to pay merely for pulling a little piece of string. she wondered if anyone had ever been bold enough to pull it without necessity. after gazing at it for two minutes with a certain amount of awe, she put her arm through the padded loop by the window, and looked out at the scenery past which they were flying. there were fields in which sheep and cows were solemnly munching the fresh grass; there were hedges covered with the fairy snow of the hawthorn blossoms; there were woods of larches, oaks, and beeches, and among them the darker green of firs; there were streams rippling golden-brown past meadow banks and clumps of rushes; there were children swinging on gates and waving cap or handkerchief as the train rushed by. she saw market carts and occasionally a dogcart on roads running by the railway, and now and then a solitary cyclist, all going at a snail's pace so it seemed compared with the rate at which she herself was travelling. they passed houses with trimly-kept gardens alive with flowers; cottages with strips of vegetable gardens where from lines attached to posts stuck among the cabbages washing was hung out to dry. the may breeze swung the clothing to and fro, ballooning it momentarily to ridiculous shapes, fluttering red petticoats, white tablecloths, and blue blouses, like the waving of coloured flags. again the joyous note of youth and gladness sounded in miss mason's heart. she gave a queer little gruff laugh. "wonderful!" she thought. "like the fairy tales i used to read when i was little. now i'm part of the fairy tale. can hardly believe it. yet it's true." chapter ii ancient history outwardly miss mason was not unlike certain pictures of the fairy godmother who escorted cinderella to the ball. being a fairy godmother, no doubt that old lady's heart was every bit as young as miss mason's, so the similarity may very likely have extended still further. of the fairy godmother's previous history there is no known record. miss mason's history was the public property of the little town in which she lived. it is not unduly lengthy. it also cannot be termed exciting. miss mason became an orphan at the age of five. her mother had been a pretty irish girl, only daughter of a penniless irish gentleman; and not having had enough of poverty in her own home, she gave her heart to one, dick mason, a struggling painter, who was as ugly as he was gay and light-hearted. in spite of poverty she had seven years of such happiness as falls to the lot of few women. then dick was killed riding a friend's young unbroken mare, and a month later his wife followed him; dying--if such a complaint truly exists--of a broken heart. their one child, olive, was left penniless, and with only one relation in the world--a miss stanhope, a wealthy and eccentric cousin of her father's, who was at this time a maiden lady of thirty. a sense of duty as stern and uncompromising as miss stanhope's own appearance induced her to offer the child a home. duty also prompted her to look well after her physical welfare, and educate her in a style befitting a young woman of gentle birth. miss stanhope's views on education were decided and not at all involved. every lady, she averred, should be able to speak french fluently, make her own underclothes, and be conversant with the writings of the best authors. music--which she disliked--was left outside the category. she provided the child with a french governess, who was a beautiful needlewoman. the introduction to the authors would come later. olive remained under madame dupont's tuition for twelve years. when she was seventeen she was sent to "finish her education" at miss talbot's select academy for young ladies at brighton. this year was the happiest in olive's life. not only was there a daily walk on the esplanade, from whence she gazed for the first time in her life at the marvel of the sea, but also she was permitted to take drawing-lessons. she had inherited three things from her father, the first being his plainness of feature, the second his youthful heart, and the third his passion for drawing. an extremely inefficient but well-meaning young man of impeachable character visited miss talbot's academy for young ladies twice a week, and instructed the pupils in this art. chalk drawings from casts were the style in vogue. it was considered an extremely advanced style. the chalk was kept in small glass tubes, it was shaken on to a pad, and applied to the paper with leather stumps, in the manner known as stippling. the poverty of the instruction, the horribly inartistic results produced, were unrecognized by miss mason. chalk representations of plaster pears, apples, and floreate designs were produced by her at the rate of one a fortnight, and were laid carefully away in a large portfolio with tissue paper between to keep the chalk from rubbing. among the pupils at miss talbot's academy had been a girl--one peggy o'hea. her father was a portrait painter of some note. miss talbot had hesitated at introducing this girl; daughter of a bohemian--all artists were bohemian in miss talbot's eyes--into her select establishment, but the fact that her father was a yearly exhibitor at that most respectable institution the royal academy, and that her uncle was a dean, induced miss talbot to overlook bohemia. she kept, however, a strict guard over miss o'hea's conversation with the other pupils, a guard peggy invariably evaded; and curled up on her bed in her nightdress, her arms clasped round her knees, she would hold forth in glowing terms regarding her father's studio and the artists who frequented it. she had in her secret heart a distinct contempt for the chalk drawings; but she was a generous little soul, and refrained from putting her thoughts into words. from her glowing descriptions, the word studio came to sound in miss mason's ears with a note akin to magic, while no one guessed the dreams of art and artists, of the mad sweet land of bohemia, cherished by the ugly girl who was known in the school as "that awkward olive mason." at the end of the year miss mason returned home, to find her presence almost hourly required by miss stanhope, who had developed into what is usually termed a _malade imaginaire_. her only recreations were gardening, and later--when at the age of twenty-seven she was allowed free access to the library--reading. in these two occupations she was able to forget the monotony of the days. children who peeped through the gate on sunny mornings saw a small shrunken woman with a thin peevish face sitting on the lawn or in the veranda, according to the season, while miss mason was busy in the flower-beds, her grey dress tucked up over a black and white striped petticoat, goloshes on her feet, a large black hat tied on her head, and gauntlet gloves covering her hands. the progress of fashion being outside the strictly limited circle of miss mason's life, she had adopted a costume of her own device, which costume she found both warm and comfortable, and it never varied. the children who peeped through the gate grew to be men and women; their children peeped in like fashion, and still the same order of things endured at the house named the poplars. during these years miss mason made one friend. it was curious, though perhaps not out of keeping with miss mason's character, which was now almost as original as the garments she wore, that the friend should be a child of ten years old. she had come to live with her parents at the small town in which miss stanhope resided. the child's paternal grandmother had been a friend of miss stanhope's youth. that statement in itself had a flavour of respectability about it. armed with a letter of introduction from the grandmother--mrs. quarly--the parents ventured to call upon miss stanhope. she received them graciously enough, and a week later miss mason was ordered to return the visit. it was then that she met little sybil quarly, who promptly took an unaccountable, but very strong, liking to her. in a short time sybil learnt which were the hours spent by miss mason in the garden, and from that moment those hours saw a fair-haired child in short petticoats busy in the flower-beds with her. to an onlooker miss mason's manner would have appeared almost surly, but sybil, with the infallible instinct of childhood, recognized the tenderness beneath the gruff exterior. the two became fast friends. for seven years sybil helped miss mason pull up weeds, destroy slugs, bud roses, and take cuttings of carnations. she called her "granny," and she confided all her childish woes and griefs to her. her parents were conventional people, also they were somewhat strict and unsympathetic. they did not in the least understand sybil's timid nature. miss mason saw, to her sorrow, that the child was being driven to subterfuge and petty untruth by an overharsh system of treatment. but she was powerless to do anything. mrs. quarly would have resented the smallest interference. for seven years miss mason gave the child all the tenderness at her disposal. at the end of that time sybil's parents left the little town and took her to pangbourne. during the next three or four years sybil and miss mason kept up a fitful correspondence. from much that the girl left unsaid miss mason felt that she was not happy. had she herself been gifted with the pen of a ready writer, she might indirectly have sought the girl's confidence, but neither written nor spoken words came easily to her. there were times--and those when she most longed for the power of speech--when she felt herself possessed of a dumb dog. she wrote and told sybil that the roses were in bloom, that she had pickled a hundred and fifty slugs in salt and water after one shower of rain, that the shirley poppies they had planted one year were spreading like weeds over the garden. she heard from sybil that she had made a few new friends, among them one, cecily mainwaring, who lived in london, and that she stayed with her occasionally. her letters, however, gave mere facts; there was no hint as to her thoughts, or whether she were happy in her new surroundings. and miss mason longed to ask her, yet all the time she could write of nothing but pickled slugs and the blight on rose-trees. and after four years sybil's letters suddenly ceased. miss mason wrote three times and received no answer. then she, too, stopped writing. and thus the years, as far as miss mason was concerned, rolled on. but, at last, one sunny morning when a boy and girl approached the gate they saw no one in the garden, and the blinds in the house pulled down. old miss stanhope had died quietly in her sleep that morning, and after forty-three years miss mason had deserted the flower-beds. she was sitting in the desolate drawing-room, unable yet to grasp the meaning of the one really important event which had occurred in her life since she was five years old. four days later miss stanhope's will was read. miss mason had been left sole heiress to an income which amounted to something like fifteen thousand a year. no one but miss stanhope herself and her trustees had had the smallest conception of her wealth. the terms of the will, which appeared in the local papers, had the effect of taking every one's breath away. miss mason spoke to the lawyer regarding it. "can't spend anything like that amount a year," she said gruffly. "don't know how miss stanhope managed to. much rather you gave me one thousand and looked after the rest. shan't find it easy to spend one." mr. davis stared for a moment. then he suddenly realized--and by a marvellous leap of intelligence on his part--that miss mason was under the impression that he would yearly press fifteen thousand sovereigns into her palm. the question of banks and cheque-books had not presented itself to her mind. during the next half-hour henry davis found himself explaining matters to miss mason much as he would have explained them to a child of twelve. miss mason grasped the situation instantly. "then before you go you'd better show me how to draw a cheque," she said. "think that was your expression. i'm not imbecile, though when a woman of sixty doesn't know the first principles of banks and cheque-books you might think she was." it was after mr. davis had left that miss mason gradually began to realize what miss stanhope's death and her newly-acquired wealth would mean. she had lived so long in one groove that the possibility of change had never actually occurred to her. at first she had felt almost stunned. but suddenly, in a flash, she saw a new life before her. every dream of her seventeenth year could be fulfilled. it found expression in one short sentence: "shall go to london and take a studio." chapter iii the lady of the blue dress miss mason was sitting in the lounge of the wilton hotel. mr. davis--the lawyer--had given her the name of this hotel, telling her that it was both quiet and comfortable. a tiny cloud had arisen in miss mason's mind. it partially eclipsed the sunshine of her morning mood. she knew vaguely what had caused it. she had changed her dress on her arrival, donning a black satin gown made in precisely the same style as the cashmere. a lace collar took the place of the linen one. a cameo brooch, large, and set in gold as massive as her watch, superseded the black bow. miss mason never wore jewellery except in the evening. she had dined excellently at a small table in a room adorned with water-colour drawings. between the courses she had found herself admiring them. she was so intent on them that at first she did not notice the covert smiles which two girls were directing towards her table. when she did, the smiles began to make her feel uncomfortable. at first she wondered if her cap were crooked, or her brooch unpinned, but gradually it dawned on her that it was just she herself who was affording them amusement. miss mason had finished the last morsels of her gooseberry tart hurriedly, had swallowed her glass of light wine, and gone out into the lounge. she told herself that she was an old fool to worry over the little incident, but it had caused a vague anxiety in her mind. she took up a number of the "graphic" and began turning the pages. the style of the advertisements displayed within its covers had made her previously imagine the periodical to be exclusively intended for feminine perusal. she had been slightly alarmed before dinner to see a stout elderly gentleman studying it profoundly. a momentary idea took possession of her as to whether it was not her duty to go up to him and warn him regarding the nature of some of the contents, but as she saw it was the middle of the book he was studying, she concluded that someone had already given him a delicate hint regarding the advertisement pages. all the same, she could not imagine the editor of the paper to be a modest man. one or two people had come into the lounge for coffee after dinner, but they had left it again, and, at the moment, it was deserted save for miss mason and one other woman. there was something about the woman that attracted her attention. it was not merely her beauty, but something in the graceful way in which she was sitting in her chair, and in her manner of speaking to the waiter who brought her coffee. miss mason found herself watching her. she liked the ivory whiteness of her skin, the vivid red-brown of her hair, and the expression in her eyes. her dress, too, which was a curious deep blue, pleased her immensely. suddenly the woman looked up. she saw miss mason's eyes fixed on her, and she smiled. there was something so frank and spontaneous about the smile that miss mason found herself smiling too. "we have the place to ourselves," said the woman. "every one else has departed for different theatres. i should have gone myself if i hadn't an appointment with a friend of mine." "never been to a theatre in my life," said miss mason. "lack of opportunity, not prejudice." "if you really care to have the opportunity it is certain to present itself sooner or later," replied the woman calmly. "it's only a question of the intensity of wishing." miss mason leant a little forward. "doesn't the opportunity sometimes arrive too late?" the question was put almost involuntarily. it was one she had been asking herself for the last three-quarters of an hour--ever since her somewhat hurried exit from the dining-room; and the question did not refer merely to the opportunity of visiting the theatre. the woman understood. "that raises rather a fine point of question," she replied. "can it be fairly said that one has been given the opportunity if it is truly impossible to accept it, which i imagine 'too late' would signify?" miss mason did not reply at once. she wanted to tell this woman about the little cloud which had covered the brightness of her sun, the insidious little doubt which had crept into her mind. yet she hardly knew how to begin. the woman waited. she was one of those to whom confidences are given. if she had said anything at that moment the sentence miss mason was slowly preparing in her mind would never have reached her lips. it came suddenly and jerkily, it was spoken, too, almost below miss mason's breath. "isn't one ever too old? have waited a long time for the chance of happiness. got it now. but perhaps i am too old." a slow painful flush had mounted in miss mason's face with the words. the younger woman turned quickly towards her. "too old for happiness!" she cried, with a little laugh. "never! if happiness has come to you, welcome her with both hands; and with every kiss she gives you years will roll away from your heart. happiness is like the spring, which wakes the world to brightness after a dreary winter." miss mason gave a little choke. "felt like that myself in the train this morning. forgot i was sixty. thought it was splendid to be alive. was going to enjoy myself. was so glad thinking about it thought everybody would be glad too. can't explain very well, but felt quite young. thought all the young things in the world would let me watch their happiness, and i'd be happy in my own happiness and theirs. didn't want to interfere with them, or try to mix myself up with them. just wanted to be a kind of onlooker. never thought they'd stop to laugh at me--make quiet fun of me, i mean. made me feel very old. silly nonsense, of course. oughtn't to care. am old." the woman looked up quickly. she had noticed the little scene in the dining-room. "age has nothing to do with the matter," she replied quietly. "there is no reason why you should not enjoy yourself enormously. the dullest person i know is a young man of twenty-three, and one of the gayest is an aunt of mine who is seventy-five. happiness is a gift of the gods, and is bestowed by them irrespective of age." "think so?" said miss mason. "i am sure of it." again there was a silence. then, quite suddenly, miss mason began to tell the woman the story of her life. she told it badly. for the last forty years at least miss mason had talked little. miss stanhope had never cared to encourage conversation other than her own. a daily and minute recital of her own imaginary ailments had sufficed her. that had been a subject which had never palled. "and the summary of it all is," ended miss mason, "that my life has been utterly narrow." she stopped and looked at the woman. there was something half humorous, half pathetic, in the expression in her eyes. "i think," said the woman slowly, "that one is too ready to use the term 'narrow' for lives and opinions which have not covered, as we imagine, a great deal of ground. sometimes i think 'concentrated' would be a better word to use for them. i know that people who have darted hither and thither from one place to another, and from one excitement to another, often talk about 'living' and the broadness of their lives. but i fancy that if one could go up in a kind of mental aeroplane and look down upon those lives, one might see that their grooves, though they took an intricate pattern, were possibly narrower than some of those which have gone along one straight and monotonous course." "think so?" said miss mason again. then she smiled half-shamefacedly. "there's one thing--in spite of all the monotony, i've never been able to get rid of my belief in kind of fairy tale happenings. utterly ridiculous, of course." the woman laughed, a low clear laugh, which pleased miss mason enormously. "now we're on ground with which i'm far more familiar," she replied. "i was trying to get hold of words and expressions before which were rather outside my vocabulary, and i fear i sounded a little stilted in consequence. but fairy tales! why life is a fairy tale. bad fairies and wicked magicians get mixed up in it of course, or it wouldn't be one, but there are good fairies and all kinds of unexpected and delicious happenings right through it in spite of them. there's often, too, a long journey through a wood. you've been through yours. what do you hope to find on this side?" "a studio," said miss mason promptly. this woman was making it extraordinarily easy for her to tell her fairy tale. "have wanted one ever since i was seventeen, and i think almost before that. perhaps because my father was an artist." "and now you'll take one?" "have come up to look for one," said miss mason. "am going to look at pictures too. there's the national gallery, the tate gallery, and the academy. used to read about them. later i shall go abroad. thought i'd better get used to going about in england first. have read a lot about pictures. used to take in a magazine called 'the studio.' saw it advertised once and sent for it. miss stanhope used to make me a small allowance. she was kind really, though didn't always understand." "the kindest people don't always understand," said the younger woman quickly. "are you going to take an unfurnished studio? and will you have some of the furniture sent up from your old home?" there is a curious luxury in speaking of the details of a cherished scheme, and especially to one who has never before found a sympathetic audience. this the woman knew when she put the question. miss mason gave a little laugh. "wouldn't ask that if you'd seen the furniture. was so used to it it was a wonder i still went on thinking it hideous. i think it was after i'd been away from it for a year and came back to it that i knew how terrible it was. after that it remained terrible. it will all be sold. have arranged for that. couldn't stay with it any longer than was necessary. don't care what becomes of it now." miss mason was feeling so light-hearted again she was almost reckless. "then you'll buy new things?" asked the woman. "yes. soft colours--blues and greens. love blue. your dress is lovely." the words were jerky but genuine. "it's my favourite colour," said the woman. miss mason looked in the direction of a mirror near her. she could see both their figures reflected in it. again a little wistful look crept into her eyes. "i suppose," she said suddenly, "that it was my dress those two girls were laughing at. perhaps it is queer. never thought of that before. couldn't change now, any more than i could change my skin." she stopped, then looked directly at the woman. "i suppose people will always laugh at me?" she queried. "i suppose those girls were right to laugh. i am queer." there was a moment's pause. then the woman in the blue dress spoke deliberately. "i am going to ask you a question which may sound rather conceited," she said. "which would you value most--my opinion or the opinion of those two girls?" "yours," said miss mason promptly. "then i am going to tell you exactly what i think, and you must forgive me if what i say sounds impertinent. i don't think you are the least queer. i think you are quaint and original. any artist would infinitely prefer your method of dressing than the method chosen by the older women of the present day. i think it quite possible that you will find a few people will laugh at you, for, as i've already said, in this fairy tale world there are bad fairies, and, worse still, stupid ones. but they don't count, because they aren't worth consideration, at least not as regards their opinion of our actions." she spoke the words slowly and simply, almost as she would have spoken them to a child. again there was a silence. "where will you take your studio?" asked the woman suddenly. "chelsea," said miss mason. "whistler lived there." "conclusive," laughed the woman. "want it to be a nice studio," said miss mason. "rent won't matter. miss stanhope left me a lot of money. can't spend it all." "now the fairy tale progresses," said the woman joyfully. "plenty of money and fairy tale ideas are the happiest of combinations." miss mason laughed. "glad i met you," she said. "feel like i did when i came up in the train this morning." "our meeting was evidently part of the fairy tale," said the woman. "now i must go and get my cloak. it's five minutes to nine." she went towards the stairs. miss mason watched her ascending them. a moment after she had left, a man came into the lounge. he was wearing a thin dark grey overcoat, and held a flat black hat in one hand. miss mason had never before seen an opera hat. she looked at it with interest. from it she looked at the man. he was tall and distinctly aristocratic-looking. miss mason noticed that he wore a small moustache and imperial. she heard a step on the stairs. the woman in the blue dress was coming down again. she had a black satin cloak round her. "christopher, darling," she cried, "is that you? i'm beautifully punctual." he went up to her and kissed her hand. there was something charming in the courtliness of his manner. miss mason, who had been momentarily shocked by the "darling," felt it somehow explained by the subsequent action. "one moment, and i'll come," said the woman. she crossed to miss mason. the man waited for her. "i shan't be home till midnight," she said, "and i'm leaving for italy at an unearthly hour to-morrow morning. but i am sure one day we shall meet again. good-bye." "good-bye," said miss mason. "hope you'll enjoy yourself." she longed to say something more, but the words failed her. she watched her rejoin the man and leave the lounge. it seemed extraordinarily empty after her departure. "don't suppose she'll ever lack friends," said miss mason to herself, "but if ever she did need one----" she left the rest of the sentence unspoken in her mind, and finding the place a little lonely went up to her own room. it was not till she was in bed that she realized that she had no idea of the woman's name. it also never dawned on her to ask the hotel management for it. chapter iv the courtyard dan oldfield was standing in front of an easel on which was a minute canvas. the scene depicted thereon was a pastoral of mesonnier-like detail. at the moment dan was engaged in painting lilac flowers on a green and white dress. the original dress was on a lay figure before him. the studio in which he was working was one of seven enclosed in a courtyard. two of the studios had small gardens in front. standing in one of the gardens it was easier to imagine oneself in the depths of the country than in the midst of london. the roll of the traffic in the king's road was just sufficiently remote to sound not unlike the roar of the sea. there were lilac bushes and laburnums in the gardens. a thrush sang in one of the laburnum trees in the spring, and a robin in the winter. the robin was very tame. it had established a visiting acquaintance with all seven studios. there was a certain amount of jealousy among the inhabitants when occasionally for a week at a time, it would show a marked preference for one studio. on the whole its affections were most deeply centred on studio number seven. at the moment this studio was empty. dan painted in the lilac flowers carefully, using extremely small brushes. every now and then he stepped back from his work to judge of the effect. any onlooker uneducated in the mysteries of art would have imagined the use of a magnifying glass a more desirable method to study the effect. dan was evidently not of that opinion. he had just finished painting in the yellow heart of the thirteenth flower when the sound of the wheels of some large vehicle entering the courtyard struck upon his ears. "what's that!" he said carelessly, and he crossed to the window. a large pantechnicon had drawn up opposite studio number seven. men had already run round to open the doors at the back of the van. it was full of furniture. "good lord!" ejaculated dan. he put his palette and brushes down on a table, and standing on a chair poked his head through the upper part of the window. a large roll of blue drugget and a dark oak easel were being carried up the small garden path. two men were hauling a chesterfield sofa from the van. "good lord!" said dan again. he withdrew his head from the window, descended from the chair, and came out of his studio into the courtyard. the sunshine, which was brilliant, shone on his untidy red hair. he looked like a slightly worried giant. the chesterfield was reposing momentarily on the stones of the courtyard. the men were wiping their foreheads. the day was warm. "studio let?" demanded dan. "yes, sir," was the reply. "bringing in the furniture, sir. nice day, but warm." "who's taken the studio?" demanded dan. "can't remember the lady's name at the moment, sir. elderly lady with grey hair. saw her when----" "an old lady!" interrupted dan. his voice held at least three notes of disgust. "yes, sir, she----" but dan had vanished up the garden path of studio number six, had banged on the door, and entered without waiting for permission. a man in his shirtsleeves was standing before an easel. a nude model was half sitting, half lying, on the platform. "i say, barnabas," he began. then he saw the model. "morning, tilly. sorry i interrupted." "oh, it's all right," said the man addressed, good-humouredly. "i thought it was your fairy footfall before i heard the knock. what's the trouble? have you stuck the messonnier painting on an envelope in mistake for a postage stamp and put it in the pillar-box? you'd better take a rest now, tilly, while mr. oldfield disburdens his mind." the girl stretched herself in a lazy panther-like fashion, and taking a faded purple dressing-gown from the model stand flung it round herself. "studio number seven's let," said dan. "well, why shouldn't it be?" said barnabas imperturbably. "it's been vacant six months. it's a pleasant studio; large, well-ventilated, drains in perfect condition, an ideal----" "oh, shut up, barnabas," said dan. "it's let to an old woman." "what?" "an old woman," repeated dan bitterly. for a moment barnabas looked utterly taken aback. then he shook his head. "bad news indeed, my child. for the last five years at least we've been a pleasant little coterie of seven undeniable geniuses all of the male sex. then ashton left us. why on earth didn't your friend shottover take the place? i thought you said he was going to." "so i thought," replied dan gloomily. "he's such a vacillating ass. i told him he'd lose it if he didn't hurry and make up his mind. now he has lost it, and we've an old woman coming to plant herself among us. it isn't that i dislike women----" barnabas grinned suddenly. "what's funny?" asked dan. "your unnecessary statement, my child." "well, it's true." "i know. there was so remarkably little need to state the fact." "but," went on dan firmly, "i don't like old women." "there are exceptions," said barnabas solemnly. "my paternal grandmother----" "bother your paternal grandmother. i tell you the studio's let to an old woman, and they're taking in the furniture now." barnabas moved towards the door. "let's have a look at it," he said. "i wonder what her taste in studio furniture is like." he went out into his little garden, dan following him. a dark oak bookcase and an oak chest were being removed from the van. "by jove, the ancient lady has got taste!" said barnabas. "genuine old stuff, or my name's not john kirby." the two stood together in the garden on the little gravel path, looking across a bed of forget-me-nots and a small fence at the working men. barnabas--his real name was john kirby, but he had first been nicknamed the comforter, and finally barnabas, the son of consolation, by his fellow-artists--was a tall man who would have looked even taller if it had not been for the huge frame of the man beside him. "i wouldn't mind that bit of furniture myself," said barnabas, as a beautiful corner cupboard was unearthed from the van. "hullo! what's this? 'the winged victory,' by jingo! _and_ a pedestal. here's art and no mistake. pictures, too. here, you," he called to the two men who were carrying them, "allow us momentarily to cast our eyes upon those treasures. ye gods and little fishes! a nicholson, a pryde, two sickerts, and a genuine bartolozzi print. the ancient lady evidently possesses not only taste but cash--hard coin of the realm, my child." "those old fogies always have tons of money," grunted dan. three large wooden packing-cases were now carried towards the studio. "be careful with the unpacking of those," said the man who was evidently the chief in command. "old blue worcester dinner service, sir," he explained in an aside to the two who were looking over the fence. dan groaned. "pure swank on her part," said barnabas sorrowfully. "what have the fleshpots of egypt in common with the earthenware and bread and cheese of bohemia. why didn't she take up her abode in the fashionable quarters of kensington." "turn a park lane house into a studio," said dan. "have you any idea," asked barnabas, addressing himself to the man in command, "when the fortunate possessor of these rare and valuable articles intends to take up her residence in this charming domicile?--in other words, when does the elderly lady come in?" "to-night, sir, about seven o'clock, i think. our orders are to have everything ready before six, even if we had to put on extra hands. but it will be ready easily, bless you, even to the making of the beds and final sweeping, which my wife's seeing to. there's not above four or five hours' work here. there ain't none of the little whatnots and ornaments to unpack what ladies usually carries about." barnabas looked at dan. "to-night!" he said meaningly. "and you have one of your famous parties on! to-night the old lady will sleep--if she can--lulled by the sound of hilarious laughter, the twanging of banjos, ribald songs, and all the other pleasant little noises which are an invariable accompaniment to one of your mad entertainments. shall you be busy to-morrow?" he asked the man. "yes, sir; we're moving a family into elm park gardens." barnabas shook his head. "that's unfortunate. you'll doubtless be required here. the old lady will be making a hasty exit. the old blue worcester dinner service will be repacked less carefully--there won't be time for care--the corner cupboard and the chesterfield sofa, to say nothing of the winged----" "ass!" said dan. "what is the use of talking rot about it. we shall have complaints from the owner of the studios about the noise we make. i know what it will be." "a new set of regulations à la german," said barnabas. "no pianos before seven or after ten. lights out at eleven. we shall become a set of model young men who will work quietly all the week and go to church on sundays. hullo, here's jasper. let's tell him the pleasing tidings." the door of another studio had opened, and a slight, dark man with a somewhat ascetic and rather discontented-looking face came out in the sunshine. "what's going on here?" he demanded. "we're studying the preface to a little book called 'from wildness to decorum,'" answered barnabas gravely. "the first chapter will no doubt be named 'hints from the ancients to young men--on deportment.'" "do you ever talk sense?" asked jasper. "i suppose someone has taken this studio." dan imparted the information they had lately received. "so there's no more fun for us poor young fellows, and we'll grow like the good artists grow," chanted barnabas. "i don't see why you should imagine that because this lady has taken the studio that she should necessarily object to any of our amusements," said jasper seriously. "besides, i hardly think it is kind----" barnabas gave a little chuckle of laughter. "dear child!" he said patting jasper gently on the shoulder. "he's learnt the first chapter of the little book by heart while we've been grizzling in the garden. entirely dan's fault, my child. he interrupted a busy morning, thereby causing me to view the whole world, and old ladies in particular, in a pessimistic spirit. let us be kind. we will invite the old dame to your party, dan. we'll sing songs suited to the ears of age. we'll hire a harmonium for the evening, and----" "i wish you would occasionally be serious," interrupted jasper half impatiently. "of course we should have preferred a man in the studio, but i don't see why you and dan need be so certain that a woman's advent will interfere with us. do the others know?" "lord, no, my child," said barnabas. "it would take an earthquake to induce the other three to put nose beyond door or eye to window before one o'clock. if michael isn't at work on an illustration of a starved child, he'll be writing an essay on 'humour--some more of its more cynical aspects.' alan will be painting a burning cross in the centre of a crimson rose, and would regard the smallest interruption as the highest form of sacrilege, and paul will be doing such genuine good work that it would be sacrilege to interrupt him." there was a moment's silence. then jasper spoke in the tone of one who has been giving a subject close consideration. "you know, i don't think we ought to let the fact that a woman has taken the studio arouse feelings of animosity in us towards her. she is bound to have a studio somewhere if she wants to paint, and why not among us? i think we should do our best to make her welcome." dan swore softly beneath his breath. jasper had moments of priggishness that were almost beyond the patience of man to endure. except when these moods were on him he was not such a bad sort of fellow. barnabas choked down a little laughter and a big bit of annoyance at a gulp. "right oh! my child. and now i must return to my studio, or tilly will have smoked all my cigarettes. i offered her one once, and henceforth she has looked upon them all as her own especial property. worst of acting in a moment of ill-considered generosity. dan, don't be boorish any longer. i'll leave jasper to read you a further homily on the whole duty of man towards ancient ladies. so long, my children. don't trample down my forget-me-nots in your ardour." he gave them a cheerful nod and vanished within the studio. his departure left a curious blank. it gave something the impression felt when the sun retires behind a cloud, or the sensation we experience the first morning of work following a month's holiday. people almost invariably felt this sensation when barnabas left them. the two other men still stood a few moments longer watching the unpacking of the van. dan, however, had ceased to find the same interest in the proceedings. he could no longer grumble with a free mind. in the presence of jasper his utterances would have taken on an air of seriousness he was far from fully intending. besides, his proximity in this mood annoyed him. the minute lilac flowers, too, required his attention. jasper remembered that he also had left a model within his studio. besides, his latest resolution--among others--was not to waste mornings unnecessarily. the two separated. the work of removing the furniture from the van continued. a thrush, unheeding the presence of the men, settled in the laburnum tree and began to sing. perhaps it was an unconscious song of welcome to the woman who would that evening enter the castle of her dreams. chapter v in bohemia it was nearly seven o'clock in the evening, and through one of the windows of the newly-furnished studio a shaft of sunlight had found its way. it formed a patch of light on the blue drugget on the floor, and caught the corner of an oak dresser on which the old worcester dinner service was arranged. there were two figures in the studio, though to the eyes of mortals the place would have seemed empty. the one was in a robe of white and gold, the other in a dress of dull grey. the white-robed figure was sitting in a large chair near an oak chest, on which was a sèvres bowl. she looked as if she had come to stay. there was an irresolute appearance about the grey-clad figure. "i can't stay in this studio with you here," she said. "i know," said the white-robed figure. "it is my prerogative to be here," went on the grey-clad figure. "you don't belong to age." the white-robed figure smiled. "you sit there," said the grey-clad figure, "as if the place belonged to you." "it will," said the one in white. "you will not be able to stay," said the grey-clad figure warningly. "i shall stay till i am asked to leave. then you can take my place." "that will be soon," said the grey-clad figure. "we shall see," said the figure in white. "i shall come back again," said the grey-clad figure, but the words lacked confidence. "when you are asked," said the figure in white. "i am going now," said the grey-clad figure. "if i stay here any longer with you i shall lose all my personality." and doubt flew through the window. she hated passing through the shaft of sunlight, but it was the only way out. but joy remained in the studio. the clock on the mantelpiece struck seven. its note was like the bell of a miniature cathedral. there was the sound of wheels in the courtyard. they stopped. the door opened and a woman in a black dress and wide mushroom hat crossed the threshold. she saw the shaft of sunlight, the oak dresser with its array of blue plates, and she looked towards the great chair by the chest. being a mortal she did not see the figure seated in it. but joy came forward to welcome her. * * * * * an hour later miss mason was eating a supper of cold chicken, salad, bread and butter, tinned peaches and cream. she was being waited on by a little flower-faced girl in a blue print dress and a quaint cap and apron. the little girl's name was sally. she had been found through an advertisement, after miss mason had visited registry offices innumerable, and interviewed cooks fat, cooks scraggy, cooks superior, cooks untidy, cooks confident, and cooks deprecating, none of whom had pleased her. the owners of the registry offices had considered miss mason an impossible person. sally's sole references had been that of her mother, the sunday-school teacher, and her own fresh little face. miss mason had fallen in love with her on the spot. she arrived with a parcel under her arm five minutes after miss mason had entered the studio. her box was to come the next morning by the carrier. miss mason finished her supper and sally cleared the table. she then vanished into the minute kitchen, out of which was an equally minute bedroom. miss mason got up from her chair and went slowly round the studio. she had spent three weeks of careful shopping. it was astonishing how quickly she had found herself going from place to place, aided by friendly policemen. her purchases had been sent to a furniture agent who was responsible for their arrangement in the studio. it was all exactly as she had imagined it would be. there were the brown walls with the few pictures, the blue drugget on the floor, and the old persian rugs. there was the "winged victory" on its straight pedestal in one corner. there was the dresser against one wall, with the blue dinner service on its shelves. there was the bookcase filled with books, the only reminder of her old life. there was the chesterfield sofa standing at right angles to the fire-place. there was the corner cupboard, and a small cupboard with glass doors, in which were a few bits of rare old china. there was the easel. there were a few new canvases against the wall. there was a box full of oil paints. there were charcoal sticks in another box--miss mason had found that chalk in bottles was not the correct thing nowadays. there was a whole ream of white michelet paper. there was a sheaf of brushes in a green earthenware jar. there was a large mahogany palette hanging on a nail. it shone smooth and polished like a mirror. when she had been the round of the studio she sat down in the big chair and looked at the empty sèvres bowl. "must buy pink roses for that to-morrow," she said. she leant back in the chair. the corners of her mouth were relaxed in a little tender smile. her eyes were shining. she heard the voices of men crossing the courtyard. they were laughing. she laughed a little herself. and over and over again in her heart the words of the lady in the blue dress were sounding: "if happiness comes to you welcome her with both hands; and with every kiss she gives you years will roll away from your heart. happiness is like the spring, which wakes the world to brightness after a dreary winter." sally came back into the studio. "is there anything more i can do for you, ma'am?" "no, child. you'd better get to bed. boiled eggs for breakfast." "yes, ma'am. good night." "good night." there was a moment's pause. sally had reached the door. "got a young man?" miss mason's voice was so gruff that sally's heart beat uncomfortably. "yes, ma'am; but----" "does he live in london?" "yes, ma'am." sally was trembling a little. "better write to-morrow and ask him to come to tea on sunday. suppose there's room in that ridiculous kitchen for you both?" "oh, yes, ma'am." sally's voice was joyful. "better buy some cake to-morrow. gingerbread, plum cake, anything you like. don't loiter now. get to bed like a good girl." and sally fled, feeling that miss mason was a winged angel in an odd disguise. half an hour later miss mason herself went to her bedroom. it was dainty and charming. the curtains before the window were white muslin, with outer curtains of white dimity and borders of tiny pink rosebuds. the quilt covering the bed was white like the curtains, it also had a border of pink rosebuds. the carpet was cream-coloured, the furniture chippendale. when miss mason was ready for bed she knelt down, her hands folded on the rosebud-covered quilt. the old petitions of childhood, still used by the woman of sixty years, failed her for the first time. "god," said miss mason softly, "i am happy, and i thank you." that was all. she got into bed. for a long time she lay gazing into the darkness with open eyes. she was too happy to sleep. she had become aware of sounds she had heard at intervals during the evening almost without realizing them--singing, the twanging of banjos, the sound of laughter. now in the darkness she heard them clearly. her old eyes puckered at the corners into little delighted wrinkles. then suddenly she heard the notes of a violin. miss mason had no knowledge of music, but even to her ignorant ears the hand was that of a master. when it stopped there was silence. presently she dozed. much later she was awakened from a half-sleep by laughter, footsteps, and louder singing. the words came to her distinctly. she lay there smiling, a queer old figure in a white nightcap, one rather bony hand beating time softly on the quilt. "for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fe-el-low, and so say all of we." with a little sigh of supreme content miss mason uttered the one word: "bohemia!" chapter vi the faun in the garden barnabas came into his garden in the early morning sunshine. his hair was still a little wet, for he had only just had his bath. he was wearing an old turkish dressing-gown, purple bedroom slippers, and was smoking a cigarette. a light wind was blowing through the courtyard. it scattered the pink petals of a too full-blown la france rose upon the garden path. they chased each other round in a little mad dance, first down the path, then in circles at the foot of the statue of a little faun playing on a long thin reed. the faun looked at them with mocking, laughing eyes, while he piped to their dancing. a thrush in the laburnum tree looked at barnabas for a moment, but as it had already got used to the fact that he was neither a cat nor a boy with a stone handy, it began to sing a sweet full-throated song. barnabas fingered a la france rosebud. there were half a dozen little green blights clinging to the petals. he blew a cloud of tobacco smoke round it. the blights smiled at him, so to speak. it would require something stronger than cigarette smoke to remove them from their lodging. barnabas let go his hold on the rosebud. "hang it all," he said. "i daresay they're enjoying life and the sunshine as much as i am. they don't seem to be hurting the roses, anyhow." a couple of white butterflies flew into the garden. one of them settled on the sleeve of his dressing-gown. barnabas looked at it. it did not move, only its wings quivered a little. "you morsel of life," said barnabas, "you're enjoying yourself too." he felt a sudden odd remorse at the thought of other butterflies he had long ago enclosed in wide-topped bottles filled with camphor, and then pinned down on to pieces of cork. the destructive age had not lasted long with barnabas. his love of nature was too whole-hearted and genuine. the door of studio number seven suddenly opened, and sally came out in her blue print dress. she held a duster in her hand which she flapped two or three times. the butterfly flew away to perch on the shoulder of the faun. sally paused for a moment to sniff the morning air. she did not see barnabas. she was feeling very happy. she was seventeen, it was eight o'clock on a june morning, and last night she had written to her young man--a stalwart coal-heaver. the letter had been written with a stubby end of pencil on a scrap of paper. the envelope into which she had put it had not stuck well. it had required much pressure from sally's thumb. the cleanest thumb will leave a mark on an envelope if it is much rubbed on it. the envelope had looked a little dirty, and sally had sighed. she felt, however, that the words it contained would more than make up in jim's eyes for the smear. later she would ask leave to go out and buy a stamp. then she saw barnabas. her work having lain hitherto in the kitchen rather than in the upstair regions, she was not used to the appearance of young men in turkish dressing-gowns, and she blushed. "morning," said barnabas pleasantly, smiling at the girl. she made him think of a wild-rose. "good morning, sir," said sally, and she dropped a curtsey. barnabas looked at her with approval. "where did you learn to make curtsies, child? i thought they'd gone out of fashion with bibles, brown sugar on bread and butter, and old ladies." sally dropped another curtsey from pure nervousness. "please, sir, mother taught me, sir. she was still-room maid in a big house before she married father. she said born ladies curtseyed to the king and queen, and we curtseyed to the born ladies--and gentlemen," she added. "then your mother, child, is not a socialist," said barnabas. "please, sir, mother says," said sally seriously, "that socialism is a lot of silly talk among discontented people who'd be discontented if they had the moon to play with. she says christ's socialism was love and respect." barnabas gave a low whistle. "your mother must be a very remarkable woman," he said. there was a moment's pause, while sally looked at him and at the white butterfly which had returned to perch upon his sleeve. then a sudden spirit of mischief, born of the wind of the morning, took possession of barnabas. "i hope we didn't disturb your mistress with our singing last night," he said. there was a little glint of gay devilry in his eyes. "oh, no, sir," said sally quickly. "i asked her ten minutes ago, sir, and she said, 'bless you, no, child. enjoyed it. they sounded so delightfully young and happy. like to have that kind of lullaby every night.'" sally was an unconscious mimic. barnabas got a sudden and not inaccurate mental image of miss mason as she spoke the words. a little pang of remorse, not unlike the pang he had experienced at the thought of the butterflies, smote him as he remembered his half-joking conversation with dan. "give your mistress my compliments, and tell her i am glad we didn't disturb her. also that i shall do myself the pleasure of calling upon her at no very distant date." "yes, sir," said sally, and she turned back towards the studio. "by the way," said barnabas, "what is your mistress's name?" "miss mason, sir," said sally. she dropped a final curtsey and disappeared within the studio. barnabas lifted his arm with the butterfly on it, and brushed its wings lightly against his lips. apparently it appreciated the treatment, for it remained passive. "is it the influence of the morning, the wings of a white butterfly, or the wild-rose face of that child?" said barnabas. "i fancy i am going to fall in love with miss mason." chapter vii the six artists of the courtyard that same afternoon the five other male occupants of the studios dropped in to tea with barnabas. they frequently did. they liked the cakes he bought at a shop in the fulham road, and, incidentally, they appreciated barnabas himself. they had one and all announced their intention previously. "meaning me to buy cakes," said barnabas. and he had sent his man to the fulham road to make the purchases. barnabas poured out the tea, which was drunk out of cream-coloured cups with festoons of flowers on them. there were not enough chairs, but a couple of packing-cases had been pressed into service, and they sat round an oak table--gate-legged. barnabas had picked it up for a mere song at a filthy little shop in a back street. he was very proud of the bargain. the six men were curiously dissimilar in appearance and in character. one took in the outlines of that, as one took in their appearance at the first glance. next to barnabas was dan oldfield, huge, red-haired, and untidy-looking. he was one of a large family, and had begun his artistic career at a suburban art school, where he had risen to the post of pupil teacher, and later to that of assistant master. at twenty-two he had been left three hundred a year by an uncle, and had come to london to study at the slade schools. he was now thirty, and had never lost the idea of minute finish inculcated in him at the art school. it found expression in his tiny pictures of almost miniature-like work, pictures which the palm of one of his huge hands would have covered. beside dan was jasper merton, sallow, clean-shaven, discontented in expression, his previous history unknown to the six studios. he painted altar pieces at low rates for high churches in poor districts, which paintings were usually the gift of benevolent and religiously-minded spinster ladies. he looked--as barnabas had once said--as if he were wearing a hair shirt for the good of his soul, and as if the shirt were an extra-prickly one. beyond him was alan farley, who, like david of old, was "fair and of a ruddy countenance." nature had intended him for a cheerful soul, but art of the ultra-mystic type had taken him prisoner. he painted shadowy figures with silver stars on their brows, non-petalled roses, and purple chalices; he read swinburne and the poems of fiona macleod, and talked about creative genius. "creative genius!" barnabas had said to him one day. "man, you don't understand the first principles of it. your painting is pure slither. do you think creation is slither? it's travail, it's agonizing. what does your work cost you? nothing. an airy fancy, half an hour's mental indigestion, and there's a canvas covered with purples, greys, and greens. the colour's all right, but what on earth is the thing worth? i'm not talking monetary jargon. you say that purple mass in the corner is a veiled woman, and she's talking through opal mists to a silver star. who on earth's going to find that out unless you go round like a kind of animated catalogue to your own pictures. get hold of form, man. study it. draw--draw--draw--till you can express ideas tangibly. leave poetry alone for a bit till you're honoured with the power of understanding it. you're being mentally sensual and don't know it. you talk of passion! great scot! you don't understand the meaning of the word, nor the a b c of nature." and alan had listened and taken the harangue meekly, though it had had, apparently, little effect. next to alan was paul treherne, seated on a packing-case. he was a man well above the medium height, and with a lean-limbed look about him. he had grey eyes, sad--like his mouth, which was partly hidden by a small moustache. fate had started him in an office, which he hated. later she had taken him abroad, where he had lived in a tent and under the open sky, where he had experienced hardships few men of his class have known, and where he had three times been face to face with death. he had looked at sunsets across open plains, and seen mountains bathed in gold and purple, and the crimson fire of tropical evenings. he had seen the blue shadows of palm trees on yellow sand; he had seen the scarlet of pomegranate flowers, the gold of oranges against azure skies, till his whole being was saturated in colour. and lastly he had returned to england at the age of twenty-seven to find in the soft greys and lilacs of smoky london an even more wonderful charm. he had then an income of eight hundred a year, four of which he gave to his widowed mother, who lived in a little house in hampshire. he was at last able to turn to art, which he had always loved passionately, and from his knowledge of character gained through much experience of men and women, and with his wonderful sense of colour, he took to portrait painting. he now, besides his invested income, earned, at the age of thirty-seven, about six hundred a year by his brush. he sang in an untrained mellow baritone in a way that brought tears to one's eyes. between paul and barnabas was michael chester, a small man, one shoulder higher than the other, and with one leg shrunken and twisted. he had had a pencil in his hand since babyhood. in illustration and line work he excelled, though his choice of subjects was morbid. his paintings of the river and grey london streets were beautiful. there was something almost whistler-ish about them. he had the heart of a true poet, and the tongue of a cynic, and he played the violin like a god. an ultra-morbidity regarding his own appearance had lost him to the world as a public violinist. nothing would have induced him to mount a platform or enter a crowded drawing-room. the studios alone were given the benefit of his talent. and finally, master of the ceremonies, seated on another packing-case was barnabas--tall, brown-haired, green-eyed, and sunny hearted, outwardly indolent, and beloved of his fellow-men. he followed in the footsteps of paul as a portrait painter, though he was apt to say it was "the devil of a way behind." the conversation during tea had somehow centred round a certain unconscious old lady, who was at that moment cleaning oil paints from a large mahogany palette, and looking with humorous disgust at a canvas on which were large and unsteady blobs of pink paint above a smear of green and gold. they were intended to represent pink roses in a sèvres bowl, but had failed horribly in the intention. the conversation had begun airily enough, five of the men taking part in it, barnabas alone being silent. after about ten minutes it began to be slightly strained, and three of the men had more or less dropped out of it. dan had, however, continued to express his views somewhat clearly and with a certain amount of gruffness. jasper was being annoyingly christian-like in his attitude. "i intend to call on the lady, at all events," he said at last, with exasperating decision. "after what you two fellows said yesterday i felt that i at least----" "not you only, my child," interrupted barnabas good-humouredly, speaking for the first time. "we're all going. we begin on sunday." "won't the lady be a trifle overwhelmed?" asked paul. "i didn't mean all at the same time, or on the same day," explained barnabas. "i intended that we should go in detachments. i thought dan and i could begin--take the initial step, so to speak." "and who next?" asked paul, smiling. "jasper and alan, as jasper's so keen about it," said barnabas. "then you and michael." michael looked at the tip of his cigarette through half-closed eyes. "you can leave me out of the little programme," he said. "i don't pay calls." "and i'm calling on my great aunt's stepmother on sunday," said dan. "sorry, barnabas, but it's a prior engagement." "you can send a wire to that purely fictitious person--if you know her address--and put her off," replied barnabas. "i'll be damned----" began dan. jasper got up from his chair. "i will leave you five to make your own arrangements," he said. "i shall call upon miss mason at five o'clock on monday afternoon. if alan comes with me i shall be pleased. i've got an engagement now. good-bye." he left the studio. there was a very slight and almost unconscious movement of relief among the remaining men. "your language jarred on his nervous susceptibilities, dan," said michael. "and he thinks our attitude altogether unchristian." "wish he'd get himself fixed up in one of the panels of his own altarpieces, and carried off to the highest church in london," said dan. "it would be much the best place for him." "i'll not call with him," said alan firmly. "if i do make a martyr of myself it will be by myself or with one of you others." there was a silence. then quite suddenly barnabas told them of miss mason's little speech to sally. somehow he had been unable to mention it in jasper's presence. again there was a pause. then dan laughed. "you're confoundedly sentimental, barnabas, my son. i suppose i'll have to send that wire." michael smiled, a queer twisted smile. "barnabas has a curious faculty for keeping silence till the crucial moment," he said. "he then makes some little trivial remark which invariably manages to upset all our preconceived notions." "he is," said paul, "as dan says, a pure sentimentalist." the atmosphere had lightened. jasper's departure and barnabas' little speech had had a curious effect upon it. a mental fog had previously crept into the studio. it often found its way into the rooms jasper entered. sometimes he seemed to leave it behind, but it generally came to find him, creeping thin and ghostlike through the keyhole, through the cracks in the doors, through the chinks in the windows, settling thickly round him, and casting its gloom over the room and the other occupants. and the gods of joy and laughter, who cannot breathe in such an atmosphere, would silently depart. now, however, they had found their way back, slipping easily and gladly into the place they loved. when, half an hour later, michael limped down the garden path with paul, he nodded in the direction of studio number seven. "shall we say tuesday afternoon for our call?" he asked carelessly. paul had a momentary feeling of surprise. he did not show it. "right," he replied equally carelessly. and the little faun laughed to hear them, and piped a madder dance still to the rose-petals which had whirled below his pedestal at intervals throughout the day. chapter viii a man's conscience jasper merton was a man who had been born with a curious kind of conscience. he was perpetually looking at it, dusting it, and seeing that it kept in what he considered perfect working order. in reality it only worked spasmodically and at unexpected intervals. he possessed, also, an enormous amount of that quality which is generally termed artistic sensitiveness, but which is most frequently a polite and pretty name for selfishness. he see-sawed between conscience and--it must be given its right name--selfishness, in a manner which made his life not only uncomfortable to himself, but almost equally uncomfortable to others. he had, too, a skeleton which he kept in a cupboard, in other words, in a small--a very small--house in chiswick. that skeleton was a woman. she was his wife, and a secret. none of his fellow-artists had ever dreamt of asking him if he were married. it never dawned on them to ask a man, who was apparently a bachelor and who obviously disliked the company of women, such a question; and he had no near relations to trouble their heads about him. he was twenty-three when he married her, and she was eighteen. she was a slight, fair-haired girl with blue eyes and a lovable nature. he had worshipped her to the whole extent of his selfish disposition. at the end of a year a child had been born to them. it had lived two years--a toddling blue-eyed mite with fair hair like its mother. it had little caressing ways and soft baby cooings of laughter. but one day the laughter had ceased, and from the nursery had come sounds of a child in anguish. a basin of boiling water had been left on the table by a careless nurse, and pulled over by a pair of small, clutching hands. a week of horror had followed. the child had lived for four days in agony, even drugs could not soothe its pain, or quiet the terrible sobbing voice. jasper had fled from the house. when he had returned his wife had met him white and tearless. "my baby's at peace, thank god," she had said. and then she had laughed. she had not slept except from momentary exhaustion for four nights and days. later in the evening he had found her drunk in the dead child's room. he had carried her from it and locked the door. in the morning she had come to him and had tried to speak. his look of disgust had made speech impossible. "jasper----" she had said brokenly. "i--i can't say anything," he had stammered. and he had gone from her. when he had returned in the evening it was to find her again drunk. this time in the dining-room. that was the beginning. he had never been able to hide his disgust, his love had been killed. conscience, which held the word duty before him, spelling it with a capital, told him to make the best of things; his sensitiveness shrank from the woman as from something loathsome. after the child's funeral she had pulled herself partially together, and he had never found her in the same condition again. but she had lost all her old charm. she grew listless in manner, slovenly and untidy in dress. now and then she would look at him with the eyes of a dumb thing asking for help. he never saw her eyes. he had avoided looking at them. the sight of her--her untidy hair, her neglected dress--had offended his sensitive taste. little by little they had drifted mentally further apart. finally they had separated. even the separation had been gradual. first he had taken his small house in chiswick and the studio in chelsea, living at home, and going daily to his work. she had known what the outcome would be, but had said nothing. later he had begun to sleep at the studio, returning only for the week-end. he had spoken of the distance, making it an excuse. and now there was only occasional visits, prompted entirely by conscience. he had left the studio to pay one of these visits that afternoon. an extraordinary priggishness of manner towards his fellow-men was an invariable preface to them. as the tram bore him into the suburbs he gave a little shiver of disgust. the commonplace ugliness of the houses was an eyesore to him. he pictured the inhabitants as dull, well-meaning, ultra-respectable--leading a carpet-slipper, roast-beef, little-music-in-the-evenings--kind of life. he thought of the men as all old and fat, or young and conceited; of the women as thin and careworn, or flashy and bejewelled. his mental pictures were either extremely commonplace or extremely tawdry. suddenly his conscience began to fidget. it was becoming uncomfortable. what right had he to feel like that, it said. they were every bit as good as he was. who was he to sit in judgment on his fellow-men? he put the mental pictures aside. he said a little prayer for charity. then he looked at his conscience again, and satisfied himself that he had swept away the dust specks which had caused it a momentary uneasiness. but he never thought of the poetry that might be hidden away in the lives passed within those ugly walls, nor listened for the old, old tunes of love and sorrow, hope and fear, birth and death, that were played for them as they were played for those who dwelt in infinitely more picturesque surroundings. and if he had heard the music he would probably have said that the metre was out of time, the notes old and cracked, or thin and tuneless. at last he left the tram and turned up a side street. the houses in it were small, red brick, and each of a pattern exactly like the other. they stood a little way back from the pavement, separated from it by a low brick wall on top of which was an ugly iron railing. each of the tiny plots of ground in front of the houses was divided from the neighbouring plot by more iron railings. some of the plots were merely gravel, others grass, while a few had blossomed out into flower-beds gay with flowers. he turned into one of the gravel plots and went up four steps to the front door. he rang the bell. his face was perfectly expressionless. it was like the face of a man who is self-hypnotized. "your mistress in?" he said to the untidy woman who answered the door. "yes, sir. will you come into the sitting-room? i'll tell 'er." jasper went into the sitting-room. he stood on the hearthrug in the attitude of a stranger. the tea-things had not been cleared away, they were still on the table, which was covered with a white cloth showing various grease spots. the tea-things themselves were on a black tin tray with the enamel scratched off in two or three places. there was a loaf of bread on the table, a pat of soft-looking butter on a plate, a pot of strawberry jam from which the spoon had fallen making a red smear on the cloth, and a remnant of stale cake. the furniture in the room was not ugly, but the whole place had a desolate look. a french novel in a yellow paper cover lay open face downwards on a small table near the hearthrug. jasper picked it up, glanced at the title, and put it down again with a little movement of disgust. the door opened and a woman came in. she was wearing a loose and rather shabby brown dress; her hair, which was really a beautiful pale gold, looked unbrushed and uncared for. she wore it parted and in an untidy knot at the nape of her neck. the only neat thing about her were her hands, which were small hands, the nails polished and manicured. "oh, it's you, jasper," she said, and she sat down. she did not even offer to shake hands. "how do you do, bridget," he said gravely. she laughed. "is that a gentle reminder to me of my manners, or a query as to my health? i'm all right, thanks." jasper stood irresolute. this nonchalant attitude of his wife pained him. she was usually more apathetic. "won't you sit down," she said politely, "that is if you wish to stay for your usual hour." jasper put his hat and stick on the sofa and sat down on a chair near the table. his eye fell on the tray. "why don't you get a new one," he said half irritably, "or at least cover it with a tea-cloth? i hate these black, scratched things. i don't keep you short of money." she glanced towards the offending article. "you don't often see it, do you?" she queried. "i'm used to it; besides, i haven't an artistic eye. emma shall take it away if it displeases you." she rang the bell, and the woman who had opened the front door appeared. "take away the tea-things," said bridget carelessly. "mr. merton doesn't like to see them." the woman piled the things on to the tray, and gathered the cloth in a bundle under one arm. she left the room with them. there was a silence. "well," said bridget encouragingly, "five minutes of the hour have gone." jasper moved impatiently. "i don't know what is the matter with you this evening, bridget. i don't know you in this mood." she raised her eyebrows with a slightly mocking expression. "do you ever notice my moods? that is news to me. i was waiting for the usual lectures." jasper frowned. "i don't want to lecture you. i don't come here to lecture you. i have only sometimes asked you to keep your hair tidy and wear becoming dresses. there's nothing in the way of a lecture about that." she shrugged her shoulders. "it's hardly worth while to trouble, is it? no one sees me but you, and then only four times a year." "your own self-respect----" he began. she looked at him. "i lost that," she said quietly, "long ago." "it is never too late," he said. there was now a touch of priggishness in his manner. conscience had given him a little push. "isn't it?" she said. "i think it is. you showed me that." "i?" jasper was frankly amazed. "yes, you." "i don't understand what you mean. i tried to help you. i've begged you again and again to dress decently, to care for your appearance. i----" "you left me." the words were perfectly quiet. they were the mere statement of a fact. "i--i---- our life together was a misery," he stammered. "i tried for two years to help you. i----" "how did you try to help me?" she asked. "by talking calm platitudes through a kind of moral disinfectant sheet--which you held between us, unable, for all your high faluting words, to keep the disgust out of your voice, the loathing out of your eyes. i had offended your fastidious taste--yes, i know i had seemed horrible, that i was horrible; but how ten thousand times more horrible do you think i felt to myself? and yet i knew i had some excuse." "excuse," he said sternly, strong in his moral self-righteousness, "excuse for lying drunk in the room with our dead child." he shuddered. the memory of the sight filled him with horror. she put her hand over her eyes. it was shaking. "listen," she said, "you shall have the truth for once, though i am not speaking it in justification of myself. have you ever thought of those four days and nights of torture, when every cry of anguish my baby uttered was like a red-hot needle piercing my heart and brain? have you thought that there were moments when i felt in my wild misery that i must fly from the sound of them, but that her baby-hands were seeking mine, her voice calling in vain to me to help her. you shudder? you shuddered then and fled. the sensitiveness of your nature could not stand the sight and sounds of agony. when at last it ceased, and reason told me my baby was at peace, i still heard her voice. the doctor had sent me to bed. i could not rest. i got up. i saw you. you went to your own room to weep. i had gone through the agony alone. i was to go through the grief alone. i was faint when i took the brandy. i did not know it would affect me as it did. i was worn out, and it went to my head. i heard her voice again. i thought it real that time. i stumbled upstairs to the room where you found me. in the morning i remembered what had happened. i loathed myself. i came to you and saw the same loathing in your eyes. the next few days i drank purposely to gain oblivion, and i hated myself for doing it more than you can ever have hated me. but one night i thought i saw my baby----" she paused. "i never took the stuff again, though there were moments when i longed for it. i wanted to ask your help, to tell you what i had suffered. i could not. i saw the look in your eyes. it kept awake in me the memory of that--that day. only at night, in the darkness, i forgot it. i could feel my baby in my arms, her hair against my lips----" she stopped. for a moment there was a dead silence: jasper broke it. "i did not understand," he said. it was an admission on his part. at the time she did not realize it. "of course you did not," she said, and a trace of weariness had found its way into her voice. "you would never understand what offended your taste. for a crime alone you might find excuse, provided it was sufficiently picturesque. for mere sordidness there is none in your eyes. you said it was not too late. i say it is. for years your refinement and your conscience have been at war. you have not had the moral courage to leave me, nor the manhood to help me--to help me to regain the self-respect i lost seven years ago. i am tired at last of you, tired of these perfunctory visits. they can end." "what do you mean?" asked jasper. "simply that i don't want to see you again. you can't get a divorce--i have at least been faithful to you; there is not even cause for a legal separation----" "bridget!" he cried, shocked. "i have never wanted----" she held up her hand. "please don't protest, jasper. actions speak a good deal louder than words. you have hated these four yearly visits quite as much as i have. your conscience has ordered you to make them. you have kept it quiet by a quarterly journey to chiswick. your refinement has shrunk more each time from the sight of me. the fact that duty alone was urging you to it has made it more difficult for you. now it is i who say they must cease." "you are my wife," he said stubbornly. she laughed. "you always had little sense of humour, jasper, and now i think that little must have died. you don't understand what i mean? that shows it is quite--quite dead. i am now going to take all responsibility off your shoulders by refusing to see you again." "and if i refuse?" "then i shall go away where you cannot find me." for a moment he was silent. "how can you live if i don't know where you are?" he asked. "you have no money of your own. i must send you some." "i know you have considered it your duty to make me an allowance," she replied, "and in my candid opinion that is still your duty. if, however, you persist in coming to see me i shall make it impossible for you to send me money by going away where you will be unable to find me. i can work. it might be better for me to do so. you can decide." "i shall send you the money," he said stubbornly. "and not attempt to see me--you promise?" "you force me into giving the promise. i can't let my wife work for her living, or starve." she got up from her chair. "very well, then, that is understood. i've taken you by surprise this afternoon. i think i have surprised myself. at present you resent my interference with your conscience. later you will feel the relief. now, though your hour is not yet up, it would be wiser if we said good-bye." he got to his feet. the whole interview had been so unexpected he was feeling a little dazed. "good-bye, jasper." she held out her hand. "good-bye, bridget." then conscience--the officious--spoke. jasper bent forward to kiss his wife. she drew back. "isn't that rather ridiculous?" she asked, with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. jasper flushed. he hated anything approaching ridicule. he had taken her word-slashings quietly. they had not yet even fully penetrated his plate-armour of self-righteousness. "just as you like," he said. "i only thought that as i was not seeing you again----" "three months or a lifetime! it doesn't make much difference to us, does it?" he met her eyes. beneath the look in them his own fell. for the first time in his life he experienced something like genuine shame, not the little meretricious prickings of conscience with which he was wont to bewail his small or imaginary sins. to his great short-comings he was blind. "you hate me?" he asked. "no," she said shortly, "for a wonder, i don't. good-bye." he went to the door, opened it, and passed out. a second later she heard the iron gate clang to, and his receding steps on the pavement. she stood for a moment listening, then turned towards the hearth. she put her hand up to the mantelpiece and gripped it hard. "if only he had helped me," she said. "god, why didn't you let me die with my baby?" chapter ix visitors miss mason was sitting in her studio at four o'clock on sunday afternoon. she was reading a small, red-covered book, within whose pages was enshrined a brief account of the life and work of whistler. at intervals she looked up from her reading to glance round the studio and smile. it was her dream incarnate. she had waited forty-three years for its birth. she realized now that she had always wanted it, had always believed in it. all through the old days in the rose-beds, when she had pruned the trees, when she had grafted new buds, when she had watched the flowers expanding, she had dreamt of this studio. only at moments it had looked real; generally it was far off and shadowy, but always it had been before her, and something had whispered to her heart, "wait; one day it will come." and now it was no faint shadowy dream, but a living reality, and it would bring more glorious realities in its train. nothing could be too wonderful to happen in the castle of her dreams. again she looked round the studio, and again she smiled. she would have liked to sing for happiness, only her voice was too gruff and cracked. she would have liked to dance for joy, only her old legs were too stiff. but she minded neither of these things, for her heart was beating to a little gay secret tune in which joy and thankfulness were woven in delicious harmony. from behind the door that led to the tiny kitchen she heard murmured sounds and an occasional deep laugh. sally's scrappy little note had been answered by the appearance of jim in his sunday-best, shining from the washtub, redolent of yellow soap, every trace of his black weekday occupation removed. they were now cooing like a pair of young turtle-doves in a cage. suddenly miss mason was startled by a knock. a moment later the door which led from the studio to the little vestibule opened, and sally announced: "mr. kirby and mr. oldfield." miss mason's heart fluttered. it is an odd emotion, and now nearly out of fashion. it belonged to the days of "cranford," "evelina," and "sense and sensibility." now all emotions are big and passionate, or calm and well-controlled. there are few gentle excitements left. in spite of the fluttering, miss mason rose to her feet, a quiet dignified old figure. "i am very pleased to see you," she said, and she gave them each her hand with the air of a queen. "sally," she said, "bring tea." she sat down again. there was a little pink flush in her cheeks. for forty-three years she had spoken to no man of her own class except the vicar and doctor. the interview with mr. davis being purely on business did not count. barnabas and dan put their caps on the oak chest beside the sèvres bowl which was filled with the pink roses with whose portraiture miss mason had so sadly failed. then they sat down. there was a moment's pause. even barnabas' mental picture of miss mason--a picture supplied by sally's unconscious imitation of her--had not quite come up to the quaintness of the reality. he felt that he had suddenly stepped back at least a century. there was about the atmosphere a hint of potpourri and long ago half-forgotten days that are laid up in lavender. there was a completeness about the whole thing--from the oak dresser with its blue plates, the sèvres bowl and the pink roses, to the woman in her voluminous black dress, wide white collar, and abundant grey hair covered with the finest of old lace caps--a completeness that only an artist could fully realize, though most people would have felt. she was so extraordinarily ugly too. no ordinary commonplace plainness of feature, but downright ugliness, yet without the smallest trace of repulsiveness in it. it was a fascinating kind of ugliness, and the eyes in the ugly face--they alone were really beautiful--shone like bits of red-brown amber. it is a colour rarely seen. barnabas broke the silence. "your studio," he said, "is charming. dan and i watched the furniture coming in on thursday morning. if it is not impertinent of me, may i congratulate you on it?" "glad you like it," said miss mason. "it's the first studio i've ever seen, but it's the kind i always wanted. have always pictured studios in my mind like this one." "you're lucky in your mental images," said dan. "if you saw ours----" he broke off and shrugged his shoulders. "but perhaps," said miss mason anxiously, "yours is the real thing, and mine----" "yours," said barnabas, "is the dream to which we aspire, and to which we cannot achieve. when you see ours--and we hope you will honour us with your presence--you will realize how very far short of our aspirations they must fall." "but," said miss mason almost wistfully, "you paint real pictures in them." "try to do so," said dan gruffly, "and a few of us succeed. even in that most of us fail as we fail in our furniture. paul and michael are our geniuses." "paul and michael?" queried miss mason. "mr. treherne and mr. chester," explained barnabas. "they live in studios numbers one and three respectively. jasper merton has number five, alan farley number four, dan number two, and mine is number six, next door to you." "the garden with the faun," said miss mason. "the garden with the faun," replied barnabas. and then he got up to move a table for sally, who had come in with the tea-things, blue willow china on a tray covered with the daintiest of damask cloths. she brought in more dishes with cakes and bread and butter, and a copper kettle which was singing its heart out on a little spirit lamp. then she left the room. miss mason warmed the teapot and the tea-cups, measured the tea, and filled the teapot with boiling water. then she took up the sugar-tongs. "sugar?" she asked. "one lump each," said barnabas. she put the little cubes into the cups, poured in milk and tea, and handed the cups to the men. "help yourselves," she said. then she looked up and smiled. "am quite delighted to see you," she said, "but you'll have to do the talking. don't suppose i've spoken more than six words a day for the last twenty years, till the last three weeks. then it has been entirely about furniture. i've got out of the way of conversation." "barnabas will supply the need," said dan. "he has the biggest flow of conversation i've ever met. only it's largely nonsense." "should like nonsense," said miss mason. "never talked nonsense in my life." "no?" queried barnabas politely, his eyes twinkling. then they all three laughed. and in the laugh miss mason forgot that she was trying to hide her shyness, for it suddenly disappeared, and there was nothing left to hide. she forgot that she had never set eyes on the men till ten minutes ago. she was no longer a hostess trying to feel at ease with strangers. she was just a happy woman talking to two happy men, the difference in age forgotten. such a magic god is laughter. and before an hour was over miss mason felt that she knew all about them. not the things in which some people consider the knowledge of their fellow-men to consist--their father's profession, their mother's family, their relationship to various grandees, the towns in which they have lived, the schools at which they have been educated, the number of their brothers and their sisters, all of which, if you come to think of it, are pure accidents, and have nothing to do with the man himself. it was none of these things miss mason learnt. she found out that barnabas had a universal love for nature and his fellow-men, in fact, for everything alive; and that his heart was as sunny as his laugh. and that dan's rather gruff manner hid a heart as tender as a woman's. there were a thousand minor characteristics she would discover by and by, but these were the salient facts, and showed the true man. when they said good-bye it was with a promise from her to visit their studios, and with an assurance from them that the other four men were going to call on her. they did--jasper merton the next day alone; paul, alan, and michael on the tuesday. barnabas and dan had broken the ice for her, and miss mason received them with little trepidation. having come once they came again. and not one of them guessed in what a curious way the influence of the quaint old lady was to be woven into the lives of at least three of them. for the three fates, who sit all day long spinning in three great black chairs, are strange and ancient dames, and they saw in miss mason a kindred spirit. in fact, they laughed to think of her likeness to them as she sat in the carved oak chair in her studio with her knitting in her hands. and miss mason took one and all of the six artists of the courtyard to her heart and loved them spontaneously as a mother loves her sons. but jasper she guessed was unhappy, and she was sorry for him, and she was a tiny bit afraid of michael's tongue and alan she did not quite understand, and paul she was as proud of as if he were truly her son, and dan gave her a delightful feeling of being protected, he was so big, but barnabas--though she loved them all--took the first place in her heart. chapter x the casa di corleone "christopher, darling," said the duchessa di corleone in honeyed accents, "i want you to find an artist for me." "by all means," replied christopher. "where did you lose him?" "my dear christopher," said the duchessa, "he is not lost, because he has never been found. you are to find him--a pleasant, clever, interesting artist." she was sitting in the drawing-room of her house on the embankment. the windows looked on to the river which she loved. the room was full of flowers which she also loved. she arranged them herself in a room off the dining-room, and carried them upstairs in her arms like children. every one who loves and arranges flowers knows that in their transit from one place to another the whole carefully-careless effect of their arrangement may be spoiled. therefore from the moment of entering the strings that tied the great bundles fresh from covent garden, to the moment of placing the vases in the drawing-room, no hand but the duchessa's touched the flowers. and there was no flower in existence whose colour could jar in the room which was a harmony in pale lavender. to have to exclude a flower on account of its colour would have been to sara di corleone like shutting the door on a child because its face was ugly. and being the very essence of womanhood she could have done neither. "and when the artist is found," queried christopher, "may i ask what are your intentions towards him? i have a conscience, sara, though you may not realize the fact, and if you wish to inmesh the young man in your silken toils merely for the pleasure of seeing him wriggle, then i fear duty will oblige me to refrain from helping you in your search." sara smiled. "i want him," she said, "to paint my portrait." "it sounds dangerous--for the artist," said christopher. "may i further ask to whom the portrait is to be presented?" "to the casa di corleone on the banks of lake como," said sara quietly. christopher looked enquiring. "you have never seen the place," said sara, "but i have told you about it." "you have," said christopher. "one day," pursued sara, "you must come with me to see it. then i think you will understand. i want you to see the courtyard with its orange trees and fountains, the little naked marble fauns and the nymphs who stand among them glistening in the sunlight. i want you to see the rooms full of shadows and great patches of sunshine; and the gallery with its pictured men and women of the house of corleone, the dark-eyed haughty women--beauties every one of them--the gay young men and the courtly old ones. i want my portrait to be among them." "yes," said christopher. "it isn't conceit," said sara. "at least i don't think it is. i love that place, christopher. it seems as if it belongs to me--had always belonged to me; i mean, long before i knew giuseppe. i want to think that in the years to come my picture will be hanging there, looking down into the old hall, and that when the door is open i shall catch a glimpse of the courtyard bathed in sunlight, see the gleam of golden oranges and white marble figures, and hear the plashing of the fountain. it's just a fancy." "a fancy," said christopher, with a little gesture, "as charming as yourself." sara laughed. "christopher, i love you. and you ought to have lived in the days of queen elizabeth, or, better still, at the court of france." "i appreciate your affection," said christopher. "one day when we are both in a mad mood we will run away together, and pick oranges from the trees in the courtyard of casa di corleone. and we will play at ball with them across the fountain--golden balls tossed through a shower of silver. the idea appeals to me." "i am glad casa di corleone is mine," said sara, "though mine with reservations." "there was no entail on the estate?" asked christopher. "no; i don't understand the ins and outs of the matter, but it was my husband's to do with as he pleased." "it was thoughtful of the duca to leave it to you," said christopher. "he might have turned it into a home for stray dogs. there are a good many in italy, aren't there?" sara had scarcely heard him. "i liked giuseppe," she said pensively. "but," she added, "better when he was alive. i feel slightly irritable now when i think of him. i dislike feeling irritable. it is a prickly sensation and doesn't suit me." "the will?" asked christopher. "exactly. the will." "but," asked christopher, "you are not thinking of again entering the holy bonds of matrimony?" "nothing," sara assured him, "is further from my thoughts. but--if i wanted to!--think of it, christopher! i lose every centesimo--every single centesimo _and_ casa di corleone. fancy parting with it! besides, there is that ridiculous letter." she looked at him, mock-tragedy in her eyes. "i never heard of any letter," said christopher. "didn't you?" she asked. "it was almost the most provoking thing giuseppe did. it roused my curiosity--i am curious. christopher--with one hand, and took away every possibility of my satisfying it with the other. i can quote the last phrases of the will verbatim." she leant back in her chair, her eyes half-closed, and spoke slowly. "and i further decree that if my wife sara mary di corleone, _née_ de courcy, shall again enter the married state, that she shall immediately forfeit all the money and estates herein willed to her, and shall have no further claim upon them whatsoever. and that they shall, in the case of her marriage, pass into the possession of my nephew, antonio di corleone. and i leave in the hands of my executors--before herein named--a letter, sealed and addressed to my wife the above sara mary di corleone, _née_ de courcy, which letter, in the event of her marriage, shall be given into her hands one hour precisely after the ceremony has taken place. in the event of her demise without re-marriage, the said letter shall be destroyed unopened by and in the presence of the executors above-named. written by me this fourteenth day of january," etc., etc. sara opened her eyes and sat up again. "it was all signed and witnessed just a year before he died. it's all horribly correct. fixed up as firmly as yards of red tape can tie it. and if i marry i lose every centesimo and my beloved casa di corleone, and if i don't marry i shall never see the inside of that letter. did you ever know such a trying situation for a luxury-loving and curious woman in your life?" "i fancy," said christopher, "that the curiosity does not trouble you greatly." "it does not," she confessed. "but the will! you must allow that is annoying. it puts my mind and my affections in a kind of mental strait-jacket. every time i see a charming man----" "me, for instance," said christopher. "no, mercifully not you," said sara. "we are one of the few exceptions that prove the generally accepted rule of the non-existence of platonic friendship between men and women. you are the most delightful combination of friend and father-confessor that ever existed, without--heaven be praised--a trace of the lover. where was i before you interrupted?" "looking at a charming man," said christopher. "oh, yes. whenever i see a charming man i have to tell myself to be careful, to run no risk of my heart getting in the smallest degree involved. i call up mental pictures of coffers upon coffers--thousands of them--crammed with centesimi. i shut my eyes and see the courtyard, the oranges, and the marble fauns, then i open them and look at the charming man and feel more secure. but i daren't run the tiniest risk for fear of the consequences. i can't--" she almost wailed the words, "i can't even flirt." "as your father-confessor," said christopher, "i am glad to hear it." "but think," she protested, "what i lose." "i think," said christopher, "what the man would lose, and have a fellow-feeling for him." "you're very unsympathetic," said sara. "on the contrary, i am very sympathetic--towards the man, who, but for the late duca's will, might be wriggling, as i said before, in your silken toils." there was a silence. "christopher," said sara, suddenly and quite seriously, "do you think i shall ever marry again?" "i most certainly hope you will," replied christopher. "and lose casa di corleone and the coffers of centesimi!" she exclaimed. then again she was back to the serious mood. "why do you hope so, christopher?" for a moment christopher was silent. then he spoke. "because, my dear, i know you and your capabilities. one day you will realize the gift you have in your possession, and in giving it away you will be one of the happiest women on god's earth." she looked at the fire. "i wonder," she mused. "i didn't give very much to giuseppe." "you liked him," smiled christopher. "he was a dear," said sara. "he was extraordinarily considerate, and we were always beautifully polite to each other. but----" "exactly," said christopher. "but---- one day a force will take you prisoner. gifts will be showered on you, and you will shower gifts, and that little word of three letters, which stands for so much, will have no place in your vocabulary." "and i shall give up everything?" she queried below her breath. "you will give up everything, because you will have gained everything," he said. "how do you know all this?" she asked. christopher lifted his shoulders the tiniest fraction. "there is some knowledge," he said, "which is born in one, and of which one need no experience in this incarnation. probably i brought mine with me from the experience of ages long ago." again there was a silence. outside there was a clack of horses' hoofs, the roll of carriages, the hoot of taxis, all the sounds of london to which one grows so accustomed that one hears them even less than one hears the humming of insects in a sunny garden. and away below the window was the river, gliding grey and noiseless to the sea. it was a november day with a hint of fog in the atmosphere. a fire was burning in the room in which the two were sitting, and great yellow chrysanthemums like patches of sunlight were in bowls set on the tables. and in the silence the woman was looking almost for the first time into her heart with a kind of wonder for what she might find hidden there. and the man, whose nature was one of queer self-analysis, was marvelling that his feeling towards the woman near him held nothing but strong affection and a curious interest in her vivid and unusual personality. perhaps the cause lay in the fact that he had known her from childhood, and seen her gradual development. she had never flashed unexpected and meteor-like across his path. suddenly she looked up at him with one of her individual smiles--a smile that lit up her eyes before it found its way to her lips. "we have wandered a long way from my request," she said. "to find an artist for you?" said christopher. "oh, i know a man." "yes?" she asked, all interest. "what is he like?" "clever," said christopher, "pleasant, and--yes, i think you'll find him interesting. i think those were your three requirements." "what is his name?" "his name," said christopher, "is paul treherne, and he lives at a studio about ten minutes' walk from here." "paul treherne," she said slowly, dwelling on the words. "i like that name. is he as nice as his name?" "i shall leave you to judge," replied christopher. "you had better bring him to see me," she said. "to-morrow at tea-time will do. you can ring me up in the morning and tell me if he is coming." "very well." he glanced towards the clock on the mantelpiece, a beautiful little french clock. the hands pointed to half-past three. "i must go," he said. "i've an appointment at my club. i'll go round to the studio first." he got up from his chair. "then you can telephone from the club," said sara. "i am not going out again till this evening." "very well." he held out his hand. "i hope he will be able to come," said sara. "i like his name." "you are not to fall in love with him," said christopher warningly, "or let him fall in love with you." "i wonder," said sara. "remember casa di corleone and the golden oranges." sara smiled. "i thought," she said, "that one day i was to forget them." chapter xi a meeting there comes a day in the lives of some of us when everything appears as if it were pursuing its ordinary and normal course. we get up in the morning and go through the usual routine--bath, dressing, breakfast, all the little accustomed trivialities which have happened thousands of times in our lives already, and which will doubtless happen thousands of times again. we feel gay or dull as we have felt thousands of times before, and we think, or we don't think, of the various occupations that will go to make up our day, and we never guess that before sunset we shall have our hand on a door--a door that when opened is to lead the way into clouds of sorrow, or gild our life suddenly with the radiant light of joy. so silently do the fates work, so secret do they keep their intentions from us. paul got up that morning as usual at seven o'clock. he had his usual cold bath, which most people would have found uncomfortably chilly on a november morning, but in which paul found merely a refreshing sting. he rubbed himself dry while humming an air from "the arcadians," and then put on his clothes. he went into his studio and found his usual breakfast of coffee and rolls ready for him. while he ate it he looked into a neat brown pocket-book to refresh his memory as to his engagements for the day. a small girl was coming to sit for him at ten o'clock. her name was marjorie arnold. she was possessed of personality and a fascinating dimple. he had caught the personality, but the dimple had hitherto eluded him. it was extremely fleeting in its appearance. he hoped to catch it and place it on canvas that morning. there was only one other entry for the day--" . . c.c." it meant that christopher charlton was coming for him that afternoon, and would take him to call on the duchessa di corleone, who desired to have her portrait painted. he felt a certain amount of interest as to the duchessa's appearance, but it was only an interest he had felt dozens of times before concerning possible commissions. christopher had said she was good-looking. so were a good many people who were no use to paul as subjects. he painted only those who interested him. from the others--and there were many--he politely evaded accepting commissions. he was very much an artist, was paul. and for this reason partly his income was considerably below the amount his genius warranted. the other reason was that there were many people who did not consider his portraits to be likenesses. at ten o'clock the child appeared with the nurse, who was dismissed for a couple of hours, and armed with brushes and palette paul set to work to catch the fleeting dimple. the child--she was five years old--was in a solemn mood. smiles, and with them the dimple, had temporarily vanished. she was a quaint little thing with red hair and freckles, and a fascinating ugliness generally termed the _beauté de diable_. paul told her half a dozen stories, including "the three bears", "the frog prince", and rudyard kipling's "stute little fish." but neither the squeakiness of the little bear, the faithlessness of the princess, nor the sufferings of the whale when the shipwrecked mariner danced hornpipes in his inside had any effect on the dimple. "suppose," said paul at last, "that you tell me a story." the face was even more solemn. "i don't know one." "make up one," suggested paul. there was the ghost of a smile, then solemnity. the flash of hope paul had experienced died away. "onst upon a time," she began gravely, "vere was a little dog _an'_ a little duck. an' vey grewed wings, an' vey flewed up an' up an' up to heaven to god." there was a pause for effect. "what a height," said paul admiringly, watching her face. "what happened next?" "when vey got vere," went on the voice solemnly, "you bet vey wanted to see round. but god said, 'not to-day, i guess i'm busy. it's my last day up here.' it was. 'cos ve next day--god died. isn't vat a nice story?" no trace of a dimple. paul was exasperated. "not a bit a nice story," he said sternly. "and god couldn't die." she put her head on one side and looked at him. "well, not weally, of course. but ve little dog an' ve little duck had never _seen_ anybody die, an' vey wanted to. so god showed them." she was laughing at him now in childish triumph, a very imp of mischief. "eureka!" cried paul. and his brush flew to the canvas. such are the trials and triumphs of portrait painters. "come and look at it," said paul after ten minutes. she scrambled down from the chair and platform and came round. a small mocking face of pure wickedness looked at her from the canvas. her own. "do you see it?" said paul, pointing at it with his brush. "and but for your profane little story there would never have been exactly that expression on your face. we wait for our moments, we artists, and we catch them--sometimes. and now," he continued, "you can have a stick of chocolate and brown your face up to the eyebrows with it. i have finished your portrait, and therefore done with you. i don't care what happens to you now." that was paul. during the time of painting he sought for intimate knowledge of his subjects. every tiniest characteristic, every fleeting expression, were noted and stored up in his memory. he could almost have told you their life history from his minute observation of faces. he knew his subjects as few of their intimate friends knew them. he guessed their hidden secrets with a power that was almost uncanny--secrets known only to their own souls--and put the secrets on his canvas. and it was for this reason that many people did not consider the portraits to be likenesses. he painted the real person, not merely the mask they wore to the world at large. this fact had been particularly emphasized in his portrait of a certain statesman--one lord st. aubyn. the statesman has nothing to do with the rest of this story, but the incident as far as paul is concerned is interesting. st. aubyn was a man who was much before the public, and no less than five portraits of him had been commissioned by different societies as a token of their personal gratitude. four of these, but for the individuality of technique, might have been replicas one of the other, and gave instant satisfaction alike to donors and public. they showed a man with regular features and deep-set eyes, leaning to the accepted military type, a resolute mouth, and a certain air of distinction and command. one felt that a sculptor of the "classic convention" would have expressed the type even more admirably. reserve was there, but with no hint of mystery or evasion; intellectuality, but little imagination. the fifth portrait by paul was, one would have said, of another man. it was a picture that seemed alive with a strange and slightly repellent magnetism, for the eyes smiled at a stranger with a baffling mockery; they seemed to invite and yet defy his judgment--to taunt him with his impotence and read the soul behind them. it had been received on exhibition with a storm of outspoken criticism; while the benevolent trustees who had commissioned it, though refraining from audible dissatisfaction, had maintained so eloquent a silence at their private view, glancing at each other with liftings of eyebrows and pursing of lips, that paul had flung round upon them and relieved their embarrassment by declaring the contract to be null and void. no reasons were asked for or given; the action was taken as a tacit admission of failure. yet paul himself had seemed not ill-satisfied, and had met the chaff which had greeted him from many of his circle with equanimity. landor, one of the circle, whose portrait of st. aubyn in the previous academy had been hailed as a most masterly piece of work, had ventured a serious protest. "my dear fellow," he had said one evening, "you're letting your imagination play tricks with you. it's becoming an absolute disease. i made a most careful study of the man--made him give me innumerable sittings, and i pledge you my word that i put everything into the face that i could find. you had three sittings, and god only knows what you've put there." paul had smoked for a few moments in silence. "perhaps you've hit it," he had said. "i've nothing to say against your 'portrait of a rising statesman.' it's a fine piece of work. but you know all about the factories sanitation amendment act, and i can read sub-section ten in your handling of the chin. now i don't read the papers, and i know nothing of the man. i tried to get at him and he shut the door in my face. yet something came through the keyhole and the cracks by the hinges, and i have painted that. and, as you say, god only knows what i've put in his face; i don't. and in spite of that--or perhaps because of it--what i've put there happens to be the truth." "but what have you done with the picture?" landor had asked. "the benevolent refused it, didn't they?" "now you're getting coarse," had been paul's reply. "we agreed to differ as to its suitability." "then where is it?" "in st. aubyn's study, i believe," had been the careless reply. "he bought it, then?" "i gave it to him." landor had looked at paul, and had refrained from putting further questions. there had been an expression in paul's face which might have made them appear an impertinence. the gift of the picture had come about in rather a curious way. paul never let his sitters see unfinished work, and st. aubyn had left town immediately after the third sitting, and had not returned till the exhibition was over. then he had gone to paul's studio and had seen the picture. he had made one remark, but that was eloquent. "how did you find out?" he had said. paul had looked at him, and the next moment the mask had been on again, and he had been talking business. "you've sold this portrait, haven't you?" he had asked. "unfortunately not," paul had replied. "it seems to give offence to your numerous admirers." "then, if you will allow me, i should like to become the purchaser," had been the reply. paul had looked at him. "it's not for sale," he had said. st. aubyn had bowed and taken up his hat without so much as looking disappointed. "but i'll send it round to your house to-morrow," paul had said. st. aubyn had refused. he had talked polite platitudes regarding the value of the work. "now you're talking stock exchange," paul had told him. "the latest marked quotation is absolutely nil. no one will look at it. as a piece of property it is worthless. as a revelation----" he had stopped. st. aubyn had smiled. "i deal in revelations--professionally," he said. that had told paul the secret he had already guessed. "what a head-line for the evening papers," he had said whimsically. "'a peer's secret! threatened exposure by eminent artist!' but i'm not a blackmailer, and i don't take hush-money. the picture is yours or no one's." they had argued a little more. at last st. aubyn had taken it. "and about the inscription?" it had been paul's parting shot. "from a painter to a----?" st. aubyn had shaken his head. "experience is against endorsements, however cryptic, on secret documents," he had said. "sooner or later the cipher is sure to be read." and he had gone away, leaving paul the sole possessor of his secret, a secret which paul had summed up in one brief sentence addressed to a chinese idol on his mantelpiece. "the man, god help him, is a poet." a month later he had received a small volume of poems addressed in a hand in which he had already received three short notes agreeing to sittings. the verses--true poetry--were written under a _nom de plume_. what st. aubyn's reason was for keeping his poetical talent a secret from the world paul never knew. the volume came to him in silence from the author; he respected the silence, attempting no word of thanks. and the secret his insight had wrested from the man went with other secrets somewhere away in the hidden recesses of his mind, while his work alone absorbed him. he never pursued his knowledge of men and women further. it sufficed--or seemed to suffice him--to portray that knowledge on canvas, and leave it for those to read who had the heart to do so. as he had passed before among men and women of varied nationalities, making no real friends, so he passed now among varied types, noting them, painting them, and dismissing them, still making no friend. the lonely reserve he had gained in his wanderings pursued him now. he could not throw it off. barnabas and dan were nearer true friendship with him than any, and more because they had silently accepted him for their friend than from any advance on his part. it seemed that he could make none. the solitude of the plains, the loneliness of big spaces, seemed to have claimed his spirit. and so he painted portraits, from statesmen to small girls, gaining intimate knowledge of them, while no one yet had learnt to know the real paul. * * * * * it was very much later in the day, long after marjorie had departed led by an indignant nurse muttering to herself regarding the carelessness of "them artists," for not only marjorie's face, but her best white dress was covered with various smears of brown chocolate--it was long after this that paul looked once more at his pocket-book. he looked at it to make sure that the hour christopher would arrive for him was four-fifteen, and not four o'clock. the former was there plainly inscribed, written by paul with a small gold pencil. there were just two entries for that day--friday, november th, "m.a. o'clock" and " . o'clock. c.c." little did paul think as he looked at it that he would treasure that small page as one would treasure one's passage to heaven. christopher arrived at the studio punctually to the second, and found paul ready for him. the two turned into oakley street and came down towards the embankment. it was already past sunset, and the houses and river were shrouded in a soft mist. they reached the house near swan walk and went up the steps. "the duchessa di corleone at home?" asked christopher of the footman who opened the door. "will you come this way, sir," was the answer, and he led them up the wide shallow stairs. he threw open a door. paul saw a room of pale lavenders, with the chrysanthemums like patches of sunlight. a woman rose from a chair by the fire and came forward to greet them. the window was behind her as she came forward, and the room being in twilight he could not see her face distinctly, but he saw the outlines of her graceful figure, and caught the glint of her red-brown hair. she held out her hand. "it is very charming of you to come and see me, mr. treherne," she said. "pietro, the lights." paul heard the sound of three or four tiny clickings near the door, and the room became full of a soft mellow light. had the light been a trifle brighter, or her voice a shade less natural, the whole thing might have verged on the theatrical. as it was, it was simply a revelation to paul as, for the first time, he saw the duchessa di corleone. she stood before him smiling--a smile that just lit up her eyes and trembled on her mouth. he saw that her skin was smooth like ivory, that her lips were crimson like wine beneath oiled silk, that her hair was the colour of a chestnut newly wrested from its sheath. all this paul saw almost without realizing it. for suddenly his heart heard a tune--one that is played silently throughout the ages, and to most of us the hearing of the tune comes slowly and gradually, a note at a time. but to a few--as to paul--it comes suddenly, played in full melody. he felt vaguely that he had been waiting for that tune all his life, listening for it on the plains, in the silence of the night under the stars. but he merely bowed and said in the most ordinary and conventional voice in the world: "it was very good of you to ask me to come and see you." for paul did not yet know the meaning of the tune. in his lonely life he had never before even heard an imitation of it. and because the music was very strange and very beautiful he listened to it with something like awe. and then he heard christopher's voice. "i ought to have told you, sara, that mr. treherne is an artist of strange moods, and that sometimes he refuses--in the most polite and diplomatic way, of course--to accept commissions." the duchessa looked at paul. "i don't think mr. treherne will refuse to paint my portrait. at least i hope not." "i shall be honoured to paint it," paul replied. the words were conventional. since he intended to accept the commission it was very nearly the only phrase he could have used, yet there was something in his utterance of the words that seemed just to lift them from the commonplace. perhaps it was the direct way in which he spoke them. paul had generally a very direct manner of speech. anyhow, sara glanced at him, and an indefinable something in his eyes caused an odd little movement in her heart. the room in which they were sitting seemed suddenly brighter, the chrysanthemums a more beautiful colour, the logs on the fire more than usually crackly and pleasant. for so it is that two people who are complete strangers to each other sometimes meet and in some subtle way, and without realizing it at the time, the whole world has altered for them. and the invisible gods laughed softly, and the grim old fates smiled, and drew two threads of their weaving, which had hitherto had nothing to do with each other, a little closer together. before paul left the house on the embankment it was arranged that the duchessa should come to his studio the following morning at eleven o'clock for her first sitting. chapter xii princess pippa awakes miss mason threw a large shovelful of coal on to the fire, then turned to barnabas, who was sitting astride on a chair, his arms resting on its back, and looking at her with a slight twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "it's all very well for you to smile, barnabas," she said energetically, "but if my model hadn't failed me, do you suppose for one moment that i should allow you to be sitting there wasting my morning, and incidentally wasting your own?" "no waste, dear aunt olive," said barnabas imperturbably. he had calmly given her the title one day, and it had been adopted by the five other artists of the courtyard. it had pleased miss mason immensely, though she occasionally pretended to look upon it as an impertinence. "no waste, dear aunt olive. the enormous benefit i invariably derive from your conversation is of incalculably greater advantage to me than the time i should otherwise spend in dabbing paint on canvas. the canvas is always destroyed at the end of two hours, unless the subject happens to be a commission. your conversation abides for ever engraven on my memory." "barnabas, you're a fool," retorted miss mason. "besides, if you were not here i should paint a still life." "oranges against a green or blue earthenware jar--i know," said barnabas sorrowfully. "dear aunt, _cui bono_? you have dozens of oranges already on canvas, to say nothing of the blue and green jars. you could paint them in your sleep. why make another representation of them?" "don't mock at my work," said miss mason severely. "you have a lifetime before you, and can afford to waste mornings. i cannot. remember my age." "i'll try to do so, since you wish it," returned barnabas. "it is, however, the one thing i invariably forget." "nonsense," said miss mason. "however, if you won't go, where is my knitting? i can't sit entirely idle." she took a bundle of white woolwork from a side table. two steel knitting-needles were stuck into it. she sat down in the big oak chair by the fire, and in a moment the needles were clicking busily. she looked more like one of the three fates than ever. and somewhere away in a back street a scrap of humanity must have heard the clicking needles, and a thread of white wool must have stretched out invisibly to draw it towards the hands that held them. though at the moment miss mason knitted serenely unconscious of the fact. barnabas watched her in silence. "for the poor?" he asked politely, after a couple of minutes. "babies," said miss mason shortly. "they get little enough welcome, poor mites; but knowing that a white jacket with a bit of blue ribbon run through it is waiting for them, helps the mothers to look forward to their advent with a certain degree of pleasure. it's curious, the effect of little things." "i should hardly have thought----" began barnabas. "of course you wouldn't," interrupted miss mason. "you've never had a baby. neither have i, for the matter of that." she looked up and caught barnabas' eyes fixed on her. "barnabas, you're disgraceful!" she exclaimed. "i never know what i say when i begin to talk to you." "therein lies the charm of your conversation," he assured her. "it is always so unpremeditated." "huh!" said miss mason, and she returned to her knitting. she looked exactly the same as she had looked six months previously, except that there was a new and curious radiance about her eyes. they looked as if they were absorbing happiness, and giving it forth again in actual light. also her black dress had given place to a grey one. the style being unprocurable at any modern shop, she had engaged a sewing-woman to make it for her. the woman was firmly persuaded that miss mason was quite mad, but finding her an extremely generous customer, she was perfectly ready to seam grey cashmere into any pattern miss mason might require. she had once gone so far as to announce that the costume was picturesque. something in her manner as she made the statement had annoyed miss mason. "picturesque! nothing of the kind!" miss mason had retorted. "it is serviceable and comfortable, and suited to a woman of my age. some women of sixty make fools of themselves in a couple of yards of silk nineteen inches wide. i make a fool of myself in twelve yards of cashmere forty inches wide. that's all the difference. but i prefer my own folly." and the sewing-woman had retired crestfallen. "i saw paul yesterday," remarked barnabas after a moment. "i like him," said miss mason succinctly. "so do i," returned barnabas. "he is so refreshingly clean. he always looks as if he had just completed a toilette in which baths, aromatic soap, and hair-brushes had played an important part." "yet he manages to escape looking shiny," said miss mason. "we all take baths," went on barnabas thoughtfully; "at least, i hope so. but with the majority of people one has to take the fact of their scrupulous cleanliness more on faith than by sight. with paul it is so extraordinarily apparent." "what is he doing at the moment?" asked miss mason. "painting the portrait of a certain duchessa di corleone. i happened to see the lady leaving the studio. she is remarkably beautiful. paul has the devil's own luck. i have to spend my time painting middle-aged women with hair groomed by their maids till they look like barbers' blocks, or pink-cheeked girls with a perpetual smile." "don't paint them if you dislike doing it," said miss mason. "dear aunt olive, i must." "no such thing. you have an excellent private income." "i grant you that. it is, however, not the point. i am a portrait painter. it is my _métier_. to be a portrait painter one must paint portraits. the two things are inseparable." "paint models, then," said miss mason. "choose your subject." "it is not the same thing," replied barnabas gravely. "a model who is paid for sitting does not rank with a creature who pays one to immortalize their material features on canvas. to say i have a model coming to sit for me this morning is nothing. to say the lady mayoress of so-and-so comes to my study at eleven o'clock this morning is quite another matter. at first your fellow-artists say, 'pure swank on his part.' but when eleven o'clock arrives, and with it the lady mayoress in a gold coach with four horses and velvet-breeched lackeys with cocked hats--why, then the whole thing assumes totally different proportions. i am regarded in a new light. i become a person of importance among my fellow-men. i gaze upon a double chin, boot-button eyes, and a smile that won't come off, enduring mental torture thereby, in order that later i may strut from my studio with an air of swagger, and hear myself spoken of as 'john kirby, the portrait painter.' and once more i ask you, how can one attain to the distinction of portrait painter if one does not paint portraits?" "barnabas, you're ridiculous," said miss mason. "you talk of nothing seriously, not even your art which you love. but if you could be serious for ten minutes, i'd like to ask you about a scheme i have in my mind." there was a little hesitancy in the last words. barnabas looked up quickly. "i'm attending," he said gravely. "you know," said miss mason quietly, "that for a woman who spends as little as i do i am very rich." barnabas nodded. "i thought you must have a good bit of money," he said, glancing round the studio. miss mason followed the direction of his glance. "that was rather--what you would call a splurge--on my part," said miss mason. "fact is, i have about fifteen thousand a year. if i spend two in the year it will be all i shall do." "yes," said barnabas gravely. "of course," went on miss mason, growing gruffer as she became more in earnest, "i've told you how much i care for art. suppose i inherited the love of it from my father. see now, it's little use loving it if one doesn't get the chance to work when one's young--i mean as far as one's own creation is concerned. get a lot of pleasure dabbing paint on canvas, making pictures of oranges, and drawing charcoal heads. but the time's past for me to do anything serious in that line. glad you're honest enough not to contradict me. been thinking, though, that there must be others who would like the chance. care so much myself, would like to help them." she stopped. "a ripping idea," said barnabas warmly. "thought," went on miss mason, "that if five thousand pounds a year went for that purpose it'd be something--give twenty would-be artists the chance, anyhow. each would-be artist to have an income of two hundred and fifty pounds for five years while they are studying--longer if you thought well. then another to take their place. want them to be people who'd really care. love the work. want you to help me. don't rush the matter. if you can find the right people let me know. you're a young man. would like to appoint you as my executor in the scheme. you could carry on the work. would like, though, to see it started." miss mason looked anxiously at barnabas. the little speech had cost her a great effort. it was the outcome of the thought of many weeks. barnabas met her look. "there's nothing i should like better than to help you in the scheme," he said warmly. "it's fine. by jingo! twenty men to have their chance every five years. think of it!" "am ready to include women too," said miss mason, "as long as"--she continued, getting gruffer than ever--"they aren't giving up other duties to it. might find some women glad to have a chance too. would have liked it myself. you go about among people. can let me know later. don't rush it." "it's fine," said barnabas again. "aunt olive, you're a brick!" the boyish compliment brought the colour to miss mason's cheeks. "glad you like the idea," she said. a sudden gust of wind tore round the studio, and a torrential shower, half of sleet, half of hail, beat down upon the skylight. "abominable weather!" said miss mason, clicking her knitting-needles furiously. she did not even now guess how near to her the scrap of humanity had been drawn by the thread of white wool. "we have much for which to be thankful," began barnabas piously, "a blazing fire, a roof----" his further reflections were interrupted by a knock on the door. "see who it is, will you?" said miss mason. "sally is busy. if it is a beggar send him or her away. i don't encourage them." barnabas grinned broadly, knowing the untruth of the statement. he heaved himself off the chair and went towards the door. there was a moment's parley. then he returned, followed by a small and weird figure. its sex was indistinguishable. a man's coat frayed and torn reached to the top of a pair of patched boots many sizes too large for the feet they covered, a man's slouched hat hid nearly the whole of the face. "it says it is a model," announced barnabas. "its language is a mixture of french and broken english." miss mason let her knitting fall. "a model!" she exclaimed, looking at the odd creature. the figure in the old coat saw the fire. it made an instant dart towards it. "ah!" the sigh was one of intense satisfaction. the hands, hidden by the frayed coat-sleeves, were held out towards the leaping flames. "you're cold?" asked miss mason quickly. the figure nodded its head. "who sent you to me?" she demanded. "personne. but i know keetie jenkins 'as been model for you. she tell me you ask 'er when you bring ze baby ze white jacket. mrs. jenkins 'as taken keetie away, so i tink i do instead of keetie." "huh," grunted miss mason. "haven't seen you yet. so the jenkinses have gone, have they? that accounts for kitty failing me this morning. they might have taken the trouble to let me know." the small figure by the fire raised its head quickly. miss mason and barnabas had a glimpse of a pointed chin and a scarlet mouth. "mrs. jenkins she is too un'appy. you see georgie 'e is dead." "georgie! never heard of him. who was he?" demanded miss mason. "'er little boy." the reply came seriously. "'e die of doing too many lessons. mrs. jenkins say keetie not die zat way. she 'as gone to ze country, where ze 'spectors not so 'ticular, she say." "a unique death," remarked barnabas gravely. "i don't fancy many little boys die of that complaint. have you ever posed before?" "mais, oui." the head was nodded vigorously. "sall i pose for you?" "don't know what you're like yet," said miss mason. "there is a proverb, o infant," supplemented barnabas, "which instructs one never to buy a pig in a poke. acting on that principle, it is impossible for us to decide on a model attired as you are. therefore----" he broke off. "oh, my tings," she nodded gravely. "i take zem off." the figure tossed the slouched hat on to a chair. it was followed by the coat and the boots, which later were kicked off, disclosing bare feet small and well-arched. there stood before them a slip of a girl-child, in a faded green frock, black hair cut square on the forehead and at the nape of the neck, after the fashion of some mediæval page, the face white, with pointed chin and geranium-coloured mouth, eyes grey with pupils large and very black. she might have been about nine years old. she raised her hands to the back of her neck, unfastening mysterious strings. before miss mason was aware of her intention, she slid suddenly out of her clothes and stood on the hearthrug before them, naked as the day on which she was born. "_bien?_" she queried. miss mason gave a faint shriek. "barnabas, turn your back and leave the studio at once. i never paint a nude model. it is against all my principles to do so. put on your clothes again at once, child. barnabas, stop laughing. i know you're perfectly brazen on the subject. remember, in spite of my age, i'm an unmarried woman." barnabas picked up a piece of scarlet silk drapery from the model stand and flung it round the child, who was looking from him to miss mason in astonishment. when she was enveloped in its folds he spoke. "miss mason, my child, is not used to seeing little girls in their birthday attire. it surprised her. she has a penchant for petticoats and frocks, to say nothing of stockings. she might, however, be persuaded to paint you draped as you now are. you look, by the way, uncommonly like a scarlet poppy." the child looked gravely at barnabas. "she not paint se altogezzer?" she demanded. "precisely. she does not paint what the immortal trilby termed 'the altogether,' which phrase you have just made your own." the child nodded her head. "mais, oui. some peoples zey do not. i hear monsieur thiery say one time it _toute à fait extraordinaire_ zat some peoples 'shamed to look at ze greatest 'andiwork of god. i did not know, me, zat ze peoples who live in ze _vrais ateliers_ zey tink it shame." "we all have our little prejudices," said barnabas lightly. "naked little girls is apparently one of miss mason's." he smiled whimsically at that lady. "shall we paint this infant?" he asked her. "can the woolly jackets be put on one side, and may i fetch my palette?" "if you like," said miss mason shortly. "it's nice of you not to laugh at my prejudices, barnabas." "there are moments when i rather like them," he assured her. and he vanished from the studio. when he returned it was to find miss mason kneeling by a low chair on which the child was seated. the red silk was off the shoulders, and miss mason was sponging an ugly bruise on the child's back. she turned her head as barnabas entered. "look at this," she said in a low, indignant voice. "who did it?" asked barnabas. "some brute she calls mrs. higgins." miss mason's voice augured ill for that lady, had she been at hand. "mrs. 'iggins drunk," said the child patiently. "she often drunk. ver' drunk last night." miss mason put some ointment on the bruise, and covered it with a piece of soft linen. then she wrapped the red silk again round the child. she sat down in the big chair and drew the child to her. "now, little one," she said, speaking in french, "tell us all about it." "oh!" cried the child rapturously, "you speak french." her face had gone crimson with excitement. "tell us everything," said miss mason. it came then, an odd little story, scrappily told. her name was pippa. she had lived in paris with madame barbin. madame barbin washed clothes till they were white--oh, but very white. pippa had posed for artists. she loved madame barbin, but she had died--a year, perhaps two years, ago. madame fournier had taken care of her then. she did not like madame fournier, who was cross. then madame fournier had brought her in a ship to england. perhaps that was a year ago. anyhow, it was cold weather. they had lived in different houses, and finally at mrs. higgins' house, and pippa had posed for different artists in london. some time in the summer, madame fournier had gone away, leaving pippa with mrs. higgins. she had not come back. mrs. higgins was angry--very angry, according to pippa. she beat her occasionally, but not always very badly. bruises were likely to be seen on one who poses for "the altogether." lately, however, mrs. higgins had been too angry to remember that fact. hence the bruises of the previous evening. in reply to further questioning it was found that pippa knew no one she had ever called father or mother. there were only madame barbin, madame fournier, mrs. higgins, and the names of quite a good many well-known artists for whom she had posed. she also stated that she washed herself every morning, though mrs. higgins said it was "un'ealthy." and she washed and dried her underclothes when mrs. higgins was away at the public-houses, where she spent most of her time. "yes," miss mason nodded. "the child is clean, at all events." and then suddenly at the end of the recital, pippa swayed a little sideways, and if barnabas had not sprung forward she would have fallen on the hearthrug. as it was, she lay in his arms, her face dead white against the scarlet folds of silk. in a word, pippa had fainted. barnabas laid her flat on the hearthrug and opened the door and windows. miss mason fetched brandy and a large cut-glass bottle of smelling-salts, which she held to the child's nose, making a curious clucking sound with her tongue, and lamenting that there were no feathers handy to burn. but presently, in spite of the lack of feathers, pippa opened her eyes. then barnabas put a question. "when did you last have food?" he asked, watching her. pippa put up a small hand to her forehead and pushed back the dark hair. "yesterday," she said feebly. "bread and treacle"--she rolled the r's in a funny way--"at dinner-time." "and nothing since then!" cried miss mason in horror. "oh! that mrs. higgins!" but barnabas was already in the kitchen issuing commands to sally. "bread, sally, quick. cut it in small pieces and put them in a saucepan with lots of milk. is there a good fire? yes. ever made bread and milk in your life before?" and sally flew round. ten minutes later barnabas and miss mason were feeding a small famished girl, who was looking at them as if they were gods from another world, and at the bread and milk as if it were the nectar and ambrosia they had brought with them. and when the blue basin was empty barnabas lifted pippa in his arms, and guided by miss mason, carried her into the inner room, and laid her like a little broken poppy in miss mason's bed. together they tucked her in, and saw the white eyelids close slowly over the great grey eyes. then they went out into the studio. and barnabas threw the man's coat and hat, and the old boots into a corner. the other garments he put on the model stand. "i shall come back by and by," he said, "and see how the small creature is getting on." he looked in twice during the day to find that she was still asleep. it was after sunset when he came the third time, and it was to find her sitting near the fire eating a delicious brown egg and slices of bread and butter, while miss mason was telling her that most entrancing of fairy tales--"the sleeping beauty." barnabas sat down and waited. every now and then he looked at the child with a puzzled expression in his eyes. suddenly he threw back his head. he very nearly whistled. something that had eluded him had been discovered. the egg and the story were finished. there came a silence. the child's eyes wandered round the studio. they lighted on the faded green dress lying on the model stand. a queer little look of sadness that should be foreign to a child's face crept back into her eyes. she slid down from her chair, and stood solemnly before miss mason. "i tank you bof ver' much," she said, with a quaint air of courtesy. "but now i put on zem tings and go back to mrs. 'iggins." she smiled a brave little smile, sadder than any tears or protests. barnabas felt a sudden odd grip at his throat. miss mason spoke suddenly and firmly. "no," she said, "you are not going back to mrs. higgins." the child looked at her with wondering eyes. "you mean----?" she said. "that you are going to stay here with me," said miss mason decisively. "barnabas, you must help me to arrange it." the child's face quivered. "oh!" she cried, with a laugh that held a sob, "i tink i like dat princess. she sleep and sleep, and she wake up when ze prince kiss her, and ze world all ver' 'appy. and i so 'appy just all ze same, wisout no prince kiss me." and then barnabas did a queer thing. he put his arm round the child and kissed her lips. chapter xiii at the world's end barely half an hour after miss mason's sudden decision barnabas set out for a small and rather unwholesome street somewhere in the direction of the world's end. it was given by pippa as the locality in which mrs. higgins had her residence. it was not entirely on miss mason's account that barnabas was anxious to make further enquiries regarding the child. as he walked along the king's road, with its pavement slippery and muddy from the feet of many passers-by, his mind travelled back to memories which pippa's face had awakened in him. they were memories some fourteen or fifteen years old, of the time when he was a young art student. a scene he had almost forgotten came clearly back to him. he saw a big class-room full of easels and men working and smoking. he saw himself, very young, very full of enthusiasm, yet at the moment very full of despair. he saw himself looking with disgust at his own somewhat feeble attempt to reproduce on canvas the figure of the nude model who was standing on the platform before him. he saw the master coming near, and heard his words. they were few but sarcastic. he had felt that the whole room was listening to them. first an insane desire to sink into the floor had overwhelmed him, then a feeling that he had better take his canvas and brushes and fling them into the river. it had been mere presumption on his part to dream of art as a career. he had seen the other figures in the room through a kind of hazy blur. the voice of the master as he went from easel to easel had come to him as through cotton-wool. he did not notice that almost equally sarcastic remarks were being levelled at the other canvases, and were being received by their owners with indifference or with good-humoured laughter. he had heard the door close presently as the master left the room. then he heard a voice at his elbow--a curiously musical voice: "it's a pity saltby looks upon sarcasm in the light of instruction in art. he can paint quite decently himself, but he has no more notion of teaching than a tom cat." barnabas remembered that he had turned to look at the speaker, and had seen a dark foreign-looking man standing beside him. the man had looked at him sharply. "that fellow has worried you," he said. "they're just calling rest. come along out and have a smoke." barnabas remembered following him into the corridor. he remembered the curious feeling of restful strength the man had given him as they walked up and down together. "i'm going to give you a bit of advice," he had said suddenly. "remember this, that the opinion of one man, even if he happens to be your master, counts for nothing. the moment you touch any art--painting, sculpture, music, or literature--you're laying yourself open to criticism, and you'll find any amount of it adverse. don't let it discourage you. if you've got the inner conviction that you can do something, forge ahead and do it. don't be damped by adverse criticism. if you can learn from it, learn; but don't let it kill the germ of belief in yourself." "but can't one be mistaken in the belief that one can do something?" barnabas remembered asking. "if you are mistaken you'll find it out for yourself," the man had replied earnestly. "my dear boy, the men who can't, and never will, do anything are those who are so cocksure of themselves that they are impervious to sarcasm and every adverse criticism under the sun. it simply doesn't hurt them. it does hurt us. it touches us on the raw. but we've got to go on. you felt like chucking the whole thing just now. i'll be bound it wasn't exactly that your self-vanity was wounded, but because you felt that it had been utterly presumptuous of you ever to have attempted to lift your eyes to the immortal goddess. my dear boy, she loves men to look at her and worship her, from however far off. it's those who say they are paying her homage, but who all the time are looking at and worshipping themselves, for whom she has no use. go on worshipping her. keep big ideas before you and one day you may get near the foot of her throne. it's not given to many to touch her knees. but to worship at the foot of the throne is something. why, even to look at her from afar is worth years of struggle. saltby keeps one eye on her i grant, but he keeps the other on himself, and it makes him the damned conceited and sarcastic ass he is...." barnabas seemed to hear the voice distinctly, to feel the magnetism of the man who had spoken the words so many years ago. he remembered later in the evening hearing two students speaking of the man. "kostolitz is a weird chap," one had said; "mad as a hatter." "spends half his time like a tramp," said the other, "going around the country and writing poetry, and the other half in sculpting. every now and then he takes it into his head to come in here and draw a bit. he says it freshens him up to see beginners on their way to fame." barnabas remembered that kostolitz had come to him at the end of the morning and had suggested their walking back to chelsea together. it had been the beginning of their friendship. the man's face came persistently before him this evening as he pursued his way towards the world's end. other little speeches of his returned to his mind. "i love colour," he seemed to hear him saying, "but i can't work in paints. they aren't my medium. i want to get to the solid. give me a lump of clay and i'm happy. it's nonsense to say there's only colour in actual coloured things. there is colour in everything--words, music, thoughts--the world's steeped in colour if you can only see it. why, man, it may seem odd to you, but people even give me the sense of colour. perhaps it's the old eastern idea of auras, i don't know. anyhow, that idea is too mixed up with spiritualism and closed rooms to appeal to me. give me the open air, the sunshine, flowers, and singing birds. i can believe in fairies, gnomes, the people of the wind, and the people of the trees, anything that is of the spirit of nature. there they sit together--nature and art--the two great goddesses, bless them; and men try to separate art from nature. they can't, man, i tell you they can't." barnabas could almost see the man's eyes--passionate grey eyes--fixed on him as he remembered the words. and it was the memory of those eyes that pippa's eyes had awakened in him, and with their memory had brought the other scenes before him. the memory had awakened as he had watched her listening entranced to the story of "the sleeping beauty." he had seen the eyes of his friend kostolitz looking at him from the small pale face, and suddenly he had seen the whole wonderful likeness the child bore to the man. kostolitz was dead, had been dead now many years. had he left behind him this scrap of humanity, holding perhaps a spirit as poetical and intense as his own, to battle with the world? if it were so, for the sake of that friendship, it must be protected. and something told barnabas that he was not mistaken in his belief. he turned now into the small dark street. he found the house whose number pippa had given him, and knocked on the door. it was opened by a large, slatternly woman with a watery eye. "that you, pippa?" she exclaimed. "'ere, you come in, and i'll give you somethink staying hout like this." then she saw barnabas. visions of n.s.p.c.c. inspectors rose suddenly before her mind. mrs. higgins quailed inwardly. "well?" she asked, and her voice was truculent because her spirit was quaking, "and wot can i do for you, sir?" "am i," asked barnabas suavely, "addressing mrs. higgins?" "that's my nime," replied the lady, arms akimbo. "i believe," continued barnabas, still suavely, "that you have had charge of a child--a little girl named pippa." "i 'ave," said mrs. higgins defiantly, "and a more hungrateful, huntruthful, little baggage i hain't never set heyes on. hif you 'ave hanythink to say about 'er, per'aps you'll kindly step hinside." barnabas stepped into the small passage. it was ill-smelling, redolent of dirt and boiled cabbage. mrs. higgins herself breathed gin. she was, however, at the moment tolerably sober. "i understand," said barnabas, "that she came here with a madame fournier." mrs. higgins blazed. "she did. a french 'uzzy wot took and disappeared last june, leaving me with 'er child. friend's child she called it. i know them gimes. just about as much a friend's child as madame 'ad a right to 'er title or 'er ring wot she wore so conspikus, i'll be bound. leaving me with the child on me 'ands, wot i kep' from charity, and never so much has a penny piece to pay for 'er keep but wot she gets from them hartists as she goes to." "then the child," asked barnabas, "is no relation of yours?" "relation of mine!" cried mrs. higgins indignantly and virtuously. "do yer think hif she belonged to me as i'd allow 'er to be standing naked fer men to look at. i'm a respectable woman, i am, i thanks the halmighty." mrs. higgins ended with a loud sniff. barnabas suddenly felt a sensation of almost physical nausea. he seemed to hear kostolitz's voice begging him to leave the place, to get away from the filth of the atmosphere, and above all never to let the child return to it. "then," said barnabas decisively, "you will no doubt be glad to be relieved from the burden of maintaining her. she will not return here, and she will be provided for." mrs. higgins gasped at the suddenness of the statement. she felt something like dismay. she saw pippa's earnings, which had added largely to her weekly income, disappearing in the distance. "and 'ow about the hexpense i've been put to!" she exclaimed. "yer don't feed a growing child for six months fer nothink, and me as kind to 'er as hif i'd been 'er own mother." mrs. higgins began to sob here, moved to tears by the memory of her own tenderness. barnabas' mouth set grimly. "i think, mrs. higgins," he remarked, "that the less you say about your treatment of the child the better. as far as her keep is concerned her own earnings have no doubt paid you more than adequately for the food you have given her. as however you will lose them in the future----" he pulled two sovereigns from his pocket. "take these," he said briefly, "and good evening." he turned from the house leaving mrs. higgins gaping and astonished. it is a mercy when the mrs. higginses of the world can be thus easily disposed of. barnabas walked away down the street, marvelling at the fact that man had originally been created by god in his own image. * * * * * he went straight back to studio number seven, where he found miss mason anxiously awaiting him. he sat down and gave her a brief account of his search and its results, omitting, however, a description of the dirt and smells. "and so," he ended, smiling, "you mean to keep this waif?" "i couldn't let her go," said miss mason. "did you see her eyes?" barnabas had. but the look in them had hurt him too much for him to care to think about it. so he merely said lightly: "where is she now?" "asleep on half a dozen cushions and among blankets on the floor of my room. she has had a bath and been wrapped again in that red silk. she'll have to live in it till i can get her some more clothes. i've burnt the others, and put the hat, coat, and boots in the dust hole. in spite of her poor little attempts at cleanliness, one never knows." "one does not," said barnabas grimly, thinking of the house she had come from. "may i smoke?" he asked. "certainly," said miss mason. she liked the scent of tobacco in her studio. she felt it to be part and parcel of bohemia. there was a long silence. miss mason was thinking of the child lying asleep in the next room. she had an odd feeling that the fates had sent pippa directly to her that she might in a way atone to herself for her own lonely childhood by making this morsel of humanity happy. she had already begun to weave the dreams that are woven by fairy godmothers. and barnabas' thoughts had again travelled back to his friend kostolitz, and the thoughts made his eyes grave and a little sad. "i am going over to paris to-morrow," he said suddenly, breaking the silence. "yes?" queried miss mason. "you know that oil-portrait that hangs by my mantelpiece?" he asked. "doesn't a likeness strike you?" miss mason looked up. she felt suddenly a little anxious. "of course," she said slowly. "i never thought of it before. it's the image of pippa." barnabas nodded. "i saw it when i came back into the studio and found her at tea." there was a pause. "who is the portrait?" asked miss mason. "a man i knew long ago," said barnabas. "his name was philippe kostolitz. he was a strange man--an hungarian. he was a true vagabond, yet certainly of good birth. i knew nothing of his people, if he had any. he was half gipsy and wholly artist. the statue of the little faun in my garden is his work. he gave it to me. we were great friends." "ah," said miss mason softly. "and where is he now?" barnabas made a swift sign of the cross. he had been baptized a catholic, and in spite of his present rather pagan views regarding life he had retained this beautiful custom. there was an innate instinct of reverence in barnabas. "in paradise i hope. he was killed nine years ago in a railway accident. it was a horribly prosaic ending for a man whose whole nature was the essence of poetry." miss mason was silent. after a moment she spoke. "then you think that pippa----" she broke off. she was looking straight at barnabas. "i don't know," he said bluntly. "the likeness is extraordinary. in paris i might find out something from the artists for whom she posed. i know one or two of them personally." "thank you," said miss mason. "the journey, of course, will be my affair." "that," said barnabas, "is pure nonsense. if pippa--you see, kostolitz was my friend." "but i wish it," said miss mason. and something in her voice made barnabas give way. ten minutes or so later he left the studio. before miss mason put out her light that night she went across to the heap of cushions and blankets and looked at pippa. she touched her cheek gently with one wrinkled hand. it was long before miss mason slept. she lay awake listening to the regular sound of the child's breathing. * * * * * the morning, with the variability of english weather, broke still and sunny, a touch of frost in the air. barnabas looked in at miss mason's studio before he left for paris. he found that lady sitting in her chair knitting. pippa was curled up on the hearthrug, the red silk tightly swathing her slim body. a pair of shoes and stockings of sally's, many sizes too big for her, covered her feet. she was watching miss mason with the eyes of an adoring puppy. she scrambled to her feet as she saw barnabas. "ah!" she cried, a note of great pleasure in her voice. "it is ze so sunny monsieur. i wis you good morning." barnabas came over and stood on the hearthrug. "i'm just off," he said. "i knew you'd look in," said miss mason. "i waited for you before going out to buy garments." "going away?" asked pippa, looking at him with troubled eyes. she had had experience of people who went away and did not return. "only for a few days, and mainly on business which concerns you, little one," he replied. pippa gave a relieved sigh. "come back ver' quick," she said. and then suddenly: "what is your name?" he laughed. "you must call me barnabas," he said. she nodded her head. "monsieur barnabas," she said slowly. then she turned to miss mason "what sall i call you?" she asked. a sudden little tender thought sprang into miss mason's mind. she put it aside. "you can call me," she said rather gruffly, "aunt olive." again the child nodded her head. "aunt oleeve and monsieur barnabas, c'est bon." she looked an odd little elfin figure as she stood there watching them. "i must be off," said barnabas. "i've no time to lose." pippa came to the door with him. "bon voyage," she cried, waving her hand. and then suddenly she saw the marble faun in the next garden. "ah!" she cried. "quel beau petit garçon!" she darted down one path and up another. the last thing barnabas saw, as he looked back before leaving the courtyard, was a poppy-coloured figure standing in the wintry sunshine beside a white marble faun. the child had her arms familiarly round the faun's neck. he painted that picture later when the days were warmer. it was a picture that was to travel far away from england, and it was to keep alive in the heart of a woman the memory of a secret--a secret of three weeks of glorious happiness and a strange regret--a secret known only to herself and to three other living people. chapter xiv various matters and so barnabas departed to paris in the attempt to find some clue regarding the scrap of humanity which the fates had led to miss mason's studio. it was not that miss mason cared in the smallest degree what her parentage was. she was just a lonely little soul needing love, and so miss mason had taken her into her arms and into her big heart. dan had once said of miss mason, and only shortly after making her acquaintance: "i veritably believe that woman has the biggest hands, the biggest feet, and the biggest heart of any woman in christendom." and the more he knew of her the more convinced he felt of the truth of his statement. but even a big heart is not entirely sufficient guarantee for taking possession of a small girl. one can no more pick one up and keep it than one can pick up a valuable ornament and place it on one's mantelpiece. at any rate, if one did there would always be the uncomfortable feeling that the rightful owner might one day walk casually up to it and say: "that is mine." barnabas understood this, and therefore he had gone off to paris to see if there were any likelihood of a rightful owner turning up one day to claim pippa. it was wiser that miss mason should not get too attached to her possession before he had made sure on that point. also there was the memory of philippe kostolitz. but while he was gone miss mason petted the child to her heart's content, bought dainty undergarments and charming frocks, and played that delightful game of "mother," which is a game all women have played throughout eternity at some time in their lives, even if it is only played with a rag doll wrapped in a shawl. and while she was playing, and while pippa was enjoying the game almost as much as she was and revelling in frilly petticoats, long black stockings, buckled shoes, and soft green frocks--green seemed to belong to her, for some reason, as a matter of course--the other five artists of the courtyard were living their lives, painting their pictures, smoking their pipes, and being happy or miserable according to their moods. and it is perhaps safe to say, though a great pity to have to say it, that jasper's mood of the last six months had been one of utter depression. at first, when he had walked away from the ugly little house in chiswick, he had felt--in spite of the shock he had received at bridget's unexpected attitude towards him--a certain exultation in the thought that duty would never compel him to take that route again. he told himself that he rejoiced in his freedom, but after a day or so he had found it necessary to emphasize that point to himself with a certain degree of insistence. phrases she had used began to return to his mind at odd moments. in the midst of painting an angel's wing, or trying to concentrate on the beatific expression of some saint's face, he would suddenly hear her voice: "i wanted to ask your help, to tell you what i had suffered. i could not." and again, when painting some piece of flame-coloured drapery, he would hear the words: "how did you try to help me? by talking calm platitudes through a kind of moral disinfectant sheet which you held between us----" and yet again, as he tried for the strength of courage in the face of the warrior angel, he would hear her saying: "you have not had the manhood to help me." it angered him that she should come between him and his work. he had loved it. he had felt a kind of mystical joy in it, in the knowledge that his work would adorn the houses of god, and that the saints he painted would look down upon the altar where the priest commemorated the great sacrifice. sometimes in his more intense moments he had fancied himself an incarnation of one of the old painters who portrayed for sheer love of god dancing saints garlanded with flowers. he did not know that his own work lacked that child-like joy, and that its asceticism was hard and cold. but now the memory of the house in chiswick, which he used to banish easily from his thoughts, came again and again before his mind to prevent him working. he began to leave his studio and go for long walks, only returning when it was too dark to paint. and his fellow-artists wondered what possessed him, and would have welcomed one of his priggish speeches rather than this moody silence. and alan farley, the other artist who fancied himself a mystic, painted a few pictures when the inspiration was upon him, pictures which remained to adorn his own studio walls, as they were incomprehensible to any one but himself and to one other--a girl, aurora castleton, in whom alan found a kindred soul. they frequented each other's studios, and talked of "the true spirit," and "the deeper meaning," and "the virtue of symbolism," and lamented that the public were too blind to realize the inner beauty which they were kindly interpreting for them on canvas. they found, however, a great deal of consolation and pleasure in each other's society. and a small boy with drooping wings sat mournfully in a corner and heard them talk, knowing that he alone could give them the true key to the meaning of beauty--a key that the most ignorant could understand. but they refused to look at him. even his arrows were useless, for the cloak of high art with which the two had surrounded themselves seems to be the one thing that is impervious to them. and dan plodded on with his messonier-like paintings and missed barnabas a good deal, in spite of the fact that he had been gone barely three days. and michael did wonderful line work, and wrote little cynical essays for a small magazine that scoffed at love as sentimental. but paul was absorbed in his portrait of the duchessa, and in the wonderful music his heart heard, the meaning of which was beginning to dawn on his soul. the duchessa had given him her own ideas regarding the portrait the first morning she had come to the studio. she had told him about the casa di corleone, and the courtyard with the golden oranges and marble fauns and nymphs, and the gallery where her portrait was to hang. "i want it," she had said, "to be a wee bit--just the weest bit in the world--flaunting. the women of the house of corleone are haughty and disdainful. they are too proud to show their feelings. if they ever loved the courtyard and the sunshine, they would have scorned to show it. they have scorned me often for loving it. i have seen--you may laugh at me if you like--their lips curl when my heart has danced for joy as i have stood in the gallery and watched the sunlight stream through the big hall door. i can't hang there meekly accepting their scorn. i want to defy them. they may think the place theirs, and be calmly satisfied in their possession of it, and they may look upon me as an alien. but it is mine, mine, mine. i want them to know it--not aggressively, you realize--but with just the tiniest bit of assurance that there's no mistake at all." and paul had responded to her mood as a violin responds to the master-hand that draws the bow across its strings. he had sketched her in on the canvas almost as she had spoken the words, standing there with her head just a trifle thrown back, a little gleam of fascinating devilry in her eyes. they had nearly come to loggerheads regarding her dress, however. she wished it to be scarlet, in contrast to the black dresses and sombre colours of the haughty ladies already in the gallery. paul wished it to be blue. in the end she had had her will. it was not often that sara, duchessa di corleone, failed in accomplishing it. perhaps the most noticeable characteristic of sara was her vivid magnetism. every separate burnished hair of her head seemed to possess it. her eyes possessed it, her smile possessed it, her voice--a low contralto--possessed it. her presence dominated a room the moment she entered it, even if she did not speak a word, and sara possessed a curious gift for silences. they were sudden and unaccountable silences, more disconcerting and full of magnetism than speech. she lapsed into them often with paul. they came as a sudden and odd interruption to her flow of sparkling talk. she had a trick of making the most ordinary words sparkle. water, after all, is only water, but it can look very different in sunshine from beneath a grey sky. and perhaps for the first time paul found himself at a loss to read the character she presented to him. probably because he could not appreciate it sufficiently calmly. the music in his heart distracted him, and the tune was clearer and sweeter when she was near. he knew its meaning now, and it filled him with happiness and pain--happiness because it is the most beautiful music in the world to those who hear it, and pain because it somehow seemed to emphasize his own loneliness. and because he had always been lonely a certain feeling had come to him of being not wanted. it was not exactly diffidence, not the outcome of shyness, but merely a certainty that he made no difference to the scheme of happiness in others; in fact, that it probably worked more easily without him. he could not imagine himself as essential to anyone, and never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined himself as essential to the woman who had suddenly become the centre of his universe. * * * * * one evening barnabas returned and walked into miss mason's studio. he came right over to the fire and sat down. "well?" she said, looking at him very anxiously. the game of "mother" can gain an extraordinary fascination in a very few days. "i have found out one thing," said barnabas, "that is a curious coincidence at all events. the child's real name is philippa." "ah," said miss mason slowly. "i went to different studios," went on barnabas, "but the artists knew nothing beyond the fact that the child had lived with madame barbin. then i went to the houses she had tenanted. the neighbours told me she was a kind old soul, and two of them at least averred that they remembered the advent of pippa to the house when a baby of a few weeks old. they declare that an english lady brought her to madame barbin, and that madame barbin received money for the child's keep. madame fournier was a relation of madame barbin's--a niece, they believed. they did not know where her home was beyond that it was somewhere in brittany. she came occasionally to visit madame barbin, and was with her when she died. their theory is that madame fournier took possession of the child in order to receive the allowance made for her. it was sent to madame barbin, and she returned a receipt and statement that the child was alive and well. that, at least, is the neighbour's story. but they had no notion from whom the money came. the people who sent it must certainly have trusted madame barbin implicitly. according to the neighbours, she deserved the trust. madame fournier no doubt took on the job and abandoned the child as soon as she could conveniently do so. to receive the money without having to provide for the child has evidently appealed to her mind as a method of procedure more advantageous to herself." barnabas stopped. "and how did you find out that the child's real name was philippa?" asked miss mason. "a woman named madame paulet volunteered the information," said barnabas. "she told me that madame barbin had said that the child had first been christened philippa according to the rites of the english church. but being a devout catholic, madame barbin evidently didn't trust to an english baptism. she had the child re-baptized. i saw the priest who performed the ceremony. she was then, he said, about two months old. madame barbin had told him that she did not know the name of the child's parents. she received money quarterly for her maintenance. she did tell him the name of the woman who sent it, but as it was told under the seal of confession he couldn't have given it to me even if he had remembered it. but he had forgotten." there was a short silence. "then," said mason slowly, "pippa is a catholic." "yes," said barnabas. "you are sorry?" "i am old-fashioned," said miss mason. "but after all it is the same god we worship." "and if," said barnabas, "she is philippe's child, as i believe, he would be glad. he was a devout catholic with a strange mixture of paganism. i believe that for him the altars of pan and christ were built side by side." miss mason looked at barnabas with a little twinkle in her eyes. "you'll have to take her to church," she said. barnabas laughed. "you think that after all there may be some advantage in her baptism?" again there was a silence. then barnabas spoke. "if philippe were her father, and i can't help feeling sure of it, he must have died some months before her birth. possibly before he knew that she was even thought of." and then miss mason put a question, one which had been in the minds of both of them throughout that conversation at least, but, being a woman, it was she who voiced it. "i wonder," she said quietly, "who was her mother?" "exactly," said barnabas. and because he had loved philippe kostolitz he said no more. but his eyes again grew sad. for barnabas held very straight views on some subjects, and he dreaded lest the whiteness of his friend's honour had been in the smallest degree smirched. chapter xv a question of colour pippa became part of the life of the six artists of the courtyard, and they all wondered, if they ever thought about the matter at all, however they had managed to get on without her. she seemed to belong in some special way to barnabas. that fact was one of mutual recognition. michael found himself stopping suddenly in the middle of his cynical little speeches when she was present. it is impossible to be cynical with a child's eyes fixed on one, drinking in every word. dan kept her supplied with chocolates, and gave her a grey kitten. jasper painted her a picture of the blessed virgin. it was the first painting he had done for weeks past without the memory of the house in chiswick coming as an interruption to his thoughts. the picture, too, held a tenderness not seen in his previous paintings. paul, for a wonder, allowed her to see his unfinished work, and found amusement in her naïve criticisms. one criticism--to be related presently--was somewhat of a revelation. alan studied her deeply, saying that the innocent unfolding of a child's mind was one of the greatest marvels of creation. her remarks on colour honestly interested him. and in them barnabas felt more than ever convinced that she was the child of his friend philippe kostolitz. she used to announce quite gravely that people were like colours. miss mason she designated as "couleur de rose." barnabas himself she said was gold "all sparkling like sunshine." paul she insisted was like the purple light that fell across the river at night. dan was green like the leaves of chrysanthemum foliage. alan was the colour of the sea. michael was grey and red. and she refused to assign any colour to jasper. but when coaxed by barnabas she confessed it was because he was quite grey, and no pretty colour at all. one day about the middle of february pippa lunched with paul. he announced that he wished her to see the portrait of the duchessa di corleone. the duchessa herself, who had been away since christmas, was coming for what would probably be a last sitting at two o'clock that afternoon. "well?" said paul, standing near the luncheon table while pippa gazed upon the portrait, "what do you think of it?" pippa wrinkled up her forehead. "i don't know," she said slowly, and she came across to the table looking at paul with perplexed eyes. "evidently," said paul, a trifle disappointed, "it doesn't meet with your approval." "i don't know," said pippa again, still looking puzzled. and then she saw the luncheon table. "chicken and meringues"--she rolled the "r" in her funny way--"how lovely!" "the lunch," said paul, "unquestionably appeals to you far more than the portrait." pippa did not reply. but during the meal she kept looking from the portrait to paul, as if she might find in his face some explanation of her perplexity. they were drinking their coffee, which pippa loved, when paul's man announced the duchessa. the whole atmosphere of the studio seemed suddenly to sparkle with her entrance. paul sprang to his feet. there was a light in his eyes of which the meanest intelligence might have recognized the interpretation. "i am punctual to the moment," she said. "and how are you? it is six weeks since we've met." then she saw pippa. "and who," she asked, "is this?" "pippa," said paul gravely, "may i introduce you to the duchessa di corleone." pippa held out her hand. "pippa?" queried the duchessa, with the tiniest and most adorable lift of her eyebrows. "just pippa," said paul. sara sat down. "finish your coffee," she said. "and may i have a cup?" paul seized the kettle. it was the first time she would have partaken of food or drink in his studio. it marked, in his mind, an epoch. "don't make fresh coffee," she begged. "it is a pleasure," he said. "it is one of the few achievements of which i am justly proud." pippa was gazing at the duchessa with wide grey eyes. the perplexity in them had vanished. "well, pippa," asked sara, "and what do you think of my portrait?" "i know now," said pippa firmly. "ze couleur is wrong." paul, who was stirring the coffee in a jug, paused a moment to look at her. "the colour?" he queried. pippa nodded. "the picture," she said, "is red. she"--pippa looked at the duchessa--"is blue. oh, but very blue, like--like zat." she pointed towards a sapphire vase on paul's mantelpiece. paul and sara looked at each other. there was the tiniest--just the very tiniest--look of triumph in paul's eyes. sara laughed outright. "mr. treherne," she said, "aren't you longing to say 'i told you so'?" "i think," replied paul, "pippa has said it for me." sara turned to pippa. "then," she said, "it is the colour of the dress that is wrong?" again pippa nodded. "sometimes ze dresses zey not matter," she said thoughtfully, "but for you ze real--oh, but it hurt." she clasped her hands against her heart with a little tragic gesture. "what's to be done?" asked sara as paul handed her the coffee. "re-paint the dress, and the whole portrait if necessary," he replied promptly. "oh, but the time, and your trouble!" cried sara. "i couldn't think of it. besides, it was my own fault," she added contritely. it struck neither of them as odd that they should so implicitly accept pippa's criticism. "i shall only," said paul, "be doing what i originally wished to do, if you will forgive me for saying so. the question is whether you will be too bored with further sittings?" a faint rose-colour stole over the ivory of the duchessa's face. "on the contrary," she said lightly, "i shall be very happy. i have"--she paused the merest fraction of a second--"not been bored at all." she drank her coffee and put down the cup. pippa got up from her chair. she knew the moment to make herself scarce. long acquaintance with studios and the work of artists had taught her. she held out her hand to the duchessa. "i like you," she said. "i like you ver' much. please come to tea wis me one day--you and monsieur paul." "but," said the duchessa, "christopher is coming for me at half-past three." paul's face, which had been very gay, fell suddenly. christopher's name troubled him. he was on such delightfully--for him--easy terms with the duchessa. "but bring monsieur christopher too," said pippa calmly. the duchessa looked at paul. "but where does she live?" she asked. "and may we accept this invitation wholesale?" "by all means," paul assured her. "pippa lives in studio number seven with miss mason, don't you, pippa? and we all invade that studio at any hour. miss mason ties up cuts, finds new servants for us when our old ones get out of hand, administers hot concoctions of her own brewing when any of us have colds, in short, mothers us all round. and pippa gives us excellent advice as to the colour of our socks and ties. we really don't care to think of what we were before aunt olive and pippa took us in hand." "so you will come?" said pippa, standing near the door. paul went over to open it for her. "yes, we'll come," he said. "the duchessa, you, and monsieur christopher," said pippa gaily. "oh, yes," said paul, an odd inflexion in his voice, "no doubt monsieur christopher will come too." he held the door open, and pippa went out. then he came back to the duchessa. she had heard the inflexion in his voice, and a little light of comprehension had sprung to her eyes. "ah!" she breathed softly to herself. then she looked up at paul. "and now," she said, "are you ready for the metamorphosis--to re-paint me as a blue lady?" chapter xvi the lady of the blue dress again and so it was that pippa's impulsive invitation brought the lady of the blue dress once more into miss mason's surroundings. and with her advent came one of the brightest threads which the fates were using to weave into the hitherto sombre pattern of her life. for there is never any knowing what the fates will do. for years the woof of their weaving may be utterly grey, but if the warp has kept firm and strong they may suddenly take the brightest colours--a very crazy patchwork of them--and weave them into the most intricate and curious pattern imaginable. and because the strength of the warp of this life pleased them, they were now choosing the most fantastically coloured threads in the weaving of the woof. pippa told miss mason of the invitation she had issued, and then went to wash her hands and brush her hair. there was no need to change her dress. she had already put on her prettiest frock to lunch with paul. just before half-past three there was a knock at the door. pippa looked up expectant. but it was only barnabas. "hullo!" he said, coming in and seeing the tea-things on the table--sally would be occupied with hot cakes at the last moment--"you're expecting company." "the duchessa di corleone, monsieur paul, and monsieur christopher," pippa told him. "shall i be in the way?" asked barnabas, looking at miss mason, "or may i stay?" "you are never in the way," said miss mason decisively. pippa sat down near him and slid one hand into his. and miss mason looked at them, and thought that only a year ago, and perhaps at that very hour, she had been sitting in a stiff drawing-room furnished with hideous chairs and ornamented with wax flowers under glass shades, listening to a long and minute account of miss stanhope's ill-health, sleeplessness, and want of appetite. and because the contrast was so very great, her eyes grew a trifle misty with unshed happy tears, and she said a little prayer, that was certainly more catholic than her distinctly broad church views realized, for miss stanhope's present welfare. and then suddenly voices were heard outside the studio, a woman's voice which miss mason seemed to recognize, and a man laughing. the next moment sally opened the door. her eyes were round with awe. "the duchess----" the next words were indistinguishable--"mr. charlton, and mr. treherne," she gasped. already in her mind she was telling jim that she had had the honour of ushering a real live duchess into the studio. the duchessa di corleone came into the room. then she gave a little exclamation of astonishment and went forwards with outstretched hands. "my fairy godmother!" she cried. and she was nearer truth than she had any idea as she spoke the words. "the lady in the blue dress!" said miss mason, her face radiant with pleasure. "so you two know each other," said paul. "we met--when was it--last may?" said sara. "may i introduce mr. charlton." and the man whom miss mason had seen in the lounge of the wilton hotel bowed. "it is," said the duchessa when she was seated, and after barnabas had been introduced, "quite the most unexpected and delightful meeting. it was not till i was on my way to italy that i remembered i had never asked your name." and then she told the others of their first meeting. "and has it all," she asked, "been just as delightful as i prophesied?" "more delightful," said miss mason promptly. she was looking at christopher. she remembered the "christopher, darling," and her mind, woman-like, was keen on the secret of a romance. sara saw her glance. by a flash of intuition she guessed something of what was passing in miss mason's mind. it gave her an opportunity she had been looking for during the last hour and a half. "christopher came to fetch me that evening to take me to an at home, i remember. he is an extraordinarily useful person. i have known him since i was ten years old." the words were addressed to miss mason. they were intended for another occupant of the studio. "i remember," said christopher, "our first meeting. it was, i think, unique." "in what way?" asked paul. "the duchessa and her parents," said christopher, "had taken a house in devonshire, at salcombe, as a matter of fact, where i then lived. my mother, being of a hospitable turn of mind, and also of opinion that young men should make themselves generally useful, sent me across the road to enquire of captain and mrs. de courcy if i could be of any assistance to them. i went. i found the duchessa seated on the veranda on an overturned flower-pot. she was engaged in teaching 'nap' to three small boys who had come in from the next door garden, also with hospitable intentions. i found mrs. de courcy disentangling silver forks from among her evening frocks; they had been packed among them for safety----" "mamma was always under the impression that everybody was going to steal everything," interjected the duchessa. "captain de courcy," went on christopher, "was extracting tin-tacks from the kitchen coal-scuttle, into which they had been upset by the duchessa in her frantic questing for playing-cards." "and did you," asked miss mason grimly, "assist him?" "i extracted two tacks," continued christopher reminiscently. "then i heard the duchessa laugh. have you ever heard her? i went out on to the veranda. first i looked at her, then i turned another flower-pot upside down and sat upon it. i tried to instruct her in a few of the correct rules of 'nap.' she cheated, i remember, abominably. she has, in fact, cheated throughout her life." "indeed, i have not," said sara indignantly. there was a dimple at the corner of her mouth. "you have," said christopher calmly. "you have cheated the fates every time they dealt the cards of fortune against you. it's a trick many of us would give our eyes to learn. they deal her black cards, heigh presto! the duchessa has changed them to red ones. they deal her low dull cards--the duchessa holds aces and kings, particularly," ended christopher severely, "kings!" "christopher," said sara sweetly, "is given to exaggeration." she was first the tiniest bit annoyed. christopher's last word savoured somewhat of an accusation of flirting. no woman cares to be accused of that pastime before a man in whom she is feeling--well, certainly more than just a careless interest. besides, the music paul had been hearing during the last ten weeks had begun to reach the duchessa's ears, though as yet quite faintly. the slight implication of flirting came as a discord to the tune it was playing. "the late duca di corleone might certainly be termed a king," protested christopher, "while the casa di corleone and the coffers of centesimi are most assuredly many aces." "yes," agreed the duchessa. "you, however, said 'particularly kings.'" "my mistake," said christopher politely. "i should have said particularly aces." the duchessa made a little gracious gesture of forgiveness. paul had been stroking a small grey kitten--gift of dan to pippa--during the little conversation, and was apparently entirely engrossed in the kitten. but he had heard every word, and christopher's intimacy with the duchessa was seen by him in a new and far more satisfactory light. "but now," said the duchessa, addressing herself to miss mason, "i want to hear everything you have been doing since last may." miss mason glanced around the studio. "got a studio," she said. "and also," said barnabas, "she has adopted six nephews and one niece." "me," said pippa, who was gazing at the duchessa with fascinated eyes. sara smiled. she looked at paul and barnabas. "i imagine," she said, "that these are two of the nephews. where are the others?" "in their studios," said barnabas. "aunt olive doesn't keep all her nephews on the premises. they are the six artists of the courtyard." "oh," said sara, with a low laugh, "then you, too, have a magic courtyard." "where is yours?" asked pippa. and the duchessa told her, bringing the sunshine of italy and the gleam of golden oranges into the studio, bathing it in their light and colour. and paul listened as he listened always when she spoke, loving the sound of her voice and the magic of her words. suddenly as she ended they heard the sound of a violin. it came from across the courtyard and through the partly open window. "hush!" said the duchessa, and she raised her head listening. when the last sad notes had died away, she looked across at paul. "who is it?" she asked softly, her eyes full of tears, for the sad bitterness of a troubled heart had wailed through the music. "michael chester," said paul quietly. "and why," asked the duchessa, "is he not taking london by storm?" "because," said paul, "he is a cripple." "ah!" said the duchessa. she had no need to ask more, for the music had told her the rest. after a time she left, promising to come again. as she went into the courtyard with paul and christopher she looked towards the window from whence the sounds of the violin had proceeded. "i wonder," she said, "if one day he will play for me." chapter xvii the duchessa enters a kingdom february gave place to a stormy march, which ushered itself in angry and tempestuous. by the end of the month it was tired of its anger, and throughout april was like a child promising with smiles and tears to be good. in may it fulfilled its promise. the month was all sunshine, with soft winds and blue skies. the parks were alive with flowers, women donned their brightest dresses, and london looked like a great living nosegay. and with the spring the music of the heart was playing so loudly for the duchessa that she wondered paul could not hear it too, and many times she longed to bid him listen. the portrait was finished, and was in her drawing-room till later in the year when she would take it with her to italy, where it would hang in the gallery like a great glowing sapphire among the sombre and haughty ladies of the house of corleone. she saw paul from time to time. he came to her flat, and she went to his studio. and michael had been persuaded to come and play for her. and having come once he was ready to come again. he made music sad and gay, and in her presence it lost much of its bitterness. only when he was alone bitterness returned, and with it a desperate and pathetic note of yearning. for with the beauty of the duchessa michael realized more terribly that he was not as other men, though with the curious instinct possessed by the man-creature of hurting himself, he loved to be near her and look at her. and in his heart he laughed cynically at paul, seeing that he had but to put out his hand and grasp the wonderful jewel of her love. but having been lonely all his own life he understood better than anyone paul's hesitation, even while he laughed. and one day when the morning sunshine was more radiant than ever, and the whole earth seemed singing the benedicite, sara wandered across one of the bridges that span the river and found herself in battersea park. and the lilacs were a mass of purple flowers, and the laburnums hanging in showers of golden rain, and the tulips were flaunting their gaudy colours, and the birds singing full-throated songs of joy. she sat down on a bench near a great bed of golden tulips and looked at them. and the colour took her back to italy, and the courtyard of casa di corleone and the golden oranges, and she knew now the truth of christopher's statement that one day she would be ready to forget them. and a little prayer rose up in her heart, a prayer that perhaps hundreds of women were praying at that moment before flower-decked altars, but which sara addressed to the bed of golden tulips. "ah, madonna santa," she prayed, in the language she had learned to love, "let him tell me." and then she looked up and saw paul coming towards her. "i knew i should find you here," he said quietly, and he sat down beside her. and the tulips became a mass of blurred gold, and the music of the heart rang so loudly in her ears that for the moment the song of the birds was drowned. "i have waited a long time," said paul, "but i cannot wait any longer. i love you, sara." she turned towards him, and there was an adorable little sob of happiness in her voice. "but, paul, dear," she said, "why didn't you tell me long ago?" and paul put both his arms round her, and knew that his loneliness was ended. there are some hours which pass like moments, so swiftly are they borne on the wings of joy. and in those hours paul and sara told each other a hundred little things they had quite possibly said many times before, but which had suddenly taken on a new meaning and a great tenderness. but for the most part they were silent, listening to the music of the heart, which was playing now in the completest harmony. at last, however, they grew alive to the fact that the morning was very far advanced, and that they were both hungry. for, with joy be it said, both paul and sara were most delightfully human. as she got up from the bench sara looked at the bed of tulips. "i want one of those," she said. regardless of the little square board which forbade the foot of man to desecrate the grass with his tread, paul went across to the flower-bed. he returned with a great golden tulip on a long pale green stem. he gave it to her. she looked down into the shining petal-chalice. "i shall always love yellow tulips now," she said. together they set off homewards, the duchessa carrying the flower like a queen carrying a golden-headed sceptre. and verily she was a queen, for she had that morning entered her kingdom--the kingdom of a man's heart. * * * * * of course, she went back to lunch with him at the studio, and equally, of course, there happened to be no food but bread and cheese and tomatoes. she refused to be taken to a restaurant, and paul's man was sent out to buy spaghetti, with which and the tomatoes and cheese sara made a true italian dish, cooking it on a gas stove. and it was when they had eaten that and were drinking their coffee, in the making of which paul excelled, that sara suddenly exclaimed: "now i shall know what is in the letter." and then she had to tell paul about the late duca's will and the letter. paul listened. "but, dearest," he said, when she had ended, "do you realize what you are giving up? i am a poor man, and you will lose everything." but sara replied in the words of christopher: "on the contrary, paul, dear, i gain everything." and paul took her hand and kissed it. after that they talked about the future. no one was to be told of their happiness yet, except christopher and paul's mother. they would keep it a secret known only to those four. in june sara was going to italy, when she would take her portrait and leave it in the gallery. in july she would return for paul to claim her completely. "but at least i shall know," she ended, "that my portrait is in the gallery, and that i love the place ten thousand times more than those haughty ladies who will now, i suppose, look upon it as entirely their own." "and loving it like that you give it up?" said paul. "for you," answered the duchessa softly. chapter xviii barnabas schemes with cupid and while the music of the heart was making incessant melody for paul and the duchessa, the small boy with drooping wings was still sitting disconsolate in the corner of aurora's studio. his arrows being useless he had tried whispering secrets to her, but delightful whispers of flower-scented nights, country lanes aglow with wild roses, kisses, and even cuddling babies fell on deaf ears. she heard nothing but the call of the false goddess whom she had erected in the place of the glorious goddess who sits so near to nature. one day early in june aurora was in a particularly dissatisfied mood. the model, tilly, who posed not only for barnabas, but for many other studios, had been distinctly rude that afternoon. aurora had found inspiration lacking, and had told tilly she could go. it had been the signal for a tirade on tilly's part. she had spoken her mind freely, with contemptuous words regarding artists who achieved nothing, and whose pictures, even when completed, were so incomprehensible that they could find no place in any gallery. aurora had told tilly not to come near her studio again. but her words had held a sting which hurt. aurora was near tears. then she remembered that alan was coming to tea that afternoon and bringing barnabas with him. she dried her tears on her painting-apron and put the kettle on the hob. and perhaps it was the suspicion of tears that barnabas saw when he and alan arrived, or perhaps it was an imploring whisper from the discordant boy, or perhaps it was merely the sunshine and his own exuberant spirits, but, at any rate, he had, what the boy considered, a heaven-born inspiration. "i think," he said suddenly, addressing himself to the square patch of blue seen through skylight, "that studios are distinctly stuffy this weather. let's all go and paint out of doors a bit--be vagabond artists." the thought of kostolitz came into his mind with the words. "permanently?" asked alan, "or by the day?" "oh, for about three weeks or so," said barnabas. "you, aurora, dan, and me. i'll make dan come too. i'll hire a coster cart and donkey to carry our painting materials, a few provisions, and a small tent for aurora to sleep in. we three can sleep in the open. let's," ended barnabas slyly, "study art in nature." "the symbolism of nature," murmured alan dreamily. "or nature without the symbolism," said aurora. "i'm tired of symbolism." her voice was almost petulant. the small boy in the corner perked up. barnabas grinned gently. "to-day," he announced, "is tuesday. let us start on thursday." "yes," said aurora firmly, "i want to get away from everything." her eyes took in the studio and her own high art productions in a comprehensive sweep. "for a time," she added, seeing that alan was looking reproachful. barnabas promulgated a few further ideas on the subject, and they all three studied a large cycling map of aurora's which had small country lanes plainly marked on it. "bring the map," said barnabas, as he rose to take his leave. "and thursday, remember, at my studio, at ten o'clock." he went round to see miss mason that evening to tell her of the plan. pippa, in a purple dressing-gown, listened entranced. she had been given a quarter of an hour's grace from bed on account of barnabas' arrival. "so," ended barnabas, "on thursday at ten o'clock we start off to study nature. i've already hired a donkey and cart. to-morrow i buy a tent and a few other things." pippa gave a huge sigh. "how lovely!" she said. "just you, and monsieur dan, and monsieur alan, and mademoiselle aurora. just you four. i s'pose ze tent will be quite tiny. only just big enough for mademoiselle aurora. not a teeny bit more room in it. not even enough room for mimsi"--mimsi was the grey kitten--"and most certainly not enough room for--for me." barnabas laughed. he looked at miss mason. the idea conveyed by pippa in this flagrant hint had occurred to him. pippa heard something in the laugh that made her heart beat hopefully. "i am," she said reflectively, "not very big. or," she continued, "a cart would be a _very_ nice ting to sleep in. i wonder what it feels like to sleep in a cart." "time you went to bed," said miss mason grimly. pippa got up reluctantly. "bon soir, monsieur barnabas," she said, with a little sigh. "i wonder if mademoiselle aurora can darn holes in men's socks. madame barbin taught me to darn--oh, but to darn very beautifully. much walking will no doubt make many holes." barnabas telegraphed a question to miss mason. "you'd get tired walking," said miss mason gruffly. pippa looked dubious. "i am not ver' 'eavy. i could perhaps ride in ze cart just sometimes. besides," she ended hopefully, "it is ver' good to be tired. one sleep well at night." "well, go to bed and sleep well now," said miss mason. pippa sighed again heavily. "good night, aunt oleeve, good night, monsieur barnabas." she went away sorrowfully. "do you think she might come?" said barnabas. "i'd take great care of her." "you'll tire her out, and she'll be a trouble to you," said miss mason. she was hating the thought of parting with the child. "not a bit," said barnabas. "the question is, will you spare her?" miss mason laughed. "you've a genius for hitting the truth full on the head, barnabas. i suppose i must. she'd adore it, and the open air life would be excellent for her." and so it was arranged. and the tour in the donkey-cart was to be fraught with a curious little incident which was to lead infinitely further than anyone could imagine. * * * * * thursday dawned bright and sunny under a cloudless sky. the donkey-cart was outside barnabas' studio, and pippa in a green dress and rough straw hat trimmed with daisies was feeding the animal with sugar. she had instantly christened him pegasus, for though he was not a winged horse he was most unquestionably a magic steed. painting materials, a hamper of provisions, and the tent were packed into the cart. pippa climbed in. seated on the luggage she held the reins. barnabas took hold of the bridle. the men were in tweed knickerbocker suits and soft felt hats. aurora was in a blue serge skirt, a white blouse, scarlet tie, and a blue sun-bonnet. she felt that the attire was suited to the part of a vagabond. the other three artists of the courtyard were there watching them and offering advice. paul, in his own happiness, felt in entire sympathy with their gaiety. jasper and michael felt somehow rather out of things. "you ought to have had the cart meet you somewhere," said miss mason. "you'll be mobbed." "not a bit of it," said barnabas cheerfully. "dan's size is protection enough for the lot of us. good-bye, aunt olive. ta-ta, you fellows. we're off to study nature. we'll write our comments to you and post the letters at country post offices." pippa flicked the whip and pegasus walked gravely out of the courtyard. and the little faun in the garden played a gay tune on his pipe. the youthful spirits of the departing cavalcade appealed to him. and miss mason went back to her studio, and for the first time since a year ago she felt a little lonely, for both barnabas and pippa had gone, and the duchessa di corleone was on her way to italy with the portrait. but the fates had another thread in readiness, and she was not to feel lonely long. chapter xix the interference of a fairy godmother pippa had been wont to haunt jasper's studio a good deal. his pictured saints appealed to her imagination. she loved the brilliance of their robes and the gold of their backgrounds. colour appealed to her, as already seen, enormously, though she had no power with brush or pencil herself. if she was ever to find expression for the thoughts and fancies which filled her brain she would possibly one day find it in writing. beauty of language already moved her profoundly, and she would listen by the hour to anyone reading poetry aloud. jasper missed the child almost more than miss mason did. he seemed to have nothing to fill up the gap she left in his life, and his old restlessness in a measure returned. he took to dropping in at miss mason's studio at odd hours, in order, so it seemed, to talk about pippa, though he would often sit moody and silent. he would stare at the picture of pippa wrapped in scarlet silk, her arms round the faun's neck, which picture barnabas had painted about a month previously, and which now hung in miss mason's studio. and one evening after looking at it for a long time he made a sudden remark--a remark that seemed forced from him. "if stella had lived she would have been nearly the same age as pippa." miss mason looked up quickly. "who," she asked, "was stella?" "my little girl," said jasper shortly. "ah," said miss mason. and then she added quietly, "and your wife died too?" "no," said jasper, "she is alive." there was a silence. the studio window was wide open, and the evening sunlight was streaming in. from one of the trees in the garden a thrush was singing a song of love and happiness. "perhaps," said miss mason suddenly, "you would care to tell me about it." and jasper told her. he told her the whole story, omitting nothing; though, wonderful to relate, making no excuses for himself. "i suppose," he ended, "that bridget lost all interest in life, and i was always wanting her to be something she had lost the power of being. and i got disheartened because she could not adapt herself to my pattern." for a moment miss mason did not reply. she did not care to say that it had been largely jasper's fault that his wife had lost interest in life. after a moment she spoke slowly. "i think," she said, "it is always dangerous to try and cut people to our own pattern. we are so terribly apt to cut the cords of love first." "i know," said jasper, "and now it is, as she said, too late." "it is never too late," said miss mason energetically. "why don't you go and see her?" "i gave her my word of honour that i would not." "pooh!" said miss mason. "it is sometimes infinitely more honourable to break one's word than to keep it. this is a case in point. do you still care for your wife?" jasper hesitated. "i care for my memory of her as she was when i first married her--before the child died. i know after that at first i was disgusted. but that passed, especially later when i saw less of her. then at the bottom of my heart i wanted to get back to the old footing. somehow it seemed impossible. before i saw her i felt i loved her, but the sight of her untidiness and the sordidness of the surroundings killed it. it would be killed again if i saw her now. it's no use pretending otherwise." "why don't you take her out of her surroundings then?" asked miss mason. jasper looked up quickly. "it's no use," he said. "i love her now, but if i went down there the feeling would die away. when i see her slovenly and untidy it seems to kill my affection. i can't help it. even when i was a child i could not eat the food i most liked if it were served in a careless fashion. i have honestly tried to fight the feeling. it is, however, part of my physical nature, and i can't rid myself of it." jasper's voice was quite humble and genuine. miss mason's brain was working rapidly. "i suppose chiswick is rather a commonplace neighbourhood," she remarked. "foolish of you to choose it in the first instance. where did you say the house was?" the question was put indifferently. jasper mentioned the street and number. miss mason appeared hardly to have heard it. she seemed engrossed in her own thoughts. jasper stayed a little longer in the studio. it was, in a sense, a comfort to have spoken of the story, and yet it had brought the memory of the last seven years almost too vividly before his mind. when he got up to go miss mason held out her hand. "good night," she said. "don't feel too miserable. things often turn out better than one expects." and when he had gone she sat a long time in her big chair, her brain full of the wildest and most exciting plans, in which she was establishing herself as proxy to the fates. and the fates laughed, and gave the threads of two lives temporarily into her hands for her own weaving. the next morning miss mason told sally to order a taxi to be at the studio at eleven o'clock. "if i'm not taken there quickly," she said to herself, "my courage will fail me, and i shall come home again." and she went over in her mind many sentences she had been carefully preparing during the long hours of a sleepless night. one of them began rather like an old-fashioned letter. "my dear mrs. merton, i have ventured to call upon you in order to discuss a matter i am sure you must have very much at heart, namely, the welfare of your husband jasper merton." she had repeated it a good many times to make sure she had it verbatim. there were other phrases such as, "pardon what may appear an unwarrantable interference on my part." and, "the mutual interest we both must feel in one for whom you have a wifely love, and i the affection of friendship." she felt she had them all glibly on her tongue, when the hoot of the taxi outside the studio warned her of its arrival. "if i am not back to lunch, sally," said miss mason, with the air of one embarking on some dangerous enterprise from which she might never return, "run out and buy a chop for yourself, and we can have the steak this evening. and give mimsi a piece of boiled whiting and a saucerful of milk." she got into the taxi, tightly clutching her black satin bag, and sat down in one corner. it was the first time she had driven in a taxi, and she felt a trifle nervous. but for her desire to arrive at her destination before she had time to change her mind about going, she would undoubtedly have taken a four-wheeler. the speed of the vehicle seemed excessive, but as other taxis passed them going at an even greater rate, she made up her mind to hope for the best. she did, however, put up a small mental prayer for safety. in spite of the rate at which they were travelling they seemed a long time in getting to their destination. at last miss mason began to feel uneasy. she had heard of people being kidnapped and murdered on account of their money, and though she had only put ten shillings worth of silver and one sovereign in her purse, the chauffeur might think her worth infinitely more. she decided to ask him how much further they had to go. she noticed a long tube hanging from the front window. it was no doubt a whistle. she took it up and blew gently down it. there was no sound. she collected the whole force of her lungs and blew violently. the chauffeur, feeling a sudden and unpleasant draught at the back of his neck, looked round. he saw miss mason purple in the face from her efforts, and the speaking tube at her lips. fearing apoplexy he stopped the taxi and came to the door. "wot is it, mum?" he asked. "i only wanted to know if we were near the address i gave you?" she said breathlessly. "i think this whistle must be out of order, i can't make it sound." the chauffeur grunted. "that ain't no bloomin' whistle-pipe. that there's a speakin' toob," he remarked scornfully. "be at oxford road in five minutes now." he shut the door with a bang and climbed back to his seat. "whistle!" he said to himself. "whistle! thought there was a bloomin' draught. the old party must 'ave fair busted 'erself." miss mason sank back in her corner and began to repeat the sentences in a rapid whisper. in less than five minutes the taxi stopped before a small house divided from the pavement by a gravel plot. the chauffeur got down and opened the taxi door. "'ere y'are, mum," he said. miss mason got out, paid the man, crossed the gravel plot, and mounted the steps. her heart was beating uncomfortably fast. "is mrs. merton at home?" she asked of emma, who opened the door. "yes'm. will you come inside'm?" she showed miss mason into the dismal little parlour. "what name shall i say, 'm?" "mrs. merton won't know my name," said miss mason desperately. "but ask her if she will speak to me for a few moments." emma left the room breathing heavily as she moved, and miss mason sat very upright on the little sofa, her hands still clutching the black satin bag. her eyes took in the whole room. she saw the dingy and torn tablecloth, the rather dirty chintz covers to the chairs, and the distinctly dirty muslin curtains to the windows. a mantel-border which covered the chimney-piece had come unnailed at one side, and was hanging in an untidy festoon. the carpet was faded, and crumbs scattered from the last meal were below one of the chairs. there was a large japanese fan in the fender before the empty grate; its edges were broken and torn. it was also considerably fly-marked. miss mason could understand jasper's feelings very well. she saw what the place must mean to a man of his fastidious instincts. it might be that he was largely to blame that it had ever reached such a state, but having reached it it was almost unavoidable that he should shrink from it. a step on the stairs made her start. she clutched more tightly at the bag and began murmuring "unwarrantable intrusion," "mutual interest," in a spasmodic fashion, her eyes fixed on the door. suddenly it opened, and a woman in a rather soiled white dress came into the room. she made miss mason think of a faded lily. the woman looked with something like amazement at the odd figure in the mushroom hat, grey dress, and wide white linen collar, seated on the sofa clutching a black satin bag. miss mason got to her feet. "my dear," she began, but the rest of the sentence was lost. "i'm downright nervous," said miss mason, with one of her gruff little laughs, "and you'll think me an interfering old fool, but i was bound to come." bridget looked at her. "there isn't," she said with a note of anxiety in her voice, "anything wrong with jasper?" "oh, no," said miss mason quickly, "but i was talking to him last night." "ah!" said bridget. "and----" said miss mason, and stopped. it seemed entirely impossible now to put her ideas into words. it is one thing to have marvellous and fairy tale schemes in one's mind, and plan all kinds of wonderful arrangements during the magic hours of the night. it is quite another to find words for them in broad daylight and in a rather sordid little parlour, especially when they seemed to resolve themselves into the rather impertinent statement that jasper would love his wife if she brushed her hair. it is hardly a suggestion one can make in cold blood to a complete stranger. "i just came," ended miss mason helplessly. she looked through the window wondering how she could best make her escape, and wishing with all her heart that she had kept the taxi. it was bridget herself who came to the rescue. "i suppose," she said slowly, "that jasper told you our story--it's a sordid little story, isn't it--and you wanted to help?" miss mason nodded. something in bridget's eyes made her own fill with tears. she forgot her desire to run away. she felt that she was near a dumb animal in pain. "tell me," said bridget, "what jasper told you?" very stumblingly miss mason gave her some idea of the conversation. she wanted her to know the truth, yet dreaded to hurt her more than necessary. "then jasper does care a little," said bridget wonderingly. "but all this----" she looked round the dingy room. "what was your idea when you came to me?" she asked simply. "great interference on my part, no doubt," said miss mason gruffly. "began to make up a plan. thought if he was to see you again in a pretty room and a pretty frock----" she stopped. bridget glanced down at her own dress. "yes?" she said again. she had reddened slightly. "can tell me to go if you like," said miss mason. "had no business to come. but thought---- my dear. i just planned to take you to a pretty room and bring jasper to you." bridget looked at her. "i don't know who you are," she said impulsively, "nor anything about you. but you are a dear." "then you're not angry?" asked miss mason. "i want," said bridget, in a muffled voice, "to cry. but i'm not going to. what were your plans? i'm sure you'd made some." and then miss mason unfolded all the schemes she had planned during the night hours. they were of a little flat somewhere in chelsea not too far from the studios. the drawing-room was to be furnished in shades of brown and cream, and it was to be filled with roses in slender glass vases and china bowls. and there was to be a woman among the flowers, and jasper coming in to find her. "but i haven't the money for that," said bridget. "and i can't ask jasper for any more." "but i have," said miss mason bluntly. "my dear, i'm an old woman. is it worth while to you, for your husband's sake, to give me the pleasure of arranging it?" bridget bit her lip. she tried to speak, but no words would come. "don't try to say anything," said miss mason. "i--i----" began bridget. and, somehow, the next moment she was down on her knees by miss mason, who was soothing her with little odd articulations and pattings as she had soothed pippa one night when she had awakened from a bad dream. "i'm sorry," said bridget at last, sitting up and pushing back her hair from her face, "but it's all been so lonely. at times i've felt that just for something to do i could be bad--really bad, you know. anything for excitement, and to forget my own thoughts. at first i used to hate myself. then i tried to hate jasper, but i didn't--i didn't. i--i loved him all the time. you see, he gave me my baby. but i was so lonely and miserable i wanted to be wicked, only i remembered my baby, and----" "i know, my dear," said miss mason. "have you been lonely?" asked bridget. "utterly lonely, my dear, for fifty-five years at least, ever since my parents died. and only women can understand the loneliness of women. men have their pipes, and they can always swear a little, which must at times be an enormous help." "but you're not lonely now?" asked bridget. miss mason smiled, a little glad smile. "my dear, i am so utterly happy now that i long for every one else to be happy. it was that that made me so sorry for you and jasper, and made me want to come and see you. and now i want you to come and have some luncheon with me somewhere--you'll have to tell me where--and then we'll go and look at flats." bridget got up from the floor. "it's all too wonderful," she said, "and i don't know that i've the right to let you help me." "nonsense," said miss mason gruffly. "might just as well say i've no right to ask you to give me the pleasure of doing a little thing like this; but i'm going to ask you, all the same. now go and put on a hat." bridget left the room. in a few moments she came down in a dark blue linen coat and skirt, and a black straw hat swathed with rose-coloured silk. she had brushed her hair and looked a different being. "can we get a four-wheeler?" asked miss mason. "came in a taxi, but didn't enjoy it." "there's a train and an omnibus," said bridget, "that will take us to notting hill gate, and we can get any amount of cabs from there." so for the first time in her life miss mason mounted to the top of an omnibus and thoroughly enjoyed it. she peered over garden walls as they passed, and did her best to look through windows, and made up a good many quite fascinating stories about the inhabitants of the houses--stories very different from the mental pictures of the very same lives that jasper had been wont to paint. in miss mason's stories there was always a mother--a mother clasping the downy head of a new-born baby to her heart; a mother watching the first toddling steps of a tiny child; a mother hearing a little white-nightgowned figure lisp a childish prayer. the father in these stories--of course there was a father--took an extraordinarily back seat. her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a question from bridget. "how did jasper come to tell you our story?" she asked. "we were looking at a picture of pippa," replied miss mason quietly, "and he said that little stella would have been nearly the same age." bridget nodded. for a moment she was silent. then she spoke again. "who," she asked, "is pippa?" "my little girl," said miss mason promptly. "at least, she came to me out of the nowhere last december, and now she's mine." "a christmas gift," said bridget. miss mason nodded. "i like to hear you say that," she said. "i gave pippa her first christmas tree. it was my first for the matter of that." and then they fell to talking about pippa and stella, after the fashion of women who love children, each capping the other with a new anecdote. but after a time miss mason was left to do most of the talking, for bridget suddenly found her voice fail her. "pippa," said miss mason, "has true inventive genius. one night last january i told her to say her prayers before she got into bed. she announced that she'd already said them. 'where?' i asked. 'in my baf,' she replied, 'much warmer.' i couldn't help feeling there was a good deal to be said in favour of the bathroom on a cold winter's night. but all the same, i told her she was irreverent to say her prayers lying down. i knew she'd said them that way. she always ends her ablutions with lying full length in the water. whereupon she remarked in an aggrieved voice, 'turned over on my front, anyhow.'" "true prostration in prayer," laughed bridget. "i shall love pippa." already it was almost impossible to believe bridget to be the same apathetic woman who, slovenly and untidy, had entered the dingy little parlour barely two hours previously. after lunch and on the way to some flats in beaufort street she was almost radiant. "we will put things through as quickly as we can," said miss mason. "i hate loitering when one has set out on a piece of business." and in her heart she was longing to get bridget away from the dismal surroundings of her present home without a moment's delay. she would have liked to take her to her own studio, only there was no second bedroom, and also jasper would have seen her. after a little search miss mason decided on a flat she thought would do. it was on the third floor, and consisted of a dining-room, a drawing-room, four bedrooms, a servant's room, a bathroom, and kitchen. "what do you think of it?" asked miss mason. "it's for you to say as you'll be living in it." "it's heavenly," said bridget ecstatically, "but really there are an unnecessary number of rooms." "not at all," said miss mason firmly. "i hope you'll be here a long time, and--one never knows," she ended significantly. which little speech caused bridget to blush crimson. "the rent," said miss mason, "is my affair for the first year, at all events, till you've got rid of the house in chiswick. and the furniture will be my wedding present, as i didn't happen to know you when the ceremony took place." and bridget, her eyes full of happy tears, put her arms round miss mason and kissed her. chapter xx the heart of nature during the next three weeks the two conspirators were wildly busy. money is a key which smooths many difficulties, and the path before them was triumphantly easy. jasper found miss mason a little hard to understand during these days. she had a way of looking at him and then giving vent to odd little chuckles of laughter. he hoped she was not becoming childish. she received several letters from the donkey tourists. one, received about the tenth day, told her that another of her schemes was on the way to be started. "we are," wrote barnabas, "enjoying ourselves immensely. the weather is glorious, and pegasus a model of well-behaved donkeyness. he certainly deserves wings, even though he hasn't got them. but i heard pippa telling him in a consoling voice the other day that when he reached heaven he'd be provided with a pair of beautiful white ones. i fancy she sees in herself a female bellerophon soaring aloft and through golden streets on a grey donkey. if the golden streets are anything like as beautiful as the country lanes through which we are driving we shall be happy. i wish you could see them--the lanes, i mean. they are a bower of fairy delight. wild roses, honeysuckle, and meadow-sweet seem to vie with each other in filling the warm air with perfume. larks--i never knew before that the world held so many--sing to us from heaven, the sweetest feathered choristers. last night a nightingale sang to us in the light of a full moon. it was the first pippa had heard. there was something almost terrifying in her rapture. she feels almost too keenly. she is, however, absolutely in her element, and if i had ever felt any real doubt about her being the child of kostolitz i should only have needed to see her out here to convince me. at times she finds the most adorable bits of language in which to express her emotions. but then it is always some little thing like the colour of a flower-chalice or the glint of the kingfisher's blue. we saw one the other day. it skimmed up a bit of transparent water and perched on a piece of stick in midstream. pippa and i watched it, holding our breath. all at once something--i don't know what--startled it. there was a streak of iridescent colour and it had gone. but it left us both with the joyous feeling of discovery. the bird is too rare and too beautiful to leave one entirely unmoved. pippa could talk of that incident. it is the bigger aspects of nature that hold her dumb. we came to a wood one evening--pines, straight and solemn as the aisles of a cathedral, the setting sun slanting down the long spaces. pippa's face was a marvel. she just put her hand up to her throat and held it there as if it ached with the beauty of the thing, and then she made the sign of the cross. it was holy ground, though there had been no priestly ceremonial to proclaim it so. only the wind was there to whisper a benediction, and the trees themselves were like priests scattering the incense of their fragrant breath. the very memory of it brings thoughts of poetry to my mind. but again to pippa. she's yours, and i want you to know her as i'm seeing her now, for it's the essence of her--the spirit of kostolitz i'm seeing. a long line of cawing rooks, whether at sunset or against the blue sky, affects her strangely. it seems to make her unutterably sad. temporarily only, i am glad to say, for she is the gayest of children, and delights in the smallest of pleasures--namely, a pennyworth of bull's-eyes and sticks of pink-and-white striped stuff which we buy from extremely minute shops, whose windows are crammed below with apples--foreign, of course--and nuts. above the apples and nuts are rows of glass bottles full of pear-drops, lemon-drops, peppermints, and barley-sugar, also sugar candy the real article, rough and scrunchly on a string. and somewhere in the window, very inconspicuous, is a slit through which one can drop letters--the sweetstuff shop is always the post office. but sweets evidently take decided precedence over such minor considerations as letters and postage stamps. there is always a garden leading up to the shop, and it is always crammed with flowers, the stiff old-fashioned kind--sweet-williams, stocks, marigolds, mignonette, asters, and such-like. there are bushes, too, of lavender, and lad's-love. i painted one of them, but somehow did not hit it off. i've made another sketch, though, of a pond, a willow, meadow-sweet, and blue hills, which pleases me quite a lot. in fact, i was so absorbed in it that i lost pippa. you needn't be anxious, because she is found again, and with her something you wanted, namely, the first candidate for your school of a wonderful chance. i had just finished my sketch, and having come back to the practicalities of life realized that pippa had been absent for two hours. when lo! and behold she appeared, and with her a loose-limbed fellow of about twenty. when he fills out he will rival dan in size--but that is beside the mark. "'barnabas,' she cried--ceremony and with it the monsieur has lapsed into disuse in the open air--'do look at ze lovely little figure 'e 'as made. 'is name is andrew mcandrew.' and she rolled her r's with gusto. well, it is pleasant to think that pippa should be the one to find your first candidate, and it is curious to think it is one who, if i am not much mistaken, will one day be a great sculptor. the little figure of a young girl, made from the clay of the river, was to my mind simply a marvel. i learnt his story. i'll not give it in the broad scotch in which he told it, for it would take you your whole time to make it out. he lived in london--bayswater way--with a widowed mother, whom he supports by typing in a stuffy little office which he loathes, though he has not been without hope that 'aiblins the gud lorrd would find a way out for him one o' these days.' whenever he has any spare time he models in clay, which mercifully is an inexpensive material. he has at the moment a week's holiday, during which he is tramping the country, sleeping under a hedge or at the foot of a hayrick, eating bread and cheese like any tramp, and enjoying himself finely--as we are. pippa, it appears, watched him at work, herself hidden, like the fairy she is, in a mass of meadow-sweet. suddenly she appeared from among it, and they entered into a conversation which must have been curious, conducted in a broad scotch on his side, and in broken english on hers--though her english is progressing rapidly. anyhow, she made him understand she was out with a party of artists. he was all agog to meet us, and she brought him along. he will join us for the next three days, instead of making his way again in the direction of london as he had intended, and we've arranged between us to send him back by train. as soon as i'm at my studio again he will look me up, and i'll bring him along to see you. i've given him no inkling of the wonderful chance before him. that is for you to do. but he's one of the right ones for it and no mistake. you won't mind if we keep on the tour till the end of june, will you? cupid is sitting gaily in the donkey-cart alongside pippa, and though aurora and alan don't quite realize his presence yet, they soon will discover him, and will no doubt bring him back as a permanent guest to london. that, of course, was my main idea when i proposed the tour. high art, thank goodness, is getting wan and pale. she had almost her death-blow the other day when aurora made a daisy-chain with which she adorned alan, and he fell into a pond dabbling after tadpoles for pippa. we fished him out and wrapped him in a rug, while we spread his clothes in a buttercup field to dry. the warmth of their gold was enough to dry them, let alone the sun. i heard cupid chuckling, the rogue! we miss you a lot, and the best thing we have to look forward to on our return is your welcome...." miss mason put down the letter with a little sigh of happiness. her heart felt nearly as warm and sunny as the buttercup field. then she set out to meet bridget at storey's in kensington high street. * * * * * exactly three weeks after miss mason's peregrination to chiswick she put a request to jasper. "i want," she said, in as careless a voice as she could assume, "to call on a friend of mine this afternoon, and i want you to come with me." jasper looked dismayed. "i should be delighted," he said mendaciously, "only calling isn't a bit in my line." "it's quite near at hand," said miss mason; "only at a flat in beaufort street, and i particularly want you to meet my friend." "very well," said jasper, suppressing a sigh. "we'll start," said miss mason, "at half-past three." at the hour appointed jasper appeared. "you had better call a taxi," said miss mason. she felt it impossible to walk. she would have run all the way, a proceeding which would have undoubtedly have astonished jasper. as the taxi drew up at the door of a block of flats in beaufort street, a woman looked for a moment from a window. as she saw the two figures get out she drew back into the room. her heart was beating so loudly she could almost hear it. miss mason rang the bell of the flat. "your mistress at home?" she said to the dapper little maid who opened the door. "yes'm. what name 'm?" "miss mason and mr. merton," said miss mason firmly. they went into the bright little passage, and the maid threw open the door of the drawing-room. "miss mason and mr. merton," she announced. a woman in a pale green dress came forward to meet them. jasper stared. "jasper," she said, with a little shaky laugh, and she held out both her hands. "bride!" he exclaimed, and it was nearly seven years since she had heard that name. miss mason went quickly from the room, and closed the door softly behind her. it was nearly an hour before they realized her absence. then bridget started up from the sofa. "aunt olive!" she exclaimed. "oh, jasper, isn't she a dear! i must go round and find her." "she'll be back at her studio by now," said jasper calmly. "i'd quite forgotten her," said bridget contritely. "oughtn't we to go----" "presently," said jasper. "come back to me now. i want you. aunt olive will understand." chapter xxi the ring of eros far away from london pippa was swinging on a gate. her dress had become rather faded from much sunshine, and her straw hat had been baked quite brown. she had it well pulled down to shade her eyes, so that it hid the upper part of her face. an hour ago pippa had been crying, and for the reason that the purple-shadowed landscape had refused to be interpreted on canvas through the medium of paints and brushes and her own little brown right hand. barnabas at her earnest request had lent her the materials. it was not the first time she had tried with them. he had watched her in silence as she messed away with the paints. suddenly she flung the canvas face downwards on the grass and burst into tears. "what is it, kiddy?" asked barnabas, putting his arm round her. "it's all out vere," she said, nodding towards the sunny landscape, "and i can see it, and i want to tell it to myself and ozzer peoples, like you tell your pictures, and i can't--oh, i can't." she rubbed her tear-stained face up and down on barnabas' coat-sleeve in an access of despair. "but, childie," expostulated barnabas, "one can't 'tell pictures,' as you say, all in a moment. one has to learn." pippa shook her head. "not me," she said. "i shall never learn. i can't ever tell pictures. and it's all here," she put her hand to her heart, "and i want to say it so badly." for a minute barnabas was silent. then he spoke. "once," he said, "there was a boy who saw that the world was very beautiful and he wanted to tell his own beautiful thoughts about it to himself and to other people. one day he heard a man playing the violin. and the man made the violin speak so that in its music it said the most wonderful things. it told about the moon shining on a sleeping sea, and the secrets the little waves whispered to the shore. it told of silver streams whose banks were starred with primroses, and it told of great forests where the trees were standing dark and still in the purple night waiting for the first rosy flush of dawn. it told of the laughter of little children, and the songs young mothers sing to their babies. all these things the music of the violin told, and the boy listened, and said to himself, 'i will play the violin, for i know now the way i can tell my thoughts to the world.'" pippa was listening entranced. "had he got a violin?" she asked. "no," said barnabas, "but someone gave him a violin, and he had lessons, and he practised for many hours, but the violin would not speak his thoughts in the way he wished it to. and one day the great violinist he had first heard play came to the house. he listened to the boy playing but he didn't say very much. you see, he was a big man, and the big men never discourage the little men. remember that, pippa, my child. well, when the boy had finished playing, the master just wagged his shaggy great head to and fro and said, 'um, um, um. the lad's got something to say, but----' and then he went away. but he came again to see the boy. and that time he didn't ask him to play, but he just sat talking to him. and while he talked the boy was playing with a piece of clay, for he was very fond of making figures out of it." "like andrew," said pippa. "yes, like andrew. well, while the master talked the boy went on doing something with the clay, and suddenly the master saw that it was a likeness of himself the boy had made. 'let's have a look at that, boy,' he said. the boy, feeling very shy and crimson, pushed it over to him. the master stared at it for a minute, then he thumped his hand down on the table. 'du lieber gott!' he exclaimed in a huge big voice that made the boy tremble, 'i knew the boy had something to say, and behold,' he pointed at the clay, 'here is the language in which he shall say it. my son,' he went on, 'you have the ear to hear the language of music, and you have the heart to understand it, but you have not the hand to make it speak yourself. in it you understand the thoughts of others, but in this earth you shall tell your own. if you live you will be a great man.' and he held out his hand to the boy, who took it and kissed it, because he was so very happy. it's a true story," ended barnabas, "because the boy himself told me, only he was a man when he told the story." pippa nodded her head up and down. "i like dat," she said. "one day p'raps i find a language. what was ze boy's name?" "the boy's name," said barnabas, "was philippe kostolitz, and he made the little faun which you love, and which is in my garden." "oh!" said pippa, with a delighted sigh. her tears were completely forgotten. twenty minutes later she was swinging on the gate. barnabas was sitting in the shadow of a hedge near her, painting a buttercup field and a copse of birches beyond. dan was lying flat on his back smoking. andrew had gone back to london. and aurora and alan were off on some business of their own. pegasus, tethered to a long rope, was contentedly eating thistles. pippa watched the birds and butterflies, which were many, and the by-passers, which were few, as she swung. an old man passed and called good afternoon in a cheery voice. a trap with a hard-worked young doctor in it drove by, and he smiled as he saw pippa. then there came a cart driven by a man, and with a boy of about fifteen sitting on the tail-board, his legs swinging. he made a grimace at pippa as he passed, and pippa--be it told with sorrow--put out her tongue at him. there was something of the gamin about pippa which was never wholly eradicated. and after the boy there passed a young gipsy woman carrying a baby. pippa gave her a three-penny bit. the woman looked hard at her. "ah," she said, "there's some of our blood in your veins, and you have the sad eyes and the lucky smile of those who are born to many happenings. the lord keep you, little lady." and she passed on her way. and after she had gone there were only the birds and butterflies for quite a long time. suddenly pippa heard the distant hoot of a motor-car. barnabas, who had finished his painting, came to the gate and leant over it with her. the motor hove in sight, a great crimson mercedes, travelling fast. pippa waved her hand as it passed. the occupants of the car, a man and a woman, saw the child, and the gaiety of the sunshine being in their hearts they waved in response. the woman, who was swathed in a purple motor veil, waved an ungloved hand. pippa saw the flash of diamonds on it. also as she waved something fell, but the car rounded a bend in the lane and was out of sight almost before pippa and barnabas realized it. pippa scrambled over the gate. there was something lying in the dust, which she picked up. she came back slowly to barnabas. "look," she said, "what a queer, pretty ring." a ruby was set in it, on which was engraved a little figure of eros holding a circle and trident. the stone and its setting was undoubtedly very ancient. the ring itself probably georgian. she held it out to barnabas. he took it from her. "ah," he said slowly, and he looked from it in the direction the car had vanished. he had seen the ring before on the hand of philippe kostolitz. "may i keep it?" asked pippa. "no, little thief," said barnabas. "the owner will miss it and perhaps come back for it. in any case we shall have to try and find out who she is, and return it." and he slipped the ring into his coat-pocket. chapter xxii an old man in a garden it is strange how a name long unspoken and unheard, once coming again within one's ken, comes again and again before one, and in the most unlikely and unexpected ways. for over nine years barnabas had not chanced to hear his friend's name mentioned, and now there was first pippa and her wonderful likeness to him, and then the incident of the ring, both of which had served to remind him vividly and bring the name before him. but the third incident was to be a good deal stranger, in fact it was to savour somewhat of the "arabian nights' entertainments." they stopped for their noon halt one day in the shade of a small coppice. a little beyond it they could see the roof and chimneys of a house surrounded by a high wall. before settling down to lunch barnabas strolled towards it and walked round the wall. there was no means of seeing over, and the only entrance was through a small green wooden door, which was shut. ivy grew up the wall outside, and had barnabas felt disposed he might have climbed up by it and peered over. it was, however, too hot for such exertion. also if there were anyone in the garden and he were seen, his position would have been, to say the least of it, undignified. he strolled back to the copse and to the lunch which the others had unpacked. "where 'ave you been?" asked pippa. barnabas nodded in the direction of the house. "down there," he said. "what's inside?" demanded pippa. "don't know," said barnabas, attacking the leg of a chicken; "couldn't see over." pippa's eyes became far off and dreamy. "_quel domage!_ you couldn't climb, ze wall ver' much too 'igh?" "it wasn't the question of the height of the wall, but my dignity," returned barnabas. "what would i have looked like if i'd been caught?" "funny," smiled pippa, her eyes dancing with amusement. "i've no desire to look funny," said barnabas. "toss me over that bottle of cider, like a good child, and look out for flying corks. i do my best, but this weather makes the stuff too fizzy for anything." pippa tossed the bottle and retired gravely behind barnabas while he manipulated the cork. then she returned to her seat near him. "i do wonder what's inside," she said. "cider," said barnabas, pouring it into a glass. "not the bottle, _méchant_, the wall," announced pippa. "oh, the wall! i don't know; nothing, i daresay." "an ogre," said aurora. she and alan and dan had been too busy feeding to enter into the conversation before. pippa elevated her chin. "_je ne suis pas une bébé, moi._ i know, but quite well, vere are no ogres." "lions, then, miss curiosity," suggested alan. pippa turned her shoulder towards him. "_imbécile_, it is not a menagerie, but i have no interest in it, _moi_. if you wish to discover you can go and look for yourself." and she proceeded to eat chicken delicately and haughtily with her fingers, disdaining further mention of the house within the wall. after lunch they all lay down in the shade of the trees and went to sleep, lulled by the sleepy, liquid note of the wood-pigeons, and the humming of bees. barnabas was the first to awaken. when he did he discovered that pippa was absent. he came out of the copse and looked down the little lane that ran between the trees on one side and a stretch of moorland on the other. to the left it would come out on the main road, to the right it led to the wall-enclosed house. seeing no sign of the child, and not caring to coo-ee to her on account of disturbing the sleepers, he went down towards the house, thinking it more than likely, from her remarks at lunch, that she had gone to investigate the place herself. "daughter of eve," said barnabas to himself, as he strolled down the sunny lane, watching the butterflies flitting over the moorland. he reached the garden wall and had strolled round two sides of it when he suddenly came to a standstill, arrested by the sound of pippa's voice from inside the garden. he paused to listen. he could hear her words distinctly. she was narrating to some one the story of philippe kostolitz which he had told her only a couple of days previously. "and so," pippa ended, in her clear voice, "i am looking for my language. what is yours?" there was a note of shameless coaxing in the words. "that," returned a deep voice. "what, ze garden?" came pippa's reply. barnabas put one foot on a stout branch of ivy, and clinging to another branch above him, heaved himself noiselessly to the top of the wall. then he saw pippa. she was seated on a garden bench, her hat in her hands, and on the bench beside her was an old man. his beard, long and snow-white, reached almost to his waist. his hair, also snow-white and very thick, glistened in the sunlight, for his head was uncovered. his clothes, barnabas saw, were dark and well-cut, and his voice was peculiarly melodious and refined. "well, upon my word!" ejaculated barnabas, quite forgetting that he was speaking aloud. the old man looked up. "ah," he said, with a quaint smile, "so you, too, have found the ivy route." "you don't mean to say pippa climbed up here?" exclaimed barnabas, absolutely forgetful of his own rather curious position. "but i did," cried pippa joyfully, "and he saw me, and asked me to come in and see ze garden. but did you ever see such a garden?" "never!" said barnabas enthusiastically, surveying it from his post of vantage. smooth lawns with close-clipped edges, and flower-beds a mass of colour met his eye. there were larkspurs tall and slender, from sapphire blue to turquoise. there were great tree lupins, there were roses of every shade and shape imaginable. there were crimson and blue salvias, scarlet and white phloxes, borders of african marigolds--a blaze of orange; and there was a great bed of hollyhocks, among whose silken flowers butterflies innumerable were hovering. in the middle of the lawn was a marble basin full of crystal water, on whose edge white pigeons were preening themselves, and a couple of gorgeous peacocks spread tails of waking eyes to the sun. "will you not," said the old man courteously, "follow pippa's example and enter the garden by the door? you will find it unfastened." barnabas slithered down off the wall and came round to the green door. he felt as if he were suddenly walking into a fairy tale garden in which nothing that might happen would surprise him. the old man came forward to meet him. "i hope," he said courteously, "that the child's absence has not caused you anxiety. i found a pleasure in her conversation, and forgot that time was passing." "not at all," barnabas assured him. "i had only just missed her. i came to look for her, and heard her voice. forgive my unceremonious appearance." the old man smiled. "it was as delightful as her own," he said. there was a little silence. barnabas looked towards the house. it was elizabethan in structure, with walls stained to a variety of different colours by wind, sun, rain, and time. roses wreathed the latticed windows, and up one side of the house a great wistaria climbed, covering part of the roof and losing itself among the chimney-stacks. "will you come inside?" said the old man. "there is something i would like the child to see." barnabas assented. the three sleepers in the coppice were forgotten. the fascination of the place and the old man's strange and courtly personality was upon him. the old man had led the way into the house. they went into a square hall, dark and cool. the floor was of inlaid wood highly polished, the walls oak and hung with pictures. they passed through the hall, and the old man led the way through an arched doorway and down two steps into a room which to the mind of barnabas belonged most assuredly to the ancient stories of the "arabian nights." in shape it was circular, and hung with draperies of a curious deep blue, like the colour of the sky at night. the floor was also polished and covered with a few old persian rugs. there was an oak table at the far side of the room, three large oak chairs, and a kind of divan covered in sapphire-blue silk and worked with tiny crescent moons and stars. but the arresting note of the room lay in a marble statue on a pedestal. it would be hard to say wherein exactly the extraordinary fascination of it lay. but barnabas looked at it almost spellbound. the old man motioned to them to sit down, and seated himself. "that statue," he said, "was given me by a friend of mine. he used to pass many months with me at a time. he loved the quietude of these surroundings as i love them. at the back of the house i had a studio built for him where he worked. when he was not working he sat in the garden. he loved it. he used to say he loved the flowers both in sunlight and in moonlight, or drenched in tears of rain. he said the spirit of the garden moved among them. that was the figure he made of her. look at it well," he went on, with a grave earnestness. "is it not wonderful?" "wonderful!" echoed barnabas from his heart. "it is to me," said the old man quietly, "a perfect embodiment of an inspiration. so much is often lost. first the inspiration-flash has to become articulate--to be shaped in the brain--before the hand even starts to fashion it. it loses enormously in the process. to me that is one of the few things that has not lost. it is the first inspiration-flash embodied in marble. it has never been exhibited. my friend had a curious dislike to exhibiting his work. he was a strange man." he lapsed into a thoughtful silence. pippa was lying back in her chair, her hands tucked under her chin--a usual attitude of hers. she was gazing at the statue with wide grey eyes. barnabas had a certain presentiment of a name that would shortly be mentioned. "would you like to see the place where he worked?" asked the old man suddenly. barnabas got up from his chair. pippa came across to him and slid her hand into his. her imagination was vividly at work. they left the circular room and went down a passage. the old man took a key from his pocket and unlocked a door. "this is the place," he said. it was a large room, well lighted. there were plaster casts of heads on various shelves, and several plaster plaques hanging on the walls. at one side of the studio barnabas saw the plaster figure of a little faun. it was the same as the marble faun in his garden. pippa did not notice it. she was gazing at a figure, enveloped in an old sheet, which was on a stand in the middle of the room. "it was the last piece of work he started here," said the old man, pointing to it. "it has remained just as he left it. nothing has been moved. i dust the place myself. no one ever entered it but my friend and i and the workmen he employed. they were always foreigners, and came from a distance. but now no one enters but i. you are the first to come into the place." "and," said barnabas, speaking in a low voice, "you brought us in here because of pippa?" pippa had wandered to the far side of the room. "how did you know?" asked the old man. "because philippe kostolitz was also my friend." "ah!" said the old man softly. "and where," he asked, "did you find the child?" "she came to us," said barnabas, "out of the nowhere." the old man smiled. "planted there i fancy by philippe." then their eyes met. "so you saw the likeness too?" "i did," said barnabas. "that was the reason," said the old man, "that i liked to talk to her. she reminded me of him. he came and went from here as he chose. it was on one of his tramps that he wandered in. the door in the wall is never locked. i found him looking at the butterflies among my hollyhocks. he was a lad of twenty at that time. it is twenty-five years ago." "yes?" said barnabas. "pippa's voice," went on the old man, "is charming. i liked to hear it. she has a way of looking up at one when she talks that reminds me of our friend. she told me a delightful little story about a sculptor." "the story," said barnabas, "was true. and the sculptor was philippe kostolitz." "truly," said the old man, "i might have guessed it." and again he lapsed into silence. suddenly he roused himself. "but you will have fruit and cake and something to drink," he said. "i was forgetting my manners." "we have only just lunched," said barnabas. "but fruit," the old man insisted, "at least fruit. i hold the eastern ideas of hospitality. those to whom i feel friendly must eat in my house." he led the way back into the hall and signed to them to sit down. then he clapped his hands three times. an indian, brown as mahogany, in loose trousers, white shirt, and turban, answered the summons. he salaamed, his face as impassive as a mask. the old man said something to him in a language neither barnabas nor pippa understood, though barnabas guessed it to be hindustanee. "he has served me," said the old man, "for fifteen years. he is faithful as a dog." "do you live here always?" asked barnabas. "i have lived here," said the old man, "for thirty years. up till the age of forty i travelled far. then i came here to peace--my thoughts, my flowers, and my books. i have a few friends who come to see me, and they are always welcome." he mentioned three or four names. among them barnabas recognized the name of a famous statesmen and a well-known singer. the indian returned with a tray, on which was a dish of strawberries, some wafer biscuits, a glass of milk, and two empty tumblers, and three small decanters, which he placed on a table. the old man helped pippa to strawberries and gave her the glass of milk. then from the three decanters he mixed a drink for barnabas and himself. "excellent!" said barnabas as he tasted it. "my own brewing," said the old man. while they ate the fruit he talked to them of his travels. each little narrative he told was well-turned and concise, the language he chose was poetical. all at once he got up and went into an inner room. he came back with the most exquisite little russian icon. he gave it to pippa. "will you have it," he asked, "in memory of your visit here?" pippa was covered with rosy blushes of delight. "_mais, je vous rémerce mille fois_," she said. "barnabas, isn't it beautiful, but, oh, very beautiful?" "it's very good of you," said barnabas. "you've given a great deal of pleasure." and then quite suddenly, and for the first time, he remembered the three sleepers in the wood, who doubtless had long ago awakened. he signed to pippa, who got up. the old man took them into the garden. at the green door he held out his hand. "will you come again and see me?" he said. "i live, as you see, alone among my flowers. ali looks after my bodily needs, and i have a man who helps me in my garden. i do not, as a rule, see people--beyond the few friends i mentioned to you. but it would give me great pleasure if you will come. my name is adam gray, and my house is called the close." and barnabas promised that one day they would come again. so they left the enchanted garden and went up the lane among the butterflies. "i feel as if i'd been dreaming," said pippa thoughtfully. "exactly, my dear," said barnabas. "it's what we've both been doing--dreaming a very fantastic arabian night's dream, which nobody would believe if we told it to them." and then from afar an extremely wakeful dan saw them and hailed them in wrathful accents. "where on earth have you two been?" he cried. "we've been hunting for you for the last hour and a half." "we've been in a fairy tale," said barnabas, as he reached him, "where clocks and watches are not admitted, and where turbaned indians bring red, white, and green drinks in cut-glass decanters, which when mixed together is drink fit for the gods. now let me help you to harness pegasus. and if you'll leave off staring i'll tell you about it, only pippa knows you won't believe it." * * * * * miss mason, in her studio in london, received a registered packet from barnabas. she opened it, and found inside a letter and a curious signet ring. "we are on our way home," wrote barnabas. "cupid has triumphed and is holding the reins of pegasus. pippa, dan, and i are taking back seats. kisses and moonlight--there's a full moon--predominate, and i saw aurora hugging a rosy-cheeked baby in a cottage garden. high art gave one groan and expired. she has never, never moved again. the call of wedding bells is bringing us back to london. you may expect us on friday. i am enclosing a ring which was dropped from a passing motor-car. fortunately i saw the number. it was a london car. i am advertising for the owner of the ring in various london papers, and have given your studio as the address to which to apply, though i gave my own name. therefore i send you the ring. you will, of course, take the name and address of the claimant. dan and i will be glad to be home again. though nature in her present sunny mood is extraordinarily entrancing, there is a good deal to be said in favour of spring mattresses...." miss mason looked at the ring, turning it curiously in her hand. then she put it away in a little carved box which she locked. chapter xxiii andrew mcandrew "i feel," said barnabas, "that some one ought to pat me on the back. i set out to do something, and i did it. it is a pleasant sensation." "unaccustomed?" asked miss mason, with mock sarcasm. they were both in her studio the day following the return of the donkey-party. they were awaiting the appearance of andrew mcandrew, to whom barnabas had written to come to the studio at four o'clock. pippa had been taken by jasper to call upon his wife. miss mason had announced bridget's advent to beaufort street to the assembled party the previous evening. they had taken the announcement without undue surprise. their minds were too big and straightforward to dream of questioning. since jasper had chosen to keep the fact of his marriage secret it was entirely his own affair. they merely rejoiced that he was now, as miss mason told them, unfeignedly happy. "aurora," continued barnabas, "has gone down to stay with her own people for three weeks, while the banns are being called. she left this morning, and alan is writing to her at the moment. their pet names for each other are sweetest and boysie. i suppose the pendulum was bound to swing pretty far in the direction of rank sentimentality. it'll steady again presently." "you swung it," said miss mason dryly. "and i'm proud of the fact," said barnabas. there was a knock at the door. "if that's mr. mcandrew," said miss mason, relapsing into her gruffest manner, "you'll have to do the talking, because i can't." "mr. mcandrew," said sally, opening the door. andrew came in, a great loose-limbed fellow, with mouse-coloured hair, and oddly earnest eyes in a snub-nosed, wide-mouthed face. "awfully glad to see you, mcandrew," said barnabas warmly. "let me introduce you to miss mason." the two shook hands and andrew sat down. his glance wandered round the studio till it reached the "winged victory." his eyes rested on it with pleasure as on some familiar friend. "ay," he said, "but yon's a fine bit o' wor-rk." "you're fond of sculpture," said miss mason shortly. "'deed," said andrew, "i like it weel." "do you do anything yourself in that way?" asked miss mason. andrew shook his head. "i'll no be havin' the time," he said, "for mair than juist dabblin' wi' a bit o' clay." "would you like to give your time to the work?" asked miss mason. "'deed an' i wad." there was a simple earnestness about the words infinitely more convincing than any lengthy assurance of the fact. "well," said miss mason gruffly, "let's have some tea." during the meal barnabas did most of the talking, andrew replying in short sentences. miss mason was practically silent. when it was finished miss mason looked across at barnabas. "better tell mr. mcandrew our idea," she said. so, very straightforwardly, barnabas told andrew miss mason's scheme for the wonderful chance. when he had ended andrew looked at him with an expression of dumb happiness in his eyes. "you'll be meanin'----?" he said. "you were thinkin' to offer the chance to me?" "if you care to take it," said barnabas. "what do you think?" "i'm maist obleeged," said andrew, and he lapsed into silence. "very well, then," said miss mason gruffly, "it's settled. mr. kirby will make all arrangements with you." and she too became silent. it was not at all the kind of interview barnabas had intended. he felt miss mason to be almost tiresomely gruff, and his protégé almost ungrateful. at last andrew heaved himself out of his chair. "i'll be leavin'," he said. he held out his hand to miss mason. "i'm maist obleeged," he said again. "that's all right," said miss mason gruffly. barnabas went out into the little garden with andrew. "miss mason doesn't mean to be abrupt," he said. "it's merely her manner. she finds it difficult to express----" andrew turned on him. "man, d'ye think i dinna ken. d'ye think 'i'm maist obleeged' told juist all that was in ma heart. i cud e'en ha' knelt an' ha' kissed the hem o' her skir-rt. an' gin i had i'd ha' been sobbin' like a wee bit wean." andrew swallowed once or twice fiercely. then he saw the little faun. "ay," he said, "yon's bonny. i wad like fine to make a figure to stand in t' auld lady's garden, but aiblins she like it a wee bit draipit." "charity," laughed barnabas, "colossal and in many robes." "huh!" said andrew scornfully, "it's ha' gran' figure o' charity i was thinkin' o', but juist a wee figure o' smilin' love wi' his hands held oot to draw folk to his hearrt." and a year later such a little figure did stand--not in the garden--but in a corner of miss mason's studio. when andrew had gone barnabas went back into the studio. "we disappointed you," said miss mason. "that boy's no more good at expressing his feelings than i am." "i understand," said barnabas lightly. "he managed though to say a bit more in the garden. by the way," he went on, "no one has called to claim the ring yet, i suppose?" "no," replied miss mason. "it's a queer ring." "yes," said barnabas. but for some reason he still did not say where and when he had first seen it. chapter xxiv the cruelty of the fates the duchessa di corleone was on her way back from italy. she had said good-bye with a little pang to the gallery, and to the courtyard with its golden oranges and marble statues, but once on her way to england the thought of paul completely obliterated any trace of sorrow. she was joyfully ready to give up everything--the casa di corleone, her house on the embankment, and her thousands a year for the man who had taken her heart into his keeping. throughout the journey her heart sang little songs of happiness, which had as their refrain the one word, "paul." the express train rushing across the country bathed in the july sun could hardly carry her with sufficient swiftness. when, at last, calais was reached and she was on board the boat she felt happier. with the cliffs of dover in sight her heart was singing a te deum. till that moment she had felt that some accident might happen to prevent her getting to him. now, in less than four hours she would be in his studio. she had written to tell him not to meet her at the station. she wanted their first meeting to be alone, without the eyes of curious porters upon them. "just you and i together, my darling," she wrote. "i can see the room in my mind, and you coming forward to meet me. there has not been a moment day and night when you have been absent from my thoughts. our love transfigures everything for me. life has become a magic book on every page of which your name is written...." * * * * * that letter had reached paul in his studio the morning of the day sara would arrive. and now, an hour before her arrival, he was sitting with it crumpled tightly in his hand, his eyes staring blankly before him. the fates had struck suddenly, dealing sorrow as they had dealt joy, silently and swiftly. that very morning he had heard of the complete failure of the mexican bank in which his money was invested. at first the news had stunned him. in the afternoon he had gone down to a friend in the city to make fuller enquiries. he found his worst fears realized. his income, which altogether had amounted to about fourteen hundred a year, had been suddenly reduced to less than half. in fact, to merely the six hundred or so he earned by his painting. paul went back to his studio and sat down trying to realize what it would mean. and because he was a man whose steady grey eyes had always looked facts clearly in the face, he even took pencil and paper and jotted down certain figures. but the sum total always remained the same--his marriage with sara had become impossible. he never for an instant did her the wrong of thinking that his loss of income would make any difference to her love for him. he believed in her love as implicitly as he believed in his own. that, however, did not alter the one fact that marriage was out of the question. even if he reduced his mother's allowance by a hundred a year--which, however, he had no intention of doing--the three hundred left him would not justify him taking any woman to wife, and assuredly not a woman like the duchessa di corleone. he knew the impossibility of transplanting a hot-house flower to the open air of a wintry garden. the thing could not be done. no amount of care could save it; it must die. and with the irony of fate, this news had reached him by the very same post as her letter. he took it again from his pocket and re-read it. a spasm of pain that was almost physical pierced him. his hand tightened on the paper till it was crumpled and twisted. and in less than an hour she would be in the studio with him. "my god," said paul to himself, "the fates are very cruel!" and then because throughout the day his first thought had been of sara he began to plan how best to break the news to her. he determined that for a few hours at least she should not know. she should have the complete joy of the meeting unmarred. they were going out to dine together. when they returned to the studio it would be time enough to tell her. with the decision all the old quiet endurance he had learnt through days and nights of hardship came back to paul. he would hide the knowledge of their parting in his own heart. till he bade her good-bye that evening she should never guess what the world would really mean to them both. something caught at his throat and a mist swam before his eyes. he got up and began to walk quickly up and down the room. every now and then his hand, still holding the letter, clenched tightly. suddenly he realized what he held. he stopped in his walk and put the letter on the table. he smoothed it out tenderly, as if it had been some living thing he had injured. he folded it and put it in his pocket-book. and once more he began his walk. the whole place seemed full of her presence. everything reminded him of her, the chair in which she sat, the glass at which she had been wont to arrange her hat when she was sitting for him, the vases on a bookshelf, for which she insisted that he should buy flowers. there were flowers in them to-day, real crimson roses--general jacqueminot, with its sweet old-fashioned scent. for the future they would remain empty. it would be useless to buy flowers if she was not to see them. it seemed to him as if his whole life he had been doing everything for her, and that now nothing would seem worth while. he caught at his underlip with his teeth, biting it hard. it seemed as if he were being asked to bear more than human strength could endure. then all at once he stopped in his walk, for the hoot of a taxi near at hand struck on his ears. a moment later he heard a light step crossing the courtyard. the door opened. she was in the doorway--radiant, living. "paul." "my beloved." she was in his arms. he was holding her as if he would never let her go. * * * * * love, so say the chroniclers--and wrongly--is blind. it is keen-sighted as an eagle, which from afar discerns objects invisible to the sight of man. when paul at last held sara away from him, she looked into his eyes, and though he had hidden his sorrow deep down in his heart she saw suddenly into the depths, and her own heart momentarily stood still. but also with her love and her quick woman's instinct she saw that it was something he wished to keep hidden, and so she did not ask him then what it was he was hiding from her, but smiled at him, and in her turn hid what she had guessed. so throughout the evening the two played a game of pretence, she knowing that they both were playing it, and he--man-like--believing that he was the sole performer. they went to an hotel together and dined, and listened to a band which was making music, and they talked nonsensically about the food they were eating and the people they saw, and all the time her heart was crying to him to drop the terrible mask of gaiety and tell her his sorrow. but as she saw he meant to play the game she told him of her journey, and the portrait that was hanging in the gallery, and she said that she had kissed the fauns good-bye. and then quite suddenly she stopped, because she saw a look of such pain come into his eyes that for the moment she was dumb, and pretence seemed useless. but almost at once he laughed and made some little light speech; and she laughed too, and bravely, because she knew he wished it. but when at last they were back in the studio she could play the terrible little game no longer. and he too knew that the moment had come for it to cease. "paul," she said steadily, "what is it?" "you guessed?" he asked. "my dear," she said, with a sad laugh, "i knew at once." "then the harlequin game has been no good," he said. and so he told her. and when he had ended there was a long silence. sara was the first to break it. "there is no need for me to tell you," she said, "that this makes no difference to our love." "but," said paul, and in spite of himself his voice was bitter, "it does to our marriage. there is no way out." and with the words silence again fell. and in the silence sara felt a slow hatred of giuseppe creep into her heart. he could have made this happiness possible to her, and he had made it impossible. she did not dream of suggesting that they should marry in spite of everything. she knew it would be mere mockery to do so. but her heart rebelled fiercely against fate and against the late duca di corleone. it was the arrant selfishness of his deed that angered her. she had been his wife faithful and courteous when he was living, and in return he claimed her life when he was dead, or made a pauper of her. she got up from her chair and began to move about the room. in mind and body she felt like a caged animal beating against the bars which kept it from freedom. she paused near the window. paul saw her figure silhouetted against the night sky. he watched her. and suddenly her love for paul and every fighting instinct within her rose up against the injustice of the fates. defiance of their decree and intense love overwhelmed her. "there--is a way," she said slowly. she did not turn her head. paul saw her profile immovable against the square of grey-blue window. he got up from his chair and came across to her. he took her hand and held it hard against his lips. "you honour me, beloved," he said. "but it cannot be." she turned towards him then. "why not?" she cried almost fiercely. "we love each other. is not that enough? let us defy giuseppe. do you think i care what the world would say of me?" "but i care," said paul simply. "more than you care for me?" she asked. "beloved," said paul huskily, "it is because i love you--because you are more than the whole world to me that i cannot let there be the smallest stain upon your honour. i--my god, how i worship you!" the words came from him like a cry. "ah, paul." the bitterness in her heart had melted, and with it her strength. he held her in his arms. "was--was i horrible?" she asked. he kissed her lips fiercely. "you were wonderful, my darling. god knows the generosity of women. but there are some sacrifices a man cannot accept." "it would have been none," she whispered. he held her closer. "you think not now, my darling. but later---- dearest, i could not bear to see your whiteness stained by the mud the world would throw at you." he kissed her eyes and hair. "what is to be the end of it?" she asked. "what must we do?" he laughed sadly. "there is only one thing left for us to do--we must say good-bye." she put her arms round him. "ah, not that, paul--not that." "but listen, dearest," he said. "we've got to look at things as they are. there is no profession open to me in which i am likely to make more than i can by my painting. i have lost every penny of capital. god! how sordid it seems that the lack of money should keep us apart. but there it is. it may be years before i make more, though heaven knows i'd paint every commonplace creature in creation in return for shekels now. i hate my own fastidiousness. i've lost dozens of commissions and made not a few enemies. it will take ages to make up for my folly. at the best it must be years before i have anything like a decent income." he stopped. he had loathed having to speak the bare commonplace facts. "i will wait," she said. "dearest," he said, and his voice was shaking, "it would not be fair to let you. there will be other men, rich, who----" she interrupted by a gesture. "do you count my love as little as that?" she said. "cannot you understand that there is nothing in the world for me but my love for you and your love for me. if you believe as i do that we belong to each other for time and eternity, then how can you----?" she could get no further. he stopped her with such kisses that she was frightened at his vehemence. "enough," he said. "we belong to each other. one day i will claim you." "and till then?" she asked. "for a time," he said steadily, "we must not meet. it is--wiser not." "because--of what i said?" she asked. the crimson colour had covered her face and neck. "no," he answered quietly, "but because i am only a man, and very human." and there was something in his voice that told her not to gainsay him. "but at least we will write," she said. "no." "why not?" "it would be almost the same as seeing you. there would come a day when the sight of your writing would shake my resolve. you, if you wrote, could only tell me all that was in your heart. what use else to write? i should hear your heart calling mine, as mine will call to you. and then one day my resolution would fail. and if it did i should hate myself, and count myself unworthy to come near you again." "then never, dear heart," she whispered. and there was a little silence too sad for words or tears. it was sara who broke it. "christopher used to say," she said, with a little shaky laugh, "that i could cheat the fates. this time i cannot. they have dealt me a hand full of little spades, and every one of them is digging the grave of my happiness." "ah, my dearest," he said. she disengaged herself gently from him. "and since for a time at least we both must die," she said, "we had better die at once. a lingering death is so painful." her voice shook. "good-bye, paul. don't come with me. i want to go home alone." "good-bye, beloved." again their eyes met. and he caught her to him. she felt his body shaking. "paul," she whispered. "beloved." and then he took her to the door and held it open for her. she went out through the courtyard in the twilight of the summer evening. and the little faun, holding his pipe to his lips, made no sound, for he knew at that moment no music however tender could bring comfort to her heart. chapter xxv in yorkshire away in yorkshire, on a fell-side, a woman was sitting on a grey stone and looking at the landscape before her. below her, some couple of hundred feet, ran a little brown stream, on the banks of which a man in tweed clothes was walking. he held a fishing-rod, and every now and then he paused to cast a fly upon the water with a light and dexterous hand. the woman watched him idly. later he would join her by a clump of trees near the stream, and they would have luncheon together. the man's name was luke preston, and he was her husband. they had been married exactly a fortnight previously, and were now spending part of their honeymoon in yorkshire. the landscape, and particularly the sight of the distant figure by the stream, gave her a great sense of rest. in some ways luke was like the fells around her she thought--very big, very silent, and very enduring. it was the unwavering assurance of luke that had first attracted him to her. there was something so unswerving about his point of view. it was so direct. there were never more than two ways in his mind--the right and the wrong; never more than two colours--black and white. there were no little chance bypaths, and no shades of grey admissible. because of this some people found luke lacking in subtlety, but to the woman he had married it constituted a strength which she found very pleasant. all her life she had been swayed by varying moods. actions seldom appeared to her in a light of her own opinion. they became black, white, or various shades of lighter or darker grey as they were presented to her by the minds of others. there was one episode only in her life in which she had resolutely adhered to her own determination. and that episode was one she wished to forget, or to remember only as a dream, and not as a time connected with her own waking self. it had all happened a good many years ago, and some people have a curious faculty for disconnecting themselves mentally from their own past actions. sybil preston was one of these. during the years that had elapsed since the episode she had had one thing only to remind her of it--a quaint signet ring, with which she had never had the courage to part. on the way up to yorkshire, the very day of her wedding, she had lost it. she fancied it must have slipped from her finger as she had waved to a small girl swinging on a gate. but she had not discovered her loss till the evening when they had stopped for the night at an hotel. in a sense she regretted the loss, yet on the other hand she could not help feeling it a relief. she regarded it in a way as a kind of omen--a sign that the past was banished forever, especially as the loss had occurred on the very day she had entered her new life. the episode was known only to herself and to one other living person--a woman friend of hers. she had no smallest fear but that cecily mainwaring had kept silence regarding it--would always keep silence. she was a woman with extraordinary strength of character and great reserve. she had always been a staunch friend of sybil's. sybil herself had sometimes marvelled that in this matter she had been able to stand firm against cecily's opinion; in fact, to persuade her to her own point of view regarding it. though, to be strictly truthful, cecily had never adopted sybil's point of view, she had acted contrary to her own judgment, and purely from her unswerving friendship to sybil. they had never again referred to the matter. sybil had seen considerably less of cecily after it. she had never felt entirely comfortable in her presence. cecily's eyes were too terribly truthful. they were not unlike luke's eyes. sybil, sitting up on the moorland, heaved an enormous sigh of relief at the thought that he could never have the smallest suspicion of that episode. she knew that deceit of any kind was the one thing luke could never forgive. she knew, however, that she was perfectly safe. she would soon be safe herself from all memory of it. to-morrow they were returning to london, and a month hence they were sailing for india. luke was in the indian civil service, and would be returning after a year's leave. for some years at least they would be out of england, and there would be no chance of meeting cecily, who just served to remind her of things she now wanted to forget entirely. and then she saw her husband winding in his line and waving to her. she got up and went down the side of the fell towards him. "been lonely, little girl?" he asked, putting his arm round her. "i've got five beauties. we'll have them for supper to-night. now come along and have some lunch. i'm simply ravenous." "so am i," laughed sybil. "what a glorious place it is, and how delicious the air is, and how utterly happy i am." "darling," he said, and bent to kiss her. they walked towards the clump of trees where luke had left a knapsack containing various eatables. they were simple enough--a couple of packets of sandwiches, a couple of pieces of cake, and a flask of claret. he was not the man to burden himself with unnecessary food. sybil sat down on the grass, leaning back against a tree-trunk. "i wish we could stay on here," she said. "it would be infinitely pleasanter than going back to town." "infinitely," said luke, taking a great bite of chicken sandwich. "then why not write and tell your people that we can't come, and that we're staying on here." luke laughed. "because, darling, there is no earthly reason beyond our own inclination to prevent us going back to london. and i promised my parents that we would come to them during the last part of july. they go down to henley in august, and their cottage is too small to take us in there." sybil pouted. "can't you get out of it, though?" she said. "i could sprain my ankle, or break my leg, or something, and be unable to travel." luke frowned. "i don't like to hear you say that, sybil. of course you don't mean it, but that you should even suggest in fun that you could make an untrue statement----" sybil interrupted him quickly. "of course i didn't mean it, luke darling. it was only rather a stupid bit of nonsense. i wouldn't break our promise for worlds, and you know i love your people. it was just the thought of this heavenly place that tempted me. besides, i have you to myself up here. i'm not sharing you with anyone." the last two sentences were the outcome of genuine affection on sybil's part. she was honestly devoted to her big husband. and though at times she would have preferred him to be a little less literal, his strength and assurance of purpose, as already mentioned, appealed to her enormously. her last two sentences, in fact her whole speech, pleased luke. he patted her hand and looked at her with tender eyes. he loved her from the very bottom of his extremely truthful heart. he had placed her carefully on a little pedestal of his own building, and her first remark had distressed him, as it had caused her to sway a trifle unsteadily on the same pedestal. as soon as they had finished lunch he returned to his fishing, and she strolled across some fields to a little pond in a bit of heathery moorland, where she found some sundew and a bog violet. it was nearly seven o'clock before they went back to the little white cottage in the small village. they found that the evening post had come in, and with it a couple of letters and a london paper. "wonder why this has been sent?" asked luke, opening it. "we've been eschewing london papers since we've been up here. the 'yorkshire post' is quite good enough on a holiday." he turned the pages. "oh, it's talbot's wedding"--talbot had been his best man. "ah, well, that kind of rigmarole will interest you far more than me. i've no use for other people's weddings. i'm quite satisfied with my own. eh! little girl?" sybil laughed, returned his kiss, and went upstairs to take off her hat. later in the evening she took up the paper, and because she had nothing else to read she studied the pages rather carefully. suddenly an advertisement caught her eye. she read it slowly, then put down the paper. it told her that her ring had been found, and that she could get it by applying at a certain address. for a moment she decided that she would take no notice of the advertisement. then it occurred to her that there might be the smallest element of risk in leaving the ring in other hands. it was certainly unique, and once seen not likely to be forgotten. no doubt other people had seen and observed it long before it had come into her hands--people who had known its previous owner. they were going back to london to-morrow. if luke saw the advertisement he would at once recognize it as a description of the ring she had worn. she had told him that cecily had given it to her. he had mentioned it once to cecily as her gift to sybil. sybil remembered the tiny trace of scorn in cecily's eyes at the lie, though she had not contradicted the statement. if luke saw the advertisement he would promptly go and fetch the ring for her, and then there was no knowing whether he would not learn something of its previous history. she knew it was ridiculous to imagine such a thing, and yet she felt that she dared run no tiniest risk. whoever had found the ring was advertising the fact assiduously, for the loss was now a fortnight old. they might continue to advertise. the moment she got back to london she would go to the address given by mr. kirby and claim the ring. and perhaps on the way out to india she would drop it overboard. she wanted to forget. whatever sybil's faults and weaknesses she was genuinely in love with luke. she crumpled the paper in her hand, managing to tear the advertisement. she would run no risk. luke looked up with a big yawn. "read the account of the wedding?" he asked. "they were going to biarritz, weren't they?" "yes," said sybil. "ah, well, i want all i can get out of old england. i don't have too much of her. and now, little girl, how about bed?" he heaved himself out of his chair. "by the way," he said suddenly, "did you read the account of the exhibition of pictures at the grafton galleries? i see there's a portrait exhibited there by a fellow named john kirby." sybil thought of the advertisement and her heart stood suddenly still, then began to race furiously, though she had no real notion why it was doing so. "do you know the man?" she asked carelessly. "we were at school together," said luke. "i've seen him occasionally since then. he took up painting. i haven't looked him up this time or let him know i was in england--don't know why. if i've time i might look him up before i leave." the simple statement troubled sybil. she felt that she must get the ring from mr. kirby before her husband should see him. she had no reason for feeling this, but the idea was strong upon her, though she told herself it was entirely absurd. "you're looking tired, little girl," said luke solicitously. "hope you didn't overwalk to-day?" "oh, no," she said lightly. "i'm sleepy, that's all. i'll go up now and leave you to have your last pipe in the garden." she left the room and luke strolled into the garden, where he smoked under the quiet stars, and sniffed the night air, and watched the light in sybil's room with a feeling of great content. the world, in his opinion, was an extraordinarily pleasant place. chapter xxvi pippa's mother miss mason was in her studio having tea. barnabas was with her. he invariably dropped in at tea-time unless he was giving a tea-party on his own account. pippa had gone with alan to look at flats. the occupation was an intense joy to her. if he had decided on all the flats on which she had set her heart he would have taken at least a dozen, and he and aurora would have lived in one at a time during each of the twelve months of the year. hitherto, notwithstanding pippa's enthusiasm regarding them, he had not found one that quite came up to his requirements. tea being finished, barnabas lit a cigarette. "i must take you to call on mrs. mcandrew soon," said barnabas. "she and andrew have got a minute flat quite close to his studio. she's a delightful old lady. you will like her, and her scotch is, if anything, broader than andrew's. i've never seen a fellow so gloriously happy as he is. we look upon you, aunt olive, as a kind of fairy godmother, who has only to touch people's lives with a magic wand to ensure their happiness." miss mason laughed gruffly. "that," she said, "is quite the nicest thing i've ever had said to me. i know my own life has been a kind of glorious fairy tale lately." "life," said barnabas, "is a fairy tale, if only one can believe it." "but," said aunt olive, "one comes in touch with bad fairies on occasions." "i know," nodded barnabas gravely. "but i fancy there are some people who have the magic wand that can transform them into good ones." "it's a comfortable belief," said miss mason. sally opened the studio door. "a lady to see mr. kirby, ma'am," she said. "she says she has come about an advertisement of a ring." "at last," said barnabas, and he got up. "show her in," said miss mason. and the next minute sybil preston entered the studio. halfway into the room she stopped. "granny!" she exclaimed. miss mason got up from her chair. "bless me!" she said in an excited voice, "it's little sybil quarly. sally, bring fresh tea at once." sybil sat down by the table in a chair put for her by barnabas. "of all the extraordinary things," she laughed, "that i should walk quietly into this studio and find you. it must be fifteen years since we met." "and eleven since i heard from you," said miss mason. sybil flushed faintly. "i'm a shocking letter writer," she said. "i never write letters. but indeed i had not forgotten you." "of course not," said miss mason. "so the ring is yours. just fancy that through your losing it, and mr. kirby's advertisement, we should meet again. i've got it quite safely for you." she got up and took it from a small box. "here it is." sybil held out her hand for it. suddenly she became aware that barnabas was watching her. "i believe," she said to him, with a little nervous laugh, "that you know my husband, luke preston. he was speaking of you only the other day, and saying that he must look you up." barnabas smiled. "what, old luke!" he exclaimed. "of course i knew him. we were at school together." "then you are married?" said miss mason. "barely three weeks ago. we went to yorkshire for part of our honeymoon. it was on the way up i lost my ring. we were quite rural up there, and saw no papers but the 'yorkshire post.' it was only by chance that a london paper was sent us, and i saw the advertisement, so i----" she broke off. she had suddenly seen the picture of pippa standing by the faun. both figures were life-size. "who," she asked, "is that?" her eyes were dilated, her breath coming quickly. "that is pippa," said miss mason; "a little girl i have adopted." barnabas was again watching sybil. "she is," he said quietly, "extraordinarily like a man i once knew, a great friend of mine--philippe kostolitz." sybil stared at him with wide eyes. there was a trace of fear in them. "you knew philippe?" she said. "yes," said barnabas, still quietly. miss mason's keen old eyes looked from one to the other of them. "and what, my dear," she said, "did you know of him?" sybil gave a little sob. "he--he was my husband," she said. there was a dead silence in the room. then miss mason put a question. it seemed forced from her: "did you have a child?" sybil bowed her head. "shall i go away?" asked barnabas. "no, stay," said sybil. "i suppose you guessed something the moment i came to claim the ring. since you knew philippe you must have known it belonged to him. you had better hear the story. god knows what i am going to do now." her lips quivered. she looked like a piteous, frightened child. "my dear," said miss mason gently, "if there is any way in which we can help you, we will. tell us as much as you can." sybil drew a long breath. she looked at miss mason. she tried to forget that barnabas was present, though she wished him to remain. "you know," she began, "that we went to live at pangbourne. a year after we went there i met philippe. he was staying with some friends near us. we saw a good bit of each other one way and another, and--and we began to care.... "my mother must have guessed it, for she suddenly began to prevent my seeing him. but one day he came straight to my father and said he loved me.... my father was furious. he said he would never hear of his daughter marrying a vagabond artist, a man who spent half his life on the roads like any tramp, and the other half in a studio messing with common clay. you know my father never did like art, and he looked on all artists with contempt. he never believed that they were gentlemen. you know, he never believed that anyone who did anything for their livelihood was one. and he couldn't conceive it possible that the love of the work and not money was philippe's motive in his art. at any rate, he sent philippe away. i was quite miserable, but hadn't the courage to gainsay him, and my mother was quite as bad.... "six months later i was staying with some friends in hampshire for a fortnight. i was to go on from there to another friend--cecily mainwaring--for a month. cecily lives in london. one day while i was in hampshire i was out for a walk alone, when i met philippe.... "oh, it's no use my trying to tell you how glad i was to see him. when he knew i was staying at andover he remained in the neighbourhood, and we used to meet almost daily. i'd always gone for long walks alone. we used to spend hours together in harewood forest, and he used to make all kinds of plans. first he wanted me to defy my parents and run away with him and marry him. but i hadn't the courage. i said that perhaps in time they'd consent. then he thought of another plan and begged me to consent to it. we were to be married and keep it a secret from my people. i was to spend a month with him in some little country place instead of staying with cecily. then i was to go home, and he was to come down and use all his influence with my parents, and if it failed we would have to tell them. he begged me so that at last i consented. at the back of my mind i thought that if my parents were still obdurate i could persuade philippe not to tell them. at least i'd have a month with him. i wasn't nineteen, and i never though of what--what might happen...." she stopped, her face crimson. "yes, dear?" said miss mason gently. "philippe went away then to make arrangements, and i stayed on three days longer with my friends. i left them ostensibly to go to cecily. i met philippe instead.... we were married at a tiny church. he had got a special license. he didn't like it not being his own church, but as i was a catholic it would have been difficult to arrange that. at all events, the marriage was legal, and he thought that perhaps we'd be married again in his own church when my parents knew. but of course that didn't trouble me. we went to wales together, to a little village there. any letters that might be written to me went to cecily. i wrote to her and told her i was on a motor tour with friends and my visit to her must be postponed; that i wasn't sure when i could come home to her. and i asked her to keep any letters for me till i came. cecily was quite unsuspecting, and did so. "i was gloriously happy with philippe. occasionally i was frightened at what i had done, but when he was with me i only thought about him and my happiness. one day he went into shrewsbury by train.... i was going with him, but i had such a bad headache that at the last moment i persuaded him to go alone. he was to have come back at seven o'clock in the evening.... he didn't come, and i got uneasy. i went down towards the station.... then i heard there had been a frightful railway accident only three miles outside the station.... i went to the place.... i don't know how i got there. ever so many people were going.... they carried the people from the train to cottages and barns.... i found philippe in one of them...." sybil's voice shook and she stopped. "we know, dear," said miss mason. "don't try to tell us." there was a little silence. at last sybil went on: "when i saw that he was dead i suddenly realized what i had done. i knew there was no one to stand between me and my parents' anger.... and then men came who began to ask questions of the people present ... wanting them to identify...." again sybil stopped. "i ran away," she went on pitifully. "i couldn't bear to be asked anything. i thought perhaps no one would ever know. i thought it would be so much easier if they didn't.... i got back to the cottage and packed a few things.... all the people were out at--at the place. we had given them an assumed name. i thought they'd never know who we were.... of course, afterwards they knew about philippe, i suppose, when he was identified. i saw in the papers that letters were found on him.... someone went there, a friend of his. i've forgotten the name...." "i went," said barnabas. "it is strange that there was no mention of you. i suppose the people at the rooms where you stayed wished to keep out of being questioned, so did not come forward. however, that's no matter now." "i left money to pay for our lodging," went on sybil, "and just ran away. i walked a long distance to another little station and took a train to hereford. from there i went to london. i got there in the early morning. i waited about in the station till nearly lunch-time. then i drove to cecily's flat. i had sent my luggage--at least most of it--to her from andover. i'd only taken a little box and a handbag to wales. i left the box behind at the rooms. there was nothing in it that could betray my name. i took the handbag away with me. when i saw cecily i just said that the tour had ended unexpectedly, and that i hadn't been well. i stayed with her a week. that week and the three weeks in wales just made up the month i was supposed to be with her. then i went home.... "it's no use trying to explain what i thought, nor how wretched i was. i don't think i quite knew myself. it didn't seem i who was acting, but just something or somebody outside myself. if i really thought of anything it was only that i could never face my parents' anger. so all the time i was planning and thinking how best to behave that they should never know. it sounds dreadful now, but then it didn't seem fair that i should only have three weeks' happiness, and for that bear the whole brunt of their anger alone. i soon found that i need not fear them guessing. they never suspected that i had not been with cecily the whole time.... as the weeks passed i began to think myself that everything that had happened had been a dream.... it wasn't exactly that i forgot philippe, only i tried to pretend it had never been a reality.... and then all at once i realized that it wasn't a dream ... that it never had been ... and no amount of thinking could turn it into one.... i used to pass whole nights of terror wondering what i could do.... if i had only told my parents at once it would have been so much easier.... even though they would have been terribly angry, at least i was married to philippe.... but now i felt i could never tell them.... "at last i thought of cecily. i wrote to ask her to let me stay with her. i went; and then i told her everything.... cecily was very good to me. she begged and implored me to tell my people, but i wouldn't, and i cried so much she thought i'd be ill, and at last she promised to help me and do everything i wanted.... we went over to france. my father was quite willing for me to travel about with cecily, and kept me well supplied with money. we were in france moving about in different places the whole winter. in march we took rooms at st. germain.... it--it was there the child was born.... i wouldn't see it.... i didn't even want to know if it were a boy or a girl ... but cecily would tell me. she had it christened philippa.... i didn't want to see it because i didn't want to get fond of it. the nurse thought it was just queerness on my part because i was so weak. cecily arranged everything. just after the nurse left, and when i was well enough to travel, she took the baby away.... i was so glad when it went. its crying always reminded me that it was there. it made me remember, and i wanted so dreadfully to forget.... "when cecily came back to me alone i told her we'd never speak of it again.... we never have.... i sent her money.... my father always gave me a good dress allowance. out of that i paid for the child.... i wanted it to be in france. i couldn't bear to think of it speaking with a common english accent...." barnabas, who had been looking on the ground during most of the recital, now looked up quickly. what an extraordinary anomaly the woman was. she could banish from her mind all memory of the man she had loved, she could forsake the child he had given her, and yet she could not bear the thought of its learning to speak with a common accent. "have you," asked miss mason, "any idea where the child was left?" "in paris," said sybil quickly. "cecily told me the name of the woman when she came back. i didn't want to know, but i wasn't able to stop her. it was madame barbin." miss mason sighed. "then," she said, "there is no question but that the child who came to my studio last december is your daughter." sybil looked at the picture. "she is exactly like philippe," she said. "tell me how she came to you." so miss mason told the story. "i must write to cecily and tell her to stop sending money to madame fournier," said sybil when she had ended. again there was a long silence. it was broken by sybil. "what am i to do?" she said. "i never told luke i'd been married before. he knows nothing. and now for the first time in my life i want my little girl. it's odd, isn't it?" miss mason looked straight before her. her face had paled a little, and her voice was not quite steady as she answered: "you must tell him now." sybil drew in her breath quickly. "i can't do that. you don't know luke. he'd never forgive me--never. and i love him." "my dear," said miss mason quietly, "are you sure he wouldn't? remember, he loves you, and love----" "ah," said sybil, with a little laugh that was almost a sob, "you're a woman. men aren't like that. at least, luke isn't. if he knew i had deceived him he wouldn't love me any more." miss mason looked at barnabas. perhaps a man's judgment in the matter would be of use. "mrs. preston is right," said barnabas. "if she had told him before she married him it would have been different. now---- you see, i know her husband." "but----" said miss mason, and stopped. she did not know what to say. for her own sake she wanted silence. yet to her candid mind further deceit was terribly distressing. sybil looked from one to the other of them. she felt almost as if she were in the presence of a jury awaiting their verdict. "may i," said barnabas, "say just how the situation strikes me?" "please do," said sybil quietly. she leant back a little in her chair. "it seems to me," said barnabas, "that you cannot only look at the right or wrong of the matter entirely from your own point of view. there are two other people to be considered--your husband and the child. knowing luke i fear it is a matter in which he would not forgive the deceit. he is not a man who would see any extenuating circumstances in the case. he would not even understand your having been first persuaded into a secret marriage." "can you understand it?" asked sybil quickly. there was a little flush of colour in her face. "i can," said barnabas. "i can see the whole situation very clearly--your fear of your parents' anger and philippe's persuasions. it would not be easy for a woman who loved philippe to withstand him. i, who knew him, can understand that. luke did not know him?" "yes?" said sybil as he stopped. she looked at him intently. "but," she went on, "you don't understand the rest of my action?" "frankly, no," said barnabas. "i can't understand your silence afterwards when it came to your desertion of his child. i have, though, no right to sit in judgment on anyone; and please understand that i'm not judging you. but i am quite sure that luke would not take a lenient view. if he forgave at all--and i honestly doubt his forgiveness--duty would make him offer the child a home. in fact, he would probably insist on your having the child with you. but," and barnabas' voice was firm, "he would never, forget. and, however strong his sense of duty, there would always be a barrier between him and the child. it would not be good for her. also there is no question but that your husband's confidence and happiness would be destroyed." he stopped. he felt every word he had said. he was sorry for the woman, but luke and pippa could not be sacrificed, and to speak now would mean the sacrifice of both their lives. "then----?" asked sybil, her eyes upon the ground. "in my opinion," said barnabas, "having kept silence, you owe it to your husband to keep silence still; in fact, for ever. the child has a home now, and one who cares for her. for her sake, too, i do not think you should run the risk of taking her to a home where she would be unwelcome. she is extraordinarily sensitive. she would feel it now, and more as she grows older." sybil looked towards the picture. it showed the child in three-quarter face. "but i want her now," she said. "she looks such a darling." barnabas suppressed a slight movement of impatience. sybil's sole thought was of herself and her own wants. "then you are prepared," he asked, "to tell your husband everything? to lose his confidence and his love, and kill his happiness, and, quite possibly, have him to go away from you, merely making you an allowance. for he is quite as likely--and i believe more likely--to do that than accept the charge of the child. which do you want most--your child whom you have never seen or your husband?" "oh, i want luke," said sybil quickly. "at least, i think so." barnabas felt considerably like shaking her. he was determined that if he could prevent it she should not spoil two lives. he had no belief in weak and tardy confessions that advantage no one. he made an appeal to her better self--if it existed. "then," he said, "have the strength and courage to keep silence. even if you do want your child now, have the pluck to renounce her for her sake and luke's. remember, that payment of some kind is always demanded sooner or later for any debt we owe. this is your payment." sybil looked silently towards miss mason. "he's right," said miss mason. "i hadn't seen things quite in that light. also, i was afraid of having my judgment biassed by my desire to keep the child." curiously enough throughout the conversation neither miss mason nor barnabas had spoken of pippa by name. instinctively they both felt that to do so would be to suggest an intimacy to which sybil was not entitled. sybil looked at the floor for a few moments without speaking. then she raised her head. "very well," she said, "i will not tell luke. he may come to see you, mr. kirby. if he does please don't tell him of my visit here. but of course you won't. and," she went on, with a little pleading note in her voice, "please, you two, don't despise me more than you can help. some people seem born strong and not afraid. i've always been a coward. i think perhaps if my father and mother had been a little more lenient with me when i was a child it would have been different. but i was timid, and dreaded being shut up in the dark. so i used to fib to get out of punishment. and after a time i thought nothing of not speaking the truth to them. but i suppose you can't understand that." "i can understand very well," said miss mason. she had known the parents. and barnabas felt a sudden pity for the woman, who in spite of her thirty-two years looked little more than a girl. she was of the fragile flower-like beauty that would no doubt appeal to a man of the strength of kostolitz. at the moment barnabas himself would have protected her rather than have blamed her. all at once sybil spoke timidly. "where is she?" she asked, nodding towards the picture. "could i see her for a moment?" miss mason hesitated, doubtful of the wisdom of the proceeding. "she's out now," she said. sybil gave a tiny sigh. "well, perhaps it's better not," she said. "i'd have promised not to tell her. of course, i don't suppose anyone would trust me very easily who knew everything. but truly she shall never know about me. and i'll never tell luke either. i see that you are right. i owe it to him now to keep silence. i'll try to make him very happy. and--and i'll take wanting my little girl as a punishment. i know i deserve to lose her, and i see that it is impossible for me to have her and keep luke's confidence. i should quite spoil his life and his belief in every one. if only i had been brave long ago i might have had my little girl and luke too. but i will keep my word now." she said it all like a child promising to be good. "i know you will, my dear," said miss mason gently. she was desperately sorry for sybil, and terribly grieved at the whole situation. yet she too saw that silence was now the only possible thing for them all. and in the end it would be happier for sybil too. possibly she would always now wish for her child and regret her loss. but it would be a tender regret, though sad. and she would keep luke's love. and then suddenly from the courtyard they heard a child's voice. sybil flushed and looked at miss mason with pleading eyes. "i'll bring her," said barnabas. wisdom or not, he could not have resisted sybil's face. "we've found a flat, really and truly," she cried, as she met barnabas in the garden. "it is beautiful, but quite beautiful." "more beautiful than the others?" laughed barnabas. "but come in now and behave pretty. aunt olive has a lady to tea with her." pippa came into the room. her extraordinary likeness to kostolitz made sybil catch her breath. for a moment she did not trust herself to speak. "ah!" cried pippa, with quick recognition. "it is ze lady of ze car. did you give her ze ring?" sybil held out her hand. "yes, dear," she said, "i've got it. i'm glad you found it and kept it for me." she held the child's hand tight. pippa looked at her with her great grey eyes, so like the dead sculptor's. memories rushed over sybil. the days in the forest, the days in the little welsh village crowded back to her mind. she could almost hear kostolitz's voice, hear his gay laugh, and his words of passionate love. her throat contracted and tears filled her eyes. suddenly she got up. "i'd better go now," she said. her voice shook a little. then an impulse moved her. she held out the ring to pippa. "will you have it?" she said. "i'd like you to keep it." "for me?" said pippa, her face crimson. "may she?" said sybil to miss mason. "yes," said miss mason. sybil looked again at the picture of the child. "i suppose i oughtn't to ask," she said, "but it would remind me. i don't want to forget now. not that i ever shall." "i'll send it to you," said miss mason. "barnabas won't mind, will you, barnabas? just a gift from an old friend, you know." sybil's eyes filled with tears. "thank you," she said. then she bent and kissed pippa. "good-bye, little one." barnabas went to the door with her. "i couldn't stay any longer," she said. "good-bye." and she went away in the sunshine, past the little faun in the next garden, and so out of the courtyard, and out of the lives she had momentarily entered. when she had disappeared barnabas looked at the little faun. "it was the only way," he said. and his heart was sad for the man who had been forgotten by the woman he had loved. and he wondered if he knew everything now. if he did he would probably understand so fully that he would forgive fully. and then barnabas went back into the studio. chapter xxvii michael makes music during august miss mason took pippa down to a little seaside place in devonshire. she chose it because its name--hope--appealed to her. pippa adored it. she loved the quaint cottages, and the beach with the tarred nets spread out to dry, and the kindly fishermen who took her out in their boats, and who talked to her in a dialect she could hardly understand. but she understood their kindness, and they understood her smiles, so they got on very well together. barnabas came down for a fortnight, and pippa met him at the station, a thin slip of a child, her face bronzed with the sun and sea air, and her eyes holding the hint of mystery he had seen in the eyes of kostolitz. they bathed together, they caught prawns in seaweedy pools in the rocks, they sat in the shadow of the cliffs and watched the sea-gulls and the white-sailed boats on the blue water. and during these days barnabas found in pippa something that he had not found before--not even during the june days when they had wandered through the lanes with pegasus. he found in her woman and companion. she ceased to be merely child. he saw the spirit of kostolitz in her mysterious eyes. she showed it to him in a hundred ways--in her clear joyous love of nature, in her fanciful imaginings and delicate thoughts, in her quick insight into everything that was beautiful. and with it all she was a child, too, with a child-like simple faith and trust that was to be her heritage throughout her life. and because there was this trait also in barnabas they found in each other the most perfect companionship. miss mason watched them together, helped them prawn, and was radiantly happy. she cared not at all for the occasional smiles her quaint figure and costume provoked from other visitors to the place. and because pippa was enjoying herself enormously she remained at hope throughout september as well. the duchessa di corleone too had left london during august. she wandered from place to place trying to find forgetfulness and not succeeding. in september she returned to town. she never went near the studios now, but michael came often to see her, and used to make music for her. in it she found some consolation. and michael loved to come to her house, though the sight of her always gave him pain. one day after he had been playing to her, and they were having tea together, he suddenly looked up at a picture of st. michael that hung in her drawing-room. "queer," he said, with a little twisted smile, "that my people should have chosen to name me after the warrior angel." and he glanced from the strength of the pictured figure at his own shrunken limbs. his voice was so bitter that sara could find no reply. "just a moment's carelessness on the part of a nursemaid," went on michael. "she dropped me when i was a baby. you see the result. it makes it difficult to believe in an over-ruling providence, doesn't it? my guardian angel must have been peculiarly inattentive at the moment." "i think," said sara slowly, "that there are times in the life of every one when it is very difficult to have faith. yet, if one loses it one loses all happiness." "i lost both long ago," said michael. "it's an irony of fate to be born with an acute sense of the beautiful, and to see one's own repulsiveness." sara looked up quickly. "but you are not repulsive," she said. "bah!" said michael. "look at me! women are only kind to me out of pity." sara looked straight at him. "there you are quite wrong," she said decisively. "i don't feel the smallest pity for you in the sense you mean. your face is quite beautiful, and your music----" she stopped. "but my body," he said. "yes," said sara calmly, "i grant you that it is extremely trying for you to be lame, and you must often wish to be strong and big. but you need not think it makes the smallest difference in our affection for you." she again looked steadily at him as she spoke. michael looked away from her. "but no woman could love me--they would shrink from me," he said. and his face flushed hotly. "not at all," said sara. "there again you are quite wrong. i grant that there is a certain type of woman who is entirely attracted by sinews and muscles in a man. but most assuredly there are others." there was a silence. then michael spoke again. his voice was very low. "you--you could never care?" he said. sara's eyes filled with quick tears. "not in the way you mean," she said gently; "but not because of the morbid reason you have suggested. i--i love some one else." "paul?" he asked. sara bowed her head. michael was silent. "but if you did not," he asked suddenly, "would you have thought it horrible of me to tell you that i love you--not quietly and calmly, but--but as a man loves a woman?" "i should have been honoured to hear it from you," said sara. michael looked across at her with a strange smile. "thank you," he said. "i shall not tell you how--though you know it. nor shall i ever tell any other woman what i have told you. you will still let me come and see you?" "you must come," said sara quickly. "i should miss you dreadfully if you didn't. during these last weeks your visits have been my greatest pleasure. when i hear the front door bell ring i listen. and when i hear the pad of your crutch on the stairs i am happy, and i say to myself, 'it is michael.'" it was the first time she had used his name. for a few moments michael did not trust himself to speak. when he did his voice was light. "i shall hate my crutch no longer," he said, "since its sound has given you happiness. do you know you have quite suddenly brought back faith to me. i thought it was dead. now i will play for you again." chapter xxviii the peace of the river after michael had left, sara went to the window and stood looking out at the trees on the embankment. the heat of the summer had already caused their leaves to turn yellow. beyond them she could see the river. it always held a note of peace for her. rivers and lakes had the power to speak to her. she loved their calm quietude, though she had seen lakes lashed to fury by the wind. but it was a different kind of anger from the anger of the sea. the cruelty of the sea hurt her--its restlessness, its turmoil, its never-ceasing demand for lives. even when it was quiet it was treacherous. its smiling surface was nothing but a lure, for it held terrible secrets in its heart. but the quiet of the river always soothed her. she knew it in all its moods--under grey skies, and under blue skies, in the crimson and purple of sunset, in the amber grey and rose of dawn. she knew it at the full flood of its waters, and at ebbing tide. in all its moods she loved it, and she loved her house, yet she felt that she could not stay there much longer. with the end of october she would go away to italy for the winter. everything here reminded her of paul. she did not want to forget him, yet the sight of the streets in which they had walked together, the hotels at which they had dined, the theatres to which they had been, only served to emphasize her present loneliness. christopher was the only person who, till to-day, had known of her unhappiness. ever since he first knew her, when she was ten and he was two-and-twenty, she had come to him with her joys and griefs. there was a curious faculty for sympathy in christopher. it made him the popular barrister he was, especially with women. it was easy to tell him things. had he been a priest he would undoubtedly have been much sought in confession. he had heard many stories, both sordid and pitiful. somehow he seemed always able to separate the sin from the sinner. one knew instinctively that he had no scorn for the latter, any more than a doctor scorns a patient who comes to him with a disease to be cured. he had, too, been instrumental in preventing several divorces, and in giving men convicted of theft a second chance without the stigma of prison attaching to them. and curiously enough he had never been disappointed in those for whom he had pleaded for leniency. there was nothing weak about christopher. there had been certain cases he had refused to accept--cases in which he knew the guilt to be a fact, and in which justice could only be avoided by a direct wandering from the truth, even though he knew that by one of his impassioned speeches he could most probably have saved the victim from the law, and have established a great reputation for himself. in spite of his sympathy, he took a strangely impersonal view of things in general, and his sympathy, though very real, was never allowed to bias his judgment. he agreed fully with paul's decision that he and sara should not meet, and he offered a silent sympathy which sara found very comforting. after she had once told him about the parting she had not again spoken directly of it. she could not talk of it. she could only try to live her life as best she might in the hope that one day.... but that day seemed very far off and dim. * * * * * and in his studio paul was working with a grim, dogged determination. and every week he wrote cheerful letters to his mother, in one of which he had just said that his marriage was postponed for a time; and he never for a moment let her guess the trick fate had played him. and so september passed, and it drew on towards the middle of october. chapter xxix some twisted threads "barnabas," said miss mason one day--it was the fourteenth of october--"what's the matter with paul?" she was in barnabas' studio when she put the question. "ah," said barnabas, "you've seen it too." "one must be blind not to see it," said miss mason. "i felt something was wrong before i went away, and since i've been back i've been sure of it." for a moment barnabas did not reply. "i know part," he said after a minute, "and the rest i can guess. you know he has lost a good bit of money?" "humpt!" said miss mason. "i didn't know. so that's the trouble." "partly," said barnabas. "i think the other part is the duchessa." "you mean----?" said miss mason. "paul was in love with her," said barnabas. miss mason looked at him. then she nodded her head two or three times. she suddenly realized that the duchessa, who used frequently to come to the courtyard, had not been there during the last three weeks of july, nor during this first fortnight in october. of august and september she had, of course, no record. "i see," she said. "i think," went on barnabas, "that if this money loss had not intervened they would have followed the example of aurora and alan." "she cared for him then?" asked miss mason. "i have never seen two people more in love with each other," said barnabas. "they evidently did not wish, at the moment, to make the fact public. but seeing them together, as i occasionally did, one must have been blind not to have realized it." "ah," said miss mason. "then she is unhappy, too?" "i have happened to meet her twice," said barnabas. "she acts very well. but the spring of life has gone." "but she has money," said miss mason. "surely----" "if she marries again she loses every penny," said barnabas. "i learned that quite by chance one day from charlton." miss mason made a curious sound with her tongue. it can only be described as clucking. "the world," she said, "can be curiously contrary at times. i'm very glad i asked you." then she went back to her studio and sat down for a long time in her big arm-chair to think. and the three fates watched her. for when miss mason sat in her chair with just that particular expression on her face, it meant that she was not over-pleased with their weaving, and that she wished to unravel and re-weave their latest pattern to a fashion more according to their mind. and the three fates looked at each other, and they nodded their three old heads, and waited with amusement in their eyes to see what she would do. as a matter of fact they had made this particular bit of muddle in their weaving on purpose that she might have the pleasure of putting it straight. but it was a bit of straightening about which miss mason felt a trifle nervous. her fingers itched to be at the threads, unravelling and untwisting the knots, yet somehow she felt a little frightened to begin. it was quite three hours before she made up her mind. then she suddenly crossed to her writing-table and wrote a letter to mr. davis who had rooms in gray's inn. in the letter she stated that she wished to see him at eleven o'clock precisely the following morning on urgent business. and as she folded and sealed the letter the three fates laughed. for miss mason had put her fingers on the first knot. * * * * * "it is," said mr. davis, "a most unusual proceeding." it was twelve o'clock on the following morning. he had been talking to miss mason for an hour, or rather she had been talking, and it was the third time that he had made the above statement. "all the same," said miss mason firmly, "it is my wish. and i understand that i have absolute control over my capital." "absolute," said mr. davis regretfully, looking at her with a kind of mild protest through his spectacles. "very well, then," she went on, "have the deeds, or whatever you call them, drawn up immediately. i will come down to your office the day after to-morrow to sign them. i shall bring them away with me, and post them to you the moment i wish the matter put in full train. is everything perfectly clear?" "perfectly," said mr. davis. "of course, if there had been trustees----" "but there aren't, thank goodness," said miss mason. "remember, ten o'clock friday morning i'll be with you." mr. davis found himself dismissed; and he left the studio wondering how a woman who eighteen months ago did not know how to fill up a cheque should suddenly have become so remarkably decided regarding business matters, and utterly refuse to listen to common-sense statements on his part. as soon as he had gone miss mason wrote to sara. "my dear duchessa," she wrote, "will you do an old woman a favour and come to tea with her on friday next at four o'clock. i want to see you on a particular matter. if you are engaged on friday will you very kindly appoint some other hour on which you can come to see me. "yours very sincerely, "olive mason." she sent the note by sally, telling her to wait for an answer. in half an hour sally returned with it. miss mason opened it with fingers a little shaky from anxiety. she read it slowly. "my dear aunt olive.--thank you for your letter. i will be with you on friday next at four o'clock. my love to you and pippa. i hope you both enjoyed your holiday in devonshire. "very sincerely yours, "sara di corleone." it had cost sara something to write that letter. it would bring back memories of joy and pain for her again to enter the courtyard. chapter xxx knots untied on friday afternoon at half-past two barnabas took pippa to feed the monkeys and other animals at the zoological gardens. it was by miss mason's special request. during the time that elapsed between their departure and four o'clock miss mason was distinctly restless. she began to sew at some fine white cambric into which she was putting her most beautiful stitches. when she had returned from hope, bridget had told her of a secret that was to arrive in the spring--a secret which if it was a boy was to be called oliver, but bridget hoped it would be olive. she and jasper were beamingly happy. miss mason put in a few stitches, but she found it impossible to sit still. she dropped the work into a basket, got up from her chair, and began to walk up and down the room. then she would suddenly sit down and begin to sew again. "i'm an old fool," she said. "i can no more help interfering than i can help breathing, and yet i'm as nervous as a cat." and she began to watch the clock anxiously. it had just chimed the hour in its silvery tone when sally opened the door. "the duchessa di corleone," she said. she had learnt the name by now. sara came into the room. she was in a dark blue dress, and because the day was keen, though bright, she was wrapped in dark sable furs. "my dear," said miss mason, "i am quite delighted to see you. sally, bring tea." sara sat down and loosened her furs. miss mason looked at her. her face was paler than even its usual worry warranted. it had lost the under-glow of warmth, and her eyes looked dark and sad. "did you have a good time in devonshire?" she asked. "delightful," said miss mason. "a few people grinned fatuously when they saw my old figure skipping over the rocks. but i said to myself, 'the duchessa wouldn't see anything to laugh at,' and so i didn't care." sara smiled. "you still remember our conversation long ago?" "i've never forgotten it," said miss mason emphatically. "i fancy if i had not seen you that evening i should have given up all my dreams and have gone back to the old house for the rest of my life. and what a lot i should have missed if i had." "and what a lot a great many people would have missed," said sara. "you've woven yourself into a good many lives. why, dozens of babies would have been minus white woolly jackets, while several bigger babies would have lost a good deal of happiness." "nice of you to say so," said miss mason. and she began to pour out tea. for the next twenty minutes they talked of little things--the visit to devonshire, the donkey-tour, the flat aurora and alan had taken, and pippa at present feeding the animals at the zoo. sara talked lightly and even gaily. as barnabas had said, she was a good actress. it was not till the meal was finished, then miss mason spoke on the subject of her heart. "my dear," she then said suddenly, "what is the matter?" sara flushed. "i can't talk about it," she said. she made no attempt at denial. "i don't really want you to tell me," said miss mason, "because i know. but i think i can find a way out of the difficulty." sara gave a little sad laugh. "if you can you are clever. i've thought and thought, and can see none." miss mason coughed. "it's all perfectly simple, really," she said, "only i don't quite know how to begin to tell you. it seems to me that money is the most difficult thing in the world to talk about." she took two envelopes from the table. "will you, my dear, read the contents of those. it seems to me the simplest way." sara took the envelopes--long ones--and drew out the parchment contents. she read slowly. at first she could hardly grasp their meaning, it had been so unexpectedly presented to her. at last she looked up. her face was quivering. "but--but--i simply couldn't----" "but, my dear, why not?" said miss mason. "will you look at the whole thing reasonably. if i chose to bequeath certain sums of money to you and paul at my death i presume you would not feel it incumbent on you to refuse them. why shouldn't you accept them now?" "but----" began sara again. and she stopped, looking from the documents she held to miss mason. "i know," said miss mason, "that people often feel a kind of pride about accepting money, though why on earth they should calmly take it from dead people and refuse to accept it from living ones, i can't imagine. of course their argument might be that dead people can't use it themselves. that would be true. but then this special living person can't use all hers. let me just put things clearly to you. i have a capital that brings me in fifteen thousand a year. five thousand a year i am devoting to a certain scheme in which barnabas is helping me. i wish to make over sufficient capital to you and paul to bring you in two thousand five hundred a year each. that will leave me with five thousand a year for my own use. my dear, i don't even spend that." "but charities----" began sara vaguely. "pooh!" said miss mason. "i'm sick of them. if you'd written as many charitable letters as i have you'd have had enough of charities. i wrote hundreds for miss stanhope. she always filled in the amount she gave herself. i never knew what it was. but i can give to all the charities i want out of five thousand. now, my dear, will you agree. will you give me the pleasure of your acceptance and allow me a few more years on this extremely pleasant planet in which i can see your happiness, instead of waiting till i'm dead and coming then to drop a few grateful tears and white flowers on my grave. i'd infinitely prefer the former i assure you." sara gave a little half-laughing sob. "i accept with all my heart," she said, "and i don't know how ever i am to thank you." miss mason grunted. "now there's another thing," she said, "please don't try. do think if you can that the money just happened into the bank without any human agency. if you're going to keep an eternal feeling of gratitude before your mind it will spoil everything. i want to be able to quarrel with you and paul and scold you as much as i like, and if i felt that gratitude was preventing you from answering me back it would destroy my whole pleasure in the proceeding. besides, my dear, if there is any debt owing it is i who owe it. i've never forgotten the hope you gave me the first evening we met." sara stretched out her hands with a little laugh of pure happiness. it was the first time she had laughed like that for three months. "and i tried to sermonize a little," she cried. "and then we got on to fairy tales, and i was happier. oh, isn't life a fairy tale! and if we told all the dull, prosaic people of the truly delightful and unexpected things that happen wouldn't they say that it was all made-up, and far-fetched, and things like that. when it is just that they are too stupid to see the happenings, and too heavy and dull to look over the wall in which they have enclosed themselves. i can't tell you how happy i am. and will you think me a pig if i run away for a little while and tell paul?" she got up from her chair, radiant, vital, as she had been on the day she had first entered the studio. "my dear," said miss mason, "if you hadn't said you were going i should have sent you." sara held out both her hands. "it seems," she said, "as if i were taking it too quietly, and as if i ought to have protested more. but after everything you said i really couldn't. it was all so absolutely true. and we'd both so much rather have you here seeing our happiness in your wonderful legacy, than that we should go to a grave to thank you, and lay that white flower tenderly on the grass." miss mason gave a gruff laugh. "you can't conceive," she said, "what pleasure you've given me." then quite suddenly she took sara in her arms and kissed her. "now, my dear," she said as she released her, "do, for goodness' sake, go and make that poor paul happy." chapter xxxi the tune of love paul had gone on bravely with his life. he knew that when sara had gone out of his studio into the summer night she had taken something away with her, the something that was the best part of himself. but with what remained to him he had set himself to face the lonely months ahead of him. each morning as he woke he told himself that he would work for her. it was the only thing that made work possible to him. his joy in art had been sufficient for him until he met her. her coming had increased it ten-thousandfold, as it had increased his whole joy in life and in beauty, giving it a meaning he had never before realized. and when she went she had taken it away, leaving him with nothing but the husk. in spite of his courage, loneliness at times seemed as if it must overwhelm him, for now it was unlike his former loneliness. before, he had not known what it was to have the perfect companionship of a woman. now he had known it and lost it. and the years before him stretched very grey. he tried to see a gleam of gold in the future, but it was too far off for him to perceive it by sight; he could only tell himself in faith that one day it would dawn through the greyness. but however strong the spirit may be to have faith, the flesh after all is human and weak, and his loneliness pressed hard upon him. during the last weeks, too, he had had only one commission--an uninteresting one, which he had nevertheless accepted. he would now, as he had said, have painted anyone however commonplace. but the work had not taken him in any degree out of himself. on the afternoon of the fourteenth of october he was sitting alone in his studio. it had been a bad day for him--one of the days that come to all artists when hand and brain alike refuse to work, when inspiration is lacking, and it seems as if her light had departed for ever. he looked round the room. there was rather a neglected appearance about it. he had given up his man as an extravagance he could not possibly afford, and he was on the look-out for a tenant for his studio, meaning to move into something much smaller. yet, in spite of the neglected look of the studio, paul himself was as well groomed as ever. personal cleanliness was an ingrained characteristic of him. it belonged to him as much as it belonged to the french aristocrats who manicured their nails while waiting in the bastille for the tumbrils that would take them to the scaffold and the embrace of the guillotine. after a time he got up from his chair, and taking the kettle from the stove, he made some tea. as he did so he thought of the many times sara had had tea with him since the day in battersea park. everything he did or thought reminded him of her. the tiniest and most trivial details recalled her--even a thing as insignificant as the crack in the table. he remembered seeing her run her finger along it one day when she had been sitting in the chair opposite to him, which chair was now empty. the tea-cups reminded him. he had bought them specially for her. before that he had only possessed two cracked ones and a tumbler. even one of the cracked ones was precious, because from it she had drunk a cup of coffee the day pippa had lunched with him and he had decided to re-paint her dress. "my god!" said paul to himself, "joy was so near me, and now i must pass, at the best, years of my life alone." he looked across at the vases on the bookshelf. they had never held flowers since the day thirteen weeks ago when they had been full of crimson roses. they and the blue vase on the mantelpiece, to the colour of which pippa had likened sara, were covered with dust. paul felt suddenly as if, in spite of his efforts, dust were settling on his heart. and then all at once he heard a slight sound. it was a woman's step in the courtyard. paul caught hold of the arm of his chair and gripped it hard. his face had gone quite white. the door opened. "paul," said a voice. the next moment she was in his arms and he was sobbing like a child. "don't, dear heart, don't," said sara, her voice shaking. he put her in a chair and sat down by the table. "you shouldn't have come," he said brokenly. she went over to him and knelt beside him. "but, dearest, listen," she said, taking both his hands, "i have come to tell you of joy." paul stared at her half bewildered. "what do you mean?" he said. "listen," she said. "it's all so wonderful i can hardly believe it myself. but it's all true--true--true!" "tell me, quickly," said paul, putting his arms round her. and as many weeks ago he had had to tell her bad news, so she now told him news of joy. she told him everything, all miss mason's quaint and excellent reasons for their acceptance of this happiness with no thought of false pride to intervene. "you will accept, paul?" said sara, as she finished. again the man's eyes were full of tears. "beloved, i must. my love for you would sweep away all pride. but i think with a gift offered in that way one need have none. my god, it's wonderful!" and so she still knelt beside him, and he held her in a kind of dumb ecstasy, as if he feared to move and find it was only a dream. and the music of the heart which had long held such a throb of pain now rose loud and glorious, filling the whole studio. "beloved," said paul at last, "let us go together and find aunt olive." so they went out into the purple dusk, in which a light wind was scattering the last few golden leaves from the trees, letting them float gently to the courtyard. and the little faun saw them coming, and the tune he played to welcome them was the sweetest, purest tune of love. chapter xxxii a wedding day and so the knots the fates had twisted were unravelled, and the threads re-woven into the beautiful pattern of joy and gladness, love and friendship. one day paul took sara down to hampshire to see his mother, a white-haired old lady with a wrinkled face and a peaceful mouth, and eyes like paul's. she took sara at once to her heart. "dearie," she said, "my boy has had a lonely life, and i thank god he has found a woman like you to fill it." and sara in her turn loved the old lady, not only for paul's sake, but for her own. and she loved the little cottage where she lived, and she loved the old-fashioned garden with its box-edged paths, and flower-beds in which a few late autumn flowers still lingered. the rooms in the cottage were small, but all as dainty and clean as porcelain, and fragrant with the scent of lavender and potpourri. she showed sara the bedrooms with their old chintz curtains before the casement windows, and the frilly dressing-tables, and white-valanced beds. they had each the effect of a dresden china shepherdess--the tiniest bit stiff, but extraordinarily dainty. she showed her her store cupboard with its pots of jam, marmalade, and pickles, and she promised her a recipe for curing hams and another for making oat cake. and sara told her how to make spaghetti, and told her it was the first dish she had ever cooked for paul. and in the evening when they went away she took with her a great bunch of michaelmas daisies. and mrs. treherne kissed her and blessed her, for she knew that the next day she was to be paul's wife. * * * * * the reception was to be held in miss mason's studio by special request from paul and sara. sara felt that already the house on the embankment was hers no longer. there were to be few guests at the wedding--only the other artists of the courtyard, bridget, christopher, andrew, and the two executors of giuseppe's will, who would bring with them the important letter whose secret would be at last disclosed. the journey and the fatigue of the ceremony, however quiet, would have been too much for mrs. treherne. sara's own father and mother had been dead several years. christopher was to give away the bride, and barnabas was to be best man. and so the day dawned, a still, november day of soft mists and a pale blue sky--a tender day full of peace and happiness. christopher went to the house on the embankment to fetch sara. she was waiting in the drawing-room for him, in a sapphire-blue dress, a large black hat, and her soft sable furs. "ready?" said christopher, smiling. and they went down the stairs together. pietro was in the hall. his face was radiant with pleasure. paul and sara had arranged to keep him in their service. "good-bye," said sara. "we'll let you know when we return to london. you will of course hand over the keys of the house to the executors when they ask for them." "yes, your grace. good fortune and happiness to your grace." "thank you, pietro," said sara. and then she passed through the door he held open for her, and went down the steps to the taxi, christopher following. "christopher," said sara a moment or two after they had started, "you've been a very good friend to me, and i'd like to thank you." "no occasion to do so," said christopher imperturbably. "the friendship has been mutual, and i hope will still continue." "of course," said sara. "that was one thing i wanted to say to you. my love for paul doesn't make the least difference in my friendship for you. you will be exactly the same to me, as i shall be, i hope, to you." "agreed," said christopher, holding out his hand with a smile. but he knew that it never would be quite the same again. her marriage with guiseppe had made no difference, her marriage with paul would. and with the knowledge christopher had suddenly realized what he was losing. he was like a man who had had a jewel in a box, looking at it always in one position, and it was not till he took it in his hand to give it to another that it suddenly flashed upon him in a new light, and he saw colours and depths in it hitherto unperceived, and a longing to keep it took possession of him. but the deed was already virtually signed and witnessed, the power to keep it lost, and so he hid what he was feeling, and his manner towards her held nothing but his old courtliness, his old friendship. the pain the new knowledge had brought him must be his alone. and as the taxi stopped at the door of the church he helped sara to alight, and gave her his arm to lead her up the steps, and up the aisle to the other man who was waiting for her. chapter xxxiii a gift from the dead signor bernardo cignolesi took his watch from his pocket and looked at signor manfredi guido. "it is, i think, the exact hour," he said. they were small and dapper italians, these two, who had been appointed by the late duca di corleone as the executors of his will and the keepers of the letter. the whole party was assembled in miss mason's studio. the wedding was over. paul and sara had plighted their troth. the blessing upon them had been pronounced. and when the last words of it had died away the church had been suddenly filled with music, the notes of a violin joyous and sweet, a wedding song for the two, a song that had never before been played. it was michael's tribute to them both. the organist alone had been taken into the secret, and the man, who was a very true musician, listened to the song with his eyes full of tears. "it is michael," sara had whispered. and no one had moved till the music had ceased. but now they were all in the studio, eating wedding cake and drinking champagne, which pippa had never tasted before and which made her gasp. she was wearing a little pendant paul had given her. it was gold and shaped like a tulip, and it held in its chalice a blue sapphire. and it was exactly an hour from the time the blessing had been pronounced that signor bernardo cignolesi said to signor manfredi guido: "i think it is the exact hour." and signor manfredi guido took a sealed envelope from his pocket, and holding it in his hand the two crossed together to sara, who was standing by paul, her radiance and magnetism filling the whole place. "allow us," said signor guido, speaking for himself and his co-executor, "to give into your possession the letter addressed to you by the late duca di corleone. and now permit me to kiss your hand and wish you all happiness, thanking you at the same time for your hospitality." he raised her hand to his lips, and signor cignolesi followed his example. then bowing and smiling the two dapper little men returned to their glasses of champagne. sara broke the seal of the envelope and drew out the paper it contained. it was a letter in the late duca's handwriting, and addressed to herself. she crossed slowly to miss mason's large oak chair and sat down while she read it. "my dear," the letter began, "if ever you read this letter it will be on the day that you have given yourself into the keeping of the man you love. therefore, will you permit me, from the regions of the peaceful dead, to offer to you my felicitations? "it is possible that since my death there have been moments when you have thought of me, if not with anger, at least with vexation. i knew i ran the risk of incurring this sentiment on your part when i drew up my will. "may i now give you my reasons and my excuse for my action? i will be as brief as possible: "when you married me, my dear, you were able to bring me a certain quiet affection, a very true courtliness, and an entire faithfulness. love had not entered your life. you did not, then, know its meaning. i was not the man to teach you. i knew it, and yet i was selfish enough to take you. my excuse is simply that i loved you. you gave me what you had then to give, and it made me happy. if i longed for more i knew it was not withheld, but simply, at the time, non-existent. "i realized, however, what one day you would have it in your power to give. and knowing that, i determined that the best should come to you and be asked of you. hence my will. total surrender of all worldly possessions for love. love seeking you for your sake alone. my dear, was i wrong? i may have been. i leave it now for you to judge me. i wanted you, because i loved you, to have the gift of love in your life. "and now that you have it i, from the quiet regions to which i shall have attained, send my offering to you and the man of your choice. signor cignolesi will give you another packet. in it you will find a deed leaving you the whole and sole possessor of the casa di corleone on the banks of lake como. "you loved it, and i loved to see you there. if the spirits of the departed are allowed to return to earth, mine will come there to see you in your happiness. and remember, my dear, that in it i shall rejoice, for i believe that the only thing that could mar the peace to which, please god, i shall attain, would be your sorrow. "therefore, my dear, live joyously in the casa di corleone. and when on sunny days you sit in the shadow of the orange trees, and your children come running to you across the courtyard, god grant that my spirit may be there to see it. "and may his blessing be upon you; and the blessed virgin and all the saints have you in their keeping, "giuseppe di corleone." sara looked up. her eyes were misty. she signed to paul to come to her. "read it," she said. "giuseppe was a generous man, and a very true courtier." and when paul had read it he kissed sara's hand. then he came back to the table and every one saw that he had something to say. "my wife," he said simply, "has just received a gift from one who we know is at peace. it is the gift of a home she loves--the casa di corleone. and the offering comes from the duca di corleone." he bowed his head gravely, as did all the other occupants of the studio, while sara, pippa, barnabas, and the two dapper little italians, made the sign of the cross. and so they all for a moment paid tribute to the memory of a true and generous man. * * * * * then, of course, came a babel of congratulations, and paul was called upon for a speech. "speeches," said paul smiling, "are not very much in my line. my wife and i thank you all very much for being here to-day, and we know that throughout our lives we can count on the true friendship of all present. there is one toast, ladies and gentlemen, i would like to propose. it is to one who has been, and is, the best friend of many of us. ladies and gentlemen let us drink to aunt olive in bohemia." and everybody got to their feet, and there was a good deal of applause, and a good deal of laughter, but the eyes of some of them were a little dim, as were the eyes of the old lady who sat there smiling, and thanking god in her heart for his wonderful gifts of love and happiness. chapter xxxiv the music of two courtyards and so it was that paul and sara did not spend their honeymoon in paris as they had at first intended, but travelled direct through without stopping to the casa di corleone on the banks of lake como. it was in the purple and crimson of a sunset that paul first saw the courtyard, and the golden oranges among their dark green leaves, and the marble fauns and nymphs, and heard the plashing of the fountain. the crimson light from the sky was touching the white marble of the figures, transforming them momentarily to the warm flush of life. sara and paul passed between them and up the steps of the old house into the great hall where the smiling italian servants were ready to greet them, and where from the gallery above the haughty ladies of the house of corleone looked down upon the two, and where from among them the portrait of the now true owner of the place glowed like a great blue sapphire. and a couple of hours later they came into the dining-room, where shaded lamps filled the place with a soft mellow light, and shed their glow on the white damask cloth, on the shining glass and silver, on decanters of red wine, and on dishes of golden oranges. soft-footed low-voiced servants waited on them. it was a magic scene, over which the gods of love and joy reigned supreme. and later still, the moon rose in the night sky, bathing the lake in silver, touching the marble statues to unearthly whiteness, and finding its way through a great window where two figures stood together looking at its light upon the sleeping lake. behind them the room was full of flickering lights and shadows from a fire of fir-cones burning on the hearth. and at last sara turned from the strange beauty of the scene, and saw paul's eyes upon her. "are you--content?" she asked. "beloved of my heart," he said, and his arms closed round her. and so the music of the heart again filled the room, playing in glorious and most perfect harmony for the two whom the gods had blessed. * * * * * and far away in england, in a studio in another courtyard, aunt olive was putting a question to barnabas, while pippa was lying asleep in the inner room. "now that paul and sara will have reached the casa di corleone," she said, "and alan and aurora are cooing together, and jasper and bridget have found happiness, i wonder what is going to become of you and dan and michael." "you want to wind us up tidily, too," said barnabas, smiling. "i was just wondering," she said. "well," said barnabas, "michael has his music and his drawing, and, at last, an ideal which will be his throughout his life. dan will always be what he is now--big, silent, making harmless love to all women (he has been flirting disgracefully with bridget, and jasper has been quite refreshingly jealous), and always he will be a staunch friend of those who need him. and i, for the next few years, will turn my whole attention to your candidates for the school of a wonderful chance, and later----" he stopped. "and later?" asked aunt olive. "and later," said barnabas, "i hope to ask you for pippa." and through the half-open window the little faun heard the words. and under the stars he piped a tune of the fairy tale of life, a tune of love and laughter, whose notes reached the soul of the sculptor who had fashioned him, and hearing the music he was glad. * * * * * * transcriber's note: minor changes have been made to correct typesetter errors and to regularize hyphenation; variant spellings have been retained. maids wives and bachelors by amelia e. barr author of "jan vedder's wife," "a bow of orange ribbon," etc. new york dodd, mead and company copyright, , by dodd, mead and company university press: john wilson and son, cambridge, u.s.a. contents page maids and bachelors the american girl dangerous letter-writing flirts and flirtation on falling in love engaged to be married shall our daughters have dowries? the ring upon the finger flirting wives mothers-in-law good and bad mothers unequal marriages discontented women women on horseback a good word for xanthippe the favorites of men mothers of great and good men domestic work for women professional work for women little children on naming children the children's table intellectual "cramming" of boys the servant-girl's point of view extravagance ought we to wear mourning? how to have one's portrait taken the crown of beauty waste of vitality a little matter of money mission of household furniture people who have good impulses worried to death the grapes we can't reach burdens maids and bachelors women who have devoted themselves for religious purposes to celibacy have in all ages and countries of the world received honor, but those upon whom celibacy has been forced, either through the influence of untoward circumstances, or as a consequence of some want or folly in themselves, have been objects of most unmerited contempt and dislike. unmerited, because it may be broadly asserted that until the last generation no woman in secular and social life remained unmarried from desire or from conviction. she was the victim of some natural disadvantage, or some unhappy circumstance beyond her control, and therefore entitled to sympathy, but not to contempt. of course, there are many lovely girls who appear to have every advantage for matrimony, and who yet drift into spinsterhood. the majority of this class have probably been imprudent and over-stayed their market. they have dallied with their chances too long. suddenly they are aware that their beauty is fading. they notice that the suitable marriageable men who hung around them in their youth have gone away, and that their places are filled with mere callow youths. then they realize their mistakes, and are sorry they have thought being "an awfully silly little thing" and "having a good time" the end of their existence. heart-aches and disappointments enough follow for their punishment; for they soon divine that when women cease to have men for lovers, and are attended by school-boys, they have written themselves down already as old maids. closely allied to these victims of folly or thoughtlessness are the women who remain unmarried because of their excessive vanity--or natural cruelty. "my dear, i was cruel thirty years ago, and no one has asked me since." this confession from an aunt to her niece, though taken from a play, is true enough to tell the real story of many an old maid. their vanity made them cruel, and their cruelty condemned them to a lonely, loveless life. close observation, however, among the unmarried women of any one's acquaintance will reveal the fact that it is not from the ranks of silly or cruel women that the majority of old maids come. men do not, as a rule, dislike silly women; and by a wise provision of nature, they are rather fond of marrying pretty, helpless creatures who cannot help themselves. neither are cruel women universally unpopular. some lovers like to be snubbed, and would not value a wife they had not to seek upon their knees. there are, therefore, always chances for the silly and cruel women. it is the weak, colorless women, who have privately strong prejudices, and publicly no assertion of any kind, that have, even in youth, few opportunities. they either lack the power to love strongly or they lack the power to express their feelings. they have not the courage to take any decided step. they long for advances, and when they are made, recoil from them. they are constitutionally so timid that they fear any step or any condition which is a positive and final change. if marriage had some reservations and uncertainties, some loopholes through which they could drag themselves as a final resort, they would be more sure of their own wishes. these are the misses feeble-minds, who cast the reproach upon feminine celibacy. they feel that in some way they have been misunderstood and wronged, and they come finally to regard all other women as their enemies. they worry and fret themselves continually, and the worry and fret sharpen alike their features and their temper. then their condition is precisely the one most conducive to complaining and spiteful gossiping; and they fall, in their weakness and longing for sympathy, to that level. thus to the whole class is given a reputation for malevolent railing which does not by any means belong to it. in fact, married women are generally more venomous than old maids. the words of married women have greater weight, and they do more harm; for they can make suggestions and accusations which an old maid could not make with any propriety. an old maid's gossip is generally without intentional malice; she has nothing to do, and she wants to make herself agreeable; while married women, having plenty else to do, must, as a general thing, talk scandal from pure ill-nature. there is a large majority of old maids who are to be sincerely respected, and from whose numbers men with sense and intelligence may choose noble wives. they are the pretty, pure, sensible women who have been too modest, and too womanly, to push and scramble in the social ranks. they have dwelt in their own homes, and among their own people, and no one has sought them out. they have seen their youth pass away, and all their innocent desires fade, and they have suffered what few can understand before they reached that calm which no thought of a lover troubles. sweet faded flowers! how tenderly we ought to regard these gentle victims of those modest household virtues which all men profess to admire, but which few seem desirous to transplant into their own homes. another class, somewhat kindred to this, is composed of women who have never found their ideal, and have never allowed themselves to invent for any other man those qualities which would elevate him to their standard. and these women, again, are closely allied to those who remain unmarried because they do not, and will not, conform to conventionalities and social rules. they are clever and odd, and likely to remain odd, especially if they refuse to men--as they are most likely to do--that step or two in advance which is the only way to reconcile them to witty or intellectual women. these varieties of unmarried women are mainly the victims of natural peculiarities, or of circumstances they are not responsible for. but within the last generation the condition of feminine celibacy has greatly altered. it is a fact that women in this day, considerately, and in the first glory of their youth, elect themselves to that condition. some have imbibed from high culture a high conception of the value of life, and of what they ought to do with their lives; and they will not waste the days of their youth in looking for a husband in order to begin their work. others have strong individuality, and refuse to give up their time into another's keeping. the force of character displayed by such resolutions naturally leads to celibacy. no one but a very weak man would be attracted by women of such vital purpose, and weak men would not be tolerated by such strong women. the wise and the thoughtful may well give such voluntary old maids the full credit of their purpose, for the generality will not believe in resolutions so much above their own consciences and intelligence. they will still sneer at their condition, and refuse to admit that it is of choice. they will throw at them that wearisome old fable of the fox and the grapes, when they might much more correctly quote sappho's song of the ripe apples left on the topmost branches of the apple-trees: "not because they were forgotten of the gatherers, but because _they were out of their reach_." in accord with the fresh development, we are told that the number of unmarried women in the country is steadily on the increase. but this increase will not be ranged among the silly, the weak, or the cruel of the sex. it will come from that class of women whose eyes have been opened by the spread of education and refinement; women not afraid to work for themselves, and who indeed have thoughtfully concluded that their own efforts and their own company will be far better for them than the help and company of any man not perfectly in sympathy with them, or their inferior either in moral or mental calibre. for it is not always a duty to marry; but it is always a duty to live up to our highest conception of what is right and noble and elevating. but from whatever cause the women of the present and future generations remain unmarried, they will have no need to dread the condition, as unmarried women of the previous generations have had good cause to do. every year finds them more independent. they are constantly invading fresh trades, and stepping up into more important positions. they live in pretty chambers; they dress charmingly; they have a bank account; they go to the opera and the theatres in their own protection; and instead of being the humble poor relations of married sisters and brothers, they are now their equals, their patrons, and their honored guests. besides which, old maids have begun to write novels; and in them they have given us such exquisite portraits of their order--women so rich in every womanly grace--hat we are almost compelled to believe the unmarried women in our midst to be the salt of the community. at any rate, we are beginning to shift the blame and the obloquy of the position to the old bachelors, where it rightly belongs; and this is at least a move in the just and proper direction. for old bachelors have no excuse whatever for their condition. if we omit the natural and necessary exceptions, which are few enough, then pure selfishness and cowardice must account for every other case. their despised old-bachelorhood is all their own fault. they have always had the tremendous privilege of asking for what they wanted; and half the battle was in that privilege. men don't have wives because they don't ask for them; and they don't ask for them because they don't want them; and in this condition lie their shame and their degradation, and the well-deserved scorn with which the married part of both sexes regard them. men are also much more contemptible and useless in their celibacy than are women. an old maid can generally make herself of service to some one. if she is rich, she attaches herself to church work, or to art, or to the children of brothers and sisters. or she travels all over the world, and writes a book about her adventures. if she is poor, she works hard and saves money; and thus becomes an object of interest and respect in her own set. or she is nurse and helper for all that need her help in her village, or her church, or her family. at any rate, she never descends to such depths of ennui and selfishness as do the old bachelors who loll about on the club sofas, or who dawdle discontentedly at afternoon teas. an old maid may be troublesome in church business, or particular in household affairs; but it takes an old bachelor to quarrel with waiters and grumble every one insane about his dinner menu. an old maid may gossip, but she will not bore every one to death about her dyspepsia; and if she has to starve others, we may be very certain she would never fall under that tyranny of valets and janitors which are the "sling and arrows" of wealthy, selfish old bachelors. on the whole, then, the unmarried woman is becoming every year more self-reliant, and more respectable and respected, and the unmarried man more effeminate and contemptible. we look for a day, not far off, when a man will have to become a member of some religious order if he wishes a reputable excuse for his celibacy; and even in secular life it would not be a bad idea to clothe bachelors after forty years of age in a certain uniform. they might also after that age be advised to have their own clubs and recreations; for their assumption of equality with those of their sex who have done their duty as men and citizens is a piece of presumption that married men ought to resent. men who marry are the honorable progenitors of the future; and their self-denying, busy lives not only bless this generation, but prepare for the next one. the old bachelor is merely a human figure, without duties and without hopes. nationally and socially, domestically and personally, he is a spoon with nothing in it! the american girl one of the most interesting, piquant, and picturesque of all types of feminine humanity is the american girl,--not the hothouse variety, reared for the adornment of luxury, but the every-day, every-where girls that throng the roads leading to the public schools and the normal schools, and who, even, in a higher state of culture fill the halls of learned colleges with a wondrous charm and brightness,--girls who have an aim in life, a mission to fulfil, a home to order, who know the worth of money, who are not ashamed to earn it, and who manage out of limited means to compass all their desires for pretty dresses and summer vacations, and even their pet dream of an ocean voyage and a sight of the old world. physically, these girls enjoy life at its highest point. look at their flushed cheeks and bright, fearless eyes, and watch their light, swift, even steps. they have no complaint to make of the heat, or the sunshine, or the frost; they have not yet heard of the east wind. rain does not make them cross; and as for the snow, it throws them into a delicious excitement; while the wind blowing their dresses about them in colored clouds only makes them the more eager to try their strength against it. that these girls so physically lovely should have the proper mental training is a point of the gravest personal and national importance. and it is the glory of our age that this necessity has been nobly met. for the american girl, "wisdom has builded her house and hewn out her seven pillars;" and as she points to the lofty entrance she cries to all alike, "go up; the door is open!" if the girls of fifty years ago could have known the privileges of our era how would they have marvelled and rejoiced and desired "to see their day." but manifold as her privileges are, the american girl generally knows how to use them. she proves daily that the parable of the ten talents did not refer to men only. indeed, the fault girls are most likely to fall into is the belief that they each and all possess every one of the talents. in reality this is so seldom the case that it is impossible to educate all girls after one pattern; and it is therefore a grand thing for a girl to know just what she can and cannot do. for if she have only five talents there is no advantage to be gained by creating fictitious ones, since the noblest education is that which looks to the development of the natural abilities, whether they be few or many, fashionable or unfashionable. ask the majority of people "what is education?" and they will be apt to answer "the improvement of the mind." but this answer does not take us one step beyond the starting-point. probably the best and most generally useful rule for a girl is a deliberate and conscientious inquiry into her own nature and inclinations as to what she wants to do with her education. when she has faithfully answered the inquiry she is ready to prepare herself for this end. for it is neither necessary nor yet possible that every girl should know everything. besides which, the growth of individuality has made special knowledge a thing of great value, and on all occasions of importance we are apt to defer to it. if we cross the atlantic we look for a captain who has a special knowledge of its stormy ways. if we are really ill we go to a specialist on our ailment, no matter what "pathy" we prefer. special knowledge has a prima facie worth, and without inquiry into a subject we are inclined to consider specialists on the subject better informed than those who have not this qualification. hence the importance of cultivating some one talent to such perfection as will enable a girl, if need be, to turn it into money. there is another point in the preparation of the american girl for the duties of life which is often undervalued, or even quite ignored; it is the little remembered fact that all our moral and intellectual qualities are very dependent for their value on our surroundings. the old quakers used to lay great stress upon being "in one's right place." when the right person is in the right place there is sure to be a success in life; failure in this respect is almost certain misfortune; a fine accountant before the mass, a fine lady in the wilderness, are out of their places, and have lost their opportunity. and so educational accomplishments which would bring wealth and honor in a great city may be detrimental to happiness and a drag on duty in an isolated position. hence the importance of a girl finding out first of all what she wants to do with her education. for in this day she is by no means cramped in her choice; the most desirable occupations are open to her; she may select from the whole world her arena, and from the fullness thereof her reward. but if her object be a more narrow and conventional one, if all she wishes is to be loved and popular in her own small community, then--if she is wise--she will cultivate only such a happy arrangement of graceful, usual accomplishments as prevail among her class and friends. for a very clever woman cannot be at home with very many people. she is too large for the regular grooves of society; she does not fit into any of its small aims and enjoyments; and though she may have the kindest heart, it is her singularities only that will be taken notice of. if, then, popularity be a girl's desire, she must not obviously cultivate herself, must not lift herself above her surroundings, nor lift her aspirations higher than the aims which all humanity have in common. and it is a very good thing for humanity that so many nice girls are content and happy with such a life object; for the social and domestic graces are those which touch existence the closest, which sweeten its bitter griefs and brighten its dreariest hours. it would be foolish to assert that the american girl is without faults. physically and mentally, she may stand on her merits with any women in the world; morally, she has the shortcomings that are the shadows of her excellences. principally she is accused of a want of reverence, and setting aside for the present her faults as a daughter, it may be admitted that in general she has little of this quality. but it is largely the consequence of her environments. reverence is the virtue of ignorance; and the american girl has no toleration for ignorance. she is inquisitive, speculative, and inclined to rely on her own investigations; while the spirit of reverence demands, as its very atmosphere, trust and obedience. it is therefore more just to say that she is so alert and eager herself that when she meets old men and women who have learned nothing from their last fifty years of life, and who therefore can teach her nothing, she does not feel any impulse to offer reverence to mere years. but if gray hairs be honorable, either for matured wisdom, extensive information, or practical piety, she is generally inclined to give that best of all homage, the reverence which springs from knowledge and affection, and which is a much better thing than the mere forms of respect traditionally offered to old age. it is also said that the american girl is a very vain girl, fond of parading her beauty, freedom, and influence. but vanity is not a bad quality, if it does not run to excess. it is the ounce of leaven in a girl's character, and does a deal of good work for which it seldom gets any credit. for a great deed a great motive is necessary; but how numberless are the small social and domestic kindnesses for which vanity is a sufficient force, and which would be neglected or ill-done without its influence! as long as a girl's vanity does not derive its inspiration from self-love there is no necessity for her to wear sackcloth to humiliate it. we have all known women without vanity, and found them unpleasant people to know. there is one fault of the american girl which is especially her fault, and which ought not to be encouraged or palliated although it is essentially the shadow of some of her greatest excellences--the fault of being in too great a hurry at all the turning-points of her life. when she is in the nursery she aches to go to school. when she is a schoolgirl, she is impatient to put on long dresses and become a young lady. as soon as this fact is accomplished, she feels there is not a moment to lose in choosing either a career or a husband. she is always in a hurry about the future, and so frequently takes the wrong turn at the great events of life. she leaves school too soon; she leaves home too soon; she does everything at a rush, and does not do it as well as if she "made haste slowly." but what a future lies before these charmingly brilliant american girls, if they are able to take the fullest possession of it! the great obstacle in this achievement is the apparently wholesome opinion that education is sufficient. but the very best education will fall short of its privileges if it be not accompanied with that moral training which we call discipline. discipline is self-denial in all its highest forms; it teaches the excellent mean between license and repression; without it a girl may have plenitude of knowledge, and a lamentable want of sweetness; so that one only second rate on her intellectual side may be a thousand times more lovable than one who is first rate on her intellectual side, but lacks that fine flavor of character which comes from the expansion of noble inward forces, disciplined and directed to good ends. every one understands that no character, however intellectual, is worth anything that is not morally healthy; but morality in a woman is not in itself sufficient. she must have in addition all those charming virtues included in that word of many lights and shades and subtle meanings--womanliness; that word which signifies such a variety of things, but never anything but what is sweet and tender and gracious and beautiful. dangerous letter-writing young women are proverbially fond of playing with edged tools, and of all such dangerous playthings a habit of promiscuous, careless letter-writing is the worst; for in most cases the danger is not obvious at the time, and the writer may even have forgotten her imprudence when she has to meet the consequences. the romance, the gush, the having nothing particular to do, the almost insane egotism which makes some young women long to exploit their own hearts, caused poor madaline smith to write those foolish letters to a man whose every good quality she had to invent, and who afterwards tortured her with these very letters into a crime which made her stand for months within the shadow of the gallows. she had not patience to await until the real lover came, and then when he did come these fatal letters stood between her and her happiness, and her fair name. the very instinct which leads to constant letter-writing, goes with a constitutional want of caution, and therefore indicates a necessity for intelligent self-restraint. if young women, when writing letters, would only project themselves into the future and imagine a time when they might be confronted with the lines which they have just penned, many an ill-advised missive would go into the fire instead of into the mail bag. indeed, if letters at all doubtful in spirit or intent were laid aside until "next morning" many a wrong would be left undone, many a friendship would be preserved unbroken, and many an imprudence be postponed and so uncommitted. if indeed a woman could say truthfully, "this letter is my letter, and if mischief comes of it i alone have the penalty to pay," expansive correspondence might be less dangerous. but no one can thus limit folly or sin, and its consequence may even touch those who were not even aware of the writing of the letter. the abuse of letter-writing is one of the greatest trials of the epoch. distance, which used to be a protection, is now done away with. every one cries out, and insists upon your listening. they write events while they are only happening. people unknown intrude upon your time and take possession of it. enmities and friendships thousands of miles away scold or caress; one is exacting, another angry, a third lays upon your conscience obligations which he has invented. for a mere nothing--a yes, or a no--idle, gushing people fire off continual notes and insist upon answers. now this kind of letter-writing exists only because postage is cheap; if such correspondents had to pay twenty-five cents for giving their opinions, they would not give them at all. it is an impertinence also, for though we may like persons well enough to receive from them a visit, or even to return it, it is a very different thing to be called upon to retire ourselves with pen and ink and note paper, and give away time and interest which we are not inclined to give. plenty of girls write very clever letters,--letters that are an echo of their own circle, full of a sweet audacity and an innocent swagger of knowledge of the world and of the human heart that is very engaging. and the temptation to write such letters is very great, especially as both the writer and her friends are apt to imagine them evidence of a large amount of genius. indeed, some who have a specially bright pen, or else a specially large circle of admirers and flatterers, arrive speedily at the conviction that they can just as easily write a book. so without reason and without results, they get themselves heart-burning and heart-ache and disappointment. for there is absolutely no kindred whatever between this graceful, piquant eloquence _du billet_ and the fancy, observation, and experience necessary to successful novel writing. if a girl really has a vein of true sentiment, she ought not at this day to give it away in letter-writing. there is a safer and more profitable way to use it; she can now take it to market and sell it for pudding, for the magazines and ladies' newspapers. sentiment and fancy have a commercial value; and instead of sealing them up in a two-cent envelope for an acquaintance,--who is likely very unappreciative, and who perhaps tosses them into the fire with a contemptuous adjective,--she might send them to some long-suffering editor. these men know the depths of the girlish heart in this respect, and they have a patience in searching for the gold among the dross that is not generally believed in. therefore, if a girl must write, let her send her emotions to the newspapers; an editor is a far more prudent confidant than her very dearest friend. really, the day for letter-writing is past. as an art it is dead, as convenience it remains; but it has lost all sentiment. even madame de sévigné could not be charming on a postal card, and for genuine information the general idea is to put it into twenty words and send it by telegraph. so, then, it is a good thing for young women to get over, as soon as possible, the tendency of their years to sentimental letter-writing. they will thus save themselves many a heart-ache in the present and many a fear for the future. for if they do not write letters they cannot feel hurt because they are not answered. they cannot worry because they have said something imprudent. they will not make promises, in the exaltation of composition, which they will either break or hate to keep when they are in their sober senses. they will also preserve their friendships longer, for they will not deprive them altogether of that charm which leaves something to the imagination. of course there are yet such things as absolutely necessary letters; and these, in their way, ought to be made as perfect as possible. fortunately, perfection in this respect is easily attainable, its essentials being evident to all as soon as they are stated. first, a letter which demands or deserves the attention of an answer, ought to have it as promptly as if we were paying a bill. second, we ought to write distinctly, for bad handwriting represents a very dogged, self-asserting temper,--one, too, which is unfair, because if we put forward our criticisms and angularities in a personal meeting, they can be returned in kind, but to send a letter that is almost unintelligible admits of no reprisal but an answer in some equally provoking scrawl. even if the writing is only careless, and may be read with a little trouble, we have no right to impose that extra trouble. third, it is a good thing to write short letters. the cases in which people have written long letters, and not been sorry for having done so, are doubtless very rare. no one will ever be worse for just saying plainly what she has to say and then signing her name to it plainly and in full. for a name half signed is not only a vulgarity, it indicates a character unfinished, uncertain, and hesitating. there is a kind of correspondence which is a special development of our special civilization, and which it is to be hoped will be carefully avoided by the young woman of the future,--that is, the writing of letters begging autographs. a woman who does this thing has a passion which she ought immediately to arrest and compel to give an account of itself. if she did so, she would quickly discover that it is a mean passion, masquerading in a character it has no right to, and no sympathy with. an autograph beggar is a natural development, though not a very creditable one. she doubtless began her career of accumulation with collecting birds' eggs in the country, where they could be got for nothing. butterflies were probably her next ambition. then perhaps that mysterious craze for postage stamps followed. after such a training, the mania for autographs would come as a matter of course. and the sole and whole motive of the collecting business is nothing at all but the vulgar love of possessing, and especially of possessing what costs nothing. it is amusing and provoking to notice the air of complaisance with which some of these begging epistles are suffused. the writers seem incapable of conceiving statesmen, artists, and authors who will not be as pleased to give as they are to ask. but in reality, a man or a woman, however distinguished, who feels a request for his or her autograph to be a compliment, is soaked in self-conceit, and the large majority certainly do look upon such requests as simply impertinent begging letters. the request, indeed, carries an affront with it, no matter how civilly it may be worded, as it is not that particular autograph that is wanted, for the beggars generally prefix as an excuse the bare-faced fact that they have already begged hundreds. certainly no self-respecting woman will care to put herself among the host of these contemptible seekers after a scrap of paper. speaking broadly, a woman's character may be in many respects fairly gauged by her habits on the subject of letter-writing; as fairly, indeed, as we may gauge a man's by his methods of dealing with money. if we know how a man gets money, how he spends it, how he lends it, borrows it, or saves it, we have a perfect measurement for his temper and capabilities. and if we know how a woman deals with her letters, how many she gets, how many she sends, how long or how short they are, if they are sprawly and untidy, or neat and cleanly, and how they are signed and sealed, then we can judge her nature very fairly, for she has written herself down in an open book, and all who wish may read her. flirts and flirtation flirting is the product of a highly civilized state of society. people in savage, or even illiterate life have no conception of its delicate and indefinable diplomacy. a savage sees a woman "that pleases him well," pays the necessary price for her, and is done with the affair. jane in the kitchen and john in the field look and love, tell each other the reason why, and get married. "keeping company," which is their nearest approach to flirtation, has a definite and well-understood end in view, the approaches to which are unequivocal and admit of no other translation. flirts are of many kinds. there is the quiet, "still-water" flirt, who leads her captives by tender little sighs and pretty, humble, beseeching ways; who hangs on every word a man says, asks his advice, his advice only, because it is so much better than any one else's. that is her form of the art, and a very effective one it is. again, the flirt is demonstrative and daring. she tempts, dazzles, tantalizes her victims by the very boldness with which she approaches that narrow but deep rubicon dividing flirting from indiscretion. but she seldom crosses it; up to a certain point she advances without hesitation, but at once there is a dead halt, and the flirtee finds that he has been taken a fool's journey. there are sentimental flirts, sly little pusses, full of sweet confidences and small secrets, and who delight in asking the most suggestive and seductive questions. "does willy really believe in love marriages?" or, "is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?" etc. intellectual flirts hover about young poets and writers, or haunt studios and libraries, and doubtless are delightfully distracting to the young ideas shooting in those places. everybody knows a variety of the religious flirt,--those demure lilies of the ecclesiastical garden, that grow in the pleasant paths where pious young rectors and eligible saints walk. perhaps, as their form of flirting takes the shape of votive offerings, district visiting, and choir singing, their perpetual gush of sentiment and hero-worship is advantageous, on the principle that it is an ill wind that blows nobody good. all of these female varieties have their counterparts among male flirts, and besides, there are some masculine types flagrantly and universally common. such is the bold, handsome bird of prey, who advances just far enough to raise expectation and then suddenly retires. or the men who are always _insinuating_, but who never make an honest declaration; who raise vague hopes with admirable skill and poetic backgrounds, and keep women madly and hopefully in love with them by looks and gestures they never give an interpretation to. when they are tired they retire slowly, without quarrel, without explanation; they simply allow their implied promises to die of neglect. then there is the prudent flirt, who trifles only with married women; dangles after those subtle, handsome creatures who affect blighted lives and uncomfortable husbands, and who, having married for convenience, are flirting for love. such women are safe entertainment for the cowardly male flirt, who fears a flirtation that leads perchance to matrimony, but who has no fears about his liability to commit bigamy. there are "fatherly" male flirts, and "brotherly" and "friendly" flirts, but the title is nothing but an agreed-upon centre of operations. yet it is difficult to imagine how, in a polished state of society, flirting could be done without. some sort of preliminary examination into tastes, disposition, and acquirements is necessary before matrimony, and a woman cannot carry a list of her desirable qualities, nor a man advertise his temper and his income. the trouble is that no definite line can be drawn, no scale of moral values can decide where flirting ends and serious attentions begin; and society never agrees as to what is innocent and what reprehensible. there are ill-natured people who call every bright, merry girl that is a favorite with gentlemen, that talks, sings, and dances well, a "terrible flirt;" who admit nothing as propriety but what is conventionally correct and insipid. the media of flirting are indeed endless; a clever woman can find in simply _listening_ a method of conveying the most delicate flattery and covert admiration. indeed, flirting in its highest quality is an art requiring the greatest amount of tact and skill, and women who would flirt and be blameless, no matter how vast their materials, must follow opie's plan and "mix them with brains." it used to be a maxim that no gentleman could be refused by a lady, because he would never presume beyond the line of her encouragement; therefore it is to be presumed, on this rule, no lady advances further than she is willing to ratify. but such a state of society would be very stupid and formal, and we should miss a very piquant flavor in life, which even very good and great people have not been able to resist. upon this rule we must convict queen elizabeth as an arrant flirt, and "no lady;" we should be compelled to shake our heads at the fair thrale and the great dr. johnson, at naughty horace walpole and mrs. hannah more, and to even look with suspicion on george whitefield and "good lady huntingdon." no, in polished society flirting in a moderate form is an amusement, and an investigation so eminently suited to the present condition of the sexes that a much better one could be better spared. in one case only does it admit of no extenuating circumstances,--that of the married flirt of both sexes. a flirt may not indeed be an altogether lovely character, even with all her alluring faults; but she is something a great deal nicer than a prude. all men prefer a woman who trusts them, or gayly challenges them to a combat, in which she proposes their capture, to her who affects horror at masculine tastes and ways, and is always expecting them to do some improper, or say some dreadful, thing. depend upon it, if all the flirts were turned into prudes, society would have gone further to fare worse. on falling in love "something there is moves me to love; and i do know i love, but know not how, or why." there is in love no "wherefore;" and we scarcely expect it. the working-world around must indeed give us an account of their actions, but lovers are not worth much in the way of rendering a reason; for half the charm of love-making lies in the defiance of everything that is reasonable, in asserting the incredible, and in believing the impossible. and surely we may afford ourselves this little bit of glamour in an age judging everything by the unconditional and the positive; we may make little escapades into love-land, when all the old wonder-lands, from the equator to the pole, are being mapped out, and dotted over with railway depots, and ports of entry. falling in love is an eminently impractical piece of business, and yet nature--who is no blunderer--generally introduces the boy and girl into active adult life by this very door. in the depths of this delicious foolishness the boyish heart grows to the measure of manhood; bats and boats and "fellows" are forever deposed, and lovely woman reigns in their stead. to boys, first love is, perhaps, more of an event than to girls, for the latter have become familiar with the routine of love-making long before they are seriously in love. they sing about it in connection with flowers and angels and the moon; they read moore and tennyson; they have perhaps been the confidants of elder sisters. they are waiting for their lover, and even inclined to be critical; but the first love of a boy is generally a surprise--he is taken unawares, and surrenders at discretion. perhaps it is a good stimulant to faith in general, that in the very outset of it we should believe in such an unreasonable and wonderful thing as first love. tertullian held some portions of his faith simply "because they were impossible." it is no bad thing for a man to begin life with a grand passion,--to imagine that no one ever loved before him, and that no one who comes after him will ever love to the same degree that he does. this absolute passion, however, is not nearly so common as it might well be; and rochefoucauld was not far wrong when he compared it to the ghosts that every one talks about, but very few see. it generally arises out of extreme conditions of circumstances or feelings; its food is contradiction and despair. it is doubtful if romeo and juliet would have cared much for each other if the montagues and capulets had been friends and allies, and the marriage of their children a necessary state arrangement; and byron is supported by all reasonable evidence when he doubtfully inquires: "if laura, think you, had been petrarch's wife, would he have written sonnets all his life?" this excessive passion does not thrive well either in a high state of civilization. "king cophetua and the beggar-maid" is the ballad of an age when love really "ruled the court, the camp, the grove." the nineteenth century is not such an age. at the very best, king cophetua would now do pretty much as the judge did with regard to maud muller. still no one durst say that even in such a case it was not better to have loved and relinquished than never to have loved at all. "better for all that some sweet hope lies deeply buried from human eyes." how can love be the be-all and the end-all of life with us, when steam-looms and litigation, railway shares and big bonanzas, cotton and corn, literature and art, politics and dry goods, and a thousand other interests share our affections and attentions? it is impossible that our life should be the mere machinery of a love plot; it is rather a drama in which love is simply one of the _dramatis personæ_. this fact is well understood, even if not acknowledged in words; the sighs and the fevers, the hoarding of flowers and gloves, the broken hearts and shattered lives, all for the sake of one sweet face, still exist in literature, but not much in life. lovers of to-day are more given to considering how to make housekeeping as easy as matrimony than to writing sonnets to their mistresses' eyebrows. the very devotion of ancient times would now be tedious, its long protestations a bore, and we lovers of the nineteenth century would be very apt to yawn in the very face of a sixteenth-century cupid. let the modern lover try one of amadis' long speeches to his lady, and she would likely answer, "don't be tiresome, jack; let us go to thomas' and hear the music and eat an ice-cream." is love, then, in a state of decay? by no means--it has merely accommodated itself to the spirit of the age; and this spirit demands that the lives of men shall be more affected by hymen than by cupid. lovers interest society now solely as possible husbands and wives, fathers and mothers of the republic. lord lytton points out this fact as forcibly exemplified in our national dramas. every one feels the love scenes in a play, the sentimental dialogues of the lovers, fatiguing; but a matrimonial quarrel excites the whole audience, and it sheds its pleasantest tears over their reconciliation. for few persons in any audience ever have made, or ever will make, love as poets do; but the majority have had, or will have, quarrels and reconciliations with their wives. "men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them--but not for love;" and if this was true of shakespeare's times, it is doubly so of ours. if there ever was any merit in dying for love, we fail to see it; occasionally a man will wildly admit that he is making a fool of himself for this or that woman, but though we may pity him, we don't respect him for such a course. women, still more rarely than men, "make fools of themselves" on this score; and in spite of all poets assert to the contrary, they are eminently reasonable, and their affections bear transplanting. in other respects we quite ignore the inflation of old love terms. "our fate," "our destiny," etc., resolve themselves into the simplest and most natural of events; a chat on a rainy afternoon, a walk home in the moonlight, mere contiguity for a season, are the agents which often decide our love affairs. and yet, below all this, lies that inexplicable something which seems to place this bit of our lives beyond our wisest thoughts. we can't fall in love to order, and all our reasoning on the subject resolves itself into a conviction that under certain inexplicable conditions, "it is possible for anybody to fall in love with anybody else." perhaps this is a part of what artemus ward calls the "cussedness" of things in general; but at any rate we must admit that if "like attracts like," it attracts unlike too. the scholar marries the foolish beauty; the beauty marries an ugly man, and admires him. poverty intensifies itself by marrying poverty; plenty grows plethoric by marrying wealth. but how far love is to blame for these strange attractions, who can tell? probably a great deal that passes for love is only reflected self-love, the passion to acquire what is generally admired or desired. thus beautiful women are often married as the most decorous way of gratifying male vanity. a pleasant anecdote, as the scotch say, _anent_ this view, is told of the duc de guise, who after a long courtship prevailed on a celebrated beauty to grant him her hand. the lady observing him very restless, asked what ailed him. "ah, madame," answered the lover, "i ought to have been off long ago to communicate my good fortune to all my friends." but the motives and influences that go to make up so highly complex an emotion as love are beyond even indication, though the subject has been a tempting one to most philosophical writers. even comte descends from the positive and unconditional to deify the charmingly erratic feminine principle; michelet, after forty volumes of history, rests and restores himself by penning a book on love; the pale, religious pascal, terrified at the vastness of his own questions, comforts himself by an analysis of the same passion; and herbert spencer has gone _con amore_ into the same subject. but love laughs at philosophy, and delights in making fools of the wise for its sake. it is easy to construct a theory, but the first touch of a white hand may demolish it; easy to make resolutions, but the first glance of a pair of bright eyes may send them packing. it is easy for men to be philosophers, when they are not lovers; but when once they fall in love there is no distinction then between the fool and the wise man. however, we can be thankful that love no longer demands such outward and visible tokens of slavery as she used to. in this day lovers address their mistresses as women--not goddesses. indeed we should say now of men who serve women on their knees, "_when they get up, they go away_." engaged to be married "woo'd and married and a'. woo'd and married and a': an' is na she very weel aff that is woo'd and married and a'?" it is a beautiful fancy that marriages are ordained in heaven; it is a practical fact that they are made on earth; and that what we call "our destiny," or "our fate," is generally the result of favorable opportunities, sympathetic circumstances, or even pleasant contiguity for a season. hence we always expect after the summer vacation to hear of a number of "engagements." the news is perennially interesting; we may have seen the parties a thousand times, but their first appearance in their new character excites all our curiosity. generally the woman expands and beautifies, rises with the occasion, and puts on new beauty with the confidence of an augmenting wardrobe and an assured position. there is nothing ridiculous in her attitude; her wedding trousseau and marriage presents keep her in a delightful state of triumphant satisfaction, and if she has "done well unto herself," she feels entitled to the gratitude of her family and the envy of all her female acquaintance. the case is not so socially pleasant for her accomplice; it is always an awkward thing for a man to announce his engagement. his married friends ask him prosaic questions, and "wish him joy,"--a compliment which of itself implies a doubt; or they tell him he is going to do a wise thing, and treat him in the interval as if he was naturally in a state of semi-lunacy. his bachelor friends receive the news either with a fit of laughter, an expressive, long-drawn whistle, or at best with the assurance that they "consider marriage a good thing, though they are not able to carry out their principles." but he is soon aware that they regard him virtually as a deserter; they make parties without including him; he drops out of their consultations; he has lost his caste among the order of young men, and has not been admitted among the husbands of the community; he hangs between two states; is not of _that_, nor yet quite of _this_. naturally enough, there are a variety of opinions on the subject of prolonging or cutting as short as possible this preliminary stage. those who regard marriage as a kind of commerce, whose clearing house is st. thomas's or st. bartholomew's, will, of course, prefer to clinch the contemplated arrangement as soon as possible. their business is intelligible; there is "no nonsense about them;" and, upon the whole, the sooner they get to ordering dinner and paying taxes the better. many of us have sat waiting in a dentist's room with a tooth-ache similar to that which made burns "cast the wee stools owre the meikle;" and some of us have watched for an editor's decision with feelings which would gladly have annihilated the interval. but it is not alone the prosaic and the impatient who are averse to a long engagement: the methodical, whose arrangements it tumbles upside down; the busy, whose time it appropriates; the selfish, who are compelled during it to make continual small sacrifices; the shy, who feel as if all the other relations of life had retired into the background in order to exhibit them as "engaged men;" the greedy, who look upon the expected love-offerings as so much tribute money,--these and many other varieties of lovers would gladly simplify matrimony by reducing its preliminaries to a question and a ceremony. yet if love is to have anything like the place in life that it has in poetry; if we really believe that marriage ought to be founded on sympathy of tastes and principles; if we have any faith in that mighty ruler of hearts and lives, a genuine love affair,--we shall not wish to dim the glory of marriage by denying it this sojourn in a veritable enchanted land; for in its atmosphere many fine feelings blossom that never would have birth at all if the niceties of courtship were superseded by the levelling rapidity of marriage. if people are _really_ in love they gain more than they lose by a reasonable delay. there is time for the reading and writing of love-letters, one of the sweetest experiences of life; the tongue and pen get familiar with affectionate and noble sentiments; indeed i doubt if there is any finer school for married life than a full course of love-letters. but if the marriage follow immediately on the engagement, all love-letters and all love-making must necessarily have a flavor of furniture and dress, and of "considerations." i admit that love-making is an unreasonable and impractical piece of business; but in this lies all its charm. it delights in asserting the incredible and believing the impossible. but, after all, it is in the depths of this delicious foolishness that the heart attains its noblest growth. life may have many grander hopes and calmer joys in store,-- "but there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream." therefore we ought to look with complaisance, if not with approbation, on young people serenely passing through this phase of their existence; but the fact is, we are apt to regard it as a little trial. lovers are so happy and self-satisfied that they do not understand why everybody else is not in the same supreme condition. if the house is ever so small, they expect a clear room to themselves. yet such an engagement, of reasonable length, is to be advised wherever young people are tender and constant in nature, and really in love with each other. i would only ask them to be as little demonstrative in public as possible, and to carry their happiness meekly, for, in any case, they will make large demands on the love, patience, and toleration of their friends. but perhaps one of the greatest advantages of a prolonged engagement is the security it brings against a _mésalliance_. now, to a man a _mésalliance_ is the heaviest weight he can carry through life; but to a woman it is simply destruction. the best women have an instinctive wish to marry a man superior to themselves in some way or other; for their honor is in their husbands, and their status in society is determined by his. a woman who, for a passing fancy, marries a man in any way her inferior wrongs herself, her family, and her whole life; for the "grossness of his nature" will most probably drag her to his level. now and then a woman of great force of character may lift her husband upward, but she accepts such a labor at the peril of her own higher life. should she find it equally impossible to lift him to her level or to sink to his, what remains? life-long regrets, bitter shame and self-reproach, or a forcible setting of herself free. but the latter, like all severe remedies, carries desperation instead of hope, with it. never can she quite regain her maiden place; an _aura_ of a doubtful kind fetters and influences her in every effort or relation of her future life. in the early glamour of a love affair, women do not see these things, but fathers and mothers do; they know that "the world is _not_ well lost for love," and they have a right to protest against such folly. in an imprudent love affair, every day is so much gained; therefore when this foolishness is bound up in the heart of a youth or a maiden, the best of all plans is to arrange for time,--as long an engagement as possible. but i will suppose that all my unmarried readers have found proper mates who will stand the test of parental wisdom and a fairly long and exacting engagement, and that after some happy months they will not only be "woo'd," but "married and a'." now begins their real life, and for the woman the first step is _renunciation_. she must give up with a good grace the exaggeration and romance of love-making, and accept in its place that far better tenderness which is the repose of passion, and which springs from the tranquil depths of a man's best nature. the warmest-hearted and most unselfish women soon learn to accept quiet trust and the loyalty of a loving life as the calmest and happiest condition of marriage; and the men who are sensible enough to rely on the good sense of such wives sail round the gushing adorers, both for true affection and comfortable tranquillity. just let a young wife remember that her husband necessarily is under a certain amount of bondage all day; that his interests compel him to look pleasant under all circumstances to offend none, to say no hasty word, and she will see that when he reaches his own fireside he wants most of all to have this strain removed to be at ease; but this he cannot be if he is continually afraid of wounding his wife's sensibilities by forgetting some outward and visible token of his affection for her. besides, she pays him but a poor compliment in refusing to believe what he does not continually assert; and by fretting for what it is unreasonable to desire she deeply wrongs herself, for-- "a woman moved is like a fountain troubled, muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty." shall our daughters have dowries? those who occupy themselves reading that writing on the wall which we call "signs of the times" may ponder awhile the question which mr. messinger puts with such plaintive appeal to the parents of this generation: "shall our daughters have dowries?" but in the very commencement of his argument he abandons the case he has voluntarily taken up, and enters a plea, not for the daughters, but for the young men who may wish to marry the daughters. also in urging upon parents the duty of endowing their daughters he seems to have lost sight of the fact that "dowry," in its very spirit and intention, does not propose to care for the husband, but is solely in the interest of the wife. he asserts, doubtless with accuracy, that the average income of young men is $ , a year, and he finds in this fact a sufficient reason for the decrease of marriage among them. it is no reason at all; for a large and sensible proportion of young men do marry and live happily and respectably on $ , a year, and those who cannot do so are very clearly portrayed by mr. messinger, and very little respected by any sensible young woman. but it is not to be believed that they form any preponderating or influential part of that army of young men who are the to-morrow of our great republic. let any reader count, from such young men as are known to him, the number who would divide their $ , as mr. messinger supposes them to do:-- dress for self and wife $ apartments amusements i venture to say the proportion would be very small indeed. for the majority of young men know that nothing worth having is lost in the sharing. they meet in their own circle some modest, home-making girl whom they love so truly that they can tell her exactly what their income is, and then they find out that their own ideas of economy were crude and extravagant compared with the wondrous ways and means which reveal themselves to a loving woman's comprehension of the subject. the oranges, rutherford, and every suburb of new york are full of pretty little homes supported without worry, and with infinite happiness, upon $ , a year, and perhaps, indeed, upon less money. the difficulty with the class of young men whose case mr. messinger pleads is one deserving of no sympathy. it is a difficulty evoked by vanity and self-conceit, of which fashion and mrs. grundy are the bugbears. why should a young man capable of making only $ , a year expect to marry a girl whose parents are rich enough to guard her "from every wind of heaven, lest it visit her face too roughly"? "is it fair treatment of the expected husband," mr. messinger asks, that a girl "should be habituated to live without work and then be handed over to her husband with nothing but her clothing and bric-à-brac?" yes, it is quite fair treatment. if the husband with his $ , a year elects to marry a girl not habituated to work, he does it of his own choice: the father of the girl is probably not at all desirous of his alliance; then why should the father deprive himself of the results of his own labor and economy to undo the folly and vanity of the young man's selection? as for the girl, if she has deliberately preferred her lover to her father, mother, home, and to all the advantages of wealth, she has the desire of her heart. it may be quite fair that she should have this desire, but it may be very unfair that her father, mother, and perhaps her brothers and sisters, should be robbed to make her desire less self-sacrificing to her. for if the young man with his poverty is acceptable to both the daughter and her parents, the latter may be safely trusted to do all that is right in the circumstances. the most objectionable part of mr. messinger's argument is the servile and mercenary aspect in which it places marriage. "what equality can exist," he asks, "where one (the man) supplies all the means of subsistence and performs all the labor?" that a husband should provide the means of subsistence is the very magna charta of honorable marriage; and nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand so accept it. it is the precise point on which all true husbands feel the most keenly sensitive. they want no other man--no matter what his relationship or friendship--to support their wives. and under no circumstances does the husband perform all the labor resulting from a marriage. that he may be a true man, a father and a citizen, it is necessary that he have a home; and in the care of the home, in the bringing-forth and the bringing-up of the family, in the constant demands upon her love and sympathy, the wife performs a never-ceasing multitude of duties that tax her heart and her body in every direction,--a labor of love in comparison with which her husband's daily routine over his "entries" or his "orders" is a trifling drain of vitality. for a wife and mother must keep every faculty and feeling "at attention;" but a clerk over his ledger keeps a dozen faculties on the premises to do the work of one. and in behalf of all true and trusted wives i deny in totality the idea that they go to their husbands with "painful shrinking" for the money necessary to carry on the mutual home, or that there is in any beloved wife's heart the most fleeting thought of "dependence." mr. messinger does a great and shameful wrong to the majority of husbands and wives by such an assertion. indeed, this gentleman's experience seems to have been an unusually sad one, nine out of ten of his friends having died in early middle age from the undue expenditure of nerve and vital force in their efforts to provide for their families in what they doubtless considered a suitable manner; and he evidently thinks that if their wives had been dowered this result would probably have been averted. it is extremely improbable. the wife's small income would far more likely have led to a still more extravagant way of living; for the genius of the american is to live for to-day and take care for the morrow when the morrow comes. in many respects it is the genius of the age. old forms of thought and action are in a state of transition. no one can tell what to-morrow may bring forth. the social conditions which inspired the fathers of the past to save for their posterity are passing away; and i speak from knowledge when i assert that they were often conditions of domestic misery and wrong, and that growing children suffered much under them. suppose a father has two daughters and three sons; must he curtail the daughters in the education and pleasures of their youth, must he limit the three boys at home and at college, in order to give a sum of money to some unknown young man who will doubtless vow that his daughter's heart and person are more than all the world to him? if she be not more than all the world to him, he has no right to marry her; and if she be, what can be added to a gift so precious? the tendency of the time is to dishonor marriage in every way; but the deepest wrong, the most degrading element that can be introduced, is to make it dependent upon dowries or any other financial consideration. we must remember also that in england, where dowry has been a custom, it was one not particularly affecting those classes whose daughters are likely to marry clerks upon small salaries. it was the provision made by landed gentry for their daughters, and they exacted in return an equally suitable settlement from the expectant husband. if the father gave a sum of money to the bride, the bridegroom generally gave the dower-house, with the furniture, silver, linen, etc., which would make it a proper home for her widowhood. many a marriage has been broken off because the bridegroom would not make such settlements as the father considered the dower demanded. mr. messinger acknowledges that the cost of living was never so small as at this day, and that the difficulty in the way of young men marrying is "purely one of insane imitation and competition." but there is no necessity for this insane competition; and why provide an unusual and special remedy for what is purely optional? nobody compels the young husband to live as if his income was $ , instead of $ , . of his own free will he sacrifices his life to his vanity, and there is no justice in attempting his relief by dowering his perhaps equally guilty wife out of the results of another man's industry and economy. dowry is an antiquated provision for daughters, behind the genius of the age, incompatible with the dignity of american men and the intelligence and freedom of american women. besides, there are very likely to be two, three, four, or more daughters in a house; how could a man of moderate means save for all of them? and what would become of the sons? the father who gives his children a loving, sensible mother, who provides them with a comfortable home, and who educates fully all their special faculties, and teaches them the cunning in their ten fingers, dowers his daughters far better than if he gave them money. he has funded for them a provision that neither a bad husband nor an evil fate can squander. he has done his full duty, and every good girl will thankfully so accept it. as for the young men who could imagine themselves spending, out of $ , , $ upon dress and amusements, neither the world, nor any sensible woman in it, will be the worse for their celibacy. for if they take a wife, it will doubtless be some would-be stylish, foolish virgin, whose soft hands are of no earthly use except as ring-stands and glove-stretchers. it is such marriages that are failures. it is in such pretentious homes that love and moderate means cannot live happily together. it is in such weak hands that pandora's box shuts, not on hope, but on despair. the brave, sensible youth does not fear to face life and all its obligations on $ , a year. with love it is enough to begin with. hope, ambition, industry, good fortune, are his sureties for the future. however well educated he may be, he knows that in his own class he will find lovely women equally well educated. they may be teaching, clerking, sewing, but they are his peers. he has no idea of marrying a young lady accustomed to servants and luxury, and the question of dower never occurs to him. the good girl who supplements his industry by her economy, who cheers him with her sympathy, who shares all his thoughts and feelings, and crowns his life with love and consolation, has all the dowry he wants. and this is an opinion founded on a long life of observation,--an opinion that fire cannot burn out of me. the ring upon the finger rings were probably the first ornaments ever worn, though in the earliest ages they had a meaning far beyond mere adornment. the stories of judah and tamar, of pharaoh and joseph, of ahasuerus and haman, show that as pledges of good faith, as marks of favor, and as tokens of authority, they were the recognized symbols. the fashion was an eastern one, for the jews were familiar with it before their sojourn in egypt; indeed, it may have been one of those primeval customs which shem, ham, and japhet saved from the wreck of an earlier world. certainly the people of syria and the lords of palestine and tyre used rings in the earliest times; and it is remarkable that they bore the same emblem which ancient mexican rings bear,--the constellation of pisces. as an ornament, however, the ring is least important; it is an emblem. the charmed circle has potency and romance. great faith in all ages has been placed in charmed rings. greeks and romans possessed them, and the scandinavian nations had a superstitious faith in such amulets; indeed, as chronicles declare, it is hard to compute how much william was indebted for his victory over harold to the influence of the ring he wore, which had been blessed and hallowed. as curative agencies, rings have also played a curious part. until the georgian era, rings blessed by the king or queen on good friday were thought to control epilepsy and other complaints, and something of this secret power is still acknowledged by the superstitious, who wear around their necks rings or coins that have been blessed. rings have also been agencies for death, as well as for life. in all ages they have been receptacles for subtle poisons, and thus hannibal and demosthenes armed themselves against an extremity of evil fortune. in the life of the english queen elizabeth, rings had an extraordinary importance. she was notified of her ascension to the throne by the presentation of mary's ring. the withholding of the ring sent by essex caused her to die in a passion of remorse and re-awakened affection; and no sooner was the great struggle over than her ring was taken from her scarcely cold finger and flung out of the window to sir john harrington, who hastened over the border with it to the scottish james. there are some curious traditions regarding the stones usually set in rings. the ruby or carbuncle was thought to guard against illness. the sapphire was the favorite of churchmen, and was thought to inspire pure desires. epiphanes says the first tables of the law were written on sapphires. the emerald bestowed cheerfulness and increased wealth. the opal was said to make a man invisible, the jacinth to procure sleep, and the turquoise to appease quarrels between man and wife. things are much changed, however, since heathen sages and rosicrucian alchemists defined the qualities and powers of gems. we have commercial "rings" now, which laugh emerald ones to scorn as means of procuring wealth. if the opal could make a man invisible, it might be popular on the first of a month, but we have better narcotics than the jacinth, while the elaborateness of our women's toilets gives husbands manifold opportunities of peace-making, quite as successful as the turquoise. the jews first used it in marriage. for this purpose they required it to have a certain value, and to be finally and fully purchased. if it was bought on credit, or taken as a gift, its power was destroyed. the christian church early adopted the custom of the marriage ring. it was placed first on the thumb, in the name of the "father;" then removed to the first finger, in the name of the "son;" to the third with the name of the "holy ghost;" and the "amen" fixed its place on the fourth. rings were also the emblem of spiritual marriage and dignity as early as the third century. in the romish church the episcopal ring is of gold set with a rich gem. the pope has two rings, one bearing the likeness of st. peter, used for ordinary business; the other bearing a cross, and the heads of both peter and paul, and the reigning pope's name and arms. it is used only for bulls, and is broken at the death of the pontiff; and a new one given by the city of rome to his successor. these rings of spiritual office were frequently worn on the thumb, and when the tomb of bede was opened in may, , a large thumb-ring was found where the right hand had fallen to dust. the ring has been used not only for carnal and spiritual weddings, but also for commercial ones. for six hundred years the doges of venice married, with a gold ring, the adriatic and its rich commerce to their city on the sea. as an emblem of delegated or transmitted power, the ring has also played a remarkable part in human affairs. pharaoh and ahasuerus in biblical records are examples. alexander transferred his kingdom to perdicas with his ring. when cæsar received the head of pompey, he also received his ring, and when richard the second resigned his crown to henry of lancaster, he did so by giving him his ring. the coronation ring of england is of gold, in which is set a large violet ruby, carved with the cross of st. george. the custom of engraving sacred emblems upon rings for common wear was angrily reproved by so early a sage as pythagoras; and this heathen's delicacy about sacred things is commended to the notice of those women of our own day, who toss the holy symbol of our faith around the toilet tables, and wear it in very unconsecrated places. however, i have said enough to prove that the ring upon our finger is a link between us and the centuries beyond the flood. we cannot escape this tremendous solidarity of the human race. we are part of all that has been, and the generations that follow us will look back to us and say, "they were our fathers, and we are their heirs, and lo, we are all one!" flirting wives if some good and thoughtful woman who died fifty years ago could return to this world, what in our present life would most astonish her? would it be the wonders of steam, electricity, and science; the tyranny of the working classes, or the autocracy of servants? no! it would be the amazing development of her own sex,--the preaching, lecturing, political women; the women who are doctors and lawyers; who lose and win money on horses, or in stocks and real estate; the women who talk slang, and think it an accomplishment; who imitate men's attire and manners; who do their athletic exercises in public; and, perhaps more astonishing than all, the women who make marriage the cloak for much profitable post-nuptial flirtation. for her own sex engaged in business, she might find excuses or even admiration; and even for the unfeminine girls of the era, she might plead mrs. poyser's opinion, that "the women are made to suit the men." but for young wives notorious for their flirting and their "followers," she could have nothing but unqualified scorn and condemnation. for the sentiment demanding absolute fidelity in a wife may be said to have the force of a human instinct; in all ages it has exacted from her an avoidance of the very appearance of evil. therefore a good woman in the presence of a frivolous flirting wife feels as if a law of nature were being broken before her eyes; since behind the wife stands the possible mother, and the claims of family, race, and caste, as well as of conjugal honor, are all in her keeping. without any exaggeration it may be said that wife-errantry is now as common as knight-errantry once was. the young men of to-day have discovered the personal advantage and safety there is in the society of another man's wife. they transpose an old proverb, and practically say: "fools marry, and wise men follow their wives." for, if the husband be only complacent, it is such a safe thing to flirt with a pretty wife. young girls are dangerous and might lure them into matrimony; but they have no fear of bigamy. they can whisper sweet words to a gay, married flirt; they can walk, and talk, and dance, and ride with her; they can lounge in her dusky drawing-room or in her opera box, and no one will ask them the reason why, or make any suggestion about their "intentions." how far this custom affects the morals of the woman is not at first obvious; but we must insist on this recognized premise: "society has laid down positive rules regarding the modesty of women, and apart from these rules it is hard to believe modesty can exist. for all conventional social laws are founded on principles of good morals and good sense; and to violate them without a sufficient reason destroys nicety of feeling, sweetness of mind, and self-respect." it is no excuse to say that propriety is old-maidish, and that men like smart women, or that no harm is intended by their flirtations. the question is: can married women preserve their delicacy of thought and their nobleness of manner; can they be truly loyal to their husbands and to themselves throughout the different phases of a recognized flirtation? it is an impossible thing. suppose a beautiful girl to be wooed and won by a man in every way suitable to her desires. she has accepted his love and his name, and vowed to cleave to him, and to him only, till death parts them. the wooing has been mainly done in full dress, at balls and operas, or in hours tingling with the expectancy of such conditions. the aroma of roses, the rustle of silks and laces, the notes of music, the taste of bon-bons and sparkling wines, were the atmosphere; and the days and weeks went by to the sense of flying feet in a ballroom, or to enchanted loiterings in greenhouses, and behind palms and flowers on decorated stairways. the young wife is unwilling to believe that marriage has other and graver duties. she has been taught to live in the present only, and she is, therefore, cynical and apathetic concerning all things but dress and amusements. the husband has to return to business, which has been somewhat neglected; arrears of duty are to be met. he feels it necessary to attend to the question of supplies; he is, likely, a little embarrassed by the long holiday of wooing and honeymooning, and he would be grateful for some retrenchment and retirement, for the purpose of home-making. the young wife has no such intentions; she resents and contradicts them on every occasion; and after the first pang of disappointment is over, he finds it the most prudent and comfortable plan to be indifferent to her continued frivolity. he is perhaps even flattered to find her so much admired; perhaps, in his heart, rather thankful to be relieved from the trouble of admiring her. as for any graver thoughts, he concludes that his wife is no worse than a's and b's and c's wives; that she is quite able to take care of herself, and that in a multitude of adorers there is safety. thus, in a majority of cases, begins the career of the married flirt. but the character is not a corollary of marriage, if the proper conditions were present when the wife was a young woman. there is no salvation in the order of matrimony; no miracles are wrought at the altar of grace church, or at st. thomas's. she that is frivolous, giddy, and selfish is likely to continue frivolous, giddy, and selfish; and marriage merely supplies her with a wider field and greater opportunities for the indulgence of her vanity and greed. she re-enters society with every advantage of youth, beauty, wealth, and liberty; released from the disabilities under which unmarried girls lie; armed with new powers to dazzle and to conquer. no longer a competitor for a matrimonial prize, she is a rival ten times more dangerous than she was. setting aside the wrong done to the sacredness of the connubial relation, she now becomes the most subtle enemy to the prospects of all the unmarried girls in her set. what is the bud to the perfect rose? the timid, blushing maiden pales and subsides before the married siren who has the audacity and charm of a conscious intelligence. it is not without good reason that special balls and parties have come into fashion for social buds; they are the necessary sequence to the predominance of married sirens, with whom in a mixed society no young girl can cope. they have the floor and the partners; they monopolize all the attention, and their pleasure is of the greatest importance. and their pleasure is to flirt--to flirt in all places and at all hours. in vain will some young aspirant to marriage display in the presence of the married flirt her pretty accomplishments. she may sing her songs, and play her mandolin never so sweetly, but the young men slip away with some one or other of the piquant brides of the past year. and in the privacy of the smoking-room it is the brides, and not the young girls, who are talked about--what dresses they wear or are likely to wear, how their hair is done, the history of the jewels which adorn them, and the clever things they have said or implied. before we condemn too much the society girls of the time, we ought to consider the new enemy who stands in the way of their advancement to marriage. is it not quite natural that the most courageous girls should refuse the secondary place to which married flirts assign them, and endeavor to meet these invaders with their own weapons? if so, much of the forwardness of the present young girl is traceable to the necessity forced upon her by these married competitors. for it is a fact that young men go to the latter for advice and sympathy. they tell them about the girls they like, and their fancies are nipped in the bud. for the married flirt's first instinct is to divest all other women of that air of romance with which the nobility and chivalry of men have invested womanhood for centuries. so she points out with a pitiless exactness all the small arts which other women use; and is not only a rival to some young girl, but a traitor to her whole sex. and yet she is not only tolerated but indulged. people giving entertainments know that their success will be in a large measure dependent upon the number of beautiful young wives present. they know the situation is all wrong, but they are sure they cannot either fight the wrong, or put it right; and in the meantime their particular ball will not increase the evil very much. not fifty years ago it was the young beauties that were considered and looked after, and the gentlemen asked to an entertainment were asked with reference to the unmarried girls; for it was understood that any married women present would, of course, be wrapped up in their own husbands. then a wife accepting attentions from one young man after another would have aroused the contempt and disapproval of every man and woman present. vanity in the first place leads young wives to flirting, but grosser motives soon follow. for whatever other experiences matrimony brings, it generally stimulates a woman's love of money; and the married siren soon makes her "followers" understand that she is "a very practical little woman, and does not care for a sonnet, or a serenade, or a bouquet of fresh flowers." a summer's cruise in a fine yacht, a seat on a coach, an opera box, a jewel, dinners, drives, and luncheons, are the blackmail which the married flirt expects, in return for her sighs, sentiment, and advice. it is indeed curious to note the change of fashion in this respect. let any one turn over the novels of half a century ago, and he will see that the favorite plan for compromising a woman's honor was to induce her to accept the loan of money, or the gift of jewels. if the unfortunate heroine did so, no novelist would have dared to offer an apology for her. but this age of luxury and laxity has exploded the scrupulous delicacy of the evelinas and cecilias of the old tales, and the splendidly free feminine uhlans of our modern society laugh to scorn the prim modesty of the richardsonian standard. they assert, if not in words yet by their actions, the right of a woman to make her fascinations serviceable to her. some married women contend that their flirtations are absolutely innocent friendships. but in all stations of society it is a dangerous thing for two people of the opposite sex to chant together the litany of the church of plato. the two who could do it safely would be the very two who would never dream of such an imprudence. those who enter into "friendships" of this kind, with what they think are the most innocent intentions, should sharply arrest themselves as soon as they are "talked about." for in social judgments, the dictum that "people talked about generally get what they deserve" is true, however unjust it may appear to be. another class of married flirts scorn to make any apology, or any pretence of mere friendship. they stand upon the emancipation of women, and the right of one sex to as much liberty as the other. this kind of siren boldly says, "she does not intend to be a slave like her mother, and her grand-mother. she does not propose to tie herself, either to a house or a cradle." she travels, she lives in yachts and hotels, and she does not include a nursery in her plans. she talks of elective affinities, natural emotions of the heart, and contrasts the opportunities of such conditions with the limitations and the monotony of domestic relations. she makes herself valueless for the very highest natural duties of womanhood, and then talks of her enfranchisement! yes, she has her freedom, and what does it mean? more dresses and jewelry, more visits and journeys; while the whole world of parental duties and domestic tendernesses lies in ruins at her feet. the relegation of the married flirt to her proper sphere and duties is beyond the power of any single individual. society could make the necessary protest, but it does not; for if society is anything, it is non-interfering. it looks well to it that the outside, the general public appearance of its members is respectable; with faults not found out it does not trouble itself. a charge must be definitely made before it feels any necessity to take cognizance of it. and society knows well that these married sirens draw like magnets. besides, each entertainer declares: "i am not my sister's keeper, nor am i her inquisitor or confessor. if her husband tolerates the pretty woman's vagaries, what right have i, what right has any one, to say a word about her?" but it is a fact that, if society frowned on wives who arrogate to themselves the privileges both of young girls and of wives, the custom would become stale and offensive. if it would cease to recognize young married women who are on the terms with their husbands described by millamant in "the way of the world,"--"as strange as if they had been married a long time, and as well bred as if they had never been married at all,"--young married women would behave themselves better. it is generally thought that mr. congreve wrote his plays for a very dissolute age; in reality, they seem to have been written for a decorous, rather strait-laced generation, if we compare it with our own. mothers-in-law mothers-in-law are the mothers for whom there is no law, no justice, no sympathy, nor yet that share of fair play which an average american is willing to grant, even to an open adversary. every petty punster, every silly witling, considers them as a ready-made joke; and the wonder and the pity of it is that abuse so unmerited and so long continued has called forth no champions from that sex which owes so much to woman, in every relation of life. the condition of mother-in-law is one full of pathos and self-abnegation, and all the reproach attached to it comes from those whose selfishness and egotism ought to render their testimony of small value. a young man, for instance, falls in love with a girl who appears to him the sum of all perfections,--perfections, partly inherited from, and partly cultivated by, the mother at whose side she has lived for twenty years. she is the delight of her mother's heart, she fills all her hopes and dreams for the future; and the girl herself, believes that nothing can separate her from a mother so dear and so devoted. while the man is wooing the daughter, this wondrous capability for an absorbing affection strikes him as a very pretty thing. in the first place, it keeps the mother on his side; in the second, he looks forward to supplying this capability with a strictly personal object. at this stage his future mother-in-law is a very pleasant person, for he is uncomfortably conscious of the beloved one's father and brothers. he is then thankful for any encouragement she may give him. he gladly takes counsel with her; flatters her opinions, makes her presents, and so works upon her womanly instincts concerning love affairs that she stands by his side when he has to "speak to papa," and through her favor and tact the rough places are made smooth, and the crooked places plain. until the marriage is over, and the longed-for girl his wife, there is no one so important in the lover's eyes as the girl's mother. suddenly all is changed. when the young people return from the bridal trip there is a different tone and a different atmosphere. the young husband is now in his own house, and spreading himself like a peacock in full feather. he thinks "mamma" too interfering. he resents the familiarity with which she speaks to _his_ wife. he feels as if her speculation about their future movements was an impertinence. he says without a blush that her visit was "a bore." and the bride, being flattered by his desire for no company but her own, admits that "dear mamma is fussy and effusive." both have forgotten the days in which the young husband was a great deal of a bore to his mother-in-law,--when indeed it was very hard for her to tolerate his presence; and both have forgotten how she, to secure their happiness, sacrificed her own wishes and prejudices. how often does this poor mother go to see her child before she realizes she is a bore? how many snubs and heart-aches does she bear ere she comprehends the position? she hopes against despair. she weeps, and wipes her tears away; she tries again, only to be again wounded. her own husband frets a little with her, and then with a touch of anger at his ungrateful child, advises the mother "to let her alone." but by and by there is a baby, and she can no longer keep away. she has a world of loving cares about the child and its mother. she is sure no one can take her place now. she is very much mistaken. the baby is a new kind of baby; there has never been one quite such a perfect pattern before; and the parents--exalted above measure at the perfection they alone are responsible for--regard her pride and delight as some infringement of their new honors and responsibilities. happiness has only hardened them; and after a little, the mother and the mother-in-law understands her loss, and humbly refrains from interfering. or, if she has an imprudent tongue, she speaks unadvisedly with it, and her words bite home, and the "mother" is forgotten, and the "in-law" remains, to barb every ill-natured word and account for every selfish unkindness. of course, in a relationship which admits of endless varieties, this description fits only a certain number. but it is a very large number; for there are few families who will not be able to recall some such case among their members or their acquaintances. still, many daughters do more virtuously, and cherish a loyal affection for their old home. if they are wise and loving and specially unselfish, they will likely carry their matrimonial bark safely through those narrow shallows which separate the two households. but the trouble is that newly married people are both selfish and foolish. they feel themselves to be the only persons of consequence, and think that all things ought to be arranged for their pleasure. the solemn majesty of the young wife's housekeeping is not to be criticised, qualified, or inspected; the new-made householder does not believe that the "earth is the lord's," or even the children of men's; it is all his own. and their friends tacitly agree to smile at this egotism awhile, because all the world really does love a lover; and every one is willing to grant the bride and bridegroom some short respite from the dreary cares and every-day business of life. two points are remarkable in this persistent antagonism to the mother-in-law. the first is that the husband who is often specially vindictive against his wife's mother has very little to say against her male relatives. if the girl he marries is motherless, he does not quarrel with his father-in-law; though he may be quite as interfering as any mother-in-law could be. yet if the girl, instead of being motherless, is fatherless, the husband at once begins to show his love for his wife by a systematic disrespect towards her mother. yet perhaps a month previously he had considered her a very amiable lady, he had shown her many courtesies, he had asked her advice about all the details of his marriage. what makes him, a little later, accuse her of every domestic fault? how is it that she has suddenly become "so self-opinionated"? never before had he discovered that she treats his wife like a child, and himself as an appendage. and how does he manage to make his bride also feel that "dear mamma is trying, and so unable to understand things." it is a mystery that ends, however, in the mother-in-law being made to feel that her new relative totally disapproves of her. the truth is, the lover was afraid of the men of his wife's family before marriage. they might seriously have interfered with his intentions. after marriage he knows they will be civil to him for the sake of his wife. then, the women of the family were useful to him before marriage, after it he can do without them. he has got the woman he was so eager to get by any means, and he wishes to have her entirely. a smile, or a word, or an act of kindness to any one else, is so much taken from his rights. he desires not only to usurp her present and her future, but also her past. the other remarkable point is the unjust shifting of all the mother-in-law's shortcomings to the shoulders of the wife's mother; this is especially unjust, because not only the newspapers of the day, but also the private knowledge of every individual, furnishes abundant testimony that it is not the wife's mother, but the husband's mother, who is at the bottom of nine-tenths of the domestic misery arising from this source. the wife's mother with small encouragement will like, even love, the man who has chosen her daughter above all other women. the husband's mother never really likes her son's wife. and young wives are apt to forget how bitterly hard it is for a mother to give her son up, at once and forever, to a girl whom she does not like in any way. perhaps hitherto the son and mother have been every one, and everything to each other, and it is only human that the latter should have to battle fiercely and constantly with an involuntary jealousy, and a cruel quicksightedness for small faults in his wife. it is only human that she should try to make trouble, and enjoy the fact that her son is less happy with his wife than he was with her, and that he comes to her for comfort in his disappointment. the love of a mother is often a very jealous love; and a jealous mother is just as unreasonable as a jealous wife; she can make life bitterly hard for her son's wife, and, to do her justice, she very often does so. then if the wife--wounded and imprudent--goes to her own mother with her sorrows and wrongs, it is the natural attitude of the husband to shift the blame from his own mother to his wife's mother. there are indeed so many ways by which this misery can enter a household that it is impossible to define them; for there is just variety enough in every case to give an individuality of suffering to each. what, then, is to be done? let us admit at once that our relations do give us half the pain and sorrow we suffer in life; but each may do something to reduce the liability. we may remember that all such quarrels come from excess of love, and that a quarrel springing from love is more hopeful than one springing from hate. as mothers-in-law, we may tell ourselves that when our children are married we no longer have the first right in them. the young people must be left to make the best of their life, and we must never interfere, nor ever give advice until it is asked for. another irritation, little suspected, is the palpable forcing forward of the new relationship. on both sides it is well to be in no hurry to claim it. a girl takes a man for better or for worse, but does not therefore take all his relations. love for her husband does not include admiration for all within his kindred; nor will it, until the millennium makes all tempers perfect. and, again, a man does not like to be dragooned into a filial feeling for his wife's family. many a man would like his new relatives better if they left him with a sense of perfect freedom in the matter. the main point is that men should put a stop to a traditional abuse that affects every woman in every household. they can do it! many an honest, manly fellow would burn with shame if he would only consider how often he has not only permitted, but also joined in, the silly, unjust laughter which miserable punsters and negro minstrels and disappointed lovers and other incapables fling at the women of his own household. for if a man is married, or ever hopes to be married, his own mother is, or must be, a mother-in-law. if he has sisters their destiny will likely put them in the same position. the fairest young bride has the prospect before her; the baby daughter in the cradle may live to think her own mother a bore, or to think some other mother one, if there is not a better understanding about a relationship which is far indeed from being a laughable one. on the contrary, the initiation to it is generally a sacrifice, made with infinite heart-ache and anxiety, and with many sorrowful tears. in the theatres, in the little circles of which every man's home is the centre, in all places where thoughtless fools turn women and motherhood into ridicule, it is in the power of two or three good men to make the habit derogatory and unfashionable. they can cease to laugh at the wretched little jokes, and treat with contempt the vulgar spirit that repeats them. for the men who say bitter things about mothers-in-law are either selfish egotists, who have called trouble to themselves from this source, or they are moral imbeciles, repeating like parrots fatuous jests whose meaning and wickedness they do not even understand. good and bad mothers the difference between good and bad mothers is so vast and so far-reaching that it is no exaggeration to say that the good mothers of this generation are building the homes of the next generation, and that the bad mothers are building the prisons. for out of families nations are made; and if the father be the head and the hands of a family, the mother is the heart. no office in the world is so honorable as hers, no priesthood so holy, no influence so sweet and strong and lasting. for this tremendous responsibility mother-love has always been sufficient. the most ignorant women have trusted to it; and the most learned have found it potential when all their theories failed. and neither sage men nor wise women will ever devise anything to take the place of mother-love in the rearing of children. if there be other good things present, it glorifies them; if there be no other good thing--it is sufficient. for mother-love is the spirit of self-sacrifice even unto death, and self-sacrifice is the meat and drink of all true and pure affection. still, this momentous condition supposes some central influence, some obligation on the child's part which will reciprocate it; and this central influence is found to be in _obedience_. there was once a child in jewry who was called "wonderful," and yet the most significant fact recorded of his boyhood is that he "was subject unto his parents." indeed nothing else is told of the child, and we are left to conclude that in the pregnant fact of his boyish obedience lay the secret of his future perfect manhood. unselfish love in the mother! cheerful obedience in the children! in whatever home these forces are constantly operative, that home cannot be a failure. and mother-love is not of the right kind, nor of the highest trend, unless it compels this obedience. the assertion that affectionate firmness and even wholesome chastisement is unnecessary with our advanced civilization is a specious and dangerous one. the children of to-day have as many rudimentary vices as they had in the days of the patriarchs; as a general thing they are self-willed and inclined to evil from their cradles; greedy without a blush, and ready to lie as soon as they discover the use of language. a good mother does not shut her eyes to these facts; she accepts her child as imperfect, and trains it with never-ceasing love and care for its highest duties. she does not call impudence "smartness," nor insubordination "high spirit," nor selfishness "knowing how to take care of itself," nor lying and dishonesty "sharpness." she knows, if the child is to be father to the man, what kind of a man such a child will make. how to manage young children; how to strengthen them physically; how best to awaken their intellects, engage their affections, and win their confidence; how to make home the sweetest spot on earth, a place of love, order, and repose, a temple of purity where innocence is respected, and where no one is permitted to talk of indecent subjects or to read indecent books,--these are the duties of a good mother; and her position, if so filled, is one of dignity and grave importance. for it is on the hearthstone she gives the fine healthy initial touch to her sons and daughters that is not effaced through life, and that makes them blessed in their generation. there is another duty, a very sacred one, which some mothers, however good in all other respects, either thoughtlessly or with mistaken ideas, delegate to others, the religious training of their children. no sunday-school and no church can do it for them. the child that learns "our father" at its mother's knee, that hears from mother's lips the heroic and tender stories of the bible, has a wellspring of religious faith in his soul that no after life, however hard and fast and destructive, can dry up. it is inconceivable, then, how a mother can permit any other woman to deprive her of an influence over her children nothing can destroy; of a memory in their lives so sweet that when every other memory is withered and approaching decay, it will still be fresh and green,--yes, even to the grave's mouth. family! country! humanity! these three, but the greatest of the three is family; and the heart of the family is the good mother. happy the children who have one! with them "faith in womankind beats with their blood, and trust in all things high comes easy to them." but if the grand essential to a good mother be self-denying, self-effacing love, this is a bad era for its development. selfishness and self-seeking is the spirit of the time, and its chilling poison has infected womanhood, and touched even the sacred principle of maternity. in some women it assumes the form of a duty. they feel their own mental culture to be of supreme importance; they wish to attend lectures, and take lessons, and give themselves to some special study. or the enslaved condition of their own sex troubles them; they bear on their minds the oppressed shop-girls of america, or the secluded odalisques in some eastern seraglio, or they have ecclesiastic proclivities and take the chair at church meetings, or political ones, and deliver lectures before their special club on women's disabilities. in these and many other ways they put the natural mission of womanhood aside as an animal instinct, not conducive to their mental development. now, no one will object to women's devoting themselves to works of religion and charity; but this devotion should come before marriage. if they have assumed the position of wifehood, it is a monstrous thing to hold themselves degraded by its consequences, or to consider the care of children a waste of their own life. the world can do without learned women, but it cannot do without good wives and mothers; and when married women prefer to be social ornaments and intellectual amateurs, they may be called philanthropists and scholars, but they are nevertheless moral failures, and bad mothers. society has put maternity out of fashion also, and considering the average society woman, it is perhaps just as well. no children are more forlorn and more to be pitied than the waifs of the woman whose life is given up to what she calls "pleasure." humbler-born babies are nursed at their mother's breast and cradled in her loving arms. she teaches them to walk and to read. in all their pain she soothes them; in all their joys she has a part; in all their wrongs "mother" is an ever-present help and comforter. the child of the fashionable woman is too often committed at once to the care of some stranger, who for a few dollars a month is expected to perform the mother's duty for her. if it does not suck the vitiated, probably diseased, milk of some peasant, it has the bottle and india-rubber mouthpiece, when the woman in charge chooses to give it. but she is often in a temper, or sleepy, or the milk is not prepared, or she is in the midst of a comfortable gossip, or she is dressing or feeding herself, and it is not to be expected she will put any sixteen-dollar-a month baby before her own comfort or pleasure. the child cannot complain of hunger, it can only cry, and very likely may be struck for crying. what these neglected little ones suffer from thirst is a matter painful to inquire into. the nurse, accustomed to drink her tea and her beer at all hours, does not, herself patronize cold water, and she never imagines the child needs it. many a baby, after being tortured for hours with a feverish, consuming thirst, passes into the doctor's hands before the trouble is recognized. but if the child's own mother had been nursing it she would not have been long in finding out the cause of its impatient, urgent fretfulness. let any tender-hearted woman go into the parks and watch one of these unhappy children in the care of its nurse. the hot sun beats down on the small upturned face, and the ignorant creature in charge goes on with her flirtation, or her gossip, or her novel. the child may be at shrieking point from lying long in one position, but there is no one to comprehend its necessity. during those awful hours in which its teeth force their way through hot and swollen gums--hours which would bring from adults unwritable exclamations--the forsaken little sufferer is at the mercy of some sleepy, self-indulgent woman, who has no love for it. why, indeed, should she? if it were a matter of catechism, how many educated women would be capable of nursing good-naturedly for weeks a fretful, sick child not their own? as for these neglected babies of pleasure-seeking women, they suffer terribly, but then their mothers are having what they consider a perfectly lovely time, posing at the opera or gyrating in some ballroom, exquisitely dressed, and laughing as lightly as if there were no painful echoes from their neglected nurseries. for no nurse is apt to complain of her baby, she knows her business and her interest too well for that; she prefers to speak comfortable words, and vows the "little darling grows better and better every hour, god bless it!" and, so assured, the mother goes airily away, telling herself that her nurse is a perfect treasure. whatever other nurses may do, she knows that her nurse is reliable. the fact is that, even where there are children in a nursery able to complain of the wrongs and cruelties they have to endure, they very seldom dare to do so. mamma is a dear, beautiful lady, very far off; nurse is an ever-present power, capable of making them suffer still more. and mamma does not like to hear tales, she always appears annoyed at anything against nurse. they look into their mother's face with eyes full of their sad story, if she only had the heart to understand; but they dare not speak, and very soon they are remanded back to their cruel keeper with a kiss, and an injunction to "be good, and do as nurse tells them." consider the women to whom this class of mothers delegate their high office,--an office for which hardly any love or wisdom is sufficient. it would scarcely be possible in the whole world to find any persons more unfit for it. taking this class as a whole, these very mothers are never tired of expatiating upon its gross immorality, deceitfulness, greed, and dishonesty; yet they do not hesitate to leave the very lives of their children in the charge of these women, whose first lessons to them are lying and deceit. it is a hideous system, and how hideous must that life called "pleasure" be that can thus put aside love, reason, conscience, and break to pieces a natural law so strong that in its purity it frequently proves more powerful than the law of self-preservation. writing on this subject, frederick james grant, f. r. c. s., in his bold and original book, "from our dead selves," tells of a fashionable mother who put her first child out to nurse, and who, when her second died at birth and was brought to her bedside in its coffin, was entirely interested--not in the child--but in the pretty lining and covering of the coffin. for it is one of the startling facts of this condition of motherhood that the poor infant left to some dreadful shrew, body and soul, has the very best care taken of its frills and coats and of the wraps in its baby carriage. for these things will be seen by other people's servants and commented on, and are therefore worthy of attention. it is a strange state of society which tolerates this awful transfer of duty, and society will have the bill to pay as well as the cruel mother. these neglected children, whatever their birth, come really from the dangerous classes, and have a likelihood to drift there. for the first moral training of a child is the most important of all, and in these cases it is given by women gross both through ignorance and vice; whose relatives are very likely at the same time living in suspicious localities, or in prison wards. and, naturally enough, their first lessons to the children under them are to lie, to deceive, to commit small pilferings, and not be found out. they are ordered not to carry tales out of the nursery, or let mamma know what nurse does not want known. bad language, bad habits, hatred, petty conciliations, meanness of every kind, are in the curriculum of any nursery left in the care of the women usually found in them. no one need imagine that the evil thus wrought can be eradicated in future years by a higher class of teachers. the vicious seed is sown; it is next to impossible to go through the field of a child's mind and gather it up again. it has taken root, and unless it can be crowded out by a nobler growth, the harvest is certain. the mother, then, who prefers pleasure and society to her children, whom she hands over to wicked and cruel nurses, is herself wicked and cruel. she may stand before the world as the personification of refinement and delicacy and elegance, but she is really no better than her substitute; and she has no right to expect that her children will be better. in some favorable cases there may come a redeeming power in future years, but in the main they will drift downward to their first moral impressions; and when they have become bad and unhappy men and women, they will not scruple to say, "from our mother cometh our misery." these are hard truths, yet one-half has not been told. for if it were not for the abounding number of good mothers, both rich and poor, this class of women would undermine all virtue, and everything lovely and of good report. there was once an idea that mothers were the antiseptic quality in society, that they preserved its moral tone, by insisting that the language used and the subjects discussed before them should be such as were suitable for virtuous women. but there is one kind of bad mother to whom questionable subjects seem highly suitable. she discusses them without reserve in the presence of her daughters, and she makes her drawing-room the forum for women with queer domestic views, for "physical culture" women, and such-like characters. the things our grandmothers went down to their graves without knowing she talks about in unmistakable terms before unmarried girls. a certain mother who boldly defended her opinion that "girls should not be kept ignorant as a means for keeping them innocent," permitted her own daughter to be present during all the unsavory scandal of vanity fair. the child learned to watch with interest the doings of women of many seasons, and to listen with composure to very questionable stories. before she was twelve years old she had become suspicious of the conduct of every woman, and when her teacher one day asked her, "who was moses?" she answered promptly, "the son of pharoah's daughter." "not the son," corrected the teacher, "the adopted son. pharoah's daughter found him in the river nile." "_so_ she said," replied this premature woman,--suspicions of women's actions and a ready assumption of the very worst motives for them, being the lessons she had deduced from knowledge imparted before mind and experience were capable of receiving it. it is often said that "ignorance is not innocence." true, but neither is knowledge innocence; it is most frequently the first step of guiltiness. what good can come of little children knowing the things which belong to maturity? is any girl sweeter or even safer for knowing about the under-current of filth below the glittering crust of gilded society? the chinese quarter is a fact, yet is there a mother who would like her daughter to visit it? but if it is not fit to visit, it is not fit to talk about. no one is ever the better for knowing of evil, unless they can do something to remedy it. a good mother will shield her children from the consequences of their own ignorance, physical and moral, and she will just as carefully shield them from knowledge which is hurtful because premature,--just as fruit green and unripe is hurtful. and no guardianship is too close for this end. mothers will generally admit this fact as regards the children of other people, but as to their own brood they cradle themselves in a generous belief of its incorruptibility. their girls would never do as other girls do; and their girls are consequently permitted a license which they would think dangerous for any but their own daughters. then some day there is a paragraph in one of the papers, and the men blame the man, and the women blame the girl, and all the time the mother is probably the guiltiest of the parties. she has stimulated her daughter's imagination in childhood, she has left her to the choice of her companions in youth, she has trusted her sacred duty to circumstances, she has indulged a vague hope concerning the honor and virtue of humanity, and thus satisfied her indolent neglect. but what right had she to expect that men would revere the treasure she herself left unguarded? for there has been no special race made for this era; what adam, jacob, samson, and david were, what eve, sarah, rachel, jael, and bathsheba were, the men and women of to-day are, in all their essentials. circumstances only have made them to differ; and nature laughs at circumstances, and goes back at any crisis to her first principles. indeed, the good mother of to-day, instead of relaxing, must increase her care over her children. for never since the world began has youth been so catered to, never has it been surrounded by so many open temptations, never so much flattered, and yet at the same time never have the reins of discipline been so far relaxed. now the spirit we evoke we must control, or else we must become its slave. if we are no longer to reverence the gray hairs of age; if young men are to drive the chariot of the sun, and young women are to be allowed to strip the tree of knowledge of good and evil, then it is high time some system of education was invented which will put old heads upon young shoulders. alas, this can never be, for education is a long and composite process, made up of home influences, surrounding circumstances, and early associations. when books and schools and teachers shall have done all they possibly can, high above every gamaliel will sit the good mother,--the first influence, the first teacher, the first friend, and the last. unequal marriages if there is a mistake peculiarly fatal to a young man's or a girl's future, it is that supreme act of social destruction called a _mésalliance_. indeed it is not measurable by any of the usual conditions of life, and death itself would be a kindness compared with the long misery of some kinds of _mésalliances_. they may arise from inequalities of birth, differences in religious faith, or great discrepancies in age; but whatever their occasion, they are always a far-reaching and irretrievable mistake; the mistake _par excellence_ of any life. an unequal marriage is not only the most fatal blunder of life, it is also the most common one; and although it is not very easy for a man to ruin himself with a single act, a foolish marriage will afford him at least one decided way. in regard to men's _mésalliances_, they cannot be said to be specially the temptation of youth. foolish old men who marry their cooks, and foolish young men who burden themselves with some casino divinity, keep up a very steady average. but the young man's mistake is much the worst of the two; for he has his whole life before him, and has probably made no provision against such a social suicide. if an old man marries beneath his station and culture, he believes he is getting the wife he most desires; and if he is disappointed, he is at any rate near the end of life, and he either has no children to suffer from his folly, or they have already grown beyond its most painful reach. but a young man who binds himself to a woman who is every way beneath his own station, education, and professional ambition, is in a different case. in a very short time the disillusion of those senses begins under which he permitted mere physical beauty to bind him; and he knows that, as far as his future progress is concerned, he has put a millstone about his neck. the effect of a social _mésalliance_ on a girl is still worse. in the first place, it ought to be so; for she has to sin against the natural instinct of a good woman, which is always to marry above herself, an instinct which is, both physiologically and socially, noble. for a woman is less than a woman who does not consider the consequence of marriage, and provide in every way possible to her the best father for her offspring. and if she marries beneath herself socially, the almost certain presumption is that the social status of her husband is the measure of his intellectual abilities, and of his personal refinement also. and when a woman considers herself only in her marriage, and has no care for the circumstances to which she may doom her unborn children, she is an incarnation of animal selfishness. without stopping to analyze the sources of its disapproval, this is undoubtedly an instinctive motive for the persistent cold shouldering which society gives girls who degrade themselves by a _mésalliance_. it is obvious to every one that she has sinned against herself, her family, her class, and the highest instincts of her sex. women have no pardon for such sinners; for they see not only the present wrong, they look forward also to the possible children of such a union. they understand that they will have to suffer all the limitations of poverty when they ought to have had all the advantages of wealth. they may possibly inherit their father's vulgar tastes and tendencies, or they may have to endure the misery of fine tastes without any opportunity to gratify them. for this premeditated sin against motherhood and against posterity, good women find it hard to tolerate the offender; for they know that a woman's honor is in her husband, and that her social station and her social life is determined by his. when a girl is guilty of a _mésalliance_, it is sometimes said in extenuation that "she has married a man of noble disposition; and it is better to marry a poor, ignorant man, with a noble disposition, than a rich man who is selfish and vicious." if the alternative was a positive one, yes, but there is no need to make a choice between these characters. men of refined habits and manners and good education may also have noble dispositions; and poor, ill-bred men have not always noble ones; at any rate, a good woman will always find in her own class just as good men as she will find in a class below her own. all this danger is evident to parents. they know how fleeting passion and fancy are; and they rightly conceive that it is their duty by all possible means to prevent their daughter making an unworthy marriage. how far parents may lawfully interfere is a question not yet decided, nor yet easy to decide. the american idea of marriage is, theoretically, that every soul finds its companion soul, and lives happily ever after; and in this romantic search for a companion soul, young girls are allowed to roam about society, just when their instincts are the strongest and their reason the weakest. the french theory--to which the english is akin somewhat--is that a mother's knowledge is better than a girl's fancy; and that the wisdom that has hitherto chosen her teachers, physicians, spiritual guides, and companions, that has guided her through sickness and health, is not likely to fail in selecting the man most suitable for her husband. this latter theory supposes women to love naturally any personable man who is their own, and who is kind to them; that is, if she has a virgin heart, and comes in this state from her lessons to her marriage duties. the american theory supposes girls to love by sympathy, and through soul attraction and personal attraction; consequently, our girls are let loose early--too early--to choose among a variety of wills and franks and charlies; and the natural result is a great number of what are called "love matches" to which it must be acknowledged _mésalliances_ are too often the corollary. between these two theories, it is impossible to make a positive selection; for the bad of each is so bad, and the good of each so good that both alike are capable of the most unqualified praise and blame. it may, however, be safely asserted that the confidence every american girl has in her own power to choose her own husband helps to lessen the danger and to keep things right. for an honorable girl may be trusted with her own honor; and a dishonorable one, amid a number to choose from, may peradventure fare better than she deserves; for fortune does sometimes bring in the bark that is not steered. most girls make _mésalliances_ in sheer thoughtlessness, or through self-will, or in that youthful passion for romance which thinks it fine to lose their world for love. foolish novels are as often to blame for their social crime as foolish men,--novels which are an apotheosis of love at any cost! love against every domestic and social obligation! love in spite of all prudent thought of meat and money matters! love in a cottage, and nightingales and honeysuckles to pay the rent! and if parents object to their daughter marrying ruin, then they are represented as monsters of cruelty; while the girl who flies stealthily to her misery, and breaks every moral tie to do so, is idealized into an angel of truth and suffering. in real life what are parents to do with a daughter whose romantic folly has made her marry their groom or their footman? we have outlived the inexorable passions of our ancestors, and their undying loves and hatreds, sacrifices and revenges. our social code tolerates no passion swallowing up all the rest; and we must be content with a decent expression of feeling. what their daughter has done they cannot undo; nor can they relieve her from the social consequences of her act. she has chosen to put their servant above and before them, and to humiliate her whole family, that she may please her low-born lover and herself, and she has therefore no right to any more consideration than she has given. her parents may not cease to love her, and they may spare her all reproaches, knowing that her punishment is certain; but they cannot, for the sake of their other children, treat her socially above the station she has chosen. she has become the wife of a servant, and they cannot accept her husband as their equal nor can they insult their friends by introducing him to them. how wretched is the position she has put herself in; for if the man she married be naturally a low man, he will probably drag her to his level by the "grossness of his nature." if she be a woman of strong character she may lift her husband upward, but she accepts such a labor at the peril of her own higher life. and if she finds it impossible either to lift him to her level or to sink herself to his level, what then remains? life-long regrets, bitter shame and self-reproach, or else a forcible setting of herself free. but the latter remedy carries desperation instead of hope with it. never can she quite regain her maiden place, and an _aura_ of a doubtful kind influences every effort of her future life. after all, though men have not the reputation of being romantic, it is certain that in the matter of unequal marriage, they are more frequently imprudent than women. there is some possibility of lifting a low-born woman to the level of a cultivated man, and men dare this possibility far more frequently than is generally supposed. perhaps after a long season they find the fine ladies with whom they have flirted and danced a weariness; and in this mood they are suddenly taken with some simple, unfashionable girl, who does not know either how to dress, or flirt, or dance. so they make the grave error of thinking that because fine ladies are insupportable, women who are not fine ladies will be sweet and companionable. but if the one be a blank, will that prove the other a prize? the dulness or folly of a polite woman is bad enough; but the dulness and folly of an uneducated woman is worse. very soon they find this out, and then comes indifference, neglect, cruelty, and all the misery that attends two ruined lives. the result of unequal marriage in both sexes is certain wretchedness, and this verdict is not to be altered by its exceptions, however brilliant they may seem to be. for when a man of means and education marries an uneducated girl of low birth, or a woman of apparent culture and high social position marries her servant, and the marriages are reasonably happy, then it may be positively said, "_there has been no mésalliance_." the husband and wife were unequal only in their externals. the real characters of both must have been vulgar and naturally low and under-bred. it is folly to talk of two beings unequally married "growing together," or of "time welding their differences," and making things comfortable. habit indeed reconciles us to much suffering, and to many trials; but an unequal marriage is a trial no one has any business to have. it is without excuse, and therefore without comfort. when the almighty decrees us a martyrdom he blends his peace and consolations therewith; but when we torture ourselves our sufferings rage like a conflagration. perhaps the chain may be worn, as a tight shoe is worn into shape until it no longer lames; but oh, the misery in the process! and even in such case the resigned sufferer has no credit in his patience; quite the contrary, for he knows as well as others know, though submission to what god ordains is the very height of energy and nobility, submission to the mistakes we ourselves make is the very climax of cowardice and weakness. discontented women discontent is a vice six thousand years old, and it will be eternal; because it is in the race. every human being has a complaining side, but discontent is bound up in the heart of woman; it is her original sin. for if the first woman had been satisfied with her conditions, if she had not aspired to be "as gods," and hankered after unlawful knowledge, satan would hardly have thought it worth his while to discuss her rights and wrongs with her. that unhappy controversy has never ceased; and, with or without reason woman has been perpetually subject to discontent with her conditions, and, according to her nature, has been moved by its influence. some it has made peevish, some plaintive, some ambitious, some reckless, while a noble majority have found in its very control that serene composure and cheerfulness which is granted to those who conquer, rather than to those who inherit. but, with all its variations of influence and activity, there has never been a time in the world's history when female discontent has assumed so much and demanded so much as at the present day; and both the satisfied and the dissatisfied woman may well pause to consider whether the fierce fever of unrest which has possessed so large a number of the sex is not rather a delirium than a conviction; whether indeed they are not just as foolishly impatient to get out of their eden, as was the woman eve six thousand years ago. we may premise, in order to clear the way, that there is a noble discontent which has a great work to do in the world; a discontent which is the antidote to conceit and self-satisfaction, and which urges the worker of every kind continually to realize a higher ideal. springing from regret and desire, between these two sighs, all horizons lift; and the very passion of its longing gives to those who feel this divine discontent the power to overleap whatever separates them from their hope and their aspiration. having acknowledged so much in favor of discontent, we may now consider some of the most objectionable forms in which it has attacked certain women of our own generation. in the van of these malcontents are the women dissatisfied with their home duties. one of the saddest domestic features of the day is the disrepute into which housekeeping has fallen; for that is a woman's first natural duty and answers to the needs of her best nature. it is by no means necessary that she should be a cinderella among the ashes, or a nausicaa washing linen, or a penelope forever at her needle, but all women of intelligence now understand that good cooking is a liberal science, and that there is a most intimate connection between food and virtue, and food and health, and food and thought. indeed, many things are called crimes that are not as bad as the savagery of an irish cook or the messes of a fourth-rate confectioner. it must be noted that this revolt of certain women against housekeeping is not a revolt against their husbands; it is simply a revolt against their duties. they consider housework hard and monotonous and inferior, and confess with a cynical frankness that they prefer to engross paper, or dabble in art, or embroider pillow-shams, or sell goods, or in some way make money to pay servants who will cook their husband's dinner and nurse their babies for them. and they believe that in this way they show themselves to have superior minds, and ask credit for a deed which ought to cover them with shame. for actions speak louder than words, and what does such action say? in the first place, it asserts that any stranger--even a young uneducated peasant girl hired for a few dollars a month--is able to perform the duties of the house-mistress and the mother. in the second place, it substitutes a poor ambition for love, and hand service for heart service. in the third place, it is a visible abasement of the loftiest duties of womanhood to the capacity of the lowest-paid service. a wife and mother cannot thus absolve her own soul; she simply disgraces and traduces her holiest work. suppose even that housekeeping is hard and monotonous, it is not more so than men's work in the city. the first lesson a business man has to learn is to do pleasantly what he does not like to do. all regular, useful work must be monotonous, but love ought to make it easy; and at any rate the tedium of housework is not any greater than the tedium of office work. as for housekeeping being degrading, that is the veriest nonsense. home is a little royalty; and if the housewife and mother be of elements finely mixed and loftily educated, all the more she will regard the cold-mutton question of importance, and consider the quality of the soup, and the quantity of chutnee in the curry, as requiring her best attention. it is only the weakest, silliest women who cannot lift their work to the level of their thoughts, and so ennoble both. there are other types of the discontented wife, with whom we are all too familiar: for instance, the wife who is stunned and miserable because she discovers that marriage is not a lasting picnic; who cannot realize that the husband must be different from the lover, and spends her days in impotent whining. she is always being neglected, and always taking offence; she has an insatiable craving for attentions, and needs continual assurances of affection, wasting her time and feelings in getting up pathetic scenes of accusation, which finally weary, and then alienate her husband. her own fault! there is nothing a man hates more than a woman going sobbing and complaining about the house with red eyes; unless it be a woman with whom he must live in a perpetual fool's paradise of perfection. there are also discontented wives, who goad their husbands into extravagant expenditure, and urge them to projects from which they would naturally recoil. there are others, whose social ambitions slay their domestic ones, and who strain every nerve, in season and out of season, and lose all their self-respect, for a few crumbs of contemptuous patronage from some person of greater wealth than their own. some wives fret if they have no children, others just as much if children come. in the first case, they are disappointed; in the second, inconvenienced; and in both, discontented. some lead themselves and others wretched lives because they have not three times as many servants as are necessary; a still greater number because they cannot compass a life of constant amusement and excitement. a very disagreeable kind of discontented woman is the wife who, instead of having a god to love and worship, makes a god of her religion, alienates love for an ecclesiastical idea, or neglects her own flesh and blood to carry the religious needs of the world; forgetting that the good wife keeps her sentiments very close to her own heart and hearth. but perhaps the majority of discontented wives have no special thing to complain of; they fret because they are "so dull." if they took the trouble to look for the cause of this "dulness," they would find it in the want of some definite plan of life, and some vigorous aim or object. of course any aim implies limitation, but limitation implies both virtue and pleasure. without rule and law, not even the games of children could exist, and the more strictly the rules of a game are obeyed, the greater the satisfaction. a wife's duty is subject to the same conditions. if aimless, plaintive women would make strict laws for their households, and lay out some possible vigorous plan for their own lives, they would find that those who love and work have no leisure for complaining. but from whatever cause domestic discontent springs, it makes the home full of idleness, ennui, and vagrant imaginations, or of fierce extravagance, and passionate love of amusement. and as a wife holds the happiness of many in her hands, discontent with her destiny is peculiarly wicked. if it is resented, she gets what she deserves; if it is quietly endured, her shame is the greater. for nothing does so much honor to a wife as her patience; and nothing does her so little honor as the patience of her husband. and however great his patience may be, she will not escape personal injury; since none are to be held innocent who do harm even to their own soul and body. besides, it is the inflexible order of things that voluntary faults are followed by inevitable pain. married women, however, are by no means the only complainers. there is a great army of discontents who, having no men to care for them, are clamoring, and with justice, for their share of the world's work and wages. such women have a perfect right to make a way for themselves, in whatever direction they best can. brains are of no sex or condition, and at any rate, there is no use arguing either their ability or their right, for necessity has taken the matter beyond the reach of controversy. thousands of women have now to choose between work, charity, or starvation, for the young man of to-day is not a marrying man. he has but puny passions, and his love is such a very languid preference that he cannot think of making any sacrifice for it. so women do not marry, they work; and as the world will take good work from whoever will give it, the world's custom is flowing to them by a natural law. now, earnest, practical women-workers are blessed, and a blessing; but the discontented among them, by much talking and little doing, continually put back the cause they say they wish to advance. no women are in the main so discontented as women-workers. they go into the arena, and, fettered by old ideas belonging to a different condition, they are not willing to be subject to the laws of the arena. they want, at the same time, the courtesy claimed by weakness and the honor due to prowess. they complain of the higher wages given to men, forgetting that the first article of equal payment is equal worth and work. they know nothing about what carlyle calls "the silences;" and the babble of their small beginnings is, to the busy world, irritating and contemptible. it never seems to occur to discontented working-women that the best way to get what they want is to act, and not to talk. one silent woman who quietly calculates her chances and achieves success does more for her sex than any amount of pamphleteering and lecturing. for nothing is more certain than that good work, either from man or woman, will find a market; and that bad work will be refused by all but those disposed to give charity and pay for it. the discontent of working-women is understandable, but it is a wide jump from the woman discontented about her work or wages to the woman discontented about her political position. of all the shrill complainers that vex the ears of mortals, there are none so foolish as the women who have discovered that the founders of our republic left their work half finished, and that the better half remains for them to do. while more practical and sensible women are trying to put their kitchens, nurseries, and drawing-rooms in order, and to clothe themselves rationally, this class of discontents are dabbling in the gravest national and economic questions. possessed by a restless discontent with their appointed sphere and its duties, and forcing themselves to the front in order to ventilate their theories and show the quality of their brains, they demand the right of suffrage as the symbol and guarantee of all other rights. this is their cardinal point, though it naturally follows that the right to elect contains the right to be elected. if this result be gained, even women whose minds are not taken up with the things of the state, but who are simply housewives and mothers, may easily predicate a few of such results as are particularly plain to the feminine intellect and observation. the first of these would be an entirely new set of agitators, who would use means quite foreign to male intelligence. for instance, every favorite priest and preacher would gain enormously in influence and power; for the ecclesiastical zeal which now expends itself in fairs and testimonials would then expend itself in the securing of votes in whatever direction they were instructed to secure them. it might even end in the introduction of the clerical element into our great political council chambers,--the bishops in the house of lords would be a sufficient precedent,--and a great many women would really believe that the charming rhetoric of the pulpit would infuse a higher tone in legislative assemblies. again, most women would be in favor of helping any picturesque nationality, without regard to the monroe doctrine, or the state of the finances, or the needs of the market. most women would think it a good action to sacrifice their party for a friend. most women would change their politics, if they saw it to be their interest to do so, without a moment's hesitation. most women would refuse the primary obligation on which all franchises rest,--that is, to defend their country by force of arms, if necessary. and if a majority of women passed a law which the majority of men felt themselves justified in resisting by physical force, what would women do? such a position in sequence of female suffrage is not beyond probability, and yet if it happened, not only one law, but _all_ law would be in danger. no one denies that women have suffered, and do yet suffer, from grave political and social disabilities, but during the last fifty years much has been continually done for their relief, and there is no question but that the future will give all that can be reasonably desired. time and justice are friends, though there are many moments that are opposed to justice. but all such innovations should imitate time, which does not wrench and tear, but detaches and wears slowly away. development, growth, completion, is the natural and best advancement. we do not progress by going over precipices, nor re-model and improve our houses by digging under the foundations. finally, women cannot get behind or beyond their nature, and their nature is to substitute sentiment for reason,--a sweet and not unlovely characteristic in womanly ways and places; yet reason, on the whole, is considered a desirable necessity in politics. at the chicago fair, and at other convocations, it has been proven that the strongest-minded women, though familiar with platforms, and deep in the "dismal science" of political economy, when it came to disputing, were no more philosophical than the simplest housewife. tears and hysteria came just as naturally to them as if the whole world wagged by impulse only; yet a public meeting in which feeling and tears superseded reason and argument would in no event inspire either confidence or respect. women may cease to be women, but they can never learn to be men, and feminine softness and grace can never do the work of the virile virtues of men. very fortunately this class of discontented women have not yet been able to endanger existing conditions by combinations analogous to trades-unions; nor is it likely they ever will; because it is doubtful if women, under any circumstances, could combine at all. certain qualities are necessary for combination, and these qualities are represented in women by their opposites. considering discontented women of all kinds individually, it is evident that they must be dull women. they see only the dull side of things, and naturally fall into a monotonous way of expressing themselves. they have also the habit of complaining, a habit which quickens only the lower intellect. where is there a more discontented creature than a good watch-dog? he is forever looking for some infringement of his rights; and an approaching step or a distant bark drives him into a fury of protest. discontented women are always egotists; they view everything in regard to themselves, and have therefore the defective sympathies that belong to low organizations. they never win confidence, for their discontent breeds distrust and doubt, and however clever they may naturally be, an obtrusive self, with its train of likings and dislikings, obscures their judgment, and they take false views of people and things. for this reason, it is almost a hopeless effort to show them how little people generally care about their grievances; for they have thought about themselves so long and so much that they cannot conceive of any other subject interesting the rest of the world. we may even admit that the women discontented on public subjects are often women of great intelligence, clever women with plenty of brains. is that the best? who does not love far more than mere cleverness that sweetness of temper, that sunny, contented disposition, which goes through the world with a smile and a kind word for every one? it is one of the richest gifts of heaven; it is, according to bishop wilson, "nine-tenths of christianity." fortunately, the vast majority of women have been loyal to their sex and their vocation. in every community the makers and keepers of homes are the dominant power; and these strictures can apply only to two classes,--first, the married women who neglect husband, children, and homes, for the foolish _éclat_ of the club and the platform, or for any assumed obligation, social, intellectual or political, which conflicts with their domestic duties: secondly, the unmarried women who, having comfortable homes and loving protectors, are discontented with their happy secluded security and rush into weak art, or feeble literature, or dubious singing and acting, because their vanity and restless immorality lead them into the market place, or on to the stage. not one of such women has been driven afield by indisputable genius. any work they have done would have been better done by some unprotected, experienced woman already in the fields they have invaded. and the indifference of this class to the money value of their labor has made it difficult for the women working because they must work or starve, to get a fair price for their work. it is the baldest effrontery for this class of rich discontents to affect sympathy with woman's progress. nothing can excuse their intrusion into the labor market but unquestioned genius and super-excellence of work; and this has not yet been shown in any single case. the one unanswerable excuse for woman's entrance into active public life of any kind is _need_, and, alas, need is growing daily, as marriage becomes continually rarer, and more women are left adrift in the world without helpers and protectors. but this is a subject too large to enter on here, though in the beginning it sprung from discontented women, preferring the work and duties of men to their own work and duties. have they found the battle of life any more ennobling in masculine professions than in their old feminine household ways? is work done in the world for strangers any less tiresome and monotonous than work done in the house for father and mother, husband and children? if they answer truly, they will reply, "the home duties were the easiest, the safest, and the happiest." of course all discontented women will be indignant at any criticism of their conduct. they expect every one to consider their feelings without examining their motives. paddling in the turbid maelstrom of life, and dabbling in politics and the most unsavory social questions, they still think men, at least, ought to regard them as the sacred sex. but women are not sacred by grace of sex, if they voluntarily abdicate its limitations and its modesties, and make a public display of unsexed sensibilities and unabashed familiarity with subjects they have nothing to do with. if men criticise such women with asperity it is not to be wondered at; they have so long idealized women that they find it hard to speak moderately. they excuse them too much, or else they are too indignant at their follies, and unjust and angry in their denunciation. women must be criticised by women; then they will hear the bare, uncompromising truth, and be the better for it. in conclusion, it must be conceded that some of the modern discontent of women must be laid to unconscious influence. in every age there is a kind of atmosphere which we call "the spirit of the times," and which, while it lasts, deceives as to the importance and truth of its dominant opinions. many women have doubtless thus caught the fever of discontent by mere contact, but such have only to reflect a little, and discover that, on the whole, they have done quite as well in life as they have any right to expect. then those who are married will find marriage and the care of it, and the love of it, quite able to satisfy all their desires; and such as really need to work will perceive that the great secret of content abides in the unconscious acceptance of life and the fulfilment of its duties,--a happiness serious and universal, but full of comfort and help. thus they will cease to vary from the kindly race of women, and through the doors of love, hope, and labor, join that happy multitude who have never discovered that life is a thing to be discontented with. women on horseback every woman ought to know how to ride. it is the most healthy of exercises; and in a life of vicissitudes she may some day find it the only method of travel--perchance the only method of saving her life. the first element of enjoying horse exercise is good riding. good riding is an affair of skill, a collection of trifles, which, if thoroughly mastered, makes the rider feel thoroughly secure. a man or a boy may learn to ride by practice; that is, he may tumble off and on until experience not only gives him confidence, but security and even elegance. it is not so with a woman. her seat is artificial; she must be taught how to keep it; for though she may have a father or brother who has "good hands," and who can show her how to handle reins and humor her horse's mouth, he cannot teach her to sit in her saddle because he cannot sit in it himself. the horse which a lady rides should be up to her weight, well-trained, and docile, for a woman on horseback has little to help her but her hand and her whip. if the flap of the saddle be large, the pressure of the left leg is almost useless, and the folds of her riding dress very often interfere with the discipline of the spur. the whip is therefore her chief reliance, and its management is of great importance. as it is really to supply the place of a man's right leg and spur, it should be stiff and real, however light and ornamental. the skin of the hippopotamus makes one both light and severe. there is little difficulty in using it on the right side of the horse, but to use it on the near side is a matter of both skill and caution. remember, first, never to strike a horse over any part of the head or neck; second, if necessary to strike him on the forehand, quietly lift the whip to an upright position, then let it firmly and suddenly descend along the shoulder and instantly return to the upright position; third, to strike the near hindquarter properly requires a firm and graceful seat. pass the right hand gently behind the waist, as far as possible, without distorting in the least the position of the body, and strike by holding the whip between the first two fingers and thumb. this action ought to be performed without disturbing either the position or action of the bridle hand. as the riding dress of a gentleman should never be groomish, so that of a lady should never be fast or flashy. the hat should sit tightly to the head, for the hands are needed for reins and whip, and cannot safely be continually occupied in its adjustment. the plainer it is, the more ladylike; but if plumes are used, then those of the cock, pheasant, peacock, or heron, are most suitable. the habit, if for real use, may be lined a foot deep with leather. in english hunting counties light vests are sometimes worn in bright weather, and in winter, over-jackets of sealskin. it is well to remember that it is the chest and back which need double protection, both during and after hard riding. skirts are seriously in the way. the snug flannel under-dress and the pantalets of the same cloth as the habit are all that is necessary. light, high boots are a great comfort in riding long distances, and almost equally good are gaiters of heavy cloth, velvet, or corduroy. the saddle ought always to have what is called the hunting-horn on the left side; yet however common it is in the north, i never saw it on a saddle in texas during ten years. the right-hand pommel is in the way, and the best saddles have now only a flat projection in its place. it prevents the rider from putting the right hand as low as a restive horse requires it, and young and timid riders are apt to get a habit of leaning on it. the value of the hunting pommel is very great. if the horse leaps suddenly up, it holds down the left knee, and makes it a fulcrum to keep the right one in its proper place. in riding down steep places it prevents sliding forward, and assists greatly in managing a hard puller. a rider cannot be thrown on it, and it renders it next to impossible that she should be thrown on the other pommel; besides, it gives the habit and figure a much finer appearance. but it is necessary for every lady to have this pommel as carefully fitted to her person as her habit is. not only see the saddle in progress, but _sit on it_. a chance saddle may seem to suit; so also, if a no. shoe is worn, a ready-made may be wearable; but as a shoe made to fit the wearer's foot is always best, so also is a saddle that is adjusted to the rider's proportions. a stirrup may be an advantage, if the foot is likely to weary; but since the general introduction of the third pommel it is not necessary to a woman in the way that it is to a man. a woman, also, is very apt to make it a lever for "wriggling" about in her saddle,--a habit that is not only very ungraceful, but which gives many a horse a sore back, which a firm, quiet seat never does. reins should not be given to a learner; her first lessons should be on a led horse. the best horsewomen in england have been taught how to walk, canter, gallop, trot, and leap without the assistance of reins. i do not advocate the plan for general use, but i do know that learners are apt to acquire the habit of holding on by the bridle. when the hand is trusted with reins, hold them in both hands. one bridle and two hands are far better than two bridles and one hand. the practice of one-handed riding originated in military schools; for a trooper has a sword or lance to carry, and riding-schools have usually been kept by old soldiers. but who attempts to turn a horse in harness with one hand? don't hold the reins as if you were afraid of letting them go again, for this not only gives a "dead" hand, but compels the rider's body to follow the vagaries of the horse's head. lightly and smoothly, "as if they were a worsted thread," hold the reins; and from the time the horse is in motion till the ride is finished, never cease a gentle sympathetic feeling upon the mouth. women generally attain a "good hand" easier than men. in the first place, it is partly natural and spontaneous; in the second, they do not rely so much upon their physical strength and courage. a man in the pride of his youth is apt to despise this manipulation. many riders say it is better for a woman to use only the curb; but if she does this, all chance of learning "hand" is gone. i say, let her use the reins in both hands, slackening or tightening according to the pace she wishes, and the horse's eagerness. if she succeeds in this, and never keeps "a dead pull," she is a long way toward being a good horsewoman. as to turning, there is no better rule than colonel greenwood's simple maxim: "when you wish to turn to the right, pull the right-hand rein stronger than the left"--and _vice versa_. all women should learn to canter before learning to trot. it is a much easier pace, and helps to give confidence. to canter _with the right foreleg leading_, make an extra bearing on the right rein, and a strong pressure with the left leg, heel, or spur; at the same time bring the whip across the near forehand of the horse. if he hesitates, pass the hand behind the waist and strike the near hindquarter. to canter _with the left foreleg leading_, the extra bearing must be made on the left rein, by turning up the little finger toward the right shoulder, and using the whip on the right shoulder or flank. never permit the horse to choose which foreleg shall lead; make him subject to your will and hand; and it is a good plan to change the leading leg when in a canter. in all movements remember to keep the bridle arm close to the body, and do not throw the elbow outward. the movements of the hand must come from the wrist alone, and the bearings on the horse's mouth be made by gently turning upward the little finger, at the same time keeping the hand firmly closed upon the reins. the horse is urged to trot by bearing equally on both reins, and using the whip gently on the _right_ flank. sit well down in the saddle, and rise and fall with the action of the horse, springing lightly from the in-step and the knee. nothing is uglier than rising too high, and besides its awkward, ungraceful appearance, it endangers the position. if the horse strikes into a canter of his own accord, bring him at once to a halt and begin again, or bear strongly on both reins till he resumes his trot, or else break the canter by bearing strongly on the rein opposite to his leading leg. always begin at a gentle pace, and never trot a moment after either fear or fatigue is felt. the horsemanship of a lady is never complete until she has learned to leap; for even if she intend nothing beyond a canter in the park, horses will leap at times without permission. when a horse rises to a leap, lean _well forward_, and bear gently on the mouth. when he makes the spring, strike the right flank (if necessary). as he descends, _lean backward_, pressing the leg firmly against the hunting pommel, and bearing the bridle strongly on the mouth. collect the horse with the whip, and urge him forward at speed. i shall now say a few words about mounting and dismounting, though every tyro imagines these to be the easiest of actions. in mounting, stand close to the horse, with the right hand on the middle pommel, the whip in the left hand, and the left hand on the groom's right shoulder. do not scramble, but spring, into the saddle; sit well down, and let the right leg hang over the pommel _a little back_, for if the foot pokes out, the hold is not firm. lean rather back than forward, firm and close from the hips downward, flexible from the hips upward. the reins must be held apart a little above the level of the knee. in dismounting, first take the right leg from its pommel, then the left from the stirrup. see that the dress is clear from all the pommels, especially the hunting one; let the reins fall on the horse's neck, place the left hand on the right arm of the groom, and the right hand on the hunting-pommel, and descend to the ground on the balls of the feet. i have one more subject to notice. it is this: if a woman is to go out riding, no matter who may be her chaperon, nor whether it be in the park or the hunting field, she ought to know _how to take care of herself_; not with obtrusive independence, but with that modest, unassuming confidence which is the result of a perfect acquaintance with all that the situation demands. a good word for xanthippe by way of apology, explanation, and defence we may be pardoned, perhaps, for judging the living according to our humor, but the dead, at least, we should judge only with our reason. become eternal, we should endeavor to measure them with the eternal rule of justice. if we did this, how many characters having now an immortality of ill, would secure a more favorable verdict. for twenty-three centuries xanthippe has been regarded as the type of everything unlovely in womanhood and wifehood. we forget all the other grecian matrons of periclean times, to remember this poor wife with scorn. yet if we would bestow half the careful scrutiny on an accurate analysis of her position which is given to other texts of classical writers, we might find her worthy of our sympathy more than scorn. in the "memorabilia" of xenophon (ii. ) socrates is represented as pointing out to his eldest son, lamprocles, the duty of paying a respectful attention to a mother who loved him so much better than any one else, and he calls him a "wretch" who should neglect it. indeed, the picture he draws of the maternal relation is one of the finest things in ancient literature. would socrates have urged respect and obedience towards a mother unworthy of it? would lamprocles have received the fatherly flogging and reproof as meekly as he did if he had not been sensible of his error? and if there had been anything incongruous in socrates demanding for xanthippe lamprocles' respect and obedience, would not xenophon have noticed it? but it is not to philosophers and fathers we appeal for xanthippe; mothers and housewives must judge her. when she married socrates he was a sculptor, and, according to report, a very fair one,--not, perhaps, a phidias, but one doing good, serviceable, paying work. he had a house in athens, and people paid rent and went to market then as now; and he had a wife and family whom it is evident he ought to support. doubtless xanthippe was a good housekeeper,--women with sharp tempers usually have that compensation,--but who can keep house amiably upon nothing? mr. grote tells us that socrates relinquished his paying profession and devoted himself to teaching, "excluding all other business to the neglect of all means of fortune." if he had taken money for teaching, perhaps xanthippe might not have opposed him so much; but he would neither ask nor receive reward. the fact probably was, socrates had a delight in talking, and he preferred talking to business. whatever _we_ may think of his "talks," xanthippe did not likely consider them anything wonderful. nothing but a jury of women whose husbands have "missions," and neglect everything for them, could fairly judge xanthippe on this point. it is of no use for us to say, "socrates was such a great man, such a divine teacher;" xanthippe did not know it, and a great many of the wisest and greatest of the athenians had no more sense in this respect than she had. aristophanes regularly turned him into sport for the theatres. what christian wife would like that? comic plays were written about him, and the gamins under the porticos ridiculed him. if he had been honored, xanthippe would have forgiven his self-imposed poverty; but to be poor, and laughed at! doubtless he deserved a good portion of the curtain lectures he got. then xanthippe had another cause of complaint in which she will be sure of the sympathy of all wives. socrates did not share in its full bitterness the poverty to which he condemned his family. while she was eating her pulse and olives at home, he was dining with athenian nobles, and drinking wine by the side of the brilliant aspasia or the fascinating theodite. we see socrates, "splendid through the shades of time," as a great moral teacher; but many of the athenians of his day laughed at him, and very few admired him. at any rate he did not provide for the wants of his household, and even a bachelor like saint paul severely condemns such a one. certainly the men of athens did not admire socrates, and probably the women of xanthippe's acquaintance sympathized with her,--to a woman of her temperament a very great aggravation. it may be said all this is special pleading, but when we have knocked at the door of certain truths in vain, we should try and get into them by the window. the favorites of men it may be taken as a rule that women who are favorites with men are very seldom favorites with their own sex. wherever women congregate, and other women are under discussion, men's favorites are named with that tone of disapproval and disdain which infers something not quite proper--something undesirable in the position. if specific charges are made, the "favorite" will probably be called "an artful little flirt," or she will be "sly" or "fast." matrons will wonder what the men see in her face or figure; and the young girls will deplore her manners, or rather her want of manners; or they will mercifully "hope there is nothing really wrong in her freedom and boldness, but----" and the sigh and shrug will deny the charitable hope with all the emphasis necessary for her condemnation. for if a girl is a favorite with the men of her own set, she is naturally disliked by the women, since she attracts to herself far more than her share of admiration; and the admiration of men, whether women acknowledge it or not, is the desire and delight of the feminine heart, just as the love of women is the desire and delight of the masculine heart. in their social intercourse two kinds of women please men: the bright, pert woman, who says such things and does such things as no other woman would dare to say and do, and who is therefore very amusing; and the sympathetic woman who admires and perhaps loves them. but these two great classes have wide and indefinite varieties, and the bright little woman with her innocent audaciousness, and the graceful, swan-necked angel, with her fine feelings and her softly spoken compliments, are but types of species that have infinite peculiarities, and distinctions. the two women, sitting quietly in the same room and dressed in the same orthodox fashion, may not appear to be radically different, but as soon as conversation and dancing commence, the one, in a frankly outspoken way, says just what she thinks, and charms in the most undisguised manner, while the other must be looked for in retired corners, quiet and demure, listening with pensive adoration to her companion's cleverness, and flirting in that insidious way which sets other women's cheeks burning with indignation. an absolutely womanly ideal for the purposes of flirtation or of platonic friendship--if such an emotion exists--is not supposable; for man is himself so many-sided that the woman who is perfect in one's estimation would be uninteresting in another's. it is, however, very certain that the women men flirt with are not the women men marry. their social favorites, are not the matrimonial favorites, and therefore it is not a good thing for a girl's settlement that she should get the reputation of being a "gentlemen's favorite." it is rather a position to be avoided, for the brightest or sweetest girl with this character will likely pass her best years in charming all without being able to fix one lover to her side for life. this is the secret of the great number of plain married women whom every one counts among his acquaintances. the position of a favorite is no easy one. she has to cultivate many qualities which should be put to better use and bring her more satisfactory results. she must have discrimination enough to value flirting at its proper value; for if she confounds love-making with love, and takes everything _au grand serieux_, her reputation as a safe favorite would be seriously endangered. in her flirtations she must never permit herself to show whether she be hit or not. she must never suffer a fop to have any occasion for a boast. she must avoid every circumstance which would allow a feminine rival an opportunity for a sneer. she must be able to give and take cheerfully, to conceal every social wound and slight, and to be deaf to every disagreeable thing. in short, she must be armed at every point, and never lay down her arms, and never be off watch. it is therefore a position whose requirements, if translated into active business life, would employ the utmost resources of a fertile and energetic man. and what are the general results of talents so varied and so industriously employed? as a usual thing, the gentlemen's favorite dances and flirts her way from a brilliant girlhood to a fretful, neglected _femme passée_. she has in the meantime had the mortification of seeing the plain girls whom she despised become honored wives and mothers, and possibly leaders in that set of the social world of which she still makes one of the rank and file of spinsterhood. her disappointments, in spite of her careful concealment of them, tell upon her physique. she sees the waning of her power, and the approaches of that winter of discontent which wasted opportunities are sure to bring. spurred with a sense of haste by some unhappy slight, she perhaps unadvisedly marries a man who ten years previously would not have ventured to clasp her shoe-buckle. if he happens to possess a firm will and a strong character, he will try to pull her sharply up to his mark, and there will be endless frictions and reprisals, with all their possible results. if he is some old lover, weak in purpose, fatuous and brainless in his admiration, then the foolish flirting virgin will likely become a foolish flirting wife; and a miserable complaisance will bring forth its natural outgrowth of contempt and dislike, and perhaps culminate in some flagrant social misdemeanor. to be a favorite with men is not, then, a desirable honor for any woman. they will admire her loveliness, sun themselves in her smiles, and catch a little ephemeral pleasure and glory in her favor; but they will not marry her. and the reason, though not very evident to a thoughtless girl, is at least a very real and powerful one. it is because such a girl _never touches them on their best side_, and never reveals in herself that womanly nature which a man knows instinctively is the foundation of wifely value,--that nature which expresses itself in service for love's sake, as a very necessity of its being. on the contrary, a "favorite" leans all to one side, and that side is herself. she is overbearing and exacting in the most trivial matters of outward homage. she will be served on the bended knee, and her service is a hard and ungrateful one. and this is the truth about such homage: men may be compelled to kneel to a woman's whims for a short time, but when they do find courage to rise to their feet they go away forever. so that, after all, the estimate of women for those of their own sex who are favorites of a great number of men is a very just one. it is neither unfair nor untrue in its essentials, for in this world we can only judge actions by their consequences; and the consequences of a long career of general admiration do not justify honorable mention of the belle of many seasons. she can hardly escape the results of her social experience. she must of necessity become false and artificial. she cannot avoid a morbid jealousy of her own rights, and a painful jealousy of the successes of those who have passed her in the matrimonial career. nor can she, as these qualities strengthen, by any means conceal their presence. every attribute of our nature has its distinctive atmosphere; it is subtle and invisible as the perfume of a plant, but it makes itself distinctly present,--even when we are careful to permit no translation of the feeling into action. men are not analyzers or inquirers into character, as a general rule, but the bright ways and witty conversation of their favorite does not deceive them. sooner or later they are sensitive to the restlessness, disappointment, envy, and hatred, which couches beneath the smiles and sparkle. they may put the knowledge away at the time, but when they are alone they will eventually admit and understand it all. and the saddest part of this situation is that they are not at all astonished at what their hearts reveal to them. they know that they have expected nothing better, nothing more permanently valuable. they tell themselves frankly that in this woman's society they never looked for imperishable virtues; she was only a pretty _passe-temps_--a woman suitable for life's laughter, but not for its noblest duties and discipline. for when good men want to marry, they seek a woman for what _she is_, not for what she looks. they want a gentlewoman of blameless honor, who will love her husband, and neither be reluctant to have children nor to bring them up at her knees; who will care for her house duties and her husband's comfort and welfare as if these things were an eleventh commandment. and such women, fair and cultured enough to make any home happy, are not difficult to find. however peculiar and individual a man may be, there are very few in a generation who cannot convince some good woman that their peculiarities are abnormal genius, or refined moral sensitiveness, or some other great and rare excellency. therefore, before a girl commits herself to a course of frivolity and time-pleasing, which will fasten on her such a misnomer as a "favorite" of men, let her carefully ponder the close of such a career. for, having once obtained this reputation, she will find it very hard to rid herself of its consequences. and it is, alas, very likely that many girls enter this career thoughtlessly, and not until they are entangled in it find out that they have made a mistake with their life. then they are wretched in the conditions they have surrounded themselves with, and yet are afraid to leave them. their popularity is odious to them. they stretch out their hands to their wasted youth, and their future appalls them. they weep, for they think it is too late to retrieve their errors. no! it is never too late to lift up the head and the heart! it is always the right hour to become noble and truthful and courageous once more! in short, there is yet a divine help for those who seek it; and in that strength all may turn back and recapture their best selves. while life lasts there is no such time as "too late!" and oh, the good that fact does one! mothers of great and good men women are apt to complain that their lot is without influence. on the contrary, their lot is full of dignity and importance. if they do not lead armies, if they are not state officers, or congressional orators, they mould the souls and minds of men who do, and are; and give the initial touch that lasts through life. the conviction of the mother's influence over the fate of her children is old as the race itself; ancient history abounds with examples; and even the destinies of the gods are represented as in its power. it was the mothers of ancient rome that made ancient rome great; it was the spartan mothers that made the spartan heroes. those sons went out conquerors whose mothers armed them with the command, "with your shield, or on it, my son!" the power of the mother in forming the character of the child is beyond calculation. can any time separate the name of monica from that of her son augustine? never despairing, even when her son was deep sunk in profligacy, watching, pleading, praying with such tears and fervor that the bishop of carthage cried out in admiration, "go thy way; it is impossible that the son of these tears should perish!" and she lived to see the child of her love all that her heart desired. nor are there in all literature more noble passages than those which st. augustine consecrates to the memory of a parent whom all ages have crowned with the loftiest graces of motherhood. bishop hall says of his mother, "she was a woman of rare sanctity." and from her he derived that devoted spirit and prayerful dignity which gave him such unbounded influence in the church to which his life was consecrated. the "divine george herbert" owed to his mother a still greater debt, and the famous john newton proposes himself as "an example for the encouragement of mothers to do their duty faithfully to their children." every one is familiar with the picture which represents dr. doddridge's mother teaching him, before he could read, the old and new testament history from the painted tiles in the chimney corner. crowley, thomson, campbell, goethe, victor hugo, schiller and the schlegels, canning, lord brougham, curran, and hundreds of our great men may say with pierre vidal: "if aught of goodness or of grace be mine, hers be the glory; she led me on in wisdom's path and set the light before me." perhaps there was never a more wonderful example of maternal influence than that of the wesleys' mother. to use her own words, she cared for her children as "one who works together with god in the saving of a soul." she never considered herself absolved from this care, and her letters to her sons when they were men are the wonder of all who read them. another prominent instance is that of madame bonaparte over her son napoleon. this is what he says of her: "she suffered nothing but what was grand and elevated to take root in our souls. she abhorred lying, and passed over none of our faults." how large a part the mother of washington played in the formation of her son's character, we have only to turn to irving's "life of washington" to see. and it was her greatest honor and reward when the world was echoing with his renown, to listen and calmly reply, "he has been a good son, and he has done his duty as a man." john quincy adams owed everything to his mother. the cradle hymns of his childhood were songs of liberty, and as soon as he could lisp his prayers she taught him to say collins' noble lines, "how sleep the brave who sink to rest." no finer late instance of the influence of a mother in the formation of character can be adduced than that of gerald massey. his mother roused in him his hatred of wrong, his love of liberty, his pride in honest, hard-working poverty; and massey, in his later days of honor and comfort, often spoke with pride of those years when his mother taught her children to live in honest independence on rather less than a dollar and a half a week. the similar instance of president garfield and his mother is too well known to need more than mention. there can be no doubt of the illimitable influence of the mother in the formation of her child's character. the stern, passionate piety of mrs. wesley made saints and preachers of her children; the ambition and bravery of madame bonaparte moulded her son into a soldier, and the beautiful union of these qualities helped to form the hero beloved of all lands,--george washington. i do not say that mothers can give genius to their sons; but all mothers can do for their children what monica did for augustine, what madame bonaparte did for napoleon, what mrs. washington did for her son george, what gerald massey's mother did for him, what ten thousands of good mothers all over the world are doing this day,--patiently moulding, hour by hour, year by year, that cumulative force which we call character. and if mothers do this duty honestly, whether their sons are private citizens or public men, they will "rise up and call them blessed." domestic work for women to that class of women who toil not, neither spin, and who, like contented ravens, are fed they know not how nor whence, it is superfluous to speak of domestic service; for their housekeeping consists in "giving orders," and their marketing is represented by tradesmen's wagons and buff-colored pass-books. yet i am far from inferring that, because they can financially afford to be idle, they have a right to be so. they surely owe to the world some free gift of labor, else it would be hard to see why they came into it. not for ornaments certainly, since parian marble and painted canvas would be both more economical and satisfactory; not for housewives, for their houses are in the hands of servants; not for mothers, for they universally grumble at the advent and responsibility of children. but to the large majority of women, domestic service ought to be a high moral question, especially to those who are the wives of men striving to keep up on limited incomes the reality and the appearance of a prosperous home; all the more necessary, perhaps, because the appearance is the condition on which the reality is possible. too often a false notion that usefulness and elegance are incompatible, that it is "unladylike" to be in their kitchens, or come in contact with the baker and butcher, makes them abrogate the highest honors of wifehood. or perhaps they have the misfortune to be the children of those tender parents who are permitted without loss of reputation to educate their daughters for drawing-room ornaments in their youth, and yet do nothing to _insure_ them against a middle age of struggle and privation, and an old age of misery. to such i would speak candidly--not without thought--not without practical knowledge of what i say--not without strong hopes that i may influence many warm, thoughtless hearts, who only need to be once alive to a responsibility in order to feel straitened and burdened until they assume and fulfil it. is it fair, then, is it just, kind, or honorable, that the husband day after day should be bound to the wheel of a monotonous occupation, and the wife fritter away the results in frivolity or suffer them to be wasted in extravagant and yet unsatisfactory housekeeping? supposing the magnificent affection of the husband makes him willing to coin his life into dollars, in order that the wife may live and dress and visit according to her ideal, ought she to accept an offering that has in it so strong an odor of human sacrifice? even if it be necessary to keep up a certain style, it is still in the wife's power to make the husband's service for this end a reasonable one. personal supervision of the marketing will save twenty per cent, and i am afraid to say how much might be saved from actual waste in the kitchen by the same means; and this is but the beginning. yet saving is only one item in the wife's lawful domestic service; if her husband is to be a permanently successful man, she must take care of his digestion. it may seem derogatory to thought, enterprise, and virtue to assert that eating has anything to do with them. i cannot help the condition; i only know that it exists, and that she is but a poor wife who ignores the fact. the days when men stuck to their "roast and boiled" as firmly as to their creed are, of necessity, disappearing. the fervid life we are all leading demands food that can be assimilated with the least possible detriment to, or expenditure of, the vital powers. "thoughts that burn" are no poetic fancy; the planning, the calculating that a business man performs during the day literally burns up the material of conscious life. it is the wife's duty to replenish the fires of intellect and energy by fuel that the enfeebled vitality can convert most easily into the elements necessary to repair the waste. the idea that it is derogatory for cultivated brains and white hands to investigate the stock-jar and the stew-pan is a very mistaken one. the daintiest lady i ever knew, the wife of a merchant who is one of our princes, sees personally every day to the preparation of her husband's dinner and its artistic and appetizing arrangement on the table. i have not the smallest doubt that the nourishing soups, the delicately prepared meats, the delicious desserts, are the secret of many a clear-headed business transaction, household investments that make possible the far-famed commercial ones. this mysterious relationship between what we _eat_ and what we _do_ was dimly perceived by dr. johnson when he said that "a man who did not care for his dinner would care for nothing else." artistic cooking derogatory! why, it is a science, an art, as sure to follow a high state of civilization as the fine arts do. no persons of fine feelings can be indifferent to what they eat, any more than to what they wear, or what their household surroundings are. a man may be compelled by circumstances to swallow half-cooked bloody beef and boiled paste dumplings, and yet it may be as repugnant to him as it would be to wear a scarlet belcher neckerchief, a brass watch-chain, and a cotton-velvet coat. yet his wife may be ignorant or indifferent; he is too much occupied with other matters to "make a fuss about it," and so he shuts his eyes, opens his mouth, and takes whatever his cook pleases to send him. i do not like to be uncharitable, but somehow i can't help thinking that a wife who permits this kind of thing is unworthy of her wedding ring. let her take a volume of f. w. johnston's "domestic chemistry" in her hand, and go down into her kitchen. she will be in a far higher region of romance than miss braddon can take her into. she will learn that it is her province to renew her husband physically and mentally by dexterously depositing the right kind of nutriment upon the inward, invisible frame. the wonders of science shall supersede then, for her, the wonders of romance. to feed the sacred fire of life will become a noble office; she will count it as honorable, in its place, to make a fine soup or a delicate charlotte russe as to play a beethoven sonata or read a german classic. truly, i think that it is almost a sin for a housekeeper with all her senses to be ignorant of the laws of chemistry affecting food. yet the subject is so large and complicated that i can only indicate its importance; but i am sure that women of affection and intelligence who may now for the first time accept the thought, will follow my hints to all their manifold conclusions. one of these conclusions is so important that i cannot avoid directing special attention to it,--the moral effect of proper food. do not doubt that all through life high things depend on low ones; and in this matter it must be evident to every observing woman that food is often the _nerve_ of our highest social affections. there is an acute domestic disorder which dr. marshall hall used to call "the temper disease." need i point out to wives the wonderful sympathy between this disease and the dining-table? do they not know that a fretful, belated, ill-cooked breakfast has the power to take all the energy out of a sensitively organized man, and make his entire day an uncomfortable failure? on the contrary, a cheerful room, a snowy cloth, coffee "with the aroma in," bread whose amber crust and light, white crumb is a picture, in short, a well-appointed, quiet, comfortable first meal has in it some subtle influence of strength and inspiration for work. i have seen men rise from such tables _joyful_--full of such gratitude and hope as i can well believe only found expression in that silent uplifting of the heart to god which is, after all, our purest prayer. then when at evening he returns weary, faint and hungry, a fine sonata or an exquisite painting will not much comfort him. i even doubt whether a religious service could profitably take the place of his dinner; for we _know_, if we will acknowledge it, that the importunate demands of the flesh do cry down the still small voice of devotion. but how different we feel after eating; then we are disposed for something higher, the mind is elevated to gracious thoughts, the brain gives reasonable counsel, the heart generous responses. and i speak with all reverence when i say that many of our darkest hours in spiritual things are not to be attributed to an angry god or a hidden saviour, but to physical repletion or inanition. but if these wonderfully fashioned bodies be the "temple of the holy ghost," how shall we expect the comforts of god in a disordered or ill-kept shrine? thus it is in the power of the housewife to turn the work of the kitchen into a sacrifice of gladness, and to make the offices of the table a means of grace. certain it is that she will decide whether her husband is to be commercially successful or not; for if a man will be rich, he must ask his wife's permission to be so. and if he will be physically healthy, mentally clear, morally sweet, she must take care that his home furnish the proper food and stimulus on which these conditions depend. nor will she go far wrong if she take as a general rule, lying at the foundation, or in close connection with them all, sydney smith's pleasant hyperbolic maxim, "soup and fish explain half the emotions of life." we will suppose that the housewife is also the house-mother, and that she is not content with apathetically remarking that "her children are beyond her control," and so sending them away to nurses and boarding schools; but that she really strives to encourage every virtue, draw out every latent power, and make both boys and girls worthy of the grand future to which they are heirs. who shall say now that woman's domestic sphere is narrow, or unworthy of her highest powers? for if she accepts honestly and solemnly all her responsibilities, she takes a position that only good women or angels could fill. nor need house duties shut her out from all service except to those of her own household. in these very duties she may find a way to help her poorer sisters far more efficient than many of more pretentious promise. when she has become a scientific, artistic cook, let her permit some ignorant but bright and ambitious girl to spend a few hours daily by her side, and learn by precept and example the highest rules and methods of the culinary art. girls so instructed would be real blessings to those who hired them, and would themselves start life with a real, solid gain, able at once to command respectable service and high wages. i am quite aware that such a practical philanthropist would meet with many ungracious returns, and not a few insinuating assertions that her charity was an insidious attempt to get work "for nothing." but a good woman would not be deterred by this; she has had but small experience of life who has not learned that it is often our very best and most unselfish actions which are suspected, simply because their very unselfishness makes them unintelligible; and if we do not reverence what we cannot understand, we suspect it. it may seem but a small thing to do for charity's sweet sake, but who shall measure the results? say that in the course of a year four young girls receive a practical knowledge of the art of cooking, how far will the influence of those four eventually reach? the larger part of all our good deeds is hid from us,--wisely so, else we should be overmuch lifted up. we have nothing to do with aggregate results, and i believe that the woman who provides intelligently for her household, makes it cheerful and restful, and finds heart and space to help some other woman to a higher life, has the noblest of "missions," the grandest of "spheres," and is most blessed among women. she who adds to household duties maternal duties fills also the highest national office, since to her hands are committed--not indeed the laws of the republic but the fate of the republic; for the children of _to-day_ are the _to-morrow_ of society, and its men of action will be nothing but unconscious instruments of the patient love and prayerful thought of the mothers who taught them. and yet let the women who are excused from this office be grateful for their indulgence. alas! how many shoulders without strength have asked for heavy burdens. professional work for women "labor! all labor is noble and holy!" that man should provide and woman dispense are the radical conditions of domestic service; conditions which i believe are highly favorable to the development of the highest type of womanhood. but at the same time they are far from embracing all women capable of high development, nor are they perhaps suitable for every phase of character included in that myriad-minded creature--woman. for just as one tree attains its most perfect beauty through sheltering care, and another strikes the deepest roots and lifts the greenest boughs by self-reliant struggles, so also some women reach their highest development through domestic duties, while others hold their life most erect through public service and enforced responsibilities. it has taken the world, however, nearly , years to come to the understanding that these latter souls must not be denied their proper arena, that brains have no sex, and that it is well for the world to have its work done irrespective of anything but the _capability_ of the workers. but it has now so far accepted the doctrine that women who must labor if they would live honestly and independently need no longer do so under sufferance or suspicion. wherever they can best make their way the road is open, and they are encouraged to make it; nor am i aware of any serious restriction laid on them, except one, whose true kindness is in its apparent severity,--namely, that the debutante must justify her work by her success in it. i call this kind, because favor and toleration are here unkind; since she who stands from any other reason than absolute fitness will sooner or later fall by an inevitable law. the great curse of women, educated and yet unprovided for, is not that they have to labor, but that, having to work, they cannot find the work to do. nor is it generally their fault; they have probably been miseducated in the old idea that marriage is the only social salvation provided whereby woman can be saved; and no one having married them, what are these compulsory social sinners to do? a great number turn _instinctively_ to literature for help and comfort; and their instinct in many respects is not at fault; for literature is one of the few professions that from the first has dealt kindly and honorably with women. here the race is fair; if the female pen is fleetest, it wins. but writing _does not_ come by nature; it is an art to be seriously and sedulously pursued. my own reflection and experience lead me to believe that within the last thirty years its methods have radically changed. that condition of inspiration and mental excitement once considered the native air of genius has lost much of its importance; and people now ordinarily write by the exercise of their reason and reflection, and by the continual and faithful cultivation of such natural powers as they are endowed with. upon the whole, it is a mark of rational progress, and opens the field to every woman who is thoughtful and cultivated and willing to study industriously. not undervaluing the mood of inspiration, i yet honestly believe that for practical bread-winning purposes reason and study are the most effectual aids, and the hours devoted to personal culture by acquiring information just so much "stock in trade" acquired. the motives for writing, too, have either changed with the method, or else writers have become more honest, as they have become more reasonable. i can remember when every author imagined himself influenced by some unworldly consideration, such as the desire to do good, or to instruct, or at least because he had something to say which constrained him to write. but people now sell their knowledge as they sell any other commodity; the best and the greatest men write simply for money, and no woman need feel any conscientious scruples because her own pressing cares sometimes obliterate the full sense of her responsibility. god does not work alone with model men and women. he takes us just as we are; and i _know_ that the stray arrow shot from the bow when the hand was weary and the mind halting has often struck nearer home than those set with scrupulous exactness and sped with careful aim. besides writing, there are other literary occupations specially suited to women, such as index-makers, amanuenses, and proof-readers. the first need a clear head and great patience, but the remuneration is very good. an amanuensis must have a rapid hand, a fair education, and such a quick, sympathetic mind as will enable her to readily adapt herself to the author's moods, and in some measure follow his train of thought. proof-reading pre-supposes a general high cultivation, enough knowledge of french, latin, etc., to read and correct quotations, and an intimate acquaintance with general literature, as well as grammar, orthography, and punctuation. but though a responsible position, women, both from physical and mental aptitude, fill it better than men. they have a faculty of detecting errors immediately, often without knowing why or how, and are both more patient and more expert. the editors of the _christian union_ practically support me in this opinion, and the carefully correct type of the paper is evidence of the highest order. the conditions of these three employments being present, the mere technicalities of each are of the simplest kind, and very easily acquired. "a fair field and no favor" has also been freely granted to women in every department of music and art. but in its highest branches public opinion is inexorable to mediocrity; and success is absolutely dependent on great natural abilities, thoroughly and highly cultivated. but there are many inferior branches in which women of average ability, properly educated, may make honorable and profitable livelihoods. such, for instance, as engraving on wood and steel, chasing gold and silver, cutting gems and cameos, and designing for all these purposes. not a few women (and men too) make good livings by designing costumes for the large dry-goods houses and the fashionable modistes; but the good designer is a creator, and this faculty has always hitherto been confined to a small number both of men and women. the ability to draw by no means proves it; this is only the tool, the design is the thought. therefore schools of design, though they may furnish natural designers with tools, cannot make designers. if designing, then, is a woman's object, she must not deceive herself; for if the "faculty divine" is not present she may devote years to study, and never rise above the mere copyist. it is usually conceded that antiquity and general "use and wont" confer a kind of claim to any office. if so, then women have an inherited right, almost wide as the world, and coeval with history, to practise medicine. every one recognizes them as the natural physicians of the household, and under all our ordinary ailments it is to some wise woman of our family we go for advice or assistance. as miss cobbe says,-- "who ever dreams of asking his grandfather, or his uncle, his footman, or his butler what he shall do for his cold, or to be so kind as to tie up his cut finger?" yet women regard such requests as perfectly natural, and are very seldom unable to gratify them. medicine as a profession for women has almost won its ground; and as it is a science largely depending on insight into individual peculiarities, it would seem to be specially their office. an illustrious physician says, "there are no diseases, there are diseased people;" and the remark explains why women--who instinctively read mental characters--ought to be admirable physicians. indeed female physicians have already gained a position which entitles them to demand their male opponents to "show cause why" they may not share in all the honors and emoluments of the faculty. that the profession, as a means of employment for women, is gaining favor is evident from their large attendance at the free medical colleges for women in this city, nor are there any facts to indicate that their practice is less safe than that of men; and if accidents have taken place, they were doubtless the result of ignorance, and not of sex. theodore parker favored even the legal profession for women, giving it as his opinion that "he must be rather an uncommon lawyer who thinks no feminine head could compete with him." most lawyers are rather mechanics at law, than attorneys or scholars at law; and in the mechanical part women could do as well as men, could be as good conveyancers, could follow precedents as carefully and copy forms as nicely. "i think," he adds, "their presence would mend the manners of the court on the bench, not less than of the bar." but though, if properly prepared, there would seem no reason why women could not write out wills, deeds, mortgages, indentures, etc., yet i doubt much whether they have the natural control and peculiar aptitudes necessary for a counsellor at law. but no one will deny a woman's capability to teach, even though so many have gone into the office that have no right there; for mere ability is not enough. teachers, like artists, are born teachers, and the power to impart knowledge is a free gift of nature. those, then, who accept the office without vocation for it, just for a livelihood, both degrade themselves and it. the duties undertaken with reluctance lack the spirit which gives light and interest; the children suffer intelligently, the teacher morally. but if a woman becomes a teacher, having a call which is unmistakable, she is doubly blessed, and the world may drop the compassionate tone it is fond of displaying toward her, or, if it is willing to do her justice, may pay her more and pity her less. the question of a woman's right to preach is one that conscience rather than creeds or opinions must settle. it must be allowed that her natural influence is, and always has been greater than any delegated authority. she is born priestess over every soul she can influence, and the question of her right to preach seems to be only the question of her right to extend her influence. in this light she has always been a preacher; it is her natural office, from which nothing can absolve her. a woman must influence for good or evil every one she comes in contact with; by no direct effort perhaps, but simply because she must, it is her nature and her genius. whether women will ever do the world's highest work as well as men, i consider, in all fairness, yet undecided. she has not had time to recover from centuries of no-education and mis-education: she is only just beginning to understand that neither beauty nor tact can take the place of skill, and that to do a man's work she must prepare for it as a man prepares; but even if time proves that in creative works she cannot attain masculine grandeur of conception and power of execution, she may be just as excellent in her own way; and there are and always will be people who prefer mrs. browning to milton, and george eliot to lord bacon. at first sight there seems some plausibility in the assertion that woman's physical inferiority will always render her unfit to do men's work. but all physical excellence is a matter of cultivation; and it would be very easy to prove that women are not naturally physically weaker than men. in all savage nations they do the hardest work, and mr. livingstone acknowledged that all his ideas as to their physical inferiority had been completely overturned. in china they do the work of men, with the addition of an infant tied to their back. in calcutta and bombay, they act as masons, carry mortar, and there are thousands of them in the mountain passes bearing up the rocky heights baskets of stone and earth on their heads. the women in germany and the low countries toil equally with the men. during the late war i saw american women in texas keep the saddle all day, driving cattle or superintending the operations in the cotton-patch or the sugar-field. nay, i have known them to plough, sow, reap, and get wood from the cedar brake with their own hands. woman's physical strength has degenerated for want of exercise and use; but it would be as unfair to condemn her to an inferior position on this account as it was for the slave master to urge the necessity of slavery because of the very vices slavery had produced. however, if women are really to succeed they must give to their preparation for a profession the freshest years of life. if it is only taken up because marriage has been a failure, or if it is pursued with a divided mind, they will always be behind-hand and inferior. but the compensation is worth the sacrifice. a profession once acquired, they have home, happiness, and independence in their hands; the future, as far as possible, is secure, the serenity and calmness of assurance strengthens the mind and sweetens the character, and from the standpoint of a self-sustaining celibacy marriage itself assumes its loftiest position; it is no longer the aim, but the crown and completion of her life; for _she need not_, so she _will not_, marry for anything but love, and thus her wifehood will lose nothing of the grace and glory that belongs to it of right. little children the teachers of a people have need of a far greater wisdom than its priests. the latter are but the mouthpiece of an oracle so clear that a wayfaring man, though a fool, may understand it. the former are the interpreters in the mysterious communings of ignorance with knowledge. "only a few little children," says the self-sufficient and the inefficient teacher. twenty-five years' experience among little children has taught me that in spiritual and moral perceptiveness, and intuitive knowledge of character, they are far nearer to the angels than we are. consider well what a mystery they are! who ever saw two children mentally alike? more fresh from the hands of the maker, they still retain the infinite variety which is one of the marks of his boundless wealth of creation. in a few years, alas! they will take on the stereotyped forms of the class to which they belong; but for a little space heaven lies about them, and they dwell among us--so much of _this_ world, and so much of _that_. twenty years ago i thought i understood little children; _to-day_ i am sure i do not: for now i know that every one has a hidden life of its own, which it knows instinctively is foolishness to the world, and which therefore it never reveals. now, if you can humble yourself, can become as a little child, can win a welcome to this inner life, let me tell you that you have come very near to the kingdom of heaven. better than the writings of schoolmen, better than the lives of the saints, will such an experience be for you; therefore treat it with reverence and tenderness; for it is an epistle written by the finger of god on an innocent and guileless heart. consider, too, what sublimity of faith these little ones possess! the angels believe; for they know and see; men believe--upon "good security" and indisputable "evidences;" a little child believes in god and loves its saviour simply on your representation. o cold and doubting hearts!--asking science and philosophy, height and depth, to explain; terrified but not instructed by the eternal silence of the infinite spaces above you!--humble yourselves, that you may be exalted; become fools, that you may become wise! the human intellect is a blind guide, but if you seek god through the _heart_, then "a little child can lead you." in your intercourse with young children, try and estimate rightly _their delicate fancy_; for they are the true poets. "not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter darkness, but trailing clouds of glory do they come." and i think it was of them god thought when he made the flowers and butterflies. their little voices are the natural key of music, their graceful carriage and sprightly abandon the very poetry of motion. as michael angelo's imprisoned angel pleaded out of dumb marble, so the divinity within them pleads in the beauty of their forms, the clear heaven of their eyes, the white purity of their souls, for knowledge and enlargement. "only a little child!" o mother! saved by thy child-bearing in faith and holiness; peradventure thou nursest an angel! o teacher! made honorable by thine office, how knowest thou but what thy class is a veritable school of the prophets, and that children "set for the rise and the fall of many in israel" are under thy hand? we are accustomed to speak of the "simplicity" of a child, _i know_ that mysteries are revealed unto babes, hid from the men full of years and high on the staff of worldly wisdom. and i remember that case in old jerusalem. he who spake as never man spake "took a little child and set him in the midst" for an example. so, then, while given to our charge they are also set for our instruction. like them, we are to receive the kingdom of god, believing without a cavil or a doubt in our father's declarations. like them, we are to depend on our father in heaven for our daily bread, being careful for nothing. like them, we are to retain no resentments, and if angry, to be easily pacified. like them, we are to be free from ambition and avarice, from pride and disdain. these things are not natural to us, else jesus had not said, "ye must _become_ as little children," and that except we do so _we shall not enter the kingdom of heaven_. and that we might not err, god has set these visiting angels at our firesides, and at our tables; he has made them bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh; nay, he has placed them in the heavens like a star,-- "to beacon us to the abode where the eternal are." pass by the learned, the mighty, and the wise, for they are dust; but let us reverence the "little children," for they are god's messengers to us. on naming children there is a kind of physiognomy in the names of men and women as well as in their faces; our christian name is ourself in our thoughts and in the thoughts of those who know us, and nothing can separate it from our existence. unquestionably, also, there is a luck in names, and a certain success in satisfying the public ear. to select fortunate names, the _bona nomina_ of cicero, was anciently a matter of such solicitude that it became a popular axiom, "a good name is a good fortune." from a good name arises a good anticipation, a fact novelists and dramatists readily recognize; indeed, shakespeare makes falstaff consider that "the purchase of a commodity of good names" was all that was necessary to propitiate good fortune. imagine two persons starting in life as rivals in any profession, and without doubt he who had the more forcible name would become the more familiar with the public, and would therefore, in a business sense, be likely to be the more successful. we all know that there are names that circulate among us instantly, and make us friends with their owners, though we have never seen them. they are lucky people whose sponsors thus cast their names in pleasant and fortunate places. it is a matter, then, of surprise that among civilized nations the generality, even of educated people, are so careless on this subject. now evil is as often wrought for want of thought as for want of knowledge, and as a stimulant to thought in parents the following suggestions are offered. it is not well to call the eldest son after the father, and the eldest daughter after the mother. the object of names is to prevent confusion, and this is not attained when the child's name is the same as the parent's. nor does the addition of "junior" or "senior" rectify the fault; besides, the custom provokes the disrespectful addition of "old" to the father. there is another very subtle danger in calling children after parents. such children are very apt to be regarded with an undue partiality. this is a feeling never acknowledged, perhaps, but which nevertheless makes its way into the hearts of the best of men and women. it is easier to keep out evil than to put it out. if the surname is common, the christian name should be peculiar. almost any prefix is pardonable to "smith." john smith has no individuality left, but godolphin smith really reads aristocratically. james brown is no one, but sequard brown and ignatius brown are lifted out of the crowd. some people get out of this difficulty by iterating the name so as to compel respect. thus, jones jones, of jones's hall, has a moral swagger about it that would be sure to carry it through. it is often a great advantage to have a very odd name, a little difficult to remember at first, but which when once learned bites itself into the memory. for instance, there was jamsetjee jeejeebhoy; we have to make a hurdle-race over it, but once in the mind it is never forgot. remember in giving names that the children when grown up may be in situations where they will have frequently to sign their initials, and do not give names that might in this situation provoke contemptuous remark. for instance, david oliver green,--the initials make "dog;" clara ann thompson,--the initials spell "cat." neither should a name be given whose initial taken in conjunction with the surname suggests a foolish idea, as mr. p. cox, or mrs. t. potts. if the child is a boy, it may be equally uncomfortable for him to have a long string of names. suppose that in adult life he be comes a merchant or banker, with plenty of business to do, then he will not be well pleased to write "george henry talbot robinson" two or three hundred times a day. it is not a bad plan to give girls only one baptismal name, so that if they marry they can retain their maiden surname: as elizabeth barrett browning, harriet beecher stowe. this is the practice among the society of friends, and is worthy of more general adoption, for we should then know at once on seeing the name of a lady whether she was married, and if so, what her family name was. in geneva and many provinces of france the maiden family name of the wife is added to the surname of the husband; thus, if a marie perrot married adolphe lauve, they would after marriage write their names respectively, adolphe perrot-lauve and marie perrot-lauve. the custom serves to distinguish the bachelor from the married man, and is worthy of imitation; for if vanity unites in the same escutcheon the arms of husband and wife, ought not affection to blend their names? generally the modern "ie," which is appended to all names that will admit of it, renders them senseless and insipid. where is the improvement in transforming the womanly loveliness of mary into mollie? imagine a queen mollie, or mollie queen of scots! there is something like sacrilege in such a transformation. take margaret, and mutilate the pearl-like name into maggie, and its purity like a halo vanishes, and we have a very commonplace idea in its stead. if we must have diminutives, commend us to the old style. polly, kitty, letty, dolly, were names with some sense and work in them, and which we pronounce like articulate sounds. there is no greater injustice than the infliction of a whimsical or unworld-like name on helpless infancy; for, as it is aptly said, "how many are there who might have done exceedingly well in the world had not their characters and spirits been totally _nicodemused_ into nothing!" it is certainly a grave question if in the matter of christian names our regard for the dead past should blind our eyes to the future comfort and success of our children. why have we so many george washingtons? the name is a great burden for any boy. he will always feel it. inferiority to his namesake is inevitable. besides, this promiscuous use of great names degrades them; it is not a pleasant thing to see a george washington or a benjamin franklin in the police news for petty larceny. for the most part old testament names are defective in euphony, and very inharmonious with english family names. the female names are still less musical. nothing can reconcile us to naomi brett, hephzibah dickenson, or dinah winter. and to prove that the unpleasant effect produced by such combinations does not result from the surnames selected, let us substitute appellations unexceptionable, and the result will be even worse,--naomi pelham, hephzibah howard, dinah neville! a hebrew christian name requires, in most cases, a hebrew surname. some parents very wisely refuse for their children all names susceptible of the _nicking_ process, thinking with dr. dove that "it is not a good thing to be tom'd or bob'd, jack'd or jim'd, sam'd or ben'd, will'd or bill'd, joe'd or jerry'd, as you go through the world." sobriquets are to be equally deprecated. we know a beautiful woman who when a girl was remarkable for a wealth of rippling, curling hair. some one gave her the name of "friz," and it still sticks to the dignified matron. wit, or would-be wit, delights to exercise itself after this fashion, but a child's name is too precious a thing to be ridiculed. fanciful names are neither always pretty nor prudent. parents have need of the gift of prophecy who call their children grace, faith, hope, fortune, love, etc. it is possible that their after-life may turn such names into bitter irony. for the sake of conciliating a rich friend never give a child a disagreeable or barbaric name. it will be a thorn in his side as long as he lives, and after all he may miss the legacy. a child, too, may have such an assembly of unrhythmical names that he and his friends have to go jolting over them all their lives. suppose a boy is called richard edward robert. the ear in a moment detects a jumble of sounds of which it can make nothing. if many christian names are decided upon, string them together on some harmonious principle; names that are mouthfuls of consonants cannot be borne without bad consequences to the owner. the euphony of our nomenclature would be greatly improved by a judicious adaptation of the christian name to the surname. when the surname is a monosyllable the christian name should be long. nothing can reconcile the ear to such curt names as mark fox, luke harte, ann scott; but gilbert fox, alexander hart, and cecilia scott are far from despicable. among the many excellent christian names, it is astonishing that so few should be in ordinary use. the dictionaries contain lists of about two hundred and fifty male and one hundred and fifty female names, but out of these not more than twenty or thirty for each sex can be called at all common. yet our language has many beautiful names, both male and female, worthy of a popularity they have not yet attained. among the male, for instance,--alban, ambrose, bernard, clement, christopher, gilbert, godfrey, harold, michael, marmaduke, oliver, paul, ralph, rupert, roger, reginald, roland, sylvester, theobald, urban, valentine, vincent, gabriel, tristram, norman, percival, nigel, lionel, nicholas, eustace, colin, sebastian, basil, martin, antony, claude, justus, cyril, etc.,--all of which have the attributes of euphony, good etymology, and interesting associations. and among female names why have we not more girls called by the noble or graceful appellations of agatha, alethia, arabella, beatrice, bertha, cecilia, evelyn, ethel, gertrude, isabel, leonora, florence, mildred, millicent, philippa, pauline, hilda, clarice, amabel, irene, zoe, muriel, estelle, eugenia, euphemia, christabel, theresa, marcia, antonia, claudia, sibylla, rosabel, rosamond, etc.? there are some curious superstitions regarding the naming of children, which, as a matter of gossip, are worth a passing notice. the peasantry of sussex believe that if a child receive the name of a dead brother or sister, it also will die at an early age. in some parts of ireland it is thought that giving the child the name of one of its parents abridges the life of that parent. it is generally thought lucky to have the initials of christian name and surname the same, and also to have the initials spell some word. in the northwestern parts of scotland a newly named infant is vibrated gently two or three times over a flame, with the words, "let the flames consume thee now or never;" and this lustration by fire is common to-day in the hebrides and western isles. there is a wide-spread superstition that a child who does not cry at its baptism will not live; also one which considers it specially unlucky if anything interferes to prevent the baptism at the exact time first appointed. in many parts of scotland if children of different sexes are at the font, the minister who attempted to baptize the girl before the boy would be interrupted. it is said to be peculiarly unfortunate to the child if a priest that is left-handed christens it. in cumberland and westmoreland a child going to be christened carries with it a slice of bread and cheese, and this is given to the first person met. in return the recipient must give the babe three different things, and wish it health and fortune. we have witnessed the last-mentioned custom very frequently, and once in a farm-house at the foot of saddleback mountain we saw a very singular method of deciding what the name of the child should be. six candles of equal length were named, and all lit at the same moment. the babe was called after the candle which burned the longest. we have mentioned these superstitions as curious proofs that our ignorant ancestors considered the naming of children an important event; and we should feel sorry if they tended to weaken in any measure previous thoughts. for, careless as we may be of the fact, it still remains a fact beyond doubt, that the name of a person is the sound that suggests the idea of him or her,--it is a portrait painted in letters. therefore we cannot be too careful not to give one that will be a shame or an embarrassment, or which will even condemn the bearer to the commonplace. the children's table it is to be hoped that the best way of feeding children in order to produce the finest possible physical development will ere long have the amount of attention that is devoted to the improvement of horses, cattle, and sheep. for both men and women have begun to realize that mentally and spiritually we are largely dependent on the co-operation of a healthy body; hence there has arisen a certain school, not inaptly designated "muscular christianity." the physical welfare of a child is the first consideration forced upon the mother. long before the intellect dawns, long before it knows good from evil, there is important work to do. a healthy, pure dwelling-place is to be begun for the lofty guests of mind and soul. alas, how little has this been considered! how often have great minds been cramped by sickly, dwarfed bodies! how often have aspiring souls been bound by earthly fetters of irritating pain! who shall deliver children from the unwise indulgences, fanciful theories, and inherited mistakes of their parents? this is not the province of religion; a mother may be intensely religious, and at the same time cruelly ignorant in the treatment of the child,--whom yet she loves with all her heart. when men and women lived simply and naturally nature in a large measure took care of her own; but in our artificial life we must seek the aid of science to find our way back to nature. and if science has been able to teach us how to improve our breed of horses, and bring to a state of physical perfection our cattle and sheep, by simply selecting nutriments, she can also give the seeking mother directions for building up a strong and healthy body for the immortal soul to tarry in and work from. for, humiliating as we may regard it, we cannot battle off this fact of god, that the vital processes in animals and men are substantially the same. in the dietary of children the two great mistakes are over-feeding and under-feeding; but of the two evils the last is the worst. repletion is less injurious than inanition; and according to my observation gluttony is the vice of adults rather than of children. if they do exceed, the cause may generally be traced to the fact that they have suffered a long want of the article they revel in. for instance, if at rare intervals candies and sweetmeats are within their reach, they do generally make themselves sick with an over supply of them; but this is but the nemesis that ever follows unnatural deprivations of any kind. nothing is more necessary to a child than sugar. its love of it is not so much to please its palate as to satisfy an urgent craving of its necessity. sugar is so important a substance in the chemical changes going on in the body that many other compounds have to be reduced to sugar before they are available as heat-making constituents. in fact the liver is a factory for transforming much of the nutriment we take, in other forms, into sugar. it may be said, "if sugar is a great heat-maker, so also is fat meat, which most children very much dislike." the one fact proves the other. fat meat and sugar are both great heat-producers, but the child craves sugar and dislikes fat because its weak organism can deal with the sugar, but cannot manage the fat. every mother must have noticed that delicate children turn sick at fat meat and usually crave sweets. poor little things! they want something to make the vital fire burn more rapidly. sugar in proper proportions is fuel judiciously added; fat is fuel they have not strength to assimilate, and therefore reject. of course no mother understands me to say that children should therefore be fed on sugar; but only that they should have a fair and regular proportion of it in some form or other; in which case they would feel no more temptation to exceed in occasional opportunities. another dominant desire with growing children is fruit. they will eat fruits, ripe or unripe; a sour apple or a ripe strawberry seems equally acceptable. it is common to attribute summer complaints of all kinds to them, and to carefully limit children in their use. the fact is that all fruits contain a vegetable acid which is a powerful tonic and one peculiarly acceptable to the stomach. fruits ought to form a part of every child's food all the year round,--fresh fruits in summer, apples and oranges in winter. but they must be given regularly with the meals, and not between them. they will then fulfil their tonic office in the system, and never under ordinary circumstances do the least harm. how often have we seen children in mistaken kindness largely restricted to bread and milk, puddings and vegetables; nay, told in answer to their craving looks that "meat was not good for little boys and girls." now, consider first why adults eat meat. is it not to repair the loss we suffer from active work, the exhaustion from mental efforts, and to supply afresh the vital warmth, much of which is lost every day by simple radiation? in all these ways children usually exhaust life quicker than adults. they run where we walk, they jump, they skip, they are seldom still. their studies are as severe a mental strain to them as our business cares to us. their bodies are quite as much exposed to loss of heat by radiation as ours--in some cases more so. but children have a most important demand on their vitality which adults have not: they have to grow. who, therefore, needs strong and nutritious food more than children? they ought to have meat, plenty of it, as much as they desire; and with the meat, bread and vegetables, milk, sweets, and fruits. for variety is another grand condition of healthy food,--no one kind of food (however good) being able to supply all the different elements the body needs for perfect health and fine development. if children have any urgent desire for some particular diet it would be well for parents to hesitate and investigate before denying them. they have no means of coming to any secret understanding with the child's stomach; but nature generally asks pertinaciously for any special necessity, and nature is never wrong. neither is it well to limit the quantity any more than the kind of food given to children. their necessities vary with causes too involved for any parent constantly to keep in view. the state of the weather, the amount of electricity, or moisture in the atmosphere, study, sleep, exercise, the condition of digestion, even the mental temper of the child might differently influence the condition and demands of nearly every meal. no dietary theory that did not consider all these and many more conditions would be reliable. what, then, are we to do? have more confidence in natural instincts. if children ask "for more," ten to one they feel more truly than we can reason on this subject. on general principles it may be assumed children ask as directed by nature; they desire what she needs and as much as she needs. of course, all advice must be of a general nature; special limitations are supposed in the power of every thoughtful mother. but the great principle is to remember that energy depends on the amount, not of food, but of nutritive food; for if a pound of one kind of food gives as much nutriment as four pounds of another, surely that is best for children (and adults too) which tries their digestion least. what the next generation will be depends upon the physical, mental, and moral training of the children of to-day. these children are the to-morrow of society. are they to be puny and dyspeptic, fretting and worrying through life as through a task? or, are they to be finely developed, sweetbreathed, clear-eyed, light-spirited mediums for divine aspirations and intellectual and material works? o mothers! do not despise the humble-looking foundation-stone of life--good health. you have the earliest building up of the body; see that you spare no elements necessary for its perfection. be liberal; doubt your own theories rather than nature; trust the child where you are at a loss, just as a lost man throws the reins on his horse's neck and trusts to something subtler than reason--instinct. in whatever light the subject of children's food is regarded, the great principle is we--cannot get power out of nothing. if the child is to have health, energy, intellect, there must be present the necessary physical conditions. these are not the result of accident, but of generous consideration. intellectual "cramming" of boys a little girl, who made a study of epitaphs, was greatly puzzled to know "where all the bad people were buried." perhaps just as great a puzzle to a reflective mind is, what comes of all the promising boys? we will allow, first, that a great deal of "promise" exists only in the partiality of parents; that a bright, intense childhood is frequently so different from the mechanical routine of adult life that the simple difference strikes the parent as something remarkable, whereas it is, perhaps, only a strong case of contrast between the natural and the artificial. this is proven by the fact that as the boy becomes part and parcel of the every-day world he gradually falls into its ways, adopts its tone, and in no respect attempts to rise above its level. fortunately, however, the change is so gradual that parents scarcely perceive when or how they lost their exalted hopes; and by the time that jack or will has imbibed a fair amount of knowledge, and settled contentedly down to his desk and high stool, they also are well pleased and inclined to forget that they had ever dreamt the boy might sit upon the bench, or, perhaps, fill with honor the presidential chair. allowing such boys a very respectable minority, and allowing also a large margin for that unfortunate class who "wise so young, they say, do ne'er live long," there is still good reason for us to ask, what becomes of all the promising boys? we are inclined to arraign as the first and foremost of deceivers and defrauders in this matter the modern educational art of _cram_. it is to education what adulteration is to commerce. it is far worse, for here it is not money that is stolen, it is a parent's best and highest hopes; it is a boy's whole future life and its success. for the system rests upon a fallacy, namely, that it is possible for boys of twenty to know everything, from the multiplication-table to metaphysics, from greek plays to theological dogmas. to the average boy such intellectual feats are simply impossible; but he is plucky and fertile in expedients; he is neither disposed to be beaten nor able really to overtake his task, so he uses his brains carefully, and makes the greatest possible show on the greatest possible number of subjects. perhaps nothing in our present system of education is so demoralizing and unjust as the custom of public examinations. in them interest and vanity play into each other's hands; genuine acquirement and principle "go to the wall." the teachers and the boys alike know that they are never true criterions of progress, that they are seldom even fair representations of the actual course of study. weeks, months are spent in preparations for the deceitful display; even then true merit, which is generally modest by nature, does itself injustice, and vain self-assurance comes off with flying colors. the cram teacher scatters seed over a large amount of mental surface, instead of thoroughly cultivating the most promising portions; and he brings before the parents and the public the few ears gleaned on all the acres as samples of crops which he knows never will be gathered. yet to his own pedantic vanity, or his self-interest, he sacrifices the prime of many a fine boy's life. therefore we are disposed to believe that if parents would inexorably refuse to sanction these pretentious public displays, there would be probably a much less accumulation of bare facts, but a far greater cultivation of natural abilities, and a far more thorough development of decided aptitudes. mechanical drudgery, instead of intelligent labor, is the inevitable method where cramming a boy, instead of educating him, is the favorite system. no mental faculties, except the memory, receive any discipline, and the knowledge disappears as fast as it was gained. all taste for laborious habits of thought are lost, and if a boy originally possessed a love for learning he is soon disgusted at what his simple nature tells him is pretence and unreal, and judging the true by a false standard he conceives an honest disgust for intellectual labor, and pronounces it all a sham. few boys can even mentally go through a course of "cramming" and come out uninjured. the majority of the finest intellects develop tardily, and their superiority is in fact greatly dependent upon the staying powers conferred by physical strength and wisely considered conditions. there are of course exceptions, where an inherited force of genius stamps the boy from the first and defies all systems to crush it. but it is the average boy, and not the exceptional one, that must be considered in all methods of education. in this matter boys are not to be blamed. they naturally accept the master's opinions as to the value of his plan; they rather enjoy a neck-and-neck race with each other in superficial acquirements, and the whole tendency of our social life supports the tempting theory. every one wants to possess without the trouble of acquiring; every one would have a reputation without the labor of earning it. in an age which prides itself upon the speed with which it does everything, which makes a merit of doing whatever is to be done in the shortest and quickest way possible, it is easy to perceive how a certain class of teachers, and parents too, would be willing to believe that the old up-hill road to knowledge might be graded and lined and made available for rapid transit. but nothing can be more illogical than to apply social rules and conditions to mental ones. the former are constantly changing, the latter obey fixed and immutable laws. there is not, there never has been, there never will be, any short cuts to universal knowledge; and the boy who is made to waste time seeking one will have either to relinquish his object altogether, or else, turning back to the main road, find his early companions who kept to it hopelessly ahead of him. learning is a plant that grows slowly and whose fruit must be waited for. it is a long time, even after having learned anything, _that we know it well_. the servant-girl's point of view a great deal has been said lately on the servant-girl question, always from the mistresses' point of view; and as no _ex-parte_ evidence is conclusive, i offer for the servant-girl side some points that may help to a better understanding of the whole subject. it is said, on all hands, that servants every year grow more idle, showy, impudent, and independent. the last charge is emphatically true, and it accounts for and includes the others. but then this independence is the necessary result of the world's progress, in which all classes share. steam has made it easy for families to travel, who, without cheap locomotion, would never go one hundred miles from home. it has also made it easy for servants to go from city to city. when wages are low and service is plenty in one place, a few dollars will carry them to where they are in request. fifty years ago very few servants read, or cared to read. they are now the best patrons of a certain class of newspapers; they see the "want columns" as well as other people; and they are quite capable of appreciating the lessons they teach and the advantages they offer. the national increase of wealth has also affected the position of servants. people keep more servants than they used to keep; and servants have less work to do. people live better than they used to live, and servants, as well as others, feel the mental uplifting that comes from rich and plentiful food. but one of the main causes of trouble is that a mistress even yet hires her servant with some ancient ideas about her inferiority. she forgets that servants read novels, and do fancy work, and write lots of letters; and that service can no longer be considered the humble labor of a lower for a superior being. mistresses must now dismiss from their minds the idea of the old family servant they have learned to meet in novels; they must cease to look upon service as in any way a family tie; they must realize and practically acknowledge the fact that the relation between mistress and servant is now on a purely commercial basis,--the modern servant being a person who takes a certain sum of money for the performance of certain duties. indeed the condition has undergone just the same change as that which has taken place in the relation between the manufacturer and his artisans, or between the contractor and his carpenters and masons. it is true enough that servants take the money and do not perform the duties, or else perform them very badly. the manufacturer, the contractor, the merchant, all make the same complaint; for independence and social freedom always step _before_ fitness for these conditions, because the condition is necessary for the results, and the results are not the product of one generation. surely americans may bear their domestic grievances without much outcry, since they are altogether the consequences of education and progress, and are the circumstances which make possible much higher and better circumstances. for just as soon as domestic service is authoritatively and publicly made a commercial bargain, and all other ideas eliminated from it, service will attract a much higher grade of women. the independent, fairly well-read american girl will not sell her labor to women who insist on her giving any part of her personality but the work of her hands. she feels interference in her private affairs to be an impertinence on any employer's part. she does not wish any mistress to take an interest in her, to advise, to teach, or reprove her. she objects to her employer being even what is called "friendly." all she asks is to know her duties and her hours, and to have a clear understanding as to her work and its payment. and when service is put upon this basis openly, it will draw to it many who now prefer the harder work, poorer pay, but larger independence, of factories. servants are a part of our social system, but our social system is being constantly changed and uplifted, and servants rise with it. i remember a time in england when servants who did not fulfil their year's contract were subject to legal punishment; when a certain quality of dress was worn by them, and those who over-dressed did so at the expense of their good name; when they seldom moved to any situation beyond walking distance from their birthplace; when, in fact, they were more slaves than servants. would any good woman wish to restore service to this condition? on the servant's part the root of all difficulty is her want of respect for her work; and this, solely because her work has not yet been openly and universally put upon a commercial basis. when domestic service is put on the same plane as mechanical service, when it is looked upon as a mere business bargain, then the servant will not feel it necessary to be insolent and to do her work badly, simply to let her employer know how much she is above it. much has been done to degrade service by actors, newspapers, and writers of all kinds giving to the domestic servant names of contempt as "flunkies," "menials," etc., etc. if such terms were habitually used regarding mechanics, we might learn to regard masons and carpenters with disdain. yet domestic service is as honorable as mechanical service, and the woman who can cook a good dinner is quite as important to society as the man who makes the table on which it is served. yet, whether mistresses will recognize the change or not, service has in a great measure emancipated itself from feudal bonds. servants have now a social world of their own, of which their mistresses know nothing at all. in it they meet their equals, make their friends, and talk as they desire. without unions, without speeches, and without striking,--because they can get what they want without striking,--they have raised their wages, shortened their hours, and obtained many privileges. and the natural result is an independence--which for lack of proper expression asserts itself by the impertinence and self-conceit of ignorance--that has won more in tangible rights than in intangible respect. mistresses who have memories or traditions are shocked because servants do not acknowledge their superiority, or in any way reverence their "betters." but reverence for any earthly thing is the most un-american of attitudes. reverence is out of date and offensively opposed to free inquiry. parents do not exact it, and preachers do not expect it,--the very title of "rev." is now a verbal antiquity. do we not even put our rulers through a course of hand-shaking in order to divest them of any respect the office might bring? why, then, expect a virtue from servants which we do not practise in our own stations? it is said, truly enough, that servants think of nothing but dress. alas, mistresses are in the same transgression! this is the fault of machinery. when servants wore mob-caps and ginghams, mistresses wore muslins and merinos, and were passing fine with one good silk dress. machinery has made it possible for mistresses to get lots of dresses, and if servants are now fine and tawdry, it is because there is a general leaning that way. servants were neat when every one else was neat. to blame servants for faults we all share is really not reasonable. it must be remembered that women of all classes dress to make themselves attractive, and attractive mainly to the opposite sex. what the young ladies in the parlor do to make themselves beautiful to their lovers, the servants in the kitchen imitate. both classes of young women are anxious to marry. there is no harm in this desire in either case. with the hopes of the young ladies we do not meddle; why then interfere about nurse and the policeman? service is not an elysium under the most favorable circumstances. no girl gets fond of it, and a desire to be mistress of her own house--however small it may be--is not a very shameful kicking against providence. the carrying out of three points, would probably revolutionize the whole condition of service:-- _first._ the relation should be put upon an absolutely commercial basis; and made as honorable as mechanical, or factory, or store service. _second._ duties and hours should be clearly defined. there should be no interference in personal matters. there should be no more personal interest expected, or shown, than is the rule between any other employer and employee. _third._ if it were possible to induce yearly engagements, they should be the rule; for when people know they have to put up with each other for twelve months, they are more inclined to be patient and forbearing; they learn to make the best of each other's ways; and bearing becomes liking, and habit strengthens liking, and so they go on and on, and are pretty well satisfied. extravagance the anglo-saxon race is inherently extravagant. the lord and leader of the civilized world, it clothes itself in purple and fine linen, and lives sumptuously every day, as a prerogative of its supremacy. this trait is a very early one, and the barbaric extravagance of "the field of the cloth of gold" only typified that passion of the race for splendid apparel and accessories which in our day has reached a point of general and prodigal pomp and ostentation. no other highly civilized nations have this taste for personal parade and luxurious living to the same extent. the french, who enjoy a reputation for all that is pretty and elegant, are really parsimonious, and it is as natural for a frenchman to hoard his money as it is for a dog to bury his bone, while a dutchman or a german can grow rich on a salary which keeps an american always scrambling on the verge of bankruptcy. some time ago lord derby said: "englishmen are the most extravagant race in the world, or, at least, only surpassed by the americans." and the "surpassing" in this direction is so evident to any one familiar with the two countries that it requires no demonstration,--an american household, even in the middle classes, being a model school for throwing away the most money for the least possible returns. american women have a reputation for lavish expenditure that is world-wide, but they are not more extravagant than american men. if one spends money on beautiful toilets and splendidly dreary entertainments, the other flings it away on the turf, on cards or billiards, or in masculine prodigalities still more objectionable. in most fashionable houses the husband and wife are equally extravagant, and the candle blazes away at both ends. to foreigners, the most noticeable extravagance of americans is in the matter of flowers. winter or summer, women of very modest means must have flowers for their girdle. they will pay fifty cents for a rose or two when half-dollars are by no means plentiful, and it is such a pretty womanly taste that no man has the heart to grumble at it; only, if the women themselves would add up the amount of money spent in this transitory luxury, say during three months, they would be astonished at their own thoughtlessness. for of all pleasures flower-buying is the most evanescent; before the day is over the fading buds are cast into the refuse cart, and the money might just as well have been cast into the street. as for the amount spent in floral displays at weddings, funerals, theatres, balls, and dinners, it must be presumed that people who thus waste hundreds of dollars on articles that are useless in a few hours have the hundreds of dollars to throw away, and that they enjoy the pastime of making floral ducks and drakes with their money. but if they do not enjoy it, then why do they not imitate the economy of beau brummel, who, when compelled by his debts to make some sacrifice of luxuries, resolved to begin retrenchment by curtailing the rose water for his bath? large floral outlays are just as fantastic an extravagance, for though flowers in moderation are beautiful, in excess they are vulgar, and even disagreeable. the greeks, who made no mistakes about beauty and fitness, contented themselves with a garland and a rose for their wine cup. they would never have danced and feasted and wedded themselves in a charnel-house of dying flowers. our dressing and dining is done on the same immense scale. lucullus might preside at our feasts, and queens envy the jewels and costumes of our women. perhaps the size of the country and its transcendent possibilities in every direction instinctively incite those who have the means to lavishness of outlay. people who live under bright high skies, and whose horizons are wide and far-reaching, imbibe a largeness of expression which is not satisfied with mere words; and if we look at our extravagance in this way, we may regard it as a national trait, developed from our natural position and advantages. of course, it is easy to say that americans are lavish because, as dr. watts puts it, "it is their nature to" be, but the real reason for the overgrown luxury of the last two or three decades is to be found in the rapid increase of the vulgar rich, the very last class worthy of our imitation. are not the absurd blunders of the poor man who strikes oil a common subject for witticisms and stories? profuse display will probably be the only social grace the newly rich can dispense. so, then, if wealth increases more rapidly than culture, it is sure, in the very nature of things, to be squandered ostentatiously; for the men whose minds are in a stunted state, being fit for nothing else, will throw their money away on cards or horses or any other fashionable form of dissipation; and the women in the same mental incompleteness, knowing nothing but how to dress and dance, when they have wealth thrust upon them will be able to find no better use for it than to dress and dance all the more conspicuously. this senseless love of display, once inaugurated in a city set or in a small town, is apt to take the lead: first, because all the snobs will cater to it; second, because sensible people know that they cannot start a reform movement without making themselves unpopular, and going to a great deal of trouble and expense. for, however extravagant the machinery of society is, it has the enormous advantage of being there, and few people can afford to live against it. for to do as every one else does, and to go with the stream, is much easier than to set good examples that no one wants to follow. indeed it takes a tremendous exercise of pluck, thought, trouble, time, and energy to reduce an establishment that has been an extravagant one to a more economical footing. the justification of private extravagant expenditure is found in the necessity of a class who will have leisure to encourage the intellectual tastes and ambitions of the nation. and this end might be accomplished if only matters could be so arranged that a shower of gold should descend on the right people in the right place at the right time. but wealth is no more to the worthy than the race is to the strong, and so it often finds outlets for dispersion for which there is no justification, and whose sole object is that sensual life pictured in "lothair,"--fine houses, great retinues, costly clothing, clubs, yachts, conservatories, etc., etc.,--in fact, an existence without a crumpled rose-leaf, that would make a man a mixture of the sybarite and satyr. such specimens of humanity may occasionally be found in america, but they are not yet a distinct class, nor are they likely to become one in our pushing, up-and-down, constantly changing society. indeed, amid the earnest strivings, the intellectual aspirings and the mechanical wonders of steam and electricity which environ us, a semi-monster of the lothair type would be as incongruous as a faun on the avenue or a pagan temple on mid-broadway. if we would only take the trouble to examine the facts before our eyes we have constantly in our university towns the proof that high culture and moderation in dress and living go together. take cambridge, mass., for instance; its very best society is singularly unostentatious, and the wives and daughters of its educated dignitaries entertain without extravagance, and look for respect and admiration from some loftier standpoint than their dress trimmings. ought we to wear mourning? this is a question that from the earliest days of christianity has at times agitated the church. it was specially dominant in the first centuries, when every divergence from jewish or pagan rites was almost an act of faith. now the jews, after the death of their relatives, wore sackcloth during their time of mourning, which lasted from seven to forty days. they sat on the ground, and ate their food off the earth; they neither dressed themselves, nor made their beds, nor went into the bath, nor saluted any one. this excess of grief rarely lasted long; then a great feast was made for the surviving friends of the dead; or the bread and meat were placed upon his grave for the benefit of the poor. (tobit iv. ; eccles. xxx. ; and baruch vi. .) it was natural for the christian, with the hope set before him, to oppose this despairing sorrow, and we find saint jerome praising those who partially abandoned it; while cyprian declares he was "ordered by divine revelation to preach that christians should not lament their brethren delivered from the world, nor wear any mourning habits for them, seeing that they were gone to put on white raiment, nor give occasion for unbelievers by lamenting those as lost whom we affirm to be with god." as the church lapsed from its simplicity into forms and ceremonies, vestments of all kinds, and for every purpose and occasion, gained importance; and the first serious protestation against mourning garments came from the quakers. to these spiritual men and women it seemed absurd to wear black garments for those whom they believed had put on everlasting white. the majority of the early methodists held the same opinion, though in a less positive form. it is remarkable, however, that christians alone assume the woeful, despairing black garments which seem to denote not only the loss of life, but the end of hope. ancient egypt wore yellow in memory of departed friends; the greeks and romans used white garments for mourning; the chinese also consecrate white to the services of death, and the mohammedans wear blue, because it is the color of the visible heavens. therefore i ask, if we must wear a distinct dress to typify our sorrow, why black? black has now become objectionable from having lost all the sacred meaning it once possessed. it is no longer the livery of grief. the blonde belle wears it because it sets off her fine complexion; the brunette, because it admits of the vivid contrasts so suitable to her brilliant beauty. the prudent wear it because it is economical and ladylike; and all women know that it imparts grace and dignity, and drapes beautifully; so, for these and many other reasons, it has within the last fifty years become an every-day dress, one just as likely to express vanity as grief. the reasons set forth by the quakers for its abandonment cover the ground, and are at least worthy of our consideration. they are: first, that mourning had its origin in a state of barbarism, and prior to the revelation of "life eternal through jesus christ," and is therefore not to be observed in civilized and christianized countries. second, that the trappings of grief are childish where the grief is real, and mockery where it is not. third, that mourning garments are absolutely useless: for if they are intended to remind us of our affliction, true grief needs no such reminder; if to point out our grief to others, they are an impertinence, for true sorrow courts seclusion; and if as a consolation, they are only powerful to remind of an irrevocable past. fourth, their inconvenience: too often the house of death is turned by them into a busy work-shop; and the souls bowed down with grief are made to trouble themselves about mourning ornaments and becoming weeds. fifth, their bad moral influence: the gracefulness of the costume stills the grief that ought to be stilled by religion; and as in a large family there must be many mourners in form only, the equivocation of dress is a sort of moral equivocation. sixth, their expense. this is really a great item in the resources of the poor, and often straitens for years; besides causing them, in the hour of their desolation, to be so worried and anxious about the robing of the body as to miss all the lessons god intended for the soul. the advocates for mourning plead the veiling of the heavens in black at the death of christ; and the universality and continuance of the custom, in all ages, all countries, and all faiths. i am aware that the subject is one in which strangers cannot intermeddle; the question when it arises must be settled by every heart individually. but, at least, if mourning garments are to be worn, let us not defeat every argument in their favor by fashioning them of the richest stuffs, and in the most stylish manner. this is to ticket them as the thinnest of mockeries. and after all, if we approve mourning, and wish our friends to hold us in remembrance after death, can we not find a better way than by crape and bombazine? yes, crape and bombazine wear out, and must finally be cast off; but the "memorial of virtue is immortal. when it is present, men take example of it, and when it is gone, they desire it: it weareth a crown, and triumpheth forever." how to have one's portrait taken having one's portrait taken is no longer an isolated event in one's life. it has become a kind of domestic and social duty, to which even though personally opposed, one must gracefully submit, unless he would incur the odium of neglecting the wishes of his family circle and the complimentary requests of his acquaintances. it would seem at first sight that nothing is easier than to go to a photographer's and get a good likeness. nothing is really more uncertain and disappointing. in turning over the albums of our friends, how often we pass the faces of acquaintances and don't know them at all! how is this? simply because, at the moment when the picture was taken, the original was unlike herself. she was nervous, her head was screwed in a vise, her position had been selected for her, and she had been ordered to look at an indicated spot, and keep still. such a position was like nothing in her real life, and the expression on the face was just as foreign. the features might be perfectly correct, but that inscrutable something which individualizes the face was lacking. now if the amenities of social life require us to have our pictures done, "it were as well they were well done," and much toward this end lies within the sitter's choice and power. first as to the selection of the artist. it is a great mistake to imagine that photography is a mere mechanical trade. there is as much difference between two photographers as between two engravers. nor will a fine lens alone produce a good picture. the pose of the sitter, the disposition of lights and shadows, the arrangement of drapery, are of the greatest consequence. a good artist has almost unlimited power in this direction. he can render certain parts thinner by plunging them into half-tone or by burying their outline in the shade, and he can deepen and augment other portions by surrounding them with light. thus, if the head is too small for beauty, he can increase its size by throwing the light on the face; and if it is too large, he can diminish it by choosing a tint that would throw one half of the face into shadow. if the artist has a lens which perpetually changes its focus, the result is a portrait in which the outlines are delicately soft and undefined. a _view lens_, or one that is perfectly flat, occupies nearly two minutes to complete the likeness, and the consequence is, the sitter moves slightly, and the required softness is obtained in an accidental manner. it is evident, therefore, that the most rapidly taken pictures are not necessarily the best. then people have a hundred different aspects, and to seize the best and reproduce it is the function of genius, and not of chemicals. having selected a good artist, and one, also, whose position has enabled him to secure the best tools, the next duty of the sitter regards herself and her costume. in photography a good portrait may be quite nullified by the choice of bad colors in dress. finery is the curse of the artist, but if he works in oils he can leave it out or tone it down. in photography, as the sitter comes, so she must be taken, with all her excellences or her imperfections on her head. the colors most luminous to the eye, as red, yellow, orange, are almost without action; green acts feebly; blue and violet are reproduced very promptly. if, then, a person of very fair complexion were taken in green, orange, or red, the lights would be very prominent, and the portrait lack energy and detail. the best of all dresses is black silk,--_silk_, not bombazine, or merino, or any cottony mixture, as the admirable effect depends on the gloss of the silk, which makes it full of subdued and reflected lights that give motion and play to the drapery. a dead-black dress without this shimmer would be represented by a uniform blotch; a white dress looks like a flat film of wax or a piece of card-board; but a combination of black net or lace over white is very effective, though rarely ventured upon. an admirable softness and depth of color are given to photographs by sealskin and velvet. complexion must be considered with dress. blondes can wear much lighter colors than brunettes. brunettes always make the best pictures when taken in dark dresses, but neither blondes nor brunettes look well in positive white. are any pictures so universally ugly as bridal ones? all violent contrasts of color spoil a picture, and should be particularly guarded against; and jewelry imparts a look of vulgarity. blondes suffer most in photographic pictures; their golden hair loses all its brilliancy, and their blue eyes, so lovely to the poet, are perplexity to the photographer. before facing the lens, blondes should powder their yellow hair nearly white; it is then brought to about the same photographic tint as in nature. freckles, which are hardly any blemish in the natural face, become, on account of their yellow tint, very unpleasantly distinct in a photographic picture, and often give to the face a decidedly spotted look. they are easily disguised for the occasion. there ought to be in the dressing-room of every studio a mixture of a little oxide of zinc and glycerine; this is to be thinned with rose-water till of the consistence of cream, and applied to the face with a piece of sponge previous to the photographing process. it leaves the skin a delicate white color, and masks all freckles and discolorations. let a lady with freckles try her picture first without this mixture, and again after the sponge and the cosmetic, and the value of the receipt will be at once appreciated. its use has long been advocated by the _british journal of photography_. in connection with this fact we may offer a few words of advice to ladies whose skins are apt to tan and freckle when exposed to the summer sun. blue is, of all colors, most readily affected by light; and yellow is, of all colors, the least readily susceptible to it. if, then, a fine complexion is desired, the blue veil must be rigorously discarded, however becoming. green could take its place, but a little yellow net would be better to save a delicate complexion than all the washes and kalydors ever invented. freckles and tan are nothing more than the darkening of the salts of iron in the blood by the action of light; and as blue is, of all colors, most easily affected by it, as we have said, any one can see how destructive to a fine skin a blue veil must be in sunny weather. if the photograph is to be colored, the shade of the costume is not nearly of so much importance; but it may always be borne in mind that close-fitting light garments increase the size of the head, hands, and feet, and that a flowing ample dress renders these parts light and delicate. the advantage of coloring photographs is very great, if the artist be an able and judicious one, for that _hardness_ of outline, which is more artificial than natural, may be in a great measure remedied by a clever brush; only, always object to _solid_ colors; the most transparent water-colors alone should be used. however, it is a disputed question whether artificial coloring, however well done, improves photographs, since it certainly, in some measure, robs them of that accuracy and that air of purity which are the distinctive claims of the art. the next improvement in this method of limning faces will undoubtedly be the compelling of the sun--the source of all color--to paint the pictures he draws; and a number of recent facts point to this improvement as very probable within a short time. never permit yourself to be the lay figure of a photographer's ideal landscapes. the cutting up of a portrait with balustrades, pillars, and gay parterres is fatal to the effect of the figure, which should be the only object to strike the eye. no photographic portrait looks so well as one with a perfectly plain background, but if some accessory is desired, then see that it does not turn the central figure into ridicule. if you have always lived in some modest home, do not be made to stand in marble halls or amid splendid imaginary domains. young ladies reading in full evening costume, with water and swans behind them, or standing in trailing silks and laces in a mountain pass, are ridiculous enough. we saw a few days ago the face of a lovely girl looking out of a champagne basket. the picture was artistically taken, but the extravagant conceit of the surroundings, utterly at variance with the original's character, completely spoiled the picture. we have in mind also a famous belle sitting in an elaborate toilet in a room full of books and materials for writing and study, though all her little world knows that she never reads aught but the lightest of novels, and never writes anything but an invitation or a love-letter. actresses taken in character may require an elaborate artificial background in order to assist the illusion, but private ladies, as a rule, look infinitely better without it. in ladies' portraits the setting-off of beauty is the thing to be borne in mind. this, in a photograph, is, in a great measure, a question of lights and shadows, and of their distribution. for every face there is a light and a shadow to be specially selected as the one that will show it to the best advantage. the most becoming light is one level with, or even somewhat beneath, the face, it being a great mistake to suppose the foot-lights on the stage unbecoming. a top light, such as we get in ordinary photographic rooms, augments the projection of the forehead, and throws a deep shadow over the eyes. the bridge of the nose, the lower lip, and chin separate themselves, as it were, in clear lights, from the rest of the face, and such an effect is very unbecoming and inappropriate for a young girl. if the features are prominent, a clear bright light increases very decidedly that prominence, and also imparts a peculiar hardness to the expression that has probably no existence in the model. therefore insist that, as far as possible, the light from above shall be got rid of, and a light from the side brought into use. there is as much character in the human figure as in the face; consequently full-length portraits are best, because they add to the facial resemblance the attitude and peculiarities of the figure. if the portrait is half-size, then the attitude ought to indicate the position of the lower extremities. in bust portraits the head is everything, the bust merely sustains and indicates its size and proportion. the head, however, should never be represented without the bust, for the effect of such a portrait is a total want of unity; it offers no point of comparison by which the rest of the body can be judged,--a matter of great importance, as this is one of the most striking characteristics of the individual. a _carte de visite_ is a more agreeable likeness than a larger one, because it is taken with the middle of the lens, where it is truest; hence it is never out of drawing. also, it hides rather than exaggerates any roughness of the face; and, again, it is so moderate in price that we can afford to distribute the pictures generously. photographs have a bad name for durability, and when we look over our albums and see those that were once strong and expressive now pale and faded, we are forced to admit that their beauty is evanescent. but this disadvantage is very much the fault of the artist. there is nothing in the chemical constitution of photographs--formed as they are by the combination of the precious metals--to make them evanescent. the trouble lies in the last process through which they pass. this process leaves them impregnated with a destructive chemical, and the removal of all traces of it is a difficult and tedious thing. to be finished effectually, the pictures ought to be bathed for a day in a good body of water constantly agitated and changed. artists who are jealous of their art and of their personal reputation insist on this process being thoroughly attended to, but with inferior photographers the temptation to neglect it is very great, especially as in many cases the vicious chemical adds to the present brilliancy of the picture. they are further tempted by the impatience of sitters, who are often importunate for an immediate finish of their pictures. but if a durable portrait is wanted, ladies must allow the artist time for the proper cleansing of their photograph. to the large majority of people the first interview with their photographic portrait is a heavy disappointment. they express themselves by an eloquent silence, turn it this way and that, hold it near and far off. after a little while they become used to it in its velvet frame, though they never in their heart acknowledge its truthfulness. again, there are others to whom photography is very favorable, and they show to more advantage in their pictures than ever they did in reality. these last are people whose features are well balanced and proportioned, but who are not generally considered beautiful. faces dependent for beauty on their mobility and expression suffer most, and are indeed, in their finer moods, almost untranslatable by this process. still, setting aside all artistic considerations, photographic portraits have a great social value, not only because they fairly indicate the _personnel_ of their models, but because they so faithfully represent textures that we can form a very good idea from a _carte de visite_ of the social position of the sitter, and incidentally, from the cut, style, and material of the dress, a very good notion also of their moral calibre. many things are permissible in photographic portraits--which may be retaken every few months--that would justly be deprecated in a finished oil portrait destined to go down with houses and lands to unborn generations. in such a picture any intrusion of the imagination is an impertinence if made at the slightest expense of truth. the great value of an oil portrait is this: the divine, almost intangible light of expression hovering over the face is seized on by living skill and intellect, and imprisoned in colors. the sitter is not taken in one special moment, when his eyes are fixed and his muscles rigid, but in a free study of many hours the characteristics of the face are learned, and some felicitous expression caught and fixed forever. this is what gives portrait painting its special value, and drives ordinary photographic portraits out of the realms of art into those of mechanism. artists have various ways of treating their sitters. some throw them into a sir-joshua-like attitude, and put in a gainsborough background. others compass the face all over, and map it out like a chart, taking elevations of every mole and dimple. but whenever an artist feels unsafe away from his compasses, and cannot trust himself, sitters should not trust him. there is a real pleasure in sitting to a master in his art, a real weariness and disgust in sitting to a tyro. it must be remembered that not only is the best expression to be caught, but that the _features_ of any face vary so much under physical changes and mental moods that their differences may actually be measured with a foot-rule. an ordinary artist will measure these distances; an extraordinary artist will catch their subtle effects, and will draw the features as well as the expression at their very best. a really fine oil portrait should look as well near by as it does at a distance. suffer no artist to leave out blemishes which contribute to the character of the original; ugly or pretty, unless a portrait is a likeness, it is worthless. there are very clever artists who cannot paint a true portrait, because they leave every picture redolent of themselves. thus bartolozzi in engraving holbein's heads, made everything bartolozzi. but in a portrait the individuality of the sitter should permeate and usurp the whole canvas, so that in looking at it we should think only of the person represented, and quite forget the artist who brought him before us. it is an axiom that every full-length portrait requires a curtain and a column, every half-length a table, every kit-kat a full face. but surely such rules betray barrenness of invention. every good position cannot be said to have been exhausted. why should not every portrait be treated as a part of an historical picture in which the sitter's position and background and accessories produced the tone and feeling most suitable to his ordinary life? raphael in his portrait of leo the tenth exhibits a faithful study of such subordinates. there is a prayer-book with miniatures, a bell on the table, and a mirror at the back of the chair reflecting the whole scene. one of rembrandt's most charming portraits is that of his mother cutting her nails with a pair of scissors. never suffer any artist to slur over or hide the hand. the hand is a feature full of beauty and individuality. any one who has noticed how vandyck studied and worked out its peculiarities, what beauty and expression he gave to it, will never undervalue its power as an exponent of personality again. the portraits of men or women occupying prominent positions should always have their name and that of the artist on the back. if this had been done in times past, how many nameless portraits, now of little value, would be held in high estimation! from the time of henry the eighth to the time of charles the first it was usual to insert in a corner the armorial bearings of the person represented. this did not, indeed, accurately identify the individual, but it made it easier to determine. there is a masterpiece of vandyck's in the national gallery of england that goes by the name of "gevartius." but no one knows who gevartius was. here is an old man's head made memorable for all time,--a head which would be thought cheap at $ , , and which, if it were for sale, would attract connoisseurs from all parts of the civilized world, and it is without a name. how much more valuable and interesting it would be if its history were known! therefore no feeling of modesty should prevent eminent characters from insuring the identity of their pictures. let us imagine a picture of abraham lincoln and one of professor morse two hundred years hence, with the name attached in one case, and a mere tradition of identity in the other, and it will be easy to estimate the difference in value. americans have been accused of an undue taste for portraiture; the taste has its foundation in the character of the nation. it corresponds with that estimation of the personal worth of a man, and that full appreciation of individual independence, which form such important elements in our national character. the crown of beauty the glory and the crown of physical perfection is beautiful hair. venus would not charm us if she were bald, and neither poet, painter, nor sculptor would dare to give us a "subject" which should lack this, the charm of all other charms. neither is it a modern fancy. homer, when he would praise helen, calls her "the beautiful-haired helen," and petronius, in his famous picture of circe, makes much of "trailing locks." the loveliness of long hair in woman seems never to have been disputed, and it had also a very wide acceptance as a mark of masculine strength and beauty. st. paul, it is true, says that it is a shame to a man to have long hair, but his opinion is not to be taken without reservation, for both the traditions of poetry and painting give to the saviour, and also to the beloved disciple, long locks of curling brown hair. the greek warriors and most of the asiatic nations prided themselves on their long hair, and the romans gave a great significance to it by making it the badge of a freeman. cæsar, too, distinctly says that he always compelled the men of a province which he had conquered to shave off their hair in token of submission. the saxon and danish rulers of england were equally famous for their long yellow locks, and the fashion continued with little or no intermission until the dynasty of the tudor kings. they affected, for some reason or other, short hair; and "king hal" is undoubtedly indebted for his "bluff look" to the short, thick crop which he wore. the fashion even extended to the women of that age, and their pictured faces, with their hair all hidden away under a _coif_, have a most hard, stiff, and unlovely appearance. under the stuarts, long, flowing hair again became fashionable with the royalist party, who made their "love locks" the sign and emblem of their loyalty. on the contrary, the puritans made short hair almost a tenet of faith and a part of their creed. within the last ten years hair has been again the sign of political feeling, for, during the civil war, the southern women in favor of the confederacy wore one long curl behind the left ear, while those in favor of the union wore one behind each ear. during the last century men have gradually cut their hair shorter and shorter. they pretend, of course, fashion dictates the order; but a woman may be allowed to doubt whether necessity did not first dictate to fashion. certainly ladies prefer in men hair that is moderately long, thick, and curling, to the penitentiary style of last year. and suppose they could have long hair, but cut it for their own comfort, the act says very little for their gallantry. i have no need to point to the chignons, braids, and artifices which women use to lengthen their hair in order to please men, who decline to return the compliment, even to a degree that would be vastly becoming to them. after the length of hair, color is the point of most interest. in reality there are but two colors, black and red. brown, golden, yellow, etc., are intermediate, the difference in shade being determined by the sulphur and oxygen or carbon which prevails. in black hair, carbon exceeds; in golden hair, sulphur and oxygen. it has been insisted that climate determines the color of hair; that fair-haired people are found north of parallel °; brown hair between ° and °; which would include northern france, switzerland, bohemia, austria, and touch georgia and circassia, canada, and the northern part of maine; and that below that line come the black-haired races of spain, naples, turkey, etc., etc. but this is easily disproved. take, for instance, the parallel ° and follow it round the world. upon it may be found the curly, golden-haired european; the black, straight hair of the mongolian and american indian, and again, in canada, it will give us the fair-haired saxon girl. so, then, it is race, and not climate, which determines the color. i am inclined to think, too, that temperament has something to do with it, since we find black-haired celts, golden-haired venetians, and fair and black-haired jews. the ancient civilized nations passionately admired red hair. greeks, romans, chinese, turks, and spaniards have given it to their warriors and beauties. somehow among the anglo-saxon race it has a bad reputation. both in novels and plays it is common to give the rascal of the plot "villanous red hair;" and in the english school of painters, the traitor judas is generally distinguished by it. in the east, black is the favorite color, and the persians abhor a red-haired woman. light brown or golden hair is the universal favorite. the greeks gave it to apollo, venus, and minerva. the romans had such a passion for it that, in the days of the empire, light hair brought from germany (to make wigs for roman ladies) sold for its weight in gold. the germans themselves, not content with the beautiful hair nature had given them, made a soap of goat's tallow and beechwood ashes to brighten the color. homer loved "blondes," and milton and shakespeare are full of golden-haired beauties, while the pages of the novelist and the galleries of painters, ancient and modern, show the same preference. lavater insists greatly on the color of hair as an index to the disposition. "chestnut hair," he says, "indicates love of change and great vivacity; black hair, passion, strength, ambition, and energy; fair hair, mildness, tenderness, and judgment." fashion has dressed the hair in many absurd and also in many beautiful forms; but through all changes, curls, floating free and natural, have had a majority of admirers. some one says that "of all the revolvers aimed at men's hearts, curls are the most deadly," and from the persistent instinct of women in retaining them, i am inclined to indorse this statement. the armenians and some other asiatics twist the hair into the form of a mitre; the parthians and persians leave it long and floating; the scythians and goths wear it short, thick, and bristling; the arabians and kindred people often cut it on the crown. in the south of europe, "to be in the hair" is a common expression for unmarried girls, because they wear their hair long and flowing, while matrons put it up in a coil at the back of the head. until the ninth century in england, nature pretty much led the fashions in hair-dressing; then plaits turned up on each side of the cheek were introduced; and in the eleventh century the hair all disappeared under the head-dress of that time. early in the sixteenth century ladies began to "turn up" the hair. queen margaret of navarre frizzed and turned back her abundant locks just as the women of our own day do. the custom, too, that is now prevalent of braiding the hair in two long locks and tying them at the ends with ribbons was a favorite style in the early part of the seventeenth century. in the eighteenth century women used powder to such an extent as almost to destroy the color of the hair, and during the past hundred years every possible arrangement and non-arrangement has had a temporary favor. i have nothing to say about the customs of the present day. if there is any property in which a woman has undisputed right, it is surely in her own hair; and if she chooses to wear it in an unbecoming or inartistic style, it is certainly no one's business that i can perceive. assuredly not the men's, since i have already shown that they, either through inability or selfishness, decline to wear the thick, flowing locks with which nature crowns manly strength and beauty, and which are all women's admiration. the majority of women have a natural taste in this matter, and very few are so silly as to sacrifice their beauty to fashion. two or three rules are fundamental in all arrangements of the hair: one is that a superabundance at the back of the head always imparts an animal expression; another, that it is peculiarly ugly to sweep the whole forehead bare. the greeks, supreme authorities on all subjects of beauty and taste, were never guilty of such an atrocity. in all their exquisite statues the hair is set low. a third is that "bands" are the most trying of all _coiffures_, and never ought to be adopted except by faces of classic beauty. to add them to a round, merry face with a nose retroussé is as absurd as to put a doric frieze on an irregular building. a general and positive one is that all hair is spoiled, both in quality and color, by oiling, for it takes from it that elasticity and lightness which is its chief charm and characteristic; the last (which i have no hope ladies will heed just at present) is, never to hide the natural form of the head. waste of vitality if we come to reflect upon it, in middle age we find that the one great cause of departure from the ideal in real life is our liability to take cold. almost all our pleasures are bound up with this probability, for when we have taken cold we are far too stupid either to give or enjoy pleasure. and there is no philosophy connected with colds. serious illnesses are full of instruction and resignation, but who thinks of being resigned to a cold, or of making a profitable use of it? "chilly" is a word that of late years has come to be a frequent and pitiably significant one on the lips of the middle-aged. they have a terror of the frost and snow which they once enjoyed so keenly, and they really suffer much more than they will allow themselves to confess. the most invigorating and inspiriting of all climates is °, but if the glass fall to °, chilly people are miserable; they feel draughts everywhere, especially on the face, and very likely the first symptoms of a neuralgic attack. at °--which must have been the in-door winter temperature of our forefathers--they become irritable and shivery, and lose all energy. if the temperature fall below °, they "take cold," and exhibit all the mental inertia and many of the physical symptoms of influenza, which nevertheless has not attacked them. let us at once admit a truth: the young and robust despise the chilly for their chilliness, for there is such a thing as physical pride, and a very unpleasant thing it is in families. these physical pharisees are always recommending the "roughing" and "hardening" process, and they would gladly revive for the poor invalid the cold-water torture of the past. without being conscious of it, they are cruel. chilly people are not made better by the unsympathetic remarks of those of quicker blood. there is no good in assuring them that the cold is healthy and seasonable. they feel keenly the half-joking imputation of "cosseting," though perhaps they are too inert and miserable to defend themselves. strong walking exercise is the remedy always proposed. many cannot take it. others make a laudable effort to follow the prescription, and perhaps during it feel a glow of warmth to which in the house--though the house is thoroughly warmed--they are strangers. but half an hour after their return home the tide of life has receded again, and they are as chilly and nervous as before. nevertheless, they have passed through an experience which, if they would consider it, indicates their relief, if not their cure. while out-of-doors they thought it necessary to cover their feet with warm hosiery and thick boots, the head with a bonnet and veil, their hands with gloves and a fur muff, their body with some fur or wadded garment half an inch thick. in short, when they went out they imitated nature, and protected themselves as she does animals. but just as soon as they return home they uncover their head and hands, replace the warm, heavy clothing of the feet with some of a more elegant but far colder quality, and take off altogether the thick warm garments worn out-of-doors. a bear that should follow the same course when it went home to its snug subterranean den would naturally enough die of some pulmonary disease. nations which are subjected to long and severe winters have learned the more natural and excellent way. the laplander keeps on his fur, the russian his wadded garment, the tartar his sheep-skin, the shetlander goes about in his house in his wadmal. it is only in our high state of civilization that men and women divest themselves of half their clothing with the thermometer below zero, and then run to the fire to warm their freezing hands and feet. if warm clothing protects us out of the house, it will do the same in the house; and it is no more "coddling," and much more sensible and satisfactory than cowering over a grate. under the head-dress a silk skullcap is a most effective protection against draughts, and would prevent many an attack of neuralgia. a silk or wash-leather vest will keep the body at a more equable temperature than the best fire. a shawl to most middle-aged ladies is a graceful toilet adjunct even in the house, and it is capable of retaining as well as of imparting much warmth. when very chilly after removal of outside wraps, or from any other cause, try a wadded dressing-gown over the usual clothing. in five minutes the added comfort will be recognized. the secret is, then, to keep the body at its proper temperature in the house by the adoption of sufficient warm clothing, instead of trusting to artificially heated atmosphere. no one will be more liable to take cold out of the house because she has been warm in the house. there is no more sense in shivering in-doors in order to prepare the body to endure the out-door climate than there would be in sleeping with too few blankets for fear of increasing the sense of cold when out of bed. a stuffy room, with air constantly heated to °, is the most efficacious invention ever devised for ruining health. but it is equally true that _habitual warmth_ is the very best preserver of constitutional strength in middle and old age; and undoubtedly this is best maintained by a temperature of ° and plenty of clothing. a very important aid to warmth is a proper diet. many women who suffer continually from a sense of chill, below the tide of healthy life, have yet constantly at hand an abundance of nourishing food. but they eat one day at one hour, the next at another; they don't care what they eat, and take anything a flippant-minded cook chooses to send them; they wait for some one when themselves hungry, out of mere domestic courtesy; and when their husbands are from home they take tea and biscuits because it is not worth while giving servants the trouble of cooking for them alone. in all these and many similar ways vitality is continually lost, and with every loss of vitality there is a corresponding access of slow, chilly, shivering inertia. it is a great mistake that women are taught from childhood that it is meritorious in their sex to conceal their own wants, and to postpone their own convenience to that of fathers, brothers, husbands, and even servants. for in the end they break down, and are left in a state of ill health in which all the wheels of life run slow. the trouble, in a sentence, is that women _have no wives_--no one to remind them when they are in a draught, or come in with wet feet, no one to get them a warm drink when chilly, and ward off the little ills (which soon become great ones) by loving, thoughtful, constant care and attention. all women know how hard it is to live the usual life of work and amusement in a physical condition of far below the requisite strength. nothing induces this condition like chronic chill. in it no vitality can be gained, and very much may be continually lost. therefore every plan should be tried which promises to raise the temperature to a healthy standard. try the effect of a room heated to °, and plenty of warm, constantly warm clothing. a little matter of money "it is unpleasant not to have money," says mr. hazlitt; indeed, it has become a sort of social offence to be short of virtue in this respect; for both nationally and personally, we are loath to confess so tragic a calamity. we may assert that, having food and clothes, we are therewith content, and that we would not encounter the perils and snares of vast wealth; but are we quite sure that this humility and contentment is not a fine name for being too lazy to earn money, or too extravagant to keep it? again, if all were content with the simple satisfaction of their necessities--if nobody wanted to be rich--nobody would be industrious or frugal, or strive to acquire knowledge. who then would build our churches, and endow our colleges? who would send out missionaries, and encourage science and inventions? the golden grapes may be out of our reach, but they are a noble fruit when pressed by kindly hands, and have given graciously unto the world their wine of consolation. the fact is that we have come to a time in which the want of money is about as bad a moral distemper as the love of it. the latter position is an admitted truth; the former is only beginning to put forth its claims to the notice of professed moralists. whatever special virtue there was in poverty seems to be in direct antagonism to the spirit of the present day; for there is no doubt that worldly prosperity has come to be regarded as one of the legitimate fruits of the gospel. the modern church puts forth her hands and grasps the promise of the life that now is, as well as that which is to come. why not? money gives a power of doing good that nothing material can equal. even "the truth" has now to depend on the currency, and the most evangelical societies pay treasurers as well as missionaries. the amount of money in a man's pocket is a great moral factor. he who has plenty of ready cash and is not good-natured needs a thorough change, and nothing but being born again will cure him. but the man who is in a chronic state of poverty is a man placed in selfish relations to every one around him. how hard it is for such a one to be generous, just, and sympathetic! he is almost compelled to look on his fellow-creatures with the eye of a slave-merchant, to consider: how can they profit me? what can i gain by them? he must marry for money, or not marry for the want of it. his friendship is a kind of traffic. his religion is subject to considerations, for he will either go to church for a certain connection, or he will not go at all because of the collections. now, there is abundance of living strength in christianity to meet this and all other special wants of the age. there is no doubt that money is the principle of our social gravitation, and we need preachers who will not be afraid to tell us the truth, even though nobody has ever told it just in that particular way before. we accept without demur all that has been said about the evils of loving money; will some of our spiritual teachers tell us how to avoid the evils and cure the moral and physical distress caused by the want of money? that this is a gigantic evil, we have constant proof in the daily papers; in murder, theft, suicide, domestic misery and cruelty. these criminals are far seldomer influenced by the love of money than by the want of it. if instead of being without a dollar, they had had sufficient for their necessities, would they have run such risks, incurred such guilt, staked life on one desperate chance, flung it away in despairing misery? of course the word "sufficient" is very elastic. it can be so moderate and temperate; and again it can grasp at impossibilities. "my wants," said the count mirabel, "are few: a fine house, fine carriages, fine horses, a complete wardrobe, the best opera box, the first cook, and plenty of pocket-money--that is all i require." he thought his desires very temperate; so also did the scotchman, who, praying for a modest competency, added, "and that there be no mistake, let it be seven hundred pounds a year, paid quarterly in advance." there are indeed all sorts of difficulties connected with this question, and anybody can find their way into them. but there must also be a way out; and if our guides would survey the ground a little, they would earn and have our thanks. for undoubtedly this want of money is as great a provocation to sin as the love of it. an empty purse is as full of wicked thoughts as an evil heart; and the father who allotted seven guardian angels to man, and made five of them hover round his pockets--empty or full--knew well his most vulnerable points. mission of household furniture have wood and paper and upholstery really any moral and emotional agencies? certainly they have. not very obvious ones perhaps, but all-pervading and ever-persistent in their character; since there is no day--scarcely an hour--of our lives in which we are not, either passively or consciously, subject to their influences. our cravings after elegance of form, glimmer and shimmer of light and color, insensibly elevate and civilize us; and the men and women condemned to the monotony of bare walls and unpicturesque surroundings--whether they be devotees in cells, or felons in dungeons--are the less human for the want of these things. the want, then, is a direct moral evil, and a cause of imperfection. the desire for beautiful surroundings is a natural instinct in a pure mind. how tenaciously people who live in dull streets, and who never see a sunrise, nor a mountain peak, nor an unbroken horizon, cling to it is proved on all sides of us by the picturesqueness which many a mechanic's wife imparts to her little twelve-feet-square rooms. and it is wonderful with what slender materials she will satisfy this hunger of the eye for beauty and color. a few brightly polished tins, the many-shaded patchwork coverlets and cushions, the gay stripes in the rag carpet, the pot of trailing ivy or scarlet geranium, the shining black stove, with its glimmer and glow of fire and heat, are made by some subtle charm of arrangement both satisfactory and suggestive. in spite of all arguments about the economy of "boarding," who does not respect the men or women who, at all just sacrifices, eschew a boarding-house and make themselves a home? a man without a home has cast away an anchor; an atmosphere of uncertainty clings about him; he advertises his tendency to break loose from wholesome restraints. so strongly is the force of this home influence now perceived that the wisest of our merchants refuse to employ boys and women without homes, while the universal preference is in favor of men who have assumed the head of the house, and thus given hostage to society for their good behavior. but a house is not a _home_ till it is swept and garnished, and contains not only the wherewithal to refresh the body, but also something for the comfort of the heart, the elevation of the mind, and the delight of the eye. if we would fairly estimate the moral power of furniture, let us consider how attached it is possible for us to become to it. there are chairs that are sacred objects to us: the large, easy one, in which some saint sat patiently waiting for the angels; the little high chair which was some darling baby's throne till he "went away one morning;" the low rocker, in which mother nursed the whole family of stalwart sons and lovely daughters. ask any practised student or writer how much he loves his old desk, with its tidy pigeon-holes and familiar conveniences. have they not many a secret between them that they only understand? are they not familiar? could they be parted without great sorrow and regrets? nothing is more certain than that we do stamp ourselves upon dead matter, and impart to it a kind of life. is there a more pathetic picture than that of dickens's study after his death? yet no human figure is present; there is nothing but furniture, the desk on which he wrote those wonderful stories, and the empty chair before it. nothing but the empty chair and the confidential desk to speak for the dead master; but how eloquently they do it! our furniture ought, therefore, to be easy and familiar. we cannot give our hearts to what is uncomfortable, no matter how quaint or rich it may be. and though it is always pleasant to have colors and forms assorted with perfect taste, it is not desirable to have the effect so perfect that we are afraid to make use of it, lest we destroy it. no furniture ought to be so fine that we dare not light a fire for fear of smoking it, or let the sunshine in for fear of fading it. in such rooms we do not lounge and laugh and eat and rest and live,--we only exist. the proper character of drawing-rooms is that of gayety and cheerfulness. this is attained by light tints, and brilliant colors and gilding; but the brightest colors and the strongest contrasts must be on the furniture, not on the walls and ceilings. these must be subordinate in coloring, or the effect will be theatrical and vulgar. the dining-room ought to be one of the pleasantest in the house; but it is generally in the basement. it ought to be a room in which there is nothing to remind us of labor or exertion, for we have gone there to eat and to be refreshed. a few flowers, a dish of fruits, snowy linen and china, glittering glass and silver, a pleasant blending of warm and neutral tints are essentials. for ornaments, rare china, indian vases, eastern jars suggestive of fine pickles or rare sweetmeats, and a few pictures on the walls, representing only pleasant subjects, and large enough to be examined without exertion, are the best. advantages of locality, a refined diner will always perceive and appropriate. thus i used to dine frequently with a lady and gentleman who in the spring always altered the position of the table, so that while eating they could look through the large open windows, and see the waving apple-blossoms and breathe the perfumed air, and listen to the evening songs of the birds. bedrooms should be light, cleanly, and cheerful; greater contrasts are admissible between the room and the furniture, as the bed and window-curtains form a sufficient mass to balance a tint of equal intensity upon the walls. for the same reason gay and bright carpets are often pleasant and ornamental. staircases, lobbies, and vestibules should be cool in tone, simple in color, and free from contrasts. here the effects are to be produced by light and shadow, rather than by color. every one must have noticed that some houses as soon as the doors are opened look bright and cheerful, while others are melancholy and dull. the difference is caused by the good or bad taste with which they are papered. yet who shall say what events may arise from such a simple thing as the first impressions of an important visitor? and these impressions may involuntarily receive their primal tone from a light, cheerful, or dull, dark hall paper. all rooms open to the public must have a certain air of conventional arrangement; but the parlor in every home ought to be a room of character and individuality. here is the very shrine and sanctuary of the lares and penates. here is the grandmamma's chair and knitting, and mamma's work-basket, and the sofa on which papa lounges and reads his evening paper. here are annie's flowers and mary's easel and jack's much-abused class-books. here the girls practise and the boys rig their ship and mamma looks serious over the house books. in this room the picture papers lie around, every one's favorite volume is on the table, and the walls are sacred to the family portraits. in this room the family councils are held and the dear invalids nursed back to life. here the boys come to say "good-bye" when they go away to school or to business. here the girls, in their gay party-dresses, come for papa's final bantering kiss and mamma's last admiration and admonition. ah, this room!--this dear, untidy, unfashionable parlor! it is the citadel of the household, the very _heart of the home_. none can deny the influence which childhood's home has over them, even unto their hoary-hairs; the memory of a happy, comfortable one is better than an inheritance. the girls and boys who leave it have a positive ideal to realize. there is no speculation in their efforts; they _know_ that home is "sweet home." but in all their imaginings chairs and tables and curtains and carpets have a conspicuous place. this life is all we have to front eternity with, therefore nothing that touches it is of small consequence. it is something to the body to have comfortable and appropriate household surroundings, it is much more to the mind. is there any one whose feelings and energies are not depressed by a cold, comfortless, untidy room? and who does not feel a positive exaltation of spirit in the glow of a bright fire and the cosey surroundings of a prettily furnished apartment? god has not made us to differ in this respect. a pleasant home is the dream and hope of every good man and woman. as traddles and his dear little wife used to please themselves by selecting in the shop windows their contemplated service of silver, so also many honest, hopeful toilers fix upon the chairs and curtains that are to adorn their homes long before they possess them. the dream and the object is a great gain morally to them. perhaps they might have other ones, but it is equally possible that the possession of this very furniture is the very condition that makes higher ones possible. depend upon it "a society for the improved furnishing of poor men's homes" would be a step taken in the seven-leagued boots for _the elevation of poor men's and women's lives_. people who have good impulses there is a raw material in humanity--often very raw--called impulse, or enthusiasm; and some people are very proud of possessing this spasmodic excellence. they talk glibly of their "good impulses," their "noble impulses," their "generous impulses," but the fact is that the majority of impulses are neither good nor noble; while they are, of all guides in human affairs, the most questionable. for impulses do not come from settled principles, but rather from a loose habit of mind--a mind just drifting along, and ready to accept any new suggestion as an "impulse," an "inspiration," a "command." we believe far too readily the cant about emotion, and erratic genius, and suffer ourselves to be imposed upon by fussy, impulsive people; for if we are at all allied with such, it is impossible to escape imposition; since we have to be patient enough for two, and so bear an undue burden of civility and good manners. it may be said that such a discipline is not to be despised, and could be made a lesson of spiritual grace. but if we are not sick, why should we take medicine? lessons god sets us, he helps us to learn, but there are no promises for those who impose penance upon themselves. and it is a penance to associate with impulsive, fussy persons; for no matter how good their impulses are, they are simply nowhere--as far as noble, enduring work is concerned--beside well-considered plans, carried out by cool, consistent people, who know what can be done and do it,--just as much next year as this year; just as well in one place as in another. ministers of the gospel know this fact perhaps better than any other mortals. they are constantly finding out how uncertain a quantity good impulses are to depend upon. for they have not the habit of materializing into good actions; they are evanescent pretenders to righteousness; they tell more flattering tales than ever hope told. all too soon the practical, calm minister discovers that impulse and enthusiasm are but rudimentary virtues, and seldom available for any real, good work. the men of service, either in spiritual or temporal work, are men whom nothing hurries or flurries; who are never in haste, and never too late. they are not men of impulse, but of consideration. whether they are going to deliver a sermon or keep a momentous appointment, to get a high office or a sum of money, or merely to catch an express train, they are perfectly cool, and always in time. of course, impulsive people keep appointments and catch trains, but oh, what a fuss they make about it! unfortunately, calm, grand natures are not of indigenous growth, and we do not do all we might to cultivate them. if we took more time to think, we should be less impulsive, more reasonable, less shallow. if we made less haste, we should make more speed. "slow and sure win the race" is a proverb embodying a great truth. fussy, impulsive people never get at the bottom of things, never give an impartial judgment, never are masters of any difficult situation; for the power of deliberation, of staving off personal likes and dislikes, of waiting, of knowing when to wait and when to move,--are powers invariably linked with a cool head and a clear, calm will. but none of these grand qualities come at the call of impulse. even good impulses are of no practical value until they crystallize into good deeds. without this result the impulse or the intention to do great things may be a serious spiritual danger; the soul may satisfy itself with its impulses and designs, and rest upon them; forgetting what place of ineffectual regret is paved with good intentions. in a certain sense it is true that the power of taking things in a cool, practical way is often an affair of the pulse, and so many beats, more or less, per minute, make a person fussy or serene. but it is only true in measure. forethought and preparation--realizing what is likely to happen, and what is best to be done--are great helps to keeping cool and calm. the will also can work miracles. i believe in the will because i believe that the human will is god's grace. those who say, "i cannot" are those who think, "i will not." besides which there are heavenly powers that wait to help our infirmities. paul did not hesitate to pray for the removal of his physical infirmity, and the "sufficient grace" that was promised him will be just as freely given to us. indeed, i may rest the question here, for this is our great consolation: one cannot say too much of the divine help. it will keep all in perfect peace that trust in it. worried to death to say "we are worried to death" is a common expression; but do we really comprehend the terrible truth of the remark? do we realize that the hounds of care and anxiety and fretful inability may actually tear and torment us into paresis, or paralysis, or dementia, and as virtually worry us to death, as a collie dog worries a sheep, or a cat worries a mouse? and yet, if we are christian men and women, worrying is just the one thing not needful; for there are more than sixty admonitions in the bible against it; and the ground is so well covered by them that between the first "fear not" and the last, every unnecessary anxiety is met, and there is not a legitimate subject for worrying left. are we troubled about meat and money matters? we are told to "consider the fowls of the air; they sow not, neither do they reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly father feedeth them. are ye not much better than they?" have we some malignant enemy to fight? fear not! "if god be for us, who can be against us?" are we in sorrow? "i, even i, am he that comforteth you." are we in doubt and perplexity? "i will bring the blind by a way that they know not. i will lead them in paths they have not known. i will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight." do we fear that our work is beyond our strength? "he giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might, he increaseth strength." are we sick? he has promised to make all our bed in our sickness. do we fear death? he has assured us that in the valley and shadow of death he will be with us. is the worry not for ourselves, but for wife and children that will be left without support and protection? even this last anxiety is provided for. "leave thy fatherless children to me, and let thy widows trust in me, and i will preserve them alive." now, if we really believe that god made these promises, how shameful is our distrust! do we think that god will not keep his word? do we doubt his good-will toward us? when he says that he will make all things work together for our good, is the holy one lying to our sorrowful hearts? thirty years ago i was thrown helpless, penniless, and friendless upon these assurances of god; and in thirty years he has never broken a promise. he is a god that keepeth both mercy and truth. i believe in his goodness. i trust in his care. i would not, by worrying, tell him to his face that he either has not the power or the good-will to help and comfort me. worriers live under a very low sky. they allow nothing for probabilities and "godsends." they suffer nothing to go by faith. all times and all places supply them with material. in summer, it is the heat and the dogs and the hydrophobia. in winter, it is the cold, and the price of coal. they take all the light and comfort out of home pleasures; and abroad their complaints are endless. yet to argue with worriers is of little use; convince them at every point, and the next moment they return to their old aggravating, vaporing _credo_. what remains for them then? they must pray to god, and help themselves. egotism and selfishness are at the bottom of all worrying. if they will just remember that there is no reason why they should be exempted from the common trials of humanity, they may step at once on to higher ground; for even worrying is humanized, when it is no longer purely selfish and personal. it is usually idle people who worry. men and women whose every hour is full of earnest business do not try to put two hours' care and thought into one. even a positive injury or injustice drops easily from an honestly busy man. he has not time to keep a catalogue of his wrongs, and worry about them. he simply casts his care upon him who has promised to care for him--for his health, and wealth, and happiness, and good name; for all the events of his life, and for all the hopes of his future. worriers would not like to see written down all the doubtful things they have said of god, and all the ill-natured things they have said of men; besides, they might consider that they are often righteously worried, and only suffering the due reward of some folly of their own. would it not be better to ask god to put right what they have put wrong; to lay hold of all that is good in the present; to refuse to look forward to any possible change for the worse? i know a good man who, when he feels inclined to worry over events, takes a piece of paper and writes his fears down, and so faces "the squadron of his doubts,"--finding generally that they vanish as they are mustered. come, let us take cheerfulness as a companion. let us say farewell to worrying. cheerfulness will bid us ignore perplexities and annoyances; and help us to rise above them. god loves a cheerful liver; and when we consider the sin and sorrow, the poverty and ignorance, on every side of us, we may well hold our peace from all words but those of gratitude and thanksgiving. worrying is self-torment. it is always preparing "for the worst," and yet never fit to meet it. cheerfulness is a kind of magnanimity; it listens to no repinings; it outlooks shadows; it turns necessity to glorious gain; and so breathing on every gift of god, hope's perpetual joy, it enables us, mid pleasant yesterdays, and confident to-morrows,-- to travel on life's common way, in cheerful godliness. the grapes we can't reach the grapes we can't reach are not, as a general thing, sour grapes; and it is a despicable kind of philosophy that asserts them to be so. why should we despise good things because we do not possess them? cicero, indeed, says that "if we do not have wealth, there is nothing better and nobler than to despise it." but this assertion was artificial in the case of cicero, and it is no nearer the truth now than it was two thousand years ago. in fact, on the question of money this dictum appeals to us with great force; for though it may be true that some of the best things of life cannot be bought with money, it is equally true that there are other good things that nothing but money can buy. therefore, to follow cicero's advice and despise wealth if we have not got it, is to despise a great many excellent things; and not only that, it is to despise also the power of imparting these excellent things to other people. the golden grapes may be out of our reach, but we need not say the fruit is sour; rather let us give thanks that others have been able to gather and press the rich vintage and to give graciously to the world of its wine of consolation. in the same way it has long been, fashionable to assert a contempt for "the bubble reputation," whether sought on the battlefield or in the senate, or forum, or study. but why despise one of the grandest moral forces in the universe? for when a man can get out of self to follow the fortunes of an idea, when he can fall in love with a cause, when he can fight for some public good, when he can forfeit life, if need be, for his conviction, the "reputation" that is sure to follow such abnegation and courage is not a "bubble;" it is a glorious fact,--one through which the general level of humanity is raised and the whole world impelled forward. i do not say that all persons who conscientiously use to their utmost ability the one or two talents they possess are not as happy as they can be. thank god! life can be full in small measures. but if any man or woman has been given five or ten talents, i do say they have no right to keep them for their own delectation, falling back upon such cheap sentiments as the hollowness of fame and the "bubble reputation." fame is not a bubble; it is a power whose beneficent achievements have done a great deal toward making this world a comfortable dwelling-place. a great many high-sounding maxims in use at the present day have lost their application. there was a time, centuries ago, when the humiliations attending any upward climb were sufficient to deter a sensitive, honorable soul. but such days are forever past. any one now bearing precious gifts for humanity finds the gates lifted up and a wide entrance ready for him. men and women can make what mark they are able to make, and the world stands watching with sympathetic heart. they will not find its "reputation" a "bubble." another fine, windy theme of warning from "sour-grape" philosophers is the hollowness of friendship and the general insincerity of the world. they have "seen through" the world, they know all its falseness and worthlessness; and, as the world is far too busy to dispute their assertions or to defend itself, the superior discernment of this class of people is not brought to accurate accounting. as a matter of fact, however, people generally get just as much consideration from the world, and just as much fidelity from their friends, as they deserve. a friend may ask us to dinner, but not therefore should we expect that he share his purse with us. community of taste and sentiment does not imply community of goods. but, for all this, friendship is not hollow, nor are the grapes of its hospitality sour. i may notice here the prevalent opinion that there is no such friendship now in the world as there used to be. "there are no davids and jonathans now," say the unbelievers in humanity. very true, for david and jonathan did not belong to the nineteenth century. to keep up such a friendship, we require, not a spare hour now and then, but an amount of certain and continuous leisure. there are still great friendships among boys at school and young men in college, for they have a large amount of steady leisure; and this is necessary to signal friendship. when we have more time, we shall have more and stronger friendships. the vanity of life, the deceitfulness of women, the falseness of love, the impossibility of happiness, the passing away of all that is lovely and of good report, are old, old, old texts of complaint. men and women talk about them until they feel ever so much better than the rest of the world; and such talk enables them to look down with proper contempt upon the hypocrisies of society,--that is, of their next-door neighbors and near acquaintances,--and fosters a comfortable, but dangerous self-esteem. the world, upon the whole, is a good world to those who try to be good and to do good, and every year it is growing better. during the last fifty years how much it has grown! how sympathetic, how charitable, how evangelizing it has become! yes, indeed, if we choose to do so, we shall meet with far more good hearts than bad ones, and the topmost grapes are not sour. burdens there are two kinds of burdens--those that god lays on us, and those which we lay on ourselves. when god lays the burden on the back, he gives us strength to carry it. there never was a christian who, in his weariest and dreariest hours, could not say, "his grace is sufficient." if god smiles on him, he can smile under any burden that he may have to carry. he can go up the "hill of difficulty" singing, and walk confidently into the very land of the shadow of death. for god's burdens are easy to bear; because he walks with us, and when the journey is too great, and the burden too heavy, and our hearts begin to fail and faint, he is sure to whisper, "cast thy burden upon me, and i will sustain thee." the burdens that are hard to bear are those we lay upon ourselves. what a burden to themselves, and to every one around them, are the lazy and the unemployed! if it is a man, prayers should be offered up for his family and his dependents,--for who is so morbid and melancholy, so pettish and fretful, so devoured by spleen and ennui, as the man with nothing to do? there is a lion in every way to him. he is out of god's order of creation; the busy world has no sympathy with him; society has no use for him; no one is the better for his life, and no one is sorry for his death. he is simply the fungus of living, active, breathing humanity. the lazy lay a burden on their backs which would appall men who have fought winds and waves, and searched the bowels of the earth, and bound to their will the subtle forces of electricity and steam. the burdens we bind for ourselves we shall have to bear alone. god is not going to help us, and angels stand afar off; good men and women are not here bound by the injunction, "bear ye one another's burdens." the envious, the proud, the drunkard, the seducer, the complainer, the lazy, etc., must bear their self-inflicted burdens, till they perish with them. if the kingdom of heaven could be taken by some wonderful _coup d'état_, many would be first that are now last. but of great deeds little account is to be made. they are indigenous in every condition of society. it is a great life that is never a failure. a great life composed of a multitude of little burdens, cheerfully borne, and little charges faithfully kept. and this is a kind of christian warfare, that is specially to be carried on in the sphere of the home. many a professor, faithful in all the weightier matters of the law and the sanctuary, and blameless in the eyes of the world, is a rock of offence in his own household. his wife doubts his religion, his children fear him, and his servants call him a hard master. he pays all his tithes of mint, anise, and cummin to the church and society, but as regards the little burdens of his own household, he is worse than a publican. small burdens make up the moral and religious probation of a majority of women, for they have but rare occasion for the exercise of such faith and fortitude as commands the eye of the world. but these burdens, though apparently small and contracted in their sphere, are not only very important in their results, but often singularly irritating. sickly, fretful children--impertinent, lazy servants--a thoughtless, irregular husband--a hundred other burdens so small she does not like to say how heavy she feels them to be and how sorely they weary her,--these are "her warfare;" and because the master has laid them upon her, shall she not bear them? the world may call them "little burdens," but there is nothing small in the eyes of infinity. in no way can a woman cultivate beauty and strength of character so well as in the patient bearing and carrying of the small burdens that every day await her--the headaches and toothaches--the weariness and weakness incident to her position and condition. for it is the glory of a woman that her weakness or weariness never shrouds a household in gloom, or makes the atmosphere electrical with impatience and irritability. to carry her burden, whatever it may be, cheerfully, is not a little victory, and such daily victories make the last great one easy to be won. it is hard to die before we have learned to live; but death is easy to those who have conquered life. to such the grave is but a laying down of all burdens, a rest from labor and obligation, while yet their works of love and unselfishness do follow them with fruit and blessing. we must not forget that in our journey through life, there are burdens which we may lawfully make our own. we may help the weak and the struggling on to their feet, when they have fallen in the battle of life. we may comfort those "touched by the finger of god." we may copy the good samaritan, not forgetting the oil and two pence. we may wipe the tears from the eyes of the widow and the fatherless. in bearing such burdens as these, we shall find ourselves in good company; for in the tabernacles of sanctified suffering we may come near to the divine burden bearer; and going on messages of mercy, we may meet angels going the same way. * * * * * miss primrose a novel by roy rolfe gilson author of "the flower of youth" "in the morning glow" etc. [illustration] new york and london harper & brothers publishers :: mcmvi copyright, , by harper & brothers. all rights reserved. published march, . _contents_ part i _a devonshire lad_ i. letitia ii. little rugby iii. a poet of grassy ford iv. the seventh slice v. the handmaiden vi. cousin dove vii. of hamadryads and their spells part ii _the school-mistress_ i. the older letitia ii. on a corner shelf iii. a younger robin iv. hiram ptolemy v. a. p. a. vi. truants in arcady vii. peggy neal viii. new eden ix. a serious matter part iii _rosemary_ i. the home-keeper ii. johnny keats iii. the fortune-teller iv. an unexpected letter v. surprises vi. an old friend of ours vii. suzanne viii. in a devon lane part i _a devonshire lad_ _miss primrose_ i letitia all little, white-haired, smiling ladies remind me of letitia--letitia primrose, whom you saw just now in a corner of our garden among the petunias. you thought her odd, no doubt, not knowing her as i or as the children do who find her dough-nuts sweet after school is done, or their english cousins, those little brown-feathered beggars waiting on winter mornings in the snow-drifts at her sill. as for myself, i must own to a certain kinship, as it were, not of blood but of propinquity, a long next-doorhood in our youth, a tenderer, nameless tie in after years, and always a fond partiality which began one day by our old green fence. there, on its primrose side, it seems, she had parted the grape-vines, looking for fruit, and found instead-- "why! whose little boy is this?" now, it happened to be bertram, jonathan weatherby's little boy--it being a holiday, and two pickets off, and the concords purple in a witchery of september sheen--though at first he could make no sign to her of his parentage, so surprised he was, and his mouth so crammed. "will i die?" he asked, when he had gulped down all but his tongue. "die!" she replied, laughing at his grave, round eyes and pinching his nearer cheek. "do i look like an ogress?" "no," he said; "but i've gone and swallowed 'em." "the grapes?" "no--yes--but i mean the pits," whereat she laughed so that his brow darkened. "well, a man _did_ once." "did what?" "died--from swallowin' 'em." "who told you that?" "maggie did." "and who is maggie?" "why, you know maggie. she's our hired girl." "how many did you swallow?" "five." "five!" "or six, i guess. i'm not quite sure." "what made you do it?" "i didn't. _you_ did." "_i_ made you swallow them?" "why, yes, 'cause, now, i had 'em in my mouth--" "six all at once!" "yes, and you went and scared me. i forgot to think." "mercy! i'm sorry, darling." "my name isn't darling. it's bertram." "i'm sorry, bertram." "oh, that's all right," he forgave her, cheerfully, "as long as i don't die like the man did; you'll know pretty soon, i guess." "how shall i know?" "well, the man, he hollered. you could hear him 'cross lots, maggie says. so, if you listen, why, pretty soon you'll know." and it is due partly to the fact that letitia primrose, listening, heard no hollering across lots, that i am able here to record the very day and hour when i first met her; partly that, and partly because letitia has a better memory than jonathan weatherby's little boy, for i do not remember the thing at all and must take her word for it. she was not gray then, of course. it must have been a pink, sweet, merry face that peered at me through the grape-vines, and a ringing laugh in those days, and two plump fingers that pinched my cheek. her hair was brown and hung in braids, she tells me. she may have been fourteen. i do not remember her so young. i do remember hugging some one and being hugged, next door--once in the bay-window by the red geraniums, whose scent still bears to me some faint, sweet airs of summers gone. it was not a relative who hugged me; i know by the feeling--the remembered feeling--for i was dutiful but not o'er keen in the matter of kissing our kith and kin. no, it was some one who took me by surprise and rumpled me, some one who seemed, somehow, to have the right to me, though not by blood--some one too who was nearer my age than most of our relatives, who were not so young and round and luring as i recall them. it was some one kneeling, so that our heads were even. the carpet was red, i remember. i had run in from play, i suppose, and she was there, and i--i may have been irresistible in those days. at least i know it was not i, but eve who-- _that_ must have been letitia. i have never asked, but it was not cousin julia, or the potter girl, or sammy's sister. excluding the rest of the world, i infer letitia. and why not kiss me? she kissed sammy, that fat, little, pudding-head sammy mcsomething, who played the mouth-organ. since of all the tunes in the world he knew but one (you know which one), it may seem foolish that i cared; but, remember, i played none! and she kissed him _for_ playing--kissed him, pudgy and vulgar as he was with the fetty-bag tied to his neck by a dirty string to ward off contagions! ugh! i swore a green, green oath to learn the accordion. that night in bed--night of the day she kissed him--with only the moon-lamp burning outside my window, i felt that my cheeks were wet. i had been thinking. it had come to me awfully as i tossed, that i had been born too late--for letitia. always i should be too young for her. dear letitia, white and kneeling even then, perhaps, at your whiter prayers, or reading after them, before you slept, in the _jane eyre_ which lay for years beneath your pillow, you did not dream that you also were a heroine of romance. you did not dream of the plot then hatching in the night: plot with a villain in it--oh, beware, letitia, of a pudgy, vulgar, superstitious villain wearing a charmed necklace of assafoetida to ward off evils, but powerless, even quite odorless against that green-eyed one! for, lo! letitia: thy hero standing beneath thy chamber-window in the moonbeams, is singing soprano to the gentle bellowsings of early love! no, i do not play the accordion, nor did i ever. i never even owned one, so i never practised secretly in the barn-loft, nor did i ever, after all my plotting, lure young sammy to play "sweet home" to our dear lady in the moonshine, only to be eclipsed, to his dire confusion and everlasting shame, by me. it may have been that i had no pocket-money, or that santa claus was short that year in his stock of wind-instruments, or that jonathan weatherby had no ear for melody about the house, but it is far more likely that letitia primrose never again offended, to my knowledge, in the matter of pudgy little vulgar boys. now, as i muse the longer of that fair young lady who lived next door to us, as i see myself crawling through the place with the pickets off, and recall beyond it the smell and taste of the warm concords in my petty larcenies of a dozen autumns, then other things come back to me, of letitia's youth, of its cares and sacrifice and its motherlessness. the rev. david primrose, superannuate divine, bard and scholar, lived mostly in a chair, as i recall him, and it was letitia who wheeled him on sunny days when other girls were larking, who sat beside it in the bay-window, half-screened by her geraniums, reading to him when his eyes were weary, writing for him, when his hand trembled, those fine fancies that helped him to forget his sad and premature decay. she was his only child, his only housemaid, gardener, errand-boy, and "angel," as mother said, and the mater went sometimes to sit evenings with him lest letitia should never know joys of straw-rides and taffy-pulls and church-sociable ice-cream and cake. he had a fine, white, haggard face, too stern for a little child to care for, but less forbidding to a growing school-boy who had found by chance that it softened wonderfully with memories of that rugby where tom brown went to school; for dr. primrose had conned his xenophon within those very ivied-walls, and, what was more to bertram weatherby, under those very skies had fled like tom, a hunted hare, working fleet wonders in the fields of warwickshire. "a mad march hare i was, bertram," he would tell me, the light of his eyes blazing in that little wind of a happy memory, only to sink and go out again. smoothing then with his fine, white hands the plaid shawl which had been his wife's and was now a coverlet for his wasted knees, he would say, sadly: "broomsticks, bertram--but in their day there were no fleeter limbs in rugby." there on my upper shelf is an old, worn, dusty copy of the _odes of horace_, which i cannot read, but it bears on its title-page, in a school-boy's scrawl, the name and date for which i prize it: "david buckleton primrose, rugby, _a.d._ --." he laughed as he gave it to me. "mark, bertram," said he, "the 'a.d.'" "thank you, sir," i replied, tremulously. "you bet i'll always keep it, mr. primrose." "_dr._ primrose," he reproved me, gently. "doctor, i mean. maybe tom had one like it." "likely," he replied. "you must learn to read it." "oh, i will, sir--and greek." "that's right, my boy. remember always what dr. primrose said when he gave you horace: that no gentleman could have pretensions to sound culture who was not well-grounded in the classics. can you remember that?" twice he made me repeat it. "oh yes, sir, i can remember it," i told him. "do you suppose tom put in his name like that?" "doubtless," said dr. primrose, "minus the a.d." "i didn't know you had a middle name," i said. "buckleton was my mother's maiden name," he explained. "she was of the wiltshire buckletons, and a very good family, too." "david buckleton primrose," i read aloud. "lineal descendant of dr. charles primrose, vicar of wakefield," added the minister, so solemnly that i fairly caught my breath. i had no notion then of whom he spoke, but there was that in the chant of his deep voice and the pleasant, pompous sound he gave the title, which awed me so i could only stare at him, and then at horace, and then at him again, as he lay back solemnly in his chair, regarding me with half-shut eyes. slowly a smile overspread his features. "i was only jesting. did you never hear of the _vicar of wakefield_?" "no," i said. "there: that little yellow book on the third shelf, between the green ones. he was its hero, a famous character of oliver goldsmith's. he also was a clergyman, and his name was primrose." "oh," i said, "and did he go to rugby, sir?" now, though the doctor laughed and shook his head, somehow i got that notion in my noddle, and to this very day must stop to remember that the vicar was not a rugby boy. i have even caught myself imagining that i had read somewhere, or perhaps been told, that his middle name was buckleton. one thing, of course, was true of both primroses: they lived a.d. ii little rugby hunting fox-grapes on a saturday in fall, or rambling truantly on a fair spring morning, and chuckling to hear the school-bells calling in vain to us across the meadows, it was fine to say: "gee! if there was only a game-keeper to get into a row with!" and then hear peter's answer: "gee, yes! remember how velveteens caught tom up a tree?" it was fine, i say, because it proved that peter, too, knew _tom brown's school days_, and all about slogger williams and tom's fight with him, all about east and arthur and dr. arnold, and tom in the last chapter standing alone in the rugby chapel by the doctor's grave. one night in winter i remember keeping watch--hard-pressed was cæsar by the hordes of gaul--a merest stripling from among the legions, stealthily deserted post, braving the morrow's reckoning to linger in delicious idleness by his father's shelves. there, in a tattered copy of an old _harper's_, whose cover fluttered to the hearth-rug, his eyes fell upon a set of drawings of a gate, a quadrangle, a tower door with ivy over it, a cricket-field with boys playing and scattering a flock of sheep, a shop (at this his eyes grew wider)--a mere little englishy village-shop, to be sure, but not like others, for this, indeed, was sallie harrowell's, where tom bought baked potatoes and a pennyworth of tea! and out of one full, dark page looked dr. arnold--a face as fine and wise and tender as bertram weatherby had fancied it, so that he turned from it but to turn back again, thinking how tom had looked upon its living presence in more wondrous days. cæsar's deserter read and looked, and looked and read again, beside the hearth, forgetting the legions in the gallic wilds, forgetting the roman sentry calls for the cries of cricketers, and seeing naught but the guarded wickets on an english green and how the sheep browsed peacefully under the windows in the vines. schoolward next morning rugby and cæsar nestled together beneath his arm. he found his little rugby on a hill--a red brick school-house standing awkwardly and solemn-eyed in its threadbare playground, for all the world like a poor school-master, impoverished without, well stocked within. it was an ugly, mathematical-looking rugby, austere and angular, and without a shred of vine or arching bough for birds or dreams to nest in, yet bertram weatherby hailed it joyfully, ran lightly up its painted steps, and flung wide open its great hall-door. a flood of sound gushed forth--laughter, boisterous voices, chatter of girls, and the movement of restless feet. across the threshold familiar faces turned, smiling, familiar voices rose from the tumult, his shoulders tingled with the buffets of familiar hands. "hello, bildad!" "hello, old saw-horse!" "hello, yourself! take _that_!" but suddenly, in the midst of these savage greetings, that gentle pressure of an arm about him, and peter's voice: "hello, old man!" bertram would whirl at that, his face beaming; they had met but yesterday--it was as years ago--"hello, old man! look, peter!" but a gong clanged. then all about them was the hurry and tramp of feet upon the stairs. lost in the precious pages, they climbed together, arm in arm, drifting upward with the noisy current and through the doors of the assembly-hall. "see, bertram--the cricket-bats on the wall!" "yes; and the high street--and sallie harrowell's!" "and the doctor's door!" through another door just then their own masters were slowly filing, their own doctor last and weightiest of all, his smooth, strong face busy with some chapel reverie. "the professor's like arnold," bertram told peter as they slipped together into their double seat. the last gong clanged. there was a last bang of seats turned down, a last clatter of books upon the desks, the last belated, breathless ones fluttered down aisles with reddened cheeks, while the professor waited with the bible open in his hand. "let us read this morning the one-hundred-and-seventh psalm--psalm one hundred seven." peter was in rugby, hidden by the girl in front. the boy named bertram fixed his gaze upon the desk before him. fair and smooth it was--too smooth with newness to please a rugbeian eye. during the psalm, with his pocket-knife he cut his initials in the yellow wood, and smiled at them. in days to come other boys would sit where he was sitting, and gaze and puzzle over that rude legacy, and, if dreams came true, might be proud enough to sprawl their elbows where a famous man had lolled. they might even hang the old seat-top upon the wall, that all who ran might read the glory of an _alma mater_ in the disobedience of a mighty son. bertram weatherby gazed fondly upon his handiwork and closed his knife. time and destiny must do the rest. "let us pray." for a moment the professor stood there silently with lowered eyes. bertram and peter, their shoulders touching, bowed their heads. "_our father in heaven...._" there was no altar--only a flat-topped desk; no stained-glass windows--only the sunshine on the panes; and there a man's voice, deep and trembling, and here a school-boy's beating heart. "_ ... help us, o father, to be kinder...._" how you loved peter, the professor, and your ugly rugby on its hill! "_ ... lead us, o father, to a nobler youth...._" ay, they should know you for the man you were, deep down in your hidden soul. "_ ... give us, o father, courage for the battle...._" wait till the next time murphy bumped you on the stairs! "_ ... to put behind us all indolence of flesh and soul...._" you would study hard that term. "_ ... all heedlessness and disobedience...._" you would keep the rules. "_ ... for jesus' sake--amen._" "peter, did you see the sheep...." "if the two young gentlemen _whispering_ on the back seat--" you flushed angrily. other fellows whispered on back seats. why, always, did the whole school turn so knowingly to you? * * * * * sitting, one study-hour, in the assembly-hall, bertram's eyes wandered to the top of the _commentaries_, strayed over the book to the braids of the potter girl beyond, and on to the long, brown benches. the hum of recitations there, whispering behind him, giggling half suppressed, and the sharp rat-tat of the teacher's warning pencil came to him vaguely as in a dream. through the tall windows he saw the spotless blue of the sky, the bright-green, swaying tips of the maples, and the flight of wings. out there it was spring. two more months of cæsar--eight more dreary weeks of legions marching and barbarians bending beneath the yoke--then summer and the long vacation, knights jousting in the orchard, indians scalping on the hill. eight weeks--forty days of school. behind a sheltering grammar peter was reading hughes. over his shoulder bertram could make out tom, just come to rugby, watching the football, and that cool crab jones, fresh from a scrimmage, with the famous straw still hanging from his teeth. he read to the line of peter's shoulder, then his eyes wandered again to the school-room window. it was spring in grassy ford--it was spring in warwickshire.... "if the young _gentleman_ gazing out of the window--" "_tertia vigilia eruptionem fecerunt_"--third watch--eruption--they made. _eruptionem_--eruption--pimples--break out--sally. they made a sally at the third watch. _tertia vigilia_, ablative case. ablative of what? ablative of time. why ablative of time? because a noun denoting--oh, hang their _eruptionem_! they were dead and buried long ago. why does a fellow learn such stuff? help his english--huh! english helps his latin--that's what. _how_ does a fellow know _eruptionem_? because he's seen pimples--that's how. no sense learning latin. dead language--dead as a door-nail.... bertram weatherby drew a picture on the margin of his book--a head, shoulders, two arms, a trunk--and trousered legs. carefully, then, he dotted in the eyes--the nose--the mouth--the ears beneath the tousled hair. he rolled the shirt-sleeves to the elbows--drew the trousers-belt--the shoes. then delicately, smiling to himself the while, his head tilted, his eyes squinted like a connoisseur, he drew a straw pendent from the figure's lips. "peter, who's that?" "sh! not so loud. she'll hear you." "who's that, peter?" "hm--crab jones." "now, if the idle young gentleman drawing _pictures_--" "_tertia vigilia eruptionem fecerunt_"--oh, they did, did they? what of that?... * * * * * "rugby," said the professor, who had a way of enlivening his classes with matters of the outer world--"rugby, as i have heard my friend dr. primrose say, who was a rugby boy himself, is very different from our public schools. only the other day he was telling me of a school-mate, a professor now, who had returned to england, and who had spent a day there rambling about the ivied buildings, and searching, i suppose, for the ancient form where he had carved his name. dr. primrose told me how, as this old friend lingered on the greensward where the boys played cricket, as he himself had done on that very spot--fine, manly fellows in their white flannels--he heard not a single oath or vulgar word in all that hour he loitered there. one young player called to another who ran too languidly after the ball. '_aren't_ you playing, brown?' he cried, with a touch of irony in his voice." the professor paused. "i have heard stronger language on our playground here." he paused again, adding, impressively: "we might do well to _imitate_ our english cousins." "just what _i_ say," whispered young bertram weatherby. "the prof.'s all right," peter whispered back. and so, down-town, after school that day, behold!--sitting on stools at billy's palace lunch counter, in the odd fellow's block--two fine, manly chaps, not in white cricket flannels, to be sure, but-- "it's _some_ like sallie harrowell's," one mumbled, joyously, crunching his buttered toast, and the other nodded, taking his swig of tea. * * * * * so it came to pass that they looked reverently upon the professor with rugbeian eyes, and more admiringly as they noted new likenesses between him and the great head-master. there was a certain resemblance of glowing countenance, they told themselves, a certain ardor of voice, as they imagined, and over all a sympathy for boys. "well," he would say, stopping them as they walked together arm in arm, "if you seek peter, look for bertram--eh?" giving their shoulders a bantering shake which pleased them greatly as they sauntered on. listening to his prayers in chapel, hearing at least the murmur of them as they bowed their heads, their minds swayed by the earnestness of the great man's voice rather than by the words he uttered, they felt that glow which comes sometimes to boys who read and dream. then bertram loved the touch of peter's shoulder, and, with the memory of another doctor and another school-boy, he loved his rugby, little and meagre and vineless though it was upon its threadbare hill. when he had left it he would return some day, he thought; he would stand like tom in the last chapter; he would sit again at his old brown desk, alone, musing--missing his mate, and finding silence where happy whisperings and secret play had been--but still in the pine before him he would trace the letters he had cut, and, seeing them, he would be again the boy who cut them there. one morning, such was the fervor of the professor's voice, there was some such dream, and when it ended, prayer and dream together-- "after these exercises--" it was the professor's voice. "--i wish to see in my office bertram weatherby and peter wynne." they heard aghast. the whole school turned to them. the past rose dreadfully before their startled vision, yet for once, it seems, they could find no blemish there. down-stairs, quaking, they slipped together through the office door. the professor had not arrived. they took their stations farthest from his chair, and leaned, wondering, for support against the wall. there was a murmur of assembling classes overhead, a hurry of belated feet, and then--that well-known, awful tread. peter gulped; bertram shifted his feet, his heart thumping against his ribs, but they squared their shoulders as the door flew open and the professor, his face grave, his eyes flashing, swooped down upon them in the little room. "bertram!" "yes, sir." "peter!" "yes, sir." "i have sent for you to answer a most serious charge--most serious, indeed. i am surprised. i am astonished. two of my best pupils, two whom i have praised, not once but many times, here in this very room--two, i may say, of my favorite boys found violating, wilfully violating, the rules of this school. i could not believe the charge till i saw the evidence with my own eyes. i could not believe that boys like you--boys of good families, boys with minds far above the average of their age, would despoil, openly despoil--yes, i may say, ruthlessly despoil--the property of this school, descending--" "why, sir, what prop--" "descending," cried the professor, "to vandalism--to a vandalism which i have again and again proscribed. over and over i have said, and within your hearing, that i _would not countenance the defacing of desks_!" bertram weatherby glanced furtively at peter wynne. peter had sighed. "over and over," said the professor, "i have told you that they were not your property or mine, but the property of the people whose representative i am. yet here i find you marring their tops with jack-knives, carving great, sprawling letters--" "but, sir, at rug--" "great, ugly letters, i say, sprawling and slashed so deeply that the polished surface can never be restored." "at rug--" "what will visitors say? what will your parents say if they come, as parents should, to see the property for which they pay a tribute to the state?" "but, sir, at rug--" "bertram, i am grieved. i am grieved, peter, that boys reared to care for the neatness of their persons should prove so slovenly in the matter of the property a great republic intrusts to their use and care." "but, sir, at rug--" "i am astonished." "at rug--" "i am astounded." "at rug--" "astounded, i repeat." "at rugby, sir--" "_rugby!_" thundered the professor. "_rugby!_ and what of rugby?" "why, at rugby, sir--" "and what, pray, has rugby, or a thousand rugbys, to do with your wilful disobedience?" "they cut, sir--" "_cut_, sir!" repeated the professor. "_cut_, sir!" "yes, sir--their desks, sir." "and if they do--what then?" "well, sir, you said, you know--". "said? what did i say? i asked you to imitate the manliness of rugby cricketers. i did not ask you to carve your desks like the totem-poles of savage tribes!" his face was pale, his eyes dark, his words ground fine. "young gentlemen, i will have you know that rules must be obeyed. i will have you know that i am here not only as a teacher, but as a guardian of the public property intrusted to my care. under the rules which i am placed here to enforce, i can suspend you both--dismiss you from the privileges of the school. this once i will act with lenience. this once, young gentlemen, you may think yourselves lucky to escape with demerit marks, but if i hear again of conduct so unbecoming, so disgraceful, of vandalism so ruthless and absurd, i shall punish you as you deserve. now go." softly they shut the office door behind them. arm in arm they went together, tiptoe, down the empty hall. "well?" the gloom of a great disappointment was in their voices. "he's not an arnold, after all," they said. iii a poet of grassy ford the lesser primrose was a poet. it was believed in grassy ford, though the grounds seem vague enough now that i come to think of them, that he published widely in the literary journals of the day. letitia was seen to post large envelopes, and anon to draw large envelopes from the post-office and hasten home with them. the former were supposed to contain poems; the latter, checks. be that as it may, i never saw the primrose name in print save in our _grassy ford weekly gazette_. there, when gossip lagged, you would find it frequently in a quiet upper corner, set "solid," under the caption "gems"--a terse distinction from the other bright matters with which our journal shone, and further emphasized by the gothic capitals set in a scroll of stars. thus modestly, i believe, were published for the first time--and i fear the last--david buckleton primrose's "agamemnon," "ode to jupiter," "ulysses's farewell," "lines on rereading dante," "november: an elegy written in the autumn of life," as well as those stirring bugle-calls, "to arms!" "john brown," and "the guns of sumter," and those souvenirs of more playful tender moods, "to a lady," "when i was a rugby lad," "thanksgiving pies," and "lines written in a young lady's album on her fifteenth birthday." now that young lady was letitia, i chance to know, for i have seen the verses in her school-girl album, a little leathern christmas thing stamped with forget-me-nots now faded, and there they stand just opposite some school-mate's doggerel of "roses red and violets blue" signed johnny gray. the lines begin, i remember: "virtue is in thy modest glance, sweet child," and they are written in a flourished, old-fashioned hand. these and every other line her father dreamed there in his chair letitia treasures in a yellow scrap-book made of an odd volume of rhode island statutes for --. there, one by one, as he wrote them, or cut them with trembling fingers from the fresh, ink-scented _gazette_--"gems," scroll and all, and with date attached--she set them neatly in with home-made paste, pressing flat each precious flower of his muse with her loving fingers. editor butters used to tell me of the soft-eyed girl, "with virtue in her modest glance," slipping suddenly into his print-shop, preferably after dusk had fallen, and of the well-known envelope rising from some sacred folds, he never quite knew where, to be laid tremblingly upon his desk. "something from father, sir." it was a faint voice, often a little husky, and then a smile, a bow, and she had fled. editor nathaniel butters had a weakness of the heart for all tender things--a weakness "under oath," however, as he once replied when i charged him with it, and as i knew, for i myself heard him one summer afternoon, as he sat, shirt-sleeved and pipe in mouth, perched on a stool, and setting type hard by a window where i stood beneath fishing with a dogwood wand. "the-oc-ri-tus! humpf! now, who in thunder cares a tinker's damn for theocritus, in grassy ford? some old greek god, i suppose, who died and went to the devil; and here's a parson--a christian parson who ought to know better--writing an ode to him, for hank myers to read, and jim gowdy, and old man flynn. and i don't get a cent for it, not a blank cent, sam--well, he doesn't either, for that matter--but it's all tommy-rot, and here i've got to sweat, putting in capitals where they don't belong and hopping down to the darned old dictionary every five minutes to see if he's right--sam [turning to his printer] there's some folks think it's just heaven to be a country editor, but i'll be--" he was a rough, white-bearded, little, round, fat man, who showed me type-lice, i remember (the first and only time i ever saw the vermin), and roared when i wiped my eyes, though i've forgiven him. he was good to letitia in an hour of need. dr. primrose, it seems, had written his masterpiece, a solemn, dr. johnsonian thing which he named "jerusalem," and reaching, so old man butters told me once, chuckling, "from friday evening to saturday night." the muse had granted him a longer candle than it was her wont to lend, and letitia trembled for that sacred fire. "print it, child? of course he'll print it. it's the finest thing i ever did!" "true, father, but its length--" "not longer than milton's 'lycidas,' my dear." "i know, but--he's so--he looks so fierce, father." she laughed nervously. "who? butters?" "yes." "tut! butters has brains enough--" "it isn't his brains," replied letitia. "it's his whiskers, father." "whiskers?" "yes; they bristle so." "don't be foolish, child. butters has brains enough to know it is worth the printing. worth the printing!" he cried, with irony. "yes, even though it isn't dialect." dialect was then in vogue; no grassy ford, however small, in those days, but had its rhyming robin who fondly imagined that he might be another burns. "dialect!" the doctor repeated, scornfully, his eyes roving to the shabby ancients on his shelves. "bring me horace--that's a good girl. no--yes." his hand lingered over hers that offered him the book. "child," he said, looking her keenly in the eyes, "do you find it so hard to brave that lion?" "oh no, father. i didn't mean i was afraid, only he's so--woolly. you can hardly make out his eyes, and fire sputters through his old spectacles. i think he never combs his hair." "does he ever grumble at you?" "oh no"--and here she laughed--"that is, i never give him time; i run away." the old poet made no reply to her, but went on holding that soft little hand with the horace in it, and gazing thoughtfully at his daughter's face. "we can send it by mail," he said at last. that roused letitia. "oh, not at all!" she cried. "why, i'm proud to take it, father. mr. butters isn't so dreadful--if he _is_ fuzzy. i'm sure he'll print it. there was that letter from mr. banks last week, a column long, on carrots." he smiled dryly at her over his opened book. "if only my 'jerusalem' were artichokes instead of saracens!" he said. the fuzzy one was in his lair, proof-reading at his unkempt desk. the floor was littered at his feet. he was smoking a black tobacco in a blacker pipe. he wore no coat, no cuffs, and his sleeves were--um; it does not matter. he glared ("carnivorously," letitia tells me) at the opening door. "evening," he said, and waited; but the envelope did not arise. so he rose himself, offering a seat in the midst of his clutter, a plain, pine, rope-mended chair, from which he pawed soiled sheets of copy and tattered exchanges that she might sit. "looks some like snow," he said. "yes," she assented. "i called, mr. butters--" she paused uncertainly. it was her own voice that had disconcerted her, it was so tremulous. "another poem, i suppose," he said, fondly imagining that he had softened his voice to a tone of gallantry, but succeeding no better than might be expected of speech so hedged, so beset and baffled, so veritably bearded in its earward flight. "you--you mentioned snow, i think," stammered letitia. he had frightened her away, or she may have drawn back, half-divining, even in embarrassment, that the other, the more round-about, the snowy path, was the better way to approach her theme. "snow and east winds are the predictions, i believe, miss primrose." "i dread the winter--don't you?" she ventured. "no," he replied. "i like it." "that's because you are--" "because i'm so fat, you mean." "oh no, mr. butters, i didn't even think of that; i meant so--" and then--heavens!--it flashed across her that she had meant "woolly"! to save her soul she could think of no synonyme. her cheeks turned red. "i meant--why, of course, i meant--you're so well prepared." "well prepared," he grumbled. "why, yes, you--men can wear beards, you know." "egad! you're right," he roared. "you're right, miss primrose. i _am_ well mufflered, that's a fact." "but, really, it must be a great assistance, mr. butters." "oh yes; it is--and it saves neckties." and this, mark you, was the way to poetry! poor letitia, with the manuscript hidden beneath her cloak, was all astray. the image of the poet with horace in his lap rose before her and rebuked her. she was tempted to disclose her mission, dutifully, there and then. "how is mrs. butters?" she inquired instead. "about as well as common, which is to say, poorly--very poorly, thank you." "oh, i'm sorry." editor butters seemed downcast. "she's tried everything," he said. "even had a pocket made in her gown to hold a potato and a horse-chestnut--but this rheumatism does beat all, i tell you. how's the old gentleman?" "the doctor says he will never walk." "yes, so i heard," muttered the editor. "it's a damned shame." he was fumbling with his proofs and did not see her face--yet, after all, she could feel the sympathy even in his rudeness. "still hatching poems, i suppose?" her heart, which had warmed even as her cheeks had colored at his other words, grew cold at these. what manner of toil it was that brought forth things so pure and beautiful in her sight, what labor of love and travail of spirit it was to him, she alone would ever know who watched beside him, seeing his life thus ebbing, dream by dream. she sat silent, crumpling those precious pages in her hands. "well," butters went on, gruffly, clearing his throat, "he's a good hand at it." he was not looking at letitia, but kept his eyes upon a ring of keys with which he played nervously; and now when he spoke it was more spasmodically, as if reluctant to broach some matter for which, however, he felt the time had come. "yes, he's a good hand at it. used to be even better than he is now--but that's natural. i wish, though--you'd just suggest when it comes handy--just in a quiet sort of way, you know--some day when you get the chance--that he's getting just a leetle bit--you can say it better than i can--but i mean long-winded for the _gazette_. it's natural, of course, but you see--you see, miss primrose, if we print one long-winded piece, you know--you can see for yourself--why, every other poet in grassy ford starts firing epics at us, which is natural, of course, but--hard on me. and if i refuse 'em, why, then, they just naturally up and say, 'well, you printed primrose's; why not mine?' and there they have you--there they have you right by the--yes, sir, there they have you; and there's the devil to pay. like as not they get mad then and stop their papers, which they don't pay for--and that's natural, too, only it causes feeling and doesn't do me any good, or your father either." "but, mr. butters, you printed mr. banks's letter on carrots, and that was--" the editor fairly leaped in his chair. "there, you have it!" he cried. "just what i said! there's that confounded letter of jim banks's, column-long on carrots, a-staring me in the face from now till kingdom come when any other idiot wants to print something a column long. just what i say, miss primrose; but you must remember that the readers of the _gazette_ do raise carrots, and they _don't_ raise--well, now, for instance, and not to be mean or personal at all, miss primrose--not at all--they _don't_ raise agamemnons or theocrituses. i suppose i should say theocriti--singular, theocritus; plural, theocriti. no, sir, they don't raise theocriti--which is natural, of course, and reminds me--while we are _on_ the subject--reminds me, miss primrose, that i've been thinking--or wondering--in fact, i've been going to ask you for some time back, only i never just got the chance--ask you if you wouldn't--just kind of speak to your father, to kind of induce him, you know, to--to write on--about--well, about _livelier_ things. you see, miss primrose, it's natural, of course, for scholars to write about things that are dead and gone. they wouldn't _be_ scholars if they wrote what other people knew about. that's only natural. still--still, miss primrose, if the old gentleman _could_ just give us a poem or two on the--well, the issues of the day, you know--oh, he's a good writer, miss primrose! mind, i'm not saying a word--not a word--against that. i'd be the last--good god, what's the matter, girl! what have i done? oh, i say now, that's too bad--that's too bad, girlie. come, don't do that--don't--why, if i'd a-known--" letitia, "jerusalem" crushed in her right hand, had buried her face among the proof-sheets on his desk. woolier than ever in his bewilderment, the editor rose--sat--rose again--patted gingerly (he had never had a daughter), patted letitia's shaking shoulders and strove to soothe her with the only words at his command: "oh, now, i say--i--why, say, if i'd a-known"--till letitia raised her dripping face. "you m-mustn't mind, mr. b-butters," she said, smiling through her tears. "why, say, miss primrose, if i'd a-dreamed--" "it's all my f-fault, mr. b-butters." "damn it, no! it's mine. it's mine, i tell you. i might a-known you'd think i was criticising your father." "oh, it's not that exactly, mr. butters, but you see--" she put her hair out of her eyes and smoothed the manuscript. "egad! i see; you had one of the old gentleman's--" letitia nodded. "egad!" he cried again. "let's see, miss primrose." "oh, there isn't the slightest use," she said. "it's too long, mr. butters." "no, no. let's have a look at it." "no," she answered. "no, it's _altogether_ too long, mr. butters." "but let's have a look at it." she hesitated. his hand was waiting; but she shook her head. "no. it's the longest poem he ever wrote, mr. butters. it's his masterpiece." "by george! let's see it, then. let's see it." "why, it's as long, mr. butters--it's as long as 'lycidas.'" "long as--hm!" he replied. "still--still, miss primrose," he added, cheerfully, "that isn't so long when you come to think of it." "but that's not all," letitia said. "it's about--it's called--oh, you'll _never_ print it, mr. butters!" she rose with the poem in her hand. "print it!" cried butters. "why, of course i'll print it. i'll print it if every cussed poet in grassy--" "oh, _will_ you, mr. butters?" "will i? of course i will." he took it from her unresisting fingers. "je-ru-sa-lem!" he cried, fluttering the twenty pages. "yes," she said, "that's--that's the name of it, mr. butters," and straightway set herself to rights again. iv the seventh slice it was the editor himself who told me the story years afterwards--butters of "the pide bull," as he ever afterwards called his shop, for in her gratitude letitia had pointed out to him how natural it was that he of all men should be the patron of poets, since beyond a doubt, she averred, he was descended from that very nathaniel butter for whom was printed the first quarto edition of _king lear_. indeed, with the proofs of "jerusalem" she brought him the doctor's shakespeare, and showed him in the preface to the tragedy the record of an antique title-page bearing these very words: "printed for _nathaniel butter_, and are to be sold at his shop in _paul's_ churchyard at the signe of the pide bull neere st. austin's gate, ." "egad!" said butters, "i never heard that before. well, well, well, well." "i think there is no doubt, mr. butters," said letitia, "that he was your ancestor." "you don't say so," mumbled the delighted editor. "shouldn't wonder. shouldn't wonder now at all. i believe there was an 's' tacked on our name, some time or other, now that i come to think of it, and printer's ink always did run in the butters blood, by george!" he even meditated hanging up a sign with a pied bull upon it--or so he said--but rejected the plan as too old english for grassy ford. he never ceased, however, to refer to "my old cousin--shakespeare's publisher, you know," and in the occasional dramatic criticisms that embellished the columns of the _gazette_, all plays presented at our grand opera-house in the odd fellow's block were compared, somehow, willy-nilly, to _king lear_. butters of "the pide bull," i say, first told me how that young crusader with the tear-wet face had delivered "jerusalem," saving it from the stern fate which had awaited it and setting it proudly among the immortal "gems." then i sought letitia, whose briefer, more reluctant version filled in wide chinks in the butters narrative, while my knowledge of them both, of their modesty and their tender-heartedness, filled in the others, making the tale complete. i was too young when the poet wrote his masterpiece to know or care about it, or how it found its way to the wondering world of grassy ford--nay, to the whole round world as well, "two hemispheres," as old man butters used to remind me with offended pride in his voice, which had grown gruffer with his years. did he not send _gazettes_ weekly, he would ask, to mrs. ann bowers's eldest son, a methodist missionary in the congo wilds, and to "that woman in asia"? he referred to a grassy ford belle of other days who had married a tea-merchant and lived in chong-chong. who knows what befell the edition of that memorable _gazette_ which contained "jerusalem," set solid, a mighty column of alexandrine lines? one summer's afternoon, tramping in an adirondack wilderness, i came by chance upon the blackened ashes of a fire, and sitting meditatively upon a near-by log, poking the leaf-strewn earth with my stick, i unearthed a yellow, half-burned corner of an old newspaper, and, idly lifting it to read, found it a fragment of some australian _times_. still more recently, when my aunt matilda, waxing wroth at the settling floors of her witch-colonial house in bedfordtown, had them torn up to lay down new ones, the carpenters unearthed an old rat's nest built partially of a new york _tribune_ with despatches from the field of gettysburg. "sneer not at the power of the press," old man butters used to say, stuffing the bowl of his black pipe from my tobacco-jar and casting the match into my wife's card-tray. "who knows, my boy? davy primrose's 'jerusalem' may turn up yet." it is something to ponder now how all those years that i played away, letitia, of whom i thought then only as the young lady who lived next door and occasional confidante of my idle hours, was slaving with pretty hands and puzzling her fair young mind to bring both ends together in decent comfort for that poor dependent one. yet she does not sigh, this gray letitia among the petunias, when she talks of those by-gone days, but is always smiling back with me some happy memory. "you were the funniest boy, bertram," she tells me, "always making believe that it was old england in grassy ford, and that you were robin hood or lord somebody or earl somebody else. how father used to laugh at you! he said it was a pity you would never be knighted, and once he drew for you your escutcheon--you don't remember? well, it had three books upon it--_tom brown's school-days_, _tales of a grandfather_, and the _morte d'arthur_." then i remind her that robin saxeholm was half to blame for my early failure as an american. he was a devonshire lad; he had been a harrow boy, and was a cambridge man when he came, one summer of my boyhood, to grassy ford to visit the primroses. his father had been the doctor's dearest friend when they were boys together in devonshire, and when young robin's five-feet-eleven filled up the poet's doorway, letitia tells me, the tears ran down the doctor's cheeks and he held out both his arms to him: "robin saxeholm!--you young devon oak, you--tell me, does the dart still run?" "_he_ does, sir!" cried the young englishman, speaking, letitia says, quite in the devon manner, for those who dwell upon the banks of that famous river find, it seems, something too human in its temper and changeful moods to speak of it in the neuter way. they sat an hour together, the poet and his old friend's son, before letitia could show the guest to the room she had prepared for him. _that_ was a summer! robin taught me a kind of back-yard, two-old-cat cricket with a bat fashioned by his own big hands. sometimes letitia joined us, and the doctor watched us from his chair rolled out upon the garden walk, applauding each mighty play decorously, in the english fashion, with clapping hands. robin goodfellow, the doctor called our captain, "though a precious large one, i'll be bound," he said. letitia called him mr. saxeholm, first--then mr. robin, and sometimes, laughingly, mr. bobbin--then robin. i called him mr. bob. i made up my mind to one thing then and there: i should be happier when i grew old enough to wear white cricket flannels and a white hat like mr. bob's, and i hoped, and prayed too on my knees, that _my_ skin would be as clear and pinkish--yes, and my hair as red. alas! i had begun all wrong: i was a little beast of a brunette. i taught mr. bob baseball, showed him each hill and dale, each whimpering brook of grassy ford, and fished with him among the lilies in shady pools while he smoked his pipe and told me of cambridge and harrow-on-the-hill and the vales of devon. he had lived once, so he told me, next door to a castle, though it did not resemble warwick or kenilworth in the least. "it was just a _cah-sle_," said mr. bob, in his funny way. "with a moat, mr. bob?" "oh yes, a moat, i dare say--but dry, you know." "and a drawbridge, mr. bob?" "well, no--not precisely; at any rate, you couldn't draw it up." "but a portcullis, i'll bet, mr. bob?" "well--i _cahn't_ say as to that, i'm sure, bertram." he had lived next door to a castle, mind you, and did not know if it had a portcullis! he had never even looked to see! he had never even asked! still, mr. bob was a languid fellow, bertram weatherby was bound to admit, even in speech, and drawled out the oddest words sometimes, talking of "trams" and "guards" and "luggage-vans," which did seem queer in a college man, though bertram remembered he was not a senior and doubtless would improve his english in due time. indeed, he helped him, according to his light, and the credit is the boy's that the young britisher, after a single summer in grassy ford, could write from cambridge to letitia: "i guess i will never forget the folks in grassy ford! remember me to the little kid, my quondam guide, philosopher, and friend." robin was always pleasant with letitia, helping her with her housework, i remember, wiping her dishes for her, tending her fires, and weeding her kitchen-garden. there never had been so many holidays, she declared, gratefully, and she used to marvel that he had come so far, all that watery way from devon, yet could be content with such poor fare and such humble work and quiet pleasures in an alien land so full of wonders. yet it must have been cheerful loitering, for he stayed on, week after week. he had come intending, he confessed, to "stop" but one, but somehow had small hankering thereafter to see, he said, "what is left of america, liking your grassy fordshire, bertram, so very well." perhaps secretly he was touched by the obvious penury and helplessness of his father's friend, as well as by the daughter's loving and heavy service, so that he stayed on but to aid them in the only unobtrusive way, overpaying them, letitia says, for what he whimsically called "tuition in the quiet life," as he gently closed her fingers over the money which she blushed to take. then he would quote for her those lines from pope: "... quiet by day, sound sleep by night; study and ease together mixt, sweet recreation, and innocence, which most doth please with meditation." he read greek and latin with dr. primrose, and many an argument of ancient loves and wars i listened to, knowing by the keen-edged feeling of my teeth when the fray was over that my mouth had been wide open all the while. letitia, too, could hear from the kitchen where she made her pies, for it was a conversational little house, just big enough for a tête-à-tête, as dr. primrose used to say, and when debate waxed high, she would stand sometimes in the kitchen doorway, in her gingham apron, wiping the same cup twenty times. "young devon oak," the doctor called him, sometimes half vexed to find how ribbed and knotty the young tree was. "we'll look it up, then," he would cry, "but i know i'm right." "you'll find you are mistaken, i think, doctor." "well, now, we'll see. we'll see. you're fresh from the schools and i'm a bit rusty, i'll confess, but i'm sure i'm--here, now--hm, let's see--why, can that be possible?--i didn't think so, but--by george! you're right. you're right, sir. you're right, my boy." he said it so sadly sometimes and shut the book with an air so beaten, lying back feebly in his chair, that robin, letitia says, would lead the talk into other channels, merely to contend for ground he knew he could never hold, to let the doctor win. it was fine to see him then, the roused old gentleman, his eyes shining, sitting bolt upright in his chair waving away the young man's arguments with his feeble hand. "i think you are right, doctor, after all. i see it now. you make it clear to me. yes, sir, i'm groggy. i'm down, sir. count me out." and you should have seen the poet then in his triumph, if victory so gracious may be called by such a name. there was no passing under the yoke--no, no! he would gaze far out of the open window, literally overlooking his vanquished foe, and delicately conveying thus a hint that it was of no utter consequence which had conquered; and so smoothing the young man's rout, he would fall to expatiating, soothingly, remarking how natural it was to go astray on a point so difficult, so many-sided, so subtle and profound--in short, speaking so eloquently for his prone antagonist, expounding so many likely arguments in defence of that lost cause, one listening would wonder sometimes who had won. evenings, when letitia's work was done, she would come and sit with us, robin and me, upon the steps. there in the summer moonlight we would listen to his tales, lore of the dartmoor and exmoor wilds, until my heart beat strangely at the shadows darkening my homeward way when the clock struck ten. grape-vines, i noted then, were the very place for an ambush by the doones, of whom they talked so much, robin and letitia! later, when the grapes were ripe, a doone could regale himself, leisurely waiting to step out, giant-wise, upon his prey! there were innumerable suspicious rustlings as i passed, and in particular a certain strange--a dreadful _brushing_ sound as of ghostly wings when i squeezed, helpless, through the worn pickets!--and then i would strike out manfully across the lawn. one day in august--it was august, i know, for it was my birthday and robin had given me a rod and line--we took letitia with us to the top of sun dial, a bald-crowned hill from which you see all grassy fordshire green and golden at your feet. leaving the village, we crossed a brook by a ford of stones and plunged at once into the wild wood, forest and ancient orchard that clothed the slope. i was leading--to show the way. robin followed with letitia--to help her over the rocks and brambles and steeper places of the long ascent, which was far more arduous than one might think, looking up at it from the town below. i strode on proudly, threading the narrow hunter's trail i knew by heart, a remnant of an old wagon-lane long overgrown. i strode on swiftly, i remember, breaking the cob-webs, parting the fragrant tangle that beset the way--vines below, branches above me--keeping in touch the while, vocally, when the thickets intervened, with the pair that followed. i could hear them laughing together over the green barriers which closed behind me, and i was pleased at their troubles among the briers. i had led them purposely by the roughest way. robin, stalking across the ford, had made himself merry with my short legs, and i had vowed secretly that before the day was out he should feel how long those legs could be. "i'll show you, mr. bob," i muttered, plunging through the brushwood, and setting so fast a pace it was no great while before i realized how faintly their voices came to me. "hello-o!" i cried. "h'lo-o!" came back to me, but from so far behind me i deemed it wiser to stop awhile, awaiting their approach. the day was glorious, but quiet for a boy. the world was nodding in its long, midsummer nap, and no birds sang, no squirrels chattered. i looked in vain for one; but there were berries and the mottled fruit of an antique apple-tree to while the time away--and so i waited. i remember chuckling as i nibbled there, wondering what mr. bob would say of those short legs which had outstripped him. i fancied him coming up red and breathless to find me calmly eating and whistling between bites--and i did whistle when i thought them near enough. i whistled "dixie" till i lost the pucker, thinking what fun it was, and tried again, but could not keep the tune for chuckling. and so i waited--and then i listened--but all the wood was still. "hello-o!" i cried. there was no answer. "hello-o!" i called again, but still heard nothing in reply save my own echo. "_hello-o!_" i shouted. "_hello-o!_" till the wood rang, and then they answered: "h'lo-o!" but as faint and distant as before. they had lost their way! "_wait!_" i shouted, plunging pell-mell through the bushes. "wait where you are! i'm coming!" and so, hallooing all the way, while robin answered, i made my way to them--and found them resting on a wall. "hello," i said. "hello," said robin. "we aren't mountain-goats, you know, bertram." i grinned gleefully. "i thought my legs were so short?" i said. "and so they are," he replied, calmly, "but you go a bit too fast, my lad--for letty." i had forgotten letitia! revenging myself on robin, it was she alone who had suffered, and my heart smote me as i saw how pale she was, and weary, sitting beside him on the wall. yet she did not chide me; she said nothing, but sat there resting, with her eyes upon the wild-flower which she plucked to pieces in her hand. we climbed more slowly and together after that. i was chagrined and angry with myself, and a little jealous that robin saxeholm, friend of but a summer-time, should teach me thoughtfulness of dear letitia. all that steep ascent i felt a strange resentment in my soul, not that robin was so kind and mindful of her welfare, guiding her gently to where the slope was mildest, but that it was not i who helped her steps. i feigned indifference, but i knew each time he spoke to her and i saw how trustingly she gave her hand. and i was envious--yes, i confess it--envious of robin for himself, he was so stalwart; and besides, his coat and trousers set so rarely! they were of some rough, brownish, scotchy stuff, and interwoven with a fine red stripe just faintly showing through--oh, wondrous fetching! such ever since has been my ideal pattern, vaguely in mind when i enter tailor-shops, but i never find it. it was woven, i suppose, on some by-gone loom; perhaps at thrums. reaching the summit and drinking in the sweet, clear, skyey airs, with grassy fordshire smiling from all its hills and vales for miles about us, i forgot my pique. "what about water?" letitia asked. i knew a spring. "i'll go," said robin. "where is it, bertram?" "oh no, you won't!" i cried, fiercely. "that's my work, mr. bob. you're not the only one who can help letitia." he looked astonished for a moment, but laughed good-naturedly and handed me his flask. letitia smiled at me, and i whistled "dixie" as i disappeared. i hurried desperately till i lost my breath; i skinned both knees; i wellnigh slipped from a rocky ledge, yet with all my haste i was a full half-hour gone, and got back red and panting. they had waited patiently. famished as they were, neither had touched a single mouthful. letitia said, "thank you, bertram," and handed me a slice of the bread and jam. she seemed wondrous busy in our service. robin was silent--and i guessed why. "i didn't mean to be rough," i said. "rough?" he asked. "when were you rough, bertie?" "about the water." "oh," he said, putting his hand upon my shoulder. "i never thought of it, old fellow," and my heart smote me for the second time that day, seeing how much he loved me. letitia, weary with our hard climbing, ate so little that robin chided her, very gently, and i tried banter. "wake up! this is a picnic." but they did not rally, so i sprang up restlessly, crying, "it's not like our other good times at all." "what!" said robin, striving to be playful. "only six slices, bertram? this is our last holiday. eat another, lad." then i understood that gloom on sun dial: he was going to leave us. boylike, i had taken it for granted, i suppose, that we would go on climbing and fishing and playing cricket in grassy ford indefinitely. he was to go, he said, on monday. "news from home, mr. bob?" he was silent a moment. "well, no, bertie." "then why not stay?" i urged. "stay till september." he shook his head. "eat one more slice for me," i can hear him drawling. "i'll cut it--and a jolly fat one it shall be, bertram--and letty here, she'll spread it for you." here mr. bob began to cut--wellnigh a quarter of the loaf he made it. "lots of the jam, letty," he said to her. "and you'll eat it, bertram--and we'll call it--we'll call it the covenant of the seventh slice--never to forget each other. eh? how's that?" now, i did not want the covenant at all, but he was so earnest; and besides, i was afraid letitia might think that i refused the slice because of the tears she had dropped upon it, spreading the jam. v the handmaiden robin gone, i saw but little of letitia, i was so busy, i suppose, with youth, and she with age. the poet's lamp had burned up bravely all that summer-time, its flame renewed by robin's coming--or, rather, it was the brief return of his own young english manhood which he lived again in that fine, clean devon lad. robin gone, he felt more keenly how far he was from youth and devonshire, what a long journey he had come to age and helplessness, and his feeble life burned dimmer than before. two or three years slipped by. the charm was gone which had drawn me daily through the hole in our picket-fence. even the doctor's rugby tales no longer held me, i knew them so by heart. when he began some old beginning, my mind recited so much more glibly than his faltering tongue, i had leaped to the end before he reached the middle of his story. he was given now to wandering in his narratives, and while he droned there in his chair, my own mind wandered where it listed, or i played restlessly with my cap and tried hard not to yawn, longing to be out-of-doors again. many a time has my conscience winced, remembering that eagerness to desert one who had been so kind to me, who had led my fancies into pure-aired ways and primrose paths--a little too english and hawthorn-scented, some may think, for a good american, but we meant no treason. he, before robin, had given my mind an old-world bent never to be altered. only last evening, with master shallow and a certain well-known portly one of windsor fame, i drank right merrily and ate a last year's pippin with a dish of caraways in an orchard of ancient gloucestershire. before me as i write there hangs a drawing of pretty sally of the alley and the song. between the poet and that other younger devonshire lad, they wellnigh made me an english boy. we heard from robin--rather, letitia did. he never wrote to me, but sent me his love in letitia's letters and a book from london, _lorna doone_, for the christmas following his return. letitia told me of him now and then. she knew when he left cambridge and we sent him a present--or, rather, letitia did--_essays of emerson_, which she bought with money that could be ill-spared, and she wrote an inscription in it, "from grassy fordshire, in memory of the seventh slice." she knew when he went back home to devon, and then, soon afterwards, i believe, when he left england and went out to india. now, she did not tell me that wonderful piece of news till it was old to her, which was strange, i thought. i remember my surprise. i had been wondering where robin was and saying to her that he must be in london--perhaps in parliament!--making his way upward in the world, for i never doubted that he would be an earl some day. "oh no," letitia said, when i mentioned london. "he is in india." "india! mr. bob in india?" "yes. he went--why, he went last autumn! didn't you know?" no, i did not know. why, i asked, and as reproachfully as i could make the question--why had she never told me? she must have forgotten, she replied, penitent--there were so many things to remember. true, i argued, but she ought at least to have charged her mind with what was to me such important news. mr. bob and i were dear, dear friends, i reminded her. he had gone to india, and i had not known! she knew it, she said, humbly. she would never forgive herself. i did not go near her for days, i remember, and long afterwards her offence still rankled in my mind. had she not spread that slice on sun dial, never to forget? when next i saw her i made a rebuking point of it, asking her if she had heard from robin. she shook her head. months passed and no letter came. "we don't see you often any more, bertram," her father said to me one day. "no," i stammered. "i'm--" "busy studying, i suppose," he said. "yes, sir; and ball-games," i replied. "how do you get on with your latin?" he inquired, feebly. "we're still in virgil, sir." "ah," he said, but without a trace of the old vigor the classics had been wont to rouse in him. "that's good--won'erful writer--up--" he was pointing with his bony fore-finger. "yes?" i answered, wondering what he meant to say. he roused himself, and pointed again over my shoulder. "up there--on the--s'elf." he was so ghastly white i thought him dying and called letitia. "'s all right, bertram," he reassured me, patting my hand. i suppose he had seen the terror in my face. he smiled faintly. "'m all right, bertram." outside the apple-trees were blooming, i remember, and he lived, somehow, to see them bloom again. my conscience winces, as i say, to think how i twirled my cap by my old friend's bedside, longing to be gone; yet i comfort myself with the hope that he did not note my eagerness, or that if he did he remembered his own boyhood and the witchery of bat and ball. not only was the poet's life-lamp waning, not only was letitia burdened with increasing cares, fast aging her, the mater said, but i was a child no longer; a youth, now, mindful of all about me, and seeing that neighbor household with new and comprehending eyes. the very house grew dismal to me. the boughs outside were creeping closer--not to shelter it, not to cool it and make a breathing nook for a lad flushed with his games in the summer sun. it was damp there; the air seemed mouldy under the lindens; there was no invitation in the unkempt grass; toads hopped from beneath your feet, bird-songs came to you, but always, or so it seemed to me, they came from distance, from the yards beyond. there within, across that foot-worn threshold which had been a goal for me in former years, there was now a--not a poet any longer, or rugby boy, but only a sick old man. upon a table at his side his goblets stood, covered with saucers, and a spoon in each. his drugs were watery; there was no warmth in them, no sparkle even when the sun came straggling in, no wine of life to be quaffed thirstily--only a tepid, hourly spoonful to be feebly sipped, a sop to death. even with windows open to the breeze the air seemed stifling to the lad i was. the sunlight falling on the faded carpet seemed always ebbing to a kind of shadow of a glow. the clock, that ugly box upon the shelf, ticked dreadfully as if it never would strike a smiling hour again. the china ornaments at its side stood ghastly mute, and hideous flowers--_ffff!_ those waxen faces under glass! if not quite dead, why were they kept so long a-dying there? would no kind, sunny soul in mercy free them from their pallid misery? i was a prince of youth! what had i to do with tombs? i fled. even letitia, kind as ever to me, seemed always busy and preoccupied--sweeping, dusting, baking, cleansing those everlasting pots and pans, or reading to her father, who listened dreamily, dozing often, but always waking if she stopped. content to have her at his side because discontent to have her absent, even for the little while her duties or the doctor's orders led her, though quite unwillingly, away. impatience for her return would make him querulous, which caused her tears, not for its failing consciousness of her devotion, but for its warning to her of his gentle spirit's slow decline despite her care. "where have you been so long, letitia?" "so long, father? only an hour gone." "only an hour? i thought you would never come." "see, father, i've brought you a softer pillow," she would say, smiling his plaints into oblivion. it was the smile with which she had caught the grape-thief by the fence, the one with which she had charmed a devonshire lad, now gone three years and more--the tenderest smile i ever saw, save one, and the saddest, though not mournful, it was so genuine, so gentle, and so unselfish, and her eyes shone lovingly the while. its sadness, as i think now of it, lay not so much in the smile itself as in the wonder of it that she smiled at all. the mater--was she not always mother to the motherless?--was letitia's angel in those weary days, carried fresh loaves of good brown bread to her, a pot of beans, or a pie, perhaps, passing with them through the hole in the picket-fence. i can see her now standing on letitia's kitchen doorstep with the swathed dish in her hands. "the good fairy," letitia called her; and when she was for crying--for cry she must sometimes, though not for the world before her father's eyes--she shed her tears in the kitchen in the mater's arms. so it was that while i was yet a school-boy an elder sister was born unto our house and became forever one of the weatherbys by a tie--not of blood, i have said before, yet it was of blood, now that i come to think of it--it was of gentle, gentle human blood. there was an old nurse now to share letitia's vigils, but only the daughter's tender hands knew how to please. she scarcely left him. doctor or friends met the same answer, smiling but unalterable: she would rather stay. not a night passed that she did not waken of her own anxiety to slip softly to his bedside. he smiled her welcome, and she sat beside him with his poor, thin hand in hers, sometimes till the dawn of day. day by day like that, all through the silent watches of the darkened world, that gentle handmaiden laid her sacrifice upon the altar of her duty, without a murmur, without one bitter word. it was her youth she laid there; it was her girlhood and her bloom of womanhood, her first, her very last young years--sparkle of eyes, rose and fulness of maiden cheeks, the golden moments of that flower-time when love goes choosing, playtime's silvery laughter and blithe, untrammelled song. "'titia," he said to her, "there's no poem--'alf so beaut'ful--'s your love, m' dear." the words were a crown to her. he set it on her bowed head with his trembling fingers. "soft--brown 'air," he murmured. he could not see how the gray was coming there. spring came, scenting his room with apple blooms; summer, filling it with orient airs--but he was gone. vi cousin dove up in the attic of the primrose house one day, i was helping letitia with those family treasures which were too antiquated for future usage, but far too precious with memories to cast out utterly--discarded laces, broken fans, pencilled school-books, dolls and toys that had been letitia's, the very cradle in which she had been rocked by the mother she could not remember, even the little home-made pieced and quilted coverlet they had tucked about her while she slept. she folded it, and i laid it carefully in a wooden box. "how shall we fill it?" i asked her, gazing at the odds and ends about my feet. "with these," she said, bringing me packages of old newspapers, each bundle tied neatly with a red ribbon, too new and bright ever to have been worn. i glanced carelessly at the foolish packages, as i thought them--then suddenly with a new interest. "why," i said, "they're papers from bombay!" "yes," she answered. "where robin is?" i asked. there was no reply from the garret gloom. "did mr. bob send them?" she was busy in a chest. "what did you ask, bertram?" she inquired, absently. "did mr. bob send these bombay papers?" "oh," she answered, "those?" she paused a moment. "no," she told me. "oh," said i, much disappointed, "i thought he might. they're last year's papers, too, some of them." "do they fill the box?" she asked. "yes," i said. "shall i nail the cover on?" "oh, don't _nail_ it," she protested, shuddering. "we won't put any cover on, i think; at least--not yet." long before dr. primrose died he had planned with letitia what she should do without him. his home then would be hers, and she was to sell it and become a school-mistress, the one vocation for which his classical companionship had seemed to fit her and to which her own book-loving mind inclined. left alone then she tried vainly to dispose of her little property, living meanwhile with us next door to it, and gradually, chiefly with my own assistance and the mater's, packing and storing the few possessions from which she could not bring herself to part. to editor butters she presented an old edition of _king lear_; to me, not one, but many of her father's best-loved books, which she fancied might be of charm and use to me. of relatives across the sea letitia knew little beyond a few strange names she had heard her father speak, and in her native and his adopted land she had no kinsfolk she had ever seen save a distant cousin as far removed from her in miles as blood, and remembered chiefly as a marvellously brocaded waistcoat with pearl buttons, to which she had raised her timorous eyes on his only visit to her father years ago. apparently, this little girl had gone no farther up. she could never remember a face above that saffron vest, and, what was still more remarkable, considering her shyness, was never certain even of the knees and boots that must have been somewhere below. now the yellow waistcoat, whose name was george--cousin george mclean--had a daughter dove, or cousin dove, as letitia called her, concerning whom we always used to smile and wonder, so that in course of time myths had grown up about the girl whom none of us had ever seen and of whom we had no notions save the idle fancies suggested by her odd, sweet, unforgettable little name. the mater had always said that she must be a quaint and demure little thing--in short, dovelike. that, my father argued, was quite unlikely, since he had never known a child to mature in keeping with a foolish, flowery, or pious christian name. he had never known a human lily to grow up tall and pale and slender, or a violet to be shy and modest and petite, or a faith or hope or patience to be singularly spiritual and mild. for example, there was charity b----, of grassy ford, who hinted that heaven was presbyterian, and that she knew folks, not a thousand miles off, either, who would never be--presbyterians, my father said; and so, he added, it was dollars to dough-nuts that cousin dove was not at all dovelike, but a freckled and red-haired, roistering, tomboy little thing. letitia had a notion, she scarce knew how or why, that cousin dove was not birdlike, but like a flower, she said--a white-and-pink-cheeked british type with fluffy yellow hair and a fondness for candy, trinkets, and even boys. as for myself, i had two notions as a boy--one for the forum, the other for my cell. the first was simply that cousin dove was pale and tall and frigid beyond endurance. i could see her, i declared, going to church somewhere with two little black-and-gilt books held limply in her hand--and she had green eyes, i said. on the other hand, privately, i kept a far different portrait in mind--a gilded one, rather a golden vision by way of analogy, i suppose, for was not dove the veritable daughter of a gorgeous, saffron-hued brocade? from yellow waistcoat to cloth of gold is but a step for a bookish boy. she was tall and stately, i told myself; and as i saw her then, her mediæval robe clung lovingly about her, plain but edged with pearls (seed-pearls i think they called them in the old romances), and she had a necklace of larger pearls, loops of them hanging a golden cross upon her bosom. her face was radiant, her eyes blue, her hair golden, and she wore a coronal of meadow flowers. i do not mean that i really fancied cousin dove was so in flesh and blood, but such to me was the spirit of her gentle name, the spell of which had conjured up for me in some rare moment of youthful fancy this lady of the marigolds, this christmas-card st. dove. in the midst of letitia's sad uprooting of her old garden, as she called the only home she had ever known, a letter came from the yellow waistcoat conveying surprising news. dove herself was leaving for grassy ford to persuade her cousin to return with her and dwell henceforth with the mcleans. a thrill ran through our little household at the thought of that approaching maid of dreams. now we should know, the mater said, that the girl was dovelike. "humpf!" was my father's comment. letitia trembled, she said, with a return of her childish awe of the yellow waistcoat. i myself was stirred--i was still in teens, and dreaded girls i had never met. on the july morning that was to bring her, i rose early, i remember, and took down my fishing-rod. "not a bad idea, either," remarked my father, as he stood watching me. "still," he added, "there's no hurry, bertram. she'll want to change her dress first, you know." i made no answer. "it's a bit selfish though," he continued, "to be carrying her off this way the very first morning." "mother," i said, coolly, "will you put up some sandwiches? i may not be back till dark." "why, bertram! going fishing on the day--" "i don't really see what that's got to do with it," i interrupted. "must i give up all my fun because a mere girl's coming?" "no, bertram," said my father, in his kindest tones. "go, by all means, and here [he was rummaging in the bookcase drawer]--here, my son, take these along, these old field-glasses. they may come handy. you can see our yard, you know, from the top of sun dial--and the front porch. splendid fishing up on sun dial--" but i was off. "bertram! bertram!" called my mother, but i did not heed her. i stopped at a grocery for cheese and crackers, and strode off to the farthest brook--farthest, i mean, from sun dial. troublesome brook, it was called, not so much for the spring freshets that spread it over the lower meadows as for the law-suits it had flowed through in its fickle course between two town-ships and good farm-lands. under its willows i cooled my wrath and disentangled my knotted tackle. the stream flowed silently. there was no wind, no sound, indeed, but the drone of insects; all about me was a world in reverie, mid-summer-green save for the white and blue above and the yellow wings of vagrant butterflies and the sun golden on the meadows. many a time i have fished in that very spot. it is a likely one for idleness and for larger fish than any i ever caught there, and waiting for them as a boy i used to read in the little pocket-fitting books i dote on to this day--they fit the hand so warmly, unlike their bigger brethren, who at the most give you three-fingers' courtesy. there on that same moist bank i have sounded deeper pools than troublesome's, and have come home laden with unlooked-for spoil that glistens still in a certain time-worn upper creel of mine. but i had no book that day, having forgotten one in my hurried parting, and i had not yet mastered that other tranquil art of packing little bowls with minced brown meditation--so i was restless. the world seemed but half awake. i chafed at the stillness. before, i had found it pleasant; now it nettled me. i frowned impatiently at my cork dozing on the waters. i roused it savagely, and gazed up at the sun. "queer," i said to myself. "queer it should be so late this morning"--but i did not mean the sun. trains from the west glide into grassy ford on a long curve following the trend of troublesome and the pastoral valley through which it runs. it is a descending grade down which the cars plunge roaring as though they had gathered speed rather than slackened it, and as though they would run the gantlet of the ugly buildings and red freight-cars that, from the windows of the train, are all one sees of our lovely town. now the black arrow was the pride of the x., y. & z., and all that summer had arrived in the nick of its schedule time. "funny," said i to myself, looking at the sun. "funny it should be late this morning." i pulled up my hook and cast it in again. my cork shook itself--yawned, i was about to say, and settled down again as complacently as before. leisurely the ripples widened and were effaced among the shadows. what right had any one to assume that i had not long planned to go a-fishing that very morning? i pulled up my line again. even a father should not presume on the kinship of his son. i dropped my bait into a likelier hole. besides, i was not a child any longer, to be bullyragged by older people. had i not gone fishing a hundred times?--yet no one had ever deemed it odd before. my float drifted against a snag. i jerked it back. it was the only unpleasant trait my father had. again i squinted at the sun. "queer," said i, "it should be so late this morning." i pulled up my-- hark! _that_ was a whistle! there would be just time to reach the open if i ran! i ran. breathless, i made the meadow fence and clambered up--and saw her train go by. yes, i--i waved to it. suppose she had seen me! i was only some truant farm-boy on a rail. her train ran by me in a cloud of dust and clattered on among the freight-cars. i heard the rumble die away, but the bell kept ringing. the brakeman, doubtless, would help her off--letitia would be waiting with out-stretched arms--girls are such fools for kissing--and then father would take her bag, and the surrey would whisk her off to the mater, bareheaded at the gate. rails are sharp sitting; let us look at the cork again. it was calm as ever and nestling against a snag. i pulled up my line till the bait emerged, limp, unnibbled. savagely i swished it back--it caught in the willows. i pulled. it would not budge. in a sudden rage i whipped out my pocket-knife, severed the cord as high above me as i could reach, and wrapping the remnant about my rod, turned townward. a dozen yards from the faithless stream, i remembered my cheese and crackers, and went back for them, and started off again, purposeless. never before had vagabondage on a golden morning seemed irksome to me. it was not that i wished to see cousin dove, but merely that i had no desire to do anything else--a different matter. only one way was really barred to me, since in point of pride i could not go homeward till the sun sank, yet all other ways seemed shorn somehow of their old delights, i knew so well every stick and stone of them. while i was dallying thus, irresolute, i thought of "the pide bull" and my old friend butters. it was inspiration. in twenty minutes (mindful of my father's eyes meanwhile) i had reached the shop. "hello," he growled, as i appeared. "you here again?" "yep." "what do you want?" "nothing." "humpf! help yourself, then." "mr. butters, what kind of type is this?" "what type?" "this type." "what good ' it do to tell you? you won't remember it, if i do." "yes, i will." "you won't know ten minutes after i tell you." "go on, mr. butters. tell me." "well, if you must know, it's b'geois." "b-what?" "b'geois, i tell you, and i won't tell you again, either." "how do you spell it, mr. butters?" "say, what do you think i am? i haven't got time to sit here all day and answer questions." "but how do you spell it, mr. butters?" "dictionary's handy, isn't it?" "you ought to know how to spell it," i remarked, fluttering the dictionary. "who said i didn't know how to spell it?" "you told me to look it up." "did, hey? and what d' i do it for? d' you think i've got time to be talking to every young sprig like you?" "here it is, mr. butters. it's spelled b-o-u-r-g-e-o-i-s." "precisely," said the editor--"b-o-u-r-g-o-i-s, bur-joyce." "no--g-_e_-o-i-s, mr. butters." "just what i said." "you left out the 'e.'" "why, confound you, what do you mean by telling me i don't know my own business?" "i was only fooling, mr. butters. you did say the 'e,' of course." "you're a liar!" he promptly answered. "i didn't say the 'e,' and you know it!" he broke off into a roar of triumphant laughter, but well i knew who had won the day. he was mine--he and "the pide bull," and the story of his wife's uncle's old yellow rooster, and the twenty legends of tommy rice, the sexton, who "stuttered in his walk, by george!"--yes, and the famous narrative of how mr. butters thrashed the barkeep--all, all his darling memories were mine till sunset if i chose to listen. he took me to luncheon at the palace hotel near by his shop, and afterwards mellowed perceptibly over his pipe, as we sat together in the clutter of paper about his desk waiting for the one-o'clock whistle to blow him to work again. "how old are you?" he asked. "eighteen," said i, half ashamed i was no more. "beautiful age," he mused, nodding his head and stroking his warm, black bowl. "beautiful age, my boy." he spoke so mildly that i waited, silent and a little awed to have come so near him unawares, and feeling the presence of some story he had never told before. but the whistle blew one o'clock and he rose and put on his apron, and went back to his case again, talking some nonsense about the weather; and though i lingered all afternoon, he was nothing but the old, gruff printer, and never afterwards did i catch him nooning and thinking of the age he said was beautiful. it was six when i took up my fishing-tackle and went home to supper, whistling. i found the mater in the kitchen. "ah," she said. "what luck, bertram?" "none," i replied. "the fish weren't biting." "_oh_, that's too bad. you must be tired." "i am, and hungry. is father home?" "not yet. come, you must meet--" but i ran up the kitchen staircase to the hall above. safe in my room, i could hear a murmuring from letitia's. hers was a front room, mine a rear one, and a long hall intervened, so i made nothing of the voices. i scrubbed and lathered till my nose was red and shining beautifully. then i drew on my sunday suit, in which i always stood the straighter, and my best black shoes, in which i always stamped the louder, and my highest, whitest collar, and my best light silk cravat--a christmas present from letitia, a wondrous thing of pale, sweet lavender, 'in which not solomon--though it _would_ hike up behind. it was not like other ties, and while i was struggling there i heard the supper knell. i pulled fiercely. the soft silk crumpled taut--and the bow stuck up seven ways for sunday. so i unravelled it again--looped it once more with trembling fingers, for i heard the voices on the stairs, and jerked it into place--but what a jumble! "bertram! bertram!" it was father's voice. "supper, bertram." "in a minute." the face in the glass was red as a sunset in harvest-time. the eyes i saw there popped wildly. "bertram!" "yes; i hear you! [confound it.]" "supper, bertram. we are all waiting." i deigned no answer. then father rang. oh, i knew it was father. i looped desperately and hauled again like a sailor at his cordage, and so, muttering, wrung out a bow-knot. then in the mirror i took a last despairing look, leaped for the doorway, slipped, stumbled, and almost fell upon the stairs, hearing below me a lusty warning--"here he comes!"--and so emerged, rosy, a youth-illumined, with something lavender, they tell me, fluttering in my teeth (and something blood-red, i could tell them, trembling in my heart). and there she was! there she stood in the smiling midst of them, smiling herself and giving me her hand--cousin dove--cousin dove mclean, at the first sight of whom my shyness vanished. "your tie, my son, seems a trifle--" so _this_ was cousin dove?--this was the daughter of the golden waistcoat--this brown-eyed school-girl with brown--no, as i lived!--red hair. vii of hamadryads and their spells it was a golden summer that last of my youth at home, with cousin dove to keep us forever smiling. she was just eighteen and of that blessed temperament which loves each day for its gray or its sunny self. she coaxed letitia out-of-doors where they walked much in the mater's garden with their arms about each other's waist. letitia's pace was always deliberate, while dove had the manner of a child restrained, as if some blithe and skipping step would have been more pleasant, would have matched better her restless buoyancy, her ever upturned beaming face as she confided in the elder woman--what? what do girls talk so long about? i used to marvel at them, wondering what dove could find so merry among our currant-vines. she was a child beside letitia. she had no memories to modulate that laughing voice of hers, no tears to quench the twin flames dancing in her eyes, and never an anxious thought in those days to cast its shadow there where her hair--red, i first called it; it was pure chestnut--brown, i mean, with the red just showing through, and wondrous soft and pretty on the margin of her fair white forehead, where it clung like tendrils of young scampering vine reddening in the april sun. even letitia, whose present seemed always twilit, was tempted by-and-by into claiming something of that heritage of youth of which she had been so long deprived. from mere smiling upon her gay young cousin she fell to making little joyous venturings herself into our frolics, repartees, and harmless badinage--"midsummer madness," father called it--a sort of scarlet rash, he said, which affected persons loitering on starlit evenings on the porch or wandering under trees. he was the soul of our table banter, and after supper sat with us on the steps smoking his cigar and "devilling," as he said, "you younger caps and bells." whom he loved he teased, after the fashion of older men, and dove was the chief butt of that rude fondness. it was not his habit to caress, but his eyes twinkled at his fair victim. "and to think, dove," he was wont to say-when she had charmed him, "that bertram here swore that you carried prayer-books and had green eyes!" "and what did you prophesy, uncle weatherby?" "i? the truth." "and what was that?" "why, _i_ said you were an angel, though a little frolicsome perhaps, and with beautiful auburn hair. did i not, my son?" "no, sir. you thought she would be a tomboy with red--" "precisely," he would interrupt. "you see, my dear, how in every particular i am corroborated by my son." into these quiet family tournaments, letitia, as i have said, was slowly drawn, but it was a new world to her and she was timid in it. doctor primrose had been endowed with wit, even with a quiet, subtle humor in which his daughter shared, but beneath their lighter moments there had flowed always an undercurrent of that sad gravity which tinged their lives together. if they were playful in each other's company, it was out of pity for each other's lot, his in his chair, hers by its side, rather than because they could not help the jest. it was meant to cheer each other--that kind of tender gayety which, however fanciful, however smiling, ends where it begins--in tears unshed. waters in silent woodland fountains, all untouched by a single gleam from the sky above the boughs, lose sometimes their darker hues and turn to amber beneath the fallen leaves--but they are never golden like the meadow pools; they never flash and sparkle in the sun. letitia was not yet thirty; life stretched years before her yet; so, coaxed by cousin dove and me, she gave her hands to us, half-delighted, half-afraid. here now, at last, were holidays, games, tricks, revels, the mummery and masque, the pipe and tabor--all the rosy carnival of youth. her eyes kindled, her heart beat faster as we led her on--but at the first romp failed her. it was beautiful, she pleaded--only let her smile upon it as from a balcony--she could not dance--she had never learned our songs. we did not urge her. she sat with the mater and smiled gladly upon our mirth. in all the frolics of that happy summer her eyes were always on cousin dove, as if, watching, she were thinking to herself--enviously, often sadly, i have no doubt, but through it all lovingly and with a kind of pride in that grace and flowerness-- "there is the girl i might have been." dove, even when she seemed the very spirit of our effervescence, kept always a certain letter of that lovely quaintness which her name implied. she _was_ a dove, the mater said, reminding us for the hundredth time of her old prediction--a dove always, even among the magpies; meaning, i suppose, father and myself. it was not all play that summer. i was to enter college in the fall, and i labored at exercises, helped not a little by a voice still saying: "that's right, my boy. remember what dr. primrose said when he gave you horace." now was i under the spell of that ancient life which had held him thralled to his very end. mine were but meagre vistas, it is true, but i caught such glimpses of marble beauty through the pergola of time, as made me a little proud of my far-sightedness. seated with dove and letitia beneath a favorite oak, half-way up sun dial, i discoursed learnedly, as i supposed, only to find that in classic lore the poet's daughter was better versed than i. she brightened visibly at the sound of ancient names; they had been the music of her father's world, and from earliest childhood she had listened to it. seated upon the grass, i, the school-boy, expounded text-book notes. she, the daughter of "old david homer," as butters called him, told us bright tales of gods and heroes, nymphs and flowers and the sailing clouds shell-pink in the setting sun. they had been to her what _mother goose_ and _robinson crusoe_ had been to me; they had been her fairy stories, told her at eve ere she went to bed; and now as she told them, an eager winsomeness crept upon her, her voice was sweeter, her face was glorified with something of that roseate light in which her scenes were laid; she was a child again, and dove and i, listening, were children with her, asking more. she sat bolt-upright while she romanced for us. i lay prone before her with my chin upon my hands, nibbling grass-stalks. dove, like letitia, sat upon the turf, now gazing raptly with her round brown eyes at the story-teller's face, now gazing off at the purple woodland distance or at grassy ford's white spires among the elms below. "why, letty, you're a poetess," dove once said, so breathlessly that letitia laughed. "and i," dove added, "why, i don't know a single story." "why should you know one?" replied letitia, pinching dove's rueful face. "why tell an idyl, when you can live one, little chloe, little wild olive? you yourself shall be a heroine, my dear." idling there under distant trees for refuge from the august sun, which burns and browns our grassy fordshire, crumbling our roads to a gray powder and veiling with it the green of way-side hedge and vine--idling there, dove was a creature i had never seen before and but half-divined in visions new to me. fair as she seemed under our roof-tree, there in the woodland she was far the lovelier. young things flowered about us, their fragrance scenting the summer air. like them her presence wore a no less subtle spell. it was an ancient glamour, though i did not know it then, it seemed so new to me--one which young shepherds felt, wondering at it, in the world's morning; and since earth's daughters, then as now, with all their fairness, could scarce be credited with such wondrous witchery, those young swains came home breathless from the woodland with tales of dryads and their spells. maiden mine, in the market-place, you are only one among many women, though you be beautiful as a dream, but under boughs the birds still sing those songs the first birds sang--there it is always eden, and thou art the only woman there. on my nineteenth birthday three climbed sun dial as three had climbed it once before. leaving the village we crossed the brook by that self-same ford of stones, and plunged at once into the forest and ancient orchard that clothed the slope. i was not leading now, but helping them, dove and letitia, over the rocks and brambles and steeper places of the ascent. threading as before that narrow trail i knew by heart, i broke the cob-webs and parted the fragrant tangle that beset our way, vines below, branches above us. it was just such another august noon, and the world was nodding; no birds sang, no squirrels chattered. we stopped for breath, resting upon a wall shaded by an ancient oak. "the very spot!" i cried. "do you remember, letitia, how you and robin rested here?" "yes," she answered. "do you remember how i called to you, and came running back?" "yes." "i'd been waiting for you under an apple-tree. how i should like to see old robin now!" "who was robin?" asked cousin dove, and so i told her of the devonshire lad. during my story letitia wandered, as she liked to do, searching for odd, half-hidden flowers among the grasses. soon she was nowhere to be seen, nor could we hear her near us. "letitia was fond of robin, was she not?" asked cousin dove. "oh yes," i said. "so were we all." "but i mean--don't you think she may have loved him?" "oh," i said, "i never thought of that; besides, letitia never had time for--" dove opened wide her eyes. "must you have time for--" "i mean," i stammered, "she was never free like--you or me; we--" "i see," she replied, coloring. "he must have been a splendid fellow." "he was," i said. "dear letitia!" murmured cousin dove, gazing thoughtfully at the wilted flower she held. the wood which had been musical with voices was strangely silent now. it was something more than a mere stillness. it was like a spell, for i could not break it, though i tried. dove, too, was helpless. there was no wind--i should have known had one been blowing--yet the boughs parted above her head, and a crown fell shining on her hair!--her hair, those straying tendrils of it, warm and ruddy and now fired golden at that magic touch--her brow, pure as a nun's, beneath that veiling--the long, curved lashes of her hidden eyes--her cheeks still flushed--her lips red-ripe and waiting motionless. she raised her eyes to me!--a moment only, but my heart leaped, for in that instant it dawned upon me how all that vision there--flesh, blood, and soul--was just arm's-length from me! it was--i know. part ii _the school-mistress_ i the older letitia precisely at half-past seven there was a faint rustling on our staircase and a moment later letitia primrose appeared at our breakfast-table smiling "good-morning." she was dressed invariably in the plainest of black gowns with the whitest of ruching about her wrists and throat, and at the collar a pin which had been her mother's, a cameo minerva in an antique setting of vine leaves wrought in gold. the gown itself--i scarcely know how to style it, for no frill or foible of the day was ever visible in its homely contour, or if existing there, had been so curbed by the wearer's modesty as to be quite null and void to the naked eye. every tress of her early whitening hair lay smoothly back about her forehead, and behind was caught so neatly beneath her comb, it might be doubted how or if she ever slept upon it. just so immaculate, virginal, irreproachable did the older letitia come softly down to us every week-day morning of her life, and taking her chair between dove's seat and mine, she would adjust her gold-rimmed glasses to better see how the night had dealt with us, and beaming upon us with one of the pleasantest of inquiring smiles, would murmur-- "well?" she ate little, and that so unobtrusively, i used to wonder if she ate at all. i can remember her lifting her cup, but do not recall that it ever reached her lips. she had, i think, some trick of magnetism, some power of the eye that held yours at the crucial moment, so that you never really saw her sip or bite, and she never chewed, i swear, yet i never heard of her bad digestion. eating in her was a chaste indulgence common only, i believe, to spinsterhood--a rite, communionlike, rather than a feast. when the clock struck eight, we would rise together--i for my office, dove for farewells, letitia for the school-room; i with a clattering chair, dove demurely, letitia noiselessly, to put on a hat as vague and unassuming as that decorous garment in which she cloaked herself from the outer world--a kind of cape and jacket, i think it was, in winter, but am not quite sure. in summer it was a cashmere shawl. then slipping on a pair of gloves, black always and always whole, however faded, she would take up her small pearl-handled parasol, storm or shine, and that linen bag of hers, a marvellous reticule for books and manuscripts with a separate pocket in the cover-flap for a comb and mirror and extra handkerchief--though not to my knowledge; i am merely telling what was told. nor am i telling all that was said of letitia's panoply and raiment, the manner of which at every season, at every hour of the night and day, was characterized--if i have understood the matter--not so much by a charm of style as of precaution, a modest providence, a truly exquisite foresight and readiness for all emergencies, however perilous, so that fire nor flood nor war's alarms nor death itself, however sudden, should find her unprepared. fire at night would merely have illumined a slender, unobtrusive figure descending a stair or ladder unabashed, decently, even gracefully arrayed in a silk kimono which hung nightly on the foot-board of her bed; and since for other purposes it was never worn, it remains unscorched, and, indeed, unblemished, to this very day. but for that grim hand the moment of whose clutch can never be foretold with certainty, nothing could exceed letitia's watchfulness and care. she dressed invariably, i have said, in the plainest black, but i have heard, and on authority i could not question, that however simple and inexpensive those outer garments were, the inner vestments were of finest linen superimposing the softest silk. thus--for a tendency to some heart-affection was hereditary in the primrose family--thus could no sudden dissolution or surrender, such as might occur in an absence from home and the ministration of loving friends, be attended ever by any _post-mortem_ embarrassment or chagrin, but rather would disclose a pride and delicacy of taste and consideration, the more remarkable and worthy of approval and regret, because it could never otherwise have been revealed. nothing i know of in the way of gifts was more acceptable to letitia primrose than those black silk ones which she took such pains to purchase and secrete. it was a wondrous reticule, that linen pouch of which i spoke, bearing "l. p." embroidered on its outer side. i say its outer, for so she carried it always; and in years, so many i will not count them, i never knew that monogram turned in, or down. she met me with it in the doorway from which dove watched us till we had left the gate. mornings, for years, we went to our work together, save when an urgent matter summoned me earlier or compelled me, against my will and exercise, to drive. morn after morn we walked together to the red brick school-house, talking of village news and the varying moods of our fickle northern weather, or perhaps of books, old ones and new ones, or of those golden memories that we shared. they were not perfunctory as i recall them, those morning dialogues. there was no abstraction about letitia, no cursory, unweighed chattering of things so obvious as to need no comment. every topic might be a theme for her mild eloquence. it might be of keats that she discoursed to me, or browning or alfred tennyson or perhaps the corsican, whom she hated, partly for tyranny, partly because he made her "look at him," she said; it might be the early church, whose records she had read and read again, though not one-half so much for cuthbert's holiness, i told her, as for fuller's quaintness, which she loved; or it might be a march morning that we walked together, while she spoke like a poet's daughter of the first pink arbutus some grinning farm-boy had laid but yesterday upon her desk. why no one ever wooed and won such fervor seemed passing strange to dove and me. with all the grace of goodness and gentle courage in which she faced the world alone, in all those years which had followed her father's death, she had never, to dove's ken or mine, won a single suitor. those burdens of care and sacrifice laid too soon upon her frail, young shoulders had borne early fruit--patience, wisdom, and a sweet endurance beyond her years--but on such harvest young men set small store. a taste for it comes late. it made her pleasing to her elders, but those of her own years shrank instinctively from its very perfectness. she had matured too soon. how then should any one so coolly virtuous know trial or passion? surely so young a saint could have no warm impetuous hours to remember, no sweet abandonment, no pretty idyls--had she even a spring-time to recall? men admired her for her mind and heart, but in her presence secretly were ill at ease. her self-dependence rendered useless their stronger arms accustomed to being leaned upon. she smiled upon them, it is true, but not as men like to be smiled upon--neither as a child, trustingly, nor as a queen, confident of their homage and gallant service. she appealed neither to their protection nor to their pride. she awoke the friend, but not the lover, in them; and so the years slipped by and she won no chivalry, because she claimed none. she had but asked and but received respect. our raillery, harmlessly meant, was not always kind, as i look back at it. it is scarcely pleasant to be reminded that among one's kind one is not preferred, yet letitia bore all our jesting with steadfast pleasantry. "do i look forlorn? do i look so helpless?" she would ask. her very smile, her voice, her step, seemed in themselves an answer. "what do i want with a husband then?" "why," dove would say, "to make you happy, letitia." "you child: i am perfectly happy." "well," dove would answer, stubbornly, "to make you happier, then." i have forgotten letitia's answers--all but one of them: "i lived so long with my scholar-love," she once said, sweetly, of her father, "i fear i never should be content with an ordinary man." dove declared that no one in grassy fordshire was half worthy of her cousin; at least, she said, she knew but one, and he was already wedded--and to a woman, she added, humbly, not half so good or wise or wonderful as letitia. dove stoutly held that letitia could have married, had she wished it, and whom she would. father would shake his head at that. "no," he would say, "letty is one of those women men never think of as a bride." "but why?" dove would demand then, loyally. "she is the very woman to find real happiness in loving and self-sacrifice. adversity would never daunt her, and yet," my wife would say with scorn rising in her voice, "the very men who need such help and comprehension and comradeship in their careers, would pass her by, and for a chit of girl who would never be happy sharing their struggles--but only their success!" "my dear," father would reply, sagely, "a man glories in his power to hand a woman something she cannot reach herself. letty primrose has too long an arm." "but if a man once married letitia--" dove would protest, and father would chuckle then. "ah, yes, my dear, if one only would! but there's the rub. doubtless he would find letitia much like other women, quite willing he should reach things down to her from the highest shelf. but he must be a wise man to suspect just that--to guess what lies beneath our letty's apparent self-sufficiency." "an older man might," dove once suggested. "a general, or a great professor, or a minister plenipotentiary." "doubtless," he answered, "but our grassy ford is a narrow world, my dear. the young sprigs in it are only silly lads, and the elder bachelors are very musty ones, i fear--and not an ambassador among them. i doubt very much if letitia will ever meet him--that man you mean, who might choose letty's love through wisdom, and whose wisdom she might choose through love." dove's answer was a sigh. "bertram," she said, "you must make some real nice, elderly bachelor doctor friends, and we'll ask them to visit us." it seemed a likely plan, but nothing came of it, and the silly lads and the musty ones alike left our letitia more and more to friendships beyond her years. from being so much in the company of her elders, she grew in time to be more like them. her modesty became reserve; reserve, in turn, a certain awkwardness or shy aloofness in the presence of the other sex--primness, it was called. she had not forgotten how to smile; her talk was blithe enough with those she knew, and was still colored by her love for poetry, but it fast grew quainter and less colloquial; there was a certain old-fashioned care and subtlety about it, a rare completeness in its phrases not at all like the crude, half-finished ones with which our grassy ford belles were content. it added to her charm, i think, but to the evidence as well of that maturity and self-complacency which all men seemed to fear and shun, not one suspecting that the glow beneath meant youth--youth preserved through time and trial to be a light to her, or to love belated. her brown hair turned to gray, her gray to white, and she still came down to us smiling good-morning; still worshipped keats, still scorned the upstart who made her look; taught on, year after year, in the red brick school-house, wearing the wild flowers farm-boys gathered in the hills. her life flowed on like a stream in summer, softly in shadow and in sun. she seemed content--no bitter note in her low voice, no glance of envy, malice, or chagrin in those kind gray eyes of hers, which beamed so gently upon others' loves; we used to wonder how they might have shone upon her own. one day in august--it was again that anniversary birthday around which half my memories of her seem to cling--she gave me a copy of _in memoriam_, and bought for herself the linen for another reticule. neatly, and in the fashion of our grandmothers' day, she worked upon it her initials, l. and p., in old-english letters, old-rose and gold. "what," i asked, "is the figure meant for?" "the figure? where?" "in the background there--the figure seven, in the lighter gold." she bent to study it. "there _is_ a seven there," she said. "i must have used a lighter silk." "then shall you alter it?" i asked. "no," she answered. "it is now too late." "she means the figure," i explained to dove. "the letters also," dove murmured, softly, as we turned away. ii on a corner shelf at five minutes to four o'clock the red school-house gave no sign of the redder life beating within its walls. the grounds about it, worn brown by hundreds of restless feet and marked in strange diagrams, the mystic symbols of hop-scotch, marbles, and three-old-cat, were quite deserted save for sparrows busy with crumbs from the mid-day luncheon-pails. five minutes later, one listening by the picket-fence might have heard faintly the tinkling of little bells, and a rising murmur that with the opening of doors burst suddenly into a tramping of myriad feet, while from the lower hallway two marching lines came down the outer stair, primly in step, till at the foot they sprang into wild disorder, a riot of legs and skirts, with the shouts and shrieks and shrill whistlings of children loosed from bondage. when the noisy tide had swept down the broad walk into the street, letitia might be seen following smilingly, her skirts surrounded by little girls struggling for the honor of being nearest and bearing her reticule. at the end of happy days letitia's face bore the imprint of a sweet contentment, as if the love she had given had been returned twofold, not only in the awkward caresses of her little ones, but in the sight of such tender buds opening day by day through her patient care into fuller knowledge of a great bright world about them. she strove earnestly to show them more of it than the school-books told; she aimed higher than mere correctness in the exercises, those anxious, careful, or heedless scribblings with which her reticule was crammed. in the geography she taught there were deeper colorings than the pale tints of those twenty maps the text-book held; greater currents flowed through those green and pink and yellow lands than the principal rivers there, and in the plains between them greater harvests had been garnered, according to her stories, than the principal products, principal exports--principal paragraphs learned by rote and recited senselessly. drawing, in letitia's room, it was charged against her by one named shears, who had the interests of the school at heart and jaw, had become a subterfuge for teaching botany as well. "for draggin' in a study," as he told a group on the corner of main and clingstone streets, "not _in_cluded in the grammar-grade curriculum!" he paused to let the word have full effect. "for wastin' the scholars' time and gettin' their feet wet pokin' around in bogs and marshy places, a-pullin' weeds! and for what?--why, by gum, to _draw_ 'em!" his auditors chuckled. "what," he asked, "are drawin'-books _for_?" his fellow-citizens nodded intelligently. "and even when she _does_ use the books," cried mr. samuel shears, "she won't let 'em draw a consarned circle or cross or square, without they tell her some fool story of michael the angelo!" the crowd laughed hoarsely. "and who _was_ michael the angelo?" asked mr. shears, screwing his face up in fine derision and stamping one foot, rabbit-like, by way of emphasis to his scorn. "who _was_ this here michael the angelo?" four men spat and the others shuffled. "a _dago_!" roared shears, and the crowd was too much relieved to do more than gurgle. "what does my son care about michael the angelo?" letitia admitted, i believe, that _his_ son didn't. "and further_more_," said mr. shears, insinuatingly, "what i want to know is: why has she got them pitchers a-hanging around the school-room walls? pitchers of dago churches and dago statures--and i guess _you_ know what dago statures are--i guess you know whether they're dressed like you and me!--i guess you fellows know all right--and if you don't, there's them that do. and, in conclusion, i want to ask right here: who's a-payin' for them there decorations?" mr. shears spat, the crowd spat, and they adjourned. now, there may have been a dozen prints relieving the ugliness and concealing the cracks in the school-room walls, but all quite innocent, as i recall them: "socrates in the market-place," "the parthenon," "the battle of salamis," "christian martyrs," a tragic moment in the arena of ancient rome, "st. peter's," i suppose, "st. mark's by moonlight," and of statues only one and irreproachable, the "moses" of michael angelo. his "david" was letitia's joy, but she never dreamed, i am sure, of its exhibition in a grammar-school, though i have heard her declare (shamelessly, mr. shears would say) that were it not for a puritan weakness of eyesight hereditary in grassy ford, that lithe jew's ideal figure would be a far better lesson to her boys than all the text-books in physiology. "might it not incite them to sling-shots?" queried dove, softly. "i don't agree with you," said letitia, lost in her theme, and noting only the fact, and not the nature, of the opposition. "i don't agree with you at all. it would teach them the beauty of manly--why do you laugh?" if shears could have heard her! his information, such as it was, had been derived from his only son, a youth named david, "not by angelo," letitia said, and hopelessly indolent, whose only fondness was for sticking pins into smaller boys. he was useful, however, as a barometer in which the rise or fall of his surly impudence registered the parental feeling against her rule. shears and his kind held that the proper study of mankind was arithmetic. what would he not have said at the corner of main and clingstone streets, had he known that letitia was trifling with robinson's complete?--that between its lines, she was teaching (surreptitiously would have been his word), an original, elementary course in ethics, a moral law of honesty, fair-dealing, and full-measure, so that all examples, however intricate, were worked out rigidly to the seventh decimal, by the golden rule! red geraniums bloomed in her school-room window, and on a corner-shelf, set so low that the children easily might have leaned upon it, lay webster and another book--always one other; though sometimes large and sometimes small, now green, now red, now blue, now yellow, but always seeming to have been left there carelessly. every volume bore on its fly-leaf two names--"david buckleton primrose," written in a bold, old-fashioned script in fading ink, and below it "letitia primrose," in a smaller, finer but no less quaint a hand. that book, whatever its name and matter, had been left there purposely, you may be sure. letitia remembered how young keats drank his first sweet draught of homer and became a greek; how little lame walter poured over border legends to become the last of the scottish minstrels; and how that other, that english boy, swam the hellespont in a london street, to climb on its farther side, that flowery bank called poesy. it was her dream that among her foster-children, as she fondly called them, there might be one, perhaps, some day--some rare soul waiting rose-like for the sun, who would find it shining on her school-room shelf. so she dropped there weekly in the children's way, as if by accident, and without a word to them unless they asked, books which had been her father's pride or her own young world of dreams--books of all times and mental seasons, but each one chosen with her end in mind. they were beyond young years, she admitted frankly, as school years go, but when her keats came, she would say, smiling, they would be bread-and-wine to him; milk and wild-honey they had been to her. "suppose," said dove, "it should be a girl who bears away sacred fire from your shelf, letitia?" "yes, it might be a girl," replied the school-mistress. "perhaps--who knows?--another 'shakespeare's daughter'!" and yet, she added, and with the faintest color in her cheeks, knowing well that we knew her preference, she rather hoped it would be a boy. few could resist that book waiting by the dictionary; at least they would open it, spell out its title-page, flutter its yellowing leaves, looking for pictures, and, disappointed, close it and turn away. but sometimes one more curious would stop to read a little, and now and then, to letitia's joy, a lad more serious than the rest would turn inquiringly to ask the meaning of what he found there; then she would tell its story and loan the volume, hoping that johnny keats had come at last. no one will ever know how many subtle lures she set to tempt her pupils into pleasant paths, but men and women in grassy ford today remember that it was miss primrose who first said this, or told them that, and while her discipline is sometimes smiled at--she was far too trusting at times, they tell me--doubtless, no one is the worse for it, since whatever evil she may have failed to nip, may be balanced now by the good of some lovely memory. bad boys grown tall remembering their hookey-days do not forget the woman they cajoled with their forged excuses; and it is a fair question, i maintain, boldly, as one of that guilty clan, whether the one who put them on an honor they did not have, or, let us say, had mislaid temporarily--whether the recollection of letitia primrose and her innocence is not more potent now for good than the crimes she overlooked, for evil. sometimes i wonder if she was half so blind as she appeared to be, for as we walked one sabbath by the water-side, with the sun golden on the marshes, and birds and flowers and caressing breezes beguiling our steps farther and farther from the drowsy town, i remember her saying: "it is for this my boys play truant in the spring-time. do you wonder, bertram?" for the best of reasons i did not. i was thinking of how the springs came northward to grassy fordshire when i was a runaway; and then suddenly as we turned a bend in troublesome, there was a splash, and two bare feet sank modestly into the troubled waters. there was a bubbling, and then a head emerged dripping from all its hairs. young david shears had dived in the nick of time. iii a younger robin when our boy was born we named him robin weatherby, after that elder robin who had charmed my youth. if his babyhood lacked aught of love or discipline, it was neither dove's fault nor letitia's, for robin's mother had ideas and a book on childhood, and dear letitia did not need a book. in fact, she clashed with dove's. i, as physician-in-ordinary to my child--for in dire emergencies in my own family i always employ an old-fogy, rival--was naturally of some little service in consultation with the two ladies and the book. of the characters of these associates of mine, i need only say that dove was ever an anxious soul, the book a truthful but at times a vague one, while letitia was all that could be desired as guide, philosopher, and friend. alarming symptoms might puzzle others, but never her; they might, even to myself, even to the book, bode any one of twenty kinds of evil; to her they pointed solely, solemnly to one--that one, alas! which had carried off some dear child of her school. dove, i am sure, had never been impatient with letitia, but now, such was the tension of these family conferences and such the gravity of the case involved, there were times, i noted, when the cousins addressed each other with the most exquisite and elaborate courtesy, lest either should think the other in the least disturbed. for example, there was that little affair of consolation--a sort of rubber make-believe with which young robin curbed and soothed his appetite and invited pensiveness. microbes, letitia said, were-- dove interposed to remind her that the things were boiled just seven-- germs, letitia argued, were not to be trifled with. "just seven times a week, my dear," said dove, triumphantly. "and besides," letitia continued, undismayed, "they will ruin the shape of the child's mouth." "but how?" cried dove. "pray tell me how, my love, when they are made in the very identical im--" "and modern doctors," letitia stated with some severity, "are doing away with so many foolish notions of our grandmothers." "yet our fathers and mothers," dove replied, "were very fair specimens of the race, my dear. shakespeare, doubtless, was rocked in a cradle, and his brains survived. they were quite intact, i think you will admit. _he_ wasn't joggled into--" "yet who knows what he might have written, dear love," answered letitia, "if he had been permitted to lie quite--" "_you_ try to make a child go to sleep, my darling, without _something_!" my wife suggested. "just try it once, my dear." "cradles," said letitia--but at this juncture i stepped in, authoritatively, as the father of my child. it is due to dove, i confess gladly, and partly to letitia also, that this fatherhood has been so pleasant to look back upon. robin's mouth is very normal, as even letitia will admit, i know, as she would be the last person in the world to say that his brains had suffered any in the joggling. somehow, by dint of boiling the consolation i suppose, and by what-not formulæ, we got him up at last on two of the sturdiest, little, round, brown legs that ever splashed in mud-puddle--dove's darling, my old fellow, and letitia's love. love she called him in their private moments, and other names as fond, i have no doubt; publicly he was her archer, her bowman, her robin hood. she, it was, who purchased him bow-and-arrows, and replaced for him without a murmur, three panes in the library windows and a precious little wedding vase. the latter cost her a pretty penny, but she reminded us that a boy, after all, will be a boy! she took great pride in his better marksmanship and sought a suit for him, a costume that should be traditional of archers bold. "have you cloth," she asked, "of the shade called lincoln green?" the clerk was doubtful. "i'll see," she said. "oh, mr. peabody! mr. peabody!" "well?" asked a man's voice hidden behind a wall of calicoes. "well? what is it?" "mr. peabody, have we any cloth called abraham--" "not abraham lincoln," letitia interposed, mildly. "you misunderstood me. i said lincoln green." "same thing," said the clerk, tartly. mr. peabody then emerged smilingly from behind his wall. "how do you do, miss primrose," said he. "what can we do for you this morning?" letitia carefully repeated her request. he shook his head, while the young clerk smiled triumphantly. "no," he said. "you must be mistaken. i have never even heard of such a color--and if there was one of that name," he added, with evident pride in his even tones, "i should certainly know of it. we have other greens--" letitia flushed. "why," she explained, "the english archers were accustomed to wearing a cloth called lincoln green." mr. peabody smiled deprecatingly. "i never heard of it," he replied, stiffly; "and, as i say, i have been in the business for thirty years." "but don't you remember robin hood and his merry men?" "oh!" exclaimed the merchant, a great light breaking in upon him. "you mean the fairy stories! ha, ha! very good. very good, indeed. well, no, miss primrose, i'm afraid we can hardly provide you with the cloth that fairies--" "show me your green cloths--all of them," said letitia, her cheeks burning. "certainly, miss primrose. miss baggs, show miss primrose all of our green cloths--_all_ of them." "light green or dark green?" queried miss baggs, who had been delighted with the whole affair. letitia pondered. there had been some reason, she reflected, for robin hood's choice of gear. "something," she said, at last--"something as near to the shade of foliage as you can give me." "i beg pardon?" inquired miss baggs. "the color of leaves," explained letitia. "well," miss baggs retorted, smartly, "some leaves are light, and some are dark, and some leaves are in-between." there was a dangerous gleam in letitia's eyes. "show me _all_ your green cloths," she requested, curtly--"all of them." miss baggs obeyed. "i suppose it really isn't lincoln green, you know," letitia said, when she had brought the parcel home with her and had spread its contents upon the sofa, "but i hope you'll like it, dove. it is the nearest to tree-green i could find." it was, indeed. now, dove had never heard of a boy in green, and had grave doubts, which it would not do, however, to even hint to dear letitia; so made it was, that archer-suit, though by some strange freak of fancy that caused letitia keen regret, robin, dressed in it, could seldom be induced to play at archery, always insisting, to her discomfiture, that he was grass! "when you grow up, my bowman," she once told him, "i'll buy you a white suit, all of flannel, and father shall teach you to play at cricket in the orchard." "but crickets are black," cried robin, whose eye for color, or the absence of it, i told letitia, was bound to ruin her best-laid english plans. it was good to see them, the archer bold and the gray lady walking together, hand-in-hand--the one beaming up, the other down; the one so subject to sudden leaps and bounds and one-legged hoppings to avoid the cracks, the other flurried lest those wild friskings should disturb the balance she had kept so perfectly all those years till then. in their walks and talks lay many stories, i am sure--things which never will be written unless letitia turns to authorship, for which it is a little late, i fear; but even then she would never dream of putting such simple matters down. she does not know at all the delicious lady of the linen reticule, who, to herself, is commonplace enough. she might, perhaps, make a tale or two of the archer in lincoln green, but what is the romance of an archer without the lady in it? one drowsy afternoon on a sunday in summer-time i stretched myself in my easy-chair with another for my slippered feet. my dinner had ended pleasantly with a love-in-a-cottage pudding which had dripped blissfully with a heavenly cataract of golden sauce. dove had gone out on a sabbath mission, rustling away in a gown sprinkled with rose-buds--one of those summer things in which it is not quite safe for any woman to risk herself in this wicked world. such shallow thoughts were passing through my mind as dove departed, and when the front gate clicked behind her, i opened a charming novel and went to sleep. i know i slept, for i walked in a path i have never seen. i should like to see it, for it must be beautiful in the spring-time. it was a kind of autumn when i was there. i was dragging my feet about in the yellow leaves, when a senile hollyhock leaned over quietly and tickled me on the ear. as i brushed it away i heard it giggling. then a twig of pear-tree bent and trifled with my nose, which is a thing no gentleman permits, even in dreams, and i brushed it smartly. then i heard a voice--i suppose the gardener's--telling something to behave itself. then i swished again among the leaves. how long i swished there i have no notion, but i heard more voices by-and-by, and i remember saying to myself, "they are behind the gooseberries." they did not know, of course, that i was there, else they had talked more softly. "no," said he, "you be the horsey." "oh no," said the other, "i'd rather drive." "no, _you_ be the horsey." "sh! let me drive." "i said _you_ be the horsey." "i be the horsey?" "yes. whoa, horsey! d'up! whoa! d'up!" then all was confusion behind the gooseberries and the horsey d'upped and whoaed, and whoaed and d'upped, till i all but d'upped. i _did_ move, and the noise stopped. how long i slept there i do not know, but i heard again those voices behind the vines, though more subdued now, mere tender undertones like lovers in a garden seat. lovers i supposed them, and, keeping still, i listened: "but i'm not your little boy," said one, "because you haven't any." "oh yes, you are," replied the other, confidently. "you're my little boy because i love you." "but why don't you ask god to send you a little boy all your own, just four years old like me, so we could play together? why don't you?" "because," the reply was, "you're all the little boy i need." "but if you _did_ ask god and the angel brought you a little boy, then his name would be billie." "oh, would it?" "yes, his name would be billie, because now billie is the next name to robin." "what do you mean by the next name to robin?" "why, 'cause now, first comes robin, and then comes billie, and then comes tommy, or else muffins, if you turn the corner--unless he's a girl--and then he's annie." "what?" gasped the second voice. "i don't understand." "well, then," the first voice answered, wearily, "call him johnny." i know at the time the explanation seemed quite clear to me, as it must have been to the second speaker, for the colloquy ended then and there. i might have peeked through the gooseberries and not been discovered, i suppose, but just then i went out shooting flamingoes with a friend of mine, and when i got back, some time that day, the gooseberry-vines were thick with rose-buds. and while i was gone a brook had come--you could hear it plainly on the other side--and i was surprised, i remember, and angry with my aunt jemima (i never had an aunt jemima) for not telling me. i listened awhile to the tinkle-tinkling till presently the burden changed to a "tra, la, la, tra, la, la," over and over, till i said to myself, "these are the singing waters the poets hear!" so i tiptoed nearer through the crackling leaves, and touching the rose-vines very deftly for fear of thorns, again i listened. my heart beat faster. "it is an english linn!" i said, astonished, for there were words to it, english words to that singing rivulet! i could make out "gold" and "rue" and "youth." "some woodland secret!" i told myself; so i listened eagerly, scarcely breathing, and little by little, as my ears grew more accustomed to the sounds, i heard the song, not once, but often, each time more clearly than before: "many seek a coronet, many sigh for gold, some there are a-seeking yet-- (never thought of you, my pet!) --now they're passing old. "many yearn for lovers true, some for sleep from pain, seeking laurel, some find rue-- (oh, they never dreamed of you!) --now want youth again. "crown and treasure, love like wine, peace and laurel-tree, have i all, oh! world of mine-- (soft little world my arms entwine) --youth thou art to me." it seemed familiar, yet i could not place the song, till at last it came to me that dr. primrose wrote it for his only child, a kind of lullaby which he used to chant to her. then i remembered how all that while i had been listening with my eyes shut, and so i opened them to find the singer--and saw letitia with robin sleeping in her arms. iv hiram ptolemy one afternoon in a spring i am thinking of, passing from my office to the waiting-room beyond it, i found alone there a little old gentleman seated patiently on the very edge of an old-fashioned sofa which occupied one corner of the room. he rose politely at my entrance, and, standing before me, hat in hand, cleared his throat and managed to articulate: "dr. weatherby, i believe." i bowed and asked him to be seated, but he continued erect, peering up at me with eyes that watered behind his steel-bowed spectacles. he was an odd, unkempt figure of a man; his scraggly beard barely managed to screen his collar-button, for he wore no tie; his sparse, gray locks fell quite to the greasy collar of his coat, an antique frock, once black but now of a greenish hue; and his inner collar was of celluloid like his dickey and like the cuffs which rattled about his lean wrists as he shook my hand. "my name is percival--hiram de lancey percival," he said. "de lancey was my mother's name." "will you come into my office, mr. percival?" i asked. "no--no, thank you--that is, i am not a patient," he explained. "i just called on my way to--" he wet his lips, and as he said "new york" i fancied i could detect beneath the casual manner he assumed, no inconsiderable self-satisfaction, accompanied by a straightening of the bent shoulders, while at the same moment he touched with one finger the tip of his collar and thrust up his chin as if the former were too tight for him. with that he laid his old felt hat among the magazines on my table and took a chair. "the fact is," he continued, "i am a former protégé of the late rev. david primrose, of whom you may--" he paused significantly. "indeed!" i said. "i knew dr. primrose very well. he was a neighbor of ours. his daughter--" my visitor's face brightened visibly and he hitched his chair nearer to my own. "i was about to ask you concerning the--the daughter," he said. "is she--?" "she lives with my family," i replied. "letitia--" "ah, yes," he said; "letitia! that is the name--letitia primrose--well, well, well, well. now, that's nice, isn't it? she lives with you, you say." "yes," i explained, "she has lived with my family since her father's death." "he was a remarkable man, sir," mr. percival declared. "yes, sir, he was a remarkable man. dr. primrose was a pulpit orator of unusual power, sir--of unusual power. and something of a poet, sir, i believe." "yes," i assented. "i never read his verse," said the little old gentleman, "but i have heard it said that he was a fine hand at it--a fine hand at it. in fact, i--" he paused modestly. "i am something of a writer myself." "indeed!" i said. "oh yes; oh yes, i--but in a different line, sir, i--" again he hesitated, apparently through humility, so that i encouraged him to proceed. "yes?" i said. "i--er--in fact, i--" he continued, shyly. "something philosophical," i ventured. "yes; oh yes," he ejaculated. "well, no; not that exactly." "scientific then, mr. percival." he beamed upon me. "well, now, how did you guess it? how did you guess it?" he exclaimed. "oh, i merely took a chance at it," i replied, modestly. "well, now, that's remarkable. say--you seem to be a clever young fellow. are you--are you interested--in science?" he inquired, sitting forward on the very edge of his chair. "well, as a doctor, of course," i began. "of course, of course," he interposed, "but did you ever take up ancient matters to any extent?" "well, no, i cannot say that i have." "latin and greek, of course?" suggested mr. percival. "oh yes, at college--latin and greek." "dr. weatherby," said my visitor, his eyes shining, "i don't mind telling you: i am a--" he wetted his lips and glanced nervously about him. "we are quite alone," i said. "dr. weatherby, i am an egyptologist!" "you are?" i answered. "yes," he replied! "yes, sir, i am an egyptologist." "that," i remarked, "is a very abstruse department of knowledge." "it is, sir," replied the little old gentleman, hitching his chair still nearer, so that leaning forward he could pluck my sleeve. "i am the only man who has ever successfully deciphered the inscriptions on the great stone of iris-iris!" "you don't say so!" i exclaimed. "i do, dr. weatherby. i am stating facts, sir. others have attempted it, men eminent in the learned world, sir, but i alone--here in my bosom--" he tapped the region of his heart, where a lump suggested a roll of manuscript. "i alone, dr. weatherby, have succeeded in translating those time-worn symbols. dr. weatherby"--he lowered his voice almost to a whisper--"it has been the patient toil of seven years!" he sprang back suddenly in his chair, and drawing a red bandanna from his coat-tails proceeded to mop his brow. "mr. percival," i said, cordially, looking at my watch, "won't you come to dinner?" his eyes sparkled. "well, now, that's good of you," he said. "that's very good of you. i _was_ intending to go on to new york to-night by the evening-train, but since you insist, i might wait over till tomorrow." "do so," i urged. "you shall spend the night with us. letitia will be delighted to see an old friend of her father, and my wife will be equally pleased, i know. have you your grip with you?" "it is just here--behind the lounge," said mr. percival, springing forward with the agility of a boy and drawing from beneath the flounce of the sofa-cover a small valise of a kind now seldom seen except in garrets or in the hands of such little, old-fashioned gentlemen as my guest. it had been glossy black in its day, but now was sadly bruised and a little mildewed with over-much lying in attic dust. in the very centre of the outer flap, which buckled down over a shallow pocket, intended, i suppose, for comb and brush, was a small round mirror, dollar-sized, which by some miracle had escaped the hand of time. "by-the-way," i said, as we entered my buggy, "you haven't told me--" he interrupted me, smiling delightedly. "why i am going to new york?" "yes," i said. "well, sir, i'll tell you. i'll tell you, doctor, and it's quite a story." "where is your home, mr. percival?" "sand ridge," he said, "has _been_ my home, but i expect to reside hereafter in--" he wetted his lips and pulled at his collar again-- "in new york, sir." on our drive homeward he told his story. early in manhood he had been a carpenter by day, by night a student of the ancient languages, which he acquired by dint of such zeal and sacrifice that dr. primrose, then in the zenith of his own career, discovering the talents of the poor young artisan, urged and aided him to obtain a pulpit in a country town. he proved, i imagine, an indifferent preacher, drifting from place to place, and from denomination to denomination, to become at last a teacher of greek and latin in the sand ridge normal and collegiate institute. whatever moments he could spare from his academic duties, he had devoted eagerly to egyptian monuments, and more particularly to that one of iris-iris which had baffled full half a century of learned men. "but how did you do it?" i inquired. he wriggled delightedly in the carriage-seat. "doctor," he said, "how does a man perform some marvellous surgical feat, which no one had ever done, or dreamed of doing, before? eh?" "i see," i replied, nodding sagely. "such things are beyond our ken." "i did it," he chuckled. "i did it, doctor. and now, sir--" he paused significantly. "you are going to new york," i said. "exactly. to--" "publish," i suggested. "the very word!" he cried. "doctor, i am going to give my discovery to the world--to the world, sir!--not merely for the edification of savants, but for the enlightenment of my fellow-men." "by george!" i said, "that's what i call philanthropy, mr. percival." "well, sir," he replied, modestly, "all i ask--all i ask in return, sir, is that i may be permitted to spend the remainder of my days, rent free and bread free, in some hall of learning, that i may edit my books and devote myself to further research undismayed by the--the--" "wolf at the door," i suggested. "exactly," he replied. "that's all i ask." "it is little enough," i remarked. "doctor," he said, solemnly, "it is enough, sir, for any learned man." when i reached home with my unexpected guest, dove and letitia smilingly welcomed him; i say smilingly, for there was that about the little old gentleman which defied ill-humor. he seemed shy at first, as might be expected of a bachelor-egyptologist, but the simple manners he encountered soon reassured him. i led him to our best front bedroom, where he stood, dazzled apparently by the whiteness and ruffles all about him, and could not be induced to set down his valise till he had spread a paper carefully upon the rug beneath it. "now, i guess i'll just wash up," he said, "if you'll permit me," looking doubtfully at the spotless towels and the china bowl decorated with roses, which he called a basin. i assured him that they were there to use. it was not long before we heard him wandering in the upper halls, and hastening to his rescue i found him muttering apologies before a door through which apparently he had blundered, looking for the staircase. safe on the lower floor again, letitia put him at his ease with her kind questions about egyptology, and the delighted scientist was in the midst of a glowing narrative of the great stone of iris-iris when dinner was announced. it was evident that dove's table quite disconcerted him with its superfluity of glass and silver, and dropping his meat-fork on the floor, he strenuously resisted all dove's orders to replace it from the pantry. "no, no, dear madam," he exclaimed, pointing to the shining row beside his plate, "do not disturb yourself, i pray. one of these extras here will do quite as well." during the dinner letitia plied him with further questions till he wellnigh forgot his plate in his elation at finding such sympathetic auditors. dove considerately delayed the courses while he talked on, bobbing forward and backward in his chair, his slight frame swayed by his agitation, his face glowing, and his beard bristling with its contortions. "never," he told me afterwards, as we passed from the dining-room arm-in-arm--"never have i enjoyed more charming and intelligent conversation--never, sir!" i offered him cigars, but he declined them, observing that while he never used "the weed," he had up-stairs in his valise, if we would permit him-- we did so, though none the wiser as to what he meant, for he did not complete his sentence, but, bowing acknowledgment, he briskly disappeared, to return at once without further mishap in our deceitful upper hallway--reappearing with a paper bag which he untwisted and offered gallantly to the ladies. "lemon-drops," he said. "permit me, mrs. weatherby. oh, take more, miss letitia--do, i beg; they are quite inexpensive, i assure you--quite harmless and inexpensive. help yourself liberally, mrs. weatherby. lemon-drops, as you are doubtless aware, doctor, are the most healthful of sweets, and as a--have another, miss primrose, do!--as a relaxation after the day's toil are much to be preferred, if you will pardon my saying so, dr. weatherby--much to be preferred to that poisonous cigar you are smoking there." "quite right, mr. percival," i assented. "they are very nice," dove said. "oh, they are delicious!" cried letitia. "are they not?" said the little man, delighted with his hospitality, and so i left them--two ladies and an egyptologist sucking lemon-drops and talking amiably of the great stone of iris-iris--while i attended on more modern matters, but with regret. i returned, however, in time to escort the scientist to his bedroom, where he opened his valise and took from it a faded cotton night-gown, which with a few papers and a testament seemed its sole contents. his books, he explained, had gone on by freight. as i turned to leave him he said, earnestly: "doctor, my old friend's daughter is a most remarkable woman, sir--a most remarkable woman." "she is, indeed," i assented. "why," said he, "she evinced an interest in the smallest detail of my work! nothing was too trivial, or too profound for her. i was astonished, sir." "she is a scholar's daughter, you must remember, mr. percival." "ah!" said he. "that's it. that's it, doctor. and what an ideal companion she would make for another scholar, sir!--or any man." next morning i was called into the country before our guest had risen, and when i returned at noon he had gone, leaving me regretful messages. i heard then what had happened in my absence. hiram ptolemy--it is the name we gave to our egyptologist--had awakened soon after my departure and was found by dove walking meditatively in the garden. after breakfast, while my wife was busy with little robin, letitia listened attentively to a further discourse on the iris-iris, which, she was told, bore on its surface a glorious message from the ancient to the modern world. "it will cause, dear madam," said the scientist, his eyes dilating and his voice trembling with emotion, "a revolution in our retrospective vision; it will bring us, as it were, face to face with a civilization that will shame our own!" letitia told dove there was a wondrous dignity in the little man as he spoke those words. then he paused in his eloquence. "miss primrose," he said, "permit me to pay you a great compliment: i have never in my life had the privilege--of meeting a woman--of such understanding as your own. you are remarkably--remarkably like your learned and lamented father." "oh, mr. percival," letitia said, flushing, "you could not say a kinder thing." "and yet," said the scientist, "you--you are quite unattached, are you not?" "quite--what, mr. percival?" "unattached," he repeated, "by ties of--the affections?" "oh, quite," she answered, "quite unattached, mr. percival." "but surely," he said, "you still have--" he paused awkwardly. "oh," said letitia, "i shall never marry, mr. percival--if you mean that." he bowed gravely. "doubtless, dear madam--you know best." v a. p. a. one spring a strange infection spread through the land and appeared suddenly in our corner of it. first a rash became a matter of discussion in our public places, but was not thought serious until the journals of the larger cities brought us news that set our town aflame with apprehension. half our citizens broke out at once in a kind of measles, not, however, of the common or school-boy sort--that speckled cloud with a silver lining of no-more-school-till-it's-over--nor yet that more malignant type called german measles. it was, in fact, quite irish in its nature, generally speaking, and in particular it was what might be termed anti-papistical--for, hark you! it had been discovered that the catholics were arming secretly to take the world by storm! there are many romanists in grassy ford. st. peter's steeple, tipped with its gilded cross, towers higher than our protestant spires, and on the sabbath a hundred farmers tie their horses beneath its sheds and follow their womenfolk and flocks of children in to mass. in those days father flynn was the priest, a youngish, round-faced man, who chanted his latin with a rich accent derived from donegal, and who was not what is called militant in his manner, but was, in fact, the mildest-spoken of our grassy ford divines. he held aloof from those theological disputes which sometimes set his protestant brethren by the ears, declining politely all invitations to attend the famous set debates between our presbyterian and universalist ministers, which ended, i remember, in a splendid god-given victory for--the one whose flock you happened to be in. father flynn only smiled at such encounters; he was not belligerent, and while his parish might with some good reason be described as coming from fine old fighting stock, it had never given evidence, so far as i am aware, of any desire to use cold steel, its warm, red, hairy fists having proven equal to those little emergencies which sometimes arise--more particularly on a saturday night, at riley's. but when it was whispered, then spoken aloud, and finally charged openly on the street corners and even in letters to the _gazette_, then edited by butters's son, that father flynn was training a military company in the basement of st. peter's church, that the young romanists had been armed with rifles, and that ammunition was being stored stealthily and by night under the very altar!--and this by order from the vatican, where a gigantic plot was brewing to seize the new world for the pope!--then it was shrewdly observed by those who held the rumors to be truth that father flynn _did_ have the look of a conspirator and that he walked with a military ease and swing. the priest and his flock denied the charges with indignant eloquence, but without convincing men like shears, who argued that the guilty were ever eager to deny. shears himself was of no persuasion, religious or otherwise, but belonged by nature to the great party of the opposition, whose village champion he was, whether the issue was the paving of a street or a weightier matter like the one in hand, of protecting the nation, as he said, from the treason of its citizens and the machinations of a decaying power eager to regain its ancient sway! he was a lawyer by profession, but one whose time hung heavily on his hands, and, frequenting village shops where others like him gathered daily to argue and expound, he would hold forth glibly on any theme, the chief and awe-inspiring quality of his eloquence being an array of formidable statistics, culled heaven knows where, but which few who listened had the knowledge or temerity to oppose. he was now brimming with figures concerning rome--ancient, mediæval, or modern rome: "gentlemen, you may take your choice; i'm your man." he was armed also, by way of climax and reserve, should statistics fail to convince his auditors, with some strange stories having a spicy flavor of boccaccio, which he told in a lowered voice as illustrations of what had been and what might be again should priests prevail. to hear him pronounce the eternal city's name was itself ominous. his mouth, always a large one, expanded visibly as he boomed out "r-rome!" discharging it as from a cannon's muzzle, and with such significance and effect that many otherwise sanguine men began to suspect that there might be truth in his solemn warnings. lights _had_ been seen in st. peter's church at night! catholic youths _did_ hold some kind of drill there on certain week-day evenings! and, lastly, it was pointed out, father flynn himself had ceased denials! "and why?" shears asked. "why, gentlemen? i'll tell ye!--_i'll_ tell ye!--orders from r-rome! you mark my words--orders from rome!" apprehension grew. a society was formed, with shears at its head, to protect the village, and assist, if need be, the state itself. meetings were held--secret and extraordinary sessions--in the odd fellow's block. watches were set on the priest's house and on st. peter's. resolute men stood nightly in the shrubbery near the church lest guns and cartridges should be added to the stores already there. zealous protestant matrons of the neighborhood supplied hot coffee to the midnight sentinels. all emergencies had been provided for. at a given signal--three pistol-shots in quick succession, and the same repeated at certain intervals--the guards of liberty would assemble, armed, and march at once in two divisions, a line of skirmishers under tommy morgan, the light-weight champion of grassy fordshire, followed by the main body in command of shears. no one, however, was to fire a shot, shears said--"not a shot, gentlemen, till you can see the whites of their eyes. remember your forefathers!" every night now half the town pulled down its curtains and opened doors with the gravest caution. "who's there?" "peters, you fool." "oh, come in, peters. i thought it might be--" "i know: you thought it might be the pope." it was considered wise to take no chances. assassination, it was widely known, had ever been a favorite method with conspirators, especially at rome, and shears made it plain, in the light of history, that "the vast fabric," as he loved to call the romish world, was composed of men who, certain of absolution, would murder their dearest friends if so commanded by cipher orders from the holy see! meanwhile, in grassy ford, friendships of years were crumbling. neighbors passed each other without a word; some sneered, some jeered, some quarrelled openly in the street, and there were fisticuffs at riley's, and in the midst of this civil strife some one remembered--shears himself, no doubt--that dago pictures hung shamelessly on the walls of a public school-room! "michael the angelo" had been a catholic! _what if letitia primrose were the secret ally of the pope!..._ "but she's not a catholic," said one. "she's episcopalian," said another. "what's the difference?" inquired a third. "mighty little, i can tell ye," said colonel shears. "the thing's worth seein' to." a knock on letitia's door that afternoon was so peremptory that she answered it in haste and some trepidation, yet was not more surprised by the sudden summons than by the man who stepped impressively into the school-room. the pupils turned smilingly to david shears. "your father!" they whispered. it was, indeed, colonel samuel shears, of the guards of liberty. he declined the chair letitia offered him. "no," he said, majestically, "i thank you. i prefer"--and here he thrust up his chin by way of emphasis--"to stand." the school giggled. "silence!" said letitia. "i am ashamed." colonel shears coolly surveyed the array of impudent youths before him, or perhaps not so much surveyed it as turned upon it, slowly and from side to side, the calm defiance of his massive jowls. he was well content with that splendid mug of his, which he carried habitually at an angle and elevation well calculated to spread dismay. upon occasion he could render it the more remarkable by a firm compression of the under-lip, pulled gravely down at the corners into what old butters used to say was a plain attempt "to out-daniel webster." the resemblance ended, however, in the regions before described. his brow, it should be stated, did not attest the majesty below them, nor did his small eyes glower with any brooding, owl-like light of wisdom, as he supposed, but bulged rather with a kind of fierce bravado, as if perpetually he were saying to the world: "did i hear a snicker?" colonel shears surveyed the school, and then, more slowly, the pictures on the walls about him, turning sharply and fixing his gaze upon letitia. [point one: she was clearly ill at ease.] [point two: a guilty flush had overspread her features.] "these pictures--" said colonel shears, with a wave of his hand in their direction. "who--if i may be so bold"--and here he raised his voice to the insinuating higher register--"who, may i inquire, paid for them?" "i did, mr. shears," letitia answered. "a-ah! _you_ paid for them?" "i did." "very good," he replied. "and now, if i may take the liberty to--" "pray don't apologize, mr. shears." the colonel's crest rose superior to the interruption. "if i may be permitted," he said, "to repeat my humble question--may i ask, was it your money--that bought--the pictures?" "it was." "your own?" "my own." "you are remarkably generous, miss primrose." "i think not," said letitia, with increasing dignity. "you will pardon me, mr. shears, if i continue with my classes. after school i shall be at liberty to discuss the matter. meanwhile, won't you be seated?" colonel shears for the second time declined, but asked permission, humbly he said, to examine the works of art upon the walls. his request was granted, and letitia proceeded with her class. when the inspector had made a critical circuit of the room, and not without certain significant clearings of his throat and some sharp glances intended to catch letitia unawares, he sniffed the geraniums in the window and picked up a book lying on the corner shelf. he glanced idly at its title and--started!--gasped!--and then, horrified, and as if he could not believe his bulging eyes, which fairly pierced the covers of the little volume, he read aloud, in a voice that echoed through the school-room: "_the lays of ancient rome_--by thomas--babington--macaulay!" letitia, whose back was turned, jumped at the unexpected roar behind her, and the colonel, perceiving that evidence of what he had suspected, now strode forward with an air of triumph, tapping the _lays_ with his heavy fore-finger. "pardon me," he said, his countenance illumined by a truly terrible smile of accusation, "but when, may i ask, did these here heathen tales become a part of the school curriculum?" "they are not a part of it," replied letitia. "ah! they are _not_ part of it! you admit it, then? then may i ask when you _made_ them a part of it, miss primrose?" "the stories of roman heroes--" letitia began. "that is not my question. that is not my humble question. _when_ did these here romish--" "mr. shears," letitia interposed, flushed, but speaking in a quiet tone she sometimes used, and which the colonel might well have heeded had he known her, "i observe that you are not familiar with macaulay. i shall be pleased to loan you the volume, to take home with you and read at leisure. you will find it charming." she turned abruptly to the class behind her. "we will take for to-morrow's lesson the examples on page one hundred and thirty-three." the colonel glared a moment at the stiff little back before him, and then at the book, which he slipped resolutely into his pocket. a dozen strides brought him to the door, where he turned grandly with his hand upon the knob. "i bid you," he said, with a fine, ironical lowering of the under-lip, and bowing slightly, "good-day, ma'am," and the door closed noisily behind him. there was a tittering among the desks. young david shears, red-faced and scowling, dropped his eyes before his school-mates' gaze. letitia tapped sharply on her bell. * * * * * that evening the president of the school-board called and talked long and earnestly with letitia in our parlor. mr. roach was a furniture dealer by trade, a leading citizen by profession--a tight, little, sparrow-like man, who had risen by dint of much careful eying of the social and political weather to a place of honor in the village councils. he was considered safe and conservative, which was merely another way of saying that he never committed himself on any question, public or private, till he had learned which way the wind was blowing. he smiled a good deal, said nothing that anybody could remember, and voted with the majority. out of gratitude the majority had rewarded him, and he was now the custodian of our youth--the sentinel, alert and fearful of the slightest shadow, starting even at the sound of his own footfall on the ramparts of the republic, as colonel shears once called our public schools. he had come, therefore, under the shadow of the night, but out of kindness, as he himself explained, to advise the daughter of an old friend--and in a voice so low and cautious that dove, seated in the room beyond, heard nothing but a soothing murmur in response to letitia's spirited but respectful tones. in departing, however, he was heard to say: "oh, by-the-way--er--i think you had better not mention my calling, miss primrose. better not mention it, i guess. it--er--hum--might do harm, you know. you understand." "perfectly," replied letitia. "good-night." when the door was closed she turned to dove. "what do you think that little--that man wants?" she asked. "don't know, i'm sure." "wants me to take down all my pictures--" "your pictures!" "yes--and remove all books but text-books from the school-room. and listen: he says my geraniums--fancy! my poor little red geraniums!--are 'not provided for in the curriculum.'" "the curriculum!" cried dove, hysterically. "the curriculum," replied letitia, without a smile. "do you know what i asked him?" she leaned her chin upon her hands and gazed at dove's laughing face across the table. "do you know what i asked that man?" "no." "i asked him if samuel luther shears was provided for in the curriculum." "you didn't say _luther_, letitia!" "i did--i said luther." "darling! and what did he say to that?" letitia smiled. "what could he say, my love?" vi truants in arcady the excitement vanished as it had come, in our tranquil air. a few keen april nights had been sufficient for the sentinels in the lilac-bushes, who wearied of yawning at st. peter's silent and gloomy walls. their ardor and the matrons' midnight coffee cooling together, they were withdrawn, and the guards themselves, though they had no formal mustering-out, forgot their fears and countersigns and met no more. friendships were renewed. neighbors nodded again across their fences. protestant housewives dropped catholic-vended sugar into their tea, and while there were men like shears, who still in dreams saw candles burning, st. peter's arsenal became a quiet parish church again. untouched by the whirlwind's passing, letitia's window-garden went on blooming red, her pictures still hung defiantly on the walls, and classic fiction tempted our youth to her corner shelf. colonel shears, however, in that single visit to the school-room, had found new texts for his loquacity, and, our courts failing as usual to furnish him with sufficient cases to engross his mind, he devoted himself with new ardor to our public welfare, and recalled eloquently, to those who had time to listen, the little, old, red school-house of their youth, the simpler methods of the old school-masters, who had no fads or foibles beyond the birch, and who achieved, he said--witness his hearers, to say nothing of his humble self--results to which the world might point with satisfaction if not with pride. had the modern schools produced an abraham lincoln, he wished to know? "not by a jugful," was his own reply. "you may talk about your kindergartens, and your special courses, and your froebel, and your delsarte, and you may hang up your eyetalian pictures on the wall, and stick up geraniums in your windows--but where is your abraham? that's what i ask, gentlemen. i tell you, the schools they had when you and i were boys--gentlemen, they were ragged--they were ragged, as we were--but they turned out men! and you mark my words: there ain't any old maid in grassy ford, with all her ancient classics, and her new methods, and her gimcracks and flower-pots, that'll ever--produce--an honest--abe!" i am told that the crowd agreed with him so heartily and with such congratulatory delight that he was emboldened to announce himself then and there as a candidate for the school-board. though he failed of election, there was always a party in grassy ford opposed to new-fangled methods in the schools. letitia herself was quite aware that even among her fellow-teachers there were those who smiled at her geraniums, and there had been some criticism of her manner of conducting classes. shears was fond of relating how a visitor to her room had found a class in fractions discussing robins' eggs! letitia explained the matter simply enough, but the fact remained for the colonel to enlarge upon. "a lesson," he said, "in robinson's _complete arithmetic_, page twenty-seven, may end in somebody's apple-tree, or the top of sun dial, or popocatapetl, or peru! gentlemen, i maintain that such dilly-dallying is a subversion of the--" "subversion!" growled old man butters, who still came out on sunny days with the aid of his cane. "i calculate you mean it's not right." "that," said the orator, suavely, "is the meaning i intended to convey, mr. butters." "well, then, you're wrong," grumbled the old man. "why, that there girl"--he called her so till the day he died, this side of ninety--"that there girl's a trump, sam shears, i tell ye. she teaches robinson and god a'mighty, too!" letitia was often now in the public eye; her teaching was made a campaign issue, though all her nature shrank from such contests. it was easy to attack her manner of instruction, and sometimes difficult to defend it--it had been so subtle in its plan, and so unusual in its execution, and, moreover, time alone could disclose what fruits would ripen from its flowery care. old mr. butters had put roughly what dr. primrose himself had taught: "dearly beloved, in the fountains of learning, no less than in the water-brooks, his lilies blow." "wouldst thou love god?" he asked, in the last sermon that he ever wrote. "first, love his handiwork." it was his daughter's motto. it hung on the walls of her simple chamber, with others from her "other poets," as she used to call them--little rubrics printed for her in red and gold at the "pide bull." that handiwork of god which she still called grassy fordshire was so full of marvels to this poet's daughter, there were so many flowers in it, the birds there sang so blithely, its waters ran with such tremulous messages echoed by woods and whispered by meadow-grasses, its skies, melting into glowing promises in the west, shone thereafter with such jewelled truths, she could hold no text-books higher than her lord's. it was not mere duty that drew her morn after morn, year after year, to the red-brick school-house. all the tenderness, all those eager hopes and fears which she lavished so upon her labor, meant life and love to her, for she truly loved them--those troops of laughing, heedless children, passing like flocks of birds, stopping with her for a little twittering season to seize her bounty and, as it seemed to her, fly on gayly and forget. it may be that i write prejudiced in her favor, but i write as one knowing the dream of a woman's lifetime to set those young feet straight in pleasant paths, to open those wondering eyes to the beauty of an ancient world about them, in every leaf of it, and wing--in the earth below and the sky above it, and there not only in the flawless azure, but in the rain-clouds' gloom. "dark days are also beautiful," she used to tell them. "had you thought of that?" they had not thought of it. it was one of those subtler things which text-books do not say; but letitia taught them, and a woman of grassy ford, when sore bereft, once said to me: "dark days, doctor, are also beautiful. miss primrose told us that, when we went to school to her. it was of clouds she spoke, but i remembered it--and now i know." "oh, miss primrose," johnny murray used to say. "do you remember when i went to school to you? do you remember where i sat--there by the window? well, it's awfully funny, but do you know, i never add or multiply or subtract but i smell geraniums." perhaps, the colonel would reply, that was why johnny murray deserted the ledgers he was set to keep--the scent of the flowers in them proved too strong for him. it may be so, for little things count so surely; it may be the reason he is today a sun-browned farmer instead of a lily-white clerk in his father's store. from the geraniums in a school-room window to a thousand peach-trees blooming in a valley is a long journey, but it was for just such journeys that letitia taught, and not merely for that shorter one which led through her petty school-room to the grade above. letitia tells me that sitting there at her higher desk above those rows of heads, she used to think of them as flowers, and of her school-room as a garden. often then it would come to her how pleasant a task it was to tend the roses there--golden-haired laura vane, and alice bishop, and isabel walton, and handsome, black-eyed tommy willis, whose pranks are famous in grassy fordshire still; then, at the doting thought of them, her heart would smite her, and she would turn to those other homelier flowers. it must have been in some such moment of repentance that susan leary, chancing to raise her eyes to her adored school-mistress, found letitia smiling so amiably upon her that the girl blushed, and from that hour grew more mindful of her scolding looks; her freckled face was scrubbed quite glossy after that, her dress was neater, her ribbons tied, till by-and-by, to letitia's wonder and reward, she found in that beaming irish face upturned to her, color and fragrance for her very soul. young peter bauer was a german sprout transplanted steeragewise to a corner of the garden, and slow in budding, his face as blank as the blackboard-wall he grew beside; but one fine morning, at a single question in the b geography, it burst into roseate bloom. "teacher, teacher, i know dot! suabia ist in deutschland. mein vater ist in deutschland! ich bin--" and after that peter was a poppy on friday afternoons, reading essays on his fatherland. thus, honest gardener that letitia was, she trained and pruned, disdaining nothing because of weediness, believing that what would bear a leaf would bear a flower as well. to leave at four o'clock, to return at nine and find one open which had been shut before!--is it not the gardener's morning joy? it was not alone the plants which refused to grow for her that caused her pain. these at least she had never loved, however patiently she had cared for them. there were wayward beauties in her garden who on tenderer stalks bore longer thorns. she learned, in her way, the lesson mothers learn in theirs, who sometimes love and toil and sacrifice unceasingly, and wait, years or forever, for reward. "remember, miss primrose, you are not a mother," snapped a certain sharp-tongued matron of our town who had disagreed with her. "oh," said letitia, "but i have loved so many children. i am a kind of mother." "mother!" cried the matron. "yes," letitia answered. "i am a mother--without a child." had they been her children, it had been easier to forgive their thoughtlessness. offended sometimes by her discipline, they said plain things of her lack of pretty youth; they whispered lies of her; she shed some tears, i know, over those scribblings which she intercepted or found forgotten on the school-room floor. then her garden was the abode of shadows, her efforts vain there. sometimes, for solace, she sought out dove, but the habit of lonely thinking had grown upon her; it had been enforced by her maidenhood. while i am not a herb-doctor by diploma, i am one by faith, simples have wrought such speedy cures in my own gray hours, and grassy-fordshire is so green with them that a walk by troublesome or a climb on sun dial is in itself a marvellous remedy, aromatic and anodyne. in my drives to patients beyond the town, i have been seized suddenly by a kind of fever. there are no pills for it, or powders, or any drugs in all the bottles on my shelves--but a jointed fishing-rod and line kept in the bottom of a doctor's buggy is efficacious if applied in time. often when that spell was on me i have turned pegasus towards the nearest stream, and while he nibbled, one hour on a scented bank, fish or not--sixty drops from the grass-green phial of a summer's day--has restored my soul. clattering home again at double-quick, pegasus's ears on end, his nostrils quivering, my buggy thumping over thank-you-ma'ams, i would not be a city leech for a brown-stone front and a brass name-plate upon my door. in some such pleasant hooky-hour in spring i had cast, sullenly enough, but was now humming to myself, in tune with troublesome, when a twig snapped behind the willows. some cow, thought i, and kept my eyes upon the stream. another twig: i turned inquiringly. there, by the water-side, and all unmindful of my presence, was letitia primrose. i bit my pipe clean through. i would have called at once, but something stopped me. she stood quietly by the brook, gazing at the stones on which it played and sang. her shoulders drooped a little, her face seemed tired and pale. she turned and saw me. "bertram!" her face was guilty. "hello!" i said, lighting my pipe. "you here, bertram?" "yes," i replied, casting again. "how is it you're here? no school, letitia?" she hesitated. "no patients, doctor?" she asked, softly. "no patients dying," i retorted. we eyed each other. "i had a headache," she said, meekly, seating herself upon a log. "and i have a substitute." "there are other doctors," i remarked. suddenly she rose. "i think," she said, "i'll just stroll that way, if you don't mind, bertram." "not at all," i replied. "i know how you feel, letitia. that's why i come here." "do you?" she asked. "then this isn't your first--" "nor my twentieth offence," i replied, laughing. she sighed. "i'm glad of that. it's my first--really. i feel like a criminal." i pointed with my broken pipe-stem. "you'll find the best path there," i said. "i think i'll stay, if you don't mind, bertram." "stay, by all means," i replied, and went on fishing. letitia was the first to speak. "it's hard always trying to be--dominant," she remarked, "isn't it?" "why, i rather like it," i replied. "you are a man," she said. "men do, i believe. but i, i get so tired sometimes"--she bit her lip--"of being master." she laughed nervously. "that's why i ran away." presently she went on speaking. "if we could only be surrounded by such things as these, always, how serene our lives might be. don't smile. it's my old sermon of environment, i know; but why are you here?--and why am i? i try my best to keep the beautiful before my children's eyes, to tempt them into lovely thinking. bertram, i believe, heart and soul, in the power of beauty. i am so sure of it, i know i should be a stronger teacher if i were young and beautiful myself--or even pretty, like helen white." "she is a mere wax doll," i said. "but children like pretty faces," she replied. "look! you have a fish!" it was a snag, but while i was busy with it she rose. "wait," i said, "i'll drive you home." "no, thank you, bertram. i'd rather walk. my head is better now. good-bye." i did not urge her. when she had gone i picked up a slip of paper from the path where she had passed. it was a crumpled half of a blue-ruled leaf torn from some pupil's tablet, and, scrawled upon it in a school-girl's hand, i read: "dear edna,--don't mind the homely old thing. everybody says she's fifty if she's a day. no one would marry her, so she had to teach school." it was written, dove told me afterwards, by one of the rose-girls in letitia's garden. vii peggy neal my aunt miranda, who was wise in many things, used to maintain that a woman ceased to be charming only when she thought she had ceased to be so; that age had nothing whatever to do with the matter--and so saying, she would smile so bewitchingly upon me that i was forced inevitably to the conclusion that she bore her fifty years much better than many women their paltry score. letitia was not so sanguine; she laid more stress upon the spring-time. i have heard her say that there was nothing lovelier in the world than a fair young girl full of pure spirits as a rose-cup full of dew. she would turn in the street to look at one; she liked them to be about her; her own face grew more winning in such comradeship, and when she was given a higher school-room, where the girls wore skirts to their shoe-tops and put up their hair, it was an almost childish pleasure which she displayed. it was this very preference for exquisite maidenhood that explained her fondness for peggy neal. it was not scholarship which had won the teacher's heart, for peggy was an indifferent student, as letitia herself confessed, but she was a plump and brown-eyed, pink-cheeked country girl who always smiled and who had that grace of innocence and bloom of health which are the witchery of youth. she was a favorite with school-boys, a belle of theirs at straw-rides, dances, and taffy-pulls, and other diversions of our grassy fordshire teens, where, however, her gentle ways, her readiness to follow rather than to lead, her utter incapability of envy or spiteful speech made her beloved of girls as well. she was the amiable maiden whom men look twice at, yet whose sisters are never quite jealous, holding her charm to be mere pinkish prettiness and beneath the envy of superior minds like theirs. peggy was the sort of girl letitia had never been, roseate with the kind of youth letitia had never known, and it enchanted her as a joy and beauty which had been denied. neal, the father, was a drunken farmer, whose wife was chiefly responsible for the crops they planted, and who, being strong and abler than her shiftless spouse, was usually to be seen in the field and garden directing and aiding the hired man. peggy was the only child. she helped her mother in the kitchen, fed the chickens, skimmed the milk, sold the butter, and let her father in o' nights. he was a by-word in the village. occasional revivalists prayed for him publicly upon their knees, but without effect. his wife could have told them how futile that method was; she had tried it herself in more hopeful years. she had tried rage also, but it left her bitter and sick of life, and pat the drunker; so wisely she had fallen back upon resignation, though not of the apathetic sort, and had made herself mistress of the farm, where her husband was suffered to spend his nights if he chose, or was able to walk so far from the tavern where he spent his days. for peggy the mother had better dreams. she knew that the girl was beautiful, and she knew also what beauty, however born, might win for itself in a wider world than her own had been. peggy, therefore, was to finish school, however the farm might suffer by her absence and the expense of such simple dress as her village friendships would require. nature might marry thrift or money, thought the hard-faced woman in the faded sunbonnet; silk and lace and a new environment might make a queen of this beggar-maid, her last hope in a life of hopelessness. proudly she watched her daughter flower into village fame, guarding that fairness with jealous eyes. "daughter," she would say, "where is your hat?" "mamma, i like the sun." "nonsense. go straight and fetch it and put it on. do you want to be speckled like your ugly old mother-hen?" it was a care and pride that would have turned another and far less lovely head than peggy's, yet in spite of it this country school-girl ripened sweetly. driving on country visits i used to meet her by the way, walking easily and humming to herself the while, her books and luncheon swinging at her side--a perfect model for romantic painters who run to milk-maids, or, as letitia used to say, the veritable phyllis of old english song. the mother rose at dawn; she toiled by sunlight and by lamplight; her face grew haggard, her figure gaunter, her voice sharper with bitter irony, her heart harder save in that one lone corner which was kept soft--solely for her child. peggy, i believe, was the only living thing she smiled upon. neighbors dreaded her cutting tongue; her husband was too dazed to care. time went by. in spite of that stern resolve in the woman's nature, and all her labor and frugal scheming, what with the failure of crops and her lack of knowledge of their better care, and an old encumbrance whose interest could be barely met on the quarter-days that cast their shadows on the whole round year, the farm declined. letitia's gifts from her own wardrobe were all that kept peggy neal in school. it was a word from letitia also that raised the cloud on the mother's face when despair was darkest there. might not summer-boarders, letitia asked, bear a surer, more golden harvest than those worn-out fields? "summer-boarders!" cried mrs. neal, with a grim irony in her voice. but she repeated it--"summer-boarders," in a milder tone, and the plan was tried. the first ones came in june. they descended noisily from the fast express, lugging bags and fishing-rods and guns. some of them stared; some young ones whistled softly at the fair driver of that old two-seated buckboard waiting to bear them to the farm. they greeted effusively--for the daughter's sake--the hard-mouthed woman who met them at the door, striving her best to smile a welcome. she it was who showed them their plain but well-scrubbed chambers, while their minds were at the barn. pastures and orchards bore strange fruit that summer: white-faced city clerks in soft, pink shirts smoked cigarettes and browned in the sun; freckled ladies set up their easels in the cow-lot; high-school professors asked one another puzzling questions, balanced cannily on the topmost rail of the virginia fence, and all--all, that is, to a man--helped peggy carry in the milk, helped peggy churn, helped peggy bake, helped peggy set the table, and clear it, and wipe the dishes, and set them safely away again in the dim pantry--helped peggy to market, and peggy to church: so rose her star. the mother watched, remembering her own girlhood. its romance, seen through a mist of gloomy years, seemed foolish now. there might be happiness in human life--she had never known any. there was a deal of nonsense in the world called love, she knew, and there was a surer thing called money. peggy should wait for it. the mother watched, smiling to herself sardonically, secretly well-pleased--smiling because she knew quite well that these callow sprigs had far less money than negligées; well-pleased because she guessed that soon enough a man with both would be hovering about sweet peggy's dairy. it was a humorous thing to her that all these city men should think it beautiful--that dampish, sunless spot where the milk-cans stood waist-deep in cresses. she kept sharp eyes upon her daughter, and farm-house duties filled peggy's days to their very brim. there must be no loitering by star-light, either. mother and daughter now slept together in the attic store-room, for the new farming had proved a prosperous thing. the summer was not like other summers. there was life and gayety up at neal's: strumming of banjos and the sound of laughter and singing on the porch, much lingering in hammocks under the pine-trees, moonlit jaunts in the old hay-rick, lanterns moving about the barn and dairy, empty bowls on the buttery table when mrs. neal came down at dawn, and half-cut loaves in the covered crocks. september came and the harvest had been gathered in. the last boarder had returned cityward. peggy was in school again. one day, however, she was missing from her classes, and letitia, fearing that she might be ill, walked to the farm after school was over. it was a pleasant road with a narrow path beside it among the grasses, and the day was cool with premonitions of the year's decline. the farm seemed silent and deserted. she knocked at doors, she tapped lightly on the kitchen-windows, but no one was at home. at the barn, however, the horses were in their stalls, turning their heads to her and whinneying of their empty mangers. surely, she thought, the neals could not be gone. she stood awhile by the well-curb from which she could better survey the farm: it lay before her, field and orchard, bright with sunshine and golden-rod, yet she saw no moving thing but the crows in the corn-stubble and the cows waiting by the meadow-bars. then she tried the dairy, and there heard nothing but the brook whimpering among the cans and cresses, and she turned away. now a lane runs, grassy and strewn with the wild blackberry-vines, through the neal farm to a back road into town, and letitia chose it to vary her homeward way. it passes first the brook, over a little hoof-worn, trembling bridge, and then the vineyard, where the grapes were purple that autumn evening. there, pausing to regale herself, letitia heard a strange sound among the trellises. it was a child crying, moaning and sobbing as if its heart would break. for a moment only letitia listened there; then she ran, fearfully, stumbling in the heavy loam between the rows of vines, to the spot from which the moaning came. she found a girl crouching on the earth. "peggy!" she cried, kneeling beside her. "peggy! are you hurt? peggy! answer me!" the girl shook her head and shrank away among the lower leaves. "oh, what is the matter?" letitia begged, terrified, and gathered peggy into her arms. "tell me! tell me, sweet!" "nothing," was the wretched answer. "please--please go away!" but letitia stayed, brushing the dirt from the girl's dark hair, kissing her, petting her, murmuring the tenderest names, and gently urging her to tell. peggy raised herself upon her knees, putting both hands to her temples and staring wildly with swollen eyes. "mamma's gone in, miss primrose," she said, brokenly. "she'll--she'll tell you. please--please go away!" she begged so piteously, letitia rose. "i'd rather stay, peggy; but if you wish it--" "yes. please go!" "i'd rather stay." "no. please--" slowly, and with many misgivings, letitia went. she knocked again at the farm-house, but got no answer, as before. she tried the doors--they were locked, all of them. then her heart reproached her and she hurried back again to the lane. it was growing dusk, and in the vineyard the rows confused her. "peggy!" she called, softly. her foot touched a basket half-filled with grapes. "peggy! where are you?" she could hear nothing but the rustling leaves. "peggy!" she called. "peggy!" there was no answer, but as she listened with a throbbing heart, she heard cows lowing at the pasture-bars--and the click of the farmyard gate. viii new eden letitia's church, the last her father ever preached in, is a little stone st. paul's, pine-shaded and ivy-grown, upon a hill-side. there are graves about it in the lawn, scattered, not huddled there, and no paths between them, only the soft grass touching the very stones. above them in the untrimmed boughs swaying with every wind, the wild birds nest and sing, so that death where dr. primrose lies seems a pleasant dreaming. "our service," he used to say, "is the ancient poetry of reverence;" and every verse of it brings to letitia memories of her father standing at the lecturn, while she was a child listening in the pews. "i was very proud of him," she used to tell us. "his sermons were wonderful, i think. you will say that i could not judge them as a girl and daughter, but i have read them since. i have them all in a box up-stairs, and now and then i take one out and read it to myself, and all that while i can hear his voice. they are better than any i listen to nowadays; they are far more thoughtful, fuller of life and fire and the flower of eloquence. our ministers are not so brimming any more." she told us a story i had never heard, of his earnestness and how hard it was for him to find words fervent enough to express his meaning; how when a rich old merchant of grassy ford confessed to him a doubt that there was a god, dear dr. primrose turned upon him in the village street where they walked together and said, with the tears springing to his eyes: "gabriel bond, not as a clergyman but as a man, i say to you, consider for a moment that apple-bloom you are treading on!" it was spring and a bough from the merchant's garden overhung the walk where they had paused. "hold it in your hand, and look at it, and think, man, _think_! use the same reason which tells you two and two make four--the same reason that made you rich, gabriel--and tell me, if you can, there is no god! why, sir--" and here dr. primrose's heart quite overcame him, and his voice broke. "gabriel, you are not such a damned--" and the merchant, letitia said, for it was bond himself who told her the story long after dr. primrose's voice was stilled--the merchant, astounded to find a clergyman so like another man struggling for stressful words for his emotion, picked up the bruised twig from beneath his feet and stuck it in her father's coat. "doctor," he said, quietly, "there's force, sir, in what you say," and left dr. primrose wondering on the walk. but the next sunday he appeared at church, and every sunday for many years thereafter, merely explaining to those who marvelled, that he had found a man. it was not likely that the daughter of such a man would be much troubled with doubts of what he had taught so positively or what she had come to believe herself; if led astray it would be like her sex in general, through too much faith. while not obtrusive in her views of life in her younger years, letitia, as she reached her prime, and through the habit of self-dependence and her daily duty of instructing undeveloped minds, grew more decisive in her manner, more impatient of opposition to what she held was truth, especially when it seemed to her the fruit of ignorance or that spirit of bantering argument so common to the humorously inclined. she liked humor to know its place, she said; it was the favorite subterfuge of persons championing a losing cause. in such discussions, finding her earnestness useless to convince, and scorning to belittle a theme dear to her with resort to jest or personalities, she would sit silenced, but with a flush upon her cheeks, and if the enemy had pressed too sharply on her orderly retreat, one would always know it by the tapping of her foot upon the floor. she was no mean antagonist. for she read not only those volumes her father loved, but the books and journals of the day as well. reading and theorizing of the greater world outside her little one, she was not troubled by those paradoxes which men meet there, which cause them to falter, doubt, and see two sides of questions where they had seen but one, till they fall back lazily, taking their ease on that neutral ground where humor is the host, welcoming all and favoring none. we used to smile sometimes at letitia's fervency; we had our little jests at its expense, but we knew it was her father in her, poet and preacher not dead but living still. in his youth and prime dr. primrose was ever the champion of needy causes, whose name is legion, so that his zeal found vent, and left him in his decline the mild old poet i remember. would letitia be as mild, i wondered? "a few more needy causes," i used to say, "would soften that tireless spirit--say, stockings to darn and children to dress for school, and a husband to keep in order." "yet in lieu of these," dove once replied, "she has her day's work and her church and books--" "but are they enough for a woman, do you think?" i asked my wife. we were standing together by robin's bedside, watching him as he slept. dove said nothing, but laid her hand against his rose-red cheek. little by little we became aware of some subtle change in our letitia. she took less interest in the mild adventures of our household world. she smiled more faintly at my jests, a serious matter, for i have at home, like other men, some reputation for a pretty wit upon occasion. it was a mild estrangement and recluseness. she sat more often in her room up-stairs. she was absent frequently on lonely walks, sometimes at evening, and brought home a face so rapt, and eyes with a look in them so far away from our humble circle about the reading-lamp, we deemed it wiser to ask no questions. for years it had been an old country custom of ours, when we sat late, to seek the pantry before retiring, but now when invited to join us in these childish spreads, "no, thank you," letitia would reply, and in a tone so scrupulously courteous i used to feel like the man old butters told about--a poor, inadvertent wight, he was, who had offered a sandwich to an angel. i forget now how the story runs, but the man grumbled at his rebuff, and so did i. "i know, my dear," dove reproved me, "but you ought not to do such things when you see she's thinking." "thinking!" i cried, cooling my temper in bread-and-milk. "is it thinking, then?" "i don't know what it is," dove sighed. "she isn't letitia any more, yet for the life of me i can't tell why. i never dream now of disturbing her when she looks that way, and i cannot even talk to her as i used to do." "she isn't well," i said. "she says she was never better." "she may be troubled." "she says she was never happier." "well, then," i decided, sagely, "it must be thinking, as you say." we agreed to take no notice of what might be only moody crotchets after all; they would soon pass. we no longer pressed her to join our diversions about the lamp, but welcomed her in the old spirit when she came willingly or of her own accord. yet even then it was not the same: there was some mute, mysterious barrier to the old, free, happy intercourse. some word of dove's or mine, mere foolery, perhaps, but meant in cheerfulness, would dance out gayly across the table where we sat at cards, but slink back home again, disgraced. what could this discord be? we asked ourselves--this strange impassiveness, this disapproval, as it seemed to us--negative, but no less obvious for that? there was a heaviness in the air. we breathed more freely in letitia's absence. we grew self-conscious in that mute, accusing presence, which i resented and my wife deplored. dove even confessed to a feeling of guiltiness, yet could remember no offence. "what have i done?" i asked my wife. "what have _i_ done?" asked she. at meals, especially, we were ill at ease. the very viands, even those famous dishes of dove's own loving handiwork, met with disfavor instead of praise. letitia had abandoned meats; now she declined dove's pies! pastry was innutritious, she declared, meats not intended for man at all, and even of green things she ate so mincingly that my little housewife was in despair. "what can i get for you, dear?" she would ask, anxiously. "what would you like?" "my love," letitia would reply, flushing with annoyance, "i am perfectly satisfied." "but i'll get you anything, letitia." "i eat quite enough, my dear," was the usual answer--"quite enough," she would add, firmly, "for any one." then dove would sink back ruefully, and i, pitying my wife--i, rebuked but unabashed and shameless in my gluttony, would pass my plate again. "give me," i would say, cheerfully, "a _third_ piece of that excellent, that altogether heavenly cherry-pie, my dear." it may sound like triumph, but was not--for letitia primrose would ignore me utterly. "have you read," she would ask, sipping a little water from her glass, "_new eden_, by mrs. lord?" we still walked mornings to the school-house, still talked together as we walked, but not as formerly--not of the old subjects, which was less to be wondered at, nor yet of new ones with the old eloquence. i felt constrained. there was a new note in letitia's comments on the way the world was going, though i could not define its pitch. she spoke, i thought, less frankly than of old, but much more carelessly. she seemed more listless in her attitude towards matters that had roused her, heart and soul, in other days. me she ignored at pleasure; could it be possible, i wondered, that she was determined to renounce the whole round world as well? it was i who had first resented this alienation, but it was dove who could not be reconciled to a change so inscrutable and unkind. time, i argued, was sufficient reason; age, i reminded her, cast strange shadows before its coming; our friend was growing old--perhaps like her father--before her time. but dove was alarmed: letitia was pale, she said; her face was wan--there was a drawn look in the lines of the mouth and eyes; even her walk had lost its buoyancy. "true," i replied, "but even that is not unnatural, my dear. besides, she eats nothing; she starves herself." my wife rose suddenly. "bertram," she said, earnestly, "you must stop this folly. i have tried my best to tempt her out of it, but i have failed. it is you she is fondest of. it is you who must speak." "i fear it will do no good," i answered, "but i will try." i have had use for courage in my lifetime, both as doctor and man, but i here confess to a trembling of the heart-strings, a childish faintness, a lily cowardice in these encounters, these trifling domestic sallies and ambuscades. nor have i strategy; i know but one method of attack, and its sole merit is the little time it wastes. "letitia," i said, next morning, as we walked townward, "you are ill." "nonsense, bertram," she replied. "you are ill," i replied, firmly. "you are pale as a ghost. your hands tremble. your walk--" "i was never stronger in my life," she interposed, and as if she had long expected this little crisis and was prepared for it. "never, i think, have i felt so tranquil, so serene. my mind--" "i am not speaking of your mind," i said. "i am talking of your body." "bertram," she said, excitedly, "that is just your error--not yours alone, but the whole world's error. this thinking always of earthly--" "now, letitia," i protested, "i have been a doctor--" "illness," she continued, "is a state of mind. to think one is ill, is to be ill, of course, but to think one is well, is to be well, as i am--well, i mean, in a way i never dreamed of!--a way so sure, so beautiful, that i think sometimes i never knew health before." "letitia," i said, sharply, "what nonsense is this?" "it is not nonsense," she retorted. "it is living truth. oh, how can we be so blind! the body, bertram--why, the body is nothing!" "nothing!" i cried. "nothing!" she answered, her face glowing. "the body is nothing; the mind is everything! it is god's great precious gift! with my mind i can control my body--my life--yes, my very destiny!--if i use god's gift of will. it is divine." "letitia," i said, sternly, "those are fine words, and well enough in their time and place. i am not a physician of souls. i mend worn bodies, when i can. it is yours i am thinking of--the frail, white, half-starved flesh and blood where your soul is kept." "stop!" she cried. "you have no right to speak that way. you mean well, bertram, but you are wrong. you are mistaken--terribly mistaken," she repeated, earnestly--"terribly mistaken. i am quite, quite able to care for myself. i only ask to be let alone." she had grown hysterical. tears were in her eyes. "see," she said, in a calmer tone, wiping them away, "i have had perfect control till now. this is not weakness merely; it is worse: it is sin. but i shall show you. i shall show you a great truth, bertram, if you will let me. only have patience, that is all." she smiled and paused in a little common near the school-house where none might hear us. "i learned it only recently," she told me. "i cannot see how i never thought of it before: this great power mind has over matter--how just by the will which god has given us in his goodness, we may rise above these petty, earthly things which chain us down. we can rise _here_, bertram--here on earth, i mean--and when we do, even though our feet be on grassy fordshire ground, we walk in a higher sphere. ah, can't you see then that nothing can ever touch us?--nothing earthly, however bitter, can ever sadden us or spoil our lives! there will be no such thing as disappointment; no regret, no death--and earth will be eden come again." her eyes were shining. "letitia," i said, "it is of another world that you are dreaming." "no, it is all quite possible here," she said. "it is possible to you, if you only think so. it is possible for me, because i do." "it seems," i said, "a monstrous selfishness." "selfishness!" she said, aghast. "as long as you have human eyes," i said, "you will see things to make you weep, letitia." "but if i shut them--if i rise above these petty--" "the sound of crying will reach your ears," i said. "how then shall you escape sadness and regret? what right have you to avoid the burdens your fellows bear?--to be in bliss, while they are suffering? it would be monstrous, letitia primrose. you would not be woman: you would be a fiend." she shook her head. "you don't understand," she said. "at least," i answered, "i will send you something from the office." she shut her lips. "i shall not take it." "it will make you stronger," i insisted. "you can do nothing," she answered, coldly, "to make me stronger than i am." ix a serious matter if ever woman had a tender heart, that heart was dove's. i used to say, to her confusion, that a south sea cannibal might find confessional in her gentle ear, were his voice but low enough; that she might draw back, shuddering at his tales of the bones he had picked, but if only his tears were real ones, i could imagine her, when he had done, putting her hand upon his swarthy shoulder and saying, earnestly: "i know just how you feel!" such was the woman letitia confided in, now that her tongue was loosened and the mystery solved, for her soul was brimming with those new visions--dreams so roseate as she painted them that my wife listened with their wonder mirrored in her round brown eyes, and dumb before that eloquence. dove loved letitia as a greater woman than herself, she said, worshipped her for her wider knowledge and more fluent speech, just as she wondered at it ruefully as a girl on sun dial listening to letitia's tales of dryads and their spells. in return for all this rapt attention and modest reverence, letitia formerly had been grace itself. it was a tender tyranny she had exercised; but now?--how should my simple, earthly dove, mother and housewife, confide any longer her favorite cares, her gentle fears, her innocent regrets? with what balm of sympathy and cheer would the new letitia heal those wounds? would not their very existence be denied; or worse, be held as evidence of sin?--iniquity in my poor girl's soul, hidden there like a worm i' the bud, and to be chastened in no wise save by taking invisible white wings of thought, and soaring--god knows where? the new letitia was not unamiable, nor yet unkind, knowingly, for she smiled consistently upon all about her--a strange, aloof, unloving smile though, at which we sighed. we should have liked her to be heart and soul again in our old-time common pleasures, even to have joined us now and then in a fault or two--to have looked less icily, for example, upon our occasional petty gossip of our neighbors, or to have added one wrathful word to our little rages at the way the world was straying from the golden mist we had seen it turn in, in our youth. as we watched her, wondering, laughing sometimes, sometimes half-angry at this new and awful guise she had assumed, it would come to us, not so much how sadly earthen we must seem to her, nor yet how strange and daft and airy her new views seemed to us in our duller sight--but how the old letitia whom we had loved was gone forever. "bertram," said my wife one evening as we sat together by the lamp, "what do you think letitia says?" "i am prepared for anything, my dear." dove, who was sewing, laid down her work and said, gravely: "she does not believe in marriage any more." i raised my eyebrows. there was really nothing to be said. "at least," my wife went on, resuming her sewing, "she says that the time will come when the race will have"--dove paused thoughtfully--"risen above such things, i think she said. i really don't remember the words she used, but i believe--yes, there _will_ be marriage--in a way--that is"--dove knitted her brows--"a union of kindred souls, if i understand her." "ah!" i replied. "i see. but what about the perpetuation--" my wife shook her head. "oh, all that will be done away with, i believe," she said, gravely. "done away with!" i cried. "at least," dove explained, "it will not be necessary." my face, i suppose, may have looked incredulous. "i don't quite comprehend what letitia says sometimes," my wife explained, "but today she was telling me--" dove laughed quaintly. "oh, i forget what comes next," she said, "but letitia told me all about it this morning." i returned to my quarterly. presently my wife resumed: "she has four books about it." "only four!" i said. "i should think one would need a dozen at least to explain such mysteries." "she says herself she is only at the beginning," dove replied. "she's now in the first circle--or cycle, i've forgotten which--but the more she reads and the more she thinks about it, the more wonderful it grows. oh, there was something else--what was it now she called it?--something about the--cosmos, i think she said, but i didn't quite grasp the thing at all." "i'm surprised," i replied. "it's very simple." "i suppose it is," dove answered, quickly, and so humbly that i laughed, but she looked up at me with such a quivering smile, i checked myself. "i suppose it _is_ simple," she replied. "i guess my mind--is not very strong, bertram. i--i find it so hard to understand some--" i saw the tears were coming. "don't trouble yourself about such things, my dear," i said, cheerfully. "it's a bonny mind you have, you take my word for it." dove wiped her eyes. "no," she said; "when i listen to letitia, i feel like a--" "there, there, my dear," i said, "you have things a thousand times more vital and useful and beautiful than this cosmos letitia talks about. it's only another word for the universe, my love, if i remember rightly--i'm not quite sure myself, but it doesn't matter. it's easy to pronounce, and it may mean something, or it may mean nothing, but we needn't trouble ourselves about it, little one. you have work to do. you must remember letitia has no such ties to bind her to the simple things, which are enough for most of us to battle with. i am tired of theories myself, dear heart. work--everyday, humble, loving service is all that keeps life normal and people pleasant to have about. i see so much of this other side, it is always good to come home to you." i went back to my medical journal--i forgot to say i had come around to my wife's side of our reading-table in settling this perplexing matter; i went back to my work, and she to hers, and we finished the evening very quietly, and in as good health and unruffled spirits as the cosmos itself must enjoy, i think, judging from the easy way it has run on, year after year, age after age, since the dark beginning. part iii _rosemary_ i the home-keeper the years slip by so quietly in grassy ford that men and women born here find themselves old, they scarce know how, for are they not still within sound of the brooks they fished in, and in the shadow of the very hill-sides they climbed for butternuts, when they were young? the brooks run on so gayly as before, and why not they as well? "butters," shears used to grumble, "never could learn that he was old enough to stop his jawing and meddling around the town, till they dug his grave for him; then he shut up fast enough." "well, then," said caleb kane, another character, "we'll sure enough have to send for the sexton." colonel shears eyed caleb with suspicion. "what for?" he asked. "why, to get a word in edgewise, sam'l," caleb replied, and the colonel rose, shifted his cigar, and sauntered homeward. "mostly comedies," said the one we call johnny keats, when i urged him to write the stories of his native town; yet, as i told him, there are tragedies a-plenty too in grassy fordshire, though the dagger in them is a slower torture than the short swift stab men die of in a literary way. our heroic deaths are done by inches, as a rule, so imperceptibly, so often with jests and smiles in lieu of fine soliloquies, that our own neighbors do not always know how rare a play the curtain falls on sometimes among our hills. if i do not die in harness, if, as i often dream of doing, i turn my practice over to some younger man--perhaps to robin, who shows some signs of following in his father's steps--i shall write the story of my native town; not in the old way, embellished, as butters would have termed it, with family photographs of the leading citizens and their houses and cow-sheds, and their wooden churches, and their corner stores with the clerks and pumpkins in array before them--not in that old, time-honored, country manner, but in the way it comes to me as i look backward and think of the heroes and heroines and the clowns and villains i have known. i shall need something to keep me from "jawing and meddling around the town"; why not white paper and a good stub pen, while i smoke and muse of my former usefulness. i suppose i shall never write the chronicle; johnny keats could, if he would; and i would, if i could--thus the matter rests, while the town and its tales and i myself grow old together. even johnny keats, who was a boy when letitia taught in the red brick school-house, has a thin spot in his hair. had dove but lived--it is idle, i know, to say what might have been, had our grassy fordshire been the same sweet place it was, before she went like other white birds--"southward," she said, "but only for a winter, bertram--surely spring comes again." this i do know: that i should have had far less to tell of letitia primrose, who might have gone on mooning of a better world had dove not gone to one, leaving no theories but a son and husband to letitia's care. it was not to the oracle that she intrusted us, but to the woman--not to the new letitia but to the old, who had come back to us in those vigils at my wife's bedside. "this is not sin, letitia," dove said to her. "oh, my dear!" replied letitia. "you must not dream that i could call it so." "still," dove answered, "if i had your mind, perhaps--" "hush, dear love," letitia whispered. "my sweet, my sweet--oh, if i had your soul!" from such chastening moments letitia primrose was the mother she might have been. a tenderer, humbler heart, save only dove's, i never knew, nor a gentler voice, nor a stronger hand, than those she gave us, man and boy bereft--not only in those first blank days, but through the years that followed. so easily that i marvelled did the school-mistress become the home-keeper, nor can i look upon a spinster now, however whimsical, that i do not think of her as the elder sister of that wife and mother in her soul. a new dream possessed letitia: it was to be like dove. she could never be youthful save in spirit; she could never be lovely with that subtle poise and grace which cannot be feigned or purchased at any price, neither with gold nor patience nor purest prayer nor any precious thing whatever, but comes only as a gift to the true young mother at her cradle-side. she could not be one-half so perfect, she confessed humbly to herself, but she could keep the fire blazing on a lonely hearth, where a man sat silent with his child. my girl's housewifeliness had seemed a simple matter when letitia's mind was on her school and sky; it was now a marvel as she learned what dove had done--those thousand little things, and all so easily, so placidly, that at the day's fag-end letitia, weary with unaccustomed cares, wondered what secret system of philosophy dove's had been. what were the rules and their exceptions? what were the formulæ? here were sums to do, old as the hills, but strange, new answers! there must be a grammar for all that fluency, that daily smoothness in every clause and phrase--a kind of eloquence, as letitia saw it now, marvelling at it as dove had marvelled at her own. when she had solved it, as she thought, the steak went wrong, or the pudding failed her, or the laundry came home torn or incomplete, moths perhaps got into closets, ants stormed the pantry, or a pipe got stopped; and then, discomfited, she would have dove's magic and good-humored mastery to seek again. she had kept house once herself, it is true, but years ago, for her simple father, and not in dove's larger way. the primrose household as she saw it now had been a meagre one, for here in the years of dove's gentle rule, a wondrous domestic ritual had been established, which it was now her duty to perform. that she did it faithfully, so that the windows shone and the curtains hung like snowy veils behind them, so that the searching light of day disclosed no film upon the walnut, who could doubt, knowing that conscience and its history? she kept our linen neatly stitched; she set the table as dove had set it; she poured out tea for us more primly, to be sure, but cheerfully as dove had poured it, smiling upon us from dove's chair. robin grew straight of limb and wholesome of soul as dove had dreamed. letitia helped him with his lessons, told him the legends of king arthur's court, and read with him those _tales of a grandfather_, which i had loved as just such another romping boy--though not so handsome and debonair as dove's son was, for he had her eyes and her milder, her more poetic face, and was more patrician in his bearing; he is like his mother to this day. his temper, which is not maternal, i confess--those sudden gusts when, as i before him, he chafed in bonds and cried out bitter things, rose hotly sometimes at letitia's discipline, though he loved her doubly now. "you are not my mother!" he would shout, clinching his fists. "you are not my mother!" then her heart would fail her, for she loved him fondly, even in his rage, and her penalty would be mild indeed. often she blamed herself for his petty waywardness, and feeling her slackening hand he would take the bit between his teeth, coltlike; but he was a good lad, robin was, and, like his mother, tender-hearted, for all his spirit, and as quick to be sorry as to be wrong. when they had made it up, crying in each other's arms, letitia would say to him: "i'm not your mother, but i love you, and i've got no other little boy." it was thus letitia kept our home for us, tranquil and spotless as of old; and if at first i chose more often than was kind to sit rather among my bottles and my books and instruments, leaving her robin and the evening-lamp, it was through no fault or negligence of hers i did it, for, however bright my hearth might glow, however tended by her gentle hands, its flame was but the ruddy symbol to me of a past whose spirit never could return. "who _is_ miss primrose?" strangers in grassy ford would ask. "she's a sort of relative," the reply would be, "and the doctor's house-keeper." for the woman who keeps still sacred and beautiful another woman's home, in all the language, in all our wordiness, there is no other name. ii johnny keats the one we call johnny keats is well enough known as karl st. john. he was a grassy fordshire boy and letitia's pupil, as i have said, till he left us, only to like us better, as he once told me, by seeing the world beyond our hills. he went gladly, i should say, judged by the shining in his eyes. he was a homely, slender, quiet lad, except when roused, when he was vehement and obstinate enough, and somewhat given, i am told, to rhapsody and moonshine. he read much rather than studied as a school-boy, and was seen a good deal on sun dial and along troublesome where he never was known to fish, but wandered aimlessly, wasting, it was said, a deal of precious time which might have been bettered in his father's shop. letitia liked him for a certain brightness in his face when she talked of books, or of other things outside the lessons; otherwise he was not what is termed in grassy ford a remarkable boy. we have lads who "speak pieces" and "accept," as we say it, "lucrative" positions in our stores. karl drifted off when barely twenty, and as time went by was half forgotten by the town, when suddenly the news came home to us that he had written, and what is sometimes considered more, had published, and with his own name on the title-page, a novel!--_sleepington fair_, the thing was called. there are those who say sleepington fair means grassy ford, and that the river which the hero loved, and where he rescued a maid named hilda from an april flood, is really our own little winding troublesome, widened and deepened to permit the wellnigh tragic ending of the tale. you can wade troublesome; hilda went in neck-deep. they say also that the man mcbride, who talks so much, is our old friend colonel shears; the fanciful mcbride is tall in fact, and the actual shears is tall in fancy. be that as it may, the book was excellent, considering that it was written by a grassy fordshire boy, and it set at least two others of our lads, and a lady, i believe, to scribbling--further deponent sayeth not. _sleepington fair_ was read by the ladies of the longfellow circle, our leading literary club. our mrs. buhl, acknowledged by all but envious persons to be the most cultured woman in grassy ford, pronounced it safely "one of the most pleasing and promising novels of the past decade," and, in concluding her critical review before the club, she said, smilingly: "from mr. st. john--_our_ mr. st. john, for let me call him so, since surely he is ours to claim--from our mr. st. john we may expect much, and i feel that i am only voicing the sentiments of the longfellow circle when i wish for him every blessing of happiness and health, that his facile pen may through the years to come trace only what is pure and noble, and that when, as they will, the shadows lengthen, and his sun descends in the glowing west, he may say with the poet--" what the poet said i have forgotten, but the words of mrs. buhl brought tears to the eyes of many of her auditors, who, at the meeting's close, pressed about her with out-stretched hands, assuring her that she had quite outdone herself and that never in their lives had they heard anything more scholarly, anything more thoughtfully thought or more touchingly said. would she not publish it, she was asked, pleadingly? no? it was declared a pity. it was a shame, they said, that she had never written a book herself, she who could write so charmingly of another's. "ladies! ladies!" murmured mrs. buhl, much affected by this ovation, but her modest protest was drowned utterly in a chorus of-- "yes, indeed!" _sleepington fair_ aroused much speculation as to its author's rise in the outer world, chiefly with reference to the money he must be making, the sum being variously estimated at from five to twenty-five thousand a year. "too low," said shears. "suppose he makes half a dollar on every book, and suppose he sells--well, say he sells one hundred thousand--" "one hundred thousand!" cried caleb kane. "go wan!" "why, darn your skin," said colonel shears, "why not? _the old red barn_ sold _five_ hundred thousand, and only out two years. saw it myself in the paper, the other day." "no!" "i say _yes_! five hundred thousand, by cracky!" "oh, well," said caleb, "that thing was written by a different cuss." when it was learned one morning that karl had returned under cover of night for a visit to grassy ford, those who had known the boy looked curiously to see what manner of man he had become. and, lo! he was scarcely a man at all, but a beardless youth, no laurel upon his head, no tragic shadow on his brow!--a shy figure flitting down the long main street, darting into stores and out again, and nodding quickly, and hurrying home again as fast as his legs would take him--to dodge a caller even there and wander, thankful for escape, on the banks of troublesome. "well, you 'ain't changed much," said colonel shears, when he met the author. "no," said karl. "look just as peaked as ever," was the cheerful greeting of caleb kane. "yes," said karl. "don't seem a day older," said grandma smith. "no?" said karl. "why, karl," said shears, "i thought you'd change; thought you'd look different, somehow! yes, sir, i thought you'd look different--but, i swan, you don't!" "no," said karl, and there was such honest chagrin in the faces of those old-time friends, he was discomfited. what had they expected, he asked at home? "why," said his mother, "don't you know? can't you guess, my dear? they looked at least for a prince-albert and a stove-pipe hat." "silk hat! prince-albert!" "why, yes," said his father. "the outward and visible sign of the soul within." karl's clothes, it is true, were scarcely the garb to be hoped for in so marked a man. the dandies of grassy ford noted complacently that his plain, gray, wrinkled suit did not compare for style and newness with their own, while they wore at their throats the latest cravats of emerald and purple loveliness. karl's tie was black, and a plain and pinless bow which drooped dejectedly. his hat was a mere soft, weather-beaten, shapeless thing, and he walked on sunday with gloveless hands. miss johnson, a reigning belle, tells how he once escorted her from the post-office to her father's gate, talking of wordsworth all the way, and all unconscious of the sun dial burrs still clinging to his coat! letitia, for one, declared that she was not disappointed in the author of _sleepington fair_. in honor of her old pupil she gave a dinner, and spent such thought upon its menu and took such pains with its service, lest it should offend a new-yorker's epicurean eye, it is remembered still, and not merely because it was the only literary dinner grassy ford has known. there was some agitation among the invited guests as to the formality involved in a dinner to a lion--even though that lion might be seen commonly with burrs in his tail. the pride and honor of grassy ford was at stake, and the matter was the more important as the worthy fathers of the town seldom owned dress-suits in those days. for a time, i believe, when i was a boy, mr. jewell, the banker, was the sole possessor, and became thereby, no less than by virtue of the manners which accompany the occasional wearing of so suave a garment in so small a town--our first real gentleman. in his case, however, the ownership was the less surprising in that he was known to enjoy new york connections, on his mother's side. now, to those who consulted letitia as to the precise demands of the approaching feast, she explained, gracefully, that they would be welcome in any dress--adding, however, for the gentlemen's benefit, and hopefully no doubt, for she had the occasion in heart and hand, that the conventional garb after six o'clock was a coat with tails. as a result of the conference two guests-to-be might have been seen through a tailor's window, standing coatless and erect upon a soap-box, much straighter than it was their wont to stand, much fuller of chest, robin-like, and with hips thrown neatly back--to match, as the colonel said. two other gentlemen of the dinner-party told their wives bluntly that they would go "_as_ usual," or they would be--not go at all, before which edicts their dames salaamed. letitia counted on five dress-suits, at least, including the author's and my own. mine i must wear, she said, or she would be shamed forever; so i put it on when the night arrived, wormed my way cautiously into its outgrown folds, only to find then, to my pain, that an upright posture alone could preserve its dignity and mine. the hour arrived, and with it the buxtons, old friends and neighbors; dr. jamieson, homoeopathic but otherwise beyond reproach, and miss jamieson, his daughter, who could read browning before breakfast, much, i suppose, as some robust men on empty stomachs smoke strong cigars; the gallowses, not wanted over-much, but asked to keep the white wings of peace hovering in our hills; the jewells, and some one i've forgotten, and then the buhls--mr. buhl smiling, but unobtrusive to the ear, mrs. buhl radiant and gracious, and pervading the assemblage with a dowagerial rustling of lavender silk. to my mind the quieter woman in the plain black gown adorned only by an old-lace collar and antique pin, her hair the whiter for her cheeks now rosy with agitation, her eyes shining with the joy of the first great function she had ever given, was the loveliest figure among them all. last came two plain, unassuming folk, though proud enough of that only son of theirs, and then-- "_oh!_" cries mrs. buhl, so suddenly, so ecstatically that the hum ceases and every head is turned. "_mister_ st. john!" it is indeed the author of _sleepington fair_. and behold the lion!--a slight and faltering figure, pausing upon the threshold, burrless indeed, but oh!--in that old sack suit of gray! letitia bore the shock much better than might be expected. she changed color, it is true, but the flush came back at once, and, standing loyally at his side, she led the lion into the room. it was a trying moment. he was an author--he had written a book--but we were thirteen to his one, and four dress-suits besides! thirteen to one, if you omit his parents, and four dress-shirts, remember, bulging and crackling before his dazzled eyes! new york wavered and fell back, and the first skirmish was grassy ford's. at the same instant it was whispered anxiously in my ear that the ices had not arrived, but i counselled patience, and dinner was proclaimed without delay. the lion and letitia led the procession to the feast, and i have good reason for the statement that he was a happier lion when we were seated and he had put his legs away. still, even then he could scarcely be called at ease. once only did he talk as if he loved his theme, and then it was solely with letitia, who had mentioned troublesome, out of the goodness of her heart, as i believe. his face lighted at the name, and he talked so gladly that all other converse ceased. what was the lion roaring of so gently there? startled to hear no other voices, he stopped abruptly, and, seeing our curious faces all about him, dropped his eyes, abashed, and kept them on his plate. then mrs. buhl, famous in such emergencies, came to the rescue. "oh, mr. st. john," she said, while we all sat listening, "i've wanted to ask you: how did you come to write _sleepington fair_?" "oh," he replied, reddening, "i--i wanted to--that was all." "i see," she replied. "do you like 'sordello'?" asked miss jamieson, in the awkward silence that ensued. "well, really--i cannot say; i have never read it," was his confession. "not read 'sordello'!" "no." "let's see, that's poe, isn't it?" asked a young dress-shirt, swelling visibly, emboldened to the guess by the lion's discomfiture. "robert browning," replied the lady, with a look of scorn, and the dress-shirt sank again. "new york is a great place, isn't it?" volunteered jimmy gallows. "yes," said the lion. "been up the statue of liberty, i suppose?" jimmy went on. "no," said the lion. "what!" cried the chorus. "never been up the--" "what did he say?" asked mrs. jewell, who was deaf. mr. buxton solemnly inclined his lips to her anxious ear and shouted: "_he has never been up the statue of liberty._" "oh!" said the lady. the silence was profound. "what, _never_?" piped jimmy gallows. "never," said the lion, shaking his mane a little ominously. "i have never been a tourist." letitia mentioned sun dial, and would have saved the day, i think, had not mrs. buhl leaned forward with the sweetest of alluring smiles. "oh, mr. st. john," she said, "i've been going to ask you--in fact, for a long, long time i have wanted to know, and i wonder now if you won't tell me: how do authors"--she paused significantly--"how do authors get their books accepted?" a dress-shirt crackled, but was frowned upon. "what did he say?" asked the lady who was deaf. "_he hasn't said anything yet_," roared mr. buxton. "oh!" "do tell us," urged mrs. buhl. "do, mr. st. john. i almost called you karl." "was it a conundrum?" inquired the deaf lady, perceiving that it had been a poser. "_no. question: how do authors get their books accepted?_" "yes--how do they?" urged mrs. buhl. "why," said the lion at last, for all the table hung upon his answer, "by writing them well enough--i suppose." it was a weak answer. there was no satisfaction in it, no meat, no pith at all, nothing to carry home with you. mrs. buhl said, "oh!" "to what, then," piped jimmy gallows, "do you attribute your success?" he was a goaded lion, one could see quite plainly; the strain was telling on his self-control. "it is not worth mentioning, mr. gallows," he replied, stiffly. "mr. st. john," letitia interposed, in a quiet voice, "was just now telling me that there is no music in all new york to compare with troublesome's. shall we go into the other room?" that night, when the last guest had departed, i asked letitia, "well, what do you think of the author?" "_i_ am not disappointed," she replied. "not much of a talker, though?" i suggested. "he does not pretend to be a talker," she replied, warmly. "he is a writer. no," she repeated, "i am not disappointed in my johnny keats." next day, i think it was, in the afternoon, he asked letitia to walk with him to the banks of troublesome, to a spot which she had praised the night before. his heart was full, and as they lingered together by those singing waters he told her of his struggles in the city whose statue he had never climbed. he told her of his black days there, of his failure and despondency, of his plans to leave it and desert his dreams, but how that mighty, roaring, dragon creature had held him pinioned in its claws till he had won. "and then," he told her, "when i saw my book, i looked again, and it was not a dragon which had held me--it was an angel!" seeing that her eyes were full of tears, he added, earnestly: "miss primrose, i wanted you to know. you had a part in that little triumph." "i?" "you. don't you remember? don't you remember those books you left for us?--in our old school-room?--on the shelf?" iii the fortune-teller autumn comes early in grassy fordshire. in late september the nights are chill and a white mist hovers ghostly in the moonlight among our hills. the sun dispels it and warms our noons to a summer fervor, but there is no permanence any longer in heat or cold, or leaf or flower--all is change and passing and premonition, so that the singing poet in you must turn philosopher and hush his voice, seeing about him the last sad rites of those little lives once blithe and green as his own was in the spring. ere october comes there are crimson stains upon the woodlands. "god's plums, father!" robin cried, standing as a little boy on sun dial and pointing to the distant hills. a spell is over them, a purple and enchanted sleep, though all about them the winds are wakeful, and the sumac fire which blazed up crimson in the sun but a moment gone, burns low in the shadow of white clouds scudding before the gale. here beneath them the bloom of the golden-rod is upon the land; fieldsful and lanesful, it bars your way, or brushes your shoulders as you pass. only the asters, white and purple and all hues between, vie here and there with the mightier host, but its yellow plumes nod triumph on every crest, banks and hedgerows glow with its soldiery, it beards the forest, and even where the plough has passed posts its tall sentries at the furrow's brim. in the lower meadows there is still a coverlet of summer green, but half hidden in the taller, rusting grasses, whose feathery tops ripple in the faintest wind, till suddenly it rises and whips them into waves, now ruddy, now flashing silver, while a foam of daisies beats against the gray stone hedges like waters tumbling on a quay. there is cheerful fiddling in these dying grasses, and crickets scuttle from beneath your feet; there is other music too--a shrill snoring as of elder fairies oversleeping; startled insects leap upon you, flocks of sparrows flee from interrupted feasts, squirrels berate you, crows spread horrid tales of murder stalking in the fields. then leave the uplands--tripping on its hidden creepers; part the briers of the farthest hedgerow, and descend. down in the valley there is a smell of apples in the air, pumpkins glow among the wigwams of the indian-corn, and deeper still runs troublesome among the willows, shining silver in the waning sun. there in the sopping lowlands they are harvesting the last marsh hay. a road leads townward, the vines scarlet on its tumbling walls; the air grows cooler-- "oh, it is beautiful!" says letitia, sadly--"but it is fall." i observe in her always at this season an unusual quietness. she is in the garden as early as in the summer-time, and while it is still dripping with heavy dew, for she clings tenderly to its last flowers--to her nasturtiums, to the morning-glories on the trellis, and the geraniums and dahlias and phlox and verbenas along the path; but she gives her heart to her petunias, and because, she says, they are a homely, old-fashioned flower, whom no one loves any more. as she caresses them, brushing the drops from their plain, sweet faces, she seems, like them, to belong to some by-gone, simpler time. some think her an odd, quaint figure in her sober gown, but they never knew the girl letitia, or they would see her still, even in this elder woman with the snow-white hair. every fall gypsies camp in the fields near troublesome on their way southward. it is the same band, letitia tells me, that has stopped there year after year, and letitia knows: she used to visit them when she was younger and still had a fortune to be told. it was a weakness we had not suspected. she had never acknowledged a belief in omens or horoscopes, or prophecies by palms or dreams, though she used to say fairies were far more likely than people thought. she had seen glades, she told us, lawn or meadow among encircling trees, where, long after sundown, the daylight lingered in a fairy gloaming; and there, she said, when the fire-flies danced, she had caught such glimpses of that elf-land dear to childhood, she had come to believe in it again. there was such a spot among our maples, and from the steps where we used to sit, we would watch the afterglow pale there to the starlit dusk, or that golden glory of the rising moon break upon the shadowy world, crowning the tree-tops and quenching the eastern stars. then, sometimes, dove and letitia would talk of oracles and divination and other strange inexplicable things which they had heard of, or had known themselves; but letitia never spoke of the gypsy band till three giggling village maids, half-fearful and half-ashamed of their stealthy quest, found their school-mistress among the vans! she flushed, i suppose, and made the best of a curious matter, for she said, simply, when we charged her with the story that had spread abroad: "they are english gypsies, and wanderers like the primroses from their ancient home. that is why they fascinate me, i suppose." how often she consulted them, or when she began or ceased to do so, i do not know, but when i showed her the vans by the willows and the smoke rising from the fire, last fall, she smiled and said it was like old times to her--but she added, quaintly, that palms did not itch when the veins showed blue. "nonsense," i said, "we are both of us young, letitia. let us find the crone and hear her croak. i am not afraid of a little sorcery." paying no heed to her protestations i turned pegasus--i have always a pegasus, whatever my horse's other name--through the meadow-gate. a ragged, brown-faced boy ran out to us and held the bridle while i alighted, and then i turned and offered letitia a helping hand. she shook her head. "no, i'll wait here." "come," i said, "have you no faith, letitia?" "not any more," she replied. "this is foolishness, bertram. will you never grow up?" "it's only my second-childhood," i explained. "come, we'll see the vans." "some one will see us," she protested. "there is not a soul on the road," i said. shamefacedly she took my hand, glancing uneasily at the highway we had left behind us, and her face flushed as we approached the fire. an ugly old woman with a dirty kerchief about her head, was stirring broth for the evening meal. "tripod and kettle," i said. "do you remember this ancient dame?" "yes," said letitia, "it is--" "sibyl," i said. "her name is sibyl." letitia smiled. "do you remember me?" she asked, offering her hand. the old witch peered cunningly into her face, grinning and nodding as if in answer. two or three scraggy, evil-eyed vagabonds were currying horses and idling about the camp, watching us, but at a glance from the fortune-teller, they slouched streamward. the crone's entreaties and my own were of no avail. letitia put her hands behind her--but we saw the vans and patted the horses and crossed the woman's palm so that she followed us, beaming and babbling, to the carriage-side. there we were scarcely seated when, stepping forward--so suddenly that i glanced, startled, towards the camp--the gypsy laid a brown hand, strong as a man's, upon the reins; and turning then upon letitia with a look so grim and mysterious that she grew quite pale beneath those tragic eyes, muttered a jargon of which we made out nothing but the words: "you are going on a long journey," at which the woman stopped, and taking a backward step, stood there silently and without a smile, gazing upon us till we were gone. letitia laughed uneasily as we drove away. "did she really remember you?" i asked. "no, i don't think so--which makes it the more surprising." "surprising?" "yes; that she should have said again what she always told me." "and what was that?" "that i was going on a long journey." "did she always tell you that?" "always, from the very first." "perhaps she tells every one so," i suggested. "no, for i used to ask, and very particularly, as to that." why, i wondered, had she been so curious about long journeys? i had never known travel to absorb her thoughts. why had she inquired, and always so very particularly, as she confessed, about that single item of gypsy prophecy, and the very one which would seem least likely to be verified? never in my knowledge of letitia's lifetime had there been any other promise than that of the fortune-teller that she would ever wander from grassy ford. i might have asked her, but she seemed silent and depressed as we drove homeward, which was due, i fancied, to the gypsy's rude alarm. for some days after she continued to remark how strangely that repetition of the old augury had sounded in her ears, and smiling at it, she confessed how in former years she had laid more stress upon it, and had even planned what her gowns would be. "did you guess where you were going?" i ventured to inquire. "well, i rather hoped--" "yes?" i said. "you know my fondness for history," she continued. "i rather hoped i should see some day what i had read about so long--castles and things--and then, too, there were the novels i was fond of, like _lorna doone_. i always wanted to see the moors and the doone valley, and the water-slide that little john ridd had found so slippery, when he first saw lorna." "you wanted to see england then," i said. "yes, england," she replied. "england, you know, was my father's country." "the doone valley," i remarked, "would be devon, wouldn't it?" "yes," she replied, "and it was devon where father was a boy." "and our old friend robin saxeholm came from devon, you know," i said. "so he did," she answered. then we talked of robin and his visit to grassy fordshire years ago, and what letitia had forgotten of it i recalled to her, and what i could not remember, she supplied, so that it all came back to us like a story or a summer dream. when she had gone up-stairs i sat for a long time smoking by the dying fire, and musing of some old-time matters which now came back to me in a clearer light. from thinking of my own youth, little by little, i came to robin's--i mean the younger, who was now so soon to be a man. tall and fair like the youth he was named for, though not red-haired, he had all but completed that little learning which is a "dangerous thing": he was a high-school senior now, and overwhelmed sometimes with the wonder of it, but a manly fellow for all that, one whom my eyes dwelt fondly on more often than he knew. in the spring-time he would have his parchment; college would follow in the fall--college! what could i do to give my son a broader vision of the universe, lest with only grassy ford behind him, he should think the outside world lay mostly within his college walls? "you are going on a long journey." the gypsy's words came back unbidden as i rose by the embers of the fire. "a long journey," i repeated; "and why not?" iv an unexpected letter during the winter a great piece of news stirred grassy ford, and in spite of the snow-drifts on our walks and porches furnished an excuse for a dozen calls that otherwise would never have been made so soon. old mrs. luton was discovered in a state of apoplexy on our steps, but on being brought in and divested of her husband's coon-skin cap, a plush collar, a scarf, a shawl, a knitted jacket, and a newspaper folded across her chest, recovered her breath and told her story. mrs. neal, so mrs. luton said, had been heard to say, according to mrs. withers, who had it from mrs. lowell, who lived next door to mrs. bell--who, as the world knows, called more often than anybody else at the neal farm-house, feeling a pity for the lonely woman there, as who did not?--mrs. neal had been heard to say, what mrs. luton would not have repeated for the world to any one but her dear miss primrose, who could be trusted implicitly, as she knew, and she had said it in the most casual way--mrs. neal, that is--but secretly very well pleased, though, heaven knows, she, mrs. luton-- "won't you have some coffee?" asked letitia, for the breakfast was not yet cold. "yes, thank you, i _will_, for i'm as cold as can be," exclaimed her visitor, laughing hysterically, and she was profuse in her praise of letitia's beverage, and inquired the brand. her manner of sipping it as she sat in an easy-chair before the fire did away with all necessity for a spoon, but was a little trying to a delicate sense of hearing like letitia's, and was responsible beside for what was wellnigh a disastrous deluge when in the midst of a copious ingurgitation she suddenly remembered what she had come to tell: "_ffff_--peggy neal's a-living in new york!" she splashed, her eyes popping. it would be impossible to relate the story as mrs. luton told it, for its ramifications and parentheses involved the history of grassy ford and the manifold relationships of its inhabitants, past and present, to say nothing of the time to come, for in speculations mrs. luton was profound. mrs. neal, it seems, had broken her long silence and had been heard to allude to "my daughter peggy in new york." some years had passed since the farm-gate clicked behind that forlorn and outcast girl, and in all that time the mother had never spoken the daughter's name, nor had any one dared more than once to question her. letitia had tried once, but once only, to intercede for the pupil she had loved, the manner of whose departure was well enough understood in the town and country-side, though where she had gone remained a mystery. on leaving the farm that september evening, peggy, with a desperate and tear-stained face, had been met by a neighbor girl, who as a confidant in happier hours, was intrusted with the story. it was not a long one. the mother had pointed to the gate. "look there!" she cried. "_he_ went that way. i guess you'll find him, if you try, you--" then her mother struck her, peggy said. she did not know it was the name which felled her. now after silence which had seemed like death to the lonely woman in the hills, peggy had written home to her, to beg forgiveness, to say that in a life of ease and luxury in a great city, she could not help thinking of the farm, which seemed a dream to her; she could never return to it, she said, but she wondered if her father was living, and if her mother had still some heart for her wayward daughter, and would write sometimes. she said nothing of a child. that she was still unmarried seemed evident from the signature--"your loving, loving peggy neal." that some good-fortune had befallen her in spite of that sad beginning in her native fields, was quite as clear, for the paper on which she had scrawled her message was of finest texture and delicately perfumed; and, what was more, between its pages the mother had found a sum of money, how much or little no one knew. it was observed that the mother's face had relaxed a little. that she had answered her daughter's message was asserted positively by mrs. bell, though what that answer was, and whether forgiveness or not, she did not know. it was assumed, however, to have been a pardon, for the mother seemed pleased with the daughter's progress in the world, which must have seemed to her the realization, however ironical, of her discarded hopes; and it was she herself who had divulged the contents of the letter. to the cautious curiosity manifested by elderly ladies of grassy ford, who called upon her now more often than had been their wont, as she took some pleasure in reminding them, to their obvious discomfiture, and to all other hints and allusions she turned her deafer ear, while to direct questions she contented herself with the simple answer: "peggy's well." "you hear from her often, i suppose?" some caller ventured. the reply was puzzling: "oh, a mother's apt to." she said it so sadly, looking away across the farm, that letitia's informant as she told the story burst into tears. "she's a miserable woman, miss letitia, depend upon it. she's a miserable, broken-down, heart-sick creature for what she's done. 'you hear often, i suppose?' said i. 'a mother's apt to,' says she, and turned away from me with a face so lonesome as would break your heart." for myself, as letitia told me, i had my own notion of the mother's sad and evasive answer, but i held my peace. it was the coldest winter we had known in years. for weeks at a time our valley was a bowl of snow, roads were impassable, and stock was frozen on the upland farms. suddenly there came a thaw: the sun shone brightly, the great drifts sank and melted into muddy streams, and early one morning farmer bell, his shaggy mare and old top-buggy splashed with mire and his white face spattered, stopped at the post-office and called loudly to the passers-by. "old neal's dead and i want the coroner." to the crowd that gathered he told the story. neal's wife, waiting up for him christmas night, had made an effort to reach the bells to ask for tidings, but the wind was frightful and the drifts already beyond her depth. she had gone back hoping that he was safe by his tavern fire, but she sat by her own all night, listening to the roaring of the wind and the rattling windows through which the snow came drifting in. at dawn, from an upper chamber, she peered out upon a sight that is seldom seen even in these northern hills. the storm was over, but the world was buried white; roads and fences and even the smaller trees were no longer visible, and the barn and a neighbor's cottage were unfamiliar in their uncouth hoods. for days she remained imprisoned on the lonely farm. she cut paths from the woodshed to the near-by barn and saved the cattle in their stalls. then the thaw came, and she reached the bells. hitching his mare to his lightest buggy, for the roads were rivers, the farmer drove through the slush and the remnant drifts to the corner tavern where neal had been. the bartender stared blankly at his first question. "neal?" he stammered out at last. "yes, neal! _john_ neal, confound you! can't you speak?" the man laid the glass he was wiping upon the bar. "neal left here christmas day--along about four in the afternoon, when the storm began." as bell drove homeward he saw two figures at the neal farm-gate--that gate which peggy had closed behind her--and, coming nearer, he made out his own man tom and the widow, lifting the body from the melting snow. peggy neal did not come to her father's funeral. letitia herself would have written the news to her, for the woman, dry-eyed and dumb and sitting by the coffin-side, had aged in a day and was now as helpless as a child. "shall i write to peggy?" letitia asked her, but she did not hear. twice the question was repeated, but they got no answer, so letitia wrote, and laid the letter on the casket, open and unaddressed. it was never sent. v surprises jogging homeward from a country call one afternoon in may, i was admiring the apple-orchards and the new-ploughed fields between them, when i chanced upon my son robin with a handful of columbine, gathered among the sun dial rocks. "oh," said he, "is that you, father?" it is an innocent way of his when he has anything in particular to conceal. "at any rate," i replied, "you are my son." he smiled amiably and i cranked the wheel, making room for him beside me. "columbine," i remarked. "yes." "letitia will be pleased," i said. now i knew it was for the parker girl--rita parker, who blushes so when i chance to meet her that i know now how it feels to be an ogre, a much-maligned being, too, for whom i never had any sympathy before. "i just saw a redstart," remarked my son. "so?" i replied. "did you notice any bobolinks?" "_did_ i?" he answered. "i saw a million of them." "you did?" "down in the meadows there." "a million of them?" "almost a million," he replied. "every grass-stalk had one on it, teetering and singing away like anything." "why, i didn't know rita was with you." "rita!" he exclaimed, reddening. "why, yes," i said. "you saw so many birds, you know." it was a little hard upon the boy, but i broke the ensuing silence with some comments on the weather, and having him wholly at my mercy then, i chose a subject which so long had charmed me, i had been on the point of telling him time and again, yet had refrained. "robin," said i, "you will be a graduate in a day or two. what do you say to a summer in england, boy?" he caught my hand--so violently that the rein was drawn and pegasus turned obediently into the ditch and stopped. "england, father!" "if we are spared," i said, getting the buggy into the road again. "all of us!" he cried. "no." "but you'll come, father?" he said it so anxiously that i was touched. it isn't always that a boy cares to lug his father. "i should like to," i said, "but--no." "why not?" "i cannot leave," i replied. "jamieson's going. we can't both go." "oh, bother jamieson!" robin exclaimed. "what does he want to choose _our_ year for? why can't he wait till next?" "it's his wife," i explained. "she's ill again. but you go, robin, and take letitia." "when do we start?" "in june." "_this_ june?" "next month. i've laid out the journey for you on a map, and i've got the names of the inns to stop at, and what it will cost you, and everything else." "but when did you think of it?" asked my son. "last fall." "last fall! does aunt letty know?" "partly," i said. "she knows you're going, but not herself. it's a little surprise for her. you may tell her yourself, now, while i stop at the office." he scrambled out and hitched my horse for me, so i held the flowers. he flushed a little as he took them. "father, you're a trump," he said. i bowed slightly: it is wise to be courteous even to a son. i had stopped at the office to get the map, and an hour later letitia met me in our doorway. "bertram!" she said, taking my hand. "robin told you?" "yes. oh, it's beautiful, bertram, but i cannot go." "nonsense," i said. "but you?" "i shall do very nicely." "but the cost?" "will be nothing," i said. "the boy must not go alone." "that's not the reason you are sending me, bertram." "it's a good one," i replied. "no," she insisted, shaking her head. "you have been good to the boy, letitia," i explained. "this is only a way of saying that i know." "you do not need to say it," she replied. "i have done nothing." "you have done everything, letitia--for us both." the tears ran down her cheeks. my own eyes-- "you have loved dove's husband and son," i told her. "we shall not forget it." her face was radiant. "it has been nothing for me to do," she said. "loving no one in particular, i have had the time to love every one, don't you see? why, all my life, bertram, i've loved other people's dogs, and other people's children"--she paused a moment and added, smiling through her tears--"and other people's husbands, i suppose." "you will go?" i asked. "i should love to go." "you will go, letitia?" "i will go," she said. that evening i took from my pocket a brand-new map of the british isles--i mean brand-new last fall. many a pleasant hour i had spent that winter at the office with a red guide-book and the map before me on my desk. with no little pride i spread it now on the sitting-room table which letitia had cleared for me. "what are the red lines, father?" asked my son. he had returned breathless from telling the parker girl. "those in red ink," i replied, "i drew myself. it is your route. there's southampton--where you land--and there's london--and there's windsor and oxford and stratford and warwick and kenilworth--and here," i cried, sweeping my hand suddenly downward to the left--"here's devonshire!" "where father was a boy," letitia murmured, touching the pinkish county tenderly with her hand. ah, i was primed for them! there was not a question they could ask that i could not answer. there was not a village they could name, i could not instantly put my finger on. those winter hours had not been spent in vain. i knew the inns--the king's arms, the golden lion, the white hart, the star and anchor, the george and dragon, the ring o' bells! i knew where the castles were--i had marked them blue. i knew the battle-fields--i had made them crimson. for each cathedral--a purple cross. each famous school--a golden star. never, i believe, was there such a map before--for convenience, for ready reference: one look at the margin where i made the notes--a glance at the map--and there you were! "oh, it is beautiful!" exclaimed letitia. "isn't it?" i cried. "you should have it patented," said my son. "suppose," i suggested, "you ask me something--something hard now. ask me something hard." i took a turn with my cigar. robin knitted his brows, but could think of nothing. letitia pondered. "where's--" she hesitated. "out with it!" i urged. "where's tavistock?" she asked. i thought a moment. "is it a castle?" she shook her head. "is it a battle-field?" "no." "is it just a town, then?" "yes, just a town." "did anything famous happen there?" she hesitated. "well," she said, "perhaps nothing very famous--but it's an old little town--one that i've heard of, that is all." well, she did have me. it was not very famous, and only a--an idea came to me. "oh," i said, shutting my eyes a moment, "that town's in devon." letitia nodded. "see," i said. adjusting my glasses, and peering a moment at the pinkish patch, i tapped it, tavistock, with my finger-nail. "right here," i said. we made a night of it--that is, it was midnight when i folded my map and locked it away with the guide-book and the table of english money i had made myself. there was one in the book, it is true, but for ready reference, for convenience in emergencies, it did not compare with mine--mine worked three ways. a fortnight later i had the tickets in my hand--ss. _atlantis_, date of sailing, the tenth of june. i myself was to steal a day or two and wave farewell to them from the pier. robin already had packed his grip; indeed, he repacked it daily, to get the hang of it, he said. it was a new one which i had kept all winter at the office in the bottom of a cupboard, and it bore the initials, r. w., stamped on the end. and he had a housewife--a kind of cousin to a needle-book--stuffed full of handy mending-things, presented by the parker girl. the boy was radiant, but as june drew nigh i saw he had something heavy on his mind. a dozen times he had begun to speak to me, privately, but had changed the subject or had walked away. i could not imagine what ailed the fellow. he seemed restless; even, as i fancied, a little sad at times, which troubled me. i made opportunities for him to speak, but he failed to do so, either through neglect or fear. i saw him often at the office, where he was always bursting in upon me with some new plan or handy matter for his precious bag. he had bought a razor and a brush and strop. "but what are they for?" i asked, amazed. a blush mantled his beardless cheeks. "those? oh--just to be sure," he said. now what could be troubling the lad, i wondered? it was something not always on his mind, for he seemed to forget it in preparations, but it lurked near by to spring out upon his blithest moments. his face would be shining; an instant later it would fall, and he would walk to the window and gaze out thoughtfully into the street, in a way that touched me to the heart, for, remember, this was to be my first parting with the boy. the more i thought of it, the more perplexed i was; and the more i wondered, the more i felt it might be my duty to speak myself. "robin," i said one day, and as casually as i could make my tone, "did you want to tell me anything? what is it? speak, my boy." we were alone together in my inner office and the door was shut. he walked resolutely to the desk where i was sitting. "father," he said, "i have." my heart was beating, he looked so grave. "well," i remarked, "you have nothing to fear, you know." "father," he said, doggedly, "it's about--it's about--" "yes?" i encouraged him. "it's about this trip." "this trip?" "yes. it's about--father, _you'll_ tell her--" "tell her?" i repeated. "yes. you tell her." "tell whom? tell what?" "why, aunt letty." "aunt letty! tell aunt letty what?" he blurted it fiercely: "about her hat." "her hat! her hat! good lord, what hat?" "why, her sunday hat!" "you mean her--" "why, yes, father! you know that hat." i knew that hat. "do you object," i asked, "to your aunt's best sunday hat?" his scowl vanished and his face broke into smiles. "that's it," he said. "don't be alarmed," i assured him, keeping my own face steady--no easy matter, for, as i say, i knew the hat. "don't be alarmed, my son. she shall have a new one, if that will please you." his smiles vanished. he seemed suspicious. his tone was cautiousness itself. "but who will buy it?" he asked. "why, you!" i said. he leaped to my side. "_i?_" "you," i repeated. he laughed hysterically--whooped is the better word. "you wait!" he cried, and, fairly dancing, he seized his cap and rushed madly for the door. it shut behind him, but as swiftly opened again. "oh, dad," he said, beaming upon me from the crack, "it'll be a stunner! you'll see." it was. vi an old friend of ours "oh, i know the town," i had told them confidently--had i not been there in --? but no, it was not my town. it was not my new york at all that we found at our journey's end, but belonged apparently to the mob we fell among, bags and bundles, by the station steps, till from our cabman's manner, when i mildly marvelled at the fare he charged us, the place, i suspected, belonged to him. four days and nights we heard it rumbling about us. robin got a mote in his eye, letitia lost her brand-new parasol, and i broke my glasses--but we saw the parks and the squares and the tall buildings and the statue which johnny keats never climbed. reluctantly, for the day was waning as we stood on the battery looking out at it across the bay, we followed his example. on the third afternoon letitia proposed a change of plans. her eyes, she confessed, were a little tired with our much looking. why not hunt old friends? "old friends?" i asked. "whom do we know in new york, letitia?" "why, don't you remember hiram ptolemy and peggy neal?" "to be sure," i said--"the egyptologist! but the addresses?" "i have them both," she replied. "mrs. neal came to the house crying, and gave me peggy's, and begged me to find her if i could. and mr. ptolemy--why can i never remember the name of his hotel?" "you have heard from him then?" she blushed. "yes," she replied. "it's a famous hotel, i'm sure. the name was familiar." "hotel," i remarked. "hiram must be getting on then?" "oh yes," she said, fumbling with her address-book. "it's the mills hotel." "and a famous place," i observed, smiling. "so he lives at a mills hotel?" "i forgot to tell you," she continued, "i have been so busy. he wrote me only the other day, that, after all these years--mercy! how long it has been since he fed us lemon-drops!--after all these years of tramping from publisher to publisher, footsore and weary, as he said, he had found at last a grand, good man." "one," i inferred, "who will give his discovery to the world." "oh, more than that," explained letitia, "this dear, old, white-haired--" "egyptologist," i broke in. "publisher," she said, with spirit, "has promised him to start a magazine and make him editor--a scientific magazine devoted solely to egyptology, and called _the obelisk_." "well, well, well, well," i said. "we must congratulate the little man. perhaps you may even be impelled to recon--" "now, bertram," began letitia, in that tone and manner i knew of old--so i put on my hat, and, freeing robin to likelier pleasures, we drove at once to "the" mills hotel. letitia's address-book had named the street, which she thought unkempt and cluttered and noisy for an editor to live in, though doubtless he had wished to be near his desk. "is mr. hiram ptolemy in?" inquired letitia. "i'll see," said the clerk, consulting his ledgers. he returned at once. "there is no one here of that name, madam." "strange!" she replied. "he was here--let me see--but two weeks ago." "no madam," he said. "you must mean the other mills hotel." "is there another mills hotel?" she asked. "yes," he replied. "hotel number--" "i _thought_," said letitia, "this place seemed--" she glanced about her. "but," said i, "the address is of this one." "true," she replied. "did you look in the p's?" she inquired, sweetly. "why, no; in the t's. you said--" "but it's spelled with a p," she explained. "p-t-o-l--" then her face reddened. "never mind," she said. "you are right--quite right. it _is_ the other hotel. but can you tell me, please, if mr. hiram de lancey percival lives here?" the clerk smiled broadly. "oh yes," he said. "mr. percival does, but he's out at present. you will find him, however, at this address." he wrote it down for her and she took it nervously. "thank you," she said, glancing at it. "don't be silly, bertram. yes, it's the publisher's. let us go. good-day, sir." it was not a large publisher's, we discovered, for the place was a single and dingy store-room in a small side street. its walls were shelved, filled from the floor to the very ceiling--volume after volume, sets upon sets, most of them shopworn and bearing the imprints of by-gone years. between the shelves other books, equally old and faded, and offered for sale at trifling prices, lay on tables in that tempting disarray and dust which hints of treasures overlooked and waiting only for recognition--always on the higher shelf, or at the bottom of the other pile. the window was filled with encyclopædias long outgrown by a wiser world, and standing beside them, and looking back towards the store-room's farther end, was a melancholy vista of discarded and forgotten literature. "who buys them?" asked letitia. "who wrote them?" i replied. a bell had tinkled at our entrance, but no one came to us, so we wandered down one narrow aisle till we reached the end. and there, at the right, in an alcove hitherto undiscernable, and at an old, worm-eaten desk dimly lighted by an alley window, sat our old friend ptolemy, writing, and unaware of our approach. it was the same hiram, we observed, though a little shabbier, perhaps, and scraggier-bearded than of old, but the same little, blinking scientist we had known, in steel-bowed spectacles, scratching away in a rickety office-chair. he was quite oblivious of the eyes upon him, lost, doubtless, in some shadowy passage of egyptian lore. i coughed slightly, and he turned about, peering in amazement. "miss primrose! dr. weatherby! i do believe!" he exclaimed, and, dropping his pen, staggered up to us and shook our hands, his celluloid cuffs rattling about his meagre wrists and his eyes watering with agitation behind his spectacles. "_you_--in new york!" he piped. "i--why, i'm astounded--i'm astounded--but delighted, too--de_light_ed to see you both! but you mustn't stand." i looked curiously at letitia as he brought us chairs, setting them beside his desk. she was a little flushed, but very gracious to the little man. "miss primrose," he said, fidgeting about her, "allow me--allow me," offering what seemed to be the stabler of the wooden seats. she had accepted it and was about to sit, when he stopped her anxiously with a cry, "wait!--wait, i beg of you!" and replaced it with his own. his was an elbow chair whose sagging leathern seat had been reinforced with an old green atlas, its pasteboard cover still faintly decorated with a pictured globe. seating himself again beside his desk, he turned to us beaming with an air of host, and listened with many nervous twitchings and furtive glances at letitia, while i explained our presence there. "it's a grand journey--a grand journey, miss primrose," he declared. "i only wish i were going, too." "tell us," said letitia, kindly, "about _the obelisk_. is the first number ready yet?" he sat up blithely, wetting his lips, and with that odd mannerism which recalled his visit to grassy ford, he touched with one finger the tip of his celluloid collar, and thrust out his chin. "almost," he said. "it's almost ready. it'll be out soon--very soon now--it'll be out soon. i've got it here--right here--right here on the desk." he touched fondly the very manuscript we had surprised him writing. "that's it," he said. "_the obelisk_, volume one, number one." "and the great stone of iris-iris?" queried letitia. he half rose from his chair, and exclaimed, excitedly, pointing to a drawer in the paper-buried desk: "right there! the cut is there!--cut of the inscription, you know. it's to be the frontispiece. here: page one--my story--story of the translation and how i made it, and what it means to the civilized world. don't fail to read it!" he wiped his glasses. "when," i asked, "will it be out?" "soon," he replied. "soon, i hope. not later than the fall." "that's some time off yet," i remarked. "you do not understand," he replied, anxiously. "you do not understand, dr. weatherby. a magazine requires great preparation--great preparation, sir--and particularly a scientific magazine, dr. weatherby." "ah," i said. "i see." "_great_ preparation, sir," the little man went on, leaning forward and tapping me on the knee. "there must be subscribers, sir." "to be sure," i assented. "they are quite essential, i believe." "very," said hiram ptolemy. "very, sir. we must have fifty at the fewest before we go to press. my publisher is obdurate--fifty, he says, or he will not invest a penny--not a penny, sir." "and you have already--?" i inquired. i was sorry afterwards to have asked the question. it was not delicate. i asked it thoughtlessly, intending only to evince my interest in the cause. coloring slightly, he wet his lips and cleared his throat before replying. "one, sir; only one, as yet." "then put me down number two," i said, eager to retrieve my blunder. his face lighted, but only for a moment, and turning an embarrassed countenance upon letitia, and then on me, he stammered: "but i--" "oh, by all means, bertram," said letitia, "we must subscribe." the egyptologist swallowed hard. "i think--" he began. "bertram weatherby is the name, mr. percival," said letitia, in a clear, insistent tone, and at her bidding the little man scrawled it down, but so tremulously at first that he tore up the sheet and tried again. "and the subscription price?" i inquired, opening my pocket-book. "you--you needn't pay now, doctor," he replied. "is one dollar a year," said letitia, promptly, and i laid the bill upon the desk. hiram ptolemy touched it gingerly, fumbled it, dropped it by his chair, and, still preserving his embarrassed silence, fished it up again from the cluttered floor. ten minutes later, when we said farewell to him, he still held it in his hand. "what was the matter with him?" i asked letitia, as we drove away, glancing back at that odd and shamefaced figure standing wistfully in the doorway. "the other subscriber," she replied. "didn't you guess?" "what!" i said. "you, letitia?" she smiled sadly. "poor little man!" vii suzanne it was evening when we set out, not without trepidation, to find peggy neal. we had dined--over-dined--in a room of gilt and mirrors and shining silver, watching the other tables with their smiling groups or puzzling pairs; some so ill-assorted that we strove vainly to solve their mystery, others so oddly mannered for a public place, we thought--the men so brazen in their attentions, the women so prinked and absurdly gowned and unabashed, letitia at first was not quite sure we were rightly there. "still," she said, "there _are_ nice people here--why, even children!" "the place is famous," i protested. "i suppose it must be respectable," she replied, "but i never saw such a _mixture_!" she gazed wonderingly about her. "i suppose it must be new york," she said. it was half-past eight when we entered the street again. we drove at once to the number mrs. neal had given, riding silently and a little nervously, but still marvelling at the scene we had left behind us, a strange setting for two such elder village-folk as we, making us wonder if we had missed much or little by living our lives so greenly and far away. "i hope she will be at home," said letitia. "every one seemed to be going to the theatre." "for my part," i confessed, "i rather hope we shall not find her." "but why, bertram?" i could not say. the cab stopped. there were lights in the house, and, leaving letitia, i went up the steps and pulled the bell. the household was at home, apparently, for i heard voices and the music of a piano as i stood waiting at the door. it was one of the older streets, ill-lighted and lined monotonously by those red-brick fronts so fashionable in a former day. the door was opened by a colored maid, and there was a gush of laughter and the voices of men and women, with the tinkling undercurrent of a waltz. "is miss neal at home?" i asked. "miss who?" "miss neal." "miss neal?" "miss peggy neal." she hesitated. "i'll see," she said. "will you come in, suh?" "no," i replied. "i'll wait out here." she returned presently. "did you say miss peggy neal, suh?" "yes," i replied, "miss peggy neal." "don't any such lady live heah, suh." "strange," i murmured, and was about to turn away when a woman clad in a floating light-blue robe, her face indefinite in the dimly illumined hallway, but apparently young and pretty, or even beautiful, perhaps, and with an amazing quantity of golden hair, slipped through the portières and pushed aside the maid. "i am peggy neal," she said, in a low voice. "what is wanted?" "you!" i gasped, but letitia had left the carriage and was at my shoulder. "peggy!" she said. "miss primrose! and this is--dr. weatherby!" "dear peggy," letitia murmured, kissing the astonished girl on both powdered cheeks. "but how you've changed! you're so pale, peggy--and your eyes--and your hair--peggy, what _have_ you done to your hair?" "yes, my hair," murmured peggy. "why, it used to be jet," letitia said. "but you don't ask us in, my dear--and here we've come all the long way from grassy ford to see you." "hush!" said peggy, and letitia paused, for the first time noting the voices in the inner rooms. "oh," she whispered, "i see: you have a party." "yes," peggy answered. "we--we have a party." "i think we should go, letitia," i interposed, but she did not hear me. "i can't get over your hair," she murmured, holding peggy at arm's-length from her and then turning her head a little to look about her. "do they smoke at your parties?" she asked. "oh yes," laughed peggy, "all the men smoke, you know." "but i thought," said letitia, "i saw a woman with a cigarette." "it may have been a--candy cigarette," peggy answered. "that's true," said letitia, "for i've seen them at marvin's in grassy ford." the portières before which peggy stood, one hand grasping them, parted suddenly behind her head, and the face of another girl was thrust out rudely behind her own and staring into mine. it was a rouged and powdered face, with hard-set eyes that did not flinch as she gazed mockingly upon me, crying in a voice that filled the hall with its harsh discords: "aha! which one to-night, suzanne?" then she saw letitia, and with a smothered oath, withdrew laughingly. the music and talking ceased within. it was not in the room behind the curtains, but seemingly just beyond it, and i could hear her there relating her discovery as i supposed, though the words were indistinct. "how i hate that girl!" hissed peggy, her eyes black with anger. "then i wouldn't have her, my dear," said letitia, soothingly. "i should not invite her." there was a burst of laughter within, followed by subdued voices, and i heard footsteps stealthily approaching. peggy heard them too, no doubt, though she was answering letitia's questions, for she grasped the curtains more tightly than before, one hand behind her and the other above her head. as she did so the loose sleeves of her robe slipped down her arm, disclosing a spot upon its whiteness. "peggy, dear," letitia said, anxiously, "you have hurt yourself." "yes," was the answer, "i know. it's a bruise." it was a heart, tattooed. she hid it in her hair. "we must go, letitia," i urged. "we must not keep peggy from her friends." "yes," she assented. "but i had so much to ask you, peggy, and so much to tell." the curtains parted again, this time far above peggy's head, and i saw a man's eyes peering through. she appeared to be disengaging the flounces about her slippered feet, but i saw her strike back savagely with her little heel, and he disappeared. but other faces came, one by one, though letitia did not see them. her eyes were all for her darling peggy whom she plied with questions. how had her health been? how did she like new york? did she never yearn for little old grassy ford again? was she quite happy? "yes," peggy murmured, "quite; quite happy." she spoke in a hurried, staccato voice, in an odd, cold monotone. there was no kindness in her eyes. the door-bell rang, and we stepped aside as the maid answered it. two young men swaggered in, flushed and garrulous, nodding, not more familiarly to the servant than to peggy herself, who parted the curtains to let them pass. they gazed curiously at her guests. "why, they kept on their hats!" letitia said, in a shocked undertone. "is it customary here, peggy?" "everything," was the bitter answer, "is customary here. how is my mother?" "it was your mother, peggy, who asked me to find you." letitia spoke, gently. "she wants to see you. she is not very strong since your father's--" she paused. "is my father dead?" "didn't you know?" "no; but i thought as much; he was such a boozer." letitia stared. "peggy!" she said. "oh, i know what you think," the girl replied, wearily, seating herself upon the stairs, and putting her chin upon her hands. she did not ask us to be seated. "letitia," i said, firmly, "come; we must go." i put my hand upon the door-knob. "doctor," said peggy neal, rising again, "you won't mind waiting outside a moment? i have something to say to dear miss primrose." "certainly," i replied. "good-bye, miss--neal." she gave her hand to me. "good-bye, doctor." then she looked me strangely in the eyes, saying, in an undertone, "mind, i shall tell her nothing"--and paused significantly, adding in a clearer tone again--"but the truth." i waited anxiously upon the steps. five minutes passed--ten--twenty--thirty--and i grew impatient. then the door opened, and letitia appeared with peggy, and radiant though in tears. "good-bye," she said, kissing her, "dear, _dear_ peggy. oh, bertram, i have heard such a wonderful story!" "indeed?" "yes," peggy said from the doorway, "miss primrose is the same enthusiast she used to be when i went to school to her." "it is like a novel," declared letitia; "but we must go. you must forgive me for keeping you so long away--from your newer friends." "it is nothing," was the answer. "i'm so glad you came." "remember your promise, peggy!" "oh yes--my promise," peggy murmured. "good-bye, miss primrose. good-bye, doctor. good-bye. good-bye." the carriage-door had scarcely closed upon us when letitia seized my arm. "bertram," she said, "it _is_ a story! i thought it was only in books that such things happened. i would not have missed this visit for the world!" "but," i said, "do you trust--" "trust her? yes. a woman never cries like that when she's lying, bertram. listen: she came to new york from grassy ford. he was nowhere to be found. he had given her a false address. then a little girl was born--dead. oh, you can't imagine what that child's been through, bertram--the disgrace, the sorrow, the rags and poverty, hunger even--and only think how _we_ were eating and sleeping soundly in grassy ford, all that time she was starving here! then temptations came in this miserable, this wicked, wicked place! oh, how can man--well--she did not dare to come home, but stayed on here. it was then she took the name suzanne, to hide her real one. twice--twice, bertram--she went down to the river--" letitia's voice was breaking. "oh, i can't tell you all she told me. but just when it all seemed darkest, she met this good, kind woman with whom she lives." "what!" i said. "did she tell you that?" "bertram, that woman saved her!--saved her from worse than death--took her from the very street--clothed her, fed her, and nursed her to health again. did you see her dress? it was finest silk and lace. did you see the rings on her fingers? one was a diamond, bertram, as large as the pearl you wear; one was an opal, set in pearls; another, a ruby--and she told me she had a dozen more up-stairs." "who is this woman?" "she did not tell me. i forgot to ask." "what was the promise she made you?" "to visit us--to come next summer to grassy ford." "_us_, letitia?" "yes; i made her promise it. she refused at first, but i told her there were hearts as loving in grassy ford as in new york--oh, i hope there are, bertram; i hope there are! she will go first to the farm, of course, to see her mother, and then, before she comes back to this new mother, who makes me burn, bertram, when i ask myself if any woman in grassy ford would have done as much--then she will visit us. it will mean so much to her. it will set that poor, spoiled life right again before our petty, little, self-righteous world. oh, i shall _make_ them receive her, bertram! i shall make them _take her in their arms_!" she paused breathlessly, but i was silent. "i thought you wouldn't mind," she said. still i could not speak. "tell me," she urged, "did i presume too much? was i wrong to ask her without consulting you?" "no," i answered--but not through kindness as letitia thought, let me confess it; not through having the tenderest man's heart in the world, as she said, gratefully, but because i knew--how, she will always wonder--that peggy would never come. viii in a devon lane i have never seen an english lane, but i have a picture of one above the fireplace, and i once smelled hawthorn blooming. a pleasant, hedgerow scent, it seemed to me, with a faint suggestion of primroses on the other side--i say primroses, but letitia smiles when i declare i can smell them still, or laughs with robin: they have been in england. "are you quite sure about it, bertram?" "they do have primroses," i reply, defiantly. "but are you sure they are primroses?" she demands. "smell again, father!" cries my son. "yes," i retort; "or violets; they may be violets beyond the hedge." it is then they laugh at me, and they make a great point of their puzzling questions: am i certain--for example, that the primrose is fragrant enough to be smelled so far, and is it in flower when the hawthorn blooms? that is important, they insist. it is not important, i reply--in _my_ england. "_your_ england!" they cry. "to be sure," i say. "in my england--and i see it as plainly as you do yours--the hawthorn and primrose is always flowering. in my england it is always spring." it is summer in theirs. it is always cool and fragrant and wholly charming in my devonshire. it was rather hot when they got to theirs--that is, the sunny coast of it they brag of was a little trying, sometimes, i suspect, in midsummer, though neither will confess. "but not the moors!" they say. "oh, well--the moors--no; i should think not," i answer. "i am not such a fool as to think that moors are hot." "how cool _are_ the moors?" they then inquire, innocently, but i see the trick; i hear the plot in their very voices, and am wary. "oh," i reply, "as cool as usual." "but there are dense forests on the moors," robin suggests. "regular jungles--eh, father?" i am not to be taken without a struggle. "hm," i reply. "hm--what, father?" "well, i prefer the coast myself." "the dear white coast," says letitia, slyly. "the dear _red_ coast!" i cry in triumph, but they only sigh: "ah, it was a wonderful, wonderful journey! one could never imagine it--or even tell it. one must have been there." it was a wonderful journey, i then admit, and i do not blame them for their pridefulness, but what, i ask, would they have done without my map? i am bound by honesty to confess, however, that fair as my devon is with the vales and moorlands i have never seen, letitia's devon must be fairer. she found it lovelier far than she had thought, she tells me, and she smiles so happily at the mere sound of its magic name--what, i ask, must a shire be made of to stand the test of that woman's dreams? "here we have hills," i tell her. "but not those hills, bertram." "have we not sun dial?" i protest. "yes, we have sun dial," she admits. "we have winds," i say, "and singing waters, in grassy fordshire." she shakes her head. "you never heard the dart or tamar or the tavy. you never stood on the abbey bridge." "and where," i ask, "was that?" "that was at tavistock," she replies, "at dear little tavistock after a rain, with the brown water rushing through the arches where the moss and fern and ivy clings--rushing over bowlders and swirling and foaming and falling beyond over a weir; then racing away under elm-trees and out into meadows--oh, you never heard the tavy, bertram." "we have troublesome," i insist. "yes," she replies, but her mind is absent. "we have troublesome, to be sure." then i rouse myself. i fairly menace her with her treason. "surely," i cry, "you do not prefer old devon to grassy fordshire!" it is a question she never answers. "grassy fordshire is your native heath," i remind her, jealously. "devon was my father's," she replies, "and mother's, too." "still," i insist, "you do not prefer it to your own?" "it is beautiful," is her answer. had ever man so exasperating an antagonist? she declines utterly to be convinced; she talks of nothing but that ruddy land as if it always had been hers to boast of, is forever telling of ancient villages cuddled down in the softest corners of its hills and headlands to doze and dream in the english cloud-shadows and the sun--some of them lulled, she says, by the moorland music of winds among the granite tors, and waters falling down, down through those pastoral valleys to the sea; some lapped by the salt waves rippling into coves blue and tranquil as the sky above them, and others still in a sterner setting, clinging to edges in the very clefts of a wild and rugged coast, like weed and sea-shells left there by the fury of the autumn storms. so, she tells me, her devon is; so i picture it as we sit together by the winter fire, while for the thousandth time she tells her story: how she and robin, with my map between them, made that long journey which, years before it, the gypsy had found forewritten in her hand. it was the very pilgrimage that as a boy i planned and promised for myself when i should come to be a man, but have found no time for--yet my son has seen it, that land of the youth whose name he bears, so that, listening, i take his glowing word, as i took that of the youth before him, for its moorland heather and its flashing streams. robin, it seems, preferred north devon--lynton and lynmouth and their crags and glens. letitia, i note, while yet agreeing with his wildest adjectives, leans rather towards the south. "but think," he says, "of watersmeet and the valley of rocks, aunt letty!" "i do think of them," she answers, "but think of dartmoor, my dear." "and so i do," is his reply. "that day the wind blew so," she calls to mind, "that morning when we rode to tavistock." "tavistock?" i always ask. "tavistock? where have i heard that name? do all devonshire roads lead up to tavistock?" she only smiles. "you should see tavistock," she says, and resumes her memories. i sit quite helpless between the combatants. they differ widely, one might think, to hear their voices rising and falling in warm debate, yet listening to their words i detect nothing but a rivalry of praise, an effort on the part of each to outdo the other, as i tell them, in pæans and benisons on what i am led inevitably to believe is the fairest of earthly dwelling-places. when robin withdraws his youthful vigor and goes off to bed, or if he is away at school, from which he writes such letters as i wish dove could but see, the talk is tranquil by our hearth, or little by little drops quite away. "such lands breed men," observes letitia for the hundredth time. it is her old, loved theory, the worth and grace of a rare environment, of which she speaks, sewing in the fire-light. "the race must be hardy to wring its living from such shores and heights." "true," i answer, thinking of the wreckers and smugglers who haunted those creeks and coves in years gone by--more lawless summers than the quiet one which found a woman on the very sands their heels had furrowed, or choosing flowers to press on the very cliffs they climbed with their spray-wet booty. i think vaguely of the soldiers and sailors who fought the battles whose dates and meanings it was letitia's joy to teach in the red-brick school-house. i think more vividly of great john ridd and amyas leigh, and then--a clearer vision--i remember that other, that later devonshire lad who was flesh and blood to me; and sitting here by my grassy fordshire fire, a man grown gray who was once a boy eating the slice two lovers spread for him, i keep their covenant. you go up from plymouth, letitia tells me, and by-and-by you are on the moors, marvelling; and you like everything, but you love tavistock. it is in a valley, with the tavy running beneath that bridge of which she is forever dreaming, for, as she stood there watching the waters playing, and listening to their song, she said: "here robert saxeholm was a boy. how often he must have stood here!" "robin saxeholm?" asked a clear voice almost at her side; and letitia turned. a pretty english lady stood there smiling and offering her hand. "yes," said letitia, "did you know him, too?" the lady smiled--a sad little smile it was. she was in black. "he was my husband," she replied, "and this"--turning to the blue-eyed, fair-haired girl beside her "is letitia saxeholm." "why," my robin cried--"why, that's--" letitia primrose stopped him with a glance, and turning swiftly to that little english maid-- "_letitia?_" she said, taking those pink cheeks gently between her hands, and kissing them wellnigh with every word she uttered. "letitia--what a sweet--sweet name!" * * * * * transcriber's note: there were a few unnecessary quotation marks within the text that have been removed. the spelling of two words has been changed: apent is now spent and valeys is now valleys. the oe ligature has been expanded. =books by arlo bates.= the diary of a saint. crown vo, $ . . love in a cloud. a novel. crown vo, $ . . the puritans. a novel. crown vo, $ . . the philistines. a novel. mo, $ . . the pagans. a novel. mo, $ . . patty's perversities. a novel. mo, $ . ; paper, cents. prince vance. the story of a prince with a court in his box. by arlo bates and eleanor putnam. crown vo, $ . . a lad's love. mo, $ . . under the beech-tree. poems. crown vo, $ . . talks on writing english. first series. crown vo, $ . . talks on writing english. second series. crown vo, $ . , _net_. talks on the study of literature. crown vo, $ . . houghton, mifflin & co. boston and new york. the diary of a saint by arlo bates for many saints have lived and died, be sure, yet known no name for god. faith's tragedy. [illustration] boston and new york houghton, mifflin and company the riverside press, cambridge copyright by arlo bates all rights reserved _published september, _ contents chap. page i. january ii. february iii. march iv. april v. may vi. june vii. july viii. august ix. september x. october xi. november xii. december the diary of a saint i january january . how beautiful the world is! i might go on to say, and how commonplace this seems written down in a diary; but it is the thing i have been thinking. i have been standing ever so long at the window, and now that the curtains are shut i can see everything still. the moon is shining over the wide white sheets of snow, and the low meadows look far off and enchanted. the outline of the hills is clear against the sky, and the cedars on the lawn are almost green against the whiteness of the ground and the deep, blue-black sky. it is all so lovely that it somehow makes one feel happy and humble both at once. it is a beautiful world, indeed, and yet last night-- but last night was another year, and the new begins in a better mood. i have shaken off the idiotic mawkishness of last night, and am more like what father used to tell me to be when i was a mite of a girl: "a cheerful ruth privet, as right as a trivet." though to be sure i do not know what being as right as a trivet is, any more than i did then. last night, it is true, there were alleviating circumstances that might have been urged. for a week it had been drizzly, unseasonable weather that took all the snap out of a body's mental fibre; mother had had one of her bad days, when the pain seemed too dreadful to bear, patient angel that she is; kathie thurston had been in one of her most despairing fits; and the old year looked so dreary behind, the new year loomed so hopeless before, that there was some excuse for a girl who was tired to the bone with watching and worry if she did not feel exactly cheerful. i cannot allow, though, that it justified her in crying like a watering-pot, and smudging the pages of her diary until the whole thing was blurred like a composition written with tears in a primary school. i certainly cannot let this sort of thing happen again, and i am thoroughly ashamed that it happened once. i will remember that the last day father lived he said he could trust me to be brave both for mother and myself; and that i promised,--i promised. so last night may go, and be forgotten as soon as i can manage to forget it. to-night things are different. there has been a beautiful snow-fall, and the air is so crisp that when i went for a walk at sunset it seemed impossible ever to be sentimentally weak-kneed again; mother is wonderfully comfortable; and the new year began with a letter to say that george will be at home to-morrow. mother is asleep like a child, the fire is in the best of spirits, and does the purring for itself and for peter, who is napping with content expressed by every hair to the tip of his fluffy white tail. even hannah is singing in the kitchen a hymn that she thinks is cheerful, about "sa-a-a-acred, high, e-ter-er-er-nal noon." it is evident that there is every opportunity to take a fresh start, and to conduct myself in the coming year with more self-respect. so much for new year resolutions. i do not remember that i ever made one before; and very likely i shall never make one again. now i must decide something about kathie. i tried to talk with mother about her, but mother got so excited that i saw it would not do, and felt i must work the problem out with pen and paper as if it were a sum in arithmetic. it is not my business to attend to the theological education of the minister's daughter, especially as it is the methodist minister's daughter, and he, with his whole congregation, thinks it rather doubtful whether it is not sinful for kathie even to know so dangerous an unbeliever. i sometimes doubt whether my good neighbors in tuskamuck would regard tom paine himself, who, father used to say, lingers as the arch-heretic for all rural new england, with greater theological horror than they do me. it is fortunate that they do not dislike me personally, and they all loved father in spite of his heresies. in this case i am not clear, on the other hand, that it is my duty to stand passive and see, without at least protesting, a sensitive, imaginative, delicate child driven to despair by the misery and terror of a creed. if kathie had not come to me it would be different; but she has come. time after time this poor little, precocious, morbid creature has run to me in such terror of hell-fire that i verily feared she would end by going frantic. ten years old, and desperate with conviction of original sin; and this so near the end of the nineteenth century, so-called of grace! thus far i have contented myself with taking her into my arms, and just loving her into calmness; but she is getting beyond that. she is finding being petted so delightful that she is sure it must be a sin. she is like what i can fancy the most imaginative of the puritan grandmothers to have been in their passionate childhood, in the days when the only recognized office of the imagination was to picture the terrors of hell. i so long for father. if he were alive to talk to her, he could say the right word, and settle things. the bible is very touching in its phrase, "as one whom his mother comforteth," but to me "whom his father comforteth" would have seemed to go even deeper; but then, there is kathie's father, whose tenderness is killing her. i don't in the least doubt that he suffers as much as she does; but he loves her too much to risk damage to what he calls "her immortal soul." there is always a ring of triumph in his voice when he pronounces the phrase, as if he already were a disembodied spirit dilating in eternal and infinite glory. there is something finely noble in such a superstition. all this, however, does not bring me nearer to the end of my sum, for the answer of that ought to be what i shall do with kathie. it would never do to push her into a struggle with the creeds, or to set her to arguing out the impossibility of her theology. she is too young and too morbid, and would end by supposing that in reasoning at all on the matter she had committed the unpardonable sin. her father would not let her read stories unless they were sunday-school books. perhaps she might be allowed some of the more entertaining volumes of history; but she is too young for most of them. she should be reading about red riding-hood, and the white cat, and the whole company of dear creatures immortal in fairy stories. i will look in the library, and see what there may be that would pass the conscientiously searching ordeal of her father's eye. if she can be given anything which will take her mind off of her spiritual condition for a while, that is all that may be done at present. i'll hunt up my old skates for her, too. a little more exercise in the open air will do a good deal for her humanly, and perhaps blow away some of the theology. * * * * * later. hannah has been in to make her annual attack on my soul. i had almost forgotten her yearly missionary effort, so that when she appeared i said with the utmost cheerfulness and unconcern, "what is it, hannah?" supposing that she wanted to know something about breakfast. i could see by the instant change in her expression that she regarded this as deliberate levity. she was so full of what she had come to say that it could not occur to her that i did not perceive it too. dear old hannah! her face has always so droll an expression of mingled shyness and determination when, as she once said, she clears her skirts of blood-guiltiness concerning me. she stands in the doorway twisting her apron, and her formula is always the same:-- "miss ruth, i thought i'd take the liberty to say a word to you on this new year's day." "yes, hannah," i always respond, as if we had rehearsed the dialogue. "what is it?" "it's another year, miss ruth, and your peace not made with god." to me there is something touching in the fidelity with which she clings to the self-imposed performance of this evidently painful duty. she is distressfully shy about it,--she who is never shy about anything else in the world, so far as i can see. she feels that it is a "cross for her to bear," as she told me once, and i honor her for not shirking it. she thinks i regard it far more than i do. she judges my discomfort by her own, whereas in truth i am only uncomfortable for her. i never could understand why people are generally so afraid to speak of religious things, or why they dislike so to be spoken to about them. i mind hannah's talking about my soul no more than i should mind her talking about my nose or my fingers; indeed, the little flavor of personality which would make that unpleasant is lacking when it comes to discussion about intangible things like the spirit, and so on the whole i mind the soul-talk less. i suppose really the shyness is part of the general reticence all we new englanders have that makes it so hard to speak of anything which is deeply felt. father used to say, i remember, that it was because folk usually have a great deal of sentiment about religion and very few ideas, and thus the difficulty of bringing their expression up to their feelings necessarily embarrasses them. i assured hannah i appreciated all her interest in my welfare, and that i would try to live as good a life during the coming year as i could; and then she withdrew with the audible sigh of relief that the heavy duty was done with for another twelvemonth. she assured me she should still pray for me, and if i do not suppose that there is any great efficacy in her petition, i am at least glad that she should feel like doing her best in my behalf. mother declares that she is always offended when a person offers to pray for her. she looks at it as dreadfully condescending and patronizing, as if the petitioner had an intimate personal hold upon the almighty, and was willing to exert his influence in your behalf. but i hardly think she means it. she never fails to see when a thing is kindly meant, even if she has a keen sense of the ludicrous. at any rate, it does us no harm that kindly petitions are offered for us, even if they may go out into an unregarding void; and i am not sure that they do. january . kathie is delighted with the skates, and she does not think that her father will object to her having them; so there is at least one point gained. we have had such a lovely sunset! i do not see how there can be a doubter in a world where there are so many beautiful things. the whole west, through the leafless branches of the elms on the south lawn, was one gorgeous mass of splendid color. i hope george saw it. it is almost time for him to be here, and i have caught myself humming over and over his favorite tunes as i waited. mother has had a day of uneasiness, so that i could not leave her much, but rubbing her side for an hour or two relieved her. it has cramped my fingers a little, so that i write a funny, stiff hand. poor mother! it made me ashamed to be so glad in my heart as i saw how brave and quiet she was, with the lines of pain round her dear mouth. * * * * * later. "how long is it that we have been engaged?" that is what george asked me, and out of all the long talk we had this evening this is the one thing which i keep hearing over and over. why should it tease me so? it is certainly a simple question, and when two persons have been engaged six years there need no longer be any false sensitiveness about things of this sort. about what sort? do i mean that the time has come when george would not mind hurting my feelings? it may as well come out. as father used to say: "you cannot balance the books until the account is set down in full." well, then, i mean that there is a frankness about a long engagement which may not be in a short one, so that when george and i meet after a separation it is natural that almost the first question should be,-- "how long is it that we have been engaged?" the question is certainly an innocent one,--although one would think george might have answered it himself. how much did the fact that he talked afterward so eagerly about the miss west he met while at his aunt's, and of how pretty she is, have to do with the pain which the question gave me? at my age one might think that i was beyond the jealousies of a school-girl. we have been engaged six years and four months and five days. it is not half the time that jacob served for rachel, although it is almost the time he bowed his neck to the yoke for leah, and i am afraid lest i am nearer to being like the latter than the former. i always pitied leah, for she must have understood she had not her husband's love; any woman would perceive that. six years--and life is so short! poor george, it has not been easy for him! he has not even been able to wish that the obstacle between us was removed, since that obstacle is mother. surely she is my first duty; and since she needs me day and night, i cannot divide my life; but i do pity george. he is wearing out his youth with that old frump of a housekeeper, who makes him uncomfortable with an ingenuity that seems to show intellectual force not to be suspected from anything else. but she is a faithful old soul, and it is not kind to abuse her. "how long is it that we have been engaged?" i have a tendency to keep on writing that over and over all down the page as if this were the copy-book of a child at school. how tom used to admire my writing-books in our school-days! his were always smudged and blotted. he is too big-souled and manly to niggle over little things; and he laughed at the pains i took, turning every corner with absurd care. he was so strong and splendid on the ice when we went skating over on getchell's pond; and how often and often he has drawn me all the way home on my sled! but all that was ages and ages ago, and long before i even knew george. it never occurred to me until to-night, but i am really growing old. the birthdays that tom remembered, and on which he sent me little bunches of mayflowers, have not in the least troubled me or seemed too many. i have not thought much of birthdays of late years, but to-night i realize that i am twenty-nine, and that george has asked me,-- "how long is it that we have been engaged?" january . sackcloth and ashes have been my portion for days, and if i could by tearing from my diary the last leaves blot out of remembrance the foolish things i have written, it would be quickly done. my new year's resolutions were even less lasting than are those in the jokes of the comic papers; and i am ashamed all through and through. i have tried to reason myself into something resembling common sense, but i am much afraid i have not yet entirely accomplished it. i have said to myself over and over that it would be the best thing for george if he did fall in love with that girl he saw at franklin, and go his way without wasting more time waiting for me. he has wasted years enough, and it is time for him to be happy. but then--has he not been happy? or is it that i have been so happy myself i have not realized how the long engagement was wearying him? he must have wearied, or he could never have asked me-- no, i will not write it! january . george came over last night, and was so loving and tender that i was thoroughly ashamed of all the wicked suspicions i have had. after all, what was there to suspect? i almost confessed to him what a miserable little doubter i had been; but i knew that confession would only be relieving my soul at the expense of making him uncomfortable. i hated to have him think me better than i am; but this, i suppose, is part of the penalty i ought to pay for having been so weak. besides,--probably it was only my weakness in another form, the petty jealousy of a small soul and a morbid fancy,--he seemed somehow more remote than i have ever known him, and i could not have told him if i would. we did not seem to be entirely frank with each other, but as if each were trying to make the other feel at ease when it was not really possible. of course i was only attributing my own feelings to him, for he was dearly good. he told me more about his visit to franklin, and he seems to have seen miss west a good deal. she is a sort of cousin of the watsons, he says, and so they had a common ground. when she found that he lived so near to the watsons she asked him all kinds of questions. she has never seen them, having lived in the west most of her life, and was naturally much interested in hearing about her relatives. i found myself leading him on to talk of her. i cannot see why i should care about this stranger. generally i deal very little in gossip. father trained me to be interested in real things, and meaningless details about people never attracted me. yet this girl sticks in my mind, and i am tormented to know all about her. it cannot be anything he said; though he did say that she is very pretty. perhaps it was the way in which he said it. he seemed to my sick fancy to like to talk of her. she must be a charming creature. january . why should he not like to talk of a pretty girl? i hope i am not of the women who cannot bear to have a man use his eyes except to see their graces. it is pitiful to be so small and mean. i certainly want george to admire goodness and beauty, and to be by his very affection for me the more sensitive to whatever is admirable in others. if i am to be worthy of being his wife, i must be noble enough to be glad at whatever there is for him to rejoice in because of its loveliness: and yet as i write down all these fine sentiments i feel my heart like lead! oh, i am so ashamed of myself! january . miss charlotte came in this afternoon, looking so thin, and cold, and tall, that i have been rather sober ever since. "i wish i had on shoes with higher heels," i said to her as we shook hands; "then perhaps i shouldn't feel so insignificant down here." she looked down at me, laughing that rich, throaty laugh of hers. "mother always used to say she knew the kendalls couldn't have been drowned in the flood," she answered, "for they must all have been tall enough to wade to mt. ararat." "you know the genealogy so far back that you must be able to tell whether she was right." "i don't go quite so far as that," she said, sitting down by the fire, "but i know that my great-great-grandfather married a privet, so that i always considered judge privet a cousin." "if father was a cousin, i must be one too," said i. "you are the same relation to me on one side," miss charlotte went on, "that deacon webbe is on the other. it's about fortieth cousin, you see, so that i can count it or not, as i please." "i am flattered that you choose to count us in," i told her, smiling; "and i am sure also you must be willing to count in anybody so good as deacon webbe." "yes, deacon webbe is worth holding on to, though he's so weak that he'd let the shadow of a mosquito bully him. the answer to the question in the new england primer, 'who is the meekest man?' ought to be 'deacon webbe.' he used up all the meekness there was in the whole family, though." "i confess that i never heard mrs. webbe called meek," i assented. "meek!" sniffed miss charlotte; "i should think not. a wasp is a sunday-school picnic beside her. while as for tom"-- she pursed up her lips with an expression of disapproval so very marked i was afraid at once that tom webbe must have been doing something dreadful again, and my heart sank for his father. "but tom has been doing better," i said. "this winter he"-- "this winter!" she exclaimed. "why, just now he is worse than ever." "oh, dear," i asked, "what is it now? his father has been so unhappy about him." "if he'd made tom unhappy it would have been more to the purpose. tom's making himself the town talk with that brownrig girl." "what brownrig girl?" "don't you know about the brownrigs that live in that little red house on the rim road?" "i know the red house, and now that you say the name, i remember i have heard that such a family have moved in there. where did they come from?" "oh, where do such trash come from ever?" demanded miss charlotte. "i'm afraid nobody but the old nick could tell you. they're a set of drunken, disreputable vagabonds, that turned up here last year. they were probably driven out of some town or other. tom's been"-- but i did not wish to hear of tom's misdeeds, and i said so. miss charlotte laughed, as usual. "you never take any interest in wickedness, ruth," she said good-naturedly. "that's about the only fault i have to find with you." poor deacon webbe! tom has made him miserable indeed in these years since he came from college. the bitterness of seeing one we love go wrong must be unbearable, and when we believe that the consequences of wrong are to be eternal--i should go mad if i believed in such a creed. i would try to train myself to hate instead of to love; or, if i could not do this--but i could not believe anything so horrible, so that i need not speculate. deacon daniel is a saint, though of course he does not dream of such a thing. a saint would not be a saint, i suppose, who was aware of his beatitude, and the deacon's meekness is one of his most marked attributes of sanctity. i wonder whether, in the development of the race, saintliness will ever come to be compatible with a sense of humor. a saint with that persuasively human quality would be a wonderfully compelling power for good. deacon daniel is a fine influence by his goodness, but he somehow enhances the desirability of virtue in the abstract rather than brings home personally the idea that his example is to be followed; and all because he is so hopelessly without a perception of the humorous side of existence. but why do i go on writing this, when the thought uppermost in my mind is the grief he will have if tom has started again on one of his wild times. i do hope that miss charlotte is mistaken! so small a thing will sometimes set folk to talking, especially about tom, who is at heart so good, though he has been wild enough to get a bad name. january . things work out strangely in this world; so that it is no wonder all sorts of fanciful beliefs are made out of them. there could hardly be a web more closely woven than human life. to-day, when i had not seen tom for months, and when the gossip of last night made me want to talk with him, chance brought us face to face. mother was so comfortable that i went out for an hour. the day was delightful, cold enough so that the walking was dry and the snow firm, but the air not sharp to the cheek. the sun was warm and cheery, and the shadows on the white fields had a lovely softness. i went on in a sort of dream, it was so good to be alive and out of doors in such wonderful weather. i turned to go down the rim road, and it was not until i came in sight of the red house that i remembered what miss charlotte said last night. then i began to think about tom. tom and i have always been such good friends. i used to understand tom better in the old school-days than the others did, and he was always ready to tell me what he thought and felt. nowadays i hardly ever see him. since i became engaged he has almost never come to the house, though he used to be here so much. i meet him only once or twice a year, and then i think he tries to avoid me. i am so sorry to have an old friendship broken off like that. the red house made me think of tom with a sore heart, of all the talk his wild ways have caused, the sorrow of his father, and the good that is being lost when a fellow with a heart so big as tom's goes wrong. suddenly tom himself appeared before my very eyes, as if my thought had conjured him up. he came so unexpectedly that at first i could hardly realize how he came. then it flashed across me that he must have walked round the red house. i suppose he must have come out of a back door somewhere, like one of the family; such folk never use their front doors. he walked along the road toward me, at first so preoccupied that he did not recognize me. when he saw my face, he half hesitated, as if he had almost a mind to turn back, and his whole face turned red. he came on, however, and was going past me with a scant salutation, when i stopped him. i stood still and put out my hand, so that he could not go by without speaking. "good-afternoon, tom," i said. "isn't it a glorious day?" he looked about him with a strange air as if he had not noticed, and i saw how heavy and weary his eyes were. "yes," he answered, "it is a fine day." "where do you keep yourself, tom?" i went on, hardly knowing what i said, but trying to think what it was best to say. "i never see you, and we used to be such good friends." he looked away, and moved his lips as if he muttered something; but when i asked what he said, he turned to me defiantly. "look here, ruth, what's the good of pretending? you know i don't go to see you because you're engaged to george weston. you chose between us, and there's the end of that. what's more, you know that nowadays i'm not fit to go to see anybody that's decent." "then it is time that you were," was my answer. "let me walk along with you. i want to say something." i turned, and we walked together toward the village. i could see that his face hardened. "it's no sort of use to preach to me, ruth," he said, "though your preaching powers are pretty good. i've had so much preaching in my life that i'm not to be rounded up by piety." i smiled as well as i could, though it made me want to cry to hear the hard bravado of his tone. "i'm not generally credited with overmuch piety, tom. the whole town thinks all the privets heathen, you know." "humph! it's a pity there weren't a few more of 'em." i laughed, and thanked him for the compliment, and then we went on in silence for a little way. i had to ignore what he said about george, but it did not make it easier to begin. i was puzzled what to say, but the time was short that we should be walking together, and i had to do something. "tom," i began, "you may not be very sensitive about old friendships, but i am loyal; and it hurts me that those i care for should be talked against." "oh, in a place like tuskamuck," he returned, at once, i could see, on the defensive, "they'll talk about anybody." "will they? then i suppose they talk about me. i'm sorry, tom, for it must make you uncomfortable to hear it; unless, that is, you don't count me for a friend any longer." he threw back his head in the way he has always had. i used to tell him it was like a colt's shaking back its mane. "what nonsense! of course they don't talk about you. you don't give folks any chance." "and you do," i added as quietly as i could. he looked angry for just the briefest instant, and then he burst into a hard laugh. "caught, by jupiter! ruth, you were always too clever for me to deal with. well, then, i do give the gossips plenty to talk about. they would talk just the same if i didn't, so i may as well have the game as the name." "does that mean that your life is regulated by the gossips? i supposed that you had more independence, tom." he flushed, and stooped down to pick up a stick. with this he began viciously to strike the bushes by the roadside and the dry stalks of yarrow sticking up through the snow. he set his lips together with a grim determination which brought out in his face the look i like least, the resemblance to his mother when she means to carry a point. "look here, ruth," he said after a moment; "i'm not going to talk to you about myself or my doings. i'm a blackguard fast enough; but there's no good talking about it. if you'd cared enough about me to keep me straight, you could have done it; but now i'm on my way to the devil, and no great way to travel before i get there either." we had come to the turn of the rim road where the trees shut off the view of the houses of the village. i stopped and put my hand on his arm. "tom," i begged him, "don't talk like that. you don't know how it hurts. you don't mean it; you can't mean it. nobody but yourself can send you on the wrong road; and i know you're too plucky to hide behind any such excuse. for the sake of your father, tom, do stop and think what you are doing." "oh, father'll console himself very well with prayers; and anyway he'll thank god for sending me to perdition, because if god does it, it must be all right." "don't, tom! you know how he suffers at the way you go on. it must be terrible to have an only son, and to see him flinging his life away." "it isn't my fault that i'm his son, is it?" he demanded. "i've been dragged into this infernal life without being asked whether i wanted to come or not; and now i'm here, i can't have what i want, and i'm promised eternal damnation hereafter. well, then, i'll show god or the devil, or whoever bosses things, that i can't be bullied into a molly-coddle!" the sound of wheels interrupted us, and we instinctively began to walk onward in the most commonplace fashion. a farmer's wagon came along, and by the time it had passed we had come to the head of the rim road, in full sight of the houses. tom waited until i turned to the right, toward home, and then he said,-- "i'm going the other way. it's no use, ruth, to talk to me; but i'm obliged to you for caring." i cannot see that i did any good, and very likely i have simply made him more on his guard to avoid giving me a chance; but then, even if i had all the chance in the world, what could i say to him? and yet, tom is so noble a fellow underneath it all. he is honest and kind, and strong in his way; only between his father's meekness and his mother's sharpness--for she is sharp--he has somehow come to grief. they have tried to make him religious so that he would be good; and he is of the sort that must be good or he will not be religious. he cannot be pressed into a mould of orthodoxy, and so in the end--but it cannot be the end. tom must somehow come out of it. january . when george came in to-night i was struck at once with the look of pleasant excitement in his face. "what pleases you?" i asked him. "pleases me?" he echoed, evidently surprised. "isn't it a pleasure to see you?" "but that's not the whole of it," i said. "you've something pleasant to tell me. oh, i can read you like a book, my dear; so it is quite idle trying to keep a secret from me." he seemed confused, and i was puzzled to know what was the matter. "you are too wise entirely," was his reply. "i really hadn't anything to tell." "then something good has happened," i persisted; "or you have heard good news." "what a fanciful girl you are, ruth," george returned. "nothing has happened." he walked away from me, and went to the fire. he was strangely embarrassed, and i could only wonder what i had said to confuse him. i reflected that perhaps he was planning some sort of a surprise, and felt i ought not to pry into his thoughts in this fashion whatever the matter was that interested him. i sat down on the other side of the hearth, and took up some sewing. "george," i asked, entirely at random, "didn't you say that the miss west you met at franklin is a cousin of the watsons?" i flushed as soon as i had spoken, for i thought how it betrayed me that in my desire to hit on a new subject i had found the thought of her so near the surface of my mind. i had not consciously been thinking of her at all, and certainly i did not connect her with george's strangeness of manner. there was something almost weird, it seems to me now, in my putting such a question just then. perhaps it was telepathy, for she must have been vividly in his thoughts at that moment. he started, flushed as i have never seen him, and turned quickly toward me. "what makes you think that it was miss west?" "think what was miss west?" i cried. i was completely astonished; then i saw how it was. "never mind, george," i went on, laughing and putting out my hand to him. "i didn't mean to read your thoughts, and i didn't realize that i was doing it." "but what made you"-- "i'm sure i don't know," i broke in; and i managed to laugh again. "only i see now that you know something pleasant about miss west, and you may as well tell it." he looked doubtful a minute, studying my face. the hesitation he had in speaking hurt me. "it's only that she's coming to visit the watsons," he said, rather unwillingly. "olivia watson told me just now." "why, that will be pleasant," i answered, as brightly as if i were really delighted. "now i shall see if she is really as pretty as you say." i felt so humiliated to be playing a part,--so insincere. somebody has said the real test of love is to be unwilling to deceive the loved one, even in the smallest thing. that may be the test of a man's love, but a woman will bear the pain of that very deception to save the man she cares for from disquiet. i am sure it has hurt me as much not to be entirely frank with george as it could have hurt a man; but i could not make him uncomfortable by letting him see that i was disturbed. yet that he should have been afraid or unwilling to tell me did trouble me. he knows that i am not jealous or apt to take offense. he is always saying that i am too cold to be really in love. it made me feel that the coming of this girl must mean much to him when he feared to speak of it. if he had not thought it a matter of consequence, he would have realized that i should take it lightly. i am not taking it lightly; but what troubles me is not that she is coming, but that he hesitated to tell me. something is wrong when george fears to trust me. january . i have seen her. i went to church this morning for that especial reason. mother was a little astonished at me when i said that i was going. "well, ruth," she said, "you don't have much dissipation, but i didn't suppose that you were so dull you would take to church-going." "you can never tell," i answered, making a jest of a thing which to me was far from funny. "mr. saychase will be sure to conclude i'm under conviction of sin, and come in to finish the conversion." she looked at me keenly. "what is the matter, ruth?" she asked in that soft voice of hers which goes straight to my heart. "it isn't anything very serious, mother," i said. "since you will have the truth, i am going to church to see that miss west who's visiting the watsons. george thinks her so pretty that my curiosity is roused to a perfect bonfire." she did not say more, but i saw the sudden light in her eye. mother has never felt about george as i have wished. she has never done him justice, and she thinks i idealize him. that is her favorite way of putting it; but this is because she is my mother, and doesn't see how much idealizing there must have been on his side before he could fall in love with me. miss west is very pretty. all the time i watched in church i tried to persuade myself that she was not. i meanly and contemptibly sat there finding fault with her face, saying to myself that her nose was too long, her eyes too small, her mouth too big; inventing flaws as if my invention would change the fact. it was humiliating business; and utterly and odiously idiotic. miss west is pretty; she is more than this, she is wonderfully pretty. there is an appealing, baby look about her big blue eyes which goes straight to one's heart. she looks like a darling child one would want to kiss and shelter from all the hard things of life. i own it all; i realize all that it means; and if in my inmost soul i am afraid, i will not deny what is a fact or try to shut my eyes to the littleness of my feeling about her. of course george found her adorable. she is. the young men in the congregation all watched her, and even grim deacon richards could not keep his eyes off of her. she does not have the look of a girl of any especial mind. her prettiness is after all that of a doll. her large eyes are of the sort to please a man because of their appealing helplessness; not because they inspire him with new meanings. her little rosebud lips will never speak wisdom, i am afraid; but in my jealousy i wonder whether most men do not care more for lips which invite kisses than for lips which speak wisdom. i am frankly and weakly miserable. george walked home with me, but he had not two words to say. i must try to meet this. if george should come to care for her more than for me! if he should,--if by a pretty face he forgets all the years that we have belonged to each other, what is there to do? i cannot yet believe that it is best for him; but if it will make him happy, even if he thinks that it will, what is there for me but to make it as easy for him as i may? he certainly would not be happy to marry me and love somebody else. he cannot leave me without pain; that i am sure. i shall show my love for him more truly if i spare him the knowledge of what it must cost me. but what mawkish nonsense all this is! a man may admire a pretty face, and yet not be ready for it to leave behind all that has been dear to him. oh, if he had not asked me that question when he came back from franklin! i cannot get it out of my mind that even if he was not conscious of it, it meant he still was secretly tired of his long engagement; that he was at least dreaming of what he would do if he were free. he shall not be bound by any will of mine; and if his heart has gone out to this beautiful creature, i must bear it as nobly as i can. father used to say,--and every day i go back more and more to what he said to me,--"what you cannot at need sacrifice nobly you are not worthy to possess." january . i have had a note which puzzles me completely. tom webbe writes to say that he is going away; that i am to forgive him for the shame of having known him, and that his address is inclosed in a sealed envelope. i am not to open it unless there is real need. why should he give his address to me? january . the disconcerting way aunt naomi has of coming in without knocking, stealing in on feet made noiseless by rubbers, brought her into the sitting-room last night while i was mooning in the twilight, and meditating on nothing in particular. i knew her slow fashion of opening the door, "like a burglar at a cupboard," as hannah says,--so that i was able to compose my face into an appropriate smile of welcome before she was fairly in. "sitting here alone?" was her greeting. "mother is asleep," i answered, "and i was waiting for her to wake." aunt naomi seated herself in the stiffest chair in the room, and began to swing her foot as usual. "deacon daniel's at it again," she observed dispassionately. i smiled a little. it always amuses me that the troubles of the church should be so often brought to me who am an outsider. aunt naomi arrives about once a month on the average, with complaints about something. they are seldom of any especial weight, but it seems to relieve her to tell her grievances. "which deacon daniel?" i asked, to tease her a little. "deacon richards, of course. you know that well enough." "what is it now?" "he won't have any fire in the vestry," she answered. "why not let somebody else take care of the vestry then, if you want a fire?" "you don't suppose," was her response, with a chuckle, "that he'd give up the key to anybody else, do you?" "i should think he'd be glad to." "he'll hold on to that key till he dies," retorted aunt naomi with a sniff; "and i shouldn't be surprised if he had it buried with him. he wouldn't lose the chance of making folks uncomfortable." "oh, come, aunt naomi, you are always so hard on deacon richards," i protested. "he is always good-natured with me." "i wish you'd join the church, then, and see if you can't keep him in order. last night it was so cold at prayer-meeting that we were all half frozen, and mr. saychase had to dismiss the meeting. old lady andrews spoke up in the coldest part of it, when we were all so chilled that we couldn't speak, and she said in that little, high voice of hers: 'the vestry is very cold to-night, but i trust that our hearts are warm with the love of christ.'" i laughed at the picture of the half-frozen prayer-meeting, and dear old lady andrews coming to the rescue with a pious jest; it was so characteristic. "but has anybody spoken to deacon richards?" i asked. "you can't speak to him," she responded, wagging her foot with a violence that seemed to speak celestial anger within. "i try to after every prayer-meeting; but he has the lights out before i can say two words. i can't stay there in the dark with him; and the minute he gets me outside he locks the door, and posts off like a streak." "why not go down to his mill in broad daylight?" i suggested. "oh, he'd stick close to the grinding-thing just so he couldn't hear, and i'm afraid of being pitched into the hopper," she said, laughing. "you must speak to him. he pays some attention to what you say." "but it's none of my business. i don't go to prayer-meeting." "but it's your duty to go," she answered, with a shrewd smile that showed that she appreciated her response; "and if you neglect one duty it's no excuse for neglecting another. besides, you can't be willing to have the whole congregation die of cold." so in the end it was somehow fixed that i am to remonstrate with deacon daniel because the faithful are cold at their devotions. it would seem much simpler for them to stay at home and be warm. they do not, as far as i can see, enjoy going; but they are miserable if they do not go. their consciences trouble them worse than the cold, poor things. i suppose that i can never be half thankful enough to father for bringing me up without a theological conscience. prayer-meetings seem to be a good deal like salt in the boy's definition of something that makes food taste bad if you don't put it on; prayer-meetings make church-goers uneasy if they do not go. if they will go, however, and if they are better for going, or believe they are better, or if they are only worse for staying away, or suppose they are worse, they should not be expected to sit in a cold vestry in january. why deacon daniel will not have a fire is not at all clear. it may be economy, or it may be a lack of sensitiveness; it may be for some recondite reason too deep to be discovered. i refuse to accept aunt naomi's theory that it is sheer obstinacy; and i will beard the deacon in his mill, regardless of the danger of the hopper. at least he generally listens to me. january . hannah came up for me this evening while i was reading to mother. "deacon webbe's down in the parlor," she announced. "says he wants to see you if you're not busy. 'll come again if you ain't able to see him." "go down, ruth dear," mother said at once. "it may be another church quarrel, and i wouldn't hinder you from settling it for worlds." "but don't you want me to finish the chapter?" i asked. "church quarrels will generally keep." "no, dear. i'm tired, and we'll stop where we are. i'll try to go to sleep, if you'll turn the light down." as i bent over to kiss her, she put up her feeble thin fingers, and touched my cheek lovingly. "you're a dear girl," she said. "be gentle with the deacon." there was a twinkle in her eye, for the idea of anybody's being anything but gentle with deacon daniel webbe is certainly droll enough. miss charlotte said the other night that a baby could twist him round its finger and never even know there was anything there; and certainly he must call out the gentle feelings of anybody. only tom seemed always somehow to get exasperated with his father's meekness. poor tom, i do wonder why he went away! the deacon dries up by way of growing old. i have not seen him this winter except the other day at church, and then i did not look at him. to-night he seemed worn and sad, and somehow his face was like ashes, it was so lifeless. the flesh has dried to the bones of his face till he looks like a pathetic skull. his voice is not changed, though. it has the same strange note in it that used to affect me as a child; a weird, reedy quality which suggests some vague melancholy flavor not in the least fretful or whining,--a quality that i have never been able to define. i never hear him speak without a sense of mysterious suggestiveness; and i remember confiding to father once, when i was about a dozen years old, that deacon webbe had the right voice to read fairy stories with. father, i remember, laughed, and said he doubted much if deacon daniel knew what a fairy story was, unless he thought it was something wickedly false. tom's voice has something of the same quality, but only enough to give a little thrill to his tone when he is really in earnest. there is an amusing incongruity between that odd wind-harp strain in deacon webbe's voice and his gaunt new england figure. "ruth," the deacon asked, almost before we had shaken hands, "did you know tom had gone away?" i was impressed and rather startled by the intensity of his manner, and surprised by the question. "yes," i said. "he sent me word he was going." "do you know where he has gone?" "no." i wondered whether i ought to tell him about the sealed address, but it seemed like a breach of confidence to say anything yet. "did he say why he was going?" the deacon asked. "no," i said again. the deacon turned his hat over and over helplessly in his knotted hands in silence for a moment. he was so pathetic that i wanted to cry. "then you don't know," he said after a moment. "i only know he has gone." there was another silence, as if the deacon were pondering on what he could possibly do or say next. peter, who was pleased for the moment to be condescendingly kind to the visitor, came and rubbed persuasively against his legs, waving a great white plume of tail. deacon daniel bent down absently and stroked the cat, but the troubled look in his face showed how completely his mind was occupied. "i'm afraid there's something wrong," he broke out at length, with an energy unusual with him; an energy which was suffering rather than power. "i don't know what it is, but i'm afraid it's worse than ever. oh, miss ruth, if you could only have cared for tom, you'd have kept him straight." i could only murmur that i had always liked tom, and that we had been friends all our lives; but the deacon was too much moved to pay attention. "of course," he went on, "i hadn't any right to suppose judge privet's daughter would marry into our family; but if you had cared for him, miss ruth"-- "deacon webbe," i broke in, for i could not hear any more, "please don't say such things! you know you mustn't say such things!" as i think of it, i am afraid i was a little more hysterical than would have been allowed by cousin mehitable, but i could not help it. at least i stopped him from going on. he apologized so much that i set to work to convince him i was not offended, which i found was not very easy. poor deacon daniel, he is really heart-broken about tom, but he has never known how to manage him, or even to make the boy understand how much he loves him. meekness may be a christian virtue; but over-meekness is a poor quality for one who has the bringing up of a real, wide-awake, head-strong boy. a little less virtue and a little more common sense would have made deacon webbe a good deal more useful in this world if it did lessen his value to heaven. he is the very salt of the earth, yet he has so let himself be trampled upon that to tom his humility has seemed weakness. i know, too, tom has never appreciated his father, and has failed to understand that goodness need not always be in arms to be manly. and so here in a couple of sentences i have come round to the side of the deacon after all. perhaps in the long run the effect of his goodness, with all its seeming lack of strength, may effect more than sterner qualities. january . i was interrupted last night in my writing to go to mother; but i have had deacon webbe and tom in my mind ever since. i could not help remembering the gossip about tom, and the fact that i saw him coming from the red house. i wonder if he has not gone to break away from temptation. in new surroundings he may turn over a new leaf. oh, i would so like to write to him, and to tell him how much i hope for this fresh start, but i hardly like to open the envelope. i have been this afternoon to call on miss west. the watsons are not exactly of my world, but it seemed kind to go. if you were really honest, ruth privet, you would add that you wanted to see what miss west is like. it is all very well to put on airs of disinterested virtue; but if george had not spoken of this girl it is rather doubtful whether you would have taken the trouble to go to her in your very best bib and tucker,--and you did put on your very best, and wondered while you were doing it whether she would appreciate the lace scarf you bought at malta. i understand you wanted to impress her a little, though you did try to make yourself believe that you were only wearing your finest clothes to do honor to her. what a humbug you are! olivia watson came to the door, and asked me into the parlor, where i was left to wait some time before miss west appeared. i confessed then to myself how i had really half hoped that she would not be in; but now the call is over i am glad to have seen her. i am a little confused, but i know what she is. she is the most beautiful creature i ever saw. she has a clear color, when she flushes, like a red clover in september, the last and the richest of all the clovers of the year. then her hair curls about her forehead in such dear little ringlets that it is enough to make one want to kiss her. she speaks with a funny little western burr to her r's which might not please me in another, but is charming from her lips, the mouth that speaks is so pretty. yes, george was right. of her mind one cannot say quite as much. she is not entirely well bred, it seemed to me; but then we are a little old-fashioned in tuskamuck. she did notice the scarf, and asked me where i got it. "oh," she said, when i had told her, "then you have been abroad." "yes," i said, "i went with my father." "judge privet took you abroad several times, didn't he?" olivia put in. "yes; i went with him three times." "oh, my!" commented miss west. "how set up you must feel!" "i don't think i do," i answered, laughing. "do you feel set up because you have seen the west that so few of us have visited?" "why, i never thought of that," she responded. "you haven't any of you traveled in the west, have you?" "i haven't, at least." "but that ain't anything to compare with going abroad," she continued, her face falling; "and going abroad three times, too. i should put on airs all the rest of my life if i'd done that." it is not fair to go on putting down in black and white things that she said without thinking. i am ashamed of the satisfaction i found myself taking in her commonness. i was even so unfair to her that i could not help thinking that she somehow did not ring true. i wonder if a woman can ever be entirely just to another woman who has been praised by the man she cares for? if not i will be an exception to my sex! i will not be small and mean, just because miss west is so lovely that no man could see her without--well, without admiring her greatly. january . i went down to the grist-mill this afternoon to see deacon daniel, and to represent to him the sufferings of the faithful at frozen prayer-meetings. he was standing in the door of the mill, which was open to the brisk air, and his mealy frock gave a picturesque air to his great figure. he greeted me pleasantly, as he always does. "i've come on business," i said. "your own or somebody's else?" he asked, with a grin. "not exactly mine," i admitted. "what has aunt naomi sent you for now?" he demanded. i laughed at his penetration. "you are too sharp to be deceived," i said. "aunt naomi did send me. they tell me you are trying to destroy the church by freezing them all to death at the prayer-meetings." "aunt naomi can't be frozen. she's too dry." "that isn't at all a nice thing to say, deacon richards," i said, smiling. "you can't cover your iniquities by abusing her." he showed his teeth, and settled himself against the door-post more comfortably. "why didn't she come herself?" he inquired. "she said that she was afraid you'd pop her into the hopper. you see what a monster you are considered." "i wouldn't be willing to spoil my meal." deacon daniel likes to play at badinage, and if he had ever had a chance, might have some skill at it. as it is, i like to see how he enjoys it, if i am not always impressed by the wit of what he says. "deacon richards," i said, "why do you freeze the people so in the vestry?" "i haven't known of anybody's being frozen." "but why don't you have a fire?" i persisted. "if you don't want to build it, there are boys enough that can be hired." "how is your mother to-day?" was the only answer the deacon vouchsafed. "she's very comfortable, thank you. why don't you have a fire?" "makes folks sleepy," he declared; and once more switched off abruptly to another subject. "did you know tom webbe's gone off?" "yes." "where's he gone?" "i don't know. why should i?" "if you don't know," deacon daniel commented, "i suppose nobody does." "why don't you have a fire in the vestry?" i demanded, determined to tire him out. "you asked me that before," he responded, with a grin of delight. i gave it up then, for i saw that there was nothing to be got out of him in that mood. i looked up at the sky, and saw how the afternoon was waning. "i must go home," i said. "mother may want me; but i do wish you would be reasonable about the vestry. i'll give you a load of wood if you'll use it." "send the wood, and we'll see," was all the promise i could extract from the dear old tease. deacon daniel was evidently not to be cornered, and i came away without any assurance of amendment on his part. the faithful will have still to endure the cold, i suppose; but i have made an effort. what i said to deacon richards and what deacon richards said to me is not what i sat down to write. i have been lingering over it because i hated to put down what happened to me after i left the mill. why should i write it? this diary is not a confessional, and nothing forces me to set these things down. i really write it as a penance for the uncharitable mood i have been in ever since. i may as well have my thoughts on paper as to keep turning them over and over in my mind. i crossed the foot-bridge and turned up water street. i went on, pleased by the brown water showing through the broken ice in the mill-flume, and the fantastic bunches of snow in the willows beyond, like queer, white birds. i smiled to myself at the remembrance of deacon daniel, and somehow felt warmed toward him, as i always do, despite all his crotchety ways. he radiates kindness of heart through all his gruffness. suddenly i saw george coming toward me with miss west. they did not notice me at first, they were so engaged in talking and laughing together. my mood sobered instantly, but i said to myself that i certainly ought to be glad to see george enjoying himself; and, in any case, a lady does not show her foolish feelings. so i went toward them, trying to look as i had before i caught sight of them. they saw me in a moment, and instantly their laughter stopped. if they had come forward simply and at ease, i should have thought no more about it, i think; but no one could see their confusion without feeling that they expected me to disapprove. and if they expected me to disapprove, it seems to me they must have been saying things--but probably this is all my imagination and mean jealousy. "you see i've captured him," miss west called out in rather a high voice, as we came near each other. "i have no doubt he was a very willing captive," i answered, smiling, and holding out my hand. i realize now how i hated to give her my hand, and most certainly her manner was not entirely that of a lady. "we've been for a long walk," she went on, "and now i suppose i ought to let you have him." "i couldn't think of taking him. i am only going home." "but it seems real mean to keep him, after i've had him all the afternoon. i must give him to you." "i hope he wouldn't be so ungallant as to be given, and leave you to go home alone," i said. "that is not the way we treat strangers in tuskamuck." "oh, you mustn't call me a stranger," miss west responded, twisting her head to look up into george's face. "i'm really in love with the place, and i should admire to live here all the rest of my life." to this i had nothing to say. george had not spoken a word. i could not look at him, but i moved on now. i felt that i must get away from this girl, with her strange western speech, and her familiar manner. "good-by," i said. "mother will want me, and i mustn't linger any longer." i managed to smile until i had left them, but the tears would come as i hurried up the hill toward home. oh, how can i bear it! january . the happiness of george is the thing which should be considered. in any case i am helpless. i can only wait, in woman's fashion. even if i were convinced he would be happier and better with me,--and how can i tell that?--what is there i could do? my duty is by mother's sick-bed, and even if my pride would let me struggle for the possession of any man, i am not free to try even that degrading conflict. i should know, moreover, that any man saved in spite of himself would be apt to look back with regret to the woman he was saved from. jean ingelow's "letter l" is not often repeated in life, i am afraid. still, if one could be sure that it is a danger and he were saved, this might be borne. if it were surely for his good to think less of me, i might bear it somehow, hard as it would be. but my hands are tied. there is nothing for me but waiting. january . george met kathie last night as she was coming here, and sent word that he had to drive over to canton. i thought it odd for him to send me such a message instead of coming himself, for he had not seen me since i met him in the street with miss west. to-day aunt naomi came in, and the moment i saw her i knew that she had something to say that it would not be pleasant to hear. "what's george weston taking that west girl over to canton for?" she asked. it was like a stab in the back, but i tried not to flinch. "why shouldn't he take her?" i responded. aunt naomi gave a characteristic sniff, and wagged her foot violently. "if he wants to, perhaps he should," she answered enigmatically. the subject dropped there, but i wonder a little why she put it that way. january . our engagement is broken. george is gone, and the memory of six years, he says, had better be wiped out. january . i could not tell mother to-day. by the time i got my courage up it was afternoon, and i feared lest she should be too excited to sleep to-night. to-morrow morning she must know. ii february february . i wonder sometimes if human pride is not stronger than human affection. certainly it seems sometimes that we feel the wound to vanity more than the blow to love. i suppose that the truth is that the little prick stings where the blow numbs. for the moment it seemed to me to-night as if i felt more the sudden knowledge that the village knows of my broken engagement than i did the suffering of the fact; but i shall have forgotten this to-morrow, and the real grief will be left. miss charlotte, tall and gaunt, came in just at twilight. she brought a lovely moss-rose bud. "why, miss charlotte," i said, "you have never cut the one bud off your moss-rose! i thought that was as dear to you as the apple of your eye." "it was," she answered with her gayest air. "that's why i brought it." "mother will be delighted," i said; "that is, if she can forgive you for picking it." "it isn't for your mother," miss charlotte said, with a sudden softening of her voice; "it is for you. i'm an old woman, you know, and i've whims. it's my whim for you to have the bud because i've watched it growing, and loved it almost as if it were my own baby." then i knew that she had heard of the broken engagement. the sense of the village gossip, the idea of being talked over at the sewing-circle, came to me so vividly and so dreadfully that for a moment i could hardly get my breath. then i remembered the sweetness of miss charlotte's act, and i went to her and kissed her. the poor old dear had tears in her eyes, but she said nothing. she understood, i am sure, that i could not talk, but that i had seen what she meant me to see, her sympathy and her love. we sat down before the fire in the gathering dusk, and talked of indifferent things. she praised peter's beauty, although the ungrateful peter refused to stay in her lap, and would not be gracious under her caresses. she did not remain long, and she was gay after her fashion. miss charlotte is apt to cover real feeling with a decent veil of facetiousness. "now i must go home and get my party ready," she said, rising with characteristic suddenness. "are you going to have a party?" i asked in some surprise. "i have one every night, my dear," she returned, with her explosive laugh. "all the kendall ghosts come. it isn't very gay, but it's very select." she hurried away, and left me more touched than i should have wished her to see. february . it was well for me that miss charlotte's visit prepared me last night, for to-day kathie broke in upon me with the most childish frankness. "miss ruth," she burst out, "ain't you going to marry george weston?" "no, my dear," i answered; "but you mustn't say 'ain't.'" "'aren't,' then. but i thought you promised years and years ago." "kathie, dear," said i, "this isn't a thing that you may talk about. you are too young to understand, and it is vulgar to talk to people about their private affairs unless they begin." "but it's no wronger than"-- "there's no such word as 'wronger,' kathie." "no worse than to break one's word, is it?" "when two persons make an agreement they have a right to unmake it if they change their minds; and that is not breaking their word. how do the skates work?" "all right," kathie answered; "but father said that you and george weston"-- "kathie," i said as firmly as i could, "i have told you before that you must not repeat what your father says." "it isn't wrong," she returned rather defiantly. i was surprised at her manner, but i suppose that she is always fighting with her conscience about right and wrong, so the mere idea makes her aggressive. "i am not so sure," i told her, trying to turn the whole matter off with a laugh. "i don't think it's very moral to be ill bred. do you?" "why, father says manners don't matter if the heart is right." "this is only another way of saying that if the heart is right the manners will be right. if you in your heart consider whether your father would wish you to tell me what he did not say for my ears, you will not be likely to say it." that sounds rather priggish now it is written down, but i had to stop the child, and i could not be harsh with her. she evidently wanted much to go on with the subject, but i would not hear another word. how the town must be discussing my affairs! february . mother is certainly growing weaker, and although dr. wentworth will not admit to me that she is failing, i am convinced that he thinks so. she has been telling me this afternoon of things which she wishes given to this and that relative or friend. "it will not make me any more likely to die, ruth," she said, "and i shall feel more comfortable if i have these things off my mind. i've thought them out, and if you'll put them on paper, then i shall feel perfectly at liberty to forget them if i find it too much trouble to remember." i put down the things which she told me, trying hard not to let her see how the tears hindered my writing. when i had finished she lay quiet for some time, and then she said,-- "may i say one thing, ruth, about george?" she has said nothing to me before except comforting words to show me that she felt for me, and that she knew i could not bear to talk about it. "you know you may," i told her, though i confess i shrank at the thought. "i know how it hurts you now," she said, "and for that i am grieved to the heart; but ruth, dear, i can't help feeling that it is best after all. you are too much his superior to be happy with him. you would try to make him what you think he ought to be, and you couldn't do it. the stuff isn't in him. he'd get tired of trying, and you would be so humiliated for him that in the end i'm afraid neither of you would be happy." she stopped, and rested a little, and then went on. "i am afraid i don't comfort you much," she said, with a sigh. "i suppose that that must be left to time. but i want you to remember it is much less hard for me to leave you alone than it would have been to go with the feeling that you were to make a mistake that would hamper and sadden your whole life." the tears came into her eyes, and she put out her dear, shadowy hand so feebly that i could not bear it. i dropped on my knees by the bed, and fell to sobbing in the most childish way. mother patted my head as if i were the baby i was acting. "there, there, ruth," she said; "the privets, as your father would have said, do not cry over misfortunes; they live them down." she is right; and i must not break down again. february . there are times when i seem like a stranger visiting myself, and i most inhospitably wish that this guest would go. i must determine not to think about my feelings; or, rather, without bothering to make resolutions, i must stop thinking about myself. the way to do it, i suppose, is to think about others; and that would be all very well if it were not that the others i inevitably think about are george and miss west. i cannot help knowing that he is with her a great deal. somehow it is in the air, and comes to me against my will. if i go out, i cannot avoid seeing them walking or driving together. i am afraid that george's law business must suffer. i should never have let him neglect it so for me. perhaps i am cold-blooded. what mother said to me the other day has been much in my thoughts. i wonder how it was ever possible for me to be engaged to a man of whom neither father nor mother entirely approved. to care for him was something i could not help; i am sure of that. but the engagement is another matter. it came about very naturally after his being here so much in father's last illness. george was so kind and helpful about the business that we were all full of gratitude, and in my blindness i did not perceive how mother really felt. i realize now it was his kindness to father, and the relief his help brought to mother, which made it hard for her to say then that she did not approve of the engagement; and so soon after she became a helpless invalid that things went on naturally in their own course. i am sure that if mother could have known george as i have known him, she would have cared for him. she has hardly seen him in all these years. she hopes that i will forget, but i should be poorer if i could. one does not leave off loving just because circumstances alter. he is free to go his way, but that does not make me any the less his if there is any virtue in my being so. february . i met mrs. webbe in the street to-day, her black eyes brighter, more piercing, more snapping than ever. she came up to me in her quick, jerky way, stopped suddenly, tall and strong, and looked at me as if she were trying to read some profound secret, hid in the very bottom of my soul. i could never by any possibility be half so mysterious as mrs. webbe's looks seemed to make me. "do you write to tom?" she demanded. "i don't even know where he is," i answered. "then you don't write to him?" "no." "that's a pity," mrs. webbe went on, her eyes piercing me so that they almost gave me a sensation of physical discomfort. "he ought to know." i looked at her a moment in silence, thinking she might explain her enigmatic words. "to know what?" i asked at length. "about you and george weston," she responded, nodding her head emphatically; "but if you don't know where he is, that's the whole of it. good-day." she was gone before i could gather my wits to tell her that the news could make no difference to tom. in discussing my separation from george i suppose the village gossips--but i will not be unkind because i am unhappy. i know, and know with sincere pain, that deacon and mrs. webbe believe that i could have saved tom if i had been willing to marry him. i have cared for tom from girlhood, and i am fond of him now, in spite of all that has happened to show how weak he is; but it would be wicked for him to be allowed to suppose the breaking of my engagement makes any difference in our relations. he cannot be written to, however, so i need not trouble. february . miss west has gone back to franklin, but i do not see that this makes any especial difference to me. aunt naomi told me this afternoon, evidently thinking that i should wish to hear it, and evidently, too, trying not to let me see that she regarded it as more than an ordinary bit of news. i only wonder how long it will be before george will follow her. oh, i do hope she will make him happy! february . the consequence of my being of no religion seems to be that i am regarded as a sort of neutral ground by persons of all religions, where they may air their theological troubles. now it is a catholic who asks advice. perhaps i had better set up as a consulting something or other. mediums are the only sort of female consulting things that i think of, and they are so far from respectable that i could not be a medium; but i shall have to invent a name to call myself by, if this goes much further. this time it is rosa. rosa is as devout a little superstitious body as i ever saw. she firmly believes all that her church teaches her, and she believes all sorts of queer things besides. i wonder sometimes that her small mind, which never can remember to lay the table properly, can hold in remembrance all the droll superstitions she shiveringly accepts. perhaps the reason why she is so inefficient a servant, and is so constantly under the severe blight of hannah's awful disapproval, is that her mental faculties are exhausted in remembering signs and omens. i've no right to make fun of her, however, for i don't like to spill salt myself! the conundrum which rosa brings to me is not one which it is easy to handle. she believes that her church has the power of eternal life and death over her, and she wishes, in defiance of her church's prohibition, to marry a divorced man. she declares that unless she can marry ran gargan her heart will be broken into the most numerous fragments, and she implores me to devise a method by which she can accomplish the difficult feat of getting the better of the church. "sure, miss privet," she said in the most naïve way in the world, "you're that clever that ye could invint a way what would get round father o'rafferty; he's no that quick at seein' things." i suspect, from something the child let fall, that hannah, with genuine righteous hatred of the scarlet woman, had urged rosa to fly in the face of her church, and marry ran. hannah would regard it as a signal triumph of grace if rosa could be so far persuaded to disobey the tenets of catholicism. i can understand perfectly hannah's way of looking at the matter; but i have no more against rosa's church than i have against hannah's, so this view does not appeal to me. "rosa," i said, "don't you believe in your church?" she broke into voluble protestations of her entire faithfulness, and seemed inclined to feel that harm might come to her from some unseen malevolence if such charges were made so as to be heard by spying spirits. "then i don't see why you come to me," i said. "if you are a good catholic, i should think that that settled the matter." "but i thought you'd think of some way of gettin' round it," she responded, beginning to cry. "me heart is broke for ran, an' it is himsilf that'll go to the bad if i don't have him." poor little ignorant soul! how could one reason with her, or what was there to say? i could only try to show her that she could not be happy if she did the thing that she knew to be wrong. "but what for is ye tellin' me that, when ye don't belave it's wrong?" she demanded, evidently aggrieved. "i do think it is wrong to act against a church in which you believe," i said. i am afraid i did not in the least comfort her, for she went away with an air in which indignation was mingled with disappointment. february . rosa is all right. she told me to-day, fingering her apron and blushing very prettily, that she saw dennis maloney last night, and was engaged to him already. he has, it seems, personal attractions superior to those of ran, and rosa added that on the whole she prefers a first-hand husband. "so i'm obliged to ye for yer advisin' me to give ran the go-by," she concluded. "i thought yer would." i do not know whether the swiftness of the change of sweethearts or the amazing conclusion of her remarks moved me more. february . father used to say that peggy cole was the proudest thing on the face of the earth, and he would certainly be amused if he could know how her pride has increased. i could not leave mother this afternoon, and so i sent rosa down with a pail of soup to the poor old goody. peggy refused to have it because i did not bring it myself. she wasn't a pauper to have me send her soup, she informed rosa. i am afraid that rosa was indiscreet enough to make some remark upon the fact that i carry her food pretty often, for old peggy said,--i can see her wrinkled old nose turned up in supreme scorn as she brought it out,--"that's different. when miss ruth brings me a little thing now and then,--and it ain't often she'll take that trouble, either!--that's just a friend dropping in with something to make her sure of her welcome!" i shall have to leave everything to-morrow to go and make my peace with peggy, for the old goose would starve to death before she would take anything from the overseers of the poor, and i do not see how she keeps alive, anyway. february . i had a note from george this morning about the burgess mortgage, and in it he said that he is to be away for a week or two. that means-- but i have no longer any right to speculate about him. it is not my business what it means. henceforth he must come and go, and i must not even wonder about it. february . i must face the fact that mother will not be with me much longer. i can see how she grows weaker, and i can only be thankful that she does not suffer. she speaks of death now and then as calmly as if it were a matter of every-day routine. "mrs. privet," dr. wentworth said this morning, "you seem to be no more afraid of death than you are of a sunrise." "i'm not orthodox enough to be afraid," she answered, with her little quizzical smile. dear little mother, she is so serene, so sweet, so quiet; nothing could be more dignified, and yet nothing more entirely simple. she is dying like a gentlewoman. she lies there as gracious as if she had invited death as a dear friend, and awaited him with the kindliest welcome. the naturalness of it all is what impresses me most. when i am with her it is impossible for me to feel that anything terrible is at hand. she might be going away to pass a pleasant summer visit somewhere; but there is no suspicion of anything dreadful or painful. it is not that she is indifferent, either,--she has always found life a thing to be glad of. "i should have liked well enough to stay a while longer to bother you, ruth," she said, after dr. wentworth had gone, "but we must take things as they come. it's better, perhaps; you need a rest." dear mother! she is always so lovely and so wonderful! february . mother has been brighter to-day, and really seems better. if it will only last! i asked her last night if she expected to see father. she lay quiet a moment, and then she turned her face to smile on me before she answered. "i don't know, ruth," she said. "i have wondered about that a good deal, and i cannot be sure. if he is alive and knows, then i shall see him. i am sure of that. it is only life that has been keeping us apart. if he is not any more, why, then i shall not be either, and so of course i can't be unhappy. i feel just as he used to when he had you read that translation from something to him the week before he died; the thing that said death could not be an evil, for if we kept on existing we would be no longer bothered by the body, and that if we didn't, it was no matter, for we shouldn't know." she was still a moment, looking into some great distance with her patient, sunken eyes. then she smiled again, and said as if to herself, "but i think i shall see him." february . george is married. aunt naomi has been in to tell me. she mentioned it as if it were a thing in which i should have no more interest than in any bit of village news. she did not watch me, i remember now, or ask my opinion as she generally does. she was wonderfully tactful and kind; only i can see she thought i ought to know about it, and that the best way was to put the matter bluntly and simply, as if it had no possible sentiment connected with it. when she had done her errand, she went on to make remarks about deacon richards and the vestry fires; just what, i do not know, for i could not listen. then she mercifully went away. i did not expect it so soon! i knew that it must come, but i was not prepared for this suddenness. i supposed that i should hear of the engagement, and get used to it; and then come to know the wedding was to be, and so come gradually to the thing itself that shuts george forever out of my life. it is better, it is a thousand times better to have it all over at once. i might have brooded morbidly through the days as they brought nearer and nearer the time when george was to be her husband instead of mine. now it is done without my knowing. for three days he has been married; and i have only to think of him as the husband of another woman, and try to take it as a matter of course. whether george has done this because he cares so much for her or not, he has done what is kindest for me. it is like waking from the ether to find that the tooth is out. we may be sick and sore, but the worst is past, and we may begin, slowly perhaps, but really, to recover. yet it is so soon! how completely he must be carried away to be so forgetful of all that is past! we were engaged six years; and he marries miss west after an acquaintance of hardly as many weeks. i wonder if all men are like this. it seems sometimes as if they were not capable of the long, brooding devotion of women. but it is better so, and i would not have him thinking about me. he must be wrapped up in her. i do care most for his happiness, and his happiness now lies in his thinking of her and forgetting all the six years when he was--when i thought he was mine. i will not moon, and i will not fret. that george has changed does not, of course, alter my feeling. i am sore and hurt; i see life now restricted in its uses. he has cut me off from the happiness of serving him and helping him as a wife; but as a friend there is still much that i may do. very likely i can help his wife,--she seems so far short of what his wife should be. for service in all loyalty i belong to him still; and that is the thought which must help me. february . i have already had a chance to do something for george. i hope that i have not been unfair to my friends; but i do not see how i could decide any other way. old lady andrews came in this afternoon, with her snowy curls and cheeks pink from the wind. almost as soon as she was seated she began with characteristic directness. "i know you won't mind my coming straight to the point, my dear," she said. "i came to ask you about george weston's new wife. do you think we had better call on her?" the question had come to me before, but i confess i had selfishly thought of it only as a personal matter. "mr. weston's people were hardly of our sort, you know," she continued in her gentle voice, "though of course after your father took him into his office as a student we all felt like receiving him. i never knew him until after that." "i have seen a good deal of him," i said, wondering if my voice sounded queer; "you know he helped settle the estate." "it did seem providential," mrs. andrews went on, "that his mother did not live, for of course we could hardly have known her. she was a hardy, you know, from canton. but i have always found mr. weston a very presentable young man, especially for one of his class. he is really very intelligent." "as we have received him," i said, "i don't see how we can refuse to receive his wife." "that's the way i thought you would feel about it," old lady andrews answered; "but i wished to be sure. as he has been received entirely on account of his connection with your family, i told aunt naomi that it ought to be for you to say whether the favor should be extended to his wife. i am informed that she is very pretty, but she is not, i believe, exactly one of our sort." "she is exceedingly pretty," i assured her. "i have seen her. she is not--well, i am afraid that she is rather western, but i shall call." "then that settles it. of course we shall do whatever you decide. i suppose he will bring her to our church. i say 'our,' ruth, because you really belong to it. you are just a lamb that has found a place with a picket off, and got outside the fold. we shall have you back some time." "i am afraid," i said laughing, "that i should only disgrace you and injure the fold by pulling a fresh picket off somewhere to get out again." she laughed in turn, and fluttered her small hands in her delightful, birdlike way. "i am not afraid of that," she responded. "when the lord leads you in, he is able to make you want to stay. i hope your mother is comfortable." so that is settled, and miss west--why am i such a coward about writing it?--mrs. weston is to be one of us. george will be glad that she is not left out of society. iii march march . mother's calmness keeps me ashamed of the hot ache in my heart and the restlessness which makes it so hard for me to keep an outward composure. hannah is rather shocked that she should be so entirely unmoved in the face of death, and the dear, foolish old soul, steeped in theological asperities from her cradle, must needs believe that mother is somehow endangering her future welfare by this very serenity. "don't you think, miss ruth," she said to me yesterday, "that you could persuade your mother to see mr. saychase? she'd do it to oblige you." "but it wouldn't oblige me, hannah." "oh, miss ruth, think of her immortal soul!" "hannah," i said as gently as i could, she was so distressed, "you know how mother always felt about those things. it certainly couldn't do any good now to try to alter her opinions, and it would only tire her." i left hannah as quickly as i could without hurting her feelings, but i might have known that her conscience would force her to speak to mother. "bless me, hannah," mother said to her, "i'm no more wicked because i'm going to die than if i were going to live. i can't help dying, you know, so i don't feel responsible." when hannah tried to go on, and broke down with tears, mother put out her thin hand, like a sweet shadow. "hannah," she said, "i know how you feel, and i thank you for speaking; but don't be troubled. where there are 'many mansions,' don't you think there may be one even for those who did not see the truth, if they were honest in their blindness?" march . how far away everything else seems when the foot of death is almost at the door! as i sit by the bedside in the long nights, wondering whether he will come before morning, i think of the nights in which i may sometime be waiting for death myself. i wonder whether i shall be as serene and absolutely unterrified as mother is. it is after all only the terror of the unknown. why should we be more ready to think of the unknown as dreadful than as delightful? we certainly hail the thought of new experiences in the body; why not out of it? novelty in itself must give a wonderful charm to that new life, at least for a long time. think of the pleasure of having youth all over again, for we shall at least be young to any new existence into which we go, just as babies are young to this. death is terrible, it seems to me, only when we think of ourselves who are left behind, not when we think of those who go. life is a thing so beautiful that it may be sad to think of them as deprived of it; but the more beautiful it is, the more i am assured that whatever power made the earth must be able to make something better. if life is good, a higher step in evolution must be nobler; and however we mourn, none of us would dare to say that our grief is caused by the belief that our friends have through death gone on to sorrow. march . this morning-- march . mother was buried to-day. i have taken out this book to try to set down--to set down what? not what i have felt since the end came. that is not possible, and if it were, i have not the courage. i suppose the mournful truth is that in the dreadful loneliness which death has left in the house, i got out my diary as a companion. one's own thoughts are forlorn company when they are so sad, but if they are written out they may come to have more reality, and the journal to seem more like another personality. how strange and shameful the weakness is which makes it hard for us to be alone; the feeling that we cannot endure the brooding universe about us unless we have hold of some human hand! yet we are so small,--the poor, naked, timorous soul, a single fleck of thistle-down tossed about by all the winds which fill the immensities of an infinite universe. why should we not be afraid? father would say, "why should we?" he believed that the universe took care of everything in it, because everything is part of itself. "you've only to think of our own human instinct of self-preservation on a scale as great as you can conceive," he told me the day before he died, "and you get some idea of the way in which the universal must protect the particular." i am afraid that i am not able to grasp the idea as he did. i have thought of it many times, and of how calm and dignified he was in those last days. i am a woman, and the universe is so great that it turns me cold to think of it. i am able to get comfort out of father's idea only by remembering how sure he was of it, and how completely real it was to him. yet mother was as sure as he. she told me once that not to be entirely at ease would be to dishonor father's belief, and she was no less serene in the face of death than he was. yes; it would be to dishonor them both to doubt, and i do not in my heart of hearts; but it is lonely, lonely. march . it is touching to see how human kindness, the great sympathy with what is real and lasting in the human heart, overcomes the narrowness of creeds in the face of the great tragedy of death. hannah would be horrified at any hint that she wavered in her belief, yet she said to me to-day:-- "don't you worry about your mother, miss ruth. she was a good woman, if her eyes were not opened to the truth as it is in jesus. her heavenly father'll look after her. i guess she sees things some different now she's face to face with him; and i believe she had the root of the matter in her somehow, though she hadn't grace given her to let her light shine among men." dear old hannah! she is too loving in her heart not to be obliged to widen her theology when she is brought to the actual application of the awful belief she professes, and she is too human not to feel that a life so patient and so upright as mother's must lead to eternal peace, no matter what the creed teaches. march . the gray kitten is chasing its tail before the fire, and i have been looking at it and the blazing wood through my tears until i could bear it no longer. the moonlight is on the snow in the graveyard, and must show that great black patch where the grave is. she cannot be there; she cannot be conscious of the bleak chill of the earth; and the question whether she is anywhere and is conscious at all is in my mind constantly. she must be; she cannot have gone out like a candle-flame. she said to mr. saychase, that day hannah brought him and mother was too gentle to refuse to see him, that she had always believed god must have far too much self-respect not to take care of creatures he had made, and that she was not in the least troubled, because she did not feel any responsibility about what was to happen after death. she was right, of course; but he was horrified. he began to stammer out something, but mother stopped him. "i didn't mean to shock you," she said gently; "but don't you think, mr. saychase, i am near enough to the end to have the privilege of saying what i really believe?" he wouldn't have been human if he could have resisted the voice that said it or the smile that enforced the words. now she knows. she has found the heart of truth somewhere out there in the sky, which to us looks so wide, so thick with stars which might be abiding-places. she may have met father. how much he, at least, must have to tell her! whether he would know about us or not, i cannot decide. in any case i think he would like her to tell him. she is learning wonderful things. yes; she knows, and i am sure she is glad. march . george has been to see me. in the absorption and grief of the last fortnight i have hardly remembered him, and he has brought his wife home without my giving the matter a thought. it is wonderful that anything could so hold me that i have not been moved, but they came back the day after the funeral, and i did not hear of it until a couple of days later. it gave me a great shock when i saw him coming up the walk, but by the time he was in the house, i had collected myself, and i had, i think, my usual manner. he was most kind and sympathetic, and yet he could not help showing how ill at ease he was. perhaps he could not help reflecting that my duty to mother had been the thing which kept us apart, and that it was strange for this to end just as there was no longer the possibility of our coming together. i do not remember what george and i said to each other to-night, any more than i can recall what we said on that last time when he was here. i might bring back that other talk out of the dull blur of pain, but where would be the good? nothing could come of it but new suffering. we were both outwardly calm and self-possessed, i know, and talked less like lovers than like men of business. so a merchant might sell the remnants of a bankrupt fortune, i fancy; and when he was gone i went to prepare mother's night drink as calmly as if nothing had happened. i did not dare not to be calm. to-night we met like the friends we promised to be. he was uncomfortable at first, but i managed to make him seem at ease, or at least not show that he felt strange. he looked at me rather curiously now and then. i think he was astonished that i showed no more feeling about our past. i cannot have him unhappy through me, and he must feel that at least i accept my fate serenely, or he will be troubled. i must not give myself the gratification of proving that i am constant. he may believe i am cold and perhaps heartless, but that is better than for him to feel responsible for my being miserable. what did he tell me that night? it was in effect--though i think he hardly realized what he said or implied--how our long engagement had worn out the passion of a lover, and he felt only the friendship of a brother; the coming of a new, real love had shown him the difference. does this mean that married love goes through such a change? will he by and by have lived through his first love for his wife, and if so what will be left? that is not my concern; but would this same thing have come if i had been his wife, and should i now find myself, if we had been married when we hoped to be, only a friend who could not so fill his heart as to shut out a new love? better a hundredfold that it should be as it is. at least he was not tied to me when the discovery came. but it is not always so. certainly father and mother loved each other more after long years of living together.--but this is not a train of thought which it is well to follow. what is must be met and lived with; but i will not weaken my heart by dwelling on what might have been. george was most kind to come, and it must have been hard for him; but i am afraid it was not a happy half-hour for either of us. i suppose that any woman brought face to face with a man she still loves when he has done with loving her must feel as if she were shamed. that is nonsense, however, and i fought against the feeling. now i am happy in the thought that at least i have done one thing. i have made it possible for george to come to me if hereafter he need me. if he were in trouble and i could help, i know he would appeal to me as simply as ever. if i can help him, i am yet free to do it. i thank god for this! march . i have asked charlotte kendall to stay with me for a while. dear old miss charlotte, she is so poor and so proud and so plucky! i know that she is half starving in that great, gaunt kendall house, that looms up so among its balm of gilead trees, as if it were an asylum for the ghosts of all the bygone generations of the family. somehow it seems to me that in america the "decayed gentlewomen," as they are unpleasantly called in england, have a harder time than anywhere else in the world. miss charlotte has to live up to her instincts and her traditions or be bitterly humiliated and miserable. people generally assume that the family pride behind this is weak if it is not wicked; but surely the ideal of an honorable race, cultivated and right-minded for generations, is a thing to be cherished. the growth of civilization must depend a good deal upon having these ideas of family preserved somehow. father used to say the great weakness of modern times is that nowadays the best of the race, instead of saying to those below, "climb up to us," say, "we will come down to you." i suppose this is hardly a fair summing up of modern views of social conditions, though of course i know very little about them; but i am sure that the way in which class distinctions are laughed at is a mistake. i hope i hate false pride as much as anybody could; yet dear miss charlotte, trying hard not to disgrace her ancestors, and being true to her idea of what a gentlewoman should do, is to me pathetic and fine. she cares more for the traditions of her race than she does for her own situation; and anybody who did not admire this strong and unselfish spirit must look at life from a point of view that i cannot understand. i can have her here now on an excuse that she will not suspect, and she shall be fed and rested as she has not been for years. march . i forgot miss charlotte's plants when i asked her to come here. i went over this morning to invite her, and i found her trimming her great oleander tree with tender little snips and with loving glances which were like those a mother gives her pet child in dressing it for a party. the sun came in at the bay window, and the geraniums which are the pride of miss charlotte's heart were coming finely into blossom. if the poor old soul is ever really happy it is in the midst of her plants, and things grow for her as for nobody else. "do look, ruth," she said with the greatest eagerness; "that slip of heather that came from the wreath is really sprouting. i do think it will live." she brought me a vial full of greenish water into which was stuck a bit of heather from the wreath that cousin mehitable sent for mother. miss charlotte had asked me if she might go to the graveyard for the slip. she was so pathetic when she spoke of it! "it isn't just to have a new plant," she said. "it is partly that it would always remind me of your mother, and i should love it for that." to-day she was wonderful. her eyes shone as she looked at the twig, and showed me the tiny white point, like a little mouse's tooth, that had begun to come through the bark under the green water. it was as if she had herself somehow accomplished the miracle of creation. i could have taken her into my arms and cried over her as she stood there so happy with just this slip and her plants for family and riches. i told her my errand, and she began to look troubled. unconsciously, i am sure, she glanced around at the flowers, and in an instant i understood. "oh, i beg your pardon," i said before she had time to speak, "i forgot that you cannot leave the plants." "i was thinking how i could manage," she answered, evidently troubled between the wish to oblige me and the thought that her precious plants could not be left. "you need not manage," i said. "i was foolish enough not to think of them. of course you can't leave them." "i might come over in the daytime," she proposed hesitatingly. "i could make up the fire in the morning, and at this time of the year the room would be warm enough for them till i came back at night. i know you must be most lonely at night, and i would stay as late as i could." "you are a dear thing," i said, and her tone brought tears to my eyes. "if you will come over after breakfast and stay until after supper that will do nicely,--if you think you can spare the time." "there's nothing i can spare better," she said, laughing. "i'm like the man that was on his way to jail and was met by a beggar. 'i've nothing to give you but time,' he said, 'and that his honor just gave me, so i don't like to give it away.' that's one of your father's stories, ruth." i stayed talking with her for an hour, and it was touching to see how she was trying to be entertaining and to make me cheerful. i did come away with my thoughts entirely taken off of myself and my affairs, and that is something. march . it has done me good to have miss charlotte here. she makes her forlorn little jests and tells her stories in her big voice, and somehow all the time is thinking, i can see, of brightening the days for me. peter was completely scornful for two days, but now he passes most of his time in her lap, condescending, of course, but gracious. miss charlotte has been as dear and kindly as possible, and to-night in the twilight she told me the romance of her life. i do not know how it came about. i suppose that she was thinking of mother and wanted me to know what mother had been to her. perhaps, too, she may have had a feeling that it would comfort me to know that she understood out of her own suffering the pain that had come to me through george's marriage. i do not remember her father and mother. they both died when i was very young. i have heard that mr. kendall was a very handsome man, who scandalized the village greatly by his love of horses and wine, but father used to tell me he was a scholar and a cultivated man. i am afraid he did not care very much for the comfort of others; and aunt naomi always speaks of him as a rake who broke his wife's heart. charlotte took care of him after mrs. kendall died, and was devoted to him, they say. she was a middle-aged woman before she was left alone with that big house, and she sold the kendall silver to pay his debts. to-night she spoke of him with a sort of pitiful pride, yet with an air as if she had to defend him, perhaps even to herself. "i'm an old woman, ruth," she said, "and my own life seems to me like an old book that i read so long ago that i only half remember it. it is forty years since i was engaged." it is strange i had never known of this before; but i suppose it passed out of people's minds before i was old enough to notice. "i never knew you had been engaged, miss charlotte," i said. "then your mother never told you what she did for me," she answered, looking into the fire. "that was like her. she was more than a mother to me at the time"--she broke off, and then repeated, "it was like her not to speak of it. there are few women like your mother, ruth." we were both silent for a time, and i had to struggle not to break down. miss charlotte sat looking into the fire with the tears running unchecked down her wrinkled cheeks. she did not seem conscious of them, and the thought came to me that there had been so much sadness in her life that she was too accustomed to tears to notice them. "it is forty years," she said again. "i was called a beauty then, though you'd find that hard to believe now, ruth, when i'm like an old scarecrow in a cornfield. i suppose no young person ever really believes that an old woman can have been beautiful unless there's a picture to prove it. i'll show you a daguerreotype some time; though, after all, what difference does it make? at least he thought"-- another silence came here. the embers in the fire dropped softly, and the dull march twilight gathered more and more thickly. i felt as if i were being led into some sacred room, closed many years, but where the dead had once lain. perhaps it was fanciful, but it seemed almost as if i were seeing the place where poor miss charlotte's youth had died. "it wasn't proper that i should marry him, ruth. i know now father was right, only sometimes--for myself i suppose i hadn't proper pride, and i shouldn't have minded; but father was right. a kendall couldn't marry a sprague, of course. i knew it all along; and i vowed to myself over and over that i wouldn't care for him. when a girl tells herself that she won't love a man, ruth," she broke in with a bitter laugh, "the thing's done already. it was so with me. i needn't have promised not to love him if i hadn't given him my whole heart already,--what a girl calls her heart. i wouldn't own it; and over and over i told him that i didn't care for him; and then at last"-- it was terrible to hear the voice in which she spoke. she seemed to be choking, and it was all that i could do to keep control of myself. i could not have spoken, even if there had been anything to say. i wanted to take her in my arms and get her pitiful, tear-stained face hidden; but i only sat quiet. "well, we were engaged at last, and i knew father would never consent; but i hoped something would happen. when we are young enough we all hope the wildest things will happen and we shall get what we want. then father found out; and then--and then--i don't blame father, ruth. he was right. i see now that he was right. of course it wouldn't have done; but then it almost killed me. if it hadn't been for your mother, dear, i think i should have died. i wanted to die; but i had to take care of father." i put out my hand and got hold of hers, but i could not speak. the tears dropped down so that they sparkled in the firelight, but she did not wipe them away. i was crying myself, for her old sorrow and mine seemed all part of the one great pain of the race, somehow. i felt as if to be a woman meant something so sad that i dared not think of it. "and the hardest was that he thought i was wrong to give him up. he could not see it as i did, ruth; and of course it was natural that he couldn't understand how father would feel about the family. i could never explain it to him, and i couldn't have borne to hurt his feelings by telling him." "is he"-- "he is dead, my dear. he married over at fremont, and i hope he was happy. i think probably he was. men are happy sometimes when a woman wouldn't be. i hope he was happy." that was the whole of it. we sat there silent until rosa came to call us to supper. when we stood up i put my arms about her, and kissed her. then she made a joke, and wiped her eyes, and through supper she was so gay that i could hardly keep back the tears. poor, poor, lonely, brave miss charlotte! march . cousin mehitable arrived yesterday according to her usual fashion, preceded by a telegram. i tell her that if she followed her real inclinations, she would dispatch her telegram from the station, and then race the messenger; but she is constrained by her breeding to be a little more deliberate, so i have the few hours of her journey in which to expect her. it is all part of her brisk way. she can never move fast enough, talk quickly enough, get through whatever she is doing with rapidity enough. i remember father's telling her once that she would never have patience to lie and wait for the day of judgment, but would get up every century or two to hurry things along. it always seems as if she would wear herself to shreds in a week; yet here she is, more lively at sixty than i am at less than half that age. she was very kind, and softened wonderfully when she spoke of mother. i think that she loved her more than she does any creature now alive. "aunt martha," she said last night, "wasn't human. she was far too angelic for that. but she was too sweet and human for an angel. for my part i think she was something far better than either, and far more sensible." this was a speech so characteristic that it brought me to tears and smiles together. to-night cousin mehitable came to the point of her errand with customary directness. "i came down," she said, "to see how soon you expect to arrange to live with me." "i hadn't expected anything about it," i returned. "of course you would keep the house," she went on, entirely disregarding my feeble protest. "you might want to come back summers sometimes. this summer i'm going to take you to europe." i am too much accustomed to her habit of planning things to be taken entirely by surprise; but it did rather take my breath away to find my future so completely disposed of. i felt almost as if i were not even to have a chance to protest. "but i never thought of giving up the house," i managed to say. "of course not; why should you?" she returned briskly. "you have money enough to keep up the place and live where you please. don't i know that for this ten years you and aunt martha haven't spent half your income? keep it, of course; for, as i say, sometimes you may like to come back for old times' sake." i could only stare at her, and laugh. "oh, you laugh, ruth," cousin mehitable remarked, more forcibly than ever, "but you ought to understand that i've taken charge of you. we are all that are left of the family now, and i'm the head of it. you are a foolish thing anyway, and let everybody impose on your good-nature. you need somebody to look after you. if i'd had you in charge, you'd never have got tangled up in that foolish engagement. i'm glad you had the sense to break it." i felt as if she had given me a blow in the face, but i could not answer. "don't blush like that," cousin mehitable commanded. "it's all over, and you know i always said you were a fool to marry a country lawyer." "father was a country lawyer," i retorted. "fudge! cousin horace was a judge and a man whose writings had given him a wide reputation. don't outrage his memory by calling him a rustic. for my part i never had any patience with him for burying himself in the country like a clodhopper." "you forget that mother's health"--i began; but with cousin mehitable one is never sure of being allowed to complete a sentence. "oh, yes," she interrupted, "of course i forgot. well, if there could be an excuse, aunt martha would serve for excusing anything. i beg your pardon, ruth. but now all that is past and gone, and fortunately the family is still well enough remembered in boston for you to take up life there with very little trouble. that's what i had in mind ten years ago, when i insisted on your coming out." "people who saw me then will hardly remember me." "the folks that knew your father and mother," she went on serenely, "are of course old people like me; but they will help you to know the younger generation. besides, those you know will not have forgotten you. a privet is not so easily forgotten, and you were an uncommonly pretty bud, ruth. what a fool you were not to marry hugh colet! you always were a fool." cousin mehitable generally tempers a compliment in this manner, and it prevents me from being too much elated by her praise. she was interrupted here by the necessity of going to prepare for supper. miss charlotte did not come over to-day, so we were alone together. no sooner were we seated at the supper-table than she returned to the attack. "when you live in boston," she said, "i shall"-- "suppose i should not live in boston?" i interrupted. "but you will. what else should you do?" "i might go on living here." "living here!" she cried out explosively. "you don't call this living, do you? how long is it since you heard any music, or saw a picture, or went to the theatre, or had any society?" i was forced to confess that music and painting and acting were all entirely lacking in tuskamuck; but i remarked that i had all the books that attracted me, and i protested against her saying i hadn't any society. "oh, you see human beings now and then," cousin mehitable observed coolly; "and i dare say they are very worthy creatures. but you know yourself they are not society. you haven't forgotten the year i brought you out." i have not forgotten it, of course; and i cannot deny that when i think of that winter in boston, the year i was nineteen, i do feel a little mournful sometimes. it was all so delightful, and it is all so far away now. i hardly heard what cousin mehitable said next. i was thinking how enchanting a home in boston would be, and how completely alone as for family i am. cousin mehitable is the only near relative i have in the world, and why should i not be with her? it would be delightful. perhaps i may manage to get in a week or two in town now and then; but i cannot go away for long. there would be nobody to start the reading-room, or keep up the shakespeare club; and what would become of kathie and peggy cole, or of all that dreadful spearin tribe? i dare say i am too proud of my consequence, and that if i went away somebody would be found to look after things. still i know i am useful here; and it seems to me i am really needed. besides, i love the place and the people, and i think my friends love me. march . cousin mehitable went home to-day. easter is at hand, and she has a bonnet from paris,--"a perfect dream of a bonnet," she said with the enthusiasm of a girl, "dove-colored velvet, and violets, and steel beads, and two or three white ostrich tips; a bonnet an angel couldn't resist, ruth!"--and this bonnet must form part of the church service on easter. the connection between paris bonnets and the proper observance of the day is not clear in my mind; but when i said something of this sort to cousin mehitable she rebuked me with great gravity. "ruth, there is nothing in worse form than making jokes about sacred subjects." "your bonnet isn't sacred," i retorted, for i cannot resist sometimes the temptation to tease her; "or at least it can't be till it's been to church on easter." "you know what i mean," was her answer. "when you live with me i shall insist upon your speaking respectfully of the church." "i wasn't speaking of the church," i persisted, laughing at the gravity with which she always takes up its defense; "i was speaking of your bonnet, your paris bonnet, your easter bonnet, your ecclesiastical, frivolous, giddy, girlish bonnet." "oh, you may think it too young for me," she said eagerly, forgetting the church in her excitement, "but it isn't really. it's as modest and appropriate as anything you ever saw; and so becoming and _chic_!" "oh, i can always trust your taste, cousin mehitable," i told her, "but you know you're a worldly old thing. you'd insist upon having your angelic robes fitted by a fashionable tailor." again she looked grave and shocked in a flash. "how can you, ruth! you are a worse heathen than ever. but then there is no church in tuskamuck, so i suppose it is not to be wondered at. that's another reason for taking you away from this wilderness." "there are two churches, as you know very well," i said. "nonsense! they're only meeting-houses,--conventicles. however, when you come to boston to live, we will see." "i told you last night that i shouldn't give up tuskamuck." "i know you did, but i didn't mind that. you must give it up." she went away insisting upon this, and refusing to accept any other decision. i did so far yield as to promise provisionally that i would go abroad with her this summer. i need to see the world with a broader view again, and i shall enjoy it. to think of the picture galleries fills me with joy already. i should be willing to cross the atlantic just to see once more the enchanting tailor of moroni's in the national gallery. it is odd, it comes into my mind at this moment that he looks something like tom webbe, or tom looks something like him. very likely it is all nonsense. yes; i will go for the summer--to leave here altogether--no, that is not to be thought of. march . the whole town is excited over an accident up at the lake this morning. a man and his son were drowned by breaking through the ice. they had been up to some of the logging camps, and it is said they were not sober. they were brownrigs, and part of the family in the little red house. the mother and the daughter are left. i hope it is not heartless to hate to think of them. i have no doubt that they suffer like others; only it is not likely folk of this sort are as sensitive as we are. it is a mercy that they are not. march . the brownrig family seems just now to be forced upon my attention, and that in no pleasant way. aunt naomi came in this forenoon, and seated herself with an air of mysterious importance. she looked at me with her keen eyes, penetrating and humorous even when she is most serious, and seemed to be examining me to discover what i was thinking. it was evident at once that she had news. this is generally true, for she seems always to have something to tell. her mind gathers news as salt gathers moisture, and her greatest pleasure is to impart what she has heard. she has generally with me the air of being a little uncertain how i may receive her tidings. like all persons of strong mind and a sense of humor, she is by nature in sympathy with the habit of looking at life frankly and dispassionately, and i believe that secretly and only half consciously she envies me my mental freedom. sometimes i have suspected her of leading me on to say things which she would have felt it wrong to say herself because they are unorthodox, but which she has too much common sense not to sympathize with. she is convinced, though, that such freedom of thought as mine is wrong, and she nobly deprives herself of the pleasure of being frank in her thoughts when this would involve any reflection upon the theological conventions which are her rule of life. she gratifies a lively mind by feeding it on scraps of gossip and commenting on them in her pungent way; she is never unkind in her thought, i am sure, but she does sometimes say sharp things. like lady teazle, however, she abuses people out of pure good nature. i looked at her this morning as she sat swinging her foot and munching--there is no other word for it!--her green barège veil, and i wondered, as i have often wondered before, how a woman really so clever could be content to pass so much of her time in the gathering and circulating of mere trivialities. i suppose that it is because there is so little in the village to appeal to the intellectual side of her, and her mind must be occupied. she might be a brilliant woman in a wider sphere. now she seems something like a beaver in captivity, building dams of hairbrushes and boots on a carpeted floor. i confess, too, that i wondered, as i looked at her, if she represented my future. i thought of cousin mehitable's doleful predictions of what i should come to if i stay in tuskamuck, and i tried to decide whether i should come in time to be like aunt naomi, a general carrier of news from house to house, an old maid aunt to the whole village, with no real kindred, and with no interests wider than those of village gossip. i cannot believe it, but i suppose at my age she would not have believed it of herself. "we're really getting to be quite like a city," aunt naomi said, with a grimness which showed me there was something important behind this enigmatic remark. "are we?" i responded. "i confess i don't see how." "humph!" she sniffed. "there's wickedness here that isn't generally looked for outside of the city." "oh, wickedness!" i said. "there is plenty of that everywhere, i suppose; but i never have thought we have more than our share of it." she wagged her foot more violently, and had what might have seemed a considerable lunch on her green veil before she spoke again--though it is wicked for me to make fun of her. then she took a fresh start. "what are you knitting?" she asked. "what started in january to be some mittens for the turner boy. he brings our milk, and he never seems to have mittens enough." "i don't wonder much," was her comment. "his mother has so many babies that she can't be expected to take care of them." "poor mrs. turner," i said. "i should think the poor thing would be discouraged. i am ashamed that i don't do more for her." "i don't see that you are called upon to take care of all the poor in the town; but if you could stop her increasing her family it'd be the best thing you could do." when aunt naomi makes a remark like this, i feel it is discreet to change the subject. "i hope that now the weather is getting milder," i observed, "you are not so cold in prayer-meetings." she was not diverted, even by this chance to dwell on her pet grievance, but went her own way. "i suppose you'll feel now you've got to look out for that brownrig girl, too," she said. "that brownrig girl?" i repeated. i tried not to show it, but the blood rushed to my heart and made me faint. i realized something terrible was coming, though i had nothing to go upon but the old gossip about tom and the fact that i had seen him come from the red house. "her sin has found her out," returned aunt naomi with indignant emphasis. "for my part, i don't see what such creatures are allowed to live for. think what kind of a mother she will make. they'd better take her and her baby and drown 'em along with her father and brother." "aunt naomi!" was all i could say. "well, i suppose you think i'm not very charitable, but it does make me mad to see that sort of trash"-- "i don't know what you are talking about," i interrupted. "has the brownrig girl a child?" "no; but she's going to have. her mother's gone off and left her, and she's down sick with pneumonia besides." "her mother has gone off?" "yes; and it'd be good riddance, if there was anybody to take care of the girl." it is useless to ask aunt naomi how she knows all that goes on in the town. she collects news from the air, i believe. i reflected that she is not always right, and i hoped now she might be mistaken. "but somebody must be with her if she's down with pneumonia," i said. "yes; that old bagley woman's there. the overseers of the poor sent her, but she's about twice as bad as nobody, i should think. if i was sick, and she came round, i know i'd ask her to go away, and let me die in peace." it was evident enough that aunt naomi was a good deal stirred up, but i did not dare to ask her why. if there is anything worse behind this scandal, i had rather not know it. we were fortunately interrupted, and aunt naomi went soon, so i heard no more. i was sick with the loathsomeness of having tom webbe connected in my thought with that wretched girl, and i do hope that it is only my foolishness. he cannot have fallen to such depths. march . i have heard no more from the brownrigs, and i must hope things were somehow not as aunt naomi thought. to-day i learned that she is shut up with a cold. i must go in to-morrow and see her. miss charlotte is a great comfort. the dear old soul begins really to look better, and the thinness about her lips is yielding to good feeding. she tells me stories of the old people of the town whom i can just remember, and she is full of reverence for both father and mother. of course i never talk theology with her, but i am surprised sometimes to find that under the shell of her orthodoxy is a good deal of liberalism. i suppose any kindly mortal who accepted the old creeds made allowances for those nearest and dearest, and human nature will always make allowances for itself. i should think that an imaginative belief in a creed, a belief that realized the cruelty of theology, must either drive one mad or make one disbelieve from simple horror. nobody but a savage could worship a relentless god and not become insane from the horror of being in the clutch of an implacable power. march . i have had a most painful visit from deacon webbe. he came in looking so gray and old that it shocked me to see him. he shook hands as if he did not know what he was doing, and then sat down in a dazed way, slowly twirling his hat and fixing his eyes on it as if he were blind. i tried to say something, but only stumbled on in little commonplaces about the weather, to which he paid so little attention that it was evident he had no idea what i was saying. in a minute or two i was reduced to silence. one cannot go on saying mechanical nothings in the face of suffering, and it was impossible not to see that deacon webbe was in grievous pain. "deacon webbe," i said at last, when i could not bear the silence any longer, "what is the matter?" he raised his eyes to mine with a look of pitiful helplessness. "i've no right to come to you, miss ruth," he said in his slow way, "but there's nobody else, and you always were tom's friend." "tom?" i repeated. "what has happened?" "it isn't a thing to talk to a woman about," he went on, "and you'll have to excuse me, miss ruth. i'm sure you will. it's that brownrig girl." i sat silent, and i felt my hands growing cold. "she's had a baby," he said after a moment. the simple bald fact was horrible as he said it. i could not speak, and after a little hesitation he continued in a tone so low i could scarcely hear him. "it's his. think of the shame of it and the sin of it. it seems to me, if it could only have been the lord's will, i would have been glad to die rather than to have this happen. my son!" the wail of his voice went to my heart and made me shiver. i would have given anything i possessed to comfort him, but what could i say? shame is worse than death. when one dies you can at least speak of the happiness that has been and the consolation of the memory of this. in disgrace whatever has been good before makes the shame only the harder to bear. what could i say to a father mourning the sin and the disgrace of his only son? it seemed to me a long time that we sat there silent. at last he said:-- "i didn't come just to make you feel bad, miss ruth. i want you to tell me what i ought to do, what i can do. i ought to do something to help the girl. bad as she is, she's sick, and she's a woman. i don't know where tom is, and i'm that baby's grandfather." his voice choked, but he went on. "of course i ought not to trouble you, but i don't know what to do, i don't know what to do. my wife"-- the poor old man stopped. he is not polished, but he has the instinct of a good man to screen his wife, and plainly was afraid he might say something which would seem to reflect on her. "my wife," he said, evidently changing the form of his words, "is dreadfully put out, as she naturally would be, and of course i don't like to talk much with her about it. i thought you might help me, miss ruth." never in my life have i felt more helpless. i tried to think clearly, but the only thing i could do was to try to comfort him. i have no remembrance of what i said, and i believe it made very little difference. what he wanted was sympathy. i had no counsel to give, but i think i sent deacon daniel away somewhat comforted. i could only advise him to wait and see what was needed. he of course must have thought of this himself, but he liked to have me agree with him and be good to him. he will do his duty, and what is more he will do his best, but he will do it with very little help from mrs. webbe, i am afraid. poor deacon daniel! i could have put my arms round his neck and kissed his weather-beaten cheek, but he would not have understood. i suppose he would have been frightened half out of his wits, and very likely would have thought that i had suddenly gone mad. it is so hard to comfort a slow-minded person; he cannot see what you mean by a caress. yet i hope that deacon daniel went away somewhat heartened. oh, if tom could only realize the sorrow i saw in his father's eyes, i think he would have his punishment. march . when deacon webbe said last night that he did not know where tom was, i thought for just a moment of the sealed address tom left me. i was so taken up with pity, however, that the thought passed from my mind. after the deacon was gone i wondered whether i should have spoken of the letter; but it seemed to me that it was better to have said nothing. i thought i should open it before saying anything; and i needed to consider whether the time had come when i was justified in reading it. tom trusted me, and i was bound by that; yet surely he ought to be told the state of things. it was imperative that he should know about the poor girl. i have never been able to be sure why he did not let his family know where he was, but i fear he may have quarreled with them. now he must be told. oh, it is such wretched business, so sad and dreadful! i went upstairs after thinking by the fire until it had burned to embers, and indeed until the very ashes were cold. i took out tom's letter, and for a moment i was half sick at the thought that he had degraded himself so. it seemed almost as if in holding his letter i was touching her, and i would gladly have thrown it in the fire unopened. then i was ashamed to be so squeamish and so uncharitable, and realized how foolish i was. the sealed envelope had in it a card with tom's address in new york, and this note:-- "if you open this it must mean that you know. i have nothing to say in my own defense that you could understand; only this is true, ruth: i have never really cared for any woman in the world but you. you will not believe it, and you will not be likely to find it very easy to forgive me for saying it now, but it is true. i never knew better how completely you have possession of me than i do just at this moment, when i know i am writing what you will read hating me. no, i suppose you can't really hate anybody; but you must despise me, and it is an insult for me to say i love you. but i have loved you all my life, and i cannot help it. i shall go on till i die, even if you do not speak to me again in my whole life. do not make me come home unless i must. forgive me, if you can." the note had neither end nor beginning. i was so overcome by it all, by the pity of it, that i could not trust myself to think. i sat down and wrote to tom just this message, without salutation or signature:-- "your father has been here to see me. the brownrig girl is ill of pneumonia. her baby was born night before last, and is alive." i sent this off to-day. what he will do i cannot tell. i cannot even be sure what he ought to do, and i had no right to urge him to come or to stay away. certainly for him to marry that outcast creature seems impossible; but if he does not the baby must go through life with a brand of shame on her. the world is so cruel to illegitimate children! perhaps it has to be; at least father believed that the only preservation of society lay in this severity; but i am a woman, and i think of the children, who are not to blame. things are so tangled up in human relations that one thread cannot be drawn taut without bringing about tragedies on other lines. yet to marry this girl--oh, it is not possible! to think of tom webbe's living in the same house with that dreadful creature, of his having it known that he had married such a woman-- it is horrible, whichever way i look at it. i cannot be kind in my thoughts to one of them without being cruel to the other. i am so thankful that i have not to decide. i know i should be too weak to be just, and then i should be always unhappy at the wrong i had done. now, whatever i was called upon to take the responsibility of was done when i had written to tom. iv april april . when a new month comes in it always seems as if something should happen. the divisions of time do not appeal to the feelings as simple arbitrary conveniences, but as real endings and beginnings; so the fancy demands that the old order shall end and some better, new fashion begin. i suppose everybody has had the vague sense of disappointment that the new month or the new year is so like the one before. i used to feel this very strongly as a child, though never unhappily. it was a disappointment, but as all times were happy times, the disappointment was not bitter. the thought is in my mind to-night because i am troubled, and because i would so gladly leave the fret and worry behind, to begin afresh with the new month. the thought of tom and his trouble weighs on me so that i have been miserable all day. miss charlotte has not been here this week. her beloved plants need attention, and she is doing mysterious things with clippers and trowels, selecting bulbs, sorting out seeds, making plans for her garden beds, and working herself into a delightful fever of excitement over the coming glories of her garden. it is really rather early, i think, but in her impatience she cannot wait. her flowers are her children, and all her affection for family and kin, having nothing nearer to cling to, is lavished on them. it is so fortunate that she has this taste. i cannot help to-day feeling so old and lonely that i could almost envy her her fondness for gardening. i must cultivate a taste for something, if it is only for cats. i wonder how peter would like to have me set up an asylum for crippled and impoverished tabbies! over and over again i have asked myself what i can do to help deacon webbe, but i have found no answer. one of the hardest things in life is to see our friends bear the consequences of their mistakes. deacon daniel is suffering for the way he brought tom up, and yet he has done as well as he was able. father used to say what i declared was a hard saying, and which was the harder because in my heart of hearts i could never with any success dispute it. "you cannot wisely help anybody until you are willing not to interfere with the discipline that life and nature give," he said. "you would not offer to take a child's medicine for it; why should you try to bear the brunt of a friend's suffering when it comes from his own fault? that is nature's medicine." i remember that once i answered i would very gladly take a child's medicine for it if i could, and father laughed and pinched my ear. "don't try to be providence," he said. i would like to be providence for deacon webbe and tom now,--and for the girl, too. it makes me shiver to think of her, and if i had to see or to touch her, it would be more than i could endure. this moralizing shows that i am low in my mind. i have been so out of sorts that i was completely out of key to-day with george. i have had to see him often about the estate, but he has seemed always anxious to get away as quickly as possible. to-day he lingered almost in the old fashion; and i somehow found him altered. he is--i cannot tell how he is changed, but he is. he has a manner less-- it is time to stop writing when i own the trouble to be my own wrong-headedness and then go on to set down imaginary faults in my neighbors. april . i am beset with deacons lately. deacon richards has been here for an hour, and he has left me so restless that i may as well try to write myself into calmness. deacon richards never seems so big as when he stands talking with me, looking down on the top of my head, with his great bald forehead looming above his keen eyes like a mountain-top. i always get him seated as soon as i can, and he likes to sit in father's wide arm-chair. one of the things that i like best about him is that, brusque and queer as he is, he never takes that seat until he has been especially asked. then as he sits down he says always, with a little softening of his great voice,-- "this was your father's chair." he has never been out of tuskamuck a fortnight, i dare say; but there is something about this simple speech, ready for it as i of course always am, that almost brings the tears to my eyes. he is country born and country bred, but the delicacy of the courtesy underlying his brusqueness is pure gold. what nonsense it is for cousin mehitable to insist that we are too countrified to have any gentlemen! she does not appreciate the old new england stock. what deacon daniel wanted i could not imagine, but while we were talking of the weather and the common things of the day i could see that he was preparing to say something. he has a wonderful smile when he chooses to show it. it always reminds me of the picture one sees sometimes of a genial face peering from behind a glum mask. when i teased him about the vestry fires, he only grinned; but his grin is to his smile as the smell of peppermint to that of a rose. he amused me by his comments of aunt naomi. "she runs after gossip," he said, "just as a kitten runs after its tail. it doesn't mean anything, but it must do something." "she is a shrewd creature," i answered. "it is absurd enough to compare anybody so decorous to a kitten." "aunt naomi's nobody's fool," was his response. "she sent me here to-night." "sent you here?" i echoed. his face grew suddenly grave. "i don't know how this thing will strike you, miss ruth," he said explosively. "it seems to me all wrong. the fact is," he added more calmly, but with the air of meaning to have a disagreeable thing over, "it's about the brownrig girl. you know about her, and that she is very sick." "yes," i said. he stretched out his large hand toward the fire in a way that showed he was not at ease. i could not help noticing the difference between the hand of this deacon daniel and that of the other. deacon webbe is a farmer, and has a farmer's hand. deacon richards has the white hand of a miller. "i don't see myself," he said grimly, looking into the coals, "that there is likely to be anything contagious in her wickedness, but none of the women are willing to go near her. i should think she'd serve pretty well as a warning. the overseers of the poor 've sent old marm bagley to nurse her, and that seems to be their part; but who's to look out that marm bagley doesn't keep drunk all the time's more than i can see." he sniffed scornfully, as if his opinion of women was far from flattering. "how did you know about it?" i asked. "job pearson--he's one of the overseers--came to see if there wasn't somebody the church could send down. i went to aunt naomi, but she couldn't think of anybody. she's housed with a cold, and she wouldn't be the one to go into a sick-room anyway." "and she sent you here?" he turned to me with the smile which i can never resist. "the truth is," he answered, "that when there's nothing else to do we all come to you, miss ruth." "but what can i do?" "that is what i came to see." "did you expect me to go down and nurse the girl?" he looked at me with a shrewd twinkle in his eye, and for a moment said nothing. "i just expected if there was anything possible to be done you'd think of it," he replied. i thought for a moment, and then i told him i would write to cousin mehitable to send down a trained nurse from boston. "the overseers won't pay her," he commented with a grin. "perhaps you will," i returned, knowing perfectly that he was trying to tease. "it will take several days at least to get her here." we considered for a little in silence. i do not know what passed through his mind, but i thought with a positive sickening of soul of being under the same roof with that girl. i knew that it must be done, though; and, simply to be rid of the dread of it, i said as steadily as i could,-- "i will go down in the morning." and so it has come about that i am to be nurse to the brownrig girl and to tom webbe's baby. april . the last four days have been so full and so exhausting that there has been no time for scribbling in diaries. like pepys i have now to write up the interval, although i cannot bring myself to his way of dating things as if he always wrote on the very day on which they happened. father used to laugh at me because i always insisted that it was not honest of pepys to put down one date when he really wrote on another. tuesday forenoon i went down to the brownrig house. i had promised myself not to let the sick girl see how i shrank from her, but i had a sensation of sickening repugnance almost physical. when i got to the red house i was so ashamed of myself that i forgot everything else. the girl was so sick, the place so cheerless, so dirty, so poverty-stricken; she was so dreadful to look at, with her tangled black hair, her hot cheeks, her fierce eyes; everything was so miserable and dreadful, that i could have cried with pity. julia was in a bed so dirty that it would have driven me to distraction; the pillow-slip was ragged, and the comforter torn in great places, as if a wild cat had clawed it. marm bagley was swaying back and forth in an old broken rocking-chair, smoking a black pipe, which perhaps she thought fumigated the foul air of the sick-room. she had the appearance of paying very little attention to the patient and none at all to the baby, which wailed incessantly from a shabby clothes-basket in a corner. the whole scene was so sordid, so pitiful, so hopeless, that i could think only of the misery, and so forget my shrinking and dread. a munson boy, that the overseers of the poor had sent down, was chopping wood in the yard, and i dispatched him to the house for hannah and clean linen, while i tried to get marm bagley to attend to the baby and to help me to put things to rights a little. she smelled of spirits like another sairey gamp, and her wits did not appear to be entirely steady. after i found her holding the baby under her arm literally upside down, while she prepared its food, i decided that unless i wished to run the risk of being held as accessory to the murder of the infant, i had better look after it myself. "can't you pick up the room a little while i feed the baby?" i asked. "don't see no use of clearing up none," she said. "'tain't time for the funeral yet." this, i suppose, was some sort of an attempt at a rudimentary joke, but it was a most ghastly one. i looked at the sick girl to see if she heard and understood. it was evident that she had, but it seemed to me that she did not care. i went to the bedside. "i ought to have spoken to you when i came in," i said, "but your eyes were shut, and i thought you might be asleep. i am miss privet, and i have come to help mrs. bagley take care of you till a regular nurse can get here from boston." she looked at me with a strange sparkle in her eyes. "from boston?" she repeated. "yes," i said. "i have sent to my cousin to get a regular trained nurse." she stared at me with her piercing eyes opened to their fullest extent. "do they train 'em?" she asked. "yes," i told her. "a trained nurse is almost as good as a doctor." "then i shall get well?" she demanded eagerly. "she'll get me well?" "i hope so," i said, with as much of a smile as i could muster when i wanted to cry. "and before she comes we must clear up a little." i began to do what i could about the room without making too much bustle. the girl watched me with eager eyes, and at last, as i came near the bed, she asked suddenly,-- "did he send you?" i felt myself growing flushed, though there was no reason for it. "deacon richards asked me to come," i answered. "i don't know him," she commented, evidently confused. "is he overseer?" i hushed her, and went on with my work, for i wanted to think what i had better tell her. of course marm bagley was of no use, but when hannah came things went better. hannah was scandalized at my being there at all, and of course would not hear of my doing the rough work. she took possession of mrs. bagley, and ordered her about with a vigor which completely dazed that unsatisfactory person, and amused me so much that my disturbed spirits rose once more. this was all very well as long as it lasted, but hannah had to go home for dinner, and when the restraint of her presence was removed marm bagley reasserted herself. she tied a frowzy bonnet over a still more frowzy head, lighted her pipe, and departed for the woods behind the house. "when that impudent old hired girl o' yours's got all through and got out," she remarked, "you can hang a towel out the shed winder, and i'll come back. i ain't got no occasion to stay here and git ordered round by no hired girl of anybody's." my remonstrances were of no avail, since i would not promise not to let hannah come into the house, and the fat old woman waddled away into the seclusion of the woods. i suppose she slept somewhere, though the woods must be so damp that the indulgence seems rather a dangerous one; but at nightfall she returned more odorous, and more like sairey gamp than ever. hannah came back, and we did what we could. when dr. wentworth came in the afternoon he allowed us to get julia into clean linen, and she did seem grateful for the comfort of fresh sheets and pillow-slips. it amused me that hannah had not only taken the servants' bedding, but had picked out the oldest. "i took the wornest ones," she explained. "of course we wouldn't any of us ever want to sleep in them again." she was really shocked at my proposing to remain for the night. "it ain't for you, miss ruth, to be taking care of such folks," she declared; "and as for that bagley woman, i'd as soon have a bushel basket of cockroaches in the house as her, any time." even this lively image did not do away with the necessity of my remaining. i could not propose to hannah to take my place. the mere fact of being mistress often forces one to do things which servants would feel insulted if asked to undertake. father used to say, "remember that _noblesse oblige_ does not exist in the kitchen;" though of course this is true only in a sense. servants have their own ideas of what is due to position, i am sure; only that their ideas are so different, and often so funnily different, from ours. i could not leave the sick girl to the mercies of mrs. bagley, and so i had no choice but to stay. all day long julia watched me with a closeness most strangely disconcerting. she evidently could not make out why i was there. in the evening, as i sat by her, she said suddenly,-- "i dunno what you think yer'll get by it." "get by what?" "bein' here." i smiled at her manner, and told her that at least i had already got the satisfaction of seeing her more comfortable. she made no reply for a time, but evidently was considering the matter. i did not think it well for her to talk, so i sat knitting quietly, while mrs. bagley loomed in the background, rocking creakingly. "'twon't please him none," she said at last. "he don't care a damn for me." i tried to take this without showing that i understood it. "i'm not trying to please anybody," i responded. "when a neighbor is sick and needs help, of course anybody would come." "humph! folks hain't been so awful anxious to help me." "there is a good deal of sickness in town," i explained. "'tain't nobody's business to come, anyhow," commented mrs. bagley dispassionately. "there's precious few'd come if 'twas," the girl muttered. "has anybody been to see you?" i asked. the brownrig girl turned her fierce eyes up to me with a look which made me think of some wild bird hurt and caged. "one old woman that sat and chewed her veil and swung her foot at me. she never come but once." i had no difficulty in recognizing this portrait, even without mrs. bagley's explanatory comment. "that was aunt naomi dexter," she remarked. "she's always poking round." "miss dexter is one of the kindest women alive," i said, "though she is a little odd in her manner sometimes." "she said she hoped i'd found things bad enough to give me a hankerin' for something better," went on julia with increasing bitterness. "god! how does she think i'd get anything better? what does she know about it, anyway?" "there, there, jule," interposed mrs. bagley in a sort of professional tone, "now don't go to gettin' excited and rampageous. you know she brought you some rippin' flannel for the baby. them pious folks has to talk, but, lord, nobody minds it, and you hadn't ought ter. they don't really mean nothing much." it seemed to be time to interpose, and i forbade julia to talk, sent mrs. bagley off to sleep in the one other bedroom, and settled down for the night's watching. the patient fell asleep at last, and i was left to care for the fire and the poor little pathetic, forlorn, dreadful baby. the child was swathed in aunt naomi's "rippin' flannel," and i fell into baffling reflections in regard to human life. after all, i had no right to judge this poor broken girl lying there much more in danger than she could dream. what do i know of the intolerable life that has not self-respect, not even cleanliness of mind or body? society and morality have so fenced us about and so guarded us that we have rather to try to get outside than to struggle to keep in; and what do we know of the poor wretches fighting for life with wild beasts in the open? i am so glad i do not believe that sin is what one actually does, but is the proportion between deeds and opportunity. how carefully father explained this to me when i was not much more than a child, and how strange it is that so many people cannot seem to understand it! if i thought the moral law an inflexible thing like a human statute, for which one was held responsible arbitrarily and whether he knows the law or not, i should never be able to endure the sense of injustice. of course men have to be arbitrary, because they can see only tangible things and must judge by outward acts; but if this were true of a deity he would cease to be a deity at all, and be simply a man with unlimited power to do harm. april . i found myself so running aground last night in metaphysics that it seemed just as well to go to bed, diary or no diary. i was besides too tired to write down my interview with mrs. webbe. i was just about to go home for a bath and a nap after watching that first night, when, without even knocking, mrs. deacon webbe opened the outside door. i was in the kitchen, and so met her before she got further. naturally i was surprised to see her at six o'clock in the day. "good-morning," i said. "i knew you were here yesterday," she said by way of return for my greeting, "but i thought i'd get here before you came back this morning." "i have been here all night," i answered. she looked at me with her piercing black eyes, which always seem to go into the very recesses of one's thoughts, and then, in a manner rather less aggressive, remarked,-- "i've come to speak to this brownrig girl. you know well enough why." "i'm afraid you can't see her," i answered, ignoring the latter part of her words. "she is not so well this morning, and dr. wentworth told us to keep her as quiet as possible." mrs. webbe leaned forward with an expression on her face which made me look away. "is she going to die?" she demanded. i turned away, and began to close the door. i could not bear her manner. she has too much cause to hate the girl, but just then, with the poor thing sick to the very point of death, i could never have felt as she looked. "i'm sure i hope not," i returned. "we expect to have a professional nurse to-morrow, and then things will go better." "a professional nurse?" "yes; we have sent to boston for one." "sent to boston for a nurse for that creature? she's a great deal better dead! she only leads men"-- "if you will excuse me, mrs. webbe," interrupted i, pushing the door still nearer to closing, "i ought to go back to my patient. it isn't my business to decide who had better be dead." she started forward suddenly, taking me unawares, and before i understood what she intended, she had thrust herself through the door into the house. "if it isn't your business," she demanded sharply, "what are you here for? what right have you to interfere? if providence is willing to take the creature out of the way, what are you trying to keep her alive for?" i put up my hand and stopped her. "will you be quiet?" i said. "i cannot have her disturbed." "you cannot!" she repeated, raising her voice. "who gave you a right to order me round, ruth privet? is this your house?" i knew that her shrill voice would easily penetrate to julia's bedroom, and indeed there was only a thin door between the sick girl and the kitchen where we were. i took mrs. webbe by the wrist as strongly as i could, and before she could collect her wits, i led her out of the house, and down to the gate. "what are you doing?" she demanded. "how dare you drag me about?" "i beg your pardon," i said, dropping my hold. "i think you did not understand, mrs. webbe, that as nurse i cannot have my patient excited." she looked at me in a blaze of anger. i have never seen a woman so carried away by rage, and it is frightful. yet she seemed to be making an effort to control herself. i was anxious to help her if i could, so i forced a smile, although i am afraid it was not a very warm one, and i assumed as conciliatory a manner as i could muster. "you must think i was rather abrupt," i said, "but i did not mean to be. i couldn't explain to you in the kitchen, the partition is so thin. you see she's in the room that opens out of it." mrs. webbe softened somewhat. "it is very noble of you to be here," she said in a new tone, and one which i must confess did not to me have a genuine ring; "it's splendid of you, but what's the use of it? what affair of yours is it, anyway?" i was tempted to serve her up a quotation about a certain man who went down to jericho and fell among thieves, but i resisted. "i could come, mrs. webbe, and apparently nobody else could." "they wouldn't," she rejoined frankly. "don't you see everybody else knew it was a case to be let alone?" i asked her why. "everybody felt as if it was," responded she quickly. "i hope you don't set up to be wiser than everybody else put together." "i don't set up for anything," i declared, "but i may as well confess that i see no sense in what you say. here's a human creature that needs help, and it seems to be my place to help her." "it's a nice occupation for the daughter of judge privet to be nursing a disreputable thing like a brownrig." "a privet," i answered, "is likely to be able to stand it. you wouldn't let the girl die alone, would you?" "she wasn't alone. mrs. bagley was here." "you wouldn't let her die with mrs. bagley, then?" mrs. webbe looked me straight in the eye for a moment, with a look as hard as polished steel. "yes," she said, "i would." i could only stare at her in silence. "there," she went on, "make the best of that. i'm not going to be mealy-mouthed. i would let her die, and be glad of it. why should i want her alive? do you think i've no human feelings? do you think i'd ever forgive her for dragging tom into the mud? i've been on my knees half the night praying she and her brat might both die and leave us in peace! if there's any justice in heaven, a man like deacon webbe won't be loaded down with the disgrace of a grandchild like that." there was a sort of fascination in her growing wildness. everybody knows how she sneers at the meekness of her husband, and that she is continually saying he hasn't any force, but here she was catching at his goodness as a sort of bribe to heaven to let her have the life of mother and child. i could not answer her, but could only be thankful no houses were near. mrs. bagley would hear, i supposed, but that could not be helped. "what do you know about how i feel?" she demanded, swooping down upon me so that i involuntarily shrank back against the fence. "it is all very pretty for you to have ideas of charity, and play at taking care of the sick. i dare say you mean well enough, miss privet, but this isn't a case for you. go home, and let providence take care of that girl. god'll look after her!" i stood up straight, and faced her in my turn. "stop!" i cried. "i'm not a believer in half the things you are, but i do have some respect for the name of god. if you mean to kill this girl, don't try to lay the blame on providence!" she shrank as if i had struck her; then she rallied again with a sneer. "i think i know better than an atheist what it is right to say about my own religion," was her retort. somehow the words appealed to my sense of humor, and unconsciously i smiled. "well," i said, "we will not dispute about words. only i think you had better go now." perhaps my slight smile vexed her; perhaps it was only that she saw i was off my guard. she turned quickly, and before i had any notion of what she intended, she had run swiftly up the path to the house. i followed instantly. the idea of having a personal encounter with mrs. webbe was shocking, but i could not let her go to trouble julia without making an effort to stop her. i thought i might reach the door first, but she was too quick for me. before i could prevent her, she had crossed the kitchen and opened the door of the sick-room. i followed, and we came almost together into the room, although she was a few steps in advance. she went hastily to the bed. julia had been awakened by the noise, and stared at mrs. webbe in a fright. "oh, here you are, are you?" mrs. webbe began. "how did you dare to say that my son was the father of your brat? i'd like to have you whipped, you nasty slut!" "mrs. webbe," i said resolutely, "if you do not leave the house instantly, i will have you arrested before the sun goes down." she was diverted from her attack upon julia, and wheeled round to me. "arrested!" she echoed. "you can't do it." "i can do it, and you know me well enough to know that if i say it, i mean it. i'm not a lawyer's daughter for nothing. go out of the house this instant, and leave that sick girl alone. do you want to kill her?" she blazed at me with eyes that might have put me to flight if i had had only myself to defend. "do you think i want her to live? i told you once she ought to be out of the way. do you think you are doing a favor to tom by keeping this disreputable thing alive?" i took her by the wrist again. "you had better go," i said. "you heard what i said. i mean it." i confess that now i consider it all, the threat to have her arrested seems rather silly, and i do not see how i could well have carried it out. at the moment it appeared to me the simplest thing in the world, and at least it effected my purpose to frighten mrs. webbe with the law. she turned slowly toward the door, but as she went she looked over her shoulder at julia. "you are a nice thing to try to keep alive," she sneered. "the doctor says you haven't a chance, and you'd better be making your peace with god. i wouldn't have your heap of sins on my head for anything." i put my hand over her lips. "mrs. bagley," i said, "take her other arm." mrs. bagley, who had apparently been too confused to understand what was going on, and had stood with her mouth wide open in blear-eyed astonishment, did as i commanded, and we led mrs. webbe out of the room. i motioned mrs. bagley back into the bedroom to look after julia, and shut the door behind her. then i took mrs. webbe by the shoulders and looked her in the face. "i had rather have that girl's sins on my head than yours," i said. "you came here with murder in your heart, and you would be glad to kill her outright, if you dared. if you have not murdered her as it is, you may be thankful." i felt as if i was as much of a shrew as she, but something had to be done. she looked as if she were as much astonished as impressed, but she went. only at the door she turned back to say,-- "i'll come again to see my grandchild." after that i hardly dared to leave the house, but i got hannah to stand guard while i was at home. she has a deep-seated dislike for mrs. webbe, and i fear would greatly have enjoyed an encounter with her; but mrs. webbe did not return. now that i go over it all, i seem to have been engaged in a disreputable squabble, but i do not see what else there was for me to do. julia was so terrified and excited that i had to send for dr. wentworth as soon as i could find anybody to go. i set mrs. bagley to watch for a passer, and she took her pipe and went placidly to sleep before the door. i had to be with julia, yet keep running out to spy for a messenger, and it was an hour before i caught one. by the time the doctor got to us the girl was in hysterics, declaring she did not want to die, she did not dare to die, could not, would not die. all that day she was constantly starting out of her sleep with a cry; and by the time night had come, i began to feel that mrs. webbe would have her wish. april . that night was a dreadful one to me. the nurse from boston had not come, and i could not leave the girl alone with mrs. bagley. indeed marm bagley seemed more and more inefficient. i think she took advantage of the fact that she no longer felt any responsibility. the smell of spirits and tobacco about her grew continually stronger, and i was kept from sending her away altogether only by the fact that it did not seem right for me to be alone with julia. no house is near, and if anything happened in the night i should have been without help. julia was evidently worse. the excitement of mrs. webbe's visit had told on her, and whenever she went to sleep she began to cry out in a way that was most painful. about the middle of the night, that dreadfully forlorn time when the day that is past has utterly died out and nothing shows the hope of another to come, julia woke moaning and crying. she started up in bed, her eyes really terrible to see, her cheeks crimson with fever, and her black hair tangled all about her face. "oh, i am dying!" she shrieked. for the instant i thought that she was right, and it was dreadful to hear her. "i shall die and go to hell!" she cried. "oh, pray! pray!" i caught at my scattered wits and tried to soothe her. she clung to me as if she were in the greatest physical terror. "i am dying!" she kept repeating. "oh, can't you do something for me? can't you save me? oh, i can't die! i can't die!" she was so wild that her screams awakened mrs. bagley, who came running in half dressed, as she had lain down for the night. "lawk-a-marcy, child," she said, coming up to the bed, "if you was dying do you think you'd have strength to holler like that?" the rough question had more effect than my efforts to calm the girl. she sank back on the pillow, sobbing, and staring at mrs. bagley. "i ain't got no strength," she insisted. "i know i'm goin' to die right away." "nonsense, jule," was mrs. bagley's response. "i know when folks is dyin', i guess. i've seen enough of 'um. you're all right if you'll stop actin' like a blame fool." i see now that this was exactly the way in which the girl needed to be talked to. it was her own language, and she understood it. at the time it seemed to me brutal, and i interposed. "there, mrs. bagley," i said as soothingly as i could, "you are rather hard on julia. she is too sick to be talked to so." marm bagley sniffed contemptuously, and after looking at us a moment, apparently decided that the emergency was not of enough importance to keep her from her rest, so she returned to her interrupted slumbers. i comforted my patient as well as i could, and fortunately she was not again violent. still she moaned and cried, and kept urging me to pray for her. "pray for me! pray for me!" she kept repeating. "oh, can't you pray and keep me from hell, miss ruth?" there was but one thing to be done. if prayer was the thing which would comfort her, evidently i ought to pray with her. "i will pray if you will be quiet," i said. "i cannot if you go on like this." "i'll be still, i'll be still," she cried eagerly. "only pray quick!" i kneeled down by the bed and repeated the lord's prayer as slowly and as impressively as i could. the girl, who seemed to regard it as a sort of spell against invisible terrors, clutched my hand with a desperate grasp, but as i went on the pressure of her hot fingers relaxed. before i had finished she had fallen asleep as abruptly as she had awakened. i sat watching her, thinking what a strange thing is this belief in prayer. the words i had said are beautiful, but i do not suppose this made an impression on julia. to her the prayer was a fetich, a spell to ward her soul from the dark terrors of satan, a charm against the powers of the air. i wondered if i should be happier if i could share this belief in the power of men to move the unseen by supplication, but i reflected that this would imply the continual discomfort of believing in invisible beings who would do me harm unless properly placated, and i was glad to be as i am. the faith of some christians is so noble, so sweet, so tender, that it is not always easy to realize how narrowing are the conditions of mind which make it possible. when one sees the crude superstition of a creature like julia, it is not difficult to be glad to be above a feeling so ignorant and degrading; when i see the beautiful tenderness of religion in its best aspect i am glad it can be so fine and so comforting, but i am glad i am not limited in that way. my prayer with julia had one unexpected result. while i was at home in the morning mr. thurston came to see her. the visit was most kind, and i think it did her good. "he did some real praying," mrs. bagley explained to me afterward. "course jule'd rather have that." my efforts in the devotional line had more effect, so far as i could judge, upon mr. thurston than upon julia. i met him when i was going back to the house, and he stopped me with an expression of gladness and triumph in his face. "my dear miss privet," he said, "i am so glad that at last you have come to realize the efficacy of prayer." i was so astonished at the remark that for the moment i did not realize what he meant. "i don't understand," i said, stupidly enough. my look perhaps confused him a little, and his face lost something of its brightness. "that poor girl told me of your praying with her last night, when she thought she was dying." "yes," i repeated, before i realized what i was saying, "she thought she was dying." then i reflected that it was useless to hurt his feelings, and i did not explain. i could not wound him by saying that if julia had wanted me to repeat a gypsy charm and i had known one i should have done it in the same spirit. i wanted to make the poor demented thing comfortable, and if a prayer could soothe her there was no reason why i should not say one. people think because i do not believe in it i have a prejudice against prayer; but really i think there is something touching and noble in the attitude of a mind that can in sincerity and in faith give itself up to an ideal, as one must in praying. it seems to me a pathetic mistake, but i can appreciate the good side of it; only to suppose that i believe because i said a prayer to please a frightened sick girl is absurd. it is well that we are not read by others, for our thoughts would often be too disconcerting. poor mr. thurston would have been dreadfully horrified if he had realized i was thinking as we stood there how like my saying this prayer for julia was to my ministering to rosa's chilblains. she believes that crosses cut out of a leaf of the bible and stuck on her feet take away the soreness, but she regards it as wicked to cut up a bible. i have an old one that i keep for the purpose, and she comes to me every winter for a supply. we began at the end, and are going backwards. revelation is about used up now. she evidently thinks that as i am a heretic anyway, the extra condemnation which must come from my act will make no especial difference, and i am entirely willing to run the risk. still, it is better mr. thurston did not read my thought. "i wish you might be brought into the fold," the clergyman said after a moment of silence. i could only thank him, and go on my way. april . yesterday the new nurse, miss dyer, arrived, and great is the comfort of having her here. she is a plain, simple body, in her neat uniform, rather colorless except for her snapping black eyes. her eyes are interestingly at variance with the calmness of her demeanor, and give one the impression that there is a volcano somewhere within. she interests me much,--largely, i fancy, from the suggestion about her of having had a history. she is swift and yet silent in her motions, and understands what she has to do so well that i felt like an awkward novice beside her. she disposed of mrs. bagley with a turn of the hand, as it were, somehow managing that the frowzy old woman was out of the house within an hour, with her belongings, pipe and all, yet without any fuss or any contention. mrs. bagley had the appearance of being too dazed to be angry, although i fancy when she has had time to think matters over she will be indignantly wrathful at having been so summarily expelled. "i pity you more for having that sort of a woman in the house than for having to take care of the patient, miss privet," miss dyer said. "i don't see what the lord permits such folks in the world for, without it is to sharpen up our christian charity." "she would sharpen mine into vinegar, i'm afraid," i answered, laughing. "i confess it has been about all i could do to stay in the house with her." to-night i can sleep peacefully in my own bed, secure that julia is well taken care of. the girl seems to me to be worse instead of better, and dr. wentworth does not give much encouragement. i suppose it is better for her to die, but it is cruel that she wants so to live. she is horribly afraid of death, and she wants so much to live that it is pitiful to reflect it is possible she may not. what is there she can hope for? she does not seem to care for the child. this is because she is so ill, i think, for anybody must be touched by the helplessness of the little blinking, pink thing. it is like a little mouse i saw in my childhood, and which made a great impression on me. that was naked of hair, just so wrinkled, so pink, so blinking. it was not in the least pretty, any more than the baby is; but somehow it touched all the tenderness there was in me, and i cried for days because hannah gave it to the cat. i feel much in the same way about this baby. i have not the least feeling toward it as a human being, i am afraid. to me it is just embodied babyhood, just a little pink, helpless, palpitating bunch of pitifulness. april . miss dyer came just in time. i could not have gone through to-night without her, i think. i could not have stayed quiet by julia's beside, although i am as far as possible from being able to sleep. to-night, just as the evening was falling, and i was almost ready to come home, i heard a knock at the door. miss dyer was in the room with julia, so i answered the knock myself. i opened the door to find myself face to face with tom webbe. the shock of seeing his white face staring at me out of the dusk was so great that i had to steady myself against the door-post. he did not put out his hand, but greeted me only by taking off his hat. "father said you were here," he began, in a strained voice. "yes," i answered, feeling my throat contract; "i am here now, but i am going home soon." i was so moved and so confused that i could not think. i had longed for him to come; i could not have borne that he should have been so base as not to come; and yet now that he was here i would have given anything to have him away. he had to come; he had to bear his part of the consequences of wrong, but it was horrible to me for him to be so near that dreadful girl, and it was worse because i pitied her, because she was so helpless, so pathetic, so near even to death. we stood in the dusk for what seemed to me a long time without further speech. tom must have found it hard to know what to say at such a time. he looked at me with a sort of wild desperation. then he cleared his throat, and moistened his lips. "i have come," he said. "what do you want me to do?" i could not bear to have him seem to put the responsibility on me. "i did not send for you," i answered quickly. he gave me the wan ghost of a smile. "do you suppose that i should have come of myself?" he returned. "what shall i do?" i would not take the burden. the decision must be his. "you must do what you think right," i said. then i added, with a queer feeling as if i were thinking aloud, "what you think right to her and to--to the baby." his face darkened, and i was glad that i had not said "your baby." i understood it was natural for him to look angry at the thought of the child, the unwelcome and unwitting betrayer of what he would have kept hidden; and yet somehow i resented his look. "the baby is not to blame, tom," i said. "it has every right to blame you." "to blame me?" he repeated. "if it has to bear a shame all its life, whose fault is it, its own or yours? if it has been born to a life like that of its mother, it certainly has no occasion to thank you." he turned his flushed and shamed face away from me, and looked out into the darkening sky. i could see how he was holding himself in check, and that it was hard for him. i hated to be there, to be seeing him, to be talking over a matter that it was intolerable even to think about; but since i was there, i wanted to help him,--only i did not know how. i wanted to give him my hand, but i somehow shrank from touching his. i felt as if it was wicked and cruel to hold back, but between us came continually the consciousness of julia and that little red baby sleeping in the clothes-basket. i am humiliated now to think of it, but the truth is that i was a brute to tom. suddenly tom turned for a moment toward the west, so that the little lingering light of the dying day fell on his face, and i saw by his set lips and the look in his eyes that he had come to some determination. then he faced me slowly. "ruth," he said, "i would go down into hell for you, and i'm going to do something that is worse. what's past, it's no use to make excuses for, and you're too good to understand if i told you how i got into this foul mess. now"-- he stopped, with a catch in his voice, and i wanted more than i can tell to say something to help him, but no words came. i could not think; i wanted to comfort him as i comfort kathie when she is desperate. the evident difficulty he had in keeping his self-control moved me more than anything he could have said. "i'll marry the girl," he burst out in a moment. "you are right about the baby. it's no matter about jule. she isn't of any account anyway, and she never expected me to marry her. i'll never see her after she's--after i've done it. it makes me sick to think of her, but i'll do what i can for the baby." he stopped, and caught his breath. i could feel in the dusk, rather than see, that he looked up, as if he were trying to read my face in the darkness. "i will marry her," he went on, "on one condition." "what is that?" i asked, with my throat so dry that it ached. "that you will take the child." i think now that we must both have spoken like puppets talking by machinery. i hardly seemed to myself to be alive and real, but this proposition awoke me like a blow. i could at first only gasp, too much overcome to bring out a word. "but its mother?" i managed to stammer at last. "if i'm to marry her for the sake of the child," he answered in a voice i hardly recognized, "it would be perfect tomfoolery to leave it to grow up with the brownrigs. if that's to be the plan, i'll save myself. jule doesn't mind not being married. you don't know what a tribe the brownrigs are. it's an insult for me to be talking to you about them, only it can't be helped. is it a boy or a girl?" i told him. "and you think a girl ought to be left to follow the noble example of the mother!" "oh no, no!" i cried out. "anything is better than that." "that is what must happen unless you take the poor thing," he said in a voice which, though it was hard, seemed somehow to have a quiver in it. "but would she give the baby up?" i asked. "she's its mother." "jule? she'll be only too glad to get rid of it. anyway she'd do what i told her to." i tried to think clearly and quickly. to have the baby left to follow in the steps of its mother was a thing too terrible to be endured, and yet i shrank selfishly from taking upon my shoulders the responsibility of training the child. whatever tom decided about the marriage, however, i felt that he should not have to resolve under pressure. if he were doing it for the sake of the baby's future, i could clear his way of that complication. i could not bear the thought of having tom marry julia. this would be a bond on his whole life; and yet i could not feel that he had a right to shirk it now. if i agreed to take the child, that would leave him free to decide without being pushed on by fear about the baby. my mind seemed to me wonderfully clear. i see now it was all in a whirl, and that the only thing i was sure of was that if it would help him for me to take the baby there was nothing else for me to do. "tom," i said, "i do not, and i will not, decide for you; and i will not have anything to do with conditions. if she will give me the baby, i will take it, and you may decide the rest without any reference to that at all." he took a step forward so quickly and so fiercely that he startled me, and put out his hand as if he meant to take me by the arm. then he dropped it. "do you think," he said, "that i would have an illegitimate brat near you? it is bad enough as it is, but you shall not have the reproach of that." my cheeks grew hot, but the whole talk was so strange and so painful that i let this pass with the rest. i cannot tell how i felt, but i know the remembrance of it makes my eyes swim so that i cannot write without stopping continually; and i am writing here half the night because i cannot sleep. i could not answer tom; i only stood dully silent until he spoke again. "i know i can't have you, ruth," he said, "and i know you were right. i'm not good enough for you." "i never said that," i interrupted. "i never thought that." "never mind. it's true; but i'd have been a man if you'd have given me a chance." "oh, tom," i broke in, "don't! it is not fair to make me responsible!" "no," he acknowledged, with the shake of his shoulders i have known ever since we were children; "you are not to blame. it's only my infernal, sneaking self!" i could not bear this, either. everything that was said hurt me; and it seemed to me that i had borne all that i could endure. "will you go away now, tom," i begged him. "i--i can't talk any more to-night. shall i tell julia you have come?" he gave a start at the name, and swore under his breath. "it is damnable for you to be here with that girl," he burst out bitterly; "and i brought it on you! it isn't your place, though. where are all the christians and church members? i suppose all the pious are too good to come. they might get their righteousness smudged. oh, how i hate hypocrisy!" "don't, tom," i interrupted. "go away, please." my voice was shaky; and indeed i was fast getting to the place where i should have broken down in hysterical weeping. "i'll go," he responded quickly. "i'll come in the morning with a minister. will eight o'clock do? i'd like to get it over with." the bitterness of his tone was too much for me. i caught one of his hands in both of mine. "oh, tom," i said, "are you quite sure this is what you ought to do?" "do you tell me not to marry her?" he demanded fiercely. i was completely unnerved; i could only drop his hand and press my own on my bosom, as if this would help me to breathe easier. "oh no, no," i cried, half sobbing. "i can't, i can't. i haven't the right to say anything; but i do think it is the thing you ought to do. only you are so noble to do it!" he made a sound as if he would answer, and then he turned away suddenly, and dashed off with great strides. i could not go back into the house, but came home without saying good-night, or letting miss dyer know. i must be ready to go back as soon as it is light. april . it seems so far back to this morning that i might have had time to change into a different person; and yet most of the day i have simply been longing to get home and think quietly. i wanted to adjust myself to the new condition of things. last night the idea that tom should marry the girl was so strange and unreal that it could make very little impression on me. now it is done it is more appallingly real than anything else in the world. i went down to the red house almost before light, but even as early as i came i found tom already there. the nurse had objected to letting him in, and even when i came she was evidently uncertain whether she had done right in admitting him; but tom has generally a way of getting what he is determined on, and before i reached the house everything had been arranged with julia. "i wanted to come before folks were about to see me," tom said to me. "there'll be talk enough later, and i'd rather be out of the way. i've arranged it with her." "does she understand"--i began; but he interrupted. "she understands all there is to understand; all that she could understand, anyway. she knows i'm marrying her for the sake of the child, and that you're to have it." the munson boy that i have hired to sleep in the house now mrs. bagley is gone, in order that miss dyer may have somebody within call, appeared at this minute with a pail of water, and we were interrupted. the boy stared with all his eyes, and i was half tempted to ask him not to speak of tom's being here; but i reflected with a sick feeling that it was of no use to try to hide what was to be done. if tom's act was to have any significance it must be known. i turned away with tears in my eyes, and went to julia. julia i found with her eyes shining with excitement, and i could see that despite tom's idea that she did not care about the marriage, she was greatly moved by it. "oh, miss privet," she cried out at once, "ain't he good! he's truly goin' to marry me after all! i never 'sposed he'd do that." "you must have thought"--i began; and then, with a sinking consciousness of the difference between her world and mine, i stopped. "and he says you want the baby," she went on, not noticing; "though i dunno what you want of it. it'll be a pesky bother for yer." "mr. webbe wanted me to take it and bring it up." "well," julia remarked with feeble dispassionateness, "i wouldn't 'f i was you." "are you willing i should have it?" i asked. "oh, i'm willing anything he wants," was her answer. "he's awful good to marry me. he never said he would. he's real white, he is." she was quiet a moment, and then she broke out in a burst of joy. "i never 'sposed i'd marry a real gentleman!" she cried. her shallow delight in marrying above her station was too pathetic to be offensive. i was somehow so moved by it that i turned away to hide my face from her; but she caught my hand and drew me back. then she peered at me closely. "you don't like it," she said excitedly. "you won't try to stop him?" "no," i answered. "i think he ought to do it for the sake of his child." she dropped her hold, and a curious look came into her face. "that's what he said. yer don't either of yer seem to count me for much." i was silent, convicted to the soul that i had not counted her for much. i had accepted tom's decision as right, not for the sake of this broken girl-mother, this castaway doomed to shame from her cradle, but for the sake purely of the baby that i was to take. it came over me how i might have been influenced too much by the selfish thought that it would be intolerable for me to have the child unless it had been as far as might be legitimatized by this marriage. i flushed with shame, and without knowing exactly what i was doing i bent over and kissed her. "it is you he marries," i said. her tears sprang instantly, tears, i believe, of pure happiness. "you're real good," she murmured, and then closed her eyes, whether from weakness or to conceal her emotion i could not be sure. it was nearly eight before mr. thurston came. tom has never been on good terms with mr. saychase, and it must have been easier for him to have a clergyman with whom he had never, i suppose, exchanged a word, than one who knew him and his people. i took the precaution to say at once to mr. thurston that julia was too ill to bear much, and that he must not say a word more than was necessary. "i will only offer prayer," he returned. i know mr. thurston's prayers. i have heard them at funerals when i have been wickedly tempted to wonder whether he were not attempting to fill the interval between us and the return of the lost at the resurrection. "i am afraid it will not do," i told him. "you do not realize how feeble she is." "then i will only give them the blessing. perhaps i might talk with mr. webbe afterward, or pray with him." i knew that if this proposition were made to tom he would say something which would wound the clergyman's feelings. "mr. thurston," i urged, "if you'll pardon me, i wouldn't try to say anything to him just now. he is doing a plucky thing, and a thing that's noble, but it must be terribly hard. i don't think he could endure to have anybody talk to him. he'll have to be left to fight it out for himself." it was not easy to convince mr. thurston, for when once a narrow man gets an idea of duty he can see nothing else; but i managed in the end to save tom at least the irritation of having to fight off religious appeals. the ceremony was as brief as possible. it was touching to see how humble and yet how proud julia was. she seemed to feel that tom was a sort of god in his goodness in marrying her,--and after all perhaps she was partly right. his coldness only made her deprecatory. i wondered how far she was conscious of his evident shrinking from her. he seemed to hate even to touch her fingers. i cannot understand-- april . i have had many things to do in the last two days, and i find myself so tired with the stress of it all that i have not felt like writing. it is perhaps as much from a sort of feverish uneasiness as from anything else i have got out my diary to-night. the truth is, that i suffer from the almost intolerable suspense of waiting for julia to die. dr. wentworth and miss dyer both are sure there is no chance whatever of her getting well, and i cannot think that it would be better for her, or for tom, or for her baby--who is to be my baby!--if she should live. we are all a little afraid to say, or even to think, that it is better for a life of this sort to end, and i seem to myself inhuman in putting it down in plain words; but we cannot be rational without knowing that it is better certain persons should be out of the way, for their own sakes as well as for the good of the community, and the more quickly the better. julia is a weed, poor thing, and the sooner she is pulled up the better for the garden. and yet i pity her so! i can understand religion easily when i think of lives like hers. it is so hard to see the justice of having the weed destroyed for the good of the flowers that men have to invent excuses for the eternal. somebody has defined theology as man's justification of a deity found wanting by human standards, and now i realize what this means. human mercy could not bear to make a julia, and a power which allows the possibility of such beings has to be excused to human reason. the gods that men invent always turn to frankensteins on their hands. if there is a conscious power that directs, he must pity the gropings of our race, although i suppose seeing what it is all for and what it all leads to must make it possible to bear the sight of human weakness. the baby is growing wonderfully attractive now she is so well fed and attended to. i am ashamed to think how little the poor wee morsel attracted me at first. she was so associated with dreadful thoughts, and with things which i hated to know and did not wish to remember, that i shrank from her. perhaps now the fact that she is to be mine inclines me to look at her with different eyes, but she is really a dear little thing, pretty and sweet. oh, i will try hard to make her life lovely! april . aunt naomi came in last night almost as soon as i was at home. she should not have been out in the night air, i think, for her cold is really severe, and has kept her shut up in the house for a fortnight. she was so eager for news, however, that she could not rest until she had seen me, and i am away all day. "well," was her greeting, "i am glad to see you at home once more. i've begun to feel as if you lived down in that little red house." i said i had pretty nearly lived there for the last two weeks, but that since miss dyer came i had been able to get home at night most of the time. "how do you like going out nursing?" she asked, thrusting her tongue into her cheek in that queer way she has. i told her i certainly shouldn't think of choosing it as a profession, at least unless i could go to cleaner places. "i hear you had hannah clean up," she remarked with a chuckle. "how did you hear that?" i asked her. "i thought you had been housed with a cold." aunt naomi's smile was broad, and she swung her foot joyously. "i've had all my faculties," she answered. "so i should think. you must keep a troop of paid spies." "i don't need spies. i just keep my eyes and ears open." i wondered in my heart whether she had heard of the marriage, and as if she read the question in my mind, she answered it. "i thought i'd like to know one thing, though," she observed with the air of one who candidly concedes that he is not infallible. "i'd like to know how the new mrs. webbe takes his marrying her." "aunt naomi," i burst out in astonishment, "you are a witch, and ought to be looked after by the witch-finders." aunt naomi laughed, and her eyes twinkled at the agreeable compliment i paid to her cleverness. then she suddenly became grave. "i am not sure, ruth," she said, "that i should be willing to have your responsibility in making him marry such a girl." i disclaimed the responsibility entirely, and declared i had not even suggested the marriage. i told her he had done it for the sake of the child, and that the proposition was his, and his only. she sniffed contemptuously, with an air which seemed to cast doubts on my sanity. "very likely he did, and i don't suppose you did suggest it in words; but it's your doing all the same." "i will not have the responsibility put on me," i protested. "it isn't for me to determine what tom webbe shall do." "you can't help it," was her uncompromising answer. "you can make him do anything you want to." "then i wish i were wise enough to know what he ought to do," i could not help crying out. "oh, aunt naomi, i do so want to help him!" she looked at me with her keen old eyes, to which age has only imparted more sharpness. i should hate to be a criminal brought before her as my judge; her eyes would bring out my guilty secret from the cunningest hiding-place in my soul, and she would sentence me with the utmost rigor of the law. after the sentence had been executed, though, she would come with sharp tongue and gentle hands, and bind up my wounds. now she did not answer my remark directly, but went on to question me about the brownrig girl and the details of her illness; only when she went away she stopped to turn at the door and say,-- "the best thing you can do for tom webbe is to believe in him. he isn't worth your pity, but your caring what happens to him will do him more good than anything else." i have been wondering ever since she went how much truth there is in what she said. tom cannot care so much for me as that, although placed as he is the faith of any woman ought to help him. i know, of course, he is fond of me, and that he was always desperate over my engagement; but i cannot believe the motive power of his life is so closely connected with my opinions as aunt naomi seems to think. if it were he would never have been involved at all in this dreadful business. but i do so pity him, and i so wish i might really help him! april . julia is very low. i have been sitting alone with her this afternoon, almost seeing life fade away from her. only once was she at all like her old self. i had given her some wine, and she lay for a moment with her great black eyes gleaming out from the hollows into which they have sunk. she seemed to have something on her mind, and at last she put it feebly into words. "don't tell her any bad of me," she said. for an instant i did not understand, and i suppose that my face showed this. she half turned her heavy head on her pillow, so that her glance might go toward the place where the baby slept in the broken clothes-basket. the sadness of it came over me so suddenly and so strongly that tears blinded me. it was the most womanly touch that i have ever known in julia; and for the moment i was so moved that i could not speak. i leaned over and kissed her, and promised that from me her child should never know harm of its mother. "she'd be more likely to go to the devil if she knew," julia explained gaspingly. "now she'll have some sort of a chance." the words were coarse, but as they were said they were so pathetic that they pierced me. poor little baby, born to a tainted heritage! i must save her clean little soul somehow. poor julia, she certainly never had any sort of a chance. april . she is in her grave at last, poor girl, and it is sad to think that nobody alive regrets her. tom cannot, and even her dreadful mother showed no sorrow to-day. somehow the vulgarity of the mother and her behavior took away half the sadness of the tragedy. when i think about it the very coarseness of it all makes the situation more pathetic, but this is an afterthought that can be felt only when i have beaten down my disgust. when one considers how julia grew up with this woman, and how she had no way of learning the decencies of life except from a mother who had no conception of them, it makes the heart ache; and yet when mrs. brownrig broke in upon us at the graveyard this morning, disgust was the strongest feeling of which i was conscious. the violation of conventionalities always shocks a woman, i suppose, and when it comes to anything so solemn as services over the dead, the lack of decency is shocking and exasperating together, with a little suggestion besides of sacrilege. miss charlotte surprised me by coming over just after breakfast to go to the funeral with me. "i don't like to have you go alone," she said, "and i knew you would go." i asked her in some surprise how in the world she knew when the funeral was to be, for we thought that we had kept it entirely quiet. "aunt naomi told me last night," she answered. "i suppose she heard it from some familiar spirit or other,--a black cat, or a toad, or something of the kind." i could only say that i was completely puzzled to see how aunt naomi had discovered the hour in any other way, and i thanked miss charlotte for coming, though i told the dear she should not have taken so much trouble. "i wanted to do it, my dear," she returned cheerfully. "i am getting to be an old thing, and i find funerals rather lively and amusing. don't you remember maria harmon used to say that to a pious soul a funeral was a heavenly picnic?" whatever a "heavenly picnic" may be, the funeral this morning was one of the most ghastly things imaginable. tom and mr. thurston were in one carriage and miss charlotte and i in another. we went to the graveyard at the rim, where julia's father and brother were buried, a place half overgrown with wild-rose and alder bushes. in summer it must be a picturesque tangle of wild shrubs and blossoms, but now it is only chill, and barren, and neglected. the spring has reddened and yellowed the tips of the twigs, but not enough to make the bushes look really alive yet. the heap of clay by the grave, too, was of a hideous ochre tint, and horribly sodden and oozy. just as the coffin was being lowered a wild figure suddenly appeared from somewhere behind the thickets of alders and low spruces which skirt the fence on one side. it proved to be old mrs. brownrig, who with rags and tags, and even her disheveled gray hair fluttering as she moved, half ran down the path toward us. she must have been hiding in the woods waiting, and i found afterward that she had been seen lurking about yesterday, though for some reason she had not been to her house. now she had evidently been drinking, and she was a dreadful thing to look at. i wonder why it is that nature, which makes almost any other ruin picturesque, never succeeds in making the wreck of humanity anything but hideous? an old tower, an old tree, even an old house, has somehow a quality that is prepossessing; but an old man is apt to look unattractive, and an old woman who has given up taking care of herself is repulsive. perhaps we cannot see humanity with the impartial eyes with which we regard nature, but i do not think this is the whole of it. somehow and for some reason an inanimate ruin is generally attractive, while a human ruin is ugly. mrs. brownrig seemed to me an incarnation of the repulsive. she made me shudder with some sort of a feeling that she was wicked through and through. even the pity she made me feel could not prevent my sense that she was vicious. i wanted to wash my hands just for having seen her. i was ashamed to be so uncharitable, and of course it was because she was so hideous to look at; but i do not think i could have borne to have her touch me. "stop!" she called out. "i'm the mother of the corpse. don't you dare to bury her till i get there!" i glanced at tom in spite of myself. he had been stern and pale all the morning, not saying a word more than was necessary, but now the color came into his face all at once. i could not bear to see him, and tried to look at the mother, but repulsion and pity made me choke. she was panting with haste and intoxication by the time she reached us, and stumbled over something in the path. she caught at tom's arm to save herself, and there she hung, leering up into his face. "you didn't mean for me to come, did you?" she broke out, half whimpering and half chuckling. "she was mine before she was yours. you killed her, too." tom kept himself still, though it must have been terribly hard. he must have been in agony, and i could have sobbed to think how he suffered. he grew white as i have never seen him, but he did not look at the old woman. she was perhaps too distracted with drink and i hope with grief to know what she was doing. she turned suddenly, and looked at the coffin, which rested on the edge of the grave. "my handsome jule!" she wailed. "oh, my handsome jule! they're all dead now! what did you put on her? did you make a shroud or put on a dress?" "she has a white shroud," i said quickly. "i saw to everything myself." she turned to me with a fawning air, and let go her clasp on tom's arm. "i'm grateful, miss privet," she said. "we brownrigs ain't much, but we're grateful. i hope you won't let 'em bury my handsome gel till i've seen her," she went on, with a manner pitifully wheedling. "she was my gel before she was anybody else's, and it ain't goin' to hurt nobody for me to see her. i'd like to see that shroud." how much natural grief, how much vanity, how much maudlin excitement was in her wish, i cannot tell; but manifestly there was nothing to do but to have the coffin opened. when the face of the dead woman had once more been uncovered to the light, the dreadful mother hung over it raving and chuckling. now she shrieked for her handsome jule, and wailed in a way that pierced to the marrow; then she would fall to imbecile laughter over the shroud, "just like a lady's,--but then jule was a lady after she was married." miss charlotte, tom, and i stood apart, while mr. thurston tried to get the excited creature away; and the grave-diggers looked on with open curiosity. i could not help thinking how they would tell the story, and of how tom's name would be bandied about in connection with it. sometimes i feel as if it were harder to bear the vulgarities of life than actual sorrows. father used to say that pain is personal, but vulgarity a violation of general principles. this is one of his sayings which i do not feel that i understand entirely, and yet i have some sense of what he meant. a thing which is vulgar seems to fly in the face of all that should be, and outrages our sense of the fitness of things. well, somehow we got through it all. it is over, and julia is in her grave. i cannot but think that it is better if she does not remember; if she has gone out like an ill-burning candle. nothing is left now but to consider what can be done for the lives that we can reach. i am afraid that the mother is beyond me, but for tom i can, perhaps, do something. for baby i should do much. april . it is so strange to have a child in the house. i feel queer and disconcerted when i think of it, although things seem to go easily enough. the responsibility of taking charge of a helpless life overwhelms me, and i do not dare to let my thoughts go when they begin to picture possibilities in the future. i wonder that i ever dared to undertake to have baby; and yet her surroundings will be so much better here than with the dreadful brownrig grandmother that she must surely be better for them. in any case i had to help tom. i proposed a permanent nurse for baby, but hannah and rosa took up arms at once, and all but upbraided me with having cast doubts on their ability and faithfulness. surely we three women among us should be able to take care of one morsel, although none of us ever had babies of our own. april . nothing could be more absurd than the way in which the entire household now revolves about baby. all of us are completely slaves already, although the way in which we show it is naturally different. rosa has surrendered frankly and without reservations. she sniffed and pouted at the idea of having the child "of that brownrig creature" in the house. she did not venture to say this to me directly, of course; but she relieved her mind by making remarks to hannah when i could not help hearing. from the moment baby came, however, rosa succumbed without a struggle. it is evident she is born with the full maternal instinct, and i see if she does not marry her dennis, or some more eligible lover, and take herself away before baby is old enough to be much affected, the child will be spoiled to an unlimited extent. as for hannah, her method of showing her affection is to exhibit the greatest solicitude for baby's spiritual welfare, mingled with the keenest jealousy of rosa's claims on baby's love. i foresee that i shall have pretty hard work to protect my little daughter from hannah's well-meant but not very wise theology; and how to do this without hurting the good old soul's feelings may prove no easy problem. as for myself--of course i love the little, helpless, pink thing; the waif from some outside unknown brought here into a world where everything is made so hard to her from the start. she woke this afternoon, and looked up at me with tom webbe's eyes, lying there as sweet and happy as possible, so that i had to kiss and cuddle her, and love her all at once. it is wonderful how a baby comes out of the most dreadful surroundings as a seedling comes out of the mud, so clean and fresh. i said this to aunt naomi yesterday, and she sniffed cynically. "yes," she answered, "but a weed grows into a weed, no matter how it looks when it is little." the thought is dreadful to me. i will not believe that because a human being is born out of weakness and wickedness there is no chance for it. the difference, it seems to me, is that every human being has at least the germs of good as well as of bad, and one may be developed as well as the other. baby must have much that is good and fine from her father, and the thing i have to do is to see to it that the best of her grows, and the worse part dies for want of nourishment. surely we can do a great deal to aid nature. perhaps my baby cannot help herself much, at least not for years and years; but if she is kept in an atmosphere which is completely wholesome, whatever is best in her nature must grow strong and crowd down everything less noble. v may may . baby is more bewitching every day. she is so wonderful and so lovely that i am never tired of watching her. the miracle of a baby's growth makes one stand speechless in delight and awe. when this little morsel of life, hardly as many days in the world as i have been years, coos and smiles, and stretches out those tiny rosebud fingers only big enough for a fairy, i feel like going down on my knees to the mystery of life. i do not wonder that people pray. i understand entirely the impulse to cry out to something mighty, something higher than our own strength, some sentient heart of nature somewhere; the desire to find, by leaning on the invisible, a relief from the oppressiveness of the emotions we all must feel when a sense of the greatness of life takes hold on us. if it were but possible to believe in any of the many gods that have been offered to us, how glad i should be. father used to say that every human being really makes a deity for himself, and that the difference between believers and unbelievers is whether they can allow the church to give a name to the god a man has himself created. i cannot accept any name from authority, but the sense of some brooding power is very strong in me when i see this being growing as if out of nothing in my very hands. when i look at baby i have so great a consciousness of the life outside of us, the life of the universe as a whole, that i am ready to agree with any one who talks of god. the trouble is that one idea of deity seems to me as true and also as inadequate as all the rest; so that in the end i am left with only my overwhelming sense of the mightiness of the mystery of existence and of the unity of all the life in the universe. may . to-day we named baby. i would not do it without consulting her father, so i sent for tom, and he came over just after breakfast. the day has been warm, and the windows were open; a soft breath of wind came in with a feeling of spring in it, and a faint hint of a summer coming by and by. i was upstairs in the nursery when tom came; for we have made a genuine, full-fledged nursery of the south chamber, and installed rosa and the baby there. when they told me that he was here, i took baby, all pink and sweet from her bath, and went down with her. tom stood with his back to the parlor door, looking out of the window. he did not hear me until i spoke, and said good-morning. then he turned quickly. at sight of baby he changed color, and forgot to answer my greeting. he came across the room toward us, so that we met in the middle of the floor. "good god, ruth!" he said. "to think of seeing you with her baby in your arms!" the words hurt me for myself and for him. "tom," i cried out excitedly, "i will not hear you say anything against baby! it is neither hers nor yours now. it is mine, mine! you shall not speak of her as if she were anything but the sweetest, purest thing in the whole world!" he looked at me so intently and so feelingly while i snuggled the pink ball up to me and kissed it, that it was rather disconcerting. to change the subject, i went straight to the point. "tom," i said, "i want to ask you about baby's name." "oh, call it anything you like," he answered. "but you ought to name her," i told him. he was silent a moment; then he turned and walked away to the window again. i thought that he might be considering the name, but when he came back abruptly he said:-- "ruth, i can't pretend with you. i haven't any love for that child. i wish it weren't here to remind me of what i would give anything to have forgotten. if i have any feeling for it, it is pity that the poor little wretch had to be chucked into the world, and shame that i should have any responsibility about it." i told him he would come to love her some time; that she was after all his daughter, and so sweet he couldn't help being fond of her. "if i ever endure her," he said, almost doggedly, "it will be on your account." "nonsense, tom," i retorted, as briskly as i could when i wanted to cry, "you'll be fond of her because you can't help it. see, she has your eyes, and her hair is going to be like yours." he laughed with a trace of his old buoyant spirit. "what idiocy!" was his reply. "her eyes are any color you like, and she has only about six hairs on her head anyway." i denied this indignantly, partly because it was not true, and partly, i am afraid, with feminine guile, to divert him. we fell for a moment almost into the oldtime boy-and-girl tone of long ago, and only baby in my arms reminded us of what had come between. "well," i said at last, "it is evident that you are not worthy to give this nice little, dear little, superfine little girl a name; so i shall do it myself. i shall call her thomasine." "what an outlandish name!" "it is your own, so you needn't abuse it. do you agree?" "i don't see how i can help myself, for you can call her anything you like." "of course i shall," i told him; "but i thought you should be consulted." he shrugged his shoulders with a laugh. "having made up your mind," he said, "you ask my advice." "i shouldn't think of consulting you till i had made up my mind," was my retort. "now i want you to give her her name." "give it to her how?" "her name is to be thomasine," i repeated. "it is an absurd name," tom commented. "that's as it may be," was all i would answer, "but that's what she's to be called. you're to kiss her, and"-- he looked at me with a sudden flush. he had never, i am sure, so much as touched his child with the tip of his finger, much less caressed her. the proposition took him completely by surprise, and evidently disconcerted him. i did not give him time to consider. i made my tone and manner as light as i could, and hurried on. "you are to kiss her and say, 'i name you thomasine.' i suppose that really you ought to say 'thee,' but that seems rather theatrical for us plain folk." he hesitated a second, and then he bent over baby in my arms. "i name you thomasine," he said, and just brushed her forehead with his lips. then he looked at me solemnly. "you will keep her?" he said. "yes," i promised. so baby is named, and tom must have felt that she belongs really to him, however he may shrink from her. may . i have had a dreadful call from mrs. webbe. she came over in the middle of the forenoon, and the moment i saw her determined expression i felt sure something painful was to happen. "good-morning," she said abruptly; "i have come after my son's infant." "what?" i responded, my wits scattering like chickens before a hawk. "i have come after my son's infant," she repeated. "we are obliged to you for taking care of it; but i won't trouble you with it any longer." i told her i was to keep baby always. she looked at me with tightening lips. "i don't want to have disagreeable words with you, ruth," she said, "but you must know we could never allow such a thing." i asked her why. "you must know," she said, "you are not fit to be trusted with an immortal soul." i fear that i unmeaningly let the shadow of a smile show as i said,-- "but baby is so young"-- "this is no laughing matter," she interrupted with asperity, "even if the child is young. i must do my duty to her from the very beginning. of course it will be a cross for me, but i hope i shall bear it like a christian." something in her voice and manner exasperated me almost beyond endurance. i could not help remembering the day mrs. webbe came to the brownrig house, and i am much afraid i was anything but conciliatory in my tone when i answered. "mrs. webbe," i said to her, "if you cared for baby, and wanted to love her, i might perhaps think of giving her up, though i am very fond of her, dear little thing." mrs. webbe's keen black eyes snapped at me. "i dare say you look at it in that way," she retorted. "that's just it. it's just the sort of worldliness that would ruin the child. it's come into the world with sin and shame enough to bear, and you'd never help it to grace to bear it." the words were not entirely clear, yet i had little doubt of their meaning. the baby, however, was after all her own flesh and blood, and i was secretly glad that to strengthen me in my resolve to keep thomasine i had my promise to the dead mother and to tom. "but, mrs. webbe," i said as gently as i could, "don't you think the fact that baby has no mother, and must bear that, will make her need love more?" "she'll need bracing up," was the emphatic rejoinder, "and that's just what she won't get here. i don't want her. it's a cross for me to look at her, and realize we've got to own a brat with brownrig blood in her. i'm only trying to do my duty. where's that baby going to get any religious training from you, ruth privet?" i sat quiet a moment, thinking what i had better say. mrs. webbe was entirely conscientious about it all. she did not, i was sure, want baby, and she was sincere in saying that she was only trying to do her duty. when i thought of thomasine, however, as being made to serve as a living and visible cross for the good of mrs. webbe's soul, i could not bear it. driven by that strong will over the thorny paths of her grandmother's theology, poor baby would be more likely to be brought to despair than to glory. it was of course right for mrs. webbe to wish to take baby, but it could not be right for me to permit her to do so. if my duty clashed with hers, i could not change on that account; but i wished to be as conciliatory as possible. "don't you think, mrs. webbe," i asked, trying to look as sunny as a june day, "that baby is rather young to get harm from me or my heresies? couldn't the whole matter at least be left till she is old enough to know the meaning of words?" she looked at me with more determination than ever. "well, of course it's handsome of you to be willing to take care of tom's baby, and of course you won't mind the expense; but you made him marry that girl, so it's only fair you should expect to take some of the trouble that's come of what you did." "you don't mean," i burst out before i thought, "that you wouldn't have had tom marry her?" "it's no matter now, as long as she didn't live," mrs. webbe answered; "though it isn't pleasant knowing that one of that brownrig tribe married into our family." i had nothing to say. it would have hurt my pride, of course, had one of my kin made such a marriage, and i cannot help some secret feeling that julia had forfeited her right to be treated like an honest girl; but there was baby to be considered. besides this, the marriage was made, it seems to me, by tom's taking the girl, not by the service at her deathbed. mrs. webbe and i sat for a time without words. i looked at the carpet, and was conscious that mrs. webbe looked at me. she is not a pleasant woman, and i have had times of wishing she might be carried off by a whirlwind, so that deacon webbe and tom might have a little peace; but i believe in her way she tries to be a good one. the trouble is that her way of being good seems to me to be a great deal more vicious than most kinds of wickedness. she uses her religion like a tomahawk, and whacks with it right and left. "look here," she broke out at last, "i don't want to be unpleasant, but it ain't a pleasant thing for me to come here anyway. i suppose you mean to be kind, but you'd be soft with baby. that's just what she mustn't have. she'd better be made to know from the very start what's before her." "what is before her?" i asked. mrs. webbe flushed. "i don't know as there's any use of my telling you if you don't see it yourself. she's got to fight her way through life against her inheritance from that mother of hers, and--and her father." she choked a little, and i could not help laying my hand on hers, just to show that i understood. she drew herself away, not unkindly, i believe, but because she is too proud to endure pity. "she's got to be hardened," she went on, her tone itself hardening as she spoke. "from her cradle she's got to be set to fight the sin that's in her." i could not argue. i respected the sternness of her resolve to do her duty, and i knew that she was sacrificing much. every smallest sight of the child would be an hourly, stinging humiliation to her pride, and perhaps, too, to her love. in her fierce way she must love tom, so that his shame would hurt her terribly. yet i could not give up my little soft, pink baby to live in an atmosphere of disapproval and to be disciplined in the rigors of a pitiless creed. that, i am sure, would never save her. tom webbe is a sufficient answer to his mother's argument, if she could only see it. if anything is to rescue thomasine from the disastrous consequences of an unhappy heritage, it must be just pure love and friendliness. "mrs. webbe," i said, as firmly as i could, "i think i know how you feel; but in any case i could not give up baby until i had seen tom." a deeper flush came over the thin face, and a look which made me turn my eyes away, because i knew she would not wish me to see the pain and humiliation which it meant. "tom," she began, "tom! he"--she broke off abruptly, and, rising, began to gather her shawl about her. "then you refuse to let me have her?" she ended. "the baby's father should have something to say in the matter, it seems to me," i told her. "he has already decided," she replied sternly, "and decided against the child's good. he wants her to stay with you. i suppose," she added, and i must say that her tone took a suggestion of spite, "he thinks you'll get so interested in the baby as sometime"-- she did not finish, perhaps because i gave her a look, which, if it expressed half i felt, might well silence her. she moved quickly toward the door, and tightened her shawl with an air of virtuous determination. "well," she observed, "i have done my duty by the child. what the lord let it live for is a mystery to me." she said not another word, not even of leave-taking, but strode away with something of the air of a brisk little prophetess who has pronounced the doom of heaven on the unrighteous. it is a pity such people will make of religion an excuse for taking themselves so seriously. all the teachings of theology mrs. webbe turns into justifications of her prejudices and her hardness. the very thought of thomasine under her rigorous rule makes me shiver. i wonder how her husband has endured it all these years. saintship used to be won by making life as disagreeable as possible for one's self; but nowadays life is made sufficiently hard by others. if living with his wife peacefully, forbearingly, decorously, does not entitle deacon webbe to be considered a saint, it is time that new principles of canonization were adopted. heavens! what uncharitableness i am running into myself! may . i told aunt naomi of mrs. webbe's visit, and her comments were pungent enough. it is wicked, perhaps, to set them down, but i have a vicious joy in doing it. "of course she'd hate to have the baby," aunt naomi declared, "but she'd more than get even by the amount of satisfaction she'd get nagging at it. she's worn deacon daniel till he's callous, so there can't be much fun rasping him, and tom won't listen to her. she wants somebody to bully, and that baby'd just suit her. she could make it miserable and get in side digs at its father at the same time." "you are pretty severe, aunt naomi," i said; "but i know you don't mean it. as for troubling tom, he says he doesn't care for baby." "pooh! he's soft-hearted like his father; and even if he didn't care for his own child, which is nonsense anyway, he'd be miserable to see any child go through what he's been through himself with that woman." it is useless to attempt to stay aunt naomi when once she begins to talk about mrs. webbe, and she has so much truth in her favor i am never able successfully to urge the other side of the case so as to get for mrs. webbe any just measure of fair play. to-night i almost thought that aunt naomi would devour her green veil in the energy with which she freed her mind. the thing which she cannot see is that mrs. webbe is entirely blind to her own faults. mrs. webbe would doubtless be amazed if she could really appreciate that she is unkind to deacon daniel and to tom. she acts her nature, and simply does not think. i dare say most of us might be as bad if we had her disposition.--which tags on at the end of the nasty things i have been writing like a piece of pure cant! may . it certainly would seem on the face of it that a woman alone in the world as i am, of an age when i ought to have the power of managing my own affairs, and with the means of getting on without asking financial aid, might take into her house a poor, helpless, little baby if she wished. apparently there is a conspiracy to prevent my doing anything of the sort. cousin mehitable has now entered her protest, and declares that if i do not give up what she calls my mad scheme she shall feel it her duty to have me taken in charge as a lunatic. she wants to know whether i have no decency about having a bachelor's baby in the house, although she is perfectly well aware that tom was married. she reminds me that she expects me to go to europe with her in about a month, and asks whether i propose to leave thomasine in a foundling hospital or a day nursery while i am gone. her letter is one breathless rush of indignation from beginning to end, so funnily like her that with all my indignation i could hardly read it for laughing. i confess it is hard to give up the trip abroad. i was only half aware how i have been counting on it until now i am brought face to face with the impossibility of carrying out the plan. i have almost unconsciously been piecing together in my mind memories of the old days in europe, with delight in thinking of seeing again places which enchanted me. any one, i suppose, who has been abroad enough to taste the charm of travel, but who has not worn off the pleasure by traveling too much, must have moments of longing to get back. i have had the oddest, sudden pangs of homesickness when i have picked up a photograph or opened a magazine to a picture of some beautiful place across the ocean. the smallest things can bring up the feeling,--the sound of the wind in the trees as i heard it once when driving through the black forest, the sun on a stone wall as it lay in capri, the sky as it looked at one place, or the grass as i saw it at another. i remember how once a white feather lying on the turf of the lawn brought up the courtyard of warwick castle as if a curtain had lifted suddenly; and always these flashing reminders of the other side of the world have made me feel as if i must at once hurry across the ocean again. now i have let myself believe i was really going, and to give it up is very hard. it is perhaps making too much of it to be so disappointed. certainly baby must be taken care of, and i have promised to take care of her. i fear that it will be a good while before i see europe again. i am sorry for cousin mehitable, but she has never any difficulty in finding friends to travel with. it is evident enough that my duty is here. may . rosa has not yet come to the end of her matrimonial perplexities. the divorced wife of ran gargan is now reported as near death, and rosa is debating whether to give up dennis maloney and wait for ran. "of course dennis is gone on me," she explained last night in the most cold-bloodedly matter-of-fact fashion, "and i'd make him a main good wife. but ran was always the boy for me, barring father o'rafferty wouldn't let me marry him." "rosa," i said, with all the severity i could command, "you must not talk like that. it sounds as if you hadn't any feeling at all. you don't mean it." rosa tossed her saucy head with emphatic scorn. "what for don't i mean it?" she demanded. "any woman wants to marry the man she likes best, and, barring him, she'd take up with the man who likes her best." i laughed, and told her she was getting to be a good deal of a philosopher. "humph!" was her not very respectful reply; "it's the only choice a woman has, and she don't always have that. she's better off if she'll take the man that's sweet on her; but it's the way we girls are made, to hanker after the one we're sweet on ourselves." her earnestness so much interfered with the supper which she was giving to thomasine that i took baby into my arms, and left rosa free to speak out her mind without hindrance. "i'm not going to take either of 'em in a hurry," she went on. "i'd not be leaving you in the lurch with the baby, miss ruth. i'd like to have ran, but i don't know what he's got. he'd make me stand round awful, they say, and dennis'd be under my thumb like a crumb of butter. i mistrust i'd be more contented with ranny. it'd be more stirred up like; but i'd have some natural fear of him, and that's pleasant for a woman." i had never seen rosa in this astonishing mood before, and so much worldly wisdom was bewildering. such generalizations on the relation of the sexes took away my breath. i was forced to be silent, for there was evidently no chance of my holding my own in a conversation of this sort. it is strange how boldly and bluntly this uneducated girl has thought out her relations with her lovers. she recognizes entirely that dennis, who is her slave, will treat her better than ran, who will be her master; yet she "mistrusts she will be more contented with ranny." the moral seems to be that a woman is happier to be abused by the man she loves than to be served by the man who loves her. that can only be crude instinct, the relics of savagery. in civilized woman, i am sure, when respect goes love must go also. no; that isn't true! women keep on loving men when they know them to be unworthy. perhaps this applies especially to good wives. a good woman is bound to love her husband just as long as she can in any way compass it, and to deceive herself about him to the latest possible instant. i wonder what i should do? i wonder--well, george has shown that he is not what i thought him, and do i care for him less? he only showed, however, that he did not care for me as much as i thought, and of course that does not necessarily prove him unworthy. and yet-- what is the use of all this? what do i know about it anyway? i will go to bed. may . it is amusing to see how jealous hannah and rosa are of baby's attention. thomasine can as yet hardly be supposed to distinguish one human being from another, and very likely has not drawn very accurate comparisons between any of us and the furniture; but rosa insists that baby knows her, and is far more fond of her than of hannah, while of course hannah indignantly sniffs at an idea so preposterous. "she really laughed at me this morning when i was giving her her bath," rosa assured me to-day. "she knows me the minute i come into the nursery." it is beautiful to see how the sweetness and helplessness of the little thing have so appealed to the girls that prejudices are forgotten. when i brought thomasine home i feared that i might have trouble. they scorned the child of that brownrig girl, and they both showed the fierce contempt which good girls of their class feel for one who disgraces herself. all this is utterly forgotten. the charm of baby has so enslaved them that if an outsider ventured to show the feelings they themselves had at first, they would be full of wrath and indignation. the maternal instinct is after all the strongest thing in most women. rosa considers her matrimonial chances in a bargain-and-sale fashion which takes my breath, but she will be perfectly fierce in her fondness for her children. hannah is a born old maid, but she cannot help mothering every baby who comes within her reach, and for thomasine she brings out all the sweetness of her nature. may . i have been through a whirlwind, but now i am calm, and can think of things quietly. it is late, but the fire has not burned down, and i could not sleep, so peter and i may as well stay where we are a while longer. i was reading this afternoon, when suddenly kathie rushed into the room out of breath with running, her face smooched and wet with tears, and her hair in confusion. "why, kathie," i asked, "what is the matter?" her answer was to fly across the room, throw herself on her knees beside me, and burst into sobs. the more i tried to soothe her, the more she cried, and it was a long time before she was quiet enough to be at all reasonable. "my dear," i said, "tell me what has happened. what is the matter?" she looked up at me with wild eyes. "it isn't true!" she broke out fiercely. "i know it isn't true! i didn't say a word to him, because i knew you wouldn't want me to; but it's a lie! it's a lie, if my father did say it." "why, kathie," i said, amazed at her excitement, "what in the world are you saying? your father wouldn't tell a lie to save his life." "he believes it," she answered, dropping her voice. a sullen, stubborn look came into her face that it was pitiful to see. "he does believe it, but it's a lie." i spoke to her as sternly as i could, and told her she had no right to judge of what her father believed, and that i would not have her talk so of him. "but i asked him about your mother, and he said she would be punished forever and ever for not being a church member!" she exclaimed before i could stop her. "and i know it's a lie." she burst into another tempest of sobs, and cried until she was exhausted. her words were so cruel that for a moment i had not even the power to try to comfort her; but she would soon have been in hysterics, and for a time i had to think only of her. fortunately baby woke. rosa was not at home, and by the time hannah and i had fed thomasine, and once more she was asleep in her cradle, i had my wits about me. kathie had, with a child's quick change of mood, become almost gay. "kathie," i said, "do you mind staying here with baby while i take a little walk? rosa is out, and i have been in the house all day. i want a breath of fresh air." "oh, i should love to," she answered, her face brightening at the thought of being trusted with a responsibility so great. i was out of doors, and walking rapidly toward mr. thurston's house, before i really came to my senses. i was so wounded by what kathie had thoughtlessly repeated, so indignant at this outrage to my dead, that i had had strength only to hide my feelings from her. now i came to a realization of my anger, and asked myself what i meant to do. i had instinctively started out to denounce mr. thurston for bigotry and cruelty; to protest against this sacrilege. a little, i feel sure,--at least i hope i am right,--i felt the harm he was doing kathie; but most i was outraged and angry that he had dared to speak so of mother. i was ashamed of my rage when i grew more composed; and i realized all at once how mother herself would have smiled at me. so clear was my sense of her that it was almost as if she really repeated what she once said to me: "my dear ruth, do you suppose that what mr. thurston thinks alters the way the universe is made? why should he know more about it than you do? he's not nearly so clever or so well educated." i smiled to recall how she had smiled when she said it; then i was blinded by tears to remember that i should never see her smile again; and so i walked into a tree in the sidewalk, and nearly broke my nose. that was the end of my dashing madly at mr. thurston. the wound kathie's words had made throbbed, but with the memory of mother in my mind i could not break out into anger. i turned down the cove road to walk off my ill-temper. after all mr. thurston was right from his point of view. he could not believe without feeling that he had to warn kathie against the awful risk of running into eternal damnation. it must hurt him to think or to say such a thing; but he believes in the cruelty of the deity, and he has beaten his natural tenderness into subjection to his idea of a moloch. it is so strange that the ghastly absurdity of connecting god's anger with a sweet and blameless life like mother's does not strike him. indeed, i suppose down here in the country we are half a century or so behind the thought of the real world, and that mr. thurston's creed would be impossible in the city, or among thinkers even of his own denomination. at least i hope so, though i do not see what they have left in the orthodox creed if they take eternal punishment out of it. the fresh air and the memory of mother, with a little common sense, brought me right again. i walked until i had myself properly in hand, and till i hoped that the trace of tears on my face might pass for the effect of the wind. it was growing dusk by this time, and the lamps began to appear in the houses as i came to mr. thurston's at last. i slipped in at the front door as quietly as i could, and knocked at the study. mr. thurston himself opened the door. he looked surprised, but asked me in, and offered me a chair. he had been writing, and still held his pen in his hand; the study smelled of kerosene lamp and air-tight stove. poor man! theology which has to live by an air-tight stove must be dreary. if he had an open fire on his hearth, he might have less in his religion. "i have come to confess a fault, mr. thurston," i said, "and to ask a favor." he smiled a little watery smile, and put down his pen. "is the favor to be a reward for the fault or for confessing it?" he asked. i was so much surprised by this mild jest, coming from him, that i almost forgot my errand. i smiled back at him, and forgot the bitterness that had been in my heart. he looked so thin, so bloodless, that it was impossible to have rancor. "i left kathie with baby while i went for a walk," i said, "and i have stayed away longer than i intended. i forgot to tell her she could call hannah if she wanted to come home, and she is too conscientious to leave, so i am afraid that she has stayed all this time. i wanted you to know it is my fault." "i am glad for her to be useful," her father said, "especially as you have been so kind to her." "then you will perhaps let her stay all night," i went on. "i can take over her night-things. i promised to show her about making a new kind of pincushion for the church fair; and i could do it this evening. besides, it is lonely for me in that great house." i felt like a hypocrite when i said this, though it is true enough. he looked at me kindly, and even pityingly. "yes," he returned, "i can understand that. if you think she won't trouble you, and"-- i did not give him opportunity for a word more. i rose at once and held out my hand. "thank you so much," i said. "i'll find mrs. thurston, and get kathie's things. i beg your pardon for troubling you." i was out of the study before he could reconsider. across the hall i found his wife in the sitting-room with another air-tight stove, and looking thinner and paler than he. she had a great pile of sewing beside her, and her eyes looked as if months of tears were behind them, aching to be shed. i told her mr. thurston had given leave for kathie to pass the night with me, and i had come for her night-things. she looked surprised, but none the less pleased. while she was out of the room i looked cautiously at the mending to see if the clothing was too worn for her to be willing that i should see it. when she came in with her little bundle, i said, as indifferently as i could, "i suppose if kathie were at home she would help you with the mending, so i'll take her share with me, and we'll do it together." of course she remonstrated, but i managed to bring away a good part of the big pile, and now it is all done. poor mrs. thurston, she looked so tired, so beaten down by life, the veins were so blue on her thin temples! if i dared, i'd go every week and do that awful mending for her. i must get kathie to smuggle some of it over now and then. when we blame these people for the narrowness of their theology, we forget their lives are so constrained and straitened that they cannot take broad views of anything. the man or woman who could take a wide outlook upon life from behind an air-tight stove in a half-starved home would have to be almost a miracle. it is wonderful that so much sweetness and humanity keep alive where circumstances are so discouraging. when i think of patient, faithful, hard-working women like mrs. thurston, uncomplaining and devoted, i am filled with admiration and humility. if their theology is narrow, they endure it; and, after all, men have made it for them. father said once women had always been the occasion of theology, but had never produced any. i asked him, i remember, whether he said this to their praise or discredit, and he answered that what was entirely the result of nature was neither to be praised nor to be blamed; women were so made that they must have a religion, and men so constituted as to take the greatest possible satisfaction in inventing one. "it is simply a beautiful example," he added, with his wonderful smile which just curled the corners of his mouth, "of the law of supply and demand." i am running on and on, although it is so late at night. aunt naomi, i presume, will in some occult way know about it, and ask me why i sat up so long. i am tired, but the excitement of the afternoon is not all gone. that any one in the world should believe it possible for mother to be unhappy in another life, to be punished, is amazing! surely a man whose theology makes such an idea conceivable is profoundly to be pitied. may . hannah is perfectly delightful about tomine. she hardly lets a day go by without admonishing me not to spoil baby, and yet she is herself an abject slave to the slightest caprice of the tyrannous small person. we have to-night been having a sort of battle royal over baby's going to sleep by herself in the dark. i made up my mind the time had come when some semblance of discipline must be begun, and i supposed, of course, that hannah would approve and assist. to my surprise she failed me at the very first ditch. "i am going to put tomine into the crib," i announced, "and take away the light. she must learn to go to sleep in the dark." "she'll be frightened," rosa objected. "she's too little to know anything about being afraid," i retorted loftily, although i had secretly a good deal of misgiving. "too little!" sniffed hannah. "she's too little not to be afraid." i saw at a glance that i had before me a struggle with them as well as with baby. "children are not afraid of the dark until they are told to be," i declared as dogmatically as possible. "they are told not to be," objected rosa. "but that puts the idea into their heads," was my answer. hannah regarded me with evident disapprobation. "but supposing the baby cries?" she demanded. "then she must be left to stop," i answered, with outward firmness and inward quakings. "but suppose she cries herself sick?" insisted rosa. "she won't. she'll just cry a little till she finds nobody comes, and then she'll go to sleep." the two girls regarded me with looks that spoke disapproval in the largest of capitals. it is so seldom they are entirely united that it was disconcerting to have them thus make common cause against me, but i had to keep up for the sake of dignity if for nothing else. thomasine was fed and arranged for the night; she was kissed and cuddled, and tucked into her crib. then i got hannah and rosa, both protesting they didn't mind sitting up with the darling all night, out of the room, darkened the windows, and shut baby in alone for the first time in her whole life, a life still so pathetically little. i closed the nursery door with an air of great calmness and determination, but outside i lingered like a complete coward. the girls were glowering darkly from the end of the hall, and we needed only candlelight to look like three bloodthirsty conspirators. for two or three minutes there was a soothing and deceptive silence, so that i turned to smile with an air of superior wisdom on the maids. then without warning baby uplifted her voice and wailed. there was something most disconcertingly explosive about the cry, as if thomasine had been holding her breath until she were black in the face, and only let it escape one second short of actual suffocation. i jumped as if a mouse had sprung into my face, and the two girls swooped down upon me in a whirl of triumphant indignation. "there, miss ruth!" cried hannah. "there, miss privet!" cried rosa. "well," i said defensively; "i expected her to cry some." "she wants to be walked with, poor little thing," rosa said incautiously. i was rejoiced to have a chance to turn the tables, and i sprang upon her tacit admission at once. "rosa," i said severely, "have you been walking thomasine to sleep? i told you never to do it." rosa, self-convicted, could only murmur that she had just taken her up and down two or three times to make her sleepy; she hadn't really walked her to sleep. "what if she had?" hannah demanded boldly, her place entirely forgotten in the excitement of the moment. "if babies like to be walked to sleep, it stands to reason that's nature." i began to feel as if all authority were fast slipping away from me, and that i should at this rate soon become a very secondary person in my own house. i tried to recover myself by assuming the most severe air of which i was capable. "you must not talk outside the nursery door," i told them. "if thomasine hears voices, of course she'll keep on crying. go downstairs, both of you. i'll see to baby." they had not yet arrived at open mutiny, and so with manifest unwillingness they departed, grumbling to each other as they went. baby seemed to have some superhuman intelligence that her firmest allies were being routed, for she set up a series of nerve-splitting shrieks which made every fibre of my body quiver. as soon as the girls were out of sight i flopped down on my knees outside of the door, and put my hands over my ears. i was afraid of myself, and only the need i felt of holding out for tomine's own sake gave me strength to keep from rushing into the nursery in abject surrender. the absurdity of it makes me laugh now, but with the shrieks of baby piercing me, i felt as if i were involved in a tragedy of the deepest dye. i think i was never so near hysterics in my life; but i had even then some faint and far-away sense of how ridiculous i was, and that saved me. thomasine yelled like a young tornado, and every cry went through me like a knife. i was on my knees on the floor, pouring out tears like a watering-pot, trying to shut out the sound. there is something in a baby's cry that is too much even for a sense of humor; and no woman could have heard it without being overcome. i had so stopped my ears that although i could not shut out baby's cries entirely i did not hear hannah and rosa when they came skulking back. the first i knew of their being behind me was when hannah, in a whispered bellow, shouted into my ear that baby would cry herself into convulsions. demoralized as i was already, i almost yielded; i started to my feet, and faced them in a tragic manner, ready to give up everything. i was ready to say that rosa might walk up and down with tomine every night for the rest of her life. fortunately some few gleams of common sense asserted themselves in my half-addled pate, and instead of opening the door, i spread out my arms, and without a word shooed the girls out of the corridor as if they were hens. then the ludicrousness of it came over me, and although i still tingled with baby's wailing, i could appreciate that the cries were more angry than pathetic, and that we must fight the battle through now it had been begun. the drollest thing about it all was that it seemed almost as if the willful little lady inside there had some uncanny perception of my thought. i had no sooner got the girls downstairs again, and made up my mind to hold out than she stopped crying; and when we crept cautiously in ten minutes after, she was asleep as soundly and as sweetly as ever. but i feel as if i had been through battles, murders, and sudden deaths. may . baby to-night cried two or three minutes, but her ladyship evidently had the sense to see that crying is a painful and useless exercise when she has to deal with such a hard-hearted tyrant as i am, and she quickly gave it up. rosa hoped pointedly that the poor little thing's will isn't broken, and hannah observed piously that she trusted i realized we all of us had to be treated like babies by our heavenly father. i was tempted to ask her if our heavenly father never left us to cry in the dark. if we could be as firm with ourselves as we can be with other people, what an improvement it would be. i wonder what tom would think of my first conflict with his baby. may . i went to-day to call on mrs. weston. although i am in mourning, i thought it better to go. i feared lest she should think my old relations to george might have something to do with my staying away. it was far less difficult than i thought it would be. i may be frank in my diary, i suppose, and say i found her silly and rather vulgar, and i wonder how george can help seeing it. she was inclined to boast a little that all the best people in town had called. "olivia watson acted real queer about my wedding-calls," she said. "she doesn't seem to know the rich folks very well." "oh, we never make distinctions in tuskamuck by money," i put in; but she went on without heeding. "olivia said mrs. andrews--she called her lady andrews, just as if she was english." "it is a way we have," i returned. "i'm sure i don't know how it began. very likely it is only because it fits her so well." "well, anyway, she called; and olivia owned she'd never been to see them. i could see she was real jealous, though she wouldn't own it." "old lady andrews is a delightful person," i remarked awkwardly, feeling that i must say something. "i didn't think she was much till olivia told me," returned mrs. weston, with amazing frankness. "i thought she was a funny old thing." it is not kind to put this down, i know; but i really would like to see if it sounds so unreal when it is written as it did when it was said. it was so unlike anything i ever heard that it seemed almost as if mrs. weston were playing a part, and trying to cheat me into thinking her more vulgar and more simple than she is. i am afraid i shall not lessen my unpleasant impression, however, by keeping her words. mrs. weston talked, too, about george and his devotion as if she expected me to be hurt. possibly i was a little; although if i were, it was chiefly because my vanity suffered that he should find me inferior in attraction to a woman like this. i believe i am sincerely glad that he should prove his fondness for his wife. indeed fondness could be the only excuse for his leaving me, and i do wish happiness to them both. i fear what i have written gives the worst of mrs. weston. she perhaps was a little embarrassed, but she showed me nothing better. she is not a lady, and i see perfectly that she will drop out of our circle. we are a little cranfordish here, i suppose, but anywhere in the world people come in the long run to associate with their own kind. mrs. weston is not our kind; and even if this did not affect our attitude, she would herself tire of us after the first novelty is worn off. may . george came in this morning on business, and before he went he thanked me for calling on his wife. "i shouldn't have made a wedding-call just now on anybody else," i told him; "but your association with father and the way in which we have known you of course make a difference." he showed some embarrassment, but apparently--at least so i thought--he was so anxious to know what i thought of mrs. weston that he could not drop the subject. "gertrude isn't bookish," he remarked rather confusedly. "i hope you found things to talk about." "meaning that i can talk of nothing but books?" i returned. "poor george, how i must have bored you in times past." he flushed and grew more confused still. "of course you know i didn't mean anything like that," he protested. i laughed at his grave face, and then i was so glad to find i could talk to him about his wife without feeling awkward that i laughed again. he looked so puzzled i was ready to laugh in turn at him, but i restrained myself. i could not understand my good spirits, and for that matter i do not now. somehow my call of yesterday seems to have made a difference in my feeling toward george. just how or just what i cannot fully make out. i certainly have not ceased to care about him. i am still fond of the george i have known for so many years; but somehow the husband of mrs. weston does not seem to be the same man. the george weston who can love this woman and be in sympathy with her is so different from anything i have known or imagined the old george to be that he affects me as a stranger. the truth is i have for the past month been in the midst of things so serious that my own affairs and feelings have ceased to appear of so much importance. when death comes near enough for us to see it face to face, we have a better appreciation of values, and find things strangely altered. i have had, moreover, little time to think about myself, which is always a good thing; and to my surprise i find now that i am not able to pity myself nearly as much as i did. this seems perhaps a little disloyal to george. my feeling for him cannot have evaporated like dew drying from the grass. at least i am sure that i am still ready to serve him to the very best of my ability. vi june june . cousin mehitable is capable of surprises. she has written to deacon richards to have my baby taken away from me. the deacon came in to-night, so amused that he was on the broad grin when he presented himself, and chuckling even when he said good-evening. "what pleases you?" i asked. "you seem much amused about something." "i am," he answered. "i've been appointed your guardian." "by the town authorities?" i demanded. "i should have thought i was old enough to look after myself." "it's your family," he chuckled. "miss privet has written to me from boston." "cousin mehitable?" i exclaimed. "miss mehitable privet," he returned. "she has written to you about me?" asked i. he nodded, in evident delight over the situation. my astonishment got the better of my manners so that i forgot to ask him to sit down, but stood staring at him like a booby. i remembered cousin mehitable had met him once or twice on her infrequent visits to tuskamuck, and had been graciously pleased to approve of him,--largely, i believe, on account of some accidental discovery of his very satisfactory pedigree. that she should write to him, however, was most surprising, and argued an amount of feeling on her part much greater than i had appreciated. i knew she would be shocked and perhaps scandalized by my having baby, and she had written to me with sufficient emphasis, but i did not suppose she would invoke outside aid in her attempts to dispossess me of thomasine. "but why should she write to you?" i asked deacon daniel. "she said," was his answer, "she didn't know who else to write to." "but what did she expect you to do?" the deacon chuckled and caressed his beardless chin with a characteristic gesture. when he is greatly amused he seizes himself by the chin as if he must keep his jaw stiff or an undeaconical laugh would come out in spite of him. "i don't think she cared much what i did if i relieved you of that baby," was his reply. "she said if i was any sort of a guardian of the poor perhaps i could put it in a home." "but you are not," i said. "no," he assented. "and you shouldn't have her if you were," i added. "i don't want the child," deacon daniel returned. "i shouldn't know what to do with it." then we both laughed, and i got him seated in father's chair, and we had a long chat over the whole situation. i had not realized how much i wanted to talk matters over with somebody. aunt naomi is out of the question, because she is so fond of telling things; miss charlotte would be better, but she is not very worldly wise; and if i may tell the truth, i wanted to talk with a man. the advice of women is wise often, and yet more often it is comforting; but it has somehow not the conclusiveness of the decision of a sensible man. at least that is the way i felt to-night, though in many matters i should never think of trusting to a man's judgment. "i think i shall adopt baby legally," i said. "then nobody could take her away or bother me about her." he asked me if her father would agree, and i said that i was sure he would. "it would make her your heir if you died without a will," he commented. i said that nothing was more easy than to make a will, and of course i should mean to provide for her. "you are not afraid of wills, then?" deacon daniel observed, looking at me curiously. "so many folks can't bear the idea of making one." "very likely it's partly because i am a lawyer's daughter," i said; "but in any case making a will wouldn't have any more terrors for me than writing a check. but then i never had any fear of death anyway." deacon daniel regarded me yet more intently, clasping his great white hands over his knee. "i never can quite make you out, miss ruth," he said after a little. "you haven't any belief in a hereafter that i know of, but you seem to have no trouble about it." i asked him why i should have, and he answered that most people do. "perhaps that is because they feel a responsibility about the future that i don't," i returned. "i don't think i can alter what is to come after death, and i don't see what possible good i can do by fretting about it. father brought me up, you know, to feel that i had all i could attend to in making the best i can of this life, without wasting my strength in speculating about another. in any case i can't see why i should be any more afraid of death than i am of sleep. i understand one as well as i do the other." he looked at the rug thoughtfully a moment, and then, as if he declined to be drawn into an argument, he came back to the original subject of our talk. "would tom webbe want to have anything to do with the child?" he asked. "i think he would rather forget she is in the world," i told him. "by and by he may be fond of her, but now he tries not to think of her at all. i want to make her so attractive and lovely he can't help caring for her." "but then she will care for him," the deacon commented. "why, of course she will. that is what i hope. then she might influence him, and help him." "you are willing to share her with her father even if you do adopt her?" he asked. i did not understand his manner, but i told him i did not think i had any right to deprive her of her father's affection or him of hers if i adopted her a dozen times over. the deacon made no answer. his face was graver, and for some time we sat without further word. "tom webbe isn't as bad as he seems, miss ruth," deacon daniel said at length. "if you had to live with his mother, i guess you'd be ready to excuse him for 'most anything. his father never had the spunk to say boo to a goose, and mrs. webbe has bullied him from the time we were boys. he's as good as a man can be, but it's a pity he don't carry out paul's idea of being ruler in his own house." "paul was a bachelor like you, deacon daniel," i answered, rather saucily; "and neither of you knows anything about it." he grinned, but only added that tom had been nagged into most of his wildness. "i'm not excusing him," he went on, apparently afraid that he should seem to be condoning iniquity; "but there's a good deal to be said for him. aunt naomi says he ought to be driven out of decent society, but tom webbe never did a mean thing in his life." i was rather surprised to hear this defense from deacon richards, but i certainly agreed with him. tom's sin makes me cringe; but i realize that i'm not capable of judging him, and he certainly has a good deal of excuse for whatever evil he has fallen into. june . one thing more which deacon richards said has made me think a good deal. he asked me what tom had meant to do about the child if its mother lived. i told him julia had been willing for me to have baby in any case. he thought in silence a moment. "i don't believe," he said, "tom ever meant to live with that woman. he must have married her to clear his conscience." "he married her so the child should not be disgraced," i answered. deacon daniel looked at me with those great keen eyes glowing beneath his shaggy white brows. "then he went pretty far toward clearing his record," was his comment. "there are not many men would have tied themselves to such a wife for the sake of a child." this was not very orthodox, perhaps, but a good heart will get the better of orthodoxy now and then. it has set me to thinking about tom and his wife in a way which had not occurred to me. i wonder if it is true that he did not mean to live with her. i remember now that he said he would never see julia again, but at the time this meant nothing to me. if he had thought of making a home, he would naturally expect to have his child, but after all i doubt if at that time he considered anything except the good of baby. he did not love her; he had not even looked at her; but he tried to do her right as far as he could. he could give her an honest name in the eyes of the world, but he must have known that he could not make a home with julia where the surroundings would be good for a child. this must have been what he considered for the moment. yet tom is one who thinks out things, and he may have thought out the future of the mother too. when i look back i wonder how it was i consented so quickly to take tomine. i wanted to help tom, and i wanted him to be able to decide without being forced by any consideration of baby. i do not know whether he ought to have married julia for her own sake. if she had lived, i am afraid i should have been tempted to think he had better not have bound himself to her; and yet i realize that i should have been disappointed in him if he had decided not to do it. i doubt if i could have got rid entirely of the feeling that somehow he would have been cowardly. i wonder if he had any notion of my feeling? he came out of the trial nobly, at least, and i honor him with all my heart for that. june . aunt naomi has now a theme exactly to her taste in the growing extravagance of george's wife. mrs. weston has certainly elaborated her style of dress a good deal, a thing which is the more noticeable from the fact that in tuskamuck we are on the whole so little given to gorgeous raiment. i remember that when i called i thought her rather overdressed. to-day aunt naomi talked for half an hour with the greatest apparent enjoyment about the fine gowns and expensive jewelry with which the bride is astonishing the town. i am afraid it does not take much to set us talking. i tried half a dozen times to-day to change the subject, but my efforts were wasted. aunt naomi was not to be diverted from a theme so congenial. i reminded her that any bride was expected to display her finery--this is part of the established formality with which marriage is attended. "that's all very well," she retorted with a sniff; "folks want to see the wedding outfit. this is finery george weston has had to pay for himself." "i don't see how anybody can know that," i told her; and i added that it did not seem to me to be the town's business if it were true. "she tells everybody he gave her the jewelry," aunt naomi responded; "and the dresses she's had made since she was married. she hadn't anything herself. the watsons say she was real poor." "the marriage was so sudden," i said, "that very likely she hadn't time to get her wedding outfit. at any rate, aunt naomi, i don't see what you and i have to do with her clothes." the dear old gossip went on wagging her foot and smiling with evident delight. "it's the business of the neighbors that she's sure to ruin her husband if she keeps on with her extravagance, isn't it? besides, she wears her clothes to have them talked about. she talks about them herself." "a few dresses won't ruin her husband," i protested. "she has one hired girl now, and she's talking of a second," aunt naomi went on, unshaken. "did you ever hear of such foolishness?" i reminded her that i had two maids myself. "oh, you," she returned; "that's different. i hope you don't put her on a level with real folks, do you?" i tried to treat the whole matter as if it were of no consequence, and i did stop the talk here; but secretly i am troubled. george has very little aside from what he earns in his profession, and he might easily run behind if his wife is really extravagant. he needs a woman to help him save. june . tomine delighted the family to-day by her wonderful precocity in following with her eyes the flight of a blue-bottle fly that buzzed about the nursery. such intelligence in one so young is held by us women to betoken the most extraordinary promise. i communicated the important event to mr. saychase, who came to call, and he could neither take it gravely nor laugh at the absurdity of our noticing so slight a thing. he seemed to be trying to find out how i wished him to look at it; and as i was divided between laughter and secret pride in baby he could not get a sure clue. how dull the man is; but no doubt he is good. when piety and stupidity are united, it is unfortunate that they should be made prominent by being set high in spiritual places. june . i have a good deal of sympathy with cain's question when he asked the lord if he were his brother's keeper. of course his crime turned the question in his case into a mere pitiful excuse, but cain was at least clever enough to take advantage of a principle which must appeal to everybody. we cannot be responsible for others when we have neither authority nor control over them. it is one of the hardest forms of duty, it seems to me, when we feel that we ought to do our best, yet are practically sure that in the end we can effect little or nothing. what can i do to influence george's wife? somehow we seem to have no common ground to meet on. father used to say that people who do not speak the same ethical language cannot communicate moral ideas to each other. this is rather a high-sounding way of saying that mrs. weston and i cannot understand each other when anything of real importance comes up. it is of course as much my fault as hers, but i really do not know how to help or change it. i suppose there is a certain arrogance and self-righteousness in my feeling that i could direct her, but i am certainly older and i believe i am wiser. yet i am not her keeper, and if to feel that i am not involves me in the cowardice of cain, i cannot help it. i am ready to do anything i can do, but what is there? june . still it is george's wife. i dare say a good deal of talk has been circulating, and i have not heard it. i have been so occupied with graver matters ever since george was married that i have seen few people, and have paid little heed to the village talk. to-day old lady andrews said her say. she began by reminding me of the conversation we had had in regard to calling on the bride. "i am glad we did it, ruth," she went on. "it puts us in the right whatever happens; but she will not do. i shall never ask her to my house." i could say nothing. i knew she was right, but i was so sorry for george. "she is vulgar, ruth," the sweet old voice went on. "she called a second time on me yesterday, and i've been only once to see her. she said a good deal about it's being the duty of us--she said 'us,' my dear,--to wake up this sleepy old place. i told her that, personally, since she was good enough to include me with herself, i preferred the town as it had been." i fairly laughed out at the idea of old lady andrews' delivering this with well-bred sweetness, and i wondered how far mrs. weston perceived the sarcasm. "did she understand?" i asked. "about half, i think, my dear. she saw she had made a mistake, but i doubt if she quite knew what it was. she was uneasy, and said she thought those who had a chance ought to make things more lively." i asked if mrs. weston gave any definite idea how this liveliness was to be secured. "not very clearly," was the answer. "she said something about hoping soon to have a larger house so she could entertain properly. her dress was dreadfully showy, according to my old-fashioned notions. i am afraid we are too slow for her, my dear. she will have to make a more modern society for herself." and so the social doom of george's wife is written, as far as i can see. i can if i choose ask people to meet her, but that will do her little good when they have looked her over and given her up. they will come to my house to meet anybody i select, but they will not invite her in their turn. it is a pity social distinctions should count for so much; but in tuskamuck they certainly do. june . mr. saychase called again this afternoon. he is so thin and so pale that it is always my inclination to have hannah bring him something to eat at once. to-day he had an especially nervous air, and i tried in vain to set him at his ease. i fear he may have taken it into his head to try to bring me into the church. he did not, it is true, say anything directly about religion, but he had an air of having something very important in reserve which he was not yet ready to speak of. he talked about the church work as if he expected me to be interested. he would not have come so soon again if he did not have some particular object. it is a pity anything so noble as religion should so often have weak men to represent it. what is good in religion they do not fairly stand for, and what is undesirable they somehow make more evident. if superstition is to be a help, it must appeal to the best feelings, and a weak priest touches only the weaker side of character. one is not able to receive him on his merits as a man, but has to excuse him in the name of his devotion to religion. still, mr. saychase is a good man, and he means well with whatever strength of mind nature endowed him. june . tom came to-day to see baby,--not that he paid much attention to her when he saw her. it amuses me to find how jealous i am getting for tomine, and anxious she shall be treated with deference. i see myself rapidly growing into a hen-with-one-chicken attitude of mind, but i do not know how it is to be helped. i exhibited baby this afternoon with as much pride and as much desire that she should be admired as if she had been my veriest own, so it was no wonder that tom laughed at me. he was very grave when he came, but little by little the fun-loving sparkle came into his eyes and a smile grew on his face. "you'd make a first rate saleswoman, ruth," he said, "if you could show off goods as well as you do babies." i suppose i can never meet tom again with the easy freedom we used to feel, especially with baby to remind us; but we have been good friends so long that it is a great comfort to feel something of the old comradeship to be still possible. tom was so awkward about baby, so unwilling to touch her, that i offered to put her into his arms. then he suddenly grew brave. "don't, ruth," he said. "it hurts you that i can't care for the baby, but i can't. perhaps i shall sometime." i took thomasine away without a word, and gave her to rosa in the nursery. when i came back to the parlor tom was in his favorite position before the window. he wheeled round suddenly when he heard me. "you are not angry, ruth?" he asked. "no, tom," i answered; "only sorry." i sat down and took up my sewing, while he walked about the room. he stopped in front of me after a moment. "i wanted to tell you, ruth," he said, "that i am not going back to new york." i looked at him questioningly, and waited. "i had really a good opening there," he went on; "but i thought i ought not to take it." i asked him why. "i'll be hanged if i quite know," he responded explosively. "i suppose it's part obstinacy that makes me too stubborn to run away from disgrace, and partly it's father. this thing has broken him terribly. i'm going to stay and help him out." i know how tom hates farming, and i held out my hand to him and said so. "i hate everything," he returned desperately; "but it wouldn't be square to leave him now when he's so cut up on my account." we were both of us, i am sure, too moved to have much talk, and tom did not stay long. he went off rather abruptly, with hardly a good-by; but i think i understood. i am glad he has the pluck to stand by poor old deacon daniel; but he must learn to be fond of baby. that will be a comfort to him. june . george seems to me to be almost beside himself. i cannot comprehend what his wife is doing to him. she has apparently already come to realize that she is not succeeding in tuskamuck, and is determined to conquer by display and showy ways of living. she cannot know us very well if she supposes that such means will do here. her latest move i find it hard to forgive her. i do not understand how george can have done it, no matter how much she urged him; but i am of course profoundly ignorant how such a woman controls a man. i am afraid one thing which made him attractive to me was that he was so willing to be influenced, but we see a man in a light entirely different when it is another woman who shapes his life. what once seemed a fine compliance takes on a strange appearance of weakness when we are no longer the moving force; but i think i do myself no more than justice when i feel that at least i tried always to influence george for his own good. poor miss charlotte came over directly after breakfast this morning to tell me. she had been brooding over it half the night, poor soul, and her eyes looked actually withered with crying and lack of sleep. "i know i exaggerate it," she kept saying, "and of course he didn't mean to insult me; but to think anybody dared to ask me to sell the house, the kendall house that our family has lived in for four generations! it would have killed my father if he had known i should live to come to this!" i tried to soothe her, and to make her believe that in offering to buy her house george had thought only of how much he admired it, and not at all of her feelings, which he could not understand. "of course he could not understand my feelings," miss charlotte said, with a bitterness which i am sure was unconscious. "he never had a family, and i ought to remember that." she grew somewhat more calm as she unburdened her heart. she told me george had praised the place, and said how much he had always liked it. he confessed that it was his wife who first suggested the purchase: she wanted a house where she could entertain and which would be of more importance than the one in which she lived. "he said," miss charlotte went on with a strange mingling of pride and sorrow, "his wife felt that the house in itself would give any family social standing. i don't know how pleased his wife would be if she knew he told me, but he said it. he told me she meant to have repairs and improvements. she must feel as if she owned it already. he said she had an iron dog stored somewhere that she meant to put on the lawn. think of it, ruth, an iron dog on our old lawn!" then suddenly all the sorrow of her lot seemed to overwhelm her at once, and she broke down completely. she sobbed so unrestrainedly and with so complete an abandonment of herself to her grief that i cried with her, even while i was trying to stop her tears. "it isn't just george weston's coming to ask me to sell the place," she said; "it is all of it: it's my being so poor i can't keep up the name, and the family's ending with me, and none of my kin even to bury me. it's all of the hurts i've got from life, ruth; and it's growing so old i've no strength any longer to bear them. oh, it's having to keep on living when i want to be dead!" i threw my arms about her, and kissed the tears from her wrinkled cheeks, though there were about as many on my own. "don't," i begged her, "don't, dear miss charlotte. you break my heart! we are all of us your kin, and you know we love you dearly." she returned my embrace convulsively, and tried to check her sobbing. "i know it's cowardly," she got out brokenly. "it's cowardly and wicked. i never broke down so before. i won't, ruth dear. just give me a little time." dear miss charlotte! i made her stay with me all day; and indeed she was in no condition to do anything else. i got her to take a nap in the afternoon, and when she went home she was once more her own brave self. she said good-night with one of her clumsy joking speeches. "good-by, my dear," she said; "the next time i come i'll try not to be so much like the waterworks girl that had a creek in her back and a cataract in each eye." she is always facetious when she does not quite trust herself to be serious. and i, who do not dare to trust myself to think about george and his wife, had better stop writing. june . deacon richards presented himself at twilight, and found me sitting alone out on the doorsteps. i watched his tall figure coming up the driveway, bent with age a little, but still massive and vigorous; and somehow by the time he was near enough to speak, i felt that i had caught his mood. he smiled broadly as he greeted me. "where's the baby?" he demanded. "i supposed i should find you giving it its supper." "there isn't any 'it' in this house," was my retort; "and as for baby's supper, you are just as ignorant as a man always is. any woman would know that babies are put to bed long before this." he grinned down upon me from his height. "how should i know what time it went to bed?" he asked, with a laugh in his voice. "i never raised a baby. i've come to talk about it, though." "look here, deacon daniel," i cried out, with affected indignation, "i will not have my baby called 'it,' as if she were a stick or a stock!" he laughed outright at this; then at my invitation sat down beside me. we were silent for a time, looking at the color fading in the west, and the single star swimming out of the purple as the sky changed into gray. the frogs were working at their music with all the persistence of a child strumming five-finger exercises, but their noise only made the evening more peaceful. "how restful it is," i said to him at last; "it almost makes one feel there can never be any fretting again about anything." deacon daniel did not answer for a moment, then he said with the solemnity of one who seldom puts sentiment into words,-- "it is like the twenty-third psalm." i simply assented, and then we were silent again, until at last he moved as if he were waking himself, and sighed. i always wonder whether somewhere in the past deacon richards has had his romance, and if so what it may have been. if he has, a night like this might well bring it up to his memory. i am glad if it comes to him with the peace of a psalm. "have you thought, miss ruth," the deacon asked at length in the growing dark, "what a responsibility you are taking upon yourself in having that baby?" it was like the dear old man to have considered me and to look at the moral side of the question. he wanted to help me, i could see; and of course he cannot understand how entirely religious one may be without theology. i told him i had thought of it very seriously; and it seemed to me sometimes that it was more than i was equal to. but i added that i could not help thinking i could do better by baby than mrs. webbe. "mrs. webbe is no sort of a woman to bring up a child," he agreed. then he added, with a shrewdness that surprised me a little: "babies have got to be given baby-treatment as well as baby-food." "of course they have," was my reply. "babies have a right to love as well as to milk, and poor little thomasine would get very little from her grandmother." deacon daniel gave a contemptuous snort. "that woman couldn't really love anything," he declared; "or if she did she'd show it by being hateful." i said she certainly loved tom. "yes," he retorted; "and she's nagged him to death. for my part i can't more than half blame tom webbe as i ought to, when i think of his having had his mother to thorn him everlastingly." "then you do think it's better for baby to be with me than with her grandmother?" i asked him. "it's a hundred times better, of course; but i wondered if you'd thought of the responsibility of its--of her religious instruction." we had come to the true kernel of the deacon's errand. i really believe that in his mind was more concern for me than for baby. he is always unhappy that i am not in the fold of the church; and i fancy that more or less consciously he was making of thomasine an excuse for an attempt to reach me. it is not difficult to understand his feeling. mother used to affirm that believers are anxious to proselyte because they cannot bear to have anybody refuse to acknowledge that they are right. this is not, i am sure, the whole of it. of course no human being likes to be thought wrong, especially on a thing which, like religion, cannot be proved; but there is a good deal of genuine love in the attempt of a man like deacon daniel to convert an unbeliever. he is really grieved for me, and i would do anything short of actual dishonesty to make him suppose that i believed as he would have me. i should so like him to be happy about my eternal welfare. when the future does not in the least trouble me, it seems such a pity that he should be disturbed. i told him to-night i should not give baby what he would call religious instruction, but i should never interfere if others should teach her, if they made what is good attractive. "but you would tell her that religion isn't true," he objected. "oh, no;" i answered. "i should have to be honest, and tell her if she asked that i don't believe we know anything about another life; but of course as far as living in this one goes i shouldn't disagree with religion." he tried to argue with me, but i entirely refused to be led on. "deacon daniel," i told him, "i know it is all in your kindness for me that you would talk, but i refuse to have this beautiful summer evening wasted on theology. you couldn't convince me, and i don't in the least care about convincing you. i am entirely content that you should believe your way, and i am entirely satisfied with mine. now i want to talk with you about our having a reading-room next winter." so i got him to another subject, and what is better i think i really interested him in my scheme of opening a free library. if we can once get that to working it will be a great help to the young men and boys. "the time seems to have come in human development," i remember father's saying not long before he died, "when men must be controlled by the broadening instead of by the narrowing of their minds." june . i have been considering why it is that i have had so much said to me this spring about religion. people have not been in the habit of talking to me about it much. they have come to let me go my own way. i suppose the fact of mother's death has brought home to them that i do not think in their way. how a consistent and narrow man can look at the situation i have had a painful illustration in mr. thurston. if kathie had not pushed him into a corner by asking him about mother, i doubt if he could have gone to the length he did; but after all any really consistent believer must take the view that i am doomed to eternal perdition. i am convinced that few really do believe anything of the sort, but they think that they do, and so baby and i have been a centre of religious interest. another phase of this interest has shown itself in mr. saychase's desire to baptize thomasine. i wonder if i had better put my preferences in my pocket, and let the thing be done. it offends my sense of right that a human being should have solemn vows made for her before she can have any notions of what all this means; but if one looks at the whole as simply promises on the part of adults that they will try to have the child believe certain things and follow certain good ways of living, there is no great harm in it. i suppose deacon webbe and his wife would be pleased. i will let tom decide the matter. june . i met tom in the street to-day, and he absolutely refuses to have baby christened. "i'll have no mummeries over any child of mine," he declared. "i've had enough of that humbug to last me a lifetime." i could not help saying i wished he were not so bitter. "i can't help it, ruth," was his retort. "i am bitter. i've been banged over the head with religion ever since i was born, and told that i was 'a child of the covenant' till i hate the very thought of the whole business. whatever you do, don't give anybody the right to twit thomasine with being 'a child of the covenant.' she has enough to bear in being the child of her parents." "don't, tom," i begged him. "you hurt me." without thinking what i did i put my hand on his arm. he brushed it lightly with his fingers, looking at it in a way that almost brought tears to my eyes. i took it off quickly, but i could not face him, and i got away at once. poor tom! he is so lonely and so faithful. i am so sorry that he will keep on caring for me like that. no woman is really good enough not to tremble at the thought of absorbing the devotion of a strong man; and it seems wicked that i should not love tom. june . the rose i transplanted to mother's grave is really, i believe, going to bloom this very summer. i am glad the blossoms on father's should have an echo on hers. june . babies and diaries do not seem to go very well together. there is no tangible reason why i should not write after the small person is asleep, for that is the time i have generally taken; but the fact is i sit working upon some of tomine's tiny belongings, or now and then sit in the dark and think about her. my journal has been a good friend, but i am afraid its nose is out of joint. baby has taken its place. i begin to see i made this book a sort of safety-valve for poor spirits and general restlessness. now i have this sweet human interest in my life i do not need to resort to pen and ink for companionship. the dear little rosy image of thomasine is with me all the time i seem to be sitting alone. june . last night i felt as if i was done with relieving my mind by writing in an unresponsive journal; to-night i feel as if i must have just this outlet to my feelings. last night i thought of baby; to-night i am troubled about her father. i saw tom this afternoon at work in the hayfield, looking so brown and so handsome that it was a pleasure to see him. he had the look of a man who finds work just the remedy for heart-soreness, and i was happy in thinking he was getting into tune with wholesome life. i was so pleased that i took the footpath across the field as a mere excuse to speak to him, and i thought he would have been glad to see me. i came almost up to him before he would notice me, although i think he must have seen me long before. he took off his hat as i came close to him, and wiped his forehead. "tom," i said at once, "i came this way just to say how glad i am to see you look as if you were getting contented with your work. you were working with such a will." i do not know that it was a tactful speech, but i was entirely unprepared for the shadow which came over his face. "i was trying to get so completely tired out that i should sleep like a log to-night," he answered. before anything else could be said deacon daniel came up, and the talk for the rest was of the weather, and the hay, and nothings. i came away as sad as i had before been pleased. i can understand that tom is sore in his heart. he is dominant, and his life is made up of things which he hates; he is ambitious, and he is fond of pleasure. he has no pleasure, and he can see nothing before him but staying on with his father. it is true enough that it is his own fault. he has never been willing to stick to work, and the keenest of his regrets must be about his own ill-doing. he is so generous, however, and so manly and kind that i cannot bear to see him grow hard and sad and bitter. yet what can i do to help it? certainly this is another case for asking if i am my brother's keeper. i am afraid that i was resigned not to be the keeper of mrs. weston, but with tom it is different. poor tom! vii july july . thomasine is legally my daughter. it gives me an odd feeling to find myself really a parent. george and tom met here this forenoon with the papers, and all necessary formalities were gone through with. it was not a comfortable time for any of us, i fancy; and i must own that george acted strangely. he was out of spirits, and was but barely civil to tom. he has never liked the idea of my having thomasine, and has tried two or three times to persuade me to give her up. i have refused to discuss the question with him, because it was really settled already. to-day he came before tom, and made one more protest. "you can keep the child if you are so determined," he said, "though why you should want to i can't conceive; but why need you adopt it? it hasn't any claim on you." i told him that she had the claim that i loved her dearly. he looked at me with an expression more unkind than i had ever seen in his face. "how much is it for her father's sake?" he burst out. the words, offensive as they were, were less so than the manner. "a good deal," i answered him soberly. "i have been his friend from the time we were both children." he moved in his chair uneasily. "look here, ruth," he said; "you've no occasion to be offended because i hint at what everybody else will say." i asked what that was. "you are angry," was his response. "when you put on your grand air it is no use to argue with you; but i've made up my mind to be plain. everybody says you took the baby because you are fond of him." i could feel myself stiffening in manner with every word, but i could not help it. i had certainly a right to be offended; but i tried to speak as naturally as i could. "i don't know, george," was my reply, "what business it is of everybody's; and if it were, why should i not be fond of tom?" he flushed and scowled, and got up from his seat. "oh, if you take it that way," he answered, "of course there's nothing more for me to say." i was hurt and angry, but before anything more could be said rosa showed tom in. he said good-morning to george stiffly, but tom is always instinctively polite, i think. george had toward him an air plainly unfriendly. i do not understand why george should feel as he does about my adopting thomasine, but in any case he has no right to behave as he did. i felt between the two men as if i were hardly able to keep the peace, and as if on the slightest provocation, george would fly out. it was absurd, of course, but the air seemed to be full of unfriendliness. "i suppose we need not be very long over business," i said, trying with desperation to speak brightly. "i've been over the papers, tom, and i can assure you they are all right. i'm something of a lawyer, you know." george interposed, as stiffly as possible, that he must urge me to have the instrument read aloud, in order that i might realize what i was doing. i assured him i knew perfectly what the paper was, even if it were called an instrument. "ruth is entirely right," tom put in emphatically. "there is not the slightest need of dragging things out." "i can understand that you naturally would not want any delay," george retorted sharply. tom turned and looked at him with an expression which made george change color, but before anything worse could be said, i hurried to ask tom to ring for rosa to act as a witness. i looked in my turn at george, and i think he understood how indignant i was. "it's outrageous for you to burden yourself with his brat," george muttered under his breath as tom went across the room to the bell-rope. "you forget that you are speaking of my daughter," i answered him, with the most lofty air i could manage to assume. he turned on his heel with an angry exclamation, and no more objections were made. george never showed me this unpleasant side of his character before in all the years i have known him. for the moment he behaved like a cad, like nothing else than a cad. something very serious must have been troubling him. he must have been completely unstrung before he could be so disagreeable. rosa came in, and the signing was done. after the business was finished george lingered as if he wished to speak with me. very likely he wished to apologize, but my nerves were not in tune for more talk with him, and in any case it was better to ignore all that had been unpleasant. "you have no more business, have you, george?" i asked him directly. "tom of course will want to see the daughter he has given away. i didn't let him see her first for fear he'd refuse to part with her." george had no excuse for staying after that, and he was just leaving the room when rosa reappeared with tomine. the darling looked like a cherub, and was in a mood truly angelic. george scowled at her as if the dear little thing had done him some wrong, and hurried away. i do not understand how he could resist my darling, or why he should feel so about her. it is, i suppose, friendship for me; but he should realize a little what a blessing baby is to my lonely life. tom stood silent when rosa took thomasine up to him. he did not offer to touch the tiny pink face, and i could fancy how many thoughts must go through his mind as he looked. while he might not regret the dead woman, indeed, while he could hardly be other than glad that julia was not alive, he must have some feeling about her which goes very deep. i should think any man who was not wholly hard must have some tenderness toward the mother of his child, no matter who or what she was. it moves even me, to think of such a feeling; and i could not look at tom as he stood there with the living child to remind him of the dead mother. it seemed a long time that he looked at baby, and we were all as quiet as if we had been at prayer. then tom of his own accord kissed tomine. he has never done it before except as i have asked him. he came over to me and held out his hand. "i must go back to haying," he said. then he held my hand a minute, and looked into my eyes. "make her as much like yourself as you can, ruth," he added; "and god bless you." the tears came into my eyes at his tone, and blinded me. before i could see clearly, he was gone. i hope he understood that i appreciated the generosity of his words. july . i am troubled by the thought of yesterday. george went away so evidently out of sympathy with what i had done, and very likely thinking i was unfriendly, that it seems almost as if i had really been unkind. i must do something to show him that i am the same as ever. perhaps the best thing will be to have his wife to tea. my mourning has prevented my doing anything for them, and secretly, i am ashamed to say, this has been a relief. i can ask them quietly, however, without other guests. july . i feel a little as if i had been shaken up by an earthquake, but i am apparently all here and unhurt. day before yesterday cousin mehitable descended upon me in the wake of her usual telegram, determined to bear me away to europe, despite, as she said, all the babies that ever were born. she had arranged my passage, fixed the date, engaged state-rooms, and cabled for a courier-maid to meet us at southampton; and now i had, she insisted, broken up all her arrangements. "it's completely ungrateful, ruth," she declared. "here i have been slaving to have everything ready so the trip would go smoothly for you. i've done absolutely every earthly thing that i could think of, and now you won't go. you've no right to back out. it's treating me in a way i never was treated in my whole life. it's simply outrageous." i attempted to remind her that she had been told of my decision to stay at home long before she had made any of her arrangements; but she refused to listen. "i could bear it better," she went on, "if you had any decent excuse; but it's nothing but that baby. i must say i think it's a pretty severe reflection on me when you throw me over for any stray baby that happens to turn up." i tried again to put in a protest, but the tide of cousin mehitable's indignation is not easily stemmed. "to think of your turning cousin horace's house into a foundling hospital!" she exclaimed. "why don't you put up a sign? twenty babies wouldn't be any worse than one, and you'd be able to make a martyr of yourself to some purpose. oh, i've no patience with you!" i laughed, and assured her that there was no sort of doubt of the truth of her last statement; so then she changed her tone and begged me not to be so obstinate. of course i could not yield, for i cannot desert baby; and in the end cousin mehitable was forced to give me up as incorrigible. then she declared i should not triumph over her, and she would have me know that there were two people ready and just dying to take my place. i knew she could easily find somebody. the awkward thing about this visit was that cousin mehitable should be here just when i had asked the westons to tea. i always have a late dinner for cousin mehitable, although hannah regards such a perversion of the usual order of meals as little less than immoral; and so george and his wife found a more ceremonious repast than i had intended. i should have liked better to have things in their usual order, for i feared lest mrs. weston might not be entirely at her ease. i confess i had not supposed she might think i was endeavoring to impress her with my style of living until she let it out so plainly that i could not by any possibility mistake her meaning. she evidently wished me to know that she saw through my device; and of course i made no explanations. it was an uncomfortable meal. cousin mehitable refused to be conciliating. she examined the bride through her lorgnette, and i could see that mrs. weston was angered while she was apparently fascinated. george was taciturn, and i could not make things go smoothly, though i tried with all my might. by the time the guests went, i felt that my nerves were fiddlestrings. "well," cousin mehitable pronounced, as soon as the door had closed behind them, "of all the dowdy frumps i ever saw, she is the worst. i never saw anybody so overdressed." "she was overdressed," i assented; "but you behaved horribly. you frightened her into complete shyness." "shyness! humph!" was her response. "she has no more shyness than a brass monkey. that's vulgar, of course, ruth. i meant it to be to match the subject." i put in a weak defense of mrs. weston, although i honestly do find her a most unsatisfactory person. she is self-conscious, and somehow she does not seem to me to be very frank. very likely, moreover, she had been disconcerted by the too evident snubs of my unmanageable cousin. "if i snubbed her," was the uncompromising rejoinder with which a suggestion of this sort was met, "i'm sure i am not ashamed of it. to think of her saying that you evidently wanted to show tuskamuck how to do things in style! does she think any person with style would let her into the house?" i thanked her for the compliment to me. "oh, bother!" she retorted. "you are only a goose, with no sense at all. to think you once thought of marrying that country booby yourself!" i was too much hurt to reply, and probably my face showed my feeling, for cousin mehitable burst into a laugh. "you needn't look so grumpy about it," she cried. "all's well that ends well. you're safely out of that, thank heaven!" i felt that loyalty to george required that i should protest, but she interrupted me. "don't be a humbug, ruth," she said; "and for pity's sake don't be such a fool as to try to humbug yourself. you're not a sentimental schoolgirl to moon after a man, especially when he's shown what his taste is by taking up with such a horror as mrs. weston." "i am fond of him," i asserted, stubbornly enough. she seized me by the shoulders, and looked with her quick black eyes into mine so that i felt as if she could see down to my very toes. "can you look me in the face, ruth privet, and tell me you really care for a man who could marry that ignorant, vulgar, dowdy woman just for her pretty face? can you fool yourself into thinking that you haven't had a lucky escape from a man that's in every way your inferior? you know you have! why, can you honestly think now for a moment of marrying him without feeling your backbone all gooseflesh?" fortunately she did not insist upon my answering her, but shook me and let me go. i doubt if i could have borne to have her press her questions. i was suddenly conscious that george has changed or that my idea of him has altered; and that if he were still single, i could not marry him under any circumstances. cousin mehitable went home this morning, but her talk has been in my mind all day. it comes over me that i have lost more than george. his loving another did not deprive me of the power or the right to love him, and his marriage simply set him away from my life. in some other life, if there be one, i might have always been sure he would come back to me. i cannot help knowing i fed his higher nature, and i helped him to grow, while his wife appeals to something lower, even if it is more natural and human. i felt that in some other possible existence he would see more clearly, and she would no longer satisfy him. now i begin to feel that i have lost more than i knew. i have lost not only him, but i have lost--no, i cannot have lost my love for him. it is only that to-night i am foolish. it is rainy, dreary, hopeless; and seeing mrs. weston through cousin mehitable's eyes has put things all askew. yet why not put it down fearlessly, since i have begun? if i am to write at all it should be the truth. i am beginning to see that the man i loved was not george weston so much as a creature i conjured up in his image. i see him now in a colder, a more sane light, and i find that i am not looking at the man who filled my heart and thought. he has somehow changed. this would be a comfort to some, i suppose. i see now how mother felt about him. she never thought him what he seemed to me, and she always believed that sooner or later i should be disappointed in him. i should not have been disappointed if i had married him--i think! yet now i see how he is under the influence of his wife--but no, it is not her influence only; i see him now, i fear, as he is when he is free to act his true self, unmoved by the desire to be what i would have had him. he was influenced by me. i knew it from the very first, and i see with shame how proud of it i was. yet it gave me a chance to help him, to grow with him, to feel that we were together developing and advancing. oh, dear, how cold and superior, and conceited it sounds now it is on paper! it truly was not that i thought i was above him; but it is surely the part of a woman to inspire her lover and to grow into something better with him. now it seems as if whatever george did he did for me, and not because of any inner love for growth. he appears now less worthy by just so much as what he was seems to me higher than what he is. i have lost what he was. it is cruel that i cannot find the george i cared for. it is hard to believe he existed only in my mind. july . i have been reading over what i wrote last night. it troubles me, and it has a most self-righteous flavor; but i cannot see that it is not true. it troubles me because it is true. i remember that i wondered when george tired of me if the same would have come about if we had married. am i so changeable that if i had been his wife i should have tried him by my severe standards, and then judged him unworthy? i begin to think the pharisees were modest and self-distrustful as compared to self-righteous me. it is terribly puzzling. if i were his wife i should surely feel that my highest duty was to help him, to bring out whatever is best in him. i think i should have been too absorbed in this ever to have discovered that i was idealizing him. now i am far enough away from him to see him clearly. the worse part of him has come out; and very likely i am not above a weak feminine jealousy which makes me incapable of doing him justice. i believe if i had been his wife i might have kept him--yet he was already tired of my influence! such speculations are pretty unprofitable work. the only thing to keep in mind now is that he is my friend, and that it is for me to do still whatever i can for him. i confess that cousin mehitable is right. i am no longer sorry i did not marry george, but i still care for him sincerely, and mean to serve him in every way possible. july . miss charlotte came in this morning while i was playing with tomine, and hailed me as a mother in israel. she is a great admirer of baby, but she declines to touch her. "i'm too big and too rough," she says. "i know i should drop her or break her, or forget she isn't a plant, and go to snipping her with my pruning-shears. you'd better keep her. you've the motherly way with you." it must please any woman to be told that she has the motherly way, and just now i certainly need it. miss charlotte came to talk with me about kathie. the poor child has been growing more and more morbid all summer, and i do not see what is to be done for her. i have tried to comfort and help her, but as her troubles are religious i am all but helpless. miss charlotte went over the cove yesterday on one of her roving tramps in the woods,--"bushwhacking," as she calls it,--and found kathie roaming about in elder's cut-down, wringing her hands and crying aloud like a mad thing. "you can't tell what a start it gave me, ruth," she said. "i heard her, and i thought of wild beasts and wild indians, and all sorts of horrors. then when i saw her, i didn't know her at first. her hair was all tousled up, and she wrung her hands in the craziest way." "did you speak to her?" i asked. "i couldn't. she ran away as soon as i called to her. she'll end in a lunatic asylum if you don't get hold of her." i could only shake my head. "what can i do, miss charlotte?" i asked her. "the trouble is she is half crazy about sin and judgment, and things of that sort that i don't even believe in at all. what can i say? you don't want me to tell her her father's religion is a mistake, i suppose." miss charlotte smiled serenely, and regarded me with a look of much sweet kindliness. "you're a fearful heathen, ruth," was her response, "but you have a fine wheedling way with you. couldn't you persuade her she's too young to think about such things?" "i've tried something of the kind, but she says she is not too young to die. she is like a child out of an old memoir. she isn't of our time at all. we read of that sort of a girl, but i supposed they all died a hundred years ago." "i doubt if there ever were such girls," miss charlotte returned with candor; "except once in a very great while. i think the girls of the memoirs were very much like the rest of us most of the time. they probably had spells of being like kathie. the difference is that she is at boiling point all the time." "of course it's her father," i said thoughtfully. "yes," she assented. "he's such a rampant methodist." i could not help the shadow of a smile, and when she saw it miss charlotte could no more help smiling in her turn. "of course you think it's a case of the pot's calling the kettle black," she said, "but the methodists do make such a business of frightening folks out of their wits. we don't do that." i let this pass, and asked if she couldn't make some practical suggestion for the treatment of kathie. "i can't tell you how to dilute her methodism," she returned with a shrewd twinkle in her eye. "you must know the way better than i do." i am troubled and perplexed. i have so many times wondered what i ought to do about talking to kathie. i have always felt that the fact her father trusted her with me put me on my honor not to say things to her of which he would not approve. it seemed unwise, too, for the child to have any more turmoil in her brain than is there already; and i know that to make her doubt would be to drive her half distracted. the question is whether she has not really begun to doubt already, and needs to be helped to think fearlessly. she is a strange survival from another century. our grandmothers used to agonize over sin, it is claimed, although i think miss charlotte is probably right when she says they were after all a good deal like us. at any rate they were brought up to dread eternal punishment, but it is astonishing to find anybody now who receives this as anything but a theory. belief in the old creeds would seem impossible in these days except in a conventional and remote fashion; and yet kathie takes it all with the desperation of two hundred years ago. if she were to listen to a suggestion of using her creed less like a hair-shirt, she would feel she had committed an appalling transgression. she is only a baby after all, and heaven knows what business she has with creeds anyway. i would as soon think of giving tomine dynamite bombs to play with. i said something of this sort to miss charlotte, and she agreed with me that kathie ought not to brood over theologic questions, but she thought even a child ought, as she put it, instinctively falling into the conventional phraseology of the church, to make her peace with god. i am so glad that nobody ever put it into my childish head that i could ever be at war with god. peter has made a leap to the table, and set his foot on my wet writing. evidently he thinks it foolish to waste time in this sort of scribbling; but i do wish i knew what i can do and what i ought to do. july . deacon daniel webbe came this afternoon to see his granddaughter. mrs. webbe--had forbidden him, i was about to write, but perhaps that is not fair. he only said she thought he had better not come, and he tried clumsily to hint that he hoped i would not betray him. it was touching to see him, he was so much moved by the beauty and the daintiness of baby, and by all the thoughts he must have had about tom. he said little, only that he spoke with a good deal of feeling of how good it is in tom to stay at home and take charge of the farm; but tears were in his patient eyes, and he looked at tomine with a glance so pathetic that i had to go away to wipe my own. i find that having baby here naturally keeps my thoughts a good deal on tom and his possible future. i can't help the feeling that i owe him some sort of reparation for the devotion he has given me all these years. surely a woman owes a man something for his caring for her so, even if she cannot feel in the same way toward him. tom has always been a part of my life. we were boy and girl together long before i knew george. when the westons moved here, i must have been ten or twelve years old; and i never knew george until father took him into the office. it was the winter father had first been ill, and he had to have an assistant at once. i remember perfectly the excellent reports father got from some office in boston where george had been, and these decided him. he had been inclined not to like george at the beginning. i think i first became interested in george through defending him. george always seemed rather to prefer that i should not know his people, and this struck me as strange. the less admirable they were the more tom would have insisted upon my knowing them. dear old tom! how many times he has told me of his own faults, and never of his good deeds. he is certainly one of the most stubbornly honest creatures alive. tom and george are about as different as two mortals could be. george has very little of tom's frankness, and he has not much of tom's independence. father used to declare that george would always be led by a woman, but would never own it to himself. i wonder if this is true. he is being led now by his wife. i fancy, though, he has no idea of such a thing. tom would lead wherever he was. i have rambled far enough away from deacon daniel and the baby. i do hope tomine will have her father's honesty. if she have that, other things may be got over. deacon daniel spoke of her having her father's eyes, and she could hardly have tom's eyes and not be straightforward. july . mr. saychase has taken to frequent pastoral visitations of late. he probably feels now that the moral welfare of baby is involved he must be especially active. i wish he did not bore me so, for he comes often, and i do wish to be friendly. to-night he seemed rather oddly interested in my plans for the future. "i hope that you mean to remain in tuskamuck," he said. "some folks think you are likely to move to boston." i told him that i had no such intention, and reminded him that baby made a new bond between me and the place. "oh, the baby," he responded, it seemed to me rather blankly. "you mean, i presume, that you contemplate keeping the infant." "keeping her?" i responded. "why, i have adopted her." "i heard so," mr. saychase admitted; "but i did not credit the report. i suppose you will place her in some sort of a home." "yes," i answered; "in my home." he flushed a little, and as he was my guest i set myself to put him at his ease. but i should like to understand why everybody is so determined that tomine shall be sent to a "home." july . i went to see old lady andrews to-day. she was as sweet and dear as ever, and as immaculate as if she had just been taken out of rose-leaves and lavender. she never has a hair of her white curls out of place, and her cheeks are at seventy-five pinker than mine. i like to see her in her own house, for she seems to belong to the time of the antique furniture, so entirely is she in harmony with it. i get a fresh sense of virtue every time i look at her beautiful old laces. i wonder if the old masters ever painted angels in thread laces; if not it was a great oversight. dear old lady andrews, she has had enough sorrow in her life to embitter any common mortal; her husband, her two sons, and her near kin are all dead before her; but she is too sweet and fine to degenerate. when sorrow does not sour, how it softens and ennobles. old lady andrews was greatly interested about baby, and we gossiped of her in a delightful way for half an hour. "it pleases me very much, ruth," she said at last, "to see how motherly you are. i never had any doubt about you at all except that i wondered whether you could really mother a baby. i knew you would love it, and be kind, of course; but babies ought to have motherliness if they are really to thrive." i flushed with pleasure, and asked if she meant that she had thought me cut out for an old maid. "if i did," she answered, with that smile of hers which always makes me want to kiss her on the spot, "i shall never think so again. you've the genuine mother-instinct." she looked at me a moment as if questioning with herself. "the truth is," she went on, as if she had made up her mind to say the whole, "you have been for years making an intellectual interest do instead of real love, and of course your manner showed it." i could not ask her what she meant, though i only half understood, and i wished to hear more. she grew suddenly more serious, and spoke in a lower tone. "ruth," she asked, "i am an old woman, and i am fond of you. may i say something that may sound impertinent?" of course i told her she might say anything, and that i knew she could not be impertinent. i could not think what was coming. she leaned forward, and put her thin hand on mine, the little tennant hand with its old-fashioned rings. "it is just this, ruth. be careful whom you marry. i'm so afraid you'll marry somebody out of charity. at least don't think of being a parson's wife." "a parson's wife?" i echoed stupidly, not in the least seeing what she meant. "that would be worse than to take up with the prodigal son," she added, not heeding my interrogation; "though it does seem to me, my dear, that you are too good to be just served up like a fatted calf in honor of his return." i stared at her with bewilderment so complete that she burst into a soft laugh, as mellow as her old laces. "i am speaking parables, of course, and it's no matter now about the prodigal. i only wanted to suggest that you are not just the wife for mr. saychase, and"-- "mr. saychase!" i burst out, interrupting her, i think, for the first time in my life. "why, who ever thought of anything so preposterous?" "oh, you innocent!" she laughed. "i knew you'd be the last one to see it, and i wanted to warn you so that he need not take you entirely by surprise. he is my pastor, and a very good man in his way; but he isn't our kind, my dear." i sat staring at her in a sort of daze, while i suddenly remembered how much mr. saychase has been to see me lately, and how self-conscious he has seemed sometimes. i had not a word to say, even in protest, and old lady andrews having, i suppose, accomplished all she wished in warning me, dropped the subject entirely, and turned back to thomasine's doings and welfare. the idea that mr. saychase has been thinking of me as a possible helpmate is certainly ludicrous. i believe thoroughly any girl should "thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love," but in this case i do not see how love comes into the question at all. i cannot help feeling that he would intellectually be the sort of a husband to put into a quart-pot, there to bid him drum, and at least he will lose no sleep from a blighted passion for me. certainly i should be intellectually starved if i had to live with him. he is not naturally a man of much power of thinking, i suppose, and he has never cultivated the habit. one cannot help seeing that whatever his original capabilities they have been spoiled by his profession. a minister, father said to me once, must either be so spiritual that his creed has no power to restrain him, or a poor crippled thing, pathetic because the desire of rising has made him hamper himself with vows. i think i understand what he meant, and i am afraid mr. saychase is of the latter sort: a man who meant well, and so pledged himself always to cling to the belief the church had made for him, no matter what higher light might come into his life. he is to be pitied,--though he would not understand why. he could hardly care for anybody so far from his way of thinking as i am, so old lady andrews cannot be right there. july . george is having his house enlarged. mrs. weston is certainly energetic, with what is perhaps a western energy. she has been married only about four months. george told me the other day that he meant to make the house larger. "gertrude wants a bigger parlor," he explained, rather ill at ease, i thought. "the house is big enough for me, but when a man has a wife things are different." there was a labored playfulness in his manner which troubled me. he has bought a phaeton and pony for her. i hope that he is not going beyond his means. as for a larger parlor, i am afraid that mrs. weston will have to fill it with rather odd people. july . kathie has shown a new side to her character which troubles me. it is all, i suppose, part of her morbid, unhinged condition, but it is unpleasant. she has conceived a violent jealousy of baby. she refuses to stay in the house if i have thomasine with me. this afternoon i had sent for her to come over and stay to tea. she came in about five, with a wild look in her eyes which she has almost all the time now. she sat down without saying anything, and began to pull the roses in a bowl on the table to pieces, scattering the petals on the floor. i laughingly told her that she evidently thought she was in the woods where roses grew wild and there were no rugs. instead of answering me, or apologizing, she looked at me strangely, and for a moment said nothing. "are you going to have baby brought down here this afternoon?" she demanded at last. i said tomine was out with rosa, but that i expected them in soon, as it was almost time for baby's supper. "will she come in here?" kathie asked. "oh, yes," was my reply. "you will see her. never fear." "then i may as well go home now," observed this astounding child, rising, and going deliberately toward the door. "what in the world do you mean?" i cried out, completely taken by astonishment. "i never will stay in the room with her again," kathie responded emphatically. "i just hate her!" i could only stare at her. "you're all taken up with her now," kathie continued. "you used to like me, but now it's all that baby. i'm much obliged to you for inviting me to supper, but i can't stay any longer if she's coming." if anybody could make me understand whether kathie is sane or not i should have more confidence in attempting to deal with her. to-day i felt as if i were dealing with a mad creature, and that it was idle to try to do anything. it seemed to me it would be a pity to treat the matter too seriously, and i tried to act as if i thought she was merely joking. i laughingly told her that the idea was one of the funniest i ever heard, and that we must tell baby when she came in, to see if we could make the small person laugh. kathie received my remarks with unmoved seriousness. "it isn't a joke at all, miss ruth," she said, with an uncanny air which was most uncomfortable, but which in some indefinable way gave me for the first time in all my dealings with the girl a sort of hint that she was partly acting. "it is just my wicked heart. i hate"-- i interrupted her briskly. "your wicked fiddlesticks, kathie!" i said. "don't talk nonsense. what time has been settled on for the church fair?" she was so taken aback that she had no defense ready, and after a sort of gasp of amazement she answered my question, and said no more about her wickedness. baby came in with rosa, and kathie behaved as usual, only i remember now that she did not offer to touch tomine. i went upstairs for a moment with rosa and baby to see if everything was right, and when i went back to the parlor my guest had taken herself off. she had gone without her supper as she had said she should. i confess my first feeling was that she needed to be soundly shaken; but after all when a child is morbidly wrong in her feelings the particular way in which she shows it is not of much consequence. perhaps she had better be expending her distempered mood on jealousy of baby than on religion. the question is what i had better do; and i confess i do not know how to answer it. july . mr. saychase has made his purpose and his ideas entirely clear, and i wish i could think of them with less inclination to laugh. if he could for a single minute know how funny he was, it would do him more good than anything i can think of as likely to happen to him. he came to call to-night, and so evident was his air of excitement that even rosa must have noticed it; she was all significant smiles when she ushered him in. i tried to talk about commonplace things, but could get practically no response. for half an hour by the clock we went stumbling on with intervals of silence when i could think of nothing except that i must say something. at last he cleared his throat with a manner so desperate and determined that i knew something dreadful was coming. "miss privet," he said, "i thought i would mention to you that i came to-night for a particular purpose." it came over me with a sickening sense that old lady andrews was right, and that it was too late to stop him. i did make a desperate effort to interpose, but he had at last got started, and would not be stayed. "you must have noticed," he went on, as if he were repeating a lesson, "that i entertain a great respect for your character." "indeed, mr. saychase," i responded, with a laugh which was principally nerves, "you evidently mean to make me unbearably vain." "that you could never be," he returned with an air of gallantry i should not have thought him capable of. "your modesty is one of your greatest charms." the girl who can hear her modesty praised and not be amused must be lacking in a sense of humor. i laughed aloud before i realized what i was doing. then, as he looked hurt, i apologized humbly. "it's no matter," he said graciously; "of course you wouldn't be modest if you knew how modest you are." this sounded so ambiguous and so like comic opera that in spite of myself i laughed again. "come, mr. saychase," i begged him, "don't say any more about my modesty, please. we'll take it for granted. have you seen aunt naomi this week? she has had a little return of her bad cold." "i came over to-night," he broke out explosively, not in the least diverted by my question, "to ask you to marry me." all i could do was to blurt out his name like an awkward schoolgirl. "i dare say you are surprised, miss ruth," he went on, evidently relieved to have got the first plunge over with, "but that, as we were saying, may be laid to modesty." i respect mr. saychase,--at least i think he means well, and i hated to be the means of making him uncomfortable; but this return to my modesty was too funny, and nearly sent me off into laughter again. my sense of the fun of the situation brought back, however, my self-control. "mr. saychase," i said, as gravely as i could, "i am not so dull as not to feel the honor you have done me, but such a thing is entirely impossible. we had better talk of something else." "but i am in earnest, miss privet," he urged. i assured him that i was not less so. "i hope you will not decide hastily," was his response. "i have long recognized your excellent qualities; our ages are suitable; and i think i am right in saying that we both find our highest satisfaction in doing good. be sure my esteem for you is too great for me to easily take a refusal." "but, mr. saychase," i argued, catching at any excuse to end his importunity, "you forget that i am not a sharer in your beliefs. a clergyman ought not to marry a woman that half his parish would think an atheist." "i have thought of that," he responded readily, "and knew you must recognize that a clergyman's wife should be a helpmeet in his religious work; but i hoped that for the sake of the work, if not for mine, you might be willing to give up your unhappy views." there was a sort of simplicity about this which was so complete as to be almost noble. it might be considered an amazing egotism, and it might be objected that mr. saychase had a singular idea of the sincerity of my "unhappy views;" but the entire conviction with which he spoke almost made me for the moment doubt myself. unfortunately for him, a most wickedly absurd remembrance came into my mind of a sentimental story in an old red and gold annual that was grandmother's. a noble christian chieftain has falled in love with a moorish damsel, and says to her: "beautiful zorahida, only become a christian, and thou shalt be my bride." beautiful zorahida took at once to the proposition, but i am made of more obstinate stuff. i hid the smile the story brought up, but i determined to end this talk at once. "mr. saychase," i said as firmly as i could, "you are kind, but it is utterly impossible that i should change my views or that i should marry you. we will, if you please, consider the subject closed entirely. how soon do you go to franklin to the annual conference?" he evidently saw i was in earnest, and to my great relief said no more in this line. he could not help showing that he was uncomfortable, although i was more gracious to him than i had ever been in my life. he did not stay long. as he was going i said i was sure he would not let anything i had said wound him, for i had not meant to hurt him. he said "oh, no," rather vaguely, and left me. i wonder how many girls ever get an offer of marriage without a hint of love from beginning to end! july . tomine is more adorable every day. i wish tom could see her oftener. it would soften him, and take out of his face the hard look which is getting fixed there. he surely could not resist her when she wakes up from her nap, all rosy and fresh, and with a wonder-look in her eyes as if she had been off in dreamland so really that she could not understand how she happens not to be there still. i think the clasp of her soft little fingers on his would somehow take the ache out of his heart. poor tom! i wonder how far being sorry for a thing makes one better. repentance is more than half discomfort, mother used to say. i always told her that to me it seemed like a sort of moral indigestion which warned us not to eat any more of the forbidden fruit that caused it. tom is unhappy. he is proud, and he feels the disgrace more than he would own. any country town is so extremely pronounced in its disapproval of sins of a certain kind that a man would have to be covered with a rhinoceros hide not to feel it; and to stand up against it means to a man of tom's disposition a constant attitude of defiance. sometimes i find myself feeling so strongly on tom's side that i seem to have lost all moral sense. it is my instinct, the cruelly illogical injustice of my sex perhaps, to lay the blame on poor dead julia. only--but i cannot think of it, and how i come to be writing about it is more than i can tell. i do think a good deal about tom, however, and wonder what the effect on his character will be. he is of a pretty stubborn fibre when once he has taken a determination; and now that he has made up his mind to fight down public opinion here he will do it. the question is what it will cost him. sometimes it seems a pity that he could not have gone away from home, into a broader atmosphere, and one where he could have expended his strength in developing instead of resisting. here he will be like a tree growing on a windy sea-cliff; he will be toughened, but i am afraid he will be twisted and gnarled. i wonder if little tomine will ever ask me, when she is grown, about her mother. if she does i can only say that i never saw julia until she was on her deathbed; and that will have to do. dear little soft baby! the idea of her being grown up is too preposterous. she is always to be my baby thomasine, and then i can love her without the penalty of having to answer troublesome questions. viii august august . i said a thing to tom to-day which was the most natural thing in the world, yet which teases me. he came to pay one of his rare visits to baby, and we were bending over her so that our heads were almost together. i was not thinking of him, but just of tomine, and without considering how he might take it i declared that i felt exactly as if she were my very own. "what do you mean?" tom asked. "she is yours." "oh, but i mean as if i were really her mother," i explained, stupidly making my mistake worse. "would to god you were!" he burst out. "would to god you cared enough for me to be now!" i was of course startled, though i had brought it on myself. i got out of it by jumping up and calling to rosa to take tomine and give her her supper. now recalling it, and remembering how tom looked, his eyes and his voice, i wonder what i ought to do. i do not know how to make him understand that because george has left me i am no more likely to marry somebody else. i may not feel the same toward george, but nothing follows from that. i own to myself frankly that i respect tom more than i do george; i can even say that i find more and more as time goes on that i had rather see tom coming up the walk. the old boy and girl friendship has largely come back between tom and me; and i am a little, just a little on the defensive on his account against the talk of the village. i think now all is over, and julia in her grave, that might be allowed to rest. only one thing i do not understand. i am no more moved by the touch of george's hand now than by that of any acquaintance; i cannot touch tom's fingers without remembering julia. august . it is curious to see how rosa's heart and her religion keep up the struggle. ran's wife has obstinately refused to die, but has instead got well enough to send rosa an insulting message; so the hope of finding a solution of all difficulties in ran's becoming a widower is for the present at least abandoned. rosa is evidently fond of ran, and while the priest and her conscience--or rather her religious fear of consequences--keep her from marrying him, they cannot make her give him up entirely. she still clings to some sort of an engagement with dennis; and she still talks in her amazingly cold-blooded way about her lovers, speculating on the practical side of the question in a fashion so dispassionate that ran's chance would seem to be gone forever; but in the end she comes back to him. what the result will be i cannot even guess, but i feel it my duty not to encourage rosa to incline toward ran, who is really drunken and disreputable. i remind her how he beat his wife; but then she either says any man with spunk must beat his wife now and then when he isn't sober, or she declares that anybody might and indeed should beat that sort of a woman. i can only fall back upon the fact that she cannot marry him without incurring the displeasure of her church, and although she never fails to retort that i do not believe in her religion, i can see that the argument moves her. in dealing with rosa it is very easy to see how necessary a religion is for the management of the ignorant and unreasonable. in this case the obstinacy of rosa's attachment may prove too strong for the church, but the church is the only thing which in her undisciplined mind could combat her inclination for a moment. sometimes when rosa appeals to me for sympathy i wonder whether genuine love is not entirely independent of reason; and i wonder, too, whether it is or is not a feeling which must last a whole life long. i seem to myself to be sure that if i had married george i should always have loved him,--or i should have loved the image of him i kept in my mind. i would have defied proof and reason, and whatever he did i should have persuaded myself that no matter what circumstances led him to do he was really noble in his nature. i know i should have stultified myself to the very end, rather than to give up caring for him; and it seems to me that i should have done it with my mental eyes shut. i should have been hardly less illogical about it than rosa is. what puzzles me most is that while i can analyze myself in this lofty way, i believe i have in me possibilities of self-deception so complete. whether it is a virtue in women to be able to cheat themselves into constancy i can't tell, and indeed i think all these speculations decidedly sentimental and unprofitable. august . aunt naomi came to-day, like an east wind bearing depression. she has somehow got hold of a rumor that george is speculating. where she obtained her information i could not discover. she likes to be a little mysterious, and she pieces together so many small bits of information that i dare say it would often be hard for her to say exactly what the source of her information really was. she is sometimes mistaken, but for anybody who tells so many things she is surprisingly seldom entirely wrong. besides i half think that in a village like ours thoughts escape and disseminate themselves. i am sometimes almost afraid as i write things down in this indiscreet diary of mine, lest they shall somehow get from the page into the air, and aunt naomi will know them the next time she appears. this is to me the worst thing about living in a small place. it is impossible not to have the feeling of being under a sort of foolish slavery to public opinion, a slavish regard to feelings we neither share nor respect; and greater still is the danger of coming to be interested in trifles, of growing to be gossips just as we are rustics, simply from living where it is so difficult not to know all about our neighbors. speculation was the word which to-day aunt naomi rolled as a sweet morsel under her tongue. any sort of financial dealing is so strangely far away from our ordinary village ways that any sort of dealing in stocks would, i suppose, be regarded as dangerously rash, if not altogether unlawful; but i do hope that there is nothing in george's business which will lead him into trouble. i know that i am bothering about something which is none of my affair, and which is probably all right, if it has any existence. "i don't know much about speculation myself," aunt naomi observed; "and i doubt if george weston does. he's got a wife who seems bound to spend every cent she can get hold of, and it looks as if he found he'd got to take extra pains to get it." "but how should anybody know anything about his affairs?" i asked in perplexed vexation. she regarded me shrewdly. "everybody knows everything in a place like this," she responded waggishly. "i'm sure i don't see how everything gets to be known, but it does. you can't deny that." i told her that i was afraid we were dreadfully given to gossiping about our neighbors, and to talking about things which really didn't concern us. "some do, i suppose," she answered coolly, but with a twinkle from behind the green veil which is always aslant across her face. "it's a pity, of course; but you wouldn't have us so little interested in each other as not to notice the things we hear, would you?" i laughed, of course, but did not give up my point entirely. "but so much that is said is nonsense," i persisted. "here mrs. weston has been in tuskamuck for four or five months, and she is already credited with running into extravagance, and bringing her husband into all sorts of things. we might at least give her time to get settled before we talk about her so much." "she hadn't been here four or five weeks before she made it plain enough what she is," was the uncompromising retort. "she set out to astonish us as soon as she came. that's her western spirit, i suppose." i did not go on with the talk, but secretly the thing troubles me. speculation is a large word, and it is nonsense to suppose george to be speculating in any way which could come to much, or that aunt naomi would know it if he were. i do wish people would either stop talking about george, or talk to somebody besides me. august . mrs. tracy came in to call to-day. she makes a round of calls about once in two years, and i have not seen her for a long time. she had her usual string of questions, and asked about me and baby and tom and the girls and the summer preserving until i felt as if i had been through the longest kind of a cross-examination. just before she left she inquired if mrs. weston had told me that her husband was going to make a lot of money in stocks. i said at once that i seldom saw mrs. weston, and that i knew nothing about her husband's business affairs; but this shows where aunt naomi got her information. mrs. weston must have been talking indiscreetly. i wonder--but it seems to me i am always wondering! august . kathie has not been near me since she left the house the other evening. it seemed better to let her work out things in her own way than to go after her. i hoped that if i took no notice she might forget her foolishness, and behave in a more natural way. i met her in the street this afternoon, and stopped to speak with her. i said nothing of her having run away, but talked as usual. at last i asked her if she would not come home with me, and she turned and came to the gate. then i asked her to come in, but she stopped short. "is the baby gone?" she demanded. "no," i answered. "you know i shall never come into your house again while that baby is there," she declared in an odd, quiet sort of way. "i hate that baby, and he that hates is just like a murderer." she said it with a certain relish, as if she were proud of it. i begin to suspect that there may be a good deal of the theatrical mixed with her abnormal feeling. "kathie," i said, "you may be as silly as you like, but you can't make me believe anything so absurd as that you hate thomasine. as for being a murderer in your heart, you wouldn't hurt a fly." she looked at me queerly. i half thought there was a little disappointment in her first glance; then a strange expression as if she unconsciously took herself for audience, since i would not serve, and went on with her play of abnormal wickedness. "you don't know how wicked i am," she responded. "i am a murderer in my heart." a strangely intense look came into her eyes, as if a realization of what she was saying took hold of her, and as if she became really frightened by her own assumption. she clutched my arm with a grasp which must have been at least half genuine. "oh, miss ruth," she said. "i don't know what i shall do. i know i am lost!" i wanted to shake the child, so completely for the moment did i feel that a lot of her emotion was make-believe, even if unconscious; but on the other hand she was actually beginning to turn pale and tremble with the nervous excitement she had raised by her fear or her theatricals. "kathie," i said, almost severely, "you know you are talking nonsense. come into the house, and have a glass of milk and a slice of cake. you'll feel better after you've had something to eat." she looked at me with eyes really wild, and without a word turned quickly and ran down the street at full speed, leaving me utterly confounded. i am sure she acts to herself, and that her religious mania is partly theatrical; but then i suppose religious mania always is. yet it has a basis in what she believes, and with her imaginative, hysterical temperament she has the power of taking up her ideas so completely that she gets to be almost beside herself. when she is so much in earnest she must be treated, i suppose, as if all her self-accusations and agony of mind were entirely real. august . i have been to lay a bunch of sweet-peas on mother's grave. i wonder and wonder again if she knows when i am so near the place where we left her, the place where it always seems to me some life must yet linger. i have all my life been familiar with the doubt whether any consciousness, any personality survives death; and yet it is as natural to assume that life goes on as it is to suppose the sun will rise to-morrow. i know that my feeling proves nothing; but still instinctively i cling to it. in any case there is the chance the dead are alive and alert somewhere in the shadows, and if they are they must be glad not to be forgotten. i should not be willing to take the chance, and neglect the grave of one who had been fond of me. mother loved me as i loved her; and this decides i shall run no risk of her being unhappy after death in the thought that i have forgotten. i suppose i cling to a feeling that there must be some sort of immortality largely from the loneliness i feel. the idea of never seeing father or mother again is more than i could endure. father used to say that after all each of us is always really alone in this world, and even our best friends can no more come close to us than if they did not exist; but this always seemed to me a sort of cold, forlorn theory. the warmth of human companionship somehow makes it impossible for me to feel anything like this. when i said so to father, i remember he smiled, and said he was glad i did find it impossible. one thing i am sure of to the very bottom of my heart: that things are somehow completely right, so that whatever death means it must be part of a whole which is as it should be. august . to-day tom brought me a bunch of cardinal-flowers. he had been up to the lake meadows, he said, and thought i might like them. the whole parlor is alive with the wonderful crimson--no, scarlet, of the great flaming armful of blossoms. tom used to get them for me when i was a girl, but since those days i have had only a stray spike now and then. they bring back the past, and the life-long friendship i have had with tom. i wonder sometimes why i have never been in love with tom. life never seemed complete without him. in the years he kept away on account of george i missed him sorely, and more than once i have thought of all sorts of ways to bring things back to the former footing; only i knew all the time it was of no use. it is the greatest comfort to have the old friendship back, and now tom must understand that i have no more than friendship to give him. it would be vexing if he should misunderstand, but i must take care he does not. august . i have been at the town hall helping to make ready for a raspberry festival, to raise money for the church. miss charlotte came after me, and of course i had to go. she said all that was wanted was my taste to direct about decorating the hall, but i have been told so before, and i knew from experience that taste is expected to work out its own salvation. to be really fair i suppose i should say i cannot stand by and give directions, but have to take hold with my own hands, so it is nobody's fault but my own if i do things. besides, it is really good fun among the neighbors, with the air full of the smell of cedar, with all the pretty young girls making wreaths and laughing while they work, and with your feet tangled in evergreens and laurel whenever you cross the floor. miss charlotte is in her element at such a time. her great-throated laugh, as strong as a man's, rings out, and she seems for the time quite happy and jolly with excitement. it came over me to-day almost with a sense of dismay how old i seem to the young girls. they treated me with a sort of respect which couldn't be put into words exactly, i suppose, but which i felt. somehow i believe the breaking of my engagement has made me seem older to them. perhaps it is my foolish fancy, but i seem to see that while i was engaged i had still for them a hold on youth which i have now lost. i suppose they never thought it out, but i know they feel now that i am very much their senior. at a time like this, too, i realize how true it is that i am somehow a little outside of the life of the village. i have lived here almost all my life. except for the years i was at school, and a winter or two in boston or abroad i have been generally at home. i know almost everybody in town, by sight at least. yet i always find when i am among tuskamuck people in this way that i am looking at them as if i were a spectator. i wonder if this means that i am egotistical or queer, or only that my life has been so much more among books and intellectual things than the life of most of them. i am sure i love the town and my neighbors. the thing i wish to put down, however, has nothing to do with my feelings toward the town. it is that i am ashamed of the way i wrote the other day about mr. saychase. he entered the hall this afternoon just as old mrs. oliver came limping in to see the decorations; and the lovely way in which he helped the poor old lame creature made me blush for myself. i almost wanted to go to him and apologize then and there. it would have been awkward, however, first to explain that i had made fun of him in my diary, and then apologize! but he is a good soul, even if he did think i was a sort of nineteenth century zorahida, to give up mohammedanism for the sake of wedding a christian chief.--and here i go again! august . i have been reading to-night a book about the east, and it has stirred me a good deal. the speculations of strange peoples on the great mystery of life and death bring them so close to us. they show how alike all mankind is, and how we all grope about after some clue to existence. on the whole it is better, i think, not to give much thought to what may come after death,--no more thought, that is, than we cannot help. we can never know, and we must either raise vague hopes to make us less alive to the importance of life, the reality of life--i do not know how to say it. of course all religion insists on the importance of life, but rather as a preparation for another existence. i think we need to have it always before us that what is important is not what will happen after we are dead and gone, but what is happening now because we are alive and have a hand in things. i see this is not very clear, but i am sure the great thing is to live as if life were of value in itself. to live rightly, to make the most out of the life we can see and feel, is all that humanity is equal to, and it is certainly worth doing for its own sake. the idea which has struck me most in what i have been reading to-night is the theory that each individual is made up of the fragments of other lives; that just as the body is composed of material once part of other bodies, so is the spirit built up of feelings, and passions, and tendencies, and traits of temperament formerly in other individuals dead and gone. at first thought it does not seem to me a comfortable theory. i should not seem to belong to myself any more, if i believed it. to have the temper of some bygone woman, and the affections of another, and the tastes of a third,--it is too much like wearing false hair! it does not seem to me possible, but it may be true. at least it is a theory which may easily be made to seem plausible by the use of facts we all know. if it is the true solution of our characters here, it is pleasant to think that perhaps we may modify what for the present is our very own self so it shall be better stuff for the fashioning of another generation. i should like to feel that when this bunch of ideas and emotions goes to pieces, the bits would make sweet spots in the individuals they go to make part of. i suppose this is what george eliot meant in the "choir invisible," or something like this. as one thinks of the doctrine it is not so cold and unattractive as it struck me in the reading. one could bear to lose a conscious future if the alternative was happiness to lives not yet in being. i should like, though, to know it. but if there weren't any me to know, i should not be troubled, as the old philosophers were fond of saying, and the important thing would be not for me to know but for the world to be better. i begin to see how the doctrine might be a fine incentive to do the best with life that is in any way possible; and what more could be asked of any doctrine? august . baby was ill night before last, and we three women were smitten to the heart. hannah went for dr. wentworth, and when he came he laughed at our panic, and assured me nothing serious was the matter. it was only a little indigestion caused by the excessive heat. i do not know how i should have behaved if it had not been that rosa was in such a panic i had to give all my spare attention to keeping her in order. it came to me then what an advantage an officer must have in a battle; he cannot break down because he has to look to his men. last night i wished greatly tom were in reach; it would have been dreadful if anything really serious had happened to baby, and he not to know it until it was too late. yet he could have done nothing if the worst had been true and he had been here. it would have been no comfort to poor little sick tomine to have one person by her more than another, so long as her nurses were not strangers. a father is nothing to her yet. i wonder when he will be. yesterday tomine was better, and to-night she seems as well as ever; but it will take time for me to be rid entirely of fear. i wonder if she had gone whether her little bunch of vitality would have been scattered through new lives. she can hardly have much personality or individuality yet. sometimes the universe, the power that keeps going on and on, and which is so unmoved by human pain, strikes me as too terrible for thought; but i cling desperately to father's idea that nature is too great to be unkind, and that what looks to us like cruelty is only the size of things too big for us to grasp. it is a riddle, and the way i put it is neither so clear nor wise, i suppose, as the theories of countless religious teachers, they and i alike guessing at things human insight is not equal to. i doubt much if it is profitable to speculate in this vein. "think all you can about life as a good and glorious thing," father wrote to me once when i had expressed in a school-letter some trouble or other about what comes after death, "but keep in mind that of what came before we were born or will happen after we are dead we shall never in this life know anything, no matter how much we speculate, so dreaming about it or fretting about it is simply building air-castles." i have said over to myself ever since i began to be perplexed that to speculate about another life is to build air-castles. baby is well again and i will not fret or dream of what it would mean if she had slipped away from us. august . i must settle myself a little by writing, or i shall be like old mrs. tuell, who said that for years she never slept a wink because her nerves wiggled like angleworms all over her inside. i have certainly been through an experience which might make anybody's nerves wiggle. about half past two o'clock rosa brought me a note, and said:-- "that thurston girl left it, and told me not to give it to you till three o'clock; but if i don't give it to you now, i know i'd forget it." i opened the note without thinking anything about the time. it was written in kathie's uneven hand, and blotched as if it had been cried over. this is what it said:-- dear miss ruth,--this letter is to bid you good-by. you are the only one in the world i love, and nobody loves me. i cant stand you to love that baby better than me, and god is so angry it dont make any difference what i do now. when you read this i shall be in torment forever, because i am going down to davis cove to drownd myself because i am so wicked and nobody loves me. dont tell on me, because it would make you feel bad and father wouldnt like it to get round a child of his had drownd herself and mother would cry. yours truly and with a sad and loving good-by forever, kathie thurston. p. s. if they get me to bury will you please put some flowers on my coffin. no more from yours truly k. t. my first impulse was to laugh at this absurd note, but it came over me suddenly that there was no knowing what that child will do. even now i am bewildered. i cannot get it out of my mind that there is a good deal of the theatrical in kathie, but i may be all wrong. at any rate i reflected how she has a way of acting so that apparently she can herself take it for real. i thought it over a while; then i got my hat and started down the street, with the notion that at least it would do no harm to go down to davis cove, and see if kathie were there. as i walked on, recalling her incomprehensible actions, a dreadful feeling grew in my mind that she might have meant what she said, and she would be more likely to try to drown herself because she had told me. a sort of panic seized me; and just then the town clock struck three. i had got down just opposite the foot-bridge, and when i remembered that three was the time when i was to have the note, i feared i should be too late, and i began to run. fortunately, there was nobody in sight, and as i came to the bend in the street i saw george coming, leading kathie by the arm. she was dripping wet, and half staggering, although she kept her feet. i hurried up to them, too much out of breath with haste and excitement to be able to speak. "hullo!" george called out, as i came up to them, "see what a fish i've caught." "why, kathie," gasped i, with a stupidity that was lucky, for it kept george from suspecting, "you've been in the water." she gave me a queer look, but she said nothing. "a little more and she'd have stayed there," george put in. "you are wet too," i said, looking at him for the first time. "yes," he returned; "luckily i got off my coat and vest as i ran, so i saved my watch, but everything else is wet fast enough." "how did it happen?" i asked. "she was trying to get sugar-pears from those trees by the water," george answered; "and i suppose she lost her balance. i was going along the road and heard her scream." "along the road?" i echoed; for i knew davis cove is too far from the road for him to have heard a cry. "she fell in just by the old shipyard on the point," he said. "the boys were in swimming in the cove," kathie explained, in a way which was of course unintelligible to george. "well," george commented, after a moment in which he seemed to clear up her meaning, "the next time you want sugar-pears you'd better get them when the boys are out of the way, so you needn't go in swimming yourself." we had been walking along the road as we talked, and by this time had reached the foot-bridge. i told george he must go home and get on dry clothing, and i would see to kathie. he demurred at first, but i insisted, so he left us to cross the bridge alone. we walked in silence almost across the bridge, and then i asked her what kept bumping against me as i held her up. "it's rocks in my pocket," she answered, quite in a matter-of-fact way. "i put 'em there to sink me." i could have shaken her on the spot, so uncharitable was my mood, but i managed to answer her in a perfectly cool tone. "then you had better take them out," i said. she got her hand into her pocket and fished out three or four pebbles, which all together wouldn't have sunk a three-days-old-kitten; and when these had been thrown over the bridge we proceeded on our drabbled way. my doubts of the genuineness of the whole performance grew in spite of me. i do not know exactly why i am coming so strongly to feel that kathie is not wholly ingenuous, but i cannot get rid of the idea. "kathie," i asked, "did you see mr. weston coming when you jumped in?" she looked up at me with eyes so honest i was ashamed of myself, but when she answered unhesitatingly that she had seen him, i went on ruthlessly to ask if she did not know he would save her. "i thought if he was coming i'd got to hurry," she returned, as simply as possible. i was more puzzled than ever, and i am puzzled still. whether she really meant to take her life, or whether she only thought she meant it, does not, i suppose, make any great difference; but i confess i have been trying to make out ever since i left her. i would like to discover whether she is consciously trying to fool me or endeavoring as much to cheat herself, or is honest in it all; but i see no way in which i am ever likely to be satisfied. i asked her to say nothing at home about how her ducking happened, and i satisfied her mother by repeating what george had said. to-morrow i must have it out with mr. thurston somehow or other; although i am still completely in the dark what i shall say to him. i hope the old fairy-tales are right when they say "the morning is wiser than the evening." august . the morning is wiser than the evening, for i got up to-day with a clear idea in my mind what i had better do about kathie. it is always a great comfort to have a definite plan of action mapped out, and i ate my breakfast in a cheerful frame of mind, intending to go directly to see mr. thurston while i should be fairly sure of finding him. i reckoned without kathie, however, who presented herself at the dining-room window before i had finished my coffee, and begged me to come out. "i can't come in without breaking my word," she said. i could not argue with the absurd chit in that situation, so i went out into the garden with her and sat down on the bench by the sun-dial. the big red roses father was so fond of are all in blossom, and in the morning air were wonderfully sweet. it was an enchanting day, and the dew was not entirely dried, so the garden had not lost the freshness it has when it first wakes up. i was exhilarated by the smell of the roses and the beauty of everything, and the clearness of the air. rosa held baby up to us at the nursery window above, and i waved my hand to her, smiling from pure delight in everything. kathie watched me with her great eyes, and when i sat down on the bench she threw herself at full length on the grass, and burst out sobbing. "you do love her better than me!" she wailed. "i came to say how sorry i was, but i'm sorry now that i didn't stay in the water." i took her by the shoulder, and spoke to her so sternly that i startled her. "you are not to talk in that way anymore, kathie," i said. "i am fond of you and i am fond of baby; but if baby were big enough and talked this silly way about you, do you suppose i would allow it? sit up and stop crying." i have always been careful not to hurt her feelings; perhaps i have been too careful. she sat up now, and then rose to her feet in a dazed sort of way. i determined to see if anything was to be made out of her mood. "kathie," said i, "how much of that performance yesterday was real, and how much was humbug? tell me the truth." she grew a little paler and her eyes dilated. i looked her straight in the face, half minded to force her if need be to give me some guidance in what i should do. "i really meant to drown myself," she answered solemnly, "only when i saw the water and thought of hell i was afraid." she stopped, and i encouraged her to go on. "i saw mr. weston, and i was scared of him and--and everything, and so i jumped in." i reflected that very likely the child was more of a puzzle to herself than she was to me, and in any case i had more important ends to gain than the satisfying of my curiosity, so i asked her as gently as i could if she really believed she would be eternally lost if she killed herself. "oh, yes, miss ruth!" she cried with feverish eagerness. "then why do you do it?" i went on. "how do you dare to do it?" she looked at me with a growing wildness in her face that was certainly genuine. "i'm lost, anyway," she burst out. "i know i have been too wicked for god to forgive me. i have committed murder in my heart, and i know i was never meant to be saved." "stop!" i commanded her. "you are a little, foolish girl, too young even to know what you are talking about. how dare you decide what god will do?" she regarded me with a look of stupefaction as if i were a stranger whom she had never seen; and indeed i can well believe i seemed one. then the perversity of her mind came back to the constant idea. "that's just it," she declared. "that's just my wickedness." after this i refused to go into the subject any further. i got up and asked her if i should find her father at home. she begged me not to go to see him, and then said with an air of relief that he had gone out to connecticut mills to visit a sick woman. i did not stay with her longer. i said i must go into the house, and as she refused to come, i left her, a forlorn little figure, there among the roses, and went in. it seemed hard to do it, but i had made up my mind she had better not indulge in any more talk this morning. august . cousin mehitable, in a letter which came this morning, pities me because of my colorless existence; but i begin to feel that life is becoming too lurid. i have to-day bearded--no, mr. thurston hasn't any beard; but i have had my interview with him, and i feel as if i had been leading a cavalry charge up a hill in the face of a battery of whatever kind of guns are most disconcertingly destructive. i am somewhat confused about the beginning of our talk. i got so excited later that the tame beginnings have slipped away; but i know i said i had come to make a proposition about kathie, and somehow i led up to the child's mad performance the other day. i showed him the note and told him the story, but not until i had made him promise not to mention the matter to the child. when he had finished he was as pale as my handkerchief, his thin, bloodless face positively withered with pain. "i cannot keep silence about this," he said when i had finished. "i must withdraw my promise, miss privet. my kathie's soul is in danger." i am sure that i am not ill-tempered, but over kathie and her father i find myself in a state of exasperation which threatens to destroy all my claims to be considered a sane and temperate body. i had to struggle mightily to keep myself in hand this morning, but at first, at least, i succeeded. "mr. thurston," i said, "i cannot release you. i should never have told you except on your promise, and you cannot honestly break it. now listen to me. i have no right to dictate, but i cannot stand by and see dear little kathie going to ruin. i am sure i know what is good for her just now better than you do. she is a good child, only she has gone nearly wild brooding over theologic questions she should never have heard of until she was old enough to judge them more reasonably." he tried to interrupt me, but i put up my hand to stop him, and went on. "you know how nervous and high-strung she is, and you cannot think her capable of looking fairly at the awful mysteries with which a creed deals." "but i have only instructed her in those things on which her eternal salvation depends," he broke in. "her eternal salvation does not depend on her being driven into a madhouse or made to drown herself," i retorted, feeling as if i were brutal, but that it couldn't be helped. "the truth is, mr. thurston, you have been offering up kathie as a sacrifice to your creed just as the fathers and mothers of old made their children pass through the fires to moloch." he gasped, and some thin blood rushed to his face, but i did not stop. "i have no doubt they were conscientious, just as you are; but that didn't make it any better for the children. you have been entirely conscientious in torturing kathie, but you have been torturing her." his face was positively gray, and there was a look of anguish in his eyes which made me weak. it would have been so much easier to go on if he had been angry. "you don't understand," he said brokenly. "you think all religion is a delusion, so of course you can't see. you think i don't love my child, and that i am so wrapped up in my creed i can't see she suffers. you won't believe it hurts me more than it does her." "do you think then," i asked him, doing my best to keep back the tears, "that it can give any pleasure to a kind heavenly father? i do understand. you have been so afraid of not doing your duty to kathie you have brought her almost to madness, almost"-- "don't! don't!" he interrupted, putting out his hand as if i had struck him. "oh, miss privet, if she had"-- i saw the real affection and feeling of the man as i have never realized them. i had been hard, and perhaps cruel, but it was necessary to save kathie. i spoke now as gently as i could. "no matter for the things that didn't happen, mr. thurston. she is safe and sound." "but she meant to do it," he returned in a tone so low i could hardly catch the words. "meant?" i repeated. "she isn't in a condition to mean anything. she was distraught by brooding over things that at her age she should never even have heard of. i beg your pardon, mr. thurston, but doesn't what has happened prove she is too high-strung to be troubled with theology yet? i am not of your creed, but i respect your feeling about it. only you must see that to thrust these things on kathie means madness and despair"-- "but she might die," he broke in. "she might die without having made her peace with her maker, and be lost forever." there was anguish in his face, and i know he meant it from the bottom of his heart; but in his voice was the trace of conventional repetition of phrases which made it possible for me to be overcome by exasperation. i looked at him in that mingled fury of impatience and passionate conviction of my ground which must have been the state of the prophets of old when the spirit of prophecy descended upon them. i realize now that to have the spirit of prophecy it is necessary to lose the temper to a degree not altogether commendable in ordinary circumstances. i blazed out on that poor, thin-blooded, dejected, weak-minded, loving methodist minister, and told him he insulted the god he worshiped; i said he had better consider the text "i will have mercy and not sacrifice;" i flung two or three other texts at him while he stood dazed with astonishment; i flamed at him like a burning-bush become feminine flesh; and fortunately he did not remember that even the old nick is credited with being able to cite scripture for his purposes. i think the texts subdued him, so that it is well father brought me up to know the bible. at least i reduced mr. thurston to a state where he was as clay in the hands of the potter. then i presented to his consideration my scheme to send kathie away to boarding-school for a year. i told him he was at liberty to select the school, if only it was one where she would not be too much troubled about theology. of course i knew it would be hopeless to think of her going to a school entirely unsectarian, but i have already begun to make inquiries about the relative reasonableness of methodist schools, and i think we may find something that will do. to put the child into surroundings entirely new, where her mind will be taken away from herself, and where a consciousness of the keenly discerning eyes of girls of her own age will keep her theatrical tendencies in check, should work wonders. i made mr. thurston give his consent, and before i left the house i saw mrs. thurston. i told her not to trouble about kathie's outfit, and so i hope that bother is pretty well straightened out for the present. august . george has taken a violent cold from his ducking, and is confined to the house. i hope that it is nothing serious. it is especially awkward now, for mr. longworthy is coming over from franklin in a day or two to go over his accounts as trustee. kathie came over this morning while i was at breakfast, and tapped on the dining-room window. she was positively shining with happiness. i never saw a child so transformed. "oh, miss ruth," she cried out, as soon as i turned, "oh, won't you come out here? i do so want to kiss you!" i asked her to come inside, but she said she had promised not to, and rather than to get into a discussion i went out to her. she ran dancing up to me, fairly quivering with excitement. "oh, miss ruth," she said, "it is too good to be true! you are the most loveliest lady that ever lived! oh, i am so happy!" i had to laugh at her demonstrativeness, but it was touching to see her. she was no more like the morbid, hollow-eyed girl she had been than if she had never had a trouble. it is wonderful that out of the family of a methodist parson should come a nature so exotic, but after all, the spiritual raptures and excesses which have worn mr. thurston as thin as a leaf in december must have their root in a temperament of keenly emotional extremes. "i always wanted to go to boarding-school," kathie went on, possessing herself of my hand, and covering it with kisses; "but mother always said we couldn't afford it. now i am going. oh, i shall have such a beautiful time!" i laughed at her enthusiasm, but i tried to moderate her extravagance a little by telling her that at boarding-school she would have to work, and to live by rule, so that she must give up her wild ways. "oh, i'll work," she responded, her ardor undampened. "i'll be the best girl you ever heard of. i beg your pardon for everything i've done, and i'll never do anything bad again." this penitence seemed to me rather too general to amount to much, but that she was so much pleased was after all the chief thing, so i made no allusion to particular shortcomings, i did not even urge her to come into the house, for i felt this was a point for her to work out in her own mind. we walked in the dewy garden, discussing the preparations for her leaving home, and it was droll and pathetic to find how poverty had bred in her fantastic little pate a certain sort of shrewdness. she said in the most matter-of-fact way that it would be nice for her father to have one less mouth to fill, and that she supposed her smaller sisters could have her old clothes. i confess she did not in talking exhibit any great generosity of mind, but perhaps it was not to be expected of a child dazzled by the prospect of having a dream come true, and of actually being blessed with more than one new frock at a time. i am not clear what the result of sending her among strangers will be, and i see that a good deal of care will be necessary in choosing the school. i do believe good must come of it, however; and at least we are doing the best we can. august . i went over to george's this morning to find out whether he is able to see mr. longworthy. he was in bed, but insisted upon seeing me. i have had a terrible day. i left him completely broken down with his confession. o mother! mother! august . childishly i cried myself to sleep last night. it is so terrible to feel that a friend has done wrong and proved himself unworthy. i could not help shivering to think of george, and of how he has had night after night to go to sleep with the knowledge of his dishonesty. i settled in my own mind what i could do to cover his defalcation, which fortunately is small enough for me to provide for by going to boston and selling some of the bonds aunt leah left me, and which mr. longworthy has nothing to do with. then i lay there in the dark and sopped my pillow, until somehow, i found myself in the middle of a comforting dream. i dreamed that i was a little girl, and that i was broken-hearted about some indefinite thing that had happened. i had in my dream, so far as i can recall, no idea what the trouble was, but the grief was keen, and my tears most copious. i was in the very thickest of my childish woe when father came behind me, picked me up like a feather, and set me down in his lap. i had that ineffable sense of companionship which can be named but never described, and i clung to him with a frantic clasp. he kissed me, and wiped away my tears with soothing words, and then at last he whispered in my ear as a precious secret something so infinitely comforting that my sorrow vanished utterly. i broke into smiles, and kissed him again and again, crying out that it was too good to be true, and he had made me happy for my whole life. so keen was my joy that i awoke, and lay in bed half dreaming still, saying over and over to myself his enchanting words as if they would forever be a safeguard against any pain which life might bring. gradually i became sufficiently wide awake to realize what this wonderful message of joy was, and found myself ecstatically repeating: "pigs have four feet and one tail!" of course i laughed at the absurdity, but the comfort stayed with me all the same, and all day i have gone about with a peaceful mind, cheered by the effect of this supernaturally precious fact of natural history. i went to boston and came back without seeing anybody but business men. i saw george a moment on my way from the station, and now everything is ready for mr. longworthy to-morrow. both george and i may sleep to-night in peace. all the way to and from boston i found myself going over my whole acquaintance with george, questioning myself about what he has been and what he is. to-night i have been reading over what i have written of him in my diary, and the picture i find of him this year has gone to my heart. i am afraid i have not been kind, perhaps have not been just; for if what i have been writing is true george is--he is not a gentleman. it does not startle me now to write this as it would have done two days ago. i am afraid it will be years before i am able to get out of my remembrance how he looked when he confessed. it seems almost as if i should never be able to think of him again except as i saw him then, his face almost as colorless as his pillow, and then red with shame. he looked shrunken, morally as well as physically. i do not know whether i blamed him more or less because he was so eager to throw the whole blame on his wife's extravagance; i only know that it can hardly have been more cruel for him to tell me of his dishonor than it was for me to hear. if he had asked me i would have lent him money, or given it to him, for that matter, and done it gladly rather than to have him troubled. to think how he must have been teased and bothered for this pitiful sum, just two or three hundred dollars, before he could have made up his mind to borrow it on my securities! he might have got it honestly, it was so little; but he did not wish anybody to know he needed it. pride, and folly, and vanity,--i am so hurt that i begin to rail. i will put the whole thing out of my mind, and never think of it again if i can help it. ix september september . at last kathie is gone. what with having dressmakers and seeing to her, and doing the shopping, and corresponding with the principal of the school, and all the rest of it, i have had my hands full for the last three weeks. i have enjoyed it, though; i suppose it is always a pleasure partaking of the moral for a woman when she can conscientiously give her whole mind up to the making of clothes. i do not doubt the delight of sewing fig-leaves together went for the moment far toward comforting eve for leaving paradise. i cannot now help smiling to see how entirely kathie's fine scruples about breaking her vow not to come into the house were forgotten when i had a dressmaker here waiting to fit her frocks. i feel a little as if i were trying to be providence and to interfere in her life unwarrantably now she is gone and there is nothing more to do about it but to await the result. i have done what i thought best, though, and that is the whole of it. as father used to say, it is not our duty to do the wisest thing, for we cannot always tell what it is, but only to be honest in doing what seems to us wisest. i hope she will do well, and i believe she will. september . cousin mehitable writes me from rome that she is sure i am tired of baby, and had better come over for a couple of months. i cannot tell whether she means what she says, or is only trying to carry her point. she has never had a child near her, and can hardly know how completely a baby takes possession of one. there are many things in the world that i should enjoy, and i should certainly delight in going abroad again, but baby has so taken the first place in my heart and life that everything else is secondary. i wonder sometimes whether after a woman has a child of her own she can any longer give her husband her very warmest love. perhaps the law of compensation comes in, and if men grow less absorbed in their wives the wives have an equal likelihood of coming to feel that the husband is less a part of their lives than the child. only if a woman really loved a man-- september . it is a childish habit to break off in the middle of a sentence because one does not know how to finish it. i have been turning over the leaves of this book to see if i had done it often, and i have been amused and humiliated to find so many places where i have ended with a dash, like an hysterical schoolgirl. yet i do not see just what one is to do when suddenly one finds a subject hopelessly too deep. last night when i got to a place where i was balancing the love of a mother for her husband and for her child, i naturally realized suddenly that i had never had a child, and very likely never really loved a man. the love i had for george seems now so unreal that i feel completely fickle; although i believe i am generally pretty constant. i could not bear to think i am not loyal in my feelings. i have come to be so sure the george i was fond of never existed, though, that i can hardly have the same feelings i had before. this is the sort of subject, however, which is sure to end in a dash if i go on with it, so it seems wiser to stop before such a catastrophe is reached. september . to-day is father's birthday. it is always a day which moves me a good deal. i can never be reminded of an anniversary like this without finding my head full of a swarm of thoughts. i cannot think of the beginning or the ending of father's life without looking at it as a whole, and reckoning up somehow the effect of his having lived. this is the real question, i suppose, in regard to any life. he was to me so wonderful, he was so great a man, that i have almost to reason with myself to appreciate why the world in general does not better remember him. his life was and is so much to me that i find it hard to realize how narrow is the circle which ever even knew of him at all. his books and his decisions keep his name still in the memory of lawyers somewhat, and those who knew him will not easily forget; but after all this is so little in comparison to the fame he might have had. how persistent is an old thought! i should have supposed this idea might have died long ago. father himself answered it when he told cousin mehitable he was entirely satisfied if his part in the progress of humanity was conducted decently and in order; he was not concerned whether anybody knew he lived or did not know. "the thing is that i live as well as i can," he said, "and not that it should be known about. i shan't mind, cousin mehitable, whether anybody takes the trouble to praise me after i am dead, but i do think it may make some tiny difference to the race that i did my level best while i was alive." i can see him now as he stood by the library fire saying this, with his little half whimsical smile, and i remember thinking as he spoke how perfectly he lived up to his theories. certainly the best thing a man can leave to his children is a memory like that which i have of father: a memory half love and half respect. father's feeling about the part of the individual in the general scheme of things was like certain oriental doctrines i have read since his death; and i suppose he may have been influenced by the writings of the east. he seemed to feel that he was part of a process, and that the lives of those who sometime would come after him might be made easier and happier if he lived well and wisely. i am sure he was right. i do not know how or where or when the accounts of life are settled, or whether it makes any difference to the individual as an individual or not; but i am sure what we do is of consequence, and i wish my life might be as fine, as strong, as noble as was father's. september . aunt naomi came in this forenoon with her catlike step, and seated herself by the south window in the sunshine. the only eye which could be seen clearly was bright with intention, and it was evident at a glance that she had things to say. she was rather deliberate in coming at it. aunt naomi is an artist in gossip, and never spoils the effect of what she has to tell by failing to arouse expectation and interest. she leads one on and stirs up curiosity before she tells her news, and with so much cleverness does she manage, that a very tiny bit of gossip will seem a good deal when she has set it forth. it is a pleasure to see anything well done, even gossip; so aunt naomi is an unfailing source of amusement to me,--which is perhaps not to my credit. she made the usual remarks about the weather and asked after baby; she observed that from the way miss charlotte breathed when she was asleep in prayer-meeting last night she was afraid she had taken cold; she told me ranny gargan's divorced wife was at death's door again, and tried to get from me some sort of information of rosa's feelings toward the possible widower; then she gradually and skillfully approached her real subject. "it's strange how folks get over being in love when once they are married," she said, hitching her chair into the sunlight, which had moved a little from her while she talked. i knew by her careless tone, too careless not to be intentional, that something was coming, but i would not help her. i simply smiled vaguely, and asked where the sewing-circle was to be next week. she was not disconcerted by the question, but neatly turned it to her uses. "at mrs. tobey's," she answered. "i hope we shan't see anything unpleasant across the road." "what do you mean?" i asked, rather startled at this plain allusion to george's house. "they say george weston and his wife do rather queer things sometimes." i asked her at once to say exactly what she meant, and not to play with it. i added that i did not see why george and his wife should be so much discussed. "they are talked about because they deserve it," aunt naomi returned, evidently delighted by the effect she had produced. "if they will quarrel so all the neighborhood can hear and see, of course people will talk about it. why shouldn't they? we ought to take some interest in folks, i should think." i was silent a minute. i wanted to know why she said this, and what george and his wife had been doing to make the village comment, but i would not go on gossiping about them, and i dropped the subject altogether. i made a remark about the willeyville fair. aunt naomi chuckled audibly, but she did not persist in talking about the westons. september . rosa is once more in a state of excitement, and the household is correspondingly stirred. hannah goes about with her head in the air and an expression of the most lofty scorn on her face; rosa naturally resents this attitude, both of mind and of body; so i have to act as a sort of buffer between the two. the fuss is about ranny again. i begin to feel that i should be justified in having him kidnapped and carried off to some far country, but i hardly see my way clear to measures so extreme. i am astonished to find that aunt naomi did not know all the facts about the illness of ranny's wife; or perhaps she was too much occupied with the affairs of the westons to tell the whole. ranny seems this time to have got into real difficulty, and apparently as the result of his latest escapade is likely to pay a visit to the county jail. it seems that while he was pretty far gone in liquor ex-mrs. ranny came to plead with him to take her back and marry her over again. she having had the greatest difficulty in getting divorced from him in the first place, one would think she might be content to let well enough alone; but she is evidently madly fond of gargan, who must be a good deal of an adonis in his own world, so completely does he sway the hearts of the women, even though they know him to be brutal, drunken, disreputable, and generally worthless. on this occasion ranny behaved worse than usual, and met his former wife's petition by giving her a severe beating with the first thing which came to hand, the thing unluckily being an axe-handle. the poor woman is helpless in her bed, and ranny has been taken possession of by the constable. rosa refuses to see anything in the incident which is in the least to the discredit of ranny. i was in the garden this morning, and overheard her defending her lover against hannah's severe censures upon him and upon rosa for siding with him. "why shouldn't he beat his own wife when she deserved it," rosa demanded, "and she nothing but a hateful, sharp-nosed pig?" "she isn't his wife," hannah retorted, apparently not prepared to protest against a doctrine so well established as that a man might beat his spouse. "well, she was, anyhow," persisted rosa; "and that's the same thing. you can't put a man and his wife apart just by going to law. father o'rafferty said so." "oh, you can't, can't you?" hannah said with scornful deliberation. "then you're a nice girl to be talking about marrying ranny gargan, if he's got one wife alive already." this blow struck too near home, i fear, for rosa's voice was pretty shrill when she retorted. "what do you know about marrying anyhow, hannah elsmore? nobody wants to marry you, i'll be bound." it seemed to be time to interfere, so i went nearer to the window and called to rosa to come out to baby and me. "rosa," i said, when she appeared, flushed and angry, "i wish you wouldn't quarrel with hannah." "then what for's she all the time twitting me about ranny gargan?" demanded the girl with angry tears in her eyes. "she don't know what it is to care for a man anyhow, and what for does she be taking me up short when i'm that bad in my mind a'ready i can't stand it? ranny gargan's old beast of a wife's got him into a scrape, but that don't make any difference to me. i ain't going back on him." i established myself on the grass beside the sun-dial, and took baby, sweet and lovely, into my arms. "i am sorry, rosa," i said when we were settled comfortably. "i hoped you'd got over thinking about ranny gargan. he is certainly not the sort of man to make you happy, even if he were free. he'd never think of sparing you or letting you have your own way." "who's wanting to have their own way, miss privet?" demanded my astonishing handmaid; and then went on in her usual fashion of striking me breathless when she comes to discourse of love and marriage. "that ain't what women marry for, miss privet. they're just made so they marry to be beat and broke and abused if that's what pleases the men; and that's the way they're best off." "but, rosa," i put in, "you always talk as if you'd be meekness itself if a husband wanted to abuse you, but i confess i never thought you would be at all backward about defending yourself." a droll look came into her rosy irish face, and a funny little touch of brogue into her voice. "i'd think if he loved me the way he ought to, miss privet, he'd be willing to take a whack himself now and then, just in the way of love. besides," she added, "i'd come it round ranny when it was anything i really wanted. any man's soft enough if a woman knows how to treat him right." i abandoned the discussion, as i am always forced to abandon a talk of this sort with rosa. i suppose in her class the crude doctrine that it is the right of the man to take and the duty of the woman to give still exists with a good deal of simplicity and force, but it almost stops my breath to hear rosa state it. it is like a bit of primeval savagery suddenly thrust into my face in the midst of nineteenth-century civilization. the worst of it all is, moreover, to feel the habits of old generations buzzing dizzily in my ears until i have a confused sensation as if in principle the absurd vagaries of rosa might be right. i am tinglingly aware that fibres which belonged to some remote progenitress, some barbaric woman captured by force, perhaps, after the marriage customs of primitive peoples, retain the instinct of submission to man and respond to rosa's uncivilized theories. i have a sort of second sense that if a man i loved came and asserted a brutal sovereignty over me, it would appeal to these inherited instincts as right and proper, according to the order appointed by nature. i know what nonsense this is. the sense of justice has in the modern woman displaced the old humiliating subjection,--although if one loved a man the subjection would not be humiliating, but just the highest pleasure. i can conceive of a woman's being so fond of a man that to be his abject slave would be so much the happiest thing in the world that to serve him to her very utmost would be so great a delight as almost to be selfishness. how father would have shouted over a page like this! i would not have supposed even rosa could have spurred me into such an attempt at philosophy, and i hardly believed i knew so many long words. after all i doubt if rosa and i are so far apart in our instincts; only she has the coolness to put them into words i only imitate, and cannot pretend to rival. september . it is delightful to see how really fond tom is becoming of baby. i came home from a walk this afternoon, and there in the parlor was tom down on the floor with tomine, shaking his head at her like a bear, and making her laugh. rosa beamed from the background with the most complete approval. he sprang up when i appeared, but i ignored all the strangeness, and only said how glad i was to see him. i think he liked my taking as a matter of course his being there, and very likely this was what made him confess he had been in two or three times to play with baby when he knew that i was not at home. "i saw you going down the other side of the river," he said, "so i came to keep thomasine from being lonesome." i returned that it was not very complimentary to tell me he had tried to avoid me, but that i appreciated how much more fascinating baby was than i, so he need not apologize; and the end of it was that after this nonsense had broken the ice we sat on the floor together to entertain her ladyship. she was pleased to be in the most sunny mood imaginable, and responded to our fooling most graciously. with truly feminine preference, however, she bestowed most of her attention upon the man. she is a more entrancing creature every day; and she certainly has her father's eyes. i compared them this afternoon. september . the reading-room seems really at last to be coming into being. i have found a place for it. it is a kind of square box over the post-office, but with furniture and pictures it can be made rather attractive. i have made out a list of periodicals, and sent to boston for framed photographs for the walls. to-day i went to talk over the plan with deacon richards. the mill was fragrant with its sweet mealy smell, and deacon daniel was as dusty as a moth-miller. as i stood in the doorway waiting for him to come down from the wheel, where he was doing something or other about the hopper, i fell to humming the old rhyme we sang as children when we went by the mill:-- "'miller, miller, musty-poll, how many bags of wheat you stole?' 'one of wheat and one of rye.' 'you naughty miller, you must die!'" "that isn't very polite," deacon daniel said, coming up behind me before i knew he had left his perch. i turned and greeted him smilingly, repeating the last line:-- "you naughty miller, you must die!" "i suppose i must," he assented; "but it won't be for stealing, miss ruth." i love the old mill, with its great beams and its continual sound of dashing water and the chirruping of the millstones grinding away at the corn like an insatiate monster that can never have enough. the smell of the meal, too, is so pleasant, and even the abundant dust is so clean and fresh it seems to belong there. the mellow light through the dim windows and the shadows hiding in every corner have always from childhood appealed to my imagination. i find there always a soothing and serene mood. "i want your advice, deacon richards," i said. "so as not to follow it?" he demanded. "that's what women generally want of advice." i assured him i was ready to follow his advice if it were good, and so we talked about the reading-room. i told him it seemed to me that if it was to go on properly it should have a head; somebody to manage it and be responsible for the way in which it was carried on. "but you will do that yourself," he said. i answered that it must be a man, for it was nonsense to think of a woman's running a reading-room for men. he looked at me for a moment with his droll grin, and then he was pleased to say that for a woman i had a remarkable amount of common sense. i thanked him for the compliment to my sex, and then asked if he would undertake the business, and promise not to freeze the readers out the way he did the prayer-meetings. "i'm not the sort of person you want," he answered, chuckling at my allusion to the fire question. "i've sense enough to know that without being a woman. why don't you ask tom webbe?" i confessed that i had thought of tom, but--and there i stuck, for i could hardly tell the deacon how i thought gossip had already said enough about tom and myself without my giving folk any more to talk about. "i don't know what that 'but' means," he remarked, grinning more than ever, as if he did know perfectly. "anyway, there's nobody in town who could do it so well. all the men and boys like him, and he has a level head. he's the only one of the young fellows that's been to college, and he ought to know more about books than any of the rest of them. besides, he needs something to take up his mind." i felt the deacon was right, and i began to ask myself whether my personal feelings should be allowed to count in such a matter. still i could hardly make up my mind to take the responsibility of putting tom at the head of a reading-room i had started. if nothing else were to be considered i did not want my connection with the plan to be too prominent, and gossip about tom would be just the thing to keep my name always to the front. "i hope you are sensible enough to do one thing," deacon daniel went on, "and that is to have everybody who uses the room pay for it. it needn't be much, but they'll respect it and themselves more if they pay something, and it'll give them the right to grumble." "i don't want them to grumble," i returned. "oh, nobody cares much for anything he can't grumble about," was his reply, with a laugh; "but really they are twice as likely to grumble if you pay for everything than if they help. that's the way we are made." i told him that he was an old cynic, but i saw in a moment he was right about the value that would be put on a thing which was paid for. if the men feel they are helping to support the reading-room they will take a good deal more interest in it. "tom webbe will manage them all right," the deacon declared. "he'll let them grumble just enough, and make them so contented they'll think they're having their own way while he's going ahead just the way he thinks best. he's the only man for the place." perhaps he is; and indeed the more i think about it, the more i see the deacon is right. it would certainly be good for tom, and that is a good deal. i wonder what i ought to do? what deacon daniel said about the way in which tom would manage the men has been running through my mind. i wonder that i, who have known tom so well, never thought before of how great his power is to control people. it showed itself when he was a boy; and if he had carried out his plan to study law it would have been--i do wonder if tom is working by himself, and if that is the reason he borrowed those law-books? september . old lady andrews has solved the question for me. i am so glad i thought to go to her for advice. she suggests that we have a committee, and make deacon richards chairman. then tom can be put on, and really do the work. "it wouldn't do at all for you to put tom webbe at the head alone, my dear," she said. "it would make talk, and aunt naomi would have you married to him a dozen times before the week was over; but this way it will be all right." i asked her if committees did not usually have three on them, and she answered that deacon richards would know. "i belong to an old-fashioned generation, my dear, and i never can feel that it's quite respectable for a woman to know about committees and that sort of thing. i'm sure in my day it wouldn't have been thought well-bred. but deacon daniel will know. he's always on committees at church conferences and councils." once more i visited the mill, and told deacon daniel of old lady andrews' suggestion. he agreed at once, and declared the plan was better than that of having one man at the head. "it'll be much the same thing as far as managing the reading-room goes," he observed, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "but somehow folks like committees, and they generally think they have a better show if three or four men are running things than if there's only one. of course one man always does manage, but a committee's more popular." deacon daniel was very sure that the committee should have three on it, and when i asked who should be the other man he said:-- "if it were anybody else but you, miss ruth, i shouldn't think it was any use to say it, but you'll see what i mean. i think cy turner is the man for the third place." "the blacksmith?" i asked, a good deal surprised. "i'm afraid i don't see what you mean. i don't even know him." the deacon grinned down on me from his height, and made me a characteristic retort. "he doesn't look as if he'd kept awake nights on that account." the blacksmith's jolly round face and twinkling eyes as i had seen him on the street now and then came up before my mind, and i felt the full force of the deacon's irony. i told him that he was impertinent, and asked why he named mr. turner. "because," he answered, seriously, "what you want is for the folks that haven't any books at home and don't have a chance to read to get interested in the reading-room. if cy turner takes hold of it, he'll do more than anybody else in town could do to make it go among just those folks. he's shrewd and good-natured, and everybody that knows him likes him. he'll have all the boys in the reading-room if he has to take them there by the collar, and if he does they'll think it's fine." i could see at once the wisdom of the deacon's idea. i asked how tom and the blacksmith would work together, and was assured that mr. turner has a most unlimited admiration for tom, so that the two would agree perfectly. i made up my mind on the spot, and decided to go at once to interview the blacksmith, from whose shop i could hear above the whirring of the mill the blows on the anvil. i had no time on the little way from the mill to the blacksmith shop to consider what i should say to mr. turner, and i passed the time in hoping there would be no men about. it made no difference; he was so straightforward and simple, so kindly and human, that i felt at ease with him from the first. he was luckily alone, so i walked in boldly as if i were in the habit of visiting the forge every day of my life. he looked surprised to see me, but not in the least disconcerted. the self-respecting coolness of a new england workingman is something most admirable. mr. turner was smutty and dressed in dirty clothes, leather apron and all, but his manners were as good as those of the best gentleman in the land. there is something noble in a country where a common workingman will meet you with no servility and without any self-consciousness. i liked mr. turner from the moment i saw his face and heard his voice, rich and cheery, and i was won by his merry eyes, which had all the time a twinkling suggestion of a smile ready to break out on the slightest occasion. i went straight to my errand, and nothing could have been better than the way in which he received my proposition. he had no false modesty, and no over-assurance. he evidently knew that he could do what was required, he was undisguisedly pleased to be asked, and he was troubled by no doubts about social proprieties or improprieties. "i suppose mr. webbe will do most of what work there is to do," i said, "but he will be an easy person to work with on a committee, i should think." "yes, marm, he will," the blacksmith responded heartily. "there ain't a squarer fellow alive than tom webbe. tom's been a bit wild, perhaps; but he's an awful good fellow just the same, if you know him. i'm pleased to be on the committee with him, miss privet; and i'll do my best. i think the boys'll do about as i want 'em to." i had only to see mr. turner to understand why deacon daniel had chosen him. i think the committee--but "oh, good gracious mercy me," as the old woman in the story says, it just occurs to me that i have not said a word to tom about the whole business! september . it is strange that my only difficulty in arranging about the reading-room should come from tom, on whom i had counted as a matter of course; but it is fortunate that i had assumed he would serve, for this is what made him consent. when i saw him to-day, and told him what i had done, he at first said he could not possibly have anything to do with the whole matter. "i thank you, ruth," he said, "but don't you see i had better not give folks any occasion to think of me at all just now? the gossips need only to be reminded of my being alive, and they will begin all over again." "tom," i asked him desperately, "are you never going to get over this bitter feeling? i can't bear to have you go on thinking that everybody is talking about you." "i don't blame them for talking," was his answer. i assured him he would have been pleased if he could have heard the way in which mr. turner spoke of him yesterday. "oh, cy! he is too good-hearted to fling at anybody." "but deacon richards was just as friendly," i insisted. "yes, he would be. it isn't the men, ruth; they are ready to give a fellow a chance; but the women"-- he did not seem to know how to finish his sentence, and i reminded him that i too was a woman. "oh, you," responded tom, "you're an angel. you might almost be a man." i laughed at him for putting men above angels, and so by making him smile, by coaxing him, and appealing to his friendliness to back me up now i had committed myself, i prevailed upon him to serve. i am sure it will be good for the reading-room, and i am equally sure it will be good for tom. why in the world this victory should have left me a little inclined to be blue, i do not understand. x october october . i went this afternoon to walk on the rim road. the day was beyond words in its beauty,--crisp, and clear, and rich with all that vitality which nature seems so full of in autumn, as if it were filling itself with life to withstand the long strain of the winter. the leaves were splendid in their color, and shone against the sky as if they were full of happiness. perhaps it was the day that made it possible for me to see the red house without a pang, but i think it was the sense of baby at home, well and happy, and learning, unconsciously of course, to love me with every day that goes over her small head. a thin thread of smoke trickled up from the chimney, and i thought i ought to go in to see if the old grandmother was there. i wonder if it is right not to try if the blessed granddaughter might not soften her old heart, battered and begrimed if it be. nobody answered my knock, however, and so i did not see mrs. brownrig, for which i was selfishly glad. she has not been very gracious when i have sent her things, so i was not, i confess, especially anxious for an interview. i went away smiling to myself over a saying of father's: "there is nothing so pleasant as a disagreeable duty conscientiously escaped." october . i really know something which has escaped the acuteness of aunt naomi, and i feel greatly puffed up in consequence. deacon richards has been here this evening, and as it was rather cool i had a brisk, cheery fire. "i do like to be warm," he said, stretching out his hand luxuriously to the blaze. "i never could understand why i feel the cold so. i should think it was age, if it hadn't always been so from the time i was a boy." i thought of the cold vestry, and smiled to myself as i wondered if deacon daniel had ascetic ideas of self-torture. "then i should think you would be fond of big fires," i observed. "i am," he responded, "only they make me sleepy. i'm like a kitten; i go to sleep when i get warmed through." i laughed outright, and when he asked me what i was laughing at i told him it was partly at the idea of his being like a kitten, and partly because i had found him out. "it is all very well for you to keep the vestry as cold as a barn so that you can keep awake," i added; "but don't you think it is unfair to the rest of the congregation to freeze them too?" he looked rather disconcerted a moment, and then grinned, though sheepishly. "heat makes other people sleepy too," he said defensively. i chaffed him a little, and told him i should send a couple of loads of wood to the vestry, and that if it were necessary i would give him a bottle of smelling-salts to keep him awake, but certainly the room must be warmer. i declared i would not have dear old lady andrews exposed to the danger of pneumonia, even if he was like a kitten. it is really quite as touching as it is absurd to think of his sitting in prayer-meeting shivering and uncomfortable because he feels it his duty to keep awake. in biblical times dancing before the lord was a legitimate form of worship; it is almost a pity that sleeping before the lord cannot be put among proper religious observances. dear miss charlotte always sleeps--devoutly, i am sure--at every prayer-meeting, and then comes out declaring it has been a beautiful meeting. i have no doubt she has been spiritually refreshed, even if she has nodded. father used to say that no religion could be permanent until men were able to give their deity a sense of humor; and i do think a supreme being which could not see the humorous side of deacon richards' pathetic mortification of the flesh in his frosty vestry could hardly have the qualifications necessary to manage the universe properly. october . ranny gargan has settled the question of marriage for the present at least. he has remarried his first wife to prevent her from bringing suit against him. as miss charlotte rather boldly said, he has legitimized the beating by marrying the woman. rosa takes the matter coolly. she says she is glad to have things so she can't think of ranny, for now she can take dennis, and not bother any more about it. "it's a comfort to any woman not to have to decide what man she'll marry," she remarked with her amazing philosophy. "then you'd like to have somebody arrange a marriage for you, rosa," i said, rather for the sake of saying something. "arrange, is it?" she cried, bristling up suddenly. "what for would i have somebody making my marriage? i'd like to see anybody that would dare!" the moral of which seems to be that if rosa is so much of a philosopher that she sometimes seems to me to be talking scraps out of old heathen sages, she is yet only a woman. october . aunt naomi had about her when she came stealthily in this afternoon an air of excitement so evident as almost to be contagious. i could see by the very hurry of her sliding step and the extra tightness of her veil that something had stirred her greatly. "what is it, aunt naomi?" i asked at once. "you fairly bristle with news. what's happened?" she smiled and gave a little cluck, but my salutation made her instantly moderate her movements. she sat down with a composed and self-contained air, and only by the unusually vigorous swinging of her foot showed that she was not as serene as on ordinary occasions. "who said anything had happened?" she demanded. i returned that she showed it by her looks. "something is always happening, i suppose." i know aunt naomi well enough to understand that the quickest way of coming at her tidings was to pretend indifference, so i asked no more questions, but made a careless remark about the weather. "what made you think anything had happened?" persisted she. "it was simply an idea that came into my head," was my reply. "i hope deacon daniel keeps the vestry warm in these days." aunt naomi was not proof against this parade of indifference, and in a moment she broke out with her story. "well," she declared, "tom webbe seems bound to be talked about." "tom webbe!" i echoed. "what is it now?" i confess my heart sank with the fear that he had become desperate with the pressure of weary days, and had somehow defied all the narrow conventionalities which hem him in here in this little town. "it's the brownrig woman," aunt naomi announced. "if you get mixed up with that sort of creatures there's no knowing what you'll come to." "but what about her?" i demanded so eagerly that i became suddenly conscious of the keen curiosity which my manner brought into her glance. "what has she been doing?" i went on, trying to be cool. it was only by much questioning that i got the story. had it not been for my real interest in tom i would not have bothered so much, but as it was she had me at her mercy, and knew it. what happened, so far as i can make out, is this: the brownrig woman has been worse than ever since julia's death. she has been drunk in the streets more than once, and i am afraid the help she has had from tom and others has only led her to greater excesses. once deacon richards came upon her lying in the ditch beside the road, and she has made trouble more than once, besides disturbing the prayer-meeting. last evening tom came upon a mob of men and boys down by the flatiron wharf, and in the midst of them was mrs. brownrig, singing and howling. they were baiting her, and saying things to provoke her to more outrageous profanity. "they do say," observed aunt naomi with what seemed to me, i am ashamed to say, an unholy relish, "her swearing was something awful. john deland told me he never heard anything like it. he said no man could begin to come up to it." "john deland, that owns the smoke-houses?" i put in. "what was he doing there? i always thought he was a decent man." "so he is. he says," she returned with her drollest smile, "he was just passing by and couldn't help hearing. i dare say you couldn't have helped hearing if you'd been passing by." "i should have passed pretty quickly then; but what did tom webbe do?" she went on to say that tom had come upon this disgraceful scene, and found the crowd made up of all the lowest fellows in town. the men were shouting with laughter, and the old woman was shrieking with rage and intoxication. "john deland says as soon as tom saw what was going on and who the woman was, he broke through the crowd, and took her by the arm, and told her to come home. she cursed him, and said she wouldn't go; and then she cried, and they had a dreadful time. then somebody in the crowd--john says he thinks it was one of the bagley boys that burnt micah sprague's barn. you remember about that, don't you? they live somewhere down beyond the old shipyard"-- "i remember that the spragues' barn was burned," answered i; "but what did the bagley boy do last night?" "he called out to tom webbe to get out of the way, and not spoil the fun. then tom turned on the crowd, and i guess he gave it to them hot and heavy." "i'm sure i hope he did!" i said fervently. "he said he thought they might be in better business than tormenting an old drunken woman like that, and called them cowards to their faces. they got mad, and wanted to know what business it was of his, anyway. then he blazed out again, and said"-- i do not know whether the pause aunt naomi made was intentionally designed to rouse me still further, or whether she hesitated unconsciously; but i was too excited to care. "what did he say?" i asked breathlessly. "he told them she was his mother-in-law." "tom webbe said that? to that crowd?" cried i, and i felt the tears spring into my eyes. it was chiefly excitement, of course, but the pluck of it and the hurt to tom came over me in a flash. "what did they do?" "they just muttered, and got out of the way. john deland said it wasn't two minutes before tom was left alone with the old woman, and then he took her home. it's a pity she wouldn't drink herself to death." "i think it is, aunt naomi," was my answer; though i wished to add that the sentiment was rather a queer one to come from anybody who believes as she does. i do not know what else aunt naomi said. indeed when she had told her tale she seemed in something of a hurry to leave, and i suspect her of going on to repeat it somewhere else. tom's sin has left a trail of consequences behind it which he could never have dreamed of. i cannot tell whether i pity him more for this or honor him for the courage with which he stood up. poor tom! october . an odd thing has happened to the westons. a man came in the storm last night and dropped insensible on the doorstep. he might have lain there all night, and very likely would have died before morning, but george, when he started for bed, chanced to open the door to look at the weather. he found the tramp wet and covered with sleet, and at first thought that he was either dead or drunk. when he had got him in and thawed out by the kitchen fire, the man proved to be ill. george sent for dr. wentworth, and had a bed made up in the shed-chamber, but when he told me this morning he said it seemed rather doubtful if the tramp could live. "what did mrs. weston say?" i asked. i do not know how i came to ask such a question, and i meant nothing by it. george, however, stiffened in a moment as if he suspected me of something unkind. "mrs. weston didn't like my taking him into the house," he said. "she thought i ought to have sent him off to the poor-farm." "you could hardly do that last night," i returned, wondering how i could have offended him. "i am afraid the tramp's looks set her against him." "she hasn't seen him. she'd gone to bed before i found him last night, and this morning he is pretty sick. dr. wentworth says he can't be moved now. he's in a high fever, and keeps talking all the time." it is so very seldom we hear of tramps in tuskamuck that it is strange to have one appear like this, and it is odd he chose george's house to tumble down at, as it is a little out of the road. tramps have a law of their own, however, and never do what one would expect of them. i hope his illness will not be serious. i offered to do what i could, but george said they could take care of the man for the present. then he hesitated, and flushed a little as if confused. "i am sorry," he said, "it should happen just now, for gertrude ought not to be troubled when--when she isn't well." it is a pity, and i hope no harm will come of it, but if mrs. weston has not seen the tramp and has not been startled, i do not see why any should. october . if i could be superstitious, i think i should be now; but of course the whole thing is nonsense. people are talking--in forty-eight hours! how gossip does spring and spread!--as if there were something peculiar about that tramp. there is nothing definite to say except that he came to george's house, which is a little off from the main street, and that in his delirium he keeps calling for some person he says he knows is there, and he will surely find, no matter how she hides. the idea of the sick in a delirium is always painful, and the talk about this man makes it doubly so. i am afraid the fact that mrs. weston's servants do not like her has something to do with the whispers in the air. dislike will create suspicion on the slightest excuse, and there can be nothing to connect her with this dying tramp. what could there be? i wish aunt naomi would not repeat such unpleasant things. october . i have been with tom hanging the pictures in the new reading-room, and everything is ready for the opening when the magazines and the books come. next wednesday is the first of the month, and then we will have it opened. tom has already a list of over twenty men and boys who have joined, and lame peter tobey is to be janitor. it is delightful to see how proud and pleased he is. he can help his mother now, and the poor boy was pathetic in the way he spoke of that. he only mentioned it, but his tone touched me to the quick. tom and i had a delightful afternoon, hanging pictures, arranging the furniture, and seeing that everything was right. mr. turner and deacon richards came in just as we finished, and the three men were so simple in their interest, and so hearty about it, that i feel as if everything was going forward in just the right spirit. mr. turner saw where a bracket was needed for one of the lamps, and said at once he would make one to-morrow. it was charming to see how pleased he was to find there was something he could furnish, and which nobody else at hand could have supplied. we are always pleased to find we are not only needed, but we are needed in some particular way which marks our personal fitness for the thing to be done. deacon daniel brought a big braided rug that an old woman at the rim had made by his orders. he was in good spirits because he had helped the old woman and the reading-room at the same time. tom was happy because he was at work, and in an atmosphere that was friendly; and i was happy because i could not help it. and so when we locked the room, and came home in the early twilight, i felt at peace with all the world. tom came in and had a frolic with tomine, and when he went he held my hand a moment, looking into my face as if to impress me with what he said. "thank you, ruth," were the words; "i think you'll succeed in making me human again. good-night." if i am helping him to be reconciled with the world and himself i am more glad than i can tell. october . the earthquake always finds us unprepared, and to-night it has come. i feel dazed and queer, as if life had been shaken to its foundations, and as if it were trembling about me. george came in suddenly--my hand trembles so that i am writing like an old woman. if the chief object of keeping a journal is to help myself to be sane and rational, i must have better control over my nerves. about seven o'clock, as i sat sewing, i heard hannah open the front door to somebody. i half expected a deacon, as it generally is a deacon in the evening, but the door opened, and george came rushing in. his hurry and his excited manner made me see at once that something unusual had happened. his face was pale, his eyes wild, and somehow his whole air was terrifying. "what is the matter?" i cried, jumping up to meet him. he tried to speak, but only gave a sort of choking gasp. "has anything happened?" i asked him. "your wife"-- "i haven't any wife," he interrupted. the shock was terrible, for i thought at once she must be dead, and i made some sort of a horrified exclamation. then we stared at each other a minute. i supposed something had happened to her, and that he had from the force of old habit come to me in hope of comfort. "i never had a wife," he went on, almost angrily, and as if i had disputed him. i do not know what we said then or how we said it. it was a long time before i could understand, and even now it seems like a bad dream. somehow he made me understand that the tramp who was sick at their house had kept calling out in his delirium for gertrude and declaring he had found her, that she need not hide, for he would surely find her wherever she hid. the servants talked of it, and george knew it a day or two ago. i do not know whether he suspected anything or not. very likely he could hardly tell himself. finally one of the girls told mrs. weston, and she acted very strangely. she wanted to have a description of the man, and at last she insisted on going herself to peep at him, to see what he was like. george happened to come home just at the time mrs. weston had crept up to the door of the shed-chamber. some exclamation of hers when she saw her husband roused the sick man, who sat up in bed and screamed that he knew his wife's voice, and he would see her. george caught her by the arm, pushed the door wide open with his foot, and led her into the chamber. she held back, and cried out, and the tramp, half wild with delirium, sprang out of bed, shouting to george: "take your hands off of my wife!" george declares that even then he should not have believed the tramp was really speaking the truth if gertrude hadn't confirmed it. he thought the man was out of his head, and the worst of his suspicion was that the stranger had known mrs. weston somewhere. as soon as the tramp spoke, however, she fell down on her knees and caught george's hand, crying over and over: "i thought he was dead! i thought he was dead!" it must have been a fearful thing for both of them; and then gertrude fainted dead away at george's feet. the girl who had been taking care of the tramp was out of the room at the moment, but she heard george calling, and came in time to take her mistress away; while george got the tramp back to bed, and soothed him into some sort of quiet. then he rushed over here. i urged him to go back at once, telling him his wife would want him, and that it might after all be a mistake. "i don't want ever to set eyes on her again," he declared doggedly. "she's cheated me. she told me i was the first man she ever cared for, and i never had a hint she'd been married. she made a fool of me, but thank god i'm out of that mess." "what do you mean?" i asked him. "you are talking about your wife." "she isn't my wife, i tell you," persisted he. "i'll never live with her again." he must have seen how he shocked me, and at last he was persuaded to go home. i know i must see him to-morrow, and i have a cowardly desire to run away. i have a hateful feeling of repulsion against him, but that is something to be overcome. at any rate both he and his poor wife need a friend if they ever did, and i must do the best i can. i cannot wonder george should be deeply hurt by finding that mrs. weston had a husband before and did not tell him. she can hardly have loved him or she must have been honest with him. it may have been through her love and fear of losing him that she did not dare to tell; though from what i have seen of her i haven't thought her much given to sentiment. how dreadful it must be to live a life resting on concealment. i have very likely been uncharitable in judging her, for she must always have been uneasy and of course could not be her true self. october . some rumor of the truth has flown about the town, as i was sure when i saw aunt naomi coming up the walk this forenoon. sometimes i think she sees written on walls and fences the things which have happened or been said in the houses which they surround. she has almost a second sight; and if i wished to do anything secret i would not venture to be in the same county with her. she seated herself comfortably in a patch of sunshine, and looked with the greatest interest at the mahonia in bloom on the flower-stand by the south window. she spoke of the weather and of peter's silliness, told me where the sewing-circle was to be next week, and approached the real object of her call with the deliberation of a cat who is creeping up behind a mouse. when she did speak, she startled me. "i suppose you know that tramp over to the westons' died this morning," she remarked, so carelessly it might have seemed an accident if her eye had not fairly gleamed with eagerness. "died!" i echoed. "yes, he's dead," she went on. "he had some sort of excitement yesterday, they say, and it seems to have been the end of him." she watched me as if to see whether i would give any sign of knowing more of the matter than she did, but for once i hope i baffled her penetration. i made some ordinary comment, which could not have told her much. "it's very queer a tramp should go to that particular house to die," observed aunt naomi, as if she were stating an abstract truth in which she had no especial interest. i asked what there was especially odd about it. "well, for one thing," she answered, "he asked the way there particularly." i inquired how she knew. "al demmons met him on the rim road," she continued, not choosing, apparently, to answer my question directly, "and this man wanted to know where a man named weston lived who'd married a woman from the west called something al demmons couldn't remember. al demmons said that george weston was the only weston in town, and that he had married a girl named west. then the man said something about 'that used to be her name.' it's all pretty queer, i think." to this i did not respond. i would not get into a discussion which would give aunt naomi more material for talk. after a moment of silence, she said:-- "well, the man's dead now, and i suppose that's the end of him. i don't suppose mrs. weston's likely to tell much about him." "aunt naomi," i returned, feeling that even if all the traditions of respect for my elders were broken i must speak, "doesn't it seem to you harm might come of talking about this tramp as if he were some mysterious person connected with mrs. weston's life before she came to tuskamuck? it isn't strange that somebody should have known her, and when once a tramp has had help from a person he hangs on." she regarded me with a shrewd look. "you wouldn't take up cudgels for her that way if you didn't know something," she observed. after that there was nothing for me to say. i simply dropped the subject, and refused to talk about the affairs of the westons at all. i am so sorry, however, that gossip has got hold of a suspicion. it was to be expected, i suppose, and indeed it has been in the air ever since the man came. i am sorry for the westons. october . after the earthquake a fire,--i wonder whether after the fire will come the still, small voice! it is curious that out of all this excitement the feeling of which i am most conscious after my dismay and my pity is one of irritation. i am ashamed to find in my thought so much anger against george. he had perhaps a right to think as he did about my affection for him, though it is inconceivable any gentleman should say the things he said to me last night. even if he were crazy enough to suppose i could still love him, how could he forget his wife; how could he be glad of an excuse to be freed from her; how could he forget the little child that is coming? oh, i am like jonah when he was so sure he did well to be angry! i am convinced i can have no just perception of character at all, for this george weston is showing himself so weak, so ungenerous, so cruel, that he has either been changed vitally or i did not really know him. i was utterly deceived in him. no; i will not believe that. we have all of us possibilities in different directions. i wish i could remember the passage where browning says a man has two sides, one for the world and one to show a woman when he loves her. perhaps one side is as true as the other; and what i knew was a possible george, i am sure. he came in yesterday afternoon with a look of hard determination. he greeted me almost curtly, and added in the same breath:-- "the man is dead. she's confessed it all. he was her husband, and she was never my wife legally at all. she says she thought he was dead." "then there's only one thing to do," i answered. "you can get mr. saychase to marry you to-day. of course it can be arranged if you tell him how the mistake arose, and he won't speak of it." he laughed sneeringly. "i haven't any intention of marrying her," he said. "no intention of marrying her?" i repeated, not understanding him. "if the first ceremony wasn't legal, another is necessary, of course." "she cheated me," he declared, his manner becoming more excited. "do you suppose after that i'd have her for my wife? besides, you don't see. she was another man's wife when she came to live with me, and"-- i stared at him without speaking, and he began to look confused. "no man wants to marry a woman that's been living with him," he blurted out defiantly. "i suppose that isn't a nice thing to say to you, but any man would understand." i was silent at first, in mere amazement and indignation. the thing seemed so monstrous, so indelicate, so cruel to the woman. she had deceived him and hidden the fact that she had been married, but there was no justice in this horrible way of looking at it, as if her ignorance had been a crime. i could hardly believe he realized what he was saying. before i could think what to say, he went on. "very likely you think i'm hard, ruth; and perhaps i shouldn't feel so if it hadn't come about through her own fault. if she'd told me the truth"-- "george!" i burst out. "you don't know what you are saying! you didn't take her as your wife for a week or a month, but for all her life." "she never was my wife," he persisted stubbornly. i looked at him with a feeling of despair,--not unmixed, i must confess, with anger. most of all, however, i wanted to reach him; to make him see things as they were; and i wanted to save the poor woman. i leaned forward, and laid my fingers on his arm. my eyes were smarting, but i would not cry. "but if there were no question of her at all," i pleaded, "you must do what is right for your own sake. you have made her pledges, and you can't in common honesty give them up." "she set me free from all that when she lied to me. i made pledges to a girl, not to another man's wife." "but she didn't know. she thought she was free to marry you. she believed she was honestly your wife." "she never was, she never was." he repeated it stubbornly as if the fact settled everything. "she was!" i broke out hotly. "she was your wife; and she is your wife! when a man and a woman honestly love each other and marry without knowing of any reason why they may not, i say they are man and wife, no matter what the law is." "suppose the husband had lived?" he demanded, with a hateful smile. "the law really settles it." "do you believe that?" i asked him. "or do you only wish to believe it?" he looked at me half angrily, and the blood sprang into his cheeks. then he took a step forward. "she came between us!" he said, lowering his voice, but speaking with a new fierceness. i felt as if he had struck me, and i shrank back. then i straightened up, and looked him in the eye. "you don't dare to say that aloud," i retorted. "you left me of your own accord. you insult me to come here and say such a thing, and i will not hear it. if you mean to talk in that strain, you may leave the house." he was naturally a good deal taken aback by this, and perhaps i should not--yes, i should; i am glad i did say it. he stammered something about begging my pardon. "let that go," interrupted i, feeling as if i had endured about all that i could hear. "the question is whether you are not going to be just to your wife." "you fight mighty well for her," responded george, "but if you knew how she"-- "never mind," i broke in. "can't you see i am fighting for you? i am trying to make you see you owe it to yourself to be right in this; and moreover you owe it to me." "to you?" he asked, with a touch in his voice which should have warned me, but did not, i was so wrapped up in my own view of the situation. "yes, to me. i am your oldest friend, don't you see, and you owe it to me not to fail now." he sprang forward impulsively, holding out both his hands. "ruth," he cried out, "what's the use of all this talk? you know it's you i love, and you i mean to marry." i know now how a man feels when he strikes another full in the face for insulting him. i felt myself growing hot and then cold again; and i was literally speechless from indignation. "i went crazy a while for a fool with a pretty face," he went rushing on; "but all that"-- "she is your wife, george weston!" i broke in. "how dare you talk so to me!" he was evidently astonished, but he persisted. "we ought to be honest with each other now, ruth," he said. "there's too much at stake for us to beat about the bush. i know i've behaved like a fool and a brute. i've hurt you and--and cheated you, and you've had every reason to throw me over like a sick dog; but when you made up the money i'd lost and didn't let mr. longworthy suspect, i knew you cared for me just the same!" "cared for you!" i blazed out. "do you think i could have ruined any man's life for that? i love you no more than i love any other man with a wife of his own!" "that's just it," he broke in eagerly. "of course i knew you couldn't own you cared while she"-- the egotism of it, the vulgarity of it made me frantic. i was ashamed of myself, i was ashamed of him, and i felt as if nothing would make him see the truth. never in my whole life have i spoken to any human being as i did to him. i felt like a raging termagant, but he would not see. "stop!" i cried out. "if you had never had a wife, i couldn't care for you. i thought i loved you, and perhaps i did; but all that is over, and over forever." "you've said you'd love me always," he retorted. some outer layer of courtesy seemed to have cracked and fallen from him, and to have left an ugly and vulgar nature bare. the pathos of it came over me. the pity that a man should be capable of so exposing his baser self struck me in the midst of all my indignation. i could not help a feeling, moreover, that he had somehow a right to reproach me with having changed. thinking of it now in cooler blood i cannot see that since he has left me to marry another woman he has any ground for reproaching me; but somehow at the moment i felt guilty. "george," i answered, "i thought i was telling the truth; i didn't understand myself." the change in his face showed me that this way of putting it had done more to convince him than any direct denial. his whole manner altered. "you don't mean," he pleaded piteously, "you've stopped caring for me?" i could only tell him that certainly i had stopped caring for him in the old way, and i begged him to go back to his wife. he said little more, and i was at last released from this horrible scene. all night i thought of it miserably or i dreamed of it more miserably still. that poor woman! what can i do for her? i hope i have not lost the power of influencing george, for i might use it to help her. xi november november . how odd are the turns that fate plays us. sometimes it seems as if an unseen power were amusing himself tangling the threads of human lives just as peter has been snarling up my worsted for pure fun. only a power mighty enough to be able to do this must be too great to be so heartless. i suppose, too, that the pity of things is often more in the way in which we look at them than it is in the turn which fate or fortune has given to affairs. the point of view changes values so. all this is commonplace, of course; but it is certainly curious that george's wife should be in my house, almost turned out of her husband's. when i found her on the steps the other night, wet with the rain, afraid to ring, afraid of me, and terrified at what had come upon her, i had no time to think of the strange perversity of events which had brought this about. she had left george's house, she said, because she was afraid of him and because he had said she was to go as soon as she was able. he had called her a horrible name, she added, and he had told her he was done with her; that she must in the future take care of herself and not expect to live with him. i know, after seeing the cruel self george showed the other day, that he could be terrible, and he would have less restraint with his wife than with me. in the evening, as soon as it was really dark, in the midst of the storm, she came to me. she said she knew how i must hate her, that she had said horrid things about me, but she had nowhere else to go, and she implored i would take her in. she is asleep now in the south chamber. she is ill, and i cannot tell what the effects of her exposure will be. dr. wentworth looks grave, but he does not say what he thinks. what i ought to do is the question. she has been here two days, and her husband must have found out by this time what i suppose everybody in town knows,--where she is. i cannot fold my hands and let things go. i must send for george, much as i shrink from seeing him. how can i run the risk of having another scene like the one on friday? and yet i must do something. she can do nothing for herself. it should be a man to talk with george; but i cannot ask tom. he and george do not like each other, and he could not persuade george to do right to gertrude. perhaps deacon richards might effect something. november . after all my difficulty in persuading deacon richards to interfere, his efforts have come to nothing. george was rude to him, and told him to mind his own affairs. i suppose dear old deacon daniel had not much tact. "i told him he ought to be ashamed of himself," the deacon said indignantly, "and that he was a disgrace to the town; but it didn't seem to move him any." "i hope he treated you well," i answered dolefully. "i am sorry i persuaded you to go." "he was plain enough," deacon daniel responded grimly. "he didn't mince words any to speak of." i must see him myself. i wish i dared consult tom, but it could not do any good. i must work it out alone; but what can i say? november . fortunately, i did not have to send for george. he appeared this afternoon on a singular errand. he wanted to pay me board for his wife until she was well enough to go away. i assured him he need not be troubled about board, because i was glad to do what i could for his wife; and i could not help adding that i did not keep a lodging-house. "i'm willing to be as kind to her while she's here as i can," he assured me awkwardly, "and of course i shall not let her go away empty-handed." "she is not likely to," i retorted, feeling my cheeks get hot. "dr. wentworth says she cannot be moved until after the baby comes." he flushed in his turn, and looked out of the window. "i don't think, ruth," was his reply, "we can discuss that. it isn't a pleasant subject." there are women, i know, who can meet obstinacy with guile. i begin to understand how it may be a woman will stoop to flatter and seem to yield, simply through despair of carrying her end by any other means. the hardness of this man almost bred in me a purpose to try and soften him, to try to bewitch him, somehow to fool and ensnare him for his own good; to hide how i raged inwardly at his injustice and cruelty, and to pretend to be acquiescent until i had accomplished my end. i cannot lie, however, even in acts, and all that sort of thing is beyond my power as well as my will. i realized how hopeless it was for me to try to do anything with him, and i rose. "very likely you are right," i said. "it is evidently useless for us to discuss anything. now i can only say good-by; but i forbid you to come into my house again until you bring mr. saychase with you to remarry you to gertrude." he had risen also, and we stood face to face. "do you suppose," he asked doggedly, "now i am free i'd consent to marry any woman but you? i'll make you marry me yet, ruth privet, for i know perfectly well you love me. think how long we were engaged." i remembered the question he asked me when he came back from franklin after he had seen her: "how long have we been engaged?" "i shall keep your wife," was all i said, "until she is well and chooses to go. george, i beg of you not to let her baby be born fatherless." a hateful look came into his eyes. "i thought you were fond of fatherless babies," he sneered. "go," i said, hardly controlling myself, "and don't come here again without mr. saychase." "if i bring him it will be to marry you, ruth." something in me rose up and spoke without my volition. i did not know what i was saying until the words were half said. i crossed the room and rang the bell for rosa, and as i did it i said:-- "i see i must have a husband to protect me from your insults, and i will marry tom webbe." before he could answer, rosa appeared. "rosa," i said, and all my calmness had come back, "will you show mr. weston to the door. i am not at home to him again until he comes with mr. saychase." she restrained her surprise and amusement better than i expected, but before she had had time to do more than toss her head george had rushed away without ceremony. by this time, i suppose, every man, woman, and child in town knows that i have turned him out of my house. november . "and after the fire a still, small voice!" i have been saying this over and over to myself; and remembering, not irreverently, that god was in the voice. i have had a talk with tom which has moved me more than all the trouble with george. the very fact that george so outraged all my feelings and made me so angry kept me from being touched as i might have been otherwise; but this explanation with tom has left me shaken and tired out. it is emotion and not physical work that wears humanity to shreds. tom came to discuss the reading-room. he is delighted that it has started so well and is going on so swimmingly; and he is full of plans for increasing the interest. i was, i confess, so preoccupied with what i had made up my mind to say to him i could hardly follow what he was saying. i felt as if something were grasping me by the throat. he looked at me strangely, but he went on talking as if he did not notice my uneasiness. "tom," i broke out at last, when i could endure it no longer, "did you know that mrs. weston is here, very ill?" "yes," was all he answered. "and, tom," i hurried on, "george won't remarry her." "won't remarry her?" he echoed. "the cur!" "he was here yesterday," i went on desperately, "and he said he is determined to marry me." tom started forward with hot face and clenched fist. "the blackguard! i wish i'd been here to kick him out of the house! what did you say to him?" "i told him he had insulted me, and forbade him to come here again without mr. saychase to remarry them," i said. then before tom's searching look i became so confused he could not help seeing there was more. "well?" he demanded. he was almost peremptory, although he was courteous. men have such a way in a crisis of instinctively taking the lead that a woman yields to it almost of necessity. "tom," i answered, more and more confused, "i must tell you, but i hope you'll understand. i had a frightful time with him. i was ashamed of him and ashamed of myself, and very angry; and when he said he'd make me marry him sometime, i told him"-- "well?" demanded tom, his voice much lower than before, but even more compelling. "i told him," said i, the blood fairly throbbing in my cheeks, "that i should marry you. you've asked me, you know!" he grew fairly white, but for a moment he did not move. his eyes had a look in them i had never seen, and which made me tremble. it seemed to me that he was fighting down what he wanted to say, and to get control of himself. "ruth," he asked me at last, with an odd hoarseness in his voice, "do you want george weston to marry that woman?" "of course i do," i cried, so surprised and relieved that the question was not more personal the tears started to my eyes. "i want it more than anything else in the world." again he was still for a moment, his eyes looking into mine as if he meant to drag out my most secret thought. these silences were too much for me to bear, and i broke this one. i asked him if he were vexed at what i had said to george, and told him the words had seemed to say themselves without any will of mine. "i could only be sorry at anything you said, ruth," he returned, "never vexed. i only think it a pity for you to link your name with mine." i tried to speak, but he went on. "i've loved you ever since i was old enough to love anything. i've told you that often enough, and i don't think you doubt it. i had you as my ambition all the time i was growing up. i came home from college, and you were engaged, and all the good was taken out of life for me. i've never cared much since what happened. but if i've asked you to love me, ruth, i never gave you the right to think i'd be base enough to be willing you should marry me without loving me." again i tried to speak, though i cannot tell what i wished to say. i only choked and could not get out a word. "don't talk about it. i can't stand it," he broke in, his voice husky. "you needn't marry me to make george weston come up to the mark. i'll take care of that." i suppose i looked up with a dread of what might happen if he saw george, and of course tom could not understand that my concern was for him and not for george. he smiled a bitter sort of smile. "you needn't be afraid," he said. "i'll treat him tenderly for your sake." i was too confused to speak, and i could only sit there dazed and silent while he went away. it was not what he was saying that filled me with a tumult till my thoughts seemed beating in my head like wild birds in a net. suddenly while he was speaking, while his dear, honest eyes full of pain were looking into mine, the still, small voice had spoken, and i knew that i cared for tom as he cared for me. november . i realize now that from the morning when tom and i first stood with baby in my arms between us i have felt differently toward him. it was at the moment almost as if i were his wife, and though i never owned it to myself, even in my most secret thought, i have somehow belonged to him ever since. i see now that something very deep within has known and has from time to time tried to tell me; but i put my hands to the ears of my mind. miss fleming used to try to teach us things at school about the difference between the consciousness and the will, and other dark mysteries which to me were, and are, and always will be utterly incomprehensible, and i suppose some kind of a consciousness knew what the will wouldn't recognize. that sounds like nonsense now it is on paper, but it seemed extremely wise when i began to write it. no matter; the facts i know well enough. it is wonderful how a woman will hide a thing from herself, a thing she knows really, but keeps from being conscious she knows by refusing to let her thoughts put it into words. to myself i seem shamefully fickle,--and yet it seems also as if i had never changed at all, but that it was always tom i have been fond of, even when i fully believed it was george. of course this is only a weak excuse; but at least i have been fond of tom as a friend from my childhood. he has always commanded me, too, in a way. he has done what i wished and what i thought best; but i have always known he could be influenced only so far, and that if i wanted what he did not believe in he could be as stubborn as a rock. the hardness of his mother shows itself in him as the stanch foundation for the gentleness he gets from his father. miss charlotte came in for a moment to-day, and by instinct she knew that something had made me happy. she was full of sympathy for a moment, and then, i think, some suspicion came into her dear old head which she would not have there. "ruth, my dear," she said in her rough way, "you look too cheerful for the head of a foundling asylum and a house of refuge. i hope you've made george weston promise to marry his own wife,--though if i made the laws it wouldn't be necessary for a man to marry a woman more than once. i've no idea of weddings that have to come round once in so often like house-cleaning." she was watching me so keenly as she spoke that i smiled in spite of myself. "no," i told her, "i haven't been able to make him; but tom webbe has undertaken to bring him round, so i believe it will be all right." whether she understood or not i cannot tell, but from the loving way in which she leaned over and kissed me i suspect she had some inkling of it. november . they are married. just after dusk to-night i heard the doorbell, and rosa came in with a queer look on her face to say that mr. saychase and mr. weston were in the hall. i went out to them at once, and tried to act as if everything had been arranged between us. george was pale and stern. he would not look at me, and i did not exchange a word directly with him while he was in the house, except to say good-evening and good-by. i kept them waiting just a moment or two while i prepared gertrude, and then i called them upstairs. she behaved very well, acting as if she were a little frightened, but accepting everything without a word. i suspect she is too ill really to care for anything very much. the ceremony was over quickly, and then george went away without noticing his wife further except to say good-night. tom came in for a moment, later, to see that everything was well, and of course i asked him how he had brought george to consent. he smiled rather grimly. "i did it simply enough," he said. "i tried easy words first, and appealed to him as a gentleman,--though of course i knew it was no use. if such a plea would have done any good, i shouldn't have been there. then i said he wouldn't be tolerated in tuskamuck if he didn't make it right for his wife. he said he guessed he could fix that, and if other people would mind their own business he could attend to his. then i opened the door and called in cy turner. i had him waiting outside because i knew weston would understand he meant business. i asked him to say what we'd agreed; and he told weston that if he didn't marry the woman before midnight we'd have him ridden out of town on a rail. he weakened at that. he knew we'd do it." i could not say anything to this. it was a man's way of treating the situation, and it accomplished its end; but it did affect me a good deal. i shivered at the very idea of a mob, and of what might have happened if george had not yielded. tom saw how i felt, i suppose. "you think i'm a brute, ruth," he said, "but i knew he'd give in. he isn't very plucky. i always knew that." he hurried away to go to the reading-room, where he had to see to something or other, and we said nothing about our personal relations. i wonder if i fancied that he watched me very closely to see how i took his account, or if he really thought i might resent his having browbeaten george. he need not have feared. i was troubled by the idea of the mob, but i was proud of tom, and i could not help contrasting his clear, straightforward look with the way george avoided my eyes. november . now there are two babies in the house, and cousin mehitable might think her prediction that i would set up an orphan asylum was coming true in earnest. in spite of mrs. weston's exposure everything is going well, and we hope for the best. i sent george a note last night to tell him, and he came over for a minute. he behaved very well. he had none of the bravado which has made him so different and so dreadful, and he was more like his old self. he was let into his wife's chamber just long enough to kiss her, but that was all. i suppose to be the father of a son must sober any man. november . tom never comes any more to see me or baby. when i discovered i cared for him i felt that of course everything was at last straightened out; and here is tom, who only knows that he cares for me, so the case is about as it was before except that now he will never speak. i must do something; but what can i do? when i thought only of getting out of the way of george's marriage it was bad enough to speak to tom, and now it seems impossible. i can't, i can't, i can't speak to him again! november . cousin mehitable and her telegram arrived this time together, for the boy who drove her from the station brought the message, and gave it to her to bring into the house. she was full of indignation and amazement at what she found, and insisted upon going back to boston by the afternoon train. "i never know what you will do, ruth," she said, "so of course i ought not to be surprised; but of all the wild notions you could take into your head, i must say to have mrs. weston come here to have her baby is the most incredible." "you advised me to have more babies, as long as i had one," i interposed. "i've a great mind to shake you," was her response. "this is a pretty reception when i haven't seen you since i came home. to think i should be cousin to a foundling hospital, and that all the family i have left!" i suggested that if i really did set up a foundling hospital, she would soon have as large a family as anybody could want, and she briskly retorted that she had more than she wanted now. she had come down to persuade me to go to boston for the winter, to make up, she said, for my not going abroad with her, and she brought me a wonderful piece of embroidered crêpe for a party dress. she was as breezy and emphatic as ever, and she denounced me and my doings in good round terms. "i suppose if you did come to boston," she said, "you'd be mixed up in all the dreadful charities there, and i should never see you." "but you know, cousin mehitable," i protested, "you belong to two or three charitable societies yourself." "but those are parish societies," was her reply. "that is quite different. of course i do my part in whatever the church is concerned in; but you just do things on your own hook, and without even believing anything. i think it's wicked myself." i could only laugh at her, and it was easy to see that her indignation was not with any charitable work i did, but only with the fact i would not promise to leave everything and go home with her. before she went home i told her i had a confession to make. she commented, not very encouragingly, that she supposed it was something worse than anything had come yet, but that as she was prepared for anything i might as well get it out. "if you've decided to be some sort of a mormon wife to that horrid mr. weston," she added, "i shouldn't be in the least surprised. perhaps you'll take him in with the rest of his family." i said i did indeed think of being married, but not to him. "let me know the worst at once, ruth," she broke out, rather fiercely. "at my age i can't stand suspense as i could once. what tramp or beggar or clodhopper have you picked out? i know you too well to suppose it's anybody respectable." when i named tom, she at first pretended not to know him, although she has seen him a dozen times in her visits here, and once condescended to say that for a countryman he was really almost handsome. "i know it's the same name as that baby's father's," she ended, her voice getting icier and icier, "but of course no respectable woman would think of marrying him." "then i'm not a respectable woman," i retorted, feeling the blood rise into my face, "for i'm thinking of it." we looked for a moment into each other's eyes, and i felt, however i appeared, as if i were defying anything she could say. "so he has taken advantage of your mothering his baby, has he?" she brought out at last. i responded that he did not even suspect i meant to marry him. she stared, and demanded how he was to find out. i answered that i could think of no way except for me to tell him. she threw up her hands in pretended horror. "i dare say," she burst out, "he only got you to take the baby so that you'd feel bound to him. i should think when he'd disgraced himself you might have self-respect enough to let him alone. oh, what would cousin horace say!" then she saw she was really hurting me, and her eyes softened somewhat. "i shan't congratulate you, ruth, if that's what you expect; but since you will be a fool in your own obstinate way, i hope it'll make you happy." i took both her hands in mine. "cousin mehitable," i pleaded, "don't be hard on me. i know he's done wrong, and it hurts me more than i can tell you. i am so sorry for him and i really, really love him. i'm all alone now except for baby, and i am sure if father were alive he would see how i feel, and approve of what i mean to do." the tears came into her eyes as i had never seen them. she drew her hands away, but first she pressed mine. "ruth," she said, "never mind my tongue. if you've only baby, i've nobody but you, and you won't come near me. besides, you are going to have him. i can't pretend i like it, ruth; but i do like you, and i do dearly hope you'll be happy. you deserve to be, my dear; and i'm a selfish, worldly old woman, with a train to catch. now don't say another word about it, or i'll disinherit you in my will." so we kissed each other, and she went away with my secret. november . kathie has come home for her thanksgiving vacation, and i never saw a creature so transformed. she is so interested in her school, her studies, her companions, that she seems to have forgotten that anybody ever frightened her about her soul; and she is just a merry, happy girl, bright-eyed and rather high-strung, but not in the least morbid. she hugged me, and kissed tomine, and the nonsense of her jealousy, as of her having committed the unpardonable sin, was forgotten entirely. it is an unspeakable comfort to me that the experiment of sending her away has turned out so well. miss charlotte came in while kathie was here, and watched her with shrewd, keen eyes as she rattled on about the things she is studying, the games she plays, and the friends she has made. when she had gone, miss charlotte looked at me with one of her friendly regards. "she's made over, like the boy's jackknife that had a new blade and a new handle," was her comment. "i think, my dear, you've saved her soul alive." i was delighted that she thought kathie so much improved, though of course i realized i had not done it. november . i have invited george to thanksgiving dinner. i do hope gertrude will be able to come downstairs; if she is not i shall have to get through as best i can without her. miss charlotte will come, and that will prevent the awkwardness of our being by ourselves. george comes every day to see his wife, and i think his real feelings, his better side, have been called out by her illness. she is the mother of his son, and she is so extremely pretty and pathetic as she lies there, that i should not think any man could resist her. she is so softened by what she has gone through, and so grateful for kindness, she seems a different person from the over-dressed woman we have known without liking very much. she told me yesterday a good deal about her former life. she has been an orphan from her early girlhood, largely dependent upon an aunt who wanted to be rid of her. it was partly by the contrivance of her aunt, and partly because she longed to escape from a position of dependence, that she married her first husband. she did not stop, i think, to consider what she was doing, and she found her case a pretty hard one. her husband abused her, and before they had been married a year he ran away to escape a charge of embezzlement. word was sent to her soon after that he was drowned. she took again her maiden name, and came east to escape all shadow of the disgrace of her married life. she earned her living as a typewriter, until she saw george at franklin, where she was employed in the bank. she confessed that she came here to secure him, and she wept in begging my pardon for taking him away from me. if she can keep to her resolutions and if george will only be still fond of her, things may yet go well with them. aunt naomi dryly observed yesterday that what has happened will be likely to prevent mrs. weston for a long time to come from trying to make a display, and so it may be the best thing that could have befallen her. so much depends upon george, though! november . the dinner went off much better than i could have hoped. dr. wentworth allowed gertrude to leave her room for the first time, and george brought her down to dinner in his arms. she was given only a quarter of an hour, but this served for the topic of talk, and george was so tender with his wife that miss charlotte was quite warmed to him. the two babies of course had to be produced, but it was rather painful to see how thin and spindling the little weston baby looked beside my bonny thomasine. tomine has grown really to know me. she will come scrambling like a little crab across the floor toward me if i appear in the nursery. hannah and rosa are both jealous of me, and i triumph over them in a fashion little less than inhuman. i am glad thanksgiving is over, for in spite of all any of us might do to seem perfectly at ease, some sense of constraint and uncomfortableness was always in the background. on the whole, however, we did very well; and miss charlotte sat with me far into the twilight, talking of mother. xii december december . i dreamed last night a dream which affected me so strongly that i can hardly write of it without shivering. i dreamed that george came with mr. saychase to remarry, as i thought, gertrude. when we all stood by the side of her bed, however, george seized my hand, and announced that he had come to marry me, and was resolved to have no other wife. gertrude fell back on her pillow in a faint. i struggled to pull away the hand george had taken, but i was powerless. i tried to scream, but that horrible paralysis which sometimes affects us in dreams left me speechless. i felt myself helpless while mr. saychase went on marrying me to george before the eyes of his own wife, in spite of anything i could do to prevent it. the determination to be free of this bond struggled in me so strongly against the helplessness which held me that i sprang up in bed at last, awake and bursting into hysterical crying. the strange thing about it all is that i seem to have broken more than the sleep of the body. it is as if all these years i had been in a drowse in my mind, and had suddenly sprung up throbbingly awake. i am as aghast at myself as if i should discover i had unconsciously been walking in the dark on the edge of a ghastly precipice,--yes, a precipice on the edge of a valley full of writhing snakes! my very flesh creeps at the thought that i could by any possibility be made the wife of any man but tom. i look back to-day over the long years i was engaged, and understand all in a flash how completely george spoke the truth when he used to complain i was an iceberg and did not know what it was to be in love. he was absolutely right; and he was right to leave me. i can only wonder that through those years when i endured his bodily presence because i thought i loved his mental being, he could endure me at all. he could not have borne it, i see now, if he had been really in love with me himself. i am wise with a strange new wisdom; but whence it comes, or why it has opened to me in a single night, from a painful dream, is more than i can say. i understand that george never loved me any more than i did him. he will go back to gertrude,--indeed i do not believe he has ever ceased to be fond of her, even when he declared he was tired of her and wanted me to take him back. he was angry with her, and no human being understands himself when he is angry. last night after i waked i could not reason about things much. i was too panic-stricken. i lay there in the dark actually trembling from the horror of my dream, and realized that from my very childhood tom has stood between me and every other man. now at last i, who have been all these years in a dull doze, am awake. i might almost say, without being in the least extravagant, that i am alive who was dead; i, who have thought of love and marriage as i might have thought about a trip abroad, know what love means. my foolish dream has changed me like a vision which changes a mere man into a prophet or a seer. i cannot bear that tom should go on suffering. i must somehow let him know. december . fortune was kind to me this morning, and tom knows. i had to go to take some flannel to old peggy cole, and as i crossed the foot-bridge tom came out of deacon daniel's mill. he flushed a little when he saw me, and half hesitated, as if he were almost inclined to turn back. i did not mean to let him escape, however, and stood still, waiting for him. we shook hands, and i at once told him i had wanted to see him, so that if he were not in a hurry i should be glad if he would walk on with me. he assented, not very willingly i thought, and we went on over the bridge together. the sun was shining until the snow-edges glistened like live coals, and everywhere one looked the air fairly shimmered with light. the tide was coming up in the river, and the cakes of ice, yellowed in patches by the salt water until they were like unshorn fleeces, were driven against the long sluice-piers, jostling and pushing like sheep frightened into a corner. the piers themselves, and every spar or rock that showed above the water, were as white as snow could make them. it was one of those days when the air is a tonic, so that every breath is a joy; and as tom and i walked on together i could have laughed aloud just for joy of the beautiful winter day. "how cold the water looks," tom said, turning his face away from me and toward the rim. "it is fairly black with cold." "even the ice-cakes seem to be trying to climb out of it," i returned, laughing from nothing but pure delight. "i suppose that is the way you feel about me, tom. you haven't been near tomine or me for ten days, and you know you wanted to get away from me this morning." he did not answer for a minute. then he said in a strained voice:-- "it's no use, ruth; i shall have to go away. i can't stand it here. it was bad enough before, but now i simply cannot bear it." "you mean," i returned, full of fun and mischief, "that the idea of my offering myself to you was too horrible? you had a chance to refuse, tom; and you took it. i should think i was the one to feel as if it wasn't to be borne." he stopped in the street and turned to face me. "don't, ruth," he protested in a voice which went straight to my heart. "if you knew how it hurts me you wouldn't joke about it." i wanted to put my arms about his neck and kiss him as i used to do when we were babies; but that was manifestly not to be thought of, at least not in the street in plain sight of the blacksmith shop. "it isn't any joke," said i. "just walk along so the whole town need not talk about us, please." he walked on, and i tried to think of a sentence which would tell him that i really cared for him, yet which i could say to him there in the open day, with the sun making a peeping eye of every icy crystal on fence or tree-twig. "well?" he cried after a moment. "o tom," i asked in despair, "why don't you help me? i can't say it. i can't tell you i"-- i did not dare to look at him, and i came to a stop in my speech because i could feel that he was pressing eagerly to my side. "you what, ruth?" he demanded, his voice quivering. "be careful!" perhaps his agitation helped me to master mine. certain it is for the moment i thought only that he must not be kept in suspense, and so i burst out abruptly:-- "tom, you are horrid! i've offered myself to you once, and now you want me to protest in the open street that i can't live without you! well, then; i can't!" "ruth!" it was all he said; just my name, which he has said hundreds and hundreds of times ever since he could say anything; but i think i can never hear my name again without remembering the love he put into it. i trembled with happiness, but i would not look at him. i walked on with my eyes fixed on the snowy hills beyond the town, and tried to believe i was acting as if i had said nothing and felt nothing unusual. i remember our words up to this time, but after that it is all a joyful blur. i know tom walked about and waited for me while i did my errand with peggy cole; the droll old creature scolded me because the flannel was not thicker, and i beamed on her as if she were expressing gratitude; then he walked home with me, and couldn't come in because as we turned the corner we saw aunt naomi walk into the house. one thing i do remember of our talk on the way home. tom said suddenly, and with a solemnity of manner that made me grave at once:-- "there is one thing more, ruth, we must be frank about now or we shall always have it between us. can you forgive me for being baby's father?" he had found just the phrase for that dreadful thing which made it most easy for me to answer. "tom, dear," i answered, "it isn't for me to forgive or not to forgive. it is in the past, and i want to help you to forget utterly what cannot now be helped." "but baby," he began, "she"-- "baby is ours," i interrupted. "all the rest may go." he promised to come in to-night, and then i had to face aunt naomi. she looked me through and through with eyes that seemed determined to have the very deepest secrets of my soul. whether i concealed anything from her or not i cannot tell; but after all why should i care? the day has been lived through, and it is time for tom to come. december . if i could write--but i cannot, i cannot! ever since rosa rushed in last night, crying out that tom was drowned, i have seen nothing but the water black with cold, and the flocks of ice cakes grinding--oh, why should i torment myself with putting it down? december . we buried him to-day. cousin mehitable sent a wreath of ivy. nobody else knows our secret. if he remembers, it is sweet for him to know. december . the stars are so beautiful to-night they make me remember how tom and i in our childhood used to play at choosing stars we would visit when we could fly. to-night he may be exploring them, but for me they shine and shine, and my tears blur them, and make them dance and double. december . i have been talking with deacon richards and mr. turner. they both think i can take tom's place on the reading-room committee without coming forward too much. nothing need be said about it, only so i can do most of tom's work. of course i cannot go to the room evenings as he did; but mr. turner will do that. tom was so interested in this that i feel as if i were continuing his work and carrying out his plans. i remember all he had told me, and it almost seems like doing it with him. almost! december . now i know all about tom's death that anybody knows. i could not talk about it before. aunt naomi and dear miss charlotte both tried to tell me, but i would not let them. to-night mr. turner came to talk about the library, and before he went away we spoke about tom. he was so homely in his speech, so honest, so kindly, that i kept on, and could listen to him even when he told how tom died. that night tom had been down on the other side of the river, and was coming up--coming to me--past the flatiron wharf. mrs. brownrig was on the wharf, crazy with drink, and threatening to throw herself overboard. two or three of the people who live near there, men and women, were trying to get her away, and when tom appeared they asked him to see what he could do. as he came near her the old woman shrieked out that he had killed her daughter and would murder her; and before they realized what she was doing she had jumped into the water. tom ran to the edge, unfastening his overcoat as he went, and just paused to tear it off before he leaped in after her. the tide was running out, and the water was full of ice. he had a great bruise on his forehead where he had evidently been struck by a block. mrs. brownrig pinioned his arms too, so he had no chance anyway. it was a mercy that the bodies were recovered before the tide drifted them out. "tom was an awful good fellow," the blacksmith concluded, "an awful good fellow." i could not answer him. december . deacon webbe has been here to-day. he was so bowed and bent and broken i could hardly talk to him without sobbing; and i had to tell him i was to have been his daughter, and that if he would let me, i would be so still. he was greatly touched, and he will keep our secret. december . more than the death of father, more, even, than that of mother who had been my care and comfort so long, the death of tom seems to leave me alone in a wide, empty universe. i cannot conceive of a future without him; i cannot believe the bonds which bound us are broken. i have his child, and i cannot take baby in my arms without feeling i am coming closer to tom. all my friends have been very dear. i do not think any one of them, except perhaps miss charlotte, suspects how much the loss of tom means to me, but they at least realize that we were life-long comrades, and that i must feel the death of the father of baby very keenly. however much or little they suspect, no one has betrayed any intimation that tom and i were more than close friends. even aunt naomi has said nothing to make me shrink. people are so kind in this world, no matter what pessimists may say. december . i have been very busy with all the christmas work for my poor people, the things tom wanted done for the reading-room, and the numberless trifles which need to be attended to. to-night i think i am writing in my diary for the last time. the year has been full of wonderful things, some of them terrible to bear, and yet, now i look back, i see it has brought me more than it has taken away. tom is mine always, everywhere, as long as we two have any existence in all the wide spaces between the stars we used to choose to fly to; and his baby is left to comfort me and to hearten me for the work i have all around me to do. i cannot keep the tears back always, and heartache is not to be cured by any sort of reasoning that i know; yet as long as i have his love, the memory of father and mother, and dear baby, i have no right to complain. just to be in one's place and working, to go on growing,--dying when the time comes,--what a priceless, blessed thing life is! transcriber's note. phrases in italics are indicated by _italics_. phrases in bold are indicated by =bold=. words in the text which were in small-caps were converted to normal case. double-word "a" removed on page : "yours truly and with a a sad and loving" typos corrected: page : "fastastic" --> "fantastic" (fantastic bunches of snow in the willows) page : "be" --> "he" (clergyman with whom he) the last brave invader by charles l. fontenay _in youth lauria was beautiful, proud, unattainable. but when autumn came, she changed her code and lowered her defense._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, august . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] lauria swept down the spiral staircase in regal dignity, and wished there were someone there to witness her entrance. she walked across the parlor to the gun-rack and strapped a holstered pistol to her hip, just above the rustling flare of the full skirt of her evening dress. the green sun's slanting rays in the parlor window told her it was late afternoon, nearly time to get started. she went to the full-length mirror. beside the mirror hung the framed copy of the constitution of pamplin, hand-lettered on parchment. in bold red letters it proclaimed: _we, the people of pamplin, hold that_: _ . no government is the best government._ _ . a man's home is his castle._ _ . a woman's rights are equal to a man's rights._ _ . only the brave deserve the fair._ lauria looked in the mirror, almost fearfully. she saw with approval the breadth of her hips, the erectness of her shoulders. with more reluctance, her eyes rose to her face. there was still beauty there, she told herself, to the discerning eye. that touch of slackness to the jaw, that faint hollowness of cheek: those were no doubt exaggerated by the dimness of the room. in a table drawer, lauria found jars and tubes. from them she carefully filled in a fuller form for her mouth, dabbed heavily at her cheeks, touched up her eyes, smeared over her jawline. she fluffed out the thinning blond hair and donned a light scarf then she removed the heavy bars from the front door. she went out, and locked its triple locks behind her. she gazed around cautiously and stepped lightly down the gravelled path. around the house, the grounds were a solid mass of blooming flowers. lauria had plenty of time to spend in the garden. the baskets and other handicraft articles that were her means of income left her a good deal of leisure, and cooking and household chores were routine and brief. farther from the house, the grounds looked better kept than they were. it was fortunate that the blue grass of the planet pamplin grew short and neat, for lauria never would have been able to keep the ten acres of her property trimmed. but the big trees that shaded the grounds had dropped twigs and leaves that she wouldn't clear away until the big effort of the fall clean-up. the path curved down past a small cleared area in which a dozen upright wooden markers were spaced in rows. this was the cemetery. she paused to look out across the neat rows of markers. there were men buried there. twelve young men. they had died by her hand, in accordance with the constitution and the law. at one end of the cemetery stood a large wooden plaque on which she had carved the constitution of pamplin. many times had her mother explained the meaning of the constitution to lauria, when lauria was a little girl and still intruding on her mother's privacy. "the people who colonized pamplin left earth many years ago because there they always had to sacrifice some of their individual rights to some government," her mother had said. "there are many kinds of governments, but all of them try to regulate people. and to regulate people, they have to invade people's privacy. "the people of pamplin came to this world because we don't want any government. we believe that every man and woman should have his individual right to do as he pleases, without other people bothering him." "but what does no. mean, mother?" lauria had asked. "'_only the brave deserve the fair?_'" "that means," replied her mother, for lauria was fourteen and deserved to know these things, "that a woman on pamplin is not subservient to the whims of men. no man may approach her and take her in his arms unless he has fought his way through the defenses of her home. then they may agree to share the home, if they wish, but no woman of any character will permit a man to do this until he has proved his valor by fighting his way to her." "then my father must have been a brave man, wasn't he, mother?" "yes, he was, my dear," said her mother, smiling tenderly. "he was very persuasive, too." lauria never saw her father, and no other man invaded the privacy of her mother's home while she lived there. two men tried, and lauria remembered the tense stirrings about the darkened house in the dead of night, the flash and roar of the guns, and her frightened glimpses of the men her mother had shot down as they tried to break in. her father must have been very courageous, lauria thought. she constructed a handsome picture of her father in her mind, and dreamed of the day a handsome man like he would conquer her, when she lived in her own home. lauria's mother had some property on which she wanted lauria to build a house, but lauria was impatient. even though her mother would hire men from town, lauria would have to do much of the work herself and it would take years. so at sixteen, lauria got her a house, ready-built. she crept past the defenses of one of the best homes in the area. she broke into the house at night and killed the defender, a tired old man, in a blazing gun battle. the house became her home, and she improved its defenses. her ownership of the house, and her manner of taking it, gave her an immediate social standing far above that of her mother. she knew that she was envied: the bright-haired, beautiful young woman who held the ramparts of the big house and challenged all comers to conquer her. there were men who tried, and the first nearly succeeded. even now, after many years, she could remember poll's youthful, arrogant face, his lazy smile. they had met in the market place. "an attractive spitfire, if ever i saw one," he had said to her. "would you surrender to my arms, pretty one?" "if you're strong enough to come and take me," she challenged, fire singing in her blood. and that night he had come. in the starlight she fired from her windows at the shadowy figure that flitted among the bushes and trees, and powder smoke hung heavy in the air. it was after several hours and a long silence, when she thought he had given up and gone away, that he almost surprised her. she was crouching in the parlour, waiting for the dawn, when there was a slight noise behind her. she whirled, whipping up her gun, and he was coming toward her swiftly and silently from the hall, a smile of triumph on his handsome face. he was holding out his arms for her and there was no weapon in his hand when she shot him down. she wept for a long time over his fair body, and knew to her shame that she had wanted him to conquer. then she took him out and buried him beneath the grass. his grave was the first one, and behind it later she erected the wooden plaque bearing the words of the constitution of pamplin. others had tried, and their graves were here, with poll's. and the years had passed, and no man had overrun the defenses of lauria's house. the frost of autumn was in her veins now as she looked at the graves of twelve young men, who had been young and eager in the years when she had been young. slowly she turned away, went out the barred front gate of her property and waited for the crowd of merrymakers she would accompany to the party in town. * * * * * the music reverberated gaily amid the rafters of the huge community hall. at one end a fire blazed merrily in a big fireplace. young couples, and their elders, danced variations of the steps that had been brought from earth generations ago. no one wore weapons here, although every person in the hall had worn or carried a gun on the way here. the guns were checked at the entrance, and the doors were barred against any lawless raider. here, as in the market daily, people congregated. here they were people and not individuals. outside, between here and their homes, they were individuals again, but still friendly, if wary. they carried their arms, they were careful of their language, they watched the people around them for signs of aggression. outside was a code of conduct that was different from the sociable code inside, a code that condoned a duel over an insult, that recognized robbery, rape and even death if one were caught unarmed and alone. and in their homes ... well, there was cholli rikkard. he was one-armed because of a wound he had suffered conquering fanni in her home. cholli had been a gay fellow who had stormed house after house of pretty women before, but after that he settled down with fanni and they now had five children. they shared their privacy, but half a dozen times cholli had stayed up all night fighting off those who would invade it. the strange thing was that one or more of those who had sought to invade cholli's home and take his wife and house from him might be dancing here tonight, perhaps chatting amiably with cholli. cholli might even know them for the attackers. here they were all friends, suspending their cherished privacy for weekly companionship. lauria was one of those who sat among the oldest, and talked unhappily with those on either side of her. it was not that she was that old, for she wasn't. it was that lauria's home now had the reputation of a deadly, unassailable fortress, and few men cared even to dance with her. it was that they feared her, she told herself as she sat there after only two dances. "care to dance this one, miss lauria?" she looked up, startled. it was cholli rikkard, smiling at her, holding out his one arm apologetically. she arose, gratefully, and took his hand. she and cholli were old friends. perhaps it was the sympathy of the handicapped for the handicapped: the man with only one arm for the woman with (perhaps?) too much stern pride. "tell me something, cholli," said lauria as they danced. "is it true that many women deliberately allow men to invade their privacy?" he looked at her blandly. "that would be a violation of the constitution, lauria," he said. "i know it would," she said impatiently. "but do they?" "i've heard rumours." "i've heard rumours, too, but i want the truth. you know the truth, cholli. you conquered quite a few women before fanni shot you in the arm." he grinned. "fanni always was a poor shot," he said. "or maybe she's a better shot than i think. yes, lauria, it's true. the constitution is the law, and it's right in principle, but you have to face facts. if men and women adhered to the letter of the law in ... well, sex ... pamplin would be depopulated by now. i thought everybody knew that." "i didn't," said lauria miserably. "i suspected.... i'd heard a lot of talk. but ... well, tell me, cholli, how is it done? how do men know, i mean, when a woman is going to wink at the constitution and let a man enter her home without fighting his way in?" "it depends, lauria. i suppose most often a woman has an understanding with a certain man and he gives some sort of signal when he comes to her house, so he won't be shot. some women--quite a few, it is--just sort of let it be known around that they won't shoot if a man comes around. that's more dangerous, though, and they have to be on guard." "i'd think so," said lauria indignantly. "another woman could take advantage of something like that and make a good haul." there was a silence. then cholli said slily: "did you want to get a message to some man--or get the word around that...?" "certainly not!" she retorted firmly. "i abide by the constitution, and i value my privacy." "okay, lauria. i just thought i could get the word passed for you." he grinned. "if it weren't for this bum arm, i might have tried for you myself before now." the music stopped and they parted. "wait, cholli!" cried lauria in a low intense voice. he turned and came back to her, looking at her quizzically. "cholli," she said, almost in a whisper, "pass the word around tonight that no young man will find my home defended!" she turned her back quickly, her face flaming, and left the hall, picking up her scarf and gun at the door. she walked home alone, swiftly, holding up the hem of her skirt with her left hand and hoping savagely that someone would try to waylay her. * * * * * it was midnight when the alarm bell sounded. lauria had been sitting in the parlor, with no light but that of the fire, a hot drink in her hand, lost in turbulent thoughts. her thoughts twisted slightly. had she made it plain to cholli that only young men would be welcome? but how could she toss aside everything in which she had believed for so long, on an impulse? would she not redeem herself by shooting down any invader? shame was upon her now, for having told cholli what she did. it was not the perverse shame that had run hot in her that night when she had fought poll and wanted to be defeated, but the shame of having done what she scorned other women for doing. but lauria was lonely now, and the fire was not as warm as it once had been. how many years had it been--ten? fifteen?--since the last young man had won her outer wall, only to fall beneath her bullets in the moon-shadows? could she turn now to the ways of other women, to dissemble, to shoot wide of the mark and put up a false defense? could she now betray the weapons that had served her so well and true? or would there be a thirteenth grave in the little cemetery on the morrow? the bell chattered nervously. she arose and threw ashes on the fire. a weariness was in her bones. she took a gun from the rack and made the rounds of the house, checking the locks of doors and windows. all was secure. more lithely, like a pantheress, she went from window to window, looking out, her gun ready. some of the old wine of battle quickened in her blood. the moon was bright, and the trees stood in great pools of shadow on the grounds. the bushes stood like dark, bulky sentinels. at last she saw him, a moving shadow against the still shadows, creeping closer to the house. her gun came up and she took aim, carefully, through the barred window. her hands were as cold as ice on the gunstock. for a moment he was still, and she lost him against the shadows. then he moved again. her gun blossomed roaring flame and its stock kicked against her shoulder. the shadow leaped, became a man as it fled across a path of moonlight. he was young, and he was smiling toward the window. then he was swallowed up in the deeper shadows. for a moment she was aghast, unbelieving. she had missed! then, like a frigid hand clutching her heart, came the realization: deliberately, without conscious volition, she had pulled the gun muzzle aside when she fired. she leaned against the wall, weak and perspiring. it was true, then. she yearned so deeply for a man, she so feared the age that crept up on her, that the principles of the constitution no longer held real meaning for her. she did not seek to fire again. she knelt on the floor by the window and waited, looking listlessly into the embers of the fire across the room. she felt suspended in a nightmare. she heard the crack as the lock was broken on a window in the rear of the house, and still she did not stir. but her heart began beating faster, a cold beating that did not warm her body. she began to shiver uncontrollably. she heard the soft, wary footsteps as he came through the house. in the dimness, she saw his bulk come through the parlor door. a black veil passed momentarily before her eyes, and her gun slipped from lax fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter. he leaped to one side, and the glow of the dying fire glinted from his weapon. but she stood up against the window, in the moonlight, and spread her hands so he could see she was no longer armed. "i am helpless," she said in a voice that nearly choked her. "i cannot resist your taking me for your love." his laugh boomed out in the rich darkness, and she could see that he did not lower his weapon. "have no fear of that, old woman," he said. "i'm only going to put you out and take your house." the odd women by george gissing contents i the fold and the shepherd ii adrift iii an independent woman iv monica's majority v the casual acquaintance vi a camp of the reserve vii a social advance viii cousin everard ix the simple faith x first principles xi at nature's bidding xii weddings xiii discord of leaders xiv motives meeting xv the joys of home xvi health from the sea xvii the triumph xviii a reinforcement xix the clank of the chains xx the first lie xxi towards the decisive xxii honour in difficulties xxiii in ambush xxiv tracked xxv the fate of the ideal xxvi the unideal tested xxvii the reascent xxviii the burden of futile souls xxix confession and counsel xxx retreat with honour xxxi a new beginning chapter i the fold and the shepherd 'so to-morrow, alice,' said dr. madden, as he walked with his eldest daughter on the coast-downs by clevedon, 'i shall take steps for insuring my life for a thousand pounds.' it was the outcome of a long and intimate conversation. alice madden, aged nineteen, a plain, shy, gentle-mannered girl, short of stature, and in movement something less than graceful, wore a pleased look as she glanced at her father's face and then turned her eyes across the blue channel to the welsh hills. she was flattered by the confidence reposed in her, for dr. madden, reticent by nature, had never been known to speak in the domestic circle about his pecuniary affairs. he seemed to be the kind of man who would inspire his children with affection: grave but benign, amiably diffident, with a hint of lurking mirthfulness about his eyes and lips. and to-day he was in the best of humours; professional prospects, as he had just explained to alice, were more encouraging than hitherto; for twenty years he had practised medicine at clevedon, but with such trifling emolument that the needs of his large family left him scarce a margin over expenditure; now, at the age of forty-nine--it was --he looked forward with a larger hope. might he not reasonably count on ten or fifteen more years of activity? clevedon was growing in repute as a seaside resort; new houses were rising; assuredly his practice would continue to extend. 'i don't think girls ought to be troubled about this kind of thing,' he added apologetically. 'let men grapple with the world; for, as the old hymn says, "'tis their nature to." i should grieve indeed if i thought my girls would ever have to distress themselves about money matters. but i find i have got into the habit, alice, of talking to you very much as i should talk with your dear mother if she were with us.' mrs. madden, having given birth to six daughters, had fulfilled her function in this wonderful world; for two years she had been resting in the old churchyard that looks upon the severn sea. father and daughter sighed as they recalled her memory. a sweet, calm, unpretending woman; admirable in the domesticities; in speech and thought distinguished by a native refinement, which in the most fastidious eyes would have established her claim to the title of lady. she had known but little repose, and secret anxieties told upon her countenance long before the final collapse of health. 'and yet,' pursued the doctor--doctor only by courtesy--when he had stooped to pluck and examine a flower, 'i made a point of never discussing these matters with her. as no doubt you guess, life has been rather an uphill journey with us. but the home must be guarded against sordid cares to the last possible moment; nothing upsets me more than the sight of those poor homes where wife and children are obliged to talk from morning to night of how the sorry earnings shall be laid out. no, no; women, old or young, should never have to think about money. the magnificent summer sunshine, and the western breeze that tasted of ocean, heightened his natural cheeriness. dr. madden fell into a familiar strain of prescience. 'there will come a day, alice, when neither man nor woman is troubled with such sordid care. not yet awhile; no, no; but the day will come. human beings are not destined to struggle for ever like beasts of prey. give them time; let civilization grow. you know what our poet says: "there the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe--"' he quoted the couplet with a subdued fervour which characterized the man and explained his worldly lot. elkanah madden should never have entered the medical profession; mere humanitarianism had prompted the choice in his dreamy youth; he became an empiric, nothing more. 'our poet,' said the doctor; clevedon was chiefly interesting to him for its literary associations. tennyson he worshipped; he never passed coleridge's cottage without bowing in spirit. from the contact of coarse actualities his nature shrank. when he and alice returned from their walk it was the hour of family tea. a guest was present this afternoon; the eight persons who sat down to table were as many as the little parlour could comfortably contain. of the sisters, next in age to alice came virginia, a pretty but delicate girl of seventeen. gertrude, martha, and isabel, ranging from fourteen to ten, had no physical charm but that of youthfulness; isabel surpassed her eldest sister in downright plainness of feature. the youngest, monica, was a bonny little maiden only just five years old, dark and bright-eyed. the parents had omitted no care in shepherding their fold. partly at home, and partly in local schools, the young ladies had received instruction suitable to their breeding, and the elder ones were disposed to better this education by private study. the atmosphere of the house was intellectual; books, especially the poets, lay in every room. but it never occurred to dr. madden that his daughters would do well to study with a professional object. in hours of melancholy he had of course dreaded the risks of life, and resolved, always with postponement, to make some practical provision for his family; in educating them as well as circumstances allowed, he conceived that he was doing the next best thing to saving money, for, if a fatality befell, teaching would always be their resource. the thought, however, of his girls having to work for money was so utterly repulsive to him that he could never seriously dwell upon it. a vague piety supported his courage. providence would not deal harshly with him and his dear ones. he enjoyed excellent health; his practice decidedly improved. the one duty clearly before him was to set an example of righteous life, and to develop the girls' minds--in every proper direction. for, as to training them for any path save those trodden by english ladies of the familiar type, he could not have dreamt of any such thing. dr. madden's hopes for the race were inseparable from a maintenance of morals and conventions such as the average man assumes in his estimate of women. the guest at table was a young girl named rhoda nunn. tall, thin, eager-looking, but with promise of bodily vigour, she was singled at a glance as no member of the madden family. her immaturity (but fifteen, she looked two years older) appeared in nervous restlessness, and in her manner of speaking, childish at times in the hustling of inconsequent thoughts, yet striving to imitate the talk of her seniors. she had a good head, in both senses of the phrase; might or might not develop a certain beauty, but would assuredly put forth the fruits of intellect. her mother, an invalid, was spending the summer months at clevedon, with dr. madden for medical adviser, and in this way the girl became friendly with the madden household. its younger members she treated rather condescendingly; childish things she had long ago put away, and her sole pleasure was in intellectual talk. with a frankness peculiar to her, indicative of pride, miss nunn let it be known that she would have to earn her living, probably as a school teacher; study for examinations occupied most of her day, and her hours of leisure were frequently spent either at the maddens or with a family named smithson--people, these latter, for whom she had a profound and somewhat mysterious admiration. mr. smithson, a widower with a consumptive daughter, was a harsh-featured, rough-voiced man of about five-and-thirty, secretly much disliked by dr. madden because of his aggressive radicalism; if women's observation could be trusted, rhoda nunn had simply fallen in love with him, had made him, perhaps unconsciously, the object of her earliest passion. alice and virginia commented on the fact in their private colloquy with a shamefaced amusement; they feared that it spoke ill for the young lady's breeding. none the less they thought rhoda a remarkable person, and listened to her utterances respectfully. 'and what is your latest paradox, miss nunn?' inquired the doctor, with grave facetiousness, when he had looked round the young faces at his board. 'really, i forget, doctor. oh, but i wanted to ask you, do you think women ought to sit in parliament?' 'why, no,' was the response, as if after due consideration. 'if they are there at all they ought to stand.' 'oh, i can't get you to talk seriously,' rejoined rhoda, with an air of vexation, whilst the others were good-naturedly laughing. 'mr. smithson thinks there ought to be female members of parliament. 'does he? have the girls told you that there's a nightingale in mr. williams's orchard?' it was always thus. dr. madden did not care to discuss even playfully the radical notions which rhoda got from her objectionable friend. his daughters would not have ventured to express an opinion on such topics when he was present; apart with miss nunn, they betrayed a timid interest in whatever proposition she advanced, but no gleam of originality distinguished their arguments. after tea the little company fell into groups--some out of doors beneath the apple-trees, others near the piano at which virginia was playing mendelssohn. monica ran about among them with her five-year-old prattle, ever watched by her father, who lounged in a canvas chair against the sunny ivied wall, pipe in mouth. dr. madden was thinking how happy they made him, these kind, gentle girls; how his love for them seemed to ripen with every summer; what a delightful old age his would be, when some were married and had children of their own, and the others tended him--they whom he had tended. virginia would probably be sought in marriage; she had good looks, a graceful demeanour, a bright understanding. gertrude also, perhaps. and little monica--ah, little monica! she would be the beauty of the family. when monica had grown up it would be time for him to retire from practice; by then he would doubtless have saved money. he must find more society for them; they had always been too much alone, whence their shyness among strangers. if their mother had but lived! 'rhoda wishes you to read us something, father,' said his eldest girl, who had approached whilst he was lost in dream. he often read aloud to them from the poets; coleridge and tennyson by preference. little persuasion was needed. alice brought the volume, and he selected 'the lotus-eaters.' the girls grouped themselves about him, delighted to listen. many an hour of summer evening had they thus spent, none more peaceful than the present. the reader's cadenced voice blended with the song of a thrush. '"let us alone. time driveth onward fast, and in a little while our lips are dumb. let us alone. what is it that will last? all things are taken from us--"' there came an interruption, hurried, peremptory. a farmer over at kingston seymour had been seized with alarming illness; the doctor must come at once. 'very sorry, girls. tell james to put the horse in, sharp as he can. in ten minutes dr. madden was driving at full speed, alone in his dog-cart, towards the scene of duty. about seven o'clock rhoda nunn took leave, remarking with her usual directness, that before going home she would walk along the sea-front in the hope of a meeting with mr. smithson and his daughter. mrs. nunn was not well enough to leave the house to-day; but, said rhoda, the invalid preferred being left alone at such times. 'are you sure she prefers it?' alice ventured to ask. the girl gave her a look of surprise. 'why should mother say what she doesn't mean?' it was uttered with an ingenuousness which threw some light on rhoda's character. by nine o'clock the younger trio of sisters had gone to bed; alice, virginia, and gertrude sat in the parlour, occupied with books, from time to time exchanging a quiet remark. a tap at the door scarcely drew their attention, for they supposed it was the maid-servant coming to lay supper. but when the door opened there was a mysterious silence; alice looked up and saw the expected face, wearing, however, so strange an expression that she rose with sudden fear. 'can i speak to you, please, miss?' the dialogue out in the passage was brief. a messenger had just arrived with the tidings that dr. madden, driving back from kingston seymour, had been thrown from his vehicle and lay insensible at a roadside cottage. * * * for some time the doctor had been intending to buy a new horse; his faithful old roadster was very weak in the knees. as in other matters, so in this, postponement became fatality; the horse stumbled and fell, and its driver was flung head forward into the road. some hours later they brought him to his home, and for a day or two there were hopes that he might rally. but the sufferer's respite only permitted him to dictate and sign a brief will; this duty performed, dr. madden closed his lips for ever. chapter ii adrift just before christmas of , a lady past her twenties, and with a look of discouraged weariness on her thin face, knocked at a house-door in a little street by lavender hill. a card in the window gave notice that a bedroom was here to let. when the door opened, and a clean, grave, elderly woman presented herself, the visitor, regarding her anxiously, made known that she was in search of a lodging. 'it may be for a few weeks only, or it may be for a longer period,' she said in a low, tired voice, with an accent of good breeding. 'i have a difficulty in finding precisely what i want. one room would be sufficient, and i ask for very little attendance.' she had but one room to let, replied the other. it might be inspected. they went upstairs. the room was at the back of the house, small, but neatly furnished. its appearance seemed to gratify the visitor, for she smiled timidly. 'what rent should you ask?' 'that would depend, mum, on what attendance was required.' 'yes--of course. i think--will you permit me to sit down? i am really very tired. thank you. i require very little attendance indeed. my ways are very simple. i should make the bed myself, and--and, do the other little things that are necessary from day to day. perhaps i might ask you to sweep the room out--once a week or so.' the landlady grew meditative. possibly she had had experience of lodgers who were anxious to give as little trouble as possible. she glanced furtively at the stranger. 'and what,' was her question at length, 'would you be thinking of paying?' 'perhaps i had better explain my position. for several years i have been companion to a lady in hampshire. her death has thrown me on my own resources--i hope only for a short time. i have come to london because a younger sister of mine is employed here in a house of business; she recommended me to seek for lodgings in this part; i might as well be near her whilst i am endeavouring to find another post; perhaps i may be fortunate enough to find one in london. quietness and economy are necessary to me. a house like yours would suit me very well--very well indeed. could we not agree upon terms within my--within my power?' again the landlady pondered. 'would you be willing to pay five and sixpence?' 'yes, i would pay five and sixpence--if you are quite sure that you could let me live in my own way with satisfaction to yourself. i--in fact, i am a vegetarian, and as the meals i take are so very simple, i feel that i might just as well prepare them myself. would you object to my doing so in this room? a kettle and a saucepan are really all--absolutely all--that i should need to use. as i shall be much at home, it will be of course necessary for me to have a fire.' in the course of half an hour an agreement had been devised which seemed fairly satisfactory to both parties. 'i'm not one of the graspin' ones,' remarked the landlady. 'i think i may say that of myself. if i make five or six shillings a week out of my spare room, i don't grumble. but the party as takes it must do their duty on _their_ side. you haven't told me your name yet, mum.' 'miss madden. my luggage is at the railway station; it shall be brought here this evening. and, as i am quite unknown to you, i shall be glad to pay my rent in advance.' 'well, i don't ask for that; but it's just as you like.' 'then i will pay you five and sixpence at once. be so kind as to let me have a receipt.' so miss madden established herself at lavender hill, and dwelt there alone for three months. she received letters frequently, but only one person called upon her. this was her sister monica, now serving at a draper's in walworth road. the young lady came every sunday, and in bad weather spent the whole day up in the little bedroom. lodger and landlady were on remarkably good terms; the one paid her dues with exactness, and the other did many a little kindness not bargained for in the original contract. time went on to the spring of ' . then, one afternoon, miss madden descended to the kitchen and tapped in her usual timid way at the door. 'are you at leisure, mrs. conisbee? could i have a little conversation with you?' the landlady was alone, and with no more engrossing occupation than the ironing of some linen she had recently washed. 'i have mentioned my elder sister now and then. i am sorry to say she is leaving her post with the family at hereford. the children are going to school, so that her services are no longer needed.' 'indeed, mum?' 'yes. for a shorter or longer time she will be in need of a home. now it has occurred to me, mrs. conisbee, that--that i would ask you whether you would have any objection to her sharing my room with me? of course there must be an extra payment. the room is small for two persons, but then the arrangement would only be temporary. my sister is a good and experienced teacher, and i am sure she will have no difficulty in obtaining another engagement.' mrs. conisbee reflected, but without a shade of discontent. by this time she knew that her lodger was thoroughly to be trusted. 'well, it's if _you_ can manage, mum,' she replied. 'i don't see as i could have any fault to find, if you thought you could both live in that little room. and as for the rent, _i_ should be quite satisfied if we said seven shillings instead of five and six.' 'thank you, mrs. conisbee; thank you very much indeed. i will write to my sister at once; the news will be a great relief to her. we shall have quite an enjoyable little holiday together.' a week later the eldest of the three miss maddens arrived. as it was quite impossible to find space for her boxes in the bedroom, mrs. conisbee allowed them to be deposited in the room occupied by her daughter, which was on the same floor. in a day or two the sisters had begun a life of orderly tenor. when weather permitted they were out either in the morning or afternoon. alice madden was in london for the first time; she desired to see the sights, but suffered the restrictions of poverty and ill-health. after nightfall, neither she nor virginia ever left home. there was not much personal likeness between them. the elder (now five-and-thirty) tended to corpulence, the result of sedentary life; she had round shoulders and very short legs. her face would not have been disagreeable but for its spoilt complexion; the homely features, if health had but rounded and coloured them, would have expressed pleasantly enough the gentleness and sincerity of her character. her cheeks were loose, puffy, and permanently of the hue which is produced by cold; her forehead generally had a few pimples; her shapeless chin lost itself in two or three fleshy fissures. scarcely less shy than in girlhood, she walked with a quick, ungainly movement as if seeking to escape from some one, her head bent forward. virginia (about thirty-three) had also an unhealthy look, but the poverty, or vitiation, of her blood manifested itself in less unsightly forms. one saw that she had been comely, and from certain points of view her countenance still had a grace, a sweetness, all the more noticeable because of its threatened extinction. for she was rapidly ageing; her lax lips grew laxer, with emphasis of a characteristic one would rather not have perceived there; her eyes sank into deeper hollows; wrinkles extended their network; the flesh of her neck wore away. her tall meagre body did not seem strong enough to hold itself upright. alice had brown hair, but very little of it. virginia's was inclined to be ruddy; it surmounted her small head in coils and plaits not without beauty. the voice of the elder sister had contracted an unpleasant hoarseness, but she spoke with good enunciation; a slight stiffness and pedantry of phrase came, no doubt, of her scholastic habits. virginia was much more natural in manner and fluent in speech, even as she moved far more gracefully. it was now sixteen years since the death of dr. madden of clevedon. the story of his daughters' lives in the interval may be told with brevity suitable to so unexciting a narrative. when the doctor's affairs were set in order, it was found that the patrimony of his six girls amounted, as nearly as possible, to eight hundred pounds. eight hundred pounds is, to be sure, a sum of money; but how, in these circumstances, was it to be applied? there came over from cheltenham a bachelor uncle, aged about sixty. this gentleman lived on an annuity of seventy pounds, which would terminate when _he_ did. it might be reckoned to him for righteousness that he spent the railway fare between cheltenham and clevedon to attend his brother's funeral, and to speak a kind word to his nieces. influence he had none; initiative, very little. there was no reckoning upon him for aid of any kind. from richmond in yorkshire, in reply to a letter from alice, wrote an old, old aunt of the late mrs. madden, who had occasionally sent the girls presents. her communication was barely legible; it seemed to contain fortifying texts of scripture, but nothing in the way of worldly counsel. this old lady had no possessions to bequeath. and, as far as the girls knew, she was their mother's only surviving relative. the executor of the will was a clevedon tradesman, a kind and capable friend of the family for many years, a man of parts and attainments superior to his station. in council with certain other well-disposed persons, who regarded the maddens' circumstances with friendly anxiety, mr. hungerford (testamentary instruction allowing him much freedom of action) decided that the three elder girls must forthwith become self-supporting, and that the three younger should live together in the care of a lady of small means, who offered to house and keep them for the bare outlay necessitated. a prudent investment of the eight hundred pounds might, by this arrangement, feed, clothe, and in some sort educate martha, isabel, and monica. to see thus far ahead sufficed for the present; fresh circumstances could be dealt with as they arose. alice obtained a situation as nursery-governess at sixteen pounds a year. virginia was fortunate enough to be accepted as companion by a gentlewoman at weston-super-mare; her payment, twelve pounds. gertrude, fourteen years old, also went to weston, where she was offered employment in a fancy-goods shop--her payment nothing at all, but lodging, board, and dress assured to her. ten years went by, and saw many changes. gertrude and martha were dead; the former of consumption, the other drowned by the overturning of a pleasure-boat. mr. hungerford also was dead, and a new guardian administered the fund which was still a common property of the four surviving daughters. alice plied her domestic teaching; virginia remained a 'companion.' isabel, now aged twenty, taught in a board school at bridgewater, and monica, just fifteen, was on the point of being apprenticed to a draper at weston, where virginia abode. to serve behind a counter would not have been monica's choice if any more liberal employment had seemed within her reach. she had no aptitude whatever for giving instruction; indeed, had no aptitude for anything but being a pretty, cheerful, engaging girl, much dependent on the love and gentleness of those about her. in speech and bearing monica greatly resembled her mother; that is to say, she had native elegance. certainly it might be deemed a pity that such a girl could not be introduced to one of the higher walks of life; but the time had come when she must 'do something', and the people to whose guidance she looked had but narrow experience of life. alice and virginia sighed over the contrast with bygone hopes, but their own careers made it seem probable that monica would be better off 'in business' than in a more strictly genteel position. and there was every likelihood that, at such a place as weston, with her sister for occasional chaperon, she would ere long find herself relieved of the necessity of working for a livelihood. to the others, no wooer had yet presented himself. alice, if she had ever dreamt of marriage, must by now have resigned herself to spinsterhood. virginia could scarce hope that her faded prettiness, her health damaged by attendance upon an exacting invalid and in profitless study when she ought to have been sleeping, would attract any man in search of a wife. poor isabel was so extremely plain. monica, if her promise were fulfilled, would be by far the best looking, as well as the sprightliest, of the family. she must marry; of course she must marry! her sisters gladdened in the thought. isabel was soon worked into illness. brain trouble came on, resulting in melancholia. a charitable institution ultimately received her, and there, at two-and-twenty, the poor hard-featured girl drowned herself in a bath. their numbers had thus been reduced by half. up to now, the income of their eight hundred pounds had served, impartially, the ends now of this, now of that one, doing a little good to all, saving them from many an hour of bitterness which must else have been added to their lot. by a new arrangement, the capital was at length made over to alice and virginia jointly, the youngest sister having a claim upon them to the extent of an annual nine pounds. a trifle, but it would buy her clothing--and then monica was sure to marry. thank heaven, she was sure to marry! without notable event, matrimonial or other, time went on to this present year of . late in june, monica would complete her twenty-first year; the elders, full of affection for the sister, who so notably surpassed them in beauty of person, talked much about her as the time approached, devising how to procure her a little pleasure on her birthday. virginia thought a suitable present would be a copy of 'the christian year'. 'she has really no time for continuous reading. a verse of keble--just one verse at bedtime and in the morning might be strength to the poor girl.' alice assented. 'we must join to buy it, dear,' she added, with anxious look. 'it wouldn't be justifiable to spend more than two or three shillings.' 'i fear not.' they were preparing their midday meal, the substantial repast of the day. in a little saucepan on an oil cooking-stove was some plain rice, bubbling as alice stirred it. virginia fetched from downstairs (mrs. conisbee had assigned to them a shelf in her larder) bread, butter, cheese, a pot of preserve, and arranged the table (three feet by one and a half) at which they were accustomed to eat. the rice being ready, it was turned out in two proportions; made savoury with a little butter, pepper, and salt, it invited them to sit down. as they had been out in the morning, the afternoon would be spent in domestic occupations. the low cane-chair virginia had appropriated to her sister, because of the latter's headaches and backaches, and other disorders; she herself sat on an ordinary chair of the bedside species, to which by this time she had become used. their sewing, when they did any, was strictly indispensable; if nothing demanded the needle, both preferred a book. alice, who had never been a student in the proper sense of the word, read for the twentieth time a few volumes in her possession--poetry, popular history, and half a dozen novels such as the average mother of children would have approved in the governess's hands. with virginia the case was somewhat different. up to about her twenty-fourth year she had pursued one subject with a zeal limited only by her opportunities; study absolutely disinterested, seeing that she had never supposed it would increase her value as a 'companion', or enable her to take any better position. her one intellectual desire was to know as much as possible about ecclesiastical history. not in a spirit of fanaticism; she was devout, but in moderation, and never spoke bitterly on religious topics. the growth of the christian church, old sects and schisms, the councils, affairs of papal policy--these things had a very genuine interest for her; circumstances favouring, she might have become an erudite woman; but the conditions were so far from favourable that all she succeeded in doing was to undermine her health. upon a sudden breakdown there followed mental lassitude, from which she never recovered. it being subsequently her duty to read novels aloud for the lady whom she 'companioned,' new novels at the rate of a volume a day, she lost all power of giving her mind to anything but the feebler fiction. nowadays she procured such works from a lending library, on a subscription of a shilling a month. ashamed at first to indulge this taste before alice, she tried more solid literature, but this either sent her to sleep or induced headache. the feeble novels reappeared, and as alice made no adverse comment, they soon came and went with the old regularity. this afternoon the sisters were disposed for conversation. the same grave thought preoccupied both of them, and they soon made it their subject. 'surely,' alice began by murmuring, half absently, 'i shall soon hear of something.' 'i am dreadfully uneasy on my own account,' her sister replied. 'you think the person at southend won't write again?' 'i'm afraid not. and she seemed so _very_ unsatisfactory. positively illiterate--oh, i couldn't bear that.' virginia gave a shudder as she spoke. 'i almost wish,' said alice, 'that i had accepted the place at plymouth.' 'oh, my dear! five children and not a penny of salary. it was a shameless proposal.' 'it was, indeed,' sighed the poor governess. 'but there is so little choice for people like myself. certificates, and even degrees, are asked for on every hand. with nothing but references to past employers, what can one expect? i know it will end in my taking a place without salary.' 'people seem to have still less need of _me_,' lamented the companion. 'i wish now that i had gone to norwich as lady-help.' 'dear, your health would _never_ have supported it.' 'i don't know. possibly the more active life might do me good. it _might_, you know, alice.' the other admitted this possibility with a deep sigh. 'let us review our position,' she then exclaimed. it was a phrase frequently on her lips, and always made her more cheerful. virginia also seemed to welcome it as an encouragement. 'mine,' said the companion, 'is almost as serious as it could be. i have only one pound left, with the exception of the dividend.' 'i have rather more than four pounds still. now, let us think,' alice paused. 'supposing we neither of us obtain employment before the end of this year. we have to live, in that case, more than six months--you on seven pounds, and i on ten.' 'it's impossible,' said virginia. 'let us see. put it in another form. we have both to live together on seventeen pounds. that is--' she made a computation on a piece of paper--'that is two pounds, sixteen shillings and eightpence a month--let us suppose this month at an end. that represents fourteen shillings and twopence a week. yes, we can do it!' she laid down her pencil with an air of triumph. her dull eyes brightened as though she had discovered a new source of income. 'we cannot, dear,' urged virginia in a subdued voice. 'seven shillings rent; that leaves only seven and twopence a week for everything--everything.' 'we _could_ do it, dear,' persisted the other. 'if it came to the very worst, our food need not cost more than sixpence a day--three and sixpence a week. i do really believe, virgie, we could support life on less--say, on fourpence. yes, we could dear!' they looked fixedly at each other, like people about to stake everything on their courage. 'is such a life worthy of the name?' asked virginia in tones of awe. 'we shan't be driven to that. oh, we certainly shall not. but it helps one to know that, strictly speaking, we are _independent_ for another six months.' that word gave virginia an obvious thrill. 'independent! oh, alice, what a blessed thing is independence! do you know, my dear, i am afraid i have not exerted myself as i might have done to find a new place. these comfortable lodgings, and the pleasure of seeing monica once a week, have tempted me into idleness. it isn't really my wish to be idle; i know the harm it does me; but oh! if one could work in a home of one's own!' alice had a startled, apprehensive look, as if her sister were touching on a subject hardly proper for discussion, or at least dangerous. 'i'm afraid it's no use thinking of that, dear,' she answered awkwardly. 'no use; no use whatever. i am wrong to indulge in such thoughts.' 'whatever happens, my dear,' said alice presently, with all the impressiveness of tone she could command, 'we must never entrench upon our capital--never--never!' 'oh, never! if we grow old and useless--' 'if no one will give us even board and lodging for our services--' 'if we haven't a friend to look to,' alice threw in, as though they were answering each other in a doleful litany, 'then indeed we shall be glad that nothing tempted us to entrench on our capital! it would just keep us'--her voice sank--'from the workhouse.' after this each took up a volume, and until teatime they read quietly. from six to nine in the evening they again talked and read alternately. their conversation was now retrospective; each revived memories of what she had endured in one or the other house of bondage. never had it been their lot to serve 'really nice' people--this phrase of theirs was anything but meaningless. they had lived with more or less well-to-do families in the lower middle class--people who could not have inherited refinement, and had not acquired any, neither proletarians nor gentlefolk, consumed with a disease of vulgar pretentiousness, inflated with the miasma of democracy. it would have been but a natural result of such a life if the sisters had commented upon it in a spirit somewhat akin to that of their employers; but they spoke without rancour, without scandalmongering. they knew themselves superior to the women who had grudgingly paid them, and often smiled at recollections which would have moved the servile mind to venomous abuse. at nine o'clock they took a cup of cocoa and a biscuit, and half an hour later they went to bed. lamp oil was costly; and indeed they felt glad to say as early as possible that another day had gone by. their hour of rising was eight. mrs. conisbee provided hot water for their breakfast. on descending to fetch it, virginia found that the postman had left a letter for her. the writing on the envelope seemed to be a stranger's. she ran upstairs again in excitement. 'who can this be from, alice?' the elder sister had one of her headaches this morning; she was clay colour, and tottered in moving about. the close atmosphere of the bedroom would alone have accounted for such a malady. but an unexpected letter made her for the moment oblivious of suffering. 'posted in london,' she said, examining the envelope eagerly. 'some one you have been in correspondence with?' 'it's months since i wrote to any one in london.' for full five minutes they debated the mystery, afraid of dashing their hopes by breaking the envelope. at length virginia summoned courage. standing at a distance from the other, she took out the sheet of paper with tremulous hand, and glanced fearfully at the signature. 'what _do_ you think? it's miss nunn!' 'miss nunn! never! how could she have got the address?' again the difficulty was discussed whilst its ready solution lay neglected. 'do read it!' said alice at length, her throbbing head, made worse by the agitation, obliging her to sink down into the chair. the letter ran thus:-- 'dear miss madden,--this morning i chanced to meet with mrs. darby, who was passing through london on her way home from the seaside. we had only five minutes' talk (it was at a railway station), but she mentioned that you were at present in london, and gave me your address. after all these years, how glad i should be to see you! the struggle of life has made me selfish; i have neglected my old friends. and yet i am bound to add that some of _them_ have neglected _me_. would you rather that i came to your lodgings or you to mine? which you like. i hear that your elder sister is with you, and that monica is also in london somewhere. do let us all see each other once more. write as soon as you can. my kindest regards to all of you.--sincerely yours, rhoda nunn.' 'how like her,' exclaimed virginia, when she had read this aloud, 'to remember that perhaps we may not care to receive visitors! she was always so thoughtful. and it is true that i _ought_ to have written to her.' 'we shall go to her, of course?' 'oh yes, as she gives us the choice. how delightful! i wonder what she is doing? she writes cheerfully; i am sure she must be in a good position. what is the address? queen's road, chelsea. oh, i'm so glad it's not very far. we can walk there and back easily.' for several years they had lost sight of rhoda nunn. she left clevedon shortly after the maddens were scattered, and they heard she had become a teacher. about the date of monica's apprenticeship at weston, miss nunn had a chance meeting with virginia and the younger girl; she was still teaching, but spoke of her work with extreme discontent, and hinted at vague projects. whether she succeeded in releasing herself the maddens never heard. it was a morning of doubtful fairness. before going to bed last night they had decided to walk out together this morning and purchase the present for monica's birthday, which was next sunday. but alice felt too unwell to leave the house. virginia should write a reply to miss nunn's letter, and then go to the bookseller's alone. she set forth at half-past nine. with extreme care she had preserved an out-of-doors dress into the third summer; it did not look shabby. her mantle was in its second year only; the original fawn colour had gone to an indeterminate grey. her hat of brown straw was a possession for ever; it underwent new trimming, at an outlay of a few pence, when that became unavoidable. yet virginia could not have been judged anything but a lady. she wore her garments as only a lady can (the position and movement of the arms has much to do with this), and had the step never to be acquired by a person of vulgar instincts. a very long walk was before her. she wished to get as far as the strand bookshops, not only for the sake of choice, but because this region pleased her and gave her a sense of holiday. past battersea park, over chelsea bridge, then the weary stretch to victoria station, and the upward labour to charing cross. five miles, at least, measured by pavement. but virginia walked quickly; at half-past eleven she was within sight of her goal. a presentable copy of keble's work cost less than she had imagined. this rejoiced her. but after leaving the shop she had a singular expression on her face--something more than weariness, something less than anxiety, something other than calculation. in front of charing cross station she stopped, looking vaguely about her. perhaps she had it in her mind to return home by omnibus, and was dreading the expense. yet of a sudden she turned and went up the approach to the railway. at the entrance again she stopped. her features were now working in the strangest way, as though a difficulty of breathing had assailed her. in her eyes was an eager yet frightened look; her lips stood apart. another quick movement, and she entered the station. she went straight to the door of the refreshment room, and looked in through the glass. two or three people were standing inside. she drew back, a tremor passing through her. a lady came out. then again virginia approached the door. two men only were within, talking together. with a hurried, nervous movement, she pushed the door open and went up to a part of the counter as far as possible from the two customers. bending forward, she said to the barmaid in a voice just above a whisper,-- 'kindly give me a little brandy.' beads of perspiration were on her face, which had turned to a ghastly pallor. the barmaid, concluding that she was ill, served her promptly and with a sympathetic look. virginia added to the spirit twice its quantity of water, standing, as she did so, half turned from the bar. then she sipped hurriedly two or three times, and at length took a draught. colour flowed to her cheeks; her eyes lost their frightened glare. another draught finished the stimulant. she hastily wiped her lips, and walked away with firm step. in the meantime a threatening cloud had passed from the sun; warm rays fell upon the street and its clamorous life. virginia felt tired in body, but a delightful animation, rarest of boons, gave her new strength. she walked into trafalgar square and viewed it like a person who stands there for the first time, smiling, interested. a quarter of an hour passed whilst she merely enjoyed the air, the sunshine, and the scene about her. such a quarter of an hour--so calm, contented, unconsciously hopeful--as she had not known since alice's coming to london. she reached the house by half-past one, bringing in a paper bag something which was to serve for dinner. alice had a wretched appearance; her head ached worse than ever. 'virgie,' she moaned, 'we never took account of illness, you know.' 'oh, we must keep that off,' replied the other, sitting down with a look of exhaustion. she smiled, but no longer as in the sunlight of trafalgar square. 'yes, i must struggle against it. we will have dinner as soon as possible. i feel faint.' if both of them had avowed their faintness as often as they felt it, the complaint would have been perpetual. but they generally made a point of deceiving each other, and tried to delude themselves; professing that no diet could be better for their particular needs than this which poverty imposed. 'ah! it's a good sign to be hungry,' exclaimed virginia. 'you'll be better this afternoon, dear.' alice turned over 'the christian year,' and endeavoured to console herself out of it, whilst her sister prepared the meal. chapter iii an independent woman virginia's reply to miss nunn's letter brought another note next morning--saturday. it was to request a call from the sisters that same afternoon. alice, unfortunately, would not be able to leave home. her disorder had become a feverish cold--caught, doubtless, between open window and door whilst the bedroom was being aired for breakfast. she lay in bed, and her sister administered remedies of the chemist's advising. but she insisted on virginia leaving her in the afternoon. miss nunn might have something of importance to tell or to suggest. mrs. conisbee, sympathetic in her crude way, would see that the invalid wanted for nothing. so, after a dinner of mashed potatoes and milk ('the irish peasantry live almost entirely on that,' croaked alice, 'and they are physically a fine race'), the younger sister started on her walk to chelsea. her destination was a plain, low roomy old house in queen's road, over against the hospital gardens. on asking for miss nunn, she was led to a back room on the ground floor, and there waited for a few moments. several large bookcases, a well-equipped writing-table, and kindred objects, indicated that the occupant of the house was studious; the numerous bunches of cut flowers, which agreeably scented the air, seemed to prove the student was a woman. miss nunn entered. younger only by a year or two than virginia, she was yet far from presenting any sorrowful image of a person on the way to old-maidenhood. she had a clear though pale skin, a vigorous frame, a brisk movement--all the signs of fairly good health. whether or not she could be called a comely woman might have furnished matter for male discussion; the prevailing voice of her own sex would have denied her charm of feature. at first view the countenance seemed masculine, its expression somewhat aggressive--eyes shrewdly observant and lips consciously impregnable. but the connoisseur delayed his verdict. it was a face that invited, that compelled, study. self-confidence, intellectual keenness, a bright humour, frank courage, were traits legible enough; and when the lips parted to show their warmth, their fullness, when the eyelids drooped a little in meditation, one became aware of a suggestiveness directed not solely to the intellect, of something like an unfamiliar sexual type, remote indeed from the voluptuous, but hinting a possibility of subtle feminine forces that might be released by circumstance. she wore a black serge gown, with white collar and cuffs; her thick hair rippled low upon each side of the forehead, and behind was gathered into loose vertical coils; in shadow the hue seemed black, but when illumined it was seen to be the darkest, warmest brown. offering a strong, shapely hand, she looked at her visitor with a smile which betrayed some mixture of pain in the hearty welcome. 'and how long have you been in london?' it was the tone of a busy, practical person. her voice had not much softness of timbre, and perhaps on that account she kept it carefully subdued. 'so long as that? how i wish i had known you were so near! i have been in london myself about two years. and your sisters?' virginia explained alice's absence, adding,-- 'as for poor monica, she has only sunday free--except one evening a month. she is at business till half-past nine, and on saturday till half-past eleven or twelve.' 'oh, dear, dear, dear!' exclaimed the other rapidly, making a motion with her hand as if to brush away something disagreeable. 'that will never do. you must put a stop to that.' 'i am sure we ought to.' virginia's thin, timid voice and weak manner were thrown into painful contrast by miss nunn's personality. 'yes, yes; we will talk about it presently. poor little monica! but do tell me about yourself and miss madden. it is so long since i heard about you.' 'indeed i ought to have written. i remember that at the end of our correspondence i remained in your debt. but it was a troublesome and depressing time with me. i had nothing but groans and moans to send.' 'you didn't stay long, i trust, with that trying mrs. carr?' 'three years!' sighed virginia. 'oh, your patience!' 'i wished to leave again and again. but at the end she always begged me not to desert her--that was how she put it. after all, i never had the heart to go.' 'very kind of you, but--those questions are so difficult to decide. self-sacrifice may be quite wrong, i'm afraid.' 'do you think so?' asked virginia anxiously. 'yes, i am sure it is often wrong--all the more so because people proclaim it a virtue without any reference to circumstances. then how did you get away at last?' 'the poor woman died. then i had a place scarcely less disagreeable. now i have none at all; but i really must find one very soon.' she laughed at this allusion to her poverty, and made nervous motions. 'let me tell you what my own course has been,' said miss nunn, after a short reflection. 'when my mother died, i determined to have done with teaching--you know that. i disliked it too much, and partly, of course, because i was incapable. half my teaching was a sham--a pretence of knowing what i neither knew nor cared to know. i had gone into it like most girls, as a dreary matter of course.' 'like poor alice, i'm afraid.' 'oh, it's a distressing subject. when my mother left me that little sum of money i took a bold step. i went to bristol to learn everything i could that would help me out of school life. shorthand, book-keeping, commercial correspondence--i had lessons in them all, and worked desperately for a year. it did me good; at the end of the year i was vastly improved in health, and felt myself worth something in the world. i got a place as cashier in a large shop. that soon tired me, and by dint of advertising i found a place in an office at bath. it was a move towards london, and i couldn't rest till i had come the whole way. my first engagement here was as shorthand writer to the secretary of a company. but he soon wanted some one who could use a typewriter. that was a suggestion. i went to learn typewriting, and the lady who taught me asked me in the end to stay with her as an assistant. this is her house, and here i live with her.' 'how energetic you have been!' 'how fortunate, perhaps. i must tell you about this lady--miss barfoot. she has private means--not large, but sufficient to allow of her combining benevolence with business. she makes it her object to train young girls for work in offices, teaching them the things that i learnt in bristol, and typewriting as well. some pay for their lessons, and some get them for nothing. our workrooms are in great portland street, over a picture-cleaner's shop. one or two girls have evening lessons, but our pupils for the most part are able to come in the day. miss barfoot hasn't much interest in the lower classes; she wishes to be of use to the daughters of educated people. and she is of use. she is doing admirable work.' 'oh, i am sure she must be! what a wonderful person!' 'it occurs to me that she might help monica.' 'oh, do you think she would?' exclaimed virginia, with eager attention. 'how grateful we should be!' 'where is monica employed?' 'at a draper's in walworth road. she is worked to death. every week i see a difference in her, poor child. we hoped to persuade her to go back to the shop at weston; but if this you speak of were possible--how _much_ better! we have never reconciled ourselves to her being in that position--never.' 'i see no harm in the position itself,' replied miss nunn in her rather blunt tone, 'but i see a great deal in those outrageous hours. she won't easily do better in london, without special qualifications; and probably she is reluctant to go back to the country.' 'yes, she is; very reluctant.' 'i understand it,' said the other, with a nod. 'will you ask her to come and see me?' a servant entered with tea. miss nunn caught the expression in her visitor's eyes, and said cheerfully-- 'i had no midday meal to-day, and really i feel the omission. mary, please do put tea in the dining-room, and bring up some meat--miss barfoot,' she added, in explanation to virginia, is out of town, and i am a shockingly irregular person about meals. i am sure you will sit down with me?' virginia sported with the subject. months of miserable eating and drinking in her stuffy bedroom made an invitation such as this a veritable delight to her. seated in the dining-room, she at first refused the offer of meat, alleging her vegetarianism; but miss nunn, convinced that the poor woman was starving, succeeded in persuading her. a slice of good beef had much the same effect upon virginia as her more dangerous indulgence at charing cross station. she brightened wonderfully. 'now let us go back to the library,' said miss nunn, when their meal was over. 'we shall soon see each other again, i hope, but we might as well talk of serious things whilst we have the opportunity. will you allow me to be very frank with you?' the other looked startled. 'what could you possibly say that would offend me?' 'in the old days you told me all about your circumstances. are they still the same?' 'precisely the same. most happily, we have never needed to entrench upon our capital. whatever happens, we must avoid that--whatever happens!' 'i quite understand you. but wouldn't it be possible to make a better use of that money? it is eight hundred pounds, i think? have you never thought of employing it in some practical enterprise?' virginia at first shrank in alarm, then trembled deliciously at her friend's bold views. 'would it be possible? really? you think--' 'i can only suggest, of course. one mustn't argue about others from one's own habit of thought. heaven forbid'--this sounded rather profane to the listener--'that i should urge you to do anything you would think rash. but how much better if you could somehow secure independence.' 'ah, if we could! the very thing we were saying the other day! but how? i have no idea how.' miss nunn seemed to hesitate. 'i don't advise. you mustn't give any weight to what i say, except in so far as your own judgment approves it. but couldn't one open a preparatory school, for instance? at weston, suppose, where already you know a good many people. or even at clevedon.' virginia drew in her breath, and it was easy for miss nunn to perceive that the proposal went altogether beyond her friend's scope. impossible, perhaps, to inspire these worn and discouraged women with a particle of her own enterprise. perchance they altogether lacked ability to manage a school for even the youngest children. she did not press the subject; it might come up on another occasion. virginia begged for time to think it over; then, remembering her invalid sister, felt that she must not prolong the visit. 'do take some of these flowers,' said miss nunn, collecting a rich nosegay from the vases. 'let them be my message to your sister. and i should be so glad to see monica. sunday is a good time; i am always at home in the afternoon.' with a fluttering heart virginia made what haste she could homewards. the interview had filled her with a turmoil of strange new thoughts, which she was impatient to pour forth for alice's wondering comment. it was the first time in her life that she had spoken with a woman daring enough to think and act for herself. chapter iv monica's majority in the drapery establishment where monica madden worked and lived it was not (as is sometimes the case) positively forbidden to the resident employees to remain at home on sunday; but they were strongly recommended to make the utmost possible use of that weekly vacation. herein, no doubt, appeared a laudable regard for their health. young people, especially young women, who are laboriously engaged in a shop for thirteen hours and a half every weekday, and on saturday for an average of sixteen, may be supposed to need a sabbath of open air. messrs. scotcher and co. acted like conscientious men in driving them forth immediately after breakfast, and enjoining upon them not to return until bedtime. by way of well-meaning constraint, it was directed that only the very scantiest meals (plain bread and cheese, in fact) should be supplied to those who did not take advantage of the holiday. messrs. scotcher and co. were large-minded men. not only did they insist that the sunday ought to be used for bodily recreation, but they had no objection whatever to their young friends taking a stroll after closing-time each evening. nay, so generous and confiding were they, that to each young person they allowed a latchkey. the air of walworth road is pure and invigorating about midnight; why should the reposeful ramble be hurried by consideration for weary domestics? monica always felt too tired to walk after ten o'clock; moreover, the usual conversation in the dormitory which she shared with five other young women was so little to her taste that she wished to be asleep when the talkers came up to bed. but on sunday she gladly followed the counsel of her employers. if the weather were bad, the little room at lavender hill offered her a retreat; when the sun shone, she liked to spend a part of the day in free wandering about london, which even yet had not quite disillusioned her. and to-day it shone brightly. this was her birthday, the completion of her one-and-twentieth year. alice and virginia of course expected her early in the morning, and of course they were all to dine together--at the table measuring three feet by one and a half; but the afternoon and evening she must have to herself. the afternoon, because a few hours of her sisters' talk invariably depressed her; and the evening, because she had an appointment to keep. as she left the big ugly 'establishment' her heart beat cheerfully, and a smile fluttered about her lips. she did not feel very well, but that was a matter of course; the ride in an omnibus would perhaps make her head clearer. monica's face was of a recognized type of prettiness; a pure oval; from the smooth forehead to the dimpled little chin all its lines were soft and graceful. her lack of colour, by heightening the effect of black eyebrows and darkly lustrous eyes, gave her at present a more spiritual cast than her character justified; but a thoughtful firmness was native to her lips, and no possibility of smirk or simper lurked in the attractive features. the slim figure was well fitted in a costume of pale blue, cheap but becoming; a modest little hat rested on her black hair; her gloves and her sunshade completed the dainty picture. an omnibus would be met in kennington park road. on her way thither, in a quiet cross-street, she was overtaken by a young man who had left the house of business a moment after her, and had followed at a short distance timidly. a young man of unhealthy countenance, with a red pimple on the side of his nose, but not otherwise ill-looking. he was clad with propriety--stove-pipe hat, diagonal frockcoat, grey trousers, and he walked with a springy gait. 'miss madden--' he had ventured, with perturbation in his face, to overtake monica. she stopped. 'what is it, mr. bullivant?' her tone was far from encouraging, but the young man smiled upon her with timorous tenderness. 'what a beautiful morning! are you going far?' he had the cockney accent, but not in an offensive degree; his manners were not flagrantly of the shop. 'yes; some distance.' monica walked slowly on. 'will you allow me to walk a little way with you?' he pleaded, bending towards her. 'i shall take the omnibus at the end of this street.' they went forward together. monica no longer smiled, but neither did she look angry. her expression was one of trouble. 'where shall _you_ spend the day, mr. bullivant?' she asked at length, with an effort to seem unconcerned. 'i really don't know.' 'i should think it would be very nice up the river.' and she added diffidently, 'miss eade is going to richmond.' 'is she?' he replied vaguely. 'at least she wished to go--if she could find a companion.' 'i hope she will enjoy herself,' said mr. bullivant, with careful civility. 'but of course she won't enjoy it very much if she has to go alone. as you have no particular engagement, mr. bullivant, wouldn't it be kind to--?' the suggestion was incomplete, but intelligible. 'i couldn't ask miss eade to let me accompany her,' said the young man gravely. 'oh, i think you could. she would like it.' monica looked rather frightened at her boldness, and quickly added-- 'now i must say good-bye. there comes the bus.' bullivant turned desperately in that direction. he saw there was as yet no inside passenger. 'do allow me to go a short way with you?' burst from his lips. 'i positively don't know how i shall spend the morning.' monica had signalled to the driver, and was hurrying forward. bullivant followed, reckless of consequences. in a minute both were seated within. 'you will forgive me?' pleaded the young fellow, remarking a look of serious irritation on his companion's face. 'i must be with you a few minutes longer.' 'i think when i have begged you not to--' 'i know how bad my behaviour must seem. but, miss madden, may i not be on terms of friendship with you?' 'of course you may--but you are not content with that.' 'yes--indeed--i _will_ be content--' 'it's foolish to say so. haven't you broken the understanding three or four times?' the bus stopped for a passenger, a man, who mounted to the top. 'i am so sorry,' murmured bullivant, as the starting horses jolted them together. 'i try not to worry you. think of my position. you have told me that there is no one else who--whose rights i ought to respect. feeling as i do, it isn't in human nature to give up hope!' 'then will you let me ask you a rude question?' 'ask me _any_ question, miss madden.' 'how would it be possible for you to support a wife?' she flushed and smiled. bullivant, dreadfully discomposed, did not move his eyes from her. 'it wouldn't be possible for some time,' he answered in a thick voice. 'i have nothing but my wretched salary. but every one hopes.' 'what reasonable hope have you?' monica urged, forcing herself to be cruel, because it seemed the only way of putting an end to this situation. 'oh, there are so many opportunities in our business. i could point to half a dozen successful men who were at the counter a few years ago. i may become a walker, and get at least three pounds a week. if i were lucky enough to be taken on as a buyer, i might make--why, some make many hundreds a year--many hundreds.' 'and you would ask me to wait on and on for one of these wonderful chances?' 'if i could move your feelings, miss madden,' he began, with a certain dolorous dignity; but there his voice broke. he saw too plainly that the girl had neither faith in him nor liking for him. 'mr. bullivant, i think you ought to wait until you really have prospects. if you were encouraged by some person, it would be a different thing. and indeed you haven't to look far. but where there has never been the slightest encouragement, you are really wrong to act in this way. a long engagement, where everything remains doubtful for years, is so wretched that--oh, if i were a man, i would _never_ try to persuade a girl into that! i think it wrong and cruel.' the stroke was effectual. bullivant averted his face, naturally woebegone, and sat for some minutes without speaking. the bus again drew up; four or five people were about to ascend. 'i will say good-morning, miss madden,' he whispered hurriedly. she gave her hand, glanced at him with embarrassment, and so let him depart. ten minutes restored the mood in which she had set out. once more she smiled to herself. indeed, her head was better for the fresh air and the movement. if only the sisters would allow her to get away soon after dinner! it was virginia who opened the door to her, and embraced and kissed her with wonted fondness. 'you are nice and early! poor alice has been in bed since the day before yesterday; a dreadful cold and one of her very worst headaches. but i think she is a little better this morning.' alice--a sad spectacle--was propped up on pillows. 'don't kiss me, darling,' she said, in a voice barely audible. 'you mustn't risk getting a sore throat. how well you look!' 'i'm afraid she doesn't look _well_,' corrected virginia; 'but perhaps she has a little more colour than of late. monica, dear, as alice can hardly use her voice, i will speak for both of us, and wish you many, many happy returns of the day. and we ask you to accept this little book from us. it may be a comfort to you from time to time.' 'you are good, kind dears!' replied monica, kissing the one on the lips and the other on her thinly-tressed head. 'it's no use saying you oughtn't to have spent money on me; you _will_ always do it. what a nice "christian year"! i'll do my best to read some of it now and then.' with a half-guilty air, virginia then brought from some corner of the room a very small but delicate currant cake. monica must eat a mouthful of this; she always had such a wretched breakfast, and the journey from walworth road was enough to give an appetite. 'but you are ruining yourselves, foolish people!' the others exchanged a look, and smiled with such a strange air that monica could not but notice it. 'i know!' she cried. 'there's good news. you have found something, and better than usual virgie.' 'perhaps so. who knows? eat your slice of cake like a good child, and then i shall have something to tell you.' obviously the two were excited. virginia moved about with the recovered step of girlhood, held herself upright, and could not steady her hands. 'you would never guess whom i have seen,' she began, when monica was quite ready to listen. 'we had a letter the other morning which did puzzle us so--i mean the writing before we opened it. and it was from--miss nunn!' this name did not greatly stir monica. 'you had quite lost sight of her, hadn't you?' she remarked. 'quite. i didn't suppose we should ever hear of her again. but nothing more fortunate could have happened. my dear, she is wonderful!' at considerable length virginia detailed all she had learnt of miss nunn's career, and described her present position. 'she will be the most valuable friend to us. oh, her strength, her resolution! the way in which she discovers the right thing to do! you are to call upon her as soon as possible. this very after noon you had better go. she will relieve you from all your troubles darling. her friend, miss barfoot, will teach you typewriting, and put you in the way of earning an easy and pleasant livelihood. she will, indeed!' 'but how long does it take?' asked the astonished girl. 'oh, quite a short time, i should think. we didn't speak of details; they were postponed. you will hear everything yourself. and she suggested all sorts of ways,' pursued virginia, with quite unintentional exaggeration, 'in which we could make better use of our invested money. she is _full_ of practical expedients. the most wonderful person! she is quite like a _man_ in energy and resources. i never imagined that one of our sex could resolve and plan and act as she does!' monica inquired anxiously what the projects for improving their income might be. 'nothing is decided yet,' was the reply, given with a confident smile. 'let us first of all put _you_ in comfort and security; that is the immediate need.' the listener was interested, but did not show any eagerness for the change proposed. presently she stood at the window and lost herself in thought. alice gave signs of an inclination to doze; she had had a sleepless night, in spite of soporifics. though no sun entered the room, it was very hot, and the presence of a third person made the air oppressive. 'don't you think we might go out for half an hour?' monica whispered, when virginia had pointed to the invalid's closed eves. 'i'm sure it's very unhealthy for us all to be in this little place.' i don't like to leave her,' the other whispered back. 'but i certainly think it would be better for you to have fresh air. wouldn't you like to go to church, dear? the bells haven't stopped yet.' the elder sisters were not quite regular in their church-going. when weather or lassitude kept them at home on sunday morning they read the service aloud. monica found the duty of listening rather grievous. during the months that she was alone in london she had fallen into neglect of public worship; not from any conscious emancipation, but because her companions at the house of business never dreamt of entering a church, and their example by degrees affected her with carelessness. at present she was glad of the pretext for escaping until dinner-time. she went forth with the intention of deceiving her sisters, of walking to clapham common, and on her return inventing some sermon at a church the others never visited. but before she had gone many yards conscience overcame her. was she not getting to be a very lax-minded girl? and it was shameful to impose upon the two after their loving-kindness to her. as usual, her little prayer-book was in her pocket. she walked quickly to the familiar church, and reached it just as the doors were being closed. of all the congregation she probably was the one who went through the service most mechanically. not a word reached her understanding. sitting, standing, or on her knees, she wore the same preoccupied look, with ever and again a slight smile or a movement of the lips, as if she were recalling some conversation of special interest. last sunday she had had an adventure, the first of any real moment that had befallen her in london. she had arranged to go with miss eade on a steamboat up the river. they were to meet at the battersea park landing-stage at half-past two. but miss eade did not keep her appointment, and monica, unwilling to lose the trip, started alone. she disembarked at richmond and strayed about for an hour or two, then had a cup of tea and a bun. as it was still far too early to return, she went down to the riverside and seated herself on one of the benches. many boats were going by, a majority of them containing only two persons--a young man who pulled, and a girl who held the strings of the tiller. some of these couples monica disregarded; but occasionally there passed a skiff from which she could not take her eyes. to lie back like that on the cushions and converse with a companion who had nothing of the _shop_ about him! it seemed hard that she must be alone. poor mr. bullivant would gladly have taken her on the river; but mr. bullivant-- she thought of her sisters. their loneliness was for life, poor things. already they were old; and they would grow older, sadder, perpetually struggling to supplement that dividend from the precious capital--and merely that they might keep alive. oh!--her heart ached at the misery of such a prospect. how much better if the poor girls had never been born. her own future was more hopeful than theirs had ever been. she knew herself good-looking. men had followed her in the street and tried to make her acquaintance. some of the girls with whom she lived regarded her enviously, spitefully. but had she really the least chance of marrying a man whom she could respect--not to say love? one-and-twenty a week hence. at weston she had kept tolerable health, but certainly her constitution was not strong, and the slavery of walworth road threatened her with premature decay. her sisters counselled wisely. coming to london was a mistake. she would have had better chances at weston, notwithstanding the extreme discretion with which she was obliged to conduct herself. while she mused thus, a profound discouragement settling on her sweet face, some one took a seat by her--on the same bench, that is to say. glancing aside, she saw that it was an oldish man, with grizzled whiskers and rather a stern visage. monica sighed. was it possible that he had heard her? he looked this way, and with curiosity. ashamed of herself, she kept her eyes averted for a long time. presently, following the movement of a boat, her face turned unconsciously towards the silent companion; again he was looking at her, and he spoke. the gravity of his appearance and manner, the good-natured commonplace that fell from his lips, could not alarm her; a dialogue began, and went on for about half an hour. how old might he be? after all, he was probably not fifty--perchance not much more than forty. his utterance fell short of perfect refinement, but seemed that of an educated man. and certainly his clothes were such as a gentleman wears. he had thin, hairy hands, unmarked by any effect of labour; the nails could not have been better cared for. was it a bad sign that he carried neither gloves nor walking-stick? his talk aimed at nothing but sober friendliness; it was perfectly inoffensive--indeed, respectful. now and then--not too often--he fixed his eyes upon her for an instant. after the introductory phrases, he mentioned that he had had a long drive, alone; his horse was baiting in preparation for the journey back to london. he often took such drives in the summer, though generally on a weekday; the magnificent sky had tempted him out this morning. he lived at herne hill. at length he ventured a question. monica affected no reluctance to tell him that she was in a house of business, that she had relatives in london, that only by chance she found herself alone to-day. 'i should be sorry if i never saw you again.' these words he uttered with embarrassment, his eyes on the ground. monica could only keep silence. half an hour ago she would not have thought it possible for any remark of this man's seriously to occupy her mind, yet now she waited for the next sentence in discomposure which was quite free from resentment. 'we meet in this casual way, and talk, and then say good-bye. why mayn't i tell you that you interest me very much, and that i am afraid to trust only to chance for another meeting? if you were a man'--he smiled--'i should give you my card, and ask you to my house. the card i may at all events offer.' whilst speaking, he drew out a little case, and laid a visiting-card on the bench within monica's reach. murmuring her 'thank you,' she took the bit of pasteboard, but did not look at it. 'you are on my side of the river,' he continued, still with scrupulous modesty of tone. 'may i not hope to see you some day, when you are walking? all days and times are the same to me; but i am afraid it is only on sunday that you are at leisure?' 'yes, only on a sunday.' it took a long time, and many circumlocutions, but in the end an appointment was made. monica would see her acquaintance next sunday evening on the river front of battersea park; if it rained, then the sunday after. she was ashamed and confused. other girls were constantly doing this kind of thing--other girls in business; but it seemed to put her on the level of a servant. and why had she consented? the man could never be anything to her; he was too old, too hard-featured, too grave. well, on that very account there would be no harm in meeting him. in truth, she had not felt the courage to refuse; in a manner he had overawed her. and perhaps she would not keep the engagement. nothing compelled her. she had not told him her name, nor the house where she was employed. there was a week to think it over. all days and times were the same to him--he said. and he drove about the country for his pleasure. a man of means. his name, according to the card, was edmund widdowson. he was upright in his walk, and strongly built. she noticed this as he moved away from her. fearful lest he should turn round, her eyes glanced at his figure from moment to moment. but he did not once look back. * * * * * * * * * * 'and now to god the father.' the bustle throughout the church wakened her from reverie so complete that she knew not a syllable of the sermon. after all she must deceive her sisters by inventing a text, and perhaps a comment. by an arrangement with mrs. conisbee, dinner was down in the parlour to-day. a luxurious meal, moreover; for in her excitement virginia had resolved to make a feast of monica's birthday. there was a tiny piece of salmon, a dainty cutlet, and a cold blackcurrant tart. virginia, at home a constant vegetarian, took no share of the fish and meat--which was only enough for one person. alice, alone upstairs, made a dinner of gruel. monica was to be at queen's road, chelsea, by three o'clock. the sisters hoped she would return to lavender hill with her news, but that was left uncertain--by monica herself purposely. as an amusement, she had decided to keep her promise to mr. edmund widdowson. she was curious to see him again, and receive a new impression of his personality. if he behaved as inoffensively as at richmond, acquaintance with him might be continued for the variety it brought into her life. if anything unpleasant happened, she had only to walk away. the slight, very slight, tremor of anticipation was reasonably to be prized by a shop-girl at messrs. scotcher's. drawing near to queen's road--the wrapped-up keble in her hand--she began to wonder whether miss nunn would have any serious proposal to offer. virginia's report and ecstatic forecasts were, she knew, not completely trustworthy; though more than ten years her sister's junior, monica saw the world with eyes much less disposed to magnify and colour ordinary facts. miss barfoot was still from home. rhoda nunn received the visitor in a pleasant, old-fashioned drawing-room, where there was nothing costly, nothing luxurious; yet to monica it appeared richly furnished. a sense of strangeness amid such surroundings had more to do with her constrained silence for the first few minutes than the difficulty with which she recognized in this lady before her the miss nunn whom she had known years ago. 'i should never have known you,' said rhoda, equally surprised. 'for one thing, you look like a fever patient just recovering. what can be expected? your sister gave me a shocking account of how you live.' 'the work is very hard.' 'preposterous. why do you stay at such a place, monica?' 'i am getting experience.' 'to be used in the next world?' they laughed. 'miss madden is better to-day, i hope?' 'alice? not much, i'm sorry to say.' 'will you tell me something more about the "experience" you are getting? for instance, what time is given you for meals?' rhoda nunn was not the person to manufacture light gossip when a matter of the gravest interest waited for discussion. with a face that expressed thoughtful sympathy, she encouraged the girl to speak and confide in her. 'there's twenty minutes for each meal,' monica explained; 'but at dinner and tea one is very likely to be called into the shop before finishing. if you are long away you find the table cleared.' 'charming arrangement! no sitting down behind the counter, i suppose?' 'oh, of course not. we suffer a great deal from that. some of us get diseases. a girl has just gone to the hospital with varicose veins, and two or three others have the same thing in a less troublesome form. sometimes, on saturday night, i lose all feeling in my feet; i have to stamp on the floor to be sure it's still under me.' 'ah, that saturday night!' 'yes, it's bad enough now; but at christmas! there was a week or more of saturday night--going on to one o'clock in the morning. a girl by me was twice carried out fainting, one night after another. they gave her brandy, and she came back again.' 'they compelled her to?' 'well, no, it was her own wish. her "book of takings" wasn't very good, poor thing, and if it didn't come up to a certain figure at the end of the week she would lose her place. she lost it after all. they told her she was too weak. after christmas she was lucky enough to get a place as a lady's-maid at twenty-five pounds a year--at scotcher's she had fifteen. but we heard that she burst a blood-vessel, and now she's in the hospital at brompton.' 'delightful story! haven't you an early-closing day?' 'they had before i went there; but only for about three months. then the agreement broke down.' 'like the assistants. a pity the establishment doesn't follow suit.' 'but you wouldn't say so, miss nunn, if you knew how terribly hard it is for many girls to find a place, even now.' 'i know it perfectly well. and i wish it were harder. i wish girls fell down and died of hunger in the streets, instead of creeping to their garrets and the hospitals. i should like to see their dead bodies collected together in some open place for the crowd to stare at.' monica gazed at her with wide eyes. 'you mean, i suppose, that people would try to reform things.' 'who knows? perhaps they might only congratulate each other that a few of the superfluous females had been struck off. do they give you any summer holiday?' 'a week, with salary continued.' 'really? with salary continued? that takes one's breath away.--are many of the girls ladies?' 'none, at scotcher's. they nearly all come from the country. several are daughters of small farmers and those are dreadfully ignorant. one of them asked me the other day in what country africa was.' 'you don't find them very pleasant company?' 'one or two are nice quiet girls.' rhoda drew a deep sigh, and moved with impatience. 'well, don't you think you've had about enough of it--experience and all?' 'i might go into a country business: it would be easier.' 'but you don't care for the thought?' 'i wish now they had brought me up to something different. alice and virginia were afraid of having me trained for a school; you remember that one of our sisters who went through it died of overwork. and i'm not clever, miss nunn. i never did much at school.' rhoda regarded her, smiling gently. 'you have no inclination to study now?' 'i'm afraid not,' replied the other, looking away. 'certainly i should like to be better educated, but i don't think i could study seriously, to earn my living by it. the time for that has gone by.' 'perhaps so. but there are things you might manage. no doubt your sister told you how i get my living. there's a good deal of employment for women who learn to use a typewriter. did you ever have piano lessons?' 'no.' 'no more did i, and i was sorry for it when i went to typewriting. the fingers have to be light and supple and quick. come with me, and i'll show you one of the machines.' they went to a room downstairs--a bare little room by the library. here were two remingtons, and rhoda patiently explained their use. 'one must practise until one can do fifty words a minute at least. i know one or two people who have reached almost twice that speed. it takes a good six months' work to learn for any profitable use. miss barfoot takes pupils.' monica, at first very attentive, was growing absent. her eyes wandered about the room. the other observed her closely, and, it seemed, doubtfully. 'do you feel any impulse to try for it?' 'i should have to live for six months without earning anything.' 'that is by no means impossible for you, i think?' 'not really impossible,' monica replied with hesitation. something like dissatisfaction passed over miss nunn's face, though she did not allow monica to see it. her lips moved in a way that perhaps signified disdain for such timidity. tolerance was not one of the virtues expressed in her physiognomy. 'let us go back to the drawing-room and have some tea.' monica could not become quite at ease. this energetic woman had little attraction for her. she saw the characteristics which made virginia enthusiastic, but feared rather than admired them. to put herself in miss nunn's hands might possibly result in a worse form of bondage than she suffered at the shop; she would never be able to please such a person, and failure, she imagined, would result in more or less contemptuous dismissal. then of a sudden, as it she had divined these thoughts, rhoda assumed an air of gaiety of frank kindness. 'so it is your birthday? i no longer keep count of mine, and couldn't tell you without a calculation what i am exactly. it doesn't matter, you see. thirty-one or fifty-one is much the same for a woman who has made up her mind to live alone and work steadily for a definite object. but you are still a young girl, monica. my best wishes!' monica emboldened herself to ask what the object was for which her friend worked. 'how shall i put it?' replied the other, smiling. 'to make women hard-hearted.' 'hard-hearted? i think i understand.' 'do you?' 'you mean that you like to see them live unmarried.' rhoda laughed merrily. 'you say that almost with resentment.' 'no--indeed--i didn't intend it.' monica reddened a little. 'nothing more natural if you have done. at your age, i should have resented it.' 'but--' the girl hesitated--'don't you approve of any one marrying?' 'oh, i'm not so severe! but do you know that there are half a million more women than men in this happy country of ours?' 'half a million!' her naive alarm again excited rhoda to laughter. 'something like that, they say. so many _odd_ women--no making a pair with them. the pessimists call them useless, lost, futile lives. i, naturally--being one of them myself--take another view. i look upon them as a great reserve. when one woman vanishes in matrimony, the reserve offers a substitute for the world's work. true, they are not all trained yet--far from it. i want to help in that--to train the reserve.' 'but married woman are not idle,' protested monica earnestly. 'not all of them. some cook and rock cradles.' again miss nunn's mood changed. she laughed the subject away, and abruptly began to talk of old days down in somerset, of rambles about cheddar cliffs, or at glastonbury, or on the quantocks. monica, however, could not listen, and with difficulty commanded her face to a pleasant smile. 'will you come and see miss barfoot?' rhoda asked, when it had become clear to her that the girl would gladly get away. 'i am only her subordinate, but i know she will wish to be of all the use to you she can.' monica expressed her thanks, and promised to act as soon as possible on any invitation that was sent her. she took leave just as the servant announced another caller. chapter v the casual acquaintance at that corner of battersea park which is near albert bridge there has lain for more than twenty years a curious collection of architectural fragments, chiefly dismembered columns, spread in order upon the ground, and looking like portions of a razed temple. it is the colonnade of old burlington house, conveyed hither from piccadilly who knows why, and likely to rest here, the sporting ground for adventurous infants, until its origin is lost in the abyss of time. it was at this spot that monica had agreed to meet with her casual acquaintance, edmund widdowson, and there, from a distance, she saw his lank, upright, well-dressed figure moving backwards and forwards upon the grass. even at the last moment monica doubted whether to approach. emotional interest in him she had none, and the knowledge of life she had gained in london assured her that in thus encouraging a perfect stranger she was doing a very hazardous thing. but the evening must somehow be spent, and if she went off in another direction it would only be to wander about with an adventurous mind; for her conversation with miss nunn had had precisely the opposite effect of that which rhoda doubtless intended; she felt something of the recklessness which formerly excited her wonder when she remarked it in the other shop-girls. she could no longer be without a male companion, and as she had given her promise to this man-- he had seen her, and was coming forward. today he carried a walking-stick, and wore gloves; otherwise his appearance was the same as at richmond. at the distance of a few yards he raised his hat, not very gracefully. monica did not offer her hand, nor did widdowson seem to expect it. but he gave proof of an intense pleasure in the meeting; his sallow cheeks grew warm, and in the many wrinkles about his eyes played a singular smile, good-natured but anxious, apprehensive. 'i am so glad you were able to come,' he said in a low voice, bending towards her. 'it has been even finer than last sunday,' was monica's rather vague reply, as she glanced at some people who were passing. 'yes, a wonderful day. but i only left home an hour ago. shall we walk this way?' they went along the path by the river. widdowson exhibited none of the artifices of gallantry practised by men who are in the habit of picking up an acquaintance with shop-girls. his smile did not return; an extreme sobriety characterized his manner and speech; for the most part he kept his eyes on the ground, and when silent he had the look of one who inwardly debates a grave question. 'have you been into the country?' was one of his first inquiries. 'no. i spent the morning with my sisters, and in the afternoon i had to see a lady in chelsea.' 'your sisters are older than yourself?' 'yes, some years older.' 'is it long since you went to live apart from them?' 'we have never had a home of our own since i was quite a child.' and, after a moment's hesitation, she went on to give a brief account of her history. widdowson listened with the closest attention, his lips twitching now and then, his eyes half closed. but for cheek-bones that were too prominent and nostrils rather too large, he was not ill-featured. no particular force of character declared itself in his countenance, and his mode of speech did not suggest a very active brain. speculating again about his age, monica concluded that he must be two or three and forty, in spite of the fact that his grizzled beard argued for a higher figure. he had brown hair untouched by any sign of advanced life, his teeth were white and regular, and something--she could not make clear to her mind exactly what--convinced her that he had a right to judge himself comparatively young. 'i supposed you were not a londoner,' he said, when she came to a pause. 'how?' 'your speech. not,' he added quickly, 'that you have any provincial accent. and even if you had been a londoner you would not have shown it in that way.' he seemed to be reproving himself for a blunder, and after a short silence asked in a tone of kindness,-- 'do you prefer the town?' 'in some ways--not in all.' 'i am glad you have relatives here, and friends. so many young ladies come up from the country who are quite alone.' 'yes, many.' their progress to familiarity could hardly have been slower. now and then they spoke with a formal coldness which threatened absolute silence. monica's brain was so actively at work that she lost consciousness of the people who were moving about them, and at times her companion was scarcely more to her than a voice. they had walked along the whole front of the park, and were near chelsea bridge. widdowson gazed at the pleasure-boats lying below on the strand, and said diffidently,-- 'would you care to go on the river?' the proposal was so unexpected that monica looked up with a startled air. she had not thought of the man as likely to offer any kind of amusement. 'it would be pleasant, i think,' he added. 'the tide is still running up. we might go very quietly for a mile or two, and be back as soon as you like.' 'yes, i should like it.' he brightened up, and moved with a livelier step. in a few minutes they had chosen their boat, had pushed off, and were gliding to the middle of the broad water. widdowson managed the sculls without awkwardness, but by no means like a man well trained in this form of exercise. on sitting down, he had taken off his hat, stowed it away, and put on a little travelling-cap, which he drew from his pocket. monica thought this became him. after all, he was not a companion to be ashamed of. she looked with pleasure at his white hairy hands with their firm grip; then at his boots--very good boots indeed. he had gold links in his white shirt-cuffs, and a gold watch-guard chosen with a gentleman's taste. 'i am at your service,' he said, with an approach to gaiety. 'direct me. shall we go quickly--some distance, or only just a little quicker than the tide would float us?' 'which you like. to row much would make you too hot.' 'you would like to go some distance--i see.' 'no, no. do exactly what you like. of course we must be back in an hour or two.' he drew out his watch. 'it's now ten minutes past six, and there is daylight till nine or after. when do you wish to be home?' 'not much later than nine,' monica answered, with the insincerity of prudence. 'then we will just go quietly along. i wish we could have started early in the afternoon. but that may be for another day, i hope.' on her lap monica had the little brown-paper parcel which contained her present. she saw that widdowson glanced at it from time to time, but she could not bring herself to explain what it was. 'i was very much afraid that i should not see you to-day,' he said, as they glided softly by chelsea embankment. 'but i promised to come if it was fine.' 'yes. i feared something might prevent you. you are very kind to give me your company.' he was looking at the tips of her little boots. 'i can't say how i thank you.' much embarrassed, monica could only gaze at one of the sculls, as it rose and fell, the water dripping from it in bright beads. 'last year,' he pursued, 'i went on the river two or three times, but alone. this year i haven't been in a boat till to-day.' 'you prefer driving?' 'oh, it's only chance. i do drive a good deal, however. i wish it were possible to take you through the splendid country i saw a day or two ago--down in surrey. perhaps some day you will let me. i live rather a lonely life, as you see. i have a housekeeper; no relative lives with me. my only relative in london is a sister-in-law, and we very seldom meet.' 'but don't you employ yourself in any way?' 'i'm very idle. but that's partly because i have worked very hard and hopelessly all my life--till a year and a half ago. i began to earn my own living when i was fourteen, and now i am forty-four--to-day.' 'this is your birthday?' said monica, with an odd look the other could not understand. 'yes--i only remembered it a few hours ago. strange that such a treat should have been provided for me. yes, i am very idle. a year and a half ago my only brother died. he had been very successful in life, and he left me what i regard as a fortune, though it was only a small part of what he had.' the listener's heart throbbed. without intending it, she pulled the tiller so that the boat began to turn towards land. 'the left hand a little,' said widdowson, smiling correctly. 'that's right. many days i don't leave home. i am fond of reading, and now i make up for all the time lost in years gone by. do you care for books?' 'i never read very much, and i feel very ignorant.' 'but that is only for want of opportunity, i'm sure.' he glanced at the brown-paper parcel. acting on an impulse which perturbed her, monica began to slip off the loosely-tied string, and to unfold the paper. 'i thought it was a book!' exclaimed widdowson merrily, when she had revealed a part of her present. 'when you told me your name,' said monica, 'i ought perhaps to have told you mine. it's written here. my sisters gave me this to-day.' she offered the little volume. he took it as though it were something fragile, and--the sculls fixed under his elbows--turned to the fly-leaf. 'what? it is _your_ birthday?' 'yes. i am twenty-one.' 'will you let me shake hands with you?' his pressure of her fingers was the lightest possible. 'now that's rather a strange thing--isn't it? oh, i remember this book very well, though i haven't seen it or heard of it for twenty years. my mother used to read it on sundays. and it is really your birthday? i am more than twice your age, miss madden.' the last remark was uttered anxiously, mournfully. then, as if to reassure himself by exerting physical strength, he drove the boat along with half a dozen vigorous strokes. monica was rustling over the pages, but without seeing them. 'i don't think,' said her companion presently, 'you are very well contented with your life in that house of business.' 'no, i am not.' 'i have heard a good deal of the hardships of such a life. will you tell me something about yours?' readily she gave him a sketch of her existence from sunday to sunday, but without indignation, and as if the subject had no great interest for her. 'you must be very strong,' was widdowson's comment. 'the lady i went to see this afternoon told me i looked ill.' 'of course i can see the effects of overwork. my wonder is that you endure it at all. is that lady an old acquaintance?' monica answered with all necessary detail, and went on to mention the proposal that had been made to her. the hearer reflected, and put further questions. unwilling to speak of the little capital she possessed, monica told him that her sisters might perhaps help her to live whilst she was learning a new occupation. but widdowson had become abstracted; he ceased pulling, crossed his arms on the oars, and watched other boats that were near. two deep wrinkles, rippling in their course, had formed across his forehead, and his eyes widened in a gaze of complete abstraction at the farther shore. 'yes,' fell from him at length, as though in continuation of something he had been saying, 'i began to earn my bread when i was fourteen. my father was an auctioneer at brighton. a few years after his marriage he had a bad illness, which left him completely deaf. his partnership with another man was dissolved, and as things went worse and worse with him, my mother started a lodging-house, which somehow supported us for a long time. she was a sensible, good, and brave woman. i'm afraid my father had a good many faults that made her life hard. he was of a violent temper, and of course the deafness didn't improve it. well, one day a cab knocked him down in the king's road, and from that injury, though not until a year after, he died. there were only two children; i was the elder. my mother couldn't keep me at school very long, so, at fourteen, i was sent into the office of the man who had been my father's partner, to serve him and learn the business. i did serve him for years, and for next to no payment, but he taught me nothing more than he could help. he was one of those heartless, utterly selfish men that one meets too often in the business world. i ought never to have been sent there, for my father had always an ill opinion of him; but he pretended a friendly interest in me--just, i am convinced, to make the use of me that he did.' he was silent, and began rowing again. 'what happened them?' asked monica. 'i mustn't make out that i was a faultless boy,' he continued, with the smile that graved wrinkles about his eyes; 'quite the opposite. i had a good deal of my father's temper; i often behaved very badly to my mother; what i needed was some stern but conscientious man to look after me and make me work. in my spare time i lay about on the shore, or got into mischief with other boys. it needed my mother's death to make a more sensible fellow of me, and by that time it was too late. i mean i was too old to be trained into profitable business habits. up to nineteen i had been little more than an errand and office boy, and all through the after years i never got a much better position.' 'i can't understand that,' remarked monica thoughtfully. 'why not?' 'you seem to--to be the kind of man that would make your way.' 'do i?' the description pleased him; he laughed cheerfully. 'but i never found what my way was to be. i have always hated office work, and business of every kind; yet i could never see an opening in any other direction. i have been all my life a clerk--like so many thousands of other men. nowadays, if i happen to be in the city when all the clerks are coming away from business, i feel an inexpressible pity for them. i feel i should like to find two or three of the hardest driven, and just divide my superfluous income between. a clerk's life--a life of the office without any hope of rising--that is a hideous fate!' 'but your brother got on well. why didn't he help you?' 'we couldn't agree. we always quarrelled.' 'are you really so ill-tempered?' it was asked in monica's most naive tone, with a serious air of investigation which at first confused widdowson, then made him laugh. 'since i was a lad,' he replied, 'i have never quarrelled with any one except my brother. i think it's only very unreasonable people that irritate me. some men have told me that i was far too easy-going, too good-natured. certainly i _desire_ to be good-natured. but i don't easily make friends; as a rule i can't talk to strangers. i keep so much to myself that those who know me only a little think me surly and unsociable.' 'so your brother always refused to help you?' 'it wasn't easy for him to help me. he got into a stockbroker's, and went on step by step until he had saved a little money; then he speculated in all sorts of ways. he couldn't employ me himself--and if he could have done so, we should never have got on together. it was impossible for him to recommend me to any one except as a clerk. he was a born money-maker. i'll give you an example of how he grew rich. in consequence of some mortgage business he came into possession of a field at clapham. as late as this field brought him only a rent of forty pounds; it was freehold property, and he refused many offers of purchase. well, in , the year before he died, the ground-rents from that field--now covered with houses--were seven hundred and ninety pounds a year. that's how men get on who have capital and know how to use it. if _i_ had had capital, it would never have yielded me more than three or four per cent. i was doomed to work for other people who were growing rich. it doesn't matter much now, except that so many years of life have been lost.' 'had your brother any children?' 'no children. all the same, it astonished me when i heard his will; i had expected nothing. in one day--in one hour--i passed from slavery to freedom, from poverty to more than comfort. we never _hated_ each other; i don't want you to think that.' 'but--didn't it bring you friends as well as comfort?' 'oh,' he laughed, 'i am not so rich as to have people pressing for my acquaintance. i have only about six hundred a year.' monica drew in her breath silently, then gazed at the distance. 'no, i haven't made any new friends. the one or two men i care for are not much better off than i used to be, and i always feel ashamed to ask them to come and see me. perhaps they think i shun them because of their position, and i don't know how to justify myself. life has always been full of worrying problems for me. i can't take things in the simple way that comes natural to other men.' 'don't you think we ought to be turning back, mr. widdowson?' 'yes, we will. i am sorry the time goes so quickly.' when a few minutes had passed in silence, he asked,-- 'do you feel that i am no longer quite a stranger to you, miss madden?' 'yes--you have told me so much.' 'it's very kind of you to listen so patiently. i wish i had more interesting things to tell, but you see what a dull life mine has been.' he paused, and let the boat waver on the stream for a moment. 'when i dared to speak to you last sunday i had only the faintest hope that you would grant me your acquaintance. you can't, i am sure, repent of having done me that kindness--?' 'one never knows. i doubted whether i ought to talk with a stranger--' 'rightly--quite rightly. it was my perseverance--you saw, i hope, that i could never dream of giving you offence. the rule is necessary, but you see there may be exceptional cases.' he was giving a lazy stroke now and then, which, as the tide was still, just moved the boat onwards. 'i saw something in your face that _compelled_ me to speak to you. and now we may really be friends, i hope?' 'yes--i can think of you as a friend, mr. widdowson.' a large boat was passing with four or five young men and girls who sang in good time and tune. only a song of the music-hall or of the nigger minstrels, but it sounded pleasantly with the plash of the oars. a fine sunset had begun to glow upon the river; its warmth gave a tone to monica's thin cheeks. 'and you will let me see you again before long? let me drive you to hampton court next sunday--or any other place you would choose.' 'very likely i shall be invited to my friend's in chelsea.' 'do you seriously think of leaving the shop?' 'i don't know--i must have time to think about it--' 'yes--yes. but if i write a line to you, say on friday, would you let me know whether you can come?' 'please to let me refuse for next sunday. the one after, perhaps--' he bent his head, looked desperately grave, and drove the boat on. monica was disturbed, but held to her resolution, which widdowson silently accepted. the rest of the way they exchanged only brief sentences, about the beauty of the sky, the scenes on river or bank, and other impersonal matters. after landing, they walked in silence towards chelsea bridge. 'now i must go quickly home,' said monica. 'but how?' 'by train--from york road to walworth road.' widdowson cast a curious glance at her. one would have imagined that he found something to disapprove in this ready knowledge of london transit. 'i will go with you to the station, then.' without a word spoken, they walked the short distance to york road. monica took her ticket, and offered a hand for good-bye. 'i may write to you,' said widdowson, his face set in an expression of anxiety, 'and make an appointment, if possible, for the sunday after next?' 'i shall be glad to come--if i can.' 'it will be a very long time to me.' with a faint smile, monica hurried away to the platform. in the train she looked like one whose mind is occupied with grave trouble. fatigue had suddenly overcome her; she leaned back and closed her eyes. at a street corner very near to messrs. scotcher's establishment she was intercepted by a tall, showily-dressed, rather coarse-featured girl, who seemed to have been loitering about. it was miss eade. 'i want to speak to you, miss madden. where did you go with mr. bullivant this morning?' the voice could not have been more distinctive of a london shop-girl; its tone signified irritation. 'with mr. bullivant? i went nowhere with him.' 'but i _saw_ you both get into the bus in kennington park road.' 'did you?' monica returned coldly. 'i can't help it if mr. bullivant happened to be going the same way.' 'oh, very well! i thought you was to be trusted. it's nothing to me--' 'you behave very foolishly, miss eade,' exclaimed the other, whose nerves at this moment would not allow her to use patience with the jealous girl. 'i can only tell you that i have never thought again of mr. bullivant since he left the bus somewhere in clapham road. i'm tired of talking about such things.' 'now, see here, don't be cross. come and walk a bit and tell me--' 'i'm too tired. and there's nothing whatever to tell you.' 'oh, well, if you're going to be narsty?' monica walked on, but the girl caught her up. 'don't be so sharp with me, miss madden. i don't say as you wanted him to go in the bus with you. but you might tell me what he had to say.' 'nothing at all; except that he wished to know where i was going, which was no business of his. i did what i could for you. i told him that if he asked you to go up the river with him i felt sure you wouldn't refuse.' 'oh, you did!' miss eade threw up her head. 'i don't think it was a very delicate thing to say.' 'you are very unreasonable. i myself don't think it was very delicate, but haven't you worried me to say something of the kind?' 'no, that i'm sure i haven't! worrited you, indeed!' 'then please never to speak to me on the subject again. i'm tired of it.' 'and what did _he_ say, when you'd said that?' 'i can't remember.' 'oh, you _are_ narsty to-day! really you are! if it had been the other way about, i'd never have treated _you_ like this, that i wouldn't.' 'good-night!' they were close to the door by which messrs. scotcher's resident employees entered at night. monica had taken out her latchkey. but miss eade could not endure the thought of being left in torturing ignorance. '_do_ tell me!' she whispered. 'i'll do anything for you i can. don't be unkind, miss madden!' monica turned back again. 'if i were you, i wouldn't be so silly. i can't do more than assure you and promise you that i shall never listen to mr. bullivant.' 'but what did he say about _me_, dear?' 'nothing.' miss eade kept a mortified silence. 'you had much better not think of him at all. i would have more pride. i wish i could make you see him as i do.' 'and you did really speak about me? oh, i do wish you'd find some one to go out with. then perhaps--' monica stood still, hesitated, and at length said,-- 'well--i _have_ found some one.' 'you have?' the girl all but danced with joy. 'you really have?' 'yes--so now don't trouble me any more.' this time she was allowed to turn back and enter the house. no one else had yet come in. monica ate a mouthful of bread and cheese, which was in readiness on the long table down in the basement, and at once went to bed. but no welcome drowsiness fell upon her. at half-past eleven, when two of the other five girls who slept in the room made their appearance, she was still changing uneasily from side to side. they lit the gas (it was not turned off till midnight, after which hour the late arrivals had to use a candle of their own procuring), and began a lively conversation on the events of the day. afraid of being obliged to talk, monica feigned sleep. at twelve, just as the gas went out, another pair came to repose. they had been quarrelling, and were very gloomy. after a long and acrimonious discussion in the dark as to which of them should find a candle--it ended in one of the girls who was in bed impatiently supplying a light--they began sullenly to throw off their garments. 'is miss madden awake?' said one of them, looking in monica's direction. there was no reply. 'she's picked up some feller to-day,' continued the speaker, lowering her voice, and glancing round at her companions with a grin. 'or else she's had him all along--i shouldn't wonder.' heads were put forward eagerly, and inquiries whispered. 'he's oldish, i should say. i caught sight of them just as they was going off in a boat from battersea park, but i couldn't see his face very well. he looked rather like mr. thomas.' mr. thomas was a member of the drapery firm, a man of fifty, ugly and austere. at this description the listeners giggled and uttered exclamations. 'was he a swell?' asked one. 'shouldn't wonder if he was. you can trust miss m. to keep her eyes open. she's one of the sly and quiet 'uns.' 'oh, is she?' murmured another enviously. 'she's just one of those as gets made a fool of--that's _my_ opinion.' the point was argued for some minutes. it led to talk about miss eade, who was treated with frank contempt because of her ill-disguised pursuit of a mere counter-man. these other damsels had, at present, more exalted views, for they were all younger than miss eade. just before one o'clock, when silence had reigned for a quarter of an hour, there entered with much bustle the last occupant of the bedroom. she was a young woman with a morally unenviable reputation, though some of her colleagues certainly envied her. money came to her with remarkable readiness whenever she had need of it. as usual, she began to talk very loud, at first with innocent vulgarity; exciting a little laughter, she became anecdotic and very scandalous. it took her a long time to disrobe, and when the candle was out, she still had her richest story to relate--of point so rabelaisian that one or two voices made themselves heard in serious protest. the gifted anecdotist replied with a long laugh, then cried, 'good-night, young ladies!' and sank peacefully to slumber. as for monica, she saw the white dawn peep at the window, and closed her tear-stained eyes only when the life of a new week had begun noisily in walworth road. chapter vi a camp of the reserve in consequence of letters exchanged during the week, next sunday brought the three miss maddens to queen's road to lunch with miss barfoot. alice had recovered from her cold, but was still ailing, and took rather a gloomy view of the situation she had lately reviewed with such courage. virginia maintained her enthusiastic faith in miss nunn, and was prepared to reverence miss barfoot with hardly less fervour. both of them found it difficult to understand their young sister, who, in her letters, had betrayed distaste for the change of career proposed to her. they were received with the utmost kindness, and all greatly enjoyed their afternoon, for not even monica's prejudice against a house, which in her own mind she had stigmatized as 'an old-maid factory,' could resist the charm of the hostess. though miss barfoot had something less than a woman's average stature, the note of her presence was personal dignity. she was handsome, and her carriage occasionally betrayed a consciousness of the fact. according to circumstances, she bore herself as the lady of aristocratic tastes, as a genial woman of the world, or as a fervid prophetess of female emancipation, and each character was supported with a spontaneity, a good-natured confidence, which inspired liking and respect. a brilliant complexion and eyes that sparkled with habitual cheerfulness gave her the benefit of doubt when her age was in question; her style of dress, gracefully ornate, would have led a stranger to presume her a wedded lady of some distinction. yet mary barfoot had known many troubles, poverty among them. her experiences and struggles bore a close resemblance to those which rhoda nunn had gone through, and the time of trial had lasted longer. mental and moral stamina would have assured her against such evils of celibacy as appeared in the elder maddens, but it was to a change of worldly fortune that she owed this revival of youthful spirit and energy in middle life. 'you and i must be friends,' she said to monica, holding the girl's soft little hand. 'we are both black but comely.' the compliment to herself seemed the most natural thing in the world. monica blushed with pleasure, and could not help laughing. it was all but decided that monica should become a pupil at the school in great portland street. in a brief private conversation, miss barfoot offered to lend her the money that might be needful. 'nothing but a business transaction, miss madden. you can give me security; you will repay me at your convenience. if, in the end, this occupation doesn't please you, you will at all events have regained health. it is clear to me that you mustn't go on in that dreadful place you described to miss nunn.' the visitors took their leave at about five o'clock. 'poor things! poor things!' sighed miss barfoot, when she was alone with her friend. 'what can we possibly do for the older ones?' 'they are excellent creatures,' said rhoda; 'kind, innocent women; but useful for nothing except what they have done all their lives. the eldest can't teach seriously, but she can keep young children out of mischief and give them a nice way of speaking. her health is breaking down, you can see.' 'poor woman! one of the saddest types.' 'decidedly. virginia isn't quite so depressing--but how childish!' 'they all strike me as childish. monica is a dear little girl; it seemed a great absurdity to talk to her about business. of course she must find a husband.' 'i suppose so.' rhoda's tone of slighting concession amused her companion. 'my dear, after all we don't desire the end of the race.' 'no, i suppose not,' rhoda admitted with a laugh. 'a word of caution. your zeal is eating you up. at this rate, you will hinder our purpose. we have no mission to prevent girls from marrying suitably--only to see that those who can't shall have a means of living with some satisfaction.' 'what chance is there that this girl will marry suitably?' 'oh, who knows? at all events, there will be more likelihood of it if she comes into our sphere.' 'really? do you know any man that would dream of marrying her?' 'perhaps not, at present.' it was clear that miss barfoot stood in some danger of becoming subordinate to her more vehement friend. her little body, for all its natural dignity, put her at a disadvantage in the presence of rhoda, who towered above her with rather imperious stateliness. her suavity was no match for rhoda's vigorous abruptness. but the two were very fond of each other, and by this time thought themselves able safely to dispense with the forms at first imposed by their mutual relations. 'if she marry at all,' declared miss nunn, 'she will marry badly. the family is branded. they belong to the class we know so well--with no social position, and unable to win an individual one. i must find a name for that ragged regiment.' miss barfoot regarded her friend thoughtfully. 'rhoda, what comfort have you for the poor in spirit?' 'none whatever, i'm afraid. my mission is not to them.' after a pause, she added,-- 'they have their religious faith, i suppose; and it's answerable for a good deal.' 'it would be a terrible responsibility to rob them of it,' remarked the elder woman gravely. rhoda made a gesture of impatience. 'it's a terrible responsibility to do anything at all. but i'm glad'--she laughed scornfully--'that it's not my task to release them.' mary barfoot mused, a compassionate shadow on her fine face. 'i don't think we can do without the spirit of that religion,' she said at length--'the essential human spirit. these poor women--one ought to be very tender with them. i don't like your "ragged regiment" phrase. when i grow old and melancholy, i think i shall devote myself to poor hopeless and purposeless women--try to warm their hearts a little before they go hence.' 'admirable!' murmured rhoda, smiling. 'but in the meantime they cumber us; we have to fight.' she threw forward her arms, as though with spear and buckler. miss barfoot was smiling at this palladin attitude when a servant announced two ladies--mrs. smallbrook and miss haven. they were aunt and niece; the former a tall, ungainly, sharp-featured widow; the latter a sweet-faced, gentle, sensible-looking girl of five-and-twenty. 'i am so glad you are back again,' exclaimed the widow, as she shook hands with miss barfoot, speaking in a hard, unsympathetic voice. 'i do so want to ask your advice about an interesting girl who has applied to me. i'm afraid her past won't bear looking into, but most certainly she is a reformed character. winifred is most favourably impressed with her--' miss haven, the winifred in question, began to talk apart with rhoda nunn. 'i do wish my aunt wouldn't exaggerate so,' she said in a subdued voice, whilst mrs. smallbrook still talked loudly and urgently. 'i never said that i was favourably impressed. the girl protests far too much; she has played on aunt's weaknesses, i fear.' 'but who is she?' 'oh, some one who lost her character long ago, and lives, i should say, on charitable people. just because i said that she must once have had a very nice face, aunt misrepresents me in this way--it's too bad.' 'is she an educated person?' miss barfoot was heard to ask. 'not precisely well educated.' 'of the lower classes, then?' 'i don't like that term, you know. of the _poorer_ classes.' 'she never was a lady,' put in miss haven quietly but decidedly. 'then i fear i can be of no use,' said the hostess, betraying some of her secret satisfaction in being able thus to avoid mrs. smallbrook's request. winifred, a pupil at great portland street, was much liked by both her teachers; but the aunt, with her ceaseless philanthropy at other people's expense, could only be considered a bore. 'but surely you don't limit your humanity, miss barfoot, by the artificial divisions of society.' 'i think those divisions are anything but artificial,' replied the hostess good-humouredly. 'in the uneducated classes i have no interest whatever. you have heard me say so. 'yes, but i cannot think--isn't that just a little narrow?' 'perhaps so. i choose my sphere, that's all. let those work for the lower classes (i must call them lower, for they are, in every sense), let those work for them who have a call to do so. i have none. i must keep to my own class.' 'but surely, miss nunn,' cried the widow, turning to rhoda, 'we work for the abolition of all unjust privilege? to us, is not a woman a woman?' 'i am obliged to agree with miss barfoot. i think that as soon as we begin to meddle with uneducated people, all our schemes and views are unsettled. we have to learn a new language, for one thing. but your missionary enterprise is admirable.' 'for my part,' declared mrs. smallbrook, 'i aim at the solidarity of woman. you, at all events, agree with me, winifred?' 'i really don't think, aunt, that there can be any solidarity of ladies with servant girls,' responded miss haven, encouraged by a look from rhoda. 'then i grieve that your charity falls so far below the christian standard.' miss barfoot firmly guided the conversation to a more hopeful subject. not many people visited this house. every wednesday evening, from half-past eight to eleven, miss barfoot was at home to any of her acquaintances, including her pupils, who chose to call upon her; but this was in the nature of an association with recognized objects. of society in the common sense miss barfoot saw very little; she had no time to sacrifice in the pursuit of idle ceremonies. by the successive deaths of two relatives, a widowed sister and an uncle, she had come into possession of a modest fortune; but no thought of a life such as would have suggested itself to most women in her place ever tempted her. her studies had always been of a very positive nature; her abilities were of a kind uncommon in women, or at all events very rarely developed in one of her sex. she could have managed a large and complicated business, could have filled a place on a board of directors, have taken an active part in municipal government--nay, perchance in national. and this turn of intellect consisted with many traits of character so strongly feminine that people who knew her best thought of her with as much tenderness as admiration. she did not seek to become known as the leader of a 'movement,' yet her quiet work was probably more effectual than the public career of women who propagandize for female emancipation. her aim was to draw from the overstocked profession of teaching as many capable young women as she could lay hands on, and to fit them for certain of the pursuits nowadays thrown open to their sex. she held the conviction that whatever man could do, woman could do equally well--those tasks only excepted which demand great physical strength. at her instance, and with help from her purse, two girls were preparing themselves to be pharmaceutical chemists; two others had been aided by her to open a bookseller's shop; and several who had clerkships in view received an admirable training at her school in great portland street. thither every weekday morning miss barfoot and rhoda repaired; they arrived at nine o'clock, and with an hour's interval work went on until five. entering by the private door of a picture-cleaner's shop, they ascended to the second story, where two rooms had been furnished like comfortable offices; two smaller on the floor above served for dressing-rooms. in one of the offices, typewriting and occasionally other kinds of work that demanded intelligence were carried on by three or four young women regularly employed. to superintend this department was miss nunn's chief duty, together with business correspondence under the principal's direction. in the second room miss barfoot instructed her pupils, never more than three being with her at a time. a bookcase full of works on the woman question and allied topics served as a circulating library; volumes were lent without charge to the members of this little society. once a month miss barfoot or miss nunn, by turns, gave a brief address on some set subject; the hour was four o'clock, and about a dozen hearers generally assembled. both worked very hard. miss barfoot did not look upon her enterprise as a source of pecuniary profit, but she had made the establishment more than self-supporting. her pupils increased in number, and the working department promised occupation for a larger staff than was at present engaged. the young women in general answered their friend's expectations, but of course there were disappointing instances. one of these had caused miss barfoot special distress. a young girl whom she had released from a life of much hardship, and who, after a couple of months' trial, bade fair to develop noteworthy ability, of a sudden disappeared. she was without relatives in london, and miss barfoot's endeavours to find her proved for several weeks very futile. then came news of her; she was living as the mistress of a married man. every effort was made to bring her back, but the girl resisted; presently she again passed out of sight, and now more than a year had elapsed since miss barfoot's last interview with her. this monday morning, among letters delivered at the house, was one from the strayed girl. miss barfoot read it in private, and throughout the day remained unusually grave. at five o'clock, when staff and pupils had all departed, she sat for a while in meditation, then spoke to rhoda, who was glancing over a book by the window. 'here's a letter i should like you to read.' 'something that has been troubling you since morning, isn't it?' 'yes.' rhoda took the sheet and quickly ran through its contents. her face hardened, and she threw down the letter with a smile of contempt. 'what do you advise?' asked the elder woman, closely observing her. 'an answer in two lines--with a cheque enclosed, if you see fit.' 'does that really meet the case?' 'more than meets it, i should say.' miss barfoot pondered. 'i am doubtful. that is a letter of despair, and i can't close my ears to it.' 'you had an affection for the girl. help her, by all means, if you feel compelled to. but you would hardly dream of taking her back again?' 'that's the point. why shouldn't i?' 'for one thing,' replied rhoda, looking coldly down upon her friend, 'you will never do any good with her. for another, she isn't a suitable companion for the girls she would meet here.' 'i can't be sure of either objection. she acted with deplorable rashness, with infatuation, but i never discovered any sign of evil in her. did you?' 'evil? well, what does the word mean? i am not a puritan, and i don't judge her as the ordinary woman would. but i think she has put herself altogether beyond our sympathy. she was twenty-two years old--no child--and she acted with her eyes open. no deceit was practised with her. she knew the man had a wife, and she was base enough to accept a share of his attentions. do you advocate polygamy? that is an intelligible position, i admit. it is one way of meeting the social difficulty. but not mine.' 'my dear rhoda, don't enrage yourself.' 'i will try not to.' 'but i can't see the temptation to do so. come and sit down, and talk quietly. no, i have no fondness for polygamy. i find it very hard to understand how she could act as she did. but a mistake, however wretched, mustn't condemn a woman for life. that's the way of the world, and decidedly it mustn't be ours.' 'on this point i practically agree with the world.' 'i see you do, and it astonishes me. you are going through curious changes, in several respects. a year ago you didn't speak of her like this.' 'partly because i didn't know you well enough to speak my mind. partly yes, i have changed a good deal, no doubt. but i should never have proposed to take her by the hand and let bygones be bygones. that is an amiable impulse, but anti-social.' 'a favourite word on your lips just now, rhoda. why is it anti-social?' 'because one of the supreme social needs of our day is the education of women in self-respect and self-restraint. there are plenty of people--men chiefly, but a few women also of a certain temperament--who cry for a reckless individualism in these matters. they would tell you that she behaved laudably, that she was _living out herself_--and things of that kind. but i didn't think you shared such views.' 'i don't, altogether. "the education of women in self-respect." very well. here is a poor woman whose self-respect has given way under grievous temptation. circumstances have taught her that she made a wild mistake. the man gives her up, and bids her live as she can; she is reduced to beggary. now, in that position a girl is tempted to sink still further. the letter of two lines and an enclosed cheque would as likely as not plunge her into depths from which she could never be rescued. it would assure her that there was no hope. on the other hand, we have it in our power to attempt that very education of which you speak. she has brains, and doesn't belong to the vulgar. it seems to me that you are moved by illogical impulses--and certainly anything but kind ones.' rhoda only grew more stubborn. 'you say she yielded to a grievous temptation. what temptation? will it bear putting into words?' 'oh yes, i think it will,' answered miss barfoot, with her gentlest smile. 'she fell in love with the man.' 'fell in love!' concentration of scorn was in this echo. 'oh, for what isn't that phrase responsible!' 'rhoda, let me ask you a question on which i have never ventured. do you know what it is to be in love?' miss nunn's strong features were moved as if by a suppressed laugh; the colour of her cheeks grew very slightly warm. 'i am a normal human being,' she answered, with an impatient gesture. 'i understand perfectly well what the phrase signifies.' 'that is no answer, my dear. have you ever been in love with any man?' 'yes. when i was fifteen.' 'and not since,' rejoined the other, shaking her head and smiling. 'no, not since?' 'thank heaven, no!' 'then you are not very well able to judge this case. i, on the other hand, can judge it with the very largest understanding. don't smile so witheringly, rhoda. i shall neglect your advice for once.' 'you will bring this girl back, and continue teaching her as before?' 'we have no one here that knows her, and with prudence she need never be talked about by those of our friends who did.' 'oh, weak--weak--weak!' 'for once i must act independently.' 'yes, and at a stroke change the whole character of your work. you never proposed keeping a reformatory. your aim is to help chosen girls, who promise to be of some use in the world. this miss royston represents the profitless average--no, she is below the average. are you so blind as to imagine that any good will ever come of such a person? if you wish to save her from the streets, do so by all means. but to put her among your chosen pupils is to threaten your whole undertaking. let it once become known--and it _would_ become known--that a girl of that character came here, and your usefulness is at an end. in a year's time you will have to choose between giving up the school altogether and making it a refuge for outcasts.' miss barfoot was silent. she tapped with her fingers on the table. 'personal feeling is misleading you,' rhoda pursued. 'miss royston had a certain cleverness, i grant; but do you think i didn't know that she would never become what you hoped? all her spare time was given to novel-reading. if every novelist could be strangled and thrown into the sea we should have some chance of reforming women. the girl's nature was corrupted with sentimentality, like that of all but every woman who is intelligent enough to read what is called the best fiction, but not intelligent enough to understand its vice. love--love--love; a sickening sameness of vulgarity. what is more vulgar than the ideal of novelists? they won't represent the actual world; it would be too dull for their readers. in real life, how many men and women _fall in love_? not one in every ten thousand, i am convinced. not one married pair in ten thousand have felt for each other as two or three couples do in every novel. there is the sexual instinct, of course, but that is quite a different thing; the novelists daren't talk about that. the paltry creatures daren't tell the one truth that would be profitable. the result is that women imagine themselves noble and glorious when they are most near the animals. this miss royston--when she rushed off to perdition, ten to one she had in mind some idiot heroine of a book. oh, i tell you that you are losing sight of your first duty. there are people enough to act the good samaritan; _you_ have quite another task in life. it is your work to train and encourage girls in a path as far as possible from that of the husband-hunter. let them marry later, if they must; but at all events you will have cleared their views on the subject of marriage, and put them in a position to judge the man who offers himself. you will have taught them that marriage is an alliance of intellects--not a means of support, or something more ignoble still. but to do this with effect you must show yourself relentless to female imbecility. if a girl gets to know that you have received back such a person as miss royston she will be corrupted by your spirit of charity--corrupted, at all events, for our purposes. the endeavour to give women a new soul is so difficult that we can't be cumbered by side-tasks, such as fishing foolish people out of the mud they have walked into. charity for human weakness is all very well in its place, but it is precisely one of the virtues that you must _not_ teach. you have to set an example of the sterner qualities--to discourage anything that resembles sentimentalism. and think if you illustrate in your own behaviour a sympathy for the very vice of character we are trying our hardest to extirpate!' 'this is a terrible harangue,' said miss barfoot, when the passionate voice had been silent for a few ticks of the clock. 'i quite enter into your point of view, but i think you go beyond practical zeal. however, i will help the girl in some other way, if possible.' 'i have offended you.' 'impossible to take offence at such obvious sincerity.' 'but surely you grant the force of what i say?' 'we differ a good deal, rhoda, on certain points which as a rule would never come up to interfere with our working in harmony. you have come to dislike the very thought of marriage--and everything of that kind. i think it's a danger you ought to have avoided. true, we wish to prevent girls from marrying just for the sake of being supported, and from degrading themselves as poor bella royston has done; but surely between ourselves we can admit that the vast majority of women would lead a wasted life if they did not marry.' 'i maintain that the vast majority of women lead a vain and miserable life because they _do_ marry.' 'don't you blame the institution of marriage with what is chargeable to human fate? a vain and miserable life is the lot of nearly all mortals. most women, whether they marry or not, will suffer and commit endless follies.' 'most women--as life is at present arranged for them. things are changing, and we try to have our part in hastening a new order.' 'ah, we use words in a different sense. i speak of human nature, not of the effect of institutions.' 'now it is you who are unpractical. those views lead only to pessimism and paralysis of effort.' miss barfoot rose. 'i give in to your objection against bringing the girl back to work here. i will help her in other ways. it's quite true that she isn't to be relied upon.' 'impossible to trust her in any detail of life. the pity is that her degradation can't be used as an object lesson for our other girls.' 'there again we differ. you are quite mistaken in your ideas of how the mind is influenced. the misery of bella royston would not in the least affect any other girl's way of thinking about the destiny of her sex. we must avoid exaggeration. if our friends get to think of us as fanatics, all our usefulness is over. the ideal we set up must be human. do you think now that we know one single girl who in her heart believes it is better never to love and never to marry?' 'perhaps not,' admitted rhoda, more cheerful now that she had gained her point. 'but we know several who will not dream of marrying unless reason urges them as strongly as inclination.' miss barfoot laughed. 'pray, who ever distinguished in such a case between reason and inclination?' 'you are most unusually sceptical to-day,' said rhoda, with an impatient laugh. 'no, my dear. we happen to be going to the root of things, that's all. perhaps it's as well to do so now and then. oh, i admire you immensely, rhoda. you are the ideal adversary of those care-nothing and believe-nothing women who keep the world back. but don't prepare for yourself a woeful disillusion.' 'take the case of winifred haven,' urged miss nunn. 'she is a good-looking and charming girl, and some one or other will want to marry her some day, no doubt.' 'forgive my interrupting you. there is great doubt. she has no money but what she can earn, and such girls, unless they are exceptionally beautiful, are very likely indeed to remain unsought.' 'granted. but let us suppose she has an offer. should you fear for her prudence?' 'winifred has much good sense,' admitted the other. 'i think she is in as little danger as any girl we know. but it wouldn't startle me if she made the most lamentable mistake. certainly i don't fear it. the girls of our class are not like the uneducated, who, for one reason or another, will marry almost any man rather than remain single. they have at all events personal delicacy. but what i insist upon is, that winifred would rather marry than not. and we must carefully bear that fact in mind. a strained ideal is as bad, practically, as no ideal at all. only the most exceptional girl will believe it her duty to remain single as an example and support to what we call the odd women; yet _that_ is the most human way of urging what you desire. by taking up the proud position that a woman must be altogether independent of sexual things, you damage your cause. let us be glad if we put a few of them in the way of living single with no more discontent than an unmarried man experiences.' 'surely that's an unfortunate comparison,' said rhoda coldly. 'what man lives in celibacy? consider that unmentionable fact, and then say whether i am wrong in refusing to forgive miss royston. women's battle is not only against themselves. the necessity of the case demands what you call a strained ideal. i am seriously convinced that before the female sex can be raised from its low level there will have to be a widespread revolt against sexual instinct. christianity couldn't spread over the world without help of the ascetic ideal, and this great movement for woman's emancipation must also have its ascetics.' 'i can't declare that you are wrong in that. who knows? but it isn't good policy to preach it to our young disciples.' 'i shall respect your wish; but--' rhoda paused and shook her head. 'my dear,' said the elder woman gravely, 'believe me that the less we talk or think about such things the better for the peace of us all. the odious fault of working-class girls, in town and country alike, is that they are absorbed in preoccupation with their animal nature. we, thanks to our education and the tone of our society, manage to keep that in the background. don't interfere with this satisfactory state of things. be content to show our girls that it is their duty to lead a life of effort--to earn their bread and to cultivate their minds. simply ignore marriage--that's the wisest. behave as if the thing didn't exist. you will do positive harm by taking the other course--the aggressive course.' 'i shall obey you.' 'good, humble creature!' laughed miss barfoot. 'come, let us be off to chelsea. did miss grey finish that copy for mr. houghton?' 'yes, it has gone to post.' 'look, here's a big manuscript from our friend the antiquary. two of the girls must get to work on it at once in the morning.' manuscripts entrusted to them were kept in a fire-proof safe. when this had been locked up, the ladies went to their dressing-room and prepared for departure. the people who lived on the premises were responsible for cleaning the rooms and other care; to them rhoda delivered the door-keys. miss barfoot was grave and silent on the way home. rhoda, annoyed at the subject that doubtless occupied her friend's thoughts, gave herself up to reflections of her own. chapter vii a social advance a week's notice to her employers would release monica from the engagement in walworth road. such notice must be given on monday, so that, if she could at once make up her mind to accept miss barfoot's offer, the coming week would be her last of slavery behind the counter. on the way home from queen's road, alice and virginia pressed for immediate decision; they were unable to comprehend how monica could hesitate for another moment. the question of her place of abode had already been discussed. one of miss barfoot's young women, who lived at a convenient distance from great portland street, would gladly accept a partner in her lodging--an arrangement to be recommended for its economy. yet monica shrank from speaking the final word. 'i don't know whether it's worth while,' she said, after a long silence, as they drew near to york road station, whence they were to take train for clapham junction. 'not worth while?' exclaimed virginia. 'you don't think it would be an improvement?' 'yes, i suppose it would. i shall see how i feel about it tomorrow morning.' she spent the evening at lavender hill, but without change in the mood thus indicated. a strange inquietude appeared in her behaviour. it was as though she were being urged to undertake something hard and repugnant. on her return to walworth road, just as she came within sight of the shop, she observed a man's figure some twenty yards distant, which instantly held her attention. the dim gaslight occasioned some uncertainty, but she believed the figure was that of widdowson. he was walking on the other side of the street, and away from her. when the man was exactly opposite scotcher's establishment he gazed in that direction, but without stopping. monica hastened, fearing to be seen and approached. already she had reached the door, when widdowson--yes, he it was--turned abruptly to walk back again. his eye was at once upon her; but whether he recognized her or not monica could not know. at that moment she opened the door and passed in. a fit of trembling seized her, as if she had barely escaped some peril. in the passage she stood motionless, listening with the intensity of dread. she could hear footsteps on the pavement; she expected a ring at the door-bell. if he were so thoughtless as to come to the door, she would on no account see him. but there was no ring, and after a few minutes' waiting she recovered her self-command. she had not made a mistake; even his features had been discernible as he turned towards her. was this the first time that he had come to look at the place where she lived--possibly to spy upon her? she resented this behaviour, yet the feeling was confused with a certain satisfaction. from one of the dormitories there was a view of walworth road. she ran upstairs, softly opened the door of that room, and peeped in. the low burning gas showed her that only one bed had an occupant, who appeared to be asleep. softly she went to the window, drew the blind aside, and looked down into the street. but widdowson had disappeared. he might of course be on this side of the way. 'who's that?' suddenly asked a voice from the occupied bed. the speaker was miss eade. monica looked at her, and nodded. 'you? what are you doing here?' 'i wanted to see if some one was standing outside.' 'you mean _him_?' the other nodded. 'i've got a beastly headache. i couldn't hold myself up, and i had to come home at eight o'clock. there's such pains all down my back too. i shan't stay at this beastly place much longer. i don't want to get ill, like miss radford. somebody went to see her at the hospital this afternoon, and she's awfully bad. well, have you seen him?' 'he's gone. good-night.' and monica left the room. next day she notified her intention of leaving her employment. no questions were asked; she was of no particular importance; fifty, or, for the matter of that, five score, young women equally capable could be found to fill her place. on tuesday morning there came a letter from virginia--a few lines requesting her to meet her sisters, as soon as possible after closing time that evening, in front of the shop. 'we have something _very delightful_ to tell you. we _do hope_ you gave notice to-day, as things are getting so bright in every direction.' at a quarter to ten she was able to run out, and close at hand were the two eagerly awaiting her. 'mrs. darby has found a place for alice,' began virginia. 'we heard by the afternoon post yesterday. a lady at yatton wants a governess for two young children. isn't it fortunate?' 'so delightfully convenient for what we were thinking of,' put in the eldest, with her croaking voice. 'nothing could have been better.' 'you mean about the school?' said monica dreamily. 'yes, the school,' virginia replied, with trembling earnestness. 'yatton is convenient both for clevedon and weston. alice will be able to run over to both places and make enquiries, and ascertain where the best opening would be.' miss nunn's suggestion, hitherto but timidly discussed, had taken hold upon their minds as soon as alice received the practical call to her native region. both were enthusiastic for the undertaking. it afforded them a novel subject of conversation, and inspirited them by seeming to restore their self-respect. after all, they might have a mission, a task in the world. they pictured themselves the heads of a respectable and thriving establishment, with subordinate teachers, with pleasant social relations; they felt young again, and capable of indefinite activity. why had they not thought of this long ago? and thereupon they reverted to antistrophic laudation of rhoda nunn. 'is it a good place?' their younger sister inquired. 'oh, pretty good. only twelve pounds a year, but nice people, mrs. darby says. they want me at once, and it is very likely that in a few weeks i shall go with them to the seaside.' 'what _could_ have been better?' cried virginia. 'her health will be established, and in half a year, or less, we shall be able to come to a decision about the great step. oh, and have you given notice, darling?' 'yes, i have.' both clapped their hands like children. it was an odd little scene on the london pavement at ten o'clock at night; so intimately domestic amid surroundings the very antithesis of domesticity. only a few yards away, a girl, to whom the pavement was a place of commerce, stood laughing with two men. the sound of her voice hinted to monica the advisability of walking as they conversed, and they moved towards walworth road station. 'we thought at first,' said virginia, 'that when alice had gone you might like to share my room; but then the distance from great portland street would be a decided objection. i might move, but we doubt whether that would be worth while. it is so comfortable with mrs. conisbee, and for the short remaining time--christmas, i should think, would be a very good time for opening. if it were possible to decide upon dear old clevedon, of course we should prefer it; but perhaps weston will offer more scope. alice will weigh all the arguments on the spot. don't you envy her, monica? think of being _there_ in this summer weather!' 'why don't you go as well?' monica asked. 'i? and take lodgings, you mean? we never thought of that. but we still have to consider expenditure very seriously, you know. if possible, i must find employment for the rest of the year. remember how very likely it is that miss nunn will have something to suggest for me. and when i think it will be of so much practical use for me to see her frequently for a few weeks. already i have learnt so much from her and from miss barfoot. their conversation is so encouraging. i feel that it is a training of the mind to be in contact with them.' 'yes, i quite share that view,' said alice, with tremulous earnestness. 'virginia can reap much profit from intercourse with them. they have the new ideas in education, and it would be so good if our school began with the advantage of quite a modern system.' monica became silent. when her sisters had talked in the same strain for a quarter of an hour, she said absently,-- 'i wrote to miss barfoot last night, so i suppose i shall be able to move to those lodgings next sunday.' it was eleven o'clock before they parted. having taken leave of her sisters near the station, monica turned to walk quickly home. she had gone about half the way, when her name was spoken just behind her, in widdowson's voice. she stopped, and there stood the man, offering his hand. 'why are you here at this time?' she asked in an unsteady voice. 'not by chance. i had a hope that i might see you.' he was gloomy, and looked at her searchingly. 'i mustn't wait to talk now, mr. widdowson. it's very late.' 'very late indeed. it surprised me to see you.' 'surprised you? why should it?' 'i mean that it seemed so very unlikely--at this hour.' 'then how could you have hoped to see me?' monica walked on, with an air of displeasure, and widdowson kept beside her, incessantly eyeing her countenance. 'no, i didn't really think of seeing you, miss madden. i wished to be near the place where you were, that was all.' 'you saw me come out i dare say.' 'no.' 'if you had done, you would have known that i came to meet two ladies, my sisters. i walked with them to the station, and now i am going home. you seem to think an explanation necessary--' 'do forgive me! what right have i to ask anything of the kind? but i have been very restless since sunday. i wished so to meet you, if only for a few minutes. only an hour or two ago i posted a letter to you.' monica said nothing. 'it was to ask you to meet me next sunday, as we arranged. shall you be able to do so?' 'i'm afraid i can't. at the end of this week i leave my place here, and on sunday i shall be moving to another part of london.' 'you are leaving? you have decided to make the change you spoke of?' 'yes.' 'and will you tell me where you are going to live?' 'in lodgings near great portland street. i must say good-night, mr. widdowson. i must, indeed.' 'please--do give me one moment!' 'i can't stay--i can't--good-night!' it was impossible for him to detain her. ungracefully he caught at his hat, made the salute, and moved away with rapid, uneven strides. in less than half an hour he was back again at this spot. he walked past the shop many times without pausing; his eyes devoured the front of the building, and noted those windows in which there was a glimmer of light. he saw girls enter by the private door, but monica did not again show herself. some time after midnight, when the house had long been dark and perfectly quiet, the uneasy man took a last look, and then sought a cab to convey him home. the letter of which he had spoken reached monica's hands next morning. it was a very respectful invitation to accompany the writer on a drive in surrey. widdowson proposed to meet her at herne hill railway station, where his vehicle would be waiting. 'in passing, i shall be able to point out to you the house which has been my home for about a year.' as circumstances were, it would be hardly possible to accept this invitation without exciting curiosity in her sisters. the sunday morning would be occupied, probably, in going to the new lodgings and making the acquaintance of her future companion there; in the afternoon, her sisters were to pay her a visit, as alice had decided to start for somerset on the monday. she must write a refusal, but it was by no means her wish to discourage widdowson altogether. the note which at length satisfied her ran thus: 'dear mr. widdowson--i am very sorry that it will be impossible for me to see you next sunday. all day i shall be occupied. my eldest sister is leaving london, and sunday will be my last day with her, perhaps for a long time. please do not think that i make light of your kindness. when i am settled in my new life, i hope to be able to let you know how it suits me.--sincerely yours, monica madden.' in a postscript she mentioned her new address. it was written in very small characters--perhaps an unpurposed indication of the misgiving with which she allowed herself to pen the words. two days went by, and again a letter from widdowson was delivered, 'dear miss madden--my chief purpose in writing again so soon is to apologize sincerely for my behaviour on tuesday evening. it was quite unjustifiable. the best way of confessing my fault is to own that i had a foolish dislike of your walking in the streets unaccompanied at so late an hour. i believe that any man who had newly made your acquaintance, and had thought as much about you as i have, would have experienced the same feeling. the life which made it impossible for you to see friends at any other time of the day was so evidently unsuited to one of your refinement that i was made angry by the thought of it. happily it is coming to an end, and i shall be greatly relieved when i know that you have left the house of business. 'you remember that we are to be friends. i should be much less than your friend if i did not desire for you a position very different from that which necessity forced upon you. thank you very much for the promise to tell me how you like the new employment and your new friends. shall you not henceforth be at leisure on other days besides sunday? as you will now be near regent's park, perhaps i may hope to meet you there some evening before long. i would go any distance to see you and speak with you for only a few minutes. 'do forgive my impertinence, and believe me, dear miss madden.-- ever yours, edmund widdowson.' now this undoubtedly might be considered a love-letter, and it was the first of its kind that monica had ever received. no man had ever written to her that he was willing to go 'any distance' for the reward of looking on her face. she read the composition many times, and with many thoughts. it did not enchant her; presently she felt it to be dull and prosy--anything but the ideal of a love-letter, even at this early stage. the remarks concerning widdowson made in the bedroom by the girl who fancied her asleep had greatly disturbed her conception of him. he was old, and looked still older to a casual eye. he had a stiff dry way, and already had begun to show how precise and exacting he could be. a year or two ago the image of such a man would have repelled her. she did not think it possible to regard him with warm feelings; yet, if he asked her to marry him--and that seemed likely to happen very soon--almost certainly her answer would be yes. provided, of course, that all he had told her about himself could be in some satisfactory way confirmed. her acquaintance with him was an extraordinary thing. with what amazement and rapture would any one of her shop companions listen to the advances of a man who had six hundred a year! yet monica did not doubt his truthfulness and the honesty of his intentions. his life-story sounded credible enough, and the very dryness of his manner inspired confidence. as things went in the marriage war, she might esteem herself a most fortunate young woman. it seemed that he had really fallen in love with her; he might prove a devoted husband. she felt no love in return; but between the prospect of a marriage of esteem and that of no marriage at all there was little room for hesitation. the chances were that she might never again receive an offer from a man whose social standing she could respect. in the meantime there had come a civil little note from the girl whose rooms she was to share. 'miss barfoot has spoken of you so favourably that i did not think it necessary to see you before consenting to what she suggested. perhaps she has told you that i have my own furniture; it is very plain, but, i think, comfortable. for the two rooms, with attendance, i pay eight and sixpence a week; my landlady will ask eleven shillings when there are two of us, so that your share would be five-and-six. i hope you won't think this is too much. i am a quiet and i think a very reasonable person.' the signature was 'mildred h. vesper.' the day of release arrived. as it poured with rain all the morning, monica the less regretted that she had been obliged to postpone her meeting with widdowson. at breakfast-time she said good-bye to the three or four girls in whom she had any interest. miss eade was delighted to see her go. this rival finally out of the way, mr. bullivant might perchance turn his attention to the faithful admirer who remained. she went by train to great portland street, and thence by cab, with her two boxes, to rutland street, hampstead road--an uphill little street of small houses. when the cab stopped, the door of the house she sought at once opened, and on the threshold appeared a short, prim, plain-featured girl, who smiled a welcome. 'you are miss vesper?' monica said, approaching her. 'yes--very pleased to see you, miss madden. as london cabmen have a narrow view of their duties, i'll help you to get the boxes in.' monica liked the girl at once. jehu condescending to hand down the luggage, they transferred it to the foot of the staircase, then, the fare having been paid, went up to the second floor, which was the top of the house. miss vesper's two rooms were very humble, but homely. she looked at monica to remark the impression produced by them. 'will it do?' 'oh, very nicely indeed. after my quarters in walworth road! but i feel ashamed to intrude upon you.' 'i have been trying to find someone to share my rent,' said the other, with a simple frankness that was very agreeable. 'miss barfoot was full of your praises--and indeed i think we may suit each other.' 'i shall try to be as little disturbance to you as possible.' 'and i to you. the street is a very quiet one. up above here is cumberland market; a hay and straw market. quite pleasant odours--country odours--reach us on market day. i am country-bred; that's why i speak of such a trifle.' 'so am i,' said monica. 'i come from somerset.' 'and i from hampshire. do you know, i have a strong suspicion that all the really nice girls in london _are_ country girls.' monica had to look at the speaker to be sure that this was said in pleasantry. miss vesper was fond of making dry little jokes in the gravest tone; only a twinkle of her eyes and a movement of her tight little lips betrayed her. 'shall i ask the landlady to help me up with the luggage?' 'you are rather pale, miss madden. better let me see to that. i have to go down to remind mrs. hocking to put salt into the saucepan with the potatoes. she cooks for me only on sunday, and if i didn't remind her every week she would boil the potatoes without salt. such a state of mind is curious, but one ends by accepting it as a fact in nature.' they joined in merry laughter. when miss vesper gave way to open mirth, she enjoyed it so thoroughly that it was a delight to look at her. by the time dinner was over they were on excellent terms, and had exchanged a great deal of personal information. mildred vesper seemed to be one of the most contented of young women. she had sisters and brothers, whom she loved, all scattered about england in pursuit of a livelihood; it was rare for any two of them to see each other, but she spoke of this as quite in the order of things. for miss barfoot her respect was unbounded. 'she had made more of me than any one else could have done. when i first met her, three years ago, i was a simpleton; i thought myself ill-used because i had to work hard for next to no payment and live in solitude. now i should be ashamed to complain of what falls to the lot of thousands of girls.' 'do you like miss nunn?' asked monica. 'not so well as miss barfoot, but i think very highly of her. her zeal makes her exaggerate a little now and then, but then the zeal is so splendid. i haven't it myself--not in that form.' 'you mean--' 'i mean that i feel a shameful delight when i hear of a girl getting married. it's very weak, no doubt; perhaps i shall improve as i grow older. but i have half a suspicion, do you know, that miss barfoot is not without the same weakness.' monica laughed, and spoke of something else. she was in good spirits; already her companion's view of life began to have an effect upon her; she thought of people and things in a more lightsome way, and was less disposed to commiserate herself. the bedroom which both were to occupy might with advantage have been larger, but they knew that many girls of instinct no less delicate than their own had to endure far worse accommodation in london--where poverty pays for its sheltered breathing-space at so much a square foot. it was only of late that miss vesper had been able to buy furniture (four sovereigns it cost in all), and thus to allow herself the luxury of two rooms at the rent she previously paid for one. miss barfoot did not remunerate her workers on a philanthropic scale, but strictly in accordance with market prices; common sense dictated this principle. in talking over their arrangements, monica decided to expend a few shillings on the purchase of a chair-bedstead for her own use. 'i often have nightmares,' she remarked, 'and kick a great deal. it wouldn't be nice to give you bruises.' a week passed. alice had written from yatton, and in a cheerful tone. virginia, chronically excited, had made calls at rutland street and at queen's road; she talked like one who had suddenly received a great illumination, and her zeal in the cause of independent womanhood rivalled miss nunn's. without enthusiasm, but seemingly contented, monica worked at the typewriting machine, and had begun certain studies which her friends judged to be useful. she experienced a growth of self-respect. it was much to have risen above the status of shop-girl, and the change of moral atmosphere had a very beneficial effect upon her. mildred vesper was a studious little person, after a fashion of her own. she possessed four volumes of maunder's 'treasuries', and to one or other of these she applied herself for at least an hour every evening. 'by nature,' she said, when monica sought an explanation of this study, 'my mind is frivolous. what i need is a store of solid information, to reflect upon. no one could possibly have a worse memory, but by persevering i manage to learn one or two facts a day.' monica glanced at the books now and then, but had no desire to cultivate maunder's acquaintance. instead of reading, she meditated the problems of her own life. edmund widdowson, of course, wrote to her at the new address. in her reply she again postponed their meeting. whenever she went out in the evening, it was with expectation of seeing him somewhere in the neighbourhood; she felt assured that he had long ago come to look at the house, and more likely than not his eyes had several times been upon her. that did not matter; her life was innocent, and widdowson might watch her coming and going as much as he would. at length, about nine o'clock one evening, she came face to face with him. it was in hampstead road; she had been buying at a draper's, and carried the little parcel. at the moment of recognition, widdowson's face so flushed and brightened that monica could not help a sympathetic feeling of pleasure. 'why are you so cruel to me?' he said in a low voice, as she gave her hand. 'what a time since i saw you!' 'is that really true?' she replied, with an air more resembling coquetry than any he had yet seen in her. 'since i spoke to you, then.' 'when did you see me?' 'three evenings ago. you were walking in tottenham court road with a young lady.' 'miss vesper, the friend i live with.' 'will you give me a few minutes now?' he asked humbly. 'is it too late?' for reply monica moved slowly on. they turned up one of the ways parallel with rutland street, and so came into the quiet district that skirts regent's park, widdowson talking all the way in a strain of all but avowed tenderness, his head bent towards her and his voice so much subdued that occasionally she lost a few words. 'i can't live without seeing you,' he said at length. 'if you refuse to meet me, i have no choice but to come wandering about the places where you are. don't, pray don't think i spy upon you. indeed, it is only just to see your face or your form as you walk along. when i have had my journey in vain i go back in misery. you are never out of my thoughts--never.' 'i am sorry for that, mr. widdowson.' 'sorry? are you really sorry? do you think of me with less friendliness than when we had our evening on the river?' 'oh, not with less friendliness. but if i only make you unhappy--' 'in one way unhappy, but as no one else ever had the power to. if you would let me meet you at certain times my restlessness would be at an end. the summer is going so quickly. won't you come for that drive with me next sunday? i will be waiting for you at any place you like to appoint. if you could imagine what joy it would give me!' presently monica assented. if it were fine, she would be by the southeast entrance to regent's park at two o'clock. he thanked her with words of the most submissive gratitude, and then they parted. the day proved doubtful, but she kept her appointment. widdowson was on the spot with horse and trap. these were not, as he presently informed monica, his own property, but hired from a livery stable, according to his custom. 'it won't rain,' he exclaimed, gazing at the sky. 'it _shan't_ rain! these few hours are too precious to me.' 'it would be very awkward if it _did_,' monica replied, in merry humour, as they drove along. the sky threatened till sundown, but widdowson was able to keep declaring that rain would not come. he took a south-westward course, crossed waterloo bridge, and thence by the highways made for herne hill. monica observed that he made a short detour to avoid walworth road. she asked his reason. 'i hate the road!' widdowson answered, with vehemence. 'you hate it?' 'because you slaved and suffered there. if i had the power, i would destroy it--every house. many a time,' he added, in a lower voice, 'when you were lying asleep, i walked up and down there in horrible misery.' 'just because i had to stand at a counter?' 'not only that. it wasn't fit for you to work in that way--but the people about you! i hated every face of man or woman that passed along the street.' 'i didn't like the society.' 'i should hope not. of course, i know you didn't. why did you ever come to such a place?' there was severity rather than sympathy in his look. 'i was tired of the dull country life,' monica replied frankly. 'and then i didn't know what the shops and the people were like.' 'do you need a life of excitement?' he asked, with a sidelong glance. 'excitement? no, but one must have change.' when they reached herne hill, widdowson became silent, and presently he allowed the horse to walk. 'that is my house, miss madden--the right-hand one.' monica looked, and saw two little villas, built together with stone facings, porches at the doors and ornamented gables. 'i only wanted to show it you,' he added quickly. 'there's nothing pretty or noticeable about it, and it isn't at all grandly furnished. my old housekeeper and one servant manage to keep it in order.' they passed, and monica did not allow herself to look back. 'i think it's a nice house,' she said presently. 'all my life i have wished to have a house of my own, but i didn't dare to hope i ever should. men in general don't seem to care so long as they have lodgings that suit them--i mean unmarried men. but i always wanted to live alone--without strangers, that is to say. i told you that i am not very sociable. when i got my house, i was like a child with a toy; i couldn't sleep for satisfaction. i used to walk all over it, day after day, before it was furnished. there was something that delighted me in the sound of my footsteps on the staircases and the bare floors. here i shall live and die, i kept saying to myself. not in solitude, i hoped. perhaps i might meet some one--' monica interrupted him to ask a question about some object in the landscape. he answered her very briefly, and for a long time neither spoke. then the girl, glancing at him with a smile of apology, said in a gentle tone-- 'you were telling me how the house pleased you. have you still the same pleasure in living there?' 'yes. but lately i have been hoping--i daren't say more. you will interrupt me again.' 'which way are we going now, mr. widdowson?' 'to streatham, then on to carshalton. at five o'clock we will use our right as travellers, and get some innkeeper to make tea for us. look, the sun is trying to break through; we shall have a fine evening yet. may i, without rudeness, say that you look better since you left that abominable place.' 'oh, i feel better.' after keeping his look fixed for a long time on the horse's ears, widdowson turned gravely to his companion. 'i told you about my sister-in-law. would you be willing to make her acquaintance?' 'i don't feel able to do that, mr. widdowson,' monica answered with decision. prepared for this reply, he began a long and urgent persuasion. it was useless; monica listened quietly, but without sign of yielding. the subject dropped, and they talked of indifferent things. on the homeward drive, when the dull sky grew dusk about them, and the suburban street-lamps began to show themselves in long glimmering lines, widdowson returned with shamefaced courage to the subject which for some hours had been in abeyance. 'i can't part from you this evening without a word of hope to remember. you know that i want you to be my wife. will you tell me if there is anything i can say or do to make your consent possible? have you any doubt of me?' 'no doubt whatever of your sincerity.' 'in one sense, i am still a stranger to you. will you give me the opportunity of making things between us more regular? will you allow me to meet some friend of yours whom you trust?' 'i had rather you didn't yet.' 'you wish to know still more of me, personally?' 'yes--i think i must know you much better before i can consent to any step of that kind.' 'but,' he urged, 'if we became acquaintances in the ordinary way, and knew each other's friends, wouldn't that be most satisfactory to you?' 'it might be. but you forget that so much would have to be explained. i have behaved very strangely. if i told everything to my friends i should leave myself no choice.' 'oh, why not? you would be absolutely free. i could no more than try to recommend myself to you. if i am so unhappy as to fail, how would you be anything but quite free?' 'but surely you must understand me. in this position, i must either not speak of you at all, or make it known that i am engaged to you. i can't have it taken for granted that i am engaged to you when i don't wish to be.' widdowson's head drooped; he set his lips in a hard gloomy expression. 'i have behaved very imprudently,' continued the girl. but i don't see--i can't see--what else i could have done. things are so badly arranged. it wasn't possible for us to be introduced by any one who knew us both, so i had either to break off your acquaintance after that first conversation, or conduct myself as i have been doing. i think it's a very hard position. my sisters would call me an immodest girl, but i don't think it is true. i may perhaps come to feel you as a girl ought to when she marries, and how else can i tell unless i meet you and talk with you? and your position is just the same. i don't blame you for a moment; i think it would be ridiculous to blame you. yet we have gone against the ordinary rule, and people would make us suffer for it--or me, at all events. her voice at the close was uncertain. widdowson looked at her with eyes of passionate admiration. 'thank you for saying that--for putting it so well, and so kindly for me. let us disregard people, then. let us go on seeing each other. i love you with all my soul'--he choked a little at this first utterance of the solemn word--'and your rules shall be mine. give me a chance of winning you. tell me if i offend you in anything--if there's anything you dislike in me.' 'will you cease coming to look for me when i don't know of it?' 'i promise you. i will never come again. and you will meet me a little oftener?' 'i will see you once every week. but i must still be perfectly free.' 'perfectly! i will only try to win you as any man may who loves a woman.' the tired horse clattered upon the hard highway and clouds gathered for a night of storm. chapter viii cousin everard as miss barfoot's eye fell on the letters brought to her at breakfast-time, she uttered an exclamation, doubtful in its significance. rhoda nunn, who rarely had a letter from any one, looked up inquiringly. 'i am greatly mistaken if that isn't my cousin everard's writing. i thought so. he is in london.' rhoda made no remark. 'pray read it,' said the other, handing her friend the epistle after she had gone through it. the handwriting was remarkably bold, but careful. punctuation was strictly attended to, and in places a word had been obliterated with a circular scrawl which left it still legible. 'dear cousin mary,--i hear that you are still active in an original way, and that civilization is more and more indebted to you. since my arrival in london a few weeks ago, i have several times been on the point of calling at your house, but scruples withheld me. our last interview was not quite friendly on your side, you will remember, and perhaps your failure to write to me means continued displeasure; in that case i might be rejected at your door, which i shouldn't like, for i am troubled with a foolish sense of personal dignity. i have taken a flat, and mean to stay in london for at least half a year. please let me know whether i may see you. indeed i should like to. nature meant us for good friends, but prejudice came between us. just a line, either of welcome or "get thee behind me!" in spite of your censures, i always was, and still am, affectionately yours, everard barfoot.' rhoda perused the sheet very attentively. 'an impudent letter,' said miss barfoot. 'just like him.' 'where does he appear from?' 'japan, i suppose. "but prejudice came between us." i like that! moral conviction is always prejudice in the eyes of these advanced young men. of course he must come. i am anxious to see what time has made of him.' 'was it really moral censure that kept you from writing to him?' inquired rhoda, with a smile. 'decidedly. i didn't approve of him at all, as i have frequently told you.' 'but i gather that he hasn't changed much.' 'not in theories,' replied miss barfoot. 'that isn't to be expected. he is far too stubborn. but in mode of life he may possibly be more tolerable.' 'after two or three years in japan,' rejoined rhoda, with a slight raising of the eyebrows. 'he is about three-and-thirty, and before he left england i think he showed possibilities of future wisdom. of course i disapprove of him, and, if necessary, shall let him understand that quite as plainly as before. but there's no harm in seeing if he has learnt to behave himself.' everard barfoot received an invitation to dine. it was promptly accepted, and on the evening of the appointment he arrived at half-past seven. his cousin sat alone in the drawing-room. at his entrance she regarded him with keen but friendly scrutiny. he had a tall, muscular frame, and a head of striking outline, with large nose, full lips, deep-set eyes, and prominent eyebrows. his hair was the richest tone of chestnut; his moustache and beard--the latter peaking slightly forward--inclined to redness. excellent health manifested itself in the warm purity of his skin, in his cheerful aspect, and the lightness of his bearing. the lower half of his forehead was wrinkled, and when he did not fix his look on anything in particular, his eyelids drooped, giving him for the moment an air of languor. on sitting down, he at once abandoned himself to a posture of the completest ease, which his admirable proportions made graceful. from his appearance one would have expected him to speak in rather loud and decided tones; but he had a soft voice, and used it with all the discretion of good-breeding, so that at times it seemed to caress the ear. to this mode of utterance corresponded his smile, which was frequent, but restrained to the expression of a delicate, good-natured irony. 'no one had told me of your return,' were miss barfoot's first words as she shook hands with him. 'i fancy because no one knew. you were the first of my kinsfolk to whom i wrote.' 'much honour, everard. you look very well.' 'i am glad to be able to say the same of you. and yet i hear that you work harder than ever.' 'who is the source of your information about me?' 'i had an account of you from tom, in a letter that caught me at constantinople.' 'tom? i thought he had forgotten my existence. who told him about me i can't imagine. so you didn't come straight home from japan?' barfoot was nursing his knee, his head thrown back. 'no; i loitered a little in egypt and turkey. are you living quite alone?' he drawled slightly on the last word, its second vowel making quite a musical note, of wonderful expressiveness. the clear decision of his cousin's reply was a sharp contrast. 'a lady lives with me--miss nunn. she will join us in a moment.' 'miss nunn?' he smiled. 'a partner in your activity?' 'she gives me valuable help.' 'i must hear all about it--if you will kindly tell me some day. it will interest me greatly. you always were the most interesting of our family. brother tom promised to be a genius, but marriage has blighted the hope, i fear.' 'the marriage was a very absurd one.' 'was it? i feared so; but tom seems satisfied. i suppose they will stay at madeira.' 'until his wife is tired of her imaginary phthisis, and amuses herself with imagining some other ailment that requires them to go to siberia.' 'ah, that kind of person, is she?' he smiled indulgently, and played for a moment with the lobe of his right ear. his ears were small, and of the ideal contour; the hand, too, thus displayed, was a fine example of blended strength and elegance. rhoda came in, so quietly that she was able to observe the guest before he had detected her presence. the movement of miss barfoot's eyes first informed him that another person was in the room. in the quietest possible way the introduction was performed, and all seated themselves. dressed, like the hostess, in black, and without ornaments of any kind save a silver buckle at her waist, rhoda seemed to have endeavoured to liken herself to the suggestion of her name by the excessive plainness with which she had arranged her hair; its tight smoothness was nothing like so becoming as the mode she usually adopted, and it made her look older. whether by accident or design, she took an upright chair, and sat upon it in a stiff attitude. finding it difficult to suspect rhoda of shyness, miss barfoot once or twice glanced at her with curiosity. for settled conversation there was no time; a servant announced dinner almost immediately. 'there shall be no forms, cousin everard,' said the hostess. 'please to follow us.' doing so, everard examined miss nunn's figure, which in its way was strong and shapely as his own. a motion of his lips indicated amused approval, but at once he commanded himself, and entered the dining-room with exemplary gravity. naturally, he sat opposite rhoda, and his eyes often skimmed her face; when she spoke, which was very seldom, he gazed at her with close attention. during the first part of the meal, miss barfoot questioned her relative concerning his oriental experiences. everard spoke of them in a light, agreeable way, avoiding the tone of instruction, and, in short, giving evidence of good taste. rhoda listened with a look of civil interest, but asked no question, and smiled only when it was unavoidable. presently the talk turned to things of home. 'have you heard of your friend mr. poppleton?' the hostess asked. 'poppleton? nothing whatever. i should like to see him.' 'i'm sorry to tell you he is in a lunatic asylum.' as barfoot kept the silence of astonishment, his cousin went on to tell him that the unhappy man seemed to have lost his wits among business troubles. 'yet i should have suggested another explanation,' remarked the young man, in his most discreet tone, 'you never met mrs. poppleton?' seeing that miss nunn had looked up with interest, he addressed himself to her. 'my friend poppleton was one of the most delightful men--perhaps the best and kindest i ever knew, and so overflowing with natural wit and humour that there was no resisting his cheerful influence. to the amazement of every one who knew him, he married perhaps the dullest woman he could have found. mrs. poppleton not only never made a joke, but couldn't understand what joking meant. only the flattest literalism was intelligible to her; she could follow nothing but the very macadam of conversation--had no palate for anything but the suet-pudding of talk.' rhoda's eyes twinkled, and miss barfoot laughed. everard was allowing himself a freedom in expression which hitherto he had sedulously avoided. 'yes,' he continued, 'she was by birth a lady--which made the infliction harder to bear. poor old poppleton! again and again i have heard him--what do you think?--laboriously _explaining_ jests to her. that was a trial, as you may imagine. there we sat, we three, in the unbeautiful little parlour--for they were anything but rich. poppleton would say something that convulsed me with laughter--in spite of my efforts, for i always dreaded the result so much that i strove my hardest to do no more than smile appreciation. my laugh compelled mrs. poppleton to stare at me--oh, her eyes! thereupon, her husband began his dread performance. the patience, the heroic patience, of that dear, good fellow! i have known him explain, and re-explain, for a quarter of an hour, and invariably without success. it might be a mere pun; mrs. poppleton no more understood the nature of a pun than of the binomial theorem. but worse was when the jest involved some allusion. when i heard poppleton begin to elucidate, to expound, the perspiration already on his forehead, i looked at him with imploring anguish. why _would_ he attempt the impossible? but the kind fellow couldn't disregard his wife's request. shall i ever forget her. "oh--yes--i see"?--when obviously she saw nothing but the wall at which she sat staring.' 'i have known her like,' said miss barfoot merrily. 'i am convinced his madness didn't come from business anxiety. it was the necessity, ever recurring, ever before him, of expounding jokes to his wife. believe me, it was nothing but that.' 'it seems very probable,' asserted rhoda dryly. 'then there's another friend of yours whose marriage has been unfortunate,' said the hostess. 'they tell me that mr. orchard has forsaken his wife, and without intelligible reason.' 'there, too, i can offer an explanation,' replied barfoot quietly, 'though you may doubt whether it justifies him. i met orchard a few months ago in alexandria, met him by chance in the street, and didn't recognize him until he spoke to me. he was worn to skin and bone. i found that he had abandoned all his possessions to mrs. orchard, and just kept himself alive on casual work for the magazines, wandering about the shores of the mediterranean like an uneasy spirit. he showed me the thing he had last written, and i see it is published in this month's _macmillan_. do read it. an exquisite description of a night in alexandria. one of these days he will starve to death. a pity; he might have done fine work.' 'but we await your explanation. what business has he to desert his wife and children?' 'let me give an account of a day i spent with him at tintern, not long before i left england. he and his wife were having a holiday there, and i called on them. we went to walk about the abbey. now, for some two hours--i will be strictly truthful--whilst we were in the midst of that lovely scenery, mrs. orchard discoursed unceasingly of one subject--the difficulty she had with her domestic servants. ten or twelve of these handmaidens were marshalled before our imagination; their names, their ages, their antecedents, the wages they received, were carefully specified. we listened to a _catalogue raisonne_ of the plates, cups, and other utensils that they had broken. we heard of the enormities which in each case led to their dismissal. orchard tried repeatedly to change the subject, but only with the effect of irritating his wife. what could he or i do but patiently give ear? our walk was ruined, but there was no help for it. now, be good enough to extend this kind of thing over a number of years. picture orchard sitting down in his home to literary work, and liable at any moment to an invasion from mrs. orchard, who comes to tell him, at great length, that the butcher has charged for a joint they have not consumed--or something of that kind. he assured me that his choice lay between flight and suicide, and i firmly believed him.' as he concluded, his eyes met those of miss nunn, and the latter suddenly spoke. 'why will men marry fools?' barfoot was startled. he looked down into his plate, smiling. 'a most sensible question,' said the hostess, with a laugh. 'why, indeed?' 'but a difficult one to answer,' remarked everard, with his most restrained smile. 'possibly, miss nunn, narrow social opportunity has something to do with it. they must marry some one, and in the case of most men choice is seriously restricted.' 'i should have thought,' replied rhoda, elevating her eyebrows, 'that to live alone was the less of two evils.' 'undoubtedly. but men like these two we have been speaking of haven't a very logical mind.' miss barfoot changed the topic. when, not long after, the ladies left him to meditate over his glass of wine, everard curiously surveyed the room. then his eyelids drooped, he smiled absently, and a calm sigh seemed to relieve his chest. the claret had no particular quality to recommend it, and in any case he would have drunk very little, for as regards the bottle his nature was abstemious. 'it is as i expected,' miss barfoot was saying to her friend in the drawing-room. 'he has changed very noticeably.' 'mr. barfoot isn't quite the man your remarks had suggested to me,' rhoda replied. 'i fancy he is no longer the man i knew. his manners are wonderfully improved. he used to assert himself in rather alarming ways. his letter, to be sure, had the old tone, or something of it.' 'i will go to the library for an hour,' said rhoda, who had not seated herself. 'mr. barfoot won't leave before ten, i suppose?' 'i don't think there will be any private talk.' 'still, if you will let me--' so, when everard appeared, he found his cousin alone. 'what are you going to do?' she asked of him good-naturedly. 'to do? you mean, how do i propose to employ myself? i have nothing whatever in view, beyond enjoying life.' 'at your age?' 'so young? or so old? which?' 'so young, of course. you deliberately intend to waste your life?' 'to enjoy it, i said. i am not prompted to any business or profession; that's all over for me; i have learnt all i care to of the active world.' 'but what do you understand by enjoyment?' asked miss barfoot, with knitted brows. 'isn't the spectacle of existence quite enough to occupy one through a lifetime? if a man merely travelled, could he possibly exhaust all the beauties and magnificences that are offered to him in every country? for ten years and more i worked as hard as any man; i shall never regret it, for it has given me a feeling of liberty and opportunity such as i should not have known if i had always lived at my ease. it taught me a great deal, too; supplemented my so-called education as nothing else could have done. but to work for ever is to lose half of life. i can't understand those people who reconcile themselves to quitting the world without having seen a millionth part of it.' 'i am quite reconciled to that. an infinite picture gallery isn't my idea of enjoyment.' 'nor mine. but an infinite series of modes of living. a ceaseless exercise of all one's faculties of pleasure. that sounds shameless to you? i can't understand why it should. why is the man who toils more meritorious than he who enjoys? what is the sanction for this judgment?' 'social usefulness, everard.' 'i admit the demand for social usefulness, up to a certain point. but, really, i have done my share. the mass of men don't toil with any such ideal, but merely to keep themselves alive, or to get wealth. i think there is a vast amount of unnecessary labour.' 'there is an old proverb about satan and idle hands. pardon me; you alluded to that personage in your letter.' 'the proverb is a very true one, but, like other proverbs, it applies to the multitude. if i get into mischief, it will not be because i don't perspire for so many hours every day, but simply because it is human to err. i have no intention whatever of getting into mischief.' the speaker stroked his beard, and smiled with a distant look. 'your purpose is intensely selfish, and all indulged selfishness reacts on the character,' replied miss barfoot, still in a tone of the friendliest criticism. 'my dear cousin, for anything to be selfish, it must be a deliberate refusal of what one believes to be duty. i don't admit that i am neglecting any duty to others, and the duty to myself seems very clear indeed.' 'of _that_ i have no doubt,' exclaimed the other, laughing. 'i see that you have refined your arguments.' 'not my arguments only, i hope,' said everard modestly. 'my time has been very ill spent if i haven't in some degree, refined my nature.' 'that sounds very well, everard. but when it comes to degrees of self-indulgence--' she paused and made a gesture of dissatisfaction. 'it comes to that, surely, with every man. but we certainly shall not agree on this subject. you stand at the social point of view; i am an individualist. you have the advantage of a tolerably consistent theory; whilst i have no theory at all, and am full of contradictions. the only thing clear to me is that i have a right to make the most of my life.' 'no matter at whose expense?' 'you are quite mistaken. my conscience is a tender one. i dread to do any one an injury. that has always been true of me, in spite of your sceptical look; and the tendency increases as i grow older. let us have done with so unimportant a matter. isn't miss nunn able to rejoin us?' 'she will come presently, i think.' 'how did you make this lady's acquaintance?' miss barfoot explained the circumstances. 'she makes an impression,' resumed everard. 'a strong character, of course. more decidedly one of the new women than you yourself--isn't she?' 'oh, _i_ am a very old-fashioned woman. women have thought as i do at any time in history. miss nunn has much more zeal for womanhood militant.' 'i should delight to talk with her. really, you know, i am very strongly on your side.' miss barfoot laughed. 'oh, sophist! you despise women.' 'why, yes, the great majority of women--the typical woman. all the more reason for my admiring the exceptions, and wishing to see them become more common. you, undoubtedly, despise the average woman.' 'i despise no human being, everard.' 'oh, in a sense! but miss nunn, i feel sure, would agree with me.' 'i am very sure miss nunn wouldn't. she doesn't admire the feebler female, but that is very far from being at one with _your_ point of view, my cousin.' everard mused with a smile. 'i must get to understand her line of thought. you permit me to call upon you now and then?' 'oh, whenever you like, in the evening. except,' miss barfoot added, 'wednesday evening. then we are always engaged.' 'summer holidays are unknown to you, i suppose?' 'not altogether. i had mine a few weeks ago. miss nunn will be going away in a fortnight, i think.' just before ten o'clock, when barfoot was talking of some acquaintances he had left in japan, rhoda entered the room. she seemed little disposed for conversation, and everard did not care to assail her taciturnity this evening. he talked on a little longer, observing her as she listened, and presently took an opportunity to rise for departure. 'wednesday is the forbidden evening, is it not?' he said to his cousin. 'yes, that is devoted to business.' as soon as he had gone, the friends exchanged a look. each understood the other as referring to this point of wednesday evening, but neither made a remark. they were silent for some time. when rhoda at length spoke it was in a tone of half-indifferent curiosity. 'you are sure you haven't exaggerated mr. barfoot's failings?' the reply was delayed for a moment. 'i was a little indiscreet to speak of him at all. but no, i didn't exaggerate.' 'curious,' mused the other dispassionately, as she stood with one foot on the fender. 'he hardly strikes one as that kind of man.' 'oh, he has certainly changed a great deal.' miss barfoot went on to speak of her cousin's resolve to pursue no calling. 'his means are very modest. i feel rather guilty before him; his father bequeathed to me much of the money that would in the natural course have been everard's. but he is quite superior to any feeling of grudge on that score.' 'practically, his father disinherited him?' 'it amounted to that. from quite a child, everard was at odds with his father. a strange thing, for in so many respects they resembled each other very closely. physically, everard is his father walking the earth again. in character, too, i think they must be very much alike. they couldn't talk about the simplest thing without disagreeing. my uncle had risen from the ranks but he disliked to be reminded of it. he disliked the commerce by which he made his fortune. his desire was to win social position; if baronetcies could be purchased in our time, he would have given a huge sum to acquire one. but he never distinguished himself, and one of the reasons was, no doubt, that he married too soon. i have heard him speak bitterly, and very indiscreetly, of early marriages; his wife was dead then, but every one knew what he meant. rhoda, when one thinks how often a woman is a clog upon a man's ambition, no wonder they regard us as they do.' 'of course, women are always retarding one thing or another. but men are intensely stupid not to have remedied that long ago.' 'he determined that his boys should be gentlemen. tom, the elder, followed his wishes exactly; he was remarkably clever, but idleness spoilt him, and now he has made that ridiculous marriage--the end of poor tom. everard went to eton, and the school had a remarkable effect upon him; it made him a furious radical. instead of imitating the young aristocrats he hated and scorned them. there must have been great force of originality in the boy. of course i don't know whether any etonians of his time preached radicalism, but it seems unlikely. i think it was sheer vigour of character, and the strange desire to oppose his father in everything. from eton he was of course to pass to oxford, but at that stage came practical rebellion. no, said the boy; he wouldn't go to a university, to fill his head with useless learning; he had made up his mind to be an engineer. this was an astonishment to every one; engineering didn't seem at all the thing for him; he had very little ability in mathematics, and his bent had always been to liberal studies. but nothing could shake his idea. he had got it into his head that only some such work as engineering--something of a practical kind, that called for strength and craftsmanship--was worthy of a man with his opinions. he would rank with the classes that keep the world going with their sturdy toil: that was how he spoke. and, after a great fight, he had his way. he left eton to study civil engineering.' rhoda was listening with an amused smile. 'then,' pursued her friend, 'came another display of firmness or obstinacy, whichever you like to call it. he soon found out that he had made a complete mistake. the studies didn't suit him at all, as others had foreseen. but he would have worked himself to death rather than confess his error; none of us knew how he was feeling till long after. engineering he had chosen, and an engineer he would be, cost him what effort it might. his father shouldn't triumph over him. and from the age of eighteen till nearly thirty he stuck to a profession which i am sure he loathed. by force of resolve he even got on to it, and reached a good position with the firm he worked for. of course his father wouldn't assist him with money after he came of age; he had to make his way just like any young man who has no influence.' 'all this puts him in quite another light,' remarked rhoda. 'yes, it would be all very well, if there were no vices to add to the picture. i never experienced such a revulsion of feeling as the day when i learnt shameful things about everard. you know, i always regarded him as a boy, and very much as if he had been my younger brother; then came the shock--a shock that had a great part in shaping my life thenceforward. since, i have thought of him as i have spoken of him to you--as an illustration of evils we have to combat. a man of the world would tell you that i grossly magnified trifles; it is very likely that everard was on a higher moral level than most men. but i shall never forgive him for destroying my faith in his honour and nobility of feeling.' rhoda had a puzzled look. 'perhaps even now you are unintentionally misleading me,' she said. 'i have supposed him an outrageous profligate.' 'he was vicious and cowardly--i can't say any more.' 'and that was the immediate cause of his father's leaving him poorly provided for?' 'it had much to do with it, i have no doubt.' 'i see. i imagined that he was cast out of all decent society.' 'if society were really decent, he would have been. it's strange how completely his radicalism has disappeared. i believe he never had a genuine sympathy with the labouring classes. and what's more, i fancy he had a great deal of his father's desire for command and social distinction. if he had seen his way to become a great engineer, a director of vast enterprises, he wouldn't have abandoned his work. an incredible stubbornness has possibly spoilt his whole life. in a congenial pursuit he might by this time have attained to something noteworthy. it's too late now, i fear.' rhoda meditated. 'does he aim at nothing whatever?' 'he won't admit any ambition. he has no society. his friends are nearly all obscure people, like those you heard him speak of this evening.' 'after all, what ambition should he have?' said rhoda, with a laugh. 'there's one advantage in being a woman. a woman with brains and will may hope to distinguish herself in the greatest movement of our time--that of emancipating her sex. but what can a man do, unless he has genius?' 'there's the emancipation of the working classes. that is the great sphere for men; and everard cares no more for the working classes than i do.' 'isn't it enough to be free oneself?' 'you mean that he has task enough in striving to be an honourable man?' 'perhaps. i hardly know what i meant.' miss barfoot mused, and her face lighted up with a glad thought. 'you are right. it's better to be a woman, in our day. with us is all the joy of advance, the glory of conquering. men have only material progress to think about. but we--we are winning souls, propagating a new religion, purifying the earth!' rhoda nodded thrice. 'my cousin is a fine specimen of a man, after all, in body and mind. but what a poor, ineffectual creature compared with _you_, rhoda! i don't flatter you, dear. i tell you bluntly of your faults and extravagances. but i am proud of your magnificent independence, proud of your pride, dear, and of your stainless heart. thank heaven we are women!' it was rare indeed for miss barfoot to be moved to rhapsody. again rhoda nodded, and then they laughed together, with joyous confidence in themselves and in their cause. chapter ix the simple faith seated in the reading-room of a club to which he had newly procured admission, everard barfoot was glancing over the advertisement columns of a literary paper. his eye fell on an announcement that had a personal interest to him, and at once he went to the writing-table to pen a letter. 'dear micklethwaite,--i am back in england, and ought before this to have written to you. i see you have just published a book with an alarming title, "a treatise on trilinear co-ordinates." my hearty congratulations on the completion of such a labour; were you not the most disinterested of mortals, i would add a hope that it may somehow benefit you financially. i presume there _are_ people who purchase such works. but of course the main point with you is to have delivered your soul on trilinear co-ordinates. shall i run down to sheffield to see you, or is there any chance of the holidays bringing you this way? i have found a cheap flat, poorly furnished, in bayswater; the man who let it to me happens to be an engineer, and is absent on italian railway work for a year or so. my stay in london won't, i think, be for longer than six months, but we must see each other and talk over old times,' etc. this he addressed to a school at sheffield. the answer, directed to the club, reached him in three days. 'my dear barfoot,--i also am in london; your letter has been forwarded from the school, which i quitted last easter. disinterested or not, i am happy to tell you that i have got a vastly better appointment. let me know when and where to meet you; or if you like, come to these lodgings of mine. i don't enter upon duties till end of october, and am at present revelling in mathematical freedom. there's a great deal to tell.--sincerely yours, thomas micklethwaite.' having no occupation for his morning, barfoot went at once to the obscure little street by primrose hill where his friend was lodging. he reached the house about noon, and, as he had anticipated, found the mathematician deep in study. micklethwaite was a man of forty, bent in the shoulders, sallow, but not otherwise of unhealthy appearance; he had a merry countenance, a great deal of lank, disorderly hair, and a beard that reached to the middle of his waistcoat. everard's acquaintance with him dated from ten years ago, when micklethwaite had acted as his private tutor in mathematics. the room was a musty little back-parlour on the ground floor. 'quiet, perfectly quiet,' declared its occupant, 'and that's all i care for. two other lodgers in the house; but they go to business every morning at half-past eight, and are in bed by ten at night. besides, it's only temporary. i have great things in view--portentous changes! i'll tell you all about it presently.' he insisted, first of all, on hearing a full account of barfoot's history since they both met. they had corresponded about twice a year, but everard was not fond of letter-writing, and on each occasion gave only the briefest account of himself. in listening, micklethwaite assumed extraordinary positions, the result, presumably, of a need of physical exercise after hours spent over his work. now he stretched himself at full length on the edge of his chair, his arms extended above him; now he drew up his legs, fixed his feet on the chair, and locked his hands round his knees; thus perched, he swayed his body backwards and forwards, till it seemed likely that he would pitch head foremost on to the floor. barfoot knew these eccentricities of old, and paid no attention to them. 'and what is the appointment you have got?' he asked at length, dismissing his own affairs with impatience. it was that of mathematical lecturer at a london college. 'i shall have a hundred and fifty a year, and be able to take private pupils. on two hundred, at least, i can count, and there are possibilities i won't venture to speak of, because it doesn't do to be too hopeful. two hundred a year is a great advance for me.' 'quite enough, i suppose,' said everard kindly. 'not--not enough. i must make a little more somehow.' 'hollo! why this spirit of avarice all at once?' the mathematician gave a shrill, cackling laugh, and rolled upon his chair. 'i must have more than two hundred. i should be satisfied with _three_ hundred, but i'll take as much more as i can get.' 'my revered tutor, this is shameless. i came to pay my respects to a philosopher, and i find a sordid worldling. look at me! i am a man of the largest needs, spiritual and physical, yet i make my pittance of four hundred and fifty suffice, and never grumble. perhaps you aim at an income equal to my own?' 'i do! what's four hundred and fifty? if you were a man of enterprise you would double or treble it. i put a high value on money. i wish to be _rich_!' 'you are either mad or are going to get married.' micklethwaite cackled louder than ever. 'i am planning a new algebra for school use. if i'm not much mistaken, i can turn out something that will supplant all the present books. think! if micklethwaite's algebra got accepted in all the schools, what would that mean to mick? hundreds a year, my boy--hundreds.' 'i never knew you so indecent.' 'i am renewing my youth. nay, for the first time i am youthful. i never had time for it before. at the age of sixteen i began to teach in a school, and ever since i have pegged away at it, school and private. now luck has come to me, and i feel five-and-twenty. when i was really five-and-twenty, i felt forty.' 'well, what has that to do with money-making?' 'after mick's algebra would follow naturally mick's arithmetic, mick's euclid, mick's trigonometry. twenty years hence i should have an income of thousands--thousands! i would then cease to teach (resign my professorship--that is to say, for of course i should be professor), and devote myself to a great work on probability. many a man has begun the best of his life at sixty--the most enjoyable part of it, i mean.' barfoot was perplexed. he knew his friend's turn for humorous exaggeration, but had never once heard him scheme for material advancement, and evidently this present talk meant something more than a jest. 'am i right or not? you are going to get married?' micklethwaite glanced at the door, then said in a tone of caution,-- 'i don't care to talk about it here. let us go somewhere and eat together. i invite you to have dinner with me--or lunch, as i suppose you would call it, in your aristocratic language.' 'no, you had better have lunch with me. come to my club.' 'confound your impudence! am i not your father in mathematics?' 'be so good as to put on a decent pair of trousers, and brush your hair. ah, here is your trilinear production. i'll look over it whilst you make yourself presentable.' 'there's a bad misprint in the preface. let me show you--' 'it's all the same to me, my dear fellow.' but micklethwaite was not content until he had indicated the error, and had talked for five minutes about the absurdities that it involved. 'how do you suppose i got the thing published?' he then asked. 'old bennet, the sheffield headmaster, is security for loss if the book doesn't pay for itself in two years' time. kind of him, wasn't it? he pressed the offer upon me, and i think he's prouder of the book than i am myself. but it's quite remarkable how kind people are when one is fortunate. i fancy a great deal of nonsense is talked about the world's enviousness. now as soon as it got known that i was coming to this post in london, people behaved to me with surprising good nature all round. old bennet talked in quite an affectionate strain. "of course," he said, "i have long known that you ought to be in a better place than this; your payment is altogether inadequate; if it had depended upon _me_, i should long ago have increased it. i truly rejoice that you have found a more fitting sphere for your remarkable abilities." no; i maintain that the world is always ready to congratulate you with sincerity, if you will only give it a chance.' 'very gracious of you to give it the chance. but, by-the-bye, how did it come about?' 'yes, i ought to tell you that. why, about a year ago, i wrote an answer to a communication signed by a big gun in one of the scientific papers. it was a question in probability--you wouldn't understand it. my answer was printed, and the big gun wrote privately to me--a very flattering letter. that correspondence led to my appointment; the big gun exerted himself on my behalf. the fact is, the world is bursting with good nature.' 'obviously. and how long did it take you to write this little book?' 'oh, only about seven years--the actual composition. i never had much time to myself, you must remember.' 'you're a good soul, thomas. go and equip yourself for civilized society.' to the club they repaired on foot. micklethwaite would talk of anything but that which his companion most desired to hear. 'there are solemnities in life,' he answered to an impatient question, 'things that can't be spoken of in the highway. when we have eaten, let us go to your flat, and there i will tell you everything.' they lunched joyously. the mathematician drank a bottle of excellent hock, and did corresponding justice to the dishes. his eyes gleamed with happiness; again he enlarged upon the benevolence of mankind, and the admirable ordering of the world. from the club they drove to bayswater, and made themselves comfortable in barfoot's flat, which was very plainly, but sufficiently, furnished. micklethwaite, cigar in mouth, threw his legs over the side of the easy-chair in which he was sitting. 'now,' he began gravely, 'i don't mind telling you that your conjecture was right. i _am_ going to be married.' 'well,' said the other, 'you have reached the age of discretion. i must suppose that you know what you are about.' 'yes, i think i do. the story is unexciting. i am not a romantic person, nor is my future wife. now, you must know that when i was about twenty-three years old i fell in love. you never suspected me of that, i dare say?' 'why not?' 'well, i did fall in love. the lady was a clergyman's daughter at hereford, where i had a place in a school; she taught the infants in an elementary school connected with ours; her age was exactly the same as my own. now, the remarkable thing was that she took a liking for me, and when i was scoundrel enough to tell her of my feeling, she didn't reject me.' 'scoundrel enough? why scoundrel?' 'why? but i hadn't a penny in the world. i lived at the school, and received a salary of thirty pounds, half of which had to go towards the support of my mother. what could possibly have been more villainous? what earthly prospect was there of my being able to marry?' 'well, grant the monstrosity of it.' 'this lady--a very little lower than the angels--declared that she was content to wait an indefinite time. she believed in me, and hoped for my future. her father--the mother was dead--sanctioned our engagement. she had three sisters, one of them a governess, another keeping house, and the third a blind girl. excellent people, all of them. i was at their house as often as possible, and they made much of me. it was a pity, you know, for in those few leisure hours i ought to have been working like a nigger.' 'plainly you ought.' 'fortunately, i left hereford, and went to a school at gloucester, where i had thirty-five pounds. how we gloried over that extra five pounds! but it's no use going on with the story in this way; it would take me till to-morrow morning. seven years went by; we were thirty years old, and no prospect whatever of our engagement coming to anything. i had worked pretty hard; i had taken my london degree; but not a penny had i saved, and all i could spare was still needful to my mother. it struck me all at once that i had no right to continue the engagement. on my thirtieth birthday i wrote a letter to fanny--that is her name--and begged her to be free. now, would you have done the same, or not?' 'really, i am not imaginative enough to put myself in such a position. it would need a stupendous effort, at all events.' 'but was there anything gross in the proceeding?' 'the lady took it ill?' 'not in the sense of being offended. but she said it had caused her much suffering. she begged me to consider _myself_ free. she would remain faithful, and if, in time to come, i cared to write to her again--after all these years, i can't speak of it without huskiness. it seemed to me that i had behaved more like a scoundrel than ever. i thought i had better kill myself, and even planned ways of doing it--i did indeed. but after all we decided that our engagement should continue.' 'of course.' 'you think it natural? well, the engagement has continued till this day. a month ago i was forty, so that we have waited for seventeen years.' micklethwaite paused on a note of awe. 'two of fanny's sisters are dead; they never married. the blind one fanny has long supported, and she will come to live with us. long, long ago we had both of us given up thought of marriage. i have never spoken to any one of the engagement; it was something too absurd, and also too sacred.' the smile died from everard's face, and he sat in thought. 'now, when are _you_ going to marry?' cried micklethwaite, with a revival of his cheerfulness. 'probably never.' 'then i think you will neglect a grave duty. yes. it is the duty of every man, who has sufficient means, to maintain a wife. the life of unmarried women is a wretched one; every man who is able ought to save one of them from that fate.' 'i should like my cousin mary and her female friends to hear you talk in that way. they would overwhelm you with scorn.' 'not sincere scorn, is my belief. of course i have heard of that kind of woman. tell me something about them.' barfoot was led on to a broad expression of his views. 'i admire your old-fashioned sentiment, micklethwaite. it sits well on you, and you're a fine fellow. but i have much more sympathy with the new idea that women should think of marriage only as men do--i mean, not to grow up in the thought that they must marry or be blighted creatures. my own views are rather extreme, perhaps; strictly, i don't believe in marriage at all. and i haven't anything like the respect for women, as women, that you have. you belong to the ruskin school; and i--well, perhaps my experience has been unusual, though i don't think so. you know, by-the-bye, that my relatives consider me a blackguard?' 'that affair you told me about some years ago?' 'chiefly that. i have a good mind to tell you the true story; i didn't care to at the time. i accepted the charge of black-guardism; it didn't matter much. my cousin will never forgive me, though she has an air of friendliness once more. and i suspect she had told her friend miss nunn all about me. perhaps to put miss nunn on her guard--heaven knows!' he laughed merrily. 'miss nunn, i dare say, needs no protection against you.' 'i had an odd thought whilst i was there.' everard leaned his head back, and half closed his eyes. 'miss nunn, i warrant, considers herself proof against any kind of wooing. she is one of the grandly severe women; a terror, i imagine, to any young girl at their place who betrays weak thoughts of matrimony. now, it's rather a temptation to a man of my kind. there would be something piquant in making vigorous love to miss nunn, just to prove her sincerity.' micklethwaite shook his head. 'unworthy of you, barfoot. of course you couldn't really do such a thing.' 'but such women really challenge one. if she were rich, i think i could do it without scruple.' 'you seem to be taking it for granted,' said the mathematician, smiling, 'that this lady would--would respond to your lovemaking.' 'i confess to you that women have spoilt me. and i am rather resentful when any one cries out against me for lack of respect to womanhood. i have been the victim of this groundless veneration for females. now you shall hear the story; and bear in mind that you are the only person to whom i have ever told it. i never tried to defend myself when i was vilified on all hands. probably the attempt would have been useless; and then it would certainly have increased the odium in which i stood. i think i'll tell cousin mary the truth some day; it would be good for her.' the listener looked uneasy, but curious. 'well now, i was staying in the summer with some friends of ours at a little place called upchurch, on a branch line from oxford. the people were well-to-do--goodall their name--and went in for philanthropy. mrs. goodall always had a lot of upchurch girls about her, educated and not; her idea was to civilize one class by means of the other, and to give a new spirit to both. my cousin mary was staying at the house whilst i was there. she had more reasonable views than mrs. goodall, but took a great interest in what was going on. 'now one of the girls in process of spiritualization was called amy drake. in the ordinary course of things i shouldn't have met her, but she served in a shop where i went two or three times to get a newspaper; we talked a little--with absolute propriety on my part, i assure you--and she knew that i was a friend of the goodalls. the girl had no parents, and she was on the point of going to london to live with a married sister. 'it happened that by the very train which took me back to london, when my visit was over, this girl also travelled, and alone. i saw her at upchurch station, but we didn't speak, and i got into a smoking carriage. we had to change at oxford, and there, as i walked about the platform, amy put herself in my way, so that i was obliged to begin talking with her. this behaviour rather surprised me. i wondered what mrs. goodall would think of it. but perhaps it was a sign of innocent freedom in the intercourse of men and women. at all events, amy managed to get me into the same carriage with herself, and on the way to london we were alone. you foresee the end of it. at paddington station the girl and i went off together, and she didn't get to her sister's till the evening. 'of course i take it for granted that you believe my account of the matter. miss drake was by no means the spiritual young person that mrs. goodall thought her, or hoped to make her; plainly, she was a reprobate of experience. this, you will say, doesn't alter the fact that i also behaved like a reprobate. no; from the moralist's point of view i was to blame. but i had no moral pretentions, and it was too much to expect that i should rebuke the young woman and preach her a sermon. you admit that, i dare say?' the mathematician, frowning uncomfortably, gave a nod of assent. 'amy was not only a reprobate, but a rascal. she betrayed me to the people at upchurch, and, i am quite sure, meant from the first to do so. imagine the outcry. i had committed a monstrous crime--had led astray an innocent maiden, had outraged hospitality--and so on. in amy's case there were awkward results. of course i must marry the girl forthwith. but of course i was determined to do no such thing. for the reasons i have explained, i let the storm break upon me. i had been a fool, to be sure, and couldn't help myself. no one would have believed my plea--no one would have allowed that the truth was an excuse. i was abused on all hands. and when, shortly after, my father made his will and died, doubtless he cut me off with my small annuity on this very account. my cousin mary got a good deal of the money that would otherwise have been mine. the old man had been on rather better terms with me just before that; in a will that he destroyed i believe he had treated me handsomely.' 'well, well,' said micklethwaite, 'every one knows there are detestable women to be found. but you oughtn't to let this affect your view of women in general. what became of the girl?' 'i made her a small allowance for a year and a half. then her child died, and the allowance ceased. i know nothing more of her. probably she has inveigled some one into marriage.' 'well, barfoot,' said the other, rolling about in his chair, 'my opinion remains the same. you are in debt to some worthy woman to the extent of half your income. be quick and find her. it will be better for you.' 'and do you suppose,' asked everard, with a smile of indulgence, 'that i could marry on four hundred and fifty a year?' 'heavens! why not?' 'quite impossible. a wife _might_ be acceptable to me; but marriage with poverty--i know myself and the world too well for that.' 'poverty!' screamed the mathematician. 'four hundred and fifty pounds!' 'grinding poverty--for married people.' micklethwaite burst into indignant eloquence, and everard sat listening with the restrained smile on his lips. chapter x first principles having allowed exactly a week to go by, everard barfoot made use of his cousin's permission, and called upon her at nine in the evening. miss barfoot's dinner-hour was seven o'clock; she and rhoda, when alone, rarely sat for more than half an hour at table, and in this summer season they often went out together at sunset to enjoy a walk along the river. this evening they had returned only a few minutes before everard's ring sounded at the door. miss barfoot (they were just entering the library) looked at her friend and smiled. 'i shouldn't wonder if that is the young man. very flattering if he has come again so soon.' the visitor was in mirthful humour, and met with a reception of corresponding tone. he remarked at once that miss nunn had a much pleasanter aspect than a week ago; her smile was ready and agreeable; she sat in a sociable attitude and answered a jesting triviality with indulgence. 'one of my reasons for coming to-day,' said everard, 'was to tell you a remarkable story. it connects'--he addressed his cousin--'with our talk about the matrimonial disasters of those two friends of mine. do you remember the name of micklethwaite--a man who used to cram me with mathematics? i thought you would. he is on the point of marrying, and his engagement has lasted just seventeen years.' 'the wisest of your friends, i should say.' 'an excellent fellow. he is forty, and the lady the same. an astonishing case of constancy.' 'and how is it likely to turn out?' 'i can't predict, as the lady is unknown to me. but,' he added with facetious gravity, 'i think it likely that they are tolerably well acquainted with each other. nothing but sheer poverty has kept them apart. pathetic, don't you think? i have a theory that when an engagement has lasted ten years, with constancy on both sides, and poverty still prevents marriage, the state ought to make provision for a man in some way, according to his social standing. when one thinks of it, a whole socialistic system lies in that suggestion.' 'if,' remarked rhoda, 'it were first provided that no marriage should take place until _after_ a ten years' engagement.' 'yes,' barfoot assented, in his smoothest and most graceful tone. 'that completes the system. unless you like to add that no engagement is permitted except between people who have passed a certain examination; equivalent, let us say, to that which confers a university degree.' 'admirable. and no marriage, except where both, for the whole decennium, have earned their living by work that the state recognizes.' 'how would that affect mr. micklethwaite's betrothed?' asked miss barfoot. 'i believe she has supported herself all along by teaching.' 'of course!' exclaimed the other impatiently. 'and more likely than not, with loathing of her occupation. the usual kind of drudgery, was it?' 'after all, there must be some one to teach children to read and write.' 'yes; but people who are thoroughly well trained for the task, and who take a pleasure in it. this lady may be an exception; but i picture her as having spent a lifetime of uncongenial toil, longing miserably for the day when poor mr. micklethwaite was able to offer her a home. that's the ordinary teacher-woman, and we must abolish her altogether.' 'how are you to do that?' inquired everard suavely. 'the average man labours that he may be able to marry, and the average woman certainly has the same end in view. are female teachers to be vowed to celibacy?' 'nothing of the kind. but girls are to be brought up to a calling in life, just as men are. it's because they have no calling that, when need comes, they all offer themselves as teachers. they undertake one of the most difficult and arduous pursuits as if it were as simple as washing up dishes. we can't earn money in any other way, but we can teach children! a man only becomes a schoolmaster or tutor when he has gone through laborious preparation--anything but wise or adequate, of course, but still conscious preparation; and only a very few men, comparatively, choose that line of work. women must have just as wide a choice.' 'that's plausible, cousin mary. but remember that when a man chooses his calling he chooses it for life. a girl cannot but remember that if she marries her calling at once changes. the old business is thrown aside--henceforth profitless.' 'no. not henceforth profitless! there's the very point i insist upon. so far is it from profitless, that it has made her a wholly different woman from what she would otherwise have been. instead of a moping, mawkish creature, with--in most instances--a very unhealthy mind, she is a complete human being. she stands on an equality with the man. he can't despise her as he now does.' 'very good,' assented everard, observing miss nunn's satisfied smile. 'i like that view very much. but what about the great number of girls who are claimed by domestic duties? do you abandon them, with a helpless sigh, to be moping and mawkish and unhealthy?' 'in the first place, there needn't be a great number of unmarried women claimed by such duties. most of those you are thinking of are not fulfilling a duty at all; they are only pottering about the house, because they have nothing better to do. and when the whole course of female education is altered; when girls are trained as a matter of course to some definite pursuit; then those who really are obliged to remain at home will do their duty there in quite a different spirit. home work will be their serious business, instead of a disagreeable drudgery, or a way of getting through the time till marriage offers. i would have no girl, however wealthy her parent, grow up without a profession. there should be no such thing as a class of females vulgarized by the necessity of finding daily amusement.' 'nor of males either, of course,' put in everard, stroking his beard. 'nor of males either, cousin everard.' 'you thoroughly approve all this, miss nunn?' 'oh yes. but i go further. i would have girls taught that marriage is a thing to be avoided rather than hoped for. i would teach them that for the majority of women marriage means disgrace.' 'ah! now do let me understand you. why does it mean disgrace?' 'because the majority of men are without sense of honour. to be bound to them in wedlock is shame and misery.' everard's eyelids drooped, and he did not speak for a moment. 'and you seriously think, miss nunn, that by persuading as many women as possible to abstain from marriage you will improve the character of men?' 'i have no hope of sudden results, mr. barfoot. i should like to save as many as possible of the women now living from a life of dishonour; but the spirit of our work looks to the future. when _all_ women, high and low alike, are trained to self-respect, then men will regard them in a different light, and marriage may be honourable to both.' again everard was silent, and seemingly impressed. 'we'll go on with this discussion another time,' said miss barfoot, with cheerful interruption. 'everard, do you know somerset at all?' 'never was in that part of england.' 'miss nunn is going to take her holiday at cheddar and we have been looking over some photographs of that district taken by her brother.' from the table she reached a scrapbook, and everard turned it over with interest. the views were evidently made by an amateur, but in general had no serious faults. cheddar cliffs were represented in several aspects. 'i had no idea the scenery was so fine. cheddar cheese has quite overshadowed the hills in my imagination. this might be a bit of cumberland, or of the highlands.' 'it was my playground when i was a child,' said rhoda. 'you were born at cheddar?' 'no; at axbridge, a little place not far off. but i had an uncle at cheddar, a farmer, and very often stayed with him. my brother is farming there now.' 'axbridge? here is a view of the market-place. what a delightful old town!' 'one of the sleepiest spots in england, i should say. the railway goes through it now, but hasn't made the slightest difference. nobody pulls down or builds; nobody opens a new shop; nobody thinks of extending his trade. a delicious place!' 'but surely you find no pleasure in that kind of thing, miss nunn?' 'oh yes--at holiday time. i shall doze there for a fortnight, and forget all about the "so-called nineteenth century."' 'i can hardly believe it. there will be a disgraceful marriage at this beautiful old church, and the sight of it will exasperate you.' rhoda laughed gaily. 'oh, it will be a marriage of the golden age! perhaps i shall remember the bride when she was a little girl; and i shall give her a kiss, and pat her on the rosy cheek, and wish her joy. and the bridegroom will be such a good-hearted simpleton, unable to pronounce _f_ and _s_. i don't mind that sort of marriage a bit!' the listeners were both regarding her--miss barfoot with an affectionate smile, everard with a puzzled, searching look, ending in amusement. 'i must run down into that country some day,' said the latter. he did not stay much longer, but left only because he feared to burden the ladies with too much of his company. again a week passed, and the same evening found barfoot approaching the house in queen's road. to his great annoyance he learnt that miss barfoot was not at home; she had dined, but afterwards had gone out. he did not venture to ask for miss nunn, and was moving disappointedly away, when rhoda herself, returning from a walk, came up to the door. she offered her hand gravely, but with friendliness. 'miss barfoot, i am sorry to say, has gone to visit one of our girls who is ill. but i think she will very soon be back. will you come in?' 'gladly. i had so counted on an hour's talk.' rhoda led him to the drawing-room, excused herself for a few moments, and came back in her ordinary evening dress. barfoot noticed that her hair was much more becomingly arranged than when he first saw her; so it had been on the last occasion, but for some reason its appearance attracted his eyes this evening. he scrutinized her, at discreet intervals, from head to foot. to everard, nothing female was alien; woman, merely as woman, interested him profoundly. and this example of her sex had excited his curiosity in no common degree. his concern with her was purely intellectual; she had no sensual attraction for him, but he longed to see further into her mind, to probe the sincerity of the motives she professed, to understand her mechanism, her process of growth. hitherto he had enjoyed no opportunity of studying this type. for his cousin was a very different person; by habit he regarded her as old, whereas miss nunn, in spite of her thirty years, could not possibly be considered past youth. he enjoyed her air of equality; she sat down with him as a male acquaintance might have done, and he felt sure that her behaviour would be the same under any circumstances. he delighted in the frankness of her speech; it was doubtful whether she regarded any subject as improper for discussion between mature and serious people. part cause of this, perhaps, was her calm consciousness that she had not a beautiful face. no, it was not beautiful; yet even at the first meeting it did not repel him. studying her features, he saw how fine was their expression. the prominent forehead, with its little unevenness that meant brains; the straight eyebrows, strongly marked, with deep vertical furrows generally drawn between them; the chestnut-brown eyes, with long lashes; the high-bridged nose, thin and delicate; the intellectual lips, a protrusion of the lower one, though very slight, marking itself when he caught her profile; the big, strong chin; the shapely neck--why, after all, it was a kind of beauty. the head might have been sculptured with fine effect. and she had a well-built frame. he observed her strong wrists, with exquisite vein-tracings on the pure white. probably her constitution was very sound; she had good teeth, and a healthy brownish complexion. with reference to the sick girl whom miss barfoot was visiting, everard began what was practically a resumption of their last talk. 'have you a formal society, with rules and so on?' 'oh no; nothing of the kind.' 'but you of course select the girls whom you instruct or employ?' 'very carefully.' 'how i should like to see them all!--i mean,' he added, with a laugh, 'it would be so very interesting. the truth is, my sympathies are strongly with you in much of what you said the other day about women and marriage. we regard the matter from different points of view, but our ends are the same.' rhoda moved her eyebrows, and asked calmly,-- 'are you serious?' 'perfectly. you are absorbed in your present work, that of strengthening women's minds and character; for the final issue of this you can't care much. but to me that is the practical interest. in my mind, you are working for the happiness of men.' 'indeed?' escaped rhoda's lips, which had curled in irony. 'don't misunderstand me. i am not speaking cynically or trivially. the gain of women is also the gain of men. you are bitter against the average man for his low morality; but that fault, on the whole, is directly traceable to the ignobleness of women. think, and you will grant me this.' 'i see what you mean. men have themselves to thank for it.' 'assuredly they have. i say that i am on your side. our civilization in this point has always been absurdly defective. men have kept women at a barbarous stage of development, and then complain that they are barbarous. in the same way society does its best to create a criminal class, and then rages against the criminals. but, you see, i am one of the men, and an impatient one too. the mass of women i see about me are so contemptible that, in my haste, i use unjust language. put yourself in the man's place. say that there are a million or so of us very intelligent and highly educated. well, the women of corresponding mind number perhaps a few thousands. the vast majority of men must make a marriage that is doomed to be a dismal failure. we fall in love it is true; but do we really deceive ourselves about the future? a very young man may; why, we know of very young men who are so frantic as to marry girls of the working class--mere lumps of human flesh. but most of us know that our marriage is a _pis aller_. at first we are sad about it; then we grow cynical, and snap our fingers at moral obligation.' 'making a bad case very much worse, instead of bravely bettering it.' 'yes, but human nature is human nature. i am only urging to you the case of average intelligent men. as likely as not--so preposterous are our conventions--you have never heard it put honestly. i tell you the simple truth when i say that more than half these men regard their wives with active disgust. they will do anything to be relieved of the sight of them for as many hours as possible at a time. if circumstances allowed, wives would be abandoned very often indeed.' rhoda laughed. 'you regret that it isn't done?' 'i prefer to say that i approve it when it is done without disregard of common humanity. there's my friend orchard. with him it was suicide or freedom from his hateful wife. most happily, he was able to make provision for her and the children, and had strength to break his bonds. if he had left them to starve, i should have _understood_ it, but couldn't have approved it. there are men who might follow his example, but prefer to put up with a life of torture. well, they _do_ prefer it, you see. i may think that they are foolishly weak, but i can only recognize that they make a choice between two forms of suffering. they have tender consciences; the thought of desertion is too painful to them. and in a great number of cases, mere considerations of money and the like keep a man bound. but conscience and habit--detestable habit--and fear of public opinion generally hold him.' 'all this is very interesting,' said rhoda, with grave irony. 'by-the-bye, under the head of detestable habit you would put love of children?' barfoot hesitated. 'that's a motive i oughtn't to have left out. yet i believe, for most men, it is represented by conscience. the love of children would not generally, in itself, be strong enough to outweigh matrimonial wretchedness. many an intelligent and kind-hearted man has been driven from his wife notwithstanding thought for his children. he provides for them as well as he can--but, and even for their sakes, he must save himself.' the expression of rhoda's countenance suddenly changed. an extreme mobility of facial muscles was one of the things in her that held everard's attention. 'there's something in your way of putting it that i don't like,' she said, with much frankness; 'but of course i agree with you in the facts. i am convinced that most marriages are hateful, from every point of view. but there will be no improvement until women have revolted against marriage, from a reasonable conviction of its hatefulness.' 'i wish you all success--most sincerely i do.' he paused, looked about the room, and stroked his ear. then, in a grave tone,-- 'my own ideal of marriage involves perfect freedom on both sides. of course it could only be realized where conditions are favourable; poverty and other wretched things force us so often to sin against our best beliefs. but there are plenty of people who might marry on these ideal terms. perfect freedom, sanctioned by the sense of intelligent society, would abolish most of the evils we have in mind. but women must first be civilized; you are quite right in that.' the door opened, and miss barfoot came in. she glanced from one to the other, and without speaking gave her hand to everard. 'how is your patient?' he asked. 'a little better, i think. it is nothing dangerous. here's a letter from your brother tom. perhaps i had better read it at once; there may be news you would like to hear.' she sat down and broke the envelope. whilst she was reading the letter to herself, rhoda quietly left the room. 'yes, there is news,' said miss barfoot presently, 'and of a disagreeable kind. a few weeks ago--before writing, that is--he was thrown off a horse and had a rib fractured.' 'oh? how is he going on?' 'getting right again, he says. and they are coming back to england; his wife's consumptive symptoms have disappeared, of course, and she is very impatient to leave madeira. it is to be hoped she will allow poor tom time to get his rib set. probably that consideration doesn't weigh much with her. he says that he is writing to you by the same mail.' 'poor old fellow!' said everard, with feeling. 'does he complain about his wife?' 'he never has done till now, but there's a sentence here that reads doubtfully. "muriel," he says, "has been terribly upset about my accident. i can't persuade her that i didn't get thrown on purpose; yet i assure you i didn't."' everard laughed. 'if old tom becomes ironical, he must be hard driven. i have no great longing to meet mrs. thomas.' 'she's a silly and a vulgar woman. but i told him that in plain terms before he married. it says much for his good nature that he remains so friendly with me. read the letter, everard.' he did so. 'h'm--very kind things about me. good old tom! why don't i marry? well, now, one would have thought that his own experience--' miss barfoot began to talk about something else. before very long rhoda came back, and in the conversation that followed it was mentioned that she would leave for her holiday in two days. 'i have been reading about cheddar,' exclaimed everard, with animation. 'there's a flower grows among the rocks called the cheddar pink. do you know it?' 'oh, very well,' rhoda answered. 'i'll bring you some specimens.' 'will you? that's very kind.' 'bring _me_ a genuine pound or two of the cheese, rhoda,' requested miss barfoot gaily. 'i will. what they sell in the shops there is all sham, mr. barfoot--like so much else in this world.' 'i care nothing about the cheese. that's all very well for a matter-of-fact person like cousin mary, but _i_ have a strong vein of poetry; you must have noticed it?' when they shook hands,-- 'you will really bring me the flowers?' everard said in a voice sensibly softened. 'i will make a note of it,' was the reassuring answer. chapter xi at nature's bidding the sick girl whom miss barfoot had been to see was monica madden. with strange suddenness, after several weeks of steady application to her work, in a cheerful spirit which at times rose to gaiety, monica became dull, remiss, unhappy; then violent headaches attacked her, and one morning she declared herself unable to rise. mildred vesper went to great portland street at the usual hour, and informed miss barfoot of her companion's illness. a doctor was summoned; to him it seemed probable that the girl was suffering from consequences of overstrain at her old employment; there was nervous collapse, hysteria, general disorder of the system. had the patient any mental disquietude? was trouble of any kind (the doctor smiled) weighing upon her? miss barfoot, unable to answer these questions, held private colloquy with mildred; but the latter, though she pondered a good deal with corrugated brows, could furnish no information. in a day or two monica was removed to her sister's lodgings at lavender hill. mrs. conisbee managed to put a room at her disposal, and virginia tended her. thither miss barfoot went on the evening when everard found her away; she and virginia, talking together after being with the invalid for a quarter of an hour, agreed that there was considerable improvement, but felt a like uneasiness regarding monica's state of mind. 'do you think,' asked the visitor, 'that she regrets the step i persuaded her to take?' 'oh, i _can't_ think that! she has been so delighted with her progress each time i have seen her. no, i feel sure it's only the results of what she suffered at walworth road. in a very short time we shall have her at work again, and brighter than ever.' miss barfoot was not convinced. after everard's departure that evening she talked of the matter with rhoda. 'i'm afraid,' said miss nunn, 'that monica is rather a silly girl. she doesn't know her own mind. if this kind of thing is repeated, we had better send her back to the country.' 'to shop work again?' 'it might be better.' 'oh, i don't like the thought of that.' rhoda had one of her fits of wrathful eloquence. 'now could one have a better instance than this madden family of the crime that middle-class parents commit when they allow their girls to go without rational training? of course i know that monica was only a little child when they were left orphans; but her sisters had already grown up into uselessness, and their example has been harmful to her all along. her guardians dealt with her absurdly; they made her half a lady and half a shop-girl. i don't think she'll ever be good for much. and the elder ones will go on just keeping themselves alive; you can see that. they'll never start the school that there's so much talk of. that poor, helpless, foolish virginia, alone there in her miserable lodging! how can we hope that any one will take her as a companion? and yet they are capitalists; eight hundred pounds between them. think what capable women might do with eight hundred pounds.' 'i am really afraid to urge them to meddle with the investments.' 'of course; so am i. one is afraid to do or propose anything. virginia is starving, _must_ be starving. poor creature! i can never forget how her eyes shone when i put that joint of meat before her.' 'i do, do wish,' sighed miss barfoot, with a pained smile, 'that i knew some honest man who would be likely to fall in love with little monica! in spite of you, my dear, i would devote myself to making the match. but there's no one.' 'oh, i would help,' laughed rhoda, not unkindly. 'she's fit for nothing else, i'm afraid. we mustn't look for any kind of heroism in monica.' less than half an hour after miss barfoot had left the house at lavender hill, mildred vesper made a call there. it was about half-past nine; the invalid, after sitting up since midday, had gone to bed, but could not sleep. summoned to the house-door, virginia acquainted miss vesper with the state of affairs. 'i think you might see her for a few minutes.' 'i should like to, if you please, miss madden,' replied mildred, who had a rather uneasy look. she went upstairs and entered the bedroom, where a lamp was burning. at the sight of her friend monica showed much satisfaction; they kissed each other affectionately. 'good old girl! i had made up my mind to come back tomorrow, or at all events the day after. it's so frightfully dull here. oh, and i wanted to know if anything--any letter--had come for me.' 'that's just why i came to see you to-night.' mildred took a letter from her pocket, and half averted her face as she handed it. 'it's nothing particular,' said monica, putting it away under her pillow. 'thank you, dear.' but her cheeks had become hot, and she trembled. 'monica--' 'well?' 'you wouldn't care to tell me about--anything? you don't think it would make your mind easier?' for a minute monica lay back, gazing at the wall, then she looked round quickly, with a shamefaced laugh. 'it's very silly of me not to have told you long before this. but you're so sensible; i was afraid. i'll tell you everything. not now, but as soon as i get to rutland street. i shall come to-morrow.' 'do you think you can? you look dreadfully bad still.' 'i shan't get any better here,' replied the invalid in a whisper. 'poor virgie does depress me so. she doesn't understand that i can't bear to hear her repeating the kind of things she has heard from miss barfoot and miss nunn. she tries so hard to look forward hopefully--but i _know_ she is miserable, and it makes me more miserable still. i oughtn't to have left you; i should have been all right in a day or two, with you to help me. you don't make-believe, milly; it's all real and natural good spirits. it has done me good only to see your dear old face.' 'oh, you're a flatterer. and do you really feel better?' 'very much better. i shall go to sleep very soon.' the visitor took her leave. when, a few minutes after, monica had bidden good-night to her sister (requesting that the lamp might be left), she read what mildred had brought. 'my dearest monica,'--the missive began--'why have you not written before this? i have been dreadfully uneasy ever since receiving your last letter. your headache soon went away, i hope? why haven't you made another appointment? it is all i can do to keep from breaking my promise and coming to ask about you. write at once, i implore you, my dearest. it's no use telling me that i must not use these words of affection; they come to my lips and to my pen irresistibly. you know so well that i love you with all my heart and soul; i can't address you like i did when we first corresponded. my darling! my dear, sweet, beautiful little girl--' four close pages of this, with scarce room at the end for 'e.w.' when she had gone through it, monica turned her face upon the pillow and lay so for a long time. a clock in the house struck eleven; this roused her, and she slipped out of the bed to hide the letter in her dress-pocket. not long after she was asleep. the next day, on returning from her work and opening the sitting-room door, mildred vesper was greeted with a merry laugh. monica had been here since three o'clock, and had made tea in readiness for her friend's arrival. she looked very white, but her eyes gleamed with pleasure, and she moved about the room as actively as before. 'virgie came with me, but she wouldn't stay. she says she has a most important letter to write to alice--about the school, of course. oh, that school! i do wish they could make up their minds. i've told them they may have all my money, if they like.' 'have you? i should like the sensation of offering hundreds of pounds to some one. it must give a strange feeling of dignity and importance.' 'oh, only _two_ hundred! a wretched little sum.' 'you are a person of large ideas, as i have often told you. where did you get them, i wonder?' 'don't put on that face! it's the one i like least of all your many faces. it's suspicious.' mildred went to take off her things, and was quickly at the tea-table. she had a somewhat graver look than usual, and chose rather to listen than talk. not long after tea, when there had been a long and unnatural silence, mildred making pretence of absorption in a 'treasury' and her companion standing at the window, whence she threw back furtive glances, the thunder of a postman's knock downstairs caused both of them to start, and look at each other in a conscience-stricken way. 'that may be for me,' said monica, stepping to the door. 'i'll go and look.' her conjecture was right. another letter from widdowson, still more alarmed and vehement than the last. she read it rapidly on the staircase, and entered the room with sheet and envelope squeezed together in her hand. 'i'm going to tell you all about this, milly.' the other nodded and assumed an attitude of sober attention. in relating her story, monica moved hither and thither; now playing with objects on the mantlepiece, now standing in the middle of the floor, hands locked nervously behind her. throughout, her manner was that of defence; she seemed doubtful of herself, and anxious to represent the case as favourably as possible; not for a moment had her voice the ring of courageous passion, nor the softness of tender feeling. the narrative hung together but awkwardly, and in truth gave a very indistinct notion of how she had comported herself at the various stages of the irregular courtship. her behaviour had been marked by far more delicacy and scruple than she succeeded in representing. painfully conscious of this, she exclaimed at length,-- 'i see your opinion of me has suffered. you don't like this story. you wonder how i could do such things.' 'well, dear, i certainly wonder how you could begin,' mildred made answer, with her natural directness, but gently. 'afterwards, of course, it was different. when you had once got to be sure that he was a gentleman--' 'i was sure of that so soon,' exclaimed monica, her cheeks still red. 'you will understand it much better when you have seen him.' 'you wish me to?' 'i am going to write now, and say that i will marry him.' they looked long at each other. 'you are--really?' 'yes. i made up my mind last night.' 'but, monica--you mustn't mind my speaking plainly--i don't think you love him.' 'yes, i love him well enough to feel that i am doing right in marrying him.' she sat down by the table, and propped her head on her hand. 'he loves me; i can't doubt that. if you could read his letters, you would see how strong his feeling is.' she shook with the cold induced by excitement; her voice was at moments all but choked. 'but, putting love aside,' went on the other, very gravely, 'what do you really know of mr. widdowson? nothing whatever but what he has told you himself. of course you will let your friends make inquiries for you?' 'yes. i shall tell my sisters, and no doubt they will go to miss nunn at once. i don't want to do anything rash. but it will be all right--i mean, he has told me the truth about everything. you would be sure of that if you knew him.' mildred, with hands before her on the table, made the tips of her fingers meet. her lips were drawn in; her eyes seemed looking for something minute on the cloth. 'you know,' she said at length, 'i suspected what was going on. i couldn't help.' 'of course you couldn't.' 'naturally i thought it was some one whose acquaintance you had made at the shop.' 'how _could_ i think of marrying any one of that kind?' 'i should have been grieved.' 'you may believe me, milly; mr. widdowson is a man you will respect and like as soon as you know him. he couldn't have behaved to me with more delicacy. not a word from him, spoken or written, has ever pained me--except that he tells me he suffers so dreadfully, and of course i can't hear that without pain.' 'to respect, and even to like, a man, isn't at all the same as loving him.' 'i said _you_ would respect and like him,' exclaimed monica, with humorous impatience. 'i don't want _you_ to love him.' mildred laughed, with constraint. 'i never loved any one yet, dear, and it's very unlikely i ever shall. but i think i know the signs of the feeling.' monica came behind her, and leaned upon her shoulder. 'he loves me so much that he has made me think i _must_ marry him. and i am glad of it. i'm not like you, milly; i can't be contented with this life. miss barfoot and miss nunn are very sensible and good people, and i admire them very much, but i _can't_ go their way. it seems to me that it would be dreadful, dreadful, to live one's life alone. don't turn round and snap at me; i want to tell you the truth whilst you can't see me. whenever i think of alice and virginia, i am frightened; i had rather, oh, far rather, kill myself than live such a life at their age. you can't imagine how miserable they are, really. and i have the same nature as theirs, you know. compared with you and miss haven i'm very weak and childish.' after drumming on the table for a moment, with wrinkled brows, mildred made grave response. 'you must let _me_ tell the truth as well. i think you're going to marry with altogether wrong ideas. i think you'll do an injustice to mr. widdowson. you will marry him for a comfortable home--that's what it amounts to. and you'll repent it bitterly some day--you'll repent.' monica raised herself and stood apart. 'for one thing,' pursued mildred, with nervous earnestness, 'he's too old. your habits and his won't suit.' 'he has assured me that i shall live exactly the kind of life i please. and that will be what _he_ pleases. i feel his kindness to me very much, and i shall do my utmost to repay him.' 'that's a very nice spirit; but i believe married life is no easy thing even when the people are well matched. i have heard the most dreadful stories of quarrelling and all sorts of unhappiness between people i thought safe from any such dangers. you _may_ be fortunate; i only say that the chances are very much against it, marrying from such motives as you confess.' monica drew herself up. 'i haven't confessed any motive to be ashamed of, milly.' 'you say you have decided to marry now because you are afraid of never having another chance.' 'no; that's turning it very unkindly. i only said that _after_ i had told you that i did love him. and i do love him. he has made me love him.' 'then i have no right to say any more. i can only wish you happiness.' mildred heaved a sigh, and pretended to give her attention to maunder. after waiting irresolutely for some minutes, monica looked for notepaper, and took it, together with her inkstand, into the bedroom. she was absent half an hour. on her return there was a stamped letter in her hand. 'it is going, milly.' 'very well, dear. i have nothing more to say.' 'you give me up for lost. we shall see.' it was spoken light-heartedly. again she left the room, put on her out-of-door things, and went to post the letter. by this time she began to feel the results of exertion and excitement; headache and tremulous failing of her strength obliged her to go to bed almost as soon as she returned. mildred waited upon her with undiminished kindness. 'it's all right,' monica murmured, as her head sank on the pillow. 'i feel so relieved and so glad--so happy--now i have done it.' 'good-night, dear,' replied the other, with a kiss, and went back to her semblance of reading. two days later monica called unexpectedly at mrs. conisbee's. being told by that worthy woman that miss madden was at home, she ran upstairs and tapped at the door. virginia's voice inquired hurriedly who was there, and on monica's announcing herself there followed a startled exclamation. 'just a minute, my love! only a minute.' when the door opened monica was surprised by a disorder in her sister's appearance. virginia had flushed cheeks, curiously vague eyes, and hair ruffled as if she had just risen from a nap. she began to talk in a hurried, disconnected way, trying to explain that she had not been quite well, and was not yet properly dressed. 'what a strange smell!' monica exclaimed, looking about the room. 'it's like brandy.' 'you notice it? i have--i was obliged to get--to ask mrs. conisbee for--i don't want to alarm you, dear, but i felt rather faint. indeed, i thought i should have a fainting fit. i was obliged to call mrs. conisbee--but don't think anything about it. it's all over. the weather is very trying--' she laughed nervously and began to pat monica's hand. the girl was not quite satisfied, and pressed many questions, but in the end she accepted virginia's assurances that nothing serious had happened. then her own business occupied her; she sat down, and said with a smile,-- 'i have brought you astonishing news. if you didn't faint before you'll be very likely to do so now.' her sister exhibited fresh agitation, and begged not to be kept in suspense. 'my nerves are in a shocking state to-day. it _must_ be the weather. what _can_ you have to tell me, monica?' 'i think i shan't need to go on with typewriting.' 'why? what are you going to do, child?' the other asked sharply. 'virgie--i am going to be married.' the shock was a severe one. virginia's hands fell, her eyes started, her mouth opened; she became the colour of clay, even her lips losing for the moment all their colour. 'married?' she at length gasped. 'who--who is it?' 'some one you have never heard of. his name is mr. edmund widdowson. he is very well off, and has a house at herne hill.' 'a private gentleman?' 'yes. he used to be in business, but is retired. now, i am not going to tell you much more about him until you have made his acquaintance. don't ask a lot of questions. you are to come with me this afternoon to his house. he lives alone, but a relative of his, his sister-in-law, is going to be with him to meet us.' 'oh, but it's so sudden! i can't go to pay a call like that at a moment's notice. impossible, darling! what _does_ it all mean? you are going to be married, monica? i can't understand it. i can't realize it. who is this gentleman? how long--' 'no; you won't get me to tell you more than i have done, till you have seen him.' 'but what _have_ you told me? i couldn't grasp it. i am quite confused. mr.--what was the name?' it took half an hour to familiarize virginia with the simple fact. when she was convinced of its truth, a paroxysm of delight appeared in her. she laughed, uttered cries of joy, even clapped her hands. 'monica to be married! a private gentleman--a large fortune! my darling, how shall i ever believe it? yet i felt so sure that the day would come. what _will_ alice say? and rhoda nunn? have you--have you ventured to tell her?' 'no, that i haven't. i want you to do that. you shall go and see them to-morrow, as it's sunday.' 'oh, the delight! alice won't be able to contain herself. we always said the day would come.' 'you won't have any more anxieties, virgie. you can take the school or not, as you like. mr. widdowson--' 'oh, my dear,' interposed virginia, with sudden dignity, 'we shall certainly open the school. we have made up our minds; that is to be our life's work. it is far, far more than a mere means of subsistence. but perhaps we shall not need to hurry. everything can be matured at our leisure. if you would only just tell me, darling, when you were first introduced?' monica laughed gaily, and refused to explain. it was time for virginia to make herself ready, and here arose a new perturbation; what had she suitable for wear under such circumstances? monica had decked herself a little, and helped the other to make the best of her narrow resources. at four o'clock they set out. chapter xii weddings when they reached the house at herne hill the sisters were both in a state of nervous tremor. monica had only the vaguest idea of the kind of person mrs. luke widdowson would prove to be, and virginia seemed to herself to be walking in a dream. 'have you been here often?' whispered the latter, as soon as they came in view of the place. its aspect delighted her, but the conflict of her emotions was so disturbing that she had to pause and seek the support of her sister's arm. 'i've never been inside,' monica answered indistinctly. 'come; we shall be unpunctual.' 'i do wish you would tell me, dear--' 'i can't talk, virgie. try and keep quiet, and behave as if it were all quite natural.' this was altogether beyond virginia's power. it happened most luckily, though greatly to widdowson's annoyance, that the sister-in-law, mrs. luke widdowson, arrived nearly half an hour later than the time she had appointed. led by the servant into a comfortable drawing-room, the visitors were received by the master of the house alone; with a grim smile, the result of his embarrassment, with profuse apologies and a courtesy altogether excessive, widdowson did his best to put them at their ease--of course with small result. the sisters side by side on a settee at one end of the room, and the host seated far away from them, they talked with scarcely any understanding of what was said on either side--the weather and the vastness of london serving as topics--until of a sudden the door was thrown open, and there appeared a person of such imposing presence that virginia gave a start and monica gazed in painful fascination. mrs. luke was a tall and portly woman in the prime of life, with rather a high colour; her features were handsome, but without much refinement, their expression a condescending good-humour. her mourning garb, if mourning it could be called, represented an extreme of the prevailing fashion; its glint and rustle inspired awe in the female observer. a moment ago the drawing-room had seemed empty; mrs. luke, in her sole person, filled and illumined it. widdowson addressed this resplendent personage by her christian name, his familiarity exciting in monica an irrational surprise. he presented the sisters to her, and mrs. luke, bowing grandly at a distance, drew from her bosom a gold-rimmed _pince-nez_, through which she scrutinized monica. the smile which followed might have been interpreted in several senses; widdowson, alone capable of remarking it, answered with a look of severe dignity. mrs. luke had no thought of apologizing for the lateness of her arrival, and it was evident that she did not intend to stay long. her purpose seemed to be to make the occasion as informal as possible. 'do you, by chance, know the hodgson bulls?' she asked of her relative, interrupting him in the nervous commonplaces with which he was endeavouring to smooth the way to a general conversation. she had the accent of cultivation, but spoke rather imperiously. 'i never heard of them,' was the cold reply. 'no? they live somewhere about here. i have to make a call on them. i suppose my coachman will find the place.' there was an awkward silence. widdowson was about to say something to monica, when mrs. luke, who had again closely observed the girl through the glasses, interposed in a gentle tone. 'do you like this neighbourhood, miss madden?' monica gave the expected answer, her voice sounding very weak and timid by comparison. and so, for some ten minutes, an appearance of dialogue was sustained. mrs. luke, though still condescending, evinced a desire to be agreeable; she smiled and nodded in reply to the girl's remarks, and occasionally addressed virginia with careful civility, conveying the impression, perhaps involuntarily, that she commiserated the shy and shabbily-dressed person. tea was brought in, and after pretending to take a cup, she rose for departure. 'perhaps you will come and see me some day, miss madden,' fell from her with unanticipated graciousness, as she stepped forward to the girl and offered her hand. 'edmund must bring you--at some quiet time when we can talk. very glad to have met you--very glad indeed.' and the personage was gone; they heard her carriage roll away from beneath the window. all three drew a breath of relief, and widdowson, suddenly quite another man, took a place near to virginia, with whom in a few minutes he was conversing in the friendliest way. virginia, experiencing a like relief, also became herself; she found courage to ask needful questions, which in every case were satisfactorily met. of mrs. luke there was no word, but when they had taken their leave--the visit lasted altogether some two hours--monica and her sister discussed that great lady with the utmost freedom. they agreed that she was personally detestable. 'but very rich, my dear,' said virginia in a murmuring voice. 'you can see that. i have met such people before; they have a manner--oh! of course mr. widdowson will take you to call upon her.' 'when nobody else is likely to be there; that's what she meant,' remarked monica coldly. 'never mind, my love. you don't wish for grand society. i am very glad to tell you that edmund impresses me very favourably. he is reserved, but that is no fault. oh, we must write to alice at once! her surprise! her delight!' when, on the next day, monica met her betrothed in regent's park--she still lived with mildred vesper, but no longer went to great portland street--their talk was naturally of mrs. luke. widdowson speedily led to the topic. 'i had told you,' he said, with careful accent, 'that i see very little of her. i can't say that i like her, but she is a very difficult person to understand, and i fancy she often gives offence when she doesn't at all mean it. still, i hope you were not--displeased?' monica avoided a direct answer. 'shall you take me to see her?' were her words. 'if you will go, dear. and i have no doubt she will be present at our wedding. unfortunately, she's my only relative; or the only one i know anything about. after our marriage i don't think we shall see much of her--' 'no, i dare say not,' was monica's remark. and thereupon they turned to pleasanter themes. that morning widdowson had received from his sister-in-law a scribbled post-card, asking him to call upon mrs. luke early the day that followed. of course this meant that the lady was desirous of further talk concerning miss madden. unwillingly, but as a matter of duty, he kept the appointment. it was at eleven in the morning, and, when admitted to the flat in victoria street which was his relative's abode, he had to wait a quarter of an hour for the lady's appearance. luxurious fashion, as might have been expected, distinguished mrs. luke's drawing-room. costly and beautiful things superabounded; perfume soothed the air. only since her bereavement had mrs. widdowson been able to indulge this taste for modern exuberance in domestic adornment. the deceased luke was a plain man of business, who clung to the fashions which had been familiar to him in his youth; his second wife found a suburban house already furnished, and her influence with him could not prevail to banish the horrors amid which he chose to live: chairs in maroon rep, brussels carpets of red roses on a green ground, horse-hair sofas of the most uncomfortable shape ever designed, antimacassars everywhere, chimney ornaments of cut glass trembling in sympathy with the kindred chandeliers. she belonged to an obscure branch of a house that culminated in an obscure baronetcy; penniless and ambitious, she had to thank her imposing physique for rescue at a perilous age, and though despising mr. luke widdowson for his plebeian tastes, she shrewdly retained the good-will of a husband who seemed no candidate for length of years. the money-maker died much sooner than she could reasonably have hoped, and left her an income of four thousand pounds. thereupon began for mrs. luke a life of feverish aspiration. the baronetcy to which she was akin had inspired her, even from childhood, with an aristocratic ideal; a handsome widow of only eight-and-thirty, she resolved that her wealth should pave the way for her to a titled alliance. her acquaintance lay among city people, but with the opportunities of freedom it was soon extended to the sphere of what is known as smart society; her flat in victoria street attracted a heterogeneous cluster of pleasure-seekers and fortune-hunters, among them one or two vagrant members of the younger aristocracy. she lived at the utmost pace compatible with technical virtue. when, as shortly happened, it became evident that her income was not large enough for her serious purpose, she took counsel with an old friend great in finance, and thenceforth the excitement of the gambler gave a new zest to her turbid existence. like most of her female associates, she had free recourse to the bottle; but for such stimulus the life of a smart woman would be physically impossible. and mrs. luke enjoyed life, enjoyed it vastly. the goal of her ambition, if all went well in the city, was quite within reasonable hope. she foretasted the day when a vulgar prefix would no longer attach to her name, and when the journals of society would reflect her rising effulgence. widdowson was growing impatient, when his relative at length appeared. she threw herself into a deep chair, crossed her legs, and gazed at him mockingly. 'well, it isn't quite so bad as i feared, edmund.' 'what do you mean?' 'oh, she's a decent enough little girl, i can see. but you're a silly fellow for all that. you couldn't have deceived me, you know. if there'd been anything--you understand?--i should have spotted it at once.' 'i don't relish this kind of talk,' observed widdowson acidly. 'in plain english, you supposed i was going to marry some one about whom i couldn't confess the truth.' 'of course i did. now come; tell me how you got to know her.' the man moved uneasily, but in the end related the whole story. mrs. luke kept nodding, with an amused air. 'yes, yes; she managed it capitally. clever little witch. fetching eyes she has.' 'if you sent for me to make insulting remarks--' 'bosh! i'll come to the wedding gaily. but you're a silly fellow. now, why didn't you come and ask me to find you a wife? why, i know two or three girls of really good family who would have jumped, simply jumped, at a man with your money. pretty girls too. but you always were so horribly unpractical. don't you know, my dear boy, that there are heaps of ladies, real ladies, waiting the first decent man who offers them five or six hundred a year? why haven't you used the opportunities that you knew i could put in your way?' widdowson rose from his seat and stood stiffly. 'i see you don't understand me in the least. i am going to marry because, for the first time in my life, i have met the woman whom i can respect and love.' 'that's very nice and proper. but why shouldn't you respect and love a girl who belongs to good society?' 'miss madden is a lady,' he replied indignantly. 'oh--yes--to be sure,' hummed the other, letting her head roll back. 'well, bring her here some day when we can lunch quietly together. i see it's no use. you're not a sharp man, edmund.' 'do you seriously tell me,' asked widdowson, with grave curiosity, 'that there are ladies in good society who would have married me just because i have a few hundreds a year?' 'my dear boy, i would get together a round dozen in two or three days. girls who would make good, faithful wives, in mere gratitude to the man who saved them from--horrors.' 'excuse me if i say that i don't believe it.' mrs. luke laughed merrily, and the conversation went on in this strain for another ten minutes. at the end, mrs. luke made herself very agreeable, praised monica for her sweet face and gentle manners, and so dismissed the solemn man with a renewed promise to countenance the marriage by her gracious presence. when rhoda nunn returned from her holiday it wanted but a week to monica's wedding, so speedily had everything been determined and arranged. miss barfoot, having learnt from virginia all that was to be known concerning mr. widdowson, felt able to hope for the best; a grave husband, of mature years, and with means more than sufficient, seemed, to the eye of experience, no unsuitable match for a girl such as monica. this view of the situation caused rhoda to smile with contemptuous tolerance. 'and yet,' she remarked, 'i have heard you speak severely of such marriages.' 'it isn't the ideal wedlock,' replied miss barfoot. 'but so much in life is compromise. after all, she may regard him more affectionally than we imagine.' 'no doubt she has weighed advantages. if the prospects you offered her had proved more to her taste she would have dismissed this elderly admirer. his fate has been decided during the last few weeks. it's probable that the invitation to your wednesday evenings gave her a hope of meeting young men.' 'i see no harm if it did,' said miss barfoot, smiling. 'but miss vesper would very soon undeceive her on that point.' 'i hardly thought of her as a girl likely to make chance friendships with men in highways and by-ways.' 'no more did i; and that makes all the more content with what has come about. she ran a terrible risk, poor child. you see, rhoda, nature is too strong for us.' rhoda threw her head back. 'and the delight of her sister! it is really pathetic. the mere fact that monica is to be married blinds the poor woman to every possibility of misfortune.' in the course of the same conversation, rhoda remarked thoughtfully,-- 'it strikes me that mr. widdowson must be of a confiding nature. i don't think men in general, at all events those with money, care to propose marriage to girls they encounter by the way.' 'i suppose he saw that the case was exceptional.' 'how was he to see that?' 'you are severe. her shop training accounts for much. the elder sisters could never have found a husband in this way. the revelation must have shocked them at first.' rhoda dismissed the subject lightly, and henceforth showed only the faintest interest in monica's concerns. monica meanwhile rejoiced in her liberation from the work and philosophic severities of great portland street. she saw widdowson somewhere or other every day, and heard him discourse on the life that was before them, herself for the most part keeping silence. together they called upon mrs. luke, and had luncheon with her. monica was not displeased with her reception, and began secretly to hope that more than a glimpse of that gorgeous world might some day be vouchsafed to her. apart from her future husband, monica was in a sportive mood, with occasional fits of exhilaration which seemed rather unnatural. she had declared to mildred her intention of inviting miss nunn to the wedding, and her mind was evidently set on carrying out this joke, as she regarded it. when the desire was intimated by letter, rhoda replied with a civil refusal: she would be altogether out of place at such a ceremony, but hoped that monica would accept her heartiest good wishes. virginia was then dispatched to queen's road, and appealed so movingly that the prophetess at length yielded. on hearing this monica danced with delight, and her companion in rutland street could not help sharing her merriment. the ceremony was performed at a church at herne hill. by an odd arrangement--like everything else in the story of this pair, a result of social and personal embarrassments--monica's belongings, including her apparel for the day, were previously dispatched to the bridegroom's house, whither, in company with virginia, the bride went early in the morning. it was one of the quietest of weddings, but all ordinary formalities were complied with, widdowson having no independent views on the subject. present were virginia (to give away the bride), miss vesper (who looked decidedly odd in a pretty dress given her by monica), rhoda nunn (who appeared to advantage in a costume of quite unexpected appropriateness), mrs. widdowson (an imposing figure, evidently feeling that she had got into strange society), and, as friend of the bridegroom, one mr. newdick, a musty and nervous city clerk. depression was manifest on every countenance, not excepting widdowson's; the man had such a stern, gloomy look, and held himself with so much awkwardness, that he might have been imagined to stand here on compulsion. for an hour before going to the church, monica cried and seemed unutterably doleful; she had not slept for two nights; her face was ghastly. virginia's gladness gave way just before the company assembled, and she too shed many tears. there was a breakfast, more dismal fooling than even this species of fooling is wont to be. mr. newdick, trembling and bloodless, proposed monica's health; widdowson, stern and dark as ever, gloomily responded; and then, _that_ was happily over. by one o'clock the gathering began to disperse. monica drew rhoda nunn aside. 'it was very kind of you to come,' she whispered, with half a sob. 'it all seems very silly, and i'm sure you have wished yourself away a hundred times. i am really, seriously, grateful to you.' rhoda put a hand on each side of the girl's face, and kissed her, but without saying a word; and thereupon left the house. mildred vesper, after changing her dress in the room used by monica, as she had done on arriving, went off by train to her duties in great portland street. virginia alone remained to see the married couple start for their honeymoon. they were going into cornwall, and on the return journey would manage to see miss madden at her somerset retreat. for the present, virginia was to live on at mrs. conisbee's, but not in the old way; henceforth she would have proper attendance, and modify her vegetarian diet--at the express bidding of the doctor, as she explained to her landlady. though that very evening everard barfoot made a call upon his friends in chelsea, the first since rhoda's return from cheddar, he heard nothing of the event that marked the day. but miss nunn appeared to him unlike herself; she was absent, had little to say, and looked, what he had never yet known her, oppressed by low spirits. for some reason or other miss barfoot left the room. 'you are thinking with regret of your old home,' everard remarked, taking a seat nearer to miss nunn. 'no. why should you fancy that?' 'only because you seem rather sad.' 'one is sometimes.' 'i like to see you with that look. may i remind you that you promised me some flowers from cheddar?' 'oh, so i did,' exclaimed the other in a tone of natural recollection. 'i have brought them, scientifically pressed between blotting-paper. i'll fetch them.' when she returned it was together with miss barfoot, and the conversation became livelier. a day or two after this everard left town, and was away for three weeks, part of the time in ireland. 'i left london for a while,' he wrote from killarney to his cousin, 'partly because i was afraid i had begun to bore you and miss nunn. don't you regret giving me permission to call upon you? the fact is, i can't live without intelligent female society; talking with women, as i talk with you two, is one of my chief enjoyments. i hope you won't get tired of my visits; in fact, they are all but a necessity to me, as i have discovered since coming away. but it was fair that you should have a rest.' 'don't be afraid,' miss barfoot replied to this part of his letter. 'we are not at all weary of your conversation. the truth is, i like it much better than in the old days. you seem to me to have a healthier mind, and i am quite sure that the society of intelligent women (we affect no foolish self-depreciation, miss nunn and i) is a good thing for you. come back to us as soon as you like; i shall welcome you.' it happened that his return to england was almost simultaneous with the arrival from madeira of mr. and mrs. thomas barfoot. everard at once went to see his brother, who for the present was staying at torquay. ill-health dictated his choice of residence; thomas was still suffering from the results of his accident; his wife had left him at a hotel, and was visiting relatives in different parts of england. the brothers exhibited much affectionate feeling after their long separation; they spent a week together, and planned for another meeting when mrs. thomas should have returned to her husband. an engagement called everard back to town. he was to be present at the wedding of his friend micklethwaite, now actually on the point of taking place. the mathematician had found a suitable house, very small and of very low rental, out at south tottenham, and thither was transferred the furniture which had been in his bride's possession since the death of her parents; micklethwaite bought only a few new things. by discreet inquiry, barfoot had discovered that 'fanny,' though musically inclined, would not possess a piano, her old instrument being quite worn out and not worth the cost of conveyance; thus it came to pass that, a day or two before the wedding, micklethwaite was astonished by the arrival of an instrument of the cottage species, mysteriously addressed to a person not yet in existence, mrs. micklethwaite. 'you scoundrel!' he cried, when, on the next day, barfoot presented himself at the house. 'this is _your_ doing. what the deuce do you mean? a man who complains of poverty! well, it's the greatest kindness i ever received, that's all. fanny will be devoted to you. with music in the house, our blind sister will lead quite a different life. confound it! i want to begin crying. why, man, i'm not accustomed to receive presents, even as a proxy; i haven't had one since i was a schoolboy.' 'that's an audacious statement. when you told me that miss wheatley never allowed your birthday to pass without sending something.' 'oh, fanny! but i have never thought of fanny as a separate person. upon my word, now i think of it, i never have. fanny and i have been one for ages.' that evening the sisters arrived from their country home. micklethwaite gave up the house to them, and went to a lodging. it was with no little curiosity that, on the appointed morning, barfoot repaired to south tottenham. he had seen a photograph of miss wheatley, but it dated from seventeen years ago. standing in her presence, he was moved with compassion, and with another feeling more rarely excited in him by a woman's face, that of reverential tenderness. impossible to recognize in this countenance the features known to him from the portrait. at three-and-twenty she had possessed a sweet, simple comeliness on which any man's eye would have rested with pleasure; at forty she was wrinkled, hollow-cheeked, sallow, indelible weariness stamped upon her brow and lips. she looked much older than mary barfoot, though they were just of an age. and all this for want of a little money. the life of a pure, gentle, tender-hearted woman worn away in hopeless longing and in hard struggle for daily bread. as she took his hand and thanked him with an exquisite modesty for the present she had received, everard felt a lump rise in his throat. he was ashamed to notice that the years had dealt so unkindly with her; fixing his look upon her eyes, he gladdened at the gladness which shone in them, at the soft light which they could still shed forth. micklethwaite was probably unconscious of the poor woman's faded appearance. he had seen her from time to time, and always with the love which idealizes. in his own pathetic phrase, she was simply a part of himself; he no more thought of criticizing her features than of standing before the glass to mark and comment upon his own. it was enough to glance at him as he took his place beside her, the proudest and happiest of men. a miracle had been wrought for him; kind fate, in giving her to his arms, had blotted out those long years of sorrow, and to-day fanny was the betrothed of his youth, beautiful in his sight as when first he looked upon her. her sister, younger by five years, had more regular lineaments, but she too was worn with suffering, and her sightless eyes made it more distressing to contemplate her. she spoke cheerfully, however, and laughed with joy in fanny's happiness. barfoot pressed both her hands with the friendliest warmth. one vehicle conveyed them all to the church, and in half an hour the lady to whom the piano was addressed had come into being. the simplest of transformations; no bridal gown, no veil, no wreath; only the gold ring for symbol of union. and it might have happened nigh a score of years ago; nigh a score of years lost from the span of human life--all for want of a little money. 'i will say good-bye to you here,' muttered everard to his friend at the church door. the married man gripped him by the arm. 'you will do nothing of the kind.--fanny, he wants to be off at once!--you won't go until you have heard my wife play something on that blessed instrument.' so all entered a cab again and drove back to the house. a servant who had come with fanny from the country, a girl of fifteen, opened the door to them, smiling and curtseying. and all sat together in happy talk, the blind woman gayest among them; she wished to have the clergyman described to her, and the appearance of the church. then mrs. micklethwaite placed herself at the piano, and played simple, old-fashioned music, neither well nor badly, but to the infinite delight of two of her hearers. 'mr. barfoot,' said the sister at length, 'i have known your name for a long time, but i little thought to meet you on such a day as this, and to owe you such endless thanks. so long as i can have music i forget that i can't see.' 'barfoot is the finest fellow on earth,' exclaimed micklethwaite. 'at least, he would be if he understood trilinear co-ordinates.' 'are _you_ strong in mathematics, mrs. micklethwaite?' asked everard. 'i? oh dear, no! i never got much past the rule of three. but tom has forgiven me that long ago.' 'i don't despair of getting you into plane trigonometry, fanny. we will gossip about sines and co-sines before we die.' it was said half-seriously, and everard could not but burst into laughter. he sat down with them to their plain midday meal, and early in the afternoon took his leave. he had no inclination to go home, if the empty flat could be dignified with such a name. after reading the papers at his club, he walked aimlessly about the streets until it was time to return to the same place for dinner. then he sat with a cigar, dreaming, and at half-past eight went to the royal oak station, and journeyed to chelsea. chapter xiii discord of leaders a disappointment awaited him. miss barfoot was not well enough to see any one. had she been suffering long? he inquired. no; it was only this evening; she had not dined, and was gone to her room. miss nunn could not receive him. he went home, and wrote to his cousin. the next morning he came upon a passage in the newspaper which seemed to suggest a cause for miss barfoot's indisposition. it was the report of an inquest. a girl named bella royston had poisoned herself. she was living alone, without occupation, and received visits only from one lady. this lady, her name miss barfoot, had been supplying her with money, and had just found her a situation in a house of business; but the girl appeared to have gone through troubles which had so disturbed her mind that she could not make the effort required of her. she left a few lines addressed to her benefactress, just saying that she chose death rather than the struggle to recover her position. it was saturday. he decided to call in the afternoon and see whether mary had recovered. again a disappointment. miss barfoot was better, and had been away since breakfast; miss nunn was also absent. everard sauntered about the neighbourhood, and presently found himself in the gardens of chelsea hospital. it was a warm afternoon, and so still that he heard the fall of yellow leaves as he walked hither and thither along the alleys. his failure to obtain an interview with miss nunn annoyed him; but for her presence in the house he would not have got into this habit of going there. as far as ever from harbouring any serious thoughts concerning rhoda, he felt himself impelled along the way which he had jokingly indicated in talk with micklethwaite; he was tempted to make love to her as an interesting pastime, to observe how so strong-minded a woman would conduct herself under such circumstances. had she or not a vein of sentiment in her character? was it impossible to move her as other women are moved? meditating thus, he looked up and saw the subject of his thoughts. she was seated a few yards away, and seemingly had not yet become aware of him, her eyes were on the ground, and troubled reverie appeared in her countenance. 'i have just called at the house, miss nunn. how is my cousin to-day?' she had looked up only a moment before he spoke, and seemed vexed at being thus discovered. 'i believe miss barfoot is quite well,' she answered coldly, as they shook hands. 'but yesterday she was not so.' 'a headache, or something of the kind.' he was astonished. rhoda spoke with a cold indifference. she had risen, and showed her wish to move from the spot. 'she had to attend an inquest yesterday. perhaps it rather upset her?' 'yes, i think it did.' unable to adapt himself at once to this singular mood of rhoda's, but resolved not to let her go before he had tried to learn the cause of it, he walked along by her side. in this part of the gardens there were only a few nursemaids and children; it would have been a capital place and time for improving his intimacy with the remarkable woman. but possibly she was determined to be rid of him. a contest between his will and hers would be an amusement decidedly to his taste. 'you also have been disturbed by it, miss nunn.' 'by the inquest?' she returned, with barely veiled scorn. 'indeed i have not.' 'did you know that poor girl?' 'some time ago.' 'then it is only natural that her miserable fate should sadden you.' he spoke as if with respectful sympathy, ignoring what she had said. 'it has no effect whatever upon me,' rhoda answered, glancing at him with surprise and displeasure. 'forgive me if i say that i find it difficult to believe that. perhaps you--' she interrupted him. 'i don't easily forgive anyone who charges me with falsehood, mr. barfoot.' 'oh, you take it too seriously. i beg your pardon a thousand times. i was going to say that perhaps you won't allow yourself to acknowledge any feeling of compassion in such a case.' 'i don't acknowledge what i don't feel. i will bid you good-afternoon.' he smiled at her with all the softness and persuasiveness of which he was capable. she had offered her hand with cold dignity, and instead of taking it merely for good-bye he retained it. 'you must, you shall forgive me! i shall be too miserable if you dismiss me in this way. i see that i was altogether wrong. you know all the particulars of the case, and i have only read a brief newspaper account. i am sure the girl didn't deserve your pity.' she was trying to draw her hand away. everard felt the strength of her muscles, and the sensation was somehow so pleasant that he could not at once release her. 'you do pardon me, miss nunn?' 'please don't be foolish. i will thank you to let my hand go.' was it possible? her cheek had coloured, ever so slightly. but with indignation, no doubt, for her eyes flashed sternly at him. very unwillingly, everard had no choice but to obey the command. 'will you have the kindness to tell me,' he said more gravely, 'whether my cousin was suffering only from that cause?' 'i can't say,' she added after a pause. 'i haven't spoken with miss barfoot for two or three days.' he looked at her with genuine astonishment. 'you haven't seen each other?' 'miss barfoot is angry with me. i think we shall be obliged to part.' 'to part? what can possibly have happened? miss barfoot angry with _you_?' 'if i _must_ satisfy your curiosity, mr. barfoot, i had better tell you at once that the subject of our difference is the girl you mentioned. not very long ago she tried to persuade your cousin to receive her again--to give her lessons at the place in great portland street, as before she disgraced herself. miss barfoot, with too ready good-nature, was willing to do this, but i resisted. it seemed to me that it would be a very weak and wrong thing to do. at the time she ended by agreeing with me. now that the girl has killed herself, she throws the blame upon my interference. we had a painful conversation, and i don't think we can continue to live together.' barfoot listened with gratification. it was much to have compelled rhoda to explain herself, and on such a subject. 'nor even to work together?' he asked. 'it is doubtful.' rhoda still moved forward, but very slowly, and without impatience. 'you will somehow get over this difficulty, i am sure. such friends as you and mary don't quarrel like ordinary unreasonable women. won't you let me be of use?' 'how?' asked rhoda with surprise. 'i shall make my cousin see that she is wrong.' 'how do you know that she is wrong?' 'because i am convinced that _you_ must be right. i respect mary's judgment, but i respect yours still more.' rhoda raised her head and smiled. 'that compliment,' she said, 'pleases me less than the one you have uttered without intending it.' 'you must explain.' 'you said that by making miss barfoot see she was wrong you could alter her mind towards me. the world's opinion would hardly support you in that, even in the case of men.' everard laughed. 'now this is better. now we are talking in the old way. surely you know that the world's opinion has no validity for me.' she kept silence. 'but, after all, _is_ mary wrong? i'm not afraid to ask the question now that your face has cleared a little. how angry you were with me! but surely i didn't deserve it. you would have been much more forbearing if you had known what delight i felt when i saw you sitting over there. it is nearly a month since we met, and i couldn't keep away any longer.' rhoda swept the distance with indifferent eyes. 'mary was fond of this girl?' he inquired, watching her. 'yes, she was.' 'then her distress, and even anger, are natural enough. we won't discuss the girl's history; probably i know all that i need to. but whatever her misdoing, you certainly didn't wish to drive her to suicide.' rhoda deigned no reply. 'all the same,' he continued in his gentlest tone, 'it turns out that you have practically done so. if mary had taken the girl back that despair would most likely never have come upon her. isn't it natural that mary should repent of having been guided by you, and perhaps say rather severe things?' 'natural, no doubt. but it is just as natural for me to resent blame where i have done nothing blameworthy.' 'you are absolutely sure that this is the case?' 'i thought you expressed a conviction that i was in the right?' there was no smile, but everard believed that he detected its possibility on the closed lips. 'i have got into the way of always thinking so--in questions of this kind. but perhaps you tend to err on the side of severity. perhaps you make too little allowance for human weakness.' 'human weakness is a plea that has been much abused, and generally in an interested spirit.' this was something like a personal rebuke. whether she so meant it, barfoot could not determine. he hoped she did, for the more personal their talk became the better he would be pleased. 'i, for one,' he said, 'very seldom urge that plea, whether in my own defence or another's. but it answers to a spirit we can't altogether dispense with. don't you feel ever so little regret that your severe logic prevailed?' 'not the slightest regret.' everard thought this answer magnificent. he had anticipated some evasion. however inappropriately, he was constrained to smile. 'how i admire your consistency! we others are poor halting creatures in comparison.' 'mr. barfoot,' said rhoda suddenly, 'i have had enough of this. if your approval is sincere, i don't ask for it. if you are practising your powers of irony, i had rather you chose some other person. i will go my way, if you please.' she just bent her head, and left him. enough for the present. having raised his hat and turned on his heels, barfoot strolled away in a mood of peculiar satisfaction. he laughed to himself. she was certainly a fine creature--yes, physically as well. her out-of-door appearance on the whole pleased him; she could dress very plainly without disguising the advantages of figure she possessed. he pictured her rambling about the hills, and longed to be her companion on such an expedition; there would be no consulting with feebleness, as when one sets forth to walk with the everyday woman. what daring topics might come up in the course of a twenty-mile stretch across country! no grundyism in rhoda nunn; no simpering, no mincing of phrases. why, a man might do worse than secure her for his comrade through the whole journey of life. suppose he pushed his joke to the very point of asking her to marry him? undoubtedly she would refuse; but how enjoyable to watch the proud vigour of her freedom asserting itself! yet would not an offer of marriage be too commonplace? rather propose to her to share his life in a free union, without sanction of forms which neither for her nor him were sanction at all. was it too bold a thought? not if he really meant it. uttered insincerely, such words would be insult; she would see through his pretence of earnestness, and then farewell to her for ever. but if his intellectual sympathy became tinged with passion--and did he discern no possibility of that? an odd thing were he to fall in love with rhoda nunn. hitherto his ideal had been a widely different type of woman; he had demanded rare beauty of face, and the charm of a refined voluptuousness. to be sure, it was but an ideal; no woman that approached it had ever come within his sphere. the dream exercised less power over him than a few years ago; perhaps because his youth was behind him. rhoda might well represent the desire of a mature man, strengthened by modern culture and with his senses fairly subordinate to reason. heaven forbid that he should ever tie himself to the tame domestic female; and just as little could he seek for a mate among the women of society, the creatures all surface, with empty pates and vitiated blood. no marriage for him, in the common understanding of the word. he wanted neither offspring nor a 'home'. rhoda nunn, if she thought of such things at all, probably desired a union which would permit her to remain an intellectual being; the kitchen, the cradle, and the work-basket had no power over her imagination. as likely as not, however, she was perfectly content with single life--even regarded it as essential to her purposes. in her face he read chastity; her eye avoided no scrutiny; her palm was cold. one does not break the heart of such a woman. heartbreak is a very old-fashioned disorder, associated with poverty of brain. if rhoda were what he thought her, she enjoyed this opportunity of studying a modern male, and cared not how far he proceeded in his own investigations, sure that at any moment she could bid him fall back. the amusement was only just beginning. and if for him it became earnest, why what did he seek but strong experiences? rhoda, in the meantime, had gone home. she shut herself in her bedroom, and remained there until the bell rang for dinner. miss barfoot entered the dining-room just before her; they sat down in silence, and through the meal exchanged but a few sentences, relative to a topic of the hour which interested neither of them. the elder woman had a very unhappy countenance; she looked worn out; her eyes never lifted themselves from the table. dinner over, miss barfoot went to the drawing-room alone. she had sat there about half an hour, brooding, unoccupied, when rhoda came in and stood before her. 'i have been thinking it over. it isn't right for me to remain here. such an arrangement was only possible whilst we were on terms of perfect understanding.' 'you must do what you think best, rhoda,' the other replied gravely, but with no accent of displeasure. 'yes, i had better take a lodging somewhere. what i wish to know is, whether you can still employ me with any satisfaction?' 'i don't employ you. that is not the word to describe your relations with me. if we must use business language, you are simply my partner.' 'only your kindness put me into that position. when you no longer regard me as a friend, i am only in your employment.' 'i haven't ceased to regard you as a friend. the estrangement between us is entirely of your making.' seeing that rhoda would not sit down, miss barfoot rose and stood by the fireplace. 'i can't bear reproaches,' said the former; 'least of all when they are irrational and undeserved.' 'if i reproached you, it was in a tone which should never have given you offence. one would think that i had rated you like a disobedient servant.' 'if _that_ had been possible,' answered rhoda, with a faint smile, 'i should never have been here. you said that you bitterly repented having given way to me on a certain occasion. that was unreasonable; in giving way, you declared yourself convinced. and the reproach i certainly didn't deserve, for i had behaved conscientiously.' 'isn't it allowed me to disapprove of what your conscience dictates?' 'not when you have taken the same view, and acted upon it. i don't lay claim to many virtues, and i haven't that of meekness. i could never endure anger; my nature resents it.' 'i did wrong to speak angrily, but indeed i hardly knew what i was saying. i had suffered a terrible shock. i loved that poor girl; i loved her all the more for what i had seen of her since she came to implore my help. your utter coldness--it seemed to me inhuman--i shrank from you. if your face had shown ever so little compassion--' 'i _felt_ no compassion.' 'no. you have hardened your heart with theory. guard yourself, rhoda! to work for women one must keep one's womanhood. you are becoming--you are wandering as far from the true way--oh, much further than bella did!' 'i can't answer you. when we argued about our differences in a friendly spirit, all was permissible; now if i spoke my thought it would be mere harshness and cause of embitterment. i fear all is at an end between us. i should perpetually remind you of this sorrow.' there was a silence of some length. rhoda turned away, and stood in reflection. 'let us do nothing hastily,' said miss barfoot. 'we have more to think of than our own feelings.' 'i have said that i am quite willing to go on with my work, but it must be on a different footing. the relation between us can no longer be that of equals. i am content to follow your directions. but your dislike of me will make this impossible.' 'dislike? you misunderstand me wretchedly. i think rather it is you who dislike me, as a weak woman with no command of her emotions.' again they ceased from speech. presently miss barfoot stepped forward. 'rhoda, i shall be away all to-morrow; i may not return to london until monday morning. will you think quietly over it all? believe me, i am not angry with you, and as for disliking you--what nonsense are we talking! but i can't regret that i let you see how painfully your behaviour impressed me. that hardness is not natural to you. you have encouraged yourself in it, and you are warping a very noble character.' 'i wish only to be honest. where you felt compassion i felt indignation.' 'yes; we have gone through all that. the indignation was a forced, exaggerated sentiment. you can't see it in that light perhaps. but try to imagine for a moment that bella had been your sister--' 'that is confusing the point at issue,' rhoda exclaimed irritably. 'have i ever denied the force of such feelings? my grief would have blinded me to all larger considerations, of course. but she was happily _not_ my sister, and i remained free to speak the simple truth about her case. it isn't personal feeling that directs a great movement in civilization. if you were right, i also was right. you should have recognized the inevitable discord of our opinions at that moment.' 'it didn't seem to me inevitable.' 'i should have despised myself if i could have affected sympathy.' 'affected--yes.' 'or have really felt it. that would have meant that i did not know myself. i should never again have dared to speak on any grave subject.' miss barfoot smiled sadly. 'how young you are! oh, there is far more than ten years between our ages, rhoda! in spirit you are a young girl, and i an old woman. no, no; we _will not_ quarrel. your companionship is far too precious to me, and i dare to think that mine is not without value for you. wait till my grief has had its course; then i shall be more reasonable and do you more justice.' rhoda turned towards the door, lingered, but without looking back, and so left the room. miss barfoot was absent as she had announced, returning only in time for her duties in great portland street on monday morning. she and rhoda then shook hands, but without a word of personal reference. they went through the day's work as usual. this was the day of the month on which miss barfoot would deliver her four o'clock address. the subject had been announced a week ago: 'woman as an invader.' an hour earlier than usual work was put aside, and seats were rapidly arranged for the small audience; it numbered only thirteen--the girls already on the premises and a few who came specially. all were aware of the tragedy in which miss barfoot had recently been concerned; her air of sadness, so great a contrast to that with which she was wont to address them, they naturally attributed to this cause. as always, she began in the simplest conversational tone. not long since she had received an anonymous letter, written by some clerk out of employment, abusing her roundly for her encouragement of female competition in the clerkly world. the taste of this epistle was as bad as its grammar, but they should hear it; she read it all through. now, whoever the writer might be, it seemed pretty clear that he was not the kind of person with whom one could profitably argue; no use in replying to him, even had he given the opportunity. for all that, his uncivil attack had a meaning, and there were plenty of people ready to urge his argument in more respectable terms. 'they will tell you that, in entering the commercial world, you not only unsex yourselves, but do a grievous wrong to the numberless men struggling hard for bare sustenance. you reduce salaries, you press into an already overcrowded field, you injure even your own sex by making it impossible for men to marry, who, if they earned enough, would be supporting a wife.' to-day, continued miss barfoot, it was not her purpose to debate the economic aspects of the question. she would consider it from another point of view, repeating, perhaps, much that she had already said to them on other occasions, but doing so because these thoughts had just now very strong possession of her mind. this abusive correspondent, who declared that he was supplanted by a young woman who did his work for smaller payment, doubtless had a grievance. but, in the miserable disorder of our social state, one grievance had to be weighed against another, and miss barfoot held that there was much more to be urged on behalf of women who invaded what had been exclusively the men's sphere, than on behalf of the men who began to complain of this invasion. 'they point to half a dozen occupations which are deemed strictly suitable for women. why don't we confine ourselves to this ground? why don't i encourage girls to become governesses, hospital nurses, and so on? you think i ought to reply that already there are too many applicants for such places. it would be true, but i don't care to make use of the argument, which at once involves us in a debate with the out-crowded clerk. no; to put the truth in a few words, i am not chiefly anxious that you should _earn money_, but that women in general shall become _rational and responsible human beings_. 'follow me carefully. a governess, a nurse, may be the most admirable of women. i will dissuade no one from following those careers who is distinctly fitted for them. but these are only a few out of the vast number of girls who must, if they are not to be despicable persons, somehow find serious work. because i myself have had an education in clerkship, and have most capacity for such employment, i look about for girls of like mind, and do my best to prepare them for work in offices. and (here i must become emphatic once more) i am _glad_ to have entered on this course. i am _glad_ that i can show girls the way to a career which my opponents call unwomanly. 'now see why. womanly and womanish are two very different words; but the latter, as the world uses it, has become practically synonymous with the former. a womanly occupation means, practically, an occupation that a man disdains. and here is the root of the matter. i repeat that i am not first of all anxious to keep you supplied with daily bread. i am a troublesome, aggressive, revolutionary person. i want to do away with that common confusion of the words womanly and womanish, and i see very clearly that this can only be effected by an armed movement, an invasion by women of the spheres which men have always forbidden us to enter. i am strenuously opposed to that view of us set forth in such charming language by mr. ruskin--for it tells on the side of those men who think and speak of us in a way the reverse of charming. were we living in an ideal world, i think women would not go to sit all day in offices. but the fact is that we live in a world as far from ideal as can be conceived. we live in a time of warfare, of revolt. if woman is no longer to be womanish, but a human being of powers and responsibilities, she must become militant, defiant. she must push her claims to the extremity. 'an excellent governess, a perfect hospital nurse, do work which is invaluable; but for our cause of emancipation they are no good--nay, they are harmful. men point to them, and say: imitate these, keep to your proper world. our proper world is the world of intelligence, of honest effort, of moral strength. the old types of womanly perfection are no longer helpful to us. like the church service, which to all but one person in a thousand has become meaningless gabble by dint of repetition, these types have lost their effect. they are no longer educational. we have to ask ourselves: what course of training will wake women up, make them conscious of their souls, startle them into healthy activity?' 'it must be something new, something free from the reproach of womanliness. i don't care whether we crowd out the men or not. i don't care _what_ results, if only women are made strong and self-reliant and nobly independent! the world must look to its concerns. most likely we shall have a revolution in the social order greater than any that yet seems possible. let it come, and let us help its coming. when i think of the contemptible wretchedness of women enslaved by custom, by their weakness, by their desires, i am ready to cry, let the world perish in tumult rather than things go on in this way!' for a moment her voice failed. there were tears in her eyes. the hearers, most of them, understood what made her so passionate; they exchanged grave looks. 'our abusive correspondent shall do as best he can. he suffers for the folly of men in all ages. we can't help it. it is very far from our wish to cause hardship to any one, but we ourselves are escaping from a hardship that has become intolerable. we are educating ourselves. there must be a new type of woman, active in every sphere of life: a new worker out in the world, a new ruler of the home. of the old ideal virtues we can retain many, but we have to add to them those which have been thought appropriate only in men. let a woman be gentle, but at the same time let her be strong; let her be pure of heart, but none the less wise and instructed. because we have to set an example to the sleepy of our sex, we must carry on an active warfare--must be invaders. whether woman is the equal of man i neither know nor care. we are not his equal in size, in weight, in muscle, and, for all i can say, we may have less power of brain. that has nothing to do with it. enough for us to know that our natural growth has been stunted. the mass of women have always been paltry creatures, and their paltriness has proved a curse to men. so, if you like to put it in this way, we are working for the advantage of men as well as for our own. let the responsibility for disorder rest on those who have made us despise our old selves. at any cost--at any cost--we will free ourselves from the heritage of weakness and contempt!' the assembly was longer than usual in dispersing. when all were gone, miss barfoot listened for a footstep in the other room. as she could detect no sound, she went to see if rhoda was there or not. yes; rhoda was sitting in a thoughtful attitude. she looked up, smiled, and came a few paces forward. 'it was very good.' 'i thought it would please you.' miss barfoot drew nearer, and added,-- 'it was addressed to you. it seemed to me that you had forgotten how i really thought about these things.' 'i have been ill-tempered,' rhoda replied. 'obstinacy is one of my faults.' 'it is.' their eyes met. 'i believe,' continued rhoda, 'that i ought to ask your pardon. right or wrong, i behaved in an unmannerly way.' 'yes, i think you did.' rhoda smiled, bending her head to the rebuke. 'and there's the last of it,' added miss barfoot. 'let us kiss and be friends.' chapter xiv motives meeting when barfoot made his next evening call rhoda did not appear. he sat for some time in pleasant talk with his cousin, no reference whatever being made to miss nunn; then at length, beginning to fear that he would not see her, he inquired after her health. miss nunn was very well, answered the hostess, smiling. 'not at home this evening?' 'busy with some kind of study, i think.' plainly, the difference between these women had come to a happy end, as barfoot foresaw that it would. he thought it better to make no mention of his meeting with rhoda in the gardens. 'that was a very unpleasant affair that i saw your name connected with last week,' he said presently. 'it made me very miserable--ill indeed for a day or two.' 'that was why you couldn't see me?' 'yes.' 'but in your reply to my note you made no mention of the circumstances.' miss barfoot kept silence; frowning slightly, she looked at the fire near which they were both sitting, for the weather had become very cold. 'no doubt,' pursued everard, glancing at her, 'you refrained out of delicacy--on my account, i mean.' 'need we talk of it?' 'for a moment, please. you are very friendly with me nowadays, but i suppose your estimate of my character remains very much the same as years ago?' 'what is the use of such questions?' 'i ask for a distinct purpose. you can't regard me with any respect?' 'to tell you the truth, everard, i know nothing about you. i have no wish to revive disagreeable memories, and i think it quite possible that you may be worthy of respect.' 'so far so good. now, in justice, please answer me another question. how have you spoken of me to miss nunn?' 'how can it matter?' 'it matters a good deal. have you told her any scandal about me?' 'yes, i have.' everard looked at her with surprise. 'i spoke to miss nunn about you,' she continued, 'before i thought of your coming here. frankly, i used you as an illustration of the evils i abominate.' 'you are a courageous and plain-spoken woman, cousin mary,' said everard, laughing a little. 'couldn't you have found some other example?' there was no reply. 'so,' he proceeded, 'miss nunn regards me as a proved scoundrel?' 'i never told her the story. i made known the general grounds of my dissatisfaction with you, that was all.' 'come, that's something. i'm glad you didn't amuse her with that unedifying bit of fiction.' 'fiction?' 'yes, fiction,' said everard bluntly. 'i am not going into details; the thing's over and done with, and i chose my course at the time. but it's as well to let you know that my behaviour was grossly misrepresented. in using me to point a moral you were grievously astray. i shall say no more. if you can believe me, do; if you can't, dismiss the matter from your mind.' there followed a silence of some moments. then, with a perfectly calm manner, miss barfoot began to speak of a new subject. everard followed her lead. he did not stay much longer, and on leaving asked to be remembered to miss nunn. a week later he again found his cousin alone. he now felt sure that miss nunn was keeping out of his way. her parting from him in the gardens had been decidedly abrupt, and possibly it signified more serious offence than at the time he attributed to her. it was so difficult to be sure of anything in regard to miss nunn. if another woman had acted thus he would have judged it coquetry. but perhaps rhoda was quite incapable of anything of that kind. perhaps she took herself so very seriously that the mere suspicion of banter in his talk had moved her to grave resentment. or again, she might be half ashamed to meet him after confessing her disagreement with miss barfoot; on recovery from ill-temper (unmistakable ill-temper it was), she had seen her behaviour in an embarrassing light. between these various conjectures he wavered whilst talking with mary. but he did not so much as mention miss nunn's name. some ten days went by, and he paid a call at the hour sanctioned by society, five in the afternoon; it being saturday. one of his reasons for coming at this time was the hope that he might meet other callers, for he felt curious to see what sort of people visited the house. and this wish was gratified. on entering the drawing-room, whither he was led by the servant straightway, after the manner of the world, he found not only his cousin and her friend, but two strangers, ladies. a glance informed him that both of these were young and good-looking, one being a type that particularly pleased him--dark, pale, with very bright eyes. miss barfoot received him as any hostess would have done. she was her cheerful self once more, and in a moment introduced him to the lady with whom she had been talking--the dark one, by name mrs. widdowson. rhoda nunn, sitting apart with the second lady, gave him her hand, but at once resumed her conversation. with mrs. widdowson he was soon chatting in his easy and graceful way, miss barfoot putting in a word now and then. he saw that she had not long been married; a pleasant diffidence and the maidenly glance of her bright eyes indicated this. she was dressed very prettily, and seemed aware of it. 'we went to hear the new opera at the savoy last night,' she said to miss barfoot, with a smile of remembered enjoyment. 'did you? miss nunn and i were there.' everard gazed at his cousin with humorous incredulity. 'is it possible?' he exclaimed. 'you were at the savoy?' 'where is the impossibility? why shouldn't miss nunn and i go to the theatre?' 'i appeal to mrs. widdowson. she also was astonished.' 'yes, indeed i was, miss barfoot!' exclaimed the younger lady, with a merry little laugh. 'i hesitated before speaking of such a frivolous entertainment.' lowering her voice, and casting a smile in rhoda's direction, miss barfoot replied,-- 'i have to make a concession occasionally on miss nunn's account. it would be unkind never to allow her a little recreation.' the two at a distance were talking earnestly, with grave countenances. in a few moments they rose, and the visitor came towards miss barfoot to take her leave. thereupon everard crossed to miss nunn. 'is there anything very good in the new gilbert and sullivan opera?' he asked. 'many good things. you really haven't been yet?' 'no--i'm ashamed to say.' 'do go this evening, if you can get a seat. which part of the theatre do you prefer?' his eye rested on her, but he could detect no irony. 'i'm a poor man, you know. i have to be content with the cheap places. which do you like best, the savoy operas or the burlesques at the gaiety?' a few more such questions and answers, of laboured commonplace or strained flippancy, and everard, after searching his companion's face, broke off with a laugh. 'there now,' he said, 'we have talked in the approved five o'clock way. precisely the dialogue i heard in a drawing-room yesterday. it goes on day after day, year after year, through the whole of people's lives.' 'you are on friendly terms with such people?' 'i am on friendly terms with people of every kind.' he added, in an undertone, 'i hope i may include you, miss nunn?' but to this she paid no attention. she was looking at monica and miss barfoot, who had just risen from their seats. they approached, and presently barfoot found himself alone with the familiar pair. 'another cup of tea, everard?' asked his cousin. 'thank you. who was the young lady you didn't introduce me to?' 'miss haven--one of our pupils.' 'does she think of going into business?' 'she has just got a place in the publishing department of a weekly paper.' 'but really--from the few words of her talk that fell upon my ear i should have thought her a highly educated girl.' 'so she is,' replied miss barfoot. 'what is your objection?' 'why doesn't she aim at some better position?' miss barfoot and rhoda exchanged smiles. 'but nothing could be better for her. some day she hopes to start a paper of her own, and to learn all the details of such business is just what she wants. oh, you are still very conventional, everard. you meant she ought to take up something graceful and pretty--something ladylike.' 'no, no. it's all right. i thoroughly approve. and when miss haven starts her paper, miss nunn will write for it.' 'i hope so,' assented his cousin. 'you make me feel that i am in touch with the great movements of our time. it's delightful to know you. but come now, isn't there any way in which i could help?' mary laughed. 'none whatever, i'm afraid.' 'well,--"they also serve who only stand and wait."' if everard had pleased himself he would have visited the house in queen's road every other day. as this might not be, he spent a good deal of his time in other society, not caring to read much, or otherwise occupy his solitude. starting with one or two acquaintances in london, people of means and position, he easily extended his social sphere. had he cared to marry, he might, notwithstanding his poverty, have wooed with fair chance in a certain wealthy family, where two daughters, the sole children, plain but well-instructed girls, waited for the men of brains who should appreciate them. so rare in society, these men of brains, and, alas! so frequently deserted by their wisdom when it comes to choosing a wife. it being his principle to reflect on every possibility, barfoot of course asked himself whether it would not be reasonable to approach one or other of these young women--the miss brissendens. he needed a larger income; he wanted to travel in a more satisfactory way than during his late absence. agnes brissenden struck him as a very calm and sensible girl; not at all likely to marry any one but the man who would be a suitable companion for her, and probably disposed to look on marriage as a permanent friendship, which must not be endangered by feminine follies. she had no beauty, but mental powers above the average--superior, certainly, to her sister's. it was worth thinking about, but in the meantime he wanted to see much more of rhoda nunn. rhoda he was beginning to class with women who are attractive both physically and mentally. strange how her face had altered to his perception since the first meeting. he smiled now when he beheld it--smiled as a man does when his senses are pleasantly affected. he was getting to know it so well, to be prepared for its constant changes, to watch for certain movements of brows or lips when he had said certain things. that forcible holding of her hand had marked a stage in progressive appreciation; since then he felt a desire to repeat the experiment. 'or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, imprison her soft hand, and let her rave--' the lines occurred to his memory, and he understood them better than heretofore. it would delight him to enrage rhoda, and then to detain her by strength, to overcome her senses, to watch her long lashes droop over the eloquent eyes. but this was something very like being in love, and he by no means wished to be seriously in love with miss nunn. it was another three weeks before he had an opportunity of private talk with her. trying a sunday afternoon, about four, he found rhoda alone in the drawing-room; miss barfoot was out of town. rhoda's greeting had a frank friendliness which she had not bestowed upon him for a long time; not, indeed, since they met on her return from cheddar. she looked very well, readily laughed, and seemed altogether in a coming-on disposition. barfoot noticed that the piano was open. 'do you play?' he inquired. 'strange that i should still have to ask the question.' 'oh, only a hymn on sunday,' she answered off-hand. 'a hymn?' 'why not? i like some of the old tunes very much. they remind me of the golden age.' 'in your own life, you mean?' she nodded. 'you have once or twice spoken of that time as if you were not quite happy in the present.' 'of course i am not quite happy. what woman is? i mean, what woman above the level of a petted pussy-cat?' everard was leaning towards her on the head of the couch where he sat. he gazed into her face fixedly. 'i wish it were in my power to remove some of your discontents. i would, more gladly than i can tell you.' 'you abound in good nature, mr. barfoot,' she replied laughing. 'but unfortunately you can't change the world.' 'not the world at large. but might i not change your views of it--in some respects?' 'indeed i don't see how you could. i think i had rather have my own view than any you might wish to substitute for it.' in this humour she seemed more than ever a challenge to his manhood. she was armed at all points. she feared nothing that he might say. no flush of apprehension; no nervous tremor; no weak self-consciousness. yet he saw her as a woman, and desirable. 'my views are not ignoble,' he murmured. 'i hope not. but they are the views of a man.' 'man and woman ought to see life with much the same eyes.' 'ought they? perhaps so. i am not sure. but they never will in our time.' 'individuals may. the man and woman who have thrown away prejudice and superstition. you and i, for instance.' 'oh, those words have such different meanings. in your judgment i should seem full of idle prejudice.' she liked this conversation; he read pleasure in her face, saw in her eyes a glint of merry defiance. and his pulses throbbed the quicker for it. 'you have a prejudice against _me_, for instance.' 'pray, did you go to the savoy?' inquired rhoda absently. 'i have no intention of talking about the savoy, miss nunn. it is teacup time, but as yet we have the room to ourselves.' rhoda went and rang the bell. 'the teacups shall come at once.' he laughed slightly, and looked at her from beneath drooping lids. rhoda went on with talk of trifles, until the tea was brought and she had given a cup. having emptied it at two draughts, he resumed his former leaning position. 'well, you were saying that you had a prejudice against me. of course my cousin mary is accountable for that. mary has used me rather ill. before ever you saw me, i represented to your mind something very disagreeable indeed. that was too bad of my cousin.' rhoda, sipping her tea, had a cold, uninterested expression. 'i didn't know of this,' he proceeded, 'when we met that day in the gardens, and when i made you so angry.' 'i wasn't disposed to jest about what had happened.' 'but neither was i. you quite misunderstood me. will you tell me how that unpleasantness came to an end?' 'oh yes. i admitted that i had been ill-mannered and obstinate.' 'how delightful! obstinate? i have a great deal of that in my character. all the active part of my life was one long fit of obstinacy. as a lad i determined on a certain career, and i stuck to it in spite of conscious unfitness, in spite of a great deal of suffering, out of sheer obstinacy. i wonder whether mary ever told you that.' 'she mentioned something of the kind once.' 'you could hardly believe it, i dare say? i am a far more reasonable being now. i have changed in so many respects that i hardly know my old self when i look back on it. above all, in my thoughts about women. if i had married during my twenties i should have chosen, as the average man does, some simpleton--with unpleasant results. if i marry now, it will be a woman of character and brains. marry in the legal sense i never shall. my companion must be as independent of forms as i am myself.' rhoda looked into her teacup for a second or two, then said with a smile,-- 'you also are a reformer?' 'in that direction.' he had difficulty in suppressing signs of nervousness. the bold declaration had come without forethought, and rhoda's calm acceptance of it delighted him. 'questions of marriage,' she went on to say, 'don't interest me much; but this particular reform doesn't seem very practical. it is trying to bring about an ideal state of things whilst we are yet struggling with elementary obstacles.' 'i don't advocate this liberty for all mankind. only for those who are worthy of it.' 'and what'--she laughed a little--'are the sure signs of worthiness? i think it would be very needful to know them.' everard kept a grave face. 'true. but a free union presupposes equality of position. no honest man would propose it, for instance, to a woman incapable of understanding all it involved, or incapable of resuming her separate life if that became desirable. i admit all the difficulties. one must consider those of feeling, as well as the material. if my wife should declare that she must be released, i might suffer grievously, but being a man of some intelligence, i should admit that the suffering couldn't be helped; the brutality of enforced marriage doesn't seem to me an alternative worth considering. it wouldn't seem so to any woman of the kind i mean.' would she have the courage to urge one grave difficulty that he left aside? no. he fancied her about to speak, but she ended by offering him another cup of tea. 'after all, that is _not_ your ideal?' he said. 'i haven't to do with the subject at all,' rhoda answered, with perhaps a trace of impatience. 'my work and thought are for the women who do not marry--the 'odd women' i call them. they alone interest me. one mustn't undertake too much.' 'and you resolutely class yourself with them?' 'of course i do.' 'and therefore you have certain views of life which i should like to change. you are doing good work, but i had rather see any other woman in the world devote her life to it. i am selfish enough to wish--' the door opened, and the servant announced,-- 'mr. and mrs. widdowson.' with perfect self-command miss nunn rose and stepped forward. barfoot, rising more slowly, looked with curiosity at the husband of the pretty, black-browed woman whom he had already met. widdowson surprised and amused him. how had this stiff, stern fellow with the grizzled beard won such a wife? not that mrs. widdowson seemed a remarkable person, but certainly it was an ill-assorted union. she came and shook hands. as he spoke a few natural words, everard chanced to notice that the husband's eye was upon him, and with what a look! if ever a man declared in his countenance the worst species of jealous temper, mr. widdowson did so. his fixed smile became sardonic. presently barfoot and he were introduced. they had nothing to say to each other, but everard maintained a brief conversation just to observe the man. turning at length, he began to talk with mrs. widdowson, and, because he was conscious of the jealous eye, assumed an especial sprightliness, an air of familiar pleasantry, to which the lady responded, but with a nervous hesitation. the arrival of these people was an intense annoyance to him. another quarter of an hour and things would have come to an exciting pass between rhoda and himself; he would have heard how she received a declaration of love. rhoda's self-possession notwithstanding, he believed that he was not without power over her. she liked to talk with him, enjoyed the freedom he allowed himself in choice of subject. perhaps no man before had ever shown an appreciation of her qualities as woman. but she would not yield, was in no real danger from his love-making. nay, the danger was to his own peace. he felt that resistance would intensify the ardour of his wooing, and possibly end by making him a victim of genuine passion. well, let her enjoy that triumph, if she were capable of winning it. he had made up his mind to outstay the widdowsons, who clearly would not make a long call. but the fates were against him. another visitor arrived, a lady named cosgrove, who settled herself as if for at least an hour. worse than that, he heard her say to rhoda,-- 'oh, then do come and dine with us. do, i beg!' 'i will, with pleasure,' was miss nunn's reply. 'can you wait and take me with you?' useless to stay longer. as soon as the widdowsons had departed he went up to rhoda and silently offered his hand. she scarcely looked at him, and did not in the least return his pressure. rhoda dined at mrs. cosgrove's, and was home again at eleven o'clock. when the house was locked up, and the servants had gone to bed, she sat in the library, turning over a book that she had brought from her friend's house. it was a volume of essays, one of which dealt with the relations between the sexes in a very modern spirit, treating the subject as a perfectly open one, and arriving at unorthodox conclusions. mrs. cosgrove had spoken of this dissertation with lively interest. rhoda perused it very carefully, pausing now and then to reflect. in this reading of her mind, barfoot came near the truth. no man had ever made love to her; no man, to her knowledge, had ever been tempted to do so. in certain moods she derived satisfaction from this thought, using it to strengthen her life's purpose; having passed her thirtieth year, she might take it as a settled thing that she would never be sought in marriage, and so could shut the doors on every instinct tending to trouble her intellectual decisions. but these instincts sometimes refused to be thus treated. as miss barfoot told her, she was very young for her years, young in physique, young in emotion. as a girl she had dreamt passionately, and the fires of her nature, though hidden beneath aggregations of moral and mental attainment, were not yet smothered. an hour of lassitude filled her with despondency, none the less real because she was ashamed of it. if only she had once been loved, like other women--if she had listened to an offer of devotion, and rejected it--her heart would be more securely at peace. so she thought. secretly she deemed it a hard thing never to have known that common triumph of her sex. and, moreover, it took away from the merit of her position as a leader and encourager of women living independently. there might be some who said, or thought, that she made a virtue of necessity. everard barfoot's advances surprised her not a little. judging him as a man wholly without principle, she supposed at first that this was merely his way with all women, and resented it as impertinence. but even then she did not dislike the show of homage; what her mind regarded with disdain, her heart was all but willing to feed upon, after its long hunger. barfoot interested her, and not the less because of his evil reputation. here was one of the men for whom women--doubtless more than one--had sacrificed themselves; she could not but regard him with sexual curiosity. and her interest grew, her curiosity was more haunting, as their acquaintance became a sort of friendship; she found that her moral disapprobation wavered, or was altogether forgotten. perhaps it was to compensate for this that she went the length of outraging miss barfoot's feelings on the death of bella royston. certainly she thought with much frequency of barfoot, and looked forward to his coming. never had she wished so much to see him again as after their encounter in chelsea gardens, and on that account she forced herself to hold aloof when he came. it was not love, nor the beginning of love; she judged it something less possible to avow. the man's presence affected her with a perturbation which she had no difficulty in concealing at the time, though afterwards it distressed and shamed her. she took refuge in the undeniable fact that the quality of his mind made an impression upon her, that his talk was sympathetic. miss barfoot submitted to this influence; she confessed that her cousin's talk had always had a charm for her. could it be that this man reciprocated, and more than reciprocated, her complex feeling? to-day only accident had prevented him from making an avowal of love--unless she strangely mistook him. all the evening she had dwelt on this thought; it grew more and more astonishing. was he worse than she had imagined? under cover of independent thought, of serious moral theories, did he conceal mere profligacy and heartlessness? it was an extraordinary thing to have to ask such questions in relation to herself. it made her feel as if she had to learn herself anew, to form a fresh conception of her personality. she the object of a man's passion! and the thought was exultant. even thus late, then, the satisfaction of vanity had been granted her--nay, not of vanity alone. he must be sincere. what motive could he possibly have for playing a part? might it not be true that he was a changed man in certain respects, and that a genuine emotion at length had control of him? if so, she had only to wait for his next speech with her in private; she could not misjudge a lover's pleading. the interest would only be that of comedy. she did not love everard barfoot, and saw no likelihood of ever doing so; on the whole, a subject for thankfulness. nor could he seriously anticipate an assent to his proposal for a free union; in declaring that legal marriage was out of the question for him, he had removed his love-making to the region of mere ideal sentiment. but, if he loved her, these theories would sooner or later be swept aside; he would plead with her to become his legal wife. to that point she desired to bring him. offer what he might, she would not accept it; but the secret chagrin that was upon her would be removed. love would no longer be the privilege of other women. to reject a lover in so many respects desirable, whom so many women might envy her, would fortify her self-esteem, and enable her to go forward in the chosen path with firmer tread. it was one o'clock; the fire had died out and she began to shiver with cold. but a trembling of joy at the same time went through her limbs; again she had the sense of exultation, of triumph. she would not dismiss him peremptorily. he should prove the quality of his love, if love it were. coming so late, the experience must yield her all it had to yield of delight and contentment. chapter xv the joys of home monica and her husband, on leaving the house in queen's road, walked slowly in the eastward direction. though night had fallen, the air was not unpleasant; they had no object before them, and for five minutes they occupied themselves with their thoughts. then widdowson stopped. 'shall we go home again?' he asked, just glancing at monica, then letting his eyes stray vaguely in the gloom. 'i should like to see milly, but i'm afraid i can hardly take you there to call with me.' 'why not?' 'it's a very poor little sitting-room, you know, and she might have some friend. isn't there anywhere you could go, and meet me afterwards?' frowning, widdowson looked at his watch. 'nearly six o'clock. there isn't much time.' 'edmund, suppose you go home, and let me come back by myself? you wouldn't mind, for once? i should like so much to have a talk with milly. if i got back about nine or half-past, i could have a little supper, and that's all i should want.' he answered abruptly,-- 'oh, but i can't have you going about alone at night.' 'why not?' answered monica, with a just perceptible note of irritation. 'are you afraid i shall be robbed or murdered?' 'nonsense. but you mustn't be alone.' 'didn't i always use to be alone?' he made an angry gesture. 'i have begged you not to speak of that. why do you say what you know is disagreeable to me? you used to do all sorts of things that you never ought to have been obliged to do, and it's very painful to remember it.' monica, seeing that people were approaching, walked on, and neither spoke until they had nearly reached the end of the road. 'i think we had better go home,' widdowson at length remarked. 'if you wish it; but i really don't see why i shouldn't call on milly, now that we are here.' 'why didn't you speak of it before we left home? you ought to be more methodical, monica. each morning i always plan how my day is to be spent, and it would be much better if you would do the same. then you wouldn't be so restless and uncertain.' 'if i go to rutland street,' said monica, without heeding this admonition, 'couldn't you leave me there for an hour?' 'what in the world am i to do?' 'i should have thought you might walk about. it's a pity you don't know more people, edmund. it would make things so much pleasanter for you.' in the end he consented to see her safely as far as rutland street, occupy himself for an hour, and come back for her. they went by cab, which was dismissed in hampstead road. widdowson did not turn away until he had ocular proof of his wife's admittance to the house where miss vesper lived, and even then he walked no farther than the neighbouring streets, returning about every ten minutes to watch the house from a short distance, as though he feared monica might have some project of escape. his look was very bilious; trudging mechanically hither and thither where fewest people were to be met, he kept his eyes on the ground, and clumped to a dismal rhythm with the end of his walking-stick. in the three or four months since his marriage, he seemed to have grown older; he no longer held himself so upright. at the very moment agreed upon he was waiting close by the house. five minutes passed; twice he had looked at his watch, and he grew excessively impatient, stamping as if it were necessary to keep himself warm. another five minutes, and he uttered a nervous ejaculation. he had all but made up his mind to go and knock at the door when monica came forth. 'you haven't been waiting here long, i hope?' she said cheerfully. 'ten minutes. but it doesn't matter.' 'i'm very sorry. we were talking on--' 'yes, but one must always be punctual. i wish i could impress that upon you. life without punctuality is quite impossible.' 'i'm very sorry, edmund. i will be more careful. please don't lecture me, dear. how shall we go home?' 'we had better take a cab to victoria. no knowing how long we may have to wait for a train when we get there.' 'now don't be so grumpy. where have you been all the time?' 'oh, walking about. what else was i to do?' on the drive they held no conversation. at victoria they were delayed about half an hour before a train started for herne hill; monica sat in a waiting-room, and her husband trudged about the platform, still clumping rhythmically with his stick. their sunday custom was to dine at one o'clock, and at six to have tea. widdowson hated the slightest interference with domestic routine, and he had reluctantly indulged monica's desire to go to chelsea this afternoon. hunger was now added to his causes of discontent. 'let us have something to eat at once,' he said on entering the house. 'this disorder really won't do: we must manage better somehow.' without replying, monica rang the dining-room bell, and gave orders. little change had been made in the interior of the house since its master's marriage. the dressing-room adjoining the principal bed-chamber was adapted to monica's use, and a few ornaments were added to the drawing-room. unlike his deceased brother, widdowson had the elements of artistic taste; in furnishing his abode he took counsel with approved decorators, and at moderate cost had made himself a home which presented no original features, but gave no offence to a cultivated eye. the first sight of the rooms pleased monica greatly. she declared that all was perfect, nothing need be altered. in those days, if she had bidden him spend a hundred pounds on reconstruction, the lover would have obeyed, delighted to hear her express a wish. though competence had come to him only after a lifetime of narrow means, widdowson felt no temptation to parsimony. secure in his all-sufficing income, he grudged no expenditure that could bring himself or his wife satisfaction. on the wedding-tour in cornwall, devon, and somerset--it lasted about seven weeks--monica learnt, among other things less agreeable, that her husband was generous with money. he was anxious she should dress well, though only, as monica soon discovered, for his own gratification. soon after they had settled down at home she equipped herself for the cold season, and widdowson cared little about the price so long as the effect of her new costumes was pleasing to him. 'you are making a butterfly of me,' said monica merrily, when he expressed strong approval of a bright morning dress that had just come home. 'a beautiful woman,' he replied, with the nervous gravity which still possessed him when complimenting her, or saying tender things, 'a beautiful woman ought to be beautifully clad.' at the same time he endeavoured to impress her with the gravest sense of a married woman's obligations. his raptures, genuine enough, were sometimes interrupted in the oddest way if monica chanced to utter a careless remark of which he could not strictly approve, and such interruptions frequently became the opportunity for a long and solemn review of the wifely status. without much trouble he had brought her into a daily routine which satisfied him. during the whole of the morning she was to be absorbed in household cares. in the afternoon he would take her to walk or drive, and the evening he wished her to spend either in drawing-room or library, occupied with a book. monica soon found that his idea of wedded happiness was that they should always be together. most reluctantly he consented to her going any distance alone, for whatever purpose. public entertainments he regarded with no great favour, but when he saw how monica enjoyed herself at concert or theatre, he made no objection to indulging her at intervals of a fortnight or so; his own fondness for music made this compliance easier. he was jealous of her forming new acquaintances; indifferent to society himself, he thought his wife should be satisfied with her present friends, and could not understand why she wished to see them so often. the girl was docile, and for a time he imagined that there would never be conflict between his will and hers. whilst enjoying their holiday they naturally went everywhere together, and were scarce an hour out of each other's presence, day or night. in quiet spots by the seashore, when they sat in solitude, widdowson's tongue was loosened, and he poured forth his philosophy of life with the happy assurance that monica would listen passively. his devotion to her proved itself in a thousand ways; week after week he grew, if anything, more kind, more tender; yet in his view of their relations he was unconsciously the most complete despot, a monument of male autocracy. never had it occurred to widdowson that a wife remains an individual, with rights and obligations independent of her wifely condition. everything he said presupposed his own supremacy; he took for granted that it was his to direct, hers to be guided. a display of energy, purpose, ambition, on monica's part, which had no reference to domestic pursuits, would have gravely troubled him; at once he would have set himself to subdue, with all gentleness, impulses so inimical to his idea of the married state. it rejoiced him that she spoke with so little sympathy of the principles supported by miss barfoot and miss nunn; these persons seemed to him well-meaning, but grievously mistaken. miss nunn he judged 'unwomanly,' and hoped in secret that monica would not long remain on terms of friendship with her. of course his wife's former pursuits were an abomination to him; he could not bear to hear them referred to. 'woman's sphere is the home, monica. unfortunately girls are often obliged to go out and earn their living, but this is unnatural, a necessity which advanced civilization will altogether abolish. you shall read john ruskin; every word he says about women is good and precious. if a woman can neither have a home of her own, nor find occupation in any one else's she is deeply to be pitied; her life is bound to be unhappy. i sincerely believe that an educated woman had better become a domestic servant than try to imitate the life of a man.' monica seemed to listen attentively, but before long she accustomed herself to wear this look whilst in truth she was thinking her own thoughts. and as often as not they were of a nature little suspected by her prosing companion. he believed himself the happiest of men. he had taken a daring step, but fortune smiled upon him, monica was all he had imagined in his love-fever; knowledge of her had as yet brought to light no single untruth, no trait of character that he could condemn. that she returned his love he would not and could not doubt. and something she said to him one day, early in their honeymoon, filled up the measure of his bliss. 'what a change you have made in my life, edmund! how much i have to thank you for!' that was what he had hoped to hear. he had thought it himself; had wondered whether monica saw her position in this light. and when the words actually fell from her lips he glowed with joy. this, to his mind, was the perfect relation of wife to husband. she must look up to him as her benefactor, her providence. it would have pleased him still better if she had not possessed a penny of her own, but happily monica seemed never to give a thought to the sum at her disposal. surely he was the easiest of men to live with. when he first became aware that monica suffered an occasional discontent, it caused him troublous surprise. as soon as he understood that she desired more freedom of movement, he became anxious, suspicious, irritable. nothing like a quarrel had yet taken place between them, but widdowson began to perceive that he must exert authority in a way he had imagined would never be necessary. all his fears, after all, were not groundless. monica's undomestic life, and perhaps the association with those chelsea people, had left results upon her mind. by way of mild discipline, he first of all suggested a closer attention to the affairs of the house. would it not be well if she spent an hour a day in sewing or fancy work? monica so far obeyed as to provide herself with some plain needlework, but widdowson, watching with keen eye, soon remarked that her use of the needle was only a feint. he lay awake o' nights, pondering darkly. on the present evening he was more decidedly out of temper than ever hitherto. he satisfied his hunger hurriedly and in silence. then, observing that monica ate only a few morsels, he took offence at this. 'i'm afraid you are not well, dear. you have had no appetite for several days.' 'as much as usual, i think,' she replied absently. they went into the library, commonly their resort of an evening. widdowson possessed several hundred volumes of english literature, most of them the works which are supposed to be indispensible to a well-informed man, though very few men even make a pretence of reading them. self-educated, widdowson deemed it his duty to make acquaintance with the great, the solid authors. nor was his study of them affectation. for the poets he had little taste; the novelists he considered only profitable in intervals of graver reading; but history, political economy, even metaphysics, genuinely appealed to him. he had always two or three solid books on hand, each with its marker; he studied them at stated hours, and always sitting at a table, a notebook open beside him. a little work once well-known, todd's 'student's manual,' had formed his method and inspired him with zeal. to-night, it being sunday, he took down a volume of barrow's sermons. though not strictly orthodox in religious faith, he conformed to the practices of the church of england, and since his marriage had been more scrupulous on this point than before. he abhorred unorthodoxy in a woman, and would not on any account have suffered monica to surmise that he had his doubts concerning any article of the christian faith. like most men of his kind, he viewed religion as a precious and powerful instrument for directing the female conscience. frequently he read aloud to his wife, but this evening he showed no intention of doing so. monica, however, sat unoccupied. after glancing at her once or twice, he said reprovingly,-- 'have you finished your sunday book?' 'not quite. but i don't care to read just now.' the silence that followed was broken by monica herself. 'have you accepted mrs. luke's invitation to dinner?' she asked. 'i have declined it,' was the reply, carelessly given. monica bit her lip. 'but why?' 'surely we needn't discuss that over again, monica.' his eyes were still on the book, and he stirred impatiently. 'but,' urged his wife, 'do you mean to break with her altogether? if so, i think it's very unwise, edmund. what an opinion you must have of me, if you think i can't see people's faults! i know it's very true, all you say about her. but she wishes to be kind to us, i'm sure--and i like to see something of a life so different from our own.' widdowson drummed on the floor with his foot. in a few moments, ignoring monica's remarks, he stroked his beard, and asked, with a show of casual interest-- 'how was it you knew that mr. barfoot?' 'i had met him before--when i went there on the saturday.' widdowson's eyes fell; his brow was wrinkled. 'he's often there, then?' 'i don't know. perhaps he is. he's miss barfoot's cousin, you know.' 'you haven't seen him more than once before?' 'no. why do you ask?' 'oh, it was only that he seemed to speak as if you were old acquaintances.' 'that's his way, i suppose.' monica had already learnt that the jealousy which widdowson so often betrayed before their manage still lurked in his mind. perceiving why he put these questions, she could not look entirely unconcerned, and the sense of his eye being upon her caused her some annoyance. 'you talked to him, didn't you?' she said, changing her position in the deep chair. 'oh, the kind of talk that is possible with a perfect stranger. i suppose he is in some profession?' 'i really don't know. why, edmund? does he interest you?' 'only that one likes to know something about the people that are introduced to one's wife,' widdowson answered rather acridly. their bedtime was half-past ten. precisely at that moment widdowson closed his book--glad to be relieved from the pretence of reading--and walked over the lower part of the house to see that all was right. he had a passion for routine. every night, before going upstairs, he did a number of little things in unvarying sequence--changed the calendar for next day, made perfect order on his writing-table, wound up his watch, and so on. that monica could not direct her habits with like exactitude was frequently a distress to him; if she chanced to forget any most trivial detail of daily custom he looked very solemn, and begged her to be more vigilant. next morning after breakfast, as monica stood by the dining-room window and looked rather cheerlessly at a leaden sky, her husband came towards her as if he had something to say. she turned, and saw that his face no longer wore the austere expression which had made her miserable last night, and even during the meal this morning. 'are we friends?' he said, with the attempt at playfulness which always made him look particularly awkward. 'of course we are,' monica answered, smiling, but not regarding him. 'didn't he behave gruffly last night to his little girl?' 'just a little.' 'and what can the old bear do to show that he's sorry?' 'never be gruff again.' 'the old bear is sometimes an old goose as well, and torments himself in the silliest way. tell him so, if ever he begins to behave badly. isn't it account-book morning?' 'yes. i'll come to you at eleven.' 'and if we have a nice, quiet, comfortable week, i'll take you to the crystal palace concert next saturday.' monica nodded cheerfully, and went off to look after her housekeeping. the week was in all respects what widdowson desired. not a soul came to the house; monica went to see no one. save on two days, it rained, sleeted, drizzled, fogged; on those two afternoons they had an hour's walk. saturday brought no improvement of the atmosphere, but widdowson was in his happiest mood; he cheerfully kept his promise about the concert. as they sat together at night, his contentment overflowed in tenderness like that of the first days of marriage. 'now, why can't we always live like this? what have we to do with other people? let us be everything to each other, and forget that any one else exists.' 'i can't help thinking that's a mistake,' monica ventured to reply. 'for one thing, if we saw more people, we should have so much more to talk about when we are alone.' 'it's better to talk about ourselves. i shouldn't care if i never again saw any living creature but you. you see, the old bear loves his little girl better than she loves him.' monica was silent. 'isn't it true? you don't feel that my company would be enough for you?' 'would it be right if i ceased to care for every one else? there are my sisters. i ought to have asked virginia to come to-morrow; i'm sure she thinks i neglect her, and it must be dreadful living all alone like she does.' 'haven't they made up their mind yet about the school? i'm sure it's the right thing for them to do. if the venture were to fail, and they lost money, we would see that they never came to want.' 'they're so timid about it. and it wouldn't be nice, you know, to feel they were going to be dependent upon us for the rest of their lives. i had better go and see virgie to-morrow morning, and bring her back for dinner.' 'if you like,' widdowson assented slowly. 'but why not send a message, and ask her to come here?' 'i had rather go. it makes a change for me.' this was a word widdowson detested. change, on monica's lips, always seemed to mean a release from his society. but he swallowed his dissatisfaction, and finally consented to the arrangement. virginia came to dinner, and stayed until nightfall. thanks to her sister's kindness, she was better clad than in former days, but her face signified no improvement of health. the enthusiasm with which rhoda nunn had inspired her appeared only in fitful affectations of interest when monica pressed her concerning the projected undertaking down in somerset. in general she had a dreamy, reticent look, and became uncomfortable when any one gazed at her inquiringly. her talk was of the most insignificant things; this afternoon she spent nearly half an hour in describing a kitten which mrs. conisbee had given her; care of the little animal appeared to have absorbed her whole attention for many days past. another visitor to-day was mr. newdick, the city clerk who had been present at monica's wedding. he and mrs. luke widdowson were the sole friends of her husband that monica had seen. mr. newdick enjoyed coming to herne hill. always lugubrious to begin with, he gradually cheered up, and by the time for departure was loquacious. but he had the oddest ideas of talk suitable to a drawing-room. had he been permitted, he would have held forth to monica by the hour on the history of the business firm which he had served for a quarter of a century. this subject alone could animate him. his anecdotes were as often as not quite unintelligible, save to people of city experience. for all that monica did not dislike the man; he was a good, simple, unselfish fellow, and to her he behaved with exaggeration of respect. a few days later monica had a sudden fit of illness. her marriage, and the long open-air holiday, had given her a much healthier appearance than when she was at the shop; but this present disorder resembled the attack she had suffered in rutland street. widdowson hoped that it signified a condition for which he was anxiously waiting. that, however, did not seem to be the case. the medical man who was called in asked questions about the patient's mode of life. did she take enough exercise? had she wholesome variety of occupation? at these inquiries widdowson inwardly raged. he was tormented with a suspicion that they resulted from something monica had said to the doctor. she kept her bed for three or four days, and on rising could only sit by the fireside, silent, melancholy. widdowson indulged his hope, though monica herself laughed it aside, and even showed annoyance if he return to the subject. her temper was strangely uncertain; some chance word in a conversation would irritate her beyond endurance, and after an outburst of petulant displeasure she became obstinately mute. at other times she behaved with such exquisite docility and sweetness that widdowson was beside himself with rapture. after a week of convalescence, she said one morning,-- 'couldn't we go away somewhere? i don't think i shall ever be quite well staying here.' 'it's wretched weather,' replied her husband. 'oh, but there are places where it wouldn't be like this. you don't mind the expense, do you, edmund?' 'expense? not i, indeed! but--were you thinking of abroad?' she looked at him with eyes that had suddenly brightened. 'oh! would it be possible? people do go out of england in the winter.' widdowson plucked at his grizzled beard and fingered his watch-chain. it was a temptation. why not take her away to some place where only foreigners and strangers would be about them? yet the enterprise alarmed him. 'i have never been out of england,' he said, with misgiving. 'all the more reason why we should go. i think miss barfoot could advise us about it. she has been abroad, i know, and she has so many friends.' 'i don't see any need to consult miss barfoot,' he replied stiffly. 'i am not such a helpless man, monica.' yet a feeling of inability to grapple with such an undertaking as this grew on him the more he thought of it. naturally, his mind busied itself with such vague knowledge as he had gathered of those places in the south of france, where rich english people go to escape their own climate: nice, cannes. he could not imagine himself setting forth to these regions. doubtless it was possible to travel thither, and live there when one arrived, without a knowledge of french; but he pictured all sorts of humiliating situations resulting from his ignorance. above everything he dreaded humiliation in monica's sight; it would be intolerable to have her comparing him with men who spoke foreign languages, and were at home on the continent. nevertheless, he wrote to his friend newdick, and invited him to dine, solely for the purpose of talking over this question with him in private. after dinner he broached the subject. to his surprise, newdick had ideas concerning nice and cannes and such places. he had heard about them from the junior partner of his firm, a young gentleman who talked largely of his experiences abroad. 'an immoral lot there,' he said, smiling and shaking his head. 'queer goings on.' 'oh, but that's among the foreigners, isn't it?' thereupon mr. newdick revealed his acquaintance with english literature. 'did you ever read any of ouida's novels?' 'no, i never did.' 'i advise you to before you think of taking your wife over there. she writes a great deal about those parts. people get mixed up so, it seems. you couldn't live by yourself. you have to eat at public tables, and you'd have all sorts of people trying to make acquaintance with mrs. widdowson. they're a queer lot, i believe.' he abandoned the thought, at once and utterly. when monica learnt this--he gave only vague and unsatisfactory reasons--she fell back into her despondent mood. for a whole day she scarcely uttered a word. on the next day, in the dreary afternoon, they were surprised by a call from mrs. luke. the widow--less than ever a widow in externals--came in with a burst of exuberant spirits, and began to scold the moping couple like an affectionate parent. 'when are you silly young people coming to an end of your honeymoon? do you sit here day after day and call each other pretty names? really it's very charming in its way. i never knew such an obstinate case.--monica, my black-eyed beauty, change your frock, and come with me to look up the hodgson bulls. they're quite too awful; i can't face them alone; but i'm bound to keep in with them. be off, and let me pitch into your young man for daring to refuse my dinner. don't you know, sir, that my invitations are like those of royalty--polite commands?' widdowson kept silence, waiting to see what his wife would do. he could not with decency object to her accompanying mrs. luke, yet hated the thought of such a step. a grim smile on his face, he sat stiffly, staring at the wall. to his inexpressible delight, monica, after a short hesitation, excused herself; she was not well; she did not feel able-- 'oh!' laughed the visitor. 'i see, i see! do just as you like, of course. but if edmund has any _nous_'--this phrase she had learnt from a young gentleman, late of oxford, now of tattersall's and elsewhere--'he won't let you sit here in the dumps. you _are_ in the dumps, i can see.' the vivacious lady did not stay long. when she had rustled forth again to her carriage, widdowson broke into a paean of amorous gratitude. what could he do to show how he appreciated monica's self-denial on his behalf? for a day or two he was absent rather mysteriously, and in the meantime made up his mind, after consultation with newdick, to take his wife for a holiday in guernsey. monica, when she heard of this project, was at first moderately grateful, but in a day or two showed by reviving strength and spirits that she looked forward eagerly to the departure. her husband advertised for lodgings in st. peter port; he would not face the disagreeable chances of a hotel. in a fortnight's time all their preparations were made. during their absence, which might extend over a month, virginia was to live at herne hill, in supervision of the two servants. on the last sunday monica went to see her friends in queen's road. widdowson was ashamed to offer an objection; he much disliked her going there alone, but disliked equally the thought of accompanying her, for at miss barfoot's he could not pretend to sit, stand, or converse with ease. it happened that mrs. cosgrove was again calling. on the first occasion of meeting with monica this lady paid her no particular attention; to-day she addressed her in a friendly manner, and their conversation led to the discovery that both of them were about to spend the ensuing month in the same place. mrs. cosgrove hoped they might occasionally see each other. of this coincidence monica thought better to say nothing on her return home. she could not be sure that her husband might not, at the last moment, decide to stay at herne hill rather than incur the risk of her meeting an acquaintance in guernsey. on this point he could not be trusted to exercise common sense. for the first time monica had a secret she desired to keep from him, and the necessity was one which could not but have an unfavourable effect on her manner of regarding widdowson. they were to start on monday evening. through the day her mind was divided between joy in the thought of seeing a new part of the world and a sense of weary dislike for her home. she had not understood until now how terrible would be the prospect of living here for a long time with no companionship but her husband's. on the return that prospect would lie before her. but no; their way of life must somehow be modified; on that she was resolved. chapter xvi health from the sea from herne hill to st. peter port was a change which made of monica a new creature. the weather could not have been more propitious; day after day of still air and magnificent sky, with temperature which made a brisk walk at any hour thoroughly enjoyable, yet allowed one to sit at ease in the midday sunshine. their lodgings were in the best part of the town, high up, looking forth over blue sea to the cliffs of sark. widdowson congratulated himself on having taken this step; it was like a revival of his honeymoon; never since their settling down at home had monica been so grateful, so affectionate. why, his wife was what he had thought her from the first, perfect in every wifely attribute. how lovely she looked as she sat down to the breakfast-table, after breathing sea air at the open windows, in her charming dress, her black hair arranged in some new fashion just to please him! or when she walked with him about the quays, obviously admired by men who passed them. or when she seated herself in the open carriage for a drive which would warm her cheeks and make her lips redder and sweeter. 'edmund,' she said to him one evening, as they talked by the fireside, 'don't you think you take life rather too gravely?' he laughed. 'gravely? don't i seem to enjoy myself?' 'oh yes; just now. but--still in a rather serious way. one would think you always had cares on your mind, and were struggling to get rid of them.' 'i haven't a care in the world. i am the most blessed of mortals.' 'so you ought to think yourself. but when we get back again, how will it be? you won't be angry with me? i really don't think i can live again as we were doing.' 'not live as--' his brow darkened; he looked at her in astonishment. 'we ought to have more enjoyment,' she pursued courageously. 'think of the numbers of people who live a dull, monotonous life just because they can't help it. how they would envy us, with so much money to spend, free to do just what we like! doesn't it seem a pity to sit there day after day alone--' 'don't, my darling!' he implored. 'don't! that makes me think you don't really love me.' 'nonsense! i want you to see what i mean. i am not one of the silly people who care for nothing but amusement, but i do think we might enjoy our lives more when we are in london. we shan't live for ever, you know. is it right to spend day after day sitting there in the house--' 'but come, come; we have our occupations. surely it ought to be a pleasure to you to see that the house is kept in order. there are duties--' 'yes, i know. but these duties i could perform in an hour or two.' 'not thoroughly.' 'quite thoroughly enough.' 'in my opinion, monica, a woman ought never to be so happy as when she is looking after her home.' it was the old pedantic tone. his figure, in sympathy with it, abandoned an easy attitude and became awkward. but monica would not allow herself to be alarmed. during the past week she had conducted herself so as to smooth the way for this very discussion. unsuspecting husband! 'i wish to do my duty,' she said in a firm tone, 'but i don't think it's right to make dull work for oneself, when one might be living. i don't think it _is_ living to go on week after week like that. if we were poor, and i had a lot of children to look after as well as all the housework to do, i believe i shouldn't grumble--at least, i hope i shouldn't. i should know that i ought to do what there was no one else to do, and make the best of it. but----' 'make the best of it!' he interrupted indignantly. 'what an expression to use! it would not only be your duty, dear, but your privilege!' 'wait a moment, edmund. if you were a shopman earning fifteen shillings a week, and working from early morning to late at night, should you think it not only your duty but your privilege?' he made a wrathful gesture. 'what comparison is there? i should be earning a hard livelihood by slaving for other people. but a married woman who works in her own home, for her husband's children--' 'work is work, and when a woman is overburdened with it she must find it difficult not to weary of home and husband and children all together. but of course i don't mean to say that my work is too hard. all i mean is, that i don't see why any one should _make_ work, and why life shouldn't be as full of enjoyment as possible.' 'monica, you have got these ideas from those people at chelsea. that is exactly why i don't care for you to see much of them. i utterly disapprove of--' 'but you are mistaken. miss barfoot and miss nunn are all for work. they take life as seriously as you do.' 'work? what kind of work? they want to make women unwomanly, to make them unfit for the only duties women ought to perform. you know very well my opinions about that kind of thing.' he was trembling with the endeavour to control himself, to speak indulgently. 'i don't think, edmund, there's much real difference between men and women. that is, there wouldn't be, if women had fair treatment.' 'not much difference? oh, come; you are talking nonsense. there's as much difference between their minds as between their bodies. they are made for entirely different duties.' monica sighed. 'oh, that word duty!' pained unutterably, widdowson bent forward and took her hand. he spoke in a tone of the gravest but softest rebuke. she was giving entertainment to thoughts that would lead her who knew whither, that would undermine her happiness, would end by making both of them miserable. he besought her to put all such monstrous speculations out of her mind. 'dear, good little wife! do be guided by your husband. he is older than you, darling, and has seen so much more of the world.' 'i haven't said anything dreadful, dear. my thoughts don't come from other people; they rise naturally in my own head.' 'now, what do you really want? you say you can't live as we were doing. what change would you make?' 'i should like to make more friends, and to see them often. i want to hear people talk, and know what is going on round about me. and to read a different kind of books; books that would really amuse me, and give me something i could think about with pleasure. life will be a burden to me before long if i don't have more freedom.' 'freedom?' 'yes, i don't think there's any harm in saying that.' 'freedom?' he glared at her. 'i shall begin to think that you wish you had never married me.' 'i should only wish that if i were made to feel that you shut me up in a house and couldn't trust me to go where i chose. suppose the thought took you that you would go and walk about the city some afternoon, and you wished to go alone, just to be more at ease, should i have a right to forbid you, or grumble at you? and yet you are very dissatisfied if i wish to go anywhere alone.' 'but here's the old confusion. i am a man; you are a woman.' 'i can't see that that makes any difference. a woman ought to go about just as freely as a man. i don't think it's just. when i have done my work at home i think i ought to be every bit as free as you are--every bit as free. and i'm sure, edmund, that love needs freedom if it is to remain love in truth.' he looked at her keenly. 'that's a dreadful thing for you to say. so, if i disapprove of your becoming the kind of woman that acknowledges no law, you will cease to love me?' 'what law do you mean?' 'why, the natural law that points out a woman's place, and'--he added, with shaken voice--'commands her to follow her husband's guidance.' 'now you are angry. we mustn't talk about it any more just now.' she rose and poured out a glass of water. her hand trembled as she drank. widdowson fell into gloomy abstraction. later, as they lay side by side, he wished to renew the theme, but monica would not talk; she declared herself too sleepy, turned her back to him, and soon slept indeed. that night the weather became stormy; a roaring wind swept the channel, and when day broke nothing could be seen but cloud and rain. widdowson, who had rested little, was in a heavy, taciturn mood; monica, on the other hand, talked gaily, seeming not to observe her companion's irresponsiveness. she was glad of the wild sky; now they would see another aspect of island life--the fierce and perilous surges beating about these granite shores. they had brought with them a few books, and widdowson, after breakfast, sat down by the fire to read. monica first of all wrote a letter to her sister; then, as it was still impossible to go out, she took up one of the volumes that lay on a side-table in their sitting-room, novels left by former lodgers. her choice was something or other with yellow back. widdowson, watching all her movements furtively, became aware of the pictured cover. 'i don't think you'll get much good out of that,' he remarked, after one or two efforts to speak. 'no harm, at all events,' she replied good-humouredly. 'i'm not so sure. why should you waste your time? take "guy mannering," if you want a novel.' 'i'll see how i like this first.' he felt himself powerless, and suffered acutely from the thought that monica was in rebellion against him. he could not understand what had brought about this sudden change. fear of losing his wife's love restrained him from practical despotism, yet he was very near to uttering a definite command. in the afternoon it no longer rained, and the wind had less violence. they went out to look at the sea. many people were gathered about the harbour, whence was a fine view of the great waves that broke into leaping foam and spray against the crags of sark. as they stood thus occupied, monica heard her name spoken in a friendly voice--that of mrs. cosgrove. 'i have been expecting to see you,' said the lady. 'we arrived three days ago.' widdowson, starting with surprise, turned to examine the speaker. he saw a woman of something less than middle age, unfashionably attired, good-looking, with an air of high spirits; only when she offered her hand to him did he remember having met her at miss barfoot's. to be graceful in a high wind is difficult for any man; the ungainliness with which he returned mrs. cosgrove's greeting could not have been surpassed, and probably would have been much the same even had he not, of necessity, stood clutching at his felt hat. the three talked for a few minutes. with mrs. cosgrove were two persons, a younger woman and a man of about thirty--the latter a comely and vivacious fellow, with rather long hair of the orange-tawny hue. these looked at monica, but mrs. cosgrove made no introduction. 'come and see me, will you?' she said, mentioning her address. 'one can't get out much in the evenings; i shall be nearly always at home after dinner, and we have music--of a kind.' monica boldly accepted the invitation, said she would be glad to come. then mrs. cosgrove took leave of them, and walked landwards with her companions. widdowson stood gazing at the sea. there was no misreading his countenance. when monica had remarked it, she pressed her lips together, and waited for what he would say or do. he said nothing, but presently turned his back upon the waves and began to walk on. neither spoke until they were in the shelter of the streets; then widdowson asked suddenly,-- 'who _is_ that person?' 'i only know her name, and that she goes to miss barfoot's.' 'it's a most extraordinary thing,' he exclaimed in high irritation. 'there's no getting out of the way of those people.' monica also was angry; her cheeks, reddened by the wind, grew hotter. 'it's still more extraordinary that you should object so to them.' 'whether or no--i _do_ object, and i had rather you didn't go to see that woman.' 'you are unreasonable,' monica answered sharply. 'certainly i shall go and see her.' 'i forbid you to do so! if you go, it will be in defiance of my wish.' 'then i am obliged to defy your wish. i shall certainly go.' his face was frightfully distorted. had they been in a lonely spot, monica would have felt afraid of him. she moved hurriedly away in the direction of their lodgings, and for a few paces he followed; then he checked himself, turned round about, took an opposite way. with strides of rage he went along by the quay, past the hotels and the smaller houses that follow, on to st. sampson. the wind, again preparing for a tempestuous night, beat and shook and at moments all but stopped him; he set his teeth like a madman, and raged on. past the granite quarries at bordeaux harbour, then towards the wild north extremity of the island, the sandy waste of l'ancresse. when darkness began to fall, no human being was in his range of sight. he stood on one spot for nearly a quarter of an hour, watching, or appearing to watch, the black, low-flying scud. their time for dining was seven. shortly before this widdowson entered the house and went to the sitting-room; monica was not there. he found her in the bed-chamber, before the looking-glass. at the sight of his reflected face she turned instantly. 'monica!' he put his hands on her shoulders, whispering hoarsely, 'monica! don't you love me?' she looked away, not replying. 'monica!' and of a sudden he fell on his knees before her, clasped her about the waist, burst into choking sobs. 'have you no love for me? my darling! my dear, beautiful wife! have you begun to hate me?' tears came to her eyes. she implored him to rise and command himself. 'i was so violent, so brutal with you. i spoke without thinking--' 'but _why_ should you speak like that? why are you so unreasonable? if you forbid me to do simple things, with not the least harm in them, you can't expect me to take it like a child. i shall resist; i can't help it.' he had risen and was crushing her in his arms, his hot breath on her neck, when he began to whisper,-- 'i want to keep you all to myself. i don't like these people--they think so differently--they put such hateful ideas into your mind--they are not the right kind of friends for you--' 'you misunderstand them, and you don't in the least understand me. oh, you hurt me, edmund!' he released her body, and took her head between his hands. 'i had rather you were dead than that you should cease to love me! you shall go to see her; i won't say a word against it. but, monica, be faithful, be faithful to me!' 'faithful to you?' she echoed in astonishment. 'what have i said or done to put you in such a state? because i wish to make a few friends as all women do--' 'it's because i have lived so much alone. i have never had more than one or two friends, and i am absurdly jealous when you want to get away from me and amuse yourself with strangers. i can't talk to such people. i am not suited for society. if i hadn't met you in that strange way, by miracle, i should never have been able to marry. if i allow you to have these friends--' 'i don't like to hear that word. why should you say _allow_? do you think of me as your servant, edmund?' 'you know how i think of you. it is i who am your servant, your slave.' 'oh, i can't believe that!' she pressed her handkerchief to her cheeks, and laughed unnaturally. 'such words don't mean anything. it is you who forbid and allow and command, and--' 'i will never again use such words. only convince me that you love me as much as ever.' 'it is so miserable to begin quarrelling--' 'never again! say you love me! put your arms round my neck--press closer to me--' she kissed his cheek, but did not utter a word. 'you can't say that you love me?' 'i think i am always showing it. do get ready for dinner now; it's past seven. oh, how foolish you have been!' of course their talk lasted half through the night. monica held with remarkable firmness to the position she had taken; a much older woman might have envied her steadfast yet quite rational assertion of the right to live a life of her own apart from that imposed upon her by the duties of wedlock. a great deal of this spirit and the utterance it found was traceable to her association with the women whom widdowson so deeply suspected; prior to her sojourn in rutland street she could not even have made clear to herself the demands which she now very clearly formulated. believing that she had learnt nothing from them, and till of late instinctively opposing the doctrines held by miss barfoot and rhoda nunn, monica in truth owed the sole bit of real education she had ever received to those few weeks of attendance in great portland street. circumstances were now proving how apt a pupil she had been, even against her will. marriage, as is always the case with women capable of development, made for her a new heaven and a new earth; perhaps on no single subject did she now think as on the morning of her wedding-day. 'you must either trust me completely,' she said, 'or not at all. if you can't and won't trust me, how can i possibly love you?' 'am i never to advise?' asked her husband, baffled, and even awed, by this extraordinary revelation of a woman he had supposed himself to know thoroughly. 'oh, that's a very different thing from forbidding and commanding!' she laughed. 'there was that novel this morning. of course i know as well as you do that "guy mannering" is better; but that doesn't say i am not to form my opinion of other books. you mustn't be afraid to leave me the same freedom you have yourself.' the result of it all was that widdowson felt his passionate love glow with new fire. for a moment he thought himself capable of accepting this change in their relations. the marvellous thought of equality between man and wife, that gospel which in far-off days will refashion the world, for an instant smote his imagination and exalted him above his native level. monica paid for the energy she had put forth by a day of suffering. her head ached intolerably; she had feverish symptoms, and could hardly raise herself from the bed. it passed, and she was once more eager to go forth under the blue sky that followed the tempest. 'will you go with me to mrs. cosgrove's this evening?' she asked of her husband. he consented, and after dinner they sought the hotel where their acquaintance was staying. widdowson was in extreme discomfort, partly due to the fact that he had no dress clothes to put on; for far from anticipating or desiring any such intercourse in guernsey, he had never thought of packing an evening suit. had he known mrs. cosgrove this uneasiness would have been spared him. that lady was in revolt against far graver institutions than the swallow-tail; she cared not a button in what garb her visitors came to her. on their arrival, they found, to widdowson's horror, a room full of women. with the hostess was that younger lady they had seen on the quay, mrs. cosgrove's unmarried sister; miss knott's health had demanded this retreat from the london winter. the guests were four--a mrs. bevis and her three daughters--all invalidish persons, the mother somewhat lackadaisical, the girls with a look of unwilling spinsterhood. monica, noteworthy among the gathering for her sweet, bright prettiness, and the finish of her dress, soon made herself at home; she chatted gaily with the girls--wondering indeed at her own air of maturity, which came to her for the first time. mrs. cosgrove, an easy woman of the world when circumstances required it, did her best to get something out of widdowson who presently thawed a little. then miss knott sat down to the piano, and played more than tolerably well; and the youngest miss bevis sang a song of schubert, with passable voice but in very distressing german--the sole person distressed by it being the hostess. meanwhile monica had been captured by mrs. bevis, who discoursed to her on a subject painfully familiar to all the old lady's friends. 'do you know my son, mrs. widdowson? oh, i thought you had perhaps met him. you will do so this evening, i hope. he is over here on a fortnight's holiday.' 'do you live in guernsey?' monica inquired. '_i_ practically live here, and one of my daughters is always with me. the other two live with their brother in a flat in bayswater. do you care for flats, mrs. widdowson?' monica could only say that she had no experience of that institution. 'i do think them such a boon,' pursued mrs. bevis. 'they are expensive but the advantages and comforts are so many. my son wouldn't on any consideration give up his flat. as i was saying, he always has two of his sisters to keep house for him. he is quite a young man, not yet thirty, but--would you believe it?--we are all dependent upon him! my son has supported the _whole_ of the family for the last six or seven years, and that by his own work. it sounds incredible, doesn't it? but for him we should be quite unable to live. the dear girls have very delicate health; simply impossible for them to exert themselves in any way. my son has made extraordinary sacrifices on our account. his desire was to be a professional musician, and every one thinks he would have become eminent; myself, i am convinced of it--perhaps that is only natural. but when our circumstances began to grow very doubtful, and we really didn't know what was before us, my son consented to follow a business career--that of wine merchant, with which his father was connected. and he exerted himself so nobly, and gave proof of such ability, that very soon all our fears were at an end; and now, before he is thirty, his position is quite assured. we have no longer a care. i live here very economically--really sweet lodgings on the road to st. martin's; i _do_ hope you will come and see me. and the girls go backwards and forwards. you see we are _all_ here at present. when my son returns to london he will take the eldest and the youngest with him. the middle girl, dear grace--she is thought very clever in water-colours, and i am quite sure, if it were necessary, she could pursue the arts in a professional spirit.' mr. bevis entered the room, and monica recognized the sprightly young man whom she had seen on the quay. the hostess presented him to her new friends, and he got into talk with widdowson. requested to make music for the company, he sang a gay little piece, which, to monica at all events, seemed one of the most delightful things she had ever heard. 'his own composition,' whispered miss grace bevis, then sitting by mrs. widdowson. that increased her delight. foolish as mrs. bevis undoubtedly was, she perchance had not praised her son beyond his merits. he looked the best of good fellows; so kind and merry and spirited; such a capable man, too. it struck monica as a very hard fate that he should have this family on his hands. what they must cost him! probably he could not think of marrying, just on their account. mr. bevis came and took a place by her side. 'thank you so very much,' she said, 'for that charming song. is it published?' 'oh dear, no!' he laughed and shook his thick hair about. 'it's one of two or three that i somehow struck out when i was studying in germany, ages ago. you play, i hope?' monica gave a sad negative. 'oh, what does it matter? there are hosts of people who will always be overjoyed to play when you ask them. it would be a capital thing if only those children were allowed to learn an instrument who showed genuine talent for music.' 'in that case,' said monica, 'there certainly wouldn't be hosts of people ready to play for me.' 'no.' his merry laugh was repeated. 'you mustn't mind when i contradict myself; it's one of my habits. are you here for the whole winter?' 'only a few weeks, unfortunately.' 'and do you dread the voyage back?' 'to tell the truth, i do. i had a very unpleasant time coming.' 'as for myself, how i ever undertake the thing i really don't know. one of these times i shall die; there's not a shadow of doubt of that. the girls always have to carry me ashore, one holding me by the hair and one by the boots. happily, i am so emaciated that my weight doesn't distress them. i pick up flesh in a day or two, and then my health is stupendous--as at present. you see how marvellously _fit_ i look.' 'yes, you look very well,' replied monica, glancing at the fair, comely face. 'it's deceptive. all our family have wretched constitutions. if i go to work regularly for a couple of months without a holiday, i sink into absolute decrepitude. an office-chair has been specially made for me, to hold me up at the desk.--i beg your pardon for this clowning, mrs. widdowson,' he suddenly added in another voice. 'the air puts me in such spirits. what air it is! speaking quite seriously, my mother was saved by coming to live here. we believed her to be dying, and now i have hopes that she will live ever so many years longer.' he spoke of his mother with evident affection, glancing kindly towards her with his blue eyes. only once or twice had monica ventured to exchange a glance with her husband. it satisfied her that he managed to converse; what his mood really was could not be determined until afterwards. when they were about to leave she saw him, to her surprise, speaking quite pleasantly with mr. bevis. a carriage was procured to convey them home, and as soon as they had started, monica asked her husband, with a merry look, how he had enjoyed himself. 'there is not much harm in it,' he replied dryly. 'harm? how like you, edmund, to put it that way! now confess you will be glad to go again.' 'i shall go if you wish.' 'unsatisfactory man! you can't bring yourself to admit that it was pleasant to be among new people. i believe, in your heart, you think all enjoyment is wrong. the music was nice, wasn't it?' 'i didn't think much of the girl's singing, but that fellow bevis wasn't bad.' monica examined him as he spoke, and seemed to suppress a laugh. 'no, he wasn't at all bad. i saw you talking with mrs. bevis. did she tell you anything about her wonderful son?' 'nothing particular.' 'oh, then i must tell you the whole story.' and she did so, in a tone half of jest, half of serious approval. 'i don't see that he has done anything more than his duty,' remarked widdowson at the end. 'but he isn't a bad fellow.' for private reasons, monica contrasted this attitude towards bevis with the disfavour her husband had shown to mr. barfoot, and was secretly much amused. two or three days after they went to spend the morning at petit bot bay, and there encountered with bevis and his three sisters. the result was an invitation to go back and have lunch at mrs. bevis's lodgings; they accepted it, and remained with their acquaintances till dusk. the young man's holiday was at an end; next morning he would face the voyage which he had depicted so grotesquely. 'and alone!' he lamented to monica. 'only think of it. the girls are all rather below par just now; they had better stay here for the present.' 'and in london you will be alone too?' 'yes. it's very sad. i must bear up under it. the worst of it is, i am naturally subject to depression. in solitude i sink, sink. but the subject is too painful. don't let us darken the last hours with such reflections.' widdowson retained his indulgent opinion of the facetious young wine merchant. he even laughed now and then in recalling some phrase or other that bevis had used to him. subsequently, monica had several long conversations with the old lady. impelled to gossipy frankness about all her affairs, mrs. bevis allowed it to be understood that the chief reason for two of the girls always being with their brother was the possibility thus afforded of their 'meeting people'--that is to say, of their having a chance of marriage. mrs. cosgrove and one or two other ladies did them social service. 'they never _will_ marry!' said monica to her husband, rather thoughtfully than with commiseration. 'why not? they are nice enough girls.' 'yes, but they have no money; and'--she smiled--'people see that they want to find husbands.' 'i don't see that the first matters; and the second is only natural.' monica attempted no rejoinder, but said presently-- 'now they are just the kind of women who ought to find something to do.' 'something to do? why, they attend to their mother and their brother. what could be more proper?' 'very proper, perhaps. but they are miserable, and always will be.' 'then they have no _right_ to be miserable. they are doing their duty, and that ought to keep them cheerful.' monica could have said many things, but she overcame the desire, and laughed the subject aside. chapter xvii the triumph nor till mid-winter did barfoot again see his friends the micklethwaites. by invitation he went to south tottenham on new year's eve, and dined with them at seven o'clock. he was the first guest that had entered the house since their marriage. from the very doorstep everard became conscious of a domestic atmosphere that told soothingly upon his nerves. the little servant who opened to him exhibited a gentle, noiseless demeanour which was no doubt the result of careful discipline. micklethwaite himself, who at once came out into the passage, gave proof of a like influence; his hearty greeting was spoken in soft tones; a placid happiness beamed from his face. in the sitting-room (micklethwaite's study, used for reception because the other had to serve as dining-room) tempered lamplight and the glow of a hospitable fire showed the hostess and her blind sister standing in expectation; to everard's eyes both of them looked far better in health than a few months ago. mrs. micklethwaite was no longer so distressingly old; an expression that resembled girlish pleasure lit up her countenance as she stepped forward; nay, if he mistook not, there came a gentle warmth to her cheek, and the momentary downward glance was as graceful and modest as in a youthful bride. never had barfoot approached a woman with more finished courtesy, the sincere expression of his feeling. the blind sister he regarded in like spirit; his voice touched its softest note as he held her hand for a moment and replied to her pleasant words. no undue indication of poverty disturbed him. he saw that the house had been improved in many ways since mrs. micklethwaite had taken possession of it; pictures, ornaments, pieces of furniture were added, all in simple taste, but serving to heighten the effect of refined comfort. where the average woman would have displayed pretentious emptiness, mrs. micklethwaite had made a home which in its way was beautiful. the dinner, which she herself had cooked, and which she assisted in serving, aimed at being no more than a simple, decorous meal, but the guest unfeignedly enjoyed it; even the vegetables and the bread seemed to him to have a daintier flavour than at many a rich table. he could not help noticing and admiring the skill with which miss wheatley ate without seeing what was before her; had he not known her misfortune, he would hardly have become aware of it by any peculiarity as she sat opposite to him. the mathematician had learnt to sit upon a chair like ordinary mortals. for the first week or two it must have cost him severe restraint; now he betrayed no temptation to roll and jerk and twist himself. when the ladies retired, he reached from the sideboard a box which barfoot viewed with uneasiness. 'do you smoke here--in this room?' 'oh, why not?' everard glanced at the pretty curtains before the windows. 'no, my boy, you do _not_ smoke here. and, in fact, i like your claret; i won't spoil the flavour of it.' 'as you please; but i think fanny will be distressed.' 'you shall say that i have abandoned the weed.' emotions were at conflict in micklethwaite's mind, but finally he beamed with gratitude. 'barfoot'--he bent forward and touched his friend's arm--'there are angels walking the earth in this our day. science hasn't abolished them, my dear fellow, and i don't think it ever will.' 'it falls to the lot of but few men to encounter them, and of fewer still to entertain them permanently in a cottage at south tottenham.' 'you are right.' micklethwaite laughed in a new way, with scarcely any sound; a change everard had already noticed. 'these two sisters--but i had better not speak about them. in my old age i have become a worshipper, a mystic, a man of dream and vision.' 'how about worship in a parochial sense?' inquired barfoot, smiling. 'any difficulty of that point?' 'i conform, in moderation. nothing would be asked of me. there is no fanaticism, no intolerance. it would be brutal if i declined to go to church on a sunday morning. you see, my strictly scientific attitude helps in avoiding offence. fanny can't understand it, but my lack of dogmatism vastly relieves her. i have been trying to explain to her that the scientific mind can have nothing to do with materialism. the new order of ideas is of course very difficult for her to grasp; but in time, in time.' 'for heaven's sake, don't attempt conversion!' 'on no account whatever. but i _should_ like her to see what is meant by perception and conception, by the relativity of time and space--and a few simple things of that kind!' barfoot laughed heartily. 'by-the-bye,' he said, shifting to safer ground, 'my brother tom is in london, and in wretched health. _his_ angel is from the wrong quarter, from the nethermost pit. i seriously believe that she has a plan for killing her husband. you remember my mentioning in a letter his horse-accident? he has never recovered from that, and as likely as not never will. his wife brought him away from madeira just when he ought to have stopped there to get well. he settled himself at torquay, whilst that woman ran about to pay visits. it was understood that she should go back to him at torquay, but this she at length refused to do. the place was too dull; it didn't suit her extremely delicate health; she must live in london, her pure native air. if tom had taken any advice, he would have let her live just where she pleased, thanking heaven that she was at a distance from him. but the poor fellow can't be away from her. he has come up, and here i feel convinced he will die. it's a very monstrous thing, but uncommonly like women in general who have got a man into their power.' micklethwaite shook his head. 'you are too hard upon them. you have been unlucky. you know my view of your duty.' 'i begin to think that marriage isn't impossible for me,' said barfoot, with a grave smile. 'ha! capital!' 'but as likely as not it will be marriage without forms--simply a free union.' the mathematician was downcast. 'i'm sorry to hear that. it won't do. we must conform. besides, in that case the person decidedly isn't suitable to you. you of all men must marry a lady.' 'i should never think of any one that wasn't a lady.' 'is emancipation getting as far as that? do ladies enter into that kind of union?' 'i don't know of any example. that's just why the idea tempts me.' barfoot would go no further in explanation. 'how about your new algebra?' 'alas! my dear boy, the temptation is so frightful--when i get back home. remember that i have never known what it was to sit and talk through the evening with ordinary friends, let alone--it's too much for me just yet. and, you know, i don't venture to work on sundays. that will come; all in good time. i must grant myself half a year of luxury after such a life as mine has been.' 'of course you must. let algebra wait.' 'i think it over, of course, at odd moments. church on sunday morning is a good opportunity.' barfoot could not stay to see the old year out, but good wishes were none the less heartily exchanged before he went. micklethwaite walked with him to the railway station; at a few paces' distance from his house he stood and pointed back to it. 'that little place, barfoot, is one of the sacred spots of the earth. strange to think that the house has been waiting for me there through all the years of my hopelessness. i feel that a mysterious light ought to shine about it. it oughtn't to look just like common houses.' on his way home everard thought over what he had seen and heard, smiling good-naturedly. well, that was one ideal of marriage. not _his_ ideal; but very beautiful amid the vulgarities and vileness of ordinary experience. it was the old fashion in its purest presentment; the consecrated form of domestic happiness, removed beyond reach of satire, only to be touched, if touched at all, with the very gentlest irony. a life by no means for him. if he tried it, even with a woman so perfect, he would perish of _ennui_. for him marriage must not mean repose, inevitably tending to drowsiness, but the mutual incitement of vigorous minds. passion--yes, there must be passion, at all events to begin with; passion not impossible of revival in days subsequent to its first indulgence. beauty in the academic sense he no longer demanded; enough that the face spoke eloquently, that the limbs were vigorous. let beauty perish if it cannot ally itself with mind; be a woman what else she may, let her have brains and the power of using them! in that demand the maturity of his manhood expressed itself. for casual amour the odalisque could still prevail with him; but for the life of wedlock, the durable companionship of man and woman, intellect was his first requirement. a woman with man's capability of understanding and reasoning; free from superstition, religious or social; far above the ignoble weaknesses which men have been base enough to idealize in her sex. a woman who would scorn the vulgarism of jealousy, and yet know what it is to love. this was asking much of nature and civilization; did he grossly deceive himself in thinking he had found the paragon? for thus far had he advanced in his thoughts of rhoda nunn. if the phrase had any meaning, he was in love with her; yet, strange complex of emotions, he was still only half serious in his desire to take her for a wife, wishing rather to amuse and flatter himself by merely inspiring her with passion. therefore he refused to entertain a thought of formal marriage. to obtain her consent to marriage would mean nothing at all; it would afford him no satisfaction. but so to play upon her emotions that the proud, intellectual, earnest woman was willing to defy society for his sake--ah! that would be an end worth achieving. ever since the dialogue in which he frankly explained his position, and all but declared love, he had not once seen rhoda in private. she shunned him purposely beyond a doubt, and did not that denote a fear of him justified by her inclination? the postponement of what must necessarily come to pass between them began to try his patience, as assuredly it inflamed his ardour. if no other resource offered, he would be obliged to make his cousin an accomplice by requesting her beforehand to leave him alone with rhoda some evening when he had called upon them. but it was time that chance favoured him, and his interview with miss nunn came about in a way he could not have foreseen. at the end of the first week of january he was invited to dine at miss barfoot's. the afternoon had been foggy, and when he set forth there seemed to be some likelihood of a plague of choking darkness such as would obstruct traffic. as usual, he went by train to sloane square, purposing (for it was dry under foot, and he could not disregard small economies) to walk the short distance from there to queen's road. on coming out from the station he found the fog so dense that it was doubtful whether he could reach his journey's end. cabs were not to be had; he must either explore the gloom, with risk of getting nowhere at all, or give it up and take a train back. but he longed too ardently for the sight of rhoda to abandon his evening without an effort. having with difficulty made his way into king's road, he found progress easier on account of the shop illuminations; the fog, however, was growing every moment more fearsome, and when he had to turn out of the highway his case appeared desperate. literally he groped along, feeling the fronts of the houses. as under ordinary circumstances he would have had only just time enough to reach his cousin's punctually, he must be very late: perhaps they would conclude that he had not ventured out on such a night, and were already dining without him. no matter; as well go one way as another now. after abandoning hope several times, and all but asphyxiated, he found by inquiry of a man with whom he collided that he was actually within a few doors of his destination. another effort and he rang a joyous peal at the bell. a mistake. it was the wrong house, and he had to go two doors farther on. this time he procured admittance to the familiar little hall. the servant smiled at him, but said nothing. he was led to the drawing-room, and there found rhoda nunn alone. this fact did not so much surprise him as rhoda's appearance. for the first time since he had known her, her dress was not uniform black; she wore a red silk blouse with a black skirt, and so admirable was the effect of this costume that he scarcely refrained from a delighted exclamation. some concern was visible in her face. 'i am sorry to say,' were her first words, 'that miss barfoot will not be here in time for dinner. she went to faversham this morning, and ought to have been back about half-past seven. but a telegram came some time ago. a thick fog caused her to miss the train, and the next doesn't reach victoria till ten minutes past ten.' it was now half-past eight; dinner had been appointed for the hour. barfoot explained his lateness in arriving. 'is it so bad as that? i didn't know.' the situation embarrassed both of them. barfoot suspected a hope on miss nunn's part that he would relieve her of his company, but, even had there been no external hindrance, he could not have relinquished the happy occasion. to use frankness was best. 'out of the question for me to leave the house,' he said, meeting her eyes and smiling. 'you won't be hard upon a starving man?' at once rhoda made a pretence of having felt no hesitation. 'oh, of course we will dine immediately.' she rang the bell. 'miss barfoot took it for granted that i would represent her. look, the fog is penetrating even to our fireside.' 'cheerful, very. what is mary doing at faversham?' 'some one she has been corresponding with for some time begged her to go down and give an address to a number of ladies on--a certain subject.' 'ah! mary is on the way to become a celebrity.' 'quite against her will, as you know.' they went to dinner, and barfoot, thoroughly enjoying the abnormal state of things, continued to talk of his cousin. 'it seems to me that she can't logically refuse to put herself forward. work of her kind can't be done in a corner. it isn't a case of "oh teach the orphan girl to sew."' 'i have used the same argument to her,' said rhoda. her place at the head of the table had its full effect upon everard's imagination. why should he hold by a resolve of which he did not absolutely approve the motive? why not ask her simply to be his wife, and so remove one element of difficulty from his pursuit? true, he was wretchedly poor. marrying on such an income, he would at once find his freedom restricted in every direction. but then, more likely than not, rhoda had determined against marriage, and of him, especially, never thought for a moment as a possible husband. well, that was what he wanted to ascertain. they conversed naturally enough till the meal was over. then their embarrassment revived, but this time it was rhoda who took the initiative. 'shall i leave you to your meditations?' she asked, moving a few inches from the table. 'i should much prefer your society, if you will grant it me for a little longer.' without speaking, she rose and led the way to the drawing-room. there, sitting at a formal distance from each other, they talked--of the fog. would miss barfoot be able to get back at all? '_a propos_,' said everard, 'did you ever read "the city of dreadful night"?' 'yes, i have read it.' 'without sympathy, of course?' 'why "of course"? do i seem to you a shallow optimist?' 'no. a vigorous and rational optimist--such as i myself aim at being.' 'do you? but optimism of that kind must be proved by some effort on behalf of society.' 'precisely the effort i am making. if a man works at developing and fortifying the best things in his own character, he is surely doing society a service.' she smiled sceptically. 'yes, no doubt. but how do you develop and fortify yourself?' she was meeting him half-way, thought everard. foreseeing the inevitable, she wished to have it over and done with. or else-- 'i live very quietly,' was his reply, 'thinking of grave problems most of my time. you know i am a great deal alone.' 'naturally.' 'no; anything but naturally.' rhoda said nothing. he waited a moment, then moved to a seat much nearer hers. her face hardened, and he saw her fingers lock together. 'where a man is in love, solitude seems to him the most unnatural of conditions.' 'please don't make me your confidante, mr. barfoot,' rhoda with well-assumed pleasantry. 'i have no taste for that kind of thing.' 'but i can't help doing so. it is you that i am in love with.' 'i am very sorry to hear it. happily, the sentiment will not long trouble you.' he read in her eyes and on her lips a profound agitation. she glanced about the room, and, before he could again speak, had risen to ring the bell. 'you always take coffee, i think?' without troubling to give any assent, he moved apart and turned over some books on the table. for full five minutes there was silence. the coffee was brought; he tasted it and put his cup down. seeing that rhoda had, as it were, entrenched herself behind the beverage, and would continue to sip at it as long as might be necessary, he went and stood in front of her. 'miss nunn, i am more serious than you will give me credit for being. the sentiment, as you call it, has troubled me for some time, and will last.' her refuge failed her. the cup she was holding began to shake a little. 'please let me put it aside for you.' rhoda allowed him to do so, and then locked her fingers. 'i am so much in love with you that i can't keep away from this house more than a few days at a time. of course you have known it; i haven't tried to disguise why i came here so often. it's so seldom that i see you alone; and now that fortune is kind to me i must speak as best i can. i won't make myself ridiculous in your eyes--if i can help it. you despise the love-making of ballrooms and garden parties; so do i, most heartily. let me speak like a man who has few illusions to overcome. i want you for the companion of my life; i don't see very well how i am to do without you. you know, i think, that i have only a moderate competence; it's enough to live upon without miseries, that's all one can say. probably i shall never be richer, for i can't promise to exert myself to earn money; i wish to live for other things. you can picture the kind of life i want you to share. you know me well enough to understand that my wife--if we use the old word--would be as free to live in her own way as i to live in mine. all the same, it is love that i am asking for. think how you may about man and woman, you know that there is such a thing as love between them, and that the love of a man and a woman who can think intelligently may be the best thing life has to offer them.' he could not see her eyes, but she was smiling in a forced way, with her lips close set. 'as you insisted on speaking,' she said at length, 'i had no choice but to listen. it is usual, i think--if one may trust the novels--for a woman to return thanks when an offer of this kind has been made to her. so--thank you very much, mr. barfoot.' everard seized a little chair that was close by, planted it beside rhoda's, there seated himself and took possession of one of her hands. it was done so rapidly and vehemently that rhoda started back, her expression changing from sportive mockery to all but alarm. 'i will have no such thanks,' he uttered in a low voice, much moved, a smile making him look strangely stern. 'you shall understand what it means when a man says that he loves you. i have come to think your face so beautiful that i am in torment with the desire to press my lips upon yours. don't be afraid that i shall be brutal enough to do it without your consent; my respect for you is stronger even than my passion. when i first saw you, i thought you interesting because of your evident intelligence--nothing more; indeed you were not a woman to me. now you are the one woman in the world; no other can draw my eyes from you. touch me with your fingers and i shall tremble--that is what my love means.' she was colourless; her lips, just parted, quivered as the breath panted between them. she did not try to withdraw her hand. 'can you love me in return?' everard went on, his face still nearer. 'am i anything like this to _you_? have the courage you boast of. speak to me as one human being to another, plain, honest words.' 'i don't love you in the least. and if i did i would never share your life.' the voice was very unlike her familiar tones. it seemed to hurt her to speak. 'the reason.--because you have no faith in me?' 'i can't say whether i have or not. i know absolutely nothing of your life. but i have my work, and no one shall ever persuade me to abandon it.' 'your work? how do you understand it? what is its importance to you?' 'oh, and you pretend to know me so well that you wish me to be your companion at every moment!' she laughed mockingly, and tried to draw away her hand, for it was burnt by the heat of his. barfoot held her firmly. 'what _is_ your work? copying with a type-machine, and teaching others to do the same--isn't that it?' 'the work by which i earn money, yes. but if it were no more than that--' 'explain, then.' passion was overmastering him as he watched the fine scorn in her eyes. he raised her hand to his lips. 'no!' rhoda exclaimed with sudden wrath. 'your respect--oh, i appreciate your respect!' she wrenched herself from his grasp, and went apart. barfoot rose, gazing at her with admiration. 'it is better i should be at a distance from you,' he said. 'i want to know your mind, and not to be made insensate.' 'wouldn't it be better still if you left me?' rhoda suggested, mistress of herself again. 'if you really wish it.' he remembered the circumstances and spoke submissively. 'yet the fog gives me such a good excuse for begging your indulgence. the chances are i should only lose myself in an inferno.' 'doesn't it strike you that you take an advantage of me, as you did once before? i make no pretence of equalling you in muscular strength, yet you try to hold me by force.' he divined in her pleasure akin to his own, the delight of conflict. otherwise, she would never have spoken thus. 'yes, it is true. love revives the barbarian; it wouldn't mean much if it didn't. in this one respect i suppose no man, however civilized, would wish the woman he loves to be his equal. marriage by capture can't quite be done away with. you say you have not the least love for me; if you had, should i like you to confess it instantly? a man must plead and woo; but there are different ways. i can't kneel before you and exclaim about my miserable unworthiness--for i am not unworthy of you. i shall never call you queen and goddess--unless in delirium, and i think i should soon weary of the woman who put her head under my foot. just because i am stronger than you, and have stronger passions, i take that advantage--try to overcome, as i may, the womanly resistance which is one of your charms.' 'how useless, then, for us to talk. if you are determined to remind me again and again that your strength puts me at your mercy--' 'oh, not that! i will come no nearer to you. sit down, and tell me what i asked.' rhoda hesitated, but at length took the chair by which she was standing. 'you are resolved never to marry?' 'i never shall,' rhoda replied firmly. 'but suppose marriage in no way interfered with your work?' 'it would interfere hopelessly with the best part of my life. i thought you understood this. what would become of the encouragement i am able to offer our girls?' 'encouragement to refuse marriage?' 'to scorn the old idea that a woman's life is wasted if she does not marry. my work is to help those women who, by sheer necessity, must live alone--women whom vulgar opinion ridicules. how can i help them so effectually as by living among them, one of them, and showing that my life is anything but weariness and lamentation? i am fitted for this. it gives me a sense of power and usefulness which i enjoy. your cousin is doing the same work admirably. if i deserted i should despise myself.' 'magnificent! if i could bear the thought of living without you, i should bid you persevere and be great.' 'i need no such bidding to persevere.' 'and for that very reason, because you are capable of such things, i love you only the more.' there was triumph in her look, though she endeavoured to disguise it. 'then, for your own peace,' she said, 'i must hope that you will avoid me. it is so easily done. we have nothing in common, mr. barfoot.' 'i can't agree with that. for one thing, there are perhaps not half a dozen women living with whom i could talk as i have talked with you. it isn't likely that i shall ever meet one. am i to make my bow, and abandon in resignation the one chance of perfecting my life?' 'you don't know me. we differ profoundly on a thousand essential points.' 'you think so because you have a very wrong idea of me.' rhoda glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. 'mr. barfoot,' she said in a changed voice, 'you will forgive me if i remind you that it is past ten o'clock.' he sighed and rose. 'the fog certainly cannot be so thick now. shall i ask them to try and get you a cab?' 'i shall walk to the station.' 'only one more word.' she assumed a quiet dignity which he could not disregard. 'we have spoken in this way for the last time. you will not oblige me to take all sorts of trouble merely to avoid useless and painful conversations?' 'i love you, and i can't abandon hope.' 'then i _must_ take that trouble.' her face darkened, and she stood in expectation of his departure. 'i mustn't offer to shake hands,' said everard, drawing a step nearer. 'i hope you can remember that i had no choice but to be your hostess.' the face and tone affected him with a brief shame. bending his head, he approached her, and held her offered hand, without pressure, only for an instant. then he left the room. there was a little improvement in the night; he could make his way along the pavement without actual groping, and no unpleasant adventure checked him before he reached the station. rhoda's face and figure went before him. he was not downcast; for all that she had said, this woman, soon or late, would yield herself; he had a strange, unreasoning assurance of it. perhaps the obstinacy of his temper supplied him with that confident expectation. he no longer cared on what terms he obtained her--legal marriage or free union--it was indifferent to him. but her life should be linked with his if fierce energy of will meant anything. miss barfoot arrived at half-past eleven, after many delays on her journey. she was pierced with cold, choked with the poisonous air, and had derived very little satisfaction from her visit to faversham. 'what happened?' was her first question, as rhoda came out into the hall with sympathy and solicitude. 'did the fog keep our guest away?' 'no; he dined here.' 'it was just as well. you haven't been lonely.' they spoke no more on the subject until miss barfoot recovered from her discomfort, and was enjoying a much needed supper. 'did he offer to go away?' 'it was really impossible. it took him more than half an hour to get here from sloane square.' 'foolish fellow! why didn't he take a train back at once?' there was a peculiar brightness in rhoda's countenance, and miss barfoot had observed it from the first. 'did you quarrel much?' 'not more than was to be expected.' 'he didn't think of staying for my return?' 'he left about ten o'clock.' 'of course. quite late enough, under the circumstances. it was very unfortunate, but i don't suppose everard cared much. he would enjoy the opportunity of teasing you.' a glance told her that everard was not alone in his enjoyment of the evening. rhoda led the talk into other channels, but miss barfoot continued to reflect on what she had perceived. a few evenings after, when miss barfoot had been sitting alone for an hour or two, rhoda came to the library and took a place near her. the elder woman glanced up from her book, and saw that her friend had something special to say. 'what is it, dear?' 'i am going to tax your good-nature, to ask you about unpleasant things.' miss barfoot knew immediately what this meant. she professed readiness to answer, but had an uneasy look. 'will you tell me in plain terms what it was that your cousin did when he disgraced himself?' 'must you really know?' 'i wish to know.' there was a pause. miss barfoot kept her eyes on the page open before her. 'then i shall take the liberty of an old friend, rhoda. why do you wish to know?' 'mr. barfoot,' answered the other dryly, 'has been good enough to say that he is in love with me.' their eyes met. 'i suspected it. i felt sure it was coming. he asked you to marry him?' 'no, he didn't,' replied rhoda in purposely ambiguous phrase. 'you wouldn't allow him to?' 'at all events, it didn't come to that. i should be glad if you would let me know what i asked.' miss barfoot deliberated, but finally told the story of amy drake. her hands supporting one knee, her head bent, rhoda listened without comment, and, to judge from her features, without any emotion of any kind. 'that,' said her friend at the close, 'is the story as it was understood at the time--disgraceful to him in every particular. he knew what was said of him, and offered not a word of contradiction. but not very long ago he asked me one evening if you had been informed of this scandal. i told him that you knew he had done something which i thought very base. everard was hurt, and thereupon he declared that neither i nor any other of his acquaintances knew the truth--that he had been maligned. he refused to say more, and what am i to believe?' rhoda was listening with livelier attention. 'he declared that he wasn't to blame?' 'i suppose he meant that. but it is difficult to see--' 'of course the truth can never be known,' said rhoda, with sudden indifference. 'and it doesn't matter. thank you for satisfying my curiosity.' miss barfoot waited a moment, then laughed. 'some day, rhoda, you shall satisfy mine.' 'yes--if we live long enough.' what degree of blame might have attached to barfoot, rhoda did not care to ask herself; she thought no more of the story. of course there must have been other such incidents in his career; morally he was neither better nor worse than men in general. she viewed with contempt the women who furnished such opportunities; in her judgment of the male offenders she was more lenient, more philosophical, than formerly. she had gained her wish, had enjoyed her triumph. a raising of the finger and everard barfoot would marry her. assured of that, she felt a new contentment in life; at times when she was occupied with things as far as possible from this experience, a rush of joy would suddenly fill her heart, and make her cheek glow. she moved among people with a conscious dignity quite unlike that which had only satisfied her need of distinction. she spoke more softly, exercised more patience, smiled where she had been wont to scoff. miss nunn was altogether a more amiable person. yet, she convinced herself, essentially quite unchanged. she pursued the aim of her life with less bitterness, in a larger spirit, that was all. but pursued it, and without fear of being diverted from the generous path. chapter xviii a reinforcement throughout january, barfoot was endeavouring to persuade his brother tom to leave london, where the invalid's health perceptibly grew worse. doctors were urgent to the same end, but ineffectually; for mrs. thomas, though she professed to be amazed at her husband's folly in remaining where he could not hope for recovery, herself refused to accompany him any whither. this pair had no children. the lady always spoke of herself as a sad sufferer from mysterious infirmities, and had, in fact, a tendency to hysteria, which confused itself inextricably with the results of evil nurture and the impulses of a disposition originally base; nevertheless she made a figure in a certain sphere of vulgar wealth, and even gave opportunity to scandalous tongues. her husband, whatever his secret thought, would hear nothing against her; his temper, like everard's, was marked with stubbornness, and after a good deal of wrangling he forbade his brother to address him again on the subject of their disagreement. 'tom is dying,' wrote everard, early in february, to his cousin in queen's road. 'dr. swain assures me that unless he be removed he cannot last more than a month or two. this morning i saw the woman'--it was thus he always referred to his sister-in-law--'and talked to her in what was probably the plainest language she ever had the privilege of hearing. it was a tremendous scene, brought to a close only by her flinging herself on the sofa with shrieks which terrified the whole household. my idea is that we must carry the poor fellow away by force. his infatuation makes me rage and curse, but i am bent on trying to save his life. will you come and give your help?' a week later they succeeded in carrying the invalid back to torquay. mrs. barfoot had abandoned him to his doctors, nurses, and angry relatives; she declared herself driven out of the house, and went to live at a fashionable hotel. everard remained in devon for more than a month, devoting himself with affection, which the trial of his temper seemed only to increase, to his brother's welfare. thomas improved a little; once more there was hope. then on a sudden frantic impulse, after writing fifty letters which elicited no reply, he travelled in pursuit of his wife; and three days after his arrival in london he was dead. by a will, executed at torquay, he bequeathed to everard about a quarter of his wealth. all the rest went to mrs. barfoot, who had declared herself too ill to attend the funeral, but in a fortnight was sufficiently recovered to visit one of her friends in the country. everard could now count upon an income of not much less than fifteen hundred a year. that his brother's death would enrich him he had always foreseen, but no man could have exerted himself with more ardent energy to postpone that advantage. the widow charged him, wherever she happened to be, with deliberate fratricide; she vilified his reputation, by word of mouth or by letter, to all who knew him, and protested that his furious wrath at not having profited more largely by the will put her in fear of her life. this last remarkable statement was made in a long and violent epistle to miss barfoot, which the recipient showed to her cousin on the first opportunity. everard had called one sunday morning--it was the end of march--to say good-bye on his departure for a few weeks' travel. having read the letter, he laughed with a peculiar fierceness. 'this kind of thing,' said miss barfoot, 'may necessitate your prosecuting her. there is a limit, you know, even to a woman's licence.' 'i am far more likely,' he replied, 'to purchase a very nice little cane, and give her an exemplary thrashing.' 'oh! oh!' 'upon my word, i see no reason against it! that's how i should deal with a man who talked about me in this way, and none the less if he were a puny creature quite unable to protect himself. in that furious scene before we got tom away i felt most terribly tempted to beat her. there's a great deal to be said for woman-beating. i am quite sure that many a labouring man who pommels his wife is doing exactly the right thing; no other measure would have the least result. you see what comes of impunity. if this woman saw the possibility that i should give her a public caning she would be far more careful how she behaved herself. let us ask miss nunn's opinion.' rhoda had that moment entered the room. she offered her hand frankly, and asked what the subject was. 'glance over this letter,' said barfoot. 'oh, you have seen it. i propose to get a light, supple, dandyish cane, and to give mrs. thomas barfoot half a dozen smart cuts across the back in her own drawing-room, some afternoon when people were present. what have you to say to it?' he spoke with such show of angry seriousness that rhoda paused before replying. 'i sympathized with you,' she said at length, 'but i don't think i would go to that extremity.' everard repeated the argument he had used to his cousin. 'you are quite right,' rhoda assented. 'i think many women deserve to be beaten, and ought to be beaten. but public opinion would be so much against _you_.' 'what do i care? so is public opinion against you.' 'very well. do as you like. miss barfoot and i will come to the police court and give strong evidence in your favour.' 'now there's a woman!' exclaimed everard, not all in jest, for rhoda's appearance had made his nerves thrill and his pulse beat. 'look at her, mary. do you wonder that i would walk the diameter of the globe to win her love?' rhoda flushed scarlet, and miss barfoot was much embarrassed. neither could have anticipated such an utterance as this. 'that's the simple truth,' went on everard recklessly, 'and she knows it, and yet won't listen to me. well, good-bye to you both! now that i have so grossly misbehaved myself, she has a good excuse for refusing even to enter the room when i am here. but do speak a word for me whilst i am away, mary.' he shook hands with them, scarcely looking at their faces, and abruptly departed. the women stood for a moments at a distance from each other. then miss barfoot glanced at her friend and laughed. 'really my poor cousin is not very discreet.' 'anything but,' rhoda answered, resting on the back of a chair, her eyes cast down. 'do you think he will really cane his sister-in-law?' 'how can you ask such a question?' 'it would be amusing. i should think better of him for it.' 'well, make it a condition. we know the story of the lady and her glove. i can see you sympathize with her.' rhoda laughed and went away, leaving miss barfoot with the impression that she had revealed a genuine impulse. it seemed not impossible that rhoda might wish to say to her lover: 'face this monstrous scandal and i am yours.' a week passed and there arrived a letter, with a foreign stamp, addressed to miss nunn. happening to receive it before miss barfoot had come down to breakfast, she put it away in a drawer till evening leisure, and made no mention of its arrival. exhilaration appeared in her behaviour through the day. after dinner she disappeared, shutting herself up to read the letter. 'dear miss nunn,--i am sitting at a little marble table outside a café on the cannibiere. does that name convey anything to you? the cannibiere is the principal street of marseilles, street of gorgeous cafés and restaurants, just now blazing with electric light. you, no doubt, are shivering by the fireside; here it is like an evening of summer. i have dined luxuriously, and i am taking my coffee whilst i write. at a table near to me sit two girls, engaged in the liveliest possible conversation, of which i catch a few words now and then, pretty french phrases that caress the ear. one of them is so strikingly beautiful that i cannot take my eyes from her when they have been tempted to that quarter. she speaks with indescribable grace and animation, has the sweetest eyes and lips-- 'and all the time i am thinking of some one else. ah, if _you_ were here! how we would enjoy ourselves among these southern scenes! alone, it is delightful; but with you for a companion, with you to talk about everything in your splendidly frank way! this french girl's talk is of course only silly chatter; it makes me long to hear a few words from your lips--strong, brave, intelligent. 'i dream of the ideal possibility. suppose i were to look up and see you standing just in front of me, there on the pavement. you have come in a few hours straight from london. your eyes glow with delight. to-morrow we shall travel on to genoa, you and i, more than friends, and infinitely more than the common husband and wife! we have bidden the world go round for _our_ amusement; henceforth it is our occupation to observe and discuss and make merry. 'is it all in vain? rhoda, if you never love me, my life will be poor to what it might have been; and you, you also, will lose something. in imagination i kiss your hands and your lips. everard barfoot.' there was an address at the head of this letter, but certainly barfoot expected no reply, and rhoda had no thought of sending one. every night, however, she unfolded the sheet of thin foreign paper, and read, more than once, what was written upon it. read it with external calm, with a brow of meditation, and afterwards sat for some time in absent mood. would he write again? her daily question was answered in rather more than a fortnight. this time the letter came from italy; it was lying on the hall table when rhoda returned from great portland street, and miss barfoot was the first to read the address. they exchanged no remark. on breaking the envelope--she did so at once--rhoda found a little bunch of violets crushed but fragrant. 'these in return for your cheddar pinks,' began the informal note accompanying the flowers. 'i had them an hour ago from a pretty girl in the streets of parma. i didn't care to buy, and walked on, but the pretty girl ran by me, and with gentle force fixed the flowers in my button-hole, so that i had no choice but to stroke her velvety cheek and give her a lira. how hungry i am for the sight of your face! think of me sometimes, dear friend.' she laughed, and laid the letter and its violets away with the other. 'i must depend on you, it seems, for news of everard,' said miss barfoot after dinner. 'i can only tell you,' rhoda answered lightly, 'that he has travelled from the south of france to the north of italy, with much observation of female countenances.' 'he informs you of that?' 'very naturally. it is his chief interest. one likes people to tell the truth.' * * * * * * * * * * barfoot was away until the end of april, but after that note from parma he did not write. one bright afternoon in may, a saturday, he presented himself at his cousin's house, and found two or three callers in the drawing-room, ladies as usual; one of them was miss winifred haven, another was mrs. widdowson. mary received him without effusiveness, and after a few minutes' talk with her he took a place by mrs. widdowson, who, it struck him, looked by no means in such good spirits as during the early days of her marriage. as soon as she began to converse, his impression of a change in her was confirmed; the girlishness so pleasantly noticeable when first he knew her had disappeared, and the gravity substituted for it was suggestive of disillusion, of trouble. she asked him if he knew some people named bevis, who occupied a flat just above his own. 'bevis? i have seen the name on the index at the foot of the stairs; but i don't know them personally.' 'that was how i came to know that _you_ live there,' said monica. 'my husband took me to call upon the bevises, and there we saw your name. at least, we supposed it was you, and miss barfoot tells me we were right.' 'oh yes; i live there all alone, a gloomy bachelor. how delightful if you knocked at my door some day, when you and mr. widdowson are again calling on your friends.' monica smiled, and her eyes wandered restlessly. 'you have been away--out of england?' she next said. 'yes; in italy.' 'i envy you.' 'you have never been there?' 'no--not yet.' he talked a little of the agreeables and disagreeables of life in that country. but mrs. widdowson had become irresponsive; he doubted at length whether she was listening to him, so, as miss haven stepped this way, he took an opportunity of a word aside with his cousin. 'miss nunn not at home?' 'no. won't be till dinner-time.' 'quite well?' 'never was better. would you care to come back and dine with us at half-past seven?' 'of course i should.' with this pleasant prospect he took his leave. the afternoon being sunny, instead of walking straight to the station, to return home, he went out on to the embankment, and sauntered round by chelsea bridge road. as he entered sloane square he saw mrs. widdowson, who was coming towards the railway; she walked rather wearily, with her eyes on the ground, and did not become aware of him until he addressed her. 'are we travelling the same way?' he asked. 'westward?' 'yes. i am going all the way round to portland road.' they entered the station, barfoot chatting humorously. and, so intent was he on the expression of his companion's downcast face, that he allowed an acquaintance to pass close by him unobserved. it was rhoda nunn, returning sooner than miss barfoot had expected. she saw the pair, regarded them with a moment's keen attentiveness, and went on, out into the street. in the first-class carriage which they entered there was no other passenger as far as barfoot's station. he could not resist the temptation to use rather an intimate tone, though one that was quite conventional, in the hope that he might discover something of mrs. widdowson's mind. he began by asking whether she thought it a good academy this year. she had not yet visited it, but hoped to do so on monday. did she herself do any kind of artistic work? oh, nothing whatever; she was a very useless and idle person. he believed she had been a pupil of miss barfoot's at one time? yes, for a very short time indeed, just before her marriage. was she not an intimate friend of miss nunn? hardly intimate. they knew each other a few years ago, but miss nunn did not care much about her now. 'probably because i married,' she added with a smile. 'is miss nunn really such a determined enemy of marriage?' 'she thinks it pardonable in very weak people. in my case she was indulgent enough to come to the wedding.' this piece of news surprised barfoot. 'she came to your wedding? and wore a wedding garment?' 'oh yes. and looked very nice.' 'do describe it to me. can you remember?' seeing that no woman ever forgot the details of another's dress, on however trivial an occasion, and at whatever distance of time, monica was of course able to satisfy the inquirer. her curiosity excited, she ventured in turn upon one or two insidious questions. 'you couldn't imagine miss nunn in such a costume?' 'i should very much like to have seen her.' 'she has a very striking face--don't you think so?' 'indeed i do. a wonderful face.' their eyes met. barfoot bent forward from his place opposite monica. 'to me the most interesting of all faces,' he said softly. his companion blushed with surprise and pleasure. 'does it seem strange to you, mrs. widdowson?' 'oh--why? not at all.' all at once she had brightened astonishingly. this subject was not pursued, but for the rest of the time they talked with a new appearance of mutual confidence and interest, monica retaining her pretty, half-bashful smile. and when barfoot alighted at bayswater they shook hands with an especial friendliness, both seeming to suggest a wish that they might soon meet again. they did so not later than the following monday. remembering what mrs. widdowson had said of her intention to visit burlington house, barfoot went there in the afternoon. if he chanced to encounter the pretty little woman it would not be disagreeable. perhaps her husband might be with her, and in that case he could judge of the terms on which they stood. a surly fellow, widdowson; very likely to play the tyrant, he thought. if he were not mistaken, she had wearied of him and regretted her bondage--the old story. thinking thus, and strolling through the rooms with casual glances at a picture, he discovered his acquaintance, catalogue in hand, alone for the present. her pensive face again answered to his smile. they drew back from the pictures and sat down. 'i dined with our friends at chelsea on saturday evening,' said barfoot. 'on saturday? you didn't tell me you were going back again.' 'i wasn't thinking of it just at the time.' monica hinted an amused surprise. 'you see,' he went on, 'i expected nothing, and happy for me that it was so. miss nunn was in her severest mood; i think she didn't smile once through the evening. i will confess to you i wrote her a letter whilst i was abroad, and it offended her, i suppose.' 'i don't think you can always judge of her thoughts by her face.' 'perhaps not. but i have studied her face so often and so closely. for all that, she is more a mystery to me than any woman i have ever known. that, of course, is partly the reason of her power over me. i feel that if ever--if ever she should disclose herself to me, it would be the strangest revelation. every woman wears a mask, except to one man; but rhoda's--miss nunn's--is, i fancy, a far completer disguise than i ever tried to pierce.' monica had a sense of something perilous in this conversation. it arose from a secret trouble in her own heart, which she might, involuntarily, be led to betray. she had never talked thus confidentially with any man; not, in truth, with her husband. there was no fear whatever of her conceiving an undue interest in barfoot; certain reasons assured her of that; but talk that was at all sentimental gravely threatened her peace--what little remained to her. it would have been better to discourage this man's confidences; yet they flattered her so pleasantly, and afforded such a fruitful subject for speculation, that she could not obey the prompting of prudence. 'do you mean,' she said, 'that miss nunn seems to disguise her feelings?' 'it is supposed to be wrong--isn't it?--for a man to ask one woman her opinion of another.' 'i can't be treacherous if i wished,' monica replied. 'i don't feel that i understand her.' barfoot wondered how much intelligence he might attribute to mrs. widdowson. obviously her level was much below that of rhoda. yet she seemed to possess delicate sensibilities, and a refinement of thought not often met with in women of her position. seriously desiring her aid, he looked at her with a grave smile, and asked,-- 'do you believe her capable of falling in love?' monica showed a painful confusion. she overcame it, however, and soon answered. 'she would perhaps try not--not to acknowledge it to herself.' 'when, in fact, it had happened?' 'she thinks it so much nobler to disregard such feelings.' 'i know. she is to be an inspiring example to the women who cannot hope to marry.' he laughed silently. 'and i suppose it is quite possible that mere shame would withhold her from taking the opposite course.' 'i think she is very strong. but--' 'but?' he looked eagerly into her face. 'i can't tell. i don't really know her. a woman may be as much a mystery to another woman as she is to a man.' 'on the whole, i am glad to hear you say that. i believe it. it is only the vulgar that hold a different opinion.' 'shall we look at the pictures, mr. barfoot?' 'oh, i am so sorry. i have been wasting your time--' nervously disclaiming any such thought, monica rose and drew near to the canvases. they walked on together for some ten minutes, until barfoot, who had turned to look at a passing figure, said in his ordinary voice-- 'i think that is mr. widdowson on the other side of the room.' monica looked quickly round, and saw her husband, as if occupied with the pictures, glancing in her direction. chapter xix the clank of the chains since saturday evening monica and her husband had not been on speaking terms. a visit she paid to mildred vesper, after her call at miss barfoot's, prolonged itself so that she did not reach home until the dinner-hour was long past. on arriving, she was met with an outburst of tremendous wrath, to which she opposed a resolute and haughty silence; and since then the two had kept as much apart as possible. widdowson knew that monica was going to the academy. he allowed her to set forth alone, and even tried to persuade himself that he was indifferent as to the hour of her return; but she had not long been gone before he followed. insufferable misery possessed him. his married life threatened to terminate in utter wreck, and he had the anguish of recognizing that to a great extent this catastrophe would be his own fault. resolve as he might, he found it impossible to repress the impulses of jealousy which, as soon as peace had been declared between them, brought about a new misunderstanding. terrible thoughts smouldered in his mind; he felt himself to be one of those men who are driven by passion into crime. deliberately he had brooded over a tragic close to the wretchedness of his existence; he would kill himself, and monica should perish with him. but an hour of contentment sufficed to banish such visions as sheer frenzy. he saw once more how harmless, how natural, were monica's demands, and how peacefully he might live with her but for the curse of suspicion from which he could not free himself. any other man would deem her a model of wifely virtue. her care of the house was all that reason could desire. in her behaviour he had never detected the slightest impropriety. he believed her chaste as any woman living she asked only to be trusted, and that, in spite of all, was beyond his power. in no woman on earth could he have put perfect confidence. he regarded them as born to perpetual pupilage. not that their inclinations were necessarily wanton; they were simply incapable of attaining maturity, remained throughout their life imperfect beings, at the mercy of craft, ever liable to be misled by childish misconceptions. of course he was right; he himself represented the guardian male, the wife-proprietor, who from the dawn of civilization has taken abundant care that woman shall not outgrow her nonage. the bitterness of his situation lay in the fact that he had wedded a woman who irresistibly proved to him her claims as a human being. reason and tradition contended in him, to his ceaseless torment. and again, he feared that monica did not love him. had she ever loved him? there was too much ground for suspecting that she had only yielded to the persistence of his entreaties, with just liking enough to permit a semblance of tenderness, and glad to exchange her prospect of distasteful work for a comfortable married life. her liking he might have fostered; during those first happy weeks, assuredly he had done so, for no woman could be insensible to the passionate worship manifest in his every look, his every word. later, he took the wrong path, seeking to oppose her instincts, to reform her mind, eventually to become her lord and master. could he not even now retrace his steps? supposing her incapable of bowing before him, of kissing his feet, could he not be content to make of her a loyal friend, a delightful companion? in that mood he hastened towards burlington house. seeking monica through the galleries, he saw her at length--sitting side by side with that man barfoot. they were in closest colloquy. barfoot bent towards her as if speaking in an undertone, a smile on his face. monica looked at once pleased and troubled. the blood boiled in his veins. his first impulse was to walk straight up to monica and bid her follow him. but the ecstasy of jealous suffering kept him an observer. he watched the pair until he was descried. there was no help for it. though his brain whirled, and his flesh was stabbed, he had no choice but to take the hand barfoot offered him. smile he could not, nor speak a word. 'so you have come after all?' monica was saying to him. he nodded. on her countenance there was obvious embarrassment, but this needed no explanation save the history of the last day or two. looking into her eyes, he knew not whether consciousness of wrong might be read there. how to get at the secrets of this woman's heart? barfoot was talking, pointing at this picture and that, doing his best to smooth what he saw was an awkward situation. the gloomy husband, more like a tyrant than ever, muttered incoherent phrases. in a minute or two everard freed himself and moved out of sight. monica turned from her husband and affected interest in the pictures. they reached the end of the room before widdowson spoke. 'how long do you want to stay here?' 'i will go whenever you like,' she answered, without looking at him. 'i have no wish to spoil your pleasure.' 'really, i have very little pleasure in anything. did you come to keep me in sight?' 'i think we will go home now, and you can come another day.' monica assented by closing her catalogue and walking on. without a word, they made the journey back to herne hill. widdowson shut himself in the library, and did not appear till dinner-time. the meal was a pretence for both of them, and as soon as they could rise from the table they again parted. about ten o'clock monica was joined by her husband in the drawing-room. 'i have almost made up my mind,' he said, standing near her, 'to take a serious step. as you have always spoken with pleasure of your old home, clevedon, suppose we give up this house and go and live there?' 'it is for you to decide.' 'i want to know whether you would have any objection.' 'i shall do as you wish.' 'no, that isn't enough. the plan i have in mind is this. i should take a good large house--no doubt rents are low in the neighbourhood--and ask your sisters to come and live with us. i think it would be a good thing both for them and for you.' 'you can't be sure that they would agree to it. you see that virginia prefers her lodgings to living here.' oddly enough, this was the case. on their return from guernsey they had invited virginia to make a permanent home with them, and she refused. her reasons monica could not understand; those which she alleged--vague arguments as to its being better for a wife's relatives not to burden the husband--hardly seemed genuine. it was possible that virginia had a distaste for widdowson's society. 'i think they both would be glad to live at clevedon,' he urged, 'judging from your sisters' talk. it's plain that they have quite given up the idea of the school, and alice, you tell me, is getting dissatisfied with her work at yatton. but i must know whether you will enter seriously into this scheme.' monica kept silence. 'please answer me.' 'why have you thought of it?' 'i don't think i need explain. we have had too many unpleasant conversations, and i wish to act for the best without saying things you would misunderstand.' 'there is no fear of my misunderstanding. you have no confidence in me, and you want to get me away into a quiet country place where i shall be under your eyes every moment. it's much better to say that plainly.' 'that means you would consider it going to prison.' 'how could i help? what other motive have you?' he was prompted to make brutal declaration of authority, and so cut the knot. monica's unanswerable argument merely angered him. but he made an effort over himself. 'don't you think it best that we should take some step before our happiness is irretrievably ruined?' 'i see no need for its ruin. as i have told you before, in talking like that you degrade yourself and insult me.' 'i have my faults; i know them only too well. one of them is that i cannot bear you to make friends with people who are not of my kind. i shall never be able to endure that.' 'of course you are speaking of mr. barfoot.' 'yes,' he avowed sullenly. 'it was a very unfortunate thing that i happened to come up just as he was in your company.' 'you are so very unreasonable,' exclaimed monica tartly. 'what possible harm is there in mr. barfoot, when he meets me by chance in a public place, having a conversation with me? i wish i knew twenty such men. such conversation gives me a new interest in life. i have every reason to think well of mr. barfoot.' widdowson was in anguish. 'and i,' he replied, in a voice shaken with angry feeling, 'feel that i have every reason to dislike and suspect him. he is not an honest man; his face tells me that. i know his life wouldn't bear inspection. you can't possibly be as good a judge as i am in such a case. contrast him with bevis. no, bevis is a man one can trust; one talk with him produces a lasting favourable impression.' monica, silent for a brief space, looked fixedly before her, her features all but expressionless. 'yet even with mr. bevis,' she said at length, 'you don't make friends. that is the fault in you which causes all this trouble. you haven't a sociable spirit. your dislike of mr. barfoot only means that you don't know him, and don't wish to. and you are completely wrong in your judgment of him. i have every reason for being sure that you are wrong.' 'of course you think so. in your ignorance of the world--' 'which you think very proper in a woman,' she interposed caustically. 'yes, i do! that kind of knowledge is harmful to a woman.' 'then, please, how is she to judge her acquaintances?' 'a married woman must accept her husband's opinion, at all events about men.' he plunged on into the ancient quagmire. 'a man may know with impunity what is injurious if it enters a woman's mind.' 'i don't believe that. i can't and won't believe it.' he made a gesture of despair. 'we differ hopelessly. it was all very well to discuss these things when you could do so in a friendly spirit. now you say whatever you know will irritate me, and you say it on purpose to irritate me.' 'no; indeed i do not. but you are quite right that i find it hard to be friendly with you. most earnestly i wish to be your friend--your true and faithful friend. but you won't let me.' 'friend!' he cried scornfully. 'the woman who has become my wife ought to be something more than a friend, i should think. you have lost all love for me--there's the misery.' monica could not reply. that word 'love' had grown a weariness to her upon his lips. she did not love him; could not pretend to love him. every day the distance between them widened, and when he took her in his arms she had to struggle with a sense of shrinking, of disgust. the union was unnatural; she felt herself constrained by a hateful force when he called upon her for the show of wifely tenderness. yet how was she to utter this? the moment such a truth had passed her lips she must leave him. to declare that no trace of love remained in her heart, and still to live with him--that was impossible! the dark foresight of a necessity of parting from him corresponded in her to those lurid visions which at times shook widdowson with a horrible temptation. 'you don't love me,' he continued in harsh, choking tones. 'you wish to be my _friend_. that's how you try to compensate me for the loss of your love.' he laughed with bitterness. 'when you say that,' monica answered, 'do you ever ask yourself whether you try to make me love you? scenes like this are ruining my health. i have come to dread your talk. i have almost forgotten the sound of your voice when it isn't either angry or complaining.' widdowson walked about the room, and a deep moan escaped him. 'that is why i have asked you to go away from here, monica. we must have a new home if our life is to begin anew.' 'i have no faith in mere change of place. you would be the same man. if you cannot command your senseless jealousy here, you never would anywhere else.' he made an effort to say something; seemed to abandon it; again tried, and spoke in a thick, unnatural voice. 'can you honestly repeat to me what barfoot was saying to-day, when you were on the seat together?' monica's eyes flashed. 'i could; every word. but i shall not try to do so.' 'not if i beseech you to, monica? to put my mind at rest--' 'no. when i tell you that you might have heard every syllable, i have said all that i shall.' it mortified him profoundly that he should have been driven to make so humiliating a request. he threw himself into a chair and hid his face, sitting thus for a long time in the hope that monica would be moved to compassion. but when she rose it was only to retire for the night. and with wretchedness in her heart, because she must needs go to the same chamber in which her husband would sleep. she wished so to be alone. the poorest bed in a servant's garret would have been thrice welcome to her; liberty to lie awake, to think without a disturbing presence, to shed tears if need be--that seemed to her a precious boon. she thought with envy of the shop-girls in walworth road; wished herself back there. what unspeakable folly she had committed! and how true was everything she had heard from rhoda nunn on the subject of marriage! the next day widdowson resorted to an expedient which he had once before tried in like circumstances. he wrote his wife a long letter, eight close pages, reviewing the cause of their troubles, confessing his own errors, insisting gently on those chargeable to her, and finally imploring her to cooperate with him in a sincere endeavour to restore their happiness. this he laid on the table after lunch, and then left monica alone that she might read it. knowing beforehand all that the letter contained, monica glanced over it carelessly. an answer was expected, and she wrote one as briefly as possible. 'your behaviour seems to me very weak, very unmanly. you make us both miserable, and quite without cause. i can only say as i have said before, that things will never be better until you come to think of me as your free companion, not as your bond-woman. if you can't do this, you will make me wish that i had never met you, and in the end i am sure it won't be possible for us to go on living together.' she left this note, in a blank envelope, on the hall table, and went out to walk for an hour. it was the end of one more acute stage in their progressive discord. by keeping at home for a fortnight, monica soothed her husband and obtained some repose for her own nerves. but she could no longer affect a cordial reconciliation; caresses left her cold, and widdowson saw that his company was never so agreeable to her as solitude. when they sat together, both were reading. monica found more attraction in books as her life grew more unhappy. though with reluctance widdowson had consented to a subscription at mudie's, and from the new catalogues she either chose for herself, necessarily at random, or by the advice of better-read people, such as she met at mrs. cosgrove's. what modern teaching was to be got from these volumes her mind readily absorbed. she sought for opinions and arguments which were congenial to her mood of discontent, all but of revolt. sometimes the perusal of a love-story embittered her lot to the last point of endurance. before marriage, her love-ideal had been very vague, elusive; it found scarcely more than negative expression, as a shrinking from the vulgar or gross desires of her companions in the shop. now that she had a clearer understanding of her own nature, the type of man correspondent to her natural sympathies also became clear. in every particular he was unlike her husband. she found a suggestion of him in books; and in actual life, already, perhaps something more than a suggestion. widdowson's jealousy, in so far as it directed itself against her longing for freedom, was fully justified; this consciousness often made her sullen when she desired to express a nobler indignation; but his special prejudice led him altogether astray, and in free resistance on this point she found the relief which enabled her to bear a secret self-reproach. her refusal to repeat the substance of barfoot's conversation was, in some degree, prompted by a wish for the continuance of his groundless fears. by persevering in suspicion of barfoot, he afforded her a firm foothold in their ever-renewed quarrels. a husband's misdirected jealousy excites in the wife derision and a sense of superiority; more often than not, it fosters an unsuspected attachment, prompts to a perverse pleasure in misleading. monica became aware of this; in her hours of misery she now and then gave a harsh laugh, the result of thoughts not seriously entertained, but tempting the fancy to recklessness. what, she asked herself again, would be the end of it all? ten years hence, would she have subdued her soul to a life of weary insignificance, if not of dishonour? for it was dishonour to live with a man she could not love, whether her heart cherished another image or was merely vacant. a dishonour to which innumerable women submitted, a dishonour glorified by social precept, enforced under dread penalties. but she was so young, and life abounds in unexpected changes. chapter xx the first lie mrs. cosgrove was a childless widow, with sufficient means and a very mixed multitude of acquaintances. in the general belief her marriage had been a happy one; when she spoke of her deceased husband it was with respect, and not seldom with affection. yet her views on the matrimonial relation were known to be of singular audacity. she revealed them only to a small circle of intimates; most of the people who frequented her house had no startling theories to maintain, and regarded their hostess as a good-natured, rather eccentric woman, who loved society and understood how to amuse her guests. wealth and position were rarely represented in her drawing-room; nor, on the other hand, was bohemianism. mrs. cosgrove belonged by birth and marriage to the staid middle class, and it seemed as if she made it her object to provide with social entertainment the kind of persons who, in an ordinary way, would enjoy very little of it. lonely and impecunious girls or women were frequently about her; she tried to keep them in good spirits, tried to marry them if marriage seemed possible, and, it was whispered, used a good deal of her income for the practical benefit of those who needed assistance. a sprinkling of maidens who were neither lonely nor impecunious served to attract young men, generally strugglers in some profession or other, on the lookout for a wife. intercourse went on with a minimum of formalities. chaperonage--save for that represented by the hostess herself--was as often as not dispensed with. 'we want to get rid of a lot of sham propriety'--so she urged to her closer friends. 'girls must learn to trust themselves, and look out for dangers. if a girl can only be kept straight by incessant watchfulness, why, let her go where she will, and learn by experience. in fact, i want to see experience substituted for precept.' between this lady and miss barfoot there were considerable divergences of opinion, yet they agreed on a sufficient number of points to like each other very well. occasionally one of mrs. cosgrove's _protegees_ passed into miss barfoot's hands, abandoning the thought of matrimony for study in great portland street. rhoda nunn, also, had a liking for mrs. cosgrove, though she made no secret of her opinion that mrs. cosgrove's influence was on the whole decidedly harmful. 'that house,' she once said to miss barfoot, 'is nothing more than a matrimonial agency.' 'but so is every house where many people are entertained.' 'not in the same way. mrs. cosgrove was speaking to me of some girl who has just accepted an offer of marriage. "i don't think they'll suit each other," she said, "but there's no harm in trying."' miss barfoot could not restrain a laugh. 'who knows? perhaps she is right in that view of things. after all, you know, it's only putting into plain words what everybody thinks on all but every such occasion.' 'the first part of her remark--yes,' said rhoda caustically. 'but as for the "no harm in trying," well, let us ask the wife's opinion in a year's time.' * * * * * * * * * * midway in the london season on sunday afternoon, about a score of visitors were assembled in mrs. cosgrove's drawing-rooms--there were two of them, with a landing between. as usual, some one sat at the piano, but a hum of talk went on as undercurrent to the music. downstairs, in the library, half a dozen people found the quietness they preferred, and among these was mrs. widdowson. she had an album of portraits on her lap; whilst turning them over, she listened to a chat going on between the sprightly mr. bevis and a young married woman who laughed ceaselessly at his jokes. it was only a few minutes since she had come down from the drawing-room. presently her eyes encountered a glance from bevis, and at once he stepped over to a seat beside her. 'your sisters are not here to-day?' she said. 'no. they have guests of their own. and when are you coming to see them again?' 'before long, i hope.' bevis looked away and seemed to reflect. 'do come next saturday--could you?' 'i had better not promise.' 'do try, and'--he lowered his voice--'come alone. forgive me for saying that. the girls are rather afraid of mr. widdowson, that's the truth. they would so like a free gossip with you. let me tell them to expect you about half-past three or four. they will rise up and call me blessed.' laughing, monica at length agreed to come if circumstances were favourable. her talk with bevis continued for a long time, until people had begun to leave. some other acquaintance then claimed her, but she was now dull and monosyllabic, as if conversation had exhausted her energies. at six o'clock she stole away unobserved, and went home. widdowson had resigned himself, in appearance at all events, to these absences. it was several weeks since he had accompanied his wife to call upon any one; a sluggishness was creeping over him, strengthening his disinclination for society. the futile endeavour to act with decision, to carry monica away into somerset, resulted, as futile efforts of that kind are wont to do, in increased feebleness of the will; he was less capable than ever of exerting the authority which he still believed himself to keep for the last resort. occasionally some days went by without his leaving the house. instead of the one daily newspaper he had been used to take he now received three; after breakfast he sometimes spent a couple of hours over the _times_, and the evening papers often occupied him from dinner to bedtime. monica noticed, with a painful conflict of emotions, that his hair had begun to lose its uniform colour, and to show streaks that matched with his grizzled beard. was _she_ responsible for this? on the saturday when she was to visit the bevises she feared lest he should propose to go with her. she wished even to avoid the necessity of telling him where she was going. as she rose from luncheon widdowson glanced at her. 'i've ordered the trap, monica. will you come for a drive?' 'i have promised to go into the town. i'm very sorry.' 'it doesn't matter.' this was his latest mode of appealing to her--with an air of pained resignation. 'for a day or two i haven't felt at all well,' he continued gloomily. 'i thought a drive might do me good.' 'certainly. i hope it will. when would you like to have dinner?' 'i never care to alter the hours. of course i shall be back at the usual time. shall _you_ be?' 'oh yes--long before dinner.' so she got away without any explanation. at a quarter to four she reached the block of flats in which the bevises (and everard barfoot) resided. with a fluttering of the heart, she went very quietly upstairs, as if anxious that her footsteps should not be heard; her knock at the door was timid. bevis in person opened to her. 'delighted! i thought it _might_ be--' she entered, and walked into the first room, where she had been once before. but to her surprise it was vacant. she looked round and saw bevis's countenance gleaming with satisfaction. 'my sisters will be here in a few minutes,' he said. 'a few minutes at most. will you take this chair, mrs. widdowson? how delighted i am that you were able to come!' so perfectly natural was his manner, that monica, after the first moment of consternation, tried to forget that there was anything irregular in her presence here under these circumstances. as regards social propriety, a flat differs in many respects from a house. in an ordinary drawing-room, it could scarcely have mattered if bevis entertained her for a short space until his sisters' arrival; but in this little set of rooms it was doubtfully permissible for her to sit _tete-a-tete_ with a young man, under any excuse. and the fact of his opening the front door himself seemed to suggest that not even a servant was in the flat. a tremor grew upon her as she talked, due in part to the consciousness that she was glad to be thus alone with bevis. 'a place like this must seem to you to be very unhomelike,' he was saying, as he lounged on a low chair not very far from her. 'the girls didn't like it at all at first. i suppose it's a retrograde step in civilization. servants are decidedly of that opinion; we have a great difficulty in getting them to stay here. the reason seems to me that they miss the congenial gossip of the area door. at this moment we are without a domestic. i found she compensated herself for disadvantages by stealing my tobacco and cigars. she went to work with such a lack of discretion--abstracting half a pound of honeydew at a time--that i couldn't find any sympathy for her. moreover, when charged with the delinquency, she became abusive, so very abusive that we were obliged to insist upon her immediate departure.' 'do you think she smoked?' asked monica laughingly. 'we have debated that point with much interest. she was a person of advanced ideas, as you see; practically a communist. but i doubt whether honeydew had any charms for her personally. it seems more probable that some milkman, or baker's assistant, or even metropolitan policeman, benefited by her communism.' indifferent to the progress of time, bevis talked on with his usual jocoseness, now and then shaking his tawny hair in a fit of laughter the most contagious. 'but i have something to tell you,' he said at length more seriously. 'i am going to leave england. they want me to live at bordeaux for a time, two or three years perhaps. it's a great bore, but i shall have to go. i am not my own master.' 'then your sisters will go to guernsey?' 'yes. i dare say i shall leave about the end of july.' he became silent, looking at monica with humorous sadness. 'do you think your sisters will soon be here, mr. bevis?' monica asked, with a glance round the room. 'i think so. do you know, i did a very silly thing. i wanted your visit (if you came) to be a surprise for them, and so--in fact, i said nothing about it. when i got here from business, a little before three, they were just going out. i asked them if they were sure they would be back in less than an hour. oh, they were quite sure--not a doubt about it. i do hope they haven't altered their mind, and gone to call somewhere. but, mrs. widdowson, i am going to make you a cup of tea--with my own fair hands, as the novelists say.' monica begged that he would not trouble. under the circumstances she had better not stay. she would come again very soon. 'no, i can't, i can't let you go!' bevis exclaimed, softening his gay tone as he stood before her. 'how shall i entreat you? if you knew what an unforgettable delight it will be to me to make you a cup of tea! i shall think of it at bordeaux every saturday.' she had risen, but exhibited no immutable resolve. 'i really must go, mr. bevis--!' 'don't drive me to despair. i am capable of turning my poor sisters out of house and home--flat and home, i mean--in anger at their delay. on their account, in pity for their youth, do stay, mrs. widdowson! besides, i have a new song that i want you to hear--words and music my own. one little quarter of an hour! and i know the girls will be here directly.' his will, and her inclination, prevailed. monica sat down again, and bevis disappeared to make the tea. water must have been already boiling, for in less than five minutes the young man returned with a tray, on which all the necessaries were neatly arranged. with merry homage he waited upon his guest. monica's cheeks were warm. after the vain attempt to release herself from what was now distinctly a compromising situation, she sat down in an easier attitude than before, as though resolved to enjoy her liberty whilst she might. there was a suspicion in her mind that bevis had arranged this interview; she doubted the truth of his explanation. and indeed she hoped that his sisters would not return until after her departure; it would be very embarrassing to meet them. whilst talking and listening, she silently defended herself against the charge of impropriety. what wrong was she committing? what matter that they were alone? their talk was precisely what it might have been in other people's presence. and bevis, such a frank, good-hearted fellow, could not by any possibility fail in respect to her. the objections were all cant, and cant of the worst kind. she would not be a slave of such ignoble prejudices. 'you haven't made mr. barfoot's acquaintance yet?' she asked. 'no, i haven't. there seems to have been no opportunity. did you seriously wish me to know him?' 'oh, i had no wish in the matter at all.' 'you like mr. barfoot?' 'i think him very pleasant.' 'how delightful to be praised by you, mrs. widdowson! now if any one speaks to you about _me_, when i have left england, will you find some nice word? don't think me foolish. i do so desire the good opinion of my friends. to know that you spoke of me as you did for mr. barfoot would give me a whole day of happiness.' 'how enviable! to be so easily made happy.' 'now let me sing you this song of mine. it isn't very good; i haven't composed for years. but--' he sat down and rattled over the keys. monica was expecting a lively air and spirited words, as in the songs she had heard at guernsey; but this composition told of sadness and longing and the burden of a lonely heart. she thought it very beautiful, very touching. bevis looked round to see the effect it produced upon her, and she could not meet his eyes. 'quite a new sort of thing for me, mrs. widdowson. does it strike you as so very bad?' 'no--not at all.' 'but you can't honestly praise it?' he sighed, in dejection. 'i meant to give you a copy. i made this one specially for you, and--if you will forgive me--i have taken the liberty of dedicating it to you. songwriters do that, you know. of course it is altogether unworthy of your acceptance--' 'no--no--indeed i am very grateful to you, mr. bevis. do give it to me--as you meant to.' 'you will have it?' he cried delightedly. 'now for a triumphal march!' whilst he played, with look corresponding to the exultant strain, monica rose from her chair. she stood with eyes downcast and lips pressed together. when the last chord had sounded,-- 'now i must say good-bye, mr. bevis. i am so sorry your sisters haven't come.' 'so am i--and yet i am not. i have enjoyed the happiest half-hour of my life.' 'will you give me the piece of music?' 'let me roll it up. there; it won't be very awkward to carry. but of course i shall see you again before the end of july? you will come some other afternoon?' 'if miss bevis will let me know when she is quite sure--' 'yes, she shall. do you know, i don't think i shall say a word about what has happened this afternoon. will you allow me to keep silence about your call, mrs. widdowson? they would be so annoyed--and really it was a silly thing not to tell them--' monica gave no verbal reply. she looked towards the door. bevis stepped forward, and held it open. 'good-bye, then. you know what i told you about my tendency to low spirits. i'm going to have a terrible turn--down, down, down!' she laughed, and offered her hand. he held it very lightly, looking at her with his blue eyes, which indeed expressed a profound melancholy. 'thank you,' he murmured. 'thank you for your great kindness.' and thereupon he opened the front door for her. without another look monica went quickly down the stairs; she appreciated his motive for not accompanying her to the exit. * * * * * * * * * * before entering the house she had managed to conceal the sheet of music which she was carrying. but, happily, widdowson was still absent. half an hour passed--half an hour of brooding and reverie--before she heard his footstep ascending the stairs. on the landing she met him with a pleasant smile. 'have you enjoyed your drive?' 'pretty well.' 'and do you feel better?' 'not much, dear. but it isn't worth talking about.' later, he inquired where she had been. 'i had an appointment with milly vesper.' the first falsehood she had ever told him, and yet uttered with such perfect assumption of sincerity as would have deceived the acutest observer. he nodded, discontented as usual, but entertaining no doubt. and from that moment she hated him. if he had plied her with interrogations, if he had seemed to suspect anything, the burden of untruth would have been more endurable. his simple acceptance of her word was the sternest rebuke she could have received. she despised herself, and hated him for the degradation which resulted from his lordship over her. chapter xxi towards the decisive mary barfoot had never suffered from lack of interest in life. many a vivid moment dwelt in her memory; joys and sorrows, personal or of larger scope, affected her the more deeply because of that ruling intelligence which enabled her to transmute them into principles. no longer anticipating or desiring any great change in her own environment, in the modes and motives of her activity, she found it a sufficient happiness to watch, and when possible to direct, the tendency of younger lives. so kindly had nature tempered her disposition, that already she had been able to outlive those fervours of instinct which often make the middle life of an unwedded woman one long repining; but her womanly sympathies remained. and at present there was going forward under her own roof, within her daily observation, a comedy, a drama, which had power to excite all her disinterested emotions. it had been in progress for twelve months, and now, unless she was strangely mistaken, the _denouement_ drew very near. for all her self-study, her unflinching recognition of physical and psychical facts which the average woman blinks over, mary deceived herself as to the date of that final triumph which permitted her to observe rhoda nunn with perfect equanimity. her outbreak of angry feeling on the occasion of bella royston's death meant something more than she would acknowledge before the inquisition of her own mind. it was just then that she had become aware of rhoda's changing attitude towards everard barfoot; trifles such as only a woman would detect had convinced her that everard's interest in rhoda was awakening a serious response; and this discovery, though it could not surprise her, caused an obscure pang which she attributed to impersonal regret, to mere natural misgiving. for some days she thought of rhoda in an ironic, half-mocking spirit. then came bella's suicide, and the conversation in which rhoda exhibited a seeming heartlessness, the result, undoubtedly, of grave emotional disturbance. to her own astonishment, mary was overcome with an impulse of wrathful hostility, and spoke words which she regretted as soon as they had passed her lips. poor bella had very little to do with this moment of discord between two women who sincerely liked and admired each other. she only offered the occasion for an outburst of secret feeling which probably could not have been avoided. mary barfoot had loved her cousin everard; it began when he was one-and-twenty; she, so much older, had never allowed everard or any one else to suspect her passion, which made her for two or three years more unhappy than she had ever been, or was ever to be when once her strong reason had prevailed. the scandal of amy drake, happening long after, revived her misery, which now took the form of truly feminine intolerance; she tried to believe that everard was henceforth of less than no account to her, that she detested him for his vices. amy drake, however, she detested much more. when her friendship with rhoda nunn had progressed to intimacy, she could not refrain from speaking of her cousin everard, absent at the ends of the earth, and perchance lost to her sight for ever. her mention of him was severe, yet of a severity so obviously blended with other feeling, that rhoda could not but surmise the truth. sentimental confession never entered miss barfoot's mind; she had conquered her desires, and was by no means inclined to make herself ridiculous; rhoda nunn, of all women, seemed the least likely to make remarks, or put questions, such as would endanger a betrayal of the buried past. yet, at a later time, when pressing the inquiry whether rhoda had ever been in love, mary did not scruple to suggest that her own knowledge in that direction was complete. she did it in lightness of heart, secure under the protection of her forty years. rhoda, of course, understood her as referring to everard. so the quarrel was one of jealousy. but no sooner had it taken place when mary barfoot experienced a shame, a distress, which in truth signified the completion of self-conquest. she thought herself ashamed of being angry where anger was uncalled for; in reality, she chastised herself for the last revival of a conflict practically over and done with so many years ago. and on this very account, precisely because she was deceiving herself as to her state of mind, she prolonged the painful situation. she said to herself that rhoda had behaved so wrongly that displeasure was justified, that to make up the quarrel at once would be unwise, for miss nunn needed a little discipline. this insistence upon the side issue helped her to disregard the main one, and when at length she offered rhoda the kiss of reconcilement, that also signified something other than was professed. it meant a hope that rhoda might know the happiness which to her friend had been denied. everard's announcement of his passion for miss nunn seemed to mary a well-calculated piece of boldness. if he seriously sought rhoda for his wife, this frank avowal of the desire before a third person might remove some of the peculiar difficulties of the case. whether willing or not to be wooed, rhoda, in mere consistency with her pronounced opinions, must needs maintain a scornful silence on the subject of everard's love-making; by assailing this proud reserve, this dignity which perchance had begun to burden its supporter, everard made possible, if not inevitable, a discussion of his suit between the two women. she who talks of her lover will be led to think of him. miss barfoot knew not whether to hope for the marriage of this strange pair. she was distrustful of her cousin, found it hard to imagine him a loyal husband, and could not be sure whether rhoda's qualities were such as would ultimately retain or repel him. she inclined to think this wooing a mere caprice. but rhoda gave ear to him, of that there could be little doubt; and since his inheritance of ample means the affair began to have a new aspect. that everard persevered, though the world of women was now open to him--for, on a moderate computation, any man with barfoot's personal advantages, and armed with fifteen hundred a year, may choose among fifty possible maidens--seemed to argue that he was really in love. but what it would cost rhoda to appear before her friends in the character of a bride! what a humbling of her glory! was she capable of the love which defies all humiliation? or, loving ardently, would she renounce a desired happiness from dread of female smiles and whispers? or would it be her sufficient satisfaction to reject a wealthy suitor, and thus pose more grandly than ever before the circle who saw in her an example of woman's independence? powerful was the incitement to curiosity in a situation which, however it ended, would afford such matter for emotional hypothesis. they did not talk of everard. whether rhoda replied to his letters from abroad miss barfoot had no means of ascertaining. but after his return he had a very cold reception--due, perhaps, to some audacity he had allowed himself in his correspondence. rhoda again avoided meeting with him, and, as miss barfoot noticed, threw herself with increased energy into all her old pursuits. 'what about your holiday this year?' mary asked one evening in june. 'shall you go first, or shall i?' 'please make whatever arrangements you like.' miss barfoot had a reason for wishing to postpone her holiday until late in august. she said so, and proposed that rhoda should take any three weeks she liked prior to that. 'miss vesper,' she added, 'can manage your room very well. we shall be much more at ease in that respect than last year.' 'yes. miss vesper is getting to be very useful and trustworthy.' rhoda mused when she had made this remark. 'do you know,' she asked presently, 'whether she sees much of mrs. widdowson?' 'i have no idea.' they decided that rhoda should go away at the close of july. where was her holiday to be spent? miss barfoot suggested the lake country. 'i was thinking of it myself,' said rhoda. 'i should like to have some sea-bathing, though. a week by the shore, and then the rest of the time spent in vagabondage among the mountains, would suit me very well. mrs. cosgrove is at home in cumberland; i must ask her advice.' this was done, and there resulted a scheme which seemed to excite rhoda with joyous anticipation. on the coast of cumberland, a few miles south of st. bees, is a little place called seascale, unknown to the ordinary tourist, but with a good hotel and a few scattered houses where lodgings can be obtained. not far away rise the mountain barriers of lake-land, wastdale clearly discernible. at seascale, then, rhoda would spend her first week, the quiet shore with its fine stretch of sand affording her just the retreat that she desired. 'there are one or two bathing-machines, mrs. cosgrove says, but i hope to avoid such abominations. how delicious it was in one's childhood, when one ran into the sea naked! i will enjoy that sensation once more, if i have to get up at three in the morning.' about this time barfoot made one of his evening calls. he had no hope of seeing rhoda, and was agreeably surprised by her presence in the drawing-room. just as happened a year ago, the subject of miss barfoot making a direct inquiry. with lively interest, mary waited for the reply, and was careful not to smile when rhoda made known her intentions. 'have you planned a route after your stay at seascale?' barfoot asked. 'no. i shall do that when i am there.' whether or not he intended a contrast to these homely projects, barfoot presently began to talk of travel on a grander scale. when he next left england, he should go by the orient express right away to constantinople. his cousin asked questions about the orient express, and he supplied her with details very exciting to the imagination of any one who longs to see the kingdoms of the earth--as undoubtedly rhoda did. the very name, orient express, has a certain sublimity, such as attaches, more or less, to all the familiar nomenclature of world-transits. he talked himself into fervour, and kept a watch on rhoda's countenance. as also did miss barfoot. rhoda tried to appear unaffected, but her coldness betrayed its insincerity. the next day, when work at great portland street was just finished, she fell into conversation with mildred vesper. miss barfoot had an engagement to dine out that evening, and rhoda ended by inviting milly to come home with her to chelsea. to milly this was a great honour; she hesitated because of her very plain dress, but easily allowed herself to be persuaded when she saw that miss nunn really desired her company. before dinner they had a walk in battersea park. rhoda had never been so frank and friendly; she induced the quiet, unpretending girl to talk of her early days, her schools, her family. remarkable was milly's quiet contentedness; not long ago she had received an increase of payment from miss barfoot, and one would have judged that scarcely a wish now troubled her, unless it were that she might see her scattered brothers and sisters, all of whom, happily, were doing pretty well in the struggle for existence. 'you must feel rather lonely in your lodgings sometimes?' said rhoda. 'very rarely. in future i shall have music in the evening. our best room has been let to a young man who has a violin, and he plays "the blue bells of scotland"--not badly.' rhoda did not miss the humorous intention, veiled, as usual, under a manner of extreme sedateness. 'does mrs. widdowson come to see you?' 'not often. she came a few days ago.' 'you go to her house sometimes?' 'i haven't been there for several months. at first i used to go rather frequently, but--it's a long way.' to this subject rhoda returned after dinner, when they were cosily settled in the drawing-room. 'mrs. widdowson comes here now and then, and we are always very glad to see her. but i can't help thinking she looks rather unhappy.' 'i'm afraid she does,' assented the other gravely. 'you and i were both at her wedding. it wasn't very cheerful, was it? i had a disagreeable sense of bad omens all the time. do you think she is sorry?' 'i'm really afraid she is.' rhoda observed the look that accompanied this admission. 'foolish girl! why couldn't she stay with us, and keep her liberty? she doesn't seem to have made any new friends. has she spoken to you of any?' 'only of people she has met here.' rhoda yielded--or seemed to yield--to an impulse of frankness. bending slightly forward, with an anxious expression, she said in confidential tones-- 'can you help to put my mind at rest about monica? you saw her a week ago. did she say anything, or give any sign, that might make one really uneasy on her account?' there was a struggle in milly before she answered. rhoda added-- 'perhaps you had rather not--' 'yes, i had rather tell you. she said a good many strange things, and i _have_ been uneasy about her. i wished i could speak to some one--' 'how strange that i should feel urged to ask you about this,' said rhoda, her eyes, peculiarly bright and keen, fixed on the girl's face. 'the poor thing is very miserable, i am sure. her husband seems to leave her entirely to herself.' milly looked surprised. 'monica made quite the opposite complaint to me. she said that she was a prisoner.' 'that's very odd. she certainly goes about a good deal and alone.' 'i didn't know that,' said milly. 'she has very often talked to me about a woman's right to the same freedom as a man, and i always understood that mr. widdowson objected to her going anywhere without him, except just to call here, or at my lodgings.' 'do you think she has any acquaintance that he dislikes?' the direct answer was delayed, but it came at length. 'there is some one. she hasn't told me who it is.' 'in plain words, mr. widdowson thinks he has cause for jealousy?' 'yes, i understand monica to mean that.' rhoda's face had grown very dark. she moved her hands nervously. 'but--you don't think she could deceive him?' 'oh, i can't think that!' replied miss vesper, with much earnestness. 'but what i couldn't help fearing, after i saw her last, was that she might almost be tempted to leave her husband. she spoke so much of freedom--and of a woman's right to release herself if she found her marriage was a mistake.' 'i am so grateful to you for telling me all this. we must try to help her. of course i will make no mention of you, miss vesper. then you are really under the impression that there's some one she--prefers to her husband?' 'i can't help thinking there is,' admitted the other very solemnly. 'i was so sorry for her, and felt so powerless. she cried a little. all i could do was to entreat her not to behave rashly. i thought her sister ought to know--' 'oh, miss madden is useless. monica cannot look to her for advice or support.' after this conversation rhoda passed a very unquiet night, and gloom appeared in her countenance for the next few days. she wished to have a private interview with monica, but doubted whether it would in any degree serve her purpose--that of discovering whether certain suspicions she entertained had actual ground. confidence between her and mrs. widdowson had never existed, and in the present state of things she could not hope to probe monica's secret feelings. whilst she still brooded over the difficulty there came a letter for her from everard barfoot. he wrote formally; it had occurred to him that he might be of some slight service, in view of her approaching holiday, if he looked through the guide-books, and jotted down the outline of such a walking-tour as she had in mind. this he had done, and the results were written out on an enclosed sheet of paper. rhoda allowed a day to intervene, then sent a reply. she thanked mr. barfoot sincerely for the trouble he had so kindly taken. 'i see you limit me to ten miles a day. in such scenery of course one doesn't hurry on, but i can't help informing you that twenty miles wouldn't alarm me. i think it very likely that i shall follow your itinerary, after my week of bathing and idling. i leave on monday week.' barfoot did not call again. every evening she sat in expectation of his coming. twice miss barfoot was away until a late hour, and on those occasions, after dinner, rhoda sat in complete idleness, her face declaring the troubled nature of her thoughts. on the sunday before her departure she took a sudden resolve and went to call upon monica at herne hill. mrs. widdowson, she learnt from the servant, had left home about an hour since. 'is mr. widdowson at home?' yes, he was. and rhoda waited for some time in the drawing-room until he made his appearance. of late widdowson had grown so careless in the matter of toilet, that an unexpected visit obliged him to hurry through a change of apparel before he could present himself. looking upon him for the first time for several months, rhoda saw that misery was undermining the man's health. words could not have declared his trouble more plainly than the haggard features and stiff, depressed, self-conscious manner. he fixed his sunken eyes upon the visitor, and smiled, as was plain, only for civility's sake. rhoda did her best to seem at ease; she explained (standing, for he forgot to ask her to be seated) that she was going away on the morrow, and had hoped to see mrs. widdowson, who, she was told, had not been very well of late. 'no, she is not in very good health,' said widdowson vaguely. 'she has gone this afternoon to mrs. cosgrove's--i think you know her.' less encouragement to remain could not have been offered, but rhoda conceived a hope of hearing something significant if she persevered in conversation. the awkwardness of doing so was indifferent to her. 'shall you be leaving town shortly, mr. widdowson?' 'we are not quite sure--but pray sit down, miss nunn. you haven't seen my wife lately?' he took a chair, and rested his hands upon his knees, gazing at the visitor's skirt. 'mrs. widdowson hasn't been to see us for more than a month--if i remember rightly.' his look expressed both surprise and doubt. 'a month? but i thought--i had an idea--that she went only a few days ago.' 'in the day time?' 'to great portland street, i mean--to hear a lecture, or something of that kind, by miss barfoot.' rhoda kept silence for a moment. then she replied hastily-- 'oh yes--very likely--i wasn't there that afternoon.' 'i see. that would explain--' he seemed relieved, but only for the instant; then his eyes glanced hither and thither, with painful restlessness. rhoda observed him closely. after fidgeting with his feet, he suddenly took a stiff position, and said in a louder voice-- 'we are going to leave london altogether. i have decided to take a house at my wife's native place, clevedon. her sisters will come and live with us.' 'that is a recent decision, mr. widdowson?' 'i have thought about it for some time. london doesn't suit monica's health; i'm sure it doesn't. she will be much better in the country.' 'yes, i think that very likely.' 'as you say that you have noticed her changed looks, i shall lose no time in getting away.' he made a great show of determined energy. 'a few weeks--. we will go down to clevedon at once and find a house. yes, we will go to-morrow, or the day after. miss madden, also, is very far from well. i wish i hadn't delayed so long.' 'you are doing very wisely, i think. i had meant to suggest something of this kind to mrs. widdowson. perhaps, if i went at once to mrs. cosgrove's, i might be fortunate enough to find her still there?' 'you might. did i understand you to say that you go away tomorrow? for three weeks. ah, then we may be getting ready to remove when you come back.' the change that had come over him was remarkable. he could not keep his seat, and began to pace the end of the room. seeing no possibility of prolonging the talk for her own purposes, rhoda accepted this dismissal, and with the briefest leave-taking went her way to mrs. cosgrove's. she was deeply agitated. monica had not attended that lecture of miss barfoot's, and so, it was evident, had purposely deceived her husband. to what end? where were those hours spent? mildred vesper's report supplied grounds for sombre conjecture, and the incident at sloane square station, the recollection of monica and barfoot absorbed in talk, seemed to have a possible significance which fired rhoda with resentment. her arrival at mrs. cosgrove's was too late. monica had been there said the hostess, but had left nearly half an hour ago. rhoda's instant desire was to go on to bayswater, and somehow keep watch near the flats where barfoot lived. monica might be there. her coming forth from the building might be detected. but the difficulty of the understanding, and, still more, a dread of being seen hovering about that quarter, checked her purpose as soon as it was formed. she returned home, and for an hour or two kept in solitude. 'what has happened?' asked miss barfoot, when they at length met. 'happened? nothing that i know of.' 'you look very strange.' 'your imagination. i have been packing; perhaps it's from stooping over the trunk.' this by no means satisfied mary, who felt that things mysterious were going on about her. but she could only wait, repeating to herself that the grand _denouement_ decidedly was not far off. at nine o'clock sounded the visitor's bell. if, as she thought likely, the caller was everard, miss barfoot decided that she would disregard everything but the dramatic pressure of the moment, and leave those two alone together for half an hour. everard it was; he entered the drawing-room with an unusual air of gaiety. 'i have been in the country all day,' were his first words; and he went on to talk of trivial things--the doings of a cockney excursion party that had come under his notice. in a few minutes mary made an excuse for absenting herself. when she was gone, rhoda looked steadily at barfoot, and asked-- 'have you really been out of town?' 'why should you doubt it?' 'you left this morning, and have only just returned?' 'as i told you.' she averted her look. after examining her curiously, everard came and stood before her. 'i want to ask your leave to meet you somewhere during these next three weeks. at any point on your route. we could have a day's ramble together, and then--say good-bye.' 'the lake country is free to you, mr. barfoot.' 'but i mustn't miss you. you will leave seascale to-morrow week?' 'at present i think so. but i can't restrict myself by any agreement. holiday must be a time of liberty.' they looked at each other--she with a carelessness which was all but defiance, he with a significant smile. 'to-morrow week, then, perhaps we may meet again.' rhoda made no reply, beyond a movement of her eyebrows, as if to express indifference. 'i won't stay longer this evening. a pleasant journey to you!' he shook hands, and left the room. in the hall miss barfoot came to meet him; they exchanged a few words, unimportant and without reference to what had passed between him and rhoda. nor did rhoda speak of the matter when joined by her friend. she retired early, having settled all the arrangements for her departure by the ten o'clock express from euston next morning. her luggage was to consist of one trunk and a wallet with a strap, which would serve the purposes of a man's knapsack. save the indispensable umbrella, she carried no impeding trifles. a new costume, suitable for shore and mountain, was packed away in the trunk; miss barfoot had judged of its effect, and was of opinion that it became the wearer admirably. but rhoda, having adjusted everything that she was going to take with her, still had an occupation which kept her up for several hours. from a locked drawer she brought forth packets of letters, the storage of many years, and out of these selected carefully perhaps a tithe, which she bound together and deposited in a box; the remainder she burnt in the empty fireplace. moreover, she collected from about the room a number of little objects, ornaments and things of use, which also found a place in the same big box. all her personal property which had any value for her, except books, was finally under lock and key, and in portable repositories. but still she kept moving, as if in search of trifles that might have escaped her notice; silently, in her soft slippers, she strayed hither and thither, till the short summer night had all but given place to dawn; and when at length weariness compelled her to go to bed, she was not able to sleep. nor did mary barfoot enjoy much sleep that night. she lay thinking, and forecasting strange possibilities. on monday evening, returned from great portland street, the first thing she did was to visit rhoda's chamber. the ashes of burnt paper had been cleared away, but a glance informed her of the needless and unprecedented care with which miss nunn had collected and packed most of the things that belonged to her. again mary had a troubled night. chapter xxii honour in difficulties at mrs. cosgrove's, this sunday afternoon, monica had eyes and thoughts for one person only. her coming at all was practically an appointment to meet bevis, whom she had seen twice since her visit to the flat. a day or two after that occasion, she received a call from the bevis girls, who told her of their brother's approaching departure for bordeaux, and thereupon she invited the trio to dine with her. a fortnight subsequently to the dinner she had a chance encounter with bevis in oxford street; constraint of business did not allow him to walk beside her for more than a minute or two, but they spoke of mrs. cosgrove's on the following sunday, and there, accordingly, found each other. tremor of self-consciousness kept monica in dread of being watched and suspected. few people were present to-day, and after exchanging formal words with bevis, she moved away to talk with the hostess. not till half an hour had passed did she venture to obey the glances which her all but avowed lover cast towards her in conversation. he was so much at ease, so like what she had always known him, that monica asked herself whether she had not mistaken the meaning of his homage. one moment she hoped it might be so; the next, she longed for some sign of passionate devotion, and thought with anguish of the day, now so near, when he would be gone for ever. this, she ardently believed, was the man who should have been her husband. him she could love with heart and soul, could make his will her absolute law, could live on his smiles, could devote herself to his interests. the independence she had been struggling to assert ever since her marriage meant only freedom to love. if she had understood herself as she now did, her life would never have been thus cast into bondage. 'the girls,' bevis was saying, 'leave on thursday. the rest of the week i shall be alone. on monday the furniture will be stowed away at the pantechnicon, and on tuesday--off i go.' a casual listener could have supposed that the prospect pleased him. monica, with a fixed smile, looked at the other groups conversing in the room; no one was paying any attention to her. in the same moment she heard a murmur from her companion's lips; he was speaking still, but in a voice only just audible. 'come on friday afternoon about four o'clock.' her heart began to throb painfully, and she knew that a treacherous colour had risen to her checks. 'do come--once more--for the last time. it shall be just as before--just as before. an hour's talk, and we will say good-bye to each other.' she was powerless to breathe a word. bevis, noticing that mrs. cosgrove had thrown a look in their direction, suddenly laughed as if at some jest between them, and resumed his lively strain of talk. monica also laughed. an interval of make-believe, and again the soft murmur fell upon her ear. 'i shall expect you. i know you won't refuse me this one last kindness. some day,' his voice was all but extinguished, 'some day--who knows?' dreadful hope struck through her. a stranger's eyes turned their way, and again she laughed. 'on friday, at four. i shall expect you.' she rose, looked for an instant about the room, then offered him her hand, uttering some commonplace word of leave-taking. their eyes did not meet. she went up to mrs. cosgrove, and as soon as possible left the house. widdowson met her as she crossed the threshold of home. his face told her that something extraordinary had happened, and she trembled before him. 'back already?' he exclaimed, with a grim smile. 'be quick, and take your things off, and come to the library.' if he had discovered anything (the lie, for instance, that she told him a month ago, or that more recent falsehood when she pretended, without serious reason, to have been at miss barfoot's lecture), he would not look and speak thus. hurrying, panting, she made a change of dress, and obeyed his summons. 'miss nunn has been here,' were his first words. she turned pale as death. of course he observed it; she was now preparing for anything. 'she wanted to see you because she is going away on monday. what's the matter?' 'nothing. you spoke so strangely--' 'did i? and you _look_ very strangely. i don't understand you. miss nunn says that everybody has noticed how ill you seem. it's time we did something. to-morrow morning we are going down into somerset, to clevedon, to find a house.' 'i thought you had given up that idea.' 'whether i had or not doesn't matter.' in the determination to appear, and be, energetic, he spoke with a rough obstinacy, a doggedness that now and then became violence. 'i am decided on it now. there's a train to bristol at ten-twenty. you will pack just a few things; we shan't be away for more than a day or two.' tuesday, wednesday, thursday--by friday they might be back. till now, in an anguish of uncertainty, monica had made up her mind. she would keep the appointment on friday, come of it what might. if she could not be back in time, she would write a letter. 'why are you talking in this tone?' she said coldly. 'what tone? i am telling you what i have decided to do, that's all. i shall easily find a house down there, no doubt. knowing the place, you will be able to suggest the likely localities.' she sat down, for strength was failing her. 'it's quite true,' widdowson went on, staring at her with inflamed eyes. 'you are beginning to look like a ghost. oh, we'll have an end of this!' he cackled in angry laughter. 'not a day's unnecessary delay! write to both your sisters this evening and tell them. i wish them both to come and live with us.' 'very well.' 'now, won't you be glad? won't it be better in every way?' he came so near that she felt his feverish breath. 'i told you before,' she answered, 'to do just as you liked.' 'and you won't talk about being kept a prisoner?' monica laughed. 'oh no, i won't say anything at all.' she scarcely knew what words fell from her lips. let him propose, let him do what he liked; to her it was indifferent. she saw something before her--something she durst not, even an hour ago, have steadily contemplated; it drew her with the force of fate. 'you know we couldn't go on living like this--don't you, monica?' 'no, we couldn't.' 'you see!' he almost shouted in triumph, misled by the smile on her face. 'all that was needed was resolution on my part. i have been absurdly weak, and weakness in the husband means unhappiness in the wife. from today you look to me for guidance. i am no tyrant, but i shall rule you for your own good.' still she smiled. 'so there's an end of our misery--isn't it, darling? what misery! good god, how i have suffered! haven't you known it?' 'i have known it too well.' 'and now you will make up to me for it, monica?' again prompted by the irresistible force, she answered mechanically,-- 'i will do the best for both.' he threw himself on the ground beside her and clasped her in his arms. 'no, that is my own dear wife once more! your face has altogether changed. see how right it is that a husband should take the law into his own hands! our second year of marriage shall be very different from the first. and yet we _were_ happy, weren't we, my beautiful? it's only this cursed london that has come between us. at clevedon we shall begin our life over again--like we did at guernsey. all our trouble, i am convinced, has come of your ill-health. this air has never suited you; you have felt miserable, and couldn't be at peace in your home. poor little girl! my poor darling!' through the evening he was in a state of transport, due partly to the belief that monica really welcomed his decision, partly to the sense of having behaved at length like a resolute man. his eyes were severely bloodshot, and before bedtime headache racked him intolerably. everything was carried out as he had planned it. they journeyed down into somerset, put up at a clevedon hotel, and began house-hunting. on wednesday the suitable abode was discovered--a house of modest pretensions, but roomy and well situated. it could be made ready for occupation in a fortnight. bent on continuing his exhibition of vigorous promptitude, widdowson signed a lease that same evening. 'to-morrow we will go straight home and make our preparations for removal. when all is ready, you shall come down here and live at the hotel until the house is furnished. go to your sister virginia and simply bid her do as you wish. imitate me!' he laughed fatuously. 'don't listen to any objection. when you have once got her away she will thank you.' by thursday afternoon they were back at herne hill. widdowson still kept up the show of extravagant spirits, but he was worn out. he spoke so hoarsely that one would have thought he had contracted a severe sore throat; it resulted merely from nervous strain. after a pretence of dinner, he seated himself as if to read; glancing at him a few minutes later, monica found that he was fast asleep. she could not bear to gaze at him, yet her eyes turned thither again and again. his face was repulsive to her; the deep furrows, the red eyelids, the mottled skin moved her to loathing. and yet she pitied him. his frantic exultation was the cruelest irony. what would he do? what would become of him? she turned away, and presently left the room, for the sound of his uneasy breathing made her suffer too much. when he woke up, he came in search of her, and laughed over his involuntary nap. 'well, now, you will go and see your sister to-morrow morning.' 'in the afternoon, i think.' 'why? don't let us have any procrastination. the morning, the morning!' 'please do let me have my way in such a trifle as that,' monica exclaimed nervously. 'i have all sorts of things to see to here before i can go out.' he caressed her. 'you shan't say that i am unreasonable. in the afternoon, then. and don't listen to any objections.' 'no, no.' * * * * * * * * * * it was friday. all the morning widdowson had business with house agents and furniture removers, for he would not let a day go by without some practical step towards release from the life he detested. monica seemed to be equally active in her own department; she was turning out drawers and wardrobes, and making selection of things--on some principle understood by herself. a flush remained upon her cheeks, in marked contrast to the pallor which for a long time had given her an appearance of wasting away. that and her singularly bright eyes endowed her with beauty suggestive of what she might have gained in happy marriage. they had luncheon at one o'clock, and at a quarter to two monica started by train for clapham junction. it was her purpose to have a short conversation with virginia, who knew of the trip to clevedon, and to speak as though she were quite reconciled to the thought of removal; after that, she would pursue her journey so as to reach bayswater by four o'clock. but virginia was not at home. mrs. conisbee said she had gone out at eleven in the morning, and with the intention of returning by teatime. after a brief hesitation monica requested the landlady to deliver a message. 'please ask her not to come to herne hill until she hears from me, as i am not likely to be at home for a day or two.' this left more time at her disposal than she knew how to employ. she returned to the railway station, and travelled on to victoria; there, in the corner of a waiting-room, she sat, feverishly impatient, until her watch told her that she might take the next train westward. a possible danger was before her--though perhaps she need not trouble herself with the thought of such dangers. what if mr. barfoot happened to encounter her as she ascended the stairs? but most likely he had no idea that her female friends, who dwelt on the floor above him, were gone away. did it matter what he might think? in a day or two-- she came to the street, approached the block of flats, involuntarily casting anxious glances about her. and when she was within twenty yards of the door, it opened, and forth came barfoot. her first sensation was unreasoning terror; her next, thankfulness that she had not been a few minutes sooner, when the very meeting she had feared, within the building itself, would have come to pass. he walked this way; he saw her; and the pleasantest smile of recognition lit up his face. 'mrs. widdowson! not a minute ago you were in my thoughts. i wished i could see you.' 'i am going--to make a call in this neighbourhood--' she could not command herself. the shock had left her trembling, and the necessity of feigning calmness was a new trial of her nerves. barfoot, she felt certain, was reading her face like a printed page; he saw guilt there; his quickly-averted eyes, his peculiar smile, seemed to express the facile tolerance of a man of the world. 'allow me to accompany you to the end of the street.' his words buzzed in her ears. she walked on without conscious effort, like an automaton obedient to a touch. 'you know that miss nunn has gone down into cumberland?' barfoot was saying, his look bent upon her. 'yes. i know.' she tried to glance at him with a smile. 'to-morrow,' he pursued, 'i am going there myself.' 'to cumberland?' 'i shall see her, i hope. perhaps she will only be angry with me.' 'perhaps. but perhaps not.' her confusion would not be overcome. she felt a burning in her ears, on her neck. it was an agony of shame. the words she spoke sounded imbecile mutterings, which must confirm barfoot in his worst opinion of her. 'if it is all in vain,' he continued, 'then i shall say good-bye, and there's an end.' 'i hope not--i should think--' useless. she set her lips and became mute. if only he would leave her! and almost immediately he did so, with a few words of kind tone. she felt the pressure of his hand, and saw him walk rapidly away; doubtless he knew this was what she desired. until he had passed out of sight, monica kept the same direction. then she turned round and hurried back, fearful lest the detention might make her late, and bevis might lose hope of her coming. there could be no one in the building now whom she need fear to meet. she opened the big entrance door and went up. bevis must have been waiting for the sound of her light footstep; his door flew open before she could knock. without speaking, a silent laugh of joy upon his lips, he drew back to make room for her entrance, and then pressed both her hands. in the sitting-room were beginnings of disorder. pictures had been taken down from the walls and light ornaments removed. 'i shan't sleep here after to-night,' bevis began, his agitation scarcely less obvious than monica's. 'to-morrow i shall be packing what is to go with me. how i hate it all!' monica dropped into a chair near the door. 'oh, not there!' he exclaimed. 'here, where you sat before. we are going to have tea together again.' his utterances were forced, and the laugh that came between them betrayed the quivering of his nerves. 'tell me what you have been doing. i have thought of you day and night.' he brought a chair close to her, and when he had seated himself he took one of her hands. monica, scarcely repressing a sob, the result of reaction from her fears and miseries, drew the hand away. but again he took it. 'there's the glove on it,' he said in a shaking voice. 'what harm in my holding your glove? don't think of it, and talk to me. i love music, but no music is like your voice.' 'you go on monday?' it was her lips spoke the sentence, not she. 'no, on tuesday--i think.' 'my--mr. widdowson is going to take me away from london.' 'away?' she told him the circumstances. bevis kept his eyes upon her face, with a look of rapt adoration which turned at length to pain and woeful perplexity. 'you have been married a year,' he murmured. 'oh, if i had met you before that! what a cruel fate that we should know each other only when there was no hope!' the man revealed himself in this dolorous sentimentality. his wonted blitheness and facetiousness, his healthy features, his supple, well-built frame, suggested that when love awoke within him he would express it with virile force. but he trembled and blushed like a young girl, and his accents fell at last into a melodious whining. he raised the gloved fingers to his lips. monica bent her face away, deadly pale, with closed eyes. 'are we to part to-day, and never again see each other?' he went on. 'say that you love me! only say that you love me!' 'you despise me for coming to you like this.' 'despise you?' in a sudden rapture he folded his arms about her. 'say that you love me!' he kissed away the last syllable of her whispered reply. 'monica!--what is there before us? how can i leave you?' yielding herself for the moment in a faintness that threatened to subdue her, she was yet able, when his caresses grew wild with passion, to put back his arms and move suddenly away. he sprang up, and they stood speechless. again he drew near. 'take me away with you!' monica then cried, clasping her hands together. 'i can't live with _him_. let me go with you to france.' bevis's blue eyes widened with consternation. 'dare you--dare you do that?' he stammered. 'dare i? what courage is needed? how _dare_ i remain with a man i hate?' 'you must leave him. of course you must leave him.' 'oh, before another day has passed!' sobbed monica. 'it is wrong even to go back to-day. i love you, and in that there is nothing to be ashamed of; but what bitter shame to be living with _him_, practising hypocrisy. he makes me hate myself as much as i hate _him_.' 'has he behaved brutally to you, dearest?' 'i have nothing to accuse him of, except that he persuaded me to marry him--made me think that i could love him when i didn't know what love meant. and now he wishes to get me away from all the people i know because he is jealous of every one. and how can i blame him? hasn't he cause for jealousy? i am deceiving him--i have deceived him for a long time, pretending to be a faithful wife when i have often wished that he might die and release me. it is i who am to blame. i ought to have left him. every woman who thinks of her husband as i do ought to go away from him. it is base and wicked to stay there--pretending--deceiving--' bevis came towards her and took her in his arms. 'you love me?' she panted under his hot kisses. 'you will take me away with you?' 'yes, you shall come. we mustn't travel together, but you shall come--when i am settled there--' 'why can't i go with you?' 'my own darling, think what it would mean if our secret were discovered--' 'discovered? but how can we think of that? how can i go back there, with your kisses on my lips? oh, i must live somewhere in secret until you go, and then--i have put aside the few things that i want to take. i could never have continued to live with him even if you hadn't said you love me. i was obliged to pretend that i agreed to everything, but i will beg and starve rather than bear that misery any longer. don't you love me enough to face whatever may happen?' 'i love you with all my soul, monica! sit down again, dearest; let us talk about it, and see what we can do.' he half led, half carried, her to a couch, and there, holding her embraced, gave way to such amorous frenzy that again monica broke from him. 'if you love me,' she said in tones of bitter distress, 'you will respect me as much as before i came to you. help me--i am suffering so dreadfully. say at once that i shall go away with you, even if we travel as strangers. if you are afraid of it becoming known i will do everything to prevent it. i will go back and live there until tuesday, and come away only at the last hour, so that no one will ever suspect where--i don't care how humbly i live when we are abroad. i can have lodgings somewhere in the same town, or near, and you will come--' his hair disordered, his eyes wild, quivering throughout with excitement, he stood as if pondering possibilities. 'shall i be a burden to you?' she asked in a faint voice. 'is the expense more than you--' 'no, no, no! how can you think of such a thing? but it would be so much better if you could wait here until i--oh, what a wretched thing to have to seem so cowardly to you! but the difficulties are so great, darling. i shall be a perfect stranger in bordeaux. i don't even speak the language at all well. when i reach there i shall be met at the station by one of our people, and--just think, how could we manage? you know, if it were discovered that i had run away with you, it would damage my position terribly. i can't say what might happen. my darling, we shall have to be very careful. in a few weeks it might all be managed very easily. i would write to you, to some address, and as soon as ever i had made arrangements--' monica broke down. the unmanliness of his tone was so dreadful a disillusion. she had expected something so entirely different--swift, virile passion, eagerness even to anticipate her desire of flight, a strength, a courage to which she could abandon herself, body and soul. she broke down utterly, and wept with her hands upon her face. bevis, in sympathetic distraction, threw himself on his knees before her, clutching at her waist. 'don't, don't!' he wailed. 'i can't bear that! i will do as you wish, monica. tell me some place where i can write to you. don't cry, darling--don't--' she went to the couch again, and rested her face against the back, sobbing. for a time they exchanged mere incoherences. then passion seized upon both, and they clung together, mute, motionless. 'to-morrow i shall leave him,' whispered monica, when at length their eyes met. 'he will be away in the morning, and i can take what i need. tell me where i shall go to, dear--to wait until you are ready. no one will ever suspect that we have gone together. he knows i am miserable with him; he will believe that i have found some way of supporting myself in london. where shall i live till tuesday?' bevis scarcely listened to her words. the temptation of the natural man, basely selfish, was strengthening its hold upon him. 'do you love me? do you really love me?' he replied to her, with thick, agitated utterance. 'why should you ask that? how can you doubt it?' 'if you really love me---' his face and tones frightened her. 'don't make me doubt _your_ love! if i have not perfect trust in you what will become of me?' yet once more she drew resolutely away from him. he pursued, and held her arms with violence. 'oh, i am mistaken in you!' monica cried in fear and bitterness. 'you don't know what love means, as _i_ feel it. you won't speak, you won't think, of our future life together--' 'i have promised--' 'leave loose of me! it's because i have come here. you think me a worthless woman, without sense of honour, with no self-respect--' he protested vehemently. the anguished look in her eyes had its effect upon his senses; by degrees it subjugated him, and made him ashamed of his ignoble impulse. 'shall i find a lodging for you till tuesday?' he asked, after moving away and returning. 'will you?' 'you are sure you can leave home to-morrow--without being suspected?' 'yes, i am sure i can. he is going to the city in the morning. appoint some place where i can meet you. i will come in a cab, and then you can take me on to the--' 'but you are forgetting the risks. if you take a cab from herne hill, with your luggage, he will be able to find out the driver afterwards, and learn where you went.' 'then i will drive only as far as the station, and come to victoria, and you shall meet me there.' the necessity of these paltry arrangements filled her soul with shame. on the details of her escape she had hardly reflected. all such considerations were, she deemed, naturally the care of her lover, who would act with promptitude, and so as to spare her a moment's perplexity. she had imagined everything in readiness within a few hours; on _her_ no responsibility save that of breaking the hated bond. inevitably she turned to the wretched thought that bevis regarded her as a burden. yes, he had already his mother and his sisters to support; she ought to have remembered that. 'what time would it be?' he was asking. unable to reply, she pursued her reflections. she had money, but how to obtain possession of it? afterwards, when her flight was accomplished, secrecy, it appeared, would be no less needful than now. that necessity had never occurred to her; declaration of the love that had freed her seemed inevitable--nay, desirable. her self-respect demanded it; only thus could she justify herself before his sisters and other people who knew her. _they_, perhaps, would not see it in the light of justification, but that mattered little; her own conscience would approve what she had done. but to steal away, and live henceforth in hiding, like a woman dishonoured even in her own eyes--from that she shrank with repugnance. rather than that, would it not be preferable to break with her husband, and openly live apart from him, alone? 'be honest with me,' she suddenly exclaimed. 'had you rather i didn't come?' 'no, no! i can't live without you--' 'but, if that is true, why haven't you the courage to let every one know it? in your heart you must think that we are acting wrongly.' 'i don't! i believe, as you do, that love is the only true marriage. very well!' he made a desperate gesture. 'let us defy all consequences. for your sake--' his exaggerated vehemence could not deceive monica. 'what is it,' she asked, 'that you most fear?' he began to babble protestations, but she would not listen to them. 'tell me--i have every right to ask--what you most fear?' 'i fear nothing if _you_ are with me. let my relatives say and think what they like. i have made great sacrifices for them; to give up _you_ would be too much.' yet his distress was evident. it strained the corners of his mouth, wrinkled his forehead. 'the disgrace would be more than you could bear. you would never see your mother and your sisters again.' 'if they are so prejudiced, so unreasonable, i can't help it. they must--' he was interrupted by a loud rat-tat at the outer door. blanched herself, monica saw that her lover's face turned to ghastly pallor. 'who can that be?' he whispered hoarsely. 'i expect no one.' 'need you answer?' 'can it be--? have you been followed? does any one suspect--?' they stared at each other, still half-paralysed, and stood waiting thus until the knock was repeated impatiently. 'i daren't open,' bevis whispered, coming close to her, as if on the impulse of seeking protection--for to offer it was assuredly not in his mind. 'it might be--' 'no! that's impossible.' 'i daren't go to the door. the risk is too frightful. he will go away, whoever it is, if no one answers.' both were shaking in the second stage of terror. bevis put his arm about monica, and felt her heart give great throbs against his own. their passion for the moment was effectually quenched. 'listen! that's the clink of the letter-box. a card or something has been put in. then it's all right. i'll wait a moment.' he stepped to the door of the room, opened it without sound, and at once heard footsteps descending the stairs. in the look which he cast back at her, a grin rather than a smile, monica saw something that gave her a pang of shame on his behalf. on going to the letter-box he found a card, with a few words scribbled upon it. 'only one of our partners!' he exclaimed gleefully. 'wants to see me to-night. of course he took it for granted i was out.' monica was looking at her watch. past five o'clock. 'i think i must go,' she said timidly. 'but what are our arrangements? do you still intend--' 'intend? isn't it for you to decide?' there was a coldness in the words of both, partly the result of the great shock they had undergone, in part due to their impatience with each other. 'darling--do what i proposed at first. stay for a few days, until i am settled at bordeaux.' 'stay with my--my husband?' she used the word purposely, significantly, to see how it would affect him. the bitterness of her growing disillusion allowed her to think and speak as if no ardent feeling were concerned. 'for both our sakes, dearest, dearest love! a few days longer, until i have written to you, and told you exactly what to do. the journey won't be very difficult for you; and think how much better, dear monica, if we can escape discovery, and live for each other without any shame or fear to disturb us. you will be my own dear true wife. i will love and guard you as long as i live.' he embraced her with placid tenderness, laying his cheek against hers, kissing her hands. 'we must see each other again,' he continued. 'come on sunday, will you? and in the meantime find out some place where i could address letters to you. you can always find a stationer's shop where they will receive letters. be guided by me, dear little girl. only a week or two--to save the happiness of our whole lives.' monica listened, but with half-attention, her look fixed on the floor. encouraged by her silence, the lover went on in a strain of heightening enthusiasm, depicting the raptures of their retirement from the world in some suburb of bordeaux. how this retreat was to escape the notice of his business companions, through whom the scandal might get wind, he did not suggest. the truth was, bevis found himself in an extremely awkward position, with issues he had not contemplated, and all he cared for was to avert the immediate peril of public discovery. the easy-going, kindly fellow had never considered all the responsibility involved in making mild love--timorously selfish from the first--to a married woman who took his advances with desperate seriousness. he had not in him the stuff of vigorous rascality, still less the only other quality which can support a man in such a situation as this--heroism of moral revolt. so he cut a very poor figure, and was dolefully aware of it. he talked, talked; trying to disguise his feebleness in tinsel phrases; and monica still kept her eyes cast down. when another half-hour had passed, she sighed deeply and rose from her seat. she would write to him, she said, and let him know where a reply would reach her. no, she must not come here again; all he had to tell her would be communicated by letter. the subdued tone, the simple sadness of her words, distressed bevis, and yet he secretly congratulated himself. he had done nothing for which this woman could justly reproach him; marvellous--so he considered--had been his self-restraint; absolutely, he had behaved 'like a gentleman.' to be sure, he was miserably in love, and, if circumstances by any means allowed of it, would send for monica to join him in france. should the thing prove impossible, he had nothing whatever on his conscience. he held out his arms to her. monica shook her head and looked away. 'say once more that you love me, darling,' he pleaded. 'i shall not rest for an hour until i am able to write and say, "come to me."' she permitted him to hold her once more in his soft embrace. 'kiss me, monica!' she put her lips to his cheek, and withdrew them, still shunning his look. 'oh, not that kind of kiss. like you kissed me before.' 'i can't,' she replied, with choking voice, the tears again starting forth. 'but what have i done that you should love me less, dearest?' he kissed the falling drops, murmuring assurances, encouragements. 'you shan't leave me until i have heard you say that your love is unchanged. whisper it to me, sweetest!' 'when we meet again--not now.' 'you frighten me. monica, we are not saying good-bye for ever?' 'if you send for me i _will_ come.' 'you promise faithfully? you will come?' 'if you send for me i will come.' that was her last word. he opened the door for her, and listened as she departed. chapter xxiii in ambush hitherto, widdowson had entertained no grave mistrust of his wife. the principles she had avowed, directly traceable as it seemed to her friendship with the militant women in chelsea, he disliked and feared; but her conduct he fully believed to be above reproach. his jealousy of barfoot did not glance at monica's attitude towards the man; merely at the man himself, whom he credited with native scoundreldom. barfoot represented to his mind a type of licentious bachelor; why, he could not have made perfectly clear to his own understanding. possibly the ease of everard's bearing, the something aristocratic in his countenance and his speech, the polish of his manner, especially in formal converse with women, from the first gave offence to widdowson's essentially middle-class sensibilities. if monica were in danger at all, it was, he felt convinced, from that quarter. the subject of his wife's intimate dialogue with barfoot at the academy still remained a mystery to him. he put faith in her rebellious declaration that every word might have been safely repeated in his hearing, but, be the matter what it might, the manner of barfoot's talk meant evil. of that conviction he could not get rid. he had read somewhere that a persistently jealous husband may not improbably end by irritating an innocent wife into affording real ground for jealousy. a man with small knowledge of the world is much impressed by dicta such as these; they get into the crannies of his mind, and thence direct the course of his thinking. widdowson, before his marriage, had never suspected the difficulty of understanding a woman; had he spoken his serious belief on that subject, it would have been found to represent the most primitive male conception of the feminine being. women were very like children; it was rather a task to amuse them and to keep them out of mischief. therefore the blessedness of household toil, in especial the blessedness of child-bearing and all that followed. intimacy with monica had greatly affected his views, yet chiefly by disturbing them; no firmer ground offered itself to his treading when he perforce admitted that his former standpoint was every day assailed by some incontestable piece of evidence. woman had individual characters; that discovery, though not a very profound one, impressed him with the force of something arrived at by independent observation. monica often puzzled him gravely; he could not find the key to her satisfactions and discontents. to regard her simply as a human being was beyond the reach of his intelligence. he cast the blame of his difficulties upon sex, and paid more attention to the hints on such topics afforded him by his reading. he would endeavour to keep his jealousy out of sight, lest the mysterious tendency of the female nature might prompt monica to deliberate wrongdoing. to-day for the first time there flashed across him the thought that already he might have been deceived. it originated in a peculiarity of monica's behaviour at luncheon. she ate scarcely anything; she seemed hurried, frequently glancing at the clock; and she lost herself in reverie. discovering that his eye was upon her, she betrayed uneasiness, and began to talk without considering what she meant to say. all this might mean nothing more than her barely-concealed regret at being obliged to leave london; but widdowson remarked it with a vivacity of feeling perhaps due to the excitement in which he had lived for the past week. perhaps the activity, the resolution to which he had urged himself, caused a sharpening of his perceptions. and the very thought, never out of his mind, that only a few days had to elapse before he carried off his wife from the scene of peril, tended to make him more vividly conscious of that peril. certain it was that a moment's clairvoyance assailed his peace, and left behind it all manner of ugly conjectures. women--so said the books--are adepts at dissimulation. was it conceivable that monica had taken advantage of the liberty he had of late allowed her? if a woman could not endure a direct, searching gaze, must it not imply some enormous wickedness?--seeing that nature has armed them for this very trial. in her setting forth for the railway station hurry was again evident, and disinclination to exchange parting words. if the eagerness were simple and honest, would she not have accepted his suggestion and have gone in the morning? for five minutes after her departure he stood in the hall, staring before him. a new jealousy, a horrible constriction of the heart, had begun to torture him. he went and walked about in the library, but could not dispel his suffering. vain to keep repeating that monica was incapable of baseness. of that he was persuaded, but none the less a hideous image returned upon his mental vision--a horror--a pollution of thought. one thing he could do to restore his sanity. he would walk over to lavender hill, and accompany his wife on her return home. indeed, the mere difficulty of getting through the afternoon advised this project. he could not employ himself, and knew that his imagination, once inflamed, would leave him not a moment's rest. yes, he would walk to lavender hill, and ramble about that region until monica had had reasonable time for talk with her sister. about three o'clock there fell a heavy shower of rain. strangely against his habits, widdowson turned into a quiet public-house, and sat for a quarter of an hour at the bar, drinking a glass of whisky. during the past week he had taken considerably more wine than usual at meals; he seemed to need the support. whilst sipping at his glass of spirits, he oddly enough fell into talk with the barmaid, a young woman of some charms, and what appeared to be unaffected modesty. not for twenty years had widdowson conversed with a member of this sisterhood. their dialogue was made up of the most trifling of trivialities--weather, a railway accident, the desirability of holidays at this season. and when at length he rose and put an end to the chat it was with appreciable reluctance. 'a good, nice sort of girl,' he went away saying to himself. 'pity she should be serving at a bar--hearing doubtful talk, and seeing very often vile sights. a nice, soft-spoken little girl.' and he mused upon her remembered face with a complacency which soothed his feelings. of a sudden he was checked by the conversion of his sentiment into thought. would he not have been a much happier man if he had married a girl distinctly his inferior in mind and station? provided she were sweet, lovable, docile--such a wife would have spared him all the misery he had known with monica. from the first he had understood that monica was no representative shopgirl, and on that very account he had striven so eagerly to win her. but it was a mistake. he had loved her, still loved her, with all the emotion of which he was capable. how many hours' genuine happiness of soul had that love afforded him? the minutest fraction of the twelve months for which she had been his wife. and of suffering, often amounting to frantic misery, he could count many weeks. could such a marriage as this be judged a marriage at all, in any true sense of the word? 'let me ask myself a question. if monica were absolutely free to choose between continuing to live with me and resuming her perfect liberty, can i persuade myself that she would remain my wife? she would not. not for a day, not for an hour. of that i am morally convinced. and i acknowledge the grounds of her dissatisfaction. we are unsuited to each other. we do not understand each other. our marriage is physical and nothing more. my love--what is my love? i do not love her mind, her intellectual part. if i did, this frightful jealousy from which i suffer would be impossible. my ideal of the wife perfectly suited to me is far liker that girl at the public-house bar than monica. monica's independence of thought is a perpetual irritation to me. i don't know what her thoughts really are, what her intellectual life signifies. and yet i hold her to me with the sternest grasp. if she endeavoured to release herself i should feel capable of killing her. is not this a strange, a brutal thing?' widdowson had never before reached this height of speculation. in the moment, by the very fact, of admitting that monica and he ought not to be living together, he became more worthy of his wife's companionship than ever hitherto. well, he would exercise greater forbearance. he would endeavour to win her respect by respecting the freedom she claimed. his recent suspicions of her were monstrous. if she knew them, how her soul would revolt from him! what if she took an interest in other men, perchance more her equals than he? why, had he not just been thinking of another woman, reflecting that she, or one like her, would have made him a more suitable wife than monica? yet this could not reasonably be called unfaithfulness. they were bound together for life, and their wisdom lay in mutual toleration, the constant endeavour to understand each other aright--not in fierce restraint of each other's mental liberty. how many marriages were anything more than mutual forbearance? perhaps there ought not to be such a thing as enforced permanence of marriage. this was daring speculation; he could not have endured to hear it from monica's lips. but--perhaps, some day, marriage would be dissoluble at the will of either party to it. perhaps the man who sought to hold a woman when she no longer loved him would be regarded with contempt and condemnation. what a simple thing marriage had always seemed to him, and how far from simple he had found it! why, it led him to musings which overset the order of the world, and flung all ideas of religion and morality into wildest confusion. it would not do to think like this. he was a man wedded to a woman very difficult to manage--there was the practical upshot of the matter. his duty was to manage her. he was responsible for her right conduct. with intentions perfectly harmless, she might run into unknown jeopardy--above all, just at this time when she was taking reluctant leave of her friends. the danger justified him in exceptional vigilance. so, from his excursion into the realms of reason did he return to the safe sphere of the commonplace. and now he might venture to press on towards mrs. conisbee's house, for it was half-past four, and already monica must have been talking with her sister for a couple of hours. his knock at the door was answered by the landlady herself. she told of mrs. widdowson's arrival and departure. ah, then monica had no doubt gone straight home again. but, as miss madden had returned, he would speak with her. 'the poor lady isn't very well, sir,' said mrs. conisbee, fingering the hem of her apron. 'not very well? but couldn't i see her for a moment?' virginia answered this question by appearing on the staircase. 'some one for me, mrs. conisbee?' she called from above. 'oh, is it _you_, edmund? so very glad! i'm sure mrs. conisbee will have the kindness to let you come into her sitting-room. what a pity i was away when monica called! i've had--business to see to in town; and i've walked and walked, until i'm really--hardly able--' she sank upon a chair in the room, and looked fixedly at the visitor with a broad, benevolent smile, her head moving up and down. widdowson was for a moment in perplexity. if the evidence of his eyes could be trusted, miss madden's indisposition pointed to a cause so strange that it seemed incredible. he turned to look for mrs. conisbee, but the landlady had hurriedly withdrawn, closing the door behind her. 'it is so foolish of me, edmund,' virginia rambled on, addressing him with a familiarity she had never yet used. 'when i am away from home i forget all about my meals--really forget--and then all at once i find that i am quite exhausted--quite exhausted--as you see. and the worst of it is i have altogether lost my appetite by the time i get back. i couldn't eat a mouthful of food--not a mouthful--i assure you i couldn't. and it does so distress good mrs. conisbee. she is exceedingly kind to me--exceedingly careful about my health. oh, and in battersea park road i saw such a shocking sight; a great cart ran over a poor little dog, and it was killed on the spot. it unnerved me dreadfully. i do think, edmund, those drivers ought to be more careful. i was saying to mrs. conisbee only the other day--and that reminds me, i do so want to know all about your visit to clevedon. dear, dear clevedon! and have you really taken a house there, edmund? oh, if we could all end our days at clevedon! you know that our dear father and mother are buried in the old churchyard. you remember tennyson's lines about the old church at clevedon? oh, and what did monica decide about--about--really, what _was_ i going to ask? it is so foolish of me to forget that dinner-time has come and gone. i get so exhausted, and even my memory fails me.' he could doubt no longer. this poor woman had yielded to one of the temptations that beset a life of idleness and solitude. his pity was mingled with disgust. 'i only wished to tell you,' he said gravely, 'that we have taken a house at clevedon--' 'you really _have_!' she clasped her hands together. 'whereabouts?' 'near dial hill.' virginia began a rhapsody which her brother-in-law had no inclination to hear. he rose abruptly. 'perhaps you had better come and see us to-morrow.' 'but monica left a message that she wouldn't be at home for the next few days, and that i wasn't to come till i heard from her.' 'not at home--? i think there's a mistake.' 'oh, impossible! we'll ask mrs. conisbee.' she went to the door and called. from the landlady widdowson learnt exactly what monica had said. he reflected for a moment. 'she shall write to you then. don't come just yet. i mustn't stay any longer now.' and with a mere pretence of shaking hands he abruptly left the house. suspicions thickened about him. he would have thought it utterly impossible for miss madden to disgrace herself in this vulgar way, and the appalling discovery affected his view of monica. they were sisters; they had characteristics in common, family traits, weaknesses. if the elder woman could fall into this degradation, might there not be possibilities in monica's character such as he had refused to contemplate? was there not terrible reason for mistrusting her? what did she mean by her message to virginia? black and haggard, he went home as fast as a hansom could take him. it was half-past five when he reached the house. his wife was not here, and had not been here. at this moment monica was starting by train from bayswater, after her parting with bevis. arrived at victoria, she crossed to the main station, and went to the ladies' waiting-room for the purpose of bathing her face. she had red, swollen eyes, and her hair was in slight disorder. this done, she inquired as to the next train for herne hill. one had just gone; another would leave in about a quarter of an hour. a dreadful indecision was harassing her. ought she, did she dare, to return home at all? even if her strength sufficed for simulating a natural manner, could she consent to play so base a part? there was but one possible alternative. she might go to virginia's lodgings, and there remain, writing to her husband that she had left him. the true cause need not be confessed. she would merely declare that life with him had become intolerable to her, that she demanded a release. their approaching removal to clevedon offered the occasion. she would say that her endurance failed before that prospect of solitude, and that, feeling as she did, it was dishonourable to make longer pretence of doing her duty as a wife. then, if bevis wrote to her in such a way as to revive her love, if he seriously told her to come to him, all difficulties could be solved by her disappearance. was such revival of disheartened love a likely or a possible thing? at this moment she felt that to flee in secret, and live with bevis as he proposed, would be no less dishonour than abiding with the man who had a legal claim upon her companionship. her lover, as she had thought of him for the past two or three months, was only a figment of her imagination; bevis had proved himself a complete stranger to her mind; she must reshape her knowledge of him. his face was all that she could still dwell upon with the old desire; nay, even that had suffered a change. insensibly the minutes went by. whilst she sat in the waiting-room her train started; and when she had become aware of that, her irresolution grew more tormenting. suddenly there came upon her a feeling of illness, of nausea. perspiration broke out on her forehead; her eyes dazzled; she had to let her head fall back. it passed, but in a minute or two the fit again seized her, and with a moan she lost consciousness. two or three women who were in the room rendered assistance. the remarks they exchanged, though expressing uncertainty and discreetly ambiguous, would have been significant to monica. on her recovery, which took place in a few moments, she at once started up, and with hurried thanks to those about her, listening to nothing that was said and answering no inquiry, went out on to the platform. there was just time to catch the train now departing for herne hill. she explained her fainting fit by the hours of agitation through which she had passed. there was no room for surprise. she had suffered indescribably, and still suffered. her wish was to get back into the quietness of home, to rest and to lose herself in sleep. * * * * * * * * * * on entering, she saw nothing of her husband. his hat hung on the hall-tree, and he was perhaps sitting in the library; the more genial temper would account for his not coming forth at once to meet her, as had been his custom when she returned from an absence alone. she changed her dress, and disguised as far as was possible the traces of suffering on her features. weakness and tremor urged her to lie down, but she could not venture to do this until she had spoken to her husband. supporting herself by the banisters, she slowly descended, and opened the library door. widdowson was reading a newspaper. he did not look round, but said carelessly,-- 'so you are back?' 'yes. i hope you didn't expect me sooner.' 'oh, it's all right.' he threw a rapid glance at her over his shoulder. 'had a long talk with virginia, i suppose?' 'yes. i couldn't get away before.' widdowson seemed to be much interested in some paragraph. he put his face closer to the paper, and was silent for two or three seconds. then he again looked round, this time observing his wife steadily, but with a face that gave no intimation of unusual thoughts. 'does she consent to go?' monica replied that it was still uncertain; she thought, however, that virginia's objections would be overcome. 'you look very tired,' remarked the other. 'i am, very.' and thereupon she withdrew, unable to command her countenance, scarce able to remain standing for another moment. chapter xxiv tracked when widdowson went up to the bedroom that night, monica was already asleep. he discovered this on turning up the gas. the light fell upon her face, and he was drawn to the bedside to look at her. the features signified nothing but repose; her lips were just apart, her eyelids lay softly with their black fringe of exquisite pencilling, and her hair was arranged as she always prepared it for the pillow. he watched her for full five minutes, and detected not the slightest movement, so profound was her sleep. then he turned away, muttering savagely under his breath, 'hypocrite! liar!' but for a purpose in his thoughts he would not have lain down beside her. on getting into bed he kept as far away as possible, and all through the wakeful night his limbs shrank from the touch of hers. he rose an hour earlier than usual. monica had long been awake, but she moved so seldom that he could not be sure of this; her face was turned from him. when he came back to the room after his bath, monica propped herself on her elbow and asked why he was moving so early. 'i want to be in the city at nine,' he replied, with a show of cheerfulness. 'there's a money affair i must see after.' 'something that's going wrong?' 'i'm afraid so. i must lose no time in looking to it. what plans have you for to-day?' 'none whatever.' 'it's saturday, you know. i promised to see newdick this afternoon. perhaps i may bring him to dinner.' about twelve o'clock he returned from his business. at two he went away again, saying that he should not be back before seven, it might be a little later. in monica these movements excited no special remark; they were merely a continuance of his restlessness. but no sooner had he departed, after luncheon, than she went to her dressing-room, and began to make slow, uncertain preparations for leaving home herself. this morning she had tried to write a letter for bevis, but vainly. she knew not what to say to him, uncertain of her own desires and of what lay before her. yet, if she were to communicate with him henceforth at all, it was necessary, this very afternoon, to find an address where letters could be received for her, and to let him know of it. to-morrow, sunday, was useless for the purpose, and on monday it might be impossible for her to go out alone. besides that, she could not be sure of the safety of a letter delivered at the flat on monday night or tuesday morning. she dressed at length and went out. her wisest course, probably, was to seek for some obliging shopkeeper near lavender hill. then she could call on virginia, transact the business she had pretended to discharge yesterday, and there pen a note to bevis. her moods alternated with distracting rapidity. a hundred times she had resolved that bevis could be nothing more to her, and again had thought of him with impulses of yearning, trying to persuade herself that he had acted well and wisely. a hundred times she determined to carry out her idea of yesterday--to quit her husband and resist all his efforts to recall her--and again had all but resigned herself to live with him, accepting degradation as so many wives perforce did. her mind was in confusion, and physically she felt far from well. a heaviness weighed upon her limbs, making it hardship to walk however short a distance. arrived at clapham junction, she began to search wearily, indifferently, for the kind of shop that might answer her purpose. the receiving of letters which, for one reason or another, must be dispatched to a secret address, is a very ordinary complaisance on the part of small london stationers; hundreds of such letters are sent and called for every week within the metropolitan postal area. it did not take monica long to find an obliging shopkeeper; the first to whom she applied--a decent woman behind a counter which displayed newspapers, tobacco, and fancy articles--willingly accepted the commission. she came out of the shop with flushed cheeks. another step in shameful descent--yet it had the result of strengthening once more her emotions favourable to bevis. on his account she had braved this ignominy, and it drew her towards him, instead of producing the effect which would have seemed more natural. perhaps the reason was that she felt herself more hopelessly an outcast from the world of honourable women, and therefore longed in her desolation for the support of a man's love. did he not love her? it was _her_ fault if she expected him to act with a boldness that did not lie in his nature. perhaps his discretion, which she had so bitterly condemned as weakness, meant a wise regard for her interests as well as his own. the public scandal of divorce was a hideous thing. if it damaged his prospects and sundered him from his relatives, how could she hope that his love of her, the cause of it all, would long endure? the need of love overcame her. she would submit to any conditions rather than lose this lover whose kisses were upon her lips, and whose arms had held her so passionately. she was too young to accept a life of resignation, too ardent. why had she left him in despondency, in doubt whether he would ever again see her? * * * * * * * * * * she turned back on her way to virginia's lodgings, re-entered the station, and journeyed townwards. it was an odd incident, by monica unperceived, that when she was taking her ticket there stood close by her a man, seemingly a mechanic, who had also stood within hearing when she booked at herne hill. this same man, though he had not travelled in the compartment with her, followed her when she alighted at bayswater. she did not once observe him. instead of writing, she had resolved to see bevis again--if it were possible. perhaps he would not be at the flat; yet his wish might suggest the bare hope of her coming to-day. the risk of meeting barfoot probably need not be considered, for he had told her that he was travelling to-day into cumberland, and for so long a journey he would be sure to set forth in the morning. at worst she would suffer a disappointment. indulgence of her fervid feelings had made her as eager to see bevis as she was yesterday. words of tenderness rushed to her lips for utterance. when she reached the building all but delirium possessed her. she had hurried up to the first landing, when a footstep behind drew her attention. it was a man in mechanic's dress, coming up with head bent, doubtless for some task or other in one of the flats. perhaps he was going to bevis's. she went forward more slowly, and on the next landing allowed the man to pass her. yes, more likely than not he was engaged in packing her lover's furniture. she stood still. at that moment a door closed above, and another step, lighter and quicker, that of a woman, came downstairs. as far as her ear could judge, this person might have left bevis's flat. a conflict of emotions excited her to panic. she was afraid either to advance or to retreat, and in equal dread of standing without purpose. she stepped up to the nearest door, and gave a summons with the knocker. this door was barfoot's. she knew that; in the first instant of fear occasioned by the workman's approach, she had glanced at the door and reminded herself that here mr. barfoot dwelt, immediately beneath bevis. but for the wild alarm due to her conscience-stricken state she could not have risked the possibility of the tenant being still at home; and yet it seemed to her that she was doing the only thing possible under the circumstances. for this woman whom she heard just above might perchance be one of bevis's sisters, returned to london for some purpose or other, and in that case she preferred being seen at barfoot's door to detection as she made for her lover's. uncertainty on this point lasted but a few seconds. dreading to look at the woman, monica yet did so, just as she passed, and beheld the face of a perfect stranger. a young and good-looking face, however. her mind, sufficiently tumultuous, received a new impulse of disturbance. had this woman come forth from bevis's fiat or from the one opposite?--for on each floor there were two dwellings. in the meantime no one answered her knock. mr. barfoot had gone; she breathed thankfully. now she might venture to ascend to the next floor. but then sounded a knock from above. that, she felt convinced, was at bevis's door, and if so her conjecture about the workman was correct. she stood waiting for certainty, as if still expecting a reply to her own signal at mr. barfoot's door. the mechanic looked down at her over the banisters, but of this she was unaware. the knock above was repeated. yes, this time there could be no mistake; it was on this side of the landing--that is to say, at her lover's door. but the door did not open; thus, without going up herself, she received assurance that bevis was not at home. he might come later. she still had an hour or two to spare. so, as if disappointed in a call at mr. barfoot's, she descended the stairs and issued into the street. agitation had exhausted her, and a dazzling of her eyes threatened a recurrence of yesterday's faintness. she found a shop where refreshments were sold, and sat for half an hour over a cup of tea, trying to amuse herself with illustrated papers. the mechanic who had knocked at bevis's door passed once or twice along the pavement, and, as long as she remained here, kept the shop within sight. at length she asked for writing materials, and penned a few lines. if on her second attempt she failed to see bevis, she would drop this note into his letter-box. it acquainted him with the address to which he might direct letters, assured him passionately of her love, and implored him to be true to her, to send for her as soon as circumstances made it possible. self-torment of every kind was natural to her position. though the relief of escaping from several distinct dangers had put her mind comparatively at ease for a short time, she had now begun to suffer a fresh uneasiness with reference to the young and handsome woman who came downstairs. the fact that no one answered the workman's knock had seemed to her a sufficient proof that bevis was not at home, and that the stranger must have come forth from the flat opposite his. but she recollected the incident which had so alarmingly disturbed her and her lover yesterday. bevis did not then go to the door, and suppose--oh, it was folly! but suppose that woman had been with him; suppose he did not care to open to a visitor whose signal sounded only a minute or two after that person's departure? had she not anguish enough to endure without the addition of frantic jealousy? she would not give another thought to such absurd suggestions. the woman had of course come from the dwelling opposite. yet why might she not have been in bevis's flat when he himself was absent? suppose her an intimate to whom he had entrusted a latch-key. if any such connection existed, might it not help to explain bevis's half-heartedness? to think thus was courting madness. unable to sit still any longer, monica left the shop, and strayed for some ten minutes about the neighbouring streets, drawing nearer and nearer to her goal. finally she entered the building and went upstairs. on this occasion no one met her, and no one entered in her rear. she knocked at her lover's door, and stood longing, praying, that it might open. but it did not. tears started to her eyes; she uttered a moan of bitterest disappointment, and slipped the envelope she was carrying into the letter-box. the mechanic had seen her go in, and he waited outside, a few yards away. either she would soon reappear, or her not doing so would show that she had obtained admittance somewhere. in the latter case, this workman of much curiosity and leisure had only to lurk about the staircase until she came forth again. but this trial of patience was spared him. he found that he had simply to follow the lady back to herne hill. acting on very suggestive instructions, it never occurred to the worthy man that the lady's second visit was not to the same flat as in the former instance. monica was home again long before dinner-time. when that hour arrived her husband had not yet come; the delay, no doubt, was somehow connected with his visit to mr. newdick. but this went on. at nine o'clock monica still sat alone, hungry, yet scarce conscious of hunger owing to her miseries. widdowson had never behaved thus. another quarter of an hour and she heard the front door open. he came to the drawing-room, where she sat waiting. 'how late you are! are you alone?' 'yes, alone.' 'you haven't had dinner?' 'no.' he seemed to be in rather a gloomy mood, but monica noticed nothing that alarmed her. he was drawing nearer, his eyes on the ground. 'have you had bad news--in the city?' 'yes, i have.' still he came nearer, and at length, when a yard or two away, raised his look to her face. 'have you been out this afternoon?' she was prompted to a falsehood, but durst not utter it, so keenly was he regarding her. 'yes, i went to see miss barfoot.' 'liar!' as the word burst from his lips, he sprang at her, clutched her dress at the throat, and flung her violently upon her knees. a short cry of terror escaped her; then she was stricken dumb, with eyes starting and mouth open. it was well that he held her by the garment and not by the neck, for his hand closed with murderous convulsion, and the desire of crushing out her life was for an instant all his consciousness. 'liar!' again burst from him. 'day after day you have lied to me. liar! adultress!' 'i am not! i am not that!' she clung upon his arms and strove to raise herself. the bloodless lips, the choked voice, meant dread of him, but the distortion of her features was hatred and the will to resist. 'not that? what is your word worth? the prostitute in the street is sooner to be believed. she has the honesty to say what she is, but you--where were you yesterday when you were not at your sister's? where were you this afternoon?' she had nearly struggled to her feet; he thrust her down again, crushed her backwards until her head all but touched the floor. 'where were you? tell the truth, or you shall never speak again!' 'oh--help! help! he will kill me!' her cry rang through the room. 'call them up--let them come and look at you and hear what you are. soon enough every one will know. where were you this afternoon? you were watched every step of the way from here to that place where you have made yourself a base, vile, unclean creature--.' 'i am not that! your spies have misled you.' 'misled? didn't you go to that man barfoot's door and knock there? and because you were disappointed, didn't you wait about, and go there a second time?' 'what if i did? it doesn't mean what you think.' 'what? you go time after time to the private chambers of an unmarried man--a man such as that--and it means no harm?' 'i have never been there before.' 'you expect me to believe you?' widdowson cried with savage contumely. he had just loosed his hold of her, and she was upright again before him, her eyes flashing defiance, though every muscle in her frame quivered. 'when did your lies begin? was it when you told me you had been to hear miss barfoot's lecture, and never went there at all?' he aimed the charge at a venture, and her face told him that his suspicion had been grounded. 'for how many weeks, for how many months, have you been dishonouring me and yourself?' 'i am not guilty of what you believe, but i shan't try to defend myself. thank heaven, this is the end of everything between us! charge me with what you like. i am going away from you, and i hope we may never meet again.' 'yes, you are going--no doubt of that. but not before you have answered my questions. whether with lies or not doesn't matter much. you shall give your own account of what you have been doing.' both panting as if after some supreme effort of their physical force, they stood and looked at each other. each to the other's eyes was incredibly transformed. monica could not have imagined such brutal ferocity in her husband's face, and she herself had a wild recklessness in her eyes, a scorn and abhorrence in all the lines of her countenance, which made widdowson feel as if a stranger were before him. 'i shall answer no question whatever,' monica replied. 'all i want is to leave your house, and never see you again.' he regretted what he had done. the result of the first day's espionage being a piece of evidence so incomplete, he had hoped to command himself until more solid proof of his wife's guilt were forthcoming. but jealousy was too strong for such prudence, and the sight of monica as she uttered her falsehood made a mere madman of him. predisposed to believe a story of this kind, he could not reason as he might have done if fear of barfoot had never entered his thoughts. the whole course of dishonour seemed so clear; he traced it from monica's earliest meetings with barfoot at chelsea. wavering between the impulse to cast off his wife with every circumstance of public shame, and the piteous desire to arrest her on her path of destruction, he rushed into a middle course, compatible with neither of these intentions. if at this stage he chose to tell monica what had come to his knowledge, it should have been done with the sternest calm, with dignity capable of shaming her guilt. as it was, he had spoilt his chances in every direction. perhaps monica understood this; he had begun to esteem her a mistress in craft and intrigue. 'you say you were never at that man's rooms before to-day?' he asked in a lower voice. 'what i have said you must take the trouble to recollect. i shall answer no question.' again the impulse assailed him to wring confession from her by terror. he took a step forward, the demon in his face. monica in that moment leapt past him, and reached the door of the room before he could stop her. 'stay where you are!' she cried, 'if your hands touch me again i shall call for help until someone comes up. i won't endure your touch!' 'do you pretend you are innocent of any crime against me?' 'i am not what you called me. explain everything as you like. i will explain nothing. i want only to be free from you.' she opened the door, rapidly crossed the landing, and went upstairs. feeling it was useless to follow, widdowson allowed the door to remain wide, and waited. five minutes passed and monica came down again, dressed for leaving the house. 'where are you going?' he asked, stepping out of the room to intercept her. 'it is nothing to you. i am going away.' they subdued their voices, which might else have been audible to the servants below. 'no, that you shall not!' he stepped forward to block the head of the stairs, but again monica was too quick for him. she fled down, and across the hall, and to the house-door. only there, as she was arrested by the difficulty of drawing back the two latches, did widdowson overtake her. 'make what scandal you like, you don't leave this house.' his tones were violent rather than resolute. what could he do? if monica persisted, what means had he of confining her to the house--short of carrying her by main force to an upper room and there locking her in? he knew that his courage would not sustain him through such a task as this. 'for scandal i care nothing,' was her reply. 'one way or another i will leave the house.' 'where are you going?' 'to my sister's.' his hand on the door, widdowson stood as if determined in opposition. but her will was stronger than his. only by homicide can a man maintain his dignity in a situation of this kind; widdowson could not kill his wife, and every moment that he stood there made him more ridiculous, more contemptible. he turned back into the hall and reached his hat. whilst he was doing so monica opened the door. heavy rain was falling, but she paid no heed to it. in a moment widdowson hastened after her, careless, he too, of the descending floods. her way was towards the railway station, but the driver of a cab chancing to attract her notice, she accepted the man's offer, and bade him drive to lavender hill. on the first opportunity widdowson took like refuge from the rain, and was driven in the same direction. he alighted not far from mrs. conisbee's house. that monica had come hither he felt no doubt, but he would presently make sure of it. as it still rained he sought shelter in a public-house, where he quenched a painful thirst, and then satisfied his hunger with such primitive foods as a licensed victualler is disposed to vend. it was nearing eleven o'clock, and he had neither eaten nor drunk since luncheon. after that he walked to mrs. conisbee's, and knocked at the door. the landlady came. 'will you please to tell me,' he asked 'whether mrs. widdowson is here?' the sly curiosity of the woman's face informed him at once that she saw something unusual in these circumstances. 'yes, sir. mrs. widdowson is with her sister,' 'thank you.' without another word he departed. but went only a short distance, and until midnight kept mrs. conisbee's door in view. the rain fell, the air was raw; shelterless, and often shivering with fever, widdowson walked the pavement with a constable's regularity. he could not but remember the many nights when he thus kept watch in walworth road and in rutland street, with jealousy, then too, burning in his heart, but also with amorous ardours, never again to be revived. a little more than twelve months ago! and he had waited, longed for marriage through half a lifetime. chapter xxv the fate of the ideal rhoda's week at the seashore was spoilt by uncertain weather. only two days of abiding sunshine; for the rest, mere fitful gleams across a sky heaped with stormclouds. over wastdale hung a black canopy; from scawfell came mutterings of thunder; and on the last night of the week--when monica fled from her home in pelting rain--tempest broke upon the mountains and the sea. wakeful until early morning, and at times watching the sky from her inland-looking window, rhoda saw the rocky heights that frown upon wastwater illuminated by lightning-flare of such intensity and duration that miles of distance were annihilated, and it seemed but a step to those stern crags and precipices. sunday began with rain, but also with promise of better things; far over the sea was a broad expanse of blue, and before long the foam of the fallen tide glistened in strong, hopeful rays. rhoda wandered about the shore towards st. bees head. a broad stream flowing into the sea stopped her progress before she had gone very far; the only way of crossing it was to go up on to the line of railway, which here runs along the edge of the sands. but she had little inclination to walk farther. no house, no person within sight, she sat down to gaze at the gulls fishing by the little river-mouth, their screams the only sound that blended with that of the subdued breakers. on the horizon lay a long, low shape that might have been mistaken for cloud, though it resembled land. it was the isle of man. in an hour or two the outline had grown much clearer; the heights and hollows were no longer doubtful. in the north became visible another remote and hilly tract; it was the coast of scotland beyond solway firth. these distant objects acted as incentives to rhoda's imagination. she heard everard barfoot's voice as he talked of travel--of the orient express. that joy of freedom he had offered her. perhaps he was now very near her, anxious to repeat his offer. if he carried out the project suggested at their last interview, she would see him to-day or to-morrow morning--then she must make her choice. to have a day's walk with him among the mountains would be practically deciding. but for what? if she rejected his proposal of a free union, was he prepared to marry her in legal form? yes; she had enough power over him for that. but how would it affect his thought of her? constraining him to legal marriage, would she not lower herself in his estimation, and make the endurance of his love less probable? barfoot was not a man to accept with genuine satisfaction even the appearance of bondage, and more likely than not his love of her depended upon the belief that in her he had found a woman capable of regarding life from his own point of view--a woman who, when she once loved, would be scornful of the formalities clung to by feeble minds. he would yield to her if she demanded forms, but afterwards--when passion had subsided--. a week had been none too long to ponder these considerations by themselves; but they were complicated with doubts of a more disturbing nature. her mind could not free itself from the thought of monica. that mrs. widdowson was not always truthful with her husband she had absolute proof; whether that supported her fear of an intimacy between monica and everard she was unable to determine. the grounds of suspicion seemed to her very grave; so grave, that during her first day or two in cumberland she had all but renounced the hopes long secretly fostered. she knew herself well enough to understand how jealousy might wreck her life--even if it were only retrospective. if she married barfoot (forms or none--that question in no way touched this other), she would demand of him a flawless faith. her pride revolted against the thought of possessing only a share in his devotion; the moment that any faithlessness came to her knowledge she would leave him, perforce, inevitably--and what miseries were then before her! was flawless faith possible to everard barfoot? his cousin would ridicule the hope of any such thing--or so rhoda believed. a conventional woman would of course see the completest evidence of his untrustworthiness in his dislike of legal marriage; but rhoda knew the idleness of this argument. if love did not hold him, assuredly the forms of marriage could be no restraint upon everard; married ten times over, he would still deem himself absolutely free from any obligation save that of love. yet how did he think of that obligation? he might hold it perfectly compatible with the indulgence of casual impulse. and this (which she suspected to be the view of every man) rhoda had no power of tolerating. it must be all or nothing, whole faith or none whatever. * * * in the afternoon she suffered from impatient expectancy. if barfoot came to-day--she imagined him somewhere in the neighbourhood, approaching seascale as the time of his appointment drew near--would he call at her lodgings? the address she had not given him, but doubtless he had obtained it from his cousin. perhaps he would prefer to meet her unexpectedly--not a difficult thing in this little place, with its handful of residents and visitors. certain it was she desired his arrival. her heart leapt with joy in the thought that this very evening might bring him. she wished to study him under new conditions, and--possibly--to talk with him even more frankly than ever yet, for there would be opportunity enough. about six o'clock a train coming from the south stopped at the station, which was visible from rhoda's sitting-room window. she had been waiting for this moment. she could not go to the station, and did not venture even to wait anywhere in sight of the exit. whether any passenger had alighted must remain uncertain. if everard had arrived by this train, doubtless he would go to the hotel, which stood only a few yards from the line. he would take a meal and presently come forth. having allowed half an hour to elapse, she dressed and walked shoreward. seascale has no street, no shops; only two or three short rows of houses irregularly placed on the rising ground above the beach. to cross the intervening railway, rhoda could either pass through the little station, in which case she would also pass the hotel and be observable from its chief windows, or descend by a longer road which led under a bridge, and in this way avoid the hotel altogether. she took the former route. on the sands were a few scattered people, and some children subdued to sunday decorum. the tide was rising. she went down to the nearest tract of hard sand, and stood there for a long time, a soft western breeze playing upon her face. if barfoot were here he would now be coming out to look for her. from a distance he might not recognize her figure, clad as she was in a costume such as he had never seen her wearing. she might venture now to walk up towards the dry, white sandheaps, where the little convolvulus grew in abundance, and other flowers of which she neither knew nor cared to learn the names. scarcely had she turned when she saw everard approaching, still far off, but unmistakable. he signalled by taking off his hat, and quickly was beside her. 'did you know me before i happened to look round?' she asked laughingly. 'of course i did. up there by the station i caught sight of you. who else bears herself as you do--with splendid disdain of common mortals?' 'please don't make me think that my movements are ridiculous.' 'they are superb. the sea has already touched your cheeks. but i am afraid you have had abominable weather.' 'yes, rather bad; but there's hope to-day. where do you come from?' 'by train, only from carnforth. i left london yesterday morning, and stopped at morecambe--some people i know are there. as trains were awkward to-day, i drove from morecambe to carnforth. did you expect me?' 'i thought you might come, as you spoke of it.' 'how i have got through the week i couldn't tell you. i should have been here days ago, but i was afraid. let us go nearer to the sea. i was afraid of making you angry.' 'it's better to keep one's word.' 'of course it is. and i am all the more delighted to be with you for the miserable week of waiting. have you bathed?' 'once or twice.' 'i had a swim this morning before breakfast, in pouring rain. now _you_ can't swim.' 'no. i can't. but why were you sure about it?' 'only because it's so rare for any girl to learn swimming. a man who can't swim is only half the man he might be, and to a woman i should think it must be of even more benefit. as in everything else, women are trammelled by their clothes; to be able to get rid of them, and to move about with free and brave exertion of all the body, must tend to every kind of health, physical, mental, and mortal.' 'yes, i quite believe that,' said rhoda, gazing at the sea. 'i spoke rather exultantly, didn't i? i like to feel myself superior to you in some things. you have so often pointed out to me what a paltry, ineffectual creature i am.' 'i don't remember ever using those words, or implying them.' 'how does the day stand with you?' asked everard in the tone of perfect comradeship. 'have you still to dine?' 'my dining is a very simple matter; it happens at one o'clock. about nine i shall have supper.' 'let us walk a little then. and may i smoke?' 'why not?' everard lit a cigar, and, as the tide drove them back, they moved eventually to the higher ground, whence there was a fine view of the mountains, rich in evening colours. 'to-morrow you leave here?' 'yes,' rhoda answered. 'i shall go by railway to coniston, and walk from there towards helvellyn, as you suggested.' 'i have something else to propose. a man i talked to in the train told me of a fine walk in this neighbourhood. from ravenglass, just below here, there's a little line runs up eskdale to a terminus at the foot of scawfell, a place called boot. from boot one can walk either over the top of scawfell or by a lower track to wastdale head. it's very grand, wild country, especially the last part, the going down to wastwater, and not many miles in all. suppose we have that walk to-morrow? from wastdale we could drive back to seascale in the evening, and then the next day--just as you like.' 'are you quite sure about the distances?' 'quite. i have the ordnance map in my pocket. let me show you.' he spread the map on the top of a wall, and they stood side by side inspecting it. 'we must take something to eat; i'll provide for that. and at the wastdale head hotel we can have dinner--about three or four, probably. it would be enjoyable, wouldn't it?' 'if it doesn't rain.' 'we'll hope it won't. as we go back we can look out the trains at the station. no doubt there's one soon after breakfast.' their rambling, with talk in a strain of easy friendliness, brought them back to seascale half an hour after sunset, which was of a kind that seemed to promise well for the morrow. 'won't you come out again after supper?' barfoot asked. 'not again to-night.' 'for a quarter of an hour,' he urged. 'just down to the sea and back.' 'i have been walking all day. i shall be glad to rest and read.' 'very well. to-morrow morning.' having discovered the train which would take them to ravenglass, and connect with one on the eskdale line, they agreed to meet at the station. barfoot was to bring with him such refreshment as would be necessary. their hopes for the weather had complete fulfilment. the only fear was lest the sun's heat might be oppressive, but this anxiety could be cheerfully borne. slung over his shoulders barfoot had a small forage-bag, which gave him matter for talk on the railway journey; it had been his companion in many parts of the world, and had held strange kinds of food. the journey up eskdale, from ravenglass to boot, is by a miniature railway, with the oddest little engine and a carriage or two of primitive simplicity. at each station on the upward winding track--stations represented only by a wooden shed like a tool-house--the guard jumps down and acts as booking-clerk, if passengers there be desirous of booking. in a few miles the scenery changes from beauty to grandeur, and at the terminus no further steaming would be possible, for the great flank of scawfell bars the way. everard and his companion began their climb through the pretty straggling village of boot. a mountain torrent roared by the wayside, and the course they had marked upon the map showed that they must follow this stream for some miles up to the tarn where it originated. houses, human beings, and even trodden paths they soon left behind, coming out on to a vast moorland, with hill summits near and far. scawfell they could not hope to ascend; with the walk that lay before them it was enough to make a way over one of his huge shoulders. 'if your strength fails,' said everard merrily, when for an hour they had been plodding through grey solitudes, 'there is no human help. i should have to choose between carrying you back to boot or on to wastdale.' 'my strength is not likely to fail sooner than yours,' was the laughing reply. 'i have chicken sandwiches, and wine that maketh glad the heart of man. tell me when hunger overcomes you. i should think we had better make our halt at burmoor tarn.' that, indeed, proved to be the convenient resting-place. a wild spot, a hollow amid the rolling expanse of moorland, its little lake of black water glistening under the midday sun. and here stood a shepherd's cottage, the only habitation they had seen since leaving boot. somewhat uncertain about the course to be henceforth followed, they made inquiry at this cottage, and a woman who appeared to be quite alone gave them the needful direction. thus at ease in mind they crossed the bridge at the foot of the tarn, and just beyond it found a spot suitable for repose. everard brought forth his sandwiches and his flask of wine, moreover a wine-glass, which was for rhoda's use. they ate and drank festively. 'now this is just what i have enjoyed in imagination for a year or more,' said barfoot, when the luncheon was over, and he lay propped upon his elbow, gazing at rhoda's fine eyes and her sun-warmed cheeks. 'an ideal realized, for once in one's life. a perfect moment.' 'don't you like the scent of burning peat from that cottage?' 'yes. i like everything about us, in heaven and earth, and most of all i like your companionship, rhoda.' she could not resent this first use of her christian name; it was so natural, so inevitable; yet she moved her head as if with a slight annoyance. 'is mine as agreeable to you?' he added, stroking the back of her hand with a spray of heather. 'or do you just tolerate me out of good-nature?' 'i have liked your companionship all the way from seascale. don't disturb my enjoyment of it for the rest of the way.' 'that would be a misfortune indeed. the whole day shall be perfect. not a note of discord. but i must have liberty to say what comes into my mind, and when you don't choose to answer i shall respect your silence.' 'wouldn't you like to smoke a cigar before we start again?' 'yes. but i like still better not to. the scent of peat is pleasanter to you than that of tobacco.' 'oblige me by lighting the cigar.' 'if you command--' he did her bidding. 'the whole day shall be perfect. a delightful dinner at the inn, a drive to seascale, an hour or two of rest, and then one more quiet talk by the sea at nightfall.' 'all but the last. i shall be too tired.' 'no. i must have that hour of talk by the sea. you are free to answer me or not, but your presence you must grant me. we are in an ideal world remember. we care nothing for all the sons and daughters of men. you and i will spend this one day together between cloudless heaven and silent earth--a memory for lifetime. at nightfall you will come out again, and meet me down by the sea, where you stood when i first saw you yesterday.' rhoda made no reply. she looked away from him at the black, deep water. 'what an opportunity,' he went on, raising his hand to point at the cottage, 'for saying the silliest of conceivable things!' 'what _might_ that be, i wonder?' 'why, that to dwell there together for the rest of our lives would be supreme felicity. you know the kind of man that would say that.' 'not personally, thank goodness!' 'a week--a month, even--with weather such as this. nay, with a storm for variety; clouds from the top of scawfell falling thick about us; a fierce wind shrieking across the tarn; sheets and torrents and floods of rain beating upon our roof; and you and i by the peat-fire. with a good supply of books, old and new, i can picture it for three months, for half a year!' 'be on your guard. remember "that kind of man".' 'i am in no danger. there is a vast difference between six months and all one's life. when the half-year was over we would leave england.' 'by the orient express?' they laughed together, rhoda colouring, for the words that had escaped her meant too much for mere jest. 'by the orient express. we would have a house by the bosphorus for the next half-year, and contrast our emotions with those we had known by burmoor tarn. think what a rich year of life that would make! how much we should have learnt from nature and from each other!' 'and how dreadfully tired of each other we should be!' barfoot looked keenly at her. he could not with certainty read her countenance. 'you mean that?' he asked. 'you know it is true.' 'hush! the day is to be perfect. i won't admit that we could ever tire of each other with reasonable variety of circumstance. you to me are infinitely interesting, and i believe that i might become so to you.' he did not allow himself to vary from this tone of fanciful speculation, suited to the idle hour. rhoda said very little; her remarks were generally a purposed interruption of everard's theme. when the cigar was smoked out they rose and set forward again. this latter half of their walk proved the most interesting, for they were expectant of the view down upon wastdale. a bold summit came in sight, dark, desolate, which they judged to be great gabel; and when they had pressed on eagerly for another mile, the valley opened beneath them with such striking suddenness that they stopped on the instant and glanced at each other in silence. from a noble height they looked down upon wastwater, sternest and blackest of the lakes, on the fields and copses of the valley head with its winding stream, and the rugged gorges which lie beyond in mountain shadow. the descent was by a path which in winter becomes the bed of a torrent, steep and stony, zigzagging through a thick wood. here, and when they had reached the level road leading into the village, their talk was in the same natural, light-hearted strain as before they rested. so at the inn where they dined, and during their drive homewards--by the dark lake with its woods and precipices, out into the country of green hills, and thence through gosforth on the long road descending seaward. since their early departure scarcely a cloud had passed over the sun--a perfect day. they alighted before reaching seascale. barfoot discharged his debt to the driver--who went on to bait at the hotel--and walked with rhoda for the last quarter of a mile. this was his own idea; rhoda made no remark, but approved his discretion. 'it is six o'clock,' said everard, after a short silence. 'you remember your arrangement. at eight, down on the shore.' 'i should be much more comfortable in the armchair with a book.' 'oh, you have had enough of books. it's time to live.' 'it's time to rest.' 'are you so very tired? poor girl! the day has been rather too much for you.' rhoda laughed. 'i could walk back again to wastwater if it were necessary.' 'of course; i knew that. you are magnificent. at eight o'clock then--' nothing more was said on the subject. when in sight of rhoda's lodgings they parted without hand-shaking. before eight everard was straying about the beach, watching the sun go down in splendour. he smiled to himself frequently. the hour had come for his last trial of rhoda, and he felt some confidence as to the result. if her mettle endured his test, if she declared herself willing not only to abandon her avowed ideal of life, but to defy the world's opinion by becoming his wife without forms of mutual bondage--she was the woman he had imagined, and by her side he would go cheerfully on his way as a married man. legally married; the proposal of free union was to be a test only. loving her as he had never thought to love, there still remained with him so much of the temper in which he first wooed her that he could be satisfied with nothing short of unconditional surrender. delighting in her independence of mind, he still desired to see her in complete subjugation to him, to inspire her with unreflecting passion. tame consent to matrimony was an everyday experience. agnes brissenden, he felt sure, would marry him whenever he chose to ask her--and would make one of the best wives conceivable. but of rhoda nunn he expected and demanded more than this. she must rise far above the level of ordinary intelligent women. she must manifest an absolute confidence in him--that was the true significance of his present motives. the censures and suspicions which she had not scrupled to confess in plain words must linger in no corner of her mind. his heart throbbed with impatience for her coming. come she would; it was not in rhoda's nature to play tricks; if she had not meant to meet him she would have said so resolutely, as last night. at a few minutes past the hour he looked landward, and saw her figure against the golden sky. she came down from the sandbank very slowly, with careless, loitering steps. he moved but a little way to meet her, and then stood still. he had done his part; it was now hers to forego female privileges, to obey the constraint of love. the western afterglow touched her features, heightening the beauty everard had learnt to see in them. still she loitered, stooping to pick up a piece of seaweed; but still he kept his place, motionless, and she came nearer. 'did you see the light of sunset on the mountains?' 'yes,' he replied. 'there has been no such evening since i came.' 'and you wanted to sit at home with a book. that was no close for a perfect day.' 'i found a letter from your cousin. she was with her friends the goodalls yesterday.' 'the goodalls--i used to know them.' 'yes.' the word was uttered with significance. everard understood the allusion, but did not care to show that he did. 'how does mary get on without you?' 'there's no difficulty.' 'has she any one capable of taking your place?' 'yes. miss vesper can do all that's necessary.' 'even to inspiring the girls with zeal for an independent life?' 'perhaps even that.' they went along by the waves, in the warm-coloured twilight, until the houses of seascale were hidden. then everard stopped. 'to-morrow we go to coniston?' he said, smiling as he stood before her. 'you are going?' 'do you think i can leave you?' rhoda's eyes fell. she held the long strip of seaweed with both hands and tightened it. 'do you _wish_ me to leave you?' he added. 'you mean that we are to go through the lakes together--as we have been to-day?' 'no. i don't mean that.' rhoda took a few steps onward, so that he remained standing behind. another moment and his arms had folded about her, his lips were on hers. she did not resist. his embrace grew stronger, and he pressed kiss after kiss upon her mouth. with exquisite delight he saw the deep crimson flush that transfigured her countenance; saw her look for one instant into his eyes, and was conscious of the triumphant gleam she met there. 'do you remember my saying in the letter how i hungered to taste your lips? i don't know how i have refrained so long--' 'what is your love worth?' asked rhoda, speaking with a great effort. she had dropped the seaweed, and one of her hands rested upon his shoulder, with a slight repelling pressure. 'worth your whole life!' he answered, with a low, glad laugh. 'that is what i doubt. convince me of that.' 'convince you? with more kisses? but what is _your_ love worth?' 'perhaps more than you yet understand. perhaps more than you _can_ understand.' 'i will believe that, rhoda. i know, at all events, that it is something of inestimable price. the knowledge has grown in me for a year and more.' 'let me stand away from you again. there is something more to be said before--no, let me be quite apart from you.' he released her after one more kiss. 'will you answer me a question with perfect truthfulness?' her voice was not quite steady, but she succeeded in looking at him with unflinching eyes. 'yes. i will answer you _any_ question.' 'that is spoken like a man. tell me then--is there at this moment any woman living who has a claim upon you--a moral claim?' 'no such woman exists.' 'but--do we speak the same language?' 'surely,' he answered with great earnestness. 'there is no woman to whom i am bound by any kind of obligation.' a long wave rolled up, broke, and retreated, whilst rhoda stood in silent uncertainty. 'i must put the question in another way. during the past month--the past three months--have you made profession of love--have you even pretended love--to any woman?' 'to no woman whatever,' he answered firmly. 'that satisfies me.' 'if i knew what is in your mind!' exclaimed everard, laughing. 'what sort of life have you imagined for me? is this the result of mary's talk?' 'not immediately.' 'still, she planted the suspicion. believe me, you have been altogether mistaken. i never was the kind of man mary thought me. some day you shall understand more about it--in the meantime my word must be enough. i have no thought of love for any woman but you. did i frighten you with those joking confessions in my letters? i wrote them purposely--as you must have seen. the mean, paltry jealousies of women such as one meets every day are so hateful to me. they argue such a lack of brains. if i were so unfortunate as to love a woman who looked sour when i praised a beautiful face, i would snap the bond between us like a bit of thread. but you are not one of those poor creatures.' he looked at her with some gravity. 'should you think me a poor creature if i resented any kind of unfaithfulness?--whether love, in any noble sense, had part in it or not?' 'no. that is the reasonable understanding between man and wife. if i exact fidelity from you, and certainly i should, i must consider myself under the same obligation.' 'you say "man and wife." do you say it with the ordinary meaning?' 'not as it applies to us. you know what i mean when i ask you to be my wife. if we cannot trust each other without legal bonds, any union between us would be unjustified.' suppressing the agitation which he felt, he awaited her answer. they could still read each other's faces perfectly in a pale yellow light from across the sea. rhoda's manifested an intense conflict. 'after all, you doubt of your love for me?' said barfoot quietly. that was not her doubt. she loved with passion, allowing herself to indulge the luxurious emotion as never yet. she longed once more to feel his arms about her. but even thus she could consider the vast issues of the step to which she was urged. the temptation to yield was very strong, for it seemed to her an easier and a nobler thing to proclaim her emancipation from social statutes than to announce before her friends the simple news that she was about to marry. that announcement would excite something more than surprise. mary barfoot could not but smile with gentle irony; other women would laugh among themselves; the girls would feel a shock, as at the fall of one who had made heroic pretences. a sure way of averting this ridicule was by furnishing occasion for much graver astonishment. if it became known that she had taken a step such as few women would have dared to take--deliberately setting an example of new liberty--her position in the eyes of all who knew her remained one of proud independence. rhoda's character was specially exposed to the temptation of such a motive. for months this argument had been in her mind, again and again she decided that the sensational step was preferable to a commonplace renunciation of all she had so vehemently preached. and now that the moment of actual choice had come she felt able to dare everything--as far as the danger concerned herself; but she perceived more strongly than hitherto that not only her own future was involved. how would such practical heresy affect everard's position? she uttered this thought. 'are you willing, for the sake of this idea, to abandon all society but that of the very few people who would approve or tolerate what you have done?' 'i look upon the thing in this way. we are not called upon to declare our principles wherever we go. if we regard each other as married, why, we _are_ married. i am no quixote, hoping to convert the world. it is between you and me--our own sense of what is reasonable and dignified.' 'but you would not make it a mere deception?' 'mary would of course be told, and any one else you like.' she believed him entirely serious. another woman might have suspected that he was merely trying her courage, either to assure himself of her love or to gratify his vanity. but rhoda's idealism enabled her to take him literally. she herself had for years maintained an exaggerated standard of duty and merit; desirous of seeing everard in a nobler light than hitherto, she endeavoured to regard his scruple against formal wedlock as worthy of all respect. 'i can't answer you at once,' she said, half turning away. 'you must. here and at once.' the one word of assent would have satisfied him. this he obstinately required. he believed that it would confirm his love beyond any other satisfaction she could render him. he must be able to regard her as magnanimous, a woman who had proved herself worth living or dying for. and he must have the joy of subduing her to his will. 'no,' said rhoda firmly. 'i can't answer you tonight. i can't decide so suddenly.' this was disingenuous, and she felt humiliated by her subterfuge. anything but a sudden decision was asked of her. before leaving chelsea she had foreseen this moment, and had made preparations for the possibility of never returning to miss barfoot's house--knowing the nature of the proposal that would be offered to her. but the practical resolve needed a greater effort than she had imagined. above all, she feared an ignominious failure of purpose after her word was given; _that_ would belittle her in everard's eyes, and so shame her in her own that all hope of happiness in marriage must be at an end. 'you are still doubtful of me, rhoda?' he took her hand, and again drew her close. but she refused her lips. 'or are you doubtful of your own love?' 'no. if i understand what love means, i love you.' 'then give me the kiss i am waiting for. you have not kissed me yet.' 'i can't--until i am sure of myself--of my readiness--' her broken words betrayed the passion with which she was struggling. everard felt her tremble against his side. 'give me your hand,' he whispered. 'the left hand.' before she could guess his purpose he had slipped a ring upon her finger, a marriage ring. rhoda started away from him, and at once drew off the perilous symbol. 'no--that proves to me i can't! what should we gain? you see, you dare not be quite consistent. it's only deceiving the people who don't know us.' 'but i have explained to you. the consistency is in ourselves, our own minds--' 'take it back. custom is too strong for us. we should only play at defying it. take it back--or i shall drop it on the sand.' profoundly mortified, everard restored the gold circlet to its hiding-place and stood gazing at the dim horizon. some moments passed, then he heard his name murmured. he did not look round. 'everard, dearest--' was that rhoda's voice, so low, tender, caressing? it thrilled him, and with a silent laugh of scorn at his own folly, he turned to her, every thought burnt up in passion. 'will you kiss me?' for an answer she laid her hands on his shoulders and gazed at him. barfoot understood. he smiled constrainedly, and said in a low voice,-- 'you wish for that old, idle form--?' 'not the religious form, which has no meaning for either of us. but--' 'you have been living here seven or eight days. stay till the fifteenth, then we can get a licence from the registrar of the district. does that please you?' her eyes made reply. 'do you love me any the less, everard?' 'kiss me.' she did, and consciousness was lost for them as their mouths clung together and their hearts throbbed like one. 'isn't it better?' rhoda asked, as they walked back in the darkness. 'won't it make our life so much simpler and happier?' 'perhaps.' 'you know it will.' she laughed joyously, trying to meet his look. 'perhaps you are right.' 'i shall let no one hear of it until--. then let us go abroad.' 'you dare not face mary?' 'i dare, if you wish it. of course she will laugh at me. they will all laugh at me.' 'why, you may laugh as well.' 'but you have spoilt my life, you know. such a grand life it might have been. why did you come and interfere with me? and you have been so terribly obstinate.' 'of course; that's my nature. but after all i have been weak.' 'yielding in one point that didn't matter to you at all? it was the only way of making sure that you loved me.' barfoot laughed slightingly. 'and what if i needed the other proof that you loved _me_.' chapter xxvi the unideal tested and neither was content. barfoot, over his cigar and glass of whisky at the hotel, fell into a mood of chagrin. the woman he loved would be his, and there was matter enough for ardent imagination in the indulgence of that thought; but his temper disturbed him. after all, he had not triumphed. as usual the woman had her way. she played upon his senses, and made him her obedient slave. to prolong the conflict would have availed nothing; rhoda, doubtless, was in part actuated by the desire to conquer, and she knew her power over him. so it was a mere repetition of the old story--a marriage like any other. and how would it result? she had great qualities; but was there not much in her that he must subdue, reform, if they were really to spend their lives together? her energy of domination perhaps excelled his. such a woman might be unable to concede him the liberty in marriage which theoretically she granted to be just. perhaps she would torment him with restless jealousies, suspecting on every trivial occasion an infringement of her right. from that point of view it would have been far wiser to persist in rejecting legal marriage, that her dependence upon him might be more complete. later, if all went well, the concession could have been made--if, for instance, she became a mother. but then returned the exasperating thought that rhoda had overcome his will. was not that a beginning of evil augury? to be sure, after marriage their relations would be different. he would not then be at the mercy of his senses. but how miserable to anticipate a long, perhaps bitter, struggle for predominance. after all, that could hardly come about. the commencement of any such discord would be the signal for separation. his wealth assured his freedom. he was not like the poor devils who must perforce live with an intolerable woman because they cannot support themselves and their families in different places. need he entertain that worst of fears--the dread that his independence might fail him, subdued by his wife's will? free as he boasted himself from lover's silliness, he had magnified rhoda's image. she was not the glorious rebel he had pictured. like any other woman, she mistrusted her love without the sanction of society. well, that was something relinquished, lost. marriage would after all be a compromise. he had not found his ideal--though in these days it assuredly existed. * * * and rhoda, sitting late in the little lodging-house parlour, visited her soul with questionings no less troublesome. everard was not satisfied with her. he had yielded, perhaps more than half contemptuously, to what he thought a feminine weakness. in going with her to the registrar's office he would feel himself to be acting an ignoble part. was it not a bad beginning to rule him against his conscience? she had triumphed splendidly. in the world's eye this marriage of hers was far better than any she could reasonably have hoped, and her heart approved it with rapture. at a stage in life when she had sternly reconciled herself never to know a man's love, this love had sought her with passionate persistency of which even a beautiful young girl might feel proud. she had no beauty; she was loved for her mind, her very self. but must not everard's conception of her have suffered? in winning her had he obtained the woman of his desire? why was she not more politic? would it not have been possible to gratify him, and yet to gain his consent to legal marriage? by first of all complying she would have seemed to confirm all he believed of her; and then, his ardour at height, how simple to point out to him--without entreaty, without show of much concern--that by neglecting formalities they gained absolutely nothing. artifice of that kind was perhaps demanded by the mere circumstances. possibly he himself would have welcomed it--after the grateful sense of inspiring such complete devotion. it is the woman's part to exercise tact; she had proved herself lamentably deficient in that quality. to-morrow she must study his manner. if she discerned any serious change, any grave indication of disappointment-- what was her life to be? at first they would travel together; but before long it might be necessary to have a settled home, and what then would be her social position, her duties and pleasures? housekeeping, mere domesticities, could never occupy her for more than the smallest possible part of each day. having lost one purpose in life, dignified, absorbing, likely to extend its sphere as time went on, what other could she hope to substitute for it? love of husband--perhaps of child. there must be more than that. rhoda did not deceive herself as to the requirements of her nature. practical activity in some intellectual undertaking; a share--nay, leadership--in some "movement;" contact with the revolutionary life of her time--the impulses of her heart once satisfied, these things would again claim her. but how if everard resisted such tendencies? was he in truth capable of respecting her individuality? or would his strong instinct of lordship urge him to direct his wife as a dependent, to impose upon her his own view of things? she doubted whether he had much genuine sympathy with woman's emancipation as she understood it. yet in no particular had her convictions changed; nor would they change. she herself was no longer one of the 'odd women'; fortune had--or seemed to have--been kind to her; none the less her sense of a mission remained. no longer an example of perfect female independence, and unable therefore to use the same language as before, she might illustrate woman's claim of equality in marriage.--if her experience proved no obstacle. * * * next morning, as had been agreed, they met at some distance from seascale, and spent two or three hours together. there was little danger in observation unless by a casual peasant; for the most part their privacy could not have been more secure in a locked chamber. lest curiosity should be excited by his making inquiries at the hotel, barfoot proposed to walk over to gosforth, the nearest town, this afternoon, and learn where the registrar for the locality of seascale might be found. by neither was allusion made to their difference of last evening, but rhoda distressed herself by imagining a diminished fervour in her companion; he seemed unusually silent and meditative, and was content to hold her hand now and then. 'shall you stay here all the week?' she inquired. 'if you wish me to.' 'you will find it wearisome.' 'impossible, with you here. but if i run up to london for a day or two it might be better. there are preparations. we shall go first of all to my rooms--' 'i would rather not have stayed in london.' 'i thought you might wish to make purchases.' 'let us go to some other town, and spend a few days there before leaving england.' 'very well. manchester or birmingham.' 'you speak rather impatiently,' said rhoda, looking at him with an uneasy smile. 'let it be london if you prefer--' 'on no account. it's all indifferent to me so long as we get safely away together. every man is impatient of these preliminaries. yes, in that case i must of course go up to london. to-morrow, and back on saturday?' a shower of rain caused them some discomfort. through the afternoon it still rained at intervals whilst barfoot was discharging his business at gosforth. he was to see rhoda again at eight o'clock, and as the time threatened to hang heavily on his hands he returned by a long detour, reaching the seascale hotel about half-past six. no sooner had he entered than there was delivered to him a letter, brought by messenger an hour or two ago. it surprised him to recognize rhoda's writing on the envelope, which seemed to contain at least two sheets of notepaper. what now? some whimsey? agitated and annoyed by the anticipation of trouble, he went apart and broke the letter open. first appeared an enclosure--a letter in his cousin mary's writing. he turned to the other sheet and read these lines,-- 'i send you something that has come by post this afternoon. please to bring it with you when you meet me at eight o'clock--if you still care to do so.' his face flushed with anger. what contemptible woman's folly was this? 'if you still care to do so'--and written in a hand that shook. if this was to be his experience of matrimonial engagement--what rubbish had mary been communicating? 'my dear rhoda,--i have just gone through a very painful scene, and i feel bound to let you know of it without delay, as it _may_ concern you. this evening (monday), when i came home from great portland street, emma told me that mr. widdowson had called, that he wished to see me as soon as possible, and would be here again at six o'clock. he came, and his appearance alarmed me, he was looking so dreadfully ill. without preface, he said, "my wife has left me; she has gone to her sister, and refuses to return." this was astonishing in itself, and i wondered still more why he should come and tell _me_ about it in so strange a way. the explanation followed very promptly, and you may judge how i heard it. mr. widdowson said that his wife had been behaving very badly of late; that he had discovered several falsehoods she had told him as to her employment during absences from home, in daytime and evening. having cause for suspecting the worst, he last saturday engaged a private detective to follow mrs. widdowson wherever she went. this man saw her go to the flats in bayswater where everard lives and knock at _his_ door. as no one replied, she went away for a time and returned, but again found no one at home. this being at once reported to mr. widdowson he asked his wife where she had been that afternoon. the answer was false; she said she had been here, with me. thereupon he lost command of himself, and charged her with infidelity. she refused to offer any kind of explanation, but denied that she was guilty and at once left the house. since, she has utterly refused to see him. her sister can only report that monica is very ill, and that she charges her husband with accusing her falsely. 'he had come to me, he said, in unspeakable anguish and helplessness, to ask me whether i had seen anything suspicious in the relations between monica and my cousin when they met at this house or elsewhere. a nice question! of course i could only reply that it had never even occurred to me to observe them--that to my knowledge they had met so rarely--and that i should never have dreamt of suspecting monica. "yet you see she _must_ be guilty," he kept on repeating. i said no, that i thought her visit _might_ have an innocent significance, though i couldn't suggest why she had told falsehoods. then he inquired what i knew about everard's present movements. i answered that i had every reason to think that he was out of town, but didn't know when he went, or when he might be expected to return. the poor man was grievously dissatisfied; he looked at me as if i were in a base plot against him. it was an immense relief when he went away, after begging me to respect his confidence. 'i write very hurriedly, as you see. that i _ought_ to write is, i think, clear--though i may be doing lamentable mischief. i cannot credit this charge against mrs. widdowson; there must surely be some explanation. if you have already left seascale, no doubt this letter will be forwarded.--ever yours, dear rhoda, mary barfoot.' everard laughed bitterly. the completeness of the case against him in rhoda's eyes must be so overwhelming, and his absolute innocence made it exasperating to have to defend himself. how, indeed, was he to defend himself? the story was strange enough. could he be right in the interpretation which at once suggested itself to his mind--or perhaps to his vanity? he remembered the meeting with mrs. widdowson near his abode on friday. he recollected, moreover, the signs of interest in himself which, as he now thought, she had shown on previous occasions. had the poor little woman--doubtless miserable with her husband--actually let herself fall in love with him? but, even in that case, what a reckless thing to do--to come to his rooms! why, she must have been driven by a despair that blinded her to all sense of delicacy! perhaps, had he been at home, she would have made a pretence of wishing to speak about rhoda nunn. that was imprudent behaviour of his, making such a person his confidante. but he was tempted by his liking for her. 'by jove!' he muttered, overcome by the thought. 'i'm glad i was _not_ at home!' but then--he had told her that he was going away on saturday. how could she expect to find him? the hour of her visit was not stated; probably she hoped to catch him before he left. and was her appearance in the neighbourhood on friday--her troubled aspect--to be explained as an abortive attempt to have a private interview with him? the queerest affair--and maddening in its issues! rhoda was raging with jealousy. well, he too would rage. and without affectation. it was strange that he felt almost glad of a ground of quarrel with rhoda. all day he had been in an irritable temper, and so far as he could understand himself it was due to resentment of his last night's defeat. he though of rhoda as ardently as ever, but an element that was very like brutality had intruded into his emotions; that was his reason from refraining from caresses this morning; he could not trust himself. he would endure no absurdities. if rhoda did not choose to accept his simple assurance--let her take the consequences. even now, perhaps, he would bring her to her knees before him. let her wrong him by baseless accusation! then it would no longer be _he_ who sued for favour. he would whistle her down the wind, and await her penitent reappearance. sooner or later his pride and hers, the obstinacy in their natures, must battle it out; better that it should be now, before the irrevocable step had been taken. he ate his dinner with savage appetite, and drank a good deal more wine than of wont. then he smoked until the last minute of delay that his engagement allowed. of course she had sent the letter to the hotel because he might be unable to read it in twilight. wise precaution. and he was glad to have been able to think the matter over, to work himself into reasonable wrath. if ever man did well to be angry--! there she was, down by the edge of the waves. she would not turn to see if he were coming; he felt sure of that. whether she heard his footsteps he could not tell. when quite close to her, he exclaimed,-- 'well, rhoda?' she must have known of his approach, for she gave no start. she faced slowly to him. no trace of tears on her countenance; no, rhoda was above that. gravity of the sternest--that was all. 'well,' he continued, 'what have you to say to me?' 'i? nothing.' 'you mean that it is my business to explain what mary has told you. i can't, so there's an end of it.' 'what do you mean by that?' she asked in clear, distant tones. 'precisely what i say, rhoda. and i am obliged to ask what _you_ mean by this odd way of speaking to me. what has happened since we parted this morning?' rhoda could not suppress her astonishment; she gazed fixedly at him. 'if you can't explain this letter, who can?' 'i suppose mrs. widdowson would be able to account for her doings. i certainly am not able to. and it seems to me that you are strangely forgetful of something that passed between us yesterday.' 'of what?' she asked coldly, her face, which was held proudly up, turning towards the sea. 'evidently you accuse me of concealing something from you. please to remember a certain plain question you asked me, and the equally plain answer i gave.' he detected the beginning of a smile about her rigid lips. 'i remember,' she said. 'and you can still behave to me with indignation? surely the indignation should be on my side. you are telling me that i deceived you.' for a moment rhoda lost her self-control. 'how can i help thinking so?' she exclaimed, with a gesture of misery. 'what can this letter mean? why should she go to your rooms?' 'i simply don't know, rhoda.' he preserved the show of calmness just because he saw that it provoked her to anger. 'she has never been there before?' 'never to my knowledge.' rhoda watched his face with greedy attention. she seemed to find there a confirmation of her doubts. indeed, it was impossible for her to credit his denials after what she had observed in london, and the circumstances which, even before mary's letter, had made her suspicious. 'when did you last see mrs. widdowson?' 'no, i shan't consent to be cross-examined,' replied everard, with a disdainful smile. 'as soon as you refuse to accept my word it's folly to ask further questions. you don't believe me. say it honestly and let us understand each other.' 'i have good reason for thinking that you could explain mrs. widdowson's behaviour if you chose.' 'exactly. there's no misunderstanding _that_. and if i get angry i am an unpardonable brute. come now, you can't be offended if i treat you as simply my equal, rhoda. let me test your sincerity. suppose i had seen you talking somewhere with some man who seemed to interest you very much, and then--to-day, let us say--i heard that he had called upon you when you were alone. i turn with a savage face and accuse you of grossly deceiving me--in the worst sense. what would your answer be?' 'these are idle suppositions,' she exclaimed scornfully. 'but the case is possible, you must admit. i want you to realize what i am feeling. in such a case as that, you could only turn from me with contempt. how else can i behave to _you_--conscious of my innocence, yet in the nature of things unable to prove it?' 'appearances are very strongly against you.' 'that's an accident--to me quite unaccountable. if i charged you with dishonour you would only have your word to offer in reply. so it is with me. and my word is bluntly rejected. you try me rather severely.' rhoda kept silence. 'i know what you are thinking. my character was previously none of the best. there is a prejudice against me in such a matter as this.Â�well, you shall hear some more plain speech, altogether for your good. my record is not immaculate; nor, i believe, is any manÂ�s. i have gone here and there, and have had my adventures like other men. one of them you have heard about--the story of that girl amy drake--the subject of mrs. goodall's righteous wrath. you shall know the truth, and if it offends your ears i can't help it. the girl simply threw herself into my arms, on a railway journey, when we met by pure chance.' 'i don't care to hear that,' said rhoda, turning away. 'but you _shall_ hear it. that story has predisposed you to believe the worst things of me. if i hold you by force, you shall hear every word of it. mary seems to have given you mere dark hints--' 'no; she has told me the details. i know it all.' 'from their point of view. very well; that saves me a lot of narrative. what those good people didn't understand was the girl's character. they thought her a helpless innocent; she was a--i'll spare you the word. she simply planned to get me into her power--thought i should be forced to marry her. it's the kind of thing that happens far oftener than you would suppose; that's the reason why men so often smile in what you would call a brutal way when certain stories are told to other men's discredit. you will have to take this into account, rhoda, before you reach satisfactory results on the questions that have occupied you so much. i was not in the least responsible for amy drake's desertion of creditable paths. at the worst i behaved foolishly; and knowing i had done so, knowing how thankless it was to try and clear myself at her expense, i let people say what they would; it didn't matter. and you don't believe me; i can see you don't. sexual pride won't let you believe me. in such a case the man must necessarily be the villain.' 'what you mean by saying you only behaved "foolishly," i can't understand.' 'perhaps not, and i can't explain as i once did in telling the story to a man, a friend of mine. but however strict your moral ideas, you will admit that a girl of thoroughly bad character isn't a subject for the outcry that was raised about miss amy drake. by taking a little trouble i could have brought things to light which would have given worthy mrs. goodall and cousin mary a great shock. well, that's enough. i have never pretended to sanctity; but, on the other hand, i have never behaved like a scoundrel. you charge me, deliberately, with being a scoundrel, and i defend myself as best i can. you argue that the man who would mislead an innocent girl and then cast her off is more likely than not to be guilty in a case like this of mrs. widdowson, when appearances are decidedly against him. there is only my word in each instance. the question is--will you accept my word?' for a wonder, their privacy was threatened by the approach of two men who were walking this way from seascale. voices in conversation caused rhoda to look round; barfoot had already observed the strangers. 'let us go up on to the higher sand,' he said. without reply rhoda accompanied him, and for several minutes they exchanged no word. the men, talking and laughing loudly, went by; they seemed to be tourists of a kind that do not often trouble this quiet spot on the coast; their cigars glowed in the dusk. 'after all this, what have you to say to me, rhoda?' 'will you please to give me your cousin's letter?' she said coldly. 'here it is. now you will go back to your lodgings, and sit with that letter open before you half through the night. you will make yourself unutterably wretched, and all for what?' he felt himself once more in danger of weakness. rhoda, in her haughty, resentful mood, was very attractive to him. he was tempted to take her in his arms, and kiss her until she softened, pleaded with him. he wished to see her shed tears. but the voice in which she now spoke to him was far enough from tearfulness. 'you must prove to me that you have been wrongly suspected.' ah, that was to be her line of conduct. she believed her power over him was absolute. she stood on her dignity, would bring him to supplication, would give him all the trouble she could before she professed herself satisfied. 'how am i to prove it?' he asked bluntly. 'if there was nothing wrong between you and mrs. widdowson, there must be some very simple explanation of her coming to your rooms and being so anxious to see you.' 'and is it my business to discover that explanation?' 'can it be mine?' 'it must either be yours, rhoda, or no one's. i shall take no single step in the matter.' the battle was declared. each stood at full height, pertinacious, resolved on victory. 'you are putting yourself wildly in the wrong,' everard continued. 'by refusing to take my word you make it impossible for me to hope that we could live together as we imagined.' the words fell upon her heart like a crushing weight. but she could not yield. last night she had suffered in his opinion by urging what he thought a weak, womanly scruple; she had condescended to plead tenderly with him, and had won her cause. now she would prevail in another way. if he were telling the truth, he should acknowledge that natural suspicion made it incumbent upon him to clear so strange a case of its difficulties. if he were guilty of deception, as she still believed, though willing to admit to herself that monica might be most at fault, that there might have been no actual wrongdoing between them--he should confess with humblest penitence, and beseech pardon. impossible to take any other attitude. impossible to marry him with this doubt in her mind--equally out of the question to seek monica, and humiliate herself by making inquiries on such a subject. guilty or not, monica would regard her with secret disdain, with woman's malice. were she _able_ to believe him, that indeed would be a grand consummation of their love, an ideal union of heart and soul. listening to him, she had tried to put faith in his indignant words. but it was useless. the incredulity she could not help must either part them for ever, or be to her an occasion of new triumph. 'i don't refuse to take your word,' she said, with conscious quibbling. 'i only say that your name must be cleared from suspicion. mr. widdowson is sure to tell his story to other people. why has his wife left him?' 'i neither know nor care.' 'you must prove to me that you are not the cause of it.' 'i shall not make the slightest effort to do so.' rhoda began to move away from him. as he kept silence, she walked on in the seascale direction. he followed at a distance of a few yards, watching her movements. when they had gone so far that five minutes more must bring them within sight of the hotel, everard spoke. 'rhoda!' she paused and awaited him. 'you remember that i was going to london to-morrow. it seems that i had better go and not trouble to return.' 'that is for you to decide.' 'for you rather.' 'i have said all that i _can_ say.' 'and so have i. but surely you must be unconscious how grossly you are insulting me.' 'i want only to understand what purpose mrs. widdowson had in going to your rooms.' 'then why not ask her? you are friends. she would doubtless tell you the truth.' 'if she comes to me voluntarily to make an explanation, i will hear it. but i shall not ask her.' 'your view of the fitness of things is that i should request her to wait upon you for that purpose?' 'there are others who can act for you.' 'very well. then we are at a deadlock. it seems to me that we had better shake hands like sensible people, and say good-bye.' 'much better--if it seems so to you.' the time for emotional help was past. in very truth they had nothing more to say to each other, being now hardened in obstinacy. each suffered from the other's coldness, each felt angry with the other's stubborn refusal to concede a point of dignity. everard put out his hand. 'when you are ready to say that you have used me very ill, i shall remember only yesterday. till then--good-bye, rhoda.' she made a show of taking his hand, but said nothing. and so they parted. * * * at eight o'clock next morning barfoot was seated in the southward train. he rejoiced that his strength of will had thus far asserted itself. of final farewell to rhoda he had no thought whatever. her curiosity would, of course, compel her to see monica; one way or another she would learn that he was blameless. his part was to keep aloof from her, and to wait for her inevitable submission. violent rain was beating upon the carriage windows; it drove from the mountains, themselves invisible, though dense low clouds marked their position. poor rhoda! she would not have a very cheerful day at seascale. perhaps she would follow him by a later train. certain it was that she must be suffering intensely--and that certainly rejoiced him. the keener her suffering the sooner her submission. oh, but the submission should be perfect! he had seen her in many moods, but not yet in the anguish of broken pride. she must shed tears before him, declare her spirit worn and subjugated by torment of jealousy and fear. then he would raise her, and seat her in the place of honour, and fall down at her feet, and fill her soul with rapture. many times between seascale and london he smiled in anticipation of that hour. chapter xxvii the reascent whilst the rain pelted, and it did so until afternoon, rhoda sat in her little parlour, no whit less miserable than barfoot imagined. she could not be sure whether everard had gone to london; at the last moment reflection or emotion might have detained him. early in the morning she had sent to post a letter for miss barfoot, written last night--a letter which made no revelation of her feelings, but merely expressed a cold curiosity to hear anything that might become known as to the course of mr. widdowson's domestic troubles. 'you may still write to this address; if i leave, letters shall be forwarded.' when the sky cleared she went out. in the evening she again rambled about the shore. evidently barfoot had gone; if still here, he would have watched and joined her. her solitude now grew insufferable, yet she could not decide whither to betake herself. the temptation to return to london was very strong, but pride prevailed against it. everard might perhaps go to see his cousin, and relate all that had happened at seascale, justifying himself as he had here done. whether miss barfoot became aware of the story or not, rhoda could not reconcile it with her self-respect to curtail the stipulated three weeks of holiday. rather she would strain her nerves to the last point of endurance--and if she were not suffering, then never did woman suffer. another cheerless day helped her to make up her mind. she cared nothing now for lake and mountain; human companionship was her supreme need. by the earliest train next day she started, not for london, but for her brother's home in somerset, and there she remained until it was time to return to work. miss barfoot wrote twice in the interval, saying that she had heard nothing more of monica. of everard she made no mention. rhoda got back again to chelsea on the appointed saturday afternoon. miss barfoot knew when she would arrive, but was not at home to meet her, and did not return till a couple of hours had passed. they met at length as if nothing remarkable had occurred during the three weeks. mary, if she felt any solicitude, effectually concealed it; rhoda talked as if very glad to be at home again, explaining her desertion of the lake country by the bad weather that prevailed there. it was not till after dinner that the inevitable subject came up between them. 'have you seen everard since you went away?' miss barfoot began by asking. so he had not been here to tell his story and plead his cause--or it seemed not. 'yes, i saw him at seascale,' rhoda replied, without sign of emotion. 'before or after that news came?' 'both before and after. i showed him your letter, and all he had to say was that he knew nothing of the affair.' 'that's all he has to say to me. i haven't seen him. a letter i sent to his address was answered, after a week, from a place i never heard of--arromanches, in normandy. the shortest and rudest letter i ever had from him. practically he told me to mind my own business. and there things stand.' rhoda smiled a little, conscious of the extreme curiosity her friend must be feeling, and determined not to gratify it. for by this time, though her sunken cheeks were hard to reconcile with the enjoyment of a summer holiday, she had matured a resolve to betray nothing of what she had gone through. her state of mind resembled that of the ascetic who has arrived at a morbid delight in self-torture. she regarded the world with an intense bitterness, and persuaded herself not only that the thought of everard barfoot was hateful to her soul, but that sexual love had become, and would ever be, to her an impure idea, a vice of blood. 'i suppose,' she said carelessly, 'mr. widdowson will try to divorce his wife.' 'i am in dread of that. but they may have made it up.' 'of course you have no doubt of her guilt?' mary tried to understand the hard, austere face, with its touch of cynicism. conjecture as to its meaning was not difficult, but, in the utter absence of information, certainty there could be none. under any circumstances, it was to be expected that rhoda would think and speak of mrs. widdowson no less severely than of the errant bella royston. 'i have _some_ doubt,' was miss barfoot's answer. 'but i should be glad of some one else's favourable opinion to help my charity.' 'miss madden hasn't been here, you see. she certainly would have come if she had felt convinced that her sister was wronged.' 'unless a day or two saw the end of the trouble--when naturally none of them would say any more about it.' this was the possibility which occupied rhoda's reflections as long as she lay awake that night. her feelings on entering the familiar bedroom were very strange. even before starting for her holiday she had bidden it good-bye, and at seascale, that night following upon the "perfect day," she had thought of it as a part of her past life, a place abandoned for ever, already infinitely remote. her first sensation when she looked upon the white bed was one of disgust; she thought it would be impossible to use this room henceforth, and that she must ask miss barfoot to let her change to another. tonight she did not restore any of the ornaments which were lying packed up. the scent of the room revived so many hours of conflict, of hope, that it caused her a sick faintness. in frenzy of detestation she cursed the man who had so disturbed and sullied the swift, pure stream of her life. * * * arromanches, in normandy--? on sunday she sought the name on a map, but it was not marked, being doubtless too insignificant. improbable that he had gone to such a place alone; he was enjoying himself with friends, careless what became of her. having allowed all this time to go by he would never seek her again. he found that her will was the equal of his own, and, as he could not rule her, she was numbered among the women who had afforded him interesting experiences, to be thought of seriously no more. during the next week she threw herself with energy upon her work, stifling the repugnance with which at first it affected her, and seeming at length to recover the old enthusiasm. this was the only way of salvation. idleness and absence of purpose would soon degrade her in a sense she had never dreamt of. she made a plan of daily occupation, which by leaving not a vacant moment from early morning to late at night, should give her the sleep of utter weariness. new studies were begun in the hour or two before breakfast. she even restricted her diet, and ate only just enough to support life, rejecting wine and everything that was most agreeable to her palate. she desired to speak privately with mildred vesper, and opportunity might have been made, but, as part of her scheme of self-subdual, this conversation was postponed until the second week. it took place one evening when work was over. 'i have been wanting to ask you,' rhoda began, 'whether you have any news of mrs. widdowson.' 'i wrote to her not long ago, and she answered from a new address. she said she had left her husband and would never go back to him.' rhoda nodded gravely. 'then what i had heard was true. you haven't seen her?' 'she asked me not to come. she is living with her sister.' 'did she give you any reason for the separation from her husband?' 'none,' answered mildred. 'but she said it was no secret; that every one knew. that's why i haven't spoken to you about it--as i should have done otherwise after our last conversation.' 'the fact is no secret,' said rhoda coldly. 'but why will she offer no explanation?' mildred shook her head, signifying inability to make any satisfactory reply, and there the dialogue ended; for rhoda could not proceed in it without appearing to encourage scandal. the hope of eliciting some suggestive information had failed; but whether mildred had really disclosed all she knew seemed doubtful. at the end of the week miss barfoot left home for her own holiday; she was going to scotland, and would be away for nearly the whole of september. at this time of the year the work in great portland street was very light; not much employment offered for the typewriters, and the pupils numbered only about half a dozen. nevertheless, it pleased rhoda to have the establishment under her sole direction; she desired authority, and by magnifying the importance of that which now fell into her hands, she endeavoured to sustain herself under the secret misery which, for all her efforts, weighed no less upon her as time went on. it was a dreary make-believe. on the first night of solitude at chelsea she shed bitter tears; and not only wept, but agonized in mute frenzy, the passions of her flesh torturing her until she thought of death as a refuge. now she whispered the name of her lover with every word and phrase of endearment that her heart could suggest; the next moment she cursed him with the fury of deadliest hatred. in the half-delirium of sleeplessness, she revolved wild, impossible schemes for revenging herself, or, as the mood changed, all but resolved to sacrifice everything to her love, to accuse herself of ignoble jealousy and entreat forgiveness. of many woeful nights this was the worst she had yet suffered. it recalled to her with much vividness a memory of girlhood, or indeed of childhood. she thought of that figure in the dim past, that rugged, harsh-featured man, who had given her the first suggestion of independence; thrice her own age, yet the inspirer of such tumultuous emotion in her ignorant heart; her friend at clevedon--mr. smithson. a question from mary barfoot had caused her to glance back at him across the years, but only for an instant, and with self-mockery. what she now endured was the ripe intensity of a woe that fell upon her, at fifteen, when mr. smithson passed from her sight and away for ever. childish folly! but the misery of it, the tossing at night, the blank outlook! how contemptible to revive such sensations, with mature intellect, after so long and stern a discipline! dreading the sunday, so terrible in its depressing effect upon the lonely and unhappy, she breakfasted as soon as possible, and left home--simply to walk, to exert herself physically, that fatigue and sleep might follow. there was a dull sky, but no immediate fear of rain; the weather brightened a little towards noon. careless of the direction, she walked on and on until the last maddening church bell had ceased its clangour; she was far out in the western suburbs, and weariness began to check her quick pace. then she turned back. without intending it, she passed by mrs. cosgrove's house, or rather would have passed, when she saw mrs. cosgrove at the dining-room window making signs to her. in a moment the door opened and she went in. she was glad of this accident, for the social lady might have something to tell about mrs. widdowson, who often visited her. 'in mercy, come and talk to me!' exclaimed mrs. cosgrove. 'i am quite alone, and feel as if i could hang myself. are you obliged to go anywhere?' 'no. i was having a walk.' 'a walk? what astonishing energy! it never occurs to me to take a walk in london. i came from the country last night and expected to find my sister here, but she won't arrive till tuesday. i have been standing at the window for an hour, getting crazy with _ennui_.' they went to the drawing-room. it was not long before mrs. cosgrove made an allusion which enabled rhoda to speak of mrs. widdowson. for a month or more mrs. cosgrove had seen and heard nothing of her; she had been out of town all the time. rhoda hesitated, but could not keep silence on the subject that had become a morbid preoccupation of her mind. she told as much as she knew--excepting the suspicion against everard barfoot. 'it doesn't in the least surprise me,' said the listener, with interest. 'i saw they wouldn't be able to live together very well. without children the thing was impossible. of course she has told you all about it?' 'i haven't seen her since it happened.' 'do you know, i always have a distinct feeling of pleasure when i hear of married people parting. how horrible that would seem to some of our good friends! but it isn't a malicious pleasure; there's nothing personal in it. as i have told you before, i think, i led a very contented life with my husband. but marriage in general is _such_ a humbug--you forgive the word.' 'of course it is,' assented rhoda, laughing with forced gaiety. 'i am glad of anything that seems to threaten it as an institution--in its present form. a scandalous divorce case is a delight to me--anything that makes it evident how much misery would be spared if we could civilize ourselves in this respect. there are women whose conduct i think personally detestable, and whom yet i can't help thanking for their assault upon social laws. we shall have to go through a stage of anarchy, you know, before reconstruction begins. yes, in that sense i am an anarchist. seriously, i believe if a few men and women in prominent position would contract marriage of the free kind, without priest or lawyer, open and defiantly, they would do more benefit to their kind than in any other possible way. i don't declare this opinion to every one, but only because i am a coward. whatever one believes with heart and soul one ought to make known.' rhoda wore a look of anxious reflection. 'it needs a great deal of courage,' she said. 'to take that step, i mean.' 'of course. we need martyrs. and yet i doubt whether the martyrdom would be very long, or very trying, to intellectual people. a woman of brains who boldly acted upon her conviction would have no lack of congenial society. the best people are getting more liberal than they care to confess to each other. wait until some one puts the matter to the test and you will see.' rhoda became so busy with her tumultuous thoughts that she spoke only a word now and then, allowing mrs. cosgrove to talk at large on this engrossing theme. 'where is mrs. widdowson living?' the revolutionist at length inquired. 'i don't know. but i can get you her address.' 'pray do. i shall go and see her. we are quite friendly enough for me to do so without impertinence.' having lunched with her acquaintance, rhoda went in the afternoon to mildred vesper's lodgings. miss vesper was at home, reading, in her usual placid mood. she gave rhoda the address that was on mrs. widdowson's last brief note, and that evening rhoda sent it to mrs. cosgrove by letter. in two days she received a reply. mrs. cosgrove had called upon mrs. widdowson at her lodgings at clapham. 'she is ill, wretched, and unwilling to talk. i could only stay about a quarter of an hour, and to ask questions was impossible. she mentioned your name, and appeared very anxious to hear about you; but when i asked whether she would like you to call she grew timid all at once, and said she hoped you wouldn't unless you really desired to see her. poor thing! of course i don't know what it all means, but i came away with maledictions on marriage in my heart--one is always safe in indulging that feeling.' a week or so after this there arrived for miss barfoot a letter from everard. the postmark was ostend. never before had rhoda been tempted to commit a break of confidence such as in any one else she would have scorned beyond measure. she had heard, of course, of people secretly opening letters with the help of steam; whether it could be done with absolute security from detection she did not feel sure, but her thoughts dwelt on the subject for several hours. it was terrible to hold this letter of everard's writing, and yet be obliged to send it away without knowledge of the contents, which perhaps gravely concerned her. she could not ask miss barfoot to let her know what everard had written. the information might perhaps be voluntarily granted; but perhaps not. to steam the back of the envelope--would it not leave marks, a rumpling or discoloration? even to be suspected of such dishonour would be more bitter to her than death. could she even think of it? how she was degraded by this hateful passion, which wrought in her like a disease! with two others which that day had arrived she put the letter into a large envelope, and so dispatched it. but no satisfaction rewarded her; her heart raged against the world, against every law of life. when, in a few days, a letter came to her from miss barfoot, she tore it open, and there--yes, there was everard's handwriting. mary had sent the communication for her to read. 'dear cousin mary,--after all i was rather too grumpy in my last note to you. but my patience had been desperately tried. i have gone through a good deal; now at last i am recovering sanity, and can admit that you had no choice but to ask those questions. i know and care nothing about mrs. widdowson. by her eccentric behaviour she either did me a great injury or a great service, i'm not quite sure which, but i incline to the latter view. here is a conundrum--not very difficult to solve, i dare say. 'do you know anything about arromanches? a very quiet little spot on the normandy coast. you get to it by an hour's coach from bayeux. not infested by english. i went there on an invitation from the brissendens; who discovered the place last year. excellent people these. i like them better the more i know of them. a great deal of quiet liberality--even extreme liberality--in the two girls. they would suit you, i am sure. well instructed. agnes, the younger, reads half a dozen languages, and shames me by her knowledge of all sorts of things. and yet delightfully feminine. 'as they were going to ostend i thought i might as well follow them, and we continue to see each other pretty frequently. 'by-the-bye, i shall have to find new quarters if i come back to london. the engineer, back from italy after a longer absence than he anticipated, wants his flat, and of course must have it. but then i may not come back at all, except to gather my traps. i shall not call on you, unless i have heard that you don't doubt the assurance i have now twice given.--your profligate relative, e. b.' 'i think,' wrote mary, 'that we may safely believe him. such a lie would be too bad; he is incapable of it. remember, i have never charged him with falsehood. i shall write and tell him that i accept his word. has it, or has it not, occurred to you to see mrs. widdowson herself? or, if there are insuperable objections, why not see miss madden? we talk to each other in a sort of cypher, dear rhoda. well, i desire nothing but your good, as i think you know, and you must decide for yourself where that good lies.' everard's letter put rhoda beside herself with wrath. in writing it he knew it would come into her hands; he hoped to sting her with jealousy. so mrs. widdowson had done him a service. he was free to devote himself to agnes brissenden, with her six languages, her extreme liberality, her feminine charm. if she could not crush out her love for this man she would poison herself--as she had so often decided she would do if ever some hopeless malady, such as cancer, took hold upon her-- and be content to feed his vanity? to give him the lifelong reflection that, for love of him, a woman excelled by few in qualities of brain and heart had died like a rat? she walked about the rooms, here and there, upstairs and downstairs, in a fever of unrest. after all, was he not behaving in the very way she ought to desire? was he not helping her to hate him? he struck at her with unmanly blows, thinking, no doubt, to quell her pride, and bring her to him in prostrate humility. never! even if it were proved in the clearest way that she ought to have believed him she would make no submission. if he loved her he must woo once more. but the suggestion in mary's letter was not fruitless. when she had thought over it for a day or two she wrote to virginia madden, asking her as a favour to come to queen's road on saturday afternoon. virginia quickly replied with a promise to call, and punctually kept the engagement. though she was much better dressed than in the days previous to monica's marriage, she had lost something for which costume could not compensate: her face had no longer that unmistakable refinement which had been wont to make her attire a secondary consideration. a disagreeable redness tinged her eyelids and the lower part of her nose; her mouth was growing coarse and lax, the under-lip hanging a little; she smiled with a shrinking, apologetic shyness only seen in people who have done something to be ashamed of--smiled even when she was endeavouring to look sorrowful; and her glance was furtive. she sat down on the edge of a chair, like an anxious applicant for work or charity, and a moistness of the eyes, which obliged her to use her handkerchief frequently, strengthened this resemblance. rhoda could not play at smooth phrases with this poor, dispirited woman, whose change during the last few years, and especially during the last twelve months, had often occupied her thoughts in a very unpleasant way. she came almost at once to the subject of their interview. 'why have you not been to see me before this?' 'i--really couldn't. the circumstances--everything is so very painful. you know--of course you know what has happened?' 'of course i do.' 'how,' asked virginia timidly, 'did the news first of all reach you?' 'mr. widdowson came here and told miss barfoot everything.' 'he came? we didn't know that. then you have heard the accusation he makes?' 'everything.' 'it is quite unfounded, i do assure you. monica is not guilty. the poor child has done nothing--it was an indiscretion--nothing more than indiscretion--' 'i am very anxious to believe it. can you give me certainty? can you explain monica's behaviour--not only on that one occasion, but the deceit she practised at other times? her husband told miss barfoot that she had frequently told him untruths--such as saying that she called here when she certainly did not.' 'i can't explain that,' lamented virginia. 'monica won't tell me why she concealed her movements.' 'then how can you ask me to believe your assurance that she isn't guilty?' the sternness of this question caused virginia to redden and become utterly disconcerted. she dropped her handkerchief, fumbled for it, breathed hard. 'oh, miss nunn! how can you think monica--? you know her better; i'm sure you do!' 'any human being may commit a crime,' said the other impatiently, exasperated by what seemed to be merely new evidence against barfoot. 'who knows any one well enough to say that a charge _must_ be unfounded?' miss madden began to sob. 'i'm afraid that is true. but my sister--my dear sister--' 'i didn't want to distress you. do command yourself, and let us talk about it calmly.' 'yes--i will--i shall be so glad to talk about it with you. oh, if i could persuade her to return to her husband! he is willing to receive her. i meet him very often on clapham common, and--we are living at his expense. when monica had been with me in my old lodgings for about a week he took these new rooms for us, and monica consented to remove. but she won't hear of going back to live with him. he has offered to let us have the house to ourselves, but it's no use. he writes to her, but she won't reply. do you know that he has taken a house at clevedon--a beautiful house? they were to go to it in a week or two, and alice and i would have gone to share it with them--then this dreadful thing happened. and mr. widdowson doesn't even insist on her telling him what she keeps secret. he is willing to take her back under any circumstances. and she is so ill--' virginia broke off, as if there were something more that she did not venture to impart. her cheeks coloured, and she looked distressfully about the room. 'seriously ill, do you mean?' inquired rhoda, with difficulty softening her voice. 'she gets up each day, but i'm often afraid that--she has had fainting fits--' rhoda gazed at the speaker with pitiless scrutiny. 'what can have caused this? is it the result of her being falsely accused?' 'partly that. but--' suddenly virginia rose, stepped to rhoda's side, and whispered a word or two. rhoda turned pale; her eyes glared fiercely. 'and _still_ you believe her innocent?' 'she has sworn to me that she is innocent. she says that she has a proof of it which i shall see some day--and her husband also. a presentiment has fixed itself in her mind that she can't live, and before the end she will tell everything.' 'her husband knows of this, of course--of what you have told me?' 'no. she has forbidden me to say anything--and how could i, miss nunn? she has made me promise solemnly that he shall not be told. i haven't even told alice. but she will know very soon. at the end of september she leaves her place, and will come to london to be with us--for a time at all events. we do so hope that we shall succeed in persuading monica to go to the house at clevedon. mr. widdowson is keeping it, and will move the furniture from herne hill at any moment. couldn't you help us, dear miss nunn? monica would listen to you; i am sure she would.' 'i'm afraid i can be of no use,' rhoda answered coldly. 'she has been hoping to see you.' 'she has said so?' 'not in so many words--but i am sure she wishes to see you. she has asked about you several times, and when your note came she was very pleased. it would be a great kindness to us--' 'does she declare that she will never return to her husband?' 'yes--i am sorry to say she does. but the poor child believes that she has only a short time to live. nothing will shake her presentiment. "i shall die, and give no more trouble"--that's what she always says to me. and a conviction of that kind is so likely to fulfil itself. she never leaves the house, and of course that is very wrong; she ought to go out every day. she won't see a medical man.' 'has mr. widdowson given her any cause for disliking him?' rhoda inquired. 'he was dreadfully violent when he discovered--i'm afraid it was natural--he thought the worst of her, and he has always been so devoted to monica. she says he seemed on the point of killing her. he is a man of very severe nature, i have always thought. he never could bear that monica should go anywhere alone. they were very, very unhappy, i'm afraid--so ill-matched in almost every respect. still, under the circumstances--surely she ought to return to him?' 'i can't say. i don't know.' rhoda's voice signified a conflict of feeling. had she been disinterested her opinion would not have wavered for a moment; she would have declared that the wife's inclination must be the only law in such a case. as it was, she could only regard monica with profound mistrust and repugnance. the story of decisive evidence kept back seemed to her only a weak woman's falsehood--a fiction due to shame and despair. undoubtedly it would give some vague relief to her mind if monica were persuaded to go to clevedon, but she could not bring herself to think of visiting the suffering woman. whatever the end might be, she would have no part in bringing it about. her dignity, her pride, should remain unsullied by such hateful contact. 'i mustn't stay longer,' said virginia, rising after a painful silence. 'i am always afraid to be away from her even for an hour; the fear of dreadful things that might happen haunts me day and night. how glad i shall be when alice comes!' rhoda had no words of sympathy. her commiseration for virginia was only such as she might have felt for any stranger involved in sordid troubles; all the old friendliness had vanished. nor would she have been greatly shocked or astonished had she followed miss madden on the way to the railway station and seen her, after a glance up and down the street, turn quickly into a public-house, and come forth again holding her handkerchief to her lips. a feeble, purposeless, hopeless woman; type of a whole class; living only to deteriorate-- will! purpose! was _she_ not in danger of forgetting these watchwords, which had guided her life out of youth into maturity? that poor creature's unhappiness was doubtless in great measure due to the conviction that in missing love and marriage she had missed everything. so thought the average woman, and in her darkest hours she too had fallen among those poor of spirit, the flesh prevailing. but the soul in her had not finally succumbed. passion had a new significance; her conception of life was larger, more liberal; she made no vows to crush the natural instincts. but her conscience, her sincerity should not suffer. wherever destiny might lead, she would still be the same proud and independent woman, responsible only to herself, fulfilling the nobler laws of her existence. a day or two after this she had guests to dine with her--mildred vesper and winifred haven. among the girls whom she had helped to educate, these two seemed by far the most self-reliant, the most courageous and hopeful. in minor details of character they differed widely, and intellectually miss haven was far in advance. rhoda had a strong desire to observe them as they talked about the most various subjects; she knew them well, but hoped to find in them some new suggestion of womanly force which would be of help to her in her own struggle for redemption. it was seldom that either of them ailed anything. mildred still showed traces of her country breeding; she was the more robust, walked with a heavier step, had less polish of manner. under strain of any kind winifred's health would sooner give way, but her natural vivacity promised long resistance to oppressing influences. mildred had worked harder, and amid privations of which the other girl knew nothing. she would never distinguish herself, but it was difficult indeed to imagine her repining so long as she had her strength and her congenial friends. twenty years hence, in all probability, she would keep the same clear, steady eye, the same honest smile, and the same dry humour in her talk. winifred was more likely to traverse a latitude of storm. for one thing, her social position brought her in the way of men who might fall in love with her, whereas mildred lived absolutely apart from the male world; doubtless, too, her passions were stronger. she loved literature, spent as much time as possible in study, and had set her mind upon helping to establish that ideal woman's paper of which there was often talk at miss barfoot's. in this company rhoda felt her old ambitions regaining their power over her. to these girls she was an exemplar; it made her smile to think how little they could dream of what she had experienced during the last few weeks; if ever a moment of discontent assailed them, they must naturally think of her, of the brave, encouraging words she had so often spoken. for a moment she had deserted them, abandoning a course which her reason steadily approved for one that was beset with perils of indignity. it would shame her if they knew the whole truth--and yet she wished it were possible for them to learn that she had been passionately wooed. a contemptible impulse of vanity; away with it! there was a chance, it seemed to her, that during miss barfoot's absence everard might come to the house. mary had written to him; he would know that she was away. what better opportunity, if he had not dismissed her memory from his thoughts? every evening she made herself ready to receive a possible visitor. she took thought for her appearance. but the weeks passed by, miss barfoot returned, and everard had given no sign. she would set a date, a limit. if before christmas he neither came nor wrote all was at an end; after that she would not see him, whatever his plea. and having persuaded herself that this decision was irrevocable, she thought it as well to gratify miss barfoot's curiosity, for by now she felt able to relate what had happened in cumberland with a certain satisfaction--the feeling she had foreseen when, in the beginning of her acquaintance with everard, it flattered her to observe his growing interest. her narrative, to which mary listened with downcast eyes, presented the outlines of the story veraciously; she told of everard's wish to dispense with the legal bond, of her own indecision, and of the issue. 'when your letter came, could i very well have acted otherwise than i did? it was not a flat refusal to believe him; all i asked was that things should be cleared up before our marriage. for his own sake he ought to have willingly agreed to that. he preferred to take my request as an insult. his unreasonable anger made me angry too. and now i don't think we shall ever meet again unless as mere acquaintances.' 'i think,' commented the listener, 'that he behaved with extraordinary impudence.' 'in the first proposal? but i myself attach no importance to the marriage ceremony.' 'then why did you insist upon it?' asked mary, with a smile that might have become sarcastic but that her eye met rhoda's. 'would you have received us?' 'in the one case as readily as in the other.' rhoda was silent and darkly thoughtful. 'perhaps i never felt entire confidence in him.' mary smiled and sighed. chapter xxviii the burden of futile souls 'my own dearest love, if i could but describe to you all i have suffered before sitting down to write this letter! since our last meeting i have not known one hour of quietness. to think that i missed you when you called and left that note--for it was you yourself, was it not? the journey was horrible, and the week that i have spent here--i assure you i have not slept for more than a few minutes at a time, and i am utterly broken down by misery. my darling'--etc. 'i regard myself as a criminal; if _you_ have suffered a thousandth part of what _i_ have, i deserve any punishment that could be devised. for it has all been my fault. knowing as i did that our love could never end in happiness, it was my duty to hide what i felt. i ought never to have contrived that first meeting alone--for it _was_ contrived; i sent my sisters away on purpose. i ought never'--etc. 'the only reflection that can ever bring me comfort is that our love has been pure. we can always think of each other without shame. and why should this love ever have an end? we are separated, and perhaps shall never see each other again, but may not our hearts remain for ever true? may we not think'--etc. 'if i were to bid you leave your home and come to me, i should be once more acting with base selfishness. i should ruin your life, and load my own with endless self-reproach. i find that even mere outward circumstances would not allow of what for a moment we dreamt might be possible, and of that i am _glad_, since it helps me to overcome the terrible temptation. oh, if you knew how that temptation'--etc. 'time will be a friend to both of us, dearest monica. forget each other we never can, we _never_ will. but our unsullied love'--etc. monica read it through again, the long rigmarole. since the day that she received it--addressed to 'mrs. williamson' at the little stationer's by lavender hill--the day before she consented to accompany her sister into new lodgings--the letter had lain in its hiding-place. alone this afternoon, for virginia was gone to call on miss nunn, alone and miserable, every printed page a weariness to her sight, she took out the french-stamped envelope and tried to think that its contents interested her. but not a word had power of attraction or of repulsion. the tender phrases affected her no more than if they had been addressed to a stranger. love was become a meaningless word. she could not understand how she had ever drifted into such relations with the writer. fear and anger were the sole passions surviving in her memory from those days which had violently transformed her life, and it was not with bevis, but her husband, that these emotions were connected. bevis's image stood in that already distant past like a lay figure, the mere semblance of a man. and with such conception of him his letter corresponded; it was artificial, lifeless, as if extracted from some vapid novel. but she must not destroy it. its use was still to come. letter and envelope must go back again into hiding, and await the day which would give them power over human lives. suffering, as always, from headache and lassitude, she sat by the window and watched the people who passed along--her daily occupation. this sitting-room was on the ground floor. in a room above some one was receiving a music lesson; every now and then the teacher's voice became audible, raised in sharp impatience, and generally accompanied by a clash upon the keys of the piano. at the area gate of the house opposite a servant was talking angrily with a tradesman's errand boy, who at length put his thumb to his nose with insulting significance and scampered off. then, at the house next to that one, there stopped a cab, from which three busy-looking men alighted. cabs full of people were always stopping at that door. monica wondered what it meant, who might live there. she thought of asking the landlady. virginia's return aroused her. she went upstairs with her sister into the double-bedded room which they occupied. 'what have you heard?' 'he went there. he told them everything.' 'how did miss nunn look? how did she speak?' 'oh, she was very, very distant,' lamented virginia. 'i don't quite know why she sent for me. she said there would be no use in her coming to see you--and i don't think she ever will. i told her that there was no truth in--' 'but how did she look?' asked monica impatiently. 'not at all well, i thought. she had been away for her holiday, but it doesn't seem to have done her much good.' 'he went there and told them everything?' 'yes--just after it happened. but he hasn't seen them since that. i could see they believed him. it was no use all that i said. she looked so stern and--' 'did you ask anything about mr. barfoot?' 'my dear, i didn't venture to. it was impossible. but i feel quite sure that they must have broken off all intercourse with him. whatever he may have said, they evidently didn't believe it. miss barfoot is away now. 'and what did you tell her about me?' 'everything that you said i might, dear.' 'nothing else--you are sure?' virginia coloured, but made asseveration that nothing else had passed her lips. 'it wouldn't have mattered if you had,' said monica indifferently. 'i don't care.' the sister, struggling with shame, was irritated by the needlessness of her falsehood. 'then why were you so particular to forbid me, monica?' 'it was better--but i don't care. i don't care for anything. let them believe and say what they like--' 'monica, if i find out at last that you have deceived me--' 'oh, do, do, do be quiet!' cried the other wretchedly. 'i shall go somewhere and live alone--or die alone. you worry me--i'm tired of it.' 'you are not very grateful, monica.' 'i can't be grateful! you must expect nothing from me. if you keep talking and questioning i shall go away. i don't care what becomes of me. the sooner i die the better.' scenes such as this had been frequent lately. the sisters were a great trial to each other's nerves. tedium and pain drove monica to the relief of altercation, and virginia, through her secret vice, was losing all self-control. they wrangled, wailed, talked of parting, and only became quiet when their emotions had exhausted them. yet no ill-feeling resulted from these disputes. virginia had a rooted faith in her sister's innocence; when angry, she only tried to provoke monica into a full explanation of the mystery, so insoluble by unaided conjecture. and monica, say what she might, repaid this confidence with profound gratitude. strangely, she had come to view herself as not only innocent of the specific charge brought against her, but as a woman in every sense maligned. so utterly void of significance, from her present point of view, was all that had passed between her and bevis. one reason for this lay in the circumstance that, when exchanging declarations with her lover, she was ignorant of a fact which, had she known it, would have made their meetings impossible. her husband she could never regard but as a cruel enemy; none the less, nature had set a seal upon their marriage against which the revolt of her heart was powerless. if she lived to bear a child, that child would be his. widdowson, when he heard of her condition, would declare it the final proof of infidelity; and this injustice it was that exclusively occupied her mind. on this account she could think only of the accusation which connected her name with barfoot's--all else was triviality. had there been no slightest ground for imputation upon her conduct, she could not have resented more vigorously her husband's refusal to acquit her of dishonour. on the following day, after their early dinner, monica unexpectedly declared that she must go out. 'come with me. we'll go into the town.' 'but you refused to go out this morning when it was fine,' complained virginia. 'and now you can see it will rain.' 'then i shall go alone.' the sister at once started up. 'no, no; i'm quite ready. where do you wish--' 'anywhere out of this dead place. we'll go by train, and walk from victoria--anywhere. to the abbey, if you like.' 'you must be very careful not to catch cold. after all this time that you haven't left the house--' monica cut short the admonition and dressed herself with feverish impatience. as they set forth, drops of rain had begun to fall, but monica would not hear of waiting. the journey by train made her nervous, but affected her spirits favourably. at victoria it rained so heavily that they could not go out into the street. 'it doesn't matter. there's plenty to see here. let us walk about and look at things. we'll buy something at the bookstall to take back.' as they turned again towards the platform, monica was confronted by a face which she at once recognized, though it had changed noticeably in the eighteen months since she last saw it. the person was miss eade, her old acquaintance at the shop. but the girl no longer dressed as in those days; cheap finery of the 'loudest' description arrayed her form, and it needed little scrutiny to perceive that her thin cheeks were artificially reddened. the surprise of the meeting was not monica's only reason for evincing embarrassment. seeing that miss eade was uncertain whether to make a sign of acquaintance, she felt it would be wiser to go by. but this was not permitted. as they were passing each other the girl bent her head and whispered-- 'i want to speak to you--just a minute.' virginia perceived the communication, and looked in surprise at her sister. 'it's one of the girls from walworth road,' said monica. 'just walk on; i'll meet you at the bookstall.' 'but, my dear, she doesn't look respectable--' 'go on; i won't be a minute.' monica motioned to miss eade, who followed her towards a more retired spot. 'you have left the shop?' 'left--i should think so. nearly a year ago. i told you i shouldn't stand it much longer. are you married?' 'yes.' monica did not understand why the girl should eye her so suspiciously. 'you are?' said miss eade. 'nobody that i know, i suppose?' 'quite a stranger to you.' the other made an unpleasant click with her tongue, and looked vaguely about her. then she remarked inconsequently that she was waiting the arrival of her brother by train. 'he's a traveller for a west-end shop; makes five hundred a year. i keep house for him, because of course he's a widower.' the 'of course' puzzled monica for a moment, but she remembered that it was an unmeaning expletive much used by people of miss eade's education. however, the story did not win her credence; by this time her disagreeable surmises had too much support. 'was there anything you wished particularly to speak about?' 'you haven't seen nothing of mr. bullivant?' to what a remote period of her life this name seemed to recall monica! she glanced quickly at the speaker, and again detected suspicion in her eyes. 'i have neither seen nor heard of him since i left walworth road. isn't he still there?' 'not he. he went about the same time you did, and nobody knew where he hid himself.' 'hid? why should he hide?' 'i only mean he got out of sight somewheres. i thought perhaps you might have come across him.' 'no, i haven't. now i must say good-bye. that lady is waiting for me.' miss eade nodded, but immediately altered her mind and checked monica as she was turning away. 'you wouldn't mind telling me what your married name may be?' 'that really doesn't concern you, miss eade,' replied the other stiffly. 'i must go--' 'if you don't tell me, i'll follow you till i find out, and chance it!' the change from tolerable civility to coarse insolence was so sudden that monica stood in astonishment. there was unconcealed malignity in the gaze fixed upon her. 'what do you mean? what interest have you in learning my name?' the girl brought her face near, and snarled in the true voice of the pavement-- 'is it a name as you're ashamed to let out?' monica walked away to the bookstall. when she had joined her sister, she became aware that miss eade was keeping her in sight. 'let us buy a book,' she said, 'and go home again. the rain won't stop.' they selected a cheap volume, and, having their return tickets, moved towards the departure platform. before she could reach the gates monica heard miss eade's voice just behind her; it had changed again, and the appealing note reminded her of many conversations in walworth road. 'do tell me! i beg your pardon for bein' rude. don't go without telling me.' the meaning of this importunity had already flashed upon monica, and now she felt a slight pity for the tawdry, abandoned creature, in whom there seemed to survive that hopeless passion of old days. 'my name,' she said abruptly, 'is mrs. widdowson.' 'are you telling me the truth?' 'i have told you what you wish to know. i can't talk--' 'and you don't really know nothing about _him_?' 'nothing whatever.' miss eade moved sullenly away, not more than half convinced. long after monica's disappearance she strayed about the platform and the approaches to the station. her brother was slow in arriving. once or twice she held casual colloquy with men who also stood waiting--perchance for their sisters; and ultimately one of these was kind enough to offer her refreshment, which she graciously accepted. rhoda nunn would have classed her and mused about her: a not unimportant type of the odd woman. * * * after this monica frequently went out, always accompanied by her sister. it happened more than once that they saw widdowson, who walked past the house at least every other day; he didn't approach them, and had he done so monica would have kept an obstinate silence. for more than a fortnight he had not written to her. at length there came a letter, merely a repetition of his former appeals. 'i hear,' he wrote, 'that your elder sister is coming to london. why should she live here in lodgings, when a comfortable house is at the disposal of you all? let me again entreat you to go to clevedon. the furniture shall be moved any moment you wish. i solemnly promise not to molest you in any way, not even by writing. it shall be understood that business makes it necessary for me to live in london. for your sister's sake do accept this offer. if i could see you in private, i should be able to give you a very good reason why your sister virginia would benefit by the change; perhaps you yourself know of it. do answer me, monica. never again will i refer by word or look to what has passed. i am anxious only to put an end to the wretched life that you are leading. do go to the house at clevedon, i implore you.' it was not the first time he had hinted darkly at a benefit that might accrue to virginia if she left london. monica had no inkling of what he meant. she showed her sister this communication, and asked if she could understand the passage which concerned her. 'i haven't the least idea,' virginia replied, her hand trembling as she held the paper. 'i can only suppose that he thinks that i am not looking well.' the letter was burnt, as all the others had been, no answer vouchsafed. virginia's mind seemed to waver with regard to the proposed settlement at clevedon. occasionally she had urged monica, with extreme persistence, to accept what was offered; at other times, as now, for instance, she said nothing. yet alice had written beseeching her to use all means for monica's persuasion. miss madden infinitely preferred the thought of dwelling at clevedon--however humble the circumstances had been--to that of coming back into london lodgings whilst she sought for a new engagement. the situation she was about to quit had proved more laborious than any in her experience. at first merely a governess, she had gradually become children's nurse as well, and for the past three months had been expected to add the tendance of a chronic invalid to her other duties. not a day's holiday since she came. she was broken down and utterly woebegone. but monica could not be moved. she refused to go again under her husband's roof until he had stated that his charge against her was absolutely unfounded. this concession went beyond widdowson's power; he would forgive, but still declined to stultify himself by a statement that could have no meaning. to what extent his wife had deceived him might be uncertain, but the deception was a proved fact. of course it never occurred to him that monica's demand had a significance which emphasized the name of barfoot. had he said, 'i am convinced that your relations with barfoot were innocent,' he would have seemed to himself to be acquitting her of all criminality; whereas monica, from her point of view, illogically supposed that he might credit her on this one issue without overthrowing all the evidence that declared her untrustworthy. in short, she expected him to read a riddle which there was scarcely a possibility of his understanding. alice was in correspondence with the gloomy husband. she promised him to use every effort to gain monica's confidence. perhaps as the eldest sister she might succeed where virginia had failed. her faith in monica's protestations had been much shaken by the item of intelligence which virginia secretly communicated; she thought it too likely that her unhappy sister saw no refuge from disgrace but in stubborn denial of guilt. and in the undertaking that was before her she had no hope save through the influence of religion--with her a much stronger force than with either of the others. her arrival was expected on the last day of september. the evening before, monica went to bed soon after eight o'clock; for a day or two she had suffered greatly, and at length had allowed a doctor to be called. whenever her sister retired very early, virginia also went to her own bedroom, saying that she preferred to sit there. the room much surpassed in comfort that which she had occupied at mrs. conisbee's; it was spacious, and provided with a couple of very soft armchairs. having locked her door, virginia made certain preparations which had nothing to do with natural repose. from the cupboard she brought out a little spirit-kettle, and put water to boil. then from a more private repository were produced a bottle of gin and a sugar-basin, which, together with a tumbler and spoon, found a place on a little table drawn up within reach of the chair where she was going to sit. on the same table lay a novel procured this afternoon from the library. whilst the water was boiling, virginia made a slight change of dress, conducive to bodily ease. finally, having mixed a glass of gin and water--one-third only of the diluent--she sat down with one of her frequent sighs and began to enjoy the evening. the last, the very last, of such enjoyment; so she assured herself. alice's presence in the house would render impossible what she had hitherto succeeded in disguising from monica. her conscience welcomed the restraint, which was coming none too soon, for her will could no longer be depended upon. if she abstained from strong liquors for three or four days it was now a great triumph; yet worthless, for even in abstaining she knew that the hour of indulgence had only been postponed. a fit of unendurable depression soon drove her to the only resource which had immediate efficacy. the relief, she knew, was another downward step; but presently she would find courage to climb back again up to the sure ground. save for her trouble on monica's account the temptation would already have been conquered. and now alice's arrival made courage a mere necessity. her bottle was all but empty; she would finish it to-night, and in the morning, as her custom was, take it back to the grocer's in her little hand-bag. how convenient that this kind of thing could be purchased at the grocer's! in the beginning she had chiefly made use of railway refreshment rooms. only on rare occasions did she enter a public-house, and always with the bitterest sense of degradation. to sit comfortably at home, the bottle beside her, and a novel on her lap, was an avoidance of the worst shame attaching to this vice; she went to bed, and in the morning--ah, the morning brought its punishment, but she incurred no risk of being detected. brandy had first of all been her drink, as is generally the case with women of the educated class. there are so many plausible excuses for taking a drop of brandy. but it cost too much. whisky she had tried, and did not like. finally she had recourse to gin, which was palatable and very cheap. the name, debased by such foul associations, still confused her when she uttered it; as a rule, she wrote it down in a list of groceries which she handed over the counter. to-night she drank her first glass quickly; a consuming thirst was upon her. by half-past eight the second was gently steaming at her elbow. at nine she had mixed the third; it must last a long time, for the bottle was now empty. the novel entertained her, but she often let her thoughts stray from it; she reflected with exultation that to-night's indulgence was her very last. on the morrow she would be a new woman. alice and she would devote themselves to their poor sister, and never rest till they had restored her to a life of dignity. this was a worthy, a noble task; success in it must need minister to her own peace. before long they would all be living at clevedon--a life of ideal contentment. it was no longer necessary to think of the school, but she would exert herself for the moral instruction of young women--on the principles inculcated by rhoda nunn. the page before her was no longer legible; the book dropped from her lap. why this excited her laughter she could not understand; but she laughed for a long time, until her eyes were dim with tears. it might be better to go to bed. what was the hour? she tried vainly to read her watch, and again laughed at such absurd incapacity. then-- surely that was a knock at her door? yes; it was repeated, with a distinct calling of her name. she endeavoured to stand up. 'miss madden!' it was the landlady's voice. 'miss madden! are you in bed yet?' virginia succeeded in reaching the door. 'what is it?' another voice spoke. 'it is i, virginia. i have come this evening instead of to-morrow. please let me come in.' 'alice? you can't--i'll come--wait downstairs.' she was still able to understand the situation, and able, she thought, to speak coherently, to disguise her condition. the things on the table must be put out of sight. in trying to do this, she upset her glass and knocked the empty bottle on to the floor. but in a few minutes bottle, glass, and spirit-kettle were hidden away. the sugar-basin she lost sight of; it still remained in its former place. then she opened the door, and with uncertain step went out into the passage. 'alice!' she called aloud. at once both her sisters appeared, coming out of monica's chamber. monica had partly dressed herself. 'why have you come to-night?' virginia exclaimed, in a voice which seemed to her own ears perfectly natural. she tottered, and was obliged to support herself against the wall. the light from her room fell full upon her, and alice, who had stepped forward to give her a kiss, not only saw, but smelt, that something very strange was the matter. the odour proceeding from the bedroom, and that of virginia's breath, left small doubt as to the cause of delay in giving admittance. whilst alice stood bewildered, monica received an illumination which instantly made clear to her many things in virginia's daily life. at the same moment she understood those mysterious hints concerning her sister in widdowson's letters. 'come into the room,' she said abruptly. 'come, virgie.' 'i don't understand--why has alice come to-night?--what's the time?' monica took hold of the tottering woman's arm and drew her out of the passage. the cold air had produced its natural effect upon virginia, who now with difficulty supported herself. 'o virgie!' cried the eldest sister, when the door was closed. 'what is the matter? what does it mean?' already she had been shedding tears at the meeting with monica, and now distress overcame her; she sobbed and lamented. 'what have you been doing, virgie?' asked monica with severity. 'doing? i feel a little faint--surprise--didn't expect--' 'sit down at once. you are disgusting! look, alice.' she pointed to the sugar-basin on the table; then, after a rapid glance round the room, she went to the cupboard and threw the door open. 'i thought so. look, alice. and to think i never suspected this! it has been going on a long time--oh, a long time. she was doing it at mrs. conisbee's before i was married. i remember smelling spirits--' virginia was making efforts to rise. 'what are you talking about?' she exclaimed in a thick voice, and with a countenance which was changing from dazed astonishment to anger. 'it's only when i feel faint. do you suppose i drink? where's alice? wasn't alice here?' 'o virgie! what _does_ it mean? how _could_ you?' 'go to bed at once, virginia,' said monica. 'we're ashamed of you. go back into my room, alice, and i'll get her to bed.' ultimately this was done. with no slight trouble, monica persuaded her sister to undress, and got her into a recumbent position, virginia all the time protesting that she had perfect command of her faculties, that she needed no help whatever, and was utterly at a loss to comprehend the insults directed against her. 'lie quiet and go to sleep,' was monica's last word, uttered contemptuously. she extinguished the lamp and returned to her own room, where alice was still weeping. the unexpected arrival had already been explained to monica. sudden necessity for housing a visitor had led to the proposition that miss madden, for her last night, should occupy a servant's bedroom. glad to get away, alice chose the alternative of leaving the house at once. it had been arranged that she should share virginia's room, but to-night this did not seem advisable. 'to-morrow,' said monica, 'we must talk to her very seriously. i believe she has been drinking like that night after night. it explains the look she always has the first thing in the morning. could you have imagined anything so disgraceful?' but alice had softened towards the erring woman. 'you must remember what her life has been, dear. i'm afraid loneliness is very often a cause--' 'she needn't have been lonely. she refused to come and live at herne hill, and now of course i understand why. mrs. conisbee must have known about it, and it was her duty to tell me. mr. widdowson had found out somehow, i feel sure.' she explained the reason of this belief. 'you know what it all points to,' said miss madden, drying her sallow, pimpled cheeks. 'you must do as your husband wishes, dearest. we must go to clevedon. there the poor girl will be out of temptation.' 'you and virgie may go.' 'you too, monica. my dear sister, it is your duty.' 'don't use that word to me!' exclaimed the other angrily. 'it is _not_ my duty. it can be no woman's duty to live with a man she hates--or even to make a pretence of living with him.' 'but, dearest--' 'you mustn't begin this to-night, alice. i have been ill all day, and now my head is aching terribly. go downstairs and eat the supper they have laid for you.' 'i couldn't touch a morsel,' sobbed miss madden. 'oh, everything is too dreadful! life is too hard!' monica had returned to bed, and lay there with her face half hidden against the pillow. 'if you don't want any supper,' she said in a moment, 'please go and tell them, so that they needn't sit up for you.' alice obeyed. when she came up again, her sister was, or pretended to be, asleep; even the noise made by bringing luggage into the room did not cause her to move. having sat in despondency for a while, miss madden opened one of her boxes, and sought in it for the bible which it was her custom to make use of every night. she read in the book for about half an hour, then covered her face with her hands and prayed silently. this was _her_ refuge from the barrenness and bitterness of life. chapter xxix confession and counsel the sisters did not exchange a word until morning, but both of them lay long awake. monica was the first to lose consciousness; she slept for about an hour, then the pains of a horrid dream disturbed her, and again she took up the burden of thought. such waking after brief, broken sleep, when mind and body are beset by weariness, yet cannot rest, when night with its awful hush and its mysterious movements makes a strange, dread habitation for the spirit--such waking is a grim trial of human fortitude. the blood flows sluggishly, yet subject to sudden tremors that chill the veins and for an instant choke the heart. purpose is idle, the will impure; over the past hangs a shadow of remorse, and life that must yet be lived shows lurid, a steep pathway to the hopeless grave. of this cup monica drank deeply. a fear of death compassed her about. night after night it had thus haunted her. in the daytime she could think of death with resignation, as a refuge from miseries of which she saw no other end; but this hour of silent darkness shook her with terrors. reason availed nothing; its exercise seemed criminal. the old faiths, never abandoned, though modified by the breath of intellectual freedom that had just touched her, reasserted all their power. she saw herself as a wicked woman, in the eye of truth not less wicked than her husband declared her. a sinner stubborn in impenitence, defending herself by a paltry ambiguity that had all the evil of a direct lie. her soul trembled in its nakedness. what redemption could there be for her? what path of spiritual health was discoverable? she could not command herself to love the father of her child; the repugnance with which she regarded him seemed to her a sin against nature, yet how was she responsible for it? would it profit her to make confession and be humbled before him? the confession must some day be made, if only for her child's sake; but she foresaw in it no relief of mind. of all human beings her husband was the one least fitted to console and strengthen her. she cared nothing for his pardon; from his love she shrank. but if there were some one to whom she could utter her thoughts with the certainty of being understood-- her sisters had not the sympathetic intelligence necessary for aiding her; virginia was weaker than she herself, and alice dealt only in sorrowful commonplaces, profitable perhaps to her own heart, but powerless over the trouble of another's. among the few people she had called her friends there was one strong woman--strong of brain, and capable, it might be, of speaking the words that go from soul to soul; this woman she had deeply offended, yet owing to mere mischance. whether or no rhoda nunn had lent ear to barfoot's wooing she must be gravely offended; she had given proof of it in the interview reported by virginia. the scandal spread abroad by widdowson might even have been fatal to a happiness of which she had dreamt. to rhoda nunn some form of reparation was owing. and might not an avowal of the whole truth elicit from her counsel of gratitude--some solace, some guidance? amid the tremors of night monica felt able to take this step, for the mere chance of comfort that it offered. but when day came the resolution had vanished; shame and pride again compelled her to silence. and this morning she had new troubles to think about. virginia was keeping her room; would admit no one; answered every whisper of appeal with brief, vague words that signified anything or nothing. the others breakfasted in gloom that harmonized only too well with the heavy, dripping sky visible from their windows. only at midday did alice succeed in obtaining speech with her remorseful sister. they were closeted together for more than an hour, and the elder woman came forth at last with red, tear-swollen eyes. 'we must leave her alone today,' she said to monica. 'she won't take any meal. oh, the wretched state she is in! if only i could have known of this before!' 'has it been going on for very long?' 'it began soon after she went to live at mrs. conisbee's. she has told me all about it--poor girl, poor thing! whether she can ever break herself of it, who knows? she says that she will take the pledge of total abstinence, and i encouraged her to do so; it may be some use, don't you think?' 'perhaps--i don't know--' 'but i have no faith in her reforming unless she goes away from london. she thinks herself that only a new life in a new place will give her the strength. my dear, at mrs. conisbee's she starved herself to have money to buy spirits; she went without any food but dry bread day after day.' 'of course that made it worse. she must have craved for support.' 'of course. and your husband knows about it. he came once when she was in that state--when you were away--' monica nodded sullenly, her eyes averted. 'her life has been so dreadfully unhealthy. she seems to have become weak-minded. all her old interests have gone; she reads nothing but novels, day after day.' 'i have noticed that.' 'how can we help her, monica? won't you make a sacrifice for the poor girl's sake? cannot i persuade you, dear? your position has a bad influence on her; i can see it has. she worries so about you, and then tries to forget the trouble--you know how.' not that day, nor the next, could monica listen to these entreaties. but her sister at length prevailed. it was late in the evening; virginia had gone to bed, and the others sat silently, without occupation. miss madden, after several vain efforts to speak, bent forward and said in a low, grave voice,-- 'monica--you are deceiving us all. you are guilty.' 'why do you say that?' 'i know it. i have watched you. you betray yourself when you are thinking.' the other sat with brows knitted, with hard, defiant lips. 'all your natural affection is dead, and only guilt could have caused that. you don't care what becomes of your sister. only the fear, or the evil pride, that comes of guilt could make you refuse what we ask of you. you are afraid to let your husband know of your condition.' alice could not have spoken thus had she not believed what she said. the conviction had become irresistible to her mind. her voice quivered with intensity of painful emotion. 'that last is true,' said her sister, when there had been silence for a minute. 'you confess it? o monica--' 'i don't confess what you think,' went on the younger, with more calmness than she had yet commanded in these discussions. 'of that i am _not_ guilty. i am afraid of his knowing, because he will never believe me. i have a proof which would convince anyone else; but, even if i produced it, it would be no use. i don't think it is possible to persuade him--when once he knows--' 'if you were innocent you would disregard that.' 'listen to me, alice. if i were guilty i should not be living here at his expense. i only consented to do that when i knew what my condition was. but for this thing i should have refused to accept another penny from him. i should have drawn upon my own money until i was able to earn my own living again. if you won't believe this it shows you know nothing of me. your reading of my face is all foolishness.' 'i would to god i were sure of what you say!' moaned miss madden, with vehemence which seemed extraordinary in such a feeble, flabby person. 'you know that i told my husband lies,' exclaimed monica, 'so you think i am never to be trusted. i did tell him lies; i can't deny it, and i am ashamed of it. but i am not a deceitful woman--i can say that boldly. i love the truth better than falsehood. if it weren't for that i should never have left home. a deceitful woman, in my circumstances--you don't understand them--would have cheated her husband into forgiving her--such a husband as mine. she would have calculated the most profitable course. i left my husband because it was hateful to me to be with a man for whom i had lost every trace of affection. in keeping away from him i am acting honestly. but i have told you that i am also afraid of his making a discovery. i want him to believe--when the time comes--' she broke off. 'then, monica, you ought to make known to him what you have been concealing. if you are telling the truth, that confession can't be anything very dreadful.' 'alice, i am willing to make an agreement. if my husband will promise never to come near clevedon until i send for him i will go and live there with you and virgie.' 'he has promised that, darling,' cried miss madden delightedly. 'not to me. he has only said that he will make his home in london for a time: that means he would come whenever he wished, if it were only to speak to you and virgie. but he must undertake never to come near until i give him permission. if he will promise this, and keep his word, i pledge myself to let him know the whole truth in less than a year. whether i live or die, he shall be told the truth in less than a year.' before going to bed alice wrote and dispatched a few lines to widdowson, requesting an interview with him as soon as possible. she would come to his house at any hour he liked to appoint. the next afternoon brought a reply, and that same evening miss madden went to herne hill. as a result of what passed there, a day or two saw the beginning of the long-contemplated removal to clevedon. widdowson found a lodging in the neighbourhood of his old home; he had engaged never to cross the bounds of somerset until he received his wife's permission. as soon as this compact was established monica wrote to miss nunn. a short submissive letter. 'i am about to leave london, and before i go i very much wish to see you. will you allow me to call at some hour when i could speak to you in private? there is something i must make known to you, and i cannot write it.' after a day's interval came the reply, which was still briefer. miss nunn would be at home at half-past eight this or the next evening. monica's announcement that she must go out alone after nightfall alarmed her sisters. when told that her visit was to rhoda nunn they were somewhat relieved, but alice begged to be permitted to accompany her. 'it will be lost trouble,' monica declared. 'more likely than not there is a spy waiting to follow me wherever i go. your assurance that i really went to miss barfoot's won't be needed.' when the others still opposed her purpose she passed from irony into anger. 'have you undertaken to save him the expense of private detectives? have you promised never to let me go out of your sight?' 'certainly i have not,' said alice. 'nor i, dear,' protested virginia. 'he has never asked anything of the kind.' 'then you may be sure that the spies are still watching me. let them have something to do, poor creatures. i shall go alone, so you needn't say any more.' she took train to york road station, and thence, as the night was fine, walked to chelsea. this semblance of freedom, together with the sense of having taken a courageous resolve, raised her spirits. she hoped that a detective might be tracking her; the futility of such measures afforded her a contemptuous satisfaction. not to arrive before the appointed hour she loitered on chelsea embankment, and it gave her pleasure to reflect that in doing this she was outraging the proprieties. her mind was in a strange tumult of rebellious and distrustful thought. she had determined on making a confession to rhoda; but would she benefit by it? was rhoda generous enough to appreciate her motives? it did not matter much. she would have discharged a duty at the expense of such shame, and this fact alone might strengthen her to face the miseries beyond. as she stood at miss barfoot's door her heart quailed. to the servant who opened she could only speak miss nunn's name; fortunately instructions had been given, and she was straightway led to the library. here she waited for nearly five minutes. was rhoda doing this on purpose? her face, when at length she entered, made it seem probable; a cold dignity, only not offensive haughtiness, appeared in her bearing. she did not offer to shake hands, and used no form of civility beyond requesting her visitor to be seated. 'i am going away,' monica began, when silence compelled her to speak. 'yes, so you told me.' 'i can see that you can't understand why i have come.' 'your note only said that you wished to see me.' their eyes met, and monica knew in the moment that succeeded that she was being examined from head to foot. it seemed to her that she had undertaken something beyond her strength; her impulse was to invent a subject of brief conversation and escape into the darkness. but miss nunn spoke again. 'is it possible that i can be of any service to you?' 'yes. you might be. but--i find it is very difficult to say what i--' rhoda waited, offering no help whatever, not even that of a look expressing interest. 'will you tell me, miss nunn, why you behave so coldly to me?' 'surely that doesn't need any explanation, mrs. widdowson?' 'you mean that you believe everything mr. widdowson has said?' 'mr. widdowson has said nothing to me. but i have seen your sister, and there seemed no reason to doubt what she told me.' 'she couldn't tell you the truth, because she doesn't know it.' 'i presume she at least told no untruth.' 'what did virginia say? i think i have a right to ask that.' rhoda appeared to doubt it. she turned her eyes to the nearest bookcase, and for a moment reflected. 'your affairs don't really concern me, mrs. widdowson,' she said at length. 'they have been forced upon my attention, and perhaps i regard them from a wrong point of view. unless you have come to defend yourself against a false accusation, is there any profit in our talking of these things?' 'i _have_ come for that.' 'then i am not so unjust as to refuse to hear you.' 'my name has been spoken of together with mr. barfoot's. this is wrong. it began from a mistake.' monica could not shape her phrases. hastening to utter the statement that would relieve her from miss nunn's personal displeasure, she used the first simple words that rose to her lips. 'when i went to bayswater that day i had no thought of seeing mr. barfoot. i wished to see someone else.' the listener manifested more attention. she could not mistake the signs of sincerity in monica's look and speech. 'some one,' she asked coldly, 'who was living with mr. barfoot?' 'no. some one in the same building; in another flat. when i knocked at mr. barfoot's door, i knew--or i felt sure--no one would answer. i knew mr. barfoot was going away that day--going into cumberland.' rhoda's look was fixed on the speaker's countenance. 'you knew he was going to cumberland?' she asked in a slow, careful voice. 'he told me so. i met him, quite by chance, the day before.' 'where did you meet him?' 'near the flats,' monica answered, colouring. 'he had just come out--i saw him come out. i had an appointment there that afternoon, and i walked a short way with him, so that he shouldn't--' her voice failed. she saw that rhoda had begun to mistrust her, to think that she was elaborating falsehoods. the burdensome silence was broken by miss nunn's saying repellently,-- 'i haven't asked for your confidence, remember.' 'no--and if you try to imagine what it means for me to be speaking like this--i am not shameless. i have suffered a great deal before i could bring myself to come here and tell you. if you were more human--if you tried to believe--' the agitation which found utterance in these words had its effect upon rhoda. in spite of herself she was touched by the note of womanly distress. 'why have you come? why do you tell me this?' 'because it isn't only that i have been falsely accused. i felt i must tell you that mr. barfoot had never--that there was nothing between us. what has he said? how did he meet the charge mr. widdowson made against him?' 'simply by denying it.' 'hasn't he wished to appeal to _me_?' 'i don't know. i haven't heard of his expressing such a wish. i can't see that you are called upon to take any trouble about mr. barfoot. he ought to be able to protect his own reputation.' 'has he done so?' monica asked eagerly. 'did you believe him when he denied--' 'but what does it matter whether i believed him or not?' 'he would think it mattered a great deal.' 'mr. barfoot would think so? why?' 'he told me how much he wished to have your good opinion that is what we used to talk about. i don't know why he took me into his confidence. it happened first of all when we were going by train--the same train, by chance--after we had both been calling here. he asked me many questions about you, and at last said--that he loved you--or something that meant the same.' rhoda's eyes had fallen. 'after that,' pursued monica, 'we several times spoke of you. we did so when we happened to meet near his rooms--as i have told you. he told me he was going to cumberland with the hope of seeing you; and i understood him to mean he wished to ask you--' the sudden and great change in miss nunn's expression checked the speaker. scornful austerity had given place to a smile, stern indeed, but exultant. there was warmth upon her face; her lips moved and relaxed; she altered her position in the chair as if inclined for more intimate colloquy. 'there was never more than that between us,' pursued monica with earnestness. 'my interest in mr. barfoot was only on your account. i hoped he might be successful. and i have come to you because i feared you would believe my husband--as i see you have done.' rhoda, though she thought it very unlikely that all this should be admirable acting, showed that the explanation had by no means fully satisfied her. unwilling to put the crucial question, she waited, with gravity which had none of the former harshness, for what else mrs. widdowson might choose to say. a look of suffering appeal obliged her to break the silence. 'i am very sorry you have laid this task upon yourself--' still monica looked at her, and at length murmured,-- 'if only i could know that i had done any good--' 'but,' said rhoda, with a searching glance, 'you don't wish me to repeat what you have said?' 'it was only for you. i thought--if you felt able to let mr. barfoot know that you had no longer any--' a flash of stern intelligence shot from the listener's eyes. 'you have seen him then?' she asked with abrupt directness. 'not since.' 'he has written to you?'--still in the same voice. 'indeed he has not. mr. barfoot never wrote to me. i know nothing whatever about him. no one asked me to come to you--don't think that. no one knows of what i have been telling you.' again rhoda was oppressed by the difficulty of determining how much credit was due to such assertions. monica understood her look. 'as i have said so much i must tell you all. it would be dreadful after this to go away uncertain whether you believed me or not.' human feeling prompted the listener to declare that she had no doubts left. yet she could not give utterance to the words. she knew they would sound forced, insincere. shame at inflicting shame caused her to bend her head. already she had been silent too long. 'i will tell you everything,' monica was saying in low, tremulous tones. 'if no one else believes me, you at all events shall. i have not done what--' 'no--i can't hear this,' rhoda broke in, the speaker's voice affecting her too powerfully. 'i will believe you without this.' monica broke into sobbing. the strain of this last effort had overtaxed her strength. 'we won't talk any more of it,' said rhoda, with an endeavour to speak kindly. 'you have done all that could be asked of you. i am grateful to you for coming on my account. the other controlled herself. 'will you hear what i have to say, miss nunn? will you hear it as a friend? i want to put myself right in your thoughts. i have told no one else; i shall be easier in mind if you will hear me. my husband will know everything before very long--but perhaps i shall not be alive--' something in miss nunn's face suggested to monica that her meaning was understood. perhaps, notwithstanding her denial, virginia had told more when she was here than she had permission to make known. 'why should you wish to tell _me_?' asked rhoda uneasily. 'because you are so strong. you will say something that will help me. i know you think that i have committed a sin which it is a shame to speak of. that isn't true. if it were true i should never consent to go and live in my husband's house.' 'you are returning to him?' 'i forgot that i haven't told you.' and monica related the agreement that had been arrived at. when she spoke of the time that must elapse before she would make a confession to her husband, it again seemed to her that miss nunn understood. 'there is a reason why i consent to be supported by him,' she continued. 'if it were true that i had sinned as he suspects i would rather kill myself than pretend still to be his wife. the day before he had me watched i thought i had left him forever. i thought that if i went back to the house again it would only be to get a few things that i needed. it was some one who lived in the same building as mr. barfoot. you have met him--' she raised her eyes for an instant, and they encountered the listener's. rhoda was at no loss to supply the omitted name; she saw at once how plain things were becoming. 'he has left england,' pursued monica in a hurried but clear voice. 'i thought then that i should go away with him. but--it was impossible. i loved him--or thought i loved him; but i was guiltless of anything more than consenting to leave my husband. will you believe me?' 'yes, monica, i do believe you.' 'if you have any doubt, i can show you a letter he wrote to me from abroad, which will prove--' 'i believe you absolutely.' 'but let me tell you more. i must explain how the misunderstanding--' rapidly she recounted the incidents of that fatal saturday afternoon. at the conclusion her self-command was again overcome; she shed tears, and murmured broken entreaties for kindness. 'what shall i do, miss nunn? how can i live until--? i know it's only for a short time. my wretched life will soon be at an end--' 'monica--there is one thing you must remember.' the voice was so gentle, though firm--so unlike what she had expected to hear--that the sufferer looked up with grateful attention. 'tell me--give me what help you can.' 'life seems so bitter to you that you are in despair. yet isn't it your duty to live as though some hope were before you?' monica gazed in uncertainty. 'you mean--' she faltered. 'i think you will understand. i am not speaking of your husband. whether you have duties to him or not i can't say; that is for your own mind and heart to determine. but isn't it true that your health has a graver importance than if you yourself only were concerned?' 'yes--you have understood me--' 'isn't it your duty to remember at every moment that your thoughts, your actions, may affect another life--that by heedlessness, by abandoning yourself to despair, you may be the cause of suffering it was in your power to avert?' herself strongly moved, rhoda had never spoken so impressively, had never given counsel of such earnest significance. she felt her power in quite a new way, without touch of vanity, without posing or any trivial self-consciousness. when she least expected it an opportunity had come for exerting the moral influence on which she prided herself, and which she hoped to make the ennobling element of her life. all the better that the case was one calling for courage, for contempt of vulgar reticences; the combative soul in her became stronger when faced by such conditions. seeing that her words were not in vain, she came nearer to monica and spoke yet more kindly. 'why do you encourage that fear of your life coming to an end?' 'it's more a hope than a fear--at most times. i can see nothing before me. i don't wish to live.' 'that's morbid. it isn't yourself that speaks, but your trouble. you are young and strong, and in a year's time very much of this unhappiness will have passed.' 'i have felt it like a certainty--as if it had been foretold to me--ever since i knew--' 'i think it very likely that young wives have often the same dread. it is physical, monica, and in your case there is so little relief from dark brooding. but again you must think of your responsibility. you will live, because the poor little life will need your care.' monica turned her head away and moaned. 'i shall not love my child.' 'yes, you will. and that love, that duty, is the life to which you must look forward. you have suffered a great deal, but after such sorrow as yours there comes quietness and resignation. nature will help you.' 'oh, if you could give me some of _your_ strength! i have never been able to look at life as you do. i should never have married him if i hadn't been tempted by the thoughts of living easily--and i feared so--that i might always be alone--my sisters are so miserable; it terrified me to think of struggling on through life as they do--' 'your mistake was in looking only at the weak women. you had other examples before you--girls like miss vesper and miss haven, who live bravely and work hard and are proud of their place in the world. but it's idle to talk of the past, and just as foolish to speak as if you were sorrowing without hope. how old are you, monica?' 'two-and-twenty.' 'well, i am two-and-thirty--and i don't call myself old. when you have reached my age i prophesy you will smile at your despair of ten years ago. at your age one talks so readily of "wrecked life" and "hopeless future," and all that kind of thing. my dear girl, you may live to be one of the most contented and most useful women in england. your life isn't wrecked at all--nonsense! you have gone through a storm, that's true; but more likely than not you will be all the better for it. don't talk or think about _sins_; simply make up your mind that you won't be beaten by trials and hardships. there cannot--can there?--be the least doubt as to how you ought to live through these next coming months. your duty is perfectly clear. strengthen yourself in body and mind. you _have_ a mind, which is more than can be said of a great many women. think bravely and nobly of yourself! say to yourself: this and that it is in me to do, and i will do it!' monica bent suddenly forward and took one of her friend's hands, and clung to it. 'i knew you could say something that would help me. you have a way of speaking. but it isn't only now. i shall be so far away, and so lonely, all through the dark winter. will you write to me?' 'gladly. and tell you all we are doing.' rhoda's voice sank for a moment; her eyes wandered; but she recovered the air of confidence. 'we seemed to have lost you; but before long you will be one of us again. i mean, you will be one of the women who are fighting in woman's cause. you will prove by your life that we can be responsible human beings--trustworthy, conscious of purpose.' 'tell me--do you think it right for me to live with my husband when i can't even regard him as a friend?' 'in that i dare not counsel you. if you _can_ think of him as a friend, in time to come, surely it will be better. but here you must guide yourself. you seem to have made a very sensible arrangement, and before long you will see many things more clearly. try to recover health--health; that is what you need. drink in the air of the severn sea; it will be a cordial to you after this stifling london. next summer i shall--i hope i shall be at cheddar, and then i shall come over to clevedon--and we shall laugh and talk as if we had never known a care.' 'ah, if that time were come! but you have done me good. i shall try--' she rose. 'i mustn't forget,' said rhoda, without looking at her, 'that i owe you thanks. you have done what you felt was right in spite of all it cost you; and you have very greatly relieved my mind. of course it is all a secret between us. if i make it understood that a doubt is no longer troubling me i shall never say how it was removed.' 'how i wish i had come before.' 'for your own sake, if i have really helped you, i wish you had. but as for anything else--it is much better as it is.' and rhoda stood with erect head, smiling her smile of liberty. monica did not dare to ask any question. she moved up to her friend, holding out both hands timidly. 'good-bye!' 'till next summer.' they embraced, and kissed each other, monica, when she had withdrawn her hot lips, again murmuring words of gratitude. then in silence they went together to the house-door, and in silence parted. chapter xxx retreat with honour alighting, on his return to london, at the savoy hotel, barfoot insensibly prolonged his stay there. for the present he had no need of a more private dwelling; he could not see more than a few days ahead; his next decisive step was as uncertain as it had been during the first few months after his coming back from the east. meantime, he led a sufficiently agreeable life. the brissendens were not in town, but his growing intimacy with that family had extended his social outlook, and in a direction correspondent with the change in his own circumstances. he was making friends in the world with which he had a natural affinity; that of wealthy and cultured people who seek no prominence, who shrink from contact with the circles known as 'smart,' who possess their souls in quiet freedom. it is a small class, especially distinguished by the charm of its women. everard had not adapted himself without difficulty to this new atmosphere; from the first he recognized its soothing and bracing quality, but his experiences had accustomed him to an air more rudely vigorous; it was only after those weeks spent abroad in frequent intercourse with the brissendens that he came to understand the full extent of his sympathy with the social principles these men and women represented. in the houses where his welcome was now assured he met some three or four women among whom it would have been difficult to assign the precedence for grace of manner and of mind. these persons were not in declared revolt against the order of things, religious, ethical, or social; that is to say, they did not think it worthwhile to identify themselves with any 'movement'; they were content with the unopposed right of liberal criticism. they lived placidly; refraining from much that the larger world enjoined, but never aggressive. everard admired them with increasing fervour. with one exception they were married, and suitably married; that member of the charming group who kept her maiden freedom was agnes brissenden, and it seemed to barfoot that, if preference were at all justified, agnes should receive the palm. his view of her had greatly changed since the early days of their acquaintance; in fact, he perceived that till of late he had not known her at all. his quick assumption that agnes was at his disposal if he chose to woo her had been mere fatuity; he misread her perfect simplicity of demeanour, the unconstraint of her intellectual sympathies. what might now be her personal attitude to him he felt altogether uncertain, and the result was a genuine humility such as he had never known. nor was it agnes only that subdued his masculine self-assertiveness; her sisters in grace had scarcely less dominion over him; and at times, as he sat conversing in one of these drawing-rooms, he broke off to marvel at himself, to appreciate the perfection of his own suavity, the vast advance he had been making in polished humanism. towards the end of november he learnt that the brissendens were at their town house, and a week later he received an invitation to dine with them. over his luncheon at the hotel everard reflected with some gravity, for, if he were not mistaken, the hour had come when he must make up his mind on a point too long in suspense. what was rhoda nunn doing? he had heard nothing whatever of her. his cousin mary wrote to him, whilst he was at ostend, in a kind and friendly tone, informing him that his simple assurance with regard to a certain disagreeable matter was all she had desired, and hoping that he would come and see her as usual when he found himself in london. but he had kept away from the house in queen's road, and it was probable that mary did not even know his address. as the result of meditation he went to his sitting-room, and with an air of reluctance sat down to write a letter. it was a request that mary would let him see her somewhere or other--not at her house. couldn't they have a talk at the place in great portland street, when no one else was there? miss barfoot answered with brief assent. if he liked to come to great portland street at three o'clock on saturday she would be awaiting him. on arriving, he inspected the rooms with curiosity. 'i have often wished to come here, mary. show me over the premises, will you?' 'that was your purpose--?' 'no, not altogether. but you know how your work interests me.' mary complied, and freely answered his various questions. then they sat down on hard chairs by the fire, and everard, leaning forward as if to warm his hands, lost no more time in coming to the point. 'i want to hear about miss nunn.' 'to hear about her? pray, what do you wish to hear?' 'is she well?' 'very well indeed.' 'i'm very glad of that. does she ever speak of me?' 'let me see--i don't think she has referred to you lately.' everard looked up. 'don't let us play a comedy, mary. i want to talk very seriously. shall i tell you what happened when i went to seascale?' 'ah, you went to seascale, did you?' 'didn't you know that?' he asked, unable to decide the question from his cousin's face, which was quite friendly, but inscrutable. 'you went when miss nunn was there?' 'of course. you must have known i was going, when i asked you for her seascale address.' 'and what did happen? i shall be glad to hear--if you feel at liberty to tell me.' after a pause, everard began the narrative. but he did not see fit to give it with all the detail which mary had learnt from her friend. he spoke of the excursion to wastwater, and of the subsequent meeting on the shore. 'the end of it was that miss nunn consented to marry me.' 'she consented?' 'that comes as a surprise?' 'please go on.' 'well, we arranged everything. rhoda was to stay till the fifteen days were over, and the marriage would have been there. but then arrived your letter, and we quarrelled about it. i wasn't disposed to beg and pray for justice. i told rhoda that her wish for evidence was an insult, that i would take no step to understand mrs. widdowson's behaviour. rhoda was illogical, i think. she did not refuse to take my word, but she wouldn't marry me until the thing was cleared up. i told her that she must investigate it for herself, and so we parted in no very good temper.' miss barfoot smiled and mused. her duty, she now felt convinced, was to abstain from any sort of meddling. these two people must settle their affairs as they chose. to interfere was to incur an enormous responsibility. for what she had already done in that way mary reproved herself. 'now i want to ask you a plain question,' everard resumed. 'that letter you wrote to me at ostend--did it represent rhoda's mind as well as your own?' 'it's quite impossible for me to say. i didn't know rhoda's mind.' 'well, perhaps that is a satisfactory answer. it implies, no doubt, that she was still resolved not to concede the point on which i insisted. but since then? has she come to a decision?' it was necessary to prevaricate. mary knew of the interview between miss nunn and mrs. widdowson, knew its result; but she would not hint at this. 'i have no means of judging how she regards you, everard.' 'it is possible she even thinks me a liar?' 'i understood you to say that she never refused to believe you.' he made a movement of impatience. 'plainly--you will tell me nothing?' 'i have nothing to tell.' 'then i suppose i must see rhoda. perhaps she will refuse to admit me?' 'i can't say. but if she does her meaning would be unmistakable.' 'cousin mary'--he looked at her and laughed--'i think you will be very glad if she _does_ refuse.' she seemed about to reply with some pleasantry, but checked herself, and spoke in a serious voice. 'no. i have no such feeling. whatever you both agree upon will satisfy me. so come by all means if you wish. i can have nothing to do with it. you had better write and ask her if she will see you, i should think.' barfoot rose from his seat, and mary was glad to be released so quickly from a disagreeable situation. for her own part she had no need to put indiscreet questions; everard's manner acquainted her quite sufficiently with what was going on in his thoughts. however, he had still something to say. 'you think i have behaved rather badly--let us say, harshly?' 'i am not so foolish as to form any judgment in such a case, cousin everard.' 'speaking as a woman, should you say that rhoda had reason on her side--in the first instance?' 'i think,' mary replied, with reluctance, but deliberately, 'that she was not unreasonable in wishing to postpone her marriage until she knew what was to be the result of mrs. widdowson's indiscreet behaviour.' 'well, perhaps she was not,' everard admitted thoughtfully. 'and what _has_ been the result?' 'i only know that mrs. widdowson has left london and gone to live at a house her husband has taken somewhere in the country.' 'i'm relieved to hear that. by-the-bye, the little lady's "indiscreet behaviour" is as much a mystery to me as ever.' 'and to me,' mary replied with an air of indifference. 'well, then, let us take it for granted that i was rather harsh with rhoda. but suppose she still meets me with the remark that things are just as they were--that nothing has been explained?' 'i can't discuss your relations with miss nunn.' 'however, you defend her original action. be so good as to admit that i can't go to mrs. widdowson and request her to publish a statement that i have never--' 'i shall admit nothing,' interrupted miss barfoot rather tartily. 'i have advised you to see miss nunn--if she is willing. and there's nothing more to be said.' 'good. i will write to her.' * * * he did so, in the fewest possible words, and received an answer of equal brevity. in accordance with permission granted, on the monday evening he found himself once more in his cousin's drawing-room, sitting alone, waiting miss nunn's appearance. he wondered how she would present herself, in what costume. her garb proved to be a plain dress of blue serge, certainly not calculated for effect; but his eye at once distinguished the fact that she had arranged her hair as she wore it when he first knew her, a fashion subsequently abandoned for one that he thought more becoming. they shook hands. externally barfoot was the more agitated, and his embarrassment appeared in the awkward words with which he began. 'i had made up my mind never to come until you let me know that i was tried and acquitted but after all it is better to have reason on one's side.' 'much better,' replied rhoda, with a smile which emphasized her ambiguity. she sat down, and he followed her example. their relative positions called to mind many a conversation they had held in this room. barfoot--he wore evening-dress--settled in the comfortable chair as though he were an ordinary guest. 'i suppose you would never have written to me?' 'never,' she answered quietly. 'because you are too proud, or because the mystery is still a mystery?' 'there is no longer any mystery.' everard made a movement of surprise. 'indeed? you have discovered what it all meant?' 'yes, i know what it all meant.' 'can you gratify my not unnatural curiosity?' 'i can say nothing about it, except that i know how the misunderstanding arose.' rhoda was betraying the effort it had cost her to seem so self-possessed when she entered. her colour had deepened, and she spoke hurriedly, unevenly. 'and it didn't occur to you that it would be a kindness, not inconsistent with your dignity, to make me in some way acquainted with this fact?' 'i feel no uneasiness on your account.' everard laughed. 'splendidly frank, as of old. you really didn't care in the least how much i suffered?' 'you misunderstand me. i felt sure that you didn't suffer at all.' 'ah, i see. you imagined me calm in the assurance that i should some day be justified.' 'i had every reason for imagining it,' rejoined rhoda. 'otherwise, you would have given some sign.' of course he had deeply offended her by his persistent silence. he had intended to do so first of all; and afterwards--had thought it might be as well. now that he had got over the difficulty of the meeting he enjoyed his sense of security. how the interview would end he know not; but on his side there would be nothing hasty, unconsidered, merely emotional. had rhoda any new revelation of personality within her resources?--that was the question. if so, he would be pleased to observe it. if not--why, it was only the end to which he had long ago looked forward. 'it was not for me to give any sign,' he remarked. 'yet you have said that it is well to have reason on one's side.' perhaps a softer note allowed itself to be detected in these words. in any case, they were not plainly ironical. 'admit, then, that an approach was due from me. i have made it. i am here.' rhoda said nothing. yet she had not an air of expectancy. her eye was grave, rather sad, as though for the moment she had forgotten what was at issue, and had lost herself in remoter thought. regarding her, everard felt a nobility in her countenance which amply justified all he had ever felt and said. but was there anything more--any new power? 'so we go back,' he pursued, 'to our day at wastwater. the perfect day--wasn't it?' 'i shall never wish to forget it,' said rhoda reflectively. 'and we stand as when we quitted each other that night--do we?' she glanced at him. 'i think not.' 'then what is the difference?' he waited some seconds, and repeated the question before rhoda answered. 'you are conscious of no difference?' she said. 'months have elapsed. we are different because we are older. but you speak as if you were conscious of some greater change.' 'yes, you are changed noticeably. i thought i knew you; perhaps i did. now i should have to learn you all over again. it is difficult, you see, for me to keep pace with you. your opportunities are so much wider.' this was puzzling. did it signify mere jealousy, or a profounder view of things? her voice had something even of pathos, as though she uttered a simple thought, without caustic intention. 'i try not to waste my life,' he answered seriously. 'i have made new acquaintances.' 'will you tell me about them?' 'tell me first about yourself. you say you would never have written to me. that means, i think, that you never loved me. when you found that i had been wrongly suspected--and you suspected me yourself, say what you will--if you had loved me, you would have asked forgiveness.' 'i have a like reason for doubting _your_ love. if you had loved me you could never have waited so long without trying to remove the obstacle that was between us.' 'it was you who put the obstacle there,' said everard, smiling. 'no. an unlucky chance did that. or a lucky one. who knows?' he began to think: if this woman had enjoyed the social advantages to which agnes brissenden and those others were doubtless indebted for so much of their charm, would she not have been their equal, or more? for the first time he compassionated rhoda. she was brave, and circumstances had not been kind to her. at this moment, was she not contending with herself? was not her honesty, her dignity, struggling against the impulses of her heart? rhoda's love had been worth more than his, and it would be her one love in life. a fatuous reflection, perhaps; yet every moment's observation seemed to confirm it. 'well, now,' he said, 'there's the question which we must decide. if you incline to think that the chance was fortunate--' she would not speak. 'we must know each other's mind.' 'ah, that is so difficult!' rhoda murmured, just raising her hand and letting it fall. 'yes, unless we give each other help. let us imagine ourselves back at seascale, down by the waves. (how cold and grim it must be there to-night!) i repeat what i said then: rhoda, will you marry me?' she looked fixedly at him. 'you didn't say that then.' 'what do the words matter?' 'that was not what you said.' he watched the agitation of her features, until his gaze seemed to compel her to move. she stepped towards the fireplace, and moved a little screen that stood too near the fender. 'why do you want me to repeat exactly what i said?' everard asked, rising and following her. 'you speak of the "perfect day." didn't the day's perfection end before there was any word of marriage?' he looked at her with surprise. she had spoken without turning her face towards him; it was visible now only by the glow of the fire. yes, what she said was true, but a truth which he had neither expected nor desired to hear. had the new revelation prepared itself? 'who first used the word, rhoda?' 'yes; i did.' there was silence. rhoda stood unmoving, the fire's glow upon her face, and barfoot watched her. 'perhaps,' he said at length, 'i was not quite serious when i--' she turned sharply upon him, a flash of indignation in her eyes. 'not quite serious? yes, i have thought that. and were you quite serious in _anything_ you said?' 'i loved you,' he answered curtly, answering her steady look. 'yet wanted to see whether--' she could not finish the sentence; her throat quivered. 'i loved you, that's all. and i believe i still love you.' rhoda turned to the fire again. 'will you marry me?' he asked, moving a step nearer. 'i think you are "not quite serious".' 'i have asked you twice. i ask for the third time.' 'i won't marry you with the forms of marriage,' rhoda answered in an abrupt, harsh tone. 'now it is you who play with a serious matter.' 'you said we had both changed. i see now that our "perfect day" was marred by my weakness at the end. if you wish to go back in imagination to that summer night, restore everything, only let _me_ be what i now am.' everard shook his head. 'impossible. it must be then or now for both of us.' 'legal marriage,' she said, glancing at him, 'has acquired some new sanction for you since then?' 'on the whole, perhaps it has.' 'naturally. but i shall never marry, so we will speak no more of it.' as if finally dismissing the subject she walked to the opposite side of the hearth, and there turned towards her companion with a cold smile. 'in other words, then, you have ceased to love me?' 'yes, i no longer love you.' 'yet, if i had been willing to revive that fantastic idealism--as you thought it--' she interrupted him sternly. 'what _was_ it?' 'oh, a kind of idealism undoubtedly. i was so bent on making sure that you loved me.' she laughed. 'after all, the perfection of our day was half make-believe. you never loved me with entire sincerity. and you will never love any woman--even as well as you loved me.' 'upon my soul, i believe it, rhoda. and even now--' 'and even now it is just possible for us to say goodbye with something like friendliness. but not if you talk longer. don't let us spoil it; things are so straight--and clear--' a threatened sob made her break off, but she recovered herself and offered him her hand. * * * he walked all the way back to his hotel, and the cold, clammy night restored his equanimity. a fortnight later, sending a christmas present, with greetings, to mr. and mrs. micklethwaite, he wrote thus-- 'i am about to do my duty--as you put it--that is, to marry. the name of my future wife is miss agnes brissenden. it will be in march, i think. but i shall see you before then, and give you a fuller account of myself.' chapter xxxi a new beginning widdowson tried two or three lodgings; he settled at length in a small house at hampstead; occupying two plain rooms. here, at long intervals, his friend newdick came to see him, but no one else. he had brought with him a selection of solid books from his library, and over these the greater part of each day was spent. not that he studied with any zeal; reading, and of a kind that demanded close attention, was his only resource against melancholia; he knew not how else to occupy himself. adam smith's classical work, perused with laborious thoroughness, gave him employment for a couple of months; subsequently he plodded through all the volumes of hallam. his landlady, and the neighbours who were at leisure to observe him when he went out for his two hours' walk in the afternoon, took him for an old gentleman of sixty-five or so. he no longer held himself upright, and when out of doors seldom raised his eyes from the ground; grey streaks had begun to brindle his hair; his face grew yellower and more deeply furrowed. of his personal appearance, even of cleanliness, he became neglectful, and occasionally it happened that he lay in bed all through the morning, reading, dozing, or in a state of mental vacuity. it was long since he had seen his relative, the sprightly widow; but he had heard from her. on the point of leaving england for her summer holiday, mrs. luke sent him a few lines, urging him, in the language of the world, to live more sensibly, and let his wife 'have her head' now and then; it would be better for both of them. then followed the time of woe, and for many weeks he gave no thought to mrs. luke. but close upon the end of the year he received one day a certain society journal, addressed in a hand he knew to the house at herne hill. in it was discoverable, marked with a red pencil, the following paragraph. 'among the english who this year elected to take their repose and recreation at trouville there was no more brilliant figure than mrs. luke widdowson. this lady is well known in the _monde_ where one never _s'ennuie_; where smart people are gathered together, there is the charming widow sure to be seen. we are able to announce that, before leaving trouville, mrs. widdowson had consented to a private engagement with capt. william horrocks--no other, indeed, than "captain bill," the universal favourite, so beloved by hostesses as a sure dancing man. by the lamented death of his father, this best of good fellows has now become sir william, and we understand that his marriage will be celebrated after the proper delays. our congratulations!' subsequently arrived a newspaper with an account of the marriage. mrs. luke was now lady horrocks: she had the title desired of her heart. another two months went by, and there came a letter--re-addressed, like the other communications, at the post office--in which the baronet's wife declared herself anxious to hear of her friends. she found they had left herne hill; if this letter reached him, would not edmund come and see her at her house in wimpole street? misery of solitude, desire for a woman's sympathy and counsel, impelled him to use this opportunity, little as it seemed to promise. he went to wimpole street and had a very long private talk with lady horrocks, who, in some way he could not understand, had changed from her old self. she began frivolously, but in rather a dull, make-believe way; and when she heard that widdowson had parted from his wife, when a few vague, miserable words had suggested the domestic drama so familiar to her observation, she at once grew quiet, sober, sympathetic, as if really glad to have something serious to talk about. 'now look here, edmund. tell the whole story from the first. you're the sort of man to make awful blunders in such a case as this. just tell me all about it. i'm not a bad sort, you know, and i have troubles of my own--i don't mind telling you so much. women make fools of themselves--well, never mind. just tell me about the little girl, and see if we can't square things somehow.' he had a struggle with himself, but at length narrated everything, often interrupted by shrewd questions. 'no one writes to you?' the listener finally inquired. 'i am expecting to hear from them,' was widdowson's answer, as he sat in the usual position, head hanging forward and hands clasped between his knees. 'to hear what?' 'i think i shall be sent for.' 'sent for? to make it up?' 'she is going to give birth to a child.' lady horrocks nodded twice thoughtfully, and with a faint smile. 'how did you find this out?' 'i have known it long enough. her sister virginia told me before they went away. i had a suspicion all at once, and i forced her to tell me.' 'and if you are sent for shall you go?' widdowson seemed to mutter an affirmative, and added,-- 'i shall hear what she has to tell me, as she promised.' 'is it--is it possible--?' the lady's question remained incomplete. widdowson, though he understood it, vouchsafed no direct answer. intense suffering was manifest in his face, and at length he spoke vehemently. 'whatever she tells me--how can i believe it? when once a woman has lied how can she ever again be believed? i can't be sure of anything.' 'all that fibbing,' remarked lady horrocks, 'has an unpleasant look. no denying it. she got entangled somehow. but i think you had better believe that she pulled up just in time.' 'i have no love for her left,' he went on in a despairing voice. 'it all perished in those frightful days. i tried hard to think that i still loved her. i kept writing letters--but they meant nothing--or they only meant that i was driven half crazy by wretchedness. i had rather we lived on as we have been doing. it's miserable enough for me, god knows; but it would be worse to try and behave to her as if i could forget everything. i know her explanation won't satisfy me. whatever it is i shall still suspect her. i don't know that the child is mine. it may be. perhaps as it grows up there will be a likeness to help me to make sure. but what a life! every paltry trifle will make me uneasy; and if i discovered any fresh deceit i should do something terrible. you don't know how near i was--' he shuddered and hid his face. 'the othello business won't do,' said lady horrocks not unkindly. 'you couldn't have gone on together, of course; you had to part for a time. well, that's all over; take it as something that couldn't be helped. you were behaving absurdly, you know; i told you plainly; i guessed there'd be trouble. you oughtn't to have married at all, that's the fact; it would be better for most of us if we kept out of it. some marry for a good reason, some for a bad, and mostly it all comes to the same in the end. but there, never mind. pull yourself together, dear boy. it's all nonsense about not caring for her. of course you're eating your heart out for want of her. and i'll tell you what i think: it's very likely monica was pulled up just in time by discovering--you understand?--that she was more your wife than any one else's. something tells me that's how it was. just try to look at it in that way. if the child lives she'll be different. she has sowed her wild oats--why shouldn't a woman as well as a man? go down to clevedon and forgive her. you're an honest man, and it isn't every woman--never mind. i could tell you stories about people--but you wouldn't care to hear them. just take things with a laugh--we _all_ have to. life's as you take it: all gloom or moderately shiny.' with much more to the same solacing effect. for the time widdowson was perchance a trifle comforted; at all events, he went away with a sense of gratitude to lady horrocks. and when he had left the house he remembered that not even a civil formality with regard to sir william had fallen from his lips. but sir william's wife, for whatever reason, had also not once mentioned the baronet's name. * * * only a few days passed before widdowson received the summons he was expecting. it came in the form of a telegram, bidding him hasten to his wife; not a word of news added. at the time of its arrival he was taking his afternoon walk; this delay made it doubtful whether he could get to paddington by six-twenty, the last train which would enable him to reach clevedon that night. he managed it, with only two or three minutes to spare. not till he was seated in the railway carriage could he fix his thoughts on the end of the journey. an inexpressible repugnance then affected him; he would have welcomed any disaster to the train, any injury which might prevent his going to monica at such a time. often, in anticipation, the event which was now come to pass had confused and darkened his mind; he loathed the thought of it. if the child, perhaps already born, were in truth his, it must be very long before he could regard it with a shadow of paternal interest; uncertainty, to which he was condemned, would in all likelihood make it an object of aversion to him as long as he lived. he was at bristol by a quarter past nine, and had to change for a slow train, which by ten o'clock brought him to yatton, the little junction for clevedon. it was a fine starry night, but extremely cold. for the few minutes of detention he walked restlessly about the platform. his chief emotion was now a fear lest all might not go well with monica. whether he could believe what she had to tell him or not, it would be worse if she were to die before he could hear her exculpation. the anguish of remorse would seize upon him. alone in his compartment, he did not sit down, but stamped backwards and forwards on the floor, and before the train stopped he jumped out. no cab was procurable; he left his bag at the station, and hastened with all speed in the direction that he remembered. but very soon the crossways had confused him. as he met no one whom he could ask to direct him, he had to knock at a door. streaming with perspiration, he came at length within sight of his own house. a church clock was striking eleven. alice and virginia were both standing in the hall when the door was opened; they beckoned him into a room. 'is it over?' he asked, staring from one to the other with his dazzled eyes. 'at four this afternoon,' answered alice, scarce able to articulate. 'a little girl.' 'she had to have chloroform,' said virginia, who looked a miserable, lifeless object, and shook like one in an ague. 'and all's well?' 'we think so--we hope so,' they stammered together. alice added that the doctor was to make another call to-night. they had a good nurse. the infant seemed healthy, but was a very, very little mite, and had only made its voice heard for a few minutes. 'she knows you sent for me?' 'yes. and we have something to give you. you were to have this as soon as you arrived.' miss madden handed him a sealed envelope; then both the sisters drew away, as if fearing the result of what they had done. widdowson just glanced at the unaddressed missive and put it into his pocket. 'i must have something to eat,' he said, wiping his forehead. 'when the doctor comes i'll see him.' this visit took place while he was engaged on his supper. on coming down from the patient the doctor gave him an assurance that things were progressing 'fairly well'; the morning, probably, would enable him to speak with yet more confidence. widdowson had another brief conversation with the sisters, then bade them good-night, and went to the room that had been prepared for him. as he closed the door he heard a thin, faint wail, and stood listening until it ceased; it came from a room on the floor below. having brought himself with an effort to open the envelope he had received, he found several sheets of notepaper, one of them, remarked immediately, in a man's writing. at this he first glanced, and the beginning showed him that it was a love-letter written to monica. he threw it aside and took up the other sheets, which contained a long communication from his wife; it was dated two months ago. in it monica recounted to him, with scrupulous truthfulness, the whole story of her relations with bevis. 'i only make this confession'--so she concluded--'for the sake of the poor child that will soon be born. the child is yours, and ought not to suffer because of what i did. the enclosed letter will prove this to you, if anything can. for myself i ask nothing. i don't think i shall live. if i do i will consent to anything you propose. i only ask you to behave without any pretence; if you cannot forgive me, do not make a show of it. say what your will is, and that shall be enough'. he did not go to bed that night. there was a fire in the room, and he kept it alight until daybreak, when he descended softly to the hall and let himself out of the house. in a fierce wind that swept from the north-west down the foaming channel, he walked for an hour or two, careless whither the roads directed him. all he desired was to be at a distance from that house, with its hideous silence and the faint cry that could scarcely be called a sound. the necessity of returning, of spending days there, was an oppression which held him like a nightmare. monica's statement he neither believed nor disbelieved; he simply could not make up his mind about it. she had lied to him so resolutely before; was she not capable of elaborate falsehood to save her reputation and protect her child? the letter from bevis might have been a result of conspiracy between them. that bevis was the man against whom his jealousy should have been directed at first astounded him. by now he had come to a full perception of his stupidity in never entertaining such a thought. the revelation was equivalent to a second offence just discovered; for he found it impossible to ignore his long-cherished suspicion of barfoot, and he even surmised the possibility of monica's having listened to love-making from that quarter previously to her intimacy with bevis. he loathed the memory of his life since marriage; and as for pardoning his wife, he could as soon pardon and smile upon the author of that accursed letter from bordeaux. but go back to the house he must. by obeying his impulse, and straightway returning to london, he might be the cause of a fatal turn in monica's illness. constraint of bare humanity would keep him here until his wife was out of danger. but he could not see her, and as soon as possible he must escape from such unendurable circumstances. re-entering at half-past eight, he was met by alice, who seemed to have slept as little as he himself had done. they went into the dining-room. 'she has been inquiring about you,' began miss madden timorously. 'how is she?' 'not worse, i believe. but so very weak. she wishes me to ask you--' 'what?' his manner did not encourage the poor woman. 'i shall be obliged to tell her something. if i have nothing to say she will fret herself into a dangerous state. she wants to know if you have read her letter, and if--if you will see the child.' widdowson turned away and stood irresolute. he felt miss madden's hand upon his arm. 'oh, don't refuse! let me give her some comfort.' 'it's the child she's anxious about?' alice admitted it, looking into her brother-in-law's face with woeful appeal. 'say i will see it,' he answered, 'and have it brought into some room--then say i _have_ seen it.' 'mayn't i take her a word of forgiveness?' 'yes, say i forgive her. she doesn't wish me to go to her?' alice shook her head. 'then say i forgive her.' as he directed so it was done; and in the course of the morning miss madden brought word to him that her sister had experienced great relief. she was sleeping. but the doctor thought it necessary to make two visits before nightfall, and late in the evening he came again. he explained to widdowson that there were complications, not unlikely to be dangerous, and finally he suggested that, if the morrow brought no decided improvement, a second medical man should be called in to consult. this consultation was held. in the afternoon virginia came weeping to her brother-in-law, and told him that monica was delirious. that night the whole household watched. another day was passed in the gravest anxiety, and at dusk the medical attendant no longer disguised his opinion that mrs. widdowson was sinking. she became unconscious soon after, and in the early morning breathed her last. widdowson was in the room, and at the end sat by the bedside for an hour. but he did not look upon his wife's face. when it was told him that she had ceased to breathe, he rose and went into his own chamber, death-pale, but tearless. * * * on the day after the funeral--monica was buried in the cemetery, which is hard by the old church--widdowson and the elder sister had a long conversation in private. it related first of all to the motherless baby. widdowson's desire was that miss madden should undertake the care of the child. she and virginia might live wherever they preferred; their needs would be provided for. alice had hardly dared to hope for such a proposal--as it concerned the child, that is to say. gladly she accepted it. 'but there's something i must tell you,' she said, with embarrassed appeal in her wet eyes. 'poor virginia wishes to go into an institution.' widdowson looked at her, not understanding; whereupon she broke into tears, and made known that her sister was such a slave to strong drink that they both despaired of reformation unless by help of the measure she had indicated. there were people, she had heard, who undertook the care of inebriates. 'you know that we are by no means penniless,' sobbed alice. 'we can very well bear the expense. but will you assist us to find a suitable place?' he promised to proceed at once in the matter. 'and when she is cured,' said miss madden, 'she shall come and live with me. and when baby is about two years old we will do what we have been purposing for a long time. we will open a school for young children, either here or at weston. that will afford my poor sister occupation. indeed, we shall both be better for the exertion of such an undertaking--don't you think so?' 'it would be a wise thing, i have no doubt whatever.' the large house was to be abandoned, and as much of the furniture as seemed needful transported to a smaller dwelling in another part of clevedon. for alice resolved to stay here in spite of painful associations. she loved the place, and looked forward with quiet joy to the life that was prepared for her. widdowson's books would go back to london; not to the hampstead lodgings, however. fearful of solitude, he proposed to his friend newdick that they should live together, he, as a man of substance, bearing the larger share of the expense. and this plan also came into execution. * * * three months went by, and on a day of summer, when the wooded hills and green lanes and rich meadows of clevedon looked their best, when the channel was still and blue, and the welsh mountains loomed through a sunny haze, rhoda nunn came over from the mendips to see miss madden. it could not be a gladsome meeting, but rhoda was bright and natural, and her talk as inspiriting as ever. she took the baby in her arms, and walked about with it for a long time in the garden, often murmuring, 'poor little child! dear little child!' there had been doubt whether it would live, but the summer seemed to be fortifying its health. alice, it was plain, had found her vocation; she looked better than at any time since rhoda had known her. her complexion was losing its muddiness and spottiness; her step had become light and brisk. 'and where is your sister?' inquired miss nunn. 'staying with friends at present. she will be back before long, i hope. and as soon as baby can walk we are going to think very seriously about the school. you remember?' 'the school? you will really make the attempt?' 'it will be so good for us both. why, look,' she added laughingly, 'here is one pupil growing for us!' 'make a brave woman of her,' said rhoda kindly. 'we will try--ah, we will try! and is your work as successful as ever?' 'more!' replied rhoda. 'we flourish like the green bay-tree. we shall have to take larger premises. by-the-bye, you must read the paper we are going to publish; the first number will be out in a month, though the name isn't quite decided upon yet. miss barfoot was never in such health and spirit--nor i myself. the world is moving!' whilst miss madden went into the house to prepare hospitalities, rhoda, still nursing, sat down on a garden bench. she gazed intently at those diminutive features, which were quite placid and relaxing in soft drowsiness. the dark, bright eye was monica's. and as the baby sank into sleep, rhoda's vision grew dim; a sigh made her lips quiver, and once more she murmured, 'poor little child!' proofreading team superseded by may sinclair _author of "the divine fire"_ publishers' note miss sinclair has expressed a desire to have this book republished in america, because she considers it the best of her work previous to "the divine fire." it originally appeared with another work in a volume entitled "two sides of a question," a small imported edition of which is now exhausted. contents chapter i. prologue.--miss quincey stops the way ii. household gods iii. inaugural addresses iv. bastian cautley, m.d. v. healers and regenerators vi. spring fashions vii. under a blue moon viii. a painful misunderstanding ix. through the stethoscope x. miss quincey stands back xi. dr. cautley sends in his bill xii. epilogue.--the man and the woman superseded chapter i prologue.--miss quincey stops the way "stand back, miss quincey, if you please." the school was filing out along the main corridor of st. sidwell's. it came with a tramp and a rustle and a hiss and a tramp, urged to a trot by the excited teachers. the first division first, half-woman, carrying itself smoothly, with a swish of its long skirts, with a blush, a dreamy intellectual smile, or a steadfast impenetrable air, as it happened to be more or less conscious of the presence of the head. then the second division, light-hearted, irrepressible, making a noise with its feet, loose hair flapping, pig-tails flopping to the beat of its march. then the straggling, diminishing lines of the third, a froth of white pinafores, a confusion of legs, black or tan, staggering, shifting, shuffling in a frantic effort to keep time. on it came in a waving stream; a stream that flickered with innumerable eyes, a stream that rippled with the wind of its own flowing, that flushed and paled and brightened as some flower-face was tossed upwards, or some crest, flame-coloured or golden, flung back the light. a stream that was one in its rhythm and in the sex that was its soul, obscurely or luminously feminine; it might have been a single living thing that throbbed and undulated, as girl after girl gave out the radiance and pulsation of her youth. the effect was overpowering; your senses judged st. sidwell's by these brilliant types that gave life and colour to the stream. the rest were nowhere. so at least it seemed to miss cursiter, the head. that tall, lean, iron-grey dignity stood at the cross junction of two corridors, talking to miss rhoda vivian, the new classical mistress. and while she talked she watched her girls as a general watches his columns wheeling into action. a dangerous spot that meeting of the corridors. there the procession doubles the corner at a swinging curve, and there, time it as she would, the little arithmetic teacher was doomed to fall foul of the procession. daily miss quincey thought to dodge the line; daily it caught her at the disastrous corner. then miss quincey, desperate under the eye of the head, would try to rush the thing, with ridiculous results. and fate or the order of the day contrived that miss cursiter should always be there to witness her confusion. nothing escaped miss cursiter; if her face grew tender for the young girls and the eight-year-olds, at the sight of miss quincey it stiffened into tolerance, cynically braced to bear. miss cursiter had an eye for magnificence of effect, and the unseemly impact of miss quincey was apt to throw the lines into disorder, demoralising the younger units and ruining the spectacle as a whole. to-day it made the new classical mistress smile, and somehow that smile annoyed miss cursiter. she, miss quincey, was a little dry, brown woman, with a soft pinched mouth, and a dejected nose. so small and insignificant was she that she might have crept along for ever unnoticed but for her punctuality in obstruction. as st. sidwell's prided itself on the brilliance and efficiency of its staff, the wonder was how miss quincey came to be there, but there she had been for five-and-twenty years. she seemed to have stiffened into her place. five-and-twenty years ago she had been arithmetic teacher, vaguely attached to the second division, and she was arithmetic teacher still. miss quincey was going on for fifty; she had out-lived the old head, and now she was the oldest teacher there, twice as old as miss vivian, the new classical mistress, older, far older than miss cursiter. she had found her way into st. sidwell's, not because she was brilliant or efficient, but because her younger sister louisa already held an important post there. louisa was brilliant and efficient enough for anybody, so brilliant and so efficient that the glory of it rested on her family. and when she married the greek master and went away juliana stayed on as a matter of course, wearing a second-hand aureole of scholarship and supporting a tradition. she stayed on and taught arithmetic for one thing. and when she was not teaching arithmetic, she was giving little dictations, setting little themes, controlling some fifty young and very free translators of _le philosophe sous les toils_. miss quincey had a passion for figures and for everything that could be expressed in figures. not a pure passion, nothing to do with the higher mathematics, which is the love of the soul, but an affection sadly alloyed with baser matter, with rods and perches, firkins and hogsheads, and articles out of the grocer's shop. among these objects miss quincey's imagination ran voluptuous riot. but upon such things as history or poetry she had a somewhat blighting influence. the flowers in the school anthology withered under her fingers, and the flesh and blood of heroes crumbled into the dust of dates. as for the philosopher under the roofs, who he was, and what was his philosophy, and how he ever came to be under the roofs at all, nobody in st. sidwell's ever knew or ever cared to know; miss quincey had made him eternally uninteresting. yet miss quincey's strength was in her limitations. it was the strength of unreasoning but undying conviction. nothing could shake her belief in the supreme importance of arithmetic and the majesty of its elementary rules. pale and persistent and intolerably meek, she hammered hard facts into the brain with a sort of muffled stroke, hammered till the hardest stuck by reason of their hardness, for she was a teacher of the old school. thus in her own way she made her mark. among the other cyphers, the irrelevant and insignificant figure of miss quincey was indelibly engraved on many an immortal soul. there was a curious persistency about miss quincey. miss quincey was not exactly popular. the younger teachers pronounced her cut and dried; for dryness, conscientiously acquired, passed for her natural condition. nobody knew that it cost her much effort and industry to be so stiff and starched; that the starch had to be put on fresh every morning; that it was quite a business getting up her limp little personality for the day. in five-and-twenty years, owing to an incurable malady of shyness, she had never made friends with any of her pupils. her one exception proved her rule. miss quincey seemed to have gone out of her way to attract that odious little laura lazarus, who was known at st. sidwell's as the mad hatter. at fourteen, being still incapable of adding two and two together, the mad hatter had been told off into an idiot's class by herself for arithmetic; and miss quincey, because she was so meek and patient and persistent, was told off to teach her. the child, a queer, ugly little pariah, half-jew, half-cockney, held all other girls in abhorrence, and was avoided by them with an equal loathing. she seemed to have attached herself to the unpopular teacher out of sheer perversity and malignant contempt of public opinion. abandoned in their corner, with their heads bent together over the sums, the two outsiders clung to each other in a common misery and isolation. miss quincey was well aware that she was of no account at st. sidwell's. she supposed that it was because she had never taken her degree. to be sure she had never tried to take it; but it was by no means certain that she could have taken it if she had tried. she was not clever; louisa had carried off all the brains and the honours of the family. it had been considered unnecessary for juliana to develop an individuality of her own; enough for her that she belonged to louisa, and was known as louisa's sister. louisa's sister was a part of louisa; louisa was a part of st. sidwell's college, regent's park; and st. sidwell's college, regent's park, was a part--no, st. sidwell's was the whole; it was the glorious world. miss quincey had never seen, or even desired to see any other. that college was to her a place of exquisite order and light. light that was filtered through the high tilted windows, and reflected from a prevailing background of green tiles and honey-white pine, from countless rows of shining desks and from hundreds of young faces. light, the light of ideas, that streamed from the platform in the great hall where three times in the year miss cursiter gave her address to the students and teachers of st. sidwell's. now miss cursiter was a pioneer at war with the past, a woman of vast ambitions, a woman with a system and an end; and she chose her instruments finely, toiling early and late to increase their brilliance and efficiency. she was new to st. sidwell's, and would have liked to make a clean sweep of the old staff and to fill their places with women like rhoda vivian, young and magnificent and strong. as it was, she had been weeding them out gradually, as opportunity arose; and the new staff, modern to its finger-tips, was all but complete and perfect now. only miss quincey remained. st. sidwell's in the weeding time had not been a bed of roses for miss cursiter, and miss quincey, blameless but incompetent, was a thorn in her side, a thorn that stuck. impossible to remove miss quincey quickly, she was so very blameless and she worked so hard. she worked from nine till one in the morning, from two-thirty till four-thirty in the afternoon, and from six-thirty in the evening till any hour in the night. she worked with the desperate zeal of the superseded who knows that she holds her post on sufferance, the terrified tenacity of the middle-aged who feels behind her the swift-footed rivalry of youth. and the more she worked the more she annoyed miss cursiter. so now, above all the tramping and shuffling and hissing, you heard the self-restrained and slightly metallic utterance of the head. "stand back, miss quincey, if you please." and miss quincey stood back, flattening herself against the wall, and the procession passed her by, rosy, resonant, exulting, a triumph of life. chapter ii household gods punctually at four-thirty miss quincey vanished from the light of st. sidwell's, regent's park, into the obscurity of camden town. camden town is full of little houses standing back in side streets, houses with porticoed front doors monstrously disproportioned to their size. nobody ever knocks at those front doors; nobody ever passes down those side streets if they can possibly help it. the houses are all exactly alike; they melt and merge into each other in dingy perspective, each with its slag-bordered six foot of garden uttering a faint suburban protest against the advances of the pavement. miss quincey lived in half of one of them (number ninety, camden street north) with her old aunt mrs. moon and their old servant martha. she had lived there five-and-twenty years, ever since the death of her uncle. tollington moon had been what his family called unfortunate; that is to say, he had mislaid the greater portion of his wife's money and the whole of juliana's and louisa's; he, poor fellow, had none of his own to lose. uncle tollington, being the only male representative of the family, had been appointed to drive the family coach. he was a genial good-natured fellow and he cheerfully agreed, declaring that there was nothing in the world he liked better than driving; though indeed he had had but little practice in the art. so they started with a splendid flourishing of whips and blowing of horns; tollington driving at a furious break-neck pace in a manner highly diverting and exhilarating to the ladies inside. the girls (they were girls in those days) sat tight and felt no fear, while mrs. moon, with her teeth shaking, explained to them the advantages of having so expert a driver on the box seat. of course there came the inevitable smash at the corner. the three climbed out of that coach more dead than alive; but they uttered no complaints; they had had their fun; and in accidents of this kind the poor driver generally gets the worst of it. mrs. moon at any rate found consolation in disaster by steadily ignoring its most humiliating features. secure in the new majesty of her widowhood, she faced her nieces with an unflinching air and demanded of them eternal belief in the wisdom and rectitude of their uncle tollington. she hoped that they would never forget him, never forget what he had to bear, never forget all he had done for them. her attitude reduced juliana to tears; in louisa it roused the instinct of revolt, and louisa was for separating from mrs. moon. it was then, in her first difference from louisa, that miss quincey's tender and foolish little face acquired its strangely persistent air. hitherto the elder had served the younger; now she took her stand. she said, "whatever we do, we must keep together"; and she professed her willingness to believe in her uncle tollington and remember him for ever. to this louisa, who prided herself on speaking the truth or at any rate her mind, replied that she wasn't likely to forget him in a hurry; that her uncle tollington had ruined her life, and she did not want to be reminded of him any more than she could help. moreover, she found her aunt moon's society depressing. she meant to get on and be independent; and she advised juliana to do the same. juliana did not press the point, for it was a delicate one, seeing that louisa was earning a hundred and twenty pounds a year and she but eighty. so she added her eighty pounds to her aunt's eighty and went to live with her in camden street north, while louisa shrugged her shoulders and carried herself and her salary elsewhere. there was very little room for mrs. moon and juliana at number ninety. the poor souls had crowded themselves out with relics of their past, a pathetic salvage, dragged hap-hazard from the wreck in the first frenzy of preservation. dreadful things in marble and gilt and in _papier-maché_ inlaid with mother-o'-pearl, rickety work tables with pouches underneath them, banner-screens in silk and footstools in berlin wool-work fought with each other and with juliana for standing-room. for juliana, with her genius for collision, was always knocking up against them, always getting in their way. in return, juliana's place at an oblique angle of the fireside was disputed by a truculent cabinet with bandy legs. there was a never-ending quarrel between juliana and that piece of furniture, in which mrs. moon took the part of the furniture. her own world had shrunk to a square yard between the window and the fire. there she sat and dreamed among her household gods, smiling now and then under the spell of the dream, or watched her companion with critical disapproval. she had accepted juliana's devotion as a proper sacrifice to the gods; but for juliana, or louisa for the matter of that, she seemed to have but little affection. if anything louisa was her favourite. louisa was better company, to begin with; and louisa, with her cleverness and her salary and her general air of indifference and prosperity, raised no questions. besides, louisa was married. but juliana, toiling from morning till night for her eighty pounds a year; juliana, painful and persistent, growing into middle-age without a hope, juliana was an incarnate reproach, a perpetual monument to the folly of tollington moon. juliana disturbed her dream. but nobody else disturbed it, for nobody ever came to their half of the house in camden street north. louisa used to come and go in a brief perfunctory manner; but louisa had married the greek professor and gone away for good, and her friends at st. sidwell's were not likely to waste their time in cultivating juliana and mrs. moon. the thing had been tried by one or two of the younger teachers who went in for all-round self-development and were getting up the minor virtues. but they had met with no encouragement and they had ceased to come. then nobody came; not even the doctor or the clergyman. the two ladies were of one mind on that point; it was convenient for them to ignore their trifling ailments, spiritual or bodily. and as soon as they saw that the world renounced them they adopted a lofty tone and said to each other that they had renounced the world. for they were proud, mrs. moon especially so. tollington moon had married slightly, ever so slightly beneath him, the moons again marking a faint descent from the standing of the quinceys. but the old lady had completely identified herself, not only with the moons, but with the higher branch, which she always spoke of as "_my_ family." in fact she had worn her connection with the quinceys as a feather in her cap so long that the feather had grown, as it were, into an entire bird of paradise. and once a bird of paradise, always a bird of paradise, though it had turned on the world a somewhat dilapidated tail. so the two lived on together; so they had always lived. mrs. moon was an old woman before she was five-and-fifty; and before she was five-and-twenty juliana's youth had withered away in the sour and sordid atmosphere born of perishing gentility and acrid personal remark. and their household gods looked down on them, miniatures and silhouettes of moons and quinceys, calm and somewhat contemptuous presences. from the post of honour above the mantelshelf, tollington, attired as an early victorian dandy, splendid in velvet waistcoat, scarf and chain-pin, leaned on a broken column symbolical of his fortunes, and smiled genially on the ruin he had made. that was how miss quincey came to st. sidwell's. and now she was five-and-forty; she had always been five-and-forty; that is to say, she had never been young, for to be young you must be happy. and this was so far an advantage, that when middle-age came on her she felt no difference. chapter iii inaugural addresses it was evening, early in the winter term, and miss cursiter was giving her usual inaugural address to the staff. their number had increased so considerably that the little class-room was packed to overflowing. miss cursiter stood in the free space at the end, facing six rows of eager faces arranged in the form of a horse-shoe. she looked upon them and smiled; she joyed with the joy of the creator who sees his idea incarnate before him. a striking figure, miss cursiter. tall, academic and austere; a keen eagle head crowned with a mass of iron-grey hair; grey-black eyes burning under a brow of ashen grey; an intelligence fervent with fire of the enthusiast, cold with the renunciant's frost. such was miss cursiter. she was in splendid force to-day, grappling like an athlete with her enormous theme--"the educational advantages of general culture." she delivered her address with an utterance rapid but distinct, keeping one eye on the reporter and the other on miss rhoda vivian, m.a. she might well look to rhoda vivian. if she had needed a foil for her own commanding personality, she had found it there. but the new classical mistress was something more than miss cursiter's complement. nature, usually so economical, not to say parsimonious, seemed to have made her for her own delight, in a fit of reckless extravagance. she had given her a brilliant and efficient mind in a still more brilliant and efficient body, clothed her in all the colours of life; made her a creature of ardent and elemental beauty. rhoda vivian had brown hair with sparkles of gold in it and flakes of red fire; her eyes were liquid grey, the grey of water; her lips were full, and they pouted a little proudly; it was the pride of life. and she had other gifts which did not yet appear at st. sidwell's. there was something about her still plastic and unformed; you could not say whether it was the youth of genius, or only the genius of youth. but at three-and-twenty she had chosen her path, and gone far on it, and it had been honours all the way. she went up and down at st. sidwell's, adored and unadoring, kindling the fire of a secret worship. in any other place, with any other woman at the head of it, such a vivid individuality might have proved fatal to her progress. but miss cursiter was too original herself not to perceive the fine uses of originality. all her hopes for the future were centred in rhoda vivian. she looked below that brilliant surface and saw in her the ideal leader of young womanhood. rhoda was a force that could strike fire from a stone; what she wanted she was certain to get; she seemed to compel work from the laziest and intelligence from the dullest by the mere word of her will. what was more, her nature was too large for vanity; she held her worshippers at arm's length and consecrated her power of personal seduction to strictly intellectual ends. at the end of her first term her position was second only to the head. if miss cursiter was the will and intelligence of st. sidwell's, rhoda vivian was its subtle poetry and its soul. and miss cursiter meant to keep her there; being a woman who made all sacrifices and demanded them. so now, while miss cursiter stood explaining, ostensibly to the entire staff, the unique advantages of general culture, it was to rhoda vivian as to a supreme audience that she addressed her deeper thought and her finer phrase. if miss cursiter had not had to consult her notes now and again, she must have seen that rhoda vivian's mind was wandering, that the classical mistress was if anything more interested in her companions than in the noble utterances of the head. as her grey eyes swept the tiers of faces, they lingered on that corner where miss quincey seemed perpetually striving to suppress, consume, and utterly obliterate herself. and each time she smiled, as she had smiled earlier in the day when first she saw miss quincey. for miss quincey was there, far back in the ranks of the brilliant and efficient. note-book on desk, she followed the quick march of thought with a fatigued and stumbling brain. she was painfully, ludicrously out of step; yet to judge by the light that shone now and then in her eyes, by the smile that played about the corners of her weak, tender mouth, she too had caught the sympathetic rapture, the intellectual thrill. ready to drop was miss quincey, but she would not have missed that illuminating hour, not if you had paid her--three times her salary. it was her one glimpse of the larger life; her one point of contact with the ideal. her pencil staggered over her note-book as miss cursiter flamed and lightened in her peroration. "we have looked at our subject in the light of the ideals by which and for which we live. let us now turn to the practical side of the matter, as it touches our business and our bosoms. do not say we have no room for poetry in our crowded days." a score of weary heads looked up; there was a vague inquiry in all eyes. "you have your evenings--all of you. much can be done with evenings; if your training has done nothing else for you it has taught you the economy of time. you are tired in the evenings, yes. but the poets, shakespeare, tennyson, and browning, are the great healers and regenerators of worn-out humanity. when you are faint and weary with your day's work, the best thing you can do is to rise and refresh yourselves at the living wells of literature." long before the closing sentence miss quincey's ms. had become a sightless blur. but she had managed to jot down in her neat arithmetical way: "poets = healers and regenerators." the address was printed and a copy was given to each member of the staff. miss quincey treasured up hers as a priceless scripture. miss quincey was aware of her shortcomings and had struggled hard to mend them, toiling pantingly after those younger ones who had attained the standard of brilliance and efficiency. she joined the teachers' debating society. not that she debated. she had once put some elementary questions in an inaudible voice, and had been requested to speak a little louder, whereupon she sank into her seat and spoke no more. but she heard a great deal. about the emancipation of women; about the women's labour market; about the doors that were now thrown open to women. she was told that all they wanted was a fair field and no favour. (the speaker, a rosy-cheeked child of one-and-twenty, was quite violent in her repudiation of favour.) and miss quincey believed it all, though she understood very little about it. but it was illumination, a new gospel to her, this doctrine of general culture; it was the large easy-fitting formula which she had seemed to need. with touching simplicity she determined to follow the course recommended by the head. though by the time she had corrected some seventy manuscripts in marble-backed covers, and prepared her lesson for the next day, she had nothing but the fag-end of her brain to give to the healers and regenerators; as for rising, miss quincey felt much more like going to bed, and it was as much as she could do to drag her poor little body there. still miss quincey was nothing if not heroic; night after night twelve o'clock would find her painfully trying to draw water from the wells of literature. she had begun upon browning; set herself to read through the whole of _sordello_ from beginning to end. it is as easy as a sum in arithmetic if you don't bother your head too much about the guelphs and ghibellines and the metaphors and things, and if you take it in short fits, say three pages every evening. never any more, or you might go to sleep and forget all about it; never any less, or you would have bad arrears. as there are exactly two hundred and thirteen pages, she calculated that she would finish it in ten weeks and a day. there was no place for miss quincey and her pile of marble-backed exercise-books in the dim and dingy first-floor drawing-room (mrs. moon and the bandy-legged cabinet would have had something to say to that). all this terrific intellectual travail went on in a dimmer and dingier dining-room beneath it. then one night, old martha, disturbed by sounds that came from miss juliana's bedroom, groped her way fumblingly in and found miss juliana sitting up in her sleep and posing the darkness with a problem. "if," said miss juliana, "three men can finish one hundred and nineteen hogsheads of browning in eight weeks, how long will it take seven women to finish a thousand and forty-five--forty-five--forty-five, if one woman works twice as hard as eleven men?" martha shook her head and went fumbling back to bed again; and being a conscientious servant she said nothing about it for fear of frightening the old lady. about a fortnight later, rhoda vivian, sailing down the corridor, came upon the little arithmetic teacher all sick and tremulous, leaning up against the hot-water pipes beside a pile of exercise-books. the sweat streamed from her sallow forehead, and her face was white and drawn. she could give no rational account of herself, but offered two hypotheses as equally satisfactory; either she had taken a bad chill, or else the hot air from the water-pipes had turned her faint. rhoda picked up the pile of exercise-books and led her into the dressing-room, and miss quincey was docile and ridiculously grateful. she was glad that miss vivian was going to take her home. she even smiled her little pinched smile and pressed rhoda's hand as she said, "a friend in need is a friend indeed." rhoda would have given anything to be able to return the pressure and the sentiment, but rhoda was too desperately sincere. she was sorry for miss quincey; but all her youth, unfettered and unfeeling, revolted from the bond of friendship. so she only stooped and laced up the shabby boots, and fastened the thin cape by its solitary button. the touch of miss quincey's clothes thrilled her with a pang of pity, and she could have wept over the unutterable pathos of her hat. in form and substance it was a rock, beaten by the weather; its limp ribbons clung to it like seaweed washed up and abandoned by the tide. when miss quincey's head was inside it the hat seemed to become one with miss quincey; you could not conceive anything more melancholy and forlorn. rhoda was beautifully attired in pale grey cloth. rhoda wore golden sables about her throat, and a big black gainsborough hat on the top of her head, a hat that miss quincey would have thought a little daring and theatrical on anybody else; but rhoda wore it and looked like a puritan princess. rhoda's clothes were enough to show that she was a woman for whom a profession is a superfluity, a luxury. rhoda sent for a hansom, and having left miss quincey at her home went off in search of a doctor. she had insisted on a doctor, in spite of miss quincey's protestations. after exploring a dozen dingy streets and conceiving a deep disgust for camden town, she walked back to find her man in the neighbourhood of st. sidwell's. chapter iv bastian cautley, m.d. it was half-past five and dr. bastian cautley had put on his house jacket, loosened his waistcoat, settled down by his library fire with a pipe and a book, and was thanking heaven that for once he had an hour to himself between his afternoon round and his time for consultation. he had been working hard ever since nine o'clock in the morning; but now nobody could have looked more superlatively lazy than bastian cautley as he stretched himself on two armchairs in an attitude of reckless ease. his very intellect (the most unrestful part of him) was at rest; all his weary being merged in a confused voluptuous sensation, a beatific state in which smoking became a higher kind of thinking, and thought betrayed an increasing tendency to end in smoke. the room was double-walled with book-shelves, and but for the far away underground humming of a happy maidservant the house was soundless. he rejoiced to think that there was not a soul in it above stairs to disturb his deep tranquility. at six o'clock he would have to take his legs off that chair, and get into a frock-coat; once in the frock-coat he would become another man, all patience and politeness. after six there would be no pipe and no peace for him, but the knocking and ringing at his front door would go on incessantly till seven-thirty. there was flattery in every knock, for it meant that dr. cautley was growing eminent, and that at the ridiculously early age of nine-and-twenty. there was a sharp ring now. he turned wearily in his chairs. "there's another damned patient," said dr. cautley. he was really so eminent that he could afford to think blasphemously of patients; and he had no love for those who came to consult him before their time. he sat up with his irritable nerves on edge. the servant was certainly letting somebody in, and from the soft rustling sounds in the hall he gathered that somebody was a woman; much patience and much politeness would then be required of him, and he was feeling anything but patient and polite. "miss rhoda vivian" was the name on the card that was brought to him. he did not know miss rhoda vivian. the gas-jets were turned low in the consulting-room; when he raised them he saw a beautiful woman standing by the fire in an attitude of impatience. he had kept her waiting; and it seemed that this adorable person knew the value of time. she was not going to waste words either. as it was impossible to associate her with the ordinary business of the place, he was prepared for her terse and lucid statement of somebody else's case. he said he would look round early in the morning (miss vivian looked dissatisfied); or perhaps that evening (miss vivian was dubious); or possibly at once (miss vivian smiled in hurried approval). she was eager to be gone. and when she had gone he stood deliberating. miss quincey was a pathological abstraction, miss vivian was a radiant reality; it was clear that miss quincey was not urgent, and that once safe in her bed she could very well wait till to-morrow; but when he thought of miss vivian he became impressed with the gravity and interest of miss quincey's case. while the doctor was making up his mind, little miss quincey, in her shabby back bedroom, lay waiting for him, trembling, fretting her nerves into a fever, starting at imaginary footsteps, and entertaining all kinds of dismal possibilities. she was convinced that she was going to die, or worse still, to break down, to be a perpetual invalid. she thought of several likely illnesses, beginning with general paralysis and ending with anemia of the brain. it _might_ be anemia of the brain, but she rather thought it would be general paralysis, because this would be so much the more disagreeable of the two. anyhow rhoda vivian must have thought she was pretty bad or she would not have called in a doctor. to call in a doctor seemed to miss quincey next door to invoking providence itself; it was the final desperate resort, implying catastrophe and the end of all things. oh, dear! miss quincey wished he would come up if he was coming, and get it over. after all he did not keep her waiting long, and it was over in five minutes. and yet it was amazing the amount of observation, and insight, and solid concentrated thought the young man contrived to pack into those five minutes. well--it seemed that it was not general paralysis this time, nor yet anemia of the brain; but he could tell her more about it in the morning. meanwhile she had nothing to do but to do what he told her and stay where she was till he saw her again. and he was gone before she realized that he had been there. again? so he was coming again, was he? miss quincey did not know whether to be glad or sorry. his presence had given her a rare and curiously agreeable sense of protection, but she had to think of the expense. she had to think too of what mrs. moon would say to it--of what she would say to him. mrs. moon had a good deal to say to it. she took juliana's illness as a personal affront, as a deliberate back-handed blow struck at the memory of tollington moon. with all the base implications of her daily acts, juliana had never attempted anything like this. "capers and nonsense," she said, "juliana has never had an illness in her life." she said it to rhoda vivian, the bold young person who had taken upon herself to bring the doctor into the house. mrs. moon spoke of the doctor as if he was a disease. fortunately miss vivian was by when he endured the first terrifying encounter. her manner suggested that she took him under her protection, stood between him and some unfathomable hostility. he found the old lady disentangling herself with immense dignity from her maze of furniture. mrs. moon was a small woman shrunk with her eighty years, shrunk almost to extinction in her black woollen gown and black woollen mittens. her very face seemed to be vanishing under the immense shadow of her black net cap. spirals of thin grey hair stuck flat to her forehead; she wore other and similar spirals enclosed behind glass in an enormous brooch; it was the hair of her ancestors, that is to say of the quinceys. as the old lady looked at cautley her little black eyes burned like pinpoints pierced in a paste-board mask. "i think you've been brought here on a wild goose chase, doctor," said she, "there is nothing the matter with my niece." he replied (battling sternly with his desire to laugh) that he would be delighted if it were so; adding that a wild goose chase was the sport he preferred to any other. here he looked at miss vivian to the imminent peril of his self-control. mrs. moon's gaze had embraced them in a common condemnation, and the subtle sympathy of their youth linked them closer and made them one in their intimate appreciation of her. "then you must be a very singular young man. i thought you doctors were never happy until you'd found some mare's nest in people's constitutions? you'd much better let well alone." "miss quincey is very far from well," said cautley with recovered gravity, "and i rather fancy she has been let alone too long." cautley thought that he had said quite enough to alarm any old lady. and indeed mrs. moon was slowly taking in the idea of disaster, and it sent her poor wits wandering in the past. her voice sank suddenly from grating; antagonism to pensive garrulity. "i've no faith in medicine," she quavered, "nor in medical men either. though to be sure my husband had a brother-in-law once on his wife's side, dr. quincey, dr. arnold quincey, juliana's father and louisa's. he was a medical man. he wrote a book, i daresay you've heard of it; _quincey on diseases of the heart_ it was. but he's dead now, of one of 'em, poor man. we haven't seen a doctor for five-and-twenty years." "then isn't it almost time that you should see one now?" said he, cheerfully taking his leave. "i shall look round again in the morning." he looked round again in the morning and sat half an hour with miss quincey; so she had time to take a good look at him. he was very nice to look at, this young man. he was so clean-cut and tall and muscular; he had such an intellectual forehead; his mouth was so firm, you could trust it to tell no secrets; and his eyes (they were dark and deep set) looked as if they saw nothing but miss quincey. indeed, at the moment he had forgotten all about rhoda vivian, and did see nothing but the little figure in the bed looking more like a rather worn and wizened child than a middle-aged woman. he was very gentle and sympathetic; but for that his youth would have been terrible to her. as it was, miss quincey felt a little bit in awe of this clever doctor, who in spite of his cleverness looked so young, and not only so young but so formidably fastidious and refined. she had not expected him to look like that. all the clever young men she had met had displayed a noble contempt for appearances. to be sure, miss quincey knew but little of the world of men; for at st. sidwell's the types were limited to three little eccentric professors, and the plaster gods in the art studio. but for the gods she might just as well have lived in a nunnery, for whenever miss quincey thought of a man she thought of something like louisa's husband, andrew mackinnon, who spoke with a strong scotch accent, and wore flannel shirts with celluloid collars, and coats that hung about him all anyhow. but dr. cautley was not in the least like andrew mackinnon. he had a distinguished voice; his clothes fitted him to perfection; and his linen, irreproachable itself, reproved her silently. her eyes left him suddenly and wandered about the room. she was full of little tremors and agitations; she wished that the towels wouldn't look so much like dish-cloths; she credited him with powers of microscopic observation, and wondered if he had noticed the stain on the carpet and the dust on the book-shelves, and if he would be likely to mistake the quinine tabloids for vulgar liver pills, or her bottle of hair-wash for hair-dye. once released from its unnatural labours, her mind returned instinctively to the trivial as to its home. she glanced at her hat, perched conspicuously on the knob of the looking-glass, and a dim sense of its imperfections came over her and vanished as it came. then she tried to compose herself for the verdict. it did not come all at once. first of all he asked her a great many questions about herself and her family, whereupon she gave him a complete pathological story of the moons and quinceys. and all the time he looked so hard at her that it was quite embarrassing. his eyes seemed to be taking her in (no other eyes had ever performed that act of hospitality for miss quincey). he pulled out a little book from his pocket and made notes of everything she said; miss quincey's biography was written in that little book (you may be sure nobody else had ever thought of writing it). and when he had finished the biography he talked to her about her work (nobody else had ever been the least interested in miss quincey's work). then miss quincey sat up in bed and became lyrical as she described the delirious joy of decimals--recurring decimals--and the rapture of cube-root. she herself had never got farther than cube-root; but it was enough. beyond that, she hinted, lay the infinite. and dr. cautley laughed at her defence of the noble science. oh yes, he could understand its fascination, its irresistible appeal to the emotions; he only wished to remind her that it was the most debilitating study in the world. he refused to commit himself to any opinion as to the original strength and magnitude of miss quincey's brain; he could only assure her that the most powerful intellect in the world would break down if you kept it perpetually doing sums in arithmetic. it was the monotony of the thing, you see; year after year miss quincey had been ploughing up the same little patch of brain. no, certainly _not_--she mustn't think of going back to st. sidwell's for another three months. three months! impossible! it was a whole term. dr. cautley scowled horribly and said that if she was ever to be fit for cube-root and decimals again, she positively and absolutely _must_. whereupon miss quincey gave way to emotion. to leave st. sidwell's, abandon her post for three months, she who had never been absent for a day! if she did that it would be all up with miss quincey; a hundred eager applicants were ready to fill her empty place. it was as if she heard the hungry, leaping pack behind her, the strong young animals trained for the chase; they came tearing on the scent, hunting her, treading her down. when rhoda vivian looked in after morning school, she found a flushed and embarrassed young man trying to soothe miss quincey, who paid not the least attention to him; she seemed to have shrunk into her bed, and lay there staring with dilated eyes like a hare crouched flat and trembling in her form. from the other side of the bed dr. cautley's helpless and desperate smile claimed rhoda as his ally. it seemed to say, "for god's sake take my part against this unreasonable woman." now no one (not even miss quincey) could realize the insecurity of miss quincey's position better than rhoda, who was fathoms deep in the confidence of the head. she happened to know that miss cursiter was only waiting for an opportunity like this to rid herself for ever of the little obstructive. she knew too that once they had ceased to fill their particular notch in it, the world had no further use for people like miss quincey; that she, rhoda vivian, belonged to the new race whose eternal destiny was to precipitate their doom. it was the first time that rhoda had thought of it in that light; the first time indeed that she had greatly concerned herself with any career beside her own. she sat for a few minutes talking to miss quincey and thinking as she talked. perhaps she was wondering how she would like to be forty-five and incompetent; to be overtaken on the terrible middle-way; to feel the hurrying generations after her, their breath on her shoulders, their feet on her heels; to have no hope; to see mrs. moon sitting before her, immovable and symbolic, the image of what she must become. they were two very absurd and diminutive figures, but they stood for a good deal. to cautley, rhoda herself as she revolved these things looked significant enough. leaning forward, one elbow bent on her knee, her chin propped on her hand, her lips pouting, her forehead knit, she might have been a young and passionate pallas, brooding tempestuously on the world. "miss vivian is on my side, i see. i'll leave her to do the fighting." and he left her. rhoda's first movement was to capture miss quincey's hand as it wildly reconnoitred for a pocket handkerchief among the pillows. "don't worry about it," she said, "i'll speak to miss cursiter." dr. cautley, enduring a perfunctory five minutes with mrs. moon, could hear miss vivian running downstairs and the front door opening and closing upon her. with a little haste and discretion he managed to overtake her before she had gone very far. he stopped to give his verdict on her friend. she had expected him. "well," she asked, "it _is_ overwork, isn't it?" "very much overwork; and no wonder. i knew she was a st. sidwell's woman as soon as i saw her." "that was clever of you. and do you always know a st. sidwell's woman when you see one?" "i do; they all go like this, more or less. it seems to me that st. sidwell's sacrifices its women to its girls, and its girls to itself. i don't imagine you've much to do with the place, so you won't mind my saying so." rhoda smiled a little maliciously. "you seem to take a great deal for granted. as it happens i am classical mistress there." dr. cautley looked at her and bit his lip. he was annoyed with himself for his blunder and with her for being anything but rhoda vivian--pure and simple. rhoda laughed frankly at his confusion. "never mind. appearances are deceitful. i'm glad i don't look like it." "you certainly do not. still, miss quincey is a warning to anybody." "she? she was never fit for the life." "no. your race is to the swift and your battle to the strong." he was still looking at her as he spoke. she was looking straight before her, her nostrils slightly distended, her grey eyes wide, as if she sniffed the battle, saw the goal. "we must make her strong," said he. she had quickened her pace as if under a renewed impulse of energy and will. suddenly at the door of the college she stopped and held out her hand. "you will look after her well, will you not?" her voice was resonant on the note of appeal. now you could withstand rhoda in her domineering mood if you were strong enough and cool enough; but when she looked straight through your eyes in that way she was irresistible. cautley did not attempt to resist her. he went on his way thinking how intolerable the question might have been in some one else's mouth; how suggestive of impertinent coquetry, the beautiful woman's assumption that he would do for her what he would not do for insignificant miss quincey. she had taken it for granted that his interest in miss quincey was supreme. chapter v healers and regenerators rhoda had spoken to miss cursiter. nobody ever knew what she said to her, but the next day miss cursiter's secretary had the pleasure to inform miss quincey that she would have leave of absence for three months, and that her place would be kept for her. miss quincey had become a person of importance. old martha fumbled about, unnaturally attentive, even mrs. moon acknowledged juliana's right to be ill if her foolish mind were set on it. there was nothing active or spontaneous in the old lady's dislike of her niece, it was simply a habit she had got. an agreeable sense of her dignity stole in on the little woman of no account. she knew and everybody knew that hers was no vulgar illness. it was brain exhaustion; altogether a noble and transcendental affair; miss quincey was a victim of the intellectual life. in all the five-and-twenty years she had worked there st. sidwell's had never heard so much about miss quincey's brain. and on her part miss quincey was surprised to find that she had so many friends. day after day the teachers left their cards and sympathy; the girls sent flowers with love; there were even messages of inquiry from miss cursiter. and not only flowers and sympathy, but more solid testimonials poured in from st. sidwell's, parcels which by some curious coincidence contained everything that dr. cautley had suggested and miss quincey refused on the grounds that she "couldn't fancy it." for a long time miss quincey was supremely happy in the belief that these delicacies were sent by the head; and she said to herself that one had only to be laid aside a little while for one's worth to be appreciated. it was as if a veil of blessed illusion had been spread between her and her world; and nobody knew whose fingers had been busy in weaving it so close and fine. dr. cautley came every day and always at the same time. at first he was pretty sure to find miss vivian, sitting with miss quincey or drinking tea in perilous intimacy with mrs. moon. then came a long spell when, time it as he would, he never saw her at all. rhoda had taken it into her head to choose six o'clock for her visits, and at six he was bound to be at home for consultations. but rhoda or no rhoda, he kept his promise. he was looking well after miss quincey. he would have done that as a matter of course; for his worst enemies--and he had several--could not say that cautley ever neglected his poorer patients. only he concentrated or dissipated himself according to the nature of the case, giving five minutes to one and twenty to another. when he could he gave half-hours to miss quincey. he was absorbed, excited; he battled by her bedside; his spirits went up and down with every fluctuation of her pulse; you would have thought that miss quincey's case was one of exquisite interest, rarity and charm, and that cautley had staked his reputation on her recovery. when he said to her in his emphatic way, "we _must_ get you well, miss quincey," his manner implied that it would be a very serious thing for the universe if miss quincey did not get well. when he looked at her his eyes seemed to be taking her in, taking her in, seeing nothing in all the world but her. as it happened, sooner than anybody expected miss quincey did get well. mrs. moon was the first to notice that. she hailed juliana's recovery as a sign of grace, of returning allegiance to the memory of tollington moon. "now," said the old lady, "i hope we've seen the last of dr. cautley." "of course we have," said miss quincey. she said it irritably, but everybody knows that a little temper is the surest symptom of returning health. "what should he come for?" "to run up his little bill, my dear. you don't imagine he comes for the pleasure of seeing _you_?" "i never imagine anything," said the little arithmetic teacher with some truth. but they had by no means seen the last of him. if the old lady's theory was correct, cautley must have been the most grossly avaricious of young men. the length of his visits was infamous, their frequency appalling. he kept on coming long after miss quincey was officially and obviously well; and on the most trivial, the most ridiculous pretexts. it was "just to see how she was getting on," or "because he happened to be passing," or "to bring that book he told her about." he had prescribed a course of light literature for miss quincey and seemed to think it necessary to supply his own drugs. to be sure he brought a great many medicines that you cannot get made up at the chemist's, insight, understanding, sympathy, the tonic of his own virile youth; and heaven only knows if these things were not the most expensive. all the time miss quincey was trying to keep up with the new standard imposed on the staff. hitherto she had laboured under obvious disadvantages; now, in her leisurely convalescence, sated as she was with time, she wallowed openly and wantonly in general culture. and it seemed that the doctor had gone in for general culture too. he could talk to her for ever about shakespeare, tennyson and browning. miss quincey was always dipping into those poets now, always drawing water from the wells of literature. by the way, she was head over heels in debt to _sordello_, and was working double time to pay him off. she reported her progress with glee. it was "only a hundred and thirty-eight more pages, dr. cautley. in forty-six days i shall have finished _sordello_." "then you will have done what i never did in my whole life." it amused cautley to talk to miss quincey. she wore such an air of adventure; she was so fresh and innocent in her excursions into the realms of gold; and when she sat handling her little bits of tennyson and browning as if they had been rare nuggets recently dug up there, what could he do but feign astonishment and interest? he had travelled extensively in the realms of gold. he was acquainted with all the poets and intimate with most; he knew some of them so well as to be able to make jokes at their expense. he was at home in their society. beside his light-hearted intimacy miss cursiter's academic manner showed like the punctilious advances of an outsider. but he was terribly modern this young man. he served strange gods, healers and regenerators whose names had never penetrated to st. sidwell's. some days he was really dreadful; he shook his head over the _idylls of the king_, made no secret of his unbelief in _the princess_, and shamelessly declared that a great deal of _in memoriam_ would go where mendelssohn and the old crinolines have gone. then something very much worse than that happened; miss quincey gave him a copy of the "address to the students and teachers of st. sidwell's," and it made him laugh. she pointed out the bit about the healers and regenerators, and refreshing yourself at the wells of literature. "that is a beautiful passage," said miss quincey. he laughed more than ever. "oh yes, beautiful, beautiful. they're to do it in their evenings, are they? and when they're faint and weary with their day's work?" and he laughed again quite loud, laughed till mrs. moon woke out of a doze and started as if this world had come to an end and another one had begun. he was very sorry, and he begged a thousand pardons; but, really, that passage was unspeakably funny. he didn't know that miss cursiter had such a rich vein of humour in her. for the life of her miss quincey could not see what there was to laugh at, nor why she should be teased about tennyson and bantered on the subject of browning; but she enjoyed it all the same. he was so young; he was like a big schoolboy throwing stones into the living wells of literature and watching for the splash; it did her good to look at him. so she looked, smiling her starved smile and snatching a fearful joy from his profane conversation. there were moments when she asked herself how he came to be there at all; he was so out-of-place somehow. the moons and quinceys denounced him as a stranger and intruder; the very chairs and tables had memories, associations that rejected him; everything in the room suggested the same mystic antagonism; it was as if mrs. moon and all her household gods were in league against him. oddly enough this attitude of theirs heightened her sense of intimacy with him, made him hers and no one else's for the time. the pleasure she took in his society had some of the peculiar private ecstasy of sin. and mrs. moon wondered what the young man was going to charge for that little visit; and what the total of his account would be. she said that if juliana didn't give him a hint, she would be obliged to speak to him herself; and at that juliana looked frightened and begged that mrs. moon would do nothing of the kind. "there will be no charge for friendly visits," said she; and she made a rapid calculation in the top of her head. nineteen visits at, say, seven-and-six a visit, would come to exactly nine pounds nine and sixpence. and she smiled; possibly she thought it was worth it. and really those friendly visits had sometimes an ambiguous character; he dragged his profession into them by the head and shoulders. he had left off scribbling prescriptions, but he would tell her what to take in a light and literary way, as if it was just part of their very interesting conversation. browning was bitter and bracing, he was like iron and quinine, and by the way she had better take a little of both. then when he met her again he would ask, "have you been taking any more browning, miss quincey?" and while miss quincey owned with a blush that she had, he would look at her and say she wanted a change--a little tennyson and a lighter tonic; strychnine and arsenic was the thing. and mrs. moon still wondered. "i never saw anything like the indelicacy of that young man," said she. "you're running up a pretty long bill, i can tell you." oh, yes, a long, long bill; for we pay heavily for our pleasures in this sad world, juliana! chapter vi spring fashions winter had come and gone, and spring found miss quincey back again at st. sidwell's, the place of illumination; a place that knew rather less of her than it had known before. after five-and-twenty years of constant attendance she had only to be away three months to be forgotten. the new staff was not greatly concerned with miss quincey; it was always busy. as for the girls, they were wholly given over to the new worship of rhoda vivian; impossible to rouse them to the faintest interest in miss quincey. her place had been kept for her by rhoda. rhoda had put out the strong young arm that she was so proud of, and held back for a little while miss quincey's fate; and now at all costs she was determined to stand between her and the truth. so miss quincey never knew that it was rhoda who was responsible for the delicate attentions she had received during her illness; rhoda who had bought and sent off the presents from st. sidwell's; rhoda who had conceived that pretty little idea of flowers "with love"; and rhoda who had inspired the affectionate messages of the staff. (the classical mistress had to draw most extravagantly on her popularity in order to work that fraud.) rhoda had taken her place, and it was not in rhoda's power to give it back to her. but miss quincey never saw it; for a subtler web than that of rhoda's spinning was woven about her eyes. possibly in some impressive and inapparent way her unhappy little favourite laura lazarus may have been glad to see her back again, though the two queer creatures exchanged no greeting more intimate than an embarrassed smile. in this rapidly-advancing world the mad hatter alone remained where miss quincey had left her. she explained at some length how the figures twisted themselves round in her head and would never stay the same for a minute together. miss quincey listened patiently to this explanation; she was more indulgent, less persistent than before. under that veil of illusion she herself had become communicative. she went up and down between the classes and poured out her soul as to an audience all interest, all sympathy. there was a certain monotony about her conversation since the epoch of her illness. it was, "oh yes, i am quite well now, thank you. dr. cautley is so very clever. dr. cautley has taken splendid care of me. dr. cautley has been so very kind and attentive, i think it would be ungrateful of me if i had not got well. dr. cautley--" perhaps it was just as well for miss quincey that the staff were too busy to attend to her. the most they noticed was that in the matter of obstruction miss quincey was not quite so precipitate as she had been. she offended less by violent contact and rebound than by drifting absently into the processions and getting mixed up with them. rhoda saw a change in her; rhoda was never too busy to spare a thought for miss quincey. "yes," she said, "you _are_ better. your eyes are brighter." "that," said miss quincey, with simple pride "is the arsenic. dr. cautley is giving me arsenic." now arsenic (like happiness) has some curious properties. it looks most innocently like sugar, which it is not. a little of it goes a long way and undoubtedly acts as a tonic; a little more may undermine the stoutest constitution, and a little too much of it is a deadly poison and kills you. as yet miss quincey had only taken it in microscopic doses. something had changed her; it may have been happiness, it may have been illusion; whatever it was miss quincey thought it was the arsenic--if it was not the weather, the very remarkable weather. for that year spring came with a burst. indeed there is seldom anything shy and tentative, anything obscure and gradual about the approaches of the london spring. spring is always in a hurry there, for she knows that she has but a short time before her; she has to make an impression and make it at once; so she works careless of delicacies and shades, relying on broad telling strokes, on strong outlines and stinging contrasts. she is like a clever artist handicapped with her materials. only a patch of grass, a few trees and the sky; but you wake one morning and the boughs are drawn black and bold against the blue; and leaves are sharp as emeralds against the black; and the grass in the squares and the shrubs in the gardens repeat the same brilliant extravaganza; and it is all very eccentric and beautiful and daring. that is the way of a cockney spring, and when you are used to it the charm is undeniable. one day miss quincey walked in camden town and noted the singular caprices of the spring. strange longings, freaks of the blood and brain, stirred within her at this bursting of the leaf. they led her into camden road, into the high street, to the great shops where the virginal young fashions and the artificial flowers are. at this season hunter's window blooms out in blouses of every imaginable colour and texture and form. there was one, a silk one, of so discreet and modest a mauve that you could have called it lavender. to say that it caught miss quincey's eye would be to wrong that maidenly garment. there was nothing blatant, nothing importunate in its behaviour. gently, imperceptibly, it stole into the field of vision and stood there, delicately alluring. it could afford to wait. it had not even any pattern to speak of, only an indefinable white something, a dice, a diaper, a sprig. it was the sprig that touched her, tempted her. amongst the poorer ranks of miss quincey's profession the sumptuary laws are exceptionally severe. it is a crime, a treachery, to spend money on mere personal adornment. you are clothed, not for beauty's sake, but because the rigour of the climate and of custom equally require it. miss quincey's conscience pricked her all the time that she stood looking in at hunter's window. never before had she suffered so terrible a solicitation of the senses. it was as if all those dim and germinal desires had burst and blossomed in this sinful passion for a blouse. she resisted, faltered, resisted; turned away and turned back again. the blouse sat immovable on its wooden bust, absolute in its policy of reticence. miss quincey had just decided that it had a thought too much mauve in it, and was most successfully routing desire by depreciation of its object when a shopman stepped on to the stage, treading airily among the gauzes and the flowers. there was no artifice about the young man; it was in the dreamiest abstraction that he clasped that fair form round the collar and turned it to the light. it shuddered like a living thing; its violent mauve vanished in silver grey. the effect was irresistible. miss quincey was tempted beyond all endurance; and she fell. once in possession of the blouse, its price, a guinea, paid over the counter, miss quincey was all discretion. she carried her treasure home in a pasteboard box concealed under her cape; lest its shameless arrival in hunter's van should excite scandal and remark. that night, behind a locked door, miss quincey sat up wrestling and battling with her blouse. to miss quincey in the watches of the night it seemed that a spirit of obstinate malevolence lurked in that deceitful garment. like all the things in hunter's shop, it was designed for conventional well-rounded womanhood. it repudiated the very idea of miss quincey; in every fold it expressed its contempt for her person; its collar was stiff with an invincible repugnance. miss quincey had to take it in where it went out, and let it out where it went in, to pinch, pull, humour and propitiate it before it would consent to cling to her diminished figure. when all was done she wrapped it in tissue paper and hid it away in a drawer out of sight, for the very thought of it frightened her. but when next she went to look at it she hardly knew it again. the malignity seemed all smoothed out of it; it lay there with its meek sleeves folded, the very picture of injured innocence and reproach. miss quincey thought she might get reconciled to it in time. a day might even come when she would be brave enough to wear it. not many days after, miss quincey might have been seen coming out of st. sidwell's with a reserved and secret smile playing about her face; so secret and so reserved, that nobody, not even miss quincey, could tell what it was playing at. miss quincey was meditating an audacity. that night she took pen and paper up to her bedroom and sat down to write a little note. sat down to write it and got up again; wrote it and tore it up, and sat down to write another. this she left open for such emendations and improvements as should occur to her in the night. perhaps none did occur; perhaps she realized that a literary work loses its force and spontaneity in conscious elaboration; anyhow the note was put up just as it was and posted first thing in the morning at the pillar-box on her way to st. sidwell's. old martha was cleaning the steps as miss quincey went out; but miss quincey carefully avoided looking martha's way. like the ostrich she supposed that if she did not see martha, martha could not see her. but martha had seen her. she saw everything. she had seen the note open on miss juliana's table by the window in the bedroom when she was drawing up the blind; she had seen the silk blouse lying in its tissue paper when she was tidying miss juliana's drawer; and that very afternoon she discovered a certain cake deposited by miss juliana in the dining-room cupboard with every circumstance of secrecy and disguise. and martha shook her old head and put that and that together, the blouse, the cake and the letter; though what connection there could possibly be between the three was more than miss juliana could have told her. even to martha the association was so singular that it pointed to some painful aberration of intellect on miss juliana's part. as in duty bound, martha brought up her latest discovery and laid it before mrs. moon. beyond that she said nothing, indeed there was nothing to be said. the cake (it was of the expensive pound variety, crowned with a sugar turret and surrounded with almond fortifications) spoke for itself, though in an unknown language. "what does that mean, martha?" "miss juliana, m'm, i suppose." martha pursed up her lips, suppressing the impertinence of her own private opinion and awaiting her mistress's with respect. no doubt she would have heard it but that miss juliana happened to come in at that moment, and mrs. moon's attention was distracted by the really amazing spectacle presented by her niece. and miss juliana, who for five-and-twenty years had never appeared in anything but frowsy drab or dingy grey, miss juliana flaunting in silk at four o'clock in the afternoon, miss juliana, all shining and shimmering like a silver and mauve chameleon, was a sight to take anybody's breath away. martha dearly loved a scene, for to be admitted to a scene was to be admitted to her mistress's confidence; but the excellent woman knew her place, and before that flagrant apparition she withdrew as she would have withdrawn from a family scandal. miss quincey advanced timidly, for of course she knew that she had to cross that room under fire of criticism; but on the whole she was less abject than she might have been, for at the moment she was thinking of dr. cautley. he had actually accepted her kind invitation, and that fact explained and justified her; besides, she carried her browning in her hand, and it made her feel decidedly more natural. mrs. moon restrained her feelings until her niece had moved about a bit, and sat down by her enemy the cabinet, and presented herself in every possible aspect. the old lady's eyes lost no movement of the curious figure; when she had taken it in, grasped it in all its details, she began. "well, i declare, juliana"--(five-and-twenty years ago she used to call her "jooley," keeping the full name to mark disapproval or displeasure. now it was always juliana, so that mrs. moon seemed to be permanently displeased)--"whatever possessed you to make such an exhibition of yourself? (and will you draw your chair back--you're incommoding the cabinet.) i never saw anything so unsuitable and unbecoming in _my_ life--at this hour of the day too. why, you're just like a whirligig out of a pantomime. if you think you can carry off that kind of thing you're very much mistaken." that did seem to be miss quincey's idea--to carry it off; to brazen it out; to sit down and read browning as if there was nothing at all remarkable in her personal appearance. "and to choose lilac of all things in the world! you never could stand that shade at the best of times. lilac! why, i declare if it isn't mauve-pink." "mauve-pink!" she had given voice to the fear that lay hidden in miss quincey's heart. a sensitive culprit caught in humiliating guilt could not look more cowed with self-consciousness than miss quincey at that word. criminal and crime, miss quincey and her blouse, seemed linked in an awful bond of mutual abhorrence. the blouse shivered as miss quincey trembled in nervous agitation; as she went red and yellow by turns it paled and flushed its painful pink. they were blushing for each other. for it _was_ mauve-pink; she could see that well enough now. "turn round!" miss quincey turned round. "much too young for you! why, bless me, if it doesn't throw up every bit of yellow in your face! if you don't believe me, look in the glass." miss quincey looked in the glass. it _did_ throw up the yellow tints. it threw everything up to her. if she had owned to a little fear of it before, it affected her now with positive terror. the thing was young, much too young; and it was brutal and violent in its youth. it was possessed by a perfect demon of juvenility; it clashed and fought with every object in the room; it made them all look old, ever so old, and shabby. and as miss quincey stood with it before the looking glass, it flared up and told her to her face that she was forty-five--forty-five, and looked fifty. "louisa," murmured the old lady, "was the only one of our family who could stand pink." "i will give it to louisa," cried miss quincey with a touch of passion. "tchee--tchee!" at that idea the old lady chuckled in supreme derision. "capers and nonsense! louisa indeed! much good it'll do louisa when you've been and nipped all the shape out of it to suit yourself. however you came to be so skimpy and flat-chested is a mystery to me. all the quinceys were tall, your uncle tollington was tall, your father, he was tall; and your sister, well; i will say this for louisa, she's as tall as any of 'em, and she has a _bust_." "yes, i daresay it would have been very becoming to louisa," said miss quincey humbly. "i--i thought it was lavender." "lavender or no lavender, i'm surprised at you--throwing money away on a thing like that." "i can afford it," said miss quincey with the pathetic dignity of the turning worm. now it was not worm-like subtlety that suggested that reply. it was positive inspiration. by those simple words juliana had done something to remove the slur she was always casting on a certain character. tollington moon had not managed his nieces' affairs so badly after all if one of them could afford herself extravagances of that sort. the blouse therefore might be taken as a sign and symbol of his innermost integrity. so mrs. moon was content with but one more parting shot. "i don't say you can't afford the money, i say you can't afford the colour--not at your time of life." two tears that had gathered in miss quincey's eyes now fell on the silk, deepening the mauve-pink to a hideous magenta. "i was deceived in the colour," she said as she turned from her tormentor. she toiled upstairs to the back bedroom and took it off. she could never wear it. it was waste--sheer waste; for no other woman could wear it either; certainly not louisa; she had made it useless for louisa by paring it down to her own ridiculous dimensions. louisa was and always had been a head and shoulders taller than she was; and she had a bust. so miss quincey came down meek and meagre in the old dress that she served her for so many seasons, and she looked for peace. but that terrible old lady had not done with her yet, and the worst was still to come. no longer having any grievance against the blouse, mrs. moon was concentrating her attention on that more mysterious witness to juliana's foolishness--the cake. "and now," said she, pointing as she might have pointed to a monument, "will you kindly tell me the meaning of this?" "i expect--perhaps--it is very likely--that dr. cautley will come in to tea this afternoon." the old lady peered at miss quincey and her eyes were sharp as needles, needles that carried the thread of her thought pretty plainly too, but it was too fine a thread for miss quincey to see. besides she was looking at the cake and almost regretting that she had bought it, lest he should think that it was eating too many of such things that had made her ill. "and what put that notion into your head, i should like to know?" "he has written to say so." "juliana--you don't mean to tell me that he invited himself?" "well, no. that is--it was an answer to my invitation." "_your_ invitation? you were not content to have that man poking his nose in here at all hours of the day and night, but you must go out of your way to send him invitations?" "dr. cautley has been most kind and attentive, and--i thought--it was time we paid him some little attention." "attention indeed! i should be very sorry to let any young man suppose that i paid any attention to him. i should have thought you'd have had a little more maidenly reserve. besides, you know perfectly well that i don't enjoy my tea unless we have it by ourselves." oh yes, she knew; they had been having it that way for five-and-twenty years. "as for that cake," continued the old lady, "it's ridiculous. look at it. why, you might just as well have ordered wedding cake at once. i tell you what it is, juliana, you're getting quite flighty." flighty? no mind but a feminine one, grown up and trained under the shadow of st. sidwell's, could conceive the nature of miss quincey's feelings on being told that she was flighty. she herself made no attempt to express them. she sat down and gasped, clutching her browning to give herself a sense of moral support. all the rest was intelligible, she had understood and accepted it; but to be told that she, a teacher in st. sidwell's, was flighty--the charge was simply confusing to the intellect, and it left her dumb. flighty? when martha came in with the tea-tray and she had to order a knife for the cake and an extra cup for dr. cautley, she saw mrs. moon looking at martha, and martha looking at mrs. moon, and they seemed to be saying to each other, "how flighty miss juliana is getting." flighty? the idea afflicted her to such a degree that when dr. cautley came she had not a word to say to him. for a whole week she had looked forward to this tea-drinking with tremors of joyous expectancy and palpitations of alarm. it was to have been one of those rare and solitary occasions that can only come once in a blue moon. the lump sum of pleasure that other people get spread for them more or less thickly over the surface of the years, she meant to take once for all, packed and pressed into one rapturous hour, one saturday afternoon from four-thirty to five-thirty, the memory of it to be stored up and economised so as to last her life-time, thus justifying the original expense. she knew that success was doubtful, because of the uncertainty of things in general and of the old lady's temper in particular. and then she had to stake everything on his coming; and the chances, allowing for the inevitable claims on a doctor's time, were a thousand to one against it. she had nothing to go upon but the delicate incalculable balance of events. and now, when the blue moon had risen, the impossible thing happened, and the man had come, he might just as well, in fact a great deal better, have stayed away. the whole thing was a waste and failure from beginning to end. the tea was a waste and a failure, for martha would bring it in a quarter of an hour too soon; the cake was a waste and a failure, for nobody ate any of it; and she was a waste and a failure--she hardly knew why. she cut her cake with trembling fingers and offered it, blushing as the gash in its side revealed the thoroughly unwholesome nature of its interior. she felt ashamed of its sugary artifice, its treacherously festive air, and its embarrassing affinity to bride's-cake. no wonder that he had no appetite for cake, and that miss quincey had no appetite for conversation. he tried to tempt her with bits of browning, but she refused them all. she had lost her interest in browning. he thought, "she is too tired to talk," and left half an hour sooner than he had intended. she thought, "he is offended. or else--he thinks me flighty." and that was all. chapter vii under a blue moon it was early on another saturday evening, a fortnight after that disastrous one, and miss quincey was taking the air in primrose hill park. she was walking to keep herself warm, for the breeze was brisk and cool. there was a little stir and flutter in the trees and a little stir and flutter in her heart, for she had caught sight of dr. cautley in the distance. he was coming round the corner of one of the intersecting walks, coming at a frantic pace, with the tails of his frock-coat waving in the wind. he pulled himself up as he neared her and held out a friendly hand. "that's right, miss quincey. i'm delighted to see you out. you really are getting strong again, aren't you?" "yes, thank you--very well, very strong." was it her fancy, or did his manner imply that he wanted to sink that humiliating episode of the tea-party and begin again where they had left off? it might be so; his courtesy was so infinitely subtle. he had actually turned and was walking her way now. "and how is _sordello?_" he asked, the tone of his inquiry suggesting that there was something seriously the matter with _sordello_. "getting on. only fifty-six pages more." "you _are_ advancing, miss quincey--gaining on him by leaps and bounds. you're not overdoing it, i hope?" "oh no, i read a little in the evenings--i have to keep up to the standard of the staff. indeed," she added, turning with a sudden suicidal panic, "i ought to be at home and working now." "what? on a half-holiday? it _is_ a half-holiday?" "for some people--not for me." his eyes--she could not be mistaken--were taking her in as they had done before. "and why not for you? do you know, you're looking horribly tired. suppose we sit down a bit." miss quincey admitted that it would be very nice. "hadn't you better put your cape on--the wind's changing." she obeyed him. "that's hardly a thick enough wrap for this weather, is it?" she assured him it was very warm, very comfortable. "do you know what i would like to do with you, miss quincey?" "no." "i should like to pack you off somewhere--anywhere--for another three months' holiday." "another three months! what would my pupils do, and what would miss cursiter say?" it was part of the illusion that she conceived herself to be indispensable to miss cursiter. "confound miss cursiter!" evidently he felt strongly on the subject of miss cursiter. he confounded her with such energy that the seat provided for them by the london county council vibrated under it. he stared sulkily out over the park a moment; he gave his cuffs a hitch as if he were going to fight somebody, and then--he let himself go. at a blind headlong pace, lashing himself up as he went, falling furiously on civilization, the social order, women's education and women's labour, the system that threw open all doors to them, and let them be squeezed and trampled down together in the crush. he was ready to take the nineteenth century by the throat and strangle it; he squared himself against the universe. "what," said miss quincey, "do you not believe in equal chances for men and women?" she was eager to redeem herself from the charge of flightiness. "equal chances? i daresay. but not unequal work. the work must be unequal if the conditions are unequal. it's not the same machine. to turn a woman on to a man's work is like trying to run an express train by clock-work, with a pendulum for a piston, and a hairspring for steam." miss quincey timidly hinted that the question was a large one, that there was another side to it. "of course there is; there are fifty sides to it; but there are too many people looking at the other forty-nine for my taste. i loathe a crowd." stirred by a faint _esprit de corps_ miss quincey asked him if he did not believe in the open door for women? he said, "it would be kinder to shut it in their faces." she threw in a word about the women's labour market--the enormous demand. he said that only meant that women's labour could be bought cheap and sold dear. she sighed. "but women must do something--surely you see the necessity?" he groaned. "oh yes. it's just the necessity that i do see--the damnable necessity. i only protest against the preventable evil. if you must turn women into so many machines, for heaven's sake treat them like machines. you don't work an engine when it's undergoing structural alterations--because, you know, you can't. your precious system recognises no differences. it sets up the same absurd standard for every woman, the brilliant genius and the average imbecile. which is not only morally odious but physiologically fatuous. there must be one of two results--either the average imbeciles are sacrificed by thousands to a dozen or so of brilliant geniuses, or it's the other way about." "whichever way it is," said miss quincey, with her back, so to speak, to the wall, "it's all part of civilization, of our intellectual progress." "they're not the same thing. and it isn't civilization, it's intellectual savagery. it isn't progress either, it's a blind rush, an inhuman scrimmage--the very worst form of the struggle for existence. it doesn't even mean survival of the intellectually fittest. it develops monstrosities. it defeats its own ends by brutalising the intellect itself. and the worst enemies of women are women. i swear, if i were a woman, i'd rather do without an education than get it at that price. or i'd educate myself. after all, that's the way of the fittest--the one in a thousand." "do you not approve of educated women then?" miss quincey was quite shaken by this cataclysmal outbreak, this overturning and shattering of the old beacons and landmarks. he stared into the distance. "oh yes, i approve of them when they are really educated--not when they are like that. you won't get the flower of womanhood out of a forcing-house like st. sidwell's; though i daresay it produces pumpkins to perfection." what did he say to miss vivian then? miss quincey could not think badly of a system that could produce women like miss vivian. a cloud came over his angry eyes as they stared into the distance. "that's it. it hasn't produced them. they have produced it." miss quincey smiled. evidently consistency was not to be expected of this young man. he was so young, and so irresponsible and passionate. she admired him for it; and not only for that; she admired him--she could not say exactly why, but she thought it was because he had such a beautiful, bumpy, intellectual forehead. and as she sat beside him and shook to that vibrating passion of his, she felt as if the blue moon had risen again and was shining through the trees of the park; and she was happy, absolutely, indubitably happy and safe; for she felt that he was her friend and her protector and the defender of her cause. it was for her that he raged and maddened and behaved himself altogether so unreasonably. now as it happened, cautley did champion certain theories which miss cursiter, when she met them, denounced as physiologist's fads. but it was not they, nor yet miss quincey, that accounted for his display of feeling. he was angry because he wanted to come to a certain understanding with the classical mistress; to come to it at once; and the system kept him waiting. it was robbing him of rhoda, and rhoda of her youth. meanwhile rhoda was superbly happy at st. sidwell's, playing at being pallas athene; as for checking her midway in her brilliant career, that was not to be thought of for an instant. the flower of womanhood--it was the flower of life. he had never seen a woman so invincibly and superlatively alive. cautley deified life; and in his creed, which was simplicity itself, life and health were one; health the sole source of strength, intelligence and beauty, of all divine and perfect possibilities. at least that was how he began. but three years' practice in london had somewhat strained the faith of the young devotee. he soon found himself in the painful position of a priest who no longer believes in his deity; overheard himself asking whether health was not an unattainable ideal; then declaring that life itself was all a matter of compromise; finally coming to the conclusion that the soul of things was neurosis. beyond that he refused to commit himself to any theory of the universe. he even made himself unpleasant. a clerical patient would approach him with conciliatory breadth, and say: "i envy you, cautley; i envy your marvellous experience. your opportunities are greater than mine. and sometimes, do you know, i think you see deeper into the work of the maker." and cautley would shrug his shoulders and smile in the good man's face, and say, "the maker! i can only tell you i'm tired of mending the work of the maker." yet the more he doubted the harder he worked; though his world spun round and round, shrieking like a clock running down, and he had persuaded himself that all he could do was to wind up the crazy wheels for another year or so. which all meant that cautley was working a little too hard and running down himself. he had begun to specialize in gynecology and it increased his scepticism. then suddenly, one evening, when he least looked for it, least wanted it, he saw his divinity incarnate. rhoda had appealed to him as the supreme expression of nature's will to live. that was the instantaneous and visible effect of her. rhoda was the red flower on the tree of life. at st. sidwell's, that great forcing-house, they might grow some vegetables to perfection; whether it was orchids or pumpkins he neither knew nor cared; but he defied them to produce anything like that. he was sorry for the vegetables, the orchids and the pumpkins; and he was sorry for miss quincey, who was neither a pumpkin nor an orchid, but only a harmless little withered leaf. not a pleasant leaf, the sort that goes dancing along, all crisp and curly, in the arms of the rollicking wind; but the sort that the same wind kicks into a corner, to lie there till it rots and comes in handy as leaf mould for the forcing-house. rhoda's friend was not like rhoda; yet because the leaf may distantly suggest the rose, he liked to sit and talk to her and think about the most beautiful woman in the world. to any other man conversation with miss quincey would have been impossible; for miss quincey in normal health was uninteresting when she was not absurd. but to cautley at all times she was simply heart-rending. for this young man with the irritable nerves and blasphemous temper had after all a divine patience at the service of women, even the foolish and hysterical; because like their maker he knew whereof they were made. this very minute the queer meta-physical thought had come to him that somehow, in the infinite entanglement of things, such women as miss quincey were perpetually being sacrificed to such women as rhoda vivian. it struck him that nature had made up for any little extra outlay in one direction by cruel pinching in another. it was part of her rigid economy. she was not going to have any bills running up against her at the other end of the universe. nature had indulged in rhoda vivian and she was making miss quincey pay. he wondered if that notion had struck rhoda vivian too, and if she were trying to make up for it. he had noticed that miss quincey had the power (if you could predicate power of such a person), a power denied to him, of drawing out the woman-hood of the most beautiful woman in the world; some infinite tenderness in rhoda answered to the infinite absurdity in her. he was not sure that her attitude to miss quincey was not the most beautiful thing about her. he had begun by thinking about the colour of rhoda's eyes. he could not for the life of him remember whether they were blue or green, till something (miss quincey's eyes perhaps) reminded him that they were grey, pure grey, without a taint of green or a shadow of blue in them. that was what his mind was running on as he looked into the distance and miss quincey imagined that his bumpy intellectual forehead was bulging with great thoughts. and now miss quincey supplied a convenient pivot for the wild gyrations of his wrath. he got up and with his hands behind his back he seemed to be lashing himself into a fury with his coat-tail. "the whole thing is one-sided and artificial and absurd. bad enough for men, but fatal for women. any system that unfits them for their proper functions--" "and do we know--have we decided--yet--what they are?" miss quincey was anxious to sustain her part in the dialogue with credit. he stared, not at the distance but at her. "why, surely," he said more gently, "to be women first--to be wives and mothers." she drew her cape a little closer round her and turned from him with half-shut eyes. she seemed at once to be protecting herself against his theory and blinding her sight to her own perishing and thwarted woman-hood. "all nature is against it," he said. "nature?" she repeated feebly. "yes, nature; and she'll go her own way in spite of all the systems that ever were. don't you know---you are a teacher, so you ought to know--that overstrain of the higher faculties is sometimes followed by astonishing demonstrations on the part of nature?" miss quincey replied that no cases of the kind had come under _her_ notice. "well--your profession ought to go hand-in-hand with mine. if you only saw the half of what we see--but you only see the process; we get the results. by the way i must go and look at some of them." his words echoed madly in a feverish little brain, "ought to go--hand-in-hand--hand-in-hand with mine." "nature can be very cruel," said she. something in her tone recalled him from his flight. he stood looking down at her, thoughtful and pitiful. "and nature can be very kind; kinder than we are. you are a case in point. nature is trying to make you well against your will. a little more rest--a little more exercise--a little more air--" she smiled. yes, a little more of all the things she wanted and had never had. that was what her smile said in its soft and deprecating bitterness. he held out his hand, and she too rose, shivering a little in her thin dress. she was the first to hurry away. he looked after her small figure, noted her nervous gait and the agitated movement of her hand as the streamers on her poor cape flapped and fluttered, the sport of the unfeeling wind. chapter viii a painful misunderstanding and now, on early evenings and saturday afternoons when the weather was fine, miss quincey was to be found in primrose hill park. not that anybody ever came to look for miss quincey. nevertheless, whether she was walking up and down the paths or sitting on a bench, miss quincey had a certain expectant air, as if at any moment dr. cautley might come tearing round the corner with his coat-tails flying, or as if she might look up and find him sitting beside her and talking to her. but he did not come. there are some histories that never repeat themselves. and he had never called since that day--miss quincey remembered it well; it was saturday the thirteenth of march. april and may went by; she had not seen him now for more than two months; and she began to think there must be a reason for it. at last she saw him; she saw him twice running. once in the park where they had sat together, and once in the forked road that leads past that part of st. sidwell's where miss cursiter and miss vivian lived in state. each time he was walking very fast as usual, and he looked at her, but he never raised his hat; she spoke, but he passed her without a word. and yet he had recognised her; there could be no possible doubt of it. depend upon it there was a reason for _that_. miss quincey was one of those innocent people who believe that every variety of human behaviour must have a reason (as if only two months ago she had not been favoured with the spectacle of an absolutely unreasonable young man). to be sure it was not easy to find one for conduct so strange and unprecedented, and in any case miss quincey's knowledge of masculine motives was but small. taken by itself it might have passed without any reason, as an oversight, a momentary lapse; but coupled with his complete abandonment of camden street north it looked ominous indeed. not that her faith in bastian cautley wavered for an instant. because bastian cautley was what he was, he could never be guilty of spontaneous discourtesy; on the other hand, she had seen that he could be fierce enough on provocation; therefore, she argued, he had some obscure ground of offence against her. miss quincey passed a sleepless night reasoning about the reason, a palpitating never-ending night, without a doze or a dream in it or so much as the winking of an eyelid. she reasoned about it for a week between the classes, and in her spare time (when she had any) in the evening (thus running into debt to _sordello_ again). at the end of the week miss quincey's mind seemed to have become remarkably lucid; every thought in it ground to excessive subtlety in the mill of her logic. she saw it all clearly. there had been some misunderstanding, some terrible mistake. she had forfeited his friendship through a blunder nameless but irrevocable. once or twice she wondered if mrs. moon could be at the bottom of it--or martha. had her aunt carried out her dreadful threat of giving him a hint to send in his account? and had the hint implied that for the future all accounts with him were closed? had he called on mrs. moon and been received with crushing hostility? or had martha permitted herself to say that she, miss quincey, was out when perhaps he knew for a positive fact that she was in? but she soon dismissed these conjectures as inadequate and fell back on her original hypothesis. and all the time the old lady's eyes, and her voice too, were sharper than ever; from the corner where she dreamed she watched miss quincey incessantly between the dreams. at times the old lady was shaken with terrible and mysterious mirth. bastian cautley began to figure fantastically in her conversation. her ideas travelled by slow trains of association that started from nowhere but always arrived at bastian cautley as a terminus. if juliana had a headache mrs. moon supposed that she wanted that young man to be dancing attendance on her again; if juliana sighed she declared that dr. cautley was a faithless swain who had forsaken juliana; if martha brought in the tea-tray she wondered when dr. cautley was coming back for another slice of juliana's wedding-cake. mrs. moon referred to a certain abominable piece of confectionery now crumbling away on a shelf in the sideboard, where, with a breach in its side and its sugar turret in ruins, it seemed to nod at miss quincey with all sorts of satirical suggestions. and when louisa sent her accounts of teenie who lisped in german, alexander who wrote latin letters to his father, and mildred who refused to read the new testament in anything but greek, and miss quincey remarked that if she had children she wouldn't bring them up so, the old lady laughed--"tchee--tchee! we all know about old maids' children." miss quincey said nothing to that; but she hardened her heart against louisa's children, and against louisa's husband and louisa. she couldn't think how louisa could have married such a dreadful little man as andrew mackinnon, with his unmistakable accent and problematical linen. the gentle creature who had never said a harsh word to anybody in her life became mysteriously cross and captious. she hardened her heart even to little laura lazarus. and one morning when she came upon the mad hatter in her corner of the class-room, and found her adding two familiar columns of figures together and adding them all wrong, miss quincey was very cross and very captious indeed. the mad hatter explained at more length than ever that the figures twisted themselves about; they wouldn't stay still a minute so that she could hold them; they were always going on and on, turning over and over, and growing, growing, till there were millions, billions, trillions of them; oh, they were wonderful things those figures; you could go on watching them for ever if you were sharp enough; you could even--here laura lowered her voice in awe of her own conception, for laura was a mystic, a seer, a metaphysician, what you will--you could even think with them, if you knew how; in short you could do anything with them but turn them into sums. and as all this was very confusing to the intellect miss quincey became crosser than ever. and while miss quincey quivered all over with irritability, the mad hatter paid no heed whatever to her instructions, but thrust forward a small yellow face that was all nose and eyes, and gazed at miss quincey like one possessed by a spirit of divination. "have you got a headache, miss quincey?" she inquired on hearing herself addressed for the third time as "stupid child!" miss quincey relied tartly that no, she had not got a headache. the mad hatter appeared to be absorbed in tracing rude verses on her rough notebook with a paralytic pencil. "i'm sorry; because then you must be unhappy. when people are cross," she continued, "it means one of two things. either their heads ache or they are unhappy. you must be very unhappy. i know all about it." the paralytic pencil wavered and came to a full stop. "you like somebody, and so somebody has made you unhappy." but for the shame of it, miss quincey could have put her head down on the desk and cried as she had seen the mad hatter cry over her sums, and for the same reason; because she could not put two and two together. and what mrs. moon saw, what martha saw, what the mad hatter divined with her feverish, precocious brain, rhoda vivian could not fail to see. it was dr. cautley's business to look after miss quincey in her illness, and it was rhoda's to keep an eye on her in her recovery, and instantly report the slightest threatening of a break-down. miss quincey's somewhat eccentric behaviour filled her with misgivings; and in order to investigate her case at leisure, she chose the first afternoon when miss cursiter was not at home to ask the little arithmetic teacher to lunch. after rhoda's lunch, soothed with her sympathy and hidden, not to say extinguished, in an enormous chair, miss quincey was easily worked into the right mood for confidences; indeed she was in that state of mind when they rush out of their own accord in the utter exhaustion of the will. "are you sure you are perfectly well?" so rhoda began her inquiry. "perfectly, perfectly--in myself," said miss quincey, "i think, perhaps--that is, sometimes i'm a little afraid that taking so much arsenic may have disagreed with me. you know it is a deadly poison. but i've left it off lately, so i ought to be better--unless perhaps i'm feeling the want of it." "you are not worrying about st. sidwell's--about your work?" "it's not that--not that. but to tell you the truth, i _am_ worried, rhoda. for some reason or other, my own fault, no doubt, i have lost a friend. it's a hard thing," said miss quincey, "to lose a friend." "oh, i am sure--do you mean miss cursiter?" "no, i do not mean miss cursiter." "do you mean--me then? not me?" "you, dear child? never. to be plain--this is in confidence, rhoda--i am speaking of dr. cautley." "dr. cautley?" "yes. i do not know what i have done, or how i have offended him, but he has not been near me for over two months." "perhaps he has been busy--in fact, i know he has." "he has always been busy. it is not that. it is something--well, i hardly care to speak of it, it has been so very painful. my dear"--miss quincey's voice sank to an awful whisper--"he has cut me in the street." "oh, i know--he _will_ do it; he has done it to all his patients. he is so dreadfully absent-minded." if miss quincey had not been as guileless as the little old maid she was, she would have recognised these indications of intimacy; as it was, she said with superior conviction, "my dear, i _know_ dr. cautley. he has never cut me before, and he would not do it now without a reason. there has been some awful mistake. if i only knew what i had done!" "you've done nothing. i wouldn't worry if i were you." "i can't help worrying. you don't know, rhoda. the bitter and terrible part of this friendship is, and always has been, that i am under obligations to dr. cautley. i owe everything to him; i cannot tell you what he has done for me, and here i am, not allowed, and i never shall be allowed, to do anything for him." a sob struggled in miss quincey's throat. rhoda was silent. did she know? very dimly, with a mere intellectual perception, but still a great deal better than the little arithmetic teacher could have told her, she understood the desire of that innocent person, not for love, not for happiness, but just for leave to lay down her life for this friend, this deity of hers, to be consumed in sacrifice. and the bitter and terrible thing was that she was not allowed to do it. the friend had no use for the life, the deity no appetite for the sacrifice. "don't think about it," she said; it seemed the best thing to say in the singular circumstances. "it will all come right." by this time miss quincey had got the better of the sob in her throat. "it may," she replied with dignity; "but i shall not be the first to make advances." "advances? rather not. but if i thought he was thinking things--he isn't, you know, he's not that sort; still, if i thought it i should have it out with him." "how could you have it--'out with him'?" "oh i should just ask him what he thought of me; or better still, tell him what i thought of him." miss quincey shrank visibly from the bold suggestion. "would you? oh, that would never do. you won't mind my saying so, but i think it would look a little indelicate. of course it would be very different if it were a woman; if it were you for instance." "i should do it any way. it's the straightest thing." "i daresay, dear, in your friendships it is. but i think you can hardly judge of this. you do not know dr. cautley as i do." "no," said rhoda meekly, "perhaps i don't." not for worlds would she have destroyed that beautiful illusion. "it has been," continued miss quincey, "a very peculiar, a very interesting relationship. strange too--considering. if you had asked me six months ago i should have told you that the thing was impossible, or rather, that in nine cases out of ten--i mean i should have said it was highly improbable that dr. cautley would take the faintest interest in me, let alone like me." "he does like you, dear miss quincey, i know he does." "how do you know?" "he told me so." (miss quincey quivered and a faint flush worked up through the sallow of her cheek.) "and i'm sure he would be most distressed to think you were unhappy." "it is not unhappiness; certainly not unhappiness. on the contrary i have been happy, quite happy lately. and i think it has been bad for me. i wasn't used to it. perhaps, if it had happened five-and-twenty years ago--do not misunderstand me, i am merely speaking of friendship, dear; but it might--i mean i might--" far back in the chair and favoured by rhoda's silence, miss quincey dropped into a dream. presently she woke up as it were with a start. "what am i thinking of? let us be reasonable; let us reduce it to figures. forty-five--thirty--he is thirty. take twenty-five from thirty and five remain. why, rhoda, he would have been--" they looked at each other, but neither said: "he would have been five years old." miss quincey seemed quite prostrated by the result of her calculations. to everything that rhoda could urge to soothe her she answered steadily: "you do not know him as i do." the voice was not miss quincey's voice; it was the monotonous, melancholy voice of the fixed idea. her knowledge of him. after all, nothing could take from her the exquisite privacy of that possession. * * * * * "_eros anikate machan_," said rhoda. miss quincey was gone and the classical mistress was in school again, coaching a backward student through the "antigone." "oh love, unconquered in fight. love who--love who fliest, who fliest about among things," said the student. and the teacher laughed. laughed, for the entertaining blunder called up a vivid image of the god in miss quincey's drawing-room, fluttering about among the furniture and doing terrific damage with his wings. "what's wrong?" asked the student. "oh nothing; only a slight confusion between flying about and falling upon. 'oh love who fallest on the prey'; please go on." "'oh love who fallest on the prey'--" the chorus mumbled and stumbled, and the student sighed heavily, for the greek was hard. "he who has--he who has--oh dear, i can't see any sense in these old choruses; i do hate them." "still," said rhoda sweetly, "you mustn't murder them. 'he who has love has madness.'" the chorus limped to its end and the student left the coach to some curious reflections. "_eros anikate machan_!" "oh love, unconquered in fight!" it sang in her ears persistently, joyously, ironically--a wedding-song, a battle-song, a song of victory. bastian cautley was right when he said that the race was to the swift and the battle to the strong. how eager she had been for the fight, how mad for the crowded course! she had rushed on, heat after heat, outstripping all competitors and carrying off all the crowns and the judges' compliments at the end of the day. she loved the race for its own sake, this young athlete; and though she took the crowns and the compliments very much as a matter of course, she had come to look on life as nothing but an endless round of olympic games. and just as she forgot each successive event in the excitement of the next, she also had forgotten the losers and those who were tumbled in the dust. until she had seen miss quincey. miss quincey--so they had let her come to this among them all? they had left her so bare of happiness that the first man (it happened to be her doctor) who spoke two kind words to her became necessary to her existence. no, that was hardly the way to put it; it was underrating bastian cautley. he was the sort of man that any woman--but who would have thought it of miss quincey? and the really sad thing was that she did not think it of herself; it showed how empty of humanity her life had been. it was odd how these things happened. miss quincey was neither brilliant nor efficient, but she had made the most of herself; at least she had lived a life of grinding intellectual toil; the whole woman had seemed absorbed in her miserable arithmetical function. and yet at fifty (she looked fifty) she had contrived to develop that particular form of foolishness which it was miss cursiter's business to exterminate. there were some of them who talked as if the thing was done; as if competitive examinations had superseded the primitive rivalry of sex. bastian cautley was right. you may go on building as high as you please, but you will never alter the original ground-plan of human nature. and how she had scoffed at his "man's view"; how indignantly she had repulsed his suggestion that there was a side to the subject that her friends the idealists were much too ideal to see. were they really, as bastian cautley put it, so engrossed in producing a new type that they had lost sight of the individual? was the system so far in accordance with nature that it was careless of the single life? which was the only life open to most of them, poor things. and she had blundered more grossly than the system itself. what, after all, had she done for that innocent whom she had made her friend? she had taken everything from her. she had promised to keep her place for her at st. sidwell's and was monopolising it herself. worse than that, she had given her a friend with one hand and snatched him from her with the other. (if you came to think of it, it was hard that she who had so much already could have bastian cautley too, any day, to play with, or to keep--for her very own. there was not a bit of him that could by any possibility belong to miss quincey.) she had tried to stand between her and her fate, and she had become her fate. worse than all, she had kept from her the knowledge of the truth--the truth that might have cured her. of course she had done that out of consideration for bastian cautley. there it seemed that rhoda's regard for his feelings ended. though she admitted ten times over that he was right, she was by no means more disposed to come to an understanding with him on that account. on the contrary, when she saw him the very next evening (poor bastian had chosen his moment indiscreetly) she endeavoured to repair her blunders by visiting them on his irreproachable head, dealing to him a certain painful, but not wholly unexpected back-hander in the face. she had done all she could for miss quincey. at any rate, she said to herself, she had spared her the final blow. chapter ix through the stethoscope one morning the mad hatter was madder than ever. it was impossible to hold her attention. the black eyes blazed as they wandered, the paralytic pencil was hot in her burning fingers. when she laid it down towards the end of the morning and rested her head on her hands, miss quincey had not the heart to urge her to the loathsome toil. she let her talk. "miss quincey," said the mad hatter in a solemn whisper, "i'm going to tell you a secret. do you see _her_?" she indicated miss rhoda vivian with the point of her pencil. it was evident that laura lazarus did not adore the classical mistress, and rhoda, sick of her worshippers, had found this attitude refreshing. even now she bestowed a smile and a nod on the mad hatter that would have kept any other st. sidwellite in a fortnight's ecstasy. "laura, that is not the way to speak of your teachers." the child raised the semitic arch of her eye-brows. her face belonged to the type formed from all eternity for the expression of contempt. "she's not my teacher, thank goodness. do you know what i'm going to be some day, when she's married and gone away? i'm going to be what she is--classical mistress. i shan't have to do any sums for that, you know. i shall only have to know greek, and isn't it a shame, miss quincey, they won't let me learn it till i'm in the fourth, and i never shall be. but--don't tell any one--they've stuck me here, behind her now, and when she's coaching that young idiot susie parker--" "laura, that is not the way to speak of your school-fellows." "i know it isn't, but she _is_, you know. i've bought the books, and i get behind them and i listen hard, and i can read now. what's more, i've done a bit of a chorus. look--" the pariah took a dirty bit of paper from the breast of her gown. "it goes, 'oh love unconquered in battle,' and it's simply splend_if_erous. miss quincey--when you like anything very much--or any_body_--it doesn't matter which--do you turn red all over? do you have creeps all down your back? and do you feel it just here?" the child clapped her yellow claw to miss quincey's heart. "you _do_, you do, miss quincey; i can see it go thump, i can feel it go thud!" she gazed into the teacher's face, and again the power of divination was upon her. "laura!" miss quincey gasped; for the head had been looming in their neighbourhood, a deadly peril, and now she was sweeping down on them, smiling a dangerous smile. "miss quincey, i hope you've been making that child work," said she and passed on. "i _say_! she didn't see my verses, did she? you _won't_ let on that i wrote them?" "you'll never write verses," said miss quincey, deftly improving a bad occasion, "if you don't understand arithmetic. why, it's the science of numbers. come now, if ninety hogsheads--" "oh-h! i'm so tired of hogsheads; mayn't it be firkins this time?" and, for fancy's sake, firkins miss quincey permitted it to be. now rhoda was responsible for much, but for what followed the mad hatter must, strictly speaking, be held accountable. miss quincey had never been greatly interested in the movements of her heart; but now that her attention had been drawn to them she admitted that it was beating in a very extraordinary way; there was a decided palpitation, a flutter. that night she lay awake and listened to it. it was going diddledy, diddledy, like the triplets in a beethoven sonata (only that it had no idea of time); then it suddenly left off till she put her hand over it, when it gave a terrifying succession of runaway knocks. then it pretended that it was going to stop altogether, and miss quincey implicitly believed it and prepared to die. then its tactics changed; it seemed to have shifted its habitation; to be rising and rising, to be entangled with her collar-bone and struggling in her throat. then it sank suddenly and lay like a lump of lead, dragging her down through the mattress, and through the bedstead, and through the floor, down to the bottom of all things. miss quincey did not mind much; she had been so unhappy. and then it gave an alarming double-knock at her ribs, and miss quincey came to life again as unhappy as ever. and of what it all meant miss quincey had no more idea than the man in the moon, though even the mad hatter could have told her. her heart went through the same performance a second and a third night, and miss quincey said to herself that if it happened again she would have to send for dr. cautley. nothing would have induced her to see him for a mere trifle, but pride was one thing and prudence was another. it did happen again, and she sent. she may have hoped that he would discover something wrong, being dimly conscious that her chance lay there, that suffering constituted the incontestable claim on his sympathy; most distinctly she felt the desire (monstrous of course in a woman of no account) to wear the aureole of pain for its own sake; to walk for a little while in the glory and glamour of death. she did not want or mean to give any trouble, to be a source of expense; she had saved a little money for the supreme luxury. but she had hardly entertained the idea for a moment when she dismissed it as selfish. it was her duty to live, for the sake of st. sidwell's and of mrs. moon; and she was only calling dr. cautley in to help her to do it. but through it all the feeling uppermost was joy in the certainty that she would see him on an honourable pretext, and would be able to set right that terrible misunderstanding. she hardly expected him till late in the day; so she was a little startled, when she came in after morning school, to find mrs. moon waiting for her at the stairs, quivering with indignation that could have but one cause. he had lost no time in answering her summons. the drawing-room door was ajar; the old lady closed it mysteriously, and pushed her niece into the bedroom behind. "will you tell me the meaning of this? _that man_ has been cooling his heels in there for the last ten minutes, and he says you sent for him. is that the case?" miss quincey meekly admitted that it was, and entered upon a vague description of her trouble. "it's all capers and nonsense," said the old lady, "there's nothing the matter with your heart. you're just hysterical, and you just want--?" "i want to _know_, and dr. cautley will tell me." "oh ho! i daresay he'll find some mare's nest fast enough, if you tell him where to look." miss quincey took off her hat and cape and laid them down with a sigh. she gave a terrified glance at the looking-glass and smoothed her thin hair with her hand. "auntie--i must go. i can't keep him waiting any longer." "go then--i won't stop you." she went trembling, followed so closely by mrs. moon that she looked like a prisoner conducted to the dock. "how will he receive me?" she wondered. he received her coldly and curtly. there was a hurry and abstraction in his manner utterly unlike his former leisurely sympathy. many causes contributed to this effect; he was still all bruised and bleeding from the blow dealt to him by rhoda's strong young arm; an epidemic had kept him on his legs all day and a great part of the night; his time had never been so valuable, and he had been obliged to waste ten minutes of it contemplating the furniture in that detestable drawing-room. he was worried and overworked, and miss quincey thought he was still offended; his very appearance made her argue the worst. no hope to-day of clearing up that terrible misunderstanding. she tremulously obeyed his first brief order, one by one undoing the buttons of her dress, laying bare her poor chest, all flat and formless as a child's. a momentary gentleness came over him as he adjusted the tubes of his stethoscope and began the sounding, backwards and forwards from heart to lungs, and from lungs to heart again; while the old lady looked on as merry as destiny, and nodded her head and smiled, as much to say, "tchee-tchee, what a farce it is!" he put up the stethoscope with a click. "there is nothing the matter with you." mrs. moon gave out a subdued ironical chuckle. miss quincey looked anxiously into his face. "do you not think the heart--the heart is a little--?" he smiled and at the same time he sighed. "heart's all right. but you've left off your tonic." she had, she was afraid that so much poison-- "poison?" (he was not in the least offended.) "do you mean the arsenic? there are some poisons you can't live without; but you must take them in moderation." "will you--will you want to see me again?" "it will not be necessary." at that mrs. moon's chuckle broke all bounds and burst into a triumphant "tchee-tchee-chee!" he went away under cover of it. it was her way of putting a pleasant face on the matter. she hardly waited till his back was turned before she delivered herself of that which was working within her. "i tell you what it is, juliana; you're a silly woman." miss quincey looked up with a faint premonitory fear. her fingers began nervously buttoning and unbuttoning her dress bodice; while half-dressed and shivering she waited the attack. "and a pretty exhibition you've made of yourself this day. anybody might have thought you _wanted_ to let that young man see what was the matter with you." "so i did. he says there is nothing the matter with me." "nothing the matter with you, indeed! _he_ knows well enough what's the matter with you." the victim was staring now, with terror in her tired eyes. her mouth dropped open with the question her tongue refused to utter. "if you," continued mrs. moon, "had wanted to tell him plainly that you were in love with him, you couldn't have set about it better. i should have thought you'd have been ashamed to look him in the face--at your age. you're a disgrace to my family!" the poor fingers ceased their labour of buttoning and unbuttoning; miss quincey sat with her shoulders naked as it were to the lash. "there!" said mrs. moon with an air of drawing back the whip and putting it by for the present. "if i were you i'd cover myself up, and not sit there catching cold with my dress-body off." chapter x miss quincey stands back as it happened on a saturday morning she had plenty of time to think about it. all the afternoon and the evening and the night lay before her; she was powerless to cope with sunday and the night beyond that. the remarkable revelation made to her by mrs. moon was so great a shock that her mind refused to realize it all at once. it was an outrage to all the meek reticences and chastities of her spirit. but she owned its truth; she saw it now, the thing they all had seen, that she only could not see. she had sinned the sin of sins, the sin of youth in middle-age. now it was not imagination in miss quincey, so much as the tradition of st. sidwell's, that gave her innocent affection the proportions of a crime. miss quincey had lived all her life in ignorance of her own nature, having spent the best part of five-and-forty years in acquiring other knowledge. she had nothing to go upon, for she had never been young; or rather she had treated her youth unkindly, she had fed it on saw-dust and given it nothing but arithmetic books to play with, so that its experiences were of no earthly use to her. and now, if they had only let her alone, she might have been none the wiser; her folly might have put on many quaint disguises, friendship, literary sympathy, intellectual esteem--there were a thousand delicate subterfuges and innocent hypocrisies, and under any one of them it might have crept about unchallenged in the shadows and blind alleys of thought. as love pure and simple, if it came to that, there was no harm in it. many an old maid, older than she, has just such a secret folded up and put away all sweet and pure; the poor lady does not call it love, but remembrance, which is so to speak love laid in lavender; and she--who knows? she might have contrived a little shrine for it somewhere; she had always understood that love was a holy thing. unfortunately, when a holy thing has been pulled about and dragged in the mud, it may be as holy as ever but it will never look the same. in miss quincey's case mortal passion had been shaken out of its sleep and forced to look at itself before it had time to put on a shred of immortality. in the sudden glare it stood out monstrous, naked and ashamed; she herself had helped to deprive it of all the delicacies and amenities that made it tolerable to thought. with her own hands she had delivered it up to the stethoscope. he knew, he knew. in the mad rush of her ideas one sentence detached itself from the torrent. "_he_ knows well enough what's the matter with you." the nature of the crime was such that there was no possibility or explanation or defence against the accuser whose condemnation weighed heaviest on her soul. he loomed before her, hovered over her, with the tubes of the heart-probing stethoscope in his ears (as a matter of fact they gave him a somewhat grotesque appearance, remotely suggestive of a hindoo idol; but miss quincey had not noticed that); his bumpy forehead was terrible with intelligence; his eyes were cold and comprehensive; the smile of a foregone conclusion flickered on his lips. he must have known it all the time. there never had been any misunderstanding. that was the clue to his conduct; that was the reason why he had left off coming to the house; for he was the soul of delicacy and honour. and yet she had never said a word that might be interpreted--he must have seen it in her face, then,--that day--when she allowed herself to sit with him in the park. she remembered--things that he had said to her--did they mean that he had seen? she saw it all as he had seen it. "delicacy" and "honour" indeed! disgust and contempt would be more likely feelings. she lay awake all saturday night and all sunday night, until four o'clock on monday morning; always reviewing the situation, always going over the same patch of ground in the desperate hope of finding some place where her self-respect could rest, and discovering nothing but the traces of her guilty feet. a subtler woman would have flourished lightly over the territory, till she had whisked away every vestige of her trail; another would have seen the humour of the situation and blown the whole thing into the inane with a burst of healthy laughter; but subtlety and humour were not miss quincey's strong points. she could do nothing but creep shivering to bed and lie there, face to face with her own enormity. on monday morning and on many mornings after she crept out into the street stealthily, like a criminal seeking some shelter where she could hide her head. she acquired a habit--odd enough to the casual onlooker--of slinking cautiously round every turning and rushing every crossing in her abject terror of meeting bastian cautley. there was nobody to tell her that it would not matter if she did meet him; no cheerful woman of the world to smile in her frightened face and say: "my dear miss quincey, there is nothing remarkable in this. we all do it, sooner or later. too late? not a bit of it; better too late than never, and if it's that cautley man i'm sure i don't wonder. i'm in love with him myself. lost your self-respect, have you? self-respect, indeed, why bless your soul, you are all the nicer for it. as for hiding your head i never heard such rubbish in my life. nobody is looking at you--certainly not the cautley man. in fact, to tell you the truth, at this moment he is particularly engaged in looking the other way." but miss quincey did not know that lady. she knew no one but rhoda and mrs. moon; and if mrs. moon was too old, rhoda was too young to take that view; besides, mrs. moon was not a woman of the world and no ridiculous delicacy prompted her to look the other way. in any case juliana's state of mind, advertised as it was by her complexion and many eccentricities of behaviour, could not have escaped her notice. the old lady had reverted to her former humorous attitude, and was trying whether juliana's state of mind would not yield to skilfully directed banter. in these tactics she was not left unsupported. louisa had written a long letter about her husband and her children, with a postscript. "p.s.--i don't half like what you tell me about juliana and dr. c--. for goodness' sake don't encourage her in any of that nonsense. sit on it. laugh her out of it. i agree with you that it would be better if she cultivated her mind a little more. "p.p.s.--andrew has just come in. he says we oughtn't to call her juliana, but fooliana." so laughed louisa, the married woman. and fooliana she was called. the joke was quite unworthy of the greek professor's reputation, but for mrs. moon's purposes he could hardly have made a better one. louisa had put a terrible weapon into the old lady's hands. it was many weapons in one. it could be turned on in all its broad robust humour--"fooliana!" or refined away into a playful or delicate suggestion, pointed with an uplifted finger--"fooli!" or cut down and compressed into its essential meaning--"fool!" but whichever missile came handy, the effect was much the same. juliana's complexion grew redder or grayer, but her state of mind remained unchanged. sometimes the old lady tried a graver method. "if you would cultivate your mind a little in the evenings you would have no time for all this nonsense." but juliana had abandoned the cultivation of her mind. she made no attempt to pay off that small outstanding debt to _sordello._ there was an end of the intellectual life; for the living wells of literature were tainted; browning had become a bitter memory and tennyson a shame. but if miss quincey had no heart for general culture, she was busier than ever in the discharge of her regular duties. at the end of the midsummer term the pressure on the staff was heavy. her work had grown with the growth of st. sidwell's, and the pile of marble and granite copy-books rose higher than ever; it was monumental, and miss quincey was glad enough to bury her grief under it for a time. indeed it looked as if in st. sidwell's she had found the shelter where she could hide her head; and a very desirable shelter too, as long as mrs. moon continued in that lively temper. gradually she began to realize that of all those five hundred pairs of eyes there was none that had discovered her secret; that not one of those busy brains was occupied with her affairs. it was a relief to lose herself among them all and be of no account again. in the corner behind rhoda vivian she and the mad hatter seemed to be clinging together more than ever in an ecstasy of isolation. after all, above the turmoil of emotion a little tremulous, attenuated ideal was trying to raise its head. her duty. she dimly discerned a possibility of deliverance, of purification from her sin. therefore she clung more desperately than ever to her post. seeing that she had served the system for five-and-twenty years, it was hard if she could not get from it a little protection against her own weakness, if she could not claim the intellectual support it professed to give. it was the first time she had ever put it to the test. if she could only stay on another year or two-- and now at the very end of the midsummer term it really looked as if st. sidwell's was anxious to keep her. everybody was curiously kind; the staff cast friendly glances on her as she sat in her corner; rhoda was almost passionate in her tenderness. even miss cursiter seemed softened. she had left off saying "stand back, miss quincey, if you please"; and miss quincey began to wonder what it all meant. she was soon to know. one night, the last of the term, the classical mistress was closeted with the head. rhoda, elbow-deep in examination papers, had been critically considering seventy variously ingenious renderings of a certain chorus, when the sudden rapping of a pen on the table roused her from her labours. "you must see for yourself, rhoda, how we are placed. we must keep up to a certain standard of efficiency in the staff. miss quincey is getting past her work." (rhoda became instantly absorbed in sharpening a pencil.) "for the last two terms she has been constantly breaking down; and now i'm very much afraid she is breaking-up." the head remained solemnly unconscious of her own epigram. "no wonder," said rhoda to herself, "first love at fifty is new wine in old bottles; everybody knows what happens to the bottles." the flush and the frown on the classical mistress's face might have been accounted for by the sudden snapping of the pencil. "you see," continued miss cursiter, as if defending herself from some accusation conveyed by the frown, "as it is we have kept her on a long while for her sister's sake." (a murmur from the classical mistress.) "of course we must put it to her prettily, wrap it up--in tissue paper." (the classical mistress is still inarticulate.) "you are not giving me your opinion." "it seems to me i've said a great deal more than i've any right to say." "oh you. we know all about that. i asked for your opinion." "and when i gave it you told me i was under an influence." "what if i did? and what if it were so?" "what indeed? you would get the benefit of two opinions instead of one." now if miss cursiter were thinking of dr. cautley there was some point in what rhoda said; for in the back of her mind the head had a curious respect for masculine judgment. "there can be no two opinions about miss quincey." "i don't know. miss quincey," said rhoda thoughtfully to her pencil, "is a large subject." "yes, if you mean that miss quincey is a terrible legacy from the past. the question for me is--how long am i to let her hamper our future?" "the future? it strikes me that we're not within shouting distance of the future. we talk as if we could see the end, and we're nowhere near it, we're in all the muddle of the middle--that's why we're hampered with miss quincey and other interesting relics of the past." "we are slowly getting rid of them." at that rhoda blazed up. she was young, and she was reckless, and she had too many careers open to her to care much about consequences. miss cursiter had asked for her opinion and she should have it with a vengeance. "it's not enough to get rid of them. we ought to provide for them. who or what do we provide for, if it comes to that? we're always talking about specialisation, and the fact is we haven't specialised enough. don't we give the same test papers to everybody?" "i shall be happy to set separate papers for each girl if you'll undertake to correct them." the more rhoda fired the more miss cursiter remained cold. "that's just it--we couldn't if we tried. we know nothing about each girl. that's where we shall have to specialise in the future if we're to do any good. we've specialised enough with our teachers and our subjects; chipped and chopped till we can't divide them any more; and we've taken our girls in the lump. we know less about them than they do themselves. as for the teachers--" "which by the way brings us back to miss quincey." "everything brings us back to miss quincey. miss quincey will be always with us." "we must put younger women in her place." rhoda winced as though miss cursiter had struck her. "they will soon grow old. our profession is a cruel one. it uses up the finest and most perishable parts of a woman's nature. it takes the best years of her life--and throws the rest away." "yet thousands of women are willing to take it up, and leave comfortable homes to do it too." "yes," sighed rhoda, "it's the rush for the open door." "my dear rhoda, the women's labour market is the same as every other. the best policy is the policy of the open door. don't you see that the remedy is to open it wider--wider!" "and when we've opened all the doors as wide as ever they'll go, what then? where are we going to?" "i can't tell you." miss cursiter looked keenly at her. "do you mean that you'll go no further unless you know?" rhoda was silent. "there are faults in the system. i can see that as well as you, perhaps better. i am growing old too, rhoda. but you are youth itself. it is women like you we want--to save us. are you going to turn your back on us?" miss cursiter bore down on her with her steady gaze, a gaze that was a menace and an appeal, and rhoda gave a little gasp as if for breath. "i can't go any farther." "do you realize what this means? you are not a deserter from the ranks. it is the second in command going over to the enemy." the words were cold, but there was a fiery court-martial in miss cursiter's eyes that accused and condemned her. if rhoda had been dashing her head against the barrack walls her deliverance was at hand. it seemed that she could never strike a blow for miss quincey without winning the battle for herself. "i can't help it," said she. "i hate it--i hate the system." "the system? suppose you do away with it--do away with every woman's college in the kingdom--have you anything to put in its place?" "no. i have nothing to put in its place." "ah," said miss cursiter, "you are older than i thought." rhoda smiled. by this time, wrong or right, she was perfectly reckless. if everybody was right in rejecting miss quincey, there was rapture in being wildly and wilfully in the wrong. she had flung up the game. miss cursiter saw it. "i was right," said she. "you are under an influence, and a dangerous one." "perhaps--but, influence for influence" (here rhoda returned miss cursiter's gaze intrepidly), "i'm not far wrong. i honestly think that if we persist in turning out these intellectual monstrosities we shall hand over worse incompetents than miss quincey to the next generation." rhoda was intrepid; all the same she reddened as she realized what a mouthpiece she had become for bastian cautley's theories and temper. "my dear rhoda, you're an intellectual monstrosity yourself." "i know. and in another twenty years' time they'll want to get rid of _me_." "of me too," thought the head. miss cursiter felt curiously old and worn. she had invoked rhoda's youth and it had risen up against her. influence for influence, her power was dead. rhoda had talked at length in the hope of postponing judgment in miss quincey's case; now she was anxious to get back to miss quincey, to escape judgment in her own. "and how about miss quincey?" she asked. miss cursiter had nothing to say about miss quincey. she had done with that section of her subject. she understood that rhoda had said in effect, "if miss quincey goes, i go too." nevertheless her mind was made up; in tissue paper, all ready for miss quincey. unfortunately tissue paper is more or less transparent, and miss quincey had no difficulty in perceiving the grounds of her dismissal when presented to her in this neat way. not even when miss cursiter said to her, at the close of the interview they had early the next morning, "for your own sake, dear miss quincey, i feel we must forego your valuable--most valuable services." miss cursiter hesitated, warned by something in the aspect of the tiny woman who had been a thorn in her side so long. somehow, for this occasion, the most incompetent, most insignificant member of her staff had contrived to clothe herself with a certain nobility. she was undeniably the more dignified of the two. the head, usually so eloquent at great moments, found actual difficulty in getting to the end of her next sentence. "what i was thinking of--really again entirely for your own sake--was whether it would not be better for you to take a little longer holiday. i do feel in your case the imperative necessity for rest. indeed if you found that you _wished_ to retire at the end of the holidays--of course receiving your salary for the term--" try as she would to speak as though she were conferring a benefit, the head had the unmistakable air of asking a favour from her subordinate, of imploring her help in a delicate situation, of putting it to her honour. miss quincey's honour was more than equal to the demand made on it. she had sunk so low in her own eyes lately that she was glad to gain some little foothold for her poor pride. she faced miss cursiter bravely with her innocent dim eyes as she answered: "i am ready to go, miss cursiter, whenever it is most convenient to you; but i cannot think of taking payment for work i have not done." "my dear miss quincey, the rule is always a term's notice--or if--if any other arrangement is agreed upon, a term's salary. there can be no question--you must really allow me--" there miss cursiter's address failed her and her voice faltered. she had extracted the thorn; but it had worked its way deeper than she knew, and the operation was a painful one. a few compliments on the part of the head, and the hope that st. sidwell's would not lose sight of miss quincey altogether, and the interview was closed. it was understood by the end of the morning that miss quincey had sent in her resignation. the news spread from class to class--"miss quincey is going"--and was received by pupils and teachers with cries of incredulity. after all, miss quincey belonged to st. sidwell's; she was part and parcel of the place; her blood and bones had been built into its very walls, and her removal was not to be contemplated without dismay. why, what would a procession be like without miss quincey to enliven it? and so, as she went her last round, a score of hands that had never clasped hers in friendship were stretched out over the desks in a wild leave-taking; three girls had tears in their eyes; one, more emotional than the rest, sobbed audibly without shame. the staff were unanimous in their sympathy and regret. rhoda withdrew hastily from the painful scene. only the mad hatter in her corner made no sign. she seemed to take the news of miss quincey's departure with a resigned philosophy. "well, little classical mistress," said miss quincey, "we must say good-bye. you know i'm going." the child nodded her small head. "of course you're going. i might have known it. i did know it all along. you were booked to go." "why, laura?" miss quincey was mystified and a little hurt. "because"--a sinister convulsion passed over the ugly little pariah face--"because"--the mad hatter had learnt the force of under-statement--"because i _like_ you." at that miss quincey broke down. "my dear little girl--i am going because i am too old to stay." "write to me, dear," she said at the last moment; "let me know how you are getting on." but she never knew. the mad hatter did not write. in fact she never wrote anything again, not even verses. she was handed over next term to miss quincey's brilliant and efficient successor, who made her work hard, with the result that the mad hatter got ill of a brain fever just before the christmas holidays and was never fit for any more work; and never became classical mistress or anything else in the least distinguished. but this is by the way. as the college clock struck one, miss quincey walked home as usual and went up into her bedroom without a word. she opened a drawer and took from it her post office savings bank book and looked over her account. there stood to her credit the considerable sum of twenty-seven pounds four shillings and eight pence. no, not quite that, for the blouse, the abominable blouse, had been paid for out of her savings and it had cost a guinea. twenty-six pounds three shillings and eight pence was all that she had saved in five-and-twenty years. this, with the term's salary which miss cursiter had insisted on, was enough to keep her going for a year. and a year is a long time. she came slowly downstairs to the drawing-room where her aunt was dozing and dreaming in her chair. there still hung about her figure the indefinable dignity that had awed miss cursiter. if she was afraid of mrs. moon she was too proud to show her fear. "this morning," she said simply, "i received my dismissal." the old lady looked up dazed, not with the news but with her dream. miss quincey repeated her statement. "do you mean you are not going back to that place there?" she asked mildly. "i am never going back." still with dignity she waited for the burst of feeling she felt to be justifiable in the circumstances. none came; neither anger, nor indignation, nor contempt, not even surprise. in fact the old lady was smiling placidly, as she was wont to smile under the spell of the dream. slowly, very slowly, it was dawning upon her that the reproach had been taken away from the memory of tollington moon. henceforth his niece miss quincey would be a gentlewoman at large. at the same time it struck her that after all poor juliana did not look so very old. "very well then," said she, "if i were you i should put on that nice silk blouse in the evenings." chapter xi dr. cautley sends in his bill "i wonder," mrs. moon observed suddenly one morning, "if that man is going to let his bill run on to the day of judgment?" the old lady had not even distantly alluded to dr. cautley for as many as ten months. after the great day of what she called juliana's "resignation" she seemed to have tacitly agreed that since juliana had spared her dream she would spare juliana's. did she not know, she too, that the dream is the reality? as miss quincey, gentlewoman at large, juliana had a perfect right to set up a dream of her own; as to whether she was able to afford the luxury, juliana was the best judge. her present wonder, then, had no malignant reference; it was simply wrung from her by inexorable economy. juliana's supplies were calculated to last a year; as it was the winter season that they had lately weathered, she was rather more than three-quarters of the way through her slender resources, and it behoved them to look out for bills ahead. and mrs. moon had always suspected that young man, not only of a passion for mare's-nesting, but of deliberately and systematically keeping back his accounts that he might revel in a larger haul. the remark, falling with a shock all the greater for a silence of ten months, had the effect of driving juliana out of the room. out of the room and out of the house, down high street, where hunter's shop was already blossoming in another spring; up park street and past the long wall of st. sidwell's, till she found herself alone in primrose hill park. the young day was so glorious that miss quincey had some thoughts of climbing primrose hill and sitting on the top; but after twenty yards or so of it she abandoned the attempt. for the last few months her heart had been the seat of certain curious sensations, so remarkably like those she had experienced in the summer that she took them for the same, and sternly resolved to suppress their existence by ignoring it. that, she understood, was the right treatment for hysteria. but this morning miss quincey's heart protested so violently against her notion of ascending primrose hill, threatening indeed to strangle her if she persisted in it, that miss quincey unwillingly gave in and contented herself with a seat in one of the lower walks of the park. there she leaned back and looked about her, but with no permanent interest in one thing more than another. presently, as she settled down to quieter breathing, there came to her a strange sensation, that grew till it became an unusually vivid perception of the outer world; a perception mingled with a still stranger double vision, a sense that seemed to be born in the dark of the brain and to be moving there to a foregone conclusion. and all the time her eyes were busy, now with a bush of may in crimson blossom, now with the many-pointed leaves of a sycamore pricked against the blue; now with the straight rectangular paths that made the park an immense mathematical diagram. from where she sat her eyes swept the length of the wide walk that cuts the green from east to west. far down at the west end was a seat, and she could see two people, a man and a woman, sitting on it; they must have been there a quarter of an hour or more; she had noticed them ever since she came into the park. they had risen, and her gaze left everything else to follow them; or rather, it went to meet them, for they had turned and were coming slowly eastward now. they had stopped; they were facing each other, and her gaze rested with them, fascinated yet uncertain. and now she could see nothing else; the park, with the regions beyond it and the sky above it, had become merely a setting for one man and one woman; the avenue, fresh strewn with red golden gravel, led up to them and ended there at their feet; a young poplar trembled in the wind and shook its silver green fans above them in delicate confusion. the next minute a light went up in that obscure and prophetic background of her brain; and she saw rhoda vivian and bastian cautley coming towards her, greeting her, with their kind faces shining. she rose, turned from them, and went slowly home. it was the last rent in the veil of illusion that rhoda had spun so well. up till then miss quincey had seen only half the truth. now she had seen the whole, with all that rhoda had disguised and kept hidden from her; the truth that kills or cures. miss quincey did not go out again that day, but sat all afternoon silent in her chair. towards evening she became talkative and stayed up later than had been her wont since she recovered her freedom. she seemed to be trying to make up to her aunt for a want of sociability in the past. at eleven she got up and stood before the old lady in the attitude of a penitent. apparently she had been seized with a mysterious impulse of confession. "aunt," she said, "there's something i want to say to you." she paused, casting about in her mind for the sins she had committed. they were three in all. "i am afraid i have been very extravagant"--she was thinking of the blouse--"and--and very foolish"--she was thinking of bastian cautley--"and very selfish"--she was thinking of her momentary desire to die. "juliana, if you're worrying about that money"--the old lady was thinking of nothing else--"don't. i've plenty for us both. as long as we can keep together i don't care what i eat, nor what i drink, nor what i put on my poor back. and if the worst comes to the worst i'll sell the furniture." it seemed to miss quincey that she had never known her aunt in all those five-and-twenty years; never known her until this minute. for perhaps, after all, being angry with juliana was only mrs. moon's way of being sorry for her. but how was juliana to know that? "only," continued the old lady, "i won't part with your uncle's picture. don't ask me to part with your uncle's picture." "you won't have to part with anything. i'll--i'll get something to do. i'm not worrying. there's nothing to worry about." she stooped down and tenderly kissed the wrinkled forehead. a vague fear clutched at the old lady's heart. "then, juliana, you are not well. hadn't you better see"--she hesitated--pausing with unwonted delicacy for her words--"a doctor?" "i don't want to see a doctor. there is nothing the matter with me." and still insisting that there was nothing the matter with her, she went to bed. and old martha had come with her early morning croak to call miss juliana; she had dumped down the hot-water can in the basin with a clash, pulled up the blind with a jerk, and drawn back the curtains with a clatter, before she noticed that miss juliana was up all the time. up and dressed, and sitting in her chair by the hearth, warming her feet at an imaginary fire. she had been sitting up all night, for her bed was as martha had left it the night before. martha approached cautiously, still feeling her way, though there was no need for it, the room being full of light. she groped like a blind woman for miss juliana's forehead, laying her hand there before she looked into her face. after some fumbling futile experiments with brandy, a looking-glass and a feather, old martha hid these things carefully out of sight; she disarranged the bed, turning back the clothes as they might have been left by one newly wakened and risen out of it; drew a shawl over the head and shoulders of the figure in the chair; pulled down the blind and closed the curtains till the room was dark again. then she groped her way out and down the stairs to her mistress's door. there she stayed a moment, gathering her feeble wits together for the part she meant to play. she had made up her mind what she would do. so she called the old lady as usual; said she was afraid there was something the matter with miss juliana; thought she might have got up a bit too early and turned faint like. the old lady answered that she would come and see; and the two crept up the stairs, and went groping their way in the dark of the curtained room. old martha fumbled a long time with the blind; she drew back the curtains little by little, with infinite precaution letting in the light upon the fearful thing. but the old lady approached it boldly. "don't you know me, jooley dear?" she said, peering into the strange eyes. there was no recognition in them for all their staring. "don't know _me_, m'm," said martha soothingly; "seems all of a white swoon, don't she?" martha was warming to her part. she made herself busy; she brought hot water bottles and eau de cologne; she spent twenty minutes chafing the hands and forehead and laying warmth to the feet, that the old lady might have the comfort of knowing that everything had been done that could be done. she shuffled off to find brandy, as if she had only thought of it that instant; and she played out the play with the looking-glass and the feather. the feather fluttered to the floor, and martha ceased bending and peering, and looked at her mistress. "she's gone, m'm, i do believe." the old lady sank by the chair, her arms clinging to those rigid knees. "jooley--jooley--don't you _know_ me?" she cried, as if in a passion of affront. chapter xii epilogue.--the man and the woman by daylight there is neither glamour nor beauty in the great burying-ground of north london; you must go to it at evening, in the first fall of the summer dusk, to feel the fascination of that labyrinth of low graves, crosses and headstones, urns and sarcophagi, crowded in the black-green of the grass; of marble columns, granite pyramids and obelisks, massed and reared and piled in the grey of the air. it is nothing if not fantastic. even by day that same mad grouping and jostling of monumental devices, gathered together from the ends of the world, gives to the place a cheerful half-pagan character; now, in its confusion and immensity, it might be some city of dreams, tossed up in cloud and foam and frozen into marble; some aerial half-way limbo where life slips a little from the living and death from the dead. for these have their own way here. no priest interferes with them, and whatever secular power ordains these matters is indulgent to its children. if one of them would have his horse or his dog carved on his tomb instead of an angel, or a pair of compasses instead of a cross, there is no one to thwart his fancy. he may even be humorous if he will. it is as if he implored us to laugh with him a little while though the jest be feeble, and not to chill him with so many tears. at twilight a man and a woman were threading their way through this cemetery, and as they went they smiled faintly at the memorial caprices of the living and the still quainter originalities of the dead. but on the whole they seemed to be trying not to look too happy. they said nothing to each other till they came to a mound raised somewhere in the borderland that divides the graves of the rich from the paupers' ground. there was just room for them to stand together on the boards that roofed in the narrow pit dug ready for the next comer. "if i believed in a creator" (it was the man who spoke), "i should want to know what pleasure he found in creating that poor little woman." the woman did not answer as she looked at him. "yet," he went on, "i'm selfish enough to be glad that she lived. if i had not known miss quincey, i should not have known you." "and i," said the woman, and her face was rosy under the touch of grief, "if i had not loved miss quincey, i could not have loved you." they seemed to think miss quincey had justified her existence. perhaps she had. and the woman took the roses that she wore in her belt and laid them on the breast of the grave. she stood for a minute studying the effect with a shamefaced look, as if she had mocked the dead woman with flowers flung from her wedding-wreath of youth and joy. then she turned to the man; the closing bell tolled, and they passed through the iron gates into the ways of the living. the end escape mechanism by charles e. fritch _being a world unto one's self is lonely. even the poor amoeba creature from venus knew that...._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, april . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] she found herself floating again in that strange half-familiar world of murky fluid where only she existed. the liquid was all around her, pressing gently on all sides with a force that cushioned but did not restrain. it was a pleasant sensation, a calming one; the cares of the outside world were non-existent and therefore meaningless. she drifted, unhampered by the fluid. there seemed to be no direction but outward. her thoughts went out and they returned with impressions. this was her world and she was the center of it. it pleased her to think this. it was an alien pleasure that was mental and without physical counterpart. there was quiet, stillness, a peace she had never known. the fluid flowed about her like a great silent sea that held no sound, no movement. it seemed natural that she should be here. she was content. * * * * * at the accustomed time, the autohypnotics in miss abby martin's body forced her to the threshold of consciousness and cleared her brain of the fog of sleep. slowly, she opened her eyes to the morning brightness of her bedroom and stared at the vacant skylight and the blue expanse of sky beyond it, not quite comprehending where she was. the cloudfoam cushions of her bed gave credence to the floating sensation she had had during her dream, and for a few seconds she lacked orientation. then her eyes wandered about the room, to the closed door of the raybath stall, the retracted dressing table, the chronometer label that told her it was march , at thirty seconds past hours. the subtle intonation of her favorite music, czerdon's "maze of crystal" murmured softly from the walls. awareness came then, and she lay back on the bed and tried to follow the intricate crystal melodies. but a frown ridged her brow, and she wondered at the strange dream instead. she had found it pleasant enough, for she rather enjoyed the languid floating sensation, the feeling of being self-sufficient, a world unto herself. yet the very fact of the dream's existence in a world where such things were manufactured disturbed her, for she had taken no dreampills the night before, nor at any of the other times the dream had come. the incident made her almost wish that witchdoctor psychiatrics had not been outlawed twenty years ago, so she might get some inkling of the dream's meaning; but psychiatrists had been pulled forcibly from the web of society when mental derangements were put under the jurisdiction of the somaticists. overhead, a rocket thundered, shaking the house with a gentle hand, and abby turned her attention to the sound, momentarily forgetting the dream. through the one-way skylight, she saw a speck of light accelerate beyond vision. she shook her head impatiently. rush, rush, rush--that was all people seemed to think about these days. go to the moon, go to mars, go to venus. in time they might go to the outer planets and perhaps even try to reach the stars. as though they didn't have enough trouble right here on earth! all they did, it seemed, was hunt down poor beasts from the various planets and bring them back to earth to put in cages and tanks on display, ostensibly to "learn more of the planets by studying their inhabitants." to abby, it seemed cruel and unnecessary. like that poor amoeba creature from venus, she thought, remembering the day last week when she and her niece linda had visited the zoo to see this latest acquisition. it was a creature captured from the giant oceans of the second planet, a giant amoeba encased in a large transparent tank of murky fluid for paying visitors to see. the creature was supposed to be primitively telepathic, but it seemed harmless enough. abby found herself sympathizing with it, and it seemed to her at the time that the creature felt this sympathy and was grateful for it. for a brief moment she even had fancied that the venusian's mind had reached out to her, probing with gentle fingers of thought. she shook her head at that. here in the calm clear light of day diffused through the one-way skylight, the anthropomorphic notion was ridiculous; and she mentally chided herself for contemplating such things. "i must be getting old," she told herself aloud. in the next thought, she reminded herself that thirty-nine years was not old at all, and in the thought that followed, scolded herself for bothering to defend a statement so obviously rhetorical. the chronometer ticked silently to , and sighing, abby rose from the bed and slipped from the translucent one-piece pajamas to stand nude in the center of the bedroom. at a sudden thought she glanced quickly about the room, for she had the strange uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching her. it was impossible, of course, but she felt ill-at-ease just the same, and a blush of embarrassment stole over her at the thought. the feeling of shameful nakedness persisted even in the raybath stall, and it was a relief to dress and hurry downstairs, routing the unaccountable ideas from her mind. as usual, gretchen had busily cleaned the house during the night, silently raying germs and dirt out of existence, and had a warm steaming breakfast-for-two ready by the time abby had descended the escalator to the dining room. "good morning, gretchen," abby said. "good morning, ma'm," gretchen's mechanical voice agreed tonelessly. the robot-maid continued monotonously, "the day will be clear and sunny, with a high of degrees fahrenheit by hours--" "that will be all, gretchen," abby interrupted sternly, not interested in facts of temperature and humidity given so mercilessly. "yes, ma'm," gretchen said obligingly. she turned and went to her closet until she would be needed again. abby watched her disappear around a corner and frowned. sometimes, she thought, the mechanical age could be too mechanical. a simple good morning-- "good morning, aunt abby," linda said, bounding into sight. "good morning, linda," abby replied, smiling at the girl's energy. it reminded her of when she was seventeen. "don't rush your breakfast, dear, you've plenty of time to get to school." "yes, aunt abby," linda said, rushing her breakfast. "we're going on a field trip today," she volunteered between gulps of milk. "to the zoo to see the amoebaman from venus." abby smiled. "amoeba_man_?" she questioned. "couldn't it just as easily be an amoeba_woman_?" "amoebas don't have sex differences," linda said matter-of-factly. "we just call it an amoebaman as a sort of classification because it seems intelligent." she finished her meal and dashed across the room. "see you later, aunt abby." the door whirred open and shut. * * * * * abby went to the window to watch her, sorry she had brought up the subject of sex classification; yet the question had started out harmlessly enough.... waiting outside, a boy stood on an island among moving metal sidewalks. abby recognized him as one who had 'vised linda very often on questions of homework. at linda's approach his eyes took new life, and he laughed a greeting. together, they stepped onto a sidewalk and slowly wound from sight, their hands interlocked. abby shook her head disapprovingly; this would have to be discouraged. linda was much too young to have boyfriends. she shook her head. the younger generation never seemed to move slowly--they rushed their lives away. * * * * * that afternoon, abby sat at the broad one-way windows and watched the cars and aircabs zooming overhead like frightened hornets. suddenly, she wondered where dr. gower was these days. generally he televised her once in a while or dropped in to chat occasionally, and it pleased her that he did. he was her only male companion these days. that's the way with men, she thought bitterly, nodding to herself, as you grow old, they lose interest in you. love cannot be founded on a physical basis. the thought of physical intimacy disturbed her, and she thrust it aside. one thing was certain, above all else: she was determined to protect linda to the best of her ability, even as she had protected herself. "thank goodness for linda," she thought. "if it weren't for her...." she let the thought hang uncontemplated, for she _did_ have linda; and she had no wish to dwell upon the memory of her brother's accidental death in an aircab crash which had brought linda into her custody. she returned her attention to the world outside her window and found nothing there to interest her. restlessly, she played with the button-controls on the chair's underarm, causing the walls to spring into the simulated life of a three-dimensional telecast. a program called "old-time commercial" was in progress. abby, like most people, enjoyed this one, laughing at the exaggerated claims and the tuneless melodies which had been foisted upon her ancestors during the years before commercials had been outlawed, and she was disappointed to see it fade for channel identification. it was followed by a program of the latest fashions, some of which were much too brazen for abby to contemplate without squirming, so she changed stations again with a flick of her forefinger beneath the armrest. "... direct from the oceans of venus," a man's voice announced enthusiastically, and abby found herself staring at the amoeba-like creature she had seen a week earlier at the zoo. "... believed to be directly related to our own earth amoeba," the man continued, "except, of course, this one is far from microscopic, being larger than a man. for communication purposes, these venusian creatures seem to use a form of telepathy...." abby mused upon what linda had said concerning the amoeba's sex, or rather lack of it. she knew that the creatures reproduced by dividing themselves, but she wondered if reproduction came instinctively or by determination. either way, the method was to be admired, she felt. it was a pity humans were so complicated. an image stirred deep within her, a fragment of some forgotten memory, but abby did not notice it. the creature from venus moved restlessly across the three dimensional screen, extending itself. it seemed to be regarding her with an intense sort of curiosity, as though it were reaching out, enveloping her.... sunlight spilling through the window, spread a warm languorous pool about her, and she felt pleasantly drowsy. she closed her eyes. after awhile, her head tilted, and the rushing world faded as though it had never been. she floated, placidly content. she seemed, suddenly, to possess a million eyes that probed about in all directions at once. her body stretched, elongating itself, and moved forward through a translucent fluid to an invisible wall, beyond which stood shadowy figures. she focused her mind upon these figures, and they became clear. there was a little boy gazing at her in awe, his nose pressed against the glass in fascination, not certain if he should be frightened or not. mentally, she smiled to herself and directed her thoughts to the boy, telling him not to be afraid. there were several children there, and abby turned her attention to another. it was linda! linda staring with wide, curious eyes. and next to her a man. dr. gower. her heart leaped-- and she awoke with the warm sunlight streaming in upon her, her heart pounding unaccountably. she looked around. she was still in her front room before the windows. the television was going, presenting the newscast that followed the zoo program. it was just a dream, but it had seemed so real that it still disturbed her minutes after she was fully awake. for awhile, she was not even certain that the dream had not been real and that this now was not really a dream, that reality and dreaming had not somehow suddenly changed places. * * * * * abby was still sitting at the window when linda came home from school. she watched as linda and the boy came down the moving sidewalk and stepped off on the island before the house. they stood talking for a moment, then linda rushed up the walk. the door whirred open and shut, and linda instead of looking for abby as was her habit, went straight to the escalator. abby called, "linda!" the girl paused. "i--i'll be back down." "i'd like to see you right now, please," abby's tone, though not hostile, was unrefusable. linda appeared hesitantly in the doorway, hands behind her. abby smiled pleasantly. "who was that boy, dear? i don't think i know him." "jimmy stone," linda said, excitement creeping into her voice. "he lives over in sector five, and he's in my history class at school." abby recognized the symptoms and frowned mentally at the diagnosis. "he's probably a very nice young man, but--" "he is, he's very nice," linda agreed quickly. "he's going to be an astronautical engineer. look what he made me in plastics class." she drew her hands from behind her and held a scarlet rose cupped in them. it looked soft, as smooth as though it had been just plucked, as though it held a fragrance that was not artificial. "it's very nice," abby admitted, but she wondered how in this age of intense specialization a future astronautical engineer had managed to enroll in a plastics class to waste his time making pseudo-roses. despite her wish to the contrary, she found herself briefly admiring the youngster, then told herself it was a case of puppy love that had inspired the frivolity. "but don't you think you're a little young to be thinking about boys?" "no," linda said defensively, pouting. "i like jimmy and he likes me. i don't see why we shouldn't see each other." "you're in the same class," abby pointed out; "that should be enough. after all, you're only seventeen." "yes," linda flared in annoyance, and rushed on in a sudden torrent, "then i'll be eighteen and then nineteen and then twenty and then thirty. if i wait long enough maybe i'll let life pass me by, like--" she paused, eyes wide and regretful at what she was about to say. abby smiled gently, but a cold chill gripped her. "like me?" she said. "you're afraid of being an old maid like me, is that it?" she hated to use the expression "old maid," but she knew that was what many people called her. she minded the name more than she admitted even to herself, for the words held an unpleasantness, a loneliness she didn't feel--very often anyway. but then she had linda for company. linda's features softened. "i'm sorry, aunt abby," she said quietly. "that's all right, child, i understand how you feel," abby said. "now, you go along up and take a shower and get yourself ready for supper, and maybe we'll talk about it later." linda nodded soberly and turned away. abby sat in the silence of the room, listening to the soft whisper of the escalator. it hurt her to think that linda wasn't going to show her the plastic rose at first. you had to be firm in these matters, though, to prevent worse trouble. if care weren't taken, linda might rush off and be married before she was ready. this was a difficult time for the poor thing, that was certain, but she'd get over it. the little things in a child's life always seemed more important than they really were; that's why there were older people to guide them. her own mother had been very strict, and abby saw no reason to regret it. if it hadn't been for that, she might have married the first boy she'd met. she tried to recall him, but somehow she couldn't, and only a vague image came to mind. it disturbed her to have that blank spot in her memory, but somatic drugs had consistently failed to fill it in. linda came in a few minutes later, freshly scrubbed but not convinced. "all ready, dear?" abby said pleasantly. she got up and put a consoling arm about the young girl. together they went into the dining room, where gretchen had silently placed the appropriate food a few minutes before. * * * * * they ate in silence, with only the sounds of eating and an occasional whir from the robot-maid as she appeared and disappeared with dishes. linda was moody, thoughtful. "how was the field trip, dear?" abby wondered. "all right," linda answered. "the venusian amoeba is very much like our own, the man said. it even reproduces itself by division." "isn't that nice," abby said, just a bit hesitantly, uncertain that reproduction by any means should be discussed. however, if they taught it in school-- "i feel sorry for it," linda said. abby stared at her. "having no one to love," linda went on, a faraway look on her face, "no one to love it. if it has any feelings, it must be very lonely." abby made an irritable stab at a piece of synthetic potato on her plate. "nonsense," she snapped. "you're talking like a silly schoolgirl." on second thought, she decided that linda _was_ a silly schoolgirl and would naturally talk like one; she was still a little girl, dependent for protection upon her aunt abby. that thought gave her some measure of comfort. "i feel like an amoeba sometimes," linda said, poking restlessly at a piece of meat on her plate. "sometimes i wish you were, dear," abby said, feeling strangely annoyed by the statement. "now, eat your steak before it gets cold." "don't you ever get lonely, aunt abby," linda asked. "suppose dr. gower went away, wouldn't you be lonely." "dr. gower is not going away," abby pointed out. "he might," linda insisted. "you haven't seen him for three days now. he might be gone already." despite herself, abby felt sudden panic. "he's probably busy. doctors are busy these days." "he could have called." "linda, eat your supper," abby said sternly, "and stop this nonsense. besides, what difference would it make. one person doesn't make the world begin or end. dr. gower and i are good friends, but we must adjust to these things. if he is gone away, he's gone, and that's all there is to it!" she tried to make her voice sound calm, but there was a sinking feeling in her stomach, and a small questioning voice in the back of her mind kept asking did he? did he? did he? furiously, she thrust the thought aside. "i saw him at the zoo today," linda said. "you did?" abby said, relieved, and then she thought of her dream of the zoo and of linda standing there and dr. gower beside the girl. could she be psychic? no, there was a simpler explanation. "i saw you both there," she went on, smiling, "on television this afternoon." linda frowned. "but dr. gower didn't arrive until the program was over, aunt abby." "i saw you," abby insisted. "but i'm certain of it." "you must be mistaken, dear," abby said in a tone of finality. and that settled that. the doorbuzzer sounded, and gretchen whirred to answer it. abby pressed a button beneath the table, and the image of dr. gower appeared on a small screen set invisibly in the opposite wall. she could feel her blood accelerate at the sight of him, but she wondered why he looked disturbed. she rose. "i'm going in to see dr. gower, dear," she told linda. "now, don't rush your food." linda nodded abstractedly. she wasn't in a rushing mood. "abby, how are you?" dr. gower said warmly, at her approach. "very well, thank you, tom," abby said. "i thought i might have to get sick to see you." "i was busy," he explained. "the colonization of space brings up a great many new medical problems. how's linda?" "fine. i'm afraid, she's beginning to have a slight case of puppy love; i'm sure it can be discouraged in time, though." dr. gower hesitated. then he said, "linda's a normal young girl, abby. you can't stifle her natural desires forever." "i not only can, but i will." to cushion the harshness of the statement, she added, "at least until she's mature enough to decide these things for herself. she's still a child." "a great many women get married at eighteen," dr. gower pointed out. "physically, it's a good age for marriage, and a psychology going against the physical grain isn't going to help." "there are such things in life, dr. gower," abby said a bit coldly, "as moral considerations. we're not animals, you know." "it might help sometimes," dr. gower mused, "if there were a little more animal in us and a little less so-called human." abby found her enthusiasm for seeing dr. gower ebbing, being replaced by what she considered a justified annoyance. dr. gower knew her feeling about linda. something seemed to have changed his tactics. she did not like the change. "if you don't mind," she said, "i'd like to bring up linda in my own way. the courts made me legal guardian of linda until she's twenty-one, and i intend to protect her until then to the best of my ability." "by that time, you'll have her so confused about the world she'll be defenseless against it. i never said anything before, abby--" "and now is a poor time to start!" abby's voice was like ice. "i'm sorry, dr. gower, but if you persist in talking this way, i'll have to ask you to leave. linda is in my charge, and i won't stand for interference, even from you." the doctor's shoulders slumped dejectedly. "do you know why you were chosen guardian, abby," he said slowly. "of course. i was the nearest relative. why bring that up?" dr. gower shook his head. "nothing," he said, after awhile. "nothing at all. i came around to say goodbye, abby." abby wavered, the ice in her melting. "goodbye?" "i'm leaving for venus," he said, "the day after tomorrow. they need doctors up there, and i can probably do more good there than here. besides, i'd like to investigate these amoeba creatures; i suspect they have more intelligence than we give them credit for." "i--i'll be sorry to see you leave, tom." "i came to ask you to go with me. you know how i feel about you, abby; i thought i'd try just once more." "i couldn't leave linda," abby said. "the standard excuse," he reminded her, his voice more weary than bitter. "what linda has needed all these years was a father, abby. you're giving her a warped viewpoint." "the somaticists don't think so," abby flung at him. he crimsoned. "somatics aren't the answer. our era has become so mechanical that people have come to think that pressing a button is going to cure the evils of the world. pills and pushbuttons are fine in their place, abby, but they're not the answer, not the complete one anyway. at one time, they thought psychiatry was the answer; they were wrong there, too. the answer's probably a combination of the two." "i'm not looking for the answer to anything," abby said wearily. "i just want to be let alone." dr. gower nodded and turned to go. "have a nice trip," abby said, trying to sound cheerful, "i'm sorry we had to argue like this." the thought of his leaving brought a sinking sensation which she tried to thrust off and couldn't. but there was linda to think of; the girl couldn't go to venus. at the door, dr. gower hesitated. "i don't know if i should tell you this; it might help, and it might not." he paused again uncertainly and then went on in a decisive tone. "linda's your own child, abby." she looked at him, puzzled. "of course. the courts--" dr. gower shook his head impatiently. "i don't mean that. i mean linda was actually born to you." the words sank in, but abby found them meaningless. two and two did not make five no matter how many times you added them. there was a tense silence, but she didn't know what to say to fill it. "that's what happened in your blank spot, abby," dr. gower went on. "you ran away from home when you were twenty-one, because your mother was too strict, because she acted just like you're acting with linda. before she could find you again, someone else had. you were pregnant." abby's brow furrowed. "you mean--" the thought completed itself, and a look of horror replaced the frown. "that's a horrible thing to say, even in a lie." "i wish i were lying," dr. gower said earnestly. "you didn't remember anything that had happened, and were still dazed for nearly a year afterward. your subconscious used amnesia as an escape mechanism, and you forgot the incident, repressed it without realizing it. an escape is sometimes possible only in the mind, where somaticists are often helpless. i didn't say anything before, but now i'm afraid linda may be made to suffer if i don't." abby stared at him in shocked silence. she said, after awhile. "it's not true, it can't be." dr. gower shrugged. "i'm sorry, abby, it is. it's not linda you're worried about, it's yourself; you're afraid to face reality." "get out," abby said slowly, hating him for that. her voice rose the least bit. "i won't listen to these lies." "i thought it might help. say goodbye to linda for me." the door closed behind him with a click. abby stared at the closed door, a small portion of her was calm, the rest chaotic. the calm portion wondered why she should be so disturbed by something so obviously impossible. all these years she'd been wrong about dr. gower, trusting him as a friend. for what he said was untrue, of course. it had to be. and yet why couldn't she remember things? it was only eighteen years ago and important things had happened in that year, but somehow her memory bypassed their happening. it was like reading a book with several pages blank; you knew from later pages what had happened, but the actual experience of the events was lost. could it be--the thought came despite her--could it be that she'd had amnesia, that dr. gower had really told her the truth, that someone had actually-- "no. he was lying," she told the room. "he never lied before," linda said quietly from the doorway. "you--heard?" linda nodded. abby tried to smile. "i'm afraid, dear, that dr. gower is like all men. when he couldn't have what he wanted--" her face clouded at the thought--"he tried to shock me, to hurt me, to make me ashamed...." "would it make you ashamed to have me for a daughter?" abby's heart beat quickly. "of course not, linda. but the circumstances--" "i see," linda said slowly. "they have a name for children like me; that's what you're ashamed of. or maybe, as dr. gower said, you're afraid for yourself!" "but it's not true, linda, don't you see?" abby insisted. she put her arm on the girl's shoulder. linda shook it off; tears welling in her eyes. "you don't even want to know," the girl accused. "you don't even care." and she turned and ran from the room. the escalator whispered, and abby stood in the center of the room looking at the empty doorway. she stood on the brink of a great precipice, balancing precariously, and for a brief moment she found herself believing what dr. gower had said. he was a fine man, and good, and he would not lie to her. things her brother had said came to mind, once-harmless statements that seemed to take on new significance, as though he'd said them to prepare her for this moment. and suddenly, very suddenly, the world was tottering; dazedly, she made her way to a chair and sat limply in it. dr. gower was gone now, and she would never see him again. she knew that, and she knew that despite the things she'd said, that it did matter that he was going. but then she had linda to think of. or was it really linda that concerned her? she could take the girl along, certainly; that would even clear up the problem of jimmy stone. was it really the marriage she feared, a fear based upon some secret mental block in her mind? the doubt returned then, and she wasn't sure. she wasn't sure of anything anymore. abby had to think. she had to quiet her nerves and the frantic jumbled thoughts that had begun to race through her mind. she felt dizzy and held a hand to one of the walls to steady herself as she walked to her bedroom. from the dressing table drawer she took a bottle of dreampills. the label was fuzzy to her eyes, but the word _danger_ stood out in bold letters. abby swallowed three of the pills, which was two more than the safe dosage, and lay across the bed, eyes closed. the door to the room closed automatically. "it's not true," she told herself again, a desperate urgency to her voice. "i've got to get away from these thoughts. got to get away. got--to--escape." she felt drowsy, but the thought of what dr. gower had said persisted. it couldn't be true. it couldn't. and yet it might be; it was the possibility that disturbed her. that blank spot. eighteen years ago. eighteen years... * * * * * she drifted into a restless sleep. mentally, she traveled across the familiar plains of her past to that strange dark canyon she couldn't recall. her mind hovered frightened above the depths, failing to see through its darkness; then she passed to the other side, to her childhood, to when she was a young girl and her mother was alive. the scene burst upon her with vivid clarity, and she found herself reliving it. it was there, all of it. the home life, protecting and yet restraining. her dissatisfaction. the secret determination. the running away in the dead of night. it was all there, just as dr. gower had said. "but it's a dream," she murmured, "just a dream." yet it seemed a reality. she could feel the cool night press upon her as she made her way slowly through the strange-familiar darkness and descended into the depths of the canyon. the feeling of having been here before was with her, and it brought terror with it. she walked on, looking to either side, listening fearfully. and then she stopped, her blood becoming ice. there was a man before her. she could see only his eyes, but they were cruel eyes, savage and lustful. knowledge came then, bursting over her in a raging tide. she screamed and ran, her footsteps echoing frantically as she hurried through the darkness, looking for an opening for a protecting light. but no opening appeared, no light came. she ran until she was exhausted, and then she sank to the ground panting trying to still her spasms of breath. there was a small sound, as of the scraping of a shoe and she looked into the eyes again. she screamed again and again and again not knowing where screams ended and echoes began. she put her hands over her ears and screamed into the darkness. she could feel hands reaching out for her and she shrank away from them. her mind was a playground for terror. she had to escape. she had to. (but sometimes the only escape is in the mind!) the hands reached out. she was suddenly falling, down, down, down. calmness came, and a grateful thought appeared: she had escaped. nothing else mattered; only that.... she stopped falling. the mist grew thick, thicker; it became dense; it became liquid. she could not feel the beating of her heart, but her mind was calm and it looked about with a detachment that was intellectual. she was floating again, floating silently through a world of murky fluid. the liquid was pressing with a force so gentle it almost did not exist. it enveloped her like a protecting shield. she drifted. there seemed to be no direction but outward. her thoughts went out and they returned with impressions. this was her world and she was the center of it. there were no problems here, no encroachments on existence or security. it was like a return to the womb. womb? she thought. she turned the word over in her mind and found the concept alien. she regarded it intellectually, at leisure. time passed silently, without incident, without measurement. it had no meaning, no referent. curious after awhile, she went forward, her mind impinging upon shadowy figures behind the transparent barrier. she focussed her attention upon them, and the image cleared. there was a man there, and a woman, and a girl. she could hear them as they spoke. "i don't know why you wanted to come here, abby," the man was saying. "you'll see enough of these creatures on venus." "this one is special," the woman said slowly, tasting the words like some unfamiliar food. "it's what made me change my mind about--things. it must be very lonely." "bosh," the man scoffed gently. "intelligent or not, an amoeba doesn't have feelings of loneliness." "doesn't it?" the woman wondered. "perhaps not at first. but being able to probe the minds of humans and sympathize with them yet not contact them can...." "we'll be late for the rocket, mother," the girl said. "jimmy promised he'd be down to see me off and let me know if he can go to the venus academy next year." "all right, linda, we're going now." at the door, the woman turned for a last look; her thoughts were thoughts of sorrow, of pity, of--regret, perhaps. "you'll learn much of the world this way," the thoughts came, "and you'll have time to readjust. knowledge will pyramid gently, and with it will come wisdom. after awhile, escape won't be necessary. you'll want to return then and be a part of your world. meanwhile, i must help my own people; this is the best way for both of us to escape." the woman linked arms with the man and the girl then, and the three of them went out. silence returned, bringing with it a troubled wonderment. then the murky fluid flowed past all vision, and the world returned, safe and familiar. the thoughts returned briefly, as echoes, but they were unfamiliar this time and meaningless. but it was not always so, and it would not always be, for contemplation bred curiosity, and curiosity bred knowledge, and knowledge bred desire, and desire the ways and means of accomplishment. meanwhile, there was quiet, stillness, a peace she had never known. the fluid flowed about her in a silence that held no sound, no movement. it was womb-like, protective. it seemed natural that she should be here. for the moment, she was content. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) transcriber's note: there were several instances of numbered footnote markers without matching footnotes in the original text. these have been removed. minor differences in hyphenation have been made consistent. emmeline the orphan of the castle [illustration: '_miss mowbray! is it thus you fulfil the promise you gave me?_' (p. )] charlotte smith * * * * * emmeline the orphan of the castle * * * * * contents emmeline, the orphan of the castle 'to my children' xxvii volume i chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv chapter xv chapter xvi volume ii chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii volume iii chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv volume iv chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv chapter xv chapter xvi explanatory notes list of illustrations '_miss mowbray! is it thus you fulfil the promise you gave me?_' (p. ) xx _emmeline and lady adelina surprised at the appearance of fitz-edward_ (p. ) xxv emmeline the orphan of the castle [illustration: _emmeline and lady adelina surprised at the appearance of fitz-edward_ (p. )] volume i to my children o'erwhelm'd with sorrow--and sustaining long 'the proud man's contumely, the oppressor's wrong,' languid despondency, and vain regret, must my exhausted spirit struggle yet? yes! robb'd myself of all that fortune gave, of every hope--but shelter in the grave; still shall the plaintive lyre essay it's powers, and dress the cave of care, with fancy's flowers; maternal love, the fiend despair withstand, still animate the heart and guide the hand. may you, dear objects of my tender care! escape the evils, i was born to bear: round my devoted head, while tempests roll, yet there--'where i have treasured up my soul,' may the soft rays of dawning hope impart reviving patience to my fainting heart; and, when it's sharp anxieties shall cease, may i be conscious, in the realms of peace, that every tear which swells my children's eyes, from evils past, not present sorrows, rise. then, with some friend who loves to share your pain, (for 'tis my boast, that still such friends remain,) by filial grief, and fond remembrance prest, you'll seek the spot where all my miseries rest, recall my hapless days in sad review, the long calamities i bore for you, and, with an happier fate, resolve to prove how well ye merited your mother's love! emmeline the orphan of the castle chapter i in a remote part of the county of pembroke, is an old building, formerly of great strength, and inhabited for centuries by the ancient family of mowbray; to the sole remaining branch of which it still belonged, tho' it was, at the time this history commences, inhabited only by servants; and the greater part of it was gone to decay. a few rooms only had been occasionally repaired to accommodate the proprietor, when he found it necessary to come thither to receive his rents, or to inspect the condition of the estate; which however happened so seldom, that during the twelve years he had been master of it, he had only once visited the castle for a few days. the business that related to the property round it (which was very considerable) was conducted by a steward grown grey in the service of the family, and by an attorney from london, who came to hold the courts. and an old housekeeper, a servant who waited on her, the steward, and a labourer who was kept to look after his horse and work in that part of the garden which yet bore the vestige of cultivation, were now all its inhabitants; except a little girl, of whom the housekeeper had the care, and who was believed to be the natural daughter of that elder brother, by whose death lord montreville, the present possessor, became entitled to the estate. this nobleman, while yet a younger son, was (by the partiality of his mother, who had been an heiress, and that of some other female relations) master of a property nearly equal to what he inherited by the death of his brother, mr. mowbray. he had been originally designed for the law; but in consequence of being entitled to the large estate which had been his mother's, and heir, by will, to all her opulent family, he had quitted that profession, and at the age of about four and twenty, had married lady eleonore delamere, by whom he had a son and two daughters. the illustrious family from which lady eleonore descended, became extinct in the male line by the premature death of her two brothers; and her ladyship becoming sole heiress, her husband took the name of delamere; and obtaining one of the titles of the lady's father, was, at his death, created viscount montreville. mr. mowbray died before he was thirty, in italy; and lord montreville, on taking possession of mowbray castle, found there his infant daughter. her mother had died soon after her birth; and she had been sent from france, where she was born, and put under the care of mrs. carey, the housekeeper, who was tenderly attached to her, having been the attendant of mr. mowbray from his earliest infancy. lord montreville suffered her to remain in the situation in which he found her, and to go by the name of mowbray: he allowed for the trifling charge of her board and necessary cloaths in the steward's account, the examination of which was for some years the only circumstance that reminded him of the existence of the unfortunate orphan. with no other notice from her father's family, emmeline had attained her twelfth year; an age at which she would have been left in the most profound ignorance, if her uncommon understanding, and unwearied application, had not supplied the deficiency of her instructors, and conquered the disadvantages of her situation. mrs. carey could indeed read with tolerable fluency, and write an hand hardly legible: and mr. williamson, the old steward, had been formerly a good penman, and was still a proficient in accounts. both were anxious to give their little charge all the instruction they could: but without the quickness and attention she shewed to whatever they attempted to teach, such preceptors could have done little. emmeline had a kind of intuitive knowledge; and comprehended every thing with a facility that soon left her instructors behind her. the precarious and neglected situation in which she lived, troubled not the innocent emmeline. having never experienced any other, she felt no uneasiness at her present lot; and on the future she was not yet old enough to reflect. mrs. carey was to her in place of the mother she had never known; and the old steward, she was accustomed to call father. the death of this venerable servant was the first sorrow emmeline ever felt: returning late one evening, in the winter, from a neighbouring town, he attempted to cross a ford, where the waters being extremely out, he was carried down by the rapidity of the current. his horse was drowned; and tho' he was himself rescued from the flood by some peasants who knew him, and carried to the castle, he was so much bruised, and had suffered so much from cold, that he was taken up speechless, and continued so for the few hours he survived the accident. mrs. carey, who had lived in the same house with him near forty years, felt the sincerest concern at his death; with which it was necessary for her immediately to acquaint lord montreville. his lordship directed his attorney in london to replace him with another; to whom mrs. carey, with an aching heart, delivered the keys of the steward's room and drawers. her health, which was before declining, received a rude shock from the melancholy death of mr. williamson; and she and her little ward had soon the mortification of seeing he was forgotten by all but themselves. frequent and severe attacks of the gout now made daily ravages in the constitution of mrs. carey; and her illness recurred so often, that emmeline, now almost fourteen, began to reflect on what she should do, if mrs. carey died: and these reflections occasionally gave her pain. but she was not yet of an age to consider deeply, or to dwell long on gloomy subjects. her mind, however, gradually expanded, and her judgment improved: for among the deserted rooms of this once noble edifice, was a library, which had been well furnished with the books of those ages in which they had been collected. many of them were in black letter; and so injured by time, that the most indefatigable antiquary could have made nothing of them. from these, emmeline turned in despair to some others of more modern appearance; which, tho' they also had suffered from the dampness of the room, and in some parts were almost effaced with mould, were yet generally legible. among them, were spencer and milton, two or three volumes of the spectator, an old edition of shakespeare, and an odd volume or two of pope. these, together with some tracts of devotion, which she knew would be very acceptable to mrs. carey, she cleaned by degrees from the dust with which they were covered, and removed into the housekeeper's room; where the village carpenter accommodated her with a shelf, on which, with great pride of heart, she placed her new acquisitions. the dismantled windows, and broken floor of the library, prevented her continuing there long together: but she frequently renewed her search, and with infinite pains examined all the piles of books, some of which lay tumbled in heaps on the floor, others promiscuously placed on the shelves, where the swallow, the sparrow, and the daw, had found habitations for many years: for as the present proprietor had determined to lay out no more than was absolutely necessary to keep one end of the castle habitable, the library, which was in the most deserted part of it, was in a ruinous state, and had long been entirely forsaken. emmeline, however, by her unwearied researches, nearly completed several sets of books, in which instruction and amusement were happily blended. from them she acquired a taste for poetry, and the more ornamental parts of literature; as well as the grounds of that elegant and useful knowledge, which, if it rendered not her life happier, enabled her to support, with the dignity of conscious worth, those undeserved evils with which many of her years were embittered. mrs. carey, now far advanced in life, found her infirmities daily increase. she was often incapable of leaving her chamber for many weeks; during which emmeline attended her with the solicitude and affection of a daughter; scorned not to perform the most humble offices that contributed to her relief; and sat by her whole days, or watched her whole nights, with the tenderest and most unwearied assiduity. on those evenings in summer, when her attendance could for a few hours be dispensed with, she delighted to wander among the rocks that formed the bold and magnificent boundary of the ocean, which spread its immense expanse of water within half a mile of the castle. simply dressed, and with no other protection than providence, she often rambled several miles into the country, visiting the remote huts of the shepherds, among the wildest mountains. during the life of mrs. mowbray, a small stipend had been annually allowed for the use of the poor: this had not yet been withdrawn; and it now passed thro' the hands of mrs. carey, whose enquiries into the immediate necessities of the cottagers in the neighbourhood of the castle, devolved to emmeline, when she was herself unable to make them. the ignorant rustics, who had seen emmeline grow up among them from her earliest infancy, and who now beheld her with the compassion as well as the beauty of an angel, administering to their necessities and alleviating their misfortunes, looked upon her as a superior being, and throughout the country she was almost adored. perfectly unconscious of those attractions which now began to charm every other eye, emmeline had entered her sixteenth year; and the progress of her understanding was equal to the improvement of her person; which, tho' she was not perfectly handsome, could not be beheld at first without pleasure, and which the more it was seen became more interesting and engaging. her figure was elegant and graceful; somewhat exceeding the middling height. her eyes were blue; and her hair brown. her features not very regular; yet there was a sweetness in her countenance, when she smiled, more charming than the effect of the most regular features could have given. her countenance, open and ingenuous, expressed every emotion of her mind: it had assumed rather a pensive cast; and tho' it occasionally was lighted up by vivacity, had been lately frequently overclouded; when the sufferings of her only friend called forth all the generous sympathy of her nature. and now the first severe misfortune she had known was about to overtake her. early in the spring of that year, which was the sixteenth from her birth, mrs. carey had felt an attack of the gout, which however was short; and her health seemed for some time afterwards more settled than it had been for many months. she was one evening preparing to go down to the village, leaning on the arm of emmeline, when she suddenly complained of an acute pain in her head, and fell back into a chair. the affrighted girl called for assistance, and endeavoured by every means in her power to recover her, but it was impossible; the gout had seized her head; and casting on emmeline a look which seemed to express all she felt at leaving her thus desolate and friendless, her venerable friend, after a short struggle, breathed her last. what should emmeline now do? in this distress (the first she had ever known) how should she act? she saw, in the lifeless corpse before her, the person on whom she had, from her first recollection, been accustomed to rely; who had provided for all her wants, and prevented every care for herself. and now she was left to perform for this dear friend the last sad offices, and knew not what would hereafter be her own lot. in strong and excellent understandings there is, in every period of life, a force which distress enables them to exert, and which prevents their sinking under the pressure of those evils which overwhelm and subdue minds more feeble and unequal. the spirits of emmeline were yet unbroken by affliction, and her understanding was of the first rank. she possessed this native firmness in a degree very unusual to her age and sex. instead therefore of giving way to tears and exclamations, she considered how she should best perform all she now could do for her deceased friend; and having seen every proper care taken of her remains, and given orders for every thing relative to them, with the solemn serenity of settled sorrow, she retired to her room, where she began to reflect on her irreparable loss, and the melancholy situation in which she was left; which she never had courage to consider closely till it was actually before her. painful indeed were the thoughts that now crouded on her mind; encreasing the anguish of her spirit for her recent misfortune. she considered herself as a being belonging to nobody; as having no right to claim the protection of any one; no power to procure for herself the necessaries of life. on the steward maloney she had long looked with disgust, from the assured and forward manner in which he thought proper to treat her. the freedom of his behaviour, which she could with difficulty repress while mrs. carey lived, might now, she feared, approach to more insulting familiarity; to be exposed to which, entirely in his power, and without any female companion, filled her with the most alarming apprehensions: and the more her mind dwelt on that circumstance the more she was terrified at the prospect before her; insomuch, that she would immediately have quitted the house--but whither could she go? by abruptly leaving the asylum lord montreville had hitherto allowed her, she feared she might forfeit all claim to his future protection: and, unknown as she was to the principal inhabitants of the country, who were few, and their houses at a great distance, she could hardly hope to be received by any of them. she had therefore no choice left but to remain at the castle till she heard from lord montreville: and she determined to acquaint his lordship of the death of mrs. carey, and desire to receive his commands as to herself. fatigued and oppressed, she retired to bed, but not to sleep. the image of her expiring protectress was still before her eyes; and if exhausted nature forced her to give way to a momentary forgetfulness, she soon started from her imperfect slumber, and fancied she heard the voice of mrs. carey, calling on her for help; and her last groan still vibrated in her ears!--while the stillness of the night, interrupted only by the cries of the owls which haunted the ruins, added to the gloomy and mournful sensations of her mind. at length however the sun arose--the surrounding objects lost the horror that darkness and silence had lent them--and emmeline fell into a short but refreshing repose. chapter ii as soon as emmeline arose the next morning, she addressed the following letter to lord montreville. 'my lord, 'in the utmost affliction, i address myself to your lordship, to acquaint you with the death of mrs. carey, after an illness of a very few moments: by which unhappy event i have lost a friend who has indeed been a mother to me; and am now left at the castle, ignorant of your lordship's pleasure as to my future residence. 'you will, my lord, i doubt not, recollect that it is, at my time of life, improper for me to reside here with mr. maloney; and if it be your lordship's intention for me to continue here, i hope you will have the goodness to send down some proper person to fill the place of the worthy woman i have lost. 'on your lordship's humanity and consideration i depend for an early answer: in which hope i have the honor to remain, your lordship's dutiful and most humble servant, emmeline mowbray.' _mowbray castle,_ _ st may._ the same post carried a letter from mr. maloney, informing lord montreville of the housekeeper's death, and desiring directions about _miss_, as he elegantly termed emmeline. to these letters no answers were returned for upwards of a fortnight: during which melancholy interval, emmeline followed to the grave the remains of the friend of her infancy, and took a last farewel of the only person who seemed interested for her welfare. then returning with streaming eyes to her own room, she threw herself on the bed, and gave way to a torrent of tears; for her spirits were overcome by the mournful scene to which she had just been a witness, and by the heavy forebodings of future sorrow which oppressed her heart. the troublesome civilities of the steward maloney, she soon found the difficulty of evading. fearful of offending him from whom she could not escape; yet unable to keep up an intercourse of civility with a man who would interpret it into an encouragement of his presumptuous attentions, she was compelled to make use of an artifice; and to plead ill health as an excuse for not dining as usual in the steward's room: and indeed her uneasiness and grief were such as hardly made it a pretence. after many days of anxious expectation, the following letter arrived from the house-steward of lord montreville; as on such an occasion his lordship did not think it necessary to write himself. _berkeley-square_, _june_ , -- 'miss, 'my lord orders me to acquaint you, that in consequence of your's of the st ult. informing his lordship of the old housekeeper's, mrs. carey's, decease, he has directed mrs. grant, his lordship's town housekeeper, to look out for another; and mrs. grant has agreed with a gentlewoman accordingly, who will be down at the castle forthwith. my lord is gone to essex; but has directed me to let mr. maloney know, that he is to furnish you with all things needful same as before. by my lord's command, from, miss, your very humble servant, richard maddox.' while emmeline waited the expected arrival of the person to whose care she was now to be consigned, the sister of mrs. carey, who was the only relation she had, sent a nephew of her husband's to take possession of what effects had belonged to her; in doing which, a will was found, in which she bequeathed fifty pounds as a testimony of her tender affection to 'miss emmeline mowbray, the daughter of her late dear master;' together with all the contents of a small chest of drawers, which stood in her room. the rest of her property, which consisted of her cloaths and about two hundred pounds, which she had saved in service, became her sister's, and were delivered by maloney to the young man commissioned to receive them. in the drawers given to her, emmeline found some fine linen and laces, which had belonged to her mother; and two little silk boxes covered with nuns embroidery, which seemed not to have been opened for many years. emmeline saw that they were filled with letters: some of them in a hand which she had been shewn as her father's. but she left them uninspected, and fastened up the caskets; her mind being yet too much affected with her loss to be able to examine any thing which brought to her recollection the fond solicitude of her departed friend. the cold and mechanical terms in which the steward's letter was written, encreased all her uneasy fears as to her future prospects. lord montreville seemed to feel no kindness for her; nor to give any consideration to her forlorn and comfortless situation. the officious freedoms of maloney encreased so much, that she was obliged to confine herself almost entirely to her own room to avoid him; and she determined, that if after the arrival of the companion she expected, he continued to besiege her with so much impertinent familiarity, she would quit the house, tho' compelled to accept the meanest service for a subsistence. after a fortnight of expectation, notice was received at the castle, that mrs. garnet, the housekeeper, was arrived at the market town. the labourer, with an horse, was dispatched for her, and towards evening she made her entry. to emmeline, who had from her earliest remembrance been accustomed only to the plainest dress, and the most simple and sober manners, the figure and deportment of this woman appeared equally extraordinary. she wore a travelling dress of tawdry-coloured silk, trimmed with bright green ribbands; and her head was covered with an immense black silk hat, from which depended many yellow streamers; while the plumage, with which it was plentifully adorned, hung dripping over her face, from the effects of a thunder shower thro' which she had passed. her hair, tho' carefully curled and powdered on her leaving london, had been also greatly deranged in her journey, and descended, in knotty tufts of a dirty yellow, over her cheeks and forehead; adding to the vulgar ferocity of a harsh countenance and a coarse complexion. her figure was uncommonly tall and boney; and her voice so discordant and shrill, as to pierce the ear with the most unpleasant sensation, and compleat the disagreeable idea her person impressed. emmeline saw her enter, handed by the officious maloney; and repressing her astonishment, she arose, and attempted to speak to her: but the contrast between the dirty, tawdry, and disgusting figure before her, and the sober plainness and neat simplicity of her lost friend, struck so forcibly on her imagination, that she burst into tears, and was altogether unable to command her emotion. the steward having with great gallantry handed in the newly arrived lady, she thus began: 'oh! lord a marcy on me!--to be shore i be got here at last! but indeed if i had a known whereabout i was a coming to, 'tis not a double the wagers as should a hired me. lord! why what a ramshakel ould place it is!--and then such a monstrous long way from london! i suppose, sir,' (to maloney) 'as you be the steward; and you miss, i reckon, be the young miss as i be to have the care on. why to be sure i did'nt much expect to see a christian face in such an out of the way place. i don't b'leve i shall stay; howsomdever do let me have some tea; and do you, miss, shew me whereabout i be to sleep.' emmeline, struggling with her dislike, or at least desirous of concealing it, did not venture to trust her voice with an answer; for her heart was too full; but stepping to the door, she called to the female servant, and ordered her to shew the lady her room. she had herself been used to share that appropriated to mrs. carey; but she now resolved to remove her bed into an apartment in one of the turrets of the castle, which was the only unoccupied room not wholly exposed to the weather. this little room had been sashed by mrs. mowbray on account of the beautiful prospect it commanded between the hills, where suddenly sinking to the south west, they made way through a long narrow valley, fringed with copses, for a small but rapid river; which hurrying among immense stones, and pieces of rock that seemed to have been torn from the mountains by its violence, rushed into the sea at the distance of a mile from the castle. this room, now for many years neglected, was much out of repair, but still habitable; and tho' it was at a great distance from the rooms yet occupied, emmeline chose rather to take up her abode in it, than partake of the apartment which was now to belong to mrs. garnet: and she found reason to applaud herself for this determination when she heard the exclamation mrs. garnet made on entering it-- 'lord! why 'tis but a shabbyish place; and here is two beds i see. but that won't suit me i asshore you. i chuses to have a room to myself, if it be ever so.' 'be not in any pain on that account, madam,' said emmeline, who had now collected her thoughts; 'it is my intention to remove my bed, and i have directed a person to do it immediately.' she then returned into the steward's room, where maloney thus addressed her-- 'sarvent again, pretty miss! pray how d'ye like our new housekeeper? a smartish piece of goods upon my word for pembrokeshire; quite a london lady, eh, miss?' 'it is impossible for me, sir, to judge of her yet.' 'why ay, miss, as you justly observes, 'tis full early to know what people be; but i hope we shall find her quite the thing; and if so be as she's but good tempered, and agreeable, and the like, why i warrant we shall pass this here summer as pleasant as any thing can be. and now my dear miss, perhaps, may'nt be so shy and distant, as she have got another woman body to keep her company.' this eloquent harangue was interrupted by the return of mrs. garnet, full of anxiety for her tea; and in the bustle created by the desire of the maid and maloney to accommodate her, emmeline retired to her new apartment, where she was obliged to attend to the removal of her bed and other things; and excusing herself, under the pretence of fatigue, from returning to the steward's room, she passed some time in melancholy recollection and more melancholy anticipation, and then retired to rest. some days passed in murmurs on the part of mrs. garnet, and in silence on that of emmeline; who, as soon as she had finished her short repasts, always went to her own room. after a few weeks, she discovered that the lady grew every day more reconciled to her situation; and from the pleasures she apparently took in the gallantries of maloney, and his constant assiduities to her, the innocent emmeline supposed there was really an attachment forming between them, which would certainly deliver her from the displeasing attentions of the steward. occupied almost entirely by her books, of which she every day became more enamoured, she never willingly broke in upon a tête à tête which she fancied was equally agreeable to all parties; and she saw with satisfaction that they regretted not her absence. but the motives of maloney's attention were misunderstood. insensible as such a man must be supposed to the charms of the elegant and self-cultivated mind of emmeline, her personal beauty had made a deep impression on his heart; and he had formed a design of marrying her, before the death of mrs. carey, to whom he had once or twice mentioned something like a hint of his wishes: but she had received all his discourse on that topic with so much coldness, and ever so carefully avoided any conversation that might again lead to it, that he had been deterred from entirely explaining himself. now, however, he thought the time was arrived, when he might make a more successful application; for he never doubted but that mrs. garnet would obtain, over the tender and ingenuous mind of emmeline, an influence as great as had been possessed by mrs. carey. nor did he apprehend that a friendless orphan, without fortune or connections, would want much persuasion to marry a young man of handsome figure (as he conceived himself to be,) who was established in a profitable place, and had some dependance of his own. the distance which emmeline had always obliged him to observe, he imputed to the timidity of her nature; which he hoped would be lessened by the free and familiar manners of her present companion, whose conversation was very unlike what she had before been accustomed to hear from mrs. carey. impressed with these ideas, he paid his court most assiduously to the housekeeper, who put down all his compliments to the account of her own attractions; and was extremely pleased with her conquest; which she exhausted all her eloquence and all her wardrobe to secure. chapter iii in this situation were the inhabitants of mowbray castle; when, in the beginning of july, orders were received from lord montreville to set workmen immediately about repairing the whole end of the castle which was yet habitable; as his son, mr. delamere, intended to come down early in the autumn, to shoot, for some weeks, in wales. his lordship added, that it was possible he might himself be there also for a few weeks; and therefore directed several bed-chambers to be repaired, for which he would send down furniture from london. no time was lost in obeying these directions. workmen were immediately procured, and the utmost expedition used to put the place in a situation to receive its master: while emmeline, who foresaw that the arrival of lord montreville would probably occasion some change in regard to herself, and who thought that every change must be for the better, beheld these preparations with pleasure. all had been ready some weeks, and the time fixed for mr. delamere's journey elapsed, but he had yet given no notice of his arrival. at length, towards the middle of september, they were one evening alarmed by the noise of horses on the ascent to the castle. emmeline retired to her own room, fearful of she knew not what; while mrs. garnet and maloney flew eagerly to the door; where a french valet, and an english groom with a led horse, presented themselves, and were ushered into the old kitchen; the dimensions of which, blackened as it was with the smoke of ages, and provided with the immense utensils of ancient hospitality, failed not to amaze them both. the frenchman expressed his wonder and dislike by several grimaces; and then addressing himself to mrs. garnet, exclaimed--'peste! milor croit'il qu'on peut subsister dans cette espece d'enfer? montré moi les apartements de monsieur.' 'oh, your name is mounseer, is it?' answered she--'aye, i thought so--what would you please to have, mounseer?' 'diable!' cried the distressed valet; 'voici une femme aussi sauvage que le lieu qu'elle habite. com, com, you jean groom, speak littel to dis voman pour moi.' with the help of john, who had been some time used to his mode of explaining himself, mrs. garnet understood that mounseer desired to be shewn the apartments destined for his master, which he assiduously assisted in preparing; and then seeing the women busied in following his directions, he attempted to return to his companion; but by missing a turning which should have carried him to the kitchen, he was bewildered among the long galleries and obscure passages of the castle, and after several efforts, could neither find his way back to the women, nor into the kitchen; but continued to blunder about till the encreasing gloom, which approaching night threw over the arched and obscure apartments, through windows dim with painted glass, filled him with apprehension and dismay, and he believed he should wander there the whole night; in which fear he began to make a strange noise for assistance; to which nobody attended, for indeed nobody for some time heard him. his terror encreasing, he continued to traverse one of the passages, when a door at the corner of it opened, and emmeline came out. the man, whose imagination was by this time filled with ideas of spectres, flew back at her sudden appearance, and added the contortions of fear to his otherwise grotesque appearance, in a travelling jacket of white cloth, laced, and his hair in papillotes. emmeline, immediately comprehending that it was one of mr. delamere's servants, enquired what he wanted; and the man, reassured by her voice and figure, which there was yet light enough to discern, approached her, and endeavoured to explain that he had lost himself; in a language, which, though emmeline did not understand, she knew to be french. she walked with him therefore to the gallery which opened to the great staircase, from whence he could hardly mistake his way; where having pointed it to him, she turned back towards her own room. but millefleur, who had now had an opportunity to contemplate the person of his conductress, was not disposed so easily to part with her. by the extreme simplicity of her dress, he believed her to be only some fair villager, or an assistant to the housekeeper; and therefore without ceremony he began in broken english to protest his admiration, and seized her hand with an impertinent freedom extremely shocking to emmeline. she snatched it from him; and flying hastily back through those passages which all his courage did not suffice to make him attempt exploring again, she regained her turret, the door of which she instantly locked and bolted; then breathless with fear and anger, she reflected on the strange and unpleasant scene she had passed through, and felt greatly humbled, to find that she was now likely to be exposed to the insolent familiarity of servants, from which she knew not whether the presence of the master would protect her. while she suffered the anguish these thoughts brought with them, millefleur travelled back to the kitchen; where he began an oration in his own language on the beauty of the young woman he had met with. neither mrs. garnet nor maloney understood what he was saying; but john, who had been in france, and knew a good deal of the language, told them that he had seen a very pretty girl, in whose praise he was holding forth. 'why, lord,' exclaimed mrs. garnet, 'tis our miss as mounseer means; i had a quite forgot the child; i'll go call her; but howsomdever mounseer won't be able to get a word out of her; if she's a beauty i asshore you 'tis a dumb beauty.' maloney, by no means pleased with millefleur's discovery, would willingly have prevented the housekeeper's complaisance; but not knowing how to do it, he was obliged to let her ascend to emmeline, whose door she found locked. 'miss! miss!' cried she, rapping loudly, 'you must come down.' 'is my lord or mr. delamere arrived?' enquired emmeline. 'no,' replied mrs. garnet, 'neither of em be'nt come yet; but here's my lord's waley de sham, and another sarvent, and you'll come down to tea to be sure.' 'no,' said emmeline, 'you must excuse me, mrs. garnet. i am not very well; and if i were, should decline appearing to these people, with whom, perhaps, it may not be my lord's design that i should associate.' 'people!' exclaimed mrs. garnet; 'as to people, i do suppose that for all one of them is a frenchman, they be as good as other folks; and if i am agreeable to let them drink tea in my room, sure you, miss, mid'nt be so squeamish. but do as you please; for my part i shan't court beauties.' so saying, the angry housekeeper descended to her companions, to whom she complained of the pride and ill manners of miss; while maloney rejoiced at a reserve so favourable to the hopes he entertained. emmeline determined to remain as much as possible in her own room, 'till lord montreville or mr. delamere came, and then to solicit her removal. she therefore continued positively to refuse to appear to the party below; and ordered the maid servant to bring her dinner into her own room, which she never quitted 'till towards evening, to pursue her usual walks. on the third afternoon subsequent to the arrival of mr. delamere's avant-couriers, emmeline went down to the sea side, and seating herself on a fragment of rock, fixed her eyes insensibly on the restless waves that broke at her feet. the low murmurs of the tide retiring on the sands; the sighing of the wind among the rocks which hung over her head, cloathed with long grass and marine plants; the noise of the sea fowl going to their nests among the cliffs; threw her into a profound reverie. she forgot awhile all her apprehended misfortunes, a sort of stupor took possession of her senses, and she no longer remembered how the time had passed there, which already exceeded two hours; though the moon, yet in its encrease, was arisen, and threw a long line of radience on the water. thus lost in indistinct reflections, she was unconscious of the surrounding objects, when the hasty tread of somebody on the pebbles behind her, made her suddenly recollect herself; and though accustomed to be so much alone, she started in some alarm in remembering the late hour, and the solitary place where she was. a man approached her, in whom with satisfaction she recollected a young peasant of the village, who was frequently employed in messages from the castle. 'miss emmy,' said the lad, 'you are wanted at home; for there is my lord his own self, and the young lord, and more gentlefolks come; so madam garnet sent me to look for you all about.' emmeline, hurried by this intelligence, walked hastily away with the young villager, and soon arrived at the castle. the wind had blown her beautiful hair about her face, and the glow of her cheeks was heightened by exercise and apprehension. a more lovely figure than she now appeared could hardly be imagined. she had no time to reflect on the interview; but hastened immediately into the parlour where lord montreville was sitting with his son; mr. fitz-edward, who was a young officer, his friend, distantly related to the family; and mr. headly, a man celebrated for his knowledge of rural improvements, whom lord montreville had brought down to have his opinion of the possibility of rendering mowbray castle a residence fit for his family for a few months in the year. lord montreville was about five and forty years old. his general character was respectable. he had acquitted himself with honor in the senate; and in private life had shewn great regularity and good conduct. but he had basked perpetually in the sunshine of prosperity; and his feelings, not naturally very acute, were blunted by having never suffered in his own person any uneasiness which might have taught him sensibility for that of others. to this cause it was probably owing, that he never reflected on the impropriety of receiving his niece before strangers; and that he ordered emmeline to be introduced into the room where they were all sitting together. having once seen emmeline a child of five or six years old; he still formed an idea of her as a child; and adverted not to the change that almost nine years had made in her person and manners; it was therefore with some degree of surprize, that instead of the child he expected, he saw a tall, elegant young woman, whose air, though timidity was the most conspicuous in it, had yet much of dignity and grace, and in whose face he saw the features of his brother, softened into feminine beauty. the apathy which prosperity had taught him, gave way for a moment to his surprize at the enchanting figure of his niece. he arose, and approached her. 'miss mowbray! how amazingly you are grown! i am glad to see you.' he took her hand; while emmeline, trembling and blushing, endeavoured to recollect herself, and said-- 'i thank you, my lord, and i am happy in having an opportunity of paying my respects to your lordship.' he led her to a seat, and again repeated his wonder to find her so much grown. delamere, who had been standing at the fire conversing with fitz-edward, now advanced, and desired his father to introduce him; which ceremony being passed, he drew a chair close to that in which emmeline was placed; and fixing his eyes on her face with a look of admiration and enquiry that extremely abashed her, he seemed to be examining the beauties of that lovely and interesting countenance which had so immediately dazzled and surprized him. fitz-edward, a young soldier, related to the family of lady montreville, was almost constantly the companion of delamere, and had expectations that the interest lord montreville possessed would be exerted to advance him in his profession. his manner was very insinuating, and his person uncommonly elegant. he affected to be a judge as well as an admirer of beauty, and seemed to behold with approbation the fair inhabitant of the castle; who, with heightened blushes, and averted looks, waited in silence 'till lord montreville should again address her, which he at length did. 'i was sorry, miss mowbray, to hear of the death of old carey.' the tears started into the eyes of emmeline. 'she was an excellent servant, and served the family faithfully many years.' poor emmeline felt the tears fall on her bosom. 'but however she was old; and had been, i suppose, long infirm. i hope the person who now fills her place has supplied it to your satisfaction?' 'ye--s, yes, my lord;' inarticulately sobbed emmeline, quite overcome by the mention of her old friend. 'i dare say she does,' resumed his lordship; 'for grant, of whom lady montreville has a very high opinion, assured her ladyship she was well recommended.' emmeline now found her emotion very painful; she therefore rose to go, and curtseying to lord montreville, tried to wish him good night. 'a good night to you, miss mowbray,' said he, rising. delamere started from his chair; and taking her hand, desired to have the honor of conducting her to her room. but this was a gallantry his father by no means approved. 'no, frederic,' said he, taking himself the hand he held, 'you will give _me_ leave to see miss mowbray to the door.' he led her thither, and then bowing, wished her again good night. emmeline hurried to her room; where she endeavoured to recollect her dissipated spirits, and to consider in what way it would be proper for her to address lord montreville the next day, to urge her request of a removal from the castle. mrs. carey had a sister who resided at swansea in glamorganshire; where her husband had a little place in the excise, and where she had a small house, part of which she had been accustomed to let to those who frequented the place for the benefit of sea-bathing. she was old, and without any family of her own; and emmeline, to whom she was the more agreeable as being the sister of mrs. carey, thought she might reside with her with propriety and comfort, if lord montreville would allow her a small annual stipend for her cloaths and board. while she was considering in what manner to address herself to his lordship the next day, the gentlemen were talking of the perfections of the nymph of the castle; by which name delamere toasted her at supper. lord montreville, who did not seem particularly delighted with the praise his son so warmly bestowed, said-- 'why surely, frederic, you are uncommonly eloquent on behalf of your welch cousin.' 'faith, my lord,' answered delamere, 'i like her so well that i think it's a little unlucky i did not come alone. my welch cousin is the very thing for a tête à tête.' 'yes,' said lord montreville, carelessly, 'she is really grown a good fine young woman. don't you think so, george?' addressing himself to fitz-edward. 'i do indeed, my lord,' answered he; 'and here's mr. headly, tho' an old married man, absolutely petrified with admiration.' 'upon my soul, headly,' continued delamere, 'i already begin to see great capabilities about this venerable mansion. i think i shall take to it, as my father offers it me; especially as i suppose miss emmeline is to be included in the inventory.' 'come, come, frederic,' said lord montreville, gravely, 'no light conversation on the subject of miss mowbray. she is under my care; and i must have her treated with propriety.' his lordship immediately changed the discourse, and soon after complaining of being fatigued, retired to his chamber. chapter iv lord montreville, whose first object was his son, had observed, with some alarm, the immediate impression he seemed to have received from the beauty of emmeline. the next day, he made some farther remarks on his attention to her when they met at dinner, which gave him still more uneasiness; and he accused himself of great indiscretion in having thrown an object, whose loveliness he could not help acknowledging, in the way of delamere, whose ardent and impetuous temper he knew so well. this gave his behaviour to emmeline an air of coldness, and even of displeasure, which prevented her summoning courage to speak to him in the morning of the day after his arrival: and the evening afforded her no opportunity; for lord montreville, determined to keep her as much as possible out of the sight of delamere, did not send for her down to supper, and had privately resolved to remove her as soon as possible to some other residence. thus his apprehensions lest his son should form an attachment prejudicial to his ambitious views, produced in his lordship's mind a resolution in regard to placing more properly his orphan niece, which no consideration, had it related merely to herself, would probably have effected. at supper, delamere enquired eagerly for his 'lovely cousin.' to which lord montreville drily answered, 'that she did not, he believed, sup below.' but the manner of this enquiry, and the anxious looks delamere directed towards the door, together with his repeated questions, increased all lord montreville's fears. he went to bed out of humour rather with himself than his son; and rising early the next morning, enquired for miss mowbray. miss mowbray was walked out, as was her custom, very early, no one knew whither. he learned also that mr. delamere was gone out with his gun without fitz-edward; who not being very fond of field sports, had agreed to join him at a later hour. he immediately fancied that delamere and emmeline might meet; and the pain such a suspicion brought with it, was by him, who had hardly ever felt an hour's uneasiness, considered as so great an evil, that he determined to put an end to it as soon as possible. after an hasty breakfast in his own room, he summoned maloney to attend him, and went over the accounts of the estates entrusted to him, with the state of which his lordship declared himself well contented. and not knowing to whom else he could apply, to enquire for a situation for emmeline, he told maloney, that as miss mowbray was now of an age to require some alteration in her mode of life, he was desirous of finding for her a reputable house in some town in wales, where she might lodge and board. maloney, encouraged by being thus consulted by his lord, ventured, with many bows, blushes, and stammering apologies, to disclose to lord montreville his partiality to miss mowbray. and this communication he so contrived to word, that his lordship had no doubt of emmeline's having allowed him to make it. lord montreville listened therefore in silence, and without any marks of disapprobation, to the account maloney proceeded to give of his prospects and property. while he was doing so, family pride made a faint struggle in his lordship's breast on behalf of his deserted ward. he felt some pain in determining, that a creature boasting a portion of the mowbray blood, should sink into the wife of a man of such inferior birth as maloney. but when the advantages of so easily providing for her were recollected; when he considered that maloney would be happy to take her with a few hundred pounds, and that all apprehensions in regard to his son would by that means for ever be at an end; avarice and ambition, two passions which too much influenced lord montreville, joined to persuade him of the propriety of the match; and became infinitely too powerful to let him listen to his regard to the memory of his brother or his pity for his deserted ward. he thought, that as the existence of emmeline was hardly known beyond the walls of the castle, he should incur no censure from the world if he consigned her to that obscurity to which the disadvantages of her birth seemed originally to have condemned her. these reflections arose while maloney, charmed to find himself listened to, was proceeding in his discourse. lord montreville, tho' too much used to the manners of politicians to be able to give a direct answer, at length put an end to it, by telling him he would consider of what he had said, and talk to him farther in a few days. in the mean time his lordship desired that no part of their conversation might transpire. maloney, transported at a reception which seemed to prognosticate the completion of his wishes, retired elated with his prospects; and lord montreville summoning mr. headly to attend him, mounted his horse to survey the ground on which he meditated improvements round the castle. the cold and almost stern civility of lord montreville, for the little time emmeline had seen him, had created despondence and uneasiness in her bosom. she fancied he disliked her, unoffending as she was, and would take the first opportunity of shaking her off: an idea which, together with the awe she could not help feeling in his presence, made her determine as much as possible to avoid it, 'till he should give her a proper opportunity to speak to him, or 'till she could acquire courage to seek it. at seven in the morning, she arose, after an uneasy night, and having taken an early breakfast, betook herself to her usual walk, carrying with her a book. the sun was hot, and she went to a wood which partly cloathed an high hill near the boundary of the estate, where, intent only on her own sorrows, she could not beguile them by attending to the fictitious and improbable calamities of the heroine of a novel, which mrs. garnet (probably forgetting to restore it to the library of some former mistress,) had brought down among her cloaths, and which had been seized by emmeline as something new, at least to her. but her mind, overwhelmed with its own anxiety, refused its attention: and tired with her walk, she sat down on a tree that had been felled, reflecting on what had passed since lord montreville's arrival, and considering how she might most effectually interest him in her behalf. delamere, attended by a servant, had gone upon the hills in pursuit of his game; and having had great success for some hours, he came down about eleven o'clock into the woods, to avoid the excessive heat, which was uncommon for the season. the noise he made in brushing through the underwood with his gun, and rustling among the fading leaves, alarmed her. he stepped over the timber, and seating himself by her, seized her hands. 'oh! my charming cousin,' cried he, 'i think myself one of the most fortunate fellows on earth, thus to meet you.' emmeline would have risen. 'oh! no,' continued he, 'indeed you do not go, 'till we have had a little conversation.' 'i cannot stay, indeed sir,' said emmeline--. 'i must immediately go home.' 'by no means; i cannot part with you.--come, come, sit down and hear what i have to say.' it was to no purpose to resist. the impetuous vehemence of delamere was too much for the timid civility of emmeline; and not believing that any thing more than common conversation or a few unmeaning compliments would pass, she sat down with as much composure as she could command. but delamere, who was really captivated at the first, and who now thought her more beautiful than he had done in their former interviews, hesitated not to pour forth the most extravagant professions of admiration, in a style so unequivocal, that emmeline, believing he meant to insult her, burst into a passion of tears, and besought him, in a tremulous and broken voice, not to be so cruel as to affront her, but to suffer her to return home. delamere could not see her terror without being affected. he protested, that so far from meaning to give her pain, he should think himself too happy if she would allow him to dedicate his whole life to her service. poor emmeline, however, continued to weep, and to beseech him to let her go; to which, as her distress arose almost to agony, he at length consented: and taking her arm within his, he said he would walk home with her himself. to this emmeline in vain objected. to escape was impossible. to prevail on him to leave her equally so. she was therefore compelled to follow him. which she did with reluctance; while he still continued to profess to her the most violent and serious attachment. they proceeded in this manner along the nearest path to the castle, which lay principally among copses that fringed the banks of the river. they had just passed through the last, and entered the meadows which lay immediately under the castle walls, when lord montreville and headly, on horseback, appeared from a woody lane just before them. at the noise of horses so near them, emmeline looked up, and seeing lord montreville, again struggled, but without success, to disengage her hand. delamere continued to walk on, and his lordship soon came up to them. he checked his horse, and said, somewhat sternly, 'so, sir, where have you been?' delamere, without the least hesitation, answered--'shooting, my lord, the early part of the morning; and since that, making love to my cousin, who was so good as to sit and wait for me under a tree.' 'for mercy's sake, mr. delamere,' cried emmeline, 'consider what you say.' 'waiting for you under a tree!' cried lord montreville, in amazement. 'do miss mowbray be so good as to return home.--and you, frederic, will, i suppose, be back by dinner time.' 'yes,' answered delamere, 'when i have conducted my cousin home, i shall go out again, perhaps, for an hour before dinner.' he was then walking on, without noticing the stern and displeased looks of his father, or the terror of poor emmeline, who saw too evidently that lord montreville was extremely angry. his lordship, after a moment's pause, dismounted, gave his horse to a servant, and joined them, telling delamere he had some business with miss mowbray, and would therefore walk with her towards the castle himself. delamere kissed her hand gayly, and assuring his father that for the first time in his life he felt an inclination to take his business off his hands, he beckoned to his servant to follow with his dogs, and then leaping over the hedge that separated the meadow from the hollow lane, he disappeared. emmeline, trembling with apprehension, walked with faultering steps by the side of lord montreville, who for some time was silent. he at length said--'your having been brought up in retirement, miss mowbray, has, perhaps, prevented your being acquainted with the decorums of the world, and the reserve which a young woman should ever strictly maintain. you have done a very improper thing in meeting my son; and i must desire that while you are at the castle, no such appointments may take place in future.' tho' she saw, from the first moment of his meeting them, that he had conceived this idea, and was confirmed in it by delamere's speech; yet she was so much shocked and hurt by the address, that as she attempted to answer, her voice failed her. the tears however, which streamed from her eyes, having a little relieved her, she endeavoured to assure his lordship, that till she met mr. delamere in the wood that morning, she did not know even of his having left the castle. 'and how happened you to be where he found you, miss mowbray?' 'i went thither, my lord, with a book which i was eager to finish.' 'oh! i remember that maloney told me you was a great reader; and from some other discourse he held relative to you, i own i was the more surprised at your indiscretion in regard to my son.' they were by this time arrived at the castle, and lord montreville desired emmeline to follow him into the parlour, where they both sat down. his lordship renewed the discourse. 'this morning maloney has been talking to me about you; and from what he said, i concluded you had formed with him engagements which should have prevented you from listening to the boyish and improper conversation of mr. delamere.' 'engagements with mr. maloney, my lord? surely he could never assert that i have ever formed engagements with him?' 'why not absolutely so.--i think he did not say that. but i understood that you was by no means averse to his informing me of his attachment, and was willing, if my consent was obtained, to become his wife. perhaps he has no very great advantages; yet considering your situation, which is, you know, entirely dependent, i really think you do perfectly right in designing to accept of the establishment he offers you.' 'to become the wife of maloney!--to accept of the establishment _he_ offers me! i am humbled, i am lost indeed! no, my lord! unhappy as i am, i can _claim_ nothing, it is true; but if the support of an unfortunate orphan, thrown by providence into your care, is too troublesome, suffer me to be myself a servant; and believe i have a mind, which tho' it will not recoil from any situation where i can earn my bread by honest labour, is infinitely superior to any advantages such a man as maloney can offer me!' she wept too much to be able to proceed; and sat, overwhelmed with grief and mortification, while lord montreville continued to speak. 'why distress yourself in this manner, miss mowbray? i cannot see any thing which ought to offend you, if maloney _has_ misrepresented the matter, and if he has not, your extraordinary emotion must look like a consciousness of having altered your mind. 'your motive for doing so cannot be mistaken; but let me speak to you explicitly.--to mr. delamere, _my_ son, the heir to a title and estate which makes him a desirable match for the daughters of the first houses in the kingdom, _you_ can have no pretensions; therefore never do yourself so much prejudice as to let your mind glance that way. 'maloney tells me he has some property, and still better expectations. he is established here in an excellent place; and should he marry you, it shall be still more advantageous. you are (i am sorry to be obliged to repeat it) without any dependance, but on my favour. you will therefore do wisely to embrace a situation in which that favour may be most effectually exerted on your behalf. 'as you have undoubtedly encouraged maloney, the aversion you now pretend towards him, is artifice or coquetry. consider before you decide, consider thoroughly what is your situation and what your expectations; and recollect, that as my son now means to be very frequently at mowbray castle, _you_ cannot remain with propriety but as the wife of maloney.' 'neither as the wife of maloney, nor as emmeline mowbray, will i stay, my lord, another day!' answered she, assuming more spirit than she had yet shewn. 'i wished for an interview to entreat your lordship would allow me to go to some place less improper for my abode than mowbray castle has long been.' 'and whither would you go, miss mowbray?' 'on that, my lord, i wished to consult you. but since it is perhaps a matter unworthy your attention; since it seems to signify little what becomes of me; i must determine to hazard going to mrs. watkins's, who will probably give me an asylum at least 'till i can find some one who will receive me, or some means of providing for myself the necessaries of life.' 'you then positively reject the overtures of maloney?' 'positively, my lord--and for ever! i beg it may not be mentioned to me again!' 'and who is mrs. watkins?' 'the sister of mrs. carey, my lord.' 'where does she live?' 'at swansea in glamorganshire; where she is accustomed to take in boarders. she would, i believe, receive me.' after a moment's consideration, lord montreville said, 'that perhaps may do, since you absolutely refuse the other plan; i would have you therefore prepare to go thither; but i must insist on no more morning interviews with mr. delamere, and that whither you are going may be kept unknown to him. but tell me,' continued he, 'what i am to say to poor maloney?' 'that you are astonished at his insolence in daring to lift his eyes to a person bearing the name of mowbray; and shocked at his falsehood in presuming to assert that i ever encouraged his impertinent pretensions!' this effort of spirit exhausted all the courage emmeline had been able to raise. she arose, and attempted to reach the door; but overcome by the violence of her agitation, was obliged to sit down in a chair near it. she could no longer restrain the tears which were extorted from her by the mortifying scene she had passed through: and her deep sighs, which seemed ready to burst her heart, excited the compassion of lord montreville; who, where his ambition was not in question, was not void of humanity. the violent and artless sorrow of a beautiful young woman, whose fate seemed to be in his power, affected him. he took her hand with kindness, and told her 'he was sorry to have said any thing that appeared harsh.' his lordship added, 'that he would have her write to mrs. watkins; that a servant should be sent with the letter; and that on condition of her concealing her abode from delamere, she should be supplied with an annual income equal to all her wants.' then hearing delamere's gun, which he always discharged before he entered the house, he hastened emmeline away, desiring she would remain in her own apartment; where every thing necessary should be sent to her. chapter v delamere and fitz-edward soon after entered the parlour where lord montreville remained. he received his son with a coldness to which, tho' little accustomed to it, delamere paid no attention. despotic as this beloved son had always been in the family, he felt not the least apprehension that he had really offended his father; or feeling it, knew that his displeasure would be so short liv'd that it was not worth any concern. 'here, fitz-edward,' said he--'here is my father angry with me for making love to my cousin emmy. faith, sir,' (turning to lord montreville,) 'i think i have the most reason to be angry at being brought into such dangerous company; tho' your lordship well knows how devilishly susceptible i am, and that ever since i was ten years old i have been dying for some nymph or other.' 'i know that you are a strange inconsiderate boy,' answered lord montreville, very gravely;--'but i must beg, frederic, to hear no more idle raillery on the subject of miss mowbray.' to this, delamere gave some slight answer; and the discourse was led by his lordship to some other topic. fitz-edward, who was about five years older than delamere, concealed, under the appearance of candour and non-chalance, the libertinism of his character. he had entered very young into the army; the younger son of an irish peer; and had contracted his loose morals by being thrown too early into the world; for his heart was not originally bad. with a very handsome person, he had the most insinuating manners, and an address so truly that of a man of fashion, as immediately prejudiced in his favour those by whom he wished to be thought well of. where he desired to please, he seldom failed of pleasing extremely; and his conversation was, in the general commerce of the world, elegant and attractive. delamere was very fond of his company; and lord montreville encouraged the intimacy: for of whatever fashionable vices fitz-edward was guilty, he contrived, by a sort of sentimental hypocrisy, to prevent their being known to, or at least offensive to those, whose good opinion it was his interest to cultivate. delamere was of a character very opposite. accustomed from his infancy to the most boundless indulgences, he never formed a wish, the gratification of which he expected to be denied: and if such a disappointment happened, he gave way to an impetuosity of disposition that he had never been taught to restrain, and which gave an appearance of ferocity to a temper not otherwise bad. he was generous, candid, and humane; and possessed many other good qualities, but the defects of his education had obscured them. lady montreville, who beheld in her only son the last male heir of a very ancient and illustrious house, and who hoped to see all its glories revive in him, could never be prevailed upon to part with him. he had therefore a tutor in the house; and his parents themselves accompanied him abroad. and the weakness of lady montreville in regard to her son, encreased rather than diminished with his encreasing years. her fondness was gratified in seeing the perfections of his person, (which was a very fine one) while to the imperfections of his temper she was entirely blind. his father was equally fond of him; and looked up to the accumulated titles and united fortunes of his own and his wife's families, as the point where all his ambitious views would attain their consummation. to watch over the conduct of this only son, seemed now to be the sole business of his lordship's life: and 'till now, he had no reason to fear that his solicitude for his final establishment would be attended with so little effect. except a few youthful indiscretions, which were overlooked or forgiven, delamere had shewn no inclinations that seemed inimical to his father's views; and lord montreville hoped that his present passion for emmeline would be forgotten as easily as many other transient attachments which his youth, and warmth of temper, had led him into. at dinner, delamere enquired 'whether his charming cousin was always to remain a prisoner in her own room?' to which lord montreville answered, 'that it had been her custom; and as there was no lady with them, it was better she should continue it.' he then changed the discourse; and contrived to keep delamere in sight the whole afternoon; and by that means prevented any further enquiries after emmeline; who now, entirely confined to her turret, impatiently awaited the return of the messenger who had been sent to swansea. delamere, in the mean time, had lingered frequently about the housekeeper's room, in hopes of seeing emmeline; but she never appeared. he applied to mrs. garnet for intelligence of her: but she had received orders from lord montreville not to satisfy his enquiries. he employed his servants therefore to discover where she was usually to be found, and by their means was at length informed in what part of the castle her apartment lay; and that there was a design actually on foot to send her away, but whither he could not learn. the answer brought from mrs. watkins, by the man who had been sent to swansea, expressed her readiness to take the boarder offered her. this intelligence lord montreville communicated himself to emmeline; who received it with such artless satisfaction, that his lordship, who had before doubted whether some degree of coquetry was not concealed under the apparent ingenuous innocence of his niece, now believed he had judged too hastily. it remained to be considered how she could be conveyed from mowbray castle without the knowledge of delamere. she was herself ignorant of every thing beyond its walls, and could therefore be of no use in the consultation. his lordship had, however, entrusted fitz-edward with his uneasiness about delamere; at which the former only laughed; and said he by no means believed that any serious consequences were to be apprehended: that it was mere badinage; of which he was sure delamere would think no more after they left mowbray castle; and that it was not a matter which his lordship should allow to make him uneasy. lord montreville however, who thought he could not too soon remedy his own indiscretion in introducing emmeline to his son, determined to embrace the opportunity of putting an end to any future correspondence between them: he therefore insisted on a promise of secresy from fitz-edward; and had recourse to headly, who from a frequent residence among the great was the most accommodating and obsequious of their servants. as he was about to leave the castle in a few days, he offered his services to convey miss mowbray from thence, in a chaise of which he was master. this proposal was eagerly accepted by lord montreville. and enjoining mr. headly also to secresy, it was fixed that their journey should begin the next morning save one. emmeline had notice of this arrangement, which she received with the liveliest joy. she immediately set about such preparations as were necessary for her journey, in which she employed that and the remaining day; which had been destined by lord montreville to visit another estate that he possessed, at the distance of about twelve miles; whither delamere and the whole party accompanied him. delamere had discovered, by his servants, that to remove emmeline was in agitation; and he determined to see her again in spite of his father's precaution (which in fact only served to encrease his desire of declaring his sentiments); but he had no idea that she was to depart so soon, and therefore was content to go with his father, at his particular request. it was late in the evening preceding that on which emmeline was to leave the castle, before they returned to it; and she was still busied in providing for her journey; in doing which, she was obliged to open one of the caskets left her by mrs. carey. it contained miniatures of her father and her mother, which had been drawn at paris before her birth; and several letters written by mrs. mowbray, her grandmother, to her mother, in consequence of the fatal step she had taken in quitting the protection of that lady, who had brought her up, to accompany mr. mowbray abroad. these, emmeline had never yet seen; nor had she now courage entirely to peruse them. the little she read, however, filled her heart with the most painful sensations and her eyes with tears. while she was employed in her little arrangements, time passed insensibly away. she heard the hollow sound of shutting the great doors at the other end of the castle, as was usual before the servants retired for the night: but attentive only to what was at present her greatest concern, (making room for some favourite books in the box she meant to take with her,) she heeded not the hour. a total silence had long reigned in the castle, and her almost extinguished candle told her it was time to take some repose, when, as she was preparing to do so, she thought she heard a rustling, and indistinct footsteps in the passage near her room. she started--listened--but all was again profoundly silent; and she supposed it had been only one of those unaccountable noises which she had been used to hear along the dreary avenues of the castle. she began anew to unpin her hair, when a second time the same noise in the passage alarmed her. she listened again; and while she continued attentive, the great clock struck two. amazed to find it so late, her terror encreased; yet she endeavoured to reason herself out of it, and to believe that it was the effect of fancy: she heard it no more; and had almost determined to go out into the passage to satisfy herself that her fears were groundless, when just as she approached the door, the whispers were renewed; she saw the lock move, and heard a violent push against it. the door, however, was locked. which was no sooner perceived by the assailant, than a violent effort with his foot forced the rusty decayed work to give way, and mr. delamere burst into the room! emmeline was infinitely too much terrified to speak: nor could her trembling limbs support her. she sat down;--the colour forsook her cheeks;--and she was not sensible that delamere had thrown himself at her feet, and was pouring forth the most vehement and incoherent expressions that frantic passion could dictate. recovering her recollection, she beheld delamere kneeling before her, holding her hands in his; and millefleur standing behind him with a candle. she attempted to speak; but the words died away on her lips: while delamere, shocked at the situation into which he had thrown her, protested that he meant her not the smallest offence; but that having learnt, by means of his valet, that she was to go the next morning, and that his father intended to keep him ignorant of her future destiny, he could not bear to reflect that he might lose her for ever; and had therefore taken the only means in his power to speak to her, in hopes of engaging her pity, for which he would hazard every thing. 'leave me, sir! leave me!' said emmeline, in a voice scarcely articulate. 'leave me instantly, or i will alarm the house!' 'that is almost impossible!' replied delamere; 'but i will not terrify you more than i have done already. no, emmeline, i wish not to alarm you, and will quit you instantly if you will tell me that wheresoever you are, you will permit me to see you; and will remember me with pity and regard! my father shall not--cannot controul my conduct; nor shall all the power on earth prevent my following you, if you will yourself permit me. tell me, emmeline,--tell me you will not forget me!' 'as what, sir, should i remember you, but as my persecutor? as one who has injured me beyond reparation by your wild and cruel conduct; and who has now dared to insult me by a most unparallelled outrage.--leave me, sir! i repeat to you that you must instantly quit the room!' she arose, and walked with tottering steps to the end of it. delamere followed her. she turned; and came towards the door, which was still open, and then recollected, that as she knew the passages of the castle, which she was convinced neither delamere or his servant did, she might possibly escape, and find lord montreville's room, which she knew to be at the end of the east gallery. delamere was a few steps behind her when she reached the door; which hastily throwing quite open, she ran lightly thro' the passage, which was very long and dark. he pursued her, imploring her to hear him but a moment; and the frenchman as hastily followed his master with the candle. but at the end of the passage, a flight of broken steps led to a brick hall, which opened to other stair-cases and galleries. a gust of wind blew out the candle; and emmeline, gliding down the steps, turned to the right, and opening a heavy nailed door, which led by a narrow stairs to the east gallery, she let it fall after her. delamere, now in total darkness, tried in vain to follow the sound. he listened--but no longer heard the footsteps of the trembling fugitive; and cursing his fate, and the stupidity of millefleur, he endeavoured to find his way back to emmeline's room, where he thought a candle was still burning. but his attempt was vain. he walked round the hall only to puzzle himself; for the door by which he had entered it, he could not regain. in the mean time emmeline, breathless with fear, had reached the gallery, and feeling her way 'till she came as she supposed to the door of the room where lord montreville slept, she tapped lightly at it. a man's voice asked who it was? 'it is i, my lord,' cried emmeline, hardly able to make herself heard.--'mr. delamere pursues me.' somebody opened the door.--but there was no light; and emmeline retiring a step from it, the person again asked who it was? 'it is emmeline,' replied she; who now first recollected that the voice was not that of lord montreville.--she flew therefore towards the next door, with exclamations of encreased terror; but lord montreville, who was now awakened, appeared at it with a lamp in his hand; and emmeline, in answer to his question of what is the matter? endeavoured to say that she was pursued by mr. delamere; but fear had so entirely overcome her, that she could only sigh out his name; and gasping like a dying person, sat down on a bench which was near the door. fitz-edward, who was the person she had first spoken to, had by this time dressed himself, and came to her with a glass of water out of his room; while lord montreville, hearing his son's name so inarticulately pronounced, and seeing the speechless affright in which emmeline sat before him, conceived the most alarming apprehensions, and believed that his son was either dead or dying. with great difficulty he summoned up courage enough, again to beg for heaven's sake she would tell him what had occasioned her to leave her room at such an hour? she again exclaimed, 'it is mr. delamere, my lord!' 'what of mr. delamere?--what of my son?' cried he, with infinite agitation. 'save me from him my lord!' answered emmeline, a little recovered by the water she had drank. 'where is he then?' said his lordship. 'i know not,' replied emmeline; 'but he came to my room with his servant, and i flew hither to implore your protection.' fitz-edward intreated lord montreville to be more calm, and to give miss mowbray time to recollect herself. he offered to go in search of delamere; but his lordship was in too much anxiety to be satisfied with any enquiries but his own. he therefore said he would go down himself; but emmeline catching his hand, entreated him not to leave her. at this moment the voices of delamere and his man were heard echoing through the whole side of the castle; for wearied with their fruitless attempts to escape, they both called for lights in no very gentle tone. lord montreville easily distinguished from whence the noise came; and followed by emmeline, whom fitz-edward supported, he descended into the brick hall from whence emmeline had effected her escape, where he found delamere trembling with passion, and millefleur with fear. lord montreville could not conceal his anger and resentment.-- 'how comes it, sir,' cried he, addressing himself to his son, 'that you dare thus to insult a person who is under my protection? what excess of madness and folly has tempted you to violate the retirement of miss mowbray?' 'i mean not, my lord,' answered delamere, 'to attempt a concealment of my sentiments. i love miss mowbray; passionately love her; and scorn to dissimulate. i know you had a design to send her from hence; clandestinely to send her; and i determined that she should not go 'till i had declared my attachment to her, which i found you endeavoured assiduously to prevent. you may certainly remove her from hence; but i protest to you, that wherever she is, there i will endeavour to see her, in spite of the universe.' lord montreville now felt all the force of the error he had committed in that boundless indulgence to which he had accustomed his son. in the first instance of any consequence in which their wishes differed, he saw him ready to throw off the restraint of paternal authority, and daring to avow his resolution to act as he pleased. this mortifying reflection arose in his mind, while, with a look of mingled anger and amazement, he beheld delamere, who having ordered millefleur to light his candle, snatched it from him, and hastily retired. emmeline, who had stood trembling the whole time behind lord montreville, besought him to ring up the housekeeper, and direct her to stay with her for the rest of the night; for she declared she would on no account remain in her own room alone. his lordship recommending her to the care of fitz-edward, went himself in search of the housekeeper; and emmeline refusing to seek a more commodious apartment, sat down in one of the windows of the hall to wait his return. fitz-edward, to whom she had yet hardly spoken, now entertained her with a profusion of compliments, almost as warm as those she had heard from delamere; but her spirits, quite exhausted by the terror which had so lately possessed them, could no longer support her; she was unable to give an answer of common civility, and was very glad to see lord montreville return with mrs. garnet; who, extremely discomposed at being disturbed and obliged to appear in her night-cap, followed her, grumbling, into her room; where, as emmeline refused to go to it herself, she took possession of her bed, and soon falling into a profound sleep, left its melancholy owner to her sad reflections. she had not been many minutes indulging them, and wishing for the return of light, before somebody was again at the door. emmeline still apprehending delamere, stepped to it; and was astonished to see lord montreville himself. he entered the room; and told her, that as his son knew of her journey in the morning, he would probably try some means to prevent it, or at least to trace out her abode; that it was therefore absolutely necessary for her to be ready by day break or before, for which he had prepared mr. headly; who was up, and getting ready to set out as soon as there was light enough to make it safe. emmeline, who thought she could not be gone too soon, now hastily finished the remainder of her packing; and having dressed herself for her journey, which notwithstanding her sleepless night she rejoiced to find so near, she waited with impatience 'till mr. headly summoned her to go. chapter vi the sun no sooner appeared above the horizon, than her conductor was ready with his one-horse chair: and emmeline being seated in it, and her little baggage adjusted, she left the door of the castle; where maloney, who saw his favourite hopes vanish as he feared for ever, stood with a rueful countenance to behold her departure. however desirous she was of quitting a residence which had long been uneasy to her, and which was now become so extremely improper, such is the force of early habit, that she could not bid it adieu without being greatly affected. there she had passed her earliest infancy, and had known, in that period of unconscious happiness, many delightful hours which would return no more. it was endeared to her by the memory of that good friend who had supplied to her the place of a parent; from whom alone she had ever heard the soothing voice of maternal solicitude. and as she passed by the village church, which had been formerly the chapel of the monastery, and joined the castle walls, she turned her eyes, filled with tears, towards the spot where the remains of mrs. carey were deposited, and sighed deeply; a thousand tender and painful recollections crouding on her heart. as she left the village, several women and children, who had heard she was going that day, were already waiting to bid her farewell; considering her as the last of that family, by whom they had been employed when in health, and relieved when in sickness; they lamented her departure as their greatest misfortune. the present possessor of the castle bore not the name of mowbray, and was not at all interested for the peasantry, among whom he was a stranger; they therefore, in losing emmeline, seemed to lose the last of the race of their ancient benefactors. emmeline, affected by their simple expressions of regret, returned their good wishes with tears; and as soon as the chaise drove out of the village, again fixed her eyes on the habitation she had quitted. its venerable towers rising above the wood in which it was almost embosomed, made one of the most magnificent features of a landscape, which now appeared in sight. the road lay along the side of what would in england be called a mountain; at its feet rolled the rapid stream that washed the castle walls, foaming over fragments of rock; and bounded by a wood of oak and pine; among which the ruins of the monastery, once an appendage to the castle, reared its broken arches; and marked by grey and mouldering walls, and mounds covered with slight vegetation, it was traced to its connection with the castle itself, still frowning in gothic magnificence; and stretching over several acres of ground: the citadel, which was totally in ruins and covered with ivy, crowning the whole. farther to the west, beyond a bold and rocky shore, appeared the sea; and to the east, a chain of mountains which seemed to meet the clouds; while on the other side, a rich and beautiful vale, now variegated with the mellowed tints of the declining year, spread its enclosures, 'till it was lost again among the blue and barren hills. headly declaimed eloquently on the charms of the prospect, which gradually unveiled itself as the autumnal mist disappeared. but emmeline, tho' ever alive to the beauties of nature, was too much occupied by her own melancholy reflections to attend to the animadversions of her companion. _she_ saw nothing but the castle, of which she believed she was now taking an eternal adieu; and her looks were fixed on it, 'till the road winding down the hill on the other side, concealed it from her sight. headly imputed her sadness to a very different cause than that of an early and long attachment to a particular spot. he supposed that regret at being obliged to leave delamere, to whose passion he could not believe her insensible, occasioned the melancholy that overwhelmed her. he spoke to her of him, and affected to lament the uneasiness which so violent and ungovernable a temper in an only son, might occasion to his family. he then talked of the two young ladies, his sisters, whom he described as the finest young women in the country, and as highly accomplished. emmeline sighed at the comparison between _their_ situation and her own. after some hours travelling through roads which made it very fatigueing, they arrived at a little obscure house of entertainment, and after some refreshment, continued their journey unmolested. delamere arose early, and calling for millefleur, enquired at what hour miss mowbray was to go. on hearing that she had left the castle more than an hour, his rage and vexation broke through all the respect he owed his father; who being acquainted by his valet of his resolution immediately to follow the chaise, entered the room. he remonstrated with him at first with great warmth; but delamere, irritated by contradiction, obstinately adhered to his resolution of immediately pursuing the travellers. lord montreville, finding that opposition rather encreased than remedied the violence of his son's passionate sallies, determined to try what persuasion would do; and delamere, whose temper was insensible to the threats of anger, yielded to remonstrance when softened by paternal affection; and consented to forego his intention if lord montreville would tell him where emmeline was gone. his lordship, who probably thought this one of those instances in which falsehood is excuseable if not meritorious, told him, with affected reluctance, that she was gone to board at bridgenorth, with mrs. watkins, the sister of old carey. as this account was extremely probable, delamere readily believed it; and having with some difficulty been prevailed upon to pass his word that he would not immediately take any steps to see her, tranquillity was for the present restored to the castle. emmeline in the mean time, after a long and weary journey, arrived at swansea. mrs. watkins, who expected her, received her in a little but very neat habitation, which consisted of a small room by way of parlour, not unlike the cabin of a packet boat, and a bed-chamber over it of the same dimensions. of these apartments, emmeline took possession. her conductor took leave of her; and she now wished to be able to form some opinion of her new hostess; whose countenance, which extremely resembled that of mrs. carey, had immediately prejudiced her in her favour. being assured by lord montreville of every liberal payment for the board and lodging of miss mowbray, she received her with a degree of civility almost oppressive: but emmeline, who soon found that she possessed none of that warmth of heart and lively interest in the happiness of others which so much endeared to her the memory of her former friend, was very glad when after a few days the good woman returned with her usual avidity to the regulation of her domestic matters, and suffered emmeline to enjoy that solitude which she knew so well how to employ. delamere, still lingering at the castle, where he seemed to stay for no other reason than because he had there seen emmeline, was pensive, restless, and absent; and lord montreville saw with great alarm that this impression was less likely to be effaced by time and absence than he had supposed. fitz-edward, obliged to go to ireland to his regiment for some time, had taken leave of them; and the impatience of lord montreville to return to town was encreased by repeated letters from his wife. delamere however still evaded it; hoping that his father would set out without him, and that he should by that means have an opportunity of going to bridgenorth, where he determined to solicit emmeline to consent to a scottish expedition, and persuaded himself he should not meet a refusal. at length lady montreville, yet more alarmed at the delay, directed her eldest daughter to write to his lordship, and to give such an account of her health as should immediately oblige the father and son to return. delamere, after such a letter, could not refuse to depart; and comforting himself that he might be able soon to escape from the observation of his family, and put his project in execution, he consented to begin his journey. he determined, however, to write to miss mowbray, and to desire her to direct her answer under cover to a friend in london. he did so; and addressed it to her at mrs. watkins's, at bridgenorth: but soon after his arrival in town, the letter was returned to the place from which it was dated; having been opened at the office in consequence of no such person as miss mowbray or mrs. watkins being to be found there. delamere saw he had been deceived; but to complain was fruitless: he had therefore no hope of discovering where emmeline was, but by lying in wait for some accidental intelligence. the family usually passed the christmas recess at their seat in norfolk; whither delamere, who at first tried to avoid being of the party, at length agreed to accompany them, on condition of his being allowed to perform an engagement he had made with mr. percival for a fortnight. part of this time he determined to employ in seeing headly, who did not live above thirty miles from thence; hoping from him to obtain intelligence of emmeline's abode. and that no suspicion might remain on the mind of his father, he affected to reassume his usual gaiety, and was to all appearance as volatile and dissipated as ever. while the family were in norfolk, their acquaintance was warmly renewed with that of sir francis devereux, who was lately returned from a residence on the continent, whither he had been to compleat the education of his two daughters, heiresses to his fortune, on the embellishment of whose persons and manners all the modern elegancies of education had been lavished. they were rather pretty women; and of a family almost as ancient and illustrious as that of mr. delamere. their fortunes were to be immense; and either of them would have been a wife for delamere, the choice of whom would greatly have gratified the families on both sides. infinite pains were taken to bring the young people frequently together; and both the ladies seemed to allow that delamere was a conquest worthy their ambition. as he never refused to entertain them with every appearance of gallantry and vivacity, lord montreville flattered himself that at length emmeline was forgotten; and ventured to propose to his son, a marriage with whichever of the miss devereux's he should prefer. to which, delamere, who had long foreseen the proposal, answered coldly, 'that he was not inclined to marry at all; or if he did, it should not be one of those over-educated puppets.' so far were their acquisitions from having made any impression on his heart, that the frivolous turn of their minds, the studied ornaments of their persons, and the affected refinement of their manners, made him only recollect with more passionate admiration, that native elegance of person and mind which he had seen only in the orphan of mowbray castle. chapter vii there was, in the person and manner of emmeline, something so interesting, that those who were little accustomed to attach themselves to any one, were insensibly disposed to love her, and to become solicitous for her welfare. even the insensibility with which long and uninterrupted prosperity had encased the heart of lord montreville, was not entirely proof against her attractive powers; and when he no longer apprehended the effect of her encreasing charms on his son, he suffered himself to feel a degree of pity and even of affection for her. he therefore heard with pleasure that she was contented in her present situation; and was convinced she had kept her word in not giving any intelligence of her residence to delamere. to shew his approbation of her conduct, he directed a person in town to send her down a small collection of books; some materials for drawing; and other trifles which he thought would be acceptable. emmeline, charmed with such acquisitions, felt the most lively gratitude for her benefactor; and having fitted up her little cabin extremely to her satisfaction; she found, in the occupation these presents afforded her, all that she wished, to engage her attention; and gratify her taste. sensible of the defects of her education, she applied incessantly to her books; for of every useful and ornamental feminine employment she had long since made herself mistress without any instruction. she endeavoured to cultivate a genius for drawing, which she inherited from her father; but for want of knowing a few general rules, what she produced had more of elegance and neatness than correctness and knowledge. she knew nothing of the science of music; but her voice was soft and sweet, and her ear exquisite. the simple songs, therefore, she had acquired by it, she sung with a pathos which made more impression on her hearers than those studied graces learned by long application, which excite wonder rather than pleasure. time, thus occupied, passed lightly away; spring arrived almost imperceptibly, and brought again weather which enabled emmeline to reassume her walks along the shore or among the rocks, and to indulge that contemplative turn of mind which she had acquired in the solitude of mowbray castle. it was on a beautiful morning of the month of april, that, taking a book with her as usual, she went down to the sea side, and sat reading for some hours; when, just as she was about to return home, she saw a lovely little boy, about five years old, wandering towards the place where she was, picking up shells and sea weeds, and appearing to be so deeply engaged in his infantine pursuit, that he did not see her 'till she spoke to him. 'whose sweet little boy are you, my love?' said she. the child looked at her with surprise. 'i am my mamma's boy,' said he, 'and so is henry,' pointing towards another who now approached, and who seemed hardly a year younger. the second running up to his brother, caught his hand, and they both walked away together, looking behind at the strange lady with some degree of alarm. their dress convinced emmeline that they belonged to a stranger; and as they seemed to have nobody with them, she was under some apprehension for their safety, and therefore arose to follow them, when on turning round the point of a rock whose projection had concealed the shore to the left, she saw a lady walking slowly before her, whom the two little boys had now rejoined. in her hand she held a little girl, who seemed only learning to walk; and she was followed by a nursery maid, who held in her arms another, yet an infant at the breast. the stranger, near whom emmeline was obliged to pass, curtsyed to her as she went by. and if emmeline was surprised at the early appearance of company at a time when she knew it to be so unusual, the stranger was much more so at the uncommon elegance of her form and manner: she was almost tempted to believe the fable of the sea nymphs, and to fancy her one of them. emmeline, on regaining her apartment, heard from the hostess, whom she found with another neighbour, that the lady she had seen arrived the evening before, and had taken lodgings at the house of the latter, with an intention of staying great part of the summer. the next day emmeline again met the stranger; who accosting the fair orphan with all that ease which characterises the address of those who have lived much in good company, they soon entered into conversation, and emmeline almost as soon discovered that her new acquaintance possessed an understanding as excellent as her person and address were captivating. she appeared to be not more than five or six and twenty: but her person seemed to have suffered from sorrow that diminution of its charms, which time could not yet have effected. her complexion was faded and wan; her eyes had lost their lustre; and a pensive and languid expression sat on her countenance. after the first conversation, the two ladies found they liked each other so well, that they met by agreement every day. emmeline generally went early to the lodgings of mrs. stafford, and stayed the whole day with her; charmed to have found in her new friend, one who could supply to her all the deficiencies of her former instructors. to a very superior understanding, mrs. stafford added the advantages of a polished education, and all that ease of manner, which the commerce of fashion can supply. she had read a great deal; and her mind, originally elegant and refined, was highly cultivated, and embellished with all the knowledge that could be acquired from the best authors in the modern languages. her disposition seemed to have been naturally chearful; for a ray of vivacity would frequently light up her countenance, and a lively and agreeable conversation call forth all its animated gaiety. but it seldom lasted long. some settled uneasiness lay lurking in her heart; and when it recurred forcibly to her, as it frequently did in the midst of the most interesting discourse, a cloud of sorrow obscured the brilliancy of her countenance and language, and she became pensive, silent, and absent. emmeline observed this with concern; but was not yet intimate enough with her to enquire or discover the cause. sometimes, when she was herself occupied in drawing, or some other pursuit in which mrs. stafford delighted to instruct her, she saw that her friend, believing herself unobserved, gave way to all the melancholy that oppressed her heart; and as her children were playing round her, she would gaze mournfully on them 'till the tears streamed down her cheeks. by degrees the utmost confidence took place between them on every subject but one: mrs. stafford never dwelt on the cause, whatever it was, which occasioned her to be so frequently uneasy; nor did she ever complain of being so: but she listened with the warmest interest to the little tale emmeline had to relate, and told her in return as much of her own history as she thought it necessary for her to know. emmeline found that she was not a widow, as she had at first supposed; for she spoke sometimes of her husband, and said she expected him at swansea. she had been married at a very early age; and they now generally resided at an house which mr. stafford's father, who was still living, had purchased for them in dorsetshire. 'i came hither,' said she, 'thus early in the year, at mr. stafford's request, who is fond of improvements and alterations, and who intends this summer to add considerably to our house; which is already too large, i think, for our present fortune. i was glad to get away from the confusion of workmen, to which i have an aversion; and anxious to let charles and henry, who had the measles in the autumn and who have been frequently ill since, have a long course of sea-bathing. i might indeed have gone to weymouth or some nearer place; but i wish to avoid general company, which i could not have done where i am sure of meeting so many of my acquaintance. i rejoice now at my preference of swansea, since it has been the means of my knowing you, my dear emmeline.' 'and i, madam,' returned emmeline, 'have reason to consider the concurrence of circumstances that brought you here as the most fortunate for me. yet i own to you, that the charm of such society is accompanied with great pain, in anticipating the hour when i must again return to that solitude i have 'till now considered as my greatest enjoyment.' 'ah! my dear girl!' replied mrs. stafford, 'check in its first appearance a propensity which i see you frequently betray, to anticipate displeasing or unfortunate events. when you have lived a few years longer, you will, i fear, learn, that every day has evils enough of its own, and that it is well for us we know nothing of those which are yet to come. i speak from experience; for i, when not older than you now are, had a perpetual tendency to fancy future calamities, and embittered by that means many of those hours which would otherwise have been really happy. yet has not my pre-sentiments, tho' most of them have been unhappily verified, enabled me to avoid one of those thorns with which my path has been thickly strewn.' emmeline hoped now to hear what hand had strewn them. mrs. stafford, sighing deeply, fell into a reverie; and continuing long silent, emmeline could not resolve to renew a conversation so evidently painful to her. it was now six weeks since she had first seen mrs. stafford, and the hours had passed in a series of felicity of which she had 'till then formed no idea. mrs. stafford, delighted with the lively attachment of her young friend, was charmed to find herself capable of adorning her ingenuous and tender mind with all that knowledge which books or the world had qualified her to impart. they read together every day: emmeline, under the tuition of her charming preceptress, had made some progress in french and italian; and she was amazed at her own success in drawing since she had received from mrs. stafford rules of which she was before ignorant. as the summer advanced, a few stragglers came in, and it was no longer wonderful to see a stranger. but mrs. stafford and miss mowbray, perfectly satisfied with each other, sought not to enlarge their society. they sometimes held short conversations with the transient visitants of the place, but more usually avoided those walks where it was likely they should meet them. early one morning, they were returning from the bathing place together, muffled up in their morning dresses. they had seen at a distance two gentlemen, whom they did not particularly notice; and emmeline, leaning on the arm of her friend, was again anticipating all she should suffer when the hour came which would separate them, and recollecting the different company and conversation to which she had been condemned from the death of mrs. carey to her quitting mowbray castle-- 'you have not only taught me, my dear mrs. stafford,' said she, 'to dread more than ever being thrown back into such company; but you have also made me fear that i shall never relish the general conversation of the world. as i disliked the manners of an inferior description of people when i first knew them, because they did not resemble those of the dear good woman who brought me up; so i shall undoubtedly be disappointed and dissatisfied with the generality of those acquaintance i may meet with; for i am afraid there are as few mrs. staffords in your rank of life as there were mrs. careys in hers. however, there is no great likelihood, i believe, at present, of my being convinced how little they resemble you; for it is not probable i shall be taken from hence.' 'perhaps,' answered mrs. stafford, 'you might be permitted to stay some months next winter with me. i shall pass the whole of it in the country; the greatest part of it probably alone; and such a companion would assist in charming away many of those hours, which now, tho' i have more resources than most people, sometimes are heavy and melancholy. my children are not yet old enough to be my companions; and i know not how it is, but i have often more pain than pleasure in being with them. when i remember, or when i feel, how little happiness there is in the world, i tremble for their future destiny; and in the excess of affection, regret having introduced them into a scene of so much pain as i have hitherto found it. but tell me, emmeline, do you think if i apply to lord montreville he will allow you to pass some time with me?' 'dear madam,' said emmeline, eagerly, 'what happiness do you offer me! lord montreville would certainly think me highly honoured by such an invitation.' 'shall i answer for lord montreville,' said a voice behind them, 'as his immediate representative?' emmeline started; and turning quickly, beheld mr. delamere and fitz-edward. delamere caught her hands in his. 'have i then found you, my lovely cousin?' cried he.--'oh! happiness unexpected!' he was proceeding with even more than his usual vehemence; but fitz-edward thought it necessary to stop him. 'you promised, frederic, before i consented to come with you, that you would desist from these extravagant flights. come, i beg miss mowbray may be permitted to speak to her other acquaintance; and that she will do us both the honour to introduce us to her friend.' emmeline had lost all courage and recollection on the appearance of delamere. mrs. stafford saw her distress; and assuming a cold and distant manner, she said--'miss mowbray, i apprehend from what this gentleman has said, that he has a message to you from lord montreville.' 'has my lord, sir,' said emmeline to delamere,--'has my lord montreville been so good as to honour me with any commands?' 'cruel girl!' answered he; 'you know too well that my father is not acquainted with my being here.' 'then you certainly ought not to be here,' said emmeline, coolly; 'and you must excuse me, sir, if i beg the favor of you not to detain me, nor attempt to renew a conversation so very improper, indeed so cruelly injurious to me.' mrs. stafford had emmeline's arm within her own, from the commencement of this conversation; and she now walked hastily on with her. delamere followed them, intreating to be heard; and fitz-edward, addressing himself on the other side to mrs. stafford, besought her in a half whisper to allow his friend only a few moments to explain himself to miss mowbray. 'no, sir, i must be excused,' answered she--'if miss mowbray does me the honour to consult me, i shall certainly advise her against committing such an indiscretion as listening to mr. delamere.' 'ah! madam!' said the colonel, throwing into his eyes and manner all that insinuation of which he was so perfect a master, 'is it possible, that with a countenance where softness and compassion seem to invite the unhappy to trust you with their sorrows, you have a cruel and unfeeling heart? lay by for a moment your barbarous prudence, in favour of my unfortunate friend; upon my honour, nothing but the conviction that his life was at stake, would have induced me to accompany him hither; and i pledge myself for the propriety of his conduct. he only begs to be forgiven by miss mowbray for his improper treatment of her at mowbray castle; to be assured she is in health and safety; and to hear that she does not hate him for all the uneasiness he has given her; and having done so, he promises to return to his family. upon my soul,' continued he, laying his hand upon his breast, 'i know not what would have been the consequence, had i not consented to assist him in deceiving his family and coming hither: but i have reason to think he would have made some wild attempt to secure to himself more frequent interviews with miss mowbray; and that a total disappointment of the project he had formed for seeing her, would have been attended with a violence of passion arising even to phrenzy.--madness or death would perhaps have been the event.' mrs. stafford turned her eyes on fitz-edward, with a look sufficiently expressive of incredulity--'does a modern man of fashion pretend to talk of madness and death? you certainly imagine, sir, that you are speaking to some romantic inhabitant of a welch provincial town, whose ideas are drawn from a circulating library, and confirmed by the conversation of the captain in quarters.' 'ah, madam,' said he, 'i know not to whom i have the honour of addressing myself,' (though he knew perfectly well;) 'but i feel too certainly that madness and death would be preferable to the misery such coldness and cruelty as your's would inflict on me, was it my misfortune to love as violently as delamere; and indeed i tremble, lest in endeavouring to assist my friend i have endangered myself.' of this speech, mrs. stafford, who believed he did not know her, took very little notice; and turning towards emmeline, who had in the mean time been listening in trembling apprehension to the ardent declarations of delamere, said it was time to return home. delamere, without attending to her hint, renewed his importunities for her friendship and interest with miss mowbray; to which, as soon as he would allow her to answer, she said very gravely--'sir, as miss mowbray seems so much alarmed at your pursuing her hither, and as you must be yourself sensible of it's extreme impropriety, i hope you will not lengthen an interview which can only produce uneasiness for you both.' 'let us go home, for heaven's sake!' whispered emmeline. 'they are determined, you see, to follow us,' replied her friend; 'we will however go.' by this time they were near the door; and mrs. stafford wishing the two gentlemen a good morning, was hurrying with emmeline into the house; but fitz-edward took hold of her arm. 'one word, only, madam, and we will intrude upon you no farther at present: say that you will suffer us to see you again to-morrow.' 'not if i can help it, be assured, sir.' 'then, madam,' said delamere, 'you must allow me to finish now what i have to say to miss mowbray.' 'good heaven! sir,' exclaimed emmeline, 'why will you thus persist in distressing me? you are perhaps known to mrs. watkins; your name will be at least known to her; and intelligence of your being here will be instantly sent to lord montreville.' emmeline, by no means aware that this speech implied a desire of concealment, the motives of which might appear highly flattering to delamere, was soon made sensible of it's import by his answer. 'enough, my adorable emmeline!' cried he eagerly, 'if i am worthy of a thought of that sort, i am less wretched than i believed myself. i will not now insist on a longer audience; but to-morrow i must see you again.--your amiable friend here will intercede for me.--i must not be refused; and will wish you a good day before you can form so cruel a resolution.' so saying, he bowed to mrs. stafford, kissed emmeline's hand, and departed with fitz-edward from the door. chapter viii the two fair friends no sooner entered the house, than emmeline threw herself into a chair, and burst into tears. 'ah! my dear madam,' said she, sobbing, 'what will now become of me? lord montreville will believe i have corresponded with his son; he will withdraw all favour and confidence from me; and i shall be undone!' 'do not thus distress yourself,' said mrs. stafford, tenderly taking her hand--'i hope the rash and cruel conduct of this young man will not have the consequences you apprehend. lord montreville, from your former conduct, will easily credit your not having encouraged this visit.' 'ah! my dear mrs. stafford,' replied emmeline, 'you do not know lord montreville. he hastily formed a notion that i made an appointment with mr. delamere at mowbray castle, when i had not even seen him above once; and though, from my eagerness to leave it, i believe he afterwards thought he had been too hasty, yet so strong was that first impression, that the slightest circumstance would, i know, renew it as forcibly as ever: for he has one of those tempers, which having once entertained an idea of a person's conduct or character, never really alters it, though they see the most convincing evidence of it's fallacy. having once supposed i favoured the addresses of mr. delamere, as you know he did, at mowbray castle, the present visit will convince him he was right, and that i am the most artful as well as the most ungrateful of beings.' mrs. stafford hesitated a moment, and then said, 'i see all the evil you apprehend. to convince lord montreville of your ignorance of delamere's design, and your total rejection of his clandestine addresses, suppose i were to write to him? he must be prejudiced and uncandid indeed, if after such information he is not convinced of your innocence.' to this proposal, emmeline consented, with assurances of the liveliest gratitude; and mrs. stafford returning to her lodgings, wrote the following letter to lord montreville: _swansea, june ._ 'my lord, 'a short abode at this place, has given me the pleasure of knowing miss mowbray, to whose worth and prudence i am happy to bear testimony. at the request of this amiable young woman, i am now to address your lordship with information that mr. delamere came hither yesterday with mr. fitz-edward, and has again renewed those addresses to miss mowbray which she knows to be so disagreeable to your lordship, and which cannot but be extremely prejudicial to her. circumstanced as she is at this place, she cannot entirely avoid him; but she hopes your lordship will be convinced how truly she laments the pain this improper conduct of mr. delamere will give you, and she loses not a moment in beseeching you to write to him, or otherwise to interfere, in prevailing on him to quit swansea; and to prevent his continuing to distress her by a pursuit so unwelcome to you, and so injurious to her honour and repose. i have the honour to be, my lord, your lordship's most obedient servant, c. stafford.' this letter being extremely approved of by emmeline, was put into the next day's post; and the two ladies set out for their walk at a very early hour, flattering themselves they should return before delamere and fitz-edward (who was lately raised to the rank of lieutenant-colonel) were abroad. but in this they deceived themselves. they were again overtaken by their importunate pursuers, who had now agreed to vary the mode of their attack. fitz-edward, who knew the power of his insidious eloquence over the female heart, undertook to plead for his friend to emmeline, while delamere was to try to interest mrs. stafford, and engage her good offices in his behalf. they no sooner joined the ladies, than delamere said to the latter--'after the discouraging reception of yesterday, nothing but being persuaded that your heart will refuse to confirm the rigour you think yourself obliged to adopt, could make me venture, madam, to solicit your favour with miss mowbray. i now warmly implore it; and surely'---- 'can you believe, sir,' said mrs. stafford, interrupting him, 'that _i_ shall ever influence miss mowbray to listen to you; knowing, as i do, the aversion of your family to your entertaining any honourable views? and having reason to believe you have yourself formed those that are very different?' 'you have no reason to believe so, madam,' interrupted delamere in his turn; 'and must wilfully mistake me, as an excuse for your cold and unkind manner of treating me. by heaven! i love emmeline with a passion as pure as it is violent; and if she would but consent to it, will marry her in opposition to all the world. assist me then, dear and amiable mrs. stafford! assist me to conquer the unreasonable prejudice she has conceived against a secret marriage!' 'never, sir, will i counsel miss mowbray to accept such a proposal! never will i advise her to unite herself with one whose family disdain to receive her! and by clandestinely stealing into it, either disturb it's peace, or undergo the humiliation of living the wife of a man who dares not own her!' 'and who, madam, has said that i dare not own her? does not the same blood run in our veins? is she not worthy, from her personal merit, of a throne if i had a throne to offer her? and do you suppose i mean to sacrifice the happiness of my whole life to the narrow policy or selfish ambition of my father?' 'wait then, sir, 'till time shall produce some alteration in your favour. emmeline is yet very young, too young indeed to marry. perhaps, when lord and lady montreville are convinced that she only can make you happy, they may consent to your union.' 'you little know, madam, the hopelessness of such an expectation. were it possible that any arguments, any motives could engage my father to forego all the projects of aggrandizing his family by splendid and rich alliances, my mother will, i know, ever be inexorable. she will not hear the name of emmeline. last winter she incessantly persecuted me with proposals of marriage, and is now bent upon persuading me to engage my hand to miss otley, a relation of her own, who possesses indeed an immense fortune, and is of rank; but who of all women living would make me the most miserable. the fatigueing arguments i have heard about this match, and the fruitless and incessant solicitude of my mother, convince me i cannot, for both our sakes, too soon put an end to it.' mrs. stafford, notwithstanding the vehement plausibility of delamere, still declined giving to emmeline such advice as he wished to engage her to offer; and tho' aware of all the advantages such a marriage would procure her friend, she would not influence her to a determination her heart could not approve. while delamere therefore was pleading vainly to her, fitz-edward was exhausting in his discourse with emmeline, all that rhetoric on behalf of his friend, which had already succeeded so frequently for himself. tho' he had given way to delamere's eagerness, and had accompanied him in pursuit of miss mowbray, after a few feeble arguments against it, he never intended to encourage him in his resolution of marrying her; which he thought a boyish and romantic plan, and one, of which he would probably be weary before it could be executed. but as it was a military maxim, that in love and war all stratagems are allowable, he failed not to lay as much stress on the honourable intentions of delamere, as if he had really meant to assist in carrying them into effect. emmeline heard him in silence: or when an answer of some kind seemed to be extorted from her, she told him that she referred herself entirely to mrs. stafford, and would not even speak upon the subject but before her, and as she should dictate. in this way several meetings passed between delamere, the colonel, and the two ladies; for unless the latter had wholly confined themselves, there was no possible way of avoiding the importunate assiduity of the gentlemen. fitz-edward had a servant who was an adept in such commissions, and who was kept constantly on the watch; so that they were traced and followed, in spite of all their endeavours to avoid it. mrs. stafford, however, persuaded emmeline to be less uneasy at it, as she assured her she would never leave her; and that there could be no misrepresentation of her conduct while they were together. every day they expected some consequence from mrs. stafford's letter to lord montreville; but for ten days, though they had heard nothing, they satisfied themselves with conjectures. ten days more insensibly passed by; and they began to think it very extraordinary that his lordship should give no attention to an affair, which only a few months before seemed to have occasioned him so much serious alarm. in this interval, delamere saw emmeline every day; and fitz-edward, on behalf of his friend's views, attached himself to mrs. stafford with an attention as marked and as warm as that of delamere towards miss mowbray. he was well aware of the power a woman of her understanding must have over an heart like emmeline's; so new to the world, so ingenuous, and so much inclined to indulge all the delicious enthusiasm of early friendship. he had had a slight acquaintance with mrs. stafford when she was first married; and knew enough of her husband to be informed of the source of that dejection, which, through all her endeavours to conceal it, frequently appeared; and having lived always among those who consider attachments to married women as allowable gallantries, and having had but too much success among them, fitz-edward thought he could take advantage of mrs. stafford's situation, to entangle her in a connection which would make her more indulgent to the weakness of her friend for delamere. but such was the awful, yet simple dignity of her manner, and so sacred the purity of unaffected virtue, that he dared not hazard offending her; while aware of the tendency of his flattering and incessant assiduity, she was always watchful to prevent any diminution of the respect she had a right to exact; and without affecting to shun his society, which was extremely agreeable, she never suffered him to assume, in his conversation with her, those freedoms which often made him admired by others; nor allowed him to avow that libertinism of principle which she lamented that he possessed. fitz-edward, who had at first undertaken to entertain her merely with a view of favouring delamere's conversation with emmeline, almost imperceptibly found that it had charms on his own account. he could not be insensible of the graces of a mind so highly cultivated; and he felt his admiration mingled with a reverence and esteem of which he had never before been sensible: but his vanity was piqued at the coldness with which she received his studied and delicate adulation; and, for the first time in his life, he was obliged to acknowledge to himself, that there might be a woman whose mind was superior to it's influence. not being disposed very tranquilly to submit to this mortifying conviction, he became more anxious to secure that partiality from mrs. stafford, which, since he found it so hard to acquire, became necessary to his happiness; and, in the hope of obtaining it, he would probably long have persisted, had not his attention been soon afterwards diverted to another object. it wanted only a few days of a month since mrs. stafford's letter was dispatched to lord montreville. but the carelessness of the servant who was left in charge of the house in berkley-square was the only reason of his not noticing it. immediately after the birth-day, his lordship had quitted london on a visit to a nobleman in buckinghamshire, whither his son had attended him, and where they parted. delamere, under pretence of seeing his friend percival, really went into berkshire; and lord montreville, having insisted on delamere's joining him at the house of lady mary otley, beyond durham, where lady montreville and her two daughters were already gone, set out himself for that place, where they intended to pass the months of july and august. he had many friends to visit on the road; and when his lordship arrived there, he found all his letters had, instead of following him as he had directed, been sent immediately thither; and instead of finding his son, or an account of his intended arrival, he had the mortification of reading mrs. stafford's information. delamere had, indeed, passed a few days with mr. percival, and had written to his father from thence; but he had also seen headly, from whom he had extorted the secret of emmeline's residence. fitz-edward, to whose sister mr. percival was lately married, had joined delamere at the house of his brother-in-law: and delamere persisting in his resolution of seeing emmeline, had, without much difficulty, prevailed on fitz-edward, (who had some weeks on his hands before he was to join his regiment in ireland, and who had no aversion to any plan that looked like an intrigue) to accompany him. they contrived to gain mr. percival: and delamere, by inclosing letters to him, which were forwarded to his father as if he had been still there, imagined that he had prevented all probability of discovery. could he have persuaded emmeline to a scottish marriage, (which he very firmly believed he should) he intended as soon as they were married, to have taken her to the house of lady mary otley, and to have presented her to his father, his mother, his sisters, and lady mary and her daughter, who were also his relations, as his wife. lord montreville, on reading mrs. stafford's letter, shut himself up in his own apartment to consider what was to be done. he knew delamere too well to believe that writing, or the agency of any other person, would have on him the least effect. he was convinced therefore he must go himself; yet to return immediately, without giving lady montreville some very good reason, was impossible; nor could he think of any that would content her, but the truth. though he would very willingly have concealed from her what had happened, he was obliged to send for her, and communicate to her the intelligence received from mrs. stafford. her ladyship, whose pride was, if possible, more than adequate to her high blood, and whose passions were as strong as her reason was feeble, received this information with all those expressions of rage and contempt which lord montreville had foreseen. though the conduct of emmeline was such as all her prejudice could not misunderstand, she loaded her with harsh and injurious appellations, and blamed his lordship for having fostered a little reptile, who was now likely to disgrace and ruin the family to which she pretended to belong. she protested, that if delamere dared to harbour so degrading an idea as that of marrying her, she would blot him for ever from her affection, and if possible from her memory. lord montreville was obliged to wait 'till the violence of her first emotion had subsided, before he ventured to propose going himself to recall delamere. to this proposal, however, her ladyship agreed; and when she became a little cooler, consented readily to conceal, if possible, from lady mary otley, the reason of lord montreville's abrupt departure, which was fixed for the next day; for the knowledge of it could not have any good effect on the sentiments of lady mary and her daughter; the former of whom was at present as anxious as lady montreville for an union of their families. after some farther reflection, lord montreville thought that as delamere was extremely fond of his youngest sister, her influence might be of great use in detaching him from his pursuit. it was therefore settled that she should accompany his lordship; making the most plausible story they could, to account for a departure so unexpected; and leaving lady montreville and miss delamere as pledges of their intended return, lord montreville and his daughter augusta set out post for london, in their way to swansea. chapter ix emmeline had, for some days, complained of a slight indisposition; and being somewhat better, had determined to walk out in the evening; but having rather favoured and indulged her illness, as it gave her a pretext for avoiding delamere, whose long and vehement assiduities began to give great uneasiness to both the ladies, she still answered to their enquiries that she was too ill to leave her room, and in consequence of this message, she and mrs. stafford, who came to sit with her, soon afterwards saw the colonel and delamere ride by as if for their evening airing. they kissed their hands as they passed; and as soon as the ladies believed them quite out of sight, and had observed the way they had gone, emmeline, who had confined herself three days to her room, and who languished for air, proposed a short walk the opposite way, to which mrs. stafford consented; and as soon as the heat was a little abated, they set out, and enjoyed a comfortable and quiet walk for near an hour; from which they were returning, when they saw delamere and fitz-edward riding towards them. they dismounted, and giving their horses to their servants, joined them; delamere reproaching emmeline for the artifice she had used, yet congratulating himself on seeing her again. but his eyes eagerly running over her person, betrayed his extreme anxiety and concern at observing her pale and languid looks, and the lassitude of her whole frame. fitz-edward, in a whisper, made the same remarks on her appearance to mrs. stafford; who answered, 'that if mr. delamere persisted in pursuing her, she did not doubt but that it would end in her going into a decline.' 'say rather,' answered fitz-edward artfully, 'that the interesting languor on the charming countenance of your friend, arises from the sensibility of her heart. she cannot surely see delamere, dying for her as he is, without feeling some disposition to answer a passion so ardent and sincere: i know it is impossible she should. it is only your stoic prudence, your cold and unfeeling bosom, which can arm itself against all the enthusiasm of love, all the tenderness of friendship. miss mowbray's heart is made of softer materials; and were it not for the inhuman reserve you have taught her, poor delamere had long since met a more suitable return to an attachment, of which, almost any other woman would glory in being the object.' there was something in this speech particularly displeasing to mrs. stafford; who answered, 'that he could not pay her a compliment more gratifying, than when he told her she had been the means of saving miss mowbray from indiscretion; though she was well convinced, that her own excellent understanding, and purity of heart, made any monitor unnecessary.' 'however,' continued she, 'if you think that _my_ influence has prevented her entering into all the wild projects of mr. delamere, continue to believe, that while i am with her the same influence will invariably be exerted to the same purpose.' delamere and emmeline, who were a few paces before them while this dialogue was passing, were now met by parkinson, the colonel's servant, who addressing himself to delamere, told him that lord montreville and one of the young ladies were that moment alighted from their carriage at the inn, and had sent to his lodgings to enquire for him. mrs. stafford advancing, heard the intelligence, and looked anxiously at emmeline, who turned paler than death at the thoughts of lord montreville. delamere was alternately red and pale. he hesitated, and tried to flatter himself that parkinson was mistaken; while fitz-edward, who found he should be awkwardly situated between the father and son, silently meditated his defence. mrs. stafford, who saw emmeline ready to sink with the apprehension of being seen walking with delamere, intreated the gentlemen to leave them and go to lord montreville; which she at length prevailed on them to do; delamere pressing emmeline's hand to his lips, and protesting, with a vehemence of manner particularly his own, that no power on earth should oblige him to relinquish her. mrs. stafford got the trembling emmeline home as well as she could; where she endeavoured to strengthen her resolution and restore her spirits, by representing to her the perfect rectitude with which she had acted. but poor delamere, who had no such consolatory reflections, felt very uneasy, and would willingly have avoided the immediate explanation which he saw must now take place with his father. he determined, however, to temporize no longer; but being absolutely fixed in his resolution of marrying emmeline, to tell his father so, and to meet all the effects of his anger at once. in this disposition, he desired fitz-edward to leave him; and he entered alone the parlour of the inn where lord montreville waited for him. his countenance expressed a mixture of anger and confusion; while that of his lordship betrayed yet sterner symptoms of the state of his mind. augusta delamere, her eyes red with weeping, and her voice faultering through agitation, arose, and met her brother half-way. 'my dear brother!' said she, taking his hand. he kissed her cheek; and bowing to his father, sat down. 'i have taken the trouble to come hither, sir,' said lord montreville, 'in consequence of having received information of the wicked and unworthy pursuit in which you have engaged. i command you, upon your duty, instantly to return with me, and renounce for ever the scandalous project of seducing an innocent young woman, whom _you_ ought rather to respect and whom _i_ will protect.' 'i intend ever to do both, sir; and when she is my wife, you will be released from the task of protecting her, and will only have to love her as much as her merit deserves. be assured, my lord, i have no such designs against the honour of miss mowbray as you impute to me. it is my determined and unalterable intention to marry her. would to god your lordship would conquer the unreasonable prejudice which you have conceived against the only union which will secure the happiness of your son, and endeavour to reconcile my mother to a marriage on which i am resolved.' having pronounced these words in a resolute tone, he arose from his seat, bowed slightly to his father, and waving his hand to his sister, as if to prevent her following him, he walked indignantly out of the room. lord montreville made no effort to stop him. but the recollection of the fatal indulgence with which he had been brought up recurred forcibly to his lordship's mind; and he felt his anger against his son half subdued by the reproaches he had to make himself. the very sight of this darling son, was so gratifying, that he almost forgot his errors when he beheld him. after a moment's pause, lord montreville said to his daughter, 'you see, augusta, the disposition your brother is in. violent measures will, i fear, only make him desperate. we must try what can be done by miss mowbray herself, who will undoubtedly consent to elude his pursuit, and time may perhaps detach him from it entirely. for this purpose, i would have _you_ see emmeline to-morrow early; and having talked to her, we can consider on what to determine. to night, try to recover your fatigue.' 'let me go to night, sir,' said his daughter.--'it is not yet more than eight o'clock, and i am sensible of no fatigue that should prevent my seeing the young lady immediately.' lord montreville assenting, miss delamere, attended by a servant, walked to the house of mrs. watkins. the door was opened by the good woman herself; and on enquiry for miss mowbray, she desired the lady to walk in, and sit down in her little room, while she went up to let miss know.--'for i can't tell,' said she, (folding up a stocking she was knitting) 'whether she be well enough to see a strange gentlewoman. she have been but poorly for this week; and to night, after she came from walking, she was in such a taking, poor thing, we thought she'd a had a fit; and so madam stafford, who is just gone, bid her she should lie down a little and keep quiet.' this account, added to the disquiet of the fair mediatrix; who fancied the heart of emmeline could hardly fail of being of delamere's party, and that uneasiness at his father's arrival occasioned the agitation of her spirits which mrs. watkins described. mrs. watkins returned immediately, saying that miss emmy would be down in a moment. emmeline instantly guessed who it was, by the description of the young lady and the livery of the servant who attended her: and now, with a beating heart and uncertain step, she entered the room. miss delamere had been prepared to see a very beautiful person: but the fair figure whom she now beheld, though less dazlingly handsome than she expected, was yet more interesting and attractive than she would have appeared in the highest bloom of luxuriant beauty. her late illness had robbed her cheeks of that tender bloom they usually boasted; timidity and apprehension deprived her of much of the native dignity of her manner; yet there was something in her face and deportment that instantly prejudiced miss delamere in her favour, and made her acknowledge that her brother's passion had at least personal charms for it's excuse. a silent curtsey passed between the two ladies--and both being seated, miss delamere began.-- 'i believe, miss mowbray, you know that my father, lord montreville, in consequence of a letter received from mrs. stafford, who is, he understands, a friend of your's, arrived here this morning.' 'the letter, madam, was written at my particular request; that my lord did not notice it sooner, has, believe me, given me great concern.' 'i do sincerely believe it; and every body must applaud your conduct in this affair. my father was, by accident, prevented receiving the letter for some weeks: as soon as it reached him, we set out, and he has now sent me to you, my dear cousin (for be assured i am delighted with the relationship) to consult with you on what we ought to do.' emmeline, consoled yet affected by this considerate speech, found herself relieved by tears. 'though i am unable, madam,' said she, recovering herself, 'to advise, be assured i am ready to do whatever you and lord montreville shall dictate, to put an end to the projects your brother so perseveringly attempts. ah! miss delamere; my situation is singularly distressing. it demands all your pity; all your father's protection!' 'you have, you shall have both, my dear emmeline! as well as our admiration for your noble and heroic conduct; and i beg you will not, by being thus uneasy, injure your health and depress your spirits.' this and many other consoling speeches, delivered in the persuasive voice of friendly sympathy, almost restored emmeline to her usual composure; and after being together near an hour, miss delamere took her leave, charmed with her new acquaintance, and convinced that she would continue to act with the most exact obedience to the wishes of lord montreville. chapter x lord montreville, on hearing from his daughter what had passed between her and emmeline, was disposed to hope, that since she was so willing to assist in terminating for ever the views of delamere, they should be able to prevail on him to relinquish them. while miss delamere was with emmeline, his lordship had himself waited on mrs. stafford, to whom he thought himself obliged. he thanked her for the letter with which she had favoured him; and said, 'that having heard of the great regard with which she honoured miss mowbray, he waited on her to beg her advice in the present difficult circumstance. since mr. delamere has pursued her hither,' said his lordship, 'she cannot remain here; but to find a situation that will be proper for her, and concealed from him, i own appears so difficult, that i know not on what to determine.' 'my lord,' answered mrs. stafford, 'i intended to have asked your lordship's permission to have been favoured with miss mowbray's company for some months; and still hope to be indulged with it when i return home. but could i go thither now, which i cannot, (my house not being in a condition to receive me,) it would be impossible to prevent mr. delamere's knowledge of her abode, if she was with me. but surely mr. delamere will leave this place with you, and will not oblige miss mowbray to quit her home to avoid him.' 'ah, madam!' answered lord montreville, 'you do not yet know my son. the impetuosity of his temper, which has never been restrained, it is now out of my power to check; whatever he determines on he will execute, and i have too much reason to fear that opposition only serves to strengthen his resolution. while emmeline is here, it will be impossible to prevail on him to quit the place: and though her behaviour has hitherto been irreproachable and meritorious, how can i flatter myself that so young a woman will continue steadily to refuse a marriage, which would not only relieve her at once from the difficulties and dependance of her situation, but raise her to an elevated rank, and a splendid fortune.' 'to which,' said mrs. stafford, 'she would do honour. i do not, however, presume to offer my opinion to your lordship. you have, undoubtedly, very strong reasons for your opposition to mr. delamere's wishes: and his affluent fortune and future rank certainly give him a right to expect both the one and the other in whoever he shall marry. but a more lovely person, a better heart, a more pure and elegant mind, he will no where meet with. miss mowbray will reflect as much credit as she can borrow, on any family to which she may be allied.' 'i acknowledge, madam, that miss mowbray is a very amiable young woman; but she never can be the wife of my son; and you i am sure are too considerate to give any encouragement to so impossible an idea.' after some farther conversation, mrs. stafford promised to endeavour to recollect a proper situation for miss mowbray, where she might be secured from the importunities of delamere; and his lordship took his leave. by six o'clock the next morning, delamere was at mrs. watkins's door; and nobody being visible but the maid servant, he entered the parlour, and told her he wanted to speak with miss mowbray; but would wait until she arose. the maid told her mistress, who immediately descended; and delamere, who was known to her as a young lord who was in love with miss emmy, was courteously invited to her own parlour, and she offered to go up with any message he should be pleased to send. he begged she would only say to miss mowbray that a gentleman desired to speak to her on business of consequence. but the good woman, who thought she could do more justice to her employer, told emmeline, who was dressing herself, that 'the handsome young lord, as used to walk every night with her and madam stafford, was below, and wanted to speak to her directly.' at this information, emmeline was extremely alarmed. she considered herself as particularly bound by what had passed the evening before between her and augusta delamere, to avoid her brother; and such an interview as he now demanded must have an appearance to lord montreville of which she could not bear to think. she desired mrs. watkins, therefore, to let the gentleman know that she was not well, and could not see any body. 'why, lord, miss!' exclaimed the officious landlady, 'what can you mean now by that? what! go for to refuse seeing such an handsome young man, who is a lord, and the like of that? i am sure it is so foolish, that i shan't carry no such message.' 'send betty with it then,' answered emmeline coldly; 'let her inform the gentleman i cannot be seen.' 'well,' said mrs. watkins, as she descended, 'it is strange nonsense, to my fancy; but some folks never knows what they would be at.' she then returned to the parlour, and very reluctantly delivered the answer to mr. delamere; who asked if emmeline was really ill? 'ill,' said the complaisant hostess, 'i see nothing that ails her: last night, indeed, she was in a desperate taking, and we had much ado to hinder her from going into a fit; but to day i am sure she looks as if she was as well as ever.' delamere asked for a pen and ink, with which she immediately furnished him; and as she officiously offered to get him some breakfast, he accepted it to gain time. while it was preparing he sent up to emmeline the following note: 'i came hither to entreat only one quarter of an hour's conversation, which you cruelly deny me! you determine then, emmeline, to drive me to despair! 'you may certainly still refuse to see me; but you cannot oblige me to quit this place, or to lose sight of your abode. my father will, therefore, gain nothing by his ill-judged journey hither. 'but if you will allow me the interview i solicit, and after it still continue to desire my absence, i will give you my promise to go from hence to-morrow. f. delamere.' the maid was sent up with this billet to emmeline; who, after a moment's consideration, determined to send it to miss delamere, and to tell her, in an envelope, how she was situated. having enclosed it therefore, and desired the maid to go with it without saying whither she was going, she bid her, as she went through the house, deliver to mr. delamere another note, which was as follows: 'sir, 'your request of an interview, i think myself obliged on every account to refuse. i am extremely sorry you determine to persevere in offering me proposals, to which, though they do me a very high and undeserved honour, i never ought to listen; and excuse me if i add, that i never will. emmeline mowbray.' emmeline had not before so positively expressed her rejection of delamere's addresses. the peremptory stile, therefore, of this billet, added to his extreme vexation at being overtaken by his father, and the little hope that seemed to remain for him any way, operated altogether on his rash and passionate disposition, and seemed to affect him with a temporary phrenzy. he stamped about the room, dashed his head against the wainscot, and seizing mrs. watkins by the arm, swore, with the most frightful vehemence, that he would see miss mowbray though death were in the way. the woman concluding he was mad, screamed out to her husband, who descending from his chamber in astonishment, put himself between his wife and the stranger, demanding his business? 'alack-a-day!' cried mrs. watkins, 'tis the young lord. he is gone mad, to be sure, for the love of miss up stairs!' emmeline, who in so small a house could not avoid hearing all that passed, now thought it better to go down; for she knew enough of delamere to fear that the effects of his fit of passion might be very serious; and was certain that nothing could be more improper than so much confusion. she therefore descended the stairs, with trembling feet, and entered mrs. watkins's parlour; where she saw delamere, his eyes flashing fire and his hands clenched, storming round the room, while watkins followed him, and bowing in his awkward way, 'begged his honour would only please to be pacified.' there was something so terrifying in the wild looks of the young man, that emmeline having only half opened the door, retreated again from it, and was hastening away. but delamere had seen her; and darting out after her, caught her before she could escape out of the passage, and she was compelled to return into the room with him; where, on condition of his being more composed, she agreed to sit down and listen to him. watkins and his wife having left the room, delamere again renewed his solicitations for a scottish expedition. 'however averse,' said he, 'my father and mother may at present be to our marriage, i know they will be immediately reconciled when it is irrevocable. but if you continue to harden your heart against me, of what advantage will it be to them? their ambition will still suffer; for i here swear by all that is sacred, that then i never will marry at all; and by my dying without posterity, their views will for ever be abortive, and their projects disappointed.' to this, and every other argument delamere used, emmeline answered, 'that having determined never to accept of his hand, situated as she at present was, nothing should induce her to break through a determination which alone could secure her the approbation of her own heart.' he then asked her, 'whether, if the consent of lord and lady montreville could be obtained, she would continue averse to him?' this question she evaded, by saying, 'that it was to no purpose to consider how she should act in an event so unlikely to happen.' he then again exerted all the eloquence which love rather than reason lent him. but emmeline combated his arguments with those of rectitude and honour, by which she was resolutely bent to abide. this steadiness, originating from principles he could not controvert or deny, seemed, while it shewed him all its hopelessness, to give new force to his passion. he became again almost frantic, and was anew acting the part of a madman, when mrs. stafford and miss delamere entered the house, and enquiring for miss mowbray, were shewn into the room where she was with delamere; who, almost exhausted by the violence of those emotions he had so boundlessly indulged, had now thrown himself into a chair, with his head leaning against the wainscot; his hair was dishevelled, his eyes swoln, and his countenance expressed so much passionate sorrow, that augusta delamere, extremely shocked, feared to speak to him; while emmeline, on the opposite side of the room, sat with her handkerchief to her eyes; and as soon as she saw mrs. stafford, she threw herself into her arms and sobbed aloud. delamere looked at mrs. stafford and his sister, but spoke to neither; till augusta approaching him, would have taken his hand; but he turned from her. 'oh, frederic!' cried she, 'i beseech you to consider the consequence of all this.' 'i consider nothing!' said he, starting up and going to the window. his sister followed him. 'go, go,' said he, turning angrily from her--'go, leave me, leave me! assist lord montreville to destroy his only son! go, and be a party in the cruel policy that will make you and fanny heiresses!' the poor girl, who really loved her brother better than any thing on earth, was quite overwhelmed by this speech; and her tears now flowed as fast as those of emmeline, who continued to weep on the bosom of mrs. stafford. delamere looked at them both with a stern and angry countenance; then suddenly catching his sister by the hand, which he eagerly grasped, he said, in a low but resolute voice--'tears, augusta, are of no use. do not lament me, but try to help me. i am now going out for the whole day; for i will not see my father only to repeat to him what i have already said. before i return, see what you can do towards persuading him to consent to my marriage with miss mowbray; for be assured that if he does not, the next meeting, in which i expect his answer, will be the last we shall have.' he then snatched up his hat, and disengaging himself from his sister, who attempted to detain him, he went hastily out of the house; leaving mrs. stafford, miss mowbray, and his sister, under great uneasiness and alarm. they thought it necessary immediately to inform lord montreville of the whole conversation, and miss delamere dispatched a note to fitz-edward, desiring him to attend to the motions of his friend. fitz-edward was at breakfast with lord montreville; who took the first opportunity of their being alone, to reproach him with some severity for what he had done. the colonel heard him with great serenity; and then began to justify himself, by assuring his lordship that he had accompanied delamere only in hopes of being able to detach him from his pursuit, and because he thought it preferable to his being left wholly to himself. he declared that he meant to have given lord montreville information, if there had appeared the least probability of delamere's marriage; but that being perfectly convinced, from the character of emmeline, that there was nothing to apprehend, he had every day hoped his friend would have quitted a project in which there seemed not the least likelihood of success, and would have returned to his family cured of his passion. though this was not all strictly true, fitz-edward possessed a sort of plausible and insinuating eloquence, which hardly ever failed of removing every impression, however strong, against him; and lord montreville was conversing with him with his usual confidence and friendship, when the note from miss delamere was brought in. his lordship, ever anxious for his son, gazed eagerly at it while fitz-edward read it; and trembling, asked from whom it came? fitz-edward put it into his hand; and having ran it over in breathless terror, his lordship hurried out, directing all his servants to go several ways in search of delamere; while he entreated fitz-edward to run to whatever place he was likely to be in; and went himself to mrs. stafford's lodging, who was by this time returned home. what he heard from her of the scene of the morning, contributed to encrease his alarm. the image of his son in all the wildness of ungovernable passion, shook his nerves so much, that he seemed ready to faint, yet unable to move to enquire where he was. as he could attend to nothing else, mrs. stafford told him how anxiously she had thought of a situation for emmeline, and that she believed she had at length found one that would do, 'if,' said she, 'your lordship cannot prevail on him to quit swansea, which i think you had better attempt, though from the scene of this morning i own i despair of it more than ever. 'the person with whom i hope to be able to place miss mowbray is mrs. ashwood, the sister of mr. stafford. she has been two years a widow, with three children, and resides at a village near london. she has a very good fortune; and would be happy to have with her such a companion as miss mowbray, 'till i am so fortunate as to be enabled to take her myself. as her connections and acquaintance lie in a different set of people, and in a remote part of the country from those of mr. delamere, it is improbable, that with the precaution we shall take, he will ever discover her residence.' lord montreville expressed his sense of mrs. stafford's kindness in the warmest terms. he assured her that he should never forget the friendly part she had taken, and that if ever it was in his power to shew his gratitude by being so happy as to have the ability to serve her or her family, he should consider it as the most fortunate event of his life. mrs. stafford heard this as matter of course; and would have felt great compassion for lord montreville, whose state of mind was truly deplorable, but she reflected that he had really been the author of his own misery: first, by bringing up his son in a manner that had given such boundless scope to his passions; and now, by refusing to gratify him in marrying a young woman, who was, in the eye of unprejudiced reason, so perfectly unexceptionable. she advised him to try once more to prevail on his son to leave swansea with him; and he left her to enquire whether fitz-edward had yet found delamere, whose absence gave him the most cruel uneasiness. fitz-edward, after a long search, had overtaken delamere on an unfrequented common, about a mile from the town, where he was walking with a quick pace; and seeing fitz-edward, endeavoured to escape him. but when he found he could not avoid him, he turned fiercely towards him--'why do you follow me, sir? is it not enough that you have broken through the ties of honour and friendship in betraying me to my father? must you still persecute me with your insidious friendship?' fitz-edward heard him with great coolness; and without much difficulty convinced him that miss mowbray herself had given the information to lord montreville by means of mrs. stafford. this conviction, while it added to the pain and mortification of delamere, greatly reconciled him to fitz-edward, whom he had before suspected; and after a long conversation, which fitz-edward so managed as to regain some degree of power over the passions of his impetuous friend, he persuaded him to go and dine with lord montreville; having first undertaken for his lordship that nothing should be said on the subject which occupied the thoughts of the father; on which condition only the son consented to meet him. chapter xi notwithstanding the steadiness emmeline had hitherto shewn in rejecting the clandestine addresses of delamere, he still hoped they would succeed. a degree of vanity, pardonable in a young man possessing so many advantages of person and fortune, made him trust to those advantages, and to his unwearied assiduity, to conquer her reluctance. he determined therefore to persevere; and did not imagine it was likely he could again lose sight of her by a stratagem, against which he was now on his guard. as he fancied lord montreville and his sister designed to carry her with them when they went, he kept a constant eye on their motions, and set his own servant, and fitz-edward's valet, to watch the servants of lord montreville. fitz-edward, who had been so near losing the confidence of both the father and son, found it expedient to observe a neutrality, which it required all his address to support; being constantly appealed to by them both. lord montreville, he advised to adhere to moderate measures and gentle persuasions, and to trust to emmeline's own strength of mind and good conduct; while to delamere he recommended dissimulation; and advised him to quit swansea at present, which would prevent emmeline's being removed from thence, and leave it in his power at any time to see her again. lord montreville, on cooler reflection, was by no means satisfied with fitz-edward. to encourage his son's project, and even to accompany him in it, in the vain hope of detaching him from emmeline before an irrevocable engagement could be formed, seemed to be at least very blameable; and if he had seen the connection likely to take place on a less honourable footing, his conduct was more immoral, if not so impolitic. either way, lord montreville felt it so displeasing, that he determined not to trust fitz-edward in what he now meditated, which was, to remove emmeline from swansea before he and his daughter quitted it, and to place her with the sister of mr. stafford; who being now arrived, had engaged to obtain his sister's concurrence with their plan. a female council therefore was held on the means of emmeline's removal; and it was settled that a post-chaise should, on the night fixed, be in waiting at the distance of half a mile from the town; where emmeline should meet it; and that a servant of mr. stafford should accompany her to london, who was from thence to return to his master's house in dorsetshire. this arrangement being made three days after the arrival of lord montreville, and his faithful old valet being employed to procure the chaise, the hour arrived when poor emmeline was again to abandon her little home, where she had passed many tranquil and some delightful days; and where she was to bid adieu to her two beloved friends, uncertain when she should see them again. her friendship for mrs. stafford was enlivened by the warmest gratitude. to her she owed the acquisition of much useful knowledge, as well as instruction in those elegant accomplishments to which she was naturally so much attached, but which she had no former opportunity of acquiring. the charms of her conversation, the purity of her heart, and the softness of her temper, made her altogether a character which could not be known without being beloved; and emmeline, whose heart was open to all the enchanting impressions of early friendship, loved her with the truest affection. the little she had seen of augusta delamere, had given that young lady the second place in her heart. they were of the same age, within a few weeks. augusta delamere extremely resembled the mowbray family: and there was, in figure and voice, a very striking similitude between her and emmeline mowbray. lady montreville, passionately attached to her son, as the heir and representative of her family, and partial to her eldest daughter for her great resemblance to herself, seemed on them to have exhausted all her maternal tenderness, and to have felt for augusta but a very inferior share of affection. of the haughty and supercilious manners which made lady montreville feared and disliked, she had communicated no portion to her younger daughter; and if she had acquired something of the family pride, her good sense, and the sweetness of her temper, had so much corrected it, that it was by no means displeasing. elegantly formed as she was, and with a face, which, tho' less fair than that of emmeline was almost as interesting, her mother had yet always expressed a disapprobation of her person; and she had therefore herself conceived an indifferent opinion of it; and being taught to consider herself inferior in every thing to her elder sister, she never fancied she was superior to others; nor, though highly accomplished, and particularly skilled in music, did she ever obtrude her acquisitions on her friends, or anxiously seek opportunities of displaying them. her heart was benevolent and tender; and her affection for her brother, the first of it's passions. she could never discover that he had a fault; and the error in regard to emmeline, which his father so much dreaded, appeared to his sister a virtue. she was deeply read in novels, (almost the only reading that young women of fashion are taught to engage in;) and having from them acquired many of her ideas, she imagined that delamere and emmeline were born for each other; though she dared not appear to encourage hopes so totally opposite to those of her family, she found, after she had once seen and conversed with emmeline, that she never could warmly oppose an union which she was convinced would make her brother happy. she fancied that emmeline could not be insensible to delamere's love; she even believed she saw many symptoms of regard for him in her manner, and that she made the most heroic sacrifice of her love to her duty, when she resigned him: a sacrifice which heightened, almost to enthusiasm, the pity and esteem felt for her by augusta delamere; and though they had known each other only a few days, a sisterly affection had taken place between them. but from these two friends, so tenderly and justly beloved, emmeline was now to depart, and to be thrown among strangers, where it was improbable she would meet with any who would supply the loss of them. her duty however demanded this painful effort; and she determined to execute it with courage and resolution. delamere was so perpetually about his father, that it was judged improper for him to hold any private conference with emmeline, lest something should be suspected. his lordship therefore sent her by mrs. stafford a bank note of fifty pounds; with his thanks for the propriety of her conduct, and an assurance, that while she continued to merit his protection, he should consider her as his daughter, and take care to supply her with money, and every thing else she might wish for. he desired she would not write; lest her hand should be known, and her abode traced; but said, that in a few weeks he would see her himself, and wished her all possible health and happiness. on the night of her departure, instead of retiring to rest at the usual hour, emmeline dressed herself in a travelling dress, and passed some melancholy hours waiting for the signal of her departure. at half past two in the morning, every thing being profoundly quiet, she saw, from her window, her two friends, who had declared they would not leave her 'till they saw her in the chaise. she took with her only a small parcel of linen, mrs. stafford having engaged to forward the rest to an address agreed upon; and softly descending the stairs for fear of alarming mrs. watkins, she opened the door; and each of her friends taking an arm, they passed over two fields, into a lane where the chaise was waiting with the servant who was to go with her. the tears had streamed from her eyes during the little walk, and she was unable to speak. the servant now opened the chaise door and let down the step; and emmeline kissing the hand of mrs. stafford, and then that of augusta delamere, went hastily into it--'god bless you both!' said she, in a faint and inarticulate voice. the servant shut the door, mounted a post horse, and the chaise was in an instant out of sight; while the two ladies, who at any other time would have been alarmed at being obliged to take so late a walk, thought not of themselves; but full of concern for poor emmeline, went back in tears; and miss delamere, who had agreed to remain the rest of that night at the lodgings of mrs. stafford, retired not to rest, but to weep for the departure of her friend and the distress of her brother. emmeline, thus separated from every body she loved, pursued her journey melancholy and repining. the first hour, she wept bitterly, and accused her destiny of caprice and cruelty. but tho' to the unfortunate passion of delamere she owed all the inconvenience she had lately experienced, she could not resolve to hate him; but found a degree of pity and regard perpetually mingled itself with his idea in her heart. yet she was not in love; and had rather the friendship of a sister for him than any wish to be his wife. had there been no impediments to their union, she would have married him, rather to make him happy than because she thought it would make herself so; but she would have seen him married to another, and have rejoiced at it, if he had found felicity. an attachment like his, which had resisted long absence, and was undiminished by insuperable difficulties, could hardly fail of having it's effect on the tender and susceptible mind of emmeline. but whatever affection she felt, it by no means arose to what a romantic girl would have perhaps fancied it; and she was much more unhappy at quitting the dear augusta than at the uncertainty she was in whether she should ever again see delamere. the parting was extremely embittered by the prohibition she had received in regard to writing to her. but painful as it was, she determined to forbear; and steadily to adhere to that line of duty, however difficult to practice, that only could secure the peace of her mind, by the acquittal of her conscience; which, as she had learned from mrs. stafford, as well as from her own experience, short as it was, could alone support her in every trial to which she might be exposed. she reflected on her present situation, compared to what it would have been had she been prevailed upon to become the wife of delamere against the consent of his family. splendid as his fortune was, and high as his rank would raise her above her present lot of life, she thought that neither would reconcile her to the painful circumstance of carrying uneasiness and contention into his family; of being thrown from them with contempt, as the disgrace of their rank and the ruin of their hopes; and of living in perpetual apprehension lest the subsiding fondness of her husband should render her the object of his repentance and regret. the regard she was sensible of for delamere did not make her blind to his faults; and she saw, with pain, that the ungovernable violence of his temper frequently obscured all his good qualities, and gave his character an appearance of ferocity, which offered no very flattering prospect to whosoever should be his wife. by thus reasoning with herself, she soon became more calm, and more reconciled to that destiny which seemed not to design her for delamere. she met with no remarkable occurrence in her journey; and on the evening of the third day arrived in town; where the servant who attended her was ordered to dismiss the chaise, and to procure her an hackney coach, in which she proceeded to the house of mrs. ashwood. this residence, situated in a populous village three miles from london, bore the appearance of wealth and prosperity. the iron gate, which gave entrance into a large court, was opened by a servant in a laced livery, to whom emmeline delivered the letter she had brought from mrs. stafford, and after a moment's waiting the lady herself came out to receive her. emmeline, by the splendour of her dress, concluded she had left a large company: but being ushered into a parlour, found she had been drinking tea alone; of which, or of any other refreshment, miss mowbray was desired to partake. her reception of her visitor was perfectly cordial; and emmeline soon recovering her easy and composed manner, mrs. ashwood seemed very much pleased with her guest; for there was in her countenance a passport to all hearts. mrs. ashwood, tho' not in the bloom of life, and tho' she never had been handsome, was so unconscious of her personal disadvantages, that she imagined herself the object of admiration of one sex and of the imitation of the other. with the most perfect reliance on the graces of a figure which never struck any other person as being at all remarkable, she dressed with an exuberance of expence; and kept all the company her neighbourhood afforded. where her ruling passions, (the love of admiration and excessive vanity) did not interfere, she was sometimes generous and sometimes friendly. but her ideas of her own perfections, both of person and mind, far exceeding the truth, she had often the mortification to find that others by no means thought of them as she did; and then her good humour was far from invincible. though emmeline soon found her conversation very inferior to what she had of late been accustomed to, she thought herself fortunate in having found an asylum, the mistress of which seemed desirous of making it agreeable; and to which she was introduced by the kindness of her beloved mrs. stafford. but while serenity was returning to the bosom of emmeline, that of poor delamere was torn with the cruellest tempest. the morning after emmeline's departure, delamere, who expected no such thing, arose at his usual hour and rode out alone, as he had frequently done. as he passed her window, he looked up to it, and seeing it open, concluded she was in her room. on his return, his father met him, and asked him to breakfast; but he designed to attend the tea-table of mrs. stafford, where he thought he should meet emmeline, and therefore excused himself; and lord montreville, who wished the discovery to be delayed to as late an hour of the day as possible, let him go thither, where he breakfasted; and then proposed a walk to mrs. stafford, which he hoped would include a visit to emmeline, or at least that mrs. stafford would not walk without her. she excused herself, however, on pretence of having letters to write; and delamere went in search of fitz-edward, whom he could not find. it was now noon, and he grew impatient at not having had even a glimpse of emmeline the whole morning, when he met fitz-edward's man, and asked him hastily where his master was? the man hesitated, and looked as if he had a secret which he contained with some uneasiness. 'sir,' said he, 'have you seen miss mowbray to-day?' 'no--why do you ask?' 'because, sir,' said the fellow, 'i shrewdly suspect that she went away from here last night. i can't tell your honour why i thinks so; but you may soon know the truth on't.' the ardent imagination of delamere instantly caught fire. he took it for granted that fitz-edward had carried her off: and without staying to reflect a moment, he flew to the inn where his horses were, and ordered them to be saddled; then rushing into the room where his father and sister were sitting together, he exclaimed--'she is gone, sir--emmeline is gone!--but i will soon overtake her; and the infamous villain who has torn her from me!' lord montreville scorned to dissimulate. he answered, 'i know she is gone, and it was by my directions she went. you cannot overtake her; nor is it probable you will ever see her again. endeavour therefore to recollect yourself, and do not forget what you owe to your family and yourself.' delamere attended but little to this remonstrance; but still prepossessed with the idea of fitz-edward's being gone with her, he swore perpetual vengeance against him, and that he would pursue him through the world. with this resolution on his lips, and fury in his eyes, he quitted his father's apartment, and at the door met fitz-edward himself, coming to enquire after him. he was somewhat ashamed of the hasty conclusion he had made, and was therefore more disposed to hear what fitz-edward had to say, who presently convinced him that he was entirely ignorant of the flight of emmeline. delamere now insisted, that as a proof of his friendship he would instantly set out with him in pursuit of her. fitz-edward knew not what to do; but however seemed to consent; and saying he would order his servant to get his horse, left him, and went to lord montreville, to whom he represented the impracticability of stopping delamere. his lordship, almost certain that emmeline was out of the possibility of his overtaking her, as she had now been gone thirteen hours, thought it better for fitz-edward, if he could not prevent his departure, to go with him: but he desired him to make as many artificial delays as possible. delamere, in the mean time, had been to mrs. stafford, and tried to force from her the secret of emmeline's route. but she was inexorable; and proof against his phrenzy as well as his persuasion. she held him, however, as long as she could, in discourse. but when he found she only tried to make him lose time, he left her, in an agony of passion, and mounting his horse, while his trembling servants were ordered to follow him on pain of instant dismission, he rode out of the town without seeing his father, leaving a message for fitz-edward that he had taken the london road, and expected he would come after him instantly. lord montreville intreated fitz-edward to lose not a moment; and bidding an hasty adieu to his lordship, he ordered his horses to the door of mrs. stafford, where he took a formal leave of her and her husband, entreating permission to renew his acquaintance hereafter. then getting on horseback, he made as much speed as possible after delamere; whom with difficulty he overtook some miles forward on the london road. this way delamere had taken on conjecture only; but after proceeding some time, he had met a waggoner, whom he questioned. the man told him of a post chaise he had met at four o'clock in the morning; and encouraged by that to proceed, he soon heard from others enough to make him believe he was right. the horses, however, at the end of forty miles, were too much fatigued to keep pace with delamere's impatience. he was obliged to wait three hours before post horses could be found for himself and fitz-edward. his servants were obliged to remain yet longer; and the horses which were at length procured, were so lame and inadequate to the journey, that it was six hours before they reached the next stage; where the same difficulty occurred; and delamere, between the fatigue of his body and anxiety of his mind, found himself compelled to take some rest. the next day he still traced emmeline from stage to stage, and imagined himself very near her: but the miserable horse on which he rode, being unable to execute his wish as to speed, and urged beyond his strength, fell with him in a stage about sixty miles from london; by which accident he received a contusion on his breast, and was bruised so much that fitz-edward insisted on his being blooded and put to bed; and then went to the apothecary of the village near which the accident happened, and procuring a phial of laudanum, infused it into the wine and water which delamere drank, and by that artifice obtained for him the repose he otherwise would not have been prevailed on to take. after having slept several hours, he desired to pursue his journey in a post chaise; but fitz-edward had taken care that none should be immediately to be had. by these delays only it was that emmeline reached london some hours before him. however, when he renewed his journey, he still continued to trace her from stage to stage, till the last postillion who drove her was found. he said, that he was ordered to stop at the first stand of coaches, into one of which the lady went, and, with the servant behind, drove away; but the lad neither knew the number of the coach, or recollected the coachman, or did he remember whither the coach was ordered to go. delamere passed two days, questioning all the coachmen on the stand; and in consequence of information pretended to be given by some of them, he got into two or three quarrels by going to houses they pointed out to him. and after offering and giving rewards which only seemed to redouble his difficulties, he appeared to be farther than ever from any probability of finding the fair fugitive he so anxiously sought. lord montreville and his daughter staid only two days at swansea after his departure. they travelled in very indifferent spirits to london; where they found delamere ill at the lodgings of fitz-edward in hill-street. lord montreville found there was nothing alarming in his son's indisposition; but could not persuade him to accompany him to lady mary otley's. his lordship and miss augusta delamere set out therefore for that place; leaving delamere to the care of fitz-edward, who promised not to quit him 'till he had agreed either to go to the norfolk estate or to mr. percival's. lord montreville was tolerably satisfied that he could not discover emmeline; and delamere having for above a fortnight attended at all public places without seeing her, and having found every other effort to meet her fruitless, reluctantly agreed to go to his father's estate in norfolk. it was now almost the end of august; and fitz-edward, after seeing him part of the way, took his leave of him, and again went to attend his duty in the north of ireland. chapter xii while delamere, in the deepest despondence, which he could neither conquer or conceal, made a vain effort to divert his mind with those amusements for which he no longer had any relish, emmeline, at her new residence, attracted the attention of many of mrs. ashwood's visitors. a widow, in possession of an handsome jointure, and her children amply provided for, mrs. ashwood was believed to entertain no aversion to a second marriage: and her house being so near london, was frequented by a great number of single men; many of whom came there because it was a pleasant jaunt from the city, where most of them resided; and others, with hopes of amending their fortunes by an alliance with the lady herself. these latter, however, were chiefly the younger sons of merchants; and though pleased with their flattery and assiduity, mrs. ashwood, who had an almost equal share of vanity and ambition, had yet given no very decided preference to any; for she imagined her personal attractions, of which she had a very high idea, added to the advantages of a good income, good expectations, and opulent connections, entitled her to marry into an higher line of life than that in which her father had first engaged her. her acquaintance, however, was yet very limited among persons of fashion; and it was not wholly without hopes of encreasing it that she had consented to receive miss mowbray, whose relationship to lord montreville would, she imagined, be the means of introducing her to his lordship's notice and to that of his family. her civility and kindness to emmeline were unbounded for some time. and as she was not easily convinced of her own want of beauty, she never apprehended that she ran some risk of becoming a foil, instead of the first figure, as she expected generally to be. the extreme simplicity of emmeline's appearance, who notwithstanding the remonstrances of mrs. ashwood continued to dress nearly as she did in wales; and her perfect ignorance of fashionable life and fashionable accomplishments, gave her, in the eyes of many of mrs. ashwood's visitors, the air of a dependant; and those who visited with a view to the fortune of the latter, carefully avoided every appearance of preference to emmeline, and kept her friend in good humour with herself. but there were, among those who frequented her house, some men of business; who being rather in middle life, and immensely rich, had no other views in going thither than to pass a few hours in the country, when their mercantile engagements prevented their leaving london entirely; and who loved pleasure better than any thing but money. with one or two of these, mrs. ashwood and her father had at different times encouraged overtures of marriage. but they knew and enjoyed the pleasure their fortune and single state afforded them too well to give those indulgences up for the advantage of increasing their incomes, unless the object had possessed greater attractions than fell to the share of mrs. ashwood; and her father could not be prevailed upon to give her (at least while he lived) a sum of money large enough to tempt their avarice. these overtures therefore had ended in nothing more than an intercourse of civility. but emmeline no sooner appeared, than one of these gentlemen renewed his visits with more than his original assiduity. the extreme beauty of her person, and the _naivetè_ of her manners, gave her, to him, the attractive charms of novelty; while the mystery there seemed to be about her, piqued his curiosity. it was known that she was related to a noble family; but mrs. ashwood had been so earnestly entreated to conceal as much as possible her real history, lest delamere should hear of and discover her, that she only told it to a few friends, and it had not yet reached the knowledge of mr. rochely, who had become the attendant of mrs. ashwood's tea table from the first introduction of emmeline. mr. rochely was nearer fifty than forty. his person, heavy and badly proportioned, was not relieved by his countenance, which was dull and ill-formed. his voice, monotonous and guttural, was fatiguing to the ear; and the singularity of his manners, as well as the oddness of his figure, often excited a degree of ridicule, which the respect his riches demanded could not always stifle. with a person so ill calculated to inspire affection, he was very desirous of being a favourite with the ladies; and extremely sensible of their attractions. in the inferior ranks of life, his money had procured him many conquests, tho' he was by no means lavish of it; and much of the early part of his time had been passed in low amours; which did not, however, impede his progress to the great wealth he possessed. he had always intended to marry: but as he required many qualifications in a wife which are hardly ever united, he had hesitated till he had long been looked upon as an old bachelor. he was determined to chuse beauty, but expected also fortune. he desired to marry a woman of family, yet feared the expensive turn of those brought up in high life; and had a great veneration for wit and accomplishments, but dreaded, lest in marrying a woman who possessed them, he should be liable to be governed by superior abilities, or be despised for the mediocrity of his own understanding. with such ideas, his relations saw him perpetually pursuing some matrimonial project; but so easily frightened from his pursuit, that they relied on his succession with the most perfect confidence. when first he beheld emmeline, he was charmed with her person; her conversation, at once innocent and lively, impressed him with the most favourable ideas of her heart and understanding; and, brought up at a great distance from london, she had acquired no taste for expences, no rage for those amusements and dissipations which he so much apprehended in a wife. when he came to mrs. ashwood's, (which was almost every afternoon) emmeline, who was generally at work, or drawing in the dressing-room, never discomposed herself; but sat quietly to what she was doing; listening with the most patient complaisance to the long and uninteresting stories with which he endeavoured to entertain her; an attention which greatly contributed to win the heart of rochely; and he was as much in love as so prudent a man could be, before he ventured to ask himself what he intended? or what was the family and what the fortune of the person who now occupied most of his time and a great portion of his thoughts? mrs. ashwood, frequently engaged at the neighbouring card-tables, from which emmeline almost always excused herself, often left her and mr. rochely to drink tea together; and when she was at home, would sometimes make her party in another room, where the subject of laughter with her own admirers, was the growing passion of the rich banker for the fair stranger. emmeline did not, when present, escape ridicule on this subject: but as she had not the least idea that a man so much older than herself had any intention of offering himself as an husband, she bore it with great tranquillity, and continued to behave to mr. rochely with the attentive civility dictated by natural good breeding; while she heard, without any concern but on his account, the perpetual mirth and loud bursts of laughter which followed his compliments and attentions to her. if he was absent a few days, the door of mrs. ashwood was crouded with servants and porters with game from mr. rochely. and his assiduities became at every visit more marked. as it was now late in the autumn, mrs. ashwood was desirous of shewing miss mowbray some of those public places she had not yet seen; and emmeline (not apprehending there was any reason to fear meeting mr. delamere at a season when she knew field sports kept him altogether in the country) made no difficulty to accompany her. mr. rochely no sooner heard a party to the play proposed, than he desired to join it; and mrs. ashwood, miss galton, (an intimate friend of her's), with miss mowbray, mr. hanbury, (one of mrs. ashwood's admirers), and mr. rochely, met at drury-lane theatre; where emmeline was extremely well entertained. when the play was over, the box was filled with several of mrs. ashwood's acquaintance, who talked to _her_, while their eyes were fixed on her young friend; an observation that did not greatly lighten up her countenance. the most conspicuous among these was a tall, thin, but extremely awkward figure, which in a most fashionable undress, and with a glass held to his eye, strided into the box, and bowing with a strange gesture to mrs. ashwood, exclaimed--'oh! my dear mrs. a!--here i am!--returned from spa only last night; and already at your feet. so here you are? and not yet enchained by that villainous fellow hymen? you are a good soul, not to give yourself away while i was at spa. i was horridly afraid, my dear widow! you would not have waited even to have given me a wedding favour.' to this speech, as it required no answer, mrs. ashwood gave very little; for besides that she was not pleased with the matter, the manner delighted her still less. the speaker had, during the whole of it, leaned almost across the person who was next to him, to bring his glass nearly close to emmeline's face. emmeline, extremely discomposed, drew back; and mr. rochely, who sat near her, putting away the glass softly with his hand, said very calmly to the leaning beau--'sir, is there any occasion to take an account of this lady's features?' 'ah! my friend rochely!' answered he familiarly, 'what are you the lady's cicisbeo? as we say in italy. here is indeed beauty enough to draw you from the contemplation of three per cent. consols, india bonds, omnium, scrip, and douceurs. but prithee, my old friend, is this young lady your ward?' 'my ward! no,' answered rochely, 'how came you to think she was?' mr. elkerton, who fancied he had vastly the advantage in point of wit, as well as of figure, over his antagonist, now desired to know, 'whether the lady was his niece? though if i had not recollected' said he, 'that you never was married, i should have taken her for your grand daughter.' this sarcasm had, on the features of rochely, all the effect the travelled man expected. but while he was preparing an answer, at which he was never very prompt, the coach was announced to be ready, and emmeline, extremely weary of her situation, and disgusted even to impatience with her new acquaintance, hastily arose to go. elkerton offered to take her hand; which she drew from him without attempting to conceal her dislike; and accepting the arm of rochely, followed mrs. ashwood; while elkerton, determined not to lose sight of her, seized the hand of miss galton, who being neither young, handsome, or rich, had been left to go out alone: they followed the rest of the party to the coach, where mrs. ashwood and miss mowbray were already seated, with mr. hanbury; who, as he resided with his mother in the village where mrs. ashwood lived, was to accompany them home. the coach being full, seemed to preclude all possibility of elkerton's admittance. but he was not so easily put off: and telling mrs. ashwood he intended to go home to sup with her, he stepped immediately in, and ordered his servant, who waited at the coach door with a flambeau, to direct his vis-a-vis to follow. rochely, who meant to have wished them a good night after seeing them to their carriage, was too much hurt by this happy essay of assurance not to resolve to counteract it's consequences. elkerton, though not a very young man, was near twenty years younger than rochely; besides the income of his business (for he was in trade) he had a large independent fortune, of which he was extremely lavish; his equipages were splendid; his house most magnificently furnished; and his cloaths the most expensive that could be bought. rochely, whose ideas of elegance, manners, or taste, were not very refined, had no notion that the absurdity of elkerton, or his disagreeable person, would prevent his being a very formidable rival. he therefore saw him with great pain accompany emmeline home; and though he had formed no positive designs himself, he could not bear to suppose that another might form them with success. directing therefore his chariot to follow the coach, he was set down at the door a few minutes after mrs. ashwood and her party; where emmeline, still more displeased with elkerton, and having been teized by his impertinent admiration the whole way, looked as if she could have burst into tears. mrs. ashwood, in a very ill humour, hardly attended to his flourishing speeches with common civility; he had therefore recourse to miss galton, to whom he was giving the history of his travels, which seemed to take up much of his thoughts. miss galton, who by long dependance and repeated disappointments had acquired the qualifications necessary for a patient hearer, acquiesced in smiling silence to all his assertions; looked amazed in the right place; and heard, with great complacency, his wonderful success at cards, and the favour he was in with women of the first fashion at spa. the entrance of mr. rochely gave no interruption to his discourse. he bowed slightly to him without rising, and then went on, observing that he had now seen every part of europe worth seeing, and meant, at least for some years, to remain in england; the ladies of which country he preferred to every other, and therefore intended taking a wife among them. fortune was, he declared, to him no object; but he was determined to marry the handsomest woman he could meet with, for whom he was now looking out. as he said this, he turned his eyes towards emmeline; who affecting not to hear him, tho' he spoke in so loud a tone as to make it unavoidable, was talking in a low voice to mr. rochely. rochely placing himself close to her, had thrown his arm over the back of her chair; and leaning forward, attended to her with an expression in his countenance of something between apprehension and hope, that gave it the most grotesque look imaginable. mrs. ashwood, who had been entertained apart by mr. hanbury, now hurried over the supper; during which elkerton, still full of himself, engrossed almost all the conversation; gave a detail of the purchases he had made abroad, and the trouble he had to land them; interspersed with _bon mots_ of french marquises and german barons, and witty remarks of an english duke with whom he had crossed the water on his return. but whatever story he told, himself was still forwardest in the picture; his project of marrying an handsome wife was again repeated; and he told the party how charming a house he had bought in kent, and how he had furnished his library. rochely, who lay in wait to revenge himself for all the mortifications he had suffered from him during the evening, took occasion to say, in his grave, cold manner, 'to be sure a man of your taste and erudition, mr. elkerton, cannot do without a library; but for my part, i think you will find no books can say so much to the purpose as those kept by your late father in milk-street, cheapside.' elkerton turned pale at this sneer; but forcing a smile of contempt, answered, 'you bankers have no ideas out of your compting-houses; and rich as ye are, will never be any thing but _des bourgeois les plus grossieres_! for my part i see no reason why--why a man's being in business, should prevent his enjoying the _elegancies_ and _agréments_ of life, especially if he can _afford_ it; as it is well known, i believe, even to _you_, sir, _that i can_.' 'oh! sir,' replied rochely, 'i know your late father was _reputed_ to have died rich, and that no body has made a better _figure about town_ than _you_ have, ever since.' 'as to figure, sir,' returned the other, 'it is true i like to have every thing about me _comme il faut_. and though i don't make fifty per cent. of money, as _some_ gentlemen do in _your_ way of business, i assure you, sir, i do nothing that i cannot very well afford.' mrs. ashwood, who thought it very likely a quarrel might ensue, here endeavoured to put an end to such very unpleasant discourse; and prevented mr. hanbury, who equally hated them both, from trying to irritate them farther, to which he maliciously inclined. the hints, however, of fatigue, given by her and miss mowbray, obliged mr. rochely to ring that his chariot might be called, which had waited at the door; while elkerton, who had a pair of beautiful pied horses in his vis-à-vis, desired to have them sent for from a neighbouring inn--'for _i_' said he, rising and strutting round the room, 'never suffer _my_ people or _my_ horses to wait in the streets.' he then leant over emmeline's chair, and began in a court tone to renew his compliments. but she suddenly arose; and begging mrs. ashwood would give her leave to retire, wished mr. rochely and ladies a good night; and slightly curtseying to elkerton, who was putting himself into the attitude for a speech and a bow, she tripped away. rochely, as soon as she was gone, hastened to his chariot; and elkerton, whose people were in no haste to leave the ale-house, begged to sit down 'till they came. mrs. ashwood had been the whole evening particularly out of humour, and being no longer able to command it, answered peevishly, 'that her house was much at his service, but that she was really so much fatigued she must retire--however,' said she, 'miss galton, you will be so good as to stay with mr. elkerton--good night to you, sir!' he was no sooner alone with miss galton, than he desired her, after a speech (which he endeavoured to season with as much flattery as it would bear) to tell him who emmeline was? 'upon my word, sir,' answered she, 'it is more than i know. her name is mowbray; and she is somehow connected with the family of lord montreville; but _what_ relation,' (sneeringly answered she) 'i really cannot pretend even to guess.' 'a relation of lord montreville!' cried elkerton; 'why i knew his lordship intimately when i was abroad three or four years ago. he was at naples with his son, his lady, and two daughters; and i was domesticated, absolutely domesticated, among them. but pray what relation to them can this miss mowbray be?' 'probably,' said miss galton, 'as you know his lordship, you may know what connections and family he has. i suppose she may be his cousin--or his niece--or his----.' here she hesitated and smiled; and elkerton, whose carriage was now at the door, and who had a clue which he thought would procure him all the information he wanted, took leave of miss galton; desiring her to tell mrs. ashwood that he should wait upon her again in a few days. chapter xiii delamere continued in norfolk only a few weeks after his father and the family came thither. during that time, he appeared restless and dissatisfied; his former vivacity was quite lost; he shunned society; and passed almost all his time in the fields, under pretence of hunting or shooting, tho' the greatest satisfaction those amusements now afforded him was the opportunity they gave him of absenting himself from home. he seldom returned thither 'till six or seven o'clock; dined alone in his own apartment; and affected to be too much fatigued to be able to meet the party who assembled to cards in the evening. lady mary otley and her daughter, a widow lady of small fortune in the neighbourhood, with lord and lady montreville and their eldest daughter, made up a party without him. augusta delamere had been left in their way from the north, with a relation of his lordship's who lived near scarborough, with whom she was to remain two months. the party at audley-hall was soon encreased by sir richard crofts and his eldest son, who came every autumn on a visit to lord montreville, and who was his most intimate friend. lord montreville, during the short time he studied at the temple, became acquainted with sir richard, then clerk to an attorney in the city; who, tho' there was a great difference in their rank, had contrived to gain the regard and esteem of his lordship (then mr. frederic mowbray) and was, when he came to his estate, entrusted with it's management; a trust which he appeared to execute with such diligence and integrity, that he soon obtained the entire confidence of his patron; and by possessing great ductility and great activity, he was soon introduced into a higher line of life, and saw himself the companion and friend of those, to whom, at his setting out, he appeared only an humble retainer. born in scotland, he boasted of his ancestry, tho' his immediate predecessors were known to be indigent and obscure; and tho' he had neither eminent talents, nor any other education than what he had acquired at a free-school in his native town, he had, by dint of a very common understanding, steadily applied to the pursuit of one point; and assisted by the friendship of lord montreville, acquired not only a considerable fortune, but a seat in parliament and a great deal of political interest, together with the title of a baronet. he had less understanding than cunning; less honesty than industry; and tho' he knew how to talk warmly and plausibly of honour, justice, and integrity, he was generally contented only to talk of them, seldom so imprudent as to practice them when he could get place or profit by their sacrifice. he had that sort of sagacity which enabled him to enter into the characters of those with whom he conversed: he knew how to humour their prejudices, and lay in wait for their foibles to turn them to his own advantage. to his superiors, the cringing parasite; to those whom he thought his inferiors, proud, supercilious, and insulting; and his heart hardening as his prosperity encreased, he threw off, as much as he could, every connection that reminded him of the transactions of his early life, and affected to live only among the great, whose luxuries he could now reach, and whose manners he tried to imitate. he had two sons by an early marriage with a woman of small fortune, who was fortunately dead; for had she lived, she would probably have been concealed, lest she should disgrace him. to his sons, however, he had given that sort of education which was likely to fit them for places under government; and he had long secretly intended the eldest for one of the miss delameres. delamere, all warmth and openness himself, detested the narrow-minded and selfish father; and had shewn so much coolness towards the sons, that sir richard foresaw he would be a great impediment to his designs, and had therefore the strongest motive for trying to persuade lord montreville, that to send him on another tour to the continent, would be the best means of curing him of what this deep politician termed 'a ridiculous and boyish whim, which his lordship ought at all events to put an end to before it grew of a more dangerous consequence.' mr. crofts, as he was no sportsman, passed his mornings in riding out with miss delamere and miss otley, or attending on the elder ladies in their airings: while delamere, who wished equally to shun miss otley, whom he determined never to marry, and crofts, whom he despised and hated, lived almost alone, notwithstanding the entreaties of his father and the anger of his mother. her ladyship, who had never any command over her passions, harrassed him, whenever they met, with sarcasms and reflections. lady mary, scorning _to_ talk to a young man who was blind to the merits of her daughter, talked _at_ him whenever she found an opportunity; and exclaimed against the disobedience, dissipation, and ill-breeding of modern young men: while miss otley affected a pretty disdain; and flirted violently with mr. crofts, as if to shew him that she was totally indifferent to his neglect. the temper of delamere was eager and irritable; and he bore the unpleasantness of this society, whenever he was forced to mix in it, with a sort of impatient contempt. but as he hourly found it more irksome, and the idea of emmeline press every day more intensely on his heart, he determined, at the end of the third week, to go to london. not chusing to have any altercation with either lord or lady montreville, he one evening ordered his man to have his horses ready at five o'clock the next day, saying he was to meet the foxhounds at some distance from home; and having written a letter to his lordship, in which he told him he was going to london for a fortnight, (which letter he left on the table in his dressing-room) he mounted his horse, and was soon in town; but instead of going to the house of his father in berkley-square, he took lodgings in pall-mall. every night he frequented those public places which were yet open, in hopes of finding emmeline; and his servant was constantly employed for the same purpose; but as he had no trace of her, all his enquiries were fruitless. on the night that emmeline was at the play, he had been at covent-garden theatre, and meant to have looked into the other house; but was detained by meeting a young foreigner from whom he had received civilities at turin, 'till the house was empty. so narrowly did he miss finding her he so anxiously sought. elkerton, in looking about for the happy woman who was worthy the exalted situation of being his wife, had yet seen none whom he thought so likely to succeed to that honour as miss mowbray; and if she was, on enquiry, found to be as she was represented, (related to lord montreville) it would be so great an additional advantage, that he determined in that case to lay himself and his pied horses, his house in kent, his library, and his fortune, all at her feet immediately. nor did he once suffer himself to suspect that there was a woman on earth who could withstand such a torrent of good fortune. in pursuance therefore of this resolution, he determined to make enquiry of lord montreville himself; of whom he had just known so much at naples as to receive cards of invitation to lady montreville's _conversationes_. there, he mingled with the croud; and was slightly noticed as an englishman of fortune; smiled at for his affectation of company and manners, which seemed foreign to his original line of life; and then forgotten. but elkerton conceived this to be more than introduction enough; and dressing himself in what he thought _un disabille la plus imposante_, and with his servants in their morning liveries, he stopped at the door of lord montreville. 'lord montreville was not at home.' 'when was he expected?' 'it was uncertain: his lordship was at audley-hall, and might be in town in a fortnight; or might not come up till the meeting of parliament.' 'and are all the family there?' enquired elkerton of the porter. 'no, sir; mr. delamere is in town.' 'and when can i see mr. delamere?' the porter could not tell, as he did not live in berkley-square. 'where, then, is he?' 'at lodgings in pall-mall:' (for delamere had left his direction with his father's servants.) elkerton therefore took the address with a pencil; and determined, without farther reflection, to drive thither. it was about four o'clock, and in the middle of november, when delamere had just returned to his lodgings, to dress before he met his foreign friend, and some other young men, to dine at a tavern in st. james's-street, when a loud rap at the door announced a visitor. millefleur having no orders to the contrary, and being dazzled with the splendour of elkerton's equipage, let him in; and he was humming an italian air out of tune, in delamere's drawing-room, when the latter came out in his dressing-gown and slippers to receive him. delamere, on seeing the very odd figure and baboonish face of elkerton, instead of that of somebody he knew, stopped short and made a grave bow. elkerton advancing towards him, bowed also profoundly, and said, 'i am charmed, sir, with being permitted the honour of paying you my devoirs.' delamere concluded from his look and bow, as well as from a foreign accent, (which elkerton had affected 'till it was become habitual) that the man was either a dancing master or a quack doctor, sent to him by some of his companions, who frequently exercised on each other such efforts of practical wit. he therefore being not without humour, bowed again more profoundly than before; and answered, 'that the honour was entirely his, tho' he did not know how he had deserved it.' 'i was so fortunate, sir,' resumed elkerton, 'so fortunate as to--have the honour--the happiness--of knowing lord montreville and lady montreville a few years ago at naples.' delamere, still confirmed in his first idea, answered, 'very probably, sir.' 'and, sir,' continued elkerton, 'i now waited upon _you_, as his lordship is not in town.' 'indeed, sir, you are too obliging.' 'to ask, sir, a question, which i hope will not be deemed--be deemed--' (a word did not immediately occur) 'be deemed--improper--intrusive--impertinent--inquisitive--presuming----' 'i dare say, sir, nothing improper, intrusive, impertinent, inquisitive, or presuming, is to be apprehended from a gentleman of your appearance.' delamere expected something very ridiculous to follow this ridiculous introduction, and with some difficulty forbore laughing. elkerton went on---- 'it relates, sir, to a lady.' 'pray, sir, proceed. i am really impatient where a lady is concerned.' 'you are acquainted, sir, with a lady of the name of ashwood, who lives at clapham?' 'no, really sir, i am not so happy.' 'i fancy then, sir, i have been misinformed, and beg pardon for the trouble i have presumed to give: but i understood that the young lady who lives with her was a relation of lord montreville.' a ray of fire seemed to flash across the imagination of delamere, and to inflame all his hopes. he blushed deeply, and his voice faultering with anxiety, he cried-- 'what?--who, sir?--a young lady?--what young lady?' 'miss mowbray, they tell me, is her name; and i understand, sir--but i dare say from mistake--that she is of your family.' delamere could hardly breathe. he seemed as if he was in a dream, and dared not speak for fear of awaking. elkerton, led on by the questions delamere at length summoned resolution to ask, proceeded to inform him of all he knew; how, where, and how often, he had seen emmeline, and of his intentions to offer himself a candidate for her favour--'for notwithstanding, sir,' said he, 'that mr. rochely seems to be _fort avant en ses bon graces_, i think--i hope--i believe, that his fortune--(and yet his fortune does not perhaps so much exceed mine as many suppose)--his fortune will hardly turn the balance against _me_; especially if i have the sanction of lord montreville; to whom i suppose (as you seem to acknowledge some affinity between miss mowbray and his lordship) it will be no harm if i apply.' thro' the mind of delamere, a thousand confused ideas rapidly passed. he was divided between his joy at having found emmeline, his vexation at knowing she was surrounded by rivals, and his fear that his father might, by the application of elkerton to him, know that emmeline's abode was no longer a secret: and amidst these various sensations, he was able only to express his dislike of elkerton, whose presumption in thinking of emmeline appeared to cancel the casual obligation he owed to him for discovering her. 'sir,' said he haughtily, as soon as he could a little recover his recollection, 'i am very well assured that lord montreville will not hear any proposals for miss mowbray. his lordship has, in fact, no authority over her; and besides he is at present about to leave his house in norfolk, and i know not when he will be in town; perhaps not the whole winter; he is now going to visit some friends, and it will be impossible you can have any access to him for some months. as to myself, you will excuse me; i am engaged to dine out.' he rang the bell, and ordered the servant who entered to enquire for the gentleman's carriage. then bowing coolly to him, he went into his dressing room, and left the mortified elkerton to regret the little success of an attempt which he doubted not would have excited, in the hearts of all those related to miss mowbray, admiration at his generosity, and joy for the good fortune of emmeline: for he concluded, by her being a companion to mrs. ashwood, that she had no fortune, or any dependance but on the bounty of lord montreville. delamere, whose ardent inclinations, whatever turn they took, were never to be a moment restrained, rang for his servants; and dispatching one of them with an excuse to his friends, he sent a second for an hackney-coach. then ordering up a cold dinner, which he hardly staid to eat, he got into the coach, and directed it to be driven as fast as possible to clapham common; where he asked for the house of mrs. ashwood, and was presently at the door. the servant had that moment opened the iron gate, to let out a person who had been to his mistress upon business. delamere therefore enquiring if miss mowbray was at home, entered without ringing, and telling the servant that he had occasion to speak to miss mowbray only, the man answered, 'that she was alone in the dressing room.' thither therefore he desired to be shewn; and without being announced, he entered the room. instead of finding her alone, he saw her sit at work by a little table, on which were two wax candles; and by her side, with his arm, as usual, over the back of her chair, and gazing earnestly on her face, sat mr. rochely. emmeline did not look up when he came in, supposing it was the servant with tea. delamere therefore was close to the table when she saw him. the work dropped from her hands; she grew pale, and trembled; but not being able to rise, she only clasped her hands together, and said faintly, 'oh! heaven!--mr. delamere!' 'yes, emmeline, it is mr. delamere! and what is there so extraordinary in that? i was told you were alone: may i beg the favour of a few minutes conversation?' emmeline knew not what to reply. she saw him dart an angry and disdainful look at poor rochely; who, alarmed by the entrance of a stranger that appeared on such a footing of familiarity, and who possessed the advantages of youth and a handsome person, had retreated slowly towards the fire, and now surveyed delamere with scrutinizing and displeased looks; while delamere said to emmeline--'if you have no particular business with this gentleman, will you go into some other room, that i may speak to you on an affair of consequence?' 'sit down' said emmeline, recovering her surprize; 'sit down, and i will attend you presently. tell me, how is your sister augusta?' 'i know not. she is in yorkshire.' 'and lord montreville?' 'well, i believe. but what is all this to the purpose? can i not speak to you, but in the presence of a third person?' unequivocal as this hint was, rochely seemed determined not to go, and delamere as resolutely bent to affront him, if he did not. emmeline therefore, who knew not what else to do, was going to comply with his request of a private audience, when she was luckily relieved by the entrance of mrs. ashwood and the tea table. mrs. ashwood, surprized at seeing a stranger, and a stranger whose appearance had more fashion than the generality of her visitors, was introduced to mr. delamere; a ceremony he would willingly have dispensed with; and having made his bow, and muttered something about having taken the liberty to call on his relation, he sat down by emmeline, and in a whisper told her he must and would speak to her alone before he went. emmeline, to whose care the tea table was allotted when miss galton happened not to be at mrs. ashwood's, now excused herself under pretence of being obliged to make tea; and while it was passing, mrs. ashwood made two or three attempts to introduce general conversation; but it went no farther than a few insignificant sentences between her and mr. rochely. delamere, wholly engrossed by the tumultuous delight of having recovered emmeline, and by contriving how to speak to her alone, thought nothing else worthy his attention; and sat looking at her with eyes so expressive of his love, that rochely, who anxiously watched him, was convinced his solicitude was infinitely stronger than his relationship only would have produced. he had at length learned, by constant attention to every hint and every circumstance that related to emmeline, who she was; and had even got from mrs. ashwood a confused idea of delamere's attachment to her, which the present scene at once elucidated. rochely saw in him not only a rival, but a rival so dangerous that all his hopes seemed to vanish at once. unconscious, 'till then, how very indiscreetly he was in love, he was amazed at the pain he felt from this discovery; and with a most rueful countenance, sat silent and disconcerted. mrs. ashwood, used to be flattered and attended to, was in no good humour with mr. delamere, who gave her so little of his notice: and never perhaps were a party more uncomfortable, 'till they were enlivened by the entrance of miss galton and mr. hanbury, with another gentleman. they were hardly placed, and had their tea sent round, before a loud ring was heard, and the servant announced 'mr. elkerton.' mr. elkerton came dancing into the room; and having spoken to mrs. ashwood and emmeline, he slightly surveyed the company, and sat down. he was very near sighted, and affected to be still more so; and delamere having drawn his chair out of the circle, sat almost behind emmeline; while the portly citizen who had accompanied mr. hanbury sat forward, near the table; delamere was therefore hardly seen. elkerton began to tell them how immoderately he was fatigued. 'i have been over the whole town,' said he, 'to-day. in the morning i was obliged to attend a boring appointment upon business relative to my estate in kent; and to meet my tenants, who disagreed with my steward; and then, i went to call upon my old friend delamere, lord montreville's son, in pall-mall; we passed a very chearful hour discoursing of former occurrences when we were together at turin. upon my word, he is a good sensible young man. we have renewed our intimacy; and he has insisted upon my going down with him to his father's house in norfolk.' emmeline suspended her tea making, and looked astonished. mrs. ashwood seemed surprized. but delamere, who had at first felt inclined to be angry at the folly and forwardness of elkerton, was now so struck with the ridicule of the circumstance, that he broke into a loud laugh. the eyes of the company were turned towards _him_, and elkerton with great indignation took his glass to survey who it was that had thus violated the rules of good breeding; but great was his dismay and astonishment, when he beheld the very delamere, of whom he had spoken with so much assurance, rise up, and advancing towards him, make a grave bow.-- 'sir,' said delamere, very solemnly, 'i cannot sufficiently express my gratitude for your good opinion of me; nor my happiness to hear you intend to honour me with a visit at audley hall. upon my word you are _too_ obliging, and i know not how i shall shew my gratitude!' the ironical tone in which this was delivered, and the discomposed looks of the distressed elkerton, explained the matter to the whole company; and the laugh became general. elkerton, tho' not easily disconcerted, could not stand it. after a sort of apology to delamere, he endeavoured to reassume his consequence. but he had been too severely mortified; and in a few minutes arose, and under pretence of being engaged to a rout in town, went away, nobody attempting to stop him. rochely, who hated elkerton, could not forbear to triumph in this discomfiture. he spoke very severely of him as a forward, impertinent, silly fellow, who was dissipating his fortune. the old citizen heartily joined in exclaiming against such apostates from the frugality of their ancestors. 'sir,' said he to rochely, 'we all know that _you_ are a prudent man; and that cash at your house is, as it were, in the bank. sir, you do honour to the city; but as to that there mr. elkerton, one must be cautious; but for _my_ part, i wonder how some people go on. to my certain knowledge his father didn't die so rich as was supposed--no--not by a many thousands. sir, i remember him--(and i am not ashamed to say it, for every body knows _i_ have got my money honestly, and that it's all of my own getting)--but, sir, i remember that man's father, and not a many years ago neither, carrying out parcels, and sweeping the shop for old jonathan huggins. you knew old jonathan huggins: he did not die, i think, 'till about the year forty-one or two. you remember him, to be sure?' rochely, ever tremblingly alive when his age was called in question, yet fearing to deny a fact which he apprehended the other would enter into a convincing detail to prove, answered that 'he slightly remembered him when he was quite a boy.' but his evasion availed him nothing. the old citizen, mr. rugby, was now got upon his own ground; and most inhumanly for the feelings of poor rochely, began to relate in whose mayoralty old jonathan huggins was sheriff, and when he was mayor; who he married; who married his daughters; and how he acquired an immense fortune, all by frugality at setting out; and how one of his daughters, who had married a lord against the old man's will, had spent more in _one_ night than his father did in a twelvemonth. delamere, who sat execrating both jonathan huggins and his historian, at length lost all patience; and said to emmeline, in an half whisper, 'i can bear this no longer: leave these tedious old fools, and let me speak to you for two minutes only.' emmeline knew not how to refuse, without hazarding some extravagance on the part of delamere. but as she did not like the appearance of leaving the room abruptly, she desired mrs. ashwood would give her permission to order candles in the parlour, as mr. delamere wished to speak with her alone. as soon as the servant informed her they were ready, she went down: and delamere followed her, having first wished mrs. ashwood a good night; who was too much displeased with the little attention he had shewn her, to ask him to supper, tho' she was very desirous of having a man of his fashion in the list of her acquaintance. delamere and emmeline were no sooner alone, than he began to renew, with every argument he thought likely to move her, his entreaties for a private marriage. he swore that he neither could or would live without her, and that her refusal would drive him to some act of desperation. emmeline feared her resolution would give way; for the comparison between the people she had lately been among, and delamere, was infinitely favourable to him. such unabated love, in a man who might chuse among the fairest and most fortunate of women, was very seducing; and the advantages of being his wife, instead of continuing in the precarious situation she was now in, would have determined at once a mind more attentive to pecuniary or selfish motives. but emmeline, unshaken by such considerations, was liable to err only from the softness of her heart. delamere unhappy--delamere wearing out in hopeless solicitude the bloom of life, was the object she found it most difficult to contend with: and feeble would have been her defence, had she not considered herself as engaged in honour to lord montreville to refuse his son, and still more engaged to respect the peace of the family of her dear augusta. strengthened by these reflections, she refused, tho' in the gentlest manner, to listen to such proposals; reproached him, tho' with more tenderness in her voice and manner than she had yet shewn, for having left audley hall without the concurrence of lord montreville; and entreated him to return, and try to forget her. 'let me perish if i do!' eagerly answered delamere. 'no, emmeline; if you determine to push me to extremities, to you only will be the misery imputable, when my mistaken parents, in vain repentance, hang over the tomb of their only son, and see the last of his family in an early grave. it is in your power only to save me--you refuse--farewel, then--i wish no future regret may embitter your life, and that you may find consolation in being the wife of some one of those persons who are, i see, offering you all that riches can bestow. farewel, lovely, inhuman girl! be happy if you can--after having sacrificed to a mistaken point of honour, the repose and the life of him who lived only to adore you.' so saying, he suddenly opened the door, and was leaving the room. but emmeline, who shuddered at the picture he had drawn of his despair, and saw such traces of its reality on his countenance, caught his arm. 'stay! mr. delamere,' cried she, 'stay yet a moment!' 'for what purpose?' answered he, 'since you refuse to hear me?' he turned back, however, into the room; and emmeline, who fancied she saw him the victim of his unfortunate love, could no longer command her tears. delamere threw himself at her feet, and embraced her knees. 'oh emmeline!' cried he, weeping also, 'hear me for the last time. either consent to be mine, or let me take an eternal adieu!' 'what would you have me do? good god! what is it you expect of me?' 'to go with me to scotland to-morrow--to night--directly!' 'oh, no! no!--does not lord montreville depend upon my honour?--can i betray a trust reposed in me?' 'chimeras all; founded in tyranny on his part, and weakness on yours. _he_ had no right to exact such a promise; _you_ had no right to give it. but however, send to him again to say i have seen you--summons him hither to divide us--you may certainly do so if you please; but lord montreville will no longer have a son; at least england, nor europe, will contain him no longer--i will go where my father shall hear no more of me.' 'will it content you if i promise you _not_ to write to lord montreville, nor to cause him to be written to; and to see you again?' 'when?' 'to-morrow--whenever you please.' delamere, catching at this faint ray of hope, promised, if she would allow him to come thither when he would, he would endeavour to be calm. he made her solemnly protest that she would neither write to lord montreville, or procure another to do it; and that she would not leave mrs. ashwood without letting him know when and whither she went; and if by any accident his father heard of his having found her, that she would enter into no new engagements to conceal herself from him. having procured from her these assurances, which he knew she would not violate, and having obtained her consent to see him early the next morning, he at her request agreed to take his leave; which he did with less pain than he had ever before felt at quitting her; carrying with him the delightful hope that he had made an impression on her heart, and secure of seeing her the next day, he went home comparatively happy. emmeline, who had wept excessively, was very unfit to return to the company; but she thought her not appearing again among them would be yet more singular. she therefore composed herself as well as she could; and after staying a few minutes to recollect her scattered spirits, she entered the room where they were at cards. rochely, who was playing at whist with mrs. ashwood, mr. rugby, and mr. hanbury, looked anxiously at her eyes; and presently losing all attention to what he was about, and forgetting his game, he played so extremely ill, that he lost the rubber. the old cit, who had three half crowns depending, and who was a determined grumbler at cards, fell upon him without mercy; and said so many rude things, that rochely could not help retorting; and it was with some difficulty mrs. ashwood prevented the grossest abuse being lavished from the enraged rugby on the enamoured banker; who desiring to give his cards to miss galton, got up and ordered his carriage. emmeline sat near the fire, with her handkerchief in her hand, which was yet wet with tears. rochely, with a privilege he had been used to, and which emmeline, from a man old enough to be her father, thought very inconsequential, took her hand and the handkerchief it held. 'so, miss mowbray,' said he, 'mr. delamere is your near relation?' 'yes, sir.' 'and he has brought you, i fear, some ill news of your family?' 'no, sir,' sighed emmeline. 'no death, i hope?' 'no, sir.' 'whence then, these tears?' emmeline drew her hand away. 'what a strange young man this is, to make you cry. what has he been saying to you?' 'nothing, sir.' 'ah! miss mowbray; such a lad as that is but an indifferent guardian; pray where does his father live?' miss mowbray, not aware of the purpose of this enquiry, and glad of any thing that looked like common conversation, answered 'at audley hall, in norfolk; and in berkley-square.' some other questions, which seemed of no consequence, rochely asked, and emmeline answered; 'till hearing his carriage was at the door, he went away. '_i_ don't like your mr. delamere at all, miss mowbray,' said mrs. ashwood, as soon as the game ended. 'i never saw a prouder, more disagreeable young man in my life.' emmeline smiled faintly, and said she was sorry he did not please her. 'no, nor me neither,' said miss galton. 'such haughtiness indeed!--yet i was glad he mortified that puppy elkerton.' emmeline, who found the two friends disposed to indulge their good nature at the expence of the company of the evening, complained of being fatigued, and asked for a glass of wine and water: which having drank, she retired to bed, leaving the lady of the house, who had invited mr. hanbury and his friend to supper, to enjoy more stories of jonathan huggins, and the pretty satyrical efforts of miss galton, who made her court most effectually by ridiculing and villifying all their acquaintance whenever it was in her power. chapter xiv when rochely got home, he set about examining the state of his heart exactly as he would have examined the check book of one of his customers. he found himself most miserably in love. but avarice said, miss mowbray had no fortune. by what had passed in his bosom that evening, he had discovered that he should be wretched to see her married to another. but avarice enquired how he could offer to marry a woman without a shilling? love, represented that her modest, reserved, and unambitious turn, would perhaps make her, in the end, a more profitable match than a woman educated in expence, who might dissipate more than she brought. avarice asked whether he could depend on modesty, reserve, and a retired turn, in a girl not yet eighteen? after a long discussion, love very unexpectedly put to flight the agent of plutus, who had, with very little interruption, reigned despoticly over all his thoughts and actions for many years; and rochely determined to write to lord montreville, to lay his circumstances before him, and make a formal proposal to marry miss mowbray. in pursuance of this resolution, he composed, with great pains, (for he was remarkably slow in whatever he undertook) the following epistle.-- 'my lord, 'this serves to inform your lordship, that i have seen miss mowbray, and like her well enough to be willing to marry her, if you, my lord, have not any other views for her; and as to fortune, i will just give your lordship a memorandum of mine. 'i have sixty thousand pounds in the stocks; viz. eighteen in the three per cent. consols. twenty in bank stock: ten in east india stock; and twelve in south sea annuities. 'i have about forty thousand on different mortgages; all good, as i will be ready at any time to shew you. i have houses worth about five more. and after the death of my mother, who is near eighty, i shall have an estate in middlesex worth ten more. the income of my business is near three thousand pounds a year; and my whole income near ten thousand. 'my character, my lord, is well known: and you will find, if we agree, that i shall not limit miss mowbray's settlement to the proportion of what your lordship may please to give her, (for i suppose you will give her something) but to what she ought to have as my widow, if it should so happen that she survives me. 'i have reason to believe miss mowbray has no dislike to this proposal; and hope to hear from your lordship thereon by return of post. i am, my lord, your lordship's very humble servant, humphrey rochely.' _lombard-street, nov. th. --._ this was going to the point at once. the letter arrived in due time at audley-hall; and was received by lord montreville with surprise and satisfaction. the hint of miss mowbray's approbation made him hope she was yet concealed from delamere; and as he determined to give the earliest and strongest encouragement to this overture, from a man worth above an hundred thousand pounds, he called a council with sir richard crofts, who knew rochely, and who kept cash with him; and it was determined that lord montreville should go to town, not only to close at once with the opulent banker, but to get delamere out of the way while the marriage was in agitation, which it would otherwise be impossible to conceal from him. to persuade him to another continental tour was what sir richard advised: and agreed to go to town with his lordship, in order to assist in this arduous undertaking. lord montreville, however, failed not immediately to answer the letter he had received from mr. rochely, in these terms-- 'sir, 'this day's post brought me the honour of your letter. 'if miss mowbray is as sensible as she ought to be, of so flattering a distinction, be assured it will be one of the most satisfactory events of my life to see her form a connection with a gentleman truly worthy and respectable. 'to hasten the completion of an event so desirable, i fully intend being in town in a very few days; when i will, with your permission, wait on you in lombard-street. 'i have the honour to be, with great esteem, sir, your most devoted, and most obedient servant, montreville.' _audley-hall, nov. ._ the haughty peer, who derived his blood from the most antient of the british nobility, thus condescended to flatter opulence and to court the alliance of riches. nor did he think any advances he could make, beneath him, when he hoped at once to marry his niece to advantage, and what was yet more material, put an invincible bar between her and his son. while this correspondence, so inimical to delamere's hopes, was passing between his father and mr. rochely, he was every hour with emmeline; intoxicated with his passion, indulging the most delightful hopes, and forgetting every thing else in the world. he had found it his interest to gain (by a little more attention, and some fine speeches about elegance and grace,) the good opinion of mrs. ashwood; who now declared she had been mistaken in her first idea of him, and that he was not only quite a man of fashion, but possessed an excellent understanding and very refined sentiments. the sudden death of her father had obliged her to leave home some days before: but as soon as she was gone, emmeline, who foresaw that delamere would be constantly with her, sent for miss galton. no remonstrance of her's could prevent his passing every day at the house, from breakfast 'till a late hour in the evening. on the last of these days, he was there as usual; and it was past eight at night, when emmeline, who had learned to play on the harp, by being present when mrs. ashwood received lessons on that instrument, was singing to delamere a little simple air of which he was particularly fond, and into which she threw so much pathos, that lost in fond admiration, he 'hung over her, enamoured,' when she was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who said that a lord, but he forgot the name, was below, and desired to speak with miss mowbray. if emmeline was alarmed at the sight of lord montreville at swansea, when she had acted with the strictest attention to his wishes, she had now much more reason to be so, when she felt herself conscious of having given encouragement to delamere, and had reason to fear her motives for doing so would be misbelieved or misunderstood. tho' the servant had forgotten his name, emmeline doubted not but it was lord montreville; and she had hardly time to think how she should receive him, before his lordship (who had impatiently followed the servant up stairs) entered the room. delamere, immovable behind emmeline's chair, was the first object that struck him. he had hoped that her residence was yet unknown to his son; and surprise, vexation, and anger, were marked in his countenance and attitude. 'miss mowbray!' (advancing towards her) 'is it thus you fulfil the promise you gave me? and you, mr. delamere--do you still obstinately persist in this ridiculous, this unworthy attachment?' 'i left you, my lord,' answered delamere, 'without deceiving you as to my motives for doing so. i came in search of miss mowbray. by a fortunate accident i found her. i have never dissimulated; nor ever mean it in whatever relates to her. nothing has prevented my making her irrevocably mine, but her too scrupulous adherence to a promise _she_ ought never to have given, and which your _lordship_ ought never to have extorted.' emmeline, gentle as she was, had yet that proper spirit which conscious worth seldom fails of inspiring: and knowing that she had already sacrificed much to the respect she thought lord montreville entitled to, she was hurt at finding, from his angry and contemptuous tone, as well as words, that she was condemned unheard, and treated with harshness where she deserved only kindness and gratitude. the courage of which her first surprise had deprived her, was restored by these sensations; and she said, with great coolness, yet with less timidity than usual, 'my lord, i have yet done nothing in violation of the promise i gave you. but the moment your lordship doubts my adherence to it, from that moment i consider it as dissolved.' delamere, encouraged by an answer so flattering to his hopes, now addressed himself to his father, who was by this time seated; and spoke so forcibly of his invincible attachment, and his determined purpose never to marry any other woman, that the resolution of lord montreville was shaken, and would perhaps have given way, if the violent and clamorous opposition of his wife on one hand, and the ambitious projects and artful advice of sir richard crofts on the other, had not occurred to him. he commanded himself so far as not to irritate delamere farther, by reflections on the conduct of emmeline, which he found would not be endured; and trying to stifle his feelings under the dissimulation of the courtier, he heard with patience all he had to urge. he even answered him with temper; made an apology to emmeline for any expressions that might have given her offence; and at length threw into his manner a composure that elated delamere to a degree of hope hitherto unfelt. he fancied that his father, weary of hopeless opposition, and convinced of the merit of emmeline, would consent to his marriage: and his quick spirit seizing with avidity on an idea so flattering, converted into a confirmation of it, all lord montreville's discourse for the remainder of the visit: in which, by dissimulation on one part, and favourable expectations on the other, they both seemed to return to some degree of good humour. delamere agreed to go home with his father; and lord montreville having determined to return the next day to speak to emmeline on the proposals of rochely, they parted; his lordship meditating as he went home how to prevent delamere's interrupting the conference he wished to have on a subject which was so near his heart. on his arrival at his own house, he found sir richard crofts waiting for him, whom he detained to supper. delamere, as soon as it was over, went to his lodgings; which lord montreville did not oppose, as he wished to be alone with sir richard; but he desired, that after that evening delamere would return to his apartments in berkley-square; which he partly promised to do. lord montreville related to sir richard what had passed, and the uneasiness he was under to find that delamere, far from relaxing in his determination, had openly renewed his addresses; and that emmeline seemed much less disposed to sacrifice his wishes to those of his family, than he had yet found her. sir richard, himself wholly insensible to the feelings of a father, discouraged in lord montreville every tendency to forgive or indulge this indiscreet passion. and equally incapable of the generous sentiments of a gentleman towards a woman, young, helpless, dependant, and unfortunate, he tried to harden the heart of lord montreville against his orphan niece, and advised him peremptorily to insist on her marrying rochely immediately, or, as the alternative, to declare to her that from the moment of her refusal she must expect from him neither support or countenance. this threat on one hand, and the affluence offered her by rochely on the other, must, he thought, oblige her to embrace his proposals. the greatest difficulty seemed to be, to prevent delamere's impetuosity from snatching her at once out of the power of his father, by an elopement; to which, if she preferred him to rochely, it was very probable she might be driven by harsh measures to consent; and that delamere must have in her heart a decided preference, there could be little doubt. lord montreville was apprehensive that delamere, who had, he found, for many days lived entirely at mrs. ashwood's, would be there before him in the morning, and preclude all possibility of a private conversation with emmeline. fitz-edward, who could, and from the duplicity of his character would perhaps have made a diversion in his favour, was not in town; and to both the mr. crofts delamere had an antipathy, which he took very little pains to conceal; they therefore could not be employed to engage him. in this difficulty, sir richard offered to go himself to miss mowbray, that lord montreville might be at liberty to detain his son; pretences for which could not be wanting. his lordship closed with this offer with pleasure; and felt himself relieved from a painful task. his heart, though greatly changed by a long course of good fortune, and by the habit of living among the great, was yet not quite lost to the feelings of nature. his brother, than whom he was only a year younger, and whom he had loved thro' childhood and youth with singular attachment, was not wholly forgotten; and the softened likeness, in the countenance of emmeline, to one whom he had so long been used to look up to with tenderness, frequently said as much for her to his affection, as her unprotected and helpless state did to his honour and his compassion. nor, whatever pains he took to stifle his pity for his son, could he entirely reconcile to his own heart the part he was acting. but of these feelings, meritorious as they were, he was ashamed, and dared not avow them even to himself; while he was intimidated by the supercilious spirit and unconquerable pride of lady montreville, and tempted by the visions of encreasing splendour and accumulated riches which sir richard perpetually presented to his imagination, and which there was indeed but little doubt of realizing. the mowbray family were known to possess abilities. those of the deceased mr. mowbray were remarkably great, tho' he had thrown away his time and health in a course of dissipation which had made them useless. the talents of lord montreville, tho' less brilliant, were more solid. and now in the meridian of life, with powerful connections and extensive interest, he was courted to accept an eminent post in administration, with a promise of a marquisate being restored to him, which had long lain dormant in his own family, and of the revival of which he was extremely ambitious. to support such a dignity, his son's future fortune, ample as it must be, would not, he thought, be adequate; and could only be made so by his marrying miss otley or some woman of equal fortune. this, therefore, was the weight which entirely over-balanced all his kindness for his niece, and confirmed his resolution to tear her from delamere at whatever price. chapter xv it was much earlier than the usual hour for morning visits, when sir richard crofts was at the door of mrs. ashwood. miss mowbray had given no orders to be denied; and he was, on enquiring for her, shewn into the parlour. as soon as the servant informed her a gentleman was below whom she found was not delamere, she concluded it was lord montreville; and with a fearful and beating heart, went down. she saw, with some surprise, a middle-aged man, of no very pleasant countenance and person, to whom she was an entire stranger; and concluding his business was with mrs. ashwood, she was about to retreat, when the gentleman advancing towards her, told her he waited on her, commissioned by lord montreville. emmeline sat down in silence, and sir richard began. 'miss mowbray, i have the honour to be connected with lord montreville, and entirely in his lordship's confidence: you will please therefore to consider what i shall say to you as coming immediately, directly, and absolutely, from himself; and as his lordship's decided, and unalterable, and irrevocable intentions.' the abruptness of this speech shocked and distressed emmeline. she grew very pale; but bowing slightly to the speaker, he went on. 'my lord montreville hopes and supposes, and is willing to believe, that you have not, in direct violation of your promise solemnly given, encouraged mr. delamere in the absurd, and impossible, and impracticable project of marrying you. but however that may have been, as it is his lordship's firm resolution and determination never to suffer such a connection, you have, i suppose, too much sense not to see the mischief you must occasion, and bring on, and cause to yourself, by encouraging a giddy, and infatuated, and ignorant, and rash young man, to resist paternal authority.' emmeline was still silent. 'now here is an opportunity of establishing yourself in affluence, and reputation, and fortune, beyond what your most sanguine hopes could offer you; and i am persuaded you will eagerly, and readily, and immediately embrace it. lord montreville insists upon it; the world expects it; and mr. delamere's family demand it of you.' 'sir!' said emmeline, astonished at the peremptory tone and strange purport of these words. 'it is my custom,' resumed sir richard, 'when i am upon business, to speak plainly, and straitly, and to the point. this then is what i have to propose--you are acquainted with mr. rochely, the great banker?' 'yes, sir.' 'he offers to my lord montreville to marry you; and to make settlements on you equal to what you might have claimed, had you a right to be considered as a daughter of the house of mowbray. his real fortune is very great; his annual income superior to that of many of the nobility; and there _can_ be no reason, indeed none will be allowed, or listened to, or heard of, why you should not eagerly, and instantly, and joyfully accept a proposal so infinitely superior to what you have any claim, or right, or pretence to.' this was almost too much for poor emmeline. anger and disdain, which she found fast rising in her bosom, restrained her tears: but her eyes flashed indignantly on the unfeeling politician who thus so indelicately addressed her. he would not give her time to speak; but seemed determined to overwhelm her imagination at once with the contrast he placed before her. 'if,' continued he, 'you will agree to become the wife of mr. rochely, as soon as settlements can be prepared, my lord montreville, of whose generosity, and greatness of mind, and liberality, too much cannot be said, offers to consider you as being really his niece; as being really a daughter of the mowbray family; and, that being so considered, you may not be taken by any man portionless, he will, on the day of marriage, present, and settle on, and give you, three thousand pounds. 'now, miss mowbray, consider, and weigh, and reflect on this well: and give me leave, in order that you may form a just judgment, to tell you the consequence of your refusal. 'my lord montreville, who is not obliged to give you the least assistance, or support, or countenance, does by me declare, that if you are so weak (to call it by no harsher name) as to refuse this astonishing, and amazing, and singular good fortune, he shall consider you as throwing off all duty, and regard, and attention to him; and as one, with whose fate it will be no longer worth his while to embarrass, perplex, and concern himself. from that moment, therefore, you must drop the name of mowbray, to which in fact you have no right, and take that of your mother, whatever it be; and you must never expect from my lord montreville, or the mowbray-delamere family, either countenance, or support, or protection. 'now, miss mowbray, your answer. the proposition cannot admit of deliberation, or doubt, or hesitation, and my lord expects it by me.' the presence of mind which a very excellent understanding and a very innocent heart gave to emmeline, was never more requisite than on this occasion. the rude and peremptory manner of the speaker; the dreadful alternative of rochely on one side, and indigence on the other, thus suddenly and unexpectedly brought before her; was altogether so overcoming, that she could not for a moment collect her spirits enough to speak at all. she sighed; but her agitation was too great for tears; and at length summoning all her courage, she replied-- 'my lord montreville, sir, would have been kinder, had he delivered himself his wishes and commands. such, however, as i now receive them, they require no deliberation. _i will not_ marry mr. rochely, tho' instead of the fortune you describe, he could offer me the world.--lord montreville _may_ abandon me, but he _shall not_ make me wretched. tell him therefore, sir,' (her spirit rose as she spoke) 'that the daughter of his brother, unhappy as she is, yet boasts that nobleness of mind which her father possessed, and disclaims the mercenary views of becoming, from pecuniary motives, the wife of a man whom she cannot either love or esteem. tell him too, that if she had not inherited a strong sense of honour, of which at least her birth does not deprive her, she might now have been the wife of mr. delamere, and independant of his lordship's authority; and it is improbable, that one who has sacrificed so much to integrity, should now be compelled by threats of indigence to the basest of all actions, that of selling her person and her happiness for a subsistence. i beg that _you, sir_, who seem to have delivered lord montreville's message, with such scrupulous exactness, will take the trouble to be as precise in my answer; and that his lordship will consider it as final.' having said this, with a firmness of voice and manner which resentment, as well as a noble pride, supplied; she arose, curtseyed composedly to sir richard, and went out of the room; leaving the unsuccessful ambassador astonished at that strength of mind, and dignity of manner, which he did not expect in so young a woman, and somewhat mortified, that his masculine eloquence, on which he was accustomed to pride himself, and which he thought generally unanswerable, had so entirely fallen short of the effect he expected. unwilling however to return to lord montreville without hopes of success, he thought he might obtain at least some information from mrs. ashwood of the likeliest means to move her untractable and high spirited friend. he therefore rang the bell, and desired to speak with that lady. but as she was not yet returned from the house of her father, where a family meeting was held to inspect his will, sir richard failed of attempting to secure her agency; and was obliged, however reluctantly, to depart. emmeline, whose command of herself was exerted with too much violence not to shake her whole frame with it's effects, no sooner reached her own chamber than she found all her courage gone, and a violent passion of tears succeeded. her deep convulsive sighs reached the ears of miss galton; who entered the room, and began, in the common mode of consolation, first to enquire why she wept? emmeline answered only by weeping the more. miss galton enquired if that gentleman was lord montreville. emmeline was unable to reply; and miss galton finding no gratification to her curiosity, which, mingled with envious malignity, had long been her ruling passion, was obliged to quit the unhappy emmeline; which was indeed the only favour she could do her. the whole morning had passed before miss mowbray was able to come down stairs, and when she did, her languor and dejection were excessive. miss galton only dined with her; if it might be called dining, for she eat nothing; but just as the cloth was removed, a coach stopped, and mrs. ashwood appeared, led by her brother, mr. stafford. emmeline, who had not very lately heard from her beloved friend, now eagerly enquired after her, and learned that the illness of one of her children had, together with her being far advanced in her pregnancy, prevented her coming to london with mr. stafford; who, tho' summoned thither immediately on his father's death, had only arrived the evening before; the messenger that went having missed him at his own house, and having been obliged to follow him into another county. he delivered to miss mowbray a letter from mrs. stafford, with which emmeline, eager to read it, retired-- 'trust me, emmeline, no abatement in my tender regard, has occasioned my omitting to write to you: but anxiety of mind so great, as to deprive me of all power to attend to any thing but it's immediate object.--your poor little friend harry, who looked so much recovered, and so full of health and spirits, when you left him at swansea, was three weeks ago seized again with one of those fevers to which he has so repeatedly been liable, and for many days his life appeared to be in the most immediate danger. you know how far we are from a physician; and you know my anxiety for this first darling of my heart; judge then, my emmeline, of the miserable hours i have known, between hope and fear, and the sleepless nights i have passed at the bed side of my suffering cherub; and in my present state i doubly feel all this anxiety and fatigue, and am very much otherwise than well. of myself, however, i think not, since harry is out of danger, and dr. farnaby thinks will soon be entirely restored; but he is still so very weak, that i never quit him even a moment. the rest of my children are well; and all who are capable of recollection, remember and love you. 'and now, my dear miss mowbray, as the visitors who have been with me ever since my return from swansea, are happily departed and no others expected, and as mr. stafford will be engaged in town almost all the winter, in consequence of his father's death, will you not come to me? _you_ only can alleviate and share a thousand anxieties that prey on my spirits; _you_ only can sweeten the hour of my confinement, which will happen in january; and before _you_ only i can sigh at liberty and be forgiven. 'ah! emmeline--the death of mr. stafford's father, far from producing satisfaction as increasing our fortune, brings to me only regret and sorrow. he loved me with great affection; and i owe him a thousand obligations. the family will have reason to regret his loss; tho' the infirmities of the latter part of his life were not much alleviated by their attendance or attention. 'come to me, emmeline, if possible; come, if you can, with mr. stafford; or if he is detained long in town, come without him. i will send my post-chaise to meet you at basingstoke. lord montreville cannot object to it; and delamere, whom you have never mentioned, has, i conclude, given way to the peremptory commands of his father, and has determined to forget my emmeline. 'is it then probable any one can forget her? i know not of what the volatile and thoughtless delamere may be capable; but i know that of all things it would be the most impossible to her truly attached and affectionate, c. stafford.' _woodfield, nov. ._ this letter gave great relief to the mind of the dejected emmeline. that her first and dearest friend, opened at this painful crisis her consolatory bosom to receive and pity her; and that she should have the power to share her fatigue, and lessen the weight of her anxiety during the slow recovery of her child; seemed to be considerations which softened all the anguish she had endured during the day. she was however too much disordered to go down to tea; and told mrs. ashwood, who civilly came up to enquire after her, that she had a violent pain in her head and would go to bed. mrs. ashwood, full of her increased fortune, and busied in studying to make her deep mourning as becoming as possible, let her do as she would, and thought no more about her. she had therefore time to meditate at leisure on her wayward fate: and some surprise that delamere had not appeared the whole day, mingled itself with her reflections. poor delamere was not to blame. lord montreville had sent him very early in the morning to desire to see him for five minutes on business of consequence. delamere, who from what had passed the evening before had indulged, during the night, the fondest dreams of happiness, obeyed the summons not without some hopes that he should hear all his favourable presages confirmed. when he came, however, his father, waving all discourse that related to emmeline or himself, affected to consult him on a proposal he had received for his eldest sister, which the family were disposed to promote; and after detaining him as long as he could on this and on other subjects, he desired him to send to his lodgings for millefleur, and to dress as expeditiously as possible, in order to accompany him to dine at lord dornock's, a scottish nobleman, with whom his lordship was deeply engaged in the depending negociation with ministry; and who was at his seat, about nine miles from london. delamere reluctantly engaged in such a party. but however short his father's discourse fell of what he hoped, he yet determined to get the better of his repugnance and obey him; still flattering himself that lord montreville would lead to the subject nearest his heart, or that in the course of the day he should at least have an opportunity of introducing it. they therefore set out together, on the most amicable terms, in lord montreville's coach. but as they had taken up on their way a gentleman who held a place under lord dornock, his presence prevented any conversation but on general subjects, during their short journey. the dinner passed as such dinners generally do--too much in the secret to touch on politics, all such discourse was carefully avoided at the table of lord dornock. in literature they had no resource; and therefore the conversation chiefly turned on the pleasure they were then enjoying--that of the luxuries of the table. they determined on the merits of the venison of the past season; settled what was the best way of preparing certain dishes; and whose domain produced the most exquisite materials for others. and on these topics a society of cooks could not have more learnedly descanted. delamere, not yet of an age to be initiated into the noble science of eating, and among whose ideas of happiness the delights of gratifying his palate had not yet been numbered, heard them with impatience and disgust. he was obliged, however, to stay while the wines were criticised as eloquently as the meats had been; and to endure a long harangue from the master of the house, on _cote roti_ and _lacryma christi_; and after the elder part of the company had adjusted their various merits and swallowed a sufficient quantity, the two noblemen retired to a private conference; and delamere, obliged to move into a circle of insipid women, took refuge in cards, which he detested almost as much as the entertainment he had just quitted. the hours, however slowly, wore away, and his patience was almost exhausted: soon after ten o'clock he ventured to send to his father, to know whether he was ready to return to town? but he received a message in reply, 'that he had determined to stay all night where he was.' vexed and angry, delamere began to suspect that his father had some design in thus detaining him at a distance from emmeline; and fired by indignation at this idea, equally scorning to submit to restraint or to be detained by finesse, he disengaged himself from the card table, fetched his hat, and without speaking to any body, walked to the next village, where he got into a post-chaise and was presently in london; but as it was almost twelve o'clock, he forbore to visit emmeline that night. chapter xvi as soon as there was any probability of emmeline's being visible the next morning, delamere was at clapham. the servant of whom he enquired for her, told him, that miss mowbray had not yet rung her bell, and that as it was later than her usual hour, she was afraid it was owing to her being ill. alarmed at this intelligence, delamere eagerly questioned her further; and learned that the preceding morning, a gentleman who had never been there before, had been to see miss mowbray, and had staid with her about three quarters of an hour, during which he had talked very loud; and that after he was gone, she had hastened to her own room, crying sadly, and had seemed very much vexed the whole day afterwards. that when she went to bed, which was early in the evening, she had sighed bitterly, and said she was not well. the servants, won by the sweetness and humanity with which emmeline treated them, all seemed to consider her health and happiness as their own concern; and the girl who delivered this intelligence to delamere, had been very much about her, and knowing her better, loved her more than the others. delamere could not doubt the truth of this account; yet he could not conjecture who the stranger could be, in whose power it was thus to distress emmeline. but dreading lest some scheme was in agitation to take her from him, he sat in insupportable anxiety 'till she should summons the maid. her music book lay open on a _piano forte_ in the breakfast parlour. a song which he had a few days before desired her to learn, as being one which particularly charmed him, seemed to have been just copied into it, and he fancied the notes and the writing were executed with more than her usual elegance. under it was a little _porte feuille_ of red morocco. delamere took it up. it was untied; and two or three small tinted drawings fell out. he saw the likeness of mrs. stafford, done from memory; one yet more striking of his sister augusta; and two or three unfinished resemblances of persons he did not know, touched with less spirit than the other two. a piece of silver paper doubled together enclosed another; he opened it--it was a drawing of himself, done with a pencil, and slightly tinged with a crayon; strikingly like; but it seemed unfinished, and somewhat effaced. though among so many other portraits, this could not be considered as a very flattering distinction, delamere, on seeing it, was not master of his transports. he now believed emmeline (whom he could never induce to own that her partiality for him exceeded the bounds of friendship) yet cherished in her heart a passion she would not avow. while he was indulging these sanguine and delicious hopes, he heard a bell ring, and flew to enquire if it was that of emmeline? the maid, who crossed the hall to attend it's summons, told him it was. he stepped softly up stairs behind the servant, and waited at the door of the chamber while she went in. to the question, from the maid, 'how she did?' emmeline answered, 'much better.' 'mr. delamere is here, madam, and begs to know whether he may see you?' emmeline had expected him all the day before, and was not at all surprised at his coming now. but she knew not what she should say to him. to dissimulate was to her almost impossible; yet to tell him what had passed between her and sir richard crofts was to create dissentions of the most alarming nature between him and his father; for she knew delamere would immediately and warmly resent the harshness of lord montreville. she could not however determine to avoid seeing delamere; and she thought his lordship was not entitled to much consideration, after the indelicate and needless shock he had given her, by employing the peremptory, insolent, and unfeeling sir richard crofts. after a moment's hesitation, she told nanny to let mr. delamere know that as soon as she was dressed she would be with him in the parlour. delamere, who heard the message, stepped softly down stairs, replaced the drawings, and waited the entrance of emmeline; who neither requiring or accustoming herself to borrow any advantage from art or ornament, was soon dressed in her usual simple undress. but to give some appearance of truth to what she intended to alledge, a cold, in excuse for her swollen eyes and languid looks, she wrapt a gauze hood over her head, and tied a black ribband round her throat; for tho' she could not wholly conceal the truth from delamere, she wished to prevent his seeing how much it had affected her. when she entered the room, delamere, who was at the door to meet her, was astonished at the alteration he saw in her countenance. 'you are ill, emmeline?' said he, taking her hand. 'i am not quite well--i have a violent cold coming.' 'a cold?' eagerly answered delamere, 'you have been crying--who was the person who called on you yesterday?' it was now in vain to attempt concealment if she had intended it. 'he did not tell me his name, for our conversation was very short; but his servants told those of mrs. ashwood that his name is sir richard crofts.' 'and what business could sir richard crofts possibly have with you?' emmeline related the conversation with great fidelity and without comment. delamere had hardly patience to hear her out. he protested he would immediately go to sir richard crofts, and not only force him to apologize for what had passed, but promise never again to interfere between lord montreville and his family. from executing this violent measure, emmeline by earnest entreaty diverted him. she had not yet recovered the shock given her by the unwelcome interview of the preceding day; and though she had a very excellent constitution, her sensibility of mind was so great, that when she suffered any poignant uneasiness, it immediately affected her frame. in the present state of her spirits, she could not hear delamere's vehement and passionate exclamations without tears; and when he saw how much she was hurt, he commanded himself; spoke more calmly; and by a rapid transition from rage to tenderness, he wept also, and bathed her hands with his tears. he was not without hopes that this last effort of lord montreville would effect a change in his favour; and he pleaded again for an elopement with the warmest eloquence of love. but emmeline, though she felt all the force of his arguments, had still the courage to resist them; and all he could obtain from her was a renewal of her former promise, neither to leave mrs. ashwood unknown to him or to conceal the place of her residence; to consent to see him wherever she should be, and positively to reject mr. rochely's offer. in return, she expected from delamere some concessions which nothing but the sight of her uneasiness would have induced him to grant. at length she persuaded him to promise that he would not insult sir richard crofts, or commit any other rashness which might irritate lord montreville. nothing was a stronger proof of the deep root which his passion had taken in his heart, than the influence emmeline had obtained over his ungovernable and violent spirit, hitherto unused to controul, and accustomed from his infancy to exert over his own family the most boundless despotism. emmeline, tranquillized and consoled by his promises, then entreated him to go; as the state of mrs. ashwood's family made visitors improper. in this, too, he obeyed her. and as soon as he was gone, emmeline sat down to write to mrs. stafford, related briefly what had lately happened, and told her, that as soon as lord montreville could be induced to settle some yearly sum for her support, (which notwithstanding his threats she still thought he would do, on condition of her engaging never, without his consent, to marry delamere,) she would set out for woodfield. lord montreville, absorbed in politics and in a negociation with ministry, had, on the evening when he and his son were at lord dornock's, forgotten the impatient temper and particular situation of delamere. his non appearance at supper occasioned an enquiry, and it was found he had left the house. it was too late for lord montreville to follow him that night, and would, indeed, have been useless; but early the next morning he was in berkley-square, where he heard nothing of his son. he received a letter from sir richard crofts, relating the ill success of his embassy; but adding, that he would bring rochely to his lordship the next day, to consider together what was next to be done. a letter also soon after arrived from lady montreville, to let his lordship know that herself and her daughter, with lady mary and miss otley, were coming to town the next evening. delamere, the tumult of whose spirits was too great immediately to subside, took, for the first time in his life, some pains to conquer their violence, in consideration of emmeline. he sent his servants to berkley-square, to enquire among the domestics what had passed. he thence learned that his father had returned in the morning from lord dornock's in very ill humour, and that his mother was expected in town. an interview with either, would, he was conscious, only be the occasion of that dissention he had promised emmeline to avoid. his mother, he knew, came to town determined to keep no terms with him; and that she would incessantly harrass him with reproaches or teize him with entreaties. he therefore determined to avoid entirely all conversation with both; and after a short reflection on the best means to do so, he ordered millefleur to discharge the lodgings; told him and his other two servants that he was going out of town, and should not take either them or his horses; therefore would have them go to berkley-square, and wait there his return. he bade his valet tell lord montreville that he should be absent ten days or a fortnight. then ordering an hackney coach, he directed it to drive to westminster bridge, as if he meant there to take post: instead of which he dismissed it at the end of bridge-street; and walking over to the surry side, he presently provided himself with lodgings under the name of mr. oswald, a gentleman just come from ireland; and all traces of mr. delamere were lost. end of the first volume volume ii chapter i sir richard crofts brought mr. rochely to lord montreville at the time appointed; and in consequence of the conversation then held, his lordship was confirmed in his resolution of persisting in the plan sir richard had laid down, to force emmeline to accept the good fortune offered her. lord montreville had sent as soon as he got to town to delamere's lodgings, whose servants said that he had slept there, but was then gone out. his lordship concluded he was gone to clapham; but as he could not remedy his uneasiness on that head, he was obliged to endure it. about twelve o'clock delamere had arranged matters for his concealment; and about three, as lord montreville was dressing to go out, millefleur, together with delamere's footman and groom, came as they had been ordered to berkley-square. this circumstance was no sooner related to lord montreville by his valet de chambre, than he ordered millefleur to be sent up. the frenchman related to his lordship, that his master was certainly gone to mr. percival's; but lord montreville concluded he was gone to scotland, and, in a tempest of anger and vexation, cursed the hour when he had listened to the advice of sir richard crofts, the harshness of whose proceedings had, he imagined, precipitated the event he had so long dreaded. he was so entirely persuaded that this conjecture was the truth, that he first gave orders for a post-chaise and four to be ready directly; then recollecting that if he overtook his son he had no power to force him back, he thought it better to take with him some one who could influence emmeline. his youngest daughter was still in yorkshire; mrs. stafford he knew not where to find; but he supposed that mrs. ashwood, with whom she had lived some months, might have power to persuade her; and not knowing what else to do, indeed hardly knowing what he expected from the visit, he ordered his coachman to be as expeditious as possible in conveying him to the house of that lady. mrs. ashwood, her brother, and four or five other persons related to the family, were at dinner. lord montreville entered the room; spoke to those he knew with as much civility as he could; but not seeing emmeline among them, his apprehensions were confirmed. he desired they would not disturb themselves; and declined sharing their repast; but being unable to conceal his emotion till it was over, he said to mrs. ashwood--'i am sorry, madam, to trouble you on this unhappy business. i did hope you would have had the goodness at least to inform me of it. what can i do?' exclaimed he, breaking suddenly from his discourse and rising--'good god, what can i do?' the company were silent, and amazed. mrs. ashwood, however, said, 'i am sorry that any thing, my lord, has disturbed your lordship. i am sure i should have been happy, my lord, could i have been of any service to your lordship in whatever it is.' 'disturbed!' cried he, striking his forehead with his hand, 'i am distracted! when did she go? how long has she been gone?' 'who, my lord?' 'miss mowbray--emmeline--oh! it will be impossible to overtake them!' 'gone! my lord?' 'gone with delamere!--gone to scotland!' 'miss mowbray was however in the house not an hour ago,' said miss galton; 'i saw her myself go up the garden just as we sat down to dinner.' 'then she went to meet him!--then they went together!'--exclaimed lord montreville, walking round the room. an assertion so positive staggered every one. they rose from table in confusion. 'let us go up,' said mrs. ashwood; 'i can hardly think it possible, my lord, that miss mowbray is gone, unless your lordship absolutely saw them.' yet mrs. ashwood remembered that delamere had been there in the morning, and that emmeline had dined early alone, and had remained by herself all the rest of the day, under pretence of sickness; and she began to believe that all this was done to give her time to elope with delamere. she went up stairs; and lord montreville, without knowing what he did, followed her. the stairs were carpetted; any one ascending was hardly heard; and mrs. ashwood suddenly throwing open the door of her chamber, lord montreville saw her, with her handkerchief held to her face, hanging over a packet of papers which lay on the table before her. emmeline did not immediately look up--an exclamation from lord montreville made her take her handkerchief from her eyes. she arose; tried to conceal the sorrow visible in her countenance yet wet with tears, and assuming as much as she could her native ease and sweetness, she advanced towards his lordship, who still stood at the door, amazed, and asked him if he would pardon her for desiring him to sit down in a bed-chamber; if not, she would wait on him below. she then went back to the table; threw the papers into the casket that was on it; and placing a chair between that and the fire, again asked him if he would do her the honour to sit down. lord montreville did so, but said nothing. he was ashamed of his precipitancy; yet as emmeline did not know it, he would not mention it; and was yet too full of the idea to speak of any thing else. mrs. ashwood had left them--emmeline continued silent. lord montreville, after a long pause, at length said, with a stern and displeased countenance, 'i understand, miss mowbray, that my son was here this morning.' 'yes, my lord.' 'pray, do you know where he now is?' 'i do not, indeed. is he not at your lordship's house?' 'no; i am told by his servants that he is gone to mr. percival's--but _you_--'(continued he, laying a strong emphasis on the word) '_you_, miss mowbray, are i dare say better informed of his intentions than any one else.' 'upon my word, my lord,' answered emmeline, astonished, 'i do _not_ know. he said nothing to me of an intention to go any where; on the contrary, he told me he should be here again to-morrow.' 'and is it possible you are ignorant of his having left london this morning, immediately after he returned from visiting you?' 'my lord, i have never yet stooped to the meanness of a falsehood. why should your lordship now suppose me guilty of it? i repeat--and i hope you will do me the justice to believe me--upon my honour i do _not_ know whither mr. delamere is gone--nor do i know that he has left london.' lord montreville could not but believe her. but while his fears were relieved as to the elopement, they were awakened anew by the uncertainty of what was become of his son, and what his motive could be for this sudden disappearance. he thought however the present opportunity of speaking to emmeline of his resolution was not to be neglected. 'however ignorant you may be, miss mowbray,' said he, 'of the reason of his having quitted his lodgings, you are not to learn that his motive for estranging himself from his family, and becoming a stranger to his father's house, originates in his inconsiderate attachment to you. contrary to the assurances you gave me at swansea, you have encouraged this attachment; and, as i understand from sir richard crofts, you peremptorily and even rudely refuse the opportunity now offered you of establishing yourself in rank and affluence, which no other young woman would a moment hesitate to accept. such a refusal cannot be owing to mere caprice; nor could it possibly happen had you not determined, in despite of every objection, and of bringing discord into my family, to listen to that infatuated and rash young man.' 'your lordship does not treat me with your usual candour. i have promised you, voluntarily promised you, not to marry mr. delamere without your lordship's consent. to prevent his coming here was out of my power; but if i really aspired to the honour of which your lordship thinks me ambitious, _what_ has prevented me from engaging at once with mr. delamere? who has, i own to you, pressed me repeatedly to elope. my lord, while i am treated with kindness and confidence, i can rely upon my own resolution to deserve it; _but_ when your lordship, on suspicion or misrepresentation, is induced to withdraw that kindness and confidence--why should _i_ make a point of honour, where _you_ no longer seem to expect it?' the truth of this answer, as well as it's spirit, at once hurt and irritated lord montreville. determined to separate emmeline from his son, he was mortified to be forced to acknowledge in his own breast that she merited all his affection, and angry that she should be in the right when he wished to have found something to blame in her conduct. pride and self-love seemed to resent that a little weak girl should pretend to a sense of rectitude, and a force of understanding greater than his own. 'miss mowbray,' said his lordship sharply, 'i will be very explicit with you--either consent to marry mr. rochely, whose affection does you so much honour, or expect from me no farther kindness.' 'your lordship knows,' answered emmeline, 'that i have no friend on whom i have the least claim but you. if you abandon me--but, my lord, ought you to do it?----i am indeed most friendless!' she could no longer command her tears--sobs obliged her to cease speaking. lord montreville thought her resolution would give way; and trying to divest himself of all feeling, with an effort truly political, he determined to press his point. 'it is in your power,' resumed he, 'not only to place yourself above all fear of such desertion, but to engage my affection and that of my whole family. you will be in a situation of life which i should hardly refuse for one of the miss delameres. you will possess the most unbounded affluence, and a husband who adores you. a man unexceptionable in character; of a mature age; and whose immense fortune is every day encreasing. you will be considered by me, and by lady montreville, as a daughter of the house of mowbray. the blemish of your birth will be wiped off and forgotten.' emmeline wept more than before. and his lordship continued, 'if you absurdly refuse an offer so infinitely above your expectations, i shall consider myself as having more than done my duty in putting it in your way; and that your folly and imprudence dissolve all obligation on my part. you must no longer call yourself mowbray; and you must forget that you ever were allowed to be numbered among the relations of my family. nor shall i think myself obliged in any manner to provide for a person, who in scorn of gratitude, prudence and reputation, throws from her an opportunity of providing for herself.' emmeline regained some degree of resolution. she looked up, her eyes streaming with tears, and said, 'well, my lord! to the lowest indigence i must then submit; for to marry mr. rochely is not in my power.' 'we will suppose for a moment,' resumed lord montreville, 'that you could realize the visionary hopes you have presumed to indulge of uniting yourself to mr. delamere. dear as he is to me and his mother, we are determined from that moment to renounce him--never shall the rebellious son who has dared to disobey us, be again admitted to our presence!--never will we acknowledge as his wife, a person forced upon us and introduced into our family in despite of our commands, and in violation of duty, honour, and affection. _you_ will be the occasion of his being loaded with the curses of both his parents, and of introducing misery and discord into his family. can you yourself be happy under such circumstances? in point of fortune too you will find yourself deceived--while _we_ live, mr. delamere can have but a very slender income; and of every thing in our power we shall certainly deprive him, both while we live, and at our decease. consider well what i have said; and make use of your reason. begin by giving up to me the ridiculous witnesses of a ridiculous and boyish passion, which must be no longer indulged; to keep a picture of delamere is discreditable and indelicate--you will not refuse to relinquish it?' he reached over the table, and took from among two or three loose papers, which yet lay before emmeline, a little blue enamelled case, which he concluded contained a miniature of delamere, of whom several had been drawn. emmeline, absorbed in tears, did not oppose it. the spring of the case was defective. it opened in his hand; and presented to his view, not a portrait of his son, but of his brother, drawn when he was about twenty, and at a period when he was more than a brother--when he was the dearest friend lord montreville had on earth. a likeness so striking, which he had not seen for many years, had an immediate effect upon him. his brother seemed to look at him mournfully. a melancholy cast about the eye-brows diminished the vivacity of the countenance, and the faded colour (for the picture had been painted seven and twenty years) gave it a look of languor and ill health; such perhaps as the original wore before his death, when a ruined constitution threatened him for some months, tho' his life terminated by a malignant fever in a few hours. the poor distrest emmeline was the only memorial left of him; and lord montreville felt her tears a reproach for his cruelty in thus threatening to abandon to her fate, the unhappy daughter of this once loved brother. sir richard crofts and lady montreville were not by, to intercept these sentiments of returning humanity. he found the tears fill his eyes as he gazed on the picture. emmeline, insensible of every thing, saw it not; and not conscious that he had taken it, the purport of his last words she believed to relate to a sketch she had herself made of delamere. she was therefore surprized, when lord montreville arising, took her hand, and in a voice that witnessed the emotion of his soul, said--'come, my dear emmeline, pardon me for thus distressing you, you shall _not_ be compelled to marry mr. rochely if you have so great a dislike to him. you shall still have an adequate support; and i trust i shall have nothing to fear from your indiscretion in regard to delamere.' 'your lordship,' answered emmeline, without taking her handkerchief from her eyes, 'has never yet found me capable of falsehood: i will repeat, if you desire it, the promise i gave you--i will even take the most solemn oath you shall dictate, never to be the wife of mr. delamere, unless your lordship and lady montreville consent.' 'i take your promise,' answered his lordship, 'and shall rely firmly upon it. but emmeline, you must go from hence for your own sake; your peace and reputation require it; delamere must not frequent the house where you are: you must conceal from him the place of your abode.' 'my lord, i will be ingenuous with you. to go from hence is what i intend, and with your lordship's permission i will set out immediately for mrs. stafford's. but to conceal from mr. delamere where i am, is not in my power; for i have given him a solemn promise to see him if he desires it, wherever i shall be: and as i hope you depend on my honour, it must be equally sacred whether given to him or you. you will therefore not insist on my breaking this engagement, and i promise you again never to violate the other.' with this compromise, lord montreville was obliged to be content. he entreated emmeline to see rochely again, and hear his offers. but she absolutely refused; assuring lord montreville, that were his fortune infinitely greater, she would not marry him, tho' servitude should be the alternative. his lordship therefore forbore to press her farther. he desired, that if delamere wrote to her, or saw her, she would let him know, which she readily agreed to; and he told her, that so long as she was single, and did nothing to disoblige him, he would pay her an hundred guineas a year in quarterly payments. he gave her a bank note of fifty pounds; and recommending it to her to go as soon as possible to mrs. stafford's, he kissed her cheek with an appearance of affection greater than he had yet shewn, and then went home to prepare for the reception of lady montreville, whose arrival he did not greatly wish for; dreading lest her violence and ill-temper should drive his son into some new extravagance. but as her will was not to be disputed, he submitted without remonstrance to the alteration of the plan he had proposed; which was, that his family should pass their christmas in norfolk, whither he intended to have returned. the next day delamere was again at clapham, very early. emmeline, the additional agitation of whose mind had prevented her sleeping during the night, appeared more indisposed than she had done the day before. delamere, very much alarmed at her altered looks, anxiously enquired the cause? and without hesitation she told him simply all that had passed; the promise she had given to his father, to which she intended strictly to adhere, and the arrangement she had agreed to on condition of being persecuted no more on the score of mr. rochely. it is impossible to describe the grief and indignation of delamere, at hearing this relation. he saw all the hopes frustrated which he had been so long indulging; he saw between him and all he loved, a barrier which time only could remove; he dared not hope that emmeline would ever be induced to break an engagement which she considered as binding; he dared not flatter himself with the most distant prospect of procuring the consent of lord and lady montreville, and therefore by their deaths only could he obtain her; which if he had been unnatural enough to wish, was yet in all probability very distant; as lord montreville was not more than seven and forty, and of an excellent constitution; and lady montreville three years younger. passion and resentment for some moments stifled every other sentiment in the heart of delamere. but the impediments that thus arose to his wishes were very far from diminishing their violence. the more impossible his union with emmeline seemed to be, the more ardently he desired it. the difficulties that might have checked, or conquered an inferior degree of passion, served only to strengthen his, and to render it insurmountable-- it was some moments before emmeline could prevail upon him to listen to her. she then enquired why he had concealed himself from his father, and where he had been? he answered, that he had avoided lord montreville, because, had he met him, he found himself incapable of commanding his temper and of forbearing to resent his sending sir richard crofts to her, which he had promised her not to do. that therefore he had taken other lodgings in another part of the town, where he intended to remain. emmeline exhorted and implored him to return to berkley-square. he positively refused. he refused also to tell her where he lodged. and complaining loudly of her cruelty and coldness, yet tenderly entreating her to take care of her health, he left her; having first procured permission to see her the next day, and every day till she set out for woodfield. when he was gone, miss mowbray wrote to lord montreville-- 'my lord, 'in pursuance of the word i passed to your lordship, i have the honour to acquaint you that mr. delamere has just left me. i endeavoured to prevail on him to inform me where he lodges; but he refuses to give me the least information. if it be your lordship's wish to see him, you will probably have an opportunity of doing it here, as he proposed being here to-morrow; but refused to name the hour, apprehending perhaps that you might meet him, as i did not conceal from him that i should acquaint you with my having seen him. i have the honour to be, my lord, your lordship's most obedient servant, emmeline mowbray.' _clapham, dec. ._ lord montreville received this letter in her ladyship's dressing-room. the servant who brought it in, said it came from clapham; and lady montreville insisted on seeing its contents. she had been before acquainted with what had passed; and bestowed on her son the severest invectives for his obstinacy and folly. poor emmeline however, who was the cause of it, was the principal object of her resentment and disdain. even this last instance of her rectitude, could not diminish the prejudice which embittered the mind of lady montreville against her. she lamented, whenever she deigned to speak of her, that the laws of this country, unlike those of better regulated kingdoms, did not give people of fashion power to remove effectually those who interfered with their happiness, or were inimical to their views. 'if this little wretch,' said she, 'was in france, it would not be difficult to put an end to the trouble she has dared to give us. a _letter de cachet_ would cure the creature of her presumption, and place her where her art and affectation should not disturb the peace of families of high rank.' lord montreville heard these invectives without reply, but not without pain. augusta delamere, who arrived in berkley-square the same morning that lady montreville did, felt still more hurt by her mother's determined hatred to emmeline, whom she languished to see, and had never ceased to love. miss delamere inheriting all the pride of her mother, and adding to it a sufficient share of vanity and affectation of her own, had taken a dislike to the persecuted emmeline, if possible more inveterate than that of lady montreville. tho' she had never seen her, she detested her; and exerted all her influence on her mother to prevent her being received into the family as her father's relation. fitz-edward had praised her as the most interesting woman he had ever seen. miss delamere had no aversion to fitz-edward; and tho' he had never seemed sensible of the honour she did him, she could not divest herself wholly of that partiality towards him, which made her heartily abhor any woman he seemed to admire. when to this cause of dislike was added, what she called the insolent presumption of the animal in daring to attempt inveigling _her_ brother into the folly of marrying, she thought she might indulge all the rancour, envy, and malignity of her heart. when lady montreville had read the letter, she threw it down on the table contemptuously. 'it requires no answer,' said she to the servant who waited. the man left the room. 'well, my lord,' continued she, addressing herself to her husband, 'what do you intend to do about this unhappy, infatuated boy?' 'i really know not,' answered his lordship. 'i will tell you then,' resumed she--'go to this girl, and let her know that you will abandon her pennyless; force her to accept the honour mr. rochely offers her; and, by shewing a little strength of mind and resolution, break these unworthy chains with which your own want of prudence has fettered your son.' 'it has already been tried, madam, without success. consider that if i am bound by no obligations to support this young person, i am also without any power over her. to force her to marry mr. rochely is impossible. i have however her promise that she will not enter into any clandestine engagement with delamere.' 'her promise!' exclaimed lady montreville.--'and are you weak enough, my lord, to trust to the promise of an artful, designing creature, who seems to me to have already won over your lordship to her party? what want of common sense is this! if you will not again speak to her, and that most decisively, i will do it myself! send her to me! i will force her not only to tell me where delamere has had the meanness to conceal himself, but also oblige her to relinquish the hopes she has the insolence to indulge.' miss delamere, who wanted to see the wonderful creature that had turned her brother's head, and who was charmed to think she should see her humbled and mortified, promoted this plan as much as possible. augusta, dreading her brother's violence, dared not, and lord montreville would not oppose it, as he believed her ladyship's overwhelming rhetoric, to which he was himself frequently accustomed to give way, might produce on emmeline the effect he had vainly attempted. he therefore asked lady montreville, whether she really wished to see miss mowbray, and when? 'i am engaged to-morrow,' answered she, 'all day. but however, as she is a sort of person whom it will be improper to admit at any other time, let her be here at ten o'clock in the morning. she may come up, before i breakfast, into my dressing-room.' 'shall i send one of the carriages for her?' enquired his lordship. 'by no means,' replied the lady. 'they will be all wanted. let her borrow a coach of the people she lives with. i suppose all city people now keep coaches. or if she cannot do that, a hack may be had.' then turning to her woman, who had just brought her her snuff-box, 'brackley,' said she, 'don't forget to order the porter to admit a young woman who will be here to-morrow, at ten o'clock; tho' she may perhaps come in a hack.' lord montreville, who grew every hour more uneasy at delamere's absence, now set out in search of him himself. he called at fitz-edward's lodgings; but he was not yet come to town, tho' hourly expected. his lordship then went to clapham, where he hoped to meet his son; but instead of doing so, emmeline put into his hands the following letter-- 'i intended to have seen you again to-day; but the pain i felt after our interview yesterday, has so much disordered me, that it is better not to repeat it. cruel emmeline!--to gratify my father you throw me from you without remorse, without pity. i shall be the victim of his ambition, and of your false and mistaken ideas of honour. 'ah! emmeline! will the satisfaction that you fancy will arise from this chimerical honour make you amends for the loss of such an heart as mine! yet think not i can withdraw it from you, cold and cruel as you are. alas! it is no longer in my power. but my passions, the violence of which i cannot mitigate, prey on my frame, and will conduct to the grave, this unhappy son, who is to be sacrificed to the cursed politics of his family. 'i cannot see you, emmeline, without a renewal of all those sensations which tear me to pieces, and which i know affect you, though you try to conceal it. for a day or two i will go into the country. _remember your promise_ not to remove any where but to mrs. stafford's; and to let me know the day and hour when you set out. you plead to me, that your promise to my father is _sacred_. i expect that those you have passed to me shall be at least equally so. farewel! till we meet again. you know that seeing you, and being permitted to love you, is all that renders supportable the existence of your unhappy f. d.' 'this letter, my lord,' said emmeline, was delivered by a porter. i spoke to the man, and asked him from whence he brought it? he said from a coffee-house at charing-cross.' 'did you answer it?' 'no, my lord,' said emmeline, blushing; 'i think it required no answer.' he then told her that lady montreville expected to see her the next day; and named the hour. emmeline, terrified as she was at the idea of such an interview, was forced to assure him she would be punctual to it; and his lordship took an hasty leave, still hoping he might meet his son. he was hardly gone, before another porter brought to emmeline a second letter: it was from augusta delamere. 'at length, my dear emmeline, i am near you, and can tell you i still love you; tho' even that satisfaction i am forced to snatch unknown to my mother. oh, emmeline! i tremble for your situation to-morrow. the dislike that both my mother and sister have taken to you, is inconceivable; and i am afraid that you will have a great deal of rudeness and unkindness to encounter. i write this to prepare you for it; and hope that your conscious innocence, and the generosity with which you have acted, will support you. i have been taken to task most severely by my mother for my partiality to you; and my sister, in her contemptuous way, calls you my sweet sentimental friend. to be sure my brother's absence is a dreadful thing; and great allowances are to be made for my mother's vexation; tho' i own i do not see why it should prevent her being just. i will try to be in the room to-morrow, tho' perhaps i shall not be permitted. don't say you have heard from me, for the world; but be assured i shall always love you as you deserve, and be most truly your affectionate and faithful, a. delamere.' _berkley-square, dec. ._ chapter ii emmeline had the convenience of mrs. ashwood's carriage, who agreed to set her down in berkley-square. she was herself sitting for her picture; and told miss mowbray she would send the chariot back for her when she got to the house of the painter. exactly at ten o'clock they arrived at the door of lord montreville; and emmeline, who had been arguing herself into some degree of resolution as she went along, yet found her courage much less than she thought she should have occasion for; and with faultering steps and trembling nerves she went up stairs. the man who conducted her, told her that his lady was not yet up, and desired her to wait in an anti-room, which was superbly furnished and covered with glasses, in which emmeline had leisure to contemplate her pale and affrighted countenance. the longer the interview was delayed the more dreadful it appeared. she dared not ask for miss augusta; yet, at every noise she heard, hoped that amiable girl was coming to console and befriend her. but no augusta appeared. a servant came in, mended the fire, and went down again; then miss delamere's maid, under pretence of fetching something, took a survey of her in order to make a report to her mistress; and emmeline found that she was an object of curiosity to the domesticks, who had heard from millefleur, and from the other servants who had been at swansea, that this was the young woman mr. delamere was dying for. an hour and a half was now elapsed; and poor emmeline, whose imagination had been busied the whole time in representing every form of insult and contempt with which she expected to be received, began to hope that lady montreville had altered her intention of seeing her. at length, however, mrs. brackley, her ladyship's woman, was heard speaking aloud to a footman--walter, tell that young woman she may be admitted to see my lady, and shew her up. walter delivered his message; and the trembling emmeline with some difficulty followed him. she entered the dressing-room. her ladyship, in a morning dress, sat at a table, on which was a salver with coffee. her back was to the door, where stood mrs. brackley; who, as emmeline, hesitating, seemed ready to shrink back, said, with a sort of condescending nod, 'there, you may go in, miss.' emmeline entered; but did not advance. lady montreville, without rising or speaking, turned her head, and looked at her with a scowling and disdainful countenance. 'humph!' said she, looking at her eldest daughter, who sat by the fire with a newspaper in her hand--'humph!' as much as to say, i see no such great beauty in this creature. miss delamere, whose countenance wore a sort of disdainful sneer, smiled in answer to her mother's humph! and said, 'would you have her sit down, madam?' 'aye,' said lady montreville, turning again her head towards emmeline--'you may sit down.' there was a sofa near the door. emmeline, hardly able to stand, went to it. a silence ensued. lady montreville sipped her coffee; and miss delamere seemed intent upon the newspaper. 'so!' cried her ladyship, 'my son has absented himself! upon my word, miss what-d'ye-call-it, (for mowbray i don't allow that your name is) you have a great deal to answer for. pray what amends can you ever hope to make to my lord, and me, for the trouble you have been the cause of?' 'i sincerely lament it, madam,' answered emmeline, forcing herself to speak; 'and do assure you it has been on my part involuntary.' 'oh, no doubt on't. your wonderful beauty is the fatal cause. you have used no art, i dare say; no pretty finesse, learned from novels, to inveigle a silly boy to his undoing.' 'if i had been disposed, madam, to take advantage of mr. delamere's unhappy partiality for me--' 'oh dear! what you was coy? you knew your subject, no doubt, and now make a merit of what was merely a piece of art. i detest such demure hypocrites! tell me,--why, if you are _not_ disposed to take advantage of mr. delamere's folly, you do not accept the noble offer made you by this banker, or whatever he is, that my lord says is worth above an hundred thousand pounds? the reason is evident. a little obscure creature, bred on the welch mountains, and who was born nobody knows how, does not so easily refuse a man of fortune unless she has some other views. you would like a handsome young man with a title! yes! you would like to hide your own obscurity in the brilliant pedigree of one of the first families in europe. but know, presumptuous girl, that the whole house shall perish ere it shall thus be contaminated--know'---- she grew inarticulate with passion; pride and malignity seemed to choak her; and she stopped, as if to recover breath to give vent to her rage. miss delamere took the opportunity to speak-- 'indeed, child,' said she, 'it is hurting yourself extremely; and i am really sorry you should be so deceived. _my_ brother can never marry _you_; and as lord montreville has brought you up, under the notion of your belonging to a part of his family, we are really interested, my mother and i, in your not going into a bad course of life. if you do not marry this rich city-man, what do you think is to become of you?' 'my lord montreville has been so good as to assure me,' said emmeline--her words were so faint, that they died away upon her lips. 'what does she say, fanny?' asked lady montreville. 'something of my father's having assured her, madam.' 'don't flatter yourself, girl,' resumed her ladyship, 'don't deceive yourself. if you refuse to marry this man who offers to take you, not one shilling shall you ever receive from this family; determine therefore at once; send to the person in question; let him come here, and let an agreement for a settlement be directly signed between lord montreville and him. lord montreville will in that case give you a fortune. i will hear no objection! i _will_ have the affair closed this morning! i _will_ have it so!' lady montreville, accustomed to undisputed power in her own family, expected from every body an acquiescence as blind as she found from her tradesmen and servants, who endured her ill-humour and gave way to her caprices. but she forgot that emmeline was equally unaccustomed to her commands, and free from the necessity of obeying them. the gentlest and mildest temper will revolt against insolence and oppression: and the cruelty and unfeminine insults she had received, concluded by this peremptory way of forcing her into a marriage from which her whole soul recoiled, at length restored to her some portion of that proper spirit and presence of mind which had been frightened from her. conscious that she deserved none of these ungenerous insults, and feeling herself superior to her who could cruelly and wantonly inflict them, she regained her courage. 'if your ladyship has nothing more to say,' said she, rising, 'i shall have the honour to wish you a good morning; for i believe mrs. ashwood has been waiting for me some time.' 'don't tell me of mrs. ashwood--but tell me where is my son? where is delamere?' 'i know not,' answered emmeline. 'i have already told my lord montreville that i am entirely ignorant.' 'nobody believes it!' said miss delamere. 'i am sorry for it,' replied emmeline, coolly. 'if, however, i did know, it is not such treatment, madam, that should compel me to give any information.' she then opened the door and walked down stairs. a footman met her, whom she desired to enquire for mrs. ashwood's carriage. before the man could descend to obey her, a violent ringing was heard. the footman said it was his lady's bell, and ran up to answer it; while emmeline still descending, heard somebody softly calling her. she looked up, and saw augusta delamere leaning over the bannisters; she put up her finger as if to prevent emmeline's speaking, threw her a letter, and immediately disappeared. the spirits of emmeline were again greatly hurried by this transient view of her friend. she put the letter hastily into her pocket, and was got down into the hall, where she spoke to another footman to see for her carriage; but the man whom she had met on the stairs, now came to say his lady must see her again. emmeline answered that she had already made her friend wait, and must beg to be excused returning to her ladyship this morning. the man however said, that he dared not disobey his lady, nor call up the chariot. emmeline, alarmed at the idea of being detained, advanced towards the door, told the porter (who had not heard this dialogue,) to open it, and walked resolutely into the street. the two footmen followed her to the door; but contented themselves with looking after her, without attempting to stop her. 'she is pretty enough, however,' said one to the other, 'to excuse our young lord.' 'the devil's in't if she is not,' answered the other. emmeline heard this; and between vexation at their impertinence, and fear of their following her, she found her whole strength again forsake her. she walked on however towards charles-street, looking round for mrs. ashwood's carriage, but could not see it. she was totally unacquainted with the streets, where she had never been on foot before; but recollected that she might get an hackney-coach, which was the more necessary, as snow was falling fast, and her muslin cloaths were already wet almost through. she was picking her way, still in some hopes of seeing the carriage, when an hackney-coach passed empty. emmeline looked wishfully towards it. the man stopped, and asked if she wanted a coach? she answered yes, as eagerly as if she had been afraid of a disappointment; and hurrying into it, told the man to drive to clapham. just as he was mounting the box, another hack passed, and a young officer who was in it looked earnestly into that where emmeline sat; then calling to his driver to stop, he leaped out, and emmeline saw fitz-edward at the door of her coach. 'miss mowbray!' said he--'is it possible! alone and in this equipage, in berkley-square! where is delamere?' before emmeline had time to answer him he had opened the coach door. 'it snows too much,' said he, 'for a comfortable conference, unless you will give me leave to sit by you; where are you going to?' 'to clapham,' answered emmeline. 'oh! take me with you,' said he. 'i have a thousand things to say to you.' he gave her no time to refuse: but flinging half a crown to the man who had driven him, he got into the coach which she was in, and ordered the man to shut the door and go where he had been directed. emmeline was vexed at this incident, as she was too uneasy to wish for the presence of any one, and impatient to open the letter in her pocket. but fitz-edward was not easily discouraged; and possessed, together with perfect good breeding, a fortunate sort of assurance with which nobody was ever long displeased. he enquired after mrs. stafford with a degree of interest for which emmeline felt inclined to love him. she related all she knew of her; and her eyes reassumed their lustre, while she told him how soon she was likely to see her. he then renewed his questions about delamere. emmeline could not dissemble; and indeed saw in this case no reason why she should. she therefore told him ingenuously all that had happened since they met at swansea; most of which he already knew from delamere. he watched her looks however while she was speaking; and by her blushes, her manner, and the softness of her eyes, he thought he saw evidently enough that delamere was no longer indifferent to her. her indignation at the treatment she had just received from his mother and sister, dyed her cheeks with crimson while she related it; but when she returned to speak of delamere, she forgot her anger, and seemed to feel only pity and tenderness. fitz-edward, a most perfect judge of female hearts, made his observations on all this, with which he knew he should most effectually gratify his friend; and in his insinuating way, he said all he could think of to encrease her compassion for her lover, and inflame her resentment against those who impeded a union, which he was pretty sure emmeline now wished for, as well as delamere. chapter iii when they arrived at clapham, emmeline found mrs. ashwood was not yet returned. fitz-edward entreated her to sing to him; and either was, or pretended to be, in raptures at her improvement since they had met in the summer. about half an hour after four, mrs. ashwood came in; and throwing open the parlour door, asked emmeline, in no very sweet accent, 'why she had given her the trouble to go in her carriage to berkley-square, if she intended going home by any other conveyance?' mrs. ashwood was subject to causeless fits of ill-humour, to which emmeline was a good deal accustomed; and concluding she was now seized with some sudden discomposure of temper, mildly answered, 'that she supposed there had been a mistake; for that the chariot did not come for her at the appointed time.' 'mistake!' replied the other lady, sharply; 'i don't know as to mistake; but if you had chosen it, you might have staid dinner with lady montreville.' emmeline, without seeming to attend to the asperity of the address, desired to introduce colonel fitz-edward. as this short dialogue had passed without mrs. ashwood's having entered the room, she had not seen the stranger, who now advanced towards her. the title of colonel, added to his military air and handsome figure, seemed to gain at once her favourable opinion; and her countenance losing the unpleasing expression of ill-temper, immediately put on its best smile, and an affectation of softness and complacency with which she frequently adorned it. she seemed to consider the handsome young soldier as a conquest worthy all her ambition; and finding he was the most intimate friend of delamere, had no apprehension that his admiration would be diverted by the youth and attractions of emmeline. fitz-edward presently understood her character; and with admirable adroitness acted the part of a man afraid of being too much charmed. he cast an arch look at emmeline; then made to the lady of the house some compliments so extravagant, that only the weakest vanity could prevent her seeing its ridicule. but fitz-edward, who found in a moment that nothing was too gross to be believed, fearlessly repeated the dose; and before dinner came in, she was in the best humour imaginable, and pressed him so earnestly to partake of it, that, after an apology for sitting down in his morning dishabille, he consented. the same unlimited flattery was continued during dinner by fitz-edward, and received by the lady with the same avidity; and emmeline, tho' half-angry with him for the pleasure he seemed to take in making mrs. ashwood absurd, could not help being amused with the scene. before their repast ended, she was so much charmed with her new acquaintance, and so much longed to shew him to her female friends, and her other admirers, that she could not forbear pressing him to stay to a card party, which she was to have in the evening. he loved the ridiculous; and, influenced by a vanity as silly as that he delighted to expose, he took pleasure in shewing how extremely absurd he could make women appear, who were not on other occasions void of understanding. tho' he had really business with lord montreville, who had left several messages at his lodgings desiring to see him, and was going thither when emmeline met him, yet he accepted mrs. ashwood's invitation, on condition of being allowed to go home to dress. he was no sooner gone than she flew to her toilet, and emmeline to a second perusal of the letter she had received from augusta delamere. 'i am forbidden to see you, my dearest emmeline; and perhaps may not have an opportunity of giving you this. my heart bleeds for you, my sweet friend. i fear my father will be prevailed upon wholly to abandon you. they are all inventing schemes to force you into a marriage with that odd-looking old rochely. he has been here once or twice, and closetted with my father; and part of the scheme of to-day is, to persuade you to dine here with him. but i am almost sure you will not stay; for unless my mother can command herself more before you than she does when she is talking about you, i think you will be frightened away. i am certain, my dear emmeline, from what i have heard, tho' they say but little before me, that no endeavours will be omitted to drive you to marry rochely; and that they will persecute you every way, both by persuasions, and by distressing you. but be assured, that while augusta delamere has any thing, you shall share it. indeed i love you, not only as if you were my sister, but, i think, better. ah! why are there such unhappy impediments to your being really so? at present i foresee nothing but perplexity; and have no dependance but on you. i know you will act as you ought to do; and that you will at last prevail with delamere to act right too. whoever loves you, cannot long persist in doing ill; and surely it is very ill done, and very cruel, for delamere to make us all so unhappy. i need not tell you to arm yourself with fortitude against the attacks that will be made upon you. you have more fortitude and resolution than i have. situated as you have been, i know not what _i_ should have done; but i fear it would not have been so worthy of praise as the noble and disinterested part you have acted; which, tho' unaccompanied with the thousand amiable qualities of heart and understanding you possess, would ever command the esteem and admiration of your faithful and affectionate augusta delamere.' 'do not write to me till you hear from me again; as i should incur great displeasure if known to correspond with you. a. d.' charmed as emmeline was by the tender solicitude and affectionate simplicity of her beloved friend, the pleasure this letter gave her was very much abated by learning that the domestic infelicity of lord montreville's family fell particularly heavy on her. she now recollected what mrs. ashwood had said on her first entrance into the room, when she returned home; and concluded from thence that she had seen lady montreville, tho' her whole attention was so immediately engrossed by the colonel, that she had no more named it. she therefore grew anxious to hear what had been said; and her own toilet being very soon over, she sent to desire admittance to that of mrs. ashwood; on receiving which, she attended her, and begged to know whether she had seen lady montreville, and what had passed? mrs. ashwood was in so happy a disposition, that she hesitated not to oblige her; and while she finished the important business of accommodating a pile of black feathers, jet and crape, upon her head, 'the mockery of woe' which she did not even affect to feel, she gave emmeline the following account, interlarded with directions to her woman. 'why, my dear, you must know that when i got to gainsborough's [_more to the left_] he had unluckily a frightful old judge, or a bishop, or some tedious old man with him, and i was forced to wait: i cannot tell what possessed me, but i entirely forgot that i was to send the chariot back for you. so the chariot [_put it a little forwarder_] staid. i thought the tiresome man, whoever he was, would never have gone; however he went at last [_raise the lower curl_] and then i _sot_. you cannot think how much the likeness is improved! so when i had done [_give me the scraper; here is some powder on my eye-brow_] i went away, thinking to call on you; but as i went by butler's, i remembered that i wanted some pearl-coloured twist to finish the purse i am doing for hanbury. i was almost an hour matching it. well, then i thought as i was so near frivolité's door, i might as well call and see whether she had put the trimming on the white bombazeen, as you know we agreed would be most the thing. there were a thousand people in the house; you know there is never any possibility of getting out of that creature's room under an hour.' [oh! heaven! thought emmeline, nor is there any end to the importance you affix to trifles which interest nobody else.] 'so, however, at last i got to berkley-square, and stopped at the door. the man at the door said you was gone. i thought that very odd, and desired another servant go up and see, for i concluded it was some mistake. after a moment or two, the footman came down again, and said if i was the lady miss mowbray lived with, his lady desired i would walk up. upon my word it is a noble house! when i got into the room, there was lady montreville and her daughters. her ladyship was extremely polite, indeed; and after some discourse, "mrs. ashwood," said she, "you know miss mowbray's situation: i assure you i sent for her to-day with no other view in the world but for her own good, and you know, [_dear me! here is a pimple on my chin that is quite hideous; give me a patch._] you know that for her to refuse mr. rochely is being absolutely blind to her own interest; because you must suppose, mrs. ashwood, that she is only deceiving herself when she entertains any thoughts of my son; for that is a thing that never can happen, nor ever shall happen; and besides, to give my lord and me all this trouble, is a very ungrateful return to us for having brought her up, and many other obligations she has received at our hands; and will be the ruin of herself; and the greatest perverseness in the world. you, mrs. ashwood, are, i hear, a very sensible woman [_where is the rouge box?_] and i dare say, now you know how agreeable it would be to me and my lord to have miss emmeline come to her senses about mr. rochely, you will do your endeavours to persuade her to act reasonably; and then, tho' she has behaved very disrespectful and very ill, which is only to be forgiven on account of her knowing no better, i shall countenance her, and so will my lord." this was, as near as i remember, emmeline, what my lady said to me. you know [_the milk of roses is almost out_] you know i could not refuse to tell her i would certainly talk to you. i was surprised to find her ladyship so obliging and affable, as you had told me she is reckoned so very proud. she ordered her gentleman to give me a ticket for a rout and a supper her ladyship gives on tuesday three weeks; and she said, that as she did not doubt but that you would discover your own interest by that time, i should take one for you. look you, here it is.' 'i shall be in dorsetshire, i hope, long before tuesday se'nnight,' said emmeline, laying the card coolly on the toilet. she found mrs. ashwood had nothing more material to say; and being apprehensive that she impeded the last finish which her dress and person required, she thanked her, and went back into her own room. the eagerness and resolution with which lady montreville opposed her son's marriage, appeared from nothing more evidently, than from her thus endeavouring to solicit the assistance of mrs. ashwood, and humbling herself to use flattery and insinuation towards a person to whom it is probable nothing else could have induced her to speak. with persons in trade, or their connections, or even with gentlemen, unless of very ancient and honourable families, she seldom deigned to hold any communication; and if she had occasion to speak to them individually, it was generally under the appellation of 'mr. or mrs. i forget the name;' for to remember the particular distinctions of such inferior beings, was a task too heavy for right honourable intellects. when she spoke of such collectively, it was under the denomination of 'the people, or the folks.' with that sort of condescension that seems to say, 'i will humble myself to your level,' and which is in fact more insolent than the most offensive haughtiness, her ladyship had behaved to mrs. ashwood; who took it for extreme politeness, and was charmed on any terms to obtain admission to the house of a woman of such high fashion, and who was known to be so very nice in the choice of her company. in return for so much favour, she had been lavish of her assurances that she would influence miss mowbray; and came home, fully determined to talk to her sharply; believing too, that to make her feel the present dependance and uncertainty of her situation by forcing her to bear a fit of ill-humour, might help to determine her to embrace the affluent fortune that would set her above it. this it was that occasioned her harsh address to emmeline; which would have been followed by acrimonious reflections and rude remonstrances, under the denomination of 'necessary truths and friendly advice,' had not the presence of fitz-edward, and his subsequent enchanting conversation, driven all that lady montreville had said out of her mind, and left it open only to the delightful prospect which his compliments and praises afforded her. the company assembled to cards at the usual hour. rochely was among them; who had not seen emmeline since the rejection of his proposal, with which sir richard crofts was obliged to acquaint him, tho' he had softened the peremptory terms in which it had been given. he had this evening adorned himself in a superb suit of cut velvet of many colours, lined with sables; which tho' not in the very newest mode, had been reckoned very magnificent at several city assemblies; and he had put it on as well in honour of lord montreville, with whom he had dined, as in hopes of moving the perverse beauty for whom he languished. but so far was this display of clumsy affluence from having any effect on the hard heart of emmeline, that it rather excited her mirth. and when with a grave and solemn aspect he advanced towards her, she felt herself so much disposed to laugh at his figure, that she was forced to avoid him, and took refuge at the table, round which the younger part of the company assembled to play. mrs. ashwood had fixed fitz-edward to that where she herself presided; and where she sat triumphantly enjoying his high-seasoned flattery; while her female competitors, hearing he was the son of an irish earl, and within three of being a peer himself, contemplated her supposed conquest with envy and vexation, which they could not conceal, and which greatly added to her satisfaction. several persons were invited to stay supper; among whom were fitz-edward and rochely. about half an hour before the card-tables broke up, a servant brought a note to emmeline, and told her that it required an answer. the hand was delamere's. 'for two days i have forborne to see you, emmeline, and have endeavoured to argue myself into a calmer state of mind; but it avails nothing; hopeless when with you, yet wretched without you, i see no end to my sufferings. i have been about the door all the evening; but find, by the carriages, that you are surrounded by fools and coxcombs. ah! emmeline! that time you owe only to me; those smiles to which only i have a right, are lavished on them; and i am left to darkness and despair. 'there is a door from the garden into the stable-yard, which opens into the fields. as i cannot come to the house (where i find there are people who would inform lord montreville that i am still about london,) for pity's sake come down to that door and speak to me. i ask only _one_ moment; surely you will not deny me so small a favour, and add to the anguish which consumes me. i write this from the neighbouring public-house, and wait your answer. f. delamere.' emmeline shuddered at this note. it was more incoherent than usual, and seemed to be written with a trembling and uncertain hand. she had left the card-table to read it, and was alone in the anti-room; where, while she hesitated over it, rochely, whose eyes were ever in search of her, followed her. she saw him not: but wholly occupied by the purport of the note, he approached close to her unheeded. 'are you determined, miss mowbray,' said he, 'to give me no other answer than you sent somewhat hastily to lord montreville, by my friend sir richard crofts? may i ask, are you quite determined?' 'quite, sir!' replied she, starting, without considering and hardly knowing what she said; but feeling he was at that moment more odious to her than ever, she snatched away the hand he attempted to take, and flew out of the room like a lapwing. the dismayed lover shook his head, surveyed his cut velvet in the glass, and stroaked his point ruffles, while he was trying to recollect his scattered ideas. emmeline, who had taken refuge in her bed-chamber, sat there in breathless uncertainty, and unable to determine what to do about delamere. at length, she concluded on desiring fitz-edward to go down to him; but knew not how to speak to the colonel on such a subject before so many witnesses, nor did she like to send for him out of the room. she rung for a candle, and wrote on a slip of paper. 'delamere is waiting at a door which opens into the fields, and insists upon speaking to me. pray go down to him, and endeavour to prevail on him to return to his father. i can think of no other expedient to prevent his engaging in some rash and improper attempt; therefore i beseech you to go down.' when she had written this, she knew not how to deliver it; and for the first time in her life had recourse to an expedient which bore the appearance of art and dissimulation. she did not chuse to send it to fitz-edward by a servant; but went down with it herself; and approaching the table where he was settling his winnings-- 'here, colonel,' said she, 'is the _charade_ you desired me to write out for you.' 'oh! read it colonel; pray read it;' cried mrs. ashwood, 'i doat upon a _charade_ of all things in nature.' he answered, that 'he would reserve it for a _bon bouche_ after supper.' then looking significantly at emmeline, to say he understood and would oblige her, he strolled into the anti-room; emmeline saying to him, as he passed her, that she would wait his return in the parlour below. fitz-edward disappeared; and emmeline, in hopes of escaping observation, joined the party of some young ladies who were playing at a large table, and affected to enter into their conversation. but she really knew nothing that was passing; and as soon as they rose on finishing their game, she escaped in the bustle, and ran down into the parlour, where in five or six minutes fitz-edward found her. he wore a look of great concern; and laid down his hat as he came in, without seeming to know what he did. 'have you seen mr. delamere, sir?' said emmeline. 'seen him!' answered he; 'i have seen him; but to no manner of purpose; his intellects are certainly deranged; he raves like a madman, and absolutely refuses to leave the place till he has spoken to you.' 'why will he not come in, then?' said emmeline. 'because,' said fitz-edward, 'rochely is here, who will relate it to that meddling fellow, sir richard crofts, and by that means it will get to his father. i said every thing likely to prevail on him to be more calm; but he will hear nothing. i know not what to do,' continued he, rising, and walking about the room. 'i am convinced he has something in his head of fatal consequence to himself. he protests he will stay all night where he is. in short, he is in an absolute frenzy with the idea of rochely's success and his own despair.' 'you frighten me to death,' said emmeline. 'tell me, colonel, what ought i to do?' 'go to him,' returned fitz-edward; 'speak to him only a moment, and i am persuaded he will be calm. i will go with you; and then there can be nothing wrong in it.' 'i _will_ go, then,' said she, rising and giving fitz-edward her hand, which trembled extremely. 'but it is very cold,' remarked he: 'had not you better take a cloak?' 'there is my long _pelisse_ in the back parlour,' answered she. fitz-edward fetched it, wrapt her in it, and led her down stairs; and by a garden door, they reached a sort of back stable-yard, where rubbish and stable-litter was usually thrown, and which opened into a bye-lane, where the garden-wall formed a sudden angle. delamere received her with transport, which he tried to check; and reproached her for refusing to come down to him. seizing the opportunity, as soon as he would give her leave to speak, she very forcibly represented to him the distress of his family at his absence, and the particular uneasiness it inflicted on his sister augusta. 'i knew not,' said delamere, 'that she was come home.' emmeline told him she was, and related the purport of her letter, and again besought him to put an end to the uncertainty and anxiety of his family. delamere heard her with some impatience; and holding her hands in his, vehemently answered--'it is to no purpose that my father either threatens or persuades me. he has long known my resolution; and the unhappiness which you so warmly describe arises solely from his and my mother's own unreasonable and capricious prejudice--prejudice founded in pride and avarice. i do not think myself accountable for distress to which they may so easily put an end. but as to augusta, who really loves me, i will write to her to make her easy. now emmeline, since i have listened to you, and answered all you have to urge, hear my final determination--_if you_ still continue firm in your chimerical and romantic obstinacy, which you call honour, _i_ go from hence this evening, never to return--you condemn me to perpetual exile--you give me up to despair!' he called aloud, and a post-chaise and four, which had been concealed by the projection of the wall, attended by two servants, drove round. 'there,' continued delamere, 'there is the vehicle which i have prepared to carry me from hence. you know whether i easily relinquish a resolution once formed. if then you wish to save my father and mother from the anguish of repentance when there will be no remedy--if you desire to save from the frenzy of desperation the brother of your augusta, and to snatch from the extremity of wretchedness the man who lives but to adore you, go with me--go with me to scotland!' astonished and terrified at the impetuosity with which he pressed this unexpected proposal, emmeline would have replied, but words were a moment wanting. fitz-edward taking advantage of her silence, used every argument which delamere had omitted, to determine her. 'no! no!' cried she--'never! never! i have passed my honour to lord montreville. it is sacred--i cannot, i will not forfeit it!' 'the time will come,' said fitz-edward, 'believe me it will, when lord montreville will not only be reconciled to you, but'---- 'and what shall reconcile me to myself? let me go back to the house, mr. delamere; or from this moment i shall consider you as having taken advantage of my unprotected state, and even of my indiscreet confidence, to offer me the grossest outrage. let me go, sir!' (struggling to get her hand from fitz-edward) 'let me go! mr. delamere.' 'what! to be driven into the arms of rochely? no, never, emmeline! never! i _know_ i am _not_ indifferent to you. i feel that i cannot live without you; nay, by heaven i will not! but if i suffer this opportunity to escape, i deserve indeed to lose you.' they all this while approached the chaise. delamere had hired servants, whom he had instructed what to do. they were ready at the door of the carriage. emmeline attempted in vain to retreat. delamere threw his arms around her; and assisted by fitz-edward, lifted her into it with a sort of gentle violence. he leaped in after her, and the chaise was driven away instantly. fitz-edward, to whom this scene was wholly unexpected, returned to the company he had left with mrs. ashwood. he had not any notion of delamere's design when he went to him, but heartily concurred in its execution; and tho' he did not believe delamere intended to marry emmeline, yet his morals were such, that he congratulated himself on the share he had had in putting her into his power, and went back with the air of a man vastly satisfied with the success of his exploit. 'goodness! colonel,' exclaimed mrs. ashwood, 'supper has been waiting for you this half hour. upon my word we began to suspect that you and miss mowbray were gone together. but pray where is she?' 'miss mowbray, madam! i really have not been so happy as to be of her party.' 'why, where in the world can she be?' continued mrs. ashwood. 'however, as the colonel is come we will go to supper. [_the company were standing round the table._] i suppose miss mowbray will come presently; she has a pretty romantic notion of contemplation by moonlight.' supper, however, was almost over, and miss mowbray did not appear. mrs. ashwood, engaged wholly by the gallant colonel, thought not of her; but rochely remarked that her absence was somewhat singular. 'so it is i declare,' said miss galton; 'do mrs. ashwood send and enquire for her again.' the chambers, the drawing-room, dressing-room, closets, and garden were again searched. miss mowbray was not to be found! mrs. ashwood was alarmed--rochely in dismay--and the whole company confusedly broke up; each retiring with their several conjectures on the sudden disappearance of the fair emmeline. chapter iv for some moments after emmeline found herself in the chaise, astonishment and terror deprived her of speech and even of recollection. while delamere, no longer able to command his transports at having at length as he hoped secured her, gave way to the wildest joy, and congratulated himself that he had thus forced her to break a promise which only injustice he said could have extorted, and only timidity and ill-grounded prejudice have induced her to keep. 'do you then hope, sir,' said emmeline, 'that i shall patiently become the victim of your rashness? is this the respect you have sworn ever to observe towards me? is this the protection you have so often told me i should find from you? and is it thus you intend to atone for all the insults of your family which you have so repeatedly protested you would never forgive? by inflicting a far greater insult; by ruining my character; by degrading me in my own eyes; and forcing me either to violate my word solemnly given to your father, or be looked upon as a lost and abandoned creature, undone by your inhuman art. i must now, indeed, seem to _deserve_ your mother's anger, and the scorn of your sister; and must be supposed every way wretched and contemptible.' a shower of tears fell from her eyes, and her heart seemed bursting with the pain these cruel reflections gave her. delamere, by all the soothing tenderness of persuasion, by all the rhetoric of ardent passion, tried to subdue her anger, and silence her scruples; but the more her mind dwelt on the circumstances of her situation, the more it recoiled from the necessity of entering under such compulsion into an indissoluble engagement. the rash violence of the measure which had put her in delamere's power, while it convinced her of his passion, yet told her, that a man who would hazard every thing for his own gratification now, would hardly hereafter submit to any restraint; and that the bonds in which he was so eager to engage, would with equal violence be broken, when any new face should make a new impression, or when time had diminished the influence of those attractions that now enchanted him. formed of the softer elements, and with a mind calculated for select friendship and domestic felicity, rather than for the tumult of fashionable life and the parade of titled magnificence, emmeline coveted not his rank, nor valued his riches. no woman perhaps can help having some regard for a man, who she knows ardently and sincerely loves her; and emmeline had felt all that sort of weakness for delamere; who in the bloom of life, with fortune, title, person and talents that might have commanded the loveliest and most affluent daughter of prosperity, had forsaken every thing for her, and even secluded himself from the companions of his former pleasures, and the indulgences his fortune and rank afforded him, to pass his youth in unsuccessful endeavours to obtain her. the partiality this consideration gave her towards him, and the favourable comparison she was perpetually making between him and the men she had seen since her residence near london, had created in her bosom a sentiment warmer perhaps than friendship; yet it was not that violent love, which carrying every thing before it, leaves the mind no longer at liberty to see any fault in the beloved object, or any impropriety in whatever can secure it's success, and which, scorning future consequences, risks every thing for it's present indulgence. still artless and ingenuous as when she first left the remote castle where she had been brought up, emmeline had not been able to conceal this affection from delamere. her eyes, her manner, the circumstance of the picture, and a thousand nameless inadvertences, had told it him repeatedly; but now, when he seemed to have taken an ungenerous advantage of that regard, it lost much of it's force, and resentment and disdain succeeded. delamere tried to appease her by protestations of inviolable respect, of eternal esteem, and unalterable love. but there was something of triumph even in his humblest entreaties, that served but to encrease the anger emmeline felt; and she told him that the only way to convince her he had for her those sentiments he pretended, was to carry her back immediately to mrs. ashwood's, or rather to lord montreville, there to acknowledge the attempt he had made, and that it's failure had been solely owing to her determined adherence to her word. delamere, presuming on his ascendancy over her, attempted to interest her passions rather than tranquillize her reason. he represented to her how great would be her triumph when he presented her as his wife to the imperious lady montreville, who had treated her with so much unmerited scorn, and set her above the haughty fanny delamere, who had insulted her with fancied superiority. but emmeline had in her breast none of those passions that find their gratification in humbling an enemy. too generous for revenge; too gentle for premeditated resentment; she saw these circumstances in a very different light, and felt that she should be rather mortified than elated by being forced into a family who wished to reject her. sir richard crofts, the object of delamere's hatred and detestation, was the subject of those acrimonious reflections that his respect for his father and mother prevented his throwing on them. the influence of this man had, he said, made lord montreville deaf to the voice of nature, and forgetful of his own honour; while he was plunged into the dark and discreditable labyrinth of political intrigue, and acquired an habit of subterfuge and duplicity unworthy a nobleman, a gentleman, or a man. emmeline cared nothing about sir richard crofts, and could not enter into the bitterness of his resentment towards him. nothing he had yet been able to urge had shaken her resolution not to become his wife, even tho' he should oblige her to go with him into scotland. the ruder passions of anger and resentment had no influence over her mind. while he argued with warmth, or ran into reproaches, emmeline found she had nothing to fear. but tho' he could not rouse her pride, or awaken her dislike against his family, but rather found them recoil on himself; he hoped in that sensibility of temper and that softness of heart to which he owed all the attention she had ever shewn him, he should find a sure resource. in her pity, an advocate for his fault--in her love, an inducement not only to forgive but to reward him. and when he pleaded for compassion and forgiveness, the heart of emmeline felt itself no longer invulnerable. but against this dangerous attack she endeavoured to fortify that sensible heart, by considering the probable event of her yielding to it. 'if i marry delamere contrary to the consent of his family, who shall assure me that his violent and haughty spirit will bear without anguish and regret, that inferior and confined fortune to which his father's displeasure will condemn him? his love, too ardent perhaps to last, will decline; while the inconveniences of a narrow fortune will encrease; and i, who shall be the cause of these inconveniences, shall also be the victim. he will lament the infatuation which has estranged him from his family, and thrown him, for some years at least, out of the rank in which he has been used to appear; and recovered from the delirium of love, will behold with coldness, perhaps with hatred, her to whom he will impute his distresses. to whom can i then appeal? not to my _own_ heart, for it will condemn me for suffering myself to be precipitated into a measure against my judgment; nor to _his_ family, who may answer, "thy folly be upon thine own head;" and _i_ have _no_ father, _no_ brother to console and receive me, if he should drive me from him as impetuously as now he would force me to be his. i shall be deprived even of the melancholy consolation of knowing i have not _deserved_ the neglect which i fear i shall never be able to _bear_. but if my steady refusal now, induces him to return, it is possible that lord montreville, convinced at once of my adherence to the promise given him, and of the improbability of delamere's desisting, may consent to receive me into his family; or if the inveterate prejudice of his wife still prevents his doing so, i shall surely regain his confidence and esteem. he will not refuse to consider me as his brother's daughter, and as such, he will enable me to pass my days in easy competence with mrs. stafford; a prospect infinitely preferable in my eyes to the splendid visions offered me by delamere, if they cannot be realized but at the expence of truth and integrity.' confirmed in her determination by reflections like these, emmeline was able to hear, without betraying any symptoms of the emotion she felt, the animated and passionate protestations of her lover. she assumed all the coldness and reserve which his headlong and inconsiderate attempt deserved. she told him that his want of respect and consideration had forfeited all the claim he might otherwise have had to her regard and esteem; that she certainly would quit him the moment she was able; and that tho' she might not be fortunate enough to do so before they reached scotland, yet it would not be in his power to compel her to be his wife. delamere for some time imputed this language to sudden resentment; and again by the humblest submissions sought to obtain her forgiveness and to excite her pity. but having nearly exhausted her spirits by what she had already said, she gave very little reply to his entreaties. her silence was however more expressive than her words. she took from him her hand, as often as he attempted to hold it, and would not suffer him to wipe away the tears that fell from her eyes; while to his arguments and persuasions she coldly answered, when she answered at all, '_that she was determined_:' and they arrived at barnet before he had obtained the smallest concession in his favour. delamere had undertaken this enterprize rather in despair, than from any hope of it's success, since he did not believe emmeline would come out to him when he requested it; and had she been either alone, or only with mrs. ashwood, she certainly had not done it. chance had befriended him in collecting a room full of company, and still more in sending rochely among them. his abrupt approach while she read delamere's note, had hurried her out of her usual presence of mind; and fitz-edward, whom mere accident had brought to mrs. ashwood's house, and whom she had taken with her in hopes of his influencing delamere to return to his father, had contributed to her involuntary error. chapter v delamere had taken no precaution to secure horses on the road; and it was not till after waiting some hours that he procured four from barnet. when they arrived there, it was past one o'clock; and emmeline, who had gone thro' a very fatigueing day, and was now overcome with the terror and alarm of being thus hastily snatched away, could hardly sit up. she was without an hat; and having no change of cloaths, urged the inconvenience she must endure by being forced to go a long journey so situated. she wished to have stopped at the first stage; but delamere thought, that in her present temper to hesitate was to lose her. he consented however to go for a moment into the house, where, while he gave a servant orders to go on to hatfield to bespeak four horses, she drank a glass of water; and then delamere intreating her to return to the chaise, she complied, for there was nobody visible at the inn but the maid and ostler; and she saw no likelihood of any assistance, had she applied for it. they hastened with great expedition to stevenage; but before they reached that place, emmeline, who had ceased either to remonstrate or complain, was so entirely overwhelmed and exhausted, that she could no longer support herself. his fears for her health now exceeded his fears for losing her, and he determined to stop for some hours; but when she made an effort to leave the chaise she was unable, and he was obliged to lift her out of it. he then ordered the female servants to be called up, recommended her to their care, and entreated her to go to bed for some hours. long darkness and excessive weeping had almost deprived her of sight; her whole frame was sinking under the fatigue she had undergone both of body and mind; and unable to struggle longer against it, she lay down in her cloaths, desiring one of the maids to sit by her. delamere came to the door of the room to enquire how she did. the woman told him what she had requested; and desiring they would obey her in every thing, and keep her as quiet as possible, he went not to repose himself, but to write to fitz-edward. 'dear george, 'while my angelic emmeline sleeps, i, who am too happy to sleep myself, write to desire you will go to berkley-square and keep the good folks there from exposing themselves, or making a great bustle about what has happened, which they will soon know. as my lord has long been prepossessed with the idea of a scottish jaunt, it is very likely he may attempt to pursue us. say what you will to put such plans out of his head. i shall be in london again, in a very short time. farewell, dear george. your's, ever, f. d.' emmeline in the mean time fell into a sleep, but it was broken and interrupted. her spirits had been so thoroughly discomposed, that rest was driven from her. she dozed a moment; then suddenly started up, forgot where she was, and looked wildly round the room. an half-formed recollection of the events of the preceding day then seemed to recur, and she besought the maid who sat by her to go to mr. delamere and tell him she must be directly carried to mrs. stafford's; and having said this, and sighed deeply, she sunk again into short insensibility. thus past the remainder of the night; and before seven in the morning delamere was at the door, impatient to know how she had rested. the maid admitted him, and told him, in a low voice, that the lady was in a quieter sleep than she had been the whole night. he softly approached the bed, and started in terror when he saw how ill she looked. her cheek, robbed of it's bloom, rested on her arm, which appeared more bloodless than her cheek; her hair, which had been dressed without powder, had escaped from the form in which it had been adjusted, and half concealed her face in disordered luxuriance; her lips were pale, and her respiration short and laborious. he stood gazing on her a moment, and then, shocked at these symptoms of indisposition, his rapid imagination immediately magnified them all. he concluded she was dying; and in an agony of fear, which deprived him of every other idea, he took up in breathless apprehension her other hand, which lay on the quilt. it was hot, and dry; and her pulse seemed rather to flutter, than to beat against his pressure. his moving her hand awakened her. she opened her eyes; but they had lost their lustre, and were turned mournfully towards him. 'delamere,' said she, in a low and tremulous voice, 'delamere, why is all this? i believe you have destroyed me; my head is so extremely painful. oh! delamere--this is cruel!--very cruel!' 'let me go for advice,' cried he, eagerly. 'wretch that i am, what will now become of me!' he ran down stairs; and emmeline making an effort to recover her recollection, tried to sit up; but her head was so giddy and confused that it was not till after several attempts she left the bed, even with the assistance of the servant. she then drank a glass of water; and desiring to have more air, would have gone to the window, but could only reach a chair near it, where she sat down, and throwing her arm on a table, rested her head upon it. in a few moments delamere returned up stairs. his wild looks, and quick, half-formed questions, explained what passed in his mind. she told him faintly she was better. 'shall i bring up a gentleman to see you who i am assured is able in his profession? i fear you are very ill.' she answered, 'no!' 'pray suffer him to come; he will give you something to relieve your head.' 'no!' 'do not, emmeline--do not, i conjure you, refuse me this favour?' he took her hand; but when he found how feverish she was, he started away, crying--'oh! let him, let him come!' he ran down stairs to fetch him, and returned instantly with the apothecary; a sensible, well-behaved man, of fifty, whose appearance indicated feeling and judgement. he approached emmeline, who still sat with her head reclined on the table, and felt her pulse. 'here is too much fever indeed, sir,' said he; 'the young lady has been greatly hurried.' 'but what--what is to be done, sir?' said delamere, eagerly interrupting him. 'quiet seems absolutely necessary. pardon me, sir; but unless i know your situation in regard to her, i cannot possibly advise.' 'sir,' said emmeline, who had been silent rather from inability to contend than from unconsciousness of what was passing round her--'if you could prevail with mr. delamere to restore me to my friends'-- 'come with me, sir,' cried delamere; 'let me speak to you in another room.' when they were alone, he conjured mr. lawson to tell him what he thought of the lady? 'upon my word, sir, she is in a very high fever, and it seems to be occasioned by extreme perturbation of spirits and great fatigue. forgive, sir, if i ask what particular circumstance has been the cause of the uneasiness under which she appears to labour? if it is any little love quarrel you cannot too soon adjust it.' delamere stopped his conjectures, by telling him who he was; and gave him in a few words the history of their expedition. mr. lawson protested to him that if she was hurried on in her present state, it would be surprising if she survived the journey. 'she shall stay here then,' replied delamere, 'till she recovers her fatigue.' 'but, sir,' enquired mr. lawson, 'after what you have told me of your father, have you no apprehension of a pursuit?' his terror at emmeline's immediate danger had obliterated for a moment every other fear. it now recurred with redoubled violence. he remembered that rochely was at mrs. ashwood's on the evening of emmeline's departure; and he knew that from him sir richard crofts, and consequently lord montreville, would have immediate intelligence. he struck his hands together, exclaiming, 'she will be every way lost!--lost irretrievably! if my father overtakes us, she will return with him, and i shall see her no more!' he now gave way to such unbounded passion, walking about the room, and striking his forehead, that lawson began to believe his intellects were as much deranged as the frame of the fair sufferer he had left. for some moments he attended to nothing; but mr. lawson, accustomed to make allowances for the diseases of the mind as well as those of the body, did not lose his patience; and at length persuaded him to be calmer, by representing that he wasted in fruitless exclamation the time which might be employed in providing against the apprehended evil. 'good god! sir,' cried he at length, 'what would you have me do?' 'what i would earnestly recommend, sir, is, that you quiet the young lady's mind by telling her you will carry her whither she desires to go; and at present desist from this journey, which i really believe you cannot prosecute but at the hazard of her life; at present, farther agitation may, and probably will be fatal.' 'and so you advise me to let her stay till my father comes to tear her from me for ever! or carry her back by the same road, where it is probable he will meet me? impossible! impossible!--but is she really so very ill?' 'upon my life she is at this moment in a high fever. why should i deceive you? trust me, it would in my opinion be the height of inhumanity to carry her into scotland in such a situation, _if_ you love her'---- '_if_ i love her, sir!' cried delamere, half frantic--'talk not of _if_ i love her! merciful heaven!--you have no idea, mr. lawson, of what i suffer at this moment!' 'i have a perfect idea of your distress, sir; and wish i knew how to relieve it. give me a moment's time to consider; if indeed the young lady could'-- 'what, sir? speak!--think of something!' 'why i was thinking, that if she is better in a few hours, it might be possible for you to take her to hertford, where she may remain a day or two, till she is able to go farther. there you would be no longer in danger of pursuit; and if she should grow worse, which when her mind is easier i hope will not happen, you will have excellent advice. perhaps, when the hurry of her spirits subsides, she may, since this _has_ happened, consent to pursue the journey to the north; or if not, you can from thence carry her to the friends she is so desirous of being with, and avoid the risk of meeting on the road those you are so anxious to shun.' tho' delamere could not think, without extreme reluctance, of relinquishing a scheme in which he had thought himself secure of success; yet, as there was no alternative but what would be so hazardous to the health of emmeline, he was compelled to accede to any which had a probability of restoring it without putting her into the hands of his father. mr. lawson told him it was only fifteen miles from stevenage to hertford--'but how,' said he, 'will you, sir, prevent your father's following you thither, if he should learn at this place that you are gone there?' delamere was wholly at a loss. but mr. lawson, who seemed to be sent by his good genius, said--'we must get you from hence immediately, if miss mowbray is able to go. you shall pass here as my visitors. you shall directly go to my house, and there be supplied with horses from another inn. this will at least make it more difficult to trace your route; and if any enquiry should be made of me, i shall know what to say.' delamere, catching at any thing that promised to secure emmeline from the pursuit of lord montreville, went to her to enquire whether she was well enough to walk to mr. lawson's house. he found her trying to adjust her hair; but her hands trembled so much, it was with difficulty she could do it. he desired her to dismiss the maid who was in the room; then throwing himself on his knees before her, and taking her burning hands in his, he said--'arbitress of my destiny--my emmeline! thou for whom only i exist! be tranquil--i beseech you be tranquil! since you determine to abide by your cruel resolution, i will not, i dare not persist in asking you to break it. no, emmeline! i come only to entreat that you would quiet your too delicate mind; and dispose of _me_ as you please. since you cannot resolve to be mine now, i will learn to submit--i will try to bear any thing but the seeing you unhappy, or losing you entirely! tell me only that you pardon what is past, and you shall go to mrs. stafford's, or whithersoever you will.' emmeline beheld and heard him with astonishment. but at length comprehending that he repented of his wild attempt, and would go back, she said hastily, as she arose from her chair--'let us go, then, delamere; let us instantly go. thank god, your heart is changed! but every hour i continue with you, is an additional wound to my character and my peace.' she attempted to reach her cloak, but could not; her strength forsook her; her head became more giddy; she staggered, and would have fallen, had not delamere caught her in his arms, and supported her to the chair she had left. 'hurry not yourself thus, my emmeline,' cried he; 'in mercy to me try to compose yourself, and spare me the sight of all this terror, for which believe me you have no reason.' he sat down by her; and drawing her gently towards him, her languid head reposed on his shoulder, and he contemplated, in silent anguish, the ravage which only a few hours severe anxiety had made on that beauteous and expressive countenance. he called to the maid, who waited in the next room, and desired her to send up mr. lawson; before whose entrance a shower of tears, the first she had shed for some hours, a little relieved the full heart of emmeline. mr. lawson desired delamere would not check her tears; and in a friendly and consolatory manner told her what delamere proposed to do. emmeline, after this explanation, was still more anxious to depart; but mr. lawson greatly doubted whether she was able. 'i can walk, indeed i can,' said she, 'if you will each lend me an arm.' mr. lawson then gave her a few drops in a glass of water, which seemed to revive her; and delamere wrapping her carefully in her cloak, they led her between them to a neat brick house in the town, where mrs. lawson, a matron-like and well-behaved woman, and her daughter, a genteel girl of twenty, who had been apprized of emmeline's situation, received her with great kindness and respect. breakfast was prepared for her, but she could eat nothing. the heaviness of her eyes, her pallid countenance, and the tenseness across her temples, seemed to threaten the most alarming consequences. mrs. lawson endeavoured to persuade her to go to bed; but her eagerness to be gone from thence was so great, that she evidently encreased the difficulty by endeavouring to surmount it. she had indeed considered, that if lord montreville overtook them, which was not only possible but probable, all the merit of her conduct would be lost.--she would appear to be carried back, not by her strict adherence to her promise, but by the authority of his lordship; and instead of the pride and credit of a laudable and virtuous action, would be liable to bear all the imputation of intentional guilt. this reflection, added to the sense she could not fail to have of her improper situation in being so long alone with delamere under the appearance of having voluntarily gone off with him, made her so impatient to be gone, that she declined any repose however necessary; and mr. lawson thought there was less to be feared from indulging than from opposing her. lawson therefore went himself to hasten the horses; and while he was absent, emmeline, who remained with his wife, expressed so much fear that delamere might alter his intentions of returning, and so much uneasiness at the thoughts of being seen at another inn, in the disordered dress she now wore, with a young man of delamere's appearance, that mrs. lawson was truly concerned for her, and communicated to delamere the source of the extreme anxiety she appeared to suffer. he came to her; and she gently reproached him for all the inconvenience and uneasiness he had brought upon her. her soft complaints, and the distress pictured on her speaking face, he felt with a degree of anguish and self-reproach that made him happy to agree to a plan proposed by mrs. lawson, which was, that she should be accommodated with cloaths of miss lawson's, and that miss lawson herself should accompany her to hertford. this latter offer, emmeline eagerly accepted; and delamere, who saw how much it soothed and relieved her, did not object to it. she was therefore immediately equipped with a morning dress, and her agitation of mind seemed to subside; but changing her cloaths, trifling as the exertion was, fatigued her so much, that mr. lawson on his return looked very grave; and delamere, who watched his looks as if his existence depended upon his opinion, was wild with apprehension. the chaises (for delamere had ordered one for himself, that the ladies might suffer no inconvenience by being crouded) were ready, and lawson recollecting that emmeline would require a more quiet situation than an inn could afford, told her that he had a sister at hertford who would receive her with pleasure, and accommodate her at her house as long as she would stay--'and remember,' added he, 'that lissy is to continue with you till you leave hertford.' emmeline, extremely sensible of all she owed to this excellent man, could only sigh her thanks; and to shorten them, mr. lawson put her and his daughter into the travelling chaise which delamere had bought for this expedition. delamere followed in another; and between one and two o'clock they arrived at hertford, and were set down at the door of an elegant house; where mrs. champness, the wife of a man of fortune, received her niece with great affection; and having heard in another room the history of the young lady she had with her, immediately gave orders to have a bed-chamber prepared, and shewed the utmost solicitude for her accommodation. delamere, seeing her so well situated for the night, and happy to find she bore her short journey with less increase of fatigue than he apprehended, consented at her request to leave her, and went to the inn, where he dined, and soon afterwards returned to enquire after her. miss lawson came down to him, and told him miss mowbray was in bed, and had taken a medicine mr. lawson had sent to compose her; but that it was yet impossible to say much of her situation. she told him he must by no means attempt to see her for the remaining part of the day, and begged he would himself try to take some repose: to which salutary advice delamere at length consented; his haggard looks and exhausted spirits sufficiently testifying how much he wanted it. chapter vi the evening on which emmeline had been so suddenly missing from the house of mrs. ashwood, rochely had left it in as much anguish as his nature was capable of feeling. he had not for many years so seriously thought of matrimony as since he had seen miss mowbray. her beauty first attracted him: the natural civility of her manner was by him, who had frequently met only contempt and derision from the young and beautiful, construed into encouragement; and though his hopes had been greatly damped by his knowledge of delamere's attachment to her, yet they were almost as quickly revived by the great encouragement to persevere, which he had received from lord montreville. he fancied that the barriers between her and delamere being insurmountable, she could not fail of being dazzled by so splendid a fortune as he could himself offer her. that evening, she looked more than usually lovely, and he determined with new ardour to pursue her. but her disappearance put an end to all his brilliant visions; and convinced him that his wealth, on which he had so long been accustomed to value himself, had failed of procuring him the favour of the only woman with whom he was disposed to share it. he was too well convinced that delamere had carried her off: and though deprived of all hope for himself, he was too angry at the good fortune of his rival to forbear an attempt to disturb him in it's possession. he drove therefore from clapham to the house of sir richard crofts, where he had the mortification of hearing that sir richard was gone with lord montreville to the country house of lord dornock, and was not expected to return 'till the next day. rochely, aware that the only possible chance of preventing delamere's marriage was by an immediate pursuit, was greatly chagrined at this unavoidable delay. he sat down, however, and with his usual laboured precision wrote to sir richard crofts, informing him of what had happened. this was the operation of near an hour; and he then sent off a man on horseback with it, who arriving at lord dornock's about three in the morning, roused the family with some difficulty, and delivered to sir richard the intelligence, which was immediately conveyed to lord montreville; who having read mr. rochely's letter, could not flatter himself with any hope that this alarm might be as groundless as one he had before had on the same subject. the disobedience of his son; the broken faith of emmeline; and the rage, complaints, and reproaches of lady montreville, all arose together in his imagination; and anger, vexation, and regret, took possession of his heart. he had recourse in this, as in all other emergences, to sir richard crofts, who advised him immediately to pursue them. as soon therefore as the sleeping servants could be collected, and the carriage prepared, his lordship and sir richard set out for london together.--lord montreville determining to follow the fugitives as expeditiously as possible, though he hoped but little success from the pursuit. such was his apprehension of the clamours and passions of his wife, that he could not determine to see her 'till he had at least done all that was possible to recover her son. he therefore wrote to her a short letter, stating briefly what had happened, and giving her hopes that he should be able to overtake the parties before they were married. this he ordered to be delivered to her in the morning; and directed his servant to hasten to him with his travelling chaise and four post horses. the man, however, who had the care of the carriages, believing his lord would stay out all night, had gone out also, and taken with him the keys. by this delay, and the blunders of the affrighted servants, who in their haste only impeded each other, it was near nine o'clock before his lordship and sir richard left london. at barnet, they heard of the fugitives, and easily traced them from thence to hatfield; after which believing all farther enquiries useless, they passed through stevenage (having sent on before for horses,) without asking any questions which might have led them to discover that delamere and emmeline had gone from thence towards hertford only an hour and an half before their arrival. this was fortunate for the pursued; for an enquiry would probably have led to questions which mr. lawson would have found it very difficult to evade. lord montreville, however, and sir richard, hurried on to buckden; where being obliged to get out for some refreshment for themselves and their servants, his lordship renewed the question--'at what time did a young gentleman and lady' (describing delamere and emmeline) 'pass by?' the people told him they remembered no such persons about the time he named. lord montreville then applied at the other houses, and made several other enquiries; but received only a general assertion that no such persons had been that way within the last four and twenty hours, or even within a week. sir richard crofts, who piqued himself upon his sagacity, told his lordship that stupidity, the love of falsehood, or delamere's bribes, might occasion this failure of intelligence; but there could be no doubt of their being gratified with better information when they got to stilton. to stilton therefore they went, but heard exactly the same answers as they had done at the last stage. sir richard was now again to seek for some plausible conjecture that might quiet the apprehensive anxiety of lord montreville, who guessed and dreaded he knew not what. he now said, that as there could be no doubt of the young people's having gone _towards_ scotland, from the information they had obtained at barnet and hatfield, it was most likely that in the apprehension of a pursuit they had afterwards quitted the high road, and were advancing to the borders of scotland across the country, which must considerably lengthen and impede their journey; therefore if they themselves proceeded directly to the town where these marriages are usually celebrated, the probability was that they should arrive before delamere and miss mowbray; and by such a circumstance the connection would be as effectually prevented as it could be by their overtaking them on the road. lord montreville, despairing of being able by any means to obstruct a marriage on which his son seemed to be so determined, and harrassed in mind as much as he was fatigued in body, suffered himself to be carried forward merely through inability to determine what he could do better; and though quite hopeless of it's success, pursued his journey. the innocent cause of all this trouble and anxiety remained in the mean time at the hospitable house of mrs. champness; where miss lawson attended her with all possible kindness and solicitude. it was indeed impossible to be with her without loving her; unless to an heart insensible, like that of mrs. ashwood, to all but her own ideal perfections; or steeled by pride, like that of lady montreville. a night passed in quiet sleep had greatly restored her; and her fever, though not gone, was considerably abated. every noise, however trifling, still made her start; her nerves were by no means restored to their tone, and her spirits continued to be greatly affected. the idea which seemed to press most painfully on her mind, was the blemish which the purity of her character must sustain by her being so long absent with delamere--a blemish which she knew could hardly ever be removed but by her returning as his wife. but to break her promise to lord montreville; a promise so solemnly given; and to be compelled into a marriage which, however advantageous and fortunate it would appear under other circumstances, would now bring with it a severe alloy of mortification in the displeasure of his family; was a measure which she could not determine to pursue. her resentment towards delamere for what was passed was not yet enough subdued by his reluctant repentance, to reconcile her to the thoughts of putting herself again into his power. yet she could not suppose he would suffer her to return to london alone, if she had courage to attempt it; or was she sure that when there, mrs. ashwood would receive her. these reflections made her so restless and uneasy that she could not conceal their source from miss lawson; who, tho' possessed of a very good understanding, was too young and too little acquainted with the world to be able to advise her. the handsome person and high rank of delamere, and his violent love and concern for emmeline, made her suppose it impossible that she could help returning it, or be long able to resist his importunity. she concluded therefore that finally it would be a match; and was impressed with a sentiment that amounted almost to veneration for miss mowbray, whom she considered as a prodigy of female virtue and resolution. delamere had been several times to speak to miss lawson; and he had pleaded the violence of his passion with so much effect, that the soft-hearted girl became his warm advocate with emmeline, and represented his tenderness and his contrition, 'till she consented (as she was now able to sit up) to admit him. on his entrance, he said something, he hardly knew what, to emmeline. she held out her hand to him in token of forgiveness. he seized it eagerly, and pressed it to his heart, while he gazed on her face as if to enquire there what passed in hers. 'remember, delamere,' said she, 'remember i am content to forgive your late rash and absurd attempt, only on condition of your giving me the most positive assurance that you will carry me directly to mrs. stafford's, and there leave me.' hard as these terms appeared, after the hopes he had entertained on undertaking the journey, he was forced to submit; but it was evidently with reluctance. 'i do promise then,' said he, 'to take you to mrs. stafford's; but'---- 'but what?' asked emmeline. 'do you not mean, when you are there, to exclude me for ever?--mrs. stafford is no friend of mine.' 'i have already told you, mr. delamere, that i will see you wherever i am, under certain restrictions: and tho' your late conduct might, and indeed ought to induce me to withdraw that promise, yet i now repeat it. but do not believe that i will therefore be persecuted as i have been; recollect that i have already been driven from mowbray castle, from swansea, and from mrs. ashwood's, wholly on your account.' 'your remedy, my emmeline, is, to consent to inhabit a house of your own, and suffer me to be the first of your servants.' the varying colour of her complexion, to which the emotions of her mind restored for a moment the faint tints of returning health, made delamere hope that her resolution was shaken; and seizing with his usual vehemence on an idea so flattering, he was instantly on his knees before her imploring her consent to prosecute their journey, and intreating miss lawson's assistance, to move her inexorable friend. emmeline was too weak to bear an address of this sort. the feebleness of her frame ill seconded the resolution of her mind; which, notwithstanding the struggles of pity and regard for delamere, which she could not entirely silence, was immoveably determined. rallying therefore her spirits, and summoning her fortitude to answer him, she said--'how _can_ you, sir, solicit a woman, whom you wish to make your wife, to break a promise so solemn as that i have given to your father? could you hereafter have any dependance on one, who holds her integrity so lightly? and should you not with great reason suspect that with her, falsehood and deception might become habitual?' 'not at all,' answered delamere. 'your promise to my father is nugatory; for it ought never to have been given. he took an unfair advantage of your candour and your timidity; and all that you said ought not to bind _you_; since it was extorted from you by _him_ who had no right to make such conditions.' 'what! has a father no right to decide to whom he will entrust the happiness of his son, and the honour of his posterity? alas! delamere, you argue against yourself; you only convince me that i ought not to put the whole happiness of my life into the hands of a man, who will so readily break thro' his first duties. the same impatient, pardon me, if i say the same selfish spirit, which now urges you to set paternal authority at defiance, will perhaps hereafter impel you, with as little difficulty, to quit a wife of whom you may be weary, for any other person whom caprice or novelty may dress in the perfections you now fancy i possess. ah! delamere! shall i have a right to expect tenderness and faith from a man whom i have assisted in making his parents unhappy; and who has by my means embittered the evening of their lives to whom he owes his own? do you think that a rebellious and unfeeling son is likely to make a good husband, a good father?' 'death and madness!' cried delamere, relapsing into all the violence of his nature--'what do you mean by all this! selfish! rebellious! unfeeling!--am i then _so_ worthless, _so_ detestable in your eyes?' his extravagant expressions of passion always terrified emmeline; but the paroxysm to which he now yielded, alarmed her less than it did miss lawson, who never having seen such frantic behaviour before, thought him really mad. she tremblingly besought him to sit down and be calm; while the pale countenance of emmeline which she shewed him, convinced him he must subdue the violence of his transports, or hazard seeing her relapse into that alarming state which had forced him to relinquish his project. this observation restored his senses for a moment.--he besought her pardon, with tears; then again cursed his own folly, and seemed on the point of renouncing the contrition he had just assured her he felt. the scene lasted till emmeline, quite overcome with it, grew so faint that she said she must go to bed; and then delamere, again terrified at an idea which he had forgot but the moment before, consented to retire if she would again repeat her forgiveness. she gave him her hand languidly, and in silence. he kissed it; and half in resentment, half in sorrow, left her, and returned to the inn, in a humour which equally unfitted him for society or solitude. obliged, however, to remain in the latter, he brooded gloomily over his disappointment; and believing emmeline's life no longer in danger, he fancied that his fears had magnified her illness. he again deprecated his folly for having consented to relinquish the prosecution of his journey, and for having agreed to carry her where he feared access to her would be rendered rare and difficult, by the inflexible prudence and watchful friendship of mrs. stafford. sometimes he formed vague projects to deceive her, and carry her again towards scotland; then relinquished them and formed others. he passed the night however nearly without sleep, and the morning found him still irresolute. at eight o'clock, he went to the house of mrs. champness; and miss lawson came down to him, but with a countenance in which uneasiness was so visible, that delamere was almost afraid of asking how miss mowbray did. she told him that she had passed a restless and uncomfortable night, and that the conversation he had held the evening before had been the cause of an access of fever quite as high as the first attack; and, that tho' she tried to conquer her weakness, and affected ability to prosecute a journey for which she hourly grew more eager, it was easy to see that she was as unfit for it as ever. miss lawson added, that if in a few hours she was not better, she should send to mr. lawson to come from stevenage to see her. this account renewed with extreme violence all the former terrors of delamere, which a few hours before he had been trying to persuade himself were groundless. he now reproached himself for his thoughtless cruelty; and miss lawson seized this opportunity to exhort him to be more cautious for the future, which he readily and warmly protested he would be. he promised never again to give way to such extravagant transports, and pressed to be admitted to see emmeline; but miss lawson would by no means suffer him to see her 'till she was more recovered from the effects of his frenzy. in the afternoon, he was allowed to drink tea in emmeline's room, and expressed his sincere concern for his indiscretion of the evening before. he tried, by shewing a disposition to comply with all her wishes, to obliterate the memory of his former indiscretion. emmeline was willing to forget the offence, and pardon the offender, on his renewing his promise to take her the next day towards london, on her route into dorsetshire; if she should be well enough to undertake the journey. the spirit and fortitude of emmeline, fatal as they were to his hopes, commanded the respect, esteem, and almost the adoration of delamere; while her gentleness and kindness oppressed his heart with fondness so extreme, that he was equally undone by the one and the other, and felt that it every hour became more and more impossible for him to live without her. it was agreed, that as it would be impossible to reach woodfield from hertford, without stopping one night on the road, they would proceed thro' london to staines the first day, and from thence go on early the next to the house of mrs. stafford. after lingering with her as long as he could, delamere took his leave for the evening, determined to observe the promises he had made her, and never again to attempt to obtain her but by her own consent. when he made these resolves, he really intended to adhere to them; and was confirmed in his good resolutions when he the next morning found her ready to trust herself with him, calm, chearful, full of confidence in his promises, and of gentleness and kindness towards him. emmeline took an affectionate leave of her amiable acquaintance, miss lawson, whose uncommon kindness, on so short a knowledge of her, filled her heart with gratitude. she promised to write to her as soon as she got to woodfield, and to return the cloaths she had borrowed, to which she secretly purposed adding some present, to testify her sense of the civilities she had received. delamere enclosed, in a letter which he sent by miss lawson to her father, a bank note, as an acknowledgment of his extraordinary kindness. they quickly arrived in london; and as emmeline still remained in the resolution of avoiding a return to mrs. ashwood, they changed horses in piccadilly to go on. tho' by going to her former residence she might have escaped a longer continuation, and farther journey, with delamere, of the impropriety of which she was very sensible; yet she declined it, because she knew that as her adventure might be explained several ways, mrs. ashwood and miss galton were very likely to put on it the construction least in her favour; and she was very unwilling to be exposed to their questions and comments, till she could, in concert with mrs. stafford, and with her advice, give such an account of the affair as would put it out of their power to indulge that malignity of remark at her expence of which she knew they were capable. she therefore dispatched a servant to mrs. ashwood with a note for her cloaths, whom delamere directed to rejoin them at staines. at that place they arrived early in the evening; and emmeline, to whom delamere had behaved with the utmost tenderness and respect, bore her journey without suffering any other inconvenience than some remaining languor, which was now more visible in her looks than in her spirits. charmed with the thoughts of so soon seeing mrs. stafford, and feeling all that delight which a consciousness of rectitude inspires, she was more than usually chearful, and conversed with delamere with all that enchanting frankness and sweetness which made her general conversation so desireable. chapter vii as they had an hour or two on their hands, which emmeline wished to employ in something that might prevent delamere from entertaining her on the only subject he was ever willing to talk of when they were together, she desired him to enquire for a book. he went out, and returned with some volumes of novels, which he had borrowed of the landlord's daughter; of which emmeline read in some a page, and in others a chapter, but found nothing in any, that tempted her to go regularly through the whole. while she was reading, delamere, equally unable to occupy himself with any other object whether she was absent or present, sat looking at her over the table which was between them. after some time passed in this manner, their supper was brought in, and common conversation took place while it was passing. when it was removed, emmeline returned again to the books, and took up one she had not before opened.--it was the second volume of the sorrows of werter. she laid it down again with a smile, saying--'that will not do for me to-night.' 'what is it?' cried delamere, taking it from her.--'o, i have read it--and if _you_ have, emmeline, you might have learned the danger of trifling with violent and incurable passions. tell me--could you ever be reconciled to yourself if you should be the cause of a catastrophe equally fatal?' still meaning to turn the conversation, she answered gaily--'o, i fancy there is very little danger of that--you know the value of your existence too well to throw it inconsiderately away.' 'do not be too certain of that, emmeline. without you, my life is no longer valuable--if indeed it be supportable; and should i ever be in the situation this melancholy tale describes, how do i know that my reason would be strong enough to preserve me from equal rashness. beware, miss mowbray--beware of the consequence of finding an albert at woodfield.' 'it is very unlikely i should find any lover there. i assure you i desire none; nor have i any other wish than to pass the remainder of the winter tranquilly with my friend.' 'if then you really never wish to encourage another, and if you have any sensibility for the pain i feel from uncertainty, why will you not solemnly engage yourself to me, by a promise which cannot be broken but by mutual consent?' 'because we are both too young to form such an engagement.--you are not yet quite one and twenty; a time of life in which it is impossible you can be a competent judge of what will make you really happy. i am more than two years younger: but short as has been my knowledge of the world, i have already seen two or three instances of marriages made in consequence of early engagements, which have proved so little fortunate that they have determined me never to try the experiment. should you bind yourself by this promise, which you now think would make you easy, and should you hereafter repent it, which i know to be far from improbable, pride, obstinacy, the shame of retracting your opinion, would perhaps concur to prevent your withdrawing it; and i should receive your hand while your heart might be attached to another. the chains which you had yourself put on, in opposition to the wishes of your family, you would, rather than own your error, rivet, tho' your inclination prompted you to break them; and we should then be both miserable.--no, delamere--let us remain at liberty, and perhaps----' 'it is impossible, madam!' cried delamere, suddenly and vehemently interrupting her--'it is absolutely impossible you could argue thus calmly, if you had any regard for me--cold--cruel--insensible--unfeeling girl! oh! fool, fool that i am, to persist in loving a woman without an heart, and to be unable to tear from my soul a passion that serves only to make me perpetually wretched. cursed be the hour i first indulged it, and cursed the weakness of mind that cannot conquer it!' this new instance of ungovernable temper, so contrary to the promises he had given her at hertford, extremely provoked emmeline, who answered very gravely-- 'if you desire, sir, to divest yourself of this unfortunate passion, the task is already half accomplished. resolve, then, to conquer it wholly: restore me to that tranquillity you have destroyed--vindicate my injured reputation, which your headlong ardour has blemished--give me back to the kindness and protection of your father--and determine to see me no more.' this spirited and severe answer, immediately convinced delamere he had gone too far. he had never before seen emmeline so much piqued, and he hastened to appease her. 'pardon me!--forgive me, emmeline! i am not master of myself when i think of losing you! but you, who feel not any portion of the flame that devours me, can coolly argue, while my heart is torn in pieces; and deign not even to make any allowance for the unguarded sallies of unconquerable passion!--the phrenzy of almost hopeless love! sometimes, when i think your coldness arises from determined and insurmountable indifference--perhaps from dislike--despair and fury possess me. would you but say that you will live only for me--would you only promise that no future rochely, none of the people you have seen or may see, shall influence you to forget me--i should, i think, be easier!' 'you have a better opinion of yourself, mr. delamere,' answered emmeline, calmly, 'than to believe it probable. but be that as it may, i have told you that i will neither make or receive any promises of the nature you require. i have already suffered too much from your extravagant passion to put it farther in your power to distress me. but i shall be better able to reassume this conversation to-morrow--to-night i am fatigued; and it is time for us to separate.' 'and will you leave me, then, emmeline?--leave me too in anger?' 'i am not angry, mr. delamere--here is my hand.' 'this hand,' exclaimed he, eagerly grasping it, 'which ought to have been mine!--now, even now, that you are about to tear yourself from me, it should have been mine for ever! but i have relinquished my prize at the moment i might have secured it; and if i lose it entirely my own folly only will be the cause.' 'these violent transports may terrify me, but shall not alter my determination. quit my hand, mr. delamere,' continued she, struggling to disengage it--'i will not be detained.' she rang the bell; and the waiter almost instantly entering, she took a candle and went to the apartment prepared for her: while delamere, vexed to have commanded himself so little, and to be so unable to adhere to the good resolutions he had made, dared not attempt to prevent her. he had now again to make his peace, but would not venture to take any steps towards it that night; and he retired to his own room, considering how he might remain near her after she got into dorsetshire, and dreading the hour of even a temporary separation. the next morning emmeline, impatient to be gone, dressed herself early; and just as she was about to go down to hasten their breakfast and departure, she saw, from a window that looked into the yard of the inn, a phaeton and four enter it, remarkable for the profusion of expensive and ill-fancied ornaments with which both the carriage and harness were covered. in it were two gentlemen wrapped in great coats, as the weather was very severe; on whom emmeline casting a transient glance, discovered that one of them was elkerton. she was a good deal alarmed at his arrival: for she had reason to fear, that this man, to whom she had a decided aversion, would see her, and know that she was travelling alone with delamere. she saw him get out, and give directions for putting up his horses, telling the people who came out to attend him that he should breakfast and stay there some hours. since his unfortunate _rencontre_ with delamere at mrs. ashwood's, he had almost entirely relinquished the pursuit of emmeline. he had never been able to shake off the ridicule his vanity had brought upon him, and therefore had forborne to enter the circle where it had happened. he had, however, seen miss mowbray once or twice in public, and she had been too generally admired not to interest his pride in keeping up the acquaintance, tho' she treated him always with coldness, and found it difficult to be barely civil. she knew that he was severely mortified by her indifference, and that in matters of scandal and gossiping no old woman could be a greater adept. when therefore personal pique was added to his natural love of anecdote, emmeline apprehended so much from him, that she determined, if possible, to escape his sight. to do this, however, was very difficult. she saw him and his companion take possession of a room that had windows looking into the yard through which she must of necessity pass, and where, when the post-chaise drew up, they must see whoever got into it. she wrapped herself up in her cloak, pulled her hat over her eyes, and holding up her handkerchief as if to guard her face from the cold, she passed unobserved to the room where delamere was waiting breakfast. the remembrance of his last night's behaviour was in some measure obliterated by the alarm she had felt at the sight of elkerton. delamere looked melancholy and dejected. emmeline speaking to him with her usual sweetness, seemed to have forgotten the offence he had given her, and tried to restore his good humour as if she had been the aggressor: but he continued gloomy and pensive. they began their breakfast, and conversed on different subjects. 'did you observe,' said emmeline, 'the phaeton which drove in just now?' 'no--what was there remarkable about it?' 'nothing, but that one of the persons it contained was elkerton, the poor man you made so absurd at mrs. ashwood's, when he boasted of knowing you. i hope i shall get away without his seeing me--i should extremely dislike meeting him.' 'stupid dog!--why should you care whether you meet him or no?' 'because he must think it so strange that i am here with you.' 'let him--of what consequence is it to us what such a puppy thinks? i cannot possibly care about it.' 'but _i_ do, mr. delamere,' said emmeline, somewhat gravely.--'you will recollect that i may be very much injured by the scandal such a man may circulate.' 'well, well, my dear emmeline--we will set out directly, and you will not meet him.--i will order the chaise.' he went out for that purpose as soon as their breakfast ended; but a few paces from the door was accosted by elkerton, who feeling himself in point of figure equal to speak to any man, addressed him with all the confident familiarity of an old acquaintance. 'sir, your most obedient humble servant.' 'your servant, sir;' replied delamere, brushing by him. 'sir, i hope you, and my lord and lady montreville, have been well since i had last the honour of seeing you?' 'since you oblige me, sir, to acknowledge the acquaintance, i must remind you that our last meeting was attended with some circumstances which should make you not very desirous of recollecting it.' 'oh, dear! very far from not wishing to remember it, i am always pleased with such agreeable badinage from my friends, and some how or other contrive to be even with them. prithee, dear boy, whither are you going?--perhaps we are travelling the same road?' 'i hope not,' said delamere, turning from him, and advancing towards the bar. elkerton, unabashed, followed him. 'if we are,' continued he, 'i think you shall take me into your post-chaise. i am going to pass a month with a friend in hampshire; and jackman, who loves driving, tho' he knows nothing of the matter, persuaded me to use an open carriage; but it is so cold, that i believe i shall let him enjoy it alone the rest of the way. suppose we go together, if your destination is the winchester road?' delamere was so provoked at this forwardness, that he found he should be unable to give a moderate answer.--he therefore turned away without giving any. 'pray, sir,' said the bar maid to elkerton, 'who is that young gentleman?' 'lord montreville's son,' replied he; 'and one of the strangest fellows in the world.--sometimes we are as intimate as brothers; and now you see he'll hardly speak to me.' 'perhaps, mr. elkerton,' said the woman, smiling, 'the young gentleman may have very good reasons for not taking another companion in his post-chaise.' elkerton pressed her to explain herself. 'why you must know,' said she, 'that there's a young lady with him; one of the prettiest young women i ever see. last night, after they comed here, his walet was pretty near tipsey; so he come and sot down here, and told me how his master had hired him to go along with 'em to scotland; but that before they got near half way, somehow or other 'twas settled for 'em to come back again. but don't say as i told you, mr. elkerton, for that would be as much as my place is worth.' this intelligence awakened all the curiosity of elkerton, together with some hopes of being able to revenge himself on delamere for his contempt and rudeness. 'egad!' cried he, 'i'll have a peep at this beauty, however.' so saying, he strutted across the yard, and placed himself under a little piazza which made a covered communication between the rooms of the inn which were built round the yard, and along which they were obliged to pass to get into the chaise. the room door opened--delamere and emmeline appeared at it. 'draw up, postillions, as close as you can,' cried the waiter. delamere, holding emmeline's hand, advanced; but on seeing elkerton, she stepped back into the room. 'come, come,' said delamere--'never concern yourself about that impertinent fellow.' elkerton, tho' he did not distinctly hear this speech, had caught a view of the person to whom it was addressed; and tho' her face was concealed, her height and air convinced him it was miss mowbray. 'how do you, madam?' exclaimed he, bowing and advancing--'miss mowbray, i hope i have the happiness of seeing you well.' 'we are in haste, sir,' said delamere, leading emmeline towards the chaise. 'nay, my good friend,' returned elkerton, 'allow me i beg to pay my respects to this lady, with whom i have the honour of being acquainted--miss mowbray, permit me----' he would have taken the hand which was disengaged; but emmeline shrunk from him, and stepped quickly into the chaise. elkerton still advanced, and leaning almost into it, he said--'your long journey, i hope, has not too much fatigued you.' 'by heaven!' exclaimed delamere, 'this is too much! sir, you are the most troublesome, insolent fool, i ever met with!' so saying, he seized elkerton by the collar, and twisting him suddenly round, threw him with great violence against one of the pillars of the piazza. he then got into the chaise; and taking out of his pocket two or three cards, on which his address was written, he tossed them out of the window; saying, with a voice that struck terror into the overthrown knight on the ground--'you know where to hear of me if you have any thing to say.' the chaise now drove quickly away; while delamere tried to reassure emmeline, who was so much terrified by the suddenness of this scuffle, that she had hardly breath to reproach him for his impetuosity. he answered, that he had kept his temper too long with the meddling ideot, and that to have overlooked such impertinence without resentment was not in his nature. he tried to laugh off her apprehensions; and flattered by the anxiety she felt for his safety, all his gaiety and good humour seemed to return. but emmeline, extremely hurt to find that elkerton was informed of the journey she had taken, and vexed that delamere had engaged in a quarrel, the event of which, if not personally dangerous to him, could not fail of being prejudicial to her, continued very low and uneasy the rest of their journey, reflecting on nothing with pleasure but on her approaching interview with mrs. stafford. but this hoped-for happiness was soon converted into the most poignant uneasiness. on their arrival at woodfield, emmeline had the pain of hearing that mrs. stafford, who had two days before been delivered of a daughter, had continued dangerously ill ever since. the physicians who attended her had that day given them hopes that her illness might end favourably; but she was still in a situation so precarious that her attendants were in great alarm. as she had anxiously expected emmeline, and expressed much astonishment at not having heard from her the week before, which was that on which she had purposed to be with her, and as she still continued earnestly to enquire for news of miss mowbray, mr. stafford insisted on informing her she was arrived; and this intelligence seemed to give her pleasure. she desired emmeline might come to her bed-side: but she was so weak, that she could only in a faint voice express her pleasure at the sight of her; and pressing her hand, begged she would not leave her. it was impossible emmeline could speak to her on the subject of delamere, as the least emotion might have been of the most fatal consequence; and tho' she earnestly wished he might not have been invited to stay, she was obliged to let it take it's course. she left her friend's room no more that evening; and gave her whole thoughts and attention to keeping her quiet and administering her medicines, which mrs. stafford seemed pleased to receive from her hands. mr. stafford was one of those unfortunate characters, who having neither perseverance and regularity to fit them for business, or taste and genius for more refined pursuits, seek, in every casual occurrence or childish amusement, relief against the tedium of life. tho' married very early, and tho' father of a numerous family, he had thrown away the time and money, which should have provided for them, in collecting baubles, which he had repeatedly possessed and discarded, 'till having exhausted every source that that species of idle folly offered, he had been driven, by the same inability to pursue proper objects, into vices yet more fatal to the repose of his wife, and schemes yet more destructive to the fortune of his family. married to a woman who was the delight of her friends and the admiration of her acquaintance, surrounded by a lovely and encreasing family, and possessed of every reasonable means of happiness, he dissipated that property, which ought to have secured it's continuance, in vague and absurd projects which he neither loved or understood; and his temper growing more irritable in proportion as his difficulties encreased, he sometimes treated his wife with great harshness; and did not seem to think it necessary, even by apparent kindness and attention, to excuse or soften to her his general ill conduct, or his 'battening on the moor' of low and degrading debauchery. mrs. stafford, who had been married to him at fifteen, had long been unconscious of his weakness: and when time and her own excellent understanding pressed the fatal conviction too forcibly upon her, she still, but fruitlessly, attempted to hide from others what she saw too evidently herself. fear for the future fate of her children, and regret to find that she had no influence over her husband, together with the knowledge of connections to which she had till a few months before been a stranger, had given to mrs. stafford, whose temper was naturally extremely chearful, that air of despondence, and melancholy cast of mind, which emmeline had remarked with so much concern on their first acquaintance. to such a man as mr. stafford, the arrival of delamere afforded novelty, and consequently some degree of satisfaction. he took it into his head to be extremely civil to him, and pressed him to continue some time at his house; but delamere well knew that emmeline would be made unhappy by his remaining more than one night; as mr. stafford entered however so warmly into his interest, he begged of him to recollect whether there was not any house to be let within a few miles of woodfield. mr. stafford instantly named a hunting seat of sir philip carnaby's, which he said would exactly suit him. it's possessor, whom some disarrangement in his affairs had obliged to go abroad for a few years, had ordered it to be let ready furnished, from year to year. delamere went the next morning to the attorney who let it; and making an agreement for it, ordered in all the requisites for his immediate residence; and, till it was ready, accepted mr. stafford's invitation to remain at woodfield. emmeline, who confined herself wholly to her friend's apartment, knew nothing of this arrangement 'till it was concluded: and when she heard it, remonstrance and objection were vain. the illness of mrs. stafford, tho' it did not gain ground, was still very alarming, and called forth, to a painful excess, that lively sympathy which emmeline felt for those she loved. she continued to attend her with the tenderest assiduity; and after five days painful suspence, had the happiness to find her out of danger, and well enough to hear the relation emmeline had to make of the involuntary elopement. mrs. stafford advised her immediately to write to lord montreville; which her extreme anxiety only had occasioned her so long to delay. chapter viii lord montreville and sir richard crofts, after exhausting every mode of enquiry at the end of their journey, without having discovered any traces of the fugitives, returned to london. the uncertainty of what was become of his son, and concern for the fate of emmeline, made his lordship more unhappy than he had yet been: and the reception he met with on his return home did not contribute to relieve him; he found that no intelligence had been received of delamere; and lady montreville beset him with complaints and reproaches. the violence of her passions had, for some months, subjected her to fits; and the evasion of her son, and her total ignorance of what was become of him, had kept her in perpetual agony during lord montreville's absence. his return after so successless a journey encreased her sufferings, and she was of a temper not to suffer alone, but to inflict on others some part of the pain she felt herself. lord montreville attempted in vain to appease and console her. nothing but some satisfactory account of delamere had the least chance of succeeding; and his lordship, who now supposed that delamere and emmeline were concealed in the neighbourhood of london, determined to persevere in every means of discovering them. for this purpose he had again recourse to the crofts'; and sir richard and both his sons readily undertook to assist him in his search, and particularly the elder undertook it with the warmest zeal. this young man inherited all the cunning of his father, together with a coolness of temper which supplied the place of solid understanding and quick parts; since it always gave him time to see where his interest lay, and steadiness to pursue it. by incessant assiduity he had acquired the confidence of lady montreville, to whom his attention and attendance were become almost necessary. her ladyship never dreamed that a man of his rank could lift his eyes to either of her daughters, and therefore encouraged his constant attendance on them both; while crofts was too sensible of the value of such an alliance not to take advantage of the opportunities that were incessantly afforded him. lady montreville had repeatedly declared, that if delamere married emmeline all that part of the fortune which she had a right to give away should be the property of her eldest daughter. this was upwards of six thousand pounds a year; and whether this ever happened or not, crofts knew that what was settled on younger children, which must at all events be divided between the two young ladies, would make either of them a fortune worth all attempts, independent of the connection he would form by it with lord montreville, who now began to make a very considerable figure in the political world. with these views, crofts had for near two years incessantly applied himself to conciliate the good opinion of the whole family, with so much art that nobody suspected his designs. the slight and contemptuous treatment he had always received from delamere, he had affected to pass by with the calm magnanimity of a veteran statesman; and emulating the decided conduct and steady indifference of age, rather than yielding to the warmth of temper natural to five and twenty, he was considered as a very rising and promising young man by the grave politicians with whom he associated, and by those of his own age a supercilious and solemn coxcomb. he had studied the characters of the two miss delameres, and found that of the eldest the fittest for his purpose; tho' the person of the youngest, and the pride which encased the heart of the other, would have made a less able politician decide for augusta. but he saw that the very pride which seemed an impediment to his hopes, might, under proper management, contribute to their success. he saw that she really loved nobody but herself; that her personal vanity was greater than the pride of her rank; and that her heart was certainly on that side assailable. he therefore, by distant hints and sighs, affected concealment; and artful speeches gave her to understand that all his prudence had not been able to defend him from the indiscretion of a hopeless passion. while he was contented to call it hopeless, miss delamere, tho' long partial to fitz-edward, could not refuse herself the indulgence of hearing it; and at length grew so accustomed to allow him to talk to her of his unbounded and despairing love, that she found it very disagreeable to be without him. he saw, that unless a title and great estate crossed his path, his success, tho' it might be slow, was almost certain. but he was obliged to proceed with caution; notwithstanding he would have been very glad to have secured his prize before the return of delamere to his family threw an obstacle in his way which was the most formidable he had to contend with. he affected, however, the utmost anxiety to discover him; and recited to lord montreville an exhortation he intended to pronounce to him, if he should be fortunate enough to do so. nothing could be a greater proof of his lordship's opinion of crofts than his entrusting him with a commission, which, if successful, could hardly fail of irritating the fiery and ungovernable temper of delamere, and driving him into excesses which it would require all the philosophic steadiness of crofts to support without resentment. while sir richard and his two sons therefore set about the difficult task of finding delamere, lord montreville went himself to fitz-edward; but heard that for many days he had not been at his apartments, that he had taken no servants with him, and that they knew not whither he was gone, or when he would return. lord montreville, who had depended more on the information of fitz-edward than any other he hoped to obtain, left a note at his lodgings desiring to see him as soon as he came to town, and went back in encreased uneasiness to his own house. but among the numberless letters which lay on his library table, the directions of which he hastily read in a faint hope of news of delamere, he saw one directed by the hand of emmeline. he tore it eagerly open--it contained an account of all that had happened, written with such clearness and simplicity as immediately impressed it's truth; and it is difficult to say whether lord montreville's pleasure at finding his son still unmarried, or his admiration at the greatness of his niece's mind, were the predominant emotion. when the former sentiment a little subsided, and he had time to reflect on all the heroism of her conduct, he was almost ashamed of the long opposition he had given to his son's passion; and would, if he had not known his wife's prejudices invincible, have acknowledged, that neither the possession of birth or fortune could make any amends to him, who saw and knew how to value the beauty of such a mind as that of emmeline. the inveterate aversion and insurmountable pride of lady montreville, he had no hope of conquering; and she had too much in her power, to suffer his lordship to think of delamere's losing such a large portion of his inheritance by disobeying her. for these reasons he checked the inclination he felt rising in his own heart to reward and receive his niece, and thought only of taking advantage of her integrity to separate his son from her for ever. he went with the letter in his hand to lady montreville's apartment, where he found mr. crofts and the two young ladies. he read it to them; and when he had finished it, expressed in the warmest terms his approbation of miss mowbray's conduct. lady montreville testified nothing but satisfaction at what she called 'the foolish boy's escape from ruin,' without having the generosity to applaud _her_, whose integrity was so much the object of admiration. possessing neither candour nor generosity herself, she was incapable of loving those qualities in another; and in answer to lord montreville's praises of emmeline, which she heard with reluctance, she was not ashamed to say, that perhaps were the whole truth known, his lordship would find but little reason to set up his relation's character higher than that of his own children--to which her eldest daughter added--'why, to be sure, madam, there is, as my father says, something very extraordinary in miss mowbray's refusing _such a match_--that is, _if_ she has no other attachment.' augusta delamere heard all that her father said in commendation of her beloved emmeline, with eyes suffused with tears, which drew on her the anger of her mother and the malignant sneers of her sister. the two young ladies however were sent away, while a council was held between lord and lady montreville and crofts, on what steps it was immediately necessary to take. several ideas were started, but none which his lordship approved. he determined therefore to write to his son; with whose residence at tylehurst, the house of sir philip carnaby, emmeline's letter acquainted him; and wait his answer before he proceeded farther. with this resolution, lady montreville was extremely discontented; and proposed, as the only plan on which they could depend, that his lordship, under pretence of placing her properly, should send emmeline to france, and there confine her till delamere, hopeless of regaining her, should consent to marry miss otley. her ladyship urged--'that it could not possibly do the girl any harm; and that very worthy people had not scrupled to commit much more violent actions where their motive was right, tho' less strong, than that which would in this case actuate lord montreville, which was,' she said, 'to save the sole remaining heir of a noble house from a degrading and beggarly alliance.' 'hold! madam,' cried lord montreville, who was extremely displeased at the proposal, and with the speech with which it closed--'remember, i beg of you, that when you speak of the mowbray family, you speak of one very little if at all inferior to your own; nor should you, lady montreville, forget, in the heat of your resentment, that you are a woman--a woman too, whose birth should at least give you a liberal mind, and put you above thinking of an action as unfeminine as inhuman. surely, as a mother who have daughters of your own, you should have some feeling for this young woman; not at all their inferior, but in being born under circumstances for which she is not to blame, and which mark with sufficient unhappiness a life that might otherwise have done as much honour to my family as i hope your daughters will do to your's.' the slightest contradiction was what lady montreville had never been accustomed to bear patiently. the asperity therefore of this speech, and the total rejection of her project, threw her into an agony of passion which ended in an hysteric fit. lord montreville, less moved than usual, committed her to the care of her daughters and women, and continued to talk coolly to crofts on the subject they were before discussing. after considering it in every point of view, he determined to leave delamere at present to his own reflections; only writing to him a calm and expostulatory letter; such as, together with emmeline's steadiness, on which he now relied with the utmost confidence, might, he thought, effect more than violent measures. his lordship wrote also to emmeline, strongly expressing his admiration and regard, and his confidence and esteem encreased her desire to deserve them. mrs. stafford was now nearly recovered; and delamere settled at his new house, where he always returned at night, tho' he passed almost every day at woodfield. his mornings were often occupied in those amusements of which he had been so fond before his passion for emmeline became the only business of his life; and secure of seeing her continually, and of telling how he loved her, he became more reasonable than he had hitherto been. the letters, however, which now arrived from lord montreville, a little disturbed his felicity. they gave emmeline an opportunity to exhort him to return to london--to make his peace with his father, and quiet the uneasiness of lady montreville, which his lordship represented as excessive, and as fatal to _her_ health as to the peace of the whole family. emmeline urged him by every tie of duty and affection to relieve the anxiety of his family, and particularly to attend to the effect his absence and disobedience had on the constitution of his mother, which had long been extremely shaken. but to all her remonstrances, he answered--'that he would not return, till lady montreville would promise never to renew those reflections and reproaches which had driven him from audley-hall; and to which he apprehended he should now be more than ever exposed.' as emmeline could not pretend to procure such an engagement from her ladyship, all she could do was to inform lord montreville of his objection, and to leave it to him to make terms between delamere and his mother. near a month had now elapsed since emmeline's arrival at woodfield; and the returning serenity of her mind had restored to her countenance all it's bloom and brilliancy. she had indeed no other uneasiness than what arose from her anxiety to procure quiet to her uncle's family, and from her observations on the encreasing melancholy of mrs. stafford, for which she knew too well how to account. even this, however, often appeared alleviated by her presence, and forgotten in her conversation; and she rejoiced in the power of affording a temporary relief to the sorrows of one whom she so truly loved. this calm was interrupted by elkerton, by whom the affront he had received at staines, from delamere, had not been forgotten, tho' he by no means relished the thoughts of resenting it in the way his friend jackman, and all who heard of it, proposed. to risk his life and all his finery, seemed a most cruel condition; but jackman protested there was no other by which he could retrieve his honour. and his friend at whose house he was, on the borders of hampshire, who had been an officer in the military service of the east india company, and had acquired a princely fortune, felt himself inspired with all the punctilios of a soldier, and declared to elkerton that if he put up with this affront no man of honour could hereafter speak to him. poor elkerton, who in the article of fighting, as well as many others, extremely resembled '_le bourgeois gentilhomme_,' made all the evasions in his power; while his _soi disant_ friends, who enjoyed his distress, persisted in pushing him on to demand satisfaction of delamere; but after long debates, he determined first to ask him for an apology. there was, he thought, some hope of obtaining it; if not, he could only in the last extremity have recourse to the desperate expedient of a challenge. he wrote therefore a letter to delamere, requesting, in the civilest and mildest terms, an apology for his behaviour at staines; and sent it by a servant; as it was not more than twenty miles from the house where he was, to that mr. delamere had taken. delamere returned a contemptuous refusal; but neither mentioned the letter to emmeline, nor thought again about it's writer. the unfortunate elkerton, who reproached incessantly his evil stars for having thrown this hot-headed boy in his way, could not conceal from his friends the unaccommodating answer he had received to his pacific overture; and it was agreed that elkerton must either determine to fight him, or be excluded from good company for ever. the challenge, therefore, penned by the asiatic hero, was copied with a trembling hand by elkerton; and jackman, who had offered to be his second, set out with him for the town near tylehurst. on their arrival, jackman took a post-chaise to carry the billet to delamere, leaving the terrified elkerton to settle all his affairs, both temporal and spiritual, against the next morning, when delamere was appointed to meet him on a heath near the town, at seven o'clock. jackman found delamere with fitz-edward, who had arrived there that day. he delivered his letter, and delamere immediately answered it by saying he would not fail to attend the appointment, with his friend colonel fitz-edward. during jackman's absence, elkerton tried to argue himself into a state of mind fit for the undertaking of the next day. but he found no arguments gave him any sort of satisfaction, save two; one was, that as most disputes ended with firing a brace of pistols in the air, the probability was, that he should be as fortunate as others--the second, that if the worst should happen, he should at least make a paragraph worth some hazard: and that whether he killed delamere, or fell himself, an affair of honour with a young man of his rank would extremely contribute to his fame. neither of these reflections however had force enough to prevent his heartily wishing there was no necessity to employ them; and he contrived to make such a bustle with his servant about his pistols, and sent forth so many enquiries for an able surgeon, that it was known immediately at the inn where he was, that the gentleman was come to fight young squire delamere. in a country town, such intelligence soon gained ground; and before jackman's return, every shop in it had settled the place and manner of the combat. one of mr. stafford's servants was at the inn, which was also the post house; where the landlady failed not to tell him what a bloody-minded man was in the next room. the servant, who like all people of his station delighted in the wonderful and the terrible, collected all the particulars; which he retailed on his arrival at home, with every exaggeration his invention would lend him. chapter ix the maid who waited on emmeline had no sooner heard these particulars, than conceiving her to be more interested in the fate of delamere than any other person, she ran up to tell her of it; and tho' she had not retained the name of elkerton perfectly, emmeline, who instantly recollected the adventure at staines, saw the truth at once; and was terrified at the impending event to a degree that made her for a moment incapable of reflection. to be, however remotely, or however innocently, the cause of any man's hazarding his life, was shocking to all her feelings. but to suppose that lord montreville might be made by her means the most wretched of human beings, by the loss of an only and beloved son, was an idea which froze her blood. her regard for delamere, which was the affection of a sister somewhat heightened perhaps by his persevering preference of herself, her friendship for augusta, and her anxiety for the peace of his whole family, added to her general tenderness of heart, all co-operated to distress her on this occasion. as soon as she could recollect what was best to be done, she sought mr. stafford, to whom she related what she had heard, which the servant who had brought the intelligence repeated before him. mr. stafford, at emmeline's earnest request, set out for the house of delamere, who had not that day been at woodfield because he expected fitz-edward. mr. stafford delivered to him a pressing entreaty from emmeline that he would forbear to meet elkerton, or at least delay it 'till she could speak to him; but delamere shewing stafford the letter he had received, desired him to go back and make emmeline easy as well as he could, since to comply with her request was entirely out of his power. to the necessity of his meeting elkerton, stafford assented; and returned home to relate the little success of his embassy, while the terror and alarm of emmeline were only encreased by his visit. such was her anxiety, that she would have gone herself to tylehurst, if mrs. stafford had not represented to her that it would be certainly improper, and probably ineffectual. she passed a sleepless night, tormenting herself with a thousand imaginary modes of misery which might arise from the meeting of the next day. but while she continued to form and reject projects for preventing it, seven o'clock passed, and the _rencontre_ ended without bloodshed; the cautious valour of elkerton having been so loud, that a magistrate who lived in the town, and who was well known to lord montreville, had heard of it, and, with a party of constables, had followed elkerton at some distance. they concealed themselves, by the justice's order, in a gravel-pit near the place of combat, and there saw the ground already possessed by delamere and fitz-edward. the trembling challenger, with a face as pale as if delamere's pistol had already done it's worst, followed by jackman, on whose undaunted countenance he cast a rueful and imploring look, then rode slowly up, punctual to the time. the usual ceremonies passed, elkerton's blood seemed to be all gone to his heart, to encourage it to be stout; and his knees, which trembled most piteously, appeared to resent the desertion. he cast round the heath a hopeless look--no succour approached! the ground was measured; each took their post; and his trembling encreased so violently, that delamere apprehended very little from a pistol in so unsteady a hand. but had he apprehended more, he was of a temper to receive it, unshrinkingly. the moment to fire now arrived; and elkerton, while cocking his pistol, saw the _possé_ rise out of the gravel-pit; but he was too far gone to be sensible of the seasonable relief; therefore, without knowing what he was about, he fired his pistol before they could seize his arm, and then stood like a statue, nearly insensible of the happiness of his deliverance. the justice advancing himself on horseback, now put both the gentlemen under arrest: and elkerton seeing himself at length safe for the present, thought he might venture to insist on standing mr. delamere's fire. the more the worthy justice opposed it, the more vehement he grew: but delamere, who despised him too much to be really angry with him, went off the field, telling elkerton that any other time, when there were fewer witnesses, he would give him what further satisfaction he might require. he gave his honour to the justice that he would trouble himself no farther about the affair; and elkerton having given jackman's bail for his present pacific intentions, was suffered to go also. he returned to the house of his east indian friend, exulting secretly in his escape, and openly in his valour, to which latter jackman did not bear testimony so warmly as he thought friendship required. determined, however, to lose no part of the glory which he thought he had dearly purchased by being frightened out of his wits, he wrote, in the form of a letter, a most tremendous account of the duel to the daily papers, in which he described all it's imaginary horrors, and ended with asserting very roundly, that 'mr. elkerton had the misfortune dangerously to wound the hon. frederic delamere; and, when this account came away, there were no hopes of his recovery.' having secured himself a fame, at least, for two or three days, he set out for london to enjoy it; never reflecting on any other consequences than those most flattering to his ridiculous vanity. he knew he should be talked of; and by representing what had _not_ happened, have a fair opportunity of telling what _had_, in his own way. when emmeline, who had never ceased walking about and listening, saw delamere and fitz-edward riding quietly across the lawn which led to the house, she ran eagerly down to meet them: but the idea that elkerton might possibly be killed checked her joy; and when they came up to her, breathless agitation prevented her asking what she wanted to know. delamere, who saw her so pale and terrified, threw himself instantly off his horse and caught her in his arms. 'has no harm happened, mr. delamere?' 'none in the world, my emmeline. nobody is hurt so much as you are; tho' poor elkerton was almost as much frightened. come, pray compose yourself--you have not yet the glory to boast of having a life lost about you.' 'heaven forbid that i ever should!' answered she--'i am grateful that there has been no mischief!--oh! if i could describe what i have suffered, surely you would never terrify me so again.' she could not restrain her tears. delamere led her into the house; where, while mrs. stafford gave her hartshorn and water, delamere, at her request, related exactly what had happened: and having given emmeline his honour that he would think no more of the affair if elkerton did not, the tranquillity of the house seemed to be restored, and delamere and fitz-edward were invited to dinner; where great alteration in the looks of the latter, was remarked by both the ladies. nor was it in looks only that fitz-edward was extremely changed.--his chearfulness was quite gone; he appeared to be ineffectually struggling with some unconquerable uneasiness; and tho' his soft and insinuating manners were the same, he no longer sought, by a thousand agreeable sallies and lively anecdotes, to entertain; or whatever attempt he made was so evidently forced, that it lost it's success. remarkable for his temperance at table, for which he had often endured the ridicule of his companions, he now seemed to fly to the bottle, against his inclination, as if in hopes to procure himself a temporary supply of spirits. every day after that on which emmeline and mrs. stafford made this remark, it's justice was more evident. while delamere was in the fields, fitz-edward would sit whole mornings with mrs. stafford and emmeline, leaning on their work-table, or looking over emmeline, busied with her pencil. had his marked attention to mrs. stafford continued, she would have seen his behaviour with great alarm; but he no longer paid her those oblique yet expressive compliments of which he used to be so lavish. it seemed, as if occupied by some other object, he still admired and revered her, and wished to make her the confidant of the sorrow that oppressed him. if they were accidentally alone, he appeared on the point of telling her; then suddenly checking himself, he changed the discourse, or abruptly left her; and as he was a man whom it was impossible to know without receiving some impressions in his favour, she felt, as well as emmeline, a pity for him, which they wished to be justified in feeling, by hearing that whatever was the cause of his unhappiness, he had not brought it on himself by any crime that would make their regard for him blameable.--for emmeline, tho' she knew that it was with no good design he had contributed to delamere's getting her off, yet could not persuade herself to hate him for it, when he not only humbly solicited her forgiveness, but protested that he was truly rejoiced, as well as astonished at her steadiness and good conduct; and would be so far from encouraging any such attempt for the future, that he would be the first to call delamere to an account, could he suppose he harboured intentions which he now considered as ungenerous and criminal. these declarations had made his peace both with emmeline and her friend; and his languid and sentimental conversation, tho' it made him less entertaining, did not make him less interesting to either of them. mr. stafford, ever in pursuit of some wild scheme, was now gone for a few days into another county, to make himself acquainted with the process of manuring land with old wigs--a mode of agriculture on which mr. headly had lately written a treatise so convincing, that mr. stafford was determined to adopt it on his own farm as soon as a sufficient number of wigs could be procured for the purpose. during this absence, and on the fourth day after elkerton's exploit, a stormy morning had driven delamere from the fields; who went into mrs. stafford's dressing-room, where he found fitz-edward reading cecilia to mrs. stafford and miss mowbray while they sat at work. mrs. stafford had her two little boys at her feet; and when delamere appeared, she desired him to take a chair quietly, and not disturb so sober a party. but he had not been seated five minutes, before the children, who were extremely fond of him, crept to him, and he began to play with them and to make such a noise, that mrs. stafford laughingly threatened to send all the riotous boys into the nursery together--when at that moment millefleur, who had some time before come down to attend his master, entered the room with a letter which he said came express from berkley-square. delamere saw that his father's hand had almost illegibly directed it. he opened it in fearful haste, and read these words-- 'before this meets you, your mother will probably be no more. a paragraph in the newspaper, in which you are said to have been killed in a duel, threw her into convulsions. i satisfied myself of your safety by seeing the man with whom you fought, but your mother is incapable of hearing it. unhappy boy! if you would see her alive, come away instantly. montreville.' _berkley-square, feb. ._ it is impossible to say whether the consternation of emmeline or that of delamere was the greatest. by the dreadful idea of having occasioned his mother's death, every other was for a moment absorbed. he flew without speaking down stairs, and into the stable where he had left his horse; but the groom had carried the horse to his own stables, supposing his master would stay 'till night. without recollecting that he might take one of mr. stafford's, he ran back into the room where emmeline was weeping in the arms of her friend, and clasping her wildly to his bosom, he exclaimed--'farewell, emmeline! farewell, perhaps, for ever! if i lose my mother i shall never forgive _myself_; and shall be a wretch unworthy of _you_. dearest mrs. stafford! take care i beseech you of her, whatever becomes of me.' having said this, he ran away again without his hat, and darted across the lawn towards his own house, meaning to go thither on foot; but fitz-edward, with more presence of mind, was directing two of mr. stafford's horses to be saddled, with which he soon overtook delamere; and proceeding together to the town, they got into a post-chaise, and went as expeditiously as four horses could take them, towards london. equally impetuous in all his feelings, his grief at the supposed misfortune was as violent as it could have been had he been sure that the worst had already happened. he now remembered, with infinite self-reproach, how much uneasiness and distress he had occasioned to lady montreville since he left her in november at audley-hall without taking leave--and recollecting all her tenderness and affection for him from the earliest dawn of his memory; her solicitude in his sickness, when she had attended him herself and given up her rest and health to contribute to his; her partial fondness, which saw merit even in his errors; her perpetual and ardent anxiety for what she believed would secure his happiness--he set in opposition to it his own neglect, impatience, and disobedience; and called himself an unnatural and ungrateful monster. fitz-edward could hardly restrain his extravagant ravings during the journey; which having performed as expeditiously as possible, they arrived in berkley-square; where, when the porter opened the door to them, delamere had not courage to ask how his mother did; but on fitz-edward's enquiry, the porter told them she was alive, and not worse. relieved by this account, delamere sent to his father to know if he might wait upon him. his lordship answered--"that he would only see colonel fitz-edward; but that delamere might come in, to wait 'till his mother's physicians arrived." lord montreville was indeed so irritated against delamere by all the trouble and anxiety he had suffered on his account, that he determined to shew his resentment; and in this resolution he was encouraged by sir richard crofts, who represented to him that his mother's danger, and his father's displeasure, might together work upon his mind, and induce him to renounce an attachment which occasioned to them both so much unhappiness. it was in this hope that his lordship refused to see his son; and while fitz-edward went to him, delamere was shewn into another room, where his youngest sister immediately came to him. she received him with rapture mingled with tears; and related to him the nature of his mother's illness, which had seized her two days before, on her unfortunately taking up a newspaper from the breakfast-table, where it was very confidently said that he was mortally wounded in a duel with a person named elkerton, of portland-place. that lord montreville had luckily had a letter from fitz-edward the day before, (whom he had forgiven the part he took in regard to emmeline on no other condition than that he should go down to him, and give his lordship an account of his conduct) and that therefore he was less alarmed, tho' very much hurried by the paragraph. he had, however, gone to elkerton's house, where he found him very composedly receiving the enquiries of his friends, and where he insisted on hearing exactly what had happened. his lordship immediately returned to his wife; but the convulsions had arisen to so alarming an height, that she was no longer capable of hearing him; and she had ever since continued to have, at very short intervals, such dreadful fits, as had entirely contracted her left side, and left very little hope of her recovery. delamere was extremely shocked at this account; and after waiting some time, fitz-edward came to him, and told him that his father was extremely angry, and absolutely refused to see him or hear his apology, unless he would first give his honour that if lady montreville should survive the illness his indiscreet rashness had brought upon her, he would, as soon as she was out of danger, go abroad, and remain there till he should obtain forgiveness for his past errors and leave to return. the heart of delamere was accessible only by the avenues of affection and kindness; compulsion and threats only made him more resolutely persist in any favourite project. sir richard crofts therefore, who had advised this measure, shewed but little knowledge of his temper, and never was more mistaken in his politics. delamere no sooner heard the message, than he knew with whom it originated; and full of indignation at finding his father governed by a man for whom he felt only aversion and contempt, he answered, with great asperity--'that he came thither not to solicit any favour, but to see his mother. that he would not be dictated to by the crofts; but would remain in town 'till he knew whether his mother desired to see him; and be ready to wait on his father when he would vouchsafe to treat him as his son.' he then shook hands with fitz-edward, kissed his sister, and walked out of the house, in spite of their united endeavours to detain him. all they could obtain of him was his consent to go to fitz-edward's lodgings, as he had none of his own ready; from whence he sent constantly every hour to enquire after lady montreville. chapter x emmeline, in the mean time, remained in great uneasiness at woodfield. delamere, on his first arrival in town, wrote a short and confused note; by which she only learned that lady montreville was alive. after some days she received the following letter from augusta delamere. 'i will now try, my dearest emmeline, to give you an account of what has passed here since my brother's arrival. 'my mother is happily better; knows every body, and speaks more distinctly; her fits return less frequently; and upon the whole, the physicians give us hopes of her recovery, but very little that she will ever be restored to the use of the arm which is contracted. 'on friday, in an interval of her fits, sir hugh cathcart and dr. gardner, her physicians, proposed that she should see my brother, of whose being living nothing we could any of us say could convince her. she repeated to dr. gardner, who staid with her after the other went, that she was deceived. 'he assured her that she was deceived in nothing but in her sudden and unhappy prepossession; for that mr. delamere had never been in the least danger, and was actually in perfect health. '"he is alive!" cried my mother, mournfully--"i thank god he is alive; but he knows my illness, and i do not see him--ah! it is too certain i have lost my son!" '"you have not been able to see him, my dear madam; but he came up as soon as he heard of your situation, and now waits your commands at colonel fitz-edward's lodgings.--do you wish to see him?" '"i do! i do wish to see him! oh! let him come!" 'the agitation of her mind, however, brought on almost instantly a return of the disorder; and before my brother's arrival, she was insensible. 'her distorted features; her hands contracted, her eyes glazed and fixed, her livid complexion, and the agonizing expression of her countenance, were at their height when delamere was desired to go into the room: my father believed that the sight of his mother in such a situation could not but affect the feelings of her son. 'it did indeed affect him! he stood a moment looking at her in silent terror; then, as if suddenly recollecting that he had been the cause of this dreadful alteration, he turned away, clasped his hands together, and burst into tears. 'my mother neither saw him or heard his loud sobs. my sister looked at him reproachfully; and apparently to escape from her, he came to me, and taking my hand, kissed it, and asked how long this melancholy scene would last? 'the physician, who heard the question, said the fit was going off. it did so in a few minutes. she sighed deeply; and seeing the doctor still sitting by her, she asked if he would still perform his promise, and let her see her son? 'at these words, delamere stepped forward, and threw himself on his knees by the bed side. he wept aloud; and eagerly kissed his mother's hands, which he bathed in tears. 'she looked at him with an expression to which no description can do justice; but unable to speak, she seemed struggling to explain herself; and the physician, fearful of such agitation, said--"there, madam, is mr. delamere; not only alive, but willing, i am persuaded, to give you, in regard to his future conduct, any assurances that you require to tranquillise your mind." '"no!" said she, sighing--"that delamere is living, i thank heaven!--but for the rest--i have no hopes." '"for the rest," resumed the doctor, "he will promise any thing if you will only make yourself easy." 'at this moment my lord entered--"you see, sir," said he sternly to delamere, whom he had not seen since his arrival in london--"you see to what extremity your madness has reduced your mother." 'delamere, still on his knees, looked sorrowfully up, as if to enquire what reparation he could make? 'my father, appearing to understand the question, said--"if you would not be indeed a parricide, shew lady montreville that you have a sense of your errors, and will give her no farther uneasiness." '"do, frederic," cried my sister. '"in what way, sir?" said my brother, very mournfully. '"tell her you will consent to fulfil all her wishes." '"sir," said delamere firmly, "if to sacrifice my own life would restore my mother's, i would not hesitate; but if what your lordship means relates to miss otley, it is absolutely out of my power." '"he is already married, i doubt not," sighed my mother. '"upon my soul i am not." '"come, come," cried dr. gardner, "this is going a great deal too far; your ladyship is but just convinced your son is living, and my lord here is already talking of other matters. tell me, madam--what do you wish mr. delamere to say?" '"that he will not marry," eagerly interrupted my father, "but with his mother's consent and mine." '"i will not, my lord," said delamere, sighing. '"that as soon as lady montreville is well enough to allow you to leave her, you will go abroad for a twelvemonth or longer if i shall judge it expedient." '"i will promise _that_, if your lordship makes a point of it--if my mother insists upon it. but, my lord, if at the end of that time emmeline mowbray is still single----my lord, you do not expect unconditional submission--i shall then in my turn hope that you and my mother will make no farther opposition to my wishes." 'my father, who expected no concession from delamere, had at first asked of him more than he intended to insist on, and now appeared eager to close with the first terms he could obtain. accepting therefore a delay, instead of a renunciation, he said--"well, delamere, if at the end of a twelvemonth you still insist on marrying miss mowbray, i will not oppose it. lady montreville, you hear what your son engages for; do you agree to the terms?" 'my mother said, very faintly--"yes." 'the promise was repeated on both sides before the physician and fitz-edward, who came in at the latter part of this scene. my mother seemed reluctantly to accede; complained of extreme faintness; and the scene beginning to grow fatiguing to her, my brother offered to retire. she gave him her hand, which he kissed, and at her desire consented to return to the apartments here which he used to occupy. my mother had that evening another attack; tho' it was much less severe. but as the contraction does not give way to any remedies yet used, the physicians propose sending her to bath as soon as she is able to bear the journey. 'thus, my dearest emmeline, i have punctually related all you appear so anxious to know, on which i leave you to reflect. my mother now sees my brother every day; but he has desired that nothing may be said of the past; and their conversations are short and melancholy. fitz-edward has left london; and frederic told me, last night, that as soon as the physicians pronounce my mother entirely out of danger, he shall go down to you. ah! my lovely friend! what a trial will his be! but i know _you_ will encourage and support him in the task, however painful, of fulfilling the promise he has given; and my father, who praises you incessantly, says he is _sure_ of it. adieu! my dear miss mowbray! your affectionate and attached, augusta delamere.' _berkley-square, march ._ a few days after the receipt of this letter, delamere went down to tylehurst. dejection was visibly marked in his air and countenance; and all that emmeline could say to strengthen his resolution, served only to make him feel greater reluctance. to quit her for twelve months, to leave her exposed to the solicitation of rivals who would not fail to surround her, and to hazard losing her for ever, seemed so terrible to his imagination, that the nearer the period of his promised departure grew, the more impossible he thought it to depart. his ardent imagination seemed to be employed only in figuring the variety of circumstances which might in that interval arise to separate them for ever; and he magnified these possibilities, till he persuaded himself that nothing but a private marriage could secure her. as he saw how anxious she was that he should strictly adhere to the promises he had given his father, he thought that he might induce her to consent to this expedient, as the only one by which he could reconcile his duty and his love. he therefore took an opportunity, when he had by the bitterness of his complaints softened her into tears, to entreat, to implore her to consent to marry him before he went. he urged, that as lord and lady montreville had both consented to their union at the end of the year, if he remained in the same mind, it made in fact no difference to _them_; because he was very sure that his inclinations would not change, and no doubt _could_ arise but from herself. if therefore she determined then to be his, she might as well consent to become so immediately as to hazard the difficulties which might arise to their marriage hereafter. emmeline, tho' extremely affected by his sorrow, had still resolution enough to treat this argument as feeble sophistry, unworthy of him and of herself; and positively to refuse her consent to an engagement which militated against all her assurances to lord montreville. this decisive rejection of a plan, to which, from the tender pity she testified, he believed he should persuade her to assent, threw him into one of those transports of agonizing passion which he could neither conceal or contend with. he wept; he raved like a madman. he swore he would return to his father and revoke his promise; and the endeavours of mrs. stafford and emmeline to calm his mind seemed only to encrease the emotions with which it was torn. after having exhausted every mode of persuasion in vain, he was obliged to relinquish the hope of a secret marriage, and to attempt to obtain another concession, in which he at length succeeded. he told emmeline, that if she had no wish to quit him entirely, but really meant to reward his long and ardent affection, she could not object to bind herself to become his wife immediately on his return to england. emmeline made every objection she could to this request. but she only objected; for she saw him so hurt, that she had not the resolution to wound him anew by a positive refusal. mrs. stafford too, moved by his grief and despair, no longer supported her in her reserve; and as _their_ steadiness seemed to give way _his_ eagerness and importunity encreased, till they allowed him to draw up a promise in these words--'at the end of the term prescribed by lord montreville, emmeline mowbray hereby promises to become the wife of frederic delamere.' this, emmeline signed with a reluctant and trembling hand; for tho' she had an habitual friendship and affection for delamere, and preferred him to all the men she had yet seen, she thought this not strictly right; and felt a pain and repugnance to it's performance, which made her more unhappy the longer she reflected on it. on delamere, however, it had a contrary effect. tho' he still continued greatly depressed at the thoughts of their approaching separation, he yet assumed some degree of courage to bear it: and when the day arrived, he bid her adieu without relapsing into those agonies he had suffered before at the mere idea of it. he carried with him a miniature picture of her, and entreated her to answer his letters; which, on the footing they now were, she could not refuse to promise. he then tore himself from her, and went to take leave of his mother, who still continued ill at bath; and from thence to london, to bid farewel to his father; after which, fitz-edward accompanied him as far as harwich, where he embarked for holland. as he had before been the usual tour of france and italy, he purposed passing the summer in visiting germany, and the winter at vienna; and early in the spring to set out thro' france on his way home, where he purposed being on the th of march, when the year which he had promised his father to pass abroad would expire. lord montreville, by obtaining this delay thought there was every probability that his attachment to emmeline would be conquered. and his lordship, as well as lady montreville, determined to try in the interval to procure for emmeline some unexceptionable marriage which it would not be possible for her to refuse. they imagined, therefore, that their uneasiness on this head was over: and lady montreville, whose mind was greatly relieved by the persuasion, was long since out of all danger from the fits which had so severely attacked her; but the contraction of her joints which they had occasioned, was still so painful and obstinate, that the physicians seemed to apprehend it might be necessary to send her ladyship to the waters of barege. in the mean time, lord montreville had obtained a post in administration which encreased his income and his power. sir richard crofts possessed a lucrative employment in the same department; and his eldest son was become extremely necessary, from his assiduity and attention to business, and more than ever a favourite with all lord montreville's family, with whom he almost entirely lived. a lurking _penchant_ for fitz-edward, which had grown up from her earliest recollection almost insensibly in the bosom of miss delamere, had been long chilled by his evident neglect and indifference: she now fancied she hated him, and really preferred crofts, every way inferior as he was. while the want of high birth and a title, which she had been taught to consider as absolutely requisite to happiness, made her repress every tendency to a serious engagement, she was extremely gratified by his flattery; and when among other young women (from whom he affected not to be able to stifle his unhappy passion,) she was frequently told how much he was in love with her, she was accustomed to answer--'ah! poor fellow; so he is, and i heartily pity him.' but while lord and lady montreville thought crofts's attendance on their daughters quite without consequence, he and his father insinuated an intended connection between him and one of them, with so much art, that tho' it never reached the ears of the family it was universally believed in the world. a young nobleman who had passed the greater part of his life in the army, where he had lately signalized himself by his bravery and conduct, now returned to england on being promoted to a regiment; and having some business to transact with lord montreville in his official capacity, he was invited to the house, and greatly admired both the miss delameres, whose parties he now joined at bath. crofts soon afterwards obtaining a short respite from his political engagement, went thither also; and tho' miss delamere really thought lord westhaven quite unexceptionable, she had been so habituated to behave particularly to crofts, that she could not now alter it, or perhaps was not conscious of the familiar footing on which she allowed him to be with her. lord westhaven, who had at first hesitated between the sprightly dignity of the elder sister, and the soft and more bewitching graces of the younger, no sooner saw the conduct of miss delamere towards crofts, than his doubts were at an end. her faults of temper had been hitherto concealed from him, and he believed her heart as good as her sister's; indeed, according to the sentimental turn her discourse frequently took, he might have supposed it more refined and sublime. but when he observed her behaviour to crofts, he thought that she must either be secretly engaged to him, or be a decided coquet. turning therefore all his attention to augusta, he soon found that her temper was as truly good as her person was interesting, and that the too great timidity of her manner was solely owing to her being continually checked by her mother's partiality to her sister. a very short study of her character convinced him she was exactly the woman calculated to make him happy. he told her so; and found her by no means averse to his making the same declaration to her father and mother. lord montreville received it with pleasure; and preliminaries were soon settled. in about six weeks, lord westhaven and miss augusta delamere were married at bath, to the infinite satisfaction of all parties except miss delamere; who could not be very well pleased with the preference shewn her younger sister by a man whose morals, person, and fortune, were all superior to what even her own high spirit had taught her to expect in a husband. crofts, tho' he saw all apprehensions of having lord westhaven for a rival were at an end, could not help fearing that so advantageous a match for the younger, might make the elder more unwilling to accept a simple commoner with a fortune greatly inferior. the removal, however, of lady westhaven gave him more frequent opportunities to urge his passion. lady montreville was now going to barege, bath having been found less serviceable than was at first hoped for; and delamere was written to to meet her ladyship and her eldest daughter at paris, in order to accompany them thither. peace having been in the interim established, lord westhaven found he should return no more to his regiment, and purposed with his wife to attend lady montreville part of the way, and then to go into switzerland, where his mother's family resided, who had been of that country. lady westhaven was extremely gratified by this scheme; not only because she was delighted to wait on her mother, but because she hoped it would help to dissipate a lurking uneasiness which hung over the spirits of her lord, and which he told her was owing to the uncertain and distressing situation of a beloved sister. but whenever the subject was mentioned, he expressed so much unhappiness, that his wife had not yet had resolution to enquire into the nature of her misfortunes, and only knew in general that she was unfortunately married. chapter xi emmeline had now lost her lover, at least for some time; and one of her friends too was gone where she could seldom hear of her. these deprivations attached her more closely than ever to mrs. stafford. mr. stafford was gone to town; and except now and then a short and melancholy visit from fitz-edward, to whom delamere had lent his house at tylehurst, they saw nobody; for all the neighbouring families were in london. they found not only society but happiness together enough to compensate for almost every other; and passed their time in a way particularly adapted to the taste of both. adjoining to the estate where mrs. stafford resided, a tract of forest land, formerly a chase and now the property of a collegiate body, deeply indents the arable ground beyond it, and fringes the feet of the green downs which rise above it. this part of the country is called woodbury forest; and the deep shade of the beech trees with which it is covered, is broken by wild and uncultured glens; where, among the broom, hawthorn and birch of the waste, a few scattered cottages have been built upon sufferance by the poor for the convenience of fewel, so amply afforded by the surrounding woods. these humble and obscure cabbins are known only to the sportsman and the woodcutter; for no road whatever leads through the forest: and only such romantic wanderers as mrs. stafford and emmeline, were conscious of the beautiful walks which might be found among these natural shrubberies and solitary shades. the two friends were enjoying the softness of a beautiful april morning in these woods, when, in passing near one of the cottages, they saw, at a low casement half obscured by the pendant trees, a person sitting, whose dress and air seemed very unlike those of the usual inhabitants of such a place. she was intent on a paper, over which she leaned in a melancholy posture; but on seeing the two ladies approach, she started up and immediately disappeared. tho' the distance at which they saw her, and the obscurity of the window, prevented their distinguishing the features of the stranger, they saw that she was young, and they fancied she was beautiful. the same idea instantly occurred to mrs. stafford and emmeline; that it was some unfortunate young woman, whom mr. stafford had met with and had concealed there. something of the same sort had happened once before, and mrs. stafford's anxiety and curiosity were both awakened by this incident. tho' the latter was a passion she never indulged where it's object was the business of others, she could not repress it where it was excited by suspicion of a circumstance which so nearly concerned herself. nor could she conceal from emmeline her fears on this occasion; and emmeline, tho' unwilling to encrease them, yet knew enough of her husband's conduct to believe they were too well founded. mrs. stafford had been accustomed to buy poultry of the woman who lived at this cottage, and therefore went in, in hopes of finding some vestige of the person they had seen, which might lead to an enquiry. but they found nothing but the usual humble furniture and few conveniences of such an house; and mrs. stafford forbore to enquire, lest the person she had seen might be alarmed and take more effectual means of concealment. but unable to rest, and growing every moment more desirous to know the truth, and to know it before her husband, whom she expected in a few days, returned, she arose very early the next morning, and, accompanied by emmeline, went to the cottage in the forest. the man who inhabited it was already gone out to his work, and the woman to a neighbouring town to buy necessaries for her family. the door was open; and the ladies received this intelligence from three little children who were playing before it. they entered the low, smoky room, usually inhabited by the family. and mrs. stafford, with a beating heart, determining to be satisfied, opened a door which led from it, into that, at the window of which she knew the stranger had appeared; and which the people of the house dignified with the appellation of their parlour. in this room, on the brick floor, and surrounded by bare walls, stood a bed, which seemed to have been brought thither for the accommodation of some person who had not been accustomed to such an apartment. mrs. stafford saw, sleeping in it, a very young woman, pale, but extremely beautiful; and her hand, of uncommon delicacy, lay on the white quilt--a sight, which gave her pain for herself, and pity for the unfortunate person before her, affected her so much, that having stood a moment in astonishment, she stepped back to the place where emmeline sat, and burst into tears. the noise, however trifling, brought from above stairs a person evidently a lady's maid, of very creditable appearance, who came down hastily into the room where mrs. stafford and emmeline were, saying, as she descended the stairs--'i am coming immediately, my lady.' but at the sight of two strangers, she stopped in great confusion; and at the same moment her mistress called to her. she hastened, without speaking, to attend the summons; and shut the door after her. after remaining a few moments, she came out again, and asked mrs. stafford if she wanted the woman of the house? to which mrs. stafford, determined whatever it cost her to know the truth, said--'no--my business is with your lady.' the woman now appeared more confused than before; and said, hesitatingly--'i--i--my lady--i fancy you are mistaken, madam.' 'go in, however, and let your mistress know that mrs. stafford desires to speak to her.' the maid reluctantly and hesitatingly went in, and after staying some time, came back. 'my mistress, madam, says she has not the pleasure of knowing you; and being ill, and in bed, she hopes you will excuse her if she desires you will acquaint her with your business by me.' 'no,' replied mrs. stafford, 'i must see her myself. tell her my business is of consequence to us both, and that i will wait till it is convenient to her to speak to me.' with this message the maid went back, with looks of great consternation, to her mistress. they fancied they heard somebody sigh and weep extremely. the maid came out once or twice and carried back water and hartshorn. at length, after waiting near half an hour, the door opened, and the stranger appeared, leaning on the arm of her woman. she wore a long, white muslin morning gown, and a large muslin cap almost concealed her face; her dark hair seemed to escape from under it, to form a decided contrast to the extreme whiteness of her skin; and her long eye lashes hid her eyes, which were cast down, and which bore the marks of recent tears. if it were possible to personify languor and dejection, it could not be done more expressively than by representing her form, her air, her complexion, and the mournful cast of her very beautiful countenance. she slowly approached mrs. stafford, lifted up her melancholy eyes to emmeline, and attempted to speak. 'i am at a loss to know, ladies,' said she, 'what can be your'----but unable to finish the sentence, she sat down, and seemed ready to faint. the maid held her smelling bottle to her. 'i waited on you, madam,' said mrs. stafford, 'supposing you were acquainted--too well acquainted--with my name and business.' 'no, upon my honour,' said the young person, 'i cannot even guess.' 'you are very young,' said mrs. stafford, 'and, i fear, very unfortunate. be assured i wish not either to reproach or insult you; but only to try if you cannot be prevailed upon to quit a manner of life, which surely, to a person of your appearance, must be dreadful.' 'it is indeed dreadful!' sighed the young woman--'nor is it the least dreadful part of it that i am exposed to this.' she now fell into an agony of tears; which affected both mrs. stafford and emmeline so much, that forgetting their fears and suspicions, they both endeavoured tenderly to console her. having in some measure succeeded, and mrs. stafford having summoned resolution to tell her what were her apprehensions, the stranger saw that to give her a simple detail of her real situation was the only method she had to satisfy her doubts, and to secure her compassion and secresy; for which reason she determined to do it; and mrs. stafford, whose countenance was all ingenuousness as well as her heart, assured her she should never repent her confidence; while emmeline, whose looks and voice were equally soothing and engaging to the unhappy, expressed the tenderest interest in the fate of a young creature who seemed but little older than herself, and to have been thrown from a very different sphere into her present obscure and uncomfortable manner of life. the stranger would have attempted to relate her history to them immediately; but her maid, a steady woman of three or four and thirty, told her that she was certainly unable then, and begged the ladies not to insist upon it till the evening, or the next day; adding--'my lady has been very poorly indeed all this week, and is continually fainting away; and you see, ladies, how much she has been frightened this morning, and i am sure she will not be able to go through it.' to the probability of this observation, the two friends assented; and the young lady naming the next morning to gratify their curiosity, they left her, mrs. stafford first offering her any thing her house afforded. to which she replied, that at present she was tolerably well supplied, and only conjured them to observe the strictest secresy, without which, she said, she was undone. at the appointed time they returned; equally eager to hear, and, if possible, to relieve, the sorrows of this young person, for whom they could not help being interested, tho' they yet knew not how far she deserved their pity. she had prepared her own little room as well as it would admit of to receive them, and sat waiting their arrival with some degree of composure. they contemplated with concern the ruins of eminent beauty even in early youth, and saw an expression of helpless sorrow and incurable unhappiness, which had greatly injured the original lustre and beauty of her eyes and countenance. a heavy languor hung on her whole frame. she tried to smile; but it was a smile of anguish; and their looks seemed to distress and pain her. mrs. stafford and emmeline, to relieve her, took out their work; and when they were seated at it, she hesitated--then sighed and hesitated again--and at length seemed to enter on her story with desperate and painful resolution, as if to get quickly and at once thro' a task which, however necessary, was extremely distressing. she began in a low and plaintive voice; and frequently stopped to summon courage to continue, while she wiped away the tears that slowly fell from her eyes. * * * * * 'i cannot believe i shall ever repent the confidence i am about to place in you. my heart assures me i shall not. perhaps i may find that pity i dare no longer solicit from my own family; perhaps--but i must hasten to tell you my melancholy story, before its recollection again overwhelms me. yet my fate has nothing in it very singular; numbers have been victims of the same calamity, but some have been more easily forgiven than i shall be.--some are better able to bear infamy, and be reconciled to disgrace. 'my father, the late earl of westhaven, during the life of my grandfather, married, while he was making the tour of europe, a very beautiful and amiable woman, the daughter of a man of rank in switzerland; who having lost his life in the french service, had left a family without any provision, except for the eldest son. my grandfather, extremely disobliged by this marriage, made a will by which he gave to his only daughter every part of his extensive property, except what was entailed, and which went with the title; with this reserve, that his grandson should claim and inherit the whole, whenever he became lord westhaven. by this will, he disinherited my father for his life; and tho' he survived my father's marriage five years, and knew he had three children, the two younger of whom must be inevitably impoverished by such a disposition, he obstinately refused to alter the will he made under the first impulse of resentment, and died before his son could prevail upon him, by means of their general friends, to withdraw the maledictions with which he had loaded him. 'his death, not only hurt my father in his feelings, but irreparably in his fortune. his sister, who was married to a scottish nobleman, took possession of estates to the amount of fifteen thousand a year; and all that remained to my father, to support his rank and his encreasing family, was little more than three thousand; and even that income he had considerably diminished, by taking up money, which he was obliged to do while my grandfather lived, for the actual maintenance of his family. 'these unhappy circumstances, while they injured the health and spirits of my father, diminished not his tenderness for his wife, whom he loved with unabated passion. 'to retrench as much as possible, he retired with her and his three children to an estate, which being attached to the title, belonged to him in cumberland; in hopes of being able to live on the income he had left, and to clear off the burden with which he had been compelled to load his paternal estates. but a slow fever, the effect of sorrow, had seized on my mother, then far advanced in her pregnancy with me; my father, solicitous to save her in whom all his happiness was centered, sent to london for the best advice to attend her. but their assistance was vain; the fever encreased upon her, and she died three weeks after my birth, leaving my father deprived of every thing that could make life valuable in his estimation. he gave himself up to a despair equal to the violence of his love, and would probably have fallen a victim to it, had not the servants sent to mr. thirston, who had been his tutor, and for whom he had the greatest friendship and respect. this excellent man represented to him that it was his duty to live for the children of his deplored adelina; and he consented to try to live. 'it was long before he could bear to see any of us; particularly me, whom he beheld with a mixture of tenderness and regret. the gloomy solitude in which he lived, where every object reminded him of her whose smiles had rendered it a paradise, was ill calculated to meliorate his affliction; but he could not be persuaded, for some months, to leave it, or could he be diverted from going every evening to visit the spot where lay the relicts of his adelina. 'at length mr. thirston prevailed on him to go abroad. but he could not determine to leave my elder brother, then about five years old, of whom he was passionately fond. they embarked for naples; and he remained abroad five years; while my sister, my brother william, and myself, were left at kensington, under the care of a female relation, and received such instruction as our ages admitted. 'my father returned to england only to place his eldest son at eton. finding no relief from the sorrow which perpetually preyed on him, but in continual change of place, he soon afterwards went again abroad, and wandered over europe for almost seven years longer, returning once or twice to england in that interval to satisfy himself of our health and the progress of our education. 'when he last returned, my elder brother, then near eighteen, desired to be allowed to go into the army. my father reluctantly consented; and the regiment into which he purchased was soon after ordered abroad. the grief the departure of his son gave him, was somewhat relieved by seeing his elder daughter advantageously disposed of in marriage to the eldest son of an irish peer. the beauty of lady camilla was so conspicuous, and her manners so charming, that though entirely without fortune, the family of her husband could not object to the marriage. she went to ireland with her lord; and it was long before i saw her again. 'my brother william, who had always been designed for the navy, left me also for a three years station in the mediterranean; and i was now always alone with my governess and my old relation, whose temper, soured by disappointment and not naturally chearful, made her a very unpleasant companion for a girl of fourteen. i learned, from masters who attended me from london, all the usual accomplishments; but of the world i knew nothing, and impatiently waited for the time when i should be sixteen; for then the dutchess of b----, who had kindly undertaken to introduce my sister into company, had promised that she would afford me also her countenance. i remember she smiled, and told me that as i was not less pretty than lady camilla, i might probably have as good fortune, if i was but as accomplished. to be accomplished, therefore, i endeavoured with all my power; but the time seemed insupportably long, before this essay was to be made. it was relieved, tho' mournfully, by frequent visits from my father; who was accustomed to sit whole hours looking at me, while his tears bore witness to the great resemblance i had to my mother. my voice too, particularly when we conversed in french, frequently made him start, as if he again heard that which he had never ceased to remember and to regret. he would then fondly press me to his heart, and call me his poor orphan girl, the image of his lost adelina! 'tho' my mother had been now dead above fifteen years, his passion for her memory seemed not at all abated. he had, by a long residence abroad, paid off the debts with which he had incumbered his income, but could do no more; and the expences necessary for young men of my brothers' rank pressed hardly upon him. ever since his return to england, his friends had entreated him to attempt, by marrying a woman of fortune, to repair the deficiency of his own; representing to him, that to provide for the children of his adelina, would be a better proof of his affection to her memory than indulging a vain and useless regret. 'he had however long escaped from their importunity by objecting, on some pretence or other, to all the great fortunes which were pointed out to him--his heart rejected with abhorrence every idea of a second marriage. but my brothers every day required a larger supply of money to support them as their birth demanded; and to their interest my father at length determined to sacrifice the remainder of a life, which had on his own account no longer any value. the heiress of a rich grocer in the city was soon discovered by his assiduous friends, who was reputed to be possessed of two hundred thousand pounds. on closer enquiry, the sum was found to be very little if at all exaggerated by fame. miss jobson, with a tall, meagre person, a countenance bordering on the horrible, and armed with two round black eyes which she fancied beautiful, had seen her fortieth year pass, while she attended on her papa, in leadenhall-street, or was dragged by two sleek coach horses to and from hornsey. rich as her father was, he would not part with any thing while he lived; and, by the assistance of two maiden sisters, had so guarded his daughter from the dangerous attacks of irishmen and younger brothers, that she had reached that mature period without hearing the soothing voice of flattery, to which she was extremely disposed to listen. my father, yet in middle age, and with a person remarkably fine, would have been greatly to her taste if he could have gratified, with a better grace, her love of admiration. but his friends undertook to court her for him; and his title still more successfully pleaded in his favour. she made some objection to his having a family; but as i alone remained at home, she at length agreed to undertake to be at once a mother-in-law and a countess. while this treaty was going on, and settlements and jewels preparing, i was taken several times to wait on miss jobson: but it was easy to see i had not the good fortune to please her. 'i was but just turned of fifteen, was full of gaiety and vivacity, and possessed those personal advantages, which, if _she_ ever had any share of them, were long since faded. she seemed conscious that the splendour of her first appearance would be eclipsed by the unadorned simplicity of mine; and she hated me because it was not in my power to be old and ugly. giddy as i then was, nothing but respect for my father prevented my repaying with ridicule, the supercilious style in which she usually treated me. her vulgar manners, and awkward attempts to imitate those of people of fashion, excited my perpetual mirth; and as her dislike of me daily encreased, i am afraid i did not always conceal the contempt i felt in return. miss jobson chose to pass some time at tunbridge previous to her marriage. thither my father followed her; and i went with him, eager to make my first appearance in public, and to see whether the prophecies of the duchess would be fulfilled. 'this experiment was made in a party from tunbridge to lewes races, where i had the delight of dancing for the first time in public, and of seeing the high and old fashioned little head of miss jobson, who affected to do something which she thought was dancing also, almost at the end of the set, while i, as an earl's daughter, was nearly at the top. had i been ever accustomed to appear in public, these distinctions would have been too familiar to have given me any pleasure; but now they were enchanting; and, added to the universal admiration i excited, intoxicated me with vanity. my partner, who had been introduced to me by a man of high rank the moment i entered the room, was a gentleman from the west of england, who was just of age, and entered into the possession of a fortune of eight thousand a year. 'mr. trelawny (for that was his name) followed us to tunbridge, and frequently danced with me afterwards. educated in obscurity, and without any prospect of the fortune to which he succeeded by a series of improbable events, this young man had suddenly emerged into life. he was tolerably handsome; but had a heavy, unmeaning countenance, and was quite unformed. several men of fashion, however, were kind enough to undertake to initiate him into a good style of living; and for every thing that bore the name of fashion and ton, he seemed to have a violent attachment. to that, i owed his unfortunate prepossession in my favour.--i was admired and followed by men whom he had been taught to consider as the arbiters of elegance, and supreme judges of beauty and fashion; but they could only admire--they could not afford to marry an indigent woman of quality; and they told trelawny that they envied him the power of pleasing himself.--so trelawny was talked to about me, till he believed he was in love. in this persuasion he procured a statement of his fortune to be shewn to my father, by one of his friends, and made an offer to lay it at my feet; an offer which, tho' my father would have been extremely glad to have me accept, he answered by referring mr. trelawny to me. 'i suspected no such thing; but with the thoughtless inattention of sixteen, remembered little of the fine things which were said to me by trelawny at the last ball. while i was busied in inventing a new _chapeau_ for the next, at which i intended to do more than usual execution, my father introduced mr. trelawny, and left the room. i concluded he was come to engage me for the evening, and felt disposed to refuse him out of pure coquetry; when, with an infinite number of blushes, and after several efforts, he made me in due form an offer of his heart and fortune. i had never thought of any thing so serious as matrimony; and indeed was but just out of the nursery, where i had never been told it was necessary to think at all. i did not very well know what to say to my admirer; and after the first speech, which i believe he had learned by heart, he knew almost as little what to say to me; and he was not sorry when i, in a great fright, referred him to my father, merely because i knew not myself what answer to give him. our conversation ended, and he went to find my father, while i, for the first time in my life, began to reflect on my prospects, and to consider whether i preferred marrying mr. trelawny to living with miss jobson. to miss jobson, i had a decided aversion; for mr. trelawny, i felt neither love or hatred. my mind was not made up on the subject, when my father came to me: he had seen trelawny, and expressed himself greatly pleased with the prudence and propriety of my answer. '"my adelina knows," continued he, "that the happiness of my children is the only wish i have on earth; and i may tell her, too, that my solicitude for her exceeds all my other cares--solicitude, which will be at an end if i can see her in the protection of a man of honour and fortune. if therefore, my love, you really do not disapprove this young man, whose fortune is splendid, and of whose character i have received the most favourable accounts, i shall have a weight removed from my mind, and enjoy all the tranquillity i can hope for on this side the grave. '"you know how soon i am to marry miss jobson. a mother-in-law is seldom beloved. i may die, and leave you unprovided for; for you know, adelina, the circumstances into which your grandfather's will has thrown me. our dear charles, whenever he inherits my title, will repossess the fortune of my ancestors, and will, i am sure, act generously by you and william; but such a dependance, if not precarious, is painful; and by accepting the proposal of mr. trelawny, all my apprehensions will be at an end, and my adelina secure of that affluence to which her merit as well as her birth entitles her. but powerful as these considerations are, let them not influence you if you feel any reluctance to the match. were they infinitely stronger, i will never again name them, if in doing so i hazard persuading my daughter to a step which may render her for every unhappy." 'tho' i was very far from feeling for mr. trelawny that decided preference which would in other circumstances have induced me to accept his hand, yet i found my father so desirous of my being settled, that as i had no aversion to the man, i could not resolve to disappoint him. perhaps the prospect of escaping from the power of my mother-in-law, and of being mistress of an affluent fortune instead of living in mortifying dependance on her, might have too much influence on my heart. my father, however, obtained without any difficulty my consent to close with mr. trelawny's proposals. we all went to london, where lord westhaven married miss jobson, and the settlements were preparing by which mr. trelawny secured to me a jointure as great as i could have expected if my fortune had been equal to my rank. 'as the new lady westhaven was so soon to be relieved from the presence of a daughter she did not love, she behaved to me with tolerable civility. occupied with her rank, she seemed to have infinite delight in displaying it to her city acquaintance. her ladyship thought a coronet so delightful an ornament, that the meanest utensils in her house were adorned with it; and she wore it woven or worked on all her cloaths, in the vain hope perhaps of counteracting the repelling effect of an hideous countenance, a discordant voice, and a manner more vulgar than either. i saw with concern that my father was not consoled by the possession of her great fortune, for the mortification of having given the name and place of his adored adelina to a woman so unlike her in mind and person. he was seldom well; seldomer at home; and seemed to have no other delight than in hearing from his two sons and from his eldest daughter; and when we were alone, he told me that to see me married would also give him pleasure; but he appeared, i thought, less anxious for the match than when it was first proposed. the preparations, however, went on, and in six weeks were compleated. 'in that interval, i had seen trelawny almost every day. he always seemed very good humoured, and was certainly very thoughtless. he loved me, or fancied he loved me, extremely; but i sometimes suspected that it was rather in compliance with the taste of others than his own; and that a favourite hunter or a famous pointer were very likely to rival me. my father sometimes laughed at his boyish fondness for such things, and the importance he annexed to them; and sometimes i thought he looked grave and hurt at observing it. 'for my own part, i saw his follies; but none that i did not equally perceive in the conduct of other young men. tho' i had no absolute partiality to him, i was totally indifferent to every other man. i married him, therefore; and gave away my person before i knew i had an heart. 'we went immediately into cornwall, to an old fashioned but magnificent family seat; where i was received by mr. trelawny's sister, a woman some years older than he was, and who had brought him up. the coarse conversation of this woman, which consisted entirely in details of family oeconomy; and the stupidity of her husband and a booby son of fourteen, were but ill calculated to render my retirement pleasing. having laughed and wondered once at the uncouth figures and obsolete notions of mr. trelawny's cornish cousins, who hastened, in their best cloaths, to congratulate him, from places whose barbarous names i could not pronounce--and having twice entertained the voters of two boroughs which belonged to the family; i had exhausted all the delights of cornwall, and prevailed on him to return to a country where i could see a few beings like myself. 'when i came back into the world, i was surrounded by a croud of idle people, whose admiration flattered the vanity of trelawny more than it did mine; for i became accustomed to adulation, and it lost it's charms with it's novelty. trelawny was continually with young men of fashion, who called themselves his friends; and who besides doing him the kindness to advise and instruct him in the disposal of his fortune, would have relieved him from the affections of his wife, if he had ever possessed them. they made love to _me_, with as little scruple as they borrowed money of _him_; and told me that neglect on the part of my husband, well deserved to be repaid with infidelity on mine: but i felt for these shallow libertines only disgust and contempt; and received their professions with so much coldness, that they left me, in search of some other giddy creature, who might not, by ill-timed prudery, belie the promise of early coquetry. it was yet however very much the fashion to admire me; and my husband seemed still to take some delight in hearing and reading in the daily papers that lady adelina trelawny was the most elegant figure at court, or that every beauty at the opera was eclipsed on _her_ entrance. the eagerness and avidity with which i had entered, from the confinement of the nursery, to a life of continual dissipation, was now considerably abated. i continued it from habit, and because i knew not how to employ my time otherwise; but i felt a dreary vacuity in my heart; and amid splendor and admiration was unhappy. 'the return of my elder brother from his first campaign in america, was the only real pleasure i had long felt. he is perhaps one of the most elegant and accomplished young men of his time; but to be elegant and accomplished is his least praise--his solid understanding, and his excellent heart, are an honour to his country and to human nature. that quick sense of honour, and that strictness of principle, which now make my greatest terror, give a peculiar lustre and dignity to his character. my father received him with that delight a father only can feel; and saw and gloried with all a father's pride, in a successor worthy of his ancestors. 'my brother, who had always loved me extremely, tho' we had been very little together, took up his abode at my house while he staid in england. trelawny seemed to feel a sort of awe before him, which made him endeavour to hide his vices if not his weakness, while he remained with us. he was more attentive to me than he had long been. my brother hoped i was happy; and tho' trelawny was a man whose conversation afforded him no pleasure, he behaved to him with every appearance of friendship and regard. he was soon however to return to his regiment; and my father, who had been in a declining state of health ever since his second marriage, appeared to grow worse as the period of separation approached. he seemed to have waited only for this beloved son to close his eyes; for a few days before he was again to take leave, my father found his end very rapidly approaching. 'perfectly conscious of it, he settled all his affairs; and made a provision for me and my brother william out of the money of the present lady westhaven, which the marriage articles gave him a right to dispose of after her ladyship's death if he left no children by her; and recommended us both to his eldest son. '"you will act nobly by our dear william," said he; "i have no doubt of it; but above all, remember my poor adelina. camilla is happily married. tell her i die blessing her, and her children! but adelina--my unfortunate adelina is herself but a child, and her husband is very young and thoughtless. watch over her honour and her repose, for the sake of your father and that dear woman she so much resembles, your sainted mother." 'i was in the room, in an agony of sorrow. he called me to him. "my daughter," said he, in a feeble voice, "remember that the honour of your family--of your brothers--is in your hands--and remember it is sacred.--endeavour to deserve the happiness of being sister to such brothers, and daughter to such a mother as yours was!" 'i was unable to answer. i could only kiss his convulsed hands; which i eagerly did, as if to tell him that i promised all he expected of me. my own heart, which then made the vow, now perpetually reproaches me with having kept it so ill! 'a few hours afterwards, my father died. my brother, unable to announce to me the melancholy tidings, took my hand in silence, and led me out of the house, which was now lady westhaven's. he had only a few days to stay in england, which he employed in paying the last mournful duties to his father; and then embarked again for america, leaving his affairs to be settled by my sister's husband, lord clancarryl, to whom he wrote to come over from ireland; for my brother william was now stationed in the west indies, where he obtained the command of a man of war; and my brother westhaven knew, that to leave any material business to trelawny, was to leave it to ignorance and imbecility. 'in my husband, i had neither a friend or a companion--i had not even a protector; for except when he was under the restraint of my brother's presence, he was hardly ever at home. sometimes he was gone on tours to distant counties to attend races or hunts, to which he belonged; and sometimes to france, where he was embarked in gaming associations with englishmen who lived only to disgrace their name. left to pass my life as the wife of such a man as trelawny, i felt my brother's departure as the deprivation of all i loved. but the arrival of my sister and her husband relieved me. i had not seen them for some years; and was delighted to meet my sister happy with a man so worthy and respectable as lord clancarryl. 'he took possession on behalf of my brother of the estate my aunt was now obliged to resign; and as my sister was impatient to return to ireland, where she had left her children, they pressed me extremely to go thither with them. trelawny was gone out on one of his rambles; but i wrote to him and obtained his consent--indeed he long since ceased to trouble himself about me. 'i attended my sister therefore to lough carryl; on the beautiful banks of which her lord had built an house, which possessing as much magnificence as was proper to their rank, was yet contrived with an attention to all the comforts of domestic retirement. here lady clancarryl chose to reside the whole year; and my lord never left it but to attend the business of parliament at dublin. 'his tender attention to his wife; his ardent, yet regulated fondness for his children; the peace and order which reigned in his house; the delightful and easy society he sometimes collected in it, and the chearful confidence we enjoyed in quiet family parties when without company; made me feel with bitterness and regret the difference between my sister's lot and mine. _her_ husband made it the whole business of his life to fulfill every duty of his rank, _mine_ seemed only solicitous to degrade himself below his. one was improving his fortune by well regulated oeconomy; the other dissipating his among gamesters and pick-pockets. the conversation of lord clancarryl was sensible, refined, and improving; trelawny's consisted either in tiresome details of adventures among jockies, pedigrees of horses, or scandalous and silly anecdotes about persons of whom nobody wished to hear; or he sunk into sullen silence, yawned, and shewed how very little relish he had for any other discourse. 'when i married him, i knew not to what i had condemned myself. as his character gradually discovered itself, my reason also encreased; and now, when i had an opportunity of comparing him to such a man as lord clancarryl, i felt all the horrors of my destiny! and beheld, with a dread from which my feeble heart recoiled, a long, long prospect of life before me--without attachment, without friendship, without love. 'i remained two months in ireland; and heard nothing of trelawny, 'till a match having been made on the curragh of kildare, on which he had a large bet depending, he came over to be present at it; and i heard with regret that i was to return with him. while he remained in ireland, his disgusting manners, and continual intoxication, extremely displeased lord clancarryl; and i lived in perpetual uneasiness. a few days before we were to embark for england, george fitz-edward, his lordship's younger brother, came from the north of ireland, where he had been with his regiment, to lough carryl; but it was only a passing visit to his family--he was going to england, and we were to sail in the same pacquet.' * * * * * at the mention of george fitz-edward, lady adelina grew more distressed than she had yet been in the course of her narrative. mrs. stafford and emmeline testified signs of surprize. she observed it; and asked if they knew him? mrs. stafford answered, they had some acquaintance with him; and emmeline remarked that she either never heard or had forgotten that his father's second title was clancarryl. his very name seemed to affect lady adelina so much, and she appeared so exhausted by having spoken so long, that tho' she told them she had but little to add to her mournful story, they insisted upon her permitting them to release her till the evening, when they would attend her again. chapter xii they found lady adelina in better spirits in the evening than they had hoped for--she seemed to have been arguing herself into the composure necessary to go on with her story. * * * * * 'as you have some acquaintance with george fitz-edward, i need not describe his person or his manner; nor how decided a contrast they must form with those of such a man as him to whom i was unhappily united. this contrast, in spite of all my endeavours, was perpetually before my eyes--i thought fitz-edward, who was agreeable as his brother, had a heart as good; and _my_ heart involuntarily made the comparison between what i was, and what i might have been, if my fate had reserved me for fitz-edward. 'we embarked--it was about the autumnal equinox; and before we had sailed two leagues, the wind suddenly changing, blew from the opposite quarter, and then from every quarter by turns. as i was always subject to sickness in the cabin, i had lain down on the deck, on a piece of sail-cloth, and wrapped in my _pelisse_; and fitz-edward sat by me. but when the wind grew so violent that it was necessary every moment to shift the sails, i, who was totally insensible, was in the way of the sailors. fitz-edward carried me down in his arms; and having often heard me express an abhorrence to the close beds in the cabin, by the help of my own maid he accommodated me with one on the floor; where he continued to watch over me, without attending to his own danger, tho' he heard the master of the pacquet express his apprehensions that we should be driven back on the bar, and beat to pieces. 'trelawny, in whom self-preservation was generally alive, whatever became of his other feelings, had passed so jovial an evening before he departed, that he was perfectly unconscious of his own danger. after struggling some hours to return into the bay, it was with difficulty accomplished about five in the morning. fitz-edward, with the tenderest solicitude, saw me safe on shore, whither trelawny was also brought. but far from being rejoiced at our narrow escape, he cursed his ill luck, which he said had raised this confounded storm only to prevent his returning in time to see clytemnestra got into proper order for the october meeting. 'i was so ill the next day, thro' the fear and fatigue i had undergone, that i was absolutely unable to go on board. but nothing that related to me could detain trelawny, who embarked again as soon as the pacquet was refitted, and after some grumbling at my being too ill to go, left me to follow him by the next conveyance, and recommended me with great coolness to the care of fitz-edward. 'we staid only two days after him. fitz-edward, as well during the passage as on our journey to london, behaved to me with the tenderness of a brother; and i fancied my partiality concealed from him, because i tried to conceal it. if he saw it, he shewed no disposition to take advantage of it, and i therefore thought i might fearlessly indulge it. 'when i arrived at my house in town, i found that trelawny was absent, and had left a letter for me desiring me to go down to a house he had not long before purchased in hampshire, as a hunting seat. without enquiring his reasons, i obeyed him. i took a melancholy leave of fitz-edward, and went into hampshire; where, as trelawny was not there, i betook myself to my books, and i fear to thinking too much of fitz-edward. 'after i had been there about a fortnight, i was surprized by a visit from the object of my indiscreet contemplations. he looked distressed and unhappy; and his first conversation seemed to be preparing me for some ill news. i was dreadfully alarmed, and enquired eagerly for my sister?--her husband?--her children?-- '"i hope, and believe they are well," answered he. "i have letters of a very late date from my brother." '"oh god!" cried i, in an agony (for his countenance still assured me something very bad had happened) "lord westhaven--my brother, my dear brother!"-- '"is well too, i hope--at least i assure you i know nothing to the contrary." '"is it news from jamaica then? has there been an engagement. there has, i know, and my brother william is killed." '"no, upon my honour," replied fitz-edward, "had godolphin been killed, i, who love him better than any man breathing, could not have brought the intelligence--but my dear lady adelina, are there then no other misfortunes but those which arise from the death of friends?" '"none," answered i, "but what i could very well bear. tell me, therefore, i conjure you tell me, and keep me no longer in suspence--i can hear any thing since i have nothing to apprehend for the lives of those i love." '"well then," answered he, "i will tell you.--i fear things are very bad with mr. trelawny. it is said that all the estate not entailed, is already gone; and that he has even sold his life interest in the rest. all his effects at the town house are seized; and i am afraid the same thing will in a few hours happen here. i came therefore, lovely lady adelina, to intreat you to put yourself under my protection, and to quit this house, where it will soon be so improper for you to remain." 'i enquired after the unhappy trelawny? he told me he had left him intoxicated at a gaming house in st. james's street; that he had told him he was coming down to me, to which he had consented, tho' fitz-edward said he much doubted whether he knew what he was saying. 'fitz-edward then advised me to pack up every thing i wished to preserve, and immediately to depart; for he feared that persons were already on the road to seize the furniture and effects in execution. '"gracious heaven!" cried i, "what can i do?--whither can i go!" '"trust yourself with me," cried fitz-edward--"dear, injured lady adelina." '"let me rather," answered i, "go down to trelawny park." '"alas!" said he, "the same ruin will there overtake you. be assured mr. trelawny's creditors will equally attach his property there. you know too, that by the sale of his boroughs he has lost his seat in parliament, and that therefore his person will not be safe. he must himself go abroad." 'doubting, and uncertain what i ought to do, i could determine on nothing. fitz-edward proposed my going to mr. percival's, who had married one of his sisters. they are at bath, said he; but the house and servants are at my disposal, and it is only five and twenty miles from hence. hardly knowing what i did, i consented to this proposal; and taking my jewels and some valuable plate with me, i set out in a post chaise with fitz-edward, leaving my maid to follow me the next day, and give me an account whether our fears were verified. 'they were but too well founded. four hours after i had left the house, the sheriff's officers entered it--information which encreased my uneasiness for the fate of the unfortunate trelawny; in hopes of alleviating whose miseries i would myself have gone to london, but fitz-edward would not suffer me. he said it was more than probable that my husband was already in france; that if he was yet in england, he had no house in which to receive me, and would feel more embarrassed than relieved by my presence. but as i continued to express great uneasiness to know what was become of him, he offered to go to london and bring me some certain intelligence. 'at the end of a week, which appeared insupportably long, he returned, and told me that with some difficulty he had discovered my unhappy husband at the house of one of his friends, where he was concealed, and where he had lost at picquet more than half the ready money he could command. that with some difficulty he had convinced him of the danger as well as folly of remaining in such a place; and had accompanied him to dover, whence he had seen him sail for france. 'i told fitz-edward that i would instantly give up as much of my settlement as would enable trelawny to live in affluence, till his affairs could be arranged; but he protested that he would not suffer me to take any measure of that sort, till i had the advice of _his_ brother: or, till one of my own returned to england. '"do you know," said he, at the end of this conversation--"do you know, lady adelina, that i envy trelawny his misfortunes, since they excite such generous pity.--good god! of what tenderness, of what affection would not such a heart be capable, if"---- 'fitz-edward had seldom hazarded an observation of this sort, tho' his eyes had told me a thousand times that he internally made them. he could convey into half a sentence more than others could express by the most elaborate speeches. alas! i listened to him with too much pleasure; for my treacherous heart had already said more than his insidious eloquence. 'i wrote to lord clancarryl, entreating him to come over. he assured me he would do so, the moment he could leave my sister, who was very near her time; but that in the interim his brother george would obey all my commands, and render me every service he could himself do if present. 'thrown, therefore, wholly into the power of fitz-edward; loving him but too well; and seeing him every hour busied in serving me--i will not accuse him of art; i had myself too little to hide from him the fatal secret of my heart; i could not summon resolution to fly from him, till my error was irretrievable--till i found myself made compleatly miserable by the consciousness of guilt. 'after remaining there about a fortnight, i left the house of mr. percival, and took a small lodging in the neighbourhood of cavendish-square. fitz-edward saw me every day.--i met him indeed with tears and confusion; but if any accident prevented his coming, or if he even absented himself at my own request, the anguish i felt till i again saw him convinced me that it was no longer in my power to live without him. 'trelawny had given me no directions for my conduct; nor had he even written to me, 'till he had occasion for money. he then desired me to send him five hundred guineas--a sum i had no immediate means of raising, but by selling some of my jewels. this i would immediately have done; but fitz-edward, who would not hear of it, brought me the money in a few hours, and undertook to remit it, together with a letter from me, to the unfortunate man for whom it was designed. 'he tried too--ah, how vainly!--to persuade me, that in acting thus i had done more than my duty to such an husband. his sophistry, aided by my own wishes to believe him, could not quiet the incessant reproaches with which my conscience pursued me--i remembered my father's dying injunctions, i remembered the inflexible notions of honour inherited by both my brothers, and i trembled at the severe account to which i might be called. i could now no longer flatter myself that my error would be concealed, since of its consequences i could not doubt; and while i suffered all the terrors of remorse and apprehension, lord clancarryl came over. 'in order to take measures towards settling trelawny's affairs, it was necessary to send for his sister, who had a bond for five thousand pounds, which claim was prior to every other. this woman, whom it was extremely disagreeable to me to meet, lamented with vulgar clamour her brother's misfortunes; which she said could never have happened if he had not been so unlucky as to get quality notions into his head. i know not what at first raised her suspicions; but i saw that she very narrowly observed fitz-edward; and sneeringly said that it was _very lucky_ indeed for me to have such a friend, and _quite kind_ in the colonel to take so much trouble. she made herself thoroughly acquainted with all that related to her brother, from the time of our parting in ireland; and i found that she had attempted to bribe my servant to give her an account of my conduct; in which tho' she had failed of success, she had found that fitz-edward had been constantly with me. his attendance was indeed less remarkable when lord clancarryl, his brother, was also present; but mrs. bancraft, determined to believe ill of me, suffered not this circumstance to have any weight, and hinted her suspicions of our attachment in terms so little guarded, that it was with the utmost difficulty i could prevail on fitz-edward not to resent her impertinence. 'lord clancarryl despised this vulgar and disgusting woman too much to attend to the inuendos he heard; and far from suspecting my unhappy weakness, he continued to lay me under new obligations to fitz-edward by employing him almost incessantly in the arrangement of trelawny's affairs. 'on looking over the will of that relation, who had bequeathed to mr. trelawny the great fortune he had possessed, i discovered the reason of mrs. bancraft's attentive curiosity in regard to me--if he died without heirs, above six thousand a year was to descend to her son, who was to take the name. he had been now married above two years, and his bloated and unhealthy appearance (the effect of excessive drinking) indicated short life; and had made her for some time look forward to the succession of the entailed estate as an event almost certain for her son. this sufficiently explained her conduct, and encreased all my apprehensions; for i found that avarice would stimulate malice into that continued watchfulness which i could not now undergo without the loss of my fame and my peace. 'all things being settled by lord clancarryl in the best manner he could dispose them for mr. trelawny, his lordship pressed me to go with him to ireland; but conscious that i should carry only disgrace and sorrow into the happy and respectable family of my sister, i refused, under pretence of waiting to hear again from trelawny before i took any resolution as to my future residence. 'his lordship therefore left me, having obtained my promise to go over to lough carryl in the spring. fitz-edward continued to see me almost every day, attempting by the tenderest assiduity to soothe and tranquillize my mind. but time, which alleviates all other evils, only encreased mine; and they were now become almost insupportable. after long deliberation, i saw no way to escape the disgrace which was about to overwhelm me, but hiding myself from my own family and from all the world. i determined to keep my retreat secret, even from fitz-edward himself; and to punish myself for my fatal attachment by tearing myself for ever from it's object. could i have supported the contempt of the world, to which it was evidently the interest of mrs. bancraft to expose me, i could not bear the most distant idea of the danger to which the life of fitz-edward would be liable from the resentment of my brothers. that he might perish by the hand of lord westhaven or captain godolphin, or that one of those dear brothers might fall by his, was a suggestion so horrid, and yet so probable, that it was for ever before me; and i hastened to fly into obscurity, in the hope, that if my error is concealed till i am myself in the grave, my brothers may forgive me, and not attempt to wash out the offence in the blood of the surviving offender. 'to remain, and to die here unknown, is all i now dare to wish for. my servant having formerly known the woman who inhabits this cottage, contrived to have a few necessaries sent hither without observation; i have made it worth the while of the people to be secret; and as they know not my name, i had little apprehension of being discovered. 'i took no leave of fitz-edward; nor have i written to him since. i lament the pain my sudden absence must give him; but am determined to see him no more. should my child live----' * * * * * lady adelina was now altogether unable to proceed, and fell into an agony of distress which greatly affected her auditors. mrs. stafford and emmeline said every thing they could think of to console her, and soften the horror she seemed to feel for her unhappy indiscretion. but she listened in listless despondence to their discourse, and answered, that to be reconciled to guilt, and habituated to disgrace, was to be sunk in the last abyss of infamy. they left her not, however, till they saw her rather more tranquil; and till mrs. stafford had prevailed upon her to accept of some books, which she hoped might amuse her mind, and detach it awhile from the sad subject of it's mournful contemplations. these she promised to convey to the cottage in a way that could create no suspicion. and relieved of her own apprehensions, yet full of concern for the fair unhappy mourner (to whom neither she or emmeline had given the least intimation of fitz-edward's frequent residence in that country,) they returned to woodfield, impressed with the most earnest solicitude to soften the calamities they had just heard related, tho' to cure them was impossible. end of the second volume volume iii chapter i whenever mrs. stafford and emmeline were afterwards alone, they could think and speak of nothing but lady adelina. the misfortunes in which an unhappy marriage had involved her, her friendless youth, her lovely figure, the settled sorrow and deep regret that she seemed to feel for the error into which her too great sensibility of heart had betrayed her, engaged their tenderest pity, and made them both anxious to give her all the consolation and assistance she was now capable of receiving. when they considered the uncertainty of her remaining long concealed where she was, and the probability that fitz-edward himself might discover her, they saw the necessity of her removal from woodbury forest. but it was a proposal they could not yet make--nor had they yet recollected any place where she might be more secure. emmeline, who felt herself particularly interested by her misfortunes, and who was more pleased with her conversation the oftener she conversed with her, seldom failed of seeing her every day: but mrs. stafford, more apprehensive of observation, could not so frequently visit her; and the precaution of both redoubled, when mrs. ashwood, miss galton, and the two miss ashwood's, arrived at woodfield, where they declared an intention of staying the months of june and july. thither also, soon after, came the younger mr. crofts, who had made an acquaintance with mr. stafford in london with the hope of obtaining an invitation, which he eagerly accepted. sir richard crofts, in the ambition of making a family, had determined to give every advantage to his eldest son, which might authorise him to look up to those alliances that would, he hoped, make his own obscurity forgotten. from the first dawn of his fortune, he had considered mr. crofts as it's general heir; and had very plainly told his younger son, that a place under government, which he had procured for him, of about three hundred a year, must be his only dependance; till he should possess two thousand pounds, all the provision he intended making for him at his death--as he meant not to diminish, by a more equal division, the patrimony of his brother. he recommended to him therefore to remedy this deficiency of fortune, by looking out for an affluent wife. nature had not eminently qualified him for success in such a project; for his person was short, thick, and ill made, and his face composed of large broad features, two dim grey eyes, and a complexion of a dull sallow white. a vain attempt to look like a gentleman, served only to render the meanness of his figure more remarkable; and the qualities of his heart and understanding were but little calculated to make his personal imperfections forgotten. his heart was selfish, narrow, unfeeling, and at once mean and proud; his understanding beneath mediocrity; and his conversation consisted of quaint scraps of something that he supposed was wit, or at least very like it. and even such attempts to be entertaining, poor as they were, he retailed from the office where he passed the greatest part of his time, and for a subaltern employment in which, his education had been barely such as fitted him. but ignorant as he was, and devoid of every estimable accomplishment, he had an infinite deal of that inferior kind of policy called cunning; and being accustomed to consider his establishment as depending wholly on himself, he had acquired a habit of sacrificing every sentiment and every passion to that one purpose; and would adopt the opinions, and submit to the caprices of others, whenever he thought they could promote it. he had learned the obsequious attention, the indefatigable industry, the humble adulation which is necessary for the under departments of political business: and while such acquisitions gave him hopes of rising in that line, they failed not to contribute to his success in another. he would walk from the extremity of westminster to wapping, to smuggle a set of china or of quadrille boxes, for the mother or aunt of an heiress; and would, with great temper, suffer the old ladies to take advantage of him at cards, while he ogled the young ones. which, together with his being always ready to perform for them petty services, and to flatter them without scruple, had obtained for him the character of 'one of the best creatures breathing.' but whatever favour these various recommendations obtained for him for a time, from the elderly ladies, he lost his ground when his views were discovered; and tho' he had received what he fancied encouragement from two or three young women of fortune on their first emerging from the nursery, yet they had no sooner acquired an handsomer or richer lover, than 'the best creature breathing' was discarded. he was not however discouraged; and meeting with mrs. ashwood at a rout at lady montreville's, he was told by miss delamere, who was extremely diverted with her airs of elegance, that she was a rich widow who wanted a husband. he enquired into the circumstances of her fortune; and being assured she possessed such an income as would make him easy, he thought some little advantage she had over him in point of age no diminution of her attractions, and found it convenient to fall immediately in love. she listened to him with complaisance; and soon discovered 'that he was not so plain as at first he appeared to be'--soon afterwards, 'that he was rather handsome, and vastly sensible and agreeable.' after which, he made a rapid progress in her heart; and it was concerted between them that he should follow her to woodfield. emmeline and mrs. stafford were wearied to death with the party. but the former forbore to complain, and the latter was forced to submit, and to smile, while anguish was frequently at her heart. mrs. ashwood talked of nothing but fashionable parties and fashionable people, to whom her acquaintance with lord montreville's family had introduced her; and she now seldom deigned to name an untitled acquaintance--while crofts hung on her long narratives with affected admiration; and the two elder of her three daughters, who were all in training to be beauties, aped their mother in vanity and impertinence. the eldest miss ashwood, now about fourteen, was an insupportable torment to emmeline, as she had taken it into her head to form, with her, a sentimental friendship. she had learned all the cant of sentiment from novels; and her mama's lovers had extremely edified her in teaching her to express it. she talked perpetually of delicate embarrassments and exquisite sensibilities, and had probably a lover, as she extremely wanted a confidant; a post which emmeline with some difficulty declined.--of 'the sweet novels' she had read, she just understood as much as made her long to become the heroine of such an history herself, and she wanted somebody to listen to her hopes of being so. but emmeline shrunk from her advances, and repaid her fondness with general and cool civility; tho' mrs. ashwood, who loved rather to listen to crofts than to attend to her daughters, continually promoted the intimacy, in hopes that she would take them off her own hands, and allow them to be the companions of her walks. this, emmeline was obliged studiously to evade, as such companions would entirely have prevented her seeing lady adelina; and by repeated excuses she not only irritated the curiosity of mrs. ashwood and miss galton, but gave the former an additional cause of dislike to that which she had already conceived; inasmuch as she was younger, handsomer, and more admired than herself. emmeline received frequent letters from delamere, as warm and passionate as his personal professions. he told her, that as his mother's health was greatly amended, he intended soon to visit those parts of france with which he was yet unacquainted; and should pass some time in the northern provinces, from whence he entreated her to allow him to come only for a few days to england to see her--an indulgence which he said would enable him to bear with more tranquillity the remaining months of his exile. tho' now accustomed to consider him as her husband, emmeline resolutely refused to consent to this breach of his engagement to his father. she had lately seen in her friends, mrs. stafford and lady adelina, two melancholy instances of the frequent unhappiness of very early marriages; and she had no inclination to hazard her own happiness in hopes of proving an exception. she wished, therefore, rather to delay her union with delamere two or three years; but to him she never dared hint at such a delay. a clandestine interview it was, however, in her power to decline; and she answered his request by entreating him not to think of such a journey; and represented to him that he could not expect lord montreville would finally adhere to _his_ promises, if he himself was careless of fulfilling the conditions on which his lordship had insisted. having thus, as she supposed, prevented delamere from offending his father, and without any immediate uneasiness on her own account, she gave up her mind to the solicitude she could not help feeling for lady adelina. this occupied almost all her time when she was alone; and gave her, when in company, an air of absence and reserve. tho' mrs. ashwood so much encouraged the attention of james crofts, she had not forgotten fitz-edward, whom she had vainly sought at lady montreville's, in hopes of renewing an acquaintance which had in it's commencement offered her so much satisfaction. fitz-edward had been amused with her absurdity at the moment, but had never thought of her afterwards; nor would he then have bestowed so much time on a woman to him entirely indifferent, had not he been thrown in her way by his desire to befriend delamere with emmeline, on one of those days when lady adelina insisted on his leaving her, to avoid the appearance of his passing with her all his time. happy in successful love, his gaiety then knew no bounds; and his agreeable flattery, his lively conversation, his fashionable manners, and his handsome person, had not since been absent from the memory of mrs. ashwood. his being sometimes at the house he had borrowed of delamere, near woodfield, was one of the principal inducements to her to go thither. she indulged sanguine hopes of securing such a conquest; and evaded giving to crofts a positive answer, till she had made another essay on the heart of the colonel. he came, however, so seldom to woodfield, that mrs. stafford had seen him there only once since her meeting lady adelina; and then he appeared to be under encreased dejection, for which she knew now, how to account. emmeline had given mrs. stafford so indifferent an account of lady adelina one evening, that she determined the next morning to see her. she therefore went immediately after breakfast, on pretence of visiting a poor family who had applied to her for assistance; when as mrs. ashwood, miss galton and emmeline, were sitting together, colonel fitz-edward was announced. he came down to tylehurst only the evening before; and not knowing there was company at woodfield, rode over to pass an hour with the two friends, to whom he had frequently been tempted to communicate the source of his melancholy. whether it was owing to the consciousness of lady adelina's mournful story that arose in the mind of emmeline, or whether seeing fitz-edward again in company with mrs. ashwood renewed the memory of what had befallen her when they last met, she blushed deeply the moment she beheld him, and arose from her chair in confusion; then sat down and took out her work, which she had hastily put up; and trying to recover herself, grew still more confused, and trembled and blushed again. mrs. ashwood was in the mean time overwhelming fitz-edward with compliments and kind looks, which he answered with the distant civility of a slight acquaintance; and taking a chair close to emmeline, enquired if she was not well? she answered that she was perfectly well; and attempted to introduce general conversation. but fitz-edward was attentive only to her; and mrs. ashwood, extremely piqued at his distant manner, meditated an excuse to get emmeline out of the room, in hopes of obtaining more notice. fitz-edward, however, having talked apart with miss mowbray a short time, arose and took leave, having by his manner convinced mrs. ashwood of what she reluctantly believed, that some later attachment had obliterated the impression she had made at their first interview. 'i never saw such a figure in my life,' cried she, 'as mr. fitz-edward. mercy on me!--he is grown _so_ thin, and _so_ sallow!' 'and _so_ stupid,'interrupted miss galton. 'he is in love i fancy.' emmeline blushed again; and mrs. ashwood casting a malicious look at her, said--'oh! yes--he doubtless is in love. to men of his gay turn you know it makes no difference, whether a person be actually married or _engaged_.' emmeline, uncertain of the meaning of this sarcasm, and unwilling to be provoked to make a tart reply, which she felt herself ready to do, put up her work and left the room. while she went in search of mrs. stafford, to enquire after lady adelina, and to relate the conversation that had passed between her and fitz-edward, mrs. ashwood and miss galton were indulging their natural malignity. tho' well apprized of emmeline's engagement to delamere, yet they hesitated not to impute her confusion, and fitz-edward's behaviour, to a passion between them. they believed, that while her elopement with delamere had beyond retreat entangled her with him, and while his fortune and future title tempted her to marry him, her heart was in possession of fitz-edward; and that delamere was the dupe of his mistress and his friend. this idea, which could not have occurred to a woman who was not herself capable of all the perfidy it implied, grew immediately familiar with the imagination of mrs. ashwood, and embittered the sense of her own disappointment. miss galton, who hated emmeline more if possible than mrs. ashwood, irritated her suspicions by remarks of her own. she observed 'that it was very extraordinary miss mowbray should walk out so early in a morning, and so studiously avoid taking any body with her--and that unless she had appointments to which she desired no witness, it was very singular she should chuse to ramble about by herself.' from these observations, and her evident confusion on seeing him, they concluded that she had daily assignations with fitz-edward. they agreed, that it would be no more than common justice to inform mr. delamere of their discovery; and this they determined to do as soon as they had certain proofs to produce, with which they concluded a very little trouble and attention would furnish them. james crofts, whose success was now indisputable, since of the handsome colonel there were no hopes, was let into the secret of their suspicions; and readily undertook to assist in detecting the intrigue, for which he assured them he had particular talents. while, therefore, mrs. ashwood, miss galton, and james crofts, were preparing to undermine the peace and character of the innocent, ingenuous emmeline, she and mrs. stafford were meditating how to be useful to the unhappy lady adelina. they became every day more interested and more apprehensive for the fate of that devoted young woman, whose health seemed to be such as made it very improbable she should survive the birth of her child. her spirits, too, were so depressed, that they could not prevail on her to think of her own safety, or to allow them to make any overtures to her family; but, in calm and hopeless languor, she seemed resigned to the horrors of her destiny, and determined to die unlamented and unknown. her elder brother, lord westhaven, had returned from abroad almost immediately after her concealment. his enquiries on his first arrival in england had only informed him of the embarrassment of trelawny's affairs, and the inconvenience to which his sister had consequently been exposed; and that after staying some time in england, to settle things as well as she could, she had disappeared, and every body believed was gone to her husband. his lordship's acquaintance and marriage with augusta delamere, almost immediately succeeded; but while it was depending, he was astonished to hear from lord and lady clancarryl that lady adelina had never written to them before her departure. he went in search of fitz-edward; but could never meet him at home or obtain from his servants any direction where to find him. fitz-edward, indeed, purposely avoided him, and had left no address at his lodgings in town, or at tylehurst. lord westhaven then wrote to trelawny, but obtained no answer; and growing daily more alarmed at the uncertainty he was in about lady adelina, he determined to go, as soon as he was married, to switzerland; being persuaded that tho' some accident had prevented his receiving her letters, she had found an asylum there, amongst his mother's relations. fitz-edward, with anxiety even more poignant, had sought her with as little success. after the morning when she discharged her lodgings, and left them in an hackney coach with her maid, he could never, with all his unwearied researches, discover any traces of her. he knew she was not gone to trelawny; and dreading every thing from her determined sorrow, he passed his whole time between painful and fruitless conjectures, and the tormenting apprehension of hearing of some fatal event. incessantly reproaching himself for being the betrayer of his trust, and the ruin of a lovely and amiable woman, he gave himself up to regret and despondence. the gay fitz-edward, so lately the envy and admiration of the fashionable world, was lost to society, his friends, and himself. he passed much of his time at tylehurst; because he could there indulge, without interruption, his melancholy reflections, and only saw mrs. stafford and emmeline, in whose soft and sensible conversation he found a transient alleviation of his sorrow--sorrow which now grew too severe to be longer concealed, and which he resolved to take the earliest opportunity of acknowledging, in hopes of engaging the pity of his fair friends--perhaps their assistance in discovering the unhappy fugitive who caused it. from lady adelina, they had most carefully concealed, that his residence was so near the obscure abode she had chosen. fatal as he had been to her peace, and conscientiously as she had abstained from naming him after their first conversation, they knew that she still fondly loved him, and that her fears for his safety had assisted her sense of rectitude when she determined to tear herself from him. but were she again to meet him, they feared she would either relapse into her former fatal affection, or conquer it by an effort, which in her precarious state of health might prove immediately fatal. the request which fitz-edward had made to emmeline, that he might be allowed to see her and mrs. stafford together, without any other person being present, they both wished to evade; dreading least they should by their countenances betray the knowledge they had of his unhappy story, and the interest they took in it's catastrophe. they hoped, therefore, to escape hearing his confession till lady adelina should be removed--and to remove her became indispensibly necessary, as emmeline was convinced she was watched in her visits to the cottage. twice she had met james crofts within half a quarter of a mile of the cottage; and at another time discovered, just as she was about to enter it, that the miss ashwoods had followed her almost to the door; which she therefore forbore to enter. these circumstances made both her and mrs. stafford solicitous to have lady adelina placed in greater security; and, added to emmeline's uneasiness for her, was the unpleasant situation in which she found herself. observed with malicious vigilance by mrs. ashwood, james crofts, miss galton, and the two misses, she felt as awkward as if she really had some secret of her own to hide; and with all the purity and even heroism of virtue, learned the uneasy sensation which ever attends mystery and concealment. the hours which used to pass tranquilly and rationally with mrs. stafford, were now dedicated to people whose conversation made her no amends; and if she retired to her own room, it failed not to excite sneers and suspicions. she saw mrs. stafford struggling with dejection which she had no power to dissipate or relieve, and obliged to enter into frequent parties of what is called pleasure, tho' to her it gave only fatigue and disgust, to gratify mrs. ashwood, who hated all society but a crowd. james crofts, indeed, helped to keep her in good humour by his excessive adulation; and chiefly by assuring her, that by any man of the least taste, the baby face of emmeline could be considered only as a foil to her more mature charms, and that her fine dark eyes eclipsed all the eyes in the world. he protested too against emmeline for affecting knowledge--'it is,' said he, 'a maxim of my father's--and my father is no bad judge--that for a woman to affect literature is the most horrid of all absurdities; and for a woman to know any thing of business, is detestable!' mrs. ashwood laid by her dictionary, determined for the future to spell her own way without it. besides the powerful intervention of flattery, james crofts had another not less successful method of winning the lady's favour. he told her that his brother, who had long cherished a passion in which he was at length likely to be disappointed, was in that case determined never to marry; that he was in an ill state of health; and if he died without posterity, the estate and title of his father would descend to himself. the elder crofts, very desirous of seeing a brother established who might otherwise be burthensome or inconvenient to him, suggested this finesse; and secured it's belief by writing frequent and melancholy accounts of his own ill health--an artifice by which he promoted at once his brother's views and his own. he affected the valetudinarian so happily, and complained so much of the ill effect that constant application to business had on his constitution, that nobody doubted of the reality of his sickness. he took care that miss delamere should receive an account of it, which he knew she would consider as the consequence of his despairing love; and when he had interested her vanity and of course her compassion, he contrived to obtain leave of absence for three months from the duties of his office, in order to go abroad for the recovery of his health. he hastened to barege; and soon found means to re-establish himself in the favour of miss delamere; from which, absence, and large draughts of flattery dispensed with french adroitness, had a little displaced him. this stratagem put his brother james on so fair a footing with the widow, that he thought her fortune would be secured before she could discover it to be only a stratagem, and that her lover was still likely to continue a younger brother. james crofts seeing the necessity of dispatch, became so importunate, that mrs. ashwood, despairing of fitz-edward, and believing she might not again meet with a man so near a title, for which she had a violent inclination, was prevailed on to promise she would make him happy as soon as she returned to her own house. it was now the end of june; and lady adelina, whose situation grew very critical, had at length yielded to the entreaties of her two friends, and agreed to go wherever they thought she could obtain assistance and concealment in the approaching hour. mrs. stafford and emmeline, after long and frequent reflections and consultations on the subject, concluded that no situation would be so proper as bath. in a place resorted to by all sorts of people, less enquiry is excited than in a provincial town, where strangers are objects of curiosity to it's idle inhabitants. to bath, therefore, it was determined lady adelina should go. but when the time of her journey, and her arrangements there, came to be discussed, she expressed so much terror least she should be known, so much anguish at leaving those to whose tender pity she was so greatly indebted, and such melancholy conviction that she should not survive, that the sensible heart of emmeline could not behold without sharing her agonies; nor was mrs. stafford less affected. when they returned home after this interview, emmeline was pursued by the image of the poor unhappy adelina. but to give, to the wretched, only barren sympathy, was not in her nature, where more effectual relief was in her power. she thought, that if by her presence she could alleviate the anguish, and soothe the sorrows of the fair mourner, perhaps save her character and her life, and be the means of restoring her to her family, she should perform an action gratifying to her own heart, and acceptable to heaven. the more she reflected on it, the more anxious she became to execute it--and she at length named it to mrs. stafford. mrs. stafford, tho' aware of the numberless objections which might have been made to such a plan, could not resolve strenuously to oppose it. she felt infinite compassion for lady adelina; but could herself do little to assist her, as her time was not her own and her absence must have been accounted for: but emmeline was liable to no restraint; and would not only be meritoriously employed in befriending the unhappy, but would escape from the society at woodfield, which became every day more disagreeable to her. these considerations, particularly the benevolent one of saving an unhappy young woman, over-balanced, in the mind of mrs. stafford, the objection that might be made to her accompanying a person under the unfortunate and discreditable circumstances of lady adelina; and her heart, too expansive to be closed by the cold hand of prudery against the sighs of weakness or misfortune, assured her that she was right. she knew that emmeline was of a character to pity, but not to imitate, the erroneous conduct of her friend; and she believed that the reputation of lady adelina trelawny might be rescued from reproach, without communicating any part of it's blemish to the spotless purity of emmeline mowbray. chapter ii as soon as emmeline had persuaded herself of the propriety of this plan and obtained mrs. stafford's concurrence, she hinted her intentions to lady adelina; who received the intimation with such transports of gratitude and delight, that emmeline, confirmed in her resolution, no longer suffered a doubt of it's propriety to arise; and, with the participation of mrs. stafford only, prepared for her journey, which was to take place in ten days. mrs. stafford also employed a person on whom she could rely, to receive the money due to lady adelina from her husband's estate. but of this her ladyship demanded only half, leaving the rest for trelawny. the attorney in whose hands trelawny's affairs were placed by lord westhaven, was extremely anxious to discover, from the person employed by mrs. stafford, from whence he obtained the order signed by lady adelina; and obliged him to attend several days before he would pay it, in hopes, by persuasions or artful questions, to draw the secret from him. he met, at the attorney's chambers, an officer who had made of him the same enquiry, and had followed him home, and since frequently importuned him--intelligence, which convinced mrs. stafford that lady adelina must soon be discovered, (as they concluded the officer was fitz-edward,) and made both her and emmeline hasten the day of her departure. about a quarter of a mile from woodfield, and at the extremity of the lawn which surrounded it, was a copse in which the accumulated waters of a trout stream formed a beautiful tho' not extensive piece of water, shaded on every side by a natural wood. mrs. stafford, who had particular pleasure in the place, had planted flowering shrubs and caused walks to be cut through it; and on the edge of the water built a seat of reeds and thatch, which was furnished with a table and a few garden chairs. thither emmeline repaired whenever she could disengage herself from company. solitude was to her always a luxury; and particularly desirable now, when her anxiety for lady adelina, and preparations for their approaching departure, made her wish to avoid the malicious observations of mrs. ashwood, the forward intrusion of her daughters, and the inquisitive civilities of james crofts. she had now only one day to remain at woodfield, before that fixed for their setting out; and being altogether unwilling to encounter the fatigue of such an engagement so immediately previous to her journey, she declined being of the party to dine at the house of a neighbouring gentleman; who, on the occasion of his son's coming of age, was to give a ball and _fête champêtre_ to a very large company. mrs. ashwood, seeing emmeline averse, took it into her head to press her extremely to go with them; and finding she still refused, said--'it was monstrous rude, and that she was sure no young person would decline partaking such an entertainment if she had not some _very particular_ reason.' emmeline, teized and provoked out of her usual calmness, answered--'that whatever might be her reasons, she was fortunately accountable to nobody for them.' mrs. ashwood, provoked in her turn, made some very rude replies, which emmeline, not to irritate her farther, left the room without answering; and as soon as the carriages drove from the door, she dined alone, and then desiring one of the servants to carry her harp into the summer-house in the copse, she walked thither with her music books, and soon lost the little chagrin which mrs. ashwood's ill-breeding had given her. fitz-edward, who arrived in the country the preceding evening, after another fruitless search for lady adelina, walked over to woodfield, in hopes, as it was early in the afternoon, that he might obtain, in the course of it, some conversation with mrs. stafford and emmeline. on arriving, he met the servant who had attended emmeline to the copse, and was by him directed thither. as he approached the seat, he heard her singing a plaintive air, which seemed in unison with his heart. she started at the sight of him--mrs. ashwood's suspicions immediately occurred to her, and at the same moment the real motive which had made him seek this interview. she blushed, and looked uneasy; but the innocence and integrity of her heart presently restored her composure, and when fitz-edward asked if she would allow him half an hour of her time, she answered--'certainly.' he sat down by her, dejectedly and in silence. she was about to put aside her harp, but he desired her to repeat the air she was singing. 'it is sweetly soothing,' said he, 'and reminds me of happier days when i first heard it; while you sing it, i may perhaps acquire resolution to tell you what may oblige you to discard me from your acquaintance. it does indeed require resolution to hazard such a misfortune.' emmeline, not knowing how to answer, immediately began the air. the thoughts which agitated her bosom while she sung, made her voice yet more tender and pathetic. she saw the eyes of fitz-edward fill with tears; and as soon as she ceased he said-- 'tell me, miss mowbray--what does the man deserve, who being entrusted with the confidence of a young and beautiful woman--beautiful, even as emmeline herself, and as highly accomplished--has betrayed the sacred trust; and has been the occasion--oh god!--of what misery may i not have been the occasion! 'pardon me,' continued he--'i am afraid my despair frightens you--i will endeavour to command myself.' emmeline found she could not escape hearing the story, and endeavoured not to betray by her countenance that she already knew it. fitz-edward went on-- 'when first i knew you, i was a decided libertine. yourself and mrs. stafford, lovely as i thought you both, would have been equally the object of my designs, if delamere's passion for you, and the reserved conduct of mrs. stafford, had not made me doubt succeeding with either. but for your charming friend my heart long retained it's partiality; nor would it ever have felt for her that pure and disinterested friendship which is now in regard to her it's only sentiment, had not the object of my present regret and anguish been thrown in my way. 'to you, miss mowbray, i scruple not to speak of this beloved and lamented woman; tho' her name is sacred with me, and has never yet been mentioned united with dishonour. 'the connection between our families first introduced me to her acquaintance. in her person she was exquisitely lovely, and her manners were as enchanting as her form. the sprightly gaiety of unsuspecting inexperience, was, i thought, sometimes checked by an involuntary sentiment of regret at the sacrifice she had made, by marrying a man every way unworthy of her; except by that fortune to which she was indifferent, and of which he was hastening to divest himself. 'i had never seen mr. trelawny; and knew him for some time only from report. but when he came to lough carryl, my pity for her, encreased in proportion to the envy and indignation with which i beheld the insensible and intemperate husband--incapable of feeling for her, any other sentiment, than what she might equally have inspired in the lowest of mankind. 'her unaffected simplicity; her gentle confidence in my protection during a voyage in which her ill-assorted mate left her entirely to my care; made me rather consider her as my sister than as an object of seduction. i resolved to be the guardian rather than the betrayer of her honour--and i long kept my resolution.' fitz-edward then proceeded to relate the circumstances that attended the ruin of trelawny's fortune; and that lady adelina was left to struggle with innumerable difficulties, unassisted but by himself, to whom lord clancarryl had delegated the task of treating with trelawny's sister and creditors. 'her gratitude,' continued he, 'for the little assistance i was able to give her, was boundless; and as pity had already taught me to love her with more ardour than her beauty only, captivating as it is, would have inspired; gratitude led her too easily into tender sentiments for me. i am not a presuming coxcomb; but she was infinitely too artless to conceal her partiality; and neither her misfortunes, or her being the sister of my friend godolphin, protected her against the libertinism of my principles.' he went on to relate the deep melancholy that seized lady adelina; and his own terror and remorse when he found her one morning gone from her lodgings, where she had left no direction; and from her proceeding it was evident she designed to conceal herself from his enquiries. 'god knows,' pursued he, 'what is now become of her!--perhaps, when most in need of tenderness and attention, she is thrown destitute and friendless among strangers, and will perish in indigence and obscurity. unused to encounter the slightest hardship, her delicate frame, and still more sensible mind, will sink under those to which her situation will expose her--perhaps i shall be doubly a murderer!' he stopped, from inability to proceed--emmeline, in tears, continued silent. struggling to conquer his emotion and recover his voice, fitz-edward at length continued-- 'while i was suffering all the misery which my apprehension for her fate inflicted, her younger brother, william godolphin, returned from the west indies, where he has been three years stationed. i was the first person he visited in town; but i was not at my lodgings there. before i returned from tylehurst, he had informed himself of all the circumstances of trelawny's embarrassments, and his sister's absence. he found letters from lord westhaven, and from my brother, lord clancarryl; who knowing he would about that time return to england, conjured him to assist in the attempt of discovering lady adelina; of whose motives for concealing herself from her family they were entirely ignorant, while it filled them with uneasiness and astonishment. as soon as i went back to london, godolphin, of whose arrival i was ignorant, came to me. he embraced me, and thanked me for my friendship and attention to his unfortunate adelina--i think if he had held his sword to my heart it would have hurt me less! 'he implored me to help his search after his lost sister, and again said how greatly he was obliged to me--while i, conscious how little i deserved his gratitude, felt like a coward and an assassin, and shrunk from the manly confidence of my friend. 'since our first meeting, i have seen him several times, and ever with new anguish. i have loved godolphin from my earliest remembrance; and have known him from a boy to have the best heart and the noblest spirit under heaven. equally incapable of deserving or bearing dishonour, godolphin will behold me with contempt; which tho' i deserve, i cannot endure. he must call me to an account; and the hope of perishing by his hand is the only one i now cherish. yet unable to shock him by divulging the fatal secret, i have hitherto concealed it, and my concealment he must impute to motives base, infamous, and pusillanimous. i can bear such reflections no longer--i will go to town to-morrow, explain his sister's situation to him, and let him take the only reparation i can now make him.' emmeline, shuddering at this resolution, could not conceal how greatly it affected her. 'generous and lovely miss mowbray! pardon me for having thus moved your gentle nature; and allow me, since i see you pity me, to request of you and mrs. stafford a favour which will probably be the last trouble the unhappy fitz-edward will give you. 'it may happen that lady adelina may hereafter be discovered--tho' i know not how to hope it. but if your generous pity should interest you in the fate of that unhappy, forlorn young woman, your's and mrs. stafford's protection might yet perhaps save her; and such interposition would be worthy of hearts like yours. as the event of a meeting between me and godolphin is uncertain, shall i entreat you, my lovely friend, to take charge of this paper. it contains a will, by which the child of lady adelina will be entitled to all i die possessed of. it is enough, if the unfortunate infant survives, to place it above indigence. lord clancarryl will not dispute the disposition of my fortune; and to your care, and that of mrs. stafford, i have left it in trust, and i have entreated you to befriend the poor little one, who will probably be an orphan--but desolate and abandoned it will not be, if it's innocence and unhappiness interest you to grant my request. delamere will not object to your goodness being so exerted; and you will not teach it, generous, gentle as you are! to hold in abhorrence the memory of it's father. this is all i can now do. farewell! dearest miss mowbray!--heaven give you happiness, _ma douce amie!_ farewell!' these last words, in which fitz-edward repeated the name by which he was accustomed to address emmeline, quite overcame her. he was hastening away, while, hardly able to speak, she yet made an effort to stop him. the interview he was about to seek was what lady adelina so greatly dreaded. yet emmeline dared not urge to him how fatal it would be to her; she knew not what to say, least he should discover the secret with which she was entrusted; but in breathless agitation caught his hand as he turned to leave her, crying-- 'hear me, fitz-edward! one moment hear me! do not go to meet captain godolphin. i conjure, i implore you do not!' she found it impossible to proceed. her eyes were still eagerly fixed on his face; she still held his hand; while he, supposing her extreme emotion arose from the compassionate tenderness of her nature, found the steadiness of his despair softened by the soothing voice of pity, and throwing himself on his knees, he laid his head on one of the chairs, and wept like a woman. emmeline, who now hoped to persuade him not to execute the resolution he had formed, said--'i will take the paper you have given me, fitz-edward, and will most religiously fulfil all your request in it to the utmost extent of my power. but in return for my giving you this promise, i must insist'---- at this moment james crofts stood before them. emmeline, shocked and amazed at his appearance, roused fitz-edward by a sudden exclamation. he started up, and said fiercely to crofts--'well, sir!--have you any commands here?' 'commands, sir,' answered crofts, somewhat alarmed by the tone in which this question was put--'i have no commands to be sure sir--but, but, i came sir, just to enquire after miss mowbray. i did not mean to intrude.' 'then, sir,' returned the colonel, 'i beg you will leave us.' 'oh! certainly, sir,' cried crofts, trying to regain his courage and assume an air of raillery--'certainly--i would not for the world interrupt you. my business indeed is not at all material--only a compliment to miss mowbray--your's,' added he sneeringly, 'is, i see, of more consequence.' 'look ye, mr. crofts,' sharply answered fitz-edward--'you are to make no impertinent comments. miss mowbray is mistress of her actions. she is in my particular protection on behalf of my friend delamere, and i shall consider the slightest failure of respect to her as an insult to me. sir, if you have nothing more to say you will be so good as to leave us.' there was something so hostile in the manner in which fitz-edward delivered this speech, that james crofts, more at home in the cabinet than the field, thought he might as well avoid another injunction to depart; and quietly submit to the present, rather than provoke farther resentment from the formidable soldier. he therefore, looking most cadaverously, made one of his jerking bows, and said, with something he intended for a smile-- 'well, well, good folks, i'll leave you to your _tête a tête_, and hasten back to my engagement. every body regrets miss mowbray's absence from the ball; and the partner that was provided for her is ready to hang himself.' an impatient look, darted from fitz-edward, stopped farther effusion of impertinence, and he only added--'servant! servant!' and walked away. fitz-edward, then turning towards emmeline, saw her pale and faint. 'why, my dear miss mowbray, do you suffer this man's folly to affect you? your looks really terrify me!' 'oh! he was sent on purpose,' cried emmeline.--'mrs. ashwood has lately often hinted to me, that whatever are my engagements to delamere i was much more partial to you. she has watched me for some time; and now, on my refusing to accompany them to the ball, concluded i had an appointment, and sent crofts back to see.' 'if i thought so,' sternly answered fitz-edward, 'i would instantly overtake him, and i believe i could oblige him to secresy.' 'no, for heaven's sake don't!' said emmeline--'for heaven's sake do not think of it! i care not what they conjecture--leave them to their malice--crofts is not worth your anger. but fitz-edward, let us return to what we were talking of. will you promise me to delay going to london--to delay seeing mr. godolphin until--in short, will you give me your honour to remain at tylehurst a week, without taking any measures to inform godolphin of what you have told me. i will, at the end of that time, either release you from your promise, or give you unanswerable reasons why you should relinquish the design of meeting him at all.' fitz-edward, however amazed at the earnestness she expressed to obtain this promise, gave it. he had no suspicion of emmeline's having any knowledge of lady adelina; and accounted for the deep interest she seemed to take in preventing an interview, by recollecting the universal tenderness and humanity of her character. he assured her he would not leave tylehurst 'till the expiration of the time she had named. he conjured her not to suffer any impertinence from crofts on the subject of their being seen together, but to awe him into silence by resentment. emmeline now desired him to leave her. but she still seemed under such an hurry of spirits, that he insisted on being allowed to attend her to the door of the house, where, renewing his thanks for the compassionate attention she had afforded him, and entreating her to compose herself, he left her. emmeline intending to go to her own room, went first into the drawing room to deposit her music book. she had hardly done so, when she heard a man's step, and turning, beheld crofts open the door, which he immediately shut after him. 'i thought, sir,' said emmeline, 'you had been gone back to your company.' 'no, not yet, my fair emmeline. i wanted first to beg your pardon for having disturbed so snug a party. ah! sly little prude--who would think that you, who always seem so cold and so cruel, made an excuse only to stay at home to meet fitz-edward? but it is not fair, little dear, that all your kindness should be for him, while you will scarce give any other body a civil look. now i have met with you i swear i'll have a kiss too.' emmeline, terrified to death at his approaching her with this speech, flew to the bell, which she rang with so much violence that the rope broke from the crank. 'now,' cried crofts, 'if nobody hears, you are more than ever in my power.' 'heaven forbid!' shrieked emmeline, in an agony of fear. 'let me go, mr. crofts, this moment.' she would have rushed towards the door but he stood with his arms extended before it. 'you did not run thus--you did not scream thus, when fitz-edward, the fortunate fitz-edward, was on his knees before you. then, you could weep and sigh too, and look so sweetly on him. but come--you see i know so much that it will be your interest, little dear, to make me your friend.' 'rather let me apply to fiends and furies for friendship! hateful, detestable wretch! by what right do you insult and detain me?' 'oh! these theatricals are really very sublime!' cried he, seizing both her hands, which he violently grasped. she shrieked aloud, and fruitlessly struggled to break from him, when the footsteps of somebody near the door obliged him to let her go. she darted instantly away, and in the hall met one of the maids. 'lord, miss,' cried the servant, 'did you ring? i've been all over the house to see what bell it was.' emmeline, without answering, flew to her own room. the maid followed her: but desirous of being left alone, she assured the girl that nothing was the matter; that she was merely tired by a long walk; and desiring a glass of water, tried to compose and recollect herself; while crofts unobserved returned to the house where the _fête_ was given time enough to dress and dance with mrs. ashwood. it was at her desire, that immediately after dinner crofts had left the company under pretence of executing a commission with which she easily furnished him; but his real orders were to discover the motives of emmeline's refusal to be of the party. this he executed beyond his expectation. it was no longer to be doubted that very good intelligence subsisted between emmeline and fitz-edward, since he had been found on his knees before her; while she, earnestly yet kindly speaking, hung over him with tears in her eyes. knowing that emmeline was absolutely engaged to delamere, he was persuaded that fitz-edward was master of her heart; and that the tears and emotion to which he had been witness, were occasioned by the impossibility of her giving him her hand. he knew fitz-edward's character too well to suppose he could be insensible of the lady's kindness; and possessing himself a mind gross and depraved, he did not hesitate to believe all the ill his own base and illiberal spirit suggested. tho', interested hypocrite as he was, he made every other passion subservient to the gratification of his avarice, crofts had not coldly beheld the youth and beauty of emmeline; he had, however, carefully forborne to shew that he admired her, and would probably never have betrayed what must ruin him for ever with mrs. ashwood, had not the conviction of her partiality to fitz-edward inspired him with the infamous hope of frightening her into some kindness for himself, by threatening to betray her stolen interview with her supposed lover. the scorn and horror with which emmeline repulsed him served only to mortify his self love, and provoke his hatred towards her and the man whom he believed she favoured; and with the inveterate and cowardly malignity of which his heart was particularly susceptible, he determined to do all in his power to ruin them both. chapter iii such was the horror and detestation which emmeline felt for crofts, that she could not bear the thoughts of seeing him again. but as she feared mrs. stafford might resent his behaviour, and by that means embroil herself with the vain and insolent mrs. ashwood, with whom she knew stafford was obliged to keep on a fair footing, she determined to say as little as she could of his impertinence to mrs. stafford, but to withdraw from the house without again exposing herself to meet him. as soon as she saw her the next morning, she related all that had passed between fitz-edward and herself; and after a long consultation they agreed that to prevent his seeing godolphin was absolutely necessary; and that no other means of doing so offered, but mrs. stafford's relating to him the real circumstances and situation of lady adelina, as soon as she could be removed from her present abode and precautions taken to prevent his discovering her. this, mrs. stafford undertook to do immediately after their departure. it was to take place on the next day; and emmeline, with the concurrence of her friend, determined that she would take no leave of the party at woodfield: for tho' the appearance of mystery was extremely disagreeable and distressing to emmeline, she knew that notice of her intentions would excite enquiries and awaken curiosity very difficult to satisfy; and that it was extremely probable james crofts might be employed to watch her, and by that means render abortive all her endeavours to preserve the unhappy lady adelina. relying therefore on the generosity and innocence of her intentions, she chose rather to leave her own actions open to censure which they did not deserve, than to risk an investigation which might be fatal to the interest of her poor friend. she took nothing with her, mrs. stafford undertaking every necessary arrangement about her cloaths--and having at night taken a tender leave of this beloved and valuable woman, and promised to write to her constantly and to return as soon as the destiny of lady adelina should be decided, they parted. and emmeline, arising before the dawn of the following morning, set out alone to woodbury forest--a precaution absolutely necessary, to evade the inquisitive watchfulness of james crofts. she stole softly down stairs, before even the servants were stirring, and opening the door cautiously, felt some degree of terror at being obliged to undertake so long a walk alone at such an hour. but innocence gave her courage, and friendly zeal lent her strength. as she walked on, her fears subsided. she saw the sun rise above the horizon, and her apprehensions were at an end. as no carriage could approach within three quarters of a mile of the house where lady adelina was concealed, they were obliged to walk to the road where mrs. stafford had directed a post chaise to wait for them, which she had hired at a distant town, where it was unlikely any enquiry would be made. long disuse, as she had hardly ever left the cottage from the moment of her entering it, and the extreme weakness to which she was reduced, made emmeline greatly fear that lady adelina would never be able to reach the place. with her assistance, and that of her ladyship's woman, slowly and faintly she walked thither; and emmeline saw her happily placed in the chaise. every thing had been before settled as to the conveyance of the servant and baggage, and to engage the secresy of the woman with whom she had dwelt, by making her silence sufficiently advantageous; and as they hoped that no traces were left by which they might be followed, the spirits of the fair travellers seemed somewhat to improve as they proceeded on their journey.--emmeline felt her heart elated with the consciousness of doing good; and from the tender affection and assistance of such a friend, which could be considered only as the benevolence of heaven itself, lady adelina drew a favourable omen, and dared entertain a faint hope that her penitence had been accepted. they arrived without any accident at bath, the following day; and emmeline, leaving lady adelina at the inn, went out immediately to secure lodgings in a retired part of the town. as soon as it was dark, lady adelina removed thither in a chair; and was announced by emmeline to be the wife of a swiss officer, to be herself of switzerland, and to bear the name of mrs. st. laure--while she herself, as she was very little known, continued to pass by her own name in the few transactions which in their very private way of living required her name to be repeated. when mrs. ashwood found that emmeline had left woodfield clandestinely and alone, and that mrs. stafford evaded giving any account whither she was gone, by saying coldly that she was gone to visit a friend in surrey whom she formerly knew in wales, all the suspicions she had herself harboured, and miss galton encouraged, seemed confirmed. james crofts had related, not without exaggerations, what he had been witness to in the copse; and it was no longer doubted but that she was gone with fitz-edward, which at once accounted for her departure and the sudden and mysterious manner in which it was accomplished. james crofts had suspicions that his behaviour had hastened it; but he failed not to confirm mrs. ashwood in her prepossession that her entanglement with fitz-edward was now at a period when it could be no longer concealed--intelligence which was to be conveyed to delamere. the elder crofts, who had been some time with lady montreville and her daughter, had named delamere from time to time in his letters to his brother. the last, mentioned that he was now with his mother and sister, who were at nice, and who purposed returning to england in about three months. crofts represented delamere as still devoted to emmeline; and as existing only in the hope of being no longer opposed in his intention of marrying her in march, when the year which he had promised his father to wait expired; but that lady montreville, as time wore away, grew more averse to the match, and more desirous of some event which might break it off. crofts gave his brother a very favourable account of his progress with miss delamere; and hinted that if he could be fortunate enough to put an end to delamere's intended connection, it would so greatly conciliate the favour of lady montreville, that he dared hope she would no longer oppose his union with her daughter: and when once they were married, and the prejudices of the mother to an inferior alliance conquered, he had very little doubt of lord montreville's forgiveness, and of soon regaining his countenance and friendship. this account from his brother added another motive to those which already influenced the malignant and illiberal mind of james crofts to injure the lovely orphan, and he determined to give all his assistance to mrs. ashwood in the cruel project of depriving her at once of her character and her lover. in a consultation which he held on this subject with his promised bride and miss galton, the ladies agreed that it was perfectly shocking that such a fine young man as mr. delamere should be attached to a woman so little sensible of his value as emmeline; that it had long been evident she was to him indifferent, and it was now too clear that she was partial to another; and that therefore it would be a meritorious action to acquaint him of her intimacy with fitz-edward; and it could not be doubted but his knowledge of it would, high spirited as he was, cure him effectually of his ill-placed passion, and restore the tranquillity of his respectable family. hiding thus the inveterate envy and malice of their hearts under this hypocritical pretence, they next considered how to give the information which was so meritorious. anonymous letters were expedients to which miss galton had before had recourse, and to an anonymous letter they determined to commit the secret of emmeline's infidelity--while james crofts, in his letters to his brother, was to corroborate the intelligence it contained, by relating as mere matter of news what had actually and evidently happened, emmeline's sudden departure from woodfield. delamere, when he saw his mother out of danger at barege, had returned to the neighbourhood of paris, where he had lingered some time, in hopes that emmeline would accede to his request of being allowed to cross the channel for a few days; but her answer, in which she strongly urged the hazard he would incur of giving his father a pretence to withdraw _his_ promise, by violating his own, had obliged him, tho' with infinite reluctance, to give up the scheme; and being quite indifferent where he was, if he was still at a distance from her, he had yielded to the solicitations of lady montreville, and rejoined her at nice. there, he now remained; while every thing in england seemed to contribute to assist the designs of those who wished to disengage him from his passion for emmeline. the day after emmeline's departure with lady adelina, fitz-edward went to woodfield; and hearing that miss mowbray had suddenly left it, was thrown into the utmost astonishment--astonishment which mrs. ashwood and miss galton observed to each other was the finest piece of acting they had ever seen. the whole party were together when he was introduced--a circumstance mrs. stafford would willingly have avoided, as it was absolutely necessary for her to speak to him alone; and determined to do so, whatever construction the malignity of her sister-in-law might put upon it, she said-- 'i have long promised you, colonel, a sight of the two pieces of drawing which miss mowbray and i have finished as companions. they are now framed; and if you will come with me into my dressing-room you shall see them.' as the rest of the company had frequently seen these drawings, there was no pretence for their following mrs. stafford; who, accompanied by the colonel, went to her dressing room. a conference thus evidently sought by mrs. stafford, excited the eager and painful curiosity of the party in the parlour. 'now would i give the world,' cried mrs. ashwood, 'to know what is going forward.' 'is it not possible to listen?' enquired crofts, equal to any meanness that might gratify the malevolence of another or his own. 'yes,' replied mrs. ashwood, 'if one could get into the closet next the dressing-room without being perceived, which can only be done by passing thro' the nursery. if indeed the nursery maids and children are out, it is easy enough.' 'they are out, mama, i assure you,' cried miss ashwood, 'for i saw them myself go across the lawn since i've been at breakfast. do, pray let us go and listen--i long of all things to know what my aunt stafford can have to say to that sly-looking colonel.' 'no, no, child,' said her mother, 'i shall not send you, indeed--but crofts, do you think we should be able to make it out?' 'egad,' answered he, 'i'll try--for depend upon it the mischief will out. it will be rare, to have such a pretty tale to tell mr. delamere of his demure-looking little dear.--i'll venture.' mrs. ashwood then shewing him the way, he went on tip toe up stairs, and concealing himself in a light closet which was divided from the dressing room only by lath and plaister, he lent an attentive ear to the dialogue that was passing. it happened, however, that the window near which mrs. stafford and fitz-edward were sitting was exactly opposite to that side of the room to which crofts' hiding-place communicated; and tho' the room was not large, yet the distance, the partition, and the low voice in which both parties spoke, made it impossible for him to distinguish more than broken sentences. from mrs. stafford he heard--'could not longer be concealed--in all probability may now remain unknown--the child, i will myself attend to.' from fitz-edward, he could only catch indistinct sounds; his voice appearing to be lost in his emotion. but he seemed to be thanking mrs. stafford, and lamenting his own unhappiness. his last speech, in which his powers of utterance were returned, was--'nothing can ever erase the impression of your angelic goodness, best and loveliest of friends!--oh, continue it, i beseech you, to those for whom only i am solicitous, and forgive all the trouble i have given you!' he then hurried away. mrs. stafford, after remaining alone a moment as if to compose herself, went back to the parlour; and crofts, who thought he had heard enough, tho' he wished to have heard all, slunk from his closet and walked into the garden; where being soon afterwards joined by mrs. ashwood and miss galton, he, by relating the broken and disjointed discourse he had been witness to, left not a doubt remaining of the cause of emmeline's precipitate retreat from woodfield. and perhaps minds more candid than their's--minds untainted with the odious and hateful envy which ulcerated their's, might, from the circumstances that attended her going and fitz-edward's behaviour, have conceived disadvantageous ideas of her conduct. but such was the uneasiness with which mrs. ashwood ever beheld superior merit, and such the universal delight which miss galton took in defamation, that had none of those circumstances existed, they would with equal malignity have studied to ruin the reputation of emmeline; and probably with equal success--for against such attacks, innocence, however it may console it's possessor, is too frequently a feeble and inadequate defence! while the confederates, exulting in the certainty of emmeline's ruin, were manufacturing the letter which was to alarm the jealous and irascible spirit of delamere, fitz-edward, (from whom mrs. stafford, before she would tell him any thing, had extorted a promise that he would enquire no farther than what she chose to relate to him,) was relieved from insupportable anguish by hearing that lady adelina was in safe hands; but he lamented in bitterness of soul the despondency and affliction to which mrs. stafford had told him she entirely resigned herself. he knew not that emmeline was with her, whatever he might suspect; and mrs. stafford had protested to him, that if he made any attempt to discover the residence of lady adelina, or persisted in meeting her brother, she would immediately relinquish all concern in the affair, and no longer interest herself in what his rashness would inevitably render desperate. he solemnly assured her he would take no measures without her knowledge; and remained at tylehurst, secluded from every body, and waiting in fearful and anxious solicitude to hear of lady adelina by mrs. stafford. delamere, (still at nice with his mother,) who with different sources of uneasiness thought the days and weeks insupportably long in which he lived only in the hope of seeing emmeline at the end of six months, was roused from his involuntary resignation by the following letter, written in a hand perfectly unknown to him. 'sir, 'a friend to your worthy and noble family writes this; which is meant to serve you, and to undeceive you in regard to miss mowbray--who, without any gratitude for the high honour you intend her, is certainly too partial to another person. she is now gone from woodfield to escape observation; and none but mrs. stafford is let into the secret of where she is. you will judge what end it is to answer; but certainly none that bodes you good. one would have supposed that the colonel's being very often her attendant at woodfield might have made her stay there agreeable enough; but perhaps (for i do not aver it) the young lady has some particular reasons for wishing to have private lodgings. no doubt the colonel is a man of gallantry; but his friendship to you is rather more questionable. the writer of this having very little knowledge of the parties, can have no other motive than the love of justice, and being sorry to see deceit and falsehood practised on a young gentleman who deserves better, and who has a respectful tho' unknown friend in y. z.' _london, july , --._ this infamous scroll had no sooner been perused by delamere, than fury flashed from his eyes, and anguish seized his heart. but the moment the suddenness of his passion gave way to reflection, the tumult of his mind subsided, and he thought it must be an artifice of his mother's to separate him from emmeline. the longer he considered her inveterate antipathy to his marriage, the more he was convinced that this artifice, unworthy as it was, she was capable of conceiving, and, by means of the crofts, executing, if she hoped by it to put an eternal conclusion to his affection. he at length so entirely adopted this idea, that determining 'to be revenged and love her better for it,' and to settle the matter very peremptorily with the crofts' if they had been found to interfere, he obtained a tolerable command over his temper and his features, and joined lady montreville and miss delamere, whom he found reading letters which they also had received from england. his mother asked slightly after his; and, in a few moments, mr. crofts arrived, asking, with his usual assiduity, after the health of lord montreville and that of such friends as usually wrote to her ladyship? she answered his enquiries--and then desired to hear what news sir richard or his other correspondents had sent him? 'my father's letters,' said he, 'contain little more than an order to purchase some particular sort of wine which he is very circumstantial, as usual, in telling me how to forward safely. he adds, indeed, that he can allow my absence no longer than until the th of september.'--he sighed, and looked tenderly at miss delamere. 'i have no other letters,' continued he, 'but one from james.' 'and does he tell you no news,' asked lady montreville? 'nothing,' answered crofts, carelessly, 'but gossip, which i believe would not entertain your ladyship.' 'oh, why should you fancy that,' returned she--'you know i love to hear news, tho' about people i never saw or ever wish to see.' 'james has been at mr. stafford's at woodfield,' said he, 'where your ladyship has certainly no acquaintance.' 'at woodfield, sir?' cried delamere, unable to express his anxiety--'at woodfield!--and what does he say of woodfield?' 'i don't recollect any thing very particular,' answered crofts, carelessly--'i believe i put the letter into my pocket.' he took it out. 'read it to us crofts'--said miss delamere. ----'i have lately passed a very agreeable month at woodfield. we were a large party in the house. among other pleasant circumstances, during my stay there, was a ball and _fête champêtre_, given by mr. conway on his son's coming of age. it was elegant, and well conducted beyond any entertainment of the sort i ever saw. there were forty couple, and a great number of very pretty women; but it was agreed on all hands that miss mowbray would have eclipsed them all, who unluckily declined going. she left woodfield a day or two afterwards.' delamere's countenance changed.--crofts, as if looking for some other news in his letter, hesitated, then smiled, and went on.-- 'the gossip fame has made a match for me with mrs. ashwood. i wish she may be right. in some other of her stories i really think her wrong, so i will not be the means of their circulation.' 'the rest,' said crofts, putting up the letter, 'is only about my father's new purchases and other family affairs.' delamere, who, in spite of his suspicions of crofts' treachery, could not hear this corroboration of his anonymous letter without a renewal of all his fears, left the room in doubt, suspence and wretchedness. the seeds of jealousy and mistrust thus skilfully sown, could hardly fail of taking root in an heart so full of sensibility, and a temper so irritable as his. again he read over his anonymous letter, and compared it with the intelligence which seemed accidentally communicated by crofts; and with a fearful kind of enquiry compared the date and circumstances. he dared hardly trust his mind with the import of this investigation; and found nothing on which to rest his hope, but that it might be a concerted plan between his mother and crofts. his heart alternately swelling between the indignation such a supposition created and shrinking with horror from the idea of perfidy on the part of emmeline, kept him in such a state of mind that he could hardly be said to possess his reason. but when he remembered how often his extreme vivacity had betrayed him into error, and hazarded his losing for ever all he held valuable on earth, he tried to subdue the acuteness of his feelings, and to support at least without betraying it, the anguish which oppressed him, till the next pacquet from england, when it was possible a letter from emmeline herself might dissipate his doubts. resolutely however resolving to call crofts to a serious account, if he found him accessory to a calumny so dark and diabolical. when the next post from england arrived, he saw, among the letters which were delivered to him, one directed by the hand of emmeline. he flew to his own room, and with trembling hands broke the seal. it was short, and he fancied unusually cold. towards it's close, she mentioned that she was going to bath for a few weeks with a friend, and as she did not know where she should lodge, thought he had better not write till she was again fixed at woodfield. that she should go to bath in july, with a nameless friend, and quit so abruptly her beloved mrs. stafford--that she should apparently wish to evade his letters, and make her actual residence a secret--were a cloud of circumstances calculated to persuade him that some mystery involved her conduct; a mystery which the fatal letter served too evidently to explain. as if fire had been laid to the train of combustibles which had, since the receipt of it, been accumulating in the bosom of delamere, his furious and uncontroulable spirit now burst forth. a temporary delirium seized him; he stamped round the room, and ran to his pistols, which fortunately were not charged. the noise he made brought millefleur into the room, whom he instantly caught by the collar, and shaking him violently, cried-- 'scoundrel!--why are not these pistols loaded?' '_eh! eh! monsieur!_' exclaimed millefleur, almost strangled-'_que voudriez vous?--vos pistolets!--mon dieu! que voudriez vous avec vos pistolets?_' 'shoot _you_ perhaps, you blockhead!' raved delamere, pushing furiously from him the trembling valet--then snatching up the pistols, he half kicked, half pushed him out of the room, and throwing them after him, ordered him to clean and load them: after which he locked the door, and threw himself upon the bed. the resolution he had made in his cooler moments, never again to yield to such impetuous transports of passion, was now forgotten. he could not conquer, he could not even mitigate the tumultuous anguish which had seized him; but seemed rather to call to his remembrance all that might justify it's excess. he remembered how positively emmeline had forbidden his returning to england, tho' all he asked was to be allowed to see her for a few hours. he recollected her long and invincible coldness; her resolute adherence to the promise she need not have given; and forgetting all the symptoms which he had before fondly believed he had discovered of her returning his affection, he exaggerated every circumstance that indicated indifference, and magnified them into signs of absolute aversion. tho' he could not forget that fitz-edward had assisted him in carrying emmeline away, and had on all occasions promoted his interest with her, that recollection did not at all weaken the probability of his present attachment; for such was delamere's opinion of fitz-edward's principles, that he believed he was capable of the most dishonourable views on the mistress, or even on the wife of his friend. he tortured his imagination almost to madness, by remembering numberless little incidents, which, tho' almost unattended to at the time, now seemed to bring the cruellest conviction of their intelligence--particularly that on the night he had taken emmeline from clapham, fitz-edward was found there; tho' neither his father or himself, who had repeatedly sent to his lodgings, could either find him at home or get any direction where to meet with him. almost all his late letters too had been dated from tylehurst, where it was certain he had passed the greatest part of the summer.--fitz-edward, fond of society, and courted by the most brilliant circles, shut himself up in a country house, distant from all his connections. and to what could such an extraordinary change be owing, if not to his attachment to emmeline mowbray? irritated by these recollections, he gave himself up to all the dreadful torments of jealousy--jealousy even to madness; and he felt this corrosive passion in all it's extravagance. it was violent in proportion to his love and his pride, and more insupportably painful in proportion to it's novelty; for except once at swansea, when he fancied that emmeline in her flight was accompanied by fitz-edward, he had never felt it before; however they might serve him as a pretence, rochely and elkerton were both too contemptible to excite it. the night approached; and without having regained any share of composure, he had at length determined to quit nice the next day, that his mother and crofts might not be gratified with the sight of his despair, and triumph in the detected perfidy of emmeline. lady montreville and her daughter were out when the letters arrived; and he now apprehended that when they returned millefleur might alarm them by an account of his frantic behaviour, and that they would guess it to have been occasioned by his letters from england. starting up, therefore, he called the poor fellow to him, who was not yet recovered from his former terrifying menaces; and who approached, trembling, the table where delamere sat; his dress disordered, his eyes flashing fire, and his lips pale and quivering. 'come here, sir!' sternly cried he. millefleur sprung close to the table. 'have you cleaned and loaded my pistols?' '_monsieur--je, je m'occupais--je, je--monsieur, ils sont----_' 'fool, of what are you afraid?--what does the confounded _poltron_ tremble for?' '_mais monsieur--c'est que--que--mais monsieur, je ne scais!_' '_tenez_, mr. millefleur!' said delamere sharply--'remember what i am going to say. something has happened to vex me, and i shall go out to-morrow for a few days, or perhaps i may go to england. my mother is to know nothing of it, but what i shall myself tell her; therefore at your peril speak of what has happened this evening, or of my intentions for to-morrow. come up immediately, and put my things into my portmanteaus, and put my fire arms in order. i shall take you with me. david need not be prepared till to-morrow. i shall go on horseback and shall want him also. the least failure on your part of executing these orders, you will find very inconvenient--you know i will not be trifled with.' millefleur, frightened to death at the looks and voice of his master, dared not disobey; and delamere employing him in putting up his cloaths till after lady montreville came in, was, he thought, secure of his secresy. he then made an effort, tho' a successless one, to hide the anguish that devoured him; and went down to supper. he found, that besides their constant attendant crofts, his mother and sister were accompanied by two other english gentlemen, and a french man of fashion and his sister, who full of the vivacity and gaiety of their country, kept up a lively conversation with miss delamere and the englishmen. but delamere hardly spoke--his eyes were wild and inflamed--his cheeks flushed--and deep sighs seemed involuntarily to burst from his heart. lady montreville observed him, and then said-- 'surely, frederic, you are not well?' 'not very well,' said he; 'but i am otherwise, merely from the intolerable heat. i have had the head-ache all day.' 'the head-ache!' exclaimed his mother--'why then do you not go to bed?' 'no,' answered he, 'i am better up. since the heat is abated, i am in less pain. i will take a walk by the fine moon that i see is rising, and be back again presently--and to-morrow,' continued he--'to-morrow, i shall go northward for a month. i cannot stay under this burning atmosphere.' then desiring the company not to move on his account, he arose from table and hastened away. 'do, my good crofts,' said lady montreville--'do follow frederic--he frightens me to death--he is certainly very ill.' crofts hesitated a moment, being in truth afraid to interfere with delamere's ramble while he was in a humour so gloomy; but on her ladyship's repeating her request, dared not shew his reluctance. he went out therefore under pretence of following him; while the party present, seeing lady montreville's distress, almost immediately departed. crofts walked on without much desire to fulfill his commission; for delamere, whenever he was obliged to associate with him, treated him generally with coldness, and sometimes rudely. there was, however, very little probability of his overtaking him; for delamere had walked or rather run to a considerable distance from the street where his mother lived, and then wandering farther into the fields, had thrown himself upon the grass, and had forgotten every thing but emmeline--'emmeline and fitz-edward gone together!--the mistress on whom he had so fondly doated!--the friend whom he had so implicitly trusted!' these cruel images, drest in every form most fatal to his peace, tormented him, and the agony of disappointed passion seemed to have affected his brain. deep groans forced their way from his oppressed heart--he cursed his existence, and seemed resolutely bent, in the gloominess of his despair, to shake it off and free himself from sufferings so intolerable. to the first effusions of his phrenzy, a sullen calm, more alarming, succeeded. he fixed his eyes on the moon which shone above him, but had no idea of what he saw, or where he was; his breath was short, his hands clenched; he seemed as if, having lost the power of complaint, he was unable to express the pain that convulsed his whole frame. while he continued in this situation, a favourite little spaniel of his mother's, of which he had from a boy been fond, ran up to him and licked his hands and face. the caresses of an animal he had so long remembered, touched some chord of the heart that vibrated to softer emotions than those which had for the last three hours possessed him--he burst into tears. 'felix!' said he, sobbing, 'poor felix!' the dog, rejoicing to be noticed, ran barking round him; and presently afterwards, with hurried steps, came miss delamere, leaning on the arm of crofts. 'my god!' exclaimed she, almost screaming, 'here he is! oh frederic, you have so terrified my mother! and mr. crofts has been two hours in search of you. had it not been for the dog, we should not now have found you. mr. crofts has returned twice to the house without you.' 'mr. crofts may return then a third time,' said delamere, 'and cease to give himself such unnecessary trouble.' 'but you will come with us, brother?--surely you will now come home?' 'at my leisure,' replied he, sternly--'lady montreville need be under no apprehensions about me. i shall be at home presently. but i will not be importuned! i will not be watched and followed! and above all, i will not have a governor!' so saying, he turned from them and walked another way; while they, seeing him so impracticable, could only return to report what they had seen to lady montreville. delamere, however, who had taken another way, entered the house at the same moment. lady montreville had strictly questioned millefleur as to the cause of his master's disorder; and the poor fellow, who dared not relate the furious passion into which he had fallen on reading his letter, trembled, prevaricated, stammered, and looked so white, that her ladyship, more alarmed, fancied she knew not what; and full of terror, had sent out crofts a second time, and the servants different ways, in search of her son. at length crofts returning the second time without success, miss delamere went with him herself; and the dog following her, led her to her brother. but before their return, lady montreville's apprehensions had arisen to such an height, that a return of her fits seemed to threaten her, and with difficulty was she brought to her senses when she saw him before her; and when he, moved by the keenness of her sorrow at his imaginary danger, assured her, in answer to her repeated enquiries, that he was merely affected by the heat; that he had no material complaint, and should be quite well and in his usual spirits when he returned from the excursion he proposed going upon the next day. then, being somewhat appeased, his mother suffered him to retire; and called her counsellor, mr. crofts, to debate whether in such a frame of mind she ought to allow the absence of delamere? crofts advised her by all means to let him go. he suspected indeed that the anonymous letter had occasioned all the wild behaviour he had been witness to, and thought it very likely that delamere might be going to england. but he knew that james crofts and his fair associates were prepared for the completion of their project if he did; and his absence was, on account of crofts' own affairs, particularly desirable. for these reasons, he represented to lady montreville that opposition would only irritate and inflame her son, without inducing him to stay. he departed, therefore, the next morning, without any impediment on the part of his mother; but was yet undecided whither to go. while crofts, no longer thwarted by his observation, or humbled by his haughty disdain, managed matters so well, that in spite of the pride of noble blood, in spite of her reluctance to marry a commoner, he conquered and silenced all the scruples and objections of miss delamere; and a young english clergyman, a friend of his, coming to nice, as both he and crofts declared, _by the meerest accident in the world_, just about that time, crofts obtained her consent to a private marriage; and his friend took especial care that no form might be wanting, to enable him legally to claim his bride, on their return to england. chapter iv emmeline had now been near a month at bath, whence she had not written to delamere. she had seldom done so oftener than once in six or eight weeks; and no reason subsisted at present for a more frequent correspondence. far from having any idea that he would think her temporary removal extraordinary, she had not attempted to conceal it from him; and of his jealousy of fitz-edward she had not the remotest suspicion. for tho' mrs. ashwood's hints, and the behaviour of james crofts, had left no doubt of their ill opinion of her, yet she never supposed them capable of an attempt to impress the same idea on the mind of delamere; and had no notion of the variety of motives which made the whole family of the crofts, with which mrs. ashwood was now connected, solicitous to perpetuate the evil by propagating the scandalous story they had themselves invented. unconscious therefore of the anguish which preyed upon the heart of her unhappy lover, emmeline gave her whole attention to lady adelina, and she saw with infinite concern the encreasing weakness of her frame; with still greater pain she observed, that by suffering her mind to dwell continually on her unhappy situation, it was no longer able to exert the powers it possessed; and that, sunk in hopeless despondence, her intellects were frequently deranged. amid these alienations of reason, she was still gentle, amiable and interesting; and as they were yet short and slight, emmeline flattered herself, that the opiates which her physician (in consequence of the restless and anxious nights lady adelina had for some time passed) found it absolutely necessary to administer, might have partly if not entirely occasioned this alarming symptom. still, however, the busy imagination of emmeline perpetually represented to her impending sorrow, and her terror hourly encreased. she figured to herself the decided phrenzy, or the death of her poor friend; and unable to conquer apprehensions which she was yet compelled to conceal, she lived in a continual effort to appear chearful, and to soothe the wounded mind of the sufferer, by consolatory conversation; while she watched her with an attention so sedulous and so painful, that only the excellence of her heart, which persuaded her she was engaged in a task truly laudable, could have supported her thro' such anxiety and fatigue. she was, however, very desirous that as mr. godolphin was now in england he might be acquainted with his sister's calamitous and precarious situation; and she gently hinted to lady adelina, how great a probability she thought there was, that such a man as her brother was represented to be, would in her sorrow and her suffering forget her error. but by the most distant idea of such an interview, she found lady adelina so violently affected, that she dared not again urge it; and was compelled, in fearful apprehension, to await the hour which would probably give the fair penitent to that grave, where she seemed to wish her disgrace and affliction might be forgotten. to describe the anxiety of emmeline when that period arrived, is impossible; or the mingled emotions of sorrow and satisfaction, pleasure and pity, with which she beheld the lovely and unfortunate infant whose birth she had so long desired, yet so greatly dreaded. lady adelina had, till then, wished to die. she saw her child--and wished to live.--the physical people who attended her, gave hopes that she might.--supported by the tender friendship of emmeline, and animated by maternal fondness, she determined to attempt it. emmeline, now full of apprehension, now indulging feeble hopes, prayed fervently for her recovery; and zealously and indefatigably attended her with more than her former solicitude. for three days, her hopes gradually grew stronger; when on the evening of the third, as she was sitting alone by the side of the bed where lady adelina had fallen into a quiet sleep, she suddenly heard a sort of bustle in the next room; and before she could rise to put an end to it, a gentleman to whom she was a stranger, walked hastily into that where she was. on seeing her, he started and said-- 'i beg your pardon, madam--but i was informed that here i might find lady adelina trelawny.' the name of trelawny, thus suddenly and loudly pronounced, awakened lady adelina. she started up--undrew the curtain--and fixing her eyes with a look of terrified astonishment on the stranger, she exclaimed, faintly--'oh! my brother!--my brother william!' then sunk back on her pillow, to all appearance lifeless. mr. godolphin now springing forward, caught the cold and insensible hand which had opened the curtain; and throwing himself on his knees, cried-- 'adelina! my love! are you ill?--have i then terrified and alarmed you? speak to me--dear adelina--speak to me!' emmeline, whose immediate astonishment at his presence had been lost in terror for his sister, had flown out of the room for the attendants, and now returning, cried-- 'you have killed her, sir!--she is certainly dead!--oh, my god! the sudden alarm, the sudden sight of you, has destroyed her!' 'i am afraid it has!' exclaimed godolphin wildly, and hardly knowing what he said--'i am indeed afraid it has! my poor sister--my unhappy, devoted adelina!--have i then found you only to destroy you? but perhaps,' continued he, after a moment's pause, during which emmeline and the nurse were chafing the hands and temples of the dying patient--'perhaps she may recover. send instantly for advice--run--fly--let me go myself for assistance.' he would now have run out of the room; but emmeline, whose admirable presence of mind this sudden scene of terror had not conquered, stopped him. 'stay, sir,' said she, 'i beseech you, stay. you know not whither to go. i will instantly send those who do.' she then left the room, and ordered a servant to fetch the physician; for she dreaded least mr. godolphin should discover the real name and quality of the patient to those to whom he might apply; and on returning to the bed side, where lady adelina still lay without any signs of existence, and by which her brother still knelt in speechless agony, her fears were again alive, least when the medical gentlemen arrived, his grief and desperation should betray the secret to them. while her first apprehension was for the life of her friend, these secondary considerations were yet extremely alarming--for she knew, that should lady adelina recover, her life would be for ever embittered, if not again endangered, by the discovery which seemed impending and almost inevitable. the women who were about her having now applied every remedy they could think of without success, began loudly to lament themselves. emmeline, commanding her own anguish, besought them to stifle their's, and not to give way to fruitless exclamations while there was yet hope, but to continue their endeavours to recover their lady. then addressing herself to mr. godolphin, she roused him from the stupor of grief in which he had fallen, while he gazed with an impassioned and agonizing look on the pale countenance of his sister. 'pardon me, sir,' said she, 'if i entreat you to go down stairs and await the arrival of the advice i have sent for. should my poor friend recover, your presence may renew and encrease the alarm of her spirits, and embarrass her returning recollection; and should she not recover, you had better hear such mournful tidings in any place rather than this.' 'oh! if i _do_ hear them,' answered he, wildly, 'it matters little where. but i _will_ withdraw, madam, since you seem to desire it.' he had hardly seen emmeline before. he now turned his eyes mournfully upon her--'it is, i presume, miss mowbray,' said he, 'who thus, with an angel's tenderness in an angel's form, would spare the sorrows of a stranger?' emmeline, unable to speak, led the way down to the parlour, and godolphin silently followed her. 'go back,' said he, tremulously, as soon as they reached the room--'go back to my sister; your tender assiduity may do more for her than the people about her. your voice, your looks, will soothe and tranquillize her, should she awaken from her long insensibility. ah! tell her, her brother came only to rescue her from the misery of her unworthy lot--tell her his affection, his brotherly affection, hopes to give her consolation; and restore her--if it may yet be--to her repose. but go, dearest miss mowbray go!--somebody comes in--perhaps the physician.' emmeline now opening the parlour door, found it to be indeed the physician she expected; and with a fearful heart she followed him, informing him, as they went up stairs, that the sudden appearance of mrs. st. laure's brother, whom she had not seen for two or three years, had thrown her into a fainting fit, from which not all their endeavours had recovered her. he remonstrated vehemently against the extreme indiscretion of such an interview. emmeline, who knew not by what strange chain of circumstances it had been brought about, had nothing to reply. so feeble were the appearances of remaining life, that the physician could pronounce nothing certainly in regard to his patient. he gave, however, directions to her attendants; but after every application had been used, all that could be said was, that she was not actually dead. as soon as the physician had written his prescription and retired, emmeline recollected the painful state of suspense in which she had left mr. godolphin, and trying to recover courage to go thro' the painful scene before her, she went down to him. as she opened the door, he met her. 'i have seen the doctor,' said he, in a broken and hurried voice--'and from his account i am convinced adelina is dying.' 'i hope not,' faintly answered emmeline. 'there is yet a possibility, tho' i fear no great probability of her recovery.' 'my adelina!' resumed he, walking about the room--'my adelina! for whose sake i so anxiously wished to return to england--gracious god! i am come too late to assist her! some strange mystery surely hangs over her! long lost to all her friends, i find her here dying! the sight of me, instead of relieving her sorrow seems to have accelerated her dissolution! and you, madam, to whose goodness she appears to be so greatly indebted--may i ask by what fortunate circumstance, lost and obscure as she has been, she has acquired such a friend?' emmeline, shuddering at the apprehension of enquiries she found it impossible to answer, was wholly at a loss how to reply to this. she knew not of what mr. godolphin was informed--of what he was ignorant; and dreaded to say too much, or to be detected in a false representation. she therefore, agitated and hesitating, gravely said-- 'it is not now a time, sir, to ask any thing relative to lady adelina. i am myself too ill to enter into conversation; and wish, as you have been yourself greatly affected, that you would now retire, and endeavour to make yourself as easy as you can. to-morrow may, perhaps, afford us more chearful prospects--or at least this cruel suspense will be over, and the dear sufferer at peace.' she sobbed, and turned away. godolphin rising, said in a faultering voice-- 'yes, i will go! since my stay can only encrease the pain of that generous and sensible heart. i will go--but not to rest!--i cannot rest! but do you try, most amiable creature! to obtain some repose--try, i beseech you, to recover your spirits, which have been so greatly hurried.' he knew not what he said; and was hastening out of the room, when emmeline, recollecting how ardently lady adelina had desired the concealment of her name and family, stopped him as he was quitting her. 'yet one thing, captain godolphin, allow me to entreat of you?' 'what can i refuse you?' answered he, returning. 'only--are you known at bath?' 'probably i may. it is above three years since i was in england, and much longer since i have been here. but undoubtedly some one or other will know me.' 'then do indulge me in one request. see as few people as you can; and if you accidentally meet any of your friends, do not say that lady adelina is here.' 'not meet any one if i can avoid it!--and if i do, not speak of my sister! and why is all this?--why this concealment, this mystery?--why--' emmeline, absolutely overcome, sat down without speaking. godolphin, seeing her uneasiness, said-- 'but i will not distress _you_, madam, by farther questions. your commands shall be sufficient. i will stifle my anxiety and obey you.' then bowing respectfully, he added--'to-morrow, at as early an hour as i dare hope for admittance, i shall be at the door. heaven bless and reward the fair and gentle miss mowbray--and may it have mercy on my poor adelina!'--he sighed deeply, and left the house. lady adelina, tho' not so entirely insensible, was yet but little amended. but as what alteration there was, was for the better, emmeline endeavoured to recall her own agitated and dissipated spirits. the extraordinary scene which had just passed, was still present to her imagination; the last words of godolphin, still vibrated in her ears. 'fair and gentle miss mowbray!' repeated she. 'he knows my name; yet seems ignorant of every thing that relates to his sister!' her astonishment at this circumstance was succeeded by reflecting on the unpleasant task she must have if mr. godolphin should again enquire into her first acquaintance with his sister. to relate to him the melancholy story she had heard, would, she found, be an undertaking to which she was wholly unequal; and she was equally averse to the invention of a plausible falsehood. from this painful apprehension she meditated how to extricate herself; but the longer she thought of it, the more she despaired of it. the terrors of such a conversation hourly augmented; and wholly and for ever to escape from it, she sometimes determined to write. but from executing that design, was withheld by considering that if godolphin was of a fiery and impetuous temper, he would probably, without reflection or delay, fly to vengeance, and precipitate every evil which lady adelina dreaded. after having exhausted every idea on the subject, she could think of nothing on which her imagination could rest, but to send to mrs. stafford, acquaint her with the danger of lady adelina, and conjure her if possible to come to her. this she knew she would do unless some singular circumstance in her own family prevented her attention to her friends. resolved to embrace therefore this hope, she dispatched an hasty billet by an express to woodfield; and then betook herself to a bed on the floor, which she had ordered to be placed by the side of that where lady adelina, in happy tho' dangerous insensibility, still seemed to repose almost in the arms of death. emmeline could not, however, obtain even a momentary forgetfulness. tho' she could not repent her attention to the unhappy lady adelina, she was yet sensible of her indiscretion in having put herself into the situation she was now in; the cruel, unfeeling world would, she feared, condemn her; and of it's reflections she could not think without pain. but her heart, her generous sympathizing heart, more than acquitted--it repaid her. towards the middle of the night, lady adelina, who had made two or three faint efforts to speak, sighed, and again in faint murmurs attempted to explain herself. emmeline started up and eagerly listened; and in a low whisper heard her ask for her child. emmeline ordered it instantly to be brought; and those eyes which had so lately seemed closed for ever, were opened in search of this beloved object: then, as if satisfied in beholding it living and well, they closed again, while she imprinted a kiss on it's little hand. she then asked for emmeline; who, delighted with this apparent amendment, prevailed on her to take what had been ordered for her. she appeared still better in a few moments, but was yet extremely languid. 'i have had a dreadful dream, my emmeline,' said she, at length--'a long and dreadful dream! but it is gone--you are here; my poor little boy too is well; and this alarming vision will i hope haunt me no more.' emmeline, who feared that the dream was indeed a reality, exhorted her to think only of her recovery; of which, added she cheerfully, we have no longer any doubt. 'comfortable and consoling angel!' sighed lady adelina--'your presence is surely safety. do not leave me!' emmeline promised not to quit the room; and elate with hopes of her friend's speedy restoration to health, fell herself into a tranquil and refreshing slumber. on awakening the next morning, she found lady adelina much better; but still, whenever she spoke, dwelling on her supposed dream, and sometimes talking with that incoherence which had for some weeks before so greatly alarmed her. her own dread of meeting godolphin was by no means lessened; and to prevent an immediate interview, she dispatched to him a note. 'sir, 'i am happy in having it in my power to assure you that our dear patient is much better. but as uninterrupted tranquillity is absolutely necessary, that, and other considerations, induce me to beg you will forbear coming hither to day. you may depend on having hourly intelligence, and that we shall be desirous of the pleasure of seeing you when the safety of my friend admits it. i have the honour to be, sir, your most humble servant, emmeline mowbray.' _sept._ , --. to this note, mr. godolphin answered-- 'if miss mowbray will only allow me to wait on her for one moment in the parlour, i will not again trespass on her time till i have her own permission. w. g.' this request, emmeline was obliged, with whatever reluctance, to comply with. she therefore sent a verbal acquiescence; and repaired to the bed-side of lady adelina, who had asked for her. 'will you pardon my folly, my dear emmeline,' said she languidly--'but i cannot be easy till i have told you what a strange idea has seized me. i seemed, last night, i know not at what time, to be suddenly awakened by a voice which loudly repeated the name of trelawny. startled by the sound, i thought i undrew the curtain, and saw my brother william, who stood looking angrily on me. i felt greatly terrified; and growing extremely sick, i lost the vision. but now again it's recollection harrasses my imagination; and the image of my brother, sterner, and with a ruder aspect than he was wont to wear, still seems present before me. oh! he was accustomed to be all goodness and gentleness, and to love his poor adelina. but now he too will throw me from him--he too will detest and despise me--or perhaps,' continued she, after a short pause--'perhaps he is dead. i am not superstitious--but this dream pursues me.' emmeline, who had hoped that the very terror of this sudden interview had obliterated it's remembrance, said every thing she thought likely to quiet her mind, and to persuade her that the uneasy images represented in her imperfect slumbers were merely the effect of her weakness and perturbed spirits. the impression, however, was too strong to be effaced by arguments. it still hung heavy on her heart, irritated the fever which had before been only slight, and deprived her almost entirely of sleep; or if she slept, she again fancied herself awakened by her brother, angrily repeating the name of trelawny. sometimes, starting in terror from these feverish dreams, she called on her brother to pardon and pity her; sometimes in piercing accents deplored his death, and sometimes besought him to spare fitz-edward. these incoherences were particularly distressing; as names were often heard by the attendants which emmeline hoped to have concealed; and it was hardly possible longer to deceive the physician and apothecary who attended her. with an uneasy heart, and a countenance pensively expressive of it's feelings, she went down to receive captain godolphin in the parlour. 'i fear, miss mowbray,' said he, as soon as they were seated, 'you will think me too ready to take advantage of your goodness. but there is that appearance of candour and compassion about you, that i determined rather to trust to your goodness for pardon, than to remain longer in a state of suspense about my sister, which i have already found most insupportable. in the note you honoured me with to day you say she is better. is she then out of danger? has she proper advice?' 'she has the best advice, sir. i cannot, however, say that she is out of danger, but'--she hesitated, and knew not how to proceed. 'but--you hope, rather than believe, she will recover,' cried godolphin eagerly. 'i both hope it and believe it. mr. godolphin, you yesterday did me the honour to suppose i had been fortunate enough to be of some service to lady adelina; suffer me to take advantage of a supposition so flattering, and to claim a sort of right to ask in my turn a favour.' 'surely i shall consider it as an honour to receive, and as happiness to obey, any command of miss mowbray's.' 'promise me then to observe the same silence in regard to your sister as i asked of you last night. trust me with her safety, and believe it will not be neglected. but you must neither speak of her to others, or question me about her.' 'good god! from whence can arise the necessity for these precautions! what dreadful obscurity surrounds her! what am i to fear? what am i to suppose?' 'you will not, then,' said emmeline, gravely--'you will not oblige me, by desisting from all questions 'till this trifling restraint can be taken off?' 'i will, i do promise to be guided wholly by you; and to bear, however difficult it may be, the suspense, the frightful suspense in which i must remain. tell me, however, that adelina is not in immediate danger. but, but' added he, as if recollecting himself, 'may i not apply for information on that head to her physician?' 'not for the world!' answered emmeline, with unguarded quickness--'not for the world!' 'not for the world!'--repeated godolphin, with an accent of astonishment. 'heaven and earth! but i have promised to ask nothing--i must obey--and will now release you, madam.' godolphin then took his leave; and emmeline, whose heart had throbbed violently throughout this dialogue, sat down alone to compose and recollect herself. she saw, that to keep godolphin many days ignorant of the truth would be impossible: and from the eager anxiety of his questions, she feared that all the horrors lady adelina's troubled imagination had represented would be realized--apprehensions, which seemed armed with new terror since she had seen and conversed with this william godolphin, of whose excellent heart and noble spirit she had before heard so much both from lady adelina and fitz-edward, and whose appearance seemed to confirm the favourable impression those accounts had given her. godolphin, who was now about five and twenty, had passed the greatest part of his life at sea. the various climates he had visited had deprived his complexion of much of it's english freshness; but his face was animated by dark eyes full of intelligence and spirit; his hair, generally carelessly dressed, was remarkably fine, and his person tall, light, and graceful, yet so commanding, that whoever saw him immediately and involuntarily felt their admiration mingled with respect. his whole figure was such as brought to the mind ideas of the race of heroes from which he was descended; his voice was particularly grateful to the ear, and his address appeared to emmeline to be a fortunate compound of the insinuating softness of fitz-edward with the fire and vivacity of delamere. of this, however, she could inadequately judge, as he was now under such depression of spirits: and however pleasing he appeared, emmeline, who conceived herself absolutely engaged to delamere, thought of him only as the brother of lady adelina; yet insensibly she felt herself more than ever interested for the event of his hearing how little fitz-edward had deserved the warm friendship he had felt for him. and her thoughts dwelling perpetually on that subject, magnified the painful circumstances of the approaching éclaircissemen; while her fears for lady adelina's life, who continued to languish in a low fever with frequent delirium, so harrassed and oppressed her, that her own health was visibly affected. but without attending to it, she passed all her hours in anxiously watching the turns of lady adelina's disorder; or, when she could for a moment escape, in giving vent to her full heart by weeping over the little infant, whose birth, so similar to her own, seemed to render it to her a more interesting and affecting object. she lamented the evils to which it might be exposed; tho' of a sex which would prevent it's encountering the same species of sorrow as that which had embittered her own life. of her friendless and desolate situation, she was never more sensible than now. she felt herself more unhappy than she had ever yet been; and would probably have sunk under her extreme uneasiness, had not the arrival of mrs. stafford, at the end of three days, relieved her from many of her fears and apprehensions. chapter v mrs. stafford no sooner heard from emmeline that godolphin was yet ignorant of the true reason of lady adelina's concealment, than she saw the necessity of immediately explaining it; and this task, however painful, she without hesitation undertook. he was therefore summoned to their lodgings by a note from emmeline, who on his arrival introduced him to mrs. stafford, and left them together; when, with as much tenderness as possible, and mingling with the mortifying detail many representations of the necessity there was for his conquering his resentment, she at length concluded it; watching anxiously the changes in godolphin's countenance, which sometimes expressed only pity and affection for his sister, sometimes rage and indignation against fitz-edward. both the brothers of lady adelina had been accustomed to consider her with peculiar fondness. the unfortunate circumstance of her losing her mother immediately after her birth, seemed to have given her a melancholy title to their tenderness; and the resemblance she bore to that dear mother, whom they both remembered, and on whose memory their father dwelt with undiminished regret, endeared her to them still more. to these united claims on the heart and the protection of william godolphin, another was added equally forcible, in a letter written by his father with the trembling hand of anxious solicitude, when he felt himself dying, and when, looking back with lingering affection on the children of her whom he hoped soon to rejoin, he saw with anguish his youngest daughter liable from her situation to deviate into indiscretion, and surrounded by the numberless dangers which attend on a young and beautiful woman, whose husband has neither talents to attach her affections or judgment to direct her actions. lord westhaven, conscious of her hazardous circumstances, and feeling in his last moments the keenest anguish, in knowing that his mistaken care had exposed her to them, hoped, by interesting both her brothers to watch over her, that he should obviate the dangers he apprehended. he had therefore, in all their conversations, recommended her to his eldest son; and as he was not happy enough to embrace the younger before he died, had addressed to him a last letter on the same subject. such were the powerful ties that bound mr. godolphin to love and defend lady adelina with more than a brother's fondness. hastening therefore to obey the dying injunctions of his father, and in the hope of rendering the life of this beloved sister, if not happy, at least honourable and contented, he had heard, that she had clandestinely absented herself from her family, and after a long search had found her abandoned to remorse and despair; her reputation blasted; her health ruined; her intellects disordered; and all by the perfidy of a man, in whom he, from long friendship, and his sister, from family connection, had placed unbounded confidence. tho' godolphin had one of the best tempers in the world--a temper which the roughness of those among whom he lived had only served to soften and humanize, and which was immovable by the usual accidents that ruffle others, yet he had also in a great excess all those keen feelings, which fill a heart of extreme sensibility; added to a courage, that in the hour of danger had been proved to be as cool as it was undaunted. of him might be said what was the glorious praise of immortal bayard--that he was '_sans peur et sans reproche_;'[ ] and educated with a high sense of honour himself, as well as possessing a heart calculated to enjoy, and a hand to defend, the unblemished dignity of his family, all his passions were roused and awakened by the injury it had sustained from fitz-edward, and he beheld him as a monster whom it was infamy to forgive. hardly therefore had mrs. stafford concluded her distressing recital, than, as if commanding himself by a violent effort, he thanked her warmly yet incoherently for her unexampled goodness to his sister, recommended her still to her generous care, and the friendship of miss mowbray, and without any threat against fitz-edward, or even a comment on what he had heard, arose to depart. but mrs. stafford, more alarmed by this determined tho' quiet resentment and by the expression of his countenance than if he had burst into exclamations and menaces, perceived that the crisis was now come when he must either be persuaded to conquer his just resentment, or by giving it way destroy, while he attempted to revenge, the fame of his sister. she besought him therefore to sit down a moment; and when he had done so, she told him, that if he really thought himself under any obligations to miss mowbray or to her for the services they had been so fortunate as to render lady adelina, his making all they had been doing ineffectual, would be a most mortifying return; and such must be the case, if he rashly flew to seek vengeance on fitz-edward: 'for that you have such a design,' continued she, 'i have no doubt; allow me, however, to suppose that i have, by doing your sister some good offices, acquired a right to speak of her affairs.' 'surely,' answered mr. godolphin, 'you have; and surely i must hear with respect and attention, tho' possibly not with conviction, every opinion with which you may honour me.' she then represented to him, with all the force of reason, how little he could remedy the evil by hazarding his own life or by taking that of fitz-edward. 'at present,' continued she, 'the secret is known only to me, miss mowbray, and lady adelina's woman; if it is farther exposed, the heirs of mr. trelawny, who are so deeply interested, will undoubtedly take measures to prove that the infant has no just claim to the estate they so eagerly expect. mr. trelawny's sister has already entertained suspicions, which the least additional information would give her grounds to pursue, and the whole affair must then inevitably become public. surely this consideration alone should determine you--why then need i urge others equally evident and equally forcible.' godolphin acknowledged that there was much of truth in the arguments she used; but denied that any consideration should influence him to forgive the man who had thus basely and ungenerously betrayed the confidence of his family. 'however,' added he again, checking the heat into which he feared a longer conversation on this subject might betray him--'i have not yet, madam, absolutely formed the resolution of which you seem so apprehensive; and am indeed too cruelly hurt to be able to talk longer on the subject. suffer me therefore once more to bid you a good day!' but the encreasing gloom of his countenance, and forced calm of his manner, appeared to be symptoms so unfavourable, that mrs. stafford thought there was no hope of being able to prevent an immediate and fatal meeting between him and fitz-edward but by engaging him in a promise at least to delay it; this she attempted by the most earnest arguments, and the most pressing persuasions; but all she could obtain was an assurance that he would remain at bath 'till the next day, and see her again in the evening. in the mean time the delirium of lady adelina, (which had recurred at intervals ever since the transient sight she had of her brother) more frequently, and with more alarming symptoms, returned; and the fever which had at first threatened the loss of her life, now seemed to be fixing on her brain, and to menace, by a total deprivation of reason, reducing her to a condition to which death itself must be preferable. she still, even in her wildest wanderings, knew emmeline, and still caressed her little boy; but much of her time passed in incoherent and rambling discourse; in which she talked of fitz-edward and her brother william, and held with them both imaginary dialogues. sometimes she deprecated the wrath of her elder brother: and then her disordered fancy ran to the younger; to him from whom she had, in her early life, found pity and protection in all her little sorrows. mrs. stafford thought it too hazardous to let her again see her brother, while her intellects were thus disarranged; as she trembled lest she should start into actual madness. but it was absolutely necessary to do something; not only because mr. godolphin's impatience made every delay dangerous, but because it was hardly possible to keep the secret from the physicians and attendants, who had already heard much more than they ought to have known. she determined, therefore, after consulting with emmeline, to introduce godolphin into the room adjoining to that where lady adelina now sat some hours every day in an easy chair. the affecting insanity of his unhappy sister, and the mournful and pathetic entreaties she frequently used, were likely, in the opinion of the fair friends, to effectuate more than their most earnest persuasions; and prevail on him to drop all thoughts of that resentment, which could not cure but might encrease her calamities. mrs. stafford had heard from him, that he gained information as to the place of his sister's residence from the mother of lady adelina's woman; who being the reduced widow of a clergyman, resided in the bishop's alms-houses at bromley, where her daughter frequently sent her such assistance as her own oeconomy, or the bounty of her lady, enabled her to supply. a few weeks before, she had sent her a note for ten pounds; and not apprehending that an enquiry would be made of her, had desired her to acknowledge the receipt of it, and direct to her at bath, where she said her lady was with a miss mowbray. lady clancarryl, among many expedients to recover traces of her sister, had at length recollected this widow, and had desired mr. godolphin to make immediate enquiry of her. he had hastened therefore to bromley, and easily found the poor woman, who was paralytic and almost childish. her letters were read for her by one of her neighbours; a person, who, being present at the arrival of mr. godolphin, immediately found that something was to be got; and busily put into his hands the very letter which had enclosed the note, and which contained the direction. he eagerly copied the address; and leaving a handsome present for the use of the old widow, he delayed not a moment to set out for bath, where he soon found the house, and where he had enquired for lady adelina trelawny. the servant of the house who opened the door assured him no such person was there. he supposed that for some reason or other she was denied; and insisting on being allowed to go up stairs, had entered the room in the abrupt manner which had so greatly alarmed his sister. in hopes of counteracting the fatal effects of the discovery which had unavoidably followed this interview, godolphin was, on his return in the afternoon, introduced into the dining-room, which opened into lady adelina's bed-chamber. the door was a-jar; the partition thin; and mrs. stafford was pretty well assured that the poor patient would be heard distinctly. godolphin came in, pale from the conflict of his mind; and all his features expressed anger and sorrow, with which he seemed vainly struggling. he bowed, and sat down in silence. mrs. stafford only was in the room; and as soon as he was seated, said, in a low voice, yet with forced chearfulness-- 'well, sir, i hope that miss mowbray and myself have prevailed on you to drop at present every other design than the truly generous one of healing the wounded heart of our fair unfortunate friend.' 'and shall he who has wounded it,' slowly and sternly replied godolphin--'shall he who has wounded it so basely, escape me?' at this instant lady adelina, who had been some time silent, exclaimed hastily--'oh! spare him! my dear brother! and spare your poor adelina! who will not trouble--who will not disgrace you long!' 'where is she?' said godolphin, starting--'good god! what is it i hear?' 'your unhappy sister,' answered mrs. stafford; 'whom the idea of your determined vengeance has already driven to distraction.' again lady adelina spoke. her brother listened in breathless anguish. 'ah! william!--and are _you_ grown cruel? you, on whom i depended for pity and protection?' 'surely,' said he, 'surely she knows i am here?' 'no,' answered mrs. stafford, 'she knows nothing. but this fear has incessantly pursued her; and since she saw you she dwells more frequently on it, tho' her erring memory sometimes wanders to other objects.' 'it is very true, my lord!' cried lady adelina, with affected calmness, her thoughts wavering again towards lord westhaven--'it is all very true! i have deserved all your reproaches! i am ready to make all the atonement i can! then you will both of you, my brothers, be satisfied--for william has told me that if i died he should be content, for then all might be forgotten.' she ended with a deep sigh; and godolphin, wildly starting from his seat, said-- 'this is too much! you cannot expect me to bear this!--let me go to her!' 'would you go then,' answered mrs. stafford, 'to confirm her fears and to drive her to deeper desperation? if you see her, it must be to soothe and comfort her; to assure her of your forgiveness, and that you will bury your resentment against----' 'accursed! doubly accursed be the infamous villain who has driven her to this! and must i bear it tamely! oh! injured memory of my father!--oh! my poor, undone sister!' he walked about the room; the tears ran from his eyes; and mrs. stafford, fearing that his hurried step and deep sobs would be heard by lady adelina, determined to bring the scene to a crisis and not to lose the influence she hoped she had gained on his mind. she therefore went into the other room, and shutting the door, advanced with a smile towards the lovely lunatic. 'what will you say, my dear adelina, if i bring you the best news you can possibly hear?' 'news!' repeated lady adelina, looking at her with eyes which too plainly denoted her unsettled mind--'news!--ah! dear madam! i know very well that all the world is happy but me; and if you are happy, i am very glad; but as to _me_--do you indeed think it is reasonable i should part with him?' 'with whom?' said mrs. stafford. 'why, one condition which they insist upon is, that i should give up my poor little one to them, and never ask to see him again. william was the most urgent for this--william, who used to be so good, so gentle, so compassionate to every body! alas! he is now more cruel and relentless than the rest!' 'so far from it,' said mrs. stafford, 'your brother william loves you as much as ever; he will come and tell you so himself if you will only be composed, and talk less strangely.' 'to see _me_!' exclaimed she, as if suddenly recovering her recollection--'oh! when?--where?--how?' but again it forsook her; and she continued-- 'ah! he comes perhaps to tell me of the blood he has spilt, and to load me with reproaches for having obliged him to destroy a friend whom he once loved. if that is indeed so, why let him come and plunge another dagger in this poor heart, which has always loved him!' she was silent a moment, and then languidly went on-- 'i thought some time since that i saw him, and miss mowbray was with him; but it was only a dream, for i know he is in jamaica: and when he _does_ come home, he will harden his heart against me--he will be my judge, and sternly will he judge me--he will forget that he is my brother!' 'never! my poor adelina,' cried godolphin, rushing into the room, 'never can i forget that i am your brother--never can i cease to feel for you compassion and tenderness.' he would have taken her in his arms; but struck by the dreadful alteration that appeared in her face and figure, he stopt short, and looking at her with silent horror, seemed incapable of uttering what he felt. she knew him; but could neither speak or shed a tear for some moments. at length, she held out to him her emaciated hand. 'it is _indeed_ william!' said she. 'he seems, too, very sorry for me. my dear brother, do you then pardon and pity the poor adelina?' 'both! both!' answered godolphin, sobbing, and seating himself by her. he threw his arms round her, and her pale cheek rested on his bosom, while her eyes were fixed on his face. 'stay!' exclaimed she, after a momentary pause, and disengaging herself suddenly from him--'stay! i have yet another question, if i dared ask it! do you know all? and have you no blood to answer for, on my account? will you assure me you will not seek it?' 'for mercy's sake!' said mrs. stafford, 'satisfy her, mr. godolphin--satisfy her at once--you see to what is owing this alienation of her reason.' 'no,' reassumed the afflicted adelina, 'you need not answer me; i see you cannot--will not forgive----' 'name him not, adelina!' sternly and quickly answered he--'my soul recoils at his idea! i cannot, i will not promise any thing!' at this period, emmeline, who was unwilling to trust the servants in such a moment, entered with the infant of lady adelina sleeping in her arms. 'see,' said mrs. stafford, 'a little unfortunate creature, whose innocence must surely plead forcibly to you: he comes to join our intreaties to you to spare his mother!' emmeline laid the infant in the lap of lady adelina, who was yet unable to shed a tear. godolphin beheld it with mingled horror and pity; but the latter sentiment seemed to predominate; and emmeline, whose voice was calculated to go to the heart, began to try it's influence; and imploring him to be calm, and to promise his sister an eternal oblivion of the past, she urged every argument that should convince him of it's necessity, and every motive that could affect his reason or his compassion. he gazed on her with reverence and admiration while she spoke, and seemed greatly affected by what she said. animated by the hope of success, her eyes were lightened up with new brilliancy, and her glowing cheeks and expressive features became more than ever attractive. a convulsive laugh from lady adelina interrupted her, and drew the attention of godolphin entirely to his sister. emmeline, who saw her reason again forsaking her, took the sleeping baby from her lap. she had hardly done so, before, trying to rise from her chair, she shrieked aloud--for again the image of fitz-edward, dying by the hand of her brother, was before her. 'see!' cried she, 'see! there he lies!--he is already expiring! yet william forgives him not! what? would you strike him again? now! while he is dying?--go! cruel, cruel brother!' attempting to put godolphin from her--'go!--oh! touch me not with those polluted hands, they are stained with human blood!' a convulsive shudder and a deep sigh seemed to exhaust all her remaining strength, and she fell back in her chair, pale and faint; and with fixed, unmeaning eyes, appeared no longer conscious even of the terrors which pursued her. but the look of incurable anguish which her features wore; the wild import of her words; and the sight of the unfortunate child, who seemed born only to share her wretchedness; could not long be beheld unmoved by a heart like godolphin's, which possessed all that tenderness that distinguishes the truly brave. again he threw his arms round his sister, and sobbing, said-- 'hear me, adelina--hear me and be tranquil! i will promise to be guided by your excellent friends--i will do nothing that shall give pain to them or to you!' 'thank god!' exclaimed emmeline, 'that you at last hear reason! remember this promise is given to us all.' 'it is,' answered godolphin; 'but try to make poor adelina sensible of it.' she no longer understood any thing; but with her eyes shut, and her hands clasped in each other, was at least quiet. 'i cannot bear it!' continued godolphin--'i must go for a few moments to recover myself!' he then left the room, desiring emmeline to comfort and compose his sister, who soon afterwards asked hastily what was become of him? emmeline, pleased to find she had a clear recollection of his having been with her, now told her that he had most solemnly assured them he would think no more of seeking fitz-edward on account of this unhappy affair. as she seemed still, in fearful apprehension, to doubt the reality of this promise, godolphin, who was only in the next room with mrs. stafford, returned, and assured her of his pity, his forbearance and his forgiveness. after some farther efforts on the part of emmeline, and protestations on that of godolphin, tears, which had been long denied to lady adelina, came to her relief. she wept, caressed her infant, and blessed and thanked her brother and her friends. when capable of recollection, she knew that towards those whom he had once pardoned, he was incapable of reproach or unkindness; and her mind, eased of the fears which had so long harrassed it, seemed to be recovering it's tone. still, however, the sense of her own incurable unhappiness, her own irretrievable unworthiness, and the disgrace of having sullied the honour of her family, and given pain to such a brother, overwhelmed her with grief and confusion; while her reason, as it at intervals returned, served only to shew her the abyss into which she had fallen: and she sometimes even regretted those hours of forgetfulness, when she possessed not the power of steady reflection, and when the sad reality was obliterated by wild and imaginary horrors. [footnote : without fear and without reproach.] chapter vi some few days elapsed before there was any great alteration for the better in lady adelina. but the incessant attention of her friends, the soothing pity of her brother, and the skill of her physician, slowly conquered the lurking fever which had so long hung about her; and her intellects, tho' still disordered at times, were more collected, and gave reason to hope that she would soon entirely recover. in the mean time captain godolphin communicated to mrs. stafford the resolution he had taken about his sister. he said that she should renounce for ever all claim on the trelawny estate, except only the stipend settled on her as a consideration for the fortune she was to receive at the death of the dowager lady westhaven, and which was only three hundred a year; a sum which he thought made her but a paltry and inadequate compensation for having passed two years in the society of such a man as trelawny. he added, that he had a house in the isle of wight (almost all the patrimony his father had been able to give him,) where, as his ship was now out of commission, he proposed residing himself; and whither he should insist upon lady adelina's retiring, without any future attempt to see or correspond with fitz-edward. as to the child, he asked if mrs. stafford would have the goodness to see that it was taken care of at some cottage in her neighbourhood, 'till he could adjust matters with the trelawny family, and put an end to all those fears which might tempt them to enquire into it's birth; after which he said he would take it to his own house, and call it a son of his own; a precaution that would throw an obscurity over the truth which would hardly ever be removed, when none were particularly interested to remove it. these designs he desired mrs. stafford to communicate to lady adelina; and as she was obliged to return home in two days, she took the earliest opportunity of doing so. to the conditions her brother offered, lady adelina thought herself most happy to consent. the little boy was immediately baptized by the name of william godolphin, and his unfortunate mother now began to flatter herself that her disastrous history might be concealed even from her elder brother, lord westhaven; of whose indignation and resentment she had ever the most alarming apprehensions. but while the hope of escaping them by her brother william's generous compassion, gave to her heavy sorrows some alleviation, they were renewed with extreme poignancy, by the approaching separation from her inestimable friends. mrs. stafford could no longer delay her return to her family; and emmeline, who now saw lady adelina out of danger and in the protection of her brother, was desirous of accompanying her back to woodfield. lady adelina ineffectually tried to bear this early departure with some degree of fortitude and resolution. nor was it _her_ heart alone that felt desolate and unhappy at it's approach--that of her brother, had received an impression from the mental and personal perfections of emmeline, which being at first deep, had soon become indelible; and ignorant of her engagement, he had indulged it till he found it no longer possible for him to forbear making her the first object of his life, and that the value of his existence depended wholly on her. emmeline was yet quite unconscious of this: but mrs. stafford had seen it almost from the first moment of her seeing godolphin. in their frequent conversation, she observed that the very name of emmeline had the power of fascination; that he was never weary of hearing her praises; that whenever he thought himself unobserved, his eyes were in pursuit of her; while fondly gazing on her face, he seemed to drink deep draughts of intoxicating passion. mrs. stafford, who knew what ardent and fatal love, such excellence of person and understanding might produce in a heart susceptible of all their power, was alarmed for the happiness of this amiable man; and with regret saw him nourishing an affection which she thought must be entirely hopeless. these apprehensions, every hour's observation encreased. yet mrs. stafford determined not to communicate them to emmeline; but to put an end to the flattering delusion which led on godolphin to indulge his passion, by telling him, as soon as possible, of the engagement emmeline had formed with mr. delamere. accident soon furnished her with an opportunity. while they were all sitting together after dinner, a packet of letters was brought in, and among others which were forwarded to mrs. stafford from woodfield, was one for emmeline. mrs. stafford gave it to her, saying--'from france, by the post mark?' emmeline replied that it was. she changed colour as she opened it. 'from mr. delamere?' enquired mrs. stafford. 'no,' answered she, 'it is from lady westhaven. your brother and her ladyship are well,' continued she, addressing herself to mr. godolphin, 'and are at paris; where they propose staying 'till lady montreville and miss delamere join them as they come to england.' 'and when are they expected?' said godolphin. 'in about a month,' replied emmeline. 'but lord and lady westhaven do not propose to return 'till next spring--they only pass a few days all together at paris.' 'and where is mr. delamere wandering to?' significantly and smilingly asked mrs. stafford. 'lady westhaven says only,' answered emmeline, blushing and casting down her eyes, 'that he has left lady montreville, and is, they believe, gone to geneva.' 'however,' reassumed mrs. stafford, 'we shall undoubtedly see him in england in march.' emmeline, in still greater embarrassment, answered two or three other questions which godolphin asked her about his brother, and soon after left the room. godolphin, who saw there was something relative to delamere with which he was unacquainted, had a confused idea immediately occur to him of his attachment: and the pain it gave him was so acute, that he wished at once to know whether it was well founded. 'why does mr. delamere certainly return in march?' said he, addressing himself to mrs. stafford, 'rather than with his mother?' 'to fulfil his engagement,' gravely and coldly replied she. 'of what nature is it?' asked he. mrs. stafford then related the history of delamere's long and violent passion for emmeline; and the reluctant consent he had wrung from lord and lady montreville, together with the promise obtained from miss mowbray. while mrs. stafford was making this recital, she saw, by the variations of godolphin's countenance, that she had too truly guessed the state of his heart. expressive as his features were, it was not in his power to conceal what he felt in being convinced that he had irrecoverably fixed his affections on a woman who was the destined wife of another: and awaking from the soft visions which hope had offered, to certain despondence, he found himself too cruelly hurt to be able to continue the conversation; and after a few faint efforts, which only betrayed his internal anguish, he hurried away. such, however, was the opinion mrs. stafford conceived of his honour and his understanding, that she had no apprehension that he would attempt imparting to the heart of emmeline any portion of that pain with which his own was penetrated; and she hoped that absence and reflection, together with the conviction of it's being hopeless, would conquer this infant passion before it could gather strength wholly to ruin his repose. she was glad that their departure was so near; and hastened it as much as possible. the short interval was passed in mournful silence on the part of godolphin--on that of lady adelina, in tears and regret; while emmeline, who was herself sensible of great pain in the approaching parting, struggled to appear chearful; and mrs. stafford attempted, tho' without much success, to reconcile them all to a separation which was become as necessary as it was inevitable. at length the hired coach in which they were to return to woodfield was at the door. lady adelina, unable to speak to either of them, brought her little boy in her arms, and passionately kissing him, gave him into those of emmeline. then taking a hand of each of her friends, she pressed them to her throbbing heart, and hastened to conceal the violence of her sorrow in her own room. godolphin approached to take leave. he kissed the hand of mrs. stafford, and inarticulately expressed his thanks for her goodness to his sister. 'i know,' continued he, 'i need not recommend to you this poor infant: the same generosity which prompted you to save his mother, will effectually plead for him, and secure for him your protection 'till i can take him to that of his own family. and you, miss mowbray,' said he, turning to emmeline and taking her hand--'most amiable, loveliest of human creatures! where shall i find words to thank you as i ought?' his emotion was too great for utterance. emmeline felt it but too sensibly; and hastening into the coach to hide how much she was herself affected, she could only say-- 'all happiness attend you, sir! remind lady adelina of my hopes of soon hearing from her.' mrs. stafford being then seated, and the servant who had been hired to attend the infant following her, the coach drove from the door. godolphin pursued it with his eyes to the end of the street; and then, as if deprived of all that made life desirable, he gave himself up to languor and despondence, afraid of examining his own heart, least his reason should condemn an inclination, which, however hopeless, he could not resolve to conquer. but while he found charms in the indulgence of his unhappy love, he determined never to disturb the peace of it's object. but rather to suffer in silence, than to give pain to a heart so generous and sensible as her's, merely for the melancholy pleasure of knowing that she pitied him. as soon as lady adelina could bear the journey, they departed together to his house in the isle of wight; where he left her, and went in search of mrs. bancraft, the sister of trelawny, of whom he enquired where trelawny himself might be found. this woman, apprehensive that he meditated a reconciliation between her brother and his wife, which it was so much her interest to prevent, refused for some time to give him the information he desired. having however at length convinced her that he had no wish to renew a union which had been productive only of misery to his sister, she told him that mr. trelawny was returned to england, and lived at a house hired in the name of her husband, a few miles from london. there godolphin sought him; and found the unhappy man sunk into a state of perpetual and unconscious intoxication; in which bancraft, the husband of his sister, encouraged him, foreseeing that it must soon end in his son's being possessed of an income, to which the meanness of his own origin, and former condition, made him look forward with anxious avidity. it was difficult to make trelawny, sinking into idiotism, comprehend either who godolphin was, or the purport of his business. but bancraft, more alive to his own interest, presently understood, that on condition of his entering into bonds of separation, lady adelina would relinquish the greater part of her claim on the trelawny estate; and he undertook to have the deeds signed as soon as they could be drawn up. in a few days therefore godolphin saw trelawny's part of them compleated; and returned to lady adelina, satisfied in having released her from an engagement, which, since he had seen trelawny, had rendered her in his eyes an object of tenderer pity; and in having acquitted himself according to his strict sense of honour, by causing her to relinquish all the advantages trelawny's fortune offered, except those to which she had an absolute right. this affair being adjusted, he again resigned himself to the mournful but pleasing contemplations which had occupied him ever since he had heard of emmeline's engagement. while lady adelina, whose intellects were now restored, but who was lost in profound melancholy, saw too evidently the state of her brother's heart; and could not but lament that his tenderness for her had been the means of involving him in a passion, which the great merit of it's object, and his own sensibility, convinced her must be incurable. the letters of emmeline were the only consolation she was capable of receiving. they gave her favourable accounts of her child, and of the continued affection of her inestimable friends. whenever one of these letters was brought, godolphin eagerly watched her while she was reading it; and then, faultering and impatient, asked if all were well; and if mr. delamere was yet returned? she sometimes gave him the letters to peruse; after which he generally fell into long absence, broken only by deep drawn and involuntary sighs--symptoms which lady adelina knew too well to doubt of the cause. in the mean time mrs. stafford and emmeline visited every day their innocent charge, who passed for the child of one of emmeline's friends gone to the west indies. emmeline insensibly grew so fond of him, that she was uneasy if any accident prevented her daily visit; and her friend sometimes laughingly reproached her with the robbery little william committed on her time. when they were alone, their conversation frequently turned on lady adelina and her brother. the subject, tho' melancholy, was ever a favourite with them both; and perhaps the more so because it led them to mournful reflections--for mrs. stafford was unhappy, and emmeline was not gay; nor were her spirits greatly heightened by finding that in spite of herself she thought as much of the brother as the sister, and with a degree of softness and complacency which could not be favourable to her happiness. when she first discovered in godolphin those admirable qualities of heart and understanding which he so eminently possessed, she asked herself whether she might indulge the admiration they excited without prejudice to him whom she considered as her husband? and she fancied that she might safely give him that esteem which his tenderness to his unhappy sister, the softness of his manners, the elegance of his mind, and the generosity of his heart, could hardly fail of extorting from the most indifferent observer. but insensibly his idea obtruded itself more frequently on her imagination; and she determined to attempt to forget him, and no longer to allow any partiality to rob delamere of that pure and sincere attachment with which he would expect her to meet him at the altar. it was now long since she had heard from him; but she accounted for it by supposing that he was rambling about, and she knew that letters were frequently lost. it was at this time something more than two years since they had first met at mowbray castle, and in a few weeks delamere would complete his twenty-first year--a period to which lord montreville had long looked forward with anxious solicitude. and now he could not but think with bitterness that his son would not be present to animate the joy of his dependants at this period; but was kept in another country, in the vain hope of extinguishing a passion which could not be indulged without rendering abortive all the pains his lordship had taken to restore his family to the eminent rank it had formerly borne in his country. to sir richard crofts, his sons had communicated the success of those plans, by which they had sown, in the irritable mind of delamere, jealousy and mistrust of emmeline; and he failed not to animate and encourage their endeavours, while he used his power over the mind of lord montreville to limit the bounty and lessen the affection his lordship was disposed to shew her as the daughter of his brother. she received regularly her quarterly payment, but she received no more; and instead of hearing, on those occasions, from lord montreville himself, she had twice only a methodical letter from maddox, the london steward. this might, however, be merely accidental; and emmeline was far from supposing that her uncle was estranged from her; nor could she guess that the malice of mrs. ashwood, and the artifices of the crofts', had occasioned that estrangement. lord montreville rather connived at than participated in their ungenerous proceedings; and as if fearful of trusting his own ideas of integrity with a plan which so evidently militated against them, he was determined to take advantage of their endeavours, without enquiring too minutely into their justice or candour. sir richard had assured him that mr. delamere was in a great measure weaned from his attachment; and that mr. crofts was almost sure, that if their meeting could be prevented for a few months longer, there would be nothing more to fear from this long and unfortunate prepossession. crofts himself, who had at length torn himself from his bride to pave the way for his being received by her family as her husband, soon appeared, and confirmed all this. he told lord montreville that delamere had conceived suspicions of emmeline's conduct, (tho' he knew not from what cause) that had at first excited the most uneasy jealousy, but which had at length subsided with his love; that he had regained his spirits; and, when he left his mother and sister, seemed resolved to make a vigorous effort to expel from his mind a passion he was ashamed of having so long indulged. in saying all this, crofts rather attended to what his lordship wished to hear, than to what was really the truth. he knew that a meeting between delamere and emmeline would probably at once explain all the unworthy artifices which had been used to divide them, and render those artifices abortive. he therefore told lord montreville, that to prevent all probability of a relapse, it would be advisable to remove emmeline to some place where delamere could not meet her: and his lordship, forgetting at once all the obligations he owed her, thought only of following this advice. embarrassed, however, himself with public business, he was unable to give to these domestic politics all the attention which they demanded. he threw himself more than ever into the power of the crofts', to whose policy he left it to contrive the means, between the months of november and march, of raising an invincible barrier between his son and his niece. tho' delamere's being of age encreased the difficulties of this undertaking, crofts having no scruples about the methods he was to pursue, had no doubt of accomplishing his end: and to stimulate his endeavours, he needed only the particular advantages which would accrue to himself from the pardon and reception which he hoped to obtain from lord montreville and his family. every engine therefore that ambition, avarice, malice and cunning could employ, was now put in motion against the character and the peace of the unprotected and unsuspicious emmeline. in conscious innocence and unsullied purity, she dreamed not that she had an enemy on earth; for of mrs. ashwood, now mrs. james crofts, she only remembered that she had once been obliged to her. the little, malicious envy which had given her some pain at the time it was shewn, she now no longer recollected; and tho' she always continued to dislike james crofts, yet his impertinence she had forgiven, and had written in the usual form to congratulate them both on their marriage. of delamere, she heard nothing; but imputing his silence to his frequent change of place, she conceived no anger against him on that account; and still felt herself bound to keep from her mind, as much as possible, the intrusive image of godolphin. chapter vii whatever resolution emmeline might form to drive from her heart those dangerous partialities which would be fatal to her repose, she found it impossible to be accomplished while lady adelina's frequent letters spoke only of the generous tenderness and excellent qualities of her brother. of what else, indeed, could she speak, in a solitude where his goodness made all her consolation and his conversation all her pleasure? where he dedicated to her all his time, and thought of procuring for her every alleviation to her retirement which books and domestic amusements afforded? while he taught her still to respect herself; and by his unwearied friendship convincing her that she had still much to lose, made her life receive in her own eyes a value it would otherwise have lost; and prevented her relapsing into that unhappy state of self-condemnation which makes the sufferer careless of the future. he thought, that situated as she was, solitude was her only choice; but to render it as happy as her circumstances allowed, was his continual care: and tho' oppressive sorrow still lay heavy on her heart; tho' it still ached with tenderness and regret towards an object whom she had sworn to think of, to speak of no more; her gratitude and affection towards her brother were as lively, as if its acute feelings had never felt the benumbing hand of despair. in the total sequestration from the world in which she lived, she had no other topic to dwell upon than her brother, and she gave it all its force. perfectly acquainted, however, with emmeline's engagements, she never ventured to mention the passion which she was too well assured godolphin felt; but she still, almost unknown to herself, cherished a lurking hope that her connection with delamere might be dissolved, and that her lovely friend was destined to bless her beloved brother. this distant hope was warm enough to animate her pen in his praise; and emmeline, tho' every letter she received made on her mind a deeper impression of the merit of godolphin, yet found such painful pleasure in reading them, that she was unhappy if at the usual periods they did not regularly arrive. she tried to persuade herself, that the satisfaction she felt in reading these letters arose purely from the delight natural to every uncorrupted mind in contemplating a character honourable to human nature. but accustomed to examine narrowly her own heart, she could not long impose upon herself; and notwithstanding all her endeavours to stifle it, she still found the idea of godolphin mixing itself with all her thoughts, and embittering the prospect of her certain marriage with delamere. in the answers emmeline gave her friend, she related whatever she thought likely to amuse the fair recluse; gave a regular account of her little charge; but avoided punctiliously the least mention of fitz-edward. fitz-edward had received from mrs. stafford an account of all that had passed at bath, except the pains which had been taken to prevent any meeting between him and godolphin. but notwithstanding her cautious silence on that head, fitz-edward, who knew godolphin well, could hardly be persuaded not to insist on his taking his chance of depriving him of a life which he said he had deserved to lose, and could little brook being supposed to hold on courtesy. nothing but his consideration for the unhappy lady adelina prevented his pursuing the sanguinary projects that agitated his mind. to her peace he owed it to conquer them; and while he was yet struggling against that sense of honour which impelled him to give godolphin imaginary reparation, by allowing him an opportunity of putting an end to _his_ existence or losing his own, his brother, lord clancarryl, wrote to desire his attendance in ireland on some family business of importance; a summons, which after some hesitation, mrs. stafford and miss mowbray prevailed with him to obey. before he went, his eager and affecting entreaties prevailed on mrs. stafford to let him see his son, whom he embraced with an ardour of affection of which the fair friends believed so gay and fashionable a man incapable. the errors of fitz-edward, however, were not those of the heart. among the dissipation of fashion and the indulgences of libertinism, his heart was still sensible, and his integrity retrievable. he felt, therefore, with great keenness, the injury he had done lady adelina; and desirous of making all the reparation he could to the infant, he again placed in the hands of emmeline, a will by which he made it his heir, and recommended it to the protection of godolphin, whom he besought to consider as his nephew, the son of a man whom he had once loved, and who had dearly paid for having forfeited all claim to his friendship. when he was departed, nothing seemed likely to interrupt the tranquillity of emmeline but her encreasing apprehensions for mrs. stafford and her children. the derangement of stafford's affairs, and his wife's unavailing efforts to ward off the ruin which he seemed obstinately bent on incurring, were every day more visible: while his capricious and unreasonable temper, and a strange opinion of his own sagacity, which would never allow him to own himself in the wrong, made him seek to load his wife with the blame of those misfortunes which he had voluntarily sought, and now as obdurately refused to avoid while it was yet in his power. mrs. stafford, who saw too plainly that the destruction of their fortune which she had so long dreaded was now with hasty strides advancing, yet endeavoured to convince him of his infatuation; but he still improved his house and garden, still schemed away all the money he could raise or gain credit for, and still repaid with rudeness and insult her anxious solicitude to save him. in emmeline, she ever found pity and tenderness; but pity and tenderness was all she had to bestow. the affairs of stafford required interest and money; and emmeline could command neither. lord montreville now took no other notice of her, than to remit her quarterly stipend by the hands of his steward; and tho' he had promised to double it, that promise yet remained unfulfilled. it was at this time near the end of november, and the mornings were cold and gloomy: but emmeline, however delicate in her frame, had a constitution which had not, by early and false indulgences, been unfitted for the duties of life; and to personal inconvenience she was always indifferent when the service of those she loved engaged her to brave fatigue or cold. she therefore still continued her morning visit to woodbury forest, where she generally past an hour with little william; and in his improving features and interesting smiles, loved to trace his resemblance to his mother. lady adelina was very like her brother; and the little boy was not the less tenderly caressed for the similitude she saw to them both. the appearance of rain had one morning detained her at home later than usual. she went, however, about eleven o'clock; and was busied in playing with the infant, who began now to know her, and was therefore more attractive, when, while she yet held him in her arms, she heard the woman of the house, who was in the outward room, suddenly exclaim--'indeed sir you cannot go in--pray--i beg your honour!' there was hardly time for emmeline to feel surprise at this bustle, before the door opened, and delamere stood before her! in his countenance was an expression compounded of rage, fierceness and despair, which extorted from emmeline an involuntary shriek! unable to arise, she remained motionless in her chair, clasping the baby to her bosom: delamere seemed trying to stifle his anger in contempt; vengeance, disdain, and pride, were struggling for superiority: while with his eyes sternly turned upon emmeline, and smiling indignantly, he exclaimed--'till i _saw_ this----' inarticulately and tremulously he spoke--'till i _saw_ this, all the evidence they brought me was insufficient to cure my blind attachment. but now--oh! infamy--madness--damnation! it _is_ then possible--it _is_ then true! but what is it to me? torn--torn for ever from this outraged heart--never, never shall this sight blast me again!--but what?' continued he, speaking with more quickness, 'what? for fitz-edward! for the infamous plunderer of his friend's happiness! however, madam, on you i intrude no longer. oh! lost--lost--wretched!'--he could not go on; but in the speechless agony of contending passions he leaned his head against the frame of the door near which he stood, and gazed wildly on emmeline; who, pale as death, and trembling like a leaf, still sat before him unable to recall her scattered spirits. he waited a moment, gasping for breath, and as if he had still some feeble expectation of hearing her speak. but the child which she held in her arms was like a basilisk to his sight, and made in his opinion all vindication impossible. again conviction appeared to drive him to desperation; and looking in a frantic manner round the room, as if entirely bereft of reason, he dashed his hands furiously against his head, and running, or rather flying out of the house, he immediately disappeared. in terror and astonishment, emmeline remained immovable and speechless. she almost doubted whether this was any other than a fearful dream, 'till the woman of the house, and the maid who attended on the child, ran into the room frightened--'lord! madam,' cried the woman, 'what is the matter with the young gentleman?' 'i know not,' answered emmeline, faintly--'i know not! where is he now?' 'he's run away into the wood again like any mad,' answered the woman. 'and from whence,' enquired emmeline, 'did he come?' 'why, miss,' said she, 'i was a going out cross our garden to hang out my cloaths; so up a comes to the hedge side, an a says--good woman, pray be'nt here a lady here as comes from woodfield? one miss mowbray?--i thought how he looked oddish as 'twere about the eyes; but howsever thinking no harm, i says yes. so he runs up to the door, and i called to un, to say as i'd come in and let you know; but before i could get thro' the wicket, whisk he was in the kitchen; then i tried agin to stop un, but i were as good try to stop the wind.' the agitation and uneasiness of emmeline encreased rather than subsided. she looked so pale, and with so much difficulty drew her breath, that the women were alarmed least she should faint: and one of them persuaded her to swallow something, while the other ran out to see if the person who had so terrified her was yet in sight. but no traces of him were visible: and after a few moments, emmeline recalling her presence of mind, and feeling proudly conscious of her own innocence and integrity, recovered in some degree her spirits and resolution. that delamere should be in england did not greatly astonish tho' it grieved her; but that he should have conceived such strange suspicions of her and fitz-edward, equally surprised and distressed her; since, had she an opportunity of undeceiving him, which he did not seem willing to allow her, she could not relate the truth but by betraying the confidence of her unfortunate friend, and embittering that life she had incurred such hazards to preserve. as soon as she had apparently recovered from the shock of this abrupt intrusion, she was desirous of returning to woodfield; anxious to know if delamere had been there, or by what means he had been enabled to find her at the cottage in the forest. the women, who fancied the gentleman they had seen was a lunatic who might lay in wait to hurt her on her way home, would not suffer her to set out 'till they had called a woodcutter from the forest to accompany her. then, slowly and with difficulty, she returned home; where she heard from mrs. stafford that delamere had neither been there or sent thither. this information encreased her wonder and her disquiet. she related to mrs. stafford the distressing interview of the morning; who, having seen frequent instances of those excesses of which delamere was capable, heard the relation with concern and apprehension. chapter viii some days were passed by emmeline in painful conjectures on what measures delamere would take, and in uncertainty what she ought to do herself. sometimes she thought of writing to lord montreville: but against that mrs. stafford remonstrated; representing, that as she was undoubtedly the injured person, in having been insulted by suspicions so unworthy, she should leave it wholly to delamere to discover and recant his error; which, if he refused on cooler reflection to do, she would be fortunate in escaping from an engagement with a man who had so little command of his own temper, so little reliance on her principles, as to be driven on a mere suspicion into rudeness and insult. greatly mortified at finding it possible for delamere to think so injuriously of her, and depressed by a thousand uneasy apprehensions, she yielded implicitly to the counsel of her friend. but of her counsel and consolation she was now on the point of being deprived: stafford, who had been some time in london, sent an express to fetch his wife thither a few days after the interview between emmeline and delamere. his affairs were now growing desperate: james crofts demanded immediate payment of a sum of money belonging to his wife, that was left her by her father, and which she had 'till now suffered to remain in the hands of her brother. stafford had made no provision to pay it: his boundless profusion had dissipated all the ready money he could command; and this claim of his sister's, which james crofts seemed determined to urge, would he knew be the signal for every other creditor to beset him with demands he had no means of discharging. tho' mrs. stafford had long tho' vainly implored him to stop in his wild career, and had represented to him all the evils which were now about to overtake him, she could not see their near approach without an attempt again to rescue him. and he was accustomed in every difficulty to have recourse to her; tho' while he felt none, he scorned and even resented her efforts to keep them at a distance. he now fancied that her application might prevail on james crofts to drop a suit he had commenced against him: she hastily therefore set out for london; leaving to emmeline the care of her children; who promised, by the utmost attention to them, to obviate part of the inconvenience of such a journey. it was unhappily, however, not only inconvenient but fruitless. mr. and mrs. james crofts were inexorable. the suit was tried; stafford was cast; and nothing remained for him but either to pay the money or to be exposed to the hazard of losing his property and his liberty. his conduct had so much injured his credit, that to borrow, it was impossible. mrs. stafford attempted therefore to divest herself of part of her own fortune to assist him with the money: but her trustees were not to be moved; and nothing but despair seemed darkening round the head of the unfortunate stafford. mrs. stafford saw too evidently that to be in the power of james crofts, was to trust to avarice, meanness and malignity; and she trembled to reflect that her husband was now wholly at his mercy. the additional motives he had to use that power rigorously she knew not: she was ignorant that the business had so eagerly been pushed to a crisis, not merely by the avidity of james crofts to possess the money, but also by the directions of sir richard, who hoped by this means to drive the family with whom emmeline resided to another country; where delamere might find access to her so difficult, that he might never have an opportunity of explaining the cause of his estrangement, or of hearing her vindication. it was now that mrs. stafford remembered the frequent offers of service which she had repeatedly received from lord montreville; and to him she determined to apply. she hoped that he might be induced to influence the crofts' family to give mr. stafford time, and to desist from the violence and precipitation with which they pursued him. she even fancied that his lordship would be glad of an opportunity so easily to realize those offers he had so liberally made; and full of these expectations, she prepared to become a solicitress for favours to a statesman. she felt humbled and mortified at the cruel necessity that compelled her to it; but her children's interest conquering her reluctance, she addressed a letter to lord montreville, and received a very polite answer, in which he desired the honour of seeing her at two o'clock the following day; an hour, when he said he should be entirely disengaged. she might as well, however, have attended at his levee; for tho' punctual to the hour when he was to be disengaged, she found two rooms adjoining to that where his lordship was, occupied by a variety of figures; some of whose faces, were faces of negociation and equality, but more, whose expression of fearful suspence marked them for those of petitioners and dependants. those of the former description were separately called to an audience; and each, after a longer or shorter stay, retired; while mrs. stafford, tho' with an heart but ill at ease for observation, could not help fancying she discerned in their looks the success of their respective treaties. as soon as these gentlemen were all departed, mrs. stafford, who had already waited almost three hours, was introduced into the study; where, with many gracious bows and smiling apologies, lord montreville received her. sir richard crofts had that morning warmly represented to his lordship the necessity of the staffords' going abroad and taking emmeline with them. lord montreville knew that delamere was returned, and was embroiled with emmeline; he was therefore eager enough to follow advice which appeared so necessary, and to promote any plan which might prevent a renewal of the attachment. he enquired not into the cause of this estrangement, satisfied with it's effect; and had secretly determined to give mrs. stafford no assistance in the endeavours she was using to keep her family from dispersion and distress. but statesman as he was, he could not entirely forget that he _once_ felt as other men; and he could not hear, without some emotion, the melancholy description that mrs. stafford gave of the impending ruin of her family and all it's fearful consequences: which she did with so much clear simplicity, yet with so much proper dignity, that he found his resolution shaken; and recollecting _that he had a conscience_, was about to ask it by what right he assumed the power of rendering an innocent family wandering exiles, merely to save himself from a supposed possible inconvenience. but while every lingering principle of goodness and generosity was rising in the bosom of his lordship to assist the suit of mrs. stafford, a servant entered hastily and announced the duke of n----. his grace of course waited not in the anti-room, but was immediately introduced. lord montreville then civilly apologized to mrs. stafford for being unable to conclude the business; adding, that if she would see sir richard crofts the next day, he would take care it should be settled to her satisfaction. she withdrew with a heavy heart; and feeling infinite reluctance in the proposed application to sir richard crofts, she employed the whole afternoon in attempting to move, in favour of her husband, some of those friends who had formerly professed the most unbounded and disinterested friendship for him and his family. of many of these, the doors were shut against her; others affected the utmost concern, and lamented that their little power and limited fortunes did not allow them to assist in repairing the misfortunes they deplored: some told her how long they had foreseen mr. stafford's embarrassments, and how destructive building and scheming were to a moderate fortune; while others made vague proffers of inadequate services, which on farther conversation she found they never intended to perform if unluckily she had accepted their offers. in all, she saw too plainly that they looked on mr. stafford's affairs as desperate; and in their coldness and studied civility, already felt all the misery and mortification of reduced circumstances. with encreased anguish, she was now compelled to go, on the following day, to sir richard crofts; whom she knew only from emmeline's description. he also, in imitation of his patron, had his anti-chamber filled with soliciting faces. she waited not quite so long, indeed, for an audience, but with infinitely less patience. at length, however, she was shewn into the apartment where sir richard transacted business. bloated prosperity was in his figure, supercilious scorn in his eyes: he rose half off his seat, and slightly inclined his head on her entrance. 'madam, your servant--please to sit down.' 'i waited on you, sir richard, to--' 'i beg your pardon, madam. but as i am perfectly acquainted, and informed, and aware of the business, there is no occasion or necessity to give you the trouble to repeat, and dwell upon, and explain it. it is not, i find, convenient, or suitable, or commodious, for mr. stafford to pay to my son james, who has married his (mr. stafford's) sister, that part, and proportion, and residue, of her fortune, which her father at his death gave, bequeathed, and left to her.' 'it is not only inconvenient, sir,' answered mrs. stafford, 'but impossible, i fear, for him to do it immediately; and this is what i wished to speak to you upon.' 'i am aware, and informed, and apprized, madam, of what you would say. i am sorry it is as you say so inconvenient, and impracticable, and impossible. however, madam, my way in these cases is to go very plainly, and straitly, and directly to the point; therefore i will chalk out, and describe, and point out to you a line of conduct, which if you chuse to follow, and adopt, and pursue, it appears to me that all may be adjusted, settled, and put to rights.' 'you will oblige me, sir richard, by doing so.' 'well then, it is this--as it appears, and is evident, and visible, that you have not the money in question, you must immediately sell, and dispose of, and make into money, your house and effects in dorsetshire, and after paying, and satisfying, and discharging the debt to my son james, you must (as i understand your husband is besides deeply in debt,) withdraw, retire, and remove to france, or to normandy, or switzerland, or some cheap country, 'till your affairs come round, and are retrieved, and accommodated and adjusted.' 'this we might have done, sir richard, without troubling you with the present application.' 'no, madam, you might _not_. i assure you i have talked, and reasoned, and argued some time with mr. james crofts, before i could induce, and prevail upon, and dispose him to wait, and remain, and continue unpaid, until this arrangement and disposition could take place. he wants the money, madam, for a particular purpose; and tho' from my heart i grieve, and lament, and deplore the necessity of the measure, i do assure you, madam, nothing else will give you any chance of winding up, compleating, and terminating the business before us. you will therefore, madam, think, and consider, and reflect on it's necessity, and give your final answer to my son james, who will wait for it only 'till to-morrow morning.' he then rang his bell; and saying he had an appointment with lord montreville, who must already have waited for him, he made a cold bow and hastened out of the room. chapter ix mrs. stafford now saw that nothing remained but to follow her husband to a prison, or prevail on him to go to the continent while she attempted anew to settle his affairs. obstinate even in despair, she had the utmost difficulty to convince him of the necessity of this measure; and would never, perhaps, have done it, if the more persuasive argument of a writ, taken out by james crofts, had not driven him to embrace it rather than go into confinement. mrs. stafford with difficulty procured money to furnish him for his journey, and saw him depart for dover; while she herself returned to emmeline, who had passed the three weeks of her absence in great uneasiness. no news had been received of delamere; and she now believed, that of the promise he had forced from her he meant not to avail himself; yet did not relinquish it; but in proud and sullen resentment, disdained even to enquire whether he had justly harboured anger against her. she wished to have withdrawn a promise she could no longer think of without pain and regret; but she found mrs. stafford so unhappy, that she could not resolve to oppress her by complaints; and after some struggles with herself, determined to let the matter take it's course. willingly, however, she consented to accompany her friend to france; where mrs. stafford, at her husband's request, now determined to go with her family. she had found an opulent tradesman in a neighbouring town, who engaged, on receiving a mortgage on the estate, and ten per cent. interest, (which he so managed as to evade the appearance of usury,) to let her have the money to pay mr. crofts, and a farther sum for the support of her family: and having got a tenant for the house, and satisfied as many of the clamorous creditors as she could, she prepared, with a heavy heart, to quit her abode, with emmeline and her infant family. as it was necessary that little william should be sent to the isle of wight before their departure, emmeline wrote to fix a day at the distance of a month, on which she desired lady adelina to send some careful person for him. but ten days before the expiration of that period, letters came from mr. stafford, in which he directed his wife, who intended to embark at brighthelmstone and land at dieppe, to change her route, and sail from southampton to havre. he also desired her to hasten her journey: and as every thing was now put on the best footing the time would allow, mrs. stafford immediately complied; and with her own unfortunate family, emmeline, and little william, (whom they now meant to carry themselves to lady adelina) they left woodfield. the pain of quitting, probably for ever, a favourite abode, which she feared would at length be torn from her children by the rapacity of the law, and the fatigue of travelling with infant children, under such circumstances, almost overcame the resolution and spirits of mrs. stafford. emmeline, ever reasonable, gentle, and consoling, was her principal support; and on the evening of the second day they arrived at southampton. while emmeline almost forgot in her attention to her friend her own uncertain and unpleasant state, delamere remained in norfolk, where he had hid himself from the enquiries of his father, and from the importunities of his mother, who was now, with her eldest daughter, settled again in berkley square. here he nourished inveterate resentment against fitz-edward: and finding it impossible to forget emmeline, he continued to think of her as much as ever, but with indignation, jealousy and rage. he had, immediately on receiving, as he believed, a confirmation of all those suspicions with which the crofts' had so artfully inspired him, resolved to demand satisfaction of fitz-edward; and hearing on enquiry that he was in ireland, but his return immediately expected, he waited with eager and restless uneasiness till the person whom he had commissioned to inform him of his return should send notice that he was again in london. week after week, however, passed away. he still heard, that tho' expected hourly, fitz-edward arrived not. time, far from softening the asperity with which his thoughts dwelt on this supposed rival, seemed only to irritate and inflame his resentment; and ingenious in tormenting himself, he now added new anguish to that which corroded his heart, by supposing that emmeline, aware of the danger which threatened her lover from the vengeance of his injured friend, had written to him to prevent his return. this idea was confirmed, when the agent whom he employed to watch the return of fitz-edward at length informed him that he had obtained leave of absence from his regiment, now in england, and was to pass the remainder of the winter with lord and lady clancarryl. the fury of his passions seemed to be suspended, while with gloomy satisfaction he looked forward to a speedy retribution: but now, when no immediate prospect offered of meeting the author of his calamities, they tormented him with new violence. emmeline and fitz-edward haunted his dreams; emmeline and fitz-edward were ever present to his imagination; he figured to himself his happy rival possessed of the tenderness and attachment of that gentle and sensible heart. the anguish these images inflicted affected his health; and while every day, as it passed, brought nothing to alleviate his despair, he became more and more convinced that the happiness of his life was blasted for ever; and growing impatient of life itself, determined to go to ireland and insist on an opportunity of losing it, or of taking that of the man who had made it an insupportable burthen. he set out therefore, attended only by millefleur, and gave lord montreville no notice of his intention 'till he reached holyhead; from thence he wrote to his lordship to say that he had received an invitation to visit some friends at dublin, and that he should continue about a month in ireland. his pride prompted him to do this; least his father, on hearing of his absence, should suppose that he was weak enough to seek a reconciliation with emmeline, whose name he now never mentioned, being persuaded that his lordship knew how ill she had repaid an affection, which, tho' he could not divest himself of, he was now ashamed to acknowledge. lord montreville, happy to find he had really quitted her, was extremely glad of this seasonable journey; which, as the crofts' assured him emmeline was on the point of leaving england, would, he thought, prevent his enquiring whither she was gone, and by introducing him into a new set of acquaintance, turn his thoughts to other objects and perfect his cure. while delamere then was travelling to ireland in pursuit of fitz-edward, mrs. stafford and emmeline left southampton on a visit to lady adelina in the isle of wight; being desirous of delivering little william into the arms of his mother and his uncle. tho' it was now almost the end of january, they embarked in an open boat, with the servant who waited on the child; but being detained 'till almost noon on account of the tide, it was evening before they reached a village on the shore, three miles beyond cowes, where they were to land. on arriving there, they found that the house of captain godolphin was situated two miles farther. mrs. stafford, ever attentive and considerate, was afraid that the sight of the child so unexpectedly, might overpower the spirits of lady adelina, and cause speculation among the servants which it was absolutely necessary to avoid. emmeline therefore undertook to walk forward, attended by a boy in the village, who was to shew her the way, and apprize lady adelina of the visitor she was to expect. pleasure, in spite of herself, glowed in her bosom at the idea of again meeting godolphin; tho' she knew not that he had conceived for her the most pure and ardent passion that was ever inspired by a lovely and deserving object. he had long since found that his heart was irrecoverably gone. but tho' he struggled not against his passion, he loved too truly to indulge it at the expence of emmeline; and had therefore determined to avoid her, and not to embitter _her_ life with the painful conviction that their acquaintance had destroyed the happiness of _his_. for this reason he did not intend going himself to fetch his nephew from woodbury forest, but had given a careful servant directions to go thither in a few days after that when emmeline herself prevented the necessity of the journey. her walk lay along the high rocks that bounded the coast; and it was almost dark before she entered a small lawn surrounded with a plantation, in which the house of godolphin was situated. about half an acre of ground lay between it and the cliff, which was beat by the swelling waves of the channel. the ground on the other side rose more suddenly; and a wood which covered the hill behind it, seemed to embosom the house, and take off that look of bleakness and desolation which often renders a situation so near the sea unpleasant except in the warmest months of summer. a sand walk lead round the lawn. emmeline followed it, and it brought her close to the windows of a parlour. they were still open; she looked in; and saw, by the light of the fire, for there were no candles in the room, godolphin sitting alone. he leaned on a book, which there was not light enough to read; scattered papers lay round him, and a pen and ink were on the table. emmeline could not forbear looking at him a moment before she approached the door. she could as little command her curiosity to know on what he was thus deeply thinking. the boy who was with her ran round to the kitchen, and sent up a servant to open the door; who immediately throwing open that of the parlour, said--'a lady, sir!' godolphin starting from his reverie, arose, and unexpectedly beheld the subject of it. his astonishment at this visit, was such as hardly left him the power to express the pleasure with which that astonishment was mingled. 'miss mowbray!' exclaimed he--'is it indeed miss mowbray?' for a moment he surveyed her in silent extasy, then congratulated himself upon his unhoped for good fortune; and answering her enquiries about lady adelina, he suddenly seemed to recollect the papers which lay on the table, hurried them into a drawer, and again returning to emmeline, told her how happy he was to see her look so well. he thought indeed that he had never seen her so infinitely lovely. the sharpness of the air during her walk had heightened the glow of her complexion; her eyes betrayed, by their soft and timid glances, the partiality of which she was hardly yet conscious; she trembled, without knowing why; and could hardly recover her composure, while godolphin, who would trust no other person to deliver the message, ran eagerly up stairs to acquaint lady adelina. 'my sister,' cried he, immediately returning, 'will be with you instantly; a slight pain in her head has kept her on the bed almost all day. but to what do we owe the happiness of seeing you here, when we thought you on the point of sailing for france by another route?' emmeline then hastily explained the change in their plan; adding, gravely--'you will have another visitor, who cannot fail of being welcome both to you and lady adelina. mrs. stafford stays with him at the village, while she desired me to come on to prepare you for his reception, and to know how you will have him introduced?' 'as _my_ child,' answered godolphin. 'my servants are already prepared to expect such an addition to my family. ever amiable, ever lovely miss mowbray!' continued he, with looks that encreased her confusion--'what obligation does not our little boy--do we not all owe you?' at this moment lady adelina, who had been obliged to wait some moments to recover herself from the joyful surprise into which the news of emmeline's arrival had thrown her, ran into the room, and embracing with transport her lovely friend, sighed; but unable to weep, sat down, and could only kiss her hands with such wild expressions of rapture, that emmeline was alarmed least it should have any ill effect on her intellects, or on a frame ever extremely delicate; and which now had, from her having long indulged incurable sorrow, assumed an appearance of such languor and weakness, that emmeline with extreme concern looked on her as on a beautiful shadow whom she probably beheld for the last time. she stood a moment pensively gazing on her face. godolphin said gently to his sister, who still held the hand of emmeline--'adelina, my love, recollect yourself--you keep miss mowbray standing.' 'what is yet more material,' answered emmeline, smiling, is, 'that you keep me from writing a note to mrs. stafford, which the boy who waits here is to take back to her.' godolphin answered that he would go himself to mrs. stafford, and instantly departed; while emmeline began to talk to lady adelina of the immediate arrival of her child. she at length succeeded in getting her to speak of him, and to weep extremely; after which, she grew more composed, and her full heart seemed relieved by talking of her brother. her words, tho' faint, and broken by the emotion she felt, yet forcibly conveyed to the heart of emmeline impressions of that uncommon worth they described. 'never,' said she, 'can i be sufficiently grateful to heaven for having given me such a brother. 'tis not in words, my emmeline, to do him justice! he is all that is noble minded and generous. tho' from the loss of his vivacity and charming spirits, i know too well how deeply my unworthy conduct has wounded him; tho' i know, that by having sullied the fair name of our family, and otherwise, i have been the unhappy cause of injuring his peace, yet never has a reproach or an unkind word escaped him. pensive, yet always kind; melancholy, and at times visibly unhappy; yet ever gentle, considerate, and attentive to me; always ready to blame himself for yielding to that despondence which he cannot without an effort conquer; trying to alleviate the anguish of my mind by subduing that which frequently preys on his own; and now burying the memory of my fault in compassion to my affliction, he adopts my child, and allows me without a blush to embrace the dear infant, for whom i dare not otherwise shew the tenderness i feel.' emmeline, affected by this eulogium, to which her heart warmly assented, was silent. 'there is,' reassumed lady adelina, 'but one being on earth who resembles him:--it is my emmeline! if ever two creatures eminently excelled the rest of their species, it is my friend and my brother!' something throbbed at the heart of emmeline at these words, into which she was afraid to enquire: her engagement to delamere, yet uncancelled, lay like a weight upon it; and seemed to impress the idea of her doing wrong while she thus listened to the praises of another; and felt that she listened with too much pleasure! she asked herself, however, whether it was possible to be insensible of the merit of godolphin? yet conscious that she had already thought of it too much, she wished to change the topic of discourse--but lady adelina still pursued it. 'lord westhaven,' said she, 'my elder brother, is indeed a most respectable and excellent man. equally with my brother william, he inherits from my father, integrity, generosity and nobleness of mind, together with a regularity of morals and conduct, unusual in so young a man even in any rank of life, and remarkable in him, who has passed almost all his in the army. but he is, tho' not yet thirty, much older than i am, and has almost always been absent from me; those who know him better, have told me, that with as many other good qualities as william, he has less softness of temper; and being almost free from error himself, makes less allowance for the weakness of others. such, however, has been the management of my younger brother, that the elder knows not the truth of my circumstances--he does not even suspect them. you may very possibly see him and lady westhaven abroad. i know i need not caution my emmeline--she will be careful of the peace of her poor friend.' emmeline soon satisfied lady adelina on that head, who then asked when she heard of delamere? this question emmeline had foreseen: but having predetermined not to distress her unfortunate friend, by telling her into what difficulties her attendance on her and her child had led her, and being shocked to own herself the subject of suspicions so injurious as those delamere had dared to harbour, she calmly answered that delamere was returned to england, but that she had seen him only for a few moments. 'and did he not object,' enquired lady adelina, 'to your quitting england, since he is himself returned to it?' emmeline, who could not directly answer this question, evaded it by saying-- 'my absence or my presence you know cannot hasten the period, 'till the arrival of which our marriage cannot take place--_if_ it ever takes place at all.' '_if_ it ever takes place at all?' repeated lady adelina--'does then any doubt remain of it?' 'an affair of that sort,' replied emmeline, assuming as much unconcern as she could, 'is always doubtful where so many clashing interests and opposite wishes are to be reconciled, and where so very young a man as mr. delamere is to decide.' 'do you suspect that he wavers then?' very earnestly asked lady adelina, fixing her eyes on the blushing face of emmeline. 'i really am not sure,' answered she--'you know my promise, reluctantly given, was only conditional. i am far from being anxious to anticipate by firmer engagements the certainty of it's being fulfilled; much better contented i should be, if he yet took a few years longer to consider of it. you, lady adelina,' continued she, smiling, 'are surely no advocate for early marriages; and mrs. stafford is greatly averse to them. you must therefore suppose that what my two friends have found inimical to their happiness, i cannot consider as being likely to constitute mine.' this speech had the effect emmeline intended. it brought back the thoughts of lady adelina from the uncertainties of her friend to her own actual sorrows. she sighed deeply. 'you say truly,' said she. '_i_ have no reason to wish those i love may precipitately form indissoluble engagements; nor _do_ i wish it. would to god _i_ had not been the victim of an hasty and unhappy marriage; or that i had been the _only_ victim. emmeline,' added she, lowering her voice, now hardly audible, 'emmeline, _may_ i ask?--where is--spare me the repetition of a name i have solemnly vowed never to utter--you understand me?' 'i do,' answered emmeline, gravely. 'he has been in ireland; but is now i suppose in london, as the time he told me he should pass there has long since elapsed. i heard he was to return no more to tylehurst, and that mr. delamere had given up the house there; but of this i know nothing from themselves. the person you enquire after, i have seen only once, and that for half an hour. mrs. stafford can tell you more, if you wish to hear it.' 'ah! pardon my wretched weakness, emmeline! i know i ought to conquer it! but i cannot help wishing--i cannot help being anxious to hear of him! yet would i conceal from every one but you that the recollection of this unhappy man never a moment leaves me. tell me, my angelic friend! for of you i may ask and be forgiven--has he seen his son?' 'he has; and was extremely affected. but dear lady adelina, do not, i beseech you, enquire into the particulars of the interview. try, my beloved friend, to divest yourself of these painful recollections--ah! try to recover your peace, and preserve your life, for the sake of our dear little william and those friends who love you.' the unhappy adelina, who notwithstanding all her efforts, was devoured by an incurable affection for a man whom she had sworn to banish from her heart for ever, and whose name her brother would not suffer her to pronounce, now gave way to an agony of passion which she could indulge only before emmeline; and so violently was she affected by regret and despair, that her friend trembled least her reason should again forsake it's seat. she tried, by soothing and tenderness, to appease this sudden effusion of grief; and had hardly restored her to some degree of composure, before mrs. stafford entered the room and embraced most cordially lady adelina, while godolphin followed her with the little boy in his arms. in contemplating the beauty of his nephew, he had forgotten the misery of which his birth had been the occasion; for with all the humanity of a brave man, godolphin possessed a softness of heart, which the helpless innocence of the son, and the repentant sorrow of the mother, melted into more than feminine tenderness. he carried the child to his sister, and put it into her arms-- 'take him, my adelina!' said he--'take our dear boy: and while you embrace and bless him, you will feel all you owe to those who have preserved him.' lady adelina did indeed feel such complicated sensations that she was unable to utter a word. she could only press the little boy to her heart and bedew his face with tears. her affecting silence and pale countenance alarmed both mrs. stafford and emmeline; and the former, willing to give her thoughts a new turn, said-- 'you do not suppose, my dear friends, that we intend to go back to southampton to night? so i hope you will give us some supper and beds in this hospitable island.' godolphin, who had been too much enchanted to think before, immediately saw that the meaning of mrs. stafford's solicitude was merely to call the thoughts of his sister from herself to her guests; he seconded therefore this intention, by desiring lady adelina to give proper orders about the apartments for her friends; and to take _his_ little boy to that which had been prepared for his reception. the three ladies therefore withdrew with the child; where lady adelina soon recovered some degree of serenity, and was able to sit at table while they supped. had mrs. stafford been before unsuspicious of the passion of godolphin for emmeline, she would have been convinced of it during the course of this evening. his voice, his countenance, his manner, evidently betrayed it; and whenever the eyes of emmeline were turned to any other object, his were fixed on her face, with looks so expressive of tender admiration, yet tempered by a kind of hopeless dejection, that the most uninterested observer could hardly have mistaken his thoughts. but it was not her face, however interesting; or her form, however graceful; that rivetted the chains of godolphin. he had seen many faces more regularly beautiful, and many figures equally elegant, with indifference: he had heard, with coldness, the finest sentiments uttered by the fairest mouths; and had listened to the brilliant sallies of fashionable wit, with contempt. in emmeline, he discovered a native dignity of soul, an enlarged and generous heart, a comprehensive and cultivated understanding, a temper at once soft and lively, with morals the most pure, and manners simple, undesigning and ingenuous. to these solid perfections, genius had added all the lighter graces; and nature, a form which, enchanting as it must ever have been, seemed to receive irresistible charms from the soul by which it was informed. all his philosophy could not prevent his being sensible of the attractions of such a woman; nor was his resolution sufficiently strong to enable him to struggle against their influence, even when he found he had nothing to hope. but yielding to the painful delight of loving her, he persuaded himself that tho' he could not conquer he could conceal it; and that while she was ignorant of his passion it could be injurious only to himself. his absence and silence during supper was broken only by his natural politeness. after it concluded, they drew round the fire; and the three ladies entered into one of those interesting conversations that are so pleasant where mutual confidence and esteem reign among the party. godolphin continued silent; and insensibly fell into a train of thought the most dangerous to that appearance of indifference which he believed he could observe. looking at emmeline as she talked to his sister, and remembering all the friendship she had shewn her, hearing the sound of her voice and the elegance of her expressions, he began insensibly to consider how blessed he _might_ have been, had he known her before her hand was promised and her affections given to the fortunate delamere. 'had it but been _my_ lot!' said he to himself--'had it been _my_ lot!--ah, what happiness, after the fatigues and dangers of my profession, to return to this place which i love so much, and to be received by such a friend--such a mistress--such a wife as she will make!' he indulged these ideas, 'till absolutely lost in them, he was unconscious of every thing but their impression, and starting up, he struck his hands together and cried-- 'merciful heaven!--and can it then never be?' alarmed at the suddenness of an exclamation so causeless, lady adelina looked terrified and her friends amazed. 'what, brother?--what are you speaking of?' enquired she. 'i beg your pardon,' said godolphin, instantly recollecting himself, and blushing for this unguarded sally--'i beg your pardon. i was thinking of some business i have to settle; but i do not deserve to be forgiven for suffering my mind in such company to dwell on any thing but the pleasure i enjoy; and for yielding to a foolish custom i have acquired of uttering aloud whatever is immediately in my mind; an habit,' added he, smiling, 'that has grown upon me by living so much alone. since lady adelina is now fixed with me, i hope i shall cease to speak and think like an hermit, and be again humanized. adelina, my love, you look fatigued.' 'ah!' replied she, 'of what fatigue can i be sensible when with those who i most love and value; and from whom, to-morrow--to-morrow i must part!' 'i doubt that extremely,' said godolphin, trying to carry the conversation entirely from his own strange behaviour. 'if i have any skill in the weather, to-morrow will bring a gale of wind, which will opportunely make prisoners of our two fair friends for another day.' 'how infinitely,' cried lady adelina, 'shall i be obliged to it.' the rising of the wind during the whole evening had made godolphin's conjecture highly probable. mrs. stafford, impatient to return to her children, whom she never willingly left wholly in the care of servants, heard it's encreasing violence with regret. emmeline tried to do so too; but she could not prevail on herself to lament a circumstance likely to keep her another day with lady adelina and her little boy. she wanted too to see a little of this beautiful island, of which she had heard so much; and found several other reasons for wishing to remain, without allowing herself to suppose that godolphin had on these wishes the smallest influence. chapter x early the next morning, emmeline arose; and looking towards the sea, saw a still encreasing tempest gathering visibly over it. she wandered over the house; which tho' not large was chearful and elegant, and she fancied every thing in it bore testimony to the taste and temper of its master. the garden charmed her still more; surrounded by copse-wood and ever-greens, and which seemed equally adapted to use and pleasure. the country behind it, tho' divested of its foliage and verdure, appeared more beautiful than any she had seen since she left wales; and with uncommon avidity she enjoyed, even amid the heavy gloom of an impending storm, the great and magnificent spectacle afforded by the sea. by reminding her of her early pleasures at mowbray castle, it brought back a thousand half-obliterated and agreeable, tho' melancholy images to her mind; while its grandeur gratified her taste for the sublime. as she was indulging these contemplations, the wind suddenly blew with astonishing violence; and before mrs. stafford arose, the sea was become so tempestuous and impracticable, that eagerly as she wished to return to her children she could not think of braving it. godolphin had seen emmeline wandering along the cliff, and had resolutely denied himself the pleasure of joining her; for from what had passed the evening before, he began to doubt his own power to forbear speaking to her of the subject that filled his heart. they now met at breakfast; and emmeline was charmed with her walk, tho' she had been driven from it by the turbulence of the weather, which by this time had arisen to an hurricane. when their breakfast ended, mrs. stafford followed lady adelina, who wanted to consult her on something that related to the little boy; godolphin went out to give some orders; and emmeline retired to a bow window which looked towards the sea. could she have divested her mind of its apprehensions that what formed for her a magnificent and sublime scene brought shipwreck and destruction to many others, she would have been highly pleased with a sight of the ocean in its present tremendous state. lost in contemplating the awful spectacle, she did not see or hear godolphin; who imagining she had left the room with his sister, had returned, and with his arms crossed, and his eyes fixed on her face, stood on the other side of the window like a statue. the gust grew more vehement, and deafened her with it's fury; while the mountainous waves it had raised, burst thundering against the rocks and seemed to shake their very foundation. emmeline, at the picture her imagination drew of their united powers of desolation, shuddered involuntarily and sighed. 'what disturbs miss mowbray?' said godolphin. emmeline, unwilling to acknowledge that she had been so extremely absent as not to know he was in the room, answered, without expressing her surprise to see him there--'i was thinking how fatal this storm which we are contemplating, may be to the fortunes and probably the lives of thousands.' 'the gale,' returned godolphin, 'is heavy, but by no means of such fatal power as you apprehend. i have been at sea in several infinitely more violent, and shall probably be in many others.' 'i hope not,' answered emmeline, without knowing what she said--'surely you do not mean it?' 'a professional man,' said he, smiling, and flattered by the eagerness with which she spoke, 'has, you know, no will of his own. i certainly should not seek danger; but it is not possible in such service as ours to avoid it.' 'why then do you not quit it?' 'if i intended to give you a high idea of my _prudence_, i should say, because i am a younger brother. but to speak honestly, that is not my only motive; my fortune, limited as it is, is enough for all my wishes, and will probably suffice for any i shall _now_ ever form; but a man of my age ought not surely to waste in torpid idleness, or trifling dissipation, time that may be usefully employed. besides, i love the profession to which i have been brought up, and, by engaging in which, i owe a life to my country if ever it should be called for.' 'god forbid it ever should!' said emmeline, with quickness; 'for then,' continued she, hesitating and blushing, 'what would poor lady adelina do? and what would become of my dear little boy?' godolphin, charmed yet pained by this artless expression of sensibility, and thrown almost off his guard by the idea of not being wholly indifferent to her, answered mournfully--'to them, indeed, my life may be of some value; but to myself it is of none. ah, miss mowbray! it might have been worth preserving had i----but wherefore presume i to trouble you on a subject so hopeless? i know not what has tempted me to intrude on your thoughts the incoherences of a mind ill at ease. pardon me--and suffer not my folly to deprive me of the happiness of being your friend, which is all i will ever pretend to.' he turned away, and hastened out of the room; leaving emmeline in such confusion that it was not 'till mrs. stafford came to call her to lady adelina's dressing-room, that she remembered where she was, and the necessity of recollecting her scattered thoughts. when they met at dinner, she could not encounter the eyes of godolphin without the deepest blushes: lady adelina, given wholly up to the idea of their approaching separation, and mrs. stafford, occupied by uneasiness of her own, did not attend to the singularity of her manner. the latter had never beheld such a tempest as was now raging; and she could not look towards the sea, whose high and foaming billows were breaking so near them, without shivering at the terrifying recollection, that in a very few hours her children, all she held dear on earth, would be exposed to this capricious and furious element. tho' of the steadiest resolution in any trial that merely regarded herself, she was a coward when these dear objects of her fondness were in question; and she could not help expressing to mr. godolphin some part of her apprehensions. 'as i have gained some credit,' answered he, 'for my sagacity in foreseeing the gale, i might perhaps as well not hazard the loss of it, by another prophecy, for which you, lady adelina, will not thank me.--it will be fine, i am afraid, to-morrow.' 'and the day following we embark for france,' said mrs. stafford; 'how providential that we could not sail yesterday!' 'your heart fails you, my dear mrs. stafford,' replied godolphin, 'and i do not wonder at it. but i will tell you what you shall allow me to do: i will attend you to-morrow to southampton, where in the character of a veteran seaman i will direct your departure, (as the whole pacquet is yours) according to the appearance of the weather; and to indulge me still farther, you shall suffer me to see you landed at havre. adelina, i know, will be wretched 'till she hears you are safe on the other side; and will therefore willingly spare me to bring her such intelligence; and give me at the same time a fortunate opportunity of being useful to you.' mrs. stafford, secretly rejoiced at a proposal which would secure them a protector and as much safety as depended on human skill, could not conceal her wish to assent to it; tho' she expressed great reluctance to give him so much trouble. godolphin then consulted the eyes of emmeline, which on meeting his were cast down; but he could not find that they expressed any displeasure at his offer: he therefore assured mrs. stafford that he should consider it as a pleasurable scheme with a party to whom he was indifferent; 'but when,' added he, 'it gives me the means of being of the least use to you, to miss mowbray, and your children, i shall find in it not only pleasure but happiness. alas! how poorly it will repay the twentieth part of the obligation we owe you!' it was settled therefore that mr. godolphin was to cross the channel with them. again emmeline tried to be sorry, and again found herself incapable of feeling any thing but satisfaction in hearing that he would be yet longer with them. during the rest of the evening, he tried to assume a degree of chearfulness; and did in some measure feel it in the prospect of this farther temporary indulgence. lady adelina, unable to conceal her concern, drooped without any effort to imitate him; and when they parted for the night, could not help deploring in terms of piercing regret their approaching separation. the assurances godolphin had given them of a favourable morning were fulfilled. they found that tho' there was yet a considerable swell, the wind had subsided entirely, and that they might safely cross to southampton. the boat that was to convey them was ready; and emmeline could not take leave of lady adelina without sharing the anguish which she could not mitigate. they embraced silently and in tears; and emmeline pressed to her heart the little boy, to whom she was tenderly attached. godolphin was a silent spectator of this melancholy farewel. the softness of emmeline's heart was to him her greatest charm, and he could hardly help repeating, in the words of louis xiv--'she has so much sensibility that it must be an exquisite pleasure to be beloved by her!' he sighed in remembering that such could not be his happiness; then wishing to shorten a scene which so violently affected the unsettled spirits of lady adelina, he would have led mrs. stafford and emmeline away; but lady adelina insisted on following them to the shore; smiled thro' her tears; and promised to behave better. silently they walked to the sea-side. mrs. stafford hastily embracing her, was handed into the boat by godolphin; who then advancing with forced gaiety to emmeline, about whom his sister still fondly hung, said--'come, come, i must have no more adieus--as if you were never to meet again.' 'ah! who can tell,' answered lady adelina, 'that we ever shall!' emmeline spoke not; but kissing the hand of her weeping friend, gave her own to godolphin; while lady adelina, resting on the arm of her woman, and overwhelmed with sorrow, suffered the boat to depart. it rowed swiftly away; favoured by the tide. lady adelina remained on the shore as long as she could distinguish it; and then slowly and reluctantly returned to solitude and tears: while her two friends, attended by her brother, landed safely at southampton, where he busied himself in settling every thing for their departure the next morning in the pacquet which they had hired, and which now lay ready to receive them. during their passage to havre, which was short and prosperous, the attention of godolphin was equally divided between mrs. stafford, her children, and emmeline. but when he assisted the latter to leave the vessel, he could not forbear pressing her to his heart, while in a deep sigh he bade adieu to the happiness of being with her; for he concluded she would not long remain single, and after she was married he determined never more to trust himself with the dangerous pleasure of beholding her. he had never mentioned the name of delamere; and knew not that he was returned to england. having once been assured of her engagement, he was unable to enquire into the circumstances of what had destroyed his happiness. he knew they were to be married in march, and that delamere had promised to remain on the continent 'till that period. he doubted not, therefore, but that emmeline, in compliance with the entreaties of her lover, had consented to accompany mrs. stafford to france, and by her presence to charm away the months that yet intervened; after which he supposed they would be immediately united. notwithstanding some remarks he had made on the interest she seemed to take in regard to himself, he imputed it merely to her general sensibility and to his relationship to lady adelina. he supposed that delamere possessed her heart; and tho' it was the only possession on earth that would give him any chance of happiness, he envied this happy lover without hating him. he could not blame him for loving her, who was in his own opinion irresistible; nor for having used the opportunity his good fortune had given him of winning her affections. the longer he conversed with her, the more he was convinced that delamere, in being as he believed master of that heart, was the most fortunate of human beings. but tho' he had not resolution enough to refuse himself the melancholy yet pleasing gratification of contemplating perfections which he thought could never be his, and tho' he could not help sometimes betraying the fondness which that indulgence hourly encreased, he never seriously meditated supplanting the happy delamere. he did not think that to attempt it was honourable; and his integrity would have prevented the trial, had he supposed it possible to succeed. mrs. stafford had at first seen with concern that godolphin, whom she sincerely esteemed, was nourishing for her friend a passion which could only serve to make him unhappy. but she now saw it's progress rather with pleasure than regret. she was piqued at the groundless jealousy and rash injustice of delamere towards emmeline: and disappointed and disgusted at lord montreville's conduct towards herself; sickening at the little sincerity of the latter, and doubtful of the temper of the former, she feared that if the alliance took place, her friend would find less happiness than splendour: and she looked with partial eyes on godolphin; who in morals, manners, and temper, was equally unexceptionable, and whose fortune, tho' inferior to his birth, was yet enough for happiness in that style of life which she knew better calculated for the temper and taste of emmeline than the parade and grandeur she might share with delamere. godolphin had no parents to accept her with disdainful and cold acquiescence--no sister to treat her with supercilious condescension.--but all his family, tho' of a rank superior to that of delamere, would receive her with transport, and treat her with the respect and affection she deserved. mrs. stafford, however, spoke not to emmeline of this revolution in her sentiments, but chose rather to let the affair take it's course than to be in any degree answerable for it's consequences. the hour in which godolphin was to leave them now approached. unable to determine on bidding emmeline farewel, he would still have lingered with her, and would have gone on with them to rouen, where stafford waited their arrival: but this, mrs. stafford was compelled to decline; fearing least this extraordinary attention in a stranger should induce her husband to make enquiry into their first acquaintance, and by that means lead to discoveries which could not fail of being injurious to lady adelina. of all that related to her, he was at present ignorant. he had been told, that the infant which his wife and miss mowbray so often visited, was the son of an acquaintance of the latter; who being obliged soon after it's birth to go to the west indies, had sent it to bath to emmeline, who had undertaken to overlook the nurse to whose care it was committed. into a circumstance which offered neither a scheme to occupy his mind, or money to purchase his pleasures, stafford thought it not then worth his while farther to enquire; but now, in a country of which he understood not the language, and detached from his usual pursuits, mrs. stafford knew not what strange suspicions the assiduity of godolphin might excite in a head so oddly constructed; and without explaining her reasons to godolphin, she said enough to convince him that he must, with whatever reluctance, leave the lovely travellers at havre. he busied himself, however, in adjusting every thing for the safety of their journey; and being in the course of their preparations left alone with emmeline in a room of the hotel, he could not forbear using the last opportunity he was likely to have of speaking to her.-- 'has miss mowbray any commands to lady adelina?' 'my most affectionate love!' answered emmeline, 'my truest remembrance! and tell her, that the moment i am settled i will give her an account of my situation, and of all that happens worth her knowing.' 'we shall hear then,' said he, forcing a melancholy smile, 'we shall hear when you meet the fortunate, the happy mr. delamere.' 'lady adelina,' blushingly replied emmeline, 'will certainly know it if i should meet him; but nothing is at present more improbable.' 'tis now,' reassumed godolphin, 'the last week of january--february--march--ah! how soon march will come! tell me, how long in that month may adelina direct to miss mowbray?' 'mr. delamere, sir,' said emmeline, gravely, 'is not now in france.' 'but may he not immediately return thither from geneva or any other place? is my sister, lady westhaven, to be present at the ceremony?' 'the ceremony,' answered she, half angry and half vexed, 'may perhaps never take place.' the awkwardness of her situation in regard to delamere arose forcibly to her mind, and something lay very heavy at her heart. she tried to check the tears which were filling her eyes, least they should be imputed to a very different cause; but the effort she made to conquer her feelings rendered them more acute. she took out a handkerchief to wipe away these involuntary betrayers of her emotion, and sitting down, audibly sobbed. godolphin had asked these questions, in that sort of desperate resolution which a person exerts who determines to know, in the hope of being able to endure, the worst that can befal him. but he was now shocked at the distress they had occasioned, and unable to bear the sight of her tears. 'pardon me,' cried he, 'pardon me, most lovely, most amiable emmeline!--oh! pardon me for having given a moment's pain to that soft and sensible bosom. had i suspected that a reference to an event towards which i supposed you looked forward with pleasure, could thus affect you, i had not presumed to name it. whenever it happens,' added he, after a short pause--'whenever it happens, delamere will be the most enviable of human beings: and may you, madam, be as happy as you are truly deserving of happiness!' he dared not trust his voice with another word: but under pretence of fetching a glass of water left the room, and having recovered himself, quickly returned and offered it to emmeline, again apologizing for having offended her. she took the glass from him; and faintly smiling thro' her tears, said in the gentlest accents--'i am not offended--i am only low spirited. tired by the voyage, and shrinking from the fatigue of a long journey, yet you talk to me of a journey for life, on which i may never set out in the company you mention--and still more probably never undertake at all.' the entrance of mrs. stafford, who came to entreat some directions from godolphin, prevented the continuance of this critical conversation; in which, whatever the words imported in regard to delamere, he found but little hope for himself. he attributed what emmeline had said to mere evasion, and her concern to some little accidental neglect on the part of her lover which had excited her displeasure. ignorant of the jealousy delamere had conceived from the misrepresentation of the crofts', which the solicitude of emmeline for the infant of lady adelina had so immediately matured, he had not the most distant idea of the truth; nor suspected that the passion of delamere for emmeline, which he knew had within a few weeks been acknowledged without hesitation, and received with encouragement, was now become to him a source of insupportable torment; that she had left england without bidding him adieu, or even informing him that she was gone. the two chaises were now ready; and godolphin having placed in the first, mrs. stafford and her younger children, approached emmeline to lead her to the second, in which she was to accompany the elder. he stopped a moment as they were quitting the room, and said--'i cannot, miss mowbray, bid you adieu till you say you forgive me for the impertinence of my questions.' 'for impertinence?' answered emmeline, giving him her hand--'i cannot forgive you, because i know not that you have been guilty of it. before i go, however, allow me to thank you most sincerely for the protection you have afforded us.' 'and not one word,' cried he, 'not one parting good wish to your little _protegé_--to my poor william?' 'ah! i send him a thousand!' answered emmeline. 'and one last kiss, which i will carry him.' she suffered him to salute her; and then he hastily led her to the chaise; and, as he put her in, said very solemnly--'let me repeat my wishes, madam, that wheresoever you are, you may enjoy felicity--felicity which i shall never again know; and that mr. delamere--the fortunate delamere--may be as sensible of your value as----' emmeline, to avoid hearing this sentence concluded, bade the chaise proceed. it instantly did so with all the velocity a french postillion could give it; and hardly allowed her to observe the mournful countenance and desponding air with which godolphin bowed to her, as she, waving her hand, again bade him adieu! the travellers arrived in due time safe at rouen; where mrs. stafford found that her husband had been prevented meeting her, by the necessity he fancied himself under to watch the early nests of his canary birds, of which he had now made a large collection, and whose encrease he attended to with greater solicitude than the arrival of his family. mrs. stafford saw with an eye of hopeless regret a new source of expence and absurdity opened; but knowing that complaints were more likely to produce anger and resentment in his mind, than any alteration in his conduct, she was obliged to conceal her chagrin, and to take possession of the gloomy chateau which her husband had chosen for her residence, about six miles from rouen; while emmeline, with her usual equality of temper, tried to reconcile herself to her new abode, and to share and relieve the fatigue and uneasiness of her friend. she found the activity she was for this purpose compelled to exert, assuaged and diverted that pain which she now could no longer hope to conquer, tho' she had not yet had the courage to ascertain, by a narrow examination of her heart in regard to godolphin, that it would be removed no more. on the evening after he had bade her adieu, godolphin embarked in the pacquet which was on it's departure to england. the weather, tho' cold, was calm; and he sat down on the deck, where, after they had got a few leagues from france, all was profoundly quiet. only the man at the helm and one sailor were awake on board. the vessel glided thro' the expanse of water; while the soul of godolphin fled back to emmeline, and dwelt with lingering fondness on the object of all it's affection. chapter xi emmeline having thus quitted england, and delamere appearing no longer to think of her, the crofts', who had brought about an event so desirable for lord montreville, thought it time to claim the reward of such eminent service. miss delamere, in meeting lady westhaven at paris, had severely felt all the difference of their situation; and as she had repented of her clandestine union almost as soon as she had formed it, the comparison between her sister's husband and her own had embittered her temper, never very good, and made her return to england with reluctance; where she knew that she could not long evade acknowledging her marriage, and taking the inferior and humiliating name of _mrs. crofts_. to avoid returning was however not in her power; nor could she prevail on crofts to delay a declaration which must be attended with circumstances, to her most mortifying and unpleasant. but impatient to demand a daughter of lord montreville as his wife, and still more impatient to receive twelve thousand pounds, which was her's independant of her father, he would hear of no delay; and the present opportunity of conciliating lord and lady montreville, was in the opinion of all the crofts' family not to be neglected. sir richard undertook to disclose the affair to lord montreville, and to parry the first effusions of his lordship's anger by a very common, yet generally successful stratagem, that of affecting to be angry first, and drowning by his own clamours the complaints of the party really injured. for this purpose, he waited early one morning on lord montreville, and with a countenance where scornful superiority was dismissed for pusillanimous dejection, he began.-- 'my lord--when i reflect and consider and remember the innumerable, invaluable and extraordinary favours, kindnesses and obligations i owe your lordship, my heart bleeds--and i lament and deplore and regret that it is my lot to announce and declare and discover, what will i fear give infinite concern and distress and uneasiness to you--and my lord----' 'what is all this, sir richard?' cried lord montreville, hastily interrupting him.--'is delamere married?' 'heaven forbid!' answered the hypocritical crofts.--'bad, and unwelcome, and painful as what i have to say is, it does not amount or arise to that misfortune and calamity.' 'whatever it is sir,' said his lordship impatiently, 'let me hear it at once.--is it a dismission from my office?' 'never, i hope!' replied sir richard. 'at least, for many years to come, may this country not know and feel and be sensible of such a loss, deprivation and defection. my lord, my present concern is of a very different nature; and i do assure and protest to your lordship that no time nor intreaties nor persuasion will erase and obliterate and wipe away from my mind, the injury and prejudice the parties have done _me_, by thus----' 'keep me no longer in suspense!' almost angrily cried lord montreville. 'mr. crofts, my lord; mr. crofts is, i find, married--' 'to _my_ daughter, sir richard.--is it not so?' 'he is indeed, my lord! and from this moment i disclaim, and renounce and protest against him; for my lord----' sir richard continued his harangue, to which lord montreville did not seem to attend. he was a moment silent, and then said-- 'i have been more to blame than the parties.--i might have foreseen this. but i thought fanny's pride a sufficient defence against an inferior alliance. pray sir, does lady montreville know of this marriage?' sir richard then related all that his son had told him; interlarding his account with every circumstance that might induce his lordship to believe he was himself entirely ignorant of the intrigue. lord montreville, however, knew too much of mankind in general, and of the crofts' in particular, to give implicit credit to this artful recital. but sir richard was now become so necessary to him, and they had so many secrets in common of great consequence to the political reputation of both, that he could not determine to break with him. he considered too that resentment could not unmarry his daughter; that the lineal honours of his family could not be affected by her marriage; and that he owed the crofts' some favour for having counteracted the indiscretion of delamere. determining therefore, after a short struggle, to sacrifice his pride to his politics, he dismissed sir richard with infinitely less appearance of resentment than he expected; and after long contention with the furious and irascible pride of his wife, prevailed upon her to let her daughter depart without her malediction. she would not see crofts, or pardon her daughter; protesting that she never could be reconciled to a child of her's who bore such an appellation as that of '_mrs. crofts_.' soon afterwards, however, the marquisate which lord montreville had been so long promised was to be granted him. but his wife could not bear, that by assuming a title which had belonged to the mowbray family, (a point he particularly wished to obtain) he should drop or render secondary those honours which he derived from _her_ ancestors. wearied by her persecution, and accustomed to yield to her importunity, he at length gratified her, by relinquishing the name he wished to bear, and taking the title of marquis of montreville, while his son assumed that of viscount delamere. this circumstance seemed more than any other to reconcile lady montreville to her eldest daughter, whose surname she could evade under the more satisfactory appellation of lady frances. she was now therefore admitted to her mother's presence; crofts received an haughty and reluctant pardon; and some degree of tranquillity was restored to the noble house of mowbray-delamere; while the crofts', more elated and consequential than before, behaved as if they had inherited and deserved the fortune and splendor that surrounded them: and the table, the buildings, the furniture of sir richard, vied in expence and magnificence with those of the most affluent of the nobility. lord delamere, to whom the acquisition of a title could offer nothing in mitigation of the anguish inflicted by disappointed love, was now at dublin; where, immediately on his arrival, he had enquired for colonel fitz-edward at the house of his brother, lord clancarryl. as the family were in the country, and only a servant in it, he could not for some days obtain the information he wanted. he heard, however, that lord clancarryl was very soon expected, and for his arrival he determined to wait. in this interval of suspense, he heard from a correspondent in england, that miss mowbray had not only disappeared from woodfield, but had actually quitted england; and was gone no one knew precisely whither; but it was generally supposed to france. tho' he had sworn in bitterness of heart to drive for ever from it this perfidious and fatal beauty, it seemed as if forgetting his resolution, he had in this intelligence received a new injury. he still fancied that she should have told him of her design to quit england, without recollecting that he had given her no opportunity to speak to him at all. again he felt his anger towards fitz-edward animated almost to madness; and again impatiently sought to hasten a meeting when he might discuss with him all the mischief he had sustained. lord clancarryl coming for a few days to dublin, found there letters from lord montreville, in which his lordship bespoke for his son the acquaintance of the clancarryl family. desirous of shewing every attention to a young man so nearly connected with his wife's family, by the marriage of her brother, lord westhaven, to his youngest sister, and related also to himself, lord clancarryl immediately sought delamere; and was surprised to find, that instead of receiving his advances with warmth or even with politeness, he hardly returned them with common civility, and seemed to attend to nothing that was said. the first pause in the conversation, however, delamere took advantage of to enquire after colonel fitz-edward. 'my brother,' answered lord clancarryl, 'left us only three days ago.' 'for london, my lord?' 'no; he is gone with two other friends on a kind of pleasurable tour.--they hired a sloop at cork to take them to france.' 'to france!' exclaimed delamere--'mr. fitz-edward gone to france?' 'yes,' replied lord clancarryl, somewhat wondering at the surprise delamere expressed--'and i promoted the plan as much as i could; for poor george is, i am afraid, in a bad state of health; his looks and his spirits are not what they used to be. chearful company, and this little tour, may i hope restore them. but how happens it that he knew not, sir, of your return? he was persuaded you were still abroad; and expressed some pleasure at the thoughts of meeting you when you least expected it.' 'no, no, my lord,' cried delamere, in a voice rendered almost inarticulate by contending passions--'his hope was not to meet _me_. he is gone with far other designs.' 'what designs, lord delamere?' gravely asked lord clancarryl. 'my lord,' answered delamere, recollecting himself, 'i mean not to trouble you on this matter. i have some business to adjust with mr. fitz-edward; and since he is not here, have only to request of your lordship information when he returns, or whither a letter may follow him?' 'sir,' returned lord clancarryl with great gravity, 'i believe i can answer for colonel fitz-edward's readiness to settle _any business_ you may desire to adjust with him; and i wish, since there is _business_ between ye, that i could name the time when you are likely to meet him. all, however, i can decidedly say is, that he intends going to paris, but that his stay in france will not exceed five or six weeks in the whole; and that such letters as i may have occasion to send, are to be addressed to the care of monsieur de guisnon, banker, at paris.' delamere having received this intelligence, took a cold leave; and lord clancarryl, who had before heard much of his impetuous temper and defective education, was piqued at his distant manner, and returned to his house in the country without making any farther effort to cultivate his friendship. debating whether he should follow fitz-edward to france or wait his return to ireland, delamere remained, torn with jealousy and distracted by delay. he was convinced beyond a doubt, that fitz-edward had met emmeline in france by her own appointment. 'but let them not,' cried he--'let them not hope to escape me! let them not suppose i will relinquish my purpose 'till i have punished their infamy or cease to feel it!--oh, emmeline! emmeline! is it for this i pursued--for this i won thee!' the violence of those emotions he felt after lord clancarryl's departure, subsided only because he had no one to listen to, no one to answer him. he determined, as lord clancarryl seemed so certain of his brother's return in the course of six weeks, to wait in ireland 'till the end of that period, since there was but little probability of his meeting him if he pursued him to france. he concluded that wherever emmeline was, fitz-edward might be found also; but the residence of emmeline he knew not, nor could he bear a moment to think that he might see them together. the violence of his resentment, far from declining, seemed to resist all the checks it's gratification received, and to burn with accumulated fury. his nights brought only tormenting dreams; his days only a repetition of unavailing anguish. he had several acquaintances among young men of fashion at dublin. with them he sometimes associated; and tried to forget his uneasiness in the pleasures of the table; and sometimes he shunned them entirely, and shut himself up to indulge his disquiet. in the mean time, lady clancarryl was extremely mortified at the account her husband gave her of delamere's behaviour. she knew that her brother, lord westhaven, would be highly gratified by any attention shewn to the family of his wife; particularly to a brother to whom lady westhaven was so much attached. she therefore entreated her lord to overlook delamere's petulance, and renew the invitation he had given him to lough carryl. but his lordship, disgusted with the reception he had before met with, laughed, and desired her to try whether _her_ civilities would be more graciously accepted. lady clancarryl therefore took the trouble to go herself to dublin: where she so pressingly insisted on delamere's passing a fortnight with them, that he could not evade the invitation without declaring his animosity against fitz-edward, and his resolution to demand satisfaction--a declaration which could not fail of rendering his purpose abortive. he returned, therefore, to lough carryl with her ladyship; meaning to stay only a few days, and feeling hurt at being thus compelled to become the inmate of a family into which he might so soon carry grief and resentment. godolphin, after his return to the isle of wight, abandoned himself more than ever to the indulgence of his passion. he soothed yet encreased his melancholy by poetry and music; and lady adelina for some time contributed to nourish feelings too much in unison with her own. he now no longer affected to conceal from her his attachment to her lovely friend; but to her only it was known. her voice, and exquisite taste, he loved to employ in singing the verses he made; and he would sit hours by her _piano forté_ to hear repeated one of the many sonnets he had written on her who occupied all his thoughts. sonnet when welcome slumber sets my spirit free forth to fictitious happiness it flies, and where elysian bowers of bliss arise i seem, my emmeline--to meet with thee! ah! fancy then, dissolving human ties, gives me the wishes of my soul to see; tears of fond pity fill thy softened eyes; in heavenly harmony--our hearts agree. alas! these joys are mine in dreams alone, when cruel reason abdicates her throne! her harsh return condemns me to complain thro' life unpitied, unrelieved, unknown. and, as the dear delusions leave my brain, she bids the truth recur--with aggravated pain. but lady adelina herself at length grew uneasy at beholding the progress of this unhappy passion. his mind seemed to have lost all it's strength, and to be incapable of making even an effort to shake off an affection which his honour would not allow him to attempt rendering successful. his spirits, affected by the listless solitude in which he lived, were sunk into hopeless despondence; and his sister was every day more alarmed, not only for his peace but for his life. she therefore tried to make him determine to quit her, for a short abode in london; but to do that he absolutely refused. lord clancarryl had long pressed him to go to ireland: he had not seen his eldest sister for some years; and ardently wished to embrace her and her children. but fitz-edward was at her house; and to meet fitz-edward was impossible. lady clancarryl, deceived by a plausible story, which had been framed to account for lady adelina's absence, was, as well as her lord, entirely ignorant of the share fitz-edward had in it: they believed it to have been occasioned solely by her antipathy to trelawny, and her fear lest her relations should insist on her again residing with him; and it was necessary that nothing should be said to undeceive them. godolphin had therefore been obliged to form several excuses to account for his declining the pressing invitations he received; and he found that his eldest sister was already much hurt by his apparent neglect. in one of her last letters, she had mentioned that fitz-edward was gone to france; and lady adelina pointed out to godolphin several passages which convinced him he had given pain by his long absence to his beloved camilla, and prevailed upon him to go to ireland. he arrived therefore at lough carryl two days after his sister had returned thither with lord delamere. chapter xii mr. godolphin was extremely surprised to find, in ireland, delamere, the happy delamere! who he supposed had long since been with emmeline, waiting the fortunate hour that was to unite them for ever. a very few weeks now remained of the year which he had promised to remain unmarried; yet instead of his being ready to attend his bride to england, to claim in the face of the world his father's consent, he was lingering in another country, where he appeared to have come only to indulge dejection; for he frequently fled from society, and when he was in it, forgot himself in gloomy reveries. nobody knew why he came to ireland, unless to satisfy a curiosity of which nothing appeared to remain; yet he still continued there; and as lord and lady clancarryl were now used to his singular humour, they never enquired into it's cause; while he, flattered by the regard of two persons so amiable and respectable, suffered not his enmity to fitz-edward to interfere with the satisfaction he sometimes took in their society; tho' he oftener past the day almost entirely alone. godolphin could not repress the anxious curiosity he felt, to know what, at this period, could separate lovers whose union appeared so certain. but this curiosity he had no means of satisfying. lady clancarryl had heard nothing of his engagement, or any hint of his approaching marriage; and tho' he was on all other topics, when he entered at all into conversation, remarkably open and unguarded, he spoke not, in company, of any thing that related to himself. he seemed, however, to seek a closer intimacy with godolphin, whose excellent character he had often heard, and whose appearance and conversation confirmed all that had been reported in his favour. godolphin neither courted him or evaded his advances; but could not help looking with astonishment on a man, who on the point of being the husband of the most lovely woman on earth, could saunter in a country where he appeared to have neither attachments or satisfaction. sometimes he almost ventured to hope that their engagement was dissolved: but then recollecting that lady adelina had assured him the promise of emmeline was still uncancelled, he checked so flattering an illusion, and returned again to uncertainty and despondence. on the third day after godolphin's arrival, delamere, who intended to go back to dublin the following morning save one, joined lady clancarryl and her brother in the drawing-room immediately after dinner. godolphin, on account of the expected return of fitz-edward, had determined to make only a short stay at lough carryl. he wished to carry with him to his own house, portraits of his sister and her children; and was expressing to her this wish--'i should like to have them,' said he, 'in a large miniature; the same size as one i have of adelina.' 'have you then a portrait of adelina,' enquired lady clancarryl, 'and have not yet shewn it me?' 'i have,' answered godolphin; 'but my sister likes not that it should be seen. it is very like her _now_, but has little resemblance to her former pictures. this is painted by a young lady, her friend.' he then took it out of his pocket, and gave it to lady clancarryl. 'and is adelina so thin and pale,' asked her ladyship, 'as she is here represented?' 'more so,' answered godolphin. 'she is then greatly changed.--yet the eyes and features, and the whole air of the countenance, i should immediately have acknowledged.' continuing to look pensively at the picture, she added, 'tis charmingly coloured; and might represent a very lovely and penitent magdalen. the black veil, and tearful eye, are beautifully touched. but why did you indulge her in this melancholy taste?' godolphin, excessively hurt at this, speech, answered mournfully--'poor adelina, you know, has had little reason to be gay.' delamere, who during this conversation seemed lost in his own reflections, now suddenly advanced, and desired lady clancarryl would favour him with a sight of the picture. he took it to a candle; and looking steadily on it, was struck with the lightness of the drawing, which extremely resembled the portraits emmeline was accustomed to make; tho' this was more highly finished than any he had yet seen of her's. without being able to account for his idea, since nothing was more likely than that the drawing of two persons might resemble each other, he looked at the back of the picture, which was of gold; and in the centre a small oval crystal contained the words _em. mowbray_, in hair, and under it the name of _adelina trelawny_. it was indeed a memorial of emmeline's affection to her friend; and the name was in her own hair;--a circumstance that made it as dear to godolphin as the likeness it bore to his sister: and the whole was rendered in his eyes inestimable, by it's being painted by herself. delamere, astonished and pained he knew not why, determined to hear from godolphin himself the name of the paintress: returning it to him, he said--'a lady, you say, sir, drew it. may i ask her name?' godolphin, now first aware of the indiscretion he had committed, and flattering himself that the chrystal had not been inspected, answered with an affectation of pleasantry--'oh! i believe it is a secret between my sister and her friend which i have no right to reveal; and to tell you the truth i teized adelina to give me the picture, and obtained it only on condition of not shewing it.' delamere, who had so often sworn to forget her, still fancied he had a right to be exclusively acquainted with all that related to emmeline. he felt himself piqued by this evasion, and answered somewhat quickly--'i know the drawing, sir; it is done by miss mowbray.' godolphin was then compelled to answer 'that it was.' 'i envy miss mowbray her charming talent,' cried lady clancarryl. 'pray who is miss mowbray?' 'a relation of lord delamere's,' answered godolphin; 'and a most lovely and amiable young woman.' delamere, whose varying countenance ill seconded his attempt to appear indifferent on this subject, now grew pale, now red. 'are you acquainted then with miss mowbray, sir?' said he to godolphin. 'i have seen her,' replied godolphin, 'with my sister, lady adelina trelawny.' he then hurried the discourse to some other topic; being unwilling to answer any other questions that related either to his sister or her friend. but delamere, whose wounds bled afresh at the name of emmeline, and who could not resist enquiring after her of a person who had so lately seen her, took the earliest opportunity of seeking godolphin to renew this discourse. they met therefore the following morning in the breakfast parlour; and delamere suddenly turning the conversation from the topics of the day, said--'you are, i find, acquainted with miss mowbray. you may perhaps know that she is not only a relation of mine, but that i _was_ particularly interested in whatever related to her.' godolphin, whose heart fluttered so as almost to deprive him of speech, answered very gravely--'i have heard so from mrs. stafford.' 'then you know, perhaps----but you are undoubtedly well acquainted with colonel fitz-edward?' 'certainly,' replied godolphin. 'he was one of my most intimate friends.' 'then, sir,' cried delamere, losing all temper, 'one of your most intimate friends is a villain!' godolphin, shocked at an expression which gave him reason to apprehend lady adelina's story was known, answered with great emotion--'you will be so good, my lord, as to explain that assertion; which, whatever may be it's truth, is very extraordinary when made thus abruptly to me.' 'you are a man of honour, mr. godolphin, and i will not conceal from you the cruel injuries i have sustained from fitz-edward, nor that i wait here only to have an opportunity of telling him that i bear them not tamely.' he then related, in terms equally warm and bitter, the supposed alienation of emmeline's affections by the artifices of fitz-edward, enumerated all the imaginary proofs with which the invidious artifices of the crofts' had furnished him, and concluded by asserting, that he had himself seen, in the arms of emmeline, a living witness of her ruin, and the perfidy of his faithless friend. to this detail, including as it did the real history of his sister under the false colours in which the crofts' had drest it to mislead delamere and destroy emmeline, godolphin listened with sensations impossible to be described. he could not hear without horror the character of emmeline thus cruelly blasted; yet her vindication he could not undertake without revealing to a stranger the unhappy story of lady adelina, which he had with infinite difficulty concealed even from his own family. the fiery and impatient spirit of delamere blazing forth in menace and invective, gave godolphin time to collect his thoughts; and he almost immediately determined, whatever it cost him, to clear up the reputation of emmeline. tho' he saw, that to explain the whole affair must put the character of his sister, which he had been so solicitous to preserve, into the power of an inconsiderate young man, yet he thought he might trust to the honour and humanity of delamere to keep the secret; and however mortifying such a measure appeared, his justice as well as his love would not allow him to suffer the innocent emmeline to remain under an imputation which she had incurred only by her generous and disinterested attentions to the weakness and misfortunes of another. but resolutely as he bore the pain of these reflections, he shrunk from others with which they were mingled: he foresaw, that as soon as the jealousy of delamere was by his information removed; his love, which seemed to be as passionate as ever, would prompt him to seek a reconciliation: his repentance would probably be followed by emmeline's forgiveness and their immediate union. farewel then for ever to all the hopes he had nourished since his unexpected meeting with delamere!--farewel to every expectation of happiness for ever! but tho' in relinquishing these delightful visions he relinquished all that gave a value to life, so truly did he love and revere her, that to have the spotless purity of her name sullied even by a doubt seemed an insupportable injustice to himself; and his affection was of a nature too noble to owe it's success to a misrepresentation injurious to it's object. that the compassion which had saved his sister, should be the cause of her having suffered from the malicious malice of the crofts' and the rash jealousy of delamere, redoubled all his concern; and he was so much agitated and hurt, that without farther consideration he was on the point of relating the truth instantly, had not the entry of lord clancarryl for that time put an end to their discourse: from this resolution, formed in the integrity of his upright heart, nothing could long divert him; yet he reflected, as soon as he was alone, on the violent and ungovernable passions which seemed to render delamere, unguided by reason and incapable of hearing it. he was apprehensive that the discovery, if made to him at lough carryl, might influence him to say or do something that might discover to lady clancarryl the unhappy story of her sister; and he thought it better to delay the explanation 'till he could follow delamere to dublin, which he determined to do in a few days after he left lough carryl. this interval gave him time to feel all the pain of the sacrifice he was about to make. nor could all his strength of mind, and firmness of honour, prevent his reluctance or cure his anguish. he was about to restore to the arms of his rival, the only woman he had ever really loved; and whom he adored with the most ardent passion, at the very moment that his honour compelled him to remove the impediments to her marriage with another. sometimes he thought that he might at least indulge himself in the melancholy pleasure of relating to her in a letter, what he had done, as soon as the explanation should be made: but even this gratification he at length determined to refuse himself. 'if she loves delamere,' said he, 'she will perhaps rejoice in the effect and forget the cause. if she has, as i have sometimes dared to hope, some friendship and esteem for the less fortunate godolphin, why should i wound a heart so full of sensibility by relating the conflicts of my soul and the passion i have vainly indulged?' a latent hope, however, almost unknown, at least unacknowledged, lingered in his heart. it _was_ possible that emmeline, resenting the injurious suspicions and rash accusations of delamere, might refuse to fulfil her engagement. but whenever this feeble hope in spite of himself arose, he remembered her soft and forgiving temper, her strict adherence to her word on other occasions, and it faded in a conviction that she would pardon her repentant lover when he threw himself on her mercy; and not evade a promise so solemnly given, which he learned from delamere himself had never been cancelled. delamere now returned to dublin; and in a few days godolphin followed him: but on enquiring at his lodgings, he heard that he was gone out of town for some days with some of his friends on a party of pleasure. godolphin left a letter for him desiring to see him immediately on his return; and then again resigned himself to the painful delight of thinking of emmeline, and to the conscious satisfaction of becoming the vindicator and protector of her honour even unknown to herself. emmeline, in the mean time, unhappy in the unhappiness of those she loved, and by no means flattered by the prospect of dependance thro' life, of which lord montreville now made her see all the dreariness and desolation, by the careless and irregular manner in which even her small quarterly stipend was remitted to her, yet exerted all her fortitude to support the spirits of mrs. stafford. calm in the possession of conscious innocence, and rich in native integrity and nobleness of nature, she was, tho' far from happy herself, enabled to mitigate the sorrows of others. nor was her residence, (otherwise disagreeable and forlorn enough,) entirely without it's advantages: it afforded her time and opportunity to render herself perfectly mistress of the language of the country; of which she had before only a slight knowledge. to the study of languages, her mind so successfully applied itself, that she very soon spoke and wrote french with the correctness not only of a native, but of a native well educated. while she thus suffered banishment in consequence of the successful intrigues of the crofts' family, they enjoyed all the advantages of their prosperous duplicity; at least they enjoyed all the satisfaction that arises from accumulating wealth and an ostentatious display of it. sir richard, by the political knowledge his place afforded him, had been enabled (by means of trusty agents) to carry on such successful traffic in the stocks, that he now saw himself possessed of wealth greater than his most sanguine hopes had ever presented to his imagination. but as his fortune enlarged, his spirit seemed to contract in regard to every thing that did not administer to his pride or his appetite. in the luxuries of the table, his house, his gardens, he expended immense sums; and the astonished world saw, with envy and indignation, wealth, which seemed to be ill-gotten, as profusely squandered: but dead to every generous and truly liberal sentiment, these expences were confined only to himself; and in regard to others he still nourished the sordid prejudices and narrow sentiments with which he set out in life--a needy adventurer, trusting to cunning and industry for scanty and precarious bread. mr. crofts, who had received twelve thousand pounds with his wife, (whose clandestine marriage had prevented it's being secured in settlement,) used it, as his father directed, in gaming in the stocks, with equal avidity and equal success. lady frances, in having married beneath herself, had yet relinquished none of the privileges of high birth: she played deep, dressed in the extremity of expence, and was celebrated for the whimsical splendor of her equipages and the brilliancy of her assemblies. her husband loved money almost as well as the fame acquired by these fashionable displays of her ladyship's taste; but on the slightest hint of disapprobation, he was awed into silence by her scornful indignation; and with asperity bade to observe, that tho' the daughter of the marquis of montreville had so far forgotten her rank as to marry the son of crofts the attorney, she would allow nobody else to forget that she was still the daughter of the marquis of montreville. this right honourable eloquence subdued the plebeian spirit of crofts; while he was also compelled to submit patiently, lest lord montreville should be offended and withhold the fortune he farther expected to receive. lady frances therefore pursued the most extravagant career of dissipation unchecked. she was young, handsome and vain; and saw every day new occasion to lament having thrown herself away on crofts: and as she could not now release herself from him, she seemed determined to render him at least a fashionable husband. mrs. james crofts trod as nearly as she could in the footsteps of lady frances; whose name she seemed to take exquisite pleasure in repeating, tho' it's illustrious possessor scarce deigned to treat her with common civility; and never on any account admitted her to any thing but her most private parties, with a few dependants and persons who found the way to her favour by adulation. mrs. james crofts however consoled herself for the slights she received from lady frances, by parading in all inferior companies with the names of her high and illustrious relations: and she employed the same tradespeople; laid out with them as much money; and paid them better than lady frances herself.-- her chariot and job horses were discarded for a fashionable coach; her house at clapham, for an elegant town residence. she tried to hide the approaches of age, by rouge; and dress and amusements effectually kept off the approaches of thought; her husband, slowly yet certainly was creeping up the hill of preferment; her daughters were certainly growing more beautiful and accomplished than their mother; and mrs. james crofts fancied she was happy. chapter xiii it was now early in may; and in the blooming orchards and extensive beech woods of normandy, emmeline found much to admire and something to lament. the seine, winding thro' the vale and bringing numberless ships and vessels to rouen, surrounded by hills fringed with forests, the property of the crown, and extending even to that of arques, formed a rich and entertaining scene. but however beautiful the outline, the landscape still appeared ill finished: dark and ruinous hovels, inhabited by peasants frequently suffering the extremes of poverty; half cultivated fields, wanting the variegated enclosures that divide the lands in england; and trees often reduced to bare poles to supply the inhabitants with fewel, made her recollect with regret the more luxuriant and happy features of her native country. the earth, however, covered with grass and flowers, offered her minute objects on which she delighted to dwell; but she dared not here wander as in england far from home: the women of the villages, who in this country are robust and masculine, often followed her with abuse for being english; and yet oftener the villagers clattered after her in their sabots, and addressed her by the name of _la belle demoiselle anglaise_, with a rudeness and familiarity that at once alarmed and disgusted her. the long avenue of fir and beech which led to the _chateau_, and the _parterre_, _potagerie_, and _verger_[ ] behind it, were therefore the scenes of her morning and evening walks. she felt a pensive pleasure in retracing the lonely rambles she used to take at the same season at mowbray castle; and memory bringing before her the events of the two years and an half which had elapsed since she left it, offered nothing that did not renew her regret at having bid it's solitary shades and unfrequented rocks adieu! the idea of godolphin still obtruded itself continually on her mind: nor could all her resolution prevent it's obtruding with pleasure, tho' she perpetually condemned herself for allowing it to recur to her at all. lady adelina, in her two or three last letters, had not mentioned him farther than to say he was in ireland; and emmeline was ashamed of suffering her thoughts to dwell on a man, whose preference of her seemed uncertain and perhaps accidental, since he had neither absolutely declared himself when present or sought to engage her favour when absent; and tho' she was now fully persuaded that of delamere she should hear no more as a lover, yet while her promise remained in his hands uncancelled, she fancied herself culpable in indulging a partiality for another. nor could she reflect on the jealousy which had tortured delamere, and the pain he must have suffered in tearing her from his heart, without mingling with her resentment some degree of pity and sorrow. she was one afternoon sitting at an open window of the _chateau_, revolving in her mind these reflections, when raising her eyes at a sudden noise, she saw driving along the avenue that led to it, an english post chaise and four, preceded by a _valet de chambre_, and followed by two livery servants. to those who are driven by misfortune to seek a melancholy asylum in a foreign country, there is an inconceivable delight in beholding whatever forcibly brings back to the memory, the comforts and conveniences of their own: emmeline, who had for many weeks seen only the boors or the _curé_ of the village, gazed at english servants and english horses with as much avidity as if she beheld such an equipage for the first time. instantly however her wonder was converted into pleasure.--lady westhaven was assisted out of the chaise by a gentleman, whose likeness to godolphin convinced the fluttering heart of emmeline that it was her lord; and eagerly enquiring for miss mowbray, she was immediately in her arms. as soon as the joy (in which mrs. stafford partook,) of this unexpected meeting had a little subsided, lady westhaven related, that hearing by a letter they had received at paris from mr. godolphin, that emmeline was with mrs. stafford in or near rouen, she had entreated lord westhaven to make a journey to see her. 'and i assure you emmeline,' added she, 'i had no great difficulty to persuade him. his own curiosity went as far as my inclination; for he has long wished to see this dangerous emmeline; who began by turning the head of _my_ brother, and now i believe has turned the more sage one of _his_--for godolphin's letters have been filled only with your praises.' emmeline, who had changed colour at the beginning of this speech, blushed more deeply at it's conclusion. involuntary pleasure penetrated her heart to hear that godolphin had praised her. but it was immediately checked. lady westhaven seemed to know nothing of delamere's desertion; of the history of lady adelina she was undoubtedly ignorant. how could emmeline account for one without revealing the other? this reflection overwhelmed her with confusion, and she hardly heard the affectionate expressions with which lady westhaven testified her satisfaction at meeting her. 'i trust, my lord,' said her ladyship, 'that the partiality which i foresee you will feel for my fair cousin for her own sake, will not be a little encreased by our resemblance.--tell me, do you think us so very much alike?' 'i never,' answered he, 'saw a stronger family likeness between sisters. our lovely cousin has somewhat the advantage of you in height.' 'and in complexion, my lord, notwithstanding the improvements i have learned to make to mine in france.' '_i_ should not,' answered his lordship smiling, 'have ventured such a remark. i was merely going to add that you have the same features as miss mowbray, with darker hair and eyes; if however our charming emmeline had a form less attractive, i have heard enough of her to be convinced that her understanding and her heart justify all that lord delamere or mr. godolphin have said of her.' lady westhaven then expressed her wonder that she had heard nothing of delamere for some months.--'and it is most astonishing to me,' said she to emmeline, 'that the month of march should elapse without _your_ hearing of him.' the distress of emmeline now redoubled; and became so evident, that lady westhaven, convinced there was something relative to her brother of which she was ignorant, desired her to go with her into another room. incapable of falsehood, and detesting concealment, yet equally unwilling to ruin the reputation of the unhappy adelina with her brother's wife, and having no authority to divulge a secret entrusted to her by her friend, emmeline now felt the cruellest conflict. all she could determine was, to tell lady westhaven in general terms that lord delamere had undoubtedly altered his intentions with regard to her, and that the affair was, she believed, entirely and for ever at an end. however anxious her ladyship was to know from what strange cause such a change of sentiments proceeded, she found emmeline so extremely hurt that she forbore at present to press the explanation. full of concern, she was returning to the company, having desired emmeline to remain and compose herself; when, as she was leaving the room, she said-- 'but i forgot, my dear emmeline, to ask you where you first became acquainted with mr. godolphin?' again deep blushes dyed the cheeks of the fair orphan; for this question led directly to those circumstances she could not relate. 'i knew him,' answered she, faultering as she spoke, 'at bath.' 'and _is_ he,' enquired lady westhaven, 'so _very_ charming as his brother and his family represent him?' 'he is indeed very agreeable,' replied she--'very much so. extremely pleasant in his manner, and in his person very like lord westhaven.' 'he never told us how he first became acquainted with _you_; and to tell you the truth emmeline, if i had not thought, indeed known, that you was engaged to lord delamere, i should have thought godolphin your lover.' this speech did not serve to hasten the composure emmeline was trying to regain. she attempted to laugh it off; but succeeded so ill, that lady westhaven rejoined her lord and mr. and mrs. stafford, full of uneasy conjectures; and emmeline, with a still more heavy heart, soon after followed her. the pressing and earnest invitation of mrs. stafford, induced her guests to promise her their company for some days. but lady westhaven was so astonished at her brother's desertion of emmeline, and so desirous of accounting for it without finding occasion to impute cruelty and caprice to him, or imprudence and levity to emmeline, that she took the earliest opportunity of asking mrs. stafford, with whom she knew miss mowbray had no secrets, to explain to her the cause of an event so contrary to her expectations. mrs. stafford had heard from emmeline the embarrassment into which the questions of lady westhaven had thrown her; and with great difficulty at length persuaded her, that she owed it to her own character and her own peace to suffer her ladyship to be acquainted with the truth: that she could run no risk in telling her what, for the sake of her lord (whose happiness might be disturbed, and whose life hazarded by it's knowledge) she certainly would not reveal. besides which motives to secresy, the gentleness and humanity of lady westhaven would, mrs. stafford said, be alone sufficient to secure lady adelina from any possible ill consequences by her being made acquainted with the unhappy story. these arguments wrung from emmeline a reluctant acquiescence: and mrs. stafford related to lady westhaven those events which had been followed by delamere's jealousy and their separation. the love and regard, which on her first knowledge of emmeline lady westhaven had conceived for her, and which her admirable qualities had ever since encreased, was now raised to enthusiasm. she knew not (for mrs. stafford and emmeline were themselves ignorant) of the artful misrepresentations with which the crofts' had poisoned the mind of her brother; and was therefore astonished at his suspicions and grieved at his rashness. she immediately proposed writing to him; but this design both her friends besought her for the present to relinquish. emmeline assured her that she had so long considered the affair as totally at an end, that she could not now regret it; or if she felt any regret, it was merely in resigning the hope of being received into a family of which lady westhaven was a part. her ladyship could not however believe that emmeline was really indifferent to her brother; and accounted for her present coldness by supposing her piqued and offended at his behaviour, for which she had so much reason. anxious therefore to reconcile them, she still continued desirous of writing to delamere. and so much did her affectionate heart dwell on the happiness she should have in re-uniting her brother and her friend, that only the difficulty which there seemed to be in vindicating emmeline without injuring lady adelina, withheld her; and she promised to delay writing 'till means could be found to clear up the reputation of the one without ruining that of the other. lord westhaven had, during his stay, learnt from mrs. stafford the circumstances that had driven her and her family abroad; and had heard them with a sincere wish to alleviate the inconveniences that oppressed a woman whose manners and conduct convinced him she deserved a better fate. unwilling however to hold out to her hopes that he was not sure he should be able to fulfil, he contented himself with procuring from emmeline general information of the state of their affairs, and silently meditated the noble project of doing good, as soon as it should be in his power. her children, for whose sake only she seemed to be willing to support with patience her unfortunate lot, were objects particularly interesting to lord westhaven; and for the boys he thought he might, on his return to england, assist in providing. to their father, consoling himself in trifling follies and dirty intrigues for his misfortunes, it seemed more difficult to be serviceable. while these benevolent purposes engaged his attention, lady westhaven reflected with regret on her approaching departure, which must divide her from emmeline, whom she seemed now to love with redoubled affection. his lordship, ever solicitous to gratify her, proposed that emmeline should go with them into switzerland with the baron de st. alpin, his lordship's uncle; who, after a life passed in the service of france, now prepared to retire to his native country. the baron had seen his nephew at paris. he had embraced with transport the son of a beloved sister, and insisted on his and lady westhaven's going back with him to his estate in the païs de vaud, as soon as he should have the happiness of being rejoined by his only son, the chevalier de bellozane, who was expected with his regiment from martinique. lord westhaven, on his first visit to the paternal house of his mother, had found there only one of her sisters, who, with the baron, were the last survivors of a numerous family. he could not therefore resist his uncle's earnest entreaties to accompany him back; and lady westhaven, who was charmed with the manners of the respectable veteran and interested by his affection for her lord, readily consented to delay her return to england for three months and to cross france once more to attend him. to have emmeline her companion in such a journey seemed to offer all that could render it charming. but how could she ask her to quit mrs. stafford, to whom she had been so much obliged; and who, in her present melancholy solitude, seemed more than ever to need her consolatory friendship. her ladyship however ventured to mention it to emmeline; who answered, that tho' nothing in the world would give her more pleasure than being with such friends, she could not, without a breach of duty which it was impossible to think of, quit mrs. stafford, to whom she was bound by gratitude as well as by affection. lord westhaven acquiesced in the justice of this objection, but undertook to remove it by rendering the situation of her friend such as would make a short absence on both sides more supportable. he therefore in his next conversation with stafford represented the inconvenience of a house so far from a town, and how much better his family would be situated nearer the metropolis. he concluded by offering him a house he had himself hired at st. germains; which he said he should be obliged to mrs. stafford and her family if they would occupy 'till his return from switzerland. and that no objection might arise as to expence, he added, that considering himself as miss mowbray's banker, he had furnished her with five hundred pounds, with which she was desirous of repaying some part of the many obligations she owed mr. and mrs. stafford. mrs. stafford, who saw immediately all the advantages that might arise to emmeline from her residence with lady westhaven, had on the slightest hint been warmly an advocate for her going. however reluctant to part with her, she suffered not her own gratifications to impede the interest of her fair charge. but she could not prevail on emmeline to yield to her entreaties, 'till lord westhaven having settled every thing for the removal of the family to st. germains, she was convinced that mrs. stafford would be in a pleasant and advantageous situation; and that she ought, even for the sake of her and her children, whom lord westhaven had so much the power of serving, to yield to an arrangement which would so much oblige him. the _chateau_ they inhabited was ready furnished; their cloaths were easily removed; and the staffords and their children set out at the same time with lord westhaven, his wife, and emmeline; who having seen them settled at st. germains greatly to the satisfaction of mrs. stafford, went on to paris; where, in about a week, they were joined by the baron de st. alpin, and the chevalier de bellozane. [footnote : flower garden, kitchen garden, and orchard.] chapter xiv the baron de st. alpin was a venerable soldier, near sixty, in whom the natural roughness of his country was polished by a long residence among the french. he was extremely good humoured and chearful, and passionately fond of the chevalier de bellozane, who was the youngest of three sons, the two elder of whom had fallen in the field. the military ardour however of the baron had not been buried with them; and he still entrusted the sole survivor of his house, and the last support of his hopes, in the same service. with infinite satisfaction he embraced this beloved son on his return from martinique, and with exultation presented him to his nephew, to lady westhaven, and miss mowbray. the baron was indeed persuaded that he was the most accomplished young man in france, and had no notion that every body did not behold him with the same eyes. bellozane was tall, well made, and handsome; his face, and yet more, his figure, bore some resemblance to the godolphin family; his manners were elegant, his air military, his vivacity excessive, and he was something of a coxcomb, but not more than is thought becoming to men of his profession in france at two and twenty. having lived always in the army or in fashionable circles at paris, he had conceived no advantageous ideas of his own country, where he had not been since his childhood. his father now retiring thither himself, had obtained a long leave of absence for him that he might go also; but bellozane would willingly have dispensed with the journey, which the baron pressed with so much vehemence, that he had hardly time to modernize his appearance after his american campaigns; a point which was to him of serious importance. he had therefore with reluctance looked forward to their journey over the alps. but as soon as his father (who had met him at port l'orient on his landing) introduced him at paris to his english relations and to emmeline, the journey seemed not only to have lost it's horrors, but to become a delightful party of pleasure, and he was happy to make the fourth in the post-coach in which lady westhaven, emmeline, and her ladyship's woman, travelled; lord westhaven and the baron following in a post-chaise. nothing could exceed the happiness of the baron, nor the gaiety of his son. lord westhaven and his wife, tho' they talked about it less, were not less pleased with their friends and their expedition; while emmeline appeared restored to her former chearfulness, because she saw that they wished to see her chearful: but whenever she was a moment alone, involuntary sighs fled towards england; and when she remembered how far she must be from lady adelina, from little william, in short, from godolphin, how could she help thinking of them with concern. during the day, however, the chevalier gave her no time for reflection. he waited on her with the most assiduous attention, watched her looks to prevent her slightest wishes, talked to her incessantly, besought her to teach him english, and told her all he had seen in his travels, and much that he had done. a frenchman talks without hesitation of himself, and the chevalier was quite a frenchman. too polite however for exclusive adulation, lady westhaven shared all his flattery; and her real character being now unrepressed by the severity of her mother, she, all gaiety and good humour, was extremely amused with the extravagant gallantry of the chevalier and at emmeline's amazement, who having been little used to the manners of the french, was sometimes alarmed and sometimes vexed at the warmth of his address and the admiration which he professed towards them both. lady westhaven assured her that such conversation was so usual that nobody ever thought of being offended at it; and that bellozane was probably so much used to apply the figures of speech, which she thought so extraordinary, to every woman he saw, that he perhaps knew not himself, and certainly never thought of, what he was saying. emmeline therefore heard from him repeatedly what would from an englishman have been considered as an absolute declaration of love, without any other answer than seeming inattention, and flying as soon as possible to some other topic. in the progress of their journey these common place speeches and this desultory gallantry was gradually exchanged for a deportment more respectful. he besought emmeline very seriously to give him an opportunity of speaking to her apart; which she with the utmost difficulty evaded. his extreme gaiety forsook him--the poor chevalier was in love. it was in vain he communicated his malady to _la belle cousine_, (as he usually called lady westhaven); _la belle cousine_ only laughed at him, and told him he had according to his own account been so often in love, that this additional _penchant_ could not possibly hurt him, and would merely serve to prevent what he owned he had so much dreaded, being '_ennuyé a la mort_' at st. alpin. when he found the inexorable lady westhaven refused seriously to attend to him, he applied with new ardour to emmeline herself; to whom his importunity began to be distressing, as she foresaw in his addresses only a repetition of the persecution she had suffered from the fiery and impetuous delamere. still, however, she was often obliged to hear him. she could hear him only with coldness; which he was far from taking as discouragement. as she did not love to think _herself engaged_, she could not use that plea, or even name an engagement which she believed might now never be claimed by _him_ to whom it was given. all therefore she could say was, that she had no thoughts of marrying. an answer, which however frequently repeated, bellozane determined to think favourable; and emmeline knew not how to treat with peremptory rudeness the cousin of lord westhaven and of captain godolphin. but whatever diminution of her ease and tranquillity she might suffer or apprehend from the growing attachment of this young man, the journey was attended with so many pleasant circumstances, that all parties were desirous that it might be lengthened. the extreme eagerness with which the baron de st. alpin had wished to revisit his estate, gave way to the pleasures he found in travelling in such society; and as lady westhaven had never been farther south than lyons, and emmeline had never seen the southern provinces at all, it was determined on their arrival at that city to proceed to the shore of the mediterranean before they went into switzerland. it was the finest season of the year and the loveliest weather imaginable. the party consulted therefore only pleasure on their way. sometimes they went no more than a single stage in a day, and employed the rest in viewing any place in it's neighbourhood worth their curiosity. they often left their carriages to walk, to saunter, to dine on the grass on provisions they had brought with them; and whenever a beautiful view or uncommon scene presented themselves, they stopped to admire them; and bellozane drew sketches, which were put into emmeline's _port feuille_. as they were travelling between marseilles and toulon they entered a road bounded on each side by mountainous rocks, which sometimes receding, left between them small but richly cultivated vallies; and in other parts so nearly met each other, as to leave little more room than sufficed for the carriage to pass; while the turnings of the road were so angular and abrupt, that it seemed every moment to be carrying them into the bosom of the rock. thro' this defile, as it was quite shady, they agreed to walk. in some places huge masses impended over them, of varied form and colour, without any vegetation but scattered mosses; in others, aromatic plants and low shrubs; the lavender, the thyme, the rosemary, the mountain sage, fringed the steep craggs, while a neighbouring aclivity was shaded with the taller growth of holly, phillyrea, and ever-green oak; and the next covered with the glowing purple of the mediterranean heath. the summits of almost all, crowned with groves of fir, larch, and pine. emmeline in silent admiration beheld this beautiful and singular scene; and with the pleasure it gave her, a soft and melancholy sensation was mingled. she wanted to be alone in this delightful place, or with some one who could share, who could understand the satisfaction she felt. she knew nobody but godolphin who had taste and enthusiasm enough to enjoy it. insensibly she left lady westhaven and the chevalier behind her; and passing his lordship and the baron, who were deeply engaged in a discourse about the military operations of the past war, she walked on with some quickness. intent on the romantic wildness of the cliffs with which she was surrounded, and her mind associating with these objects the idea of him on whom it now perpetually dwelt, she had brought godolphin before her, and was imagining what he would have said had he been with her; with what warmth he would enjoy, with what taste and spirit point out, the beauty of scenes so enchanting! she had now left her companions at some distance; yet as she heard their voices swell in the breeze along the defile, she felt no apprehension. in the narrowest part of it, where she saw only steep craggs and the sky, which their bending tops hardly admitted, she was stopped by a transparent stream, which bursting suddenly with some violence out of the rock, is received into a small reservoir of stone and then carried away in stone channels to a village at some distance. while emmeline stood contemplating this beautiful spring, she beheld, in an excavation in the rock close to it, two persons sitting on a bench, which had been rudely cut for the passenger to rest. one of them appeared to be a man about fifty; he wore a short, light coloured coat, a waistcoat that had once been of embroidered velvet; from his head, which was covered first with a red thrum night-cap, and then with a small hat, bound with tarnished lace, depended an immense _queüe_; his face, tho' thin and of a mahogena darkness, seemed to express penetration and good humour; and emmeline, who had at first been a little startled, was no longer under alarm; when he, on perceiving her near the entrance of the cavern, flew nimbly out of it, bowed to the ground, and pulling off most politely his thrum night-cap, enquired--'_si mademoiselle voudrez bien se reposer?_'[ ] emmeline thanked him, and advanced towards the bench; from which a girl about seventeen, very brown but very pretty, had on her approach arisen, and put up into a kind of wallet the remains of the provisions they had been eating, which were only fruit and black bread. as soon as the old frenchman perceived that emmeline intended to sit down, he sprung before her, brushed down the seat with his cap, and then making several profound bows, assured '_mademoiselle qu'elle pourroit s'asseoir sans incommodité_.'[ ] the young woman, dressed like the _paisannes_ of the country, was modestly retiring; but emmeline desired her to remain; and entering into conversation with her, found she was the daughter of the assiduous old frenchman, and that he was going with her to toulon in hopes of procuring her a service. the baron and lord westhaven now approached, and laughingly reproached emmeline for having deserted them. she told them she was enchanted with the seat she had found, and should wait there for the chevalier and lady westhaven. 'i am only grieved,' said she, 'that i have disturbed from their humble supper these good people.' the two gentlemen then spoke to the old frenchman; whose countenance had something of keen intelligence and humble civility which prejudiced both in his favour. '_je vois bien_,' said he, addressing himself to lord westhaven,--'_je vois bien que j'ai l'honneur de parler a un milor anglais_.'[ ] '_eh! comment?_' answered his lordship--'_comment? tu connois donc bien les anglais?_'[ ] '_oh oui!--j'ai passé a leur service une partie de ma jeunesse.--ils sont les meilleur maitres_--'[ ] '_parle tu anglais, mon ami?_'[ ] 'yes milor, i speak little english. _mais_,' continued he, relapsing into the volubility of his own language--'_mais il y'a à peu pres dix neuf ans, depuis que mon maitre--mon pauvre maitre mouroit dans mes bras; helas!--s'i avoit vecu--car il etoit tout jeun--j'aurois passé ma vie entiere avec lui--j'aurois retournez avec lui en angleterre--ah c'est un païs charmant que cette angleterre._'[ ] 'you have been there then?' he answered that he had been three times; and should have been happy had it pleased heaven to have ended his days there. 'the praise you bestow on our country, my friend,' said lord westhaven, 'is worth at least this piece _de six francs_, and the beauty _de cette jolie enfant_,[ ] added he, turning towards the little _paisanne_, 'is interesting enough to induce me to enquire whether such a gift may not serve to purchase _quelques petites amplettes a la ville_.'[ ] he presented the young woman with another crown. the old frenchman seemed ready to thank his lordship with his tears. without solicitation or ceremony, seeing that the gentlemen were disposed to listen to him, he began to relate his 'short and simple' story. lady westhaven and the chevalier now arrived: but she sat down by emmeline, and desired the old man to continue whatever he was saying. 'he has been praising our country,' said lord westhaven, 'and in return i am willing to hear the history of himself, which he seems very desirous of relating.' 'i was in the army,' said he, 'as we all are; till being taken with a pleurisy at calais, and rendered long incapable of duty, i got my discharge, and hired myself as a travelling valet to a _milor anglais_. with him (he was the best master in the world) i lived six years. i went with him to england when he came to his estate, and five years afterwards came back with him to france. he met with a misfortune in losing _une dame tres amiable_, and never was quite well afterwards. to drive away trouble, _pour se dissiper_, he went among a set of his own countrymen, and i believe _le chagrin_, and living too freely, gave him a terrible fever. _une fievre ardente lui saisit a milan, ses compagnons apparemment n'aimoit gueres les malades_;[ ] for nobody came near him except a young surgeon who arrived there by accident, and hearing that an englishman of fashion lay ill, charitably visited him. but it was too late: he had already been eleven days under the hands of an italian physician, and when the english gentleman saw him he said he had only a few hours to live. 'he sat by him, however. but my poor master was senseless; 'till about an hour before he died he recovered his recollection. 'he ordered me to bring him two little boxes, which he always carried with him, and charged me to go to england with his body, and deliver those boxes to a person he named. he bade me give one of his watches, which was a very rich one, to his brother, and told _me_ to keep the other in memory of my master. 'then he spoke to the stranger--"sir," said he, "since you have the humanity to interest yourself for a person unknown to you, have the goodness to see that my servant is suffered to execute what i have directed, and put your seal on my effects. the money i have about me, my cloaths, and my common watch, i have given him. he knows what farther i would have done; i told him on the second day of my illness. baptist--you remember----" 'he tried to say something more; but in a few moments he died in my arms. 'with the assistance of the young english surgeon, i arranged every thing as my master directed. i went with his corps to england, and received a large present from his brother, whom, however, i did not see, because he was not in london. then i returned to france.' 'since you loved england so much,' enquired the baron, '_puisque vous aimiez tant cet païs pourquoi ne pas y' rester?_'[ ] '_ah, monsieur! j'etois riche; et je brulez de partager mes richesse avec une jolie fille dont j'etois eperdument amoureux._'[ ] '_eh bien?_' 'i married her, monsieur; and for above two years we were the happiest people on earth. but we were very thoughtless. _je ne scais comment cela se faisoit, mes espece anglais, qui je croyais inepuisable se dissiperent peu a peu, et enfin il falloit songer a quelque provision pour ma femme et mes deux petites filles._'[ ] 'i returned therefore into the limosin, of which province i was a native; but some of my family were dead, and the rest had neither power or inclination to assist their poor relations. the seigneur of the village had bought a post at paris, and was about to quit his chateau. he heard i was honest; and therefore, tho' he had very little to lose, he put me into it. i worked in the garden, and raised enough, with the little wages we had, to keep us. my wife learned to work, and my two little girls were healthy and happy. '_oui messieurs, nous etions pauvre a la verité! mais nous etions tres contents!_[ ] 'till about eight months ago; and then an epidemical distemper broke out in the village, and carried off my wife and my eldest daughter. '_oh, therese! et toi ma petite suzette, je te pleurs; encore amerement je te pleurs._'[ ] the poor frenchman turned away and wept bitterly. '_je scais bien_,' continued he--'_je scais bien qu'il faut s'accoutumer a les souffrances!_[ ] we might still have lived on, madelon and me, at our ruinous chateau; but the possessor of it dying, his son sent us notice that he should pull it down (indeed it must soon have fallen) and ordered us to quit it. '_ainsi me voila, messieurs, a cinquante ans, sans pain. mais pour cela je ne m'embarrasse pas; si je pourrois bien placer ma pauvre madelon tout ira bien!_'[ ] there was in this relation a touching simplicity which drew tears from lady westhaven and emmeline. the whole party became interested for the father and the daughter, who had wept silently while he was relating their story. 'can nothing be done for these poor creatures?' said lady westhaven. 'certainly we will assist them,' answered her lord.--'but let us enquire how we can best do it. _tu t'appelles?_'[ ] continued he, speaking to the frenchman. '_baptiste la fere--mais mon nomme de guerre, et de condition fut toujours le limosin._'[ ] '_dites moi donc_,[ ] monsieur le limosin,' said his lordship, 'what hopes have you of placing your daughter at toulon?' 'alas! milor, but little. i know nobody there but an old relation of my poor wife's, who is _touriere_ at a convent; and if i cannot get a service for madelon, i must give the good abbess a little money to take her till i can do something better for her.' 'and where do you expect to get money?' '_tenez, mon seigneur_,' answered he, pulling a watch out of his pocket, '_ayez la bonté d'examiner cet montre_.[ ] it is an english watch. gold; and in a gold case. i have been offered a great deal of money for it; but in all my poverty, in all my distresses, i have contrived to keep it because it was the last gift of my dear master. but now, my poor madelon must be thought of, and if it must be so, i will sell it and pay for her staying in the convent.' 'you shall not do that, my friend,' replied lord westhaven, still holding the watch in his hand. it had a cypher, h. c. m. and a crest engraved on it. 'h. c. m,' said his lordship, 'and the mowbray crest! pray what was your master's name?' '_milor moubray_,' answered le limosin. '_comment? milor mowbray?_' '_oui milor--regardez s'il vous plait. voila son chiffre, henri-charles moubray--et voila le cimier du famille._'[ ] emmeline, who no longer doubted but this was her father's servant, was so much affected, that lady westhaven, apprehending she would faint, called for assistance; and the chevalier, who during this conversation had attended only to her, snatched up the beechen cup out of which le limosin and madelon had been drinking, and which still stood on the ground, and flying with it to the spring, brought it instantly back filled with water; while lady westhaven bathed her temples and held to her her salts. she soon recovered; and then speaking in a faint voice to his lordship, said--'my lord, this is the servant in whose arms my poor father expired. do allow me to intercede with your lordship for him and for his daughter; but let him not know, to-night at least, who i am. i cannot again bear a circumstantial detail about my father.' lord westhaven now led le limosin out of the cave; told him he had determined, as he had known his master's family, to take him into his own service, and that lady westhaven would provide for his daughter. at this intelligence the poor fellow grew almost frantic. he would have thrown himself at the feet of his benefactor had he not been prevented; then flew back to fetch his madelon, that she might join in prayers and benedictions; and hardly could lord westhaven persuade him to be tranquil enough to understand the orders he gave him, which were, to hire some kind of conveyance at the next village to carry his daughter to toulon; where he gave him a direction to find his english benefactor the next day. it was now late; and the party hastened to leave this romantic spot, which had been marked by so singular a meeting. on their arrival at toulon, they equipped, and sent away before them to st. alpin, le limosin and madelon, the latter of whom lady westhaven took entirely to wait on emmeline. the soft heart and tender spirits of emmeline had not yet recovered the detail she had heard of her father's death. a pensive melancholy hung over her; which the chevalier, nothing doubting his own perfections, hoped was owing to a growing affection for himself. but it had several sources of which he had no suspicion; and it made the remaining three weeks of their tour appear tedious to emmeline; who languished to be at st. alpin, where she hoped to find letters from mrs. stafford and from lady adelina. she thought it an age since she had heard from the latter; and secretly but anxiously indulged an hope of meeting a large pacquet, which might contain some intelligence of godolphin. [footnote : if the young lady would please to sit down.] [footnote : that she might sit down without inconvenience.] [footnote : i perceive i have the honour to speak to an english nobleman.] [footnote : how? are you then well acquainted with the english?] [footnote : i passed part of my youth in their service.----they are the best masters in the world.] [footnote : do you speak english, my friend?] [footnote : it is almost nineteen years, since my master--my poor master, died in my arms; had he lived, for he was quite a young man, i should have passed my life with him--i should have returned with him to england--ah! that england is a charming country!] [footnote : of this pretty maid.] [footnote : some little necessaries, bargains, at the neighbouring town.] [footnote : a burning fever seized him at milan; his companions seemed to have but little affection for the sick.] [footnote : why not stay there?] [footnote : ah, sir! i was rich, and i longed eagerly to share my riches with a pretty young woman with whom i was distractedly in love.] [footnote : i know not how it happened, my english money, which i thought inexhaustible, diminished by little and little; and at length it was necessary to think what i was to do for my wife and my two little girls.] [footnote : yes, gentlemen, we were indeed poor; but we were very, very happy!] [footnote : oh! theresa!--and you, my poor suzette, i lament ye!--bitterly i still deplore your loss!] [footnote : i know well--i know, that we must learn to suffer!] [footnote : so here i am, gentlemen, at fifty years old, without bread to eat. but it is not that which troubles me--if i could get a comfortable place for my poor madelon, all would be well!] [footnote : your name?] [footnote : baptiste la fere. but the name under which i served as a soldier and as a servant is le limosin.] [footnote : tell me then.] [footnote : see, my lord; have the goodness to look at this watch.] [footnote : yes, my lord; be so good as to observe. there is his cypher, h. c. m. and there the family crest.] end of the third volume volume iv chapter i the chateau de st. alpin was a gloomy and antique building, but in habitable repair. the only constant resident in it for some years had been the demoiselle de st. alpin, now about five and forty; whose whole attention had been given to keeping it in order, and collecting, in the garden, variety of plants, in which she took singular pleasure. detached from the world, and with no other relations than her brother and her nephews, whom she was seldom likely to see, she found in this innocent and amusing pursuit a resource against the tedium of life. her manners, tho' simple, were mild and engaging; and her heart perfectly good and benevolent. with her, therefore, emmeline was extremely pleased; and the country in which her residence was situated, was so beautiful, that accustomed to form her ideas of magnificent scenery from the first impressions that her mind had received in wales, emmeline acknowledged that her eye was here perfectly satisfied. with her heart it was far otherwise. on her arrival at st. alpin, she found letters from lady adelina enclosed in others from mrs. stafford. lady adelina gave such an account of her own health as convinced emmeline it was not improved since she left england. of mr. godolphin she only said, that he was returned from ireland, but had staid with her only a few hours, and was then obliged to go on business to london, where his continuance was uncertain. mrs. stafford gave of herself and her family a more pleasing account. she said she had hopes that the readjustment of mr. stafford's affairs would soon allow of their return to england; and as it might possibly happen on very short notice, and before emmeline could rejoin them, she had sent, by a family who were travelling to geneva, and who readily undertook the care of it, a large box which contained some of her cloaths and the caskets which belonged to her, which had been long left at mrs. ashwood's after emmeline's precipitate departure from her house with delamere, and which, on mrs. ashwood's marriage and removal, she had sent with a cold note (addressed to miss mowbray) to the person who negociated mr. stafford's business in london. their lengthened journey had so much broken in on the time allotted to their tour, that lord and lady westhaven purposed staying only a month at st. alpin. the baron, who had equal pride and pleasure in the company of his nephew, endeavoured by every means in his power to make that time pass agreeably; and felt great satisfaction in shewing to the few neighbours who were within fifteen miles of his _chateau_, that he had, in an english nobleman of such rank and merit, so near a relation. he had observed very early the growing passion of his son for miss mowbray. he was assured that she returned it; for he never supposed it possible that any woman could behold the chevalier with indifference. he had heard from lord westhaven that emmeline was the daughter of a man of fashion, but was by the circumstances of her birth excluded from any share of his fortune, and entirely dependant on the favour of the marquis of montreville. the old baron, charmed himself with her person and her manners, rather approved than opposed the wishes of his son; and however convenient it might have been to have seen him married to a woman of fortune, he was disposed to rejoice at his inclining to marry at all; and convinced that with emmeline he must be happy, thought he might dispense with being rich. the chevalier, confident of success, and believing that emmeline had meant by her timid refusals only encouragement, grew so extremely importunate, that she was sometimes on the point of declaring to him her real situation. but from this she was deterred by the apprehension that he would apply to lord delamere for the relinquishment of her promise; and should he obtain it, consider himself as having a claim to the hand his lordship resigned. this was an hope, which whatever his vanity might have suggested, she never meant to give him; yet she had the mortification to find that all her rejections, however repeated, were considered by the chevalier as words of course. it was in vain she assured him that besides her disinclination to change her situation by marriage at all, she had other forcible objections; that she should never think of passing her life out of england; that not only their country, but their manners, their ideas on a thousand subjects, so materially differed, as to make every other reason of her refusal unnecessary. when she seriously urged thus much, he usually answered that he would then reside in england; that he would accommodate his manner of living to her pleasure; and that as to the ideas which had displeased her, he would never again offend her with their repetition. emmeline had indeed been extremely hurt and disgusted at that levity of principle on the most serious subjects which the chevalier avowed without reserve, and for which he appeared to value himself. tho' brought up a calvinist, he had as he owned always conformed to the mode of worship and ceremonies of the catholics while he was among them; and usually added, that had he served amid the turks or the jews, he should have done the same, as a matter of great indifference. the baron, whose life had been more active than contemplative, was unaccustomed to consider these matters deeply. and as every thing bellozane advanced had with him great authority, he was struck with his lively arguments; and whatever might be their solidity, could not help admiring the wit of the chevalier, whom he sometimes encouraged to dispute with lord westhaven. the religion of lord westhaven was as steady and unaffected as his morals were excellent; and he entered willingly into these dialogues with bellozane, in hopes of convincing him that infidelity was by no means necessary to the character of a soldier; and that _he_ was unlikely to serve well the country to which he belonged, or for which he fought, who began by insulting his god. he found however that the young man had imbibed these lessons so early, and fancied them so much the marks of a superior and penetrating mind, that he could make no impression by rational argument. bellozane usually answered by a sprightly quotation from some french author, and his lordship soon declined the conversation, believing that if sickness and sorrow did not supercede so slow a cure, time at least would convince him of his folly. but such was the effect of this sort of discourse on emmeline, that had bellozane been in other respects unexceptionable, and had her heart been free from any other impression, she would never have listened to him as a lover. from his own account of himself in other respects, emmeline had gathered enough to believe that he was profligate and immoral. but as she could not appear to detect these errors without allowing him to suppose her interested in his forsaking them, she generally heard him in silence; and only when pressed to name her objections stated his loose opinions as one in her mind very material. to this he again repeated, that his opinions he would correct; his residence should be settled by herself.--'had she any objection to his person?' enquired he, as he proudly surveyed it in the long old fashioned glass which ornamented the _sal a manger_.[ ] emmeline, blushing from the conscious recollection of the resemblance it bore in height and air to that of godolphin, answered faulteringly--'that to his person there could be no objection.' 'to his fortune?' 'it was undoubtedly more than situated as she was she could expect.' 'to his family?' 'it was a family whose alliance must confer honour.' 'what then?' vehemently continued the chevalier--'what then, charming emmeline, occasions this long reserve, this barbarous coldness? since you can form no decided objection; since you have undoubtedly allowed me to hope; why do you thus cruelly prolong my sufferings? surely you do not, you cannot mean finally to refuse and desert me, after having permitted me so long to speak to you of my passion?' 'it is with some justice,' gravely and coldly answered emmeline--'i own it is with some justice that you impute to me the appearance of coquetry; because i have listened with too much patience, (tho' certainly never with approbation,) to your discourse on this subject. but be assured that whatever i have said, tho' perhaps with insufficient firmness, i now repeat, in the hope that you will understand it as my unalterable resolution--the honour you are so obliging as to offer me, i _never_ can accept; and i beg you will forbear to urge me farther on a subject to which i never can give any other answer.' this dialogue, which happened on the second day of her residence at st. alpin, and the first moment he could find her alone, did not seem to discourage the chevalier. he observed her narrowly: the country round st. alpin, which, as well as the place itself, he thought '_triste et insupportable_,' seemed to delight and attract her. he saw her not only enduring but even fond of his aunt and her plants, which were to him, '_les sujets du monde les plus facheux_.'[ ]--his excessive vanity made him persist in believing that she could not admire such a place but thro' some latent partiality to it's master; nor seek the company and esteem of his aunt, but for the sake of her nephew. these remarks, and a conviction formed on his own self-love and on the experience of his parisian conquests, made him disregard her refusal and persecute her incessantly with his love. lord westhaven saw her uneasiness; but knew not how to relieve her without offending the baron and the chevalier, or divulging circumstances of which he did not think himself at liberty without her permission to speak. lady westhaven, to whom emmeline was obliged to complain of the importunity of bellozane, repeatedly but very fruitlessly remonstrated with him. what she had at first ridiculed, now gave her pain; and anxious as she was to reconcile her brother to her friend, from whom she thought only his warmth of temper and a misunderstanding had divided him, she wished to shorten as much as possible their stay at st. alpin. her own situation too made her very anxious to return to england; and she was impatient to see lord delamere, to explain to him all the mystery of emmeline's conduct; a detail which she could not venture by the post, tho' she had written to him from lyons, intreating him to suspend all opinion in regard to miss mowbray's conduct 'till she should see him. this letter never reached the hands of lord delamere, and therefore was not answered to st. alpin; whither his sister had desired him to direct, and where she now grew very uneasy at not hearing from him. le limosin and his madelon had arrived at st. alpin some time before their noble patrons, with whose goodness they were elated to excess. le limosin himself, assiduous to do every thing for every body, flew about as if he was but twenty. his particular province was to attend with lady westhaven's english servant on her ladyship and miss mowbray; and madelon was directed to wait on the latter as her _fille de chambre_. emmeline, with painful solicitude for which she could hardly account, wished to hear from le limosin those particulars of her father of which he was so well able to inform her. he had served, too, her mother; whose name she had hardly ever heard repeated, and of whom, before witnesses, she dared not enquire. lord westhaven had not yet explained to him to what he principally owed the extraordinary kindness he had met with. he knew not that the lady on whom he had the honour to wait was the daughter of that master to whom he had been so much obliged. the first days that lord and lady westhaven and emmeline had passed with the baron, had been engaged by company or in parties which he made to shew the views of the surrounding country to his english guests. the chevalier never suffered emmeline to be absent from these excursions, nor when at home allowed her to be a moment out of his company. if she sought refuge in the chamber of mrs. st. alpin, he followed her; if she went with her to her plants, thither also came bellozane; and having acquired from his aunt's books a few physical and botanical terms, affected to desire information, which the old lady, highly pleased with his desire of improvement in her favourite studies, gave him with great simplicity. lord westhaven grew apprehensive that the jaunts of pleasure which the baron continued to propose would be too fatigueing for his wife. and as they were now to go on a visit to one of st. alpin's old military friends, who resided at the distance of fifteen miles, and where they were to remain all night, he prevailed on her to stay at home, where emmeline also desired to be left. bellozane, detesting a party which the ladies were not to enliven, made some efforts to be excused also; but he found his declining to go would so much chagrin and disappoint his father, that, with whatever reluctance, he was obliged to set out with him. lady westhaven, who was a good deal indisposed, went to lie down in her own room; whither emmeline attended her, and finding she was disposed to sleep, left her. mrs. st. alpin was busied in her garden; and emmeline, delighted with an opportunity of being alone, retired to her room to write to mrs. stafford. she had not proceeded far in her letter, when a servant informed her that the messenger who had been sent to geneva for her box was returned with it. she desired that it might be brought up. madelon came to assist her in opening it, and then left her. she took out the cloaths and linen, and then the two embroidered caskets, which she put on the table before her, and gazed at with melancholy pleasure, as silent memorials of her parents. they brought also to her mind the recollection of mrs. carey, and many of her infantine pains and pleasures at mowbray castle, where she remembered first to have remarked them in a drawer belonging to that good woman; to which, tho' it was generally locked, she had occasionally sent her little charge when she was herself confined to her chair. one of them she had began to inspect at clapham, and perused some of the letters it contained. they were from her grandmother, mrs. mowbray, to her father; and were filled with reproaches so warm and severe, and such pointed censures of his conduct in regard to miss stavordale, her mother, to whom one letter yet more bitter was addressed, that after reading three of them, emmeline believed that the further inspection of the casket was likely to produce for her only unavailing regret. still however she would then have continued it, painful as it was, but was interrupted by the sudden entrance of lord montreville, who came to enquire after his son. the sight of mr. mowbray's picture, which she had taken out, created in the breast of his lordship a momentary tenderness for his niece. she had since always worn that picture about her; but the papers, by which she had been too much affected after that interview farther to peruse, she had again secured in the caskets; and being almost immediately afterwards taken by delamere on her involuntary journey to stevenage, from whence she returned no more to clapham, she had not since had them in her possession. her mind in this interval had acquired greater strength; and she at length wished to know those particulars of her mother's fate, into which she had hitherto forborne thro' timidity to enquire. being now therefore alone, and having these repositories once more in her hands, she resolutely inspected them. the first contained about twenty letters. some were those she had before seen, and others followed them equally severe. they seemed in sullen resentment to have been preserved; and emmeline could not but reflect with pain on the anger and asperity in which they were written; on the remorse and uneasiness with which they must have been read. the second casket seemed also to hold letters. on opening it, emmeline found they were part of the correspondence between her father and mother during the early part of their acquaintance, when, tho' they sometimes resided in the same house, the vigilant observation of mrs. mowbray very seldom allowed them to converse. among these, were several pieces of poetry, elegant and affecting. after having read which, emmeline imagined she had seen all the box contained, a few loosely folded papers only remaining; but on opening one of these, what was her astonishment to find in it two certificates of her mother's marriage; one under the hand of a catholic priest, by whom she had been married immediately on their arrival at dunkirk; the other signed a few days before the birth of emmeline by an english clergyman, who had again performed the ceremony in the chapel of the english ambassador at paris. that the memory of her mother should thus be free from reproach; that the conduct of her father, which had hitherto appeared cruel and unjust, should be vindicated from every aspersion; and that she should herself be restored to that place in society from which she seemed to be excluded for ever; was altogether such unexpected, such incredible happiness, as made her almost doubtful of the evidence of her senses. ignorant as she was of the usual form of such papers, yet the care with which these seemed to be executed left her little doubt of their regularity. one other folded paper yet remained unread. trembling she opened it. it was written in her father's hand and endorsed memorandum 'the harshness with which my mother and her family have treated miss stavordale, for a supposed crime, has forced her to put herself under my protection. miss stavordale is now my wife; but of this i shall not inform my family, conceiving myself accountable no longer to persons capable of so much rashness and injustice. least any thing however should happen before i can make a will in due form, i hereby acknowledge emmeline stavordale (now mowbray) as my wife; and her child, whether a son or a daughter, heir to my estate. my brother being possessed of a very large fortune, both by his late marriage and the gifts of his mother's family, will hardly dispute the claim of such child to my paternal estate. '(this is a duplicate of a paper sent to francis williamson, my steward at mowbray castle.) signed by me at paris in presence of two witnesses, this fifteenth of march --. henry charles mowbray. witnessed by robert wallace, baptiste la fere, (dit le limosin.)' this, which was of the same date as the last certificate, confirmed every claim which they both gave emmeline to her name and fortune. a change of circumstances so sudden; her apprehensions that the marquis of montreville, who she thought must have long known, should dispute her legitimacy, and her wonder at the concealment which mr. williamson and mrs. carey seemed passively to have suffered; which together with a thousand other sensations crouded at once into her mind, so greatly affected her, that feeling herself grow sick, she was obliged to call madelon, who being at work in an adjoining room, ran in, and seeing her lady look extremely pale, and hearing her speak with difficulty, she threw open the window, fetched her some water, and then without waiting to see their effects she flew away to call mrs. st. alpin; who presently appeared, followed by her maid carrying a large case which was filled with bottles of various distillations from every aromatic and pungent herb her garden or the adjacent mountains afforded. emmeline, hardly knowing what she did, was compelled to swallow a glass full of one of these cordials; which mrs. st. alpin assured her was '_excellente pour les vapeurs_.'[ ] it almost deprived her of breath, but recalled her astonished spirits; and having with great difficulty prevailed on her kindly-busy hostess to leave her, she locked up her papers, and threw herself on the bed; where, having directed madelon to draw the curtains and retire, she tried to compose her mind, and to consider what steps she ought to take in consequence of this extraordinary discovery. [footnote : dining room.] [footnote : the most wearisome, or to use the cant of the times, the most _boring_ subjects in the world.] [footnote : excellent for the cure of vapours.] chapter ii convinced of the noble and disinterested nature of lord westhaven, emmeline thought she ought immediately on his return to shew him the papers she had found, and entreat him to examine, for farther particulars, le limosin, who seemed providentially to have been thrown in her way on purpose to elucidate her history. after having formed this resolution, her mind was at liberty for other reflections. delamere returned to it: his unjust suspicions; his haughty reproaches; his long, indignant anger, which vouchsafed not even to solicit an explanation; she involuntarily compared with the gentleness, the generosity of godolphin; with his candid temper, his warm affections, his tender heart. and with pain she remembered, that unless delamere would relinquish the fatal promise she had given him, she could not shew the preference which she feared she must ever feel for him. sometimes she thought of asking lord westhaven to apply to delamere for her release. but how could she venture on a measure which might involve, in such difficulties, lady adelina, and engage lord westhaven in an enquiry fatal to his repose and that of his whole family? how could she, by this application, counteract the wishes of lady westhaven, who anxiously hoped to re-unite her brother and her friend; and who desired ardently to be in england, that she might explain herself, to delamere, all the circumstances that had injured emmeline in his opinion; which she thought she could easily do without hazarding any of the evils that might follow from an inconsiderate disclosure of the occurrences he had misunderstood. uneasily ruminating on the painful uncertainty of her situation and the difficulties which every way surrounded her, she continued alone; till lady westhaven, alarmed at hearing she had been ill, sent her woman to enquire after and know if she might herself come to her? emmeline, to relieve at once her friendly solicitude, arose and went to her apartment; where she made light of her sickness, and endeavoured to assume as much chearfulness as possible.--'till she had seen lord westhaven, she determined not to mention to her ladyship the discovery of the morning; feeling that there would be great indelicacy in eagerly divulging to her a secret by which she must tacitly accuse the marquis of montreville of having thus long detained from its legal owner the mowbray estate; and of having brought up in indigence and obscurity, the daughter of his brother, while conscious of her claim to education and affluence. struggling therefore to subdue the remaining tumult of her spirits, she rejoined her friend. they passed the afternoon tranquilly with mrs. st. alpin; and about eleven o'clock the following morning, lord westhaven, the baron, and the chevalier, returned. emmeline took the earliest opportunity of telling lord westhaven that she wished to speak to him alone. there was no way of escaping from the chevalier but by his lordship's openly declaring that he wanted a private conference with his fair cousin, whom he led into the garden. bellozane, who hoped that his earnest solicitations had prevailed on lord westhaven to befriend his love, was glad to see them walk out together, while he watched them from a window. emmeline put into her pocket the two certificates and the memorandum written by her father. without explanation or comment, she gave them, as soon as they were at a little distance from the house, to lord westhaven. he read them twice over in silence; then looking with astonishment at emmeline, he asked her from whence she had these papers? 'they were enclosed, my lord,' answered she 'in two little boxes or caskets which were left to me among other things by my father's nurse; who becoming the housekeeper at mowbray castle, brought me up. they afterwards long remained at the house of mrs. james crofts, with whom you know i resided; on her removal after her marriage, they were sent, together with some of my cloaths, to mrs. stafford's agent in london; from whence she lately received them; and having an opportunity of sending them to geneva by a family travelling thither, she forwarded them to me, and i found them yesterday in the trunk brought by the messenger which you know the baron sent thither on purpose.' again lord westhaven read the papers; and after pausing a moment said-- 'there is no doubt, there can be none, of the authenticity of these papers, nor of your consequent claim to the mowbray estate. surely,' added he, again pausing--'surely it is most extraordinary that lord montreville should have suffered the true circumstances of your birth to remain thus long unexplained. most cruel! most ungenerous! to possess himself of a property to which he must know he had no right! your father's memorandum says that he had forwarded a duplicate of it to francis williamson; do you know whether that person is yet living?' 'he is dead, my lord. he died in consequence of an accident at mowbray castle, where he was many years steward.' 'he must however have had sufficient time to give lord montreville every information as to his master's marriage, even if his lordship knew it not, as he probably did, by other means. yet from a man of honour--from lord montreville--such conduct is most unworthy. i can hardly conceive it possible that he should be guilty of such concealment.' 'surely, my lord, it is possible,' said the candid and ingenuous emmeline--'surely it _is_ possible that my uncle might, by some accident, (for which without knowing more we cannot account) have been kept in ignorance of my mother's real situation. for your satisfaction and mine, before we say more on this subject, would it not be well to hear what le limosin, who was i suppose present both at my mother's marriage and at my father's death, has to relate?' to this proposal lord westhaven agreed. the _sal a compagnie_[ ] was usually vacant at this time of the day. thither they went together, and sent for le limosin; who loved talking so much that nothing was more easy than to make him tell all he remembered, and even minutely describe every scene at which he had been present. 'le limosin,' said lord westhaven, as soon as he came into the room, 'i was much pleased and interested with the account you gave me when i first met you, of the english master whom you call _milor mowbray_. i know his family well. tell me, does this picture resemble him?' his lordship shewed him a portrait of mr. mowbray which had been drawn at paris. le limosin looked a moment at it--the tears came into his eyes. '_o oui--oui, mi lor!--je me rappelle bien ce portrait!--ah! quel resemblance! quelques mois avant sa mort tel etoit mon pauvre maitre! ah!_' added he, giving back, with a sigh, the picture to lord westhaven--'_cela me fend le coeur!_'[ ] 'now then,' reassumed lord westhaven, 'look, le limosin, at that.' he put before him the resemblance of emmeline's mother, which had been painted at the same time. '_eh! pardi oui--voila--voila madame! la charmante femme, dont la perte couta la vie a mon maitre. helas!--je m'en souviens bien du jôur que je vis pour la premiere fois cette aimable dame. elle n'avoit qu'environ quatorze a quinze ans. ah! qu'elle etoit pour lors, gaï, espiegle, folatre, et si belle!--si belle!_'[ ] 'tell me,' said lord westhaven, 'all you remember of her.' 'i remember her, my lord,' said le limosin, speaking still in french, 'i remember her from the first of my going to england with milor mowbray. she lived then with madame mowbray; and the servants told me, that being a distant relation and an orphan, madame had taken her and intended to give her a fortune. milor mowbray, when he first returned from his travels, used to live for two or three months together with madame his mother; but she was strict and severe, and used frequently to reproach him with his gaieties--_il etoit un peu libertin milor, comme sont a l'ordinaire les jeunes seigneurs de sa nation_.[ ] he admired mademoiselle stavordale as a beautiful child, and used to romp with her; but as she grew older, madame mowbray was dissatisfied with him for taking so much notice of her, and would oblige her to live always up in madame's dressing room, so that my master could hardly ever see her. madame, however, told my master one day, that tho' mademoiselle stavordale had no fortune, she would not object to his marrying her in a year or two if he was then in the same mind. but my master was in his turn offended. he said he would not be dictated to, nor told whether he should marry or remain single. _madame etoit forte brusque--elle piquoit monsieur par un reponse un peu vive_[ ]--and they had a violent disagreement; in consequence of which he quitted her house, and only went now and then afterwards to see her quite in form. some months afterwards he called me to him; and as i was dressing him he asked me if i had no female friend among his mother's servants. 'baptiste,' said he, 'i cannot get the demoiselle stavordale out of my head.--_j'aime a la folie cette fille mais pour le mariage, je ne suis pas trop sur, que je m'acquitterai bien, en promissant de l'aimer pour la vie.--je veux aussi qu'elle m'aime sans que l'interet y'entre pour quelque chose.--puisque madame ma mere s'amuse a me guetter, je voudrois bien la tromper; je scais que tu est habile--ne pourra tu pas nous menager une petite tete a tete?[ ] 'milor, je faisois mon possible--et enfin--par la bonté et l'honeteté--d'une fille qui servoit madame--je vins heureusement about--quelque jours apres--monsieur enleva la belle stavordale tant en depit--qu'en amour._'[ ] at this recital, emmeline found herself cruelly hurt; but lord westhaven besought her to command herself, and le limosin went on. 'to avoid the rage and reproaches of madame mowbray, which it was likely would be very loud, my master took mademoiselle stavordale immediately abroad. we landed at dunkirk; but the young lady was so unhappy at the step she had taken, _elle pleuroit, elle se desoloit, elle s'abandonna a le desespoir--enfin, tant elle faisoit_,[ ] that monsieur sent for a priest, and they were married. soon afterwards my lady was likely to bring monsieur an heir. _ah! qu'ils etoient pour lors heureux._ but their happiness was interrupted by the death of my master's mother, madame mowbray, who had never forgiven him, and who disposed of all her money that was in her own power to his brother. my poor lady took this sadly to heart. she reproached herself with being the cause of my master's losing such a fortune. he said he had yet enough; and tried to console my lady. still, still it hung on her spirits; and she could not bear to think that madame mowbray, who had brought her up, and had been kind to her when she had no other friend, should have died in anger with her. i believe my master was sorry then that he had not reconciled himself with his mother, as my lady often begged and entreated that he would; but it was now too late; and he said his brother had used him unkindly, and had certainly helped to irritate his mother against him; and he would not write to him tho' my lady often desired and prayed that he would. as she grew near her time, she was more and more out of spirits, and my master finding her uneasy because they had not been married by an english priest, had the ceremony performed again in the chapel of the english ambassador. my master could not however make her forget her concern for the death of his mother; and she was always melancholy, as if she had foreseen how little a time she had herself to live. alas! she brought my master a daughter, and died in three hours!' 'if i were to live a thousand years,' continued le limosin, 'i should never forget my poor master's distraction when he heard she was dead. it was with great difficulty that even with the assistance of his english servants i could prevent his destroying himself in the phrenzy of his grief. i dared not leave him a moment. he heard nothing we said to him; he heeded not the questions i asked him about the child; and at last i was forced to send an express to mr. oxenden, his friend, who was at some distance from paris. he came; and by the help of another english gentleman they forced him out of the house while the body of my mistress was removed to be carried to england. he was so near madness, that his friends were afraid of his relapsing, even after he grew better, if they asked him many questions about it. so they gave me orders as to her funeral; and after about a fortnight he came back to the house where the child was, attended by his two friends. 'it was an heart-piercing sight, milor, to see him weep over the little baby as it lay in the arms of it's nurse. after some time he called me, and told me that he should not be easy, unless he was sure his poor little girl would be taken proper care of; that he had no friend in france to whom he chose to entrust her; and therefore ordered me to go with the nurse to england, and directed therése, my mistress's _fille de chambre_, to go also, that the child might be well attended. he told me that he should perhaps quit paris before i could get back; in which case he would leave directions where i should follow him. then he kissed his little girl, and his two friends tore him away. i immediately proceeded to england as he directed, with the nurse, and therése, and we carried the infant to the chateau de mowbray. the french nurse could speak no english, and could not be prevailed upon to stay above two days. therése too longed to get back to france; and we immediately returned to paris, where i found a letter from my master, ordering me to follow him into italy. 'at milan, milor, i rejoined him. he looked very ill; and complained of feeling himself indisposed. but still he went out; and i believe drank too much with his english friends. the third or fourth day after i got there he came home from a party which he had made out of town with them about ten o'clock in the morning, and told me he had a violent pain in his head. he went up into his room. "i am strangely disordered, baptiste," said he, as he put his hand to his temples--"perhaps it may go off; but if it should grow worse, as i am afraid it will, remember that you take those two little boxes in which i keep my papers, to england, and deliver them to my steward at mowbray castle. i have already written to him about my daughter." then almost shrieking with the acute pain which darted into his head, he cried--"i cannot talk, nor can i now write to my brother as i think i ought to do about my child. but send, send for a notary, and when i am a little easier i will dictate a will." 'milor, i sent for the notary, but he waited all day in the anti-room to no purpose. my poor master was never again easy enough to see him--never again able to dictate a will. he grew more and more delirious, and continued to complain of his head, his head! alas! he did not even know me, till about an hour before his death.' emmeline, whose tears had almost choaked her during the greatest part of this narration, now said to lord westhaven-- 'my lord, do not let him repeat the scene of my father's death; i am not now able to bear it.' 'well, le limosin,' said his lordship, 'this young lady, who is the daughter of your master; the same whom you helped to carry, an infant, to mowbray castle, will soon have it in her power to reward your fidelity and attachment to her father.' le limosin now threw himself on his knees in a transport of joy and acknowledgment. lord westhaven, fearing that his raptures might quite overcome the disturbed spirits of his fair mistress, desired her to give him her hand to kiss; which she did, and trying, but ineffectually, to smile thro' her tears, was led by his lordship into her own room. he told her that at present he wished to conceal from lady westhaven the discovery they had made. 'for tho' i am convinced,' added he, 'that for your sake she will rejoice in it, she will be hurt at the extraordinary conduct of her father, and harrass herself with conjectures about it and apologies for it, which i wish to spare her in her present state.' emmeline assured him she would observe a strict silence; and he left her to give to le limosin a charge of secresy. he then retired to his room, and wrote to lord montreville, stating the simple fact, and enclosing copies of the certificates; and after shewing his letter to emmeline, sent it off to england. emmeline now went out to walk, in hopes of recovering her composure and being able to appear at dinner without betraying by her countenance that any thing extraordinary had been the subject of her conversation with lord westhaven. the chevalier, however, was soon at her side. and still flattering himself that his lordship had undertaken to plead his cause, he addressed her with all the confidence of a man sure of success. emmeline was very little disposed to listen to him; and with a greater appearance of chagrin and impatience than she had yet shewn, repeated to him her determination not to marry. he still declared himself sure of her relenting; and added, that unless she had designed finally to hear him favourably she would never have allowed him so repeatedly to press his attachment. this speech, which indirectly accused her of coquetry, encreased her vexation. but the persevering chevalier was not to be repressed. he told her that he had projected a party of pleasure on the lake the next day, in which he intended to include a visit to the rocks of meillerie. 'it is classic ground, mademoiselle,' said he, 'and is fitted to love and despair. ah! will you not there hear me? will you still inhumanly smile; will you still look so gentle, while your heart is harder than the rocks we shall see--colder than the snow that crowns them!--an heart on which even the pen of fire which rousseau held would make no impression!' he held her hands during this rhapsody. she could not therefore immediately escape. but on the appearance of a servant, who announced the dinner's being ready, she coldly disengaged herself and went into the house. [footnote : drawing room.] [footnote : o yes, my lord; i recollect well this picture. what a likeness! such, a few months before he died, was my poor master! alas! it cuts me to the heart.] [footnote : ah! hah! yes,--there is, sure enough, my lady. the charming woman whose loss cost my master his life. alas! how well i recollect the first day i saw this amiable lady; she was then only between fourteen and fifteen; and at that time so gay, so full of frolic and vivacity, and so very, very pretty!] [footnote : he was a little free, my lord; as the young noblemen of his country usually are.] [footnote : madame was very hasty; she irritated my master by a sharp answer.] [footnote : i love that girl to madness; but as to marrying her i am not quite sure i should acquit myself well were i to promise that i would love her for ever. i desire too that interest may have nothing to do with her affection for me. as my mother amuses herself with watching me, i long to deceive her. you are a clever fellow; cannot you contrive for us a private meeting?] [footnote : my lord, i did my best; and at last by the goodness and civility of a young woman who waited on madame, i happily accomplished it. some days after which, my master carried off the fair stavordale, as much thro' revenge as love.] [footnote : she wept, she lamented, she gave herself up to despair.] chapter iii the agitation she had undergone in the morning, affected both the spirits and the looks of emmeline; and when, immediately after dinner, bellozane proposed the party of pleasure he had projected for the next day, lady westhaven answered--'as for me i shall on my own account make no objection, but i cannot equally answer for our fair cousin.--emmeline, my love, you seem ill. i cannot imagine, my lord, what you have been saying to her?' 'i have been advising her,' answered lord westhaven, 'to go into a convent; and her looks are merely looks of penitence for all the mischief she has done. she determines to take the veil, and to do no more.' emmeline, tho' hardly able to bear even this friendly raillery, turned it off with a melancholy smile. the party was agreed upon; the baron went out to give orders for preparing the provisions they were to take with them, and the chevalier to see that the boat was in a proper state for the expedition and give the boatmen notice. lady westhaven then began talking of england, and expressed her astonishment at having heard nothing from thence for above six weeks. while lord westhaven was attempting to account for this failure of intelligence, which he saw gave his wife more concern than she expressed, a servant brought in several large pacquets of letters, which he said the messenger who was usually sent to the post town, had that moment brought in. his lordship, eagerly surveying the address of each, gave to emmeline one for her; which opening, she found came from mrs. stafford, and enclosed another. _st. germains, june ._ 'my dearest emmeline will forgive me if i write only a line in the envelope, to account for the long detention of the enclosed letter. it has, by some mistake of mr. la fosse, been kept at rouen instead of being forwarded to st. germains; and appears to have passed thro' numberless hands. i hope you will get it safe; tho' my being at paris when it _did_ arrive here has made it yet a week later. by the next post i shall write more fully, and therefore will now only tell you we are well, and that i am ever, with the truest attachment, your c. stafford.' emmeline now saw by the seal and the address that the second letter was from lord montreville. it appeared to have been written in great haste; and as she unfolded it, infinite was her amazement to find, instead of a remittance, which about this time she expected, the promise she had given delamere, torn in two pieces and put into a blank paper. the astonishment and agitation she felt at this sight, hardly left her power to read the letter which she held. _berkley-square, may , --_ 'dear miss mowbray, 'my son, lord delamere, convinced at length of the impropriety of a marriage so unwelcome to his family, allows me to release you from the promise which he obtained. i do myself the pleasure to enclose it, and shall be glad to hear you receive it safe by an early post. my lord delamere assures me that you hold no promise of the like nature from him. if he is in this matter forgetful, i doubt not but that you will return it on receipt of this. 'maddox informs me that he shall in a few days forward to you the payment due: to which i beg leave to add, that if you have occasion for fifty or an hundred pounds more, during your stay on the continent, you may draw on maddox to that amount. with sincere wishes for your health and happiness, i am, dear miss mowbray, your obedient and faithful humble servant, montreville.' tho' joy was, in the heart of emmeline, the predominant emotion, she yet felt some degree of pique and resentment involuntarily arise against lord montreville and his son; and tho' the renunciation of the latter was what she had secretly wished ever since she had discovered the capricious violence of delamere and the merit of godolphin, the cold and barely civil stile in which his father had acquainted her with it, seemed at once to shock, mortify, and relieve her. after having considered a moment the contents of her own letters, she cast her eyes towards lady westhaven, whose countenance expressed great emotion; while her lord, sternly and displeased ran over his, and then put them into his pocket. 'what say _your_ letters from england, my fairest cousin?' said he, advancing and trying to shake off his chagrin. 'will you do me the honour to peruse them, my lord?' said she, half smiling.--'they will not take you up much time.' he read them. 'it is a settled thing then i find. lady westhaven, your's are, i presume, from berkley-square?' 'they are,' answered she.--'never,' and she took out her handkerchief--'never have i received any less welcome!' she gave one from lady frances crofts to his lordship, in which, with many details of her own affairs, was this sentence-- 'before this, you have heard from my father or my mother that lord delamere has entirely recovered the use of his reason, and accepts of miss otley with her immense fortune. this change was brought about suddenly. it was settled in norfolk, immediately after lord delamere's return from ireland. i congratulate you and lord w. on an event which i conclude _must_ to _both_ of you be pleasing. i have seen none of the family for near three weeks, as they are gone back into norfolk; only my brother called for a moment, and seemed to be greatly hurried; by which, as well as from other circumstances, i conclude that preparations are making for the wedding immediately.' _may ._ lady westhaven, who saw all hopes of being allied to the friend of her heart for ever at an end--who believed that she had always cherished an affection for her brother, and who supposed that in consequence of his desertion she was left in mortifying dependance on lord montreville, was infinitely hurt at this information. the letter from her father to emmeline confirmed all her apprehensions. there was a freezing civility in the style, which gave no hopes of his alleviating by generosity and kindness the pain which her ladyship concluded emmeline must feel; while lord westhaven, knowing that to her whom he thus insulted with the distant offer of fifty or an hundred pounds, he really was accountable for the income of an estate of four thousand five hundred a year, for near nineteen years, and that he still withheld that estate from her, could hardly contain his indignation even before his wife; whom he loved too well not to wish to conceal from her the ill opinion he could not help conceiving of her father. emmeline, who was far from feeling that degree of pain which lady westhaven concluded must penetrate her heart, was yet unwilling to shew that she actually received with pleasure (tho' somewhat allayed by lord montreville's coldness) an emancipation from her engagement. of her partiality to godolphin, her friend had no idea; for emmeline, too conscious of it to be able to converse about him without fearing to betray herself, had studiously avoided talking of him after their first meeting; and she now imagined that lady westhaven, passionately fond of her brother as she was, would think her indifference affected thro' pique; and carried too far, if she did not receive the intelligence of their eternal separation with some degree of concern. these thoughts gave her an air of vexation and embarrassment which would have saved her the trouble of dissimulation had she been an adept in it's practice. extremely harrassed and out of spirits before, tears now, in spite of her internal satisfaction, and perhaps partly arising from it, filled her eyes; while lady westhaven, who was greatly more hurt, exclaimed-- 'my brother then marries miss otley! after all i have heard him say, i thought it impossible!' 'he will however, i doubt not, be happy,' answered emmeline. 'the satisfaction of having made lord and lady montreville completely happy, must greatly contribute to his being so himself.' 'heaven grant it!' replied lady westhaven. 'poor frederic! he throws away an invaluable blessing! whether he will, in any other, find consolation, i greatly doubt. but however changed _his_ heart may be, my dearest emmeline,' added she, tenderly embracing her, 'i think i can venture to assure you that those of lord westhaven and your augusta, will, towards you, ever be the same.' emmeline now wished to put an end to a conversation which lady westhaven seemed hardly able to support; and she languished herself to be alone. forcing therefore a smile, tho' the tears still fell from her eyes, she said--'my dear friends, tho' i expected this long ago, yet i beg you to consider that being _but_ a woman, and of course vain, my pride is a little wounded, and i must recollect all your kindnesses, to put me in good humour again with myself. do not let the chevalier follow me; for i am not disposed to hear any thing this evening, after these sweetest and most consoling assurances of your inestimable friendship. therefore i shall take madelon with me, and go for a walk.' she then left the room, lady westhaven not attempting to detain her; and her lord, vexed to see his gentle augusta thus uneasy, remained with her, pointing out to her the fairest prospects of establishment for her beloved emmeline; tho' he thought the present an improper opportunity to open to her his knowledge of those circumstances in her friend's fortune, which, without such conspicuous merit, could hardly fail of obtaining it. to go to a great distance from the house, alone, emmeline had not courage; to stay near it, subjected her to the intrusion and importunity of the chevalier. she therefore determined to take madelon, whose presence would be some protection without any interruption to her thoughts. she had wished, ever since her arrival at st. alpin, to visit alone the borders of the lake of geneva. madelon, alert and sprightly, undertook to shew her the pleasantest way, and led her thro' a narrow path crossing a hill covered with broom and coppice wood, into a dark and gloomy wood of fir, cypress, and chestnut, that extended to the edge of the water; from which it was in some places separated by rocks pointing out into the lake, while in others the trees grew almost in the water, and dipped their extremities in the limpid waves beneath them. madelon informed emmeline that this was the place where the servants of the castle assembled to dance of an holyday, in the shade; and where boats usually landed that came from the other side of the lake. the scene, softened into more pensive beauty by the approach of a warm and serene evening, had every thing in it that could charm and soothe the mind of the lovely orphan. but her internal feelings were at this time too acute to suffer her to attend to outward circumstances. she wished only for tranquillity and silence, to collect her thoughts; and bidding madelon find herself a seat, she went a few yards into the wood, and sat down on the long grass, where even madelon might not remark her. the events of the two last days appeared to be visions rather than realities. from being an indigent dependant on the bounty of a relation, whose caprice or avarice might leave her entirely destitute, she was at once found to be heiress to an extensive property. from being bound down to marry, if he pleased, a man for whom she felt only sisterly regard, and who had thrown her from him in the violence of unreasonable jealousy and gloomy suspicion, she was now at liberty to indulge the affections she had so long vainly resisted, and to think, without present self-accusation, or the danger of future repentance, of godolphin. in imagination, she already beheld him avowing that tenderness which he had before generously struggled to conceal. she saw him, who she believed would have taken her _without_ fortune, receiving in her estate the means of bestowing happiness, and the power of indulging his liberal and noble spirit. she saw the tender, unhappy adelina, reconciled to life in contemplating the felicity of her dear william; and lord westhaven, to whom she was so much obliged, glorying in the good fortune of a brother so deservedly beloved; while still calling her excellent and lovely friend augusta by the endearing appellation of sister, she saw her forget, in the happiness of godolphin, the concern she had felt for delamere. from this delicious dream of future bliss, she was awakened somewhat suddenly by madelon; who running towards her, told her that a boat, in which there appeared to be several men, was pointing to land just where she had been sitting. emmeline, wearied as she was with the chevalier's gallantry, immediately supposed it to be him, and she knew he was out on the lake. she therefore advanced a step or two to look. it was so nearly dark that she could only distinguish a man standing in the boat, whose figure appeared to be that of bellozane; and taking madelon by the arm, she hastily struck into the wood, to avoid him by returning to st. alpin before he should perceive her. she had hardly walked twenty paces, when she heard the boat put on shore, and two or three persons leap out of it. still hoping, however, to get thro' the wood before bellozane could overtake her, she almost ran with madelon. but somebody seemed to pursue them. her cloaths were white; and she knew, that notwithstanding the evening was so far shut in, and the path obscured by trees, she must yet be distinguished gliding between their branches. the persons behind gained upon her, and her pace quickened as her alarm encreased; for she now apprehended something yet more disagreeable than being overtaken by bellozane. suddenly she heard--'_arretez, arretez, mesdames! de grace dites moi si vous etes de la famille du baron de st. alpin?_'[ ] the first word of this sentence stopped the flying emmeline, and fixed her to the spot where she stood. it was the voice of godolphin--godolphin himself was before her! the suddenness of his appearance quite overcame her, breathless as she was before from haste and fear; and finding that to support herself was impossible, she staggered towards a tree which grew on the edge of the path, but would have fallen if godolphin had not caught her in his arms. he did this merely from the impulse of his natural gallantry and good nature. what were his transports, when he found that the fugitive whom he had undesignedly alarmed by asking a direction to st. alpin, was his adored emmeline; and that the lovely object whose idea, since their first meeting, had never a moment been absent from it, he now pressed to his throbbing heart? instantly terrified, however, to find her speechless and almost insensible, he ordered the servant who followed him to run back for some water; and seating her gently on the ground, he threw himself down by her and supported her; while madelon, wringing her hands called on her _aimable_, her _belle maitresse_; and was too much frightened to give her any assistance. before the man returned with the water, her recollection was restored, and she said, faintly--'mr. godolphin! is it possible?' 'loveliest miss mowbray, how thoughtlessly have i alarmed you!--can you forgive me?' 'ah!' cried she, disengaging herself from his support--'how came you here, and from whence?' godolphin, without considering, and almost without knowing what he said, replied--'i come from lord delamere.' 'from lord delamere!' exclaimed she, in amazement. 'is he not in london then?--is he not married?' 'no; i overtook him at besançon; where he lies ill--very ill!' 'ill!' repeated emmeline.--'ill, and at besançon!--merciful heaven!' she now again relapsed almost into insensibility: for at the mention of godolphin's having overtaken him, and having left him ill, a thousand terrific and frightful images crouded into her mind; but the predominant idea was, that it was on her account they had met, and that delamere's illness was a wound in consequence of that meeting. that such an imagination should possess her, godolphin had no means of knowing. he therefore very naturally concluded that the violent sorrow which she expressed, on hearing of delamere's illness, arose from her love towards him; and, in such a conclusion, he found the ruin of those hopes he had of late fondly cherished. 'happy, happy delamere!' said he, sighing to himself.--'her first affections were his, and never will any secondary tenderness supersede that early impression. alas! his rejection of her, has not been able to efface it--for me, there is nothing to hope! and while i thus hold her to my heart, i have lost her for ever! i came not hither, however, solely on my own account, but rather to save from pain, her and those she loves. 'tis not then of myself i am to think.' while these reflections passed thro' his mind, he remained silent; and emmeline concluded that his silence was owing to the truth of her conjecture. the grief of lady westhaven for her brother, the despair of lord montreville for his son, presented themselves to her mind; and the contemptuous return of her promise, which a few hours before she thought of with resentment, was now forgotten in regret for his illness and pity for his sufferings. 'ah!' cried she, trying to rise, 'what shall i say to lady westhaven?--how disclose to her such intelligence as this?' 'it was to prevent her hearing it abruptly,' said godolphin, 'that i came myself, rather than sent by a messenger or a letter, such distressing information.' so strongly had the idea of a duel between them taken possession of the mind of emmeline, that she had no courage to ask particulars of his illness; and shuddering with horror at the supposition that the hand godolphin held out to assist her was stained with the blood of the unfortunate delamere, she drew her's hastily and almost involuntarily from him; and taking again madelon's arm, attempted to hasten towards home. but the scene of anguish and terror which she must there encounter with lady westhaven, the distress and vexation of her lord, and the misery of believing that godolphin had made himself for ever hateful to all her own family, and that if her cousin died she could never again behold him but with regret and anguish, were altogether reflections so overwhelming, and so much more than her harrassed spirits were able to sustain, that after tottering about fifty yards, she was compelled to stop, and gasping for breath, to accept the offered assistance of godolphin. strongly prepossessed with the idea of her affection for delamere, he languidly and mournfully lent it. he had no longer courage to speak to her; yet wished to take measures for preventing lady westhaven's being suddenly alarmed by his appearance; and he feared, that not his appearance only, but his countenance, would tell her that he came not thither to impart tidings of happiness. it was now quite dark; and the slow pace in which only emmeline could walk, had not yet carried them through the wood. the agitation of emmeline encreased: she wished, yet dreaded to know the particulars of delamere's situation; and unable to summons courage to enquire into it, she proceeded mournfully along, almost borne by godolphin and madelon; who understanding nothing of what had been said, and not knowing who the gentleman was who had thus frightened her mistress, was herself almost as much in dismay. after a long pause, emmeline, in faultering accents, asked 'if the situation of lord delamere was absolutely desperate?' 'i hope and believe not,' said godolphin. 'when i left him, at least, there were hopes of a favourable issue.' 'ah! wherefore did you leave him? why not stay at least to see the event?' 'because he so earnestly desired that his sister might know of his situation, and that i only might acquaint her with it and press her to go to him.' 'she will need no entreaties. poor, poor delamere!'--sighing deeply, emmeline again became silent. they were to mount a small hill, which was between the wood they had left and the grounds immediately surrounding st. alpin, which was extremely steep and rugged. before she reached the top, she was quite exhausted. 'i believe,' said she, 'i must again rest before i can proceed.' she sat down on a bank formed by the roots of the trees which sustained the earth, on the edge of the narrow path. godolphin, excessively alarmed at her weakness and dejection, which he still attributed to the anguish she felt for delamere, sat by her, hardly daring to breathe himself, while he listened to her short respiration, and fancied he heard the violent palpitation of her heart. 'and how long do you think,' said she, again recurring to delamere--'how long may he linger before the event will be known?' 'i really hope, and i think i am not too sanguine, that the fever will have left him before we see him again.' 'the fever!' repeated emmeline--'has he a fever then?' 'yes,' replied godolphin--'i thought i told you that a fever was his complaint. but had you not better, my dear madam, think a little of yourself! ill as you appear to be, i see not how you are to get home unless you will suffer me to go on and procure some kind of conveyance for you.' 'i shall do very well,' answered she, 'as i am, if you will only tell me about lord delamere. he has only a fever?' 'and is it not enough,' said godolphin. 'tho', were i lord delamere, i should think an illness that called forth in my favour the charming sensibility of miss mowbray, the happiest event of my life.' having said this, he fell into a profound silence. the certainty of her affection for delamere, deprived him of all spirits when he most wanted to exert them. yet it was necessary to take some measures for introducing himself at st. alpin without alarming lady westhaven, and to consider how he was to account to his brother for delamere's estrangement from emmeline; and while he canvassed these and many other perplexities, emmeline, who was relieved from the most distressing of her apprehensions, and dared not for the world reveal what those apprehensions had been, in some degree recovered herself; and growing anxious for lady westhaven, said she believed she could now walk home. as she was about to arise with an intention to attempt it, they heard the sound of approaching voices, and almost immediately lights appeared above the hill, while 'mademoiselle!--miss mowbray!--madelon!--madelon!' was frequently and loudly repeated by the persons who carried them. 'the baron and lord westhaven,' said emmeline, 'alarmed at my being out so late, have sent persons in search of me.' her conjecture was right. in a moment the chevalier, with a flambeau in his hand, was before them; who, when he found emmeline sitting in such a place, supported by a young man whom he had never before seen, was at once amazed and displeased. there was no time for explanation. lord westhaven immediately followed him; and after stopping a moment to consider whether the figure of godolphin which rose before him was not an illusion, he flew eagerly into his arms. the manly eyes of both the brothers were filled with tears. lord westhaven had not seen godolphin for four years; and, since their last parting, they had lost their father. after a short pause, his lordship introduced godolphin to bellozane; and then taking the cold and trembling hand of emmeline, who leaned languidly on madelon, he said-- 'and you, my lovely cousin, for whose safety we have been above an hour in the cruellest alarm, where did you find william, and by what extraordinary chance are ye here together?' emmeline with great difficulty found voice enough to explain their accidental meeting. and bellozane observing her apparent faintness, said--'you seem, mademoiselle, to be extremely fatigued. pray allow me the honour of giving you my arm.' 'if you please,' said she, in a low voice. and supposing that godolphin would be glad to have some conversation with his brother, she accepted his assistance and proceeded. this preference, however, of bellozane, godolphin imputed to her coldness or dislike towards himself; and so struck was he with the cruel idea, that it was not without an effort he recollected himself enough to relate to his brother, as they walked, all that it was necessary for him to know. lord westhaven, anxious for a life so precious to his wife and her family as was that of lord delamere, determined immediately to go to him. at present it was necessary to reveal as tenderly as possible his situation to his sister, lady westhaven; and first to dissipate the uneasiness she had suffered from the long absence of emmeline. [footnote : stay, stay a moment, ladies! have the goodness to tell me whether you belong to the family of the baron de st. alpin?] chapter iv lord westhaven first entered the room where his wife was, whose alarming apprehensions at emmeline's long stay were by this time extreme. 'our emmeline is returned, my love,' said he, 'and has met with no accident.' lady westhaven eagerly embracing her, reproached her tenderly for her long absence. but then observing how pale she looked, and the fatigue and oppression she seemed to suffer, her ladyship said-- 'surely you have been frightened--or you are ill? you look so faint!' 'she is a little surprised,' interrupted lord westhaven, seeing her still unable to answer for herself. 'she has brought us a visitor whom we did not expect. my brother godolphin landed just as she was returning home.' at this intelligence lady westhaven could express only pleasure. she had never seen godolphin, who was now introduced, and received with every token of regard by her ladyship, as well as by the baron and mrs. st. alpin; who beheld with pleasure another son of their sister, and beheld him an honour to their family. bellozane, however, saw his arrival with less satisfaction. he remembered that emmeline had been, as she had told him, well acquainted with godolphin in england; and recollected that whenever he had been spoken of, she had always done justice to his merit, yet rather evaded than sought the conversation. her extraordinary agitation on his arrival, which was such as disabled her from walking home, seemed much greater than could have been created by the sight of a mere acquaintance; his figure was so uncommonly handsome, his countenance so interesting, and his address such a fortunate mixture of dignity and softness, that bellozane, vain as he was, could not but acknowledge his personal merit; and began to fear that the coldness and insensibility of emmeline, which he had, till now, supposed perseverance would vanquish, were less occasioned by her affected blindness to his own perfections, than by her prepossession in favour of another. whatever internal displeasure this idea of rivalry gave the chevalier, he overwhelmed godolphin with professions of regard and esteem, not the less warm for being wholly insincere. but godolphin, who saw, in the encreasing dejection of emmeline, only a confirmation of her attachment to delamere, drooped in hopeless despondence. emmeline, unable to support herself, retired early to her room; and godolphin, complaining of fatigue, was conducted to his by bellozane; while lord westhaven meditated how to disclose to his wife, without too much distressing her, the illness of her brother. he thought, that as she had suffered a good deal of vexation in the course of the day, as well as terror at emmeline's absence at so late an hour in the evening, he would defer till the next morning this unwelcome intelligence. as soon, however, as she was retired, he communicated to his uncle and aunt the situation of lord delamere, and the necessity there was for their quitting st. alpin the next day, to attend him; an account which they both heard with sincere regret. mrs. st. alpin heartily wished lord delamere was with _her_, being persuaded she could immediately cure him with remedies of her own preparing; while the baron expressed his vexation and regret to find the visit of his nephews so much shortened. lord westhaven went to his own apartment in great uneasiness. he heard from his brother, that lord delamere, repenting of his renunciation of emmeline, was coming to st. alpin, when illness stopped him at besançon. he knew not how to act about her; who, heiress to a large fortune, was of so much more consequence than she had been hitherto supposed. he had a long contention in view with lord montreville; and was now likely to be embarrassed with the passion of delamere, if he recovered, (who would certainly expect his influence over emmeline to be exerted to obtain his pardon); or if the event of his illness should prove fatal, he dreaded the anguish of lady westhaven and the despair of the whole family. he was besides hurt at that melancholy and unhappy appearance, so unlike his former manners, which he had observed in godolphin; and for which, ignorant of his passion for emmeline, he knew not how to account. his short conversation with him had cleared up no part of the mystery which he could not but perceive hung about the affairs of lady adelina; and he only knew enough to discover that something remained which it would probably pain him to know thoroughly. the pillow of emmeline also was strewn with thorns. for tho' the sharpest of them was removed, by having heard that delamere was ill without having suffered from the event of any dispute in which he might on her account have engaged, she was extremely unhappy that he had, in pursuit of her, come to france, which she now concluded must be the case, and sorry for the disquiet which she foresaw must arise from his indisposition and his love. she was sure that lady westhaven would immediately fly to her brother. and in that event how was she herself to act? could she suffer her generous, her tender friend, to whom she was so much obliged, to encounter alone all the fatigue and anxiety to which the sickness and danger of this beloved brother would probably expose her? yet could she submit to the appearance of seeking a man who had so lately renounced her for ever, with coldness, contempt, and insult? if she went not with lady westhaven, she had no choice but that of travelling across france alone, to rejoin mrs. stafford; since she could not remain with propriety a moment at st. alpin, with the chevalier de bellozane; whose addresses she never meant to encourage, and whose importunate passion persecuted and distressed her. godolphin too!--whither would godolphin go? could she go where he was, and conceal her partiality? or could she, by accompanying him to besançon, plunge another dagger in the heart of delamere, and shew him, not only that he had lost that portion of her regard he had once possessed, but that all her love was now given to another. that she was most partial to godolphin, she could no longer attempt to conceal from herself. the moment her fears that he had met delamere hostilely were removed, all her tenderness for him returned with new force. she again saw all the merit, all the nobleness of his character; but she still tormented herself with uneasy conjectures as to the cause of his journey to switzerland; and wearied herself with considering how she ought to act, 'till towards morning, when falling, thro' mere fatigue and lassitude, into a short slumber, she saw multiplied and exaggerated, in dreams, the dreadful images which had disturbed her waking; and starting up in terror, determined no more to attempt to sleep. it was now day break; and wrapping herself in her muslin morning gown and cloak, she went down into the garden of mrs. st. alpin, where, seated on a bench, under a row of tall walnut trees, which divided it from the vineyard, she leaned her head against one of them; and lost in reflections on the strangeness of her fate, and the pain of her situation, she neither saw or heard any thing around her. godolphin, in the anxiety she had expressed for delamere, believed he saw a confirmation of his fears; which had always been that the early impression he had made on her heart would be immoveable, and that neither his having renounced her or his rash and heedless temper would prevent her continuing to love him. wretched in this idea, he concluded all hopes of obtaining her regard for ever at an end; while every hour's experience of his own feelings, whether he thought of or saw her, convinced him that his love, however desperate, was incurable. accustomed to fatigue, all that he had endured the day before could not restore to him that repose which was driven away by these reflections. almost as soon as he saw it was light, he left his room, and with less interest than he would once have taken in such a survey, wandered over the antique apartments of the paternal house of his mother. he then went down into the garden; and musing rather than observing, passed along the strait walk that went between the walnut trees into the vineyard. at the end of it he turned, and, in coming again towards the house, saw emmeline sitting on the bench beneath them, who had not seen him the first time he passed her, but who now appeared surprised at his approach. she had not, however, time to rise before he went up to her, and bowing gravely, enquired how she did after the alarm he had been so unfortunate as to give her the evening before? 'i fear,' said he, seating himself by her, 'that miss mowbray is yet indisposed from her late walk and my inconsiderate address to her. i know not how to forgive myself for my indiscretion, since it has distressed you.' 'such intelligence as i had the misfortune of hearing, sir, of the brother of lady westhaven--a brother so dear to her--could hardly fail of affecting me. i should have been concerned had a stranger been so circumstanced; but when--' 'ah! madam,' interrupted godolphin, 'you need not repeat all the claims which give the fortunate delamere a right to your favour. but do not suffer yourself, on his account, to be so extremely alarmed. i hope the danger is by no means so great as to make his recovery hopeless. since of those we love, the most minute account is not tedious, and since it may, perhaps, alleviate your apprehensions for his safety, will you allow me to relate all i know of his illness! it will engage me, perhaps, in a detail of our first acquaintance, and carry me back to circumstances which i would wish to forget; if your gratification was not in my mind a consideration superior to every other.' emmeline, trembling, yet wishing to hear all, could not refuse. she bowed in silence; and godolphin considering that as an assent, reassumed his discourse. * * * * * 'soon after i had the happiness of seeing you last, my wish to embrace lady clancarryl and her family (from whose house i had been long obliged to absent myself because mr. fitz-edward was with them) carried me to ireland; and to my astonishment i there met lord delamere. 'the relationship between their families, made my sister anxiously invite him to lough carryl. thither reluctantly he came; and an accident informed him that i had the good fortune, by means of lady adelina trelawny, to be known to you. 'he did me the honour to shew me particular attention; and the morning after he found i had the happiness of being acquainted with miss mowbray, he took occasion, when we were alone, to ask me, abruptly, whether i knew colonel fitz-edward? i answered that i certainly did, by the connection in our families; and that he was once my most intimate friend. 'he then unreservedly, and with vehemence said, that fitz-edward was a villain! astonished and hurt at an assertion which (how true soever it might be) i thought alluded to that unhappy affair which i hoped was a secret, i eagerly asked an explanation. but judge, miss mowbray, of the astonishment, the pain, with which i heard him impute to you the error of my unfortunate adelina--when i saw him take out three anonymous letters, one of which i found had hastened his return from france, purporting that fitz-edward had availed himself of his absence to win your affections, that he had taken, of those affections, the most ungenerous advantage, and that on going to a place named (which i remembered to be the house where my little william was nursed,) he might himself see an unequivocal proof of your fatal attachment and fitz-edward's perfidy. 'when i had read these odious letters, and listened to several circumstances he related, which confirmed in his apprehension the truth of the assertions they contained, he went on to inform me, that following this cruel information, he had seen you with the infant in your arms; had bitterly reproached you, and then had quitted you for ever!--but as he could not rest without trying to punish the infamous conduct of fitz-edward, he had pursued him to ireland, where, instead of finding him, he heard that he was gone to france, undoubtedly to meet you, by your own appointment; but as lord clancarryl still expected him back, he determined to wait a little longer, in hopes of an opportunity of discussing with him the subjects of complaint he had related. 'tho' i immediately saw what i ought to do, astonishment for a moment kept me silent, and in that moment we were interrupted. 'this delay, however unwelcome, gave me time for reflection. lord delamere was to go the same day from lough carryl to dublin. i resolved to follow him thither, and relate the whole truth; since i would by no means suffer your generous and exalted friendship for my sister to stain the lovely purity of a character which only the malice of fiends could delight in blasting, only the blind and infatuated rashness of jealousy a moment believe capable of blemish! many reasons induced me, however, to delay this necessary explanation 'till i saw him at his own lodgings. thither i followed him, two days after he departed from lough carryl. but on enquiring for him, was surprised and mortified to find that he had received letters from england which had induced him immediately to return thither, and that he had sailed in the packet for holyhead the day after his arrival at dublin.' emmeline, astonished at the malice which appeared to have been exerted against her, remained silent; but in such tremor, that it was with difficulty she continued to hear him. 'i now, therefore, relinquished all thoughts of returning to the house of my sister, and followed him by the first conveyance that offered, greatly apprehending, that if the letters he had received gave him notice of fitz-edward's return to london, my interposition would be too late to prevent their meeting. i knew the hasty and inconsiderate delamere would, without an explanation, so conduct himself towards fitz-edward, that neither his spirit or his profession would permit him to bear; and that if they met, the consequence must, to one of them, be fatal. i was impatient too to rescue your name, madam, from the unmerited aspersions which it bore. but when i arrived in london, and hastened to berkley-square, i heard that lord and lady montreville, together with lady frances crofts, her husband, and lord delamere, had gone all together to audley hall, immediately after his return from ireland. thither, therefore, i went also.' 'generous, considerate godolphin!' sighed emmeline to herself. 'tho' related, by my brother's marriage, to the family of the marquis of montreville, i was a stranger to every member of it but lord delamere. he was gone to dine out; and in the rest of the family i observed an air of happiness and triumph, which lord montreville informed me was occasioned by the marriage which was intended soon to take place between his son and miss otley; whose immense fortune, and near relationship to his mother's family, had made such a marriage particularly desirable. i was glad to hear he was likely to be happy; but it was not therefore the less necessary to clear up the error into which he had fallen. on his coming home, he appeared pleased and surprised to see me; but i saw in his looks none of that satisfaction which was so evident in those of the rest of the house. 'as soon as we were alone, he said to me--"you see me, mr. godolphin, at length taken in the toils. immediately after leaving lough carryl, i received a letter from a person in london, whom i had employed for that purpose, which informed me that he heard, at the office of the agent to fitz-edward's regiment, that he was certainly to be in town in a few days. he named, indeed, the exact time; and i, who imagined that pains had been taken to keep us from meeting, determined to return to england instantly, that he might not again avoid me. on reaching london, however, i found that the intelligence i had received was wholly unfounded, and originated in the mistake of a clerk in the agent's office. none knew where fitz-edward was, or when he would return; and though i wrote to enquire at rouen, where i imagined the residence of miss mowbray might induce him to remain, i have yet had no answer. the entreaties and tears of my mother prevailed on me to come down hither; and reckless of what becomes of me, since emmeline is undoubtedly lost to me for ever, i have yielded to the remonstrance of my father and the prayers of my mother, and have consented to marry a woman whom i cannot love. let not fitz-edward, however, imagine," (vehemently and fiercely he spoke) "that he is with impunity to escape; and that tho' my vengeance may be delayed, i can _forgive_ the man who has basely robbed me of her whom i _could_ love--whom i _did_ love--even to madness!" 'i own to you, madam, that when i found this unfortunate young man had put into his father's hands the promise you had given him, and that it was returned to you, i felt at once pity for him, and--hope for myself, which, 'till then, i had never dared to indulge.' godolphin had never been thus explicit before. pale as death, and deprived of the power as well as of the inclination to interrupt him, emmeline awaited, in breathless silence, the close of this extraordinary narrative. 'it was now,' reassumed he, 'my turn to speak. and trusting to his honour for his silence about my unhappy sister, i revealed to him the whole truth. i at once cleared your character from unjust blame, and, i hope, did justice to those exalted virtues to which i owe so much. i will not shock your gentle and generous bosom with a relation of the wild phrenzy, the agonies of regret and repentance, into which this relation threw lord delamere. concerned at the confusion his reproaches and his anguish had occasioned to the whole family, i lamented that i could not explain to _them_ what i had said to _him_, which had produced so sudden a change in his sentiments about you; but to such women as the marchioness of montreville and her daughter, i could not relate the unhappiness of my poor adelina; and delamere steadily refused to tell them how he became convinced of your innocence, and the wicked arts which had been used to mislead him; which he openly imputed to the family of the crofts', against whom his fiery and vindictive spirit turned all the rage it had till now cherished against fitz-edward. 'the marquis, tho' extremely hurt, had yet candour enough to own, that if i was convinced that the causes of complaint which his son had against you were ill founded, i had done well in removing them. yet i saw that he wished i had been less anxious for the vindication of innocence; and he beheld, with an uneasy and suspicious eye, what he thought officious interference in the affairs of his family. i observed, too, that he believed when the influence that he supposed i had over the mind of lord delamere was removed, he should be able to bring him back to his engagements with miss otley, which had, i found, been hurried on with the utmost precipitation. the ladies, who had at first overwhelmed me with civilities, now appeared so angry, that notwithstanding lord delamere's entreaties that i would stay with him till he could determine how to act, i immediately returned to london; and from thence, after passing a week with adelina, whom i had only seen for a few hours since my return from ireland, i set out for st. alpin.' 'but lord delamere, sir?' said emmeline, inarticulately. 'alas! madam,' dejectedly continued godolphin, 'i mean not to entertain you on what relates to myself; but to hasten to that which i farther have to say of the fortunate delamere! i waited a few days at southampton for a wind; and then landing at havre, proceeded to st. germains, where mrs. stafford's last letters had informed adelina she was settled. i knew, too, that you were gone with my brother and lady westhaven to st. alpin. mrs. stafford had only the day before forwarded to you lord montreville's letter, which, by one from his lordship to herself, she knew contained the promise you had given lord delamere. she said, that this renunciation would give you no pain. she made me hope that your heart was not irrevocably his. ah! why did i suffer such illusions to lead me on to this conviction! but pray forgive me, lovely miss mowbray! i am still talking of myself. from st. germains i made as much haste as possible to besançon. i rode post; and, just as i got off my horse at the hotel, was accosted by a french servant, whom i knew belonged to lord delamere. 'the man expressed great joy at seeing me, and besought me to go with him to his master, who, he said, had, thro' fatigue and the heat of the weather, been seized with a fever, and was unable to proceed to st. alpin, whither he was going. 'i was extremely concerned at his journey; and, i hope, not so selfish as to be unmoved by his illness. i found, indeed, his fever very high, but greatly irritated and encreased by his impatience. as soon as he saw me, he told me that he was hurrying to st. alpin, in hopes of obtaining your pardon; that he had broke off his engagement with miss otley, and never would return to england till he carried you thither as his wife. '"i am now well enough to go on, indeed godolphin," added he, "and if i can but see her!----" 'i was by no means of opinion that he was in a condition to travel. his fever encreased; after i left him in the evening, he grew delirious; and millefleur, terrified, came to call me to him. i sat up with him for the rest of the night; and being accustomed to attend invariably to the illness of men on ship board, i thought i might venture, from my experience, to direct a change in the method which the physician he had sent for pursued. in a few hours he grew better, and the delirium left him; but he was then convinced that he was too weak to proceed on his journey. 'he knew i was coming hither, and he entreated me to hasten my departure. "go, my good friend," said he--"send augusta to me. she will bring with her the generous, the forgiving angel, whom my rash folly has dared to injure! she will behold my penitence; and, if her pardon can be obtained, it will restore me to life; but if i cannot see them--if i linger many days longer in suspence, my illness must be fatal!" 'as i really did not think him in great danger, and saw every proper care was now taken of him, determined to come on; not only because i wished to save lady westhaven the pain of hearing of his illness by any other means, but because--' he was proceeding, when a deep and convulsive sigh from emmeline made him look in her face, from which he had hitherto kept his eyes, (unable to bear the varying expressions it had shewn of what he thought her concern for delamere.) he now beheld her, quite pale, motionless, and to all appearance lifeless. her sense of what she owed to the generosity of godolphin; her concern for delamere; and the dread of those contending passions which she foresaw would embitter her future life, added to the sleepless night and fatigueing day she had passed, had totally overcome her. godolphin flew for assistance. the servants were by this time up, and ran to her. among the first of them was le limosin, who expressed infinite anxiety and concern for her, and assiduously exerted himself in carrying her into the house; where she soon recovered, begged godolphin's pardon for the trouble she had given, and was going to her own room, led by madelon, when bellozane suddenly appeared, and offered his assistance, which emmeline faintly declining, moved on. godolphin, who could not bear to leave her in such a state, walked slowly by her, tho' she had refused his arm. the expression of his countenance, while his eyes were eagerly fixed on her face, would have informed any one less interested than bellozane, of what passed in his heart; and the chevalier surveyed him with looks of angry observation, which did not escape emmeline, ill as she was. on arriving, therefore, at the foot of the staircase, she besought, in english, godolphin to leave her, which he instantly did. she then told the chevalier that she would by no means trouble him to attend her farther; and he, satisfied that no preference was shewn to his cousin, at least in this instance, bowed, and returned with him into the room where they usually assembled in a morning, and where they found lord westhaven. chapter v his lordship told them that lady westhaven had been less alarmed at the account he had given her of delamere than he had apprehended; and that she was preparing to begin their journey towards him immediately after breakfast. 'i must send,' continued he, 'miss mowbray to her; who is, i understand, already up and walking.' bellozane then informed his lordship of what he knew of emmeline. but godolphin was silent: he dared not trust himself with speaking much of her; he dared not relate her illness, lest the cause of it should be enquired into. 'does miss mowbray go with my sister?' asked he. 'that i know not,' replied lord westhaven. 'augusta will very reluctantly go without her. yet her situation in regard to lord delamere is such'--he ceased speaking; looked embarrassed; and, soon after, the chevalier quitting the room, before whom civility would not allow them to converse long in english, and to whom his lordship thought he had no right to reveal the real situation of emmeline, while it yet remained unknown to others, he related to his brother the circumstances of the discovery that had been made of her birth, and of her consequent claim to the mowbray estate. godolphin, who would, from the obscurest indigence, have chosen her in preference to all other women, heard this account with pleasure, only as supposing that independance might be grateful to her sensibility, and affluence favourable to the liberality of her spirit. but the satisfaction he derived from these reflections, was embittered and nearly destroyed, when he considered, that her acquiring so large a fortune would make her alliance eagerly sought by the very persons who had before scorned and rejected her; and that all the family would unite in persuading her to forgive delamere, the more especially as this would be the only means to keep in it the mowbray estate, and to preclude the necessity of refunding the income which had been received for so many years, and which now amounted to a great sum of money. when the pressing instances of all her own family, and particularly of lady westhaven, whom she so tenderly loved, were added to the affection he believed she had invariably felt for delamere, he thought it impossible that her pride, however it might have been piqued by the desertion of her lover, could make any effort against a renewal of her engagement; and his own hopes, which he had never cherished till he was convinced delamere had given her up, and which had been weakened by her apparent affection for him, were by this last event again so nearly annihilated, that, no longer conscious he retained any, he fancied himself condemned still to love, serve, and adore the object of his passion, without making any effort to secure it's success, or being permitted to appear otherwise than as her friend. he was vexed that he had been unguardedly explicit, in telling her that he had ever indulged those hopes at all; since he now feared it would be the means of depriving her conversation and her manner, when they were together, of that charming frankness, of which, tho' it rivetted his chains and encreased his torments, he could not bear to be deprived. melancholy and desponding, he continued long silent after lord westhaven ceased speaking. suddenly, however, awakening from his reverie, he said--'does your lordship think miss mowbray _ought_ to go to meet lord delamere?' 'upon my word i know not how to advise: my wife is miserable without her, and fancies the sight of her will immediately restore delamere. on the other hand, i believe emmeline herself will with reluctance take a step that will perhaps, appear like forcing herself into the notice of a man from whom she has received an affront which it is hardly in female nature to forgive.' they were now interrupted by bellozane, who flew about the house in evident uneasiness and confusion. he did not yet know how emmeline was to be disposed of: he saw that lord westhaven was himself uncertain of it; and he had been applying for information to le limosin and madelon, who had yet received no orders to prepare for her departure. while emmeline had created in the bosoms of others so much anxiety, she was herself tortured with the cruellest uncertainty. unable to resolve how she ought to act, she had yet determined on nothing, when lady westhaven sent for her, who, as soon as she entered the room, said--'my dear emmeline, are you not preparing for our journey?' 'how can i, dearest madam--how can i, with any propriety, go where lord delamere is? after the separation which has now so decidedly and irrevocably taken place between us, shall i intrude again on his lordship's sight? and solicit a return of that regard with which i most sincerely wish he had forborne to honour me?' 'you are piqued, my lovely friend; and i own with great reason. but mr. godolphin has undoubtedly told you that poor frederic is truly penitent; that he has taken this journey merely to deprecate your just anger and to solicit his pardon. will my emmeline, generous and gentle as she is to others, be inexorable only to him? besides, my sweet coz, pray consider a moment, what else can you do? you certainly would not wish to stay here? surely you would not travel alone to st. germains. and let me add my own hopes that you will not quit me now, when poor frederic's illness, and my own precarious health, make your company not merely pleasant but necessary.' 'that is indeed a consideration which must have great force with me. when lady westhaven commands, how shall i disobey, even tho' to obey be directly contrary to my judgment and my wishes.' 'commands, my dear friend,' very gravely, and with an air of chagrin, said her ladyship, 'are neither for me to give or for you to receive. certainly if you are so determined against going with me, i must submit. but i did not indeed think that emmeline, however the brother may have offended her, would thus have resented it to the sister.' 'i should be a monster, lady westhaven,' (hardly was she able to restrain her tears as she spoke,)--'was i a moment capable of forgetting all i owe you. but do you really think i _ought_ again to put myself in the way of lord delamere--again to renew all the family contention which his very unfortunate partiality for me has already occasioned; and again to hazard being repulsed with contempt by the marquis, and still more probably by the marchioness of montreville. my lot has hitherto been humble: i have learned to submit to it, if not without regret, at least with calmness and resignation; yet pardon me if i say, that however unhappy my fortune, there is still something due to myself; and if i again make myself liable to the humiliation of being _refused_, i shall feel that i am degraded in mind, as much as i have been in circumstances, and lost to that proper pride to which innocence and rectitude has in the lowest indigence a right, and which cannot be relinquished but with the loss of virtue.' the spirit which emmeline thought herself obliged to exert, was immediately lost in softness and in sorrow when she beheld lady westhaven in tears; who, sobbing, said--'go then, miss mowbray!--go, my dear emmeline! (for dear you must ever be to me) leave _me_ to be unhappy and poor frederic to die.' 'hear me, my dear madam!' answered she with quickness--'if to _you_ i can be of the least use, i will hesitate no longer; but let it then be understood that i go _with_ you, and by no means _to_ lord delamere.' 'it shall be so understood--be assured, my love, it shall! you will not, then, leave me?--you will see my poor brother?' 'my best, my dearest friend,' replied emmeline, collecting all her fortitude, 'hear me without resentment explain to you at once the real situation of my heart in regard to lord delamere. i feel for him the truest concern; i feel it for him even to a painful excess; and i have an affection for him, a sisterly affection for him, which i really believe is little inferior to your own. but i will not deceive you; nor, since i am to meet him, will i suffer him to entertain hopes that it is impossible for me to fulfil. to be considered as the friend, as the sister of lord delamere, is one of the first wishes my heart now forms--against ever being his wife, i am resolutely determined.' 'impossible!--surely you cannot have made such a resolution?' 'i have indeed!--nor will any consideration on earth induce me from that determination to recede.' 'and is it anger and resentment only have raised in your heart this decided enmity to my poor brother? or is it, that any other----' emmeline, whose colourless cheeks were suffused with a deep blush at this speech, hastily interrupted it.-- 'whatever, dear lady westhaven, are my motives for the decision, it is irrevocable; as lord delamere's sister, i shall be honoured, if i am allowed to consider myself.--as such, if my going with you to besançon will give you a day's--an hour's satisfaction, i go.' 'get ready then, my love. but indeed, cruel girl, if such is your resolution it were better to leave you here, than take you only to shew lord delamere all he has lost, while you deprive him of all hopes of regaining you. but i will yet flatter myself you do not mean all this.--"at lovers' perjuries they say jove laughs."--and those of my fair cousin will be forgiven, should she break her angry vow and receive her poor penitent. come, let us hasten to begin our journey to him; for tho' that dear godolphin, whom i shall love as long as i live,' (ah! thought emmeline, and so shall i) 'assures me he does not think him in any danger, my heart will sadly ache till i see him myself.' emmeline then left her to put up her cloaths and prepare for a journey to which she was determined solely by the pressing instances of lady westhaven. to herself she foresaw only uneasiness and embarrassment; and even found a degree of cruelty in permitting lord delamere to feed, by her consenting to attend him, those hopes to which she now could never accede, unless by condemning herself to the most wretched of all lots--that of marrying one man while her love was another's. the late narrative which she had heard from godolphin, encreased her affection for him, and took from her every wish to oppose it's progress; and tho' she was thus compelled to see delamere, she determined not to deceive him, but to tell him ingenuously that he had lost all that tenderness which her friendship and long acquaintance with him would have induced her to cherish, had not his own conduct destroyed it-- but it was hardly less necessary to own to him part of the truth, than to conceal the rest. should he suspect that godolphin was his rival, and a rival fondly favoured, she knew that his pride, his jealousy, his resentment, would hurry him into excesses more dreadful, than any that had yet followed his impetuous love or his unbridled passions. the apprehensions that he must, if they were long together, discover it, were more severely distressing than any she had yet felt; and she resolved, both now and when they reached besançon, to keep the strictest guard on her words and looks; and to prevent if possible her real sentiments being known to delamere, to lady westhaven, and to godolphin himself. so painful and so difficult appeared the dissimulation necessary for that end; and so contrary did she feel it to her nature, that she was withheld only by her love to lady westhaven from flying to england with mrs. stafford; and should she be restored to her estate, she thought that the only chance she had of tranquillity would be to hide herself from delamere, whom she at once pitied and dreaded, and from godolphin, whom she tenderly loved, in the silence and seclusion of mowbray castle. her embarrassment and uneasiness were encreased, when, on her joining lord and lady westhaven, whose carriages and baggage were now ready, she found that the chevalier de bellozane had insisted on escorting them; an offer which they had no pretence to refuse. on her taking leave of the baron, he very warmly and openly recommended his son to her favour; and mrs. st. alpin, who was very fond of her, repeated her wishes that she would listen to her nephew; and both with unfeigned concern saw their english visitors depart. captain godolphin had a place in his brother's chaise; madelon occupied that which on the former journey was filled by bellozane in the coach, the chevalier now proceeding on horseback. during the journey, emmeline was low and dejected; from which she was sometimes roused by impatient enquiries and fearful apprehensions which darted into her mind, of what was to happen at the end of it. every thing he observed, confirmed godolphin in his persuasion that her heart was wholly delamere's: her behaviour to himself was civil, but even studiously distant; while the unreserved and ardent addresses of bellozane, who made no mystery of his pretensions, she repulsed with yet more coldness and severity: and tho' towards lord and lady westhaven the sweetness of her manners was yet preserved, she seemed overwhelmed with sadness, and her vivacity was quite lost. as soon as they reached besançon, lord westhaven directed the carriages to stop at another hotel, while he went with his brother to that where lord delamere was. at the door, they met millefleur; who, overjoyed to see them, related, that since mr. godolphin left his master the violence of his impatience had occasioned a severe relapse, in which, according to the orders mr. godolphin had given, the surgeons had bled and blistered him; that he was now again better, but very weak; yet so extremely ungovernable and self-willed, that the french people who attended him could do nothing with him, and that his english footmen, and millefleur himself, were forced to be constantly in his room to prevent his leaving it or committing some other excess that might again irritate the fever and bring on alarming symptoms. they hastened to him; and found not only that his fever still hung on him, tho' with less violence, but that he was also extremely emaciated; and that only his youth had supported him thro' so severe an illness, or could now enable him to struggle with it's effects. the moment they entered the room, he enquired after his sister and emmeline; and hearing the latter was actually come, he protested he would instantly go to her. lord westhaven and godolphin resolutely opposed so indiscreet a plan: the former, by his undeviating rectitude of mind and excellent sense, had acquired a greater ascendant over delamere than any of his family had before possessed; and to the latter he thought himself so much obliged, that he could not refuse to attend to him. he consented therefore at length to remain where he was; and lord westhaven hastened back to his wife, whom he led immediately to her brother. she embraced him with many tears; and was at first greatly shocked at his altered countenance and reduced figure. but as lord westhaven and godolphin both assured her there was no longer any danger if he would consent to be governed, she was soothed into hope of his speedy recovery and soon became tolerably composed. as lord westhaven and godolphin soon left them alone, he began to talk to his sister of emmeline. he told her, that when he had been undeceived by mr. godolphin, and the scandalous artifices discovered which had raised in his mind such injurious suspicions, he had declared to lord and lady montreville his resolution to proceed no farther in the treaty which they had hurried on with miss otley, and had solicited their consent, to his renewing and fulfilling that, which he had before entered into with miss mowbray; but that his mother, with more anger and acrimony than ever, had strongly opposed his wishes; and that his father had forbidden him, on pain of his everlasting displeasure, ever again to think of emmeline. after having for some time, he said, combated their inveterate prejudice, he had left them abruptly, and set out with his three servants for st. alpin, (where godolphin informed him emmeline was to be;) when a fever, owing to heat and fatigue, seized and confined him where he now was. 'ah, tell me, my sister, what hopes are there that emmeline will pardon me? may i dare enquire whether she is yet to be moved in my favour?' lady westhaven, who during their journey could perceive no symptoms that her resolution was likely to give way, dared not feed him with false hopes; yet unwilling to depress him by saying all she feared, she told him that emmeline was greatly and with justice offended; but that all he could at present do, was to take care of his health. she entreated him to consider the consequence of another relapse, which might be brought on by his eagerness and emotion; and then conjuring him to keep all he knew of lady adelina a secret from lord westhaven (the necessity of which he already had heard from godolphin) she left him and returned to emmeline. to avoid the importunity of bellozane, and the melancholy looks of godolphin, which affected her with the tenderest sorrow, she had retired to a bed chamber, where she waited the return of lady westhaven with impatience. her solicitude for delamere was very great; and her heart greatly lightened when she found that even his tender and apprehensive sister did not think him in any immediate danger, and believed that a few days would put him out of hazard even of a relapse. she now again thought, that since lady westhaven had nothing to fear for his life, her presence would be less necessary; and her mind, the longer it thought of mowbray castle, adhering with more fondness to her plan of flying thither, she considered how she might obtain in a few days lady westhaven's consent to the preliminary measure of quitting besançon. chapter vi while the heiress of mowbray castle meditated how to escape thither from the embarrassed and uneasy situation in which she now was; and while she fancied that in retirement she might conceal, if she could not conquer, her affection for godolphin, (tho' in fact she only languished for an opportunity of thinking of him perpetually without observation), lady westhaven laid in wait for an occasion to try whether the ruined health and altered looks of her brother, would not move, in his favour, her tender and sensible friend. while delamere kept his chamber, emmeline easily evaded an interview; but when, after three or four days, he was well enough to leave it, it was no longer possible for her to escape seeing him. however godolphin thought himself obliged to bury in silence his unfortunate passion, he could not divest himself of that painful curiosity which urged him to observe the behaviour of emmeline on their first meeting. bellozane had discovered on what footing lord delamere had formerly been; and he dreaded a renewal of that preference she had given her lover, to which his proud heart could ill bear to submit, tho' he could himself make no progress in her favour. tho' lady westhaven had entreated her to see delamere alone, she had refused; assigning as a reason that as he could never again be to her any other than a friend, nothing could possibly pass which her other friends might not hear. delamere was obliged therefore to brook the hard conditions of seeing her as an indifferent person, or not seeing her at all. but tho' she was immoveably determined against receiving him again as a lover, she had not been able to steel her heart against his melancholy appearance; his palid countenance, his emaciated form, extremely affected her. and when he approached her, bowed with a dejected air, and offered to take her hand--her haughtiness, her resentment forsook her--she trembling gave it, expressed in incoherent words her satisfaction at seeing him better, and betrayed so much emotion, that godolphin, who with a beating heart narrowly observed her, saw, as he believed, undoubted proof of her love; and symptoms of her approaching forgiveness. delamere, who, whenever he was near her, ceased to remember that any other being existed; would, notwithstanding the presence of so many witnesses, have implored her pardon and her pity; but the moment he began to speak on that subject, she told him, with as much resolution as she could command, that the subject was to her so very disagreeable, as would oblige her to withdraw if he persisted in introducing it. while his looks expressed how greatly he was hurt by her coldness, those of godolphin testified equal dejection. for however she might repress the hopes of his rival by words of refusal and resentment, he thought her countenance gave more unequivocal intelligence of the real state of her heart. bellozane, as proud, as little used to controul and disappointment, and with more personal vanity than lord delamere, beheld with anger and mortification the pity and regard which emmeline shewed for her cousin; and ceasing to be jealous of godolphin, he saw every thing to apprehend from the rank, the fortune, the figure of delamere--from family connection, which would engage her to listen to him--from ambition, which his title would gratify--from her tenderness to lady westhaven, and from the return of that affection which she had, as he supposed, once felt for lord delamere himself. but the more invincible the obstacles which he saw rising, appeared, the more satisfaction he thought there would be in conquering them. and to yield up his pretensions, on the first appearance of a formidable rival, was contrary to his enterprising spirit and his ideas of that glory, which he equally coveted in the service of the fair and of the french king. with these sentiments of each other, the restraint and mistrust of every party impeded general or chearful conversation. godolphin soon left the room, to commune with his own uneasy thoughts in a solitary walk; lord westhaven would then have taken out bellozane, in order to give lord delamere an opportunity of being alone with his sister and emmeline. but he was determined not to understand hints on that subject; and when his lordship asked him to take an afternoon's walk, found means to refuse it. afraid of leaving two such combustible spirits together, lord westhaven, to the great relief of emmeline, staid with them till delamere retired for the night. but the behaviour of bellozane to emmeline, which was very particular, as if he wished it to be noticed, had extremely alarmed delamere; and whenever they afterwards met, they surveyed each other with such haughty reserve, and their conversation bordered so nearly on hostility and defiance, that emmeline, who expected every hour to see their animosity blaze out in a challenge, could support her uneasiness about it no longer; and sending early to speak to lord westhaven on the beginning of the second week of their stay, she represented to him her fears, and entreated him to prevail on the chevalier to leave them and return to st. alpin. 'i have attempted it already,' said he; 'but with so little success, that if i press it any farther i must quarrel with him myself. i know perfectly well that your fears have too much foundation; and that if we can neither separate or tranquillise these unquiet spirits, we shall have some disagreeable affair happen between them. i know nothing that can be done but your accepting at once your penitent cousin.' 'no, my lord,' answered she, with an air of chagrin, 'that i will not do! i most ardently wish lord delamere well, and would do any thing to make him happy--except sacrificing my own happiness, and acting in opposition to my conscience.' 'why, my dear emmeline, how is this? you had once, surely, an affection for delamere; and his offence against you, however great, admits of considerable alleviation. consider all the pains that were taken to disunite you, and the importunity he suffered from his family. surely, when you are convinced of his repentance you should restore him to your favour; and however you may be superior to considerations of fortune and rank, yet when they unite in a man otherwise unexceptionable they should have some weight.' 'they have none with me, upon my honour, my lord. and since we have got upon this topic, i will be very explicit--i am determined on no account to marry lord delamere. but that i may give no room to charge me with caprice or coquetry (since your lordship believes i once had so great a regard for him), or with that unforgiving temper which i see you are disposed to accuse me of, it is my fixed intention, if i obtain, by your lordship's generous interposition, the mowbray estate, to retire to mowbray castle, and never to marry at all.' lord westhaven, at the solemnity and gravity with which she pronounced these words, began to laugh so immoderately, and to treat her resolution with ridicule so pointed, that he first made her almost angry, and then obliged her to laugh too. at length, however, she prevailed on him again to listen to her apprehensions about delamere and bellozane. 'do not, my lord, rally me so cruelly; but for heaven's sake, before it is too late, prevent any more meetings between these two rash and turbulent young men. why should the chevalier de bellozane stay here?' 'because it is his pleasure. i do assure you seriously, my dear miss mowbray, that i have almost every day since we came hither attempted to send my fiery cousin back to st. alpin. but my anxiety has only piqued him; and he determines more resolutely to stay because he sees my motive for wishing him gone. he is exactly the character which i have somewhere seen described by a french poet.--a young man who, ----_'leger, impetueux, de soi meme rempli, jaloux, presomptueux, bouillant dans ses passions; cedant a ses caprices; pour un peu de valeur, se passoit de tous ses vices._'[ ] 'yet, among all his faults, poor bellozane has some good qualities; and i am really sorry for this strange perseverance in an hopeless pursuit, because it prevents my asking him to england. i give you my honour, emmeline,' continued his lordship, in a more serious tone, 'that i have repeatedly represented to him the improbability of his success; but he answers that you have never positively dismissed him by avowing your preference to another; that he knows your engagement with lord delamere is dissolved, and that he considers himself at liberty to pursue you till you have decidedly chosen, or even till you are actually married. nay, i doubt whether your being married would make any difference in the attentions of this eccentric and presuming frenchman, for i do not consider bellozane as a swiss.' 'well, but my dear lord, if the chevalier will persist in staying, i must determine to go. i see not that my remaining here will be attended with any good effects. it may possibly be the cause of infinite uneasiness to lady westhaven. do, therefore, prevail upon her to let me go alone to st. germains. when i am gone, lord delamere will think more of getting well than of forcing me into a new engagement. he will then soon be able to travel; and the chevalier de bellozane will return quietly to the baron.' 'why to speak ingenuously, emmeline, it _does_ appear to me that it were on every account more proper for you to be in england. thither i wish you could hasten, before it will be possible for lord delamere, or indeed for my wife, who must travel slowly, to get thither. i do not know whether your travelling with us will be strictly proper, on other accounts; but if it were, it would be rendered uneasy to you by the company of these two mad headed boys; for bellozane i am sure intends, if you accompany us, to go also.' 'what objection is there then to my setting out immediately for st. germains, with le limosin and madelon, if lady westhaven would but consent to it?' 'i can easily convince her of the necessity of it; but i foresee another objection that has escaped you.' 'what is that, my lord?' 'that bellozane will follow you.' 'surely he will not attempt it?' 'indeed i apprehend he will. i have no manner of influence over him; and he is here connected with a set of military men, who are the likeliest people in the world to encourage such an enterprize--and if at last this paris should carry off our fair helen!'-- 'nay, but my lord do not ridicule my distress.' 'well then, i will most seriously and gravely counsel you: and my advice is, that you set out as soon as you can get ready, and that my brother godolphin escort you.' emmeline was conscious that she too much wished such an escort; yet fearing that her preference of him would engage godolphin in a quarrel with bellozane or lord delamere, perhaps with both, she answered, while the deepest blush dyed her cheeks-- 'no, my lord, i cannot--i mean not--i should be sorry to give captain godolphin the trouble of such a journey--and i beg you not to think of it--.' 'i shall speak to him of it, however.' 'i beg, my lord--i intreat that you will not.' 'here he is--and we will discuss the matter with him now.' godolphin at this moment entered the room; and lord westhaven relating plainly all emmeline's fears, and her wishes to put an end to them by quitting besançon, added the proposal he had made, that godolphin should take care of her till she joined mrs. stafford. tho' godolphin saw in her apprehensions for the safety of delamere, only a conviction of her tender regard for him, and considered his own attachment as every way desperate; yet he could not refuse himself, when it was thus offered him, the pleasure of being with her--the exquisite tho' painful delight of being useful to her. he therefore eagerly expressed the readiness, the happiness, with which he should undertake so precious a charge. emmeline, fearful of betraying her real sentiments, overacted the civil coldness with which she thought it necessary to refuse this offer. godolphin, mortified and vexed at her manner as much as at her denial, ceased to press his services; and lord westhaven, who wondered what could be her objection, since of the honour and propriety of godolphin's conduct he knew she could not doubt, seemed hurt at her rejection of his brother's friendly intention of waiting on her; and dropping the conversation, went away with godolphin. she saw that her conduct inevitably impressed on the mind of the latter a conviction of her returning regard for delamere; and she feared that to lord westhaven it might appear to be the effect of vanity and coquetry. 'perhaps he will think me,' said she, 'so vain as to suppose that godolphin has also designs, and that therefore i decline his attendance; and coquet enough to wish for the pursuit of these men, whom i only affect to shun, and for that reason prefer going alone, to accepting the protection of his brother. yet as _i_ know the sentiments of godolphin, which it appears lord westhaven does not, surely i had better suffer his ill opinion of me, than encourage godolphin's hopes; which, till delamere can be diverted from prosecuting his unwelcome addresses, will inevitably involve him in a dispute, and such a dispute as i cannot bear to think of.' uncertain what to do, another day passed; and on the following morning, while she waited for lady westhaven, she was addressed by godolphin, who calmly and gravely enquired if she would honour him with any commands for england? 'are you going then, sir, before my lord and lady?' 'i am going, madam, immediately.' 'by way of paris?' 'yes, madam, to havre; whence i shall get the quickest to southampton, and to the isle of wight. i am uneasy at the entire solitude to which my absence condemns adelina.' 'you have heard no unfavourable news, i hope, of lady adelina or your little boy?' 'none. but i am impatient to return to them.' 'as you are going immediately, sir,' said emmeline (making an effort to conquer a pain she felt rising in her bosom) 'i will not detain you by writing to lady adelina. perhaps--as it is possible--as i hope'-- she stopped. godolphin looked anxious to hear what was possible, what she hoped. 'as i shall so soon, so very soon be in england, perhaps we may meet,' reassumed she, speaking very quick--'possibly i may have the happiness of seeing her ladyship and dear little william.' 'to meet _you_,' replied godolphin, very solemnly, 'adelina shall leave her solitude; for certainly a journey to see her in it will hardly be undertaken by _lady delamere_.' he then in the same tone wished her health and happiness till he saw her again, and left her. he was no sooner gone, than she felt disposed to follow him and apologize for her having so coldly refused his offers of protection. pride and timidity prevented her; but they could not stop her tears, which she was obliged to conceal by hurrying to her own room. lady westhaven soon after sent for her to a late breakfast: she found lord delamere there; but heard that godolphin was gone. soon after breakfast, lady westhaven and her brother, (who could not yet obtain a clear intermission of the fever which hung about him, and who continued extremely weak,) went out together for an airing; and lord westhaven, unusually grave, was left reading in the room with emmeline. he laid down his book. 'so,' said he, 'william is flown away from us.' it was a topic on which emmeline did not care to trust her voice. 'i wish you could have determined to have gone with him.' 'i wish, my lord, i could have reconciled it to my ideas of propriety; since certainly i should have been happy and safe in such an escort; and since, without any at all, i must, in a day or two, go.' 'i believe it will be best. lord delamere is no better; and bellozane has no thought of leaving us entirely, tho' his military friends take up so much of his time that he is luckily less with delamere. lord delamere has again, miss mowbray, been imploring me to apply to you. he wishes you only to hear him. he complains that you fly from him, and will not give him an opportunity of entering on his justification.' 'i am extremely concerned at lord delamere's unhappiness. but i must repeat that i require of his lordship no justification; that i most sincerely forgive him if he supposes he has injured me; but that as to any proposals such as he once honoured me with, i am absolutely resolved never to listen to them; and i entreat him to believe that any future application on the subject must be entirely fruitless.' 'poor young man!' said lord westhaven. 'however you must consent to see him alone, and to tell him so yourself; for from me he will not believe you so very inflexible--so very cruel.' 'i am inflexible, my lord, but surely not cruel. the greatest cruelty of which i could be guilty, either to lord delamere or myself, would be to accept his offers, feeling as i feel, and thinking as i think.' 'i do not know how we shall get him to england, or what will be done with him when he is there.' 'he will do well, my lord. doubt it not.' 'upon my honour i _do_ doubt it! it is to me astonishing that a young man so volatile, so high-spirited as delamere, should be capable of an attachment at once so violent and so steady.' 'steady!--has your lordship forgotten miss otley?' 'his wavering then was, you well know, owing to some evil impressions he had received of you; which, tho' he refuses to tell me the particulars, he assures me were conveyed and confirmed with so much art, that a more dispassionate and cooler lover would have believed them without enquiry. how then can you wonder at _his_ petulant and eager spirit seizing on probable circumstances, which his jealousy and apprehension immediately converted into conviction? as soon as he knew these suspicions were groundless, did he not fly to implore your pardon; and hasten, even at the hazard of his life, to find and appease you? such is the present situation of his mind and of his health, that i very seriously assure you i doubt whether he will survive your total rejection.' emmeline, unable to answer this speech gravely, without betraying the very great concern it gave her, assumed a levity she did not feel. 'your lordship,' said she, 'is disposed to think thus, from the warm and vehement manner in which lord delamere is accustomed to express himself. if he is really unhappy, i am very sorry; but i am persuaded time, and the more fortunate alliance which he is solicited to form, will effect a cure. don't think me unfeeling if i answer your melancholy prophecy in the words of rosalind-- 'men have died from time to time, and worms have eat them--but not for love.' she then ran away, and losing all her forced spirits the moment she was alone, gave way to tears. she fancied they flowed entirely for the unhappiness of poor delamere, and for her uncertain situation. but tho' the former uneasiness deeply affected her sensible heart, many of the tears she shed were because godolphin was gone, and she knew not when she should again see him. godolphin, repining and wretched, pursued his way to paris. he thought that emmeline's coldness and reserve were meant to put an end to any hopes he might have entertained; and that her reconciliation and marriage with lord delamere must inevitably take place as soon as she had, by her dissimulated cruelty, punished him for his rashness and his errors. his daily observation confirmed him in this opinion: he saw, that in place of her candid and ingenuous manners, a studied conduct was adopted, which concealed her real sentiments--sentiments which he concluded to be all in favour of delamere. and finding that he could not divest himself of his passion for her, he thought that it was a weakness, if not a crime, to indulge it in her presence, while it imposed on himself an insupportable torment; and that, by quitting her, he should at least conceal his hopeless attachment, and save himself the misery of seeing her actually married to lord delamere. he determined, therefore, to tear himself away; and to punish himself for the premature expectations with which he had begun his journey to st. alpin, by shutting himself up at east cliff (his house in the isle of wight) and refusing himself the sight of her, of whom it would be sufficient misery to think, when she had given herself to her favoured and fortunate lover. full of these reflections, godolphin continued his road, intending to take the passage boat at havre. but at the hotel he frequented at paris, he met a gentleman of his acquaintance who was going the next day to england by way of calais; and as he had his own post chaise, and only his valet with him, he told godolphin that if he would take a place in his chaise he would send his servant post. this offer godolphin accepted; and altering his original design, went with his friend to calais to cross to england. [footnote : ----volatile--impetuous-- full of himself--jealous--presumptuous-- fiery in his passions; yielding to every caprice; and who believes some courage an apology for all his vices.] chapter vii it was now impossible for emmeline to avoid a conversation with lord delamere, which his sister urged her so earnestly to allow him. bellozane was, by the french officers, with whom he principally lived, engaged out for two days; and lord and lady westhaven easily found an opportunity to leave emmeline with delamere. he was no sooner alone in her presence, than he threw himself on his knees before her--'will you,' cried he, 'ah! will you still refuse to hear and to forgive me? have i offended beyond all hopes of pardon?' 'no, my lord.--i do most readily and truly forgive every offence, whether real or imaginary, that you believe you have committed against me.' 'you forgive me--but to what purpose?--only to plunge me yet deeper into wretchedness. you forgive me--but you despise, you throw me from you for ever. ah! rather continue to be angry, than distract me by a pardon so cold and careless!' 'if your lordship will be calm--if you will rise, and hear me with temper, i will be very explicit with you; but while you yield to these extravagant transports, i cannot explain all i wish you to understand; and must indeed beg to be released from a conversation so painful to me, and to you so prejudicial.' delamere rose and took a chair. 'i need not, sir,' said emmeline, collecting all her courage, 'recall to your memory the time so lately passed, when i engaged to become your's, if at the expiration of a certain period lord and lady montreville consented, and you still remained disposed to bestow on me the honour of your name.' 'what am i to expect,' cried delamere, eagerly interrupting her--'ah! what am i to expect from a preface so cold and cruel? you have indeed no occasion to recall to my memory those days when i was allowed to look forward to that happiness, which now, thro' the villainy of others, and my own madness and ideotism, i have lost. but, madam, it must not, it cannot be so easily relinquished! by heaven i will not give you up!--and if but for a moment i thought----.' 'you seemed just now, sir, disposed to hear me with patience. since, however, you cannot even for a few minutes forbear these starts of passion, i really am unequal to the task of staying with you.' she would then have hastened away; but delamere forcibly detaining her, again protested he would be calm, and again she went on. 'at that time, i will own to you, that without any prepossession, almost without a wish either to accept or decline the very high honour you offered me, i was content to engage myself to be your wife; because you said such an engagement would make _you_ happy, and because i then knew not that it would render _me_ otherwise.' 'was you even then thus indifferent? had i no place in your heart, madam, when you would have given me your hand?' 'yes, sir--you had then the place i now willingly restore to you. i esteemed you; i looked upon you with a sisterly affection; and had i married you, it would have been rather to have made you happy, than because i had any wish to form other ties than those by which our relationship and early acquaintance had connected us.' 'ah! my angelic emmeline! it will still make me happy! let the reasons which then influenced you, again plead for me; and forget, o! forget all that has passed since my headlong folly urged me to insult and forsake you!' 'alas! my lord, that is not in my power! you have cancelled the engagements that subsisted between us; and, as i understand, have actually formed others more indissoluble, with a lady of high rank and of immense fortune--one whose alliance is as anxiously courted by your family, as mine is despised. can your lordship again fly from your promises? can you quit at pleasure the affluent and high-born heiress as you quitted the deserted and solitary orphan?' 'cursed, cursed cruelty!' exclaimed delamere, speaking thro' his shut teeth--but go on, madam! i deserve your severity, and must bear your reproaches! yet surely you know that but for the machinations of those execrable crofts', i should never have acted as i did--you know, that however destitute of fortune chance had made you, i preferred you to all those who might have brought me wealth!' 'i acknowledge your generosity, sir, and on that head meant not to reproach. i merely intended to represent to you what you seem to have forgotten--that were i disposed to restore you the hand you so lately renounced, you could not take it; since miss otley will certainly not relinquish the claim you have given her to your regard.' 'you are misinformed.--i am under no engagement to miss otley.--i am not by heaven! by all that is sacred!' 'were not all preparations for your marriage in great forwardness, sir, when you left england? and must not your consent have been previously obtained before lord montreville would have made them? however, to put an end to all uncertainty, i must tell you, my lord, with a sincerity which will probably be displeasing to you, that my affections--' 'are no longer in your own power!' cried he, hastily interrupting her--'speak, madam--is it not so?' 'i did not say that, sir. i was going to assure you that i now find it impossible to command them--impossible to feel for you that preference, without which i should think myself extremely culpable were i to give you my hand.' 'i understand you, madam! you give that preference to another. the chevalier de bellozane has succeeded to your affections. he has doubtless made good use of the opportunities he has had to conciliate your favour; but before he carries his good fortune farther, he must discuss with me the right by which he pretends to it.' 'whether he has or has not a right to pretend to my regard, sir,' said emmeline, with great spirit, 'this causeless jealousy, so immediately after you have been convinced of the fallacy of your supposition in regard to another person, convinces me, that had i unfortunately given you an exclusive claim to my friendship and affection, my whole life would have been embittered by suspicion, jealousy, and caprice. recollect, my lord, that i have said nothing of the chevalier de bellozane, nor have you the least reason to believe i have for him those sentiments you are pleased to impute to me.' 'but can i doubt it!' exclaimed delamere, rising, and walking about in an agony--'can i doubt it, when i have heard you disclaim me for ever!--when you have told me your affections are no longer in your power!' 'no, sir; my meaning was, what i now repeat--that as my near relation, as my friend, as the brother of lady westhaven, i shall ever esteem and regard you; but that i cannot command now in your favour those sentiments which should induce me to accept of you as my husband. what is past cannot be recalled; and tho' i am most truly concerned to see you unhappy, my determination is fixed and i must abide by it.' 'death and hell!' cried the agonized delamere--'it is all over then! you utterly disclaim me, and hardly think it worth while to conceal from me for whose sake i am disclaimed!' emmeline was terrified to find that he still persisted in imputing her estrangement from him to her partiality for bellozane; foreseeing that he would immediately fly to him, and that all she apprehended must follow. 'i beg, i entreat, lord delamere, that you will understand that i give no preference to mr. de bellozane. i will not only assure you of that, but i disclaim all intention of marriage whatever! suffer me, my lord, to entreat that you will endeavour to calm your mind and regain your health. reflect on the cruel uncertainty in which you have left the marquis and the marchioness; reflect on the uneasy situation in which you keep lord and lady westhaven, and on the great injury you do yourself; and resolutely attempt, in the certainty of succeeding, to divest yourself of a fatal partiality, which has hitherto produced only misery to you and to your family.' 'oh! most certainly, most certainly!' cried delamere, almost choaked with passion--'i shall undoubtedly make all these wise reflections; and after having gone thro' a proper course of them, shall, possibly, with great composure, see you in the arms of that presumptuous coxcomb--that vain, supercilious frenchman!--that detested bellozane! no, madam! no! you may certainly give yourself to him, but assure yourself i live not to see it!' he flew out of the room at these words, tho' she attempted to stop and to appease him. her heart bled at the wounds she had yet thought it necessary to inflict; and she was at once grieved and terrified at his menacing and abrupt departure. she immediately went herself after lord westhaven, to intreat him to keep bellozane and delamere apart. his lordship was much disturbed at what had passed, which emmeline faithfully related to him: bellozane was still out of town; and lord westhaven, who now apprehended that on delamere's meeting him he would immediately insult him, said he would consider what could be done to prevent their seeing each other 'till delamere became more reasonable. on enquiry, he found that the chevalier was certainly engaged with his companions 'till the next day. he therefore came back to emmeline about an hour after he had left her, and told her that he thought it best for her to set out that afternoon on her way to st. germains. 'you will by this means make it difficult for bellozane to overtake you, if he should attempt it; and when he sees you have actually fled from delamere, he will be little disposed to quarrel with him, and will perhaps go home. as to delamere, his sister and i must manage him as well as we can; which will be the easier, as he is, within this half hour, gone to bed in a violent access of fever. indeed, in the perturbation of mind he now suffers, there is no probability of his speedy amendment; for as fast as he regains strength, his violent passions throw his frame again into disorder.--but perhaps when he knows you are actually in england, he may try to acquire, by keeping himself quiet, that share of health which alone can enable him to follow you.' emmeline, eagerly embracing this advice, which she found had the concurrence of lady westhaven, prepared instantly for her departure; and embracing tenderly her two excellent friends, who hoped soon to follow her, and who had desired her to come to them to reside as soon as they were settled in london, where they had no house at present, she got into a chaise, with madelon, and attended by le limosin, who was proudly elated at being thus '_l'homme de confience_'[ ] to mademoiselle mowbray, she left besançon; her heart deeply impressed with a sense of delamere's sufferings, and with an earnest wish for the restoration of his peace. tho' godolphin had been gone four days, and went post, so that she knew he must be at paris long before her, she could not, as she proceeded on her journey, help fancying that some accident might have stopped him, and that she might overtake him. she knew not whether she hoped or feared such an encounter. but the disappointed air with which she left every post house where she had occasion to stop for horses, plainly evinced that she rather desired than dreaded it. she felt all the absurdity and ridicule of expecting to see him; yet still she looked out after him; and he was the object she sought when she cast her eyes round her at the several stages. without overtaking him, or being herself overtaken by bellozane, she arrived in safety and in the usual time at paris, and immediately went on to st. germains; le limosin being so well acquainted with travelling, that she had no trouble nor alarm during her journey. when she got to st. germains, she was received with transport by mrs. stafford and her family. she found her about to depart, in two days, for england, where there was a prospect of settling her husband's affairs; and she had undertaken to go alone over, in hopes of adjusting them for his speedy return; while he had agreed to remain with the children 'till he heard the success of her endeavours. great was the satisfaction of mrs. stafford to find that emmeline would accompany her to england; with yet more pleasure did she peruse those documents which convinced her that her fair friend went to claim, with an absolute certainty of success, her large paternal fortune. lord westhaven had given her a long letter to the marquis of montreville, to whom he desired she would immediately address herself; and he had also written to an eminent lawyer, his friend, into whose hands he directed her immediately to put the papers that related to her birth, and by no means to trust them with any other person. with money, also, lord westhaven had amply furnished her; and she proposed taking lodgings in london, 'till she could settle her affairs with lord montreville; and then to go to mowbray castle. on the second day after her reaching st. germains, she began her journey to calais with mrs. stafford, attended by le limosin and madelon. when they arrived there, they heard that a passage boat would sail about nine o'clock in the evening; but on sending le limosin to speak to the master, they learned that there were already more cabin passengers than there was room to accommodate, and that therefore two ladies might find it inconvenient. as the evening, however, was calm, and the wind favourable, and as the two fair travellers were impatient to be in england, they determined to go on board. it was near ten o'clock before the vessel got under way; and before two they were assured they should be at dover. they therefore hesitated not to pass that time in chairs on the deck, wrapped in their cloaks; and would have preferred doing so, to the heat and closeness of the cabin, had there been room for them in it. by eleven o'clock, every thing insensibly grew quiet on board. the passengers were gone to their beds, the vessel moved calmly, and with very little wind, over a gently swelling sea; and the silence was only broken by the waves rising against it's side, or by the steersman, who now and then spoke to another sailor, that slowly traversed the deck with measured pace. the night was dark; a declining moon only broke thro' the heavy clouds of the horizon with a feeble and distant light. there was a solemnity in the scene at once melancholy and pleasing. mrs. stafford and emmeline both felt it. they were silent; and each lost in her own reflections; nor did they attend to a slight interruption of the stillness that reigned on board, made by a passenger who came from below, muffled in a great coat. he spoke in a low voice to the man at the helm, and then sat down on the gunwale, with his back towards the ladies; after which all was again quiet. in a few minutes a deep sigh was uttered by this passenger; and then, after a short pause, the two friends were astonished to hear, in a voice, low, but extremely expressive, these lines, addressed to night. sonnet i love thee, mournful sober-suited night, when the faint moon, yet lingering in her wane and veil'd in clouds, with pale uncertain light hangs o'er the waters of the restless main. in deep depression sunk, the enfeebled mind will to the deaf, cold elements complain, and tell the embosom'd grief, however vain, to sullen surges and the viewless wind. tho' no repose on thy dark breast i find, i still enjoy thee--chearless as thou art; for in thy quiet gloom, the exhausted heart, is calm, tho' wretched; hopeless, yet resign'd. while, to the winds and waves, it's sorrows given, may reach--tho' lost on earth--the ear of heaven! 'surely,' said mrs. stafford in a whisper, 'it is a voice i know.' 'surely,' repeated the heart of emmeline, for she could not speak, 'it is the voice of godolphin!' 'do you,' reassumed mrs. stafford--'do you not recollect the voice?' 'yes,' replied emmeline. 'i think--i believe--i rather fancy it is--mr. godolphin.' 'shall i speak to him?' asked mrs. stafford, 'or are you disposed to hear more poetry? he has no notion who are his auditors.' 'as you please,' said emmeline. again the person sighed, and repeated with more warmth-- 'and reach, tho' lost on earth--the ear of heaven!' 'yes--if _she_ is happy, they will indeed be heard! ah! that cruel _if_--_if_ she is happy! and can i bear to doubt it, yet leave her to the experiment!' there now remained no doubt but that the stranger was godolphin; and emmeline as little hesitated to believe herself the subject of his thoughts and of his muse. 'why do _you_ not speak to him, emmeline?' said mrs. stafford archly. 'i cannot, indeed.' 'i must speak then, myself;' and raising her voice, she said--'mr. godolphin, is it not?' 'who is so good as to recollect me?' cried he, rising and looking round him. it was very dark; but he could just distinguish that two ladies were there. mrs. stafford gave him her hand, saying--'have you then forgotten your friends?' he snatched her hand, and carried it to his lips. 'there is another hand for you,' said she, pointing to emmeline--'but you must be at the trouble of taking it.' 'that i shall be most delighted to do. but who is it? surely it cannot be miss mowbray, that allows me such happiness?' 'have you, in one little week,' said the faultering emmeline, 'occasion to ask that question?' 'not now i hear that voice,' answered godolphin in the most animated tone--'not when i hold this lovely hand. but whence comes it that i find you, madam, here? or how does it happen that you have left my brother and sister, and the happy delamere?' he seemed to have recollected, after his first transport at meeting her, that he was thus warmly addressing _her_ who was probably only going to england to prepare for her union with his rival. 'do not be so unreasonable,' said mrs. stafford, 'as to expect miss mowbray should answer all these questions. but find a seat; and let us hear some account of yourself. you have also to make your peace with me for not seeing me in your way.' godolphin threw himself on the deck at their feet. 'i find a seat here,' said he, 'which i should prefer to a throne. as to an account of myself, it is soon given. i met a friend, whose company induced me to come to calais rather than travel thro' normandy; and the haste he was in made it impossible for me to stop him. miss mowbray had refused to give me any commission for you; and i had nothing to say to you that would have given you any pleasure. i was, therefore, unwilling to trouble you merely with a passing enquiry.' 'but whence comes it that you sail only to-night, if your friend was so much hurried?' 'he went four days ago; but i--i was kept--i was detained at calais.' emmeline felt a strange curiosity to know what could have detained him; but dared not ask such a question. they then talked of lord and lady westhaven. 'lord delamere is, i conclude, much better?' said godolphin. 'when i took leave of lord and lady westhaven,' coldly answered emmeline, 'i did not think him much better than when we first saw him. his servant said he was almost as ill as when you, sir, with friendship so uncommon, attended him.' 'call it not uncommon, madam!--it was an office i would have performed, not only for any englishman in another country, but i hope for any human being in any country, who had needed it. should i then allow you to suppose there was any great merit in my rendering a slight service to the brother of lady westhaven; and who is besides _dear to one_ to whom _i_ owe obligations so infinite.' the stress he laid on these words left emmeline no doubt of his meaning. she was, however, vexed and half angry that he persisted in believing her so entirely attached to delamere; and, for the first time she had ventured to think steadily on the subject, meditated how to undeceive him. yet when she reflected on the character of delamere; and remembered that his father would now claim an authority to controul her actions--that one would think himself at liberty to call any man to an account who addressed her, and the other to refuse his consent to any other marriage than that which would be now so advantageous to the family--she saw only inquietude to herself, and hazard to the life so dear to her, should she suffer the passion of godolphin openly to be avowed. 'is it not remarkable,' said mrs. stafford, 'that you should voluntarily have conducted us to france, and by chance escort us home?' 'yes,' answered godolphin.--'and a chance so fortunate for me i should think portended some good, was i sanguine, and had i any faith in omens.' 'are you going immediately to london?' 'immediately.' 'and from thence to east cliff?' 'i believe i shall be obliged to stay in town a week or ten days.--but my continuance there shall be longer, if you or miss mowbray will employ me.' the night now grew cold; and the dew fell so heavily, that mrs. stafford expressed her apprehensions that emmeline would find some ill effects from it, and advised her to go down. 'oh! no,' said godolphin, with uncommon anxiety in his manner--'do not go down. there are so many passengers in the cabin, and it is so close, that you will find it extremely disagreeable. it will not now be half an hour before we see the lights of dover; and we shall presently be on shore.' emmeline, who really apprehended little from cold, acquiesced; and they continued to converse on general topics 'till they landed. godolphin saw them on shore immediately, and attended them to the inn. he then told them he must go back to see after the baggage, and left them hastily. they ordered a slight refreshment; and when it was brought in, emmeline said--'shall we not wait for mr. godolphin?' 'the gentleman is come in, madam,' said the waiter, 'with another lady, and is assisting her up stairs. would you please i should call him?' emmeline felt, without knowing the nature of the sensation, involuntary curiosity and involuntary uneasiness. 'no, do not call him,' said mrs. stafford--'i suppose he will be here immediately. but send the french servant to us.' le limosin attending, she gave him some requisite orders, and then again enquired for captain godolphin. le limosin answered, that he was gone to assist a lady to her room, who had been very ill during the passage. 'of which nation is she, le limosin?' 'i am ignorant of that, madam, as i have not heard her speak. _monsieur le capitaine_ is very sorry for her, and has attended her the whole way, only the little time he was upon deck.' 'is she a young lady?' enquired mrs. stafford. 'yes, very young and pretty.' the curiosity of mrs. stafford was now, in spite of herself, awakened. and the long stay godolphin made, gave to emmeline such acute uneasiness, as she had never felt before. it is extraordinary surely, said she to herself, that he should be thus anxious about an acquaintance made in a pacquet boat. she grew more and more disturbed at his absence; and was hardly able to conceal her vexation from mrs. stafford, while she was ashamed of discovering it even to herself. in about ten minutes, which had appeared to her above an hour, godolphin came in; apologised, without accounting, for his stay, and while they made all together a slight repast, enquired how they intended to proceed to london and at what time. on hearing that they thought of setting out about noon, in a chaise, he proposed their taking a post coach; 'and then,' added he, 'you may suffer me to occupy the fourth place.' to this mrs. stafford willingly agreed; and emmeline, glad to find that at least he did not intend waiting on his pacquet boat acquaintance to london, retired with somewhat less uneasiness than she had felt on her first hearing that he had brought such an acquaintance on shore. after a few hours sleep, the fair travellers arose to continue their journey. they heard that mr. godolphin had long left his room, and was at breakfast with the lady whom he had been so careful of the preceding morning. at this intelligence emmeline felt all her anxiety revive; and when he came into the room where they were to speak to them, hardly could she command herself to answer him without betraying her emotion. 'miss mowbray is fatigued with her voyage,' said he, tenderly approaching her--'the night air i am afraid has affected her health?' 'no, sir;' coldly and faintly answered emmeline. 'how is the young lady you was so good as to assist on shore, sir?' said mrs. stafford. 'i understand she was ill.' godolphin blushed; and replied, with some little embarrassment, 'she is better, madam, i thank you.' 'so,' thought emmeline, 'he makes then no mystery of having an interest in this lady.' 'are you acquainted with her?' enquired mrs. stafford. 'yes.' politeness would not admit of another question: yet it was impossible to help wishing to ask it. godolphin, however, turned the discourse, and soon afterwards went out. emmeline felt ready to cry, yet knew not for what, and dreaded to ask herself whether she had not admitted into her heart the tormenting passion of jealousy. 'why should i be displeased,' said she. 'why should i be unhappy? mr. godolphin believes me attached to delamere, and has ceased to think of me; wherefore should i lament that he thinks of another; or what right have i to enquire into his actions--what right have i to blame them?' the post coach was now ready. emmeline, attended by madelon, mrs. stafford, and godolphin, got into it, and a lively and animated conversation was carried on between the two latter. emmeline, in the approaching interview with her uncle, and in the wretchedness of delamere, which she never ceased to lament, had employment enough for her thoughts; but in spite of herself they flew perpetually from those subjects to the acquaintance which captain godolphin had brought with him from calais. [footnote : confidential servant.] chapter viii when they arrived at canterbury, the ladies were shewn into a parlour, where godolphin did not join them for near half an hour. emmeline had accounted for her lowness of spirits by her dread of meeting her uncle on such terms as they were likely to meet; but mrs. stafford knew the human heart too well to be ignorant that there was another and a concealed source of that melancholy which overwhelmed her. it was in vain she had attempted to dissemble. it was, to her friend, evident, that her compassion, her good wishes, were delamere's, but that her heart was wholly godolphin's, and was now pierced with the poignant thorns of new-born jealousy and anxious mistrust. while they waited together the return of godolphin, mrs. stafford said--'i fancy that post chaise that passed us about half an hour ago, contained mr. godolphin's _acquaintance_.' 'did it? why do you think so?' 'because he looked after it so earnestly; and there seemed to be only a young woman in it.' 'i did not observe it indeed,' replied emmeline, with the appearance of carelessness. 'i should like to see her nearer,' continued mrs. stafford, with some archness--'by the glympse i had of her she appeared to be very handsome.' 'do you think she is a french woman?' enquired emmeline, still affecting great indifference. 'no, she appeared to be english. but if you please i will enquire of him?' 'i beg you will not,' in an half angry tone, answered emmeline--'i am sure it is very immaterial.' at this moment godolphin entered; and with looks of uneasiness apologized for his long stay. 'i have an awkward embarrassment,' said he, 'on my hands: a poor young woman, who is wholly a stranger in this country, and whom i have undertaken to conduct to london; but she is so ill that i am afraid she is unfit to go on.--yet how to leave her here i know not.' 'pray, sir,' said emmeline, 'do not let us be any restraint to you. if your presence is necessary to the lady, you had surely better continue with her, than put her to any inconvenience to go on.' godolphin, who was at once pleased and pained by the quickness with which she spoke, said--'i will tell you, my dear miss mowbray, very ingenuously, that if i were quite sure the character of this unhappy young woman is such as may entitle her to your's and mrs. stafford's protection, i should without scruple have asked it. _i_ know,' continued he, looking distressed, 'how compassionate and good you both are; but i ought not therefore to hazard improperly taxing such generosity and sensibility.' 'who is this young person, sir?' asked mrs. stafford. 'if it will not tire you i will tell you. on my arrival at calais this day se'nnight, i found all the pacquet boats on the other side, and was obliged to wait with my friend cleveland a whole day. as i was sauntering about the streets after dinner, i passed by an englishman whose face i thought i recollected. the man looked confused, and took off his hat; and i then perfectly remembered him to have been one of the best sailors i had on board in the west indies, where he received a dangerous wound in the arm. 'i stopped, and asked him by what accident he came to calais, and why his appearance was no better; for his honest hard features seemed pinched with want, his dress was shabby, his person meagre, and his look dejected. '"i am ashamed to tell you, captain," said he, "how i came hither; but in short because i could not live at home. you know i got prize money when i served under your honour. mayhap i might have managed it better; but howsomdever 'tis gone, and there's an end on't. so as we are all turned a drift in the world, some of my ship mates advised me to try a little matter of smuggling with them, and come over here. i have lived among these frenchmen now these two months, and can, to be sure, just live; but rot 'em, if i could get any thing to do at home, i wouldn't stay another hour, for i hates 'em all, as your honour very well knows. a lucky voyage or two will put some money mayhap in my way, with this smuggling trade; and then i reckons to cross over home once for all, and so go down to liverpool to my friends, if any on um be alive yet." 'i reproved my acquaintance severely for his proceeding, and told him, that to enable him to go to his friends, i would supply him with money to buy him cloaths, which i found he principally wanted; being ashamed to appear among his relations so ill equipped, after having received a considerable sum in prize money. 'the poor fellow appeared to be very grateful, and assured me that to prove his sincerity he would embark in the same pacquet boat. "but lord, captain," added he, "i be'nt the only englishman who stays in this rascally country agin their will--your honour remembers lieutenant stornaway, on board your honour's ship?" 'aye, to be sure i do.' '"well; he, poor lad, is got into prison here for debt, and there i reckon he'll die; for nobody that ever gets into one of their confounded jails in this country, ever gets out again." 'as i perfectly remembered stornaway, a gallant and spirited young scotsman, i was much hurt at this account, and asked if i could be admitted to see him. i found it attended with infinite difficulty, and that i must apply to so many different persons before i could be allowed to see my unfortunate countryman, that the pacquet boat of the next day must sail without me. cleveland therefore departed; and i, with long attendance on the commandant and other officers, was at length introduced into the prison. i will not shock you with a description of it, nor with the condition in which i found the poor young man; who seemed to me likely to escape, by death, from the damp and miserable dungeon where he lay, without necessary food, without air, and without hope of relief. he related to me his sorrowful and simple tale. he was brought up to the sea; had no friends able to assist him; and on being discharged, after the peace, had gone, with what money he received, and on half pay, to france, in hopes of being able to live at less expence than in england, and to learn, at the same time, a language so necessary in his profession. '"and for some time," said he, "i did pretty well; till going with one of my countrymen to see a relation of his, who was (tho' born of scots parents) brought up as a pensioner in a convent, and a catholic, i was no longer my own master, and tho' i knew that it was almost impossible for me to support a wife, i yet rashly married, and have made one of the loveliest young creatures in the world a beggar. '"she was totally destitute of fortune; and was afraid her friends, who were but distant relations, and people of rank in scotland, would insist on her taking the veil, as the most certain and easiest means of providing for her. she had a decided aversion to a monastic life; and poor as i was, (for i did not attempt to deceive her,) hesitated not to quit her convent with me, which it was easy enough to do by the management of her relation, with whom she was allowed to go out. we set out, therefore, together for england. i had about twenty louis in my pocket, which would have carried us thither comfortably: but calamity overtook us by the way. we travelled in stages and diligences, as we found cheapest; in one of which i imagine my poor girl caught the infection of the small pox, with which she fell ill at amiens. i attended her with all the agonizing fear of a wretch who sees his only earthly good on the point of being torn from him for ever; and very, very ill she was for many days and nights. yet her lovely face was spared; and in a month i saw her quite out of danger, but still too weak to travel. as i spared nothing that could contribute to her ease or her recovery, my money was dreadfully diminished, and i had barely enough left to carry me alone to england. but as our credit was yet good, i purposed our living on it till her strength was somewhat re-established, and that i would then go to england, get a supply of money, and return to pay my debts and fetch my wife. '"this was the only expedient," said poor stornaway, "that i could think of, and perhaps was the very worst i could have adopted; since by this means we insensibly got into debt, and to creditors the most inexorable. '"at the end of three weeks, my wife was tolerably well. i divided with her the money i had left, and went off in the night to calais, flattering myself i should return to her within a fortnight. but so vigilant were those to whom i owed money, and so active the _maréchaussés_, that i was pursued, and thrown, without hesitation and without appeal, into this prison; where my little remaining money, being all exhausted in fees, to save me from even worse treatment, i have now lain near six weeks in the situation in which you see me. as to myself," continued the poor young man, "my life has been a life of hardship, and i have learned to hold it as nothing; but when i reflect on what must have been the condition of my isabel, i own to you, dear sir, that my fortitude forsakes me, and the blackest despair takes possession of my soul." 'i had but little occasion to deliberate,' said godolphin, continuing his narrative--'i had but little occasion to deliberate. i enquired into the debt. it was a trifle. i blushed to think, that while englishmen were daily passing thro' the place in pursuit of pleasure, a gentleman, an officer of their nation, languished for such a sum in the horrors of a confinement so dreadful. the debt was easily discharged; and i took the unhappy stornaway to my lodgings, from whence he was eagerly flying to amiens, when i was called aside by one of the _maréchaussé_, who desired to speak to me. '"sir," said the man, "you have been generous to me, and i will hazard telling you a secret. orders are coming to stop your friend, whom you have released from prison, for stealing a pensioner out of a convent. get him off to england immediately, or he will be taken, and perhaps confined for life." 'i hastened stornaway instantly into a boat, and sent him after a pacquet which had just sailed, and which i saw him overtake. he conjured me, in an agony of despair, to enquire for his wife, without whom he said he could not live, and that rather than attempt it, he would return and perish in prison. i promised all he desired; and as soon as i was sure he was safe, i set out post for amiens, where i found the poor young woman in a situation to which no words can do justice. she had parted with almost every thing for her support; and was overwhelmed by the weight of misfortunes, which, young and inexperienced as she was, she had neither the means to soften or the fortitude to bear. i brought her away to calais, and embarked with her yesterday, having only staid long enough to furnish her with cloaths, and to recruit her enfeebled frame after her journey. but sea sickness, added to her former ill state of health, has reduced her to a condition of deplorable weakness. she speaks so little english that she is unable to travel alone; and i was in hopes that by her chaise keeping up with the coach, i might have assisted her on the road; but she is now so extremely ill that i am afraid she must remain here.' during the first part of this short account, emmeline, charmed more than ever with godolphin, and ashamed of having for a moment entertained a suspicion to the disadvantage of such a man, sat silent; but at the conclusion of it, her eyes overflowed with tears; she felt something that told her she ought to apologize to him for the error she had been guilty of--tho' of that error he knew nothing; and impelled by an involuntary impulse, she held out her hand to him.--dear, generous, noble-minded godolphin! was uttered by her heart, but her lips only echoed, the last word. 'godolphin!' said she, 'let us go to this poor young creature--let us see her ourselves.' 'certainly we will,' cried mrs. stafford; 'and indeed, sir, you ought to have told us before, that we might sooner have offered all the assistance in our power.' 'i was afraid,' answered he. 'i knew not whether i might not be deceived in the character of mrs. stornaway; and dared not intrude upon you, lest it should be found that the object merited not your good offices.' 'but she is in distress!' said emmeline--'she is a stranger!--and shall we hesitate?--' godolphin, who found in the tenderness of her address to him, and in the approbation her eyes expressed, a reward as sweet as that which the consciousness of doing good afforded from his own heart; kissed the hand she had given him, in silence, and then went to enquire if the poor young woman could see the ladies. she expressed her joy at being so favoured, and mrs. stafford and emmeline were introduced. the compassion they expressed, and the assurances they gave her that she would meet her husband in london, and that she should stay with them 'till she did, calmed and composed her; and as her illness was merely owing to fatigue and anxiety, they believed a few hours rest, now her mind was easier, would restore her. tho' they were impatient to get on to london, they yet hesitated not to remain at canterbury all night, on the account of this poor stranger. godolphin, on hearing their determination, warmly thanked them: the heart of emmeline was at once eased of its inquietude, and impressed with a deeper sense than ever of godolphin's worth: she gave way, almost for the first time, to her tenderness and esteem, without attempting to check or conceal her sentiments; while mrs. stafford, who ardently wished to see her in possession of her estate and married to godolphin, rejoiced in observing her to be less reserved; and godolphin himself, hardly believing the happiness he possessed real, forgot all his fears of her attachment to lord delamere, and dared again entertain the hopes he had discarded at besançon--as he thought, for ever. the next day mrs. stornaway was so much recovered that they proceeded in their journey, taking her into the coach with them and directing madelon to travel in the chaise, accompanied by her father. they arrived early in town; and godolphin, leaving them at an hotel, went in search of lodgings. he soon found apartments to accommodate them in bond street; and thither they immediately went; mrs. stafford taking upon herself the protection of the poor forlorn stranger 'till godolphin could find her husband, on whose behalf he immediately intended to apply for a berth on board some ship in commission. he had given him a direction to his banker, and bid him there leave an address where he might be found in london. the next day he brought the transported stornaway to his wife; and the gratitude these poor young people expressed to their benefactor, convinced the fair friends that they had deserved his kindness, and that there was no deception in the story the lieutenant had told them about his wife. godolphin took a lodging for them in oxford street; and gave them money for their support till he could get the young man employed, which his interest and indefatigable friendship soon accomplished. in the mean time he saw emmeline every day, and every day he rose in her esteem. yet still she hesitated to discover to him all she thought of him; and at times was so reserved and so guarded, that godolphin knew not what to believe. he knew she was above the paltry artifice of coquetry; yet she fearfully avoided being alone with him, and never allowed him an opportunity of asking whether he had any thing to hope from time and assiduity. 'is he not one of the best creatures in the world?' said mrs. stafford, after he left the room, on the second day of their arrival, to go out in the service of the stornaways. 'yes.' 'yes! and is that all the praise you allow to such a man? is he not a perfect character?' 'as perfect, i suppose, as any of them are.' 'ah! emmeline, you are a little hypocrite. it is impossible you can be insensible of the merit of godolphin; and i wonder you are not in more haste to convince him that you think of him as he deserves.' 'what would you have me do?' 'marry him.' 'before i am sure he desires it?' smilingly asked emmeline. 'you cannot doubt that, tho' you so anxiously repress every attempt he makes to explain himself. shall i tell you what he has said to me? shall i tell you what motive carried him to st. alpin?' 'no--i had rather not hear any thing about it.' 'and why not?' 'because it is better, for some time, if not for ever, that godolphin should be ignorant of those favourable thoughts i may have had of him--better that i should cease to entertain them.' 'why so, pray?' 'because i dread the mortified pride and furious jealousy of lord delamere on one hand; and on the other the authority of my uncle, who, 'till i am of age, will probably neither restore my fortune nor consent to my carrying it out of his family.' 'for those very reasons you should immediately marry godolphin. when you are actually married, delamere will reconcile himself to the loss of you. to an inevitable evil, even his haughty and self-willed spirit must submit. and should lord montreville give you any trouble about your fortune, who can so easily, so properly oblige him to do you justice, as a man of spirit, of honour, of understanding, who will have a right to insist upon it.' it was impossible to deny so evident a truth. yet still emmeline apprehended the consequence of delamere's rage and disappointment; and thought that there would be an indelicacy and an impropriety in withdrawing herself from the protection of her own family almost as soon as she could claim it, and that her uncle might make such a step a pretence for new contention and longer wrath. the result, therefore, of all her deliberations ended in a determination neither to engage herself or to marry 'till she was of age; and, 'till then, not even to encourage any lover whatever. by that time, she hoped that lord delamere, wearied by an hopeless passion, and convinced of her fixed indifference, would engage in some more successful pursuit. she knew that by that time all affairs between her and lord montreville must be adjusted. if the affection of godolphin was, as she hoped, fixed, and founded on his esteem for her character, he would not love her less at the end of that period, when she should have the power of giving him her estate unincumbered with difficulties and unembarrassed by law suits; and should, she hoped, escape the misery of seeing delamere's anguish and despair, on which she could not bear to reflect. she ingenuously explained to mrs. stafford her reasons for refusing to receive godolphin's proposals; in which her friend, tho' she allowed them to be plausible, by no means acquiesced; still insisting upon it, that the kindest thing she could do towards lord delamere, as well as the properest in regard to the settlement of her estate, was immediately to accept godolphin. but emmeline was not to be convinced; and all she could obtain from mrs. stafford was an extorted promise, reluctantly given, that she would not give any advice or encouragement to godolphin immediately to press his suit. emmeline, tho' convinced she was right, yet doubted whether she had fortitude enough to persist in the conduct she wished to adopt; if exposed at once to the solicitations of a woman of whose understanding she had an high opinion, and to the ardent supplications of the man she loved. the day after her arrival in london, she had sent to berkley-square, and was informed that lord montreville and his family were in norfolk. thither therefore she wrote, and enclosed the letter she had brought from lord westhaven. her own was couched in the most modest and dutiful terms, and that of lord westhaven was equally mild and reasonable. but they gave only disquiet and concern to the ambitious and avaricious bosom of lord montreville. tho' already tortured by delamere's absence and illness, and uncertain whether the object of his long solicitude would live to reap the advantage of his accumulated fortunes, he could not think but with pain and reluctance of giving up so large a portion of his annual income: still more unwilling did he feel to refund the produce of the estates for so long a period; and in the immediate emotion of his vexation at receiving lord westhaven's first letter, he had sent for sir richard crofts, who, having at the time of mr. mowbray's death been entrusted with all the papers and deeds which belonged to him, was the most likely to know whether any were among them that bore testimony to the marriage of mr. mowbray and miss stavordale. the fact was, that a very little time before he died, his steward, williamson, had received the memorandum of which emmeline had found a copy; and, on the death of his master, had carried it to sir richard crofts; lord montreville being then in the north of england. sir richard eagerly enquired whether there were any other papers to the like purport. williamson replied, he believed not; and very thoughtlessly left it in his hands. when, a few days afterwards, he called to know in whose name the business of the mowbray estate was to be carried on, sir richard (then acting as an attorney, and only entering into life) told him that every thing was to be considered as the property of lord montreville; because there were many doubts about the marriage of mr. mowbray, and great reason to think that the paper in question was written merely with a view to pique and perplex his brother, with whom he was then at variance; but that lord montreville would enquire into the business, and certainly do justice to any claims the infant might have on the estate. soon after, williamson applied again to have the paper restored; but crofts answered, that he should keep it, by order of lord montreville, tho' it was of no use; his lordship having obtained undoubted information that his brother was never married. sir richard had reflected on the great advantage that would accrue to his patron from the possession of this estate; to which, besides it's annual income, several boroughs belonged. he thought it was very probable that the little girl, then only a few weeks old, and without a mother or any other than mercenary attendants, might die in her infancy: if she did not, that lord montreville might easily provide for her, and that it would be doing his friend a great service, and be highly advantageous to himself, should he conceal the legal claim of the child, even unknown to her uncle, and put him in immediate possession of his paternal estate. having again strictly questioned williamson; repressed his curiosity by law jargon; and frightened him by threats of his lord's displeasure if he made any effort to prove the legitimacy of emmeline; he very tranquilly destroyed the paper, and lord montreville never knew that such a paper had existed. williamson, timid and ignorant of every thing beyond his immediate business, returned in great doubt and uneasiness to mowbray castle. when he received the child and the two caskets, he had questioned the frenchman who brought her and heard an absolute confirmation of the marriage of his master. he then examined the caskets, and found the certificates. but without money or friends, he knew not how to prosecute the claim of the orphan against the power and affluence of lord montreville; and after frequent consultations with mrs. carey, they agreed that the safest way would be carefully to secure those papers till emmeline was old enough to find friends; for should they attempt previously to procure justice for her, they might probably lose the papers which proved her birth, as they had already done that which williamson had delivered to crofts. as long as williamson lived, he carefully locked up these caskets. his sudden death prevented him from taking any steps to establish the claim of his orphan mistress; and that of mrs. carey two years afterwards, involved the whole affair in obscurity, which made sir richard quite easy as to any future discovery. but as the aggressor never forgives, sir richard had conceived against emmeline the most unmanly and malignant hatred, and had invariably opposed every tendency which he had observed in lord montreville to befriend and assist her, for no other reason but that he had already irreparably injured her. he hoped, that as he had at length divided her from lord delamere, and driven her abroad, she would there marry a foreigner, and be farther removed than ever from the family, and from any chance of recovering the property of which he had deprived her: instead of which, she had, in consequence of going thither, met the very man in whose power it was to prove the marriage of her mother; and, in lord westhaven, had found a protector too intelligent and too steady to be discouraged by evasion or chicanery--too powerful and too affluent to be thrown out of the pursuit, either by the enmity it might raise or the expence it might demand. nothing could exceed the chagrin of sir richard when lord montreville put into his hands the first letter he had on this subject from lord westhaven. accustomed, however, to command his countenance, he said, without any apparent emotion, that as no papers in confirmation of the fact alledged had ever existed among those delivered to him on the death of mr. mowbray, it was probably some forgery that had imposed on lord westhaven. 'i see not how that can be,' answered lord montreville. 'it is not likely that emmeline mowbray could forge such papers, or should even conceive such an idea.' 'true, my lord. but your lordship forgets and overlooks and passes by the long abode and continuance and residence she has made with the staffords. mrs. stafford is, to my certain knowledge and conviction, artful and designing and intrigueing; a woman, my lord, who affects and pretends and presumes to understand and be competent and equal to business and affairs and concerns with which women should never interfere or meddle or interest themselves. it is clearly and evidently and certainly to the interest and advantage and benefit of this woman, that miss mowbray, over whom she has great influence and power and authority, should be established and fixed and settled in affluence, rather than remain and abide and continue where nature and justice and reason have placed her.' 'i own, sir richard, i cannot see the thing in this light. however, to do nothing rashly, let us consider how to proceed.' sir richard then advised him by no means to answer lord westhaven's letter, but to wait till he saw his lordship; as in cases so momentous, it was, he said, always wrong to give any thing in black and white. in a few days afterwards he heard out of norfolk, (for he had come up from thence to consult with sir richard crofts) that lord delamere was ill at besançon. his precipitate departure had before given him the most poignant concern; and now his fears for his life completed the distress of this unfortunate father. on receiving, however, the second letter from lord westhaven, together with that of emmeline, his apprehensions for the life of his son were removed, and left his mind at liberty to recur again to the impending loss of four thousand five hundred a year, with the unpleasant accompanyment of being obliged to refund above sixty thousand pounds. again sir richard crofts was sent for, and again he tried to quiet the apprehensions of lord montreville. but his attempt to persuade him that the whole might be a deception originating with the staffords, obtained not a moment's attention. he knew stafford himself was weak, ignorant, and indolent, and would neither have had sagacity to think of or courage to execute such a design; and that mrs. stafford should imagine and perform it seemed equally improbable. he was perfectly aware that lord westhaven had a thorough acquaintance with business, and was of all men on earth the most unlikely to enter warmly into such an affair, (against the interest too of the family into which he had married) unless he was very sure of having very good grounds for his interference. but tho' sir richard could not prevail on him to disbelieve the whole of the story, he saw that his lordship thought with great reluctance of the necessity he should be under of relinquishing the whole of the fortune. he now therefore recommended it to him to remain quiet, at least 'till lord westhaven came to england; to send an answer to miss mowbray that meant nothing; and to gain time for farther enquiries. these enquiries he himself undertook; and leaving lord montreville in a political fit of the gout, he returned from audley hall to london, and bent all his thoughts to the accomplishment of his design; which was, to get the original papers out of the hands of emmeline, and to bribe le limosin to go back to france. while these things were passing in england, lord delamere (whose rage and indignation at emmeline's departure the authority of lord westhaven could hardly restrain) had learned from his brother-in-law the real circumstances of the birth of his cousin, and he heard them with the greatest satisfaction. he now thought it certain that his father would press his marriage as eagerly as he had before opposed it; and that so great an obstacle being removed, and emmeline wholly in the power of his family, she would be easily brought to forgive him and to comply with the united wishes of all her relations. in this hope, and being assured by lord westhaven that bellozane was actually returned into switzerland without any design of following emmeline, (who had been induced, he said, to leave besançon purely to avoid him) he consented to attempt attaining a greater command over his temper, on which the re-establishment of his health depended; and after about ten days, was able to travel. lord and lady westhaven, therefore, at the end of that time, slowly began with him their journey to england. chapter ix emmeline had now been almost a week in london; and mrs. stafford, with the assistance of godolphin, had succeeded so much better than she expected, in the arrangement of some of those affairs in which she apprehended the most difficulty, that very little remained for her to do before she should be enabled to return to france (where her husband was to sign some papers to secure his safety); and that little depended on james crofts, who seemed to be making artificial delay, and trying to give her all the trouble and perplexity in his power. he had, however, another motive than merely to harrass and distress her. his father had employed him to deal with le limosin; well knowing that there was nothing so base and degrading that he would not undertake where his interest was in question; and sir richard had promised him a considerable addition to his fortune if he had address enough to prevent so capital a sum as emmeline claimed from being deducted from that of the family to whom his brother was allied; and from whence he had expectations, which could not but suffer from such a diminution of it's wealth and interest. the tediousness therefore that the crofts' created promised still to detain emmeline in london; and her uncle's letter, which coldly and hardly with civility deferred any conference on her affairs till the arrival of lord westhaven, convinced her that from his tenderness she had nothing, from his justice, little to hope. godolphin was very anxious to be allowed personally to apply to him on the claim of his niece. but this emmeline positively refused. she would not even allow mr. newton, the lawyer to whom lord westhaven had recommended her, and in whose hands her papers were safely deposited, to write officially to lord montreville; but determined to wait quietly the return of lord westhaven himself, on whom she knew neither the anger of her uncle, or the artifices of sir richard, would make any impression; while his lordship's interference could not be imputed to such motives as might possibly be thought to influence godolphin, or would it give her the appearance of proceeding undutifully and harshly against lord montreville, which appearances she might be liable to, should she hastily institute a suit against him. she grew, however, very uneasy at the determined attendance of godolphin, whose presence she knew was so necessary to poor lady adelina. she saw that he was anxious about his sister, yet could not determine to tear himself from _her_; and to insist upon his returning to lady adelina, would be to assume a right, to which, on the footing they were, she declined pretending. she failed not, however, every day to represent to him the long solitude in which lady adelina had been left, and to read to him parts of her letters which breathed only sorrow and depression. whenever this happened, godolphin heard her with concern, and promised to set out the next day; but still something was to be done for the service of emmeline, and still he could not bear to resign the delight he had now so long enjoyed of seeing her every day, and of indulging those hopes she had tacitly allowed him to entertain. mrs. stafford, notwithstanding her promise to emmeline, had not been able to forbear discovering to him part of the truth. yet when he reflected on the advantages delamere had over him in fortune, in rank, in the influence his family connection and his former engagement might give him, he trembled least, if he should be himself absent when lord delamere arrived, her tender and timid spirit would yield to the sorrow of her lover and the authority of her family; and that almost in despite of herself, he might lose her for ever. while he yet lingered, and continued to promise that he would go to the isle of wight, the eight first days of their stay in town glided away. early in the morning of the ninth, godolphin entered the room where mrs. stafford and emmeline were at breakfast. 'i must now indeed,' said he, 'lose no time in going to adelina. i am to day informed that mr. trelawny is dead.' 'shall we then see lady adelina in town?' eagerly asked emmeline, who could not affect any concern at the death of such a man. 'i apprehend not,' replied godolphin. 'whatever business there may be to settle with the bancrafts, i am sure will be more proper for me than for her. to them i must now go, at putney; and only came to inform you, madam,' addressing himself to mrs. stafford, 'of the reason of my sudden absence.' 'shall you return again to london, sir, before you proceed into hampshire?' 'not unless you or miss mowbray will allow me to suppose that to either of you my return may be in any way serviceable.' mrs. stafford assured him she had nothing to trouble him upon which required such immediate attention. emmeline then attempted to make an answer of the same kind. but tho' she had for some days wished him to go, she could not see him on the point of departing without being sensible of the anguish his absence would occasion her; and instead of speaking distinctly her thanks, she only murmured something, and was so near bursting into tears, that fearing to expose herself, she was hurrying out of the room. 'no message--no letter--not one kind word,' said he, gently detaining her, 'to poor adelina? nothing to your little _protegé_?' 'my--love to them both, sir?' 'and will you not write to my sister?' 'by the post,' said emmeline, struggling to get from him to conceal her emotion. he then kissed her hand, and suffered her to go. while the explanation mrs. stafford gave of her real feelings, elated him to rapture, in which he departed, protesting that nothing should prevent his return, to follow the good fortune which he now believed might be his, as soon as he could adjust his sister's business with her husband's relations. mrs. stafford recommended it to him to bring lady adelina to london with him, as the affection emmeline had for her would inevitably give her great influence. godolphin, in answer to this advice, only shook his head; and mrs. stafford remained uncertain of his intentions to follow it. a few days now elapsed without any extraordinary occurrence. emmeline thought less of the impending restoration of her fortune (for of it's restoration mr. newton assured her he had no doubt), than of him with whom she hoped to share it. she impatiently longed to hear from lady adelina that he was with her: and sometimes her mind dwelt with painful solicitude on lady westhaven and delamere, for whose health and safety she was truly anxious, and of whom she had received no account since her arrival in london. as she was performing the promise she had made to godolphin of writing to lady adelina by an early post, le limosin announced mr. james crofts; who immediately entered the room with his usual jerking and familiar walk. emmeline, who incapable as she was of hating any body, yet felt towards him a disgust almost amounting to hatred, received him with the coldest reserve, and mrs. stafford with no more civility than was requisite to prevent his alledging her rudeness and impatience as reasons for not settling the business on which she concluded he came. he began with general conversation; and when mrs. stafford, impatient to have done with him, introduced that which went more immediately to the adjustment of the affair she wished to settle, he told her, that being extremely unwilling to discuss a matter of business with a _lady_, and apprehensive of giving offence to one for whom he and his dear mrs. crofts had so sincere a regard, he had determined to leave all the concerns yet between them to his attorney; a man of strict honour and probity, to whom he would give her a direction, and to whom it would be better for _her_ attorney to apply, than that they should themselves enter on a topic whereon it was probable they might differ. mrs. stafford, vexed at his dissimulation and finesse, again pressed him to come to a conclusion without the interference of lawyers. but he again repeated the set speech he had formed on the occasion; and then addressing himself to emmeline, asked smilingly, and affecting an interest in her welfare, 'whether the information he had received was true?' 'what information, sir?' 'that miss mowbray has the most authentic claim to the estate of her late father.' 'it is by no means an established claim, sir; and such as you must excuse me if i decline talking of.' 'i am told you have papers that put it out of dispute. if you would favour me with a sight of them, perhaps i could give you some insight into the proceedings you should commence; and i am sure my friendship and regard would make any service i could do you a real satisfaction to myself.' 'i thank you, sir, for your professions. the papers in question are in the hands of mr. newton of lincolns inn. if he will allow you to see them i have no objection.' 'you intend then,' said james crofts, unable entirely to conceal his chagrin--'you intend to begin a suit with my lord montreville?' 'by no means, sir. i am persuaded there will be no necessity for it. but as you have just referred mrs. stafford to a lawyer, i must beg leave to say, that if _you_ have any questions to ask you must apply to mine.' james crofts, quite disconcerted notwithstanding his presumptuous assurance, was not ready with an answer; and emmeline, who doubted not that he was sent by his father to gain what intelligence he could, was so provoked, that not conceiving herself obliged to preserve the appearance of civility to a man she despised, she left him in possession of the room, from whence mrs. stafford had a few moments before departed. he therefore was obliged to withdraw; having found his attempt to shake the integrity of le limosin as fruitless as that he had made to get sight of the papers. he had not long been gone, when a servant brought to emmeline the following note.-- 'i have heard you are in town with mrs. stafford, and beg leave to wait on you. do not, _ma douce amie_, refuse to grant me this favour. besides the happiness of seeing you and your friend, i have another very particular reason for soliciting you to grant such an indulgence to george fitz-edward. 'i write this from a neighbouring coffee-house, where i expect your answer.' emmeline immediately carried this billet to mrs. stafford; who told her there was no reason why she should refuse the request it contained. she therefore wrote a card of compliment to colonel fitz-edward, signifying that she should be glad to see him. in a few moments fitz-edward appeared; and emmeline, tho' aware of his arrival, could not receive him without confusion and emotion. nor could she without pity behold his altered countenance and manner, so different from what they were when she first saw the gay and gallant fitz-edward at mowbray castle. he began by expressing, with great appearance of sincerity, his joy at seeing her; enquired after lord delamere, and mentioned his astonishment at what he had heard--that delamere had so repeatedly enquired after him, and signified such a wish to see him, yet had never written to him to explain his business. emmeline, who knew well on what he had so earnestly desired to meet him, blushed, but did not think it necessary to clear up a subject which godolphin's explanation to delamere had rendered no longer alarming. 'you know, perhaps,' said fitz-edward, 'that mr. trelawny is dead.' 'i do.' 'and your fair unhappy friend?--may i now--(or is it still a crime,) enquire after her.' 'she is, i believe, well,' answered emmeline, 'and remains at the house of her brother.' 'tell me, miss mowbray--will she after a proper time refuse, do you think, her consent to see me? will _you_, my lovely friend, undertake to plead for me? will you and mrs. stafford, who know with what solicitude i sought her, with what anguish i deplored her loss, intercede on my behalf?--you, who know how fondly my heart has been devoted to her from the moment of our fatal parting?' 'i can undertake nothing of this kind, sir. the fate of lady adelina depends, i apprehend, on her brothers. to them i think you should apply.' 'and why not to herself? is she not now at liberty? and when destiny has at length broken the cruel chains with which she was loaded, will she voluntarily bind herself with others hardly more supportable? if she refers me to her brothers, i must despair:--the cold-hearted lord westhaven, the inflexible and rigid godolphin, will make it a mistaken point of honour to divide us for ever!' 'you cannot suppose, sir, that _i_ shall undertake to influence lady adelina to measures disapproved by her family. i know not that lord westhaven is cold and unfeeling as you describe him: on the contrary, i believe he unites one of the best heads and warmest hearts. if your request is proper, you certainly risk nothing by referring it to him.' of godolphin she spoke not; fearful of betraying to the penetrating and observing fitz-edward how little he answered in her idea the character of unfeeling and severe. 'i know not what to do,' said fitz-edward. 'should i address myself to her brothers without success, i am undone; since i well know that from their decision there will be no appeal. i cannot live without her, emmeline--indeed i cannot; and in the hope only of what has lately happened, have i dragged on till now a reluctant existence. once, and but once, i dared write to her. but her brother returned the letter. she suffered him cruelly to return it, in a cover in which he informed me, "that the peace and honour of lady adelina trelawny made it necessary for her to forget that such a man existed as colonel fitz-edward." godolphin,' continued he--'godolphin may carry this too far; he may oblige me to remind him that there is more than one way in which his inexorable punctilio may be satisfied.' 'certainly,' cried emmeline, in great agitation, which she vainly struggled to conceal, 'there is no method more likely to convince lady adelina of your tenderness for her, than that you hint at; and if you should be fortunate enough to destroy a brother to whom she owes every thing, your triumph will be complete.' 'prevent then the necessity of my applying to godolphin by speaking to lady adelina in my favour. ask her whether she can divest herself of all regard for me? ask her whether she can condemn me to eternal regret and despair?' 'i cannot indeed. i am not likely to see her; and if i were, this is a subject on which nothing shall induce me to influence her.' mrs. stafford, who had been detained in another room by a person who came to her upon business, now joined them; and fitz-edward without hesitation repeated to her what he had been saying to emmeline. 'i do not think indeed, colonel, that miss mowbray can interfere; and i am of her opinion, that as soon as such proposals as you intend to make are proper, you should address them to her brothers.' 'mr. godolphin, madam, treats me in a way which only my tenderness, my love for his sister, induces me to bear. i have met him accidentally, and he passes rudely by me. i sent a gentleman to him to desire an amicable interview. he answered, that as we could not meet as friends, he must be excused from seeing me at all. had i been as rash, as cruel as he seems to be, i should then have noticed, in the way it demanded, such a message: but conscious that i had already injured him, i bore with his petulance and his asperity. i love godolphin,' continued he--'from our boyish days i have loved and respected him. i know the nobleness of his nature, and i can make great allowances for the impatience of injured honour. but will he not carry it too far, if now that his sister is released from her detested marriage he still persists in dividing us?' 'you are not sure,' said mrs. stafford, 'that he will do so. have patience at least till the time is elapsed when you may try the experiment. in the interim i will consider what ought to be done.' 'my ever excellent, ever amiable friend!' exclaimed fitz-edward warmly--'how much do i owe you already! ah! add yet to those obligations the restoration of adelina, and i shall be indebted to you for more than life. as to you, my sweet marble-hearted emmeline, i heartily pray that all your coldness both towards me and poor delamere may be revenged by your feeling, on behalf of him, all the pain you have inflicted.' alas! thought emmeline, your wicked wish is already accomplished, tho' not in favour of poor delamere. fitz-edward then obtained permission to wait on them again; tho' mrs. stafford very candidly told him, that after captain godolphin came to town, she begged he would forbear coming in when he heard of his being there. 'we will try,' said she, 'to conciliate matters between you, so that ye may meet in peace; and till then pray forbear to meet at all.' fitz-edward, flattering himself that mrs. stafford would interest herself for him, and that emmeline, however reserved, would be rather his friend than his enemy, departed in rather better spirits; and left the fair friends to debate on the means of preventing what was very likely to happen--a difference of the most alarming kind between him and godolphin, should the latter persist in refusing him permission to address, at a proper season, lady adelina. the long delays that seemed likely to arise before her own business would be adjusted with lord montreville; the fiery and impatient spirits with which it appeared to be her lot to contend; the vexation to which she saw mrs. stafford subjected by the sordid and cruel conduct of the crofts' towards her; and lastly, her encreasing disquietude about godolphin, whom she feared to encourage, yet was equally unwilling and unable to repulse; oppressed her spirits, and made her stay in london very disagreeable to her. she had never before been in it for more than a night or two; and at this time of the year (it was the beginning of october) the melancholy, deserted houses in the fashionable streets, and the languor that appeared in the countenances of those who were obliged to be in town, offered no amusement or variety to compensate for the loss of the pure air she had been accustomed to breathe, or for the beautiful and interesting landscapes which she remembered to have enjoyed in autumn at mowbray castle; where she so much languished to be, that she sometimes thought, if her uncle would resign it and the estate immediately around, to her, she could be content to leave him in possession of the rest of that fortune he coveted with so much avidity. chapter x a few days longer passed, and emmeline yet heard nothing of the return of lord and lady westhaven; a circumstance at which she grew extremely uneasy. not only as it gave her reason to fear for the health of lord delamere, for whom she was very anxious; but for that of lady westhaven, whom she so tenderly loved. she observed too, with concern, that under pretence of waiting the arrival of his son and his son in law, lord montreville delayed all advances towards a settlement; and that mrs. stafford, wearied by the duplicity and chicanery of the crofts', and miserable in being detained so long from her children, grew quite disheartened, and was prevented only by her affection for emmeline from returning to france and abandoning all hopes of an accommodation which every day seemed more difficult and more distant. the arrival of lord westhaven was on her account particularly desirable, as he had promised emmeline to make a point of assisting her; and on his assurances she knew it was safe to rely, since they were neither made to give himself an air of importance, nor meant to quiet the trouble of present importunity, by holding out the prospect of future advantage never thought of more. nothing, however, could be done to hasten this important arrival; and the fair friends, tho' uneasy and impatient, were obliged to submit. but from the restlessness of daily suspence, they were roused by two letters; which brought in it's place only poignant concern. that to mrs. stafford was from her husband; who, tho' he had neither relish for her conversation nor respect for her virtues, was yet dissatisfied without her; and even while she was wholly occupied in serving him, tormented her with murmurs and suspicions. he scrupled not to hint, 'that as she was with her beloved miss mowbray, she forgot her duty to her family; and that as she had been now gone near a month, he thought it quite long enough, not only to have done the business she undertook, but to have enjoyed as much pleasure as was in her situation reasonable. he therefore expected her to return to france, and supposed that she had settled every thing to facilitate his coming back to england.' the unreasonable expectations, and ungrateful suspicions, which this letter contained, overwhelmed her with mortification. to return without having finished the business on which she came, would be to expose herself to insult and reproach; yet to stay longer, without a probability of succeeding by her stay, would only occasion an aggravation of his ill humour, and probably a worse reception when she rejoined him. the letter to emmeline was from lady adelina, and ran thus.-- _east cliff, oct. ._ 'godolphin, my emmeline, is at length returned to your unhappy friend, who has passed many, many melancholy days since he left her. my dear brother appears not only in better health, but in better spirits than when he went from hence. ought i then to repine? when i see him, and when he tells me that you are well; and that affluence, and with it, i hope, happiness will be your's? the very name of happiness and of adelina should not come in the same page! ah! never must they any where meet again. pardon me for thus recurring to myself: but the mournful topic will intrude! unhappy trelawny! he had not quite compleated his twenty-fifth year. tho' i never either loved or esteemed him, and tho' to my early and hasty marriage i owe all the misery of my life, his death has something shocking in it. my weak spirits, which have of late been unusually deranged, are sadly affected by it. yet surely in regard to _him_ i have little to reproach myself. did he not abandon me to my destiny? did he not plunge headlong into follies from which he resented even an effort to save him? alas! unless i could have given him that understanding which nature had denied him, my solicitude must ever have been vain! it is some alleviation, too, to my concern, to reflect, that as much of his honour as depended on me, has not, by the breath of public fame, been sullied. and i try to persuade myself, that since his life was useful to nobody, and had long been, from intemperance, burthensome to himself, i should not suffer his death to dwell so heavily upon me. yet in spite of every effort to shake off the melancholy which devours me, it encreases upon me; and to you i may say, for you will hear and pity me, that there exists not at this moment so complete a wretch as your adelina! 'to my brother william, all gentle and generous as he is, i cannot complain. it were ingratitude to let him see how little all his tenderness avails towards reconciling me to myself; towards healing the wounds of my depressed spirit, and quieting the murmurs of this feeble heart. yet methinks to have a friend, in whose compassionate bosom i might pour out it's weakness and it's sorrows, would mitigate the extreme severity of those sufferings which are now more than i can bear. 'where have i on earth such a friend but in my emmeline? and will she refuse to come to me? ah! wherefore should she refuse it? i shall be alone; for godolphin is obliged to go immediately to london to settle all the business i shall now ever have with the family of trelawny, and put it on such a footing as may preclude the necessity of my ever meeting any of them hereafter. he tells me that your affairs advance nothing till lord westhaven's return; and that our dear mrs. stafford talks of being obliged to go back to her family. if she must do so, you will not stay in london alone; and where is your company so fondly desired, where can you have such an opportunity of exercising your generous goodness, as in coming hither? our little boy--do you not long to embrace him? ah! lovely as he is, why dare i not indulge all the pleasure and all the pride i might feel in seeing him; and wherefore must anguish so keen mingle with tenderness so delicious! 'ah! my friend, come to me, i entreat, i implore you! the reasons why i cannot see london, are of late multiplied rather than removed, and i can only have the happiness of embracing you here. hesitate not to oblige me then; for i every hour wish more and more ardently to see you. when i awake from my imperfect slumbers, your presence is the first desire of my heart: i figure you to myself as i wander forth on my solitary walks. and when i _do_ sleep, the image of my angelic friend, consolatory and gentle, makes me some amends for visions less pleasant, that disturb it. 'ah! let me not see you in dreams alone; for above all i want you--"when i am alone with poor adelina." come, o come; and if it be possible--save me--from myself! a.t.' the melancholy tenor of this letter greatly affected emmeline. she wished almost as eagerly as her friend to be with her. but how could she determine to become an inmate at the house of godolphin, even tho' he was himself to be absent from it? she communicated, however, lady adelina's request to mrs. stafford, who could see no objection to any plan which might promote the interest of godolphin. she represented therefore to emmeline how very disagreeable it would be to her to be left alone in town, when she should herself be obliged to leave her, as must now soon happen. that there was, in fact, no very proper asylum for her but the house of her uncle, which he seemed not at all disposed to offer her. but that to lady adelina's proposal there could be no reasonable objection, especially as godolphin was not to be there. emmeline yet hesitated; till another letter from stafford, more harsh and unreasonable than the first, obliged her friend to fix on the following thursday for her departure; the absurd impatience of her husband thus defeating it's own purpose; and emmeline, partly influenced by her persuasions, and yet more by her own wishes, determined at length to fix the same time for beginning her journey to the isle of wight. there was yet two days to intervene; and mrs. stafford was obliged to employ the first of them in the city, among lawyers and creditors of her husband. from scenes so irksome she readily allowed miss mowbray to excuse herself; who therefore remained at home, and was engaged in looking over some poems she had purchased, when she heard a rap at the door, and the voice of godolphin on the stairs enquiring of le limosin for mrs. stafford. le limosin told him that she was from home, but that mademoiselle mowbray was in the dining room. he sent up to know if he might be admitted. emmeline had no pretence for refusing him, and received him with a mixture of confusion and pleasure, which she ineffectually attempted to hide under the ordinary forms of civility. the eyes of godolphin were animated by the delight of beholding her. but when she enquired after lady adelina, as she almost immediately did, they assumed a more melancholy expression. 'adelina is far from being well,' said he. 'has she not written to you?' 'she has.' 'and has she not preferred a request to you?' 'yes.' 'what answer do you mean to give it? will you refuse once more to bless and relieve, by your presence, my unhappy sister?' 'i do not know,' said emmeline, deeply blushing, 'that i ought, (especially without the concurrence of my uncle,) to consent; yet to contribute to the satisfaction of lady adelina--to give _her_ any degree of happiness--what is there i can refuse?' 'adorable, angelic goodness!' eagerly cried godolphin. 'best, as well as loveliest of human creatures! you go then?' 'i intend beginning my journey on thursday.' 'and you will allow me to see you safe thither?' 'there can surely be no occasion to give you that trouble, sir,' said emmeline apprehensively; 'nor ought you to think of it, since lady adelina's affairs certainly require your attendance in london.' 'they do; but not so immediately as to prevent my attending you to east cliff. if you will suffer me to do that, i promise instantly to return.' 'no. i go only attended by my servants or go not at all.' godolphin was mortified to find her so determined. and easily discouraged from those hopes which he had indulged rather from the flattering prospects offered to him by mrs. stafford than presumption founded on his own remarks, he now again felt all his apprehensions renewed of her latent affection for delamere. the acute anguish to which those ideas exposed him, and their frequent return, determined him now to attempt knowing at once, whether he had or had not that place in emmeline's heart which mrs. stafford had assured him he had long possessed. sitting down near her, therefore, he said, gravely--'as i may not, miss mowbray, soon have again the happiness i now enjoy, will you allow me to address you on a subject which you must long have known to be nearest my heart; but on which you have so anxiously avoided every explanation i have attempted, that i fear intruding too much on your complaisance if i enter upon it.' emmeline found she could not avoid hearing him; and sat silent, her heart violently beating. godolphin went on.-- 'from the first moment i beheld you, my heart was your's. i attempted, indeed, at the beginning of our acquaintance--ah! how vainly attempted!--to conquer a passion which i believed was rendered hopeless by your prior engagement. while i supposed you the promised wife of lord delamere, i concealed, as well as i was able, my sufferings, and never offended you with an hint of their severity. had you married him, i think i could have carried them in silence to the grave. those ties, however, lord delamere himself broke; and i then thought myself at liberty to solicit your favour. it was for that purpose i took the road to st. alpin, when the unhappy delamere stopped me at besançon. 'when i afterwards related to you his illness; the sorrow, the lively and generous sorrow, you expressed for _him_, and the cold and reserved manner in which you received _me_, made me still believe, that tho' he had relinquished your hand he yet possessed your heart. i saw it with anguish, and continued silent. all that passed at besançon confirmed me in this opinion. i determined to tear myself away, and again conceal in solitude a passion, which, while i felt it to be incurable, i feared was hopeless. accident, however, detaining me at calais, again threw me in your way; and i heard, that far from having renewed your engagement with lord delamere, you had left him to avoid his eager importunity. dare i add--that _then_, my pity for him was lost in the hopes i presumed to form for myself; and studiously as you have avoided giving me an opportunity of speaking to you, i have yet ventured to flatter myself that you beheld not with anger or scorn, my ardent, my fond attachment.' from the beginning of this speech to it's conclusion, the encreasing confusion of emmeline deprived her of all power of answering it. with deepened blushes, and averted eyes, she at first sought for refuge in affecting to be intent on the netting she drew from her work box; but having spoiled a whole row, her trembling hands could no longer go on with it; and as totally her tongue refused to utter the answer, which, by the pause he made, she concluded godolphin expected. after a moment, however, he went on. 'i have by no means encouraged visions so delightful, without a severe alloy of fear and mistrust. frequently, your coldness, your unkindness, gives me again to despondence; and every lovely prospect i had suffered my imagination to draw, is lost in clouds and darkness. yet i am convinced you do not _intend_ to torture me; and that from miss mowbray i may expect that candour, that explicit conduct, of which common minds are incapable. tell me then, dearest and loveliest emmeline, may i venture to hope that tender bosom is not wholly insensible? will you hear me with patience, and even with pity?' 'what, sir, can i say?' faulteringly asked emmeline. 'i am in a great measure dependant, at least for some time, on lord montreville; and till i am of age, have determined to hear nothing on the subject on which you are pleased to address me.' 'admitting it to be so,' answered godolphin, 'give me but an hope to live upon till then!' 'i will not deny, sir,' said emmeline still more faintly, 'i will not deny that my esteem for your character--my--my' 'oh! speak!' exclaimed godolphin eagerly--'speak, and tell me that----' at this moment le limosin hastily came into the room, and said--'_mademoiselle, le chevalier de bellozane demande permission de vous parler._'[ ] godolphin, vexed at the interruption, and embarrassed at the arrival of the chevalier, said hastily--'you will not see him?' 'how can i refuse him?' answered she; 'perhaps he comes with some intelligence of your brother--of my dear lady westhaven.' by this time the chevalier was in the room. emmeline received him with anxious and confused looks, arising entirely from her apprehensions about lady westhaven and lord delamere; but the vanity of bellozane saw in it only a struggle between her real sentiments and her affectation of concealment. she almost instantly, however, enquired after her friends. 'i left them,' said bellozane, 'almost as soon as you did, and went (because i wanted money and my father wanted to see _me_,) back to st. alpin, where i staid almost a fortnight; and having obtained a necessary recruit of cash, i set off for paris; where (my leave of absence being to expire in another month) i was forced to make interest to obtain a longer permission, in order to throw myself, lovely miss mowbray, at your feet, and to pass the winter in the delights of london, which they tell me i shall like better than paris.' emmeline, disgusted at his presumption and volatility, enquired if he knew nothing since of lord and lady westhaven. 'oh, yes,' said he, 'i saw them all at paris, and asked them if they had any commands to you? but i could get nothing from my good cousin but sage advice, and from lady westhaven only cold looks and half sentences; and as to poor delamere, i knew he was too much afraid of my success to be in a better temper with me than the other two; so we had but little conversation.' 'but they are well, sir?' 'no; delamere has been detained all this time by illness, at different places. he was better when i saw him; but lady westhaven was herself ill, and my cousin was, in looks, the most rueful of the three.' 'but, sir, when may they be expected in england?' 'that i cannot tell. the last time i saw lord westhaven was above a week before i left paris; and then he said he knew not when his wife would be well enough to begin their journey, but he hoped within a fortnight.' 'good god!' thought emmeline, 'what can have prevented his writing to me all this time?' godolphin, after the first compliments passed with the chevalier, had been quite silent. he now, however, asked some questions about his brother; by which he found, that in consequence of endeavouring to discourage bellozane's voyage to england, lord westhaven had offended him, and that a coldness had taken place between them. bellozane had ceased to consider godolphin as a rival, when he beheld lord delamere in that light; and was now rather pleased to meet him, knowing that his introduction into good company would greatly be promoted by means of such a relation. 'do you know,' said the chevalier, addressing himself to emmeline, 'that i have had some trouble, my fair friend, to find you?' 'and how,' enquired godolphin, 'did you accomplish it?' 'why my lord westhaven, to whom i applied at paris, protested that he did not know; so remembering the name of le marquis de montreville, i wrote to him to know where i might wait on mademoiselle mowbray. monseigneur le marquis being at his country house, did not immediately answer my letter. at length i had a card from him, which he had the complaisance to send by a gentleman, un monsieur--monsieur _croff_, who invited me to his house, and introduced me to milady _croff_, his wife, who is daughter to milor montreville. _mon dieu! que cette femme la, est vive, aimable; qu'elle a l'air du monde, et de la bonne compagnie._'[ ] 'you think lady frances crofts, then, handsomer than her sister?' asked godolphin. '_mais non--elle n'est pas peut-etre si belle--mais elle a cependant un certain air. enfin--je la trouve charmante._'[ ] godolphin then continuing to question him, found that the crofts' had invited bellozane with an intention of getting from him the purpose of his journey, and what his business was with emmeline; and finding that it was his gallantry only brought him over, and that he knew nothing of the late mr. mowbray's affairs, had no longer made any attempt to oppose his seeing her. godolphin, tho' he believed emmeline not only indifferent but averse to him, was yet much disquieted at finding she was likely again to be exposed to his importunities. he trembled least if he discovered her intentions of going to east cliff, he should follow her thither; for which his relationship to lady adelina would furnish him with a pretence; and desirous of getting him away as soon as possible, he asked if he would dine with him at his lodgings. bellozane answered that he was already engaged to mr. crofts'; and then turning to emmeline, offered to take her hand; and enquired whether she had a softer heart than when she left besançon? emmeline drew away her hand; and very gravely entreated him to say no more on a subject already so frequently discussed, and on which her sentiments must ever be the same. bellozane gaily protested that he had been too long a soldier to be easily repulsed. that he would wait on her the next day, and doubted not but he should find her more favourably disposed. '_je reviendrai demain vous offrir encore mon hommage. adieu! nymphe belle et cruelle. la chaine que je porte fera toute ma gloire._'[ ] he then snatched her hand, which in spite of her efforts he kissed, and with his usual gaiety went away, accompanied by godolphin. hardly had emmeline time to recollect her dissipated spirits after the warm and serious address of godolphin, and to feel vexation and disgust at the presumptuous forwardness of bellozane, from which she apprehended much future trouble, before a note was brought from mrs. stafford, to inform her, that after waiting some hours at the house of the attorney she employed, the people who were to meet her had disappointed her, and that there was no prospect of her getting her business done till a late hour in the evening; she therefore desired emmeline to dine without her, and not to expect her till ten or eleven at night. as it was now between four and five, she ordered up her dinner, and was sitting down to it alone, when godolphin again entered the room. vexation was marked in his countenance: he seemed hurried; and having apologized for again interrupting her, tho' he did not account for his return, he sat down. 'surely,' cried emmeline, alarmed, 'you have heard nothing unpleasant from france?' 'nothing, upon my honour,' answered he. 'the account the chevalier gives is indeed far from satisfactory, yet i am persuaded there is nothing particularly amiss, or we should have heard.' 'it is that consideration only which has made me tolerably easy. yet it is strange i have no letter from lady westhaven. will you dine with me?' added emmeline. it was indeed hardly possible to avoid asking him, as le limosin at that moment brought up the dinner. 'where is mrs. stafford?' said he. 'detained in the city.' 'and you dine alone, and will allow me the happiness of dining with you?' 'certainly,' replied emmeline, blushing, 'if you will favour me with your company.' godolphin then placed himself at the end of the table; and in the pleasure of being with her, thus unmarked by others, and considering her invitation as an assurance that his declaration of the morning was favourably received, he forgot the chagrin which hung upon him at his first entrance, and thought only of the means by which he might perpetuate the happiness he now possessed. emmeline tried to shake off, in common conversation, her extreme embarrassment. but when dinner was over, and le limosin left the room, in whose presence she felt a sort of protection, she foresaw that she must again hear godolphin, and that it would be almost impossible to evade answering him. she now repented of having asked him to dine with her; then blamed herself for the reserve and coldness with which she had almost always treated a man, who, deserving all her affections, had so long possessed them. but the idea of poor delamere--of his sadness, his despair, arose before her, and was succeeded by yet more frightful images of the consequences that might follow his frantic passions. and impressed at once with pity and terror, she again resolved to keep, if it were possible, the true state of her heart from the knowledge of godolphin. 'i have seldom seen one of my relations with so little pleasure,' said he, after the servant had withdrawn, 'as i to day met my volatile cousin de bellozane. i hoped he would have persecuted you no farther with a passion to which i think you are not disposed to listen.' 'i certainly never intend it.' 'pardon me then, dearest miss mowbray, if i solicit leave to renew the conversation his abrupt entrance broke off. you had the goodness to say you had some esteem for my character--ah! tell me, if on that esteem i may presume to build those hopes which alone can give value to the rest of my life?' emmeline, who saw he expected an answer, attempted to speak; but the half-formed words died away on her lips. it was not thus she was used to receive the addresses of delamere: her heart then left her reason and her resolution at liberty, but now the violence of it's sensations deprived her of all power of uttering sentiments foreign to it, or concealing those it really felt. godolphin drew from this charming confusion a favourable omen.--'you hear me not with anger, lovely emmeline!' cried he--'you allow me, then, to hope?' 'i can only repeat, sir,' said emmeline, in a voice hardly audible, 'that until i am of age, i have resolved to hear nothing on this subject.' 'and why not? are you not now nearly as independant as you will be then?' 'alas!' said emmeline, 'i am indeed!--for my uncle concerns not himself about me, and it is doubtful whether he will do me even the justice to acknowledge me.' 'he must, he shall!' replied godolphin warmly--'ah! entrust me with your interest; let me, in the character of the fortunate man whom you allow to hope for your favour--let me apply to him for justice.' 'that any one should make such an application, except lord westhaven, is what i greatly wish to avoid. i shall most reluctantly appeal to the interference of friends; and still more to that of _law_. the last is, you know, very uncertain. and instead of the heiress to the estate of my father, as i have lately been taught to believe myself, i may be found still to be the poor destitute orphan, so long dependant on the bounty of my uncle.' 'and as such,' cried godolphin, greatly animated, 'you will be dearer to me than my existence! yes! emmeline; whether you are mistress of thousands, or friendless, portionless and deserted, your power over this heart is equally absolute--equally fixed! ah! suffer not any consideration that relates to the uncertainty of your situation, to delay a moment the permission you must, you will give me, to avow my long and ardent passion.' 'it must not be, mr. godolphin!' (and tears filled her eyes as she spoke) 'indeed it must not be! it is not now _possible_, at least it is very _improper_, for me to listen to you. ah! do not then press it. i have indeed already suffered you to say too much on such a topic.' godolphin then renewed his warm entreaties that he might be permitted openly to profess himself her lover: but she still evaded giving way to them, by declaring that 'till she was of age she would not marry. 'had i no other objections,' continued she, 'the singularity of my circumstances is alone sufficient to determine me. i cannot think of accepting the honour you offer me, while my very _name_ is in some degree doubtful; it would, i own, mortify me to take any advantage of your generosity; and should i fail of obtaining from lord montreville that to which i am now believed to have a claim, his lordship, irritated at the attempt, will probably withdraw what he has hitherto allowed me--scanty support, and occasional protection.' 'find protection with your lover, with your husband!' exclaimed he--'and may that happy husband, that adoring lover, be godolphin! may adelina forget her own calamities in contemplating the felicity of her brother; and may her beauteous, her benevolent friend, become her sister indeed, as she has long been the sister of her heart.' 'you will oblige me, sir,' said emmeline, feeling that notwithstanding all her attempts to conceal it the truth trembled in her eyes and faultered in her accents--'you will oblige me if you say no more of this.' 'i will obey you, if you will only tell me i may hope.' 'how can i say so, sir, when so long a time must intervene before i shall think of fixing myself for life.' 'yet surely you know, the generous, the candid miss mowbray knows, whether her devoted godolphin is agreeable to her, or whether, if every obstacle which exists in her timid imagination were removed, he would be judged wholly unworthy of pretending to the honour of her hand?' 'certainly not unworthy,' tremblingly said emmeline. 'let me then, thus encouraged, go farther--and ask if i have a place in your esteem?' 'do not ask me--indeed i cannot tell--nay i beg, i entreat,' added she, trying to disengage her hands from him, 'that you will desist--do not force me to leave you.' 'ah! talk not, think not of leaving me; think rather of confirming those fortunate presages i draw from this lovely timidity. i cannot go till i know your thoughts of me--till i know what place i hold in that soft bosom.' 'i think of you as an excellent brother; as a generous and disinterested friend; for such i have found you; as a man of great good sense, of noble principles, of exalted honour!' 'as one then,' said godolphin, vehemently interrupting her, 'not unworthy of being entrusted with your happiness; who may hope to be honoured with a deposit so inestimable, as the confidence and tenderness of that gentle and generous heart?' 'i do indeed think very highly of you.--i cannot, if i would, deny it.' 'and you allow me, then, to go instantly to lord montreville?' 'oh! no! no!--surely nothing i have said implied such a consent.' godolphin, however, was still pressing; and at length brought her to confess, with blushes, and even with tears, her early and long partiality for him, and her resolution either to be his, or die unmarried. she found, indeed, all attempts to dissimulate, vain: the reserve she had forced herself to assume, gave way to her natural frankness; and having once been induced to make such an acknowledgment of the state of her heart, she determined to have no longer any secrets concealed from him who was it's master. she therefore candidly told him how great was her compassion for lord delamere, and how severe her apprehensions of his rage, resentment and despair. he allowed the force of the first; but as to the other, he would not suppose it a reason for her delaying her marriage. 'poor delamere,' said he, 'is of a temper which opposition and difficulty renders more eager and more obstinate. yet when you are for ever out of his reach; as the obstacle will become invincible, he must yield to necessity. while you remain single, he will still hope. the greatest kindness, therefore, that you can do him, will be to convince him that he has nothing to expect from you; and put an end at once to the uncertainty which tortures him.' 'to drive him to despair? ah! i know so well the dreadful force of his passions, and the excesses he is capable of committing when under their influence, that i dare not, i positively will not, risk it. i love delamere as my brother; i love him for the resemblance he is said to bear to my father. i pity him for the errors which the natural impetuosity of his temper, inflamed by the unbounded indulgence of his mother, continually leads him into; and the misfortunes these causes are so frequently inflicting on him; and should his fatal inclination for me, be the means of bringing on himself and on his family yet other miseries, i should never forgive myself; or him by whose means they were incurred.' 'from me, at least, you have nothing of that sort to apprehend: i truly pity delamere; i feel what it must be to have relinquished the woman he loves; and to find her lost to his hopes, while his passion is unabated:--be assured my compassion for him will induce me rather to soothe his unhappiness than to insult him with an ostentatious display of my enviable fortune. yet if you suffer me to believe my attachment not disagreeable to you, how shall i wholly conceal it? how appear as not _daring_ to avow that, which is the glory and happiness of my life? and by your being supposed disengaged and indifferent, see you exposed to the importunities of an infinite number of suitors, who, however inconsequential they may be to _you_, will torment _me_. i do not know that i have much of jealousy in my nature; yet i cannot tell how i shall bear to see delamere presuming again on your former friendship for him.--even the volatile and thoughtless bellozane has the power to make me uneasy, when i see him so persuaded of his own merit, and so confident of success.' 'while you assert that you are but little disposed to jealousy, you are persuading me that you are extremely prone to it. you know bellozane can never have the smallest interest in my heart. but as to delamere, i am decided against inflaming his irritable passions, by encouraging an avowed rival, tho' i will do all i can by other means, to discourage him. the only condition on which i will continue to see you is, that you appear no otherwise interested about me, than as the favoured friend of your sister, your brother, and lady westhaven. press me, therefore, no farther on the subject, and let us now part.' 'tell me, first, whether your journey remains fixed for thursday?--whether you still hold your generous resolution of going to adelina?' 'i do. but i must insist on going alone.' 'and if bellozane should enquire whither you are going? you see nothing prevents his following you; and to follow you to east cliff, he will, you know, have sufficient excuse. emmeline, i cannot bear it!--there is a presumption in his manner, which offends and shocks me; and which, however you may dislike it, it may not always be in your power to repress!' 'surely he need not know that i am going thither.' it was now, therefore, agreed between them that if bellozane called upon her the next day, as he said he intended, she should be denied to him; and that early on the following morning, which was thursday, she should set out for east cliff, attended by madelon and le limosin. this arrangement was hardly made when mrs. stafford returned, weary and exhausted from the unpleasant party with which she had passed the day. with emmeline's permission (who left the room that she might not hear it) godolphin related to mrs. stafford the conversation they had held. it was the only information which had any power to raise her depressed spirits; and as soon as emmeline rejoined them, she added her entreaties to those of godolphin. they urged her to conquer immediately all those scruples which divided her from him to whom she had given her heart; and to put herself into such protection as must at once obviate all the difficulties she apprehended. but emmeline still adhered to her resolution of remaining single, if not 'till she was of age, at least till her affairs with her uncle were adjusted, and 'till she saw the unhappy delamere restored to health and tranquillity. but notwithstanding this delay, godolphin, assured of possessing her affection, left her with an heart which was even oppressed with the excess of it's own happiness. [footnote : the chevalier is below.] [footnote : how lively and agreeable she is--how much she has the air of a woman of fashion and of the world.] [footnote : not so handsome, perhaps--but there is a something--in short, i think her charming.] [footnote : i shall come again to-morrow to offer my homage. adieu! fair, cruel nymph! i place my glory in wearing your chains.] chapter xi emmeline seemed to be happier since she had confessed to godolphin his influence over her mind, and since she had made him in some measure the director of her actions. she hoped that she might conceal her partiality 'till she had nothing to fear from delamere; at present she was sure he had no suspicion that godolphin was his rival; and she flattered herself, that on his return to england, the conviction of her coldness would by degrees wean him from his attachment, and that he would learn to consider her only as his sister. these pleasing hopes, however, were insufficient to balance the concern she felt for mrs. stafford; who having long struggled against her calamities, now seemed on the point of sinking under their pressure, and of determining to attend, in despondent resignation, the end of her unmerited sufferings. emmeline attempted to re-animate her, by repeating all the promises of lord westhaven, on whose word she had the most perfect reliance. she assured her, that the moment her own affairs were settled, her first care should be the re-establishment of those of her beloved friend. for some time the oppressed spirits of mrs. stafford would only allow her to answer with her tears these generous assurances. at length she said-- 'it is to you, my emmeline, i could perhaps learn to be indebted without being humbled; for you have an heart which receives while it confers an obligation. but think what it is for one, born with a right to affluence and educated in its expectation, with feelings keen from nature, and made yet keener by refinement, to be compelled, as i have been, to solicit favours, pecuniary favours, from persons who have no feeling at all--from the shifting, paltry-spirited james crofts, forbearance from the claim of debts; from the callous-hearted and selfish politician, his father, pity and assistance; from rochely, who has no ideas but of getting or saving money, to ask the loan of it! and to bear with humility a rude refusal. i have endured the brutal unkindness of hardened avarice, the dirty chicane of law, exercised by the most contemptible of beings; i have been forced to attempt softening the tradesman and the mechanic, and to suffer every degree of humiliation which the insolence of sudden prosperity or the insensible coolness of the determined money dealer, could inflict. actual poverty, i think, i could have better borne; 'i should have found, in some place of my soul, a drop of patience!' but ineffectual attempts to ward it off by such degradation i can no longer submit to. while mr. stafford, for whom i have encountered it all, is not only unaffected by the poignant mortifications which torture me; but receives my efforts to serve him, if successful, only as a duty--if unsuccessful, he considers my failure as a fault; and loads me with reproach, with invective, with contempt!--others have, in their husbands, protectors and friends; mine, not only throws on me the burthen of affairs which he has himself embroiled, but adds to their weight by cruelty and oppression. such complicated and incurable misery must overwhelm me, and then--what will become of my children?' penetrated with pity and sorrow, emmeline listened, in tears, to this strong but too faithful picture of the situation of her unfortunate friend; and with difficulty said, in a voice of the tenderest pity-- 'yet a little patience and surely things will mend. it cannot be very long, before i shall either be in high affluence or reduced to my former dependance; perhaps to actual indigence. of these events, i hope the former is the most probable: but be it as it may, you and your children will be equally dear to me.--if i am rich, my house, my fortune shall be your's--if i am poor, i will live with you, and we will work together. but for such resources as the pencil or the needle may afford us, we shall, i think, have no occasion. you, my dear friend, will continue to exert yourself for your children; lord westhaven is greatly interested for you; and all will yet be well.' 'i am afraid not,' replied mrs. stafford. 'among the various misfortunes of life, there are some that admit of no cure; some, which even the tender and generous friendship of my emmeline can but palliate. of that nature, i fear, are many of mine. my past life has been almost all bitterness; god only knows what the remainder of it may be, but 'shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it.' 'ah! give not up your mind to these gloomy thoughts,' said emmeline. 'setting aside all hopes i have of being able, without the assistance of any one, to clear those prospects, i have a firm dependance on lord westhaven, and am sure i shall yet see you happy.' 'never, i believe, in this world!' dejectedly answered mrs. stafford. 'but why should i distress you, my best emmeline, with a repetition of my hopeless sorrows; why cannot i now refrain, as i have hitherto done, from taxing with my complaints your lively sensibility?' she then began to talk of their journey for the next day, for which every thing was now ready. it would have been very agreeable to emmeline could mrs. stafford have gone by southampton, and have accompanied her for a few days to east cliff; but she said, that besides her suffering so much at sea, which made the long passage to france very dreadful to her, she had already, in a letter to her husband, fixed to go by calais; and as he might either send or come to meet her on that road, he might be offended if she took the other: besides these reasons, she had yet another in the chance the calais road afforded of meeting lord and lady westhaven. the two last arguments were unanswerable: emmeline relinquished the project of their going together; and they passed the rest of the day in the last preparations for their separate journeys. in the course of it, bellozane called twice, but was not admitted. godolphin was allowed to sup with them; and early the next morning came again to see them set out. they parted on all sides with tears and reluctance--emmeline, with madelon in the chaise with her, and le limosin on horseback, took the road to southampton, and mrs. stafford pursued her melancholy journey to dover. emmeline arrived at southampton late the same evening, where she slept; and the next morning landed on the isle of wight. it was a clear and mild day, towards the end of october; and she walked, attended by her servants, to east cliff. as she approached the door of godolphin's house, her heart beat quick; a thousand tender recollections arose that related to it's beloved master, and some mournful apprehensions for the fate of it's present lovely and unhappy inhabitant. the maid who had so long waited on lady adelina opened the door, and expressed the utmost delight at seeing emmeline. 'ah! dearest madam!' said she, 'how good it is in you to come to my lady! now, i hope, both her health and her spirits will be better. but the joy of knowing you are here, will overcome her, unless i inform her of it with caution; for tho' she rather expected you, i know it will be extreme.' barret then ran to execute this welcome commission, and in a few moments lady adelina, supported by her, walked into the room, holding in her hand little william, and fell, almost insensible, into the arms of her friend. the expression of her countenance, faded as it was, where a gleam of exquisite pleasure seemed to lighten up the soft features which had long sunk under the blighting hand of sorrow; her weeds, forming so striking a contrast to the fairness of her transparent skin; and the lovely child, now about fourteen months old, which hung on her arm; made her altogether appear to emmeline the most interesting, the most affecting figure, she had ever seen. neither of them could speak. lady adelina murmured something, as she fondly pressed emmeline to her heart; but it was not till it's oppression was relieved by tears, that she could distinctly thank her for coming. emmeline, with equal marks of tenderness, embraced the mother and caressed the son, whose infantine beauty would have charmed her had he been the child of a stranger. after a little, they grew more composed; and emmeline, while lady adelina in the most melting accents spoke of her brother william, and enquired tenderly after her elder brother and his wife, had time to contemplate her lovely but palid face; from which the faint glow of transient pleasure, the animated vivacity of momentary rapture, was gone; and a languor so great seemed to hang over her, such pensive and settled melancholy had taken possession of her features, that emmeline could hardly divest herself of the idea of immediate danger; and fancied that she was come thither only to see the beauteous mourner sink into the grave. she trembled to think on the consequence which, in such a state of health, might arise from the conflict she would probably have to undergo in regard to fitz-edward. emmeline herself dared not name him to godolphin in their long conference. it was a subject, on which (however slightly touched) he had always expressed such painful sensibility, that she could not resolve to enter upon it with him. yet she foresaw, that on lord westhaven's arrival either a general explanation must take place, or that his lordship would accept, for his sister, the offer of fitz-edward, to which there would be in his eyes, (while he yet remained ignorant of their former unfortunate acquaintance,) no possible objection. she supposed that lord and lady clancarryl, equally ignorant of that error (which had been partly owing to their own confidence in fitz-edward) would press lady adelina to accept him; and that godolphin must either consent to forgive, and receive him as his brother, or give such reasons for opposing his alliance with lady adelina, as would probably destroy the peace of his family and the fragile existence of his sister. sometimes, she thought that his inflexible honour would yield, and induce him to bury the past in oblivion. but then she recollected all the indignation he had but lately expressed against fitz-edward, and doubted, with fearful apprehension, the event. the first day passed without that mutual and unreserved confidence being absolutely established, which the lovely friends longed to repose in each other. lady adelina languished to enquire after, to talk of fitz-edward, yet dared not trust herself with his name; and emmeline, tho' well assured that the knowledge of those terms which she was now on with godolphin would give infinite pleasure to his sister, yet had not courage to reveal that truth which her conscious heart secretly enjoyed. affected with her friend's depression, and unwilling to keep her up late, she complained of fatigue soon in the evening, and retired to her own room. she there dismissed madelon, and bade her, as soon as mrs. barret came from her lady's apartment, let her know that she desired to speak to her. she wished to enquire of this faithful servant her opinion of her lady's health. and as soon as she came to her, expressed her fears about it in terms equally anxious and tender. 'ah! madam,' said barret, 'all you observe as to my lady is but too just; and what i go thro' about her, (especially when the captain is not here) i am sure no tongue can tell. sometimes, ma'am, when i have left her of a night, and she tells me she is going to bed, i hear her walk about the room talking; then she goes to the bed (for i have looked thro' the key hole) where master godolphin sleeps, and looks at him, and bursts into tears and laments herself over him, and again begins to walk about the room, and speaks as it were to herself; and at other times, she will open the window, and leaning her head on her two hands, sit and look at the clouds and the stars; and sighs so deeply, and so often, that it makes my heart quite ache to hear her. the child was very ill once with a tooth fever, while the captain was gone to france; and then indeed i thought my poor lady would have been quite, quite gone in her head again; for she talked _so_ wildly of what she would do if he died, and said such things, as almost frightened me to death. we sent to winchester for a physician; and before he could come, for you know, ma'am, what a long way 'tis to send, she grew so impatient, and had terrified herself into such agonies, that when the doctor did come, he said she was in a great deal the most danger of the two. thank god, master godolphin soon got well; but it was a long time before my lady was quite herself again; and since that, ma'am, she will hardly suffer master out of her sight at all; but makes either his own maid or me sit in the room to attend upon him while she reads or writes. when she walks out, she generally orders one of us to take him with her; and only goes out alone after he is in bed of a night. then, indeed, she stays out long enough; and tho' you see, ma'am, how sadly she looks, she never seems to care at all about her own health, but does things that really would kill a strong person.' 'what then does she do?' enquired emmeline. 'why, ma'am, quite late sometimes of a night, when every body else is asleep, she will go away by herself perhaps to that wood you see there, or down to the sea shore; and she orders me to let nobody follow her. quite of cold nights this autumn, when the wind blew, and the sea made a noise so loud and dismal, she has staid there whole hours by herself; only i ventured to disobey her so far as to see that no harm came to her. but three or four times, ma'am, she remained so long that i concluded she must catch her death. at last, i bethought me of getting one of the maids to go and tell her master was awake; and i have got her to come in by that means out of the wind and the cold. then, ma'am, she seems to take pleasure in nothing but sorrow and melancholy. the books she reads are so sad, that sometimes, when her own eyes are tired and she makes me read them to her, i get quite horrible thoughts in my head. but my lady, instead of trying, as i do, to shake them off, will go directly to her music, and play such mournful tunes, that it really quite overcomes me, as i am at work in another room. at other times she goes and writes verses about her own unhappiness. how is it possible, ma'am, that with such ways of passing her time, my lady, always so delicate as she was in health, should be well: for my part i only wonder she is not quite dead.' 'but how do you know, barret, that your lady employs herself in writing verses about her own unhappiness?' 'dear, ma'am, i have found them about every where. when the captain is absent, my lady is indifferent where she leaves them. sometimes four or five sheets lay open on the table in her little dressing room, and sometimes upon her music.' emmeline was too certain that such were the occupations of her poor friend. during the short time they had been together, lady adelina had shewn her some work; and as she took it out of her drawer, she drew out some papers with it. 'i do but little work,' said she. 'i find even embroidery does not serve to call off my thoughts sufficiently from myself. i read a good deal in books of mere amusement, for of serious application i am incapable; and here is another specimen of my method of employing myself, which perhaps you will not think a remedy for melancholy thoughts.' she put a written paper into emmeline's hand, who was about to open it; but lady adelina added, with a pensive smile, 'do not read it now; rather keep it till you are alone.' this paper emmeline took out to peruse as soon as she had dismissed barret. her heart bled as she ran over this testimony of the anguish and despondence which preyed on the heart of lady adelina. it was an ode to despair thou spectre of terrific mien, lord of the hopeless heart and hollow eye, in whose fierce train each form is seen that drives sick reason to insanity! i woo thee with unusual prayer, 'grim visaged, comfortless despair!' approach; in me a willing victim find, who seeks thine iron sway--and calls thee kind! ah! hide for ever from my sight the faithless flatterer hope--whose pencil, gay, portrays some vision of delight, then bids the fairy tablet fade away; while in dire contrast, to mine eyes thy phantoms, yet more hideous, rise, and memory draws, from pleasure's wither'd flower, corrosives for the heart--of fatal power! i bid the traitor love, adieu! who to this fond, believing bosom came, a guest insidious and untrue, with pity's soothing voice--in friendship's name; the wounds _he_ gave, nor time shall cure, nor reason teach me to endure. and to that breast mild patience pleads in vain, which feels the curse--of meriting it's pain. yet not to me, tremendous power! thy worst of spirit-wounding pangs impart, with which, in dark conviction's hour, thou strik'st the guilty unrepentant heart! but of illusion long the sport, that dreary, tranquil gloom i court where my past errors i may still deplore and dream of long-lost happiness no more! to thee i give this tortured breast, where hope arises but to foster pain; ah! lull it's agonies to rest! ah! let me never be deceiv'd again! but callous, in thy deep repose behold, in long array, the woes of the dread future, calm and undismay'd, till i may claim the hope--that shall not fade! the feelings of a mind which could dictate such an address, appeared to emmeline so greatly to be lamented, and so unlikely to be relieved, that the tender and painful compassion she had ever been sensible of for her unhappy friend, was if possible augmented. full of ideas almost as mournful as those by which they had been inspired, she went to bed, but not to tranquil sleep. her spirits, worn by her journey, and oppressed by her concern for lady adelina, were yet busy; and instead of the uneasy images which had pursued her while she waked, they represented to her others yet more terrifying. she beheld, in her dreams, godolphin wildly seeking vengeance of fitz-edward for the death of his sister. then, instead of fitz-edward, lord delamere appeared to be the object of his wrath, and mutual fury seemed to animate them against the lives of each other. to them, her uncle, in all the phrenzy of grief and despair, succeeded; overwhelmed her with reproaches for the loss of his only son, and tore her violently away from godolphin, who in vain pursued her. these horrid visions returned so often, drest in new forms of terror, that emmeline, having long resisted the impression they made upon her, could at length bear them no longer; but shaking off all disposition to indulge sleep on such terms, she arose from her bed, and wrapping herself up in her night gown, went to the window. the dawn did not yet appear; but she sat down by the window, of which she had opened the shutter to watch it's welcome approach. the morning, for it was between three and four, was mild; the declining stars were obscured by no cloud, and served to shew dimly the objects in the garden beneath her. she softly opened the sash; listened to the low, hollow murmur of the sea; and surveyed the lawn and the hill behind it, which, by the faint and uncertain light, she could just discern. all breathed a certain solemn and melancholy stillness calculated to inspire horror. emmeline's blood ran cold; yet innocence like her's really fears nothing if free from the prejudices of superstition. she endeavoured to conquer the disagreeable sensations she felt, and to shake off the effects of her dreams; but the silence, and the gloominess of the scene, assisted but little her efforts, and she cast an eye of solicitude towards the eastern horizon, and wished for the return of the sun. in this disposition of mind, she was at once amazed and alarmed, by seeing the figure of a man, tall and thin, wrapped in a long horseman's coat, as if on purpose to disguise him, force himself out from between the shrubs which bounded one part of the lawn. he looked not towards the windows; but with folded arms, and his hat over his eyes, was poring on the ground, while with slow steps he crossed the lawn and came immediately under the windows of the house. when she first perceived him, she had started back from that where she sat; but tho' greatly surprized, she could not forbear watching him: on longer observing his figure, she fancied it was that of a gentleman; and by his slow walk and manner he did not appear to have any design to attack the house. her presence of mind never forsook her unless where her heart was greatly affected; and she had now courage enough to determine that she would still continue for some moments to observe him, and would not alarm the servants till she saw reason to believe he had ill intentions. she sat therefore quite still; and saw, that instead of making any attempt to enter the house, he traversed the whole side of it next the lawn, with a measured and solemn pace, several times; then stopped a moment, again went to the end, and slowly returned; and having continued to do so near an hour, he crossed the grass, and disappeared among the shrubs from whence he had issued. had not emmeline been very sure that she not only heard his footsteps distinctly as he passed over a gravel walk in his way, but even heard him breathe hard and short, as if agitated or fatigued, she would almost have persuaded herself that it was a phantom raised by her disordered spirits. the longer she reflected on it, the more incomprehensible it seemed, that a man should, at such an hour, make such an excursion, apparently to so little purpose. that it was with a dishonest design there seemed no likelihood, as he made no effort to force his way into the house, which he might easily have done; and had he come on a clandestine visit to any of the servants, he would probably have had some signal by which his confederates would have been informed of his approach. but he seemed rather fearful of disturbing the sleeping inhabitants; his step was slow and light; and on perceiving the first rays of the morning, he 'started like a guilty thing,' and swiftly stepped away to his concealment. emmeline continued some time at the window after his disappearance, believing he might return. but it soon grew quite light: the gardener appeared at his work; and she was then convinced that he would for that time come no more. so extraordinary a circumstance, however, dwelt on her mind; nor could she entirely divest herself of alarm. a strange and confused idea that this visitor might be some one not unknown to her, crossed her mind. his height answered almost equally to that of bellozane, godolphin, and fitz-edward. the latter, indeed, was rather the tallest, and to him she thought the figure bore the greatest resemblance. yet he had taken leave of her ten days before she left london, and told her he was going down to mr. percival's, in berkshire; where, as he was very anxious to hear of lady adelina, he had desired mrs. stafford to write to him; (who had done so, and had received an answer of thanks dated from thence before the departure of emmeline from london). that fitz-edward, therefore, should be the person, seemed improbable; yet it was hardly less so that a night ruffian should be on foot so long, without any attempt to execute mischief, or even the appearance of examining how it might be perpetrated. after long consideration, she determined, that lest the first conjecture should be true, she would speak to nobody of the stranger she had seen; but would watch another night, before she either terrified lady adelina with the apprehension of robbers, or gave rise to conjectures in her and the servants of yet more disquieting tendency. having taken this resolution, and argued herself out of all those fears for her personal safety which might have enfeebled a less rational mind, she met lady adelina at breakfast with her usual ease, and almost with her usual chearfulness: but she was pale, and her eyes were heavy: lady adelina remarked it with concern; but emmeline, making light of it, imputed it intirely to the fatigue of her journey; and when their breakfast was finished, proposed a walk. to this her friend assented; and while she went to give some orders, and to fetch the crape veil in which she usually wrapped herself, (for even her dress partook something of the mournful cast of her mind), emmeline, already equipped, went into the lawn, and saw plainly where the stranger had made his way thro' the thick shrubs, and where the flexible branches of a young larch were twisted away, a laurel broken, and that some deciduous trees behind them had lost all their lower leaves; which, having sustained the first frosts, fell on the slightest violence. she marked the place with her eye; and determined to observe whether, if he came again, it was from thence. emmeline now desired that madelon might come with them to wait on little william, rather than his own maid; as she understood english so ill, that she would be no interruption to their discourse. they then walked arm in arm together towards the sea; and there lady adelina, who now enjoyed the opportunity she had so long languished for, opened to her sympathizing friend the sorrows of an heart struggling vainly with a passion she condemned, and sinking under ineffectual efforts to vindicate her honour and eradicate her love. she knew not that fitz-edward had ever written to her. godolphin, well acquainted with his hand, had kept the letter from her. she knew not that he had applied to emmeline: and tho' she had torn herself from him, and had vowed never again to write to him, to name him, to hear from him, she involuntarily felt disposed to accuse him of neglect, of ingratitude, of cruelty, for having never attempted to write to her or see her; and added the poignant anguish of jealousy to the dreary horrors of despair. that fitz-edward was for ever lost to her, she seemed to be convinced; yet that he should forget her, or attach himself to another, seemed a torment so entirely insupportable, that when her mind dwelt upon it, as it perpetually did, her reason was inadequate to the pain it inflicted; and when she touched on that subject, emmeline too evidently saw symptoms of that derangement of intellect to which she had once before been a melancholy witness. with a mind thus unsettled, and a heart thus oppressed, the consequences of touching on the application of fitz-edward to herself, might, as emmeline believed, have the most alarming effect on lady adelina. and she dared not therefore name it unless she had the concurrence of godolphin. she only attempted to soothe and tranquillize her mind, without giving her those assurances of his undiminished attachment, which, she thought, might in the event only encrease her anguish, if her brother remained inflexible. on the other hand, she forbore to remonstrate with her on the necessity there might be to forget him; being too well convinced that the arguments which were to enforce that doctrine, would be useless, and perhaps appear cruel, to a heart so deeply wounded as was that of the luckless, lovely adelina. but in pouring her sorrows into the bosom of her friend she appeared to find consolation. the tender pity of emmeline was a balm to her wounded mind; and growing more composed, she began to discourse on the singular discovery emmeline had made, and to enter with some interest into the affairs depending between her and the marquis of montreville; and by questions, aided by the natural frankness of emmeline, at length became acquainted with the happy prospects, which, tho' distant, opened to godolphin. this was the only information that seemed to have the power of suspending for a moment the weight of those afflictions which lady adelina suffered. 'my brother then,' cried she--'my dear godolphin, will be happy! and you, my most amiable friend, will constitute, while you share his felicity. ah! fortunate, thrice fortunate for ye both, was the hour of your meeting; for heaven and nature surely designed ye for each other! fortunate, too, were those circumstances which divided my emmeline from delamere, before indissoluble bonds enchained you for ever. had it been otherwise; had _your_ guardian angel slumbered as _mine did_; you too, all lovely and deserving as you are, would have been condemned to the bitterest of all lots, and might have discovered all the excellence and worth of godolphin, when your duty and your honour allowed you no eyes but for delamere. _your_ destiny is more happy--yet not happier than you deserve. oh! may it quickly be fixed unalterably; and long, very long, may it endure! so shall your adelina, for the little while she drags on a reluctant existence, have something on which to lean for the alleviation of her sorrows; and when she shall interrupt your felicity no longer by the sight of cureless calamity, she will, in full confidence, entrust the sole tie she has on earth, the dear and innocent victim of her fatal weakness, to the compassionate bosoms of godolphin and his emmeline!' the tremulous voice and singular manner in which lady adelina uttered these words, made emmeline tremble. she now tried to divert the attention of her poor friend, from dwelling too earnestly either on her own wretchedness or the promised felicity of her brother: but, as if exhausted by the mingled emotions of pain and pleasure, she soon afterwards fell into a deep silence; scarce attending to what was said; and after a long pause, she suddenly called to madelon, in whose arms her little boy had fallen asleep, and looking at him earnestly a moment, took him from the maid, and carried him towards the house. emmeline, more and more convinced of her partial intellectual derangement, followed her, dreading lest she should see it encrease, without the power of applying any remedy. before lady adelina reached the gate, which opened from the cliffs to the lawn, she was fatigued by her lovely burthen and forced to stop. emmeline would then have taken him; but she said 'no!' and sitting down on the ground, held him in her lap, till barret, who had seen her from a window, came out and took him from her; to which, as to a thing usual, she consented, and then walked calmly home with emmeline, who, extremely discomposed by the wildness of her manner, was fearful of again introducing any interesting topic, lest she should again touch those fine chords which were untuned in the mind of her unhappy friend; and which seemed occasionally to vibrate with an acuteness that threatened the ruin of the whole fabric. barret, who afterwards came to assist her in dressing, told her, that within the last six weeks her lady had often been subject to long fits of absence, sometimes of tears; which generally ended in her snatching the child eagerly to her, kissing him with the wildest fondness, and that after having kept him with her some time, and wept extremely, she usually became rational and composed for the rest of the day. chapter xii when emmeline met lady adelina at dinner, she had the satisfaction to find her quite tranquil and easy. as the afternoon proved uncommonly fine, and emmeline was never weary of contemplating the scenery which surrounded them, she willingly consented to lady adelina's proposal of another ramble; that she might see some beautiful cliffs, a little farther from the house than she had yet been. there, she was pleased to find, that her fair friend seemed to call off her mind from it's usual painful occupations to admire the charms, which on one side a very lovely country, and on the other an extensive sea view, offered to their sight. 'you cannot imagine, my emmeline,' said she, 'how exquisitely beautiful the prospect is from the point of these rocks where we stand, in the midst of summer; now the sun, more distant, gives it a less glowing and rich lustre, and reflects not his warm rays on the sea, and on the white cliffs that hang over it. here it was, that indulging that melancholy for which i have too much reason, i made, while my brother was absent last summer, some lines, which, if it was pleasant to repeat one's own poetry, i would read to you, as descriptive at once of the scene, and the state of mind in which i surveyed it.' emmeline now earnestly pressing her to gratify the curiosity she had thus raised, at length prevailed upon her to repeat the following sonnet far on the sands, the low, retiring tide, in distant murmurs hardly seems to flow, and o'er the world of waters, blue and wide the sighing summer wind, forgets to blow. as sinks the day star in the rosy west, the silent wave, with rich reflection glows; alas! can tranquil nature give _me_ rest, or scenes of beauty, soothe me to repose? can the soft lustre of the sleeping main, yon radient heaven; or all creation's charms, 'erase the written troubles of the brain,' which memory tortures, and which guilt alarms? or bid a bosom transient quiet prove, that bleeds with vain remorse, and unextinguish'd love! the 'season and the scene' were brought by this description full on the mind of emmeline; yet she almost immediately repented having pressed adelina to repeat to her what seemed to have led her again into her usual tract of sad reflection. she fell, as usual, into one of her reveries, and as they walked homewards said very little. the rest of the evening, however, passed in a sort of mournful tranquillity--adelina seemed to feel encreasing pleasure as she gazed on her friend; and remembering all her goodness, reflected on the happiness of her brother. but this satisfaction was not of that kind which seeks to express itself in words; and emmeline, sensible of great anxiety for her and godolphin, (who would, she knew, be cruelly hurt by the relapse which he feared threatened his sister) and busied in no pleasant conjectures about the person whom she had seen in the lawn, was in no spirits for conversation. nor did her thoughts, when they wandered to other objects from those immediately before her, bring home much to appease her anxiety. that nothing had yet been heard of lord and lady westhaven, was extremely disquieting. she knew not that the marquis of montreville had received a letter for her under cover to him; and that having sent it to mr. crofts in another, in order to be forwarded to her, the latter had exercised his political talents, and supposing it related to her claims on lord montreville, and probably contained instructions for pursuing them, and that therefore his lordship would be but little concerned if it never reached the place of its destination, he had very composedly put it into the fire; and undertook, should it be enquired for, to account for it's failure without suffering the name of lord montreville to be called in question. the marquis, tho' his conscience had been so long under the direction of sir richard crofts that it ought to have acquired insensibility as callous as his own, yet found it sometimes a very troublesome companion; and it often spoke to him so severely on the subject of his niece, that he was more than once on the point of writing to her, to say he was ready to make her the retribution to which his heart told him she had the clearest pretensions, and which his fears whispered that a court of justice would certainly render her. these qualms and these fears, would inevitably have produced a restoration of the mowbray estate to it's owner, had they not been counteracted by the influence of the marchioness of montreville and sir richard crofts. the marchioness, now in declining health, felt all the inefficacy of riches, and all the fallacy of ambition; yet could she not determine to relinquish one, or to own that the other had but little power to confer happiness. that emmeline mowbray, whom she had despised and rejected, should suddenly become heiress to a large fortune, and that of that fortune her own children should be deprived; that lord westhaven should be the instrument to assist her in this hateful transition, and should interfere for this obscure orphan, against the interest of the illustrious family into which he had married; stung her to the soul, and irritated the natural asperity of her temper, already soured by the repeated defection of delamere, and her own continual ill health, till it was grown insupportable to others, and injurious to herself; since it aggravated all her complaints, and put it out of the power of medicine to relieve her. rather than encrease these maladies by opposition, his lordship was content to yield to delay. and while her haughtiness and violence withheld him on one hand from settling with his niece, sir richard assailed him on the other with cool and plausible arguments; and together they obliged him to have recourse to such expedients as gained time, without his having much hope that he could finally detain the property of his late brother from his daughter, who seemed likely to establish her right to it's possession. at once to indulge his avarice and quiet his conscience, he would willingly have consented to pay her a considerable portion, and to leave her right to the whole undecided; but of such an accommodation there seemed no probability, unless he could win over lord westhaven to his interest. he thought, however, that there could be little doubt of his re-uniting the mowbray estate with his own, by promoting the marriage between emmeline and lord delamere, which he had hitherto so strenuously opposed. but this, he knew, must be the last resort; not only because he was ashamed so immediately to avow a change of opinion in regard to emmeline, which could have happened only from her change of circumstances, but because the dislike which lady montreville had originally conceived towards her, now amounted to the most determined and inveterate hatred. bent on conversing fully with lord westhaven before he took any measures whatever either to detain or to restore the estate, the marquis was desirous of seeing him immediately on his arrival in england, and to precede any conversation he might hold with emmeline. for this reason he kept back all information that related to his son-in-law's return; and tho' he knew that the indisposition of lord delamere and his sister had kept lord westhaven at paris almost three weeks, and that they were travelling only twenty miles a day, from thence to calais, he had withheld even this intelligence from the anxious emmeline. lady frances crofts, never feeling any great disposition to filial piety, and having lost, in the giddy career of dissipation, the little sensibility she ever possessed, was soon tired of attending on her mother at audley hall. the fretful impatience or irksome lassitude which devoured a mind without resources, and weary of itself, in the melancholy gloom of a sick chamber, soon disgusted and fatigued her; she therefore left audley hall in october, and after staying ten days or a fortnight in burlington street, where she made an acquaintance with bellozane, she went to pass the months that yet intervened before it was fashionable to appear in london, at a villa near richmond; which she had taken in the summer, and fitted up with every ornament luxury could invent or money purchase. she retired not thither, however, to court the sylvan deities: a set of friends of both sexes attended her. bellozane was very handsome, very lively, very much a man of fashion: lady frances, who thought him no bad addition to her train, invited him also. bellozane became the life of the party; and was soon so much at his ease in the family, and so great a favourite with her ladyship, at a very early period of their acquaintance, that only her high rank there exempted her from those censures, which, in a less elevated condition, would have fallen on her, from the grave and sagacious personages who are so good as to take upon them the regulation of the world. crofts, detained by his office in london, heard more than gave him any pleasure. but like a wise and cautious husband, he forebore to complain. besides the fear of his wife, which was no inconsiderable motive to silence, he had the additional fear of the martial and fierce-looking french soldier before his eyes; who talked, in very bad english, of such encounters and exploits as made the cold-blooded politician shudder. when, on friday evenings, after the business of his office was over, he went down to richmond, he now always found there this foreign adonis; and beheld him with mingled hatred and horror, tho' he concealed both under the appearance of cringing and servile complaisance. and when lady frances compared the narrow-spirited and mean-looking crofts, with the handsome, animated, gallant bellozane, the poor husband felt all the disadvantages of the comparison, and as certainly suffered for it. scorning to dissimulate with a man whom she thought infinitely too fortunate in being allied to her on any terms, and superior to the censures of a world, the greater part of whom she considered as beings of another species from the daughter of the marquis of montreville, her ladyship grew every day fonder of the chevalier, and less solicitous to conceal her partiality. she found, too, her vanity and inordinate self love gratified, in believing that this elegant foreigner did justice to her superior attractions, and had been won by them, from that inclination for emmeline which had brought him to england. a conquest snatched from _her_, whom she had always considered at once with envy and contempt, was doubly delightful; and bellozane, with all the volatility of his adopted country, saw nothing disloyal or improper in returning the kind attentions of lady frances, _en attendant_ the arrival of emmeline; with whom he was a good deal piqued for her having left london so abruptly without informing him whither she was gone. he still preferred her to every other person; but he was not therefore insensible to the kindness, or blind to the charms of lady frances; who was really very handsome; and who, with a great portion of the beauty inherited by the mowbray family, possessed the juno-like air as well as the high spirit of her mother. in aid of these natural advantages, every refinement of art was exhausted; and by those who preferred it's dazzling effects to the interesting and graceful simplicity of unadorned beauty, lady frances, dressed for the opera, might have been esteemed more charming, than emmeline in her modest muslin night gown; or than the pensive madona, which, in her widow's dress, was represented by lady adelina. these two friends, after having passed a calm afternoon together, retired early to their respective apartments. emmeline, who had a repeating watch, given her by lord westhaven, wound it up carefully; and having bolted her chamber door, lay down for a few hours; being sure that the anxiety she felt would awaken her before the return of that on which the stranger had appeared the preceding night. fatigue and long watching closed her eyes; but her slumber was imperfect; and suddenly awaking at some fancied noise, she pressed her repeater, and found it was half past three o'clock. this was about the time on which the man had appeared the night before; and tho' she felt some fear, she had yet more curiosity to know whether he came again. she arose softly, therefore, and went to the window, which she did not venture to open. but she had no occasion to look towards the shrubbery to watch the coming of the stranger; he was already traversing the length of the house, dressed as before; and with his arms folded, and his head bent towards the ground, he slowly moved in the same pensive attitude. emmeline, tho' now impressed with deeper astonishment, summoned resolution narrowly to observe his air and figure. had not his hat concealed his face, the obscurity would not have allowed her to examine his features. but tho' the great coat he wore considerably altered the outline of his person, she still thought she discerned the form of fitz-edward. his height and his walk confirmed this idea; and the longer she observed him, the more she was persuaded it was fitz-edward himself. this conviction was not unaccompanied by terror. she wished to speak to him; and to represent the indiscretion, the madness of his thus risking the reputation of lady adelina; and his own life or that of one of her brothers; while the very idea of godolphin's resentment and danger filled her mind with the most alarming apprehensions. she determined then to open the window and speak to him: yet if it should not be fitz-edward? at length she had collected the courage necessary; and knowing that tho' the whole family was yet fast asleep she could easily rouse them, if the person to whom she spoke should not be known to her, and gave her any reason for alarm, she was on the point of lifting up the sash, when the stranger put an end to her deliberations by hastily walking away to his former covert among the shrubs; and she saw him no more. emmeline, wearied alike with watchfulness and uneasiness, now went to bed; having at length determined to keep barret (on whose silence and discretion she could rely) with her the next night; and when the colonel appeared (for the colonel she was sure it was) to send her to him, or at least make her witness to what she should herself say to him from the window. the anxiety of her mind made her very low on the early part of the next day; and lady adelina was still more so. they dined, however, early; and as the evening was clear, and they had not been out in the morning, lady adelina proposed their taking a short walk to the top of the hill behind the house, which commanded a glorious view that emmeline had not seen; but as it was cold, they agreed to leave little william at home. the grounds of godolphin behind the house, consisted only of a small paddock, divided from the kitchen garden by a dwarf wall; and the copse, which partly cloathed the hill, and thro' which a footpath went to a village about two miles beyond it. the woody ground ceasing about half way up, opened to a down which commanded the view. they stood admiring it a few moments; and then emmeline, who could not for an instant help reflecting on what she had seen for two nights, felt something like alarm at being so far from the house. she complained therefore that it was cold; and the evening (at this season very short) was already shutting in. the wind blew chill and hollow among the half stripped trees, as they passed thro' the wood; and the dead leaves rustled in the blast. 'twas such a night as ossian might describe. emmeline recollected the visionary beings with which his poems abound, and involuntarily she shuddered. at the gate that opened into the lawn, lady adelina stopped as if she was tired. she was talking of something godolphin had done; and emmeline, who on that subject was never weary of hearing her, turned round, and they both leaned for a moment against the gate, looking up the wood walk from which they had just descended. the veil of lady adelina was over her face; but emmeline, less wrapped up, suddenly saw the figure which had before visited the garden, descending, in exactly the same posture, down the pathway, which was rather steep. he seemed unknowingly to follow it, without looking up; and was soon so near them, that emmeline, losing at once her presence of mind, clasped her hands, and exclaimed--'good god! who is this?' 'what?' said lady adelina, looking towards him. by this time he was within six paces of the gate; and sprung forward at the very moment that she knew him, and fell senseless on the ground. emmeline, unable to save her, was in a situation but little better. fitz-edward, for it was really himself, knelt down by her, and lifted her up. but she was without any appearance of life; and he, who had no intention of rushing thus abruptly into her presence, was too much agitated to be able to speak. 'ah! why would you do this, sir?' said emmeline in a tremulous voice. 'what can i do with her?' added she. 'merciful heaven, what can be done? how _could_ you be so cruel, so inconsiderate?' 'don't talk to me,' said he--'don't reproach me! i am not able to bear it! i suffer too much already! have you no salts? have you nothing to give her?' emmeline now with trembling hands searched her pockets for a bottle of salts which she sometimes carried. she luckily had it; and, in another pocket, some hungary water, with which she bathed the temples of her friend, who still lay apparently dead. she remained some moments in that situation; and emmeline had time to reflect, which she did with the utmost perturbation, on what would be the consequence of this interview when she recovered her recollection. she dreaded lest the sight of fitz-edward should totally unsettle her reason. she dreaded lest godolphin should know he had clandestinely been there; and she concluded it were better to persuade him to leave them before the senses of lady adelina returned. 'how fearfully long she continues in this fainting fit,' cried she, 'and yet do i dread seeing her recover from it.' 'you dread it!--and why dread it?' 'indeed i do. when her recollection returns, it may yet be worse; you know not how nearly gone her intellects have at times been, and the least emotion may render her for ever a lunatic.' 'it is the cruelty of her brother,' sternly replied fitz-edward, 'that has driven her to this. his rigid conduct has overwhelmed her spirits and broken her heart. but _now_, since we _have_ met, we part not till i hear from herself whether she prefers driving _me_ to desperation, or quitting, in the character i can now offer her, the cold and barbarous godolphin.' 'do not, ah! pray do not attempt to speak to her now. let me try to get her home; and when she is better able to see you, indeed i will send to you.' 'can you then suppose i will leave her? but perhaps she is already gone! she seems to be dead--quite dead and cold!' nothing but terror now lent emmeline strength to continue chafing her temples and her hands. in another moment or two the blood began to circulate; and soon after, with a deep sigh, lady adelina opened her eyes. 'for pity's sake,' said emmeline in a low voice--'for pity's sake do not speak to her.' then addressing herself to her, she said--'lady adelina, are you better?' 'yes.' 'do you think i can assist you home?' 'she shall not be hurried,' said fitz-edward. 'ah! save me! save me!' exclaimed she, faintly shrieking--'save me!' and clasping her arms round emmeline, she attempted to rise. 'am i then grown so hateful to you,' said fitz-edward, as he assisted and supported her--'that for one poor moment you will not allow me to approach you. will no penitence, no sufferings obtain your pity?' 'take me away, emmeline!' cried she, in a hurried manner--'ah! take me quick away! godolphin will come, he will come indeed.--let us go home--go home before he finds us here!' 'it is as i said!' exclaimed fitz-edward: 'her brother has terrified her into madness. but----' emmeline, now making an effort to escape falling into a condition as deplorable as was her friend's, said, with some firmness--'mr. fitz-edward, i must entreat you to say nothing about her brother. it is a topic of all others least likely to restore her.' adelina still clung to her; and putting away fitz-edward with her hand, laid her head on the shoulder of emmeline, who said--'i fancy you can walk. shall we go towards home?' lady adelina, without speaking, and still motioning with her hand to fitz-edward to leave her, moved on. but so enfeebled was she, that in the very attempt she had again nearly fallen; emmeline being infinitely too much frightened to lend her much assistance. 'she cannot walk,' cried fitz-edward, 'yet will not let me support her. will _you_, miss mowbray, accept my arm; perhaps it may enable you to guide better the faultering steps of your friend.' emmeline thought that at all events it was better to get her into the house; and therefore taking, in silence, the arm that fitz-edward offered her, she proceeded across the lawn. lady adelina appeared to exert herself. she quickened her pace a little; and they were soon at a small gate, which opened in a wire fence near the house to keep the cattle immediately from the windows. here emmeline determined to make another effort on fitz-edward to persuade him to leave them. 'now,' said she, 'we shall do very well. had you not better quit us?' he seemed disposed to obey; when mrs. barret, who had seen them from the door, where she had been watching the return of her lady, advanced hastily towards them, and said to emmeline--'dear ma'am, i am so glad you and my lady are come in! the captain is quite frightened at your being out so late.' 'the captain!' exclaimed emmeline. 'yes, ma'am, the captain has been come in about two minutes; he is but just seeing master godolphin, and then was coming out to meet you.' 'take hold of your lady, barret,' cried emmeline. barret ran forward. but lady adelina (whom the terror of her brother's return at such a moment had again entirely overcome), was already lifeless in the arms of fitz-edward; and emmeline, whose first idea was to go in and prevent godolphin from coming out to meet them, could get no farther than the door; where, breathless and almost senseless, she was only prevented from falling by leaning against one of the pillars. 'your lady is in a fainting fit, mrs. barret,' said fitz-edward; 'pray assist her.' the woman at once knew his voice, and saw the situation of her lady; and terrified both by the one and the other, screamed aloud. godolphin, caressing his nephew in the parlour, heard not the shriek; but a footman who was crossing the hall ran out; and flying by emmeline, ran to the group beyond her; where, as mrs. barret still wildly called for help for lady adelina, he proposed to fitz-edward to carry her ladyship into the house, which they together immediately did. this was what emmeline most dreaded. but there was no time for remonstrance. as they passed her at the door, she put her hand upon fitz-edward's arm, and cried--'oh! stop! for god's sake stop!' 'why stop?' said he. 'no! nothing shall now detain me; i am determined, and _must_ go on!' she saw, indeed, that godolphin's being in the house only made him more obstinately bent to enter it. the door of the parlour now opened; and godolphin saw, with astonishment inexpressible, his sister, to all appearance dead, in the arms of fitz-edward; and emmeline, as pale and almost as lifeless, following her; who silently, and with fixed eyes, sat down near the door. 'what can be the meaning of this?' exclaimed godolphin. 'miss mowbray!--my emmeline!--my adelina!' the child, with whom godolphin had been at play, reached out his little arms to lady adelina, whom they had placed on a sopha. godolphin sat him down upon it; and not knowing where to fix his own attention, he looked wildly, first at his sister, and then at emmeline; while fitz-edward, totally regardless of him, knelt by the side of lady adelina, and surveyed her and the little boy with an expression impossible to be described. 'for mercy's sake tell me,' godolphin, as he took the cold and trembling hands of emmeline in his--'for mercy's sake tell me what all this means? is my sister, my poor adelina dead?' 'i hope not!' 'you are yourself almost terrified to death. your hands tremble. tell me, i conjure you tell me, what you have met with, and to what is owing the extraordinary appearance of mr. fitz-edward here?' 'that, or any farther enquiry mr. godolphin has to make, which may relate to me,' said fitz-edward sternly, 'i shall be ready at any other time to answer; but now it appears more necessary to attend to this dear injured creature!' 'injured, sir!' cried godolphin, turning angrily towards him--'do you come hither to tell me your crimes, or to triumph in their consequence?' 'oh! for the love of heaven!' said emmeline, with all the strength she could collect, 'let this proceed no farther. consider,' added she, lowering her voice, 'the servants are in the room. reflect on the consequence of what you say.' 'let every body but barret go out,' said godolphin aloud. the child, whose usual hour of going to rest was already past, had crept up to his mother, heedless of the people who surrounded her, and had dropped asleep on her bosom. 'should i take master, sir?' enquired the nursery maid of godolphin. 'leave him!' answered he, fiercely. excess of terror now operated to restore, in some measure, to emmeline the presence of mind it had deprived her of. she found it absolutely necessary to exert herself; and advancing towards lady adelina, by whose side fitz-edward still knelt, she took one of her hands--'i hope,' said she to barret, your lady is coming to; she is less pale, and her pulse is returning. colonel fitz-edward, would it not be better for you now to leave us?' 'i must first speak to lady adelina.' 'impossible! you cannot speak to her to-night.' 'nor can i leave her, madam, unless she herself dismisses me.--leave her, thus weak and languid, to meet perhaps on my account reproach and unkindness!' 'reproach and unkindness! mr. fitz-edward,' said godolphin, in a passionate tone--'reproach and unkindness! do me the favour to say from whom you apprehend she may receive such treatment?' 'from the cruel and unrelenting brother, who has persisted in wishing to divide us, even after heaven itself has removed the barrier between us.' 'sir,' replied godolphin, with a stern calmness--'in this house, and in miss mowbray's presence, _you_ may say any thing with impunity, and _i_ may bear this language even from the faithless destroyer of my sister.' fitz-edward now starting from his knees, looked the defiance he was about to utter, when lady adelina drew a deep and loud sigh, and barret exclaimed--'for god's sake, gentlemen, do not go on with these high words. my lady is coming to; but this sort of discourse will throw her again into her fits worse than ever. pray let me entreat of you both to be pacified.' 'i insist upon it,' said emmeline, 'that you are calm, or it will not be in my power to stay. i must leave you, indeed i must, mr. godolphin! if you would not see _me_ expire with terror, and entirely kill your sister, you must be cool.' she was indeed again deprived nearly of her breath and recollection by the fear of their instantly flying to extremities. lady adelina now opened her eyes and looked round her. but there was wildness and horror in them; and she seemed rather to see the objects, than to have any idea of who were with her. the child, however, was always present to her. 'my dear boy here?' cried she, faintly; 'poor fellow, he is asleep!' 'shall i take him from you, ma'am?' asked her woman. 'oh! no! i will put him to bed myself.' she then again reposed her head as if fatigued, and sighed. 'twas all,' said she, 'long foreseen. but destiny, they say, must be fulfilled, and fate will have it's way. i wish i had not been the cause of his death, however.' 'of whose death, dear madam?' said barret. 'nobody is dead; nobody indeed.' 'did i not hear him groan, and see him die? did not he tell me, i know not what, of my lord westhaven? i shall remember it all distinctly to-morrow!' she now rested again, profoundly sighing; and emmeline beckoning to fitz-edward and godolphin, took them to the other end of the room, where the arm of the sopha she reclined on concealed them from her view. 'pray,' said she, addressing herself to them both, 'pray leave her.' then recollecting that she dared not trust them together, she added--'no, don't both go at once. but indeed it is absolutely necessary to have her kept quite quiet and got to bed as soon as possible.' 'i believe it is,' answered godolphin. 'poor adelina! her dreadful malady is returned.' 'it is indeed,' said emmeline. 'i have seen it too evidently approaching for some days; and this last shock'--she stopped, and repented she had said so much. 'mr. fitz-edward,' cried godolphin, 'will you walk with me into another room?' 'certainly.' 'oh! no! no!' exclaimed emmeline with quickness. they were going out together; but taking an arm of each, she eagerly repeated 'oh! no! no! not together!' the imagination of lady adelina was now totally disordered. she had risen; and carrying the child in her arms, walked towards her brother, who in traversing the apartment with uneasy steps was by this time near the door; while fitz-edward was at the other end of the room, where emmeline was trying to persuade him to quit the house. lady adelina, supported by her maid, and trembling under the weight of the infant she clasped to her bosom, stepped along as quickly as her weakness would allow; and putting her hand on godolphin's arm, she cried, in a slow and tremulous manner--'stay, william! i have something to say to you before you go. lord westhaven, you know, is coming; and you have promised that he shall not kill _me_. i may however die; and i rather believe i shall; for since this last sight i am strangely ill. you and emmeline will take care of my poor boy, will ye not? had fitz-edward lived--nay do not look so angry, for now he cannot offend you--had poor fitz-edward lived, he would perhaps have taken him. but now, i must depend on emmeline, who has promised to be good to him. they say she will have a great fortune too, and therefore i need not fear that you will find my child burthensome.' 'burthensome!' cried godolphin. 'good god, adelina!' 'well! well! be not offended. only you know, when people come to have a family of their own, the child of another may be reckoned an incumbrance. i know that now you love my william dearly; but then, you know, it will be another thing.' 'gracious heaven!' exclaimed godolphin, 'what can have made her talk in this manner?' 'reason in madness!' said fitz-edward, advancing towards her. 'her son, however, shall be an incumbrance to nobody.' emmeline now grasping his hand, implored him not to speak to her. lady adelina neither heard or noticed him: but again addressing herself to her brother, said, with a mournful sigh--'and now, since i have told you what was upon my mind, i will go put my little boy to bed. good night to you, dear william! you and miss mowbray will remember!----' she then walked out of the room, and calmly took the way to her own, attended by her maid. emmeline, not daring to leave together these two ardent spirits irritated against each other, remained, trembling, with them; hoping by her presence to prevent their animosity from blazing forth, and to prevail upon them to part. they both continued for some time to traverse the room in gloomy silence. at length fitz-edward stopped, and said--'at what hour to-morrow, sir, may i have the honour of some conversation with you?' 'at whatever hour you please, sir--the earlier, however, the more agreeable.' 'at seven o'clock, sir, i will be with you.' 'if you please; at that hour i will be ready to receive your commands.' fitz-edward then took his hat, and bowing to emmeline, wished her a good night, and left the room. starting from her chair, she followed him into the hall, and shut the parlour door after her. 'fitz-edward,' cried she, detaining him, and speaking in an half whisper--'fitz-edward, hear me! do you design to kill me?' 'to kill you?' replied he. 'no surely.' 'then do not go till you have heard me.' 'it is unpleasant to me to stay in godolphin's house after what has just passed. but as you please.' she led him into a little breakfast room; and regardless of being without light, shut the door. 'tell me,' said she, 'before i die with terror--tell me with what intention you come to-morrow?' 'simply to have a positive answer from mr. godolphin, if he will, together with his brother, allow me, when the usual mourning is over, to address their sister with proposals of marriage; which in fact they have no right to prevent. and if mr. godolphin refuses----' 'what, if he refuses?' 'i shall take my son into my own care, and wait till lady adelina will herself exert that freedom which is now her's.' 'godolphin doats on the child. nothing, i am persuaded, will induce him to part with it.' 'not part with it? he must, nay he _shall_!' 'pray be calm--pray be quiet. stay yet a few months--a few weeks.' 'not a day! not an hour!' 'good god! what _can_ be done? mischief will inevitably happen!' 'i am sorry,' replied fitz-edward, 'that you are thus made uneasy. but i cannot recede; and my life has not been pleasant enough lately to make me very solicitous about the event of my explanation with mr. godolphin. conscious, however, that he has some reason to complain of me, i do not wish to increase it. i mean to keep _my_ temper, _if i can_: but if he suffers _his_ to pass the bounds which one gentleman must observe towards another, i shall not consider myself as the aggressor, or as answerable for the consequences.' 'but why, oh! why would you come hither? wherefore traverse the garden of a night, and suffer appearances to be so much against you, and what is yet worse, against lady adelina?' 'who told you i have done so--godolphin?' 'no. he was, you well know, absent. but i saw you myself; with terror i saw you, and meditated how to speak to you alone, when our unhappy meeting in the wood this evening put an end to all my contrivances.' 'yet i had no intention of terrifying you, or of abruptly rushing into the presence of adelina. it is true, that for some nights past i have walked under the window where she and my child sleep: for _i_ could not sleep; and it was a sort of melancholy enjoyment to me to be near the spot which held all i have dear on earth. as i pass at the ale house where i lodge as a person hiding in this island from the pursuit of creditors, my desire of concealment did not appear extraordinary. i have often lingered among the rocks and copses, and seen adelina and my child with you. last night i came out in the dusk, and was approaching, to conceal myself near the house, in hopes, that as you love walking late, and alone, i might have found an opportunity of speaking to you, and of concerting with _you_ the means of introducing myself to _her_ without too great an alarm.' 'would to heaven you had! but now, since all this has happened, consent to put off this meeting with godolphin. do not meet, at least, to-morrow! i entreat that you will not!' 'on all subjects but this,' said he, as he opened the door--'on all subjects but this, miss mowbray knows she may command me. but this is a point from which i cannot, without infamy, recede; and in which she must forgive me, if all my veneration and esteem for her goodness and tenderness does not induce me to desist.' he then went into the hall; and by the lamp which burnt there, opened himself the door into the garden, and hastily walked away. while the trembling and harrassed emmeline, finding him inflexible, went back to godolphin, with very little hopes that she should, with him, have better success. chapter xiii on entering the room, emmeline sat down without speaking. 'how is adelina, my dearest miss mowbray?' 'i know not.' 'you have not, then, been with her?' 'no.' 'were it not best to enquire after her?' 'certainly. i will go immediately.' 'but come to me again--i have much to say to you.' emmeline then went up stairs. she found that the composing medicine, which barret had been directed to keep always by her, had been liberally administered; and that her lady was got into bed, and was already asleep. barret sat by her. deep sighs and convulsive catchings marked the extreme agitation of her spirits after she was no longer conscious of it herself. with this account emmeline returned, in great uneasiness, to godolphin. 'i thank heaven,' said he, 'that she is at least for some moments insensible of pain! now, my emmeline, for surely i may be allowed to say _my_ emmeline, sit down and try to compose yourself. i cannot bear to see you thus pale and trembling.' he led her to a seat, and placed himself by her; gazing with extreme concern on her face, pallid as it was, and expressive only of sorrow and anxiety. 'whence is it,' said she, after a pause of some moments, that i see you here? did i not come hither on the assurance you gave me that you would long be detained in or near london by the business of your sister?' 'i certainly did say so. but i could not then foresee what happened on the sunday after you left london.' 'has, then, any thing happened?' 'the return of lord and lady westhaven, with lord delamere.' 'are they all well?' 'tolerably so. but my brother is very anxious to see adelina; and expects _you_ with little less solicitude. he could not think of giving lady westhaven the trouble of such a journey; nor could he now leave her without being unhappy. i therefore, at his pressing request, came myself to fetch you both to london.' 'and do you mean that we should begin our journey to-morrow?' 'i _meant_ it, certainly, till the events of this evening made me doubtful how far my sister herself may be in a situation to bear change of place and variety of objects; or being able, whether she may chuse to leave to me the direction of her actions.' 'ah! impute not to lady adelina the meeting with fitz-edward; it was entirely accidental; it's suddenness overcame her, and threw her into the way in which you saw her.' 'and what has a man to answer for, who thus comes to insult his victim, and to rob her of the little tranquillity time may have restored to her?' 'indeed i think you injure poor fitz-edward. fondly attached to your sister, he has no other wish or hope than to be allowed to address her when the time of her mourning for mr. trelawny is expired. for this permission he intended to apply to you: but the severity with which you ever received his advances discouraged him; and he then, in the hope of hearing that such an application would not be rendered ineffectual by her own refusal, and languishing to see his son, came hither; not with any intention of forcing himself abruptly into the presence of lady adelina, but to see _me_ and induce me to intercede with her for an interview. accident threw us in his way; your sister fell senseless on the ground; and when she did recover, endeavoured to avoid him: but she was too weak to walk home without other assistance than mine, and i was compelled to accept for her, that which fitz-edward offered. on hearing from barret that you was returned, the terror which has ever pursued her, lest you and fitz-edward should meet as enemies, again overcame her, and occasioned the scene you must, with so much astonishment, have beheld.' 'has adelina had any previous knowledge of the proposals fitz-edward intends to make?' 'none, i believe, in the world.' 'do you know whether they have ever corresponded?' 'i am convinced they have not.' 'there are objections, in my mind, _insuperable_ objections, to this alliance. these, however, i must talk over with the colonel himself.' 'not _hostilely_, i hope. surely you have too much regard for the unhappy adelina, to give way now to any resentment you may have conceived against him; or if _that_ does not influence you, think of what _i_ must suffer.' she knew not what she had said; hardly what she intended to say. 'enchanting softness!' exclaimed godolphin in a transport--'is then the safety of godolphin so dear to that angelic bosom?' 'you know it but too well. but if _my_ quiet is equally dear to _you_, promise me that if this meeting to-morrow _must_ take place, you will receive fitz-edward with civility, and hear him with patience. remember on how many accounts this is necessary. remember how many expressions there are which his profession will not allow him to hear without resentment, that must end in blood. your's is _no common_ cause of enmity; none of those trifling quarrels which daily send modern beaux into the field. your characters are both high as military men, and as gentlemen; and your former intimacy must, i know, impress more deeply on the mind of each the injury or offence that either suppose they receive. be careful then, godolphin; promise me you will be careful!' 'ah! lovely emmeline! more lovely from this generous tenderness than from your other exquisite perfections; can i be insensible of the value of a life for which _you_ interest yourself? and shall i suffer any other consideration to come in competition with your peace?' 'you promise me then?' 'to be calm with fitz-edward, i do. and while i remember his offence (for can i forget while i suffer from it) i will also recollect, that _you_, who have also suffered on the same account, think him worthy of compassion; and i will try to conquer, at least to stifle, my resentment. but what shall we do with adelina?' 'that must depend on her situation in the morning. i have greatly apprehended an unhappy turn in her intellects ever since my first coming. the death of trelawny, far from appearing to have relieved her by removing the impediment to her union with fitz-edward, seems rather to have rendered her more wretched. continually agitated by contending passions, she was long unhappy, in the supposition that fitz-edward had obeyed her when she desired him to forget her. since trelawny's decease, as she has more fearlessly allowed her thoughts to dwell on him, she has suffered all the anxiety of expecting to hear from him, and all the bitterness of disappointment. and i could plainly perceive, that she was still debating with herself, whether, if he _did_ apply to her, she should accept him, or by a violent effort of heroism determine to see him no more. this conflict is yet to come. judge whether, in the frame of mind in which you see her, she is equal to it; and whether any additional terror for you and for him will not quite undo her. alas! far from aggravating, by pursuing your resentment, anguish so poignant, try rather to soothe her sorrows and assist her determination. and whatever that determination may be, when it is once made she may perhaps be restored to health and to tranquillity.' 'indeed i will do all you dictate, my loveliest friend! surely i should ill deserve the generosity you have shewn to me, were i incapable of feeling for others, and particularly for my sister. but wherefore that air of defiance which mr. fitz-edward thought it necessary to assume? he seemed to come more disposed to _insult_ than to conciliate the family of lady adelina.' 'alas! do you make no allowance for the perturbed situation of his mind, when he saw the woman he adores to all appearance dead, and for the first time beheld the poor little boy? he looked upon you as one who desires to tear from him for ever these beloved objects; and forgetting that he was the aggressor, thought only of the injury which he supposed you intended.' 'there is, indeed, some apology for the asperity of his manner; and perhaps i was in some measure to blame. generous, candid, considerate emmeline! how does your excellent heart teach you to excuse those weaknesses you do not feel, and to pity and to forgive errors which your own perfect mind makes it impossible for you to commit! ah! how heavily is your tenderness perpetually taxed: _here_, it is suffering from the sight of adelina--in town, it will have another object in the unfortunate delamere.' 'did you not tell me he was in tolerable health?' 'alas! what is bodily health when the mind is ill at ease? the anxiety of delamere to see you, to hear his destiny from yourself, is uneasy even to me, who feel my own exquisite happiness in knowing what that destiny must be. i look with even painful commiseration on this singular young man. yet from passions so violent, and obstinacy so invincible, i must have rejoiced that miss mowbray has escaped; even tho' her preference of the fortunate godolphin had not rendered his lot the most happy that a human being can possess.' 'since you are so good,' said emmeline faintly, for she was quite exhausted, 'to compassionate the situation of mind of delamere, you will, i think, see the humanity of concealing from him--that--' she could find no term that she liked, to express her meaning, and stopped. 'that he has a fortunate rival?' said godolphin. 'no, dearest emmeline, i hope i am incapable of such a triumph! 'till poor delamere is more at ease, i am content to enjoy the happiness of knowing your favourable opinion, without wishing, by an insulting display of it, to convince him he has for ever 'thrown a pearl away richer than all his tribe!' 'yet i am sure you will think it still more cruel to give him hope. i will tell you all my weakness. while i see you here, all benignity and goodness to me, i feel for lord delamere infinite pity; but were you to receive him with your usual sweetness, to give him many of those enchanting smiles, and to look at him with those soft eyes, as if you tenderly felt his sorrows, i am not sure whether the most unreasonable jealousy would not possess me, and whether i should not hate him as much as i now wish him well.' 'that were to be indeed unreasonable, and to act very inconsistently with your natural candour and humanity. i will not think so ill of you as to believe you. you know i must of course often see lord delamere: but after the avowal you have extorted from me, surely i need not repeat that i shall see him only as my friend.' godolphin then kissed her hands in rapture; and for a few moments forgot even his concern for lady adelina. emmeline now wished to break off the conversation; and he at length allowed her to leave him. after having enquired of barret after her mistress, who was happily in a calmer sleep, she retired to her own room, where she hoped to have a few hours of repose: but notwithstanding the promises of godolphin, she felt as the hour of the morning approached on which he was to meet fitz-edward, that anxiety chased away sleep, and again made her suffer the cruellest suspense. the heart of godolphin, glowing with the liveliest sense of his own happiness, yet felt with great keenness the unfortunate situation of his sister. he began to doubt whether he had any right to perpetuate her wretchedness; and whether it were not better to leave it to herself to decide in regard to fitz-edward. the delicacy of his honour made him see an infinity of objections to their marriage, which to common minds might appear chimerical and romantic. to that part of his own family who were yet ignorant of her former indiscretion, as he could not urge his reasons, his opposition of fitz-edward must seem capricious and unjust. lord westhaven must therefore either be told that which had hitherto with so much pains been concealed from him, or he must determine to refer fitz-edward entirely to lady adelina herself; and on this, after long deliberation, he fixed. exactly as the clock struck seven, fitz-edward was at the door; and was introduced into godolphin's study, who was already up and waiting for him. emmeline, still full of apprehension, had arisen before six, and hearing lady adelina was still asleep, had gone down stairs, and waited with a palpitating heart in the breakfast room. she was glad to distinguish, at their first meeting, the usual salutations of the morning. she listened; but tho' the rest of the house was profoundly silent, she could not hear their conversation or even the tone in which it was carried on. it was not, however, loud, and she drew from thence a favourable omen. near two hours passed, during which breakfast was carried in to them; and as the servant passed backwards and forwards, she heard parts of sentences which assured her that then, at least, they were conversing on indifferent subjects. now, therefore, the agitation of her spirits began to subside; and she dared even to hope that this meeting would prove the means of reconciliation, rather than of producing those fatal effects she had dreaded. in about a quarter of an hour, however, after they had finished their breakfast, they went out and crossed the lawn together. then again her heart failed her; and without knowing exactly what she intended, she took the little boy, whom the maid had just brought to her, and walked as quickly as possible after them. before she could overtake them, they had reached the gate; and in turning to shut it after him, godolphin saw her, and both together came hastily back to meet her. at the same moment, the child putting out his hands to godolphin, called him papa! as he had been used to do; and fitz-edward, snatching him up, kissed him tenderly, while his eyes were filled with tears. godolphin took the hand of emmeline. 'why this terror? why this haste?' said he, observing her to be almost breathless. 'i thought--i imagined--i was afraid--' answered she, not knowing what she said. 'be not alarmed,' said godolphin--'we go together as friends.' 'and godolphin,' interrupted fitz-edward, 'is again the same noble minded godolphin i once knew, and have always loved.' 'let us say then,' cried emmeline, 'no more of the past.--let us look forward only to the future.' 'and the happiness of that future, at least as far as it relates to me, depends, dearest miss mowbray, on you.' 'on me!' 'godolphin wishes me not now to see his sister. i have acquiesced. he wishes me even to refrain from seeing her till she has been six months a widow. with this, also, i have complied. but as it is not in my power to remain thus long in a suspence so agonizing as that i now endure, he allows me to write to her, and refers wholly to herself my hopes and my despair. ah! generous, lovely emmeline! _you_ can influence the mind of your friend. when she is calm, give her the letter i will send to you; and if you would save me from a life of lingering anguish to which death is preferable, procure for me a favourable answer.' emmeline could not refuse a request made by fitz-edward which godolphin seemed not to oppose. she therefore acquiesced; and saw him, after he had again tenderly caressed the child, depart with godolphin, who desired her to return to the house, in order to await lady adelina's rising; where he would soon join her. with an heart lightened of half the concern she had felt on this melancholy subject, she now went to the apartment of her poor friend, who was just awakened from the stupor rather than the sleep into which the soporifics she had taken had thrown her. with an heavy and reluctant eye she looked round her, as if hopeless of seeing the image now always present to her imagination. emmeline approached her with the child. she seemed happy to see them; and desiring her to sit down by the bed side, said--'tell me truly what has happened? have i taken any medicine that has confused my head, or how happens it that i appear to have been in a long and most uneasy dream? wild and half formed images still seem to float before my eyes; and when i attempt to make them distinct, i am but the more bewildered and uneasy.' 'think not about it, then, till the heaviness you complain of is gone off.' 'tell me, emmeline, have i really only dreamed, or was a stranger here yesterday? i thought, that suddenly i saw fitz-edward, thin, pale, emaciated, looking as if he were unhappy; and then, as it has of late often happened, i lost at once all traces of him; and in his place godolphin came, and i know not what else; it is all confusion and terror!' emmeline now considered a moment; and then concluded that it would be better to relate distinctly to her, since she now seemed capable of hearing it, all that had really passed the preceding evening, than to let her fatigue her mind by conjectures, and enfeeble it by fears. she therefore gave her a concise detail of what had happened; from the accidental meeting with fitz-edward, to the parting she had herself just had with him in the garden. she carefully watched the countenance of lady adelina while she was speaking; and saw with pleasure, that tho' excessively agitated, she melted into tears, and heard, with a calmer joy than she had dared to hope, the certainty of fitz-edward's tender attachment, and the unhoped for reconciliation between him and her brother. having indulged her tears some time, she tenderly pressed the hand of emmeline, and said, in a faint voice, that she found herself unable to rise and meet godolphin till she had recovered a little more strength of mind, and that she wished to be left alone. emmeline, rejoiced to find her so tranquil, left her, and rejoined godolphin, who was by this time returned; and who read, in the animated countenance of emmeline, that she had favourable news to relate to him of his sister. while they enjoyed together the prospect of lady adelina's return to health and peace, of which they had both despaired, the natural chearfulness of emmeline, which anxiety and affection had so long obscured, seemed in some degree to return; and feeling that she loved godolphin better than ever, for that generous placability of spirit he had shewn to the repentant fitz-edward, she no longer attempted to conceal her tenderness, or withhold her confidence from her deserving lover. they breakfasted together; and afterwards, as lady adelina still wished to be alone, they walked over the little estate which lay round the house, and emmeline allowed him to talk of the improvements he meditated when she should become it's mistress. the pleasure, however, which lightened in her eyes, and glowed in her bosom, was checked and diminished when the image of delamere, in jealousy and despair, intruded itself. and she could look forward to no future happiness for herself, undashed with sorrow, while he remained in a state of mind so deplorable. when they returned into the house, barret brought to godolphin the following note.-- 'dearest and most generous godolphin! i find myself unequal to the task of _speaking_ on what has passed within these last twenty four hours. i wish still to see you. but let our conversation turn wholly on lord westhaven, of whom i am anxious to hear; and spare me, for the present, on the subject which now blinds with tears your weak but grateful and affectionate adelina.' godolphin now assured her, by emmeline, that he would mention nothing that should give her a moment's pain, and that she should herself lead the conversation. he soon after went up to her and emmeline, in her dressing room; and found her still calm, tho' very low and languid. the name of fitz-edward was carefully avoided. but in the short time they were together, godolphin observed that the eyes of lady adelina seemed, on the entrance of any one into the room, fearfully and anxiously to examine whether they brought the letter she had been taught to expect from fitz-edward. it was easy to see that she deeply meditated on the answer which she must give; and that she felt an internal struggle, which godolphin feared might again unsettle her understanding. she was too faint to sit up long; and desirous of being left entirely alone, godolphin had for the rest of the day the happiness of entertaining emmeline apart. he failed not to avail himself of it; and drew from her a confession of her partiality towards him, even from the first day of their acquaintance; and long before she dared trust her heart to enquire into the nature of those sentiments with which it was impressed. late in the evening, a messenger arrived with the expected letter from fitz-edward. to convince godolphin of the perfect integrity with which he acted, he sent him a copy of it; adding, that he was then on his road to london, where he should await, in painful solicitude, the decision of lady adelina. it was determined that emmeline should give her the letter the next morning; and that if after reading it she retained the same languid composure which she had before shewn, they should go in the evening to southampton, and from thence proceed the following day to london, where lord and lady westhaven so anxiously expected their arrival. when emmeline delivered the letter, lady adelina turned pale, and trembled. she left her to read it; and on returning to her in about half an hour, emmeline found her drowned in tears. she seemed altogether unwilling to speak of the contents of the letter; but assured emmeline that she was very well able to undertake the journey her brother proposed, and she believed it would be rather useful than prejudicial to her. 'as to the letter,' added she, with a deep sigh, 'it will not for some days be in my power to answer it.' every thing was, by the diligence of godolphin, soon prepared for their departure. lady adelina, her little boy, emmeline and godolphin, attended by their servants, went the same evening to southampton; from whence they began their journey the next day; and resting one night at farnham, arrived early on the following at the house lord westhaven had taken in grosvenor street. chapter xiv the transports with which lord westhaven received his sister, were considerably checked by her melancholy air and faded form. the beauty and vivacity which she possessed when he last saw her, were quite gone, tho' she was now only in her twenty second year; and tears and sighs were the only language by which she could express the pleasure she felt at again seeing him. imputing, however, this dejection entirely to her late unfortunate marriage, his lordship expressed rather sorrow than wonder. he admired the little boy, whom he believed to be the son of godolphin; and he met emmeline with that unreserved and generous kindness he had ever shewn her. lady westhaven, with the truest pleasure, again embraced the friend of her heart; and with delight emmeline met her; but it was soon abated by the sanguine hopes she expressed that nothing would now long delay the happiness of lord delamere. 'my emmeline,' said she, 'will now be indeed my sister! lord montreville and my mother can no longer oppose a marriage so extremely advantageous to their son. _she_ will forgive them for their long blindness; and pardoning poor delamere for the involuntary error into which he was forced, will constitute the happiness of him and of his family.' to this, emmeline could only answer that she had not the least intention of marrying. lady westhaven laughed at that assertion. and she foresaw a persecution preparing for her, on behalf of delamere, which was likely to give her greater uneasiness than she had yet suffered from any event of her life. lord westhaven, as soon as they grew a little composed, took an opportunity of leaving the rest of the party; and went into his dressing room, where he sent for emmeline. 'well, my lovely cousin,' said he, when she was seated, 'i have seen lord montreville on your business. i cannot say that his lordship received me with pleasure. but some allowances must be made for a man who loves money, on finding himself obliged to relinquish so large an estate, and to refund so large a sum as he holds of yours.' 'i hope, however, you, my lord, have had no dispute on my account with the marquis?' 'oh! none in the world. what he _thought_, i had no business to enquire; what he said, was not much; as he committed the arguments against you to sir richard crofts, who talked very long, and, as far as i know, very learnedly. he spoke like a lawyer and a politician. i cut the matter short, by telling him that i should attend to nothing but from an honest man and a gentleman.' 'that was severe, my lord.' 'oh! he did not feel it. wrapped in his own self-sufficiency, and too rich to recollect the necessity of being honest, he still persisted in trying to persuade me that nothing should be done in regard to restoring your estate 'till all the deeds had been examined; as he had his doubts whether, allowing your father's marriage to be established, great part of the landed property is not entailed on the heirs male. in short, he only seemed desirous of gaining time and giving trouble. but the first, i was determined not to allow him; and to shorten the second, i took mr. newton with me the next day, and desired sir richard, if he could prove any entail, to produce his proofs. for that, he had an evasion ready--he had not had _time_ to examine the deeds; which i find are all in his hands. _we_, however, were better prepared. mr. newton produced the papers that authenticate your birth; he offered to bring a witness who was present when mr. mowbray was married to miss stavordale; nay even the clergyman who performed the ceremony at paris, and who is found to be actually living in westmoreland. the hand writing of your father is easily proved; and mr. newton, summing up briefly all the corroborating testimonies that exist of your right to the mowbray estate, concluded by telling lord montreville, that at the end of two days he should wait upon his lordship for his determination, whether he would dispute it in a court of law or settle it amicably with me on behalf of his niece. newton then left us; and i desired your uncle to allow me a few moments private conversation; which, as he could not refuse it, obliged old crofts, and that formal blockhead his son, to leave us alone together. i then represented to him how greatly his character must suffer should the affair become public. that tho' i believed myself he was really ignorant of the circumstances which gave you, from the moment of your father's death, an undoubted claim to the whole of his fortune, yet that the world will not believe it; but will consider him as a man so cruelly insatiable, so shamefully unjust, as to take advantage of a defenceless orphan to accumulate riches he did not want, and had no right to enjoy. i added, that if notwithstanding he chose to go into court, he must excuse me if i forgot the near connection i had with him, and appeared publicly as the assertor of your claim, and of course as his enemy. 'the marquis seemed very much hurt at the peremptory style in which i thought myself obliged to speak. he declined giving any positive answer; saying, only, that he must consult his wife and his son. what the former said, i know not; but the latter, generous in his nature, and adoring _you_, protested to his father that he would himself, as your next nearest relation, join in the suit against him, if the estate was not immediately given up. this spirited resolution of lord delamere, and the opinions of several eminent lawyers whom sir richard was sent to consult, at length brought lord montreville to a resolution before the expiration of the two days; and last night i received a letter from him, to say that he would, on monday next, account with you, and put you in possession of your estate; the management of which, however, and the care of your person, he should reserve to himself 'till you were of age.' 'good god!' exclaimed emmeline; trembling, 'am i to meet my uncle on monday on this business?' 'yes; and wherefore are you terrified?' 'at the idea of his anger--his hatred; and of being compelled to live with the marchioness, who always disliked me, and now must detest me.' lord westhaven then assured her that he would be there to support her spirits. that her uncle, whatever might be his feelings, would not express them by rudeness and asperity; but would more probably be desirous of shewing kindness and seeking reconciliation. yet that it was improbable he should propose her residing with lady montreville; 'whose present state of health,' said he, 'makes her incapable of leaving her room, and for whose life the most serious apprehensions are entertained by her physicians.' emmeline, thus reassured by lord westhaven on that subject, and extremely glad to hear there would be no necessity for proceedings at law against her uncle, returned with some chearfulness to the company; where it was not encreased by the entrance of lord delamere, which happened soon afterwards. the very ill state of health indicated by his appearance, extremely hurt her. nor was she less affected by his address to her, so expressive of the deepest anguish and regret. she could not bear to receive him with haughtiness and coldness; but mildly, and with smiles, returned the questions he put to her on common subjects. his chagrin seemed to wear off; and hope, which emmeline as little wished to give, again reanimated in some degree his melancholy countenance. the next day, and again the next, he came to lord westhaven's; but emmeline cautiously avoided any conversation with him to which the whole company were not witnesses. godolphin too was there: her behaviour to him was the same; and she would suffer neither to treat her with any degree of particularity. godolphin, who knew her reason for being reserved towards _him_, was content; and delamere, who suspected not how dangerous a rival he had, was compelled to remain on the footing only of a relation; still hoping that time and perseverance might restore him to the happiness he had lost. monday now arrived, and emmeline was to wait on her uncle in berkley-square. at twelve o'clock lord westhaven was ready. emmeline was led by him into the coach. they took up mr. newton in lincolns-inn; and then went to their rendezvous. emmeline trembled as lord westhaven took her up stairs: she remembered the terror she had once before suffered in the same house; and when she entered the drawing-room, could hardly support herself. the marquis, sir richard crofts, his eldest son, and lord delamere, with two stewards and a lawyer, were already there. lord montreville coldly and gravely returned his niece's compliments; sir richard malignantly eyed her from the corners of his eyes, obscured by fat; and crofts put on a look of pompous sagacity and consequential knowledge; while lord delamere, who would willingly have parted with the whole of his paternal fortune rather than with her, seemed eager only to see a business concluded by which she was to receive benefit. the lawyer in a set speech opened the business, and expatiated largely on lord montreville's great generosity. lord westhaven looked over the accounts: they appeared to have been made out right. the title deeds of the estate were then produced; the usual forms gone thro'; and papers signed, which put emmeline in possession of them. all passed with much silence and solemnity: lord montreville said very little; and ineffectually struggled to conceal the extreme reluctance with which he made this resignation. when the business was completed, emmeline advanced to kiss the hand of her uncle: he saluted her; but without any appearance of affection; and coldly enquired how she intended to dispose of herself? 'i propose, my lord, wholly to refer myself to your lordship as to my present residence, or any other part of my conduct in which you will honour me with your advice.' 'i am sorry, miss mowbray, that the ill state of health of the marchioness prevents my having the pleasure of your company here. however my daughter, lady westhaven, will of course be happy to have you remain with her till you have fixed on some plan of life, or till you are of age.' 'not only till miss mowbray is of age, my lord, but ever, both lady westhaven and myself should be gratified by having her with us,' said lord westhaven. to this no answer was given; and a long silence ensued. emmeline felt distressed; and at length said--'i believe, my lord, lady westhaven will expect us.' they then rose; and taking a formal leave of the marquis, were allowed to leave the room. lord delamere, however, took emmeline's hand, and as he led her to the coach implored her to indulge him with one moment's conversation at any hour when they might not be interrupted. but with great firmness, yet with great sweetness, she told him that she must be forgiven if she adhered to a resolution she had made to give no audience on the topic he wished to speak upon, for many months to come. 'almost two years!' exclaimed he--'almost two long years must i wait, without knowing whether, at the end of that time, you will hear and pity me! ah! can you, emmeline, persist in such cruelty?' 'a good morning to your lordship,' said she, as she got into the coach. 'will you dine with us, delamere?' asked lord westhaven. 'yes; and will go home with you now, and dress in grosvenor street.' he then gave some orders to his servants, and stepped into the coach. 'i never was less disposed in my life,' said he, 'to rejoin a party, than i am to go back to those grave personages up stairs: it is with the utmost difficulty i command my temper to meet those crofts' on the most necessary business. my blood boils, my soul recoils at them!' 'pooh, pooh!' cried lord westhaven, 'you are always taking unreasonable aversions. your blood is always boiling at some body or other. i tell you, the crofts' are good necessary, plodding people. not too refined, perhaps, in points of honour, nor too strict in those of honesty; but excellent at the main chance, as you may see by what they have done for themselves.' delamere then uttered against them a dreadful execration, and went on to describe the whole family with great severity and with great truth, 'till he at length talked himself into a violent passion; and lord westhaven with difficulty brought him to be calm by the time they had set down mr. newton and stopped at his own door. at the same instant lord westhaven's coach arrived there, a splendid chariot, most elegantly decorated, came up also. delamere, struck with its brilliancy, examined the arms and saw his own: looking into it, he changed countenance, and said to lord westhaven--'upon my word! crofts' wife and your swiss relation, de bellozane!' 'crofts' wife?' 'aye. i mean the woman who was once fanny delamere, my sister.' 'come, delamere, forget these heartburnings, and remember that she is your sister still.' 'i should be glad to know (if it were worth my while to enquire) what business bellozane has with _her_?' by this time they were in the house, where lady frances and the chevalier arrived also. lord westhaven met them with his usual politeness; but delamere only slightly touched his hat to bellozane, and sternly saluted his sister with 'your servant, lady frances crofts!' he then passed them, and went into lord westhaven's dressing room; while her ladyship, regardless of his displeasure, and affecting the utmost gaity, talked and laughed with lord westhaven as she went up stairs. emmeline followed them, listening to the whispered compliments of bellozane with great coldness; and lady frances, entering with a fashionable flounce the drawing room where her sister was, cried--'well child! how are you? i beg your pardon for not coming to enquire after you sooner: but i have had such crowds of company at belleville lodge, that it was impossible to escape. and here's this animal here, this relation of your lord's, really haunts me; so i was forced at last to bring him with me.' this speech was accompanied by a significant smile directed to bellozane. lady westhaven, checked by such an address from flying into the arms of her sister, now expressed, without any great warmth, that she was glad to see her. something like general conversation was attempted. but lady frances, who hoped to hide, under the affectation of extravagant spirits, the envy and mortification with which she contemplated the superior happiness of her sister, soon engrossed the discourse entirely. she talked only of men of the first rank, or of _beaux esprits_ their associates, who had been down in parties to belleville lodge (the name she had given to her villa near richmond); and she repeated compliments which both the lords and the wits had made to her figure and her understanding. when she seemed almost to have exhausted this interesting topic, lady westhaven said, as if merely for the sake of saying something--'mr. crofts has been so obliging as to call here twice since we came to london; but unluckily was not let in. pray how does he do?' 'mr. crofts? oh! i know very little of him. at this time of the year we never meet. _he_ lives, you know, in burlington street, and _i_ live at belleville; and if he comes thither, as he sometimes does of a friday or saturday, he finds me too much engaged to know whether he is there or not. i believe, tho', he is very well; and i think the last time i saw him he was nearly as lively and amusing as he usually is. don't you think he was, bellozane?' '_o! assurement oui_,' replied the chevalier, sneeringly, '_monsieur croff a toujours beaucoup de vivacité_.--_c'est un homme fort amusant ce monsieur croff._'[ ] lady westhaven, disgusted, shocked, and amazed, had no power to take any share in such a dialogue; and lady frances went on. 'well! but now i assure you, augusta, i'm going to be most uncommonly good; and am coming, tho' 'tis a terrible heavy undertaking, to pass a whole week, without company, with _mon tres cher mari_, in burlington-street. nay, i will go still farther, and make a family party with you to the play, which i generally detest of all things.' 'that is being really very kind,' said lady westhaven. 'but since you are so tenderly disposed towards your own family, would it not be well if you were to enquire after my mother? you know, i suppose, how very ill she is; how much worse 'tis feared she may be?' 'yes, i shall certainly call,' replied lady frances with the utmost _sang froid_, 'before i go home. but as to her illness, you are frightened at nothing: she has only her old complaints.' 'her old complaints! and are not they enough? if _i_ were in a situation to be useful to her; or even as it is, if lord westhaven would permit me, i should certainly think it my duty constantly to attend her.' 'probably you might. and it is equally probable that it would be of no use if you did. she has brackley, and all her own people about her; and no more _could_ be done for her, even tho' you were to hazard your _precious_ life, or if _i_, (who you know would not risk by it that of an heir to an earldom) should sacrifice _my_ ease and _my_ friends to attend her.' the unfeeling malignity of this speech was so extremely distressing to lady westhaven, that she could hardly command her tears. lord westhaven saw her emotion, and said, 'augusta, my love, your sister is too brilliant for you. you have not acquired that last polish of high life, which quite effaces all other feelings; nor will you, perhaps, ever arrive at it.' 'god forbid that i ever should!' cried lady westhaven, unable to conceal her indignation. 'poor thing!' said lady frances, with the most unblushing assurance--'you have curious ideas of domestic felicity: and it's a thousand pities, that instead of being what you are, destiny had not made you the snug, notable wife of a country parson, with three or four hundred a year--you would have been pure and happy, to drive about in a one horse chaise, make custards, walk tame about the house, and bring the good man a baby every year: but really, you are now quite out of your element.' she then rang the bell for her carriage; which being soon ready, she gaily wished her sister good day, and the chevalier handed her down stairs; where, as she descended, she said, loud enough to be heard, '_s'il y'a une chose au monde que je deteste plus qu'un notre, c'est la tristesse d'une societé comme cela_.'[ ] the chevalier assented with his lips; but his heart and his wishes were fled towards emmeline. he was, however, so engaged with her proud and insolent rival, that he no longer dared openly to avow his predilection for her: and lady frances seemed so sure of the strength of that attachment which was her disgrace, that she brought him on purpose where emmeline was, to shew how little she apprehended his defection. lord westhaven, after pausing a second, ran down stairs after them; and just as bellozane was stepping into the chariot, took him by the arm, and begged to speak to him for two minutes. he apologized to lady frances, and they went together into a room; where lord westhaven, with all the warmth which his relationship authorized, remonstrated against his stay in england; represented the expence and uneasiness it must occasion to the good old baron; and above all, exhorted him to fly immediately from the dangerous society of lady frances crofts. bellozane received this advice from his cousin with a very ill grace. he said, that he could not discover why his lordship assumed an authority over him, or pretended either to blame his past conduct or dictate his future. that he came to england a stranger; brought thither by his honourable passion for miss mowbray, which he had a right to pursue; but that mr. godolphin, who was his only relation then in england, had either from accident or design shewn him very little attention; while lady frances had, with the most winning _honeteté_, invited him to her house, and supplied the want of _that_ hospitality which his own family had not afforded him. and that infinitely obliged as he was to her, he should ill brook any reflection on a woman of honour who was his friend. 'but my lord,' added he, 'if your lordship will allow me to visit here as miss mowbray's favoured lover, i will not only drop the acquaintance of lady frances, but will put myself entirely under your lordship's direction.' lord westhaven, piqued and provoked, answered--'that he had no power whatever to direct miss mowbray; and if he had, should never advise her to receive him. be assured, monsieur le chevalier, that you have no chance of ever being acceptable to her, and you must think no more of her.' bellozane, equally impatient of advice and contradiction, burst from him; and went back to lady frances in a very ill humour. delamere, who had been dressing while his eldest sister remained, now joined lady westhaven and emmeline in the drawing room. thither also came lady adelina; who, during the five days they had been in town had not been well enough till this day to dine below. she was now languid and faint, and obliged to retire, as soon as the cloth was removed, to her own room. emmeline attended her; and when they were alone together, she complained of finding herself every day more indisposed. 'the air of london,' said she, 'is not good for my child: i cannot help fancying he droops already. and the noise of a house where there are unavoidably so many visitors, and such a multitude of servants, is too much for my spirits. as lord westhaven is desirous of my staying in london till my sister clancarryl arrives, that we may meet all together after being so many years divided, i will not press my return to east cliff; but i wish he would allow me to go to some village near london, where i may occasionally enjoy solitude and silence; for i have that upon my heart, emmeline, that demands both.' emmeline communicated her wish to godolphin the same evening; who undertook to settle it with lord westhaven as his sister desired; and the next day lady adelina and her little boy removed to highgate, where her brother had procured her a handsome lodging; and he, quitting those he usually occupied in town, went to reside with her. after having been there a few days, she sent to emmeline the following letter, which she desired might be delivered by her own hand. '_to the honourable george fitz-edward._ 'i have thus long forborne to answer your letter, because i have not 'till now been able to collect that strength of mind which is necessary, when i am to obey the inexorable duty that tears me from you for ever! 'that you yet _love_ me well enough to solicit my hand, is i own most soothing and consolatory: but where, fitz-edward, is the lethean cup, without which you cannot _esteem_ me?--without which, i cannot esteem myself? no! i am not worthy the honour of being your wife! it is fit my fault be punished--punished by the cruel obligation it lays me under of renouncing the man i love! 'fitz-edward, i will not dissemble! i cannot, if i would! my affection for you is become a part of my existence, and can end but in the grave. under the dread of your infidelity or your danger, my reason was too weak to support me: now that i have no longer any apprehensions of either, my reason is returned--it is returned to shew me all my wretchedness, and to afford me that light by which i must plunge a dagger into my own bosom. 'had i, however, no objections on my own account, there is one that on another appears insuperable. were the marriage you solicit to take place, and to be followed by a family, could i bear that my william, the delight and support of my life, should be as an alien in his father's house, and either appear as the son of godolphin or learn to blush for his mother! 'we must part, fitz-edward! indeed we must! or if we are obliged to meet, do you at least forget that we ever met before. 'i know that the daughter of lord westhaven, in youth, beauty, and innocence, would not have been, however portionless, unworthy of you. but what would you receive in the widow of trelawny? a mind unsettled by guilt and sorrow; spirits which have lost all relish for felicity; a blemished, if not a ruined reputation, a faded person, and an exhausted heart--exhausted of almost every sentiment but that so fatally predominant; which now forces me to blot my paper with tears, as i write this last farewel! 'farewel! most beloved fitz-edward!--ah! try if it be possible to be happy! be assured i wish it; even tho' it be necessary for that end to drive from your memory, for ever, the lost adelina trelawny.' emmeline, to whom this letter was sent open, could not but approve the sentiments it contained, while her heart bled for the pain it must have cost lady adelina, and for that which it must inflict on fitz-edward. when she had dispatched a note to his lodgings, to name an early hour the next day for speaking to him, she went down into the drawing room, where a large party of company were already assembled. emmeline, to avoid a particular conversation with lord delamere, which he incessantly solicited, placed herself near one of the card tables; when, at a late hour of the evening, dressed in the utmost exuberance of fashion, blazing in jewels and blooming in rouge, entered mrs. james crofts, followed by the two eldest of her daughters; one, drest in the character of charlotte in the sorrows of werter; and the other, as emma, the nut brown maid. their air and manner were adapted, as they believed, to the figures of those characters as they appear in the print shops; and their excessive affectation, together with the gaudy appearance of their mama, nearly conquered the gravity of emmeline and of many others of the company. while mrs. crofts paid her compliments to lady westhaven and emmeline, and gave herself all those airs which she believed put her upon an equality with the circle she was in, the two misses anxiously watched the impression which they concluded their charms must make on the gentlemen present. their mama had told them that most likely all of them were lords, or lords sons at least; and the girls were not without hopes, that among them there might be some of that species of men of quality, whom modern novelists describe as being in the habit of carrying forcibly away, beautiful young creatures, with whom perchance they become enamoured, and marrying them in despite of all opposition. they longed above all things to meet with such adventures, and to be carried off by a lord, or a baronet at least; whose letters afterwards, to some dear charles or harry, could not fail to edify the world. after mrs. crofts had displayed her dress, and convinced the company of her being quite in a good style of life; and when her daughters had committed hostilities for near an hour upon the hearts of the gentlemen, they sailed out in the same state as they entered; nor could all emmeline's good humour prevent her smiling at the satyrical remarks made on them by some of the company; nothing more strongly exciting the ridicule and contempt of people of real fashion than awkward and impotent efforts to imitate them. the next day, fitz-edward attended at the hour emmeline appointed, and received from her the letter of lady adelina, with a degree of anguish which gave great pain to emmeline and godolphin. still, however, he was not quite deprived of hope; but flattered himself that the persuasions of her sister, lady clancarryl (who was now every day expected, with her husband and family, to pass the rest of the winter in london) added to those of lord westhaven, and the good offices of emmeline, would together prevail on lady adelina to alter a resolution which rendered them both wretched. some weeks, however, passed, and she still adhered to it; while the melancholy conversation which emmeline frequently had with fitz-edward, and the importunity and unhappiness of delamere, deprived her of much of that tranquillity she might otherwise have enjoyed; particularly after the recovery of lady westhaven (who presented her lord with a son), and the arrival of mrs. stafford and her family from france. lord westhaven, who held a promise particularly sacred when made to the unfortunate, had procured for mr. stafford a lucrative employment in the west indies. thither he immediately went; and his wife, whose spirits and health were greatly hurt, was happy to accept the offer emmeline made her of going down with her children to mowbray castle. the marquis of montreville had presented his niece with the furniture he had sent thither, being in truth ashamed to charge it; there was therefore every thing necessary; and there emmeline intended mrs. stafford should reside 'till she should be established in some residence agreeable to her; which she intended to fix if possible near her own; and she now felt all the advantages of that fortune, which enabled her to repay the obligations she owed to her earliest friend. [footnote : oh! certainly, mr. crofts is always very sprightly. a most entertaining personage.] [footnote : if there is any thing in the world i utterly detest, 'tis such dismal society as that.] chapter xv the rank, and extensive connections of lady westhaven, led her unavoidably into a good deal of company; but it was among persons as respectable for their virtues as their station. emmeline, of course, often accompanied her: but almost all her mornings, and frequently her evenings, were dedicated to lady adelina; who hardly saw any body but her, lady westhaven, her brothers, and her sister; and never went out but for the air. godolphin passed with her much of his time: to the love and pity he had before felt for her, was added veneration and esteem, excited by the heroism of her conduct. at her lodgings, too, he could see emmeline without the restraint they were under in other places. there, he could talk to her of his love; and there, she consented to hear him. lady westhaven went constantly every morning to visit her mother, who had lately been rather better, and whose health her physicians entertained some hopes of re-establishing. her own unhappy temper seemed to be the chief impediment to her recovery; her violent passions, unsubdued by sickness and disappointment; and her immeasurable pride, which even the approach of death could not conquer, kept her nerves continually on the stretch; and allowed her no repose of mind, even when her bodily sufferings were suspended. that her favourite project of uniting the only surviving branches of her own family, by the marriage of lord delamere and miss otley, was now for ever at an end, was a perpetual source of murmuring and discontent. and tho' emmeline had as splendid a fortune, with a person and a mind infinitely more lovely, her ladyship could not yet prevail upon herself to desire, that the name for which she felt such proud veneration, and the fortune of her own illustrious ancestors, should be enjoyed, or carried down to posterity by her, who had become the object of her capricious but inveterate dislike. emmeline was very glad that the marchioness thro' prejudice, and her uncle thro' shame, forbore to persecute her in favour of their son: but tho' perfectly aware of the antipathy lady montreville entertained towards her, she yet shewed her all the attention she would receive; and would even constantly have waited on her, had she not expressed more pain than pleasure in her presence. lady frances crofts, by this time fixed in burlington street for the winter, called now and then on her mother; but her visits were short and cold. it unfortunately happened, that the marchioness, whose amusement was now almost solely confined to reading the daily prints, had found in one of them a paragraph evidently pointed at the intimacy subsisting between lady frances and the chevalier de bellozane, which had long been the topic of public scandal. lady frances called upon her while her mind was under the first impression of this disgraceful circumstance; and she spoke to her daughter of her improper attachment to that young foreigner with more than her usual severity. lady frances, far from hearing her remonstrance with calmness, retorted, with rudeness and asperity, what she termed unjust reproaches; and asserted her own right to associate with whom she pleased. the marchioness grew more enraged, and they parted in great wrath: in consequence of which, lady montreville, in the inconsiderate excess of her anger, sent for her husband and her son; and exclaiming with all her natural acrimony against the shameful conduct of lady frances, insisted upon their obliging crofts to separate his wife from her dangerous and improper acquaintance, and forcing her immediately into the country. lord montreville, who had already heard too much of his daughter's general light conduct, and her particular partiality to bellozane, now saw new evils gathering round him, from which he knew not how to escape. the fiery and impatient delamere, already irritated against bellozane for his pretensions to emmeline, broke forth in menace and invective; and nothing but his father's anguish, and even tears, prevented his flying directly to him to execute that vengeance which his mother had dictated. she herself, in the violence of her passion, had overlooked the consequence of putting this affair into the hands of the inconsiderate and headlong delamere; but when she saw him thus inflamed, terror for _him_, was added to resentment against her daughter; and altogether produced such an effect on her broken constitution, that in a few days afterwards her complaints returned with great violence, and all remedies proving ineffectual, she expired in less than a fortnight. lady westhaven and emmeline attended on her themselves for the last four or five days; but she was insensible; and knew neither of them. delamere, very fond of his mother, and whose feelings were painfully acute, suffered for many days the most violent paroxysms of grief; yet it was a considerable alleviation to reflect that he had not finally been the cause of her death. lord montreville bore it with more composure: and the softer, tho' deep sorrow of lady westhaven, found relief in the constant and tender attention of her lord, and the sympathy of emmeline. lady frances crofts, not insensible to remorse, but resolutely stifling it, affected to hear the news with proper concern, yet as what had been for many months expected. she sent constantly to enquire after her father; and the marquis hoping that while her mind was softened by such a mournful event his remonstrance might make a deeper impression, determined to go to her; therefore the day after the remains of the marchioness had been carried to the family vault of the delameres, he took his chair, and went to burlington street. on entering the house, the servants, who concluded he came to mr. crofts, were taking him into those apartments below which their master occupied: but his lordship told them he must speak to their lady. her own footman said her ladyship had given orders to be denied. 'to her father, puppy?'--said lord montreville. 'where is she?' 'in her dressing room, my lord.' he then passed alone up stairs--as he went, he heard the voice of laughter and gaiety, and was more shocked than surprised, when, on opening the door, he saw lady frances in a morning dishabille, and the chevalier de bellozane making her tea. at the entrance of her father thus unexpectedly, she changed colour; but soon assuming her usual assured manner, said she was glad to see his lordship well enough to come out. 'dismiss this young man,' said he sternly. 'i must speak to you alone.' '_va mon ami_,' cried lady frances, with the utmost ease, '_pour quelques moments_.' bellozane left the room; and then lord montreville, with paternal affection, tried to move her. but she had conquered her feelings; and answered with great calmness--'that conscious of her own innocence, she was quite indifferent to the opinion of the world. and that tho' she certainly wished to be upon good terms with her own family, yet if any part of it chose to think ill of her, they must do so entirely from prejudice, which it was little worth her while to attempt removing.' lord montreville, now provoked beyond all endurance, gave way to the indignation with which he was inflamed, and denounced his malediction against her, if she did not immediately dismiss bellozane and regulate her manner of life. she heard him with the most callous insensibility; and let him depart without making any attempt to appease his anger or calm his apprehensions. from her, he went down to crofts; to whom he forcibly represented the necessity there was for putting an immediate stop to the scandal which the conduct of his wife occasioned. pusillanimous and mean-spirited, crofts chose neither to risk his personal safety with the chevalier, nor the diminution of his fortune by attempting to procure a divorce, which would compel him to return what he loved much better than honour. he saw many others do extremely well, and mightily respected, whose wives were yet gayer than his own; and convinced that while he had money he should always obtain as much regard as he desired, he rather excused to lord montreville the conduct of lady frances than shewed any disposition to resent it. the marquis left him with contempt, and ordered his chair to lord westhaven's. as he went, he could not forbear reflecting on the contrast between his eldest and youngest daughter, and between his eldest daughter and his niece. he grew extremely anxious for lord delamere's marriage with emmeline: sure of finding, in her, an honour to his family, which might console him for his present misfortunes: and he deeply regretted that infatuation which had blinded him to her superior merit, and hazarded losing her for ever. disgusted already with the crofts, he remembered that it had been in a great measure owing to them, and he thought of them only with repentance and dislike. he saw lord westhaven alone; and relating to him all that had passed that morning, besought him to consider what could be done to divide bellozane from lady frances crofts. lord westhaven had seen and heard too much of the intimacy between them. he was extremely hurt that so near a relation of his own should occasion such uneasiness in the family of his wife; but as he had not invited him over, and always discouraged his stay, he had on that head nothing with which to reproach himself. and all he could now do, was, to promise that he would speak again to bellozane, and write to the baron de st. alpin, entreating him to press the return of his son to switzerland. his lordship entered warmly into the apprehensions of lord montreville; and undertook to use all his influence with delamere to prevent his running rashly into a quarrel with a young man as passionate and as violent as himself. lord montreville then spoke of emmeline; and expressed his wishes that the union between her and his son might speedily be accomplished: but on this subject lord westhaven gave him very little hopes. tho' emmeline had done her utmost to conceal even from lord and lady westhaven the true state of her heart, his lordship had, in their frequent conferences on her affairs, clearly perceived what were her sentiments. but since they were in favour of his brother, he could not think of attempting to alter them, however sorry for delamere; and could only determine to observe an absolute neutrality. he did not communicate to the marquis all he thought, but told him in general, that emmeline seemed at present averse to every proposal of marriage, and firm in the resolution she had made, to remain single 'till she had completed her twenty-first year. lord westhaven sent for bellozane; who had lately been less frequent in his visits at grosvenor-street, and who seemed to resent the coldness with which his cousins received him, and to have conceived great anger at the reserve and even aversion with which emmeline treated him. the servant whom his lordship dispatched with a note to bellozane, returned in about ten minutes, and said that the chevalier was gone to bath. lord westhaven now hoped that for some time the intercourse which had given such offence, and occasioned such misery, would be at an end: in the afternoon, however, crofts came in; and on lady westhaven's enquiry after her sister, he told her that she was going that afternoon to speenhamland in her way to bath. conduct, so glaringly improper and unfeeling, a defiance so bold to the opinions of the world and the common decencies of society, extremely hurt both her ladyship and her lord. the latter, however, found some satisfaction in reflecting that at least delamere and bellozane could not immediately meet. above a month now passed with as much tranquillity as the ardent supplications of delamere to emmeline would admit. lord and lady clancarryl, with their family, arrived in london to pass the rest of the winter; and lady adelina, insensibly won from her retirement by the pleasure of meeting at once her sister and her two brothers, seemed to be in better health, and sometimes in better spirits. as she was now frequently induced to join these charming family parties, she was obliged to see fitz-edward among them; and he entertained new hopes that she would at length conquer her scruples and accept his hand: she carefully, however, avoided all conversation with him but in mixed company; and emmeline being continually with her, they were equally prevented from hearing, with any degree of particularity, godolphin or fitz-edward. the marchioness of montreville had now been dead almost two months; and lady westhaven, who from respect to her memory had hitherto forborne to appear in public, was prevailed upon to go to a new play; for the author of which, a nobleman, one of her friends, being particularly interested, he prevailed on all the people of fashion and taste whom he knew to attend on the third night of it's representation. lady westhaven, lady clancarryl, and emmeline, were by his earnest entreaties induced to be among them: but as lord westhaven, lord clancarryl, godolphin, and fitz-edward, were absent, being gone all together to the seat of the former, in kent, for a few days, they foresaw but little pleasure in the party; and lady westhaven expressed even a reluctance for which she knew not how to account. the eagerness of lord----to serve his friend at length over-ruled her objections; his lordship himself and lord delamere were to attend them; and they were to be joined by some other ladies there. the stage box had been retained for them; and they proceeded to the playhouse, where they were hardly seated, before lady westhaven saw, with infinite mortification and alarm, her sister, lady frances crofts, enter the next box, handed by the chevalier de bellozane, and accompanied by a lady, of fashion indeed, but of very equivocal character, with whom she had lately contracted a great intimacy. all attention to the play was now at an end. incapable of receiving amusement, lady westhaven would instantly have returned home; and emmeline, who saw rage and fierceness in the countenance of lord delamere, was equally anxious to do so: but they knew not how to account for such a wish to their party without making their fears public; and while they deliberated how to act, the play went on. lady frances, as if quite unconscious of any impropriety in her conduct, spoke to them and to delamere. they forced themselves to answer her with civility; but her brother, turning from her, darted an angry look at bellozane, and went to the other side of the house. he from thence watched with indignation the familiar whispers which passed between her and the chevalier; and reflecting on the recent death of his mother, which had been hastened if not occasioned by this connection; remembering how greatly the sufferings of her last hours had been embittered by it, and recalling to his memory a thousand other causes of anger against bellozane, he heated his imagination with the review of these injuries, till he raised himself into an agony of passion, which it was soon impossible for him, had he been so disposed, to restrain. a very few minutes after the play ended, lady westhaven, impatient to get away before her sister, beckoned to delamere; and finding her servants ready, told her party she was too much tired to stay the entertainment, and rose with emmeline to go. lord----led her ladyship, and delamere took the hand of emmeline: the two former walked hastily thro' the lobby; but as the two latter followed, they were suddenly stopped by rochely, who, making one of his solemn bows, advanced close to emmeline, and with great composure congratulated her in his usual slow and monotonous manner, on her late acquisitions; assured her of his great respect and esteem; and added, that as he understood she would, when she came of age, be possessed of a large sum of money, he flattered himself she would allow him to manage it for her, as lord montreville at present did; declaring that nobody could be more attentive to the interest of his customers. the profound gravity with which, in such a place, he made such a request; the sordid meanness of spirit, which could induce a man already so very rich, to solicit custom with the avidity of a mechanic beginning business; and the uncouth and formal figure of the person himself; would have excited in emmeline ridicule as well as contempt, at any other time: but now, distrest at the delay this meeting occasioned, she hurried over some answer, she hardly knew what, and hastened towards the door. just, however, before they reached it, bellozane, with lady frances crofts hanging on his arm, overtook and passed them: the chevalier slightly touched his hat to emmeline; and lady frances, nodding familiarly, said--'good night! good night!' lady frances and bellozane went on; and emmeline, who saw fury in the eyes of delamere, now wished as much to linger behind as she had before done to hurry forward. but delamere quickening his pace, overtook them as they descended the steps, and rushed so closely and with so much intended rudeness by bellozane, that it was with the utmost difficulty he could avoid falling and dragging his fair associate with him. the fiery frenchman recovering his footing, turned fiercely to delamere, and asked, in french, what he meant? lord delamere, in the same language, replied, that he meant to tell him he was a scoundrel! instantly a mutual blow was exchanged: the shrieks of emmeline brought the sentinels; who, together with the croud which immediately gathered, forced them from each other. lord----who had taken care of lady westhaven to her coach, alarmed at emmeline's not joining them, and at the noise he heard, now came back to see what was the matter. he met her, more dead than alive, coming towards him, attended by a stranger; and she had just breath enough to implore him not to think of _her_, but to find lord delamere, and try to prevent the fatal consequence of what had just happened. leaving her to the care of the gentleman he had found her with, who almost supported her to the coach, his lordship went forward in quest of delamere, whom he met with two or three other gentlemen. bellozane, after stating to them the affront he had received, and giving lord delamere a card, had returned back into the lobby with lady frances and her friend; from whence it was supposed he had gone out with them across the stage, as lady frances appeared in great alarm. lord----now entreated delamere to go with him to the coach, where he told him his sister was in the utmost terror for his safety. but enquiring eagerly whether miss mowbray was safe with her, and hearing she was, he said he would be in grosvenor-street to supper, and desired they would go home. lord----then very warmly remonstrated on the cruelty of terrifying his sister, and insisted on his going with him to the coach: but they were by this time among the croud at the door, where people began to go out fast; and delamere, whose passions were now inflamed to a degree of madness, broke violently away from his lordship; and rushing into the street, instantly disappeared. every attempt which himself, his servants, or some gentlemen who were witnesses to the transaction, made to find him, being ineffectual, lord----now returned to the coach, where lady westhaven was fainting in the arms of emmeline; who, equally alarmed, and hardly able to support herself, was trying to assist and console her. lord----, instead of returning to his own family, now sent a footman to desire they would go home without him; and remaining in lady westhaven's carriage, directed it to be driven with the utmost speed to grosvenor street. as they went, he attempted to appease the agonizing fears of them both, by persuading them that they might find lord delamere at home before them; but they knew too well the ferocity with which he was capable of pursuing his vengeance when it was once awakened; and arrived at home in such disorder, that neither could speak.--the coach, however, no sooner stopped than somebody ran out. they had no power to ask who; but the voice was that of godolphin; who finding his brother likely to be detained two days longer, and existing only while he could see emmeline every hour, had returned alone to town, and now waited their arrival from the play. he was astonished at the situation he found them in, as he assisted them out of the carriage. he received, however, a brief account of the cause from lord----; while lady westhaven, a little recovered by the sight of godolphin and the hartshorn and water she had taken, found her voice. 'for god's sake! dear godolphin, lose not a moment, but go after my brother. we dread lest he went immediately in search of bellozane--oh! fly! and endeavour to prevent the horrid effects that may be expected from their meeting!' 'pray go!' said emmeline. 'pray go instantly!' godolphin needed not entreaty. he took his hat, and ran away directly, without knowing whither to go. he thought, however, that it was possible delamere might go to berkley square, and send from thence an appointment to bellozane. thither therefore he hastened; but heard that lord delamere had not been at home since he dressed to dine in grosvenor street, and that the marquis was gone to lord dornock's, where he was to stay some days; news, which encreased the alarm of godolphin, who had hoped that his influence might be used to prevent the rashness of his son. he ordered millefleur, and delamere's coachman, footmen, and grooms, to run different ways in search of their master, while he went himself to the lodgings of bellozane. bellozane, he learnt, came from bath only that morning, and had dressed at his lodgings, but had not been there since. he now flew to the house of lady frances crofts. mr. crofts was gone down to his father's; and lady frances, who had come from bath the same day, had dined with her friend, and was to be set down by her carriage after supper. eagerly asking the name of this friend, he was directed to charlotte street, oxford street; where on hastening he found lady frances, who was vainly attempting to conquer the terrors that possessed her. bellozane, he heard, had procured chairs for her and the lady with her, at the stage door, and had there wished them a good night, tho' they had both intreated of him to go home with them. they added, that they had refused to let him look for their carriage, which was driven off in the croud, lest he should meet with delamere; but were greatly afraid he had gone back to the avenues of the playhouse with that design. godolphin, however unpromising his search yet appeared, determined not to relinquish it. but while he continued running from place to place, lady westhaven and emmeline sat listening to every noise and terrifying themselves with conjectures the most dreadful. almost as soon as godolphin was gone, they had conjured lord----to go on the same search: but he returned not; and of godolphin they heard nothing. even the late hours when fashionable parties break up, now passed by. every coach that approached made them tremble between hope and fear; but it rolled away to a distance. another and another passed, and their dreadful suspence still continued. emmeline would have persuaded lady westhaven to go to bed; but nothing could induce her to think of it. she sometimes traversed the room with hurried steps; sometimes sat listening at the window; and sometimes ran out to the stair case, where all the servants except those who had been dispatched in pursuit of lord delamere were assembled. the streets were now quiet; the watch called a quarter past five; and convinced that if something fatal had not happened some body would have returned to them by this time, their terror grew insupportable. a quick rap was now heard at the door. emmeline flew to the stairs--'is it lord delamere?' 'no, madam,' replied a servant, 'it is captain godolphin.' afraid of asking, yet unable to bear another moment of suspence, she flew down part of the stairs. godolphin, with a countenance paler than death, caught her in his arms--'whither would you go?' cried he, trembling as he spoke. 'have you found--delamere?' 'i have.' 'alive and well?' 'alive--but--' 'oh! god!--but what?' 'wounded, i fear, to death. keep his sister from knowing it too suddenly.' that was almost impossible. lady westhaven had at first sat down in the drawing room in that breathless agony which precluded the power of enquiry; then losing her weakness in desperation, she ran down, determined to know the worst, and was already on the stairs. emmeline, white and faint, leaned on godolphin--'where is he, where is my brother?' cried lady westhaven. godolphin beckoned to the servants to assist him in getting her up stairs. after a moment, they were all in the drawing room. 'tell me,' cried she, with an accent and look of despair--'tell me for i will know! you have seen my brother; he is killed! i know he is killed!' 'he is alive,' answered godolphin, hardly bearing to wound her ears with such intelligence as he had to deliver--'at least he _was_ alive when i left him.' '_was_ alive! he is wounded then--and dying!' 'it were useless and cruel to deceive you. i greatly fear he is.' uttering a faint shriek, lady westhaven now sprung towards the door, and protested she would go to him wherever he was. emmeline clung about her, and besought her to be patient--to be pacified. 'perhaps,' cried she, 'his situation may not be so desperate. let us rather enquire what can be done for him, than indulge the extravagance of our own despair.' 'ah! tell me, then, where?--how?' lady westhaven could say no more. godolphin thought it best to satisfy her. 'i will not relate the first part of my search. it was fruitless. at length i saw a croud before the door of the bedford. i asked what was the matter? and heard that two gentlemen had fought a duel, by candlelight, with swords; that one was killed and the other had escaped. this was too much like what i expected to hear: i forced my way into the room. lord delamere was bleeding on the ground. two surgeons were with him. i cleared the room of all but them, and the necessary attendants. i saw him carefully conveyed to bed. i left them with him; and came to tell you. now i must hasten back to him. i will not flatter you; the surgeons gave me very little--indeed no hope of his life.' 'oh! my father! my father!' exclaimed lady westhaven, 'what will become of him when he hears this?' 'i would go to him,' said godolphin, 'but that i must return to poor delamere. what little he said was to request that i would stay with him.' 'go then,' said emmeline--'we must do without you. let him not miss the comfort of your presence.' 'yes,' answered he, 'i must indeed go.' emmeline, leaving lady westhaven a moment to her woman, followed him out, and he said to her--'try, i conjure you, my emmeline, to exert yourself for the sake of your poor friend. keep her as tranquil as you can; and may ye both acquire fortitude to bear what is, i fear, inevitable!' 'oh! my father!' loudly exclaimed lady westhaven, with a dreadful shriek--'who shall dare to announce these tidings to you?' 'send,' continued godolphin, 'an express to lord montreville. he is at lord dornock's; and dispatch another to my brother. pray take care of your own health. it is now impossible for me to stay--the poor languishing delamere expects me.' he then ran hastily away; and emmeline, struggling with all her power against her own anguish, was obliged to commit her friend to the care of her servants, while she sat down to write to lord montreville. her letter contained only two lines. 'my dear lord, 'your son is very ill. we are much alarmed; and lady westhaven begs you will immediately come hither. do not go to berkley-square. emmeline mowbray.' _grosvenor-street, april th._ this note, short as it was, she had the utmost difficulty to make legible. a servant was sent off with it, who was ordered to answer no questions; and in another short and incoherent note she told to lord westhaven the melancholy truth, and sent it by express into kent. having thus obeyed godolphin as well as she could; she returned to lady westhaven, who could not be prevailed upon to go to bed, but insisted on being allowed to see her brother. emmeline, dreadfully terrified by her obstinacy, now sent for the two physicians who usually attended the family. one of them had been taken by godolphin to delamere; but the other instantly attended the summons. every argument he could use failing entirely of effect, he was obliged to administer to her a remedy, which soon acting on her fatigued and exhausted spirits, threw her for a short time into insensibility. while poor emmeline, who expected soon the arrival of the unhappy father, and who waited with torturing anxiety for news from godolphin, could not even sit down; but wandered about the house, and walked from room to room, as if change of place could shorten or lessen her dreadful suspence. no news, however, came from godolphin. but a little before eight o'clock, the marquis's chaise stopped at the door. he got out; asked faulteringly of the servants for his son. their looks imported sad tidings; but they were ordered to profess ignorance, and it was the excruciating task allotted to emmeline to inform this wretched parent that his only son, the pride and support of his life, had fallen; and what made it still more horrid, by the hand of his daughter's paramour. lord montreville entered the drawing room; and the wild and pallid looks of his niece struck him with such horror, that he could only pronounce with trembling lips the name of delamere: and then throwing himself into a chair, seemed to expect she should tell him what he was unable to ask. she approached him; but words failed her. 'delamere!--my son!' cried he, in a voice hollow and tremulous. 'he is not dead, my lord.' 'not dead! wherefore is it then that you look thus? oh! what is it i am to know?' emmeline then briefly related his situation, as she had heard it from godolphin. she had only said, that tho' desperately wounded he yet lived, when lord montreville, gazing on her with eyes that bespoke the agony of his soul, and seizing her violently by the hand, said--'come, then, with me! come to him with me, now, this instant!' he then burst out of the room, still taking her with him. she knew not why he wished her to follow; but went, unequal to resistance or enquiry. his chariot was at the door. they both got in, and just as it was driving away, millefleur ran up to it. 'your master?--your master?--' said lord montreville. 'ah! my lord, he is--yet living!' '_yet_ living!' 'and captain godolphin sent me to see if you was come, in hopes that you might see him.' 'go on!' cried lord montreville, with a degree of fierceness that made emmeline shudder. the horses flew. he continued in dreadful and gloomy silence, interrupted only by deep groans. emmeline had no comfort to offer, and dared not speak to him. at length they arrived at the place. the servants assisted their lord to leave the chariot. just as he got out of it, dr. gardner came out; but too much shocked to be able to speak, he waved his hand to say that all was over; and almost instantly, godolphin, with a countenance most expressive of what he felt, came out to him also. 'my dear lord, your going up will be of no use; spare yourself so great a shock, and suffer me to attend you home.' 'he is dead then?' deep and mournful silence told him it was so. 'i will see him, however,' said he, pushing by those who would have detained him. 'no, no,' cried emmeline. 'pray, my lord! pray, my dear uncle!' 'uncle!' exclaimed he. 'have i deserved to be your uncle? but i am punished--dreadfully, dreadfully punished!' a croud was now gathering; and godolphin was compelled to let him proceed; while he himself approached emmeline, who was left half dead in the chariot. 'ah! attend not to me!' said she. 'go, i beg of you, with my poor uncle!' dreadful was the scene when the miserable father beheld the body of his son. in that bitter anguish which is incapable of tears, he reproached himself for the obstinacy with which, even against his own judgment, he had opposed his marriage with emmeline.--'instead of seeing thus my hopes blasted for ever, i might have grown old among his children and the children of my brother's daughter! but i drove her to france; and in consequence of that, the scourge, the dreadful scourge has fallen upon me! i and my house are low in the dust! weak and wretched infatuation! dreadful sacrifice to vain and empty ambition; oh! my poor murdered boy!' then, after a moment's pause, he turned suddenly to godolphin, whose manly countenance was covered with tears. 'tell me, sir! did he not wish to see his misjudging father? did he leave me nothing--not even his forgiveness?' 'lord delamere,' said godolphin, 'was wounded in the lungs, and every effort to speak threatened his immediate dissolution. he expressed a wish to see you and miss mowbray; but said very little else.' 'i brought her, because i knew he must wish to see her. but he will see her no more!' a deep and hollow groan now burst from him: his sorrow began to choak him; and exclamation was at an end; yet struggling a moment with it, he said quickly to godolphin--'do you think he suffered great pain?' 'i believe very little, my lord.' 'and he had every assistance?' 'he had instantly every assistance that skill could offer. two surgeons of eminence were at supper with company in the house; and they were with him before i was, which was not ten minutes after the accident. i never left him afterwards, but to run to lady westhaven.' 'excellent young man! you will still, i know, remain with him, and do what _i_ cannot do.' he then paused a moment, and his anguish seemed to gather strength--while with a look of deep and gloomy despair he approached the bed; slowly and sternly invoked the vengeance of heaven on his eldest daughter; and then continued with glazed and motionless eyes to gaze on the body. from this dreadful torpor it was necessary to rouse him, and to remove him from the room. the united efforts of godolphin and the surgeons, with difficulty effected it. he was however at length placed in the chariot; and with emmeline, who was more dead than alive, was conveyed to grosvenor-street. godolphin, dreading the scene he was to encounter when they got thither, followed them on foot; and assisted lord montreville to his chamber, where he entreated the servants not to allow him to see lady westhaven, till they were both better able to bear the interview. he then returned to emmeline; who, quite overcome by excessive terror and fatigue, had hardly strength to speak to him; and unable to support herself longer, retired to bed, where a violent fever seized her; and for near a week she was so alarmingly ill, that godolphin, in the wildest distraction, believed he saw her snatched from him by the inexorable hands of death. lady adelina came to her the evening after delamere's decease, and never left her bed side while there was the least appearance of danger; godolphin continued whole days in the little dressing room that adjoined to it; and fitz-edward, who insisted on attending him during these hours of torturing suspence, was unavoidably frequently in the presence of lady adelina, whose every sentiment was for the time absorbed in her fear for a life so dear to them all. at length emmeline, tho' yet too ill to leave her room, was no longer in danger; and lord westhaven, who returned instantly to town on hearing the mournful news helped to appease the violent grief of his wife. but on the more settled and silent anguish of her wretched father, his good offices made not the least impression. he seemed to abhor all thoughts of consolation: and when the remains of poor delamere were carried to be deposited with those of his mother, he shut himself up in total darkness, and refused to admit even lady westhaven to participate his sorrows. when she was allowed to pay her duty to him, he conjured her to keep from him the sight of any of the crofts', and that she would prevent even their name being repeated in his presence. with their visits there was no danger of his lordship's being offended; for as he had, in consequence of this family calamity, resigned all the places he held, sir richard and his two sons were already eagerly paying their court to his successor; and had entered into new views, and formed new political connections, with an avidity which made them equally forgetful of their patron's personal afflictions and of that favour to which they owed their sudden and unmerited elevation. amidst all the misery which the guilty and scandalous conduct of his wife had brought upon the family of his benefactor, the point on which mr. crofts felt the most solicitude, was to know what portion of the delamere estate was irrevocably settled in equal divisions on the daughters, if the marquis of montreville died without a son. the physicians now advised lord westhaven to carry the marquis into the country as soon as possible; where he might enjoy the solitude he so much desired, without being excluded from the air, as he was in town, by being confined entirely to his bed chamber and dressing room. the sight of any of his own seats; places which he had so lavishly embellished for the residence of him who was now no more, he could not yet endure; and lord westhaven with some difficulty prevailed upon him to remove to _his_ house in kent. thither, therefore, the marquis and lord westhaven's family removed, at the end of a fortnight; but emmeline, tho' pretty well recovered, desired lady westhaven not to insist on her being of the party; being convinced, that tho' he tried to see her with fortitude, and to behave to her with tenderness, the sight of her was painful to her uncle, and perpetually brought to his mind his own fatal misconduct in regard to his son. lady westhaven yielded reluctantly to her reasons, and departed without her: but as her health made her immediate departure from london necessary, she went with lady adelina to highgate; who now remained there only for the purpose of taking leave of lord and lady clancarryl, as they were within a fortnight to return to ireland. in this interval, they heard that lady frances crofts, infatuated still with her passion for bellozane, had followed him to paris, whither he had fled after his fatal encounter with her brother. bellozane, stung with guilt, and pursued by remorse, hurried from her with detestation; and concealing himself in switzerland, saw her no more. for some time she continued to live in france in a style the most disgraceful to her family and herself. nobody dared name her to her unhappy father. but lord westhaven at length interposed with crofts, who, influenced by his authority, and still more by his own desire to lessen her expences, went over, and found no great difficulty in procuring a _lettre de cachet_, which confined her during pleasure to a convent. chapter xvi to fix some plan for her future life, emmeline now thought absolutely and immediately necessary. to go to mowbray castle seemed the properest measure she could adopt; and on that she appeared to determine. but tho' she still meant to adhere to her resolution of remaining single until she became of age, the tender importunity of her lover, the pressing entreaties of her friends, and her own wishes to make them happy, were every hour more powerfully undermining it. her mind, softened by grief for the death of poor delamere, and more fondly attached than ever to the generous godolphin; whose noble qualities that unhappy event had served to call forth anew, was rendered less capable than ever of resisting his prayers; and delamere, on whose account her determination had been originally made, could now no longer suffer by her breaking it. still, however, she insisted upon it, that a term little short of what she had named should elapse before her marriage should take place; as a compliment to the memory of her unfortunate lover, and to the deep sorrow of her uncle and lady westhaven. here, then, she rested her last defence. and when their encreasing solicitations obliged her to consent to shorten the term to three months, godolphin undertook to make it the particular request of lord montreville and his daughter, that their marriage should take place within three weeks. animated by the hopes of hastening the period, he went himself into kent; where he pleaded so successfully to lady westhaven, that she not only wrote pressingly to emmeline, but prevailed on the marquis to give him a letter also; in which, after deploring, in terms expressive of anguish and regret, that unfortunate infatuation which had eventually robbed him of his son, he told her that he had very little more now to wish, dead as he was to the world, than to see her happily married. that the tender attention of the generous godolphin to that beloved son, in the last hours of his life, had endeared him to him above all other men; that his character, connections and conduct were unexceptionable; and therefore, his lordship added, that tho' he did not know that he could himself bear to see it, he wished she would not hesitate to complete his happiness; observing, that if she thought it too early after the loss of so near a relation, she might have the ceremony performed with such privacy, that only the respective families need know of its celebration. emmeline, having now no longer a subterfuge, was obliged to let godolphin take his own way. he exerted himself so anxiously to get the deeds completed, that before the end of three weeks they were finished. lord and lady clancarryl prolonged their stay on purpose; and they, together with lady adelina and fitz-edward, were present at the ceremony. when it was over, lord and lady clancarryl took an affectionate leave of the bride and bridegroom, and set out for ireland, accompanied by fitz-edward; who, with the most painful reluctance tearing himself from lady adelina by her express desire, was yet allowed to carry with him the hope, that at the end of her mourning she would relent, and accede to the entreaties of all her family. godolphin, his emmeline, his sister and her little boy, took immediately afterwards the road to east cliff. they continued there the months of may and june; where, about six weeks after their marriage, they were visited by lord and lady westhaven; the latter having never left her father 'till then, and being impatient to return to him, tho' she assured mrs. godolphin that he was much calmer and more composed than they had at first expected. in the filial attention of his youngest daughter he found all the consolation his misfortunes would admit of on this side the grave; and emmeline, who had deeply lamented the lingering and hopeless anguish to which her uncle was condemned, heard with satisfaction that resignation was, however slowly, blunting the anguish he had endured; and that having relinquished for ever all those ambitious pursuits to which he had sacrificed solid happiness, he thought only of rewarding the piety and tenderness of his youngest daughter; and heard of the happiness of his niece with pleasure. when lord and lady westhaven left east cliff, mr. and mrs. godolphin and lady adelina went to mowbray castle; where mrs. stafford received them with transport, and where they were surrounded by numberless tenants and dependants, who blessed the hour of it's restoration to it's benevolent and lovely mistress, as well as that which had given her to a man, who had a heart as nobly enlarged, and a spirit generously liberal, as her own. the comfortable establishment of mrs. stafford at woodfield, was a point which emmeline had much at heart; and godolphin, who knew it was now almost her first wish, took his measures with so much success, that it was soon accomplished. mrs. stafford, however, at their united request, consented to stay with them while they remained at mowbray castle; and emmeline had the delightful assurances of having made her happy, as well as of having greatly contributed to the restored tranquillity of lady adelina. mowbray castle, ever so peculiarly dear to mrs. godolphin, and where she was now blessed with her beloved husband and her charming friends, brought however to her mind the mournful remembrance of poor delamere; and the tears of rapture with which the greatness of her own happiness sometimes filled her eyes, were mingled with those of sorrow for his untimely death. she considered him as the victim of his mother's fatal fondness and his father's ambition: yet that his early death was not immediately owing to his violent passion for her, was a great consolation; and with only the one source of regret which his premature fate occasioned, and which being without remedy yielded inevitably to time; she saw an infinite deal for which to be grateful, and failed not to offer her humble acknowledgments to that providence, who, from dependance and indigence, had raised her to the highest affluence; given her, in the tenderest of husbands, the best, the most generous and most amiable of men; and had bestowed on her the means and the inclination to deserve, by virtue and beneficence, that heaven, where only she can enjoy more perfect and lasting felicity. finis the third miss symons f. m. mayor _with a preface by john masefield_ first published in great britain copyright f. m. mayor preface miss mayor's story is of a delicate quality, not common here, though occurring at intervals, and always sure of a choice, if not very large, audience among those who like in art the refined movement and the gentle line. her subject, like her method, is one not commonly chosen by women writers; it is simply the life of an unmarried idle woman of the last generation, a life (to some eyes) of wasted leisure and deep futility, but common enough, and getting from its permitted commonness a justification from life, who is wasteful but roughly just. miss mayor tells this story with singular skill, more by contrast than by drama, bringing her chief character into relief against her world, as it passes in swift procession. her tale is in a form becoming common among our best writers; it is compressed into a space about a third as long as the ordinary novel, yet form and manner are so closely suited that all is told and nothing seems slightly done, or worked with too rapid a hand. much that is tiresome in the modern novel, the pages of analysis and of comment, the long descriptions and the nervous pathology, are omitted by miss mayor's method, which is all for the swift movement and against the temptations to delay which obstruct those whose eyes are not upon life; she condenses her opportunities for psychology and platitude into a couple of shrewd lines and goes on with her story, keeping her freshness and the reader's interest unabated. the method is to draw the central figure rapidly past a succession of bright lights, keeping the lights various and of many colours and allowing none of them to shine too long. this comparatively passive creative method suits the subject; for her heroine has the fate to be born in a land where myriads of women of her station go passively like poultry along all the tramways of their parishes; life is something that happens to them, it is their duty to keep to the tracks, and having enough to eat and enough to put on therewith to be content, or if not content, sour, but in any case to seek no further over the parochial bounds. her heroine, born into such a tradition, continues in it, partly by the pressure of custom and family habit, both always very powerful and often deadly in this country, and partly from a want of illumination in herself, her instructors, and in the life about her. the latter want is the fatal defect in her: it is the national defect, "the everlasting prison remediless" into which so many thousands of our idle are yearly thrown; it is from this that she really suffers; it is to this that she succumbs, while the ivy of her disposition grows over and smothers whatever light may be in her. like water in flood-time revolving muddily over the choked outlet, her life revolves over the evil in it without resolution or escape; her brain, like so many of the brains in civilization, is but slightly drawn upon or exercised; she is not so much wasted as not used. having by fortune and tradition nothing to do, she remains passive till events and time make her incapable of doing, while the world glitters past in its various activity, throwing her incapacity into ever stronger relief, till her time is over and the general muddle is given a kind of sacredness, even of beauty, by ceasing. she has done nothing but live and been nothing but alive, both to such passive purpose that the ceasing is pitiful; and it is by pushing on to this end, instead of shirking it, and by marking the last tragical fact which puts a dignity upon even the meanest being, that miss mayor raises her story above the plane of social criticism, and keeps it sincere. a lesser writer would have been content with less, and having imagined her central figure would have continued to stick pins into it, till the result would have been no living figure, but a record of personal judgments, perhaps even, as sometimes happens, of personal pettiness, a witch's waxen figure plentifully pricked before the consuming flame. miss mayor keeps on the side of justice, with the real creators, to whom there is nothing simple and no one unmixed, and in this way gets beauty, and through beauty the only reality worth having. in a land like england, where there is great wealth, little education and little general thought, people like miss mayor's heroine are common; we have all met not one or two but dozens of her; we know her emptiness, her tenacity, her futility, savagery and want of light; all circles contain some examples of her, all people some of her shortcomings; and judgment of her, even the isolation of her in portraiture, is dangerous, since the world does not consist of her and life needs her. in life as in art those who condemn are those who do not understand; and it is always a sign of a writer's power, that he or she keeps from direct praise or blame of imagined character. miss mayor arrives at an understanding of her heroine's character by looking at her through a multitude of different eyes, not as though she were her creator, but as if she were her world, looking on and happening, infinitely active and various, coming into infinite contrast, not without tragedy, but also never without fun. the world is, of course, the comparatively passive feminine world, but few modern books (if any) have treated of that world so happily, with such complete acceptance, unbiassed and unprejudiced, yet with such selective tact and variety of gaiety. she comes to the complete understanding of henrietta by illuminating all the facets in her character and all the threads of her destiny, and this is an unusual achievement, made all the more remarkable by a brightness and quickness of mind which give delightful life to a multitude of incidents which are in themselves new to fiction. her touch upon all her world is both swift and unerring; but the great charm of her work is its brightness and unexpectedness; it lights up so many little unsuspected corners in a world that is too plentifully curtained. john masefield, the third miss symons chapter i henrietta was the third daughter and fifth child of mr. and mrs. symons, so that enthusiasm for babies had declined in both parents by the time she arrived. still, in her first few months she was bound to be important and take up a great deal of time. when she was two, another boy was born, and she lost the honourable position of youngest. at five her life attained its zenith. she became a very pretty, charming little girl, as her two elder sisters had done before her. it was not merely that she was pretty, but she suddenly assumed an air of graciousness and dignity which captivated everyone. some very little girls do acquire this air: what its source is no one knows. in this case certainly not mr. and mrs. symons, who were particularly clumsy. etta, as she was called, was often summoned from the nursery when visitors came; so were minna and louie her elder sisters, but all the ladies wanted to talk to etta. minna and louie had by this time, at nine and eleven, advanced to the ugly, uninteresting stage, and they owed henrietta a grudge because she had annexed the petting that used to fall to them. they had their revenge in whispering interminable secrets to one another, of which etta could hear stray sentences. "ellen says she knows arthur was very naughty, because ... but we won't tell etta." she was very susceptible to notice, and the petting was not good for her. when she was eight her zenith was past, and her plain stage began. her charm departed never to return, and she slipped back into insignificance. at eight she could no longer be considered a baby to play with, and a good deal of fault-finding was deemed necessary to counteract the previous spoiling. in henrietta's youth, sixty years ago, fault-finding was administered unsparingly. she did not understand why she was more scolded than the others, and decided that it was because ellen and miss weston and her mother had a spite against her. mrs. symons was not fond of children, and throughout henrietta's childhood she was delicate, so that henrietta saw very little of her. her chief recollections of her mother were of scoldings in the drawing-room when she had done anything specially naughty. if she had been one of two or one of three in a present-day family she would have been more precious. but as one of four daughters--another girl was born when she was eight--she was not much wanted. mr. symons was a solicitor in a country town, and the problem of providing for his seven, darkened the years of childhood for the whole symons family. the children felt that their parents found them something of a burden, and in those days there was no cult of childhood to soften the hard reality. the two older boys had a partnership together, into which they occasionally admitted minna and louie. minna and louie had, beside their secrets, a friend named rosa. harold, the youngest boy, did not want any person--only toy engines. he and etta should have been companions, but he said she cried and told tales, though she told no more tales than he did. a large family should be such a specially happy community, but it sometimes occurs that there is a girl or boy who is nothing but a middle one, fitting in nowhere. so it was with henrietta, till the youngest child was born. unfortunately she had an almost morbid longing, unusual in a child, to be loved and of importance. now she would have given anything to have heard minna and louie's secrets, not for the sake of the secrets, but as a sign that she was thought worthy of confidence. she ran everyone's errands continually, but she broke the head off arthur's carnation as she was bringing it from his bedroom to the garden, and she let out william's secret, which he had told her in an unusual fit of affability, in order that she might curry favour with minna. this infuriated william, and did not conciliate minna. she grew fast and was a little delicate. it made her irritable, but her brothers and sisters, who were all growing with great regularity, could not be expected to understand delicacy. she always said she was sorry after she had been cross, but they, who did not have tempers, could not see that that made things any better. in her loneliness she made for herself, like many other forlorn children, a phantom friend. it was a little girl two years older than she was, for henrietta preferred to look up, and be herself in an inferior position. for this reason she did not much care for dolls, where she was decidedly the superior. she called her friend amy. amy slept with her, helped her with her lessons, told her secrets perpetually, and grumbled about the other children. one day they all had a game at hide and seek. the lot fell on her and william, now fourteen, to hide. they ensconced themselves in a dark spot in a little grove at the end of the garden. the others could not find them, and there was plenty of time for talk. william was a kind boy and rather a chatterbox, ready to expand to any listener, even a sister of nine. henrietta never knew how it was that she told him about amy. it had always been her firm resolve that this was to be her own dead secret, never revealed. but the unusual warmth of the interview went to her head. it was in a kind of intoxication of happiness that she poured out her confidence. the shrubbery was so dark that william's face could not be seen, but he began fidgeting, and soon broke in: "i say, what hours the others are, it must be tea-time. let's go and find them." it was kind of william to snub her confidence so gently, but the disappointment was cruel. she had been lifted up to such a height of happiness. when ellen brushed her hair at night she noticed her dismal looks, and being really concerned at henrietta's want of control, she said bracingly that little girls must never be whiney-piney. when the lamp was put out, henrietta sobbed herself to sleep, and she looked back on that evening as the most miserable of her childhood. it was not long after this that the last child was born, the baby girl. they had all been sent away, and henrietta, who had gone by herself to an aunt, came back later than the others; they had seen the new arrival, and had got over their very moderate excitement. ellen asked henrietta if she would like to have a peep at her little sister. when henrietta saw it, she determined that it should be her own baby. "oh, you little darling, you darling, darling baby!" she murmured over and over again. "now you are happy, aren't you, miss etta?" said ellen; she had always felt sorry for henrietta out in the cold. the baby very much improved etta's circumstances. ellen allowed her to help, and she had something to care for, so she had less occasion for interviews with her phantom friend. as she grew older the baby evelyn requited her affection with a gratifying preference, but she was very sweet-natured and would like everybody, and not make a party against minna and louie as henrietta desired. she came to the pretty age, and was prettier and more charming than any of them. when the pretty age ought to have passed she remained as attractive as ever, and continued to enjoy a universal popularity. this was disappointing to henrietta; she would have preferred them to be pariahs together. still, it was always etta that evelyn liked best. when evelyn was four and henrietta thirteen, evelyn was given a canary. it never became interesting, for it would not eat off her finger, but she cared for it as much as a child of four can be considered to care for anything. the canary died and was buried when evelyn had a cold and was in bed, and henrietta went by herself into the town, contrary to rules, and spent all her savings at a little, low bird-shop getting a mangey canary. she brought it back and put it into the cage, and when evelyn, convalescent, came into the nursery, she attempted to palm off the new canary as evelyn's original bird. this strange behaviour brought her to great disgrace. her only explanation was, "i didn't want evelyn to know that dickie was dead. i think death is so dreadful, and i don't want her to know anything dreadful." mrs. symons and the governess thought this most inexplicable. "etta is a very difficult child," said mrs. symons; "she always has been so unlike the others, and now this dreadful untruth. i always feel an untruth is very different from anything else. going into that horrid, dirty little shop! you must watch her most carefully, miss weston, and let me know if there is any further deceit." "i never had noticed anything before, mrs. symons, but i will be particularly careful." and miss weston took the most elaborate precautions that there should be no cheating at lessons, which henrietta resented keenly, having, like the majority of girls, an extreme horror of cheating. chapter ii soon after the incident of the canary, the three older girls went to school. when her first home-sickness was passed, henrietta enjoyed the life. it was strict, but home had been strict, and there was much more variety here. she was clever, and took eager delight in her lessons; dull, stupid miss weston had found her beyond her. she would have liked school even more if her temper had been under better control. but at thirteen she had settled down to bad temper as a habit. she did not exactly put her feelings into thoughts, but there was an impression in her mind that as she had been out of it so much of her life she should be allowed to be bad-tempered as a consolation. this brought her into constant conflicts, which made no one so unhappy as herself. she had two great interests at school, miranda hardcastle and miss arundel. miranda was the kind of girl whom everybody is always going to adore, very pretty, very amusing, and with much cordiality of manner. henrietta fell a victim at once, and miranda, who drank in all adoration, gave henrietta some good-natured friendship in return. henrietta fagged for her, did as many of her lessons as she could, applauded all her remarks, amply rewarded by miranda's welcoming smile and her, "i've been simply pining for you, my child; come and hear me my french at once, like a seraphim." this happy state of things continued until unfortunately henrietta's temper, over which she had kept an anxious guard in miranda's presence, showed signs of activity. the first time this occurred miranda opened her large eyes very wide and said, "what's come over my young friend, has it got the hydrophobia? i shall try and cure it by kindness and give it some chocolate." henrietta's clouds dispersed, but she was not always so easily restored to good-humour; and miranda, with the whole school at her feet, was not going to stand bad temper, the fault on the whole least easily forgiven by girls. henrietta had a heartrending scene with her: at fifteen she liked heartrending scenes. miranda was too fond of popularity to give henrietta up entirely, so the two remained friendly, but they were no longer intimate. miss arundel was the head-mistress's sister, and undertook all the serious teaching that was not in the hands of masters. she did not have many outward attractions of face and form, but schoolgirls will know that that is not of much importance. she was adored, possibly because she had a bad temper (bad temper is an asset in a teacher), which was liable to burst forth unexpectedly; then she was clever and enthusiastic, and gave good lessons. she marked out henrietta, and it came round that she had said, "etta symons is an interesting girl, she has possibilities. i wonder how she will turn out." it came round also that miss arundel had said, "i only wish she had more control and tenacity of purpose," but this sentence henrietta put out of her head. the first sentence she thought of for hours on end, and set to work to be more interesting than ever; in fact for some days she was so affected and exasperating that miss arundel could hardly contain herself. still, even miss arundel's sarcasm was endurable, anything was endurable, after that gratifying remark. when miranda ceased to be her special friend, she transferred her whole heart and soul to miss arundel. she waylaid her with flowers, hung about in the passage on the chance of seeing her walk by, and waited on her as much as she dared. some teachers apparently enjoy girl adorations, and even take pains to secure them. miss arundel had had enough of them to find them disagreeable. she therefore gave out in the presence of two or three of henrietta's circle that she thought it was a pity etta symons wasted so much of her pocket-money on buttonholes which gave very little pleasure to anyone, certainly not to her, who particularly disliked strong scents; she thought the money could be much better expended. jessie winsley repeated this speech to henrietta, little thinking what anguish it would cause. henrietta had very little pride, very little proper pride some people might have said; she did not at all mind giving a great deal more than she got. but this speech, which was not, after all, so very malignant, drove her to despair. she went to miranda, who hugged her, and said: "old cat! barbaric old cat! never think of her again, she isn't worth it. try dear little stanley, he's a pet; men are much nicer." stanley was the drawing-master. but after all one must have a little encouragement to start an adoration, and as henrietta never could draw, she got none from stanley. besides she was constant, so instead, she brooded over miss arundel. she had not been so unhappy, when she had her miranda and her arundel. now she had lost them both. miss arundel, with her cool, unaffectionate interest, had, of course, never been "had" at all, but henrietta had imagined that when miss arundel said "yes, quite right, that's a good answer," it was a kind of beginning of friendship. she, henrietta, small and insignificant, was singled out for miss arundel's friendship; that was what she thought. she did not realize that it was possible to care merely for intellectual development. when she was prepared for confirmation, there were serious talks about her character. the vicar, whose classes she attended, was mostly concerned with doctrines, and mrs. marston with what one might call a list of ideal vices and temptations which pupils must guard themselves against. miss arundel talked to her about her untidy exercise books, her unpunctuality, her loud voice in the corridor, and her round shoulders, and explained very properly that inattention in these comparatively small matters showed a general want of self-control. she did not speak about bad temper, for henrietta was much too frightened of her to show any signs of temper in her proximity. miss arundel did not give her an opportunity of unburdening herself of the problem that weighed on her mind, not that she would have taken the opportunity if it had occurred, not after that speech about the buttonholes. this was the problem: why was it that people did not love her?--she to whom love was so much that if she did not have it, nothing else in the world was worth having. there had been evelyn, it is true, but now evelyn did lessons with a little friend of her own age, and she and the friend were all in all, and did not want henrietta in the holidays. henrietta reflected that she was not uglier, or stupider, or duller than anyone else. there was a large set at school who were ugly, stupid, and dull, and they were devoted to one another, though they none of them cared about her. why had god sent her into the world, if she was not wanted? she found the problem insoluble, but a certain amount of light was thrown on it by one of the girls. she had been snarling with two or three of her classmates over the afternoon preparation, and had flounced off in a rage by herself. she felt a touch on her arm, and turning round saw emily mence, a rather uncouth, clever girl, whom she hardly knew. "i just came to say, why _are_ you such an idiot?" "me?" "yes, why do you lose your temper like that? all the girls are laughing at you; they always do when you get cross." "then i think it's horrid of them." "well, you can't be surprised; of course people won't stand you, if you're so cross." "won't they?" said henrietta. "and the one thing i want in the world is to be liked." "do you really? fancy wanting these girls to like you; they're such silly little things." "i shouldn't mind that if only they liked me." "_i_ like you," said emily. "do you remember you said charles i. deserved to have his head cut off because he was so stupid, and all the others gushed over him?" "did i?" "i don't like the other girls to laugh at you; that's why i thought i would tell you." they walked up and down the path and talked about charles i. here there seemed the beginning of a friendship, but it was nipped in the bud, for emily left unexpectedly at the end of the term. henrietta received no further overtures from any of the girls. emily's words had made an impression however, and for six weeks henrietta took a great deal of pains with her temper. for this concession on her part she expected providence to give her an immediate and abundant measure of popularity. it did not. the symons family had not the friend-making quality--a capricious quality, which withholds itself from those who have the greatest desire, and even apparently the best right, to possess it. the girls were kind, kinder, on the whole, than the grown-up world, and they were perfectly willing to give her their left arms round the garden, but their right would be occupied by their real friends, to whom they would be telling their experiences, and henrietta would only come in for a, "wasn't it sickening, etta?" now and then. she was disappointed, and she relaxed her efforts. she had missed the excitement of saying disagreeable things. the day had become chilly without them. by the middle of the term she was as disagreeable as ever. she very rarely received good advice in her life, and now that she had got it, she made no use of it. if she had, it might have changed the whole of her future. but from henceforth, on birthdays, new year's eves, and other anniversaries, when she took stock of herself and her character, she ignored her temper, and would not count it as a factor that could be modified. there were others as lonely as herself at school, there are always many lonely in a community; but she did not realize this, and felt herself exceptional. she imagined that she was overwhelmed with misery at this time, but really the life was so busy, and she was so fond of the lessons, and did them so well, that she was not to be pitied as much as she thought. it was clear she was to be lonely at school and lonely at home. where was she to find relief? there was a supply of innocuous story-books for the perusal of mrs. marston's pupils on saturday half-holidays, innocuous, that is to say, but for the fact that they gave a completely erroneous view of life, and from them henrietta discovered that heroines after the sixteenth birthday are likely to be pestered with adorers. the heroines, it is true, were exquisitely beautiful, which henrietta knew she was not, but from a study of "jane eyre" and "villette" in the holidays, charlotte brontë was forbidden at school owing to her excess of passion, henrietta realized that the plain may be adored too, so she had a modest hope that when the magic season of young ladyhood arrived, a prince charming would come and fall in love with her. this hope filled more and more of her thoughts, and all her last term, when other girls were crying at the thought of leaving, she was counting the days to her departure. chapter iii henrietta was eighteen when she left school. minna and louie had gone two or three years before, and by the time henrietta came home, minna was engaged to be married. there was nothing particular about minna. she was capable, and clear-headed, and rather good-looking, and could dress well on a little money. she was not much of a talker, but what she said was to the point. on these qualifications she married a barrister with most satisfactory prospects. they were both extremely fond of one another in a quiet way, and fond they remained. she was disposed of satisfactorily. louie was prettier and more lively. she was having a gay career of flirtations, when henrietta joined her. she did not at all want a younger sister, particularly a sister with a pretty complexion. three years of parties had begun to tell on her own, which was of special delicacy. she and henrietta had never grown to like one another, and now there went on a sort of silent war, an unnecessary war on louie's side, for she had a much greater gift with partners than henrietta, and her captives were not annexed. but for her complexion there was nothing very taking in henrietta. whoever travels in the tube must have seen many women with dark-brown hair, brown eyes, and too-strongly-marked eyebrows; their features are neither good nor bad; their whole aspect is uninteresting. they have no winning dimples, no speaking lines about the mouth. all that one can notice is a disappointed, somewhat peevish look in the eyes. such was henrietta. the fact that she had not been much wanted or appreciated hitherto began to show now she was eighteen. she was either shy and silent, or talked with too much positiveness for fear she should not be listened to; so that though she was not a failure at dances and managed to find plenty of partners, there were none of the interesting episodes that were continually occurring on louie's evenings, and for a year or two her hopes were not realized. the prince charming she was waiting for came not. sometimes louie was away on visits, and henrietta went to dances without her. at one of these, as usual a strange young man was introduced. there was nothing special about him. they had the usual talk of first dances. then he asked for a second, then for a third. he was introduced to her mother. she asked him to call. he came. he talked mostly to her mother, but it was clear that it was henrietta he came to see. another dance, another call, and meetings at friends' houses, and wherever she was he wanted to be beside her. it was an exquisitely happy month. he was a commonplace young man, but what did that matter? there was nothing in henrietta to attract anyone very superior. and perhaps she loved him all the more because he was not soaring high above her, like all her previous divinities, but walking side by side with her. yes, she loved him; by the time he had asked her for the third dance she loved him. she did not think much of his proposing, of their marrying, just that someone cared for her. at first she could not believe it, but by the end of the month the signs clearly resembled those of louie's young men. flowers, a note about a book he had lent her, a note about a mistake he had made in his last note; she was sure he must care for her. the other girls at the dances noticed his devotion, and asked henrietta when it was to be announced. she laughed off their questions, but they gave her a thrill of delight. all must be well. and if they had married all would have been well. there might have been jars and rubs, with henrietta's jealous disposition there probably would have been, but they would have been as happy as the majority of married couples; she would have been happier, for to many people, even to some women, it is not, as it was to her, the all-sufficing condition of existence to love and be loved. at the end of the month louie came home. henrietta had dreaded her return. she had no confidence in herself when louie was by. louie made her cold and awkward. she would have liked to have asked her not to come into the room when he called, but she was too shy; there had never been any intimacy between the sisters. mrs. symons however, spoke to louie. "a very nice young fellow, with perfectly good connections, not making much yet, but sufficient for a start. it would do very well." louie would not have considered herself more heartless than other people, but she was a coquette, and she did not want henrietta to be settled before her. the next time the young man came, he found in the drawing-room not merely a very much prettier miss symons, that in itself was not of much consequence, but a miss symons who was well aware of her advantages, and knew moreover from successful practice exactly how to rouse a desire for pursuit in the ordinary young man. henrietta saw at once, though she fought hard, that she had no chance. "are you going to the humphreys to-morrow?" he said to louie. "if henrietta's crinoline will leave any room in the carriage," answered louie, "i shall try to get a little corner, perhaps under the seat, or one could always run behind. i crushed--see, what did i crush?--a little teeny-tiny piece of flounce one terrible evening; didn't i, henrietta? and i was never allowed to hear the last of it." she smiled a special smile, only given to the most favoured of her partners. the young man thought how pretty this sisterly teasing was on the part of the lovely miss symons; henrietta saw it in another light. "my crinolines are not larger than yours, you know they are not." "methinks the lady doth protest too much, don't you, mr. dockerell?" "and you always take the best seat in the carriage, so it is nonsense to say ..." he noticed for the first time how loud her voice was. "please let us change the conversation," said louie gently, "it can't be at all interesting for mr. dockerell. i am ready to own anything you like, that you don't wear crinolines at all, if that will please you." "if there is any difficulty, could not my mother take one of you to-morrow night?" (it was louie he looked at.) "she is staying with me for a week. couldn't we call for you? it would be a great pleasure." "oh, thank you," began henrietta. "really," said louie, "you make me quite ashamed of my poor little joke. i don't think we have come quite to such a state of things that two sisters can't sit in the same carriage. i hear you are a most alarmingly good archer, mr. dockerell, and i want to ask you to advise me about my bow, if you will be so kind." to be asked advice, of course, completed the conquest. mr. dockerell had not been so much in love with etta as with marrying. it took him a very short time to change, but when he had made his offer and louie had discovered that he was too dull a young man for her, he did not transfer his affections back to henrietta. she would gladly have taken him if he had. he left the neighbourhood, and not long after married someone else. in this grievous trouble henrietta did not know where to turn for comfort. mrs. symons was one of those women who are much more a wife than a mother. she could enter into all mr. symons' feelings quite remarkably, even his most out-of-the-way masculine feelings, but her daughters, who on the whole were very ordinary young women, she did not understand. perhaps henrietta was not altogether ordinary, but after all it is not exceptional to want to be loved. nor did mrs. symons care particularly for her daughters; she liked her sons much better, she would perhaps have been happier without daughters; and she liked henrietta the least, connecting her still with those disagreeable childish interviews when henrietta had been brought down, black and sulky, to be scolded. henrietta was now passing through what is not an extraordinary experience in a woman's life. she had loved and been loved, and then had been disappointed. her mother in her distress was no more comfort than, i was going to say, the servants, but she was much less, for ellen, now mrs. symons' maid, gave poor henrietta some of the sympathy for which she hungered. evelyn was away, her parents had consented to her being educated with the little friend abroad, and if she had been at home, she was only fourteen, too young to be of much use. however henrietta poured out her bitterness to her in a long letter, and evelyn wrote back full of loving sentiment and sentimentality. henrietta wrote also to miranda, and had a sympathetic letter in answer, most sympathetic, considering that miranda had just consummated a triumphant engagement to the son of an earl. mrs. symons could not help thinking that henrietta had stupidly muddled her affairs, and wasted the good chance which had been contrived for her. this was the view she presented to her husband, so that though they tried not to show it in their manner, they both felt a little aggrieved. it was to william that she turned, though she remembered clearly the disappointing interview of her childhood. william, now a solicitor in london, came home for a few days' holiday. the sunday of his visit was wet. when mr. and mrs. symons were both asleep in the drawing-room, he and henrietta sat in the former school-room, and kept up friendly small-talk about the neighbourhood. there was something so solid and comfortable about his face that she felt she must tell him. she wanted to lean on someone; she had not, she never had, any satisfaction, any pride in battling for herself. yet she knew that william's face was deceptive; it would be much better not to speak. she determined, therefore, that she would say very little, and speak as coolly as she could. she began, but before she could stop herself, the whole story was out, and much more than the story, unbridled abuse of louie, who was william's favourite sister. she only stopped at last, because her sobs made it impossible to speak. "it does seem unlucky," said william, "very unlucky. i should talk it over with mother." "mother thinks it was my own fault. i know she does." "well--um--write to minna; yes, you might write to minna." "minna is only interested in the baby. she hardly ever writes; besides, she never cared about me at all. she would be glad." "oh, well, i shouldn't think it was worth while taking it to heart. just go out to plenty of dances and be jolly; you mustn't mope. if you can get aunt mercer to give you a bed, i'll take you to the play. that will do you all the good in the world." "it's very kind of you, william." "oh, that's all right. well," going to the window, "it's no good staying in all the afternoon, it makes one so hipped. i shall take a turn and look in on beardsley on my way back. tell mother not to wait supper for me." she knew she had better have said nothing. he hated the recesses of the heart being revealed, particularly those special recesses of a woman's heart; he had thought her unmaidenly. but he was sorry for her; he took her to the play, a rousing farce, for he was one of those who naively consider that two hours of laughing can compensate for months of misery, and even be a remedy. he gave her a brooch also, and said to his mother, "i think etta gets low by herself, now minna is married and louie is away. why shouldn't she go for some visits?" it may seem strange that henrietta should have spread broadcast a grief which most people would keep hidden in their own hearts. but it is one of the saddest things about lonely people, that, having no proper confidant, they tell to all and sundry what ought never to be told to more than one. when, however, the overmastering desire for sympathy had passed, words cannot express her regret that she had spoken. for years and years afterwards it would suddenly come upon her, "i told him and he despised me," and she would beat her foot on the floor with all her might, in a useless transport of remorse. both louie and henrietta had felt it was wiser not to see too much of one another after mr. dockerell's proposal. louie had gone away for a month or six weeks, and when she came back, henrietta went for a long visit to minna. with two babies, the youngest very delicate, minna was completely absorbed. she was emphatically mrs. willard now, not minna symons. mrs. symons had told her something of henrietta's circumstances, and minna considered that the best balm would be her babies. so they might have been for people with a natural admiration for babies, but this henrietta had not got. if minna's children had been neglected she would have loved them dearly, but when they were surrounded by the jealous care of mother, nurse, nursemaid, and (if any space was left for him) father, there was nothing for her but to look on as an outsider. it was during this visit that she heard of the young man's engagement. she did not realize, till she heard, how tightly she had been clinging to the hope that he might come back. close following on that came the news that louie was engaged to a most amiable and agreeable colonel. this made her more bitter, if it was possible to be more bitter, against louie than before. louie was not merely let off scot-free for what she did, but was to have every happiness given to her. why? the old problem of her confirmation year pressed itself on her, only now she felt less mournful and more acrid. her troubles made her peevish and disagreeable, as was apparent from minna's kindly admonition. "i think," said she, as they sat sewing one morning, "that i really ought to warn you not to talk quite so loud and so positively. i don't like saying anything, but of course i am older than you, and that is the sort of thing that spoils a girl's chances. men don't like it. and your temper--even arthur noticed it, and he is not at all an observant man. i daresay you hardly realize the importance of a good temper, etta, but in my opinion it makes more difference in life than anything else." henrietta came back three days before louie's wedding. louie repented the injury she had done, and on the last night she came into henrietta's room and apologized. "you know, etty, i am very sorry, very, very sorry. of course i had no idea how you felt about him. he wasn't the sort of man one could take very seriously, at least that was what i thought. anyhow i wouldn't worry about it any more, for you know i think he cannot have been very seriously touched, or he would have made some effort to see you again, surely, after his little episode with me." louie felt more than her words conveyed, but she could not demean herself to show too much. "perhaps you didn't mean it unkindly," said henrietta; "i shall try to believe you, but you've wrecked my life." "etta is so exaggerated and hysterical," said louie afterwards, talking things over. but as a matter of fact henrietta spoke only the sober truth. chapter iv after louie's wedding henrietta went to stay with an aunt, her father's eldest sister, almost a generation older than he was. she lived in a little white house in the country, with a green verandah and french windows. she was a kind, nice old lady, not well off, a humble great-aunt to the whole village. children continually came to eat her mulberries; girls were found places; sick people were sent jelly, and there was always a great deal of sewing and knitting for poor friends. she did her best to make the visit pass cheerfully; she had some little scheme of pleasure for each day, and so many people came and went that, though not exciting, the life could not possibly be called dull. henrietta did not know whether mrs. symons had mentioned her trouble to her aunt; she hoped not. now that the first shock was over, she had become sensitive on the subject, and did not wish to speak about it. from a little speech her aunt made, it is possible that mrs. symons had said something. one day as they sat talking comfortably and confidentially over the fire, the conversation turned on her aunt's past days. she had been left motherless, the eldest of a large family, when she was nineteen or twenty. it was evidently her duty to devote herself to the younger ones, and when a man presented himself whom she loved and by whom she was loved, she felt that she could not be spared from home. henrietta saw that she was bracing herself to say something. at last out it came: "you know, my dear, i think in spite of--i mean that there are many things besides--though when one has hoped--still life can be very happy, very peaceful, without. why, there is this garden, and there are those three darling little children next door." henrietta knew that this unanalysable sentence was meant to comfort her. she felt grateful, but she was not comforted. her aunt's life was the sweetest and happiest possible for old age, but could she at twenty settle down to devising treats for other people's children, or sewing garments for the poor? it made her feel sick and dismal to think of it. besides, their circumstances were not similar. her aunt, fortified by the spirit of self-sacrifice, had resigned what she loved, but she had the reward of being the most necessary member of her circle. henrietta had had no scope for self-sacrifice, for she had never had anything to give up. in fact she envied her aunt, for she realized now that mr. dockerell could never have cared for her. and far from being the most necessary member of her family, her difficulty was to squeeze into a place at all. the visit came to an end. she went home, and regular life began again. since one ordinary young man had been attracted to her when she was twenty, there seemed no reason why other ordinary men should not continue to be attracted. as he had been in love with marrying rather than with her, so she had been in love with being loved rather than with him. she would have accepted almost any pleasant young man, provided he had had the supreme merit of caring for her. but the inscrutable fate which rules these matters, decreed that it was not to be. no other suitor presented himself. for one thing, she went to fewer parties now. after louie's marriage, mrs. symons, who had worked hard in the good cause of finding husbands, began to flag. henrietta was not so gratifying to take out as louie had been, particularly as her complexion went off early, and without her complexion she had nothing to fall back on. so mrs. symons gave herself up to the luxury of bad health, and said she could not stand late hours. when henrietta did go out, her experience made her feel that she was unlikely to please; and though no one can define what produces attractiveness, it is safe to say that one of the most necessary elements is to believe oneself attractive. mr. symons had not hitherto taken great interest in his daughters, but when minna and louie were married, he became fonder of them. he was one of those men whose good opinion of a woman is much strengthened if confirmed by another man. his daughters' husbands had confirmed his opinion in the most satisfactory way by marrying them, whereas his good opinion of henrietta, far from being confirmed, had been rather weakened. minna and louie's virtues, husbands, and houses were often extolled now, and there was nothing to extol in her. henrietta felt this continually. her parents did not speak to her of her misfortunes; she was left alone, which is perhaps what most girls would have liked best. not so henrietta. the three years after louie's marriage were the most miserable of henrietta's life. if she did not go out to parties, what was she to do? the housekeeping? the housekeeping, as in many cases, was not nearly enough to provide her mother with occupation. it certainly could not be divided into occupation for two. nursing her mother? her mother much preferred that ellen, on whom she had become very dependent, should do what was necessary, and for companionship she had all she wanted in her husband. he was away for several hours in the day however, and during his absence henrietta did drive out with her mother, read to her, and sit with her, and as they were so much together and shared the small events of the country town, they were to a certain extent drawn together. but mrs. symons always treated henrietta _de haut en bas_, and snubbed her when she thought necessary, as if she had been a child of ten, so that henrietta was constrained and a little timid with her. there was the suggestion of a feeling that mrs. symons was to be pitied for having henrietta still on her hands. if henrietta had refused to be snubbed, there would have been none of that suggestion. evelyn was still away at school. there were a certain number of girls of henrietta's age whom she saw from time to time, but as her mother did not wish to be disturbed by entertaining, they were not asked to the house, and therefore did not ask henrietta to theirs. besides, she was sensitive, thinking, truly, that they were discussing her misfortune, and did not want to see them. in addition to the poignancy of disappointment, of present dulness and aimlessness, henrietta realized forcibly, though perhaps not forcibly enough for the truth, that the years between eighteen and thirty were her marrying years, which, slowly as they passed from the point of view of her happiness, went only too fast, when she considered that once gone they could never come back, and that as they fled, they took her chances with them. fifty years ago the large majority of the girls of her class married early, and the years of home life after school were arranged on the supposition that they were a short period of preparation for marriage. it did not matter to minna and louie that they had no interests to fill their days, that their life had been nothing but parties and intervals of waiting for parties, because it had only lasted four or five years. it had done what it was intended to do, it had settled them very comfortably with husbands. but with henrietta, the condition which was meant to be temporary, seemed spreading itself out to be permanent, and with the parties taken away, she was hard put to it to fill up her days. she longed inexpressibly for school, for its restrictions, its monotony and variety. and to think that when she had the luck to be there, she had counted the days to being a young lady. when she remembered how she had almost wept at miss arundel's description of joan of arc, her mouth watered for lessons. as for miss arundel herself, she hungered and thirsted after her. at last she had a happy thought; she decided that she would read italian, read dante. miss arundel had taught her italian, and she would write to miss arundel, and ask her to recommend a good translation. she remembered that miss arundel and mrs. marston had occasionally had favourite old pupils to stay with them. she imagined how one letter might lead to another, and how at last miss arundel might invite her to stay too. she wrote her letter with great care and great delight, constantly changing her words, for none seemed good enough for miss arundel, and making a fair copy, as if it were an exercise to be sent up for correction. miss arundel received the letter, read it through, came to the signature, and could not for the life of her remember who henrietta symons was. so many girls had passed through her hands, and she lived in the present rather than the past. a teacher was ill, she was very busy, the letter slipped her memory. one evening it came into her head, and she asked her sister, "by the by, who was henrietta symons?" "i recollect the name perfectly," said mrs. marston. "let me see; yes, now i know. there were three of them, one was minnie, i believe, and i think etta had a bad headache at the picnic. it was a blazing day that year, the hottest i ever remember, and i had to come back early with her." "of course; i remember now," said miss arundel. "a girl with very marked eyebrows." and she wrote back a postcard, "tr. of d.'s d. c. carey, vols., ward and linsell. m. arundel." the postcard made henrietta inclined to back out of dante. but by this time she had arranged to read with a neighbour, carrie bostock, so she had to make a start. they did start, but as they neither understood the italian, nor the translation, nor the notes, they found continual excuses for not reading, till carrie boldly suggested "i promessi sposi," which went much better. they did not read for long, however, for carrie became engaged, it seemed to henrietta that everybody she knew was becoming engaged, and carrie considered her engagement an occupation which gave her no time for anything else, certainly no time for italian. henrietta found she did not read by herself. the two years away from school made it difficult to start. perhaps it may seem strange that a girl who had been so eager at school, should not care to work by herself at home. but when there are no competitors and no miss arundel, work loses much of its zest for everyone except the real student, who is rarely to be found among men, still more rarely among women. and the last thing henrietta would ever be was unusual. clever, interesting schoolgirls are not at all uncommon, though not so general as clever, interesting children. but there are few who remain clever and interesting when they grow up. uninspiring surroundings, and contact with life, or mere accumulation of years, take something away. or perhaps it simply is that when they are grown up they are judged by a more severe standard. miss arundel had been disappointed again and again. but she would not have been surprised that henrietta let everything go, for she had always observed in her an unfortunate strain of weakness. besides being weak, henrietta was always affected by the people she was with, and the atmosphere of home life was not encouraging to study. "reading italian, my dear?" her mother would say. "oh, can't you find anything better to do than that? surely there must be some mending;" while her father advised her, through her mother, "not to become too clever; it was a great pity for a girl to get too clever." after all, there seemed no earthly reason why she should read italian; it gave no pleasure to herself or to anyone else. so she spent most of the long leisure hours sitting by the window and thinking. she often said to herself the verse of a poem then just published by christina rossetti. she had seen it on a visit, copied it out, and learned it: "downstairs i laugh and sport and jest with all, but in my solitary room above i turn my face in silence to the wall: my heart is breaking for a little love." it did not quite apply to henrietta, for she was not sporting and jesting downstairs with anyone, but that verse was the greatest comfort to her of those dreary years. the writer _must_ have been through it all, she thought; she knows what it is. not to be alone, to have someone, though an unknown one, who could share it, lightened her burden, when she was in a mood that it should be lightened. she made up verses too, and wrote them in a pretty album she bought for the purpose. they relieved her heart a little--at any rate it was a distraction to think of the rhymes. she would have shown them to carrie, if she had had the slightest encouragement, but as carrie gave no encouragement, there was no one to see them. "while nature op'ed her lavish hand and fairest flowers displayed, 'twas his to taste of sunny joys, 'twas mine to sit in shade. "oh, talk not to me of a lasting devotion! it shrivels, it ceases, it fades and it dies. in the heart of a man 'tis a fleeting emotion; alas, in a woman eternal it lies!" a poet would have said that anyone capable of writing that was incapable of feeling, but he would have been wrong. sometimes henrietta used to have a phantom lover like the phantom friend of her childhood, but now--had she more or less imagination as a child?--she could not bear it. she imagined the phantom, and then she wanted him so intensely that she had to forget him. the aspect of certain days would be connected with some peculiarly mournful moments. she wondered which was the most depressing, the dark setting in at four o'clock and leaving her seven hours of drawing-room fancy work (for it disturbed her mother if she went to bed before eleven), or the summer sun that would not go down. if only some kind stroke of misfortune had taken away all mr. symons' money. disagreeable poverty would have been a great comfort to her. she would have been forced to make an effort; not to brood and concentrate herself on her misery. but mr. symons, on the contrary, continued to get richer, and throughout her fairly long, dull life, henrietta was always cursed with her tidy little income. but interminable as the time seemed, it passed. it passed, so that reading her old journal with the record of her happy month, she found that it had all happened five years ago, and was beginning to be forgotten. she felt as if it had not happened to her, but to some ordinary girl who had ordinary prosperity. at the same time her lot did not seem so bitter as it had done; she had become used to it. though she herself hardly realized it, and certainly could not have said when the change had come, she was not now particularly unhappy. it was an alleviation that her mother was more of an invalid, so that some of the responsibilities of the household devolved on her, and her mother leaned on her a little. she was certainly not the prop of the house, or the lodestar to which they all turned for guidance, none of the satisfactory things women are called in poetry, but she was not such an odd-man-out as she had been. chapter v and now the even course of henrietta's life was interrupted. evelyn returned home. she and her friend were both grown up into young ladies. many letters had passed between the sisters, but it was so long since they had seen one another that each felt a little shy at the meeting. evelyn was very lovely, made to please and be pleased, a regular mid-victorian heroine, universally courted. though always courted she was never spoilt, and was a most affectionate sister and daughter. but the old particular bond which had attached her and henrietta no longer existed. she was equally affectionate to minna and louie. still, her coming made a great difference to henrietta. there was a person of her own generation and way of thinking to converse with; they could have jokes together, and evelyn was still full of schoolgirl enthusiasm. she had numberless schemes of occupation, duets, french readings, and splashwork. and when she went away on visits, there were her letters, much more intimate than those of a year or two earlier, full of allusions to their new occupations, and teasing of a kind, complimentary sort, which was new and very delightful to henrietta. they were arranging flowers in the school-room one afternoon, roses which had been brought to evelyn by an admirer. they dropped some on the floor, both stooped to pick them up, and they knocked their heads together. evelyn got up laughing, but felt her hand suddenly snatched, and kissed with a long, eager kiss. she turned round, startled. "what is it?" she said. "i couldn't help it," said henrietta, half hysterically. "if you knew what it is to me to have you back. i can't tell you." "is it, dear?" said evelyn. "i'm so glad." and she smoothed henrietta's forehead with a pretty gesture full of sweetness, but with a touch of condescension in it. she had listened already to so many passionate declarations about herself (one that very afternoon) that she was not so much impressed by henrietta's as most younger sisters would have been. still she could not help contrasting herself in her triumphant youth with henrietta, disregarded by everyone and snubbed. mr. and mrs. symons never snubbed evelyn, and she thought for a moment, "oh, i'm thankful i'm not her"; but she put the thought away as unkind, and supposed vaguely that henrietta was so good she did not mind. now that evelyn was come back, mrs. symons roused herself from her invalidism to provide amusements for her. so little was possible at home that almost at once a round of gay visits was arranged. minna was less engrossed now that the babies were older, and took her out to parties; and louie had all the officers of her husband's regiment at command. these same attractions had been offered to henrietta. louie had been most sincerely anxious to atone for the past, and had invited her again and again, but henrietta had always refused; for though the original wound was healed, she still cherished resentment against louie. evelyn's was a career of triumph. her letters, and louie's and minna's were full of officers and parties. this roused henrietta's old discontent. why was evelyn to have everything and she nothing? she promptly answered herself, "because evelyn is so sweet and beautiful, she deserves everything she can get." but the question refused to be snubbed, and asked itself again. she hated herself for envying, and continued to envy. evelyn came home from her visits very much excited and interested about herself, but still not unmindful of henrietta. "let me come in to your room, etty, and tell you everything. i had a perfect time with louie; she was a dear. she was always saying, 'now, who shall we have to dinner? you must settle;' so i just gave the word, and whoever i wanted was produced. louie wishes you would go too. do go, you would have such fun. she gave me a note for you." "my dear etta," the note ran, "the th is having a dance on the th. i wish you would come and stay with us for it. come, and bring evelyn. i particularly want to have her for it. there is a special reason. everyone is enchanted with the dear little thing. i shall be disappointed if you don't come too. it all happened such years ago, surely we may forget it; and edward is always asking me why i do not have you, and it seems so absurd, when i have no proper reason to give. i shall really think it too bad of you, if you don't come. your affec., l. n. carrington." henrietta, thinking over the matter, found there was no reason why she should not go. at twenty-seven she felt herself rather older than this generation at forty-eight, and thought it ridiculous that she should be going to a dance. but once she was there, louie made her feel so much at home, she found her remarks were so warmly welcomed, and her few hesitating sallies so much enjoyed, that she began to think that after all she was not completely on the shelf. "don't go to-morrow, etta--stay here. there's the steeplechase on friday; i want you to see that." "no, thank you, louie," said henrietta; "i can't leave mother longer. it's been very delightful, more delightful than you can realize, perhaps--you're so much accustomed to it; but i must get back." "now, that really is nonsense, etta. mother has ellen, and she has father, and she is pretty well for her; you said so yourself." but henrietta persisted in her refusal, for she had all the strong, though sometimes unthinking, sense of duty of her generation. "well, if you will go, you must. but now you have begun coming, come often. write a line whenever you like and propose yourself." as they said good-night, louie whispered, "have you forgiven me, etty?" "yes," said henrietta, "that's all past and gone." "for a matter of fact," said louie, "he is not very happy with her; they don't get on. the moffats know him, and mrs. moffatt told me." "oh, i am sorry," said henrietta, but she was not displeased. evelyn stayed behind, and louie talked henrietta over with her. "poor," ever since her marriage henrietta had been "poor" to louie, "poor etta really isn't bad-looking, and when she gets animated she isn't unattractive. if i could have her here often, i believe i could do something for her." when evelyn came home a week or so later, she had an announcement to make. she had become engaged to an officer, a friend of the carringtons, who had been staying in the house. he was delightful, the engagement was everything that was to be desired, and evelyn was radiant. henrietta knew that such an announcement was bound to come sooner or later, but she had so longed for a few years' happy intercourse together. she tried to think only of evelyn, but she could not keep back all that was in her mind. "think of me left all alone. it was so dreary, and when you came you made everything different. now it will go back to what it was before." "no, no, etty darling; you will come and stay with us for months and months." "no, i shan't. when you have got him you won't want me." "yes, i shall. i shall want you all the more. i love you more than i've ever done in my life, my darling sister. we've always been special, we two, haven't we, ever since i can remember?" henrietta was a little comforted, and did not realize that though evelyn's tenderness was absolutely sincere, it came from the strange expansion of the heart which accompanies true love, and was not habitual. the marriage took place almost at once, for the captain's regiment was ordered on foreign service, and evelyn went away to regions where it was not possible for henrietta to visit her. but if she had lived in england, henrietta would not have felt herself at liberty to go away for long. after she got home, she felt glad she had not extended her visit to the carringtons, for mrs. symons was not so well, and she died shortly afterwards, and henrietta reigned in her stead. chapter vi the household changed now; two new elements were introduced: william came from london to be a partner in his father's firm, and lived at home, and harold, who had been employed by an engineer in the north, found work in the neighbourhood and came back too. so that henrietta's life became at once much fuller of interest and importance than it had been for years. as the only lady of the house, she was bound to be considered, to make decisions, to have much authority in her own hands, and at twenty-seven she greatly appreciated authority. if she was not to have love, she would at any rate have position, and the servants found her an exacting mistress. mrs. symons, though she had given over certain duties to henrietta, had kept herself head of the house to the time of her death. she had a way with servants: they always liked her, and stayed with her; but latterly she had let things slide, and when henrietta took her place she found much to criticize. most of the servants left, but some stayed, and agreed with ellen that it was "just miss henrietta's way; she was funny sometimes." however, they got used to her, and things jogged along pretty quietly. when ellen left to be married, and there was no one in the kitchen to make allowances for her, she had much more difficulty, and mr. symons was occasionally disturbed in his comfortable library by an indignant apparition, which declared amid gulps that it had "no wish whatever to make complaints, but really miss henrietta----!" mr. symons thought this very hard. "can't you manage to make them decently contented? we never used to have this sort of thing," he would say. henrietta would defend herself by counter-charges, and on the whole felt the incident was creditable to her, as showing that she was a power, and a rather dreaded power, in the house. the men thought also that they were under a needlessly harsh yoke. henrietta grumbled when they were late for meals, or creased the chintzes, or let the dog in with muddy paws. from a combination of kindness, weakness, and letting things slide, they made no complaints. mr. symons always remembered and felt sorry for the episode which henrietta herself had almost forgotten, and he was determined to make up to her by letting her be as unpleasant as she liked at home. if only they had spoken strongly while there was yet time. they did not realize, it is difficult for those in the same house to realize, where things were tending. henrietta's temper became less violent; there are fewer occasions for losing a temper when one is grown up, but she took to nagging like a duck to water. but if they made no complaints, the men left her to herself. mr. symons spent many hours at his club, and her brothers entertained their friends in the smoking-room. she was vaguely disappointed; she had an idea, gleaned from novels and magazines, that as the home daughter to a widowed father, the home sister to two brothers, she would be consulted, leant on, confided in. mr. symons missed his wife at every turn, but he never felt henrietta could take her place. her nagging shut up his heart against her. he thought it silly, rather unfairly, perhaps, for she inherited the habit from her mother, and he had never thought _her_ nagging silly. as to william and harold, they had come to the ages of thirty-five and twenty-six without any wish for confidence, and why should they wish to confide in henrietta? she was not wise and she was not sympathetic. the mere fact that they lived in the same house with her caused no automatic opening of the heart. well on in middle life, william became engaged, and suddenly poured out everything to his love, but for the present he and harold were content to go through life never saying anything about themselves to anybody. in fact, they hardly ever thought of henrietta. she would have been astonished if she had known what an infinitesimal difference she made in their lives. as mistress of the house, henrietta was promoted to the circle of the married ladies, and the happiest hours of her life were spent in visits she and they interchanged, when they talked about servants, arrangements, prices, and health. they were not intimate friends. perhaps the women of fifty years ago did not have the faculty of staunch and close friend-making possessed by our generation. and now henrietta did not very much want to make friends. she would have thought intimacy a little schoolgirlish, a little beneath a middle-aged lady's dignity. her parents had been a very ordinary couple in a country town. they and the society they frequented were uncultivated, and uninterested in everything that was going on in the world outside. the men, of course, were occupied with their professions, and almost all the ladies had large growing families, which gave full scope for their energies. henrietta had not their duties, and was better off than the majority of them, but she did not find time hang heavy on her hands. long ere this she had learnt the art of getting through the day with the minimum of employment. now, of course, her various duties gave her a certain amount to do, but not enough to occupy her mind profitably. she often said, "i am so busy i really haven't a moment to spare," and quite sincerely declined the charge of a district, because she had no time. if any visitors were coming to stay, she spoke of the preparations and the work they entailed, as if all was performed by her single pair of hands. "what with louie and edward coming to-morrow, and harold going to the tyrol on wednesday, i cannot think how i shall manage, but i suppose," with a resigned smile, "i shall get through somehow." she was persuaded into visiting a small hospital once a fortnight for an hour, and the day and hour were much dreaded by her entourage, so vastly did they loom on the horizon, and so submissively must every other event wait on their convenience. minna and louie often came on visits with their children. the three sisters got on much better than formerly, though minna and louie were both too much absorbed in their own interests to give henrietta a large place in their thoughts. minna's husband failed early in health, before he had had time to fulfil his promising early prospects, while louie's colonel, when he retired from the army, occupied his leisure in speculation, and greatly diminished that attractive fortune of his. all three sisters had a certain amount of money left to them by their mother, but in spite of this minna and louie were now both, comparatively speaking, poor, while henrietta, with no one dependent on her, and a large allowance from her father, was comfortably off. louie and minna quite gave up talking of "poor henrietta," and "really henrietta has done very well for herself," was a remark frequently exchanged. henrietta had always been generous, and her sisters soon came to expect as a right that she should rescue them in times of domestic need: pay for a nephew's schooling, send a delicate niece to the sea, and give very substantial presents at birthdays and christmas. their point of view seemed to be that if anyone had been so lucky as to keep out of the bothers of marriage, the least she could do was to help her unfortunate sisters. still, they disliked being beholden to henrietta, and, half intentionally, set their children against her to relieve their feelings. the children were not bad children, but henrietta found their visits burdensome. she was becoming a little set and unwilling to be disturbed, and she said the children were spoilt. minna and louie had determined they would not be the strict parents of the elder generation, whereas henrietta, who remembered all the snubbing of her youth, wanted to have her turn of giving snubs, and this did not make her popular. she never grew very fond of these children, but kept her affection for something else. for it is not to be supposed that a heart with such peculiar longing for love was to be satisfied with a life in which feeling played so little part. she had put aside the desire for a lover now. she was not one of the women whom nothing will satisfy but marriage; on the whole she did not care very much for men. she wanted what she had always wanted, something to love and something to love her. and she had good reason to hope that at last that wish might be realized, for it was agreed between her and evelyn that if there were any children, she was to bring them up while evelyn was abroad. round this hope she built many happy schemes. henrietta had seen very little of evelyn all this time--the regiment went from one foreign station to another--but very affectionate letters passed between the two. for some years no children were born. then came a little girl. "she is to be called etta," said evelyn's letter, "and you know she is your baby as well as ours. do you remember what you did for me in old days? i think of how you will do the same for baby, and i could not bear for anyone else to do it but you." the baby died in the first year. then came a little boy, who lived an even shorter time; then another little girl. the parents and henrietta hardly dared to hope this time. but the perilous first year passed, then, although she was always very delicate, a second, third, and fourth. then, when the plans were maturing for her coming home, she died too. it seems sometimes as if death cannot leave a certain family alone, but comes back to it again and again. "evelyn is broken-hearted," her husband wrote, "and if she stays in this horrible india i believe i shall lose her too. i am going to exchange if i can to a home regiment, or i shall leave the army. i do not care what we do as long as i get her away. in the midst of it all she keeps thinking of how you will feel it. i believe a good cry with you is the one thing that might comfort her." henrietta took this letter to her father, and implored him to let her go out to india at once. but this mr. symons, though kind and sympathetic and truly sorry for evelyn, could not bring himself to allow. he was getting to the age when he shrank from violent upheavals. herbert said they were leaving india. by the time she arrived they would probably be gone, and then what a wild goose chase it would be. then, of course, she could not go alone, and who was to go with her? her brothers could not spare the time, and he did not feel up to going, and she must have a man with her. edward? no, certainly not. since his speculations, edward was in bad odour. no, it would be much better to write a kind letter--he would write too--and drop this really foolish scheme, which would, among other things, be very costly, more costly than he felt prepared to face just then. she said she would go alone. "then you would go entirely without my sanction. it is a perfectly impossible thing for a young lady to contemplate. you have never even been on the continent, and you think of travelling to india unattended." she had never acted in opposition to her parents, though she had often been domineering to her father in small matters, when he had not resisted. she was always weak, she could only fight when the other side would not fight back. she said, "oh, father, i must go," and when he said, "nonsense, i couldn't think of it," she collapsed, partly from cowardice, partly from duty, though her father was not in the least strong-willed either, and with a little serious resistance would have been made to yield. she felt bitterly the reproach in evelyn's letter, "if only you could have come." she did not feel as wildly wretched as fifteen years ago, because now in middle age what she passed through at the moment was not of the same desperate importance; but then she had a small corner of hope hidden away that perhaps something might happen, whereas now she realized clearly that the prospect which had given her her chief interest and delight was destroyed for ever. the trouble told on her, she caught a chill, which developed into pneumonia. she was dangerously ill for some weeks, and when she was better, she was long in getting up her strength, because she had no wish to get well. minna and louie thought it odd that henrietta should "fret so much about evelyn's children whom she had never seen. she has always seemed to make so much more fuss over them than over her own nephews and nieces in england. of course, it was natural that dear evelyn herself should be distracted, but for henrietta it almost seemed a little exaggerated." when she was well enough to travel, the doctor recommended the south of france for the winter, and she went away with a married friend, the carrie bostock of the italian readings. it was all very pleasant and entertaining to henrietta, who had never been abroad, never even away from her own family. in the riviera she could to a certain extent drown thought, but she counted the days with consternation, as each one in its flight brought her nearer to taking up life again at home. one afternoon she received a letter from her father. "my dear henrietta," it ran, "i do not know if you will be surprised to hear that i am engaged to be married to mrs. waters. we have not known one another very long, but i must say i very soon felt that she would be one who could take your dear mother's place. i think it is very possible that you may have observed whither matters were tending. i feel certain that we shall all be very happy together, and i hope you will write her a warm letter of welcome to our family. she will, i am sure, be both mother and sister to you, etc." the news was staggering to henrietta. she had been so engrossed in her own trouble that she had observed nothing of what was going on around her. mrs. waters, a widow, who had lately settled in the neighbourhood, had been several times to their house and had entertained them at hers, but that she should be anything more than a friendly acquaintance had never entered henrietta's head. she was to be ousted, her mother was to be ousted, and she was to give a warm welcome to the interloper. her forgotten temper burst forth. she wrote a violent letter to her father, hurling at him all the ridiculous exaggerated things that most people feel at the beginning of a rage, but which few are so mad as to commit to paper. she refused altogether to write to mrs. waters. she also relieved herself by contradicting everything carrie said, thus giving her a good excuse for those long talks to a third party, which frequently take place when friends have been abroad together, beginning, "i really had no idea she _could_." after she had written the letter, as usual she was very much ashamed. she wrote again unsaying all she had said, but her father had been too much wounded to reply. she came back just a little before the wedding to see him in quite a new light--a lover, for he at sixty-five and mrs. waters at forty-seven had fallen in love. when henrietta saw more of her stepmother to be, she had in honesty to own that she liked her. she was not only very attractive, but she was so thoroughly nice and kind, so intent on making people happy, so entirely without airs of patronage, and henrietta could see how everybody warmed under her smile. henrietta had settled that she would not live at home after the marriage. neither she nor her father could forget the letter, it was better that they should part. she had again asked his forgiveness, but neither felt at ease with the other. she stayed for a few weeks after mr. and mrs. symons came back from the honeymoon, and saw almost with consternation, how the spirit of the house changed. it became peaceful, cordial, harmonious; it would not have been known for the same house. the whole household liked mrs. symons; even her own dog deserted henrietta. it was not that she was ousted from her place, it was that mrs. symons created a place, which never had been hers. she had had no idea in all these twelve years how little she had made herself liked. she had had her chance, her one great chance, in life, and she had missed it. when she went away, there were kind good wishes for her prosperity, interest in her plans, many hopes that she would visit them, but no regret; with a clearness and honesty of sight she unfortunately possessed she realized that--no regret. what was the use of twelve years in which she had sincerely tried to do her best, if she had not built up some little memorial of affection? it was the old complaint of all her life, "i am not wanted." the anguish she had shared with evelyn and her husband had been much sharper, but in the midst of it there had been consolation in the exquisite union they had felt with the children and with one another. here there was nothing to cheer her; there is not much consolation when one fails where it seems quite easy for others to succeed. now that it became evident that she would be so little missed, she was in haste to get the parting over and be gone. but her unadventurous spirit shrank from going out in the world to manage by itself. she was very doubtful what she should do. she would not have been welcomed by minna or louie, even if she had wished to live with them. her second brother was in some inaccessible foreign place. evelyn and herbert were also far out of reach. he had exchanged into a regiment which was quartered at halifax, in canada. but the distance, however great, might have been faced, if she had not had a miserable quarrel with herbert. it began with some misunderstanding about the tombstone on the youngest little girl's grave, to which henrietta had wished to contribute. she had written to evelyn from the riviera in all the soreness of worn-out nerves and grief from which the sublimity has gone. the very fact that they had been drawn so close to one another made her specially irritable to evelyn. after one or two of her letters, an answer came from herbert: "evelyn is very ill from all she has been through, and the doctor says it is most important that she should be kept from every sort of worry. she was so much distressed at your last letter, and answering you took so much out of her, that i have taken the liberty of keeping this one from her. you have no right to write to her in this way, and i must ask you to drop all correspondence for the present if your letters are to be in the same strain." henrietta declared that he was trying to come between her and her sister, and that if that was the case she should never trouble them again. she did not write at all for several weeks, then she felt remorseful, but herbert could not forgive her. he wrote coldly that evelyn was still so unhinged as to be incapable of receiving letters without undue excitement. chapter vii even now, when there is a certain amount of choice and liberty, a woman who is thrown on her own resources at thirty-nine, with no previous training, and no obvious claims and duties, does not find it very easy to know how to dispose of herself. but a generation ago the problem was far more difficult. henrietta was well off for a single woman, but she was incapable, and not easy to get on with. she would have thought it derogatory to do any form of teaching--teaching, the natural refuge of a workless woman. three or four courses presented themselves. first, philanthropy. she was not really more philanthropic than she had been at twenty, when her aunt had described to her the happiness of living for others. but she felt at nearly forty that charitable work was a reasonable way of filling up her time, on the whole, the most reasonable. she never had had much to do with poor people. mrs. symons had helped the charwoman, and the gardener, and the driver from the livery-stables, when they were in special difficulties, and henrietta had continued to do so, and had had her hour at the hospital. that was all. there were the servants, of course, but with the exception of ellen she looked on servants more as machines made for her convenience, liable to get out of order unless they were constantly watched. entirely without enthusiasm, and with a dreary fighting against her lot, she made inquiries among her acquaintances as to where she might find charitable work. at length somebody knew somebody, who knew somebody who was working in london under a clergyman. after further inquiries it was found that the somebody was a lady, who would be very glad if henrietta would come and live with her, while she saw how she liked the work. the clergyman, the lady, and all the other workers, were earnest, enthusiastic, high-minded, and full of common sense. henrietta was not one of these things. she was also very inaccurate, unpunctual, and forgetful, and if her failings were pointed out to her in the gentlest way she took offence, not because she was conceited, but because at her age she was beyond having things pointed out. she stayed at the work six months, and during that time she was always offended with somebody, and sometimes with everybody. the work was conducted more on charity organization lines than was usual in those days; money was not given without due consideration and consultation. this was difficult, and required more thinking than henrietta cared for, so she saved herself trouble by bestowing five shillings whenever she wanted, feeling at the bottom of her heart that if she could not be liked for herself, she would buy liking rather than not be liked at all. the five shillings, however, did not buy either gratitude or affection. she had always had a grudging way with people of a different class from herself, and a conviction, in spite of indiscriminate alms, that she was being taken in. this infringement of the rules drove the vicar to exasperation. his whole heart was in his work, and henrietta's disloyalty hindered him at every turn. "can't she be asked to give up meddling in the parish?" he said to his wife. "no dear, you know she can't, and she is very generous, even if she is tiresome. she has often been very helpful to you. you ought to be grateful." "i'm not grateful," he said, striding about the room; "and then she is so petty, always these absurd squabbles. she hasn't got a spark of love for god or man. that's at the root of it all. we don't want a person of that sort here. if she cared about the people, even if she did pauperize them, i might think her a fool, but i could respect her; but you know she doesn't care for a soul but herself." "i don't think it is that, but she's in great trouble, i'm sure she is. when you were preaching about sorrow last sunday, i saw her eyes were filled with tears." "were they?" he said, "i'm sorry. but look here, dear, i don't think this sort of work ought to be used as a soothing syrup, or as a rubbish-shoot for loafers, who don't know what else to do. if people aren't doing it because they think it's the greatest privilege in the world to be allowed to do it, i can't see that they do much good." "i think you're too hard on her." "am i? i expect i am. i know i'm fagged to death. she gives mrs. wilkins pounds on the sly, which the old lady's been transforming into gin, and then when i explain the circumstances and implore her to leave well alone, she talks my head off with a torrent of incoherent statements, which have nothing whatever to do with the point." it certainly was true that henrietta did not do much good, and no one was more aware of this than herself. she stood outside the community, and looked in at them like a hungry beggar at a feast. how she envied their happiness, but she did not feel that she was, or ever could be, a partaker with them. as months passed on, she drew no nearer to them. they were all so busy, so strong in their union with one another, they did not seem to have time to stretch out a friendly hand to one who was at least as much in need of it as mrs. wilkins. the lady she lived with found her trying. "a very trying person" was the phrase that went the round about her, "always criticizing small arrangements about the meals and the housekeeping," for henrietta could not at first reconcile herself to having no authority to exert, and this jangling was not a good preparation for sisterly sympathy towards her. the vicar's wife might have become friends with her, but during the six months henrietta was in the parish mrs. wharton was ill and hardly able to see anyone. besides, she was shy, and the only time that henrietta came to tea they never succeeded in getting beyond a comparison of foreign hotels. henrietta would have liked to confide her troubles, but as she grew older she had become a great deal more reserved, and also these troubles she was ashamed to speak of. to think that she had made her own sister, ill and miserable as she was, more ill and more miserable, she could not forgive herself; she was even harder on herself than herbert had been. as mr. wharton had said, it was useless engaging in this arduous work when her heart was elsewhere. when her six months of trial came to an end, it was clear that the only thing for her was to go. no one could pretend they were sorry, and as everyone imagined she was glad, there seemed no reason to disguise their feelings. they would have been surprised if they had known her thoughts as she sat at the evening service on her last sunday. "whatever i do, i fail; what is the use of my living? why was i born?" she said to mr. wharton in her farewell interview: "i know i have been very stupid at learning what was to be done, and i have not been willing to take advice. now i look back, i see the mistakes i have made, and i have done harm instead of good. i want to give you"--she named a large sum considering the size of her income--"to spend as you think right, i hope that may help to make amends. i am very sorry." he heard a quiver in her voice, and the dislike and irritation he had felt all the six months faded away. "this is much too generous of you," he stammered. "it is my fault, all my fault. i have been so irritable, i haven't made allowances. my wife tells me of it constantly. i wish you would forgive me and give us another chance. stay six months longer." his awkwardness and distress almost disarmed her, but she had felt his snubs, and at nearly forty she was not going to be encouraged like a child. so that though for many reasons she longed to stay, she answered: "thank you, it was a purely temporary arrangement; i have other plans." as she walked home she wondered what the other plans were. when in doubt, go abroad. she went abroad again for three months. her companion was picked up from nowhere in particular, an odd woman like herself. they went to italy. neither of them cared in the smallest degree for sculpture, architecture, painting, archæology, poetry, history, politics, scenery, languages, or foreigners. these last henrietta regarded as inferior anglo-indians regard natives, referring to them always as "those wretches." like most women she loved certain aspects in her garden at home, which were connected with incidents in her life. there was a path bordered by roses, along which they had walked when evelyn announced her engagement, and a special old apple-tree reminded her of the night her mother died. but to go and admire what baedeker called a magnificent _coup d'oeil_ was no sort of pleasure to her. however, she and miss gurney had one unending amusement, which italy is peculiarly able to supply. they could make short visits to different towns, and fit sights into their days, as one fits pieces into a puzzle. henrietta found this sport most satisfying. chapter viii just as they were getting tired of tables d'hôte dinners, there came to their hotel an enthusiast for learning. it was before the days of women's colleges; they were established, but frequented only by pioneers, in whose ranks no henriettas are to be found. but courses of lectures were so ordinary that not even the most timid could look askance at them. as philanthropy had failed, and no one could pretend that art could be a resource for henrietta,--her career of sketches and two part-songs had been phenomenally short (invaluable as it has proved itself for many englishwomen suffering from her complaint)--everything pointed to study as the next solution on the list. study. henrietta had not read a book which required any mental exertion since her dozen chapters of "i promessi sposi," fifteen years ago. still, the lectures sounded pleasant to her; they were a novelty, they were--she could not think of anything else they were--a novelty must be their claim to distinction. she and the travelling friend found a boarding-house near the lecture-room. london and the lodgings both looked dismal after the brightness of abroad, but they were excited at the prospect of establishing themselves on their own account. it was enterprising, but not too enterprising. henrietta found a band of enthusiasts at the lecture; it seemed her fate to run up against enthusiasm she could not share. young ladies, middle-aged ladies, even old ladies, all listening spellbound--at least if not absolutely spellbound, spellbound compared to henrietta--to an elderly gentleman discoursing on aristotle. for most of them aristotle, and the satisfaction of using their minds were sufficient, but a little knot of middle-aged women in the front, with hair inclined to be short, and eyes bursting with intelligence, used learning as a symbol of emancipation. lectures were their vote. now they would be in prison. henrietta listened for five minutes, then suddenly her thoughts darted to her portmanteau: she had lost the key at dieppe. they went on to the incivility at the custom-house, the incivility of the waiter at bâle, the incivility of the gardener at her old home, the geranium bed in the garden--would her stepmother attend to it?--her father, was his eyesight really failing? she came back with a jump to find that the lecture had moved on several pages. she listened with fair success for another five minutes, then her mind wandered to her landlady at the lodgings; was she perfectly honest, did her expression inspire confidence? there was that pearl brooch louie had given her; it was louie's birthday to-morrow, she must write, and hear also how tom was getting on in this his second term at school, she must send him a hamper. she had settled the contents of the hamper when she found that someone was speaking to her. the lecturer was asking whether she felt she would care to write a paper. he hoped as many ladies as possible would make an attempt at the papers; it would be a great pleasure and interest to him to look through them, etc. on the way back she found miss gurney entranced with everything; she seemed to have picked up a great deal more than henrietta. they went at once to a library and a bookshop to get what they had been advised to read, and miss gurney bought reams of paper. she was hard at work the whole evening. henrietta had one of the books open before her, but she found the same difficulty in concentrating herself that she had done at the lecture. miss gurney was rapidly filling an exercise book with an abstract, and was keeping up a conversation as well. "ah _that_ was the piece i couldn't quite understand this morning. yes i see, now it is quite clear. look, miss symons. oh, i shall learn greek, i certainly shall, as he said, it will make it twenty times more interesting." what were they all so excited about? henrietta had never cared about abstract questions, and she could not see that there was any object in discovering what the ancient greeks thought about them more than two thousand years ago. the evening before, she and miss gurney had had an interesting conversation on the weekly averages of house-books. then she felt comfortable and on the solid earth. why then, was she attending lectures on aristotle? well, because miss gurney had a friend whose cousin had married the lecturer, professor amery, and in the difficult problem of choosing a subject, when there was nothing she really cared to know about, this was as good a reason as any other. then henrietta remembered how she and emily mence years ago at school, had argued the whole of saturday afternoon about mary queen of scots, and had not been on speaking terms the following day, because emily had called mary frivolous. had she ever really been that queer little girl? still she was anxious to give the lecturer a chance, most anxious, for she had already had to suffer from minna and louie's sympathy that the parish work was a failure. she read three chapters and fell asleep in the middle of the fourth, and went to bed half an hour earlier than usual. next morning she could not remember a word of what she had read, but for two dates and one sentence, which remained in her head. "even now, in the latter half of the nineteenth century, in spite of an unparalleled advance in our knowledge of the natural sciences, the world has not yet produced a mind, which can equal that of aristotle in its astounding versatility and profundity of learning." she determined to persevere, but was it her subconscious self which discovered a vast arrear of letters which it was incumbent on her to answer before she thought of anything else? after the lecture there was a class at which everyone talked. even the dear old lady next to henrietta was asking a quavering question. yes, a little delicate old lady had energy to keep the current of the lecture in her head. she said that aristotle's problem whether it was possible for slaves to have ordinary virtues, made her think of the difference in the christian teaching of st. paul's epistles. had any of the other greek philosophers been more humane in their views on slavery? then another voice struck in, and compared the ancient idea of slavery with the slave code of the united states. the voice was rather strident, but not unpleasant. it had a great deal to say, and for some minutes seemed likely to take the lecture altogether from the mouth of the lecturer. henrietta looked in its direction, and saw a small apple-cheeked elderly lady. the voice and the face both set her thinking, and by the end of the lecture she was certain that the elderly lady was miss arundel. she spoke, and when miss arundel had recollected who she was (it took a little time), henrietta received a most cordial invitation to tea. miss arundel lived with a niece in a couple of rooms quite close to henrietta. mrs. marston was dead, and miss arundel had retired from the school with just enough to live in decent comfort. "so now, after teaching all my life, i am giving myself the treat of learning, and i can't tell you how i am enjoying it, miss symons. ada and i both like professor amery so much." and she prosed on about the lecture and the books she was reading, and did not much care to talk over the old times, which were still very dear to henrietta. it amazed henrietta to think that she had once blushed and trembled at the look of this fussy, garrulous little governess. she might be something of a bore, but there was no question of her happiness, her interest in life. she had been getting up at six the last three mornings that she might finish a book, a large book in two volumes with close print, that had to be returned to the library. henrietta could imagine nothing in the world for which she would get up at six o'clock. then her thoughts went like lightning to the morning when the telegram had come telling of little madeline's death. the wound she had thought healed burst out afresh; for a few seconds she felt as if she could hardly breathe. get up at six o'clock, of course she would have forfeited her sleep with joy, night after night. in the midst of envy, she felt something like contempt for miss arundel as a child running after shadows. on her way home, she compared her past with miss arundel's. miss arundel could look back on busy, successful, happy years. her room was filled with tributes from old pupils, they were continually writing to her and coming to see her, that henrietta knew; she did not know how often they had thanked her, and told her what they owed her. then she envied miss arundel's powers of mind. after forty years of unceasing and exhausting work she seemed as fresh as a schoolgirl, and far more capable of learning, while henrietta after twenty years of rest, had not merely lost all the qualities she had had as a child, but had gained none from age and experience to take their place. the realization of this fact startled and humiliated her. if her powers had already declined at forty, what was to happen in the twenty years of life that she might reasonably count upon as still before her? she thought of miss arundel's words: "etta symons is a girl with possibilities; i shall be interested to see how she will turn out." miss arundel had long forgotten them, and now looked on henrietta simply as a co-member of the lectures, but she said to her niece after henrietta had been to tea, "what a very no-how person miss symons is; i should like to shake her." henrietta tried her hardest to work at the lectures, to recover if possible what she had lost, but it was no use. a person of more character and determination might have succeeded, in spite of the long years of mental self-indulgence, so might a person more ready to take advice. but at forty, as i have said, she felt she was beyond advice, so she would not notice miss gurney's hints. she chose to despise her numberings and brackets, though she was half-envious of them. and, however contemptible these aids may be to a real student, they were evidently the one hope for henrietta's foggy mind. she began a paper on the sly, and with much sweat of brow the following sentence emerged: "there are a number of celebrated writers in ancient greece, and among the number we may notice aristotle, who wrote a number of celebrated books, among which two called the 'ethics' and 'republic' are very celebrated. he also wrote many other works, but none are so celebrated as the two above mentioned." she had not written a paper for twenty-three years, and she felt as helpless as if she were trying to express herself in french. her essays had been well thought of at school. as she was floundering along, up came miss gurney and looked over her shoulder. "oh miss symons, i should have a margin if i were you; i know professor amery likes a margin for the corrections, he said so himself. oh, and you don't mind my saying so, but aristotle did not write a republic. shall i just scratch that out? that was plato. and i should have a new paragraph there; and i always find, i don't know if you will, that it makes it easier to underline some of the words." "i am not at all certain that i am going to write a paper," said henrietta. "i just wrote a few notes down to amuse myself." "oh, i'm so sorry, dear. well, if you should think of doing the paper, you must read this article, it's such a help, it really puts all one wants to say." "oh no, i shouldn't care to read that at all." "oh do. let me put it here, and then you can look at it." "no, thank you." miss gurney went out, and henrietta sat at her paper for two hours and a half. it was so bad, so unintelligible, that she actually cried over it, and when she heard miss gurney's step, she carried it off to her bedroom and locked the door. miss gurney was after her in an instant. "how are you getting on with your paper, dear? can i be of any help?" she did finish it at last, and gave it to mr. amery. she knew it was bad, but she was too ignorant to know quite how bad. professor amery, with the extreme courtesy of elderly gentlemen, wrote: "i think there are one or two points which i have not made quite clear. would you care to talk them over with me after the class?" but this offer was so alarming that henrietta "cut" her lectures for two weeks. there would have been more chance for her, if only she could have become in the least interested. she tried the french revolution next term for a change, but liked it no better than aristotle. intellectual life was dead and buried in her long ago. what would have really suited her best in the present circumstances would have been shorthand and type-writing, but at that time no such occupation was open to her. she would perhaps have jogged on indefinitely at the lectures, if miss gurney, whose great interest was novelty and change, and whose abstracts of learned books had lately become much less voluminous, had not jumped at a suggestion to take a delicate niece abroad, and proposed that henrietta should come too. so henrietta consented, and with little regret they gave up the lodgings, and said good-bye to learning. chapter ix henrietta paid her father a visit before they started abroad. the promise of the first days was amply fulfilled; the whole house was happy, and henrietta was touched by the warmth of her welcome. after the squalor of lodgings home was pleasant, and her father's invitation was cordial: "henrietta, why don't you stay with us? mildred," with a fond look at his wife, "never will allow your room to be used; it's always ready waiting for you." it was a temptation to henrietta, but she refused partly from pride, from a feeling that she ought not to disturb the present comfort, but also because it was getting a principle with her, as apparently with many middle-aged englishwoman, that she must always be going abroad. yet she knew that miss gurney did not particularly want to have her, and had invited her more from laziness than from anything else. they went abroad--it was to the italian lakes--and a life of sitting in the sun, walking up and down promenades, short drives, and making and unmaking of desultory friendships began. they grumbled a good deal to third parties, but still they were happy enough, according to their low standard of happiness. as they were abroad for an indefinite period, there was none of the feeling of rush, which they had enjoyed so much before, but sometimes they played the italian game, and had packed-in days; called, . ; coffee, . ; train, . ; arrive at destination, . ; go to croce d'oro for coffee, visit churches of santa maria and san giovanni, and museum: _table d'hôte_ luncheon, . ; drive to roman remains, back to croce d'oro for tea; separate for shopping and meet at station, . , for train, . ; back for special _table d'hôte_ kept for them in the _salle à manger_. henrietta would settle it all with baedeker and the railway guide the night before, and if she had felt apprehension at her failing powers in history, her grasp of this kind of day could not have been bettered. everything was seen and everything was timed, and the only person who might have something to complain of, was the delicate niece, who went through her treat too exhausted to open her mouth, counting the hours when she might go to her bed in peace. at last miss gurney and the niece decided to return to england. henrietta found some americans who wanted to stay at montreux, and they asked her to join them. after montreux came chamounix, and in the autumn miss gurney's niece came out again, and she and henrietta stayed at como, and then at mentone till april. then came switzerland again. then henrietta went to england for a round of visits, and by the end of them she was longing to be back abroad. she said that england was depressing, and gave her rheumatism, and that she (in the best of health and prime of life) could not face an english winter. the fact was she did not care for the sharing of other people's lives which is expected from a visitor, and her long sojourn in hotels with no one but herself to consider, had made her less easy to live with. so without exactly knowing how, she drifted into spending almost all her time abroad. every other year she came back for visits in the summer, but in the spring, autumn, and winter she wandered from one cheap _pension_ to another in italy, france, germany, belgium, or switzerland. if she had led a half-occupied life as keeper of her father's house, she now learnt the art of getting through a day in which she did absolutely nothing. when she became accustomed to it, the very smallest service required of her was regarded as a cross. sometimes a relation would commission her to buy something abroad, and then the _salle à manger_ would resound with wails, because she must go round the corner, select an article, and give orders to the shopman to despatch it to england. the friends who asked her to engage rooms for them at an hotel, had cause to rue their request; they never heard the end of it. many lonely women receive great solace from their church, and give solace in return. where would the church and the poor be without them? but henrietta was never long enough in her caravanserais to become attached to the services of the chaplains in the _salle à manger_, and she soon gave up churchgoing. at first she spent a great deal of time inventing reasons to keep her conscience quiet, such as that it had rained in the night and therefore might rain again, or that she did not approve of chanting amen, but later she did not see why there should be a reason, and left her conscious to its remorse. bad health is another resource for unoccupied women, and it certainly occurred to her as an occupation, but she realized that it and roving cannot be combined, and of the two she preferred roving. her chief pastime was to skim through novels, any novels that could be found, costume novels of english history by preference. this was how her bent for learning satisfied itself. she never remembered the author, or title, or anything of what she read, but at the same time she was obsessed with the idea that she must always have something new, and would constantly accuse her friends, or the library, of deceiving her with books she had read before. "if you can't remember, what does it matter?" her dreadfully reasonable nieces would exclaim, not realizing that her sole interest in the novels was the collector's interest of seeing how many new ones she could find. a second pastime was her patience, that bond which knits together our occidental civilization. she was always learning new patiences, and always mixing them up with one another. this was another source of annoyance to efficient nieces. "but that is not demon, aunt etta," they would explain, playing patience severely from a sense of duty. she cheated so persistently that there was no room for skill. "i can't conceive why you play," they said crossly. but the reason was perfectly clear. it stared one in the face. during the patience the clock had moved from ten minutes past eight to twenty-five minutes to ten. henrietta also killed time now and then with sights; not churches or old pictures, of course she never went near masterpieces now she had ample leisure for seeing them, but easter services, royal birthday processions, or battles of flowers. as she seldom broke her routine of idleness, these occasions excited her, not with pleasurable anticipation, but with a nervous fluster that she might somehow miss something; and the concierge, the porter, madame, and the head-waiter, would all be flying about the hotel half an hour before it was necessary for her to start, sent on some perfectly useless errand connected with her outing. if it rained, if something went wrong, how she grumbled. and when she did see her show, it gave her very little pleasure. she had not in the least a child's mind; she was not pleased by small events, yet she grasped desperately after them, with an absurd, hazy idea that she was defrauded of her rights, if she did not see them. another interest was an enormous collection of photographs of places, which she had not cared for at the time, and could not in the least remember; another her address-book of pensions and hotels, to which she was always adding new volumes; above all, grumbling. favourite subjects were her kettle and her methylated spirits, whether the hotel would allow her to take up milk and sugar from breakfast, whether the chambermaid abstracted the biscuits she brought from dessert overnight. everyone who came in contact with miss symons found they were made to listen to an endless story of a certain elise who had stolen the biscuits and substituted other ones that were quite four days old, and of elise's brazen behaviour when charged with the offence. her standard of comfort at a hotel was so impossible that she became an object of terror and dislike to the waiters and chambermaids. she was punctual in payment, but very grasping, and wrung many concessions from the hotels by a persistence which no men and few women would have had the courage to display. she was always seeking the ideal hotel, and for this reason she was always wandering, and never was long enough in one place to strike any roots and create a feeling of home. this life corroded her character. she became more bad-tempered and nagging, always up in arms, scenting out liberties, and thinking she was taken advantage of. she was not a character which does well by itself, and under a domineering manner she concealed her weakness, vacillation, and timidity. she was divorced from every duty, every responsibility, every natural tie, with no outlet for her interest or her sympathy. it seems inconceivable that she should willingly have led such an existence. she was however, much more satisfied with herself and with things in general, than she had formerly been. she did not have stormy repentances or outbursts against her lot; she no longer desired what was unattainable. if she did not have a particularly high standard of happiness or of character, neither, in her opinion, had the rest of the world. not that she thought much of these things. over-thinking and over-longing had caused her much misery in early life, and she shrank from opening all those wounds again. she faced facts as little as she could. she lived from day to day, and her inner self was really very much what her outer self seemed, absorbed in the very small round of events which concerned her. the days passed, the months passed, the years passed. she saw them go unregretted, and when they were gone, she did not remember them. nothing had happened in them, bad or good, to mark their course. "what a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason, how infinite in faculty, in form, in moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god, the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!" chapter x it has been shown that henrietta had not much power of attracting affection to herself, and she had long ceased to desire it. she was now brought into contact with numbers of different people, and as travelling acquaintances she liked them, but when they parted, she did not want to see them again. there was, however, an exception to this rule. henrietta found many companions in misfortune, expatriated either from health, pleasure, or poverty. an intelligent foreigner has inquired whether there are any single elderly ladies left in england, so innumerable are the hosts abroad. some, like her, had worn their personalities so thin that it seemed likely they would eventually become shadows with no character left; others were nice and cheerful, and made little encampments in the wilderness, so that the unfortunates might gather round them, and almost feel they had got a home. it was in the room of a nice one that henrietta met a colonel. there are fewer occupationless englishmen abroad, but there is a fair supply--half-pay officers, consumptives, and mysterious creatures, who have no good reason for being there. they were a strange medley for henrietta to associate with, people whom in her palmy days, as mistress of her father's house, she would have thought unspeakable. she had none of this generation's tolerance and love of new sensations to attract her to unsatisfactory people. she only really liked conventional respectability. this colonel was not respectable. he was not a colonel in the english army, and never would say much about himself. he was very pleasant and polite, and henrietta, as she walked back to table d'hôte, felt she had spent a livelier afternoon than usual. it was at the beginning of the season, and looking back six weeks later she was astonished to find how often they had met. shortly after, the lady in whose room henrietta had first seen him, asked her to tea. she did not seem quite so easy-going as usual, and at last began: "you know, miss symons, my cousin, colonel hilton, is rather a peculiar man. i've known him all my life, and i don't think there is any harm in him, but money is his difficulty. he ought to be well off, but it always seems to slip through his fingers." henrietta realized that this was a warning. at the end of the season he proposed and she accepted him. she knew he proposed for her money, and she knew that, besides being mercenary, he was a poor creature in every way. most people could not have borne long with his society, but she, unaccustomed to companionship, felt that he sufficed her. she did not think much of the future. when she did, she realized that it was hardly possible they could marry. but meanwhile it was something--she would have been ashamed to own how much--to have someone call her "dear." once he attained to "dearest," but he was evidently frightened at his temerity, and did not repeat the experiment. she announced the engagement, and a letter from minna came flying to the riviera, saying that all sorts of terrible things were known about the colonel, and imploring henrietta to desist. she did not desist, but very soon the colonel did, having discovered that her fortune was not so large as he had been given to suppose. there was a solid something it is true, but for henrietta, quite middle-aged and decidedly cross (she imagined she was never cross with him), he felt he must have a very considerable something. he wrote a letter breaking off the engagement, and left the riviera abruptly, having made a good thing out of his season. henrietta had lent him, _he_ said--given, others said--over three hundred pounds. "and now we shall have a terrible piece of work," said minna to louie. "you know what henrietta always is--what she was about that other affair with a man years ago, and again when evelyn's little girl died. she gets so excited and overwrought." but henrietta quite upset their expectations. this, which most people might have thought the most serious misfortune which had befallen her, affected her very little. in her heart of hearts she was saying: "well, when all's said and done, i've had my offer like everyone else." she was grateful for the "dears" too. she did not realize that there had been absolutely nothing behind them. she answered the colonel's speedy application for more money, and continued to send him supplies from time to time. evelyn and herbert had returned to england, and had settled on the south coast. two boys had been born in canada, and had grown and prospered. henrietta stayed with evelyn for a fortnight whenever she was back in england, but somehow the visits were not the pleasure they should have been. evelyn was still delicate, and herbert had begged henrietta when she saw her to make no allusion to their loss. evelyn was delighted at showing her boys, and henrietta was pleased for her that she should have them, but to her they did not in the least take the place of the dead. they were not hers; she was almost indignant with evelyn for caring for them so much, and accused her in her heart of forgetfulness. this made her irritable, which herbert resented, and then evelyn was nervous because herbert and henrietta did not get on well together. evelyn's letters to her were very affectionate, the only real pleasure, in any reasonable sense of the word, in henrietta's life. sometimes evelyn and her husband and boys came out to stay with henrietta. the visits were not occasions of much happiness, and a certain day remained for years as a mild nightmare in evelyn's memory. they were all in milan one spring, when the patron of the hotel announced that his lady cousin, who lived at some out-of-the-way little country town, had heard from her friend, a priest in that same little town, that on tuesday there was to be a special festa in connection with a local saint. would the english ladies and gentlemen care to go? the patron himself had the contempt of an enlightened man for saints and festas, but he knew the curious attraction which such childishness possesses for the english tourist. all was arranged. the railway company had never intended that the little town should be reached from milan, but with an early start and much changing of trains it was possible to accomplish the journey in two hours and a half. they arrived. there was no surprise among the hotel omnibuses at their appearance, for the italians have found that the english will turn up everywhere; but to-day they were certainly the only representatives of their nation. they reached the church where the festa was to take place. it was sleeping peacefully, brooded over by a delicious, sweet smell of dirt and stale incense. not a soul was to be seen. but as the party marched indignantly up and down the aisles, another smell comes to join the incense--garlic. a merry, good-humoured little priest appears; it is the friend of the lady cousin. he knew no english but "yis, yis"; they little italian but the essentials for travel: "troppo, bello, antiquo." at the word "festa" he shook his head very sadly, and he said "domani" so many times that, with the help of henrietta's little phrase-book, they found it must mean "to-morrow." they had come the wrong day. he was very much distressed about it. to make up, if possible, for the disappointment, he showed them all over the church and sacristy; he did not miss one memorial tablet, not one disappearing fresco, and knowing the taste of the english, he said, as each new item was displayed: "molto, _molto_ antiquo." he was so much attracted by evelyn's charming middle-aged beauty and her sweet english voice that when santa barbara's was exhausted, he could not resist showing them, what he cared for much more, his own little brand-new mission church, with its brilliant rosy-cheeked images and artificial wreaths. the boys, fifteen and seventeen, had had enough of churches after two days at milan, and evelyn could hear from herbert's conscientious, stumping tread that he was examining the church because a soldier must always do his duty. at length it was over; they came out into the sunshine, and the big town clock struck a quarter to eleven. their train home left at . . the two churches had only used up an hour and a quarter. "now, dearest," said herbert firmly, "i dare say you and etta will like a little rest. suppose i and the boys get a walk in the country; and don't wait lunch for us, you know. i dare say we can get something at one of those little wine places one sees about." they managed to construct a sentence for the priest, who was standing nodding by them: "are there any pretty walks in the neighbourhood?" smiling genially, he pointed to an answer which the phrase-book translated: "the landscape presents a grandiose panorama." evelyn gave the priest a contribution to his mission church. he was overwhelmed with surprise and pleasure at this good action on the part of a heretic, it added to his pleasure that she was such a beautiful heretic, and when, as they said good-bye, evelyn wished that they might meet again, he replied, with his face all over smiles, "i hope perhaps in paradise"; he could not speak with absolute certainty. something in the way he said it brought tears to evelyn's eyes, and henrietta, who was looking on and listening, thought with a little envy that none of the many priests or pastors, few even of the laity she had encountered in her wanderings, had ever hoped to meet _her_ again either in heaven or on earth. after many affectionate bows, he said good-bye. the sisters were scarcely half an hour buying picture postcards (there had been nothing else to do, so they had bought more picture postcards than it seemed possible could be bought), when rain came on--not gentle english rain, but the fierce cataracts of italy, let loose for the rest of the day. back came herbert and the boys, who had somehow missed the grandiose panorama. it had, in fact, been created entirely out of politeness by the priest. after lunch, which they prolonged to its farthest limit, there was nothing for it but the salon, a small room, with its window darkened by the verandah outside. madame brought in yesterday's _tribuna_, and they found an illustrated catalogue of hotels in dresden. oh, that three hours and a half! the boys and herbert would have been content to sit with their shoulders hutched up, staring at their boots, going every quarter of an hour to the front-door to see if it were raining as hard there as it was out of the salon window, and evelyn only wanted to be left in silence with her headache. but henrietta would tease the boys. whatever they did do, or whatever they did not do, seemed an occasion for criticism. evelyn, to divert attention, burst into long reminiscences of the days at willstead. henrietta combated each statement with a kind of sneer, as though whatever evelyn said was bound to be worthless. evelyn saw herbert, who always treated her as if she were a wonderful queen, casting black looks at henrietta. at last his anger came out: "i don't know why it seems impossible for you to talk to evelyn with ordinary civility, henrietta." "my dearest boy," said evelyn, going and patting herbert's shoulder, "etty and i don't care about ordinary civility. we love having our little spars together. sisters don't bother to be as polite as men are to one another; life would be much too much of a burden!" she gave henrietta's hand a squeeze, as she went back to her seat, but after this henrietta would hardly talk at all, and the reminiscences became a monologue from evelyn. at last, at long last, the train came, and henrietta forgot her disappointment in sleep. the happy day she had looked forward to, and planned, and paid for, was over. louie and her colonel did not thrive better as the years went on. money never seemed able to stay with them. henrietta helped them long after everyone else had become tired of them. she did not expect gratitude, nor did she get it. in spite of her dependence, louie managed to convey the impression of henrietta's inferiority, and the children spoke of her as a butt. "oh, it's aunt etta's year; it really is rather a fag to think we shall have her for three weeks. ethel, it's your turn to take her in tow; i had her all last time." "poor etta!" said minna; "she is such an interminable talker, it does worry arthur so. she means very well; we all know that." minna's children were very much of the twentieth century, and were not going to bear with a dull old maid, merely because she was their aunt and had been kind to them. as one of them expressed it, "never put yourself out for a relation, however distant. that's an axiom." little as the younger generation thought of her, she thought something of them, and the second week in december, when she chose her christmas presents for all her nieces and nephews, was the pleasantest week in the year to her. chapter xi henrietta had been fourteen years abroad, when she came to pay her biennial visit to evelyn. "who do you think has come to live here, henrietta?" said evelyn, as they sat talking the first evening. "ellen." "ellen?" "yes, our dear old ellen--mrs. plumtree. she's a widow now. her eldest son is working here, and she is living with him and his wife. i went to see her last week, and she was so delighted to talk over old times, and when she heard you were coming, she was so excited. you were always her favourite." a few days afterwards they went, to find ellen a very hale old lady. in spite of having brought up a large family of her own, she had the clearest remembrance of apparently every incident of the childhood of "you two young ladies" (so she still called them) as though she had never had any other interest in life. "oh, and, miss etta," she said, "what a sight you did think of miss evie! i never knew a child take so to anyone before. 'she's quite a little mother,' i often used to say to sarah. do you remember sarah? she died only last year; she suffered dreadful with her heart. do you remember how you always would go to put your hand into the water before i gave miss evie her bath, because you wanted to be sure it wasn't too hot? every evening you did it; and one day you were out late, and miss evie was in bed before you came in, and you cried because you hadn't been able to do it." neither sister found it easy to speak, but ellen wanted very little encouragement. "sometimes as a great treat, when you was a little older, miss evie, i let you sleep in miss etty's bed, and she used to lay and cuddle you so pretty. and the canary, miss etta--do you remember that? when miss evie's dickie died, you went all the way to willstead by yourself and bought a new canary, so that she might never know her dickie died. your mamma was very angry with you, i remember; but there was nothing you wouldn't do for miss evie." the sisters walked back in silence; their hearts were too full for speech. there was no time for private conversation till night, when evelyn came into henrietta's room, and flung her arms round her. "darling, darling etta," she said, "i could hardly bear it, when ellen was talking. to think of all that you were to me, all that you did for me, and that i should have forgotten it. oh, how is it that we've got apart?" "i don't know," said henrietta; "i don't think there is anything much to like in me. no one does care for me. i think if no one likes one, one doesn't deserve to be liked." "oh, nothing in this life goes by deserts." "people love you, and they're quite right; you ought to be loved. you did care for me once, though. herbert wrote--you know, when we lost--'a good cry with you will be more comfort to evelyn than anything else.' even then, in the middle of it all, it made me happy." "oh, etta, what you were to me then!" henrietta took evelyn's hand and squeezed it convulsively. when she could speak, she said: "evelyn, do you ever think of our children?" "think of them--of course i do. do you, etta?" "i used to, but i tried not to--it was too bitter. the children were what i lived for, and i don't think of them often now. it's past and gone." "oh, i couldn't live if i didn't. i don't think it is bitter now. these dear boys, they're not quite the same to me as the ones that were taken." "i thought you'd forgotten them." "i thought you had, etta, and i couldn't help feeling it." "herbert asked me never to speak about them to you." "dear herbert, he is so good--i can't tell you how good he is to me--but he never will mention them. first of all i was so ill, i couldn't stand talking of them, but now i can, and i do long for it. he doesn't forget them, i know, but i think men live more in the present than we do; and he has his work, which absorbs him very much, and it isn't quite the same for a man. and then they were so delicate, particularly madeline, that i was wrapped up in them all their lives; and they were so small, he couldn't see much of them." "do you feel that you could tell me about them?" "yes, i should like to." they talked far into the night. herbert was away, so that there was no one to stop them, and when at last the dawn drove them to bed, evelyn said: "i can't tell you how much good you've done me. i seem to have been living for this for fifteen years." they neither of them slept at all that night. both were full of remorse, but henrietta's was the bitterest. the life which had seemed to do quite well enough all these years, suddenly appeared to her as it was. she contrasted her present self with the little girl ellen had known. like jane eyre, she "drew her own picture faithfully without softening one defect. she omitted no hard line, smoothed away no displeasing irregularity." she had squabbled, that very afternoon, if it is possible to squabble when only one party does the squabbling, all the way down to ellen's about various quite unimportant dates in william's life. the incident was almost as much a part of her day's routine as eating her breakfast. now it seemed to her a manifestation of the degradation into which she had fallen. the power and vividness of her memory, magnified ten times by the mysterious agency of midnight, brought back the words of advice of emily mence, of minna, and of her aunt, just as if they had been spoken last week. she had entirely forgotten them for years. now they kept rushing through her head hour after hour. before breakfast evelyn came into her room, her eyes shining with agitation, and looking so flushed that henrietta saw what need there had been for herbert's caution. "etty," she said, "i've been thinking all night; i can't bear your living in this horrible way: no home, away by yourself, so that we see nothing of you. come and live here, live with us. we shan't interfere with you; you shall come and go as you like. or live in the village, there is a dear little house just made for you. only come and be near us." henrietta was sorely tempted, it was a great sacrifice to say no. but she knew that herbert only tolerated her for evelyn's sake, and that the boys, rather spoilt and self-important, found her a nuisance. she knew also that she could not trust herself to be pleasant and good-tempered. if she came, it would not be for evelyn's happiness. so she refused, and even in her fervour of love for henrietta, evelyn could not help realizing it was best that she should. at the same time that talk was a turning-point in henrietta's life. she never felt after it that she was completely unwanted. although she would not live with evelyn, she thought she might justifiably come and be much nearer her, and she gave up the roving life and returned to england. it had in fact satisfied her, only because she had felt so uncared-for that she became insignificant even to herself. where should she live? she knew that every place where she had relations would not do, but this only ruled out four of the towns of the united kingdom. it must be a town; on that point she was clear. as she cared for none of the special advantages of a town, its more lively society, its greater opportunities for entertainment and intellectual interests, she was particularly insistent that she could not do without them. what she wanted was a house with room for herself, two maids, and a couple of visitors. such a house is to be found in tens and hundreds everywhere. she went round and round england in a fruitless search. as a _pension habituée_ the whole arrangement of her life had been taken out of her hands; even her clothes had been settled for her by one of those octopus london firms which like to reduce their customers to dummies; and her transit from hotel to hotel, and from english visits back to hotels, had become a mere automatic process. she had not made a decision for so many years that though her nieces and nephews were witty over her vacillation, and declared that she enjoyed being a nuisance, it was a fact that she was trying her best to be sensible and competent. she, with no go-between, no protector, must determine which was most important--gravel soil or southern aspect. she felt as she had felt years ago, when she wrote her paper for professor amery, only ten times more bewildered, almost delirious. of course, her nieces constantly talked her over, shaking their heads and saying: "if only aunt etta would let us." but however weak she was, she was firm in this: she would _not_ be helped. the outward sign of her bewilderment was extreme crossness, particularly to evelyn, who was allowed to accompany her in her search, and to hear her remarks without making any suggestions. "i will thank you to let me decide about my own house by myself." they had examined nine houses that day, and were both almost weeping with exhaustion. evelyn could not help feeling exasperated, but when etta stumbled the moment after from sheer nervousness, and evelyn caught hold of her hand, she realized from its hot trembling grasp how hard it is to come back to life again. henrietta would probably never have found the right spot, if a timely attack of rheumatism had not persuaded her to fix on bath. when she had settled into her house at last, she hated it. she dismissed five servants in two months. she was so dull, no one called; bath was so cold. if only she could let her house and go abroad for the winter. happily no suitable tenant appeared, and gradually bath grew into a habit and she became resigned. but it was long, very long, before she would own that she liked it. chapter xii and now a happier and more useful course of life began. henrietta had just enough rheumatism to take a course of waters sometimes. she found a doctor who had a great _flair_ for elderly ladies; he knew when to bully them, when to flatter them, and when to neglect them. he and the waters made a centre round which the rest of her interests might group themselves. church. she found a vicar with nothing of mr. wharton's enthusiasm and loftiness of aim, but with a greater realization of people's capacities. he too had made a study of elderly ladies, who are always such an important branch of congregations. he could see that what miss symons was in his drawing-room, touchy, incompetent, and snappish she would be in any work she did in the parish. but he was also made to see her extreme generosity, of which she herself was entirely unconscious. he liked and was touched by her humility. "oh no, don't trouble about asking me, mr. vaughan, nobody will want to talk to a dull person like me. get some nice young men for the girls, if you can." "no, i can't have that pretty miss allan helping at my stall, i can get along very well by myself. i shall bring annie; we can manage together." the poor people, of course, did not like her, for as she grew older she was more convinced than ever that the lower orders must be constantly reproved. but poor people are very magnanimous, and they were sure of a good many presents. she was also for ever bickering with her servants, but "poor old lady" as they said, "she's getting on now, it makes her worry," and she found in annie one who knew how to give at least as good as she got. horror of being defrauded by servants and tradespeople was a great resource, and though she continually deplored the pleasure of life abroad, these years of muddling in and out of her house, her garden, and her shops, were probably the happiest in her life. a certain conversation contributed not a little to this new happiness. she was at a tea-party, for once she had been admitted into the circle of tea-parties, she became much absorbed in them, and she and a neighbour were tracing an attack of influenza from its source to its decline, when henrietta's hostess came up to her. "i want to introduce you to mrs. manson," said she. "mrs. manson is a cousin of that mr. dockerell you told me you knew, miss symons." there had been no sentiment in henrietta's telling, she had quoted mr. dockerell as an authority on portugal laurels. "ah, my cousin, mr. dockerell," said mrs. manson, "you knew him, did you? he's dead, poor man, had you heard? he died last year." and once started upon mr. dockerell, she rambled away with his life's history, being one without much feeling, who could say everything to anybody. "poor fred, his marriage was such a mistake. she was older than him, and a mass of nerves. she caught him. i always said it was that; anybody on earth could have caught him. it was at worthing; those seaside places in the summer are very dangerous. my mother used to say: 'we must be thankful it isn't worse.' no, he wasn't happy. there was a story that he really liked somebody else: a miss simon her name was--simon, or something like that. where did she come from? oh yes, willstead; he had some work there at one time. 'the beautiful dark miss simon.' at least, she wasn't beautiful, that was our joke; there was a pretty sister, but she was fair. my sister always insisted he was pining after her, but that wasn't like fred. we used to be hard-hearted, and declare it was indigestion." mr. dockerell's death was not very much to henrietta, he had passed so entirely out of her life. but "a dark miss simon living at willstead, not beautiful"; she thought much of that. she could not but believe it must be herself. "so perhaps after all he did care," she said to herself, as she sat over the fire that evening, she had reached the age when she liked a good deal of twilight thinking undisturbed by the gas. but the news had come so late; if only she had known before. those months and years of unhappiness rose before her. granted that providence had decreed they were not to marry, and looking back she did not feel as if she wished they had married, it was all so far behind her, she thought that she might have been given the happiness of a farewell letter from him, telling her that she really was first in his heart. "i should never have seen him or heard from him again; of course i should not have wanted it, but it would have been so comfortable to have known." she fell into her childhood's habit of daydreams, if one can have daydreams of the past, and sat such a long time absorbed that annie came in at last with her matchbox. "don't you want the gas lit, 'm? you never rang, i was gettin' quite fidgettin' about you, your heart's not very strong." henrietta was composing his last letter, each moment making it more and more tender. she came back with a start to ordinary life, and the magazine article on "beauties of george ii.'s court," which lay open before her. she dismissed her picture of what might have been with "of course it was impossible, it's ridiculous wondering about it. how can one be so foolish at nearly sixty?" but she did wonder, and there is no doubt she was very much pleased. and after all the good news was false, he had never thought of her again. she confided the little incident to evelyn. evelyn, adoring her husband and adored by him, had been so much accustomed to men's admiration that she did not attach great value to it. she had seen long ago her old lovers pairing happily with somebody else: that side of life had been over for herself many years since. her interest now was in her sons' possible marriages, and it was a little painful to her that henrietta should be so much excited about what had never after all been more than a potential love affair. to tell the truth, she thought it a trifle petty and not worthy the dignity of one on the verge of old age. she wanted to be sympathetic, and she was too kind to say anything that would wound, but henrietta could see that evelyn did not enter into her feelings. louie's children were now started in life, and the sons were getting on so well that even henrietta owned they might be expected to take the burden of their parents upon themselves. she had her nieces and nephews to stay; minna and louie also came to take the waters. one or two of the nieces were of course collecting second-hand furniture, and used bath as a centre for expeditions to the little country towns. the visits were very pleasant, if they did not last more than two nights; after two nights there would be a danger of friction, and sometimes friction itself. her nieces and nephews were all what she called "modern," the harshest word but one she knew. a certain nephew and niece, alas, were more than modern--they were the harshest word of all, "_radical_." the nephew had too profound a contempt for old ladies to talk about anything more controversial than the local train service, but even that he discovered was a topic beyond henrietta's capacity. for it turned out, after she had appeared to be talking very sensibly about the afternoon trains, that she was referring to one marked with an "n.," a thursday excursion, which destroyed all the point of her remarks. her nephew explained this to her, but she would stick to her train, and declare that the "n." was a misprint. a misprint in bradshaw. what a mind! he had not realized that even an aunt could be so childish. of course she knew she was wrong, but she tried to persuade herself that she was right, because she was so much disappointed. she had wanted to make a good impression on her nephew, even if he were a radical. she thought men superior to women, though throughout her life her affection and veneration had been given to women--miranda, miss arundel, evelyn. she had an innocent conviction that men knew more about everything, except perhaps the youngest babies, and she was anxious for masculine good opinion. alas, to contradict her nephew several times running was not the way to win him over. he felt that contradiction amply justified him in wrapping himself up in his paper for the rest of the evening, vouchsafing "um" and "ah" occasionally after imploring pressure from his aunt. he left first thing next morning. then his radical sister came. she inspected something under government, and with a burning faith in womanhood hoped against hope that with time her aunt must be converted "to think the right things." with a mere niece henrietta felt at liberty, and very competent, to correct. but she little knew with whom she was reckoning. "servants belong to a trade union, annie and emma" (the cook) "join a union. how perfectly ridiculous!" "but why ridiculous, aunt etta?" "because it is." "no, but do tell me, aunt etta. i know there must be some solid reason, and i should be so much interested to hear it." "you should have seen annie's hat last sunday: enormous pink roses in it." "yes," answered her niece, catching her aunt out very easily, "but as far as that goes some ladies have enormous pink roses." "yes, indeed. why, when i was young we should never----" "and you don't object to their joining trade unions?" "yes, i do." "but, after all, what is that teachers' society that hilda belongs to" (hilda was another niece) "but a trade union? and you went on their excursion, hilda told me." "that has nothing to do with it" (a favourite refuge with old ladies when they are getting the worst of a discussion). "of course, if hilda----" "so i mean annie's wearing garish hats is not really a reason against her joining a trade union. you see my point, don't you?" "i particularly dislike being interrupted. i hadn't finished what i was going to say." "i beg your pardon, aunt etta, i am so sorry. what was it you were going to say?" henrietta could not remember, and branched off to something else. "wearing all this jewellery in the day is so common. that girl at the post office had two brooches and a locket, and she kept me waiting so long; she always does." "yes, but i think we must leave them to judge what they like to wear; it is not our business really, is it? but i did just want to speak to you about this servants' union, aunt etta. i wonder if i might give annie a little pamphlet i have written about it. of course, we don't want them to be always striking or anything of that sort. the aim of my society is simply to try and rouse servants to a sense of what it is they're missing--this great power of organization and solidarity which they ought to have. i think annie looks such a nice intelligent girl, who would be sure to have an influence with her friends." "no, she's most tiresome and inconsiderate. she _would_ go out this evening just when you were coming, because she wanted to take her mother to the hospital, so that i had to have mrs. spring, and it is all very well for annie to say----" "i wonder if i might read you a little piece out of my pamphlet, aunt etta, just to make a few points clear. you see, i want to get you in favour of our union so much, because we feel that mistresses ought to be co-operating with the servants, helping them to help themselves, and then we shall get a really influential body of public opinion, which will do valuable work in improving servants' conditions." henrietta writhed and struggled, and went off on frivolous pretexts, but she could not escape the pamphlet, which was extremely able; so was the author extremely able, but for a complete ignorance of human nature. henrietta heard all about socialism, land taxes, and adult suffrage too, and the more cross she became the more kindly and patiently agatha shouted, greeting any specially absurd ebullition with imperturbable pleasantness, and "how interesting, i am _so_ anxious to get exactly at your point of view." that niece was not invited again. henrietta often thought with affection and gratitude of the little old aunt, who had died many years back; but, as she would have been the first to own, her old age was not nearly so successful. her house was not a centre for everybody. she had some elderly ladies with whom she exchanged visits, but young people disliked her, and children were afraid of her. ever since she settled in england, she had made earnest attempts to curb her temper. but the companion of a lifetime is not easily shaken off at fifty-five, and more often than not she was quite unaware of crossness, from which all around were suffering severely. on the very rare occasions that she did realize it, she went back to the self she had been as a child, descended from the pedestal of her age and generation, and said she was sorry. one day she and annie had a long serious battle. the question in the first instance was whether annie had chipped off the nose of the china pug-dog on the mantelpiece, a relic of the old house at willstead; henrietta always had a tender feeling for relics. the arguments marshalled by annie were against henrietta, but arguments never had much weight with her. besides, the battle passed on from the definite point of the nose to vague but bitter attacks on character. henrietta always had in her mind an ideal servant, who accepted scolding not merely with meekness but with gratitude, and was fond of quoting her, to the exasperation of the real servants. after half an hour annie began to cry noisily, so that henrietta's words were drowned. the interview came to an end. annie went downstairs and told cook, but she wasted few tears or thoughts on the matter, and almost at once they were laughing cheerfully over their young men, as they sat at needlework. henrietta did think, fidgeting about the room while she thought, taking things out of their places and putting them where they ought not to be, in a fuss of discomfort. at last she rang the bell. "the lamp, please, annie." "the lamp 'm," said annie; "but you don't want it for half an hour yet, do you, 'm, it's such a beautiful evening?" it was impossible ever to quell annie. "the lamp, please," repeated henrietta, "and i should like to--i think you ought to--i feel that in a--what i want you to realize is that you should keep a great watch over your temper. when one comes to my age one sees that there is--and you should not put it off till too late as people sometimes--as i have done." annie's sharp ears heard the last little murmur. henrietta rather hoped they would not, though it was for the sake of the murmur that she had rung the bell. annie said "yes 'm," very pleasantly, and yielded about the lamp. she told cook afterwards, with some amusement, "she's funny, i've always said that, but," she added, "i've known some i should say was funnier." this opinion may be worth recording, as it was one of the highest tributes to her character henrietta ever received. on the whole during those latter years she improved, and in the general reformation of her character she raised the standard of her reading. she confined herself in the mornings and afternoon to mildly scandalous memoirs of frenchwomen and biographies of church dignitaries, keeping her costume novels for the evening. she often saw evelyn, and they talked of the past, but they never regained the almost heavenly intimacy of that night. they seldom met without some disagreeableness from henrietta, and she did not like the boys, there was nothing of evelyn in them, while they for their part could not imagine why their mother cared for their aunt henrietta. it was a continual struggle for evelyn not to be impatient with her; much as she longed to, she could not keep on the high plane of devotion, which had brought such happiness to both. chapter xiii henrietta died when she was sixty-three. her father and stepmother were long dead, also her second brother, whom none of the family had seen for years. when her relations were sent for, it was very cold weather in january, and louie and minna did not obey the summons. they deplored it continually afterwards, and explained to one another how appalling the wind had been, and what care they had to take for their children's sake, and how henrietta had frightened them so much the year before by sending for them when there was no need, that they naturally could not be expected to realize that this time it really was important. william came, looking more benevolent than ever with his very becoming white hair. henrietta said that she thought it was the last time she should see him, but he assured her it was just the cold which had pulled her down a little, and she would be all right again as soon as the wind changed. "it's wretched, knocks everybody up." he looked so hearty and mundane that it almost seemed, when he was in the room, as if there could not be such a thing as death. they talked about the drought last summer, and william's son, who was a planter in ceylon, and the noise of the motor-buses in london, until william said he must go for his train. he was allowing a quarter of an hour too much time, for he was able to stay and talk a little while with the doctor, who called when he was there. "there isn't any chance, you say." "no, i am afraid not. miss symons' heart has been delicate for some years; it gives her very little strength to stand against this attack." "um! i was afraid so," said william, and he was glad to get out of the house, and buy a _pall mall_. the inspector niece came down (uninvited), very energetic, and very kind in using the last few days of her holidays in nursing a disagreeable reactionary relation. she dominated the nurse, who was much meeker than nurses usually are, and quite quelled her poor aunt, too weak to protest even at attacks on the monarchy. but henrietta was much happier when the niece's holidays came to an end, and she was left to die quietly and dully with the nurse. evelyn was away in egypt with herbert for her health, and by a most unfortunate accident she did not get the first telegram announcing henrietta's dangerous illness. poor henrietta asked constantly if there was nothing from her, and as she got weaker, and a little wandering, she kept on crying like a child: "i want evelyn." they cabled again, and when the answer came, "starting home at once," it was too late, and henrietta was not sufficiently herself to understand it. as soon as evelyn got home, she went to bath. the little house was still as it was, but for some legacies which a careful nephew had already abstracted. but the place of the dead seemed to have been filled even more quickly than usual. annie, as she said, had only waited "till the pore old lady was taken" to marry comfortably with a saddler, and the parlourmaid was already established in a very smart town situation. there was an unknown caretaker to look after the house, which was to let. evelyn saw the doctor and the clergyman, who both spoke kindly of miss symons. "we shall miss your sister very much," said mr. vaughan, "she was always doing kind things,"--and he did miss her to a certain extent, but there is a ceaseless supply of generous, touchy incapable old ladies in england, and he could not be expected to miss her very much. evelyn went to see the nurse, and could hear from her more of what she wanted. the nurse was a kind, sweet girl, the centre of an affectionate family, and engaged to a devoted young clerk. "oh, mrs. ferrers, if only you could have come back in time," she said, sobbing, "or if you could have written. she _did_ want you so; every time there was a ring it was, 'is that from her?' and i heard her say to herself: 'i thought she would be _sure_ to come.' i simply had to go out in the passage, i couldn't keep back my tears, and of course one must always be bright before a patient; it is so bad for them if one isn't. some nieces and nephews came, and one of them stayed several days, and two brothers, i think; and there were several members of the family there for the funeral, and she had some simply lovely wreaths, and the church was nice and full, numbers of her poor people were there," brought there, as surely the kind nurse knew, not from love of henrietta, but from love of funerals, "but when your wire did come i cried for joy, though we couldn't make her take it in, poor dear; still it seemed as if someone really cared for her. oh, she looked so lovely and peaceful at the end, all the trouble gone." this was a comforting deception, which the nurse thought it justifiable to practise on relations, for in fact death had not changed henrietta; there had been no transfiguration to beauty and nobility, she looked what she had been in life--insignificant, feeble, and unhappy. "miss symons asked me to give you this box," said the nurse. "she made me promise i would give it you over and over again." evelyn found it was an inlaid sandalwood box, which she had sent from india as a present from the first baby. in it she found herbert's letter announcing the death of little madeline, hers and the other two babies' photographs, and a sheet of notepaper, tied with blue ribbon. on it was written, "i can't tell you how much good you have done me, i seem to have been living for this for fifteen years. evelyn, september , ." as she read it, evelyn remembered, what she had long forgotten, that this was what she had once said to henrietta. when she walked to the hotel, it was a bright, sunny afternoon, and snow was on the ground. she went to her room to take off her things, but she stood instead at the window, too intent on what she had heard to be capable of anything. her heart was almost bursting to think that henrietta should have treasured all these years the little love she had given her, crumbs, which she had as it were left over from her husband and boys, love not even for henrietta's own sake, but for the sake of the dead children. she with all the riches of love poured on her, and henrietta with so little. "i was cold, selfish, self-absorbed, i didn't think of her, i forgot her, i criticized her; it was all my fault." but even at this moment of exaltation evelyn realized that it was not her fault, but henrietta's own; that it was because she was so unlovable that she was so little loved. "but if she had had the chance she wouldn't have been unlovable. she was capable of greater love than any of us, and she never had the chance. if there is any justice and mercy in the world how can they allow a poor, weak human creature to have so few opportunities, such hard temptations, and when it yields to temptation to suffer so cruelly? and now i am to go back, and be happy with herbert and the boys, and to feel quite truly that i did everything i could, _i can't bear it_." she was so much filled with her thoughts that she had not observed the flight of time. she looked up, and was suddenly aware that the night had come, and that the sky was shining with innumerable stars. at the same moment she felt inextricably mingled with the stars, a rush of the most exquisite sensation, emotion, replenishment she had ever known. she felt through every fibre of her being that it was all perfectly well with henrietta, and that the bitterness, aimlessness, and emptiness of her life was made up to her. this conviction was a thousand times more real to her than the room in which she was standing, more real than the stars, more real than herself. tears of delight came raining down her cheeks, and she found that she was saying over and over again, "darling, i am so glad"; poor childish words, but no more inadequate than the noblest in the language to express her unspeakable comfort, beyond all utterance, even beyond thought. how often she said these words, or how long this bliss lasted she could not tell. a strange dream-like remembrance of it stayed with her for some days. she told her husband, and he said, "i am very glad of anything that can be a comfort to you, dearest;" but he looked at her anxiously, and thought it was a sign that she was to be ill again. however, she continued well and strong. she told no one else, but from henceforth she was perfectly happy about henrietta. +----------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note: | | | | changes to the original have been made as follows: | | | | page accumalation of years changed to | | accumulation | | | | page teazing of a kind changed to | | teasing | | | | page two much absorbed changed to | | too | | | | page then he felt prepared changed to | | than | | | | page inacessible foreign place changed to | | inaccessible | +----------------------------------------------------+ virgin ground by rosel george brown _annie signed on a bride ship for mars. there were forty brides. and when she got there, thirty-nine men were waiting._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, february . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] the pilot shoved open the airlock and kicked the stairs down. "okay, girls. carry your suitcases and i'll give each of you an oxygen mask as you go out. the air's been breathable for fifteen years, but it's still thin to newcomers. if you feel dizzy, take a whiff of oxygen." the forty women just stood there and looked at each other. nobody wanted to be first. annie moved forward, her bulky suitcase practically floating in her hand. she was a big woman with that wholesome expression which some women have to substitute for sex appeal. she'd made a great senior leader at summer camps. "i'll go first," she said, grinning confidence into the others. "i'm not likely to bring out the beast in them." she waved herself out, letting the grin set and jell. it was odd to feel light. she'd felt too heavy as far back as she could remember. not fat heavy. bone heavy. the sweat on her face dried suddenly. she could feel it, like something being peeled off her skin. arid climate. it was cold. but she had the warmth to meet it. there they were! forty men. there were supposed to be forty. what if one of them had died! who would go back? "not me," annie prayed to herself. "dear god, not me." she tried to count them. but they moved around so! they were looking at something. not annie. the girl coming down the ramp behind annie. it was sally, with the blonde hair on her shoulders. that's all they'd be able to see from there. the blonde hair. but a man was coming forward. he had a tam-like hat pulled low to good-humored eyes, and an easy stride. "wait, ben," one of the other men said. "see the others." "i pulled first, didn't i?" "yeah. but you ain't seen but two yet." "i want that blonde one. let gary see the others." and he led sally away. he didn't feel her muscles or look at her teeth or measure her pelvic span. after sally came nora. nora giggled and waved, making a shape under the shapeless clothes. wasn't that just like nora? okay. so she was cute. second man took nora. he didn't wait for the others. third man took regina. regina looked scared, but you could see those big cow eyes a mile off. regina obviously needed somebody to protect her. the other girls came out. annie counted and her heart hit bottom. someone was going to be left over. four women, three men. they all felt embarrassed. it was the kind of thing the colonists would talk about for years. who was last. who was second to last. spiteful people would remember, and in a tight little community, spite took root and throve on the least misinterpreted expression or--but then, this wouldn't be a tight little community, annie remembered. the lichen farms were spread out over the whole temperate belt of the world. because the lichens were grown only on hills, where the sand would not cover them. and because they did a more efficient job of oxygenating the atmosphere when they were spread over a wide area. one man, hat in hand, even in the cold. a little shriveled man with a spike of dust-colored hair, but kind-looking. "aw...." he drawled in embarrassment. he clicked his tongue. "you're both probably too good for somebody like me. i don't know. both fine women." the two women stood in silence. "what's your name?" "annie." "mary." "mary? my sister's named mary. fine woman." he took mary's hand. "no disrespect to you, annie." they were all gone. "i could take you on my venus run," the pilot said. he, too, was embarrassed. "but i'm afraid i'll have a full ship after that. unless you can buy the weight and space. i'd be glad to take you free. but the company...." annie's eyes were full but she wasn't going to let them spill. sally brought ben by, already looking self-consciously married. "i'm sorry, honey," she said. "look, annie, if you want to come stay with us until another shipment of pioneers come to break ground, you're welcome. maybe you'd--er--find one of them you liked." it was a gesture of kindness, of course, but it made annie's eyes spill. she turned her head away, toward the red hills. red and the cultivated ones green. christmas colors. "sure," ben said. "swell. any friend of sally's is a friend of mine." and the way they looked at each other made annie's heart lurch. "thanks, kids," she said. "but i don't believe i'll try it. and don't worry. this isn't the first time i've been stood up." "are you coming?" the pilot shouted across the field. "hate to rush you, but i've got a schedule to meet." was she coming? what else could she do? "what happened to him, ben?" annie asked. "my--the other man that should have been here." ben worried a hole in the sand with one foot and cleared his throat. "he stayed home." "you mean he's _alive_! here?" "well ... yes. but he didn't--" "never mind. i don't need anybody to strum a guitar under my window. if he couldn't get away from the farm today i can certainly go to him. i've got a pair of legs that'll walk around the world." "you coming?" the pilot shouted. "no!" annie cried. "i live here." the spaceship took off, a phoenix rising from the flames. ben was shuffling his feet, hands in his pockets. "we'd be proud to have you stay with us, annie." "oh, cut it out, ben. i'm no hot-house rose. just tell me which way and i'll find my own farm." she paused, trying to guess his thoughts. "you think he might be disappointed when he sees me? is that it, ben? i know i'm no pinup girl. but i'm a worker and a breeder. he'll see it. in the end, that's what's going to count." ben was still making holes in the sand with his feet, trying to say something. "please don't worry," annie went on, "your friend won't be sorry. if he doesn't want to marry me right away--okay. i can understand it. but i can give him a chance to watch me work." "that isn't it," ben said finally. "i think you look fine, annie. it's--it's _any_ woman. he told them not to send a wife for him. _any_ woman." "but that's ridiculous. he knows the laws. five years and then a wife. why did he stake out in the first place?" "that was before," ben answered. "before what?" "aw, it's not for me to say. why don't you just forget bradman. he's a good enough guy. but not for you. you come--" "which way and how far?" ben looked at her hard. "okay. on mars your life is your own." he pointed. "second farmbubble you come to. and you'd better hurry. it ought to take eight hours and night falls like a ton of bricks here." annie made it in seven. easy. * * * * * she went up to the transparent hemisphere. he was inside working. she shouted, but if he heard her he didn't look up. she went to the flap that must be the door. there wasn't anything to knock on, so she opened the flap and walked in. there was nothing in the room but a cot, kitchen equipment and lichen, growing on a number of tables. the air was richer than outside and annie breathed it thirstily. "i'm annie strug," she said, smiling and wishing it wasn't such an ugly name. he glanced up, angry blue eyes under a growth of black hair. he didn't say a word. annie set her suitcase down and looked out at the green growth on the hills. "look, mr. bradman," she cried suddenly, pointing a spatulate finger to the western horizon. "what in the name of heaven is that?" there was a catch of fright in her voice. "we don't say 'mister' on mars," he said reluctantly. "brady. but you don't have to call me anything because you're leaving soon." he was a big, arid man with a sandy voice. but his hands, as he stripped the lumpy brown fruits from a giant lichen, were surprisingly delicate. "what _is_ it?" annie asked again, turning instinctively to the big man for a reassurance and protection she had no reason to expect. bradman straightened and moved away from her, looking at the black giant growing up from the earth in the distance and moving straight toward them. "it's a sandstorm," he said. "it'll be here in ten minutes." annie let out the breath she had been holding. "oh. that doesn't sound so bad. i don't know what i thought it was. i was just frightened." she smiled shyly and apologetically at bradman. bradman grimaced at her, his agate eyes frozen in a pallid face that should have gone with red hair. the sand-blown lines in his face were cruel. "sister, you've got a smile like a slab of concrete. don't try it again." "you didn't _have_ to say that," annie said quietly, closing her eyes against the winds of her anger. "you didn't have to come here," he replied. "goodbye." "i'm not leaving," she said, still holding tight the doors of her anger. "_i_ am." he paced heavily over the sand floor and pulled back the flap of the door. "where are you going?" annie glanced back at the towering giant, now glowing red in the sunlight, like some huge, grotesque devil. "into the storm cellar. nobody lives through a martian sandstorm." annie ran after him. "for god's sake take me with you! you can't leave me...." "mine's built for one," he said, and pulled the top in over him as he disappeared into the hole. annie broke her fingernails pulling at the cover. the wind was blowing sand in her eyes. she saw blood staining the rim of her index finger. she pounded with her fists. "let me in!" she screamed. "in the name of god!" but all she heard was the keening sand in the wind. she looked around. the devil was closer, malignant and hungry. it wanted to eat her alive. it made her angry. "i'll fight it," she screamed. "by god, i'll fight!" five minutes, she guessed. maybe five minutes left. she ran into the house, ripped open her suitcase. bundles of nylon marriage clothes. she began to sob. some were with lace. "fight!" she shouted to herself. there was her oxygen mask. how much oxygen? anybody's guess. it was made for maybe a few whiffs a day over a period of several months. swell. but it wouldn't keep the sand from tearing through her eyeballs and flaying her alive. wrap in nylon nightgowns? ridiculous. spacesuit? annie went through the one-room house as fast as she could. no spacesuit. why should he have one? three minutes left. sand was blowing under the hemisphere, piling up at one end and oozing out beneath. it was possible she would simply be buried. the refrigerator! that wasn't a refrigerator. only a cabinet, loosely joined. annie went outside, on the side where the field of lichens grew up a smooth, stone hill. the red devil was whistling at her now; a low, insinuating whistle. something rattled faintly against one steel rib of the hemisphere. it was a shrub, about five feet tall. annie began to laugh hysterically. brady had protected the shrub with loving care. it was tied to the steel rib through grommetted holes in the hemisphere, and covered with its own plastic bag to shield off the wind. one minute. the red devil was shouting now, laughing with triumph. he ran his sandy fingers through her hair and blew his gritty breath in her eyes. she pulled the zipper at the bottom of the polyethylene bag that covered the shrub and yanked the bag off. it was heavy, almost oily plastic, slippery and pliant. there was no time to decide whether it would be better inside or outside the house. she pulled the bag over her head inside out, so the zipper would close completely. then she folded the zipper part under once and wedged herself as far as she could go into the space between shrub and hemisphere, holding the oxygen mask in her teeth. with infinite care, though she was not likely to split the heavy bag, she pulled off her shoes and her heavy, woollen walking socks. she put the shoes back on. her slacks covered her legs. only her ankles were bare. she unraveled one sock and stuffed the yarn in her ears. there was a sudden, remarkable quiet. then, even through the yarn came the roar of the storm. for it was upon her. she looked through the milky plastic into a wild, red inferno, spitting at her in furious frustration. then she bound the other sock over her eyes. she was in a blind, muffled world now, buffeted against the shrub and the wires and the steel rib, but not painfully, because of her heavy clothing. it was as though suddenly all her senses had been switched to the last pitch before silence. "i might live," annie thought. "i might." * * * * * there was sand in the bag now. annie could feel it sifting under her collar and blowing up her ankles. not much. it was coming from the bottom of the bag. probably the end of the zipper had worked open just a little. was that the dull roar of the storm through her stoppered ears or the rushing of her own blood? if sand were seeping in, the storm must still be on. how did bradman breathe in his storm cellar? would the storm last long enough for the air to go bad? it would go bad fast, in an enclosed place on mars. bradman. what sort of monster would walk off and let another human being die? without a glance backwards? did the cold desert wear the humanity out of a man? how did a human being get like that? "'you've got a smile like a concrete slab.'" is that what you say to a person when you know you're about to leave them to die? unmarried women between the ages of and . good health. well adjusted. marriage on arrival. mars transport leaves oct. . good health ... well adjusted ... she could see the printed words, red stereo words reaching out from the page. unmarried women between ... they came and went in her mind and there was a roar in her ears. the words were gone now. only a redness that came and went. no. a blackness. annie snatched the exhausted oxygen mask off her face and gulped a pallid, sandy breath of air. it wouldn't do. she took the sock off her eyes and bound it around her nose and mouth. it would filter some of the sand out. she opened her eyes briefly and closed them. the grit stayed in. she didn't dare open them again. but the storm looked weaker. or was it her imagination? she groped for the zipper. foul air would kill her quicker than sand. she couldn't find it. hell with the zipper! she pulled her little mending kit out of her pocket and slashed the bag with the scissors. the storm sounded louder now, with the bag gone. the sand blew under her eyelids. ripped her face. tore a burning circle around each ankle. annie put her face in her hands, breathing through her nose and the sock. she held herself stiffly. she didn't want to cough. the whole world was a blind, gritty pain. there was no end to think of. only pain. a grayness. a blackness. finally, a voice. bradman. "you ruined my shrub. did you have to slash the bag, too?" annie opened her eyes. they felt red and ruined. they were watering so much her cheeks were wet. she could hardly see. she was having a coughing fit. she dragged herself upright. all she could see was sand. the plastic bubble had blown off the girders and if the furnishings and her suitcase were there, her eyes were still too dim to see them. "do you know what that shrub's worth on mars?" annie found the yarn had fallen out of one ear and she pulled it out of the other. "do you know what that _bag's_ worth?" gall ran in her veins. she spat it out of her mouth. she backed up to the steel beam and braced her feet against it, light in the martian gravity. "i told them not to send a woman out here." she pushed off and sank her fist into his teeth. he went down. she was too light. but he was too light, too. it evened out. she turned his face and held it in the sand. her strength was insane. "do you know what a human life is worth?" she screamed. he struggled, but she fought his bucking body, kept his face buried in the sand until he was dead and a long time after. an age passed. annie was frozen in a world rimed over with white starlight, sequinned with frost. then the crosseyed moons came up. she found an edge of the plastic bubble, rumpled and limp and half buried in the sand. she pushed off the heaviest hills of sand with her hands and pulled it out. she climbed up the anchored girders with it, and then slept the rest of the night in her own home. the next day she dug out her household supplies from the sand. the day after she cleared the sand from the lichens on her farm. on the fourth day she called a few neighbors in and late in the evening she buried bradman. no one questioned her. it had been, after all, self-defense. she kept the farm as well as any man. better. she worked. how she worked! she kept herself numb with labor, her mind drunk with the liquors of fatigue. * * * * * after five years, he came. he just appeared inside the door flap, looking a little nervous but grinning. "i'm jack hamstrong," he said, his voice full and wholesome, like iowa corn. "i--you weren't at the spaceport so i figured, what the heck. i just walked." "this is _my_ farm," annie said. "my hands are on every inch of it." hamstrong's ruddy face turned in on itself a little. "i know. i know the story. i didn't come to take anything away. i came to--good lord, didn't you _know_ you'd be sent a husband?" annie's eyes went queer, like a cat's. "a husband?" if they'd told her, she hadn't heard. "go away," she said. she looked around at her farm, the fruits of her travail--alone. the virgin birth. "no," he said firmly. "it's yours _and_ mine. legally. i'm not a mean man, annie. you'll find me patient. but stubborn. i can wait." annie sighed. or was it a shudder? she looked up again at the puckering edges of the evening sky. she put down the knife she had been peeling a giant lichen with. she wiped her hands on her apron and lifted the door flap. "all right, then," she said. "wait." "for what?" "the sandstorm," she said. and she got into the storm cellar and pulled down the weighty lid, locking it behind her. available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/excavatinghusban wall excavating a husband by ella bell wallis the mclean company publishers baltimore, md. copyright ella bell wallis excavating a husband katherine boulby had reached her fiftieth year, and all these years had been spent in single blessedness. it is true that she had not realized the entirety of the perfect calm and peace that abides in the maiden state, for her brother joseph and she lived together. but miss katherine--as she was commonly called in her native town--was of a cheerful disposition and said that she felt she was indeed blessed among women, as she had graciously been endowed with sense enough to choose a free and unfettered life, and the vexations and limitations contingent upon the proximity of one of the male sex, had been mitigated as much as possible for her as her brother was a quiet, fairly pliant man who rarely interfered with her plans for broadening and enriching her mind. this mental culture was miss katherine's chief aim in life, and it was not a selfish one. she never refused to give abundantly of her knowledge, and ever strove to correct and purify the literary and artistic tastes of her friends. it would be quite impossible to state upon what lines miss katherine pursued her mental cultivation, for, like the great geniuses, she was extremely versatile, and in almost every subject she described an avenue which, if followed to the end would lead at last to the goal whither she was bound. as miss katherine strayed from one path to another in the great labyrinth of learning, it is very probable that she was inextricably lost and didn't know it. but she found pleasure and sustenance therein, and never sought to find herself. now, it is far from my purpose to represent my heroine as a blue-stocking or as other than a most charming person. had she pursued her studies methodically and scientifically she might not have been the same delightful woman that she was, but she flitted from romantic prose to didactic poetry and from poetry to astrology, and thence to architecture, history or biology. in miss katherine you found a person who possessed a rare instinct concerning hobbies. she never became so abstruse as to be unintelligible to her friends who were not hobbyists. she dealt in interesting and easy generalities. in fact, miss katherine was one of a type the world cannot spare. of good, sound, common sense she possessed the usual allotment, but in rare, child-like enthusiasm and love of romance she was richly endowed. it is true that at times everything but romantic fancies seemed expelled from her mind, but the complications thus arising were of no moment when all the brightness and zest she infused into life were considered. it was psychologically impossible for miss katherine to view the commonplace occurrences of everyday life in the same light as do most of us. she found in a very ordinary event the nucleus of something interesting and romantic. so you see there was nothing of the blue-stocking about my heroine. there is another matter upon which the reader must be clear. one might think from miss katherine's fervent thankfulness for her single state that she had an aversion to men. such was the case only in theory. it seemed more fitting for a single woman of artistic temperament to avow a distaste for the society of the coarser sex, but in reality she got along rather better with men than women. as a rule, men are better listeners than women, and miss katherine found them more disposed to listen to her latest ideas and freshest aspirations than were women. she did not credit these listeners with ability to understand all she was saying and this incapacity in man was the reason she had never married. she had a susceptible heart, but it would respond only to him who would understand her. she was not at all averse to marriage and kept a vigilant eye upon the horizon that she might catch the first possible glimpse of the romantic figure she confidently expected would one day loom thereon. his appearance was long delayed, and, while miss katherine did not mourn because of this, still she wisely considered moving to where she would view a new and broader horizon. one day she came upon the following advertisement: "for rent--furnished house, property of captain peter shannon; delightful situation, attractive and comfortable house; garden contains very choice plants and shrubs. apply, w. j. skinner, ocean view." "there!" exclaimed miss katherine to her brother, "isn't it delightful to find just what we want with so little trouble?" "how do you know it's just what we want?" asked joseph, who had partially consented to his sister's suggestion that they rent a house near the sea during the spring and summer. miss katherine did not possess any occult power by which she could visualize the property advertised, but she did have a remarkable faculty for reading between lines. it often happened that she found there that which defied every other interpretation, but this was possibly owing to her highly developed imagination. she had so often urged her brother to develop this quality, that now his utter lack of imagination made her reply crisply-- "how do i know? because my mind has certain qualities that i see yours will never possess, and besides i think a little. now consider this advertisement with the aid of a very little imagination and common sense. the owner is a sea captain. that is a volume in itself to me. sailors are very fond of the picturesque, so i should expect captain shannon's house to be delightfully situated, quaint and comfortable. i can't imagine anyone from whom i'd rather buy property than from such a man as captain shannon must be," concluded miss katherine. "why don't he live in it himself, then, if it's such a fine place?" inquired joseph with an attempt at sarcasm which was quite beyond him. "can he live in a house on the land and sail on the sea at the same time?" demanded his disgusted sister. "well, if i had such a place as you say it is i wouldn't be risking my neck on the sea. i'd stay right there and raise vegetables," returned joseph. joseph was several years older than his sister and as he had just retired from business with the intention of spending the remainder of his days in peace and calm, he thought it wise not to jeopardize this residue of his life by running counter to any fixed idea of his sister. but in yielding to miss katherine's strong desire to spend the spring and summer near the sea, joseph was not solely actuated by fear of her displeasure. he thought that a few months of undisturbed gardening would be the purest possible happiness, so readily consented to miss katherine's going to view the place for rent. she went, she saw and she was captivated. such a view! such a garden! nothing could be more delightful. ocean view was not far distant from their home, so the day after his sister's return joseph set out to see the house for himself. he found miss katherine's praise very just. it was indeed a most pleasant place, and though the garden sadly needed care, that fact, in joseph's eyes, did not detract from the desirability of the place. beneath a very impassive exterior he concealed a tenderness and real passion for flowers and a garden. he had passed his days in his hardware shop among unlovely objects, and had never gratified this one passion, which was still strong. but now joseph thought of the long spring and summer days spent in the garden, and went in haste to interview the agent. "captain shannon's place, eh?" said mr. skinner. "it used to be a pretty place when the captain lived there, and i have had good tenants who have kept it up pretty well, but we didn't rent it last year so it's grown up rather wild. would you happen to be fond of flowers, now?" upon joseph's replying that he was, mr. skinner continued: "captain shannon lived there only two years when he took to sea again. i don't know whether he's dead or alive, for that's seven years ago, and i've never seen or heard from him since. i send the rent to his bank in new york, but it's my opinion that he's gone where he don't need money, for if he was alive why wouldn't he come back and spend the rest of his days here? he ain't a young man by any means, about sixty, i think. but i was going to tell you why i asked if you were fond of flowers. the captain was crazy about them and kept a record of all his choice plants. that book's in the library now. well, when he told me he was going to sea again and asked to rent the place, he said to get a tenant that would look after the plants. it just seemed to me he wanted to stay, but the sea pulled too strong for him and he had to go. but now if you like pottering round in a garden, that's just the place for you." joseph felt it was but did not express himself too strongly until he had concluded a very good bargain. to miss katherine's extreme delight joseph was ready to move to ocean view without delay. she had drawn from him all the information concerning captain shannon that he had obtained from mr. skinner. she had immediately jumped to the conclusion that the captain had been lost at sea. to tell the truth, although she had as tender a heart as woman ever possessed, the owner's tragic end rather increased her delight in her surroundings. it wasn't every day one had the opportunity of handling things that had belonged to one for whom fate had destined such a tragic end. it was towards the books in the library that she felt most reverently. not for a moment could she forget that these books had been selected, read and loved by captain peter shannon, victim of the cavernous seas. but soon she came to value the books for themselves, for she found them much to her taste. there was nothing in literature that so captivated miss katherine as tales of daring on land or sea, and of these the captain's library was full. "captain shannon must have been a very interesting man," she remarked rather sadly to joseph. "i can tell by his books. his tastes were just like mine," she added naively. "don't let your mind run on him too much, katie," advised joseph. "it would only lead to disappointment, for he's most likely drowned or dead, it don't matter which." "i'd try to exercise a little common sense, joseph boulby," returned his sister acidly. "why, ain't i?" asked joseph. "i don't see anything unreasonable about warning you not to set your heart upon a dead man. there's not much chance of a corpse coming to life these days." joseph's delight in his garden was actually making him facetious. however strongly miss katherine became convinced that, had he lived, there would have been a strong affinity and perhaps something more between captain shannon and herself, she did not become depressed. but without doubt there entered into miss katherine's heart a sentiment that she had never experienced before. in a closet full of rubbish she found a portrait of a seamanly looking, heavily whiskered man. this she rightly conjectured to be a feeble attempt to reproduce on canvas captain shannon's noble countenance. she tastefully framed the portrait and hung it over the books she fancied he had best loved. having made an exhaustive examination of the books on the library shelves, miss katherine turned her attention to the papers which the table and desk contained. she felt no compunction in doing this, although she rarely meddled with the affairs of others. but to captain shannon's personal papers she felt she had a peculiar right, a sort of spiritual right. what she found among these papers was of such interest and import that she rushed at once to find her brother. "joseph! joseph boulby!" she gasped. "you'll never guess what i've found! the log of a schooner! captain shannon's schooner. he was shipwrecked and the schooner was lost but--i'll read it to you, joseph: 'log of schooner fare-thee-well'--isn't that a fine name--'peter shannon owner and master. "'may , ' . "'sailed from manzanilla with cargo of lumber for panama. wind blowing strong from n. w. "'made miles. "'may . "'wind increased in volume. still running with wind on starboard beam. unable to make an observation. made miles by dead reckoning. "'may . "'wind veered slightly to westward and continued to freshen. glass falling rapidly. made miles. "'above is log of schooner up to may , from which time it was impossible to keep further record until she was beached. following is story of the last voyage of the fare-thee-well. it was written after landing on cocos island. "'may . hurricane struck us at four bells in the afternoon watch, as nearly as i can remember. called all hands to close reef the mainsail, intending to run before wind under storm jib and mainsail reefed down, when enormous sea struck us washing away mate and two seamen, leaving only myself and boy. schooner heeled so far to port that i feared she could not right herself, and water covered half the desk. strain on mainsail so great that it snapped about fourteen feet above deck carrying sail and top hamper with it. boy and i managed to cut away all stays and shrouds and cleared away the wreckage, after which we scuddled before the wind under bare poles. with help of boy i managed to rig spare topsail from stump of mainmast and with storm jib we managed to keep steerage way upon her. "'may . still running before the wind. "'may . do. "'may . do. "'may . just before midnight, as near as i can remember, schooner struck with terrible force and waves swept her from stem to stem. boy carried overboard. was unable to do anything to save him. "'may . when morning came the sea had gone down somewhat and i discovered an island about one hundred fathoms on port bow. was afraid vessel would break up so made a raft with what spars and lumber i could get together, and taking the log book, a few tools, instruments and provisions, i endeavored to reach the land. after great difficulty i landed on what proved to be cocos island.'" for a moment or two after she had ceased reading, miss katherine remained silent as if overpowered. she soon recovered speech however. "i thought i had estimated captain shannon correctly when i said that he was no ordinary man, but i don't believe i did full justice to him. did you notice the style of this narrative, joseph? it is so direct and simple, but forceful and compelling. i don't think i would be going too far to say that there is the stamp of genius upon this manuscript. and his modesty, joseph! nothing about his wonderful seamanship that kept the ship afloat or about the quick wittedness and strength that saved him, or about his sojourn on the island or his daring escape from it!" "i suppose a ship came along and took him off," said joseph. "i don't see any daring in that." "well, if you don't, i do," retorted his sister. "the idea of a man like captain shannon waiting for a ship to take him away!" "well, it would be more sensible to wait a spell before he started out," observed joseph. tenderly disposed as she was to the memory of captain shannon, joseph's remark grated upon miss katherine, and she made a very cutting remark about people who had no fine sensibilities themselves and could not feel for others who had. however, she forgave and forgot very quickly, and the next evening she confided to joseph a most important discovery. "you remember that i read last night that captain shannon had been on cocos island?" she asked. joseph replied that he remembered all she had read to him. "well," continued miss katherine, "the name of that island bothered me all night, and to-day i set to work to find out what i had heard about it. this is what i found in the encyclopedia: "'cocos island, volcanic island in the pacific ocean, s. w. of costa rica, with steep rugged coasts and quite level interior; comprises about nine square miles, is uninhabited and is reported to have been the place of concealment of treasure, jewelry and plate sent there by wealthy inhabitants of spanish colonies on the neighboring mainland early in the nineteenth century, during the wars in which they achieved their independence from spain. the belief that many of these valuables have never been recovered led to a number of unsuccessful search expeditions.' "they have never been recovered, joseph," repeated miss katherine with glistening eyes. "did you note the significance of that? the treasure was there when captain shannon landed on the island, and there he was alone on the island, with provisions enough to enable him to remain there a considerable time, with tools to aid him in a complete search, and with a raft to carry him to the mainland when he had found the object of his search. what do you think now, joseph?" "he must have had a devil of a time landing on that island in a raft if the coast is rugged and steep, as it says," remarked joseph irrelevantly. miss katherine wanted to shake her brother, but she brought wile instead of strength to her aid. joseph was known among his neighbors to be "a little close." he certainly regarded with respect and almost reverence whatever represented a good sum of dollars. "that treasure must have been worth millions of dollars," began miss katherine. "even if captain shannon discovered or brought away only a small part of it, there would have been great wealth in that part." "but he might not have known anything about it," interposed joseph, who was becoming interested. "the idea!" exclaimed his sister, "captain shannon not to know all about cocos island!" but joseph wasn't to be scorned off well taken ground, and maintained that the captain had had too much sense to put dependence in such yarns as that. miss katherine began very patiently: "it isn't a yarn, but a well substantiated fact that every sea captain would know. but i have good reasons for believing he found it," concluded miss katherine mysteriously. miss katherine closed her lips tightly as if she knew a great deal but was resolved to make no more disclosures to a skeptic. she acted very wisely, for curiosity is not confined exclusively to females. joseph resisted as long as he could and then said in a gruffly apologetic tone: "i didn't mean to offend you, katie; but i was trying to see all sides of the case. would you have any idea where he put the money and valuables, if he found them?" miss katherine was quite mollified. "i wouldn't want to say that i knew exactly where he put them, but i'll tell you what i've deduced from the facts of the case. one would suppose that captain shannon had put all his money into his schooner which was lost, but notwithstanding that he immediately settles here and spends a good deal of money upon this property. i am convinced that that money was part of the treasure he found on cocos island." miss katherine paused impressively. "where is the rest?" asked her brother in almost child-like faith. "fate destined the captain to be a victim of the sea, so he had to leave, and he thought to himself that he wanted his treasure to fall into the hands of some kindred spirit, should he never return. captain shannon is a man whom few understand, but i am convinced that i do. he was a man of strong human sympathy--" "yes, katie, dear," interrupted joseph meekly. "what you say is perfectly correct, but what were you going to say about the treasure?" "i was just about to explain it all, joseph. he wanted his treasure to fall into the hands of some kindred spirit, should he never return, some one who would be able to deduce his idea from the clews he left behind. first he leaves instructions that only congenial people are to rent this property, then he leaves his diary. then he says to himself, 'if the person that reads this diary is really interested in me, that person will find out the history of cocos island and infer my discovery of the treasure.' and then he thought it would be but a short step to the actual finding of the treasure." "humph!" grunted joseph. "a short step? in what direction i'd like to know?" "i am not prepared to say exactly where it is," explained miss katherine, "but my theory is that it is secreted about the house or garden." "if it's in that garden," began joseph, energetically but was interrupted. "we must be very guarded and no one must suspect our purpose," cautioned miss katherine. "we cannot tell to what ends people might go if it was discovered that there was a great treasure concealed here. we will have to be careful about admitting strangers to the house or garden. it is very probable that some sailors, friends of captain shannon's, might have suspected this, for i never read a treasure story yet where someone didn't make trouble." twice that night, after miss katherine had retired to rest, she almost rose from her bed at the thought that the house was in a most unfortified state. whether she expected to see john silver, wooden leg, urbanity and all, climbing in at the window, i can not say, but she felt so insecure that it was long after midnight when she fell asleep. she dreamed that captain shannon and she were sailing away to cocos island and he was telling her that all the jewels there were hers if she would only take him, too. ah! the futility of the sweetest dreams! but the next day miss katherine had the treasure searching problem well in hand. her mind had at once turned to the classic on this subject, and she hastened to find poe's "purloined letter" and "gold bug." therein she found many possible methods and studied in detail the house-searching methods of the parisian commissaire de police. she imparted something of what she had learned to joseph, but he didn't have any faith in 'yarns.' his fingers were itching to use the spade and pick-axe, but this miss katherine strictly forbade as yet. the next day she continued her studies and was in a most interesting and instructive part when the door bell rang. she knew that mrs. white, their only maid, was so employed that she could not go to the door. reluctantly she laid down her book and answered the ring. a well-built, fresh, clean shaven man of about sixty regarded miss katherine pleasantly as he inquired if mr. boulby were home. upon being informed that mr. boulby was not home, the stranger said that with permission he would step in and explain his business. the line of thought upon which miss katherine had been intent for the past few days had inclined her to be suspicious, and she regarded the stranger with a distrustful eye. he, however, was quite unobservant of this attitude toward himself, and he stepped into the hall. miss katherine was compelled to conduct him to the library, the other rooms being in the throes of house-cleaning. as the stranger entered that room his eye fell immediately upon captain shannon's portrait which occupied a very conspicuous place. he seemed struck by it, and as miss katherine turned to offer him a chair she saw him gazing at it with great interest. "ah, you observe captain shannon's portrait," said miss katherine in a pleased voice. "we have just come here, but i am greatly interested in the captain. i found the portrait in a closet and framed it. i think it is a remarkable face, don't you?" the question seemed to confuse the stranger. "i--er--do you?" he stammered. "i--er--i believe i have met the captain, oh, i mean i knew him quite well. now, er, well really what is remarkable about the face?" "there is so much remarkable about it, to me," returned miss katherine. "there is unusual strength in every feature, it seems to me, and the face is a most interesting and attractive one." the stranger's hand crept to his face where it went through the motions of clutching a beard, an adornment which he lacked. he gazed stupidly from the portrait to miss katherine and back again to the portrait. he spoke in a very hesitating and uncertain way. "did you say--that you--er--found the portrait in a closet--er--and went to the trouble of framing it?" "yes, that is quite correct. but it was no trouble, only a pleasure and the contemplation of those features has amply repaid me," replied miss katherine. "it--er--will naturally be very gratifying to--er--the captain--ah--when he returns--ah--to find his portrait so--er--highly valued," observed the man. "i'm sure i couldn't say about that as the poor captain was drowned, at least he is supposed to have been lost at sea. but i believe him to have been a very modest man, and i doubt whether it would really gratify him to see his portrait there." the stranger's hand again went to his face, and as it was a large hand almost covered the features. "i hadn't heard," he began in a very throaty voice, "i--i--didn't know that the captain--ah--wasn't--er--what you just said, you know." miss katherine observed the stranger sympathetically. he had evidently been a friend of the captain and felt his loss. "sit down, sir," she said kindly, "i see you feel this, and no wonder. of course in cases like this one is never sure just what has happened; but it is believed that captain shannon must have met with some misfortune as he has not been heard from for seven years." "oh! seven years!" repeated the man. "ah, i see." "it is a pity that such a man as captain shannon should be cut off in his prime," sighed miss katherine. "ah, you think that the late captain was--er--a--ah--some good in the world?" inquired the stranger. "i am very sure he was that and a most charming man besides," replied miss katherine, her eyes dwelling admiringly and wistfully on the portrait. "the captain should be hap--ah, i mean--er--it is pleasant--er--i should say, madam, that--ah--in fact i am detaining you," he lucidly concluded. "not at all," returned miss katherine affably. "if you would explain your business i might serve in place of my brother, or i can tell him you called, mr. ----" "oh--a--murphy," supplied the stranger hastily. "i knew this place was for rent but didn't know whether it had been taken or not so i thought i'd see about it. it would suit me splendidly. would you--ah--could you consider a lodger, madam?" "well, really," replied miss katherine very pleasantly--the man was very gentlemanly and not at all ordinary--"really, i'm afraid not, although i should very much like to accommodate you." "oh, that's alright," mr. murphy assured her. "it's a nice healthy spot and i think i'll spend a few months here--to--er--recover my health." miss katherine looked at his fresh face and vigorous frame in some surprise, whereupon mr. murphy made haste to explain: "i am feeling very much better now, but not quite right. i--ah--should be able to lift five hundred pounds. well now, i'll just say good morning and i'll see if i can get suitable lodgings somewhere near. i feel--er--that our common friendship for the late captain shannon should be--ah--a sort of bond, so to speak, between us, so i shall drop in to see you again." miss katherine gave him a very cordial invitation to come and see her brother and herself frequently. when the door had closed upon mr. murphy, a shade passed over her face and she betook herself again to the library. could it be that this stranger was a spy? had he really known the captain and suspected the existence of the treasure? was he going to stay in the vicinity to keep watch upon them? miss katherine trembled as she thought of what might have become of joseph and herself if she had taken him as a lodger. but here poor miss katherine's heart suffered a pang, for she thought of the gentlemanly deportment and attractive appearance of her visitor. he had seemed quite impressed with her, too. there was no denying it. she rose from the chair with a sigh and walked about the room. "i must hide the book, anyway," she exclaimed aloud. "there's no telling what that man was after and i'd better put it in a safe place." she took the treasured volume--capt. shannon's diary--and, after glancing out of the window to make sure she was not watched, she stole cautiously from the room as if the house were full of spies. when she reached the floor above she stood still, wondering what hiding places the house afforded. there were not many, she knew, but now she could think of none. downstairs was out of the question. anyone could come in there at night and carry it off. the second floor was little better for the windows were all open and anyone could enter them by means of a ladder. the attic! yes, that was the only place and miss katherine flew up the steep stairs to the attic. there was a very little light admitted through a small window, and when her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, she saw a trap door in the ceiling. of all places in the world this was the most desirable. as luck would have it she found an old ladder among the rubbish. one end of this she placed against the trap door, then, pushing with all her might at the other end, she succeeded in raising the door and liberating clouds of dust, spiders, dead flies and cob-webs. though half choked and blinded she proceeded to execute her scheme. placing an end of the ladder in the opening she endeavored to make it secure from slipping. of its strength she was fairly satisfied, but she could not feel confident of its equilibrium. she did the best she could and then began the perilous ascent. she held the book in one hand and with the other clung fearfully to the rickety ladder. she stood in need of another prehensile member for the rungs of the ladder were worn smooth as glass and every upward step was fraught with danger. the ladder creaked ominously beneath a weight that was far from trifling. however, she made a steady progress, and when she had climbed as far as she dared, she very cautiously reached upward and placed the book upon the rafters. in her relief at having placed the book in safety she forgot caution and gave the ladder the excuse it was looking for. she felt the ladder going and frantically grabbed the side of the trap door. it was well her arms were not slender ones for they had to support her entire weight. the very ceiling creaked. a severe fall was to be preferred to bringing the roof down upon her, so she suddenly let go her hold and came crashing down upon the floor that quivered to receive its burden. but it was only a moment before miss katherine was sufficiently recovered to assure herself that, as the book was securely hidden nothing else was of consequence. poor miss katherine was bruised all over and had considerable difficulty in hiding her physical sufferings from mrs. white, who was a native of ocean view, and therefore it would never do to arouse her suspicions. when that lady asked miss katherine how she got such a bruise on her arm, she replied that her flesh bruised at a touch and she must have struck it against something. but when mrs. white inadvertently touched miss katherine upon quite another part of her body and she flinched before she recollected caution, the aforementioned lady began to wonder, and when a woman begins to wonder she soon has something to tell. when joseph returned his sister related all that had occurred during his absence. his evident uneasiness concerning mr. murphy's motives was quite comforting. it is so gloomy to be the only anxious one in the house. "he can't set foot on the property if we forbid him," said joseph with a determined countenance. "but we can't do that, at least it wouldn't be wise," remonstrated his sister gently. it was soothing to her bruises to note joseph's anxiety. "he is a perfect gentleman, a man we couldn't treat rudely. he mightn't be spying at all and then we'd look ridiculous, or we might arouse suspicions in him by over caution. now my plan is to let him call if he cares to, but never to leave him alone and to watch all his movements very carefully. he might unconsciously give us a clew if he has any exact knowledge of the whereabouts of the treasure. now don't you think that's the wisest course to pursue?" joseph had no wile in his makeup, so would have preferred a pugilistic encounter at the gate, as the best way of dealing with a spy, but his sister was undeniably the leader in this affair, so he agreed to remain passive while she matured her plan. it was well that they made their decision concerning the stranger when they did for the next day, in the afternoon, as joseph was digging among the flowers in the front garden, mr. murphy appeared at the gate. joseph's interest in his work had driven all thoughts of treasure and treasure seekers out of his mind. he supposed it to be one of his neighbors and merely looked up and nodded to the caller to enter. "good afternoon neighbor," said joseph with what breath his unwonted exertions allowed him, "could you tell me whether it's too late to separate these roots and transplant them? i think they're too thick, but i don't want to spoil 'em for blossoming this year. i think a piny is as pretty a flower as grows." "why, now, i'd think this was about the right time to separate the roots, but you want to do it right. now, if you'd just give me the spade i'll show you how to handle it and not cut the roots and i'll separate them, too," replied joseph's neighbor, throwing off his coat and seizing the spade. joseph stood by and watched for a few moments and then trotted off to get himself a spade. the two men spaded and puffed until all the peony roots lay on the fresh earth. then the work of separation began. the supposed neighbor acted as teacher and joseph was an interested pupil. "bless my soul!" exclaimed miss katherine, as she looked out of the window. "mr. murphy!" for almost the first time in her life she experienced a pang of jealousy and pique. when she had advocated tolerancy towards the suspect, it must be confessed that miss katherine was influenced by more than one consideration. she had been inclined to think that if the stranger came again, she would be the magnet and not the treasure. and now here he was pottering around with joseph! she didn't stay vexed long, for soon she thought he might have been coming to see her and joseph in his stupid way had stopped him with questions about his flowers. and then he very likely was fond of flowers and gardening. all nice men were. the captain had been passionately fond of them. finally miss katherine sallied out with her most engaging countenance. "so you have pressed mr. murphy into service, joseph?" she asked brightly. "eh?" returned joseph. how did kate know this neighbor's name? "i haven't even introduced myself to your brother, miss boulby," explained mr. murphy. "we have been working so hard i clear forgot." "i mentioned mr. murphy's calling, if you remember," said miss katherine to her brother, nudging him sharply. "oh, mr. murphy," repeated joseph. he recollected it all now, and being no actor, dared do nothing but stare. "you must come in to tea," said miss katherine to mr. murphy, who accepted promptly. when his sister became leader in this scene, joseph retired to the background and subsequently to the back yard. miss katherine conducted her guest to the library. supper would soon be ready. "you remind me somewhat of captain shannon," remarked miss katherine. mr. murphy looked rather startled. "i mean that you are fond of gardening. i have been told that it was a passion with the captain," explained miss katherine. "i heard something like that, too, about the captain," returned mr. murphy, who seemed more fluent than upon his first visit. "how are you feeling to-day, mr. murphy?" inquired miss katherine kindly. "feeling,--feeling?" repeated her guest in a puzzled way. "do you think ocean view will completely restore your health?" explained miss katherine. "oh! ah, yes!" hastily began mr. murphy. "to tell you the truth i have been so hearty lately that i forget i came here for my health." "isn't that lovely!" exclaimed miss katherine delightedly. "ah--er--yes, it is," replied her guest helplessly. he was unaccustomed to feminine effusiveness. "i--ah--really i find that captain shannon interests me. would you tell me something more about him?" asked mr. murphy. "i suppose it is some years since you knew him?" interrogated miss katherine, and, as her guest made a rather unintelligible reply, she continued: "i have gathered very little from others concerning captain shannon, but i have deduced a great deal. i don't think there is any class of people so interesting as sailors, and especially captains. they are daring, picturesque, romantic, don't you think?"--mr. murphy scratched his head as if he would make an inlet for these new ideas.--"paul jones, long tom and even captain kidd were such captivating characters."--mr. murphy changed off to the other hand.--"on this account i was disposed to admire captain shannon, and when i noticed the books he had read and loved i admired him much more. i have always told my brother that a man is charming in proportion to his love of tales of daring and chivalry and romance." here the tide of miss katherine's eloquence was interrupted by an eager gesture from her listener. "if captain shannon set such store by those books, i believe i'll have a try at them," he said. miss katherine's face glowed. here was a man! she went to the shelves and read over the names. seeing mr. murphy's lips moving as if he were committing them to memory she offered to make a list for him. this was too great a kindness! how much he would value it! all this and more that followed on the same lines raised mr. murphy to a great height in miss katherine's estimation. through strict vigilance he succeeded in maintaining this exalted position. * * * * * though other matters might temporarily thrust aside her central subject of interest, miss katherine invariably returned to it. the morning after mr. murphy's second visit she set to work in earnest to obtain a clew to the hiding place of captain shannon's treasure. where was she to begin? she was well informed on the subject of secret drawers and closets and she knew that one was apt to stumble upon them unawares. an inadvertent touch upon a panel, the slightest pressure on some bit of carving might expose the most cleverly concealed hiding place. for this reason miss katherine experienced more or less uneasiness when mrs. white was not directly under her eye. she found excuses to follow her about constantly, until that honest woman, being of ordinary penetration, concluded that she was not thought strictly trustworthy. as she was a very sensible being she decided that it was not unreasonable for miss boulby, an entire stranger, to keep an eye on her. she had heard of such substantials as butter, meat and flour disappearing through the back door, through the agency of the domestic, so she offered to get a testimonial from the minister. miss katherine saw her mistake at once and lied glibly but not well. she explained that since coming to that house she had been strangely timid and didn't like to be alone, and if mrs. white had noticed her following her about it was for that reason and no other. to give weight to her assertion, she threw in a ghost or two that she had suspected the house of harboring. miss katherine would not have congratulated herself upon the success of her explanation had she known that mrs. white was saying to herself that perhaps all that was true and perhaps it wasn't, but it would be wise for her to keep an eye on miss boulby. miss katherine had not yet made a sufficiently exhaustive study of poe's prose tales and was thus employed in the library the next morning, when, happening to glance up from her book, her eyes fell upon the great fireplace that occupied almost the entire end of the room. miss katherine received an inspiration. she sat up, straight and alert. "it is a most likely place," she said aloud. she went over to the fireplace, looked at it carefully and began a careful examination of the old-fashioned iron ornamentations. in the centre of the mantle was a dog's head in gilded iron. she pinched and pushed him, trying to find a spring in his eyes, nose, ears or tail. he remained immovable, however, as did everything else pertaining to the mantle. but there was still hope. she lightly tapped the brick walls for she had been reading poe's frightful tale of the black cat, and she had learned that an unusual space in a wall could be detected by a light rap upon it. miss katherine's ear was not trained to this sort of divination, but she persevered, testing first a wall she was certain was solid and then working on a suspected area. mrs. white had not forgotten her suspicions of the previous day and was on the alert. she knew miss boulby was in the library and when she caught the sound of a gently repeated, mysterious rapping in that room, she tiptoed to the door and applied her eye to the keyhole. what she saw would have made anyone inquire whether miss boulby were in possession of her senses or if she never had had any. she was down upon her knees before the hearth, gently tapping the bricks and listening intently to the sound she produced. "my stars alive!" whispered mrs. white to herself as she rose on trembling limbs, "what's she after or is she crazy? it's my belief she's stark crazy." unable to satisfactorily answer her own query she crept back to the kitchen, where she sat down and faced the situation. was she not in danger by remaining there with a lunatic? she shivered when she thought that she very likely had been within an inch of death when miss boulby had taken to following her around. thank goodness, she had taken to tearing the house to bits and not her! mrs. white resolved to have a bad attack of sciatica that very night and to leave the next morning. meanwhile she would be constantly on guard. all unsuspecting this attitude on mrs. white's part, miss katherine was preparing for bed that night and thinking about the unfortunate impression she had made upon mrs. white. "she is a good and sensible woman," said miss katherine to herself. "i should be very sorry to hurt her feelings or awaken any suspicions in her, but--i declare to goodness i've never searched the cellar and that's one of the likeliest places. i can't possibly do it in the daytime for she goes there so frequently. i'd just better slip down now and have a look." so saying, miss katherine slipped a heavy wrapper over her night dress, drew on her stockings and slippers, and with the extreme caution that makes every board in a floor creak and every joint in one's body crack, she proceeded down the stairs. now this stealthy tread was just what mrs. white's ears was expecting. "she's prowling round the house," whispered that lady to herself. "it's a mercy i didn't fall asleep." having located the enemy, mrs. white slipped out in cautious pursuit. she heard miss katherine enter into the kitchen and open the cellar door and start down the stairs. she stole out the front way and went round the house to a cellar window. when she arrived at that vantage point she beheld miss katherine standing in the centre of the cellar, holding a lamp above her head that she might first get a good general view before beginning particular investigations. "this is a difficult task," she said aloud, "the cellar is so large that it would take me all night to sound all the walls. now, would there be an old iron-bound sea-chest, the kind sailors hide things in, in a corner here?" holding her lamp well above her head, she slowly turned herself about that she might see every corner. now it happened that old tabby had just presented the thankless household with a family of kittens. she had thought that some straw that lay in a corner of the cellar would be a soft, safe bed for her babies, and as a broken window provided ingress and egress for herself, she had taken possession of the corner. old tabby's guard over her family was most vigilant, but she had not been disturbed until this strange figure made its appearance in the centre of the cellar. as miss katherine brought her light to bear upon tabby's corner, the watcher at the window, who knew nothing of the family in the cellar, beheld the lamp dashed to the ground and heard a terrified but half-suppressed shriek and then flying footsteps. she did not wait to see or hear more but stole upstairs as fast as she could in a panic, not knowing but that she might meet the maniac on the stairs. "i'll be crazy, too, if i stay here any longer," she said to herself. "if i'm spared till morning i'll get out of this." she put all the movable furniture in her room against the door, sent up a fervent prayer for protection and got into bed, but not with the intention of sleeping. the next morning she informed miss boulby that she was far from well, was all crippled with sciatica and would have to leave. her pale face corroborated her words and reluctantly miss katherine let her go. * * * * * i should like now to turn the reader's attention to our friend, mr. murphy. that gentleman had found comfortable lodgings and seemed to be getting much attached to ocean view. by watching rather closely one might suspect that he wished to avoid the adults of ocean view, excepting mr. and miss boulby. he called upon them pretty frequently. the boys of the neighborhood found his society very entertaining and followed in a pack at his heels. he did not always welcome this following, however, for he often put a book in his pocket and rambled along the shore until he found just the right spot where he could sit and read undisturbed. he had taken to doing this immediately after his second call at the boulbys'. the books he carried at first bore the mark of ocean view public library. but one afternoon when he had found his favored spot, he drew from his pocket a glistening new volume. "gosh darn it!" muttered mr. murphy, as he regarded the book, "if i'd ever thought i'd come to this i suppose i'd 've drowned myself." he leafed over the book and looked at the illustrations. "it ain't dull reading anyway. it might be worse. they say cooper was a clever man so i guess it won't spoil my intellect to read 'em. but it does beat all how tenants use things. to think of those brand new books looking like that!" mr. murphy turned to the first chapter and began "the pilot." he became very much interested therein and read on till the greyness of the page told him that it was growing late. he closed the book, put it in his pocket, stretched out his legs and gazed across the water. "i'll be damned if it isn't the best of any of 'em, and i've read upwards of two dozen now. well, i'd never have believed it. you'll come to almost anything in this world, that's my belief. but it does take a woman to give you the push that starts you down." he meditated silently for sometime, but began again to hold audible commune with himself. "i wonder if i've got the correct picture in my head of that knight of the waves hanging up in that library? it would be a good pattern to model myself after if the elements of all those high qualities ain't in me already. by darn, that's it! they are in me all the time, too, and i don't realize it. they just need bringin' to the surface, excavating 'em so to speak. 'daring' was one of 'em--well, i never was called a coward. 'picturesque'--that's a hard one to come at. now an indian dressed up in his war togs, or a mexican or even a cowboy would have some claim on that quality, but i'll be darned what a plain, sober, god-fearing man can do to be it and keep the respect of his mates. i'm doubtful of making that one. if i remember right she claimed he was 'romantic.'" mr. murphy kicked the pebbles about and then resumed his monologue. "it wouldn't be as hard to make that one as the other one. i've got half a dozen to steer by in any one of the books i've been pouring down me. let me see, though, she mentioned two or three: captain kidd was among 'em, i remember. i'd hate to have to carry on my conscience all he must have had on his, if that's necessary to qualify. but i've heard he wore stunning whiskers and that's probably what took her eye. i can't call the others to mind but i'm bound to hit on them soon if my eyes don't give out." the lengthening shadows warned mr. murphy that it was past supper time, so he rose, stretched himself and started homeward. * * * * * all this time we have been ignoring joseph, who had again fallen into the even tenor of his way. the vision of gold that had for a time disturbed his tranquility had vanished almost as suddenly as it had arisen. such flights of imagination were not for him and he was leading a life of perfect content when a malicious sprite stumbled upon him and marked him for her own. joseph and willie brown, a neighbor's boy, were spading up the ground where he had decided to replant his currant bushes. mr. murphy had been sauntering about and had pulled a book out of his pocket and departed when joseph's unlucky spade threw up something which, in hitting against a stone, had given forth such a clear, ringing sound that he stooped down and felt about in the fresh earth. his fingers closed upon something cold, flat and round. he rubbed it against his overalls until a piece of gold milled like a coin came to view. in a moment his mind had made the connection between his sister's theories and his discovery. he stood gazing at the piece of gold. "holy moses!" he softly ejaculated. suddenly he remembered willie. he had found but a clew to the treasure. where was the bulk of it? willie suspected something already. joseph looked at the boy, then at the gold piece, and then at the place where he had found it. i have remarked before that there was no strategy in joseph's nature. he seized willie by the arm and marched him towards the house. "that ground's too hard for currant bushes," he said to the astonished boy. "we won't work any more to-day." however, willie felt he had no cause for complaint, as joseph gave him a whole day's pay and miss katherine filled his pockets with cookies. brother and sister now held a consultation and decided that they must be up and doing. miss katherine believed that they were in imminent danger of having their treasure looted. "i know boys," she said, "they're all eyes and ears. he saw what you found before you did and he'll tell all the rest of the boys and they'll come in the night and carry the whole thing away. i think we'd better not go out to that spot again to-day for you can depend upon it, he's watching. he'll forget about it by night and then we can go out with the lantern." now, willie brown was like all other boys. after being dismissed by mr. boulby he sat down in the corner of a fence and thought. a light broke in upon him after a few moments of silent meditation. "i'll bet yuh anything!" he almost yelled, slapping his leg, "that's it!" true to the terrible oath he had sworn, he was off like a shot to rally the faithful band. it happened that he met mr. murphy before any of the band. "i thought you were helping mr. boulby," said mr. murphy. "so i was but--but--." willie's pride in his secret and mystery was his downfall. from that moment he was an empty vessel in mr. murphy's sight. that night found the brother and sister plying their spades in the garden. their lantern was burning dimly, but it gave sufficient light to show the boys all they wished to see. "what did i tell yuh?" whispered willie to his comrades of the faithful band. "don't that beat everything? and here it was all the time and we didn't know it." "i'll bet the old captain was a pirate," whispered ned larkins. "i'll bet so, too," whispered another. there is always somebody to throw cold water on our most cherished theories, as willie brown was soon to learn. "if you didn't take that thing in your own hands and examine it, you don't know what it was, willie," remarked tom parker. "there is a mystery here alright enough, but i wouldn't say you're right, willie." when they were a safe distance away they besought tom to give them the benefit of his theory, but he absolutely refused. there was no good, he said, in his getting mixed up with it, for if he wasn't mistaken there'd be trouble about this thing yet. considerably sobered, the band dispersed. the next day, though dejected and cast down, willie brown again circulated the fiery cross among his faithful followers, and did not even except the skeptic. he was fated to again fall in with mr. murphy, who had been doing some midnight scouting himself and was therefore in both glee and perplexity. by a few skillful questions and tentative remarks, mr. murphy obtained all the information he could desire. the next day joseph and his sister were feeling pretty stiff and sore after the unaccustomed exposure to the dew and cold. they decided not to work that night. "you had better drag that big packing box over the hole, joseph," said miss katherine. "somebody might fall in and break a leg." the faithful band appeared later than the previous night. mr. murphy had dropped a hint about the folly of undertaking certain kinds of expeditions at any other time than midnight. they saw the faint outlines of the box but nothing else. at first they were discomfited and then elated. ned larkins said that they must climb over the fence into the garden and dig in the exact spot where the box then was. tom parker, the dissenter, being the oldest and biggest, was appointed leader. "no, sir!" declared he emphatically. "i know better than that. i've got too much sense to meddle with that. the biggest detective in new york wouldn't dare go and leave his tracks around there. oh, no! they're too cute for that." tom, of course, meant to imply that he also was "too cute for that." willie had taken one snub from tom and he was determined that should be the last. "you're a calf," was his polite reply to tom as he vaulted over the fence. "who's goin' to foller me?" they all followed, even tom parker. they advanced cautiously. willie's temerity was moderating and he waited for the rest to come up with him. they advanced in a semicircle. as the wavering line was within ten yards of the box that object seemed to lift itself from the ground and a deep groan arose as from the bowels of the earth. oh what a fright was that--my faithful banders! in a moment the fence seemed alive with terrified and struggling boys. mr. murphy crawled out of his cramped quarters and went home. the boys had, of course, been properly sworn to secrecy, but somehow, the next day an uneasy feeling pervaded the village. no one seemed to possess any definite information, but there were rumors to the effect that there were peculiar folks now in the neighborhood; people weren't really safe and mrs. white could tell a good deal if she would. that lady had exercised a good deal of prudence and had said very little about the boulbys, but the day after the boys' adventure she was credited with volumes. it was not long before the strong minded mother of a member of the faithful band had obtained from him enough to warrant her sending to all the matrons of the village a pressing invitation to tea that afternoon. it was a formidable group that foregathered that afternoon. the discoveries and adventures of the band were duly narrated and embellished. out of the chaos of frightful tales that flourished exceedingly and waxed more and more fearful, one could have deduced the fact that the boulbys were nothing more or less than modern blue-beards. well, their families had to be protected, and if they told the men all they knew it would be all over the country in no time, and for some reason they didn't think that would be well. as far as they could see the best thing to be done was for them to investigate for themselves that very night. and so it was that for the third time the boulbys were to undergo a night attack. miss katherine was not the sort of woman to be caught sleeping. she had been unable to continue the excavation, owing to a slight attack of rheumatism. she felt uneasy about so vast a treasure lying unguarded and begged joseph to make himself some sort of shelter in the garden and keep watch during the night. "you wouldn't have to keep awake all the time," she said, "you'd hear any noise in your sleep and it would do you good to sleep out in the fresh air." but joseph was not a fresh air enthusiast, and the very idea of sleeping in the garden gave him rheumatic twinges. however, miss katherine was not to be balked. she took the faithful old dog bruno by the collar and led him to the garden where she pointed out the box and explained his duty to him. bruno understood and consented. "a woman has always one she can depend on, if she has a dog," miss katherine cuttingly remarked as she re-entered the house. just a word about mr. murphy before we proceed with the night attack. he had been very busy all day, walking about the village, chatting with the boys and gossiping with the women. there might have been method in his gossip, as he seemed to elicit just what he desired. towards evening he took a walk along the shore and held communion with himself. "i don't think she'd call it chivalrous to scare them. but she'd rate it pretty high if i kept watch to come to the rescue of the besieged or the besiegers, whichever needs help." as mr. murphy has reached this satisfactory conclusion we will leave him and return to follow the female posse across the fields to the boulbys' garden. when the group of trembling females had reached the garden fence they beheld the confirmation of the boy's story. there was a whispered discussion of the advisability of further investigation. the pros won and the means to this end now stared them in the face. the picket fence had presented no difficulties to the boys but it was a great obstacle to their mothers. to climb it was impossible. the only other way was to make a breach wide enough to admit a portly form. one picket was gone and they began loosening several on each side of the opening. it was difficult to do this and prevent the loosening nails from screeching. the process was a very slow one as such care had to be exercised. meanwhile bruno was quite cognizant of their presence and with bristling hair and bared teeth was crouching for an attack when further provocation should be given. the boulbys had retired early, as neither was feeling very well, but towards midnight miss katherine awoke and began to think of poor old bruno. she thought she would get up and peek out to see if he were all right. the trespassers were making sure but slow progress and were still hanging on the pickets with their whole weight as miss katherine looked out of the window. she was not at all alarmed. she understood her own sex, her faithful dog and her own resources. the heaviest of the group had now been pressed into service as weights on the loosening pickets which suddenly surrendered with a frightful wrenching sound. simultaneously with this noise there arose from the box a savage growl and a great, black beast threw himself into the air like an imprisoned spirit released from hades. from the window had come a sharp report and from the opposite fence a yell that must have been emitted from a savage throat. at the too sudden surrender of the pickets four heavy females were precipitated against their companions and the whole posse fell in an inextricable mass upon the ground. miss katherine let the burst paper bag flutter to the ground as she hung upon the window curtain, helpless with laughter. mr. murphy scudded away from behind the fence ejaculating, "bully for her! she doesn't need a protector. it's no wonder she's set her heart on a romantic man." when morning came and they could speak more calmly concerning their bruises the same females were again met in conclave. some were for placing the matter in the hands of the constable, but this did not meet with unanimous approval. "poor old constable wilson couldn't get up enough courage to go there," said one. "it would be a shame to ask him," said another. "everybody knows he isn't expected to look after anything dangerous. such a thing as this was never heard of before in this neighborhood, so they just put in old man wilson for he could keep the boys out of the orchards and 'tend pound and that's about all there is to do in this neighborhood. now isn't there somebody that could handle them boulbys?" "i've got a plan," began an earnest faced matron. "i think mr. horton's the man to see to this. if he can't exhort the evil spirit to come out of them boulbys, nobody can. and he ain't afraid of anything either. it's his duty, too, to look after things like this, for we all know that the evil one has taken control of the boulbys, body and soul. but we won't have to do any urging to get mr. horton to do his duty. just last sunday he said in his sermon that the scent of the battle and the battle cry was like perfume to his nostrils and music in his ears, when he could wage war upon the forces of evil." "that's a good plan," agreed a sister in the church. "you're right in saying he ain't afraid of anything. his sermon last sunday was a splendid one. i thought he'd break the old pulpit to pieces, he was that earnest. he preached about gideon and gideon always makes a good subject. do you remember that he said that when he felt he was armed with the sword of the lord and of gideon he could face ten thousand foes?" it was agreed that this fearless spirit would be undaunted by this task and a committee was appointed to place the matter before him. mr. horton was a man, who, had he been of another religious persuasion, would have made one of alva's fiercest bloodhounds. he was untiring in his zeal for the cause he espoused. he knew not mercy and he gave no quarter in the battle. and so he listened with hardening face to the tale poured forth by the suffering females, the most faithful of his flock. no need to urge him forward on the path of duty. he gave his word that he would go forth without delay to wrestle with the evil spirit that possessed these unfortunate people. and thus it was that joseph caught sight of the ministerial form stalking up the walk just as his sister was concluding a recital of the events of the night before. "the minister's coming," he warned miss katherine. "don't let him hear you laughing about scaring those women--likely it's that he's coming about." "nonsense!" exclaimed his sister. "i'd pretty soon tell him to mind his own business." grim and undaunted mr. horton stood upon the verandah, awaiting admittance. not even the pleasant, welcoming smile upon joseph's mild and open countenance softened his austerity. "a wolf in sheep's clothing, no doubt," he said to himself. it was well that he had steeled his heart, for miss katherine was at her pleasantest this morning, and she was very charming in that mood. but even she could not soften that heart of adamant. when he had seated himself he calmly began a searching scrutiny of the two faces before him. perhaps he was a student of natural history and had learned that this was one way of taming wild animals, and as he had come to cage the roaring lion that walked up and down the world seeking whom he could devour, it would be well to follow approved methods. mr. horton was not a man to hesitate when his duty lay plain before him, so he informed the brother and sister that he had come to inquire after the welfare of their souls and to save them if they felt themselves lost and guilty sinners condemned to a fearful punishment. under this attack joseph was more nettled than his sister. miss katherine told herself that he must be a religious fanatic and as they hadn't yet attended church in ocean view, he believed them to be godless people. "i have every sympathy with religious enthusiasm," she gently informed mr. horton, "but, of course, i don't feel as strongly on the subject as you do." this remark confirmed his wolf theory and he began to fear that he had to deal with the wiliest of satan's lieutenants. he thought he had better strengthen himself by a word of prayer so informed them that they must kneel with him. joseph's face grew dark, but miss katherine imperatively motioned to him to be silent and passive. mr. horton implored aid in the task he had undertaken and begged that he might be the instrument to bring these poor, lost, guilty souls to repentance. under shelter of this storm of words miss katherine whispered to her brother that he must control himself and must not be violent. when they rose from their knees, mr. horton was breathless, so miss katherine had him at her mercy. she politely asked him to excuse her brother as he was not feeling well, at which joseph gratefully withdrew. "a guilty soul is a terrible thing, miss boulby," said mr. horton mopping his forehead. "yes, i suppose it must be," she returned calmly, "but what is even worse is to have a mind that is constantly imagining evil in others. now, mr. horton, the ladies of your church have quite ignored us since we came, but i should be very much pleased if mrs. horton and some of the prominent ladies in the church would call and we can discuss what i can do and where i can fit in in church work." mr. horton fairly shone with triumph. here was a repentant sinner. "there is joy among--" he began but that was too much for miss katherine. * * * * * about this time mr. murphy was giving the pebbles on the shore the benefit of one of his frequent monologues: "i've seen them taken with it before," he informed himself, "but never so bad as she's got it. treasure hunting is like yellow fever. you've got to let it burn itself up. i should think her treasure hunting fever would be about cured, but you never can tell with a woman. perhaps she's onto a new place by this time. i hope she won't go tearing the place down to see if there's a secret chamber anywhere. i like her to enjoy herself, but she's apt to get into trouble with skinner if she destroys much property. i'll have to think up some way of satisfying her or she'll land in the penitentiary. "i wonder if she's found any more qualities in the old cap's picture? i think the picture's got all the strength when she's around, for darn me if i ain't as weak as water when she goes talking about him being the kind of man she admires! for i know that there's just so many qualities that i'll begin to dig up out of me or to plant in me. but she might come to the end of the choicest characteristics soon and give a feller time to cultivate a few." the captain tugged at a large volume in his pocket. he succeeded in tearing it out. the place where he had been reading was marked by a slip of paper upon which was a long list of books written in a feminine hand. the name of the volume mr. murphy was reading was the twenty-first on the slip and was 'treasure island.' "if i'd ever had a villain like that silver around me i'd 've strung him up. such dilly-dallying around makes me sick," commented the reader. "why, mr. murphy, do you talk to yourself or are you reading aloud? your expression is wonderful if you were reading," said the pleasant voice of miss boulby who had quite innocently chosen for her afternoon walk mr. murphy's usual direction. that gentleman jumped to his feet in great trepidation. what had he been saying? "oh--why--i believe i was reading aloud. i get so interested in those books you were telling me about--the ones the captain read so much, you know, that i read aloud before i think." miss katherine seated herself and motioned to mr. murphy to do the same. she picked up the book which had fallen in the reader's surprise. "treasure island! that is a most delightful book. i am so glad you enjoy it. i do think that a man who can, as it were, live these adventures with stevenson's characters is as delightful and interesting a person as,--as even old john silver himself," said miss katherine with enthusiasm. "a-hem," mr. murphy cleared his throat and rubbed his chin. "do you like john silver?" "i think he's just fascinating, don't you?" returned miss katherine. "exactly, miss boulby. fascinating's the word i was hunting for just before you came up. but it's the subject of the book itself that fetches me. i was always after hidden treasure, captain kidd's and so on. i don't suppose you were ever taken that way?" miss katherine looked at her questioner out of the corner of her eye, but he was gazing abstractedly over the water. "well, yes, i must confess that i have been rather interested in hidden treasures. but, of course, i have never done any actual hunting as i have never had any clues. but i should think it would be very interesting. did you mean that you have actually sought a specific treasure?" "not exactly that," explained mr. murphy, "at least not till i came here." miss katherine's eyes grew wide. "i haven't done any real diggin' here yet," he went on, "but i hope to begin soon. now i don't mind telling you for i'd like a partner, one who thinks as i do about it, you understand. it isn't for the love of the money, you know, but the romance, that's it, the romance. now you know all about captain kidd?" miss katherine nodded. "well, i've figured it out pretty well, and it's my opinion that some of his hoard lies right along this shore and not very far from here." mr. murphy's imagination was pretty well exhausted so he stopped to recuperate. "along this shore and not far from here!" exclaimed miss katherine. "dear me! who'd have thought it? but have you any maps or plans or charts or whatever tells you where to look?" mr. murphy's imagination had taken a new lease on life. "i've got them hidden carefully in my rooms," he explained. "i have been comparing them with the physiognomy of the shore here and i believe with a little help on the subject which you can supply i would be able to identify the spot to-morrow." "i should love to help you," exclaimed miss katherine. "it's so very kind of you." "oh, no, no!" returned mr. murphy. "it's only just now since you told me that you were interested in treasure seeking that i have really enjoyed thinking about it." "you said you had always been interested in hidden treasures," miss katherine reminded him. mr. murphy's face grew red. he hastened to explain: "i mean that the books that i've been reading under your direction have been so interesting that i couldn't bear to stop reading and look for the treasure." miss katherine beamed. "we will search together," she said coyly. as they were walking home together, mr. murphy observed casually-- "a friend of mine who was a great friend of captain shannon's told me once that the captain had produced a new species of rose and that he had been awarded a gold medal by the american horticultural society. the captain told my friend that he used to wear it on his chain but he lost it while working in his garden here. wasn't it a pity? i don't suppose you have ever come across it?" "not that i know of," returned miss katherine composedly. when she got home she went immediately to the library and to the drawer that held the ancient golden coin that joseph had found. she took it to the kitchen where she scraped and brushed it well. behold! there was the name of the american horticultural society on one side and on the other the inscription: "consequitur quodcunque petit!" * * * * * when mr. horton returned from his visit to the boulbys, he told his wife of the gratifying results and of miss boulby's wish that she and other church workers would call upon her. "the brother was strangely moved," concluded mr. horton, "and the sister was greatly softened." mrs. horton and her friends did not delay calling upon miss boulby. that lady has been walking on air since the above-related conversation with mr. murphy and was in a very sweet and forgiving mood. she allowed her callers to talk just as much as they pleased and on the subject dearest to them. they discussed and re-discussed every phase of church work. miss katherine professed herself willing to make endless quilts for the missionary box, pin-cushions for the bazaar, socks for the old men's home and cakes for the sewing circle. the minister's wife was dazed by such liberality and when miss katherine spoke of the number of years her brother had been deacon in their home church, and of her own activities in every conceivable church society, the ladies felt that a terrible injustice had been done this exemplary brother and sister. when miss katherine had seen that her words fell on receptive ground she still mellowed that soil by tempting refreshments after which she proposed a walk in the garden. as joseph was from home she offered slips, roots and seeds without number. at last she came to a rose tree which, she judged, would do as well as any other and she launched into the story of captain shannon's experiments to produce a new species and final triumph. "we knew," said the unblushing miss katherine, "that he had been awarded a medal by the american horticultural society. mr. murphy, who is an old friend of the captain's, told us he had lost the medal in the garden, so we began looking for it. come with me and i'll show you where we found it." miss katherine did so, elaborating on the trouble they had taken to discover it. "it is solid gold," said she, "and we were afraid that the boys might suspect what we were looking for and come at night and hunt for it, so we set bruno to watch at night, but fortunately we found it. come in the house and i'll show it to you." as miss katherine watched her visitors go away she said to herself: "i confess that all i said this afternoon was not strictly true, but there are times when a prudent woman will deviate somewhat from the exact truth." * * * * * when miss katherine had bade mr. murphy good afternoon, on the day of his startling disclosure concerning captain kidd's treasure, the aforementioned gentleman fell to chuckling. "i'm in a devil of a fix, but i've saved the house from destruction, that's sure. i'll trust her to make peace with the neighbors and then i'll gradually ease her off the captain kidd proposition and then there should be plain sailing. but jehosaphat! what about that chart? well, i'll just have to get some paper and a pencil and go back to the shore and draw it, that's all. i can't lie worth a darn. i've got to get myself in a worse mess every time instead of lying out." so saying, mr. murphy procured the paper and pencil and retraced his steps to the shore where he labored long and arduously, for he was neither an artist nor a cartographer. in a couple of days mr. murphy informed miss katherine that he thought he had located the right spot and that afternoon, they would begin their search. miss katherine was to join him at the spot where she had found him the day they became partners in this affair. he would be laden with the necessary tools. miss katherine asked if she should bring a bag in case of success, but mr. murphy said no, they were more apt to find it if they acted as if they thought they wouldn't. at the appointed time and place the junction of the forces was successfully accomplished. miss katherine and mr. murphy sat down side by side to study the chart. the latter explained that he had worn out the original and this was a copy he had made. the chart fully came up to miss katherine's idea of a chart. "now you can see if you study it," exclaimed mr. murphy, "that it's this bit of shore that's meant. see where it juts out here by the pine tree! well, just look down the shore there and you'll see the very spot. from there just follow along and compare the chart with the shore. line for line, ain't they?" "isn't that remarkable!" exclaimed miss katherine. "what a wonderful observer you must be to have noticed the similarity! but wouldn't you think there would be changes in the shore line since the time this chart was made?" "well, you see it's sheltered here," returned mr. murphy. "that makes a big difference." "oh does it?" cried miss katherine. "oh, yes!" replied mr. murphy. "and now where is the treasure?" asked miss katherine. "well, the first place i'd try is right in this little hollow. we'll go right along to it." mr. murphy shouldered his spade, pick and axe and directed miss katherine to the spot, a little sandy hollow between two little sandy mounds. "now you must keep guard while i dig," said mr. murphy. "it wouldn't do to let others into the secret you know." miss katherine was quite disappointed, for she had anticipated watching the excavation sink deeper and deeper until the spade suddenly struck the iron lid of a box, and a king's ransom glowed at their feet. but she realized the wisdom of this request and uncomplainingly complied with it. in silence and with inward protest mr. murphy plied his spade until he was obliged to straighten his aching back. he looked at his task mistress entreatingly, but she was on guard and had no eyes for the toiler. the poor man gazed about him in distress. would he fall from grace if he took a little rest? fortunately for mr. murphy, at this moment, miss katherine's eye fell upon the little lunch basket she carried. a pang of remorse shot through her heart as she turned and beheld her hero leaning wearily upon his spade. at the suggestion of lunch mr. murphy climbed out of prison with such alacrity that miss katherine's soft heart suffered another pang. but as pity is akin to another, warmer and tendered passion let us hope all was working for the highest good of miss katherine and mr. murphy. whatever hopes of a prolonged rest that gentleman had at first entertained were soon destroyed by a word or two from his inexorable partner, and again the gentle chuck, chuck as the spade struck against the soft sand, was the only sound that broke the silence. miss katherine, though not watching the digger, kept time with his steady spade and strained her ear to catch a clink instead of a click. that would announce the bursting of an old leather bag or the striking upon an iron box. there it would be! gold! gold glittering in the light after years of darkness! "damn it!" broke in upon miss katherine's golden dream. in mild surprise she turned about and beheld her erstwhile obedient partner hurl his spade from him and scramble out of the deep hole he had dug. rebellion was written on his face, but as he approached miss katherine there was something much softer and infinitely agreeable to the female eye in his expression. "confound it all!" said captain peter shannon, "let's stop this foolishness and get married." * * * * * * transcriber's note: punctuation errors have been corrected. archaic and variant spelling is preserved as printed. the following emendations have been made: page --katharine's amended to katherine's--... so readily consented to miss katherine's going ... page --be amended to he--... why wouldn't he come back ... page --katharine amended to katherine--however strongly miss katherine became convinced ... page --ever amended to every--"there is unusual strength in every feature, ..." page --captain amended to captain--... to--er--the captain--ah--when he returns ... page --captain amended to captain--"ah, you think that the late captain was ..." page --by amended to my--"bless my soul!" exclaimed miss katherine, ... page --snbstantials amended to substantials--she had heard of such substantials ... page --pue's amended to poe's--... for she had been reading poe's frightful tale of the black cat, ... page --hook amended to book--... for he often put a book in his pocket ... page --llustrations amended to illustrations--... and looked at the illustrations. page --aainst amended to against--... which, in hitting against a stone, ... page --your're amended to you're--"... but i wouldn't say you're right, willie." page --seem amended to seemed--... as he seemed to elicit just what he desired. page --know's amended to knows--"everybody knows he isn't expected ..." page --thing amended to think--i think the picture's got all the strength ... page --a sweak amended to as weak--... i ain't as weak as water ... page --villian amended to villain--"if i'd ever had a villain like that silver ..." page --one's amended to ones--... the ones the captain read so much, ... page --omitted double closing quote added--"... now you know all about captain kidd?" page --horde amended to hoard--... it's my opinion that some of his hoard lies right along this shore ... page --omitted word 'he' added--the captain told my friend that he used to wear it ... page --consequitar amended to consequitur--"consequitur quodcunque petit!" page --forunately amended to fortunately--... but fortunately we found it. page --everytime amended to every time--... in a worse mess every time ... the plays of j. m. barrie quality street a comedy charles scribner's sons new york ::::::::: copyright, , by j. m. barrie printed in the united states of america _all rights reserved under the international copyright act. performance forbidden and right of representation reserved. application for the right of performing this play must be made to charles frohman, inc., empire theatre, new york._ _the works of j. m. barrie._ _novels, stories, and sketches._ _uniform edition._ auld light idylls, better dead. when a man's single. a window in thrums, an edinburgh eleven. the little minister. sentimental tommy. my lady nicotine, margaret ogilvy. tommy and grizel. the little white bird. peter and wendy. _also_ half hours, der tag. echoes of the war. _plays._ _uniform edition._ dear brutus a kiss for cinderella alice sit-by-the-fire. what every woman knows. quality street. the admirable crichton. echoes of the war. _containing_: the old lady shows her medals--the new word--barbara's wedding--a well-remembered voice. half hours. _containing_: pantaloon--the twelve-pound look--rosalind--the will. _others in preparation._ _individual editions._ peter pan in kensington gardens. illustrated by arthur rackham. peter and wendy. illustrated by f. d. bedford. peter pan and wendy. illustrated by miss attwell. tommy and grizel. illustrated by bernard partridge. margaret ogilvy. *** for particulars concerning _the thistle edition_ of the works of j. m. barrie, sold only by subscription, send for circular. new york: charles scribner's sons act i the blue and white room _the scene is the blue and white room in the house of the misses susan and phoebe throssel in quality street; and in this little country town there is a satisfaction about living in quality street which even religion cannot give. through the bowed window at the back we have a glimpse of the street. it is pleasantly broad and grass-grown, and is linked to the outer world by one demure shop, whose door rings a bell every time it opens and shuts. thus by merely peeping, every one in quality street can know at once who has been buying a whimsy cake, and usually why. this bell is the most familiar sound of quality street. now and again ladies pass in their pattens, a maid perhaps protecting them with an umbrella, for flakes of snow are falling discreetly. gentlemen in the street are an event; but, see, just as we raise the curtain, there goes the recruiting sergeant to remind us that we are in the period of the napoleonic wars. if he were to look in at the window of the blue and white room all the ladies there assembled would draw themselves up; they know him for a rude fellow who smiles at the approach of maiden ladies and continues to smile after they have passed. however, he lowers his head to-day so that they shall not see him, his present design being converse with the misses throssel's maid._ _the room is one seldom profaned by the foot of man, and everything in it is white or blue. miss phoebe is not present, but here are miss susan, miss willoughby and her sister miss fanny, and miss henrietta turnbull. miss susan and miss willoughby, alas, already wear caps; but all the four are dear ladies, so refined that we ought not to be discussing them without a more formal introduction. there seems no sufficient reason why we should choose miss phoebe as our heroine rather than any one of the others, except, perhaps, that we like her name best. but we gave her the name, so we must support our choice and say that she is slightly the nicest, unless, indeed, miss susan is nicer._ _miss fanny is reading aloud from a library book while the others sew or knit. they are making garments for our brave soldiers now far away fighting the corsican ogre._ miss fanny. '... and so the day passed and evening came, black, mysterious, and ghost-like. the wind moaned unceasingly like a shivering spirit, and the vegetation rustled uneasily as if something weird and terrifying were about to happen. suddenly out of the darkness there emerged a _man_. (_she says the last word tremulously but without looking up. the listeners knit more quickly._) the unhappy camilla was standing lost in reverie when, without pausing to advertise her of his intentions, he took both her hands in his. (_by this time the knitting has stopped, and all are listening as if mesmerised._) slowly he gathered her in his arms---- (miss susan _gives an excited little cry._) miss fanny. and rained hot, burning----' miss willoughby. sister! miss fanny (_greedily_). 'on eyes, mouth----' miss willoughby (_sternly_). stop. miss susan, i am indeed surprised you should bring such an amazing, indelicate tale from the library. miss susan (_with a slight shudder_). i deeply regret, miss willoughby---- (_sees_ miss fanny _reading quickly to herself._) oh, fanny! if you please, my dear. (_takes the book gently from her._) miss willoughby. i thank you. (_she knits severely._) miss fanny (_a little rebel_). miss susan is looking at the end. (miss susan _closes the book guiltily._) miss susan (_apologetically_). forgive my partiality for romance, mary. i fear 'tis the mark of an old maid. miss willoughby. susan, that word! miss susan (_sweetly_). 'tis what i am. and you also, mary, my dear. miss fanny (_defending her sister_). miss susan, i protest. miss willoughby (_sternly truthful_). nay, sister, 'tis true. we are known everywhere now, susan, you and i, as the old maids of quality street. (_general discomfort._) miss susan. i am happy phoebe will not be an old maid. miss henrietta (_wistfully_). do you refer, miss susan, to v. b.? (miss susan _smiles happily to herself._) miss susan. miss phoebe of the ringlets as he has called her. miss fanny. other females besides miss phoebe have ringlets. miss susan. but you and miss henrietta have to employ papers, my dear. (_proudly_) phoebe, never. miss willoughby (_in defence of_ fanny). i do not approve of miss phoebe at all. miss susan (_flushing_). mary, had phoebe been dying you would have called her an angel, but that is ever the way. 'tis all jealousy to the bride and good wishes to the corpse. (_her guests rise, hurt._) my love, i beg your pardon. miss willoughby. with your permission, miss susan, i shall put on my pattens. (miss susan _gives permission almost haughtily, and the ladies retire to the bedroom,_ miss fanny _remaining behind a moment to ask a question._) miss fanny. a bride? miss susan, do you mean that v. b. has declared? miss susan. fanny, i expect it hourly. (miss susan, _left alone, is agitated by the terrible scene with_ miss willoughby.) (_enter_ phoebe _in her bonnet, and we see at once that she really is the nicest. she is so flushed with delightful news that she almost forgets to take off her pattens before crossing the blue and white room._) miss susan. you seem strangely excited, phoebe. phoebe. susan, i have met a certain individual. miss susan. v. b.? (phoebe _nods several times, and her gleaming eyes tell_ miss susan _as much as if they were a romance from the library._) my dear, you are trembling. phoebe (_bravely_). no--oh no. miss susan. you put your hand to your heart. phoebe. did i? miss susan (_in a whisper_). my love, has he offered? phoebe (_appalled_). oh, susan. (_enter_ miss willoughby, _partly cloaked._) miss willoughby. how do you do, miss phoebe. (_portentously_) susan, i have no wish to alarm you, but i am of opinion that there is a man in the house. i suddenly felt it while putting on my pattens. miss susan. you mean--a follower--in the kitchen? (_she courageously rings the bell, but her voice falters._) i am just a little afraid of patty. (_enter_ patty, _a buxom young woman, who loves her mistresses and smiles at them, and knows how to terrorise them._) patty, i hope we may not hurt your feelings, but-- patty (_sternly_). are you implicating, ma'am, that i have a follower? miss susan. oh no, patty. patty. so be it. miss susan (_ashamed_). patty, come back, (_humbly_) i told a falsehood just now; i am ashamed of myself. patty (_severely_). as well you might be, ma'am. phoebe (_so roused that she would look heroic if she did not spoil the effect by wagging her finger at_ patty). how dare you. there is a man in the kitchen. to the door with him. patty. a glorious soldier to be so treated! phoebe. the door. patty. and if he refuses? (_they looked perplexed._) miss susan. oh dear! phoebe. if he refuses send him here to me. (_exit patty._) miss susan. lion-hearted phoebe. miss willoughby. a soldier? (_nervously_) i wish it may not be that impertinent recruiting sergeant. i passed him in the street to-day. he closed one of his eyes at me and then quickly opened it. i knew what he meant. phoebe. he does not come. miss susan. i think i hear their voices in dispute. (_she is listening through the floor. they all stoop or go on their knees to listen, and when they are in this position the_ recruiting sergeant _enters unobserved. he chuckles aloud. in a moment_ phoebe _is alone with him._) sergeant (_with an irish accent_). your servant, ma'am. phoebe (_advancing sternly on him_). sir-- (_she is perplexed, as he seems undismayed._) sergeant-- (_she sees mud from his boots on the carpet._) oh! oh! (_brushes carpet._) sergeant, i am wishful to scold you, but would you be so obliging as to stand on this paper while i do it? sergeant. with all the pleasure in life, ma'am. phoebe (_forgetting to be angry_). sergeant, have you killed people? sergeant. dozens, ma'am, dozens. phoebe. how terrible. oh, sir, i pray every night that the lord in his loving-kindness will root the enemy up. is it true that the corsican ogre eats babies? sergeant. i have spoken with them as have seen him do it, ma'am. phoebe. the man of sin. have you ever seen a vivandiere, sir? (_wistfully_) i have sometimes wished there were vivandieres in the british army. (_for a moment she sees herself as one._) oh, sergeant, a shudder goes through me when i see you in the streets enticing those poor young men. sergeant. if you were one of them, ma'am, and death or glory was the call, you would take the shilling, ma'am. phoebe. oh, not for that. sergeant. for king and country, ma'am? phoebe (_grandly_). yes, yes, for that. sergeant (_candidly_). not that it is all fighting. the sack of captured towns--the loot. phoebe (_proudly_). an english soldier never sacks nor loots. sergeant. no, ma'am. and then--the girls. phoebe. what girls? sergeant. in the towns that--that we don't sack. phoebe. how they must hate the haughty conqueror. sergeant. we are not so haughty as all that. phoebe (_sadly_). i think i understand. i am afraid, sergeant, you do not tell those poor young men the noble things i thought you told them. sergeant. ma'am, i must e'en tell them what they are wishful to hear. there ha' been five, ma'am, all this week, listening to me and then showing me their heels, but by a grand stroke of luck i have them at last. phoebe. luck? (miss susan _opens door slightly and listens._) sergeant. the luck, ma'am, is that a gentleman of the town has enlisted. that gave them the push forward. (miss susan _is excited._) phoebe. a gentleman of this town enlisted? (_eagerly_) sergeant, who? sergeant. nay, ma'am, i think it be a secret as yet. phoebe. but a gentleman! 'tis the most amazing, exciting thing. sergeant, be so obliging. sergeant. nay, ma'am, i can't. miss susan (_at door, carried away by excitement_). but you must, you must! sergeant (_turning to the door_). you see, ma'am-- (_the door is hurriedly closed._) phoebe (_ashamed_). sergeant, i have not been saying the things i meant to say to you. will you please excuse my turning you out of the house somewhat violently. sergeant. i am used to it, ma'am. phoebe. i won't really hurt you. sergeant. thank you kindly, ma'am. phoebe (_observing the bedroom door opening a little, and speaking in a loud voice_). i protest, sir; we shall permit no followers in this house. should i discover you in my kitchen again i shall pitch you out--neck and crop. begone, sir. (_the_ sergeant _retires affably. all the ladies except_ miss henrietta _come out, admiring_ phoebe. _the_ willoughbys _are attired for their journey across the street._) miss willoughby. miss phoebe, we could not but admire you. (phoebe, _alas, knows that she is not admirable._) phoebe. but the gentleman recruit? miss susan. perhaps they will know who he is at the woollen-drapers. miss fanny. let us inquire. (_but before they go_ miss willoughby _has a duty to perform._) miss willoughby. i wish to apologise. miss phoebe, you are a dear, good girl. if i have made remarks about her ringlets, susan, it was jealousy. (phoebe _and_ miss susan _wish to embrace her, but she is not in the mood for it._) come, sister. miss fanny (_the dear woman that she is_). phoebe, dear, i wish you very happy. (_phoebe presses her hand._) miss henrietta (_entering, and not to be outdone_). miss phoebe, i give you joy. (_the three ladies go, the two younger ones a little tearfully, and we see them pass the window._) phoebe (_pained_). susan, you have been talking to them about v. b. miss susan. i could not help it. (_eagerly_) now, phoebe, what is it you have to tell me? phoebe (_in a low voice_). dear, i think it is too holy to speak of. miss susan. to your sister? phoebe. susan, as you know, i was sitting with an unhappy woman whose husband has fallen in the war. when i came out of the cottage he was passing. miss susan. yes? phoebe. he offered me his escort. at first he was very silent--as he has often been of late. miss susan. _we_ know why. phoebe. please not to say that i know why. suddenly he stopped and swung his cane. you know how gallantly he swings his cane. miss susan. yes, indeed. phoebe. he said: 'i have something i am wishful to tell you, miss phoebe; perhaps you can guess what it is.' miss susan. go on! phoebe. to say i could guess, sister, would have been unladylike. i said: 'please not to tell me in the public thoroughfare'; to which he instantly replied: 'then i shall call and tell you this afternoon.' miss susan. phoebe! (_they are interrupted by the entrance of_ patty _with tea. they see that she has brought three cups, and know that this is her impertinent way of implying that mistresses, as well as maids, may have a 'follower.' when she has gone they smile at the daring of the woman, and sit down to tea._) phoebe. susan, to think that it has all happened in a single year. miss susan. such a genteel competency as he can offer; such a desirable establishment. phoebe. i had no thought of that, dear. i was recalling our first meeting at mrs. fotheringay's quadrille party. miss susan. we had quite forgotten that our respected local physician was growing elderly. phoebe. until he said: 'allow me to present my new partner, mr. valentine brown.' miss susan. phoebe, do you remember how at the tea-table he facetiously passed the cake-basket with nothing in it! phoebe. he was so amusing from the first. i am thankful, susan, that i too have a sense of humour. i am exceedingly funny at times; am i not, susan? miss susan. yes, indeed. but he sees humour in the most unexpected things. i say something so ordinary about loving, for instance, to have everything either blue or white in this room, and i know not why he laughs, but it makes me feel quite witty. phoebe (_a little anxiously_). i hope he sees nothing odd or quaint about us. miss susan. my dear, i am sure he cannot. phoebe. susan, the picnics. miss susan. phoebe, the day when he first drank tea in this house. phoebe. he invited himself. miss susan. he merely laughed when i said it would cause such talk. phoebe. he is absolutely fearless. susan, he has smoked his pipe in this room. (_they are both a little scared._) miss susan. smoking is indeed a dreadful habit. phoebe. but there is something so dashing about it. miss susan (_with melancholy_). and now i am to be left alone. phoebe. no. miss susan. my dear, i could not leave this room. my lovely blue and white room. it is my husband. phoebe (_who has become agitated_). susan, you must make my house your home. i have something distressing to tell you. miss susan. you alarm me. phoebe. you know mr. brown advised us how to invest half of our money. miss susan. i know it gives us eight per cent., though why it should do so i cannot understand, but very obliging, i am sure. phoebe. susan, all that money is lost; i had the letter several days ago. miss susan. lost? phoebe. something burst, dear, and then they absconded. miss susan. but mr. brown-- phoebe. i have not advertised him of it yet, for he will think it was his fault. but i shall tell him to-day. miss susan. phoebe, how much have we left? phoebe. only sixty pounds a year, so you see you must live with us, dearest. miss susan. but mr. brown--he---- phoebe (_grandly_). he is a man of means, and if he is not proud to have my susan i shall say at once: 'mr. brown--the door.' (_she presses her cheek to_ miss susan's.) miss susan (_softly_). phoebe, i have a wedding gift for you. phoebe. not yet? miss susan. it has been ready for a long time. i began it when you were not ten years old and i was a young woman. i meant it for myself, phoebe. i had hoped that he--his name was william--but i think i must have been too unattractive, my love. phoebe. sweetest--dearest---- miss susan. i always associate it with a sprigged poplin i was wearing that summer, with a breadth of coloured silk in it, being a naval officer; but something happened, a miss cicely pemberton, and they are quite big boys now. so long ago, phoebe--he was very tall, with brown hair--it was most foolish of me, but i was always so fond of sewing--with long straight legs and such a pleasant expression. phoebe. susan, what was it? miss susan. it was a wedding-gown, my dear. even plain women, phoebe, we can't help it; when we are young we have romantic ideas just as if we were pretty. and so the wedding-gown was never used. long before it was finished i knew he would not offer, but i finished it, and then i put it away. i have always hidden it from you, phoebe, but of late i have brought it out again, and altered it. (_she goes to ottoman and unlocks it._) phoebe. susan, i could not wear it. (miss susan _brings the wedding-gown._) oh! how sweet, how beautiful! miss susan. you will wear it, my love, won't you? and the tears it was sewn with long ago will all turn into smiles on my phoebe's wedding-day. (_they are tearfully happy when a knock is heard on the street door._) phoebe. that knock. miss susan. so dashing. phoebe. so imperious. (_she is suddenly panic-stricken._) susan, i think he kissed me once. miss susan (_startled_). you _think_? phoebe. i know he did. that evening--a week ago, when he was squiring me home from the concert. it was raining, and my face was wet; he said that was why he did it. miss susan. because your face was wet? phoebe. it does not seem a sufficient excuse now. miss susan (_appalled_). o phoebe, before he had offered. phoebe (_in distress_). i fear me it was most unladylike. (valentine brown _is shown in. he is a frank, genial young man of twenty-five who honestly admires the ladies, though he is amused by their quaintness. he is modestly aware that it is in the blue and white room alone that he is esteemed a wit._) brown. miss susan, how do you do, ma'am? nay, miss phoebe, though we have met to-day already i insist on shaking hands with you again. miss susan. always so dashing. (valentine _laughs and the ladies exchange delighted smiles._) valentine (_to_ miss susan). and my other friends, i hope i find them in health? the spinet, ma'am, seems quite herself to-day; i trust the ottoman passed a good night? miss susan (_beaming_). we are all quite well, sir. valentine. may i sit on this chair, miss phoebe? i know miss susan likes me to break her chairs. miss susan. indeed, sir, i do not. phoebe, how strange that he should think so. phoebe (_instantly_). the remark was humorous, was it not? valentine. how you see through me, miss phoebe. (_the sisters again exchange delighted smiles_. valentine _is about to take a seat._) miss susan (_thinking aloud_). oh dear, i feel sure he is going to roll the coverlet into a ball and then sit on it. (valentine, _who has been on the point of doing so, abstains and sits guiltily._) valentine. so i am dashing, miss susan? am i dashing, miss phoebe? phoebe. a--little, i think. valentine. well, but i have something to tell you to-day which i really think is rather dashing. (miss susan _gathers her knitting, looks at_ phoebe, _and is preparing to go._) you are not going, ma'am, before you know what it is? miss susan. i--i--indeed--to be sure--i--i know, mr. brown. phoebe. susan! miss susan. i mean i do not know. i mean i can guess--i mean---- phoebe, my love, explain. (_she goes out._) valentine (_rather disappointed_). the explanation being, i suppose, that you both know, and i had flattered myself 'twas such a secret. am i then to understand that you had foreseen it all, miss phoebe? phoebe. nay, sir, you must not ask that. valentine. i believe in any case 'twas you who first put it into my head. phoebe (_aghast_). oh, i hope not. valentine. your demure eyes flashed so every time the war was mentioned; the little quaker suddenly looked like a gallant boy in ringlets. (_a dread comes over_ phoebe, _but it is in her heart alone; it shows neither in face nor voice._) phoebe. mr. brown, what is it you have to tell us? valentine. that i have enlisted, miss phoebe. did you surmise it was something else? phoebe. you are going to the wars? mr. brown, is it a jest? valentine. it would be a sorry jest, ma'am. i thought you knew. i concluded that the recruiting sergeant had talked. phoebe. the recruiting sergeant? i see. valentine. these stirring times, miss phoebe--he is but half a man who stays at home. i have chafed for months. i want to see whether i have any courage, and as to be an army surgeon does not appeal to me, it was enlist or remain behind. to-day i found that there were five waverers. i asked them would they take the shilling if i took it, and they assented. miss phoebe, it is not one man i give to the king, but six. phoebe (_brightly_). i think you have done bravely. valentine. we leave shortly for the petersburgh barracks, and i go to london tomorrow; so this is good-bye. phoebe. i shall pray that you may be preserved in battle, mr. brown. valentine. and you and miss susan will write to me when occasion offers? phoebe. if you wish it. valentine (_smiling_). with all the stirring news of quality street. phoebe. it seems stirring to us; it must have been merely laughable to you, who came here from a great city. valentine. dear quality street--that thought me dashing! but i made friends in it, miss phoebe, of two very sweet ladies. phoebe (_timidly_). mr. brown, i wonder why you have been so kind to my sister and me? valentine. the kindness was yours. if at first miss susan amused me-- (_chuckling._) to see her on her knees decorating the little legs of the couch with frills as if it were a child! but it was her sterling qualities that impressed me presently. phoebe. and did--did i amuse you also? valentine. prodigiously, miss phoebe. those other ladies, they were always scolding you, your youthfulness shocked them. i believe they thought you dashing. phoebe (_nervously_). i have sometimes feared that i was perhaps too dashing. valentine (_laughing at this_). you delicious miss phoebe. you were too quiet. i felt sorry that one so sweet and young should live so grey a life. i wondered whether i could put any little pleasures into it. phoebe. the picnics? it was very good of you. valentine. that was only how it began, for soon i knew that it was i who got the pleasures and you who gave them. you have been to me, miss phoebe, like a quiet, old-fashioned garden full of the flowers that englishmen love best because they have known them longest: the daisy, that stands for innocence, and the hyacinth for constancy, and the modest violet and the rose. when i am far away, ma'am, i shall often think of miss phoebe's pretty soul, which is her garden, and shut my eyes and walk in it. (_she is smiling gallantly through her pain when_ miss susan _returns._) miss susan. have you--is it--you seem so calm, phoebe. phoebe (_pressing her sister's hand warningly and imploringly_). susan, what mr. brown is so obliging as to inform us of is not what we expected--not that at all. my dear, he is the gentleman who has enlisted, and he came to tell us that and to say good-bye. miss susan. going away? phoebe. yes, dear. valentine. am i not the ideal recruit, ma'am: a man without a wife or a mother or a sweetheart? miss susan. no sweetheart? valentine. have you one for me, miss susan? phoebe (_hastily, lest her sister's face should betray the truth_). susan, we shall have to tell him now. you dreadful man, you will laugh and say it is just like quality street. but indeed since i met you to-day and you told me you had something to communicate we have been puzzling what it could be, and we concluded that you were going to be married. valentine. ha! ha! ha! was that it. phoebe. so like women, you know. we thought we perhaps knew her. (_glancing at the wedding-gown._) we were even discussing what we should wear at the wedding. valentine. ha! ha! i shall often think of this. i wonder who would have me, miss susan. (_rising._) but i must be off; and god bless you both. miss susan (_forlorn_). you are going! valentine. no more mud on your carpet, miss susan; no more coverlets rolled into balls. a good riddance. miss phoebe, a last look at the garden. (_taking her hand and looking into her face._) phoebe. we shall miss you very much, mr. brown. valentine. there is one little matter. that investment i advised you to make, i am happy it has turned out so well. phoebe (_checking_ miss susan, _who is about to tell of the loss of the money_). it was good of you to take all that trouble, sir. accept our grateful thanks. valentine. indeed i am glad that you are so comfortably left; i am your big brother. good-bye again. (_looks round._) this little blue and white room and its dear inmates, may they be unchanged when i come back. good-bye. (_he goes_. miss susan _looks forlornly at_ phoebe, _who smiles pitifully._) phoebe. a misunderstanding; just a mistake. (_she shudders, lifts the wedding-gown and puts it back in the ottoman_. miss susan _sinks sobbing into a chair._) don't, dear, don't--we can live it down. miss susan (_fiercely_). he is a fiend in human form. phoebe. nay, you hurt me, sister. he is a brave gentleman. miss susan. the money; why did you not let me tell him? phoebe (_flushing_). so that he might offer to me out of pity, susan? miss susan. phoebe, how are we to live with the quartern loaf at one and tenpence? phoebe. brother james---- miss susan. you know very well that brother james will do nothing for us. phoebe. i think, susan, we could keep a little school--for genteel children only, of course. i would do most of the teaching. miss susan. you a schoolmistress--phoebe of the ringlets; every one would laugh. phoebe. i shall hide the ringlets away in a cap like yours, susan, and people will soon forget them. and i shall try to look staid and to grow old quickly. it will not be so hard to me as you think, dear. miss susan. there were other gentlemen who were attracted by you, phoebe, and you turned from them. phoebe. i did not want them. miss susan. they will come again, and others. phoebe. no, dear; never speak of that to me any more. (_in woe._) i let him kiss me. miss susan. you could not prevent him. phoebe. yes, i could. i know i could now. i wanted him to do it. oh, never speak to me of others after that. perhaps he saw i wanted it and did it to please me. but i meant--indeed i did--that i gave it to him with all my love. sister, i could bear all the rest; but i have been unladylike. (_the curtain falls, and we do not see the sisters again for ten years._) _end of act i._ act ii the school _ten years later. it is the blue and white room still, but many of miss susan's beautiful things have gone, some of them never to return; others are stored upstairs. their place is taken by grim scholastic furniture: forms, a desk, a globe, a blackboard, heartless maps. it is here that miss phoebe keeps school. miss susan teaches in the room opening off it, once the spare bedroom, where there is a smaller blackboard (for easier sums) but no globe, as miss susan is easily alarmed. here are the younger pupils unless they have grown defiant, when they are promoted to the blue and white room to be under miss phoebe's braver rule. they really frighten miss phoebe also, but she does not let her sister know this._ _it is noon on a day in august, and through the window we can see that quality street is decorated with flags. we also hear at times martial music from another street. miss phoebe is giving a dancing lesson to half a dozen pupils, and is doing her very best; now she is at the spinet while they dance, and again she is showing them the new step. we know it is miss phoebe because some of her pretty airs and graces still cling to her in a forlorn way, but she is much changed. her curls are out of sight under a cap, her manner is prim, the light has gone from her eyes and buoyancy from her figure; she looks not ten years older but twenty, and not an easy twenty. when the children are not looking at her we know that she has the headache._ phoebe (_who is sometimes at the spinet and sometimes dancing_). toes out. so. chest out. georgy. point your toes, miss beveridge--so. so--keep in line; and young ladies, remember your toes. (georgy _in his desire to please has protruded the wrong part of his person. she writes a c on his chest with chalk._) c stands for chest, georgy. this is s. (miss susan _darts out of the other room. she is less worn than_ miss phoebe.) miss susan (_whispering so that the pupils may not hear_). phoebe, how many are fourteen and seventeen? phoebe (_almost instantly_). thirty-one. miss susan. i thank you. (_she darts off._) phoebe. that will do, ladies and gentlemen. you may go. (_they bow or curtsy, and retire to_ miss susan's _room, with the exception of_ arthur wellesley tomson, _who is standing in disgrace in a corner with the cap of shame on his head, and_ isabella, _a forbidding-looking, learned little girl_. isabella _holds up her hand for permission to speak._) isabella. please, ma'am, father wishes me to acquire algebra. phoebe (_with a sinking_). algebra! it--it is not a very ladylike study, isabella. isabella. father says, will you or won't you? phoebe. and you are thin. it will make you thinner, my dear. isabella. father says i am thin but wiry. phoebe. yes, you are. (_with feeling._) you are very wiry, isabella. isabella. father says, either i acquire algebra or i go to miss prothero's establishment. phoebe. very well, i--i will do my best. you may go. (isabella _goes and_ phoebe _sits wearily._) arthur (_fingering his cap_). please, ma'am, may i take it off now? phoebe. certainly not. unhappy boy---- (arthur _grins._) come here. are you ashamed of yourself? arthur (_blithely_). no, ma'am. phoebe (_in a terrible voice_). arthur wellesley tomson, fetch me the implement. (arthur _goes briskly for the cane, and she hits the desk with it._) arthur, surely that terrifies you? arthur. no, ma'am. phoebe. arthur, why did you fight with that street boy? arthur. 'cos he said that when you caned you did not draw blood. phoebe. but i don't, do i? arthur. no, ma'am. phoebe. then why fight him? (_remembering how strange boys are._) was it for the honour of the school? arthur. yes, ma'am. phoebe. say you are sorry, arthur, and i won't punish you. (_he bursts into tears._) arthur. you promised to cane me, and now you are not going to do it. phoebe (_incredulous_). do you wish to be caned? arthur (_holding out his hand eagerly_). if you please, miss phoebe. phoebe. unnatural boy. (_she canes him in a very unprofessional manner._) poor dear boy. (_she kisses the hand._) arthur (_gloomily_). oh, ma'am, you will never be able to cane if you hold it like that. you should hold it like this, miss phoebe, and give it a wriggle like that. (_she is too soft-hearted to follow his instructions._) phoebe (_almost in tears_). go away. arthur (_remembering that women are strange_). don't cry, ma'am; i love you, miss phoebe. (_she seats him on her knee, and he thinks of a way to please her._) if any boy says you can't cane i will blood him, miss phoebe. (phoebe _shudders, and_ miss susan _again darts in. she signs to_ phoebe _to send_ arthur _away._) miss susan (_as soon as_ arthur _has gone_). phoebe, if a herring and a half cost three ha'pence, how many for elevenpence? phoebe (_instantly_). eleven. miss susan. william smith says it is fifteen; and he is such a big boy, do you think i ought to contradict him? may i say there are differences of opinion about it? no one can be really sure, phoebe. phoebe. it is eleven. i once worked it out with real herrings. (_stoutly._) susan, we must never let the big boys know that we are afraid of them. to awe them, stamp with the foot, speak in a ferocious voice, and look them unflinchingly in the face. (_then she pales._) oh, susan, isabella's father insists on her acquiring algebra. miss susan. what is algebra exactly; is it those three cornered things? phoebe. it is _x_ minus _y_ equals _z_ plus _y_ and things like that. and all the time you are saying they are equal, you feel in your heart, why should they be. (_the music of the band swells here, and both ladies put their hands to their ears._) it is the band for to-night's ball. we must not grudge their rejoicings, susan. it is not every year that there is a waterloo to celebrate. miss susan. i was not thinking of that. i was thinking that he is to be at the ball to-night; and we have not seen him for ten years. phoebe (_calmly_). yes, ten years. we shall be glad to welcome our old friend back, susan. i am going in to your room now to take the latin class. (_a soldier with a girl passes--a yokel follows angrily._) miss susan. oh, that weary latin, i wish i had the whipping of the man who invented it. (_she returns to her room, and the sound of the music dies away_. miss phoebe, _who is not a very accomplished classical scholar, is taking a final peep at the declensions when_ miss susan _reappears excitedly._) phoebe. what is it? miss susan (_tragically_). william smith! phoebe, i tried to look ferocious, indeed i did, but he saw i was afraid, and before the whole school he put out his tongue at me. phoebe. susan! (_she is lion-hearted; she remembers_ arthur's _instructions, and practises with the cane._) miss susan (_frightened_). phoebe, he is much too big. let it pass. phoebe. if i let it pass i am a stumbling-block in the way of true education. miss susan. sister. phoebe (_grandly_). susan, stand aside. (_giving the cane_ arthur's _most telling flick, she marches into the other room. then, while_ miss susan _is listening nervously_, captain valentine brown _is ushered in by_ patty. _he is bronzed and soldierly. he wears the whiskers of the period, and is in uniform. he has lost his left hand, but this is not at first noticeable._) patty. miss susan, 'tis captain brown! miss susan. captain brown! valentine (_greeting her warmly_). reports himself at home again. miss susan (_gratified_). you call this home? valentine. when the other men talked of their homes, miss susan, i thought of this room. (_looking about him._) maps--desks--heigho! but still it is the same dear room. i have often dreamt, miss susan, that i came back to it in muddy shoes. (_seeing her alarm._) i have not, you know! miss susan, i rejoice to find no change in you; and miss phoebe--miss phoebe of the ringlets--i hope there be as little change in her? miss susan (_painfully_). phoebe of the ringlets! ah, captain brown, you need not expect to see her. valentine. she is not here? i vow it spoils all my home-coming. (_at this moment the door of the other room is filing open and_ phoebe _rushes out, followed by_ william smith _who is brandishing the cane_. valentine _takes in the situation, and without looking at_ phoebe _seizes_ william _by the collar and marches him out of the school._) miss susan. phoebe, did you see who it is? phoebe. i saw. (_in a sudden tremor._) susan, i have lost all my looks. (_the pupils are crowding in from_ miss susan's _room and she orders them back and goes with them_. valentine _returns, and speaks as he enters, not recognising_ phoebe, _whose back is to him._) valentine. a young reprobate, madam, but i have deposited him on the causeway. i fear-- (_he stops, puzzled because the lady has covered her face with her hands._) phoebe. captain brown. valentine. miss phoebe, it is you? (_he goes to her, but he cannot help showing that her appearance is a shock to him._) phoebe (_without bitterness_). yes, i have changed very much, i have not worn well, captain brown. valentine (_awkwardly_). we--we are both older, miss phoebe. (_he holds out his hand warmly, with affected high spirits._) phoebe (_smiling reproachfully_). it was both hands when you went away. (_he has to show that his left hand is gone; she is overcome._) i did not know. (_she presses the empty sleeve in remorse._) you never mentioned it in your letters. valentine (_now grown rather stern_). miss phoebe, what did you omit from your letters that you had such young blackguards as that to terrify you? phoebe. he is the only one. most of them are dear children; and this is the last day of the term. valentine. ah, ma'am, if only you had invested all your money as you laid out part by my advice. what a monstrous pity you did not. phoebe. we never thought of it. valentine. you look so tired. phoebe. i have the headache to-day. valentine. you did not use to have the headache. curse those dear children. phoebe (_bravely_). nay, do not distress yourself about me. tell me of yourself. we are so proud of the way in which you won your commission. will you leave the army now? valentine. yes; and i have some intention of pursuing again the old life in quality street. (_he is not a man who has reflected much. he has come back thinking that all the adventures have been his, and that the old life in quality street has waited, as in a sleep, to be resumed on the day of his return._) i came here in such high spirits, miss phoebe. phoebe (_with a wry smile_). the change in me depresses you. valentine. i was in hopes that you and miss susan would be going to the ball. i had brought cards for you with me to make sure. (_she is pleased and means to accept. he sighs, and she understands that he thinks her too old._) phoebe. but now you see that my dancing days are done. valentine (_uncomfortably_). ah, no. phoebe (_taking care he shall not see that he has hurt her_). but you will find many charming partners. some of them have been my pupils. there was even a pupil of mine who fought at waterloo. valentine. young blades; i have heard him on it. (_she puts her hand wearily to her head_). miss phoebe--what a dull grey world it is! (_she turns away to hide her emotion, and_ miss susan _comes in._) miss susan. phoebe, i have said that you will not take the latin class to-day, and i am dismissing them. valentine. latin? phoebe (_rather defiantly_). i am proud to teach it. (_breaking down._) susan--his arm--have you seen? (miss susan _also is overcome, but recovers as the children crowd in._) miss susan. hats off, gentlemen salute, ladies curtsy--to the brave captain brown. (captain brown _salutes them awkwardly, and they cheer him, to his great discomfort, as they pass out._) valentine (_when they have gone_). a terrible ordeal, ma'am. (_the old friends look at each other, and there is a silence_. valentine _feels that all the fine tales and merry jests he has brought back for the ladies have turned into dead things. he wants to go away and think._) phoebe. i wish you very happy at the ball. valentine (_sighing_). miss susan, cannot we turn all these maps and horrors out till the vacation is over? miss susan. indeed, sir, we always do. by to-morrow this will be my dear blue and white room again, and that my sweet spare bedroom. phoebe. for five weeks! valentine (_making vain belief_). and then--the--the dashing mr. brown will drop in as of old, and, behold, miss susan on her knees once more putting tucks into my little friend the ottoman, and miss phoebe---miss phoebe---- phoebe. phoebe of the ringlets! (_she goes out quietly._) valentine (_miserably_). miss susan, what a shame it is. miss susan (_hotly_). yes, it is a shame. valentine (_suddenly become more of a man_). the brave captain brown! good god, ma'am, how much more brave are the ladies who keep a school. (patty _shows in two visitors,_ miss charlotte parratt _and_ ensign blades. charlotte _is a pretty minx who we are glad to say does not reside in quality street, and_ blades _is a callow youth, inviting admiration._) charlotte (_as they salute_). but i did not know you had company, miss susan. miss susan. 'tis captain brown--miss charlotte parratt. charlotte (_gushing_). the heroic brown? valentine. alas, no, ma'am, the other one. charlotte. miss susan, do you see who accompanies me? miss susan. i cannot quite recall---- blades. a few years ago, ma'am, there sat in this room a scrubby, inky little boy--i was that boy. miss susan. can it be our old pupil--ensign blades? (_she thinks him very fine, and he bows, well pleased._) blades. once a little boy and now your most obedient, ma'am. miss susan. you have come to recall old memories? blades. not precisely; i--charlotte, explain. charlotte. ensign blades wishes me to say that it must seem highly romantic to you to have had a pupil who has fought at waterloo. miss susan. not exactly romantic. i trust, sir, that when you speak of having been our pupil you are also so obliging as to mention that it was during our first year. otherwise it makes us seem so elderly. (_he bows again, in what he believes to be a quizzical manner._) charlotte. ensign blades would be pleased to hear, miss susan, what you think of him as a whole. miss susan. indeed, sir, i think you are monstrous fine. (_innocently._) it quite awes me to remember that we used to whip him. valentine (_delighted_). whipped him, miss susan! (_in solemn burlesque of_ charlotte.) ensign blades wishes to indicate that it was more than buonaparte could do. we shall meet again, bright boy. (_he makes his adieux and goes._) blades. do you think he was quizzing me? miss susan (_simply_). i cannot think so. blades. he said 'bright boy,' ma'am. miss susan. i am sure, sir, he did not mean it. (phoebe _returns._) phoebe. charlotte, i am happy to see you. you look delicious, my dear--so young and fresh. charlotte. la! do you think so, miss phoebe? blades. miss phoebe, your obedient. phoebe. it is ensign blades! but how kind of you, sir, to revisit the old school. please to sit down. charlotte. ensign blades has a favour to ask of you, miss phoebe. blades. i learn, ma'am, that captain brown has obtained a card for you for the ball, and i am here to solicit for the honour of standing up with you. (_for the moment_ phoebe _is flattered. here, she believes, is some one who does not think her too old for the dance. then she perceives a meaning smile pass between_ charlotte _and the_ ensign.) phoebe (_paling_). is it that you desire to make sport of me? blades (_honestly distressed_). oh no, ma'am, i vow--but i--i am such a quiz, ma'am. miss susan. sister! phoebe. i am sorry, sir, to have to deprive you of some entertainment, but i am not going to the ball. miss susan (_haughtily_). ensign blades, i bid you my adieux. blades (_ashamed_). if i have hurt miss phoebe's feelings i beg to apologise. miss susan. _if_ you have hurt them. oh, sir, how is it possible for any one to be as silly as you seem to be. blades (_who cannot find the answer_). charlotte--explain. (_but_ charlotte _considers that their visit has not been sufficiently esteemed and departs with a cold curtsy, taking him with her._) (miss susan _turns sympathetically to_ phoebe, _but_ phoebe, _fighting with her pain, sits down at the spinet and plays at first excitedly a gay tune, then slowly, then comes to a stop with her head bowed. soon she jumps up courageously, brushes away her distress, gets an algebra book from the desk and sits down to study it_. miss susan _is at the window, where ladies and gentlemen are now seen passing in ball attire._) miss susan. what book is it, phoebe? phoebe. it is an algebra. miss susan. they are going by to the ball. (_in anger._) my phoebe should be going to the ball, too. phoebe. you jest, susan. (miss susan _watches her read_. phoebe _has to wipe away a tear; soon she rises and gives way to the emotion she has been suppressing ever since the entrance of_ valentine.) susan, i hate him. oh, susan, i could hate him if it were not for his poor hand. miss susan. my dear. phoebe. he thought i was old, because i am weary, and he should not have forgotten. i am only thirty. susan, why does thirty seem so much more than twenty-nine? (_as if_ valentine _were present._) oh, sir, how dare you look so pityingly at me? because i have had to work so hard,--is it a crime when a woman works? because i have tried to be courageous--have i been courageous, susan? miss susan. god knows you have. phoebe. but it has given me the headache, it has tired my eyes. alas, miss phoebe, all your charm has gone, for you have the headache, and your eyes are tired. he is dancing with charlotte parratt now, susan. 'i vow, miss charlotte, you are selfish and silly, but you are sweet eighteen.' 'oh la, captain brown, what a quiz you are.' that delights him, susan; see how he waggles his silly head. miss susan. charlotte parratt is a goose. phoebe. 'tis what gentlemen prefer. if there were a sufficient number of geese to go round, susan, no woman of sense would ever get a husband. 'charming miss charlotte, you are like a garden; miss phoebe was like a garden once, but 'tis a faded garden now.' miss susan. if to be ladylike---- phoebe. susan, i am tired of being ladylike. i am a young woman still, and to be ladylike is not enough. i wish to be bright and thoughtless and merry. it is every woman's birthright to be petted and admired; i wish to be petted and admired. was i born to be confined within these four walls? are they the world, susan, or is there anything beyond them? i want to know. my eyes are tired because for ten years they have seen nothing but maps and desks. ten years! ten years ago i went to bed a young girl and i woke with this cap on my head. it is not fair. this is not me, susan, this is some other person, i want to be myself. miss susan. phoebe, phoebe, you who have always been so patient! phoebe. oh no, not always. if you only knew how i have rebelled at times, you would turn from me in horror. susan, i have a picture of myself as i used to be; i sometimes look at it. i sometimes kiss it, and say, 'poor girl, they have all forgotten you. but i remember.' miss susan. i cannot recall it. phoebe. i keep it locked away in my room. would you like to see it? i shall bring it down. my room! oh, susan, it is there that the phoebe you think so patient has the hardest fight with herself, for there i have seemed to hear and see the phoebe of whom this (_looking at herself_) is but an image in a distorted glass. i have heard her singing as if she thought she was still a girl. i have heard her weeping; perhaps it was only i who was weeping; but she seemed to cry to me, 'let me out of this prison, give me back the years you have taken from me. oh, where are my pretty curls?' she cried. 'where is my youth, my youth.' (_she goes out, leaving_ miss susan _woeful. presently_ susan _takes up the algebra book and reads._) miss susan. 'a stroke b multiplied by b stroke c equal ab stroke a little ; stroke ac add bc. "poor phoebe!" multiply by c stroke a and we get-- poor phoebe! c a b stroke a little stroke ac little add bc. "oh, i cannot believe it!" stroke a little again, add ab little add a little c stroke a bc.' ... (patty _comes in with the lamp._) patty. hurting your poor eyes reading without a lamp. think shame, miss susan. miss susan (_with spirit_). patty, i will not be dictated to. (patty _looks out at window._) draw the curtains at once. i cannot allow you to stand gazing at the foolish creatures who crowd to a ball. patty (_closing curtains_). i am not gazing at them, ma'am; i am gazing at my sweetheart. miss susan. your sweetheart? (_softly._) i did not know you had one. patty. nor have i, ma'am, as yet. but i looks out, and thinks i to myself, at any moment he may turn the corner. i ha' been looking out at windows waiting for him to oblige by turning the corner this fifteen years. miss susan. fifteen years, and still you are hopeful? patty. there is not a more hopeful woman in all the king's dominions. miss susan. you who are so much older than miss phoebe. patty. yes, ma'am, i ha' the advantage of her by ten years. miss susan. it would be idle to pretend that you are specially comely. patty. that may be, but my face is my own, and the more i see it in the glass the more it pleases me. i never look at it but i say to myself, 'who is to be the lucky man?' miss susan. 'tis wonderful. patty. this will be a great year for females, ma'am. think how many of the men that marched away strutting to the wars have come back limping. who is to take off their wooden legs of an evening, miss susan? you, ma'am, or me? miss susan. patty! patty (_doggedly_). or miss phoebe? (_with feeling._) the pretty thing that she was, miss susan. miss susan. do you remember, patty? i think there is no other person who remembers unless it be the misses willoughby and miss henrietta. patty (_eagerly_). give her a chance, ma'am, and take her to the balls. there be three of them this week, and the last ball will be the best, for 'tis to be at the barracks, and you will need a carriage to take you there, and there will be the packing of you into it by gallant squires and the unpacking of you out, and other devilries. miss susan. patty! patty. if miss phoebe were to dress young again and put candles in her eyes that used to be so bright, and coax back her curls-- (phoebe _returns, and a great change has come over her. she is young and pretty again. she is wearing the wedding-gown of_ act i., _her ringlets are glorious, her figure youthful, her face flushed and animated_. patty _is the first to see her, and is astonished_. phoebe _signs to her to go._) phoebe (_when_ patty _has gone_). susan. (miss susan _sees and is speechless._) susan, this is the picture of my old self that i keep locked away in my room, and sometimes take out of its box to look at. this is the girl who kisses herself in the glass and sings and dances with glee until i put her away frightened lest you should hear her. miss susan. how marvellous! oh, phoebe. phoebe. perhaps i should not do it, but it is so easy. i have but to put on the old wedding-gown and tumble my curls out of the cap. (_passionately._) sister, am i as changed as he says i am? miss susan. you almost frighten me. (_the band is heard._) phoebe. the music is calling to us. susan, i will celebrate waterloo in a little ball of my own. see, my curls have begun to dance, they are so anxious to dance. one dance, susan, to phoebe of the ringlets, and then i will put her away in her box and never look at her again. ma'am, may i have the honour? nay, then i shall dance alone. (_she dances._) oh, susan, i almost wish i were a goose. (_presently_ patty _returns. she gazes at_ miss phoebe _dancing._) patty. miss phoebe! phoebe (_still dancing_). not miss phoebe, patty. i am not myself to-night, i am--let me see, i am my niece. patty (_in a whisper to_ susan). but miss susan, 'tis captain brown. miss susan. oh, stop, phoebe, stop! patty. nay, let him see her! (miss susan _hurries scandalised into the other room as_ valentine _enters._) valentine. i ventured to come back because---- (phoebe _turns to him--he stops abruptly, bewildered._) i beg your pardon, madam, i thought it was miss susan or miss phoebe. (_his mistake surprises her, but she is in a wild mood and curtsies, then turns away and smiles. he stares as if half-convinced._) patty (_with an inspiration_). 'tis my mistresses' niece, sir; she is on a visit here. (_he is deceived. he bows gallantly, then remembers the object of his visit. he produces a bottle of medicine._) valentine. patty, i obtained this at the apothecary's for miss phoebe's headache. it should be taken at once. patty. miss phoebe is lying down, sir. valentine. is she asleep? patty (_demurely_). no, sir, i think she be wide awake. valentine. it may soothe her. phoebe. patty, take it to aunt phoebe at once. (_patty goes out sedately with the medicine._) valentine (_after a little awkwardness, which_ phoebe _enjoys_). perhaps i may venture to present myself, miss--miss----? phoebe. miss--livvy, sir. valentine. i am captain brown, miss livvy, an old friend of both your aunts. phoebe (_curtsying_). i have heard them speak of a dashing mr. brown. but i think it cannot be the same. valentine (_a little chagrined_). why not, ma'am? phoebe. i ask your pardon, sir. valentine, i was sure you must be related. indeed, for a moment the likeness--even the voice---- phoebe (_pouting_). la, sir, you mean i am like aunt phoebe. every one says so--and indeed 'tis no compliment. valentine. 'twould have been a compliment once. you must be a daughter of the excellent mr. james throssel who used to reside at great buckland. phoebe. he is still there. valentine. a tedious twenty miles from here, as i remember. phoebe. la! i have found the journey a monstrous quick one, sir. (_the band is again heard. she runs to the window to peep between the curtains, and his eyes follow her admiringly._) valentine (_eagerly_). miss livvy, you go to the ball? phoebe. alas, sir, i have no card. valentine. i have two cards for your aunts. as miss phoebe has the headache, your aunt susan must take you to the ball. phoebe. oh, oh! (_her feet move to the music._) sir, i cannot control my feet. valentine. they are already at the ball, ma'am; you must follow them. phoebe (_with all the pent-up mischief of ten years_). oh, sir, do you think some pretty gentleman might be partial to me at the ball? valentine. if that is your wish---- phoebe. i should love, sir, to inspire frenzy in the breast of the male. (_with sudden collapse._) i dare not go--i dare not. valentine. miss livvy, i vow---- (_he turns eagerly to_ miss susan, _who enters._) i have ventured, miss susan, to introduce myself to your charming niece. (miss susan _would like to run away again, but the wicked_ miss phoebe _is determined to have her help._) phoebe. aunt susan, do not be angry with your livvy--your livvy, aunt susan. this gentleman says he is the dashing mr. brown, he has cards for us for the ball, auntie. of course we cannot go--we dare not go. oh, auntie, hasten into your bombazine. miss susan (_staggered_). phoebe---- phoebe. aunt phoebe wants me to go. if i say she does you know she does! miss susan. but my dear, my dear. phoebe. oh, auntie, why do you talk so much. come, come. valentine. i shall see to it, miss susan, that your niece has a charming ball. phoebe. he means he will find me sweet partners. valentine. nay, ma'am, i mean _i_ shall be your partner. phoebe (_who is not an angel_). aunt susan, he still dances! valentine. _still_, ma'am? phoebe. oh, sir, you are indeed dashing. nay, sir, please not to scowl, i could not avoid noticing them. valentine. noticing what, miss livvy? phoebe. the grey hairs, sir. valentine. i vow, ma'am, there is not one in my head. phoebe. he is such a quiz. i so love a quiz. valentine. then, ma'am, i shall do nothing but quiz you at the ball. miss susan, i beg you-- miss susan. oh, sir, dissuade her. valentine. nay, i entreat. phoebe. auntie! miss susan. think, my dear, think, we dare not. phoebe (_shuddering_). no, we dare not, i cannot go. valentine. indeed, ma'am. phoebe. 'tis impossible. (_she really means it, and had not the music here taken an unfair advantage of her it is certain that_ miss phoebe _would never have gone to the ball. in after years she and_ miss susan _would have talked together of the monstrous evening when she nearly lost her head, but regained it before it could fall off. but suddenly the music swells so alluringly that it is a thousand fingers beckoning her to all the balls she has missed, and in a transport she whirls_ miss susan _from the blue and white room to the bed-chamber where is the bombazine_. valentine _awaits their return like a conqueror, until_ miss livvy's _words about his hair return to trouble him. he is stooping, gazing intently into a small mirror, extracting the grey hairs one by one, when_ patty _ushers in the sisters_ willoughby _and_ miss henrietta. miss henrietta _is wearing the new veil, which opens or closes like curtains when she pulls a string. she opens it now to see what he is doing, and the slight sound brings him to his feet._) miss henrietta. 'tis but the new veil, sir; there is no cause for alarm. (_they have already learned from_ patty, _we may be sure, that he is in the house, but they express genteel surprise._) miss fanny. mary, surely we are addressing the gallant captain brown! valentine. it is the misses willoughby and miss henrietta. 'tis indeed a gratification to renew acquaintance with such elegant and respectable females. (_the greetings are elaborate._) miss willoughby. you have seen miss phoebe, sir? valentine. i have had the honour. miss phoebe, i regret to say, is now lying down with the headache. (_the ladies are too delicately minded to exchange glances before a man, but they are privately of opinion that this meeting after ten years with the dazzling_ brown _has laid_ miss phoebe _low. they are in a twitter of sympathy with her, and yearning to see_ miss susan _alone, so that they may draw from her an account of the exciting meeting._) you do not favour the ball to-night? miss fanny. i confess balls are distasteful to me. miss henrietta. 'twill be a mixed assembly. i am credibly informed that the woollen draper's daughter has obtained a card. valentine (_gravely_). good god, ma'am, is it possible? miss willoughby. we shall probably spend the evening here with miss susan at the card table. valentine. but miss susan goes with me to the ball, ma'am. (_this is scarcely less exciting to them than the overthrow of the corsican._) valentine. nay, i hope there be no impropriety. miss livvy will accompany her. miss willoughby (_bewildered_). miss livvy? valentine. their charming niece. (_the ladies repeat the word in a daze._) miss fanny. they had not apprised us that they have a visitor. (_they think this reticence unfriendly, and are wondering whether they ought not to retire hurt, when_ miss susan _enters in her bombazine, wraps, and bonnet. she starts at sight of them, and has the bearing of a guilty person._) miss willoughby (_stiffly_). we have but now been advertised of your intention for this evening, susan. miss henrietta. we deeply regret our intrusion. miss susan (_wistfully_). please not to be piqued, mary. 'twas so--sudden. miss willoughby. i cannot remember, susan, that your estimable brother had a daughter. i thought all the three were sons. miss susan (_with deplorable readiness_). three sons and a daughter. surely you remember little livvy, mary? miss willoughby (_bluntly_). no, susan, i do not. miss susan. i--i must go. i hear livvy calling. miss fanny (_tartly_). i hear nothing but the band. we are not to see your niece? miss susan. another time--to-morrow. pray rest a little before you depart, mary. i--i--phoebe livvy--the headache---- (_but before she can go another lady enters gaily._) valentine. ah, here is miss livvy. (_the true culprit is more cunning than_ miss susan, _and before they can see her she quickly pulls the strings of her bonnet, which is like_ miss henrietta's, _and it obscures her face._) miss susan. this--this is my niece, livvy--miss willoughby, miss henrietta, miss fanny willoughby. valentine. ladies, excuse my impatience, but-- miss willoughby. one moment, sir. may i ask, miss livvy, how many brothers you have. phoebe. two. miss willoughby. i thank you. (_she looks strangely at_ miss susan, _and_ miss phoebe _knows that she has blundered._) phoebe (_at a venture_). excluding the unhappy thomas. miss susan (_clever for the only moment in her life_). we never mention him. (_they are swept away on the arms of the impatient_ captain.) miss willoughby, miss henrietta, and miss fanny. what has thomas done? (_they have no suspicion as yet of what_ miss phoebe _has done; but they believe there is a scandal in the throssel family, and they will not sleep happily until they know what it is._) _end of act ii._ act iii the ball _a ball, but not the one to which we have seen miss susan and miss phoebe rush forth upon their career of crime. this is the third of the series, the one of which patty has foretold with horrid relish that it promises to be specially given over to devilries. the scene is a canvas pavilion, used as a retiring room and for card play, and through an opening in the back we have glimpses of gay uniforms and fair ladies intermingled in the bravery of the dance. there is coming and going through this opening, and also through slits in the canvas. the pavilion is fantastically decorated in various tastes, and is lit with lanterns. a good-natured moon, nevertheless, shines into it benignly. some of the card tables are neglected, but at one a game of quadrille is in progress. there is much movement and hilarity, but none from one side of the tent, where sit several young ladies, all pretty, all appealing and all woeful, for no gallant comes to ask them if he may have the felicity. the nervous woman chaperoning them, and afraid to meet their gaze lest they scowl or weep in reply, is no other than miss susan, the most unhappy miss susan we have yet seen; she sits there gripping her composure in both hands. far less susceptible to shame is the brazen phoebe, who may be seen passing the opening on the arm of a cavalier, and flinging her trembling sister a mischievous kiss. the younger ladies note the incident; alas, they are probably meant to notice it, and they cower, as under a blow._ harriet (_a sad-eyed, large girl, who we hope found a romance at her next ball_). are we so disagreeable that no one will dance with us? miss susan, 'tis infamous; they have eyes for no one but your niece. charlotte. miss livvy has taken ensign blades from me. harriet. if miss phoebe were here, i am sure she would not allow her old pupils to be so neglected. (_the only possible reply for_ miss susan _is to make herself look as small as possible. a lieutenant comes to them, once a scorner of woman, but now_ spicer _the bewitched_. harriet _has a moment's hope._) how do you do, sir? spicer (_with dreadful indifference, though she is his dear cousin_). nay, ma'am, how do you do? (_wistfully._) may i stand beside you, miss susan? (_he is a most melancholic young man, and he fidgets her._) miss susan (_with spirit_). you have been standing beside me, sir, nearly all the evening. spicer (_humbly. it is strange to think that he had been favourably mentioned in despatches_). indeed, i cannot but be cognisant of the sufferings i cause by attaching myself to you in this unseemly manner. accept my assurances, ma'am, that you have my deepest sympathy. miss susan. then why do you do it? spicer. because you are her aunt, ma'am. it is a scheme of mine by which i am in hopes to soften her heart. her affection for you, ma'am, is beautiful to observe, and if she could be persuaded that i seek her hand from a passionate desire to have you for my aunt susan--do you perceive anything hopeful in my scheme, ma'am? miss susan. no, sir, i do not. (spicer _wanders away gloomily, takes too much to drink, and ultimately becomes a general_. ensign blades _appears, frowning, and_ charlotte _ventures to touch his sleeve._) charlotte. ensign blades, i have not danced with you once this evening. blades (_with the cold brutality of a lover to another she_). nor i with you, charlotte. (_to_ susan.) may i solicit of you, miss susan, is captain brown miss livvy's guardian; is he affianced to her? miss susan. no, sir. blades. then by what right, ma'am, does he interfere? your elegant niece had consented to accompany me to the shrubbery--to look at the moon. and now captain brown forbids it. 'tis unendurable. charlotte. but you may see the moon from here, sir. blades (_glancing at it contemptuously_). i believe not, ma'am. (_the moon still shines on._) miss susan (_primly_). i am happy captain brown forbade her. blades. miss susan, 'twas but because he is to conduct her to the shrubbery himself. (_he flings out pettishly, and_ miss susan _looks pityingly at the wall-flowers._) miss susan. my poor charlotte! may i take you to some very agreeable ladies? charlotte (_tartly_). no, you may not. i am going to the shrubbery to watch miss livvy. miss susan. please not to do that. charlotte (_implying that_ miss susan _will be responsible for her early death_). my chest is weak. i shall sit among the dew. miss susan. charlotte, you terrify me. at least, please to put this cloak about your shoulders. nay, my dear, allow me. (_she puts a cloak around_ charlotte, _who departs vindictively for the shrubbery. she will not find_ livvy _there, however, for next moment_ miss phoebe _darts in from the back._) phoebe (_in a gay whisper_). susan, another offer [transcriber's note: officer?] --major linkwater--rotund man, black whiskers, fierce expression; he has rushed away to destroy himself. (_we have been unable to find any record of the major's tragic end._) an old soldier (_looking up from a card table, whence he has heard the raging of_ blades). miss livvy, ma'am, what is this about the moon? (phoebe _smiles roguishly._) phoebe (_looking about her_). i want my cloak, aunt susan. miss susan. i have just lent it to poor charlotte parratt. phoebe. oh, auntie! old soldier. and now miss livvy cannot go into the shrubbery to see the moon; and she is so fond of the moon! (miss phoebe _screws her nose at him merrily, and darts back to the dance, but she has left a defender behind her._) a gallant (_whose name we have not succeeded in discovering_). am i to understand, sir, that you are intimating disparagement of the moon? if a certain female has been graciously pleased to signify approval of that orb, any slight cast upon the moon, sir, i shall regard as a personal affront. old soldier. hoity-toity. (_but he rises, and they face each other, as_ miss susan _feels, for battle. she is about to rush between their undrawn swords when there is a commotion outside; a crowd gathers and opens to allow some officers to assist a fainting woman into the tent. it is_ miss phoebe, _and_ miss susan _with a cry goes on her knees beside her. the tent has filled with the sympathetic and inquisitive, but_ captain brown, _as a physician, takes command, and by his order they retire. he finds difficulty in bringing the sufferer to, and gets little help from_ miss susan, _who can only call upon_ miss phoebe _by name._) valentine. nay, miss susan, 'tis useless calling for miss phoebe. 'tis my fault; i should not have permitted miss livvy to dance so immoderately. why do they delay with the cordial? (_he goes to the back to close the opening, and while he is doing so the incomprehensible_ miss phoebe _seizes the opportunity to sit up on her couch of chairs, waggle her finger at_ miss susan, _and sign darkly that she is about to make a genteel recovery._) phoebe. where am i? is that you, aunt susan? what has happened? valentine (_returning_). nay, you must recline, miss livvy. you fainted. you have over-fatigued yourself. phoebe. i remember. (blades _enters with the cordial._) valentine. you will sip this cordial. blades. by your leave, sir. (_he hands it to_ phoebe _himself._) valentine. she is in restored looks already, miss susan. phoebe. i am quite recovered. perhaps if you were to leave me now with my excellent aunt---- valentine. be off with you, apple cheeks. blades. sir, i will suffer no reference to my complexion; and, if i mistake not, this charming lady was addressing you. phoebe. if you please, both of you. (_they retire together, and no sooner have they gone than_ miss phoebe _leaps from the couch, her eyes sparkling. she presses the cordial on_ miss susan.) nay, drink it, susan. i left it for you on purpose. i have such awful information to impart. drink. (miss susan _drinks tremblingly and then the bolt is fired._) susan, miss henrietta and miss fanny are here! miss susan. phoebe! phoebe. suddenly my eyes lighted on them. at once i slipped to the ground. miss susan. you think they did not see you? phoebe. i am sure of it. they talked for a moment to ensign blades, and then turned and seemed to be going towards the shrubbery. miss susan. he had heard that you were there with captain brown. he must have told them. phoebe. i was not. but oh, sister, i am sure they suspect, else why should they be here? they never frequent balls. miss susan. they have suspected for a week, ever since they saw you in your veil, phoebe, on the night of the first dance. how could they but suspect, when they have visited us every day since then and we have always pretended that livvy was gone out. phoebe. should they see my face it will be idle to attempt to deceive them. miss susan. idle indeed; phoebe, the scandal! you--a schoolmistress! phoebe. that is it, sister. a little happiness has gone to my head like strong waters. (_she is very restless and troubled._) miss susan. my dear, stand still, and think. phoebe. i dare not, i cannot. oh, susan, if they see me we need not open school again. miss susan. we shall starve. phoebe (_passionately_). this horrid, forward, flirting, heartless, hateful little toad of a livvy. miss susan. brother james's daughter, as we call her! phoebe. 'tis all james's fault. miss susan. sister, when you know that james has no daughter! phoebe. if he had really had one, think you i could have been so wicked as to personate her? susan, i know not what i am saying, but you know who it is that has turned me into this wild creature. miss susan. oh, valentine brown, how could you? phoebe. to weary of phoebe--patient, lady-like phoebe--the phoebe whom i have lost--to turn from her with a 'bah, you make me old,' and become enamoured in a night of a thing like this! miss susan. yes, yes, indeed; yet he has been kind to us also. he has been to visit us several times. phoebe. in the hope to see her. was he not most silent and gloomy when we said she was gone out? miss susan. he is infatuate---- (_she hesitates._) sister, you are not partial to him still? phoebe. no, susan, no. i did love him all those years, though i never spoke of it to you. i put hope aside at once, i folded it up and kissed it and put it away like a pretty garment i could never wear again, i but loved to think of him as a noble man. but he is not a noble man, and livvy found it out in an hour. the gallant! i flirted that i might enjoy his fury. susan, there has been a declaration in his eyes all to-night, and when he cries 'adorable miss livvy, be mine,' i mean to answer with an 'oh, la, how ridiculous you are. you are much too old--i have been but quizzing you, sir.' miss susan. phoebe, how can you be so cruel? phoebe. because he has taken from me the one great glory that is in a woman's life. not a man's love--she can do without that--but her own dear sweet love for him. he is unworthy of my love; that is why i can be so cruel. miss susan. oh, dear. phoebe. and now my triumph is to be denied me, for we must steal away home before henrietta and fanny see us. miss susan. yes, yes. phoebe (_dispirited_). and to-morrow we must say that livvy has gone back to her father, for i dare keep up this deception no longer. susan, let us go. (_they are going dejectedly, but are arrested by the apparition of_ miss henrietta _and_ miss fanny _peeping into the tent_. phoebe _has just time to signify to her sister that she will confess all and beg for mercy, when the intruders speak._) miss henrietta (_not triumphant but astounded_). you, miss phoebe? phoebe (_with bowed head_). yes. miss fanny. how amazing! you do not deny, ma'am, that you are miss phoebe? phoebe (_making confession_). yes, fanny, i am miss phoebe. (_to her bewilderment_ henrietta _and_ fanny _exchange ashamed glances._) miss henrietta. miss phoebe, we have done you a cruel wrong. miss fanny. phoebe, we apologise. miss henrietta. to think how excitedly we have been following her about in the shrubbery. miss fanny. she is wearing your cloak. miss henrietta. ensign blades told us she was gone to the shrubbery. miss fanny. and we were convinced there was no such person. miss henrietta. so of course we thought it must be you. miss fanny (_who has looked out_). i can discern her in the shrubbery still. she is decidedly taller than phoebe. miss henrietta. i thought she looked taller. i meant to say so. phoebe, 'twas the cloak deceived us. we could not see her face. phoebe (_beginning to understand_). cloak? you mean, henrietta--you mean, fanny-- miss fanny. 'twas wicked of us, my dear, but we--we thought that you and miss livvy were the same person. (_they have evidently been stalking_ charlotte _in_ miss phoebe's _cloak_. miss susan _shudders, but_ miss phoebe _utters a cry of reproach, and it is some time before they can persuade her to forgive them. it is of course also some time before we can forgive_ miss phoebe.) phoebe, you look so pretty. are they paying you no attentions, my dear? (phoebe _is unable to resist these delightful openings. the imploring looks_ miss susan _gives her but add to her enjoyment. it is as if the sense of fun she had caged a moment ago were broke loose again._) phoebe. alas, they think of none but livvy. they come to me merely to say that they adore her. miss henrietta. surely not captain brown? phoebe. he is infatuate about her. miss fanny. poor phoebe! (_they make much of her, and she purrs naughtily to their stroking, with lightning peeps at_ miss susan. _affronted providence seeks to pay her out by sending_ ensign blades _into the tent. then the close observer may see_ miss phoebe's _heart sink like a bucket in a well_. miss susan _steals from the tent._) miss henrietta. mr. blades, i have been saying that if i were a gentleman i would pay my addresses to miss phoebe much rather than to her niece. blades. ma'am, excuse me. miss henrietta (_indignant that_ miss phoebe _should be slighted so publicly_). sir, you are a most ungallant and deficient young man. blades. really, ma'am, i assure you---- miss henrietta. not another word, sir. phoebe (_in her most old-maidish manner_). miss fanny, miss henrietta, it is time i spoke plainly to this gentleman. please leave him to me. surely 'twill come best from me. miss henrietta. indeed, yes, if it be not too painful to you. phoebe. i must do my duty. miss fanny (_wistfully_). if we could remain-- phoebe. would it be seemly, miss fanny? miss henrietta. come, fanny. (_to_ blades.) sir, you bring your punishment upon yourself. (_they press_ phoebe's _hand, and go. her heart returns to its usual abode._) blades (_bewildered_). are you angry with me, miss livvy? phoebe. oh, no. blades. miss livvy, i have something to say to you of supreme importance to me. with regard to my complexion, i am aware, miss livvy, that it has retained a too youthful bloom. my brother officers comment on it with a certain lack of generosity. (_anxiously._) might i inquire, ma'am, whether you regard my complexion as a subject for light talk. phoebe. no indeed, sir, i only wish i had it. blades (_who has had no intention of offering, but is suddenly carried off his feet by the excellence of the opportunity, which is no doubt responsible for many proposals_). miss livvy, ma'am, you may have it. (_she has a great and humorous longing that she could turn before his affrighted eyes into the schoolmistress she really is. she would endure much to be able at this moment to say, 'i have listened to you,_ ensign blades, _with attention, but i am really_ miss phoebe, _and i must now request you to fetch me the implement.' under the shock, would he have surrendered his palm for punishment? it can never be known, for as she looks at him longingly,_ lieutenant spicer _enters, and he mistakes the meaning of that longing look._) spicer. 'tis my dance, ma'am--'tis not ensign blades'. blades. leave us, sir. we have matter of moment to discuss. spicer (_fearing the worst_). his affection, miss livvy, is not so deep as mine. he is a light and shallow nature. phoebe. pooh! you are both light and shallow natures. blades. both, ma'am? (_but he is not sure that he has not had a miraculous escape._) phoebe (_severely_). 'tis such as you, with your foolish flirting ways, that confuse the minds of women and make us try to be as silly as yourselves. spicer (_crushed_). ma'am. phoebe. i did not mean to hurt you. (_she takes a hand of each and tries to advise them as if her curls were once more hidden under a cap._) you are so like little boys in a school. do be good. sit here beside me. i know you are very brave-- blades. ha! phoebe. and when you come back from the wars it must be so delightful to you to flirt with the ladies again. spicer. oh, ma'am. phoebe. as soon as you see a lady with a pretty nose you cannot help saying that you adore her. blades (_in an ecstasy_). nay, i swear. phoebe. and you offer to her, not from love, but because you are so deficient in conversation. spicer. charming, miss livvy. phoebe (_with sudden irritation_). oh, sir, go away; go away, both of you, and read improving books. (_they are cast down. she has not been quite fair to these gallants, for it is not really of them she has grown weary so much as of the lady they temporarily adore. if_ miss phoebe _were to analyse her feelings she would find that her remark is addressed to_ livvy, _and that it means, 'i have enjoyed for a little pretending to be you, but i am not you and i do not wish to be you. your glitter and the airs of you and the racket of you tire me, i want to be done with you, and to be back in quiet quality street, of which i am a part; it is really pleasant to me to know that i shall wake up to-morrow slightly middle-aged.' with the entrance of_ captain brown, _however, she is at once a frivol again. he frowns at sight of her cavaliers._) valentine. gentlemen, i instructed this lady to rest, and i am surprised to find you in attendance. miss livvy, you must be weary of their fatuities, and i have taken the liberty to order your chaise. phoebe. it is indeed a liberty. blades. an outrage. phoebe. i prefer to remain. valentine. nay. phoebe. i promised this dance to ensign blades. spicer. to me, ma'am. phoebe. and the following one to lieutenant spicer. mr. blades, your arm. valentine. i forbid any further dancing. phoebe. forbid. la! blades. sir, by what right---- valentine. by a right which i hope to make clear to miss livvy as soon as you gentlemen have retired. (phoebe _sees that the declaration is coming. she steels herself._) phoebe. i am curious to know what captain brown can have to say to me. in a few minutes, mr. blades, lieutenant spicer, i shall be at your service. valentine. i trust not. phoebe. i give them my word. (_the young gentlemen retire, treading air once more_. brown _surveys her rather grimly._) valentine. you are an amazing pretty girl, ma'am, but you are a shocking flirt. phoebe. la! valentine. it has somewhat diverted me to watch them go down before you. but i know you have a kind heart, and that if there be a rapier in your one hand there is a handkerchief in the other ready to staunch their wounds. phoebe. i have not observed that they bled much. valentine. the blades and the like, no. but one may, perhaps. phoebe (_obviously the reference is to himself_). perhaps i may wish to see him bleed. valentine (_grown stern_). for shame, miss livvy. (_anger rises in her, but she wishes him to proceed._) i speak, ma'am, in the interests of the man to whom i hope to see you affianced. (_no, she does not wish him to proceed. she had esteemed him for so long, she cannot have him debase himself before her now._) phoebe. shall we--i have changed my mind, i consent to go home. please to say nothing. valentine. nay---- phoebe. i beg you. valentine. no. we must have it out. phoebe. then if you must go on, do so. but remember i begged you to desist. who is this happy man? (_his next words are a great shock to her._) valentine. as to who he is, ma'am, of course i have no notion. nor, i am sure, have you, else you would be more guarded in your conduct. but some day, miss livvy, the right man will come. not to be able to tell him all, would it not be hard? and how could you acquaint him with this poor sport? his face would change, ma'am, as you told him of it, and yours would be a false face until it was told. this is what i have been so desirous to say to you--by the right of a friend. phoebe (_in a low voice but bravely_). i see. valentine (_afraid that he has hurt her_). it has been hard to say and i have done it bunglingly. ah, but believe me, miss livvy, it is not the flaunting flower men love; it is the modest violet. phoebe. the modest violet! _you_ dare to say that. valentine. yes, indeed, and when you are acquaint with what love really is---- phoebe. love! what do you know of love? valentine (_a little complacently_). why, ma'am, i know all about it. i am in love, miss livvy. phoebe (_with a disdainful inclination of the head_). i wish you happy. valentine. with a lady who was once very like you, ma'am. (_at first_ phoebe _does not understand, then a suspicion of his meaning comes to her._) phoebe. not--not--oh no. valentine. i had not meant to speak of it, but why should not i? it will be a fine lesson to you, miss livvy. ma'am, it is your aunt phoebe whom i love. phoebe (_rigid_). you do not mean that. valentine. most ardently. phoebe. it is not true; how dare you make sport of her. valentine. is it sport to wish she may be my wife? phoebe. your wife! valentine. if i could win her. phoebe (_bewildered_). may i solicit, sir, for how long you have been attached to miss phoebe? valentine. for nine years, i think. phoebe. you think! valentine. i want to be honest. never in all that time had i thought myself in love. your aunts were my dear friends, and while i was at the wars we sometimes wrote to each other, but they were only friendly letters. i presume the affection was too placid to be love. phoebe. i think that would be aunt phoebe's opinion. valentine. yet i remember, before we went into action for the first time--i suppose the fear of death was upon me--some of them were making their wills--i have no near relative--i left everything to these two ladies. phoebe (_softly_). did you? (_what is it that_ miss phoebe _begins to see as she sits there so quietly, with her hands pressed together as if upon some treasure? it is_ phoebe _of the ringlets with the stain taken out of her._) valentine. and when i returned a week ago and saw miss phoebe, grown so tired-looking and so poor---- phoebe. the shock made you feel old, i know. valentine. no, miss livvy, but it filled me with a sudden passionate regret that i had not gone down in that first engagement. they would have been very comfortably left. phoebe. oh, sir! valentine. i am not calling it love. phoebe. it was sweet and kind, but it was not love. valentine. it is love now. phoebe. no, it is only pity. valentine. it is love. phoebe (_she smiles tremulously_). you really mean phoebe--tired, unattractive phoebe, that woman whose girlhood is gone. nay, impossible. valentine (_stoutly_). phoebe of the fascinating playful ways, whose ringlets were once as pretty as yours, ma'am. i have visited her in her home several times this week--you were always out--i thank you for that! i was alone with her, and with fragrant memories of her. phoebe. memories! yes, that is the phoebe you love, the bright girl of the past--not the schoolmistress in her old-maid's cap. valentine. there you wrong me, for i have discovered for myself that the schoolmistress in her old-maid's cap is the noblest miss phoebe of them all. (_if only he would go away, and let_ miss phoebe _cry._) when i enlisted, i remember i compared her to a garden. i have often thought of that. phoebe. 'tis an old garden now. valentine. the paths, ma'am, are better shaded. phoebe. the flowers have grown old-fashioned. valentine. they smell the sweeter. miss livvy, do you think there is any hope for me? phoebe. there was a man whom miss phoebe loved--long ago. he did not love her. valentine. now here was a fool! phoebe. he kissed her once. valentine. if miss phoebe suffered him to do that she thought he loved her. phoebe. yes, yes. (_she has to ask him the ten years old question._) do you opinion that this makes her action in allowing it less reprehensible? it has been such a pain to her ever since. valentine. how like miss phoebe! (_sternly._) but that man was a knave. phoebe. no, he was a good man--only a little--inconsiderate. she knows now that he has even forgotten that he did it. i suppose men are like that? valentine. no, miss livvy, men are not like that. i am a very average man, but i thank god i am not like that. phoebe. it was you. valentine (_after a pause_). did miss phoebe say that? phoebe. yes. valentine. then it is true. (_he is very grave and quiet._) phoebe. it was raining and her face was wet. you said you did it because her face was wet. valentine. i had quite forgotten. phoebe. but she remembers, and how often do you think the shameful memory has made her face wet since? the face you love, captain brown, you were the first to give it pain. the tired eyes--how much less tired they might be if they had never known you. you who are torturing me with every word, what have you done to miss phoebe? you who think you can bring back the bloom to that faded garden, and all the pretty airs and graces that fluttered round it once like little birds before the nest is torn down--bring them back to her if you can, sir; it was you who took them away. valentine. i vow i shall do my best to bring them back. (miss phoebe _shakes her head._) miss livvy, with your help---- phoebe. my help! i have not helped. i tried to spoil it all. valentine (_smiling_). to spoil it? you mean that you sought to flirt even with me. ah, i knew you did. but that is nothing. phoebe. oh, sir, if you could overlook it. valentine. i do. phoebe. and forget these hateful balls. valentine. hateful! nay, i shall never call them that. they have done me too great a service. it was at the balls that i fell in love with miss phoebe. phoebe. what can you mean? valentine. she who was never at a ball! (_checking himself humorously._) but i must not tell you, it might hurt you. phoebe. tell me. valentine (_gaily_). then on your own head be the blame. it is you who have made me love her, miss livvy. phoebe. sir? valentine. yes, it is odd, and yet very simple. you who so resembled her as she was! for an hour, ma'am, you bewitched me; yes, i confess it, but 'twas only for an hour. how like, i cried at first, but soon it was, how unlike. there was almost nothing she would have said that you said; you did so much that she would have scorned to do. but i must not say these things to you! phoebe. i ask it of you, captain brown. valentine. well! miss phoebe's 'lady-likeness,' on which she set such store that i used to make merry of the word--i gradually perceived that it is a woman's most beautiful garment, and the casket which contains all the adorable qualities that go to the making of a perfect female. when miss livvy rolled her eyes--ah! (_he stops apologetically._) phoebe. proceed, sir. valentine. it but made me the more complacent that never in her life had miss phoebe been guilty of the slightest deviation from the strictest propriety. (_she shudders._) i was always conceiving her in your place. oh, it was monstrous unfair to you. i stood looking at you, miss livvy, and seeing in my mind her and the pretty things she did, and you did not do; why, ma'am, that is how i fell in love with miss phoebe at the balls. phoebe. i thank you. valentine. ma'am, tell me, do you think there is any hope for me? phoebe. hope! valentine. i shall go to her. 'miss phoebe,' i will say--oh, ma'am, so reverently--'miss phoebe, my beautiful, most estimable of women, let me take care of you for ever more.' (miss phoebe _presses the words to her heart and then drops them._) phoebe. beautiful. la, aunt phoebe! valentine. ah, ma'am, you may laugh at a rough soldier so much enamoured, but 'tis true. 'marry me, miss phoebe,' i will say, 'and i will take you back through those years of hardships that have made your sweet eyes too patient. instead of growing older you shall grow younger. we will travel back together to pick up the many little joys and pleasures you had to pass by when you trod that thorny path alone.' phoebe. can't be--can't be. valentine. nay, miss phoebe has loved me. 'tis you have said it. phoebe. i did not mean to tell you. valentine. she will be my wife yet. phoebe. never. valentine. you are severe, miss livvy. but it is because you are partial to her, and i am happy of that. phoebe (_in growing horror of herself_). i partial to her! i am laughing at both of you. miss phoebe. la, that old thing. valentine (_sternly_). silence! phoebe. i hate her and despise her. if you knew what she is---- (_he stops her with a gesture._) valentine. i know what you are. phoebe. that paragon who has never been guilty of the slightest deviation from the strictest propriety. valentine. never. phoebe. that garden---- valentine. miss livvy, for shame. phoebe. your garden has been destroyed, sir; the weeds have entered it, and all the flowers are choked. valentine. you false woman, what do you mean? phoebe. i will tell you. (_but his confidence awes her._) what faith you have in her. valentine. as in my god. speak. phoebe. i cannot tell you. valentine. no, you cannot. phoebe. it is too horrible. valentine. you are too horrible. is not that it? phoebe. yes, that is it. (miss susan _has entered and caught the last words._) miss susan (_shrinking as from a coming blow_). what is too horrible? valentine. ma'am, i leave the telling of it to her, if she dare. and i devoutly hope those are the last words i shall ever address to this lady. (_he bows and goes out in dudgeon_. miss susan _believes all is discovered and that_ miss phoebe _is for ever shamed._) miss susan (_taking_ phoebe _in her arms_). my love, my dear, what terrible thing has he said to you? phoebe (_forgetting everything but that she is loved_). not terrible--glorious! susan, 'tis phoebe he loves, 'tis me, not livvy! he loves me, he loves me! me--phoebe! (miss susan's _bosom swells. it is her great hour as much as_ phoebe's.) _end of act iii._ act iv the blue and white room _if we could shut our eyes to the two sisters sitting here in woe, this would be, to the male eye at least, the identical blue and white room of ten years ago; the same sun shining into it and playing familiarly with miss susan's treasures. but the ladies are changed. it is not merely that miss phoebe has again donned her schoolmistress's gown and hidden her curls under the cap. to see her thus once more, her real self, after the escapade of the ball, is not unpleasant, and the cap and gown do not ill become the quiet room. but she now turns guiltily from the sun that used to be her intimate, her face is drawn, her form condensed into the smallest space, and her hands lie trembling in her lap. it is disquieting to note that any life there is in the room comes not from her but from miss susan. if the house were to go on fire now it would be she who would have to carry out miss phoebe._ _whatever of import has happened since the ball, patty knows it, and is enjoying it. we see this as she ushers in miss willoughby. note also, with concern, that at mention of the visitor's name the eyes of the sisters turn affrightedly, not to the door by which their old friend enters, but to the closed door of the spare bed-chamber. patty also gives it a meaning glance; then the three look at each other, and two of them blanch._ miss willoughby (_the fourth to look at the door_). i am just run across, susan, to inquire how miss livvy does now. miss susan. she is still very poorly, mary. miss willoughby. i am so unhappy of that. i conceive it to be a nervous disorder? miss susan (_almost too glibly_). accompanied by trembling, flutterings, and spasms. miss willoughby. the excitements of the ball. you have summoned the apothecary at last, i trust, phoebe? (miss phoebe, _once so ready of defence, can say nothing._) miss susan (_to the rescue_). it is livvy's own wish that he should not be consulted. miss willoughby (_looking longingly at the door_). may i go in to see her? miss susan. i fear not, mary. she is almost asleep, and it is best not to disturb her. (_peeping into the bedroom._) lie quite still, livvy, my love, quite still. (_somehow this makes_ patty _smile so broadly that she finds it advisable to retire_. miss willoughby _sighs, and produces a small bowl from the folds of her cloak._) miss willoughby. this is a little arrowroot, of which i hope miss livvy will be so obliging as to partake. miss susan (_taking the bowl_). i thank you, mary. phoebe (_ashamed_). susan, we ought not---- miss susan (_shameless_). i will take it to her while it is still warm. (_she goes into the bedroom_. miss willoughby _gazes at_ miss phoebe, _who certainly shrinks. it has not escaped the notice of the visitor that_ miss phoebe _has become the more timid of the sisters, and she has evolved an explanation._) miss willoughby. phoebe, has captain brown been apprised of miss livvy's illness? phoebe (_uncomfortably_). i think not, miss willoughby. miss willoughby (_sorry for_ phoebe, _and speaking very kindly_). is this right, phoebe? you informed fanny and henrietta at the ball of his partiality for livvy. my dear, it is hard for you, but have you any right to keep them apart? phoebe (_discovering only now what are the suspicions of her friends_). is that what you think i am doing, miss willoughby? miss willoughby. such a mysterious illness. (_sweetly_) long ago, phoebe, i once caused much unhappiness through foolish jealousy. that is why i venture to hope that you will not be as i was, my dear. phoebe. i jealous of livvy! miss willoughby (_with a sigh_). i thought as little of the lady i refer to, but he thought otherwise. phoebe. indeed, miss willoughby, you wrong me. (_but_ miss willoughby _does not entirely believe her, and there is a pause, so long a pause that unfortunately_ miss susan _thinks she has left the house._) miss susan (_peeping in_). is she gone? miss willoughby (_hurt_). no, susan, but i am going. miss susan (_distressed_). mary! (_she follows her out, but_ miss willoughby _will not be comforted, and there is a coldness between them for the rest of the day_. miss susan _is not so abashed as she ought to be. she returns, and partakes with avidity of the arrowroot._) miss susan. phoebe, i am well aware that this is wrong of me, but mary's arrowroot is so delicious. the ladies'-fingers and petticoat-tails those officers sent to livvy, i ate them also! (_once on a time this would have amused_ miss phoebe, _but her sense of humour has gone. she is crying._) phoebe, if you have such remorse you will weep yourself to death. phoebe. oh, sister, were it not for you, how gladly would i go into a decline. miss susan (_after she has soothed_ phoebe _a little_). my dear, what is to be done about her? we cannot have her supposed to be here for ever. phoebe. we had to pretend that she was ill to keep her out of sight; and now we cannot say she has gone away, for the miss willoughby's windows command our door, and they are always watching. miss susan (_peeping from the window_). i see fanny watching now. i feel, phoebe, as if livvy really existed. phoebe (_mournfully_). we shall never be able to esteem ourselves again. miss susan (_who has in her the makings of a desperate criminal_). phoebe, why not marry him? if only we could make him think that livvy had gone home. then he need never know. phoebe. susan, you pain me. she who marries without telling all--hers must ever be a false face. they are his own words. (patty _enters importantly._) patty. captain brown. phoebe (_starting up_). i wrote to him, begging him not to come. miss susan (_quickly_). patty, i am sorry we are out. (_but_ valentine _has entered in time to hear her words._) valentine (_not unmindful that this is the room in which he is esteemed a wit_). i regret that they are out, patty, but i will await their return. (_the astonishing man sits on the ottoman beside_ miss susan, _but politely ignores her presence._) it is not my wish to detain you, patty. (patty _goes reluctantly, and the sisters think how like him, and how delightful it would be if they were still the patterns of propriety he considers them._) phoebe (_bravely_). captain brown. valentine (_rising_). you, miss phoebe. i hear miss livvy is indisposed? phoebe. she is--very poorly. valentine. but it is not that unpleasant girl i have come to see, it is you. miss susan (_meekly_). how do you do? valentine (_ignoring her_). and i am happy, miss phoebe, to find you alone. miss susan (_appealingly_). how do you do, sir? phoebe. you know quite well, sir, that susan is here. valentine. nay, ma'am, excuse me. i heard miss susan say she was gone out. miss susan is incapable of prevarication. miss susan (_rising--helpless_). what am i to do? phoebe. don't go, susan--'tis what he wants. valentine. i have her word that she is not present. miss susan. oh dear. valentine. my faith in miss susan is absolute. (_at this she retires into the bedroom, and immediately his manner changes. he takes_ miss phoebe's _hands into his own kind ones._) you coward, miss phoebe, to be afraid of valentine brown. phoebe. i wrote and begged you not to come. valentine. you implied as a lover, miss phoebe, but surely always as a friend. phoebe. oh yes, yes. valentine. you told miss livvy that you loved me once. how carefully you hid it from me! phoebe (_more firmly_). a woman must never tell. you went away to the great battles. i was left to fight in a little one. women have a flag to fly, mr. brown, as well as men, and old maids have a flag as well as women. i tried to keep mine flying. valentine. but you ceased to care for me. (_tenderly._) i dare ask your love no more, but i still ask you to put yourself into my keeping. miss phoebe, let me take care of you. phoebe. it cannot be. valentine. this weary teaching! let me close your school. phoebe. please, sir. valentine. if not for your own sake, i ask you, miss phoebe, to do it for mine. in memory of the thoughtless recruit who went off laughing to the wars. they say ladies cannot quite forget the man who has used them ill; miss phoebe, do it for me because i used you ill. phoebe. i beg you--no more. valentine (_manfully_). there, it is all ended. miss phoebe, here is my hand on it. phoebe. what will you do now? valentine. i also must work. i will become a physician again, with some drab old housekeeper to neglect me and the house. do you foresee the cobwebs gathering and gathering, miss phoebe? phoebe. oh, sir! valentine. you shall yet see me in quality street, wearing my stock all awry. phoebe. oh, oh! valentine. and with snuff upon my sleeve. phoebe. sir, sir! valentine. no skulker, ma'am, i hope, but gradually turning into a grumpy, crusty, bottle-nosed old bachelor. phoebe. oh, mr. brown! valentine. and all because you will not walk across the street with me. phoebe. indeed, sir, you must marry--and i hope it may be some one who is really like a garden. valentine. i know but one. that reminds me, miss phoebe, of something i had forgot. (_he produces a paper from his pocket._) 'tis a trifle i have wrote about you. but i fear to trouble you. (phoebe's _hands go out longingly for it._) phoebe (_reading_). 'lines to a certain lady, who is modestly unaware of her resemblance to a garden. wrote by her servant, v. b.' (_the beauty of this makes her falter. she looks up._) valentine (_with a poet's pride_). there is more of it, ma'am. phoebe (_reading_) the lilies are her pretty thoughts, her shoulders are the may, her smiles are all forget-me-nots, the path 's her gracious way, the roses that do line it are her fancies walking round, 'tis sweetly smelling lavender in which my lady's gowned. (miss phoebe _has thought herself strong, but she is not able to read such exquisite lines without betraying herself to a lover's gaze._) valentine (_excitedly_). miss phoebe, when did you cease to care for me? phoebe (_retreating from him but clinging to her poem_). you promised not to ask. valentine. i know not why you should, miss phoebe, but i believe you love me still! (miss phoebe _has the terrified appearance of a detected felon._) (_miss susan returns._) miss susan. you are talking so loudly. valentine. miss susan, does she care for me still? miss susan (_forgetting her pride of sex_). oh, sir, how could she help it. valentine. then by gad, miss phoebe, you shall marry me though i have to carry you in my arms to the church. phoebe. sir, how can you! (_but_ miss susan _gives her a look which means that it must be done if only to avoid such a scandal. it is at this inopportune moment that_ miss henrietta _and_ miss fanny _are announced._) miss henrietta. i think miss willoughby has already popped in. phoebe (_with a little spirit_). yes, indeed. miss susan (_a mistress of sarcasm_). how is mary, fanny? she has not been to see us for several minutes. miss fanny (_somewhat daunted_). mary is so partial to you, susan. valentine. your servant, miss henrietta, miss fanny. miss fanny. how do you do, sir? miss henrietta (_wistfully_). and how do you find miss livvy, sir? valentine. i have not seen her, miss henrietta. miss henrietta. indeed! miss fanny. not even you? valentine. you seem surprised? miss fanny. nay, sir, you must not say so; but really, phoebe! phoebe. fanny, you presume! valentine (_puzzled_). if one of you ladies would deign to enlighten me. to begin with, what is miss livvy's malady? miss henrietta. he does not know? oh, phoebe. valentine. ladies, have pity on a dull man, and explain. miss fanny (_timidly_). please not to ask us to explain. i fear we have already said more than was proper. phoebe, forgive. (_to_ captain brown _this but adds to the mystery, and he looks to_ phoebe _for enlightenment._) phoebe (_desperate_). i understand, sir, there is a belief that i keep livvy in confinement because of your passion for her. valentine. my passion for miss livvy? why, miss fanny, i cannot abide her--nor she me. (_looking manfully at_ miss phoebe.) furthermore, i am proud to tell you that this is the lady whom i adore. miss fanny. phoebe? valentine. yes, ma'am. (_the ladies are for a moment bereft of speech, and the uplifted_ phoebe _cannot refrain from a movement which, if completed, would be a curtsy. her punishment follows promptly._) miss henrietta (_from her heart_). phoebe, i am so happy 'tis you. miss fanny. dear phoebe, i give you joy. and you also, sir. (miss phoebe _sends her sister a glance of unutterable woe, and escapes from the room. it is most ill-bred of her._) miss susan, i do not understand! miss henrietta. is it that miss livvy is an obstacle? miss susan (_who knows that there is no hope for her but in flight_). i think i hear phoebe calling me--a sudden indisposition. pray excuse me, henrietta. (_she goes._) miss henrietta. we know not, sir, whether to offer you our felicitations? valentine (_cogitating_). may i ask, ma'am, what you mean by an obstacle? is there some mystery about miss livvy? miss henrietta. so much so, sir, that we at one time thought she and miss phoebe were the same person. valentine. pshaw! miss fanny. why will they admit no physician into her presence? miss henrietta. the blinds of her room are kept most artfully drawn. miss fanny (_plaintively_). we have never seen her, sir. neither miss susan nor miss phoebe will present her to us. valentine (_impressed_). indeed. (miss henrietta _and_ miss fanny, _encouraged by his sympathy, draw nearer the door of the interesting bedchamber. they falter. any one who thinks, however, that they would so far forget themselves as to open the door and peep in, has no understanding of the ladies of quality street. they are, nevertheless, not perfect, for_ miss henrietta _knocks on the door._) miss henrietta. how do you find yourself, dear miss livvy? (_there is no answer. it is our pride to record that they come away without even touching the handle. they look appealing at_ captain brown, _whose face has grown grave._) valentine. i think, ladies, as a physician-- (_he walks into the bedroom. they feel an ignoble drawing to follow him, but do not yield to it. when he returns his face is inscrutable._) miss henrietta. is she very poorly, sir? valentine. ha. miss fanny. we did not hear you address her. valentine. she is not awake, ma'am. miss henrietta. it is provoking. miss fanny (_sternly just_). they informed mary that she was nigh asleep. valentine. it is not a serious illness i think, ma'am. with the permission of miss phoebe and miss susan i will make myself more acquaint with her disorder presently. (_he is desirous to be alone._) but we must not talk lest we disturb her. miss fanny. you suggest our retiring, sir? valentine. nay, miss fanny---- miss fanny. you are very obliging; but i think, henrietta---- miss henrietta (_rising_). yes, fanny. (_no doubt they are the more ready to depart that they wish to inform_ miss willoughby _at once of these strange doings. as they go_, miss susan _and_ miss phoebe _return, and the adieux are less elaborate than usual. neither visitors nor hostesses quite know what to say_. miss susan _is merely relieved to see them leave, but_ miss phoebe _has read something in their manner that makes her uneasy._) phoebe. why have they departed so hurriedly, sir? they--they did not go in to see livvy? valentine. no. (_she reads danger in his face._) phoebe. why do you look at me so strangely? valentine (_somewhat stern_). miss phoebe, i desire to see miss livvy. phoebe. impossible. valentine. why impossible? they tell me strange stories about no one's seeing her. miss phoebe, i will not leave this house until i have seen her. phoebe. you cannot. (_but he is very determined, and she is afraid of him._) will you excuse me, sir, while i talk with susan behind the door? (_the sisters go guiltily into the bedroom, and_ captain brown _after some hesitation rings for_ patty.) valentine. patty, come here. why is this trick being played upon me? patty (_with all her wits about her_). trick, sir! who would dare? valentine. i know, patty, that miss phoebe has been miss livvy all the time. patty. i give in! valentine. why has she done this? patty (_beseechingly_). are you laughing, sir? valentine. i am very far from laughing. patty (_turning on him_). 'twas you that began it, all by not knowing her in the white gown. valentine. why has this deception been kept up so long? patty. because you would not see through it. oh, the wicked denseness. she thought you were infatuate with miss livvy because she was young and silly. valentine. it is infamous. patty. i will not have you call her names. 'twas all playful innocence at first, and now she is so feared of you she is weeping her soul to death, and all i do i cannot rouse her. 'i ha' a follower in the kitchen, ma'am,' says i, to infuriate her. 'give him a glass of cowslip wine,' says she, like a gentle lamb. and ill she can afford it, you having lost their money for them. valentine. what is that? on the contrary, all the money they have, patty, they owe to my having invested it for them. patty. that is the money they lost. valentine. you are sure of that? patty. i can swear to it. valentine. deceived me about that also. good god; but why? patty. i think she was feared you would offer to her out of pity. she said something to miss susan about keeping a flag flying. what she meant i know not. (_but he knows, and he turns away his face._) are you laughing, sir? valentine. no, patty, i am not laughing. why do they not say miss livvy has gone home? it would save them a world of trouble. patty. the misses willoughby and miss henrietta--they watch the house all day. they would say she cannot be gone, for we did not see her go. valentine (_enlightened at last_). i see! patty. and miss phoebe and miss susan wring their hands, for they are feared miss livvy is bedridden here for all time. (_now his sense of humour asserts itself_). thank the lord, you 're laughing! (_at this he laughs the more, and it is a gay_ captain brown _on whom_ miss susan _opens the bedroom door. this desperate woman is too full of plot to note the change in him._) miss susan. i am happy to inform you, sir, that livvy finds herself much improved. valentine (_bolting_). it is joy to me to hear it. miss susan. she is coming in to see you. patty (_aghast_). oh, ma'am! valentine (_frowning on_ patty). i shall be happy to see the poor invalid. patty. ma'am----! (_but_ miss susan, _believing that so far all is well, has returned to the bedchamber_. captain brown _bestows a quizzical glance upon the maid._) valentine. go away, patty. anon i may claim a service of you, but for the present, go. patty. but--but---- valentine. retire, woman. (_she has to go, and he prepares his face for the reception of the invalid_. phoebe _comes in without her cap, the ringlets showing again. she wears a dressing jacket and is supported by_ miss susan.) valentine (_gravely_). your servant, miss livvy. phoebe (_weakly_). how do you do? valentine. allow me, miss susan. (_he takes_ miss susan's _place; but after an exquisite moment_ miss phoebe _breaks away from him, feeling that she is not worthy of such bliss._) phoebe. no, no, i--i can walk alone--see. (_she reclines upon the couch._) miss susan. how do you think she is looking? (_he makes a professional examination of the patient, and they are very ashamed to deceive him, but not so ashamed that they must confess._) what do you think? valentine (_solemnly_). she will recover. may i say, ma'am, it surprises me that any one should see much resemblance between you and your aunt phoebe. miss phoebe is decidedly shorter and more thick-set. phoebe (_sitting up_). no, i am not. valentine. i said miss phoebe, ma'am. (_she reclines._) but tell me, is not miss phoebe to join us? phoebe. she hopes you will excuse her, sir. miss susan (_vaguely_). taking the opportunity of airing the room. valentine. ah, of course. miss susan (_opening bedroom door and catting mendaciously_). captain brown will excuse you, phoebe. valentine. certainly, miss susan. well, ma'am, i think i could cure miss livvy if she is put unreservedly into my hands. miss susan (_with a sigh_). i am sure you could. valentine. then you are my patient, miss livvy. phoebe (_nervously_). 'twas but a passing indisposition, i am almost quite recovered. valentine. nay, you still require attention. do you propose making a long stay in quality street, ma'am? phoebe. i--i--i hope not. it--it depends. miss susan (_forgetting herself_). mary is the worst. valentine. i ask your pardon? phoebe. aunt susan, you are excited. valentine. but you are quite right, miss livvy; home is the place for you. phoebe. would that i could go! valentine. you are going. phoebe. yes--soon. valentine. indeed, i have a delightful surprise for you, miss livvy, you are going to-day. phoebe. to-day? valentine. not merely to-day, but now. as it happens, my carriage is standing idle at your door, and i am to take you in it to your home--some twenty miles if i remember. phoebe. you are to take me? valentine. nay, 'tis no trouble at all, and as your physician my mind is made up. some wraps for her, miss susan. miss susan. but--but---- phoebe (_in a panic_). sir, i decline to go. valentine. come, miss livvy, you are in my hands. phoebe. i decline. i am most determined. valentine. you admit yourself that you are recovered. phoebe. i do not feel so well now. aunt susan! miss susan. sir---- valentine. if you wish to consult miss phoebe---- miss susan. oh, no. valentine. then the wraps, miss susan. phoebe. auntie, don't leave me. valentine. what a refractory patient it is. but reason with her, miss susan, and i shall ask miss phoebe for some wraps. phoebe. sir! (_to their consternation he goes cheerily into the bedroom_. miss phoebe _saves herself by instant flight, and nothing but mesmeric influence keeps_ miss susan _rooted to the blue and white room. when he returns he is loaded with wraps, and still cheerfully animated, as if he had found nothing untoward in_ livvy's _bedchamber._) valentine. i think these will do admirably, miss susan. miss susan. but phoebe---- valentine. if i swathe miss livvy in these---- miss susan. phoebe---- valentine. she is still busy airing the room. (_the extraordinary man goes to the couch as if unable to perceive that its late occupant has gone, and_ miss susan _watches him, fascinated._) come, miss livvy, put these over you. allow me--this one over your shoulders, so. be so obliging as to lean on me. be brave, ma'am, you cannot fall--my arm is round you; gently, gently, miss livvy; ah, that is better; we are doing famously; come, come. good-bye, miss susan, i will take every care of her. (_he has gone, with the bundle on his arm, but_ miss susan _does not wake up. even the banging of the outer door is unable to rouse her. it is heard, however, by_ miss phoebe, _who steals back into the room, her cap upon her head to give her courage._) phoebe. he is gone! (miss susan's _rapt face alarms her._) oh, susan, was he as dreadful as that? miss susan (_in tones unnatural to her_). phoebe, he knows all. phoebe. yes, of course he knows all now. sister, did his face change? oh, susan, what did he say? miss susan. he said 'good-bye, miss susan.' that was almost all he said. phoebe. did his eyes flash fire? miss susan. phoebe, it was what he did. he--he took livvy with him. phoebe. susan, dear, don't say that. you are not distraught, are you? miss susan (_clinging to facts_). he did; he wrapped her up in a shawl. phoebe. susan! you are susan throssel, my love. you remember me, don't you? phoebe, your sister. i was livvy also, you know, livvy. miss susan. he took livvy with him. phoebe (_in woe_). oh, oh! sister, who am i? miss susan. you are phoebe. phoebe. and who was livvy? miss susan. you were. phoebe. thank heaven. miss susan. but he took her away in the carriage. phoebe. oh, dear! (_she has quite forgotten her own troubles now._) susan, you will soon be well again. dear, let us occupy our minds. shall we draw up the advertisement for the reopening of the school? miss susan. i do so hate the school. phoebe. come, dear, come, sit down. write, susan. (_dictating._) 'the misses throssel have the pleasure to announce----' miss susan. pleasure! oh, phoebe. phoebe. 'that they will resume school on the th of next month. music, embroidery, the backboard, and all the elegancies of the mind. latin--shall we say algebra?' miss susan. i refuse to write algebra. phoebe. --for beginners. miss susan. i refuse. there is only one thing i can write; it writes itself in my head all day. 'miss susan throssel presents her compliments to the misses willoughby and miss henrietta turnbull, and requests the honour of their presence at the nuptials of her sister phoebe and captain valentine brown.' phoebe. susan! miss susan. phoebe! (_a door is heard banging._) he has returned! phoebe. oh cruel, cruel. susan, i am so alarmed. miss susan. i will face him. phoebe. nay, if it must be, i will. (_but when he enters he is not very terrible._) valentine. miss phoebe, it is not raining, but your face is wet. i wish always to kiss you when your face is wet. phoebe. susan! valentine. miss livvy will never trouble you any more, miss susan. i have sent her home. miss susan. oh, sir, how can you invent such a story for us. valentine. i did not. i invented it for the misses willoughby and miss henrietta, who from their windows watched me put her into my carriage. patty accompanies her, and in a few hours patty will return alone. miss susan. phoebe, he has got rid of livvy! phoebe. susan, his face hasn't changed! valentine. dear phoebe throssel, will you be phoebe brown? phoebe (_quivering_). you know everything? and that i am not a garden? valentine. i know everything, ma'am--except that. phoebe (_so very glad to be prim at the end_). sir, the dictates of my heart enjoin me to accept your too flattering offer. (_he puts her cap in his pocket. he kisses her_. miss susan _is about to steal away._) oh, sir, susan also. (_he kisses_ miss susan _also; and here we bid them good-bye._) the end. distributed proofreaders miss lulu bett by zona gale contents chapter i. april ii. may iii. june iv. july v. august vi. september i april the deacons were at supper. in the middle of the table was a small, appealing tulip plant, looking as anything would look whose sun was a gas jet. this gas jet was high above the table and flared, with a sound. "better turn down the gas jest a little," mr. deacon said, and stretched up to do so. he made this joke almost every night. he seldom spoke as a man speaks who has something to say, but as a man who makes something to say. "well, what have we on the festive board to-night?" he questioned, eyeing it. "festive" was his favourite adjective. "beautiful," too. in october he might be heard asking: "where's my beautiful fall coat?" "we have creamed salmon," replied mrs. deacon gently. "on toast," she added, with a scrupulous regard for the whole truth. why she should say this so gently no one can tell. she says everything gently. her "could you leave me another bottle of milk this morning?" would wring a milkman's heart. "well, now, let us see," said mr. deacon, and attacked the principal dish benignly. "_let_ us see," he added, as he served. "i don't want any," said monona. the child monona was seated upon a book and a cushion, so that her little triangle of nose rose adultly above her plate. her remark produced precisely the effect for which she had passionately hoped. "_what's_ this?" cried mr. deacon. "_no_ salmon?" "no," said monona, inflected up, chin pertly pointed. she felt her power, discarded her "sir." "oh now, pet!" from mrs. deacon, on three notes. "you liked it before." "i don't want any," said monona, in precisely her original tone. "just a little? a very little?" mr. deacon persuaded, spoon dripping; the child monona made her lips thin and straight and shook her head until her straight hair flapped in her eyes on either side. mr. deacon's eyes anxiously consulted his wife's eyes. what is this? their progeny will not eat? what can be supplied? "some bread and milk!" cried mrs. deacon brightly, exploding on "bread." one wondered how she thought of it. "no," said monona, inflection up, chin the same. she was affecting indifference to this scene, in which her soul delighted. she twisted her head, bit her lips unconcernedly, and turned her eyes to the remote. there emerged from the fringe of things, where she perpetually hovered, mrs. deacon's older sister, lulu bett, who was "making her home with us." and that was precisely the case. _they_ were not making her a home, goodness knows. lulu was the family beast of burden. "can't i make her a little milk toast?" she asked mrs. deacon. mrs. deacon hesitated, not with compunction at accepting lulu's offer, not diplomatically to lure monona. but she hesitated habitually, by nature, as another is by nature vivacious or brunette. "yes!" shouted the child monona. the tension relaxed. mrs. deacon assented. lulu went to the kitchen. mr. deacon served on. something of this scene was enacted every day. for monona the drama never lost its zest. it never occurred to the others to let her sit without eating, once, as a cure-all. the deacons were devoted parents and the child monona was delicate. she had a white, grave face, white hair, white eyebrows, white lashes. she was sullen, anaemic. they let her wear rings. she "toed in." the poor child was the late birth of a late marriage and the principal joy which she had provided them thus far was the pleased reflection that they had produced her at all. "where's your mother, ina?" mr. deacon inquired. "isn't she coming to her supper?" "tantrim," said mrs. deacon, softly. "oh, ho," said he, and said no more. the temper of mrs. bett, who also lived with them, had days of high vibration when she absented herself from the table as a kind of self-indulgence, and no one could persuade her to food. "tantrims," they called these occasions. "baked potatoes," said mr. deacon. "that's good--that's good. the baked potato contains more nourishment than potatoes prepared in any other way. the nourishment is next to the skin. roasting retains it." "that's what i always think," said his wife pleasantly. for fifteen years they had agreed about this. they ate, in the indecent silence of first savouring food. a delicate crunching of crust, an odour of baked-potato shells, the slip and touch of the silver. "num, num, nummy-num!" sang the child monona loudly, and was hushed by both parents in simultaneous exclamation which rivalled this lyric outburst. they were alone at table. di, daughter of a wife early lost to mr. deacon, was not there. di was hardly ever there. she was at that age. that age, in warbleton. a clock struck the half hour. "it's curious," mr. deacon observed, "how that clock loses. it must be fully quarter to." he consulted his watch. "it is quarter to!" he exclaimed with satisfaction. "i'm pretty good at guessing time." "i've noticed that!" cried his ina. "last night, it was only twenty-three to, when the half hour struck," he reminded her. "twenty-one, i thought." she was tentative, regarded him with arched eyebrows, mastication suspended. this point was never to be settled. the colloquy was interrupted by the child monona, whining for her toast. and the doorbell rang. "dear me!" said mr. deacon. "what can anybody be thinking of to call just at meal-time?" he trod the hall, flung open the street door. mrs. deacon listened. lulu, coming in with the toast, was warned to silence by an uplifted finger. she deposited the toast, tiptoed to her chair. a withered baked potato and cold creamed salmon were on her plate. the child monona ate with shocking appreciation. nothing could be made of the voices in the hall. but mrs. bett's door was heard softly to unlatch. she, too, was listening. a ripple of excitement was caused in the dining-room when mr. deacon was divined to usher some one to the parlour. mr. deacon would speak with this visitor in a few moments, and now returned to his table. it was notable how slight a thing would give him a sense of self-importance. now he felt himself a man of affairs, could not even have a quiet supper with his family without the outside world demanding him. he waved his hand to indicate it was nothing which they would know anything about, resumed his seat, served himself to a second spoon of salmon and remarked, "more roast duck, anybody?" in a loud voice and with a slow wink at his wife. that lady at first looked blank, as she always did in the presence of any humour couched with the least indirection, and then drew back her chin and caught her lower lip in her gold-filled teeth. this was her conjugal rebuking. swedenborg always uses "conjugial." and really this sounds more married. it should be used with reference to the deacons. no one was ever more married than they--at least than mr. deacon. he made little conjugal jokes in the presence of lulu who, now completely unnerved by the habit, suspected them where they did not exist, feared lurking _entendre_ in the most innocent comments, and became more tense every hour of her life. and now the eye of the master of the house fell for the first time upon the yellow tulip in the centre of his table. "well, _well_!" he said. "what's this?" ina deacon produced, fleetly, an unlooked-for dimple. "have you been buying flowers?" the master inquired. "ask lulu," said mrs. deacon. he turned his attention full upon lulu. "suitors?" he inquired, and his lips left their places to form a sort of ruff about the word. lulu flushed, and her eyes and their very brows appealed. "it was a quarter," she said. "there'll be five flowers." "you _bought_ it?" "yes. there'll be five--that's a nickel apiece." his tone was as methodical as if he had been talking about the bread. "yet we give you a home on the supposition that you have no money to spend, even for the necessities." his voice, without resonance, cleft air, thought, spirit, and even flesh. mrs. deacon, indeterminately feeling her guilt in having let loose the dogs of her husband upon lulu, interposed: "well, but, herbert--lulu isn't strong enough to work. what's the use...." she dwindled. for years the fiction had been sustained that lulu, the family beast of burden, was not strong enough to work anywhere else. "the justice business--" said dwight herbert deacon--he was a justice of the peace--"and the dental profession--" he was also a dentist--"do not warrant the purchase of spring flowers in my home." "well, but, herbert--" it was his wife again. "no more," he cried briefly, with a slight bend of his head. "lulu meant no harm," he added, and smiled at lulu. there was a moment's silence into which monona injected a loud "num, num, num-my-num," as if she were the burden of an elizabethan lyric. she seemed to close the incident. but the burden was cut off untimely. there was, her father reminded her portentously, company in the parlour. "when the bell rang, i was so afraid something had happened to di," said ina sighing. "let's see," said di's father. "where is little daughter to-night?" he must have known that she was at jenny plow's at a tea party, for at noon they had talked of nothing else; but this was his way. and ina played his game, always. she informed him, dutifully. "oh, _ho_," said he, absently. how could he be expected to keep his mind on these domestic trifles. "we told you that this noon," said lulu. he frowned, disregarded her. lulu had no delicacy. "how much is salmon the can now?" he inquired abruptly--this was one of his forms of speech, the can, the pound, the cord. his partner supplied this information with admirable promptness. large size, small size, present price, former price--she had them all. "dear me," said mr. deacon. "that is very nearly salmoney, isn't it?" "herbert!" his ina admonished, in gentle, gentle reproach. mr. deacon punned, organically. in talk he often fell silent and then asked some question, schemed to permit his vice to flourish. mrs. deacon's return was always automatic: "_her_bert!" "whose bert?" he said to this. "i thought i was your bert." she shook her little head. "you are a case," she told him. he beamed upon her. it was his intention to be a case. lulu ventured in upon this pleasantry, and cleared her throat. she was not hoarse, but she was always clearing her throat. "the butter is about all gone," she observed. "shall i wait for the butter-woman or get some creamery?" mr. deacon now felt his little jocularities lost before a wall of the matter of fact. he was not pleased. he saw himself as the light of his home, bringer of brightness, lightener of dull hours. it was a pretty rôle. he insisted upon it. to maintain it intact, it was necessary to turn upon their sister with concentrated irritation. "kindly settle these matters without bringing them to my attention at meal-time," he said icily. lulu flushed and was silent. she was an olive woman, once handsome, now with flat, bluish shadows under her wistful eyes. and if only she would look at her brother herbert and say something. but she looked in her plate. "i want some honey," shouted the child, monona. "there isn't any, pet," said lulu. "i want some," said monona, eyeing her stonily. but she found that her hair-ribbon could be pulled forward to meet her lips, and she embarked on the biting of an end. lulu departed for some sauce and cake. it was apple sauce. mr. deacon remarked that the apples were almost as good as if he had stolen them. he was giving the impression that he was an irrepressible fellow. he was eating very slowly. it added pleasantly to his sense of importance to feel that some one, there in the parlour, was waiting his motion. at length they rose. monona flung herself upon her father. he put her aside firmly, every inch the father. no, no. father was occupied now. mrs. deacon coaxed her away. monona encircled her mother's waist, lifted her own feet from the floor and hung upon her. "she's such an active child," lulu ventured brightly. "not unduly active, i think," her brother-in-law observed. he turned upon lulu his bright smile, lifted his eyebrows, dropped his lids, stood for a moment contemplating the yellow tulip, and so left the room. lulu cleared the table. mrs. deacon essayed to wind the clock. well now. did herbert say it was twenty-three to-night when it struck the half hour and twenty-one last night, or twenty-one to-night and last night twenty-three? she talked of it as they cleared the table, but lulu did not talk. "can't you remember?" mrs. deacon said at last. "i should think you might be useful." lulu was lifting the yellow tulip to set it on the sill. she changed her mind. she took the plant to the wood-shed and tumbled it with force upon the chip-pile. the dining-room table was laid for breakfast. the two women brought their work and sat there. the child monona hung miserably about, watching the clock. right or wrong, she was put to bed by it. she had eight minutes more--seven--six--five-- lulu laid down her sewing and left the room. she went to the wood-shed, groped about in the dark, found the stalk of the one tulip flower in its heap on the chip-pile. the tulip she fastened in her gown on her flat chest. outside were to be seen the early stars. it is said that if our sun were as near to arcturus as we are near to our sun, the great arcturus would burn our sun to nothingness. * * * * * in the deacons' parlour sat bobby larkin, eighteen. he was in pain all over. he was come on an errand which civilisation has contrived to make an ordeal. before him on the table stood a photograph of diana deacon, also eighteen. he hated her with passion. at school she mocked him, aped him, whispered about him, tortured him. for two years he had hated her. nights he fell asleep planning to build a great house and engage her as its servant. yet, as he waited, he could not keep his eyes from this photograph. it was di at her curliest, at her fluffiest, di conscious of her bracelet, di smiling. bobby gazed, his basic aversion to her hard-pressed by a most reluctant pleasure. he hoped that he would not see her, and he listened for her voice. mr. deacon descended upon him with an air carried from his supper hour, bland, dispensing. well! let us have it. "what did you wish to see me about?"--with a use of the past tense as connoting something of indirection and hence of delicacy--a nicety customary, yet unconscious. bobby had arrived in his best clothes and with an air of such formality that mr. deacon had instinctively suspected him of wanting to join the church, and, to treat the time with due solemnity, had put him in the parlour until he could attend at leisure. confronted thus by di's father, the speech which bobby had planned deserted him. "i thought if you would give me a job," he said defencelessly. "so that's it!" mr. deacon, who always awaited but a touch to be either irritable or facetious, inclined now to be facetious. "filling teeth?" he would know. "marrying folks, then?" assistant justice or assistant dentist--which? bobby blushed. no, no, but in that big building of mr. deacon's where his office was, wasn't there something ... it faded from him, sounded ridiculous. of course there was nothing. he saw it now. there was nothing. mr. deacon confirmed him. but mr. deacon had an idea. hold on, he said--hold on. the grass. would bobby consider taking charge of the grass? though mr. deacon was of the type which cuts its own grass and glories in its vigour and its energy, yet in the time after that which he called "dental hours" mr. deacon wished to work in his garden. his grass, growing in late april rains, would need attention early next month ... he owned two lots--"of course property _is_ a burden." if bobby would care to keep the grass down and raked ... bobby would care, accepted this business opportunity, figures and all, thanked mr. deacon with earnestness. bobby's aversion to di, it seemed, should not stand in the way of his advancement. "then that is checked off," said mr. deacon heartily. bobby wavered toward the door, emerged on the porch, and ran almost upon di returning from her tea-party at jenny plow's. "oh, bobby! you came to see me?" she was as fluffy, as curly, as smiling as her picture. she was carrying pink, gauzy favours and a spear of flowers. undeniably in her voice there was pleasure. her glance was startled but already complacent. she paused on the steps, a lovely figure. but one would say that nothing but the truth dwelt in bobby. "oh, hullo," said he. "no. i came to see your father." he marched by her. his hair stuck up at the back. his coat was hunched about his shoulders. his insufficient nose, abundant, loose-lipped mouth and brown eyes were completely expressionless. he marched by her without a glance. she flushed with vexation. mr. deacon, as one would expect, laughed loudly, took the situation in his elephantine grasp and pawed at it. "mamma! mamma! what do you s'pose? di thought she had a beau----" "oh, papa!" said di. "why, i just hate bobby larkin and the whole _school_ knows it." mr. deacon returned to the dining-room, humming in his throat. he entered upon a pretty scene. his ina was darning. four minutes of grace remaining to the child monona, she was spinning on one toe with some bacchanalian idea of making the most of the present. di dominated, her ruffles, her blue hose, her bracelet, her ring. "oh, and mamma," she said, "the sweetest party and the dearest supper and the darlingest decorations and the gorgeousest----" "grammar, grammar," spoke dwight herbert deacon. he was not sure what he meant, but the good fellow felt some violence done somewhere or other. "well," said di positively, "they _were_. papa, see my favour." she showed him a sugar dove, and he clucked at it. ina glanced at them fondly, her face assuming its loveliest light. she was often ridiculous, but always she was the happy wife and mother, and her rôle reduced her individual absurdities at least to its own. the door to the bedroom now opened and mrs. bett appeared. "well, mother!" cried herbert, the "well" curving like an arm, the "mother" descending like a brisk slap. "hungry _now?_" mrs. bett was hungry now. she had emerged intending to pass through the room without speaking and find food in the pantry. by obscure processes her son-in-law's tone inhibited all this. "no," she said. "i'm not hungry." now that she was there, she seemed uncertain what to do. she looked from one to another a bit hopelessly, somehow foiled in her dignity. she brushed at her skirt, the veins of her long, wrinkled hands catching an intenser blue from the dark cloth. she put her hair behind her ears. "we put a potato in the oven for you," said ina. she had never learned quite how to treat these periodic refusals of her mother to eat, but she never had ceased to resent them. "no, thank you," said mrs. bett. evidently she rather enjoyed the situation, creating for herself a spot-light much in the manner of monona. "mother," said lulu, "let me make you some toast and tea." mrs. bett turned her gentle, bloodless face toward her daughter, and her eyes warmed. "after a little, maybe," she said. "i think i'll run over to see grandma gates now," she added, and went toward the door. "tell her," cried dwight, "tell her she's my best girl." grandma gates was a rheumatic cripple who lived next door, and whenever the deacons or mrs. bett were angry or hurt or wished to escape the house for some reason, they stalked over to grandma gates--in lieu of, say, slamming a door. these visits radiated an almost daily friendliness which lifted and tempered the old invalid's lot and life. di flashed out at the door again, on some trivial permission. "a good many of mamma's stitches in that dress to keep clean," ina called after. "early, darling, early!" her father reminded her. a faint regurgitation of his was somehow invested with the paternal. "what's this?" cried dwight herbert deacon abruptly. on the clock shelf lay a letter. "oh, dwight!" ina was all compunction. "it came this morning. i forgot." "i forgot it too! and i laid it up there." lulu was eager for her share of the blame. "isn't it understood that my mail can't wait like this?" dwight's sense of importance was now being fed in gulps. "i know. i'm awfully sorry," lulu said, "but you hardly ever get a letter----" this might have made things worse, but it provided dwight with a greater importance. "of course, pressing matter goes to my office," he admitted it. "still, my mail should have more careful----" he read, frowning. he replaced the letter, and they hung upon his motions as he tapped the envelope and regarded them. "now!" said he. "what do you think i have to tell you?" "something nice," ina was sure. "something surprising," dwight said portentously. "but, dwight--is it _nice?_" from his ina. "that depends. i like it. so'll lulu." he leered at her. "it's company." "oh, dwight," said ina. "who?" "from oregon," he said, toying with his suspense. "your brother!" cried ina. "is he coming?" "yes. ninian's coming, so he says." "ninian!" cried ina again. she was excited, round-eyed, her moist lips parted. dwight's brother ninian. how long was it? nineteen years. south america, central america, mexico, panama "and all." when was he coming and what was he coming for? "to see me," said dwight. "to meet you. some day next week. he don't know what a charmer lulu is, or he'd come quicker." lulu flushed terribly. not from the implication. but from the knowledge that she was not a charmer. the clock struck. the child monona uttered a cutting shriek. herbert's eyes flew not only to the child but to his wife. what was this, was their progeny hurt? "bedtime," his wife elucidated, and added: "lulu, will you take her to bed? i'm pretty tired." lulu rose and took monona by the hand, the child hanging back and shaking her straight hair in an unconvincing negative. as they crossed the room, dwight herbert deacon, strolling about and snapping his fingers, halted and cried out sharply: "lulu. one moment!" he approached her. a finger was extended, his lips were parted, on his forehead was a frown. "you _picked_ the flower on the plant?" he asked incredulously. lulu made no reply. but the child monona felt herself lifted and borne to the stairway and the door was shut with violence. on the dark stairway lulu's arms closed about her in an embrace which left her breathless and squeaking. and yet lulu was not really fond of the child monona, either. this was a discharge of emotion akin, say, to slamming the door. ii may lulu was dusting the parlour. the parlour was rarely used, but every morning it was dusted. by lulu. she dusted the black walnut centre table which was of ina's choosing, and looked like ina, shining, complacent, abundantly curved. the leather rocker, too, looked like ina, brown, plumply upholstered, tipping back a bit. really, the davenport looked like ina, for its chintz pattern seemed to bear a design of lifted eyebrows and arch, reproachful eyes. lulu dusted the upright piano, and that was like dwight--in a perpetual attitude of rearing back, with paws out, playful, but capable, too, of roaring a ready bass. and the black fireplace--there was mrs. bett to the life. colourless, fireless, and with a dust of ashes. in the midst of all was lulu herself reflected in the narrow pier glass, bodiless-looking in her blue gingham gown, but somehow alive. natural. this pier glass lulu approached with expectation, not because of herself but because of the photograph on its low marble shelf. a large photograph on a little shelf-easel. a photograph of a man with evident eyes, evident lips, evident cheeks--and each of the six were rounded and convex. you could construct the rest of him. down there under the glass you could imagine him extending, rounded and convex, with plump hands and curly thumbs and snug clothes. it was ninian deacon, dwight's brother. every day since his coming had been announced lulu, dusting the parlour, had seen the photograph looking at her with its eyes somehow new. or were her own eyes new? she dusted this photograph with a difference, lifted, dusted, set it back, less as a process than as an experience. as she dusted the mirror and saw his trim semblance over against her own bodiless reflection, she hurried away. but the eyes of the picture followed her, and she liked it. she dusted the south window-sill and saw bobby larkin come round the house and go to the wood-shed for the lawn mower. she heard the smooth blur of the cutter. not six times had bobby traversed the lawn when lulu saw di emerge from the house. di had been caring for her canary and she carried her bird-bath and went to the well, and lulu divined that di had deliberately disregarded the handy kitchen taps. lulu dusted the south window and watched, and in her watching was no quality of spying or of criticism. nor did she watch wistfully. rather, she looked out on something in which she had never shared, could not by any chance imagine herself sharing. the south windows were open. airs of may bore the soft talking. "oh, bobby, will you pump while i hold this?" and again: "now wait till i rinse." and again: "you needn't be so glum"--the village salutation signifying kindly attention. bobby now first spoke: "who's glum?" he countered gloomily. the iron of those days when she had laughed at him was deep within him, and this she now divined, and said absently: "i used to think you were pretty nice. but i don't like you any more." "yes, you used to!" bobby repeated derisively. "is that why you made fun of me all the time?" at this di coloured and tapped her foot on the well-curb. he seemed to have her now, and enjoyed his triumph. but di looked up at him shyly and looked down. "i had to," she admitted. "they were all teasing me about you." "they were?" this was a new thought to him. teasing her about him, were they? he straightened. "huh!" he said, in magnificent evasion. "i had to make them stop, so i teased you. i--i never wanted to." again the upward look. "well!" bobby stared at her. "i never thought it was anything like that." "of course you didn't." she tossed back her bright hair, met his eyes full. "and you never came where i could tell you. i wanted to tell you." she ran into the house. lulu lowered her eyes. it was as if she had witnessed the exercise of some secret gift, had seen a cocoon open or an egg hatch. she was thinking: "how easy she done it. got him right over. but _how_ did she do that?" dusting the dwight-like piano, lulu looked over-shoulder, with a manner of speculation, at the photograph of ninian. bobby mowed and pondered. the magnificent conceit of the male in his understanding of the female character was sufficiently developed to cause him to welcome the improvisation which he had just heard. perhaps that was the way it had been. of course that was the way it had been. what a fool he had been not to understand. he cast his eyes repeatedly toward the house. he managed to make the job last over so that he could return in the afternoon. he was not conscious of planning this, but it was in some manner contrived for him by forces of his own with which he seemed to be coöperating without his conscious will. continually he glanced toward the house. these glances lulu saw. she was a woman of thirty-four and di and bobby were eighteen, but lulu felt for them no adult indulgence. she felt that sweetness of attention which we bestow upon may robins. she felt more. she cut a fresh cake, filled a plate, called to di, saying: "take some out to that bobby larkin, why don't you?" it was lulu's way of participating. it was her vicarious thrill. after supper dwight and ina took their books and departed to the chautauqua circle. to these meetings lulu never went. the reason seemed to be that she never went anywhere. when they were gone lulu felt an instant liberation. she turned aimlessly to the garden and dug round things with her finger. and she thought about the brightness of that chautauqua scene to which ina and dwight had gone. lulu thought about such gatherings in somewhat the way that a futurist receives the subjects of his art--forms not vague, but heightened to intolerable definiteness, acute colour, and always motion--motion as an integral part of the desirable. but a factor of all was that lulu herself was the participant, not the onlooker. the perfection of her dream was not impaired by any longing. she had her dream as a saint her sense of heaven. "lulie!" her mother called. "you come out of that damp." she obeyed, as she had obeyed that voice all her life. but she took one last look down the dim street. she had not known it, but superimposed on her chautauqua thoughts had been her faint hope that it would be to-night, while she was in the garden alone, that ninian deacon would arrive. and she had on her wool chally, her coral beads, her cameo pin.... she went into the lighted dining-room. monona was in bed. di was not there. mrs. bett was in dwight herbert's leather chair and she lolled at her ease. it was strange to see this woman, usually so erect and tense, now actually lolling, as if lolling were the positive, the vital, and her ordinary rigidity a negation of her. in some corresponding orgy of leisure and liberation, lulu sat down with no needle. "inie ought to make over her delaine," mrs. bett comfortably began. they talked of this, devised a mode, recalled other delaines. "dear, dear," said mrs. bett, "i had on a delaine when i met your father." she described it. both women talked freely, with animation. they were individuals and alive. to the two pallid beings accessory to the deacons' presence, mrs. bett and her daughter lulu now bore no relationship. they emerged, had opinions, contradicted, their eyes were bright. toward nine o'clock mrs. bett announced that she thought she should have a lunch. this was debauchery. she brought in bread-and-butter, and a dish of cold canned peas. she was committing all the excesses that she knew--offering opinions, laughing, eating. it was to be seen that this woman had an immense store of vitality, perpetually submerged. when she had eaten she grew sleepy--rather cross at the last and inclined to hold up her sister's excellencies to lulu; and, at lulu's defence, lifted an ancient weapon. "what's the use of finding fault with inie? where'd you been if she hadn't married?" lulu said nothing. "what say?" mrs. bett demanded shrilly. she was enjoying it. lulu said no more. after a long time: "you always was jealous of inie," said mrs. bett, and went to her bed. as soon as her mother's door had closed, lulu took the lamp from its bracket, stretching up her long body and her long arms until her skirt lifted to show her really slim and pretty feet. lulu's feet gave news of some other lulu, but slightly incarnate. perhaps, so far, incarnate only in her feet and her long hair. she took the lamp to the parlour and stood before the photograph of ninian deacon, and looked her fill. she did not admire the photograph, but she wanted to look at it. the house was still, there was no possibility of interruption. the occasion became sensation, which she made no effort to quench. she held a rendezvous with she knew not what. in the early hours of the next afternoon with the sun shining across the threshold, lulu was paring something at the kitchen table. mrs. bett was asleep. ("i don't blame you a bit, mother," lulu had said, as her mother named the intention.) ina was asleep. (but ina always took off the curse by calling it her "si-esta," long _i_.) monona was playing with a neighbour's child--you heard their shrill yet lovely laughter as they obeyed the adult law that motion is pleasure. di was not there. a man came round the house and stood tying a puppy to the porch post. a long shadow fell through the west doorway, the puppy whined. "oh," said this man. "i didn't mean to arrive at the back door, but since i'm here--" he lifted a suitcase to the porch, entered, and filled the kitchen. "it's ina, isn't it?" he said. "i'm her sister," said lulu, and understood that he was here at last. "well, i'm bert's brother," said ninian. "so i can come in, can't i?" he did so, turned round like a dog before his chair and sat down heavily, forcing his fingers through heavy, upspringing brown hair. "oh, yes," said lulu. "i'll call ina. she's asleep." "don't call her, then," said ninian. "let's you and i get acquainted." he said it absently, hardly looking at her. "i'll get the pup a drink if you can spare me a basin," he added. lulu brought the basin, and while he went to the dog she ran tiptoeing to the dining-room china closet and brought a cut-glass tumbler, as heavy, as ungainly as a stone crock. this she filled with milk. "i thought maybe ..." said she, and offered it. "thank _you_!" said ninian, and drained it. "making pies, as i live," he observed, and brought his chair nearer to the table. "i didn't know ina had a sister," he went on. "i remember now bert said he had two of her relatives----" lulu flushed and glanced at him pitifully. "he has," she said. "it's my mother and me. but we do quite a good deal of the work." "i'll bet you do," said ninian, and did not perceive that anything had been violated. "what's your name?" he bethought. she was in an immense and obscure excitement. her manner was serene, her hands as they went on with the peeling did not tremble; her replies were given with sufficient quiet. but she told him her name as one tells something of another and more remote creature. she felt as one may feel in catastrophe--no sharp understanding but merely the sense that the thing cannot possibly be happening. "you folks expect me?" he went on. "oh, yes," she cried, almost with vehemence. "why, we've looked for you every day." "'see," he said, "how long have they been married?" lulu flushed as she answered: "fifteen years." "and a year before that the first one died--and two years they were married," he computed. "i never met that one. then it's close to twenty years since bert and i have seen each other." "how awful," lulu said, and flushed again. "why?" "to be that long away from your folks." suddenly she found herself facing this honestly, as if the immensity of her present experience were clarifying her understanding: would it be so awful to be away from bert and monona and di--yes, and ina, for twenty years? "you think that?" he laughed. "a man don't know what he's like till he's roamed around on his own." he liked the sound of it. "roamed around on his own," he repeated, and laughed again. "course a woman don't know that." "why don't she?" asked lulu. she balanced a pie on her hand and carved the crust. she was stupefied to hear her own question. "why don't she?" "maybe she does. do you?" "yes," said lulu. "good enough!" he applauded noiselessly, with fat hands. his diamond ring sparkled, his even white teeth flashed. "i've had twenty years of galloping about," he informed her, unable, after all, to transfer his interests from himself to her. "where?" she asked, although she knew. "south america. central america. mexico. panama." he searched his memory. "colombo," he superadded. "my!" said lulu. she had probably never in her life had the least desire to see any of these places. she did not want to see them now. but she wanted passionately to meet her companion's mind. "it's the life," he informed her. "must be," lulu breathed. "i----" she tried, and gave it up. "where you been mostly?" he asked at last. by this unprecedented interest in her doings she was thrown into a passion of excitement. "here," she said. "i've always been here. fifteen years with ina. before that we lived in the country." he listened sympathetically now, his head well on one side. he watched her veined hands pinch at the pies. "poor old girl," he was thinking. "is it miss lulu bett?" he abruptly inquired. "or mrs.?" lulu flushed in anguish. "miss," she said low, as one who confesses the extremity of failure. then from unplumbed depths another lulu abruptly spoke up. "from choice," she said. he shouted with laughter. "you bet! oh, you bet!" he cried. "never doubted it." he made his palms taut and drummed on the table. "say!" he said. lulu glowed, quickened, smiled. her face was another face. "which kind of a mr. are you?" she heard herself ask, and his shoutings redoubled. well! who would have thought it of her? "never give myself away," he assured her. "say, by george, i never thought of that before! there's no telling whether a man's married or not, by his name!" "it don't matter," said lulu. "why not?" "not so many people want to know." again he laughed. this laughter was intoxicating to lulu. no one ever laughed at what she said save herbert, who laughed at _her_. "go it, old girl!" ninian was thinking, but this did not appear. the child monona now arrived, banging the front gate and hurling herself round the house on the board walk, catching the toe of one foot in the heel of the other and blundering forward, head down, her short, straight hair flapping over her face. she landed flat-footed on the porch. she began to speak, using a ridiculous perversion of words, scarcely articulate, then in vogue in her group. and, "whose dog?" she shrieked. ninian looked over his shoulder, held out his hand, finished something that he was saying to lulu. monona came to him readily enough, staring, loose-lipped. "i'll bet i'm your uncle," said ninian. relationship being her highest known form of romance, monona was thrilled by this intelligence. "give us a kiss," said ninian, finding in the plural some vague mitigation for some vague offence. monona, looking silly, complied. and her uncle said my stars, such a great big tall girl--they would have to put a board on her head. "what's that?" inquired monona. she had spied his great diamond ring. "this," said her uncle, "was brought to me by santa claus, who keeps a jewellery shop in heaven." the precision and speed of his improvisation revealed him. he had twenty other diamonds like this one. he kept them for those sundays when the sun comes up in the west. of course--often! some day he was going to melt a diamond and eat it. then you sparkled all over in the dark, ever after. another diamond he was going to plant. they say----he did it all gravely, absorbedly. about it he was as conscienceless as a savage. this was no fancy spun to pleasure a child. this was like lying, for its own sake. he went on talking with lulu, and now again he was the tease, the braggart, the unbridled, unmodified male. monona stood in the circle of his arm. the little being was attentive, softened, subdued. some pretty, faint light visited her. in her listening look, she showed herself a charming child. "it strikes me," said ninian to lulu, "that you're going to do something mighty interesting before you die." it was the clear conversational impulse, born of the need to keep something going, but lulu was all faith. she closed the oven door on her pies and stood brushing flour from her fingers. he was looking away from her, and she looked at him. he was completely like his picture. she felt as if she were looking at his picture and she was abashed and turned away. "well, i hope so," she said, which had certainly never been true, for her old formless dreams were no intention--nothing but a mush of discontent. "i hope i can do something that's nice before i quit," she said. nor was this hope now independently true, but only this surprising longing to appear interesting in his eyes. to dance before him. "what would the folks think of me, going on so?" she suddenly said. her mild sense of disloyalty was delicious. so was his understanding glance. "you're the stuff," he remarked absently. she laughed happily. the door opened. ina appeared. "well!" said ina. it was her remotest tone. she took this man to be a pedlar, beheld her child in his clasp, made a quick, forward step, chin lifted. she had time for a very javelin of a look at lulu. "hello!" said ninian. he had the one formula. "i believe i'm your husband's brother. ain't this ina?" it had not crossed the mind of lulu to present him. beautiful it was to see ina relax, soften, warm, transform, humanise. it gave one hope for the whole species. "ninian!" she cried. she lent a faint impression of the double _e_ to the initial vowel. she slurred the rest, until the _y_ sound squinted in. not neenyun, but nearly neenyun. he kissed her. "since dwight isn't here!" she cried, and shook her finger at him. ina's conception of hostess-ship was definite: a volley of questions--was his train on time? he had found the house all right? of course! any one could direct him, she should hope. and he hadn't seen dwight? she must telephone him. but then she arrested herself with a sharp, curved fling of her starched skirts. no! they would surprise him at tea--she stood taut, lips compressed. oh, the plows were coming to tea. how unfortunate, she thought. how fortunate, she said. the child monona made her knees and elbows stiff and danced up and down. she must, she must participate. "aunt lulu made three pies!" she screamed, and shook her straight hair. "gracious sakes," said ninian. "i brought her a pup, and if i didn't forget to give it to her." they adjourned to the porch--ninian, ina, monona. the puppy was presented, and yawned. the party kept on about "the place." ina delightedly exhibited the tomatoes, the two apple trees, the new shed, the bird bath. ninian said the un-spellable "m--m," rising inflection, and the "i see," prolonging the verb as was expected of him. ina said that they meant to build a summer-house, only, dear me, when you have a family--but there, he didn't know anything about that. ina was using her eyes, she was arch, she was coquettish, she was flirtatious, and she believed herself to be merely matronly, sisterly, womanly ... she screamed. dwight was at the gate. now the meeting, exclamation, banality, guffaw ... good will. and lulu, peeping through the blind. when "tea" had been experienced that evening, it was found that a light rain was falling and the deacons and their guests, the plows, were constrained to remain in the parlour. the plows were gentle, faintly lustrous folk, sketched into life rather lightly, as if they were, say, looking in from some other level. "the only thing," said dwight herbert, "that reconciles me to rain is that i'm let off croquet." he rolled his r's, a favourite device of his to induce humour. he called it "croquette." he had never been more irrepressible. the advent of his brother was partly accountable, the need to show himself a fine family man and host in a prosperous little home--simple and pathetic desire. "tell you what we'll do!" said dwight. "nin and i'll reminisce a little." "do!" cried mr. plow. this gentle fellow was always excited by life, so faintly excited by him, and enjoyed its presentation in any real form. ninian had unerringly selected a dwarf rocker, and he was overflowing it and rocking. "take this chair, do!" ina begged. "a big chair for a big man." she spoke as if he were about the age of monona. ninian refused, insisted on his refusal. a few years more, and human relationships would have spread sanity even to ina's estate and she would have told him why he should exchange chairs. as it was she forbore, and kept glancing anxiously at the over-burdened little beast beneath him. the child monona entered the room. she had been driven down by di and jenny plow, who had vanished upstairs and, through the ventilator, might be heard in a lift and fall of giggling. monona had also been driven from the kitchen where lulu was, for some reason, hurrying through the dishes. monona now ran to mrs. bett, stood beside her and stared about resentfully. mrs. bett was in best black and ruches, and she seized upon monona and patted her, as her own form of social expression; and monona wriggled like a puppy, as hers. "quiet, pettie," said ina, eyebrows up. she caught her lower lip in her teeth. "well, sir," said dwight, "you wouldn't think it to look at us, but mother had her hands pretty full, bringing us up." into dwight's face came another look. it was always so, when he spoke of this foster-mother who had taken these two boys and seen them through the graded schools. this woman dwight adored, and when he spoke of her he became his inner self. "we must run up-state and see her while you're here, nin," he said. to this ninian gave a casual assent, lacking his brother's really tender ardour. "little," dwight pursued, "little did she think i'd settle down into a nice, quiet, married dentist and magistrate in my town. and nin into--say, nin, what are you, anyway?" they laughed. "that's the question," said ninian. they laughed. "maybe," ina ventured, "maybe ninian will tell us something about his travels. he is quite a traveller, you know," she said to the plows. "a regular gulliver." they laughed respectfully. "how we should love it, mr. deacon," mrs. plow said. "you know we've never seen _very_ much." goaded on, ninian launched upon his foreign countries as he had seen them: population, exports, imports, soil, irrigation, business. for the populations ninian had no respect. crops could not touch ours. soil mighty poor pickings. and the business--say! those fellows don't know--and, say, the hotels! don't say foreign hotel to ninian. he regarded all the alien earth as barbarian, and he stoned it. he was equipped for absolutely no intensive observation. his contacts were negligible. mrs. plow was more excited by the deacons' party than ninian had been wrought upon by all his voyaging. "tell you," said dwight. "when we ran away that time and went to the state fair, little did we think--" he told about running away to the state fair. "i thought," he wound up, irrelevantly, "ina and i might get over to the other side this year, but i guess not. i guess not." the words give no conception of their effect, spoken thus. for there in warbleton these words are not commonplace. in warbleton, europe is never so casually spoken. "take a trip abroad" is the phrase, or "go to europe" at the very least, and both with empressement. dwight had somewhere noted and deliberately picked up that "other side" effect, and his ina knew this, and was proud. her covert glance about pensively covered her soft triumph. mrs. bett, her arm still circling the child monona, now made her first observation. "pity not to have went while the going was good," she said, and said no more. nobody knew quite what she meant, and everybody hoped for the best. but ina frowned. mamma did these things occasionally when there was company, and she dared. she never sauced dwight in private. and it wasn't fair, it wasn't _fair_-- abruptly ninian rose and left the room. * * * * * the dishes were washed. lulu had washed them at break-neck speed--she could not, or would not, have told why. but no sooner were they finished and set away than lulu had been attacked by an unconquerable inhibition. and instead of going to the parlour, she sat down by the kitchen window. she was in her chally gown, with her cameo pin and her string of coral. laughter from the parlour mingled with the laughter of di and jenny upstairs. lulu was now rather shy of di. a night or two before, coming home with "extra" cream, she had gone round to the side-door and had come full upon di and bobby, seated on the steps. and di was saying: "well, if i marry you, you've simply got to be a great man. i could never marry just anybody. i'd _smother_." lulu had heard, stricken. she passed them by, responding only faintly to their greeting. di was far less taken aback than lulu. later di had said to lulu: "i s'pose you heard what we were saying." lulu, much shaken, had withdrawn from the whole matter by a flat "no." "because," she said to herself, "i couldn't have heard right." but since then she had looked at di as if di were some one else. had not lulu taught her to make buttonholes and to hem--oh, no! lulu could not have heard properly. "everybody's got somebody to be nice to them," she thought now, sitting by the kitchen window, adult yet cinderella. she thought that some one would come for her. her mother or even ina. perhaps they would send monona. she waited at first hopefully, then resentfully. the grey rain wrapped the air. "nobody cares what becomes of me after they're fed," she thought, and derived an obscure satisfaction from her phrasing, and thought it again. ninian deacon came into the kitchen. her first impression was that he had come to see whether the dog had been fed. "i fed him," she said, and wished that she had been busy when ninian entered. "who, me?" he asked. "you did that all right. say, why in time don't you come in the other room?" "oh, i don't know." "well, neither do i. i've kept thinking, 'why don't she come along.' then i remembered the dishes." he glanced about. "i come to help wipe dishes." "oh!" she laughed so delicately, so delightfully, one wondered where she got it. "they're washed----" she caught herself at "long ago." "well then, what are you doing here?" "resting." "rest in there." he bowed, crooked his arm. "señora," he said,--his spanish matched his other assimilations of travel-- "señora. allow me." lulu rose. on his arm she entered the parlour. dwight was narrating and did not observe that entrance. to the plows it was sufficiently normal. but ina looked up and said: "well!"--in two notes, descending, curving. lulu did not look at her. lulu sat in a low rocker. her starched white skirt, throwing her chally in ugly lines, revealed a peeping rim of white embroidery. her lace front wrinkled when she sat, and perpetually she adjusted it. she curled her feet sidewise beneath her chair, her long wrists and veined hands lay along her lap in no relation to her. she was tense. she rocked. when dwight had finished his narration, there was a pause, broken at last by mrs. bett: "you tell that better than you used to when you started in telling it," she observed. "you got in some things i guess you used to clean forget about. monona, get off my rocker." monona made a little whimpering sound, in pretence to tears. ina said "darling--quiet!"--chin a little lifted, lower lip revealing lower teeth for the word's completion; and she held it. the plows were asking something about mexico. dwight was wondering if it would let up raining _at all_. di and jenny came whispering into the room. but all these distractions ninian deacon swept aside. "miss lulu," he said, "i wanted you to hear about my trip up the amazon, because i knew how interested you are in travels." he talked, according to his lights, about the amazon. but the person who most enjoyed the recital could not afterward have told two words that he said. lulu kept the position which she had taken at first, and she dare not change. she saw the blood in the veins of her hands and wanted to hide them. she wondered if she might fold her arms, or have one hand to support her chin, gave it all up and sat motionless, save for the rocking. then she forgot everything. for the first time in years some one was talking and looking not only at ina and dwight and their guests, but at her. iii june on a june morning dwight herbert deacon looked at the sky, and said with his manner of originating it: "how about a picnic this afternoon?" ina, with her blank, upward look, exclaimed: "to-_day?_" "first class day, it looks like to me." come to think of it, ina didn't know that there was anything to prevent, but mercy, herbert was so sudden. lulu began to recite the resources of the house for a lunch. meanwhile, since the first mention of picnic, the child monona had been dancing stiffly about the room, knees stiff, elbows stiff, shoulders immovable, her straight hair flapping about her face. the sad dance of the child who cannot dance because she never has danced. di gave a conservative assent--she was at that age--and then took advantage of the family softness incident to a guest and demanded that bobby go too. ina hesitated, partly because she always hesitated, partly because she was tribal in the extreme. "just our little family and uncle ninian would have been so nice," she sighed, with her consent. when, at six o'clock, ina and dwight and ninian assembled on the porch and lulu came out with the basket, it was seen that she was in a blue-cotton house-gown. "look here," said ninian, "aren't you going?" "me?" said lulu. "oh, no." "why not?" "oh, i haven't been to a picnic since i can remember." "but why not?" "oh, i never think of such a thing." ninian waited for the family to speak. they did speak. dwight said: "lulu's a regular home body." and ina advanced kindly with: "come with us, lulu, if you like." "no," said lulu, and flushed. "thank you," she added, formally. mrs. bett's voice shrilled from within the house, startlingly close--just beyond the blind, in fact: "go on, lulie. it'll do you good. you mind me and go on." "well," said ninian, "that's what i say. you hustle for your hat and you come along." for the first time this course presented itself to lulu as a possibility. she stared up at ninian. "you can slip on my linen duster, over," ina said graciously. "your new one?" dwight incredulously wished to know. "oh, no!" ina laughed at the idea. "the old one." they were having to wait for di in any case--they always had to wait for di--and at last, hardly believing in her own motions, lulu was running to make ready. mrs. bett hurried to help her, but she took down the wrong things and they were both irritated. lulu reappeared in the linen duster and a wide hat. there had been no time to "tighten up" her hair; she was flushed at the adventure; she had never looked so well. they started. lulu, falling in with monona, heard for the first time in her life, the step of the pursuing male, choosing to walk beside her and the little girl. oh, would ina like that? and what did lulu care what ina liked? monona, making a silly, semi-articulate observation, was enchanted to have lulu burst into laughter and squeeze her hand. di contributed her bright presence, and bobby larkin appeared from nowhere, running, with a gigantic bag of fruit. "bullylujah!" he shouted, and lulu could have shouted with him. she sought for some utterance. she wanted to talk with ninian. "i do hope we've brought sandwiches enough," was all that she could get to say. they chose a spot, that is to say dwight herbert chose a spot, across the river and up the shore where there was at that season a strip of warm beach. dwight herbert declared himself the builder of incomparable fires, and made a bad smudge. ninian, who was a camper neither by birth nor by adoption, kept offering brightly to help, could think of nothing to do, and presently, bethinking himself of skipping stones, went and tried to skip them on the flowing river. ina cut her hand opening the condensed milk and was obliged to sit under a tree and nurse the wound. monona spilled all the salt and sought diligently to recover it. so lulu did all the work. as for di and bobby, they had taken the pail and gone for water, discouraging monona from accompanying them, discouraging her to the point of tears. but the two were gone for so long that on their return dwight was hungry and cross and majestic. "those who disregard the comfort of other people," he enunciated, "can not expect consideration for themselves in the future." he did not say on what ethical tenet this dictum was based, but he delivered it with extreme authority. ina caught her lower lip with her teeth, dipped her head, and looked at di. and monona laughed like a little demon. as soon as lulu had all in readiness, and cold corned beef and salad had begun their orderly progression, dwight became the immemorial dweller in green fastnesses. he began: "this is ideal. i tell you, people don't half know life if they don't get out and eat in the open. it's better than any tonic at a dollar the bottle. nature's tonic--eh? free as the air. look at that sky. see that water. could anything be more pleasant?" he smiled at his wife. this man's face was glowing with simple pleasure. he loved the out-of-doors with a love which could not explain itself. but he now lost a definite climax when his wife's comment was heard to be: "monona! now it's all over both ruffles. and mamma does try so hard...." after supper some boys arrived with a boat which they beached, and dwight, with enthusiasm, gave the boys ten cents for a half hour's use of that boat and invited to the waters his wife, his brother and his younger daughter. ina was timid----not because she was afraid but because she was congenitally timid--with her this was not a belief or an emotion, it was a disease. "dwight darling, are you sure there's no danger?" why, none. none in the world. whoever heard of drowning in a river. "but you're not so very used----" oh, wasn't he? who was it that had lived in a boat throughout youth if not he? ninian refused out-of-hand, lighted a cigar, and sat on a log in a permanent fashion. ina's plump figure was fitted in the stern, the child monona affixed, and the boat put off, bow well out of water. on this pleasure ride the face of the wife was as the face of the damned. it was true that she revered her husband's opinions above those of all other men. in politics, in science, in religion, in dentistry she looked up to his dicta as to revelation. and was he not a magistrate? but let him take oars in hand, or shake lines or a whip above the back of any horse, and this woman would trust any other woman's husband by preference. it was a phenomenon. lulu was making the work last, so that she should be out of everybody's way. when the boat put off without ninian, she felt a kind of terror and wished that he had gone. he had sat down near her, and she pretended not to see. at last lulu understood that ninian was deliberately choosing to remain with her. the languor of his bulk after the evening meal made no explanation for lulu. she asked for no explanation. he had stayed. and they were alone. for di, on a pretext of examining the flocks and herds, was leading bobby away to the pastures, a little at a time. the sun, now fallen, had left an even, waxen sky. leaves and ferns appeared drenched with the light just withdrawn. the hush, the warmth, the colour, were charged with some influence. the air of the time communicated itself to lulu as intense and quiet happiness. she had not yet felt quiet with ninian. for the first time her blind excitement in his presence ceased, and she felt curiously accustomed to him. to him the air of the time imparted itself in a deepening of his facile sympathy. "do you know something?" he began. "i think you have it pretty hard around here." "i?" lulu was genuinely astonished. "yes, sir. do you have to work like this all the time? i guess you won't mind my asking." "well, i ought to work. i have a home with them. mother too." "yes, but glory. you ought to have some kind of a life of your own. you want it, too. you told me you did--that first day." she was silent. again he was investing her with a longing which she had never really had, until he had planted that longing. she had wanted she knew not what. now she accepted the dim, the romantic interest of this rôle. "i guess you don't see how it seems," he said, "to me, coming along--a stranger so. i don't like it." he frowned, regarded the river, flicked away ashes, his diamond obediently shining. lulu's look, her head drooping, had the liquid air of the look of a young girl. for the first time in her life she was feeling her helplessness. it intoxicated her. "they're very good to me," she said. he turned. "do you know why you think that? because you've never had anybody really good to you. that's why." "but they treat me good." "they make a slave of you. regular slave." he puffed, frowning. "damned shame, _i_ call it," he said. her loyalty stirred lulu. "we have our whole living----" "and you earn it. i been watching you since i been here. don't you ever go anywheres?" she said: "this is the first place in--in years." "lord. don't you want to? of course you do!" "not so much places like this----" "i see. what you want is to get away--like you'd ought to." he regarded her. "you've been a blamed fine-looking woman," he said. she did not flush, but that faint, unsuspected lulu spoke for her: "you must have been a good-looking man once yourself." his laugh went ringing across the water. "you're pretty good," he said. he regarded her approvingly. "i don't see how you do it," he mused, "blamed if i do." "how i do what?" "why come back, quick like that, with what you say." lulu's heart was beating painfully. the effort to hold her own in talk like this was terrifying. she had never talked in this fashion to any one. it was as if some matter of life or death hung on her ability to speak an alien tongue. and yet, when she was most at loss, that other lulu, whom she had never known anything about, seemed suddenly to speak for her. as now: "it's my grand education," she said. she sat humped on the log, her beautiful hair shining in the light of the warm sky. she had thrown off her hat and the linen duster, and was in her blue gingham gown against the sky and leaves. but she sat stiffly, her feet carefully covered, her hands ill at ease, her eyes rather piteous in their hope somehow to hold her vague own. yet from her came these sufficient, insouciant replies. "education," he said laughing heartily. "that's mine, too." he spoke a creed. "i ain't never had it and i ain't never missed it." "most folks are happy without an education," said lulu. "you're not very happy, though." "oh, no," she said. "well, sir," said ninian, "i'll tell you what we'll do. while i'm here i'm going to take you and ina and dwight up to the city." "to the city?" "to a show. dinner and a show. i'll give you _one_ good time." "oh!" lulu leaned forward. "ina and dwight go sometimes. i never been." "well, just you come with me. i'll look up what's good. you tell me just what you like to eat, and we'll get it----" she said: "i haven't had anything to eat in years that i haven't cooked myself." he planned for that time to come, and lulu listened as one intensely experiencing every word that he uttered. yet it was not in that future merry-making that she found her joy, but in the consciousness that he--some one--any one--was planning like this for her. meanwhile di and bobby had rounded the corner by an old hop-house and kept on down the levee. now that the presence of the others was withdrawn, the two looked about them differently and began themselves to give off an influence instead of being pressed upon by overpowering personalities. frogs were chorusing in the near swamp, and bobby wanted one. he was off after it. but di eventually drew him back, reluctant, frogless. he entered upon an exhaustive account of the use of frogs for bait, and as he talked he constantly flung stones. di grew restless. there was, she had found, a certain amount of this to be gone through before bobby would focus on the personal. at length she was obliged to say, "like me to-day?" and then he entered upon personal talk with the same zest with which he had discussed bait. "bobby," said di, "sometimes i think we might be married, and not wait for any old money." they had now come that far. it was partly an authentic attraction, grown from out the old repulsion, and partly it was that they both--and especially di--so much wanted the experiences of attraction that they assumed its ways. and then each cared enough to assume the pretty rôle required by the other, and by the occasion, and by the air of the time. "would you?" asked bobby--but in the subjunctive. she said: "yes. i will." "it would mean running away, wouldn't it?" said bobby, still subjunctive. "i suppose so. mamma and papa are so unreasonable." "di," said bobby, "i don't believe you could ever be happy with me." "the idea! i can too. you're going to be a great man--you know you are." bobby was silent. of course he knew it--but he passed it over. "wouldn't it be fun to elope and surprise the whole school?" said di, sparkling. bobby grinned appreciatively. he was good to look at, with his big frame, his head of rough dark hair, the sky warm upon his clear skin and full mouth. di suddenly announced that she would be willing to elope _now_. "i've planned eloping lots of times," she said ambiguously. it flashed across the mind of bobby that in these plans of hers he may not always have been the principal, and he could not be sure ... but she talked in nothings, and he answered her so. soft cries sounded in the centre of the stream. the boat, well out of the strong current, was seen to have its oars shipped; and there sat dwight herbert gently rocking the boat. dwight herbert would. "bertie, bertie--please!" you heard his ina say. monona began to cry, and her father was irritated, felt that it would be ignominious to desist, and did not know that he felt this. but he knew that he was annoyed, and he took refuge in this, and picked up the oars with: "some folks never can enjoy anything without spoiling it." "that's what i was thinking," said ina, with a flash of anger. they glided toward the shore in a huff. monona found that she enjoyed crying across the water and kept it up. it was almost as good as an echo. ina, stepping safe to the sands, cried ungratefully that this was the last time that she would ever, ever go with her husband anywhere. ever. dwight herbert, recovering, gauged the moment to require of him humour, and observed that his wedded wife was as skittish as a colt. ina kept silence, head poised so that her full little chin showed double. monona, who had previously hidden a cooky in her frock, now remembered it and crunched sidewise, the eyes ruminant. moving toward them, with di, bobby was suddenly overtaken by the sense of disliking them all. he never had liked dwight herbert, his employer. mrs. deacon seemed to him so overwhelmingly mature that he had no idea how to treat her. and the child monona he would like to roll in the river. even di ... he fell silent, was silent on the walk home which was the signal for di to tease him steadily. the little being was afraid of silence. it was too vast for her. she was like a butterfly in a dome. but against that background of ruined occasion, lulu walked homeward beside ninian. and all that night, beside her mother who groaned in her sleep, lulu lay tense and awake. he had walked home with her. he had told ina and herbert about going to the city. what did it mean? suppose ... oh no; oh no! "either lay still or get up and set up," mrs. bett directed her at length. iv july when, on a warm evening a fortnight later, lulu descended the stairs dressed for her incredible trip to the city, she wore the white waist which she had often thought they would "use" for her if she died. and really, the waist looked as if it had been planned for the purpose, and its wide, upstanding plaited lace at throat and wrist made her neck look thinner, her forearm sharp and veined. her hair she had "crimped" and parted in the middle, puffed high--it was so that hair had been worn in lulu's girlhood. "_well_!" said ina, when she saw this coiffure, and frankly examined it, head well back, tongue meditatively teasing at her lower lip. for travel lulu was again wearing ina's linen duster--the old one. ninian appeared, in a sack coat--and his diamond. his distinctly convex face, its thick, rosy flesh, thick mouth and cleft chin gave lulu once more that bold sense of looking--not at him, for then she was shy and averted her eyes--but at his photograph at which she could gaze as much as she would. she looked up at him openly, fell in step beside him. was he not taking her to the city? ina and dwight themselves were going because she, lulu, had brought about this party. "act as good as you look, lulie," mrs. bett called after them. she gave no instructions to ina who was married and able to shine in her conduct, it seemed. dwight was cross. on the way to the station he might have been heard to take it up again, whatever it was, and his ina unmistakably said: "well, now don't keep it going all the way there"; and turned back to the others with some elaborate comment about the dust, thus cutting off her so-called lord from his legitimate retort. a mean advantage. the city was two hours' distant, and they were to spend the night. on the train, in the double seat, ninian beside her among the bags, lulu sat in the simple consciousness that the people all knew that she too had been chosen. a man and a woman were opposite, with their little boy between them. lulu felt this woman's superiority of experience over her own, and smiled at her from a world of fellowship. but the woman lifted her eyebrows and stared and turned away, with slow and insolent winking. ninian had a boyish pride in his knowledge of places to eat in many cities--as if he were leading certain of the tribe to a deer-run in a strange wood. ninian took his party to a downtown café, then popular among business and newspaper men. the place was below the sidewalk, was reached by a dozen marble steps, and the odour of its griddle-cakes took the air of the street. ninian made a great show of selecting a table, changed once, called the waiter "my man" and rubbed soft hands on "what do you say? shall it be lobster?" he ordered the dinner, instructing the waiter with painstaking gruffness. "not that they can touch _your_ cooking here, miss lulu," he said, settling himself to wait, and crumbling a crust. dwight, expanding a bit in the aura of the food, observed that lulu was a regular chef, that was what lulu was. he still would not look at his wife, who now remarked: "sheff, dwightie. not cheff." this was a mean advantage, which he pretended not to hear--another mean advantage. "ina," said lulu, "your hat's just a little mite--no, over the other way." "was there anything to prevent your speaking of that before?" ina inquired acidly. "i started to and then somebody always said something," said lulu humbly. nothing could so much as cloud lulu's hour. she was proof against any shadow. "say, but you look tremendous to-night," dwight observed to her. understanding perfectly that this was said to tease his wife, lulu yet flushed with pleasure. she saw two women watching, and she thought: "they're feeling sorry for ina--nobody talking to her." she laughed at everything that the men said. she passionately wanted to talk herself. "how many folks keep going past," she said, many times. at length, having noted the details of all the clothes in range, ina's isolation palled upon her and she set herself to take ninian's attention. she therefore talked with him about himself. "curious you've never married, nin," she said. "don't say it like that," he begged. "i might yet." ina laughed enjoyably. "yes, you might!" she met this. "she wants everybody to get married, but she wishes i hadn't," dwight threw in with exceeding rancour. they developed this theme exhaustively, dwight usually speaking in the third person and always with his shoulder turned a bit from his wife. it was inconceivable, the gusto with which they proceeded. ina had assumed for the purpose an air distrait, casual, attentive to the scene about them. but gradually her cheeks began to burn. "she'll cry," lulu thought in alarm, and said at random: "ina, that hat is so pretty--ever so much prettier than the old one." but ina said frostily that she never saw anything the matter with the old one. "let us talk," said ninian low, to lulu. "then they'll simmer down." he went on, in an undertone, about nothing in particular. lulu hardly heard what he said, it was so pleasant to have him talking to her in this confidential fashion; and she was pleasantly aware that his manner was open to misinterpretation. in the nick of time, the lobster was served. * * * * * dinner and the play--the show, as ninian called it. this show was "peter pan," chosen by ninian because the seats cost the most of those at any theatre. it was almost indecent to see how dwight herbert, the immortal soul, had warmed and melted at these contacts. by the time that all was over, and they were at the hotel for supper, such was his pleasurable excitation that he was once more playful, teasing, once more the irrepressible. but now his ina was to be won back, made it evident that she was not one lightly to overlook, and a fine firmness sat upon the little doubling chin. they discussed the play. not one of them had understood the story. the dog-kennel part--wasn't that the queerest thing? nothing to do with the rest of the play. "i was for the pirates. the one with the hook--he was my style," said dwight. "well, there it is again," ina cried. "they didn't belong to the real play, either." "oh, well," ninian said, "they have to put in parts, i suppose, to catch everybody. instead of a song and dance, they do that." "and i didn't understand," said ina, "why they all clapped when the principal character ran down front and said something to the audience that time. but they all did." ninian thought this might have been out of compliment. ina wished that monona might have seen, confessed that the last part was so pretty that she herself would not look; and into ina's eyes came their loveliest light. lulu sat there, hearing the talk about the play. "why couldn't i have said that?" she thought as the others spoke. all that they said seemed to her apropos, but she could think of nothing to add. the evening had been to her a light from heaven--how could she find anything to say? she sat in a daze of happiness, her mind hardly operative, her look moving from one to another. at last ninian looked at her. "sure you liked it, miss lulu?" "oh, yes! i think they all took their parts real well." it was not enough. she looked at them appealingly, knowing that she had not said enough. "you could hear everything they said," she added. "it was--" she dwindled to silence. dwight herbert savoured his rarebit with a great show of long wrinkled dimples. "excellent sauces they make here--excellent," he said, with the frown of an epicure. "a tiny wee bit more athabasca," he added, and they all laughed and told him that athabasca was a lake, of course. of course he meant tobasco, ina said. their entertainment and their talk was of this sort, for an hour. "well, now," said dwight herbert when it was finished, "somebody dance on the table." "dwightie!" "got to amuse ourselves somehow. come, liven up. they'll begin to read the funeral service over us." "why not say the wedding service?" asked ninian. in the mention of wedlock there was always something stimulating to dwight, something of overwhelming humour. he shouted a derisive endorsement of this proposal. "i shouldn't object," said ninian. "should you, miss lulu?" lulu now burned the slow red of her torture. they were all looking at her. she made an anguished effort to defend herself. "i don't know it," she said, "so i can't say it." ninian leaned toward her. "i, ninian, take thee, lulu, to be my wedded wife," he pronounced. "that's the way it goes!" "lulu daren't say it!" cried dwight. he laughed so loudly that those at the near tables turned. and, from the fastness of her wifehood and motherhood, ina laughed. really, it was ridiculous to think of lulu that way.... ninian laughed too. "course she don't dare say it," he challenged. from within lulu, that strange lulu, that other lulu who sometimes fought her battles, suddenly spoke out: "i, lulu, take thee, ninian, to be my wedded husband." "you will?" ninian cried. "i will," she said, laughing tremulously, to prove that she too could join in, could be as merry as the rest. "and i will. there, by jove, now have we entertained you, or haven't we?" ninian laughed and pounded his soft fist on the table. "oh, say, honestly!" ina was shocked. "i don't think you ought to--holy things----what's the _matter_, dwightie?" dwight herbert deacon's eyes were staring and his face was scarlet. "say, by george," he said, "a civil wedding is binding in this state." "a civil wedding? oh, well--" ninian dismissed it. "but i," said dwight, "happen to be a magistrate." they looked at one another foolishly. dwight sprang up with the indeterminate idea of inquiring something of some one, circled about and returned. ina had taken his chair and sat clasping lulu's hand. ninian continued to laugh. "i never saw one done so offhand," said dwight. "but what you've said is all you have to say according to law. and there don't have to be witnesses ... say!" he said, and sat down again. above that shroud-like plaited lace, the veins of lulu's throat showed dark as she swallowed, cleared her throat, swallowed again. "don't you let dwight scare you," she besought ninian. "scare me!" cried ninian. "why, i think it's a good job done, if you ask me." lulu's eyes flew to his face. as he laughed, he was looking at her, and now he nodded and shut and opened his eyes several times very fast. their points of light flickered. with a pang of wonder which pierced her and left her shaken, lulu looked. his eyes continued to meet her own. it was exactly like looking at his photograph. dwight had recovered his authentic air. "oh, well," he said, "we can inquire at our leisure. if it is necessary, i should say we can have it set aside quietly up here in the city--no one'll be the wiser." "set aside nothing!" said ninian. "i'd like to see it stand." "are you serious, nin?" "sure i'm serious." ina jerked gently at her sister's arm. "lulu! you hear him? what you going to say to that?" lulu shook her head. "he isn't in earnest," she said. "i am in earnest--hope to die," ninian declared. he was on two legs of his chair and was slightly tilting, so that the effect of his earnestness was impaired. but he was obviously in earnest. they were looking at lulu again. and now she looked at ninian, and there was something terrible in that look which tried to ask him, alone, about this thing. dwight exploded. "there was a fellow i know there in the theatre," he cried. "i'll get him on the line. he could tell me if there's any way--" and was off. ina inexplicably began touching away tears. "oh," she said, "what will mamma say?" lulu hardly heard her. mrs. bett was incalculably distant. "you sure?" lulu said low to ninian. for the first time, something in her exceeding isolation really touched him. "say," he said, "you come on with me. we'll have it done over again somewhere, if you say so." "oh," said lulu, "if i thought--" he leaned and patted her hand. "good girl," he said. they sat silent, ninian padding on the cloth with the flat of his plump hands. dwight returned. "it's a go all right," he said. he sat down, laughed weakly, rubbed at his face. "you two are tied as tight as the church could tie you." "good enough," said ninian. "eh, lulu?" "it's--it's all right, i guess," lulu said. "well, i'll be dished," said dwight. "sister!" said ina. ninian meditated, his lips set tight and high. it is impossible to trace the processes of this man. perhaps they were all compact of the devil-may-care attitude engendered in any persistent traveller. perhaps the incomparable cookery of lulu played its part. "i was going to make a trip south this month," he said, "on my way home from here. suppose we get married again by somebody or other, and start right off. you'd like that, wouldn't you--going south?" "yes," said lulu only. "it's july," said ina, with her sense of fitness, but no one heard. it was arranged that their trunks should follow them--ina would see to that, though she was scandalised that they were not first to return to warbleton for the blessing of mrs. bett. "mamma won't mind," said lulu. "mamma can't stand a fuss any more." they left the table. the men and women still sitting at the other tables saw nothing unusual about these four, indifferently dressed, indifferently conditioned. the hotel orchestra, playing ragtime in deafening concord, made lulu's wedding march. * * * * * it was still early next day--a hot sunday--when ina and dwight reached home. mrs. bett was standing on the porch. "where's lulie?" asked mrs. bett. they told. mrs. bett took it in, a bit at a time. her pale eyes searched their faces, she shook her head, heard it again, grasped it. her first question was: "who's going to do your work?" ina had thought of that, and this was manifest. "oh," she said, "you and i'll have to manage." mrs. bett meditated, frowning. "i left the bacon for her to cook for your breakfasts," she said. "i can't cook bacon fit to eat. neither can you." "we've had our breakfasts," ina escaped from this dilemma. "had it up in the city, on expense?" "well, we didn't have much." in mrs. bett's eyes tears gathered, but they were not for lulu. "i should think," she said, "i should think lulie might have had a little more gratitude to her than this." on their way to church ina and dwight encountered di, who had left the house some time earlier, stepping sedately to church in company with bobby larkin. di was in white, and her face was the face of an angel, so young, so questioning, so utterly devoid of her sophistication. "that child," said ina, "_must_ not see so much of that larkin boy. she's just a little, little girl." "of course she mustn't," said dwight sharply, "and if _i_ was her mother--" "oh stop that!" said ina, sotto voce, at the church steps. to every one with whom they spoke in the aisle after church, ina announced their news: had they heard? lulu married dwight's brother ninian in the city yesterday. oh, sudden, yes! and ro_man_tic ... spoken with that upward inflection to which ina was a prey. v august mrs. bett had been having a "tantrim," brought on by nothing definable. abruptly as she and ina were getting supper, mrs. bett had fallen silent, had in fact refused to reply when addressed. when all was ready and dwight was entering, hair wetly brushed, she had withdrawn from the room and closed her bedroom door until it echoed. "she's got one again," said ina, grieving; "dwight, you go." he went, showing no sign of annoyance, and stood outside his mother-in-law's door and knocked. no answer. "mother, come and have some supper." no answer. "looks to me like your muffins was just about the best ever." no answer. "come on--i had something funny to tell you and ina." he retreated, knowing nothing of the admirable control exercised by this woman for her own passionate satisfaction in sliding him away unsatisfied. he showed nothing but anxious concern, touched with regret, at his failure. ina, too, returned from that door discomfited. dwight made a gallant effort to retrieve the fallen fortunes of their evening meal, and turned upon di, who had just entered, and with exceeding facetiousness inquired how bobby was. di looked hunted. she could never tell whether her parents were going to tease her about bobby, or rebuke her for being seen with him. it depended on mood, and this mood di had not the experience to gauge. she now groped for some neutral fact, and mentioned that he was going to take her and jenny for ice cream that night. ina's irritation found just expression in office of motherhood. "i won't have you downtown in the evening," she said. "but you let me go last night." "all the better reason why you should not go to-night." "i tell you," cried dwight. "why not all walk down? why not all have ice cream...." he was all gentleness and propitiation, the reconciling element in his home. "me too?" monona's ardent hope, her terrible fear were in her eyebrows, her parted lips. "you too, certainly." dwight could not do enough for every one. monona clapped her hands. "goody! goody! last time you wouldn't let me go." "that's why papa's going to take you this time," ina said. these ethical balances having been nicely struck, ina proposed another: "but," she said, "but, you must eat more supper or you can _not_ go." "i don't want any more." monona's look was honest and piteous. "makes no difference. you must eat or you'll get sick." "no!" "very well, then. no ice cream soda for such a little girl." monona began to cry quietly. but she passed her plate. she ate, chewing high, and slowly. "see? she can eat if she will eat," ina said to dwight. "the only trouble is, she will _not_ take the time." "she don't put her mind on her meals," dwight herbert diagnosed it. "oh, bigger bites than that!" he encouraged his little daughter. di's mind had been proceeding along its own paths. "are you going to take jenny and bobby too?" she inquired. "certainly. the whole party." "bobby'll want to pay for jenny and i." "me, darling," said ina patiently, punctiliously--and less punctiliously added: "nonsense. this is going to be papa's little party." "but we had the engagement with bobby. it was an engagement." "well," said ina, "i think we'll just set that aside--that important engagement. i think we just will." "papa! bobby'll want to be the one to pay for jenny and i--" "di!" ina's voice dominated all. "will you be more careful of your grammar or shall i speak to you again?" "well, i'd rather use bad grammar than--than--than--" she looked resentfully at her mother, her father. their moral defection was evident to her, but it was indefinable. they told her that she ought to be ashamed when papa wanted to give them all a treat. she sat silent, frowning, put-upon. "look, mamma!" cried monona, swallowing a third of an egg at one impulse. ina saw only the empty plate. "mamma's nice little girl!" cried she, shining upon her child. the rules of the ordinary sports of the playground, scrupulously applied, would have clarified the ethical atmosphere of this little family. but there was no one to apply them. * * * * * when di and monona had been excused, dwight asked: "nothing new from the bride and groom?" "no. and, dwight, it's been a week since the last." "see--where were they then?" he knew perfectly well that they were in savannah, georgia, but ina played his game, told him, and retold bits that the letter had said. "i don't understand," she added, "why they should go straight to oregon without coming here first." dwight hazarded that nin probably had to get back, and shone pleasantly in the reflected importance of a brother filled with affairs. "i don't know what to make of lulu's letters," ina proceeded. "they're so--so--" "you haven't had but two, have you?" "that's all--well, of course it's only been a month. but both letters have been so--" ina was never really articulate. whatever corner of her brain had the blood in it at the moment seemed to be operative, and she let the matter go at that. "i don't think it's fair to mamma--going off that way. leaving her own mother. why, she may never see mamma again--" ina's breath caught. into her face came something of the lovely tenderness with which she sometimes looked at monona and di. she sprang up. she had forgotten to put some supper to warm for mamma. the lovely light was still in her face as she bustled about against the time of mamma's recovery from her tantrim. dwight's face was like this when he spoke of his foster-mother. in both these beings there was something which functioned as pure love. mamma had recovered and was eating cold scrambled eggs on the corner of the kitchen table when the ice cream soda party was ready to set out. dwight threw her a casual "better come, too, mother bett," but she shook her head. she wished to go, wished it with violence, but she contrived to give to her arbitrary refusal a quality of contempt. when jenny arrived with bobby, she had brought a sheaf of gladioli for mrs. bett, and took them to her in the kitchen, and as she laid the flowers beside her, the young girl stopped and kissed her. "you little darling!" cried mrs. bett, and clung to her, her lifted eyes lit by something intense and living. but when the ice cream party had set off at last, mrs. bett left her supper, gathered up the flowers, and crossed the lawn to the old cripple, grandma gates. "inie sha'n't have 'em," the old woman thought. and then it was quite beautiful to watch her with grandma gates, whom she tended and petted, to whose complainings she listened, and to whom she tried to tell the small events of her day. when her neighbour had gone, grandma gates said that it was as good as a dose of medicine to have her come in. mrs. bett sat on the porch restored and pleasant when the family returned. di and bobby had walked home with jenny. "look here," said dwight herbert, "who is it sits home and has _ice_ cream put in her lap, like a queen?" "vanilly or chocolate?" mrs. bett demanded. "chocolate, mammal" ina cried, with the breeze in her voice. "vanilly sets better," mrs. bett said. they sat with her on the porch while she ate. ina rocked on a creaking board. dwight swung a leg over the railing. monona sat pulling her skirt over her feet, and humming all on one note. there was no moon, but the warm dusk had a quality of transparency as if it were lit in all its particles. the gate opened, and some one came up the walk. they looked, and it was lulu. * * * * * "well, if it ain't miss lulu bett!" dwight cried involuntarily, and ina cried out something. "how did you know?" lulu asked. "know! know what?" "that it ain't lulu deacon. hello, mamma." she passed the others, and kissed her mother. "say," said mrs. bett placidly. "and i just ate up the last spoonful o' cream." "ain't lulu deacon!" ina's voice rose and swelled richly. "what you talking?" "didn't he write to you?" lulu asked. "not a word." dwight answered this. "all we've had we had from you--the last from savannah, georgia." "savannah, georgia," said lulu, and laughed. they could see that she was dressed well, in dark red cloth, with a little tilting hat and a drooping veil. she did not seem in any wise upset, nor, save for that nervous laughter, did she show her excitement. "well, but he's here with you, isn't he?" dwight demanded. "isn't he here? where is he?" "must be 'most to oregon by this time," lulu said. "oregon!" "you see," said lulu, "he had another wife." "why, he had not!" exclaimed dwight absurdly. "yes. he hasn't seen her for fifteen years and he thinks she's dead. but he isn't sure." "nonsense," said dwight. "why, of course she's dead if he thinks so." "i had to be sure," said lulu. at first dumb before this, ina now cried out: "monona! go upstairs to bed at once." "it's only quarter to," said monona, with assurance. "do as mamma tells you." "but--" "monona!" she went, kissing them all good-night and taking her time about it. everything was suspended while she kissed them and departed, walking slowly backward. "married?" said mrs. bett with tardy apprehension. "lulie, was your husband married?" "yes," lulu said, "my husband was married, mother." "mercy," said ina. "think of anything like that in our family." "well, go on--go on!" dwight cried. "tell us about it." lulu spoke in a monotone, with her old manner of hesitation: "we were going to oregon. first down to new orleans and then out to california and up the coast." on this she paused and sighed. "well, then at savannah, georgia, he said he thought i better know, first. so he told me." "yes--well, what did he _say_?" dwight demanded irritably. "cora waters," said lulu. "cora waters. she married him down in san diego, eighteen years ago. she went to south america with him." "well, he never let us know of it, if she did," said dwight. "no. she married him just before he went. then in south america, after two years, she ran away again. that's all he knows." "that's a pretty story," said dwight contemptuously. "he says if she'd been alive, she'd been after him for a divorce. and she never has been, so he thinks she must be dead. the trouble is," lulu said again, "he wasn't sure. and i had to be sure." "well, but mercy," said ina, "couldn't he find out now?" "it might take a long time," said lulu simply, "and i didn't want to stay and not know." "well, then, why didn't he say so here?" ina's indignation mounted. "he would have. but you know how sudden everything was. he said he thought about telling us right there in the restaurant, but of course that'd been hard--wouldn't it? and then he felt so sure she was dead." "why did he tell you at all, then?" demanded ina, whose processes were simple. "yes. well! why indeed?" dwight herbert brought out these words with a curious emphasis. "i thought that, just at first," lulu said, "but only just at first. of course that wouldn't have been right. and then, you see, he gave me my choice." "gave you your choice?" dwight echoed. "yes. about going on and taking the chances. he gave me my choice when he told me, there in savannah, georgia." "what made him conclude, by then, that you ought to be told?" dwight asked. "why, he'd got to thinking about it," she answered. a silence fell. lulu sat looking out toward the street. "the only thing," she said, "as long as it happened, i kind of wish he hadn't told me till we got to oregon." "lulu!" said ina. ina began to cry. "you poor thing!" she said. her tears were a signal to mrs. bett, who had been striving to understand all. now she too wept, tossing up her hands and rocking her body. her saucer and spoon clattered on her knee. "he felt bad too," lulu said. "he!" said dwight. "he must have." "it's you," ina sobbed. "it's you. _my_ sister!" "well," said lulu, "but i never thought of it making you both feel bad, or i wouldn't have come home. i knew," she added, "it'd make dwight feel bad. i mean, it was his brother--" "thank goodness," ina broke in, "nobody need know about it." lulu regarded her, without change. "oh, yes," she said in her monotone. "people will have to know." "i do not see the necessity." dwight's voice was an edge. then too he said "do not," always with dwight betokening the finalities. "why, what would they think?" lulu asked, troubled. "what difference does it make what they think?". "why," said lulu slowly, "i shouldn't like--you see they might--why, dwight, i think we'll have to tell them." "you do! you think the disgrace of bigamy in this family is something the whole town will have to know about?" lulu looked at him with parted lips. "say," she said, "i never thought about it being that." dwight laughed. "what did you think it was? and whose disgrace is it, pray?" "ninian's," said lulu. "ninian's! well, he's gone. but you're here. and i'm here. folks'll feel sorry for you. but the disgrace--that'd reflect on me. see?" "but if we don't tell, what'll they think then?" said dwight: "they'll think what they always think when a wife leaves her husband. they'll think you couldn't get along. that's all." "i should hate that," said lulu. "well, i should hate the other, let me tell you." "dwight, dwight," said ina. "let's go in the house. i'm afraid they'll hear--" as they rose, mrs. bett plucked at her returned daughter's sleeve. "lulie," she said, "was his other wife--was she _there_?" "no, no, mother. she wasn't there." mrs. bett's lips moved, repeating the words. "then that ain't so bad," she said. "i was afraid maybe she turned you out." "no," lulu said, "it wasn't that bad, mother." mrs. bett brightened. in little matters, she quarrelled and resented, but the large issues left her blank. through some indeterminate sense of the importance due this crisis, the deacons entered their parlour. dwight lighted that high, central burner and faced about, saying: "in fact, i simply will not have it, lulu! you expect, i take it, to make your home with us in the future, on the old terms." "well--" "i mean, did ninian give you any money?" "no. he didn't give me any money--only enough to get home on. and i kept my suit--why!" she flung her head back, "i wouldn't have taken any money!" "that means," said dwight, "that you will have to continue to live here--on the old terms, and of course i'm quite willing that you should. let me tell you, however, that this is on condition--on condition that this disgraceful business is kept to ourselves." she made no attempt to combat him now. she looked back at him, quivering, and in a great surprise, but she said nothing. "truly, lulu," said ina, "wouldn't that be best? they'll talk anyway. but this way they'll only talk about you, and the other way it'd be about all of us." lulu said only: "but the other way would be the truth." dwight's eyes narrowed: "my dear lulu," he said, "are you _sure_ of that?" "sure?" "yes. did he give you any proofs?" "proofs?" "letters--documents of any sort? any sort of assurance that he was speaking the truth?" "why, no," said lulu. "proofs--no. he told me." "he told you!" "why, that was hard enough to have to do. it was terrible for him to have to do. what proofs--" she stopped, puzzled. "didn't it occur to you," said dwight, "that he might have told you that because he didn't want to have to go on with it?" as she met his look, some power seemed to go from lulu. she sat down, looked weakly at them, and within her closed lips her jaw was slightly fallen. she said nothing. and seeing on her skirt a spot of dust she began to rub at that. "why, dwight!" ina cried, and moved to her sister's side. "i may as well tell you," he said, "that i myself have no idea that ninian told you the truth. he was always imagining things--you saw that. i know him pretty well--have been more or less in touch with him the whole time. in short, i haven't the least idea he was ever married before." lulu continued to rub at her skirt. "i never thought of that," she said. "look here," dwight went on persuasively, "hadn't you and he had some little tiff when he told you?" "no--no! why, not once. why, we weren't a bit like you and ina." she spoke simply and from her heart and without guile. "evidently not," dwight said drily. lulu went on: "he was very good to me. this dress--and my shoes--and my hat. and another dress, too." she found the pins and took off her hat. "he liked the red wing," she said. "i wanted black--oh, dwight! he did tell me the truth!" it was as if the red wing had abruptly borne mute witness. dwight's tone now mounted. his manner, it mounted too. "even if it is true," said he, "i desire that you should keep silent and protect my family from this scandal. i merely mention my doubts to you for your own profit." "my own profit!" she said no more, but rose and moved to the door. "lulu--you see! with di and all!" ina begged. "we just couldn't have this known--even if it was so." "you have it in your hands," said dwight, "to repay me, lulu, for anything that you feel i may have done for you in the past. you also have it in your hands to decide whether your home here continues. that is not a pleasant position for me to find myself in. it is distinctly unpleasant, i may say. but you see for yourself." lulu went on, into the passage. "wasn't she married when she thought she was?" mrs. bett cried shrilly. "mamma," said ina. "do, please, remember monona. yes--dwight thinks she's married all right now--and that it's all right, all the time." "well, i hope so, for pity sakes," said mrs. bett, and left the room with her daughter. hearing the stir, monona upstairs lifted her voice: "mamma! come on and hear my prayers, why don't you?" * * * * * when they came downstairs next morning, lulu had breakfast ready. "well!" cried ina in her curving tone, "if this isn't like old times." lulu said yes, that it was like old times, and brought the bacon to the table. "lulu's the only one in _this_ house can cook the bacon so's it'll chew," mrs. bett volunteered. she was wholly affable, and held contentedly to ina's last word that dwight thought now it was all right. "ho!" said dwight. "the happy family, once more about the festive toaster." he gauged the moment to call for good cheer. ina, too, became breezy, blithe. monona caught their spirit and laughed, head thrown well back and gently shaken. di came in. she had been told that auntie lulu was at home, and that she, di, wasn't to say anything to her about anything, nor anything to anybody else about auntie lulu being back. under these prohibitions, which loosed a thousand speculations, di was very nearly paralysed. she stared at her aunt lulu incessantly. not one of them had even a talent for the casual, save lulu herself. lulu was amazingly herself. she took her old place, assumed her old offices. when monona declared against bacon, it was lulu who suggested milk toast and went to make it. "mamma," di whispered then, like escaping steam, "isn't uncle ninian coming too?" "hush. no. now don't ask any more questions." "well, can't i tell bobby and jenny she's here?" "_no_. don't say anything at all about her." "but, mamma. what has she done?" "di! do as mamma tells you. don't you think mamma knows best?" di of course did not think so, had not thought so for a long time. but now dwight said: "daughter! are you a little girl or are you our grown-up young lady?" "i don't know," said di reasonably, "but i think you're treating me like a little girl now." "shame, di," said ina, unabashed by the accident of reason being on the side of di. "i'm eighteen," di reminded them forlornly, "and through high school." "then act so," boomed her father. baffled, thwarted, bewildered, di went over to jenny plow's and there imparted understanding by the simple process of letting jenny guess, to questions skilfully shaped. when dwight said, "look at my beautiful handkerchief," displayed a hole, sent his ina for a better, lulu, with a manner of haste, addressed him: "dwight. it's a funny thing, but i haven't ninian's oregon address." "well?" "well, i wish you'd give it to me." dwight tightened and lifted his lips. "it would seem," he said, "that you have no real use for that particular address, lulu." "yes, i have. i want it. you have it, haven't you, dwight?" "certainly i have it." "won't you please write it down for me?" she had ready a bit of paper and a pencil stump. "my dear lulu, now why revive anything? why not be sensible and leave this alone? no good can come by--" "but why shouldn't i have his address?" "if everything is over between you, why should you?" "but you say he's still my husband." dwight flushed. "if my brother has shown his inclination as plainly as i judge that he has, it is certainly not my place to put you in touch with him again." "you won't give it to me?" "my dear lulu, in all kindness--no." his ina came running back, bearing handkerchiefs with different coloured borders for him to choose from. he chose the initial that she had embroidered, and had not the good taste not to kiss her. * * * * * they were all on the porch that evening, when lulu came downstairs. "_where_ are you going?" ina demanded, sisterly. and on hearing that lulu had an errand, added still more sisterly; "well, but mercy, what you so dressed up for?" lulu was in a thin black and white gown which they had never seen, and wore the tilting hat with the red wing. "ninian bought me this," said lulu only. "but, lulu, don't you think it might be better to keep, well--out of sight for a few days?" ina's lifted look besought her. "why?" lulu asked. "why set people wondering till we have to?" "they don't have to wonder, far as i'm concerned," said lulu, and went down the walk. ina looked at dwight. "she never spoke to me like that in her life before," she said. she watched her sister's black and white figure going erectly down the street. "that gives me the funniest feeling," said ina, "as if lulu had on clothes bought for her by some one that wasn't--that was--" "by her husband who has left her," said dwight sadly. "is that what it is, papa?" di asked alertly. for a wonder, she was there; had been there the greater part of the day--most of the time staring, fascinated, at her aunt lulu. "that's what it is, my little girl," said dwight, and shook his head. "well, i think it's a shame," said di stoutly. "and i think uncle ninian is a slunge." "di!" "i do. and i'd be ashamed to think anything else. i'd like to tell everybody." "there is," said dwight, "no need for secrecy--now." "dwight!" said ina--ina's eyes always remained expressionless, but it must have been her lashes that looked so startled. "no need whatever for secrecy," he repeated with firmness. "the truth is, lulu's husband has tired of her and sent her home. we must face it." "but, dwight--how awful for lulu...." "lulu," said dwight, "has us to stand by her." lulu, walking down the main street, thought: "now mis' chambers is seeing me. now mis' curtis. there's somebody behind the vines at mis' martin's. here comes mis' grove and i've got to speak to her...." one and another and another met her, and every one cried out at her some version of: "lulu bett!" or, "w-well, it _isn't_ lulu bett any more, is it? well, what are you doing here? i thought...." "i'm back to stay," she said. "the idea! well, where you hiding that handsome husband of yours? say, but we were surprised! you're the sly one--" "my--mr. deacon isn't here." "oh." "no. he's west." "oh, i see." having no arts, she must needs let the conversation die like this, could invent nothing concealing or gracious on which to move away. she went to the post-office. it was early, there were few at the post-office--with only one or two there had she to go through her examination. then she went to the general delivery window, tense for a new ordeal. to her relief, the face which was shown there was one strange to her, a slim youth, reading a letter of his own, and smiling. "excuse me," said lulu faintly. the youth looked up, with eyes warmed by the words on the pink paper which he held. "could you give me the address of mr. ninian deacon?" "let's see--you mean dwight deacon, i guess?" "no. it's his brother. he's been here. from oregon. i thought he might have given you his address--" she dwindled away. "wait a minute," said the youth. "nope. no address here. say, why don't you send it to his brother? he'd know. dwight deacon, the dentist." "i'll do that," lulu said absurdly, and turned away. she went back up the street, walking fast now to get away from them all. once or twice she pretended not to see a familiar face. but when she passed the mirror in an insurance office window, she saw her reflection and at its appearance she felt surprise and pleasure. "well!" she thought, almost in ina's own manner. abruptly her confidence rose. something of this confidence was still upon her when she returned. they were in the dining-room now, all save di, who was on the porch with bobby, and monona, who was in bed and might be heard extravagantly singing. lulu sat down with her hat on. when dwight inquired playfully, "don't we look like company?" she did not reply. he looked at her speculatively. where had she gone, with whom had she talked, what had she told? ina looked at her rather fearfully. but mrs. bett rocked contentedly and ate cardamom seeds. "whom did you see?" ina asked. lulu named them. "see them to talk to?" from dwight. oh, yes. they had all stopped. "what did they say?" ina burst out. they had inquired for ninian, lulu said; and said no more. dwight mulled this. lulu might have told every one of these women that cock-and-bull story with which she had come home. it might be all over town. of course, in that case he could turn lulu out--should do so, in fact. still the story would be all over town. "dwight," said lulu, "i want ninian's address." "going to write to him!" ina cried incredulously. "i want to ask him for the proofs that dwight wanted." "my dear lulu," dwight said impatiently, "you are not the one to write. have you no delicacy?" lulu smiled--a strange smile, originating and dying in one corner of her mouth. "yes," she said. "so much delicacy that i want to be sure whether i'm married or not." dwight cleared his throat with a movement which seemed to use his shoulders for the purpose. "i myself will take this up with my brother," he said. "i will write to him about it." lulu sprang to her feet. "write to him _now_!" she cried. "really," said dwight, lifting his brows. "now--now!" lulu said. she moved about, collecting writing materials from their casual lodgments on shelf and table. she set all before him and stood by him. "write to him now," she said again. "my dear lulu, don't be absurd." she said: "ina. help me. if it was dwight--and they didn't know whether he had another wife, or not, and you wanted to ask him--oh, don't you see? help me." ina was not yet the woman to cry for justice for its own sake, nor even to stand by another woman. she was primitive, and her instinct was to look to her own male merely. "well," she said, "of course. but why not let dwight do it in his own way? wouldn't that be better?" she put it to her sister fairly: now, no matter what dwight's way was, wouldn't that be better? "mother!" said lulu. she looked irresolutely toward her mother. but mrs. bett was eating cardamom seeds with exceeding gusto, and lulu looked away. caught by the gesture, mrs. bett voiced her grievance. "lulie," she said, "set down. take off your hat, why don't you?" lulu turned upon dwight a quiet face which he had never seen before. "you write that letter to ninian," she said, "and you make him tell you so you'll understand. _i_ know he spoke the truth. but i want you to know." "m--m," said dwight. "and then i suppose you're going to tell it all over town--as soon as you have the proofs." "i'm going to tell it all over town," said lulu, "just as it is--unless you write to him now." "lulu!" cried ina. "oh, you wouldn't." "i would," said lulu. "i will." dwight was sobered. this unimagined lulu looked capable of it. but then he sneered. "and get turned out of this house, as you would be?" "dwight!" cried his ina. "oh, you wouldn't!" "i would," said dwight. "i will. lulu knows it." "i shall tell what i know and then leave your house anyway," said lulu, "unless you get ninian's word. and i want you should write him now." "leave your mother? and ina?" he asked. "leave everything," said lulu. "oh, dwight," said ina, "we can't get along without lulu." she did not say in what particulars, but dwight knew. dwight looked at lulu, an upward, sidewise look, with a manner of peering out to see if she meant it. and he saw. he shrugged, pursed his lips crookedly, rolled his head to signify the inexpressible. "isn't that like a woman?" he demanded. he rose. "rather than let you in for a show of temper," he said grandly, "i'd do anything." he wrote the letter, addressed it, his hand elaborately curved in secrecy about the envelope, pocketed it. "ina and i'll walk down with you to mail it," said lulu. dwight hesitated, frowned. his ina watched him with consulting brows. "i was going," said dwight, "to propose a little stroll before bedtime." he roved about the room. "where's my beautiful straw hat? there's nothing like a brisk walk to induce sound, restful sleep," he told them. he hummed a bar. "you'll be all right, mother?" lulu asked. mrs. bett did not look up. "these cardamon hev got a little mite too dry," she said. * * * * * in their room, ina and dwight discussed the incredible actions of lulu. "i saw," said dwight, "i saw she wasn't herself. i'd do anything to avoid having a scene--you know that." his glance swept a little anxiously his ina. "you know that, don't you?" he sharply inquired. "but i really think you ought to have written to ninian about it," she now dared to say. "it's--it's not a nice position for lulu." "nice? well, but whom has she got to blame for it?" "why, ninian," said ina. dwight threw out his hands. "herself," he said. "to tell you the truth, i was perfectly amazed at the way she snapped him up there in that restaurant." "why, but, dwight--" "brazen," he said. "oh, it was brazen." "it was just fun, in the first place." "but no really nice woman--" he shook his head. "dwight! lulu _is_ nice. the idea!" he regarded her. "would you have done that?" he would know. under his fond look, she softened, took his homage, accepted everything, was silent. "certainly not," he said. "lulu's tastes are not fine like yours. i should never think of you as sisters." "she's awfully good," ina said feebly. fifteen years of married life behind her--but this was sweet and she could not resist. "she has excellent qualities." he admitted it. "but look at the position she's in--married to a man who tells her he has another wife in order to get free. now, no really nice woman--" "no really nice man--" ina did say that much. "ah," said dwight, "but _you_ could never be in such a position. no, no. lulu is sadly lacking somewhere." ina sighed, threw back her head, caught her lower lip with her upper, as might be in a hem. "what if it was di?" she supposed. "di!" dwight's look rebuked his wife. "di," he said, "was born with ladylike feelings." it was not yet ten o'clock. bobby larkin was permitted to stay until ten. from the veranda came the indistinguishable murmur of those young voices. "bobby," di was saying within that murmur, "bobby, you don't kiss me as if you really wanted to kiss me, to-night." vi september the office of dwight herbert deacon, dentist, gold work a speciality (sic) in black lettering, and justice of the peace in gold, was above a store which had been occupied by one unlucky tenant after another, and had suffered long periods of vacancy when ladies' aid societies served lunches there, under great white signs, badly lettered. some months of disuse were now broken by the news that the store had been let to a music man. a music man, what on earth was that, warbleton inquired. the music man arrived, installed three pianos, and filled his window with sheet music, as sung by many ladies who swung in hammocks or kissed their hands on the music covers. while he was still moving in, dwight herbert deacon wandered downstairs and stood informally in the door of the new store. the music man, a pleasant-faced chap of thirty-odd, was rubbing at the face of a piano. "hello, there!" he said. "can i sell you an upright?" "if i can take it out in pulling your teeth, you can," dwight replied. "or," said he, "i might marry you free, either one." on this their friendship began. thenceforth, when business was dull, the idle hours of both men were beguiled with idle gossip. "how the dickens did you think of pianos for a line?" dwight asked him once. "now, my father was a dentist, so i came by it natural--never entered my head to be anything else. but _pianos_--" the music man--his name was neil cornish--threw up his chin in a boyish fashion, and said he'd be jiggered if he knew. all up and down the warbleton main street, the chances are that the answer would sound the same. "i'm studying law when i get the chance," said cornish, as one who makes a bid to be thought of more highly. "i see," said dwight, respectfully dwelling on the verb. later on cornish confided more to dwight: he was to come by a little inheritance some day--not much, but something. yes, it made a man feel a certain confidence.... "_don't_ it?" said dwight heartily, as if he knew. every one liked cornish. he told funny stories, and he never compared warbleton save to its advantage. so at last dwight said tentatively at lunch: "what if i brought that neil cornish up for supper, one of these nights?" "oh, dwightie, do," said ina. "if there's a man in town, let's know it." "what if i brought him up to-night?" up went ina's eyebrows. _to-night_? "'scalloped potatoes and meat loaf and sauce and bread and butter," lulu contributed. cornish came to supper. he was what is known in warbleton as dapper. this ina saw as she emerged on the veranda in response to dwight's informal halloo on his way upstairs. she herself was in white muslin, now much too snug, and a blue ribbon. to her greeting their guest replied in that engaging shyness which is not awkwardness. he moved in some pleasant web of gentleness and friendliness. they asked him the usual questions, and he replied, rocking all the time with a faint undulating motion of head and shoulders: warbleton was one of the prettiest little towns that he had ever seen. he liked the people--they seemed different. he was sure to like the place, already liked it. lulu came to the door in ninian's thin black-and-white gown. she shook hands with the stranger, not looking at him, and said, "come to supper, all." monona was already in her place, singing under-breath. mrs. bett, after hovering in the kitchen door, entered; but they forgot to introduce her. "where's di?" asked ina. "i declare that daughter of mine is never anywhere." a brief silence ensued as they were seated. there being a guest, grace was to come, and dwight said unintelligibly and like lightning a generic appeal to bless this food, forgive all our sins and finally save us. and there was something tremendous, in this ancient form whereby all stages of men bow in some now unrecognized recognition of the ceremonial of taking food to nourish life--and more. at "amen" di flashed in, her offices at the mirror fresh upon her--perfect hair, silk dress turned up at the hem. she met cornish, crimsoned, fluttered to her seat, joggled the table and, "oh, dear," she said audibly to her mother, "i forgot my ring." the talk was saved alive by a frank effort. dwight served, making jests about everybody coming back for more. they went on with warbleton happenings, improvements and openings; and the runaway. cornish tried hard to make himself agreeable, not ingratiatingly but good-naturedly. he wished profoundly that before coming he had looked up some more stories in the back of the musical gazettes. lulu surreptitiously pinched off an ant that was running at large upon the cloth and thereafter kept her eyes steadfastly on the sugar-bowl to see if it could be from _that_. dwight pretended that those whom he was helping a second time were getting more than their share and facetiously landed on di about eating so much that she would grow up and be married, first thing she knew. at the word "married" di turned scarlet, laughed heartily and lifted her glass of water. "and what instruments do you play?" ina asked cornish, in an unrelated effort to lift the talk to musical levels. "well, do you know," said the music man, "i can't play a thing. don't know a black note from a white one." "you don't? why, di plays very prettily," said di's mother. "but then how can you tell what songs to order?" ina cried. "oh, by the music houses. you go by the sales." for the first time it occurred to cornish that this was ridiculous. "you know, i'm really studying law," he said, shyly and proudly. law! how very interesting, from ina. oh, but won't he bring up some songs some evening, for them to try over? her and di? at this di laughed and said that she was out of practice and lifted her glass of water. in the presence of adults di made one weep, she was so slender, so young, so without defences, so intolerably sensitive to every contact, so in agony lest she be found wanting. it was amazing how unlike was this di to the di who had ensnared bobby larkin. what was one to think? cornish paid very little attention to her. to lulu he said kindly, "don't you play, miss--?" he had not caught her name--no stranger ever did catch it. but dwight now supplied it: "miss lulu bett," he explained with loud emphasis, and lulu burned her slow red. this question lulu had usually answered by telling how a felon had interrupted her lessons and she had stopped "taking"--a participle sacred to music, in warbleton. this vignette had been a kind of epitome of lulu's biography. but now lulu was heard to say serenely: "no, but i'm quite fond of it. i went to a lovely concert--two weeks ago." they all listened. strange indeed to think of lulu as having had experiences of which they did not know. "yes," she said. "it was in savannah, georgia." she flushed, and lifted her eyes in a manner of faint defiance. "of course," she said, "i don't know the names of all the different instruments they played, but there were a good many." she laughed pleasantly as a part of her sentence. "they had some lovely tunes," she said. she knew that the subject was not exhausted and she hurried on. "the hall was real large," she superadded, "and there were quite a good many people there. and it was too warm." "i see," said cornish, and said what he had been waiting to say: that he too had been in savannah, georgia. lulu lit with pleasure. "well!" she said. and her mind worked and she caught at the moment before it had escaped. "isn't it a pretty city?" she asked. and cornish assented with the intense heartiness of the provincial. he, too, it seemed, had a conversational appearance to maintain by its own effort. he said that he had enjoyed being in that town and that he was there for two hours. "i was there for a week." lulu's superiority was really pretty. "have good weather?" cornish selected next. oh, yes. and they saw all the different buildings--but at her "we" she flushed and was silenced. she was colouring and breathing quickly. this was the first bit of conversation of this sort of lulu's life. after supper ina inevitably proposed croquet, dwight pretended to try to escape and, with his irrepressible mien, talked about ina, elaborate in his insistence on the third person--"she loves it, we have to humour her, you know how it is. or no! you don't know! but you will"--and more of the same sort, everybody laughing heartily, save lulu, who looked uncomfortable and wished that dwight wouldn't, and mrs. bett, who paid no attention to anybody that night, not because she had not been introduced, an omission, which she had not even noticed, but merely as another form of "tantrim." a self-indulgence. they emerged for croquet. and there on the porch sat jenny plow and bobby, waiting for di to keep an old engagement, which di pretended to have forgotten, and to be frightfully annoyed to have to keep. she met the objections of her parents with all the batteries of her coquetry, set for both bobby and cornish and, bold in the presence of "company," at last went laughing away. and in the minute areas of her consciousness she said to herself that bobby would be more in love with her than ever because she had risked all to go with him; and that cornish ought to be distinctly attracted to her because she had not stayed. she was as primitive as pollen. ina was vexed. she said so, pouting in a fashion which she should have outgrown with white muslin and blue ribbons, and she had outgrown none of these things. "that just spoils croquet," she said. "i'm vexed. now we can't have a real game." from the side-door, where she must have been lingering among the waterproofs, lulu stepped forth. "i'll play a game," she said. * * * * * when cornish actually proposed to bring some music to the deacons', ina turned toward dwight herbert all the facets of her responsibility. and ina's sense of responsibility toward di was enormous, oppressive, primitive, amounting, in fact, toward this daughter of dwight herbert's late wife, to an ability to compress the offices of stepmotherhood into the functions of the lecture platform. ina was a fountain of admonition. her idea of a daughter, step or not, was that of a manufactured product, strictly, which you constantly pinched and moulded. she thought that a moral preceptor had the right to secrete precepts. di got them all. but of course the crest of ina's responsibility was to marry di. this verb should be transitive only when lovers are speaking of each other, or the minister or magistrate is speaking of lovers. it should never be transitive when predicated of parents or any other third party. but it is. ina was quite agitated by its transitiveness as she took to her husband her incredible responsibility. "you know, herbert," said ina, "if this mr. cornish comes here _very_ much, what we may expect." "what may we expect?" demanded dwight herbert, crisply. ina always played his games, answered what he expected her to answer, pretended to be intuitive when she was not so, said "i know" when she didn't know at all. dwight herbert, on the other hand, did not even play her games when he knew perfectly what she meant, but pretended not to understand, made her repeat, made her explain. it was as if ina _had_ to please him for, say, a living; but as for that dentist, he had to please nobody. in the conversations of dwight and ina you saw the historical home forming in clots in the fluid wash of the community. "he'll fall in love with di," said ina. "and what of that? little daughter will have many a man fall in love with her, _i_ should say." "yes, but, dwight, what do you think of him?" "what do i think of him? my dear ina, i have other things to think of." "but we don't know anything about him, dwight--a stranger so." "on the other hand," said dwight with dignity, "i know a good deal about him." with a great air of having done the fatherly and found out about this stranger before bringing him into the home, dwight now related a number of stray circumstances dropped by cornish in their chance talks. "he has a little inheritance coming to him--shortly," dwight wound up. "an inheritance--really? how much, dwight?" "now isn't that like a woman. isn't it?" "i _thought_ he was from a good family," said ina. "my mercenary little pussy!" "well," she said with a sigh, "i shouldn't be surprised if di did really accept him. a young girl is awfully flattered when a good-looking older man pays her attention. haven't you noticed that?" dwight informed her, with an air of immense abstraction, that he left all such matters to her. being married to dwight was like a perpetual rehearsal, with dwight's self-importance for audience. a few evenings later, cornish brought up the music. there was something overpowering in this brown-haired chap against the background of his negligible little shop, his whole capital in his few pianos. for he looked hopefully ahead, woke with plans, regarded the children in the street as if, conceivably, children might come within the confines of his life as he imagined it. a preposterous little man. and a preposterous store, empty, echoing, bare of wall, the three pianos near the front, the remainder of the floor stretching away like the corridors of the lost. he was going to get a dark curtain, he explained, and furnish the back part of the store as his own room. what dignity in phrasing, but how mean that little room would look--cot bed, washbowl and pitcher, and little mirror--almost certainly a mirror with a wavy surface, almost certainly that. "and then, you know," he always added, "i'm reading law." the plows had been asked in that evening. bobby was there. they were, dwight herbert said, going to have a sing. di was to play. and di was now embarked on the most difficult feat of her emotional life, the feat of remaining to bobby larkin the lure, the beloved lure, the while to cornish she instinctively played the rôle of womanly little girl. "up by the festive lamp, everybody!" dwight herbert cried. as they gathered about the upright piano, that startled, dwightish instrument, standing in its attitude of unrest, lulu came in with another lamp. "do you need this?" she asked. they did not need it, there was, in fact, no place to set it, and this lulu must have known. but dwight found a place. he swept ninian's photograph from the marble shelf of the mirror, and when lulu had placed the lamp there, dwight thrust the photograph into her hands. "you take care of that," he said, with a droop of lid discernible only to those who--presumably--loved him. his old attitude toward lulu had shown a terrible sharpening in these ten days since her return. she stood uncertainly, in the thin black and white gown which ninian had bought for her, and held ninian's photograph and looked helplessly about. she was moving toward the door when cornish called: "see here! aren't _you_ going to sing?" "what?" dwight used the falsetto. "lulu sing? _lulu_?" she stood awkwardly. she had a piteous recrudescence of her old agony at being spoken to in the presence of others. but di had opened the "album of old favourites," which cornish had elected to bring, and now she struck the opening chords of "bonny eloise." lulu stood still, looking rather piteously at cornish. dwight offered his arm, absurdly crooked. the plows and ina and di began to sing. lulu moved forward, and stood a little away from them, and sang, too. she was still holding ninian's picture. dwight did not sing. he lifted his shoulders and his eyebrows and watched lulu. when they had finished, "lulu the mocking bird!" dwight cried. he said "ba-ird." "fine!" cried cornish. "why, miss lulu, you have a good voice!" "miss lulu bett, the mocking ba-ird!" dwight insisted. lulu was excited, and in some accession of faint power. she turned to him now, quietly, and with a look of appraisal. "lulu the dove," she then surprisingly said, "to put up with you." it was her first bit of conscious repartee to her brother-in-law. cornish was bending over di. "what next do you say?" he asked. she lifted her eyes, met his own, held them. "there's such a lovely, lovely sacred song here," she suggested, and looked down. "you like sacred music?" she turned to him her pure profile, her eyelids fluttering up, and said: "i love it." "that's it. so do i. nothing like a nice sacred piece," cornish declared. bobby larkin, at the end of the piano, looked directly into di's face. "give _me_ ragtime," he said now, with the effect of bursting out of somewhere. "don't you like ragtime?" he put it to her directly. di's eyes danced into his, they sparkled for him, her smile was a smile for him alone, all their store of common memories was in their look. "let's try 'my rock, my refuge,'" cornish suggested. "that's got up real attractive." di's profile again, and her pleased voice saying that this was the very one she had been hoping to hear him sing. they gathered for "my rock, my refuge." "oh," cried ina, at the conclusion of this number, "i'm having such a perfectly beautiful time. isn't everybody?" everybody's hostess put it. "lulu is," said dwight, and added softly to lulu: "she don't have to hear herself sing." it was incredible. he was like a bad boy with a frog. about that photograph of ninian he found a dozen ways to torture her, called attention to it, showed it to cornish, set it on the piano facing them all. everybody must have understood--excepting the plows. these two gentle souls sang placidly through the album of old favourites, and at the melodies smiled happily upon each other with an air from another world. always it was as if the plows walked some fair, inter-penetrating plane, from which they looked out as do other things not quite of earth, say, flowers and fire and music. strolling home that night, the plows were overtaken by some one who ran badly, and as if she were unaccustomed to running. "mis' plow, mis' plow!" this one called, and lulu stood beside them. "say!" she said. "do you know of any job that i could get me? i mean that i'd know how to do? a job for money.... i mean a job...." she burst into passionate crying. they drew her home with them. * * * * * lying awake sometime after midnight, lulu heard the telephone ring. she heard dwight's concerned "is that so?" and his cheerful "be right there." grandma gates was sick, she heard him tell ina. in a few moments he ran down the stairs. next day they told how dwight had sat for hours that night, holding grandma gates so that her back would rest easily and she could fight for her faint breath. the kind fellow had only about two hours of sleep the whole night long. next day there came a message from that woman who had brought up dwight--"made him what he was," he often complacently accused her. it was a note on a postal card--she had often written a few lines on a postal card to say that she had sent the maple sugar, or could ina get her some samples. now she wrote a few lines on a postal card to say that she was going to die with cancer. could dwight and ina come to her while she was still able to visit? if he was not too busy.... nobody saw the pity and the terror of that postal card. they stuck it up by the kitchen clock to read over from time to time, and before they left, dwight lifted the griddle of the cooking-stove and burned the postal card. and before they left lulu said: "dwight--you can't tell how long you'll be gone?" "of course not. how should i tell?" "no. and that letter might come while you're away." "conceivably. letters do come while a man's away!" "dwight--i thought if you wouldn't mind if i opened it--" "opened it?" "yes. you see, it'll be about me mostly--" "i should have said that it'll be about my brother mostly." "but you know what i mean. you wouldn't mind if i did open it?" "but you say you know what'll be in it." "so i did know--till you--i've got to see that letter, dwight." "and so you shall. but not till i show it to you. my dear lulu, you know how i hate having my mail interfered with." she might have said: "small souls always make a point of that." she said nothing. she watched them set off, and kept her mind on ina's thousand injunctions. "don't let di see much of bobby larkin. and, lulu--if it occurs to her to have mr. cornish come up to sing, of course you ask him. you might ask him to supper. and don't let mother overdo. and, lulu, now do watch monona's handkerchief--the child will never take a clean one if i'm not here to tell her...." she breathed injunctions to the very step of the 'bus. in the 'bus dwight leaned forward: "see that you play post-office squarely, lulu!" he called, and threw back his head and lifted his eyebrows. in the train he turned tragic eyes to his wife. "ina," he said. "it's _ma_. and she's going to die. it can't be...." ina said: "but you're going to help her, dwight, just being there with her." it was true that the mere presence of the man would bring a kind of fresh life to that worn frame. tact and wisdom and love would speak through him and minister. toward the end of their week's absence the letter from ninian came. lulu took it from the post-office when she went for the mail that evening, dressed in her dark red gown. there was no other letter, and she carried that one letter in her hand all through the streets. she passed those who were surmising what her story might be, who were telling one another what they had heard. but she knew hardly more than they. she passed cornish in the doorway of his little music shop, and spoke with him; and there was the letter. it was so that dwight's foster mother's postal card might have looked on its way to be mailed. cornish stepped down and overtook her. "oh, miss lulu. i've got a new song or two--" she said abstractedly: "do. any night. to-morrow night--could you--" it was as if lulu were too preoccupied to remember to be ill at ease. cornish flushed with pleasure, said that he could indeed. "come for supper," lulu said. oh, could he? wouldn't that be.... well, say! such was his acceptance. he came for supper. and di was not at home. she had gone off in the country with jenny and bobby, and they merely did not return. mrs. bett and lulu and cornish and monona supped alone. all were at ease, now that they were alone. especially mrs. bett was at ease. it became one of her young nights, her alive and lucid nights. she was _there_. she sat in dwight's chair and lulu sat in ina's chair. lulu had picked flowers for the table--a task coveted by her but usually performed by ina. lulu had now picked sweet william and had filled a vase of silver gilt taken from the parlour. also, lulu had made ice-cream. "i don't see what di can be thinking of," lulu said. "it seems like asking you under false--" she was afraid of "pretences" and ended without it. cornish savoured his steaming beef pie, with sage. "oh, well!" he said contentedly. "kind of a relief, _i_ think, to have her gone," said mrs. bett, from the fulness of something or other. "mother!" lulu said, twisting her smile. "why, my land, i love her," mrs. bett explained, "but she wiggles and chitters." cornish never made the slightest effort, at any time, to keep a straight face. the honest fellow now laughed loudly. "well!" lulu thought. "he can't be so _very_ much in love." and again she thought: "he doesn't know anything about the letter. he thinks ninian got tired of me." deep in her heart there abode her certainty that this was not so. by some etiquette of consent, mrs. bett cleared the table and lulu and cornish went into the parlour. there lay the letter on the drop-leaf side-table, among the shells. lulu had carried it there, where she need not see it at her work. the letter looked no more than the advertisement of dental office furniture beneath it. monona stood indifferently fingering both. "monona," lulu said sharply, "leave them be!" cornish was displaying his music. "got up quite attractive," he said--it was his formula of praise for his music. "but we can't try it over," lulu said, "if di doesn't come." "well, say," said cornish shyly, "you know i left that album of old favourites here. some of them we know by heart." lulu looked. "i'll tell you something," she said, "there's some of these i can play with one hand--by ear. maybe--" "why sure!" said cornish. lulu sat at the piano. she had on the wool chally, long sacred to the nights when she must combine her servant's estate with the quality of being ina's sister. she wore her coral beads and her cameo cross. in her absence she had caught the trick of dressing her hair so that it looked even more abundant--but she had not dared to try it so until to-night, when dwight was gone. her long wrist was curved high, her thin hand pressed and fingered awkwardly, and at her mistakes her head dipped and strove to make all right. her foot continuously touched the loud pedal--the blurred sound seemed to accomplish more. so she played "how can i leave thee," and they managed to sing it. so she played "long, long ago," and "little nell of narragansett bay." beyond open doors, mrs. bett listened, sang, it may be, with them; for when the singers ceased, her voice might be heard still humming a loud closing bar. "well!" cornish cried to lulu; and then, in the formal village phrase: "you're quite a musician." "oh, no!" lulu disclaimed it. she looked up, flushed, smiling. "i've never done this in front of anybody," she owned. "i don't know what dwight and ina'd say...." she drooped. they rested, and, miraculously, the air of the place had stirred and quickened, as if the crippled, halting melody had some power of its own, and poured this forth, even thus trampled. "i guess you could do 'most anything you set your hand to," said cornish. "oh, no," lulu said again. "sing and play and cook--" "but i can't earn anything. i'd like to earn something." but this she had not meant to say. she stopped, rather frightened. "you would! why, you have it fine here, i thought." "oh, fine, yes. dwight gives me what i have. and i do their work." "i see," said cornish. "i never thought of that," he added. she caught his speculative look--he had heard a tale or two concerning her return, as who in warbleton had not heard? "you're wondering why i didn't stay with him!" lulu said recklessly. this was no less than wrung from her, but its utterance occasioned in her an unspeakable relief. "oh, no," cornish disclaimed, and coloured and rocked. "yes, you are," she swept on. "the whole town's wondering. well, i'd like 'em to know, but dwight won't let me tell." cornish frowned, trying to understand. "'won't let you!'" he repeated. "i should say that was your own affair." "no. not when dwight gives me all i have." "oh, that--" said cornish. "that's not right." "no. but there it is. it puts me--you see what it does to me. they think--they all think my--husband left me." it was curious to hear her bring out that word--tentatively, deprecatingly, like some one daring a foreign phrase without warrant. cornish said feebly: "oh, well...." before she willed it, she was telling him: "he didn't. he didn't leave me," she cried with passion. "he had another wife." incredibly it was as if she were defending both him and herself. "lord sakes!" said cornish. she poured it out, in her passion to tell some one, to share her news of her state where there would be neither hardness nor censure. "we were in savannah, georgia," she said. "we were going to leave for oregon--going to go through california. we were in the hotel, and he was going out to get the tickets. he started to go. then he came back. i was sitting the same as there. he opened the door again--the same as here. i saw he looked different--and he said quick: 'there's something you'd ought to know before we go.' and of course i said, 'what?' and he said it right out--how he was married eighteen years ago and in two years she ran away and she must be dead but he wasn't sure. he hadn't the proofs. so of course i came home. but it wasn't him left me." "no, no. of course he didn't," cornish said earnestly. "but lord sakes--" he said again. he rose to walk about, found it impracticable and sat down. "that's what dwight don't want me to tell--he thinks it isn't true. he thinks--he didn't have any other wife. he thinks he wanted--" lulu looked up at him. "you see," she said, "dwight thinks he didn't want me." "but why don't you make your--husband--i mean, why doesn't he write to mr. deacon here, and tell him the truth--" cornish burst out. under this implied belief, she relaxed and into her face came its rare sweetness. "he has written," she said. "the letter's there." he followed her look, scowled at the two letters. "what'd he say?" "dwight don't like me to touch his mail. i'll have to wait till he comes back." "lord sakes!" said cornish. this time he did rise and walk about. he wanted to say something, wanted it with passion. he paused beside lulu and stammered: "you--you--you're too nice a girl to get a deal like this. darned if you aren't." to her own complete surprise lulu's eyes filled with tears, and she could not speak. she was by no means above self-sympathy. "and there ain't," said cornish sorrowfully, "there ain't a thing i can do." and yet he was doing much. he was gentle, he was listening, and on his face a frown of concern. his face continually surprised her, it was so fine and alive and near, by comparison with ninian's loose-lipped, ruddy, impersonal look and dwight's thin, high-boned hardness. all the time cornish gave her something, instead of drawing upon her. above all, he was there, and she could talk to him. "it's--it's funny," lulu said. "i'd be awful glad if i just _could_ know for sure that the other woman was alive--if i couldn't know she's dead." this surprising admission cornish seemed to understand. "sure you would," he said briefly. "cora waters," lulu said. "cora waters, of san diego, california. and she never heard of me." "no," cornish admitted. they stared at each other as across some abyss. in the doorway mrs. bett appeared. "i scraped up everything," she remarked, "and left the dishes set." "that's right, mamma," lulu said. "come and sit down." mrs. bett entered with a leisurely air of doing the thing next expected of her. "i don't hear any more playin' and singin'," she remarked. "it sounded real nice." "we--we sung all i knew how to play, i guess, mamma." "i use' to play on the melodeon," mrs. bett volunteered, and spread and examined her right hand. "well!" said cornish. she now told them about her log-house in a new england clearing, when she was a bride. all her store of drama and life came from her. she rehearsed it with far eyes. she laughed at old delights, drooped at old fears. she told about her little daughter who had died at sixteen--a tragedy such as once would have been renewed in a vital ballad. at the end she yawned frankly as if, in some terrible sophistication, she had been telling the story of some one else. "give us one more piece," she said. "can we?" cornish asked. "i can play 'i think when i read that sweet story of old,'" lulu said. "that's the ticket!" cried cornish. they sang it, to lulu's right hand. "that's the one you picked out when you was a little girl, lulie," cried, mrs. bett. lulu had played it now as she must have played it then. half after nine and di had not returned. but nobody thought of di. cornish rose to go. "what's them?" mrs. bett demanded. "dwight's letters, mamma. you mustn't touch them!" lulu's voice was sharp. "say!" cornish, at the door, dropped his voice. "if there was anything i could do at any time, you'd let me know, wouldn't you?" that past tense, those subjunctives, unconsciously called upon her to feel no intrusion. "oh, thank you," she said. "you don't know how good it is to feel--" "of course it is," said cornish heartily. they stood for a moment on the porch. the night was one of low clamour from the grass, tiny voices, insisting. "of course," said lulu, "of course you won't--you wouldn't--" "say anything?" he divined. "not for dollars. not," he repeated, "for dollars." "but i knew you wouldn't," she told him. he took her hand. "good-night," he said. "i've had an awful nice time singing and listening to you talk--well, of course--i mean," he cried, "the supper was just fine. and so was the music." "oh, no," she said. mrs. bett came into the hall. "lulie," she said, "i guess you didn't notice--this one's from ninian." "mother--" "i opened it--why, of course i did. it's from ninian." mrs. bett held out the opened envelope, the unfolded letter, and a yellowed newspaper clipping. "see," said the old woman, "says, 'corie waters, music hall singer--married last night to ninian deacon--' say, lulie, that must be her...." lulu threw out her hands. "there!" she cried triumphantly. "he _was_ married to her, just like he said!" * * * * * the plows were at breakfast next morning when lulu came in casually at the side-door. yes, she said, she had had breakfast. she merely wanted to see them about something. then she said nothing, but sat looking with a troubled frown at jenny. jenny's hair was about her neck, like the hair of a little girl, a south window poured light upon her, the fruit and honey upon the table seemed her only possible food. "you look troubled, lulu," mrs. plow said. "is it about getting work?" "no," said lulu, "no. i've been places to ask--quite a lot of places. i guess the bakery is going to let me make cake." "i knew it would come to you," mrs. plow said, and lulu thought that this was a strange way to speak, when she herself had gone after the cakes. but she kept on looking about the room. it was so bright and quiet. as she came in, mr. plow had been reading from a book. dwight never read from a book at table. "i wish----" said lulu, as she looked at them. but she did not know what she wished. certainly it was for no moral excellence, for she perceived none. "what is it, lulu?" mr. plow asked, and he was bright and quiet too, lulu thought. "well," said lulu, "it's not much. but i wanted jenny to tell me about last night." "last night?" "yes. would you----" hesitation was her only way of apology. "where did you go?" she turned to jenny. jenny looked up in her clear and ardent fashion: "we went across the river and carried supper and then we came home." "what time did you get home?" "oh, it was still light. long before eight, it was." lulu hesitated and flushed, asked how long di and bobby had stayed there at jenny's; whereupon she heard that di had to be home early on account of mr. cornish, so that she and bobby had not stayed at all. to which lulu said an "of course," but first she stared at jenny and so impaired the strength of her assent. almost at once she rose to go. "nothing else?" said mrs. plow, catching that look of hers. lulu wanted to say: "my husband _was_ married before, just as he said he was." but she said nothing more, and went home. there she put it to di, and with her terrible bluntness reviewed to di the testimony. "you were not with jenny after eight o'clock. where were you?" lulu spoke formally and her rehearsals were evident. di said: "when mamma comes home, i'll tell her." with this lulu had no idea how to deal, and merely looked at her helplessly. mrs. bett, who was lacing her shoes, now said casually: "no need to wait till then. her and bobby were out in the side yard sitting in the hammock till all hours." di had no answer save her furious flush, and mrs. bett went on: "didn't i tell you? i knew it before the company left, but i didn't say a word. thinks i, 'she's wiggles and chitters.' so i left her stay where she was." "but, mother!" lulu cried. "you didn't even tell me after he'd gone." "i forgot it," mrs. bett said, "finding ninian's letter and all--" she talked of ninian's letter. di was bright and alert and firm of flesh and erect before lulu's softness and laxness. "i don't know what your mother'll say," said lulu, "and i don't know what people'll think." "they won't think bobby and i are tired of each other, anyway," said di, and left the room. through the day lulu tried to think what she must do. about di she was anxious and felt without power. she thought of the indignation of dwight and ina that di had not been more scrupulously guarded. she thought of di's girlish folly, her irritating independence--"and there," lulu thought, "just the other day i was teaching her to sew." her mind dwelt too on dwight's furious anger at the opening of ninian's letter. but when all this had spent itself, what was she herself to do? she must leave his house before he ordered her to do so, when she told him that she had confided in cornish, as tell she must. but what was she to _do_? the bakery cake-making would not give her a roof. stepping about the kitchen in her blue cotton gown, her hair tight and flat as seemed proper when one was not dressed, she thought about these things. and it was strange: lulu bore no physical appearance of one in distress or any anxiety. her head was erect, her movements were strong and swift, her eyes were interested. she was no drooping lulu with dragging step. she was more intent, she was somehow more operative than she had ever been. mrs. bett was working contentedly beside her, and now and then humming an air of that music of the night before. the sun surged through the kitchen door and east window, a returned oriole swung and fluted on the elm above the gable. wagons clattered by over the rattling wooden block pavement. "ain't it nice with nobody home?" mrs. bett remarked at intervals, like the burden of a comic song. "hush, mother," lulu said, troubled, her ethical refinements conflicting with her honesty. "speak the truth and shame the devil," mrs. bett contended. when dinner was ready at noon, di did not appear. a little earlier lulu had heard her moving about her room, and she served her in expectation that she would join them. "di must be having the 'tantrim' this time," she thought, and for a time said nothing. but at length she did say: "why doesn't di come? i'd better put her plate in the oven." rising to do so, she was arrested by her mother. mrs. bett was eating a baked potato, holding her fork close to the tines, and presenting a profile of passionate absorption. "why, di went off," she said. "went off!" "down the walk. down the sidewalk." "she must have gone to jenny's," said lulu. "i wish she wouldn't do that without telling me." monona laughed out and shook her straight hair. "she'll catch it!" she cried in sisterly enjoyment. it was when lulu had come back from the kitchen and was seated at the table that mrs. bett observed: "i didn't think inie'd want her to take her nice new satchel." "her satchel?" "yes. inie wouldn't take it north herself, but di had it." "mother," said lulu, "when di went away just now, was she carrying a satchel?" "didn't i just tell you?" mrs. bett demanded, aggrieved. "i said i didn't think inie--" "mother! which way did she go?" monona pointed with her spoon. "she went that way," she said. "i seen her." lulu looked at the clock. for monona had pointed toward the railway station. the twelve-thirty train, which every one took to the city for shopping, would be just about leaving. "monona," said lulu, "don't you go out of the yard while i'm gone. mother, you keep her--" lulu ran from the house and up the street. she was in her blue cotton dress, her old shoes, she was hatless and without money. when she was still two or three blocks from the station, she heard the twelve-thirty "pulling out." she ran badly, her ankles in their low, loose shoes continually turning, her arms held taut at her sides. so she came down the platform, and to the ticket window. the contained ticket man, wonted to lost trains and perturbed faces, yet actually ceased counting when he saw her: "lenny! did di deacon take that train?" "sure she did," said lenny. "and bobby larkin?" lulu cared nothing for appearances now. "he went in on the local," said lenny, and his eyes widened. "where?" "see." lenny thought it through. "millton," he said. "yes, sure. millton. both of 'em." "how long till another train?" "well, sir," said the ticket man, "you're in luck, if you was goin' too. seventeen was late this morning--she'll be along, jerk of a lamb's tail." "then," said lulu, "you got to give me a ticket to millton, without me paying till after--and you got to lend me two dollars." "sure thing," said lenny, with a manner of laying the entire railway system at her feet. "seventeen" would rather not have stopped at warbleton, but lenny's signal was law on the time card, and the magnificent yellow express slowed down for lulu. hatless and in her blue cotton gown, she climbed aboard. then her old inefficiency seized upon her. what was she going to do? millton! she had been there but once, years ago--how could she ever find anybody? why had she not stayed in warbleton and asked the sheriff or somebody--no, not the sheriff. cornish, perhaps. oh, and dwight and ina were going to be angry now! and di--little di. as lulu thought of her she began to cry. she said to herself that she had taught di to sew. in sight of millton, lulu was seized with trembling and physical nausea. she had never been alone in any unfamiliar town. she put her hands to her hair and for the first time realized her rolled-up sleeves. she was pulling down these sleeves when the conductor came through the train. "could you tell me," she said timidly, "the name of the principal hotel in millton?" ninian had asked this as they neared savannah, georgia. the conductor looked curiously at her. "why, the hess house," he said. "wasn't you expecting anybody to meet you?" he asked, kindly. "no," said lulu, "but i'm going to find my folks--" her voice trailed away. "beats all," thought the conductor, using his utility formula for the universe. in millton lulu's inquiry for the hess house produced no consternation. nobody paid any attention to her. she was almost certainly taken to be a new servant there. "you stop feeling so!" she said to herself angrily at the lobby entrance. "ain't you been to that big hotel in savannah, georgia?" the hess house, millton, had a tradition of its own to maintain, it seemed, and they sent her to the rear basement door. she obeyed meekly, but she lost a good deal of time before she found herself at the end of the office desk. it was still longer before any one attended her. "please, sir!" she burst out. "see if di deacon has put her name on your book." her appeal was tremendous, compelling. the young clerk listened to her, showed her where to look in the register. when only strange names and strange writing presented themselves there, he said: "tried the parlour?" and directed her kindly and with his thumb, and in the other hand a pen divorced from his ear for the express purpose. in crossing the lobby in the hotel at savannah, georgia, lulu's most pressing problem had been to know where to look. but now the idlers in the hess house lobby did not exist. in time she found the door of the intensely rose-coloured reception room. there, in a fat, rose-coloured chair, beside a cataract of lace curtain, sat di, alone. lulu entered. she had no idea what to say. when di looked up, started up, frowned, lulu felt as if she herself were the culprit. she said the first thing that occurred to her: "i don't believe mamma'll like your taking her nice satchel." "well!" said di, exactly as if she had been at home. and superadded: "my goodness!" and then cried rudely: "what are you here for?" "for you," said lulu. "you--you--you'd ought not to be here, di." "what's that to you?" di cried. "why, di, you're just a little girl----" lulu saw that this was all wrong, and stopped miserably. how was she to go on? "di," she said, "if you and bobby want to get married, why not let us get you up a nice wedding at home?" and she saw that this sounded as if she were talking about a tea-party. "who said we wanted to be married?" "well, he's here." "who said he's here?" "isn't he?" di sprang up. "aunt lulu," she said, "you're a funny person to be telling _me_ what to do." lulu said, flushing: "i love you just the same as if i was married happy, in a home." "well, you aren't!" cried di cruelly, "and i'm going to do just as i think best." lulu thought this over, her look grave and sad. she tried to find something to say. "what do people say to people," she wondered, "when it's like this?" "getting married is for your whole life," was all that came to her. "yours wasn't," di flashed at her. lulu's colour deepened, but there seemed to be no resentment in her. she must deal with this right--that was what her manner seemed to say. and how should she deal? "di," she cried, "come back with me--and wait till mamma and papa get home." "that's likely. they say i'm not to be married till i'm twenty-one." "well, but how young that is!" "it is to you." "di! this is wrong--it _is_ wrong." "there's nothing wrong about getting married--if you stay married." "well, then it can't be wrong to let them know." "it isn't. but they'd treat me wrong. they'd make me stay at home. and i won't stay at home--i won't stay there. they act as if i was ten years old." abruptly in lulu's face there came a light of understanding. "why, di," she said, "do you feel that way too?" di missed this. she went on: "i'm grown up. i feel just as grown up as they do. and i'm not allowed to do a thing i feel. i want to be away--i will be away!" "i know about that part," lulu said. she now looked at di with attention. was it possible that di was suffering in the air of that home as she herself suffered? she had not thought of that. there di had seemed so young, so dependent, so--asquirm. here, by herself, waiting for bobby, in the hess house at millton, she was curiously adult. would she be adult if she were let alone? "you don't know what it's like," di cried, "to be hushed up and laughed at and paid no attention to, everything you say." "don't i?" said lulu. "don't i?" she was breathing quickly and looking at di. if _this_ was why di was leaving home.... "but, di," she cried, "do you love bobby larkin?" by this di was embarrassed. "i've got to marry somebody," she said, "and it might as well be him." "but is it him?" "yes, it is," said di. "but," she added, "i know i could love almost anybody real nice that was nice to me." and this she said, not in her own right, but either she had picked it up somewhere and adopted it, or else the terrible modernity and honesty of her day somehow spoke through her, for its own. but to lulu it was as if something familiar turned its face to be recognised. "di!" she cried. "it's true. you ought to know that." she waited for a moment. "you did it," she added. "mamma said so." at this onslaught lulu was stupefied. for she began to perceive its truth. "i know what i want to do, i guess," di muttered, as if to try to cover what she had said. up to that moment, lulu had been feeling intensely that she understood di, but that di did not know this. now lulu felt that she and di actually shared some unsuspected sisterhood. it was not only that they were both badgered by dwight. it was more than that. they were two women. and she must make di know that she understood her. "di," lulu said, breathing hard, "what you just said is true, i guess. don't you think i don't know. and now i'm going to tell you--" she might have poured it all out, claimed her kinship with di by virtue of that which had happened in savannah, georgia. but di said: "here come some ladies. and goodness, look at the way you look!" lulu glanced down. "i know," she said, "but i guess you'll have to put up with me." the two women entered, looked about with the complaisance of those who examine a hotel property, find criticism incumbent, and have no errand. these two women had outdressed their occasion. in their presence di kept silence, turned away her head, gave them to know that she had nothing to do with this blue cotton person beside her. when they had gone on, "what do you mean by my having to put up with you?" di asked sharply. "i mean i'm going to stay with you." di laughed scornfully--she was again the rebellious child. "i guess bobby'll have something to say about that," she said insolently. "they left you in my charge." "but i'm not a baby--the idea, aunt lulu!" "i'm going to stay right with you," said lulu. she wondered what she should do if di suddenly marched away from her, through that bright lobby and into the street. she thought miserably that she must follow. and then her whole concern for the ethics of di's course was lost in her agonised memory of her terrible, broken shoes. di did not march away. she turned her back squarely upon lulu, and looked out of the window. for her life lulu could think of nothing more to say. she was now feeling miserably on the defensive. they were sitting in silence when bobby larkin came into the room. four bobby larkins there were, in immediate succession. the bobby who had just come down the street was distinctly perturbed, came hurrying, now and then turned to the left when he met folk, glanced sidewise here and there, was altogether anxious and ill at ease. the bobby who came through the hotel was a bobby who had on an importance assumed for the crisis of threading the lobby--a bobby who wished it to be understood that here he was, a man among men, in the hess house at millton. the bobby who entered the little rose room was the bobby who was no less than overwhelmed with the stupendous character of the adventure upon which he found himself. the bobby who incredibly came face to face with lulu was the real bobby into whose eyes leaped instant, unmistakable relief. di flew to meet him. she assumed all the pretty agitations of her rôle, ignored lulu. "bobby! is it all right?" bobby looked over her head. "miss lulu," he said fatuously. "if it ain't miss lulu." he looked from her to di, and did not take in di's resigned shrug. "bobby," said di, "she's come to stop us getting married, but she can't. i've told her so." "she don't have to stop us," quoth bobby gloomily, "we're stopped." "what do you mean?" di laid one hand flatly along her cheek, instinctive in her melodrama. bobby drew down his brows, set his hand on his leg, elbow out. "we're minors," said he. "well, gracious, you didn't have to tell them that." "no. they knew _i_ was." "but, silly! why didn't you tell them you're not?" "but i am." di stared. "for pity sakes," she said, "don't you know how to do anything?" "what would you have me do?" he inquired indignantly, with his head held very stiff, and with a boyish, admirable lift of chin. "why, tell them we're both twenty-one. we look it. we know we're responsible--that's all they care for. well, you are a funny...." "you wanted me to lie?" he said. "oh, don't make out you never told a fib." "well, but this--" he stared at her. "i never heard of such a thing," di cried accusingly. "anyhow," he said, "there's nothing to do now. the cat's out. i've told our ages. we've got to have our folks in on it." "is that all you can think of?" she demanded. "what else?" "why, come on to bainbridge or holt, and tell them we're of age, and be married there." "di," said bobby, "why, that'd be a rotten go." di said, oh very well, if he didn't want to marry her. he replied stonily that of course he wanted to marry her. di stuck out her little hand. she was at a disadvantage. she could use no arts, with lulu sitting there, looking on. "well, then, come on to bainbridge," di cried, and rose. lulu was thinking: "what shall i say? i don't know what to say. i don't know what i can say." now she also rose, and laughed awkwardly. "i've told di," she said to bobby, "that wherever you two go, i'm going too. di's folks left her in my care, you know. so you'll have to take me along, i guess." she spoke in a manner of distinct apology. at this bobby had no idea what to reply. he looked down miserably at the carpet. his whole manner was a mute testimony to his participation in the eternal query: how did i get into it? "bobby," said di, "are you going to let her lead you home?" this of course nettled him, but not in the manner on which di had counted. he said loudly: "i'm not going to bainbridge or holt or any town and lie, to get you or any other girl." di's head lifted, tossed, turned from him. "you're about as much like a man in a story," she said, "as--as papa is." the two idly inspecting women again entered the rose room, this time to stay. they inspected lulu too. and lulu rose and stood between the lovers. "hadn't we all better get the four-thirty to warbleton?" she said, and swallowed. "oh, if bobby wants to back out--" said di. "i don't want to back out," bobby contended furiously, "b-b-but i won't--" "come on, aunt lulu," said di grandly. bobby led the way through the lobby, di followed, and lulu brought up the rear. she walked awkwardly, eyes down, her hands stiffly held. heads turned to look at her. they passed into the street. "you two go ahead," said lulu, "so they won't think--" they did so, and she followed, and did not know where to look, and thought of her broken shoes. at the station, bobby put them on the train and stepped back. he had, he said, something to see to there in millton. di did not look at him. and lulu's good-bye spoke her genuine regret for all. "aunt lulu," said di, "you needn't think i'm going to sit with you. you look as if you were crazy. i'll sit back here." "all right, di," said lulu humbly. * * * * * it was nearly six o'clock when they arrived at the deacons'. mrs. bett stood on the porch, her hands rolled in her apron. "surprise for you!" she called brightly. before they had reached the door, ina bounded from the hall. "darling!" she seized upon di, kissed her loudly, drew back from her, saw the travelling bag. "my new bag!" she cried. "di! what have you got that for?" in any embarrassment di's instinctive defence was hearty laughter. she now laughed heartily, kissed her mother again, and ran up the stairs. lulu slipped by her sister, and into the kitchen. "well, where have _you_ been?" cried ina. "i declare, i never saw such a family. mamma don't know anything and neither of you will tell anything." "mamma knows a-plenty," snapped mrs. bett. monona, who was eating a sticky gift, jumped stiffly up and down. "you'll catch it--you'll catch it!" she sent out her shrill general warning. mrs. bett followed lulu to the kitchen; "i didn't tell inie about her bag and now she says i don't know nothing," she complained. "there i knew about the bag the hull time, but i wasn't going to tell her and spoil her gettin' home." she banged the stove-griddle. "i've a good notion not to eat a mouthful o' supper," she announced. "mother, please!" said lulu passionately. "stay here. help me. i've got enough to get through to-night." dwight had come home. lulu could hear ina pouring out to him the mysterious circumstance of the bag, could hear the exaggerated air of the casual with which he always received the excitement of another, and especially of his ina. then she heard ina's feet padding up the stairs, and after that di's shrill, nervous laughter. lulu felt a pang of pity for di, as if she herself were about to face them. there was not time both to prepare supper and to change the blue cotton dress. in that dress lulu was pouring water when dwight entered the dining-room. "ah!" said he. "our festive ball-gown." she gave him her hand, with her peculiar sweetness of expression--almost as if she were sorry for him or were bidding him good-bye. "_that_ shows who you dress for!" he cried. "you dress for me; ina, aren't you jealous? lulu dresses for me!" ina had come in with di, and both were excited, and ina's head was moving stiffly, as in all her indignations. mrs. bett had thought better of it and had given her presence. already monona was singing. "lulu," said dwight, "really? can't you run up and slip on another dress?" lulu sat down in her place. "no," she said. "i'm too tired. i'm sorry, dwight." "it seems to me--" he began. "i don't want any," said monona. but no one noticed monona, and ina did not defer even to dwight. she, who measured delicate, troy occasions by avoirdupois, said brightly: "now, di. you must tell us all about it. where had you and aunt lulu been with mamma's new bag?" "aunt lulu!" cried dwight. "a-ha! so aunt lulu was along. well now, that alters it." "how does it?" asked his ina crossly. "why, when aunt lulu goes on a jaunt," said dwight herbert, "events begin to event." "come, di, let's hear," said ina. "ina," said lulu, "first can't we hear something about your visit? how is----" her eyes consulted dwight. his features dropped, the lines of his face dropped, its muscles seemed to sag. a look of suffering was in his eyes. "she'll never be any better," he said. "i know we've said good-bye to her for the last time." "oh, dwight!" said lulu. "she knew it too," he said. "it--it put me out of business, i can tell you. she gave me my start--she took all the care of me--taught me to read--she's the only mother i ever knew----" he stopped, and opened his eyes wide on account of their dimness. "they said she was like another person while dwight was there," said ina, and entered upon a length of particulars, and details of the journey. these details dwight interrupted: couldn't lulu remember that he liked sage on the chops? he could hardly taste it. he had, he said, told her this thirty-seven times. and when she said that she was sorry, "perhaps you think i'm sage enough," said the witty fellow. "dwightie!" said ina. "mercy." she shook her head at him. "now, di," she went on, keeping the thread all this time. "tell us your story. about the bag." "oh, mamma," said di, "let me eat my supper." "and so you shall, darling. tell it in your own way. tell us first what you've done since we've been away. did mr. cornish come to see you?" "yes," said di, and flashed a look at lulu. but eventually they were back again before that new black bag. and di would say nothing. she laughed, squirmed, grew irritable, laughed again. "lulu!" ina demanded. "you were with her--where in the world had you been? why, but you couldn't have been with her--in that dress. and yet i saw you come in the gate together." "what!" cried dwight herbert, drawing down his brows. "you certainly did not so far forget us, lulu, as to go on the street in that dress?" "it's a good dress," mrs. bett now said positively. "of course it's a good dress. lulie wore it on the street--of course she did. she was gone a long time. i made me a cup o' tea, and _then_ she hadn't come." "well," said ina, "i never heard anything like this before. where were you both?" one would say that ina had entered into the family and been born again, identified with each one. nothing escaped her. dwight, too, his intimacy was incredible. "put an end to this, lulu," he commanded. "where were you two--since you make such a mystery?" di's look at lulu was piteous, terrified. di's fear of her father was now clear to lulu. and lulu feared him too. abruptly she heard herself temporising, for the moment making common cause with di. "oh," she said, "we have a little secret. can't we have a secret if we want one?" "upon my word," dwight commented, "she has a beautiful secret. i don't know about your secrets, lulu." every time that he did this, that fleet, lifted look of lulu's seemed to bleed. "i'm glad for my dinner," remarked monona at last. "please excuse me." on that they all rose. lulu stayed in the kitchen and did her best to make her tasks indefinitely last. she had nearly finished when di burst in. "aunt lulu, aunt lulu!" she cried. "come in there--come. i can't stand it. what am i going to do?" "di, dear," said lulu. "tell your mother--you must tell her." "she'll cry," di sobbed. "then she'll tell papa--and he'll never stop talking about it. i know him--every day he'll keep it going. after he scolds me it'll be a joke for months. i'll die--i'll die, aunt lulu." ina's voice sounded in the kitchen. "what are you two whispering about? i declare, mamma's hurt, di, at the way you're acting...." "let's go out on the porch," said lulu, and when di would have escaped, ina drew her with them, and handled the situation in the only way that she knew how to handle it, by complaining: well, but what in this world.... lulu threw a white shawl about her blue cotton dress. "a bridal robe," said dwight. "how's that, lulu--what are _you_ wearing a bridal robe for--eh?" she smiled dutifully. there was no need to make him angry, she reflected, before she must. he had not yet gone into the parlour--had not yet asked for his mail. it was a warm dusk, moonless, windless. the sounds of the village street came in--laughter, a touch at a piano, a chiming clock. lights starred and quickened in the blurred houses. footsteps echoed on the board walks. the gate opened. the gloom yielded up cornish. lulu was inordinately glad to see him. to have the strain of the time broken by him was like hearing, on a lonely whiter wakening, the clock strike reassuring dawn. "lulu," said dwight low, "your dress. do go!" lulu laughed. "the bridal shawl takes off the curse," she said. cornish, in his gentle way, asked about the journey, about the sick woman--and dwight talked of her again, and this time his voice broke. di was curiously silent. when cornish addressed her, she replied simply and directly--the rarest of di's manners, in fact not di's manner at all. lulu spoke not at all--it was enough to have this respite. after a little the gate opened again. it was bobby. in the besetting fear that he was leaving di to face something alone, bobby had arrived. and now di's spirits rose. to her his presence meant repentance, recapitulation. her laugh rang out, her replies came archly. but bobby was plainly not playing up. bobby was, in fact, hardly less than glum. it was dwight, the irrepressible fellow, who kept the talk going. and it was no less than deft, his continuously displayed ability playfully to pierce lulu. some one had "married at the drop of the hat. you know the kind of girl?" and some one "made up a likely story to soothe her own pride--you know how they do that?" "well," said ina, "my part, i think _the_ most awful thing is to have somebody one loves keep secrets from one. no wonder folks get crabbed and spiteful with such treatment." "mamma!" monona shouted from her room. "come and hear me say my prayers!" monona entered this request with precision on ina's nastiest moments, but she always rose, unabashed, and went, motherly and dutiful, to hear devotions, as if that function and the process of living ran their two divided channels. she had dispatched this errand and was returning when mrs. bett crossed the lawn from grandma gates's, where the old lady had taken comfort in mrs. bett's ministrations for an hour. "don't you help me," mrs. bett warned them away sharply. "i guess i can help myself yet awhile." she gained her chair. and still in her momentary rule of attention, she said clearly: "i got a joke. grandma gates says it's all over town di and bobby larkin eloped off together to-day. _he_!" the last was a single note of laughter, high and brief. the silence fell. "what nonsense!" dwight herbert said angrily. but ina said tensely: "_is_ it nonsense? haven't i been trying and trying to find out where the black satchel went? di!" di's laughter rose, but it sounded thin and false. "listen to that, bobby," she said. "listen!" "that won't do, di," said ina. "you can't deceive mamma and don't you try!" her voice trembled, she was frantic with loving and authentic anxiety, but she was without power, she overshadowed the real gravity of the moment by her indignation. "mrs. deacon----" began bobby, and stood up, very straight and manly before them all. but dwight intervened, dwight, the father, the master of his house. here was something requiring him to act. so the father set his face like a mask and brought down his hand on the rail of the porch. it was as if the sound shattered a thousand filaments--where? "diana!" his voice was terrible, demanded a response, ravened among them. "yes, papa," said di, very small. "answer your mother. answer _me_. is there anything to this absurd tale?" "no, papa," said di, trembling. "nothing whatever?" "nothing whatever." "can you imagine how such a ridiculous report started?" "no, papa." "very well. now we know where we are. if anyone hears this report repeated, send them to _me_." "well, but that satchel--" said ina, to whom an idea manifested less as a function than as a leech. "one moment," said dwight. "lulu will of course verify what the child has said." there had never been an adult moment until that day when lulu had not instinctively taken the part of the parents, of all parents. now she saw dwight's cruelty to her as his cruelty to di; she saw ina, herself a child in maternity, as ignorant of how to deal with the moment as was dwight. she saw di's falseness partly parented by these parents. she burned at the enormity of dwight's appeal to her for verification. she threw up her head and no one had ever seen lulu look like this. "if you cannot settle this with di," said lulu, "you cannot settle it with me." "a shifty answer," said dwight. "you have a genius at misrepresenting facts, you know, lulu." "bobby wanted to say something," said ina, still troubled. "no, mrs. deacon," said bobby, low. "i have nothing--more to say." in a little while, when bobby went away, di walked with him to the gate. it was as if, the worst having happened to her, she dared everything now. "bobby," she said, "you hate a lie. but what else could i do?" he could not see her, could see only the little moon of her face, blurring. "and anyhow," said di, "it wasn't a lie. we _didn't_ elope, did we?" "what do you think i came for to-night?" asked bobby. the day had aged him; he spoke like a man. his very voice came gruffly. but she saw nothing, softened to him, yielded, was ready to take his regret that they had not gone on. "well, i came for one thing," said bobby, "to tell you that i couldn't stand for your wanting me to lie to-day. why, di--i hate a lie. and now to-night--" he spoke his code almost beautifully. "i'd rather," he said, "they had never let us see each other again than to lose you the way i've lost you now." "bobby!" "it's true. we mustn't talk about it." "bobby! i'll go back and tell them all." "you can't go back," said bobby. "not out of a thing like that." she stood staring after him. she heard some one coming and she turned toward the house, and met cornish leaving. "miss di," he cried, "if you're going to elope with anybody, remember it's with me!" her defence was ready--her laughter rang out so that the departing bobby might hear. she came back to the steps and mounted slowly in the lamplight, a little white thing with whom birth had taken exquisite pains. "if," she said, "if you have any fear that i may ever elope with bobby larkin, let it rest. i shall never marry him if he asks me fifty times a day." "really, darling?" cried ina. "really and truly," said di, "and he knows it, too." lulu listened and read all. "i wondered," said ina pensively, "i wondered if you wouldn't see that bobby isn't much beside that nice mr. cornish!" when di had gone upstairs, ina said to lulu in a manner of cajoling confidence: "sister----" she rarely called her that, "_why_ did you and di have the black bag?" so that after all it was a relief to lulu to hear dwight ask casually: "by the way, lulu, haven't i got some mail somewhere about?" "there are two letters on the parlour table," lulu answered. to ina she added: "let's go in the parlour." as they passed through the hall, mrs. bett was going up the stairs to bed--when she mounted stairs she stooped her shoulders, bunched her extremities, and bent her head. lulu looked after her, as if she were half minded to claim the protection so long lost. dwight lighted the gas. "better turn down the gas jest a little," said he, tirelessly. lulu handed him the two letters. he saw ninian's writing and looked up, said "a-ha!" and held it while he leisurely read the advertisement of dental furniture, his ina reading over his shoulder. "a-ha!" he said again, and with designed deliberation turned to ninian's letter. "an epistle from my dear brother ninian." the words failed, as he saw the unsealed flap. "you opened the letter?" he inquired incredulously. fortunately he had no climaxes of furious calm for high occasions. all had been used on small occasions. "you opened the letter" came in a tone of no deeper horror than "you picked the flower"--once put to lulu. she said nothing. as it is impossible to continue looking indignantly at some one who is not looking at you, dwight turned to ina, who was horror and sympathy, a nice half and half. "your sister has been opening my mail," he said. "but, dwight, if it's from ninian--" "it is _my_ mail," he reminded her. "she had asked me if she might open it. of course i told her no." "well," said ina practically, "what does he say?" "i shall open the letter in my own time. my present concern is this disregard of my wishes." his self-control was perfect, ridiculous, devilish. he was self-controlled because thus he could be more effectively cruel than in temper. "what excuse have you to offer?" lulu was not looking at him. "none," she said--not defiantly, or ingratiatingly, or fearfully. merely, "none." "why did you do it?" she smiled faintly and shook her head. "dwight," said ina, reasonably, "she knows what's in it and we don't. hurry up." "she is," said dwight, after a pause, "an ungrateful woman." he opened the letter, saw the clipping, the avowal, with its facts. "a-ha!" said he. "so after having been absent with my brother for a month, you find that you were _not_ married to him." lulu spoke her exceeding triumph. "you see, dwight," she said, "he told the truth. he had another wife. he didn't just leave me." dwight instantly cried: "but this seems to me to make you considerably worse off than if he had." "oh, no," lulu said serenely. "no. why," she said, "you know how it all came about. he--he was used to thinking of his wife as dead. if he hadn't--hadn't liked me, he wouldn't have told me. you see that, don't you?" dwight laughed. "that your apology?" he asked. she said nothing. "look here, lulu," he went on, "this is a bad business. the less you say about it the better, for all our sakes--_you_ see that, don't you?" "see that? why, no. i wanted you to write to him so i could tell the truth. you said i mustn't tell the truth till i had the proofs ..." "tell who?" "tell everybody. i want them to know." "then you care nothing for our feelings in this matter?" she looked at him now. "your feeling?" "it's nothing to you that we have a brother who's a bigamist?" "but it's me--it's me." "you! you're completely out of it. just let it rest as it is and it'll drop." "i want the people to know the truth," lulu said. "but it's nobody's business but our business! i take it you don't intend to sue ninian?" "sue him? oh no!" "then, for all our sakes, let's drop the matter." lulu had fallen in one of her old attitudes, tense, awkward, her hands awkwardly placed, her feet twisted. she kept putting a lock back of her ear, she kept swallowing. "tell you, lulu," said dwight. "here are three of us. our interests are the same in this thing--only ninian is our relative and he's nothing to you now. is he?" "why, no," said lulu in surprise. "very well. let's have a vote. your snap judgment is to tell this disgraceful fact broadcast. mine is, least said, soonest mended. what do you say, ina--considering di and all?" "oh, goodness," said ina, "if we get mixed up with bigamy, we'll never get away from it. why, i wouldn't have it told for worlds." still in that twisted position, lulu looked up at her. her straying hair, her parted lips, her lifted eyes were singularly pathetic. "my poor, poor sister!" ina said. she struck together her little plump hands. "oh, dwight--when i think of it: what have i done--what have _we_ done that i should have a good, kind, loving husband--be so protected, so loved, when other women.... darling!" she sobbed, and drew near to lulu. "you _know_ how sorry i am--we all are...." lulu stood up. the white shawl slipped to the floor. her hands were stiffly joined. "then," she said, "give me the only thing i've got--that's my pride. my pride--that he didn't want to get rid of me." they stared at her. "what about _my_ pride?" dwight called to her, as across great distances. "do you think i want everybody to know my brother did a thing like that?" "you can't help that," said lulu. "but i want you to help it. i want you to promise me that you won't shame us like this before all our friends." "you want me to promise what?" "i want you--i ask you," dwight said with an effort, "to promise me that you will keep this, with us--a family secret." "no!" lulu cried. "no. i won't do it! i won't do it! i won't do it!" it was like some crude chant, knowing only two tones. she threw out her hands, her wrists long and dark on her blue skirt. "can't you understand anything?" she asked. "i've lived here all my life--on your money. i've not been strong enough to work, they say--well, but i've been strong enough to be a hired girl in your house--and i've been glad to pay for my keep.... but there wasn't anything about it i liked. nothing about being here that i liked.... well, then i got a little something, same as other folks. i thought i was married and i went off on the train and he bought me things and i saw the different towns. and then it was all a mistake. i didn't have any of it. i came back here and went into your kitchen again--i don't know why i came back. i s'pose because i'm most thirty-four and new things ain't so easy any more--but what have i got or what'll i ever have? and now you want to put on to me having folks look at me and think he run off and left me, and having 'em all wonder.... i can't stand it. i can't stand it. i can't...." "you'd rather they'd know he fooled you, when he had another wife?" dwight sneered. "yes! because he wanted me. how do i know--maybe he wanted me only just because he was lonesome, the way i was. i don't care why! and i won't have folks think he went and left me." "that," said dwight, "is a wicked vanity." "that's the truth. well, why can't they know the truth?" "and bring disgrace on us all." "it's me--it's me----" lulu's individualism strove against that terrible tribal sense, was shattered by it. "it's all of us!" dwight boomed. "it's di." "_di?_" he had lulu's eyes now. "why, it's chiefly on di's account that i'm talking," said dwight. "how would it hurt di?" "to have a thing like that in the family? well, can't you see how it'd hurt her?" "would it, ina? would it hurt di?" "why, it would shame her--embarrass her--make people wonder what kind of stock she came from--oh," ina sobbed, "my pure little girl!" "hurt her prospects, of course," said dwight. "anybody could see that." "i s'pose it would," said lulu. she clasped her arms tightly, awkwardly, and stepped about the floor, her broken shoes showing beneath her cotton skirt. "when a family once gets talked about for any reason----" said ina and shuddered. "i'm talked about now!" "but nothing that you could help. if he got tired of you, you couldn't help that." this misstep was dwight's. "no," lulu said, "i couldn't help that. and i couldn't help his other wife, either." "bigamy," said dwight, "that's a crime." "i've done no crime," said lulu. "bigamy," said dwight, "disgraces everybody it touches." "even di," lulu said. "lulu," said dwight, "on di's account will you promise us to let this thing rest with us three?" "i s'pose so," said lulu quietly. "you will?" "i s'pose so." ina sobbed: "thank you, thank you, lulu. this makes up for everything." lulu was thinking: "di has a hard enough time as it is." aloud she said: "i told mr. cornish, but he won't tell." "i'll see to that," dwight graciously offered. "goodness," ina said, "so he knows. well, that settles----" she said no more. "you'll be happy to think you've done this for us, lulu," said dwight. "i s'pose so," said lulu. ina, pink from her little gust of sobbing, went to her, kissed her, her trim tan tailor suit against lulu's blue cotton. "my sweet, self-sacrificing sister," she murmured. "oh stop that!" lulu said. dwight took her hand, lying limply in his. "i can now," he said, "overlook the matter of the letter." lulu drew back. she put her hair behind her ears, swallowed, and cried out. "don't you go around pitying me! i'll have you know i'm glad the whole thing happened!" * * * * * cornish had ordered six new copies of a popular song. he knew that it was popular because it was called so in a chicago paper. when the six copies arrived with a danseuse on the covers he read the "words," looked wistfully at the symbols which shut him out, and felt well pleased. "got up quite attractive," he thought, and fastened the six copies in the window of his music store. it was not yet nine o'clock of a vivid morning. cornish had his floor and sidewalk sprinkled, his red and blue plush piano spreads dusted. he sat at a folding table well back in the store, and opened a law book. for half an hour he read. then he found himself looking off the page, stabbed by a reflection which always stabbed him anew: was he really getting anywhere with his law? and where did he really hope to get? of late when he awoke at night this question had stood by the cot, waiting. the cot had appeared there in the back of the music-store, behind a dark sateen curtain with too few rings on the wire. how little else was in there, nobody knew. but those passing in the late evening saw the blur of his kerosene lamp behind that curtain and were smitten by a realistic illusion of personal loneliness. it was behind that curtain that these unreasoning questions usually attacked him, when his giant, wavering shadow had died upon the wall and the faint smell of the extinguished lamp went with him to his bed; or when he waked before any sign of dawn. in the mornings all was cheerful and wonted--the question had not before attacked him among his red and blue plush spreads, his golden oak and ebony cases, of a sunshiny morning. a step at his door set him flying. he wanted passionately to sell a piano. "well!" he cried, when he saw his visitor. it was lulu, in her dark red suit and her tilted hat. "well!" she also said, and seemed to have no idea of saying anything else. her excitement was so obscure that he did not discern it. "you're out early," said he, participating in the village chorus of this bright challenge at this hour. "oh, no," said lulu. he looked out the window, pretending to be caught by something passing, leaned to see it the better. "oh, how'd you get along last night?" he asked, and wondered why he had not thought to say it before. "all right, thank you," said lulu. "was he--about the letter, you know?" "yes," she said, "but that didn't matter. you'll be sure," she added, "not to say anything about what was in the letter?" "why, not till you tell me i can," said cornish, "but won't everybody know now?" "no," lulu said. at this he had no more to say, and feeling his speculation in his eyes, dropped them to a piano scarf from which he began flicking invisible specks. "i came to tell you good-bye," lulu said. "_good-bye!_" "yes. i'm going off--for a while. my satchel's in the bakery--i had my breakfast in the bakery." "say!" cornish cried warmly, "then everything _wasn't_ all right last night?" "as right as it can ever be with me," she told him. "oh, yes. dwight forgave me." "forgave you!" she smiled, and trembled. "look here," said cornish, "you come here and sit down and tell me about this." he led her to the folding table, as the only social spot in that vast area of his, seated her in the one chair, and for himself brought up a piano stool. but after all she told him nothing. she merely took the comfort of his kindly indignation. "it came out all right," she said only. "but i won't stay there any more. i can't do that." "then what are you going to do?" "in millton yesterday," she said, "i saw an advertisement in the hotel--they wanted a chambermaid." "oh, miss bett!" he cried. at that name she flushed. "why," said cornish, "you must have been coming from millton yesterday when i saw you. i noticed miss di had her bag--" he stopped, stared. "you brought her back!" he deduced everything. "oh!" said lulu. "oh, no--i mean--" "i heard about the eloping again this morning," he said. "that's just what you did--you brought her back." "you mustn't tell that! you won't? you won't!" "no. 'course not." he mulled it. "you tell me this: do they know? i mean about your going after her?" "no." "you never told!" "they don't know she went." "that's a funny thing," he blurted out, "for you not to tell her folks--i mean, right off. before last night...." "you don't know them. dwight'd never let up on that--he'd _joke_ her about it after a while." "but it seems--" "ina'd talk about disgracing _her_. they wouldn't know what to do. there's no sense in telling them. they aren't a mother and father," lulu said. cornish was not accustomed to deal with so much reality. but lulu's reality he could grasp. "you're a trump anyhow," he affirmed. "oh, no," said lulu modestly. yes, she was. he insisted upon it. "by george," he exclaimed, "you don't find very many _married_ women with as good sense as you've got." at this, just as he was agonising because he had seemed to refer to the truth that she was, after all, not married, at this lulu laughed in some amusement, and said nothing. "you've been a jewel in their home all right," said cornish. "i bet they'll miss you if you do go." "they'll miss my cooking," lulu said without bitterness. "they'll miss more than that, i know. i've often watched you there--" "you have?" it was not so much pleasure as passionate gratitude which lighted her eyes. "you made the whole place," said cornish. "you don't mean just the cooking?" "no, no. i mean--well, that first night when you played croquet. i felt at home when you came out." that look of hers, rarely seen, which was no less than a look of loveliness, came now to lulu's face. after a pause she said: "i never had but one compliment before that wasn't for my cooking." she seemed to feel that she must confess to that one. "he told me i done my hair up nice." she added conscientiously: "that was after i took notice how the ladies in savannah, georgia, done up theirs." "well, well," said cornish only. "well," said lulu, "i must be going now. i wanted to say good-bye to you--and there's one or two other places...." "i hate to have you go," said cornish, and tried to add something. "i hate to have you go," was all that he could find to add. lulu rose. "oh, well," was all that she could find. they shook hands, lulu laughing a little. cornish followed her to the door. he had begun on "look here, i wish ..." when lulu said "good-bye," and paused, wishing intensely to know what he would have said. but all that he said was: "good-bye. i wish you weren't going." "so do i," said lulu, and went, still laughing. cornish saw her red dress vanish from his door, flash by his window, her head averted. and there settled upon him a depression out of all proportion to the slow depression of his days. this was more--it assailed him, absorbed him. he stood staring out the window. some one passed with a greeting of which he was conscious too late to return. he wandered back down the store and his pianos looked back at him like strangers. down there was the green curtain which screened his home life. he suddenly hated that green curtain. he hated this whole place. for the first time it occurred to him that he hated warbleton. he came back to his table, and sat down before his lawbook. but he sat, chin on chest, regarding it. no ... no escape that way.... a step at the door and he sprang up. it was lulu, coming toward him, her face unsmiling but somehow quite lighted. in her hand was a letter. "see," she said. "at the office was this...." she thrust in his hand the single sheet. he read: " ... just wanted you to know you're actually rid of me. i've heard from her, in brazil. she ran out of money and thought of me, and her lawyer wrote to me.... i've never been any good--dwight would tell you that if his pride would let him tell the truth once in a while. but there ain't anything in my life makes me feel as bad as this.... i s'pose you couldn't understand and i don't myself.... only the sixteen years keeping still made me think she was gone sure ... but you were so downright good, that's what was the worst ... do you see what i want to say ..." cornish read it all and looked at lulu. she was grave and in her eyes there was a look of dignity such as he had never seen them wear. incredible dignity. "he didn't lie to get rid of me--and she was alive, just as he thought she might be," she said. "i'm glad," said cornish. "yes," said lulu. "he isn't quite so bad as dwight tried to make him out." it was not of this that cornish had been thinking. "now you're free," he said. "oh, that ..." said lulu. she replaced her letter in its envelope. "now i'm really going," she said. "good-bye for sure this time...." her words trailed away. cornish had laid his hand on her arm. "don't say good-bye," he said. "it's late," she said, "i--" "don't you go," said cornish. she looked at him mutely. "do you think you could possibly stay here with me?" "oh!" said lulu, like no word. he went on, not looking at her. "i haven't got anything. i guess maybe you've heard something about a little something i'm supposed to inherit. well, it's only five hundred dollars." his look searched her face, but she hardly heard what he was saying. "that little warden house--it don't cost much--you'd be surprised. rent, i mean. i can get it now. i went and looked at it the other day, but then i didn't think--" he caught himself on that. "it don't cost near as much as this store. we could furnish up the parlour with pianos--" he was startled by that "we," and began again: "that is, if you could ever think of such a thing as marrying me." "but," said lulu. "you _know_! why, don't the disgrace--" "what disgrace?" asked cornish. "oh," she said, "you--you----" "there's only this about that," said he. "of course, if you loved him very much, then i'd ought not to be talking this way to you. but i didn't think--" "you didn't think what?" "that you did care so very much--about him. i don't know why." she said: "i wanted somebody of my own. that's the reason i done what i done. i know that now." "i figured that way," said cornish. they dismissed it. but now he brought to bear something which he saw that she should know. "look here," he said, "i'd ought to tell you. i'm--i'm awful lonesome myself. this is no place to live. and i guess living so is one reason why i want to get married. i want some kind of a home." he said it as a confession. she accepted it as a reason. "of course," she said. "i ain't never lived what you might say private," said cornish. "i've lived too private," lulu said. "then there's another thing." this was harder to tell her. "i--i don't believe i'm ever going to be able to do a thing with law." "i don't see," said lulu, "how anybody does." "i'm not much good in a business way," he owned, with a faint laugh. "sometimes i think," he drew down his brows, "that i may never be able to make any money." she said: "lots of men don't." "could you risk it with me?" cornish asked her. "there's nobody i've seen," he went on gently, "that i like as much as i do you. i--i was engaged to a girl once, but we didn't get along. i guess if you'd be willing to try me, we would get along." lulu said: "i thought it was di that you--" "miss di? why," said cornish, "she's a little kid. and," he added, "she's a little liar." "but i'm going on thirty-four." "so am i!" "isn't there somebody--" "look here. do you like me?" "oh, yes!" "well enough--" "it's you i was thinking of," said lulu. "i'd be all right." "then!" cornish cried, and he kissed her. * * * * * "and now," said dwight, "nobody must mind if i hurry a little wee bit. i've got something on." he and ina and monona were at dinner. mrs. bett was in her room. di was not there. "anything about lulu?" ina asked. "lulu?" dwight stared. "why should i have anything to do about lulu?" "well, but, dwight--we've got to do something." "as i told you this morning," he observed, "we shall do nothing. your sister is of age--i don't know about the sound mind, but she is certainly of age. if she chooses to go away, she is free to go where she will." "yes, but, dwight, where has she gone? where could she go? where--" "you are a question-box," said dwight playfully. "a question-box." ina had burned her plump wrist on the oven. she lifted her arm and nursed it. "i'm certainly going to miss her if she stays away very long," she remarked. "you should be sufficient unto your little self," said dwight. "that's all right," said ina, "except when you're getting dinner." "i want some crust coffee," announced monona firmly. "you'll have nothing of the sort," said ina. "drink your milk." "as i remarked," dwight went on, "i'm in a tiny wee bit of a hurry." "well, why don't you say what for?" his ina asked. she knew that he wanted to be asked, and she was sufficiently willing to play his games, and besides she wanted to know. but she _was_ hot. "i am going," said dwight, "to take grandma gates out in a wheel-chair, for an hour." "where did you get a wheel-chair, for mercy sakes?" "borrowed it from the railroad company," said dwight, with the triumph peculiar to the resourceful man. "why i never did it before, i can't imagine. there that chair's been in the depot ever since i can remember--saw it every time i took the train--and yet i never once thought of grandma." "my, dwight," said ina, "how good you are!" "nonsense!" said he. "well, you are. why don't i send her over a baked apple? monona, you take grandma gates a baked apple--no. you shan't go till you drink your milk." "i don't want it." "drink it or mamma won't let you go." monona drank it, made a piteous face, took the baked apple, ran. "the apple isn't very good," said ina, "but it shows my good will." "also," said dwight, "it teaches monona a life of thoughtfulness for others." "that's what i always think," his ina said. "can't you get mother to come out?" dwight inquired. "i had so much to do getting dinner onto the table, i didn't try," ina confessed. "you didn't have to try," mrs. bett's voice sounded. "i was coming when i got rested up." she entered, looking vaguely about. "i want lulie," she said, and the corners of her mouth drew down. she ate her dinner cold, appeased in vague areas by such martyrdom. they were still at table when the front door opened. "monona hadn't ought to use the front door so common," mrs. bett complained. but it was not monona. it was lulu and cornish. "well!" said dwight, tone curving downward. "well!" said ina, in replica. "lulie!" said mrs. bett, and left her dinner, and went to her daughter and put her hands upon her. "we wanted to tell you first," cornish said. "we've just got married." "for _ever_ more!" said ina. "what's this?" dwight sprang to his feet. "you're joking!" he cried with hope. "no," cornish said soberly. "we're married--just now. methodist parsonage. we've had our dinner," he added hastily. "where'd you have it?" ina demanded, for no known reason. "the bakery," cornish replied, and flushed. "in the dining-room part," lulu added. dwight's sole emotion was his indignation. "what on earth did you do it for?" he put it to them. "married in a bakery--" no, no. they explained it again. neither of them, they said, wanted the fuss of a wedding. dwight recovered himself in a measure. "i'm not surprised, after all," he said. "lulu usually marries in this way." mrs. bett patted her daughter's arm. "lulie," she said, "why, lulie. you ain't been and got married twice, have you? after waitin' so long?" "don't be disturbed, mother bett," dwight cried. "she wasn't married that first time, if you remember. no marriage about it!" ina's little shriek sounded. "dwight!" she cried. "now everybody'll have to know that. you'll have to tell about ninian now--and his other wife!" standing between her mother and cornish, an arm of each about her, lulu looked across at ina and dwight, and they all saw in her face a horrified realisation. "ina!" she said. "dwight! you _will_ have to tell now, won't you? why i never thought of that." at this dwight sneered, was sneering still as he went to give grandma gates her ride in the wheel-chair and as he stooped with patient kindness to tuck her in. the street door was closed. if mrs. bett was peeping through the blind, no one saw her. in the pleasant mid-day light under the maples, mr. and mrs. neil cornish were hurrying toward the railway station. pen pal illustrated by don sibley by milton lesser [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction july . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] all she wanted was a mate and she had the gumption to go out and hunt one down. but that meant poaching in a strictly forbidden territory! the best that could be said for matilda penshaws was that she was something of a paradox. she was thirty-three years old, certainly not aged when you consider the fact that the female life expectancy is now up in the sixties, but the lines were beginning to etch their permanent paths across her face and now she needed certain remedial undergarments at which she would have scoffed ten or even five years ago. matilda was also looking for a husband. this, in itself, was not unusual--but matilda was so completely wrapped up in the romantic fallacy of her day that she sought a prince charming, a faithful don juan, a man who had been everywhere and tasted of every worldly pleasure and who now wanted to sit on a porch and talk about it all to matilda. the fact that in all probability such a man did not exist disturbed matilda not in the least. she had been known to say that there are over a billion men in the world, a goodly percentage of whom are eligible bachelors, and that the right one would come along simply because she had been waiting for him. matilda, you see, had patience. she also had a fetish. matilda had received her a.b. from exclusive ursula johns college and radcliff had yielded her masters degree, yet matilda was an avid follower of the pen pal columns. she would read them carefully and then read them again, looking for the masculine names which, through a system known only to matilda, had an affinity to her own. to the gentlemen upon whom these names were affixed, matilda would write, and she often told her mother, the widow penshaws, that it was in this way she would find her husband. the widow penshaws impatiently told her to go out and get dates. * * * * * that particular night, matilda pulled her battered old sedan into the garage and walked up the walk to the porch. the widow penshaws was rocking on the glider and matilda said hello. the first thing the widow penshaws did was to take matilda's left hand in her own and examine the next-to-the-last finger. "i thought so," she said. "i knew this was coming when i saw that look in your eye at dinner. where is herman's engagement ring?" matilda smiled. "it wouldn't have worked out, ma. he was too darned stuffy. i gave him his ring and said thanks anyway and he smiled politely and said he wished i had told him sooner because his fifteenth college reunion was this weekend and he had already turned down the invitation." the widow penshaws nodded regretfully. "that was thoughtful of herman to hide his feelings." "hogwash!" said her daughter. "he has no true feelings. he's sorry that he had to miss his college reunion. that's all he has to hide. a stuffy victorian prude and even less of a man than the others." "but, matilda, that's your fifth broken engagement in three years. it ain't that you ain't popular, but you just don't want to cooperate. you don't _fall_ in love, matilda--no one does. love osmoses into you slowly, without you even knowing, and it keeps growing all the time." matilda admired her mother's use of the word osmosis, but she found nothing which was not objectionable about being unaware of the impact of love. she said good-night and went upstairs, climbed out of her light summer dress and took a cold shower. she began to hum to herself. she had not yet seen the pen pal section of the current _literary review_, and because the subject matter of that magazine was somewhat highbrow and cosmopolitan, she could expect a gratifying selection of pen pals. she shut off the shower, brushed her teeth, gargled, patted herself dry with a towel, and jumped into bed, careful to lock the door of her bedroom. she dared not let the widow penshaws know that she slept in the nude; the widow penshaws would object to a girl sleeping in the nude, even if the nearest neighbor was three hundred yards away. matilda switched her bed lamp on and dabbed some citronella on each ear lobe and a little droplet on her chin (how she hated insects!). then she propped up her pillows--two pillows partially stopped her post-nasal drip; and took the latest issue of the _literary review_ off the night table. she flipped through the pages and came to personals. someone in nebraska wanted to trade match books; someone in new york needed a midwestern pen pal, but it was a woman; an elderly man interested in ornithology wanted a young chick correspondent interested in the same subject; a young, personable man wanted an editorial position because he thought he had something to offer the editorial world; and-- * * * * * matilda read the next one twice. then she held it close to the light and read it again. the _literary review_ was one of the few magazines which printed the name of the advertiser rather than a box number, and matilda even liked the sound of the name. but mostly, she had to admit to herself, it was the flavor of the wording. this very well could be _it_. or, that is, _him_. intelligent, somewhat egotistical male who's really been around, whose universal experience can make the average cosmopolite look like a provincial hick, is in need of several female correspondents: must be intelligent, have gumption, be capable of listening to male who has a lot to say and wants to say it. all others need not apply. wonderful opportunity cultural experience ... haron gorka, cedar falls, ill. the man was egotistical, all right; matilda could see that. but she had never minded an egotistical man, at least not when he had something about which he had a genuine reason to be egotistical. the man sounded as though he would have reason indeed. he only wanted the best because he was the best. like calls to like. the name--haron gorka: its oddness was somehow beautiful to matilda. haron gorka--the nationality could be anything. and that was it. he had no nationality for all intents and purposes; he was an international man, a figure among figures, a paragon.... matilda sighed happily as she put out the light. the moon shone in through the window brightly, and at such times matilda generally would get up, go to the cupboard, pull out a towel, take two hairpins from her powder drawer, pin the towel to the screen of her window, and hence keep the disturbing moonlight from her eyes. but this time it did not disturb her, and she would let it shine. cedar falls was a small town not fifty miles from her home, and she'd get there a hop, skip, and jump ahead of her competitors, simply by arriving in person instead of writing a letter. matilda was not yet that far gone in years or appearance. dressed properly, she could hope to make a favorable impression in person, and she felt it was important to beat the influx of mail to cedar falls. * * * * * matilda got out of bed at seven, tiptoed into the bathroom, showered with a merest wary trickle of water, tiptoed back into her bedroom, dressed in her very best cotton over the finest of uplifting and figure-moulding underthings, made sure her stocking seams were perfectly straight, brushed her suede shoes, admired herself in the mirror, read the ad again, wished for a moment she were a bit younger, and tiptoed downstairs. the widow penshaws met her at the bottom of the stairwell. "mother," gasped matilda. matilda always gasped when she saw something unexpected. "what on earth are you doing up?" the widow penshaws smiled somewhat toothlessly, having neglected to put in both her uppers and lowers this early in the morning. "i'm fixing breakfast, of course...." then the widow penshaws told matilda that she could never hope to sneak about the house without her mother knowing about it, and that even if she were going out in response to one of those foolish ads in the magazines, she would still need a good breakfast to start with like only mother could cook. matilda moodily thanked the widow penshaws. * * * * * driving the fifty miles to cedar falls in a little less than an hour, matilda hummed mendelssohn's wedding march all the way. it was her favorite piece of music. once, she told herself: matilda penshaws, you are being premature about the whole thing. but she laughed and thought that if she was, she was, and, meanwhile, she could only get to cedar falls and find out. and so she got there. the man in the wire cage at the cedar falls post office was a stereotype. matilda always liked to think in terms of stereotypes. this man was small, roundish, florid of face, with a pair of eyeglasses which hung too far down on his nose. matilda knew he would peer over his glasses and answer questions grudgingly. "hello," said matilda. the stereotype grunted and peered at her over his glasses. matilda asked him where she could find haron gorka. "what?" "i said, where can i find haron gorka?" "is that in the united states?" "it's not a that; it's a he. where can i find him? where does he live? what's the quickest way to get there?" the stereotype pushed up his glasses and looked at her squarely. "now take it easy, ma'am. first place, i don't know any haron gorka--" matilda kept the alarm from creeping into her voice. she muttered an _oh_ under her breath and took out the ad. this she showed to the stereotype, and he scratched his bald head. then he told matilda almost happily that he was sorry he couldn't help her. he grudgingly suggested that if it really were important, she might check with the police. matilda did, only they didn't know any haron gorka, either. it turned out that no one did: matilda tried the general store, the fire department, the city hall, the high school, all three cedar falls gas stations, the livery stable, and half a dozen private dwellings at random. as far us the gentry of cedar falls was concerned, haron gorka did not exist. matilda felt bad, but she had no intention of returning home this early. if she could not find haron gorka, that was one thing; but she knew that she'd rather not return home and face the widow penshaws, at least not for a while yet. the widow penshaws meant well, but she liked to analyze other people's mistakes, especially matilda's. accordingly, matilda trudged wearily toward cedar falls' small and unimposing library. she could release some of her pent-up aggression by browsing through the dusty slacks. this she did, but it was unrewarding. cedar falls had what might be called a microscopic library, and matilda thought that if this small building were filled with microfilm rather than books, the library still would be lacking. hence she retraced her steps and nodded to the old librarian as she passed. * * * * * then matilda frowned. twenty years from now, this could be matilda penshaws--complete with plain gray dress, rimless spectacles, gray hair, suspicious eyes, and a broom-stick figure.... on the other hand--why not? why couldn't the librarian help her? why hadn't she thought of it before? certainly a man as well-educated as haron gorka would be an avid reader, and unless he had a permanent residence here in cedar palls, one couldn't expect that he'd have his own library with him. this being the case, a third-rate collection of books was far better than no collection at all, and perhaps the librarian would know mr. haron gorka. matilda cleared her throat. "pardon me," she began. "i'm looking for--" "haron gorka." the librarian nodded. "how on earth did you know?" "that's easy. you're the sixth young woman who came here inquiring about that man today. six of you--five others in the morning, and now you in the afternoon. i never did trust this mr. gorka...." matilda jumped as if she had been struck strategically from the rear. "you know him? you know haron gorka?" "certainly. of course i know him. he's our steadiest reader here at the library. not a week goes by that he doesn't take out three, four books. scholarly gentleman, but not without charm. if i were twenty years younger--" matilda thought a little flattery might be effective. "only ten," she assured the librarian. "ten years would be more than sufficient, i'm sure." "are you? well. well, well." the librarian did something with the back of her hair, but it looked the same as before. "maybe you're right. maybe you're right at that." then she sighed. "but i guess a miss is as good as a mile." "what do you mean?" "i mean anyone would like to correspond with haron gorka. or to know him well. to be considered his friend. haron gorka...." the librarian seemed about to soar off into the air someplace, and if five women had been here first, matilda was now definitely in a hurry. "um, where can i find mr. gorka?" "i'm not supposed to do this, you know. we're not permitted to give the addresses of any of our people. against regulations, my dear." "what about the other five women?" "they convinced me that i ought to give them his address." matilda reached into her pocket-book and withdrew a five dollar bill. "was this the way?" she demanded. matilda was not very good at this sort of thing. the librarian shook her head. matilda nodded shrewdly and added a twin brother to the bill in her hand. "then is this better?" "that's worse. i wouldn't take your money--" "sorry. what then?" "if i can't enjoy an association with haron gorka directly, i still could get the vicarious pleasure of your contact with him. report to me faithfully and you'll get his address. that's what the other five will do, and with half a dozen of you, i'll get an overall picture. each one of you will tell me about haron gorka, sparing no details. you each have a distinct personality, of course, and it will color each picture considerably. but with six of you reporting, i should receive my share of vicarious enjoyment. is it--ah--a deal?" matilda assured her that it was, and, breathlessly, she wrote down the address. she thanked the librarian and then she went out to her car, whistling to herself. * * * * * haron gorka lived in what could have been an agrarian estate, except that the land no longer was being tilled. the house itself had fallen to ruin. this surprised matilda, but she did not let it keep her spirits in check. haron gorka, the man, was what counted, and the librarian's account of him certainly had been glowing enough. perhaps he was too busy with his cultural pursuits to pay any real attention to his dwelling. that was it, of course: the conspicuous show of wealth or personal industry meant nothing at all to haron gorka. matilda liked him all the more for it. there were five cars parked in the long driveway, and now matilda's made the sixth. in spite of herself, she smiled. she had not been the only one with the idea to visit haron gorka in person. with half a dozen of them there, the laggards who resorted to posting letters would be left far behind. matilda congratulated herself for what she thought had been her ingenuity, and which now turned out to be something which she had in common with five other women. you live and learn, thought matilda. and then, quite annoyedly, she berated herself for not having been the first. perhaps the other five all were satisfactory; perhaps she wouldn't be needed; perhaps she was too late.... * * * * * as it turned out, she wasn't. not only that, she was welcomed with open arms. not by haron gorka; that she really might have liked. instead, someone she could only regard as a menial met her, and when he asked had she come in response to the advertisement, she nodded eagerly. he told her that was fine and he ushered her straight into a room which evidently was to be her living quarters. it contained a small undersized bed, a table, and a chair, and, near a little slot in the wall, there was a button. "you want any food or drink," the servant told her, "and you just press that button. the results will surprise you." "what about mr. gorka?" "when he wants you, he will send for you. meanwhile, make yourself to home, lady, and i will tell him you are here." a little doubtful now, matilda thanked him and watched him leave. he closed the door softly behind his retreating feet, but matilda's ears had not missed the ominous click. she ran to the door and tried to open it, but it would not budge. it was locked--from the outside. it must be said to matilda's favor that she sobbed only once. after that she realized that what is done is done and here, past thirty, she wasn't going to be girlishly timid about it. besides, it was not her fault if, in his unconcern, haron gorka had unwittingly hired a neurotic servant. for a time matilda paced back and forth in her room, and of what was going on outside she could hear nothing. in that case, she would pretend that there was nothing outside the little room, and presently she lay down on the bed to take a nap. this didn't last long, however: she had a nightmare in which haron gorka appeared as a giant with two heads, but, upon awaking with a start, she immediately ascribed that to her overwrought nerves. at that point she remembered what the servant had said about food and she thought at once of the supreme justice she could do to a juicy beefsteak. well, maybe they didn't have a beefsteak. in that case, she would take what they had, and, accordingly, she walked to the little slot in the wall and pressed the button. she heard the whir of machinery. a moment later there was a soft sliding sound. through the slot first came a delicious aroma, followed almost instantly by a tray. on the tray were a bowl of turtle soup, mashed potatoes, green peas, bread, a strange cocktail, root-beer, a parfait--and a thick tenderloin sizzling in hot butter sauce. matilda gasped once and felt about to gasp again--but by then her salivary glands were working overtime, and she ate her meal. the fact that it was precisely what she would have wanted could, of course, be attributed to coincidence, and the further fact that everything was extremely palatable made her forget all about haron gorka's neurotic servant. when she finished her meal a pleasant lethargy possessed her, and in a little while matilda was asleep again. this time she did not dream at all. it was a deep sleep and a restful one, and when she awoke it was with the wonderful feeling that everything was all right. * * * * * the feeling did not last long. standing over her was haron gorka's servant, and he said, "mr. gorka will see you now." "now?" "now. that's what you're here for, isn't it?" he had a point there, but matilda hardly even had time to fix her hair. she told the servant so. "miss," he replied, "i assure you it will not matter in the least to haron gorka. you are here and he is ready to see you and that is all that matters." "you sure?" matilda wanted to take no chances. "yes. come." she followed him out of the little room and across what should have been a spacious dining area, except that everything seemed covered with dust. of the other women matilda could see nothing, and she suddenly realized that each of them probably had a cubicle of a room like her own, and that each in her turn had already had her first visit with haron gorka. well, then, she must see to it that she impressed him better than did all the rest, and, later, when she returned to tell the old librarian of her adventures, she could perhaps draw her out and compare notes. she would not admit even to herself that she was disappointed with haron gorka. it was not that he was homely and unimpressive; it was just that he was so _ordinary_-looking. she almost would have preferred the monster of her dreams. * * * * * he wore a white linen suit and he had mousy hair, drab eyes, an almost-roman nose, a petulant mouth with the slight arch of the egotist at each corner. he said, "greetings. you have come--" "in response to your ad. how do you do, mr. gorka?" she hoped she wasn't being too formal. but, then, there was no sense in assuming that he would like informality. she could only wait and see and adjust her own actions to suit him. meanwhile, it would be best to keep on the middle of the road. "i am fine. are you ready?" "ready?" "certainly. you came in response to my ad. you want to hear me talk, do you not?" "i--do." matilda had had visions of her prince charming sitting back and relaxing with her, telling her of the many things he had done and seen. but first she certainly would have liked to get to _know_ the man. well, haron gorka obviously had more experience along these lines than she did. he waited, however, as if wondering what to say, and matilda, accustomed to social chatter, gave him a gambit. "i must admit i was surprised when i got exactly what i wanted for dinner," she told him brightly. "eh? what say? oh, yes, naturally. a combination of telepathy and teleportation. the synthetic cookery is attuned to your mind when you press the buzzer, and the strength of your psychic impulses determines how closely the meal will adjust to your desires. the fact that the adjustment here was near perfect is commendable. it means either that you have a high psi-quotient, or that you were very hungry." "yes," said matilda vaguely. perhaps it might be better, after all, if haron gorka were to talk to her as he saw fit. "ready?" "uh--ready." "well?" "well, what, mr. gorka?" "what would you like me to talk about?" "oh, anything." "please. as the ad read, my universal experience--is universal. literally. you'll have to be more specific." "well, why don't you tell me about some of your far travels? unfortunately, while i've done a lot of reading, i haven't been to all the places i would have liked--" "good enough. you know, of course, how frigid deneb vii is?" matilda said, "beg pardon?" "well, there was the time our crew--before i had retired, of course--made a crash landing there. we could survive in the vac-suits, of course, but the _thlomots_ were after us almost at once. they go mad over plastic. they will eat absolutely any sort of plastic. our vac-suits--" "--were made of plastic," matilda suggested. she did not understand a thing he was talking about, but she felt she had better act bright. "no, no. must you interrupt? the air-hose and the water feed, these were plastic. not the rest of the suit. the point is that half of us were destroyed before the rescue ship could come, and the remainder were near death. i owe my life to the mimicry of a _flaak_ from capella iii. it assumed the properties of plastic and led the _thlomots_ a merry chase across the frozen surface of d vii. you travel in the deneb system now and interstellar ordinance makes it mandatory to carry _flaaks_ with you. excellent idea, really excellent." * * * * * almost at once, matilda's educational background should have told her that haron gorka was mouthing gibberish. but on the other hand she _wanted_ to believe in him and the result was that it took until now for her to realize it. "stop making fun of me," she said. "so, naturally, you'll see _flaaks_ all over that system--" "stop!" "what's that? making fun of you?" haron gorka's voice had been so eager as he spoke, high-pitched, almost like a child's, and now he seemed disappointed. he smiled, but it was a sad smile, a smile of resignation, and he said, "very well. i'm wrong again. you are the sixth, and you're no better than the other five. perhaps you are even more outspoken. when you see my wife, tell her to come back. again she is right and i am wrong...." haron gorka turned his back. matilda could do nothing but leave the room, walk back through the house, go outside and get into her car. she noticed not without surprise that the other five cars were now gone. she was the last of haron gorka's guests to depart. as she shifted into reverse and pulled out of the driveway, she saw the servant leaving, too. far down the road, he was walking slowly. then haron gorka had severed that relationship, too, and now he was all alone. as she drove back to town, the disappointment melted slowly away. there were, of course, two alternatives. either haron gorka was an eccentric who enjoyed this sort of outlandish tomfoolery, or else he was plainly insane. she could still picture him ranting on aimlessly to no one in particular about places which had no existence outside of his mind, his voice high-pitched and eager. * * * * * it was not until she had passed the small library building that she remembered what she had promised the librarian. in her own way, the aging woman would be as disappointed as matilda, but a promise was a promise, and matilda turned the car in a wide u-turn and parked it outside the library. the woman sat at her desk as matilda had remembered her, gray, broom-stick figure, rigid. but now when she saw matilda she perked up visibly. "hello, my dear," she said. "hi." "you're back a bit sooner than i expected. but, then, the other five have returned, too, and i imagine your story will be similar." "i don't know what they told you," matilda said. "but this is what happened to me." she quickly then related everything which had happened, completely and in detail. she did this first because it was a promise, and second because she knew it would make her feel better. "so," she finished, "haron gorka is either extremely eccentric or insane. i'm sorry." "he's neither," the librarian contradicted. "perhaps he is slightly eccentric by your standards, but really, my dear, he is neither." "what do you mean?" "did he leave a message for his wife?" "why, yes. yes, he did. but how did you know? oh, i suppose he told the five." "no. he didn't. but you were the last and i thought he would give you a message for his wife--" matilda didn't understand. she didn't understand at all, but she told the little librarian what the message was. "he wanted her to return," she said. the librarian nodded, a happy smile on her lips. "you wouldn't believe me if i told you something." "what's that?" "i am mrs. gorka." the librarian stood up and came around the desk. she opened a drawer and took out her hat and perched it jauntily atop her gray hair. "you see, my dear, haron expects too much. he expects entirely too much." matilda did not say a word. one madman a day would be quite enough for anybody, but here she found herself confronted with two. "we've been tripping for centuries, visiting every habitable star system from our home near canopus. but haron is too demanding. he says i am a finicky traveler, that he could do much better alone, the accommodations have to be just right for me, and so forth. when he loses his temper, he tries to convince me that any number of females of the particular planet would be more than thrilled if they were given the opportunity just to listen to him. "but he's wrong. it's a hard life for a woman. someday--five thousand, ten thousand years from now--i will convince him. and then we will settle down on canopus xiv and cultivate _torgas_. that would be so nice--" "i'm sure." "well, if haron wants me back, then i have to go. have a care, my dear. if you marry, choose a home-body. i've had the experience and you've seen my haron for yourself." and then the woman was gone. numbly, matilda walked to the doorway and watched her angular figure disappear down the road. of all the crazy things.... deneb and capella and canopus, these were stars. add a number and you might have a planet revolving about each star. of all the insane-- they were mad, all right, and now matilda wondered if, actually, they were husband and wife. it could readily be; maybe the madness was catching. maybe if you thought too much about such things, such travels, you could get that way. of course, herman represented the other extreme, and herman was even worse in his own way--but hereafter matilda would seek the happy medium. and, above all else, she had had enough of her pen pal columns. they were, she realized, for kids. * * * * * she ate dinner in cedar falls and then she went out to her car again, preparing for the journey back home. the sun had set and it was a clear night, and overhead the great broad sweep of the milky way was a pale rainbow bridge in the sky. matilda paused. off in the distance there was a glow on the horizon, and that was the direction of haron gorka's place. the glow increased; soon it was a bright red pulse pounding on the horizon. it flickered. it flickered again, and finally it was gone. the stars were white and brilliant in the clear country air. that was why matilda liked the country better than the city, particularly on a clear summer night when you could see the span of the milky way. but abruptly the stars and the milky way were paled by the brightest shooting star matilda had ever seen. it flashed suddenly and it remained in view for a full second, searing a bright orange path across the night sky. matilda gasped and ran into her car. she started the gears and pressed the accelerator to the floor, keeping it there all the way home. it was the first time she had ever seen a shooting star going _up_. transcriber's notes: . words which may seem to be transcriber's typos, or otherwise suspect, but which are reproduced faithfully (archaic spellings, printer's typos--sometimes i couldn't tell): ch. i: befel, undigged ch. iii: chaperon ch. iv: babby, mun, valtz ch. v: zounded, dimpsey, after'n, ax'n, ax ch. vi: picquet, damitol ch. xi: alwaies, desarts, eternitie . diphthongs, given as single characters in the printed copy, are transcribed as two separate characters. the westcotes by arthur thomas quiller-couch dedication my dear henry james, a spinster, having borrowed a man's hat to decorate her front hall, excused herself on the ground that the house 'wanted a something.' by inscribing your name above this little story i please myself at the risk of helping the reader to discover not only that it wants a something, but precisely what that something is. it wants--to confess and have done with it--all the penetrating subtleties of insight, all the delicacies of interpretation, you would have brought to dorothea's aid, if for a moment i may suppose her worth your championing. so i invoke your name to stand before my endeavour like a figure outside the brackets in an algebraical sum, to make all the difference by multiplying the meaning contained. but your consent gives me another opportunity even more warmly desired. and i think that you, too, will take less pleasure in discovering how excellent your genius appears to one who nevertheless finds it a mystery in operation, than in learning that he has not missed to admire, at least, and with a sense almost of personal loyalty, the sustained and sustaining pride in good workmanship by which you have set a common example to all who practise, however diversely, the art in which we acknowledge you a master. a. t. quiller-couch october th, contents chapter i the westcotes of bayfield chapter ii the orange room chapter iii a ball, a snowstorm, and a snowball chapter iv encounter between a high horse and a hobby chapter v begins with ancient history and ends with an old story chapter vi fate in a laurelled post-chaise chapter vii love and an old maid chapter viii corporal zeally intervenes chapter ix dorothea confesses chapter x dartmoor chapter xi the new dorothea chapter xii general rochambeau tells a story; and the ting-tang rings for the last time chapter i the westcotes of bayfield a mural tablet in axcester parish church describes endymion westcote as "a conspicuous example of that noblest work of god, the english country gentleman." certainly he was a typical one. in almost every district of england you will find a family which, without distinguishing itself in any particular way, has held fast to the comforts of life and the respect of its neighbours for generation after generation. its men have never shone in court, camp, or senate; they prefer tenacity to enterprise, look askance upon wit (as a dangerous gift), and are even a little suspicious of eminence. on the other hand they make excellent magistrates, maintain a code of manners most salutary for the poor in whose midst they live and are looked up to; are as a rule satisfied, like the old athenian, if they leave to their heirs not less but a little more than they themselves inherited, and deserve, as they claim, to be called the backbone of great britain. many of the women have beauty, still more have an elegance which may pass for it, and almost all are pure in thought, truthful, assiduous in deeds of charity, and marry for love of those manly qualities which they have already esteemed in their brothers. such a family were the westcotes of bayfield, or bagvil, in . their "founder" had settled in axcester towards the middle of the seventeenth century, and prospered--mainly, it was said, by usury. a little before his death, which befel in , he purchased bayfield house from a decayed royalist who had lost his only son in the civil wars; and to bayfield and the ancestral business (exalted now into banking) his descendants continued faithful. one or both of the two brothers who, with their half-sister, represented the family in , rode in on every week-day to their bank-office in axcester high street,--a georgian house of brick, adorned with a porch of plaster fluted to the shape of a sea-shell, out of which a. cupid smiled down upon a brass plate and the inscription "westcote and westcote," and on the first floor, with windows as tall as the rooms, so that from the street you could see through one the shapely legs of mr. endymion westcote at his knee-hole table, and through another the legs of mr. narcissus. the third and midmost window was a dummy, having been bricked up to avoid the window-tax imposed by mr. pitt--in whose statesmanship, however, the brothers had firmly believed. their somewhat fantastic names were traditional in the westcote pedigree and dated from, the seventeenth century. endymion, the elder, (who took the lead of narcissus in all, things), was the fine flower of the westcote stocks, and, out of question, the most influential man in axcester and for many a mile round justice of the peace for the county of somerset and major of its yeomanry, he served "our town," (so he called it) as overseer of the poor, governor of the grammar school, chairman of feoffees, churchwarden, everything in short but mayor--an office which he left to the tradesmen, while taking care to speak of it always with respect, and indeed to see it properly filled. the part of county magistrate--to which he had been born--he played to perfection, and with a full sense of its dignified amenity. (it was whispered that the lord lieutenant himself stood in some awe of him.) his favourite character, however, was that of plain citizen of his native town. "i'm an axcester man," he would declare in his public speeches, and in his own way he loved and served the little borough. for its good he held its parliamentary representation in the hollow of his hand; and, as overseer of the poor, had dared public displeasure by revising the voters' list and defying a mandamus of the court of king's bench rather than allow axcester to fail in its duty of returning two members to support mr. percevall's ministry. in , when the price of wheat rose to s a quarter, a poor woman dropped dead in the market place of starvation. at once a mob collected, hoisted a quartern-loaf on a pole with the label--"we will have bread or blood," and started to pillage the shop's in high street. it was endymion westcote who rode up single-handed, (they, were carrying the only constable on their shoulders) and faced and dispersed the rioters. it was he who headed the subscription list, prevailed on the purchase a wagon-load of potatoes and persuaded the people to plant them--for even the seed potatoes had been eaten, and the gardens lay undigged. it was he who met the immediate famine by importing large quantities of rice. finally, it was he, through his influence with the county, who brought back prosperity by getting the french prisoners sent to axcester. we shall talk of these french prisoners by and by. to conclude this portrait of endymion westcote. he was a handsome, fresh-complexioned man, over six feet in height, and past his forty-fifth year; a bachelor and a protestant. in his youth he had been noted for gallantry, and preserved some traces of it in his address. his grandfather had married a french lady, and although this union had not sensibly diluted the westcote blood, endymion would refer to it to palliate a youthful taste for playing the fiddle. he spoke french fluently, with a british accent which, when appointed commissary, he took pains to improve by conversation with the prisoners, and was fond of discussing heredity with the two most distinguished of them--the vicomte de tocqueville and general rochambeau. narcissus, the younger brother, had neither the height nor the good looks nor the masterful carriage of endymion, and made no pretence to rival him as a man of affairs. he professed to be known as the student of the family, dabbled in archaeology, and managed two or three local societies and field clubs, which met ostensibly to listen to his papers, but really to picnic. an accident had decided this bent of his --the discovery, during some repairs, of a fine roman pavement beneath the floor of bayfield house, at the age of eighteen, during a cambridge vacation, narcissus had written and privately printed a description of this pavement, proving not only that its tessellae represented scenes in the mythological story of bacchus, but that the name "bayfield," in some old deeds and documents written "bagvil" or "baggevil," was neither more nor less than a corruption of _bacchi villa_. axcester and its neighbourhood are rich in roman remains--the town stands, indeed, on the old fosse way--and, tempted by early success, narcissus rode his hobby further and further afield. now, at the age of forty-two, he could claim to be an authority on the roman occupation of britain, and especially on the conquests of vespasian. the circle of--the westcotes' acquaintance gathered in the fine hall of bayfield--or, as narcissus preferred to call it, the atrium--drank tea, admired the pavement, listened to the alleged exploits of vespasian, and wondered when the brothers would marry. time went on, repeating these assemblies; and the question became, will they ever marry? apparently they had no thought of it, no idea that it was expected of them; and since they had both passed forty, the question might be taken as answered. but that so personable a man as endymion westcote would let the family perish was monstrous to suppose. he kept his good looks and his fresh complexion; even now some maiden would easily be found to answer his olympian nod; and a vein of recklessness sometimes cropped up through his habitual caution, and kept his friends alert for surprises. in the hunting-field, for instance,--and he rode to hounds twice a week,--he made a rule of avoiding fences; but the world quite rightly set this down to a proper care for his person rather than to timidity, since on one famous occasion, riding up to find the whole field hesitating before a "rasper" (they were hunting a strange country that day), he put his horse at it and sailed over with a nonchalance relieved only by his ringing laugh on the farther side. it was odds he would clear the fence of matrimony, some day, with the same casual heartiness; and, in any case, he was masterful enough to insist on narcissus marrying, should it occur to him to wish it. oddly enough, the gossips who still arranged marriages for the brothers had given over speculating upon their hostess, miss dorothea. she could not, of course, perpetuate the name; but this by no means accounted for all the difference in their concern. dorothea westcote was now thirty- seven, or five years younger than narcissus, whose mother had died soon after his birth. the widower had created one of the few scandals in the westcote history by espousing, some four years later, a young woman of quite inferior class, the daughter of a wholesale glover in axcester. the new wife had good looks, but they did not procure her pardon; and she made the amplest and speediest amends by dying within twelve months, and leaving a daughter who in no way resembled her. the husband survived her just a dozen years. dorothea, the daughter, was a plain girl; her brothers, though kind and fond of her after a fashion, did not teach her to forget it. she loved them, but her love partook of awe: they were so much cleverer, as well as handsomer, than she. having no mother or friend of her own sex to imitate, she grow into an awkward woman, sensitive to charm in others and responding to it without jealousy, but ignorant of what it meant or how it could be acquired. she picked up some french from her brother endymion, and masters were hired who taught her to dance, to paint in water colours, and to play with moderate skill upon the harp. but few partners had ever sought her in the ballroom; her only drawings which anyone ever asked to see were half-a-dozen of the bayfield pavement, executed for narcissus' monograph; and her harp she played in her own room. now and then endymion would enquire how she progressed with her music, would listen to her report and observe: "ah, i used to do a little fiddling myself." but he never put her proficiency to the test. somehow, and long before the world came to the same conclusion, she had resolved that marriage was not for her. she adored babies, though they usually screamed at the sight of her, and she thought it would be delightful to have one of her own who would not scream; but apart from this vague sentiment, she accepted her fate without sensible regret. by watching and copying the mistresses of the few houses she visited she learned to play the hostess at bayfield, and, as time brought confidence, played it with credit. she knew that people laughed at her, and that yet they liked her; their liking and their laughter puzzled her about equally. for the rest, she was proud of bayfield and content, though one day much resembled another, to live all her life there, devoted to god and her garden. visitors always praised her garden. axcester lies on the western side and mostly at the foot of a low hill set accurately in the centre of a ring of hills slightly higher-the raised bottom of a saucer would be no bad simile. the old roman road cuts straight across this rise, descends between the shops of the high street, passes the church, crosses the axe by a narrow bridge, and climbing again passes the iron gates of bayfield house, a mile above the river. so straight is it that dorothea could keep her brothers in view from the gates until they dismounted before their office door, losing sight of them for a minute or two only among the elms by the bridge. her boudoir window commanded the same prospect; and every day as the london coach topped the hill, her maid polly would run with news of it. the two would be watching, often before the guard's horn awoke the street and fetched the ostlers out in a hurry from the "dogs inn" stables with their relay of four horses. miss dorothea possessed a telescope, too; and if the coach were dressed with laurels and flags announcing a victory, mistress and maid would run to the gates and wave their handkerchiefs as it passed. sometimes, too, polly would announce a post-chaise, and the telescope decide whether the postboys wore the blue or the buff. nor were these their only causes of excitement; for the great bayfield elm, a rood below the gates and in full view of them, marked the westward boundary of the french prisoners on parole. some of these were quite regular in their walks for instance, rear-admiral de wailly-duchemin and general rochambeau, who came at three o'clock or thereabouts on wednesdays and saturdays, summer and winter. at six paces on the far side of the elm-- such was their punctilio--they halted, took snuff, linked arms again and turned back. (dorothea had entertained them both at bayfield, and met them at dinner in one or two neighbouring houses.) on the same days, and on mondays as well, old jean pierre pichou, ex-boatswain of the _didon_ frigate, would come along arm-in-arm with julien carales, alias frap d'abord, ex-_marechal des logis_--pichou, with his wooden leg, and frap d'abord twisting a grey moustache and uttering a steady torrent of imprecation--or so it sounded. these could be counted on; but scores of others stopped and turned at the bayfield elm, and polly had names for them all. moreover, on one memorable day dorothea had watched one who did not halt precisely at the elm. a few paces beyond it, and on the side of the road facing the grounds, straggled an old orchard, out of which her brother endymion had been missing, of late, a quantity of his favourite pippins--by name (but it may have been a local one) somerset warriors. the month was october, the time about half-past four, the light dusky. yet miss dorothea, lingering by the gate, saw a young man pass the bayfield elm and climb the hedge; and saw and heard him nail against an apple-tree overhanging the road, a board with white letters on a black ground. when it was fixed, the artist descended to the road and gazed up admiringly at his work. in the act of departing he turned, and suddenly stood still again. his face was toward the bayfield gate. dorothea could not tell if he saw her, but he remained thus, motionless, for almost a minute. then he seemed to recollect himself and marched off briskly down the road. early next morning she descended and read the inscription, which ran: "restaurant pour les aspirants." she said nothing about it, and soon after breakfast the board was removed. chapter ii the orange room some weeks later, on a bright and frosty morning in december, dorothea rode into axcester with her brothers. she was a good horsewoman and showed to advantage on horseback, when her slight figure took a grace of movement which made amends for her face. to-day the brisk air and a canter across the bridge at the foot of the hill had brought roses to her cheeks, and she looked almost pretty. general rochambeau happened to pass down the street as the three drew rein before the town house (so the westcotes always called the bank-office), and, pausing to help her dismount, paid her a very handsome compliment. dorothea knew, of course, that frenchmen were lavish of compliments, and had heard general rochambeau pay them where she felt sure they were not deserved. nevertheless she found this one pleasant--she had received so few--and laughed happily. it may have come from the freshness of the morning, but to-day her spirit sat light within her and expectant she could not say of what, yet it seemed that something good was going to happen. "i have a guess," said the old general, "that miss westcote and i are bound on the same errand. her's cannot be to inspect dull bonds and ledgers, bills of exchange or rates of interest." he jerked his head towards the house, and dorothea shook hers. "i am going to 'the dogs,' general." "eh?" he scented the jest and chuckled. "as you say, 'to the dogs' hein? messieurs, i beg you to observe and take warning that your sister and i are going to the dogs together." he offered his arm to dorothea. her brothers had dismounted and handed their horses over to the ostler who waited by the porch daily to lead them to the inn stables. "i will stable mercury myself," said she, addressing endymion. she submitted her smallest plans to him for approval. "do so," he answered. "after running through my letters, i will step down to the orange room and join you. i entrust her to you, general-- the more confidently because you cannot take her far." he laughed and followed narcissus through the porch. dorothea saw the old general wince. she slipped an arm through mercury's bridle-rein and picked up her skirt; the other arm she laid in her companion's. "you have not seen the orange room, miss dorothea?" "not since the decorations began." she paused and uttered the thought uppermost in her mind. "you must forgive my brother; i am sorry he spoke as he did just now." "then he is more than forgiven." "he did not consider." "dear mademoiselle, your brother is an excellent fellow, and not a bit more popular than he deserves to be. of his kindness to us prisoners-- i speak not of us privileged ones, but of our poorer brothers--i could name a thousand acts; and acts say more than words." dorothea pursed her lips. "i am not sure. i think a woman would ask for words too." "yes, that is so," he caught her up. "but don't you see that we prisoners are--forgive me--just like women? i mean, we have learned that we are weak. for a man that is no easy lesson, mademoiselle. i myself learned it hardly. and seeing your brother admired by all, so strong and prosperous and confident, can i ask that he should feel as we who have forfeited these things?" before she could find a reply he had harked back to the orange room. "you have not seen it since the decorations began? then i have a mind to run and ask your brother to forbid your coming--to command you to wait until wednesday. we are in a horrible mess, i warn you, and smell of turpentine most potently. but we shall be ready for the ball, and then--! it will be prodigious. you do not know that we have a genius at work on the painting?" "my brother tells me the designs are extraordinarily clever." "they are more than clever, you will allow. the artist i discovered myself--a young man named charles raoul. he comes from the south, a little below avignon, and of good family--in some respects." the general paused and took snuff. "he enlisted at eighteen and has seen service; he tells me he was wounded at austerlitz. unhappily he was shipped, about two years ago, on board the _thétis_ frigate, with a detachment and stores for martinique. the _thétis_ had scarcely left l'orient before she fell in with one of your frigates, whose name escapes me; and here he is in axcester. he has rich relatives, but for some reason or other they decline to support him; and yet he seems a gentleman. he picks up a few shillings by painting portraits; but you english are shy of sitting--i wonder why? and we--well, i suppose we prefer to wait till our faces grow happier." dorothea had it on the tip of her tongue to ask how the general had discovered this genius; but the ring in his voice gave her pause. twice in the course of their short walk he had shown feeling; and she wondered at it, having hitherto regarded him as a cynical old fellow with a wit which cracked himself and the world like two dry nuts for the jest of their shrivelled kernels. she did not, know that a kind word of hers had unlocked his heart; and before she could recall her question they had reached the stable-yard of "the dogs." and after stabling mercury it was but a step across to the inn. the "dogs inn" took its name from two stone greyhounds beside its porch-- supporters of the arms of that old family from which the westcotes had purchased bayfield; and the orange room from a tradition that william of orange had spent a night there on his march from torbay. there may have been truth in the tradition; the room at any rate preserved in it window-hangings of orange-yellow, and a deep fringe of the same hue festooning the musicians' gallery. while serving axcester for ball, rout, and general assembly-room, it had been admittedly dismal--its slate-coloured walls scarred and patched with new plaster, and relieved only by a gigantic painting of the royal arms on panel in a blackened frame; its ceiling garnished with four pendants in plaster, like bride- cake ornaments inverted. to-day, as she stepped across the threshold, dorothea hesitated between stopping her ears and rubbing her eyes. the place was a babel. frenchmen in white paper caps and stained linen blouses were laughing, plying their brushes, mixing paints, shifting ladders, and jabbering all the while at the pitch of their voices. for a moment the din bewildered her; the ferment had no more meaning, no more method, than a schoolboy's game. but her eyes, passing over the chaos of paint-pots, brushes, and step-ladders, told her the place had been transformed. the ceiling between the four pendants had become a blue heaven with filmy clouds, and cupids scattering roses before a train of doves and a recumbent goddess, whom a little italian, perched on a scaffolding and whistling shrilly, was varnishing for dear life. around the walls-- sky-blue also--trellises of vines and pink roses clambered around the old panels. the energy of the workmen had passed into their paintings, or perhaps dorothea's head swam; at any rate, the cupids and doves seemed to be whirling across the ceiling, the vines, and roses mounting towards it, and pushing out shoots and tendrils while they climbed. but the panels themselves! they were nine in all: three down the long black wall, two narrower ones at the far end, four between the orange- curtained windows looking on the street. (the fourth wall had no panel, being covered, by the musicians' gallery and the pillars supporting it.) in each, framed by the vines and roses, glowed a scene of classical or pseudo-classical splendour; golden sunsets, pale yellow skies, landscapes cleverly imitated from recollections of claude lorraine, dotted with temples and small figures in flowing drapery, with here and there a glimpse of naked limbs. here were bacchus and ariadne, with a company of dancing revellers; apollo and marsyas; the rape of helen; dido welcoming aeneas. . . . dorothea (albeit she had often glanced into the copy of m. lempriere's classical dictionary in her brother's library, and, besides, had picked up something of greek and roman mythology in helping narcissus) did not at once discriminate the subjects of these panels, but her eyes rested on them with a pleasant sense of recognition, and were still resting on them when she heard general rochambeau say: "ah, there is my genius! you must let me present him, mademoiselle. he will amuse you. hi, there! raoul!" a young man, standing amid a group of workmen and criticising one of the panels between the curtains, turned sharply. almost before dorothea was aware, he had doffed his paper cap and the general was introducing him. she recognised him at once. he was the young prisoner who had nailed the board against her brother's apple-tree. he bowed and began at once to apologise for the state of the room. he had expected no visitors before wednesday. the general had played a surprise upon him. and miss westcote, alas! was a critic, especially of classical subjects. he had heard of her drawings for her brother's book. dorothea blushed. "indeed i am no artist. please do not talk of those drawings. if you only knew how much i am ashamed of them. and besides, they were meant as diagrams to help the reader, not as illustrations. but these are beautiful." he turned with a pleasant laugh. she had already taken note of his voice, but his laugh was even more musical. "daphne pursued by apollo," he commenced, waving his hand towards the panel in face of her. "be pleased to observe the lady sinking into the bush; an effect which the ingenious painter has stolen from no less a masterpiece than the buisson ardent' of nicholas froment." the general fumbled for the ribbon of his gold eye-glass. m. raoul moved towards the next panel, and dorothea followed him. "perseus entering the garden of the hesperides." the painting, though slapdash, was astonishingly clever; and in this, as in other panels, no trace of the artist's hurry appeared in the reposeful design. coiled about the foot of the tree, the dragon ladon blinked an eye lazily at three maidens pacing hand in hand in the dance, over-hung with dark boughs and golden fruit. behind them perseus, with naked sword, halted in admiration, half issuing from a thicket over which stretched a distant bright line of sea and white cliff. "you like it?" he asked. "but it is not quite finished yet, and mademoiselle, if she is frank, will say that it wants something." his voice held a challenge. "i am sure, sir, i could not guess, even if i possessed--" "a board, for example?" "a board?" she was completely puzzled. he glanced at her sideways, turned to the panel, and with his forefingers traced the outline of a square upon it, against the tree. "restaurant pour les aspirants," he announced. he said it quietly, over his shoulder. the sudden challenge, her sudden discovery that he knew, made dorothea gasp. she had not the smallest notion how to answer him, or even what kind of answer he expected, and stood dumb, gazing at his back. a workman, passing, apologised for having brushed her skirt with the step-ladder he carried. she stammered some words of pardon. and just then, to her relief, her brother endymion's voice rang out from the doorway: "ah, there you are. well, i declare!" he looked around him. "a paradise, a perfect paradise! indeed, general, your nation has its revenge of us in the arts. you build a temple for us, and on wednesday i hear you are to provide the music. tum-tum, ta-ta-ta . . ." he hummed a few bars of gluck's "paride ed elenna," and paused, with the gesture of one holding a fiddle, on the verge of a reminiscence. "there was a time--but i no longer compete. and to whom, general, are we indebted for this--ah--treat?" general rochambeau indicated young raoul, who stepped forward from the wall and answered, with a respectful inclination: "well, m. le commissaire, in the first place to captain seymour." the general bit his moustache; endymion frowned. the answer merely puzzled dorothea, who did not know that seymour was the name of the british officer to whom the _thétis_ had struck her colours. "moreover," the young man went on imperturbably, "we but repay our debt to m. le commissaire--for the entertainment he affords us." dorothea looked up sharply now, even anxiously; but her brother took the shot, if shot it were, for a compliment. he put the awkward idiom aside with a gracious wave of the hand. his brow cleared. "but we must do something for these poor fellows," he announced,-- sweeping all the work-men in a gaze; "in mere gratitude we must. a stall, now, at the end of the room under the gallery, with one or two salesmen whom you must recommend to me, general. we might dispose of quite a number of their small carvings and _articles de paris_, with which the market among the townspeople is decidedly overstocked. the company on wednesday will be less familiar with them: they will serve as mementoes, and the prices, i daresay, will not be too closely considered." "sir, i beg of you--" general rochambeau expostulated. "eh?" "they have given their labour--such as it is--in pure gratitude for the kindness shown to them by all in axcester. that has been the whole meaning of our small enterprise," the old gentleman persisted. "still, i don't suppose they'll object if it brings a little beef to their _ragoûts_. say no more, say no more. what have we here? eh? 'bacchus and ariadne'? i am rusty in my classics, but bacchus, dorothea! this will please narcissus. we have in our house, sir,"-- here he addressed raoul,--"a roman pavement entirely--ah--concerned with that personage. it is, i believe, unique. one of these days i must give you a permit to visit bayfield and inspect it, with my brother for _cicerone_. it will repay you--" "it will more than repay me," the young man interposed, with his gaze demurely bent on the wall. "i should have said, it will repay your inspection. you must jog my memory." it was clear raoul had a reply on his tongue. but he glanced at dorothea, read her expression, and, turning to her brother, bowed again. her first feeling was of gratitude. a moment later she blamed herself for having asked his forbearance by a look, and him for his confidence in seeking that look. his eyes, during the moment they encountered hers, had said, "we under-stand one another." he had no right to assume so much, and yet she had not denied it. endymion westcote meanwhile had picked up a small book which lay face downward on one of the step-ladders. "so here is the source of your inspiration? said he. an _ovid_? how it brings up old school-days at winchester--old swishings, too, general, hey?" he held the book open and studied the ariadne on the wall. "the source of my inspiration indeed, m. le commissaire! but you will not find ariadne in that text, which contains only the _tristia_." "ah, but, i told you my classics were a bit rusty," replied the commissary. he made the round of the walls and commended, in his breezy way, each separate panel. "you must take my criticisms for what they are worth, m. raoul. but my grandmother was a frenchwoman, and that gives me a kind of--sympathy, shall we say? moreover, i know what i like." dorothea, accustomed to regard her brother as a demigod, caught herself blushing for him. she was angry with herself. she caught m. raoul's murmur, "heaven distributes to us our talents, monsieur," and was angry with him, understanding and deprecating the raillery beneath his perfectly correct attitude. he kept this attitude to the end. when the time came for parting, he bent over her hand and whispered again: "but it was kind of mademoiselle not to report me." she heard. it set up a secret understanding between them, which she resented. there was nothing to say, again; yet she had found no way of rebuking him, she was angry with herself all the way home. chapter iii a ball, a snowstorm, and a snowball axcester's december ball was a social event of importance in south somerset. at once formal and familiar--familiar, since nine-tenths of the company dwelt close enough together to be on visiting terms--it nicely preluded the domestic festivities of christmas, and the more public ones which began with the new year and culminated in the great county balls at taunton and bath. nor were the families around axcester jaded with dancing, as those in the neighbourhood of bath, for example; but discussed dresses and the prospects of the ball for some weeks beforehand, and, when the day came, ordered out the chariot or barouche in defiance of any ordinary weather. the weather since dorothea's visit to the orange room had included a frost, a fall of snow with a partial thaw, and a second and much severer frost; and by wednesday afternoon the hill below bayfield wore a hard and slippery glaze. endymion, however, had seen to the roughing of the horses. thin powdery snow began to fall as the bayfield barouche rolled past the gates into the high road; and narcissus, who considered himself a weather-prophet, foretold a thaw before morning. unless the weather grew worse, the party would drive back to bayfield; but the old caretaker in the town house had orders to light fires there and prepare the bedrooms, and on the chance of being detained. dorothea had brought her maid polly. in spite of her previous visit, the orange room gave her a shock of delight and wonder. the litter had vanished, the hangings were in place; fresh orange-coloured curtains divided the dancing-floor from the recess beneath the gallery, and this had been furnished as a withdrawing-room, with rugs, settees, groups of green foliage plants, and candles, the light of which shone through shades of yellow paper. the prisoners, too, had adorned with varicoloured paperwork the candelabra, girandoles and mirrors which drew twinkles from the long waxed floor, and softened whatever might have been garish in the decorations. certainly the panels took a new beauty, a luminous delicacy, in their artificial rays; and dorothea, when, after much greeting and hand-shaking, she joined one of the groups inspecting them, felt a sort of proprietary pleasure in the praises she heard. had she known it, she too was looking her best tonight--in an old- maidish fashion, be it understood. she wore a gown of ashen-grey muslin, edged with swansdown, and tied with sash and shoulder-knots of a flame-hued ribbon which had taken her fancy at bath in the autumn. her sandal-shoes, stockings, gloves, cap--she had worn caps for six or seven years now,--even her fan, were of the same ash-coloured grey. dorothea knew how to dress. she also knew how to dance. the music made her heart beat faster, and she never entered a ball-room without a sense of happy expectancy. poor lady! she never left but she carried home heart-sickness, weariness, and a discontent of which she purged her soul, on her knees, before lying down to sleep. she had a contrite spirit; she knew that her lot was a fortunate one; but she envied her maid polly her good looks at times. with polly's face, she might have dancing to her heart's content. usually she dropped some tears on her pillow after a night's gaiety. at bath, at taunton, at axcester, it had always been the same, and with time she had learnt to set her hopes low and steel her heart early to their inevitable disappointment. so tonight she took her seat against the wall and watched while the first three _contre-danses_ went by without bringing her a partner. for the fourth--the "soldier's joy"-- she was claimed by an awkward schoolboy, home for the holidays; whether out of duty or obeying the law of nature by which shy youths are attracted to middle-aged partners, she could not tell, nor did she ask herself, but danced the dance and enjoyed it more than her cavalier was ever likely to guess. such a chance had, before now, been looked back upon as the one bright spot in a long evening's experience. dorothea loved all schoolboys for the kindness shown to her by these few. she went back to her seat, hard by a group to which endymion was discoursing at large. endymion's was a mellow voice, of rich compass, and he had a knack of compelling the attention of all persons within range. he preferred this to addressing anyone in particular, and his eye sought and found, and gathered by instinct, the last loiterer without the charmed circle. "yes," he was saying, "it is tasteful, and something more. it illustrates, as you well say, the better side of our excitable neighbours across the channel. setting patriotism apart and regarding the question merely in its--ah--philosophical aspect, it has often occurred to me to wonder how a nation so expert in the arts of life, so--how shall i put it?--" "natty," suggested one of his hearers; but he waved the word aside. "--of such lightness of touch, as i might describe it,--i say, it has often occurred to me to wonder how such a nation could so far mistake its destiny and the designs of providence (inscrutable though they be) as to embark on a career of foreign conquest which can only--ah-- have one end." "come to grief," put in lady bateson, a dowager in a crimson cap with military feathers. she was supposed to cherish a hopeless passion for endymion. also, she was supposed to be acting as dorothea's chaperon tonight; but having with little exertion found partners for a niece of her own, a sprightly young lady on a visit from bath, felt that she deserved to relax her mind in a little intellectual talk. endymion accepted her remark with magnificent tolerance. "precisely." he inclined towards her. "you have hit it precisely." dorothea stole a glance at her brother. military and hunt uniforms were _de rigueur_ at these axcester balls, and a major of yeomanry more splendid than endymion westcote it would have been hard to find in england. he stood with a hand negligently resting on his left hip-- the word hip,--his right foot advanced, the toe of his polished boot tapping the floor. his smile, indulgent as it hovered over lady bateson, descended to this protruded leg and became complacent, as it had a right to be. "well, i've always said so from the start," lady bateson announced, "and now i'm sure of it. i don't mind frenchmen as frenchmen; but what i say is, let them stick to their fal-de-rals." "that is the side of them which, in my somewhat responsible position, i endeavour to humour. you see the result." he swept his hand towards the painted panels. "one thing i must say, in justice to my charges, i find them docile." dorothea had confidence in her brother's tact and his unerring eye for his audience. yet she looked about her nervously, to make sure that of the few prisoners selected for invitation to the ball, none was within earshot. the vicomte de tocqueville, a stoical young patrician, had chosen a partner for the next dance, and was leading her out with that air of vacuity with which he revenged himself upon the passing hour of misfortune. "go on," it seemed to say, "but permit me to remind you that, so far as i am concerned, you do not exist." old general rochambeau and old rear-admiral de wailly-duchemin, in worn but carefully-brushed regimentals, patrolled the far end of the room arm-in-arm. the admiral seemed in an ill humour; and this was nothing new, he grumbled at everything. but the general's demeanour, as he trotted up and down beside his friend (doubtless doing his best to pacify him), betrayed an unwonted agitation. it occurred to dorothea that he had not yet greeted her and paid his usual compliment. "miss westcote is not dancing tonight?" the voice was at her elbow, and she looked up with a start--to meet the gaze of m. raoul. "excuse me"--she wished to explain why she had been startled--"i did not expect--" "to see me here! it appears that they have given the scene-painter a free ticket, and i assume that it carries permission to dance, provided he does not display in an unseemly manner the patch in the rear of his best tunic." he turned his head in a serio-comic effort to stare down his back. dorothea admitted to herself that he made a decidedly handsome fellow in his blue uniform with red facings and corded epaulettes; nor does a uniform look any the worse for having seen a moderate amount of service. "but mademoiselle was in a--what do you call it?--a brown study, which i interrupted." "i was wondering why general rochambeau had, not yet come to speak with me." "i can account for it, perhaps; but first you must answer my question, mademoiselle. are you not dancing tonight?" "that will depend, sir, on whether i am asked or no." she said it almost archly, on the moment's impulse; and, the words out, felt that they were over-bold. but she did not regret them when her eyes met his. he was offering his arm, and she found herself joining in his laugh--a happy, confidential little laugh. dorothea cast a nervous glance towards her brother, but endymion's back was turned. she saw that her partner noted the look, and half-defiantly she nodded towards the gallery as the french musicians struck into a jolly jigging quick- step with a crash at every third bar. "_mais cela me rend folle_," she murmured. "do you know the air? it's the 'bridge of lodi,' and we are to dance 'britannia's triumph' to it. come, mademoiselle, since the 'triumph' is nicely mixed, let your captive lead you." those were days of reels, poussettes, ladies' chains, and figure dancing; honest heel-and-toe, hopping and twisting, hands across and down the middle--an art contemned now, worse than neglected, insulted by the vulgar caricature of "kitchen lancers"; but then seriously practised, delighting the eye, bringing blood to the dancers' cheeks. for five minutes and more dorothea was entirely happy. m. raoul-- himself no mean performer--tasted, after his first surprise, something of the joy of discovery. who could have guessed that this quiet spinster, who, as a rule, held herself and walked so awkwardly, would prove the best partner in the room? he had not the least doubt of it. others danced with more abandonment, with more exuberant vigour-- "romped" was his criticism--but none with such _élan_ perfectly restrained, covering precision with grace. hands across, cast off and wheel; as their fingers met again he felt the tense nerves, the throb of the pulse beneath the glove. her lips were parted, her eyes and whole face animated. she was not thinking of him, or of anyone; only of the swing and beat of the music, the sway of life and colour, her own body swaying to it, enslaved to the moment and answering no other call. "i understand why they call it the triumph," he murmured, as he led her back to her seat. she turned her eyes on him as one coming out of a dream. "i have never enjoyed a dance so much in my life," she said seriously. he laughed. "it must have been an inspiration--" he began, and checked himself, with a glance over his shoulder at the painted panel behind them. "you were saying--" she looked up after a moment. "nothing. listen to the ting-tang!" he drew aside one of the orange curtains, and dorothea heard the note of a bell clanging in a distant street. "time for all good prisoners to be in bed, and heaven temper the wind to the thin blanket! it is snowing--snowing furiously." "do they suffer much in these winters?" he shrugged his shoulders. "they die sometimes, though your brother does his best to prevent it. it promises to be a hard season for them." "i wish i could help; but endymion--my brother does not approve of ladies mixing themselves up in these affairs." "yet he has carried off half-a-dozen to the supper-room, where at a side table three of my compatriots are vending knick-knacks, to add a little beef to their _ragoûts_." "is it that which has annoyed general rochambeau?" she had recognised the phrase, but let it pass. "it is." she understood. for some reason her brain was unusually clear tonight. at any other time she would have defended, or at least excused, her brother. she knew it, and found time to wonder at her new practicality as she answered: "i must think of some way to help." she saw his brow clear--saw that had risen in his esteem--and was glad. "to you, mademoiselle, we shall find it easy to be grateful." "by helping them," she explained, "i may also be helping my brother. you do not understand him as i do, and you sharpen your wit upon him," "be assured it does not hurt him, mademoiselle." "no, but it hurts _me_." he bowed gravely. "it shall not hurt you, again. whom you love, you shall protect." "ah! m. raoul!" endymion westcote hailed him from the doorway and crossed the room with narcissus in tow. "my brother is interested in your panel of bacchus and ariadne; he will be glad to discuss it with you. br-r-r-!"--he shivered--"i have been down to the door, and it is snowing viciously. some of our friends will hardly find their homes tonight. i hope, by the way, you have brought a great-coat?" raoul ignored the question. "i fear, sir, your learning will discover half-a-dozen mistakes," said he, addressing narcissus and leading the way towards the panel. "but whilst i think of it," endymion persisted, "i saw half-a-dozen old baize chair-covers behind the cloak-room door. don't hesitate to take one; you can return it to-morrow or next day." dorothea being his only audience, he beamed a look on her which said: "they come to us in a hurry, these prisoners--no time to collect a wardrobe; but i think of these little things." "rest assured, sir, i will turn up my coat-collar," said raoul; and dorothea could see him, a moment later, shaking his head good- naturedly, though the commissary still protested. dorothea, left to herself, watched them examining and discussing the panel of bacchus and ariadne. the orchestra started another _contre- danse_, but no partner approached to claim her. the dance began. it was the "dashing white sergeant," and one exuberant couple threatened to tread upon her toes. she stood up and, for lack of anything better to do, began to study the panel behind her. a moment later her hand went up to her throat. it was the panel on which m. raoul had sketched an imaginary board with his thumb-nail--the garden of the hesperides. but the perseus was different; he wore the face of m. raoul himself. and beneath the throat of the nymph on the right, half concealed in the folds about her bosom, hung a locket--a small enamelled heart, edged with brilliants. just such a trinket--a brooch--had pinned the collar of her close habit three days before, when she and m. raoul had stood together discussing the panel. it was a legacy from her mother. hastily she put out a hand and drew the edge of the orange curtain over nymph and locket. soon after supper endymion westcote informed his sister that it was hopeless to think of returning to bayfield. the barouche would convey her back to the town house; but already the snow lay a foot and a half deep, and was still falling. he himself, after packing her off with narcissus, would remain and attend to the comfort of the guests, many of whom must bivouac at "the dogs" for the night as best they could. at midnight, or a little later, the barouche was announced. it drew up close to the porch, axle-deep in snow. upstairs the orchestra was sawing out the strains of "major malley's reel," as endymion lifted his sister in and slammed the door upon her and narcissus. the noise prevented his hearing a sash-window lifted, immediately above the porch. "right away!" the inn-servant who had accompanied the westcotes turned back to trim a candle flaring in the draughty passage. but it so happened that, in starting, the coachman entangled his off-rein in the trace-buckle. endymion, in his polished hessians, ran round to unhitch it. on the window-sill above, two deft hands quickly scooped up and moulded a snowball. "he should turn up his coat-collar, the pig! _v'ian pour le commissaire!_" endymion westcote did not hear the voice; but as the vehicle rolled heavily forward, out of the darkness a snowball struck him accurately on the nape of the neck. chapter iv encounter between a high horse and a hobby "your chocolate will be getting cold, miss." dorothea, refreshed with sleep but still pleasantly tired, lay in bed watching polly as she relaid and lit the fire in the massive georgian grate. these occasions found the service in the town house short- handed, and the girl (a cheerful body, with no airs) turned to and took her share in the extra work. "have they sent for mudge?" (mudge was the bayfield butler.) "lord, no, miss! small chance of getting to mudge, or of mudge getting to us. why, the snow is half-way up the front door!" bed was deliciously warm, and the air in the room nipping, as dorothea found when she stretched out her hand for the cup. "i always like waking in this room. it gives one a sort of betwixt and between feeling--between being at home and on a visit. to be snowed-up makes it quite an adventure." "pretty adventure for the gentry at 'the dogs'! tom ryder, the dairyman there, managed to struggle across just now with the milk, and he says that a score of them couldn't get beds in the town for love or money. the rest kept it up till four in the morning, and now they're sleeping in their fine dresses round the fire in the orange room." dorothea laughed. "they were caught like this just eighteen years ago-- let me see--yes, just eighteen. i remember, because it was my second ball. but then there were no prisoners filling up the lodgings, so everyone found a room." "some of the french gentlemen gave up their lodgings last night, and are down at 'the dogs' now keeping themselves warm. there's that old admiral, for one. i'm sure he never ought to be out of bed, with his rheumatics. it's enough to give him his death. sam zeally says that general rochambeau is looking after him, as tender as a mother with a babby." polly mimicked sam's pronunciation, and laughed. she was somerset-born herself, but had seen service in bath. "where is mr. endymion?" "i heard him let himself in just as i was going upstairs after undressing you. that would be about one, or a quarter past. but he was up again at six, called for mrs. morrish to heat his shaving water, and had a cup of coffee in his room. he and mr. narcissus have gone out to see the roll called, and get the volunteers and prisoners to clear the streets. leastways, that's what mr. narcissus is doing. i heard mr. endymion say something about riding off to see what the roads are like." by this time the fire was lit and crackling. polly loitered awhile, arranging the cinders. she had given up asking with whom her mistress had danced; but dorothea usually described the more striking gowns, and how this or that lady had worn her hair. "tired, miss?" "well, yes, polly; a little, but not uncomfortably. i danced several times last night." polly pursed her mouth into an o; but her face was turned to the fire, and dorothea did not see it. "i hope, miss, you'll tell me about it later on. but mrs. morrish is downstairs declaring that no hen will lay an egg in this weather, to have it snowed up the next moment. 'not that i blame mun,' she says, 'for i wouldn't do it myself,'"--here polly giggled. "what to find for breakfast she don't know, and never will until i go and help her." polly departed, leaving her mistress cosy in bed and strangely reluctant to rise and part company with her waking thoughts. yes; dorothea had danced twice again with m. raoul since her discovery of his boldness. he had seen her draw the orange curtain over his offence, had sought her again and apologised for, it. he had done it (he had pleaded) on a sudden impulse--to be a reminder of one kind glance which had brightened his exile. 'no one but she was in the least likely to recognise the trinket; in any case he would paint it out at the first opportunity. and dorothea had forgiven him. she herself had a great capacity for gratitude, and understood the feeling far too thoroughly to believe for an instant that m. raoul could be mightily grateful for anything she had said or done. no; whatever the feeling which impels a young gentleman to secrete some little private reminder of its object, it is not gratitude; and dorothea rejoiced inwardly that it was not. but what then was it? some attraction of sympathy, no doubt. to find herself attractive in any way was a new experience and delightful. she had forgiven him on the spot. and afterwards they had danced twice together, and he had praised her dancing. also, he had said something about a pretty foot--but frenchmen must always be complimenting. a noise in the street interrupted her thoughts, and reminded her that she must not be dawdling longer in bed. she shut her teeth, made a leap for it, and, running to the window, peered over the blind. some score of the prisoners in a gang were clearing the pavement with shovels and brushes, laughing and chattering all the while, and breaking off to pelt each other with snowballs. she had discussed these poor fellows with m. raoul last night. could she not in some way add to their comfort, or their pleasure? he had dwelt most upon their mental weariness, especially on sundays. of material discomfort they never complained, but they dreaded sundays worse than they dreaded cold weather. any small distraction now--. the train of her recollections came to a sudden halt, before a tall cheval-glass standing at an obtuse angle to the fireplace and on the edge of its broad hearthrug. she had been moving aimlessly from the window to the wardrobe in which polly had folded and laid away her last night's finery, and from the wardrobe back to a long sofa at the bed's foot. and now she found herself standing before the glass and holding her nightgown high enough to display a foot and ankle on which she had slipped an ash-coloured stocking and shoe. a tide of red flooded her neck and face. * * * * * * * * * mrs. morrish had laid the meal in the ground-floor room, once a library, but now used as a bank-parlour--yet still preserving the d ignified aspect of a private room: for banking (as the westcote clients were reminded by several sporting prints and a bust of the medicean venus) was in those days of scarce money a branch of philanthropy rather than of trade. the good caretaker was in tears over the breakfast. "and i'm sure, miss, i don't know what's to be done unless you can eat bacon." "which i can," dorothea assured her. "well, miss, i am sure i envy you; for ever since that poor french captain fioupi hanged himself from mary odling's bacon-rack, two years ago the first of this very next month, i haven't been able to look at a bit." "poor gentleman! why did he do it?" "the lord knows, miss. but they said it was home-sickness." from the street came the voices of captain fioupi's compatriots, merry at their work. dorothea had scarcely begun breakfast before her brothers entered, and she had to pour out tea for them. narcissus took his seat at once. endymion stood stamping his feet and warming his hands by the fire. he bent and with his finger flicked out a crust of snow from between his breeches and the tops of his riding-boots. it fell on the hearthstone and sputtered. "the roads," he announced, are not very bad beyond the bridge. that is the worst spot, and i have sent down a gang to clear it. our guests ought to be able to depart before noon, though i won't answer for the road yeovil way. one carrier--allworthy--has come through to the bridge, but says he passed solomon's van in a drift about four miles back, this side of the cheriton oak. he reports bayfield hill safe enough; but that i discovered for myself." "it seems quite a treat for them," dorothea remarked. his eyebrows went up. "the guests, do you mean?" he turned to the fire and picked up the tongs. she laughed. "no, i mean the prisoners; i was listening to their voices. just now they were throwing snowballs." endymion dropped the tongs with a clatter; picked them up, set them in place, and faced the room again with a flush which might have come from stooping over the fire. "come to breakfast, dear," said dorothea, busy with the tea-urn. "i have a small plan i want your permission for, and your help. it is about the prisoners. general rochambeau and m. raoul--" "are doubtless prepared to teach me my business," snapped endymion, who seemed in bad humour this morning. "no--but listen, dear! they praise you warmly. for whom but my brother would these poor men have worked as they did upon the orange room-- and all to show their gratitude? but it appears the worst part of captivity is its tedium and the way it depresses the mind; one sees that it must be. they dread sundays most of all. and i said i would speak to you, and if any way could be found--" "my dear dorothea," endymion slipped his hands beneath his coat-tails and stood astraddle, "i have not often to request you, to mind your own affairs; but really when it comes to making a promise in my name--" "not a promise." "may i ask you if you seriously propose to familiarise axcester with all the orgies of a continental sabbath? already the prisoners spend sunday in playing chess, draughts, cards, dominoes; practices which i connive at, only insisting that they are kept out of sight, but from which i endeavour to wean them--those at least who have a taste for music--by encouraging them to, take part in our church services." "but i have heard you regret, dear, that only the least respectable fall in with this. the rest, being strict roman catholics, think it wrong." "are you quite sure last night did, not over-tire you? you are certainly disposed to be argumentative this morning." "i think," suggested narcissus, buttering his toast carefully, "you might at least hear what dorothea has to say." "oh, certainly! indeed, if she has been committing me to her projects, i have a right to know the worst." "i haven't committed you--i only said i would ask your advice," poor dorothea stammered. "and i have no project." she caught narcissus' eye, and went on a little more firmly: "only i thought, perhaps, that if you extended their walks a little on sundays--they are scrupulous in keeping their _parole_. and, once in a way, we might entertain them at bayfield--late in the afternoon, when you have finished your sunday nap. narcissus might show them the pavement and tell them about vespasian--not a regular lecture, it being sunday, but an informal talk, with tea afterwards. and in the evening, perhaps, they might meet in the orange room for some sacred music--it need not be called a 'concert'--" dorothea stopped short, amazed at her own inventiveness. "h'm. i envy your simplicity, my dear soul, in believing that the-- ah--alleged _ennui_ of these men can he cured by a talk about vespasian. but when you go on to talk of sacred music, i must be permitted to remind you that a concert is none the less a concert for being called by another name. we britons do not usually allow names to disguise facts. a concert--call it even a 'sacred' concert--in the orange room, amid those distinctly--ah--pagan adornments! i can scarcely even term it the thin end of the wedge, so clearly can i see it paving the way for other questionable indulgences. i don't doubt your good intentions, dorothea, but you cannot, as a woman, be expected to understand how easily the best intentions may convert axcester, with its french community, into a veritable hot-bed of vice. and, by-the-by, you might tell morrish i shall want the horse again in half-an-hour's time." dorothea left the room on her errand. as she closed the door narcissus looked up from his toast. "hot-bed of fiddlesticks!" said he. "i--ah--beg your pardon?" endymion, in the act of seating himself at table, paused to stare. "hot-bed of fiddlesticks!" repeated narcissus. "you needn't have snapped dorothea's head off. i thought her suggestions extremely sensible." "the concert, for instance?" "yes! you don't make sacred music irreverent by calling it a concert. moreover, i really don't see why, as intelligent men, they should not find vespasian interesting. his career in many respects resembled the corsican's." endymion smiled at his plate. "well, well, we will talk about it later on," said he. he never quarrelled with narcissus, whose foibles amused him, but for whose slow judgment he had a more than brotherly respect. * * * * * * * * * the westcotes, though (at due intervals and with due notice given) they entertained as handsomely as the lord lieutenant himself, were not a household to be bounced (so to speak) into promiscuous or extemporised hospitality. for an ordinary dinner-party, dorothea would pen the invitations three weeks ahead, endymion devote an hour to selecting his guests, and narcissus spend a morning in the bayfield cellar, which he supervised and in which he took a just pride. and so well was this inelasticity recognised, so clearly was it understood that by no circumstances could endymion westcote permit himself to be upset, that none of the snowed-up company at "the dogs" thought a bit the worse of him for having gone home and left them to shift as best they could. dorothea, when at about half-past ten she put on her bonnet and cloak and stepped down to visit them--the prisoners having by that time cleared the pavement--found herself surrounded by a crew humorously apologetic for their toilettes, profoundly envious of her better luck, but on excellent terms with one another and the younger ones, at any rate, who had borne the worst of the discomfort--enjoying the adventure thoroughly. "but the life and soul of it all was that m. raoul," confessed lady bateson's niece. "by george!" echoed the schoolboy who had danced the "soldier's joy" with dorothea, "i wouldn't have believed it of a frenchy." for some reason dorothea was not too well pleased. "but i do not see m. raoul." "oh, he's down by the bridge, helping the relief party. one would guess him worn out. he ran from lodging to lodging, turning the occupants out of their beds and routing about for fresh linen. they say he even carried old mrs. kekewich pick-a-back through the snow." "and tucked her in bed," added the schoolboy. "and then he came back, wet almost to the waist, and danced." he looked roguishly at lady bateson's niece, and the pair exploded in laughter. they ran off as general rochambeau, jaded and unshaven, approached and saluted dorothea. "until miss westcote appeared, we held our own against the face of day. now, alas, the conspiracy can no longer be kept up." "you had no compliment for me last night, general." "forgive me, mademoiselle." he lowered his voice and spoke earnestly. "i have a genuine one for you to-day--i compliment your heart. m. raoul has told me of your interest in our poor compatriots, and what you intend--" "i fear i can do little," dorothea interrupted, mindful of her late encounter and (as she believed) defeat. "by all accounts, m. raoul appears to have made himself agreeable to all," she added. the old gentleman chuckled and took snuff. "he loves an audience. at about four in the morning, when all the elders were in bed--(pardon me, mademoiselle, if i claim to reckon myself among _les jeunes_; my poor back tells me at what cost)--at about four in the morning the young lady who has just left you spoke of a new dance she had seen performed this season at bath. well, it appears that m. raoul had also seen it a--valtz they called it, or some such name. whereupon nothing would do but they must dance it together. such a dance, mademoiselle! roll, roll--round and round-- roll, roll--but _perpendicularly_, you understand. by-and-by the others began to copy them, and someone asked m. raoul where he had found this accomplishment. 'oh, in my travels,' says he, and points to one of the panels; and there, if you will believe me, the fellow had actually painted himself as perseus in the garden of the hesperides." poor dorothea glanced towards the panel. "ah, you remember it! but he must have painted in the face after showing it to us the other day, or i should have recognised it at the time. you must come and see it; really an excellent portrait!" he led her towards it. the orange curtain no longer hid the third nymph. but the blood which had left dorothea's face rushed back as she saw that the trinket had been roughly erased. "it was quite a _coup_, but m. raoul loves an audience." shortly before noon the road by the bridge was reported to be clear. carriages were announced, and the guests shook hands and were rolled away--the elder glum, their juniors in boisterous spirits. as each carriage passed the bridge, where m. raoul stood among the workmen, handkerchiefs fluttered out, and he lifted his hat gaily in response. chapter v begins with ancient history and ends with an old story "_ubicunque vicit romanus habitat_,--where the roman conquered he settled--and it is from his settlements that to-day we deduce his conquests. of vespasian and his second legion the jejune page of suetonius records neither where they landed nor at what limit their victorious eagles were stayed. yet will the patient investigator trace their footprints across many a familiar landscape of rural england, led by the blurred imperishable impress he has learned to recognise. the invading host sweeps forward, and is gone; but behind it the homestead arises and smiles upon the devastated fields, arms yield to the implements and habiliments of peace, and the colonist, who supersedes the legionary, in time furnishes the sole evidence of his feverish and ensanguined transit . . ." narcissus was enjoying himself amazingly. his audience endured him because the experience was new, and their ears caught the rattle of tea-cups in the adjoining library. dorothea sat counting her guests, and assuring herself that the number of teacups would suffice. she had heard the lecture many times before, and with repetition its sonorous periods had lost hold upon her, although her brother had been at pains to model them upon gibbon. but the scene impressed her sharply, and she carried away a very lively picture of it. the old roman villa had been built about a hollow square open to the sky, and this square now formed the great hall of bayfield. deep galleries of two stories surrounded it, in place of the old colonnaded walk. out of these opened the principal rooms of the house, and above them, upon a circular lantern of clear glass, was arched a painted dome. sheathed on the outside with green weather-tinted copper, and surmounted by a gilt ball, this dome (which could be seen from the axcester high street when winter stripped the bayfield elms) gave the building something of the appearance of an observatory. on the north side of the hall a broad staircase descended from the gallery to the tiled floor, in the midst of which a fountain played beneath a cupola supported by slender columns. on the west the recess beneath the gallery had been deepened to admit a truly ample fireplace, with a flat hearthstone and andirons. here were screens and rich turkey rugs, and here the bayfield household ordinarily had the lamps set after dinner and gathered before the fire, talking little, enjoying the long pauses filled with the hiss of logs and the monotonous drip and trickle of water in the penumbra. to-day the prisoners--two hundred in all--crowded the floor, the stairs, even the deep gallery above; but on the south side, facing the staircase, two heavy curtains had been looped back from the atrium, and there a ray of wintry sunshine fell through the glass roof upon the famous bayfield pavement and the figure of narcissus gravely expounding it. he had reached his peroration, and dorothea, who knew every word of it by heart, was on the alert. at its close the audience held their breath for a second or two and then--satisfied, as their hostess rose, that he had really come to an end--tendered their applause, and, breaking into promiscuous chatter, trooped towards the tea-room. narcissus lingered, with bent head, oblivious, silently repeating the last well- worn sentences while he conned his beloved tessellae. a voice aroused him from his brown study; he looked up, to find the hall deserted and m. raoul standing at his elbow. "will you remember your promise, monsieur, and allow me to examine a little more closely? ah, but it is wonderful! that pentheus! and the maenad there, carrying the torn limb! also the border of vine-leaves and crossed thyrsi; though that, to be sure, is usual enough. and this next? ah, i remember--_'tu cum parentis regna per arduum'_; but what a devil of a design! and, above all, what mellowness! you will, i know, pardon the enthusiasm of one who comes from the provence, a few miles out of arles, and whose mother's family boasts itself to be descended from roman colonists." narcissus beamed. "to you then, m. raoul, after your forum and famous amphitheatre, our pavement must seem a poor trifle--though it by no means exhausts our list of interesting remains. the praefurnium, for instance; i must show you our praefurnium." "the house would be remarkable anywhere--even in my own provence--so closely has it kept the original lines. in half-an-hour one could reconstruct--" "ay!" chimed in the delighted narcissus. "you shall try, m. raoul, you shall try! i promise to catch you tripping." "yonder runs the fosse way, west by south. the villa stands about two hundred yards back from it, facing the south-east--" "a little east of south. the outer walls did not run exactly true with the enclosed quadrangle." "you say that the front measured two hundred feet, perhaps a little over. clearly, then, it was a domain of much importance, and the granaries, mills, stables, slaves' dwellings would occupy much space about it--an acre and a half, at least." "portions of a brick foundation were unearthed no less than three hundred yards away. a hypocaust lay embedded among them, much broken but recognisable." "what puzzles me," mused m. raoul, is how these southern settlers managed to endure the climate." "but that is explicable." narcissus was off now, in full cry. "the trees, my dear sir, the trees! i have not the slightest doubt that our bayfield elms are the ragged survivors of an immense forest--a forest which covered the whole primaeval face of somerset on this side of the fens, and through which vespasian's road-makers literally hewed their way. given these forests--which, by the way, extended over the greater part of england--we must infer a climate totally unlike ours of this present day, damper perhaps, but milder. within his belt of trees the colonist, secure from the prevailing winds, would plant a garden to rival your gardens of the south--_'primus vere rosam atque autumno carpere poma.'_" "yes," added m. raoul, taking fire; "and, perhaps, a plant of helichryse or a rose-cutting from paestum, to twine about the house- pillars and comfort his exile." "m. raoul?" dorothea's voice interrupted them. she stood by the looped curtain, and reproached narcissus with a look. "he has had no tea yet; it was cruel of you to detain him. my brother, sir," she turned to raoul, "has no conscience when once set going on his hobby; for, of course, you were discussing the pavement?" "we were talking, mademoiselle, at that moment of the things which brighten and comfort exile." she lowered her eyes, conscious of a blush, and half angry that it would not be restrained. "and i was talking of tea, if that happens to be one of them," she replied, forcing a laugh. "well, well," said narcissus, "take m. raoul away and give him his tea; but he must come with me afterwards, while there is light, and we will go over the site together. i must fetch my map." he hurried across the hall. "come, m. raoul," said dorothea, stepping past her guest and leading the way, "by a small detour we can reach that end of the library which is least crowded." he followed without lifting his eyes, apparently lost in thought. the atrium on this side opened on a corridor which crossed the front door, and was closed by a door at either end--the one admitting to the service rooms, the other to the library. flat columns relieved the blank wall of this passage, with monstrous copies of raphael's cartoons filling the interspaces; on the other hand four tall windows, two on either side of the door, looked out upon the _porte cochère_, the avenue, and the rolling hills beyond axcester. by one of these windows m. raoul halted--and dorothea halted too, slightly puzzled. "ah, mademoiselle, but there is one thing your brother forgets! what became of his happy colonists in the end? he told us that early in the fifth century the emperor honorius--was it not?--withdrew his legions, and wrote that britain must henceforth look after itself. i listened for the end of the story, but your brother did not supply it. yet sooner or later one and the same dreadful fate must have overtaken all these pleasant scattered homes--sack and fire and slaughter-- slaughter for all the men, for the women slavery and worse. does one hear of any surviving? out of this warm life into silence--" he paused and shivered. "very likely they did not guess for a long while. look, mademoiselle, at the fosse way, stretching yonder across the hills: figure yourself a daughter of the old roman homestead standing here and watching the little cloud of dust that meant the retreating column, the last of your protection. you would not guess what it meant--you, to whom each day has brought its restful round; who have lived only to be good and reflect the sunshine upon all near you. and i--your slave, suppose me, standing beside you--might guess as little." he took a step and touched her hand. his face was still turned to the window. "time! time!" he went on in a low voice, charged with passion. "it eats us all! brr--how i hate it! how i hate the grave! there lies the sting, mademoiselle--the torture to be a captive: to feel one's best days slipping away, and fate still denying to us poor devils the chance which even the luckiest--god knows--find little enough." he laughed, and to dorothea the laugh sounded passing bitter. "you will not understand how a man feels; how even so unimportant a creature as i must bear a sort of personal grudge against his fate." "i am trying to understand," said dorothea, gently. "but this you can understand, how a prisoner loves the sunshine: not because, through his grating, it warms him; but because it is the sunshine, and he sees it. mademoiselle, i am not grateful; i see merely, and adore. some day you shall pause by this window and see a cloud of dust on the fosse way--the last of us prisoners as they march us from axcester to the place of our release; and, seeing it, you shall close the book upon a chapter, but not without remembering"--he touched her hand again, but now his fingers closed on it, and he raised it to his lips,--"not without remembering how and when one frenchman said, 'god bless you, mademoiselle dorothea!'" dorothea's eyes were wet when, a moment later, narcissus came bustling through the atrium with a roll of papers in his hand. "ah, this is luck!" he cried. "i was starting to search for you." he either assumed that they had visited the tea-room or forgot all about it; and m. raoul's look implored dorothea not to explain. "suppose we take the _triclinium_ first, on the north side of the house. that, sir, will tell you whether i am right or wrong about the climate of those days. a summer parlour facing north, and with no trace of heating-flues! . . ." he led off his captive, and dorothea heard his expository tones gather volume as the pair crossed the great hall beneath the dome. then she turned the handle of the library door, and was instantly deafened by the babel within. the guests took their departure a little before sunset. m. raoul was not among the long train which shook hands with her and filed down the avenue at the heels of m. de tocqueville and general rochambeau. twenty minutes later, while the servants were setting the hall in order, she heard her brother's voice beneath the window of her boudoir, explaining the system on which the romans warmed their houses. she had picked up a religious book, but found herself unable to fix her attention upon it or even to sit still. her hand still burned where m. raoul's lips had touched it. she recalled endymion's prophecy that these entertainments would throw the domestic mechanism--always more delicately poised on sundays than on weekdays--completely oft its pivot. she had pledged herself to prevent this, and had made a private appeal to the maidservants with whose sunday-out they interfered. they had responded loyally. still, this was the first experiment; she would go down to the hall again and make sure that the couches were in position, the cushions shaken up, the pot-plants placed around the fountain so accurately that endymion's nice eye for small comforts could detect no excuse for saying, "i told you so." as she passed along the gallery her eyes sought the pillar beside which m. raoul had stood during the lecture. by the foot of it a book lay face downwards--a book cheaply bound between boards of mottled paper. she picked it up and read the title; it was a volume of rousseau's confessions--a book of which she remembered to have heard. on the flyleaf was written the owner's name in full--"charles marie fabien de raoul." dorothea hurried downstairs with it and past the servants tidying the hall. she looked to find m. raoul still buttonholed and held captive by narcissus at the eastern angle of the house. but before she reached the front door she happened--though perhaps it was not quite accidental-- to throw a glance through the window by which he had stood and talked with her, and saw him striding away down the avenue in the dusk. she returned to her room and summoned polly. "you know m. raoul? he has left, forgetting this book, which belongs to him. run down to the small gate, that's a good girl--you will overtake him easily, since he is walking round by the avenue--and return it, with my compliments." polly picked up her skirts and ran. a narrow path slanted down across the slope of the park to the nurseries--a sheltered corner in which the bayfield gardener grew his more delicate evergreens--and here a small wicket-gate opened on the high road. the gate stood many feet above the road, which descended the hill between steep hedges. she heard m. raoul's footstep as she reached it, and, peering over, saw him before he caught sight of her; indeed, he had almost passed with-out when she hailed him. "holloa!" he swung almost rightabout and smiled up pleasantly. "is it highway robbery? if so, i surrender." polly laughed, showing a fine set of teeth. "i'm 'most out of breath," she answered. "you've left your book behind, and my mistress sent it after you with her compliments." she held it above the gate. he sprang up the bank towards her. "and a pretty book, too, to be found in your hands! you haven't been reading it, i hope." "la, no! is it wicked?" "much depends on where you happen to open it. now if your sweetheart--" "who told you i had one?" "tut-tut-tut! what's his name?" "well, if you must know, i'm walking out with corporal zeally. but what are you doing to the book?" for m. raoul had taken out a penknife and was slicing out page after page--in some places whole blocks of pages together. "when i've finished, i'm going to ask you to take it back to your mistress; and then no doubt you'll be reading it on the sly. here, i must sit down: suppose you let me perch myself on the top bar of the gate. also, it would be kind of you to put up an arm and prevent my overbalancing." "i shouldn't think of it." "oh, very well!" he climbed up, laid the book on his knee and went on slicing. "i particularly want her to read m. rousseau's reflections on the pont du gard; but i don't seem to have a book marker, unless you lend me a lock of your hair." "were you the gentleman she danced with, at 'the dogs,' the night of the snowstorm?" "the pont du gard, my dear, is a roman antiquity, and has nothing to do with dancing. if, as i suppose, you refer to the 'pont de lodi,' that is a totally different work of art." "i'm sure i don't know what you mean." "and i don't intend that you shall." he cut a small strip of braid from his coat, inserted it for a bookmarker, and began to fold away the excised pages. "that's why i am keeping these back for my own perusal, and perhaps corporal zeally's." "do you know him?" she reached up to take the book he was holding out in his left hand, and the next instant his right arm was round her neck and he had kissed her full on the lips. "oh, you wretch!" she cried, breaking free; and laughed, next moment, as he nearly toppled off the gate. "know him? why of course i do." m. raoul was reseating himself on his perch, when he happened to throw a look down into the road, and at once broke into immoderate laughter. "talk of the wolf--" polly screamed and ran. below, at a bend of the road, stood a stoutish figure in the uniform of the axcester volunteers--scarlet, with white facings. it was corporal zeally, very slowly taking in the scene. m. raoul skipped off the gate and stepped briskly past him. "good- evening, corporal! we're both of us a little behind time, this evening!" said he as he went by. the corporal pivoted on his heels and stared after him. "dang my living buttons!" he said, reflectively. "couldn't even wait till my back was turned, but must kiss the maid under my nose!" he paused and rubbed his chin. "her looked like polly and her zounded like polly . . . dang this dimpsey old light, i've got a good mind to run after'n and ax'n who 'twas!" he took a step down the hill, but thought better, of it. "no, i won't," he said; "i'll go and ax polly." chapter vi fate in a laurelled post-chaise all the tongues of rumour agreed that the bayfield entertainment had been a success, and endymion westcote received many congratulations upon it at the next meeting of magistrates. "nonsense, nonsense!" he protested lightly. "one must do something to make life more tolerable to the poor devils, and 'pon my word 'twas worth it to see their gratitude. they behaved admirably. you see, two- thirds of them are gentlemen, after a fashion; not, perhaps, quite in the sense in which we understand the word, but then the--ah--modicum of french blood in my veins counteracts, i dare say, some little insular prejudices." "my dear fellow, about such men as de tocqueville and rochambeau there can be no possible question." "ah! i'm extremely glad to hear you say so. i feared, perhaps, the way they managed their table-napkins--" "not at all. i was thinking rather of your bold attitude towards sunday observance. what does milliton say?" endymion's eyebrows went up. mr. milliton was the vicar of axcester and the living lay in the westcotes' gift. i am not--ah--aware that i consulted milliton. on such questions i recognise no responsibility save to my own conscience. he has not been complaining, i trust?" "not to my knowledge." "ah!" endymion looked as if mr. milliton had better not. "i take, you must know, a somewhat broad view on such matters--may i, without offence, term it a liberal one? as a matter of fact i intend going yet farther in the direction and granting permission for a small reunion on sunday evenings at 'the dogs,' when selections of purely sacred music will be performed. i shall, of course, deprecate the name 'concert '; and even 'performance' may seem to carry with it some--ah-- suggestions of a theatrical nature. but, as shakespeare says, 'what's in a name?' perhaps you can suggest a more suitable one?" "a broad-minded fellow," was the general verdict; and some admirers added that ideas which in weaker men might seem to lean towards free thought, and even towards jacobinism, became mr. westcote handsomely enough. he knew how to carry them off, to wear them lightly as flourishes and ornaments of his robust common sense, and might be trusted not to go too far. endymion, who had an exquisite flair for the approval of his own class, soon learned to take an honest pride in his liberalism and to enjoy its discreet display. 'the entertainment at bayfield' was nothing--a private experiment only; the unfamiliar must be handled gently; a good rule to try it on your own household before tackling the world. as a matter of fact, old narcissus had enjoyed it. but if the neighbouring families were really curious, and would promise not to be shocked, they must come to "the dogs" some sunday evening: no, not next sunday, but in a week or two's time when the prisoners, as intelligent fellows, would have grasped his notions.' sure enough, on the third sunday he brought a round dozen of guests; and the entrance of the bayfield party (punctually five minutes late), and their solemn taking of seats in the two front rows, thereafter became a feature of these entertainments. on the first occasion the musicians stopped, out of respect, in the middle of a motet of scarlatti's; but endymion gave orders that in future this was not to be. "i have been something of an amateur myself," he explained, "and know what is due to art." it vexed dorothea to note that after the first two or three performances some of her best friends among the prisoners absented themselves, general rochambeau for one. indeed, the general had taken to declining all invitations, and rarely appeared abroad. one march morning, meeting him in the high street, she made bold to tax him with the change and ask his reasons. the hour was eleven in the forenoon, the busiest of the day. in twenty minutes the london coach would be due with the mails, and this always brought the prisoners out into the street. the largest crowd gathered in front of "the dogs," waiting to see the horses changed and the bags unloaded. but a second hung around the post office, where the commissary received and distributed the prisoners' letters, while lesser groups shifted and moved about at the tail of the butchers' carts, and others laden with milk, eggs, and fresh vegetables from the country; for axcester had now a daily market, and in the few minutes before the mail's arrival the salesmen drove their best trade. general rochambeau tapped his snuffbox meditatively, like a man in two minds. but he kept a sidelong eye upon dorothea, as she turned to acknowledge a bow from the vicomte de tocqueville. the vicomte, with an air of amused contempt, was choosing a steak for his dinner, using his gold-ferruled walking-stick to direct the butcher how to cut it out, while his servant stood ready with a plate. "to tell you the truth, mademoiselle, i find a hand at picquet with the admiral less fatiguing for two old gentlemen than these public gaieties." "in other words, you are nursing him. they tell me he has never been well since that night of the snowstorm." "your informants may now add that he is better; these few spring days have done wonders for his rheumatism, and, indeed, he is dressed and abroad this morning." "which explains why you are willing to stop and chat with me, instead of hurrying off to the post office to ask for his letter--that letter which never comes." "so m. raoul has been telling you all about us?" dorothea blushed. "he happened to speak of it, at one of my working parties--" "he has a fine gift for the pathetic, that young man; oh, yes, and a pretty humour too! i can fancy what he makes of us--poor old damon and pythias--while he holds the skeins; with a smile for poor old pythias' pigtail, and a tremor of the voice for the emperor's _tabatière_, and a tear, no doubt, for the letter which never comes. m. raoul is great with an audience." "you do him injustice, general. an audience of half-a-dozen old women!" general rochambeau had an answer to this on his tongue, but repressed it. "ah, here comes the admiral!" he cried, as the gaunt old man came shuffling down the street towards them, with his stoop, his cross- grained features drawn awry with twinges of rheumatism, his hands crossed above his tall cane. all axcester laughed at his long blue surtout, his pigtail and little round hat. but dorothea always found him formidable, and wanted to run away. "admiral, i was just about to tell miss westcote that the time is come to congratulate her. here is winter past--except that of two years ago, the hardest known in axcester; and, thanks to her subscription lists and working parties, our countrymen have never gone so well fed and warmly clad." "which," growled the admiral, "does not explain why no less than eight of them have broken their parole. an incredible, a shameful number!" "as time goes on, admiral, they grow less patient. hope deferred--" _ta-ra, tara-ra! ta-ra, tara-ra-ra!_ the notes of the guard's horn broke in upon dorothea's excuse. groups scattered, market carts were hastily backed alongside the pavement, and down the mid-thoroughfare came the mail at a gallop, with crack of whip and rushing chime of bits and swingle-bars. dorothea watched the crowd closing round it as it drew up by "the dogs," and turned to note that the admiral's face was pale and his eyes sought those of his old friend. "better leave it to me to-day, if miss westcote will excuse me." general rochambeau lifted his hat and hurried after the crowd. then dorothea understood. the old man beside her had lost courage to pick up his old habit; at the last moment his friend must go for the letter which never came. she cast about to say something; her last words had been of hope deferred--it would not do to take up her speech there . . . the admiral seemed to meet her eyes with an effort. he put out a hand. "it is not good, mademoiselle, that a man should pity himself. beware how you teach that; beware how you listen to him then." he turned from her abruptly and tottered away. glancing aside, she met the vicomte de tocqueville's tired smile; he was using his cane to prod the butcher and recall his attention to the half-cut steak. but the butcher continued to stare down the street. "eh? but, dear me, it sounds like an _émeute_," said the vicomte, negligently; at the same time stepping to dorothea's side. the murmur of the crowd in front of "the dogs" had been swelling, and now broke into sharp, angry cries for a moment; then settled into a dull roar, and rose in a hoarse _crescendo_. the mail coach was evidently not the centre of disturbance, though dorothea could see its driver waving his arm and gesticulating from the box. the noise came ahead of it, some twenty yards lower down the hill, where the street had suddenly grown black with people pressing and swaying. "there seems no danger here, whatever it is," said the vicomte, glancing up at the house-front above. "please go and see what is the matter. i am safe enough," dorothea assured him. "the folks in the house will give me shelter, if necessary." the vicomte lifted his hat. "i will return and report promptly, if the affair be serious." but it was not serious. the tumult died down, and dorothea with her riding-switch was guarding the half-cut steak from a predatory dog when the vicomte and the butcher returned together. "reassure yourself, miss westcote," said m. de tocqueville. "there has been no bloodshed, though bloodshed was challenged. it appears that almost as the coach drew up there arrived from the westward a post- chaise conveying a young naval officer from plymouth, with despatches and (i regret to tell it) a flag. his britannic majesty has captured another of our frigates; and the high spirited young gentleman was making the most of it in all innocence, and without an idea that his triumph could offend anyone in axcester. unfortunately, on his way up the street, he waved the captured tricolor under the nose of your brother's _protégé_, m. raoul--" "m. raoul!" dorothea caught her breath on the name. "and m. raoul leapt into the chaise, then and there wrested the flag from him--the more easily no doubt because he expected nothing so little and holding it aloft, challenged him to mortal combat. theatrically, and apart from the taste of it (i report only from hearsay), the coup must have been immensely successful. when i arrived, your brother was restoring peace, the young briton holding out his hand--swearing he was sorry, begad! but how the deuce was he to have known ?--and m. raoul saving the situation, and still demanding blood with a face as long as an alexandrine: "_'ce drapeau glorieux auquel, en sanglotant, se prosternent affaises vos membres, veterans!'_ "'vary sorry, damitol, shake hands, beg your pardon.'" the vicomte forgot his languor, and burlesqued the scene with real talent. dorothea, however, was not amused. "you say my brother is at 'the dogs,' monsieur? i think i will go to him." "you must allow me, then, to escort you." "oh, the street is quite safe. your countrymen will not suspect me of exulting over their misfortunes." "nevertheless--" he insisted, and walked beside her. a mixed crowd of french and english still surrounded the chaise, to which a couple of postboys were attaching the relay: the french no longer furious, now that an apology had been offered and the flag hidden, but silent and sulky yet; the english inclined to think the young lieutenant hardly served, not to say churlishly. frenchmen might be thin-skinned; but war was war, and surely britons had a right to raise three cheers for a victory. besides he had begged pardon at once, and offered to shake hands like a gentleman--that is, as soon as he discovered whose feelings were hurt; for naturally the fisticuffs had come first, and in these master raoul had taken as good as he brought. as the vicomte cleared a path for her to the porch, where endymion stood shaking hands and bidding adieu, dorothea caught her first and last glimpse of this traveller, who--without knowing it, without seeing her face to remember it, or even learning her name--was to deflect the slow current of her life, and send it whirling down a strange channel, giddy, precipitous, to an end unguessed. she saw a fresh-complexioned lad, somewhat flushed and red in the face, but of frank and pleasant features; dressed in a three-cornered cocked- hat, blue coat piped with white and gilt-buttoned, white breeches and waistcoat, and broad black sword-belt; a youngster of the sort that loves a scrimmage or a jest, but is better in a scrimmage than in a jest when the laugh goes against him. he was eying the chaise just now, and obviously cursing the hour in which he had decorated it with laurel. yet on the whole in a trying situation he bore himself well. "ah, much obliged to you, vicomte!" endymion hailed the pair. "there has been a small misunderstanding, my dear dorothea; not the slightest cause for alarm! still, you had better pass through to the coffee-room and wait for me." dorothea dismissed m. de tocqueville with a bow, passed into the dark passage and pushed open the coffee-room door. within sat a young man, his elbows on the table, and his face bowed upon his arms. his fingers convulsively twisted a torn scrap of bunting; his shoulders heaved. it was m. raoul. dorothea paused in the doorway and spoke his name. he did not look up. she stepped towards him. "m. raoul!" a sob shook him. she laid a hand gently on his bowed head, on the dark wave of hair above his strong, shapely neck. she was full of pity, longing to comfort . . . "m. raoul!" he started, gazed up at her, and seized her hand. his eyes swam with tears, but behind the tears blazed a light which frightened her. yet-- oh, surely!--she could not mistake it. "dorothea!" he held both her hands now. he was drawing her towards him. she could not speak. the room swam; outside the window she heard the noise of starting hoofs, of wheels, of the english crowd hurrahing as the chaise rolled away. her head almost touched m. raoul's breast. then she broke loose, as her brother's step sounded in the passage. chapter vii love and an old maid i pray you be gentle with dorothea. find, if you can, something admirable in this plain spinster keeping, at the age of thirty-seven, a room in her breast adorned and ready for first love; find it pitiful, if you must, that the blind boy should mistake his lodging; only do not laugh, or your laughter may accuse you in the sequel. she had a most simple heart. wonder filled it as she rode home to bayfield, and by the bridge she reined up mercury as if to take her bearings in an unfamiliar country. at her feet rushed the axe, swollen by spring freshets; a bullfinch, wet from his bath, bobbed on the sand- stone parapet, shook himself, and piped a note or two; away up the stream, among the alders, birds were chasing and courting; from above the bayfield elms, out of spaces of blue, the larks' song fell like a din of innumerable silver hammers. either new sense had been given her, or the rains had washed the landscape and restored obliterated lines, colours, meanings. the very leaves by the roadside were fragrant as flowers. for the moment it sufficed to know that she was loved, and that she loved. she was no fool. at the back of all her wonder lay the certainty that in the world's eyes such love as hers was absurd; that it must end where it began; that raoul could never be hers, nor she escape from a captivity as real as his. but, perhaps because she knew all this so certainly, she could put it aside. this thing had come to her: this happiness to which, alone, in darkness, depressed by every look into the mirror, by every casual proof that her brothers and intimates accepted the verdict as final, her soul had been loyal--a forgotten servant of a neglectful lord. in the silence of her own room, in her garden, in the quiet stir of household duties, and again during the long evenings while she sat knitting by the fire and her brothers talked, she had pondered much upon love and puzzled herself with many questions. she had watched girls and their lovers, wives and their husbands. can love (she had asked) draw near and pass and go its way unrecognised? she had conned the signs. now the hour had come, and she had needed none of her learning--eyes, hands, and voice, she had known the authentic god. and she knew that it was not absurd; she knew herself worthy of love's belated condescension--not raoul's; for the moment she scarcely thought of raoul; for the moment raoul's image grew faint and indefinite in the glory of being loved. instinct, too, thrust it into the background; for as raoul grew definite so must his youth, his circumstances, the world's laughter, the barriers never to be overcome. but merely to be loved, and to rest in that knowledge awhile--here were no barriers. the thing had happened: it was: nothing could forbid or efface it. yet when she reached home, after forcing the astonished mercury to canter up the entire length of bayfield hill, she must walk straight to her room, and study her face in the glass. "it has happened to you--to you! why has it not transfigured you?-- but then people would guess. your teeth stand out--well, not so very prominently--but they stand out, and that is why foreigners laugh at englishwomen. yes, it has happened to you; but why? how?" it so happened that she must meet him the next day. narcissus had engaged him to make drawings of the bayfield pavement, a new series to supersede hers in an enlarged edition of the treatise. every one of the _tessellae_ was to be drawn to scale, and she must meet him to-morrow in the library with her brother and receive instructions, for she had promised to help in taking measurements. when the time came, and she entered the library, she did not indeed dare to lift her eyes. but narcissus, already immersed in calculations, scarcely looked up from his paper. "ah, there you are! have you brought the india-ink?" he asked, and after a minute she marvelled at her own self-possession. even when he left them to work out the measurements together (and it flashed upon her that henceforth they would often be left together, her immunity being taken for granted), she kept her head bowed over the papers and managed to control her voice to put one or two ordinary questions--until the pencil dropped from her fingers and she felt her hand imprisoned. "dorothea!" "oh, please, no!" she entreated hoarsely. "m. raoul--!" "charles--" she attempted to draw her hand away; but, failing, lifted her eyes for mercy. they were sick and troubled. "charles," he insisted. "charles, then." she relented and he kissed her gaily. it was as if she drank in the kiss and, the next moment, recoiled from it. he released her hand and waited, watching her. she stood upright by the table, her shoulder turned to him, her eyes gazing through the long window upon the green stretch of lawn. she was trembling slightly. "it--it hurts like a wound," she murmured, and her hand went up to her breast. "but you must listen, please. you know--better than i--that this is the end. oh, yes"--as he would have interrupted--"it is beautiful--for me. but i am old and you are a boy, and it is all quite silly. please listen: even apart from this, it would be quite silly and could end nowhere." he caught at her hand again, and she let it lie in his. "nowhere," she repeated, and, lifting her head, nodded twice. her eyes were brimming. "but if you love me?" he began. she waited a moment, but he did not finish. "ah! there it is, you see: you cannot finish. i was afraid to meet you to-day; but now i am glad, because we can talk about it once and for all. charles"--she hesitated over the name--"dear, i have been thinking. since we see this so clearly, it can be no treachery to my brothers to let our love stand where it does. at my age"--and dorothea laughed nervously--"one is more easily contented than at yours." "i cannot bear your talking in this way." "oh yes, you can," she assured him with a practical little nod. "i don't like it myself, but it has to be done. now in the first place, when we meet like this there must be no kissing." she blushed, while her voice wavered again over the word; then, as again his hand closed upon hers, she laughed. "well--yes, you may kiss my hand. but i must not have it on my conscience that i am hiding from endymion and narcissus what they have a right to know. of course they would be angry if they knew that i--that i was fond of you at all; but they would have no right, for they could not have forbidden or prevented it. now if our prospects were what folks would call happier, why then in earnest of them you might kiss me, but then you would be bound to go to my brothers and tell them. but since it can all come to nothing--" a ghost of a smile finished the sentence. "this war cannot last for ever." "it seems to have lasted ever since i can remember. but what difference could its ending make? ah, yes, then i should lose you!" she cried in dismay, but added with as sudden remorse: "forgive my selfishness!" "you are adorable," said he, and they laughed and picked up their pencils. dorothea's casuistry might prove her ignorant of love and its perils, as a child is of fire; but having, as she deemed, discovered the limits of her duty and set up her terms with raoul upon them, she soon developed a wonderful cunning in the art of being loved. her plainness and the difference in their ages she took for granted, and subtly persuaded raoul to take for granted; she had no affectations, no _minauderies_; by instinct she avoided setting up any illusion which he could not share; unconsciously and naturally she rested her strength on the maternal, protective side of love. raoul came to her with his woes, his difficulties, his quarrel against fate; and she talked them over with him, and advised him almost as might a wise elder sister. she had read the _confessions_; and, in spite of the missing pages, with less of fascination than disgust; yet had absorbed more than she knew. in raoul she recognised certain points of likeness to his great countryman--points which had puzzled, her in the book. now the book helped her to treat them, though she was unaware of its help. still less aware was she of any likeness between her and madame de warens, of whom (again in spite of the missing pages) she had a poor opinion. the business of the drawings brought raoul to bayfield almost daily, and, as she had foreseen, they were much alone. after all, since it could end in nothing, the situation had its advantages; no one in the household gave it a thought, apparently. dorothea was not altogether sure about polly; once or twice she had caught polly eying her with an odd expression--once especially, when she had looked up as the girl was plaiting her hair, and their eyes met in the glass. and once again dorothea had sent her to the library with a note of instructions left that morning by narcissus, and, following a few minutes later, had found her standing and talking with m. raoul in an attitude which, without being familiar, was not quite respectful. "what was she saying?" her mistress asked, a moment or two later. "oh, nothing," he answered negligently. "i suppose that class of person cannot be troubled to show respect to prisoners." that evening dorothea rated the girl soundly for her pertness. "and i shall speak to zeally," she threatened, "if anything of the kind happens again. if mr. endymion is to let you two have a house when you marry, and take in the frenchmen as lodgers, he will want to know that you treat them respectfully." polly wept, and was forgiven. april, may, june, went by, and still dorothea lived in her dream, troubled only by dread of the day which must bring her lover's task to an end, and, with it, his almost daily visits. bit by bit she learned his story. he told her of arles, his birthplace, with its roman masonry and amphitheatre; of a turreted terraced chateau and a family of aristocrats lording it among the vineyards; conspiring a little later with other noble families, entertaining them at secret meetings of the _chiffonne_, where oaths were taken; later again, defending itself behind barricades of paving-stones; last of all, marched or carried in batches to the guillotine or the fusillade. he told of avignon and its papal castle overhanging the rhone, the city where he had spent his school days, and at the age of nine had seen patriot l'escuyer stabbed to death in the cordeliers' church with women's scissors; had seen jourdan, the avenger, otherwise coupe-tête, march flaming by at the head of his brave _brigands d'avignon_. he told of the sequel, the hundred and thirty men, women and babes slaughtered in the dungeon of the _glacière_; of choisi's dragoons and grenadiers at the gates, and how, with roses scattered before them, they marched through the streets to the castle, entered the gateway and paused, brought to a stand by the stench of putrefying flesh. he and his school mates had taken a holiday--their master being in hiding--to see the bodies lifted out. also he had seen the search party ride out through the gates and return again, bringing jourdan, with feet strapped beneath his horse's belly. he told of his journey to, paris--his purpose to learn to paint (at such a time!); of the great david, fat and wheezy, back at his easel, panting from civil blood-shed; of the call to arms, his enlistment, his first campaign of ; of the foggy morning of austerlitz, his wound, and he long hours he lay in the rear of a battery on the height of pratzen, writhing, watching the artillerymen at work and so on, with stories of marching and fighting, nights slept out by him at full length on the sodden turf beside his arms. she had no history to tell him in exchange; she asked only to listen and to comfort. yet so cleverly he addressed his story that the longest monologue became, by aid of a look or pressure of the hand, a conversation in which she, his guardian angel, bore her part. did he talk of avignon, for instance? it was the land of laura and petrarch, and she, seated with half-closed eyes beneath the bayfield elms, saw the pair beside the waters of vaucluse, saw the roses and orange-trees and arid plains of provence, and wondered at the trouble in their spiritual love. she was not troubled; love as "a dureless content and a trustless joy" lay outside of her knowledge, and she had no desire to prove it. in this only she forgot the difference between raoul's age and hers. the day came when his work was ended. they spent a great part of that afternoon in the garden, now in the height of its midsummer glory. raoul was very silent. "but this must not end. it cannot end so!" he groaned once or twice. he never forgot for long his old spite against time. "it will never end for me," she murmured. "of what are you made, then, that you look forward to living on shadows?--one would say, almost cheerfully! i believe you could be happy if you never saw me again!" "even if that had to be," she answered gravely, "while i knew you loved me i should never be quite unhappy. but you must find a way, while you can, to come sometimes; yes, you must come." chapter viii corporal zeally intervenes dorothea sat in the great hall of bayfield, between the lamplight and the moonlight, listening to the drip of the fountain beneath its tiny cupola. a midsummer moon-ray fell through the uncurtained lantern beneath the dome and spread in a small pool of silver at her feet. beneath one of the two shaded lamps endymion lounged in his armchair and read the sherborne mercury. narcissus had carried off the other to a table across the hall by the long bookcase, and above the pot-plants banked about the fountain she saw it shining on his shapely grey head as he bent over a copy of the antonine itinerary and patiently worked out a new theory of its distances. her own face rested in deep shadow, and she felt grateful for it as she leaned back thinking her own thoughts. it was a whole week now since charles had visited bayfield, but she had encountered him that morning in axcester high street as she passed up it on horseback with her brothers. narcissus had reined up to put some question or other about the drawings, but endymion (who did not share his brother's liking for m. raoul) had ridden on, and she had ridden on too, though reluctantly. she recalled his salute, his glance at her, and down-dropped eyes; she wondered what point narcissus and he had discussed, and blamed herself for not having found courage to ask. . . . the stable clock struck ten. she arose and kissed her brothers good- night. by narcissus she paused. "be careful of your eyes, dear. and if you are going to be busy with that great book these next few evenings i will have the table brought across to the other side where you will be cosier." narcissus came out of his calculations and looked up at her gently. "please do not disarrange the furniture for me; a change always fidgets me, even before i take in precisely what has happened." he smiled. "in that i resemble my old friend vespasian, who would have no alterations made when he visited his home--_manente villa qualis fuerat olim, ne quid scilicet oculorum consuetudini deperiret_. a pleasant trait, i have always thought." he lit her candle and kissed her, and dorothea went up the broad staircase to her own room. half-way along the corridor she stayed a moment to look down upon the hall. endymion had dropped his newspaper and was yawning; a sure sign that narcissus, already reabsorbed in the itinerary, would in a few moments be hurried from it to bed. she reached the door of her room and opened it, then checked an exclamation of annoyance. for some mysterious reason polly had forgotten to light her candle. this was her rule, never broken before. she stepped to the bellpull. her hand was on it, when she heard the girl's voice muttering in the next room--the boudoir. at least, it sounded like polly's voice, though its tone was strangely subdued and level. "talking to herself," dorothea decided, and smiled, in spite of her annoyance, as everyone smiles who catches another in this trick. she dropped the bellpull and opened the boudoir door. polly was not talking to herself. she was leaning far out of the open window, and at the sound of the door started back into the room with a gasp and a short cry. "to whom were you talking?" dorothea had set the candle down in the bedroom. outside the window the park lay spread to the soft moonshine, but the moon did not look directly into the boudoir. in the half-light mistress and maid sought each other's eyes. "to whom were you talking?" dorothea demanded, sternly. polly was silent for a second or two, then her chin went up defiantly. "to mr. raoul," she muttered. "to m. raoul!--to m. raoul? i don't understand. is m. raoul--oh, for goodness sake speak, girl! what is that? i see a piece of paper in your hand." polly twisted it in her fingers, and made a movement to hide it in her pocket; but with the movement she seemed to reflect. "he gave it to me; i don't understand anything about it. i was shutting the window, when he whistled to me; he gave me this. i--i think he meant it for you." polly's tone suddenly became saucy, but her voice shook. dorothea was shaking too, as her fingers closed on the note. she vainly sought to read the girl's eyes. her own cheeks were burning; she felt the blood rushing into them and singing in her ears. yet in her abasement she kept her dignity, and, motioning polly to follow, stepped into the bedroom, unfolded the letter slowly, and read it by the candle there. _"my angel, "i have hungered now for a week. be at your window this evening and let me, at least, be fed with a word. see what i risk for you. "yours devotedly and for ever."_ there was no signature, but well enough dorothea knew the handwriting. a wave of anger swelled in her heart--the first she had ever felt towards him. he had behaved selfishly. "see what i risk for you!"-- but to what risk was he exposing her! he was breaking their covenant too; demanding that which he must know her conscience abhorred. she had not believed he could understand her so poorly, held her so cheap. cheap indeed, since he had risked her secret in polly's hand! she turned the paper over, noting its creases. suddenly--"you have opened and read this!" she said. polly admitted it with downcast eyes. the girl, after the first surprise, had demeaned herself admirably, and now stood in the attitude proper to a confidential servant; solicitous, respectful, prepared to blink the peccadillo, even to sympathise discreetly at a hint given. "i'm sorry, miss, that i opened it; i ought to have told you, but you took me by surprise. you know, miss, that you gave me leave to run down to my aunt's this evening; and on my way back--just as i was letting myself in by the nursery gate, mr. raoul comes tearing up the hill after me and slips this into my hand. to tell you the truth, it rather frightened me being run after like that. and he said something and ran back--for nine was just striking, and in a moment the ting-tang would be ringing and he must be back to answer his name. so in my fluster i didn't catch what he meant. when i got home and opened it, i saw my mistake. but you were downstairs at dinner--i couldn't get to speak with you alone--i waited to tell you; and just now, when i was drawing the blinds, i heard a whistle--" "m. raoul had no right to send me such a message, polly. i cannot think what he means by it. nothing that i have ever said to him--" "no, miss," polly assented readily. after a pause she added: "i suppose you'd like me to go now? you won't be wanting your hair done to-night?" "certainly i wish you to stay. is he--is m. raoul outside?" "i think so, miss. oh, yes--for certain he is." "then i must insist on your staying with me while i dismiss him." "very good, miss. would you wish me to stay here, or to come with you?" dorothea felt herself blushing, and her temper rose again. "for the moment, stay here. i will leave the door open and call you when you are wanted." she passed into the boudoir and bent to the open window. at this corner the foundations of the house stood some feet lower than the slope out of which they had been levelled, and she looked down upon a glacis of smooth turf, capped by a glimmering parapet of bath stone. beyond stretched the moonlit park. "m. raoul!" she called, but scarcely above a whisper. a figure crept out from the dark angle below and climbed to the parapet. "dorothea! forgive me! another night and no word with you--i could not bear it." "you are mad. you are breaking your parole and risking shame for me. nay, you have shamed me already. polly is here." "polly is a good girl; she understands. a word, then, if you must drive me away." "your _parole!_" "i can pass the sentries. no fear of the patrol hereabouts. your hand-- let down your hand to me. i can reach it from the parapet here--with my fingers only, not with my lips, though even that you never forbade!" weakly, she lowered her arm over the sill. he reached to touch it, and she leaned her face towards his--hers in shadow, his pale in the moonlight. before their fingers met, a yellow flame leapt from the angle to the left; a loud report banged in her ears and echoed across the park; and raoul, after swaying a second, pitched forward with a sharp cry and rolled to the foot of the glacis. dorothea forced herself back in the room, and stood there upright and shook, with polly beside her holding her two hands. "they have shot him!" the two women listened for a moment. all was still now. polly stepped to the window and, closed it softly. "but why? what are you doing?" dorothea asked, in a hoarse whisper. "they will find quite enough without that," said the practical girl, but her voice quavered. "yet if they had seen--ah, how selfish to think of that now! hush-- that was a groan! he is alive still." she moved towards the window, but polly dragged her back by main force. "listen, miss!" below they heard the sudden unbarring of doors, and endymion's voice calling for mudge, the butler. a bell pealed in the servants' hall, stopped, and began ringing again in short and violent jerks. "let me go," commanded dorothea. "they will never find him, under the slope there. he may be bleeding to death. i must tell--" but polly clung to her. "they'll find him safe enough, miss dorothea. there's sam, now--hark!--at the backdoor bell: he'll tell them." "sam!" "sam zeally, miss." "but i don't understand," dorothea stammered; with a sharp suspicion of treachery, she pushed the girl from her. "was zeally mounting guard tonight? if i thought--don't tell me it was a trap! oh, you wicked girl!" "no; it wasn't," answered polly, sulkily. "i don't know nothing of sam's movements. but he might be hanging about the house; and if he saw a man talking to me, he's just as jealous as fire." she broke off at the sound of voices below the window. the ray of a lantern, as the search-party jolted it, flashed and danced on wall and ceiling of the dim boudoir. a sharp exclamation announced that raoul was discovered. a confused muttering followed; and then dorothea heard endymion's voice calling up to mudge from the bottom of the trench. "run to miss westcote's room and tell her we shall require lint and bandages. there is no cause for alarm, assure her; say there has been an accident--a frenchman overtaken out of bounds and wounded--i think, not seriously. if she be gone to bed, get the medicine chest and the key and bring them into the kitchen." dorothea had charge of the bayfield medicine chest, and kept it in a cupboard of the boudoir. she groped for it, pulled open drawer after drawer, rifled them for lint and linen, and by the time mudge tapped on the door, stood ready with the chest under one arm and a heap of bandages in the other. "in the kitchen, mr. endymion said. i am coming at once; take the chest, run, and have as many candles lit as possible." mudge ran; dorothea followed--with polly behind her, trembling like a leaf. the two women reached the kitchen as the party entered with raoul, and supported him to a chair beside the dying fire. his face was colourless, and he lay back and closed his eyes weakly as endymion stooped to examine the wounded leg, with narcissus in close attendance, and the others standing respectfully apart--mudge, the two footmen (in their shirt sleeves), an under-gardener named best, one of the housemaids, and corporal zeally by the door in regimentals, with his japanned shako askew and his brown bess still in his hand. behind his shoulder, three or four of the women servants hung about the doorway and peered in, between curiosity and terror. it was a part of endymion's fastidiousness that the sight of blood-- that is, of human blood--turned his stomach. in her distress dorothea could not help admiring how he conquered this aversion; how he knelt in his spick-and-span evening dress, and, after turning back his ruffles, unlaced the prisoner's soaked shoe and rolled down the stocking. he looked up gratefully as she entered. in such emergencies narcissus was worse than useless; but dorothea had the nursing instinct, and her brothers recognised it. the sight of a wound or a hurt steadied her wits, and she became practical and helpful at once. "a flesh wound only, i think; just above the ankle--the tendon cut, but the bone apparently not broken." "it may be splintered, though," said dorothea. "has anyone thought of sending for doctor ibbetson? he must be fetched at once. a towel, please--three or four--from the dresser there." a footman brought the towels. she knelt, folded two on her lap, and, resting raoul's foot there, drew the stocking gently from the wound. "a basin and warm water, not too hot. polly, you will find a small sponge in the, second drawer . . ." she nodded towards the medicine chest. "one of you, make up a better fire and set on a fresh kettle . . ." she gave her orders in a low firm voice, and continued to direct everyone thus, while she sponged the wound and drew off the stocking. neither towards them nor towards raoul did she lift her eyes. the bare foot of her beloved rested in her lap. she heard him groan twice, but with no pain inflicted by her fingers; if their slightest pressure had hurt him she would have known. she went on bathing the wound--she, who could have bathed it with her tears. as time passed, and still the doctor did not come, she began to bandage it. she called on polly for the bandages; then, still without looking up, she divined that polly was useless--was engaged in trying to catch zeally's eye, and warn him or get a word with him. "he's pale as a ghost yet," said endymion. "another dose of brandy might set him up. i gave him some from my flask before bringing him in." "he is not going to faint," she answered. "well, i won't bother him with questions until he comes round a bit. you, zeally, had better step into my room though, and give me your version of the affair." but as the corporal saluted and took a step forward, the prisoner opened his eyes. "before you examine zeally, sir, let me save you what trouble i can." he spoke faintly, but with deliberation. "i wish to deny nothing. i was escaping, and he tracked me. he came on me as i cut across the park, and challenged. i did not answer, but ran around a corner of the house and jumped the parapet, thinking to double along the trench there and put him off the scent--at least to dodge the bullet, if he fired. but as i jumped for it, he winged me. a very pretty shot, too. with your leave, sir, i 'd like to shake hands with him on it. shake hands, corporal!" raoul stretched out a hand, sideways. "you're a smart fellow, and no malice between soldiers." dorothea heard polly's gasp: it seemed to her that all the room must hear it. her own hand trembled on the bandage. she had forgotten her danger--the all but inevitable scandal--until raoul brought it back to her, and in the same breath saved her by his heroic lie. she could not profit by it, though. her lips parted to refute it, and for the first time she gazed up at him, her eyes brimming with sudden love, gratitude, pride, even while they entreated against the sacrifice. he was smiling down with an air of faint amusement; yet beneath the lashes she read a command which mastered her will, imposed silence. he had taken on a new manliness, and for the first time in the story of their loves she felt herself dominated by something stronger than passion. he had swept her off her feet, before now, by boyish ardour: her humility, the marvel of being loved, had aided him; but hitherto in her heart she had always felt her own character to be the stronger. now he challenged her on woman's own ground--that of self-abnegation; he commanded her to his own hurt, he towered above her. she had never dreamed of a love like this. beaten, despairing for him, yet proud as she had never been in her life, she held her breath. corporal zeally was merely bewildered. his was a deliberate mind and had hatched out the night's catastrophe after incubating it for weeks. unconvinced by polly's explanation of her meeting with m. raoul at the nursery gate, he had nursed a dull jealousy and set himself to watch, and had dogged his man down at length with the slow cunning of a yokel bred of a line of poachers. raoul's tribute to his smartness perplexed him and almost he scented a trap. "beg your pardon, squire," he began heavily, forgetting military forms of address, "but the gentleman don't put it right." "oh, hang your british modesty!" put in raoul with a wry laugh. "if it pleases you to represent that the whole thing was accidental and you don't deserve to be promoted sergeant for tonight's work, at least you might respect my vanity." polly saw her opportunity. she crossed boldly and made as if to lay over the corporal's mouth the hand that would fain have boxed his ears. "reckon this is my affair," she announced, with an effrontery at which one of the footmen guffawed openly. "be modest as you please, my lad, when i've married 'ee; but i won't put up with modesty from anyone under a sergeant, and that i warn 'ee!" the corporal eyed his sweetheart without forgiveness. his mouth was open, but upon the word "sergeant," he shut it again and began to digest the idea. "you know, of course, sir," endymion westcote addressed the prisoner coldly, "to what such a confession commits you? i do not see what other construction the facts admit, but it is so serious in itself and in its consequences that i warn you--" "i have broken my _parole_, sir," said raoul, simply. "of the temptations you cannot judge. of the shame i am as profoundly sensible as you can be. the consequences i am ready to suffer." he sank back in his chair as dr. ibbetson entered. an hour later dorothea said goodnight to her brother in the great hall. he had lit his candle and was mixing himself a glass of brandy and water. "the sight of blood--" he excused himself. "i am sorry for the fellow, though i never liked him. i suppose, now, there was nothing between him and that girl polly? for a moment--from zeally's manner--" he gulped down the drink. "his confession was honest enough, anyhow. poor fool! he's safe in hospital for a week, and his friends, if he has any, and they know what it means, will pray for that week to be prolonged." "what does it mean?" dorothea managed to ask. "it means dartmoor." dorothea's candlestick shook in her hand, and the extinguisher fell on the floor. her brother picked it up and restored it. "naturally," he murmured with brotherly concern, "your nerves! it has been a trying night, but you comported yourself admirably, dorothea. ibbetson assures me he could not have tied the bandage better himself. i felt proud of my sister." he kissed her gallantly and pulled out his watch. "past twelve o'clock!--time they were round with the barouche. the sooner we get master raoul down to the infirmary and pack him in bed, the better." as dorothea went up the stairs she heard the sound of wheels on the gravel. she could not accept his sacrifice. no; a way must be found to save him, and in her prayers that night she began to seek it. but while she prayed, her heart was bowed over a great joy. she had a hero for a lover! chapter ix dorothea confesses she saw no more of him, and heard very little, before the court martial met. no one acquainted with the code of that age--so strait-laced in its proprieties, so full-blooded in its vices--will need to be told that she never dreamed of asking her brother's permission to visit the prisoners' infirmary. he reported--once a day, perhaps, and casually-- that the patient was doing well. dorothea ventured once to sound general rochambeau, but the old aristocrat answered stiffly that he took no interest in _déclassés_, and plainly hinted that, in his judgment, m. raoul had sinned past pardon; which but added to her remorse. from time to time she obtained some hearsay news through polly; but polly's chief interest now lay in her approaching marriage. for the commissary, while accepting raoul's version of his capture, had an intuitive gift which saved him from wholly believing in it. indeed, his conduct of the affair, if we consider the extent of his knowledge, was nothing less than masterly. corporal zeally found himself a sergeant within forty-eight hours, and within an hour of the announcement he and polly were given an audience in the bayfield library, with the result that parson milliton cried their banns in axcester church on the following sunday, and the bride-elect received a month's wages and three weeks' notice of dismissal, with a hint that the reason for her short retention--to instruct her successor in miss dorothea's ways--was ostensible rather than real. with raoul's fate he declined to meddle. "here," he said in effect, "is my report, including the prisoner's confession. i do my simple duty in presenting it. but the young man was captured in my grounds; he was known to be a _protégé_ of my brother's. finding him wounded and faint with loss of blood, we naturally did our best for him, and this again renders me perhaps too sympathetic. the law is the law, however, and must take its course." no attitude could have been more proper or have shown better feeling. so raoul, who made a rapid recovery--barring the limp which he carried to the end of his days--was tried, condemned, and sentenced in the space of two hours. he stuck to his story, and the court had no alternative. dartmoor or stapleton inevitably awaited the prisoner who broke parole and was retaken. the night after his sentence raoul was marched past the bayfield gates under escort for dartmoor. and dorothea had not intervened. this, of course, proves that she was of no heroical fibre. she knew it. night after night she had lain awake, vainly contriving plans for his deliverance; and either she lacked inventiveness or was too honest, for no method could she discover which avoided confession of the simple truth. as the days passed without catastrophe and without news save that her lover was bettering in hospital, she staved off the truth, trusting that the next night would bring inspiration. almost she hoped--being quite unwise in such matters--that his sufferings would be accepted as cancelling his offence. so she played the coward. the blow fell on the evening when endymion announced, in casual tones, that the court martial was fixed for the day after next. that night, indeed, brought something like an inspiration; and on the morrow she rode into axcester and called upon polly, now a bride of six days' standing and domiciled in one of the westcote cottages in church street, a little beyond the bridge. for a call of state this was somewhat premature, but it might pass. polly appeared to think it premature. her furniture was topsy-turvy, and her hair in curl-papers; she obviously did not expect visitors, and resented this curtailment of the honeymoon. she showed it even when dorothea, after apologies, came straight to the point: "polly, i am very unhappy." "indeed, miss?" "you know that i must be, since m. raoul is going to that horrible war-prison rather than let the truth be known." "but since you didn't encourage him, miss--" "of course i didn't encourage him to come," said dorothea, quickly. "why then it was his own fault, and he broke his word by breaking bounds." "yes, strictly his parole was broken; but the meaning of parole is, that a prisoner promises to make no attempt to escape. m. raoul never dreamed of escaping, yet that is the ground of his punishment." "well," said polly, "if he chooses to say he was escaping, i don't see how we--i mean, how you--can help." "why, by telling the truth; and that's what we ought to do, though it was wrong of him to expose us to it." "to be sure it was," polly assented. "but," urged dorothea, "couldn't we tell the truth of what happened without anyone's wanting to know more? he gave you a note, which you took without guessing what it contained. he wished to have speech with me. before you could give me the note and i could refuse to see him-- as i should certainly have done--he had arrived. his folly deserves punishment, but no such punishment as being sent to dartmoor." polly eyed her ex-mistress shrewdly. "have you burnt the note?" she asked. dorothea, blushing to the roots of her hair, stammered: "no; i kept it--it was evidence for him, you see. i wish, now--" she broke off as polly nodded her head. "i guessed you'd have kept it. and now you'll never make up your mind to burn it. you're too honest." "but, surely the note itself would not be called for?" "i don't know. folks ask curious questions in courts of law, i've always heard. beggin' your pardon, miss, but your face tells too many tales, and anyone but a fool would ask for that note before he'd been dealing with you three minutes. if he didn't, he'd ask you what was in it. and then you'd be forced to tell lies--which you couldn't, to save your soul!" dorothea knew this to be true. she reflected a moment. "i should decline to show it, or to answer." mrs. zeally thought it about time to assert herself. "very good, miss. and now, how about me? they'd ask me questions, too; and i'd have you consider, miss dorothea, that though not shaken down to it yet--not, as you might say, in a state to expect callers or make them properly welcome--i'm a respectable married woman. i don't mind confessing to you, zeally isn't a comfortable man. he's pleased enough to be sergeant, though he don't quite know how it came about; and he's that sullen with brooding over it, that for sixpence he'd give me the strap to ease his feelings. i ain't complaining. mr. endymion chose to take me on the hop and hurry up the banns, and i'm going to accommodate myself to the man. he's three-parts of a fool, and you needn't fear but i'll manage him. but i ain't for taking no risks, and that i tell you fair." dorothea was stunned. "you don't mean to say that zeally suspects you?" "why, of course he does!" said polly. prudence urged her to repeat that zeally was three-parts of a fool; but, being nettled, she spoke the words uppermost: "who d'ee think he'd suspect?" dorothea, however, was too desperately dejected to feel the prick of this shaft. "you will not help me, then?" was all her reply to it. "why, no, miss! if you put it in that point-blank way. a married woman's got to think of her reputation first of all." polly's attitude might be selfish, unfeeling; but the fundamental incapacity for gratitude in girls of polly's class will probably surprise and pain their mistresses until the end of the world. after all, polly was right. an attempt to clear raoul by telling the superficial truth must involve terrible risks, and might at any turn enforce a choice between full confession and falsehood. dorothea could not bring herself to lie, even heroically; and there would be no heroism in lying to save herself. on the other hand, the thought of a forced confession--it might he before a tribunal--was too hideous. no, the suggestion had been a mad one, and polly had rightly thrown cold water on it. also, it had demanded too much of polly, who could not be expected to jeopardise her matrimonial prospects to right a wrong for which she was not in truth responsible. dorothea loved a hero, but knew she was no heroine. she called herself a pitiful coward--unjustly, because, nurtured as she had been on the proprieties, surrounded all her days by men and women of a class most sensitive to public opinion, who feared the breath of scandal worse than a plague, confession for her must mean a shame unspeakable. what! admit that she, dorothea westcote, had loved a french prisoner almost young enough to be her son! that she had given him audience at night! that he had been shot and captured beneath her window! unjustly, too, she accused herself, because it is the decision, not the terror felt in deciding, which distinguishes the brave from the cowardly. if you doubt the event with dorothea, the fault, must be mine. she was timid, but she came of a race which will endure anything rather than the conscious anguish of doing wrong. nor, had her conscience needed them, did it lack reminders. narcissus had been persuaded to send the drawings to london to be treated by lithography, a process of which he knew nothing, but to which m. raoul, during his studies in paris, had given much attention, and apparently not without making some discoveries--unimportant perhaps, and such as might easily reward an experimenter in an art not well past its infancy. at any rate, he had drawn up elaborate instructions for the london firm of printers, and when the proofs arrived with about a third of these instructions neglected and another third misunderstood, narcissus was at his wits' end, aghast at the poorness of the impressions, yet not knowing in the least how to correct them. he gave dorothea no peace with them. evening after evening she was invited to pore upon the drawings over which she and her lover had bent together; to criticise here and offer a suggestion there; while every line revived a memory, inflicted a pang. what suggestion could she find save the one which must not be spoken?--to send, fetch the artist back from dartmoor, and remedy all this, with so much beside! "but," urged narcissus, "you and he spent hours together. i quite understood that he had explained the process to you, and on the strength of this i gave it too little attention. of course, if one could have foreseen--" he broke off, and added with some testiness: "i'd give fifty pounds to have the fellow back, if only for ten minutes' talk." "but why couldn't we?" dorothea asked suddenly, breathlessly. they were alone by the table under the bookcase. on the far side of the hall, before the fire, endymion dozed after a long day with the partridges. narcissus's words awoke a wild hope. "but why couldn't we?" she repeated, her voice scarcely louder than a whisper. "well, that's an idea!" he chuckled. "confound the fellow, he imposed on all of us! if we had only guessed what he intended, we might have signed a petition telling him how necessary he had made himself, and imploring him, for our sakes, to behave like a gentleman." "but supposing--supposing he was innocent--that he had never meant--" she put out a hand to lay it on her brother's. "hush!" she could have cried; but it was too late. "endymion!" narcissus called across the room, jocosely. "eh! what is it?" endymion came out of his doze. "we're in a mess with these drawings, a complete mess; and we want master raoul fetched out of dartmoor to set us right. come now--as commissary, what'll you take to work it for us? fifty pounds has already been offered." dorothea turned from the table with a sigh for her lost chance. "he'd like it," answered endymion, grimly. "but, my dear fellow,"-- he slewed himself in his chair for a look around the hall,--"pray moderate your tones. i particularly deprecate levity on such matters within possible hearing of the servants; that class of person never understands a joke." narcissus rubbed the top of his head--a trick of his in perplexity. "but, seriously: it has only this moment occurred to me. couldn't the drawings be conveyed to him, in due form, through the commandant of the prison? the poor fellow owes us no grudge. i believe he would be eager to do us this small service. and, really, they have made such a mess of the stones--" "impossible! out of the question! and i may say now, and once for all, that the mention of that unhappy youth is repugnant to me. by good fortune, we escaped being compromised by him; and i have refrained from reminding you that your patronage of him was, to say the least, indiscreet." "god bless me! you don't suggest, i hope, that i encouraged him to escape!" "i suggest nothing. but i am honestly glad to be quit of him, and take some satisfaction in remembering that i detested the fellow from the first. he had too much cleverness with his bad style, or, if you prefer it, was sufficiently like a gentleman to be dangerous. pah! for his particular offence, i would have had the old hulks maintained in the hamoaze, with all their severities; as it is, the posturer may find dartmoor pretty stiff, but will yet have the consolation of herding with his betters." strangely enough this speech did more to fix dorothea's resolve than all she had read or heard of the rigours of the war-prison. gently reared though she was, physical suffering seemed to her less intolerable than to be unjustly held in this extreme of scorn.. this was the deeper wrong; and putting herself in her lover's place, feeling with his feelings, she knew it to be by far the deeper. in dartmoor he shared the sufferings of men unfortunate but not despicable, punished for fighting in their country's cause. but here was a moral punishment, deserved by none but the vilest; and she had helped to bring it--was allowing it to rest--upon a hero! in the long watches of that night it never occurred to her that the brutality of her brother's contempt was over-done. and endymion, not given to self-questioning at any time, was probably unconscious of a dull wrath revenging itself for many pin-pricks of master raoul's clever tongue. endymion westcote, like many pompous men, usually hurt somebody when he indulged in a joke, and for this cause, perhaps, had a nervous dislike of wit in others. dull in taking a jest, but almost preternaturally clever in suspecting one, he had disliked raoul's sallies in proportion as they puzzled him. the remembrance of them rankled, and this had been his bull-roar of revenge. he spent the next morning in his office; and returning at three in the afternoon, retired to the library to draw up the usual monthly report required of him as commissary. he had been writing tor an hour or more, when dorothea tapped at the door and entered. endymion did not observe her pallor; indeed, he scarcely looked up. "ah! you have come for a book? make as little noise, then, as possible, that's a good soul. you interrupted me in a column of figures." he began to add them up afresh, tapping the table with the fingers of his left hand, as his custom was when counting. dorothea waited. the addition made, he entered it, resting three shapely finger-tips on the table's edge for the number to be carried over. "i wish to speak with you particularly." he laid down his pen resignedly. her voice was urgent, and he knew well enough that the occasion must be urgent when dorothea interrupted his work. "anything wrong?" "it--it's about m. raoul." his eyebrows went up, but only to contract again upon a magisterial frown. "really, after the request i was obliged to make to narcissus last night--you were present, i believe? is it possible that i failed to make plain my distaste?" "ah, but listen! it is no question of distaste, but of a great wrong. he was not trying to escape; he told you an untruth, to--to save--" endymion had picked up a paper-knife, and leaned back, tapping his teeth with it. "do you know?" he said, "i suspected something of this kind from the first, though i had no idea you shared the knowledge. zeally's cleverness struck me as a trifle too--ah--phenomenal for belief. i scented some low intrigue; and polly's dismissal may indicate my pretty shrewd guess at the culprit." "but it was not polly!" "eh?" endymion sat bolt upright. "you must not blame polly. it was i whom m. raoul came to see that night." he stared at her, incredulous. "my dear dorothea, are you quite insane?" "he wished to see me--to speak with me; he gave the girl a note for me. i knew nothing about it until i went upstairs that night, and found her at the boudoir window. m. raoul was outside. he had arrived before she could deliver the message." "quite so!" with a nasally derisive laugh. "and you really need me to point out how prettily those turtles were befooling you?" "indeed, no; it was not that." he struck the table impatiently with the paper-knife. "my dear woman, do exert some common sense! what in the name of wonder could the fellow have to discuss with you at that hour? your pardon if, finding no apparent limits to your innocence, i assume it to be illimitable, and point out that he would scarcely break bounds and play romeo beneath the window of a middle-aged lady for the purpose of discussing water-colours with her, or the exploits of vespasian." the taunt brought red to dorothea's cheeks, and stung her into courage. "he came to see me," she persisted. her voice dropped a little. "i had come to feel a regard for m. raoul; and he--" she could not go on. her eyes met her brother's for a moment, then fell before them. what she expected she could not tell. certainly she did not expect what happened, and his sudden laughter smote her like a whip. it broke in a shout of high, incontrollable mirth, and he leaned back and shook in his chair until the tears streamed down his cheeks. "you!" he gasped. "you! oh, oh, oh!" she stood beneath the scourge, silent. she felt it curl across and bite the very flesh, and thought it was killing her, her bosom heaved. it ceased. he sat upright again, wiping his eyes. "but it's incredible!" he protested; "the scoundrel has fooled you all along. yes, of course," he pondered; "that explains the success of the trick, which otherwise was clumsy beyond belief; in fact, its clumsiness puzzled me. but how was i to guess?" he pulled himself up on the edge of another guffaw. "look here, dorothea, be sensible. it's clear as daylight the fellow was after polly, and made you his cats- paw. face it, my dear; face it, and conquer your illusions. i understand it must cost you some suffering, but, after all, you must find some blame in yourself--in your heart, i mean, not in your conduct. doubtless your conduct showed weakness, or he would never have dared--but, there, i can trust my sister. face it; the thing's absurd! you, a woman of thirty-eight (or is it thirty-nine?), and he, if i may judge from appearances, young enough to be your son! polly was his game--the deceitful little slut! you must see it for yourself. and after all, it's more natural. immoral, i've no doubt--" he paused in the middle of his harangue. a parliamentary candidate (unsuccessful) for axcester had once dared to poke fun at endymion westcote for having asserted, in a public speech, that indecency was worse than immorality. for the life of him endymion could never see where the joke came in; but the fellow had illustrated it with such a wealth of humorous instances, and had kept his ignorant audience for twenty minutes in such fits of laughter, that he never afterwards approached the antithesis but he skirted it with a red face. and dorothea? the scourge might cut into her heart; it could not reach the image of raoul she shielded there. she knew her lover too well, and that he was incapable of this baseness. but the injurious charge, diverted from him, fell upon her own defences, and, breaking them, let in the cruel light at length on her passion, her folly. this was how the world would see it. . . . yes! raoul was right--there is no enemy comparable with time. looks, fortune, birth, breed, unequal hearts and minds--all these love may confound and play with; but time which divides the dead from the living, sets easily between youth and age a gulf which not only forbids love but derides: age, i do abhor thee; youth, i do adore thee; o, my love, my love is young! she could give counsel, sympathy, care; could delight in his delights, hope in his hopes, melt with his woes, and, having wept a little, find comfort for them. she could thrill at his footsteps, blush at his salutation, sit happily beside him and talk or be silent, reading his moods. he might fill her waking day, haunt her dreams, in the end pass into prison for her sake, having crowned love with martyrdom. and the world would laugh as endymion had laughed! her hands went up to shut out the roar of it. a coarse amour with polly--that could be understood. polly was young. polly . . . "what will you do?" she heard herself asking, and could scarcely believe the voice belonged to her. "do? why, if my theory be right--and i hope i've convinced you--i see no use in meddling. the girl is respectably married. it will cause her quite unnecessary trouble if we rip this affair open again. her husband will have just ground for complaint, and it might--i need not point out--be a little awkward, eh?" for the first time in her life dorothea regarded her brother with something like contempt. but the flash gave way to a look of weary resolve. "then i must tell the truth--to others," she said. it confounded him for a moment. but although here was a new dorothea, belying all experience, his instinct for handling men and women told him at once what had happened. he had driven her too far. he was even clever enough to foresee that winning her back to obedience would be a ticklish, almost desperate, business; and even sensitive enough to redden at his blunder. "you do not agree with my view?" he asked, tapping the table slowly. "i disbelieve it. i have no right to believe it, even if i had the power. he is in prison. you must help me to set him free. if not--" "he cannot, possibly return to axcester." "oh, what is that to me?" she cried with sudden impatience. then her tone fell back to its dull level. "i have not been pleading for myself." "no, no: i understand." his brow cleared, as a man's who faces a bad business and resolves to go through with it. "well, there is only one way to spare you and everyone. we must get him a cartel." "a cartel?" "yes--get him exchanged, and sent home to his friends. the war office owes me something, and will no doubt oblige me in a small affair like this without asking questions. oh, certainly it can be managed. i will write at once." chapter x dartmoor dorothea had the profoundest faith in her brother's ability. that he hit at once on this simple solution which had eluded her through many wakeful nights did not surprise her in the least. nor did she doubt for a moment that he would manage it as he promised. but she could not thank him. he had beaten her spirit sorely--so sorely, that for days her whole body ached with the bruise. she did not accuse him: her one flash of contempt had lasted for an instant only, and the old habit of reverence quickly effaced it. but he had exposed her weakness; had forced her to see it, naked and pitiful, with no chivalry--either manly or brotherly--covering it; and seeing it with nothing to depend upon, she learned for the first time in her life the high, stern lesson of independence. she learned it unconsciously, but she never forgot it. and it is to endymion's credit that he recognised the great alteration and allowed for it. he had driven her too far. she would never again be the same dorothea. and never again by word or look did he remind her of that hour of abasement. an exchange of prisoners was not to be managed in a day, and would take weeks, perhaps six weeks or a couple of months. he discussed this with her, quietly, as a matter of business entrusted to him, explained what steps he had taken, what letters he had written; when he expected definite news from the war office. she met him on the same ground. "yes, he could not have done better." she trusted him absolutely. and in fact he had been better than his word. ultimate success, to be sure, was certain. it were strange if mr. westcote, who had opened his purse to support a troop of yeomanry, who held two parliamentary seats at the government's service and two members at call to bully the war office whenever he desired, who might at any time have had a baronetcy for the asking--it were strange indeed if mr. westcote could not obtain so trivial a favour as the exchange of a prisoner. he could do this, but he could not appreciably hurry the correspondence by which pall mall bargained a frenchman in the forest of dartmoor against an englishman in the fortress of briançon in the hautes alpes. foreseeing delays, he had written privately to the commandant at dartmoor--a major sotheby, with whom he had some slight acquaintance--advising him of his efforts and requesting him to show the prisoner meanwhile all possible indulgence. the letter contained a draft, for ten pounds, to be spent upon small comforts at the commandant's discretion; but m. raoul was not to be informed of the donor, or of his approaching liberty. in theory--such was the routine--raoul remained one of the axcester contingent of prisoners, and all reports concerning him must pass through the commissary's hands. in the last week of october, when brother and sister daily expected the cartel, arrived a report that the prisoner was in hospital with a sharp attack of pleurisy. major sotheby added a private note:- _"i feared yesterday that the exchange would come too late for him; but to-day the medical officer, who has just left me, speaks hopefully. i have no doubt, however, that a winter in this climate would be fatal. the fellow's lungs are breaking down, and even if they could stand the fogs, the cold must finish him."_ dorothea stood by a window in the library when endymion read this out to her; the very window through which she had been gazing that spring morning when raoul first kissed her. to-day the first of the winter's snow fell gently, persistently, out of a leaden and windless sky. she turned. "i must go to him," she said. "but to what purpose--" "oh, you may trust me!" "my dear girl, that was not in my mind." he spoke gently. "but until the warrant arrives--" "we will give it until to-morrow; by every account it should reach us to-morrow. you shall take it with me. i must see him once more; only once--in your presence, if you wish." next morning they rode into the town together, an hour before the mail's arrival. endymion alighted at the town house to write a business letter or two before strolling down to the post office. dorothea cantered on to the top of the hill, and then walked mercury to and fro, while she watched the taller rise beyond. the snow had ceased falling; but a crisp north wind skimmed the drifts and powdered her dark habit. twice she pulled out her watch; but the coach was up to time in spite of the heavy roads; and as it topped the rise she reined mercury to the right-about and cantered back to await it. already the street had begun to fill as usual; and, as usual, there was general rochambeau picking his way along the pavement to present himself for the admiral's letter--the letter which never arrived. would _her_ letter never arrive? he halted on the kerb by her stirrup. she asked after the admiral's health. "ah, mademoiselle, if ever he leaves his bed again, it will be a miracle." she was not listening. age, age again!--it makes all the difference. here came the coach--did it hold a letter for raoul? raoul was young. the coach rolled by with less noise than usual, on the carpet of snow churned brown with traffic. as it passed, the guard lifted his horn and blew cheerily. she followed, telling herself it was a good omen. during the long wait outside the post office she rebuked herself more than once for building a hope upon it. name after name was called, and at each call a prisoner pushed forward to the doorway for his letter. she caught sight of the general on the outskirts of the crowd. her brother would not come out until every letter had been distributed. but when he appeared in the doorway she read the good news in his face. he made his way briskly towards her, the prisoners falling back to give passage. "right; it has come," he said. "trot away home and have the valises packed, while i run into 'the dogs' and order the chaise." once clear of the town, she galloped. there was little need to hurry, for her own valise had been packed overnight. having sent mudge to attend to her brother's, she ran to narcissus' room--his scriptorium, as he called it. narcissus was at home to-day, busy with the cellar accounts. he took stock twice a year and composed a report in language worthy of a survey of the roman empire. before he could look up, dorothea had kissed him on the crown of his venerable head. "such news, dear! endymion has ordered a chaise from 'the dogs,' and is going to take me to dartmoor!" "dartmoor--god bless my soul!" he rubbed his head, and added with a twinkle: "why, what have you been doing?" "endymion has a cartel of exchange for m. raoul, and we are to carry it." "ah, so that is what you two have been conspiring over? i smelt a rat somewhere. but, really, this is delightful of you--delightful of you both. only, why on earth should you be carrying the release yourselves, in this weather." "he is very ill," said dorothea, seriously. "indeed? poor fellow, poor fellow. still, that scarcely explains--" "and you will be good, and take your meals regularly when mudge beats the gong? and you won't sit up late and set fire to the house? but i must run off and tell everyone to take care of you." she kissed him again, and was half-way down the corridor before he called after her: "dorothea, dorothea! the drawings!" "ah, to be sure; i forgot," she murmured, as he thrust the parcel into her hand. "forgot? forgot the drawings? but, god bless my soul!--" he passed his hand over his grey hairs and stared down the corridor after her. the roads were heavy to start, with, and beyond chard they grew heavier. at honiton, which our travellers reached at midnight, it was snowing; and dorothea, when the sleepy chamber-maid aroused her at dawn, looked out upon a forbidding world of white. the postboys were growling, and she half feared that endymion would abandon the journey for the day. but if he lacked her zeal, he had the true englishman's hatred of turning back. she, who had known him always for a master of men, learned a new awe of her splendid brother. he took command; he cross-examined landlord and postboys, pooh-poohed their objections, extracted from them in half-a-dozen curt questions more information than, five minutes before, they were conscious of possessing, to judge from the scratching of heads which produced it; finally, he handed dorothea into the chaise, sprang in himself, and closed discussion with a slam of the door. they were driven off amid the salaams of ostler, boots, waiter, and two chambermaids, among whom he had scattered largess with the lordliest hand. so the chaise ploughed through exeter to moreton hampstead, where they supped and rested for another night. but before dawn they were off again. snow lay in thick drifts on the skirts of the great moor, and snow whirled about them as they climbed, until day broke upon a howling desert, across which dorothea peered but could discern no features. not leagues but years divided bayfield from this tableland, high over all the world, uninhabited, without tree or gate or hedge. her eyes were heavy with lack of sleep, smarting with the bite of the north wind, which neither ceased nor eased until, towards ten o'clock, the carriage began to lumber downhill towards two bridges, under the lee of crockern tor. beyond came a heavy piece of collar work, the horses dropping to a walk as they heaved through the drifts towards a depression between two tors closing the view ahead. dorothea's eyes, avoiding the wind, were fixed on the tor to the left, when endymion touched her hand and pointed towards the base of the other. there, grey--almost black--against the white hillside, a mass of masonry loomed up through the weather; the great circle of the war prison. the road did not lead them to it direct. they must halt first at the bare village of prince town, and drink coffee and warm themselves at the "plume of feathers inn," before facing the last few hundred yards beneath the lee of north hessary. but a little before noon, dorothea-- still with a sense of being lifted on a platform miles above the world she knew--alighted before a tremendous archway of piled granite set in a featureless wall, and closed with a sheeted gate of iron. a grey- coated sentry, pacing here in front of his snow-capped box, challenged and demanded their business. "visitors for the commandant!" the sentry tugged at an iron bellpull, and a bell tolled twice within. dorothea's feet were half-frozen in spite of her wraps--she stamped them in the snow while she studied the gateway and the enormous blocks which arched it, unhewn save for two words carved in roman capitals--"parcere subjectis." a key turned in the wicket. "visitors for the commandant!" they stepped through, and after pausing a moment while the porter shot the lock again behind them, followed him across the yard to the commandant's quarters. the outer wall of the great war prison enclosed a circle of thirty acres; within it a second wall surrounded an acre in which stood the five rectangular blocks of the prison proper, with two slightly smaller buildings--the one a hospital, the other set apart for the petty officers; and between the inner and outer walls ran a _via militaris_, close on a mile in circumference, constantly paraded by the guard, and having raised platforms from which the sentinels could overlook the inner wall and the area. the area was not completely circular, since, where it faced the great gate, a segment had been cut out of it for the commandant's quarters and outbuildings and the entrance yard, across which, our travellers now followed their guide. the commandant hurried out from his office to welcome them--a bustling little officer with sandy hair and the kindliest possible face; a trifle self-important, obviously proud of his prison, and, after a fashion, of his prisoners too; anxiously, elaborately polite in his manner, especially towards dorothea. "major westcote!"--he gave endymion his full title--"my dear sir, this is indeed--and miss westcote?" he bowed as he was introduced, "delighted--honoured! but what a journey! you must be famished, positively; you will be wanting luncheon at once--yes, really you must allow me. no? a glass of sherry, then, and a biscuit at least . . ." he ran to the door, called to his orderly to bring some glasses, and came back rubbing his hands. "it's an ill wind, as they say . . ." "we have come with the order about which we have corresponded." "for that poor fellow raoul?" the commandant nodded gaily and smiled; and dorothea, who had been watching his face, felt the load dissolve and roll off her heart, as a pile of snow slides from a bough in the sunshine. "he is better, i am glad to report--out of bed and fairly convalescent indeed. but i hope my message did not alarm you needlessly. it was touch-and-go with him for twenty-four hours; still, he was bettering when i wrote. and to bring you all this way, and in such weather!" "my sister and i," explained endymion, "take a particular interest in his case." but the voluble officer was not so easily silenced. "so, to be sure, i gathered." he bowed gallantly to dorothea. "'o woman! in our hours of ease, uncertain, coy, and hard to please'--not, of course, that i attribute any such foibles to miss westcote, but for the sake of the conclusion." "can we see him?" "eh? before luncheon? oh, most assuredly, if you wish it. he has been transferred to the convalescents' ward. we will step across at once." he drew from his pocket a small master-key, attached by a steel chain to his belt, and blew into the wards thoughtfully while he studied the paper handed to him by endymion. "quite in order, of course. no doubt, you and miss westcote would prefer to break the good news to him in private? yes, yes; i will have him sent up to the consulting room. the doctor has finished his morning rounds, and you will be quite alone there." he picked up his cap and escorted them out and across the court to the gate of the main prison. beyond this dorothea found herself in a vast snowy yard, along two sides of which ran covered ways or piazzas open to the air, but faced with iron bars, and behind these bars flitted the forms of the prisoners at exercise, stamping the flagged pavement to keep their starved blood in circulation. at a sight of the commandant with his two visitors--so small a spectacle had power to divert them-- all this movement, this stamping, was hushed suddenly. voices broke into chatter; faces appeared between the bars and stared. "yes," said the commandant, reading dorothea's thought, "a large family to be responsible for! how many would you guess, now?" "a thousand, at least," she murmured. "six thousand! each of those blocks yonder will accommodate fifteen hundred men. and then there is the hospital--usually pretty full at this season, i regret to say. come, i won't detain you; but really in passing you must have a look at one of our dormitories." he threw open a door, and she gazed in upon a long-drawn avenue of iron pillars slung with double tiers of hammocks. the place seemed clean enough: at the far end of the vista a fatigue gang of prisoners was busy with pails and brushes; but either it had not been thoroughly ventilated, or the dense numbers packed in it for so many hours a day had given the building an atmosphere of its own, warm and unpleasant, if not precisely foetid, after the pure, stinging air of the moorland. "we can sleep seven hundred here," said the commandant; "and another dormitory of the same size runs overhead. the top story they use as a promenade and for indoor recreation." he pointed to a number of grilles set in the wall at the back, at equal distances. "for air," he explained, "and also for keeping watch on _messieurs_. yes, we find that necessary. behind each is a small chamber, hollowed most scientifically, quite a little temple of acoustics. if miss westcote, now, would care to step into one and listen, while i stand below with the major and converse in ordinary tones--" "no, no," dorothea declined, hurriedly, and with a shiver. it hurt her to think of raoul herded among seven hundred miserables in this endless barrack, his every movement overlooked, his smallest speech overheard, by an eaves-dropping sentry. "i think, endymion chimed in, my sister feels her long journey, and would be glad to get our business over." "ah, to be sure--a thousand pardons!" the commandant shut the door and piloted them across to the hospital block. here on the threshold the same warm, acrid atmosphere assailed dorothea's nostrils, and almost choked her breathing. their guide led the way up a flight of stone steps to the first floor, and down a whitewashed corridor, lit along one side with narrow barred casements. a little more than half-way down the corridor the blank wall facing these casements was pierced by a low arched passage. into this burrow the commandant dived; and, standing outside, they heard a key turned in a lock. he reappeared and beckoned to them. "from the gallery here," he whispered, "you look right down into the convalescent ward." through the iron bars of the gallery dorothea caught a glimpse of a long bare room, with twenty or thirty dejected figures in suits and caps of greyish-blue flannel, huddled about a stove. some were playing at cards, others at dominoes. the murmur of their voices ascended and hummed in the little passage. "hist! your friend is below there, if you care to have a peep at him." but dorothea had already drawn back. all this spying and listening revolted her. the polite commandant noted the movement. "you prefer that he should be fetched at once?" he stepped past them into the corridor. "smithers!" he called. "smithers!" a hospital orderly appeared at a door almost opposite the passage, and saluted. "run down to the convalescent ward and fetch up number two-six-seven- two.--i know the number of each of my children. i never make a mistake," he confided in dorothea's ear. "as quick as you can, please! stay; you may add that some visitors have called and wish to speak with him." the orderly saluted again, and hurried off. "you wish, of course, to see him alone together?" "i think," answered endymion, slowly, "my sister would prefer a word or two with him alone." "certainly. will you step into the surgery, miss westcote?" he indicated the door at which the orderly had appeared. "smithers will not take two minutes in fetching the prisoner; and perhaps, if you will excuse us, a visit to the hospital itself will repay your brother. we are rather proud of our sanitation here: a glance over our arrangements--five minutes only--" endymion, at a nod from dorothea, permitted himself to be led away by the inexorable man. she watched them to the end of the corridor, and had her hand on the surgery door to push it open, when a voice from below smote her ears. "number two-six-seven-two to come to the surgery at once, to see visitors!" the voice rang up through the little passage behind her. she turned; the door at the end of it stood half-open; beyond it she saw the bars of the gallery, and through these a space of whitewashed wall at the end of the ward. she was turning again, when a babble of voices answered the orderly's announcement. "raoul! raoul!" half-a-dozen were calling, and then one spoke up sharp and distinct: "tenez, mon bonhomme, ce sera votre _gilet_, à coup sur!" a burst of laughter followed. "c'est son _gilet_--his little waistcoat--à chauffer la poitrine--" "des visiteurs, dit il? voyons, coquin, n'y-a-t-il pas par hasard une visiteuse de la partie." "une 'waistcoat' par example?--de quarante ans environ, le drap un peu râpé . . ." "qui se nomme dorothée--ce que veut dire le gilet dieudonné . . ." "easy now!" the orderly's voice remonstrated. "easy, i tell you, ye born mill-clappers! there's a lady in the party, if that's what you're asking." dorothea put out a hand against the jamb of the surgery door, to steady herself she heard the smack of a palm below and some one uttered a serio-comic groan. "enfoncé! il m'a parié dix sous qu'elle viendrait avant le jour de pan, et aussi du tabac avec tout le numero six. nous en ferons la dot de mademoiselle!" the fellow burst out singing-- "j'ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière." "dites donc, mon petit,"--but the cheerful epithet he bestowed on raoul is unquotable here--"elle ne fume pas, votre anglaise? elle n'est pas créole, c'est entendu." dorothea had stepped into the surgery. a small round table stood in the middle of the room; she caught at the edge of it and rested so for a moment, for the walls seemed to be swaying and she durst not lift her hands to shut out the roars of laughter. they rang in her ears and shouted and stunned her. her whole body writhed. the hubbub below sank to a confused murmur. she heard footsteps in the corridor--the firm tramp of the orderly followed by the shuffle of list slippers. "number two-six-seven-two is outside, ma'am. am i to show him in?" she bent her head and moved towards the fireplace. she heard him shuffle in, and the door shut behind him. still she did not turn. "dorothea!"--his voice shook with joy, with passion. how well she knew that deep provençal tremolo. she could have laughed aloud in her bitterness. "dorothea!" she faced him at length. he stood there, stretching out both hands to her. he was handsome as ever, but pale and sadly pinched. beyond all doubt he had suffered. his grey-blue hospital suit hung about him in folds. in her eyes he read at once that something was wrong--but without comprehending. "you sent for me," he stammered; "you have come--" she found her voice and, to her surprise, it was quite firm. "yes, we have brought your release," she said; and, watching his eyes, saw the joy leap up in them, saw it quenched the next instant as he composed his features to a fond solicitude for her. "but you?" he murmured. "what has happened? tell me--no, do not draw away! your hand, at least." contempt, for herself or for him, gave her a moment's strength, but it broke down again. "it is horrible!" was all she answered and looked about her with a shiver. "ah, the place frightens you! well," he laughed, reassuringly, "it frightened me at first. but for the thought of you, dearest, to comfort--" she stepped past him and opened the door. for a moment a wild notion seized him that she was escaping, and he put out an imploring hand; but he saw that, with her hand on the jamb, she was listening, and he, too, listened. the voices in the convalescent ward came up to them, scarcely muffled, through the low passage, and with them a cackling laugh. then he understood. their eyes met. he bowed his head. "nevertheless, i have suffered." he said it humbly, after many seconds, and in a voice so low that it seemed a second or two before she heard. for the first time she put out a hand and touched his sleeve. "yes, you have suffered, and for me. let me go on believing that. you did a noble thing, and i shall try to remember you by it--to remember that you were capable of it. 'it was for my sake,' i shall say, and then i shall be proud. oh, yes, sometimes i shall be very proud! but in love--" her voice faltered, and he looked up sharply. "in love"--she smiled, but passing faintly--"it's the little things, is it not? it's the little things that count." she touched his sleeve again, and passed into the room, leaving him there at a standstill, as endymion and the commandant came round the corner at the far end of the corridor. "excuse me," said endymion, and, stepping past raoul without a glance, looked into the surgery. after a moment he shut the door quietly, and, standing with his back to it, addressed the prisoner: "i perceive, sir, that my sister has told you the news. we have effected an exchange for you, and the commandant tells me that to-morrow, if the roads permit, you will be sent down to plymouth and released. it is unnecessary for you to thank me; it would, indeed, be offensive. i wish you a safe passage home, and pray heaven to spare me the annoyance of seeing your face again." as raoul bowed and moved away, dragging his feet weakly in their list slippers, mr. westcote turned to the commandant, who during this address had kept a discreet distance. "with your leave, we will continue our stroll, and return for my sister in a few minutes." the commandant jumped at the suggestion. dorothea heard their footsteps retreating, and knew that her brother's thoughtfulness had found her this short respite. she had dropped into the orderly's chair, and now bowed her head upon the prison doctor's ledger, which lay open on the table before it. "oh, my love! how could you do it? how could you? how could you?" chapter xi the new dorothea two hours later they set out on their homeward journey. the commandant, still voluble, escorted them to the gate. as dorothea climbed into the chaise and endymion shook up the rugs and cushions, a large brown-paper parcel rolled out upon the snow. she gave a little cry of dismay: "the drawings!" "eh?" "we forgot to deliver them." "oh, confound the things!" endymion was for pitching them back into the chaise. "but no!" she entreated. "why, narcissus believes it was to deliver them that we came!" so the commandant amiably charged himself to hand the parcel to m. raoul, and waved his adieux with it as the chaise rolled away. of what had passed between dorothea and raoul at the surgery door endymion knew nothing; but he had guessed at once, and now was assured by the tone in which she had spoken of the drawings, that the chapter was closed, the danger past. coming, brother and sister had scarcely exchanged a word for miles together. now they found themselves chatting without effort about the landscape, the horses' pace, the commandant and his hospitality, the arrangements of the prison, and the prospects of a cosy dinner at moreton hampstead. it was all the smallest of small talk, and just what might be expected of two reputable middle-aged persons returning in a post-chaise from a mild jaunt; yet beneath it ran a current of feeling. in their different ways, each had been moved; each had relied upon the other for a degree of help which could not be asked in words, and had not been disappointed. now that dorothea's infatuation had escaped all risk of public laughter, endymion could find leisure to admire her courage in confessing, in persisting until the wrong was righted, and, now at the last, in shutting the door upon the whole episode. and, now at the last, having shut the door upon it, dorothea could reflect that her brother, too, had suffered. she knew his pride, his sensitiveness, his mortal dread of ridicule. in the smart of his wound he had turned and rent her cruelly, but had recovered himself and defended her loyally from worse rendings. she remembered, too, that he had distrusted raoul from the first. he had been right. but had she been wholly wrong? in the dusk of the fifth evening after their departure the chaise rolled briskly in through bayfield great gates and up the snowy drive. almost noiselessly though it came, mudge had the door thrown wide and stood ready to welcome them, with narcissus behind in the comfortable glow of the hall. dorothea's limbs were stiff, and on alighting she steadied herself for a moment by the chaise-door before stepping in to kiss her brother. in that moment her eyes took one backward glance across the park and rested on the lights of axcester glimmering between the naked elms. "well," demanded narcissus, after exchange of greetings, "and what did he say about the drawings?" dorothea had not expected the question in this form, and parried it with a laugh: "you and your drawings! i declare"--she turned to endymion--"he has been thinking of them all the time, and affects no concern in our adventures!" "which, nevertheless, have been romantic to the last degree," he added, playing up to her. "my dear dorothea--" narcissus expostulated. "but you are not going to evade me by any such tricks," she interrupted, sternly; "for that is what it comes to. i left you with the strictest orders to take care of yourself, and you ought to know that i shall answer nothing until you have been catechised. what have you been eating?" "my _dear_ dorothea!" narcissus gazed helplessly at mudge; but mudge had been seized with a flurry of his own, and misinterpreted the look as well as the stern question. "i--i reckon 'tis _me_, miss," he confessed. "being partial to onions, and taking that liberty in mr. endymion's absence, knowing his dislike of the effluvium--" such are the pitfalls of a guilty conscience on the one hand, and, on the other, of being unexpectedly clever. an hour later, at dinner, narcissus was informed that the drawings had been conveyed to m. raoul, who, doubtless, would return them with hints for correction. "but had he nothing to say at the time?" "for my part," said endymion, sipping his wine, "i addressed but one sentence to him; and dorothea, i daresay, exchanged but half a dozen. considering the shortness of the interview, and that our mission--at least, our ostensible mission"--endymion glanced at dorothea, with a smile at his own _finesse_--"was to carry him news of his release, you will admit--" "oh--ah!--to be sure; i had forgotten the release," muttered narcissus, and was resigned. "by the way," dorothea asked, after a short pause, "what is happening at 'the dogs' tonight? all the windows are lit up in the orange room. i saw it as i stepped out of the chaise." "yes; i have to tell you"--narcissus turned towards his brother-- "that during your absence another of the prisoners has found his discharge--the old admiral." "dead?" "he died this morning: but you knew, of course, it was only a question of days. rochambeau was with him at the last. he has shown great devotion." "you have made all arrangements, of course?" for narcissus was acting commissary in his brother's absence. "i rode in at once on hearing the news, which zeally brought before daylight; and found the lodge"--this was a masonic lodge formed among the prisoners, and named by them _la paix desiree_--"anxious to pay him something more than the full rites. with my leave they have hired the orange room, and turned it into a _chapelle ardente_; and there, i believe, he is reposing now, poor old fellow." "he has no kith nor kin, i understand." "none. he was never married, and his relatives went in the terror-- the most of them (so rochambeau tells me) in a single week." dorothea had heard the same story from the general and from raoul. to this old warrior his emperor had been friends, kindred, wife, and children--nay, almost god. he had enjoyed napoleon's favour, and followed his star from the days of the directory: in that favour and the future of france beneath that star his hopes had begun and ended. his private ambitions he had resigned without a word on the day when he put to sea out of brest, under order from paris, to perform a feat he knew to be impossible, with ships ill-found, under-manned, and half- victualled by cheating contractors: and he sailed cheerfully, believing himself sacrificed to some high purpose of his master's. when, the sacrifice made, he learned that the contractors slandered him to cover their own villainy, and that napoleon either believed them or was indifferent, his heart broke. too proud at first, he had ended by drawing up a statement and forwarding it from his captivity, with a demand for an enquiry. the answer to this was--the letter which never came. dorothea thought of the room where she had danced and been happy: the many lights, the pagan figures merrymaking on the panels, the goddess on the ceiling with her cupids and scattered roses, and, in the centre of it all, that dead face, incongruous and calm. how small had been her tribulation beside his! and it was all over for him now--wages taken, account sealed up for judgment, _parole_ ended, and no heir to trouble over him or his good name. next morning she rode into axcester, as well to do some light shopping as because it seemed an age since her last visit, which, to be sure, was absurd, and she knew it. happening to meet general rochambeau, she drew rein and very gently offered her condolence on the loss of his old friend. the general pressed her hand gratefully. "ah, never pity him, mademoiselle. he carries a good pass for the elysian fields." "and that is--?" "the emperor's _tabatière_: and, my faith! miss dorothea, there will be sneezings in certain quarters when he opens it there. "il a du bon tabac dans sa tabatière "has the admiral. he had for you (if i may say it) a quite extraordinary respect and affection. the saints rest his brave soul!" the general lifted his tricorne. he never understood the tide of red which surged over dorothea's face; but she conquered it, and went on to surprise him further: "i heard of this only last night. we have been visiting dartmoor, my brother and i, with a release for--for that m. raoul." "so i understood." he noted that her confusion had gone as suddenly as it came. "but since i am back in time, and it appears i was so fortunate as to win his regard, i would ask to see him--if it be permitted, and i may have your escort." "certainly, mademoiselle. you will, perhaps, wish to consult your brother though?" "i see no necessity," she answered. * * * * * * * * * the general was not the only one to discover a new and firmer note in dorothea's voice. life at bayfield slipped back into its old comfortable groove, but the brothers fell--and one of them consciously--into a habit of including her in their conversations and even of asking her advice. one day there arrived a bulky parcel for narcissus; so bulky indeed and so suspiciously heavy, that it bore signs of several agitated official inspections, and nothing short of official deference to endymion (under cover of whom it was addressed) could account for its having come through at all. for it came from france. it contained a set of the bayfield drawings exquisitely cut in stone; and within the cover was wrapped a lighter parcel addressed to miss dorothea westcote--a rose-tree, with a packet of seeds tied about its root. no letter accompanied the gift, at the sentimentality of which she found herself able to smile. but she soaked the root carefully in warm water, and smiled again at herself, as she planted it at the foot of the glacis beneath her boudoir window--the very spot where raoul had fallen. against expectation--for the journey had sorely withered it-- the plant throve. she lived to see it grown into a fine provence rose, draping the whole south-east corner of bayfield with its yellow bloom. "after all," she said one afternoon, stepping back in the act of pruning it, "provided one sees things in their right light and is not a fool--" but this was long after the time of which we are telling. folks no longer smile at sentiment. they laugh it down: by which, perhaps, no great harm would be done if their laughter came through the mind; but it comes through the passions, and at the best chastises one excess by another--a weakness by a rage, which is weakness at its worst. i fear dorothea may be injured in the opinion of many by the truth--which, nevertheless, has to be told--that her recovery was helped not a little by sentiment. what? is a poor lady's heart to be in combustion for a while and then--pf!--the flame expelled at a blast, with all that fed it? that is the heroic cure, no doubt: but either it kills or leaves a room swept and garnished, inviting devils. in short it is the way of tragedy, and for tragedy dorothea had no aptitude at all. she did what she could--tidied up. for an instance.--she owned a small book which had once belonged to a namesake of hers--a dorothea westcote who had lived at the close of the seventeenth and opening of the eighteenth centuries, a grand- daughter of the first westcote of bayfield, married (so said the family history) in to a squire from across the devonshire border. the book was a slender one, bound in calf, gilt-edged, and stamped with a gold wreath in the centre of each cover. dorothea called it an album; but the original owner had simply written in, "dorothea westcote, her book," on the first page, with the date below, and filled four-and- twenty of its blank pages with poetry (presumably her favourite pieces), copied in a highly ornate hand. presumably also she had wearied of the work, let the book lie, and coming to it later, turned it upside down and started with a more useful purpose: for three pages at the end contained several household recipes in the same writing grown severer, including "garland wine (mrs. massiter's way)" and "a good cottage pie for a pore person." now the family history left no doubt that in this dorothy had been a bare fifteen years old; and although some of the entries must have been made later (for at least two of them had not been composed at the time), the bulk of the poems proved her a sprightly young lady whenever she transcribed them. indeed, some were so very free in calling a spade a spade, that our dorothea, having annexed the book, years ago, on the strength of her name, and dipped within, had closed it in sudden virgin terror and thrust it away at the back of her wardrobe. there it had lain until disinterred in the hurried search for linen for mr. raoul's wound. next morning dorothea was on the point of hiding it again, when, as she opened the covers idly, her eyes fell on these lines "but at my back i alwaies hear time's winged chariot hurrying near; and yonder all before me lie desarts of vast eternitie . . ." she read on. the poem, after all, turned out to be but a lover's appeal to his mistress to give over coyness and use time while she might; but dorothea wondered why its solemn language should have hit her namesake's fancy, and, turning a few more pages, discovered that this merry dead girl had chosen and copied out other verses which were more than solemn. how had she dug these gloomy gems out of donne, ford, webster, and set them here among loose songs and loose epigrams from _wit's remembrancer_ and the like? for gems they were, though dorothea did not know it nor whence they came. dorothea had small sense of poetry: it was the personal interest which led her on. to be sure the little animal (she had already begun to construct a picture of her) might have secreted these things for no more reason than their beauty, as a squirrel will pick up a ruby ring and hide it among his nuts. but why were they, all so darkly terrible? had she, being young, been afraid to die? rather it seemed as if now and then, in the midst of her mirth, she had paused and been afraid to live. and in the end she had married a devonshire squire, which on the face of it is no darkly romantic thing to do. but it was over the maiden that our dorothea pondered, until by and by the small shade took features and a place in her leisure time: a very companionable shade, though tantalising; and innocent, though given to mischievously sportive hints. dorothea sometimes wondered what her own fate would have been, with this naughtiness in her young blood--and this seriousness. it was sentiment, of course; but it is also a fact that this ghost of a kinswoman brought help to her. for such a hurt as hers the specific is to get away from self and look into such human thought as is kindly yet judicial. some find this help in philosophy, many more in wise dorothea had no philosophy, and no human being to consult; for admirably as endymion had behaved, he remained a person with obvious limits. the general held aloof: she had no reason to fear that he suspected her secret. and so _natura inventrix_, casting about for a cure, found and brought her this companion of her own sex from between the covers of a book. i set down the fact merely and its share in dorothea's recovery. chapter xii general rochambeau tells a story; and the ting-tang rings for the last time more than a year had passed when, one february morning, as he left the breakfast table, endymion handed dorothea a slip of paper. "do you think we can entertain at dinner next wednesday? if you can manage it, i wish these invitations written out and despatched before noon." "next wednesday?" dorothea's eyebrows went up. invitations to dine at bayfield had always, as we know, been issued just three weeks ahead. "if it will not inconvenience you," he answered; and his manner added, as plainly as words, "i beg that you will not press for my reasons." he was booted already for his ride into axcester. dorothea ran her eye down the list: the vicomte de tocqueville, general rochambeau. . . . all the prisoners of distinction were included as well as the chief notables of the neighbourhood, which made it a long one, even without a full balance of ladies. she went off to her room at once and penned the letters--twenty-five in all. naturally, this break in the bayfield custom set speculation going among the invited; but it is doubtful if narcissus, any more than dorothea, knew the reason of it. and on wednesday, when the guests assembled, the only one who might be suspected of sharing endymion's secret was (oddly enough) general rochambeau. the old fellow seemed ten years younger, and wore an air of sportiveness, almost of raillery, as he caught his host's eye. the compliments he paid lady bateson across the table were prodigious, and gave that good soul a hazy sensation of being wafted back to the court of louis xv, and behaving brilliantly under the circumstances. "really, my dear mr. westcote," she protested at length, being a chartered utterer of indiscretions which (as she delighted to prove) endymion would not tolerate in others, but took from her and allowed, with a magisterial smile, to pass,--"really, i trust you have not taken off the general's parole, or to-morrow i shall have to lock my gates for fear of a chaise-and-pair." "ah, to-morrow!" the general echoed, turning to endymion, with a twinkle of malice in his eye. "but when mr. westcote releases us, it will be en masse; and then, believe me, i shall come with an army, since i underrate neither the strength of the fortress nor the feeling of the country." "that reminds me," put in a mr. saxby, of yeovil, or near by, "we have heard of no escape or attempts at escape from axcester this winter. i congratulate you, westcote--if the general will not think it offensive." "reassure yourself, my dear sir." general rochambeau bowed. "no," he continued, lifting his eyes for a moment towards dorothea, "in one way or another we are rid of our fence-breakers, and the rest must share the credit with our commissary." "and yet the temptation--," began lady bateson. "is great, madame, for some temperaments. but the vicomte, here, and i have tried to teach our poor compatriots that in resisting it they fight for france as surely as if they stormed a breach. and, by the way, i heard a story this morning--if the company would care to hear--" they begged him to tell it. "but not if the ladies leave us to our wine." he turned to dorothea. "if miss westcote will rally and stay her forces, good; for, though it came to me casually in a letter, it is a tale of the sort which used to be fashionable in my youth--ah! long before m. le tocqueville remembers--and for the telling it demanded an audience of ladies, which must help me, who am rusty, to recapture the style, if i can." he pushed back his chair and, crossing his legs, leaned forward and pushed his fingers across the polished mahogany till they touched the base of a wine-glass beside his plate. one or two of the guests smiled at this formal opening. the vicomte's eyes showed something of amusement behind their apathy. but all listened. "my tale, miss dorothea, is of a certain m. benest, who until a few weeks ago was a prisoner on parole in one of your towns on the south coast. he had been _chef de hune_ (which, as you know, is chief petty officer) of the _embuscade_ frigate, captured by sir john warren. in the action which lost her m. benest lost a leg, and was placed in an english hospital, where they gave him a wooden one. "now how it came about that on his discharge he was allowed to live in a town--call it a village, rather--a haven, at any rate--where for a couple of napoleons he might have found a boat any night of the week to smuggle him over to roscoff, is more than i can tell you. it may be that he had once borne another name than benest, one to command privileges: since many of my countrymen, as you know, have found it prudent in recent years to change their names and take up with callings below their real rank. there, at any rate, he was; and on the day after his arrival, he and the rector of the parish--who was also a magistrate--took a walk and marked out the bounds together: two miles along the coast to the east, two miles along the coast to the west, and two miles up the valley behind the town. at the end of these two miles the valley itself branched into two and climbed inland, the road branching likewise; and m. benest's mark was the signpost at the angle. "well, at first he walked little, because of his wooden leg. he had lodgings with a widow in a white-washed cottage overlooking the harbour-side, and seemed happy enough there, tending a monster geranium which grew against the house-wall, or pottering about the quay and making friends with the children. for the children soon picked up an affection for him, seeing that he was never too busy to drop his gardening and come and be umpire at their games of 'tig' or 'prisoners' bars.' also he had stories for them, and halfpennies or sweetmeats in mysterious pockets, and songs which he taught them: _giroflé, girofla_, and _compagnons de la marjolaine_, and _les petits bateaux_--do you know it?-- "'papa, les p'tits bateaux qui vont sur i'eau, ont-ils des jambes? --mais oui, petit beta, s'ils n'en avaient pas, ils n' march'raient pas!' "in short, m. benest, with his loose blue coat and three-cornered naval cap, endeared himself to the children, and through the children to everyone. "it was some time before he began to take walks; and i believe he had been living in the town for six months, when one day, having stumped up the valley road for a change, and just as he was facing about for the return journey, he heard a voice in his own language singing to the air of _vive henri quatre_. "the voice was shaky and, i dare say, uncertain in its upper notes; but it fetched m. benest right-about-face again. he perceived that it came from the garden of a solitary cottage up the road, a gunshot and more beyond his signpost. but a tall hedge interrupted his view, and, though he stared long and earnestly, all he could see that day was a pea-stick nodding above it. "he came again, however,--not the next day, but the day after,--and was rewarded by a glimpse of a white cap with bows which seemed at that distance of a purplish colour. its wearer was standing in the gateway and exchanging a word with the rector, who had reined up his horse in the road. "m. benest walked home and made inquiries; but his landlady could only tell him that the cottage was rented by two ladies, sisters,--she had heard that they came from the west indies,--who saw nobody, but wished only to be let alone. one of them, who suffered from an incurable complaint, was never seen; the other could be seen on fine days in her garden, where she worked vigorously; and what the pair lived on was a mystery, for they bought nothing in the town or of their neighbours. "on learning this, m. benest became very cunning indeed. he bought a fishing rod. "for i ought to have told you that a stream ran down the valley beside the road, and it contained trout--perhaps as many as a dozen. m. benest had no desire to catch them; but, you see, he was forced to acquire some show of expertness in order to deceive the wayfarers who paused and watched him; and in time (i am told) the fish, after being unhooked once or twice and restored apologetically to the water, came to enjoy disconcerting him. you must understand that he had no foolish illusions concerning the white cap and purplish ribbons--the mademoiselle henriette, as he discovered she was called. he only knew that here were two women, his compatriots, poor certainly, often hungry perhaps, shipwrecked so close to him upon this corner of (pardon me, miss dorothea) an unfriendly land, yet divided from any comfort he could bring by fifty yards of road and his word of honour. she must be of the true blood of france who quavered out _vive henri quatre_ so resolutely over her digging and hoeing: but the sound of a french voice might hearten her as hers had heartened him. therefore he sang lustily while he angled--which is not good for sport; and when he caught a fish, broke into paeans addressed less to the captive--with which, between you and me, he was secretly annoyed--than to an ear unseen, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. "but there came a day--how shall i tell it?--when calamity fell upon the cottage. for some time the farmers up the valley had been missing sheep. what so easy now as to suspect the two women who were never known to buy either bread or butcher's meat? you can guess! a rabble marched up from the town and broke in upon them. it found nothing, of course; and i am told that at sight of the face of the poor elder sister it fled back in panic, leaving the place a wreck. "it so happened that m. benest had pretermitted his angling, that afternoon, for a stroll along the cliff: but he heard the news on his return, from his landlady, while he sat at tea--that is to say, he heard a part of it, for before the story was out he had set down his teacup, caught up hat and stick, and stumped out of the house. the most of the townspeople were indoors at tea, discussing the sensation; the few he encountered had no greeting from him. he looked neither to the right nor to the left; had no ears for his friends, the trout, as they rose at the evening flies. he reached the signpost and--walked past it! he stumped straight up to the garden gate, which stood ajar, and pushed it wide with his stick. "there were signs of trampling on the flower-beds; but--for it was july--the whole garden blazed with hollyhocks, oeillets, sweet williams, sweet peas, above all with that yellow flower--mimulus, monkey flower, is it not?--which grows so profusely in gardens beside streams. the air was weighted with scent of the réséda and of the jasmine which climbed the wall and almost choked the roses. "the cottage door stood ajar also. he thrust this open too, and for the first time stood face to face with mademoiselle henriette. "she sat by the kitchen table, with one arm flung across it, and her body bowed with grief. at her feet lay a trodden bunch of the monkey flowers: and at the tap-tap of his wooden leg on the threshold she sprang up and faced him, across the yellow blossoms. "'mademoiselle,' he began, 'i have just learnt--but it is an infamy! _permettez_--i am french, i also, though you do not know me perhaps.' "and with that m. benest stammered and came to a halt, for her eyes were worse than woeful. they were accusing--yes, accusing _him_. of what? _nom de tonnerre_, what had he done? "'you, monsieur! _you_--an officer of france!' "_'mais quel rapport y a-t-il?'_ "'your _parole_, monsieur!' "_'peste!_ i forgot,' said m. benest, half to himself. "'forgot? forgot your _parole? mais ecoutez donc! nous savons souffrir, nous autres franfaises . . . et la petite qui meurt--et--et moi qui mourrai presqu' a l'heure--mais nous nous en tenons a' ne pas dishonorer la patrie a la fin. ca finira bien, sous-officier--allez- vous--allez-vous en. mais allez!'_ "she stamped her foot upon the flowers, and m. benest turned and fled from her. nay, in his haste, taking a short-cut towards the signpost, he plunged his wooden leg deep in the marsh, and tumbled helpless, overwhelmed with shame. "he never passed the signpost again, nor caught another glimpse of mademoiselle henriette's cap. three days later the rector broke into the cottage and discovered her seated, dead and stiff, her hands stained with digging her sister's grave. "and the cottage had no new tenant. only m. benest continued to eye it wistfully, as he cast his flies and pondered on his offence, which she had died without forgiving. "but one july, two years after her death, a patch of gold appeared on the marsh below the hedge--a patch of the monkey-flower. some seeds had been blown thither, or carried down by the stream. "next july the patch had doubled its length. "'the flowers are travelling towards me,' said m. benest. "and year by year the stream brought them nearer. that was a terrible july for him when they came within two feet of the signpost; but he would not stretch a hand beyond it. "'she coquets with her forgiveness, the poor mademoiselle henriette. but i can wait: _'faut pas deshonorer la patrie a la fin!'_ "before the next july he had made sure of one plant at least on his side of the signpost; and fished beside it day after day, fearful lest some animal should browse upon it. but when the happy morning came for it to open, and m. benest knelt beside his prize, he drew back a hand. "'is it quite open?' he asked. 'better wait, since all is safe, for the sun to warm it a little longer.' "and he waited, until a trout, to remind him, perhaps, took a fly with a splash beneath his nose. then, with a start, m. benest's fingers closed and snapped off the yellow blossom. "'she has forgiven me,' said he. now i can forgive myself.'" for a moment or two, though his story was ended, the general continued to toy with the stem of his wine glass. one or two of the guests cried "bravo!" but lady bateson's eyes were wet, and dorothea gazed hard for a while into the polished surface of the mahogany before she recalled herself, and, with a nod, swept the ladies away to the drawing-room. later, in a pause between two songs, the general dropped into a seat beside her. "can you guess who sent me that story?" he asked. "it was m. raoul; and he travelled across from plymouth in the ship with this m. benest, who happened to get his exchange at about the same time. it was clever of him to worm out the story--if, indeed, he did not invent it. but that young man has genius for pathos." "i did not know that you corresponded." "indeed, nor did i. he chose to write. i may answer; and, again, i may not. to tell you the truth, i have never been sure if we condemned him quite justly." dorothea found herself able to look straight into the kindly old eyes. "it was a beautiful story. did you tell it for me?" "yes, mademoiselle, in thanks and in contrition. we are all prisoners in this world; but while it is certain you have made fortitude easier for us, i have suspected that there was a time when i, for one, might have been bolder and repaid you, but stood aside. also, i think you no longer require help." "no longer, general. but what you say is true: we are all prisoners here, or sentries at the best." and dorothea, resting her fan on her lap, let these lines fall from her, not consciously quoting, but musing on each word as it fell: "brutus and cato might discharge their souls, and give them furloughs for another world; but we, like sentries, are obliged to stand in starless nights, and wait the appointed hour." the general stared. "ah, mademoiselle, what poet taught you that?" "it was a kinswoman," she answered, and caught herself blushing. "i do not know the author." * * * * * * * * * the secret of the commissary's dinner-party came out early next morning, when the call came for the prisoners to leave axcester. and, whenever dorothea looked back on this epoch in her life, what she found most wonderful was the suddenness of its end. as day broke in a drizzle, and before she was well awake, a troop of dragoons, followed by a company of the nd regiment of foot, passed the bayfield gates on the way to axcester. the troopers entered the town while the ting-tang was sounding, and before the roll could be called the prisoners were surrounded. their release had come; and though many had sighed for it for years, it found them quite unprepared. their release had come; but first they must be marched through the length of the country to kelso, there to await the formalities of exchange. at four in the afternoon the infantry marched out with the first great batch. early next morning the rest--owners of furniture, granted a few hours to arrange for its storage or sale--followed their comrades. there was no cloud of dust upon the road for dorothea to watch. they departed in sheets of rain and under the dusk of dawn. she never again saw general rochambeau. it is recorded that in his fifty-seventh year endymion westcote married (but the bride was not lady bateson), and that children were born to him. narcissus lived on at bayfield and compiled at his leisure a _history of axcester_, which mentions the decoration of the orange room by "a young frenchman of talent, who has been good enough to assist the author in a most important work." but dorothea preferred her independence and a cottage not far from the bridge, where endymion's children might romp as they listed, but never seemed to disturb its exquisite order. generously made available by the google books library project (http://books.google.com) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through the google books library project. see http://www.google.com/books?id=zcgsaaaamaaj transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). small capitals were replaced with all capitals. the old maids' club by i. zangwill author of "the bachelor's club," "the big bow mystery," etc. with numerous illustrations by f. h. townsend new york tait, sons & company union square copyright, , by united states book company, [all rights reserved.] introduction. the reader my book. my book the reader. [illustration: the old maids' club. by the author of the bachelors' club] contents. chapter. page. i. the algebra of love, plus other things ii. the honorary trier iii. the man in the ironed mask iv. the club gets advertised v. the princess of portman square vi. the grammar of love vii. the idyl of trepolpen viii. more about the cherub ix. of wives and their mistresses x. the good young men who lived xi. adventures in search of the pole xii. the arithmetic and physiology of love xiii. the english shakespeare xiv. the old young woman and the new xv. the mysterious advertiser xvi. the club becomes popular xvii. a musical bar xviii. the beautiful ghoul xix. la femme incomprise xx. the inaugural soiree the old maids' club. chapter i. the algebra of love, plus other things. [illustration] the old maids' club was founded by lillie dulcimer in her sweet seventeenth year. she had always been precocious and could analyze her own sensations before she could spell. in fact she divided her time between making sensations and analyzing them. she never spoke early english--the dialect which so enraged dr. johnson--but, like john stuart mill, she wrote a classical style from childhood. she kept a diary, not necessarily as a guarantee of good faith, but for publication only. it was labelled "lillie day by day," and was posted up from her fifth year. judging by the analogy of the rest, one might construct the entry for the first day of her life. if she had been able to record her thoughts, her diary would probably have begun thus:-- "_sunday, september rd:_ my birthday. wept at the sight of the world in which i was to be so miserable. the atmosphere was so stuffy--not at all pleasing to the æsthetic faculties. expected a more refined reception. a lady, to whom i had never been introduced, fondled me and addressed me as 'petsie-tootsie-wootsie.' it appears that she is my mother, but this hardly justifies her in degrading the language of milton and shakespeare. later on a man came in and kissed her. i could not help thinking that they might respect my presence; and, if they must carry on, continue to do so out of my sight as before. i understood later that i must call the stranger 'poppy,' and that i was not to resent his familiarities, as he was very much attached to my mother by act of parliament. both the man and the woman seem to arrogate to themselves a certain authority over me. how strange that two persons you have never seen before in your life should claim such rights of interference! there must be something rotten in the constitution of society. it shall be one of my life-tasks to discover what it is. i made a light lunch off milk, but do not care for the beverage. the day passed slowly. i was dreadfully bored by the conversation in the bedroom--it was so petty. i was glad when night came. o, the intolerable _ennui_ of an english sunday! i divine already that i am destined to go through life perpetually craving for i know not what, and that i shan't be happy till i get it." lillie was a born heroine, being young and beautiful from her birth. in her fourth year she conceived a platonic affection for the boy who brought the telegrams. his manners had such repose. this was followed by a hopeless passion for a french cavalry officer with spurs. every one feared she would grow up to be a suicide or a poetess; for her earliest nursery rhyme was an impromptu distich discovered by the nursery-maid, running: woonded i crawl out from the battel, life is as hollo as my rattel. and her twelfth year was almost entirely devoted to literary composition of a hopeless character, so far as publishers were concerned. it was only the success of "woman as a waste force," in her fourteenth year, that induced them to compete for her early manuscripts and to give the world the celebrated compilations, "ibsen for infants," "browning for babies," "carlyle for the cradle," "newman for the nursery," "leopardi for the little ones," and "the schoolgirl's schopenhauer," which, together with "tracts for the tots," make up the main productions of her first period. after the loss of the french cavalry officer she remained _blasée_ till she was more than seven, when her second grand passion took her. it was a very grand passion indeed this time--and it lasted a full week. these things did not matter while lillie had not yet arrived at years of indiscretion; but when she got into her teens, her father began to look about for a husband for her. he was a millionaire and had always kept her supplied with every luxury. but lillie did not care for her father's selections, and sent them all away with fleas in their ears instead of kind words. and her father was as unhappy as his selections. in her sixteenth year her mother, who had been ailing for sixteen years, breathed her last, and lillie more freely. she had grown quite to like mrs. dulcimer, and it prevented her having her own way. the situation was now very simple. mr. dulcimer managed his immense affairs and lillie managed mr. dulcimer. he made one last effort to get her to manage another man. he discovered a young nobleman who seemed fond of her society and who was in the habit of meeting her accidentally at the academy. the gunpowder being thus presumably laid, he set to work to strike the match. but the explosion was not such as he expected. lillie told him that no man was further from her thoughts as a possible husband. "but, lillie," pleaded the millionaire, "not one of the objections you have impressed upon me applies to lord silverdale. he is young, rich, handsome----" "yes, yes, yes," answered lillie, "i know." "he is rich and cannot be after your money." "true." "he has a title, which you consider an advantage." "i do." "he is a man of taste and culture." "he is." "well, what is it you don't like? doesn't he ride or dance well?" "he dances like an angel and rides like the devil." "well, what in the name of angels or devils is your objection then?" "father," said lillie very solemnly, "he is all you claim, but----." the little delicate cheek flushed modestly. she could not say it. "but----" said the millionaire impatiently. lillie hid her face in her hands. "but----" said the millionaire brutally. "but i love him!" "you what?" roared the millionaire. "yes, father, do not be angry with me. i love him dearly. oh, do not spurn me from you, but i love him with my whole heart and soul, and i shall never marry any other man but him." the poor little girl burst into a paroxysm of weeping. "then you _will_ marry him?" gasped the millionaire. "no, father," she sobbed solemnly, "that is an illegitimate deduction from my proposition. he is the one man on this earth i could never bring myself to marry." "you are mad!" "no, father. i am only mathematical. i will never marry a man who does not love me. and don't you see that, as i love him, the odds are that he doesn't love me?" "but he tells me he does!" "what is his bare assertion--weighed against the doctrine of probability! how many girls do you suppose silverdale has met in his varied career?" "a thousand, i dare say." "ah, that's only reckoning english society (and theatres). and then he has seen society (and theatres) in paris, berlin, rome, boston, a hundred places! if we put the figure at three thousand it will be moderate. here am i, a single girl----" "who oughtn't to remain so," growled the millionaire. "one single girl. how wildly improbable that out of three thousand girls, silverdale should just fall in love with me. it is to against. then there is the probability that he is not in love at all--which makes the odds to . the problem is exactly analogous to one which you will find in any algebra. out of a sack containing three thousand coins, what are the odds that a man will draw the one marked coin?" "the comparison of yourself to a marked coin is correct enough," said the millionaire, thinking of the files of fortune-hunters to whom he had given the sack. "otherwise you are talking nonsense." "then pascal, laplace, lagrange, de moivre talked nonsense," said lillie hotly; "but i have not finished. we must also leave open the possibility that the man will not be tempted to draw out any coin whatsoever. the odds against the marked coin being drawn out are thus to . the odds against silverdale returning my affection are to . as butler rightly points out, probability is the only guide to conduct, which is, we know from matthew arnold, three-fourths of life. am i to risk ruining three-fourths of my life, in defiance of the unerring dogmas of the doctrine of chances? no, father, do not exact this sacrifice from me. ask me anything you please, and i will grant it--oh! so gladly--but do not, oh, do not ask me to marry the man i love!" the millionaire stroked her hair, and soothed her in piteous silence. he had made his pile in pig-iron, and had not science enough to grapple with the situation. "do you mean to say," he said at last, "that because you love a man, he can't love you?" "he can. but in all human probability he won't. suppose you put on a fur waistcoat and went out into the street, determined to invite to dinner the first man in a straw hat, and supposing he replied that you had just forestalled him, as he had gone out with a similar intention to look for the first man in a fur waistcoat.--what would you say?" the millionaire hesitated. "well, i shouldn't like to insult the man," he said slowly. "you see!" cried lillie triumphantly. "well, then, dear," said he, after much pondering, "the only thing for it is to marry a man you _don't_ love." "father!" said lillie in terrible tones. the millionaire hung his head shamefacedly at the outrage his suggestion had put upon his daughter. "forgive me, lillie," he said; "i shall never interfere again in your matrimonial concerns." so lillie wiped her eyes and founded the old maids' club. she said it was one of her matrimonial concerns, and so her father could not break his word, though an entire suite of rooms in his own kensington mansion was set aside for the rooms of the club. not that he desired to interfere. having read "the bachelors' club," he thought it was the surest way of getting her married. the object of the club was defined by the foundress as "the depolarization of the term 'old maid'; in other words, the dissipation of all those disagreeable associations which have gradually and most unjustly clustered about it; the restoration of the homely saxon phrase to its pristine purity, and the elevation of the enviable class denoted by it to their due pedestal of privilege and homage." the conditions of membership, drawn up by lillie, were: . every candidate must be under twenty-five. . every candidate must be beautiful and wealthy, and undertake to continue so. . every candidate must have refused at least one advantageous offer of marriage. the rationale of these rules was obvious. disappointed, soured failures were not wanted. there was no virtue in being an "old maid" when you had passed twenty-five. such creatures are merely old maids--old maids (with capitals) were required to be in the flower of youth and the flush of beauty. their anti-matrimonial motives must be above suspicion. they must despise and reject the married state, though they would be welcomed therein with open arms. only thus would people's minds be disabused of the old-fashioned notions about old maids. the old maids were expected to obey an elaborate array of by-laws, and respect a series of recommendations. according to the by-laws they were required: . to regard all men as brothers. . not to keep cats, lap-dogs, parrots, pages, or other domestic pets. . not to have less than one birthday per year. . to abjure medicine, art classes, and catholicism. . never to speak to a curate. . not to have any ideals or to take part in woman's rights movements, charity concerts, or other platform demonstrations. . not to wear caps, curls, or similar articles of attire. . not to kiss females. in addition to these there were the general recommendations: never refuse the last slice of bread, etc., lest you be accused of dreading celibacy. never accept bits of wedding cake, lest you be suspected of putting them under your pillow. do not express disapproval by a sniff. in travelling, choose smoking carriages; pack your umbrellas and parasols inside your trunk. never distribute tracts. always fondle children and show marked hostility to the household cat. avoid eccentricities. do not patronize dorothy restaurants or the establishments of the aerated bread company. never drink cocoa-nibs. in dress it is better to avoid mittens, crossovers, fleecy shawls, elastic-side boots, white stockings, black silk bodies, with pendent gold chains, and antique white lace collars. one-button white kid gloves are also inadvisable for afternoon concerts; nor should any glove be worn with fingers too long to pick up change at booking-offices. parcels should not be wrapped in whitey-brown paper and not more than three should be carried at once. watch pockets should not be hung over the bed, sheets and mattresses should be left to the servants to air, and rooms should be kept in an untidy condition. refrain from manufacturing jam, household remedies, gossip or gooseberry wine. never nurse a cold or a relative. it is advisable not to have a married sister, as she might decease and the temptation to marry her husband is such as no mere human being ought to be exposed to. for cognate reasons eschew friendship with cripples and hunchbacks (especially when they have mastered the violin in twelve lessons), men of no moral character, drunkards who wish to reform themselves, very ugly men, and husbands with wives in lunatic asylums. cultivate rather the acquaintance of handsome young men (who have been duly vaccinated), for this species is too conceited to be dangerous. on the same principle were the rules for admitting visitors: . no unmarried lady admitted. . no married gentlemen admitted. if they admitted single ladies there would be no privilege in being a member, while if they did not admit single gentlemen, they might be taunted with being afraid that they were not fireproof. when lillie had worked this out to her satisfaction she was greatly chagrined to find the two rules were the same as for "the bachelors' club." to show their club had no connection with the brother institution, she devised a series of counterblasts to their misogynic maxims. these were woven on all the antimacassars; the deadliest were: the husband is the only creature entirely selfish. he is a low organism, consisting mainly of a digestive apparatus and a rude mouth. the lover holds the cloak; the husband drops it. wedding dresses are webs. women like clinging robes; men like clinging women. the lover will always help the beloved to be helpless. a man likes his wife to be just clever enough to comprehend his cleverness and just stupid enough to admire it. women who catch husbands rarely recover. marriage is a lottery; every wife does not become a widow. wrinkles are woman's marriage lines; but when she gets them her husband will no longer be bound. the woman who believes her husband loves her, is capable of believing that she loves him. a good man's love is the most intolerable of boredoms. a man often marries a woman because they have the same tastes and prefer himself to the rest of creation. if a woman could know what her lover really thought of her she would know what to think of him. possession is nine points of the marriage law. it is impossible for a man to marry a clever woman. marriages are made in heaven, but old maids go there. lillie also painted a cynical picture of dubious double-edged incisiveness. it was called "latter-day love," and represented the ill hap of cupid, neglected and superfluous, his quiver full, his arrows rusty, shivering with the cold, amid contented couples passing him by with never an eye for the lugubrious legend, "pity the poor blind." the picture put the finishing touch to the rooms of the club. when lillie dulcimer had hung it up, she looked round upon the antimacassars and felt a proud and happy girl. the old maids' club was now complete. nothing was wanting except members. [illustration: _latter-day love._] chapter ii. the honorary trier. lord silverdale was the first visitor to the old maids' club. he found the fair president throned alone among the epigrammatic antimacassars. lillie received him with dignity and informed him that he stood on holy ground. the young man was shocked to hear of the change in her condition. he, himself, had lately spent his time in plucking up courage to ask her to change it--and now he had been forestalled. "but you must come in and see us often," said lillie. "it occurs to me that the by-laws admit you." "how many will you be?" murmured silverdale, heartbroken. "i don't know yet. i am waiting for the thing to get about. i have been in communication with the first candidate, and expect her any moment. she is a celebrated actress." "and who elects her?" "i, of course!" said lillie, with an imperial flash in her passionate brown eyes. she was a brunette, and her face sometimes looked like a handsome thunder-cloud. "i am the president and the committee and the oldest old maid. isn't one of the rules that candidates shall not believe in women's rights? none of the members will have any voice whatever." "well, if your actress is a comic opera star, she _won't_ have any voice whatever." "lord silverdale," said lillie sharply, "i hate puns. they spoiled the bachelors' club." his lordship, who was the greatest punster of the peers, and the peer of the greatest punsters, muttered savagely that he would like to spoil the old maids' club. lillie punned herself sometimes, but he dared not tell her of it. "and what will be the subscription?" he said aloud. "there will be none. i supply the premises." "ah, that will never do! half the pleasure of belonging to a club is the feeling that you have not paid your subscription. and how about grub?" "grub! we are not men. we do not fulfil missions by eating." "unjust creature! men sometimes fulfil missions by being eaten." "well, papa will supply buns, lemonade and ices. turple the magnificent, will always be within call to hand round the things." "may i send you in a hundred-weight of chocolate creams?" "certainly. why should weddings have a monopoly of presents? this is not the only way in which you can be of service to me, if you will." "only discover it for me, my dear miss dulcimer. where there's a way there's a will." "well, i should like you to act as trier." "eh! i beg your pardon?" "don't apologize; to try the candidates who wish to be old maids." "try them! no, no! i'm afraid i should be prejudiced against bringing them in innocent." "don't be silly. you know what i mean. i could not tell so well as you whether they possessed the true apostolic spirit. you are a man--your instinct would be truer than mine. whenever a new candidate applies, i want you to come up and see her." "really, miss dulcimer, i--i can't tell by looking at her!" "no, but you can by her looking at you." "you exaggerate my insight." "not at all. it is most important that something of the kind should be done. by the rules, all the old maids must be young and beautiful. and it requires a high degree of will and intelligence----" "to be both!" "for such to give themselves body and soul to the cause. every old maid is double-faced till she has been proved single-hearted." "and must i talk to them?" "in plain english----" "it's the only language i speak plainly." "wait till i finish, boy! in plain english, you must flirt with them." "flirt?" said silverdale, aghast. "what! with young and beautiful girls?" "i know it is hard, lord silverdale, but you will do it for my sake!" they were sitting on an ottoman, and the lovely face which looked pleadingly up into his was very near. the young man got up and walked up and down. "hang it!" he murmured disconsolately. "can't you try them on turple the magnificent. or why not get a music-master or a professor of painting?" "music-masters touch the wrong chord, and professors of painting are mostly old masters. you are young and polished and can flirt with tact and taste." "thank you," said the poor young peer, making a wry face. "and therefore i'm to be a flirtation machine." "an electric battery if you like. i don't desire to mince my words. there's no gain in not calling a spade a spade." "and less in people calling a battery a rake." "is that a joke? i thought you clubmen enjoyed being called rakes." "that is all most of us do enjoy. take it from me that the last thing a rake does is to sow wild oats." "i know enough of agriculture not to be indebted to you for the information. but i certainly thought you were a rake," said the little girl, looking up at him with limpid brown eyes. "you flatter me," he said with a mock bow; "you are young enough to know better." "but you have seen society (and theatres) in a dozen capitals!" "i have been behind the scenes of both," he answered simply. "that is the thing to keep a man steady." "i thought it turned a man's head," she said musingly. "it does. only one begins manhood with his head screwed the wrong way on. homoeopathy is the sole curative principle in morals. excuse this sudden discharge of copy-book mottoes. i sometimes go off that way, but you mustn't take me for a maxim gun. i am not such a bore, i hope." lillie flew off at a feminine tangent. "all of which only proves the wisdom of my choice in selecting you." "what! to pepper them with pellets of platitude?" he said, dropping despairingly into an arm-chair. "no. with eyeshot. take care!" "what's the matter?" "you're sitting on an epigram." [illustration: "_take care! you're sitting on an epigram._"] the young man started up as if stung, and removed the antimacassar, without, however, seeing the point. "i hope you don't mind my inquiring whether you have any morals," said lillie. "i have as many as Æsop. the strictest investigation courted. references given and exchanged," said the peer lightly. "do be serious. you know i have an insatiable curiosity to know everything about everything--to feel all sensations, think all thoughts. that is the note of my being." the brown eyes had an eager, wistful look. "oh, yes--a note of interrogation." "o that i were a man! what _do_ men think?" "what do _you_ think? men are human beings first and masculine afterwards. and i think everybody is like a suburban assembly hall--to-day a temperance lecture, to-morrow a dance, next day an oratorio, then a farcical comedy, and on sunday a religious service. but about this appointment?" "well, let us settle it one way or another," lillie said. "here is my proposal----" "i have an alternative proposal," he said desperately. "i cannot listen to any other. will you, or will you not, become honorary trier of the old maids' club?" "i'll try," he said at last. "yes or no?" "shall you be present at the trials?" "certainly, but i shall cultivate myopia." "it's a short-sighted policy, miss dulcimer. still, sustained by your presence, i feel i could flirt with the most beautiful and charming girl in the world. i could do it, even unsustained by the presence of the other girl." "oh, no! you must not flirt with me. i am the only old maid with whom flirtation is absolutely taboo." "then i consent," said silverdale with apparent irrelevance. and seating himself on the piano stool, after carefully removing an epigram from the top of the instrument, he picked out "the last rose of summer" with a facile forefinger. "don't!" said lillie. "stick to your lute." thus admonished, the nobleman took down lillie's banjo, which was hanging on the wall, and struck a few passionate chords. "do you know," he said, "i always look on the banjo as the american among musical instruments. it is the guitar with a twang. wasn't it invented in the states? anyhow it is the most appropriate instrument to which to sing you my fin de siècle love song." "for heaven's sake, don't use that poor overworked phrase!" "why not? it has only a few years to live. list to my sonnet." so saying, he strummed the strings and sang in an aristocratic baritone: ad chloen.--a valedictory. o chloe, you are very, very dear, and far above your rivals in the town, who all in vain essay to beat you down, embittered by your haughtiness austere. too high you are for lowly me, i fear. you would not stoop to pick up e'en a crown, nor cede the slightest lowering of a gown, though in men's eyes far fairer to appear. with this my message, kindly current go, at half-penny per word--it should be less-- to chloe, telegraphical address (thus written to economize two _d_) of messrs. robinson, de vere & co., costumers, , ludgate hill, e. c. lillie laughed. "my actress's name is something like chloe. it is clorinda--clorinda bell. she tells me she is very celebrated." "oh, yes, i've heard of her," he said. "there is a sneer in your tones. have you heard anything to her disadvantage?" "only that she is virtuous and in society." "the very woman for an old maid! she is beautiful, too." "is she? i thought she was one of those actresses who reserve their beauty for the stage." "oh, no. she always wears it. here is her photograph. isn't that a lovely face?" "it is a lovely photograph. does she hope to achieve recognition by it, i wonder?" "sceptic!" "i doubt all charms but yours." "well, you shall see her." "all right, but mention her name clearly when you introduce me. women are such changing creatures--to-day pretty, to-morrow plain, yesterday ugly. i have to be reintroduced to most of my female acquaintances three times a week. may i wait to see clorinda?" "no, not to-day. she has to undergo the preliminary exam. perhaps she may not even matriculate. where you come in is at the graduation stage." "i see. to pass them as bachelors--i mean old maids. i say, how will you get them to wear stuff gowns?" the bell rang loudly. "that may be she. good-bye, lord silverdale. remember you are honorary trier of the old maids' club, and don't forget those chocolate creams." chapter iii. the man in the ironed mask. the episode that turned clorinda bell's thoughts in the direction of old maidenhood was not wanting in strangeness. she was an actress of whom everybody spoke well, excepting actresses. this was because she was so respectable. respectability is all very well for persons who possess no other ability; but bohemians rightly feel that genius should be above that sort of thing. clorinda never went anywhere without her mother. this lady--a portly taciturn dame, whose hair had felt the snows of sixty winters--was as much a part of her as a thorn is of a rose. she accompanied her always--except when she was singing--and loomed like some more substantial shadow before or behind her at balls and receptions, at concerts and operas, private views and church bazaars. her mother was always with her behind the scenes. she helped her to make up and to unmake. she became the st. peter of the dressing-room in her absence. at the green room club they will tell you how a royal personage asking permission to come and congratulate her, received the answer: "i shall be most honored--in the presence of my mother." there were those who wished clorinda had been born an orphan. but the graver sort held miss bell up as a typical harbinger of the new era, when actresses would keep mothers instead of dog-carts. there was no intrinsic reason, they said, why actresses should not be received at court, and visit the homes of the poor. clorinda was very charming. she was tall and fair as a lily, with dashes of color stolen from the rose and the daffodil, for her eyes had a sparkle and her cheeks a flush and her hair was usually golden. not the least of her physical charms was the fact that she had numerous admirers. but it was understood that she kept them at a distance and that they worshipped there. the society journals, to which clorinda was indebted for considerable information about herself, often stated that she intended to enter a convent, as her higher nature found scant satisfaction in stage triumphs, and she had refused to exchange her hand either for a coronet or a pile of dollars. they frequently stated the opposite, but a society journal cannot always be contradicting a contemporary. it must sometimes contradict itself, as a proof of impartiality. clorinda let all these rumors surge about her unheeded, and her managers had to pay for the advertisement. the money came back to them, though, for clorinda was a sure draw. she brought the odor of sanctity over the footlights, and people have almost as much curiosity to see a saint as a sinner--especially when the saint is beautiful. gentlemen in particular paid frequent pilgrimages to the shrine of the saint, and adored her from the ten-and-sixpenny pews. there was at this period a noteworthy figure in london dress circles and stalls, an inveterate first-nighter, whose identity was the subject of considerable speculation. he was a mystery in a swallow-tail coat. no one had ever seen him out of it. he seemed to go through life armed with a white breastplate, starched shot-proof and dazzling as a grenadier's cuirass. what wonder that a wit (who had become a dramatic critic through drink) called him. "the man in the ironed mask." between the acts he wore a cloak, a crush-hat and a cigarette. nobody ever spoke to him nor did he ever reply. he could not be dumb, because he had been heard to murmur "brava, bravissima," in a soft but incorrect foreign manner. he was very handsome, with a high, white forehead of the goth order of architecture, and dark, moorish eyes. nobody even knew his name, for he went to the play quite anonymously. the pit took him for a critic, and the critics for a minor poet. he had appeared on the scene (or before it) only twelve months ago, but already he was a distinguished man. even the actors and actresses had come to hear of him, and not a few had peeped at him between their speeches. he was certainly a sight for the "gods." latterly he had taken to frequenting the _lymarket_, where miss clorinda bell was "starring" for a season of legitimate drama. it was the only kind the scrupulous actress would play in. whenever there was no first night on anywhere else, he went to see clorinda. only a few rivals and the company knew of his constancy to the entertainment. clorinda was, it will be remembered, one of the company. it was the _entr'acte_ and the orchestra was playing a gavotte, to which the eighteenth-century figures on the drop scene were dancing. the man in the ironed mask strolled in the lobby among the critics, overhearing the views they were not going to express in print. clorinda bell's mother was brushing her child's magnificent hair into a more tragical attitude in view of the fifth act. the little room was sacred to the "star," the desire of so many moths. neither maid nor dresser entered it, for mrs. bell was as devoted to her daughter as her daughter to her, and tended her as zealously as if she were a stranger. "yes, but why doesn't he speak?" said clorinda. "you haven't given him a chance, darling," said her mother. "nonsense--there is the language of flowers. all my lovers commence by talking that." "you get so many bouquets, dear. it may be--as you say his appearance is so distinguished--that he dislikes so commonplace a method." "well, if he doesn't want to throw his love at my feet, he might have tried to send it me in a billet-doux." "that is also commonplace. besides, he may know that all your letters are delivered to me, and opened by me. the fact has often enough appeared in print." "ah, yes, but genius will find out a way. you remember lieutenant campbell, who was so hit the moment he saw me as perdita that he went across the road to the telegraph-office and wired, 'meet me at supper, top floor, piccadilly restaurant, . ,' so that the doorkeeper sent the message direct to the prompter, who gave it me as i came off with florizel and camilla. that is the sort of man i admire!" "but you soon tired of him, darling." "oh, mother! how can you say so? i loved him the whole run of the piece." "yes, dear, but it was only shakespeare." "would you have love a burlesque? 'a winter's tale' is long enough for any flirtation. let me see, was it campbell or belfort who shot himself? i for----oh! oh! that hairpin is irritating me, mother." "there! there! is that easier?" "thanks! there's only the man in the ironed mask irritating me now. his dumb admiration provokes me." "but you provoke his dumb admiration. and are you sure it is admiration?" "people don't go to see shakespeare seventeen times. i wonder who he is--an italian count most likely. ah, how his teeth flash beneath his moustache!" "you make me feel quite curious about him. do you think i could peep at him from the wing?" "no, mother, you shall not be put to the inconvenience. it would give you a crick in your neck. if you desire to see him, i will send for him." "very well, dear," said the older woman submissively, for she was accustomed to the gratification of her daughter's whims. so when the man in the ironed mask resumed his seat, a programme girl slipped a note into his hand. he read it, his face impassive as his ironed mask. when the play was over, he sauntered round to the squalid court in which the stage door was located and stalked nonchalantly up the stairs. the doorkeeper was too impressed by his air not to take him for granted. he seemed to go on instinctively till he arrived at a door placarded, "miss clorinda bell--private." he knocked, and the silvery accents he had been listening to all the evening bade him come in. the beautiful clorinda, clad in diaphanous white and radiating perfumes, received him with an intoxicating smile. "it is so kind of you to come and see me," she said. he made a stately inclination. "the obligation is mine," he said. "i am greatly interested in the drama. this is the seventeenth time i have been to see you." "i meant here," she said piqued, though the smile stayed on. "oh, but i understood----" his eyes wandered interrogatively about the room. "yes, i know my mother is out," she replied. "she is on the stage picking up the bouquets. i believe she sent you a note. i do not know why she wants to see you, but she will be back soon. if you do not mind being left alone with me----" "pray do not apologize, miss bell," he said considerately. "it is so good of you to say so. won't you sit down?" the man in the ironed mask sat down beside the dazzling clorinda and stared expectantly at the door. there was a tense silence. his cloak hung negligently upon his shoulders. he held his crush hat calmly in his hand. clorinda was highly chagrined. she felt as if she could slap his face and kiss the place to make it well. "did you like the play?" she said, at last. he elevated his dark eyebrows. "is it not obvious?" "not entirely. you might come to see the players." "quite so, quite so." he leaned his handsome head on his arm and looked pensively at the floor. it was some moments before he broke the silence again. but it was only by rising to his feet. he walked towards the door. "i am sorry i cannot stay any longer," he said. "oh, no! you mustn't go without seeing my mother. she will be terribly disappointed." "not less so than myself at missing her. good-night, miss bell." he made his prim, courtly bow. "oh, but you must see her! come again to-morrow night, anyhow," exclaimed clorinda desperately. and when his footsteps had died away down the stairs, she could not repress several tears of vexation. then she looked hurriedly into a little mirror and marvelled silently. "is he gone already?" said her mother, entering after knocking cautiously at the door. "yes, he is insane." "madly in love with you?" "madly out of love with me." he came again the next night, stolid and courteous. to clorinda's infinite regret her mother had been taken ill and had gone home early in the carriage. it was raining hard. clorinda would be reduced to a hansom. "they call it the london gondola," she said, "but it is least comfortable when there's most water. you have to be framed in like a cucumber in a hothouse." "indeed! personally i never travel in hansoms. and from what you tell me i should not like to make the experiment to-night. good-bye, miss bell; present my regrets to your mother." "deuce take the donkey! he might at least offer me a seat in his carriage," thought clorinda. aloud she said: "under the circumstances may i venture to ask you to see my mother at the house? here is our private address. won't you come to tea to-morrow?" he took the card, bowed silently and withdrew. in such wise the courtship proceeded for some weeks, the invalid being confined to her room at teatime and occupied in picking up bouquets by night. he always came to tea in his cloak, and wore his ironed mask, and was extremely solicitous about clorinda's mother. it became evident that so long as he had the ghost of an excuse for talking of the absent, he would never talk of clorinda herself. at last she was reduced to intimating that she would be found at the matinée of a new piece next day (to be given at the theatre by a débutante) and that there would be plenty of room in her box. clorinda was determined to eliminate her mother, who was now become an impediment instead of a pretext. but when the afternoon came, she looked for him in vain. she chatted lightly with the acting-manager, who was lounging in the vestibule, but her eye was scanning the horizon feverishly. "is this woman going to be a success?" she asked. "oh, yes," said the acting-manager promptly. "how do you know?" "i just saw the flowers drive up." [illustration: "_i just saw the flowers drive up._"] clorinda laughed. "what's the piece like?" "i only saw one rehearsal. it seemed great twaddle. but the low com. has got a good catchword, so there's some chance of its going into the evening bills." "oh, by the way, have you seen anything of that--that--the man in the ironed mask, i think they call him?" "do you mean here--this afternoon?" "yes." "no. do you expect him?" "oh, no; but i was wondering if he would turn up. i hear he is so fond of this theatre." "bless your soul, he'd never be seen at a matinée." "why not?" asked clorinda, her heart fluttering violently. "because he'd have to be in morning dress," said the actor-manager, laughing heartily. to clorinda his innocent merriment seemed the laughter of a mocking fiend. she turned away sick at heart. there was nothing for it but to propose outright at teatime. clorinda did so, and was accepted without further difficulty. "and now, dearest," she said, after she had been allowed to press the first kiss of troth upon his coy lips, "i should like to know who i am going to be?" "clorinda bell, of course," he said. "that is the advantage actresses have. they need not take their husband's name in vain." "yes, but what am _i_ to call you, dearest?" "dearest?" he echoed enigmatically. "let me be dearest--for a little while." she forbore to press him further. for the moment it was enough to have won him. the sweetness of that soothed her wounded vanity at his indifference to the prize coveted by men and convents. enough that she was to be mated to a great man, whose speech and silence alike bore the stamp of individuality. "dearest be it," she answered, looking fondly into his moorish eyes. "dearest! dearest!" "thank you, clorinda. and now may i see your mother? i have never learnt what she has to say to me." "what does it matter now, dearest?" "more than ever," he said gravely, "now she is to be my mother-in-law." clorinda bit her lip at the dignified rebuke, and rang for his mother-in-law elect, who came from the sick room in her bonnet. "mother," she said, as the good dame sailed through the door, "let me introduce you to my future husband." [illustration: _a family reunion._] the old lady's face lit up with surprise and excitement. she stood still for an instant, taking in the relationship so suddenly sprung upon her. then she darted with open arms towards the man in the ironed mask and strained his mask to her bosom. "my son! my son!" she cried, kissing him passionately. he blushed like a stormy sunset and tried to disengage himself. "do not crumple him, mother," said clorinda pettishly. "your zeal is overdone." "but he is my long-lost absalom! think of the rapture of having him restored to me thus. o what a happy family we shall be! bless you, clorinda. bless you, my children. when is the wedding to be?" the man in the ironed mask had regained his composure. "mother," he said sternly, "i am glad to see you looking so well. i always knew you would fall on your feet if i dropped you. i have no right to ask it--but as you seem to expect me to marry your daughter, a little information as to the circumstances under which you have supplied me with a sister would be not unwelcome. "stupid boy! don't you understand that miss bell was good enough to engage me as mother and travelling companion when you left me to starve? or rather, the impresario who brought her over from america engaged me, and clorinda has been, oh, so good to me! my little drapery business failed three months after you left me to get a stranger to serve. i had no resource but--to go on the stage." the old woman was babbling on, but the cold steel of clorinda's gaze silenced her. the outraged actress turned haughtily to the man in the ironed mask. "so _this_ is your mother?" she said with infinite scorn. "so this is _not_ your mother!" he said with infinite indignation. "were you ever really simple enough to suspect me of having a mother?" she retorted contemptuously. "i had her on the hire system. don't you know that a combination of maid and mother is the newest thing in actresses' wardrobes? it is safer then having a maid, and more comfortable than having a mother." "but i _have_ been a mother to you, clorinda," the old dame pleaded. "oh, yes, you have always been a good, obedient woman. i am not finding fault with you, and i have no wish to part with you. i do find fault and i shall certainly part with your son." "nonsense," said the man in the ironed mask. "the situation is essentially unchanged. she is still the mother of one of us, she can still become the mother-in-law of the other. besides, clorinda, that is the only way of keeping the secret in the family." "you threaten?" "certainly. you are a humbug. so am i. united we stand. separated, you fall." "you fall, too." "not from such a height. i am still on the first rungs." "nor likely to get any higher." "indeed? your experience of me should have taught you different. high as you are, i can raise you yet higher if you will only lift me up to you." "how do you climb?" she said, his old ascendency reasserting itself. "by standing still. profound meditation on the philosophy of modern society has convinced me that the only way left for acquiring notoriety is to do nothing. every other way has been exploited and is suspected. it is only a year since the discovery flashed upon me, it is only a year that i have been putting it in practice. and yet, mark the result! already i am a known man. i had the _entrée_ to no society; for half-a-guinea a night (frequently paid in paper money) i have mingled with the most exclusive. when there was no _premiere_ anywhere, i went to see you--not from any admiration of you, but because the _lymarket_ is the haunt of the best society, and in addition, the virtue of shakespeare and of yourself attracts there a highly respectable class of bishops whom i have not the opportunity of meeting elsewhere. by doing nothing i fascinated you--somebody was sure to be fascinated by it at last, as the dove flutters into the jaws of the lethargic serpent--by continuing to do nothing i completed my conquest. had i met your advances, you would have repelled mine. my theories have been completely demonstrated, and but for the accident of our having a common mother----" "speak for yourself," said clorinda haughtily. "it is for myself that i am speaking. when we are one, i shall continue this policy of masterly inactivity of which i claim the invention, though it has long been known in the germ. everybody knows for instance that not to trouble to answer letters is the surest way of acquiring the reputation of a busy man, that not to accept invitations is an infallible way of getting more, that not to care a jot about the feelings of the rest of the household, is an unfailing means of enforcing universal deference. but the glory still remains to him who first grasped this great law in its generalized form, however familiar one or two isolated cases of it may be to the world. 'do nothing' is the last word of social science, as 'nil admirari' was its first. just as silence is less self-contradictory than speech, so is inaction a safer foundation of fame than action. inaction is perfect. the moment you do anything you are in the region of incompleteness, of definiteness. your work may be outdone--or undone. your inventions may be improved upon, your victories annulled, your popular books ridiculed, your theories superseded, your paintings decried, the seamy side of your explanations shown up. successful doing creates not only enemies but the material for their malice to work upon. only by not having done anything to deserve success can you be sure of surviving the reaction which success always brings. to be is higher than to do. to be is calm, large, elemental; to do is trivial, artificial, fussy. to be has been the moth of the english aristocracy, it is the secret of their persistence. _qui s'excuse s'accuse._ he who strives to justify his existence imperils it. to be is inexpugnable, to do is dangerous. the same principle rules in all departments of social life. what is a successful reception? a gathering at which everybody _is_. nobody does anything. nobody enjoys anything. there everybody _is_--if only for five minutes each, and whatever the crush and discomfort. you are there--and there you _are_, don't you know? what is a social lion? a man who _is_ everywhere. what is social ambition? a desire to _be_ in better people's drawing-rooms. what is it for which people barter health, happiness, even honor? to _be_ on certain pieces of flooring inaccessible to the mass. what is the glory of doing compared with the glory of being? let others elect to do, i elect to _be_." "so long as you do not choose to be my husband----" "it is husband or brother," he said, threateningly. "of course. i become your sister by rejecting you, do i not?" "don't trifle. you understand what i mean. i will let the world know that your mother is mine." they stood looking at each other in silent defiance. at last clorinda spoke: "a compromise! let the world know that my mother is yours." "i see. pose as your brother!" "yes. that will help you up a good many rungs. i shall not deny i am your sister. my mother will certainly not deny that you are her son." "done! so long as my theories are not disproved. conjugate the verb 'to be,' and you shall be successful. let me see. how does it run? i am--your brother, thou art--my sister, she is--my mother,--we are--her children, you are--my womankind, they are--all spoofed." so the man in the ironed mask turned out to be the brother of the great and good actress, clorinda bell. and several people had known it all along, for what but fraternal interest had taken him so often to the _lymarket_? and when his identity leaked out, society ran after him, and he gave the interviewers interesting details of his sister's early years. and everyone spoke of his mother, and of his solicitous attendance upon her. and in due course the tale of his virtues reached a romantic young heiress who wooed and won him. and so he continued _being_, till he was--no more. by his own request they buried him in an ironed mask, and put upon his tomb the profound inscription "here lies the man who was." * * * * * and this was why clorinda, disgusted with men and lovers, and unable to marry her brother, caught at the notion of the old maids' club and called upon lillie. it was almost as good a cover as a mother, and it was well to have something ready in case she lost her, as you cannot obtain a second mother even on the hire system. but lord silverdale's report consisted of one word, "dangerous!"--and he rejoiced at the whim which enabled him thus to protect the impulsive little girl he loved. clorinda divined from lillie's embarrassment next day that she was to be blackballed. "i am afraid," she hastened to say, "that on second thoughts i must withdraw my candidature, as i could not make a practice of coming here without my mother." lillie referred to the rules. "married women are admitted," she said simply. "i presume, therefore, your mother----" "it's just like your presumption," interrupted clorinda, and flouncing angrily out of the club, she invited a journalist to tea. next day the _moon_ said she was going to join the old maids' club. chapter iv. the club gets advertised. "i see you have disregarded my ruling, miss dulcimer!" said lord silverdale, pointing to the paragraph in the _moon_. "what is the use of my trying the candidates if you're going to admit the plucked?" "i am surprised at you, lord silverdale. i thought you had more wisdom than to base a reproach on a _moon_ paragraph. you might have known it was not true." "that is not my experience, miss dulcimer. i do not think a statement is necessarily false because it appears in the newspapers. there is hardly a paper in which i have not, at some time or other, come across a true piece of news. even the _moon_ is not all made of green cheese." "but you surely do not think i would accept clorinda bell after your warning. not but that i am astonished. she assured me she was ice." "precisely. and so i marked her 'dangerous.' are there any more candidates to-day?" "heaps and heaps! from all parts of the kingdom letters have come from ladies anxious to become old maids. there is even one application from paris. ought i to entertain that?" "certainly. candidates may hail from anywhere--excepting naturally the united states. "but what, i wonder, has caused this tide of applications?" "the _moon_, of course. the fiction that clorinda bell intended to take the secular veil has attracted all these imitators. she has given the club a good advertisement in endeavoring merely to give herself one." "you suspect her, then, of being herself responsible for the statement that she was going to join the club?" "no. i am sure of it. who but herself knew that she was not?" "i can hardly imagine that she would employ such base arts." "higher arts are out of employment nowadays." "is there any way of finding out?" "i am afraid not. she has no bosom friends. stay--there is her mother!" "mothers do not tell their daughters' secrets. they do not know them." "well, there's her brother. i was introduced to him the other day at mrs. leo hunter's. but he seems such a reticent chap. only opens his mouth twice an hour, and then merely to show his teeth. oh, i know! i'll get at the _moon_ man. my aunt, the philanthropist, who is quite a journalist (sends so many paragraphs round about herself, you know), will tell me who invents that sort of news, and i'll interview the beggar." "yes, won't it be fun to run her to earth?" said lillie gleefully. silverdale took advantage of her good-humor. "i hope the discovery of the baseness of your sex will turn you again to mine." there was a pleading tenderness in his eyes. "what! to your baseness? i thought you were so good." "i am no good without you," he said boldly. "oh, that is too rich! suppose i had never been born?" "i should have wished i hadn't." "but you wouldn't have known _i_ hadn't." "you're getting too metaphysical for my limited understanding." "nonsense, you understand metaphysics as well as i do." "do not disparage yourself. you know i cannot endure metaphysics." "why not?" "because they are mostly made in germany. and all germans write as if their aim was to be misunderstood. listen to my simple english lay." "another love-song to chloe?" "no, a really great poem, suggested by the number of papers and poems i have already seen this _moon_ paragraph in." he took down the banjo, thrummed it, and sang: the grand paragraphic tour. i composed a little story about a cockatoo, with no desire of glory, to see what would ensue. it took the public liking from china to peru. the point of it was striking, though perfectly untrue. it began in a morning journal when gooseberries were due, the subject seemed eternal, so many scribes it drew. and in every evening column it made a great to-do, sub-editors so solemn just adding thereunto. in the london correspondence 'twas written up anew, and then a fog came on dense and hid me quite from view. and some said they had heard it from keepers in the zoo, while others who averred it had _seen_ that cockatoo. it lived, my little fable, i chuckled and i crew as at my very table friends twisted it askew. it leapt across the channel, a bounding kangaroo. it did not shrink like flannel but gained in size and hue. it appeared in french and spanish with errors not a few, in russian, greek and danish, inaccurately, too. and waxing more romantic with every wind that blew, it crossed the broad atlantic and grew and grew and grew. at last, like boomerang, it sped back across the blue, and tall and touched with twang, it appeared whence first it flew. an annual affliction, it tours the wide world through, and i who bred the fiction have come to think it true. life's burden it has doubled, for peace of mind it slew, my dreams by it are troubled, my days are filled with rue. its horrors yearly thicken, it sticks to me like glue, and sad and conscience-stricken i curse that cockatoo. "that is what will happen with clorinda bell's membership of our club," continued the poet. "she will remain a member long after it has ceased to exist. once a thing has appeared in print, you cannot destroy it. a published lie is immortal. age cannot wither it, nor custom stale its infinite variety. it thrives by contradiction. give me a cup of tea and i will go and interview the _moon_-man at once." the millionaire, hearing tea was on the tray, came in to join them, and silverdale soon went off to his aunt, lady goody-goody twoshoes, and got the address of the man in the _moon_. "lillie, what's this i see in the _moon_ about clorinda bell joining your club?" asked the millionaire. "an invention, father." the millionaire looked disappointed. "will all your old maids be young?" "yes, papa. it is best to catch them young." "i shall be dining at the club sometimes," he announced irrelevantly. "oh, no, papa. you are not admissible during the sittings." "why? you let lord silverdale in." "yes, but he is not married." "oh!" and the millionaire went away with brighter brow. [illustration: _the millionaire._] the rest of the afternoon lillie was busy conducting the preliminary examination of a surpassingly beautiful girl who answered to the name of "princess," and would give no other name for the present, not even to turple the magnificent. "you got my letter, i suppose?" asked the princess. "oh, yes," said the president. "i should have written to you." "i thought it best to come and see you about it at once, as i have suddenly determined to go to brighton, and i don't know when i may be back. i had not heard of your club till the other day, when i saw in the _moon_ that clorinda bell was going to join it, and anything she joins must of course be strictly proper, so i haven't troubled to ask the honorable miss primpole's advice--she lives with me, you know. an only orphan cannot be too careful!" "you need not fear," said lillie. "miss bell is not to be a member. we have refused her." "oh, indeed! well, perhaps it is as well not to bring the scent of the footlights over the club. it is hard upon miss bell, but if you were to admit her, i suppose other actresses would want to come in. there are so many of them that prefer to remain single." "are you sure _you_ do?" "positive. my experience of lovers has been so harassing and peculiar that i shall never marry, and as my best friends cannot call me a wall-flower, i venture to think you will find me a valuable ally in your noble campaign against the degrading superstition that old maids are women who have not found husbands, just as widows are women who have lost them." "i sincerely hope so," said lillie enthusiastically. "you express my views very neatly. may i ask what are the peculiar experiences you speak of?" "certainly. some months ago i amused myself by recording the strange episodes of my first loves, and in anticipation of your request i have brought the manuscript." "oh, please read it!" said lillie excitedly. "of course i have not given the real names." "no, i quite understand. won't you have a chocolate cream before you commence?" "thank you. they look lovely. how awfully sweet!" "too sweet for you?" inquired lillie anxiously. "no, no. i mean they are just nice." the princess untied the pretty pink ribbon that enfolded the dainty, scented manuscript, and pausing only to munch an occasional chocolate cream, she read on till the shades of evening fell over the old maids' club and the soft glow of the candles illuminated its dainty complexion. chapter v. "the princess of portman square." i am an only child. i was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and although there was no royal crest on it, yet no princess could be more comfortable in the purple than i was in the ordinary trappings of babyhood. from the cradle upwards i was surrounded with love and luxury. my pet name "princess" fitted me like a glove. i was the autocrat of the nursery and my power scarce diminished when i rose to the drawing-room. my parents were very obedient and did not even conceal from me that i was beautiful. in short they did their best to spoil me, though i cannot admit that they succeeded. i lost them both before i was sixteen. my poor mother died first and my poor father followed within a week; whether from grief or from a cold caught through standing bareheaded in the churchyard, or from employing the same doctor, i cannot precisely determine. after the usual period of sorrow, i began to pick up a bit and to go out under the care of my duenna, a faded flower of the aristocracy whose declining years my guardian had soothed by quartering her on me. she was a gentle old spinster, the seventh daughter of a penniless peer, and although she has seen hard times and has almost been reduced to marriage, yet she has scant respect for my ten thousand a year. she has never lost the sense of condescension in living with me, and would be horrified to hear she is in receipt of a salary. it is to this sense of superiority on her part that i owe a good deal of the liberty i enjoy under her régime. she does not expect in me that rigid obedience to venerable forms and conventions which she prescribes for herself; she regards it as a privilege of the higher gentlewoman to be bound hand and foot by fashionable etiquette, and so long as my liberty does not degenerate into license i am welcome to as much as i please of it. she has continued to call me "princess," finding doubtless some faint reverberation of pleasure in the magnificent syllables. i should add that her name is the honorable miss primpole and that she is not afraid of the butler. our town-house was situated in portman square and my parents tenanted it during the season. there is nothing very poetic about the square, perhaps, not even in the summer, when the garden is in bloom, yet it was here that i first learnt to love. this dull parallelogram was the birthplace of a passion as spiritual and intangible as ever thrilled maiden's heart. i fell in love with a voice. it was a rich, baritone voice, with a compass of two and a half octaves, rising from full bass organ-notes to sweet, flute-like tenor tones. it was a glorious voice, now resonant with martial ecstasy, now faint with mystic rapture. its vibrations were charged with inexpressible emotion, and it sang of love and death and high heroic themes. i heard it first a few months after my father's funeral. it was night. i had been indoors all day, torpid and miserable, but roused myself at last and took a few turns in the square. the air was warm and scented, a cloudless moon flooded the roadway with mellow light and sketched in the silhouettes of the trees in the background. i had reached the opposite side of the square for the second time when the voice broke out. my heart stood still and i with it. on the soft summer air the voice rose and fell; it was accompanied on the piano, but it seemed in subtler harmony with the moonlight and the perfumed repose of the night. it came through an open window behind which the singer sat in the gloaming. with the first tremors of that voice my soul forgot its weariness in a strange sweet trance that trembled on pain. the song seemed to draw out all the hidden longing of my maiden soul, as secret writing is made legible by fire. when the voice ceased, a great blackness fell upon all things, the air grew bleak. i waited and waited but the square remained silent. the footsteps of stray pedestrians, the occasional roll of a carriage alone fell on my anxious ear. i returned to my house, shivering as with cold. i had never loved before. i had read and reflected a great deal about love, and was absolutely ignorant of the subject. i did not know that i loved now--for that discover only came later when i found myself wandering nightly to the other side of the parallelogram, listening for the voice. rarely, very rarely, was my pilgrimage rewarded, but twice or thrice a week the square became an enchanted garden, full of roses whose petals were music. round that baritone voice i had built up an ideal man--tall and straight-limbed and stalwart, fair-haired and blue-eyed and noble-featured, like the hero of a northern saga. his soul was vast as the sea, shaken with the storms of passion, dimpled with smiles of tenderness. his spirit was at once mighty and delicate, throbbing with elemental forces yet keen and swift to comprehend all subtleties of thought and feeling. i could not understand myself, yet i felt that he would understand me. he had the heart of a lion and of a little child; he was as merciful as he was strong, as pure as he was wise. to be with him were happiness, to feel his kiss ecstasy, to be gathered to his breast, delirium, but alas! he never knew that i was waiting under his window. i made several abortive attempts to discover who he was or to see him. according to the directory the house was occupied by lady westerton. i concluded that he was her elder son. that he might be her husband--or some other lady's--never even occurred to me. i do not know why i should have attached the voice to a bachelor, any more than i can explain why he should be the eldest son, rather than the youngest. but romance has a logic of its own. from the topmost window of my house i could see lady westerton's house across the trees, but i never saw him leave or enter it. once, a week went by without my hearing him sing. i did not know whether to think of him as a sick bird or as one flown to warmer climes. i tried to construct his life from his periods of song, i watched the lights in his window, my whole life circled round him. it was only when i grew pale and feverish and was forced by the doctors and my guardian to go yachting that my fancies gradually detached themselves from my blue-eyed hero. the sea-salt freshened my thoughts, i became a healthy-minded girl again, carolling joyously in my cabin and taking pleasure in listening to my own voice. i threw my novels overboard (metaphorically, that is) and set the hon. miss primpole chatting instead, when the seascape palled upon me. she had a great fund of strictly respectable memories. most people's recollections are of no use to anybody but the owner, but hers afforded entertainment for both of us. by the time i was back in london the voice was no longer part even of my dreams, though it seemed to belong to them. but for accident it might have remained forever "a voice and nothing more." the accident happened at a musical-afternoon in kensington. i was introduced to a tall, fair, handsome blue-eyed guardsman, captain athelstan by name. his conversation was charming and i took a lot of it, while miss primpole was busy flirting with a seductive spaniard. you could not tell miss primpole was flirting except by looking at the man. in the course of the afternoon the hostess asked the captain to sing. as he went to the piano my heart began to flutter with a strange foreboding. he had no music with him, but plunged at once into the promontory chords. my agitation increased tenfold. he was playing the prelude to one of the voice's songs--a strange, haunting song with a schubert atmosphere, a song which i had looked for in vain among the classics. at once he was transfigured to my eyes, all my sleeping romantic fancies woke to delicious life, and in the instant in which i waited, with bated breath, for the outbreak of the voice at the well-known turn of the melody, it was borne in upon me that this was the only man i had ever loved or would ever love. my saga hero! my berserker, my norse giant! [illustration: _miss primpole was flirting with a seductive spaniard._] when the voice started it was not _my_ voice. it was a thin, throaty tenor. compared with the voice of portman square, it was as a tinkling rivulet to a rushing full-volumed river. i sank back on the lounge, hiding my emotions behind my fan. when the song was finished, he made his way through the "bravas" to my side. "sweetly pretty!" i murmured. "the song or the singing?" he asked with a smile. "the song," i answered frankly. "is it yours?" "no, but the singing is!" his good-humor was so delightful that i forgave his not having my voice. "what is its name?" "it is anonymous--like the composer." "who is he?" "i must not tell." "can you give me a copy of the song?" he became embarrassed. "i would with pleasure, if it were mine. but the fact is--i--i--had no right to sing it at all, and the composer would be awfully vexed if he knew." "original composer?" "he is, indeed. he cannot bear to think of his songs being sung in public." "dear me! what a terrible mystery you are making of it," i laughed. "o r-really there is no abracadabra about it. you misunderstand me. but i deserve it all for breaking faith and exploiting his lovely song so as to drown my beastly singing." "you need not reproach yourself," i said. "i have heard it before." he started perceptibly. "impossible," he gasped. "thank you," i said freezingly. "but how?" "a little bird sang it me." "it is you who are making the mystery now." "tit for tat. but i will discover yours." "not unless you are a witch!" "a what?" "a witch." "i am," i said enigmatically. "so you see it's of no use hiding anything from me. come, tell me all, or i will belabor you with my broomstick." "if you know, why should i tell you?" "i want to see if you can tell the truth." "no, i can't." we both laughed. "see what a cruel dilemma you place me in!" he said beseechingly. "tell me, at least, why he won't publish his songs. is he too modest, too timid?" "neither. he loves art for art's sake--that is all." "i don't understand." "he writes to please himself. to create music is his highest pleasure. he can't see what it has got to do with anybody else." "but surely he wants the world to enjoy his work?" "why? that would be art for the world's sake, art for fame's sake, art for money's sake!" "what an extraordinary view!" "why so? the true artist--the man to whom creation is rapture--surely he is his own world. unless he is in need of money, why should he concern himself with the outside universe? my friend cannot understand why schopenhauer should have troubled himself to chisel epigrams or leopardi lyrics to tell people that life was not worth living. had either been a true artist, he would have gone on living his own worthless life, unruffled by the applause of the mob. my friend can understand a poet translating into inspired song the sacred secrets of his soul, but he cannot understand his scattering them broad-cast through the country, still less taking a royalty on them. he says it is selling your soul in the market-place, and almost as degrading as going on the stage." "and do you agree with him?" "not entirely, otherwise i should never have yielded to the temptation to sing his song to-night. fortunately he will never hear of it. he never goes into society, and i am his only friend." "dear me!" i said sarcastically. "is he as careful to conceal his body as his soul?" his face grew grave. "he has an affliction," he said in low tones. "oh, forgive me!" i said remorsefully. tears came into my eyes as the vision of the norse giant gave away to that of an english hunchback. my adoring worship was transformed to an adoring matronly tenderness. divinely-gifted sufferer, if i cannot lean on thy strength, thou shalt lean on mine! so ran my thought till the mist cleared from my eyes and i saw again the glorious saga-hero at my side, and grew strangely confused and distraught. "there is nothing to forgive," answered captain athelstan. "you did not know him." "you forget i am a witch. but i do not know him--it is true. i do not even know his name. yet within a week i undertake to become a friend of his." he shook his head. "you do not know him." "i admitted that," i answered pertly. "give me a week, and he shall not only know me, he shall abjure those sublime principles of his at my request." the spirit of mischief moved me to throw down the challenge. or was it some deeper impulse? he smiled sceptically. "of course if you know somebody who will introduce you," he began. "nobody shall introduce me," i interrupted. "well, he'll never speak to you first." "you mean it would be unmaidenly for me to speak to him first. well, i will bind myself to do nothing of which mrs. grundy would disapprove. and yet the result shall be as i say." "then i shall admit you are indeed a witch." "you don't believe in my power, that is. well, what will you wager?" "if you achieve your impossibility, you will deserve anything." "will you back your incredulity with a pair of gloves?" "with a hundred." "thank you. i am not a briareus. let us say one pair then." "so be it." "but no countermining. promise me not to communicate with your mysterious friend in the interval." "i promise." "but how shall i know the result?" i pondered. "i will write--no, that would be hardly proper. meet me in the royal academy, room six, at the 'portrait of a gentleman,' about noon to-morrow week." "a week is a long time!" he sighed. i arched my eyebrows. "a week a long time for such a task!" i exclaimed. next day i called at the house of the voice. a gorgeous creature in plush opened the door. "i want to see--to see--gracious! i've forgotten his name," i said in patent chagrin. i clucked my tongue, puckered my lips, tapped the step with my parasol, then smiled pitifully at the creature in plush. he turned out to be only human, for a responsive sympathetic smile flickered across his pompous face. "you know--the singer," i said, as if with a sudden inspiration. "oh. lord arthur!" he said. "yes, of course," i cried, with a little trill of laughter. "how stupid of me! please tell him i want to see him on an important matter." "he--he's very busy, i'm afraid, miss." "oh, but he'll see me," i said confidently. "yes, miss; who shall i say, miss?" "the princess." he made a startled obeisance, and ushered me into a little room on the right of the hall. in a few moments he returned and said--"his lordship will be down in a second, your highness." sixty minutes seemed to go to that second, so racked was i with curiosity. at last i heard a step outside and a hand on the door, and at that moment a horrible thought flashed into my mind. what certainty was there my singer was a hunchback? suppose his affliction were something more loathly. what if he had a monstrous wen! for the instant after his entry i was afraid to look up. when i did, i saw a short, dark-haired young man, with proper limbs and refined features. but his face wore a blank expression, and i wondered why i had not divined before that my musician was blind! he bowed and advanced towards me. he came straight in my direction so that i saw he _could_ see. the blank expression gave place to one of inquiry. "i have ventured to call upon your lordship in reference to a charity concert," i said sweetly; "i am one of your neighbors, living just across the square, and as the good work is to be done in this district, i dared to hope that i could persuade you to take part in it." i happened to catch sight of my face in the glass of a chiffonier as i spoke, and it was as pure and candid and beautiful as the face of one of guido's angels. when i ceased, i looked up at lord arthur's. it was spasmodically agitated, the mouth was working wildly. a nervous dread seized me. after what seemed an endless interval, he uttered an explosive "put!" following it up by "f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-or two g-g-g-g-g-g-g-g----" "it is very kind of you," i interrupted mercifully. "but i did not propose to ask you for a subscription. i wanted to enlist your services as a performer. but i fear i have made a mistake. i understood you sang." inwardly i was furious with the stupid creature in plush for having misled me into such an unpleasant situation. "i d-d-d-o s-s-s-s-s----" he answered. as he stood there hissing, the truth flashed upon me at last. i had heard that the most dreadful stammerers enunciate as easily as anybody else when they sing, because the measured swing of the time keeps them steady. my heart sank as i thought of the voice so mutilated! poor young peer! was this to be the end of all my beautiful visions? as cheerfully as i could i cut short his sibilations. "oh, that's all right, then," i said. "then i may put you down for a couple of items." he shook his head, and held up his hands deprecatingly. "anything but that!" he stammered; "make me a patron, a committee-man, anything! i do not sing in public." while he was saying this i thought long and deeply. the affliction was after all less terrible than i had a right to expect, and i knew from the advertisement columns that it was easily curable. demosthenes, i remembered, had stoned it to death. i felt my love reviving, as i looked into his troubled face, instinct with the double aristocracy of rank and genius. at the worst the singing voice was unaffected by the disability, and as for the conversational, well there was consolation in the prospect of having the last word while one's husband was still having the first. _en attendant_, i could have wished him to sing his replies instead of speaking them, for not only should i thus enjoy his voice but the interchange of ideas would proceed less tardily. however that would have made him into an operatic personage, and i did not want him to look so ridiculous as all that. it would be tedious to recount our interview at the length it extended to. suffice it to say that i gained my point. without letting out that i knew of his theories of art for art's sake, i yet artfully pleaded that whatever one's views, charity alters cases, inverts everything, justifies anything. "for instance," i said with charming _naïveté_, "i would not have dared to call on you but in its sacred name." he agreed to sing two songs--nay, two of his own songs. i was to write to him particulars of time and place. he saw me to the door. i held out my hand and he took it, and we looked at each other, smiling brightly. "b-but i d-d-d-don't know your n-n-name," he said suddenly. "p-p-p-rincess what?" he spoke more fluently, now he had regained his composure. "princess," i answered, my eyes gleaming merrily. "that is all. the honorable miss primpole will give me a character, if you require one." he laughed--his laugh was like the voice--and followed me with his eyes as i glided away. i had won my gloves--and in a day. i thought remorsefully of the poor saga hero destined to wait a week in suspense as to the result. but it was too late to remedy this, and the organization of the charity concert needed all my thoughts. i was in for it now, and i resolved to carry it through. but it was not so easy as i had lightly assumed. getting the artists, of course, was nothing--there are always so many professionals out of work or anxious to be brought out, and so many amateurs in search of amusement. i could have filled the albert hall with entertainers. nor did i anticipate any difficulty in disposing of the tickets. if you are at all popular in society you can get a good deal of unpopularity by forcing them on your friends. no, the real difficulty about this charity concert was the discovery of an object in aid of which to give it. in my innocence i had imagined that the world was simply bustling with unexploited opportunities for well-doing. alas! i soon found that philanthropy was an over-crowded profession. there was not a single nook or corner of the universe but had been ransacked by these restless free-lances; not a gap, not a cranny but had been filled up. in vain i explored the map, in the hopes of lighting on some undiscovered hunting-ground in far cathay or where the khamsin sweeps the afric deserts. i found that the wants of the most benighted savages were carefully attended to, and that, even when they had none, they were thoughtfully supplied with them. anxiously i scanned the newspapers in search of a calamity, the sufferers by which i might relieve, but only one happened during that week, and that was snatched from between my very fingers by a lady who had just been through the divorce court. in my despair i bethought myself of the preacher i sat under. he was a very handsome man, and published his sermons by request. i went to him and i said: "how is the church?" "it is all right, thank you," he said. "doesn't it want anything done to it?" "no, it is in perfect repair. my congregation is so very good." i groaned aloud. "but isn't there any improvement that you would like?" "the last of the gargoyles was put up last week. mediæval architecture is always so picturesque. i have had the entire structure made mediæval, you know." "but isn't the outside in need of renovation?" "what! when i have just had it made mediæval!" "but the interior--there must be something defective somewhere!" "not to my knowledge." "but think! think!" i cried desperately. "the aisles--transept--nave--lectern--pews--chancel--pulpit--apse--porch-- altar-cloths--organ--spires--is there nothing in need of anything?" he shook his head. "wouldn't you like a colored window to somebody?" "all the windows are taken up. my congregation is so very good." "a memorial brass then?" he mused. "there is only one of my flock who has done anything memorable lately." my heart gave a great leap of joy. "then why do you neglect him?" i asked indignantly. "if we do not perpetuate the memory of virtue----" "he's alive," he interrupted. i bit my lips in vexation. "i think you need a few more choristers," i murmured. "oh no, we are sending some away." "the sunday school fund--how is that?" "i am looking about for a good investment for the surplus. do you know of any? a good mortgage, perhaps?" "is there none on the church?" i cried with a flicker of hope. "heaven forbid!" i cudgelled my brains frantically. "what do you think of a lightning-rod!" "a premier necessity. i never preach in a building unprotected by one." i made one last wild search. "how about a reredos?" he looked at me in awful, pained silence. i saw i had stumbled. "i--i mean a new wing," i stammered. "i am afraid you are not well this morning," said the preacher, patting my hand soothingly. "won't you come and talk it over, whatever it is, another time?" "no, no," i cried excitedly. "it must be settled at once. i have it. a new peal of bells!" "what is the matter with the bells?" he asked anxiously. "there isn't a single one cracked." i saw his dubiety, and profited by it. i learnt afterwards it was due to his having no ear of his own. "cracked! perhaps not," i replied in contemptuous accents. "but they deserve to be. no wonder the newspapers keep correspondences going on the subject." "yes, but what correspondents object to is the bells ringing at all." "i don't wonder," i said. "i don't say your bells are worse than the majority, or that i haven't got a specially sensitive ear for music, but i know that when i hear their harsh clanging, i--well i don't feel inclined to go to church and that's the truth. i am quite sure if you had a really musical set of chimes, it would increase the spirituality of the neighborhood." "how so?" he asked sceptically. "it would keep down swearing on sunday." "oh!" he pondered a moment, then said: "but that would be a great expense." "indeed? i thought bells were cheap." "certainly. area bells, hand-bells, sleigh-bells. but church-bells are very costly. there are only a few foundries in the kingdom. but why are you so concerned about my church?" "because i am giving a charity concert, and i should like to devote the proceeds to something." "a very exemplary desire. but i fear one bell is the most you could get out of a charity concert." i looked disappointed. "what a pity! it would have been such a nice precedent to improve the tone of the church. the 'constant readers' would have had to cease their letters." "no, no, impossible. a 'constant reader' seems to be so called because he is a constant writer." "but there might have been leaders about it." "hardly sensational enough for that! stay i have an idea. in the beautiful ages of faith, when a church-bell was being cast, the pious used to bring silver vessels to be fused with the bell-metal in the furnace, so as to give the bell a finer tone. a mediæval practice is always so poetical. perhaps i could revive it. my congregation is so very good." "good!" i echoed, clapping my hands. "but a concert will not suffice--we shall need a bazaar," said the preacher. "oh, but i must have a concert!" "certainly bazaars include concerts." [illustration: _how the duchess wanted to appear._] that was how the great church bazaar originated and how the rev. melitos smith came to resurrect the beautiful mediæval custom which brought him so much kudos and extracted such touching sentiments from hardened journalists. the bazaar lasted a week, and raised a number of ladies in the social scale, and married off three of my girl-friends, and cut me off the visiting list of the duchess of dash. she was pining for a chance of coming out in a comic opera chanson, but this being a church bazaar i couldn't allow her to kick up her heels. everything could be bought at that bazaar, from photographs of the rev. melitos smith to impracticable mouse-traps, from bread-and-cheese to kisses. there were endless side-shows, and six gipsy girls scattered about the rooms, so that you could have your fortune told in six different ways. i should not like to say how much that bazaar cost me when the bill for the bells came in, but then lord arthur sang daily in the concert hall, and i could also deduct the price of the pair of gloves captain athelstan gave me. for the captain honorably stood the loss of his wager, nay, more, cheerfully accepted his defeat, and there on the spot--before the "portrait of another gentleman"--offered to enlist in the bazaar. and very useful he proved, too. we had to be together, organizing it, nearly all day and i don't know what i should have done without him. i don't know what his regiment did without him, but then i have never been able to find out when our gallant officers do their work. they seem always to be saving it up for a rainy day. i was never more surprised in my life than when, on the last night of the bazaar-boom, amid the buzz of a brisk wind-up, lord arthur and captain athelstan came into the little presidential sanctum, which had been run up for me, and requested a special interview. "i can give you five minutes," i said, for i felt my finger was on the pulse of the bazaar, and my time correspondingly important. they looked grateful, then embarrassed. captain athelstan opened his mouth and closed it. "_you_ had better tell her," he said, nervously, to lord arthur. "n-n-no, y-y-y-y----" "what is it, captain athelstan?" i interrupted, pointedly, for i had only five minutes. "princess, we both love you," began the captain, blushing like a hobbledehoy, and rushing _in medias res_. i allowed them to call me princess, because it was not my christian name. "is this the time--when i am busy feeling the pulse of the bazaar?" "you gave us five minutes," pleaded the captain, determined to do or die, now he was in the thick of it. "go on," i said, "i will forgive you everything--even your love of me--if you are only brief." "we both love you. we are great friends. we have no secrets. we told each other. we are doubtful if you love either--or which. we have come together." he fired off the short, sharp sentences as from a six-barrelled revolver. "captain athelstan--lord arthur," i said. "i am deeply touched by the honor you have done your friendship and me. i will be equally frank--and brief--with you. i cannot choose either of you, because i love you both. like every girl, i formed an ideal of a lover. i have been fortunate in finding my ideal in the flesh. i have been unfortunate in finding it in two pieces. fate has bisected it, and given the form to one and the voice to the other. my ideal looks like you, captain athelstan, and sings like you, lord arthur. it is a stupid position, i know, and i feel like the donkey between two bundles of hay. but under the circumstances i have no choice." they looked at each other half-rapturously, half-despairingly. "then what's to be done?" cried the captain. "i don't know," i said, hopelessly. "love seems not only blind, but a blind alley, this time." "d-do you m-m-ean," asked lord arthur, "'how happy could i be with either, were t'other dear charmer away?'" i was glad he sang it, because it precipitated matters. "that is the precise position," i admitted. "oh, then, arthur, my boy, i congratulate you," said the captain, huskily. "n-n-no, i'll g-g-go away," said the singer. they wrangled for full ten minutes, but the position remained a block. [illustration: _bazaar proposal of marriage._] "gentlemen," i interposed, "if either of you had consented to accept the other's sacrifice, the problem would have been solved; only i should have taken the other. but two self-sacrifices are as bad as none." "then let us toss up for you, princess," said the captain, impulsively. "oh, no!" i cried, with a shudder. "submit my life to the chances of head or tail! it would make me feel like a murderess, with you for gentlemen of the jury." a painful silence fell upon the sanctum. unwitting of the tragedy playing within, all the fun of the fair went on without. "listen," i said, at last. "i will be the wife of him who wins me. chance shall not decide, but prowess. like the princesses of old, i will set you a task. whoever accomplishes it shall win my hand." "agreed," they said eagerly, though not simultaneously. "ay, but what shall it be?" i murmured. "why not a competition?" suggested the captain. "very well, a competition--provided you promise to fight fair, and not play into each other's hands." they promised, and together we excogitated and rejected all sorts of competitions. the difficulty was to find something in which each would have a fair chance. at length we arranged that they should play a game of chess, the winner to be mated. they agreed it would be a real "match game." the five minutes had by this time lasted half an hour, so i dismissed them, and hastened to feel the pulse of the bazaar, which was getting more and more feverish as the break-up drew nigh. they played the game in lord arthur's study. lord arthur was white and the captain black. everything was fair and above board. but they played rather slowly. every evening i sent the butler over to make inquiries. "the princess's compliments," he was told to say, "and how is it to-day?" "it is getting on," they told him, and he came back with a glad face. he was a kind soul despite his calves, and he thought there was a child dying. once a week i used to go over and look at it. ostensibly i called in connection with the bazaar accounts. i could not see any difference in the position from one week's end to another. there seemed to be a clump of pawns in the middle, with all the other pieces looking idly on; there was no thoroughfare anywhere. they told me it always came like that when you played cautiously. they said it was a french opening. i could not see any opening anywhere; it certainly was not the english way of fighting. picture my suspense during those horrible weeks. "is this the way all match-games are played?" i said once. "n-n-o," admitted lord arthur. "we for-g-g-ot to p-p-p-ut a t-t-t-t-t-time-limit." "what's the time-limit?" i asked the captain, wishing my singer could learn to put one to his sentences. "so many moves must be made in an hour--usually fifteen. otherwise the younger champion would always win, merely by outliving the elder. we forgot to include that condition." at length our butler brought back word that "it couldn't last much longer." his face was grave and he gave the message in low tones. "what a blessing. it's been lingering long enough! i wish they would polish it off," i murmured fretfully. after that i frequently caught him looking at me as if i were lucrezia borgia. the end came suddenly. the butler went across to make the usual inquiry. he returned, with a foolish face of horror and whispered, "it is all over. it has been drawn by perpetual check!" "great heavens!" i cried. my consternation was so manifest that he forgave the utterance of a peevish moment. i put on my nicest hat at once and went over. we held a council of war afresh. "let's go by who catches the biggest trout," suggested the captain. "no," i said. "i will not be angled for. besides, the biggest is not grammatical. it should be the bigger." thus reproved, the captain grew silent and we came to a deadlock once more. i gave up the hunt at last. "i think the best plan will be for you both to go away and travel. go round the world, see fresh faces, try to forget me. one of you will succeed." "but suppose we both succeed?" asked the captain. "that would be more awkward than ever," i admitted. "and if neither succeed?" asked lord arthur at some length. "i should say neither succeeds," i remarked severely. "neither takes a singular verb." "pardon me," said lord arthur with some spirit. "the plurality is merely apparent. 'succeed' is subjunctive after if." "ah, true," i said. "then suppose you go round the world and i give my hand to whoever comes back and proposes to me first." "something like the man in jules verne!" cried the captain. "glorious!" "except that it can be done quicker now," i said. lord arthur fell in joyously with the idea, which was a godsend to me, for the worry of having about you two men whom you love and who love you cannot be easily conceived by those who have not been through it. they, too, were pining away and felt the journey would do them good. captain athelstan applied for three months' furlough. he was to put a girdle round the earth from west to east, lord arthur from east to west. it was thought this would work fairly--as whatever advantages one outgoing route had over the other would be lost on the return. each drew up his scheme and prepared his equipment. the starting-point was to be my house, and consequently this was also the goal. after forty-eight days had passed (the minimum time possible) i was to remain at home day and night, awaiting the telegram which was to be sent the moment either touched english soil again. on the receipt of the telegram i was to take up my position at the front window on the ground floor, with a white rose in my hair to show i was still unwon, and to wait there day and night for the arrival of my offer of marriage, which i was not to have the option of refusing. during the race they were not to write to me. the long-looked-for day of their departure duly arrived. two hansoms were drawn up side by side, in front of the house. a white rose in my hair, i sat at the window. a parting smile, a wave of my handkerchief, and my lovers were off. in an instant they were out of sight. for a month they were out of mind, too. after the exhausting emotions i had undergone this period of my life was truly halcyon. i banished my lovers from my memory and enjoyed what was left of the season and of my girlish freedom. in two months i should be an affianced wife and it behoved me to make the best of my short span of spinsterhood. the season waned, fashion drifted to cowes, i was left alone in empty london. then my thoughts went back to the two travellers. as day followed day, my anxiety and curiosity mounted proportionately. the forty-eight days went by, but there was no wire. they passed slowly--oh, so slowly--into fifty, while i waited, waited, from dawn to midnight, with ears pricked up, for that double rat-tat which came not or which came about something else. the sands of september dribbled out, and my fate still hung in the balance. i went about the house like an unquiet spirit. in imagination i was seeing those two men sweeping towards me--one from the east of the world, one from the west. and there i stood, rooted to the spot, while from either side a man was speeding inevitably towards me, across oceans and continents, through canals and tunnels, along deserts or rivers, pressing into his service every human and animal force and every blind energy that man had tamed. to my fevered imagination i seemed to be between the jaws of a leviathan, which were closing upon me at a terrific rate, yet which took days to snap together, so wide were they apart, so gigantic was the monster. which of the jaws would touch me first? the fifties mounted into the sixties, but there was no telegram. the tension became intolerable. again and again i felt tempted to fly, but a lingering sense of honor kept me to my post. on the sixty-first day my patience was rewarded. sitting at my window one morning i saw a telegraph-boy sauntering along. he reached the gate. he paused. i rushed to the door and down the steps, seized the envelope and tore it frantically open. "_coming, but suppose all over._--arthur." i leaned on the gate, half fainting. when i went to my room, i read the wire again and noted it had been handed in at liverpool. in four or five hours at most i should cease to belong to myself. i communicated the news to the honorable miss primpole who congratulated me cordially. she made no secret of her joy that the nobleman had won. for my part i was still torn with conflicting emotions. now that i knew it was to be the one, i hankered after the other. yet in the heart of the storm there was peace in the thought that the long suspense was over. i ordered a magnificent repast to be laid for the home-coming voyager, which would also serve to celebrate our nuptials. the honorable miss primpole consented to grace the board and the butler to surrender the choicest vintages garnered in my father's cellar. two hours and a half dragged by; then there came another wire--i opened it with some curiosity, but as my eye caught the words i almost swooned with excitement. it ran: "_arrived, but presume too late._--athelstan." with misty vision i strove to read the place of despatch. it was dover. a great wave of hope surged in my bosom. my saga-hero might yet arrive in time. half frenziedly i turned over the leaves of bradshaw. no, after sending that wire, he would just have missed the train to victoria! cruel! cruel! but stay! there was another route. he might have booked for charing cross. yes! heaven be praised, if he did that, he would just catch a train. and of course he would do that--surely he would have planned out every possibility while crossing the channel, have arranged for all--my captain, my blue-eyed berserker! but then lord arthur had had two and a half hours' start.--i turned to liverpool and essayed to discover whether that was sufficient to balance the difference of the two distances from london. alas! my head swam before i had travelled two stations. there were no less than four routes to euston, to st. pancras, to king's cross, to paddington! still i made out that if he had kept his head very clear, and been very, very fortunate, he might just get level with the captain. but then on a longer route the chances of accidental delays were more numerous. on the whole the odds were decidedly in favor of the captain. but one thing was certain--that they would both arrive in time for supper. i ordered an additional cover to be laid, then i threw myself upon a couch and tried to read. but i could not. terrible as was the strain, my thoughts refused to be distracted. the minutes crawled along--gradually peace came back as i concluded that only by a miracle could lord arthur win. at last i jumped up with a start, for the shades of evening were falling and my toilette was yet to make. i dressed myself in a dainty robe of white, trimmed with sprays of wild flowers, and i stuck the white rose in my hair--the symbol that i was yet unasked in wedlock, the white star of hope to the way-worn wanderer! i did my best to be the fairest sight the travellers should have seen in all the world. the honorable miss primpole started when she saw me. "what have you been doing to yourself, princess?" she said. "you're lovelier than i ever dreamed." and indeed the crisis had lent a flush to my cheek and a flash to my eye which i would not willingly repay. my bosom rose and fell with excitement. in half an hour i should be in my saga-hero's arms! i went down to the ground-floor front and seated myself at the open window and gazed at the square and the fiery streaks of sunset in the sky. the honorable miss primpole lay upon an ottoman, less excited. every now and again she asked, "do you see anything, princess?" "nothing," i answered. of course she did not take my answer literally. several times cabs and carriages rattled past the window, but with no visible intention of drawing up. duskier, duskier grew the september evening, as i sat peering into the twilight. "do you see anything, princess?" "nothing." a moment after a hansom came dashing into sight--a head protruded from it. i uttered a cry and leant forward, straining my eyes. captain athelstan. yes! no! no! yes! no! _no!_ will it be believed that (such is the heart of woman) i felt a sensation of relief on finding the issue still postponed? for in the moment when the captain seemed to flash upon my vision--it was borne in upon me like a chilling blast that i had lost my voice. never would that glorious music swell for me as i sat alone with my husband in the gloaming. the streaks of sunset faded into gray ashes. "do you see anything, princess?" "nothing." even as i spoke i heard the gallop of hoofs in the quiet square, and, half paralyzed by the unexpected vision, i saw lord arthur dashing furiously up on horseback--lord arthur, bronzed and bearded and travel-stained, but lord arthur beyond a doubt. he took off his hat and waved it frantically in the air when he caught sight of my white figure, with the white rose of promise nestling in my hair. my poor saga-hero! [illustration: _at the winning post._] he reined in his beautiful steed before my window and commenced his proposal breathlessly. "_w-w-w_----" even mr. gladstone, if he had been racing as madly as lord arthur might well have been flustered in his speech. the poor singer could not get out the first word, try as he would. at last it came out like a soda-water cork and '_you_' with it. but at the '_be_' there was--o dire to tell!--another stoppage. "_b-b-b-b-b_----" "fire! fire! hooray!" the dull roar of an advancing crowd burst suddenly upon our ears, mingled with the piercing exultation of small boys. the thunderous clatter of the fire-engine seemed to rock the soil of the square. but neither of us took eyes off the other. "_be!_" it was out at last. the end was near. in another second i should say "yes." "fire! fire!" shrieked the small boys. "_m-m-m-y_----" lord arthur's gallant steed shifted uneasily. the fire-engine was thundering down upon it. "_w-w-w_----" "_will you be_----" the clarion notes of the captain rang out above the clatter of the fire-engine from which he madly jumped. "_wife?_" } the two travellers exclaimed together. "_mine?_" } "dead heat," i murmured, and fell back in a dead faint. my overwrought nerves could stand no more. * * * * * nevertheless it was a gay supper-party; the air was thick with travellers' tales, and the butler did not spare the champagne. we could not help being tickled by the quaint termination of the colossal globe-trotting competition, and we soothed lord arthur's susceptibilities by insisting that if he had only remembered the shorter proposal formula employed by his rival, he would have won by a word. it was a pure fluke that the captain was able to tie, for he had not thought of telegraphing for a horse, but had taken a hansom at the station, and only exchanged to the fire-engine when he heard people shouting there was a fire in seymour street. lord arthur obliged five times during the evening, and the honorable miss primpole relaxed more than ever before and accompanied him on the banjo. before we parted, i had been persuaded by my lovers to give them one last trial. that night three months i was to give another magnificent repast, to which they were both to be invited. during the interval each was to do his best to become famous, and at the supper-party i was to choose the one who was the more widely known throughout the length and breadth of the kingdom. they were to place before me what proofs and arguments they pleased, and i was to decide whose name had penetrated to the greater number of people. there was to be no appeal from my decision, nor any limitation to what the candidates might do to force themselves upon the universal consciousness, so long as they did not merely advertise themselves at so much a column or poster. they could safely be trusted not to do anything infamous in the attempt to become famous, and so there was no need to impose conditions. i had a secret hope that lord arthur might thus be induced to bring his talents before the world and get over his objection to the degradation of public appearances. my hope was more than justified. [illustration: "_ba, ba, ba, boodle-dee._"] i grieve to say neither strove to benefit his kind. his lordship went on the music-hall stage, made up as a costermonger, and devoted his wonderful voice and his musical genius to singing a cockney ballad with a chorus consisting merely of the words "ba, ba, ba, boodle-dee" repeated sixteen times. it caught on like a first-class epidemic. "ba, ba, ba, boodle-dee" microbes floated in every breeze. the cholera-chorus raged from piccadilly to land's end, from kensington to john o'groats. the swarthy miners hewed the coal to it. it dropped from passing balloons, the sailors manned the capstan to it, and the sound of it superseded fog-horns. duchesses danced to it, and squalid infants cried for it. divines with difficulty kept it out of their sermons, philosophers drew weighty lessons from it, critics traced its history, and as it didn't mean anything the greatest puritans hummed it inaccurately. "ba, ba, ba, boodle-dee," sang lord arthur nightly at six halls and three theatres, incidentally clearing off all the debts on the family estates, and, like a flock of sheep, the great british public took up the bleat, and in every hall and drawing-room blossomed the big pearl buttons of the cockney costermonger. but captain athelstan came to the front far more easily, if less profitably. he sent a testimonial to the perfect cure elixir. the elixir was accustomed to testimonials from the suffering millions. the spelling generally had to be corrected before they were fit for publication. it also received testimonials which were useless, such as: "i took only one bottle of your elixir and i got fourteen days." but a testimonial from a captain of the guards was a gold-mine. the captain's was the best name the elixir had ever had, and he had enjoyed more diseases than it had hitherto professed to cure. astonished by its own success the elixir resolved to make a big spurt and kill off all its rivals. for the next few months captain athelstan was rammed down the throats of all england. he came with the morning milk in all the daily papers, he arrived by the first post in a circular, he stared at people from every dead wall when they went out to business, he was with them at lunch, in little plaques and placards in every restaurant, he nodded at them in every bar, rode with them in every train and tram-car, either on the wall or on the back of the ticket, joined them at dinner in the evening papers and supplied the pipe lights after the meal. you took up a magazine and found he had slipped between the sheets, you went to bed and his diseased figure haunted your dreams. life lost its sweetness, literature its charm. the loathsome phantasm of the complexly-afflicted captain got between you and the sunshine. stiff examination papers (compiled from the captain) were set at every breakfast-table, and you were sternly interrogated as to whether you felt an all-gone sensation at the tip of your nose, and you were earnestly adjured to look at your old diseases. you began to read an eloquent description of the alps, and lo! there was the captain perched on top. you started a thrilling story of the sea, and the captain bobbed up from the bottom; you began a poetical allegory concerning the valley of the shadow, and you found the captain had been living there all his life--till he came upon the elixir. a little innocent child remarked, "pater, it is almost bath-time," and you felt for your handkerchief in view of a touching domestic idyl, but the captain froze your tears. "why have sunstroke in india?" you were asked, and the captain supplied the answer. something came like a thief in the night. it was the captain. you were startled to see that there was "a blight over all creation," but it turned out to be only the captain. everything abutted on the captain--shakespeare and the musical glasses, the venus of milo and the mikado, day and night and all the seasons, the potato harvest and the durham coal strike, the advantages of early rising, and the american copyright act. he was at the bottom of every passage, he lurked in every avenue, he was at the end of every perspective. the whole world was familiar with his physical symptoms, and his sad history. the exploits of julius cæsar were but a blur in the common mind, but everybody knew that the captain's skin grew gobelin blue, that the whites of his eyes turned green, and his tongue stuck in his cheek, and that the rest of his organism behaved with corresponding gruesomeness. everybody knew how they dropped off, "petrified by my breath," and how his sympathetic friends told him in large capitals "you will never get better, captain," and how his weeping mother, anxious to soothe his last hours, remarked in reply to a request for another box of somebody else's pills, "the only box you'll ever want will be a coffin," and how "he thought it was only cholera," but how one dose of the elixir (which new-born babies clamored for in preference to their mother's milk) had baffled all their prognostications and made him a celebrity for life. in private the captain said that he really had these ailments, though he only discovered the fact when he read the advertisements of the elixir. but the mess had an inkling that it was all done for a wager, and christened him "the perfect cure." to me he justified himself on the ground that he had scrupulously described himself as having his tongue in his cheek, and that he really suffered from love-sickness, which was worse than all the ills the elixir cured. i need scarcely say that i was shocked by my lovers' practical methods of acquiring that renown for which so many gifted souls have yearned in vain, though i must admit that both gentlemen retained sufficient sense of decorum to be revolted by the other's course of action. they remonstrated with each other gently but firmly. the result was that their friendship snapped and a week before the close of the competition they crossed the channel to fight a duel. i got to hear of it in time and wired to boulogne that if they killed each other i would marry neither, that if only one survived i would never marry my lover's murderer, and that a duel excited so much gossip that, if both survived, they would be equally famous and the competition again a failure. these simple considerations prevented any mishap. the captain returned to his regiment and lord arthur went on to the riviera to while away the few remaining days and to get extra advertisement out of not appearing at his halls through indisposition. at monte carlo he accidentally broke the bank, and explained his system to the interviewers. to my chagrin, for i was tired of see-sawing, this brought him level with the captain again. i had been prepared to adjudicate in favour of the latter, on the ground that although "ba, ba, ba, boodle-dee" was better known than the patent cure elixir, yet the originator of the song remained unknown to many to whom the captain was a household word, and this in despite of the extra attention secured to lord arthur by his rank. the second supper-party was again sicklied over with the pale cast of thought. "no more competitions!" i said. "you seem destined to tie with each other instead of with me. i will return to my original idea. i will give you a task which it is not likely both will perform. i will marry the man who asks me, provided he comes, neither walking nor riding, neither sailing nor driving, neither skating nor sliding nor flying, neither by boat nor by balloon nor by bicycle, neither by swimming nor by floating nor by anybody carrying or dragging or pushing him, neither by any movement of hand or foot nor by any extraordinary method whatever. till this is achieved neither of you must look upon my face again." "they looked aghast when i set the task. they went away and i have not seen them from that day to this. i shall never marry now. so i may as well devote myself to the cause of the old maids you are so nobly championing." she rolled up the ms. "but," said lillie excitedly, breaking in for the first time, "what is the way you want them to come?" the princess laughed a silvery laugh. "no way. don't you understand? it was a roundabout way of saying i was tired of them." "oh!" said lillie. "you see, i got the idea from a fairy-tale," said the princess. "there, the doer evaded the conditions by being dragged at a horse's tail--i have guarded against this, so that now the thing is impossible." again her mischievous laughter rang out through the misanthropic room. lillie smiled, too. she felt certain lord silverdale would find no flaw in the princess's armor, and she was exultant at so auspicious an accession. for the sake of formality, however, she told her that she would communicate her election by letter. the next day a telegram came to the club. "_compelled to withdraw candidature. feat accomplished._ princess, hotel metropole, brighton." equally aghast and excited, lillie wired back, "_how?_" and prepaid the reply. "_lover happened to be here. came up in lift as i was waiting to go down._" still intensely piqued by curiosity and vexation, lillie telegraphed. "_which?_" "_leave you to guess_," answered the electric current. chapter vi. the grammar of love. the _moon_-man's name was wilkins, and he did nine-tenths of the interviews in that model of the new journalism. wilkins was the man to catch the weasel asleep, hit off his features with a kodak, and badger him the moment he awoke as to why he popped. wilkins lived in a flat in chancery lane, and had his whiskey and his feet on the table when silverdale turned the handle of the door in the gloaming. "what do you want?" said wilkins gruffly. "i have come to ask you a few questions," said silverdale politely. "but i don't know you, sir," said wilkins stiffly. "don't you see i'm busy?" "it is true i am a stranger, but remember, sir, i shall not be so when i leave. i just want to interview you about that paragraph in the _moon_, stating----" "look here!" roared wilkins, letting his feet slide from the table with a crash. "let me tell you, sir, i have no time to listen to your impertinence. my leisure is scant and valuable. i am a hard-worked man. i can't be pestered with questions from inquisitive busybodies. what next, sir? what i write in the _moon_ is my business and nobody else's. damn it all, sir, is there to be nothing private? are you going to poke and pry into the concerns of the very journalist? no, sir, you have wasted your time as well as mine. we never allow the public to go behind what appears in our paper." "but this is a mere private curiosity--what you tell me shall never be published." "if it could be, i wouldn't tell it you. i never waste copy." "tell me--i am willing to pay for the information--who wrote the paragraph about clorinda bell and the old maids' club." "go to the devil!" roared wilkins. "i thought you would know more than he," said silverdale, and left. wilkins came downstairs on his heels, in a huff, and walked towards ludgate hill. silverdale thought he would have another shot, and followed him unseen. the two men jumped into a train, and after an endless-seeming journey arrived at the crystal palace. a monster balloon was going off from the grounds. herr nickeldorf, the great aeronaut, was making in solitude an experimental night excursion to calais, as if anxious to meet his fate by moonlight alone. wilkins rushed up to nickeldorf, who was standing among the ropes giving directions. "go avay!" said nickeldorf, when he saw him. "i hafe nodings to say to you. you makes me _schwitzen_." he jumped into the car and bade the men let go. ordinarily wilkins would have been satisfied with this ample material for half a column, but he was still in a bad temper, and, as the car was sailing slowly upwards, he jumped in, and the aeronaut gave himself up for pumped. in an instant, moved by an irresistible impulse, silverdale gave a great leap and stood by the _moon_-man's side. the balloon shot up and the roar of the crowd became a faint murmur as the planet flew from beneath their feet. "good-evening, mr. wilkins," said lord silverdale. "i should just like to interview you about----" "you jackanapes!" cried the _moon_-man, pale with anger, "if you don't go away at once, i'll kick you down stairs." [illustration: _go away, or i'll kick you down stairs._] "my dear mr. wilkins," suavely replied lord silverdale, "i will willingly go down, provided you accompany me. i am sure herr nickeldorf is anxious to drop both of us." "_wirklich_," replied the aeronaut "well, lend us a parachute," said silverdale. "no, danks. beobles never return barachutes." "well, we won't go without one. i forgot to bring mine with me. i didn't know i was going to have such a high old time." "by what right, sir," said mr. wilkins, who had been struggling with an attack of speechlessness, "do you persecute me like this? _you_ are not a member of the fourth estate." "no, i belong merely to the second." "eh? what? a peer!" "i am lord silverdale." "no, indeed! lord silverdale!" "lord silverdale!" echoed the aeronaut, letting two sand-bags fall into the clouds. most people lose their ballast in the presence of the aristocracy. "oh, i am so glad! i have long been anxious to meet your lordship," said the _moon_-man, taking out his notebook. "what is your lordship's opinion of the best fifty books for the working man's library?" "i have not yet written fifty books." "ah!" said the _moon_-man, carefully noting down the reply. "and when is your lordship's next book coming out?" "i cannot say." "thank you," said the _moon_-man, writing it down. "will it be poetry or prose?" "that is as the critics shall decide." "is it true that your lordship has been converted to catholicism?" "i believe not." "then how does your lordship account for the rumor?" "i have an indirect connection with a sort of new nunnery, which it is proposed to found--the old maids' club." "oh, yes, the one that clorinda bell is going to join." "nonsense! who told you she was going to join?" the _moon_-man winced perceptibly at the question, as he replied indignantly: "herself!" "thank you. that's what i wanted to know. you may contradict it on the authority of the president. she only said so to get an advertisement." "then why give her two by contradicting it?" "that is the woman's cleverness. let her have the advertisement, rather than that her name should be connected with miss dulcimer's." "very well. tell me something, please, about the club." "it is not organized yet. it is to consist of young and beautiful women, vowed to celibacy to remove the reproach of the term 'old maid.'" "it is a noble idea!" said the _moon_-man, enthusiastically. "oh, what a humanitarian time we are having!" "lord silverdale," said herr nickeldorf, who had been listening with all his ears, "i hafe to you give de hospitality of my balloon. vill you, in return, take _mein frau_ into de old maids' club?" "as a visitor? with pleasure, as she is a married woman." "_nein, nein._ i mean as an old maid. _ich habe sic nicht nöthig._ i do not require her any longer." "ah, then, i am afraid we can't. you see she _isn't_ an old maid!" "but she haf been." "ah, yes, but we do not recognize past services." "oh, _warum_ wasn't the club founded before i married?" groaned the old german. "_himmel_, vat a terrible mistake! it is to her i owe it that i am de most celebrated aeronaut in _der ganzeu welt_. it is the only profession in wich i escape her _gewiss_. she haf de _kopf_ too veak to rise mit me. ah, when i come oop here, it is _himmel_." "rather taking an unfair rise out of your partner, isn't it?" queried the _moon_-man with a sickly smile. "and vat vould you haf done in--_was sagt man_--in my shoes?" the _moon_-man winced. "not put them on." "you are not yourself married?" the _moon_-man winced. "no, i'm only engaged." "_mein herr_," said the old german solemnly, "i haf nodings but drouble from you. you make to me mein life von burden. but i cannot see you going to de altar widout putting out de hand to safe you. it was stupid to yourself engage at all--but, now dat you haf committed de mistake, shtick to it!" "how do you mean?" "keep yourself engaged. do not change your gondition any more." "what do you say, lord silverdale?" said the _moon_-man, anxiously. "i am hardly an authority. you see i have so rarely been married. it depends on the character of your betrothed. does she long to be of service in the world?" the _moon_-man winced. "yes, that's why she fell in love with me. thought a _moon_-man must be all noble sentiment like the _moon_ itself!" "she is, then, young," said silverdale, musingly. "is she also beautiful?" the _moon_-man winced. "bewitching. why does your lordship ask?" "because her services might be valuable as an old maid." "oh, if you could only get diana to see it in that light!" "you seem anxious to be rid of her." "i do. i confess it. it has been growing on me for some time. you see hers is a soul perpetually seeking more light. she is always asking questions. this thirst for information would be made only more raging by marriage. you know what stevenson says:--'to marry is to domesticate the recording angel.' at present my occupations keep me away from her--but she answers my letters with as many queries as a 'constant reader.' she wants to know all i say, do, or feel, and i never see her without having to submit to a string of inquiries. it's like having to fill up a census paper once a week. if i don't see her for a fortnight she wants to know how i am the moment we meet. if this is so before marriage, what will it be after, when her opportunities of buttonholing me will be necessarily more frequent?" "but i see nothing to complain of in that!" said lord silverdale. "tender solicitude for one's betrothed is the usual thing with those really in love. you wouldn't like her to be indifferent to what you were doing, saying, feeling?" the _moon_-man winced. "no, that's just the dilemma of it, lord silverdale. i am afraid your lordship does not catch my drift. you see, with another man, it wouldn't matter; as your lordship says, he would be glad of it. but to me all that sort of thing's 'shop.' and i hate 'shop.' it's hard enough to be out interviewing all day, without being reminded of its when you get home and want to put your slippers on the fender and your feet inside them and be happy. no, if there's one thing in this world i can't put up with, it's 'shop' after business hours. i want to forget that i get my gold in exchange for notes of interrogation. i shudder to be reminded that there are such things in the world as questions--i tremble if i hear a person invert the subject and predicate of a sentence. i can hardly bear to read poetry because the frequent inversions make the lines look as if they were going to be inquisitive. now you understand why i was so discourteous to your lordship, and i trust that you will pardon the curt expression of my hyper-sensitive feelings. now, too, you understand why i shrink from the prospect of marriage, to the brink of which i once bounded so heedlessly. no, it is evident a life of solitude must be my portion. if i am ever to steep my wearied spirit in forgetfulness of my daily grind, if my nervous system is to be preserved from premature break-down, i must have no one about me who has a right of interrogation, and my housekeeper must prepare my meals without even the preliminary 'chop or steak, sir?' my home-life must be restful, peaceful, balsamic--it must exhale a papaverous aroma of categorical proposition." "but is there no way of getting a wife with a gift of categorical conversation?" "please say, 'there is no way, etc.,' for unless you yourself speak categorically, the sentences grate upon my ear. i can ask questions myself, without experiencing the slightest inconvenience, but the moment i am myself interrogated, every nerve in me quivers with torture. no, i am afraid it is impossible to find a woman who will eschew the interrogative form of proposition, and limit herself to the affirmative and negative varieties; who will, for mere love of me, invariably place the verb after the noun, and unalterably give the subject the precedence over the predicate. often and often, when my diana, in all her dazzling charms, looks up pleadingly into my face, i feel towards her as ahasuerus felt towards the suppliant queen esther, and i yearn to stretch out my reporter's pencil towards her, and to say: 'ask me what you will--even if it be half my income--so long as you do not ask me a question.'" "but isn't there--i mean there is--such a thing obtainable as a dumb wife?" "mutes are for funerals, and not for marriages. besides, then, everybody would be asking me why i married her. no, the more i think of it, the more i see the futility of my dream of matrimonial felicity. why, a question lies at the very threshold of marriage--'wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?'--and to put up the banns is to loose upon yourself an interviewer in a white-tie! no, leave me to my unhappy destiny. i must dree my weird. and anything your lordship can do in the way of enabling me to dree it by soliciting my diana into the old maids' club, shall be received with the warmest thanksgiving and will allow me to remain your lordship's most grateful and obedient servant, daniel wilkins." "enough!" said lord silverdale, deeply moved, "i will send her a circular. but do you really think you would be happy if you lost her?" "if," said the _moon_-man moodily. "it would require a great many 'ifs' to make me happy. as i once wrote: if cash were always present, and business always paid; if skies were always pleasant, and pipes were never laid; if toothache emigrated, dyspepsia disappeared, and babies were cremated, and boys and girls were speared; if shirts were always creamy, and buttons never broke; if eyes were always beamy, and all could see a joke; if ladies never fumbled at railway pigeon holes; new villas never crumbled, and lawyers boasted souls; if beer was never swallowed, and cooks were never drunk, and trades were never followed, and thoughts were never thunk; if sorrow never troubled, and pleasure never cloyed, and animals were doubled, and humans all destroyed; _then_--if there were no papers, and more words rhymed with "giving"-- existence would be capers, and life be worth the living. your lordship might give me a poem in exchange," concluded the _moon_-man conceitedly. "an advance quote from your next volume, say." "very well," and the peer good-naturedly began to recite the first fytte of an old english romance. ye white moon sailed o'er ye dark-blue vault, and safely steered mid ye fleet of starres, and threw down smiles to ye antient salt, while venus flyrtede with wynkynge mars. along ye sea-washed slipperie slabbes ye whelkes were stretchynge their weary limbs, while prior to going to bedde ye crabbes were softlie chaunting their evenynge hymnes." at this point a sudden shock threw both bards off their feet, inverting them in a manner most disagreeable to the _moon_-man. while they were dropping into poetry, the balloon had been dropping into a wood, and the aeronaut had thrown his grapnel into the branches of a tree. "what's the matter?" they cried. "change here for london!" said the herr, phlegmatically, "unless you want to go mit me to calais. in five more minutes i shall be crossing de channel." "no, no, put us down," said the _moon_-man. "i never _could_ cross the channel. oh, when are they going to make that tunnel?" thereupon he lowered himself into the tree, and lord silverdale followed his example. [illustration: _coming down from the clouds._] "_guten nacht!_" said the herr. "folkestone should be someveres about. fordunately, de moon is out, and you may be able to find it!" "i say!" shrieked the _moon_-man, as the balloon began to free itself on its upward flight, "how far off is it?" "i vill not be--_was heist es?_--interviewed. _guten nacht._" soon the great sphere was no bigger than a star in the heavens. "this is a nice go," said the _moon_-man, when they had climbed down. "oh, don't trouble. i know the southeast coast well. there is sure to be a town within a four mile radius." "then let us take a hansom," said the _moon_-man. "wilkins, are you--i mean you are--losing your head," said lord silverdale. and linking the interviewer's arm in his, he fared forth into the darkness. "do you know what i thought," said wilkins, as they undressed in the lonely roadside inn (for ballooning makes us acquainted with strange bedfellows), "when i was sliding down the trunk with you on the branches above?" "no--what did you--i mean you did think what?" "well, i'm a bit superstitious, and i saw in the situation a forecast of my future. that tree typifies my genealogical tree, for when i have grown rich and prosperous by my trade, there will be a peer perched somewhere on the upper branches. debrett will discover him." "indeed i hope so," said the peer fervently, "for in the happy time when you shall have retired from business you will be able to make diana happy." chapter vii. the idyl of trepolpen. "no, we can't have diana," the president said, when lord silverdale reported the matter. "that is, not if the _moon_-man breaks off the engagement. according to the rules, the candidate must have herself discarded an advantageous marriage, and that miss diana will give up mr. wilkins is extremely questionable." "like everything connected with the _moon_-man's bride. however, my aerial expedition has not been fruitless; if i have not brought you a member from the clouds, at least we know how right i was to pluck clorinda bell." "yes, and how right i was to appoint you honorary trier!" said lillie. "i have several more candidates for you, chosen from my last batch of applications. while you were in the clouds, i was working. i have already interviewed them. they fulfil all the conditions. it only remains for you to do your part." "have they given good reasons for their refusal to marry their lovers?" "excellent reasons. reasons so strange as to bear the stamp of truth. here is the first reduced to writing. it is compounded of what miss ellaline rand said to me and of what she left unsaid. read it, while i put another of these love stories into shape. i am so glad i founded the old maids' club. it has enlarged my experience incalculably." lord silverdale took the manuscript and read. * * * * * when john beveridge went to nurse his misanthropy in the obscure fishing village of trepolpen, he had not bargained for the presence of ellaline rand. and yet there she was, living in a queer little cottage on the very top of the steep hill which constituted trepolpen, and sloped down to a pebbly beach where the dark nets dried and the trawl boats were drawn up. the people she was staying with were children of the soil and the sea--the man, a rugged old fish-dealer who had been a smuggler in his time; the woman, a chirpy grandame whose eyes were still good enough to allow her to weave lace by lamplight. the season was early june, and the glittering smile on the broad face of the atlantic made the roar of the breakers sound like stentorian laughter. there was always a whiff of fish--a blend of mackerel and crabs and mullet--striking up from the beach, but the salt in the air kept the odoriferous atoms fairly fresh. everything in trepolpen was delightfully archaic, and even the far-away suggestions of antiquity about the prevailing piscine flavor seemed in poetic keeping with the spirit of the primitive little spot. in a village of one street it is impossible not to live in it, unless you are a coastguard, and then you don't live in the village. this was why john beveridge was a neighbor of ellaline's. he lived much lower down, where the laugh of the atlantic was louder and the scent of the fish was stronger, and before he knew of ellaline's existence he used to go down hill (which is easy), smoke his pipe and chat with the trawlers, and lie on his back in the sun. after they had met, he grew less lazy and used to take exercise by walking up to the top of the hill. probably by this time the sea-breezes had given him strength. sometimes he met ellaline coming down; which was accident. then he would turn and walk down with her; which was design. the manner of their first meeting was novel, but in such a place it could not be long delayed. beveridge had obeyed a call from the boatmen to come and help them drag in the seine. he was tugging with all his might at the section of the netting, for the fishers seemed to be in luck and the fish unfortunate. suddenly he heard the pit-pat of light feet running down the hill, and the next moment two little white hands peeping out of white cuffs were gripping the net at the side of his own fleshy brown ones. for some thirty seconds he was content to divine the apparition from the hands. there was a flutter of sweet expectation about his heart, a stirring of the sense of romance. the day was divine. the sky was a brooding blue; the sea was a rippling play of light on which the seine-boat danced lightly. one little brown sail was visible far out in the bay, the sea-gulls hovering about it. it seemed to beveridge that the scene had only been waiting for those gentle little hands, whose assistance in the operation of landing the spoil was such a delicious farce. they could be no native lass's, these soft fingers with their pink little nails like pretty sea-pearls. they were fingers that spoke (in their mute digital dialect) of the crayon and the violin-bow, rather than of the local harmonium. there was something, too, about the coquettish cuffs, irresistibly at variance with the village wesleyanism. gradually, as the net came in, beveridge let his eyes steal towards her face. the prevision of romance became a certainty. it was a charming little face, as symmetrically proportioned to the hands as the face of a watch is. the nose was retroussé and piquant, but the eyes contradicted it, being demure and dreamy. there was a little cupid's bow of a mouth, and between the half-parted rosy lips a gleam of white teeth clenched with the exertion of hauling in the seine. a simple sailor's hat crowned a fluff of flaxen hair, and her dress was of airy muslin. she was so absorbed in the glee of hauling in the fish that it was some moments before she seemed to notice that her neighbor's eyes were fixed upon her, and that they were not set in the rugged tan of the local masculine face. a little blush leapt into the rather pale cheeks and went out again like a tiny spurt of rosy flame. then she strained more desperately than ever at the net. it was soon ashore, with its wild and whirling mixture of mackerel, soles, dabs, squids, turbot--john beveridge was not certain but what his heart was already among the things fluttering there in the net at her feet. while the trawlers were sorting out the fish, spreading some on the beach and packing the mackerel in baskets, ellaline looked on, patently interested in everything but her fellow amateur. after all, despite his shaggy coat and the clay pipe in his mouth, he was of the town, towny; some solicitor, artist, stockbroker, doctor, on a holiday; perhaps, considering the time of year, only a clerk. what she had come to trepolpen for was something more primitive. and he! surely he had seen and loved pretty women enough, not to stir an inch nearer this dainty vision. for what but to forget the wiles and treacheries of women of the town had he buried himself here? and yet was it the unexpectedness, was it that while bringing back the atmosphere of great cities she yet seemed a creature of the woods and waters, he felt himself drawn to her? he wanted to talk to her, to learn who she was and what she was doing here, but he did not know how to begin, though he had the gift of many tongues. not that he deemed an introduction necessary--in trepolpen, where not to give everybody you met "good-morning" was to court a reputation for surliness. and it would have been easy enough to open on the weather, or the marine harvest they had both helped to gather in. but somehow john beveridge learnt embarrassment in the presence of this muslined mermaiden, who seemed half of the world and half of the sea. and so, amid the bustle of the beach, the minutes slipped away, and beveridge spoke no word but leaned against the cliff, content to drowse in the light of the sun and ellaline. the dealers came down to the beach--men and women--among them a hale, grizzly old fellow who clasped ellaline's hand in his huge, gnarled fist. the auction began. john beveridge joined the crowd at a point behind the strangely assorted couple. of a sudden ellaline turned to him with her great limpid eyes looking candidly into his, and said, "some of those poor mackerel are not quite dead yet--i wonder if they suffer." john beveridge was taken aback. the last vestiges of his wonted assurance were swept away before her sweet simplicity. "i--i--really--i don't know--i've never thought about it," he stammered. "men never do," said ellaline with a gentle reproachful look. "they think only of their own pain. i do hope fish have no feelings." "they are cold-blooded," he reminded her, beginning to recover himself. "ah!" she said musingly. "but what right have we to take away their lives? they must be--oh so happy!--in the beautiful wide ocean! i am sorry i had a hand in destroying them. i shall never do it again." "you have very little to reproach yourself with," he said, smiling. "ah! now you are laughing at me. i know i'm not big and strong, and that my muscles could have been dispensed with. but the will was there, the intention was there," she said with her serious air. "oh, of course, you are a piscicide in intention," he admitted. "but you will enjoy the mackerel all the same." "no, i won't," she said with a charming little shake of the head, "i won't eat any." "what! you will nevermore eat fish?" "never," she said emphatically. "i love fish, but i won't eat 'em! only tinned things, like sardines. oh, what a little stupid i am! don't laugh at me again, please. i forgot the sardines must be caught first, before they are tinned, mustn't they?" "not necessarily," he said. "it often suffices if sprats are caught." she laughed. her laugh was a low musical ripple, like one of the little sunlit waves translated into sound. "twenty-two shillings!" cried the owner of a lot. "i'll give 'ee eleven!" said ellaline's companion, and the girl turned her head to listen to the violent chaffering that ensued, and when she went away she only gave john beveridge a nod and a smile. but he followed her with his eyes as she toiled up the hill, growing ever smaller and daintier against the horizon. the second time he met her was at the cove, a little way from the village, where great foliage-crowned cliffs came crescent-wise round a space of shining sand, girdled at its outer margin by tumbling green, foam-crested surges. huge mammoth-like boulders stood about, bathing their feet in the incoming tide, the cormorants perching cautiously down the precipitous half-worn path that led to the sands. there was a point at which the landward margin of the shore beneath first revealed itself to the descending pedestrian, and it was a point so slippery that it was thoughtless of fate to have included ellaline in the area of vision. she was lying, sheltered by a blue sunshade, on the golden sand, with her head on the base of the cliff, abstractedly tearing a long serpentine weed to dark green ribbons, and gazing out dreamily into the throbbing depths of sea and sky. there was an open book before her, but she did not seem to be reading. john beveridge saved himself by grasping a stinging bush, and he stole down gently towards her, forgetting to swear. he came to her with footsteps muffled by the soft sand, and stood looking down at her, admiring the beauty of the delicate flushed young face and the flaxen hair against the sober background of the aged cliff with its mellow subtly-fused tints. "thinking of the little fishes--or of the gods?" he said at last in a loud pleasant voice. ellaline gave a little shriek. "oh, where did you spring from?" she said, half raising herself. "not from the clouds," he said. "of course not. i was _not_ thinking of the gods," said ellaline. he laughed. "i am not even a perseus," he said, "for the tide though coming in is not yet dangerous enough to be likened to the sea-monster, though you might very well pass for andromeda." ellaline blushed and rose to her feet, adjusting a wrap round her shoulders. "i do not know," she said with dignity, "what i have done to encourage such a comparison." john beveridge saw he had slipped. this time there was not even a stinging bush to cling to. "you are beautiful, that is all i meant," he said apologetically. "is it worth while saying such commonplace things?" she said a little mollified. it was an ambiguous remark. from her it could only mean that he had been guilty of compliment. "i am very sorry. a thousand pardons. but, pray, do not let me drive you away. you seemed so happy here. i will go back." he made a half turn. "yes, i was happy," she said simply. "in my foolish little way i thought i had discovered this spot--as if anything so beautiful could have escaped the attention of those who have been near it all their lives." her words caused him a sudden pang of anxious jealousy. must they not be true of herself? "and you, too, seemed to have discovered it," she went on. "doubtless you know all the coast well, for you were here before me. do you know," she said, looking up at his face with her candid gray eyes, "this is the first time in my life i have seen the sea, so you must not laugh if i seem ignorant, but oh! how i love to lie and hear it roar, tossing its mane like some great wild animal that i have tamed and that will not harm me." "there are other wild animals that you may tame, here by the sea," he said. she considered for a moment gravely. "that is rather pretty," she announced. "i shall re-remember that. but please do not tell me again i am beautiful." she sat down on the sand, with her back to the cliff, re-adjusting her parasol. "very well. i sit reproved," he replied, taking up his position by her side. "what book is that you are reading?" she handed him the little paper-covered, airily-printed volume, suggesting summer in every leaf. "ah, it is _the cherub that sits up aloft_!" he said, with a shade of superciliousness blent with amusement. "yes, have you read it?" she asked. "no," he said, "i have heard of it. it's by that new woman who came out last year and calls herself andrew dibdin, isn't it?" "yes," said ellaline. "it's made an enormous hit, don't you know." "oh, yes, i know," he said, laughing. "it's a lot of sentimental rot, isn't it? do you like it?" "i think it is sweetly pretty," she said, a teardrop of vexation gathering on her eyelid. "if you haven't read it, why should you abuse it?" "oh, one can't read everything," he said. "but one gets to pick up enough about a book to know whether he cares to read it. of course, i am aware it is about a little baby on board a ship that makes charming inarticulate orations and is worshipped by everybody, from the captain to the little stowaway, and is regarded by the sailors as the sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, etc., and that there is a sensational description of a storm at sea--which is clarke russell and water, or rather clarke russell and more water." "ah, i see you're a cynic," said ellaline. "i don't like cynics." "no, indeed, i am not," he pleaded. "it is false, not true, sentiment i object to." "and how do you know this is false sentiment?" she asked in honest indignation. "when you haven't read it?" "what does it matter?" he murmured, overwhelmed by her sense of duty. she was evidently unaccustomed to the light flippancies of elegant conversation. "oh, nothing. to some people nothing matters. will you promise to read the book if i lend it you?" "of course i will," he said, delighted at the establishment of so permanent a link. "only i don't want to deprive you of it--i can wait till you have finished with it." "i have finished. i have read it over and over again. take it." she handed it to him. their finger-tips met. "i recant already," he said. "it must have something pure and good in it to take captive a soul like yours." and indeed the glamour of ellaline was over every page of it. as he read, he found tears of tenderness in his eyes, when otherwise they might have sprung from laughter. he adored the little cherub who sat up aloft on the officers' table and softened these crusty sea-dogs whose hearts were become as ship's-biscuits. he could not tell what had come over himself, that his own sere heart should be so quick again to the beauties of homely virtue and duty, to the engaging simplicity and pathos of childhood, to the purity of womanhood. was it that ellaline was all these things incarnate? he avowed his error and his conversion, and gradually they came to meet often in the solitary creek, as was but right for the only two intellectual people in trepolpen. sometimes, too, they wandered further afield, amid the ferny lanes. but the cove was their favorite trysting place, and there lying with his head in her lap, he would talk to her of books and men and one woman. [illustration: talked to her of books and men and one woman.] he found her tastes were not limited to _the cherub that sits up aloft_, for she liked meredith. "really," he said, "if you had not been yourself, i should have doubted whether your admiration was genuine." "yes, his women are so real. but i do not pretend to care for the style." "style!" he said, "i call it a five-barred fence. to me style is everything. style alone is literature, whether it be the man or not." "oh, then you are of the school of addiper?" "ah, have you heard of that? i am. i admire addiper and agree with him. form is everything--literature is only a matter of form. and a book is only a form of matter." "i see," she said, smiling. "but i adore addiper myself, though i regret the future seems likely to be his. i have read all he has written. every line is so lucid. the form is exquisite. but as for the matter----!" "no matter!" summed up john beveridge, laughing heartily. "i am so glad you agree with me sometimes," said ellaline. "because it shows you don't think i am so very stupid after all." "of course i don't--except when you get so enthusiastic about literary people and rave about dibdin and addiper and blackwin and the rest. if you mixed with them, my little girl, as i have done, you would soon lose your rosy illusions. although perhaps you are better with them." "ah, then you're not a novelist yourself?" she said anxiously. "no, i am not. what makes you ask?" "nothing. only sometimes, from your conversation, i suspected you might be." "thank you, ellaline," he said, "for a very dubious compliment. no, i am afraid i must forego that claim upon your admiration. unless i tell a lie and become a novelist by doing so. but then wouldn't it be the truth?" "are you, then, a painter or a musician?" he shook his head. "no, i do not get my living by art." "not of any kind?" "not of any kind." "how _do_ you get it?" she asked simply, a candid light shining in the great gray eyes. "my father was a successful saddle-maker. he is dead." "oh!" she said. "leather has made me, from childhood up--it has chastised, supported, educated me, and given me the _entrée_ everywhere. so you see i cannot hold a candle to your demigods." "ah, but there is nothing like leather," said ellaline, and stroked the head in her lap reassuringly. the assurance permeated john beveridge's frame like a pleasant cordial. all that was hard and leathery in him seemed to be soaked soft. here, at last, was a woman who loved him for himself--an innocent, trusting woman in whose weakness a man might find strength. her pure lips were like the wayside well at which the wearied wanderer from great stony cities might drink and be refreshed. and yet, delightful as her love would be in his droughty life, he felt that his could not prove less delightful to her. that he, john beveridge, with the roses thrusting themselves into his eyes, should stoop to pick the simple little daisy at his feet, could not fail to fill her with an admiring gratitude that would add the last charm to her passion for him. but it was not till a week afterwards that the formal proposal, so long impending, broke. they were resting in a lane and discussing everything they didn't want to discuss, the unspoken playing with subtle sweetness about the spoken. "have you read mr. gladstone's latest?" she asked at last. "no," he said; "has mr. gladstone ever a latest?" "oh, yes, take him day by day, like an evening paper. i'm referring to his article on 'ancient beliefs in a future state.'" "what's that--the belief of old maids that they'll get married?" "now you are blasphemous," she cried with a pretty pout. "how? are old maids a sacred subject?" "everything old should be sacred to us," she said simply. "but you know that is not what i mean." "then why do you say it?" he asked. "oh, what a tease you are!" she cried. "i shan't be sorry to be quit of you. your flippancy is quite dreadful." "why, do you believe in a future state?" he said. "of course i do. if we had only one life, it would not be worth living." "but nine times one life _would_ be worth living. is that the logic? if so, happy cats! i wonder," he added irrelevantly, "why the number nine always goes with cats--nine lives, nine tails, nine muses?" ellaline made a _moue_ and shrank petulantly away from him. "i will not discuss our future state, unless you are prepared to do it seriously," she said. "i am," he replied with sudden determination. "let us enter it together. i am tired of the life i've been leading, and i love you." "what!" she said in a little horrified whisper. "you want us to commit suicide together?" "no, no--matrimony. i cannot do it alone--i have never had the courage to do it at all. with you at my side, i should go forward, facing the hereafter cheerfully, with faith and trust." "i--i--am--afraid--i----" she stammered. "why should you be afraid?" he interrupted. "have you no faith and trust in me?" "oh, yes," she said with a frank smile, "if i had not confidence in you, i should not be here with you." "you angel!" he said, his eyes growing wet under her clear, limpid gaze. "but you love me a little, too?" "i do not," she said, shaking her head demurely. john beveridge groaned. after so decisive an avowal from the essence of candor, what remained to be said? nothing but to bid her and his hopes farewell--the latter at once, the former as soon as she was escorted back to trepolpen. his affection had grown so ripe, he could not exchange it for the green fruit of friendship. and yet, was this to be the end of all that sweet idyllic interlude, a jarring note and then silence for evermore? "but could you never learn to love me?" she laughed her girlish, ringing laugh. "i am not so backward as all that," she said. "i mastered it in a dozen lessons." he stared at her, a wild hope kindling in his eyes. "did i hear aright?" he asked in a horse tone. she nodded, still smiling. "then i did not hear aright before?" "oh, yes, you did. i said i did not love you a little. i love you a great deal." there were tears in the gray eyes now, but they smiled on. he caught her in his arms and the devonshire lane was transformed to eden. how exquisite this angelic frankness, when the words pleased! how delicious the frankness of her caress when words were _de trop_! but at last she spoke again. "and now that i know you love me for myself, i will tell you a secret." the little hands that had first clasped his attention were laid on his shoulders, the dreamy face looked up tenderly and proudly into his. "they say a woman cannot keep a secret," she said. "but you will never believe that again, when i tell you mine?" "i never believed it," he said earnestly. "consider how every woman keeps the great secret of her age." "ah, that is not what i am going to tell you," she said archly. "it is another of the great secrets of my age. you remember that book you liked so much--_the cherub that sits up aloft_?" "yes!" he said wonderingly. "well, i wrote it!" "you!" he exclaimed, startled. his image of her seemed a pillar of sand upon which the simoom had burst. this fresh, simple maiden a complex literary being, a slave of the midnight lamp. "yes, i--i am andrew dibdin--the authoress who drew tears from your eyes." "you, andrew dibdin!" he repeated mechanically. she nodded her head with a proud and happy smile. "i knew you would be pleased--but i wanted you to love me, not my book." "i love both," he exclaimed. the new conceptions had fitted themselves into the old. he saw now what the charm of the little novel was--the book was ellaline between covers. he wondered he had not seen it before. the grace, the purity, the pathos, the sweet candor, the recollections of a childhood spent on the great waters in the company of kindly mariners--all had flowed out at the point of her pen. she had put herself into her work. he felt a subtle jealousy of the people who bought her on the bookstalls for a shilling--or even for ninepence at the booksellers'. he wanted to have her all to himself. he experienced a mad desire to buy up the edition. but there would be a new one. he realized the feelings of othello. oh, if he could but arrest her circulation! "if you knew how happy it made me to hear you say you love my book!" she replied. "at first i hated you because you sneered at it. all my friends love my books--and i wanted you to be a friend of mine." "i am more than that," he said exultantly. "and i want to love all your books. what else have you written?" "only two others," she said apologetically. "you see i have only been in literature six months and i only write straight from the heart." "yes, indeed!" he said. "you wear your heart upon your leaves." jealous as he was of her readers, he felt that there was balm in gilead. she was not a hack-writer, turning out books for the market of malice aforethought; not the complex being he had figured in the first moment of consternation, the literary quack with finger on the pulse of the public. she did but write as the birds carolled--not the slave, but the genius of the midnight lamp. "but i must not wear my heart out," she replied, laughingly. "so i came down here for a month to get fresh material. i am writing a novel of cornish peasant life--i want to photograph the people with all their lights and shades, all their faiths and superstitions, all their ways of speech and thought--the first thorough study ever made of a fast-fading phase of old english life. you see, i didn't know what to do; i feared the public would be tired of my sailor-stories and i thought i'd locate my next story on land. accident determined its environment. i learnt, by chance, that we had some poor relatives in trepolpen, whom my people had dropped, and so i thought i'd pick them up again, and turn them into 'copy,' and i welcomed the opportunity of making at the same time the acquaintance of the sea, which, as i think i told you, i have never seen before. you see i was poor myself till _the cherub that sits up aloft_ showered down the gold, and, being a cockney, had never been able to afford a trip to the seaside." "my poor ellaline!" he said, kissing her candid lips. she was such an inveterate truth-teller that he could only respect and admire and adore--though she fell from heaven. her candor infected him. he felt an overwhelming paroxysm of veracity. the mask could be dropped now. did she not love john beveridge? "now i see why you rave so over literary people!" he said. "you are dipped in ink yourself." "yes," she said with a happy smile, "there is nobody i admire so much as our great writers." "but you would not love me more, if i were a great writer?" he said anxiously. "no, certainly not. i couldn't," she said decisively. he stooped and kissed her gratefully. "thank you for that, my sweet ellaline. and now i think i can safely confess that i am addiper." she gave a little shriek. her face turned white. "addiper!" she breathed. "yes, dearest, it is my _nom de guerre_. i am addiper, the writer you admire so much, the man with whose school, you were pleased to say, the future lies." "addiper!" she said again. "impossible! why you said you did not get your living by art of any kind." "of course i don't!" he said. "books like mine--all style, no sentiment, morals or theology--never pay. fortunately i am able to publish them at my own expense. i write only for writers. that is why you like me. successful writers are those who write for readers, just as popular painters are those who paint for spectators." the poor little face was ashen gray now. the surprise was too much for the fragile little beauty. "then you really are addiper!" she said in low, slow tones. "yes, dearest," he said not without a touch of pride. "i am addiper--and in you, love, i have found a fresh fount of inspiration. you shall be the guiding star of my work, my rare ellaline, my pearl, my beryl. ah, this is a great turning-point in my life. to-day i enter into my third manner." "this is not one of your teasing jokes?" she said appealingly, her piteous eyes looking up into his. "no, my ellaline. do you think i would hoax you thus--to dash you to earth again?" "then," she said slowly and painfully, "then i can never marry you. we must say 'good-bye.'" her lover gazed at her in dazed silence. the butterflies floated in the summer air, a bee buzzed about a wayside flower, from afar came the tinkle of a brook. a deep peace was on all things--only in the hearts of the two littérateurs was pain and consternation. [illustration: _the confession of ellaline._] "you can never marry me!" repeated john beveridge at last. "and why not?" "i have told you. because you are addiper." "but that is no reason." "is it not?" she said. "i thought addiper would have a subtler apprehension." "but what is it you object to in me?" "to your genius, of course." "to my genius!" "yes, no mock modesty. between augurs it won't do. every author must know very well he stands apart from the world, or he would not set himself to paint it. i know quite well i am not as other women. what is the use of paltering with one's consciousness!" still the same delicious candor shone in the gray eyes. john beveridge, not at all grasping his dismissal, felt an unreasoning impulse to kiss them. "well, supposing i am a genius," he said instead. "where's the harm?" "no harm till you propose to yoke me with it! i never will marry a genius." "oh, don't be so absurd, ellaline!" he said. "you've been reading the foolish nonsense about the geniuses necessarily making bad husbands. no doubt in some prominent instances geniuses have not been working models of the domestic virtues, but on the other hand there are scores of instances to the contrary. and blockheads make quite as bad husbands as your shelleys and your byrons. besides it was only in the past that geniuses were blackguards; to-day it is the correct thing to be correct. respectability nowadays adds chastity to the studies from the nude; marital fidelity enhances the force of poems of passion: and philanthropy adds the last touch to tragic acting. so why should i suffer for the sins of my predecessors? if i may judge myself by my present sensations, what i am gifted with is a genius for domesticity. do not sacrifice me, dearest, to an unproved and unscientific generalization." "it is not of that i am thinking," ellaline replied, shaking her head sadly. "in my opinion the woman who refused shakespeare merely on the ground that he wrote shakespeare's works, should be sent to coventry as a coward. no, do not fancy i am that. i may not be strong, but i have courage enough to marry you if that were all. it is not because i am afraid you would make me unhappy." "ah, there is something you are hiding from me," he said anxiously, impressed by the gravity and sincerity of her tones. "no, there is nothing. i cannot marry you, because you are a genius." he saw what she meant now. she had been reading the modern works on genius and insanity. "ah, you think me mad!" he cried. "mad--when you love me?" she said, with a melancholy smile. "you know what i mean. you think that 'great wits to madness nearly are allied,' that sane as i appear, there is in me a hidden vein of madness. and yet, if anything, the generalization connecting genius with insanity is more unsound than that connecting it with domestic infelicity. it would require a genius to really prove such a connection, and as he would, on his own theory, be a lunatic, what becomes of his theory?" "your argument involves a fallacy," replied ellaline quietly. "it does not follow that if a man is a lunatic everything he says or does has the taint of madness. a genius who held that genius meant insanity might be sane just on this one point." "or insane just on the one point. seriously, ellaline," said john beveridge, beginning to lose his temper, "you don't mean to say that you believe that genius is really 'a psychical neurosis of the epileptoid order.' if you do you must be mad yourself, that's all i can say." "of course i should have to admit i am mad myself if i held the theory that genius meant insanity. but i don't." "you don't!" he said, staring blankly at her. "you don't believe i'm insane, and you don't believe i'll make a bad husband--i should be insane if i did, my sweet little ellaline. and you still wish to cry off?" "i must." "then you no longer love me!" "oh, i beg of you, do not say that! you do not know how hard it is for me to give you up--do not make our parting harder." "ellaline, in heaven's name vex me no further. what is this terrible mystery? why can you no longer think of me?" "if you only thought of me a little you would guess. but men are so selfish. if it were only you that had genius the thing would be simple. but you forget that i, too----" she paused; a little modest blush completed the sentence. "yes, i know you are a genius, my rare ellaline. but what then?" he cried. "i only love you the more for it." "yes, but if we marry," said ellaline, "we two geniuses, look what will happen." he stared at her afresh--she met his gaze unflinchingly. "what new scientific bogie have you been conjuring up." he murmured. "oh, i wish you would drive science out of your head," she replied pettishly. "what have i to do with science? really, if you go on so stupidly i shall believe you're not a genius after all." "and then you will marry me?" he said eagerly. "don't be so stupid! to speak plainly, for you seem as dull as a clod-hopper to-day, i cannot afford to marry a genius, and a recognized genius to boot. i am only a struggling young authoress, with a considerable following, it is true, but still without an unquestioned position. the high-class organs that review you all to yourself still take me as one of a batch and are not always as complimentary as they might be. the moment i marry you and my rushlight is hidden in your bushel, out it goes. i become absorbed simply in you, a little satellite circling round your planetary glory. i shall have no independent existence--the fame i have toiled and struggled for will be eclipsed in yours. 'mrs. addiper--the wife of the celebrated writer, scribbles a little herself, don't you know! wonder what he could see in her!' that's how people will talk of me. when i go into a room we shall be announced, 'mr. and mrs. addiper'--and everybody will rush round you and hang on your words, and i shall be talked to only by the way of getting you at second-hand, as a medium through which your personality is partially radiated. and parties will be given 'to meet mr. addiper,' and i shall accompany you for the same reason that your dress-coat will--because it is the etiquette." "but, ellaline----" he protested. "let me finish. i could not even afford to marry you, if my literary position were equal to yours. such a union would do nothing to enhance my reputation. no woman of genius should marry a man of genius--were she even the greater of the two she would become merged in him, even as she would take his name. the man i must marry, the man i have been waiting to fall in love with and be loved by, is a plain honest gentleman, unknown to fame and innocent of all aspiration but that of making me happy. he must devote his life to mine, sink himself in me, sacrifice himself on the altar of my fame, live only for the enhancement of my reputation. such a man i thought i had found in you--but you deceived me. i thought here is a man who loves me only for myself, but whose love will increase tenfold when he learns that i stand on a pedestal of glory, and who will rejoice at the privilege of passing the rest of his days uplifting that pedestal to the gaze of the world, a man who will say of me what i can hardly say of myself, who will drive the bargains with my publishers, wrap me up against the knowledge of malicious criticisms, conduct my correspondence, receive inconvenient callers, arrange my interviews, and send incessant paragraphs to the papers about me, commencing mrs. john beveridge (andrew dibdin), varied by andrew dibdin (mrs. john beveridge). here is a man who will be a living gratuitous advertisement, inserted daily in the great sheets of the times, a steadfast column of eulogy, a pillar of praise. here is a man who will be as much a halo as a husband. when i enter a drawing-room with him (so ran my innocent, maiden dream) there will be a thrill of excitement, everybody will cluster round me, he will efface himself or be effaced, and, even if he finds anybody to talk to, it is about me he will talk. invitations to our own 'at homes' will be eagerly sought for--not for his sake, but for mine. all that is famous in literature and art will crowd our salon--not for his sake, but for mine. and while i shall be the cynosure of every eye, it will be his to note down the names of the illustrious gazers in society paragraphs beginning mrs. john beveridge (andrew dibdin), alternating with andrew dibdin (mrs. john beveridge). and am i to give up all this, merely because i love you?" [illustration: _so ran my innocent maiden dream._] "yes, why not!" he said passionately. "what is fame, reputation, weighed against love? what is it to be on the world's lips, if the lips we love are to be taken away?" "how pretty!" she said with simple admiration. "if you will not claim the phrase, i should like to give it to my next heroine." "claim it!" he said bitterly. "i do not want any phrases. i want you." "do you not see it is impossible? if you could become obscure again, it might be. you say fame is nothing weighed against love. come now, would you give up your genius, your reputation, just to marry me?" he was silent. "come!" she repeated. "i have been frank with you, have i not!" "you have," he admitted, with a melancholy grimace. "well, be equally frank with me. would you sacrifice these things to your love for me?" "i could not if i would." "but would you, if you could?" he did not answer. "of course you wouldn't," she said. "i know you as i know myself." "what is the use of thinking of what can never be!" he said impatiently. "just so. that is what i say. i can never give you my hand; so give me yours and we'll turn homewards." he gave her his hand and she jumped lightly to her feet. then he got up and shook himself, and looked still in a sort of daze, at the gentle face and the dainty figure. he seized her passionately by the arms. "and must this be the end?" he cried hoarsely. "finis," she said decisively, though the renewed pallor of her face showed what it cost her to complete the idyl. "an unhappy ending?" he said in hopeless interrogation. "it is not my style," she said simply, "but, after all, this is only real life." he burst forth in a torrent of half reproachful regrets--he, addiper, the chaste, the severe, the self-contained. "and you the sweet, innocent girl who won the heart i no longer hoped to feel living, you would coldly abandon the love for whose existence you are responsible! you, who were to be so fresh and pure an influence on my work, are content to deprive literature of those masterpieces our union would have called into being! oh, but you cannot unshackle yourself thus from my life--for good or evil your meeting with me determined my third manner. hitherto i thought it was for good; now i fear it will be for evil." "you seem to have forgotten _all_ your manners," she said, annoyed. "and if our meeting was for evil, at least our parting shall be for good." john beveridge and ellaline rand spake no more, but walked home in silence through the country lanes on which the sunlight seemed to lie cold. the past was put a dream--not for these two the simple emotions which cross with joy or sorrow the web of common life. at the cottage near the top of the hill, where the sounds and scents of the sea were faintest, they parted. the idyl of trepolpen was ended. and john beveridge went downhill. chapter viii. more about the cherub. the trial interview between lord silverdale and ellaline rand took place in the rooms of the old maids' club in the presence of the president. lillie, encouraged by the rush of candidates, occupied herself in embroidering another epigrammatic antimacassar--"it is man who is vain of woman's dress." she had deliberately placed herself out of earshot. to miss rand, lord silverdale was a casual visitor with whom she had drifted into conversation, yet she behaved as prettily as if she knew she was undergoing the _viva-voce_ portion of the examination for entranceship. there are two classes of flirts--those who love to flirt, and those who flirt to love. there is little to be said against the latter, for they are merely experimenting. they intend to fall in love, but they can hardly compass it without preliminary acquaintance, and by giving themselves a wide and varied selection, are more likely to discover the fitting object of affection. it is easy to confound both classes of flirts together, and heartbroken lovers generally do so, when they do not use a stronger expression. but so far as lord silverdale could tell, there was nothing in miss rand's behavior to justify him in relegating her to either class, or to make him doubt the genuineness of the anti-hymeneal feelings provoked by her disappointment in trepolpen. her manner was simple and artless--she gushed, indeed, but charmingly, like a daintily sculptured figure on a marble fountain in a fair pleasaunce. you could be as little offended by her gush, as by her candid confessions of her own talents. the lord had given her a good conceit of herself, and given it her so gracefully, that it was one of her chiefest charms. she spoke with his lordship of shakespeare and others of her profession, and mentioned that she was about to establish a paper called _the cherub_, after her popular story _the cherub that sits up aloft_. "i want to get into closer touch with my readers," she explained, helping herself charmingly to the chocolate creams. "in a book, you cannot get into direct _rapport_ with your public. your characters are your rivals and distract attention from the personality of the author. in a journal i shall be able to chat with them freely, open my heart to them and gather them to it. there is a legitimate curiosity to learn all about me--the same curiosity that i feel about other authors. why should i allow myself to be viewed in the refracting medium of alien ink? let me sketch myself to my readers, tell them what i eat and drink, and how i write, and when, what clothes i wear and how much i pay for them, what i think of this or that book of mine, of this or that character of my creation, what my friends think of me, and what i think of my friends. all the features of the paper will combine to make my face. i shall occupy all the stories, and every column will have me at the top. in this way i hope, not only to gratify my yearnings for sympathy, but to stimulate the circulation of my books. nay more, with the eye of my admirers thus encouragingly upon me, i shall work more zealously. you see, lord silverdale, we authors are a race apart--without the public hanging upon our words, we are like butterflies in a london fog, or actors playing to an empty auditorium." "i have noticed that," said lord silverdale dryly, "before authors succeed, it takes them a year to write a book, after they succeed it takes them only a month." "you see i am right," said ellaline eagerly. "that's what the sun of public sympathy does. it ripens work quickly." "yes, and when the sun is very burning, it sometimes takes the authors no time at all." "ah, now you are laughing at me. you are speaking of 'ghosts.'" "yes. ghost stories are published all the year round--not merely at christmas. don't think i'm finding fault. i look upon an author who keeps his ghost, as i do on a tradesmen who keeps his carriage. it is a sign he has succeeded." "oh, but it's very wicked, giving the public underweight like that!" said ellaline in her sweet, serious way. "how can anybody write as well as yourself? but why i mentioned about _the cherub_ is because it has just struck me the paper might become the organ of the old maids' club, for i should make a point of speaking freely of my aims and aspirations in joining it. i presume you know all about miss dulcimer's scheme?" "oh, yes! but i don't think it feasible." "you don't?" she said, with a little tremor of astonishment in her voice. "and why not?" she looked anxiously into his eyes for the reply. "the candidates are too charming to remain single," he explained, smiling. she smiled back a little at him, those sweet gray eyes still looking into his. "_you_ are not a literary man?" she said irrelevantly. "i am afraid i must plead guilty to trying to be," he said. "the evidence is down in black and white." the smile died away and for an instant ellaline's brow went into black for it. she accepted an ice from turple the magnificent, but took her leave shortly afterwards, lillie promising to write to her. "well?" said the president when she was left alone with the honorary trier. that functionary looked dubious. "up till the very last she seemed single-hearted in her zeal. then she asked whether _i_ was a literary man. you know her story. what do you conclude?" "i can hardly come to a conclusion. do you think there is still a danger of her marrying to get someone to advertise her?" "i think it depends on _the cherub_. if _the cherub_ is born and lives, it will be a more effectual advertising medium than even a husband, and may replace him. a paper of your own can puff you rather better than a husband of your own, it has a larger circulation and more opportunities. an authoress-editress, her worth is far above rubies! her correspondents praise her in the gates and her staff shall rise up and call her blessed. it may well be that she will arrive at that stage at which a husband is an incubus and marriage a manacle. in that day the honor of the club will be safe in her hands." "what do you suggest then?" said lillie anxiously. "that you wait till she is delivered of _the cherub_ before deciding." "very well," she replied resignedly. "only i hope we shall be able to admit her. her conception of the use of man is so sublime!" lord silverdale smiled. "ah, if the truth were known," he said, "i daresay it would be that pretty women regard man merely as a beast of draught and burden, a creature to draw their checks and carry their cloaks." lillie answered, "and men look on pretty women either as home pets or as drawing-room decorations." silverdale said further, "i do not look on you as either." to which, lillie, "why do you say such obvious things? it is unworthy of you. have you anything worthy of you in your pocket to-day?" "nothing of your hearing. just a little poem about another cherub." an ancient passion. mine is no passion of to-day, upblazing like a rocket, to-morrow doomed to die away and leave you out of pocket. nor is she one who snared my love by just the woman's graces: i loved her when, a sucking dove, she cooed and made grimaces. and when the pretty darling cried, i often stooped and kissed her, though cold and faint her lips replied, as though she were my sister. i loved her long but loved her still when she discarded long-clothes, yet here if she had had her will would this romantic song close. for, though we wandered hand in hand, companions close and chronic, she always made me understand _her_ motives were platonic. she said me "nay" with merry mien, not weeping like the cayman, when she was mab, the fairy queen, and i tom king, highwayman. 'twas at a children's fancy ball, i got that first rejection, it did not kill my love at all but heightened its complexion. my love to tell, when she grew up, necessitates italics. her hair was like the buttercup (corolla not the calyx). her form was slim, her eye was bright, her mouth a jewel-casket, her hand it was so soft and white i often used to ask it. and so from year to year i wooed, my passion growing fiercer, though she in modest maiden mood addressed me as "my _dear_ sir." at twenty she was still as coy, her heart was like diana's. the future held for me no joy, save smoking choice havanas. at last my perseverance woke a sweet responsive passion, and of her love for me she spoke in woman's wordless fashion. i told her, when her speech was done, the task would be above her to make a happy man of one who long had ceased to love her. lillie put on an innocently analytical frown. "i think you behaved very badly," she exclaimed. "you might have waited a little longer." "do you think so? then i will go and leave you to your labors," said lord silverdale with his wonted irrelevancy. lillie sat for a long time with pen in hand, thinking without writing. as a change from writing without thinking this was perhaps a relief. [illustration: _rejected addresses._] "a penny for your thoughts," said the millionaire, stealing in upon her reflections. lillie started. "i am not ellaline rand," she said smiling. "wait till _the cherub_ comes out, and you will get hers at that price." "was ellaline the girl who has just gone?" "did you see her? i thought you were gardening." "so i was, but i happened to go into the dining-room for a moment and saw her from the window. i suppose she will be here often." "i suppose so," said lillie dubiously. the millionaire rubbed his hands. "miss eustasia pallas," announced turple the magnificent. "a new candidate, probably," said the president. "father, you must go and play in the garden." the millionaire left the room meekly. chapter ix. of wives and their mistresses. "no, no," said miss eustasia pallas. "you misapprehend me. it is not because it would be necessary to have a husband and a home of one's own, that i object to marriage, but because it would be impossible to do without servants. while a girl lives at home, she can cultivate her soul while her mother attends to the _ménage_. but after marriage, the higher life is impossible. you must have servants. you cannot do your own dirty work--not merely because it is dirty, but because it is the thief of time. you can hardly get literature, music, and religion adequately into your life even with the whole day at your disposal; but if you had to make your own bed, too, i am afraid you wouldn't find time to lie on it." "then why object to servants?" inquired lillie. "because servants are the asphyxiators of the soul. but for them i should long since have married." "i do not quite follow you. surely if you had servants to relieve you of all the grosser duties, the spiritual could then claim your individual attention." "ah, that is a pretty theory. it sounds very plausible. in practice, alas! it does not work. like the servants. i have kept my eyes open almost from the first day of my life. i have observed my mother's household and other people's--i speak of the great middle-classes, mainly--and my unalterable conviction is, that every faithful wife who aspires to be housekeeper too, becomes the servant of her servants. they rule not only her but all her thoughts. her life circles round them. she can talk of nothing else. whether she visits, or is visited, servants are the staple of her conversation. their curious habits and customs, their love-affairs, their laches, their impertinences, these gradually become the whole food of thought, ousting every higher aim and idea. i have watched a girl--my bosom-friend at girton--deteriorate from a maiden to a wife, from a wife to a bondswoman. first she talked shelley, then charley, then mary ann. gradually her soul shrank. she lost her character. she became a mere parasite on the servant's kitchen, a slave to the cook's drink and the housemaid's followers. those who knew my mother before she was married speak of her as a bright, bonny girl, all enthusiasm and energy, interesting herself in all the life of her day and even taking a side in politics. but when i knew her, she was haggard and narrow. she never read, nor sang, nor played, nor went to the academy. the greatest historical occurrences left her sympathies untouched. she did not even care whether australia or england conquered at cricket, or whether browning lived or died. you could not get her to discuss whistler or the relations of greek drama to gaiety burlesque, or any other subject that interests ordinary human beings. she did not want a vote. she did not want any alteration in the divorce laws. she did not want russia to be a free country or the empire to be federated. she did not want darkest england to be supplied with lamps. she did not want the working classes to lead better and nobler lives. she did not want to preserve the commons or to abolish the house of lords. she did not want to do good or even to be happy. all she wanted was a cook or a housemaid or a coachman, as the case might be, and she was perpetually asking all her acquaintance if they knew of a good one, or had heard of the outrageous behavior of the last. "in her early married days, my father's income was not a twentieth of what it is to-day, and so she was fairly happy, with only one servant to tyrannize over her. but she always had hard mistresses, even in those comparatively easy years. poor mother! one scene remains vividly stamped upon my mind. we had a girl named selina who would not get up in the morning. we had nothing to complain of in the time of her going to bed--i think she went about nine--but the earliest she ever rose was eight, and my father always had to catch the eight-twenty train to the city, so you may imagine how much breakfast he got. my mother spoke to selina about it nearly every day and selina admitted the indictment. she said she could not help it, she seemed to dream such long dreams and never wake up in the middle. my mother had had such difficulty in getting selina that she hesitated to send her away and start hunting for a new selina, but the case seemed hopeless. the winter came on and we took to sending selina to bed at six o'clock, that my father might be sure of a hot cup of coffee before leaving home in the morning. but she said the mornings were so cold and dark it was impossible to get out of bed, though she tried very hard and did her best. i think she spent only nine hours out of bed on the average. my father gave up the hope of breakfast. he used to leave by an earlier train and get something at a restaurant. this grieved my mother very much--she calculated it cost her a bonnet a month. she became determined to convert selina from the error of her ways. she told me she was going to appeal to selina's higher nature. reprimand had failed, but the soul that cannot be coerced can be touched. that was in the days when my mother still read poetry and was semi-independent. one bleak bitter dawn my mother rose shivering, dressed herself and went down into the kitchen, to the entire disconcertion of the chronology of the black-beetles. she made the fire and put the kettle on to boil and swept the kitchen. she also swept the breakfast-room and lighted the fire and laid the breakfast. then she sat down, put on a saintly expression and waited for selina. "an hour went by, but selina did not make her appearance. the first half-hour passed quickly because my mother was busy thinking out the exact phrases in which to touch her higher nature. it required tact--a single clumsy turn of language--and she might offend selina instead of elevating her. it was really quite a literary effort, the adequate expression of my mother's conception of the dignity and pathos of the situation, in fact it was that most difficult branch of literature, the dramatic, for my mother constructed the entire dialogue, speaking for selina as well as for herself. like all leading ladies, especially when they write their own plays, my mother allotted herself the 'tag,' and the last words of the dialogue were:-- "'there! there! my good girl! dry your eyes. the past shall be forgotten. from to-morrow a new life shall begin. come, selina! drink that nice hot cup of tea--don't cry and let it get cold. that's right. "the second half-hour was rather slower, my mother listening eagerly for selina's footsteps, and pricking up her ears at every sound. the mice ran about the wainscoting, the kettle sang blithely, the little flames leaped in the grate, the kitchen and the breakfast-room were cheerful and cosy and redolent of the goodly savors of breakfast. a pile of hot toast lay upon a plate. only selina was wanting. "all at once my mother heard the hall-door bang, and running to the window she saw a figure going out into the gray freezing fog. it was my father hurrying to catch his train. in the excitement of the experiment my mother had forgotten to tell him that for this morning at least, breakfast could be had at home. he might have had such beautiful tea and coffee, such lovely toast, such exquisite eggs, and there he was hastening along in the raw air on an empty stomach. my mother rapped on the panes with her knuckles but my father was late and did not hear. her own soul a little ruffled, my mother sat down again in the kitchen and waited for selina. gradually she forgot her chagrin, after all it was the last time my father would ever have to depart breakfastless. she went over the dialogue again, polishing it up and adding little touches. "i think it was past nine when selina left her bedroom, unwashed and rubbing her eyes. by that time my mother had thrice resisted the temptation to go up and shake her, and it was coming on a fourth time when she heard selina's massive footstep on the stair. instantly my mother's irritation ceased. she reassumed her look of sublime martyrdom. she had spread a nice white cloth on the kitchen table and selina's breakfast stood appetizingly upon it. tears came into her eyes as she thought of how selina would be shaken to her depths by the sight. "selina threw open the kitchen door with a peevish push, for she disliked having to get up early in these cold, dark winter mornings and vented her irritation even upon insensitive woodwork. but when she saw the deep red glow of the fire, instead of the dusky chillness of the normal morning kitchen, she uttered a cry of joy, and rushing forwards warmed her hands eagerly at the flame. "'oh, thank you, missus,' she said with genuine gratitude. "selina did not seem at all surprised. but my mother did. she became confused and nervous. she forgot her words, as if from an attack of stage-fright. there was no prompter and so for a moment my mother remained speechless. "selina, having warmed her hands sufficiently, drew her chair to the table and lifted the cosy from the tea-pot. "'why, you've let it get cold,' she said reproachfully, feeling the side of the pot. "this was more than my mother could stand. "'it's you that have let it get cold,' she cried hotly. "now this was pure impromptu 'gag,' and my mother would have done better to confine herself to the rehearsed dialogue. "'oh, missus!' cried selina. 'how can you say that? why, this is the first moment i've come down.' "'yes,' said my mother, gladly seizing the opportunity of slipping back into the text. 'somebody had to do the work, selina. in this world no work can go undone. if those whose duty it is do not do it, it must fall on the shoulders of other people. that is why i got up at seven this morning instead of you and have tidied up the place and made the master's breakfast.' "'that was real good of you!' exclaimed selina, with impulsive admiration. "my mother began to feel that the elaborate set piece was going off in a damp sort of way, but she kept up her courage and her saintly expression and continued, "'it was freezing when i got out of my warm bed, and before i could get the fire alight here i almost perished with cold. i shouldn't be surprised if i have laid the seeds of consumption.' "'ah,' said selina with satisfaction. 'now you see what i have had to put up with.' she took another piece of toast. "selina's failure to give the cues extremely disconcerted my mother. instead of being able to make the high moral remarks she had intended, she was forced to invent _repartées_ on the spur of the moment. the ethical quality of these improvisations was distinctly inferior. "'but you are paid for it, i'm not,' she retorted sharply. "'i know. that is why i say it is so good of you,' replied selina, with inextinguishable admiration. 'but you'll reap the benefit of it. now that i've had my breakfast without any trouble i shall be able to go about my work a deal better. it's such a struggle to get up, i assure you, missus, it tires me out for the day. might i have another egg?' "my mother savagely pushed her another egg. "'i'm thinking it would be a good plan,' said selina, meditatively opening the egg with her fingers, 'if you would get up instead of me every morning. but perhaps that was what you were thinking of.' "'oh, you would like me to, would you?' said my mother. "'i should be very grateful, i should indeed,' said selina earnestly. 'and i'm sure the work would be better done. there don't seem to be a speck of dust anywhere,'--she rubbed her dirty thumb admiringly along the dresser--'and i'm sure the tea and toast are lots nicer than any i've ever made.' "my mother waved her hand deprecatingly, but selina continued: "'oh yes, you know they are. you've often told me i was no use at all in the kitchen. i don't need to be told of my shortcomings, missus. all you say of me is quite true. you would be ever so much more satisfied if you cooked everything yourself. i'm sure you would.' "'and what would _you_ do under this beautiful scheme?' inquired my mother with withering sarcasm. "'i haven't thought of that yet,' said selina simply. 'but no doubt, if i looked around carefully, i should find something to occupy me. i couldn't be long out of work, i feel sure.' "well, that was how mother's attempt to elevate selina by moral means came to be a fiasco. the next time she tried to elevate her, it was by physical means. my mother left the suburb, and moved to a london flat very near the sky. she had given up hopes of improving selina's matutinal habits, and made the breakfast hour later through my father having now no train to catch, but she thought she would cure her of followers. selina's flirtations were not confined to our tradespeople and the local constabulary. she would exchange remarks about the weather with the most casual pedestrian in trousers. my mother thought she would remove her from danger by raising her high above all earthly temptations. we made the tradesmen send up their goods by lift and the only person she could flirt with was the old lift attendant. my father grumbled a good deal in the early days because the lift was always at the other extreme when he wanted it, but selina's moral welfare came before all other considerations. "by and by they began to renovate the exterior of the adjoining mansion. they put up a scaffolding, which grew higher and higher as the work advanced, and men swarmed upon it. at first my mother contemplated them with equanimity because they were british working-men and we were nearest heaven. but as the months went by, they began to get nearer and nearer. there came a time when selina's smile was distinctly visible to the man engaged on the section of the scaffolding immediately below. that smile encouraged him. it seemed to say 'excelsior.' he was a veritable don juan, that laborer. at every flat he flirted with the maid in possession. by counting the storeys in our mansion you could calculate the number of his _amours_. with every rise he left a love-passage behind him. he was a typical man--always looking higher, and, when he had raised himself to a more elevated position, spurning yesterday's love from beneath his feet. he seemed to mount on broken hearts. and now he was aspiring to the highest of all--selina. oh it is cruel! my mother had secluded selina like a virgin princess in an enchanted inaccessible tower and yet here was the prince calmly scaling the tower, without any possibility of interference. long before he had reached the top the consumption of bass in our flat went up by leaps and bounds. selina, my mother ultimately discovered, used to lower the beer by strings. it appeared, moreover, that she had two strings to her bow, for a swain in a slouch hat had been likewise climbing the height, at an insidious angle which had screened him from my mother's observation hitherto. neither of these men did much work, but it made them very thirsty. [illustration: _lowering the beer._] "that destroyed the last vestige of my mother's faith in selina's soul. like all disappointed women, she became crabbed and cynical. when my father's rising fortunes brought her more and more under the dominion of servants, the exposure and out-manoeuvring of her taskmasters came to be the only pleasure of her life. she spent a great deal of time in the police-courts--the constant prosecution she suffered from, curtailed the last relics of her leisure. everybody has heard of the law's delay, but few know how much time prosecutors have to lose, hanging about the court waiting for their case to be called. when a servant robbed her, my mother rarely got off with less than seven days. the moment she had engaged a servant, she became morbidly suspicious of him or her. often, when she had dressed for dinner, it would suddenly strike her that if she ransacked a certain cupboard something or other would be discovered, and off she would go to spoil her spotless silks. she had a mania for 'spring cleanings' once a month, so as to keep the drones busy. often i would bring a friend home, only to find the dining-room in the hall and the drawing-room on the landing. and yet to the end she retained a certain guileless, girlish simplicity--a fresh fund of hope which was not without a charm and pathos of its own. to the very last she believed that, faultless, flawless servants existed somewhere and she didn't intend to be happy till she got them; so that it was said of her by my sister's intended that she passed her life on the doorstep, either receiving an angel or expelling a fiend. it showed what a fine trustful nature had been turned to gall. she is at rest now, poor mother, her life's long slavery ended by the soft touch of all-merciful death. let us hope that she has opened her sorrow-stricken eyes on a brighter land, where earthly distinctions are annulled and the poor heavy-laden mistress may mix on equal terms with the radiant parlor-maid and the buxom cook." the tears were in lillie's eyes as miss eustasia pallas concluded her affecting recital. "but don't you think," said the president, conquering her emotion, "that with such an awful example in your memory, you could never yourself sink into such a serfage, even if you married?" "i dare not trust myself," said eustasia. "i have seen the fall of too many other women. why should i expect immunity from the general fate? i think myself strong--but who can fathom her own weakness. why, i have actually been talking servants to you all the time. think how continuous is the temptation, how subtle. were it not better to possess my soul in peace and to cultivate it nobly and wisely and become a shining light of the higher spinsterhood?" eustasia passed the preliminary examination and also the viva voce, and lillie was again in high feather. but before the election was formally confirmed, she was chagrined to receive the following letter. [illustration: _drew up the advertisement._] "my dear miss dulcimer. "i have good news for you. knowing your anxiety to find for me a way out of my matrimonial dilemma, i am pleased to be able to inform you that it has been found by my friend and literary adviser, percy swinshel spatt, the well known philosopher and idealist. i met him writing down his thoughts in bond street. in the course of a dialogue upon the beautiful, i put my puzzle to him and he solved it in a moment. 'why _must_ you keep a servant?' he asked, for it is his habit to question every statement he does not make. 'why not rather keep a mistress? become a servant yourself and all your difficulties vanish.' it was like a flash of lightning. 'yes,' i said, when i had recovered from the dazzle, 'but that would mean separation from my husband.' 'why?' he replied with his usual habit. 'in many houses they prefer to take married couples.' 'ah, but where should i find a man of like mind, a man to whom leisure for the cultivation of his soul was the one great necessity of life?' 'it is a curious coincidence, eustasia,' he replied, 'that i was just myself contemplating keeping a master and retiring into a hermitage below stairs, to devote myself to philosophical contemplation. as a butler or a footman in a really aristocratic establishment, my duties would be nominal, and the other servants and my employers would attend to all my wants. abstract speculation would naturally indue me with the grave silence and dignity which seem to be the chief duties of these superior creatures. it is possible, eustasia, that i am not the first to perceive the advantages of this way of living and that plush is but the disguise of the philosopher. as for you, eustasia, you could become a parlor-maid. thus we should live together peacefully, with no sordid housekeeping cares, no squalid interests in rates or taxes, devoted heart and soul to the higher life.' 'you light up for me perspectives of paradise,' i cried enthusiastically. 'then let us get the key of the garden at once,' he replied rapturously, and turning over a new leaf of his philosophical note-book, he set to work then and there to draw up the advertisement: 'wanted--by a young married couple, etc.' of course we had to be a little previous, because i could not consent to marry him unless we had a situation to go to. we were only putting what the greek grammars call a proleptic construction upon the situation. well, it seems good servants are so scarce we got a place at once--the exact thing we were looking for. we are concealing our real names (lest the profession be overrun by jealous friends from newnham and girton and oxford and cambridge) so that i was able to give percy a character and percy to give me a character. we are going into our place next monday afternoon, so, to avoid obtaining the situation by false pretences, we shall have to go before the registrar on the monday morning. our honeymoon will be spent in the delightful and unexploited retreat of the back kitchen. "yours, in the higher sisterhood, "eustasia pallas." chapter x. the good young men who lived. "it is, indeed, a happy solution," said lord silverdale enviously. "to spend your life in the service of other men, yet to save it for yourself! it reconciles all ideals." "well, you can very easily try it," said lillie. "i have just heard from the princess of portman square--she is reorganizing her household in view of her nuptials. shall i write you a recommendation?" "no, but i will read you an address to an egyptian tipcat," replied his lordship, with the irrelevancy which was growing upon him. "you know the recent excavations have shown that the little egyptians used to play 'pussy-cat' five thousand years ago." address to an egyptian tip-cat. and thou has flown about--how strange a story-- full five and forty centuries ago, ere fayoum, fired with military glory, received from gurod, with purpureal show, the sea-born captives of the spear and bow; and thou has blacked, perhaps, the very finest eye that sparkled in the twelfth egyptian dynasty. the sight of thee brings visions panoramic of manlier games, as _faro_, _pyramids_. what hands, now tinct with substances balsamic, have set thee leaping like the sportive kids, what time the passers-by did close their lids? did the stern priesthood strive thy cult to smother, or wast thou worshipped, like thy purring brother? where is the youth by whom thou wast created and tipped profusely? doth he frisk in glee in aahlu, or lives he, transmigrated, the lower life osiris did decree, of fowl, or fly, or fish, or fox, or flea? or, fallen deeper, is he politician, stumping the land, his country's quack physician? thou sphynx in wood, unchanged, serene, immortal, how many states and temples have decayed and generations passed the mystic portal whilst thou, still young, hast gone on being played? say, when thy popularity shall fade? and art thou--here's my last, if not my stiffest-- as good a bouncer as the hieroglyphist? "why, did the hieroglyphists use to brag?" asked lillie. "shamefully. you can no more believe in their statements than in epitaphs. there seems something peculiarly mendacious about stone as a recording medium. only it must be admitted on behalf of the hieroglyphists that it may be the egyptologists who are the braggers. there never was an ancient inscription which is not capable of being taken in a dozen different ways, like a party-leader's speech. every word has six possible meanings and half a dozen probable ones. the _savants_ only pretend to understand the stones." so saying lord silverdale took his departure. on the doorstep he met a young lady carrying a brown paper parcel. she smiled so sweetly at him that he raised his hat and wondered where he had met her. but it was only another candidate. she faced turple the magnificent and smiled on, unawed. turple ended by relaxing his muscles a whit, then ashamed of himself he announced gruffly, "miss mary friscoe." after the preliminary formalities, and after having duly assured herself that there was no male ear within earshot, miss friscoe delivered herself of the following candid confession. "i am a pretty girl, as you can see. i wear sweet frocks and smiles, and my eyes are of heaven's own blue. men are fond of gazing into them. men are so artistic. they admire the beautiful and tell her so. women are so different. i have overheard my girl friends call me 'that silly little flirt.' "i hold that any woman can twist any man round her little finger or his arm round her waist, therefore i consider it no conceit to say i have attracted considerable attention. if i had accepted all the offers i received, my marriages could easily have filled a column of _the times_. i know there are women who think that men are coarse, unsentimental creatures, given over to slang, tobacco, billiards, betting, brandies and sodas, smoking-room stories, flirtations with barmaids, dress and general depravity. but the women who say or write that are soured creatures, who have never been loved, have never fathomed the depth and purity of men's souls. "i have been loved. i have been loved much and often, and i speak as one who knows. man is the most maligned animal in creation. he is the least gross and carnal of creatures, the most exquisitely pure and refined in thought and deed; the most capable of disinterested devotion, self-sacrifice, chivalry, tenderness. every man is his own bayard. "if men had their deserts we women--heartless, frivolous, venal creatures that we are--would go down on our knees to them, and beg them to marry us. i am a woman and again i speak as one who knows. for i am not a bad specimen of my sex. even my best friends admit i am only silly. i am really a very generous and kind-hearted little thing. i never keep my tailor waiting longer than a year, i have made quite a number of penwipers for the poor, and i have never told an unnecessary lie in my life. i give a great deal of affection to my mother and even a little assistance in the household. i do not smoke scented cigarettes. i read travels and biographies as well as novels, play the guitar rather well, attend a drawing class, rise long before noon, am good-tempered, wear my ball-dresses more than once, turn winter dresses into spring frocks by stripping off the fur and putting on galon, and diversify my gowns by changing the sleeves. in short, i am a superior, thoroughly domesticated girl. and yet i have never met a man who has not had the advantage of me in all the virtues. "there was george holly,--i regret i cannot mention my lovers in chronological order, but my memories are so vague, they all seem to fuse into one another. perhaps it is because there is a lack of distinctiveness about men--a monotonous goodness which has its charm but is extremely confusing. one thing i do remember though, about george--at least, i think it was george. his moustache was rather bristly, and the little curled tips used to tickle one's nose comically. i was very disappointed in george, i had heard such a lot of talk about him; but when i got to really know him i found he was not a bit like it. how i came to really know him was like this. 'mary,' he said, as we sat on the stairs, high up, so as not to be in the way of the waiters. 'won't you say "yes" and make me the happiest man alive? never man loved as i love now. answer me. do not torture me with suspense.' i was silent; speechless with happiness to think that i had won this true manly heart. i looked down at my fan. my lips were forming the affirmative monosyllable, when george continued passionately, "'ah, mary, speak! mary, the only woman i ever loved.' "i turned pale with emotion. tears came into my eyes. "'is this true?' i articulated. 'am i really the only woman you ever loved?' "'by my hopes of a hereafter, yes!' george was a bit slangy in his general conversation. the shallow world never knew the poetry he could rise to. 'this is the first time i have known what it is to love, mary, my sweet, my own.' "'no, not your own,' i interrupted coldly, for my heart was like ice within me. 'i belong to myself, and i intend to. will you give me your arm into the ballroom--mr. daythorpe must be looking for me everywhere.' "it sounds very wicked to say it, i know, but i cannot delay my confession longer. i love, i adore, i doat on wicked men, men who love not wisely but too well. when i learnt history at school i could always answer questions about the reign of charles ii., it was such a deliciously wicked period. i love burns, lord byron, de musset, lovelace--all the nice naughty men of history or fiction. i like ouida's guardsman, whose love is a tornado, and charlotte bronte's rochester, and byron's don juan. i hate, i detest milksops. and a good man always seems to me a milksop. it is a flaw--a terrible flaw in my composition, i know--but i cannot help it. it makes me miserable, but what can i do? nature will out. "that was how i came to find george out, to discover he was not the terrible cavalier, the abandoned squire of dames the world said he was. his reputation was purely bogus. the gossips might buzz, but i had it on the highest authority. i was the first woman he had ever loved. what pleasure is there in such a conquest? it grieved me to break his heart, but i had no option. "daythorpe was another fellow who taught me the same lesson of the purity and high emotions of his cruelly libelled sex. he, too, when driven into a corner (far from the madding crowd) confessed that i was the only woman he had ever loved. i have tried them all--poets and musicians, barristers and business-men. they all had suffered from the same incapacity for affection till they met me. it was quite pathetic to discover how truly all men were brothers. the only difference was that while some added i was the only woman they ever could love, others insisted that never man had loved before as they did now. the latter lovers always remind me of advertisers offering a superior article to anything in the trade. nowhere could i meet the man i longed for--the man who had lived and loved. once i felt stirrings towards a handsome young widower, but he went out of his way to assure me he had never cared for his first wife. after that, of course, he had no chance. [illustration: _platonic love._] "unable to discover any but good young men, i resigned myself perforce to spinsterhood. i resolved to cultivate only platonic relations. i told young men to come to me and tell me their troubles. i encouraged them to sit at my feet and confide in me while i held their hands to give them courage. but even so they would never confess anything worth hearing, and if they did love anybody it invariably turned out to be me and me only. yes, i grieve to say these platonic young men were just as good as the others; leaving out the audacity of their proposing to me when i had given them no encouragement. here again i found men distressingly alike. they are constitutionally unable to be girls' chums, they are always hankering to convert the friendship into love. time after time anticipations of a genuine comradeship were rudely dispelled by fatuous philandering. yet i never ceased to be surprised, and i never lost hope. such, i suppose, is the simple trustfulness of a girl's nature. in time i got to know when the explosion was coming, and this deadened the shock. i found it was usually preceded by suicidal remarks of a retrospective character. my comrades would tell me of their past lives, of the days when the world's oyster was yet unopened by them. in those dark days (tears of self-pity came into their eyes as they spoke of them) they were on the point of suicide--to a man. only, one little thing always came to save them--their first brief, the acceptance of their first article, poem or song, the opportune deaths of aunts, the chance hearing of an organ-note rolling through the portal of a village church on a sunday afternoon, a letter from an old schoolmaster. the obvious survival of the narrators rather spoiled the sensational thrill for me, but they themselves were always keenly touched by the story. and from suicide in the past to suicide in the future was an easy transition. alas, i was the connecting link. they loved me--and unless i returned their love, that early suicide would prove to have been merely postponed. in the course of conversation it transpired that i was the first woman they had ever loved. i remember once rejecting on this account two such platonic failures, within ten minutes of each other. one was a well-known caricaturist, and the other was the editor of a lady's paper. each left me, declaring his heart was broken, that i had led him on shamelessly, that i was a heartless jilt and that he would go and kill himself. my brother tom accidentally told me he saw them together about an hour afterwards at a bar in the strand, asking each other what was their poison. so i learnt that they had spoken the truth. i had driven them to drink. and according to tom the drink at this particular bar is superior to strychnine. he says men always take it in preference." [illustration: _driven to drink._] "and have you then finally decided to abandon platonics?" asked lillie, when the flow of words came to an end. "finally." "and you have decided to enroll in our ranks?" miss mary friscoe hesitated. "well about that part i'm not quite so certain. to tell the truth, there is one young man of my acquaintance who has never yet proposed. when i started for here in disgust at the goodness of mankind i forgot him, but in talking he has come back to my mind. i have a strong suspicion he is quite wicked. he is always painting actresses. don't you think it would be unfair to him to take my vows without giving him a chance?" "well, yes," said lillie musingly, "perhaps it would. you would feel easier afterwards. otherwise you might always reproach yourself with the thought that you had perhaps turned away from a bad man's love. you might feel that the world was not so good as you had imagined in your girlish cynicism, and then you might regret having joined us." "quite so," said miss friscoe eagerly. "but he shall be the very last man i will listen to." "when do you propose to be proposed to by him?" "the sooner the better. this very day, if you like. i am going straight from here to my drawing class." "very well. then you will come to-morrow and tell me your final decision?" "to-morrow." * * * * * miss mary friscoe arrived at the drawing class late. her fellow students of both sexes were already at their easels and her entry distracted everybody. it was a motley gathering, working in motley media--charcoal, chalk, pencil, oil, water-color. one girl was modelling in clay, and one young gentleman, opera-glass in hand, was making enlarged colored copies of photographs. it was this young gentleman that mary came out for to see. his name was bertie smythe. he was rich, but he would always be a poor artist. his ambition was to paint the nude. there were lilies of the valley in the bosom of mary's art-gown, and when she arrived she unfolded the brown paper parcel she carried and took therefrom a cardboard box containing a snow-white collar and spotless cuffs, which she proceeded to adjust upon her person. she then went to the drawing-board rack and stood helpless, unable to reach down her board, which was quite two inches above her head. there was a rush of embryo r.a.'s. those who failed to hand her the board got down the cast and dusted it for her and fixed it up according to her minute and detailed directions, and adjusted her easel, and brought her a trestle, and lent her lead-pencils, and cut them for her, and gave her chunks of stale bread, for all which services she rewarded them with bewitching smiles and profuse thanks and a thousand apologies. it took her a long time getting to work on the charcoal cluster of plums which had occupied her ever since the commencement of the term, because she never ventured to commence without holding long confabulations with her fellow-students as to whether the light was falling in exactly the same way as last time. she got them to cock their heads on one side and survey the sketch, to retreat and look at it knowingly, to measure the visual angle with a stick of charcoal, or even to manipulate delicately the great work itself. meantime she fluttered about it, chattering, alternately enraptured and dissatisfied, and when at last she started, it was by rubbing everything out. the best position for drawing happened to be next to bertie smythe. that artist was now engaged in copying the portrait of an actress. "oh, mr. smythe," said mary suddenly, in a confidential whisper. "i've got such a beautiful face for you to paint." "i know you have!" flashed bertie, in the same intimate tone. "what a tease you are, twisting my words like that," said mary, rapping him playfully on the knuckles with her mahl-stick. "you know what i mean quite well. it's a cousin of mine in the country." "i see--it runs in the family," said bertie. "what runs in the family?" asked mary. "beautiful faces, of course." "oh, that's too bad of you," said mary pouting. "you know i don't like compliments." she rubbed a pellet of bread fretfully into her drawing. "i don't pay compliments. i tell the truth," said bertie, meeting her gaze unflinchingly. "oh, look at that funny little curl miss roberts is wearing to-night!" "bother miss roberts. when are you going to let me have _your_ face to paint?" "my cousin's, you mean," said mary, rubbing away harder than ever. "no, i don't. i mean yours." "i never give away photographs to gentlemen." "well, sit to me then." "sit to you! where?" "in my studio." "good gracious! what are you talking about?" "you." "oh, you are too tiresome. i shall never get this finished," grumbled mary, concentrating herself so vigorously on the drawing that she absent-mindedly erased the last vestiges of it. she took up her plumb-line and held it in front of her cast and became absorbed in contemplating it. "you haven't answered my question, miss friscoe," whispered bertie pertinaciously. "what question?" "when are you going to lend me your face?" "look, there's mr. biskett going home already!" "hang mr. biskett! i say, mary----" he began passionately. "how are you getting on, mr. smythe?" came the creaking voice of potts, the drawing-master, behind him. "pretty well, thank you; how's yourself?" mechanically replied bertie, greatly flustered by his inopportune arrival. potts stared and mary burst into a ringing laugh. "look at _my_ drawing, mr. potts," she said. "it _will_ come so funny." "why, there's nothing there," said potts. "dear me, no more there is," said mary. "i--i was entirely dissatisfied with it. you might just sketch it in for me." potts was accustomed to doing the work of most of the lady students. they used to let him do a little bit on each of his rounds till the thing was completed. he set to work on mary's drawing, leaving her to finish being proposed to. "and you really love me?" mary was saying, while potts was sketching the second plum. "can you doubt it?" bertie whispered tremulously. "yes, i do doubt it. you have loved so many girls, you know. oh, i have heard all about your conquests." she thought it was best to take the bull by the horns, and her breath came thick and fast as she waited for the reply that would make or mar her life. bertie's face lit up with pleasure. "oh, but----" he began. "ah, yes, i know," she interrupted triumphantly. "what about that actress you are painting now?" "oh, well," said bertie. "if you say 'yes,' i promise never to speak to her again." "and you will give up your bad habits?" she continued joyfully. "every one. even my cigarettes, if you say the word. my whole life shall be devoted to making you happy. you shall never hear a cross word from my lips." mary's face fell, her lip twitched. what was the use of marrying a milksop like that? where would be the fun of a union without mutual recriminations and sweet reconciliations? she even began to doubt whether he was wicked after all. "did you ever really love that actress?" she whispered anxiously. "no, of course i didn't," said bertie soothingly. "to tell the truth, i have never spoken to her in my life. i bought her photo in the burlington arcade and i only talk with the fellows about ballet girls in order, not to be behind the times. i never knew what love was till i met you. you are the only----" crash! bang! went his three-legged easel, upset by mary's irrepressible movement of pique. the eyes of the class were on them in a moment, but only mary knew that in that crash her last hope of happiness had fallen, too. * * * * * "i do trust miss friscoe's last chance will not prove a blank again," said lord silverdale, when lillie had told him of the poor girl's disappointments. "why?" asked the president. "because i shrink from the _viva voce_ examination." "why?" asked the president. "i am afraid i should be so dangerous." "why?" asked the president. "because _i have_ loved before. i shall be desperately in love with another woman all through the interview." "oh, i am so sorry, but you are inadmissible," said lillie, when miss friscoe came to announce her willingness to join the club. "why?" asked the candidate. "because you belong to an art-class. it is forbidden by our by-laws. how stupid of me not to think of it yesterday!" "but i am ready to give it up." "oh, i couldn't dream of allowing that on any account," said the president. "i hear you draw so well." so mary never went before the honorary trier. chapter xi. adventures in search of the pole. "oh, by the way, miss friscoe will not trouble you, you will be glad to hear," said lillie, lightly. "indeed?" said silverdale. "then she has drawn a prize after all! i cannot say as much for the young man. i hardly think she is a credit to your sex. somehow, she reminded me of a woman i used to know, and of some verses i wrote upon her." ("if he had given me a chance, and not gone on to read his poetry so quickly," wrote lillie in her diary that night, "i might have told him that his inference about miss friscoe was incorrect. but it is such a trifle--it is not worth telling him now, especially as he practically intimated she would have been an undesirable member, and i only saved him the trouble of trying her.") lord silverdale read his verses without the accompaniment of the banjo, an instrument too frivolous for the tragic muse. la femme que ne rit pas. it was fair with a loveliness mystic, like the faces that raphael drew, enigmatic, intense, cabalistic, but surcharged with the light of the true: such a face, such a hauntingly magic incarnation of wistful regret, it was tenebrous, tender, and tragic, i dream of it yet. and there lives in my charmed recollection, the sweet mouth with its lips cruelly curled, as with bitter ironic rejection of the gods of the frivolous world. yet not even disdain on her features was enthroned, for a heavenly peace often linked her with bright seraph creatures or statues of greece. i met her at dinners and dances, or on yachts that by moonlight went trips, and was thrilled by her marvellous glances, and the sneer or repose of her lips. never smile o'er her features did play light, never laughter illumined her eyes; she grew to seem sundered from daylight and sun-kindled skies. were they human at all, these dusk glories of eyes? and their owner, was she a swinburnian lady dolores, or a sprite from some shadowy sea? a cassandra at sea-trip and _soirée_, or proserpina visiting earth? ah, what harpy pursued her as quarry to strangle so mirth? ah, but now i am wiser and sadder, and my spirit can never again at the sight of your fairness feel gladder, o ladies, who coolly obtain our enamelled and painted complexion on conditions (which really are "style,") _you must never by day risk detection and nevermore smile._ "i don't see where the connection with miss friscoe comes in," said lillie. "no? why simply if she acquired an enamelled complexion, it might be the salvation of her, don't you see? like henry i., she could never smile again." lillie smiled. then producing a manuscript, she said: "i think you will be interested in this story of another of the candidates who applied during your expedition to the clouds. it is quite unique, and for amusement i have written it from the man's point of view." "may i come in?" interrupted the millionaire, popping his head through the door. "are there any old maids here?" "only me," said lillie. "oh, then, i'll call another time." "no, you may come in, father. lord silverdale and i have finished our business for the day. you can take that away with you and read it at your leisure, lord silverdale." the millionaire came in, but without _empressement_. that night lord silverdale, who was suffering from insomnia, took the manuscript to bed with him, but he could not sleep till he had finished it. * * * * * i, anton mendoza, bachelor, born thirty years ago by the grace of the holy virgin, on the _fête_-day of san anton, patron of pigs and old maids, after sundry adventures by sea and land, found myself in the autumn of last year in the pestiferous atmosphere of london. i had picked up bad english and a good sum of money in south america, and by the aid of the two was enabled to thread my way through the mazes of the metropolis. i soon tired of the neighborhood of the alhambra (in the proximity of which i had with mistaken patriotism established myself), for the wealthy quarters of all great cities have more affinities than differences, and after a few days of sight-seeing i resolved to fare forth in quest of the real sights of london. mounting the box of the first omnibus that came along, i threw the reins of my fortunes into the hands of the driver, and drew a little blue ticket from the lottery of fate. i scanned the slip of paper curiously and learned therefrom that i was going fast to "the angel," which i shrewdly divined to be a public-house, knowing that these islanders display no poetry and imagination save in connection with beer. my intuition was correct, and though it was the forenoon i alighted amid a double stream of pedestrians, the one branch flowing into "the angel," and the other issuing therefrom. extricating myself, i looked at my compass, and following the direction of the needle soon found myself in a network of unlovely streets. for an hour i paced forwards without chancing on aught of interest, save many weary organ-grinders, seemingly serenading their mistresses with upward glances at their chamber-windows, and i was commencing to fear that my blue ticket would prove a blank, when a savory odor of garlic struck on my nostrils and apprised me that my walk had given me an appetite. glancing sideways i saw a door swinging, the same bearing in painted letters on the glass the words: "menotti's restaurant--ici on parle francais." it looked a queer little place, and the little back street into which i had strayed seemed hardly auspicious of cleanly fare. still the jewel of good cookery harbors often in the plainest caskets, and i set the door swinging again and passed into a narrow room walled with cracked mirrors and furnished with a few little tables, a rusty waiter, and a proprietorial looking person perpetually bent over a speaking tube. as noon was barely arrived, i was not surprised to find the place all but empty. at the extreme end of the restaurant i caught a glimpse of a stout dark man with iron-gray whiskers. i thought i would go and lunch at the table of the solitary customer and scrape acquaintance, and thus perhaps achieve an adventure. but hardly had i seated myself opposite him than a shock traversed his face, the morsel he had just swallowed seemed to stick in his throat, he rose coughing violently, and clapping his palm over his mouth with the fingers spread out almost as if he wished to hide his face, turned his back quickly, seized his hat, threw half-a-crown to the waiter and scuttled from the establishment. [illustration: _he scuttled from the establishment._] i was considerably surprised at his abrupt departure, as if i had brought some infection with me. the momentary glimpse i had caught of his face had convinced me i had never seen it before, that it had no place in the photograph album of my brain, though now it would be fixed there forever. the nose hooked itself on to my memory at once. it must be that he had mistaken me for somebody else, somebody whom he had reason to fear. perhaps he was a criminal and imagined me a detective. i called the proprietor and inquired of him in french who the man was and what was the matter with him. but he shook his head and answered: "that man there puzzles me. there is a mystery behind." "why, has he done anything strange before to-day?" "no, not precisely." "how then?" "i will tell you. he comes here once a year." "once a year?" i repeated. "no more. this has been going on for twelve years." "what are you telling me there?" i murmured. "it is true." "but how have you remembered him from year to year?" "i was struck by his face and his air the very first time. he seemed anxious, ill at ease, worried. he left his chop half eaten." "ha!" i murmured. "also he looks different from most of my clients. they are not of that type. of course i forget him immediately--it is not my affair. but when he comes the second time i recall him on the instant, though a year has passed. again he looks perturbed, restless. i say to myself: 'aha, thou art not a happy man, there is something which preys on thy mind. however, thy money is good and to the devil with the rest.' so it goes on. after three or four visits i commence to look out for him, and i discover that it is only once a year he does me the honor to arrive. there are twelve years that i know him--i have seen him twelve times." "and he has always this nervous air?" "not always. that varies. sometimes he appears calm, sometimes even happy." "perhaps it is your fare," i said slily. "ah, no, monsieur, that does not vary. it is always of the first excellence." "does he always come on the same date?" "no, monsieur. there is the puzzle. it is never exactly a year between his visits--sometimes it is more, sometimes it is less." "there is, indeed, the puzzle," i agreed. "if it were always the same date, it would be a clue. ah, an idea! he comes not always on the same date of the month, but he comes, perhaps, on the same day of the week, eh?" again the proprietor dashed me back into the depths of perplexity. "no," he said, decisively. "monday, wednesday, saturday,--it is all the same. the only thing that changes not is the man and his dress. always the same broadcloth frock-coat and the same high hat and the same seals at the heavy watch-chain. he is a rich man, that sees itself." i wrinkled my brow and tugged the ends of my moustache in the effort to find a solution. the proprietor tugged the ends of his own moustache in sympathetic silence. "does he always slink out if anybody sits down opposite to him?" i inquired again. "on the contrary. he talks and chats quite freely with his neighbors when there are any. i have seen his countenance light up when a man has come to seat himself next to him." "then to-day is the first time he has behaved so strangely?" "absolutely." again i was silent. i looked at myself curiously in the cracked mirror. "do you see anything strange in my appearance?" i asked the proprietor. "nothing in the world," said the proprietor, shaking his head vigorously. "nothing in the world," echoed the waiter, emphatically. "then why does he object to me, when he doesn't object to anybody else?" "pardon," said the proprietor. "it is, after all, but rarely that a stranger sits at his table. he comes ordinarily so early for his lunch that my clients have not yet arrived, and i have only the honor to serve an accidental customer like yourself." "ah, then, there is some regularity about the time of day at least?" "ah, yes, there is that," said the proprietor, reflectively. "but even here there is no hard and fast line. he may be an hour earlier, he may be an hour later." "what a droll of a man!" i said laughing, even as i wondered. "and you have not been able to discover anything about him, though he has given it you in twelve?" "it is not my affair," he repeated, shrugging his shoulders. "you know not his name even?" "how should i know it?" "ah, very well, you shall see!" i said, buttoning up my coat resolutely and rising to my feet. "you shall see that i will find out everything in once. i, a stranger in london, who love the oceans and the forests better than the cities, i, who know only the secrets of nature, behold, i will solve you this mystery of humanity." "as monsieur pleases," replied the proprietor. "for me the only question is what monsieur will have for his lunch." "i want no lunch," i cried. then seeing his downcast face and remembering the man must be out of sight by this time and nothing was to be gained by haste, i ordered some broth and a veal and ham pie, and strode to the door to make sure there was no immediate chance of coming upon him. the little by-street was almost deserted, there was not a sign of my man. i returned to my seat and devoted myself to my inner man instead. then i rebuttoned my coat afresh--though with less facility--and sauntered out joyously. now at last i had found something to interest me in london. the confidence born of a good meal was strong in my bosom as i pushed those swinging doors open and cried "_au revoir_," to my host, for i designed to return and to dazzle him with my exploits. "_au revoir_, monsieur, a thousand thanks," cried the proprietor, popping up from his speaking-tube. "but where are you going? where do you hope to find this man?" "i go not to find the man," i replied airily. "_comment!_" he exclaimed in his astonishment. "i go to seek the woman," i said in imposing accents. and waving my hand amicably i sallied forth into the dingy little street. but alas for human anticipations! the whole of that day i paced the dead and alive streets of north london without striking the faintest indication of a trail. after a week's futile wanderings i began to realize the immensity of the english metropolis--immense not only by its actual area, but by the multiplicity of its streets and windings, and by the indifference of each household to its neighbors, which makes every roof the cover of manifold mysterious existences and potentialities. to look for a needle in a bundle of hay were child's play to the task of finding a face in a london suburb, even assuming as i did my enigma lived in the northern district. i dared not return to the restaurant to inquire if perchance he had been seen. i was ashamed to confess myself baffled. i shifted my quarters from leicester square to green lanes and walked every day within a four mile radius of the restaurant, but fortune turned her face (and his) from me and i raged at my own folly in undertaking so futile a quest. at last, "patience!" i cried. "patience, and shuffle the cards!" it was my pet proverb when off the track of anything. to cut yourself adrift from the old plan and look at the problem with new eyes--that was my recipe. i tried it by going into the country for some stag hunting, which i had ascertained from a farmer whom i met in a coffee-house, could be obtained in some of the villages in the next county. but english field-sports i found little to my taste, for the deer had been unhorned and was let out of a cart, and it was only playing at sport. the holy mother save me from such bloodless make-believe! though the hunting season was in full swing i returned in disgust to the town, and again confiding my fortunes to a common or garden omnibus, i surveyed the street panorama from my seat on the roof till the vehicle turned round for the backward journey. this time i found myself in canonbury, a district within the radius i had previously explored. the coincidence gave me fresh hope--it seemed a happy augury of ultimate success. the saints would guide my footsteps after all; for he who wills aught intensely cajoles providence. the dusk had fallen and the night lamps had been lit in the heavens and on the earth, though without imparting cheerfulness to the rigid rows of highly respectable houses. i walked through street after street of gray barracks, tall narrow structures holding themselves with the military stiffness and ranged in serried columns, the very greenery that relieved their fronts growing sympathetically symmetrical and sombre. i sighed for my native orange-groves, i longed for a whiff of the blue mediterranean, i strove to recall the breezy expanses of the south american pampas whence i had come, and had it not been for the interest of my search, i should have fled like st. anthony from the lady, though for very opposite reasons. it seemed scarcely possible that romance should brood behind those dull façades; the grosser spirit of prose seemed to shroud them as in a fog. suddenly, as i paced with clogged footsteps in these heavy regions, i heard a voice calling somebody, and looking in the direction of the sound i could not but fancy it was myself whose attention was sought. a gentleman standing at the hall-door of one of the houses, at the top of the white steps, was beckoning in my direction. i halted, and gazing on all sides ascertained i was the sole pedestrian. puzzled as to what he could want of me, i tried to scan his features by the rays of a street lamp which faced the house and under which i stood. they revealed a pleasant but not english-looking face, bearded and bronzed, but they revealed nothing as to the owner's designs. he stood there still beckoning, and the latent hypnotism of the appeal drew me towards the gate. i paused with my hand on the lock. what in the name of all the saints could he possibly want with me? i had sundry valuables about my person, but then they included a loaded revolver, so why refuse the adventure? "do come in," he said in english, seeing my hesitation. "_we are only waiting for you._" [illustration: _i accepted the strange invitation._] the mysterious language of the invitation sealed my fate. evidently i had again been mistaken for somebody else. was it that i resembled someone this man knew? if so, it would probably be the same someone the other man had dreaded. i seemed to feel the end of a clew at last, the other end which was tied to him i sought. putting my hand to my breast pocket to make sure it held my pistol, i drew back the handle of the gate and ascended the steps. there was an expression of satisfaction on the face of my inviter, and, turning his back upon me he threw the door wide open and held it courteously as i entered. a whiff of warm stuffy air smote my nostrils as i stepped into the hall where an india-rubber plant stood upon a rack heavily laden with overcoats. my host preceded me a few paces and opened a door on the right. a confused babble of guttural speech broke upon my ear, and over his shoulder i caught a glimpse of a strange scene--a medley of swarthy men, wearing their hats, a venerable-looking old man who seemed their chief being prominent in a grim, black skull cap; there was a strange weird wick burning in a cup of oil on the mantelpiece, and on a sofa at the extreme end of the room sat a beautiful young lady weeping silently. my heart gave a great leap. instinct told me i had found the woman. i made the sign of the cross and entered. a strange look of relief passed over the faces of the company as i entered. instinctively i removed my hat, but he who had summoned me deprecated the courtesy with a gesture, remarking, "we are commencing at once." i stared at him, more puzzled than ever, but kept silence lest speech should betray me and snatch the solution from me on the very eve of my arrival at it. it was gathering in my mind that i must strikingly resemble one of the band, that the man of the restaurant had betrayed us, and that he went in fear of our vengeance. only thus could i account for my reception both by him and by the rest of the gang. the patriarchal-looking chieftain got up and turned his back to the company, as if surveying them through the mirror. he then addressed them at great length with averted face in a strange language, the others following him attentively and accompanying his remarks with an undercurrent of murmured sympathy, occasionally breaking out into loud exclamations of assent in the same tongue. i listened with all my ears, but could not form the least idea as to what the language was. there were gutturals in it as in german, but i can always detect german if i cannot understand it. there was never a word which had the faintest analogy with any of the european tongues. i came to the conclusion it was a patter of their own. the leader spoke hurriedly for the most part, but in his slower passages there was a rise and fall of the voice almost amounting to a musical inflection. near the end, after an emphatic speech frequently interrupted by applause, he dropped his voice to a whisper and a hushed silence fell upon the room. the beautiful girl on the couch got up and, holding a richly-bound book in her hand, perused it quietly. her lovely eyes were heavy with tears. i drifted upon a current of wonder into perusing her face, and it was with a start that, at the sudden resumption of the leader's speech, i woke from my dreams. the address came to a final close soon after, and then another member wound up the proceedings with a little speech, which was received with great enthusiasm. while he was speaking, i studied the back of the patriarch's head. he moved it, and my eyes accidentally lighted on something on the mantelpiece which sent a thrill through my whole being. it was a photograph, and unless some hallucination tricked my vision, the photograph of the man i sought. i trembled with excitement. my instinct had been correct. i had found the woman. saint antony had guided my footsteps aright. the company was slowly dispersing, chatting as it went. everybody took leave of the beautiful girl, who had by this time dried her eyes and resumed the queen. i should have to go with them, and without an inkling of comprehension of what had passed! what had they been plotting? what part had i been playing in these uncanny transactions? what had they been doing to bring suffering to this fair girl, before whom all bowed in mock homage? was she the unwilling accomplice of their discreditable designs? i could not see an inch in the bewildering fog. and was i to depart like the rest, doomed to cudgel my brains till they ached like caned schoolboys? no, my duty was clear. a gentle creature was in trouble--it was my business to stay and succor her. then suddenly the thought flashed upon me that she loved the man who had betrayed us, that she had pleaded with fear for his life, and that her petition had been granted. the solution seemed almost complete, yet it found me no more willing to go. had i not still to discover for what end we were leagued together? as i stood motionless, thus musing, the minutes and the company slipped away. i was left with the man of the doorstep, the second speaker, and the beautiful girl. while i was wondering by what pretext to remain, the second speaker came up to me and said cordially: "we are so much obliged to you for coming. it was very good of you." his english was that of a native, as i enviously noted. he was a young, good-looking fellow, but, as i gazed at him, a vague resemblance to the stranger of the restaurant and to the photograph on the mantelpiece forced itself on my attention. "oh, it was no trouble; no trouble at all," i remarked cheerfully. "i will come again if you like." "thank you; but this is our last night, with the exception of saturday, when one can get together twenty quite easily, so there is no need to trouble you, as you perhaps do not reside in the neighborhood." "oh, but i do," i hastened to correct him. "in that case we shall be very pleased to see you," he replied readily. "i don't remember seeing you before in the district. i presume you are a newcomer." "yes, that's it," i exclaimed glibly, secretly more puzzled than ever. he did not remember seeing me before, nor did the man of the doorstep vouchsafe any information as to my identity. then i could certainly not have been mistaken for somebody else. and yet--what was the meaning of that significant invitation: "_we are waiting only for you?_" "i thought you were a stranger," he replied. "i haven't the pleasure of knowing your name." this was the climax. but i concealed my astonishment, having always found the _nil admirari_ principle the safest in enterprises of this nature. should i tell him my real name? yes, why not? i was utterly unknown in london, and my real name would be as effective a disguise as a pseudonym. "mendoza," i replied. "ah," said the man of the doorstep. "any relation to the mendozas of highbury?" "i think not," i replied, with an air of reflection. "ah well," said the second speaker, "we are all brothers." "and sisters." i remarked gallantly, bowing to the beautiful maiden. on second thoughts it struck me the remark was rather meaningless, but second thoughts have an awkward way of succeeding first thoughts, which sometimes interferes with their usefulness. on third thoughts i went on in my best english, "may i in return be favored with the pleasure of knowing your name?" the second speaker smiled in a melancholy way and said, "i beg you pardon, i forgot we were as strange to you as you to us. my name is radowski, philip radowski; this is my friend martin, and this my sister fanny." i distributed elaborate bows to the trinity. "you will have a little refreshment before you go?" said fanny, with a simple charm that would have made it impossible to refuse, even if i had been as anxious to go as i was to stay. "oh no, i could not think of troubling you," i replied warmly, and in due course i was sipping a glass of excellent old port and crumbling a macaroon. this seemed to me the best time for putting out a feeler, and i remarked lightly, pointing to the photograph on the mantelpiece, "i did not see that gentleman here to-night." instantly a portentous expression gathered upon all the faces. i saw i had said the wrong thing. the beautiful fanny's mouth quivered, her eyes grew wistful and pathetic. "my father is dead," she said in a low tone. dead? her father? a great shock of horror and surprise traversed my frame. his secret had gone with him to the grave. "dead?" i repeated involuntarily. "oh, forgive me, i did not know." "of course not, of course not. i understand perfectly," put in her brother soothingly. "you did not know whom it was we had lost. yes, it was our father." "has he been dead long?" he seemed a little surprised at the question, but answered: "it is he we are mourning now." i nodded my head, as if comprehending. "ah, he was a good man," said martin. "i wish we were all so sure of heaven." "there are very few jews like him left," said fanny quietly. "alas, he was one of the pious old school," assented martin, shaking his head dolefully. my heart was thumping violently as a great wave of light flooded my brain. these people then were jews--that strange, scattered race of heretics i had often heard of, but never before come into contact with in my wild adventurous existence. the strange scene i had witnessed was not, then, a meeting of conspirators, but a religious funereal ceremonial; the sorrow of fanny was filial grief; the address of the venerable old man a hebrew prayer-reading; the short speech of philip radowski probably a psalm in the ancient language all spoke so fluently. but what had i come to do in that galley? all these thoughts flashed upon me in the twinkling of an eye. there was scarce a pause between martin's observation and radowski's remark that followed it. "he was, indeed, pious. it was wonderful how he withstood the influence of his english friends. you would never imagine he left poland quite thirty years ago." so i had found the pole! but was it too late? anyhow i resolved to know what _i_ had been summoned for? the saints spared me the trouble of the search. "yes," returned martin, "when you think how ready he was to go to the houses of mourners, i think it perfectly disgraceful that we had such difficulty in getting together ten brother-jews for the services in his memory. but for the kindness of mr. mendoza i don't know what we should have done to-night. in your place, philip, i confess i should have felt tempted to violate the law altogether. i can't see that it matters to the almighty whether you have nine men or ten men or five men. and i don't see why fanny couldn't count in quite as well as any man." "oh! martin," said fanny with a shocked look. "how can you talk so irreligiously? once we begin to break the law where are we to stop? jews and christians may as well intermarry at once." her righteous indignation was beautiful to see. two things were clear now. first, i had been mistaken for a jew, probably on account of my foreign appearance. secondly, fanny would never wed a christian. but for the first fact i would have regretted the second. for a third thing was clear--that i loved the glorious jewess with all the love of a child of the south. we are not tame rabbits, we andalusians: the flash from beauty's eye fires our blood and we love instantly and dare greatly. my heart glowed with gratitude to my patron saint for having brought about the mistake; a jew i was and a jew i would remain. "you are quite right, miss radowski," i said, "jew and christian might as well intermarry at once." "i am glad to hear you say so," said fanny, turning her lovely orbs towards me. "most young men nowadays are so irreligious." martin darted a savage glance at me. i saw at once how the land lay. he was either engaged to my darling or a _fiancé_ in the making. i surveyed him impassively from his head to his shoes and decided to stand in them. it was impossible to permit a man of such dubious religious principles to link his life with a spiritually-minded woman like fanny. such a union could only bring unhappiness to both. what she needed was a good pious jew, one of the old school. with the help of the saints i vowed to supply her needs. "i think modern young women are quite as irreligious as modern young men," retorted martin, as he left the room. "yes, it is so," sighed fanny, the arrow glancing off unheeded. then, uplifting her beautiful eyes heavenwards, she murmured: "ah, if they had been blessed with fathers like mine." martin, who had only gone out for an instant, returned with fanny's hat and a feather boa, and observing, "you must really take a walk at once--you have been confined indoors a whole week," helped her to put them on. i felt sure his zeal for her health was overbalanced by his enthusiasm for my departure. i could not very well attach myself to the walking party--especially as i only felt an attachment for one member of it. disregarding the interruption i remarked in tones of fervent piety: "it will be an eternal regret to me that i missed knowing your father." she gave me a grateful look. "look!" she said, seating herself on the sofa for a moment and picking up the richly-bound book lying upon it. "look at the motto of exhortation he wrote in my prayer-book before he died. our minister says it is in the purest hebrew." i went to her side and leaned over the richly-bound book, which appeared to be printed backwards, and scanned the inscription with an air of appreciation. "read it," she said. "read it aloud! it comforts me to hear it." [illustration: _"read it aloud," she said. "it comforts me."_] i coughed violently and felt myself growing pale. the eyes of martin were upon me with an expression that seemed waiting to become sardonic. i called inwardly upon the holy mother. there seemed to be only a few words and after a second's hesitation i murmured something in my most inarticulate manner, producing some sounds approximately like those i had heard during the service. fanny looked up at me, puzzled. "i do not understand your pronunciation," she said. i felt ready to sink into the sofa. "ah, i am not surprised," put in her brother. "from mr. mendoza's name and appearance i should take him to be a sephardi like the mendozas of highbury. they pronounce quite differently from us, fanny." i commended him to the grace of the virgin. "that is so," i admitted. "and i found it not at all easy to follow your services." "are you an english sephardi or a native sephardi?" asked martin. "a native!" i replied readily. "i was born there." where "there" was i had no idea. "do you know," said fanny, looking so sweetly into my face, "i should like to see your country. spain has always seemed to me so romantic, and i dote on spanish olives." i was delighted to find i had spoken the truth as to my nativity. "i shall be charmed to escort you," i said, smiling. she smiled in response. "it is easy enough to go anywhere nowadays," said martin surlily. "i wish you would go to the devil," i thought. "that would certainly be easy enough." but it would have been premature to force my own company upon fanny any longer. i relied upon the presence of death and her brother to hinder martin's suit from developing beyond the point it had already reached. it remained to be seen whether the damage was irreparable. i went again on the saturday night, following with interest the service that had seemed a council-meeting. this time it began with singing, in which everybody joined and in which i took part with hearty inarticulateness. but a little experience convinced me that my course was beset with pitfalls, that not mary jane aspiring to personify a duchess could glide on thinner ice than i attempting to behave as one of these strange people, with their endless and all-embracing network of religious etiquette. to my joy i discovered that i could pursue my suit without going to synagogue, a place of dire peril, for it seems that the spaniards are a distinct sect, mightily proud of their blood and their peculiar pronunciation, and the radowskis, being poles, did not expect to see me worshipping with themselves, which enabled me to continue my devotions in the holy chapel of st. vincent. it also enabled me to skate over many awkward moments, the poles being indifferently informed as to the etiquette of their peninsular cousins. that i should have been twice taken for one of their own race rather surprised me, for my physiognomical relationship to it seemed of the slightest. the dark complexion, the foreign air, doubtless gave me a superficial resemblance, and in the face it is the surface that tells. i read up spanish history and learnt that many jews had become christians during the persecutions of the holy inquisition, and that many had escaped the fires of the _auto-da-fé_ by feigning conversion, the while secretly performing their strange rites, and handing down to their descendants the traditions of secrecy and of judaism, these unhappy people being styled marranos. perchance i was sprung from some such source, but there was no hint of it in my genealogy so far as known to me; my name mendoza was a good old andalusian name, and my ancestors had for generations been good sons of the only true church. the question has no interest for me now. for, although like cæsar i am entitled to say that i came, saw, and conquered, conquering not only fanny but my rival, yet am i still a bachelor. i had driven martin on one side as easily as a steamer bearing down upon a skiff, yet my own lips betrayed me. it was the desire to penetrate the mystery of the restaurant that undid me, for if a woman cannot keep a secret, a man cannot refrain from fathoming one. the rose-gardens of love were open for my walking when the demon in possession prompted me to speech that silvered the red roses with hoar-frost and ice. one day i sat holding her dear hand in mine. she permitted me no more complex caresses, being still in black. such was the sense of duty of this beautiful, warm-blooded oriental creature, that she was as cold as her father's tombstone, and equally eulogistic of his virtues. she spoke of them now, though i would fain have diverted the talk to hers. failing that, i seized the opportunity to solve the haunting puzzle. "do you know, i fancy i once saw your father," i said, earnestly. "indeed!" she observed, with much interest. "where?" "in a restaurant not many miles from here. it was before noon." "in a restaurant?" she repeated. "hardly very likely. there isn't any restaurant near here he would be likely to go to, and certainly not at the time you mention, when he would be in the city. you must be mistaken." i shook my head. "i don't think so. i remember his face so well. when i saw his photograph i recognized him at once." "how long ago was it?" "i can tell you exactly," i said. "the date is graven on my heart. it was the twenty-fourth of october." "this year?" "this year." "the twenty-fourth of october!" she repeated musingly. "only a few weeks before he died. poor father, peace be upon him! the twenty-fourth of october, did you say?" she added, suddenly. "what is the matter?" i asked. "you are agitated." "no, it is nothing. it cannot be," she added, more calmly. "of course not." she smiled faintly. "i thought----" she paused. "you thought what?" "oh, well, i'll show you i was mistaken." she rose, went to the book-case, drew out a little brown-paper covered volume, and turned over the pages scrutinizingly. suddenly a change came over the beautiful face; she stood motionless, pale as a statue. a chill shadow fell across my heart, distracted between tense curiosity and dread of a tragic solution. "my dear fanny, what in heaven's name is it?" i breathed. "don't speak of heaven," said fanny, in strange, harsh tones, "when you libel the dead thus." "libel the dead? how?" "why, the twenty-fourth of october was _yom kippur_." "well," i said, unimpressed and uncomprehending, "and what of it?" she stared at me, staggered and clutched at the book-case for support. "what of it?" she cried, in passionate emotion. "do you dare to say that you saw my poor father, who was righteousness itself, breaking his fast in a restaurant on the day of atonement? perhaps you will insinuate next that his speedy death was heaven's punishment on him for his blasphemy!" in the same instant i saw the truth and my terrible blunder. this fast-day must be of awful solemnity, and fanny's father must have gone systematically to a surreptitious breakfast in that queer, out-of-the-way restaurant. his nervousness, his want of ease, his terror at the sight of me, whom he mistook for a brother-jew, were all accounted for. once a year--the discrepancy in the date being explained by the discord between jewish and christian chronology--he hied his way furtively to this unholy meal, enjoying it and a reputation for sanctity at the same time. but to expose her father's hypocrisy to the trusting, innocent girl would be hardly the way to advance love-matters. it might be difficult even to repair the mischief i had already done. "i beg your pardon," i said humbly. "you were right. i was misled by some chance resemblance. if your father was the pious jew you paint him, it is impossible he could have been the man i saw. yes, and now i think of it, the eyebrows were bushier and the chin plumper than those of the photograph." a sigh of satisfaction escaped her lips. then her face grew rigid again as she turned it upon me, and asked in low tones that cut through me like an icy blast: "yes, but what were _you_ doing in the restaurant on the day of atonement?" "i--i----?" i stammered. her look was terrible. "i--i--was only having a cup of chocolate," i replied, with a burst of inspiration. as everybody knows, since the pronunciamento of pope paul v., chocolate may be imbibed by good catholics without breaking the fasts of the church. but, alas! it seems these fanatical eastern flagellants allow not even a drop of cold water to pass their lips for over twenty-four hours. "i am glad you confess it," said fanny, witheringly. "it shows you have still one redeeming trait. and i am glad you spoke ill of my poor father, for it has led to the revelation of your true character before it was too late. you will, of course, understand, mr. mendoza, that our acquaintance is at an end." "fanny!" i cried, frantically. "spare me a scene, i beg of you," she said, coldly. "you, you the man who pretended to such ardent piety, to such enthusiasm for our holy religion, are an apostate from the faith into which you were born, a blasphemer, an atheist." i stared at her in dumb horror. i had entangled myself inextricably. how could i now explain that it was her father who was the renegade, not i? "good-bye," said fanny. "heaven make you a better jew." i moved desperately towards her, but she waved me back. "don't touch me," she cried. "go, go!" "but is there no hope for me?" i exclaimed, looking wildly into the cold, statue-like face, that seemed more beautiful than ever, now it was fading from my vision. "none," she said. then, in a breaking voice, she murmured, "neither for you nor for me." "ah, you love me still," i cried, striving to embrace her. "you will be my wife." she struggled away from me. "no, no," she said, with a gesture of horror. "it would be sacrilege to my dead father's memory. rather would i marry a christian, yes, even a catholic, than an apostate jew like you. leave me, i pray you; or, must i ring the bell?" i went--a sadder and a wiser man. but even my wisdom availed me not, for when i repaired to the restaurant to impart it to the proprietor, the last consolation was denied me. he had sold his business and returned to italy. to-morrow i start for turkestan. chapter xii. the arithmetic and physiology of love. "well, have you seen this fanny radowski?" said lord silverdale, when he returned the manuscript to the president of the old maids' club. "of course. didn't i tell you i had the story from her own mouth, though i have put it into mendoza's?" "ah, yes, i remember now. it certainly is funny, her refusing a good catholic on the ground that he was a bad jew. but then according to the story she doesn't know he's a catholic?" "no, it was i who divined the joke of the situation. lookers-on always see more of the game. i saw at once that if mendoza were really a jew, he would never have been such an ass as to make the slip he did; and so from this and several other things she told me about her lover, i constructed deductively the history you have read. she says she first met him at a mourning service in memory of her father, and that it is a custom among her people when they have not enough men to form a religious quorum (the number is the mystical ten) to invite any brother jew who may be passing to step in, whether he is an acquaintance or not." "i gathered that from the narrative," said lord silverdale. "and so she wishes to be an object lesson in female celibacy, does she?" "she is most anxious to enlist in the cause." "is she really beautiful, et cetera?" "she is magnificent." "then i should say the very member we are looking for. a jewess will be an extremely valuable element of the club, for her race exalts marriage even above happiness, and an old maid is even more despised than among us. the lovely miss radowski will be an eloquent protest against the prejudices of her people." lillie dulcimer shook her head quietly. "the racial accident which makes her seem a desirable member to you, makes me regard her as impossible." "how so?" cried silverdale in amazement. "you surely are not going to degrade your club by anti-semitism." "heaven forefend! but a jewess can never be a whole old maid." "i don't understand." "look at it mathematically a moment." silverdale made a grimace. "consider! a jewess, orthodox like miss radowski, can only be an old maid fractionally. an old maid must make 'the grand refusal!'--she must refuse mankind at large. now miss radowski, being cut off by her creed from marrying into any but an insignificant percentage of mankind, is proportionately less valuable as an object-lesson; she is unfitted for the functions of old maidenhood in their full potentiality. already by her religion she is condemned to almost total celibacy. she cannot renounce what she never possessed. there are in the world, roughly speaking, eight million jews among a population of a thousand millions. the force of the example, in other words, her value as an old maid, may therefore be represented by . ." "i am glad you express her as a decimal rather than a vulgar fraction," said lord silverdale laughing. "but i must own your reckoning seems correct. as a mathematical wrangler you are terrible. so i shall not need to try miss radowski?" "no; we cannot entertain her application," said lillie peremptorily, the thunder-cloud no bigger than a man's hand gathering on her brow at the suspicion that silverdale did not take her mathematics seriously. considering that in keeping him at arm's length her motive were merely mathematical (though lord silverdale was not aware of this) she was peculiarly sensitive on the point. she changed the subject quickly by asking what poem he had brought her. "do not call them poems," he answered. "it is only between ourselves. there are no critics about." "thank you so much. i have brought one suggested by the strange farrago of religions that figured in your last human document. it is a pæan on the growing hospitality of the people towards the gods of other nations. there was a time when free trade in divinities was tabu, each nation protecting, and protected by, its own. now foreign gods are all the rage." "the end of the century" catholic credo. i'm a christo-jewish quaker, moslem, atheist and shaker, auld licht church of england fakir, antinomian baptist, deist, gnostic, neo-pagan theist, presbyterianish papist, comtist, mormon, darwin-apist, trappist, high church unitarian, sandemanian sabbatarian, plymouth brother, walworth jumper, southcote south-place bible-thumper, christadelphian, platonic, old moravian, masonic, corybantic christi-antic, ethic-culture-transatlantic, anabaptist, neo-buddhist, zoroastrian talmudist, laotsean, theosophic, table-rapping, philosophic, mediæval, monkish, mystic, modern, mephistophelistic, hellenistic, calvinistic, brahministic, cabbalistic, humanistic, tolstoistic, rather robert elsmeristic, altruistic, hedonistic and agnostic manichæan, worshipping the galilean. for with equal zeal i follow sivah, allah, zeus, apollo, mumbo jumbo, dagon, brahma, buddha _alias_ gautama, jahvé, juggernaut and juno-- plus some gods that but the few know. though i reverence the mishna, i can bend the knee to vishna; i obey the latest mode in recognizing thor and odin, just as freely as the virgin; for the pope and mr. spurgeon, moses, paul and zoroaster, each to me is seer and master. i consider heine, hegel, schopenhauer, shelley, schlegel, diderot, savonarola, dante, rousseau, goethe, zola, whitman, renan (priest of paris), transcendental prophet harris, ibsen, carlyle, huxley, pater each than all the others greater. and i read the zend-avesta, koran, bible, roman gesta, ind's upanischads and spencer with affection e'er intenser. for these many appellations of the gods of different nations, _i_ believe--from baal to sun-god-- all at bottom cover _one_ god. _him_ i worship--dropping gammon-- and his mighty name is mammon. "you are very hard upon the century--or rather upon the end of it," said lillie. "the century is dying unshriven," said the satirist solemnly. "its conscience must be stirred. truly, was there ever an age which had so much light and so little sweetness? in the reckless fight for gold society has become a mutual swindling association. cupidity has ousted cupid, and everything is bought and sold." "except your poems, lord silverdale," laughed lillie. it was tit for the tat of his raillery of her mathematics. before his lordship had time to make the clever retort the thought of next day, turple the magnificent brought in a card. "miss winifred woodpecker?" said lillie queryingly. "i suppose it's another candidate. show her in." miss woodpecker was a tall stately girl, of the kind that pass for lilies in the flowery language of the novelists. "have i the pleasure of speaking to miss dulcimer?" "yes, i am miss dulcimer," said lillie. "and where is the old maids' club?" further inquired miss woodpecker, looking around curiously. "here," replied lillie, indicating the epigrammatic antimacassars with a sweeping gesture. "no, don't go, lord silverdale. miss woodpecker, this is my friend lord silverdale. he knows all about the club, so you needn't mind speaking before him." "well, you know, i read the leader in the _hurrygraph_ about your club this morning." "oh, is there a leader?" said lillie feverishly. "have you seen it, lord silverdale?" "i am not sure. at first i fancied it referred to the club, but there was such a lot about ptolemy, rosa bonheur's animals and the suez canal that i can hardly venture to say what the leader itself was about. and so, miss woodpecker, you have thought about joining our institution for elevating female celibacy into a fine art?" "i wish to join at once. is there any entrance fee?" "there _is_--experience. have you had a desirable proposal of marriage?" "eminently desirable." "and still you do not intend to marry?" "not while i live." "ah, that is all the guarantee we want," said lord silverdale smiling. "afterwards--in heaven--there is no marrying, nor giving in marriage." "that is what makes it heaven," added lillie. "but tell us your story." "it was in this way. i was staying at a boarding-house in brighton with a female cousin, and a handsome young man in the house fell in love with me and we were engaged. then my mother came down. immediately afterwards my lover disappeared. he left a note for me containing nothing but the following verses." she handed a double tear-stained sheet of letter-paper to the president, who read aloud as follows: a vision of the future. "well is it for man that he knoweth not what the future will bring forth." she had a sweetly spiritual face, touched with a noble, stately grace, poetic heritage of race. her form was graceful, slim and sweet, her frock was exquisitely neat, with airy tread she paced the street. she seemed some fantasy of dream, a flash of loveliness supreme, a poet's visionary gleam. and yet she was of mortal birth, a lovely child of lovely earth, for kisses made and joy and mirth. sweet whirling thoughts my bosom throng, to link her life with mine i long, and shrine her in immortal song. i steal another glance--and lo! dread shudders through my being flow, my veins are filled with liquid snow. another form beside her walks, of servants and expenses talks, her nose is not unlike a hawk's. her face is plump, her figure fat, she's prose embodied, stout gone flat,-- a comfortable persian cat. her life is full of petty fuss, she wobbles like an omnibus, and yet it was not always thus. alas for perishable grace! how unmistakably i trace the daughter's in the mother's face. beneath the beak i see the nose, the poetry beneath the prose, the figure 'neath the adipose. and so i sadly turn away: how _can_ i love a clod of clay, doomed to grow earthlier day by day? vain, vain the hope from fate to flee, what special providence for me? i know that what hath been will be. [illustration: _the present and the future._] lillie and silverdale looked at each other. "well, but," said lillie at last, "according to this he refused you, not you him. our rules----" "you mistake me," interrupted winifred woodpecker. "when the first fit of anguish was over, i saw my frank was right, and i have refused all the offers i have had since--five in all. it would not be fair to a lover to chain him to a beauty so transient. in ten or twenty years from now i shall go the way of all flesh. under such circumstances is not marriage a contract entered into under false pretences? there is no chance of the law of this country allowing a time-limit to be placed in the contract; celibacy is the only honest policy for a woman." involuntarily lillie's hand seized the candidate's and gripped it sympathetically. she divined a sister soul. "you teach me a new point of view," she said, "a finer shade of ethical feeling." silverdale groaned inwardly; he saw a new weapon going into the anti-hymeneal armory, and the old maids' club on the point of being strengthened by the accession of its first member. "the law will have to accommodate itself to these finer shades," pursued lillie energetically. "it is a rusty machine out of harmony with the age. science has discovered that the entire physical organism is renewed every seven years, and yet the law calmly goes on assuming that the new man and the new woman are still bound by the contract of their predecessors and still possess the good-will of the original partnership. it seems to me if the short lease principle demanded by physiology is not to be conceded, there should at any rate be provincial and american rights in marriage as well as london rights. in the metropolis the matrimonial contract should hold good with a, in the country with b, neither party infringing the other's privileges, in accordance with theatrical analogy." "that is a literal latitudinarianism in morals you will never get the world to agree to," laughed lord silverdale. "at least not in theory; we cannot formally sanction theatrical practice." "do not laugh," said lillie. "law must be brought more in touch with life." "isn't it rather _vice versâ_? life must be brought more in touch with law. however, if miss woodpecker feels these fine ethical shades, won't she be ineligible?" "how so?" said the president in indignant surprise. "by our second rule every candidate must be beautiful and undertake to continue so." poor little lillie drooped her head. and now it befalls to reveal to the world the jealously-guarded secret of the english shakespeare, for how else can the tale be told of how the old maids' club was within an ace of robbing him of his bride? chapter xiii. "the english shakespeare." by a thorough knowledge of the natural laws which govern the operations of human nature and by a careful application of the fine properties of well-selected men, and a judicious use of every available instrument of log-rolling, the mutual depreciation society gradually built up a constitution strong enough to defy every tendency to disintegration. hundreds of subtle malcontents floated round, ready to attack wherever there was a weak point, but foiled by ignorance of the society's existence, and the members escaped many a fatal shaft by keeping themselves entirely to themselves. the idea of the mutual depreciation society was that every member should say what he thought of the others. the founders, who all took equal shares in it, were tom brown, dick jones, harry robinson. their object in founding the mutual depreciation society was of course to achieve literary success, but they soon perceived that their phalanx was too small for this, and as they had no power to add to their number except by inviting strangers from without, they took steps to induce three other gentlemen to solicit the privileges of membership. the second batch comprised, taffy owen, andrew mackay, patrick boyle. [illustration: _tom brown, the supreme thinker._] these six gentlemen being all blessed with youth, health and incompetence, resolved to capture the town. their tactics were very simple, though their first operations were hampered by their ignorance of one another's. thus, it was some time before it was discovered that andrew mackay, who had been deployed to seize the _saturday slasher_, had no real acquaintance with the editor's fencing-master, while dick jones, who had undertaken to bombard the _acadæum_, had started under the impression that the eminent critic to whom he had dedicated his poems (by permission) was still connected with the staff. but these difficulties were eliminated as soon as the society got into working order. everything comes to him who will not wait, and almost before they had time to wink our six gentlemen had secured the makings of an influence. each had loyally done his best for himself and the rest, and the first spoils of the campaign, as announced amid applause by the secretary at the monthly dinner, were two morning papers, two evening papers, two weekly papers. they were not the most influential, nor even the best circulated, still it was not a bad beginning, though of course only a nucleus. by putting out tentacles in every direction, by undertaking to write even on subjects with which they were acquainted, they gradually secured a more or less tenacious connection with the majority of the better journals and magazines. on taking stock they found that the account stood thus: three morning papers, four evening papers, eleven weekly papers, thirteen london letters, seven dramatic columns, six monthly magazines, thirteen influences on advertisements, nine friendships with eminent editors, seventeen ditto with eminent sub-editors, six ditto with lady journalists, fifty-three loans (at two-and-six each) to pressmen, one hundred and nine mentions of editor's womenkind at fashionable receptions. it showed what could be achieved by six men, working together shoulder to shoulder for the highest aims in a spirit of mutual good-will and brotherhood. they were undoubtedly greatly helped by having all been to oxford or cambridge, but still much was the legitimate result of their own manoeuvres. by the time the secret campaign had reached this stage, many well-meaning, unsuspecting men, not included in the above inventory, had been pressed into the service of the society, with the members of which they were connected by the thousand and one ties which spring up naturally in the intercourse of the world, so that there was hardly any journal in the three kingdoms on which the society could not, by some hook or the other, fasten a paragraph, if we except such publications as the _newgate calendar_ and _lloyds' shipping list_, which record history rather than make it. indeed, the success of the society in this department was such as to suggest the advisability of having themselves formally incorporated under the companies' acts for the manufacture and distribution of paragraphs, for which they had unequalled facilities, and had obtained valuable concessions, and it was only the publicity required by law which debarred them from enlarging their home trade to a profitable industry for the benefit of non-members. for, by the peculiar nature of the machinery, it could only be worked if people were unaware of its existence. they resolved, however, that when they had made their pile, they would start the newspaper of the future, which any philosopher with an eye to the trend of things can see will be a journal written by advertisers for gentlemen, and will contain nothing calculated to bring a blush to the cheek of the young person except cosmetics. contemporaneously with the execution of one side of the plan of campaign, the society was working the supplementary side. day and night, week-days and sundays, in season and out, these six gentlemen praised themselves and one another, or got themselves and one another praised by non-members. there are many ways in which you can praise an author, from blame downwards. there is the puff categorical and the puff allusive, the lie direct and the eulogy insinuative, the downright abuse and the subtle innuendo, the exaltation of your man or the depression of his rival. the attacking method of log-rolling must not be confounded with depreciation. in their outside campaign, the members used every variety of puff, but depreciation was strictly reserved for their private gatherings. for this was the wisdom of the club, and herein lay its immense superiority over every other log-rolling club, that whereas in those childish cliques every man is expected to admire every other, or to say so, in the mutual depreciation society the obligation was all the other way. every man was bound by the rules to sneer at the work of his fellow-members and, if he should happen to admire any of it, at least to have the grace to keep his feelings to himself. in practice, however, the latter contingency never arose, and each was able honestly to express all he thought, for it is impossible for men to work together for a common object without discovering that they do not deserve to get it. needless to point out how this sagacious provision strengthened them in their campaign, for not having to keep up the tension of mutual admiration, and being able to relax and breathe (and express themselves) freely at their monthly symposia, as well as to slang one another in the street, they were able to write one another up with a clear conscience. it is well to found on human nature. every other basis proves shifting sand. the success of the mutual depreciation society justified their belief in human nature. not only did they depreciate one another, but they made reparation to the non-members they were always trying to write down during business hours, by eulogizing them in the most generous manner in those blessed hours of leisure when knife answers fork and soul speaks to soul. at such times even popular authors were allowed to have a little merit. it was at one of these periods of soul-expansion, when the most petty-souled feels inclined to loosen the last two buttons of his waistcoat, that the idea of the english shakespeare was first mooted. but we are anticipating, which is imprudent, as anticipations are seldom realized. one of the worst features of prosperity is that it is cloying, and when the first gloss of novelty and adventure had worn off, the free lances of the mutual depreciation society began to bore one another. you can get tired even of hearing your own dispraises; and the members were compelled to spice their mutual adverse criticism in the highest manner, so as to compensate for its staleness. the jaded appetite must needs be pampered if it is to experience anything of that relish which a natural healthy hunger for adverse criticism can command so easily. this was the sort of thing that went on at the dinners: "i say, tom," said andrew mackay, "what in heaven's name made you publish your waste-paper basket under the name of 'stray thoughts?' for utter and incomprehensible idiocy they are only surpassed by dick's last volume of poems. i shouldn't have thought such things could come even out of a lunatic asylum, certainly not without a keeper. really you fellows ought to consider me a little----" "we do. we consider you as little as they make them," they interrupted simultaneously. "it isn't fair to throw all the work on me," he went on. "how can i go on saying that tom brown is the supreme thinker of the time, the deepest intellect since hegel, with a gift of style that rivals berkeley's, if you go on turning out twaddle that a copy-book would boggle at? how can i keep repeating that for sure and consummate art, for unfailing certainty of insight, for unerring visualization, for objective subjectivity and for subjective objectivity, for swinburnian sweep of music and shakespearean depth of suggestiveness, dick jones can give forty in a hundred (spot stroke barred) to all other contemporary poets, if you continue to spue out rhymes as false as your teeth, rhythms as musical as your voice when you read them, and words that would drive a drawing-room composer mad with envy to set them? i maintain, it is not sticking to the bargain to expose me to the danger of being found out. you ought at least to have the decency to wrap up your fatuousness in longer words or more abstruse themes. you're both so beastly intelligible that a child can understand you're asses." "tut, tut, andrew," said taffy owen, "it's all very well of you to talk who've only got to do the criticism. and i think it's deuced ungrateful of you after we've written you up into the position of leading english critic to want us to give you straw for your bricks! do we ever complain when you call us cataclysmic, creative, esemplastic, or even epicene? we know it's rot, but we put up with it. when you said that robinson's last novel had all the glow and genius of dickens without his humor, all the ripe wisdom of thackeray without his social knowingness, all the imaginativeness of shakespeare without his definiteness of characterization, we all saw at once that you were incautiously allowing the donkey's ears to protrude too obviously from beneath the lion's skin. but did anyone grumble? did robinson, though the edition was sold out the day after? did i, though you had just called me a modern buddhist with the soul of an ancient greek and the radiant fragrance of a cingalese tea-planter? i know these phrases take the public and i try to be patient." "owen is right," harry robinson put in emphatically. "when you said i was a cross between a scandinavian skald and a dutch painter, i bore my cross in silence." "yes, but what else can a fellow say, when you give the public such heterogeneous and formless balderdash that there is nothing for it but to pretend it's a new style, an epoch-making work, the foundation of a new era in literary art? really i think you others have out and away the best of it. it's much easier to write bad books than to eulogize their merits in an adequately plausible manner. i think it's playing it too low upon a chap, the way you fellows are going on. it's taking a mean advantage of my position." "and who put you into that position, i should like to know?" yelled dick jones, becoming poetically excited. "didn't we lift you up into it on the point of our pens?" "fortunately they were not very pointed," ejaculated the great critic, wriggling uncomfortably at the suggestion. "i don't deny that, of course. all i say is, you're giving me away now." "you give yourself away," shrieked owen vehemently, "with a pound of that cingalese tea. how is it boyle managed to crack up our plays without being driven to any of this new-fangled nonsense?" "plays!" said patrick, looking up moodily. "anything is good enough for plays. you see i can always fall back on the acting and crack up that. i had to do that with owen's thing at the _lymarket_. my notice read like a gushing account of the play, in reality it was all devoted to the players. the trick of it is not easy. those who can read between the lines could see that there were only three of them about the piece itself, and yet the outside public would never dream i was shirking the expression of an opinion about the merits of the play or the pinning myself to any definite statement. the only time, owen, i dare say, that your plays are literature is when they are a frost, for that both explains the failure and justifies you. but, an you love me, taffy, or if you have any care for my reputation, do not, i beg of you, be enticed into the new folly of printing your plays." "but things have come to that stage i _must_ do it," said owen, "or incur the suspicion of illiterateness." "no, no!" pleaded patrick in horror. "sooner than that i will damn all the other printed plays _en bloc_, and say that the real literary playwrights, conscious of their position, are too dignified to resort to this cheap method of self-assertion." "but you will not carry out your threat? remember how dangerously near you came to exposing me over your _naquette_." the club laughed. everyone knew the incident, for it was patrick's stock grievance against the dramatist. patrick being out of town, had written his eulogy of this play of owen's from his inner consciousness. on the fourth night in deference to owen's persuasions he had gone to see _naquette_. after the tragedy, owen found him seated moodily in the stalls, long after the audience had filed out. "knocked you, old man, this time, eh?" queried owen laughing complacently. [illustration: "_knocked you, old man, this time, eh?_"] "yes, all to pieces!" snarled patrick savagely. "i shall never believe in my critical judgment again. i dare not look my notice in the face. when i wrote _naquette_ was a masterpiece, i thought at least there would be some merit in it--i didn't bargain for such rot as this." in this wise things would have gone on--from bad to worse--had heaven not created cecilia nineteen years before. cecilia was a tall, fair girl, with dreamy eyes and unpronounced opinions, who longed for the ineffable with an unspeakable yearning. frank grey loved her. he always knew he was going to and one day he did it. after that it was impossible to drop the habit. and at last he went so far as to propose. he was a young lawyer, with a fondness for manly sports and a wealth of blonde moustache. "cecilia," he said, "i love you. will you be mine?" he had a habit of using unconventional phrases. "no, frank," she said gently, and there was a world and several satellites of tenderness in her tremulous tones. "it cannot be." "ah, do not decide so quickly," he pleaded. "i will not press you for an answer." "i would press you for an answer, if i could," replied cecilia, "but i do not love you." "why not?" he demanded desperately. "because you are not what i should like you to be?" "and what would you like me to be?" he demanded eagerly. "if i told you, you would try to become it?" "i would," he said, enthusiastically. "be it what it may, i would leave no stone unturned. i would work, strive, study, reform--anything, everything." "i feared so," she said despondently. "that is why i will not tell you. don't you understand that your charm to me is your being just yourself--your simple, honest, manly self? i will not have my enjoyment of your individuality spoilt by your transmogrification into some unnatural product of the forcing house. no, frank, let us be true to ourselves, not to each other. i shall always remain your friend, looking up to you as to something stanch, sturdy, stalwart, coming to consult you (unprofessionally) in all my difficulties. i will tell you all my secrets, frank, so that you will know more of me than if i married you. dear friend, let it remain as i say. it is for the best." so frank went away broken-hearted, and joined the mutual depreciation society. he did not care what became of him. how they came to let him in was this. he was the one man in the world outside who knew all about them, having been engaged as the society's legal adviser. it was he who made their publishers and managers sit in an erect position. in applying for a more intimate connection, he stated that he had met with a misfortune, and a little monthly abuse would enliven him. the society decided that, as he was already half one of themselves, and as he had never written a line in his life, and so could not diminish their takings, nothing but good could ensue from the infusion of new blood. in fact, they wanted it badly. their mutual recriminations had degenerated into mere platitudes. with a new man to insult and be insulted by, something of the old animation would be restored to their proceedings. the wisdom of the policy was early seen, for the first fruit of it was the english shakespeare, who for a whole year daily opened out new and exciting perspectives of sensation and amusement to a _blasé_ society. andrew mackay had written an enthusiastic article in the so-called _nineteenth century_ on "the cochin-china shakespeare," and set all tongues wagging about the new literary phenomenon with whose verses the boatmen of the irrawady rocked their children to sleep on the cradle of the river, and whose dramas were played in eight hours slices in the strolling-booths of shanghai. andrew had already arranged with anyman to bring out a translation from the original cochin-chinese, for there was no language he could not translate from, provided it were sufficiently unknown. "cochin-chinese shakespeare, indeed!" said dick jones, at the next symposium. "why, judging from the copious extracts you gave from his greatest drama, baby bantam, it is _the_ most tedious drivel. you might have written it yourself. where is the shakespearean quality of this, which is, you say, the whole of act thirteen? "'hang-ho: out, fu-sia, does your mother know you are? "'fu-sia: i have no mother, but i have a child.'" "where is the shakespearean quality?" repeated andrew. "do you not feel the perfect pathos of those two lines, the infiniteness of incisive significance? to me they paint the whole scene in two strokes of matchless simplicity, strophe and anti-strophe. fu-sia the repentant outcast and hang-ho whose honest love she rejected, stand out as in a flash of lightning. nay, shakespeare himself never wrote an act of such tragic brevity, packed so full of the sense of anagke. why, so far from it being tedious drivel, a lady in whose opinion i have great confidence and to whom i sent my article, told me afterwards that she couldn't sleep till she had read it." [illustration: "_she told me she couldn't sleep till she had read it._"] the mutual depreciation society burst into a roar of laughter and andrew realized that he had put his foot into it. "don't you think it a shame," broke in frank grey, "that we english are debarred from having a shakespeare. there's been one discovered lately in belgium, and we have already a dutch shakespeare, a french shakespeare, a german shakespeare, and an american shakespeare. english is the only language in which we can't get one. it seems cruel that we should be just the one nation in the world to be cut off from having a nineteenth century shakespeare. every patriotic briton must surely desire that we could discover an english shakespeare to put beside these vaunted foreign phenomena." "but an english shakespeare is a bull," said patrick boyle, who had a keen eye for such. "precisely. a john bull," replied frank. "peace. i would willingly look out for one," said andrew mackay, thoughtfully. "but i cannot venture to insinuate yet that shakespeare did not write english. the time is scarcely ripe, though it is maturing fast. otherwise the idea is tempting." "but why take the words in their natural meaning?" demanded tom brown, the philosopher, in astonishment. "is it not unapparent that an english shakespeare would be a great writer more saturated with anglo-saxon spirit than shakespeare, who was cosmic and for all time and for every place? hamlet, othello, lady macbeth--these are world-types, not english characters. our english shakespeare must be more autochthonic, more chauviniste; or more provincial and more _borné_, if you like to put it that way. his scenes must be rooted in english life, and his personages must smack of british soil." there was much table-thumping when the philosopher ceased. "excellent!" said andrew. "he must be found. it will be the greatest boom of the century. but whom can we discover?" "there is john p. smith," said tom brown. "no, why john p. smith? he has merit," objected taffy owen. "and then he has never been in our set." "and besides he would not be satisfied," said patrick boyle. "that is true," said andrew mackay reflectively. "i know, owen, _you_ would like to be the subject of the discovery. but i am afraid it is too late. i have taken your measurements and laid down the chart of your genius too definitely to alter now. you are permanently established in business as the dainty neo-hellenic buddhist who has chosen to express himself through farcical comedy. if you were just starting life, i could work you into this english shakespeardom--i am always happy to put a good thing in the way of a friend--but at your age it is not easy to go into a new line." "well, but," put in harry robinson, "if none of us is to be the english shakespeare, why should we give over the appointment to an outsider? charity begins at home." "that _is_ a difficulty," admitted andrew, puckering his brow. "it brings us to a standstill. seductive, therefore, as the idea is, i am afraid it has occurred to us too late." they sat in thoughtful silence. then suddenly frank grey flashed in with a suggestion that took their breath away for a moment and restored it to them, charged with "bravos" the moment after. "but why should he exist at all?" why indeed? the more they pondered the matter, the less necessity they saw for it. "'pon my word, grey, you are right," said andrew. "right as talleyrand when he told the thief who insisted that he must live: _mais, monsieur, je n'en vois pas la nécessité_." "it's an inspiration!" said tom brown, moved out of his usual apathy. "we all remember how whateley proved that the emperor napoleon never existed--and the plausible way he did it. how few persons actually saw the emperor? how did even these know that what they saw _was_ the emperor? conversely, it should be as easy as possible for us six to put a non-existent english shakespeare on the market. you remember what voltaire said of god--that if there were none it would be necessary to invent him. in like manner patriotism calls upon us to invent the english shakespeare." "yes, won't it be awful fun?" said patrick boyle. the idea was taken up eagerly--the _modus operandi_ was discussed, and the members parted, effervescing with enthusiasm and anxious to start the campaign immediately. the english shakespeare was to be named fladpick, a cognomen which once seen would hook itself on to the memory. the very next day a leading article in the _daily herald_ casually quoted fladpick's famous line: "coffined in english yew, he sleeps in peace." and throughout the next month, in the most out-of-the-way and unlikely quarters, the word fladpick lurked and sprang upon the reader. lines and phrases from fladpick were quoted. gradually the thing worked up, gathering momentum on its way, and going more and more of itself, like an ever-swelling snowball which needs but the first push down the mountain-side. soon a leprosy of fladpick broke out over the journalism of the day. the very office-boys caught the infection, and in their book reviews they dragged in fladpick with an air of antediluvian acquaintance. writers were said not to possess fladpick's imagination, though they might have more sense of style, or they were said not to possess fladpick's sense of style, though they might have more imagination. certain epithets and tricks of manner were described as quite fladpickian, while others were mentioned as extravagant and as disdained by writers like, say, fladpick. young authors were paternally invited to mould themselves on fladpick, while others were contemptuously dismissed as mere imitators of fladpick. by this time fladpick's poetic dramas began to be asked for at the libraries, and the libraries said that they were all out. this increased the demand so much that the libraries told their subscribers they must wait till the new edition, which was being hurried through the press, was published. when things had reached this stage, queries about fladpick appeared in the literary and professionally inquisitive papers, and answers were given, with reference to the editions of fladpick's book. it began to leak out that he was a young englishman who had lived all his life in tartary, and that his book had been published by a local firm and enjoyed no inconsiderable reputation among the english tartars there, but that the copies which had found their way to england were extremely scarce and had come into the hands of only a few _cognoscenti_, who being such were enabled to create for him the reputation he so thoroughly deserved. the next step was to contradict this, and the press teemed with biographies and counter-biographies. _dazzler_ also wired numerous interviews, but an authoritative statement was inserted in the _acadæum_, signed by andrew mackay, stating that they were unfounded, and paragraphs began to appear detailing how fladpick spent his life in dodging the interviewers. anecdotes of fladpick were highly valued by editors of newspapers, and very plenteous they were, for fladpick was known to be a cosmopolitan, always sailing from pole to pole and caring little for residence in the country of which he yet bade fair to be the laureate. these anecdotes girdled the globe even more quickly than their hero, and they returned from foreign parts bronzed and almost unrecognizable, to set out immediately on fresh journeys in their new guise. a parody of one of his plays was inserted in a comic paper, and it was bruited abroad that andrew mackay was collaborating with him in preparing one of his dramas for representation at the independent theatre. this set the older critics by the ears, and they protested vehemently in their theatrical columns against the infamous ethics propagated by the new writer, quoting largely from the specimens of his work given in mackay's article in the _fortnightly review_. patrick, who wrote the dramatic criticism for seven papers, led the attack upon the audacious iconoclast. journalesia was convulsed by the quarrel, and even young ladies asked their partners in the giddy waltz whether they were fladpickiets or anti-fladpickiets. you could never be certain of escaping fladpick at dinner, for the lady you took down was apt to take you down by her contempt of your ignorance of fladpick's awfully sweet writings. any amount of people promised one another introductions to fladpick, and those who had met him enjoyed quite a reflected reputation in belgravian circles. as to the fladpickian parties, which brother geniuses like dick jones and harry robinson gave to the great writer, it was next to impossible to secure an invitation to them, and comparatively few boasted of the privilege. fladpick reaped a good deal of _kudos_ from refusing to be lionized and preferring the society of men of letters like himself, during his rare halting moments in england. long before this stage mackay had seen his way to introducing the catch-word of the conspiracy, "the english shakespeare." he defended vehemently the ethics of the great writer, claiming they were at core essentially at one with those of the great nation from whence he sprang and whose very life-blood had passed into his work. this brought about a reaction, and all over the country the scribblers hastened to do justice to the maligned writer, and an elaborate analysis of his most subtle characters was announced as having been undertaken by mr. patrick boyle. and when it was stated that he was to be included in the contemporary men of letters series, the advance orders for the work were far in advance of the demand for fladpick's actual writings. "shakespearean," "the english shakespeare," was now constantly used in connection with his work, and even the most hard-worked reviewers promised themselves to skim his book in their next summer holidays. about this time, too, _dazzler_ unconsciously helped the society by announcing that fladpick was dying of consumption in a snow-hut in greenland, and it was felt that he must either die or go to a warmer climate, if not both. the news of his phthisic weakness put the seal upon his genius, and the great heart of the nation went out to him in his lonely snow-hut, but returned on learning that the report was a _canard_. still, the danger he had passed through endeared him to his country, and within a few months fladpick, the english shakespeare, was definitely added to the glories of the national literature, founding a whole school of writers in his own country, attracting considerable attention on the continent, and being universally regarded as the centre of the victorian renaissance. but this was the final stage. a little before it was reached cecilia came to frank grey to pour her latest trouble into his ear, for she had carefully kept her promise of bothering him with her most intimate details, and the love-sick young lawyer had listened to her petty psychology with a patience which would have brought him in considerable fees if invested in the usual way. but this time the worry was genuine. "frank," she said, "i am in love." the young man turned as white as a sheet. the sword of damocles had fallen at last, sundering them forever. "with whom?" he gasped. "with mr. fladpick!" "the english shakespeare?" "the same!" "but you have never seen him!" "i have seen his soul. i have divined him from his writings. i have studied andrew mackay's essays on him. i feel that he and i are _en rapport_." "but this is madness!" "i know it is. i have tried to fight against it. i have applied for admission to the old maids' club, so as to stifle my hopeless passion. once i have joined miss dulcimer's society, i shall perhaps find peace again." "great heavens! think; think before you take this terrible step. are you sure it is love you feel, not admiration?" "no, it is love. at first i thought it was admiration, and probably it was, for i was not likely to be mistaken in the analysis of my feelings, in which i have had much practice. but gradually i felt it efflorescing and sending forth tender shoots clad in delicate green buds, and a sweet wonder came upon me, and i knew that love was struggling to get itself born in my soul. then suddenly the news came that he i loved was ill, dying in that lonely snow-hut in grim greenland, and then in the tempest of grief that shook me i knew that my life was bound up with his. watered by my hot tears, the love in my heart bourgeoned and blossomed like some strange tropical passion-flower, and when the reassuring message that he was strong and well flashed through the world, i felt that if he lived not for me, the universe were a blank and next year's daisies would grow over my early grave." [illustration: "_he i loved was dying in greenland._"] she burst into tears. "a great writer has always been the ideal which i would not tell you of. it is the one thing i have kept from you. but oh, frank, frank, he can never be mine. he will probably never know of my existence and the most i can ever hope for is his autograph. to-morrow i shall join the old maids' club, and then all will be over." a paroxysm of hopeless sobs punctuated her remarks. it was a terrible position. frank groaned inwardly. how was he to explain to this fair young thing that she loved nobody and could never hope to marry him? there was no doubt that with her intense nature and her dreamy blue eyes she would pine away and die. or worse, she would live to be an old maid. he made an effort to laugh it off. "tush!" he said, "all this is mere imagination. i don't believe you really love anybody!" "frank!" she drew herself up, stony and rigid, the warm tears on her poor white face frozen to ice. "have you nothing better than this to say to me, after i have shown you my inmost soul?" the wretched young lawyer's face returned from white to red. he could have faced a football team in open combat, but these complex psychical positions were beyond the healthy young philistine. "for--or--give me," he stammered. "i--i am--i--that is to say, fladpick--oh how can i explain what i mean?" cecilia sobbed on. every sob seemed to stick in frank's own throat. his impotence maddened him. was he to let the woman he loved fret herself to death for a shadow? and yet to undeceive her were scarcely less fatal. he could have cut out the tongue that first invented fladpick. verily, his sin was finding him out. "why can you not explain what you mean?" wept cecilia. "because i--oh, hang it all--because i am the cause of your grief." "you?" she said. a strange, wonderful look came into her eyes. the thought shot from her eyes to his and dazzled them. yes! why not? why should he not sacrifice himself to save this delicate creature from a premature tomb? why should he not become "the english shakespeare?" true, it was a heavy burden to sustain, but what will a man not dare or suffer for the woman he loves? moreover, was he not responsible for fladpick's being, and thus for all the evil done by his frankenstein? he had employed fladpick for his own amusement and the employers' liability act was heavy upon him. the path of abnegation, of duty, was clear. he saw it and he went for it then and there--went, like a brave young englishman, to meet his marriage. "yes," he said, "i am glad you love mr. fladpick." "why?" she murmured breathlessly. "because i love you." "but--i--do--not--love--you," she said slowly. "you will, when i tell you it is i who have provoked your love." "frank, is this true?" "on my word of honor as an englishman." "you are fladpick?" "if i am not, he does not exist. there is no such person." "oh, frank, this is no cruel jest?" "cecilia, it is the sacred truth. fladpick is nobody, if he is not frank grey." "but you never lived in tartary?" "of course not. all that about fladpick is the veriest poetry. but i did not mind it, for nobody suspected me. i'll introduce you to andrew mackay himself, and you shall hear from his own lips how the newspapers have lied about fladpick." "my noble, modest boy! so this was why you were so embarrassed before! but why not have told _me_ that you were fladpick?" "because i wanted you to love me for myself alone." she fell into his arms. "frank--frank--fladpick, my own, my english shakespeare," she sobbed ecstatically. at the next meeting of the mutual depreciation society, a bombshell in a stamped envelope was handed to mr. andrew mackay. he tore open the envelope and the explosion followed--as follows: "gentlemen, "i hereby beg to tender the resignation of my membership in your valued society, as well as to anticipate your objections to my retaining the post of legal adviser i have the honor to hold. i am about to marry--the cynic will say i am laying the foundation of a mutual depreciation society of my own. but this is not the reason of my retirement. that is to be sought in my having accepted the position of the english shakespeare which you were good enough to open up for me. it would be a pity to let the pedestal stand empty. from the various excerpts you were kind enough to invent, especially from the copious extracts in mr. mackay's articles, i have been able to piece together a considerable body of poetic work, and by carefully collecting every existing fragment, and studying the most authoritative expositions of my aims and methods, i have constructed several dramas, much as professor owen re-constructed the mastodon from the bones that were extant. as you know i had never written a line in my life before, but by the copious aid of your excellent and genuinely helpful criticism i was enabled to get along without much difficulty. i find that to write blank verse you have only to invert the order of the words and keep on your guard against rhyme. you may be interested to know that the last line in the last tragedy is: 'coffined in english yew he sleeps in peace.' when written, i got my dramas privately printed with a tartary trademark, after which i smudged the book and sold the copyright to makemillion & co. for ten thousand pounds. needless to say i shall never write another book. in taking leave of you i cannot help feeling that, if i owe you some gratitude for the lofty pinnacle to which you have raised me, you are also not unindebted to me for finally removing the shadow of apprehension that must have dogged you in your sober moments--i mean the fear of being found out. mr. andrew mackay, in particular, as the most deeply committed, i feel owes me what he can never hope to repay for my gallantry in filling the mantle designed by him, whose emptiness might one day have been exposed, to his immediate downfall. "i am, gentlemen, "your most sincere and humble depreciator, "the english shakespeare." chapter xiv. the old young woman and the new. "providence has granted what i dared not hope for," wrote cecilia to the president. "if she had hoped for it, providence would not have granted it," interpolated the honorary trier. "this is hardly the moment for jesting," said lillie, with marked pique. "pardon me. the moment for jesting is surely when you have received a blow. in a happy crisis jesting is a waste of good jokes. the retiring candidate does not state _what_ providence has granted, does she?" "no," said lillie savagely. "she was extremely reticent about her history--reticent almost to the point of indiscretion. but i daresay it's a husband." "ah, then it can hardly be providence that has granted it," said silverdale. "providence is not always kindly," said lillie laughing. the gibe at benedicts restored her good-humor and when the millionaire strolled into the club she did not immediately expel him. "well, lillie," he said, "when are you going to give the _soirée_ to celebrate the foundation of the club? i am staying in town expressly for it." "as soon as possible, father. i am only waiting for some more members." "why, have you any difficulty about getting enough? i seem always to be meeting young ladies on the staircases." "we are so exclusive." "so it seems. you exclude even me," grumbled the millionaire. "i can't make out why you are so hard to please. a more desirable lot of young ladies i never wish to see. i should never have believed it possible that such a number of pretty girls would be anxious to remain single merely for the sake of a principle." "you see!" said lillie eagerly, "we shall be a standing proof to men of how little they have understood our sex." "men do not need any proof of that," remarked lord silverdale dryly. this time it was lillie whom turple the magnificent prevented from making the retort which was not on the tip of her tongue. "a gentleman who gives his name as a lady is waiting in the ante-room," he announced. they all stared hard at turple the magnificent, almost tempted to believe he was joking and that the end of the world was at hand. but the countenance of turple the magnificent was as stolid and expressionless as a bath bun. he might have been beaming behind his face, possibly even the old maids' club tickled him vastly, so that his mental midriff was agitated convulsively; but this could not be known by outsiders. lillie took the card he tendered her and read aloud: "nelly nimrod." "nelly nimrod!" cried the honorary trier. "why, that's the famous girl who travelled from charing cross to china-tartary on an elephant and wrote a book about it under the pen-name of wee winnie." "shall i show him in?" interposed turple the magnificent. "certainly," said lillie eagerly. "father, you must go." "oh, no! not if it's only a gentleman." "it may be only no lady," murmured silverdale. lillie caught the words and turned upon him the dusky splendors of her fulminant eyes. "_et tu, brute!_" she said. "do you too hold that false theory that womanliness consists in childishness?" "no, nor that other false theory that it consists in manliness," retorted the honorary trier. the entry of nelly nimrod put an end to the dispute. in the excitement of the moment no one noticed that the millionaire was still leaning against an epigram. "good-morning, miss dulcimer. i am charmed to make your acquaintance," said wee winnie, gripping the president's soft hand with painful cordiality. she was elegantly attired in a white double-breasted waistcoat, a zouave jacket, a check-tweed skirt, gaiters, a three inch collar, a tricorner hat, a pair of tanned gloves and an eyeglass. in her hand she carried an ebony stick. her hair was parted at the side. nelly was nothing if not original, so that when the spectator looked down for the divided skirt he was astonished not to find it. wee winnie in fact considered it ungraceful and _divide et impera_ a contradiction in terms. she was a tall girl, and looked handsome even under the most masculine conditions. "i am happy to make yours," returned the president. "is it to join the old maids' club that you have called?" "it is. wherever there is a crusade you will always find me in the van. i don't precisely know your objects yet, but any woman who strikes out anything new commands my warmest sympathies." "be seated, miss nimrod. allow me to introduce lord silverdale--an old friend of mine." "and of mine," replied nelly, bowing with a sweet smile. "indeed!" cried lillie flushing. "in the spirit, only in the spirit," said nelly. "his lordship's 'poems of passion' formed my sole reading in the deserts of china-tartary." "in the letter, you should say then," said the peer. "by the way, you are confusing me with a minor poet, silverplume, and his book is not called poems of passion but poems of compassion." "ah well, there isn't much difference," said nelly. "no, according to the proverb compassion _is_ akin to passion," admitted silverdale. "well, miss nimrod," put in lillie, "our object is easily defined. we are an association of young and beautiful girls devoted to celibacy in order to modify the meaning of the term 'old maid.'" nelly nimrod started up enthusiastically. "bravo, old girl!" she cried, slapping the president on the back. "put me down for a flag. i catch the conception of the campaign. it is magnificent." "but it is not war," said lillie. "our methods are peaceful, unaggressive. our platform is merely metaphorical. our lesson is the self-sufficiency of spinsterhood. we preach it by existing." "not exist by preaching it," added silverdale. "this is not one of the cliques of the shrieking sisterhood?" "what do you mean by the term shrieking sisterhood," said nelly. "i use it to denote the mice-fearing classes." "hear, hear," said lillie. "it is true, miss nimrod, that our members are required not to exhibit in public, but only because that is a part of the old unhappy signification of 'old maid.'" "i quite understand. you would not call a book a public exhibition of oneself, i suppose." "certainly not--if it is an autobiography," said silverdale. "that's all right then. my book _is_ autobiographical." "i knew a celebrity once," said silverdale, "a dreadfully shy person. all his life he lived retired from the world, and even after his death he concealed himself behind an autobiography." lillie frowned at these ironical insinuations, though miss nimrod appeared impervious to them. "i have not concealed myself," she said simply. "all i thought and did is written in my book." "i liked that part about the fleas," murmured the millionaire. "what's that? didn't catch that," said nelly, looking round in the direction of the voice. "good gracious, father, haven't you gone?" cried lillie, no less startled. "it's too bad. you are spoiling one of my best epigrams. couldn't you lean against something else?" before the millionaire could be got rid of, turple the magnificent reappeared. "a lady who gives the name of a gentleman," he said. the assemblage pricked up its ears. "what name?" asked lillie. "miss jack, she said." "that's her surname," said lillie, in a disappointed tone. turple the magnificent stood reproved a moment, then he went out to fetch the lady. the gathering was already so large that lillie thought there was nothing to be gained by keeping her waiting. miss jack proved to be an extremely eligible candidate so far as appearances went. she bowed stiffly on being introduced to miss nimrod. "may i ask if that is to be the uniform of the old maids' club?" she inquired of the president. "because if so i am afraid i have made a mistaken journey. it is as a protest against unconventional females that i designed to join you." [illustration: "_is that the uniform of the old maids' club?_"] "is it to me you are referring as an unconventional female?" asked miss nimrod, bridling up. "certainly," replied miss jack, with exquisite politeness. "i lay stress upon your sex, merely because it is not obvious." "well, i _am_ an unconventional female, and i glory in it," said nelly nimrod, seating herself astride the sofa. "i did not expect to hear the provincial suburban note struck within these walls. i claim the right of every woman to lead her own life in her own toilettes." "and a pretty life you have led!" "i have, indeed!" cried miss nimrod, goaded almost to oratory by miss jack's taunts. "not the ugly, unlovely life of the average woman. i have exhausted all the sensations which are the common guerdon of youth and health and high spirits, and which have for the most part been selfishly monopolized by man. the splendid audacity of youth has burnt in my veins and fired me to burst my swaddling clothes and strike for the emancipation of my sex. i have not merely played cricket in a white shirt and lawn tennis in a blue serge skirt, i have not only skated in low-heeled boots and fenced in corduroy knickerbockers, but i have sailed the seas in an oil-skin jacket and a sou'-wester and swum them in nothing and walked beneath them in the diver's mail. i have waded after salmon in long boots and caught trout in tweed knickerbockers and spats. nay, more! i have proclaimed the dignity of womanhood upon the moors, and have shot grouse in brown leather gaiters and a sweet norfolk jacket with half-inch tucks. but this is not the climax, i have----" [illustration: _wee winnie on her travels._] "yes, i know. you are wee winnie. you travelled alone from charing cross to china-tartary. i have not read your book, but i have heard of it." "and what have you heard of it?" "that it is in bad taste." "your remark is in worse," interposed lillie severely. "ladies, ladies!" murmured silverdale. "this is the first time we have had two of them in the room together," he thought. "i suppose when the thing is once started we shall change the name to the kilkenny cats' club." "in bad taste, is it?" said miss nimrod, promptly whipping a book out of her skirt pocket. "well, here is the book. if you can find one passage in bad taste i'll--i'll delete it in the next edition. there!" she pushed the book into the hands of miss jack, who took it rather reluctantly. "what's this?" asked miss jack, pointing to a weird illustration. "that's a picture of me on my elephant, sketched by myself. do you mean to say there's any bad taste about that?" "oh, no; i merely asked for information. i didn't know what animal it was." "you astonish me," said the artist. "have you never been to a circus? yes, this is mumbo jumbo himself." "surely, miss jack," said lord silverdale gravely. "you must have heard, if you have not read, how miss nimrod chartered an elephant, packed up her kodak and a few bonnet-boxes and rode him on the curb through central asia. but may i ask, miss nimrod, why you did not enrich the book with more sketches? there is only this one. all the rest are kodaks." "well, you see, lord silverdale, it's simpler to photograph." "perhaps, but your readers miss the artistic quality that pervades this sketch. i am glad you made an exception in its favor." "oh, only because one can't kodak oneself. everything else i caught as i flew past." "did you catch any tartars?" "hundreds. i destroyed most of them." "by the way, you did not come across mr. fladpick in tartary?" "the english shakespeare? oh, yes! i lunched with him. he is charm----" "ah, here are the fleas!" interrupted miss jack. the millionaire started as if he had been stung. "i won't have them taken apart from the context, i warn you. that wouldn't be fair," said miss nimrod. "very well, i will read the whole passage," said miss jack. "'mumbo jumbo bucked violently (_see illustration_) but i settled myself tightly on the saddle and gave myself up to meditations on the vanity of life-guardsmen. mumbo jumbo seemed, however, determined to have his fling, and bounded about with the agility of an india-rubber ball. at last his convulsions became so terrific that i grew quite nervous about my fragile bonnet-boxes. they might easily dash one another to bits. i determined to have leather hat-boxes the next time i travelled in untrodden paths. "steady, my beauty, steady!" i cried. recognizing my familiar accents, my pet easied a little. to pacify him entirely i whistled 'ba, ba, ba, boodle-dee,' to him, but his contortions recommenced and became quite grotesque. first he lifted one paw high in the air, then he twirled his trunk round the corner, then the first paw came down with a thud that shook the desert, while the other three paws flew up towards the sky. it suddenly occurred to me that he was dancing to the air of 'ba, ba, ba, boodle-dee,' and i laughed so loud and long, that any stray mahatma who happened to be smoking at the door of his cave in the cool of the evening must have thought me mad. but while i was laughing, mumbo jumbo continued to stand upon his tail, so that i saw it could not be 'ba, ba, ba, boodle-dee' he was suffering from. i wondered whether perhaps he could be teething--or should i say, tusking? i do not know whether elephants get a second set, or whether they cut their wisdom tusks, but, as they are so sagacious, i suppose they do. suddenly the consciousness of what was really the matter with him flashed sharply upon my brain. i looked down upon my hand, and there, poised lightly yet firmly, like a butterfly on a lily, was a giant flea. instantly, without uttering a single cry or reeling in my saddle, i grasped the situation; and coolly seizing the noxious insect with my other hand, i choked the life out of him, while mumbo jumbo cantered along in restored calm. the sensitive beast had evidently been suffering untold agonies.'" "now, lord silverdale," said miss nimrod, "i appeal to you. is there anything in that passage in the least calculated to bring a blush to the cheek of the young person?" "no, there is not," said his lordship emphatically. "only i wish you had caught that flea with your kodak." "why?" said miss nimrod. "because i have always longed to see him. a flea that could penetrate the pachydermatous hide of an elephant must have been, indeed, a monster. in england we only see that sort under microscopes. they seem to thrive nowhere else. yours must have been one that had escaped from under the lens. he was magnified three thousand diameters and he never recovered from it. you probably took him over in your trunk." "oh, no, i'm sure i didn't," protested miss nimrod. "well, then, mumbo jumbo did in his." "excuse me," interposed miss jack. "we are getting off the point. i did not say the passage was calculated to raise a blush, i said it was a grave error of taste." "it is a mere flea-bite," broke in the millionaire, impatiently. "i liked it when i first read it, and i like it now i hear it again. it is a touch of nature that brings the tartary traveller home to every fireside." "besides," added lord silverdale. "the introduction of the butterfly and the lily makes it quite poetical." "ladies and gentlemen," interposed the president, at last, "we are not here to discuss entomology or æsthetics. you stated, miss jack, that you thought of joining us as a protest against female unconventionally." "i said unconventional females," persisted miss jack. "even so, i do not follow you," said lillie. "it is extremely simple. i am unable to marry because i have a frank nature, not given to feigning or fawning. i cannot bring a husband what he expects nowadays in a wife." "what is that?" inquired lillie curiously. "a chum," answered miss jack. "formerly a man wanted a wife, now he wants a woman to sympathize with his intellectual interests, to talk with him intelligently about his business, discuss politics with him--nay, almost to smoke with him. tobacco for two is destined to be the ideal of the immediate future. the girls he favors are those who flatter him by imitating him. it is women like wee winnie who have depraved his taste. there is nothing the natural man craves less for than a clever, learned wife. only he has been talked over into believing that he needs intellectual companionship, and now he won't be happy till he gets it. i have escaped politics and affairs all my life, and i am determined not to marry into them." "what a humiliating confession!" sneered miss nimrod. "it is a pity you don't wear doll's-clothes." "i claim for every woman the right to live her own life in her own toilettes," retorted miss jack. "the sneers about dolls are threadbare. i have watched these intellectual camaraderies, and i say they are a worse injustice to woman than any you decry." "that sounds a promising paradox," muttered lord silverdale. "the man expects the woman to talk politics--but he refuses to take a reciprocal interest in the woman's sphere of work. he will not talk nursery or servants. he will preach economy, but he will not talk it." "that is true," said lillie impressed. "what reply would you make to that, miss nimrod?" "there is no possible reply," said miss jack hurriedly. "so much for the mock equality which is the cant of the new husbandry. how stands the account with the new young womanhood? the young ladies who are clamoring for equality with men want to eat their cake and to have it too. they want to wear masculine hats, yet to keep them on in the presence of gentlemen; to compete with men in the market-place, yet to take their seats inside omnibuses on wet days and outside them on sunny; to be 'pals' with men in theatres and restaurants and shirk their share of the expenses. i once knew a girl named miss friscoe who cultivated platonic relations with young men, but never once did she pay her half of the hansom." "pardon me," interrupted wee winnie. "my whole life gives the lie to your superficial sarcasm. in my anxiety to escape these obvious objurgations i have even, i admit it, gone to the opposite extreme. i have made it a point to do unto men as they would have done unto me, if i had not anticipated them. i always defray the bill at the restaurants, buy the stalls at the box-office and receive the curses of the cabman. if i see a young gentleman to the train, i always get his ticket for him and help him into the carriage. if i convey him to a ball, i bring him a button-hole, compliment him upon his costume and say soft nothings about his moustache, while if i go to a dance alone i stroll in about one in the morning, survey mankind through my eyeglass, loll a few minutes in the doorway, then go downstairs to interview the supper, and having sated myself with chicken, champagne and trifle return to my club." "to your club!" exclaimed the millionaire. "yes--do you think the old maids' is the only one in london? mine is the lady travellers'--do you know it, miss dulcimer?" "no--o," said lillie shamefacedly. "i only know the writers'." "why, are you a member of that? i'm a member, too. it's getting a great club now, what with ellaline rand (andrew dibdin, you know) and frank maddox and lillie dulcimer. i wonder we haven't met there." "i'm so taken up with my own club," explained lillie. "naturally. but you must come and dine with me some evening at the lady travellers'--snug little club--much cosier than the junior widows', and they give you a better bottle of wine, and then the decorations are so sweetly pretty. the only advantage the junior widows' has over the lady travellers' is the lovely smoking-room lined with mirrors, which makes it much nicer when you have men to dinner. i always ask them there." "why, are you allowed to have men?" asked miss jack. "certainly--in the dining and smoking rooms. then of course there are special gentlemen's nights. we get down a lot of music-hall talent just to let them have a peep into bohemia." "but how can you be a member of the junior widows'?" asked the millionaire. "oh, i'm not an original member. but when they were in want of funds they let a lot of married women and girls in, without asking questions." "i suppose, though, they all look forward to becoming widows in time," observed silverdale cheerfully. "oh no," replied miss nimrod emphatically. "i don't say that if they hadn't let me in, the lovely smoking-room lined with mirrors mightn't have tempted me to marry so as to qualify myself. but as it is, thank heaven, i'm an old maid for life. why should i give up my freedom and the comforts of my club and saddle myself with a husband who would want to monopolize my society and who would be jealous of my bachelor friends and want me to cut them, who would hanker to read my letters, who would watch my comings and goings, and open my parcels of cosmetics marked confectionery? doubtless in the bad old times which miss jack has the inaptitude to regret, marriage was the key to comparative freedom, but in these days when woman has at last emancipated herself from the thraldom of mothers, it would be the height of folly to replace them by husbands. will you tell me, miss jack, what marriage has to offer to a woman like me?" "nothing," replied miss jack. "aha! you admit it!" cried miss nimrod triumphantly. "why should i embrace a profession to which i feel no call? marriage has practically nothing to offer any independent woman except a trousseau, wedding presents, and the jealousy of her female friends. but what are these weighed against the cramping of her individuality? perhaps even children come to fetter her life still more and she has daughters who grow up to be younger than herself. no, the future lies with the old maid; the woman who will retain her youth and her individuality till death; who dies, but does not surrender. the ebbing tide is with you, miss jack; the flowing tide is with us. the old maids' club will be the keystone of the arch of the civilization of to-morrow, and miss dulcimer's name will go down to posterity linked with----" "lord silverdale's," said the millionaire. "father! what are you saying?" murmured lillie, abashed before her visitors. "i was reminding miss nimrod of the part his lordship has played in the movement. it is not fair posterity should give you all the credit." "i have done nothing for the club--nothing," said the peer modestly. "and i will do the same," said miss jack. "i came here under the delusion that i was going to associate myself with a protest against the defeminization of my sex, with a band of noble women who were resolved never to marry till the good old times were restored and marriages became true marriages once more. but instead of that i find--wee winnie." "you are, indeed, fortunate beyond your deserts," replied that lady. "you may even hope to encounter a suitable husband some day." "i do hope," said miss jack frankly. "but i will never marry till i meet a thoroughly conventional man." "there i have the advantage of you," said miss nimrod. "i shall never marry till i meet a thoroughly _un_conventional man." "a thoroughly unconventional man would never want to marry at all," said lillie. "of course not. that is the beauty of the situation. that is the paradox which guarantees my spinsterhood. well, i've had a charming afternoon, miss dulcimer, but i must really run away now. i hate keeping men waiting, and i have an appointment with a couple of friends at the junior widows'. such fun! while riding in the park before lunch, i met guy fledgely out for a constitutional with his father, the baronet. i asked guy if he would have a chop with me at the club this evening, and what do you think? the baronet coughed and looked at guy meaningly, and guy blushed and hemmed and hawed and looked sheepish and at last gave me to understand he never went out to dine with a lady unless accompanied by his father. so i had to ask the old man, too. isn't it awful? by the way, miss jack, i should be awfully delighted if you would join our party!" [illustration: "i asked them to have a chop at the club with me."] "thank you, wee winnie," said miss jack, disdainfully. "but think how thoroughly conventional the baronet is! he won't even let his son go out without a chaperon." "that is true," admitted miss jack, visibly impressed. "he is about the most conventional man i ever heard of." "a widower, too," pursued miss nimrod, pressing her advantage. miss jack hesitated. "and he dines seven sharp at the junior widows'." "ah then, there is no time to lose," said miss jack. they went out arm in arm. * * * * * "have you seen patrick boyle's poem in the _playgoers' review_?" asked lillie, when the club was clear. "you mean the great dramatic critic's? no, i haven't seen it, but i have seen extracts and eulogies in every paper." "i have it here complete," said lillie. "it is quite interesting to find there is a heart beneath the critic's waistcoat. read it aloud. no, you don't want the banjo!" lord silverdale obeyed. the poem was entitled. criticus in stabulis (?). rallying-point of all playgoers earnest, packed with incongruous types of humanity, easily pleased, yet of critics the sternest, crudely ignoring that all things are vanity. pit, in thee laughter and tears blend in medley-- would i could sit in thy cozy concavity! no! to the stalls i am drawn, to the deadly centre of gravity. florin, or shilling, or sixpence admission, often i've paid in my raw juvenility, purchasing banbury cakes in addition, ginger-beer, too, to my highest ability. villains i hissed like a venomous gander, virtue i loved next to cheesecakes or chocolate; now no atrocity raises my dander, no crime can shock o' late. then i could dote on a red melodrama, now i demand but limelight on philosophy, learned allusions to buddha and brahma, science and faith and a touch of theosophy. farces i slate, on burlesque i am scathing, pantomime shakes for a week my serenity; nothing restores my composure but bathing deep in ibsenity. actors were gods to my boyish devotion, actresses angels--in tights and low bodices; drowned is that pretty and puerile notion, thrown overboard in the first of my odysseys. syrens may sing submarine fascinations, adult ulysses remain analytical, flat notes recording, or reedy vibrations, tranquilly critical. here in the stalls we are stiff as if starch, meant only for shirt-fronts, to faces had mounted up; dowagers' wills may be read on their parchment, beautiful busts on your thumbs may be counted up. girls in the pit are remarkably rosy, each claspt by lover who passes the paper-bag; here i can't even, the girls are so prosy, one digit taper bag. yet could i sit in the pit of the surrey, munching an orange or spooning with 'arriet; sadly i fear i should be in no hurry backward to drive my existence's chariot. "squeezes" are ill compensated by crushes-- stalls may be dull, but they're jolly luxurious; really the way o'er past joys we can gush is awfully curious! life is a chaos of comic confusion, past things alone take a halo harmonious; so from illusion we wake to illusion, each as the rest just as true and erroneous. _fin de siècle_ i am, and so be it! here's to the problems of sad sociology! this is my weird,--like a man i must dree it, great is chronology! even so, once the great drama allured me, which we all play on the stage universal; "going behind" the "green" curtain has cured me. all my hope now is 'tis not a _rehearsal_. still i've played on; to old men's parts i grew from juvenile lead, as i'd risen from small-boy, so i'll play on till i get my last cue from death, the old call-boy. "hum! not at all bad," concluded lord silverdale. "i wonder who wrote it." chapter xv. the mysterious advertiser. "junior widows' club. "_midnight._ "dear miss dulcimer, "just a line to tell you what a lovely evening we have had. the baronet seemed greatly taken with miss jack and she with him, and they behaved in a conventional manner. guy and i were able to have a real long chat and he told me all his troubles. it appears that he has just been thrown over by his promised bride under circumstances of a most peculiar character. i gave him the sympathy he needed, but at the same time thought to myself, aha! here is another member for the old maids' club. you rely on me, i will build you up a phalanx of old maids that shall just swamp the memory of hippolyte and her amazons. i got out of guy the name and address of the girl who jilted him. i shall call upon miss sybil hotspur the first thing in the morning, and if i do not land her my name is not "yours cheerily, "wee winnie." "this may be awkward," said the honorary trier, returning the letter to the president. "miss nimrod seems to take her own election for granted." "and to think that we are anxious for members," added lillie. "well, we ought to have somebody to replace miss jack," said silverdale, with a suspicion of a smile. "but do you propose to accept wee winnie?" "i don't know--she is certainly a remarkable girl. such originality and individuality! suppose we let things slide a little." "very well; we will not commit ourselves yet by saying anything to miss nim----" "miss nimrod," announced turple the magnificent. "aha! here we are again!" cried wee winnie. "how are you, everybody? how is the old gentleman? isn't he here?" "he is very well, thank you, but he is not one of us," said lillie. "oh! well, anyhow, i've got another of us." "miss sybil hotspur?" "the same. i found her raging like a volcano." "what--smoking?" queried silverdale. "no, no, she is one of the old sort. she merely fumes," said wee winnie, laughing as if she had made a joke. "she was raving against the infidelity of men. poor guy! how his ears must have tingled. he has sent her a long explanation, but she laughs it to scorn. i persuaded her to let you see it--it is so quaint." "have you it with you?" asked lillie eagerly. her appetite for tales of real life was growing by what it fed upon. "yes--here is his letter, several quires long. but before you can understand it, you must know how the breach came about." "lord silverdale, pass miss nimrod the chocolate creams. or would you like some lemonade?" "lemonade by all means," replied wee winnie, taking up her favorite attitude astride the sofa. "with just a wee drappie of whiskey in it, if you please. i daresay i shall be as dry as a lime-kiln before i've finished the story and read you this letter." turple the magnificent duly attended to miss nimrod's wants. whatever he felt, he made no sign. he was simply turple the magnificent. "one fine day," said wee winnie, "or rather, one day that began fine, a merry party made an excursion into the country. sybil hotspur and her _fiancé_, guy fledgely, (and of course the baronet) were of the party. after picknicking on the grass, the party broke up into twos till tea-time. the baronet was good enough to pair off with an unattached young lady, and so sybil and guy were free to wander away into a copse. the sun was very hot, and the young man had not spared the fizz. first he took off his coat, to be cooler, then with an afterthought he converted it into a pillow and went to sleep. meantime sybil, under the protection of her parasol, steadily perused one of addiper's early works, chaster in style than in substance, and sneering in exquisitely chiselled epigrams at the weaknesses of his sex. sybil stole an involuntary glance at guy--sleeping so peacefully like a babe in the wood, with the squirrels peeping at him trustfully. she felt that addiper was a jaundiced cynic--that her guy at least would be faithful unto death. at that instant she saw a folded sheet of paper on the ground near guy's shoulder. it might have slipped from the inner pocket of the coat on which his head was resting, but if it had she could not put it back without disturbing his slumbers. besides, it might not belong to him at all. she picked up the paper, opened it, and turned pale as death. this is what she read. "manager of _daily hurrygraph_. please insert enclosed series, in order named, on alternate days, commencing to-day week. postal order enclosed." "' . dearest, dearest, dearest. remember the grotto.--popsy. "' . dearest, dearest, dearest. this is worse than silence. sobs are cheap to-day.--popsy. "' . dearest, dearest, dearest. only anastasia and the dog. thought i should have died. cruel heart, hope on. the white band of hope! watchman, what of the night? shall we say . from paddington since the sea will not give up its dead? i have drained the dregs. the rest is silence. answer to-morrow or i shall dree my weird.--popsy.' "there was no signature to the letter, but the writing was that which had hitherto borne to poor sybil the daily assurances of her lover's devotion. she looked at the sleeping traitor so savagely that he moved uncomfortably, even in his sleep. like a serpent that scrap of paper had entered into her eden, and she put it in her bosom that it might sting her. unnoticed, the shadows had been lengthening, the sky had grown gray, as if in harmony with her blighted hopes. roughly she roused the sleeper, and hastily they wended their way back to the rendezvous, to find tea just over and the rush to the station just beginning. there was no time to talk till they were seated face to face in the railway carriage. the party had just caught the train, and bundling in anyhow had become separated. sybil and guy were alone again. "then sybil plucked from her breast the serpent and held it up. "'guy,' she said. 'what is this?' "he turned pale. 'w--w--here did you get that from?' he stammered. "'what is this?' she repeated, and read in unsympathetic accents: 'dearest, dearest, dearest. remember the grotto.--popsy.' "'who is "dearest"?' she continued. "'you, of course,' he said with ghastly playfulness. [illustration: _"dearest, is you," he said with ghastly playfulness._] "'indeed. then allow me to say, sir, i _will_ remember the grotto. i shall never forget it, popsy. if you wish to communicate with me, a penny postage stamp is, i believe, adequate. perhaps i am also anastasia, to say nothing of the dog. or shall we say the - from paddington, popsy?' "'sybil, darling,' he broke in piteously. 'give me back that paper, you wouldn't understand.' "sybil silently replaced the serpent in her bosom and leant back haughtily. "'i can explain all,' he cried wildly. "'i am listening,' sybil said. "'the fact is--i--i----' the young man flushed and stammered. sybil's pursed lips gave him no assistance. "'it may seem incredible--you will not believe it.' "sybil made no sign. "'i--i--am the victim of a disease.' "sybil stared scornfully. "'i--i--don't look at me like that, or i can't tell you. i--i--i didn't like to tell you before, but i always knew you would have to know some day. perhaps it is better it has come out before our marriage. listen!' "the young man leant over and breathed solemnly in her ear: '_i suffer from an hereditary tendency to advertise in the agony column_.' "sybil made no reply. the train drew up at a station. without a word sybil left the carriage and rejoined her friends in the next compartment." "what an extraordinary excuse," exclaimed lillie. "so sybil thought," replied wee winnie. "from that day to this--almost a week--she has never spoken to him. and yet guy persists in his explanation, even to me; which is so superfluous that i am almost inclined to believe in its truth. at any rate i will now read you his letter:-- "'dear sybil:-- "'perhaps for the last time i address you thus, for if after reading this you still refuse to believe me, i shall not trespass upon your patience again. but for the sake of our past love i beg you to read what follows in a trusting spirit, and if not in a trusting spirit, at least to read it. it is the story of how my father became a baronet, and when you know that, you will perhaps learn to pity and to bear with me. "'when a young man my father was bitten by the passion for contributing to the agony column. some young men spend their money in one way, some in another; this was my father's dissipation. he loved to insert mysterious words and sentences in the advertisement columns of the newspapers, so as to enjoy the sensation of giving food for speculation to a whole people. to sit quietly at home and with a stroke of the pen influence the thoughts of millions of his countrymen--this gave my father the keenest satisfaction. when you come to analyze it, what more does the greatest author do? "'the agony column is the royal road to successful authorship, if the publication of fiction in leading newspapers be any test of success; for my father used sometimes to conduct whole romances by correspondence, after the fashion of the then reigning wilkie collins. and the agony column is also the most innocuous method for satisfying that crave for supplying topics of conversation which sometimes leads people to crime. i make this analysis to show you that there was no antecedent improbability about what you seem to consider a wild excuse. the desire to contribute to this department of journalism is no isolated psychical freak; it is related to many other manifestations of mental activity, and is perfectly intelligible. but this desire, like every other, may be given its head till it runs away with the whole man. so it was with my father. he began--half in fun--with a small advertisement, one insertion. unfortunately--or fortunately--he made a little hit with it. he heard two men discussing it in a café. the next week he tried again--unsuccessfully this time, so far as he knew. but the third advertisement was again a topic of conversation. even in his own office (he was training for an architect), he heard the fellows saying, "did you see that funny advertisement this morning--'be careful not to break the baby.'" "'you can imagine how intoxicating this sort of thing is and how the craving for the secret enjoyment it brings may grow on a man. gradually my father became the victim of a passion fiercer than the gambler's, yet akin to it. for, he never knew whether his money would procure him the gratification he yearned for or not; it was all a fluke. the most promising mysteries would attract no attention, and even a carefully planned novelette, that ran for a week with as many as three characters intervening, would fall still-born upon the tapis of conversation. but every failure only spurred him to fresh effort. all his spare coin, all his savings, went into the tills of the newspaper cashiers. he cut down his expenses to the uttermost farthing, living abstemiously and dressing almost shabbily, and sacrificing everything to his ambitions. it was lucky he was not in a bank; for he had only a moderate income, and who knows to what he might have been driven? at last my father struck oil. tired of the unfruitful field of romance, whose best days seemed to be over, my father returned to that rudimentary literature which pleases the widest number of readers, while it has the never-failing charm of the primitive for the jaded disciples of culture. he wrote only polysyllabic unintelligibilities. "'thus for a whole week in every morning agony column he published in large capitals the word: "'_paddlepintospheroskedaddepoid._ this was an instantaneous success. but it was only a _succès d'estime_. people talked of it, but they could not remember it. it had no seeds of permanence in it. it could never be more than a nine days' wonder. it was an artificial, esoteric novelty, that might please the cliques but could never touch the masses. it lacked the simplicity of real greatness, that unmistakable elemental _cachet_ which commends things to the great heart of the people. after a bit, this dawned upon my father; and, profiting by his experience, he determined to create something which should be immortal. "'for days he racked his brains, unable to please himself. he had the critical fastidiousness of the true artist, and his ideal ever hovered before him, unseizable. grotesque words floated about him in abundance, every current of air brought him new suggestions, he lived in a world of strange sounds. but the great combination came not. "'late one night, as he sat brooding by his dying fire, there came a sudden rapping at his chamber door. a flash of joy illumined his face, he started to his feet. "'"i have it!" he cried. "'"have what?" said his friend marple, bursting into the room without further parley. "'"influenza," surlily answered my father, for he was not to be caught napping, and marple went away hurriedly. marple was something in the city. the two young men were great friends, but there are some things which cannot be told even to friends. it was not influenza my father had got. to his fevered onomatopoeic fancy, marple's quick quadruple rap had translated itself into the word: olotutu. "'at this hour of the day, my dear sybil, it is superfluous to say anything about this word, with which you have been familiar from your cradle. it has now been before the public over a quarter of a century, and it has long since won immortality. little did you think when we sat in the railway carriage yesterday, that the "olotutu" that glared at you from the partition was the far-away cause of the cloud now hanging over our lives. but it may be interesting to you to learn that in the early days many people put the accent on the second syllable, whereas all the world now knows, the accent is on the first, and the "o" of "ol" is short. when my father found he had set the thames on fire, he was almost beside himself with joy. at the office the clerks, in the intervals of wondering about "olotutu" wondered if he had come into a fortune. he determined to follow up his success: to back the winning word, to consecrate his life to "olotutu," to put all his money on it. thenceforwards for the next three months you very rarely opened a paper without seeing the word, "olotutu." it stood always by itself, self-complete and independent, rigid and austere, in provoking sphynx-like solitude. sybil, imagine to yourself my father's rapture! to be the one man in all england who had the clue to the enigma of "olotutu!" at last the burden of his secret became intolerable. he felt he must breathe a hint of it or die. one night while marple was smoking in his rooms and wondering about "olotutu," my father proudly told him all. "'"great heavens!" exclaimed marple. "tip us your flipper, old man! you are a millionaire." "'"a what?" gasped my father. "'"a millionaire!" "'"are you a lunatic?" "'"are you an idiot? don't you see that there is a fortune in 'olotutu'?" "'"a fortune! how?" "'"by bringing it out as a joint stock company." "'"but--but--but you don't understand. 'olotutu' is only----" "'"only an income for life," interrupted marple excitedly. "look here, old boy, i'll get you up a syndicate to run it in twenty-four hours." "'"do you mean to say----?" "'"no, i mean to do. i'm an ass not to quietly annex it all to myself, but i always said i was too honest for the city. give me 'olotutu' and we'll divide the profits. glory! hooray!" "'he capered about the floor wildly. "'"but what profits? where from?" asked my father, still unenlightened, for, outside architecture, he was a greenhorn. "'marple sang the "ba, ba, ba, boodle-dee" of the day, and continued his wild career. "'my father seized him by the throat and pushed him into a chair. "'"speak, man," he cried agitatedly. "stop your tomfoolery and talk sense." "'"i am talking cents--which is better," said marple, with a boisterous burst of laughter. "a word that all the world is talking about is a gold-mine--a real gold-mine. i mean, not one on a prospectus. don't you see that 'olotutu' is a household word, and that everybody imagines it is the name of some new patent, something which the proprietor has been keeping dark? i did myself. when at last 'olotutu' _is_ put upon the market it will come into the world under the fierce light that beats upon a boom, and it will be snapped up like currant cake at a tea-fight. why, nemo's fruit pepper, which has been on every hoarding for twenty years, is not half so much talked about as 'olotutu.' what you achieved is an immense preliminary advertisement--and you were calmly thinking of stopping there! within sight of pactolus!" "'"i had achieved _my_ end!" replied my father with dignity. "art for art's sake--i did not work for money." "'"then you refuse half the profits?" "'"oh, no, no! if the artist's work brings him money, he cannot help it. i think i catch your idea now. you wish to put some commodity upon the market attached to the name of 'olotutu.' we have a pedestal but no statue, a cloak but nothing to cover." "'"we shall have plenty to cover soon," observed marple winking. and he sat himself unceremoniously at my writing-desk and began scribbling away for dear life. "'"i suppose then," went on my father, "we shall have to get hold of some article and manufacture it." "'"nonsense," jerked marple. "where are we to get the capital from?" "'"oh, i see you will get the syndicate to do it?" "'"good gracious, man!" yelped marple. "do you suppose the syndicate will have any capital? let me write in peace." "'"but who _is_ going to manufacture 'olotutu' then?" persisted my father. "'"the british public of course," thundered marple. my father was silenced. the feverish scratching of marple's pen continued, working my father up to an indescribable nervous tension. "'"but what will 'olotutu' be?" he inquired at last. "a patent medicine, a tobacco, a soap, a mine, a comic paper, a beverage, a tooth-powder, a hair-restorer?" "'"look here, old man!" roared marple. "how do you expect me to bother about details? this thing has got to be worked at once. the best part of the company season is already over. but 'olotutu' is going to make it up. mark my words the shares of 'olotutu' will be at a premium on the day of issue. another sheet of paper, quick." "'"what for?" "'"i want to write to a firm of chartered accountants and valuers to give an estimate of the profits!" "'"an estimate of the profits?" "'"don't talk like a parrot!" "'"but how can they estimate the profits?" "'"how? what do you suppose they're chartered for? you or i couldn't do it; of course not. but it's the business of accountants! that's what they're for. pass me more writing-paper--reams of it!" [illustration: _the public curiosity amounted to frenzy._] "'marple spent the whole of that night writing letters to what he called his tame guinea-pigs; and the very next day large bills bearing the solitary word "olotutu" were posted up all over london till the public curiosity mounted to frenzy. the bill-posters earnt many a half-crown by misinforming the inquisitive. marple worked like a horse. first he drew up the prospectus, leaving blanks for the board of directors of the company. then he filled up the blanks. it was not easy. one lord was only induced to serve on marple's convincing representations of the good 'olotutu' would do to the masses. when the board was complete, marple had still to get the syndicate from which the directors were to acquire "olotutu," but he left this till the end, knowing there would be no difficulty there. i have never been able to gather from my father exactly what went on, nor does my father profess to know exactly himself, but he tells with regret how he used to worry marple daily by inquiring if he had yet decided what "olotutu" was to be, as if marple had not his hands full enough without that. marple turned round on him one day and shrieked: "that's your affair, not mine. you're selling 'olotutu' to me, aren't you? i can't be buyer and seller, too." "'this, by the way, does not seem to be as impossible as it sounds for, according to my father, when the company came out, marple bought and sold "olotutu" in the most mysterious manner, rigging the market, watering the shares, cornering the bears, and doing other extraordinary things, each and all at a profit. he was not satisfied with his share of the price paid for "olotutu" by the syndicate, nor with his share of the enormously higher price paid to the syndicate by the public, but went in for stock exchange manoeuvres six-deep, coming out an easy winner on settling day. one of my father's most treasured collections is the complete set of proofs of the prospectus. it went through thirteen editions before it reached the public; no author could revise his book more lovingly than marple revised that prospectus. what tales printers could tell to be sure! the most noticeable variations in the text of my father's collection are the omission or addition of cyphers. some of the editions have £ , for the share capital of the company, where others have £ , , and others £ , . sometimes the directors appear to have extenuated "nought," sometimes to have set down "nought" in malice. as for the number of debenture shares, the amounts to be paid up on allotment, the contracts with divers obscure individuals, the number of shares to be taken up by the directors and the number to be accepted by the vendors in part payment, these vary indefinitely; but in no edition, not even in those still void of the names of the directors, do the profits guaranteed by the directors fall below twenty-five per cent. sometimes the complex and brain-baffling calculations that fill page three result in a bigger profit, sometimes in a smaller, but they are always cheering to contemplate. "'there is not very much about "olotutu" itself even in the last edition, but from the very first, there is a great deal about the power of the company to manufacture, import, export, and deal in all kinds of materials, commodities, and articles necessary for and useful in carrying on the same; to carry on any other operations or business which the company might from time to time deem expedient in connection with its main business for the time being; to purchase, take in exchange, or on lease, hire, or otherwise, in any part of the world, for any estate, or interests, any lands, factories, buildings, easements, patent rights, brands and trademarks, concessions, privileges, machinery, plant, stock-in-trade, utensils, necessary or convenient, for the purposes of the company, or to sell, exchange, let or rent royalty, share of profits, or otherwise use and grant licenses, easements and other rights of and over, and in any other manner deal with or dispose of the whole or any part of the undertaking, business and property of the company, and in consideration to accept cash or shares, stock, debenture or securities of any company whose objects were or included objects similar to those of the company. "'the actual nature of "olotutu" does not seem to have been settled till the ninth edition, but all the editions include the analyst's report, certifying that "olotutu" contains no injurious ingredients and is far purer and safer than any other (here there was a blank in the first eight editions in the market). from this it is evident that marple has made up his mind to something chemical, though it is equally apparent that he kept an open mind regards its precise character, for in the ninth edition the blank is filled up with "purgative," in the tenth with "meat extract," in the eleventh with "hair-dye," in the twelfth with "cod liver oil," and it is only in the thirteenth edition that the final decision seems to have been arrived at in favor of "soap." this of course, my dear sybil, you already know. indeed, if i mistake not, "olotutu," the only absolutely scentless soap in the market, is your own pet soap. i hope it will not shock you too much if i tell you in the strictest confidence that except in price, stamp, and copious paper-wrapping, "olotutu" is simply bars of yellow soap chopped small. it was here, perhaps, that marple's genius showed to the highest advantage. the public was overdone with patent scented soaps; there seemed something unhealthy or at least molly-coddling about their use; the time was ripe for return to the rude and primitive. "absolutely scentless" became the trademark of "olotutu" and the public, being absolutely senseless (_pace_, my dear sybil), somehow concluded that because the soap was devoid of scent it was impregnated with sanitation. "'is there need to prolong the story? my father, so unexpectedly enriched, abandoned architecture and married almost immediately. soon he became the idol of a popular constituency, and, voting steadily with his party, was made a baronet. i was born a few months after the first dividend was announced. it was a dividend of thirty-three per cent, for "olotutu" had become an indispensable adjunct to every toilet-table and the financial papers published leaders, boasting of having put their clients up to a good thing, and "olotutu" was on everybody's tongue and got into everybody's eyes. "'can you wonder, then, that i was born with a congenital craving for springing mysteries upon the public? can you still disbelieve that i suffer from an hereditary tendency to advertise in the agony column? "'at periodic intervals an irresistible prompting to force uncouth words upon the universal consciousness seizes me; at other times i am driven to beguile the public with pseudo-sensational communications to imaginary personages. it was fortunate my father early discovered my penchant and told me the story of his life, for i think the very knowledge that i am the victim of heredity helps me to defy my own instincts. no man likes to feel he is the shuttlecock of blind forces. still they are occasionally too strong for me, and my present attack has been unusually severe and protracted. i have been passing through my father's early phases and conducting romances by correspondence. complimentary to the series of messages signed popsy, i had prepared a series signed wopsy to go in on alternate days, and if you had only continued your search in my coat-pocket you would have discovered these proofs of my innocence. may i trust it is now re-established, and that "olotutu" has washed away the apparent stain on my character? with anxious heart i await your reply. "'ever yours devotedly, "'guy.' "sybil's reply was: 'i have read your letter. do not write to me again.' she was so set against him," concluded miss nimrod, "she would not even write this but wired it." "then she does not believe the story of how guy fledgely's father became a baronet," said lord silverdale. "she does not. she says 'olotutu' won't wash stains." "well, i suppose you will be bringing her up," said the president. "i will--in the way she should go;" answered wee winnie. "to-day is saturday; i will bring her on monday. meantime as it is getting very late, and as i have finished my lemonade, i will bid you good afternoon--have you used 'olotutu?'" and with this facetious inquiry miss nimrod twirled her stick and was off. an hour later lillie received a wire from wee winnie. "_olotutu. wretches just reconciled. letter follows._" and this was the letter that came by the first post on monday. * * * * * "my poor president: "we have lost sybil. she takes in the _hurrygraph_ and reads the agony column religiously. so all the week she has been exposed to a terrible bombardment. "as thus (tuesday.) 'my lost darling. a thousand demons are knocking at my door. say you forgive me or i will let them in.--bobo.' "or thus. (wednesday.) 'my lost darling. you are making a terrible mistake. i am innocent. i am writing this on my bended knees. the fathers have eaten a sour grape. misericordia.--bobo.' "the bitter cry of the outcast lover increased daily in intensity, till on saturday it became delirious. "'my lost darling. save, o save! i have opened the door. they are there--in their thousands. the children's teeth are set on edge. the grave is dug. betwixt two worlds i fall to the ground. adieu forever.--bobo.' "will you believe that the poor little fool thought all this was meant for her, and that in consequence she thawed day by day till on saturday she melted entirely and gushed on guy's shoulder? guy admitted that he had inserted these advertisements, but he did not tell her (as he afterwards told me in confidence, and as i now tell you in confidence) that they had been sent in before the quarrel occurred and constituted his agony column romance for the week, the popsy wopsy romance not being intended for publication till next week. he had concocted these cries of despairing passion without the least idea they would so nearly cover his own case. but he says that as his hereditary craze got him into the scrape, it was only fair his hereditary craze should get him out of it. "so that's the end of sybil hotspur. but let us not lament her too much. one so frail and fickle was not of the stuff of which old maids are made. courage! wee winnie is on the warpath. "yours affectionately, "nelly." chapter xvi. the club becomes popular. the influence of wee winnie on the war-path was soon apparent. on the following wednesday morning the ante-room of the club was as crowded with candidates as if lillie had advertised for a clerk with three tongues at ten pounds a year. silverdale had gone down to fleet street to inquire if anything had been heard of miss ellaline rand's projected paper, and lillie grappled with the applicants single-handed. turple the magnificent, was told to usher them into the confessional one by one, but the first two candidates insisted that they were one, and as he could not tell which one he gave way. it is said that the shepherd knows every sheep of his flock individually, and that a superintendent can tell one policeman from another. some music-hall managers even profess to distinguish between one pair of singing sisters and all the other pairs. but even the most trained eye would be puzzled to detect any difference between these two lovely young creatures. they were as like as two peas or two cues, or the two gentlemen who mount and descend together the mirror-lined staircase of a restaurant. interrogated as to the motives of their would-be renunciation, one of them replied: "my sister and myself are twins. we were born so. when the news was announced to our father, he is reported to have exclaimed, 'what a misfortune!' his sympathy was not misplaced, for from our nursery days upward our perfect resemblance to each other has brought us perpetual annoyance. do what we would, we never could never get mistaken for each other. the pleasing delusion that either of us would be saddled with the misdeeds of the other has got us into scrapes without number. at school we each played all sorts of pranks, making sure the other would be punished for them. alas! the consequences have always recoiled on the head of the guilty party. we were not even whipped for neglecting each other's lessons. it was always for neglecting our own. but in spite of the stern refusal of experience to favor us with the usual imbroglio, we always went on hoping that the luck would turn. we read shakespeare's _comedy of errors_, and that confirmed us in our evil courses. when we grew up, it would be hard to say which was the giddier, for each hoped that the other would have to bear the burden of her escapades. you will have gathered from our friskiness that our parents were strict puritans, but at last they allowed an eligible young curate to visit the house with a view to matrimony. he was too good for us; our parents were as much as we wanted in that line. unfortunately, in this crisis, unknown to each other, the old temptation seized us. each felt it a unique chance of trying if the thing wouldn't work. when the other was out of the room, each made love to the unwelcome suitor so as to make him fall in love with her sister. wretched victims of mendacious farce-writers! the result was that he fell in love with us both!" she paused a moment overcome with emotion, then resumed. "he proposed to us both simultaneously, vowed he could not live without us. he exclaimed passionately that he could not be happy with either were t'other dear charmer away. he said he was ready to become a mormon for love of us." [illustration: _he was willing to become a mormon._] "and what was your reply?" said lillie anxiously. the fresh young voices broke out into a duet: "we told him to ask papa." "we were both so overwhelmed by this catastrophe," pursued the story-teller, "that we vowed for mutual self-protection against our besetting temptation to fribble at the other's expense, never to let each other out of sight. in the farces all the mistakes happen through the twins being on only one at a time. thus have we balanced each other's tendencies to indiscretion before it was too late, and saved ourselves from ourselves. this necessity of being always together, imposed on us by our unhappy resemblance, naturally excludes either from marriage." lillie was not favorably impressed with these skittish sisters. "i sympathize intensely with the sufferings of either," she said slily, "in being constrained to the society of the other. but your motives of celibacy are not sufficiently pure, nor have you fulfilled our prime condition, for even granting that your reply to the eligible young churchman was tantamount to a rejection, it still only amounts to a half rejection each, which is fifty per cent. below our standard." she rang the bell. turple the magnificent ushered the twins out and the next candidate in. she was an ethereal blonde in a simple white frock, and her story was as simple. "read this rondeau," she said. "it will tell you all." lillie took the lines. they were headed the lovely may--an old maid's plaint. the lovely may at last is here, long summer days are drawing near, and nights with cloudless moonshine rich; in woodlands green, on waters clear, soft-couched in fern, or on the mere, gliding like some white water-witch, or lunching in a leafy niche, i see my sweet-faced sister dear, the lovely may. _she_ is engaged--and her career is one of skittles blent with beer, while i, plain sewing left to stitch, can ne'er expect those pleasures which, at this bright season of the year, the lovely may. lillie looked up interrogatively. "but surely _you_ have nothing to complain of in the way of loveliness?" she said. "no, of course not. _i am_ the lovely may. it was my sister who wrote that. she died in june and i found it among her manuscripts. remorse set in at the thought of maria stitching while i was otherwise engaged. i disengaged myself at once. what's fair for one is fair for all. women should combine. while there's one woman who can't get a husband, no man should be allowed to get a wife." "hear, hear!" cried lillie enthusiastically. "only i am afraid there will always be blacklegs among us who will betray their sex for the sake of a husband." "alas, yes," agreed the lovely may. "i fear such was the nature of my sister maria. she coveted even my first husband." "what!" gasped the president. "are you a widow?" "certainly! i left off black when i was engaged again, and when i was disengaged i dared not resume it for fear of seeming to mourn my _fiancé_." "we cannot have widows in the old maids' club," said lillie regretfully. "then i shall start a new widows' club and old maids shall have no place in it." and the lovely may sailed out, all smiles and tears. the newcomer was a most divinely tall and most divinely fair brunette with a brooding, morbid expression. candidate gave the name of miss summerson. being invited to make a statement, she said: "i have abandoned the idea of marrying. i have no money. ergo, i cannot afford to marry a poor man. and i am resolved never to marry a rich one. i want to be loved for myself, not for my want of money. you may stare, but i know what i am talking about. what other attraction have i? good looks? plenty of girls with money have that, who would be glad to marry the men i have rejected. in the town i came from i lived with my cousin, who was an heiress. she was far lovelier than i. yet all the moneyed men were at my feet. they were afraid of being suspected of fortune-hunting and anxious to vindicate their elevation of character. why should i marry to gratify a man's vanity, his cravings after cheap quixotism?" "your attitude on the great question of the age does you infinite credit, but as you have no banking account to put it to, you traverse the regulation requiring a property qualification," said the president. "is there no way over the difficulty?" "i fear not: unless you marry a rich man, and that disqualifies you under another rule." and miss summerson passed sadly into the outer darkness, to be replaced by a young lady who gave the name of nell lightfoot. she wore a charming hat and a smile like the spreading of sunshine over a crystal pool. "i met a young scotchman," she said, "at a new year's dance, and we were favorably impressed by each other. on the fourteenth of the following february i received from him a valentine, containing a proposal of marriage and a revelation of the degradation of masculine nature. it would seem he had two strings to his bow--the other being a rich widow whom he had met in a devonshire lane. being a scotchman he had for economy's sake composed a valentine which with a few slight alterations would do for both of us. unfortunately for himself he sent me the original draft by mistake and here is his veracious valentine. though the weather is snowy and dreary and a shiver careers down my spine, yet the heart in my bosom is cheery, for i feel i've exchanged mine for thine. do not call it delusion, my dearie, but become my own loved valentine. for that { stormy june day you } remember, { new year's dance you must } when we { sheltered together from rain, { waltzed to a languorous strain, while the sky, like the fifth of november, } and our souls glowed despite 'twas december } gleamed with lightening outrivalling p { ain. } with a burning but glorious p { } ah me! in my fire's dying ember i can see that { dank devonshire lane. { bright ball-room again. and } i spoke { of the love that i } bore you, yet } { not then, fearing to } and of how for a widow i } yearned, though for maidenly love my heart } not a schoolgirl { and fealty i swore you, { i'd gazed on before you, and you listened till sunshine re- } turned, had my heart with such sweet madness } then { you } parted { from me who } adore you, { we } { but still i } and my heart and umbrella you spurned. } though you may not my love have discerned, } not repelled by { hoarded-up } money, { having no } i adore you, my { belle, } for yourself, { nell, } you are sweeter than music or honey; and dan cupid's a sensuous elf, who is drawn to the fair and the sunny, and is blind unto nothing but pelf. need we feel a less genuine passion because we { shall } live in may-fair? { can't } love { blooms rich } in the hothouse of fashion, { oft fades } 'tis { an orchid that flourishes there; { a moss-rose that needs the fresh air; yet i would not my own darling lass shun were she even as { poor } as she's { fair. { rich } { rare. there are fools who adore a complexion that's like strawberries mingled with cream. } as with nubian blacking a gleam } a brunette } is my own predilection, but a blonde } and the glances from { dark } eyes that beam { blue } then refuse not my deathless affection, neither shatter my amorous dream. you're the very first { woman } who's thrilled me { maiden } with the passion that tongue cannot tell. of none else have i thought since you filled me with { despair in that devonshire dell. } { unrest when the waltz wove its spell. } when your final refusal has killed me. on my heart will be found graven { belle. { nell. "how strange!" said lillie. "you combine the disqualifications of two of the previous candidates. you are apparently poor and you have received only half a proposal." a flaming blonde, whose brow was crowned with an aurora of auburn hair, was the next to burst upon the epigrammatic scene. she spoke english with an excellent parisian accent. "one has called me a young woman in a hurry," she said, "and the description does not want of truth. i am impatient; i have large ideas; i am ambitious. if i were a grocer i should contract for the sahara. i fall in love, and when alice leroux falls in love it is like the volcano which goes to make eruption. figure to yourself that my man is shy--but of a shyness of the most ridiculous--that it is necessary to make a thousand sweet eyes at him before he comprehends that he loves me. and when he comprehends it, he does not speak. _mon dieu_, he does not speak, though i speak, me, with fan, my eyes, my fingers, almost with my lips. he walks with me--but he does not speak. he takes me to the spectacle--but he does not speak. he promenades himself in boat with me--but he does not speak. i encircle him with my arms, and i speak with my lips at last--one, two, three, four, five, kisses. overwhelmed, astonished, he returns me my kisses--hesitatingly, stupidly, but in fine, he returns them and then at last--with our faces together, my arm round his graceful waist--he speaks. the first words of love comes from his mouth--and what think you that he say? say then." [illustration: _i encircle him with my arms and speak with my lips._] "i love you?" murmured lillie. "a thousand thunders! no! he says: 'miss leroux--alice; may i call you alice?'" "i see nothing to wonder at in that," replied lillie quietly. "remember that for a man to kiss you is a less serious step than for him to call you alice. that were a stage on the road to marriage, and should only be reached through the gate of betrothal. changes of name are the outward marks of a woman's development as much as changes of form accompany the growth of the caterpillar. you, for instance, began life as alice. in due course you became miss alice; if you were the eldest daughter you became miss leroux at once; if you were not, you inherited the name only on your sister's death or marriage; when you are betrothed you will revert to the simple alice, and when you are married you will become mrs. something else; and every time you get married, if you are careful to select husbands of varying patronymics, you will be furnished with a change of name as well as of address. providence, which has conferred so many sufferings upon woman, has given her this one advantage over man, who in the majority of instance is doomed to the monotony of ossified nomenclature, and has to wear the same name on his tombstone which he wore on his eton collar." "that is all a heap of galimatias," replied the parisienne with the flaming hair "if i kiss a man, i, surely he may call me alice without demanding it? bah! let him love your misses with _eau sucrée_ in their veins. when he insulted me with his stupidity, i became furious. i threw him--how you say?--overboard on the instant." "good heavens!" gasped lillie. "then you are a murderess!" "figure you to yourself that i speak at the foot of the letter? know you not the idioms of your own barbarian tongue? it seems to me you are as mad as he. perhaps you are his sister." "certainly. our rules require us to regard all men as brothers." "_he!_ what?" "we have rejected the love of all men; consequently we have to regard them all as our brothers." "that man there my brother!" shrieked alice. "never! never of my life! i would rather marry first!" and she went off to do so. the last of these competitors for the old maiden stakes was a whirlwind in petticoats who welcomed the president very affably. "good-morning, miss dulcimer," she said. "i've heard of you. i'm from boston way. you know i travel about the world in search of culture. i'm spending the day in europe, so i thought i'd look you up. would you be so good as to epitomize your scheme in twenty words? i've got to see the madonna del cardellino in the uffizi at florence before ten to-morrow, and i want to hear an act of the _meistersingers_ at bayreuth after tea." "i'm rather tired," pleaded lillie, overwhelmed by the dynamic energy radiating from every square inch of the bostonian's superficies. "i have had a hard morning's work. couldn't you call again to-morrow?" "impossible. i have just wired to damietta to secure rooms commanding a view of professor tickledroppe's excavations on the banks of the nile. i dote on archæological treasures and thought i should like to see the old maids. are they on view?" "no, they are not here," said lillie evasively. "but do you want to join us?" "shall i have time? i remember i once wasted a week getting married. some women waste their whole lives that way. marriage is an incident of life's novel--they make it the whole plot. i don't say it isn't an interesting experience. every woman ought to go through it once, but with the infinite possibilities of culture lying all round us it's mere philistinism to give one husbandman more than a week of your society. mine is a physician practising in philadelphia. judging by the checks he sends me he must be a successful man. well, i am real glad to have had this little talk with you, it's been so interesting. i will become an honorary member of your charming club with pleasure." "you cannot if you are married. you can only be a visitor." "what's my being married got to do with it?" inquired the american in astonishment. "this is the first time i have ever heard that the name of a club has anything to do with the membership. are the members of the savage club savages, of the garrick garricks, of the supper club suppers?" "we are not men," lillie said haughtily. "i could pass over your relation to the hub of the universe, but when it comes to having a private hub i have no option." "well, this may be your english idea of hospitality to travellers of culture," replied the bostonian warmly, "but if you come to our crack crank club in the fall you shall be as welcome as a brand new poet. good-bye. hope we shall meet again. i shall be in hong kong in june if you like to drop in. good-bye." "good-bye," said lillie, pressing one hand against the visitor's and the other to her aching forehead. silverdale found her dissolved in tears. "in future," he said, when she had explained her troubles, "i shall hang the rules and by-laws in the waiting room. the candidates will then be able to eliminate themselves. by the way, ellaline rand's _cherub_ is going to sit up aloft,--on a third floor in fleet street." chapter xvii. a musical bar. when turple the magnificent, looking uneasy, brought up frank maddox's card, lillie uttered a cry of surprise and pleasure. frank maddox was a magic name to her as to all the elect of the world of sweetness and light. after a moment of nervous anxiety lest it should not be _the_ frank maddox, her fears were dispelled by the entry of the great authority on art and music, whose face was familiar to her from frontispiece portraits. few critics possessed such charms of style and feature as frank maddox, who had a delicious _retroussé_ nose, a dainty rosebud mouth, blue eyes, and a wealth of golden hair. lillie's best hopes were confirmed. the famous critic wished to become an old maid. the president and the new and promising candidate had a delightful chat over a cup of tea and the prospects of the club. the two girls speedily became friends. "but if you join us, hadn't you better go back to your maiden name?" inquired lillie. "perhaps so," said frank maddox thoughtfully. "my pen-name does sound odd under the peculiar circumstances. on the other hand to revert to laura spragg now might be indiscreet. people would couple my name with frank maddox's--you know the way of the world. the gossips get their facts so distorted, and i couldn't even deny the connection." "but of course you _have_ had your romance?" asked lillie. "you know one romance per head is our charge for admission?" "oh, yes! i have had my romance. in three vols. shall i tell it you?" "if you please." "listen, then. volume the first: frank maddox is in her study. outside the sun is setting in furrows of gold-laced sagging storm-clouds, dun and----" "oh, please, i always skip that," laughed lillie. "i know that two lovers cannot walk in a lane without the author seeing the sunset, which is the last thing in the world the lovers see. but when the sky begins to look black, i always begin to skip." "forgive me. i didn't mean to do it. remember i'm an habitual art-critic. i thought i was describing a harmony of whistler's or a movement from a sonata. it shall not occur again. to the heroine enter the hero--shabby, close-cropped, pale. their eyes meet. he is thunderstruck to find the heroine a woman; blushes, stammers, and offers to go away. struck by something of innate refinement in his manner, she presses him to avow the object of his visit. at last, in dignified language, infinitely touching in its reticence, he confesses he called on mr. frank maddox, the writer he admires so much, to ask a little pecuniary help. he is starving. original, isn't it, to have your hero hungry in the first chapter? he speaks vaguely of having ambitions which, unless he goes under in the struggle for existence may some day be realized. there are so many men in london like that. however, the heroine is moved by his destitute condition and sitting down to her desk, she writes out a note, folds it up and gives it to him. 'there!' she says, 'there's a prescription against starvation.' 'but how am i to take it?' he asked. 'it must be taken before breakfast, the first thing in the morning,' she replied, 'to the editor of the _moon_. give him the note; he will change it for you. don't mention my name.' [illustration: "_there's a prescription against starvation._"] "he thanked me and withdrew." "and what was in the note?" asked lillie curiously. "i can't quite remember. but something of this sort. 'the numerous admirers of frank maddox will be gratified to hear that she has in the press a volume of essays on the part played by color-blindness in the symphonic movements of the time. the great critic is still in town but leaves for torquay next tuesday.' for that the editor of the _moon_ gave him half-a-crown." "do you call that charity?" said lillie, astonished. "certainly. charity begins at home. do many people give charity except to advertise themselves? philanthropy by paragraph is a perquisite of fame. why, i have a pensioner who comes in for all my _acadæum_ paragraphs. that _moon_ part saved our hero from starvation. years afterwards i learnt he had frittered away two-pence in having his hair cut." "it seems strange for a starving man to get his hair cut," said lillie. "not when you know the cause," replied frank maddox. "it was his way of disguising himself. and this brings me to volume two. the years pass. once again i am in my study. there is a breath of wind among the elms in the front garden, and the sky is strewn with vaporous sprays of apple-blossom----i beg your pardon. re-enter the hero, spruce, frock-coated, dignified. he recalls himself to my memory--but i remember him only too well. he tells me that my half-crown saved him at the turning-point of his career, that he has now achieved fame and gold, that he loves my writing more passionately than ever, and that he has come to ask me to crown his life. the whole thing is so romantic that i am about to whisper 'yes' when an instinct of common sense comes to my aid and my half-opened lips murmur instead: 'but the name you sent up--horace paul--it is not known to me. you say you have won fame. i, at least, have never heard of you.' "'of course not,' he replies. 'how should you? if i were horace paul you would not marry me; just as i should certainly not marry you if you were frank maddox. but what of paul horace?'" "paul horace," cried lillie. "the great composer!" "that is just what i exclaimed. and my hero answers: 'the composer, great or little. none but a few intimates connect me with him. the change of name is too simple. i always had a longing--call it morbid if you will--for obscurity in the midst of renown. i have weekly harvests of hair to escape any suspicion of musical attainments. but you and i, dearest--think of what our life will be enriched by our common love of the noblest of the arts. outside, the marigolds nod to the violets, the sapphire--excuse me, i mean to say----' thus he rambled on, growing in enthusiasm with every ardent phrase, the while a deadly coldness was fastening round my heart. for i felt that it could not be." "and why?" inquired lillie in astonishment. "it seems one of the marriages made in heaven." "i dared not tell him why; and i can only tell you on condition you promise to keep my secret." "i promise." "listen," whispered the great critic. "i know nothing about music or art, and i was afraid he would find me out." lillie fell back in her chair, white and trembling. another idol shivered! "but how----?" she gasped. "there, then, don't take on so," said the great critic kindly. "i did not think you, too, were such an admirer of mine, else i might have spared you the shock. you ask how it is done. well, i didn't set out to criticise. i can at least plead that in extenuation. my nature is not wilfully perverse. there was a time when i was as pure and above criticism as yourself." she paused and furtively wiped away a tear, then resumed more calmly, "i drifted into it. for years i toiled on, without ever a thought of musical and art criticism sullying my maiden meditations. my downfall was gradual. in early maidenhood i earnt my living as a type-writer. i had always had literary yearnings, but the hard facts of life allowed me only this rough approximation to my ideal. accident brought excellent literature to my machine, and it required all my native honesty not to steal the plots of the novelists and the good things of the playwrights. the latter was the harder temptation to resist, for when the play was good enough to be worth stealing from, i knew it would never be produced and my crime never discovered. still in spite of my honesty, i benefited indirectly by my type-writing, for contact with so much admirable work fostered the graceful literary style which, between you and me, is my only merit. in time i plucked up courage to ask one of my clients, a journalist, if he could put some newspaper work in my way. 'what can you do?' he asked in surprise. 'anything,' i replied with maiden modesty. 'i see, that's your special line,' he said musingly. 'unfortunately we are full up in that department. you see, everyone turns his hand to that--it's like schoolmastering, the first thing people think of. it's a pity you are a girl, because the way to journalistic distinction lies through the position of office-boy. office-girl sounds strange. i doubt whether they would have you except on a freethought organ. our office-boy has to sweep out the office and review the novels, else you might commence humbly as a critic of literature. it isn't a bad post either, for he supplements his income by picking rejected matter out of the waste paper basket and surreptitiously lodging it in the printer's copy pigeonhole. his income in fees from journalistic aspirants must be considerable. yes, had you been a boy you might have made a pretty good thing out of literature! then there is no chance at all for me on your paper?' i inquired desperately. 'none,' he said sadly. 'our editor is an awful old fogey. he is vehemently opposed to the work of outsiders, and if you were to send him his own leaders in envelopes he would say they were rot. for once he would be a just critic. you see, therefore, what your own chance is. even i, who have been on the staff for years, couldn't do anything to help you. no, i am afraid there is no hope for you unless you approach our office-boy.' i thanked him warmly for his advice and encouragement, and within a fortnight an article of mine appeared in the paper. it was called 'the manuscripts of authors,' and revealed in a refined and ladylike way the secrets of the chirographic characteristics of the manuscripts i had to type-write. my friend said i was exceedingly practical----" "exceedingly practical," agreed lillie with a suspicion of a sneer. "because most amateur journalists write about abstract principles, whereas i had sliced out for the public a bit of concrete fact, and the great heart of the people went out to hear the details of the way brown wrote his books, jones his jokes, and robinson his recitations. the article made a hit, and annoyed the authors very much." "so, i should think," said lillie. "didn't they withdraw their custom from you instanter?" [illustration: _the office boy edits the paper._] "why? they didn't know it was i. only my journalistic friend knew; and he was too much of a gentleman to give away my secret. i wrote to the editor under the name of frank maddox, thanking him for having inserted my article, and the editor said to my friend, 'egad, i fancy i've made a discovery there. why, if i were to pay any attention to your idea of keeping strictly to the old grooves, the paper would stagnate, my boy, simply stagnate.' the editor was right, for my friend assured me the paper would have died long before, if the office-boy had not condescended to edit it. anyhow, it was to that office-boy i owed my introduction to literature. the editor was very proud of having discovered me, and, being installed in his good graces, i passed rapidly into dramatic criticism, and was even allowed to understudy the office-boy as literary reviewer. he could not stomach historical novels, and handed over to me all works with pronouns in the second person. gradually i rose to higher things, but it was not until i had been musical and art critic for over eighteen months that the editor learnt that the writer whose virile style he had often dilated upon to my friend was a woman." "and what did he do when he learnt it?" asked lillie. "he swore----" "profane man!" cried lillie. "that he loved me--me whom he had never seen. of course, i declined him with thanks; happily there was a valid excuse, because he had written his communication on both sides of the paper. but even this technical touch did not mollify him, and he replied that my failure to appreciate him showed i could no longer be trusted as a critic. fortunately my work had been signed, my fame was established. i collected my articles into a book and joined another paper." "but you haven't yet told me how it is done?" "oh, that is the least. you see, to be a critic it is not essential to know anything--you must simply be able to write. to be a great critic you must simply be able to write _well_. in my omniscience, or catholic ignorance, i naturally looked about for the subject on which i could most profitably employ my gift of style with the least chance of being found out. a moment's consideration will convince you that the most difficult branches of criticism are the easiest. of musical and artistic matters not one person in a thousand understands aught but the rudiments: here, then, is the field in which the critical ignoramus may expatiate at large with the minimum danger of discovery. nay, with no scintilla of danger; for the subject matter is so obscure and abstruse that the grossest of errors may put on a bold face and parade as a profundity, or, driven to bay, proclaim itself a paradox. only say what you have not got to say authoritatively and well, and the world shall fall down and worship you. the place of art in religion has undergone a peculiar historical development. first men worshipped the object of art; then they worshipped the artist; and nowadays they worship the art critic." "it is true," said lillie reflectively. "this age has witnessed the apotheosis of the art critic." "and of all critics. and yet what can be more evident than that the art of criticism was never in such a critical condition? nobody asks to see the critic's credentials. he is taken at his own valuation. there ought to be an examination to protect the public. even schoolmasters are now required to have certificates; while those who pretend to train the larger mind in the way it should think are left to work their mischief uncontrolled. no dramatic critic should be allowed to practise without an elementary knowledge of human life, law, shakespeare, and french. the musical critic should be required to be able to perform on some one instrument other than his own trumpet, to distinguish tune from tonality, to construe the regular sonata, to comprehend the plot of _il trovatore_, and to understand the motives of wagner. the art critic should be able to discriminate between a pastel and a water-color, an impressionist drawing and a rough sketch, to know the dutch school from the italian, and the female figure from the male, to translate morbidezza and chiaroscuro, and failing this, to be aware of the existence and uses of a vanishing point. a doctor's certificate should also be produced to testify that the examinee is in possession of all the normal faculties; deafness, blindness, and color-blindness being regarded as disqualifications, and no one should be allowed to practise unless he enjoyed a character for common honesty supplemented by a testimonial from a clergyman, for although art is non-moral the critic should be moral. this would be merely the passman stage; there could always be examinations in honors for the graduates. once the art critics were educated, the progress of the public would be rapid. they would no longer be ready to admire the canvases of michael angelo, who, as i learnt the other day for the first time, painted frescoes, nor would they prefer him, as unhesitatingly as they do now, to buonarotti, which is his surname, nor would they imagine raffaelle's cartoons appeared in _puncinello_. all these mistakes i have myself made, though no one discovered them; while in the realm of music no one has more misrepresented the masters, more discouraged the overtures of young composers." "but still i do not understand how it is done," urged lillie. "you shall have my formula in a nutshell. i had to be a musical critic and an art critic. i was ignorant of music and knew nothing of art. but i was a dab at language. when i was talking of music, i used the nomenclature of art. i spoke of light and shade, color and form, delicacy of outline, depth and atmosphere, perspective, foreground and background, nocturnes and harmonies in blue. i analyzed symphonies pictorially and explained what i saw defiling before me as the music swept on. sunsets and belvedere towers, swarthy paynims on shetland ponies, cypress plumes and fra angelico's cherubs, lumps of green clay and delicate pillared loggias, fennel tufts and rococo and scarlet anemones, and over all the trail of the serpent. thus i created an epoch in musical criticism. on the other hand, when i had to deal with art, i was careful to eschew every suggestion of the visual vocabulary and to confine myself to musical phrases. in talking of pictures, i dwelt upon their counter-point and their orchestration, their changes of key and the evolution of their ideas, their piano and forte-passages, and their bars of rest, their allegro and diminuendo aspects, their suspensions on the dominant. i spoke of them as symphonies and sonatas and masses, said one was too staccato and another too full of consecutive sevenths, and a third in need of transposition to the minor. thus i created an epoch in art criticism. in both departments the vague and shifting terms i introduced enabled me to evade mistakes and avoid detection, while the creation of two epochs gave me the very first place in contemporary criticism. there is nothing in which i would not undertake to create an epoch. i do not say i have always been happy, and it has been a source of constant regret to me that i had not even learnt to play the piano when a girl and that unplayed music still remained to me little black dots." "and so you did not dare marry the composer?" "no, nor tell him why. volume three: i said i admired him so much that i wanted to go on devoting critical essays to him, and my praises would be discounted by the public if i were his wife. was it not imprudent for him to alienate the leading critic by marrying her? rather would i sacrifice myself and continue to criticise him. but i love him, and it is for his sake i would become an old maid." "i would rather you didn't," said lillie, her face still white. "i have found so much inspiration in your books that i could not bear to be daily reminded i ought not to have found it." poor president! the lessons of experience were hard! the club taught her much she were happier without. that day lord silverdale appropriately intoned (with banjo obligato) a patter-song which he pretended to have written at the academy, whence he had just come with the conventional splitting headache. after the academy--a jingle. (not by alfred jingle.) brain a-whirling, pavement twirling, cranium aching, almost baking, mind a muddle, puddle, fuddle. million pictures, million mixtures, small and great 'uns, brown's and leighton's, sky and wall 'uns, short and tall 'uns, pseudo classic for, alas! _sic transit gloria sub victoriâ_), landscape, figure, white or nigger, steely etchings, inky sketchings, genre, portrait (not one caught trait), eke historic (kings plethoric), realistic, prize-fight-fistic, entozoic, nude, heroic, coarse, poetic, homiletic, still-life (flowers, tropic bowers), pure domestic, making breast tick with emotion; endless ocean, glaze or scrumble, craze and jumble, varnish mastic, sculpture plastic, canvas, paper (oh, for taper!) oil and water, (oh, for slaughter!) children, cattle, 'busses, battle, seamen, satyrs, lions, waiters, nymphs and peasants, peers and pheasants, dogs and flunkeys, gods and monkeys half-dressed ladies, views of hades, phillis tripping, seas and shipping, hearth and meadow, brooks and bread-dough, doves and dreamers, stars and steamers, saucepans, blossoms, rags, opossums, tramway, cloudland, wild and ploughed land, gents and mountains, clocks and fountains, pan and pansy--these of fancy have possession in procession never-ending, ever blending, all a-flitter and a-glitter, ever prancing, ever dancing, ever whirling, ever curling, ever swirling, ever twirling, ever bobbing, ever throbbing. ho, some brandy--is it handy? air seems tainting, i am fainting. hang all--no, _don't_ hang all--painting! chapter xviii. the beautiful ghoul. wee winnie called at the club, while the president was still under the cloud of depression, and lillie had to force herself to look cheerful, lest miss nimrod should mistake the melancholy, engendered by so many revelations of the seamy side of life, for loss of faith in the club or its prospects. avid of experience as was the introspective little girl, she felt almost fated for the present. miss nimrod was astonished to hear of the number of rejections, and to learn that she had whipped up the writers, and the junior widows, and her private friends to such little purpose. but in the end she agreed with lillie that, as no doubt somewhere or other in the wide universe ideal old maids were blooming and breathing, it would be folly to clog themselves up in advance with inferior specimens. the millionaire, who was pottering about in blue spectacles, strolled into the club while wee winnie was uttering magnificent rhapsodies about the pages the club would occupy in the histories of england, but this time lillie was determined the dignity of the by-laws should be maintained, and had her father shown out by turple the magnificent. miss nimrod went, too, and so lord silverdale had the pleasure of finding lillie alone. "you ought to present me with a pair of white gloves," he said, gleefully. "why?" asked lillie. "i haven't had a single candidate to try for days." "no," said lillie with a suspicion of weariness in her voice. "they all broke down in the elementary stage." even as she spoke turple the magnificent ushered in miss margaret linbridge. lord silverdale, doubly vexed at having been a little too previous in the counting of his chickens, took up his hat to go, but lillie murmured: "please amuse yourself in the library for a quarter of an hour, as i may want you to do the trying at once." "how do you expect me to amuse myself in the library?" he grumbled. "you don't keep one of my books." miss margaret linbridge's story was simple, almost commonplace. "i had spent christmas with a married sister in plymouth," she said, "and was returning to london by the express on the first of january. my prospects for the new year were bright--or seemed so to my then unsophisticated eyes. i was engaged to be married to richard westbourne--a good and good-looking young man, not devoid of pecuniary attractions. my brother, with whom i lived and on whom i was dependent, was a struggling young firework-manufacturer, and would, i knew, be glad to see me married, even if it cost him a portion of his stock to express his joy. the little seaside holiday had made me look my prettiest, and when my brother-in-law saw me into a first-class carriage and left me with a fraternally-legal kiss, i rather pitied him for having to go back to my sister. there was only one other person in the carriage beside myself--a stern old gentleman, who sat crumpled up in the opposite corner and read a paper steadily. "the train flew along the white frosty landscape at express rates, but the old gentleman never looked up from his paper. the temperature was chill and i coughed. the old gentleman evinced no symptom of sympathy. i rolled up my veil the better to see the curmudgeon, and smiled to think what a fool he was, but he betrayed no sign of sharing my amusement. "at last, as he was turning his page, i said in my most dulcet tones: 'oh, pray excuse my appropriating the entire foot-warmer. i don't know why there is only one, but i will share it with you with pleasure.' "'thank you,' he said gruffly, 'i'm not cold.' "'oh, aren't you!' i murmured inwardly, adding aloud with a severe wintry tone, 'gentlemen of your age usually are.' "'yes, but i'm not a gentleman of my age,' he growled, mistaking the imbecile statement for repartee. "'i beg your pardon,' said i. 'i was judging by appearances. is that the _saturday slasher_ you have there?' "he shook himself impatiently. 'no, it is not.' "'i beg your pardon,' said i. 'i was again judging by appearances. may i ask what it is?' "'_threepenny bits!_' he jerked back. "'what's that?' i asked. 'i know _broken bits_.' "'this is a superior edition of _broken bits_ at the price indicated by the title. it contains the same matter, but is issued at a price adapted to the means of the moneyed and intellectual classes. no self-respecting person can be seen reading penny weeklies--it throws doubt not only on his income, but on his mental calibre. the idea of this first-class edition (so to speak) should make the fortune of the proprietor, and deservedly so. of course, the thousand pound railway assurance scheme is likewise trebled, though this part of the paper does not attract me personally, for my next-of-kin is a hypocritical young rogue. but imagine the horror of being found dead with a penny weekly in one's pocket! you can't even explain it away.' "he had hardly finished the sentence before a terrible shock, as of a ton of dynamite exploding under the foot-warmer, lifted me into the air; the carriage collapsed like matchwood, and i had the feeling of being thrown into the next world. for a moment i recovered a gleam of consciousness, just enough to show me i was lying dying amid the _débris_, and that my companion lay, already dead, in a fragment of the compartment, _threepenny bits_ clenched in his lifeless hand. "with a last fond touch i smoothed my hair, which had got rather ruffled in the catastrophe, and extracting with infinite agony a puff from my pocket i dabbed it spasmodically over my face. i dared not consult my hand-mirror, i was afraid it would reveal a distorted countenance and unnecessarily sadden my last moments. whatever my appearance, i had done my best for it, and i wanted to die with the consciousness of duty fulfilled. murmuring a prayer that those who found my body would not imitate me in judging by appearances, if they should prove discreditable after all, i closed my eyes upon the world in which i had been so young and happy. my whole life passed in review before me, all my dearly loved bonnets, my entire wardrobe from infancy upwards. now i was an innocent child with a white sash and pink ribbons, straying amid the sunny meadows and plucking the daisies to adorn my hats; anon a merry maiden sporting amid the jocund schoolboys and receiving tribute in toffy; then again a sedate virgin in original gowns and tailor-made jackets. suddenly a strange idea jostled through the throng of bitter-sweet memories. _threepenny bits!_ "the old gentleman's next-of-kin would come in for three thousand pounds! i should die and leave nothing to my relatives but regrets; my generous brother would be forever inconsolable now, and my funeral might be mean and unworthy. and yet if the old misogynist had only been courteous enough to lend me the paper, seeing i had nothing to read, it might have been found on my body. _de mortuis nil nisi bonum._ why reveal his breach of etiquette to the world? why should i not enable him to achieve posthumous politeness! besides, his heir was a hypocritical rogue, and it were a crime against society to place so large a sum at his disposal. overwhelmed as i was by the agonies of death, i steeled myself to this last duty. i wriggled painfully towards the corpse, and stretching out my neatly-gloved fingers, with a last mighty effort i pulled the paper cautiously from the dead hand which lay heavy upon it. then i clasped it passionately to my heart and died." [illustration: _i pulled the paper from the dead hand._] "died?" echoed lillie excitedly. "well--lost consciousness. you are particular to a shade. myself i see no difference between a fainting fit and death except that one attack of the latter is fatal." "as to that," answered lillie. "i consider we die every night and dream we are alive. to fall asleep is to die painlessly. it is, perhaps, a pity we are resurrected to tea and toast and toilette. however, i am glad you did not really die. i feared i was in for a tale of re-incarnation or spooks or hypnotism or telepathy or astral bodies. one hears so many marvellous stories, now that we have left off believing in miracles. really, man's credulity is the perpetual miracle." "i have not left off believing in miracles," replied miss linbridge seriously. "how could i? was i not saved by one? a very gallant miracle, too, for it took no trouble to save my crusty old fellow-traveller, while it left me without a scratch. i am afraid i should not have been grateful for salvation without good looks. to face life without a pretty face were worse than death. you agree with me?" "not entirely. there are higher things in life than beautiful faces," said lillie gravely. "certainly. beautiful bonnets," said the candidate with laughing levity. "and lower things--beautiful boots. but you would not seriously argue that there is anything else so indispensable to a woman as beauty, or that to live plain is worth the trouble of living?" "why not? plain living and high thinking!" murmured lillie. "all nonsense! we needn't pretend--we aren't with men. you would talk differently if you were born ugly! goodness gracious, don't we know that a girl may have a whole cemetery of virtues and no man will look at her if she is devoid of charms of face or purse. it's all nonsense what ruskin says about a well-bred modest girl being necessarily beautiful. it is only a pleasing fiction that morality is invaluable to the complexion. of course if ruskin's girl chose to dress with care, she could express her goodness less plainly; but as a rule goodness and dowdiness are synonymous. i think the function of a woman is to look well, and our severest reprobation should be extended to those conscienceless creatures who allow themselves to be seen in the company of gentlemen in frumpish attire. it is a breach of etiquette towards the other sex. a woman must do credit to the man who stakes his reputation for good taste by being seen in her society. she must achieve beauty for his sake, and should no more leave her boudoir without it than if she were an actress leaving her dressing-room." "that the man expects the woman to make his friends envy him is true," answered lillie, "and i have myself expressed this in yonder epigram, _it is man who is vain of woman's dress_. but were we created merely to gratify man's vanity?" "is not that a place in nature to be vain of? we are certainly not proud of him. think of the average husband over whom the woman has to shed the halo of her beauty. it is like poetry and prose bound together. it is because i intend to be permanently beautiful that i have come to cast in my lot with the old maids' club. your rules ordain it so--and rightly." "the club must be beautiful, certainly, but merely to escape being twitted with ugliness by the shallow; for the rest, it should disdain beauty. however, pray continue your story. it left off at a most interesting point. you lost consciousness!" "yes, but as my chivalrous miracle had saved me from damage, i was found unconsciously beautiful (which i have always heard is the most graceful way of wearing your beauty). i soon came to myself with the aid of a dark-eyed doctor, and i then learnt that the old gentleman had been too weak to sustain the shock and that his poor old pulse had ceased to beat. my rescuers had not disturbed _threepenny bits_ from its position 'twixt my hand and heart in case i should die and need it; so when the line was cleared and i was sent on to london after a pleasant lunch with the dark-eyed doctor, i had the journal to read after all, despite the discourtesy of the deceased. when i arrived at paddington i found richard westbourne walking the platform like hamlet's ghost, white and trembling. he was scanning the carriages feverishly, as the train glided in with its habitual nonchalance. "'my darling!' he cried when he caught sight of my dainty hat with its sweet trimmings. 'thank heaven!' he twisted the door violently open and kissed me before the crowd. fortunately i had my lovely spotted veil all down, so he only pressed the tulle to my lips. "'what is the matter?' i said ingenuously. "'the accident!' he gasped. weren't you in the accident?' "'of course i was. but i was not very much crumpled. if i had sat in the other corner i should have been killed!" "'my heroine!' he cried. 'how brave of you!' he made as if he would rumple my hair but i drew back. "'were you waiting for me?' i asked. "'of course. hours and hours. o the agony of it! see, here is the evening paper! it gives you as dead.' "'where?' i cried, nervously. his trembling forefinger pointed to the place. 'a beautiful young lady was also extricated in an unconscious condition from this carriage.' "'isn't it wonderful the news should be in london before me?' i murmured. 'but i suppose they will have names and fuller particulars in a later edition.' "'of course. but fancy my having to be in london, unable to get to you for love or money!' "'yes, it was very hard for me to be there all alone,' i murmured. 'but please run and see after my luggage, there are three portmanteaus and a little black one, and three bonnet boxes, and two parasols, and call a hansom, oh--and a brown paper parcel, and a long narrow cardboard box--and get me the latest editions of the evening papers--and please see that the driver isn't drunk, and don't take a knock-kneed horse or one that paws the ground, you know those hansom doors fly open and shoot you out like rubbish--i do so hate them--and oh! richard, don't forget those novels from mudie's,--they're done up with a strap. three bonnet boxes, remember, and _all_ the evening papers, mind.' "when we were bowling homewards he kept expressing his joy by word and deed, so that i was unable to read my papers. at last, annoyed, i said: 'you wouldn't be so glad if you knew that my resurrection cost three thousand pounds.' "'how do you mean?' "'why, if i had died, somebody would have had three thousand pounds. this number of _threepenny bits_ would have been found on my body, and would have entitled my heir to that amount of assurance money. i need not tell you who my heir is, nor to whom i had left my little all.' "i looked into his face and from the tenderness that overflowed it i saw he fancied himself the favored mortal. there is no end to the conceit of young men. a sensible fellow would have known at once that my brother was the only person reasonably entitled to my scanty belongings. however, there is no good done by disturbing a lover's complacency. "'i do not want your money,' he answered, again passionately pressing my tulle veil to my lips. 'i infinitely prefer your life.' "'what a bloodthirsty highwayman!' "'i shall steal another kiss. i would rather have you than all the gold in the world.' "'still, gold is the next best thing,' i said, smiling at his affectionateness which my absence had evidently fostered. 'so being on the point of death, as i thought, i resolved to make death worth dying, and leave a heap of gold to the man i loved. this number of _threepenny bits_ was not mine originally. when the crash occurred it was being read by the old gentleman in the opposite corner but his next of kin is a hypocritical young scapegrace (so he told me) and i thought it would be far nicer for _my_ heir to come in for the money. so i took it from his body the very instant before i fainted dead away!' "'my heroine!' he cried again. 'so you thought of your richard even at the point of death. what a sweet assurance of your love!' "'yes, an assurance of three thousand pounds,' i answered, laughing merrily. 'and now, perhaps, you will let me read the details of the catastrophe. the reporters seem to know ever so much more about it than i do. it's getting dusk and i can hardly see--i wonder what was the name of old grizzly-growler--ah! here it is--"the pocket-book contained letters addressed to josiah twaddon, esquire, and----"' "'twaddon, did you say?' gasped richard, clutching the paper frantically. "'yes--don't! you've torn it. twaddon, i can see it plainly.' "'does it give his address?' richard panted. "'yes,' i said, surprised. i was just going on to read that, ' , bucklesbury buildings----' "'great heavens!' he cried. "'what is it? why are you so pale and agitated? was he anything to you. ah, i guess it--by my prophetic soul, your uncle!' "'yes,' he answered bitterly. 'my uncle! my mother's brother! wretched woman, what have you done?' "my heart was beating painfully and i felt hot all over, but outwardly i froze. "'you know what i have done,' i replied icily. "'yes, robbed me of three thousand pounds!' he cried. "'how dare you say that?' i answered indignantly. 'why, it was for you i meant them.' "the statement was not, perhaps, strictly accurate, but my indignation was sufficiently righteous to cover a whole pack of lies. "'your intentions may have been strictly honorable,' he retorted, 'but your behavior was abominable. great heavens! do you know that you could be prosecuted?' "'nonsense!' i said stoutly, though my heart misgave me. 'what for?' "'what for? you, a plunderer of the dead, a harpy, a ghoul, ask what for?' "'but the thing was of no value!' i urged. "'of no intrinsic value, perhaps, but of immense value under the peculiar circumstances. why, if anyone chose to initiate a prosecution, you would be sent to jail as a common thief." "'pardon me,' i said haughtily. 'you forget you are speaking to a lady. as such, i can never be more than a kleptomaniac. you might make me suffer from hysteria yesterday, but the worst that could befall me now would be a most interesting advertisement. prosecute me and you will create for me an army of friends all over the world. if it is thus that lovers behave, it is better to have friends. i shall be glad of the exchange.' [illustration: _i can never be more than a kleptomaniac._] "'you know i could not prosecute you,' he answered more gently. "'after your language to me you are capable of anything. your uncle called you a rogue with his dying breath, and statements made with that are generally veracious. prosecute me if you will--i have done you out of three thousand pounds and i am glad of it. only one favor i will ask of you--for the sake of our old relations, give me fair warning!' "'that you may flee the country?' "'no, that i may get a new collection of photographs.' "'you will submit to being taken by the police?' "'yes--after i have been taken by the photographer.' "'but look at the position you will be in?' "'i shall be in six different positions--one for each of the chief illustrated papers.' "'your flippancy is ill-timed, margaret,' said richard sternly. "'flippant, good heavens! do you know me so little as to consider me capable of flippancy? richard, this is the last straw. you have called me a thief, you have threatened to place me in the felon's dock, and i have answered you with soft words, but no man shall call me flippant and continue to be engaged to me!' "'but, maggie, darling!' his tone was changing. he saw he had gone too far. 'consider! it is not only i that am the loser by your--indiscretion, your generous indiscretion----' "'my indiscreet generosity,' i corrected. "he accepted my 'indiscreet generosity' and went on. 'cannot you see that, as my future wife, you will also suffer?' "'but surely you will come in for something under your uncle's will all the same,' i reminded him. "'not a stiver. he never made a will, he never saved any money. he was the most selfish brute that ever breathed. all the money he couldn't spend on himself he gave away in charity so as to get the kudos during his lifetime, pretending that there was no merit in post-mortem philanthropy. and now all the good he might have done by his death you have cancelled.' "i sat mute, my complexion altered for the worse by pangs of compunction. "'but i can make amends,' i murmured at last. "'how?' he asked eagerly. "'i can tell the truth--at least partially. i can make an affidavit that _threepenny bits_ belonged to my fellow-passenger, that he lent it me just before the accident, or that, seeing he was dead, i took it to hand over to his relatives.' "for a moment his face brightened up, then it grew dark as suddenly as if it had been lit by electricity. 'they will not believe you,' he said. 'even if you were a stranger, the paper would contest my claim. but considering your relation to me, considering that the money would fall to you as much as to me, no common-sense jury would credit your evidence.' "'well, then, we must break off our engagement.' "'what would be the good of that? they would ferret out our past relations, would suspect their resumption immediately after the verdict.' "'well, then, we must break off our engagement,' i repeated decisively. 'i could never marry a prosecutor in posse--a man in whose heart was smouldering a petty sense of pecuniary injury.' "'if you married me, i should cease to be a prosecutor in posse,' he said soothingly. 'as the law stands, a husband cannot give evidence against his wife in criminal cases.' "'oh, well, then you'd become a persecutor in esse,' i retorted. 'you'd always have something to throw in my teeth, and for my part i could never forgive you the wrong i have done you. we could not possibly live together.' "my demeanor was so chilling, my tone so resolute that richard was panic-stricken. he vowed, protested, stormed, entreated, but nothing could move me. "'a kindly accident has shown me your soul,' i answered, 'and the sight is not encouraging. fortunately i have seen it in time. you remember when you took me to see _the doll's house_, you said that norah was quite right in all she did. i daresay it was because the actress was so charming--but let that pass. and yet what are you but another helmer? just see how exact is the parallel between our story and ibsen's. norah in all innocence forged her husband's name in order to get the money to restore him to health. i, in all innocence, steal a threepenny paper, in order to leave you three thousand pounds by my death. when things turn out wrong, you turn round on me just as helmer turned round on norah--forgetting for whose sake the deed was done. if norah was justified in leaving her husband, how much more justified must i be in leaving my betrothed!'" "the cases are not quite on all fours," interrupted the president who had pricked up her ears at the mention of the "woman's poet." "you must not forget that you did not really sin for his sake but for your brother's." "that is an irrelevant detail," replied the beautiful ghoul. "he thought i did--which comes to the same thing. besides, my telling him i did only increases the resemblance between me and norah. she was an awful fibber, if you remember. richard, of course, disclaimed the likeness to helmer, though in doing so he was more like him than ever. but i would give him no word of hope. 'we could never be happy together,' i said. 'our union would never be real. there would always be the three thousand pounds between us.' "'well, that would be fifteen hundred each,' he answered with ghastly jocularity. "'this ill-timed flippancy ends all,' i said solemnly. 'henceforth, mr. westbourne, we must be strangers.' "he sat like one turned to stone. not till the cab arrived at my brother's house did he speak again. [illustration: _the old maid arrives._] "then he said in low tones: 'maggie, can i never become anything to you but a stranger?' "'the greatest miracle of all would have to happen then, richard,' i quoted coldly. then, rejecting his proffered assistance, i alighted from the vehicle, passed majestically across the threshold and mounted the stairs with stately step, not a sign, not the slightest tremor of a muscle betraying what i felt. only when i was safe in my own little room, with its lavender-scented sheets and its thousand childish associations did my pent-up emotions overpower me. i threw myself upon my little white bed in a paroxysm of laughter. i had come out of a disagreeable situation agreeably, leaving dick in the wrong, and i felt sure i could whistle him back as easily as the hansom." "and what became of richard?" asked lillie. "i left him to settle with the cabman. i have never seen him since." lillie gave a little shudder. "you speak as if the cabman had settled with him. but are you sure you are willing to renounce all mankind because you find one man unsatisfactory?" "all. i was very young when i got engaged. i did not want to be a burden on my brother. but now his firework factory is a brilliant success. he lives in a golden rain. having only myself to please now, i don't see why i should have to please a husband. the more i think of marriage the less i think of it. i have not kept my eyes open for nothing. i am sure it wouldn't suit me. husbands are anything but the creatures a young girl's romantic fancy pictures. they have a way of disarranging the most careful toilettes. they ruffle your hair and your temper. they disorder the furniture--and put their feet on the mantelpiece. they scratch the fenders, read books and stretch themselves on the most valuable sofas. if they help in the household they only make more work. the trail of tobacco is over all you prize. all day long the smoke gets into your eyes. filthy pipes clog your cabinets, your window-curtains reek of stale cigars. you have bartered your liberty for a mess of cigar-ash. there is an odor of bar saloons about the house and boon companions come to welter in whiskey and water. their talk is of science and art and politics and it makes them guffaw noisily and dig one another in the ribs. there is not a man in the world to whom i would trust my sensitive fragility--they are all coarse, clumsy creatures with a code of morals that they don't profess and a creed of chivalry that they never practise. falsehood abides permanently in their mouth like artificial teeth and corruption lurks beneath the whited sepulchres of their shirt-fronts. they adore us in secret and deride us when they are together. they feign a contempt for us which we feel for them." these sentiments re-instated miss linbridge in the good opinion of the president, conscious heretofore of a jarring chord. she ordered in some refreshments to get an opportunity of whispering to turple the magnificent that the honorary trier might return. "oh, by the way," said miss linbridge, "i hunted out that copy of _threepenny bits_ before coming out. i've kept it in a drawer as a curiosity. here it is!" lillie took the paper and examined it anxiously. "what's that? _you_ reading _threepenny bits_?" said silverdale coming in. "it is only an old number," said lillie, "whereby hangs a tale. miss linbridge was in a railway accident with it." "miss linbridge, lord silverdale." the honorary trier bowed. "oh what a pity it was an old number," he said. "miss linbridge might have had a claim for damages." "how very ungallant," said lillie. "miss linbridge could have had no claim unless she had been killed." "besides," added miss linbridge laughing at lillie's bull, "it wasn't an old number then. the accident happened on new year's day." "even then it would have been too old," answered silverdale, "for it is dated december d and the assurance policy is only valid during the week of issue." "what is that?" gasped miss linbridge. her face was passing through a variety of shades. "yes," said lillie. "here is the condition in print. you don't seem to have noticed it was a back number. but of course i don't wonder at that--there's no topical interest whatever, one week's very much like another. and see! here is even 'specimen copy' marked on the outside sheet. richard's uncle must have had it given to him in the street." "the miracle!" exclaimed miss linbridge in exultant tones, and repossessing herself of the paper she darted from the club. chapter xix. la femme incomprise. lord silverdale had gone and there was now no need for lillie to preserve the factitious cheerfulness with which she had listened to his usual poem, while her thoughts were full of other and even more depressing things. margaret linbridge's miracle had almost undermined the president's faith in the steadfastness of her sex; she turned mentally to the yet unaccepted wee winnie for consolation, condemning her own half-hearted attitude towards that sturdy soul, and almost persuading herself that salvation lay in spats. at any rate long skirts seemed the last thing in the world to find true women in. but providence had not exhausted its miracles, and lillie was not to spend a miserable afternoon. the miracle was speeding along towards her on the top of an omnibus--a miracle of beauty and smartness. on reaching the vicinity of the old maid's club, the miracle, which was of course of the female gender, tapped the driver amicably upon the hat with her parasol and said "stop please." the _petite_ creature was the spirit of self-help itself and scorned the aid of the gentleman in front of her, preferring to knock off his hat and crush the driver's so long as the independence of womanhood was maintained. but she maintained it charmingly and without malice and gave the conductor a sweet smile in addition to his fare as she tripped away to the old maids' club. [illustration: _amicably said, "stop please."_] lillie was fascinated the instant turple the magnificent announced "miss wilkins" in suave tones. the mere advent of a candidate raised her spirits and she found herself chatting freely with her visitor even before she had put her through the catechism. but the catechism came at last. "why do i want to join you?" asked the miracle. "because i am disgusted with my lover--because i am a _femme incomprise_. oh, don't stare at me as if i were a medley of megrims and fashionable ailments, i'm the very opposite of that. mine is a buoyant, breezy, healthy nature, straightforward and simple. that's why i complain of being misunderstood. my lover is a poet--and the misunderstanding i have to endure at his hands is something appalling. every man is a bit of a poet where woman is concerned, and so every woman is more or less misunderstood, but when you are unfortunate enough to excite the affection of a real whole poet--well, that way madness lies. your words are twisted into meanings you never intended, your motives are misconstrued, and your simplest actions are distorted. silverplume, for it is the well-known author of 'poems of compassion' that i have had the misfortune to captivate, never calls without laying a sonnet next day; in which remarks, that must be most misleading to those who do not know me, occur with painful frequency. his allowance is two kisses per day--one of salutation, one of farewell. we have only been actually engaged two months, yet i have counted up two hundred and thirty-nine distinct and separate kisses in the voluminous 'sonnet series' which he has devoted to our engagement, and, what is worse, he describes himself as depositing them. "'where at thy flower-mouth exiguous the purple passion mantles to the brim.' it sounds as if i was berouged like a dowager. purple passion, indeed! i let him kiss me because he appears to like it and because there seems something wrong about it--but as for really caring a pin one way or another, well, you miss dulcimer, know how much there is in that! this 'sonnet series' promises to be endless, the course of our acquaintanceship is depicted in its most minute phases with the most elaborate inaccuracy--if i smile, if i say: 'how do you do?' if i put my hand to my forehead, if i look into the fire, down go fourteen lines giving a whole world of significance to my meanest actions, and making himalayas out of the most microscopic molehills. i am credited with thoughts i never dreamed of and sentiments i never felt, till i ask myself whether any other woman was ever so cruelly misunderstood as i? i grow afraid to do or say anything, lest i bring upon my head a new sonnet. but even so i cannot help _looking_ something or the other; and when i come to read the sonnet i find it is always the other. once i refused to see him for a whole week, but that only resulted in seven 'sonnets of absence,' imaginatively depicting what i was saying and doing each day, and containing a detailed analysis of his own sensations, as well as reminiscences of past happy hours together. most of them i had no recollection of, and the only one i could at all share was that of a morning we spent on the ramsgate cliffs where silverplume put his handkerchief over his face and fell asleep. in the last line of the sonnet it came out: "'there mid the poppies of the planisphere, i swooned for very joy and wearihead.' but i knew it by the poppies. then, dear miss dulcimer, you should just see the things he calls me--'love's gonfalon and lodestar' and what-not. very often i can't even find them in the dictionary and it makes me uneasy. heaven knows what he may be saying about me! when he talks of "'the rack of unevasive lunar things' i do not so much complain, because it's their concern if they are libelled. it is different with incomprehensible remarks flung unmistakably at my own head such as "'o chariest of caryatides.' it sounds like a reproach and i should like to know what i have done to deserve it. and then his general remarks are so monotonously unintelligible. one of his longest poetical epistles, which is burnt into my memory because i had to pay twopence for extra postage, began with this lament: "'o sweet are roses in the summer time and indian naiads' weary walruses and yet two-morrow never comes to-day.' i cannot see any way out of it all except by breaking off our engagement. when we were first engaged, i don't deny i rather liked being written about in lovely-sounding lines but it is a sweet one is soon surfeited with, and silverplume has raved about me to that extent that he has made me look ridiculous in the eyes of all my friends. if he had been moderate, they would have been envious; now they laugh when they read of my wonderful charms, of my lithe snake's mouth, and my face which shames the sun and my epipsychidiontic eyes (whatever that may be) and my "'wee waist that holds the cosmos in its span,' and say he is poking fun at me. but silverplume is quite serious--i am sure of that, and it is the worst feature of the case. he carries on just the same in conversation, with the most improper allusions to heathen goddesses, and seems really to believe that i am absorbed in the sunset when i am thinking what to wear to-morrow. just to give you an idea of how he misinterprets my silence let me read to you one of his sonnets called: "'moonshine. "'walking a space betwixt the double naught, the what is bound to be and what has been, how sweet with thee beneath the moonlit treen, o woman-soul immaculately wrought, to sit and catch a harmony uncaught within a world that mocks with margarine, in chastened silence, mystic, epicene, exchanging incommunicable thought. "'diana, death may doom and time may toss, and sundry other kindred things occur, but hell itself can never turn to loss, though mephistopheles his stumps should stir, that day, when introduced at charing cross, i smiled and doffed my silken cylinder.' "another distressing feature about silverplume--indeed, i think about all men--is their continuous capacity for love-making. you know, my dear miss dulcimer, with us it is a matter of times and seasons--we are creatures of strange and subtle susceptibilities, sometimes we are in the mood for love and ready to respond to all shades of sentimentality, but at other moments (and these the majority) men's amorous advances jar horribly. men do not know this. ever ready to make love themselves they think all moments are the same to us as to them. and of all men, poets are the most prepared to make love at a moment's notice. so that silverplume himself is almost more trying than his verses." "but after all you need not read them," observed lillie. "they please him and they do not hurt you. and you have always the consolation of remembering it is not you he loves but the paragon he has evolved from his inner consciousness. even taking into account his perennial affectionateness, your reason for refusing him seems scarcely strong enough." "ah, wait a moment--you have not heard the worst! i might perhaps have tolerated his metrical misinterpretations--indeed on my sending him a vigorous protest against the inaccuracies of his last collection (they came out so much more glaringly when brought all together from the various scattered publications to which silverplume originally contributed them) he sent me back a semi-apologetic explanation thus conceived: "'to celia.' "(you know of course my name is diana, but that is his way.) "''tis not alone thy sweet eyes' gleam nor sunny glances, for which i weave so oft a dream of dainty fancies. "''tis not alone thy witching play of grace fantastic that makes me chant so oft a lay encomiastic. "'both editors and thee i see, thy face, their purses. i offer heart and soul to thee, to them my verses.' "i was partially mollified by this, for if his poems were not merely complimentary, and he really got paid for them, one might put up with inspiring them. we were reconciled and he took me to a reception at the house of a wealthy friend of his, a fellow-member of the sonneteers' society. it was here that i saw a sight that froze my young blood and warned me upon the edge of what a precipice i was standing. when we got into the drawing-room, the first thing we saw was an awful apparition in a corner--a hideous, unkempt, unwashed man in a dressing-gown and slippers, with his eyes rolling wildly and his lips moving rhythmically. it was the host. "'don't speak to him,' whispered the hostess. 'he doesn't see us. he has been like that all day. he came down to look to the decorations this morning, when the idea took him and he has been glued to the spot ever since. he has forgotten all about the reception--he doesn't know we're here and i thought it best not to disturb him till he is safely delivered of the sonnet.' "'you are quite right,' everybody said in sympathetic awestruck tones and left a magic circle round the poet in labor. but i felt a shudder run through my whole being. 'goodness gracious, silverplume,' i said, 'is this the way you poets go on?'" "'no, no, diana,' he assured me. 'it is all tommyrot (i quote silverplume's words). the beggar is just bringing out a new volume, and although his wife has always distributed the most lavish hospitality to the critics, he has never been able to get himself taken seriously as a poet. there will be lots of critics here to-night and he is playing his last card. if he is not a genius now, he never will be.' [illustration: _the poet plays his last card._] "'oh, of course,' i replied sceptically, 'two of a trade.' i made him take me away and that was the end of our engagement. even as it was, silverplume's neglect of his appearance had been a constant thorn in my side, and if this was so before marriage, what could i hope for after? it was all very well for him to say his friend was only shamming, but even so, how did i know he would not be reduced to that sort of thing himself when his popularity faded and younger rivals came along." lillie, who seemed to have some _arrière-pensée_, entered into an animated defence of the poet, but miss wilkins stood her ground and refused to withdraw her candidature. "i don't want you to withdraw your candidature," said lillie, frankly. "i shall be charmed to entertain it. i am only arguing upon the general question." and, indeed, lillie was enraptured with miss wilkins. it was the attraction of opposites. a matter-of-fact woman who could reject a poet's love appealed to her with irresistible piquancy. miss wilkins stayed on to tea (by which time she had become diana) and they gossiped on all sorts of subjects, and lillie gave her the outlines of the queerest stories of past candidates and in the old maids' club that afternoon all went merry as a marriage bell. "well, good-bye, lillie," said diana at last. "good-bye, diana," returned lillie. "now _i_ understand you i hope you won't consider yourself a _femme incomprmise_ any longer." "it is only the men i complained of, dear." "but we must ever remain _incomprises_ by man," said lillie. "_femme incomprise_--why, it is the badge of all our sex." "yes," answered diana. "a woman letting down her back hair is tragic to a man; to us she only recalls bedroom gossip. good-bye." and nodding brightly the brisk little creature sallied into the street and captured a passing 'bus. chapter xx. the inaugural soiree. "oh, lord silverdale," cried lillie exultantly when he made his usual visit the next afternoon. "at last i have an unexceptional candidate. we shall get under weigh at last. i am so pleased because papa keeps bothering about that inaugural _soirée_. you know he is staying in town expressly for it. but what is the matter?--you don't seem to be glad at my news." "i am afraid you will be grieved at mine," he replied gravely. "look at this in to-day's _moon_." sobered by his manner, she took the paper. then her face grew white. she read, in large capitals: "the old maids' club. "interview with the president. "sensational stories of skittish spinsters. "wee winnie and lillie dulcimer." "i called at the old maids' club yesterday," writes a _moon_ woman, "to get some wrinkles, which ought to be abundant in such a club, though they are not. miss dulcimer, the well-known authoress, is one of the loveliest and jolliest girls of the day. of course i went as a candidate, with a trumped-up story about my unhappy past, which miss dulcimer will, i am sure, forgive me, in view of the fact that it was the only way of making her talk freely for the benefit of my readers." lillie's eye glanced rapidly down the collection of distortions. then she dropped the _moon_. "this is outrageous," she said. "i can never forgive her." "why, is this the candidate you were telling me about?" asked silverdale in deeper concern. "i am afraid it is!" said lillie, almost weeping. "i took to her so, we talked ever so long. even wee winnie did not possess the material for all these inaccuracies." "what is this woman's name?" "wilkins--i already called her diana." "diana?" cried silverdale. "wilkins? great heavens, can it be?" "what is the matter?" "it must be. wilkins has married his diana. it was mrs. diana wilkins who called upon you--not miss at all." "what _are_ you talking about? who are these people?" "don't you remember wilkins, the _moon_-man that i was up in a balloon with? he was in a frightful quandary then about his approaching marriage. he did not know what to do. it tortured him to hear anyone ask a question because he was always interviewing people and he got to hate the very sound of an interrogation.--i told you about it at the time, don't you remember?--and he knew that marriage would bring into his life a person who would be sure to ask him questions after business hours. i was very sorry for the man and tried to think of a way out, but in vain, and i even promised him to bring the old maids' club under the notice of his diana. now it seems he has hit on the brilliant solution of making her into a lady interviewer, so that her nerves, too, shall be hypersensitive to interrogatives, and husband and wife shall sit at home in a balsamic restfulness permeated by none but categorical propositions. ah me! well, i envy them!" "you envy them?" said lillie. "why not? they are well matched." "but you are as happy as wilkins, surely." "query. it takes two to find happiness." "what nonsense!" said lillie. she had been already so upset by the treachery and loss of the misunderstood diana, that she felt ready to break down and shed hot tears over these heretical sentiments of silverdale's. he had been so good, so patient. why should he show the cloven hoof just to-day? "miss dolly vane," announced turple the magnificent. a strange apparition presented itself--an ancient lady quaintly attired. her dress fell in voluminous folds--the curious full skirt was bordered with velvet, and there were huge lace frills on the elbow-sleeves. her hair was smoothed over her ears and she wore a leghorn hat. there were the remains of beauty on her withered face but her eyes were wild and wandering. she curtseyed to the couple with old-fashioned grace, and took the chair which lord silverdale handed her. lillie looked at her inquiringly. "have i the pleasure of speaking to miss dulcimer?" said the old lady. her tones were cracked and quavering. "i am miss dulcimer," replied lillie. "what can i do for you?" "ah, yes, i have been reading about you in the _moon_ to-day. wee winnie and lillie dulcimer! wee winnie! it reminds me of myself. they call me little dolly, you know." she simpered in a ghastly manner. lillie's face was growing pale. she could not speak. "yes, yes of course," said silverdale smiling. "they call you little dolly." "little dolly!" she repeated to herself, mumbling and chuckling. "little dolly." "so you have been reading about miss dulcimer!" said silverdale pleasantly. "yes, yes," said the old lady, looking up with a start. "little lillie dulcimer. foundress of the old maids' club. that's the thing for me, i thought to myself. that'll punish philip. that'll punish him for being away so long. when he comes home and finds little dolly is an old maid, won't he be sorry, poor philip? but i can't help it. i said i would punish him and i will." all the blood had left lillie's cheek--she trembled and caught hold of lord silverdale's arm. "i shan't have you now, philip," the creaking tones of the old lady continued after a pause. "the rules will not allow it, will they, miss dulcimer? it is not enough that i am young and beautiful, i must reject somebody--and i have nobody else to reject but you, philip. you are the only man i have ever loved. oh my philip! my poor philip!" she began to wring her hands. lillie pressed closer to lord silverdale and her grasp on his arm tightened. "very well, we will put your name on the books at once," said the honorary trier, in bluff, hearty tones. little dolly looked up smiling. "then i'm an old maid!" she cried ecstatically. "already! little dolly an old maid! already! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!" she went off into a burst of uncanny laughter. lord silverdale felt lillie shuddering violently. he disengaged himself from her grasp and placed her on the sofa. then offering his arm to miss dolly vane, who accepted it with a charming smile, and a curtsey to miss dulcimer, he led her from the apartment. when he returned lillie was weeping half-hysterically on the sofa. "my darling!" he whispered. "calm yourself." he laid his hand tenderly on her hair. presently the sobs ceased. "oh, lord silverdale!" she said in a shaken voice. "how good you are! poor old lady! poor old lady!" "do not distress yourself. i have taken care she shall get home safely." "little dolly! how tragic it was!" whispered lillie. "yes, it was tragic. probably it is not now so sad to her as it is to us, but it is tragic enough, heaven knows. lillie,"--he trembled as he addressed her thus for the first time--"i am not sorry this has happened. the time has come to put an end to all this make-believe. this old maids' club of yours is a hollow mockery. you are playing round the fringes of tragedy--it is like warming your hands at a house on fire, wherein wretched beings are shrieking for help. you are young and rich and beautiful--heaven pity the women who have none of these charms. life is a cruel tragedy for many--never crueller than when its remorseless laws condemn gentle loving women to a crabbed and solitary old age. to some all the smiles of fortune, the homage of all mankind--to others all the frowns of fate and universal neglect, aggravated by contumely. you have felt this, i know, and it is as a protest that you conceived your club. still can it ever be a serious success? i love you, lillie, and you have known it all along. if i have entered into the joke, believe me, i have sometimes taken it as seriously as you. come! say you love me, too, and let us end the tragi-comedy." lillie was obstinately silent for a moment, then she dried her eyes, and with a wan little smile said, in tones which she vainly strove to render those of the usual formula: "what poem have you brought me to-day?" "to-day i have brought no poem, but i have lived one," said lord silverdale, taking her soft unresisting hand. "but, like lady clara vere de vere, you put strange memories in my head, and i will tell you some verses i made in the country in my callow youth, when the world was new. "pastoral. "a rich-toned landscape, touched with darkling gold of misty, throbbing corn-fields, and with haze of softly-tinted hills and dreaming wold, lies warm with raiment of soft summer rays, and in the magic air there lives a free and subtle feeling of the distant sea. "the perfect day slips softly to its end, the sunset paints the tender evening sky, the shadows shroud the hills with gray, and lend a softened touch of ancient mystery, and ere the silent change of heaven's light i feel the coming glory of the night. "o for the sweet and sacred earnest gaze of eyes divine with strange and yearning tears to feel with me the beauty of our days, the glorious sadness of our mortal years the noble misery of the spirit's strife, the joy and splendour of the body's life." lillie's hand pressed her lover's with involuntary tenderness, but she had turned her face away. presently she murmured: "but think what you are asking me to do? how can i, the president of the old maid's club, be the first recreant?" "but you are also the last to leave the ship," he replied, smiling. "besides, you are not legally elected. you never came before the honorary trier. you were never a member at all, so have nothing to undo. if you had stood your trial fairly, i should have plucked you, my lillie, plucked you and worn you nearest my heart. it is i who have a position to resign--the honorary triership--and i resign it instanter. a nice trying time i have had, to be sure!" "now, now! i set my face against punning!" said lillie, showing it now, for the smiles had come to hide the tears. "pardon, rainbow," he answered. "why do you call me rainbow?" "because you look it," he said. "because your face is made of sunshine and tears. go and look in the glass. also because--well, wait and i will fashion my other reason into rhyme and send it you on our wedding morn." "poetry made while you wait," said lillie, laughing. the laugh froze suddenly on her lips, and a look of horror overswept her face. "what is it, dearest?" cried her lover, in alarm. "wee winnie! how can we face wee winnie?" "there is no need to break the truth to her--we can simply get rid of her by telling her she has never been elected, and never will be." "why," said lillie, with a comic _moue_, "that would be harder to tell her than the truth. but we must first of all tell father. i am afraid he will be dreadfully disappointed at missing that inaugural _soirée_ after all. you know he has been staying in town expressly for it. we have some bad quarters of an hour before us." they sought the millionaire in his sanctum but found him not. they inquired of turple the magnificent, and learned that he was in the garden. as they turned away, the lovers both simultaneously remarked something peculiar about the face of turple the magnificent. moved by a common impulse, they turned back and gazed at it. for some seconds they could not at all grasp the change that had come over it--but at last, and almost at the same instant, they realized what was the matter. _turple the magnificent was smiling._ filled with strange apprehensions, silverdale and lillie hurried into the garden, where their vague alarm was exchanged for definite consternation. the millionaire was pacing the gravel-paths in the society of a strange and beautiful lady. on closer inspection, the lady turned out to be only too familiar. "why it's wee winnie masquerading as a woman!" exclaimed lord silverdale. and so it proved--nelly nimrod in all the flush of her womanly beauty, her mannish attire discarded. "why, what is this, father?" murmured lillie. "my child," said the millionaire solemnly. "as _you_ have resolved to be an old maid, i--i--well i thought it only _my_ duty to marry. even the poorest millionaire cannot shirk the responsibilities of wealth." "but father!" said lillie in dismay. "i have changed my mind. i am going to marry lord silverdale." "bless ye, my children!" said the millionaire. "you are a woman, lillie, and it is a woman's privilege to change her mind. but i am a man and have no such privilege. i must marry all the same." "but miss nimrod has changed her mind, too," said lillie, quite losing her temper. "and _she_ is not a woman." "gently, gently," said the millionaire. "respect your stepmother to be, if you have no respect for my future wife." "lillie," said miss nimrod appealingly, "do not misjudge me. i have _not_ changed my mind." "but you said you could never marry, on the ground that while you would only marry an unconventional man, an unconventional man wouldn't want to marry you." "well? your father is the man i sought. he _didn't_ want to marry me," she explained frankly. "oh," said lillie, taken utterly aback, and regarding her father commiseratingly. "it is true," he said, laughing uneasily. "i fell in love with wee winnie, but now nelly says she wants to settle down." "you ought to be grateful to me, lillie," added nelly, "for it was solely in the interest of the old maid's club that i consented to marry your father. he was always a danger to the club; at any moment he might have put forth autocratic authority and wound it up. so i thought that by marrying him i should be able to influence him in its favor." "no doubt you _will_ make him see the desirability of women remaining old maids," retorted lillie unappeased. "come, come, lillie, be sensible!" said the millionaire. "nelly shall give lillie a good dinner at the junior widows, one of those charming dinners you and i have had there, and lillie please send out the cards for the inaugural _soirée_. i am not going to be done out of that and nothing can now be gained by delay." "but, sir, how can we inaugurate a club which has never had any members?" asked silverdale. "but what does that matter? aren't there plenty of candidates without them? besides, nobody'll know. each of the candidates will think the others are the members. tell you what, boy, they shall all dance at lillie's wedding, and we'll make that the inaugural _soirée_." "but that would be to publish my failure to the world," remonstrated lillie. "nonsense, dear. it'll be published without that. trust the _moon_. isn't it better to take the bull by the horns?" "well, yes, perhaps you're right," said lillie hesitating. "but i hope the world will understand that it is only desperation at the collapse of the old maids' club that has driven me to commit matrimony." she went back to the club to write out the cards. "what do you think of my stepmother?" she inquired pathetically of the ex-honorary trier. "what do i think?" said lord silverdale seriously. "i think she is the punishment of providence for your interference with its designs." * * * * * the explanatory poem duly came to hand on lillie's wedding morn. it was written on vellum in the bridegroom's best hand and ran-- rainbow. ah, why i call you "rainbow," sweet? the shadows 'fore your eyes retreat, the ground grows light beneath your feet. you smile in your superior way, a rainbow has no feet, you say? nay, be not so precise to-day. created but to soothe and bless, you followed logic to excess, repressing thoughts of tenderness. my life was chilled and wan and hoary, you came, the bow of ancient story, to kiss the grayness into glory. and now, as rainbow fair to see, a promise sweet you are to me of sorrow never more to be. besides the friends of the happy pair, nearly all the candidates were present at the inaugural _soirée_ of the old maids' club. not quite all--because lillie who was rapidly growing conventional did not care to have clorinda bell even accompanied by her mother, or by her brother, the man in the ironed mask. nor did she invite the twins, nor the osculatory alice. but she conquered her prejudices in other instances, and frank maddox, the art critic, came under the convoy of the composer, paul horace, and miss mary friscoe was brought by bertie smythe. the writers' club also sent ellaline rand, and an account of the proceedings appeared in the first number of the _cherub_. the "princess" was brought by miss primpole, and captain athelstan and lord arthur came together in unimpaired friendship. eustasia pallas and her husband, percy swinshell spatt, both their faces full of the peace that passeth understanding, got a night off for the occasion and came in a hansom paid for out of the week's beer-money. turple the magnificent, who had seen them at home in the servants' hall, was outraged in his deepest instincts and multiplied occasions for offering them refreshments merely for the pleasure of snorting in their proximity. the great fladpick (frank gray), accompanied by his newly-won bride, cecilia, made the evening memorable by the presence of the english shakespeare, guy fledgely brought miss sybil hotspur, and his father, the baronet, was under the care of miss jack. the lady from boston wired congratulations on the success of the club from yokohama whither she had gone to pick up lacquer-work. poor miss summerson, the lovely may, and the victim of the valentine were a triad that was much admired. miss fanny radowski, whose oriental loveliness excited much attention, came, with martin. winifred woodpecker was accompanied by her mother, the resemblance between the two being generally remarked, and miss margaret linbridge seemed to afford richard westbourne copious opportunities for jealousy. even wilkins was there with his diana, in an unprofessional capacity, lillie having relented towards her interviewer on learning that she had been really engaged to silverplume once and that she had not entirely drawn on the stores of journalistic fancy. silverplume himself was there, unconscious to what he owed the invitation, and paying marked attention to the unattached beauties. miss nimrod promenaded the rooms on the arm of the millionaire. she had improved vastly since she had become effeminate, and lillie felt she could put up with her, now she would not have to live with her. even silverdale's aunt, lady goody-goody twoshoes could find no fault with nelly now. it was a brilliant scene. the apartments of the old maids' club had been artistically decked with the most gorgeous flowers that the millionaire could afford, and the epigrams had been carefully removed so as to leave the rooms free for dancing. as lillie's father gazed around, he felt that not many millionaires could secure such a galaxy of beauty as circled in the giddy dance in his gilded saloon. it was, indeed, an unexampled gathering of pretty girls--this inaugural _soirée_ of the old maids' club, and the millionaire's shirt-front heaved with pride and pleasure and the letter-day cupid that still hung on the wall seemed to take heart of grace again. "you got my verses this morning, rainbow mine?" said silverdale, when the carriage drove off, and the honeymoon began. it was almost the first moment they had had together the whole day. "yes," said lillie softly. "and i wanted to tell you there are two lines which are truer than you meant." "i am indeed, a poet, then! which are they?" lillie blushed sweetly. presently she murmured, "'you followed logic to excess, repressing thoughts of tenderness.' "how did you know that?" she asked, her brown eyes looking ingenuously into his. "love's divination, i suppose." "my father didn't tell you?" "tell me what?" "about my discovery in the algebra of love?" "algebra of love?" "no, of course he didn't. i don't suppose he ever really understood it," said lillie with a pathetic smile. "i think i ought to tell you now what it was that made me so--so--you understand." she put her little warm hand lightly into his and nestled against his shoulder, as if to make amends. after a delicious silence, for lord silverdale betrayed no signs of impatience, lillie confessed all. "so you see i have loved you all along!" she concluded. "only i did not dare hope that the chance would come to pass, against which the odds were ." "but great heavens!" cried lord silverdale, "do you mean to say this is why you were so cold to me all those long weary months?" "it is the only reason," faltered lillie. "but would you have had me defy the probabilities?" "no, no, of course not. i wouldn't dream of such a thing. but you have miscalculated them!" "miscalculated them?" lillie began to tremble violently. "yes, there is a fallacy in your ratiocination." "a fallacy!" she whispered hoarsely. "yes, you have calculated on the theory that the probabilities are independent, whereas they are interdependent. in the algebra of love this is the typical class of probabilities. the two events--your falling in love with me, my falling in love with you--are related; they are not absolutely isolated phenomena as you have superficially assumed. it is our common qualities which make us gravitate together, and what makes me love you is the same thing that makes you love me. thus the odds against our loving each other are immensely less than you have ciphered out." lillie had fallen back, huddled up, in her corner of the carriage, her face covered with her hands. "forgive me," said lord silverdale penitently. "i had no right to correct your mathematics on your wedding-day. say two and two are six and i will make it so." "two and two are not six and you know it," said lillie firmly, raising her wet face. "it is i who have to ask forgiveness for being so cruel to you. but if i have sinned, i have sinned in ignorance. you will believe that, dearest?" "i believe anything that comes from my rainbow's lips," said lord silverdale. "why, they are quite white! let me kiss them rosy again." like a naughty child that has been chastened by affliction she held up her face obediently to meet his. the lips were already blushing. "but confess," she said, while an arch indefinable light came into the brown eyes, "confess we have had a most original courtship." [illustration] * * * * * * transcriber's note: throughout the document, the oe-ligature was replaced with "oe". throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. those words were retained as-is. the illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate. thus the page number of the illustration might not match the page number in the list of illustrations, and the order of illustrations may not be the same in the list of illustrations and in the book. errors in punctuation and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted. some corrections were made to quotation marks. some of the use of quotation marks was not consistent with current standards, but was internally consistent and left unchanged. some unpaired quotation marks and an unpaired parenthesis mark were left as-is. on the title page, a quotation mark was added before "the bachelor's club". on page , "thy" was replaced with "they". on page , a single quotation mark is replaced with a double quotation mark. on page , a double quotation mark was added after "what do men think?" on page , a period was added after "here is her photograph". on page , "repectable" was replaced with "respectable". on page , "promonitory" was replaced with "promontory". on page , the comma after "i laughed" was replaced with a period. on page , the comma after "blank expression" was deleted. on page , a double quotation mark was added before "the plurality is merely apparent." on page , "æronaut" was replaced with "aeronaut". on page , a comma was added after "(which is easy)". on page , "did no" was replaced with "did not". on page , the comma after "i love you was replaced with a period. on page , a quotation mark was removed after "then silence any more?". on page , a closing single quotation mark was added after "the epileptoid order". on page , a period was removed after "mr. and". on page , a quotation mark was added after "only real life.". on page , "the past was put" was replaced with "the past was but". on page , "abut" was replaced with "about". on page , the double quotation marks around "tag" were replaced with single quotation marks. on page , double quotation marks were replaced with single quotation marks around "now you see what i have had to put up with." in the caption of the illustration that originally was on page , "advertsement" was replaced with "advertisement". on page , a quotation mark was added before "you know i don't". on page , "might" was replaced with "night". on page , a quotation mark was added after "those of the photograph.". on page , a comma was added after "eleven weekly papers". on page , a period was added after "rehearsal". on page , "miss jacks" was replaced with "miss jack". on page , a comma was removed after "conventional". on page , "onomatopoeiac" was replaced with "onomatopoeic". on page , a quotation mark was added before "sybil's reply". on page , "decend" was replaced with "descend". on page , "then" was replaced with "them". on page , a quotation mark was added after "in fleet street.". on page , "well" was replaced with "will". on page , a quotation mark was removed before "years afterwards". on page , "i no not" was replaced with "i do not". on page , a period was after "become an old maid". on page , the double quotation after "i had left my little all." was changed to a single quotation mark. on page , the double quotation mark was deleted after "bucklesbury buildings----'". on page , the quotation mark was removed in the subtitle of chapter xix. on page , "incompromise" was replaced with "incomprise". on page , a quotation mark was added after "my poor philip!". on page , "body's li" was replaced with "body's life.". this ebook was transcribed by les bowler. [picture: frontispiece] hopes and fears or scenes from the life of a spinster by charlotte m. yonge [picture: title picture] _illustrated by herbert gandy_ london macmillan and co., limited new york: the macmillan company _all rights reserved_ list of illustrations. "she felt, rather than saw him watching her all _frontispiece_ the way from the garden-gate to the wood." "i find i can't spare you, honora; you had better _page_ stay at the holt for good." "he drew the paper before him. lucilla started _page_ to her feet." part i chapter i who ought to go then and who ought to stay! where do you draw an obvious border line? _cecil and mary_ among the numerous steeples counted from the waters of the thames, in the heart of the city, and grudged by modern economy as cumberers of the soil of mammon, may be remarked an abortive little dingy cupola, surmounting two large round eyes which have evidently stared over the adjacent roofs ever since the fire that began at pie-corner and ended in pudding-lane. strange that the like should have been esteemed the highest walk of architecture, and yet honora charlecote well remembered the days when st. wulstan's was her boast, so large, so clean, so light, so grecian, so far surpassing damp old hiltonbury church. that was at an age when her enthusiasm found indiscriminate food in whatever had a hold upon her affections, the nearer her heart being of course the more admirable in itself, and it would be difficult to say which she loved the most ardently, her city home in woolstone-lane, or hiltonbury holt, the old family seat, where her father was a welcome guest whenever his constitution required relaxation from the severe toils of a london rector. woolstone-lane was a locality that sorely tried the coachmen of mrs. charlecote's west end connections, situate as it was on the very banks of the thames, and containing little save offices and warehouses, in the midst of which stood honora's home. it was not the rectory, but had been inherited from city relations, and it antedated the fire, so that it was one of the most perfect remnants of the glories of the merchant princes of ancient london. it had a court to itself, shut in by high walls, and paved with round-headed stones, with gangways of flags in mercy to the feet; the front was faced with hewn squares after the pattern of somerset house, with the like ponderous sashes, and on a smaller scale, the louis xiv. pediment, apparently designed for the nesting-place of swallows and sparrows. within was a hall, panelled with fragrant softly-tinted cedar wood, festooned with exquisite garlands of fruit and flowers, carved by gibbons himself, with all his peculiarities of rounded form and delicate edge. the staircase and floor were of white stone, tinted on sunny days with reflections from the windows' three medallions of yellow and white glass, where solomon, in golden mantle and crowned turban, commanded the division of a stout lusty child hanging by one leg; superintended the erection of a temple worthy of haarlem; or graciously welcomed a recoiling stumpy vrow of a queen of sheba, with golden hair all down her back. the river aspect of the house had come to perfection at the elizabethan period, and was sculptured in every available nook with the chevron and three arrows of the fletchers' company, and a merchant's mark, like a figure of four with a curly tail. here were the oriel windows of the best rooms, looking out on a grassplat, small enough in country eyes, but most extensive for the situation, with straight gravelled walks, and low lilac and laburnum trees, that came into profuse blossom long before their country cousins, but which, like the crocuses and snowdrops of the flower borders, had better be looked at than touched by such as dreaded sooty fingers. these shrubs veiled the garden from the great river thoroughfare, to which it sloped down, still showing traces of the handsome stone steps and balustrade that once had formed the access of the gold-chained alderman to his sumptuous barge. along those paths paced, book in hand, a tall, well-grown maiden, of good straight features, and clear, pale skin, with eyes and rich luxuriant hair of the same colour, a peculiarly bright shade of auburn, such as painters of old had loved, and owen sandbrook called golden, while humfrey charlecote would declare he was always glad to see honor's carrots. more than thirty years ago, personal teaching at a london parish school or personal visiting of the poor was less common than at present, but honora had been bred up to be helpful, and she had newly come in from a diligent afternoon of looking at the needlework, and hearing crossman's catechism and sellon's abridgment from a demurely dressed race of little girls in tall white caps, bibs and tuckers, and very stout indigo-blue frocks. she had been working hard at the endeavour to make the little cockneys, who had never seen a single ear of wheat, enter into joseph's dreams, and was rather weary of their town sharpness coupled with their indifference and want of imagination, where any nature, save human nature, was concerned. 'i will bring an ear of hiltonbury wheat home with me--some of the best girls shall see me sow it, and i will take them to watch it growing up--the blade, the ear, the full corn in the ear--poor dears, if they only had a hiltonbury to give them some tastes that are not all for this hot, busy, eager world! if i could only see one with her lap full of bluebells; but though in this land of cockaigne of ours, one does not actually pick up gold and silver, i am afraid they are our flowers, and the only ones we esteem worth the picking; and like old mr. sandbrook, we neither understand nor esteem those whose aims are otherwise! oh! owen, owen, may you only not be withheld from your glorious career! may you show this hard, money-getting world that you do really, as well as only in word, esteem one soul to be reclaimed above all the wealth that can be laid at your feet! the nephew and heir of the great firm voluntarily surrendering consideration, ease, riches, unbounded luxury for the sake of the heathen--choosing a wigwam instead of a west end palace; parched maize rather than the banquet; the backwoods instead of the luxurious park; the red indian rather than the club and the theatre; to be a despised minister rather than a magnate of this great city; nay, or to take his place among the influential men of the land. what has this worn, weary old civilization to offer like the joy of sitting beneath one of the glorious aspiring pines of america, gazing out on the blue waters of her limpid inland seas, in her fresh pure air, with the simple children of the forest round him, their princely forms in attitudes of attention, their dark soft liquid eyes fixed upon him, as he tells them "your great spirit, him whom ye ignorantly worship, him declare i unto you," and then, some glorious old chief bows his stately head, and throws aside his marks of superstition. "i believe," he says, and the hearts of all bend with him; and owen leads them to the lake, and baptizes them, and it is another st. sacrament! oh! that is what it is to have nobleness enough truly to overcome the world, truly to turn one's back upon pleasures and honours--what are they to such as this?' so mused honora charlecote, and then ran indoors, with bounding step, to her schiller, and her hero-worship of max piccolomini, to write notes for her mother, and practise for her father the song that was to refresh him for the evening. nothing remarkable! no; there was nothing remarkable in honor, she was neither more nor less than an average woman of the higher type. refinement and gentleness, a strong appreciation of excellence, and a love of duty, had all been brought out by an admirable education, and by a home devoted to unselfish exertion, varied by intellectual pleasures. other influences--decidedly traceable in her musings--had shaped her principles and enthusiasms on those of an ardent oxonian of the early years of william iv.; and so bred up, so led by circumstances, honora, with her abilities, high cultivation, and tolerable sense, was a fair specimen of what any young lady might be, appearing perhaps somewhat in advance of her contemporaries, but rather from her training than from intrinsic force of character. the qualities of womanhood well developed, were so entirely the staple of her composition, that there is little to describe in her. was not she one made to learn; to lean; to admire; to support; to enhance every joy; to soften every sorrow of the object of her devotion? * * * * * another picture from honora charlecote's life. it is about half after six, on a bright autumnal morning; and, rising nearly due east, out of a dark pine-crowned hill, the sun casts his slanting beams over an undulating country, clothed in gray mist of tints differing with the distance, the farther hills confounded with the sky, the nearer dimly traced in purple, and the valleys between indicated by the whiter, woollier vapours that rise from their streams, a goodly land of fertile field and rich wood, cradled on the bosoms of those soft hills. nestled among the woods, clothing its hollows on almost every side, rises a low hill, with a species of table land on the top, scattered over with large thorns and scraggy oaks that cast their shadows over the pale buff bents of the short soft grass of the gravelly soil. looking southward is a low, irregular, old-fashioned house, with two tall gable ends like eyebrows, and the lesser gable of a porch between them, all covered with large chequers of black timber, filled up with cream-coloured cement. a straight path leads from the porch between beds of scarlet geraniums, their luxuriant horse-shoe leaves weighed down with wet, and china asters, a drop in every quilling, to an old-fashioned sun-dial, and beside that dial stands honora charlecote, gazing joyously out on the bright morning, and trying for the hundredth time to make the shadow of that green old finger point to the same figure as the hand of her watch. 'oh! down, down, there's a good dog, fly; you'll knock me down! vixen, poor little doggie, pray! look at your paws,' as a blue greyhound and rough black terrier came springing joyously upon her, brushing away the silver dew from the shaven lawn. 'down, down, lie down, dogs!' and with an obstreperous bound, fly flew to the new-comer, a young man in the robust strength of eight-and-twenty, of stalwart frame, very broad in the chest and shoulders, careless, homely, though perfectly gentleman-like bearing, and hale, hearty, sunburnt face. it was such a look and such an arm as would win the most timid to his side in certainty of tenderness and protection, and the fond voice gave the same sense of power and of kindness, as he called out, 'holloa, honor, there you are! not given up the old fashion?' 'not till you give me up, humfrey,' she said, as she eagerly laid her neatly gloved fingers in the grasp of the great, broad, horny palm, 'or at least till you take your gun.' 'so you are not grown wiser?' 'nor ever will be.' 'every woman ought to learn to saddle a horse and fire off a gun.' 'yes, against the civil war squires are always expecting. you shall teach me when the time comes.' 'you'll never see that time, nor any other, if you go out in those thin boots. i'll fetch sarah's clogs; i suppose you have not a reasonable pair in the world.' 'my boots are quite thick, thank you.' 'brown paper!' and indeed they were a contrast to his mighty nailed soles, and long, untanned buskins, nor did they greatly resemble the heavy, country-made galoshes which, with an elder brother's authority, he forced her to put on, observing that nothing so completely evinced the londoner as her obstinacy in never having a pair of shoes that could keep anything out. 'and where are you going?' 'to hayward's farm. is that too far for you? he wants an abatement of his rent for some improvements, and i want to judge what they may be worth.' 'hayward's--oh, not a bit too far!' and holding up her skirts, she picked her way as daintily as her weighty _chaussure_ would permit, along the narrow green footway that crossed the expanse of dewy turf in which the dogs careered, getting their noses covered with flakes of thick gossamer, cemented together by dew. fly scraped it off with a delicate forepaw, vixen rolled over, and doubly entangled it in her rugged coat. humfrey charlecote strode on before his companion with his hands in his pockets, and beginning to whistle, but pausing to observe, over his shoulder, 'a sweet day for getting up the roots! you're not getting wet, i hope?' 'i couldn't through this rhinoceros hide, thank you. how exquisitely the mist is curling up, and showing the church-spire in the valley.' 'and i suppose you have been reading all manner of books?' 'i think the best was a great history of france.' 'france!' he repeated in a contemptuous john bull tone. 'ay, don't be disdainful; france was the centre of chivalry in the old time.' 'better have been the centre of honesty.' 'and so it was in the time of st. louis and his crusade. do you know it, humfrey?' 'eh?' that was full permission. ever since honora had been able to combine a narration, humfrey had been the recipient, though she seldom knew whether he attended, and from her babyhood upwards had been quite contented with trotting in the wake of his long strides, pouring out her ardent fancies, now and then getting an answer, but more often going on like a little singing bird, through the midst of his avocations, and quite complacent under his interruptions of calls to his dogs, directions to his labourers, and warnings to her to mind her feet and not her chatter. in the full stream of crusaders, he led her down one of the multitude of by-paths cleared out in the hazel coppice for sporting; here leading up a rising ground whence the tops of the trees might be overlooked, some flecked with gold, some blushing into crimson, and beyond them the needle point of the village spire, the vane flashing back the sun; there bending into a ravine, marshy at the bottom, and nourishing the lady fern, then again crossing glades, where the rabbits darted across the path, and the battle of damietta was broken into by stern orders to fly to come to heel, and the eating of the nuts which humfrey pulled down from the branches, and held up to his cousin with superior good nature. 'a mameluke rushed in with a scimitar streaming with blood, and--' 'take care; do you want help over this fence?' 'not i, thank you--and said he had just murdered the king--' 'vic! ah! take your nose out of that. here was a crop, nora.' 'what was it?' 'you don't mean that you don't know wheat stubble?' 'i remember it was to be wheat.' 'red wheat, the finest we ever had in this land; not a bit beaten down, and the colour perfectly beautiful before harvest; it used to put me in mind of your hair. a load to the acre; a fair specimen of the effect of drainage. do you remember what a swamp it was?' 'i remember the beautiful loose-strifes that used to grow in that corner.' 'ah! we have made an end of that trumpery.' 'you savage old humfrey--beauties that they were.' 'what had they to do with my cornfields? a place for everything and everything in its place--french kings and all. what was this one doing wool-gathering in egypt?' 'don't you understand, it had become the point for the blow at the saracen power. where was i? oh, the mameluke justified the murder, and wanted st. louis to be king, but--' 'ha! a fine covey, i only miss two out of them. these carrots, how their leaves are turned--that ought not to be.' honora could not believe that anything ought not to be that was as beautiful as the varied rosy tints of the hectic beauty of the exquisitely shaped and delicately pinked foliage of the field carrots, and with her cousin's assistance she soon had a large bouquet where no two leaves were alike, their hues ranging from the deepest purple or crimson to the palest yellow, or clear scarlet, like seaweed, through every intermediate variety of purple edged with green, green picked out with red or yellow, or _vice versa_, in never-ending brilliancy, such as humfrey almost seemed to appreciate, as he said, 'well, you have something as pretty as your weeds, eh, honor?' 'i can't quite give up mourning for my dear long purples.' 'all very well by the river, but there's no beauty in things out of place, like your louis in egypt--well, what was the end of this predicament?' so humfrey had really heard and been interested! with such encouragement, honora proceeded swimmingly, and had nearly arrived at her hero's ransom, through nearly a mile of field paths, only occasionally interrupted by grunts from her auditor at farming not like his own, when crossing a narrow foot-bridge across a clear stream, they stood before a farmhouse, timbered and chimneyed much like the holt, but with new sashes displacing the old lattice. 'oh! humfrey, how could you bring me to see such havoc? i never suspected you would allow it.' 'it was without asking leave; an attention to his bride; and now they want an abatement for improvements! whew!' 'you should fine him for the damage he has done!' 'i can't be hard on him, he is more or less of an ass, and a good sort of fellow, very good to his labourers; he drove jem hurd to the infirmary himself when he broke his arm. no, he is not a man to be hard upon.' 'you can't be hard on any one. now that window really irritates my mind.' 'now sarah walked down to call on the bride, and came home full of admiration at the place being so lightsome and cheerful. which of you two ladies am i to believe?' 'you ought to make it a duty to improve the general taste! why don't you build a model farm-house, and let me make the design?' 'ay, when i want one that nobody can live in. come, it will be breakfast time.' 'are not you going to have an interview?' 'no, i only wanted to take a survey of the alterations; two windows, smart door, iron fence, pulled down old barn, talks of another. hm!' 'so he will get his reduction?' 'if he builds the barn. i shall try to see his wife; she has not been brought up to farming, and whether they get on or not, all depends on the way she may take it up. what are you looking at?' 'that lovely wreath of traveller's joy.' 'do you want it?' 'no, thank you, it is too beautiful where it is.' 'there is a piece, going from tree to tree, by the hiltonbury gate, as thick as my arm; i just saved it when west was going to cut it down with the copsewood.' 'well, you really are improving at last!' 'i thought you would never let me hear the last of it; besides, there was a thrush's nest in it.' by and by the cousins arrived at a field where humfrey's portly shorthorns were coming forth after their milking, under the pilotage of an old white-headed man, bent nearly double, uncovering his head as the squire touched his hat in response, and shouted, 'good morning.' 'if you please, sir,' said the old man, trying to erect himself, 'i wanted to speak to you.' 'well.' 'if you please, sir, chimney smokes so as a body can scarce bide in the house, and the blacks come down terrible.' 'wants sweeping,' roared humfrey, into his deaf ears. 'have swep it, sir; old woman's been up with her broom.' 'old woman hasn't been high enough. send jack up outside with a rope and a bunch o' furze, and let her stand at bottom.' 'that's it, sir!' cried the old man, with a triumphant snap of the fingers over his shoulder. 'thank ye!' 'here's miss honor, john;' and honora came forward, her gravity somewhat shaken by the domestic offices of the old woman. 'i'm glad to see you still able to bring out the cows, john. here's my favourite daisy as tame as ever.' 'ay! ay!' and he looked at his master for explanation from the stronger and more familiar voice. 'i be deaf, you see, ma'am.' 'miss honor is glad to see daisy as tame as ever,' shouted humfrey. 'ay! ay!' maundered on the old man; 'she ain't done no good of late, and mr. west and i--us wanted to have fatted her this winter, but the squire, he wouldn't hear on it, because miss honor was such a terrible one for her. says i, when i hears 'em say so, we shall have another dinner on the la-an, and the last was when the old squire was married, thirty-five years ago come michaelmas.' honora was much disposed to laugh at this freak of the old man's fancy, but to her surprise humfrey coloured up, and looked so much out of countenance that a question darted through her mind whether he could have any such step in contemplation, and she began to review the young ladies of the neighbourhood, and to decide on each in turn that it would be intolerable to see her as humfrey's wife; more at home at the holt than herself. she had ample time for contemplation, for he had become very silent, and once or twice the presumptuous idea crossed her that he might be actually about to make her some confidence, but when he at length spoke, very near the house, it was only to say, 'honor, i wanted to ask you if you think your father would wish me to ask young sandbrook here?' 'oh! thank you, i am sure he would be glad. you know poor owen has nowhere to go, since his uncle has behaved so shamefully.' 'it must have been a great mortification--' 'to owen? of course it was, to be so cast off for his noble purpose.' 'i was thinking of old mr. sandbrook--' 'old wretch! i've no patience with him!' 'just as he has brought this nephew up and hopes to make him useful and rest some of his cares upon him in his old age, to find him flying off upon this fresh course, and disappointing all his hopes.' 'but it is such a high and grand course, he ought to have rejoiced in it, and owen is not his son.' 'a man of his age, brought up as he has been, can hardly be expected to enter into owen's views.' 'of course not. it is all sordid and mean, he cannot even understand the missionary spirit of resigning all. as owen says, half the scripture must be hyperbole to him, and so he is beginning owen's persecution already.' it was one of humfrey's provoking qualities that no amount of eloquence would ever draw a word of condemnation from him; he would praise readily enough, but censure was very rare with him, and extenuation was always his first impulse, so the more honora railed at mr. sandbrook's interference with his nephew's plans, the less satisfaction she received from him. she seemed to think that in order to admire owen as he deserved, his uncle must be proportionably reviled, and though humfrey did not imply a word save in commendation of the young missionary's devotion, she went indoors feeling almost injured at his not understanding it; but honora's petulance was a very bright, sunny piquancy, and she only appeared the more glowing and animated for it when she presented herself at the breakfast-table, with a preposterous country appetite. afterwards she filled a vase very tastefully with her varieties of leaves, and enjoyed taking in her cousin sarah, who admired the leaves greatly while she thought they came from mrs. mervyn's hothouse; but when she found they were the product of her own furrows, voted them coarse, ugly, withered things, such as only the simplicity of a londoner could bring into civilized society. so honora stood over her gorgeous feathery bouquet, not knowing whether to laugh or to be scornful, till humfrey, taking up the vase, inquired, 'may i have it for my study?' 'oh! yes, and welcome,' said honora, laughing, and shaking her glowing tresses at him; 'i am thankful to any one who stands up for carrots.' good-natured humfrey, thought she, it is all that i may not be mortified; but after all it is not those very good-natured people who best appreciate lofty actions. he is inviting owen sandbrook more because he thinks it would please papa, and because he compassionates him in his solitary lodgings, than because he feels the force of his glorious self-sacrifice. * * * * * the northern slope of the holt was clothed with fir plantations, intersected with narrow paths, which gave admission to the depths of their lonely woodland palace, supported on rudely straight columns, dark save for the snowy exuding gum, roofed in by aspiring beam-like arms, bearing aloft their long tufts of dark blue green foliage, floored by the smooth, slippery, russet needle leaves as they fell, and perfumed by the peculiar fresh smell of turpentine. it was a still and lonely place, the very sounds making the silence more audible (if such an expression may be used), the wind whispering like the rippling waves of the sea in the tops of the pines, here and there the cry of a bird, or far, far away, the tinkle of the sheep-bell, or the tone of the church clock; and of movement there was almost as little, only the huge horse ants soberly wending along their highway to their tall hillock thatched with pine leaves, or the squirrel in the ruddy, russet livery of the scene, racing from tree to tree, or sitting up with his feathery tail erect to extract with his delicate paws the seed from the base of the fir-cone scale. squirrels there lived to a good old age, till their plumy tails had turned white, for the squire's one fault in the eyes of keepers and gardeners was that he was soft-hearted towards 'the varmint.' a canadian forest on a small scale, an extremely miniature scale indeed, but still canadian forests are of pine, and the holt plantation was fir, and firs were pines, and it was a lonely musing place, and so on one of the stillest, clearest days of 'st. luke's little summer,' the last afternoon of her visit at the holt, there stood honora, leaning against a tree stem, deep, very deep in a vision of the primeval woodlands of the west, their red inhabitants, and the white man who should carry the true, glad tidings westward, westward, ever from east to west. did she know how completely her whole spirit and soul were surrendered to the worship of that devotion? worship? yes, the word is advisedly used; honora had once given her spirit in homage to schiller's self-sacrificing max; the same heart-whole veneration was now rendered to the young missionary, multiplied tenfold by the hero being in a tangible, visible shape, and not by any means inclined to thwart or disdain the allegiance of the golden-haired girl. nay, as family connections frequently meeting, they had acted upon each other's minds more than either knew, even when the hour of parting had come, and words had been spoken which gave honora something more to cherish in the image of owen sandbrook than even the hero and saint. there then she stood and dreamt, pensive and saddened indeed, but with a melancholy trenching very nearly on happiness in the intensity of its admiration, and the vague ennobling future of devoted usefulness in which her heart already claimed to share, as her person might in some far away period on which she could not dwell. [picture: i find i can't spare you, honora] a sound approached, a firm footstep, falling with strong elasticity and such regular cadences, that it seemed to chime in with the pine-tree music, and did not startle her till it came so near that there was distinctive character to be discerned in the tread, and then with a strange, new shyness, she would have slipped away, but she had been seen, and humfrey, with his timber race in his hand, appeared on the path, exclaiming, 'ah, honor, is it you come out to meet me, like old times? you have been so much taken up with your friend master owen that i have scarcely seen you of late.' honor did not move away, but she blushed deeply as she said, 'i am afraid i did not come to meet you, humfrey.' 'no? what, you came for the sake of a brown study? i wish i had known you were not busy, for i have been round all the woods marking timber.' 'ah!' said she, rousing herself with some effort, 'i wonder how many trees i should have saved from the slaughter. did you go and condemn any of my pets?' 'not that i know of,' said humfrey. 'i have touched nothing near the house.' 'not even the old beech that was scathed with lightning? you know papa says that is the touchstone of influence; sarah and mr. west both against me,' laughed honora, quite restored to her natural manner and confiding ease. 'the beech is likely to stand as long as you wish it,' said humfrey, with an unaccustomed sort of matter-of-fact gravity, which surprised and startled her, so as to make her bethink herself whether she could have behaved ill about it, been saucy to sarah, or the like. 'thank you,' she said; 'have i made a fuss--?' 'no, honor,' he said, with deliberate kindness, shutting up his knife, and putting it into his pocket; 'only i believe it is time we should come to an understanding.' more than ever did she expect one of his kind remonstrances, and she looked up at him in expectation, and ready for defence, but his broad, sunburnt countenance looked marvellously heated, and he paused ere he spoke. 'i find i can't spare you, honora; you had better stay at the holt for good.' her cheeks flamed, and her heart galloped, but she could not let herself understand. 'honor, you are old enough now, and i do not think you need fear. it is almost your home already, and i believe i can make you happy, with the blessing of god--' he paused, but as she could not frame an answer in her consternation, continued, 'perhaps i should not have spoken so suddenly, but i thought you would not mind me; i should like to have had one word from my little honor before i go to your father, but don't if you had rather not.' 'oh, don't go to papa, please don't,' she cried, 'it would only make him sorry.' humfrey stood as if under an unexpected shock. 'oh! how came you to think of it?' she said in her distress; 'i never did, and it can never be--i am so sorry!' 'very well, my dear, do not grieve about it,' said humfrey, only bent on soothing her; 'i dare say you are quite right, you are used to people in london much more suitable to you than a stupid homely fellow like me, and it was a foolish fancy to think it might be otherwise. don't cry, honor dear, i can't bear that!' 'oh, humfrey, only understand, please! you are the very dearest person in the world to me after papa and mamma; and as to fine london people, oh no, indeed! but--' 'it is owen sandbrook; i understand,' said humfrey, gravely. she made no denial. 'but, honor,' he anxiously exclaimed, 'you are not going out in this wild way among the backwoods, it would break your mother's heart; and he is not fit to take care of you. i mean he cannot think of it now.' 'o no, no, i could not leave papa and mamma; but some time or other--' 'is this arranged? does your father know it?' 'oh, humfrey, of course!' 'then it is an engagement?' 'no,' said honora, sadly; 'papa said i was too young, and he wished i had heard nothing about it. we are to go on as if nothing had happened, and i know they think we shall forget all about it! as if we could! not that i wish it to be different. i know it would be wicked to desert papa and mamma while she is so unwell. the truth is, humfrey,' and her voice sank, 'that it cannot be while they live.' 'my poor little honor!' he said, in a tone of the most unselfish compassion. she had entirely forgotten his novel aspect, and only thought of him as the kindest friend to whom she could open her heart. 'don't pity me,' she said in exultation; 'think what it is to be his choice. would i have him give up his aims, and settle down in the loveliest village in england? no, indeed, for then it would not be owen! i am happier in the thought of him than i could be with everything present to enjoy.' 'i hope you will continue to find it so,' he said, repressing a sigh. 'i should be ashamed of myself if i did not,' she continued with glistening eyes. 'should not i have patience to wait while he is at his real glorious labour? and as to home, that's not altered, only better and brighter for the definite hope and aim that will go through everything, and make me feel all i do a preparation.' 'yes, you know him well,' said humfrey; 'you saw him constantly when he was at westminster.' 'o yes, and always! why, humfrey, it is my great glory and pleasure to feel that he formed me! when he went to oxford, he brought me home all the thoughts that have been my better life. all my dearest books we read together, and what used to look dry and cold, gained light and life after he touched it.' 'yes, i see.' his tone reminded her of what had passed, and she said, timidly, 'i forgot! i ought not! i have vexed you, humfrey.' 'no,' he said, in his full tender voice; 'i see that it was vain to think of competing with one of so much higher claims. if he goes on in the course he has chosen, yours will have been a noble choice, honor; and i believe,' he added, with a sweetness of smile that almost made her forgive the _if_, 'that you are one to be better pleased _so_ than with more ordinary happiness. i have no doubt it is all right.' 'dear humfrey, you are so good!' she said, struck with his kind resignation, and utter absence of acerbity in his disappointment. 'forget this, honora,' he said, as they were coming to the end of the pine wood; 'let us be as we were before.' honora gladly promised, and excepting for her wonder at such a step on the part of the cousin whose plaything and pet she had hitherto been, she had no temptation to change her manner. she loved him as much as ever, but only as a kind elder brother, and she was glad that he was wise enough to see his immeasurable inferiority to the young missionary. it was a wonderful thing, and she was sorry for his disappointment; but after all, he took it so quietly that she did not think it could have hurt him much. it was only that he wanted to keep his pet in the country. he was not capable of love like owen sandbrook's. * * * * * years passed on. rumour had bestowed mr. charlecote of hiltonbury on every lady within twenty miles, but still in vain. his mother was dead, his sister married to an old college fellow, who had waited half a lifetime for a living, but still he kept house alone. and open house it was, with a dinner-table ever expanding for chance guests, strawberry or syllabub feasts half the summer, and christmas feasts extending wide on either side of the twelve days. every one who wanted a holiday was free of the holt; young sportsmen tried their inexperienced guns under the squire's patient eye; and mammas disposed of their children for weeks together, to enjoy the run of the house and garden, and rides according to age, on pony, donkey, or mr. charlecote. no festivity in the neighbourhood was complete without his sunshiny presence; he was wanted wherever there was any family event; and was godfather, guardian, friend, and adviser of all. every one looked on him as a sort of exclusive property, yet he had room in his heart for all. as a magistrate, he was equally indispensable in county government, and a charity must be undeserving indeed that had not humfrey charlecote, esq., on the committee. in his own parish he was a beneficent monarch; on his own estate a mighty farmer, owning that his relaxation and delight were his turnips, his bullocks, and machines; and so content with them, and with his guests, that honora never recollected that walk in the pine woods without deciding that to have monopolized him would have been an injury to the public, and perhaps less for his happiness than this free, open-hearted bachelor life. seldom did she recall that scene to mind, for she had never been by it rendered less able to trust to him as her friend and protector, and she stood in need of his services and his comfort, when her father's death had left him the nearest relative who could advise or transact business for her and her mother. then, indeed, she leant on him as on the kindest and most helpful of brothers. mrs. charlecote was too much acclimatized to the city to be willing to give up her old residence, and honor not only loved it fondly, but could not bear to withdraw from the local charities where her tasks had hitherto lain; and woolstone-lane, therefore, continued their home, though the summer and autumn usually took them out of london. such was the change in honora's outward life. how was it with that inmost shrine where dwelt her heart and soul? a copious letter writer, owen sandbrook's correspondence never failed to find its way to her, though they did not stand on such terms as to write to one another; and in those letters she lived, doing her day's work with cheerful brightness, and seldom seeming preoccupied, but imagination, heart, and soul were with his mission. very indignant was she when the authorities, instead of sending him to the interesting children of the forests, thought proper to waste him on mere colonists, some of them yankee, some presbyterian scots. he was asked insolent, nasal questions, his goods were coolly treated as common property, and it was intimated to him on all hands that as englishman he was little in their eyes, as clergyman less, as gentleman least of all. was this what he had sacrificed everything for? by dint of strong complaints and entreaties, after he had quarrelled with most of his flock, he accomplished an exchange into a district where red men formed the chief of his charge; and honora was happy, and watched for histories of noble braves, gallant hunters, and meek-eyed squaws. slowly, slowly she gathered that the picturesque deer-skins had become dirty blankets, and that the diseased, filthy, sophisticated savages were among the worst of the pitiable specimens of the effect of contact with the most evil side of civilization. to them, as owen wrote, a missionary was only a white man who gave no brandy, and the rest of his parishioners were their obdurate, greedy, trading tempters! it had been a shame to send him to such a hopeless set, when there were others on whom his toils would not be thrown away. however, he should do his best. and honor went on expecting the wonders his best would work, only the more struck with admiration by hearing that the locality was a swamp of luxuriant vegetation, and equally luxuriant fever and ague; and the letter he wrote thence to her mother on the news of their loss did her more good than all humfrey's considerate kindness. next, he had had the ague, and had gone to toronto for change of air. report spoke of mr. sandbrook as the most popular preacher who had appeared in toronto for years, attracting numbers to his pulpit, and sending them away enraptured by his power of language. how beautiful that a man of such talents, always so much stimulated by appreciation, should give up all this most congenial scene, and devote himself to his obscure mission! report said more, but honora gave it no credit till old mr. sandbrook called one morning in woolstone-lane, by his nephew's desire, to announce to his friends that he had formed an engagement with miss charteris, the daughter of a general officer there in command. honor sat out all the conversation; and mrs. charlecote did not betray herself; though, burning with a mother's wrath, she did nothing worse than hope they would be happy. yet honor had not dethroned the monarch of her imagination. she reiterated to herself and to her mother that she had no ground of complaint, that it had been understood that the past was to be forgotten, and that owen was far more worthily employed than in dwelling on them. no blame could attach to him, and it was wise to choose one accustomed to the country and able to carry out his plans. the personal feeling might go, but veneration survived. mrs. charlecote never rested till she had learnt all the particulars. it was a dashing, fashionable family, and miss charteris had been the gayest of the gay, till she had been impressed by mr. sandbrook's ministrations. from pope to lover, honor knew how easy was the transition; but she zealously nursed her admiration for the beauty, who was exchanging her gaieties for the forest missions; she made her mother write cordially, and send out a pretty gift, and treated as a personal affront all reports of the charteris disapprobation, and of the self-will of the young people. they were married, and the next news that honora heard was, that the old general had had a fit from passion; thirdly, came tidings that the eldest son, a prosperous m.p., had not only effected a reconciliation, but had obtained a capital living for mr. sandbrook, not far from the family seat. mrs. charlecote declared that her daughter should not stay in town to meet the young couple, and honora's resistance was not so much dignity, as a feverish spirit of opposition, which succumbed to her sense of duty, but not without such wear and tear of strained cheerfulness and suppressed misery, that when at length her mother had brought her away, the fatigue of the journey completed the work, and she was prostrated for weeks by low fever. the blow had fallen. he had put his hand to the plough and looked back. faithlessness towards herself had been passed over unrecognized, faithlessness towards his self-consecration was quite otherwise. that which had absorbed her affections and adoration had proved an unstable, excitable being! alas! would that long ago she had opened her eyes to the fact that it was her own lofty spirit, not his steadfastness, which had first kept it out of the question that the mission should be set aside for human love. the crash of her idolatry was the greater because it had been so highly pitched, so closely intermingled with the true worship. she was long ill, the past series of disappointments telling when her strength was reduced; and for many a week she would lie still and dreamy, but fretted and wearied, so as to control herself with difficulty when in the slightest degree disturbed, or called upon to move or think. when her strength returned under her mother's tender nursing the sense of duty revived. she thought her youth utterly gone with the thinning of her hair and the wasting of her cheeks, but her mother must be the object of her care and solicitude, and she would exert herself for her sake, to save her grief, and hide the wound left by the rending away of the jewel of her heart. so she set herself to seem to like whatever her mother proposed, and she acted her interest so well that insensibly it became real. after all, she was but four-and-twenty, and the fever had served as an expression of the feeling that would have its way: she had had a long rest, which had relieved the sense of pent-up and restrained suffering, and vigour and buoyancy were a part of her character; her tone and manner resumed their cheerfulness, her spirits came back, though still with the dreary feeling that the hope and aim of life were gone, when she was left to her own musings; she was little changed, and went on with daily life, contented and lively over the details, and returning to her interest in reading, in art, poetry, and in all good works, while her looks resumed their brightness, and her mother congratulated herself once more on the rounded cheek and profuse curls. at the year's end humfrey charlecote renewed his proposal. it was no small shock to find herself guilty of his having thus long remained single, and she was touched by his kind forbearance, but there was no bringing herself either to love him, or to believe that he loved her, with such love as had been her vision. the image around which she had bound her heart-strings came between him and her, and again she begged his pardon, and told him she liked him too well as he was to think of him in any other light. again he, with the most tender patience and humility, asked her to forgive him for having harassed her, and betrayed so little chagrin that she ascribed his offer to generous compassion at her desertion. chapter ii he who lets his feelings run in soft luxurious flow, shrinks when hard service must be done, and faints at every woe. seven years more, and honora was in mourning for her mother. she was alone in the world, without any near or precious claim, those clinging tendrils of her heart rent from their oldest, surest earthly stay, and her time left vacant from her dearest, most constant occupation. her impulse was to devote herself and her fortune at once to the good work which most engaged her imagination, but humfrey charlecote, her sole relation, since heart complaint had carried off his sister sarah, interfered with the authority he had always exercised over her, and insisted on her waiting one full year before pledging herself to anything. at one-and-thirty, with her golden hair and light figure, her delicate skin and elastic step, she was still too young to keep house in solitude, and she invited to her home a friendless old governess of her own, sick at heart with standing for the governess's institution, promising her a daughter's care and attendance on her old age. gentle old miss wells was but too happy in her new quarters, though she constantly averred that she knew she should not continue there; treated as injuries to herself all honor's assertions of the dignity of age and old maidishness, and remained convinced that she should soon see her married. honora had not seen mr. sandbrook since his return from canada, though his living was not thirty miles from the city. there had been exchanges of calls when he had been in london, but these had only resulted in the leaving of cards; and from various causes she had been unable to meet him at dinner. she heard of him, however, from their mutual connection, old mrs. sandbrook, who had made a visit at wrapworth, and came home stored with anecdotes of the style in which he lived, the charms of mrs. sandbrook, and the beauty of the children. as far as honora could gather, and very unwillingly she did so, he was leading the life of an easy-going, well-beneficed clergyman, not neglecting the parish, according to the requirements of the day, indeed slightly exceeding them, very popular, good-natured, and charitable, and in great request in a numerous, demi-suburban neighbourhood, for all sorts of not unclerical gaieties. the rev. o. sandbrook was often to be met with in the papers, preaching everywhere and for everything, and whispers went about of his speedy promotion to a situation of greater note. in the seventh year of his marriage, his wife died, and honora was told of his overwhelming grief, how he utterly refused all comfort or alleviation, and threw himself with all his soul into his parish and his children. people spoke of him as going about among the poor from morning to night, with his little ones by his side, shrinking from all other society, teaching them and nursing them himself, and endeavouring to the utmost to be as both parents in one. the youngest, a delicate infant, soon followed her mother to the grave, and old mrs. sandbrook proved herself to have no parent's heart by being provoked with his agonizing grief for the 'poor little sickly thing,' while it was not in honora's nature not to feel the more tenderly towards the idol of her girlish days, because he was in trouble. it was autumn, the period when leaves fall off and grow damp, and london birds of passage fly home to their smoky nests. honora, who had gone to weymouth chiefly because she saw miss wells would be disappointed if she did otherwise; when there, had grown happily at home with the waves, and in talking to the old fishermen; but had come back because miss wells thought it chilly and dreary, and pined for london warmth and snugness. the noonday sun had found the way in at the oriel window of the drawing-room, and traced the reflection of the merchant's mark upon the upper pane in distorted outline on the wainscoted wall; it smiled on the glowing tints of honora's hair, but seemed to die away against the blackness of her dress, as she sat by the table, writing letters, while opposite, in the brightness of the fire, sat the pale, placid miss wells with her morning nest of sermon books and needlework around her. honor yawned; miss wells looked up with kind anxiety. she knew such a yawn was equivalent to a sigh, and that it was dreary work to settle in at home again this first time without the mother. then honor smiled, and played with her pen-wiper. 'well,' she said, 'it is comfortable to be at home again!' 'i hope you will soon be able to feel so, my dear,' said the kind old governess. 'i mean it,' said honor cheerfully; then sighing, 'but do you know, mr. askew wishes his curates to visit at the asylum instead of ladies.' miss wells burst out into all the indignation that was in her mild nature. honor not to visit at the asylum founded chiefly by her own father! 'it is a parish affair now,' said honor; 'and i believe those miss stones and their set have been very troublesome. besides i think he means to change its character.' 'it is very inconsiderate of him,' said miss wells; 'he ought to have consulted you.' 'every one loves his own charity the best,' said honora; 'humfrey says endowments are generally a mistake, each generation had better do its own work to the utmost. i wish mr. askew had not begun now, it was the work i specially looked to, but i let it alone while--and he cannot be expected--' 'i should have expected it of him though!' exclaimed miss wells, 'and he ought to know better! how have you heard it?' 'i have a note from him this morning,' said honora; 'he asks me humfrey charlecote's address; you know he and mr. sandbrook are trustees,' and her voice grew the sadder. 'if i am not much mistaken, mr. charlecote will represent to him his want of consideration.' 'i think not,' said honora; 'i should be sorry to make the clergyman's hard task here any harder for the sake of my feelings. late incumbent's daughters are proverbially inconvenient. no, i would not stand in the way, but it makes me feel as if my work in st. wulstan's were done,' and the tears dropped fast. 'dear, dear honora!' began the old lady, eagerly, but her words and honora's tears were both checked by the sound of a bell, that bell within the court, to which none but intimates found access. 'strange! it is the thought of old times, i suppose,' said honor, smiling, 'but i could have said that was owen sandbrook's ring.' the words were scarcely spoken, ere mr. sandbrook and captain charteris were announced; and there entered a clergyman leading a little child in each hand. how changed from the handsome, hopeful youth from whom she had parted! thin, slightly bowed, grief-stricken, and worn, she would scarcely have known him, and as if to hide how much she felt, she bent quickly, after shaking hands with him, to kiss the two children, flaxen-curled creatures in white, with black ribbons. they both shrank closer to their father. 'cilly, my love, owen, my man, speak to miss charlecote,' he said; 'she is a very old friend of mine. this is my bonny little housekeeper,' he added, 'and here's a sturdy fellow for four years old, is not he?' the girl, a delicate fairy of six, barely accepted an embrace, and clung the faster to her father, with a gesture as though to repel all advance. the boy took a good stare out of a pair of resolute gray eyes, with one foot in advance, and offered both hands. honora would have taken him on her knee, but he retreated, and both leant against their father as he sat, an arm round each, after shaking hands with miss wells, whom he recollected at once, and presenting his brother-in-law, whose broad, open, sailor countenance, hardy and weather-stained, was a great contrast to his pale, hollow, furrowed cheeks and heavy eyes. 'will you tell me your name, my dear?' said honora, feeling the children the easiest to talk to; but the little girl's pretty lips pouted, and she nestled nearer to her father. 'her name is lucilla,' he answered with a sigh, recalling that it had been his wife's name. 'we are all somewhat of little savages,' he added, in excuse for the child's silence. 'we have seen few strangers at wrapworth of late.' 'i did not know you were in london.' 'it was a sudden measure--all my brother's doing,' he said; 'i am quite taken out of my own guidance.' 'i went down to wrapworth and found him very unwell, quite out of order, and neglecting himself,' said the captain; 'so i have brought him up for advice, as i could not make him hear reason.' 'i was afraid you were looking very ill,' said honora, hardly daring to glance at his changed face. 'can't help being ill,' returned captain charteris, 'running about the village in all weathers in a coat like that, and sitting down to play with the children in his wet things. i saw what it would come to, last time.' mr. sandbrook could not repress a cough, which told plainly what it was come to. miss wells asked whom he intended to consult, and there was some talk on physicians, but the subject was turned off by mr. sandbrook bending down to point out to little owen a beautiful carving of a brooding dove on her nest, which formed the central bracket of the fine old mantelpiece. 'there, my man, that pretty bird has been sitting there ever since i can remember. how like it all looks to old times! i could imagine myself running in from westminster on a saint's day.' 'it is little altered in some things,' said honor. the last great change was too fresh! 'yes,' said mr. sandbrook, raising his eyes towards her with the look that used to go so deep of old, 'we have both gone through what makes the unchangeableness of these impassive things the more striking.' 'i can't see,' said the little girl, pulling his hand. 'let me lift you up, my dear,' said honora; but the child turned her back on her, and said, 'father.' he rose, and was bending, at the little imperious voice, though evidently too weak for the exertion, but the sailor made one step forward, and pouncing on miss lucilla, held her up in his arms close to the carving. the two little feet made signs of kicking, and she said in anything but a grateful voice, 'put me down, uncle kit.' uncle kit complied, and she retreated under her papa's wing, pouting, but without another word of being lifted, though she had been far too much occupied with struggling to look at the dove. meantime her brother had followed up her request by saying 'me,' and he fairly put out his arms to be lifted by miss charlecote, and made most friendly acquaintance with all the curiosities of the carving. the rest of the visit was chiefly occupied by the children, to whom their father was eager to show all that he had admired when little older than they were, thus displaying a perfect and minute recollection and affection for the place, which much gratified honora. the little girl began to thaw somewhat under the influence of amusement, but there was still a curious ungraciousness towards all attentions. she required those of her father as a right, but shook off all others in a manner which might be either shyness or independence; but as she was a pretty and naturally graceful child, it had a somewhat engaging air of caprice. they took leave, mr. sandbrook telling the children to thank miss charlecote for being so kind to them, which neither would do, and telling her, as he pressed her hand, that he hoped to see her again. honora felt as if an old page in her history had been reopened, but it was not the page of her idolatry, it was that of the fall of her idol! she did not see in him the champion of the truth, but his presence palpably showed her the excitable weakness which she had taken for inspiration, while the sweetness and sympathy warmed her heart towards him, and made her feel that she had underrated his attractiveness. his implications that he knew she sympathized with him had touched her greatly, and then he looked so ill! a note from old mrs. sandbrook begged her to meet him at dinner the next day, and she was glad of the opportunity of learning the doctor's verdict upon him, though all the time she knew the meeting would be but pain, bringing before her the disappointment not _of_ him, but _in_ him. no one was in the drawing-room but captain charteris, who came and shook hands with her as if they were old friends; but she was somewhat amazed at missing mrs. sandbrook, whose formality would be shocked by leaving her guests in the lurch. 'some disturbance in the nursery department, i fancy,' said the captain; 'those children have never been from home, and they are rather exacting, poor things.' 'poor little things!' echoed honora; then, anxious to profit by the _tete-a-tete_, 'has mr. sandbrook seen dr. l.?' 'yes, it is just as i apprehended. lungs very much affected, right one nearly gone. nothing for it but the mediterranean.' 'indeed!' 'it is no wonder. since my poor sister died he has never taken the most moderate care of his health, perfectly revelled in dreariness and desolateness, i believe! he has had this cough about him ever since the winter, when he walked up and down whole nights with that poor child, and never would hear of any advice till i brought him up here almost by force.' 'i am sure it was time.' 'may it be in time, that's all.' 'italy does so much! but what will become of the children?' 'they must go to my brother's of course. i have told him i will see him there, but i will not have the children! there's not the least chance of his mending, if they are to be always lugging him about--' the captain was interrupted by the entrance of mrs. sandbrook, who looked a good deal worried, though she tried to put it aside, but on the captain saying, 'i'm afraid that you have troublesome guests, ma'am,' out it all came, how it had been discovered late in the day that master owen _must_ sleep in his papa's room, in a crib to himself, and how she had been obliged to send out to hire the necessary articles, subject to his nurse's approval; and the captain's sympathy having opened her heart, she further informed them of the inconvenient rout the said nurse had made about getting new milk for them, for which honor could have found it in her heart to justify her; 'and poor owen is just as bad,' quoth the old lady; 'i declare those children are wearing his very life out, and yet he will not hear of leaving them behind.' she was interrupted by his appearance at that moment, as usual, with a child in either hand, and a very sad picture it was, so mournful and spiritless was his countenance, with the hectic tint of decay evident on each thin cheek, and those two fair healthful creatures clinging to him, thoughtless of their past loss, unconscious of that which impended. little owen, after one good stare, evidently recognized a friend in miss charlecote, and let her seat him upon her knee, listening to her very complacently, but gazing very hard all the time at her, till at last, with an experimental air, he stretched one hand and stroked the broad golden ringlet that hung near him, evidently to satisfy himself whether it really was hair. then he found his way to her watch, a pretty little one from geneva, with enamelled flowers at the back, which so struck his fancy that he called out, 'cilly, look!' the temptation drew the little girl nearer, but with her hands behind her back, as if bent on making no advance to the stranger. honora thought her the prettiest child she had ever seen. small and lightly formed, there was more symmetry in her little fairy figure than usual at her age, and the skin was exquisitely fine and white, tinted with a soft eglantine pink, deepening into roses on the cheeks; the hair was in long flaxen curls, and the eyelashes, so long and fair that at times they caught a glossy light, shaded eyes of that deep blue upon that limpid white, which is like nothing but the clear tints of old porcelain. the features were as yet unformed, but small and delicate, and the upright napoleon gesture had something peculiarly quaint and pretty in such a soft-looking little creature. the boy was a handsome fellow, with more solidity and sturdiness, and honora could scarcely continue to amuse him, as she thought of the father's pain in parting with two such beings--his sole objects of affection. a moment's wish flashed across her, but was dismissed the next moment as a mere childish romance. old mr. sandbrook came in, and various other guests arrived, old acquaintance to whom owen must be re-introduced, and he looked fagged and worn by the time all the greetings had been exchanged and all the remarks made on his children. when dinner was announced, he remained to the last with them, and did not appear in the dining-room till his uncle had had time to look round for him, and mutter something discontentedly about 'those brats.' the vacant chair was beside honora, and he was soon seated in it, but at first he did not seem inclined to talk, and leant back, so white and exhausted, that she thought it kinder to leave him to himself. when, somewhat recruited, he said in a low voice something of his hopes that his little cilly, as he called her, would be less shy another time, and honora responding heartily, he quickly fell into the parental strain of anecdotes of the children's sayings and doings, whence honora collected that in his estimation lucilla's forte was decision and owen's was sweetness, and that he was completely devoted to them, nursing and teaching them himself, and finding his whole solace in them. tender pity moved her strongly towards him, as she listened to the evidences of the desolateness of his home and his heavy sorrow; and yet it was pity alone, admiration would not revive, and indeed, in spite of herself, her judgment _would_ now and then respond 'unwise,' or 'weak,' or 'why permit this?' at details of lucilla's _mutinerie_. presently she found that his intentions were quite at variance with those of his brother. his purpose was fixed to take the children with him. 'they are very young,' said honora. 'yes; but their nurse is a most valuable person, and can arrange perfectly for them, and they will always be under my eye.' 'that was just what captain charteris seemed to dread.' 'he little knows,' began mr. sandbrook, with a sigh. 'yes, i know he is most averse to it, and he is one who always carries his point, but he will not do so here; he imagines that they may go to their aunt's nursery, but,' with an added air of confidence, 'that will never do!' honora's eyes asked more. 'in fact,' he said, as the flush of pain rose on his cheeks, 'the charteris children are not brought up as i should wish to see mine. there are influences at work there not suited for those whose home must be a country parsonage, if-- little cilly has come in for more admiration there already than is good for her.' 'it cannot be easy for her not to meet with that.' 'why, no,' said the gratified father, smiling sadly; 'but castle blanch training might make the mischief more serious. it is a gay household, and i cannot believe with kit charteris that the children are too young to feel the blight of worldly influence. do not you think with me, nora?' he concluded in so exactly the old words and manner as to stir the very depths of her heart, but woe worth the change from the hopes of youth to this premature fading into despondency, and the implied farewell! she did think with him completely, and felt the more for him, as she believed that these charterises had led him and his wife into the gaieties, which since her death he had forsworn and abhorred as temptations. she thought it hard that he should not have his children with him, and talked of all the various facilities for taking them that she could think of, till his face brightened under the grateful sense of sympathy. she did not hold the same opinion all the evening. the two children made their appearance at dessert, and there began by insisting on both sitting on his knees; owen consented to come to her, but lucilla would not stir, though she put on some pretty little coquettish airs, and made herself extremely amiable to the gentleman who sat on her father's other hand, making smart replies, that were repeated round the table with much amusement. but the ordinance of departure with the ladies was one of which the sprite had no idea; honor held out her hand for her; aunt sandbrook called her; her father put her down; she shook her curls, and said she should not leave father; it was stupid up in the drawing-room, and she hated ladies, which confession set every one laughing, so as quite to annihilate the effect of mr. sandbrook's 'yes, go, my dear.' finally, he took the two up-stairs himself--the stairs which, as he had told honora that evening, were his greatest enemies, and he remained a long time in their nursery, not coming down till tea was in progress. mrs. sandbrook always made it herself at the great silver urn, which had been a testimonial to her husband, and it was not at first that she had a cup ready for him. he looked even worse than at dinner, and honora was anxious to see him resting comfortably; but he had hardly sat down on the sofa, and taken the cup in his hand, before a dismal childish wail was heard from above, and at once he started up, so hastily as to cough violently. captain charteris, breaking off a conversation, came rapidly across the room just as he was moving to the door. 'you're not going to those imps--' owen moved his head, and stepped forward. 'i'll settle them.' renewed cries met his ears. 'no--a strange place--' he said. 'i must--' he put his brother-in-law back with his hand, and was gone. the captain could not contain his vexation, 'that's the way those brats serve him every night!' he exclaimed; 'they will not attempt to go to sleep without him! why, i've found him writing his sermon with the boy wrapped up in blankets in his lap; there's no sense in it.' after about ten minutes, during which mr. sandbrook did not reappear, captain charteris muttered something about going to see about him, and stayed away a good while. when he came down, he came and sat down by honora, and said, 'he is going to bed, quite done for.' 'that must be better for him than talking here.' 'why, what do you think i found? those intolerable brats would not stop crying unless he told them a story, and there was he with his voice quite gone, coughing every two minutes, and romancing on with some allegory about children marching on their little paths, and playing on their little fiddles. so i told miss cilly that if she cared a farthing for her father, she would hold her tongue, and i packed her up, and put her into her nursery. she'll mind me when she sees i will be minded; and as for little owen, nothing would satisfy him but his promising not to go away. i saw that chap asleep before i came down, so there's no fear of the yarn beginning again; but you see what chance there is of his mending while those children are at him day and night.' 'poor things! they little know.' 'one does not expect them to know, but one does expect them to show a little rationality. it puts one out of all patience to see him so weak. if he is encouraged to take them abroad, he may do so, but i wash my hands of him. i won't be responsible for him--let them go alone!' honora saw this was a reproach to her for the favour with which she had regarded the project. she saw that the father's weakness quite altered the case, and her former vision flashed across her again, but she resolutely put it aside for consideration, and only made the unmeaning answer, 'it is very sad and perplexing.' 'a perplexity of his own making. as for their not going to castle blanch, they were always there in my poor sister's time a great deal more than was good for any of them, or his parish either, as i told him then; and now, if he finds out that it is a worldly household, as he calls it, why, what harm is that to do to a couple of babies like those? if mrs. charteris does not trouble herself much about the children, there are governesses and nurses enough for a score!' 'i must own,' said honora, 'that i think he is right. children are never too young for impressions.' 'i'll tell you what, miss charlecote, the way he is going on is enough to ruin the best children in the world. that little cilly is the most arrant little flirt i ever came across; it is like a comedy to see the absurd little puss going on with the curate, ay, and with every parson that comes to wrapworth; and she sees nothing else. impressions! all she wants is to be safe shut up with a good governess, and other children. it would do her a dozen times more good than all his stories of good children and their rocky paths, and boats that never sailed on any reasonable principle.' 'poor child,' said honora, smiling, 'she is a little witch.' 'and,' continued the uncle, 'if he thinks it so bad for them, he had better take the only way of saving them from it for the future, or they will be there for life. if he gets through this winter, it will only be by the utmost care.' honora kept her project back with the less difficulty, because she doubted how it would be received by the rough captain; but it won more and more upon her, as she rattled home through the gas-lights, and though she knew she should learn to love the children only to have the pang of losing them, she gladly cast this foreboding aside as selfish, and applied herself impartially as she hoped to weigh the duty, but trembling were the hands that adjusted the balance. alone as she stood, without a tie, was not she marked out to take such an office of mere pity and charity? could she see the friend of her childhood forced either to peril his life by his care of his motherless children, or else to leave them to the influences he so justly dreaded? did not the case cry out to her to follow the promptings of her heart? ay, but might not, said caution, her assumption of the charge lead their father to look on her as willing to become their mother? oh, fie on such selfish prudery imputing such a thought to yonder broken-hearted, sinking widower! he had as little room for such folly as she had inclination to find herself on the old terms. the hero of her imagination he could never be again, but it would be weak consciousness to scruple at offering so obvious an act of compassion. she would not trust herself, she would go by what miss wells said. nevertheless she composed her letter to owen sandbrook between waking and sleeping all night, and dreamed of little creatures nestling in her lap, and small hands playing with her hair. how coolly she strove to speak as she described the dilemma to the old lady, and how her heart leapt when miss wells, her mind moving in the grooves traced out by sympathy with her pupil, exclaimed, 'poor little dears, what a pity they should not be with you, my dear, they would be a nice interest for you!' perhaps miss wells thought chiefly of the brightening in her child's manner, and the alert vivacity of eye and voice such as she had not seen in her since she had lost her mother; but be that as it might, her words were the very sanction so much longed for, and ere long honora had her writing-case before her, cogitating over the opening address, as if her whole meaning were implied in them. 'my dear owen' came so naturally that it was too like an attempt to recur to the old familiarity. 'my dear mr. sandbrook?' so formal as to be conscious! 'dear owen?' yes that was the cousinly medium, and in diffident phrases of restrained eagerness, now seeming too affectionate, now too cold she offered to devote herself to his little ones, to take a house on the coast, and endeavour to follow out his wishes with regard to them, her good old friend supplying her lack of experience. with a beating heart she awaited the reply. it was but few lines, but all owen was in them. 'my dear nora--you always were an angel of goodness. i feel your kindness more than i can express. if my darlings were to be left at all, it should be with you, but i cannot contemplate it. bless you for the thought! 'yours ever, o. sandbrook.' she heard no more for a week, during which a dread of pressing herself on him prevented her from calling on old mrs. sandbrook. at last, to her surprise, she received a visit from captain charteris, the person whom she looked on as least propitious, and most inclined to regard her as an enthusiastic silly young lady. he was very gruff, and gave a bad account of his patient. the little boy had been unwell, and the exertion of nursing him had been very injurious; the captain was very angry with illness, child, and father. 'however,' he said, 'there's one good thing, l. has forbidden the children's perpetually hanging on him, sleeping in his room, and so forth. with the constitutions to which they have every right, poor things, he could not find a better way of giving them the seeds of consumption. that settles it. poor fellow, he has not the heart to hinder their always pawing him, so there's nothing for it but to separate them from him.' 'and may i have them?' asked honor, too anxious to pick her words. 'why, i told him i would come and see whether you were in earnest in your kind offer. you would find them no sinecure.' 'it would be a great happiness,' said she, struggling with tears that might prevent the captain from depending on her good sense, and speaking calmly and sadly; 'i have no other claims, nothing to tie me to any place. i am a good deal older than i look, and my friend, miss wells, has been a governess. _she_ is really a very wise, judicious person, to whom he may quite trust. owen and i were children together, and i know nothing that i should like better than to be useful to him.' 'humph!' said the captain, more touched than he liked to betray; 'well, it seems the only thing to which he can bear to turn!' 'oh!' she said, breaking off, but emotion and earnestness looked glistening and trembling through every feature. 'very well,' said captain charteris, 'i'm glad, at least, that there is some one to have pity on the poor things! there's my brother's wife, she doesn't say no, but she talks of convenience and spoilt children--sandbrook was quite right after all; i would not tell him how she answered me! spoilt children to be sure they are, poor things, but she might recollect they have no mother--such a fuss as she used to make with poor lucilla too. poor lucilla, she would never have believed that "dear caroline" would have no better welcome for her little ones! spoilt indeed! a precious deal pleasanter children they are than any of the lot at castle blanch, and better brought up too.' the good captain's indignation had made away with his consistency, but honora did not owe him a grudge for revealing that she was his _pis aller_, she was prone to respect a man who showed that he despised her, and she only cared to arrange the details. he was anxious to carry away his charge at once, since every day of this wear and tear of feeling was doing incalculable harm, and she undertook to receive the children and nurse at any time. she would write at once for a house at some warm watering-place, and take them there as soon as possible, and she offered to call that afternoon to settle all with owen. 'why,' said captain charteris, 'i hardly know. one reason i came alone was, that i believe that little elf of a cilly has some notion of what is plotting against her. you can't speak a word but that child catches up, and she will not let her father out of her sight for a moment.' 'then what is to be done? i would propose his coming here; but the poor child would not let him go.' 'that is the only chance. he has been forbidden the walking with them in his arms to put them to sleep, and we've got the boy into the nursery, and he'd better be out of the house than hear them roaring for him. so if you have no objection, and he is tolerable this evening, i would bring him as soon as they are gone to bed.' poor owen was evidently falling under the management of stronger hands than his own, and it could only be hoped that it was not too late. his keeper brought him at a little after eight that evening. there was a look about him as if, after the last stroke that had befallen him, he could feel no more, the bitterness of death was past, his very hands looked woe-begone and astray, without the little fingers pressing them. he could not talk at first; he shook honor's hand as if he could not bear to be grateful to her, and only the hardest hearts could have endured to enter on the intended discussion. the captain was very gentle towards him, and talk was made on other topics but gradually something of the influence of the familiar scene where his brightest days had been passed, began to prevail. all was like old times--the quaint old silver kettle and lamp, the pattern of the china cups, the ruddy play of the fire on the polished panels of the room--and he began to revive and join the conversation. they spoke of delaroche's beautiful madonnas, one of which was at the time to be seen at a print-shop--'yes,' said mr. sandbrook, 'and little owen cried out as soon as he saw it, "that lady, the lady with the flowery watch."' honora smiled. it was an allusion to the old jests upon her auburn locks, 'a greater compliment to her than to delaroche,' she said; 'i saw that he was extremely curious to ascertain what my carrots were made of.' 'do you know, nora, i never saw more than one person with such hair as yours,' said owen, with more animation, 'and oddly enough her name turned out to be charlecote.' 'impossible! humfrey and i are the only charlecotes left that i know of! where could it have been?' 'it was at toronto. i must confess that i was struck by the brilliant hair in chapel. afterwards i met her once or twice. she was a canadian born, and had just married a settler, whose name i can't remember, but her maiden name had certainly been charlecote; i remembered it because of the coincidence.' 'very curious; i did not know there had been any charlecotes but ourselves.' 'and humfrey charlecote has never married?' 'never.' what made owen raise his eyes at that moment, just so that she met them? and why did that dreadful uncontrollable crimson heat come mounting up over cheeks and temples, tingling and spreading into her very neck, just because it was the most hateful thing that could happen? and he saw it. she knew he did so, for he dropped his eyes at once, and there was an absolute silence, which she broke in desperation, by an incoherent attempt to say something, and that ended by blundering into the tender subject--the children; she found she had been talking about the place to which she thought of taking them, a quiet spot on the northern coast of somersetshire. he could bear the pang a little better now, and assented, and the ice once broken, there were so many details and injunctions that lay near his heart that the conversation never flagged. he had great reliance on their nurse, and they were healthy children, so that there was not much instruction as regarded the care of their little persons; but he had a great deal to say about the books they were to be taught from, the hymns they were to learn, and the exact management required by lucilla's peculiar temper and decided will. the theory was so perfect and so beautifully wise that honora sat by in reverence, fearing her power of carrying it out; and captain charteris listened with a shade of satire on his face, and at last broke out with a very odd grunt, as if he did not think this quite what he had seen at wrapworth parsonage. mr. sandbrook coloured, and checked himself. then after a pause, he said in a very different tone, 'perhaps so, kit. it is only too easy to talk. nora knows that there is a long way between my intentions and my practice.' the humble dejection of that tone touched her more than she had been touched since he had wrung her hand, long, long ago. 'well,' said the captain, perceiving only that he had given pain, 'i will say this for your monkeys, they do _know_ what is right at least; they have heard the articles of war, which i don't fancy the other lot ever did. as to the discipline, humph! it is much of a muchness, and i'm not sure but it is not the best at the castle.' 'the children are different at home,' said owen, quietly; 'but,' he added, with the same sad humility, 'i dare say they will be much the better for the change; i know--' but he broke off, and put his hand before his eyes. honora hoped she should not be left alone with him, but somehow it did happen. the captain went to bring the carriage into the court, and get all imaginable wraps before trusting him out in the air, and miss wells disappeared, probably intending kindness. of course neither spoke, till the captain was almost come back. then owen rose from where he had been sitting listlessly, leaning back, and slowly said, 'nora, we did not think it would end thus when i put my hand to the plough. i am glad to have been here again. i had not remembered what i used to be. i do not ask you to forgive me. you are doing so, returning me good for--shall i say evil?' honor could not speak or look, she drooped her head, and her hair veiled her; she held out her hand as the captain came in, and felt it pressed with a feverish, eager grasp, and a murmured blessing. honora did not see mr. sandbrook again, but captain charteris made an incursion on her the next day to ask if she could receive the children on the ensuing morning. he had arranged to set off before daybreak, embarking for ostend before the children were up, so as to spare the actual parting, and honora undertook to fetch them home in the course of the day. he had hoped to avoid their knowing of the impending separation but he could only prevail so far as to extract a promise that they should not know when it was to take place. their father had told them of their destination and his own as they sat on his bed in the morning before he rose, and apparently it had gone off better than could have been expected; little owen did not seem to understand, and his sister was a child who never shed tears. the day came, and honora awoke to some awe at the responsibility, but with a yearning supplied, a vacancy filled up. for at least six months she should be as a mother, and a parent's prayers could hardly have been more earnest. she had not long been dressed, when a hasty peal was heard at the bell, and no sooner was the door opened than in hurried captain charteris, breathless, and bearing a large plaid bundle with tangled flaxen locks drooping at one end, and at the other rigid white legs, socks trodden down, one shoe wanting. he deposited it, and there stood the eldest child, her chin buried in her neck, her fingers digging fast into their own palms, her eyes gleaming fiercely at him under the pent-house she had made of her brows. 'there's an introduction!' he said, panting for breath. 'found her in time--the strand--laid flat on back seat, under all the plaids and bags--her father put up his feet and found her--we drove to the lane--i ran down with her--not a moment--can't stay, good-bye, little cilly goose, to think she could go that figure!' he advanced to kiss her, but she lifted up her shoulder between him and her face, much as a pugnacious pigeon flap its wings, and he retreated. 'wiser not, maybe! look here,' as honora hurried after him into the hall to ask after the patient; 'if you have a bit of sticking-plaster, he had better not see this.' lucilla had made her little pearls of teeth meet in the fleshy part of his palm. honora recoiled, shocked, producing the plaster from her pocket in an instant. 'little vixen,' he said, half laughing; 'but i was thankful to her for neither kicking nor struggling!' 'poor child!' said honora, 'perhaps it was as much agony as passion!' he shrugged his shoulders as he held out his hand for her operations, then hastily thanking her and wishing her good-bye, rushed off again, as the astonished miss wells appeared on the stairs. honor shrank from telling her what wounds had been received, she thought the gentle lady would never get over such a proceeding, and, in fact, she herself felt somewhat as if she had undertaken the charge of a little wild cat, and quite uncertain what the young lady might do next. on entering the breakfast-room, they found her sunk down all in a heap, where her uncle had set her down, her elbows on a low footstool, and her head leaning on them, the eyes still gazing askance from under the brows, but all the energy and life gone from the little dejected figure. 'poor child! dear little thing--won't you come to me?' she stirred not. miss wells advanced, but the child's only motion was to shake her frock at her, as if to keep her off; honora, really afraid of the consequences of touching her, whispered that they would leave her to herself a little. the silver kettle came in, and tea was made. 'lucilla, my dear, the servants are coming in to prayers.' she did not offer to move, and still honora let her alone, and she remained in the same attitude while the psalm was read, but afterwards there was a little approximation to kneeling in her position. 'lucilla, dear child, you had better come to breakfast--' only another defying glance. miss wells, with what honor thought defective judgment, made pointed commendations of the tea, the butter and honey, but they had no effect; honora, though her heart ached for the wrench the poor child had undergone, thought it best to affect indifference, gave a hint of the kind, and scrupulously avoided looking round at her, till breakfast was finished. when she did so, she no longer met the wary defiant gleam of the blue eyes, they were fast shut, the head had sunk on the arms, and the long breathings of sleep heaved the little frame. 'poor little dear!' as miss wells might well exclaim, she had kept herself wakeful the whole night that her father might not go without her knowledge. and how pretty she looked in that little black frock, so ill and hastily put on, one round white shoulder quite out of it, and the long flaxen locks showing their silky fineness as they hung dispersed and tangled, the pinky flush of sleep upon the little face pillowed on the rosy pair of arms, and with a white unstockinged leg doubled under her. poor child, there was more of the angel than the tiger-cat in her aspect now, and they had tears in their eyes, and moved softly lest they should startle her from her rest. but wakened she must be. honora was afraid of displeasing her domestic vizier, and rendering him for ever unpropitious to her little guests if she deferred his removal of the breakfast things beyond a reasonable hour. how was the awaking to be managed? fright, tears, passion, what change would come when the poor little maid must awake to her grief! honora would never have expected so poetical a flight from her good old governess as the suggestion, 'play to her;' but she took it eagerly, and going to the disused piano which stood in the room began a low, soft air. the little sleeper stirred, presently raised her head, shook her hair off her ears, and after a moment, to their surprise, her first word was 'mamma!' honora was pausing, but the child said, 'go on,' and sat for a few moments as though recovering herself, then rose and came forward slowly standing at last close to honora. there was a pause, and she said, 'mamma did that.' never was a sound more welcome! honora dared to do what she had longed for so much, put an arm round the little creature and draw her nearer, nor did lucilla resist, she only said, 'won't you go on?' 'i can make prettier music in the other room, my dear; we will go there, only you've had no breakfast. you must be very hungry.' lucilla turned round, saw a nice little roll cut into slices, and remembered that she _was_ hungry; and presently she was consuming it so prosperously under miss wells's superintendence that honor ventured out to endeavour to retard jones's desire to 'take away,' by giving him orders about the carriage, and then to attend to her other household affairs. by the time they were ended she found that miss wells had brought the child into the drawing-room, where she had at once detected the piano, and looking up at honora said eagerly 'now then!' and honora fulfilled her promise, while the child stood by softened and gratified, until it was time to propose fetching little owen, 'your little brother--you will like to have him here.' 'i want my father,' said lucilla in a determined voice, as if nothing else were to satisfy her. 'poor child, i know you do; i am so sorry for you, my dear little woman, but you see the doctors think papa is more likely to get better if he has not you to take care of!' 'i did not want my father to take care of _me_,' said the little lady, proudly; 'i take care of father, i always make his tea and warm his slippers, and bring him his coffee in the morning. and uncle kit never _will_ put his gloves for him and warm his handkerchief! oh! what will he do? i can't bear it.' the violent grief so long kept back was coming now, but not freely; the little girl threw herself on the floor, and in a tumult of despair and passion went on, hurrying out her words, 'it's very hard! it's all uncle kit's doing! i hate him! yes, i do.' and she rolled over and over in her frenzy of feeling. 'my dear! my dear!' cried honora, kneeling by her, 'this will never do! papa would be very much grieved to see his little girl so naughty. don't you know how your uncle only wants to do him good, and to make him get well?' 'then why didn't he take me?' said lucilla, gathering herself up, and speaking sullenly. 'perhaps he thought you gave papa trouble, and tired him.' 'yes, that's it, and it's not fair,' cried the poor child again; 'why couldn't he tell me? i didn't know papa was ill! he never told me so, nor mr. pendy either; or, how i would have nursed him! i wanted to do so much for him; i wouldn't have asked him to tell me stories, nor nothing! no! and now they won't let me take care of him;' and she cried bitterly. 'yes,' said good, gentle miss wells, thinking more of present comfort than of the too possible future; 'but you will go back to take care of him some day, my dear. when the spring comes papa will come back to his little girl.' spring! it was a long way off to a mind of six years old, but it made lucilla look more amiably at miss wells. 'and suppose,' proceeded that good lady, 'you were to learn to be as good and helpful a little girl as can be while he is gone, and then nobody will wish to keep you from him. how surprised he would be!' 'and then shall we go home?' said lucilla. miss wells uttered a somewhat rash assurance to that effect, and the child came near her, pacified and satisfied by the scheme of delightful goodness and progress to be made in order to please her father--as she always called him. honor looked on, thankful for the management that was subduing and consoling the poor little maid, and yet unable to participate in it, for though the kind old lady spoke in all sincerity, it was impossible to honora to stifle a lurking fear that the hopes built on the prospect of his return had but a hollow foundation. however it attracted lucilla to miss wells, so that honora did not fear leaving her on going to bring home little owen. the carriage which had conveyed the travellers, had brought back news of his sister's discovery and capture, and honora found mrs. sandbrook much shocked at the enormity of the proceeding, and inclined to pity honora for having charge of the most outrageous children she had ever seen. a very long letter had been left for her by their father, rehearsing all he had before given of directions, and dwelling still more on some others, but then apparently repenting of laying down the law, he ended by entreating her to use her own judgment, believe in his perfect confidence, and gratitude beyond expression for most unmerited kindness. little owen, she heard, had made the house resound with cries when his father was nowhere to be found, but his nurse had quieted him, and he came running to honora with an open, confiding face. 'are you the lady? and will you take me to cilly and the sea? and may i have a whale?' though honora did not venture on promising him a tame whale in the bristol channel, she had him clinging to her in a moment, eager to set off, to go to cilly, and the dove he had seen at her house. 'it's a nasty house here--i want to come away,' he said, running backwards and forwards between her and the window to look at the horses, while nurse's interminable boxes were being carried down. the troubles really seemed quite forgotten; the boy sat on her knee and chattered all the way to woolstone-lane, and there he and lucilla flew upon each other with very pretty childish joy; the sister doing the honours of the house in right of having been a little longer an inmate. nurse caught her and dressed and combed her, shoed her and sashed her, so that she came down to dinner less picturesque, but more respectable than at her first appearance that morning, and except for the wonderful daintiness of both children, dinner went off very well. all did go well till night, and then owen's woes began. oh what a piteous sobbing lamentation was it! 'daddy, daddy!' not to be consoled, not to be soothed, awakening his sister to the same sad cry, stilled only by exhaustion and sleepiness. poor little fellow! night after night it was the same. morning found him a happy, bright child, full of engaging ways and innocent sayings, and quite satisfied with 'cousin honor,' but bed-time always brought back the same wailing. nurse, a tidy, brisk personage, with a sensible, deferential tone to her superiors, and a caressing one to the children, tried in vain assurances of papa's soon coming back; nay, it might be feared that she held out that going to sleep would bring the morrow when he was to come; but even this delusive promise failed; the present was all; and cousin honor herself was only not daddy, though she nursed him, and rocked him in her arms, and fondled him, and told stories or sung his lullaby with nightly tenderness, till the last sobs had quivered into the smooth heavings of sleep. might only sea air and exercise act as a soporific! that was a better chance than the new promise which honora was vexed to find nurse holding out to poor little owen, that if he would be a good boy, he was going to papa. she was puzzled how to act towards a person not exactly under her authority, but she took courage to speak about these false promises, and found the remonstrance received in good part; indeed nurse used to talk at much length of the children in a manner that implied great affection for them, coupled with a sense that it would be an excellent thing for them to be in such judicious hands. honor always came away from nurse in good humour with herself. the locality she had chosen was a sheltered village on the north coast of somerset, just where exmoor began to give grandeur to the outline in the rear, and in front the welsh hills wore different tints of purple or gray, according to the promise of weather, lundy isle and the two lesser ones serving as the most prominent objects, as they rose from--well, well! honor counted herself as a somersetshire woman, and could not brook hearing much about the hue of the bristol channel. at any rate, just here it had been so kind as to wash up a small strip of pure white sand, fit for any amount of digging for her children; and though sandbeach was watering-place enough to have the lodging-houses, butchers and bakers, so indispensable to the london mind, it was not so much in vogue as to be overrun by fine ladies, spoiling the children by admiring their beauty. so said miss charlecote in her prudence--but was not she just as jealous as nurse that people should turn round a second time to look at those lovely little faces? that was a very happy charge to her and her good old governess, with some drawbacks, indeed, but not such as to distress her over much. the chief was at first owen's nightly sorrows, his daily idleness over lessons, lucilla's pride, and the exceeding daintiness of both children, which made their meals a constant vexation and trouble. but what was this compared with the charm of their dependence on her, and of hearing that newly-invented pet name, 'sweet honey,' invoked in every little concern that touched them? it was little owen's name for her. he was her special favourite--there was no concealing it. lucilla did not need her as much, and was of a vigorous, independent nature, that would stand alone to the utmost. owen gave his affection spontaneously; if lucilla's was won, it must be at unawares. she was living in and for her absent father now, and had nothing to spare for any one else, or if she had, miss wells, who had the less claim on her was preferred to cousin honor. 'father' was almost her religion; though well taught, and unusually forward in religious knowledge, as far as honora dared to augur, no motive save her love for him had a substantive existence, as touching her feelings or ruling her actions. for him she said her prayers and learnt her hymns; for him she consented to learn to hem handkerchiefs; for him were those crooked letters for ever being written; nay, at the thought of his displeasure alone could her tears be made to flow when she was naughty; and for him she endeavoured to be less fanciful at dinner, as soon as her mind had grasped the perception that her not eating what was set before her might really hinder him from always having her with him. she was fairly manageable, with very high spirits, and not at all a silly or helpless child; but though she obeyed miss charlecote, it was only as obeying her father through her, and his constant letters kept up the strong influence. in her most gracious moods, she was always telling her little brother histories of what they should do when they got home to father and mr. prendergast; but to owen, absence made a much greater difference. though he still cried at night, his 'sweet honey' was what he wanted, and with her caressing him, he only dreaded her leaving him. he lavished his pretty endearments upon her, and missed no one when he held her hand or sat in her lap, stroking her curls, and exchanging a good deal of fondling. he liked his hymns, and enjoyed scripture stories, making remarks that caused her to reverence him; and though backward, idle, and sometimes very passionate, his was exactly the legitimate character for a child, such as she could deal with and love. she was as complete a slave to the two little ones as their father could have been; all her habits were made to conform to their welfare and pleasure, and very happy she was, but the discipline was more decided than they had been used to; there were habits to be formed, and others to be broken, and she was not weak enough not to act up to her duty in this respect, even though her heart was winding round that sunny-faced boy as fast as it had ever clung to his father. the new owen sandbrook, with his innocent earnestness, and the spiritual light in his eyes, should fulfil all her dreams! christmas had passed; mr. sandbrook had begun to write to his children about seeing them soon; lucilla's slow hemming was stimulated by the hope of soon making her present; and honora was marvelling at her own selfishness in dreading the moment when the little ones would be no longer hers; when a hurried note of preparation came from captain charteris. a slight imprudence had renewed all the mischief, and his patient was lying speechless under a violent attack of inflammation. another letter, and all was over. a shock indeed! but in honora's eyes, owen sandbrook had become chiefly the children's father, and their future was what concerned her most. how should she bear to part with his darlings for ever, and to know them brought up in the way that was not good, and which their father dreaded, and when their orphanhood made her doubly tender over them? to little owen it was chiefly that papa was gone 'up there' whither all his hymns and allegories pointed, and at his age, all that he did not actually see was much on a par; the hope of meeting had been too distant for the extinction of it to affect him very nearly, and he only understood enough to prompt the prettiest and most touching sayings, wondering about the doings of papa, mamma, and little baby among the angels, with as much reality as he had formerly talked of papa among the french. lucilla heard with more comprehension, but her gay temper seemed to revolt against having sorrow forced on her. she would not listen and would not think; her spirits seemed higher than ever, and honora almost concluded that either she did not feel at all, or that the moment of separation had exhausted all. her character made honora especially regret her destiny; it was one only too congenial to the weeds that were more likely to be implanted, than plucked up, at castle blanch. captain charteris had written to say that he, and probably his brother, should come to sandbeach to relieve miss charlecote from the care of the children, and she prized each day while she still had those dear little voices about the house. 'sweet honey,' said lucilla, who had been standing by the window, apparently watching the rain, 'do uncle charteris and uncle kit want us to go away from you?' 'i am very much afraid they do, my dear.' 'nurse said, if you would ask them, we might stay,' said lucilla, tracing the course of a drop with her finger. 'if asking would do any good, my dear,' sighed honor; 'but i don't think nurse knows. you see, you belong to your uncles now.' 'i won't belong to uncle charteris!' cried lucilla, passionately. 'i won't go to castle blanch! they were all cross to me; ratia teased me, and father said it was all their fault i was naughty, and he would never take me there again! don't let uncle kit go and take me there!' and she clung to her friend, as if the recollection of uncle kit's victory by main force hung about her still. 'i won't, i won't, my child, if i can help it; but it will all be as your dear father may have fixed it, and whatever he wishes i know that his little girl will do.' many a dim hope did honora revolve, and more than ever did she feel as if a piece of her heart would be taken away, for the orphans fastened themselves upon her, and little owen stroked her face, and said naughty uncle kit should not take them away. she found from the children and nurse that about a year ago, just after the loss of the baby, there had been a most unsuccessful visit at castle blanch; father and little ones had been equally miserable there in the separation of the large establishment, and lucilla had been domineeringly petted by her youngest cousin, horatia, who chose to regard her as a baby, and coerced her by bodily force, such as was intolerable to so high-spirited a child, who was a little woman at home. she had resisted, and fallen into dire disgrace, and it was almost with horror that she regarded the place and the cousinhood. nurse appeared to have some private disgust of her own, as well as to have much resented her children's being convicted of naughtiness, and she spoke strongly in confidence to honora of the ungodly ways of the whole household, declaring that after the advantages she had enjoyed with her dear master, she could not bear to live there, though she might--yes, she _must_ be with the dear children just at first, and she ventured to express strong wishes for their remaining in their present home, where they had been so much improved. the captain came alone. he walked in from the inn just before luncheon, with a wearied, sad look about him, as if he had suffered a good deal; he spoke quietly and slowly, and when the children came in, he took them up in his arms and kissed them very tenderly. lucilla submitted more placably than honor expected, but the moment they were set down they sprang to their friend, and held by her dress. then came the meal, which passed off with small efforts at making talk, but with nothing memorable except the captain's exclamation at the end--'well, that's the first time i ever dined with you children without a fuss about the meat. why, cilly, i hardly know you.' 'i think the appetites are better for the sea air,' said honor, not that she did not think it a great achievement. 'i'm afraid it has been a troublesome charge,' said the captain, laying his hand on his niece's shoulder, which she at once removed, as disavowing his right in her. 'oh! it has made me so happy,' said honor, hardly trusting her voice; 'i don't know how to yield it up.' those understanding eyes of lucilla's were drinking in each word, but uncle kit ruthlessly said--'there, it's your walking time, children; you go out now.' honora followed up his words with her orders, and lucille obeyed, only casting another wistful look, as if she knew her fate hung in the scales. it was showing tact such as could hardly have been expected from the little impetuous termagant, and was the best pleading for her cause, for her uncle's first observation was--'a wonder! six months back, there would have been an explosion!' 'i am glad you think them improved.' 'civilized beings, not plagues. you have been very good to them;' and as she intimated her own pleasure in them, he continued--'it will be better for them at castle blanch to have been a little broken in; the change from his indulgence would have been terrible.' 'if it were possible to leave them with me, i should be so happy,' at length gasped honora, meeting an inquiring dart from the captain's eyes, as he only made an interrogative sound as though to give himself time to think, and she proceeded it broken sentences--'if their uncle and aunt did not so very much wish for them--perhaps--i could--' 'well,' said captain charteris, apparently so little aided by his thoughts as to see no hope of overcoming his perplexity without expressing it, 'the truth is that, though i had not meant to say anything of it, for i think relations should come first, i believe poor sandbrook would have preferred it.' and while her colour deepened, and she locked her trembling fingers together to keep them still, he went on. 'yes! you can't think how often i called myself a dozen fools for having parted him from his children! never held up his head again! i could get him to take interest in nothing--every child he saw he was only comparing to one or other of them. after the year turned, and he talked of coming home, he was more cheerful; but strangely enough, for those last days at hyeres, though he seemed better, his spirits sank unaccountably, and he _would_ talk more of the poor little thing that he lost than of these! then he had a letter from you which set him sighing, and wishing they could always have such care! altogether, i thought to divert him by taking him on that expedition, but-- well, i've been provoked with him many a time, but there was more of the _real thing_ in him than in the rest of us, and i feel as if the best part of our family were gone.' 'and this was all? he was too ill to say much afterwards?' 'couldn't speak when he rang in the morning! was gone by that time next day. now,' added the captain, after a silence, 'i tell you candidly that my feeling is that the ordinary course is right. i think charles ought to take the children, and the children ought to be with charles.' 'if you think so,' began honor, with failing hopes. 'at the same time,' continued he, 'i don't think they'll be so happy or so well cared for as by you, and knowing poor owen's wishes, i should not feel justified in taking them away, since you are so good as to offer to keep them.' honor eagerly declared herself much obliged, then thought it sounded ironical. 'unless,' he proceeded, 'charles should strongly feel it his duty to take them home, in which case--' 'oh, of course i could say nothing.' 'very well, then we'll leave it to his decision.' so it remained, and in trembling honora awaited the answer. it was in her favour that he was appointed to a ship, since he was thus excluded from exercising any supervision over them at castle blanch, and shortly after, letters arrived gratefully acceding to her request. family arrangements and an intended journey made her proposal doubly welcome, for the present at least, and mrs. charteris was full of polite thanks. poor little waifs and strays! no one else wanted them, but with her at least they had a haven of refuge, and she loved them the more ardently for their forlorn condition. her own as they had never before been! and if the tenure were uncertain, she prized it doubly, even though, by a strange fatality, she had never had so much trouble and vexation with them as arose at once on their being made over to her! when all was settled, doubt over, and the routine life begun, lucilla evidently felt the blank of her vanished hopes, and became fretful and captious, weary of things in general, and without sufficient motive to control her natural taste for the variety of naughtiness! honor had not undertaken the easiest of tasks, but she neither shrank from her enterprise nor ceased to love the fiery little flighty sprite, the pleasing torment of her life--she loved her only less than that model of childish sweetness, her little owen. * * * * * 'lucy, dear child, don't take your brother there. owen dear, come back, don't you see the mud? you'll sink in.' 'i'm only getting a dear little crab, sweet honey,' and the four little feet went deeper and deeper into the black mud. 'i can't have it done! come back, children, i desire, directly.' the boy would have turned, but his sister had hold of his hand. 'owen, there he is! i'll have him,' and as the crab scuttled sidelong after the retreating tide, on plunged the children. 'lucy, come here!' cried the unfortunate old hen, as her ducklings took to the black amphibious mass, but not a whit did lucilla heed. in the ardour of the chase, on she went, unheeding, leaving her brother sticking half way, where having once stopped, he began to find it difficult to withdraw his feet, and fairly screamed to 'sweet honey' for help. his progress was not beyond what a few long vigorous steps of hers could come up with, but deeply and blackly did she sink, and when she had lifted her truant out of his two holes, the increased weight made her go ankle deep at the first tread, and just at the same moment a loud shriek proclaimed that lucilla, in hey final assault on the crab, had fallen flat on a yielding surface, where each effort to rise sank her deeper, and honora almost was expecting in her distress to see her disappear altogether, ere the treacherous mud would allow her to come to the rescue. but in that instant of utmost need, ere she could set down the little boy, a gentleman, with long-legged strides, had crossed the intervening space, and was bearing back the young lady from her mud bath. she raised her eyes to thank him. 'humfrey!' she exclaimed. 'honor! so it was you, was it? i'd no notion of it!' as he placed on her feet the little maiden, encrusted with mud from head to foot, while the rest of the party were all apparently cased in dark buskins of the same. 'come to see me and my children?' she said. 'i am ashamed you should find us under such circumstances! though i don't know what would have become of us otherwise. no, lucy, you are too disobedient for any one to take notice of you yet--you must go straight home, and be cleaned, and not speak to mr. charlecote till you are quite good. little owen, here he is--he was quite led into it. but how good of you to come, humfrey: where are you?' 'at the hotel--i had a mind to come and see how you were getting on, and i'd had rather more than usual to do of late, so i thought i would take a holiday.' they walked on talking for some seconds, when presently as the squire's hand hung down, a little soft one stole into it, and made him exclaim with a start, 'i thought it was ponto's nose!' but though very fond of children, he took up his hand, and did not make the slightest response to the sly overture of the small coquette, the effect as honor well knew of opposition quite as much as of her strong turn for gentlemen. she pouted a little, and then marched on with 'don't care' determination, while humfrey and honora began to talk over hiltonbury affairs, but were soon interrupted by owen, who, accustomed to all her attention, did not understand her being occupied by any one else. 'honey, honeypots,' and a pull at her hand when she did not immediately attend, 'why don't the little crabs get black legs like mine?' 'because they only go where they ought,' was the extremely moral reply of the squire. 'little boys aren't meant to walk in black mud.' 'the shrimp boys do go in the mud,' shrewdly pleaded owen, setting honor off laughing at humfrey's discomfited look of diversion. 'it won't do to generalize,' she said, merrily. 'owen must be content to regard crabs and shrimp boys as privileged individuals.' owen demanded whether when he was big he might be a shrimp boy, and a good deal of fraternization had taken place between him and mr. charlecote before the cottage was reached. it was a very happy day to honora; there was a repose and trust to be felt in humfrey's company, such as she had not experienced since she had lost her parents, and the home sense of kindred was very precious. only women whose chief prop is gone, can tell the value of one who is still near enough to disapprove without ceremony. the anxiety that honor felt to prove to her cousin that it was not a bit of romantic folly to have assumed her present charge, was worth more than all the freedom of action in the world. how much she wanted the children to show off to advantage! how desirous she was that he should not think her injudicious! yes, and how eager to see him pleased with their pretty looks! lucilla came down cleaned, curled, and pardoned, and certainly a heart must have been much less tender than humfrey charlecote's not to be touched by the aspect of those two little fair waxen-looking beings in the deepest mourning of orphanhood. he was not slow in making advances towards them, but the maiden had been affronted, and chose to be slyly shy and retiring, retreating to the other side of miss wells, and there becoming intent upon her story-book, though many a gleam through her eyelashes betrayed furtive glances at the stranger whom owen was monopolizing. and then she let herself be drawn out, with the drollest mixture of arch demureness and gracious caprice. honora had never before seen her with a gentleman, and to be courted was evidently as congenial an element to her as to a reigning beauty. she was perfectly irresistible to manhood, and there was no doubt, ere the evening was over, that humfrey thought her one of the prettiest little girls he had ever seen. he remained a week at sandbeach, lodging at the inn, but spending most of his time with honor. he owned that he had been unwell, and there certainly was a degree of lassitude about him, though honor suspected that his real motive in coming was brotherly kindness and desire to see whether she were suffering much from the death of owen sandbrook. having come, he seemed not to know how to go away. he was too fond of children to become weary of their petty exactions, and they both had a sort of passion for him; he built castles for them on the beach, presided over their rides, took them out boating, and made them fabulously happy. lucilla had not been so good for weeks, and the least symptom of an outbreak was at once put down by his good-natured 'no, no!' the evenings at the cottage with honora and miss wells, music and bright talk, were evidently very refreshing to him, and he put off his departure from day to day, till an inexorable matter of county business forced him off. not till the day was imminent, did the cousins quit the easy surface of holiday leisure talk. they had been together to the late evening service, and were walking home, when honora began abruptly, 'humfrey, i wish you would not object to the children giving me pet names.' 'i did not know that i had shown any objection.' 'as if you did not impressively say miss charlecote on every occasion when you mention me to them.' 'well, and is not it more respectful?' 'that's not what i want. where the natural tie is wanting, one should do everything to make up for it.' 'and you hope to do so by letting yourself be called honey-pots!' 'more likely than by sitting up distant and awful to be _miss charlecoted_!' 'whatever you might be called must become an endearment,' said humfrey, uttering unawares one of the highest compliments she had ever received, 'and i own i do not like to hear those little chits make so free with your name.' 'for my sake, or theirs?' 'for both. there is an old saying about familiarity, and i think you should recollect that, for the children's own good, it is quite as needful to strengthen respect as affection.' 'and you think i can do that by fortifying myself with miss charlecote? perhaps i had better make it mrs. honora charlecote at once, and get a high cap, a rod, and a pair of spectacles, eh? no! if they won't respect me out of a buckram suit, depend upon it they would find out it was a hollow one.' humfrey smiled. from her youth up, honor could generally come off in apparent triumph from an argument with him, but the victory was not always where the triumph was. 'well, humfrey,' she said, after some pause, 'do you think i am fit to be trusted with my two poor children?' there was a huskiness in his tone as he said, 'i am sincerely glad you have the pleasure and comfort of them.' 'i suspect there's a reservation there. but really, humfrey, i don't think i went out searching for the responsibility in the way that makes it dangerous. one uncle did not want them, and the other could not have them, and it would have been mere barbarity in me not to offer. besides, their father wished--' and her voice faltered with tears. 'no, indeed,' said humfrey, eagerly, 'i did not in the least mean that it is not the kindest, most generous requital,' and there he broke off, embarrassed by the sincere word that he had uttered, but before she had spoken an eager negative--to what she knew not--he went on. 'and of course i don't mean that you are not one to manage them very well, and all that--only i hope there may not be pain in store--i should not like those people to use you for their nursery governess, and then take the children away just as you had set your heart upon them. don't do that, honor,' he added, with an almost sad earnestness. 'do what? set my heart on them? do you think i can help loving the creatures?' she said, with mournful playfulness, 'or that my uncertain tenure does not make them the greater darlings?' 'there are ways of loving without setting one's heart,' was the somewhat grave reply. he seemed to be taking these words as equivalent to transgressing the command that requires all our heart, and she began quickly, 'oh! but i didn't mean--' then a sudden thrill crossed her whether there might not be some truth in the accusation. where had erst the image of owen sandbrook stood? first or second? where was now the image of the boy? she turned her words into 'do you think i am doing so--in a wrong way?' 'honor dear, i could not think of wrong where you are concerned,' he said. 'i was only afraid of your kindness bringing you pain, if you rest your happiness very much upon those children.' 'i see,' said honor, smiling, relieved. 'thank you, humfrey; but you see i can't weigh out my affection in that fashion. they will get it, the rogues!' 'i'm not afraid, as far as the girl is concerned,' said humfrey. 'you are strict enough with her.' 'but how am i to be strict when poor little owen never does anything wrong?' 'yes, he is a particularly sweet child.' 'and not at all wanting in manliness,' cried honor, eagerly. 'so full of spirit, and yet so gentle. oh! he is a child whom it is a privilege to train, and i don't think i have spoilt him yet, do you?' 'no, i don't think you have. he is very obedient in general.' 'oh! if he could be only brought up as i wish. and i do think his innocence is too perfect a thing not to be guarded. what a perfect clergyman he would make! just fancy him devoting himself to some parish like poor dear old st. wulstan's--carrying his bright sweetness into the midst of all that black babel, and spreading light round him! he always says he will be a clergyman like his papa, and i am sure he must be marked out for it. he likes to look at the sheep on the moors, and talk about the shepherd leading them, and i am sure the meaning goes very deep with him.' she was not going quite the way to show humfrey that her heart was not set on the boy, and she was checked by hearing him sigh. perhaps it was for the disappointment he foresaw, so she said, 'whether i bring him up or not, don't you believe there will be a special care over such a child?' 'there is a special care over every christian child, i suppose,' he said; 'and i hope it may all turn out so as to make you happy. here is your door; good night, and good-bye.' 'why, are not you coming in?' 'i think not; i have my things to put up; i must go early to-morrow. thank you for a very happy week. good-bye, honor.' there was a shade of disappointment about his tone that she could not quite account for. dear old humfrey! could he be ageing? could he be unwell? did he feel himself lonely? could she have mortified him, or displeased him? honor was not a woman of personal vanity, or a solution would sooner have occurred to her. she knew, upon reflection, that it must have been for her sake that humfrey had continued single, but it was so inconvenient to think of him in the light of an admirer, when she so much needed him as a brother, that it had hardly ever occurred to her to do so; but at last it did strike her whether, having patiently waited so long, this might not have been a visit of experiment, and whether he might not be disappointed to find her wrapped up in new interests--slightly jealous, in fact, of little owen. how good he had been! where was the heart that could fail of being touched by so long a course of forbearance and consideration? besides honor had been a solitary woman long enough to know what it was to stand alone. and then how well he would stand in a father's place towards the orphans. he would never decree her parting with them, and captain charteris himself must trust him. yet what a shame it would be to give such a devoted heart nothing better than one worn out, with the power of love such as he deserved, exhausted for ever. and yet--and yet--something very odd bounded up within her, and told her between shame and exultation, that faithful old humfrey would not be discontented even with what she had to give. another time--a little, a very little encouragement, and the pine wood scene would come back again, and then--her heart fainted a little--there should be no concealment--but if she could only have been six months married all at once! time went on, and honora more than once blushed at finding how strong a hold this possibility had taken of her heart, when once she had begun to think of resting upon one so kind, so good, so strong. every perplexity, every care, every transaction that made her feel her position as a single woman, brought round the yearning to lay them all down upon him, who would only be grateful to her for them. every time she wanted some one to consult, hope showed her his face beaming sweetly on her, and home seemed to be again opening to her, that home which might have been hers at any time these twelve years. she quite longed to see how glad the dear, kind fellow would be. perhaps maidenly shame would have belied her feelings in his actual presence, perhaps she would not have shrunk from him, and been more cold than in her unconsciousness, but he came not; and his absence fanned the spark so tardily kindled. what if she had delayed till too late? he was a man whose duty it was to marry! he had waited till he was some years past forty--perhaps this had been his last attempt, and he was carrying his addresses elsewhere. well! honora believed she had tried to act rightly, and that must be her comfort--and extremely ashamed of herself she was, to find herself applying such a word to her own sensations in such a case--and very much disliking the notion of any possible lady at hiltonbury holt. chapter iii there is a reaper, his name is death, and with his sickle keen, he reaps the bearded grain at a breath, and the flowers that grow between.--longfellow a letter from humfrey! how honor's heart fluttered. would it announce an engagement, or would it promise a visit on which her fate would turn, or would it be only a business letter on her money matters? angry at her own trepidation, she opened it. it was none of all these. it told her that mr. saville, his brother-in-law, was staying at the holt with his second wife, and that he begged her to take advantage of this opportunity to come to visit the old place, adding, that he had not been well, and he wished much to see her, if she could spare a few days to him from her children. little doubt had she as to the acceptance. the mere words 'going to hiltonbury,' had power by force of association to make her heart bound. she was a little disappointed that he had not included the children; she feared that it looked as if he were really ill; but it might be on account of the savilles, or maybe he had that to say to her which--oh, nonsense! were that the case, humfrey would not reverse the order of things, and make her come to him. at any rate, the children should be her first condition. and then she concentrated her anxieties on his most unusual confession of having been unwell. humfrey's substantial person was ready to meet her at the station, and the first glance dispelled her nervous tremors, and calmed the tossings of her mind in the habitual sense of trust and reliance. he thanked her for coming, handed her into the carriage, looked after her goods, and seated himself beside her in so completely his ordinary fashion of taking care of her, that she forgot all her intentions of rendering their meeting momentous. her first inquiry was for his health, but he put it aside with something about feeling very well now, and he looked so healthy, only perhaps a little more hearty and burly, that she did not think any more of the matter, and only talked in happy desultory scraps, now dwelling on her little owen's charms, now joyfully recognizing familiar objects, or commenting upon the slight changes that had taken place. one thing, however, she observed; humfrey did not stop the horse at the foot of the steep hill where walking had been a matter of course, when he had been a less solid weight than now. 'yes, honor,' he said, smiling, 'one grows less merciful as one grows old and short-breathed.' 'you growing old! you whom i've never left off thinking of as a promising lad, as poor old mrs. mervyn used to call you.' he turned his face towards her as if about to say something very seriously, but apparently changing his intention, he said, 'poor old mrs. mervyn, i wonder how she would like the changes at beauchamp.' 'are the fulmorts doing a great deal?' 'they have quite modernized the house, and laid out the garden--what i should call very prettily, if it were not for my love of the old dutch one. they see a great deal of company, and go on in grand style.' 'how do you get on with them?' 'oh! very well; i have dined there two or three times. he is a good-natured fellow enough, and there are some nice children, whom i like to meet with their nurses in the woods. i stood proxy for the last one's sponsor; i could not undertake the office myself.' 'good-natured!' exclaimed nora. 'why, you know how he behaved at st. wulstan's. no more than pounds a year would he ever give to any charity, though he was making thousands by those gin-shops.' 'probably he thought he was doing very liberally.' 'ay, there is no hope for st. wulstan's till people have left off thinking a guinea their duty, and five very handsome! and that augusta mervyn should have gone and married our _bete noire_--our lord of gin-palaces--i do think it must be on purpose for you to melt him. i shall set you at him, humfrey, next time mr. askew writes to me in despair, that something won't go on for lack of means. only i must be quite sure that you won't give the money yourself, to spare the trouble of dunning.' 'it is not fair to take other people's duties on oneself; besides, as you'll find, honor, the holt purse is not bottomless.' as she would find! this was a very odd way of making sure of her beforehand, but she was not certain that she did not like it. it was comfortable, and would save much preliminary. the woods were bursting into spring: delicate, deeply creased leaves were joyously emerging to the light on the birches, not yet devoid of the silvery wool where they had been packed, the hazels were fluttering their goslings, the palms were honey sweet with yellow tufts, the primroses peeped out in the banks of moss. 'oh! humfrey, this is the great desire of my life fulfilled, to see the holt in the flush of spring!' 'i have always said you cared for the place more than any one,' said humfrey, evidently gratified, but with an expression which she did not understand. 'as if i did not! but how strangely differently from my vision my wish has been fulfilled.' 'how strangely!' he repeated, with even greater seriousness than had been in her voice. the meadow was bright with spring grass, the cattle grazing serenely as in old times, the garden--ah! not quite so gay--either it was better in autumn than in spring, or it wanted poor sarah's hand; the dogs, not the same individuals, but with much the same manners, dancing round their master--all like, all home. nothing wanting, but, alas! the good-natured, narrow-minded old mistress of the house to fret her, and notable sarah to make her comfortable, and wonder at her eccentric tastes. ah! and how much more was wanting the gentle mother who did all the civility and listening, and the father, so happy to look at green woods, read poetry, and unbend his weary brow! how much more precious was the sight of the one living remnant of those days! they had a cheerful evening. mr. saville had a great deal of old-fashioned oxford agreeableness; he was very courtly, but a sensible man, with some native fun and many college stories. after many years of donship, his remote parish was somewhat of a solitude to him, and intercourse with a cultivated mind was as pleasant to him now as the sight of a lady had been in his college days. honor liked conversation too; and miss wells, lucilla, and owen had been rather barren in that respect, so there was a great deal of liveliness, in which humfrey took his full share; while good mrs. saville looked like what she was, her husband's admiring housekeeper. 'do you take early walks still, humfrey?' asked honor, as she bade him good night. 'if you do, i shall be quite ready to confront the dew;' and therewith came a revulsion of the consciousness within. was this courting him? and to her great provocation there arose an uncomfortable blush. 'thank you,' he said, with something of a mournful tone, 'i'm afraid i'm past that, honor. to-morrow, after breakfast--good night.' honor was a little alarmed by all this, and designed a conference with the old housekeeper, mrs. stubbs, to inquire into her master's health, but this was not attainable that night, and she could only go to bed in the friendly old wainscoted room, whose white and gold carved monsters on the mantelpiece were well-nigh as familiar as the dove in woolstone-lane; but, oh! how it made her long for the mother whom she used to kiss there. humfrey was brisk and cheerful as ever at breakfast, devising what his guests would like to do for the day, and talking of some friends whom he had asked to meet mr. saville, so that all the anxieties with which honora had risen were dissipated, and she took her part gaily in the talk. there was something therefore freshly startling to her, when, on rising, humfrey gravely said, 'honor, will you come into my study for a little while?' the study had always been more of a place for guns and fishing-tackle than for books. it was humfrey's usual living room when alone, and was of course full besides of justice books, agricultural reports, acts of parliament, piles of papers, little bags of samples of wheat, all in the orderly disorder congenial to the male kind. all this was as usual, but the change that struck her was, that the large red leather lounging chair, hitherto a receptacle for the overflowings of the table, was now wheeled beside the fire, and near it stood a little table with a large print bible on it, which she well remembered as his mother's. humfrey set a chair for her by the fire, and seated himself in the easy one, leaning back a little. she had not spoken. something in his grave preparation somewhat awed her, and she sat upright, watching him. 'it was very kind of you to come, honor,' he began; 'more kind than you know.' 'i am sure it could be no other than a treat--' he continued, before she could go farther, 'i wished particularly to speak to you. i thought it might perhaps spare you a shock.' she looked at him with a terrified eye. 'don't be frightened, my dear,' he said, leaning forward, 'there is no occasion. such things must come sooner or later, and it is only that i wished to tell you that i have been having advice for a good many uncomfortable feelings that have troubled me lately.' 'well?' she asked, breathlessly. 'and dixon tells me that it is aneurism.' quick and fast came honora's breath; her hands were clasped together; her eyes cast about with such a piteous, despairing expression, that he started to his feet in a moment, exclaiming--'honor! honor dear! don't! there's no need. i did not think you would feel it in this way!' 'feel! what should i feel if not for you? oh! humfrey! don't say it! you are all that is left me--you cannot be spared!' and as he came towards her, she grasped his hand and clung to him, needing the support which he gave in fear of her fainting. 'dear honor, do not take it thus. i am very well now--i dare say i shall be so to the last, and there is nothing terrible to the imagination. i am very thankful for both the preparation and the absence of suffering. will not you be the same?' 'yes, you,' said honora, sitting up again, and looking up into his sincere, serene face; 'i cannot doubt that even this is well for you, but it is all selfishness--just as i was beginning to feel what you are to me.' humfrey's face lighted up suddenly. 'then, honor,' he said, evidently putting strong restraint upon his voice, 'you could have listened to me now!' she bowed her head--the tears were dropping very fast. 'thank god!' he said, as again he leant back in his chair; and when she raised her eyes again, he sat with his hands clasped, and a look of heavenly felicity on his face, raised upwards. 'oh! humfrey! how thoughtlessly i have trifled away all that might have been the happiness of your life!' 'you never trifled with me,' he said; 'you have always dealt honestly and straightforwardly, and it is best as it is. had we been together all this time, the parting might have been much harder. i am glad there are so few near ties to break.' 'don't say so! you, loved by every one, the tower of strength to all that is good!' 'hush, hush! nonsense, honor!' said he, kindly. 'i think i have tried,' he went on, gravely, 'not to fall behind the duties of my station; but that would be a bad dependence, were there not something else to look to. as to missing me, the world did very well without me before i was born; it will do as well when i am gone; and as to you, my poor honor, we have been very little together of late.' 'i had you to lean on.' 'lean on something stronger,' he said; and as she could not govern her bitter weeping, he went on--'ah! i am the selfish one now, to be glad of what must make it the worse for you; but if one thing were wanting to make me happy, it was to know that at last you cared for me.' 'i should be a wretch not to do so. so many years of patience and forbearance!--nobody could be like you.' 'i don't see that,' said humfrey, simply. 'while you continued the same, i could not well turn my mind to any one else, and i always knew i was much too loutish for you.' 'now, humfrey!--' 'yes, there is no use in dwelling on this,' he said, quietly. 'the reason i asked you to be kind enough to come here, is that i do not think it well to be far from home under the circumstances. there, don't look frightened--they say it may very possibly not come for several months or a year. i hope to have time to put things a little in order for you, and that is one reason i wished to see you; i thought i could make the beginning easier to you.' but honora was far too much shaken for such a turn to the conversation; she would not mortify him, but she could neither listen nor understand. he, who was so full of stalwart force, a doomed man, yet calm and happy under his sentence; he, only discovered to be so fondly loved in time to give poignancy to the parting, and yet rejoicing himself in the poor, tardy affection that had answered his manly constancy too late! his very calmness and stillness cut her to the heart, and after some ineffectual attempts to recover herself, she was forced to take refuge in her own room. weeping, praying, walking restlessly about, she remained there till luncheon time, when humfrey himself came up to knock at her door. 'honor dear!' he said, 'come down--try to throw it off--saville does not wish his wife to be made aware of it while she is here, lest she should be nervous. you must not betray me--and indeed there is no reason for being overcome. nothing vexes me but seeing you so. let us enjoy your visit, pray.' to be commanded to bear up by a strong, manly character so much loved and trusted was perhaps the chief support she could receive; she felt that she must act composure, and coming down in obedience to her cousin, she found the power of doing so. nay, as she saw him so completely the bright, hospitable host, talking to mrs. saville about her poultry, and carrying on quiet jokes with mr. saville, she found herself drawn away from the morning's conversation, or remembering it like a dream that had passed away. then all went out together, and he was apparently as much interested in his young wheat as ever, and even more anxious to make her look at and appreciate crops and cattle, speaking about them in his hearty, simple way, as if his pleasure in them was not flagging, perhaps because it had never been excessive. he had always sat loose to them, and thus they could please and occupy him even when the touch of the iron hand had made itself felt. and again she saw him engrossed in arranging some petty matter of business for one of the poor people; and when they had wandered down to the gate, pelting the turn-out of the boys' school with a pocket full of apples that he said he had taken up while in conference with the housekeeper, laughing and speaking merrily as the varlets touched their caps to him, and always turning to her for sympathy in his pleasures of success or of good nature, as though her visit were thorough enjoyment to him. and so it almost was to her. the influence of the dear old scenes was something, and his cheeriness was a great deal more; the peaceful present was not harassed or disturbed, and the foreboding, on which she might not dwell, made it the more precious. that slow wandering about the farm and village, and the desultory remarks, the old pleasant reminiscences, the inquiries and replies about the villagers and neighbours had a quiet charm about them, as free and happy as when, youth and child, they had frisked through the same paths; nay, the old scenes so brought back the old habits that she found herself discoursing to him in her former eager fashion upon the last historical character who had bitten her fancy. 'my old way,' she said, catching herself up; 'dinning all this into your ears as usual, when you don't care.' 'don't i?' said humfrey, with his sincere face turned on her in all its sweetness. 'perhaps i never showed you how much, honor; and i beg your pardon, but i would not have been without it!' the savilles came up, while honor's heart was brimful at this compliment, and then it was all commonplace again, except for that sunset light, that rich radiance of the declining day, that seemed unconsciously to pervade all humfrey's cheerfulness, and to give his mirth and playfulness a solid happiness. some mutual friends of long standing came to dinner, and the evening was not unlike the last, quite as free from gloom, and mr. charlecote as bright as ever, evidently taking his full share in county business, and giving his mind to it. only honor noted that he quietly avoided an invitation to a very gay party which was proposed; and his great ally, sir john raymond, seemed rather vexed with him for not taking part in some new and expensive experiment in farming, and asked incredulously whether it were true that he wished to let a farm that he had kept for several years in his own hands. humfrey agreed that it was so, and said something farther of wishing to come to terms quickly. she guessed that this was for her sake, when she thought all this over in her bedroom. such was the effect of his calmness that it had not been a day of agitation. there was more peace than tumult in her mind as she lay down to rest, sad, but not analyzing her sadness, and lulled by the present into putting aside the future. so she slept quietly, and awoke with a weight at her heart, but softened and sustained by reverent awe and obedience towards her cousin. when they met, he scanned her looks with a bright, tender glance, and smiled commendation when he detected no air of sleeplessness. he talked and moved as though his secret were one of untold bliss, and this was not far from the truth; for when, after breakfast, he asked her for another interview in the study, they were no sooner alone than he rubbed his hands together with satisfaction, saying--'so, honor, you could have had me after all!' looking at her with a broad, undisguised, exulting smile. 'oh! humfrey!' 'don't say it if you don't like it; but you can't guess the pleasure it gives me. i could hardly tell at first what was making me so happy when i awoke this morning.' 'i can't see how it should,' said honor, her eyes swimming with tears, 'never to have met with any gratitude for--i have used you too ill--never valued, scarcely even believed in what you lavished on poor silly me--and now, when all is too late, you are glad--' 'glad! of course i am,' returned humfrey; 'i never wished to obtrude my feelings on you after i knew how it stood with you. it would have been a shame. your choice went far above me. for the rest, if to find you disposed towards me at the last makes me so happy,' and he looked at her again with beaming affection, 'how could i have borne to leave you if all had been as i wished? no, no, it is best as it is. you lose nothing in position, and you are free to begin the world again, not knocked down or crushed.' 'don't talk so, humfrey! it is breaking my heart to think that i might have been making you happy all this time.' 'heaven did not will it so,' said humfrey, reverently, 'and it might not have proved what we fancy. you might not have found such a clodhopper all you wanted, and my stupidity might have vexed you, though now you fancy otherwise. and i have had a very happy life--indeed i have, honor; i never knew the time when i could not say with all my heart, "the lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground, yea, i have a goodly heritage." everybody and everything, you and all the rest, have been very kind and friendly, and i have never wanted for happiness. it has been all right. you could fulfil your duty as a daughter undividedly, and now i trust those children will be your object and comfort--only, honor, not your idols. perhaps it was jealousy, but i have sometimes fancied that your tendency with their father--' 'oh! how often i must have given you pain.' 'i did not mean _that_, but, as i say, perhaps i was no fair judge. one thing is well, the relations will be much less likely to take them from you when you are living here.' she held up her hands in deprecation. 'honor dear,' he said pleadingly, yet with authority, 'pray let me talk to you. there are things which i wish very much to say; indeed, without which i could hardly have asked for this indulgence. it is for your own sake, and that of the place and people.' 'poor place, poor people.' he sighed, but then turned his smiling countenance towards her again. 'no one else can care for it or them as you do, honor. our "goodly heritage"--it was so when i had it from my father, and i don't think it has got worse under my charge, and i want you to do your duty by it, honor, and hand it on the same, whoever may come after.' 'for your sake, humfrey--even if i did not love it. but--' 'yes, it is a duty,' proceeded humfrey, gravely. 'it may seem but a bit of earth after all, but the owner of a property has a duty to let it do its share in producing food, or maybe in not lessening the number of pleasant things here below. i mean it is as much my office to keep my trees and woods fair to look at, as it is not to let my land lie waste.' she had recovered a good deal while he was moralizing, and became interested. 'i did not suspect you of the poetical view, humfrey,' she said. 'it is plain sense, i think,' he said, 'that to grub up a fine tree, or a pretty bit of copse without fair reason, only out of eagerness for gain, is a bit of selfishness. but mind, honor, you must not go and be romantic. you _must_ have the timber marked when the trees are injuring each other.' 'ah! i've often done it with you.' 'i wish you would come out with me to-day. i'm going to the out-wood, i could show you.' she agreed readily, almost forgetting the wherefore. 'and above all, honor, you must not be romantic about wages! it is not right by other proprietors, nor by the people themselves. no one is ever the better for a fancy price for his labour.' she could almost have smiled; he was at once so well pleased that she and his 'goodly heritage' should belong to each other, so confident in her love and good intentions towards it, and so doubtful of her discretion and management. she promised with all her heart to do her utmost to fulfil his wishes. 'after all,' he said, thoughtfully, 'the best thing for the place--ay, and for you and every one, would be for you to marry; but there's little chance of that, i suppose, and it is of no use to distress you by mentioning it. i've been trying to put out of my hands things that i don't think you will be able to manage, but i should like you to keep up the home farm, and you may pretty well trust to brooks. i dare say he will take his own way, but if you keep a reasonable check on him, he will do very well by you. he is as honest as the day, and very intelligent. i don't know that any one could do better for you.' 'oh, yes; i will mind all he tells me.' 'don't show that you mind him. that is the way to spoil him. poor fellow, he has been a good servant to me, and so have they all. it is a thing to be very thankful for to have had such a set of good servants.' honora thought, but did not say, that they could not help being good with such a master. he went on to tell her that he had made mr. saville his executor. mr. saville had been for many years before leaving oxford bursar of his college, and was a thorough man of business whom humfrey had fixed upon as the person best qualified to be an adviser and assistant to honora, and he only wished to know whether she wished for any other selection, but this was nearly overpowering her again, for since her father's death she had leant on no one but humfrey himself. one thing more he had to say. 'you know, honor, this place will be entirely your own. you and i seem to be the last of the charlecotes, and even if we were not, there is no entail. you may found orphan asylums with it, or leave it to poor sandbrook's children, just as you please.' 'oh, i could not do that,' cried honor, with a sudden revulsion. love them as she might, owen sandbrook's children must not step into humfrey charlecote's place. 'and, besides,' she added, 'i want my little owen to be a clergyman; i think he can be what his father missed.' 'well, you can do exactly as you think fit. only what i wanted to tell you is, that there may be another branch, elder than our own. not that this need make the least difference, for the holt is legally ours. it seems that our great grandfather had an elder son--a wild sort of fellow--the old people used to tell stories of him. he went on, in short, till he was disinherited, and went off to america. what became of him afterwards i never could make out; but i have sometimes questioned how i should receive any of his heirs if they should turn up some day. mind you, you need not have the slightest scruple in holding your own. it was made over to my grandfather by will, as i have made it sure for you; but i do think that when you come to think how to dispose of it, the possibility of the existence of these charlecotes might be taken into consideration.' 'yankee charlecotes!' she said. 'never mind; most likely nothing of the kind will ever come in your way, and they have not the slightest claim on you. i only threw it out, because i thought it right just to speak of it.' after this commencement, humfrey, on this and the ensuing days, made it his business to make his cousin acquainted with the details of the management of the estate. he took such pleasure in doing so, and was so anxious she should comprehend, that she was forced to give her whole attention; and, putting all else aside, was tranquilly happy in thus gratifying him. those orderly ranges of conscientious accounts were no small testimony to the steady, earnest manner in which humfrey had set himself to his duty from his early youth, and to a degree they were his honest pride too--he liked to show how good years had made up for bad years, and there was a tenderness in the way he patted their red leather backs to make them even on their shelves, as if they had been good friends to him. no, they must not run into confusion. the farms and the cottages--the friendly terms of his intercourse, and his large-handed but well-judging almsgiving--all revealed to her more of his solid worth; and the simplicity that regarded all as the merest duty touched her more than all. many a time did she think of the royal norwegian brothers, one of whom went to tie a knot in the willows on the banks of the jordan, while the other remained at home to be the blessing of his people, and from her broken idol wanderer she turned to worship her steadfast worker at home, as far as his humility and homeliness made it possible, and valued each hour with him as if each moment were of diamond price. and he was so calmly happy, that there was no grieving in his presence. it had been a serene life of simple fulfilment of duty, going ever higher, and branching wider, as a good man's standard gradually rises the longer he lives; the one great disappointment had been borne without sourness or repining, and the affections, deprived of the home channel, had spread in a beneficent flood, and blessed all around. so, though, like every sinful son of man, sensible of many an error, many an infirmity, still the open loving spirit was childlike enough for that blessed sense; for that feeling which st. john expresses as 'if our heart condemn us not, then have we confidence towards god;' confidence in the infinite merits that atone for the errors of weakness, and occasional wanderings of will; confidence that made the hope a sure and steadfast one, and these sentenced weeks a land of beulah, where honora's tardy response to his constant love could be greeted and valued as the precious fulfilment of long-cherished wishes, not dashed aside as giving bitterness to his departure. the parting was broken by a promise that honora should again meet the savilles at the holt in the autumn. she assured herself that there was no danger before that time, and humfrey spoke cheerfully of looking forward to it, and seemed to have so much to do, and to be so well equal to doing it, that he would not let them be concerned at leaving him alone. to worship humfrey was an easier thing at a distance than when beside him. honora came back to sandbeach thoroughly restless and wretched, reproaching herself with having wasted such constant, priceless affection, haunted by the constant dread of each morning's post, and longing fervently to be on the spot. she had self-command enough not to visit her dejection on the children, but they missed both her spirits and her vigilance, and were more left to their nurse; and her chief solace was in long solitary walks, or in evening talks with miss wells. kind miss wells perhaps guessed how matters stood between the two last charlecotes, but she hinted not her suspicions, and was the unwearied recipient of all honora's histories, of his symptoms, of his cheerfulness, and his solicitude for her. those talks did her good, they set the real humfrey before her, and braced her to strive against weakness and despondence. and then the thought grew on her, why, since they were so thoroughly each other's, why should they not marry, and be together to the last? why should he be left to his solitude for this final year? why should their meetings be so prudentially chaperoned? suppose the disease should be lingering, how hard it was that she should be absent, and he left to servants! she could well imagine why he had not proposed it; he was too unselfish to think of exposing her to the shock, or making her a widow, but how came she never to have thought of it? she stood beyond all ordinary rules--she had nothing worldly to gain nor to lose by being his wife for these few remaining months--it surely was her part, after the way she had treated him, to meet him more than half way--she alone could make the proposal--she would--she must. and oh! if the doctors should be mistaken! so spoke the midnight dream--oh! how many times. but what said cool morning? propriety had risen up, grave decorum objecting to what would shock humfrey, ay, and was making honor's cheeks tingle. yes, and there came the question whether he would not be more distressed than gratified--he who wished to detach himself from all earthly ties--whether he might not be pained and displeased at her thus clinging to him--nay, were he even gratified, might not emotion and agitation be fatal? many, many times was all this tossed over in honor's mind. often the desperate resolution was definitely taken, and she had seen herself quietly meeting him at dear old hiltonbury church, with his grave sweet eyes resting satisfied upon her as his darling. as often had the fear of offending him, and the instinct of woman's dignity turned her away when her heart was beating high. that autumn visit--then she would decide. one look as if he wished to retain her, the least air of feebleness or depression, and she would be determined, even if she had to waive all feminine reserves, and set the matter in hand herself. she thought mr. saville would highly approve and assist; and having settled into this period for her project, she set herself in some degree at rest, and moved and spoke with so much more of her natural ease, that miss wells was consoled about her, and knew not how entirely heart and soul were at hiltonbury, with such devotion as had never even gone to the backwoods. to meet the savilles at hiltonbury in the autumn! yes--honor met mr. saville, but not as she had intended. by that time the stroke had fallen, just as she had become habituated to the expectation, just as her promised visit had assumed a degree of proximity, and her heart was beating at the prospect of the results. humfrey had been scarcely ailing all the summer, he had gone about his occupations with his usual cheerfulness, and had taken part in all the village festivals as genially as ever. only close observers could have noticed a slackness towards new undertakings, a gradual putting off of old ones, a training of those, dependent on his counsel, to go alone, a preference for being alone in the evening, a greater habit of stillness and contemplation. september had come, and he had merrily sent off two happy boy-sportsmen with the keeper, seeing them over the first field himself, and leaning against the gate, as he sent them away in convulsions of laughing at his droll auguries. the second was a sunday, a lovely day of clear deep blue sky, and rich sunshine laughing upon the full wealth of harvest fields--part fallen before the hand of the reaper, part waving in their ripe glowing beauty, to which he loved to liken honora's hair--part in noble redundant shocks of corn in full season. brooks used afterwards to tell how he overtook the squire slowly strolling to church on that beauteous autumnal morning, and how he paused to remark on the glory of the harvest, and to add, 'keep the big barn clear, brooks--let us have all the women and children in for the supper this time--and i say--send the spotted heifer down to-morrow to old boycotts, instead of his cow that died. with such a crop as this, one can stand something. and,' said brooks, 'thank god for it! was as plain written on his face as ever i saw!' it was the first sunday in the month, and there was full service. hiltonbury church had one of those old-fashioned altar-rails which form three sides of a square, and where it was the custom that at the words 'draw near with faith,' the earliest communicants should advance to the rail and remain till their place was wanted by others, and that the last should not return to their seats till the service was concluded. mr. charlecote had for many years been always the first parishioner to walk slowly up the matted aisle, and kneel beside the wall, under the cumbrous old tables of commandments. there, on this day, he knelt as usual, and harvest labours tending to thin the number of communicants, the same who came up first remained to the end, joined their voices in the eucharistic lord's prayer and angelic hymn, and bowed their heads at the blessing of the peace that passeth all understanding. it was not till the rest were moving away, that the vicar and his clerk remarked that the squire had not risen. another look, and it was plain that he had sunk somewhat forward on his folded arms, and was only supported by the rail and the wall. the vicar hastily summoned the village doctor, who had not yet left the church. they lifted him, and laid him along on the cushioned step where he had been kneeling, but motion and breath were gone, the strong arms were helpless, and the colour had left the open face. taken at once from the heavenly feast on earth to the glory above, could this be called sudden death? there he lay on the altar step, with hands crossed on his breast, and perfectly blessed repose on his manly countenance, sweetened and ennobled in its stillness, and in every lineament bearing the impress of that holy spirit of love who had made it a meet temple. what an unpremeditated lying in state was that! as by ones and twos, beneath the clergyman's eye, the villagers stole in with slowly, heavily falling tread to gaze in silent awe on their best friend, some sobbing and weeping beyond control, others with grave, almost stolid tranquillity, or the murmured 'he _was_ a gentleman,' which, in a poor man's mouth, means 'he was a just man and patient, the friend of the weak and poor.' his farmers and his own labourers put their shoulders to bear him once more to his own house, through his half-gathered crops-- the hand of the reaper takes the ears that are hoary, but the voice of the weeper wails manhood in glory. no, bewail him not. it was glory, indeed, but the glory of early autumn, the garnering of the shock of corn in full season. it was well done of the vicar that a few long, full-grained ears of wheat were all that was laid upon his breast in his coffin. there honora saw them. the vicar, mr. henderson, had written to her at once, as humfrey had long ago charged him to do, enclosing a letter that he had left with him for the purpose, a tender, soothing farewell, and an avowal such as he could never have spoken of the blessing that his attachment to her had been, in drawing his mind from the narrowness to which he might have been liable, and in elevating the tone of his views and opinions. she knew what he meant--it was what he had caught from her youthful enthusiasm, second-hand from owen sandbrook. oh! what vivid, vigorous truth not to have been weakened in the transit through two such natures, but to have done its work in the strong, practical mind able and candid enough to adopt it even thus filtered! there were a few words of affectionate commendation of his people and his land into her keeping, and a parting blessing, and, lastly, written as a postscript--with a blot as if it had been written with hesitation--'little children, keep yourselves from idols!' it was not bitter weeping. it was rather the sense of utter vacancy and hopelessness, with but one fixed purpose--that she would see his face again, and be the nearest to him when he was laid in the grave. she hastily wrote to the housekeeper and to the clergyman that she was coming, and miss wells's kind opposition only gave her just wilfulness and determination enough to keep her spirit from sinking. so she travelled alone, and came to hiltonbury in the sunset, as the 'last long wains' were slowly bearing their loads of wheat into the farmyard, the waggoners walking dejectedly beside them. mr. saville had come before her, and was at the door to receive her. she could not very well bear the presence of any one, nor the talk of cold-blooded arrangements. it seemed to keep away the dreamy living with humfrey, and was far more dreary than the feeling of desolateness, and when they treated her as mistress of the house that was too intolerable. and yet it was worth something, too, to be the one to authorize that harvest supper in the big barn, in the confidence that it would be anything but revelry. every one felt that the day was indeed a harvest home. the funeral, according to his expressed wishes, was like those of the farmers of the parish; the coffin borne by his own labourers in their white round frocks; and the labourers were the expected guests for whom provision was made; but far and wide from all the country round, though harvest was at the height, came farmers and squires, poor men and rich, from the peer and county member down to the poor travelling hawker--all had met the sunny sympathy of that smile, all had been aided and befriended, all felt as if a prop, a castle of strength were gone. charlecotes innumerable rested in the chancel, and the last heir of the line was laid beneath the same flag where he had been placed on that last sunday, the spot where honor might kneel for many more, meeting him in spirit at the feast, and looking to the time when the cry should be, 'put ye in the sickle, for the harvest is come.' but ere she could look in thorough hope for that time, another page of honor's life must be turned, and an alloy, as yet unknown to herself, must be purged from her heart. the last gleam of her youthful sunshine had faded with humfrey; but youth is but a fraction of human existence, and there were further phases to be gone through and lessons to be learnt; although she was feeling as if all were over with her in this world, and neither hope, love, nor protection were left her, nor any interest save cherishing humfrey charlecote's memory, as she sat designing the brass tablet which was to record his name and age in old english illuminated letters, surrounded by a border of ears of corn and grapes. chapter iv the glittering grass, with dewstars bright, is all astir with twinkling light; what pity that such fair array in one brief hour should melt away.--rev. t. whytehead 'this is a stroke of good luck!' said mr. charteris. 'we must not, on any account, remove the sandbrook children from miss charlecote; she has no relations, and will certainly make the boy her heir.' 'she will marry!' said his wife. 'some fashionable preacher will swallow her red hair. she is just at the age for it!' 'less likely when she has the children to occupy her.' 'well, you'll have them thrown on your hands yet!' 'the chance is worth trying for, though! i would not interfere with her on any account.' 'oh, no, nor i! but i pity the children.' * * * * * 'there, master owen, be a good boy, and don't worry. don't you see, i'm putting up your things to go home.' 'home!' the light glittered in lucilla's eyes. 'is it wrapworth, nursey?' 'dear me, miss, not wrapworth. that's given away, you know; but it's to hiltonbury you are going--such a grand place, which if master owen is only a dear good boy, will all belong to him one of these days.' 'will there be a pony to ride on?' asked owen. 'oh, yes--if you'll only let those stockings alone--there'll be ponies, and carriages, and horses, and everything a gentleman can have, and all for my own dear little master owen!' 'i don't want to go to hiltonbury,' said lucilla; 'i want to go home to the river and the boat, and see mr. prendergast and the black cow.' 'i'll give you a black cow, cilly,' said owen, strutting about. 'is hiltonbury bigger than the castle?' 'oh, ever so big, master owen; such acres of wood, mr. jones says, and all your dear cousin's, and sure to be your own in time. what a great gentleman you will be, to be sure, dining thirty gentlefolks twice a week, as they say poor mr. charlecote did, and driving four fine horses to your carriage like a gentleman. and then you won't forget poor old nursey-pursey.' 'oh, no, nurse; i'll give you a ride in my carriage!' honora in her listless state had let mr. saville think for her, and passively obeyed him when he sent her back to sandbeach to wind up her affairs there, while he finished off the valuations and other painful business at the holt, in which she could be of little use, since all she desired was to keep everything as it was. she was anxious to return as soon as possible, so as to take up the reins before there had been time for the relaxation to be felt, the only chance she felt of her being able to fulfil his charge. the removal, the bustle, the talking things over with miss wells, and the sight of the children did much to restore her, and her old friend rejoiced to see that necessary occupation was tending to make her time pass more cheerfully than she perhaps knew. as to the dear old city dwelling, it might have fetched an immense price, but only to become a warehouse, a measure that would have seemed to honor little short of sacrilege. to let it, in such a locality, was impossible, so it must remain unavailable capital, and honora decided on leaving her old housekeeper therein, with a respectable married niece, who would inhabit the lower regions, and keep the other rooms in order, for an occasional stay in london. she would have been sorry to cut herself off from a month of london in the spring, and the house might farther be useful to friends who did not object to the situation; or could be lent now and then to a curate; and she could well afford to keep it up, so she thought herself justified in following her inclination, and went up for three mournful days of settling matters there, and packing books and ornaments till the rooms looked so dismantled that she could not think how to face them again. it was the beginning of october when she met miss wells, children, and luggage at the station, and fairly was on her way to her home. she tried to call it so, as a duty to humfrey, but it gave her a pang every time, and in effect she felt far less at home than when he and sarah had stood in the doorway to greet the arrivals. she had purposely fixed an hour when it would be dark, so that she might receive no painful welcome; she wished no one to greet her, she had rather they were mourning for their master. she had more than once shocked miss wells by declaring heiresses to be a mistake; and yet, as she always owned, she could not have borne for any one else to have had the holt. fortunately for her, the children were sleepy, and were rather in a mazy state when lifted out and set on their legs in the wainscoted hall, and she sent them at once with nurse to the cheerful room that humfrey's little visitors had saved from becoming disused. miss wells's fond vigilance was a little oppressive, but she gently freed herself from it, and opened the study door. she had begged that as little change as possible might be made; and there stood, as she had last seen them, the large leathern chair, the little table, the big bible, and in it the little faded marker she had herself constructed for his twenty-first birthday, when her powers of making presents had not equalled her will. yet what costly gift could have fulfilled its mission like that one? she opened the heavy book at the place. it was at the first lesson for the last day of his life, the end of the prophet hosea, and the first words her eyes fell upon were the glorious prophecy--'i will redeem them from death, i will ransom them from the power of the grave.' her heart beat high, and she stood half musing, half reading: 'they that dwell under his shadow shall return; they shall revive as the corn, and grow as the vine.' how gentle and refreshing the cadence! a longing rose up in her to apply those latter words more closely, by placing them on his tablet; she did not think they would shock his humility, a consideration which had withheld her from choosing other passages of which she always thought in connection with him. another verse, and she read: 'ephraim shall say, what have i to do any more with idols?' it brought back the postscript. kind humfrey must have seen strong cause before he gave any reproof, least of all to her, and she could take his word that the fault had been there. she felt certain of it when she thought of her early devotion to owen sandbrook, and the utter blank caused by his defection. nay, she believed she had begun to idolize humfrey himself, but now, at her age, chastened, desponding, with nothing before her save the lonely life of an heiress old maid, counting no tie of blood with any being, what had she to engross her affections from the true object? alas! honora's heart was not feeling that object sufficient! conscientious, earnest, truly loving goodness, and all connected with it; striving as a faithful, dutiful woman to walk rightly, still the personal love and trust were not yet come. spent as they had been upon props of earth, when these were taken away the tendrils hung down drearily, unemployed, not fastening on the true support. not that she did not kneel beside that little table, as in a shrine, and entreat earnestly for strength and judgment to do her duty faithfully in her new station, so that humfrey's charge might be fulfilled, and his people might not suffer; and this done, and her homage paid to his empty throne, she was better able to satisfy her motherly friend by her deportment for the remainder of the evening, and to reply to the welcome of the weeping mrs. stubbs. by one of humfrey's wise acts of foresight, his faithful servant, reeves, had been provided for as the master of the union, whither it was certain he would carry the same milk of human kindness as had been so plentiful at hiltonbury, and the holt was thus left free for honora's mr. jones, without fear of clashing, though he was divided between pride in his young lady's ownership of a 'landed estate,' and his own dislike to a country residence. honora did not sleep soundly. the place was too new, and yet too familiar, and the rattling of the windows, the roaring of the wind in the chimney, and the creaking of the vane, without absolutely wakening her, kept her hearing alive continually, weaving the noises into some harassing dream that humfrey's voice was calling to her, and hindrances always keeping her from him; and then of lucilla and owen in some imminent peril, whence she shrieked to him to save them, and then remembered he would stretch out his hand no more. sounder sleep came at last, towards morning, and far later than her usual hour she was wakened by a drumming upon her door, and the boy and girl dashed in, radiant with excitement at the novelty of the place. 'sweet honey! sweet honey dear, do get up and see. there's a rocking-horse at the end of the passage.' 'and there's a real pony out in the field.' 'there are cows.' 'there's a goat and a little kid, and i want to play with it, and i may, for it is all mine and yours.' 'all yours! owen, boy,' repeated honora, sitting up in surprise. 'nursey said it was all to be owen's,' said lucilla. 'and she said i should be as grand a gentleman as poor mr. charlecote or uncle charteris,' proceeded owen, 'and that i should go out hunting in a red coat, on a beautiful horse; but i want to have the kid now, please, sweet honey.' 'nurse does not know anything about it,' said honora, much annoyed that such an idea should have been suggested in such a manner. 'i thought my little owen wished for better things--i thought he was to be like his papa, and try to be a good shepherd, praising god and helping people to do right.' 'but can't i wear a red coat too?' said owen, wistfully. 'no, my dear; clergymen don't go out hunting; or how could they teach the poor little children?' 'then i won't be a clergyman.' this was an inconvenient and most undesirable turn; but honor's first object must be to put the right of heirship out of the little head, and she at once began--'nurse must have made a mistake, my dear; this place is your home, and will be always so, i hope, while it is mine, but it must not be your own, and you must not think it will. my little boy must work for himself and other people, and that's better than having houses and lands given to him.' those words touched the pride in lucilla's composition, and she exclaimed--'i'll work too;' but the self-consequence of proprietorship had affected her brother more strongly, and he repeated, meditatively, 'jones said, not mine while she was alive. jones was cross.' there might not be much in the words, child as he was, but there was something in his manner of eyeing her which gave her acute unbearable pain--a look as if she stood in his way and crossed his importance. it was but a baby fit of temper, but she was in no frame to regard it calmly, and with an alteration of countenance that went to his heart, she exclaimed--'can that be my little owen, talking as if he wanted his cousin honor dead and out of the way? we had better never have come here if you are to leave off loving me.' quick to be infected by emotion, the child's arms were at once round her neck, and he was sobbing out that he loved his sweet honey better than anything; nurse was naughty; jones was naughty; he wouldn't hunt, he wouldn't wear a red coat, he would teach little children just like lambs, he would be like dear papa; anything the poor little fellow could think of he poured out with kisses and entreaties to know if he were naughty still; while his sister, after her usual fashion on such occasions, began to race up and down the room with paroxysms, sometimes of stamping, sometimes of something like laughter. some minutes passed before honora could compose herself, or soothe the boy, by her assurances that he was not to blame, only those who put things in his head that he could not understand; and it was not till after much tender fondling that she had calmed him enough for his morning devotions. no sooner were these over than he looked up and said, while the tears still glazed his cheeks, 'sweet honey, i'll tell nurse and mr. jones that i'm on pilgrimage to the eastern land, and i'll not turn into by-ways after red coats and little kids to vex you.' whether owen quite separated fact from allegory might have been doubtful to a more prosaic mind than honora's, but he had brought this dreamy strain with him from his father, and she thought it one of his great charms. she had been obliged to leave him to himself much more than usual of late, and she fervently resolved to devote herself with double energy to watching over him, and eradicating any weeds that might have been sown during her temporary inattention. he clung so fast to her hand, and was so much delighted to have her with him again, so often repeating that she must not go away again, that the genuineness of his affection could not be doubted, and probably he would only retain an impression of having been led to say something very shocking, and the alarm to his sensitive conscience would hinder him from ever even trying to remember what it was. she spoke, however, to nurse, telling her that the subject must never be mentioned to the children, since it was by no means desirable for them, and besides, she had no intention of the kind. she wished it to be distinctly understood that master owen was not to be looked upon as her heir. 'very true, ma'am, it is too soon to be talking of such things yet, and i must say, i was as sorry as possible to find that the child had had it named to him. people will talk, you see, miss charlecote, though i am sure so young a lady as you are . . . ' 'that has nothing to do with it,' said honora; 'i consider nothing so bad for a child as to be brought up to expectations to which he has no right, when he is sure to have to provide for himself. i beg that if you hear the subject entered on again, in the children's presence, you will put a stop to it.' 'certainly, ma'am; their poor dear papa never would have wished them to be occupied with earthly things of that sort. as i often said, there never was such an unworldly gentleman; he never would have known if there were a sixpence in the house, nor a joint in the larder, if there had not been cook and me to care for him. i often said to cook--"well for him that he has honest people about him."' honora likewise spoke to jones, her private retainer. he smiled scorn of the accusation, and answered her as the child he had known in frocks. 'yes, ma'am, i did tell the young gentleman to hold his tongue, for it never would be his in your lifetime, nor after, in my judgment.' 'why, certainly, it does seem early days to speak of such a matter,' said honora, sadly. 'it is unaccountable what people will not put in children's heads,' said jones, sagely; 'not but what he is a nice quiet young gentleman, and gives very little trouble, but they might let _that_ alone. miss honora, when will it be convenient to you to take my account of the plate?' she felt pretty well convinced that jones had only resented the whole on her account, and that it was not he who had put the notion into the boy's head. as to nurse, she was far from equally clear. doubts of nurse's sincerity had long been growing upon her, and she was in the uncomfortable position of being able to bear neither to think of the children's intercourse with any one tainted with falsehood, nor to dismiss a person implicitly trusted by their father. she could only decide that the first detected act of untruth should be the turning-point. meantime, painful as was many an association, honor did not find her position so dreary or so oppressive as she had anticipated. she had a great deal to do, and the tracks had been duly made out for her by her cousin. mr. saville, or humfrey's old friend, sir john raymond, were always ready to help her in great matters, and brooks was an excellent dictatorial deputy in small ones. her real love for country life, for live animals, and, above all, the power of doing good, all found scope. humfrey's charge gave her a sense of a fulfilled duty; and mournful and broken-spirited as she believed herself, if humfrey could have looked at her as she scrupulously made entries in his book, rode out with the children to try to look knowing at the crops, or sat by the fire in the evening with his dogs at her feet, telling stories to the children, he would not have feared too much for his honor. living or dead, the love of humfrey could hardly help being a spring of peace and happiness; and the consciousness of it had been too brief, and the tie never close enough, to lead to a state of crushed spirits. the many little tender observances that she paid to him were a source of mournful sweetness rather than of heart-rending. it was a quietly but fully occupied life, with a certain severity towards her own comforts, and liberality towards those of other people, which had always been a part of her character, ever since owen sandbrook had read sermons with her on self-denial. if miss wells had a fire in her bedroom forced upon her, miss charlecote had none, and hurried down in the bleak winter morning in shawl and gloves to humfrey's great bible, and then to his account books and her business letters. she was fresh with cold when she met the children for their early reading. and then--but it was not soon that she learnt to bear that, though she had gone through the like before, she had to read the household devotions, where every petition seemed to be lacking the manly tone to give it fulness and force. breakfast followed, the silver kettle making it home-like, the children chattering, miss wells smiling, letters coming in to perplex or to clear up perplexities, amuse or cheer. the children were then turned out for an hour's hoop-driving on the gravel drive, horse-chestnut picking, or whatever might not be mischief, while honora was conferring with jones or with brooks, and receiving her orders for the day. next followed letter-writing, then lessons in general, a real enjoyment, unless lucilla happened to have picked up a fit of perverseness--some reading to them, or rationalizing of play--the early dinner--the subsequent expedition with them, either walking or riding--for brooks had soon found ponies for them, and they were gallant little riders. honor would not give up the old pony, long since trained for her by humfrey, though, maybe, that was her most undutiful proceeding towards him, as he would certainly have told her that the creature was shaky on the legs. so at last it tumbled down with her, but without any damage, save a hole in her skirt, and a dreadful crying fit of little owen, who was frightened out of his wits. she owned that it must be degraded to light cart work, and mounted an animal which hiltonbury agreed to be more worthy of her. coming in, the children played; she either did her business or found leisure for reading; then came tea-time, then the reading of a story book to the children, and when they were disposed of, of something mildly moral and instructive to suit miss wells's taste. the neighbourhood all mourned mr. charlecote as a personal loss, and could hardly help regarding any successor as their enemy. miss charlecote had been just enough known in her girlish days not to make her popular in a commonplace neighbourhood; the ladies had criticised her hair and her genius, and the gentlemen had been puzzled by her searching questions into their county antiquities, and obliged to own themselves unaware of a roman milestone propping their bailiff's pigstye, or of the spur of a champion of one of the roses being hung over their family pew. but when mr. henderson and the raymonds reported pleasantly of her, and when once or twice she had been seen cantering down the lanes, or shopping in elverslope, and had exchanged a bow with a familiar face, the gentlemen took to declaring that the heiress was an uncommonly fine woman after all, and the ladies became possessed with the perception that it was high time to call upon miss charlecote--what could she be doing with those two children? so there were calls, which honor duly returned, and then came invitations, but to miss wells's great annoyance, honor decided against these. it was not self-denial, but she thought it suitable. she did not love the round of county gaieties, and in her position she did not think them a duty. retirement seemed to befit the widowhood, which she felt so entirely that when miss wells once drove her into disclaiming all possibility of marrying, she called it 'marrying again.' when miss wells urged the inexpedience of absolute seclusion, she said she would continue to make morning calls, and she hoped in time to have friends of her own to stay with her; she might ask the raymonds, or some of the quiet, clerical families (the real _elite_, be it observed) to spend a day or drink tea, but the dinner and ball life was too utterly incongruous for an elderly heiress. when it came to the elderly heiress poor miss wells was always shut up in utter despair--she who thought her bright-locked darling only grew handsomer each day of her pride of womanhood. the brass which honora had chosen for her cousin's memorial was slow in being executed, and summer days had come in before it was sent to hiltonbury. she walked down, a good deal agitated, to ascertain whether it were being rightly managed, but, to her great annoyance, found that the church having been left open, so many idle people were standing about that she could not bear to mingle with them. had it been only the holt vassalage, either their feeling would have been one with her own, or they would have made way for her, but there were some pert nursery maids gaping about with the children from beauchamp, whence the heads of the family had been absent all the winter and spring, leaving various nurses and governesses in charge. honora could not encounter their eyes, and went to the vicarage to send mr. henderson, and finding him absent, walked over sundry fields in a vain search for brooks. rain came on so violently as to wet her considerably, and to her exceeding mortification, she was obliged to relinquish her superintendence, either in person or by deputy. however, when she awoke early and saw the sun laughing through the shining drops, she decided on going down ere the curious world was astir, to see what had been done. it was not far from six, when she let herself out at the porch, and very like a morning with humfrey, with the tremulous glistening of every spray, and the steamy fragrance rising wherever the sun touched the grass, that seemed almost to grow visibly. the woods were ringing with the song of birds, circle beyond circle, and there was something in the exuberant merriment of those blackbirds and thrushes that would not let her be sad, though they had been humfrey's special glory. the thought of such pleasures did not seem out of keeping. the lane was overhung with bushes; the banks, a whole wealth of ferns, climbing plants, tall grasses, and nettles, had not yet felt the sun and were dank and dreary, so she hurried on, and arriving at the clerk's door, knocked and opened. he was gone to his work, and sounds above showed the wife to be engaged on the toilette of the younger branches. she called out that she had come for the keys of the church, and seeing them on the dresser, abstracted them, bidding the good woman give herself no trouble. she paused under the porch, and ere fitting the heavy key to the lock, felt that strange pressure and emotion of the heart that even if it be sorrow is also an exquisite sensation. if it were mournful that the one last office she could render to humfrey was over, it was precious to her to be the only one who had a right to pay it, the one whom he had loved best upon earth, round whom she liked to believe that he still might be often hovering--whom he might welcome by and by. here was the place for communion with him, the spot which had, indeed, been to him none other than the gate of heaven. yet, will it be believed? not one look did honora cast at humfrey charlecote's monument that morning. with both hands she turned the reluctant bolts of the lock, and pushed open the nail-studded door. she slowly advanced along the uneven floor of the aisle, and had just reached the chancel arch, when something suddenly stirred, making her start violently. it was still, and after a pause she again advanced, but her heart gave a sudden throb, and a strange chill of awe rushed over her as she beheld a little white face over the altar rail, the chin resting on a pair of folded hands, the dark eyes fixed in a strange, dreamy, spiritual expression of awe. the shock was but for a moment, the next the blood rallied to her heart, and she told herself that humfrey would say, that either the state of her spirits had produced an illusion, or else that some child had been left here by accident. she advanced, but as she did so the two hands were stretched out and locked together as in an agony, and the childish, feeble voice cried out, 'oh! if you're an angel, please don't frighten me; i'll be very good.' honora was in a pale, soft, gray dress, that caught the light in a rosy glow from the east window, and her golden hair was hanging in radiant masses beneath her straw bonnet, but she could not appreciate the angelic impression she made on the child, who had been tried so long by such a captivity. 'my poor child,' she said, 'i am no angel; i am only miss charlecote. i'm afraid you have been shut up here;' and, coming nearer, she perceived that it was a boy of about seven years old, well dressed, though his garments were disordered. he stood up as she came near, but he was trembling all over, and as she drew him into her bosom, and put her arms round him, she found him quivering with icy cold. 'poor little fellow,' she said, rocking him, as she sat on the step and folded her shawl round him, 'have you been here all night? how cold you are; i must take you home, my dear. what is your name?' 'i'm robert mervyn fulmort,' said the little boy, clinging to her. 'we came in to see mr. charlecote's monument put up, and i suppose they forgot me. i waked up, and everybody was gone, and the door was locked. oh! please,' he gasped, 'take me out. i don't want to cry.' she thought it best to take him at once into the cheerful sunlight, but it did not yet yield the warmth that he needed; and all her soothing words could not check the nervous tremor, though he held her so tight that it seemed as if he would never let her go. 'you shall come home with me, my dear little boy; you shall have some breakfast, and then i will take you safe home to beauchamp.' 'oh, if you please!' said the boy, gratefully. exercise was thawing his numbed limbs, and his eyes brightened. 'whom were you with?' she asked. 'who could have forgotten you?' 'i came with lieschen and nurse and the babies. the others went out with mademoiselle.' 'and you went to sleep?' 'yes; i liked to see the mason go chip, chip, and i wanted to see them fit the thing in. i got into that great pew, to see better; and i made myself a nest, but at last they were all gone.' 'and what did you do, then? were you afraid?' 'i didn't know what to do. i ran all about to see if i could look out at a window, but i couldn't.' 'did you try to call?' 'wouldn't it have been naughty?' said the boy; and then with an impulse of honest truthfulness, 'i did try once; but do you know, there was another voice came back again, and i thought that _die geistern wachten sich auf_.' 'the what?' '_die geistern das lieschen sagt in die gewolben wohnen_,' said little robert, evidently quite unconscious whether he spoke german or english. 'so you could not call for the echo. well, did you not think of the bells?' 'yes; but, oh! the door was shut; and then, i'll tell you--but don't tell mervyn--i did cry.' 'indeed, i don't wonder. it must have been very lonely.' 'i didn't like it,' said robert, shivering; and getting to his german again, he described '_das gewitter_' beating on the panes, with wind and whirling leaves, and the unearthly noises of the creaking vane. the terror of the lonely, supperless child was dreadful to think of; and she begged to know what he could have done as it grew dark. 'i got to mr. charlecote,' said robert--an answer that thrilled her all over. 'i said i'd be always very good, if he would take care of me, and not let them frighten me. and so i did go to sleep.' 'i'm sure mr. charlecote would, my dear little man,' began honora, then checked by remembering what he would have said. 'but didn't you think of one more sure to take care of you than mr. charlecote?' 'lieschen talks of _der lieber gott_,' said the little boy. 'we said our prayers in the nursery, but mervyn says only babies do.' 'mervyn is terribly wrong, then,' said honora, shuddering. 'oh! robert, mr. charlecote never got up nor went to bed without asking the good god to take care of him, and make him good.' 'was that why he was so good?' asked robert. 'indeed it was,' said she, fervently; 'nobody can be good without it. i hope my little friend will never miss his prayers again, for they are the only way to be manly and afraid of nothing but doing wrong, as he was.' 'i won't miss them,' said robert, eagerly; then, with a sudden, puzzled look--'did he send you?' 'who?' 'mr. charlecote.' 'why--how should . . . ? what made you think so?' 'i--why, once in the night i woke up; and oh! it was so dark, and there were such noises, such rattlings and roarings; and then it came all white--white light--all the window-bars and all so plain upon the wall; and then came--bending, bending over--a great gray darkness--oh! so horrible!--and went away, and came back.' 'the shadow of the trees, swaying in the moonlight.' 'was it? i thought it was the _nebel wittwen neckten mir_, and then the _erlkonung-tochter_. _wissen sie_--and oh! i did scream once; and then, somehow, it grew quietly darker; and i thought mr. charlecote had me folded up so warm on his horse's back, and that we rode ever so far; and they stretched out their long white arms, and could not get me; but somehow he set me down on a cold stone, and said, "wait here, robin, and i'll send her to lead you." and then came a creaking, and there were you.' 'well, little robin, he did not quite send me; but it was to see his tablet that i came down this morning; so he brought me after all. he was my very dear cousin humfrey, and i like you for having been his little friend. will you be mine, too, and let me help you, if i can? and if your papa and mamma give leave, come and see me, and play with the little girl and boy who live with me?' 'oh, yes!' cried robert; 'i like you.' the alliance was sealed with a hearty kiss. 'but,' said robert, 'you must ask mademoiselle; papa and mamma are away!' 'and how was it no one ever missed you?' robert was far less surprised at this than she was; for, like all children, to be left behind appeared to him a contingency rather probable than otherwise. he was a fine-looking boy, with dark gray, thoughtful eyes, and a pleasant countenance; but his nerves had been so much shaken that he started, and seemed ready to catch hold of her at every sound. 'what's that?' he cried, as a trampling came along the alley as they entered the garden. 'only my two little cousins,' said honora, smiling. 'i hope you will be good friends, though perhaps owen is too young a playfellow. here, lucy, owen--here is a little friend for you--robert fulmort.' the children came eagerly up, and lucilla, taking her hand, raised her face to kiss the stranger; but robert did not approve of the proceeding, and held up his head. lucilla rose on tiptoe; robin did the same. as he had the advantage of a whole year's height, he fully succeeded in keeping out of her reach; and very comical was the effect. she gave it up at last, and contented herself with asking, 'and where do you come from?' 'out of the church,' was robin's reply. 'then you are very good and holy, indeed,' said owen, looking at him earnestly, with clasped hands. 'no!' said robert, gruffly. 'poor little man! he was left behind, and shut up in the church all night, without any supper,' said honora. 'shut up in the church like goody two-shoes!' cried lucilla dancing about. 'oh, what fun!' 'did the angels come and sing to you?' asked owen. 'don't ask such stupid questions,' cried his sister. 'oh, i know what i'd have done! didn't you get up into the pulpit?' 'no!' 'and i do so want to know if the lady and gentleman on the monument have their ruffs the same on the inside, towards the wall, as outside; and, oh! i do so want to get all the dust out of the folds of the lady's ruff: i wish they'd lock me into the church, and i'd soon get out when i was tired.' lucilla and owen decidedly thought robin had not profited by his opportunities, but he figured better in an examination on his brothers and sisters. there were seven, of whom he was the fourth--augusta, juliana, and mervyn being his elders; phoebe, maria, and bertha, his juniors. the three seniors were under the rule of mademoiselle, the little ones under that of nurse and lieschen, and robert stood on neutral ground, doing lessons with mademoiselle, whom, he said, in unpicked language which astounded little owen, 'he morally hated,' and at the same time free of the nursery, where, it appeared, that 'phoebe was the jolliest little fellow in the world,' and lieschen was the only 'good-natured body going,' and knew no end of _mahrchen_. the boy spoke a very odd mixture of lieschen's german and of english, pervaded by stable slang, and was altogether a curious study of the effects of absentee parents; nevertheless honora and lucilla both took a considerable fancy to him, the latter patronizing him to such a degree that she hardly allowed him to eat the much-needed breakfast, which recalled colour to his cheek and substance to his voice. after much thought, owen delivered himself of the sentiment that 'people's papas and mammas were very funny,' doubtless philosophizing on the inconsistency of the class in being, some so willing, some so reluctant, to leave their children behind them. honor fully agreed with him, but did not think the discussion profitable for robin, whom she now proposed to take home in the pony-carriage. lucilla, always eager for novelty, and ardent for her new friendship, begged to accompany her. owen was afraid of the strangers, and preferred miss wells. even as they set out, they found that robert's disappearance had created some sensation, for the clerk's wife was hurrying up to ask if miss charlecote had the keys, that she might satisfy the man from beauchamp that master fulmort was not in the church. at the lodge the woman threw up her hands with joy at the sight of the child; and some way off, on the sward, stood a bigger boy, who, with a loud hurrah, scoured away towards the house as the carriage appeared. 'that's mervyn,' said robert; 'he is gone to tell them.' beauchamp was many degrees grander since honor had last visited it. the approach was entirely new. two fresh wings had been added, and the front was all over scaffolds and cement, in all stages of colour, from rich brown to permanent white. robert explained that nothing was so nice as to watch the workmen, and showed lucilla a plasterer on the topmost stage of the scaffolding, who, he said, was the nicest man he knew, and could sing all manner of songs. rather nervously honora drove under the poles to the hall-door, where two girls were seen in the rear of a frenchwoman; and honor felt as if robin might have grounds for his 'moral hatred' when her voluble transports of gratitude and affection broke forth, and the desolation in which the loss had left them was described. robert edged back from her at once, and flew to another party at the bottom of the stairs--a very stout nurse and an uncapped, flaxen-haired madchen, who clasped him in her arms, and cried, and sobbed over him. as soon as he could release himself, he caught hold of a fat little bundle, which had been coaxing one of his legs all through lieschen's embrace, and dragging it forwards, cried, 'here she is--here's phoebe!' phoebe, however, was shy, and cried and fought her way back to hide her face in lieschen's apron; and meantime a very odd scene took place. school-room and nursery were evidently at most direful war. each wanted to justify itself lest the lady should write to the parents; each tried to be too grand to seem to care, and threw all the blame on the other. on the whole, honor gathered that mademoiselle believed the boy _enfantin_ enough to be in the nursery, the nurses that he was in the school-room, and he had not been really missed till bed-time, when each party recriminated instead of seeking him, and neither would allow itself to be responsible for him. lieschen, who alone had her suspicions where he might be, abstained from naming them in sheer terror of _kobolden_, _geistern_, corpse-candles, and what not, and had lain conjuring up his miseries till morning. honora did not much care how they settled it amongst them, but tried to make friends with the young people, who seemed to take their brother's restoration rather coolly, and to be chiefly occupied by staring at lucilla. augusta and juliana were self-possessed, and rather _manierees_, acquitting themselves evidently to the satisfaction of the french governess, and honor, perceiving her to be a necessary infliction, invited her and her pupils, especially robin, to spend a day in the next week at the holt. the proposal was graciously accepted, and lucilla spent the intervening time in a tumult of excitement. nor was the day entirely unsuccessful; mademoiselle behaved herself with french tact, and miss wells took her off honora's hands a good deal, leaving them free for the children. lucilla, always aspiring, began a grand whispering friendship with the two girls, and set her little cap strongly at mervyn, but that young gentleman was contemptuous and bored when he found no entertainment in miss charlecote's stud, and was only to be kept placable by the bagatelle-board and the strawberry-bed. robert followed his lead more than was satisfactory, but with visible predilections for the holt ladies, old and young. honor talked to him about little phoebe, and he lighted up and began to detail her accomplishments, and to be very communicative about his home vexations and pleasures, and finally, when the children were wishing good night, he bluntly said, 'it would be better fun to bring lieschen and phoebe.' honor thought so too, and proposed giving the invitation. 'don't,' said robert, 'she'd be cross; i'll bring them.' and so he did. two days after, the broad german face and the flaxen head appeared, leading that fat ball, phoebe, and robin frisking in triumph beside her. henceforth a great friendship arose between the children. phoebe soon lost all dread of those who petted her, and favoured them with broad smiles and an incomprehensible patois. owen made very much of her, and pursued and imitated robert with the devotion of a small boy to a larger one. lucilla devoted herself to him for want of better game, and moreover he plainly told her that she was the prettiest little girl he ever saw, and laid all manner of remarkable treasures at her feet. miss charlecote believed that he made some curious confidences to her, for once owen said, 'i want to know why robin hasn't a sweet honey to make him good?' 'robin has a papa and mamma, and a governess.' 'robin was telling lucy he wanted some one to teach him to be good, and she said she would, but i think she is not old enough.' 'any one who is good is teaching others, my owen,' said honor. 'we will ask in our prayers that poor little robin may be helped.' when mr. and mrs. fulmort came home, there was an interchange of calls, many thanks for her kindness to the children, and sanction of future intercourse. mr. fulmort was a great distiller, who had married a county heiress, and endeavoured to take his place among the country squires, whom he far exceeded in display; and his wife, a meek, sickly person, lived a life of slavery to the supposed exigencies of fashion. she had always had, in her maiden days, a species of awe of the charlecotes' london cousin, and was now disposed to be rather gratified by her notice of her children. mervyn had been disposed of at a tutor's, and robert was adrift for many hours of the day. as soon as he had discovered the possibility of getting to the holt alone, he was frequently there, following honora about in her gardening and farming, as much at home as the little sandbrooks, sharing in their sports, and often listening to the little books that she read aloud to them. he was very far from being such an angelic little mortal as owen, with whom indeed his sympathies were few. once some words were caught from him by both children, which startled honor exceedingly, and obliged her to tell him that if ever she found him to have repeated the like, she should forbid his coming near them. he looked excessively sullen, and did not come for a week, during which lucilla was intolerably naughty, and was twice severely punished for using the identical expressions in defiance. then he came again, and behaved as if nothing had happened, but the offence never recurred. some time after, when he boasted of having come away with a lesson unlearnt, in flat disobedience to mademoiselle, honor sent him straight home, though lucilla stamped and danced at her in a frenzy. another time owen rushed up to her in great agony at some torture that robin was inflicting upon a live mouse. upon this, honor, full of the spirit of indignation, fairly struck the offender sharply on the fingers with her riding-whip. he scowled at her, but it was only for a moment. she held him tightly by the hand, while she sent the gardener to put his victim out of its misery, and then she talked to him, not sentimentally, her feelings were too strongly stirred, but with all her horror of cruelty. he muttered that mervyn and the grooms always did it; but he did not hold out long--lucilla was holding aloof, too much horrified to come near--and finally he burst into tears, and owned that he had never thought! every now and then, such outbreaks made honor wonder why she let him come, perhaps to tempt her children; but she remembered that he and humfrey had been fond of one another, and she felt drawn towards him, though in all prudence she resolved to lessen the attractions of the holt by being very strict with all, and rather ungracious to him. yet, strange to say, the more regulations she made, and the more she flashed out at his faults, the more constant was her visitor, the robin who seemed to thrive upon the veriest crumbs of good-nature. positively, honora was sometimes amazed to find what a dragon she could be upon occasion. since she had been brought into subordination at six or eight years old, she had never had occasion to find out that she had a spirit of her own, till she found herself astonishing jones and brooks for taking the liberty of having a deadly feud; making brooks understand that cows were not to be sold, nor promises made to tenants, without reference to her; or showing a determined marauder that humfrey's wood was not to be preyed upon any more than in his own time. they were very feminine explosions to be sure, but they had their effect, and miss charlecote's was a real government. the uproar with nurse came at last, through a chance discovery that she had taken owen to a certain forbidden house of gossip, where he had been bribed to secrecy with bread and treacle. honora wrote to mrs. charteris for permission to dismiss the mischievous woman, and obtained full consent, and the most complete expression of confidence and gratitude. so there ensued a month, when every visit to the nursery seemed to be spent in tears. nurse was really very fond of the children, and cried over them incessantly, only consoling herself by auguring a brilliant future for them, when master owen should reign over hiltonbury, like the gentleman he was. 'but, nurse, cousin honor says i never shall--i'm to be a clergyman, like papa. she says . . . ' nurse winked knowingly at the housemaid. 'yes, yes, my darling, no one likes to hear who is to come after them. don't you say nothing about it; ain't becoming; but, by and by, see if it don't come so, and if my boy ain't master here.' 'i wish i was, and then nursey would never go.' however, nurse did go, and after some tears owen was consoled by promotion to the habits of an older boy. lucilla was very angry, and revenged herself by every variety of opposition in her power, all which were put down by the strong hand. it was a matter of necessity to keep a tight grasp on this little wilful sprite, the most fiery morsel of engaging caprice and naughtiness that a quiet spinster could well have lit upon. it really sometimes seemed to honora as if there were scarcely a fault in the range of possibilities that she had not committed; and indeed a bit of good advice generally seemed to act by contraries, and served to suggest mischief. softness and warmth of feeling seemed to have been lost with her father; she did not show any particular affection towards her brother or honora. perhaps she liked miss wells, but that might be only opposition; nay, honor would have been almost thankful if she had melted at the departure of the undesirable nurse, but she appeared only hard and cross. if she liked any one it was robert fulmort, but that was too much in the way of flirtation. vanity was an extremely traceable spring of action. when nurse went, miss lucilla gave the household no peace, because no one could rightly curl the long flaxen tresses upon her shoulders, until the worry became so intolerable that honora, partly as penance, partly because she thought the present mode neither conducive to tidiness nor comfort, took her scissors and trimmed all the ringlets behind, bowl-dish fashion, as her own carrots had figured all the days of her childhood. lucilla was held by mrs. stubbs during the operation. she did not cry or scream after she felt herself conquered by main strength, but her blue eyes gleamed with a strange, wild light; she would not speak to miss charlecote all the rest of the day, and honora doubted whether she were ever forgiven. another offence was the cutting down her name into lucy. honor had avoided cilly from the first; silly sandbrook would be too dreadful a sobriquet to be allowed to attach to any one, but lucilla resented the change more deeply than she showed. lucy was a housemaid's name, she said, and honor reproved her for vanity, and called her so all the more. she did not love miss charlecote well enough to say that cilly had been her father's name for her, and that he had loved to wind the flaxen curls round his fingers. every new study, every new injunction cost a warfare, disobedience, and passionate defiance and resistance on the one hand, and steady, good-tempered firmness on the other, gradually growing a little stern. the waves became weary of beating on the rock at last. the fiery child was growing into a girl, and the calm will had the mastery of her; she succumbed insensibly; and owing all her pleasures to cousin honor, she grew to depend upon her, and mind, manners, and opinions were taking their mould from her. chapter v too soon the happy child his nook of heavenward thought must change for life's seducing wild.--_christian year_ the summer sun peeped through the venetian blinds greenly shading the breakfast-table. only three sides were occupied. for more than two years past good miss wells had been lying under the shade of hiltonbury church, taking with her honora charlecote's last semblance of the dependence and deference of her young ladyhood. the kind governess had been fondly mourned, but she had not left her child to loneliness, for the brother and sister sat on either side, each with a particular pet--lucilla's, a large pointer, who kept his nose on her knee; owen's, a white fan-tailed pigeon, seldom long absent from his shoulder, where it sat quivering and bending backwards its graceful head. lucilla, now nearly fourteen, looked younger from the unusual smallness of her stature, and the exceeding delicacy of her features and complexion, and she would never have been imagined to be two years the senior of the handsome-faced, large-limbed young saxon who had so far outstripped her in height; and yet there was something in those deep blue eyes, that on a second glance proclaimed a keen intelligence as much above her age as her appearance was below it. 'what's the matter?' said she, rather suddenly. 'yes, sweetest honey,' added the boy, 'you look bothered. is that rascal not paying his rent?' 'no!' she said, 'it is a different matter entirely. what do you think of an invitation to castle blanch?' 'for us all?' asked owen. 'yes, all, to meet your uncle christopher, the last week in august.' 'why can't he come here?' asked lucilla. 'i believe we must go,' said honora. 'you ought to know both your uncles, and they should be consulted before owen goes to school.' 'i wonder if they will examine me,' said owen. 'how they will stare to find sweet honey's teaching as good as all their preparatory schools.' 'conceited boy.' 'i'm not conceited--only in my teacher. mr. henderson said i should take as good a place as robert fulmort did at winchester, after four years in that humbugging place at elverslope.' 'we can't go!' cried lucilla. 'it's the last week of robin's holidays!' 'well done, lucy!' and both honor and owen laughed heartily. 'it is nothing to me,' said she, tossing her head, 'only i thought cousin honor thought it good for him.' 'you may stay at home to do him good,' laughed owen; 'i'm sure i don't want him. you are very welcome, such a bore as he is.' 'now, owen.' 'honey dear, i do take my solemn affidavit that i have tried my utmost to be friends with him,' said owen; 'but he is such a fellow--never has the least notion beyond winchester routine--latin and greek, cricket and football.' 'you'll soon be a schoolboy yourself,' said lucilla. 'then i shan't make such an ass of myself,' returned owen. 'robin is a very good boy, i believe,' said honor. 'that's the worst of him!' cried lucilla, running away and clapping the door after her as she went. 'well, i don't know,' said owen, very seriously, 'he says he does not care about the saints' days because he has no one to get him leave out.' 'i remember,' said honor, with a sweet smile of tender memory, 'when to me the merit of saints' days was that they were your father's holidays.' 'yes, you'll send me to westminster, and be always coming to woolstone-lane,' said owen. 'your uncles must decide,' she said, half mournfully, half proudly; 'you are getting to be a big boy--past me, oney.' it brought her a roughly playful caress, and he added, 'you've got the best right, i'm sure.' 'i had thought of winchester,' she said. 'robert would be a friend.' owen made a face, and caused her to laugh, while scandalizing her by humming, 'not there, not there, my child.' 'well, be it where it may, you had better look over your virgil, while i go down to my practical georgics with brooks.' owen obeyed. he was like a spirited horse in a leash of silk. strong, fearless, and manly, he was still perfectly amenable to her, and had never shown any impatience of her rule. she had taught him entirely herself, and both working together with a thorough good will, she had rendered him a better classical scholar, as all judges allowed, than most boys of the same age, and far superior to them in general cultivation; and she should be proud to convince captain charteris that she had not made him the mollycoddle that was obviously anticipated. the other relatives, who had seen the children in their yearly visits to london, had always expressed unqualified satisfaction, though not advancing much in the good graces of lucy and owen. but honor thought the public school ought to be left to the selection of the two uncles, though she wished to be answerable for the expense, both there and at the university. the provision inherited by her charges was very slender, for, contrary to all expectation, old mr. sandbrook's property had descended in another quarter, and there was barely pounds between the two. to preserve this untouched by the expenses of education was honora's object, and she hoped to be able to smooth their path in life by occasional assistance, but on principle she was determined to make them independent of her, and she had always made it known that she regarded it as her duty to humfrey that her hiltonbury property should be destined--if not to the apocryphal american charlecote--to a relation of their mutual great-grandmother. cold invitations had been given and declined, but this one was evidently in earnest, and the consideration of the captain decided honora on accepting it, but not without much murmuring from lucilla. caroline and horatia were detestable grown-up young ladies, her aunt was horrid, castle blanch was the slowest place in the world; she should be shut up in some abominable school-room to do fancy-work, and never to get a bit of fun. even the being reminded of wrapworth and its associations only made her more cross. she was of a nature to fly from thought or feeling--she was keen to perceive, but hated reflection, and from the very violence of her feelings, she unconsciously abhorred any awakening of them, and steeled herself by levity. her distaste only gave way in robert's presence, when she appeared highly gratified by the change, certain that castle blanch would be charming, and her cousin the life-guardsman especially so. the more disconsolate she saw robert, the higher rose her spirits, and his arrival to see the party off sent her away in open triumph, glorifying her whole cousinhood without a civil word to him; but when seated in the carriage she launched at him a drawing, the favourite work of her leisure hours, broke into unrestrained giggling at his grateful surprise, and ere the wood was past, was almost strangled with sobs. castle blanch was just beyond the suburbs of london, in complete country, but with an immense neighbourhood, and not half-an-hour by train from town. honora drove all the way, to enjoy the lovely thames scenery to the full. they passed through wrapworth, and as they did so, lucilla chattered to the utmost, while honora stole her hand over owen's and gently pressed it. he returned the squeeze with interest, and looked up in her face with a loving smile--mother and home were not wanting to him! about two miles further on, and not in the same parish, began the castle blanch demesne. the park sloped down to the thames, and was handsome, and quite full of timber, and the mansion, as the name imported, had been built in the height of pseudo-gothic, with a formidable keep-looking tower at each corner, but the fortification below consisting of glass; the sham cloister, likewise glass windows, for drawing-room, music-room, and conservatory; and jutting out far in advance, a great embattled gateway, with a sham portcullis, and doors fit to defy an army. three men-servants met the guests in the hall, and mrs. charteris received them in the drawing-room, with the woman-of-the-world tact that honora particularly hated; there was always such deference to miss charlecote, and such an assumption of affection for the children, and gratitude for her care of them, and miss charlecote had not been an heiress early enough in life for such attentions to seem matters of course. it was explained that there was no school-room at present, and as a girl of lucilla's age, who was already a guest, joined the rest of the party at dinner, it was proposed that she and her brother should do the same, provided miss charlecote did not object. honor was really glad of the gratification for lucilla, and mrs. charteris agreed with her before she had time to express her opinion as to girls being kept back or brought forward. honor found herself lodged in great state, in a world of looking-glass that had perfectly scared her poor little hiltonbury maiden, and with a large dressing-room, where she hoped to have seen a bed for lucilla, but she found that the little girl was quartered in another story, near the cousins; and unwilling to imply distrust, and hating to incite obsequious compliance, she did not ask for any change, but only begged to see the room. it was in a long passage whence doors opened every way, and one being left ajar, sounds of laughter and talking were heard in tones as if the young ladies were above good breeding in their private moments. mrs. charteris said something about her daughters' morning-room, and was leading the way thither, when an unguarded voice exclaimed--'rouge dragon and all,' and a start and suppressed laughter at the entrance of the newcomers gave an air of having been caught. four young ladies, in _degage_ attitudes, were lounging round their afternoon refection of tea. two, caroline and horatia charteris, shook hands with miss charlecote, and kissed lucilla, who still looked at them ungraciously, followed honora's example in refusing their offer of tea, and only waiting to learn her own habitation, came down to her room to be dressed for dinner, and to criticize cousins, aunt, house and all. the cousins were not striking--both were on a small scale, caroline the best looking in features and complexion, but horatia the most vivacious and demonstrative, and with an air of dash and fashion that was more effective than beauty. lucilla, not sensible to these advantages, broadly declared both young ladies to be frights, and commented so freely on them to the willing ears of owen, who likewise came in to go down under sweet honey's protection, as to call for a reproof from honora, one of whose chief labours ever was to destroy the little lady's faith in beauty, and complacency in her own. the latter sensation was strong in honor herself, as she walked into the room between her beautiful pair, and contrasted lucilla with her contemporary, a formed and finished young lady, all plaits, ribbons, and bracelets--not half so pleasing an object as the little maid in her white frock, blue sash, and short wavy hair, though maybe there was something quaint in such simplicity, to eyes trained by fashion instead of by good taste. here was captain charteris, just what he had been when he went away. how different from his stately, dull, wife-ridden elder brother. so brisk, and blunt, and eager, quite lifting his niece off her feet, and almost crushing her in his embrace, telling her she was still but a hop-o'-my-thumb, and shaking hands with his nephew with a look of scrutiny that brought the blood to the boy's cheek. his eyes were never off the children while he was listening to honora, and she perceived that what she said went for nothing; he would form his judgment solely by what he observed for himself. at dinner, he was seated between miss charlecote and his niece, and honora was pleased with him for his neglect of her and attention to his smaller neighbour, whose face soon sparkled with merriment, while his increasing animation proved that the saucy little woman was as usual enchanting him. much that was very entertaining was passing about tiger-hunting, when at dessert, as he stretched out his arm to reach some water for her, she exclaimed, 'why, uncle kit, you _have_ brought away the marks! no use to deny it, the tigers did bite you.' the palm of his hand certainly bore in purple, marks resembling those of a set of teeth; and he looked meaningly at honora, as he quietly replied, 'something rather like a tigress.' 'then it was a bite, uncle kit?' yes,' in a put-an-end-to-it tone, which silenced lucilla, her tact being much more ready when concerned with the nobler sex. in the drawing-room, mrs. charteris's civilities kept honora occupied, while she saw owen bursting with some request, and when at length he succeeded in claiming her attention, it was to tell her of his cousin's offer to take him out shooting, and his elder uncle's proviso that it must be with her permission. he had gone out with the careful gamekeeper at hiltonbury, but this was a different matter, more trying to the nerves of those who stayed at home. however, honora suspected that the uncle's opinion of her competence to be trusted with owen would be much diminished by any betrayal of womanly terrors, and she made her only conditions that he should mind uncle kit, and not go in front of the guns, otherwise he would never be taken out again, a menace which she judiciously thought more telling than that he would be shot. by and by mr. charteris came to discuss subjects so interesting to her as a farmer, that it was past nine o'clock before she looked round for her children. healthy as lucilla was, her frame was so slight and unsubstantial, and her spirits so excitable, that over-fatigue or irregularity always told upon her strength and temper; for which reason honor had issued a decree that she should go to bed at nine, and spend two hours of every morning in quiet employment, as a counterbalance to the excitement of the visit. looking about to give the summons, honor found that owen had disappeared. unnoticed, and wearied by the agricultural dialogue, he had hailed nine o'clock as the moment of release, and crept off with unobtrusive obedience, which honor doubly prized when she beheld his sister full of eagerness, among cousins and gentlemen, at the racing game. strongly impelled to end it at once, honor waited, however, till the little white horseman had reached the goal, and just as challenges to a fresh race were beginning, she came forward with her needful summons. 'oh, miss charlecote, how cruel!' was the universal cry. 'we can't spare all the life of our game!' said charles charteris. 'i solemnly declare we weren't betting,' cried horatia. 'come, the first evening--' 'no,' said honor, smiling. 'i can't have her lying awake to be good for nothing to-morrow, as she will do if you entertain her too much.' 'another night, then, you promise,' said charles. 'i promise nothing but to do my best to keep her fit to enjoy herself. come, lucy.' the habit of obedience was fixed, but not the habit of conquering annoyance, and lucilla went off doggedly. honora would have accompanied her to soothe away her troubles, but her cousin ratia ran after her, and captain charteris stood in the way, disposed to talk. 'discipline,' he said, approvingly. 'harsh discipline, i fear, it seemed to her, poor child,' said honor; 'but she is so excitable that i must try to keep her as quiet as possible.' 'right,' said the captain; 'i like to see a child a child still. you must have had some tussles with that little spirit.' 'a few,' she said, smiling. 'she is a very good girl now, but it has been rather a contrast with her brother.' 'ha!' quoth the captain; and mindful of the milk-sop charge, honora eagerly continued, 'you will soon see what a spirit he has! he rides very well, and is quite fearless. i have always wished him to be with other boys, and there are some very nice ones near us--they think him a capital cricketer, and you should see him run and vault.' 'he is an active-looking chap,' his uncle granted. 'every one tells me he is quite able to make his way at school; i am only anxious to know which public school you and your brother would prefer.' 'how old is he?' 'only twelve last month, though you would take him for fifteen.' 'twelve; then there would be just time to send him to portsmouth, get him prepared for a naval cadetship, then, when i go out with sir david horfield, i could take him under my own eye, and make a man of him at once.' 'oh! captain charteris,' cried honora, aghast, 'his whole bent is towards his father's profession.' the captain had very nearly whistled, unable to conceive any lad of spirit preferring study. 'whatever miss charlecote's wishes may be, kit,' interposed the diplomatic elder brother, 'we only desire to be guided by them.' 'oh no, indeed,' cried honor; 'i would not think of such a responsibility, it can belong only to his nearer connections;' then, feeling as if this were casting him off to be pressed by the sailor the next instant, she added, in haste--'only i hoped it was understood--if you will let me--the expenses of his education need not be considered. and if he _might_ be with me in the holidays,' she proceeded imploringly. 'when captain charteris has seen more of him, i am sure he will think it a pity that his talents . . .' and there she stopped, shocked at finding herself insulting the navy. 'if a boy have no turn that way, it cannot be forced on him,' said the captain, moodily. honora pitied his disappointment, wondering whether he ascribed it to her influence, and mr. charteris blandly expressed great obligation and more complete resignation of the boy than she desired; disclaimers ran into mere civilities, and she was thankful to the captain for saying, shortly, 'we'll leave it till we have seen more of the boy.' breakfast was very late at castle blanch; and honora expected a tranquil hour in her dressing-room with her children, but owen alone appeared, anxious for the shooting, but already wearying to be at home with his own pleasures, and indignant with everything, especially the absence of family prayers. the breakfast was long and desultory, and in the midst lucilla made her appearance with horatia, who was laughing and saying, 'i found this child wandering about the park, and the little pussycat won't tell where she has been.' 'poaching, of course,' responded charles; 'it is what pussycats always do till they get shot by the keepers.' _et caetera_, _et caetera_, _et caetera_. lucilla was among all the young people, in the full tide of fun, nonsense, banter, and repartee of a style new to her, but in which she was formed to excel, and there was such a black look when honor summoned her after the meal, as impressed the awkwardness of enforcing authority among nearer relations; but it was in vain, she was carried off to the dressing-room, and reminded of the bargain for two hours' occupation. she murmured something about owen going out as he liked. 'he came to me before breakfast; besides, he is a boy. what made you go out in that strange manner?' there was no answer, but honor had learnt by experience that to insist was apt to end in obtaining nothing but a collision of wills, and she merely put out the prayer books for the morning's reading of the psalms. by the time it was over, lucilla's fit of temper had past, and she leant back in her chair. 'what are you listening to, lucy?' said honor, seeing her fixed eye. 'the river,' said lucilla, pausing with a satisfied look to attend to the deep regular rush. 'i couldn't think before what it was that always seemed to be wanting, and now i know. it came to me when i went to bed; it was so nice!' 'the river voice! yes; it must be one of your oldest friends,' said honora, gratified at the softening. 'so that carried you out.' 'i couldn't help it! i went home,' said lucilla. 'home? to wrapworth? all alone?' cried honor, kindly, but aghast. 'i couldn't help it,' again said the girl. 'the river noise was so like everything--and i knew the way--and i felt as if i must go before any one was up.' 'so you really went. and what did you do?' 'i got over the palings our own old way, and there's my throne still in the back of the laurels, and i popped in on old madge, and oh! she was so surprised! and then i came on mr. prendergast, and he walked all the way back with me, till he saw ratia coming, and then he would not go on any farther.' 'well, my dear, i can't blame you this time. i am hoping myself to go to wrapworth with you and owen.' 'ratia is going to take me out riding and in the boat,' said lucy, without a direct answer. 'you like your cousins better than you expected?' 'rashe is famous,' was the answer, 'and so is uncle kit.' 'my dear, you noticed the mark on his hand,' said honora; 'you do not know the cause?' 'no! was it a shark or a mad dog?' eagerly asked the child, slightly alarmed by her manner. 'neither. but do not you remember his carrying you into woolstone-lane? i always believed you did not know what your little teeth were doing.' it was not received as honora expected. probably the scenes of the girl's infancy had brought back associations more strongly than she was prepared for--she turned white, gasped, and vindictively said, 'i'm glad of it.' honora, shocked, had not discovered a reply, when lucilla, somewhat confused at the sound of her own words, said, 'i know--not quite that--he meant the best--but, cousin honor, it was cruel, it was wicked, to part my father and me! father--oh, the river is going on still, but not my father!' the excitable girl burst into a flood of passionate tears, as though the death of her father were more present to her than ever before; and she had never truly missed him till she was brought in contact with her old home. the fatigue and change, the talking evening and restless night, had produced their effect; her very thoughtlessness and ordinary _insouciance_ rendered the rush more overwhelming when it did come, and the weeping was almost hysterical. it was not a propitious circumstance that caroline knocked at the door with some message as to the afternoon's arrangements. honor answered at haphazard, standing so as to intercept the view, but aware that the long-drawn sobs would be set down to the account of her own tyranny, and nevertheless resolving the more on enforcing the quiescence, the need of which was so evident; but the creature was volatile as well as sensitive, and by the time the door was shut, stood with heaving breast and undried tears, eagerly demanding whether her cousins wanted her. 'not at all,' said honora, somewhat annoyed at the sudden transition; 'it was only to ask if i would ride.' 'charles was to bring the pony for me; i must go,' cried lucy, with an eye like that of a greyhound in the leash. 'not yet,' said honor. 'my dear, you promised.' 'i'll never promise anything again,' was the pettish murmur. poor child, these two morning hours were to her a terrible penance, day after day. practically, she might have found them heavy had they been left to her own disposal, but it was expecting overmuch from human nature to hope that she would believe so without experience, and her lessons were a daily irritation, an apparent act of tyranny, hardening her feelings against the exactor, at the same time that the influence of kindred blood drew her closer to her own family, with a revulsion the stronger from her own former exaggerated dislike. the nursery at castle blanch, and the cousins who domineered over her as a plaything, had been intolerable to the little important companion of a grown man, but it was far otherwise to emerge from the calm seclusion and sober restraints of the holt into the gaieties of a large party, to be promoted to young ladyhood, and treated on equal terms, save for extra petting and attention. instead of robert fulmort alone, all the gentlemen in the house gave her flattering notice--eye, ear, and helping hand at her disposal, and blunt uncle kit himself was ten times more civil to her than to either of her cousins. what was the use of trying to disguise from her the witchery of her piquant prettiness? her cousin horatia had always had a great passion for her as a beautiful little toy, and her affection, once so trying to its object, had taken the far more agreeable form of promoting her pleasures and sympathizing with her vexations. patronage from two-and-twenty to fourteen, from a daughter of the house to a guest, was too natural to offend, and lucilla requited it with vehement attachment, running after her at every moment, confiding all her grievances, and being made sensible of many more. ratia, always devising delights for her, took her on the river, rode with her, set her dancing, opened the world to her, and enjoyed her pleasures, amused by her precocious vivacity, fostering her sauciness, extolling the wit of her audacious speeches, and extremely resenting all poor honora's attempts to counteract this terrible spoiling, or to put a check upon undesirable diversions and absolute pertness. every conscientious interference on her part was regarded as duenna-like harshness, and her restrictions as a grievous yoke, and lucilla made no secret that it was so, treating her to almost unvaried ill-humour and murmurs. little did lucilla know, nor even horatia, how much of the charms that produced so much effect were due to these very restraints, nor how the droll sauciness and womanly airs were enhanced by the simplicity of appearance, which embellished her far more than the most fashionable air set off her companions. once lucilla had overheard her aunt thus excusing her short locks and simple dress--'it is miss charlecote's doing. of course, when so much depends on her, we must give way. excellent person, rather peculiar, but we are under great obligations to her. very good property.' no wonder that sojourn at castle blanch was one of the most irksome periods of honora's life, disappointing, fretting, and tedious. there was a grievous dearth of books and of reasonable conversation, and both she and owen were exceedingly at a loss for occupation, and used to sit in the boat on the river, and heartily wish themselves at home. he had no companion of his own age, and was just too young and too enterprising to be welcome to gentlemen bent more on amusing themselves than pleasing him. he was roughly admonished when he spoilt sport or ran into danger; his cousin charles was fitfully good-natured, but generally showed that he was in the way; his uncle kit was more brief and stern with him than 'sweet honey's' pupil could endure; and honor was his only refuge. his dreariness was only complete when the sedulous civilities of his aunt carried her beyond his reach. she could not attain a visit to wrapworth till the sunday. the carriage went in state to the parish church in the morning, and the music and preaching furnished subjects for _persiflage_ at luncheon, to her great discomfort, and the horror of owen; and she thought she might venture to wrapworth in the afternoon. she had a longing for owen's church, 'for auld lang syne'--no more. even his bark church in the backwoods could not have rivalled hiltonbury and the brass. owen, true to his allegiance, joined her in good time, but reported that his sister was gone on with ratia. whereas ratia would probably otherwise not have gone to church at all, honor was deprived of all satisfaction in her annoyance, and the compensation of a _tete-a-tete_ with owen over his father's memory was lost by the unwelcome addition of captain charteris. the loss signified the less as owen's reminiscences were never allowed to languish for want of being dug up and revived, but she could not quite pardon the sailor for the commonplace air his presence cast over the walk. the days were gone by when mr. sandbrook's pulpit eloquence had rendered wrapworth church a sunday show to castle blanch. his successor was a cathedral dignitary, so constantly absent that the former curate, who had been continued on at wrapworth, was, in the eyes of every one, the veritable master. poor mr. prendergast--whatever were his qualifications as a preacher--had always been regarded as a disappointment; people had felt themselves defrauded when the sermon fell to his share instead of that of mr. sandbrook, and odious comparison had so much established the opinion of his deficiencies, that honora was not surprised to see a large-limbed and rather quaint-looking man appear in the desk, but the service was gone through with striking reverence, and the sermon was excellent, though homely and very plain-spoken. the church had been cruelly mauled by churchwardens of the last century, and a few gothic decorations, intended for the beginning of restoration, only made it the more incongruous. the east window, of stained glass, of a quality left far behind by the advances of the last twenty years, bore an inscription showing that it was a memorial, and there was a really handsome font. honor could trace the late rector's predilections in a manner that carried her back twenty years, and showed her, almost to her amusement, how her own notions and sympathies had been carried onwards with the current of the world around her. on coming out, she found that there might have been more kindness in captain charteris than she had suspected, for he kept horatia near him, and waited for the curate, so as to leave her at liberty and unobserved. her first object was that owen should see his mother's grave. it was beside the parsonage path, a flat stone, fenced by a low iron border, enclosing likewise a small flower-bed, weedy, ruinous, and forlorn. a floriated cross, filled up with green lichen, was engraven above the name. lucilla horatia beloved wife of the reverend owen sandbrook rector of this parish and only daughter of lieutenant-general sir christopher charteris she died november the th aged years. _____ mary caroline her daughter born november th died april th i shall go to them, but they shall not return to me. how like it was to poor owen! that necessity of expression, and the visible presage of weakening health so surely fulfilled! and his lucilla! it was a melancholy work to have brought home a missionary, and secularized a parish priest! 'not a generous reflection,' thought honora, 'at a rival's grave,' and she turned to the boy, who had stooped to pull at some of the bits of groundsel. 'shall we come here in the early morning, and set it to rights?' 'i forgot it was sunday,' said owen, hastily throwing down the weed he had plucked up. 'you were doing no harm, my dear; but we will not leave it in this state. will you come with us, lucy?' lucilla had escaped, and was standing aloof at the end of the path, and when her brother went towards her, she turned away. 'come, lucy,' he entreated, 'come into the garden with us. we want you to tell us the old places.' 'i'm not coming,' was all her answer, and she ran back to the party who stood by the church door, and began to chatter to mr. prendergast, over whom she had domineered even before she could speak plain. a silent, shy man, wrapped up in his duties, he was mortally afraid of the castle blanch young ladies, and stood ill at ease, talked down by miss horatia charteris, but his eye lighted into a smile as the fairy plaything of past years danced up to him, and began her merry chatter, asking after every one in the parish, and showing a perfect memory of names and faces such as amazed him, in a child so young as she had been at the time when she had left the parish. honora and owen meantime were retracing recollections in the rectory garden, eking out the boy's four years old memories with imaginations and moralizings, pondering over the border whence owen declared he had gathered snowdrops for his mother's coffin; and the noble plane tree by the water-side, sacred to the memory of bible stories told by his father in the summer evenings-- 'that tree!' laughed lucilla, when he told her that night as they walked up-stairs to bed. 'nobody could sit there because of the mosquitoes. and i should like to see the snowdrops you found in november!' 'i know there were some white flowers. were they lilies of the valley for little mary?' 'it will do just as well,' said lucilla. she knew that she could bring either scene before her mind with vivid distinctness, but shrinking from the pain almost with horror, she only said, 'it's a pity you aren't a roman catholic, owen; you would soon find a hole in a rock, and say it was where a saint, with his head under his arm, had made a footmark.' 'you are very irreverent, lucy, and very cross besides. if you would not come and tell us, what could we do?' 'let it alone.' 'if you don't care for dear papa and mamma, i do,' said owen, the tears coming into his eyes. 'i'm not going to rake it up to please honora,' returned his sister. 'if you like to go and poke with her over places where things never happened, you may, but she shan't meddle with my real things.' 'you are very unkind,' was the next accusation from owen, much grieved and distressed, 'when she is so good and dear, and was so fond of our dear father.' 'i know,' said lucilla, in a tone he did not understand; then, with an air of eldership, ill assorting with their respective sizes, 'you are a mere child. it is all very well for you, and you are very welcome to your sweet honey.' owen insisted on hearing her meaning, and on her refusal to explain, used his superior strength to put her to sufficient torture to elicit an answer. 'don't, owen! let go! there, then! why, she was in love with our father, and nearly died of it when he married; and rashe says of course she bullies me for being like my mother.' 'she never bullies you,' cried owen, indignantly; 'she's much kinder to you than you deserve, and i hate ratia for putting it into your head, and teaching you such nasty man's words about my own honor.' 'ah! you'll never be a man while you are under her. she only wants to keep us a couple of babies for ever--sending us to bed, and making such a figure of me;' and lucy relieved her feelings by five perpendicular leaps into the air, like an india-rubber ball, her hair flying out, and her eyes flashing. owen was not much astonished, for lucy's furies often worked off in this fashion; but he was very angry on honor's account, loving her thoroughly, and perceiving no offence in her affection for his father; and the conversation assumed a highly quarrelsome character. it was much to the credit of masculine discretion that he refrained from reporting it when he joined honora in the morning's walk to wrapworth churchyard. behold! some one was beforehand with them--even lucilla and the curate! the wearisome visit was drawing to a close when captain charteris began--'well, miss charlecote, have you thought over my proposal?' 'to take owen to sea? indeed, i hoped you were convinced that it would never answer.' 'so far from being so, that i see it is his best chance. he will do no good till the priggishness is knocked out of him.' honor would not trust herself to answer. any accusation but this might have been borne. 'well, well,' said the captain, in a tone still more provoking, it was so like hushing a petulant child, 'we know how kind you were, and that you meant everything good; but it is not in the nature of things that a lad alone with women should not be cock of the walk, and nothing cures that like a month on board.' 'he will go to school,' said honor, convinced all this was prejudice. 'ay, and come home in the holidays, lording it as if he were master and more, like the son and heir.' 'indeed, captain charteris, you are quite mistaken; i have never allowed owen to think himself in that position. he knows perfectly well that there are nearer claims upon me, and that hiltonbury can never belong to him. i have always rejoiced that it should be so. i should not like to have the least suspicion that there could be self-interest in his affection for me in the time to come; and i think it presumptuous to interfere with the course of providence in the matter of inheritances.' 'my good miss charlecote,' said the captain, who had looked at her with somewhat of a pitying smile, instead of attending to her last words, 'do you imagine that you know that boy?' 'i do not know who else should,' she answered, quivering between a disposition to tears at the harshness, and to laughter at the assumption of the stranger uncle to see farther than herself into her darling. 'ha!' quoth the sailor, 'slippery--slippery fellows.' 'i do not understand you. you do not mean to imply that i have not his perfect confidence, or do you think i have managed him wrongly? if you do, pray tell me at once. i dare say i have.' 'i couldn't say so,' said captain charteris. 'you are an excellent good woman, miss charlecote, and the best friend the poor things have had in the world; and you have taught them more good than i could, i'm sure; but i never yet saw a woman who could be up to a boy, any more than she could sail a ship.' 'very likely not,' said honor, with a lame attempt at a good-humoured laugh; 'but i should be very glad to know whether you are speaking from general experience of woman and boy, or from individual observation of the case in point.' the captain made a very odd, incomprehensible little bow; and after a moment's thought, said, 'plainly speaking, then, i don't think you do get to the bottom of that lad; but there's no telling, and i never had any turn for those smooth chaps. if a fellow begins by being over-precise in what is of no consequence, ten to one but he ends by being reckless in all the rest.' this last speech entirely reassured honor, by proving to her that the captain was entirely actuated by prejudice against his nephew's gentle and courteous manners and her own religious views. he did not believe in the possibility of the success of such an education, and therefore was of course insensible to owen's manifold excellences. thenceforth she indignantly avoided the subject, and made no attempt to discover whether the captain's eye, practised in midshipmen, had made any positive observations on which to found his dissatisfaction. wounded by his want of gratitude, and still more hurt by his unkind judgment of her beloved pupil, she transferred her consultations to the more deferential uncle, who was entirely contented with his nephew, transported with admiration of her management, and ready to make her a present of him with all his heart. so readily did he accede to all that she said of schools, that the choice was virtually left to her. eton was rejected as a fitter preparation for the squirearchy than the ministry; winchester on account of the distaste between owen and young fulmort; and her decision was fixed in favour of westminster, partly for his father's sake, partly on account of the proximity of st. wulstan's--such an infinite advantage, as mr. charteris observed. the sailor declared that he knew nothing of schools, and would take no part in the discussion. there had, in truth, been high words between the brothers, each accusing the other of going the way to ruin their nephew, ending by the captain's' exclaiming, 'well, i wash my hands of it! i can't flatter a foolish woman into spoiling poor lucilla's son. if i am not to do what i think right by him, i shall get out of sight of it all.' 'his prospects, kit; how often i have told you it is our duty to consider his prospects.' 'hang his prospects! a handsome heiress under forty! how can you be such an ass, charles? he ought to be able to make an independent fortune before he could stand in her shoes, if he were ever to do so, which she declares he never will. yes, you may look knowing if you will, but she is no such fool in some things; and depend upon it she will make a principle of leaving her property in the right channel; and be that as it may, i warn you that you can't do this lad a worse mischief than by putting any such notion into his head, if it be not there already. there's not a more deplorable condition in the world than to be always dangling after an estate, never knowing if it is to be your own or not, and most likely to be disappointed at last; and, to do miss charlecote justice, she is perfectly aware of that; and it will not be her fault if he have any false expectations! so, if you feed him with them, it will all be your fault; and that's the last i mean to say about him.' captain charteris was not aware of a colloquy in which owen had a share. 'this lucky fellow,' said the young life-guardsman, 'he is as good as an eldest son--famous shooting county--capital, well-timbered estate.' 'no, charles,' said owen, 'my cousin honor always says i am nothing like an eldest son, for there are nearer relations.' 'oh ha!' said charles, with a wink of superior wisdom, 'we understand that. she knows how to keep you on your good behaviour. why, but for cutting you out, i would even make up to her myself--fine-looking, comely woman, and well-preserved--and only the women quarrel with that splendid hair. never mind, my boy, i don't mean it. i wouldn't stand in your light.' 'as if honor would have _you_!' cried owen, in fierce scorn. charles charteris and his companions, with loud laughter, insisted on the reasons. 'because,' cried the boy, with flashing looks, 'she would not be ridiculous; and you are--' he paused, but they held him fast, and insisted on hearing what charles was. 'not a good churchman,' he finally pronounced. 'yes, you may laugh at me, but honor shan't be laughed at.' possibly owen's views at present were that 'not to be a good churchman' was synonymous with all imaginable evil, and that he had put it in a delicate manner. whether he heard the last of it for the rest of his visit may be imagined. and, poor boy, though he was strong and spirited enough with his own contemporaries, there was no dealing with the full-fledged soldier. nor, when conversation turned to what 'we' did at hiltonbury, was it possible always to disclaim standing in the same relation to the holt as did charles to castle blanch; nay, a certain importance seemed to attach to such an assumption of dignity, of which owen was not loth to avail himself in his disregarded condition. part ii chapter i we hold our greyhound in our hand, our falcon on our glove; but where shall we find leash or band for dame that loves to rove?--scott a june evening shed a slanting light over the greensward of hiltonbury holt, and made the western windows glisten like diamonds, as honora charlecote slowly walked homewards to her solitary evening meal, alone, except for the nearly blind old pointer who laid his grizzled muzzle upon her knees, gazing wistfully into her face, as seating herself upon the step of the sun-dial, she fondled his smooth, depressed black head. 'poor ponto!' she said, 'we are grown old together. our young ones are all gone.' grown old? less old in proportion than ponto--still in full vigour of mind and body, but old in disenchantment, and not without the traces of her forty-seven years. the auburn hair was still in rich masses of curl; only on close inspection were silver threads to be detected; the cheek was paler, the brow worn, and the gravely handsome dress was chosen to suit the representative of the charlecotes, not with regard to lingering youthfulness. the slow movement, subdued tone, and downcast eye, had an air of habitual dejection and patience, as though disappointment had gone deeper, or solitude were telling more on the spirits, than any past blow had done. she saw the preparations for her tea going on within the window, but ere going indoors, she took out and re-read two letters. the first was in the irregular decided characters affected by young ladies in the reaction from their grandmothers' pointed illegibilities, and bore a scroll at the top, with the word 'cilly,' in old english letters of bright blue. 'lowndes square, june th. 'my dear honor,--many thanks for wishing for your will-o'-th'-wisp again, but it is going to dance off in another direction. rashe and i are bound to the west of ireland, as soon as charles's inauguration is over at castle blanch; an odd jumble of festivities it is to be, but lolly is just cockney enough to be determinedly rural, and there's sure to be some fun to be got out of it; besides, i am pacified by having my special darling, edna murrell, the lovely schoolmistress at wrapworth, to sing to them. how mr. calthorp will admire her, as long as he thinks she is italian! it will be hard if i can't get a rise out of some of them! this being the case, i have not a moment for coming home; but i send some contributions for the prize-giving, some stunning articles from the lowther arcade. the gutta-percha face is for billy harrison, _whether in disgrace or not_. he deserves compensation for his many weary hours of sunday school, and it may suggest a new art for beguiling the time. _mind_ you tell him it is from me, with my love; and bestow the rest on all the chief reprobates. i wish i could see them; but you have no loss, you know how unedifying i am. kiss ponto for me, and ask robin for his commands to connaught. i know his sulkiness will transpire through phoebe. love to that dear little cinderella, and tell her mamma and juliana, that if she does not come out this winter, mrs. fulmort shall have no peace and juliana no partners. please to look in my room for my great nailed boots and hedging-gloves, also for the pig's wool in the left-hand drawer of the cabinet, and send them to me before the end of next week. owen would give his ears to come with us, but gentlemen would only obstruct irish chivalry; i am only afraid there is no hope of a faction fight. mr. saville called yesterday, so i made him dine here, and sung him into raptures. what a dear old don he is! 'your affectionate cousin, cilly.' the second letter stood thus:-- 'farrance's hotel, june th. 'my dear miss charlecote,--i have seen lawrence on your business, and he will prepare the leases for your signature. he suggests that it might be more satisfactory to wait, in case you should be coming to town, so that you might have a personal meeting with the parties; but this will be for you to determine. i came up from --- college on wednesday, having much enjoyed my visit. oxford is in many respects a changed place, but as long as our old head remains to us, i am sure of a gratifying welcome, and i saw many old friends. i exchanged cards with owen sandbrook, but only saw him as we met in the street, and a very fine-looking youth he is, a perfect hercules, and the champion of his college in all feats of strength; likely, too, to stand well in the class list. his costume was not what we should once have considered academical; but his is a daring set, intellectual as well as bodily, and the clever young men of the present day are not what they were in my time. it is gratifying to hear how warmly and affectionately he talks of you. i do not know how far you have undertaken the supplies, but i give you a hint that a warning on that subject might not be inappropriate, unless they have come into some great accession of fortune on their uncle's death. i ventured to call upon the young lady in lowndes square, and was most graciously received, and asked to dinner by the young mrs. charteris. it was a most _recherche_ dinner in the new italian fashion, which does not quite approve itself to me. "regardless of expense," seems to be the family motto. your pupil sings better than ever, and knew how to keep her hold of my heart, though i suspected her of patronizing the old parson to pique her more brilliant admirers, whom she possesses in plenty; and no wonder, for she is pretty enough to turn any man's head and shows to great advantage beside her cousin, miss charteris. i hope you will be able to prevent the cousins from really undertaking the wild plan of travelling alone in ireland, for the sake, they say, of salmon-fishing. i should have thought them not in earnest, but girls are as much altered as boys from the days of my experience, and brothers, too; for mr. charteris seemed to view the scheme very coolly; but, as i told my friend lucilla, i hope you will bring her to reason. i hope your hay-crop promises favourably. 'yours sincerely, w. saville.' no wonder that these letters made loneliness more lonely! 'oh, that horatia!' exclaimed she, almost aloud. 'oh, that captain charteris were available! no one else ever had any real power with lucy! it was an unlucky day when he saw that colonial young lady, and settled down in vancouver's island! and yet how i used to wish him away, with the surly independence he was always infusing into owen. wanting to take him out there, indeed! and yet, and yet--i sometimes doubt whether i did right to set my personal influence over my dear affectionate boy so much in opposition to his uncle--mr. charteris was on my side, though! and i always took care to have it clearly understood that it was his education alone that i undertook. what can mr. saville mean?--the supplies? owen knows what he has to trust to, but i can talk to him. a daring set!--yes, everything appears daring to an old-world man like mr. saville. i am sure of my owen; with our happy home sundays. i know i am his sweet honey still. and yet'--then hastily turning from that dubious 'and yet'--'owen is the only chance for his sister. she does care for him; and he will view this mad scheme in the right light. shall i meet him at the beginning of the vacation, and see what he can do with lucy? mr. saville thinks i ought to be in london, and i think i might be useful to the parsonses. i suppose i must; but it _is_ a heart-ache to be at st. wulstan's. one is used to it here; and there are the poor people, and the farm, and the garden--yes, and those dear nightingales--and you, poor ponto! one is used to it here, but st. wulstan's is a fresh pain, and so is coming back. but, if it be in the way of right, and to save poor lucy, it must be, and it is what life is made of. it is a "following of the funeral" of the hopes that sprang up after my spring-time. is it my chastisement, or is it my training? alas! maybe i took those children more for _myself_ than for duty's sake! may it all be for their true good in the end, whatever it may be with me. and now i _will_ not dream. it is of no use save to unnerve me. let me go to my book. it must be a story to-night. i cannot fix my attention yet.' as she rose, however, her face brightened at the sight of two advancing figures, and she went forward to meet them. one was a long, loosely-limbed youth of two-and-twenty, with broad shoulders, a heavy overhanging brow, dark gray serious eyes, and a mouth scarcely curved, and so fast shut as to disclose hardly any lip. the hair was dark and lank; the air was of ungainly force, that had not yet found its purpose, and therefore was not at ease; and but for the educated cast of countenance he would have had a peasant look, in the brown, homely undress garb, which to most youths of his age would have been becoming. with him was a girl, tall, slim, and lightly made, though of nicely rounded figure. in height she looked like seventeen, but her dress was more childish than usual at that age; and the contour of her smooth cheeks and short rounded chin, her long neck, her happy blue eyes, fully opened like those of a child, her fair rosy skin and fresh simple air, might almost have belonged to seven years old: and there was all the earnestness, innocence, and careless ease of childhood in her movements and gestures, as she sprang forward to meet miss charlecote, exclaiming, 'robin said i might come.' 'and very right of him. you are both come to tea?' she added, in affirmative interrogation, as she shook hands with the young man. 'no, thank you,' he answered; 'at least i only brought phoebe, having rescued her from miss fennimore's clutches. i must be at dinner. but i will come again for her.' and he yawned wearily. 'i will drive her back; you are tired.' 'no!' he said. 'at least the walk is one of the few tolerable things there is. i'll come as soon as i can escape, phoebe. past seven--i must go!' 'can't you stay? i could find some food for you.' 'no, thank you,' he still said; 'i do not know whether mervyn will come home, and there must not be too many empty chairs. good-bye!' and he walked off with long strides, but with stooping shoulders, and an air of dejection almost amounting to discontent. 'poor robin!' said honora, 'i wish he could have stayed.' 'he would have liked it very much,' said phoebe, casting wistful glances toward him. 'what a pity he did not give notice of his intentions at home!' 'he never will. he particularly dislikes--' 'what?' as phoebe paused and coloured. 'saying anything to anybody,' she answered with a little smile. 'he cannot endure remarks.' 'i am a very sober old body for a visit to me to be the occasion of remarks!' said honor, laughing more merrily than perhaps robert himself could have done; but phoebe answered with grave, straightforward sincerity, 'yes, but he did not know if lucy might not be come home.' honora sighed, but playfully said, 'in which case he would have stayed?' 'no,' said the still grave girl, 'he would have been still less likely to do so.' 'ah! the remarks would have been more pointed! but he has brought you at any rate, and that is something! how did he achieve it?' 'miss fennimore is really quite ready to be kind,' said phoebe, earnestly, with an air of defence, 'whenever we have finished all that we have to do.' 'and when is that?' asked honor, smiling. 'now for once,' answered phoebe, with a bright arch look. 'yes, i sometimes can; and so does bertha when she tries; and, indeed, miss charlecote, i do like miss fennimore; she never is hard upon poor maria. no governess we ever had made her cry so seldom.' miss charlecote only said it was a comfort. within herself she hoped that, for maria's peace and that of all concerned, her deficiency might become an acknowledged fact. she saw that the sparing maria's tears was such a boon to phoebe as to make her forgive all overtasking of herself. 'so you get on better,' she said. 'much better than robin chooses to believe we do,' said phoebe, smiling; 'perhaps it seemed hard at first, but it is comfortable to be made to do everything thoroughly, and to be shown a better best than we had ever thought of. i think it ought to be a help in doing the duty of all one's life in a thorough way.' 'all that thou hast to do,' said honor, smiling, 'the week-day side of the fourth commandment.' 'yes, that is just the reason why i like it,' said phoebe, with bright gladness in her countenance. 'but is that the motive miss fennimore puts before you?' said honor, a little ironically. 'she does not say so,' answered phoebe. 'she says that she never interferes with her pupils' religious tenets. but, indeed, i do not think she teaches us anything wrong, and there is always robert to ask.' this passed as the two ladies were entering the house and preparing for the evening meal. the table was placed in the bay of the open window, and looked very inviting, the little silver tea-pot steaming beside the two quaint china cups, the small crisp twists of bread, the butter cool in ice-plant leaves, and some fresh fruit blushing in a pretty basket. the holt was a region of paradise to phoebe fulmort; and glee shone upon her sweet face, though it was very quiet enjoyment, as the summer breeze played softly round her cheeks and danced with a merry little spiral that had detached itself from her glossy folds of light hair. 'how delicious!' she said. 'how sweet the honeysuckle is, dear old thing! you say you have known it all your life, and yet it is fresh as ever.' 'it is a little like you, phoebe,' said honor, smiling. 'what! because it is not exactly a pretty flower?' 'partly; and i could tell you of a few other likenesses, such as your being robert's woodbine, yet with a sort of clinging freedom. yes, and for the qualities you share with the willow, ready to give thanks and live on the least that heaven may give.' 'but i don't live on the least that heaven may give,' said phoebe, in such wonder that honor smiled at the justice of her simile, without impressing it upon phoebe, only asking-- 'is the french journey fixed upon, phoebe?' 'yes; they start this day fortnight.' 'they--not you?' 'no; there would be no room for me,' with a small sigh. 'how can that be? who is going? papa, mamma, two sisters!' 'mervyn,' added phoebe, 'the courier, and the two maids.' '_two_ maids! impossible!' 'it is always uncomfortable if mamma and my sisters have only one between them,' said phoebe, in her tone of perfect acquiescence and conviction; and as her friend could not restrain a gesture of indignation, she added eagerly--'but, indeed, it is not only for that reason, but miss fennimore says i am not formed enough to profit by foreign travel.' 'she wants you to finish smith's _wealth of nations_, eh?' 'it might be a pity to go away and lose so much of her teaching,' said phoebe, with persevering contentment. 'i dare say they will go abroad again, and perhaps i shall never have so much time for learning. but, miss charlecote, is lucilla coming home for the horticultural show?' 'i am afraid not, my dear. i think i shall go to london to see about her, among other things. the charterises seem to have quite taken possession of her, ever since she went to be her cousin caroline's bridesmaid, and i must try to put in my claim.' 'ah! robin so much wished to have seen her,' sighed phoebe. 'he says he cannot settle to anything.' 'without seeing her?' said honor, amused, though not without pain. 'yes,' said phoebe; 'he has thought so much about lucilla.' 'and he tells you?' 'yes,' in a voice expressing of course; while the frank, clear eyes turned full on miss charlecote with such honest seriousness, that she thought phoebe's charm as a confidante might be this absence of romantic consciousness; and she knew of old that when robert wanted her opinion or counsel, he spared his own embarrassment by seeking it through his favourite sister. miss charlecote's influence had done as much for robert as he had done for phoebe, and phoebe had become his medium of communication with her in all matters of near and delicate interest. she was not surprised when the maiden proceeded--'papa wants robin to attend to the office while he is away.' 'indeed! does robin like it?' 'he would not mind it for a time; but papa wants him, besides, to take to the business in earnest. you know, my great-uncle, robert mervyn, left robert all his fortune, quite in his own hands; and papa says that if he were to put that into the distillery it would do the business great good, and that robert would be one of the richest men in england in ten years' time.' 'but that would be a complete change in his views,' exclaimed honor, unable to conceal her disapproval and consternation. 'just so,' answered phoebe; 'and that is the reason why he wants to see lucy. she always declared that she could not bear people in business, and we always thought of him as likely to be a clergyman; but, on the other hand, she has become used to london society, and it is only by his joining in the distillery that he could give her what she is accustomed to, and that is the reason he is anxious to see her.' 'so lucy is to decide his fate,' said honora. 'i am almost sorry to hear it. surely, he has never spoken to her.' 'he never does speak,' said phoebe, with the calm gravity of simplicity which was like a halo of dignity. 'there is no need of speaking. lucilla knows how he feels as well as she knows that she breathes the air.' and regards it as little, perhaps, thought honor, sadly. 'poor robin!' she said; 'i suppose he had better get his mind settled; but indeed it is a fearful responsibility for my poor foolish lucy--' and but for the fear of grieving phoebe, she would have added, that such a purpose as that of entering holy orders ought not to have been made dependent upon the fancy of a girl. possibly her expression betrayed her sentiments, for phoebe answered--'there can be no doubt that lucy will set him at rest. i am certain that she would be shocked at the notion that her tastes were making him doubt whether to be a clergyman.' 'i hope so! i trust so!' said honora, almost mournfully. 'it may be very good for her, as i believe it is for every woman of any soundness, to be taught that her follies tell upon man's greater aims and purposes. it may be wholesome for her and a check, but--' phoebe wondered that her friend paused and looked so sad. 'oh! phoebe,' said honora, after a moment's silence, speaking fervently, 'if you can in any way do so, warn your brother against making an idol! let nothing come between him and the direct devotion of will and affection to the higher service. if he decide on the one or the other, let it be from duty, not with respect to anything else. i do not suppose it is of any use to warn him,' she added, with the tears in her eyes. 'every one sets the whole soul upon some one object, not the right, and then comes the shipwreck.' 'dear robin!' said phoebe. 'he is so good! i am sure he always thinks first of what is right. but i think i see what you mean. if he undertake the business, it should be as a matter of obedience to papa, not to keep lucy in the great world. and, indeed, i do not think my father does care much, only he would like the additional capital; and robert is so much more steady than mervyn, that he would be more useful. perhaps it would make him more important at home; no one there has any interest in common with him; and i think that moves him a little; but, after all, those do not seem reasons for not giving himself to god's service,' she finished, reverently and considerately. 'no, indeed!' cried miss charlecote. 'then you think he ought not to change his mind?' 'you have thought so all along,' smiled honor. 'i did not like it,' said phoebe, 'but i did not know if i were right. i did tell him that i really believed lucy would think the more highly of him if he settled for himself without reference to her.' 'you did! you were a capital little adviser, phoebe! a woman worthy to be loved at all had always rather be set second instead of first:-- "i could not love thee, dear, so much, loved i not honour more." that is the true spirit, and i am glad you judged lucy to be capable of it. keep your brother up to that, and all may be well!' 'i believe robert knows it all the time,' said phoebe. 'he always is right at the bottom; but his feelings get so much tried that he does not know how to bear it! i hope lucy will be kind to him if they meet in london, for he has been so much harassed that he wants some comfort from her. if she would only be in earnest!' 'does he go to london, at all events?' 'he has promised to attend to the office in great whittington-street for a month, by way of experiment.' 'i'll tell you what, phoebe,' cried honora, radiantly, 'you and i will go too! you shall come with me to woolstone-lane, and robin shall be with us every day; and we will try and make this silly lucy into a rational being.' 'oh! miss charlecote, thank you--thank you.' the quiet girl's face and neck were all one crimson glow of delight. 'if you can sleep in a little brown cupboard of a room in the very core of the city's heart.' 'delightful! i have so wished to see that house. owen has told me such things about it. oh, thank you, miss charlecote!' 'have you ever seen anything in london?' 'never. we hardly ever go with the rest; and if we do, we only walk in the square. what a holiday it will be!' 'we will see everything, and do it justice. i'll get an order for the print-room at the british museum. i day say robin never saw it either; and what a treat it will be to take you to the egyptian gallery!' cried honora, excited into looking at the expedition in the light of a party of pleasure, as she saw happiness beaming in the young face opposite. they built up their schemes in the open window, pausing to listen to the nightingales, who, having ceased for two hours, apparently for supper, were now in full song, echoing each other in all the woods of hiltonbury, casting over it a network of sweet melody. honora was inclined to regret leaving them in their glory; but phoebe, with the world before her, was too honest to profess poetry which she did not feel. nightingales were all very well in their place, but the first real sight of london was more. the lamp came in, and phoebe held out her hands for something to do, and was instantly provided with a child's frock, while miss charlecote read to her one of fouque's shorter tales by way of supplying the element of chivalrous imagination which was wanting in the beauchamp system of education. so warm was the evening, that the window remained open, until ponto erected his crest as a footfall came steadily along, nearer and nearer. uplifting one of his pendant lips, he gave a low growl through his blunted teeth, and listened again; but apparently satisfied that the step was familiar, he replaced his head on his crossed paws, and presently robert fulmort's head and the upper part of his person, in correct evening costume, were thrust in at the window, the moonlight making his face look very white, as he said, 'come, phoebe, make haste; it is very late.' 'is it?' cried phoebe, springing up; 'i thought i had only been here an hour.' 'three, at least,' said robert, yawning; 'six by my feelings. i could not get away, for mr. crabbe stayed to dinner; mervyn absented himself, and my father went to sleep.' 'robin, only think, miss charlecote is so kind as to say she will take me to london!' 'it is very kind,' said robert, warmly, his weary face and voice suddenly relieved. 'i shall be delighted to have a companion,' said honora; 'and i reckon upon you too, robin, whenever you can spare time from your work. come in, and let us talk it over.' 'thank you, i can't. the dragon will fall on phoebe if i keep her out too late. be quick, phoebe.' while his sister went to fetch her hat, he put his elbows on the sill, and leaning into the room, said, 'thank you again; it will be a wonderful treat to her, and she has never had one in her life!' 'i was in hopes she would have gone to germany.' 'it is perfectly abominable! it is all the others' doing! they know no one would look at them a second time if anything so much younger and pleasanter was by! they think her coming out would make them look older. i know it would make them look crosser.' laughing was the only way to treat this tirade, knowing, as honor did, that there was but too much truth in it. she said, however, 'yet one could hardly wish phoebe other than she is. the rosebud keeps its charm longer in the shade.' 'i like justice,' quoth robert. 'and,' she continued, 'i really think that she is much benefited by this formidable governess. accuracy and solidity and clearness of head are worth cultivating.' 'nasty latitudinarian piece of machinery,' said robert, with his fingers over his mouth, like a sulky child. 'maybe so; but you guard phoebe, and she guards bertha; and whatever your sense of injustice may be, this surely is a better school for her than gaieties as yet.' 'it will be a more intolerable shame than ever if they will not let her go with you.' 'too intolerable to be expected,' smiled honora. 'i shall come and beg for her to-morrow, and i do not believe i shall be disappointed.' she spoke with the security of one not in the habit of having her patronage obstructed by relations; and phoebe coming down with renewed thanks, the brother and sister started on their way home in the moonlight--the one plodding on moodily, the other, unable to repress her glee, bounding on in a succession of little skips, and pirouetting round to clap her hands, and exclaim, 'oh! robin, is it not delightful?' 'if they will let you go,' said he, too desponding for hope. 'do you think they will not?' said phoebe, with slower and graver steps. 'do you really think so? but no! it can't lead to coming out; and i know they like me to be happy when it interferes with nobody.' 'great generosity,' said robert, dryly. 'oh, but, robin, you know elder ones come first.' 'a truth we are not likely to forget,' said robert. 'i wish my uncle had been sensible of it. that legacy of his stands between mervyn and me, and will never do me any good.' 'i don't understand,' said phoebe; 'mervyn has always been completely the eldest son.' 'ay,' returned robert, 'and with the tastes of an eldest son. his allowance does not suffice for them, and he does not like to see me independent. if my uncle had only been contented to let us share and share alike, then my father would have had no interest in drawing me into the precious gin and brandy manufacture.' 'you did not think he meant to make it a matter of obedience,' said phoebe. 'no; he could hardly do that after the way he has brought me up, and what we have been taught all our lives about liberty of the individual, absence of control, and the like jargon.' 'then you are not obliged?' he made no answer, and they walked on in silence across the silvery lawn, the maythorns shining out like flaked towers of snow in the moonlight, and casting abyss-like shadows, the sky of the most deep and intense blue, and the carols of the nightingales ringing around them. robert paused when he had passed through the gate leading into the dark path down-hill through the wood, and setting his elbows on it, leant over it, and looked back at the still and beautiful scene, in all the white mystery of moonlight, enhanced by the white-blossomed trees and the soft outlines of slumbering sheep. one of the birds, in a bush close to them, began prolonging its drawn-in notes in a continuous prelude, then breaking forth into a varied complex warbling, so wondrous that there was no moving till the creature paused. it seemed to have been a song of peace to robert, for he gave a long but much softer sigh, and pushed back his hat, saying, 'all good things dwell on the holt side of the boundary.' 'a sort of sunday world,' said phoebe. 'yes; after this wood one is in another atmosphere.' 'yet you have carried your cares there, poor robin.' 'so one does into sunday, but to get another light thrown on them. the holt has been the blessing of my life--of both our lives, phoebe.' she responded with all her heart. 'yes, it has made everything happier, at home and everywhere else. i never can think why lucilla is not more fond of it.' 'you are mistaken,' exclaimed robert; 'she loves no place so well; but you don't consider what claims her relations have upon her. that cousin horatia, to whom she is so much attached, losing both her parents, how could she do otherwise than be with her?' 'miss charteris does not seem to be in great trouble now,' said phoebe. 'you do not consider; you have never seen grief, and you do not know how much more a sympathizing friend is needed when the world supposes the sorrow to be over, and ordinary habits to be resumed.' phoebe was willing to believe him right, though considering that horatia charteris lived with her brother and his wife, she could hardly be as lonely as miss charlecote. 'we shall see lucy in london,' she said. robert again sighed heavily. 'then it will be over,' he said. 'did you say anything there?' he pursued, as they plunged into the dark shadows of the woodland path, more congenial to the subject than the light. 'yes, i did,' said phoebe. 'and she thought me a weak, unworthy wretch for ever dreaming of swerving from my original path.' 'no!' said phoebe, 'not if it were your duty.' 'i tell you, phoebe, it is as much my duty to consult lucilla's happiness as if any words had passed between us. i have never pledged myself to take orders. it has been only a wish, not a vocation; and if she have become averse to the prospect of a quiet country life, it would not be treating her fairly not to give her the choice of comparative wealth, though procured by means her family might despise.' 'yes, i knew you would put right and duty first; and i suppose by doing so you make it certain to end rightly, one way or other.' 'a very few years, and i could realize as much as this calthorp, the millionaire, whom they talk of as being so often at the charterises.' 'it will not be so,' said phoebe. 'i know what she will say;' and as robert looked anxiously at her, she continued-- 'she will say she never dreamt of your being turned from anything so great by any fancies she has seemed to have. she will say so more strongly, for you know her father was a clergyman, and miss charlecote brought her up.' phoebe's certainty made robert catch something of her hopes. 'in that case,' he said, 'matters might be soon settled. this fortune of mine would be no misfortune then; and probably, phoebe, my sisters would have no objection to your being happy with us.' 'as soon as you could get a curacy! oh, how delightful! and maria and bertha would come too.' robert held his peace, not certain whether lucilla would consider maria an embellishment to his ideal parsonage; but they talked on with cheerful schemes while descending through the wood, unlocking a gate that formed the boundary between the holt and the beauchamp properties, crossing a field or two, and then coming out into the park. presently they were in sight of the house, rising darkly before them, with many lights shining in the windows behind the blinds. 'they are all gone up-stairs!' said phoebe, dismayed. 'how late it must be!' 'there's a light in the smoking-room,' said robert; 'we can get in that way.' 'no, no! mervyn may have some one with him. come in quietly by the servants' entrance.' no danger that people would not be on foot there! as the brother and sister moved along the long stone passage, fringed with labelled bells, one open door showed two weary maidens still toiling over the plates of the late dinner; and another, standing ajar, revealed various men-servants regaling themselves; and words and tones caught robert's ear making his brow lower with sudden pain. phoebe was proceeding to mount the stone stairs, when a rustling and chattering, as of maids descending, caused her and her brother to stand aside to make way, and down came a pair of heads and candles together over a green bandbox, and then voices in vulgar tones half suppressed. 'i couldn't venture it, not with miss juliana--but miss fulmort--she never looks over her bills, nor knows what is in her drawers--i told her it was faded, when she had never worn it once!' and tittering, they passed by the brother and sister, who were still unseen, but robert heaved a sigh and murmured, 'miserable work!' somewhat to his sister's surprise, for to her the great ill-regulated household was an unquestioned institution, and she did not expect him to bestow so much compassion on augusta's discarded bonnet. at the top of the steps they opened a door, and entered a great wide hall. all was exceedingly still. a gas-light was burning over the fire-place, but the corners were in gloom, and the coats and cloaks looked like human figures in the distance. phoebe waited while robert lighted her candle for her. albeit she was not nervous, she started when a door was sharply pushed open, and another figure appeared; but it was nothing worse than her brother mervyn, in easy costume, and redolent of tobacco. about three years older than robert, he was more neatly though not so strongly made, shorter, and with more regular features, but much less countenance. if the younger brother had a worn and dejected aspect, the elder, except in moments of excitement, looked _bored_. it was as if robert really had the advantage of him in knowing what to be out of spirits about. 'oh! it's you, is it?' said he, coming forward, with a sauntering, scuffling movement in his slippers. 'you larking, phoebe? what next?' 'i have been drinking tea with miss charlecote,' explained phoebe. mervyn slightly shrugged his shoulders, murmuring something about 'lively pastime.' 'i could not fetch her sooner,' said robert, 'for my father went to sleep, and no one chose to be at the pains of entertaining crabbe.' 'ay--a prevision of his staying to dinner made me stay and dine with the --th mess. very sagacious--eh, pheebe?' said he, turning, as if he liked to look into her fresh face. 'too sagacious,' said she, smiling; 'for you left him all to robert.' manner and look expressed that this was a matter of no concern, and he said ungraciously: 'nobody detained robert, it was his own concern.' 'respect to my father and his guests,' said robert, with downright gravity that gave it the effect of a reproach. mervyn only raised his shoulders up to his ears in contempt, took up his candle, and wished phoebe good night. poor mervyn fulmort! discontent had been his life-long comrade. he detested his father's occupation as galling to family pride, yet was greedy both of the profits and the management. he hated country business and country life, yet chafed at not having the control of his mother's estate, and grumbled at all his father's measures. 'what should an old distiller know of landed property?' in fact he saw the same difference between himself and his father as did the ungracious plantagenet between the son of a count and the son of a king: and for want of provencal troubadours with whom to rebel, he supplied their place by the turf and the billiard-table. at present he was expiating some heavy debts by a forced residence with his parents, and unwilling attention to the office, a most distasteful position, which he never attempted to improve, and which permitted him both the tedium of idleness and complaints against all the employment to which he was necessitated. the ill-managed brothers were just nearly enough of an age for rivalry, and had never loved one another even as children. robert's steadiness had been made a reproach to mervyn, and his grave, rather surly character had never been conciliating. the independence left to the younger brother by their mother's relative was grudged by the elder as an injury to himself, and it was one of the misfortunes of beauchamp that the two sons had never been upon happy terms together. indeed, save that robert's right principles and silent habits hindered him from readily giving or taking offence, there might have been positive outbreaks of a very unbrotherly nature. chapter ii enough of science and of art, close up those barren leaves! come forth, and bring with you a heart that watches and receives.--wordsworth 'half-past five, miss phoebe.' 'thank you;' and before her eyes were open, phoebe was on the floor. six was the regulation hour. systematic education had discovered that half-an-hour was the maximum allowable for morning toilette, and at half-past six the young ladies must present themselves in the school-room. the bible, prayer book, and 'daily meditations' could have been seldom touched, had not phoebe, ever since robert had impressed on her the duty of such constant study, made an arrangement for gaining an extra half-hour. cold mornings and youthful sleepiness had received a daily defeat: and, mayhap, it was such a course of victory that made her frank eyes so blithesome, and her step so free and light. that bright scheme, too, shone before her, as such a secret of glad hope, that, knowing how uncertain were her chances of pleasure, she prayed that she might not set her heart on it. it was no trifle to her, and her simple spirit ventured to lay her wishes before her loving father in heaven, and entreat that she might not be denied, if it were right for her and would be better for robert; or, if not, that she might be good under the disappointment. her orisons sent her forth all brightness, with her small head raised like that of a young fawn, her fresh lips parted by an incipient smile of hope, and her cheeks in a rosy glow of health, a very hebe, as mr. saville had once called her. such a morning face as hers was not always met by miss fennimore, who, herself able to exist on five hours' sleep, had no mercy on that of her pupils; and she rewarded phoebe's smiling good-morrow with 'this is better than i expected, you returned home so late.' 'robert could not come for me early,' said phoebe. 'how did you spend the evening?' 'miss charlecote read aloud to me. it was a delightful german story.' 'miss charlecote is a very well-informed person, and i am glad the time was not absolutely lost. i hope you observed the condensation of the vapours on your way home.' 'robert was talking to me, and the nightingales were singing.' 'it is a pity,' said miss fennimore, not unkindly, 'that you should not cultivate the habit of observation. women can seldom theorize, but they should always observe facts, as these are the very groundwork of discovery, and such a rare opportunity as a walk at night should not be neglected.' it was no use to plead that this was all very well when there was no brother robert with his destiny in the scales, so phoebe made a meek assent, and moved to the piano, suppressing a sigh as miss fennimore set off on a domiciliary visit to the other sisters. mr. fulmort liked his establishment to prove his consequence, and to the old family mansion of the mervyns he had added a whole wing for the educational department. above, there was a passage, with pretty little bed-rooms opening from it; below there were two good-sized rooms, with their own door opening into the garden. the elder ones had long ago deserted it, and so completely shut off was it from the rest of the house, that the governess and her pupils were as secluded as though in a separate dwelling. the schoolroom was no repulsive-looking abode; it was furnished almost well enough for a drawing-room; and only the easels, globes, and desks, the crayon studies on the walls, and a formidable time-table showed its real destination. the window looked out into a square parterre, shut in with tall laurel hedges, and filled with the gayest and sweetest blossoms. it was mrs. fulmort's garden for cut flowers; supplying the bouquets that decked her tables, or were carried to wither at balls; and there were three long, narrow beds, that phoebe and her younger sisters still called theirs, and loved with the pride of property; but, indeed, the bright carpeting of the whole garden was something especially their own, rejoicing their eyes, and unvalued by the rest of the house. on the like liberal scale were the salaries of the educators. governesses were judged according to their demands; and the highest bidder was supposed to understand her own claims best. miss fennimore was a finishing governess of the highest order, thinking it an insult to be offered a pupil below her teens, or to lose one till nearly beyond them; nor was she far from being the treasure that mrs. fulmort pronounced her, in gratitude for the absence of all the explosions produced by the various imperfections of her predecessors. a highly able woman, and perfectly sincere, she possessed the qualities of a ruler, and had long experience in the art. her discipline was perfect in machinery, and her instructions admirably complete. no one could look at her keen, sensible, self-possessed countenance, her decided mouth, ever busy hands, and unpretending but well-chosen style of dress, without seeing that her energy and intelligence were of a high order; and there was principle likewise, though no one ever quite penetrated to the foundation of it. certainly she was not an irreligious person; she conformed, as she said, to the habits of each family she lived with, and she highly estimated moral perfections. now and then a degree of scorn, for the narrowness of dogma, would appear in reading history, but in general she was understood to have opinions which she did not obtrude. as a teacher she was excellent; but her own strong conformation prevented her from understanding that young girls were incapable of such tension of intellect as an enthusiastic scholar of forty-two, and that what was sport to her was toil to a mind unaccustomed to constant attention. change of labour is not rest, unless it be through gratification of the will. her very best pupil she had killed. finding a very sharp sword, in a very frail scabbard, she had whetted the one and worn down the other, by every stimulus in her power, till a jury of physicians might have found her guilty of manslaughter; but perfectly unconscious of her own agency in causing the atrophy, her dear anna webster lived foremost in her affections, the model for every subsequent pupil. she seldom remained more than two years in a family. sometimes the young brains were over-excited; more often they fell into a dreary state of drilled diligence; but she was too much absorbed in the studies to look close into the human beings, and marvelled when the fathers and mothers were blind enough to part with her on the plea of health and need of change. on the whole she had never liked any of her charges since the renowned anna webster so well as phoebe fulmort; although her abilities did not rise above the 'very fair,' and she was apt to be bewildered in metaphysics and political economy; but then she had none of the eccentricities of will and temper of miss fennimore's clever girls, nor was she like most good-humoured ones, recklessly _insouciante_. her only drawback, in the governess's eyes, was that she never seemed desirous of going beyond what was daily required of her--each study was a duty, and not a subject of zeal. presently miss fennimore came back, followed by the two sisters, neither of them in the best of tempers. maria, a stout, clumsily-made girl of fifteen, had the same complexion and open eyes as phoebe, but her colouring was muddled, the gaze full-orbed and vacant, and the lips, always pouting, were just now swelled with the vexation that filled her prominent eyelids with tears. bertha, two years younger, looked as if nature had designed her for a boy, and the change into a girl was not yet decided. she, too, was very like maria; but maria's open nostrils were in her a droll _retrousse_, puggish little nose; her chin had a boyish squareness and decision, her round cheeks had two comical dimples, her eyes were either stretched in defiance or narrowed up with fun, and a slight cast in one gave a peculiar archness and character to her face; her skin, face, hands, and all, were uniformly pinky; her hair in such obstinate yellow curls, that it was to be hoped, for her sake, that the fashion of being _crepe_ might continue. the brow lowered in petulance; and as she kissed phoebe, she muttered in her ear a vituperation of the governess in schoolroom _patois_; then began tossing the lesson-books in the air and catching them again, as a preliminary to finding the places, thus drawing on herself a reproof in german. french and german were alternately spoken in lesson hours by phoebe and bertha, who had lived with foreign servants from infancy; but poor maria had not the faculty of keeping the tongues distinct, and corrections only terrified her into confusion worse confounded, until miss fennimore had in despair decided that english was the best alternative. phoebe practised vigorously. aware that nothing pleasant was passing, and that, be it what it might, she could do no good, she was glad to stop her ears with her music, until eight o'clock brought a pause in the shape of breakfast. formerly the schoolroom party had joined the family meal, but since the two elder girls had been out, and mervyn's friends had been often in the house, it had been decided that the home circle was too numerous; and what had once been the play-room was allotted to be the eating-room of the younger ones, without passing the red door, on the other side of which lay the world. breakfast was announced by the schoolroom maid, and miss fennimore rose. no sooner was her back turned, than bertha indulged in a tremendous writhing yawn, wriggling in her chair, and clenching both fat fists, as she threatened with each, at her governess's retreating figure, so ludicrously, that phoebe smiled while she shook her head, and an explosive giggle came from maria, causing the lady to turn and behold miss bertha demure as ever, and a look of disconsolate weariness fast settling down on each of the two young faces. the unbroken routine pressed heavily at those fit moments for family greetings and for relaxation, and even phoebe would gladly have been spared the german account of the holt and of miss charlecote's book, for which she was called upon. bertha meanwhile, to whom waggishness was existence, was carrying on a silent drama on her plate, her roll being a quarry, and her knife the workmen attacking it. now she undermined, now acted an explosion, with uplifted eyebrows and an indicated 'puff!' with her lips, with constant dumb-show directed to maria, who, without half understanding, was in a constant suppressed titter, sometimes concealed by her pocket-handkerchief. quick as miss fennimore was, and often as she frowned on maria's outbreaks, she never could detect their provocative. over-restraint and want of sympathy were direct instruction in unscrupulous slyness of amusement. a sentence of displeasure on maria's ill-mannered folly was in the act of again filling her eyes with tears, when there was a knock at the door, and all the faces beamed with glad expectation. it was robert. this was the time of day when he knew miss fennimore could best tolerate him, and he seldom failed to make his appearance on his way down-stairs, the only one of the privileged race who was a wonted object on this side the baize door. phoebe thought he looked more cheerful, and indeed gravity could hardly have withstood bertha's face, as she gave a mischievous tweak to his hair behind, under colour of putting her arm round his neck. 'well, curlylocks, how much mischief did you do yesterday?' 'i'd no spirits for mischief,' she answered, with mock pitifulness, twinkling up her eyes, and rubbing them with her knuckles as if she were crying. 'you barbarous wretch, taking phoebe to feast on strawberries and cream with miss charlecote, and leaving poor me to poke in that stupid drawing-room, with nothing to do but to count the scollops of mamma's flounce!' 'it is your turn. will miss fennimore kindly let you have a walk with me this evening?' 'and me,' said maria. 'you, of course. may i come for them at five o'clock?' 'i can hardly tell what to say about maria. i do not like to disappoint her, but she knows that nothing displeases me so much as that ill-mannered habit of giggling,' said miss fennimore, not without concern. merciful as to maria's attainments, she was strict as to her manners, and was striving to teach her self-restraint enough to be unobtrusive. poor maria's eyes were glassy with tears, her chest heaved with sobs, and she broke out, 'o pray, miss fennimore, o pray!' while all the others interceded for her; and bertha, well knowing that it was all her fault, avoided the humiliation of a confession, by the apparent generosity of exclaiming, 'take us both to-morrow instead, robin.' robert's journey was, however, fixed for that day, and on this plea, licence was given for the walk. phoebe smiled congratulation, but maria was slow in cheering up; and when, on returning to the schoolroom, the three sisters were left alone together for a few moments, she pressed up to phoebe's side, and said, 'phoebe, i've not said my prayers. do you think anything will happen to me?' her awfully mysterious tone set bertha laughing. 'yes, maria, all the cows in the park will run at you,' she was beginning, when the grave rebuke of phoebe's eyes cut her short. 'how was it, my dear?' asked phoebe, tenderly fondling her sister. 'i was so sleepy, and bertha would blow soap-bubbles in her hands while we were washing, and then miss fennimore came, and i've been naughty now, and i know i shall go on, and then robin won't take me.' 'i will ask miss fennimore to let you go to your room, dearest,' said phoebe. 'you must not play again in dressing time, for there's nothing so sad as to miss our prayers. you are a good girl to care so much. had you time for yours, bertha?' 'oh, plenty!' with a toss of her curly head. 'i don't take ages about things, like maria.' 'prayers cannot be hurried,' said phoebe, looking distressed, and she was about to remind bertha to whom she spoke in prayer, when the child cut her short by the exclamation, 'nonsense, maria, about being naughty. you know i always make you laugh when i please, and that has more to do with it than saying your prayers, i fancy.' 'perhaps,' said phoebe, very sadly, 'if you had said yours more in earnest, my poor bertha, you would either not have made maria laugh, or would not have left her to bear all the blame.' 'why do you call me poor?' exclaimed bertha, with a half-offended, half-diverted look. 'because i wish so much that you knew better, or that i could help you better,' said phoebe, gently. there miss fennimore entered, displeased at the english sounds, and at finding them all, as she thought, loitering. phoebe explained maria's omission, and miss fennimore allowed her five minutes in her own room, saying that this must not become a precedent, though she did not wish to oppress her conscience. bertha's eyes glittered with a certain triumph, as she saw that miss fennimore was of her mind, and anticipated no consequences from the neglect, but only made the concession as to a superstition. without disbelief, the child trained only to reason, and quick to detect fallacy, was blind to all that was not material. and how was the spiritual to be brought before her? phoebe might well sigh as she sat down to her abstract of schlegel's lectures. 'if any one would but teach them,' she thought; 'but there is no time at all, and i myself do not know half so much of those things as one of miss charlecote's lowest classes.' phoebe was a little mistaken. an earnest mind taught how to learn, with access to the bible and prayer book, could gain more from these fountain-heads than any external teaching could impart; and she could carry her difficulties to robert. still it was out of her power to assist her sisters. surveillance and driving absolutely left no space free from miss fennimore's requirements; and all that there was to train those young ones in faith, was the manner in which it _lived_ and worked in her. nor of this effect could she be conscious. as to dreams or repinings, or even listening to her hopes and fears for her project of pleasure, they were excluded by the concentrated attention that miss fennimore's system enforced. time and capacity were so much on the stretch, that the habit of doing _what_ she was doing, and nothing else, had become second nature to the docile and duteous girl; and she had become little sensible to interruptions; so she went on with her german, her greek, and her algebra, scarcely hearing the repetitions of the lessons, or the counting as miss fennimore presided over maria's practice, a bit of drudgery detested by the governess, but necessarily persevered in, for maria loved music, and had just voice and ear sufficient to render this single accomplishment not hopeless, but a certain want of power of sustained effort made her always break down at the moment she seemed to be doing best. former governesses had lost patience, but miss fennimore had early given up the case, and never scolded her for her failures; she made her attempt less, and she was improving more, and shedding fewer tears than under any former dynasty. even a stern dominion is better for the subjects than an uncertain and weak one; regularity gives a sense of reliance; and constant occupation leaves so little time for being naughty, that bertha herself was getting into training, and on the present day her lessons were exemplary, always with a view to the promised walk with her brother, one of the greatest pleasures ever enjoyed by the denizens of the west wing. phoebe's pleasure was less certain, and less dependent on her merits, yet it invigorated her efforts to do all she had to do with all her might, even into the statement of the pros and cons of customs and free-trade, which she was required to produce as her morning's exercise. in the midst, her ear detected the sound of wheels, and her heart throbbed in the conviction that it was miss charlecote's pony carriage; nay, she found her pen had indited 'robin would be so glad,' instead of 'revenue to the government,' and while scratching the words out beyond all legibility, she blamed herself for betraying such want of self-command. no summons came, no tidings, the wheels went away; her heart sank, and her spirit revolted against an unfeeling, unutterably wearisome captivity; but it was only a moment's fluttering against the bars, the tears were driven back with the thought, 'after all, the decision is guided from above. if i stay at home, it _must_ be best for me. let me try to be good!' and she forced her mind back to her exports and her customs. it was such discipline as few girls could have exercised, but the conscientious effort was no small assistance in being resigned; and in the precious minutes granted in which to prepare herself for dinner, she found it the less hard task to part with her anticipations of delight and brace herself to quiet, contented duty. the meal was beginning when, with a very wide expansion of the door, appeared a short, consequential-looking personage, of such plump, rounded proportions, that she seemed ready to burst out of her riding-habit, and of a broad, complacent visage, somewhat overblooming. it was miss fulmort, the eldest of the family, a young lady just past thirty, a very awful distance from the schoolroom party, to whom she nodded with good-natured condescension, saying: 'ah! i thought i should find you at dinner; i'm come for something to sustain nature. the riding party are determined to have me with them, and they won't wait for luncheon. thank you, yes, a piece of mutton, if there were any under side. how it reminds me of old times. i used so to look forward to never seeing a loin of mutton again.' 'as your chief ambition?' said miss fennimore, who, governess as she was, could not help being a little satirical, especially when bertha's eyes twinkled responsively. 'one does get so tired of mutton and rice-pudding,' answered the less observant miss fulmort, who was but dimly conscious of any one's existence save her own, and could not have credited a governess laughing at her; 'but really this is not so bad, after all, for a change; and some pale ale. you don't mean that you exist without pale ale?' 'we all drink water by preference,' said miss fennimore. 'indeed! miss watson, our finishing governess, never drank anything but claret, and she always had little _pates_, or fish, or something, because she said her appetite was to be consulted, she was so delicate. she was very thin, i know; and what a figure you have, phoebe! i suppose that is water drinking. bridger did say it would reduce me to leave off pale ale, but i can't get on without it, i get so horridly low. don't you think that's a sign, miss fennimore?' 'i beg your pardon, a sign of what?' 'that one can't go on without it. miss charlecote said she thought it was all constitution whether one is stout or not, and that nothing made much difference, when i asked her about german wines.' 'oh! augusta, has miss charlecote been here this morning?' exclaimed phoebe. 'yes; she came at twelve o'clock, and there was i actually pinned down to entertain her, for mamma was not come down. so i asked her about those light foreign wines, and whether they do really make one thinner; you know one always has them at her house.' 'did mamma see her?' asked poor phoebe, anxiously. 'oh yes, she was bent upon it. it was something about you. oh! she wants to take you to stay with her in that horrible hole of hers in the city--very odd of her. what do you advise me to do, miss fennimore? do you think those foreign wines would bring me down a little, or that they would make me low and sinking?' 'really, i have no experience on the subject!' said miss fennimore, loftily. 'what did mamma say?' was poor phoebe's almost breathless question. 'oh! it makes no difference to mamma' (phoebe's heart bounded); but augusta went on: 'she always has her soda-water, you know; but of course i should take a hamper from bass. i hate being unprovided.' 'but about my going to london?' humbly murmured phoebe. 'what _did_ she say?' considered the elder sister, aloud. 'i don't know, i'm sure. i was not attending--the heat does make one so sleepy--but i know we all wondered she should want you at your age. you know some people take a spoonful of vinegar to fine themselves down, and some of those wines _are_ very acid,' she continued, pressing on with her great subject of consultation. 'if it be an object with you, miss fulmort, i should recommend the vinegar,' said miss fennimore. 'there is nothing like doing a thing outright!' 'and, oh! how glorious it would be to see her taking it!' whispered bertha into phoebe's ear, unheard by augusta, who, in her satisfied stolidity, was declaring, 'no, i could not undertake that. i am the worst person in the world for taking anything disagreeable.' and having completed her meal, which she had contrived to make out of the heart of the joint, leaving the others little but fat, she walked off to her ride, believing that she had done a gracious and condescending action in making conversation with her inferiors of the west wing. yet augusta fulmort might have been good for something, if her mind and her affections had not lain fallow ever since she escaped from a series of governesses who taught her self-indulgence by example. 'i wonder what mamma said!' exclaimed phoebe, in her strong craving for sympathy in her suspense. 'i am sorry the subject has been brought forward, if it is to unsettle you, phoebe,' said miss fennimore, not unkindly; 'i regret your being twice disappointed; but, if your mother should refer it to me, as i make no doubt she will, i should say that it would be a great pity to break up our course of studies.' 'it would only be for a little while,' sighed phoebe; 'and miss charlecote is to show me all the museums. i should see more with her than ever i shall when i am come out; and i should be with robert.' 'i intended asking permission to take you through a systematic course of lectures and specimens when the family are next in town,' said miss fennimore. 'ordinary, desultory sight-seeing leaves few impressions; and though miss charlecote is a superior person, her mind is not of a sufficiently scientific turn to make her fully able to direct you. i shall trust to your good sense, phoebe, for again submitting to defer the pleasure till it can be enhanced.' good sense had a task imposed on it for which it was quite inadequate; but there was something else in phoebe which could do the work better than her unconvinced reason. even had she been sure of the expediency of being condemned to the schoolroom, no good sense would have brought that resolute smile, or driven back the dew in her eyes, or enabled her voice to say, with such sweet meekness, 'very well, miss fennimore; i dare say it may be right.' miss fennimore was far more concerned than if the submission had been grudging. she debated with herself whether she should consider her resolution irrevocable. ten minutes were allowed after dinner in the parterre, and these could only be spent under the laurel hedge; the sun was far too hot everywhere else. phoebe had here no lack of sympathy, but had to restrain bertha, who, with angry gestures, was pronouncing the governess a horrid cross-patch, and declaring that no girls ever were used as they were; while maria observed, that if phoebe went to london, she must go too. 'we shall all go some day,' said phoebe, cheerfully, 'and we shall enjoy it all the more if we are good now. never mind, bertha, we shall have some nice walks.' 'yes, all bothered with botany,' muttered bertha. 'i thought, at least, you would be glad of me,' said phoebe, smiling; 'you who stay at home.' 'to be sure, i am,' said bertha; 'but it is such a shame! i shall tell robin, and he'll say so too. i shall tell him you nearly cried!' 'don't vex robin,' said phoebe. 'when you go out, you should set yourself to tell him pleasant things.' 'so i'm to tell him you wouldn't go on any account. you like your political economy much too well!' 'suppose you say nothing about it,' said phoebe. 'make yourself merry with him. that's what you've got to do. he takes you out to entertain you, not to worry about grievances.' 'do you never talk about grievances?' asked bertha, twinkling up her eyes. phoebe hesitated. 'not my own,' she said, 'because i have not got any.' 'has robert, then?' asked bertha. 'nobody has grievances who is out of the schoolroom,' opined maria; and as she uttered this profound sentiment, the tinkle of miss fennimore's little bell warned the sisters to return to the studies, which in the heat of summer were pursued in the afternoon, that the walk might be taken in the cool of the evening. reading aloud, drawing, and sensible plain needlework were the avocations till it was time to learn the morrow's lessons. phoebe being beyond this latter work, drew on, and in the intervals of helping maria with her geography, had time to prepare such a bright face as might make robert think lightly of her disappointment, and not reckon it as another act of tyranny. when he opened the door, however, there was that in his looks which made her spirits leap up like an elastic spring; and his 'well, phoebe!' was almost triumphant. 'is it--am i--' was all she could say. 'has no one thought it worth while to tell you?' 'don't you know,' interposed bertha, 'you on the other side the red baize door might be all married, or dead and buried, for aught we should hear. but is phoebe to go?' 'i believe so.' 'are you sure?' asked phoebe, afraid yet to hope. 'yes. my father heard the invitation, and said that you were a good girl, and deserved a holiday.' commendation from that quarter was so rare, that excess of gladness made phoebe cast down her eyes and colour intensely, a little oppressed by the victory over her governess. but miss fennimore spoke warmly. 'he cannot think her more deserving than i do. i am rejoiced not to have been consulted, for i could hardly have borne to inflict such a mortification on her, though these interruptions are contrary to my views. as it is, phoebe, my dear, i wish you joy.' 'thank you,' phoebe managed to say, while the happy tears fairly started. in that chilly land, the least approach to tenderness was like the gleam in which the hardy woodbine leaflets unfold to sun themselves. thankful for small mercies, thought robert, looking at her with fond pity; but at least the dear child will have one fortnight of a more genial atmosphere, and soon, maybe, i shall transplant her to be lucilla's darling as well as mine, free from task-work, and doing the labours of love for which she is made! he was quite in spirits, and able to reply in kind to the freaks and jokes of his little sister, as she started, spinning round him like a humming-top, and singing-- will you go to the wood, robin a bobbin? giving safe vent to an ebullition of spirits that must last her a good while, poor little maiden! phoebe took a sober walk with miss fennimore, receiving advice on methodically journalizing what she might see, and on the scheme of employments which might prevent her visit from being waste of time. the others would have resented the interference with the holiday; but phoebe, though a little sorry to find that tasks were not to be off her mind, was too grateful for miss fennimore's cordial consent to entertain any thought except of obedience to the best of her power. miss fennimore was politely summoned to mrs. fulmort's dressing-room for the official communication; but this day was no exception to the general custom, that the red baize door was not passed by the young ladies until their evening appearance in the drawing-room. then the trio descended, all alike in white muslin, made high, and green sashes--a dress carefully distinguishing phoebe as not introduced, but very becoming to her, with the simple folds and the little net ruche, suiting admirably the tall, rounded slenderness of her shape, her long neck, and short, childish contour of face, where there smiled a joy of anticipation almost inappreciable to those who know not what it is to spend day after day with nothing particular to look forward to. very grand was the drawing-room, all amber-coloured with satin-wood, satin and gold, and with everything useless and costly encumbering tables that looked as if nothing could ever be done upon them. such a room inspired a sense of being in company, and it was no wonder that mrs. fulmort and her two elder daughters swept in in as decidedly procession style as if they had formed part of a train of twenty. the star that bestowed three female sovereigns to europe seemed to have had the like influence on hiltonbury parish, since both its squires were heiresses. miss mervyn would have been a happier woman had she married a plain country gentleman, like those of her own stock, instead of giving a county position to a man of lower origin and enormous monied wealth. to live up to the claims of that wealth had been her business ever since, and health and enjoyment had been so completely sacrificed to it, that for many years past the greater part of her time had been spent in resting and making herself up for her appearance in the evening, when she conducted her elder daughters to their gaieties. faded and tallowy in complexion, so as to be almost ghastly in her blue brocade and heavy gold ornaments, she reclined languidly on a large easy-chair, saying with half-closed eyes-- 'well, phoebe, miss fennimore has told you of miss charlecote's invitation.' 'yes, mamma. i am very, _very_ much obliged!' 'you know you are not to fancy yourself come out,' said juliana, the second sister, who had a good tall figure, and features and complexion not far from beauty, but marred by a certain shrewish tone and air. 'oh, no,' answered phoebe; 'but with miss charlecote that will make no difference.' 'probably not,' said juliana; 'for of course you will see nobody but a set of old maids and clergymen and their wives.' 'she need not go far for old maids,' whispered bertha to maria. 'pray, in which class do you reckon the sandbrooks?' said phoebe, smiling; 'for she chiefly goes to meet them.' 'she may go!' said juliana, scornfully; 'but lucilla sandbrook is far past attending to her!' 'i wonder whether the charterises will take any notice of phoebe?' exclaimed augusta. 'my dear,' said mrs. fulmort, waking slowly to another idea, 'i will tell boodle to talk to--what's your maid's name?--about your dresses.' 'oh, mamma,' interposed juliana, 'it will be only poking about the exhibitions with miss charlecote. you may have that plaid silk of mine that i was going to have worn out abroad, half-price for her.' bertha fairly made a little stamp at juliana, and clenched her fist. if phoebe dreaded anything in the way of dress, it was juliana's half-price. 'my dear, your papa would not like her not to be well fitted out,' said her mother; 'and honora charlecote always has such handsome things. i wish boodle could put mine on like hers.' 'oh, very well!' said juliana, rather offended; 'only it should be understood what is to be done if the charterises ask her to any of their parties. there will be such mistakes and confusion if she meets any one we know; and you particularly objected to having her brought forward.' phoebe's eye was a little startled, and bertha set her front teeth together on edge, and looked viciously at juliana. 'my dear, honora charlecote never goes out,' said mrs. fulmort. 'if she should, you understand, phoebe,' said juliana. coffee came in at the moment, and augusta criticized the strength of it, which made a diversion, during which bertha slipped out of the room, with a face replete with mischievous exultation. 'are not you going to play to-night, my dears?' asked mrs. fulmort. 'what was that duet i heard you practising?' 'come, juliana,' said the elder sister, 'i meant to go over it again; i am not satisfied with my part.' 'i have to write a note,' said juliana, moving off to another table; whereupon phoebe ventured to propose herself as a substitute, and was accepted. maria sat entranced, with her mouth open; and presently mrs. fulmort looked up from a kind of doze to ask who was playing. for some moments she had no answer. maria was too much awed for speech in the drawing-room; and though bertha had come back, she had her back to her mother, and did not hear. mrs. fulmort exerted herself to sit up and turn her head. 'was that phoebe?' she said. 'you have a clear, good touch, my dear, as they used to say i had when i was at school at bath. play another of your pieces, my dear.' 'i am ready now, augusta,' said juliana, advancing. little girls were not allowed at the piano when officers might be coming in from the dining-room, so maria's face became vacant again, for juliana's music awoke no echoes within her. phoebe beckoned her to a remote ottoman, a receptacle for the newspapers of the week, and kept her turning over the _illustrated news_, an unfailing resource with her, but powerless to occupy bertha after the first saturday; and bertha, turning a deaf ear to the assurance that there was something very entertaining about a tiger-hunt, stood, solely occupied by eyeing juliana. was she studying 'come-out' life as she watched her sisters surrounded by the gentlemen who presently herded round the piano? it was nearly the moment when the young ones were bound to withdraw, when mervyn, coming hastily up to their ottoman, had almost stumbled over maria's foot. 'beg pardon. oh, it was only you! what a cow it is!' said he, tossing over the papers. 'what are you looking for, mervyn?' asked phoebe. 'an advertisement--_bell's life_ for the rd. that rascal, mears, must have taken it.' she found it for him, and likewise the advertisement, which he, missing once, was giving up in despair. 'i say,' he observed, while she was searching, 'so you are to chip the shell.' 'i'm only going to london--i'm not coming out.' 'gammon!' he said, with an odd wink. 'you need never go in again, like the what's-his-name in the fairy tale, or you are a sillier child than i take you for. they'--nodding at the piano--'are getting a terrible pair of old cats, and we want something young and pretty about.' with this unusual compliment, phoebe, seeing the way clear to the door, rose to depart, most reluctantly followed by bertha, and more willingly by maria, who began, the moment they were in the hall-- 'phoebe, why do they get a couple of terrible old cats? i don't like them. i shall be afraid.' 'mervyn didn't mean--' began perplexed phoebe, cut short by bertha's boisterous laughter. 'oh, maria, what a goose you are! you'll be the death of me some day! why, juliana and augusta are the cats themselves. oh, dear! i wanted to kiss mervyn for saying so. oh, wasn't it fun! and now, maria,--oh! if i could have stayed a moment longer!' 'bertha, bertha, not such a noise in the hall. come, maria; mind, you must not tell anybody. bertha, come,' expostulated phoebe, trying to drag her sister to the red baize door; but bertha stood, bending nearly double, exaggerating the helplessness of her paroxysms of laughter. 'well, at least the cat will have something to scratch her,' she gasped out. 'oh, i did so want to stay and see!' 'have you been playing any tricks?' exclaimed phoebe, with consternation, as bertha's deportment recurred to her. 'tricks?--i couldn't help it. oh, listen, phoebe!' cried bertha, with her wicked look of triumph. 'i brought home such a lovely sting-nettle for miss fennimore's peacock caterpillar; and when i heard how kind dear juliana was to you about your visit to london, i thought she really must have it for a reward; so i ran away, and slily tucked it into her bouquet; and i did so hope she would take it up to fiddle with when the gentlemen talk to her,' said the elf, with an irresistibly comic imitation of juliana's manner towards gentlemen. 'bertha, this is beyond--' began phoebe. 'didn't you sting your fingers?' asked maria. bertha stuck out her fat pink paws, embellished with sundry white lumps. 'all pleasure,' said she, 'thinking of the jump juliana will give, and how nicely it serves her.' phoebe was already on her way back to the drawing-rooms; bertha sprang after, but in vain. never would she have risked the success of her trick, could she have guessed that phoebe would have the temerity to return to the company! phoebe glided in without waiting for the sense of awkwardness, though she knew she should have to cross the whole room, and she durst not ask any one to bring the dangerous bouquet to her--not even robert--he must not be stung in her service. she met her mother's astonished eye as she threaded her way; she wound round a group of gentlemen, and spied the article of which she was in quest, where juliana had laid it down with her gloves on going to the piano. actually she had it! she had seized it unperceived! good little thief; it was a most innocent robbery. she crept away with a sense of guilt and desire to elude observation, positively starting when she encountered her father's portly figure in the ante-room. he stopped her with 'going to bed, eh? so miss charlecote has taken a fancy to you, has she? it does you credit. what shall you want for the journey?' 'boodle is going to see,' began phoebe, but he interrupted. 'will fifty do? i will have my daughters well turned out. all to be spent upon yourself, mind. why, you've not a bit of jewellery on! have you a watch?' 'no, papa.' 'robert shall choose one for you, then. come to my room any time for the cash; and if miss charlecote takes you anywhere among her set--good connections she has--and you want to be rigged out extra, send me in the bill--anything rather than be shabby.' 'thank you, papa! then, if i am asked out anywhere, may i go?' 'why, what does the child mean? anywhere that miss charlecote likes to take you of course.' 'only because i am not come out.' 'stuff about coming out! i don't like my girls to be shy and backward. they've a right to show themselves anywhere; and you should be going out with us now, but somehow your poor mother doesn't like the trouble of such a lot of girls. so don't be shy, but make the most of yourself, for you won't meet many better endowed, nor more highly accomplished. good night, and enjoy yourself.' palpitating with wonder and pleasure, phoebe escaped. such permission, over-riding all juliana's injunctions, was worth a few nettle stings and a great fright; for phoebe was not philosopher enough, in spite of miss fennimore--ay, and of robert--not to have a keen desire to see a great party. her delay had so much convinced the sisters that her expedition had had some fearful consequences, that maria was already crying lest dear phoebe should be in disgrace; and bertha had seated herself on the balusters, debating with herself whether, if phoebe were suspected of the trick (a likely story) and condemned to lose her visit to london, she would confess herself the guilty person. and when phoebe came back, too much overcome with delight to do anything but communicate papa's goodness, and rejoice in the unlimited power of making presents, bertha triumphantly insisted on her confessing that it had been a capital thing that the nettles were in juliana's nosegay! phoebe shook her head; too happy to scold, too humble to draw the moral that the surest way to gratification is to remove the thorns from the path of others. chapter iii she gives thee a garland woven fair, take care! it is a fool's-cap for thee to wear, beware! beware! trust her not, she is fooling thee!--longfellow, from muller behold phoebe fulmort seated in a train on the way to london. she was a very pleasant spectacle to miss charlecote opposite to her, so peacefully joyous was her face, as she sat with the wind breathing in on her, in the calm luxury of contemplating the landscape gliding past the windows in all its summer charms, and the repose of having no one to hunt her into unvaried rationality. her eye was the first to detect robert in waiting at the terminus, but he looked more depressed than ever, and scarcely smiled as he handed them to the carriage. 'get in, robert, you are coming home with us,' said honor. 'you have so much to take, i should encumber you.' 'no, the sundries go in cabs, with the maids. jump in.' 'do your friends arrive to-night?' 'yes; but that is no reason you should look so rueful! make the most of phoebe beforehand. besides, mr. parsons is a wykehamist.' robert took his place on the back seat, but still as if he would have preferred walking home. neither his sister nor his friend dared to ask whether he had seen lucilla. could she have refused him? or was her frivolity preying on his spirits? phoebe tried to interest him by the account of the family migration, and of miss fennimore's promise that maria and bertha should have two half-hours of real play in the garden on each day when the lessons had been properly done; and how she had been so kind as to let maria leave off trying to read a french book that had proved too hard for her, not perceiving why this instance of good-nature was not cheering to her brother. miss charlecote's house was a delightful marvel to phoebe from the moment when she rattled into the paved court, entered upon the fragrant odour of the cedar hall, and saw the queen of sheba's golden locks beaming with the evening light. she entered the drawing-room, pleasant-looking already, under the judicious arrangement of the housekeeper, who had set out the holt flowers and arranged the books, so that it seemed full of welcome. phoebe ran from window to mantelpiece, enchanted with the quaint mixture of old and new, admiring carving and stained glass, and declaring that owen had not prepared her for anything equal to this, until miss charlecote, going to arrange matters with her housekeeper, left the brother and sister together. 'well, robin!' said phoebe, coming up to him anxiously. he only crossed his arms on the mantelpiece, rested his head on them, and sighed. 'have you seen her?' 'not to speak to her.' 'have you called?' 'no.' 'then where did you see her?' 'she was riding in the park. i was on foot.' 'she could not have seen you!' exclaimed phoebe. 'she did,' replied robert; 'i was going to tell you. she gave me one of her sweetest, brightest smiles, such as only she can give. you know them, phoebe. no assumed welcome, but a sudden flash and sparkle of real gladness.' 'but why--what do you mean?' asked phoebe; 'why have you not been to her? i thought from your manner that she had been neglecting you, but it seems to me all the other way.' 'i cannot, phoebe; i cannot put my poor pretensions forward in the set she is with. i know they would influence her, and that her decision would not be calm and mature.' 'her decision of what you are to be?' 'that is fixed,' said robert, sighing. 'indeed! with papa.' 'no, in my own mind. i have seen enough of the business to find that i could in ten years quadruple my capital, and in the meantime maintain her in the manner she prefers.' 'you are quite sure she prefers it?' 'she has done so ever since she could exercise a choice. i should feel myself doing her an injustice if i were to take advantage of any preference she may entertain for me to condemn her to what would be to her a dreary banishment.' 'not with you,' cried phoebe. 'you know nothing about it, phoebe. you have never led such a life, and you it would not hurt--attract, i mean; but lovely, fascinating, formed for admiration, and craving for excitement as she is, she is a being that can only exist in society. she would be miserable in homely retirement--i mean she would prey on herself. i could not ask it of her. if she consented, it would be without knowing her own tastes. no; all that remains is to find out whether she can submit to owe her wealth to our business.' 'and shall you?' 'i could not but defer it till i should meet her here,' said robert. 'i shrink from seeing her with those cousins, or hearing her name with theirs. phoebe, imagine my feelings when, going into mervyn's club with him, i heard "rashe charteris and cilly sandbrook" contemptuously discussed by those very names, and jests passing on their independent ways. i know how it is. those people work on her spirit of enterprise, and she--too guileless and innocent to heed appearances. phoebe, you do not wonder that i am nearly mad!' 'poor robin!' said phoebe affectionately. 'but, indeed, i am sure, if lucy once had a hint--no, one could not tell her, it would shock her too much; but if she had the least idea that people could be so impertinent,' and phoebe's cheeks glowed with shame and indignation, 'she would only wish to go away as far as she could for fear of seeing any of them again. i am sure they were not gentlemen, robin.' 'a man must be supereminently a gentleman to respect a woman who does not _make_ him do so,' said robert mournfully. 'that miss charteris! oh! that she were banished to siberia!' phoebe meditated a few moments; then looking up, said, 'i beg your pardon, robin, but it does strike me that, if you think that this kind of life is not good for lucilla, it cannot be right to sacrifice your own higher prospects to enable her to continue it.' 'i tell you, phoebe,' said he, with some impatience, 'i never was pledged. i may be of much more use and influence, and able to effect more extended good as a partner in a concern like this than as an obscure clergyman. don't you see?' phoebe had only time to utter a somewhat melancholy 'very likely,' before miss charlecote returned to take her to her room, the promised brown cupboard, all wainscoted with delicious cedar, so deeply and uniformly panelled, that when shut, the door was not obvious; and it was like being in a box, for there were no wardrobes, only shelves shut by doors into the wall, which the old usage of the household tradition called awmries (_armoires_). the furniture was reasonably modern, but not obtrusively so. there was a delicious recess in the deep window, with a seat and a table in it, and a box of mignonette along the sill. it looked out into the little high-walled entrance court, and beyond to the wall of the warehouse opposite; and the roar of the great city thoroughfare came like the distant surging of the ocean. seldom had young maiden's bower given more satisfaction. phoebe looked about her as if she hardly knew how to believe in anything so unlike her ordinary life, and she thanked her friend again and again with such enthusiasm, that miss charlecote laughed as she told her she liked the old house to be appreciated, since it had, like pompeii, been potted for posterity. 'and thank you, my dear,' she added with a sigh, 'for making my coming home so pleasant. may you never know how i dreaded the finding it full of emptiness.' 'dear miss charlecote!' cried phoebe, venturing upon a warm kiss, and thrilled with sad pleasure as she was pressed in a warm, clinging embrace, and felt tears on her cheek. 'you have been so happy here!' 'it is not the past, my dear,' said honora; 'i could live peacefully on the thought of that. the shadows that people this house are very gentle ones. it is the present!' she broke off, for the gates of the court were opening to admit a detachment of cabs, containing the persons and properties of the new incumbent and his wife. he had been a curate of mr. charlecote, since whose death he had led a very hard-working life in various towns; and on his recent presentation to the living of st. wulstan's, honora had begged him and his wife to make her house their home while determining on the repairs of the parsonage. she ran down to meet them with gladsome steps. she had never entirely dropped her intercourse with mr. parsons, though seldom meeting; and he was a relic of the past, one of the very few who still called her by her christian name, and regarded her more as the clergyman's daughter of st. wulstan's than as lady of the holt. mrs. parsons was a thorough clergyman's wife, as active as himself, and much loved and esteemed by honora, with whom, in their few meetings, she had 'got on' to admiration. there they were, looking after luggage, and paying cabs so heedfully as not to remark their hostess standing on the stairs; and she had time to survey them with the affectionate curiosity of meeting after long absence, and with pleasure in remarking that there was little change. perhaps they were rather more gray, and had grown more alike by force of living and thinking together; but they both looked equally alert and cheerful, and as if fifty and fifty-five were the very prime of years for substantial work. their first glances at her were full of the same anxiety for her health and strength, as they heartily shook hands, and accompanied her into the drawing-room, she explaining that mr. parsons was to have the study all to himself, and never be disturbed there; then inquiring after the three children, two daughters, who were married, and a son lately ordained. 'i thought you would have brought william to see about the curacy,' she said. 'he is not strong enough,' said his mother. 'he wished it, but he is better where he is; he could not bear the work here.' 'no; i told him the utmost i should allow would be an exchange now and then when my curates were overdone,' said mr. parsons. 'and so you are quite deserted,' said honor, feeling the more drawn towards her friends. 'starting afresh, with a sort of honeymoon, as i tell anne,' replied mr. parsons; and such a bright look passed between them, as though they were quite sufficient for each other, that honor felt there was no parallel between their case and her own. 'ah! you have not lost your children yet,' said mrs. parsons. 'they are not with me,' said honor, quickly. 'lucy is with her cousins, and owen--i don't exactly know how he means to dispose of himself this vacation; but we were all to meet here.' guessing, perhaps, that mr. parsons saw into her dissatisfaction, she then assumed their defence. 'there is to be a grand affair at castle blanch, a celebration of young charles charteris's marriage, and owen and lucy will be wanted for it.' 'whom has he married?' 'a miss mendoza, an immense fortune--something in the stockbroker line. he had spent a good deal, and wanted to repair it; but they tell me she is a very handsome person, very ladylike and agreeable; and lucy likes her greatly. i am to go to luncheon at their house to-morrow, so i shall treat you as if you were at home.' 'i should hope so,' quoth mr. parsons. 'yes, or i know you would not stay here properly. i'm not alone, either. why, where's the boy gone? i thought he was here. i have two young fulmorts, one staying here, the other looking in from the office.' 'fulmort!' exclaimed mr. parsons, with three notes of admiration at least in his voice. 'what! the distiller?' 'the enemy himself, the identical lord of gin-shops--at least his children. did you not know that he married my next neighbour, augusta mervyn, and that our properties touch? he is not so bad by way of squire as he is here; and i have known his wife all my life, so we keep up all habits of good neighbourhood; and though they have brought up the elder ones very ill, they have not succeeded in spoiling this son and daughter. she is one of the very nicest girls i ever knew, and he, poor fellow, has a great deal of good in him.' 'i think i have heard william speak of a fulmort,' said mrs. parsons. 'was he at winchester?' 'yes; and an infinite help the influence there has been to him. i never saw any one more anxious to do right, often under great disadvantages. i shall be very glad for him to be with you. he was always intended for a clergyman, but now i am afraid there is a notion of putting him into the business; and he is here attending to it for the present, while his father and brother are abroad. i am sorry he is gone. i suppose he was seized with a fit of shyness.' however, when all the party had been to their rooms and prepared for dinner, robert reappeared, and was asked where he had been. 'i went to dress,' he answered. 'ah! where do you lodge? i asked phoebe, but she said your letters went to whittington-street.' 'there are two very good rooms at the office which my father sometimes uses.' phoebe and miss charlecote glanced at each other, aware that mervyn would never have condescended to sleep in great whittington-street. mr. parsons likewise perceived a straight-forwardness in the manner, which made him ready to acknowledge his fellow-wykehamist and his son's acquaintance; and they quickly became good friends over recollections of oxford and winchester, tolerably strong in mr. parsons himself, and all the fresher on 'william's' account. phoebe, whose experience of social intercourse was confined to the stately evening hour in the drawing-room, had never listened to anything approaching to this style of conversation, nor seen her brother to so much advantage in society. hitherto she had only beheld him neglected in his uncongenial home circle, contemning and contemned, or else subjected to the fretting torment of lucilla's caprice. she had never known what he could be, at his ease, among persons of the same way of thinking. speaking scarcely ever herself, and her fingers busy with her needle, she was receiving a better lesson than miss fennimore had ever yet been able to give. the acquiring of knowledge is one thing, the putting it out to profit another. gradually, from general topics, the conversation contracted to the parish and its affairs, known intimately to mr. parsons a quarter of a century ago, but in which honora was now the best informed; while robert listened as one who felt as if he might have a considerable stake therein, and indeed looked upon usefulness there as compensation for the schemes he was resigning. the changes since mr. parsons's time had not been cheering. the late incumbent had been a man whose trust lay chiefly in preaching, and who, as his health failed, and he became more unable to cope with the crying evils around, had grown despairing, and given way to a sort of dismal, callous indifference; not doing a little, because he could not do much, and quashing the plans of others with a nervous dread of innovation. the class of superior persons in trade, and families of professional men, who in mr. charlecote's time had filled many a massively-built pew, had migrated to the suburbs, and preserved only an office or shop in the parish, an empty pew in the church, where the congregation was to be counted by tens instead of hundreds. not that the population had fallen off. certain streets which had been a grief and pain to mr. charlecote, but over which he had never entirely lost his hold, had become intolerably worse. improvements in other parts of london, dislodging the inhabitants, had heaped them in festering masses of corruption in these untouched byways and lanes, places where honest men dared not penetrate without a policeman; and report spoke of rooms shared by six families at once. mr. parsons had not taken the cue unknowing of what he should find in it; he said nothing, and looked as simple and cheerful as if his life were not to be a daily course of heroism. his wife gave one long, stifled sigh, and looked furtively upon him with her loving eyes, in something of anxious fear, but with far more of exultation. yet it was in no dispirited tone that she asked after the respectable poor--there surely must be some employed in small trades, or about the warehouses. she was answered that these were not many in proportion, and that not only had pew-rents kept them out of church, but that they had little disposition to go there. they did send their children to the old endowed charity schools, but as these children grew up, wave after wave lapsed into a smooth, respectable heathen life of sunday pleasuring. the more religious became dissenters, because the earnest inner life did not approve itself to them in church teaching as presented to them; the worse sort, by far the most numerous, fell lower and lower, and hovered scarcely above the depths of sin and misery. drinking was the universal vice, and dragged many a seemingly steady character into every stage of degradation. men and women alike fell under the temptation, and soon hastened down the descent of corruption and crime. 'ah!' said mrs. parsons, 'i observed gin palaces at the corner of every street.' there was a pause. neither her husband nor honor made any reply. if they had done so, neither of the young fulmorts would have perceived any connection between the gin palaces and their father's profession; but the silence caused both to raise their eyes. phoebe, judging by her sisters' code of the becoming, fancied that their friends supposed their feelings might be hurt by alluding to the distillery, as a trade, and cast about for some cheerful observations, which she could not find. robert had received a new idea, one that must be put aside till he had time to look at it. there was a ring at the door. honor's face lighted up at the tread on the marble pavement of the hall, and without other announcement, a young man entered the room, and as she sprang up to meet him, bent down his lofty head, and kissed her with half-filial, half-coaxing tenderness. 'yes, here i am. they told me i should find you here. ah! phoebe, i'm glad to see you. fulmort, how are you?' and a well-bred shake of the hand to mr. and mrs. parsons, with the ease and air of the young master, returning to his mother's house. 'when did you come?' 'only to-day. i got away sooner than i expected. i went to lowndes square, and they told me i should find you here, so i came away as soon as dinner was over. they were dressing for some grand affair, and wanted me to come with them, but of course i must come to see if you had really achieved bringing bright phoebe from her orbit.' his simile conveyed the astronomical compliment at once to honora and phoebe, who were content to share it. honora was in a condition of subdued excitement and anxiety, compared to which all other sensations were tame, chequered as was her felicity, a state well known to mothers and sisters. intensely gratified at her darling's arrival, gladdened by his presence, rejoicing in his endowments, she yet dreaded every phrase lest some dim misgiving should be deepened, and watched for the impression he made on her friends, as though her own depended upon it. admiration could not but come foremost. it was pleasant to look upon such a fine specimen of manly beauty and vigour. of unusual height, his form was so well moulded, that his superior stature was only perceived by comparison with others, and the proportions were those of great strength. the small, well-set head, proudly carried, the short, straight features, and the form of the free massive curls, might have been a model for the bust of a greek athlete; the colouring was the fresh, healthy bronzed ruddiness of english youth, and the expression had a certain boldness of good-humoured freedom, agreeing with the quiet power of the whole figure. those bright gray eyes could never have been daunted, those curling, merry lips never at a loss, that smooth brow never been unwelcome, those easy movements never cramped, nor the manners restrained by bashfulness. the contrast was not favourable to robert. the fair proportions of the one brought out the irregular build of the other; the classical face made the plain one more homely, the erect bearing made the eye turn to the slouching carriage, and the readiness of address provoked comparison with the awkward diffidence of one disregarded at home. bashfulness and depression had regained their hold of the elder lad almost as the younger one entered, and in the changes of position consequent upon the new arrival, he fell into the background, and stood leaning, caryatid fashion, against the mantelshelf, without uttering a word, while owen, in a half-recumbent position on an ottoman, a little in the rear of miss charlecote and her tea equipage, and close to phoebe, indulged in the blithe loquacity of a return home, in a tone of caressing banter towards the first lady, of something between good-nature and attention to the latter, yet without any such exclusiveness as would have been disregard to the other guests. 'ponto well! poor old pon! how does he get on? was it a very affecting parting, phoebe?' 'i didn't see. i met miss charlecote at the station.' 'not even your eyes might intrude on the sacredness of grief! well, at least you dried them? but who dried ponto's?' solemnly turning on honora. 'jones, i hope,' said she, smiling. 'i knew it! says i to myself, when henry opened the door, jones remains at home for the consolation of ponto.' 'not entirely--' began honora, laughing; but the boy shook his head, cutting her short with a playful frown. 'cousin honor, it grieves me to see a woman of your age and responsibility making false excuses. mr. parsons, i appeal to you, as a clergyman of the church of england, is it not painful to hear her putting forward jones's asthma, when we all know the true fact is that ponto's tastes are so aristocratic that he can't take exercise with an under servant, and the housekeeper is too fat to waddle. by the bye, how is the old thing?' 'much more effective than might be supposed by your account, sir, and probably wishing to know whether to get your room ready.' 'my room. thank you; no, not to-night. i've got nothing with me. what are you going to do to-morrow? i know you are to be at charteris's to luncheon; his jewess told me so.' 'for shame, owen.' 'i don't see any shame, if charles doesn't,' said owen; 'only if you don't think yourselves at a stall of cheap jewellery at a fair--that's all! phoebe, take care. you're a learned young lady.' 'no; i'm very backward.' 'ah! it's the fashion to deny it, but mind you don't mention shakespeare.' 'why not?' 'did you never hear of the _merchant of venice_?' phoebe, a little startled, wanted to hear whether mrs. charteris were really jewish, and after a little more in this style, which honor reasonably feared the parsonses might not consider in good taste, it was explained that her riches were jewish, though her grandfather had been nothing, and his family christian. owen adding, that but for her origin, she would be very good-looking; not that he cared for that style, and his manner indicated that such rosy, childish charms as were before him had his preference. but though this was evident enough to all the rest of the world, phoebe did not appear to have the least perception of his personal meaning, and freely, simply answered, that she admired dark-eyed people, and should be glad to see mrs. charteris. 'you will see her in her glory,' said owen; 'tuesday week, the great concern is to come off, at castle blanch, and a rare sight she'll be! cilly tells me she is rehearsing her dresses with different sets of jewels all the morning, and for ever coming in to consult her and rashe!' 'that must be rather tiresome,' said honor; 'she cannot be much of a companion.' 'i don't fancy she gets much satisfaction,' said owen, laughing; 'rashe never uses much "soft sawder." it's an easy-going place, where you may do just as you choose, and the young ladies appreciate liberty. by the bye, what do you think of this irish scheme?' honora was so much ashamed of it, that she had never mentioned it even to phoebe, and she was the more sorry that it had been thus adverted to, as she saw robert intent on what owen let fall. she answered shortly, that she could not suppose it serious. 'serious as a churchyard,' was owen's answer. 'i dare say they will ask phoebe to join the party. for my own part, i never believed in it till i came up to-day, and found the place full of salmon-flies, and the start fixed for wednesday the th.' 'who?' came a voice from the dark mantelshelf. 'who? why, that's the best of it. who but my wise sister and rashe? not a soul besides,' cried owen, giving way to laughter, which no one was disposed to echo. 'they vow that they will fish all the best streams, and do more than any crack fisherman going, and they would like to see who will venture to warn them off. they've tried that already. last summer what did lucy do, but go and fish sir harry buller's water. you know he's a very tiger about preserving. well, she fished coolly on in the face of all his keepers; they stood aghast, didn't know what manner of nixie it was, i suppose; and when sir harry came down, foaming at the mouth, she just shook her curls, and made him wade in up to his knees to get her fly out of a bramble!' 'that must be exaggerated,' said robert. 'exaggerated! not a word! it's not possible to exaggerate cilly's coolness. i did say something about going with them.' 'you must, if they go at all!' exclaimed honora. 'out of the question, sweet honey. they reject me with disdain, declare that i should only render them commonplace, and that "rich and rare were the gems she wore" would never have got across ireland safe if she had a great strapping brother to hamper her. and really, as charles says, i don't suppose any damage can well happen to them.' honora would not talk of it, and turned the conversation to what was to be done on the following day. owen eagerly proffered himself as escort, and suggested all manner of plans, evidently assuming the entire direction and protection of the two ladies, who were to meet him at luncheon in lowndes square, and go with him to the royal academy, which, as he and honora agreed, must necessarily be the earliest object for the sake of providing innocent conversation. as soon as the clock struck ten, robert took leave, and owen rose, but instead of going, lingered, talking oxford with mr. parsons, and telling good stories, much to the ladies' amusement, though increasing honora's trepidation by the fear that something in his tone about the authorities, or the slang of his manner, might not give her friends a very good idea of his set. the constant fear of what might come next, absolutely made her impatient for his departure, and at last she drove him away, by begging to know how he was going all that distance, and offering to send henry to call a cab, a thing he was too good-natured to permit. he bade good night and departed, while mr. parsons, in answer to her eager eyes, gratified her by pronouncing him a very fine young man. 'he is very full of spirit,' she said. 'you must let me tell you a story of him. they have a young new schoolmistress at wrapworth, his father's former living, you know, close to castle blanch. this poor thing was obliged to punish a school-child, the daughter of one of the bargemen on the thames, a huge ruffianly man. well, a day or two after, owen came upon him in a narrow lane, bullying the poor girl almost out of her life, threatening her, and daring her to lay a finger on his children. what do you think owen did?' 'fought him, i suppose,' said mr. parsons, judging by the peculiar delight ladies take in such exploits. 'besides, he has sufficiently the air of a hero to make it incumbent on him to "kill some giant."' 'we may be content with something short of his killing the giant,' said honor, 'but he really did gain the victory. that lad, under nineteen, positively beat this great monster of a man, and made him ask the girl's pardon, knocked him down, and thoroughly mastered him! i should have known nothing of it, though, if owen had not got a black eye, which made him unpresentable for the castle blanch gaieties, so he came down to the holt to me, knowing i should not mind wounds gained in a good cause.' they wished her good night in her triumph. the receipt of a letter was rare and supreme felicity to maria; therefore to indite one was phoebe's first task on the morrow; after which she took up her book, and was deeply engaged, when the door flew back, and the voice of owen sandbrook exclaimed, 'goddess of the silver bow! what, alone?' 'miss charlecote is with her lawyer, and robert at the office.' 'the parson and parsoness parsonically gone to study parsonages, schools, and dilapidations, i suppose. what a bore it is having them here; i'd have taken up my quarters here, otherwise, but i can't stand parish politics.' 'i like them very much,' said phoebe, 'and miss charlecote seems to be happy with them.' 'just her cut, dear old thing; the same honest, illogical, practical sincerity,' said owen, in a tone of somewhat superior melancholy; but seeing phoebe about to resent his words as a disrespectful imputation on their friend, he turned the subject, addressing phoebe in the manner between teasing and flattering, habitual to a big schoolboy towards a younger child, phases of existence which each had not so long outgrown as to have left off the mutual habits thereto belonging. 'and what is bright cynthia doing? writing verses, i declare!--worthy sister of phoebus apollo.' 'only notes,' said phoebe, relinquishing her paper, in testimony. 'when found make a note of--summoned by writ--temp. ed. iii.--burgesses--knights of shire. it reads like an act of parliament. hallam's english constitution. my eyes! by way of lighter study. it is quite appalling. pray what may be the occupation of your more serious moments?' 'you see the worst i have with me.' 'holiday recreation, to which you can just condescend. i say, phoebe, i have a great curiosity to understand the zend. i wish you would explain it to me.' 'if i ever read it,' began phoebe, laughing. 'what, you pretend to deny? you won't put me off that way. a lady who can only unbend so far as to the english constitution by way of recreation, must--' 'but it is not by way of recreation.' 'come, i know my respected cousin too well to imagine she would have imposed such a task. that won't do, phoebe.' 'i never said she had, but miss fennimore desired me.' 'i shall appeal. there's no act of tyranny a woman in authority will not commit. but this is a free country, phoebe, as maybe you have gathered from your author, and unless her trammels have reached to your soul--' and he laid his hand on the book to take it away. 'perhaps they have,' said phoebe, smiling, but holding it fast, 'for i shall be much more comfortable in doing as i was told.' 'indeed!' said owen, pretending to scrutinize her as if she were something extraordinary (really as an excuse for a good gaze upon her pure complexion and limpid eyes, so steady, childlike, and unabashed, free from all such consciousness as would make them shrink from the playful look). 'indeed! now, in my experience the comfort would be in the _not_ doing as you were told.' 'ah! but you know i have no spirit.' 'i wish to heaven other people had none!' cried owen, suddenly changing his tone, and sitting down opposite to phoebe, his elbow on the table, and speaking earnestly. 'i would give the world that my sister were like you. did you ever hear of anything so preposterous as this irish business?' 'she cannot think of it, when miss charlecote has told her of all the objections,' said phoebe. 'she will go the more,' returned owen. 'i say to you, phoebe, what i would say to no one else. lucilla's treatment of honora charlecote is abominable--vexes me more than i can say. they say some nations have no words for gratitude. one would think she had come of them.' phoebe looked much shocked, but said, 'perhaps miss charlecote's kindness has seemed to her like a matter of course, not as it does to us, who have no claim at all.' 'we had no claim,' said owen; 'the connection is nothing, absolutely nothing. i believe, poor dear, the attraction was that she had once been attached to my father, and he was too popular a preacher to _keep_ well as a lover. well, there were we, a couple of orphans, a nuisance to all our kith and kin--nobody with a bit of mercy for us but that queer old coon, kit charteris, when she takes us home, treats us like her own children, feels for us as much as the best mother living could; undertakes to provide for us. now, i put it to you, phoebe, has she any right to be cast off in this fashion?' 'i don't know in what fashion you mean.' 'don't you. haven't you seen how cilly has run restive from babyhood? a pretty termagant she was, as even i can remember. and how my poor father spoilt her! any one but honor would have given her up, rather than have gone through what she did, so firmly and patiently, till she had broken her in fairly well. but then come in these charterises, and cilly runs frantic after them, her own _dear_ relations. much they had cared for us when we were troublesome little pests. but it's all the force of blood. stuff! the whole truth is that they are gay, and honora quiet; they encourage her to run riot. honora keeps her in order.' 'have you spoken to her?' 'as well speak to the wind. she thinks it a great favour to run down to hiltonbury for the horticultural show, turn everything topsy-turvy, keep poor dear sweet honey in a perpetual ferment, then come away to castle blanch, as if she were rid of a troublesome duty.' 'i thought miss charlecote sent lucy to enjoy herself! we always said how kind and self-denying she was.' 'denied, rather,' said owen; 'only that's her way of carrying it off. a month or two in the season might be very well; see the world, and get the tone of it; but to racket about with ratia, and leave honor alone for months together, is too strong for me.' honora came in, delighted at her boy's visit, and well pleased at the manner in which he was engrossed. two such children needed no chaperon, and if that sweet crescent moon were to be his guiding light, so much the better. 'capital girl, that,' he said, as she left the room. 'this is a noble achievement of yours.' 'in getting my youngest princess out of the castle. ay! i do feel in a beneficent enchanter's position.' 'she has grown up much prettier than she promised to be.' 'and far too good for a fulmort. but that is robert's doing.' 'poor robert! how he shows the old distiller in grain. so he is taking to the old shop?--best thing for him.' 'only by way of experiment.' 'pleasant experiment to make as much as old fulmort! i wish he'd take me into partnership.' 'you, owen?' 'i am not proud. these aren't the days when it matters how a man gets his tin, so he knows what to do with it. ay! the world gets beyond the dear old hiltonbury views, after all, sweet honey, and you see what city atmosphere does to me.' 'you know i never wished to press any choice on you,' she faltered. 'what!' with a good-humoured air of affront, 'you thought me serious? don't you know i'm the ninth, instead of the nineteenth-century man, under your wing? i'd promise you to be a bishop, only, you see, i'm afraid i couldn't be mediocre enough.' 'for shame, owen!' and yet she smiled. that boy's presence and caressing sweetness towards herself were the greatest bliss to her, almost beyond that of a mother with a son, because more uncertain, less her right by nature. phoebe came down as the carriage was at the door, and they called in whittington street for her brother, but he only came out to say he was very busy, and would not intrude on mrs. charteris--bashfulness for which he was well abused on the way to lowndes square. owen, with his air of being at home, put aside the servants as they entered the magnificent house, replete with a display of state and luxury analogous to that of beauchamp, but with better taste and greater ease. the fulmorts were in bondage to ostentation; the charterises were lavish for their own enjoyment, and heedless alike of cost and of appearance. the great drawing-room was crowded with furniture, and the splendid marqueterie tables and crimson ottomans were piled with a wild confusion of books, prints, periodicals, papers, and caricatures, heaped over ornaments and bijouterie, and beyond, at the doorway of a second room, even more miscellaneously filled, a small creature sprang to meet them, kissing honora, and exclaiming, 'here you are! have you brought the pig's wool? ah! but you've brought something else! no--what's become of that redbreast!' as she embraced phoebe. 'he was so busy that he could not come.' 'ill-behaved bird; a whole month without coming near me.' 'only a week,' said phoebe, speaking less freely, as she perceived two strangers in the room, a gentleman in moustaches, who shook hands with owen, and a lady, whom from her greeting to miss charlecote (for introductions were not the way of the house) she concluded to be the formidable rashe, and therefore regarded with some curiosity. phoebe had expected her to be a large masculine woman, and was surprised at her dapper proportions and not ungraceful manner. her face, neither handsome nor the reverse, was one that neither in features nor complexion revealed her age, and her voice was pitched to the tones of good society, so that but for a certain 'don't care' sound in her words, and a defiant freedom of address, phoebe would have set down all she had heard as a mistake, in spite of the table covered with the brilliant appliances of fly-making, over which both she and lucilla were engaged. it was at the period when ladies affected coats and waistcoats, and both cousins followed the fashion to the utmost; wearing tightly-fitting black coats, plain linen collars, and shirt-like under-sleeves, with black ties round the neck. horatia was still in mourning for her mother, and wore a black skirt, but lucilla's was of rich deep gentianella-coloured silk, and the buttons of her white vest were of beautiful coral. the want of drapery gave a harshness to miss charteris's appearance, but the little masculine affectations only rendered lucy's miniature style of feminine beauty still more piquant. less tall than many girls of fourteen, she was exquisitely formed; the close-fitting dress became her taper waist, the ivory fairness of the throat and hands shone out in their boyish setting, and the soft delicacy of feature and complexion were enhanced by the vivid sparkling of those porcelain blue eyes, under the long lashes, still so fair and glossy as to glisten in the light, like her profuse flaxen tresses, arranged in a cunning wilderness of plaits and natural ringlets. the great charm was the minuteness and refinement of the mould containing the energetic spirit that glanced in her eyes, quivered on her lips, and pervaded every movement of the elastic feet and hands, childlike in size, statue-like in symmetry, elfin in quickness and dexterity. 'lucile la fee,' she might well have been called, as she sat manipulating the gorgeous silk and feathers with an essential strength and firmness of hands such as could hardly have been expected from such small members, and producing such lovely specimens that nothing seemed wanting but a touch of her wand to endow them with life. it was fit fairy work, and be it farther known, that few women are capable of it; they seldom have sufficient accuracy of sustained attention and firmness of finger combined, to produce anything artistic or durable, and the accomplishment was therefore lucilla's pride. her cousin could prepare materials, but could not finish. 'have you brought the pig's wool?' repeated lucy, as they sat down. 'no? that _is_ a cruel way of testifying. i can't find a scrap of that shade, though i've nearly broke my heart in the tackle shops. here's my last fragment, and this butcher will be a wreck for want of it.' 'let me see,' quoth the gentleman, bending over with an air of intimacy. 'you may see,' returned lucilla, 'but that will do no good. owen got this at a little shop at elverslope, and we can only conclude that the father of orange pigs is dead, for we've tried every maker, and can't hit off the tint.' 'i've seen it in a shop in the strand,' he said, with an air of depreciation, such as set both ladies off with an ardour inexplicable to mere spectators, both vehemently defending the peculiarity of their favourite hue, and little personalities passing, exceedingly diverting apparently to both parties, but which vexed honora and dismayed phoebe by the coolness of the gentleman, and the ease with which he was treated by the ladies. luncheon was announced in the midst, and in the dining-room they found miss charteris, a dark, aquiline beauty, of highly-coloured complexion, such as permitted the glowing hues of dress and ornament in which she delighted, and large languid dark eyes of oriental appearance. in the scarlet and gold net confining her sable locks, her ponderous earrings, her massive chains and bracelets, and gorgeous silk, she was a splendid ornament at the head of the table; but she looked sleepily out from under her black-fringed eyelids, turned over the carving as a matter of course to owen, and evidently regarded the two young ladies as bound to take all trouble off her hands in talking, arranging, or settling what she should do with herself or her carriage. 'lolly shall take you there,' or 'lolly shall call for that,' passed between the cousins without the smallest reference to lolly herself (otherwise eloisa), who looked serenely indifferent through all the plans proposed for her, only once exerting her will sufficiently to say, 'very well, rashe, dear, you'll tell the coachman--only don't forget that i must go to storr and mortimer's.' honora expressed a hope that lucilla would come with her party to the exhibition, and was not pleased that mr. calthorp exclaimed that there was another plan. 'no, no, mr. calthorp, i never said any such thing!' 'miss charteris, is not that a little too strong?' 'you told me of the dorking,' cried lucilla, 'and you said you would not miss the sight for anything; but i never said you should have it.' rashe meanwhile clapped her hands with exultation, and there was a regular chatter of eager voices--'i should like to know how you would get the hackles out of a suburban poultry fancier.' 'out of him?--no, out of his best dorking. priced at pounds last exhibition--two years old--wouldn't take pounds for him now.' 'you don't mean that you've seen him?' 'hurrah!' lucilla opened a paper, and waved triumphantly five of the long tippet-plumes of chanticleer. 'you don't mean--' 'mean! i more than mean! didn't you tell us that you had been to see the old party on business, and had spied the hackles walking about in his yard?' 'and i had hoped to introduce you.' 'as if we needed that! no, no. rashe, and i started off at six o'clock this morning, to shake off the remains of the ball, rode down to brompton, and did our work. no, it was not like the macaw business, i declare. the old gentleman held the bird for us himself, and i promised him a dried salmon.' 'well, i had flattered myself--it was an unfair advantage, miss sandbrook.' 'not in the least. had you gone, it would have cast a general clumsiness over the whole transaction, and not left the worthy old owner half so well satisfied. i believe you had so little originality as to expect to engage him in conversation while i captured the bird; but once was enough of that.' phoebe could not help asking what was meant; and it was explained that, while a call was being made on a certain old lady with a blue and yellow macaw, lucilla had contrived to abstract the prime glory of the creature's tail--a blue feather lined with yellow--an irresistible charm to a fisherwoman. but here even the tranquil eloisa murmured that cilly must never do so again when she went out with her. 'no, lolly, indeed i won't. i prefer honesty, i assure you, except when it is too commonplace. i'll meddle with nothing at madame sonnini's this afternoon.' 'then you cannot come with us?' 'why, you see, honor, here have rashe and i been appointed band-masters, lord chamberlains, masters of the ceremonies, major-domos, and i don't know what, to all the castle blanch concern; and as rashe neither knows nor cares about music, i've got all that on my hands; and i must take lolly to look on while i manage the programme.' 'are you too busy to find a day to spend with us at st. wulstan's?' a discussion of engagements took place, apparently at the rate of five per day; but mrs. charteris interposed an invitation to dinner for the next evening, including robert; and farther it appeared that all the three were expected to take part in the castle blanch festivities. lolly had evidently been told of them as settled certainties among the guests, and lucilla, owen, and rashe vied with each other in declaring that they had imagined honor to have brought phoebe to london with no other intent, and that all was fixed for the ladies to sleep at castle blanch the night before, and robert fulmort to come down in the morning by train. nothing could have been farther from honora's predilections than such gaieties, but phoebe's eyes were growing round with eagerness, and there would be unkindness in denying her the pleasure, as well as churlishness in disappointing lucy and owen, who had reckoned on her in so gratifying a manner. without decidedly accepting or refusing, she let the talk go on. 'miss fulmort,' said ratia, 'i hope you are not too religious to dance.' much surprised, phoebe made some reply in the negative. 'oh, i forgot, that's not your sisters' line; but i thought . . . ' and she gave an expressive glance to indicate miss charlecote. 'oh, no,' again said phoebe, decidedly. 'yes, i understand. never mind, i ought to have remembered; but when people are _gone in_, one is apt to forget whether they think "promiscuous dancing" immoral or praiseworthy. well, you must know some of my brother's constituents are alarmingly excellent--fat, suburban, and retired; and we have hatched a juvenile hay-making, where they may eat and flirt without detriment to decided piety; and when they go off, we dress for a second instalment for an evening party.' to phoebe it sounded like opening paradise, and she listened anxiously for the decision; but nothing appeared certain except the morrow's dinner, and that lucilla was to come to spend the sunday at miss charlecote's; and this being fixed, the luncheon party broke up, with such pretty bright affection on lucilla's part, such merry coaxing of honor, and such orders to phoebe to 'catch that robin to-morrow,' that there was no room left for the sense of disappointment that no rational word had passed. 'where?' asked owen, getting into the carriage. 'henry knows--the royal academy.' 'ha! no alteration in consequence of the invitation? no finery required? you must not carry hiltonbury philosophy _too_ far.' 'i have not accepted it.' 'that is not required; it is your fate, phoebe; why don't you speak, or are you under an embargo from any of the wicked enchanters? even if so, you might be got off among the pious juveniles.' 'papa was so kind as to say i might go wherever miss charlecote liked,' said phoebe; 'but, indeed, i had rather do exactly what suits her; i dare say the morning party will suit her best--' 'the oily popular preachers!' 'thank you, owen,' laughed honor. 'no, now you must accept the whole. there's room to give the preachers a wide berth, even should they insist on "concluding with prayer," and it will be a pretty sight. they have the guards' band coming.' 'i never heard a military band,' ejaculated phoebe. 'and there are to be sports for the village children, i believe,' added owen; 'besides, you will like to meet some of the lions--the archdeacon and his wife will be there.' 'but how can i think of filling up mrs. charteris's house, without the least acquaintance?' 'honey-sweet philosopher, eloisa heeds as little how her house is filled, so it _be_ filled, as jessica did her father's ring. five dresses a day, with accoutrements to match, and for the rest she is sublimely indifferent. fortune played her a cruel trick in preventing her from being born a fair sultana.' 'not to be a mahometan?' said phoebe. 'i don't imagine she is far removed from one;' then, as phoebe's horror made her look like maria, he added--'don't mean that she was not bred a christian, but the oriental mind never distinctly embraces tenets contrary to its constitution.' 'miss charlecote, is he talking in earnest?' 'i hope not,' honora said, a little severely, 'for he would be giving a grievous account of the poor lady's faith--' 'faith! no, my dear, she has not reflection enough for faith. all that enters into the eastern female mind is a little observance.' 'and you are not going to lead phoebe to believe that you think it indifferent whether those observances be christian or pagan?' said honora, earnestly. there was a little pause, and then owen rather hesitatingly said--'it is a hard thing to pronounce that three-fifths of one's fellow-creatures are on the high road to erebus, especially when ethnologically we find that certain aspects of doctrine never have approved themselves to certain races, and that climate is stronger than creed. am i not talking fennimorically, phoebe?' 'much more fennimorically than i wish her to hear, or you to speak,' said honora; 'you talk as if there were no such thing as truth.' 'ah! now comes the question of subjective and objective, and i was as innocent as possible of any intention of plunging into such a sea, or bringing those furrows into your forehead, dear honor! see what it is to talk to you and miss fennimore's pupil. all things, human and divine, have arisen out of my simple endeavour to show you that you must come to castle blanch, the planners of the feast having so ordained, and it being good for all parties, due from the fairy godmother to the third princess, and seriously giving cilly another chance of returning within the bounds of discretion.' honora thought as much. she hoped that robert would by that time have assumed his right to plead with lucilla, and that in such a case she should be a welcome refuge, and phoebe still more indispensable; so her lips opened in a yielding smile, and phoebe thanked her rapturously, vague hopes of robert's bliss adding zest to the anticipation of the lifting of the curtain which hid the world of brightness. 'there's still time,' said owen, with his hand on the check-string; 'which do you patronize? redmayne or--' 'nonsense,' smiled honor, 'we can't waste our escort upon women's work.' 'ladies never want a gentleman more than when their taste is to be directed.' 'he is afraid to trust us, phoebe.' 'conscience has spoken,' said owen; 'she knows how she would go and disguise herself in an old dowager's gown to try to look like sixty!' 'as for silk gowns--' 'i positively forbid it,' he cried, cutting her short; 'it is five years old!' 'a reason why i should not have another too grand to wear out.' 'and you never ought to have had it. phoebe, it was bought when lucy was seventeen, on purpose to look as if she was of a fit age for a wall-flower, and so well has the poor thing done its duty, that lucy hears herself designated as the pretty girl who belongs to the violet and white! if she had known _that_ was coming after her, i won't answer for the consequence.' 'if it _does_ annoy lucy--we do not so often go out together--don't, owen, i never said it was to be now, i am bent on landseer.' 'but i said so,' returned owen, 'for miss charlecote regards the distressed dressmakers--four dresses--think of the fingers that must ache over them.' 'well, he does what he pleases,' sighed honor; 'there's no help for it, you see, phoebe. shall you dislike looking on?' for she doubted whether phoebe had been provided with means for her equipment, and might not require delay and correspondence but the frank answer was, 'thank you, i shall be glad of the opportunity. papa told me i might fit myself out in case of need.' 'and suppose we are too late for the exhibition.' 'i never bought a dress before,' quoth phoebe. owen laughed. 'that's right, phoebe! be strong-minded and original enough to own that some decorations surpass "raffaelles, correggios, and stuff"--' 'no,' said phoebe, simply, and with no affectation of scorn, 'they only interest me more at this moment.' honor smiled to owen her love for the honesty that never spoke for effect, nor took what it believed it ought to feel, for what it really felt. withal, owen gained his purpose, and conducted the two ladies into one of the great shops of ladies apparel. phoebe followed miss charlecote with eyes of lively anticipation. miss fennimore had taught her to be _real_ when she could not be philosophical, and scruples as to the 'vain pomp and glory of the world' had not presented themselves; she only found herself admitted to privileges hitherto so jealously withheld as to endow them with a factitious value, and in a scene of real beauty. the textures, patterns, and tints were, as owen observed, such as approved themselves to the aesthetic sense, the miniature embroidery of the brocades was absolute art, and no contemptible taste was displayed in the apparently fortuitous yet really elaborate groupings of rich and delicate hues, fine folds, or ponderous draperies. 'far from it,' said honor; 'the only doubt is whether such be a worthy application of aesthetics. were they not given us for better uses?' 'to diffuse the widest amount of happiness?' 'that is one purpose.' 'and a fair woman well dressed is the sight most delightful to the greatest number of beholders.' honor made a playful face of utter repudiation of the maxim, but meeting him on his own ground emphasized 'fair and well dressed--that is, appropriately.' 'that is what brings me here, said owen, turning round, as the changeful silks, already asked for, were laid on the counter before them. it was an amusing shopping. the gentleman's object was to direct the taste of both ladies, but his success was not the same. honora's first affections fell upon a handsome black, enlivened by beautiful blue flowers in the flounces; but her tyrant scouted it as a 'dingy dowager,' and overruled her into choosing a delicate lavender, insisting that if it were less durable, so much the better for her friends, and domineering over the black lace accompaniments with a solemn tenderness that made her warn him in a whisper that people were taking her for his ancient bride, thus making him some degrees more drolly attentive; settling her head-gear with the lady of the shop, without reference to her. after all, it was very charming to be so affectionately made a fool of, and it was better for her children as well as due to the house of charlecote that she should not be a dowdy country cousin. meantime, phoebe stood by amused, admiring, assisting, but not at all bewildered. miss fennimore had impressed the maxim; 'always know what you mean to do, and do it.' she had never chosen a dress before, but that did not hinder her from having a mind and knowing it; she had a reply for each silk that owen suggested, and the moment her turn came, she desired to see a green glace. in vain he exclaimed, and drew his favourites in front of her, in vain appealed to miss charlecote and the shopman; she laughed him off, took but a moment to reject each proffered green which did not please her, and in as brief a space had recognized the true delicate pale tint of ocean. it was one that few complexions could have borne, but their connoisseur, with one glance from it to her fresh cheek, owned her right, though much depended on the garniture, and he again brought forward his beloved lilac, insinuating that he should regard her selection of it as a personal attention. no; she laughed, and said she had made up her mind and would not change; and while he was presiding over honora's black lace, she was beforehand with him, and her bill was being made out for her white muslin worked mantle, white bonnet with a tuft of lady grass, white evening dress, and wreath of lilies of the valley. 'green and white, forsaken quite,' was the best revenge that occurred to him, and miss charlecote declared herself ashamed that the old lady's dress had caused so much more fuss than the young lady's. it was of course too late for the exhibition, so they applied themselves to further shopping, until owen had come to the farthest point whence he could conveniently walk back to dine with his cousins, and go with them to the opera, and he expended some vituperation upon ratia for an invitation which had prevented phoebe from being asked to join the party. phoebe was happy enough without it, and though not morbidly bashful, felt that at present it was more comfortable to be under miss charlecote's wing than that of lucilla, and that the quiet evening was more composing than fresh scenes of novelty. the woolstone-lane world was truly very different from that of which she had had a glimpse, and quite as new to her. mr. parsons, after his partial survey, was considering of possibilities, or more truly of endeavours at impossibilities, a mission to that dreadful population, means of discovering their sick, of reclaiming their children, of causing the true light to shine in that frightful gross darkness that covered the people. she had never heard anything yet discussed save on the principle of self-pleasing or self-aggrandizement; here, self-spending was the axiom on which all the problems were worked. after dinner, mr. parsons retired into the study, and while his wife and miss charlecote sat down for a friendly gossip over the marriages of the two daughters, phoebe welcomed an unrestrained _tete-a-tete_ with her brother. they were one on either seat of the old oriel window, she, with her work on her lap, full of pleasant things to tell him, but pausing as she looked up, and saw his eyes far far away, as he knelt on the cushion, his elbows on the sill of the open lattice, one hand supporting his chin, the other slowly erecting his hair into the likeness of the fretful porcupine. he had heard of, but barely assented to, the morrow's dinner, or the _fete_ at castle blanch; he had not even asked her how lucilla looked; and after waiting for some time, she said, as a feeler--'you go with us to-morrow?' 'i suppose i must.' 'lucy said so much in her pretty way about catching the robin, that i am sure she was vexed at your not having called.' no answer: his eyes had not come home. presently he mumbled something so much distorted by the compression of his chin, and by his face being out of window, that his sister could not make it out. in answer to her sound of inquiry, he took down one hand, removed the other from his temple, and emitting a modicum more voice from between his teeth, said, 'it is plain--it can't be--' 'what can't be? not--lucy?' gasped phoebe. 'i can't take shares in the business.' her look of relief moved him to explain, and drawing himself in, he sat down on his own window-seat, stretching a leg across, and resting one foot upon that where she was placed, so as to form a sort of barrier, shutting themselves into a sense of privacy. 'i can't do it,' he repeated, 'not if my bread depended on it.' 'what is the matter?' 'i have looked into the books, i have gone over it with rawlins.' 'you don't mean that we are going to be ruined?' 'better that we were than to go on as we do! phoebe, it is wickedness.' there was a long pause. robert rested his brow on his hand, phoebe gazed intently at him, trying to unravel the idea so suddenly presented. she had reasoned it out before he looked up, and she roused him by softly saying, 'you mean that you do not like the manufacture of spirits because they produce so much evil.' though he did not raise his head, she understood his affirmation, and went on with her quiet logic, for, poor girl, hers was not the happy maiden's defence--'what my father does cannot be wrong.' without condemning her father, she instinctively knew that weapon was not in her armoury, and could only betake herself to the merits of the case. 'you know how much rather i would see you a clergyman, dear robin,' she said; 'but i do not understand why you change your mind. we always knew that spirits were improperly used, but that is no reason why none should be made, and they are often necessary.' 'yes,' he answered; 'but, phoebe, i have learnt to-day that our trade is not supported by the lawful use of spirits. it is the ministry of hell.' phoebe raised her startled eyes in astonished inquiry. 'i would have credited nothing short of the books, but there i find that not above a fifth part of our manufacture goes to respectable houses, where it is applied properly. the profitable traffic, which it is the object to extend, is the supply of the gin palaces of the city. the leases of most of those you see about here belong to the firm, it supplies them, and gains enormously on their receipts. it is to extend the dealings in this way that my legacy is demanded.' the enormity only gradually beginning to dawn upon phoebe, all she said was a meditative--'you would not like that.' 'you did not realize it,' he said, nettled at her quiet tone. 'do not you understand? you and i, and all of us, have eaten and drunk, been taught more than we could learn, lived in a fine house, and been made into ladies and gentlemen, all by battening on the vice and misery of this wretched population. those unhappy men and women are lured into the gaudy palaces at the corners of the streets to purchase a moment's oblivion of conscience, by stinting their children of bread, that we may wear fine clothes, and call ourselves county people.' 'do not talk so, robert,' she exclaimed, trembling; 'it cannot be right to say such things--' 'it is only the bare fact! it is no pleasure to me to accuse my own father, i assure you, phoebe, but i cannot blind myself to the simple truth.' 'he cannot see it in that light.' 'he _will_ not.' 'surely,' faltered phoebe, 'it cannot be so bad when one does not know it is--' 'so far true. the conscience does not waken quickly to evils with which our lives have been long familiar.' 'and mervyn was brought up to it--' 'that is not my concern,' said robert, too much in the tone of 'am i my brother's keeper?' 'you will at least tell your reasons for refusing.' 'yes, and much i shall be heeded! however, my own hands shall be pure from the wages of iniquity. i am thankful that all i have comes from the mervyns.' 'it is a comfort, at least, that you see your way.' 'i suppose it is;' but he sighed heavily, with a sense that it was almost profanation to have set such a profession in the balance against the sacred ministry. 'i know _she_ will like it best.' dear phoebe! in spite of miss fennimore, faith must still have been much stronger than reason if she could detect the model parsoness in yonder firefly. poor child, she went to bed, pondering over her brother's terrible discoveries, and feeling as though she had suddenly awakened to find herself implicated in a web of iniquity; her delightful parcel of purchases lost their charms, and oppressed her as she thought of them in connection with the rags of the squalid children the rector had described, and she felt as if there were no escape, and she could never be happy again under the knowledge of the price of her luxuries, and the dread of judgment. 'much good had their wealth done them,' as robert truly said. the house of beauchamp had never been nearly so happy as if their means had been moderate. always paying court to their own station, or they were disunited among themselves, and not yet amalgamated with the society to which they had attained, the younger ones passing their elders in cultivation, and every discomfort of change of position felt, though not acknowledged. even the mother, lady as she was by birth, had only belonged to the second-rate class of gentry, and while elevated by wealth, was lowered by connection, and not having either mind or strength enough to stand on her own ground, trod with an ill-assured foot on that to which she aspired. not that all this crossed phoebe's mind. there was merely a dreary sense of depression, and of living in the midst of a grievous mistake, from which robert alone had the power of disentangling himself, and she fell asleep sadly enough; but, fortunately, sins, committed neither by ourselves, nor by those for whom we are responsible, have not a lasting power of paining; and she rose up in due time to her own calm sunshiny spirit of anticipation of the evening's meeting between robin and lucy--to say nothing of her own first dinner-party. chapter iv and instead of 'dearest miss,' jewel, honey, sweetheart, bliss, and those forms of old admiring, call her cockatrice and siren.--c. lamb the ladies of the house were going to a ball, and were in full costume: eloisa a study for the arabian nights, and lucilla in an azure gossamer-like texture surrounding her like a cloud, turquoises on her arms, and blue and silver ribbons mingled with her blonde tresses. very like the clergyman's wife! o sage honor, were you not provoked with yourself for being so old as to regard that bewitching sprite, and marvel whence comes the cost of those robes of the woof of faerie? let oberon pay titania's bills. that must depend on who oberon is to be. phoebe, to whom a doubt on that score would have appeared high treason, nevertheless hated the presence of mr. calthorp as much as she could hate anything, and was in restless anxiety as to titania's behaviour. she herself had no cause to complain, for she was at once singled out and led away from miss charlecote, to be shown some photographic performances, in which lucy and her cousin had been dabbling. 'there, that horrid monster is owen--he never will come out respectable. mr. prendergast, he is better, because you don't see his face. there's our school, edna murrell and all; i flatter myself that _is_ a work of art; only this little wretch fidgeted, and muddled himself.' 'is that the mistress? she does not look like one.' 'not like sally page? no; she would bewilder the hiltonbury mind. i mean you to see her; i would not miss the shock to honor. no, don't show it to her! i won't have any preparation.' 'do you call that preparation?' said owen, coming up, and taking up the photograph indignantly. 'you should not do such things, cilly!' ''tisn't i that do them--it's phoebe's brother--the one in the sky i mean, dan phoebus, and if he won't flatter, i can't help it. no, no, i'll not have it broken; it is an exact likeness of all the children's spotted frocks, and if it be not of edna, it ought to be.' 'look, robert,' said phoebe, as she saw him standing shy, grave, and monumental, with nervous hands clasped over the back of a chair, neither advancing nor retreating, 'what a beautiful place this is!' 'oh! that's from a print--glendalough! i mean to bring you plenty of the real place.' 'kathleen's cave,' said the unwelcome millionaire. 'yes, with a comment on kathleen's awkwardness! i should like to see the hermit who could push me down.' 'you! you'll never tread in kathleen's steps!' 'because i shan't find a hermit in the cave.' 'talk of skylarking on "the lake whose gloomy shore!"' they all laughed except the two fulmorts. 'there's a simpler reason,' said one of the guardsmen, 'namely, that neither party will be there at all.' 'no, not the saint--' 'nor the lady. miss charteris tells me all the maiden aunts are come up from the country.' (how angry phoebe was!) 'happily it is an article i don't possess.' 'well, we will not differ about technicalities, as long as the fact is the same. you'll remember my words when you are kept on a diet of hannah more and miss edgeworth till you shall have abjured hounds, balls, and salmon-flies.' 'the woman lives not who has the power!' 'what bet will you take, miss sandbrook?' 'what bet will you take, lord william, that, maiden aunts and all, i appear on the rd, in a dress of salmon-flies?' 'a hat trimmed with goose feathers to a pocket-handkerchief, that by that time you are in the family mansion, repenting of your sins.' phoebe looked on like one in a dream, while the terms of the wager were arranged with playful precision. she did not know that dinner had been announced, till she found people moving, and in spite of her antipathy to mr. calthorp, she rejoiced to find him assigned to herself--dear, good lucy must have done it to keep robin to herself, and dear, good lucy she shall be, in spite of the salmon, since in the progress down-stairs she has cleared the cloud from his brow. it was done by a confiding caressing clasp on his arm, and the few words, 'now for old friends! how charming little phoebe looks!' how different were his massive brow and deep-set eyes without their usual load, and how sweet his gratified smile! 'where have you been, you robin? if i had not passed you in the park, i should never have guessed there was such a bird in london. i began to change my mind, like christiana--"i thought robins were harmless and gentle birds, wont to hop about men's doors, and feed on crumbs, and such-like harmless food."' 'and have you seen me eating worms?' 'i've not seen you at all.' 'i did not think you had leisure--i did not believe i should be welcome.' 'the cruellest cut of all! positive irony--' 'no, indeed! i am not so conceited as--' 'as what?' 'as to suppose you could want me.' 'and there was i longing to hear about phoebe! if you had only come, i could have contrived her going to the _zauberflote_ with us last night, but i didn't know the length of her tether.' 'i did not know you were so kind.' 'be kinder yourself another time. don't i know how i have been torn to pieces at hiltonbury, without a friend to say one word for the poor little morsel!' she said, piteously. he was impelled to an eager 'no, no!' but recalling facts, he modified his reply into, 'friends enough, but very anxious!' 'there, i knew none of you trusted me,' she said, pretending to pout. 'when play is so like earnest--' 'slow people are taken in! that's the fun! i like to show that i can walk alone sometimes, and not be snatched up the moment i pop my head from under my leading-strings.' her pretty gay toss of the head prevented robert from thinking whether woman is meant to be without leading-strings. 'and it was to avoid countenancing my vagaries that you stayed away?' she said, with a look of injured innocence. 'i was very much occupied,' answered robert, feeling himself in the wrong. 'that horrid office! you aren't thinking of becoming a clarence, to drown yourself in brandy--that would never do.' 'no, i have given up all thoughts of that!' 'you _thought_, you wretched redbreast! i _thought_ you knew better.' 'so i ought,' said robert, gravely, 'but my father wished me to make the experiment, and i must own, that before i looked into the details, there were considerations which--which--' 'such considerations as pounds_ s. d._? for shame!' 'for shame, indeed,' said the happy robert. 'phoebe judged you truly. i did not know what might be the effect of habit--' and he became embarrassed, doubtful whether she would accept the assumption on which he spoke; but she went beyond his hopes. 'the only place i ever cared for is a very small old parsonage,' she said, with feeling in her tone. 'wrapworth? that is near castle blanch.' 'yes! i must show it you. you shall come with honor and phoebe on monday, and i will show you everything.' 'i should be delighted--but is it not arranged?' 'i'll take care of that. mr. prendergast shall take you in, as he would a newly-arrived rhinoceros, if i told him. he was our curate, and used to live in the house even in our time. don't say a word, robin; it is to be. i must have you see my river, and the stile where my father used to sit when he was tired. i've never told any one which that is.' ordinarily lucilla never seemed to think of her father, never named him, and her outpouring was doubly prized by robert, whose listening face drew her on. 'i was too much of a child to understand how fearfully weak he must have been, for he could not come home from the castle without a rest on that stile, and we used to play round him, and bring him flowers. my best recollections are all of that last summer--it seems like my whole life at home, and much longer than it could really have been. we were all in all to one another. how different it would have been if he had lived! i think no one has believed in me since.' there was something ineffably soft and sad in the last words, as the beautiful, petted, but still lonely orphan cast down her eyelids with a low long sigh, as though owning her errors, but pleading this extenuation. robert, much moved, was murmuring something incoherent, but she went on. 'rashe does, perhaps. can't you see how it is a part of the general disbelief in me to suppose that i come here only for london seasons, and such like? i must live where i have what the dear old soul there has not got to give.' 'you cannot doubt of her affection. i am sure there is nothing she would not do for you.' '"do!" that is not what i want. it can't be done, it must be _felt_, and that it never will be. when there's a mutual antagonism, gratitude becomes a fetter, intolerable when it is strained.' 'i cannot bear to hear you talk so; revering miss charlecote as i do, and feeling that i owe everything to her notice.' 'oh, i find no fault, i reverence her too! it was only the nature of things, not her intentions, nor her kindness, that was to blame. she meant to be justice and mercy combined towards us, but i had all the one, and owen all the other. not that i am jealous! oh, no! not that she could help it; but no woman can help being hard on her rival's daughter.' nothing but the sweet tone and sad arch smile could have made this speech endurable to robert, even though he remembered many times when the trembling of the scale in miss charlecote's hands had filled him with indignation. 'you allow that it was justice,' he said, smiling. 'no doubt of that,' she laughed. 'poor honor! i must have been a grievous visitation, but i am very good now; i shall come and spend sunday as gravely as a judge, and when you come to wrapworth, you shall see how i can go to the school when it is not forced down my throat--no merit either, for our mistress is perfectly charming, with _such_ a voice! if i were phoebe i would look out, for owen is desperately smitten.' 'phoebe!' repeated robert, with a startled look. 'owen and phoebe! i considered it _une affaire arrangee_ as much as--' she had almost said you and me: robert could supply the omission, but he was only blind of _one_ eye, and gravely said, 'it is well there is plenty of time before owen to tame him down.' 'oney,' laughed lucilla; 'yes, he has a good deal to do in that line, with his opinions in such a mess that i really don't know what he does believe.' though the information was not new to robert, her levity dismayed him, and he gravely began, 'if you have such fears--' but she cut him off short. 'did you ever play at bagatelle?' he stared in displeased surprise. 'did you never see the ball go joggling about before it could settle into its hole, and yet abiding there very steadily at last? look on quietly, and you will see the poor fellow as sober a parish priest as yourself.' 'you are a very philosophical spectator of the process,' robert said, still displeased. 'just consider what a capacious swallow the poor boy had in his tender infancy, and how hard it was crammed with legends, hymns, and allegories, with so many scruples bound down on his poor little conscience, that no wonder, when the time of expansion came, the whole concern should give way with a jerk.' 'i thought miss charlecote's education had been most anxiously admirable.' 'precisely so! don't you see? why, how dull you are for a man who has been to oxford!' 'i should seriously be glad to hear your view, for owen's course has always been inexplicable to me.' 'to you, poor robin, who lived gratefully on the crumbs of our advantages! the point was that to you they were crumbs, while we had a surfeit.' 'owen never seemed overdone. i used rather to hate him for his faultlessness, and his familiarity with what awed my ignorance.' 'the worse for him! he was too apt a scholar, and received all unresisting, unsifting--anglo-catholicism, slightly touched with sentiment, enthusiasm for the crusades, passive obedience--acted faithfully up to it; imagined that to be "not a good churchman," as he told charles, expressed the seven deadly sins, and that reasoning was the deadliest of all!' 'as far as i understand you, you mean that there was not sufficient distinction between proven and non-proven--important and unimportant.' 'you begin to perceive. if faith be overworked, reason kicks; and, of course, when owen found the holt was not the world; that thinking was not the exclusive privilege of demons; that habits he considered as imperative duties were inconvenient, not to say impracticable; that his articles of faith included much of the apocryphal,--why, there was a general downfall!' 'poor miss charlecote,' sighed robert, 'it is a disheartening effect of so much care.' 'she should have let him alone, then, for uncle kit to make a sailor of. then he would have had something better to do than to _think_!' 'then you are distressed about him?' said robert, wistfully. 'thank you,' said she, laughing; 'but you see i am too wise ever to think or distress myself. he'll think himself straight in time, and begin a reconstruction from his scattered materials, i suppose, and meantime he is a very comfortable brother, as such things go; but it is one of the grudges i can't help owing to honora, that such a fine fellow as that is not an independent sailor or soldier, able to have some fun, and not looked on as a mere dangler after the holt.' 'i thought the reverse was clearly understood?' 'she ought to have "acted as sich." how my relatives, and yours too, would laugh if you told them so! not that i think, like them, that it is elizabethan dislike to naming a successor, nor to keep him on his good behaviour; she is far above that, but it is plain how it will he. the only other relation she knows in the world is farther off than we are--not a bit more of a charlecote, and twice her age; and when she has waited twenty or thirty years longer for the auburn-haired lady my father saw in a chapel at toronto, she will bethink herself that owen, or owen's eldest son, had better have it than the queen. that's the sense of it; but i hate the hanger-on position it keeps him in.' 'it is a misfortune,' said robert. 'people treat him as a man of expectations, and at his age it would not be easy to disown them, even to himself. he has an eldest son air about him, which makes people impose on him the belief that he is one; and yet, who could have guarded against the notion more carefully than miss charlecote?' 'i'm of uncle kit's mind,' said lucilla, 'that children should be left to their natural guardians. what! is lolly really moving before i have softened down the edge of my ingratitude?' 'so!' said miss charteris, as she brought up the rear of the procession of ladies on the stairs. lucilla faced about on the step above, with a face where interrogation was mingled with merry defiance. 'so that is why the calthorp could not get a word all the livelong dinner-time!' 'ah! i used you ill; i promised you an opportunity of studying "cock robin," but you see i could not help keeping him myself--i had not seen him for so long.' 'you were very welcome! it is the very creature that baffles me. i can talk to any animal in the world except an incipient parson.' 'owen, for instance?' 'oh! if people choose to put a force on nature, there can be no general rules. but, cilly, you know i've always said you should marry whoever you liked; but i require another assurance--on your word and honour--that you are not irrevocably jenny wren as yet!' 'did you not see the currant wine?' said cilly, pulling leaves off a myrtle in a tub on the stairs, and scattering them over her cousin. 'seriously, cilly! ah, i see now--your exclusive attention to him entirely reassures me. you would never have served him so, if you had meant it.' 'it was commonplace in me,' said lucilla, gravely, 'but i could not help it; he made me feel so good--or so bad--that i believe i shall--' 'not give up the salmon,' cried horatia. 'cilly, you will drive me to commit matrimony on the spot.' 'do,' said lucilla, running lightly up, and dancing into the drawing-room, where the ladies were so much at their ease, on low couches and ottomans, that phoebe stood transfixed by the novelty of a drawing-room treated with such freedom as was seldom permitted in even the schoolroom at beauchamp, when miss fennimore was in presence. 'phoebe, bright phoebe!' cried lucilla, pouncing on both her hands, and drawing her towards the other room, 'it is ten ages since i saw you, and you must bring your taste to aid my choice of the fly costume. did you hear, rashe? i've a bet with lord william that i appear at the ball all in flies. isn't it fun?' 'oh, jolly!' cried horatia. 'make yourself a pike-fly.' 'no, no; not a guy for any one. only wear a trimming of salmon-flies, which will be lovely.' 'you do not really mean it?' said phoebe. 'mean it? with all my heart, in spite of the tremendous sacrifice of good flies. where honour is concerned--' 'there, i knew you would not shirk.' 'did i ever say so?'--in a whisper, not unheard by phoebe, and affording her so much satisfaction that she only said, in a grave, puzzled voice, 'the hooks?' 'hooks and all,' was the answer. 'i do nothing by halves.' 'what a state of mind the fishermen will be in! proceeded horatia. 'you'll have every one of them at your feet.' 'i shall tell them that two of a trade never agree. come, and let us choose.' and opening a drawer, lucilla took out her long parchment book, and was soon eloquent on the merits of the doctor, the butcher, the duchess, and all her other radiant fabrications of gold pheasants' feathers, parrot plumes, jays' wings, and the like. phoebe could not help admiring their beauty, though she was perplexed all the while, uncomfortable on robert's account, and yet not enough assured of the usages of the london world to be certain whether this were unsuitable. the charteris family, though not of the most _elite_ circles of all, were in one to which the fulmorts had barely the _entree_, and the ease and dash of the young ladies, lucilla's superior age, and caressing patronage, all made phoebe in her own eyes too young and ignorant to pass an opinion. she would have known more about the properties of a rectangle or the dangers of a paper currency. longing to know what miss charlecote thought, she stood, answering as little as possible, until rashe had been summoned to the party in the outer room, and cilly said, laughing, 'well, does she astonish your infant mind?' 'i do not quite enter into her,' said phoebe, doubtfully. 'the best-natured and most unappreciated girl in the world. up to anything, and only a victim to prejudice. you, who have a strong-minded governess, ought to be superior to the delusion that it is interesting to be stupid and helpless.' 'i never thought so,' said phoebe, feeling for a moment in the wrong, as lucilla always managed to make her antagonists do. 'yes, you do, or why look at me in that pleading, perplexed fashion, save that you have become possessed with the general prejudice. weigh it, by the light of whately's logic, and own candidly wherefore rashe and i should be more liable to come to grief, travelling alone, than two men of the same ages.' 'i have not grounds enough to judge,' said phoebe, beginning as though miss fennimore were giving an exercise to her reasoning powers; then, continuing with her girlish eagerness of entreaty, 'i only know that it cannot be right, since it grieves robin and miss charlecote so much.' 'and all that grieves robin and miss charlecote must be shocking, eh? oh, phoebe, what very women all the miss fennimores in the world leave us, and how lucky it is!' 'but i don't think you are going to grieve them,' said phoebe, earnestly. 'i hate the word!' said lucilla. 'plaguing is only fun, but grieving, that is serious.' 'i do believe this is only plaguing!' cried phoebe, 'and that this is your way of disposing of all the flies. i shall tell robin so!' 'to spoil all my fun,' exclaimed lucilla. 'no, indeed!' phoebe only gave a nod and smile of supreme satisfaction. 'ah! but, phoebe, if i'm to grieve nobody, what's to become of poor rashe, you little selfish woman?' 'selfish, no!' sturdily said phoebe. 'if it be wrong for you, it must be equally wrong for her; and perhaps' she added, slowly, 'you would both be glad of some good reason for giving it up. lucy, dear, do tell me whether you really like it, for i cannot fancy you so.' 'like it? well, yes! i like the salmons, and i dote on the fun and the fuss. i say, phoebe, can you bear the burden of a secret? well--only mind, if you tell robin or honor, i shall certainly go; we never would have taken it up in earnest if such a rout had not been made about it, that we were driven to show we did not care, and could be trusted with ourselves.' 'then you don't mean it?' 'that's as people behave themselves. hush! here comes honor. look here, sweet honey, i am in a process of selection. i am pledged to come out at the ball in a unique trimming of salmon-flies.' 'my dear!' cried poor honor, in consternation, 'you can't be so absurd.' 'it is so slow not to be absurd.' 'at fit times, yes; but to make yourself so conspicuous!' 'they say i can't help that,' returned lucy, in a tone of comical melancholy. 'well, my dear, we will talk it over on sunday, when i hope you may be in a rational mood.' 'don't say so,' implored lucilla, 'or i shan't have the courage to come. a rational mood! it is enough to frighten one away; and really i do want very much to come. i've not heard a word yet about the holt. how is the old dame, this summer?' and lucy went on with unceasing interest about all hiltonbury matters, great and small, bewitching honora more than would have seemed possible under the circumstances. she was such a winning fairy that it was hardly possible to treat her seriously, or to recollect causes of displeasure, when under the spell of her caressing vivacity, and unruffled, audacious fun. so impregnable was her gracious good-humour, so untameable her high spirits, that it was only by remembering the little spitfire of twelve or fourteen years ago that it was credible that she had a temper at all; the temper erst wont to exhale in chamois bounds and dervish pirouettes, had apparently left not a trace behind, and the sullen ungraciousness to those who offended her had become the sunniest sweetness, impossible to disturb. was it real improvement? concealment it was not, for lucilla had always been transparently true. was it not more probably connected with that strange levity, almost insensibility, that had apparently indurated feelings which in early childhood had seemed sensitive even to the extent of violence? was she only good-humoured because nothing touched her? had that agony of parting with her gentle father seared her affections, till she had become like a polished gem, all bright glancing beauty, but utterly unfeeling? chapter v reproof falleth on the saucy as water.--feejee proverb considerate of the slender purses of her children, honora had devoted her carriage to fetch them to st. wulstan's on the sunday morning, but her offer had been declined, on the ground that the charteris conveyances were free to them, and that it was better to make use of an establishment to which sunday was no object, than to cloud the honest face of the hiltonbury coachman by depriving his horses of their day of rest. owen would far rather take a cab than so affront grey! pleased with his bright manner, honora had yet reason to fear that expense was too indifferent to both brother and sister, and that the charteris household only encouraged recklessness. wherever she went she heard of the extravagance of the family, and in the shops the most costly wares were recommended as the choice of mrs. charteris. formerly, though honor had equipped lucilla handsomely for visits to castle blanch, she had always found her wardrobe increased by the gifts of her uncle and aunt. the girl had been of age more than a year, and in the present state of the family, it was impossible that her dress could be still provided at their expense, yet it was manifestly far beyond her means; and what could be the result? she would certainly brook no interference, and would cast advice to the winds. poor honor could only hope for a crash that would bring her to reason, and devise schemes for forcing her from the effects of her own imprudence without breaking into her small portion. the great fear was lost false pride, and charteris influence, should lead her to pay her debts at the cost of a marriage with the millionaire; and honor could take little comfort in owen's assurance that the calthorp had too much sense to think of cilly sandbrook, and only promoted and watched her vagaries for the sake of amusement and curiosity. there was small satisfaction to her well-wishers in hearing that no sensible man could think seriously of her. anxiously was that sunday awaited in woolstone-lane, the whole party feeling that this was the best chance of seeing lucilla in a reasonable light, and coming to an understanding with her. owen was often enough visible in the interim, and always extremely agreeable; but lucilla never, and he only brought an account of her gaieties, shrugging his shoulders over them. the day came; the bells began, they chimed, they changed, but still no sandbrooks appeared. mr. parsons set off, and robert made an excursion to the corner of the street. in vain miss charlecote still lingered; mrs. parsons, in despair, called phoebe on with her as the single bell rang, and honor and robert presently started with heads turned over their shoulders, and lips laying all blame on charteris' delays of breakfast. a last wistful look, and the church porch engulfed them; but even when enclosed in the polished square pew, they could not resign hope at every tread on the matted floor, and finally subsided into a trust that the truants might after service emerge from a seat near the door. there were only too many to choose from. that hope baffled, honora still manufactured excuses which phoebe greedily seized and offered to her brother, but she read his rejection of them in his face, and to her conviction that it was all accident, he answered, as she took his arm, 'a small accident would suffice for sandbrook.' 'you don't think he is hindering his sister!' 'i can't tell. i only know that he is one of the many stumbling-blocks in her way. he can do no good to any one with whom he associates intimately. i hate to see him reading poetry with you.' 'why did you never tell me so?' asked the startled phoebe. 'you are so much taken up with him that i can never get at you, when i am not devoured by that office.' 'i am sure i did not know it,' humbly answered phoebe. 'he is very kind and amusing, and miss charlecote is so fond of him that, of course, we must be together; but i never meant to neglect you, robin, dear.' 'no, no, nonsense, it is no paltry jealousy; only now i can speak to you, i must,' said robert, who had been in vain craving for this opportunity of getting his sister alone, ever since the alarm excited by lucilla's words. 'what is this harm, robin?' 'say not a word of it. miss charlecote's heart must not be broken before its time, and at any rate it shall not come through me.' 'what, robert?' 'the knowledge of what he is. don't say it is prejudice. i know i never liked him, but you shall hear why. you ought now--' robert's mind had often of late glanced back to the childish days when, with their present opinions reversed, he thought owen a muff, and owen thought him a reprobate. to his own blunt and reserved nature, the expressions, so charming to poor miss charlecote, had been painfully distasteful. sentiment, profession, obtrusive reverence, and fault-finding scruples had revolted him, even when he thought it a proof of his own irreligion to be provoked. afterwards, when both were schoolboys, robert had yearly increased in conscientiousness under good discipline and training, but, in their holiday meetings, had found owen's standard receding as his own advanced, and heard the once-deficient manly spirit asserted by boasts of exploits and deceptions repugnant to a well-conditioned lad. he saw miss charlecote's perfect confidence abused and trifled with, and the more he grew in a sense of honour, the more he disliked owen sandbrook. at the university, where robert's career had been respectable and commonplace, owen was at once a man of mark. mental and physical powers alike rendered him foremost among his compeers; he could compete with the fast, and surpass the slow on their own ground; and his talents, ready celerity, good-humoured audacity, and quick resource, had always borne him through with the authorities, though there was scarcely an excess or irregularity in which he was not a partaker; and stories of sandbrook's daring were always circulating among the undergraduates. but though robert could have scared phoebe with many a history of lawless pranks, yet these were not his chief cause for dreading owen's intimacy with her. it was that he was one of the youths on whom the spirit of the day had most influence, one of the most adventurous thinkers and boldest talkers: wild in habits, not merely from ebullition of spirits, but from want of faith in the restraining power. all this robert briefly expressed in the words, 'phoebe, it is not that his habits are irregular and unsteady; many are so whose hearts are sound. but he is not sound--his opinions are loose, and he only respects and patronizes divine truth as what has approved itself to so many good, great, and beloved human creatures. it is not denial--it is patronage. it is the commonsense heresy--' 'i thought we all ought to learn common sense.' 'yes, in things human, but in things divine it is the subtle english form of rationalism. this is no time to explain, phoebe; but human sense and intellect are made the test, and what surpasses them is only admired as long as its stringent rules do not fetter the practice.' 'i am sorry you told me,' said phoebe, thoughtfully, 'for i always liked him; he is so kind to me.' had not robert been full of his own troubles he would have been reassured, but he only gave a contemptuous groan. 'does lucy know this?' she asked. 'she told me herself what i well knew before. she does not reflect enough to take it seriously, and contrives to lay the blame upon the narrowness of miss charlecote's training.' 'oh, robin! when all our best knowledge came from the holt!' 'she says, perhaps not unjustly, that miss charlecote overdid things with him, and that this is reaction. she observes keenly. if she would only _think_! she would have been perfect had her father lived, to work on her by affection.' 'the time for that is coming--' robert checked her, saying, 'stay, phoebe. the other night i was fooled by her engaging ways, but each day since i have become more convinced that i must learn whether she be only using me like the rest. i want you to be a witness of my resolution, lest i should be tempted to fail. i came to town, hesitating whether to enter the business for her sake. i found that this could not be done without a great sin. i look on myself as dedicated to the ministry, and thus bound to have a household suited to my vocation. all must turn on her willingness to conform to this standard. i shall lay it before her. i can bear the suspense no longer. my temper and resolution are going, and i am good for nothing. let the touchstone be, whether she will resign her expedition to ireland, and go quietly home with miss charlecote. if she will so do, there is surely that within her that will shine out brighter when removed from irritation on the one side, or folly on the other. if she will not, i have no weight with her; and it is due to the service i am to undertake, to force myself away from a pursuit that could only distract me. i have no right to be a clergyman and choose a hindrance not a help--one whose tastes would lead back to the world, instead of to my work!' as he spoke, in stern, rigid resolution--only allowing himself one long, deep, heavy sigh at the end--he stood still at the gates of the court, which were opened as the rest of the party came up; and, as they crossed and entered the hall, they beheld, through the open door of the drawing-room, two figures in the window--one, a dark torso, perched outside on the sill; the other, in blue skirt and boy-like bodice, negligently reposing on one side of the window-seat, her dainty little boots on the other; her coarse straw bonnet, crossed with white, upon the floor; the wind playing tricks with the silky glory of her flaxen ringlets; her cheek flushed with lovely carnation, declining on her shoulder; her eyes veiled by their fair fringes. 'hallo!' she cried, springing up, 'almost caught asleep!' and owen, pocketing his pipe, spun his legs over the windowsill, while both began, in rattling, playful vindication and recrimination-- (he wouldn't.' 'it wasn't my fault ( (she wouldn't.' 'indeed, i wasn't a wilful heathen; mr. parsons, it was he--' 'it was she who chose to take the by-ways, and make us late. rush into church before a whole congregation, reeking from a six-miles walk! i've more respect for the establishment.' 'you walked!' cried five voices. 'see her sabbatarianism!' 'nonsense! i should have driven charlie's cab.' 'charlie has some common sense where his horse is concerned.' 'he wanted it himself, you _know_.' 'she grew sulky, and victimized me to a walk.' 'i'm sure it was excellent fun.' 'ay, and because poor calthorp had proffered his cab for her to drive to jericho, and welcome, she drags me into all sorts of streets of villainous savours, that he might not catch us up.' 'horrid hard mouth that horse of his,' said lucilla, by way of dashing the satisfaction on miss charlecote's face. 'i do not wonder you were late.' 'oh! that was all owen's doing. he vowed that he had not nerve to face the pew-opener!' 'the grim female in weeds--no, indeed!' said owen. 'indeed, i objected to entering in the guise of flaming meteors both on reverential and sanatory grounds.' 'insanatory, methinks,' said miss charlecote; 'how could you let her sleep, so much heated, in this thorough draught!' 'don't flatter yourself,' said cilly, quaintly shaking her head; 'i'm not such a goose as to go and catch cold! oh! phoebe, my salmon-flies are loveliness itself; and i hereby give notice, that a fine of three pairs of thick boots has been proclaimed for every pun upon sisters of the angle and sisters of the angels! so beware, robin!'--and the comical audacity with which she turned on him, won a smile from the grave lips that had lately seemed so remote from all peril of complimenting her whimsies. even mr. parsons said 'the fun was tempting.' 'come and get ready for luncheon,' said the less fascinated honora, moving away. 'come and catch it!' cried the elf, skipping up-stairs before her and facing round her 'dear old honeyseed.' 'i honour your motives; but wouldn't it be for the convenience of all parties, if you took _punch's_ celebrated advice--"don't"?' 'how am i to speak, lucy,' said honora, 'if you come with the avowed intention of disregarding what i say?' 'then hadn't you better not?' murmured the girl, in the lowest tone, drooping her head, and peeping under her eyelashes, as she sat with a hand on each elbow of her arm-chair, as though in the stocks. 'i would not, my child,' was the mournful answer, 'if i could help caring for you.' lucilla sprang up and kissed her. 'don't, then; i don't like anybody to be sorry,' she said. 'i'm sure i'm not worth it.' 'how can i help it, when i see you throwing away happiness--welfare--the good opinion of all your friends?' 'my dear honora, you taught me yourself not to mind mrs. grundy! come, never mind, the reasonable world has found out that women are less dependent than they used to be.' 'it is not what the world thinks, but what is really decorous.' lucilla laughed--though with some temper--'i wonder what we are going to do otherwise!' 'you are going beyond the ordinary restraints of women in your station; and a person who does so, can never tell to what she may expose herself. liberties are taken when people come out to meet them.' 'that's as they choose!' cried lucilla, with such a gesture of her hand, such a flash of her blue eyes, that she seemed trebly the woman, and it would have been boldness indeed to presume with her. 'yes; but a person who has even had to protect herself from incivility, to which she has wilfully exposed herself, does not remain what she might be behind her screen.' '_omne ignotum pro terribili_,' laughed lucilla, still not to be made serious. 'now, i don't believe that the world is so flagrantly bent on annoying every pretty girl. people call me vain, but i never was so vain as that. i've always found them very civil; and ireland is the land of civility. now, seriously, my good cousin honor, do you candidly expect any harm to befall us?' 'i do not think you likely to meet with absolute injury.' lucilla clapped her hands, and cried, 'an admission, an admission! i told rashe you were a sincere woman.' but miss charlecote went on, 'but there is harm to yourself in the affectation of masculine habits; it is a blunting of the delicacy suited to a christian maiden, and not like the women whom st. paul and st. peter describe. you would find that you had forfeited the esteem, not only of ordinary society, but of persons whose opinions you do value; and in both these respects you would suffer harm. you, my poor child, who have no one to control you, or claim your obedience as a right, are doubly bound to be circumspect. i have no power over you; but if you have any regard for her to whom your father confided you--nay, if you consult what you know would have been his wishes--you will give up this project.' the luncheon-bell had already rung, and consideration for the busy clergyman compelled her to go down with these last words, feeling as if there were a leaden weight at her heart. lucilla remained standing before the glass, arranging her wind-tossed hair; and, in her vehemence, tearing out combfuls, as she pulled petulantly against the tangled curls. 'her old way--to come over me with my father! ha!--i love him too well to let him be miss charlecote's engine for managing me!--her _dernier ressort_ to play on my feelings. nor will i have robin set at me! whether i go or not, shall be as i please, not as any one else does; and if i stay at home, rashe shall own it is not for the sake of the conclave here. i told her she might trust me.' down she went, and at luncheon devoted herself to the captivation of mr. parsons; afterwards insisting on going to the schools--she, whose aversion to them was honora's vexation at home. strangers to make a sensation were contrary to the views of the parsonses; but the wife found her husband inconsistent--'one lady, more or less, could make no difference on this first sunday;' and, by and by, mrs. parsons found a set of little formal white-capped faces, so beaming with entertainment, at the young lady's stories, and the young lady herself looking so charming, that she, too, fell under the enchantment. after church, miss charlecote proposed a few turns in the garden; dingy enough, but a marvel for the situation: and here the tacit object of herself and phoebe was to afford robert an opportunity for the interview on which so much depended. but it was like trying to catch a butterfly; lucilla was here, there, everywhere; and an excuse was hardly made for leaving her beside the grave, silent young man, ere her merry tones were heard chattering to some one else. perhaps robert, heart-sick and oppressed with the importance of what trembled on his tongue, was not ready in seizing the moment; perhaps she would not let him speak; at any rate, she was aware of some design; since, baffling phoebe's last attempt, she danced up to her bedroom after her, and throwing herself into a chair, in a paroxysm of laughter, cried, 'you abominable little pussycat of a manoeuvrer; i thought you were in a better school for the proprieties! no, don't make your round eyes, and look so dismayed, or you'll kill me with laughing! cooking _tete-a-tetes_, phoebe--i thought better of you. oh, fie!' and holding up her finger, as if in displeasure, she hid her face in ecstasies of mirth at phoebe's bewildered simplicity. 'robert wanted to speak to you,' she said, with puzzled gravity. 'and you would have set us together by the ears! no, no, thank you, i've had enough of that sort of thing for one day. and what shallow excuses. oh! what fun to hear your pretexts. wanting to see what mrs. parsons was doing, when you knew perfectly well she was deep in a sermon, and wished you at the antipodes. and blushing all the time, like a full-blown poppy,' and off she went on a fresh score--but phoebe, though disconcerted for a moment, was not to be put out of countenance when she understood her ground, and she continued with earnestness, undesired by her companion--'very likely i managed badly, but i know you do not really think it improper to see robert alone, and it is very important that you should do so. indeed it is, lucy,' she added--the youthful candour and seriousness of her pleading, in strong contrast to the flighty, mocking carelessness of lucilla's manners; 'do pray see him; i know he would make you listen. will you be so very kind? if you would go into the little cedar room, i could call him at once.' 'point blank! sitting in my cedar parlour! phoebe, you'll be the death of me,' cried cilly, between peals of merriment. 'do you think i have nerves of brass?' 'you would not laugh, if you knew how much he feels.' 'a very good thing for people to feel! it saves them from torpor.' 'lucy, it is not kind to laugh when i tell you he is miserable.' 'that's only proper, my dear,' said lucilla, entertained by teasing. 'not miserable from doubt,' answered phoebe, disconcerting in her turn. 'we know you too well for that;' and as an expression, amused, indignant, but far from favourable, came over the fair face she was watching, she added in haste, 'it is this project, he thought you had said it was given up.' 'i am much indebted,' said lucilla, haughtily, but again relapsing into laughter; 'but to find myself so easily disposed of . . . oh! phoebe, there's no scolding such a baby as you; but if it were not so absurd--' 'lucy, lucy, i beg your pardon; is it all a mistake, or have i said what was wrong? poor robin will be so unhappy.' phoebe's distress touched lucilla. 'nonsense, you little goose; aren't you woman enough yet to know that one flashes out at finding oneself labelled, and made over before one's time?' 'i'm glad if it was all my blundering,' said phoebe. 'dear lucy, i was very wrong, but you see i always was so happy in believing it was understood!' 'how stupid,' cried lucilla; 'one would never have any fun; no, you haven't tasted the sweets yet, or you would know one has no notion of being made sure of till one chooses! yes, yes, i saw he was primed and cocked, but i'm not going to let him go off.' 'lucy, have you no pity?' 'not a bit! don't talk commonplaces, my dear.' 'if you knew how much depends upon it.' 'my dear, i know that,' with an arch smile. 'no, you do not,' said phoebe, so stoutly that lucilla looked at her in some suspense. 'you think,' said honest phoebe, in her extremity, 'that he only wants to make--to propose to you! now, it is not only that, lucilla,' and her voice sank, as she could hardly keep from crying; 'he will never do that if you go on as you are doing now; he does not think it would be right for a clergyman.' 'oh! i dare say!' quoth lucilla, and then a silence. 'did honor tell him so, phoebe?' 'never, never!' cried phoebe; 'no one has said a word against you! only don't you know how quiet and good any one belonging to a clergyman should be?' 'well, i've heard a great deal of news to-day, and it is all my own fault, for indulging in sentiment on wednesday. i shall know better another time.' 'then you don't care!' cried phoebe, turning round, with eyes flashing as lucilla did not know they could lighten. 'very well! if you don't think robert worth it, i suppose i ought not to grieve, for you can't be what i used to think you and it will be better for him when he once has settled his mind--than if--if afterwards you disappointed him and were a fine lady--but oh! he will be so unhappy,' her tears were coming fast; 'and, lucy, i did like you so much!' 'well, this is the funniest thing of all,' cried lucilla, by way of braving her own emotion; 'little miss phoebe gone into the heroics!' and she caught her two hands, and holding her fast, kissed her on both cheeks; 'a gone coon, am i, phoebe, no better than one of the wicked; and robin, he grew angry, hopped upon a twig, did he! i beg your pardon, my dear, but it makes me laugh to think of his dignified settling of his mind. oh! how soon it could be unsettled again! come, i won't have any more of this; let it alone, phoebe, and trust me that things will adjust themselves all the better for letting them have their swing. don't you look prematurely uneasy, and don't go and make robin think that i have immolated him at the altar of the salmon. say nothing of all this; you will only make a mess in narrating it.' 'very likely i may,' said phoebe; 'but if you will not speak to him yourself, i shall tell him how you feel.' 'if you can,' laughed lucilla. 'i mean, how you receive what i have told you of his views; i do not think it would be fair or kind to keep him in ignorance.' 'much good may it do him,' said lucy; 'but i fancy you will tell him, whether i give you leave or not, and it can't make much difference. i'll tackle him, as the old women say, when i please, and the madder he may choose to go, the better fun it will be.' 'i believe you are saying so to tease me' said phoebe; 'but as i know you don't mean it, i shall wait till after the party; and then, unless you have had it out with him, i shall tell him what you have said.' 'thank you,' said lucilla, ironically conveying to phoebe's mind the conviction that she did not believe that robert's attachment could suffer from what had here passed. either she meant to grant the decisive interview, or else she was too confident in her own power to believe that he could relinquish her; at all events, phoebe had sagacity enough to infer that she was not indifferent to him, though as the provoking damsel ran down-stairs, phoebe's loyal spirit first admitted a doubt whether the tricksy sprite might not prove as great a torment as a delight to robin. 'however,' reflected she, 'i shall make the less mischief if i set it down while i remember it.' not much like romance, but practical sense was both native and cultivated in miss fennimore's pupil. yet as she recorded the sentences, and read them over bereft of the speaker's caressing grace, she blamed herself as unkind, and making the worst of gay retorts which had been provoked by her own home thrusts. 'at least,' she thought, 'he will be glad to see that it was partly my fault, and he need never see it at all if lucy will let him speak to her himself.' meantime, honora had found from owen that the young ladies had accepted an invitation to a very gay house in cheshire, so that their movements would for a fortnight remain doubtful. she recurred to her view that the only measure to be taken was for him to follow them, so as to be able to interpose in any emergency, and she anxiously pressed on him the funds required. 'shouldn't i catch it if they found me out!' said owen, shrugging his shoulders. 'no, but indeed, sweet honey, i meant to have made up for this naughty girl's desertion. you and i would have had such rides and readings together: i want you to put me on good terms with myself.' 'my dear boy! but won't that best be done by minding your sister? she does want it, owen; the less she will be prudent for herself, the more we must think for her!' 'she can do better for herself than you imagine,' said owen. 'men say, with all her free ways, they could not go the least bit farther with her than she pleases. you wouldn't suppose it, but she can keep out of scrapes better than rashe can--never has been in one yet, and rashe in twenty. never mind, your honor, there's sound stuff in the bonny scapegrace; all the better for being free and unconventional. the world owes a great deal to those who dare to act for themselves; though, i own, it is a trial when one's own domestic womankind take thereto.' 'or one's mankind to encouraging it,' said honor, smiling, but showing that she was hurt. 'i don't encourage it; i am only too wise to give it the zest of opposition. was lucy ever bent upon a naughty trick without being doubly incited by the pleasure of showing that she cared not for her younger brother?' 'i believe you are only too lazy! but, will you go? i don't think it can be a penance. you would see new country, and get plenty of sport.' 'come with me, honey,' said he with the most insinuating manner, which almost moved her. 'how jolly it would be!' 'nonsense! an elderly spinster,' she said, really pleased, though knowing it impossible. 'stuff!' he returned in the same tone. 'make it as good as a honeymoon. think of killarney, honor!' 'you silly boy, i can't. there's harvest at home; besides, it would only aggravate that mad girl doubly to have me coming after her.' 'well, if you will not take care of me on a literal wild-goose chase,' said owen, with playful disconsolateness, 'i'll not answer for the consequences.' 'but, you go?' 'vacation rambles are too tempting to be resisted; but, mind, i don't promise to act good genius save at the last extremity, or else shall never get forgiven, and i shall keep some way in the rear.' so closed the consultation; and after an evening which lucilla perforce rendered lively, she and her brother took their leave. the next day they were to accompany the charterises to castle blanch to prepare for the festivities; honor and her two young friends following on the wednesday afternoon. chapter vi he who sits by haunted well is subject to the nixie's spell; he who walks on lonely beach to the mermaid's charmed speech; he who walks round ring of green offends the peevish fairy queen.--scott at the station nearest to castle blanch stood the tall form of owen sandbrook, telling honor that he and his sister had brought the boat; the river was the longer way, but they would prefer it to the road; and so indeed they did, for phoebe herself had had enough of the city to appreciate the cool verdure and calm stillness of the meadow pathway, by which they descended to the majestic river, smoothly sleeping in glassy quiet, or stealing along in complacently dimpling ripples. on the opposite bank, shading off the sun, an oak copse sloped steeply towards the river, painting upon the surface a still shimmering likeness of the summit of the wood, every mass of foliage, every blushing spray receiving a perfect counterpart, and full in the midst of the magic mirror floated what might have been compared to the roseate queen lily of the waters on her leaf. there, in the flat, shallow boat reclined the maiden, leaning over the gunwale, gazing into the summer wavelets with which one bare pinkly-tinted hand was toying, and her silken ringlets all but dipping in, from beneath the round black hat, archly looped up on one side by a carnation bow, and encircled by a series of the twin jetty curls of the mallard; while the fresh rose colour of the spreading muslin dress was enhanced by the black scarf that hung carelessly over it. there was a moment's pause, as if no one could break the spell; but owen, striding on from behind, quickly dissolved the enchantment. 'you monkey, you've cast off. you may float on to greenwich next!' he indignantly shouted. she started, shaking her head saucily. ''twas so slow there, and so broiling,' she called back, 'and i knew i should only drift down to meet you, and could put in when i pleased.' therewith she took the sculls and began rowing towards the bank, but without force sufficient to prevent herself from being borne farther down than she intended. 'i can't help it,' she exclaimed, fearlessly laughing as she passed them. robert was ready to plunge in to stem her progress, lest she should meet with some perilous eddy, but owen laid hold on him, saying, 'don't be nervous, she's all right; only giving trouble, after the nature of women. there; are you satisfied?' he called to her, as she came to a stop against a reed bed, with a tall fence interposed between boat and passengers. 'a nice ferry-woman you.' 'come and get me up again,' was all her answer. 'serve you right if i never picked you up till london-bridge,' he answered. 'stand clear, fulmort,' and with a run and a bound, he vaulted over the high hedge, and went crackling through the nodding bulrushes and reed-maces; while lucy, having accomplished pulling up one of the latter, was pointing it lancewise at him, singing, 'with a bulrush for his spear, and a thimble for a hat, wilt thou fight a traverse with the castle cat.' 'come, come; 'tis too squashy here for larking,' he said authoritatively, stepping into the boat, and bringing it up with such absence of effort that when a few minutes after he had brought it to the landing-place, and the freight was seated, robert had no sooner taken the other oar than he exclaimed at the force of the stream with which owen had dealt so easily, and lucilla so coolly. 'it really was a fearful risk,' he said reproachfully to her. 'oh!' she said, 'i know my thames, and my thames knows me!' 'now's the time to improve it,' said owen; 'one or other should preach about young ladies getting loose, and not knowing where they may be brought up.' 'but you see i did know; besides, phoebe's news from paris will be better worth hearing,' said lucilla, tickling her friend's face with the soft long point of her dark velvety mace. 'my news from paris?' 'for shame, phoebe! your face betrays you.' 'lucy; how could you know? i had not even told miss charlecote!' 'it's true! it's true!' cried lucilla. 'that's just what i wanted to know!' 'lucy, then it was not fair,' said phoebe, much discomposed. 'i was desired to tell no one, and you should not have betrayed me into doing so.' 'phoebe, you always were a green oasis in a wicked world!' 'and now, let me hear,' said miss charlecote. 'i can't flatter you, phoebe; i thought you were labouring under a suppressed secret.' 'only since this morning,' pleaded phoebe, earnestly; 'and we were expressly forbidden to mention it; i cannot imagine how lucy knows.' 'by telegraph!' phoebe's face assumed an expression of immeasurable wonder. 'i almost hope to find you at cross purposes, after all,' said honora. 'no such good luck,' laughed lucilla. 'cinderella's seniors never could go off two at a time. ah! there's the name. i beg your pardon, phoebe.' 'but, lucy, what can you mean? who can have telegraphed about augusta?' 'ah! you knew not the important interests involved, nor augusta how much depended on her keeping the worthy admiral in play. it was the nearest thing--had she only consented at the end of the evening instead of the beginning, poor lord william would have had the five guineas that he wants so much more than mr. calthorp!' 'lucy!' 'it was a bet that sir nicholas would take six calendar months to supply the place of lady bannerman. it was the very last day. if augusta had only waited till twelve!' 'you don't mean that he has been married before. i thought he was such an excellent man!' said phoebe, in a voice that set others besides lucilla off into irresistible mirth. 'once, twice, thrice!' cried lucilla. 'catch her, honor, before she sinks into the river in disgust with this treacherous world.' 'do you know him, lucy?' earnestly said phoebe. 'yes, and two of the wives; we used to visit them because he was an old captain of uncle kit's.' 'i would not believe in number three, phoebe, if i were you,' said owen, consolingly; 'she wants confirmation.' 'two are as bad as three,' sighed phoebe; 'and augusta did not even call him a widower.' 'cupid bandaged! it was a case of love at first sight. met at the _trois freres provencaux_, heard each other's critical remarks, sought an introduction, compared notes; he discovered her foresight with regard to pale ale; each felt that here was a kindred soul!' 'that could not have been telegraphed!' said phoebe, recovering spirit and incredulity. 'no; the telegram was simply "bannerman, fulmort. . p.m., july th." the other particulars followed by letter this morning.' 'how old is he?' asked phoebe, with resignation. 'any age above sixty. what, phoebe, taking it to heart? i was prepared with congratulations. it is only second best, to be sure; but don't you see your own emancipation?' 'i believe that had never occurred to phoebe,' said owen. 'i beg your pardon, lucy,' said phoebe, thinking that she had appeared out of temper; 'only it had sounded so nice in augusta's letter, and she was so kind, and somehow it jars that there should have been that sort of talk.' cilly was checked. in her utter want of thought it had not occurred to her that augusta fulmort could be other than a laughing-stock, or that any bright anticipations could have been spent by any reasonable person on her marriage. perhaps the companionship of rashe, and the satirical outspoken tone of her associates, had somewhat blunted her perception of what might be offensive to the sensitive delicacy of a young sister; but she instantly perceived her mistake, and the carnation deepened in her cheek, at having distressed phoebe, and . . . not that she had deigned any notice of robert after the first cold shake of the hand, and he sat rowing with vigorous strokes, and a countenance of set gravity, more as if he were a boatman than one of the party; lucilla could not even meet his eye when she peeped under her eyelashes to recover defiance by the sight of his displeasure. it was a relief to all when honora exclaimed, 'wrapworth! how pretty it looks.' it was, indeed, pretty, seen through the archway of the handsome stone bridge. the church tower and picturesque village were set off by the frame that closed them in; and though they lost somewhat of the enchantment when the boat shot from under the arch, they were still a fair and goodly english scene. lucilla steered towards the steps leading to a smooth shaven lawn, shaded by a weeping willow, well known to honor. 'here we land you and your bag, robert,' said owen, as he put in. 'cilly, have a little sense, do.' but lucilla, to the alarm of all, was already on her feet, skipped like a chamois to the steps, and flew dancing up the sward. ere owen and robert had helped the other two ladies to land in a more rational manner, she was shaking her mischievous head at a window, and thrusting in her sceptral reed-mace. 'neighbour, oh, neighbour, i'm come to torment you! yes, here we are in full force, ladies and all, and you must come out and behave pretty. never mind your slippers; you ought to be proud of the only thing i ever worked. come out, i say; here's your guest, and you must be civil to him.' 'i am very glad to see mr. fulmort,' said mr. prendergast, his only answer in words to all this, though while it was going on, as if she were pulling him by wires, as she imperiously waved her bulrush, he had stuck his pen into the inkstand, run his fingers in desperation through his hair, risen from his seat, gazed about in vain for his boots, and felt as fruitlessly on the back of the door for a coat to replace the loose alpaca article that hung on his shoulders. 'there. you've gone through all the motions,' said cilly; 'that'll do; now, come out and receive them.' accordingly, he issued from the door, shy and slouching; rusty where he wore cloth, shiny where he wore alpaca, wild as to his hair, gay as to his feet, but, withal, the scholarly gentleman complete, and not a day older or younger, apparently, than when honor had last seen him, nine years since, in bondage then to the child playing at coquetry, as now to the coquette playing at childhood. it was curious, honor thought, to see how, though so much more uncouth and negligent than robert, the indefinable signs of good blood made themselves visible, while they were wanting in one as truly the christian gentleman in spirit and in education. mr. prendergast bowed to miss charlecote, and shook hands with his guest, welcoming him kindly; but the two shy men grew more bashful by contact, and honor found herself, owen, and lucilla sustaining the chief of the conversation, the curate apparently looking to the young lady to protect him and do the honours, as she did by making him pull down a cluster of his roses for her companions, and conducting them to eat his strawberries, which she treated as her own, flitting, butterfly like, over the beds, selecting the largest and ruddiest specimens, while her slave plodded diligently to fill cabbage leaves, and present them to the party in due gradation. owen stood by amused, and silencing the scruples of his companions. 'he is in elysium,' he said; 'he had rather be plagued by cilly than receive a mitre! don't hinder him, honey; it is his pride to treat us as if we were at home and he our guest.' 'wrapworth has not been seen without edna murrell,' said lucilla, flinging the stem of her last strawberry at her brother, 'and miss charlecote is a woman of schools. what, aren't we to go, mr. prendergast?' 'i beg your pardon. i did not know.' 'well; what is it?' 'i do sometimes wish miss murrell were not such an attraction.' 'you did not think that of yourself.' 'well, i don't know; miss murrell is a very nice young woman,' he hesitated, as cilly seemed about to thrust him through with her reed; 'but couldn't you, cilla, now, give her a hint that it would be better if she would associate more with mrs. jenkyns, and--' 'couldn't mr. prendergast; i've more regard for doing as i would be done by. when you see edna, honor--' 'they are very respectable women,' said the curate, standing his ground; 'and it would be much better for her than letting it be said she gives herself airs.' 'that's all because we have had her up to the castle to sing.' 'well, so it is, i believe. they do say, too--i don't know whether it is so--that the work has not been so well attended to, nor the children so orderly.' 'spite, spite, mr. prendergast; i had a better opinion of you than to think you could be taken in by the tongues of wrapworth.' 'well, certainly i did hear a great noise the other day.' 'i see how it is! this is a systematic attempt to destroy the impression i wished to produce.' he tried to argue that he thought very well of miss murrell, but she would not hear; and she went on with her pretty, saucy abuse, in her gayest tones, as she tripped along the churchyard path, now, doubtless, too familiar to renew the associations that might have tamed her spirits. perhaps the shock her vivacity gave to the feeling of her friends was hardly reasonable, but it was not the less real; though, even in passing, honora could not but note the improved condition of the two graves, now carefully tended, and with a lovely white rose budding between them. a few more steps, and from the open window of the schoolhouse there was heard a buzz and hum, not outrageous, but which might have caused the item of discipline not to figure well in an inspector's report; but mr. prendergast and lucilla appeared habituated to the like, for they proceeded without apology. it was a handsome gable-ended building, elizabethan enough to testify to the taste that had designed it, and with a deep porch, where honor had advanced, under lucilla's guidance, so as to have a moment's view of the whole scene before their arrival had disturbed it. the children's backs were towards the door, as they sat on their forms at work. close to the oriel window, the only person facing the door, with a table in front of her, there sat, in a slightly reclining attitude, a figure such as all reports of the new race of schoolmistresses had hardly led honor to imagine to be the _bona fide_ mistress. yet the dress was perfectly quiet, merely lilac cotton, with no ornament save the small bow of the same colour at the throat, and the hair was simply folded round the head, but it was magnificent raven hair; the head and neck were grandly made; the form finely proportioned, on a large scale; the face really beautiful, in a pale, dark, italian style; the complexion of the clearest olive, but as she became aware of the presence of the visitors it became overspread with a lovely hue of red; while the eyelids revealed a superb pair of eyes, liquid depths of rich brown, soft and languid, and befitting the calm dignity with which she rose, curtseyed, and signed to her scholars to do the same; the deepening colour alone betraying any sense of being taken by surprise. lucilla danced up to her, chattering with her usual familiar, airy grace. 'well, edna, how are you getting on? have i brought a tremendous host to invade you? i wanted miss charlecote to see you, for she is a perfect connoisseur in schools.' edna's blush grew more carnation, and the fingers shook so visibly with which she held the work, that honora was provoked with lucy for embarrassing the poor young thing by treating her as an exhibition, especially as the two young gentlemen were present, robert with his back against the door-post in a state of resignation, owen drawing phoebe's attention to the little ones whom he was puzzling with incomprehensible remarks and questions. hoping to end the scene, honor made a few commonplace inquiries as to the numbers and the habits of the school; but the mistress, though preserving her dignity of attitude, seemed hardly able to speak, and the curate replied for her. 'i see,' said lucilla, 'your eye keeps roaming to the mischief my naughty brother is doing among the fry down there.' 'oh, no! ma'am. i beg your pardon--' 'never mind, i'll remove the whole concern in a moment, only we must have some singing first.' 'don't, lucy!' whispered honor, looking up from an inspection of some not first-rate needlework; 'it is distressing her, and displays are contrary to all rules of discipline.' 'oh! but you must,' cried cilly. 'you have not seen wrapworth without. come, edna, my bonnie-bell,' and she held out her hand in that semi-imperious, semi-caressing manner which very few had ever withstood. 'one song,' echoed owen, turning towards the elder girls. 'i know you'll oblige me; eh, fanny blake?' to the scholars the request was evidently not distasteful; the more tuneful were gathering together, and the mistress took her station among them, all as if the exhibition were no novelty. lucilla, laying her hand on the victim's arm, said, 'come, don't be nervous, or what will you do to-morrow? come.' '"goddess of the silver bow,"' suggested owen. 'wasn't it that which your mother disapproved, fanny, because it was worshipping idols to sing about great diana of the ephesians?' 'yes, sir,' said rather a conceited voice from the prettiest of the elder girls; 'and you told us it was about phoebe bright, and gave her the blue and silver ribbon.' 'and please, sir,' said another less prepossessing damsel, 'mrs. jenkyns took it away, and i said i'd tell you.' owen shrugged up his shoulders with a comical look, saying, as he threw her a shilling, 'never mind; there's a silver circle instead of a bow--that will do as well. here's a rival goddess for you, phoebe; two moons in a system.' the girls were in a universal titter, the mistress with her eyes cast down, blushing more than ever. lucilla muttered an amused but indignant, 'for shame, owen!' and herself gave the key-note. the performance was not above the average of national school melody, but no sooner was it over, than owen named, in an under-tone, another song, which was instantly commenced, and in which there joined a voice that had been still during the first, but which soon completely took the lead. and such a voice, coming as easily as the notes of the nightingale from the nobly-formed throat, and seeming to fill the room with its sweet power! lucilla's triumph was complete; honor's scruples were silenced by the admiring enjoyment, and phoebe was in a state of rapture. the nervous reluctance had given way to the artistic delight in her own power, and she readily sang all that was asked for, latterly such pieces as needed little or no support from the children--the 'three fishers' wives' coming last, and thrilling every one with the wondrous pathos and sadness of the tones that seemed to come from her very heart. it seemed as if they would never have come away, had not mr. prendergast had pity on the restless movements of some of the younglings, who, taking no part in the display, had leisure to perceive that the clock had struck their hour of release, and at the close of 'the fishers' wives,' he signed to lucilla to look at the hour. 'poor little things!' said she, turning round to the gaping and discontented collection, 'have we used you so ill? never mind.' again using her bulrush to tickle the faces that looked most injured, and waken them into smiles--'here's the prison house open,' and she sprang out. 'now--come with a whoop and come with a call--i'll give my club to anybody that can catch me before i get down to the vicarage garden.' light as the wind, she went bounding flying across the churchyard like a butterfly, ever and anon pausing to look round, nod, and shake her sceptre, as the urchins tumbled confusedly after, far behind, till closing the gate, she turned, poised the reed javelin-wise in the air, and launched it among them. 'it is vain to try to collect them again,' sighed mr. prendergast; 'we must shut up. good night, miss murrell;' and therewith he turned back to his garden, where the freakish sprite, feigning flight, took refuge in the boat, cowering down, and playfully hiding her face in deprecation of rebuke, but all she received was a meekly melancholy, 'o cilla! prayers.' 'one day's less loathing of compulsory devotion,' was her answer in saucy defiance. 'i owed it to them for the weariness of listening for ten minutes to the "three fishers' wives," which they appreciated as little as their pastor did!' 'i know nothing about songs, but when one wants them--poor things--to look to something better than sleep.' 'oh, hush! here are miss charlecote and mr. fulmort on your side, and i can't be crushed with united morality in revenge for the tears edna caused you all to shed. there, help miss charlecote in; where can owen be dawdling? you can't pull, phoebe, or we would put off without him. ah, there!' as he came bounding down, 'you intolerable loiterer, i was just going to leave you behind.' 'the train starting without the engine,' he said, getting into his place; 'yes, take an oar if you like, little gnat, and fancy yourself helping.' the gay warfare, accompanied by a few perilous tricks on lucilla's part, lasted through the further voyage. honora guessed at a purpose of staving off graver remonstrance, but phoebe looked on in astonishment. seventeen is often a more serious time of life than two-and twenty, and the damsel could not comprehend the possibility of thoughtlessness when there was anything to think about. the ass's bridge was nothing compared with lucy! moreover the habits of persiflage of a lively family often are confusing to one not used to the tone of jest and repartee, and phoebe had as little power as will to take part in what was passing between the brother and sister; she sat like the spectator of a farce in a foreign tongue, till the boat had arrived at the broad open extent of park gently sweeping down towards the river, the masses of trees kept on either side so as to leave the space open where the castle towered in pretentious grandeur, with a flag slowly swaying in the summer wind on the top of the tallest turret. the trees made cool reaches of shade, varied by intervals of hot sunshine, and much longer did the way appear, creeping onward in the heat, than it had looked when the eye only took in the simple expanse of turf, from river to castle. phoebe looked to her arrival there, and to bedroom conferences, as the moment of recovering a reasonable lucy, but as they neared the house, there was a shout from the wire fence enclosing the shrubbery on the eastern side, and horatia was seen standing at the gate calling them to come into the cloisters and have some sustenance. passing the screen of shrubs, a scene lay before them almost fit for the gardens of seville. three sides of an extensive square were enclosed by the semi-gothic buildings, floridly decorated with stone carving; one consisted of the main edifice, the lower windows tented with striped projecting blinds; a second of the wing containing the reception rooms, fronted by the imitative cloister, which was continued and faced with glass on the third side--each supporting column covered with climbing plants, the passion-flower, the tropaeolum, the trumpet honeysuckle, or even the pomegranate, opening their gay blooms on every side. the close-shaven turf was broken by small patches of gorgeously-tinted flower-beds, diversified by vases filled with trailing plants, and lines of orange trees and fuchsias, with here and there a deep-belled datura, all converging towards the central marble fountain, where the water played high, and tinkled coolly in sparkling jets. between it and the house, there were placed in the shade some brightly-tinted cushions and draperies, lounging chairs, and a low table, bearing an oriental-looking service of tiny cups, of all kinds of bright and fantastic hues, no two alike. near it reclined on her cushions a figure in perfect keeping with the scene, her jetty hair contrasting with her gold and coral net, her scarlet gold-embroidered slipper peeping out from her pale buff-coloured dress, deeply edged with rich purple, and partly concealed by a mantle of the unapproachable pink which suggests persia, all as gorgeous in apparel as the blue and yellow macaw on his pole, and the green and scarlet lories in their cage. owen made a motion of smoking with honor's parasol, whispering, 'fair fatima! what more is wanting?' 'there! i've got lolly out!' cried horatia, advancing with her vehement cordiality, and grasping their hands with all her might; 'i would have come and pulled you up the river, miss charlecote, but for imperative claims. here's some tea for you; i know you must be parched.' and while mrs. charteris, scarcely rising, held out her ring encrusted fingers, and murmured a greeting, ratia settled them all, pushed a chair behind miss charlecote, almost threw phoebe on a cushion, handed tea, scolded owen, and rattled away to lucilla with an impetus that kept phoebe in increased wonder. it was all about the arrangements for the morrow, full of the utmost good-nature and desire to secure every one's pleasure, but all discussed in a broad out-spoken way, with a liberal use of slang phrases, and of unprefaced surnames, a freedom of manner and jovial carelessness of voice that specially marked rashe charteris at home. phoebe had a good deal of opportunity for these observations, for as soon as her stream of information was exhausted, rashe jumped up and insisted on conducting the guests round the hothouses and pleasure-grounds. she knew miss charlecote was a famous hand at such things. lucilla remained on the grass, softly teasing lolly about the exertions of the morrow, and owen applying himself to the care of honor, rashe took possession of phoebe with all the tyrannous good-nature that had in baby days rendered her hateful to lucilla. she showed off the parrots and gold fish as to a child, she teased the sensitive plant, and explained curiosities down to the level of the youthful intellect; and phoebe, scientific enough to know if she went wrong in botany or locality, began a word or two of modest suggestion, only to be patronizingly enlightened, and stopped short, in the fear of pedantry. phoebe had yet to learn the ignorance of the world. at last, with a huge torrent of explanations and excuses, ratia consigned the two guests to share the same bedroom and dressing-room. the number of gentlemen visitors had necessitated close packing, and cilly, she said, had come to sleep in her room. another hope had failed! but at the moment when the door was shut, phoebe could only sink into a chair, untie her bonnet, and fan herself. such oppressive good-nature was more fatiguing than a ten miles' walk, or than the toughest lesson in political economy. 'if nature have her own ladies,' was honora's comment on her young friend's exhaustion, 'she likewise has her own dairy-maids!' 'miss charteris is a lady,' said phoebe, her sense of the intended kindness of her hostess calling her to speak in vindication. 'yes,' said honor, hesitating; 'it is station that emboldens her. if she had been a dairy-maid, she would have been a bouncing rude girl; if a farmer's daughter, she would be hearty and useful; if one of the boasters of gentility, she would think it worth while to restrain herself; as she is, her acknowledged birth and breeding enable her to follow her inclinations without fear of opinion.' 'i thought refinement was one great characteristic of a lady,' said phoebe. 'so it is, but affectation and false shame are the contrary. refinement was rather overworked, and there has been a reaction of late; simplicity and unconstraint have been the fashion, but unfortunately some dispositions are not made to be unconstrained.' 'lucy is just as unrestrained as her cousin,' said phoebe, 'but she never seems like her. she offends one's judgment sometimes, but never one's taste--at least hardly ever;' and phoebe blushed as she thought of what had passed about her sister that day. 'poor lucy! it is one misfortune of pretty people, that they can seldom do what is taken amiss. she is small and feminine too, and essentially refined, whatever she can do. but i was very sorry for you to-day, phoebe. tell me all about your sister, my dear.' 'they knew more than i did, if all that is true,' said phoebe. 'augusta wrote--oh! so kindly--and seemed so glad, that it made me very happy. and papa gave his consent readily to robert's doing as he pleased, and almost said something about his taking me to the wedding at paris. if lucy should--should accept robin, i wonder if she would go too, and be bridesmaid!' so they comforted themselves with a few pretty auguries, dressed, and went down to dinner, where phoebe had made sure that, as before, lucy would sit next robin, and be subdued. alas, no! ladies were far too scarce articles for even the last but one to be the prize of a mere b.a. to know who were phoebe's own neighbours would have been distraction to juliana, but they were lost on one in whom the art of conversation was yet undeveloped, and who was chiefly intent on reading her brother's face, and catching what lucy was saying. she had nearly given up listening in despair, when she heard, 'pistols? oh, of course. rashe has gone to the expense of a revolver, but i extracted grandpapa's from the family armoury--such little darlings. i'm strongly tempted to send a challenge, just to keep them in use--that's because you despise me--i'm a crack shot--we practised every day last winter--women shoot much better than men, because they don't make their hands unsteady--what can be better than the guidance of ratia, the feminine of ratio, reason, isn't it?' it is not quite certain that this horrible latinity did not shock miss fennimore's discreet pupil more than all the rest, as a wilful insult to miss charlecote's education! she herself was not to escape 'the guidance of ratia,' after dinner. her silence had been an additional proof to the good-natured rashe that she was a child to be protected and entertained, so she paraded her through the rooms, coaxed her to play when no one was listening, showed her illustrated books and new-fashioned puzzles, and domineered over her so closely, that she had not a moment in which to speak a word to her brother, whom she saw disconsolately watching the hedge of gentlemen round lucy. was it wrong to feel so ungrateful to a person exclusively devoted to her entertainment for that entire evening? phoebe had never known a room-mate nor the solace of a bed-time gossip, and by the time miss charlecote began to think of opening the door between their rooms, and discussing the disgusts of the day, the sounds of moving about had ceased. honor looked in, and could not help advancing to the bedside to enjoy the sight of the rosy face in the sound healthful sleep, the lips unclosed, and the silken brown hair wound plainly across the round brow, the childish outline and expression of the features even sweeter in sleep than awake. it rested honora's wearied anxious spirit to watch the perfect repose of that innocent young face, and she stood still for some minutes, breathing an ejaculation that the child might ever be as guileless and peaceful as now, and then sighing at the thought of other young sleepers, beside whose couches even fonder prayers had been uttered, only, as it seemed, to be blown aside. she was turning away, when phoebe suddenly awoke, and was for a moment startled, half rising, asking if anything were the matter. 'no, my dear; only i did not think you would have been in bed so quickly. i came to wish you good night, and found you asleep.' and with the strong tender impulse of a gentle wounded spirit, honor hung over the maiden, recomposing the clothes, and fondling her, with a murmured blessing. 'dear miss charlecote,' whispered phoebe, 'how nice it is! i have so often wondered what it would be like, if any one came in to pet us at night, as they do in books; and oh! it is so nice! say _that_ again, please.' _that_ was the blessing which would have made lucilla in angry reserve hide her head in the clothes! chapter vii but, ah me! she's a heart of stone, which cupid uses for a hone, i verily believe; and on it sharpens those eye-darts, with which he wounds the simple hearts he bribes her to deceive.--_a coquette_, by x. breakfast was late, and lengthened out by the greater lateness of many of the guests, and the superlative tardiness of the lady of the house, who had repudiated the cares of the hostess, and left the tea-equipage to her sister-in-law. lucilla had been down-stairs among the first, and hurried away again after a rapid meal, forbidding any one to follow her, because she had so much to do, and on entering the drawing-room, she was found with a wilderness of flowers around her, filling vases and making last arrangements. honora and phoebe were glad to be occupied, and phoebe almost hoped to escape from rashe. speaking to lucilla was not possible, for eloisa had been placed by rashe in a low chair, with a saucer before her, which she was directed to fill with verbenas, while the other four ladies, with owen, whom his cousin had called to their aid, were putting last touches to wreaths, and giving the final festal air to the rooms. presently robert made his appearance as the bearer of mr. prendergast's flowers, and setting his back against a shutter, in his favourite attitude, stood looking as if he wanted to help, but knew not how. phoebe, at least, was vividly conscious of his presence, but she was supporting a long festoon with which owen was adorning a pier-glass, and could hardly even turn her head to watch him. 'oh, horrid!' cried lucilla, retreating backwards to look at ratia's performance; 'for love or money a bit of clematis!' 'where shall i find one?' said robert, unseeing the masses waving on the cloister, if, good youth, he even knew what clematis was. 'you there, mr. fulmort!' exclaimed rashe; 'for goodness gracious sake, go out to tennis or something with the other men. i've ordered them all out, or there'll be no good to be got out of cilly.' phoebe flashed out in his defence, 'you are letting owen alone.' 'ah! by the bye, that wreath of yours has taken an unconscionable time!' said miss charteris, beginning to laugh; but phoebe's grave straightforward eyes met her with such a look, as absolutely silenced her merriment into a mere mutter of 'what a little chit it is!' honora, who was about indignantly to assume the protection of her charge, recognized in her what was fully competent to take care of herself. 'away with both of you,' said lucilla; 'here is edna come for a last rehearsal, and i won't have you making her nervous. take away that robin, will you, owen?' horatia flew gustily to greet and reassure the schoolmistress as she entered, trembling, although moving with the dignity that seemed to be her form of embarrassment. lucilla meanwhile sped to the others near the window. 'you must go,' she said, 'or i shall never screw her up; it is a sudden access of stage fright. she is as pale as death.' owen stepped back to judge of the paleness, and robert contrived to say, 'cannot you grant me a few words, lucy?' 'the most impossible thing you could have asked,' she replied. 'there's rashe's encouragement quite done for her now!' she bounded back to the much-overcome edna, while phoebe herself, perceiving how ill-advised an opportunity robert had chosen, stepped out with him into the cloister, saying, 'she can't help it, dear robin; she cannot think, just now.' 'when can she?' he asked, almost with asperity. 'think how full her hands are, how much excited she is,' pleaded phoebe, feeling that this was no fair moment for the crisis. 'ireland?' almost groaned robert, but at the same moment grasped her roughly to hinder her from replying, for owen was close upon them, and he was the person to whom robert would have been most reluctant to display his feelings. catching intuitively at his meaning, phoebe directed her attention to some clematis on the opposite side of the cloister, and called both her companions to gather it for her, glad to be with robert and to relieve miss murrell of the presence of another spectator. charles charteris coming up, carried the two young men to inspect some of his doings out of doors, and phoebe returned with her wreaths of creepers to find that the poor schoolmistress had become quite hysterical, and had been take away by lucilla. rashe summoned her at the same time to the decoration of the music-room, and on entering, stopped in amusement, and made her a sign in silence to look into a large pier-glass, which stood so as to reflect through an open door what was passing in the little fanciful boudoir beyond, a place fitted like a tent, and full of quaint dresden china and toys of _bijouterie_. there was a complete picture within the glass. lucilla, her fair face seen in profile, more soft and gentle than she often allowed it to appear, was kneeling beside the couch where half reclined the tall, handsome edna, whose raven hair, and pale, fine features made her like a heroine, as she nervously held the hands which lucilla had placed within her grasp. there was a low murmur of voices, one soothing, the other half sobbing, but nothing reached the outer room distinctly, till, as phoebe was holding a long wreath, which ratia was tying up, she heard--'oh! but it is so different with me from you young ladies who are used to company and all. i dare say that young lady would not be timid.' 'what young lady, edna? not the one with the auburn hair?' ratia made an ecstatic face which disgusted phoebe. 'oh, no!--the young lady whom mr. sandbrook was helping. i dare say she would not mind singing--or anything,' came amid sobs. ratia nodded, looked excessively arch, and formed a word with her lips, which phoebe thought was 'jealous,' but could not imagine what she could mean by it. 'i don't know why you should think poor phoebe fulmort so brazen. she is a mere child, taking a holiday from her strict governess.' phoebe laughed back an answer to rashe's pantomime, which in this case she understood. 'she has not had half your training in boldness, with your inspectors and examinations, and all those horrid things. why, you never thought of taking fright before, even when you have sung to people here. why should you now?' 'it is so different, now--so many more people. oh, so different! i shall never be able.' 'not at all. you will quite forget all about yourself and your fears when the time comes. you don't know the exhilaration of a room full of people, all lights and music! that symphony will lift you into another world, and you will feel quite ready for "men must work and women must weep."' 'if i can only begin--but oh! miss sandbrook, shall you be far away from me?' 'no, i promise you not. i will bring you down, if you will come to ratia's room when you are dressed. the black silk and the lilac ribbon owen and i chose for you; i must see you in it.' 'dear miss sandbrook, you are so kind! what shall i do when you have left?' 'you are going yourself for the holidays, silly puss!' 'ah! but no one else sympathizes or enters into my feelings.' 'feelings!' said lucilla, lightly, yet sadly. 'don't indulge in them, edna; they are no end of a torment.' 'ah! but if they prey on one, one cannot help it.' rashe made a face of great distaste. phoebe felt as if it were becoming too confidential to permit of listening, all the more as she heard lucilla's reply. 'that's what comes of being tall, and stately, and dignified! there's so much less of me that i can carry off my troubles twice as well.' 'oh, dear miss sandbrook, you can have no troubles!' 'haven't i? oh, edna, if you knew! you that have a mother can never know what it is to be like me! i'm keeping it all at bay, lest i should break down; but i'm in the horridest bother and trouble.' not knowing what might come next, ashamed of having listened to so much, yet with one gleam of renewed hope, phoebe resolutely disobeyed ratia's frowns and gestures, and made her presence known by decided movements and words spoken aloud. she saw the immediate effect in edna murrell's violent start; but lucilla, without moving, at once began to sing, straining her thin though sweet voice, as though to surmount a certain tremulousness. edna joined, and the melody was lovely to hear; but phoebe was longing all the time for robert to be at hand for this softer moment, and she hoped all the more when, the practising being over, and edna dismissed, lucy came springing towards her, notifying her presence by a caress--to outward appearance merely playful, but in reality a convulsive clasp of vehement affection--and phoebe was sure that there had been tears in those eyes that seemed to do nothing but laugh. the security that this wild elf was true at heart was, however, not enough for phoebe. there was the knowledge that each moment's delay would drive robert farther aloof, and that it was a mere chance whether he should encounter this creature of impulse at a propitious instant. nay, who could tell what was best for him after all? even phoebe's faithful acceptance of her on his word had undergone sundry severe shocks, and she had rising doubts whether lucy, such as she saw her, could be what would make him happy. if the secrets of every guest at a _fete_ were told, would any be found unmixedly happy? would there be no one devoid of cares of their own or of other people's, or if exempt from these, undisturbed by the absence of the right individual or by the presence of the wrong one, by mishaps of deportment, difficulties of dress, or want of notice? perhaps, after all, it may be best to have some one abiding anxiety, strong enough to destroy tedium, and exclude the pettier distresses, which are harder to contend with, though less dignified; and most wholesome of all is it that this should be an interest entirely external. so, after all, phoebe's enjoyment might hardly have been increased had her thoughts been more free from robin's troubles, when she came down dressed for her first party, so like a lily of the valley in her delicate dress, that owen acknowledged that it justified her choice, and murmured something of 'in vernal green and virgin white, her festal robes, arrayed.' phoebe was only distressed at what she thought the profanation of quoting from such a source in compliment to her. honora was gratified to find the lines in his memory upon any terms. poor dear honor, in one case at least believing all things, hoping all things! phoebe ought to have made the most of her compliment. it was all she obtained in that line. juliana herself could not have taken umbrage at her success. nobody imagined her come out, no one attempted to disturb her from under miss charlecote's wing, and she kept close to her the whole afternoon, sometimes sitting upon a haycock, sometimes walking in the shrubbery, listening to the band, or looking at the archery, in company with dignified clergyman, or elderly lady, astonished to meet honor charlecote in so unwonted a scene. owen sandbrook was never far off. he took them to eat ices, conducted them to good points of view, found seats for them, and told them who every one was, with droll comments or anecdotes which entertained them so much, that phoebe almost wished that robin had not made her sensible of the grain of irreverence that seasoned all owen's most brilliant sallies. they saw little of the others. mr. and mrs. charteris walked about together, the one cordial, the other stately and gorgeous, and miss charlecote came in for her due and passing share of their politeness. rashe once invited phoebe to shoot, but had too many on her hands to be solicitous about one. flirting no longer herself, rashe's delight was in those who did flirt, and in any assembly her extreme and unscrupulous good-nature made her invaluable to all who wanted to have themselves taken off their own hands, or pushed into those of others. she ordered people about, started amusements, hunted gentlemen up, found partners, and shook up the bashful. rashe charteris was the life of everything. how little was wanting to make her kind-hearted activity admirable! lucilla never came in their way at all. she was only seen in full and eager occupation embellishing the archery, or forcing the 'decidedly pious' to be fascinated by her gracious self-adaptation. robert was equally inaccessible, always watching her, but keeping aloof from his sister, and only consorting at times with mr. prendergast. it was seven o'clock when this act of the drama was finally over, and the parties staying in the house met round a hurried meal. rashe lounging and yawning, laughing and quizzing, in a way amazing to phoebe; lucilla in the very summit of spirits, rattling and laughing away in full swing. thence the party dispersed to dress, but honora had no sooner reached her room than she said, 'i must go and find lucy. i must do my duty by her, little hope as i have. she has avoided me all day; i must seek her now.' what a difference time and discipline had made in one formerly so timid and gentle as to be alarmed at the least encounter, and nervous at wandering about a strange house. nervous and frightened, indeed, she still was, but self-control kept this in check, and her dislike was not allowed to hold her back from her duty. humfrey's representative was seldom permitted to be weak. but there are times when the difference between man and woman is felt in their dealings with others. strength can be mild, but what is strained can seldom be gentle, and when she knocked at horatia charteris's door, her face, from very unhappiness and effort, was sorrowfully reproachful, as she felt herself an unwelcome apparition to the two cousins, who lay on their bed still laughing over the day's events. rashe, who was still in her morning dress, at once gave way, saying she must go and speak to lolly, and hastened out of the room. lucy, in her dishabille, sat crouched upon the bed, her white bare shoulders and floating hair, together with the defiant glance of the blue eye, and the hand moodily compressing the lips, reminding honor of the little creature who had been summarily carried into her house sixteen years since. she came towards her, but there was no invitation to give the caress that she yearned to bestow, and she leant against the bed, trembling, as she said, 'lucy, my poor child, i am come that you may not throw away your last chance without knowing it. you do not realize what you are about. if you cast aside esteem and reliance, how can you expect to retain the affection you sometimes seem to prize?' 'if i am not trusted, what's the good of affection?' 'how can you expect trust when you go beyond the bounds of discretion?' said honor, with voice scarcely steadied into her desired firmness. 'i can, i do!' 'lucy, listen to me.' she gave way to her natural piteous, pleading tone: 'i verily believe that this is the very turn. remember how often a moment has decided the fate of a life!' she saw the expression relax into some alarm, and continued: 'the fulmorts do not say so, but i see by their manner that his final decision will be influenced by your present proceedings. you have trifled with him too long, and with his mind made up to the ministry, he cannot continue to think of one who persists in outraging decorum.' those words were effort enough, and had better have been unsaid. 'that is as people may think,' was all the answer. 'as he thinks?' 'how do i know what he thinks?' heartsick at such mere fencing, honor was silent at first, then said, 'i, for one, shall rate your good opinion by your endeavour to deserve it. who can suppose that you value what you are willing to risk for an unladylike bet, or an unfeminine sporting expedition!' 'you may tell him so,' said lucilla, her voice quivering with passion. 'you think a look will bring him back, but you may find that a true man is no slave. prove his affection misplaced, and he will tear it away.' had honora been discreet as she was good, she would have left those words to settle down; but, woman that she was, she knew not when to stop, and coaxingly coming to the small bundle of perverseness, she touched the shoulder, and said, 'now you won't make an object of yourself to-night?' the shoulder shook in the old fashion. 'at least you will not go to ireland.' 'yes, i shall.' 'miss charlecote, i beg your pardon--' cried rashe, bursting in--(oh! that she had been five seconds earlier)--'but dressing is imperative. people are beginning to come.' honora retreated in utter discomfiture. 'rashe! rashe! i'm in for it!' cried lucilla, as the door shut, springing up with a look of terror. 'proposed by deputy?' exclaimed horatia, aghast. 'no, no!' gasped lucilla; 'it's this ireland of yours--that--that--' and she well-nigh sobbed. 'my bonny bell! i knew you would not be bullied into deserting.' 'oh! rashe, she was very hard on me. every one is but you!' and lucilla threw herself into her cousin's arms in a paroxysm of feeling; but their maid's knock brought her back to composure sooner than poor honora, who shed many a tear over this last defeat, as, looking mournfully to phoebe, she said, 'i have done, phoebe. i can say no more to her. she will not hear anything from me. oh! what have i done that my child should be hardened against me!' phoebe could offer nothing but caresses full of indignant sorrow, and there was evidently soothing in them, for miss charlecote's tears became softer, and she fondly smoothed phoebe's fair hair, saying, as she drew the clinging arms closer round her: 'my little woodbine, you must twine round your brother and comfort him, but you can spare some sweetness for me too. there, i will dress. i will not keep you from the party.' 'i do not care for that; only to see robin.' 'we must take our place in the crowd,' sighed honora, beginning her toilet; 'and you will enjoy it when you are there. your first quadrille is promised to owen, is it not?' 'yes,' said phoebe, dreamily, and she would have gone back to robin's sorrows, but honora had learnt that there were subjects to be set aside when it was incumbent on her to be presentable, and directed the talk to speculations whether the poor schoolmistress would have nerve to sing; and somehow she talked up phoebe's spirits to such a hopeful pitch, that the little maiden absolutely was crossed by a gleam of satisfaction from the ungrateful recollection that poor miss charlecote had done with the affair. against her will, she had detected the antagonism between the two, and bad as it was of lucy, was certain that she was more likely to be amenable where there was no interference from her best friend. the music-room was already crowded when the two made their way into it, and honora's inclination was to deposit herself on the nearest seat, but she owed something otherwise to her young charge, and phoebe's eyes had already found a lonely black figure with arms crossed, and lowering brow. simultaneously they moved towards him, and he towards them. 'is she come down?' he asked. phoebe shook her head, but at the same moment another door near the orchestra admitted a small white butterfly figure, leading in a tall queenly apparition in black, whom she placed in a chair adjacent to the bejewelled prima donna of the night--a great contrast with her dust-coloured german hair and complexion, and good-natured plain face. robert's face cleared with relief; he evidently detected nothing _outre_ in lucilla's aspect, and was rejoicing in the concession. woman's eyes saw further; a sigh from honora, an amused murmur around him, caused him to bend his looks on phoebe. she knew his eyes were interrogating her, but could not bear to let her own reply, and kept them on the ground. he was moving towards lucilla, who, having consigned her _protegee_ to the good-humoured german, had come more among the guests, and was exchanging greetings and answering comments with all her most brilliant airs of saucy animation. and who could quarrel with that fairy vision? her rich double-skirted watered silk was bordered with exquisitely made and coloured flies, radiant with the hues of the peacock, the gold pheasant, the jay, parrots of all tints, everything rich and rare in plumage. a coronal of the same encircled her glossy hair, the tiny plumes contrasting with the blonde ringlets, and the _bona fide_ hooks ostentatiously displayed; lesser and more innocuous flies edged the sleeves, corsage, shoes, and gloves; and her fan, which she used as skilfully as jenny wren, presented a watteau-like picture of an angling scene. anything more daintily, quaintly pretty could not be imagined, and the male part of the assembly would have unanimously concurred in sir harry buller's 'three cheers for the queen of the anglers.' but towards the party most concerned in her movements, lucilla came not; and phoebe, understanding a desire to keep as near as might be to miss murrell, tried to suggest it as the cause, and looking round, saw owen standing by miss charlecote, with somewhat of an uneasy countenance. 'terribly hot here,' he said, restlessly; 'suffocating, aren't you, honor? come and take a turn in the cloister; the fountain is stunning by moonlight.' no proposal could have been more agreeable to honora; and phoebe was afraid of losing her chaperon, though she would rather have adhered to her brother, and the barbs of that wicked little angler were tearing him far too deeply to permit him to move out of sight of his tormentor. but for this, the change would have been delicious. the white lights and deep shadows from the calm, grave moon contrasted with the long gleams of lamp-light from every window, reddened by the curtains within; the flowers shone out with a strange whiteness, the taller ones almost like spiritual shapes; the burnished orange leaves glistened, the water rose high in silvery spray, and fell back into the blackness of the basin made more visible by one trembling, shimmering reflection; the dark blue sky above seemed shut into a vault by the enclosing buildings, and one solitary planet shone out in the lustrous neighbourhood of the moon. so still, so solemn, so cool! honora felt it as repose, and pensively began to admire--owen chimed in with her. feverish thoughts and perturbations were always gladly soothed away in her company. phoebe alone stood barely confessing the beauty, and suppressing impatience at their making so much of it; not yet knowing enough of care or passion to seek repose, and much more absorbed in human than in any other form of nature. the music was her first hope of deliverance from her namesake in the sky; but, behold, her companions chose to prefer hearing that grand instrumental piece softened by distance; and even madame hedwig's quivering notes did not bring them in. however, at the first sounds of the accompaniment to the 'three fishers' wives,' owen pulled back the curtain, and handed the two ladies back into the room, by a window much nearer to the orchestra than that by which they had gone out, not far from where edna murrell had just risen, her hands nervously clasped together, her colour rapidly varying, and her eyes roaming about as though in quest of something. indeed, through all the music, the slight sounds of the entrance at the window did not escape her, and at the instant when she should have begun to sing, phoebe felt those black eyes levelled on herself with a look that startled her; they were at once removed, the head turned away; there was an attempt at the first words, but they died away on her lips; there was a sudden whiteness, lucilla and the german both tried to reseat her; but with readier judgment owen made two long steps, gathered her up in his strong arms, and bore her through the curtains and out at the open window like a mere infant. 'don't come, don't--it will only make more fuss--nobody has seen. go to madame hedwig; tell her from me to go on to her next, and cover her retreat,' said lucilla, as fast as the words would come, signing back honora, and hastily disappearing between the curtains. there was a command in lucilla's gestures which always made obedience the first instinct even with honora, and her impulse to assist thus counteracted, she had time to recollect that lucy might be supposed to know best what to do with the schoolmistress, and that to dispose of her among her ladies' maid friends was doubtless the kindest measure. 'i must say i am glad,' she said; 'the poor thing cannot be quite so much spoilt as they wished.' the concert proceeded, and in the next pause honor fell into conversation with a pleasant lady who had brought one pair of young daughters in the morning, and now was doing the same duty by an elder pair. phoebe was standing near the window when a touch on her arm and a whispered 'help! hush!' made her look round. holding the curtain apart, so as to form the least possible aperture, and with one finger on her lip, was lucy's face, the eyes brimming over with laughter, as she pointed to her head--three of the hooks had set their barbs deep into the crimson satin curtain, and held her a prisoner! 'hush! i'll never forgive you if you betray me,' she whispered, drawing phoebe by the arm behind the curtain; 'i should expire on the spot to be found in absalom's case. all that little goose's fault--i never reckoned on having to rush about this way. can't you do it? don't spare scissors,' and lucilla produced a pair from under her skirt. 'rashe and i always go provided.' 'how is she?--where is she?' asked phoebe. 'that's exactly what i can't tell. he took her out to the fountain; she was quite like a dead thing. water wouldn't make her come to, and i ran for some salts; i wouldn't call anybody, for it was too romantic a condition to have owen discovered in, with a fainting maiden in his arms. such a rummage as i had. my own things are all jumbled up, i don't know how, and rashe keeps nothing bigger than globules, only fit for fainting lady-birds, so i went to lolly's, but her bottles have all gold heads, and are full of uncanny-looking compounds, and i made a raid at last on sweet honey's rational old dressing-case, poked out her keys from her pocket, and got in; wasting interminable time. well, when i got back to my fainting damsel, _non est inventus_.' '_inventa_,' murmured the spirit of miss fennimore within phoebe. 'but what? had she got well?' 'so i suppose. gone off to the servants' rooms, no doubt; as there is no white lady in the fountain to spirit them both away. what, haven't you done that, yet?' 'oh! lucy, stand still, please, or you'll get another hook in.' 'give me the scissors; i know i could do it quicker. never mind the curtain, i say; nobody will care.' she put up her hand, and shook head and feet to the entanglement of a third hook; but phoebe, decided damsel that she was, used her superior height to keep her mastery, held up the scissors, pressed the fidgety shoulder into quiescence, and kept her down while she extricated her, without fatal detriment to the satin, though with scanty thanks, for the liberation was no sooner accomplished than the sprite was off, throwing out a word about rashe wanting her. phoebe emerged to find that she had not been missed, and presently the concert was over, and tea coming round, there was a change of places. robert came towards her. 'i am going,' he said. 'oh! robert, when dancing would be one chance?' 'she does not mean to give me that chance; i would not ask it while she is in that dress. it is answer sufficient. good night, phoebe; enjoy yourself.' enjoy herself! a fine injunction, when her brother was going away in such a mood! yet who would have suspected that rosy, honest apple face of any grievance, save that her partner was missing? honora was vexed and concerned at his neglect, but phoebe appeased her by reporting what lucy had said. 'thoughtless! reckless!' sighed honora; 'if lucy _would_ leave the poor girl on his hands, of course he is obliged to make some arrangement for getting her home! i never knew such people as they are here! well, phoebe, you _shall_ have a partner next time!' phoebe had one, thanks chiefly to rashe, and somehow the rapid motion shook her out of her troubles, and made her care much less for robin's sorrows than she had done two minutes before. she was much more absorbed in hopes for another partner. alas! he did not come; neither then nor for the ensuing. owen's value began to rise. miss charlecote did not again bestir herself in the cause, partly from abstract hatred of waltzes, partly from the constant expectation of owen's reappearance, and latterly from being occupied in a discussion with the excellent mother upon young girls reading novels. at last, after a _galoppe_, at which phoebe had looked on with wishful eyes, lucilla dropped breathless into the chair which she relinquished to her. 'well, phoebe, how do you like it?' 'oh! very much,' rather ruefully; 'at least it would be if--' 'if you had any partners, eh, poor child? hasn't owen turned up? 'it's that billiard-room; i tried to make charlie shut it up. but we'll disinter him; i'll rush in like a sky-rocket, and scatter the gentlemen to all quarters.' 'no, no, don't!' cried phoebe, alarmed, and catching hold of her. 'it is not that, but robin is gone.' 'atrocious,' returned cilly, disconcerted, but resolved that phoebe should not perceive it; 'so we are both under a severe infliction,--both ashamed of our brothers.' 'i am not ashamed of mine,' said phoebe, in a tone of gravity. 'ah! there's the truant,' said lucilla, turning aside. 'owen, where have you hidden yourself? i hope you are ready to sink into the earth with shame at hearing you have rubbed off the bloom from a young lady's first ball.' 'no! it was not he who did so,' stoutly replied phoebe. 'ah! it was all the consequence of the green and white; i told you it was a sinister omen,' said owen, chasing away a shade of perplexity from his brow, and assuming a certain air that phoebe had never seen before, and did not like. 'at least you will be merciful, and allow me to retrieve my character.' 'you had nothing to retrieve,' said phoebe, in the most straightforward manner; 'it was very good in you to take care of poor miss murrell. what became of her? lucy said you would know.' 'i--i?' he exclaimed, so vehemently as to startle her by the fear of having ignorantly committed some egregious blunder; 'i'm the last person to know.' 'the last to be seen with the murdered always falls under suspicion,' said lucilla. 'drowned in the fountain?' cried owen, affecting horror. 'then you must have done it,' said his sister, 'for when i came back, after ransacking the house for salts, you had both disappeared. have you been washing your hands all this time after the murder?' 'nothing can clear me but an appeal to the fountain,' said owen; 'will you come and look in, phoebe? it is more delicious than ever.' but phoebe had had enough of the moonlight, did not relish the subject, and was not pleased with owen's manner; so she refused by a most decided 'no, thank you,' causing lucy to laugh at her for thinking owen dangerous. 'at least you will vouchsafe to trust yourself with me for the lancers,' said owen, as cilla's partner came to claim her, and phoebe rejoiced in anything to change the tone of the conversation; still, however, asking, as he led her off, what had become of the poor schoolmistress. 'gone home, very sensibly,' said owen; 'if she is wise she will know how to trust to cilly's invitations! people that do everything at once never do anything well. it is quite a rest to turn to any one like you, phoebe, who are content with one thing at a time! i wish--' 'well, then, let us dance,' said phoebe, abruptly; 'i can't do that well enough to talk too.' it was not that owen had not said the like things to her many times before; it was his eagerness and fervour that gave her an uncomfortable feeling. she was not sure that he was not laughing at her by putting on these devoted airs, and she felt herself grown up enough to put an end to being treated as a child. he made her a profound bow in a mockery of acquiescence, and preserved absolute silence during the first figures, but she caught his eye several times gazing on her with looks such as another might have interpreted into mingled regret and admiration, but which were to her simply discomfiting and disagreeable, and when he spoke again, it was not in banter, but half in sadness. 'phoebe, how do you like all this?' 'i think i could like it very much.' 'i am almost sorry to hear you say so; anything that should tend to make you resemble others is detestable.' 'i should be very sorry not to be like other people.' 'phoebe, you do not know how much of the pleasure of my life would be lost if you were to become a mere conventional young lady.' phoebe had no notion of being the pleasure of any one's life except robin's and maria's, and was rather affronted that owen should profess to enjoy her childish ignorance and _naivete_. 'i believe,' she said, 'i was rude just now when i told you not to talk. i am sorry for it; i shall know better next time.' 'your knowing better is exactly what i deprecate. but there it is; unconsciousness is the charm of simplicity. it is the very thing aimed at by rashe and cilly, and all their crew, with their eccentricities.' 'i am sorry for it,' seriously returned phoebe, who had by this time, by quiet resistance, caused him to land her under the lee of miss charlecote, instead of promenading with her about the room. he wanted her to dance with him again, saying she owed it to him for having sacrificed the first to common humanity, but great as was the pleasure of a polka, she shrank from him in this complimentary mood, and declared she should dance no more that evening. he appealed to honora, who, disliking to have her boy balked of even a polka, asked phoebe if she were _very_ tired, and considering her 'rather not' as equivalent to such a confession, proposed a retreat to their own room. phoebe was sorry to leave the brilliant scene, and no longer to be able to watch lucilla, but she wanted to shake owen off, and readily consented. she shut her door after one good night. she was too much grieved and disappointed to converse, and could not bear to discuss whether the last hope were indeed gone, and whether lucilla had decided her lot without choosing to know it. alas! how many turning-points may be missed by those who never watch! how little did phoebe herself perceive the shoal past which her self-respect had just safely guided her! 'i wonder if those were ball-room manners? what a pity if they were, for then i shall not like balls,' was all the thought that she had leisure to bestow on her own share in the night's diversions, as through the subsequent hours she dozed and dreamt, and mused and slept again, with the feverish limbs and cramp-tormented feet of one new to balls; sometimes teased by entangling fishing flies, sometimes interminably detained in the moonlight, sometimes with miss fennimore waiting for an exercise, and the words not to be found in the dictionary; and even this unpleasant counterfeit of sleep deserting her after her usual time for waking, and leaving her to construct various fabrics of possibilities for robin and lucy. she was up in fair time, and had written a long and particular account to bertha of everything in the festivities not recorded in this narrative, before miss charlecote awoke from the compensating morning slumber that had succeeded a sad and unrestful night. late as they were, they were down-stairs before any one but the well-seasoned rashe, who sat beguiling the time with a bradshaw, and who did _not_ tell them how intolerably cross cilly had been all the morning. nor would any one have suspected it who had seen her, last of all, come down at a quarter to eleven, in the most exultant spirits, talking the height of rodomontade with the gentlemen guests, and dallying with her breakfast, while phoebe's heart was throbbing at the sight of two grave figures, her brother and the curate, slowly marching up and down the cloister, in waiting till this was over. and there sat lucilla inventing adventures for an imaginary tour to be brought out on her return by the name of 'girls in galway'--'from the soiree to the salmon'--'flirts and fools-heads,' as owen and charles discontentedly muttered to each other, or, as mr. calthorp proposed, 'the angels and the anglers.' the ball was to be the opening chapter. lord william entreated for her costume as the frontispiece, and mr. calthorp begged her to re-assume it, and let her cousin photograph her on the spot. lucilla objected to the impracticability of white silk, the inconvenience of unpacking the apparatus, the nuisance of dressing, the lack of time; but rashe was delighted with the idea, and made light of all, and the gentlemen pressed her strongly, till with rather more of a consent than a refusal, she rose from her nearly untasted breakfast, and began to move away. 'cilla,' said mr. prendergast, at the window, 'can i have a word with you?' 'at your service,' she answered, as she came out to him, and saw that robert had left him. 'only be quick; they want to photograph me in my ball-dress.' 'you won't let them do it, though,' said the curate. 'white comes out hideous,' said lucilla; 'i suppose you would not have a copy, if i took one off for you?' 'no; i don't like those visitors of yours well enough to see you turned into a merry-andrew to please them.' 'so that's what robert fulmort told you i did last night,' said lucilla, blushing at last, and thoroughly. 'no, indeed; you didn't?' he said, regarding her with an astonished glance. 'i _did_ wear a dress trimmed with salmon-flies, because of a bet with lord william,' said lucilla, the suffusion deepening on brow, cheek, and throat, as the confiding esteem of her fatherly friend effected what nothing else could accomplish. she would have given the world to have justified his opinion of his late rector's little daughter, and her spirits seemed gone, though the worst he did was to shake his head at her. 'if you did not know it, why did you call me _that_?' she asked. 'a merry-andrew?' he answered; 'i never meant that you had been one. no; only an old friend like me doesn't like the notion of your going and dressing up in the morning to amuse a lot of scamps.' 'i won't,' said lucilla, very low. 'well, then,' began mr. prendergast, as in haste to proceed to his own subject; but she cut him short. 'it is not about ireland?' 'no; i know nothing about young ladies; and if mr. charteris and your excellent friend there have nothing to say against it, i can't.' 'my excellent friend had so much to say against it, that i was pestered into vowing i would go! tell me not, mr. prendergast,--i should not mind giving up to you;' and she looked full of hope. 'that would be beginning at the wrong end, cilla; you are not my charge.' 'you are my clergyman,' she said, pettishly. 'you are not my parishioner,' he answered. 'pish!' she said; 'when you know i want you to tell me.' 'why, you say you have made the engagement.' 'so what i said when she fretted me past endurance must bind me!' be it observed that, like all who only knew hiltonbury through lucilla, mr. prendergast attributed any blemishes which he might detect in her to the injudicious training of an old maid; so he sympathized. 'ah! ladies of a certain age never get on with young ones! but i thought it was all settled before with miss charteris.' 'i never quite said i would go, only we got ready for the sake of the fun of talking of it, and now rashe has grown horridly eager about it. she did not care at first--only to please me.' 'then wouldn't it be using her ill to disappoint her now? you couldn't do it, cilla. why, you have given your word, and she is quite old enough for anything. wouldn't miss charlecote see it so?' to regard ratia as a mature personage robbed the project of romance, and to find herself bound in honour by her inconsiderate rattle was one of the rude shocks which often occur to the indiscriminate of tongue; but the curate had too much on his mind to dwell on what concerned him more remotely, and proceeded, 'i came to see whether you could help me about poor miss murrell. you made no arrangement for her getting home last night?' 'no!' 'ah, you young people! but it is my fault; i should have recollected young heads. then i am afraid it must have been--' 'what?' 'she was seen on the river very late last night with a stranger. he went up to the school with her, remained about a quarter of an hour, and then rowed up the river again. i am afraid it is not the first time she has been seen with him.' 'but, mr. prendergast, she was here till at least ten! she fainted away just as she was to have sung, and we carried her out into the cloister. when she recovered she went away to the housekeeper's room--' (a bold assertion, built on owen's partially heard reply to phoebe). 'i'll ask the maids.' 'it is of no use, cilla; she allows it herself.' 'and pray,' cried lucilla, rallying her sauciness, 'how do you propose ever to have banns to publish, if young men and maidens are never to meet by water nor by land?' 'then you do know something?' 'no; only that such matters are not commonly blazoned in the commencement.' 'i don't wish her to blazon it, but if she would only act openly by me,' said the distressed curate. 'i wish nothing more than that she was safe married; and then if you ladies appoint another beauty, i'll give up the place, and live at --- college.' 'we'll advertise for the female chimpanzee, and depend upon it she will marry at the end of six weeks. so you have attacked her in person. what did she say?' 'nothing that she could help. she stood with those great eyes cast down, looking like a statue, and sometimes vouchsafing "yes, sir," or "no, sir." it was "no, sir," when i asked if her mother knew. i am afraid it must be something very unsatisfactory, cilla; but she might say more to you if you were not going away.' 'oh! mr. prendergast, why did you not come sooner?' 'i did come an hour ago, but you were not come down.' 'i'll walk on at once; the carriage can pick me up. i'll fetch my hat. poor edna! i'll soon make her satisfy your mind. has any one surmised who it can be?' 'the notion is that it is one of your musicians--very dangerous, i am afraid; and i say, cilla, did you ever do such a thing--you couldn't, i suppose--as lend her shelley's poems?' 'i? no; certainly not.' 'there was a copy lying on the table in her little parlour, as if she had been writing something out from it. it is very odd, but it was in that peculiar olive-green morocco that some of the books in your father's library were bound in.' 'not mine, certainly,' said lucilla. 'good honor charlecote would have run crazy if she thought i had touched a shelley; a very odd study for edna. but as to the olive-green, of course it was bound under the same star as ours.' 'cilly, cilly, now or never! photograph or not?' screamed rashe, from behind her three-legged camera. 'not!' was lucilla's cavalier answer. 'pack up; have done with it, rashe. pick me up at the school.' away she flew headlong, the patient and disconcerted horatia following her to her room to extract hurried explanations, and worse than no answers as to the sundries to be packed at the last moment, while she hastily put on hat and mantle, and was flying down again, when her brother, with outspread arms, nearly caught her in her spring. 'hollo! what's up?' 'don't stop me, owen! i'm going to walk on with mr. prendergast and be picked up. i must speak to edna murrell.' 'nonsense! the carriage will be out in five minutes.' 'i must go, owen. there's some story of a demon in human shape on the water with her last night, and mr. prendergast can't get a word out of her.' 'is that any reason you should go ramping about, prying into people's affairs?' 'but, owen, they will send her away. they will take away her character.' 'the--the--the more reason you should have nothing to do with it,' he exclaimed. 'it is no business for you, and i won't have you meddle in it.' such a strong and sudden assumption of fraternal authority took away her breath; and then, in terror lest he should know cause for this detention, she said-- 'owen! you don't guess who it was?' 'how should i?' he roughly answered. 'some villainous slander, of course, there is, but it is no business of yours to be straking off to make it worse.' 'i should not make it worse.' 'women always make things worse. are you satisfied now?' as the carriage was seen coming round. 'that is only to be packed.' 'packed with folly, yes! look here! . , and the train at . !' 'i will miss the train, go up later, and sleep in london.' 'stuff and nonsense! who is going to take you? not i.' in lucilla's desperation in the cause of her favourite edna, she went through a rapid self-debate. honor would gladly wait for her for such a cause; she could sleep at woolstone-lane, and thence go on to join horatia in derbyshire, escorted by a hiltonbury servant. but what would that entail? she would be at their mercy. robert would obtain his advantage--it would be all over with her! pride arose; edna's cause sank. how many destinies were fixed in the few seconds while she stood with one foot forward, spinning her black hat by the elastic band! 'too late, mr. prendergast; i cannot go,' she said, as she saw him waiting for her at the door. 'don't be angry with me, and don't let the womankind prejudice you against poor edna. you forgive me! it is really too late.' 'forgive _you_?' smiled mr. prendergast, pressing her caressing hand in his great, lank grasp; 'what for?' 'oh, because it is too late; and i can't help it. but don't be hard with her. good-bye.' too late! why did lucilla repeat those words so often? was it a relief to that irreflective nature to believe the die irrevocably cast, and the responsibility of decision over? or why did she ask forgiveness of the only one whom she was not offending, but because there was a sense of need of pardon where she would not stoop to ask it. miss charlecote and the fulmorts, rashe and cilly, were to be transported to london by the same train, leaving owen behind to help charles charteris entertain some guests still remaining, honora promising him to wait in town until lucilla should absolutely have started for ireland, when she would supply him with the means of pursuit. lucilla's delay and change of mind made the final departure so late that it was needful to drive excessively fast, and the train was barely caught in time. the party were obliged to separate, and robert took phoebe into a different carriage from that where the other three found places. in the ten minutes' transit by railway, lucy, always softened by parting, was like another being towards honor, and talked eagerly of 'coming home' for christmas, sent messages to hiltonbury friends, and did everything short of retractation to efface the painful impression she had left. 'sweetest honey!' she whispered, as they moved on after the tickets had been taken, thrusting her pretty head over into honor's place. 'nobody's looking, give me a kiss, and say you don't bear malice, though your kitten has been in a scratching humour.' 'malice! no indeed!' said honor, fondly; 'but, oh! remember, dear child, that frolics may be at too dear a price.' she longed to say more, but the final stop was made, and their roads diverged. honor thought that lucy looked white and trembling, with an uneasy eye, as though she would have given much to have been going home with her. nor was the consoling fancy unfounded. lucilla's nerves were not at their usual pitch, and an undefined sense of loss of a safeguard was coming over her. moreover, the desire for a last word to robert was growing every moment, and he _would_ keep on hunting out those boxes, as if they mattered to anybody. she turned round on his substitute, and said, 'i've not spoken to robin all this time. no wonder his feathers are ruffled. make my peace with him, phoebe dear.' on the very platform, in that moment of bustle, phoebe conscientiously and reasonably began, 'will you tell me how much you mean by that?' 'cilly--king's-cross-- . ,' cried ratia, snatching at her arm. 'oh! the slave one is! next time we meet, phoebe, the redbreast will be in a white tie, i shall--' hurry and agitation were making her flippant, and robert was nearer than she deemed. he was assisting her to her seat, and then held out his hand, but never raised his eyes. 'goodbye, robin,' she said; 'reason herself shall meet you at the holt at christmas.' 'good-bye,' he said, but without a word of augury, and loosed her hand. her fingers clung one moment, but he drew his away, called 'king's-cross' to the coachman, and she was whirled off. angler as she was, she no longer felt her prey answer her pull. had the line snapped? when owen next appeared in woolstone-lane he looked fagged and harassed, but talked of all things in sky, earth, or air, politics, literature, or gossip, took the bottom of the table, and treated the parsonses as his guests. honora, however, felt that something was amiss; perhaps lucilla engaged to lord william; and when, after luncheon, he followed her to the cedar room, she began with a desponding 'well?' 'well, she is off!' 'alone with rashe?' 'alone with rashe. why, sweet honey, you look gratified!' 'i had begun to fear some fresh news,' said honor, smiling with effort. 'i am sure that something is wrong. you do not look well, my dear. how flushed you are, and your forehead is so hot!' as she put her hand on his brow. 'oh, nothing!' he said, caressingly, holding it there. 'i'm glad to have got away from the castle; charlie and his set drink an intolerable lot of wine. i'll not be there again in a hurry.' 'i am glad of that. i wish you had come away with us.' 'i wish to heaven i had!' cried owen; 'but it could not be helped! so now for my wild-goose chase. cross to-morrow night; only you were good enough to say you would find ways and means.' 'there, that is what i intended, including your midsummer quarter. don't you think it enough?' as she detected a look of dissatisfaction. 'you are very good. it is a tremendous shame; but you see, honor dear, when one is across the water, one may as well go the whole animal. if this wise sister of mine does not get into a mess, there is a good deal i could do--plenty of sport. little henniker and some westminster fellows in the ---th are at kilkenny.' 'you would like to spend the vacation in ireland,' said honor, with some disappointment. 'well, if you go for my pleasure, it is but fair you should have your own. shall i advance your september allowance?' 'thank you. you do spoil one abominably, you concoction of honey and all things sweet. but the fact is, i've got uncommonly hard-up of late; no one would believe how ruinous it is being with the charterises. i believe money evaporates in the atmosphere.' 'betting?' asked honor, gasping and aghast. 'on my honour, i assure you not _there_,' cried owen, eagerly, 'i never did bet there but once, and that was lolly's doing; and i could not get out of it. jew that she is! i wonder what uncle kit would say to that house now.' 'you are out of it, and i shall not regret the purchase of your disgust at their ways, owen. it may be better for you to be in ireland than to be tempted to go to them for the shooting season. how much do you want? you know, my dear, if there be anything else, i had rather pay anything that is right than have you in debt.' 'you were always the sweetest, best honey living!' cried owen, with much agitation; 'and it is a shame--' but there he stopped, and ended in a more ordinary tone--'shame to prey on you, as we both do, and with no better return.' 'never mind, dear owen,' she said, with moisture in her eye; 'your real happiness is the only return i want. come, tell me your difficulty; most likely i can help you.' 'i've nothing to tell,' said owen, with alarmed impetuosity; 'only that i'm a fool, like every one else, and--and--if you would only double that--' 'double that! owen, things cannot be right.' 'i told you they were not right,' was the impatient answer, 'or i should not be vexing you and myself; and,' as though to smooth away his rough commencement, 'what a comfort to have a honey that will have patience!' she shook her head, perplexed. 'owen, i wish you could tell me more. i do not like debts. you know, dear boy, i grudge nothing i can do for you in my lifetime; but for your own sake you must learn not to spend more than you will be able to afford. indulgence now will be a penance to you by and by.' honora dreaded overdoing lectures to owen. she knew that an old maid's advice to a young man was dangerous work, and her boy's submissive patience always excited her gratitude and forbearance, so she desisted, in hopes of a confession, looking at him with such tenderness that he was moved to exclaim--'honor dear, you are the best and worst-used woman on earth! would to heaven that we had requited you better!' 'i have no cause of complaint against you, owen,' she said, fondly; 'you have always been the joy and comfort of my heart;' and as he turned aside, as though stricken by the words, 'whatever you may have to reproach yourself with, it is not with hurting me; i only wish to remind you of higher and more stringent duties than those to myself. if you have erred, as i cannot but fear, will you not let me try and smooth the way back?' 'impossible,' murmured owen; 'there are things that can never be undone.' 'not undone, but repented,' said honor, convinced that he had been led astray by his cousin charles, and felt bound not to expose him; 'so repented as to become stepping-stones in our progress.' he only shook his head with a groan. 'the more sorrow, the better hope,' she began; but the impatient movement of his foot warned her that she was only torturing him, and she proceeded,--'well, i trust you implicitly; i can understand that there may be confidences that ought not to pass between us, and will give you what you require to help you out of your difficulty. i wish you had a father, or any one who could be of more use to you, my poor boy!' and she began to fill up the cheque to the utmost of his demand. 'it is too much--too much,' cried owen. 'honor, i must tell you at all costs. what will you think when--' 'i do not wish to purchase a confession, owen,' she said; 'you know best whether it be a fit one to make to me, or whether for the sake of others you ought to withhold it.' he was checked, and did not answer. 'i see how it is,' continued honor; 'my boy, as far as i am concerned, i look on your confession as made. you will be much alone while thus hovering near your sister among the mountains and by the streams. let it be a time of reflection, and of making your peace with another. you may do so the more earnestly for not having cast off the burthen on me. you are no child now, to whom your poor honey's pardon almost seems an absolution. i sometimes think we went on with that too long.' 'no fear of my ever being a boy again,' said owen, heavily, as he put the draft into his purse, and then bent his tall person to kiss her with the caressing fondness of his childhood, almost compensating for what his sister caused her to undergo. then, at the door, he turned to say, 'remember, you would not hear.' he was gone, having left a thorn with honor, in the doubt whether she ought not to have accepted his confidence; but her abstinence had been such a mortification both of curiosity and of hostility to the charterises that she could not but commend herself for it. she had strong faith in the efficacy of trust upon an honourable mind, and though it was evident that owen had, in his own eyes, greatly transgressed, she reserved the hope that his error was magnified by his own consciousness, and admired the generosity that refused to betray another. she believed his present suffering to be the beginning of that growth in true religion which is often founded on some shock leading to self-distrust. alas! how many falls have been counted by mothers as the preludes to rising again, like the clearing showers of a stormy day. chapter viii fearless she had tracked his feet to this rocky, wild retreat, and when morning met his view, her mild glances met it too. ah! your saints have cruel hearts, sternly from his bed he starts, and with rude, repulsive shock, hurls her from the beetling rock.--t. moore the deed was done. conventionalities were defied, vaunts fulfilled, and lucilla sat on a camp-stool on the deck of a steamer, watching the welsh mountains rise, grow dim, and vanish gradually. horatia, in common with all the rest of the womankind, was prostrate on the cabin floor, treating cilly's smiles and roses as aggravations of her misery. had there been a sharer in her exultation, the gay pitching and dancing of the steamer would have been charming to lucy, but when she retreated from the scene of wretchedness below, she felt herself lonely, and was conscious of some surprise among the surviving gentlemen at her reappearance. she took out a book as a protection, and read more continuously than she had done since _vanity fair_ had come to the holt, and she had been pleased to mark honora's annoyance at every page she turned. but the july light faded, and only left her the poor amusement of looking over the side for the phosphorescence of the water, and watching the smoke of the funnel lose itself overhead. the silent stars and sparkling waves would have set phoebe's dutiful science on the alert, or transported honor's inward ear by the chant of creation, but to her they were of moderate interest, and her imagination fell a prey to the memory of the eyes averted, and hand withdrawn. 'i'll be exemplary when this is over,' said she to herself, and at length her head nodded till she dropped into a giddy doze, whence with a chilly start she awoke, as the monotonous jog and bounce of the steamer were exchanged for a snort of arrival, among mysterious lanes of sparkling lights apparently rising from the waters. she had slept just long enough to lose the lovely entrance of dublin bay, stiffen her limbs, and confuse her brains, and she stood still as the stream of passengers began to rush trampling by her, feeling bewildered and forlorn. her cousin's voice was welcome, though over-loud and somewhat piteous. 'where are you, stewardess? where's the young lady? oh! cilly, there you are. to leave me alone all this time, and here's the stewardess saying we must go ashore at once, or lose the train. oh! the luggage, and i've lost my plaid,' and ghastly in the lamplight, limp and tottering, rashe charteris clasped her arm for support, and made her feel doubly savage and bewildered. her first movement was to enjoin silence, then to gaze about for the goods. a gentleman took pity on the two ladies, and told them not to be deluded into trying to catch the train; there would be another in an hour's time, and if they had any one to meet them, they would most easily be found where they were. 'we have no one--we are alone,' said lucilla; and his chivalry was so far awakened that he handed them to the pier, and undertook to find their boxes. rashe was absolutely subdued, and hung shivering and helpless on her cousin, who felt as though dreaming in the strange scene of darkness made visible by the bright circles round the lamps, across which rapidly flitted the cloaked forms of travellers presiding over queer, wild, caricature-like shapes, each bending low under the weight of trunk or bag, in a procession like a magic lantern, save for the babel of shrieks, cries, and expostulations everywhere in light or gloom. a bell rang, an engine roared and rattled off. 'the train!' sighed horatia; 'we shall have to stay here all night.' 'nonsense,' said lucy, ready to shake her; 'there is another in an hour. stay quiet, do, or he will never find us.' 'porter, ma'am--porrterr--' 'no, no, thank you,' cried lucilla, darting on her rod-case and carriage-bag to rescue them from a freckled countenance with claws attached. 'we shall lose everything, cilla; that's your trusting to a stranger!' 'all right; thank you!' as she recognized her possessions, borne on various backs towards the station, whither the traveller escorted them, and where things looked more civilized. ratia began to resume her senses, though weak and hungry. she was sorely discomfited at having to wait, and could not, like the seasoned voyagers, settle herself to repose on the long leathern couches of the waiting-room, but wandered, woebegone and impatient, scolding her cousin for choosing such an hour for their passage, for her desertion and general bad management. the merry, good-natured rashe had disappeared in the sea-sick, cross, and weary wight, whose sole solace was grumbling, but her dolefulness only made lucilla more mirthful. here they were, and happen what would, it should only be 'such fun.' recovered from the moment's bewilderment, lucy announced that she felt as if she were at a ball, and whispered a proposal of astonishing the natives by a polka in the great empty boarded space. 'the suggestion would immortalize us; come!' and she threatened mischievously to seize the waist of the still giddy and aching-headed horatia, who repulsed her with sufficient roughness and alarm to set her off laughing at having been supposed to be in earnest. the hurry of the train came at last; they hastened down-stairs and found the train awaiting them, were told their luggage was safe, and after sitting till they were tired, shot onwards watching the beautiful glimpses of the lights in the ships off kingstown. they would gladly have gone on all night without another disembarkation and scramble, but the dublin station came only too soon; they were disgorged, and hastened after goods. forth came trunk and portmanteau. alas! none of theirs! nothing with them but two carriage-bags and two rod-cases! 'it seems to be a common predicament,' said lucilla; 'here are at least half-a-dozen in the same case.' 'horrible management. we shall never see it more.' 'nay, take comfort in the general lot. it will turn up to-morrow; and meantime sleep is not packed up in our boxes. come, let's be off. what noises! how do these drivers keep from running over one another. each seems ready to whip every one's beast but his own. don't you feel yourself in ireland, rashe? arrah! i shall begin to scream too if i stand here much longer.' 'we can't go in that thing--a fly!' 'don't exist here, rashe--vermin is unknown. submit to your fate--' and ere another objection could be uttered, cilly threw bags and rods into an inside car, and pushed her cousin after them, chattering all the time, to poor horatia's distraction. 'oh! delicious! a cross between a baker's cart and a van amburgh. a little more and it would overbalance and carry the horse head over heels! take care, rashe; you'll pound me into dust if you slip down over me.' 'i can't help it! oh! the vilest thing in creation.' 'such fun! to be taken when well shaken. here we go up, up, up; and here we go down, down, down! ha! ware fishing-rod! this is what it is to travel. no one ever described the experiences of an inside car!' 'because no one in their senses would undergo such misery!' 'but you don't regard the beauties, rashe, beauties of nature and art combined--see the lights reflected in the river--what a width. oh! why don't they treat the thames as they do the liffey?' 'i can't see, i shall soon be dead! and getting to an inn without luggage, it's not respectable.' 'if you depart this life on the way, the want of luggage will concern me the most, my dear. depend on it, other people have driven up in inside cars, minus luggage, in the memory of man, in this city of dublin. are you such a worldling base as to depend for your respectability on a paltry leathern trunk?' lucilla's confidence did not appear misplaced, for neither waiters nor chambermaids seemed surprised, but assured them that people usually missed their luggage by that train, and asseverated that it would appear next morning. lucilla awoke determined to be full of frolic and enjoyment, and horatia, refreshed by her night's rest, was more easily able to detect 'such fun' than on the previous night; so the two cousins sat down amicably to breakfast on the sunday morning, and inquired about church-services. 'my mallard's tail hat is odd "go to meeting" head-gear,' said cilla, 'but one cannot lapse into heathenism; so where, rashe?' 'wouldn't it be fun to look into a roman catholic affair?' 'no,' said cilly, decidedly; 'where i go it shall be the genuine article. i don't like curiosities in religion.' 'it's a curiosity to go to church at twelve o'clock! if you are so orthodox, let us wait for st. patrick's this afternoon.' 'and in the meantime? it is but eleven this minute, and st. patrick's is not till three. there's nothing to be done but to watch irish nature in the street. oh! i never before knew the perfection of carleton's illustration. see that woman and her cap, and the man's round eyebrows and projecting lips with shillelagh written on them. would it be sabbath-breaking to perpetrate a sketch?' but as ratia was advancing to the window, lucy suddenly started back, seized her and whirled her away, crying, 'the wretch! i know him now! i could not make him out last night.' 'who?' exclaimed rashe, starting determinedly to the window, but detained by the two small but resolute hands clasped round her waist. 'that black-whiskered valet of mr. calthorp's. if that man has the insolence to dog me and spy me, i'll not stay in ireland another day.' 'oh, what fun!' burst out horatia. 'it becomes romantic!' 'atrocious impertinence!' said lucilla, passionately. 'why do you stand there laughing?' 'at you, my dear,' gasped ratia, sinking on the sofa in her spasm of mirth. 'at your reception of chivalrous devotion.' 'pretty chivalry to come and spy and beset ladies alone.' 'he has not beset us yet. don't flatter yourself!' 'what do you mean by that, horatia?' 'do you want to try your pistols on me? the waiter could show us the way to the fifteen acres, only you see it is sunday.' 'i want,' said lucy, all tragedy and no comedy, 'to know why you talk of my _flattering_ myself that i am insulted, and my plans upset.' 'why?' said rashe, a little sneeringly. 'why, a little professed beauty like you would be so disappointed not to be pursued, that she is obliged to be always seeing phantoms that give her no peace.' 'thank you,' coolly returned cilly. 'very well, i'll say no more about it, but if i find that man to be in ireland, the same day i go home!' horatia gave a loud, long, provoking laugh. lucilla felt it was for her dignity to let the subject drop, and betook herself to the only volumes attainable, bradshaw and her book of flies; while miss charteris repaired to the window to investigate for herself the question of the pursuer, and made enlivening remarks on the two congregations, the one returning from mass, the other going to church, but these were not appreciated. it seemed as though the young ladies had but one set of spirits between them, which were gained by the one as soon as lost by the other. it was rather a dull day. fast as they were, the two girls shrank from rambling alone in streets thronged with figures that they associated with ruffianly destitution. sunday had brought all to light, and the large handsome streets were beset with barefooted children, elf-locked women, and lounging, beetle-browed men, such as lucy had only seen in the purlieus of whittingtonia, in alleys looked into, but never entered by the civilized. in reality 'rich and rare' was so true that they might have walked there more secure from insult than in many better regulated regions, but it was difficult to believe so, especially in attire then so novel as to be very remarkable, and the absence of protection lost its charm when there was no one to admire the bravado. she did her best to embalm it for future appreciation by journalizing, making the voyage out a far better joke than she had found it, and describing the inside car in the true style of the facetious traveller. nothing so drives away fun as the desire to be funny, and she began to grow weary of her work, and disgusted at her own lumbering attempts at pen-and-ink mirth; but they sufficed to make rashe laugh, they would be quite good enough for lord william, would grievously annoy honora charlecote, would be mentioned in all the periodicals, and give them the name of the angel anglers all the next season. was not that enough to go to ireland and write a witty tour for? the outside car took them to st. patrick's, and they had their first real enjoyment in the lazy liveliness of the vehicle, and the droll ciceroneship of the driver, who contrived to convey such compliments to their pretty faces as only an irishman could have given without offence. lucilla sprang down with exhilarated spirits, and even wished for honor to share her indignation at the slovenliness around the cathedral, and the absence of close or cloister; nay, though she had taken an aversion to strafford as a hero of honor's, she forgave him, and resolved to belabour the house of cork handsomely in her journal, when she beheld the six-storied monument, and imagined it, as he had found it, in the altar's very place. 'would that he had created an absolute boylean vacuum!' what a grand _bon mot_ for her journal! however, either the spirit of indignation at the sight of the unkneeling congregation, or else the familiar words of the beautiful musical service, made her more than usually devout, and stirred up something within her that could only be appeased by the resolution that the singing in robert fulmort's parish should be super-excellent. after the service, the carman persuaded them to drive in the phoenix park, where they enjoyed the beautiful broken ground, the picturesque thickets, the grass whose colour reminded them that they were in the emerald isle, the purple outlines of the wicklow hills, whence they thought they detected a fresh mountain breeze. they only wondered to find this delightful place so little frequented. in england, a sunday would have filled it with holiday strollers, whereas here they only encountered a very few, and those chiefly gentlefolks. the populace preferred sitting on the doorsteps, or lounging against the houses, as if they were making studies of themselves for caricatures; and were evidently so much struck with the young ladies' attire, that the shelter of the hotel was gladly welcomed. lucilla was alone in the sitting-room when the waiter came to lay the cloth. he looked round, as if to secure secrecy, and then remarked in a low confidential voice, 'there's been a gentleman inquiring for you, ma'am.' 'who was it?' said lucy, with feigned coolness. 'it was when you were at church, ma'am; he wished to know whether two ladies had arrived here, miss charteris and miss sandbrook.' 'did he leave his card?' 'he did not, ma'am, his call was to be a secret; he said it was only to be sure whether you had arrived.' 'then he did not give his name?' 'he did, ma'am, for he desired to be let know what route the young ladies took when they left,' quoth the man, with a comical look, as though he were imparting a most delightful secret. 'was he mr. calthorp?' 'i said i'd not mention his name,' said the waiter, with, however, such decided assent, that, as at the same moment he quitted the room and horatia entered it, cilly exclaimed, 'there, rashe, what do you say now to the phantom of my vanity? here has he been asking for us, and what route we meant taking.' 'he! who?' 'who?--why, who should it be? the waiter has just told me.' 'you absurd girl!' 'well, ask him yourself.' so when the waiter came up, miss charteris demanded, 'has mr. calthorp been calling here?' 'what was the name, ma'am, if you please?' 'calthorp. has mr. calthorp been calling here?' 'cawthorne? was it colonel cawthorne, of the royal hussars, ma'am? he was here yesterday, but not to-day.' 'i said calthorp. has a mr. calthorp been inquiring for us to-day?' 'i have not heard, ma'am, i'll inquire,' said he, looking alert, and again disappearing, while horatia looked as proud of herself as cilly had done just before. he came back again while lucilla was repeating his communication, and assured miss charteris that no such person had called. 'then, what gentleman has been here, making inquiries about us?' 'gentleman! indeed, ma'am, i don't understand your meaning.' 'have you not been telling this young lady that a gentleman has been asking after us, and desiring to be informed what route we intended to take?' 'ah, sure!' said the waiter, as if recollecting himself, 'i did mention it. some gentleman did just ask me in a careless sort of way who the two beautiful young ladies might be, and where they were going. such young ladies always create a sensation, as you must be aware, ma'am, and i own i did speak of it to the young lady, because i thought she had seen the attraction of the gentleman's eyes.' so perfectly assured did he look, that lucilla felt a moment's doubt whether her memory served her as to his former words, but just as she raised her eyes and opened her lips in refutation, she met a glance from him full of ludicrous reassurance, evidently meaning that he was guarding his own secret and hers. he was gone the next moment, and horatia turned upon her with exultant merriment. 'i always heard that ireland was a mendacious country,' said cilly. 'and a country where people lose the use of their eyes and ears,' laughed rashe. 'o what a foundation for the second act of the drama!' 'of which the third will be my going home by the next steamer.' 'because a stranger asked who we were?' each had her own interpretation of the double-faced waiter's assertion, and it served them to dispute upon all the evening. lucilla was persuaded that he imagined her an injured beauty, reft from her faithful adorer by her stern aunt or duenna, and that he considered himself to be doing her a kindness by keeping her informed of her hero's vicinity, while he denied it to her companion; but she scorned to enter into an explanation, or make any disavowal, and found the few displeased words she spoke were received with compassion, as at the dictation of the stern monitress. horatia, on the other hand, could not easily resign the comical version that lucilla's inordinate opinion of her own attractions had made her imagine mr. calthorp's valet in the street, and discover his master in the chance inquirer whom the waiter had mentioned; and as cilly could not aver that the man had actually told her in so many words that it was mr. calthorp, horatia had a right to her opinion, and though she knew she had been a young lady a good many years, she could not easily adopt the suggestion that she could pass for cilly's cruel duenna. lucilla grew sullen, and talked of going home by the next steamer; rashe, far from ready for another sea voyage, called herself ill used, and represented the absurdity of returning on a false alarm. cilla was staggered, and thought what it would be, if mr. calthorp, smoking his cigar at his club, heard that she had fled from his imaginary pursuit. besides, the luggage must be recovered, so she let horatia go on arranging for an excursion for the monday, only observing that it must not be in dublin. 'no, bonnets are needful there. what do you think of howth and ireland's eye, the place where kirwan murdered his wife?' said rashe, with great gusto, for she had a strong turn for the horrid murders in the newspaper. 'too near, and too smart,' sulked lucy. 'well then, glendalough, that is wild, and far off enough, and may be done in a day from dublin. i'll ring and find out.' 'not from that man.' 'oh! we shall see calthorps peopling the hill-sides! well, let us have the landlord.' it was found that both the devil's glen and the seven churches might be visited if they started by the seven o'clock train, and returned late at night, and lucilla agreeing, the evening went off as best it might, the cousins being glad to get out of each other's company at nine, that they might be up early the next morning. lucy had not liked ratia so little since the days of her infantine tyranny. the morning, however, raised their spirits, and sent them off in a more friendly humour, enjoying the bustle and excitement that was meat and drink to them, and exclaiming at the exquisite views of sea and rugged coast along beautiful kilmeny bay. when they left the train, they were delighted with their outside car, and reclined on their opposite sides in enchantment with the fern-bordered lanes, winding between noble trees, between which came inviting glimpses of exquisitely green meadows and hill-sides. they stopped at a park-looking gate, leading to the devil's glen, which they were to traverse on foot, meeting the car at the other end. here there was just enough life and adventure to charm them, as they gaily trod the path, winding picturesquely beside the dashing, dancing, foaming stream, now between bare salient bluffs of dark rock, now between glades of verdant thicket, or bold shouldering slopes of purple heath and soft bent grass. they were constantly crying out with delight, as they bounded from one point of view to another, sometimes climbing among loose stones, leading between ferns and hazel stems to a well-planted hermitage, sometimes springing across the streamlet upon stepping-stones. at the end of the wood another lodge-gate brought them beyond the private grounds, that showed care, even in their rusticity, and they came out on the open hill-side in true mountain air, soft turf beneath their feet, the stream rushing away at the bottom of the slope, and the view closed in with blue mountains, on which the clouds marked purple shadows. this was freedom! this was enjoyment! this was worth the journey! and cilla's elastic feet sprang along as if she had been a young kid. how much was delight in the scenery, how much in the scramble, need not be analyzed. there was plenty of scrambling before it was over. a woman who had been lying in wait for tourists at the gate, guided them to the bend of the glen, where they were to climb up to pay their respects to the waterfall. the ascent was not far from perpendicular, only rendered accessible by the slope of fallen debris at the base, and a few steps cut out from one projecting rock to another, up to a narrow shelf, whence the cascade was to be looked down on. the more adventurous spirits went on to a rock overhanging the fall, and with a curious chink or cranny, forming a window with a seat, and called king o'toole's chair. each girl perched herself there, and was complimented on her strong head and active limbs, and all their powers were needed in the long breathless pull up craggy stepping-stones, then over steep slippery turf, ere they gained the summit of the bank. spent, though still gasping out, 'such fun!' they threw themselves on their backs upon the thymy grass, and lay still for several seconds ere they sat up to look back at the thickly-wooded ravine, winding crevice-like in and out between the overlapping skirts of the hills, whose rugged heads cut off the horizon. then merrily sharing the first instalment of luncheon with their barefooted guide, they turned their faces onwards, where all their way seemed one bare gray moor, rising far off into the outline of luggela, a peak overhanging the semblance of a crater. nothing afforded them much more mirth than a rude bridge, consisting of a single row of square-headed unconnected posts, along the heads of which cilla three times hopped backwards and forwards for the mere drollery of the thing, with vigour unabated by the long walk over the dreary moorland fields with their stone walls. by the side of the guide's cabin the car awaited them, and mile after mile they drove on through treeless wastes, the few houses with their thatch anchored down by stones, showing what winds must sweep along those unsheltered tracts. the desolate solitude began to weary the volatile pair into silence; ere the mountains rose closer to them, they crossed a bridge over a stony stream begirt with meadows, and following its course came into sight of their goal. here was glendalough, a _cul de sac_ between the mountains, that shelved down, enclosing it on all sides save the entrance, through which the river issued. their summits were bare, of the gray stone that lay in fragments everywhere, but their sides were clothed with the lovely irish green pasture-land, intermixed with brushwood and trees, and a beauteous meadow surrounded the white ring-like beach of pure white sand and pebbles bordering the outer lake, whose gray waters sparkled in the sun. its twin lake, divided from it by so narrow a belt of ground, that the white beaches lay on their green setting, like the outline of a figure of , had a more wild and gloomy aspect, lying deeper within the hollow, and the hills coming sheer down on it at the further end in all their grayness unsoftened by any verdure. the gray was that of absolute black and white intermingled in the grain of the stone, and this was peculiarly gloomy, but in the summer sunshine it served but to set off the brilliance of the verdure, and the whole air of the valley was so bright that cilly declared that it had been traduced, and that no skylark of sense need object thereto. losing sight of the lakes as they entered the shabby little town, they sprang off the car before a small inn, and ere their feet were on the ground were appropriated by one of a shoal of guides, in dress and speech an ultra irishman, exaggerating his part as a sort of buffoon for the travellers. rashe was diverted by his humours; cilla thought them in bad taste, and would fain have escaped from his brogue and his antics, with some perception that the scene ought to be left to make its impression in peace. small peace, however, was there among the scores of men, women, and children within the rude walls containing the most noted relics; all beset the visitors with offers of stockings, lace, or stones from the hills; and the chatter of the guide was a lesser nuisance for which she was forced to compound for the sake of his protection. when he had cleared away his compatriots, she was able to see the remains of two of the seven churches, the cathedral, and st. kevin's kitchen, both of enduring gray stone, covered with yellow lichen, which gave a remarkable golden tint to their extreme old age. architecture there was next to none. st. kevin's so-called kitchen had a cylindrical tower, crowned by an extinguisher, and within the roofless walls was a flat stone, once the altar, and still a station for pilgrims; and the cathedral contained two broken coffin-lids with floriated crosses, but it was merely four rude roofless walls, enclosing less space than a cottage kitchen, and less ornamental than many a barn. the whole space was encumbered with regular modern headstones, ugly as the worst that english graveyards could show, and alternating between the names of byrne and o'toole, families who, as the guide said, would come 'hundreds of miles to lie there.' it was a grand thought, that those two lines, in wealth or in poverty, had been constant to that one wild mountain burying-place, in splendour or in ruin, for more than twelve centuries. here, some steps from the cathedral on the top of the slope was the chief grandeur of the view. a noble old carved granite cross, eight or ten feet high, stood upon the brow, bending slightly to one side, and beyond lay the valley cherishing its treasure of the twin lakelets, girt in by the band across them, nestled in the soft lining of copsewood and meadow, and protected by the lofty massive hills above. in front, but below, and somewhat to the right, lay another enclosure, containing the ivied gable of st. mary's church, and the tall column-like round tower, both with the same peculiar golden hoariness. the sight struck lucilla with admiration and wonder, but the next moment she heard the guide exhorting rashe to embrace the stem of the cross, telling her that if she could clasp her arms round it, she would be sure of a handsome and rich husband within the year. half superstitious, and always eager for fun, horatia spread her arms in the endeavour, but her hands could not have met without the aid of the guide, who dragged them together, and celebrated the exploit with a hurrah of congratulation, while she laughed triumphantly, and called on her companion to try her luck. but lucy was disgusted, and bluntly refused, knowing her grasp to be far too small, unable to endure the touch of the guide, and maybe shrinking from the failure of the augury. 'ah! to be shure, an' it's not such a purty young lady as yourself that need be taking the trouble,' did not fall pleasantly on her ears, and still less ratia's laugh and exclamation, 'you make too sure, do you? have a care. there were black looks at parting! but you need not be afraid, if handsome be a part of the spell.' there was no answer, and horatia saw that the outspoken raillery that cilly had once courted now gave offence. she guessed that something was amiss, but did not know that what had once been secure had been wilfully imperilled, and that suspense was awakening new feelings of delicacy and tenderness. the light words and vulgar forecasting had, in spite of herself, transported lucilla from the rocky thicket where she was walking, even to the cedar room at woolstone-lane, and conjured up before her that grave, massive brow, and the eye that would not meet her. she had hurried to these wilds to escape that influence, and it was holding her tighter than ever. to hasten home on account of mr. calthorp's pursuit would be the most effectual vindication of the feminine dignity that she might have impaired in robert's eyes, but to do this on what ratia insisted on believing a false alarm would be the height of absurdity. she was determined on extracting proofs sufficient to justify her return, and every moment seemed an hour until she could feel herself free to set her face homewards. a strange impatience seized her at every spot where the guide stopped them to admire, and ratia's encouragement of his witticisms provoked her excessively. with a kind of despair she found herself required, before taking boat for st. kevin's cave, to mount into a wood to admire another waterfall. 'see two waterfalls,' she muttered, 'and you have seen them all. there are only two kinds, one a bucket of water thrown down from the roof of a house, the other over a staircase. either the water was a fiction, or you can't get at them for the wet!' 'that was a splendid fellow at the devil's glen.' 'there's as good a one any day at the lock on the canal at home! only we do not delude people into coming to see it. up such places, too!' 'cilly, for shame. what, tired and giving in?' 'not tired in the least; only this place is not worth getting late for the train.' 'will the young lady take my hand? i'd be proud to have the honour of helping her up,' said the guide. but lucilla disdainfully rejected his aid, and climbed among the stones and brushwood aloof from the others, ratia talking in high glee to the irishman, and adventurously scrambling. 'cilly, here it is,' she cried, from beneath a projecting elbow of rock; 'you look down on it. it's a delicious fall. i declare one can get into it;' and, by the aid of a tree, she lowered herself down on a flat stone, whence she could see the cascade better than above. 'this is stunning. i vow one can get right into the bed of the stream right across. don't be slow, cilly; this is the prime fun of all!' 'you care for the romp and nothing else,' grumbled lucilla. that boisterous merriment was hateful to her, when feeling that the demeanour of gentlewomen must be their protection, and with all her high spirit, she was terrified lest insult or remark should be occasioned. her signs of remonstrance were only received with a derisive outburst, as rashe climbed down into the midst of the bed of the stream. 'come, cilla, or i shall indite a page in the diary, headed faint heart--ah!' as her foot slipped on the stones, and she fell backwards, but with instant efforts at rising, such as assured her cousin that no harm was done, 'nay, nonsensical clambering will be the word,' she said. 'serves you right for getting into such places! what! hurt!' as horatia, after resting in a sitting posture, tried to get up, but paused, with a cry. 'nothing,' she said, 'i'll--' but another attempt ended in the same way. cilla sprang to her, followed by the guide, imprecating bad luck to the slippery stones. herself standing in the water, lucilla drew her cousin upright, and with a good deal of help from the guide, and much suffering, brought her up the high bank, and down the rough steep descent through the wood. she had given her back and side a severe twist, but she moved less painfully on more level ground, and, supported between lucilla and the guide, whom the mischance had converted from a comedy clown to a delicately considerate assistant, she set out for the inn where the car had been left. the progress lasted for two doleful hours, every step worse than the last, and, much exhausted, she at length sank upon the sofa in the little sitting-room of the inn. the landlady was urgent that the wet clothes should be taken off; and the back rubbed with whiskey, but cilla stood agitating her small soaked foot, and insisting that the car should come round at once, since the wet had dried on them, and they had best lose no time in returning to dublin, or at least to bray. but rashe cried out that the car would be the death of her; she could not stir without a night's rest. 'and be all the stiffer to-morrow? once on the car, you will be very comfortable--' 'oh, no! i can't! this is a horrid place. of all the unlucky things that could have happened--' 'then,' said cilla, fancying a little coercion would be wholesome, 'don't be faint-hearted. you will be glad to-morrow that i had the sense to make you move to-day. i shall order the car.' 'indeed!' cried horatia, her temper yielding to pain and annoyance; 'you seem to forget that this expedition is mine! i am paymaster, and have the only right to decide.' lucilla felt the taunt base, as recalling to her the dependent position into which she had carelessly rushed, relying on the family feeling that had hitherto made all things as one. 'henceforth,' said she, 'i take my share of all that we spend. i will not sell my free will.' 'so you mean to leave me here alone?' said horatia, with positive tears of pain, weariness, and vexation at the cruel unfriendliness of the girl she had petted. 'nonsense! i must abide by your fate. i only hate to see people chicken-hearted, and thought you wanted shaking up. i stay so long as you own me an independent agent.' the discussion was given up, when it was announced that a room was ready; and rashe underwent so much in climbing the stairs, that cilly thought she could not have been worse on the car. the apartment was not much behind that at the village inn at hiltonbury. in fact, it had gay curtains and a grand figured blind, but the door at the charlecote arms had no such independent habits of opening, the carpet would have been whole, and the chairs would not have creaked beneath lucy's grasshopper weight; when down she sat in doleful resignation, having undressed her cousin, sent her _chaussure_ to dry, and dismissed the car, with a sense of bidding farewell to the civilized world, and entering a desert island, devoid of the zest of robinson crusoe. what an endless evening it was, and how the ladies detested each other! there lay horatia, not hurt enough for alarm, but quite cross enough to silence pity, suffering at every move, and sore at cilly's want of compassion; and here sat lucilla, thoroughly disgusted with her cousin, her situation, and her expedition. believing the strain a trifle, she not unjustly despised the want of resolution that had shrunk from so expedient an exertion as the journey, and felt injured by the selfish want of consideration that had condemned her to this awkward position in this forlorn little inn, without even the few toilette necessaries that they had with them at dublin, and with no place to sit in, for the sitting-room below stairs served as a coffee-room, where sundry male tourists were imbibing whiskey, the fumes of which ascended to the young ladies above, long before they could obtain their own meal. the chops were curiosities; and as to the tea, the grounds, apparently the peat of the valley, filled up nearly an eighth of the cup, causing lucilla in lugubrious mirth to talk of 'that lake whose gloomy tea, ne'er saw hyson nor bohea,' when rashe fretfully retorted, 'it is very unkind in you to grumble at everything, when you know i can't help it!' 'i was not grumbling, i only wanted to enliven you.' 'queer enlivenment!' nor did lucilla's attempts at body curing succeed better. her rubbing only evoked screeches, and her advice was scornfully rejected. horatia was a determined homoeopath, and sighed for the globules in her wandering box, and as whiskey and tobacco both became increasingly fragrant, averred again and again that nothing should induce her to stay here another night. nothing? lucilla found her in the morning in all the aches and flushes of a feverish cold, her sprain severely painful, her eyes swollen, her throat so sore, that in alarm cilly besought her to send for advice; but rashe regarded a murderous allopathist as near akin to an executioner, and only bewailed the want of her minikin doses. giving up the hope of an immediate departure, lucilla despatched a messenger to bray, thence to telegraph for the luggage; and the day was spent in fears lest their landlord at dublin might detain their goods as those of suspicious characters. other excitement there was none, not even in quarrelling, for rashe was in a sleepy state, only roused by interludes of gloomy tea and greasy broth; and outside, the clouds had closed down, such clouds as she had never seen, blotting out lake and mountain with an impervious gray curtain, seeming to bathe rather than to rain on the place. she longed to dash out into it, but ratia's example warned her against drenching her only garments, though indoors the dryness was only comparative. everything she touched, herself included, seemed pervaded by a damp, limp rawness, that she vainly tried to dispel by ordering a fire. the turf smouldered, the smoke came into the room, and made their eyes water, and rashe insisted that the fire should be put out. cilla almost envied her sleep, as she sat disconsolate in the window, watching the comparative density of the rain, and listening to the extraordinary howls and shrieks in the town, which kept her constantly expecting that a murder or a rebellion would come to relieve the monotony of the day, till she found that nothing ensued, and no one took any notice. she tried to sketch from memory, but nothing would hinder that least pleasant of occupations--thought. either she imagined every unpleasant chance of detention, she worried herself about robert fulmort, or marvelled what mr. prendergast and the censorious ladies would do with edna murrell. many a time did she hold her watch to her ear, suspecting it of having stopped, so slowly did it loiter through the weary hours. eleven o'clock when she hoped it was one--half-past two when it felt like five. by real five, the mist was thinner, showing first nearer, then remoter objects; the coarse slates of the roofs opposite emerged polished and dripping, and the cloud finally took its leave, some heavy flakes, like cotton wool, hanging on the hill-side, and every rock shining, every leaf glistening. verdure and rosy cheeks both resulted from a perpetual vapour-bath. lucilla rejoiced in her liberty, and hurried out of doors, but leaning out of the coffee-room window, loungers were seen who made her sensible of the awkwardness of her position, and she looked about for yesterday's guide as a friend, but he was not at hand, and her uneasy gaze brought round her numbers, begging or offering guidance. she wished to retreat, but would not, and walked briskly along the side of the valley opposite to that she had yesterday visited, in search of the other four churches. two fragments were at the junction of the lakes, another was entirely destroyed, but the last, called the abbey, stood in ruins within the same wall as the round tower, which rose straight, round, mysterious, defying inquiry, as it caught the evening light on its summit, even as it had done for so many centuries past. not that cilla thought of the riddles of that tower, far less of the early christianity of the isle of saints, of which these ruins and their wild legend were the only vestiges, nor of the mysticism that planted clusters of churches in sevens as analogous to the seven stars of the apocalypse. even the rugged glories of the landscape chiefly addressed themselves to her as good to sketch, her highest flight in admiration of the picturesque. in the state of mind ascribed to the ancients, she only felt the weird unhomelikeness of the place, as though she were at the ends of the earth, unable to return, and always depressed by solitude; she could have wept. was it for this that she had risked the love that had been her own from childhood, and broken with the friend to whom her father had commended her? was it worth while to defy their censures for this dreary spot, this weak-spirited, exacting, unrefined companion, and the insult of mr. calthorp's pursuit? naturally shrewd, well knowing the world, and guarded by a real attachment, lucilla had never regarded the millionaire's attentions as more than idle amusement in watching the frolics of a beauty, and had suffered them as adding to her own diversion; but his secretly following her, no doubt to derive mirth from her proceedings, revealed to her that woman could not permit such terms without loss of dignity, and her cheek burnt at the thought of the ludicrous light in which he might place her present predicament before a conclave of gentlemen. the thought was intolerable. to escape it by rapid motion, she turned hastily to leave the enclosure. a figure was climbing over the steps in the wall with outstretched hand, as if he expected her to cling to him, and mr. calthorp, springing forward, eagerly exclaimed in familiar, patronizing tones, 'miss sandbrook! they told me you were gone this way.' then, in a very different voice at the unexpected look and bow that he encountered: 'i hope miss charteris's accident is not serious.' 'thank you, not serious,' was the freezing reply. 'i am glad. how did it occur?' 'it was a fall.' he should have no good story wherewith to regale his friends. 'going on well, i trust? chancing to be at dublin, i heard by accident you were here, and fearing that there might be a difficulty, i ran down in the hope of being of service to you.' 'thank you,' in the least thankful of tones. 'is there nothing i can do for you?' 'thank you, nothing.' 'could i not obtain some advice for miss charteris?' 'thank you, she wishes for none.' 'i am sure'--he spoke eagerly--'that in some way i could be of use to you. i shall remain at hand. i cannot bear that you should be alone in this remote place.' 'thank you, we will not put you to inconvenience. we intended to be alone.' 'i see you esteem it a great liberty,' said poor mr. calthorp; 'but you must forgive my impulse to see whether i could be of any assistance to you. i will do as you desire, but at least you will let me leave stefano with you; he is a fellow full of resources, who would make you comfortable here, and me easy about you.' 'thank you, we require no one.' those 'thank you's' were intolerable, but her defensive reserve and dignity attracted the gentleman more than all her dashing brilliancy, and he became more urgent. 'you cannot ask me to leave you entirely to yourselves under such circumstances.' 'i more than ask it, i insist upon it. good morning.' 'miss sandbrook, do not go till you have heard and forgiven me.' 'i will not hear you, mr. calthorp. this is neither the time nor place,' said lucilla, inly more and more perturbed, but moving along with slow, quiet steps, and betraying no emotion. 'the object of our journey was totally defeated by meeting any of our ordinary acquaintance, and but for this mischance i should have been on my way home to-day.' 'oh! miss sandbrook, do you class me among your ordinary acquaintance?' it was all she could do to hinder her walk from losing its calm slowness, and before she could divest her intended reply of undignified sharpness, he continued: 'who could have betrayed my presence? but for this, i meant that you should never have been aware that i was hovering near to watch over you.' 'yes, to collect good stories for your club.' 'this is injustice! flagrant injustice, miss sandbrook! will you not credit the anxiety that irresistibly impelled me to be ever at hand in case you should need a protector?' 'no,' was the point-blank reply. 'how shall i convince you?' he cried, vehemently. 'what have i done that you should refuse to believe in the feelings that prompted me?' 'what have you done?' said lucilla, whose blood was up. 'you have taken a liberty, which is the best proof of what your feelings are, and every moment that you force your presence on me adds to the offence!' she saw that she had succeeded. he stood still, bowed, and answered not, possibly deeming this the most effective means of recalling her; but from first to last he had not known lucilla sandbrook. the eager, protecting familiarity of his first address had given her such a shock that she felt certain that she had no guard but herself from positively insulting advances; and though abstaining from all quickening of pace, her heart throbbed violently in the fear of hearing him following her, and the inn was a haven of refuge. she flew up to her bedroom to tear about like a panther, as if by violence to work down the tumult in her breast. she had proved the truth of honora's warning, that beyond the pale of ordinary _convenances_, a woman is exposed to insult, and however sufficient she may be for her own protection, the very fact of having to defend herself is well-nigh degradation. it was not owning the error. it was the agony of humiliation, not the meekness of humility, and she was as angry with miss charlecote for the prediction as with mr. calthorp for having fulfilled it, enraged with horatia, and desperate at her present imprisoned condition, unable to escape, and liable to be still haunted by her enemy. at last she saw the discomfited swain re-enter the inn, his car come round, and finally drive off with him; and then she felt what a blank was her victory. if she breathed freely, it was at the cost of an increased sense of solitude and severance from the habitable world. hitherto she had kept away from her cousin, trusting that the visit might remain a secret, too mortifying to both parties to be divulged, but she found horatia in a state of eager anticipation, awakened from the torpor to watch for tidings of a happy conclusion to their difficulties, and preparing jests on the pettish ingratitude with which she expected lucilla to requite the services that would be nevertheless accepted. gone! sent away! not even commissioned to find the boxes. horatia's consternation and irritation knew no bounds. lucilla was no less indignant that she could imagine it possible to become dependent on his good offices, or to permit him to remain in the neighbourhood. rashe angrily scoffed at her newborn scruples, and complained of her want of consideration for herself. cilla reproached her cousin with utter absence of any sense of propriety and decorum. rashe talked of ingratitude, and her sore throat being by this time past conversation, she came to tears. cilla, who could not bear to see any one unhappy, tried many a 'never mind,' many a 'didn't mean,' many a fair augury for the morrow, but all in vain, and night came down upon the angel anglers more forlorn and less friendly than ever; and with all the invalid's discomforts so much aggravated by the tears and the altercation, that escape from this gloomy shore appeared infinitely remote. there was an essential difference of tone of mind between those brought up at hiltonbury or at castle blanch, and though high spirits had long concealed the unlikeness, it had now been made bare, and lucy could not conquer her disgust and disappointment. sunshine was on luggela, and horatia's ailments were abating, so, as her temper was not alleviated, lucilla thought peace would be best preserved by sallying out to sketch. a drawing from behind the cross became so engrossing that she was sorry to find it time for the early dinner, and her artistic pride was only allayed by the conviction that she should always hate what recalled glendalough. rashe was better, and was up and dressed. hopes of departure produced amity, and they were almost lively over their veal broth, when sounds of arrival made lucilla groan at the prospect of cockney tourists obstructing the completion of her drawing. 'there's a gentleman asking to see you, miss.' 'i can see no one.' 'cilla, now do.' 'tell him i cannot see him,' repeated lucy, imperiously. 'how can you be so silly? he may have heard of our boxes.' 'i would toss them into the lake rather than take them from him.' 'eh! pray let me be present when you perform the ceremony! cilla in the heroics! whom is she expecting?' said a voice outside the door, ever ajar, a voice that made lucilla clasp her hands in ecstasy. 'you, owen! come in,' cried horatia, writhing herself up. 'owen, old owen! that's right,' burst from cilla, as she sprang to him. 'right! ah! that is not the greeting i expected; i was thinking how to guard my eyes. so, you have had enough of the unprotected dodge! what has rashe been doing to herself? a desperate leap down the falls of niagara.' horatia was diffuse in the narration; but, after the first, lucy did not speak. she began by arming herself against her brother's derision, but presently felt perplexed by detecting on his countenance something unwontedly grave and preoccupied. she was sure that his attention was far away from rashe's long story, and she abruptly interrupted it with, 'how came you here, owen?' he did not seem to hear, and she demanded, 'is anything the matter? are you come to fetch us because any one is ill?' starting, he said, 'no, oh no!' 'then what brought you here? a family council, or honor charlecote?' 'honor charlecote,' he repeated mistily: then, making an effort, 'yes, good old soul, she gave me a vacation tour on condition that i should keep an eye on you. go on, rashe; what were you saying?' 'didn't you hear me, owen? why, calthorp, the great calthorp, is in our wake. cilly is frantic.' 'calthorp about!' exclaimed owen, with a start of dismay. 'where?' 'i've disposed of him,' quoth lucilla; 'he'll not trouble us again.' 'which way is he gone?' 'i would not tell you if i knew.' 'don't be such an idiot,' he petulantly answered; 'i want nothing of the fellow, only to know whether he is clean gone. are you sure whether he went by bray?' 'i told you i neither knew nor cared.' 'could you have believed, owen,' said rashe, plaintively, 'that she was so absurd as never even to tell him to inquire for our boxes?' 'owen knows better;' but lucilla stopped, surprised to see that his thoughts were again astray. giving a constrained smile, he asked, 'well, what next?' 'to find our boxes,' they answered in a breath. 'your boxes? didn't i tell you i've got them here?' 'owen, you're a trump,' cried rashe. 'how on earth did you know about them?' inquired his sister. 'very simply; crossed from liverpool yesterday, reconnoitred at your hotel, was shown your telegram, went to the luggage-office, routed out that the things were taking a gentle tour to limerick, got them back this morning, and came on. and what are you after next?' 'home,' jerked out lucy, without looking up, thinking how welcome he would have been yesterday, without the goods. 'yes, home,' said horatia. 'this abominable sprain will hinder my throwing a line, or jolting on irish roads, and if cilla is to be in agonies when she sees a man on the horizon, we might as well never have come.' 'will you help me to carry home this poor invalid warrior, owen?' said lucilla; 'she will permit you.' 'i'll put you into the steamer,' said owen; 'but you see, i have made my arrangements for doing killarney and the rest of it.' 'i declare,' said rashe, recovering benevolence with comfort, 'if they would send scott from the castle to meet me at holyhead, cilly might as well go on with you. you would be sufficient to keep off the calthorps.' 'i'm afraid that's no go,' hesitated owen. 'you see i had made my plans, trusting to your bold assertions that you would suffer no one to approach.' 'oh! never mind. it was no proposal of mine. i've had enough of ireland,' returned lucy, somewhat aggrieved. 'how soon shall you be sufficiently repaired for a start, ratia?' asked owen, turning quickly round to her. 'to-morrow? no! well, i'll come over and see.' 'going away?' cried the ladies, by no means willing to part with their guardian. 'yes, i must. expecting that we should be parallels never meeting, i had to provide for myself.' 'i see,' said rashe; 'he has a merry party at newragh bridge, and will sit up over whist and punch till midnight!' 'you don't pretend to put yourselves in competition,' said he, snatching at the idea hastily. 'oh! no,' said his sister, with an annoyed gesture. 'i never expect you to prefer me and my comfort to any one.' 'indeed, cilla, i'm sorry,' he answered gently, but in perplexity, 'but i never reckoned on being wanted, and engagements are engagements.' 'i'm sure i don't want you when anything pleasanter is going forward,' she answered, with vexation in her tone. 'i'll be here by eleven or twelve,' he replied, avoiding the altercation; 'but i must get back now. i shall be waited for.' 'who is it that can't wait?' asked rashe. 'oh! just an english acquaintance of mine. there, goodbye. i wish i had come in time to surprise the modern st. kevin! are you sure there was no drowning in the lake?' 'you know it was blessed to drown no one after kathleen.' 'reassuring! only mind you put a chapter about it into the tour.' under the cover of these words he was gone. 'i declare there's some mystery about his companion!' exclaimed horatia. 'suppose it were calthorp himself?' 'owen is not so lost to respect for his sister.' 'but did you not see how little he was surprised, and how much preoccupied?' 'very likely; but no one but you could imagine him capable of such an outrage.' 'you have been crazy ever since you entered ireland, and expect every one else to be the same. seriously, what damage did you anticipate from a little civility?' 'if you begin upon that, i shall go out and finish my sketch, and not unpack one of the boxes.' nevertheless, lucilla spent much fretting guesswork on her cousin's surmise. she relied too much on owen's sense of propriety to entertain the idea that he could be forwarding a pursuit so obviously insolent, but a still wilder conjecture had been set afloat in her mind. could the nameless one be robert fulmort? though aware of the anonymous nature of brother's friends, the secrecy struck her as unusually guarded; and to one so used to devotion, it seemed no extraordinary homage that another admirer should be drawn along at a respectful distance, a satellite to her erratic course; nay, probably all had been concerted in woolstone-lane, and therewith the naughty girl crested her head, and prepared to take offence. after all, it could not be, or why should owen have been bent on returning, and be so independent of her? far more probably he had met a college friend or a westminster schoolfellow, some of whom were in regiments quartered in ireland, and on the morrow would bring him to do the lions of glendalough, among which might be reckoned the angel anglers! that possibility might have added some grains to the satisfaction of making a respectable toilette next day. certain it is that miss sandbrook's mountain costume was an exquisite feat of elaborate simplicity, and that the completion of her sketch was interrupted by many a backward look down the pass, and many a contradictory mood, sometimes boding almost as harsh a reception for robert as for mr. calthorp, sometimes relenting in the thrill of hope, sometimes accusing herself of arrant folly, and expecting as a _pis aller_ the diversion of dazzling and tormenting an oxonian, or a soldier or two! be the meeting what it might, she preferred that it should be out of horatia's sight, and so drew on and on to the detriment of her distances. positively it was past twelve, and the desire to be surprised unconcernedly occupied could no longer obviate her restlessness, so she packed up her hair-pencil, and, walking back to the inn, found rashe in solitary possession of the coffee-room. 'you have missed him, cilly.' 'owen? no one else?' 'no, not the calthorp; i am sorry for you.' 'but who was here? tell me, rashe.' 'owen, i tell you,' repeated horatia, playing with her impatience. 'tell me; i will know whether he has any one with him.' 'alack for your disappointment, for the waste of that blue bow; not a soul came here but himself.' 'and where is he? how did i miss him?' said lucilla, forcibly repressing the mortification for which her cousin was watching. 'gone. as i was not in travelling trim, and you not forthcoming, he could not wait; but we are to be off to-morrow at ten o'clock.' 'why did he not come out to find me? did you tell him i was close by?' 'he had to join his friend, and go to the vale of avoca. i've found out the man, cilla. no, don't look so much on the _qui vive_; it's only jack hastings!' 'jack hastings!' said lucilla, her looks fallen. 'no wonder he would not bring him here.' 'why not, poor fellow? i used to know him very well before he was up the spout.' 'i wish owen had not fallen in with him,' said the sister, gravely. 'are you certain it is so, rashe?' 'i taxed him with it, and he did not deny it; only put it from him, laughing. what's the harm? poor jack was always a good-natured, honourable fellow, uncommonly clever and amusing--a well-read man, too; and owen is safe enough--no one could try to borrow of him.' 'what would honor's feelings be?' said lucilla, with more fellow-feeling for her than for months past. lax as was the sister's tolerance, she was startled at his becoming the associate of an avowedly loose character under the stigma of the world, and with perilous abilities and agreeableness; and it was another of horatia's offences against proper feeling, not only to regard such evil communications with indifference, but absolutely to wish to be brought into contact with a person of this description in their present isolated state. displeased and uneasy, lucilla assumed the _role_ of petulance and quarrelsomeness for the rest of the day, and revenged herself to the best of her abilities upon rashe and owen, by refusing to go to inspect the scene of kathleen's fatal repulse. true to his appointment, owen arrived alone on a car chosen with all regard to horatia's comfort, and was most actively attentive in settling on it the ladies and their luggage, stretching himself out on the opposite side, his face raised to the clouds, as he whistled an air; but his eye was still restless, and his sister resolved on questioning him. opportunities were, however, rare; whether or not with the design of warding off a _tete-a-tete_, he devoted himself to his cousin's service in a manner rare to her since she had laid herself out to be treated as though her name were horace instead of horatia. however, lucilla was not the woman to be balked of a settled purpose; and at their hotel, at dublin, she nailed him fast by turning back on him when horatia bade them good night. 'well, what do you want?' he asked, annoyed. 'i want to speak to you.' 'i hope it is to beg me to write to ask honor to receive you at home, and promise to behave like a decent and respectable person.' 'i want neither a judge nor an intercessor in you.' 'come, lucy, it really would be for every one's good if you would go and take care of poor honor. you have been using her vilely, and i should think you'd had enough of rashe for one while.' 'if i have used her vilely, at least i have dealt openly by her,' said lucilla. 'she has always seen the worst of me on the surface. can you bear to talk of her when you know how you are treating her?' he coloured violently, and his furious gesture would have intimidated most sisters; but she stood her ground, and answered his stammering demand what she dared to imply. 'you may go into a passion, but you cannot hinder me from esteeming it shameful to make her mission a cover for associating with one whom she would regard with so much horror as jack hastings.' 'jack hastings!' cried owen, to her amazement, bursting into a fit of laughter, loud, long, and explosive. 'well done, rashe!' 'you told her so!' 'she told me so, and one does not contradict a lady.' 'something must have put it into her head.' 'only to be accounted for by an unrequited attachment,' laughed owen; 'depend on it, a comparison of dates would show hastings's incarceration to have been the epoch of rashe's taking to the high masculine line-- '"if e'er she loved, 'twas him alone who lived within the jug of stone."' 'for shame, owen; rashe never was in love.' but he went on laughing at rashe's disappointment at his solitary arrival till she said, tartly, 'you cannot wonder at our thinking you must have some reason for neither mentioning your companion's name nor bringing him with you.' 'in fact, no man not under a cloud could abstain from paying homage to the queen of the anglers.' it was so true as to raise an angry spot on her cheek, and provoke the hasty excuse, 'it would have been obvious to have brought your friend to see your cousin and sister.' 'one broken-backed, both unwashed! o, the sincerity of the resistance i overheard! no gentleman admitted, forsooth! o, for a lodge in some vast wilderness! yes; st. anthony would have found it a wilderness indeed without his temptations. what would st. dunstan have been minus the black gentleman's nose, or st. kevin but for kathleen? it was a fortunate interposition that calthorp turned up the day before i came, or i might have had to drag the lake for you.' this personal attack only made her persist. 'it was very different when we were alone or with you; you know very well that there could have been no objection.' 'no objection on your side, certainly, so i perceive; but suppose there were no desire on the other?' 'oh!' in a piqued voice, 'i know many men don't care for ladies' society, but i don't see why they should be nameless.' 'i thought you would deem such a name unworthy to be mentioned.' 'well, but who is the shy man? is it the little henniker, who used to look as if he would dive under the table when you brought him from westminster?' 'if i told you, you would remember it against the poor creature for life, as a deliberate insult and want of taste. good night.' he took his hat, and went out, leaving lucy balancing her guesses between ensign henniker and him whom she could not mention. her rejection of mr. calthorp might have occasioned the present secrecy, and she was content to leave herself the pleasant mystery, in the hope of having it dispelled by her last glance of kingstown quay. in that hope, she rocked herself to sleep, and next morning was so extra vivacious as to be a sore trial to poor rashe, in the anticipation of the _peine forte et dure_ of st. george's channel. owen was also in high spirits, but a pattern of consideration and kind attention, as he saw the ladies on board, and provided for their comfort, not leaving them till the last moment. lucilla's heart had beaten fast from the moment she had reached kingstown; she was keeping her hand free to wave a most encouraging kiss, and as her eye roamed over the heads upon the quay without a recognition, she felt absolutely baffled and cheated; and gloriously as the bay of dublin spread itself before her, she was conscious only of wrath and mortification, and of a bitter sense of dreariness and desertion. nobody cared for her, not even her brother! chapter ix my pride, that took fully easily all impressions from below, would not look up, or half despised the height to which i could not, or i would not climb. i thought i could not breathe in that fine air. _idylls of the king_ 'can you come and take a turn in the temple-gardens, phoebe?' asked robert, on the way from church, the day after owen's visit to woolstone-lane. phoebe rejoiced, for she had scarcely seen him since his return from castle blanch, and his state of mind was a mystery to her. it was long, however, before he afforded her any clue. he paced on, grave and abstracted, and they had many times gone up and down the least frequented path, before he abruptly said, 'i have asked mr. parsons to give me a title for holy orders.' 'i don't quite know what that means.' 'how simple you are, phoebe,' he said, impatiently; 'it means that st. wulstan's should be my first curacy. may my labours be accepted as an endeavour to atone for some of the evil we cause here.' 'dear robin! what did mr. parsons say? was he not very glad?' 'no; there lies the doubt.' 'doubt?' 'yes. he told me that he had engaged as many curates as he has means for. i answered that my stipend need be no consideration, for i only wished to spend on the parish, but he was not satisfied. many incumbents don't like to have curates of independent means; i believe it has an amateur appearance.' 'mr. parsons cannot think you would not be devoted.' 'i hope to convince him that i may be trusted. it is all that is left me now.' 'it will be very cruel to you, and to the poor people, if he will not,' said phoebe, warmly; 'what will papa and mervyn say?' 'i shall not mention it till all is settled; i have my father's consent to my choice of a profession, and i do not think myself bound to let him dictate my course as a minister. i owe a higher duty and if his business scatters the seeds of vice, surely "obedience in the lord" should not prevent me from trying to counteract them.' it was a case of conscience to be only judged by himself, and where even a sister like phoebe could do little but hope for the best, so she expressed a cheerful hope that her father must know that it was right, and that he would care less now that he was away, and pleased with augusta's prospects. 'yes,' said robert, 'he already thinks me such a fool, that it may be indifferent to him in what particular manner i act it out.' 'and how does it stand with mr. parsons?' 'he will give me an answer to-morrow evening, provided i continue in the same mind. there is no chance of my not doing so. my time of suspense is over!' and the words absolutely sounded like relief, though the set stern face, and the long breaths at each pause told another tale. 'i did not think she would really have gone!' said phoebe. 'this once, and we will mention her no more. it is not merely this expedition, but all i saw at wrapworth convinced me that i should risk my faithfulness to my calling by connecting myself with one who, with all her loveliness and generosity, lives upon excitement. she is the very light of poor prendergast's eyes, and he cannot endure to say a word in her dispraise; she is constantly doing acts of kindness in his parish, and is much beloved there, yet he could not conceal how much trouble she gives him by her want of judgment and wilfulness; patronizing and forgetting capriciously, and attending to no remonstrance. you saw yourself the treatment of that schoolmistress. i thought the more of this, because prendergast is so fond of her, and does her full justice. no; her very aspect proves that a parish priest has no business to think of her.' large tears swelled in phoebe's eyes. the first vision of her youth was melting away, and she detected no relenting in his grave resolute voice. 'shall you tell her?' was all she could say. 'that is the question. at one time she gave me reason to think that she accepted a claim to be considered in my plans, and understood what i never concealed. latterly she has appeared to withdraw all encouragement, to reject every advance, and yet-- phoebe, tell me whether she has given you any reason to suppose that she ever was in earnest with me?' 'i know she respects and likes you better than any one, and speaks of you like no one else,' said phoebe; then pausing, and speaking more diffidently, though with a smile, 'i think she looks up to you so much, that she is afraid to put herself in your power, for fear she should be made to give up her odd ways in spite of herself, and yet that she has no notion of losing you. did you see her face at the station?' 'i would not! i could not meet her eyes! i snatched my hand from the little clinging fingers;' and robert's voice almost became a gasp. 'it was not fit that the spell should be renewed. she would be miserable, i under constant temptation, if i endeavoured to make her share my work! best as it is! she has so cast me off that my honour is no longer bound to her; but i cannot tell whether it be due to her to let her know how it is with me, or whether it would be mere coxcombry.' 'the sunday that she spent here,' said phoebe, slowly, 'she had a talk with me. i wrote it down. miss fennimore says it is the safest way--' 'where is it?' cried robert. 'i kept it in my pocket-book, for fear any one should see it, and it should do harm. here it is, if it will help you. i am afraid i made things worse, but i did not know what to say.' it was one of the boldest experiments ever made by a sister; for what man could brook the sight of an unvarnished statement of his proxy's pleading, or help imputing the failure to the go-between? 'i would not have had this happen for a thousand pounds!' was his acknowledgment. 'child as you are, phoebe, had you not sense to know, that no woman could endure to have that said, which should scarcely be implied? i wonder no longer at her studied avoidance.' 'if it be all my bad management, cannot it be set right?' humbly and hopefully said phoebe. 'there is no right!' he said. 'there, take it back. it settles the question. the security you childishly showed, was treated as offensive presumption on my part. it would be presuming yet farther to make a formal withdrawal of what was never accepted.' 'then is it my doing? have i made mischief between you, and put you apart?' said poor phoebe, in great distress. 'can't i make up for it?' 'you? no, you were only an over plain-spoken child, and brought about the crisis that must have come somehow. it is not what you have done, or not done; it is what lucy sandbrook has said and done, shows that i must have done with her for ever.' 'and yet,' said phoebe, taking this as forgiveness, 'you see she never believed that you would give her up. if she did, i am sure she would not have gone.' 'she thinks her power over me stronger than my principles. she challenges me--desires you to tell me so. we shall see.' he spoke as a man whose steadfastness had been defied, and who was piqued on proving it to the utmost. such feelings may savour of the wrath of man, they may need the purifying of chastening, and they often impel far beyond the bounds of sober judgment; but no doubt they likewise frequently render that easy which would otherwise have appeared impossible, and which, if done in haste, may be regretted, but not repented, at leisure. under some circumstances, the harshness of youth is a healthy symptom, proving force of character and conviction, though that is only when the foremost victim is self. robert was far from perfect, and it might be doubted whether he were entering the right track in the right way, but at least his heart was sound, and there was a fair hope that his failings, in working their punishment, might work their cure. it was in a thorough brotherly and christian spirit that before entering the house he compelled himself to say, 'don't vex yourself, phoebe, i know you did the best you could. it made no real difference, and it was best that she should know the truth.' 'thank you, dear robin,' cried phoebe, grateful for the consolation; 'i am glad you do not think i misrepresented.' 'you are always accurate,' he answered. 'if you did anything undesirable, it was representing at all. but that is nothing to the purpose. it is all over now, and thank you for your constant good-will and patience, my dear. there! now then it is an understood thing that her name is never spoken between us.' meanwhile, robert's proposal was under discussion by the elders. mr. parsons had no abstract dread of a wealthy curate, but he hesitated to accept gratuitous services, and distrusted plans formed under the impulse of disappointment or of enthusiasm, since in the event of a change, both parties might be embarrassed. there was danger too of collisions with his family, and mr. parsons took counsel with miss charlecote, knowing indeed that where her affections were concerned, her opinions must be taken with a qualification, but relying on the good sense formed by rectitude of purpose. honor's affection for robert fulmort had always been moderated by owen's antagonism; her moderation in superlatives commanded implicit credence, and mr. parsons inferred more, instead of less, than she expressed; better able as he was to estimate that manly character, gaining force with growth, and though slow to discern between good and evil, always firm to the duty when it was once perceived, and thus rising with the elevation of the standard. the undemonstrative temper and tardiness in adopting extra habits of religious observance and profession, which had disappointed honor, struck the clergyman as evidences both of sincerity and evenness of development, proving the sterling reality of what had been attained. 'not taking, but trusty,' judged the vicar. but the lad was an angry lover. how tantalizing to be offered a fourth curate, with a long purse, only to find st. wulstan's serving as an outlet for a lover's quarrel, and the youth restless and restive ere the end of his diaconate! 'how savage you are,' said his wife; 'as if the parish would be hurt by his help or his presence. if he goes, let him go--some other help will come.' 'and don't deprive him of the advantage of a good master,' said honor. 'this wretched cure is not worth flattery,' he said, smiling. 'nay,' said mrs. parsons, 'how often have i heard you rejoice that you started here.' 'under mr. charlecote--yes.' 'you are the depository of his traditions,' said honor, 'hand them on to robert. i wish nothing better for owen.' mr. parsons wished something better for himself, and averted a reply, by speaking of robert as accepted. robert's next request was to be made useful in the parish, while preparing for his ordination in the autumn ember week; and though there were demurs as to unnecessarily anticipating the strain on health and strength, he obtained his wish in mercy to a state only to be alleviated by the realities of labour. so few difficulties were started by his family, that honora suspected that mr. fulmort, always chiefly occupied by what was immediately before him, hardly realized that by taking an assistant curacy at st. wulstan's, his son became one of the pastors of whittington-streets, great and little, richard-courts, cicely-row, alice-lane, cat-alley, and turnagain-corner. scarcely, however, was this settled, when a despatch arrived from dublin, headed, 'the fast fly fishers; or the modern st. kevin,' containing in ingoldsby legend-like rhymes the entire narration of the glendalough predicament of the 'fast and fair,' and concluding with a piece of prose, by the same author, assuring his sweet honey, that the poem, though strange, was true, that he had just seen the angelic anglers on board the steamer, and it would not be for lack of good advice on his part, if lucy did not present herself at woolstone-lane, to partake of the dish called humble pie, on the derivation whereof antiquaries were divided. half amused, half vexed by his levity, and wholly relieved and hopeful, honora could not help showing owen's performance to phoebe for the sake of its cleverness; but she found the child too young and simple to enter into it, for the whole effect was an entreaty that robert might not see it, only hear the facts. rather annoyed by this want of appreciation of owen's wit, honora saw, nevertheless, that phoebe had come to a right conclusion. the breach was not likely to be diminished by finding that the wilful girl had exposed herself to ridicule, and the fulmort nature had so little sense of the ludicrous, that this good-natured brotherly satire would be taken for mere derision. so honor left it to phoebe to give her own version, only wishing that the catastrophe had come to his knowledge before his arrangements had been made with mr. parsons. phoebe had some difficulty in telling her story. robert at first silenced her peremptorily, but after ten minutes relented, and said, moodily, 'well, let me hear!' he listened without relaxing a muscle of his rigid countenance; and when phoebe ended by saying that miss charlecote had ordered lucy's room to be prepared, thinking that she might present herself at any moment, he said, 'take care that you warn me when she comes. i shall leave town that minute.' 'robert, robert, if she come home grieved and knowing better--' 'i will not see her!' he repeated. 'i made her taking this journey the test! the result is nothing to me! phoebe, i trust to you that no intended good-nature of miss charlecote's should bring us together. promise me.' phoebe could do nothing but promise, and not another sentence could she obtain from her brother, indeed his face looked so formidable in its sternness, that she would have been a bold maiden to have tried. honora augured truly, that not only was his stern nature deeply offended, but that he was quite as much in dread of coming under the power of lucy's fascinations, as cilla had ever been of his strength. such mutual aversion was really a token of the force of influence upon each, and honor assured phoebe that all would come right. 'let her only come home and be good, and you will see, phoebe! she will not be the worse for an alarm, nor even for waiting till after his two years at st. wulstan's.' the reception of the travellers at castle blanch was certainly not mortifying by creating any excitement. charles charteris said his worst in the words, 'one week!' and his wife was glad to have some one to write her notes. this indifference fretted lucy. she found herself loathing the perfumy rooms, the sleepy voice, and hardly able to sit still in her restless impatience of lolly's platitudes and charles's _insouciance_, while rashe could never be liked again. even a lecture from honor charlecote would have been infinitely preferable, and one grim look of robert's would be bliss! no one knew whether miss charlecote were still in town, nor whether augusta fulmort were to be married in england or abroad; and as to miss murrell, lolly languidly wondered what it was that she had heard. hungering for some one whom she could trust, lucilla took an early breakfast in her own room, and walked to wrapworth, hoping to catch the curate lingering over his coffee and letters. from a distance, however, she espied his form disappearing in the school-porch, and approaching, heard his voice reading prayers, and the children's chanted response. coming to the oriel, she looked in. there were the rows of shiny heads, fair, brown, and black; there were the long sable back and chopped-hay locks of the curate; but where a queen-like figure had of old been wont to preside, she beheld a tallow face, with sandy hair under the most precise of net caps, and a straight thread-paper shape in scanty gray stuff and white apron. dizzy with wrathful consternation, cilla threw herself on one of the seats of the porch, shaking her foot, and biting her lip, frantic to know the truth, yet too much incensed to enter, even when the hum of united voices ceased, the rushing sound of rising was over, and measured footsteps pattered to the classes, where the manly interrogations sounded alternately with the shrill little answers. clump, clump, came the heavy feet of a laggard, her head bent over her book, her thick lips vainly conning the unlearned task, unaware of the presence of the young lady, till lucilla touched her, saying, 'what, martha, a ten o'clock scholar?' she gave a little cry, opened her staring eyes, and dropped a curtsey. 'whom have you here for mistress?' asked lucilla. 'please, ma'am, governess is runned away.' 'what do you mean?' 'yes, ma'am,' replied the girl, developing powers of volubility such as scholastic relations with her had left unsuspected. 'she ran away last saturday was a week, and there was nobody to open the school when we came to it a sunday morning; and we had holidays all last week, ma'am; and mother was terrified { } out of her life; and father, he said he wouldn't have me never go for to do no such thing, and that he didn't want no fine ladies, as was always spiting of me.' 'every one will seem to spite you, if you keep no better hours,' said lucy, little edified by martha's virtuous indignation. the girl had scarcely entered the school before the clergyman stood on the threshold, and was seized by both hands, with the words, 'oh, mr. prendergast, what is this?' 'you here, cilla? what's the matter? what has brought you back?' 'had you not heard? a sprain of ratia's, and other things. never mind. what's all this?' 'ah! i knew you would be sadly grieved!' 'so you did frighten her away!' 'i never meant it. i tried to act for the best. she was spoken to, by myself and others, but nobody could make any impression, and we could only give her notice to go at the harvest holidays. she took it with her usual grand air--' 'which is really misery and despair. oh, why did i go? go on!' 'i wrote to the mother, advising her, if possible, to come and be with the girl till the holidays. that was on thursday week, and the old woman promised to come on the monday--wrote a very proper letter, allowing for the methodistical phrases--but on the saturday it was observed that the house was not opened, and on sunday morning i got a note--if you'll come in i'll show it to you.' he presently discovered it among multitudinous other papers on his chimney-piece. within a lady-like envelope was a thick satin-paper, queen's-sized note, containing these words: 'reverend sir,--it is with the deepest feelings of regret for the unsatisfactory appearance of my late conduct that i venture to address you, but time will enable me to account for all, and i can at the present moment only entreat you to pardon any inconvenience i may have occasioned by the precipitancy of my departure. credit me, reverend and dear sir, it was only the law of necessity that could have compelled me to act in a manner that may appear questionable. your feeling heart will excuse my reserve when you are informed of the whole. in the meantime, i am only permitted to mention that this morning i became a happy wife. with heartfelt thanks for all the kindness i have received, i remain, 'reverend sir, 'your obedient servant, 'edna.' 'not one message to me?' exclaimed lucilla. 'her not having had the impudence is the only redeeming thing!' 'i did not think she would have left no word for me,' said lucy, who knew she had been kinder than her wont, and was really wounded. 'happy wife! who can it be?' 'happy wife?' repeated the curate. 'it is miserable fool, most likely, by this time.' 'no surname signed! what's the post-mark? only charing-cross. could you find out nothing, or did you not think it worth while to look?' 'what do you take me for, cilla? i inquired at the station, but she had not been there, and on the monday i went to london and saw the mother, who was in great distress, for she had had a letter much like mine, only more unsatisfactory, throwing out absurd hints about grandeur and prosperity--poor deluded simpleton!' 'she distinctly says she is married.' 'yes, but she gives no name nor place. what's that worth? after such duplicity as she has been practising so long, i don't know how to take her statement. those people are pleased to talk of a marriage in the sight of heaven, when they mean the devil's own work!' 'no, no! i will not think it!' 'then don't, my dear. you were very young and innocent, and thought no harm.' 'i'm not young--i'm not innocent!' furiously said cilly. 'tell me downright all you suspect.' 'i'm not given to suspecting,' said the poor clergyman, half in deprecation, half in reproof; 'but i am afraid it is a bad business. if she had married a servant or any one in her own rank, there would have been no need of concealing the name, at least from her mother. i feared at first that it was one of your cousin charles's friends, but there seems more reason to suppose that one of the musical people at your concert at the castle may have thought her voice a good speculation for the stage.' 'he would marry her to secure her gains.' 'if so, why the secrecy?' 'mrs. jenkins has taught you to make it as bad as possible,' burst out lucy. 'o, why was not i at home? is it too late to trace her and proclaim her innocence!' 'i was wishing for your help. i went to mr. charteris to ask who the performers were, but he knew nothing about them, and said you and his sister had managed it all.' 'the director was derval. he is fairly respectable, at least i know nothing to the contrary. i'll make charlie write. there was an italian, with a black beard and a bass voice, whom we have had several times. i saw him looking at her. just tell me what sort of woman is the mother. she lets lodgings, does not she?' 'yes, in little whittington-street.' 'dear me! i trust she is no friend of honor charlecote's.' 'out of her beat, i should think. she dissents.' 'what a blessing! i beg your pardon, but if anything could be an aggravation, it would be honor charlecote's moralities.' 'so you were not aware of the dissent?' 'and you are going to set that down as more deceit, as if it were the poor thing's business to denounce her mother. now, to show you that i can be sure that edna was brought up to the church, i will tell you her antecedents. her father was sir thomas deane's butler; they lived in the village, and she was very much in the nursery with the miss deanes--had some lessons from the governess. there was some notion of making her a nursery governess, but sir thomas died, the ladies went abroad, taking her father with them; edna was sent to a training school, and the mother went to live in the city with a relation who let lodgings, and who has since died, leaving the concern to mrs. murrell, whose husband was killed by an upset of the carriage on the alps.' 'i heard all that, and plenty besides! poor woman, she was in such distress that one could not but let her pour it all out, but i declare the din rang in my ears the whole night after. a very nice, respectable-looking body she was, with jet-black eyes like diamonds, and a rosy, countrified complexion, quite a treat to see in that grimy place, her widow's cap as white as snow, but oh, such a tongue! she would give me all her spiritual experiences--how she was converted by an awakening minister in cat-alley, and yet had a great respect for such ministers of the church as fed their flocks with sincere milk, mixed up with the biography of all the shopmen and clerks who ever lodged there, and to whom she acted as a mother!' 'it was not their fault that she did not act as a mother-in-law. edna has told me of the unpleasantness of being at home on account of the young men.' 'exactly! i was spared none of the chances she might have had, but the only thing worthy of note was about a cashier who surreptitiously brought a friend from the "hopera," to overhear her singing hymns on the sunday evening, and thus led to an offer on his part to have her brought out on the stage.' 'ha! could that have come to anything?' 'no. mrs. murrell's suspicions took that direction, and we hunted down the cashier and the friend, but they were quite exonerated. it only proves that her voice has an unfortunate value.' 'if she be gone off with the italian bass, i can't say i think it a fatal sign that she was slow to present him to her domestic mause headrigg, who no doubt would deliberately prefer the boards of her coffin to the boards of the theatre. well, come along--we will get a letter from charles, and rescue her--i mean, clear her.' 'won't you look into school, and see how we go on? the women complained so much of having their children on their hands, though i am sure they had sent them to school seldom enough of late, that i got this young woman from mrs. stuart's asylum till the holidays. i think we shall let her stay on, she has a good deal of method, and all seem pleased with the change.' 'you have your wish of a fright. no, i thank you! i'm not so glad as the rest of you to get rid of refinement and superiority.' there was no answer, and more touched by silence than reply, she hastily said, 'never mind! i dare say she may do better for the children, but you know, i, who am hard of caring for any one, did care for poor edna, and i can't stand paeans over your new broom.' mr. prendergast gave a smile such as was only evoked by his late rector's little daughter, and answered, 'no one can be more concerned than i. she was not in her place here, that was certain, and i ought to have minded that she was not thrust into temptation. i shall remember it with shame to my dying day.' 'which means to say that so should i.' 'no, you did not know so much of the evils of the world.' 'i told you before, mr. pendy, that i am twenty times more sophisticated than you are. you talk of knowing the world! i wish i didn't. i'm tired of everybody.' and on the way home she described her expedition, and had the pleasure of the curate's sympathy, if not his entire approval. perhaps there was no other being whom she so thoroughly treated as a friend, actually like a woman friend, chiefly because he thoroughly believed in her, and was very blind to her faults. robert would have given worlds to have found her _once_ what mr. prendergast found her _always_. she left him to wait in the drawing-room, while she went on her mission, but presently rushed back in a fury. nobody cared a straw for the catastrophe. lolly begged her not to be so excited about a trifle, it made her quite nervous; and the others laughed at her; rashe pretended to think it a fine chance to have changed 'the life of an early christian' for the triumphs of the stage; and charles scouted the idea of writing to the man's employer. 'he call derval to account for all the tricks of his fiddlers and singers? much obliged!' mr. prendergast decided on going to town by the next train, to make inquiries of derval himself, without further loss of time, and cilly declared that she would go with him and force the conceited professor to attend; but the curate, who had never found any difficulty in enforcing his own dignity, and thought it no business for a young lady, declined her company, unless, he said, she were to spend the day with miss charlecote. 'i've a great mind to go to her for good and all. let her fall upon me for all and sundry. it will do me good to hear a decent woman speak again! besides, poor old soul, she will be so highly gratified, that she will be quite meek' (and so will some one else, quoth the perverse little heart); 'i'll put up a few things, and not delay you.' 'this is very sudden!' said the curate, wishing to keep the peace between her and her friends, and not willing that his sunbeam should fleet 'so like the borealis race!' 'will it not annoy your cousins?' 'they ought to be annoyed!' 'and are you certain that you would find miss charlecote in town? i thought her stay was to be short.' 'i'm certain of nothing, but that every place is detestable.' 'what would you do if you did not find her?' 'go on to euston-square. do you think i don't know my way to hiltonbury, or that i should not get welcome enough--ay, and too much--there?' 'then if you are so uncertain of her movements, do you not think you had better let me learn them before you start? she might not even be gone home, and you would not like to come back here again; if--' 'like a dog that has been out hunting,' said lucilla, who could bear opposition from this quarter as from no other. 'you won't take the responsibility, that's the fact. well, you may go and reconnoitre, if you will; but mind, if you say one word of what brings you to town, i shall never go near the holt at all. to hear--whenever the raymonds, or any other of the godly school-keeping sort come to dinner--of the direful effects of certificated schoolmistresses, would drive me to such distraction that i cannot answer for the consequences.' 'i am sure it is not a fact to proclaim.' 'ah! but if you run against mr. parsons, you'll never abstain from telling him of his stray lamb, nor from condoling with him upon the wolf in cat-alley. now there's a fair hope of his having more on his hands than to get his fingers scratched by meddling with the cats, and so that this may remain unknown. so consider yourself sworn to secrecy.' mr. prendergast promised. the good man was a bit of a gossip, so perhaps her precaution was not thrown away, for he could hardly have helped seeking the sympathy of a brother pastor, especially of him to whose fold the wanderer primarily belonged. nor did lucy feel certain of not telling the whole herself in some unguarded moment of confidence. all she cared for was, that the story should not transpire through some other source, and be brandished over her head as an illustration of all the maxims that she had so often spurned. she ran after mr. prendergast after he had taken leave, to warn him against calling in woolstone-lane, and desired him instead to go to masters's shop, where it was sure to be known whether miss charlecote were in town or not. mr. prendergast secretly did grateful honour to the consideration that would not let him plod all the weary way into the city. little did he guess that it was one part mistrust of his silence, and three parts reviving pride, which forbade that honora should know that he had received any such commission. the day was spent in pleasant anticipations of the gratitude and satisfaction that would be excited by her magnanimous return, and her pardon to honor and to robert for having been in the right. she knew she could own it so graciously that robert would be overpowered with compunction, and for ever beholden to her; and now that the charterises were so unmitigatedly hateful, it was time to lay herself out for goodness, and fling him the rein, with only now and then a jerk to remind him that she was a free agent. a long-talked-of journey on the continent was to come to pass as soon as horatia's strain was well. in spite of wealth and splendour, eloisa had found herself disappointed in the step that she had hoped her marriage would give her into the most _elite_ circles. languid and indolent as her mind was, she could not but perceive that where ratia was intimate and at ease, she continued on terms of form and ceremony, and her husband felt more keenly that the society in his house was not what it had been in his mother's time. they both became restless, and lolly, who had already lived much abroad, dreaded the dulness of an english winter in the country; while charles knew that he had already spent more than he liked to recollect, and that the only means of keeping her contented at castle blanch, would be to continue most ruinous expenses. with all these secret motives, the tour was projected as a scheme of amusement, and the details were discussed between charles and rashe with great animation, making the soberness of hiltonbury appear both tedious and sombre, though all the time lucy felt that there she should again meet that which her heart both feared and yearned for, and without which these pleasures would be but shadows of enjoyment. yet that they were not including her in their party, gave her a sense of angry neglect and impatience. she wanted to reject their invitation indignantly, and make a merit of the sacrifice. the after-dinner discussion was in full progress when she was called out to speak to mr. prendergast. heated, wearied, and choking with dust, he would not come beyond the hall, but before going home he had walked all this distance to tell her the result of his expedition. derval had not been uncivil, but evidently thought the suspicion an affront to his _corps_, which at present was dispersed by the end of the season. the italian bass was a married man, and had returned to his own country. the clue had failed. the poor leaf must be left to drift upon unknown winds. 'but,' said the curate, by way of compensation, 'at masters's i found miss charlecote herself, and gave your message.' 'i gave no message.' 'no, no, because you would not send me up into the city; but i told her all you would have had me say, and how nearly you had come up with me, only i would not let you, for fear she should have left town.' cilla's face did not conceal her annoyance, but not understanding her in the least, he continued, 'i'm sure no one could speak more kindly or considerately than she did. her eyes filled with tears, and she must be heartily fond of you at the bottom, though maybe rather injudicious and strict; but after what i told her, you need have no fears.' 'did you ever know me have any?' 'ah well! you don't like the word; but at any rate she thinks you behaved with great spirit and discretion under the circumstances, and quite overlooks any little imprudence. she hopes to see you the day after to-morrow, and will write and tell you so.' perhaps no intentional slander ever gave the object greater annoyance than cilly experienced on learning that the good curate had, in the innocence of his heart, represented her as in a state of proper feeling, and interceded for her; and it was all the worse because it was impossible to her to damp his kind satisfaction, otherwise than by a brief 'thank you,' the tone of which he did not comprehend. 'was she alone?' she asked. 'didn't i tell you the young lady was with her, and the brother?' 'robert fulmort!' and cilla's heart sank at finding that it could not have been he who had been with owen. 'ay, the young fellow that slept at my house. he has taken a curacy at st. wulstan's.' 'did he tell you so?' with an ill-concealed start of consternation. 'not he; lads have strange manners. i should have thought after the terms we were upon here, he need not have been quite so much absorbed in his book as never to speak!' 'he has plenty in him instead of manners,' said lucilla; 'but i'll take him in hand for it.' though lucilla's instinct of defence had spoken up for robert, she felt hurt at his treatment of her old friend, and could only excuse it by a strong fit of conscious moodiness. his taking the curacy was only explicable, she thought, as a mode of showing his displeasure with herself, since he could not ask her to marry into whittingtonia; but 'that must be all nonsense,' thought she; 'i will soon have him down off his high horse, and mr. parsons will never keep him to his engagement--silly fellow to have made it--or if he does, i shall only have the longer to plague him. it will do him good. let me see! he will come down to-morrow with honora's note. i'll put on my lilac muslin with the innocent little frill, and do my hair under his favourite net, and look like such a horrid little meek ringdove that he will be perfectly disgusted with himself for having ever taken me for a fishing eagle. he will be abject, and i'll be generous, and not give another peck till it has grown intolerably stupid to go on being good, or till he presumes.' for the first time for many days, lucilla awoke with the impression that something pleasant was about to befall her, and her wild heart was in a state of glad flutter as she donned the quiet dress, and found that the subdued colouring and graver style rendered her more softly lovely than she had ever seen herself. the letters were on the breakfast-table when she came down, the earliest as usual, and one was from honor charlecote, the first sight striking her with vexation, as discomfiting her hopes that it would come by a welcome bearer. yet that might be no reason why he should not yet run down. she tore it open. 'my dearest lucy,--until i met mr. prendergast yesterday, i was not sure that you had actually returned, or i would not have delayed an hour in assuring you, if you could doubt it, that my pardon is ever ready for you.' ('many thanks,' was the muttered comment. 'oh that poor, dear, stupid man! would that i had stopped his mouth!') 'i never doubted that your refinement and sense of propriety would be revolted at the consequences of what i always saw to be mere thoughtlessness--' ('dearly beloved of an old maid is, i told you so!') '--but i am delighted to hear that my dear child showed so much true delicacy and dignity in her trying predicament--' ('delighted to find her dear child not absolutely lost to decorum! thanks again.') '--and i console myself for the pain it has given by the trust that experience has proved a better teacher than precept.' ('where did she find that grand sentence?') 'so that good may result from past evil and present suffering, and that you may have learnt to distrust those who would lead you to disregard the dictates of your own better sense.' ('meaning her own self!') 'i have said all this by letter that we may cast aside all that is painful when we meet, and only to feel that i am welcoming my child, doubly dear, because she comes owning her error.' ('i dare say! we like to be magnanimous, don't we? oh, mr. prendergast, i could beat you!') 'our first kiss shall seal your pardon, dearest, and not a word shall pass to remind you of this distressing page in your history.' ('distressing! excellent fun it was. i shall make her hear my diary, if i persuade myself to encounter this intolerable kiss of peace. it will be a mercy if i don't serve her as the thief in the fable did his mother when he was going to be hanged.') 'i will meet you at the station by any train on saturday that you like to appoint, and early next week we will go down to what i am sure you have felt is your only true home.' ('have i? oh! she has heard of their journey, and thinks this my only alternative. as if i could not go with them if i chose--i wish they would ask me, though. they shall! i'll not be driven up to the holt as my last resource, and live there under a system of mild browbeating, because i can't help it. no, no! robin shall find it takes a vast deal of persuasion to bend me to swallow so much pardon in milk and water. i wonder if there's time to change the spooney simplicity, and come out in something spicy, with a dash of the bloomer. but, maybe, there's some news of him in the other sheet, now she has delivered her conscience of her rigmarole. oh! here it is--') 'phoebe will go home with us, as she is, according to the family system, not summoned to her sister's wedding. robert leaves london on saturday morning, to fetch his books, &c., from oxford, mr. parsons having consented to give him a title for holy orders, and to let him assist in the parish until the next ember week. i think, dear girl, that it should not be concealed from you that this step was taken as soon as he heard that you had actually sailed for ireland, and that he does not intend to return until we are in the country.' ('does he not? another act of coercion! i suppose you put him up to this, madam, as a pleasing course of discipline. you think you have the whip-hand of me, do you? pooh! see if he'll stay at oxford!') 'i feel for the grief i'm inflicting--' ('oh, so you complacently think, "now i have made her sorry!"') '--but i believe uncertainty, waiting, and heart sickness would cost you far more. trust me, as one who has felt it, that it is far better to feel oneself unworthy than to learn to doubt or distrust the worthiness or constancy of another.' ('my father to wit! a pretty thing to say to his daughter! what right has she to be pining and complaining after him? he, the unworthy one? i'll never forgive that conceited inference! just because he could not stand sentiment! master robert gone! won't i soon have him repenting of his outbreak?') 'i have no doubt that his feelings are unchanged, and that he is solely influenced by principle. he is evidently exceedingly unhappy under all his reserve--' ('he shall be more so, till he behaves himself, and comes back humble! i've no notion of his flying out in this way.') '--and though i have not exchanged a word with him on the subject, i am certain that his good opinion will be retrieved, with infinite joy to himself, as soon as you make it possible for his judgment to be satisfied with your conduct and sentiments. grieved as i am, it is with a hopeful sorrow, for i am sure that nothing is wanting on your part but that consistency and sobriety of behaviour of which you have newly learnt the necessity on other grounds. the parsonses have gone to their own house, so you will not find any one here but two who will feel for you in silence, and we shall soon be in the quiet of the holt, where you shall have all that can give you peace or comfort from your ever-loving old h. c.' 'feel for me! never! don't you wish you may get it? teach the catechism and feed caterpillars till such time as it pleases mrs. honor to write up and say "the specimen is tame"? how nice! no, no. i'll not be frightened into their lording it over me! i know a better way! let mr. robert find out how little i care, and get himself heartily sick of st. wulstan's, till it is "turn again whittington indeed!" poor fellow, i hate it, but he must be cured of his airs, and have a good fright. why don't they ask me to go to paris with them? where can i go, if they don't. to mary cranford's? stupid place, but i _will_ show that i'm not so hard up as to have no place but the holt to go to! if it were only possible to stay with mr. prendergast, it would be best of all! can't i tell him to catch a chaperon for me? then he would think honor a regular dragon, which would be a shame, for it was nobody's fault but his! i shall tell him i'm like the christian religion, for which people are always making apologies that it doesn't want! two years! patience! it will be very good for robin, and four-and-twenty is quite soon enough to bite off one's wings, and found an ant-hill. as to being bullied into being kissed, pitied, pardoned, and trained by honor, i'll never sink so low! no, at _no_ price.' poor mr. prendergast! did ever a more innocent mischief-maker exist? poor honora! little did she guess that the letter written in such love, such sympathy, such longing hope, would only excite fierce rebellion. yet it was at the words of moses that the king's heart was hardened; and what was the end? he was taken at his word. 'thou shalt see my face no more.' to be asked to join the party on their tour had become lucilla's prime desire, if only that she might not feel neglected, or driven back to hiltonbury by absolute necessity; and when the husband and wife came down, the wish was uppermost in her mind. eloisa remarked on her quiet style of dress, and observed that it would be quite the thing in paris, where people were so much less _outre_ than here. 'i have nothing to do with paris.' 'oh! surely you go with us!' said eloisa; 'i like to take you out, because you are in so different a style of beauty, and you talk and save one trouble! will not she go, charles?' 'you see, lolly wants you for effect!' he said, sneeringly. 'but you are always welcome, cilly; we are woefully slow when you ain't there to keep us going, and i should like to show you a thing or two. i only did not ask you, because i thought you had not hit it off with rashe, or have you made it up?' 'oh! rashe and i understand each other,' said cilly, secure that though she would never treat rashe with her former confidence, yet as long as they travelled _en grand seigneur_, there was no fear of collisions of temper. 'rashe is a good creature,' said lolly, 'but she is so fast and so eccentric that i like to have you, cilly; you look so much younger, and more ladylike.' 'one thing more,' said charles, in his character of head of the family; 'shouldn't you look up miss charlecote, cilly? there's owen straining the leash pretty hard, and you must look about you, that she does not take up with these new pets of hers and cheat you.' 'the fulmorts? stuff! they have more already than they know what to do with.' 'the very reason she will leave them the more. i declare, cilly,' he added, half in jest, half in earnest, 'the only security for you and owen is in a double marriage. perhaps she projects it. you fire up as if she had!' 'if she had, do you think that i should go back?' said cilly, trying to answer lightly, though her cheeks were in a flame. 'no, no, i am not going to let slip a chance of paris.' she stopped short, dismayed at having committed herself, and horatia coming down, was told by acclamation that cilly was going. 'of course she is,' said forgiving and forgetting rashe. 'little cilly left behind, to serve for food to the rouge dragon? no, no! i should have no fun in life without her.' rashe forgot the past far more easily that cilla could ever do. there was a certain guilty delight in writing-- 'my dear honor,--many thanks for your letter, and intended kindnesses. the scene must, however, be deferred, as my cousins mean to winter at paris, and i can't resist the chance of hooking a marshal, or a prince or two. rashe's strain was a great sell but we had capital fun, and shall hope for more success another season. i would send you my diary if it were written out fair. we go so soon that i can't run up to london, so i hope no one will be disturbed on my account. 'your affectionate cilly.' no need to say how often lucilla would have liked to have recalled that note for addition or diminution, how many misgivings she suffered on her peculiar mode of catching robins, how frequent were her disgusts with her cousin, and how often she felt like a captive--the captive of her own self-will. 'that's right!' said horatia to lolly. 'i was mortally afraid she would stay at home to fall a prey to the incipient parson, but now he is choked off, and calthorp is really in earnest, we shall have the dear little morsel doing well yet.' chapter x o ye, who never knew the joys of friendship, satisfied with noise, fandango, ball, and rout, blush, when i tell you how a bird a prison, with a friend, preferred, to liberty without.--cowper had lucilla sandbrook realized the effect of her note, she would never have dashed it off; but, like all heedless people, pain out of her immediate ken was nothing to her. after the loving hopes raised by the curate's report, and after her own tender and forgiving letter, honor was pierced to the quick by the scornful levity of those few lines. of the ingratitude to herself she thought but little in comparison with the heartless contempt towards robert, and the miserable light-mindedness that it manifested. 'my poor, poor child!' was all she said, as she saw phoebe looking with terror at her countenance; 'yes, there is an end of it. let robert never vex himself about her again.' phoebe took up the note, read it over and over again, and then said low and gravely, 'it is very cruel.' 'poor child, she was born to the charteris nature, and cannot help it! like seeks like, and with paris before her, she can see and feel nothing else.' phoebe vaguely suspected that there might be a shadow of injustice in this conclusion. she knew that miss charlecote imagined lucilla to be more frivolous than was the case, and surmised that there was more offended pride than mere levity in the letter. insight into character is a natural, not an acquired endowment; and many of poor honor's troubles had been caused by her deficiency in that which was intuitive to phoebe, though far from consciously. that perception made her stand thoughtful, wondering whether what the letter betrayed were folly or temper, and whether, like miss charlecote, she ought altogether to quench her indignation in contemptuous pity. 'there, my dear,' said honor, recovering herself, after having sat with ashy face and clasped hands for many moments. 'it will not bear to be spoken or thought of. let us go to something else. only, phoebe, my child, do not leave her out of your prayers.' phoebe clung about her neck, kissed and fondled her, and felt her cheeks wet with tears, in the passionate tenderness of the returning caress. the resolve was kept of not going back to the subject, but honora went about all day with a soft, tardy step, and subdued voice, like one who has stood beside a death-bed. when phoebe heard those stricken tones striving to be cheerful, she could not find pardon for the wrong that had not been done to herself. she dreaded telling robert that no one was coming whom he need avoid, though without dwelling on the tone of the refusal. to her surprise, he heard her short, matter-of-fact communication without any token of anger or of grief, made no remark, and if he changed countenance at all, it was to put on an air of gloomy satisfaction, as though another weight even in the most undesirable scale were preferable to any remnant of balancing, and compunction for possible injustice were removed. could lucilla but have seen that face, she would have doubted of her means of reducing him to obedience. the course he had adopted might indeed be the more excellent way in the end, but at present even his self-devotion was not in such a spirit as to afford much consolation to honor. if good were to arise out of sorrow, the painful seed-time was not yet over. his looks were stern even to harshness, and his unhappiness seemed disposed to vent itself in doing his work after his own fashion, brooking no interference. he had taken a lodging over a baker's shop at turnagain corner. honor thought it fair for the locality, and knew something of the people, but to phoebe it was horror and dismay. the two small rooms, the painted cupboard, the cut paper in the grate, the pictures in yellow gauze, with the flies walking about on them, the round mirror, the pattern of the carpet, and the close, narrow street, struck her as absolutely shocking, and she came to miss charlecote with tears in her eyes, to entreat her to remonstrate, and tell robin it was his duty to live like a gentleman. 'my dear,' said honor, rather shocked at a speech so like the ordinary fulmort mind, 'i have no fears of robert not living like a gentleman.' 'i know--not in the real sense,' said phoebe, blushing; 'but surely he ought not to live in this dismal poky place, with such mean furniture, when he can afford better.' 'i am afraid the parish affords few better lodgings, phoebe, and it is his duty to live where his work lies. you appreciated his self-denial, i thought? do you not like him to make a sacrifice?' 'i ought,' said phoebe, her mind taking little pleasure in those acts of self-devotion that were the delight of her friend. 'if it be his duty, it cannot be helped, but i cannot be happy at leaving him to be uncomfortable--perhaps ill.' coming down from the romance of martyrdom which had made her expect phoebe to be as willing to see her brother bear hardships in the london streets, as she had herself been to dismiss owen the first to his wigwam, honor took the more homely view of arguing on the health and quietness of turnagain corner, the excellence of the landlady, and the fact that her own cockney eyes had far less unreasonable expectations than those trained to the luxuries of beauchamp. but by far the most efficient solace was an expedition for the purchase of various amenities of life, on which phoebe expended the last of her father's gift. the next morning was spent in great secrecy at the lodgings, where phoebe was so notable and joyous in her labours, that honor drew the conclusion that housewifery was her true element; and science, art, and literature only acquired, because they had been made her duties, reckoning all the more on the charming order that would rule in owen sandbrook's parsonage. all troubles and disappointments had faded from the young girl's mind, as she gazed round exulting on the sacred prints on the walls, the delicate statuettes, and well-filled spill-holder and match-box on the mantelshelf, the solid inkstand and appurtenances upon the handsome table-cover, the comfortable easy-chair, and the book-cases, whose contents had been reduced to order due, and knew that the bedroom bore equal testimony to her skill; while the good landlady gazed in admiration, acknowledging that she hardly knew her own rooms, and promising with all her heart to take care of her lodger. alas! when, on the way to the station, honor and phoebe made an unexpected raid to bring some last improvements, robert was detected in the act of undoing their work, and denuding his room of even its original luxuries. phoebe spoke not, but her face showed her discomfiture, and honora attacked him openly. 'i never meant you to know it,' he said, looking rather foolish. 'then to ingratitude you added treachery.' 'it is not that i do not feel your kindness--' 'but you are determined not to feel it!' 'no, no! only, this is no position for mere luxuries. my fellow-curates--' 'will use such conveniences of life as come to them naturally,' said honor, who had lived long enough to be afraid of the freaks of asceticism. 'hear me, robert. you are not wise in thrusting aside all that brings home to you your little sister's love. you think it cannot be forgotten, but it is not well to cast away these daily memorials. i know you have much to make you severe--nay, morose--but if you become so, you will never do your work efficiently. you may repel, but never invite; frighten, but not soothe.' 'you want me to think my efficiency dependent on arm-chairs and table-covers.' 'i know you will be harder to all for living in needless discomfort, and that you will be gentler to all for constantly meeting tokens of your sister's affection. had you sought these comforts for yourself, the case would be different; but, robert, candidly, which of you is the self-pleasing, which the mortified one, at this moment?' robert could not but look convicted as his eyes fell on the innocent face, with the tears just kept back by strong effort, and the struggling smile of pardon. 'never mind, robin,' said phoebe, as she saw his air of vexation; 'i know you never meant unkindness. do as you think right, only pray think of what miss charlecote says.' 'she has one thing more to say,' added honor. 'do you think that throwing aside phoebe's little services will make you fitter to go among the little children?' there was no answer, but a reluctant approach to a smile gave phoebe courage to effect her restorations, and her whispered 'you will not disturb them?' met with an affirmative satisfactory to herself. perhaps he felt as of old, when the lady of the holt had struck him for his cruelty to the mouse, or expelled him for his bad language. the same temper remained, although self-revenge had become the only outlet. he knew what it was that he had taken for devoted self-denial. 'yes, robin,' were miss charlecote's parting words, as she went back to days of her own long past. 'wilful doing right seldom tends to good, above all when it begins by exaggeration of duty.' and robert was left with thoughts such as perchance might render him a more tractable subordinate for mr. parsons, instead of getting into training for the order of st. dominic. phoebe had to return less joyfully than she had gone forth. her first bright star of anticipation had faded, and she had partaken deeply of the griefs of the two whom she loved so well. not only had she to leave the one to his gloomy lodgings in the city, and the toil that was to deaden suffering, but the other must be parted with at the station, to return to the lonely house, where not even old ponto would meet her--his last hour having, to every one's grief, come in her absence. phoebe could not bear the thought of that solitary return, and even at the peril of great disappointment to her sisters, begged to sleep that first night at the holt, but honor thanked her, and laughed it off: 'no, no! my dear, i am used to be alone, and depend upon it, there will be such an arrear of farm business for me, that i should hardly have time to speak to you. you need not be uneasy for me, dear one, there is always relief in having a great deal to do, and i shall know you are near, to come if i want you. there's a great deal in that knowledge, phoebe.' 'if i were of any use--' 'yes, phoebe, this visit has made you my friend instead of my playfellow.' phoebe's deepening colour showed her intense gratification. 'and there are the sundays,' added honor. 'i trust miss fennimore will let you come to luncheon, and to the second service with me.' 'i will try very hard!' for phoebe could not help feeling like the canary, who sees his owner's hand held out to catch him after his flight, or the pony who marks his groom at the gate of the paddock. cage and rein were not grievous, but liberty was over, and free-will began to sink into submission, as the chimneys of home came nearer, even though the anticipation of her sister's happiness grew more and more on her, and compensated for all. shrieks of ecstasy greeted her; she was held as fast as though her sisters feared to lose her again, and miss fennimore showed absolute warmth of welcome. foreign tongues were dispensed with, and it was a festival evening of chatter, and display of purchases, presents, and commissions. the evidences of phoebe's industry were approved. her abstracts of her reading, her notes of museums and exhibitions, her drawing, needlework, and new pieces of music, exceeded miss fennimore's hopes, and appalled her sisters. 'you did all that,' cried bertha, profiting by miss fennimore's absence; 'i hope to goodness she won't make it a precedent.' 'wasn't it very tiresome?' asked maria. 'sometimes; but it made me comfortable, as if i had a backbone for my day.' 'but didn't you want to feel like a lady?' 'i don't think i felt otherwise, maria.' 'like a grown-up lady, like mamma and my sisters?' 'o examples!' cried bertha. 'no wonder maria thinks doing nothing the great thing to grow up for. but, phoebe, how could you be so stupid as to go and do all this heap? you might as well have stayed at home.' 'miss fennimore desired me!' 'the very reason why i'd have read stories, and made pictures out of them, just to feel myself beyond her talons.' 'talents, not talons,' said maria. 'cats have talons, people have talents.' 'sometimes both, sometimes neither,' observed bertha. 'no explanation, phoebe; what's the use? i want to know if owen sandbrook didn't call you little miss precision?' 'something like it.' 'and you went on when he was there?' 'generally.' 'oh! what opportunities are wasted on some people. wouldn't i have had fun! but of course he saw you were a poor little not-come-out thing, and never spoke to you. oh! if miss charlecote would ask me to london!' 'and me!' chimed in maria. 'well, what would you do?' 'not act like a goose, and bring home dry abstracts. i'd make miss charlecote take me everywhere, and quite forget all my science, unless i wanted to amaze some wonderful genius. oh dear! won't i make augusta look foolish some of these days! she really thinks that steel attracts lightning! do you think miss charlecote's society will appreciate me, phoebe?' 'and me?' again asked maria. phoebe laughed heartily, but did not like bertha's scoffing mirth at maria's question. glad as she was to be at home, her glimpse of the outer world had so enlarged her perceptions, she could not help remarking the unchildlike acuteness of the younger girl, and the obtuse comprehension of the elder; and she feared that she had become discontented and fault-finding after her visit. moreover, when bertha spoke much english, a certain hesitation occurred in her speech which was apt to pass unnoticed in her foreign tongues, but which jarred unpleasantly on her sister's ear, and only increased when noticed. at nine, when phoebe rose as usual to wish good night, miss fennimore told her that she need not for the future retire before ten, the hour to which she had of late become accustomed. it was a great boon, especially as she was assured that the additional hour should be at her own disposal. 'you have shown that you can be trusted with your time, my dear. but not to-night,' as phoebe was turning to her desk; 'remember how long i have suffered a famine of conversation. what! were you not sensible of your own value in that respect?' 'i thought you instructed me; i did not know you conversed with me.' 'there's a difference between one susceptible of instruction, and anything so flippant and volatile as bertha,' said miss fennimore, smiling. 'and poor maria!' 'she is so good and kind! if she could only see a few things, and people, and learn to talk!' 'silence and unobtrusiveness are the only useful lessons for her, poor girl!' then observing phoebe's bewildered looks, 'my dear, i was forced to speak to bertha because she was growing jealous of maria's exemptions; but you, who have been constantly shielding and supplying her deficiencies, you do not tell me that you were not aware of them?' 'i always knew she was not clever,' said phoebe, her looks of alarmed surprise puzzling miss fennimore, who in all her philosophy had never dreamt of the unconscious instinct of affection. 'i could not have thought it,' she said. 'thought what? pray tell me! o what is the matter with poor maria?' 'then, my dear, you really had never perceived that poor maria is not--has not the usual amount of capacity--that she cannot be treated as otherwise than deficient.' 'does mamma know it?' faintly asked phoebe, tears slowly filling her eyes. miss fennimore paused, inwardly rating mrs. fulmort's powers little above those of her daughter. 'i am not sure,' she said; 'your sister juliana certainly does, and in spite of the present pain, i believe it best that your eyes should be opened.' 'that i may take care of her.' 'yes, you can do much in developing her faculties, as well as in sheltering her from being thrust into positions to which she would be unequal. you do so already. though her weakness was apparent to me the first week i was in the house, yet, owing to your kind guardianship, i never perceived its extent till you were absent. i could not have imagined so much tact and vigilance could have been unconscious. nay, dear child, it is no cause for tears. her life may perhaps be happier than that of many of more complete intellect.' 'i ought not to cry,' owned phoebe, the tears quietly flowing all the time. 'such people cannot do wrong in the same way as we can.' 'ah! phoebe, till we come to the infinite, how shall the finite pronounce what is wrong?' phoebe did not understand, but felt that she was not in miss charlecote's atmosphere, and from the heavenly, 'from him to whom little is given, little will be required,' came to the earthly, and said, imploring, 'and you will never be hard on her again!' 'i trust i have not been hard on her. i shall task her less, and only endeavour to give her habits of quiet occupation, and make her manners retiring. it was this relaxation of discipline, together with bertha's sad habit of teasing, which was intolerable in your absence, that induced me to explain to her the state of the case.' 'how shocked she must have been.' 'not quite as you were. her first remark was that it was as if she were next in age to you.' 'she is not old enough to understand.' the governess shook her head. 'nay, when i found her teasing again, she told me it was a psychological experiment. little monkey, she laid hold of some books of mine, and will never rest till she has come to some conclusion as to what is wanting in maria.' 'too young to feel what it means,' repeated phoebe. she was no great acquisition as a companion, for she neither spoke nor stirred, so that the governess would have thought her drowsy, but for the uprightness of the straight back, and the steady fold of the fingers on the knee. much as miss fennimore detested the sight of inaction, she respected the reverie consequent on the blow she had given. it was a refreshing contrast with bertha's levity; and she meditated why her system had made the one sister only accurate and methodical, while the other seemed to be losing heart in mind, and becoming hard and shrewd. there was a fresh element in phoebe's life. the native respect for 'the innocent' had sprung up within her, and her spirit seemed to expand into protecting wings with which to hover over her sister as a charge peculiarly her own. here was the new impulse needed to help her when subsiding into the monotony and task-work of the schoolroom, and to occupy her in the stead of the more exciting hopes and fears that she had partaken in london. miss fennimore wisely relaxed her rule over phoebe, since she had shown that liberty was regarded as no motive for idleness; so though the maiden still scrupulously accomplished a considerable amount of study, she was allowed to portion it out as suited her inclination, and was no longer forbidden to interrupt herself for the sake of her sisters. it was infinite comfort to be no longer obliged to deafen her ears to the piteous whine of fretful incapacity, and to witness the sullen heaviness of faculties overtasked, and temper goaded into torpor. the fact once faced, the result was relief; maria was spared and considered, and phoebe found the governess much kinder, not only to her sister but to herself. absence had taught the value of the elder pupil, and friendly terms of equality were beginning to be established. phoebe's freedom did not include solitary walks, and on weekdays she seldom saw miss charlecote, and then only to hear natural history, the only moderately safe ground between the two elder ladies. what was natural science with the one, was natural history with the other. one went deep in systems and classifications, and thrust linnaeus into the dark ages; the other had observed, collected, and drawn specimens with the enthusiasm of a londoner for the country, till she had a valuable little museum of her own gathering, and was a handbook for the county curiosities. star, bird, flower, and insect, were more than resources, they were the friends of her lonely life, and awoke many a keen feeling of interest, many an aspiration of admiring adoration that carried her through her dreary hours. and though miss fennimore thought her science puerile, her credulity extensive, and her observations inaccurate, yet she deemed even this ladylike dabbling worthy of respect as an element of rational pleasure and self-training, and tried to make bertha respect it, and abstain from inundating miss charlecote with sesquipedalian names for systems and families, and, above all, from her principal delight, setting the two ladies together by the ears, by appealing to her governess to support her abuse of linnaeus as an old 'dictionary-maker,' or for some bold geological theory that poor honor was utterly unprepared to swallow. bertha was somewhat like the wren, who, rising on the eagle's head, thought itself the monarch of the birds, but honor was by no means convinced that she was not merely blindfolded on the back of clavileno aligero. there was neither love nor admiration wasted between honor and miss fennimore, and phoebe preferred their being apart. she enjoyed her sunday afternoons, short enough, for school must not be neglected, but honor shyly acceded to phoebe's entreaty to be allowed to sit by her class and learn by her teaching. it was an effort. honor shrank from exposing her own misty metaphors, hesitating repetitions, and trivial queries to so clear a head, trained in distinct reasoning, but it was the very teaching that the scientific young lady most desired, and she treasured up every hint, afterwards pursuing the subject with the resolution to complete the chain of evidence, and asking questions sometimes rather perplexing to honor, accustomed as she was to take everything for granted. out came authorities, and honor found herself examining into the grounds of her own half-knowledge, gaining fresh ideas, correcting old ones, and obtaining subjects of interest for many an hour after her young friend had left her. while, at home, phoebe, after running the gauntlet of bertha's diversion at her putting herself to school, when scripture lessons were long ago done with, would delight maria with long murmuring discourses, often stories about the scholars, but always conveying some point of religious instruction. it was a subject to which maria was less impervious than to any other; she readily learned to croon over the simple hymns that phoebe brought home, and when once a scripture story had found entrance to her mind, would beg to have it marked in her bible, and recur to it frequently. miss fennimore left her entirely to phoebe at these times, keeping bertha from molesting her by sarcastic queries, or by remarks on the sing-song hymns, such as made phoebe sometimes suspect that maria's love for these topics rendered them the more distasteful to the younger girl. she tried to keep them as much sheltered as possible, but was still sometimes disconcerted by bertha's mischievous laugh, or by finding miss fennimore's eyes fixed in attention. phoebe's last hour on these evenings was spent in laying up her new lore in her diligently kept note-book, weighing it and endeavouring to range it in logical sequence, which she had been duly trained to consider the test of reasoning. if she sometimes became bewildered, and detected insufficient premises for true conclusions, if she could not think allegory or analogy the evidence it was made at the sunday-school, and which miss charlecote esteemed as absolute proof, her sound heart and loving faith always decided her that she should discover the link in time; and the doctrine had too strong a hold on her convictions and affections for her to doubt that the chain of argument existed, though she had not yet found it. it was not the work for which so young a head was intended, and perhaps it was well that she was interrupted by the arrival at home of the heads of the family. augusta and her husband were to spend the winter abroad; juliana had met some friends, whom she had accompanied to their home, and though she had exacted that phoebe should not come out, yet the eldest daughter at home was necessarily brought somewhat forward. phoebe was summoned to the family meals, and went out driving with her mother, or riding with her father, but was at other times in the schoolroom, where indeed she was the most happy. the life down-stairs was new to her, and she had not been trained to the talk there expected of her. the one event of her life, her visit to london, gave evident dissatisfaction. there were growls whenever robert was mentioned, and phoebe found that though permission had been given for his taking the curacy, it had been without understanding his true intentions with regard to whittingtonia. something had evidently passed between him and his father and brother, while on their way through london, which had caused them to regard him as likely to be a thorn in their side; and phoebe could not but fear that he would meet them in no spirit of conciliation, would rather prefer a little persecution, and would lean to the side of pastoral rather than filial duty, whenever they might clash. even if he should refrain from speaking his full mind to his father, he was likely to use no precautions with his brother, and phoebe was uneasy whenever either went up for their weekly visit of inspection at the office. her mother gently complained. 'honora charlecote's doing, i suppose. he should have considered more! such a wretched place, no genteel family near! your papa would never let me go near it. but he must buy an excellent living soon, where no one will know his connection with the trade.' the only sympathy phoebe met with at home on robert's ordination, was in an unexpected quarter. 'then your brother has kept his resolution,' said miss fennimore. 'under his reserve there is the temper that formed the active ascetics of the middle ages. his doctrine has a strong mediaeval tinge, and with sufficient strength of purpose, may lead to like results.' when phoebe proudly told miss charlecote of this remark, they agreed that it was a valuable testimony, both to the doctrines and the results. honor had had a letter from robert, that made her feel by force of contrast that owen was more than three years from a like conception of clerical duty. the storm came at last. by order of the court of chancery, there was put up for sale a dreary section of whittingtonia, in dire decay, and remote from civilization. the firm of fulmort and son had long had their eyes on it, as an eligible spot for a palace for the supply of their commodity; and what was their rage when their agent was out-bidden, and the tenements knocked down to an unknown customer for a fancy price! after much alarm lest a rival distiller should be invading their territory, their wrath came to a height when it finally appeared that the new owner of the six ruinous houses in cicely row was no other than the reverend robert mervyn fulmort, with the purpose of building a church and schools for whittingtonia at his own expense. mervyn came home furious. high words had passed between the brothers, and his report of them so inflamed mr. fulmort, that he inveighed violently against the malice and treachery that scrupled not to undermine a father. never speaking to robert again, casting him off, and exposing the vicar for upholding filial insolence and undutifulness, were the mildest of his threats. they seemed to imagine that robert was making this outlay, supposing that he would yet be made equal in fortune by his father to the others, and there was constant repetition that he was to expect not a farthing--he had had his share and should have no more. there was only a scoff at phoebe's innocence, when she expressed her certainty that he looked for no compensation, knowing that he had been provided for, and was to have nothing from his father; and phoebe trembled under such abuse of her favourite brother, till she could bear it no longer, and seizing the moment of mervyn's absence, she came up to her father, and said, in as coaxing a tone as she could, 'papa, should not every one work to the utmost in his trade?' 'what of that, little one?' 'then pray don't be angry with robert for acting up to his,' said phoebe, clasping her hands, and resting them fondly on his shoulder. 'act up to a fool's head! parsons should mind their business and not fly in their fathers' faces.' 'isn't it their work to make people more good?' continued phoebe, with an unconscious wiliness, looking more simple than her wont. 'let him begin with himself then! learn his duty to his father! a jackanapes; trying to damage my business under my very nose.' 'if those poor people are in such need of having good done to them--' 'scum of the earth! much use trying to do good to them!' 'ah! but if it be his work to try? and if he wanted a place to build a school--' 'you're in league with him, i suppose.' 'no, papa! it surprised me very much. even mr. parsons knew nothing of his plans, robert only wrote to me when it was done, that now he hoped to save a few of the children that are turned out in the streets to steal.' 'steal! they'll steal all his property! a proper fool your uncle was to leave it all to a lad like that. the sure way to spoil him! i could have trebled all your fortunes if that capital had been in my hands, and now to see him throw it to the dogs! phoebe, i can't stand it. conscience? i hate such coxcombry! as if men would not make beasts of themselves whether his worship were in the business or not.' 'yes!' ventured phoebe, 'but at least he has no part in their doing so.' 'much you know about it,' said her father, again shielding himself with his newspaper, but so much less angrily than she had dared to expect, that even while flushed and trembling, she felt grateful to him as more placable than mervyn. she knew not the power of her own sweet face and gently honest manner, nor of the novelty of an attentive daughter. when the neighbours remarked on mrs. fulmort's improved looks and spirits, and wondered whether they were the effect of the rhine or of 'getting off' her eldest daughter, they knew not how many fewer dull hours she had to spend. phoebe visited her in her bedroom, talked at luncheon, amused her drives, coaxed her into the garden, read to her when she rested before dinner, and sang to her afterwards. phoebe likewise brought her sister's attainments more into notice, though at the expense of bertha's contempt for mamma's preference for maria's staring fuchsias and feeble singing, above her own bold chalks from models and scientific music, and indignation at phoebe's constantly bringing maria forward rather than her own clever self. droning narrative, long drawn out, had as much charm for mrs. fulmort as for maria. if she did not always listen, she liked the voice, and she sometimes awoke into descriptions of the dresses, parties, and acquaintance of her youth, before trifling had sunk into dreary insipidity under the weight of too much wealth, too little health, and 'nothing to do.' 'my dear,' she said, 'i am glad you are not out. quiet evenings are so good for my nerves; but you are a fine girl, and will soon want society.' 'not at all, mamma; i like being at home with you.' 'no, my dear! i shall like to take you out and see you dressed. you must have advantages, or how are you to marry?' 'there's no hurry,' said phoebe, smiling. 'yes, my dear, girls always get soured if they do not marry!' 'not miss charlecote, mamma.' 'ah! but honor charlecote was an heiress, and could have had plenty of offers. don't talk of not marrying, phoebe, i beg.' 'no,' said phoebe, gravely. 'i should like to marry some one very good and wise, who could help me out of all my difficulties.' 'bless me, phoebe! i hope you did not meet any poor curate at that place of honor charlecote's. your papa would never consent.' 'i never met anybody, mamma,' said phoebe, smiling. 'i was only thinking what he should be like.' 'well, what?' said mrs. fulmort, with girlish curiosity. 'not that it's any use settling. i always thought i would marry a marquis's younger son, because it is such a pretty title, and that he should play on the guitar. but he must not be an officer, phoebe; we have had trouble enough about that.' 'i don't know what he is to be, mamma,' said phoebe, earnestly, 'except that he should be as sensible as miss fennimore, and as good as miss charlecote. perhaps a man could put both into one, and then he could lead me, and always show me the reason of what is right.' 'phoebe, phoebe! you will never get married if you wait for a philosopher. your papa would never like a very clever genius or an author.' 'i don't want him to be a genius, but he must be wise.' 'oh, my dear! that comes of the way young ladies are brought up. what would the miss berrilees have said, where i was at school at bath, if one of their young ladies had talked of wanting to marry a wise man?' phoebe gave a faint smile, and said, 'what was mr. charlecote like, mamma, whose brass was put up the day robert was locked into the church?' 'humfrey charlecote, my dear? the dearest, most good-hearted man that ever lived. everybody liked him. there was no one that did not feel as if they had lost a brother when he was taken off in that sudden way.' 'and was not he very wise, mamma?' 'bless me, phoebe, what could have put that into your head? humfrey charlecote a wise man? he was just a common, old-fashioned, hearty country squire. it was only that he was so friendly and kind-hearted that made every one trust him, and ask his advice.' 'i should like to have known him,' said phoebe, with a sigh. 'ah, if you married any one like that! but there's no use waiting! there's nobody left like him, and i won't have you an old maid! you are prettier than either of your sisters--more like me when i came away from miss berrilees, and had a gold-sprigged muslin for the assize ball, and humfrey charlecote danced with me.' phoebe fell into speculations on the wisdom whose counsel all asked, and which had left such an impression of affectionate honour. she would gladly lean on such an one, but if no one of the like mould remained, she thought she could never bear the responsibilities of marriage. meantime she erected humfrey charlecote's image into a species of judge, laying before this vision of a wise man all her perplexities between miss charlecote's religion and miss fennimore's reason, and all her practical doubts between robert's conflicting duties. strangely enough, the question, 'what would mr. charlecote have thought?' often aided her to cast the balance. though it was still phoebe who decided, it was phoebe drawn out of herself, and strengthened by her mask. with vivid interest, such as for a living man would have amounted to love, she seized and hoarded each particle of intelligence that she could gain respecting the object of her admiration. honora herself, though far more naturally enthusiastic, had, with her dreamy nature and diffused raptures, never been capable of thus reverencing him, nor of the intensity of feeling of one whose restrained imagination and unromantic education gave force to all her sensations. yet this deep individual regard was a more wholesome tribute than honor had ever paid to him, or to her other idol, for to phoebe it was a step, lifting her to things above and beyond, a guide on the road, never a vision obscuring the true object. six weeks had quietly passed, when, like a domestic thunderbolt, came juliana's notification of her intention to return home at the end of a week. mrs. fulmort, clinging to her single thread of comfort, hoped that phoebe might still be allowed to come to her boudoir, but the gentlemen more boldly declared that they wanted phoebe, and would not have her driven back into the schoolroom; to which the mother only replied with fears that juliana would be in a dreadful temper, whereon mervyn responded, 'let her! never mind her, phoebe. stick up for yourself, and we'll put her down.' except for knowing that she was useful to her mother, phoebe would have thankfully retired into the west wing, rather than have given umbrage. mervyn's partisanship was particularly alarming, and, endeavour as she might to hope that juliana would be amiable enough to be disarmed by her own humility and unobtrusiveness, she lived under the impression of disagreeables impending. one morning at breakfast, mr. fulmort, after grumbling out his wonder at juliana's writing to him, suddenly changed his tone into, 'hollo! what's this? "my engagement--"' 'by jove!' shouted mervyn; 'too good to be true. so she's done it. i didn't think he'd been such an ass, having had one escape.' 'who?' continued mr. fulmort, puzzling, as he held the letter far off--'engagement to dear--dear devil, does she say?' 'the only fit match,' muttered mervyn, laughing. 'no, no, sir! bevil--sir bevil acton.' 'what! not the fellow that gave us so much trouble! he had not a sixpence; but she must please herself now.' 'you don't mean that you didn't know what she went with the merivales for?--five thousand a year and a baronetcy, eh?' 'the deuce! if i had known that, he might have had her long ago.' 'it's quite recent,' said mervyn. 'a mere chance; and he has been knocking about in the colonies these ten years--might have cut his wisdom teeth.' 'ten years--not half-a-dozen!' said mr. fulmort. 'ten!' reiterated mervyn. 'it was just before i went to old raymond's. acton took me to dine at the mess. he was a nice fellow then, and deserved better luck.' 'ten years' constancy!' said phoebe, who had been looking from one to the other in wonder, trying to collect intelligence. 'do tell me.' 'whew!' whistled mervyn. 'juliana hadn't her sharp nose nor her sharp tongue when first she came out. acton was quartered at elverslope, and got smitten. she flirted with him all the winter; but i fancy she didn't give you much trouble when he came to the point, eh, sir?' 'i thought him an impudent young dog for thinking of a girl of her prospects; but if he had this to look to!--i was sorry for him, too! ten years ago,' mused mr. fulmort. 'and she has liked no one since?' 'or no one has liked her, which comes to the same,' said mervyn. 'the regiment went to the cape, and there was an end of it, till we fell in with the merivales on board the steamer; and they mentioned their neighbour, sir bevil acton, come into his property, and been settled near them a year or two. fine sport it was, to see juliana angling for an invitation, brushing up her friendship with minnie merivale--amiable to the last degree! my stars! what work she must have had to play good temper all these six weeks, and how we shall have to pay for it!' 'or acton will,' said mr. fulmort, with a hearty chuckle of triumphant good-humour. was it a misfortune to phoebe to have been so much refined by education as to be grated on by the vulgar tone of those nearest to her? it was well for her that she could still put it aside as their way, even while following her own instinct. mervyn and juliana had been on cat and dog terms all their lives; he was certain to sneer at all that concerned her, and phoebe reserved her belief that an attachment, nipped in the bud, was ready to blossom in sunshine. she ran up with the news to her mother. 'juliana going to be married! well, my dear, you may be introduced at once! how comfortable you and i shall be in the little brougham.' phoebe begged to be told what the intended was like. 'let me see--was he the one that won the steeple-chase? no; that was the one that augusta liked. we knew so many young men, that i could never tell which was which; and your sisters were always talking about them till it quite ran through my poor head, such merry girls as they were!' 'and poor juliana never was so merry after he was gone.' 'i don't remember,' replied this careful mother; 'but you know she never could have meant anything, for he had nothing, and you with your fortunes are a match for anybody! phoebe, my dear, we must go to london next spring, and you shall marry a nobleman. i must see you a titled lady as well as your sisters.' 'i've no objection, provided he is my wise man,' said phoebe. juliana had found the means of making herself welcome, and her marriage a cause of unmixed jubilation in her family. prosperity made her affable, and instead of suppressing phoebe, she made her useful, and treated her as a confidante, telling her of all the previous intimacy, and all the secret sufferings in dear bevil's absence, but passing lightly over the last happy meeting, which phoebe respected as too sacred to be talked of. the little maiden's hopes of a perfect brother in the constant knight rose high, and his appearance and demeanour did not disappoint them. he had a fine soldierly figure, and that air of a thorough gentleman which phoebe's holt experience had taught her to appreciate; his manners were peculiarly gentle and kind, especially to mrs. fulmort; and phoebe did not like him the less for showing traces of the effects of wounds and climate, and a grave, subdued air, almost amounting to melancholy. but before he had been three days at beauchamp, juliana made a virulent attack on the privileges of her younger sisters. perhaps it was the consequence of poor maria's volunteer to sir bevil--'i am glad juliana is going with you, for now no one will be cross to me;' but it seemed to verify the poor girl's words, that she should be hunted like a strange cat if she were found beyond her own precincts, and that the other two should be treated much in the same manner. bertha stood up for her rights, declaring that what mamma and miss fennimore allowed, she would not give up for juliana; but the only result was an admonition to the governess, and a fierce remonstrance to the poor meek mother. phoebe, who only wished to retire from the stage in peace, had a more difficult part to play. 'what's the matter now?' demanded mervyn, making his way up to her as she sat in a remote corner of the drawing-room, in the evening. 'why were you not at dinner?' 'there was no room, i believe.' 'nonsense! our table dines eight-and-twenty, and there were not twenty.' 'that was a large party, and you know i am not out.' 'you don't look like it in that long-sleeved white affair, and nothing on your head either. where are those ivy-leaves you had yesterday--real, weren't they?' 'they were not liked.' 'not liked! they were the prettiest things i have seen for a long time. acton said they made you look like a nymph--the green suits that shiny light hair of yours, and makes you like a picture.' 'yes, they made me look forward and affected.' 'now who told you that? has the fennimore got to her old tricks?' 'oh no, no!' 'i see! a jealous toad! i heard him telling her that you reminded him of her in old times. the spiteful vixen! well, phoebe, if you cut her out, i bargain for board and lodging at acton manor. this will be no place for a quiet, meek soul like me!' phoebe tried to laugh, but looked distressed, uncomprehending, and far from wishing to comprehend. she could not escape, for mervyn had penned her up, and went on: 'you don't pretend that you don't see how it is! that unlucky fellow is heartily sick of his bargain, but you see he was too soft to withstand her throwing herself right at his head, and doing the "worm in the bud," and the cruel father, green and yellow melancholy, &c., ever since they were inhumanly parted.' 'for shame, mervyn. you don't really believe it is all out of honour.' 'i should never have believed a man of his years could be so green; but some men get crotchets about honour in the army, especially if they get elderly there.' 'it is very noble, if it be right, and he can take those vows from his heart,' moralized phoebe. 'but no, mervyn, she cannot think so. no woman could take any one on such terms.' 'wouldn't she, though?' sneered her brother. 'she'd have him if grim death were hanging on to his other hand. people aren't particular, when they are nigh upon their third ten.' 'don't tell me such things! i don't believe them; but they ought never to be suggested.' 'you ought to thank me for teaching you knowledge of the world.' he was called off, but heavy at her heart lay the text, 'the knowledge of wickedness is not wisdom.' mervyn's confidences were serious troubles to phoebe. gratifying as it was to be singled out by his favour, it was distressing to be the repository of what she knew ought never to have been spoken, prompted by a coarse tone of mind, and couched in language that, though he meant it to be restrained, sometimes seemed to her like the hobgoblins' whispers to christian. oh! how unlike her other brother! robert had troubles, mervyn grievances, and she saw which were the worst to bear. it was a pleasing novelty to find a patient listener, and he used it to the utmost, while she often doubted whether to hear without remonstrance were not undutiful, yet found opposition rather increased the evil by the storm of ill-temper that it provoked. this last communication was dreadful to her, yet she could not but feel that it might be a wholesome warning to avoid giving offence to the jealousy which, when once pointed out to her, she could not prevent herself from tracing in juliana's petulance towards herself, and resolve to force her into the background. even bertha was more often brought forward, for in spite of a tongue and temper cast somewhat in a similar mould, she was rather a favourite with juliana, whom she was not unlikely to resemble, except that her much more elaborate and accurate training might give her both more power and more self-control. as mervyn insinuated, juliana was prudent in not lengthening out the engagement, and the marriage was fixed for christmas week, but it was not to take place at hiltonbury. sir bevil was bashful, and dreaded county festivities, and juliana wished to escape from maria as a bridesmaid, so they preferred the privacy of an hotel and a london church. phoebe could not decently be excluded, and her heart leapt with the hope of seeing robert, though so unwelcome was his name in the family that she could not make out on what terms he stood, whether proscribed, or only disapproved, and while sure that he would strive to be with her, she foresaw that the pleasure would be at the cost of much pain. owen sandbrook was spending his vacation at the holt, and miss charlecote looked so bright as she walked to church leaning on his arm, that phoebe had no regrets in leaving her. indeed, the damsel greatly preferred the holt in his absence. she did not understand his discursive comments on all things in art or nature, and he was in a mood of flighty fitful spirits, which perplexed her alike by their wild, satirical mirth, and their mournful sentiment. she thought miss charlecote was worried and perplexed at times by his tone; but there was no doubt of his affection and attention for his 'sweet honey,' and phoebe rejoiced that her own absence should be at so opportune a moment. sir bevil went to make his preparations at home, whence he was to come and join the fulmorts the day after their arrival in town. mrs. fulmort was dragged out in the morning, and deposited at farrance's in time for luncheon, a few minutes before a compact little brougham set down lady bannerman, jollier than ever in velvet and sable, and more scientific in cutlets and pale ale. her good-nature was full blown. she was ready to chaperon her sisters anywhere, invited the party to the christmas dinner, and undertook the grand _soiree_ after the wedding. she proposed to take juliana at once out shopping, only lamenting that there was no room for phoebe, and was so universally benevolent, that in the absence of the bride elect, phoebe ventured to ask whether she saw anything of robert. 'robert? yes, he called when we first came to town, and we asked him to dinner; but he said it was a fast day; and you know sir nicholas would never encourage that sort of thing.' 'how was he?' 'he looked odder than ever, and so ill and cadaverous. no wonder! poking himself up in such a horrid place, where one can't notice him.' 'did he seem in tolerable spirits?' 'i don't know. he always was silent and glum; and now he seems wrapped up in nothing but ragged schools and those disgusting city missions; i'm sure we can't subscribe, so expensive as it is living in town. imagine, mamma, what we are giving our cook!' juliana returned, and the two sisters went out, leaving phoebe to extract entertainment for her mother from the scenes passing in the street. presently a gentleman's handsome cabriolet and distinguished-looking horse were affording food for their descriptions, when, to her surprise, sir bevil emerged from it, and presently entered the room. he had come intending to take out his betrothed, and in her absence transferred the offer to her sister. phoebe demurred, on more accounts than she could mention, but her mother remembering what a drive in a stylish equipage with a military baronet would once have been to herself, overruled her objections, and hurried her away to prepare. she quickly returned, a cheery spectacle in her russet dress and brown straw bonnet, and her scarlet neck-tie, the robin redbreast's livery which she loved. 'your cheeks should be a refreshing sight to the londoners, phoebe,' said sir bevil, with his rare, but most pleasant smile. 'where shall we go? you don't seem much to care for the park. i'm at your service wherever you like to go.' and as phoebe hesitated, with cheeks trebly beneficial to the londoners, he kindly added, 'well, what is it? never mind what! i'm open to anything--even madame tussaud's.' 'if i might go to see robert. augusta said he was looking ill.' 'my dear!' interposed her mother, 'you can't think of it. such a dreadful place, and such a distance.' 'it is only a little way beyond st. paul's, and there are no bad streets, dear mamma. i have been there with miss charlecote. but if it be too far, or you don't like driving into the city, never mind,' she continued, turning to sir bevil; 'i ought to have said nothing about it.' but sir bevil, reading the ardour of the wish in the honest face, pronounced the expedition an excellent idea, and carried her off with her eyes as round and sparkling as those of the children going to christmas parties. he stole glances at her as if her fresh innocent looks were an absolute treat to him, and when he talked, it was of robert in his boyhood. 'i remember him at twelve years old, a sturdy young ruffian, with an excellent notion of standing up for himself.' phoebe listened with delight to some characteristic anecdotes of robert's youth, and wondered whether he would be appreciated now. she did not think sir bevil held the same opinions as robert or miss charlecote; he was an upright, high-minded soldier, with honour and subordination his chief religion, and not likely to enter into robert's peculiarities. she was in some difficulty when she was asked whether her brother were not under some cloud, or had not been taking a line of his own--a gentler form of inquiry, which she could answer with the simple truth. 'yes, he would not take a share in the business, because he thought it promoted evil, and he felt it right to do parish work at st. wulstan's, because our profits chiefly come from thence. it does not please at home, because they think he could have done better for himself, and he sometimes is obliged to interfere with mervyn's plans.' sir bevil made the less answer because they were in the full current of london traffic, and his proud chestnut was snuffing the hat of an omnibus conductor. careful driving was needed, and phoebe was praised for never even looking frightened, then again for her organ of locality and the skilful pilotage with which she unerringly and unhesitatingly found the way through the whittingtonian labyrinths; and as the disgusted tiger pealed at the knocker of turnagain corner, she was told she would be a useful guide in the south african bush. 'at home,' was the welcome reply, and in another second her arms were round robert's neck. there was a thorough brotherly greeting between him and sir bevil; each saw in the other a man to be respected, and robert could not but be grateful to the man who brought him phoebe. her eyes were on the alert to judge how he had been using himself in the last half-year. he looked thin, yet that might be owing to his highly clerical coat, and some of his rural ruddiness was gone, but there was no want of health of form or face, only the spareness and vigour of thorough working condition. his expression was still grave even to sadness, and sternness seemed gathering round his thin lips. heavy of heart he doubtless was still, but she was struck by the absence of the undefined restlessness that had for years been habitual to both brothers, and which had lately so increased on mervyn, that there was a relief in watching a face free from it, and telling not indeed of happiness, but of a mind made up to do without it. she supposed that his room ought to satisfy her, for though untidy in female eyes, it did not betray ultra self-neglect. the fire was brisk, there was a respectable luncheon on the table, and he had even treated himself to the _guardian_, some new books, and a beautiful photograph of a foreign cathedral. the room was littered with half-unrolled plans, which had to be cleared before the guests could find seats, and he had evidently been beguiling his luncheon with the perusal of some large ms. sheets, red-taped together at the upper corner. 'that's handsome,' said sir bevil. 'what is it for? a school or almshouses.' 'something of both,' said robert, his colour rising. 'we want a place for disposing of the destitute children that swarm in this district.' 'oh, show me!' cried phoebe. 'is it to be at that place in cicely row?' 'i hope so.' the stiff sheets were unrolled, the designs explained. there was to be a range of buildings round a court, consisting of day-schools, a home for orphans, a _creche_ for infants, a reading-room for adults, and apartments for the clergy of the church which was to form one side of the quadrangle. sir bevil was much interested, and made useful criticisms. 'but,' he objected, 'what is the use of building new churches in the city, when there is no filling those you have?' 'st. wulstan's is better filled than formerly,' said robert. 'the pew system is the chief enemy there; but even without that, it would not hold a tenth part of the whittingtonian population, would they come to it, which they will not. the church must come to them, and with special services at their own times. they need an absolute mission, on entirely different terms from the woolstone quarter.' 'and are you about to head the mission?' 'to endeavour to take a share in it.' 'and who is to be at the cost of this?' pursued sir bevil. 'have you a subscription list?' robert coloured again as he answered, 'why, no; we can do without that so far.' phoebe understood, and her face must have revealed the truth to sir bevil, for laying his hand on robert's arm, he said, 'my good fellow, you don't mean that you are answerable for all this?' 'you know i have something of my own.' 'you will not leave much of it at this rate. how about the endowment?' 'i shall live upon the endowment.' 'have you considered? you will be tied to this place for ever.' 'that is one of my objects,' replied robert, and in reply to a look of astonished interrogation, 'myself and all that is mine would be far too little to atone for a fraction of the evil that our house is every day perpetrating here.' 'i should hate the business myself,' said the baronet; 'but don't you see it in a strong light?' 'every hour i spend here shows me that i do not see it strongly enough.' and there followed some appalling instances of the effects of the multiplicity of gin-palaces, things that it well-nigh broke robert's heart to witness, absorbed as he was in the novelty of his work, fresh in feeling, and never able to divest himself of a sense of being a sharer in the guilt and ruin. sir bevil listened at first with interest, then tried to lead away from the subject; but it was robert's single idea, and he kept them to it till their departure, when phoebe's first words were, as they drove from the door, 'oh, thank you, you do not know how much happier you have made me.' her companion smiled, saying, 'i need not ask which is the favourite brother.' 'mervyn is very kind to me,' quickly answered phoebe. 'but robert is the oracle! eh?' he said, kindly and merrily. 'robert has been everything to us younger ones,' she answered. 'i am still more glad that you like him.' his grave face not responding as she expected, she feared that he had been bored, that he thought robert righteous over much, or disapproved his opinions; but his answer was worth having when it came. 'i know nothing about his views; i never looked into the subject; but when i see a young man giving up a lucrative prospect for conscience sake, and devoting himself to work in that sink of iniquity, i see there must be something in him. i can't judge if he goes about it in a wrong-headed way, but i should be proud of such a fellow instead of discarding him.' 'oh, thank you!' cried phoebe, with ecstasy that made him laugh, and quite differently from the made-up laughter she had been used to hear from him. 'what are you thanking me for?' he said. 'i do not imagine that i shall be able to serve him. i'll talk to your father about him, but he must be the best judge of the discipline of his own family.' 'i was not thinking of your doing anything,' said phoebe; 'but a kind word about robert does make me very grateful.' there was a long silence, only diversified by an astonished nod from mervyn driving back from the office. just before setting her down, sir bevil said, 'i wonder whether your brother would let us give something to his church. will you find out what it shall be, and let me know? as a gift from juliana and myself--you understand.' it was lucky for phoebe that she had brought home a good stock of satisfaction to support her, for she found herself in the direst disgrace, and her mother too much cowed to venture on more than a feeble self-defensive murmur that she had told phoebe it would never do. convinced in her own conscience that she had done nothing blameworthy, phoebe knew that it was the shortest way not to defend herself, and the storm was blowing over when mervyn came in, charmed to mortify juliana by compliments to phoebe on 'doing it stylishly, careering in acton's turn-out,' but when the elder sister explained where she had been, mervyn, too, deserted her, and turned away with a fierce imprecation on his brother, such as was misery to phoebe's ears. he was sourly ill-humoured all the evening; juliana wreaked her displeasure on sir bevil in ungraciousness, till such silence and gloom descended on him, that he was like another man from him who had smiled on phoebe in the afternoon. yet, though dismayed at the offence she had given, and grieved at these evidences of robert's ill-odour with his family, phoebe could not regret having seized her single chance of seeing robert's dwelling for herself, nor the having made him known to sir bevil. the one had made her satisfied, the other hopeful, even while she recollected, with foreboding, that truth sometimes comes not with peace, but with a sword, to set at variance parent and child, and make foes of them of the same household. juliana never forgave that drive. she continued bitter towards phoebe, and kept such a watch over her and sir bevil, that the jealous surveillance became palpable to both. sir bevil really wanted to tell phoebe the unsatisfactory result of his pleading for robert; she wanted to tell him of robert's gratitude for his offered gift; but the exchange of any words in private was out of their power, and each silently felt that it was best to make no move towards one another till the unworthy jealousy should have died away. though sir bevil had elicited nothing but abuse of 'pigheaded folly,' his espousal of the young clergyman's cause was not without effect. robert was not treated with more open disfavour than he had often previously endured, and was free to visit the party at farrance's, if he chose to run the risk of encountering his father's blunt coldness, mervyn's sulky dislike, and juliana's sharp satire, but as he generally came so as to find his mother and phoebe alone, some precious moments compensated for the various disagreeables. nor did these affect him nearly as much as they did his sister. it was, in fact, one of his remaining unwholesome symptoms that he rather enjoyed persecution, and took no pains to avoid giving offence. if he meant to be uncompromising, he sometimes was simply provoking, and phoebe feared that sir bevil thought him an unpromising _protege_. he was asked to the christmas dinner at the bannermans', and did not fulfil augusta's prediction that he would say it was a fast day, and refuse. that evening gave phoebe her best _tete-a-tete_ with him, but she observed that all was about whittingtonia, not one word of the past summer, not so much as an inquiry for miss charlecote. evidently that page in his history was closed for ever, and if he should carry out his designs in their present form, a wife at the intended institution would be an impossibility. how near the dearest may be to one another, and yet how little can they guess at what they would most desire to know. sir bevil had insisted on his being asked to perform the ceremony, and she longed to understand whether his refusal were really on the score of his being a deacon, or if he had any further motive. his own family were affronted, though glad to be left free to request the services of the greatest dignitary of their acquaintance, and sir bevil's blunt 'no, no, poor fellow! say no more about it,' made her suppose that he suspected that robert's vehemence in his parish was meant to work off a disappointment. it was a dreary wedding, in spite of london grandeur. in all her success, juliana could not help looking pinched and ill at ease, her wreath and veil hardening instead of softening her features, and her bridegroom's studious cheerfulness and forced laughs became him less than his usual silent dejection. the admiral was useful in getting up stock wedding-wit, but phoebe wondered how any one could laugh at it; and her fellow-bridesmaids, all her seniors, seemed to her, as perhaps she might to them, like thoughtless children, playing with the surface of things. she pitied sir bevil, and saw little chance of happiness for either, yet heard only congratulations, and had to be bright, busy, and helpful, under a broad, stiff, white watered silk scarf, beneath which juliana had endeavoured to extinguish her, but in which her tall rounded shape looked to great advantage. indeed, that young rosy face, and the innocently pensive wondering eyes were so sweet, that the bride had to endure hearing admiration of her sister from all quarters, and the acton bridemaidens whispered rather like those at netherby hall. it was over, and phoebe was the reigning miss fulmort. her friends were delighted for her and for themselves, and her mother entered on the full enjoyment of the little brougham. chapter xi when some dear scheme of our life doth seem shivered at once like a broken dream and our hearts to reel like ships that feel a sharp rock grating against their keel.--c. f. a. it was high summer; and in spite of cholera-averting thunderstorms, the close streets and the odour of the thames were becoming insufferable. mr. parsons arranged a series of breathing times for his clerical staff, but could make robert fulmort accept none. he was strong and healthy, ravenous of work, impervious to disgusts, and rejected holidays as burdensome and hateful. where should he go? what could he do? what would become of his wild scholars without him, and who would superintend his buildings? mr. parsons was fain to let him have his own way, as had happened in some previous instances, specially the edifice in cicely row, where the incumbent would have paused, but the curate rushed on with resolute zeal and impetuosity, taking measures so decidedly ere his intentions were revealed, that neither remonstrance nor prevention were easy, and a species of annoyed, doubtful admiration alone was possible. it was sometimes a gratifying reflection to the vicar, that when the buildings were finished, whittingtonia would become a district, and its busy curate be no longer under his jurisdiction. meantime robert was left with a companion in priest's orders, but newer to the parish than himself, to conduct the services at st. wulstan's, while the other curates were taking holiday, and the vicar at his son's country-house. to see how contentedly, nay, pleasurably, 'fulmort' endured perpetual broiling, passing from frying school to grilling pavement, and seething human hive, was constant edification to his colleague, who, fresh from the calm university, felt such a life to be a slow martyrdom, and wished his liking for the deacon were in better proportion to his esteem. 'a child to be baptized at , little whittington-street,' he said, with resigned despair, as at the vestry door he received a message from a small maid, one afternoon, when the air looked lucid yellow with sultry fire. 'i'll go,' replied robert, with the alacrity that sometimes almost irritated his fellows; and off he sped, with alert steps, at which his friend gazed with the sensation of watching a salamander. little whittington-street, where it was not warehouses, was chiefly occupied by small tradesfolk, or by lodging-houses for the numerous 'young men' employed in the city. it was one of the most respectable parts of that quarter, but being much given to dissent, was little frequented by the clergy, who had too much immorality to contend with, to have leisure to speak against schism. when he rang at no. , the little maid ushered him down a narrow, dark staircase, and announcing, 'please, ma'am, here's the minister,' admitted him into a small room, feeling like a cellar, the window opening into an area. it was crowded with gay and substantial furniture, and contained two women, one lying on a couch, partially hidden by a screen, the other an elderly person, in a widow's cap, with an infant in her arms. 'good morning, sir; we were sorry to trouble you, but i felt certain, as i told my daughter, that a minister of the gospel would not tarry in time of need. not that i put my trust in ordinances, sir; i have been blest with the enlightenment of the new birth, but my daughter, sir, she follows the church. yes, sir, the poor little lamb is a sad sufferer in this vale of tears. so wasted away, you see; you would not think he was nine weeks old. we would have brought him to church before, sir, only my daughter's hillness, and her 'usband's habsence. it was always her wish, sir, and i was not against it, for many true christians have found grace in the church, sir.' robert considered whether to address himself to the young mother, whose averted face and uneasy movements seemed to show that this stream of words was distressing to her. he thought silence would be best procured by his assumption of his office, and quietly made his preparations, opened his book, and took his place. the young woman, raising herself with difficulty, said in a low, sweet voice, 'the gentleman is ready, mother.' as there was no pressing danger, he read the previous collects, the elder female responding with devout groans, the younger sinking on her knees, her face hidden in her wasted hands. he took the little feeble being in his arms, and demanded the name. 'hoeing charterhouse,' replied the grandmother. he looked interrogative, and hoeing charterhouse was repeated. 'owen charteris,' said the low, sweet voice. a thrill shot over his whole frame, as his look met a large, full, liquid pair of dark eyes, such as once seen could never be forgotten, though dropped again instantly, while a burning blush arose, instantly veiled by the hands, which hid all up to the dark hair. recalling himself by an effort, he repeated the too familiar name, and baptized the child, bending his head over it afterwards in deep compassion and mental entreaty both for its welfare, and his own guidance in the tissue of wrongdoing thus disclosed. a hasty, stealthy glance at the hands covering the mother's face, showed him the ring on her fourth finger, and as they rose from their knees, he said, 'i am to register this child as owen charteris sandbrook.' with a look of deadly terror, she faintly exclaimed, 'i have done it! you know him, sir; you will not betray him!' 'i know you, too,' said robert, sternly. 'you were the schoolmistress at wrapworth!' 'i was, sir. it was all my fault. oh! promise me, sir, never to betray him; it would be the ruin of his prospects for ever!' and she came towards him, her hands clasped in entreaty, her large eyes shining with feverish lustre, her face wasted but still lovely, a piteous contrast to the queenly being of a year ago in her pretty schoolroom. 'compose yourself,' said robert, gravely; 'i hope never to betray any one. i confess that i am shocked, but i will endeavour to act rightly.' 'i am sure, sir,' broke in mrs. murrell, with double volume, after her interval of quiescence, 'it is not to be expected but what a gentleman's friends would be offended. it was none of my wish, sir, being that i never knew a word of it till she was married, and it was too late, or i would have warned her against broken cisterns. but as for her, sir, she is as innocent as a miserable sinner can be in a fallen world. it was the young gentleman as sought her out. i always misdoubted the ladies noticing her, and making her take part with men-singers and women-singers, and such vanities as is pleasing to the unregenerate heart. ah! sir, without grace, where are we? not that he was ever other than most honourable with her, or she would never have listened to him not for a moment, but she was over-persuaded, sir, and folks said what they hadn't no right to say, and the minister, he was 'ard on her, and so, you see, sir, she took fright and married him out of 'and, trusting to a harm of flesh, and went to hireland with him. she just writ me a note, which filled my 'art with fear and trembling, a 'nonymous note, with only hedna signed to it; and i waited, with failing eyes and sorrow of heart, till one day in autumn he brings her back to me, and here she has been ever since, dwining away in a nervous fever, as the doctors call it, as it's a misery to see her, and he never coming nigh her.' 'once,' murmured edna, who had several times tried to interrupt. 'once, ay, for one hour at christmas.' 'he is known here; he can't venture often,' interposed the wife; and there was a further whisper, 'he couldn't stay, he couldn't bear it.' but the dejected accents were lost in the old woman's voice,--'now, sir, if you know him or his family, i wouldn't be wishing to do him no hinjury, nor to ruinate his prospects, being, as he says, that the rich lady will make him her hare; but, sir, if you have any power with him as a godly minister or the friend of his youth maybe--' 'he is only waiting till he has a curacy--a house of his own--mother!' 'no, edna, hold your peace. it is not fit that i should see my only child cut down as the grass of the field, and left a burthen upon me, a lone woman, while he is eating of the fat of the land. i say it is scandalous that he should leave her here, and take no notice; not coming near her since one hour at christmas, and only just sending her a few pounds now and then; not once coming to see his own child!' 'he could not; he is abroad!' pleaded edna. 'he tells you he is abroad!' exclaimed robert. 'he went to paris at easter. he promised to come when he comes home.' 'you poor thing!' burst out robert. 'he is deceiving you! he came back at the end of three weeks. i heard from my sister that she saw him on sunday.' robert heartily rued his abruptness, as the poor young wife sank back in a deadly swoon. the grandmother hurried to apply remedies, insisting that the gentleman should not go, and continuing all the time her version of her daughter's wrongs. her last remnant of patience had vanished on learning this deception, and she only wanted to publish her daughter's claims, proceeding to establish them by hastening in search of the marriage certificate as soon as edna had begun to revive, but sooner than robert was satisfied to be left alone with the inanimate, helpless form on the couch. he was startled when edna raised her hand, and strove to speak,--'sir, do not tell--do not tell my mother where he is. she must not fret him--she must not tell his friends--he would be angry.' she ceased as her mother returned with the certificate of the marriage, contracted last july before the registrar of the huge suburban union to which wrapworth belonged, the centre of which was so remote, that the pseudo-banns of owen charteris sandbrook and edna murrell had attracted no attention. 'it was very wrong,' feebly said edna; 'i drew him into it! i loved him so much; and they all talked so after i went in the boat with him, that i thought my character was gone, and i begged him to save me from them. it was my fault, sir; and i've the punishment. you'll not betray him, sir; only don't let that young lady, your sister, trust to him. not yet. my baby and i shall soon be out of her way.' the calm languor of her tone was almost fearful, and even as she spoke a shuddering seized her, making her tremble convulsively, her teeth knocking together, and the couch shaking under her. 'you must have instant advice,' cried robert. 'i will fetch some one.' 'you won't betray him,' almost shrieked edna. 'a little while--stay a little while--he will be free of me.' there was delirium in look and voice, and he was compelled to pause and assure her that he was only going for the doctor, and would come again before taking any other step. it was not till the medical man had been summoned that his mind recurred to the words about his sister. he might have dismissed them as merely the jealous suspicion of the deserted wife, but that he remembered lucilla's hint as to an attachment between owen and phoebe, and he knew that such would have been most welcome to miss charlecote. 'my phoebe, my one bright spot!' was his inward cry, 'must your guileless happiness be quenched! o, i would rather have it all over again myself than that one pang should come near you, in your sweetness and innocence, the blessing of us all! and i not near to guard nor warn! what may not be passing even now? unprincipled, hard-hearted deceiver, walking at large among those gentle, unsuspicious women--trading on their innocent trust! would that i had disclosed the villainy i knew of!' his hand clenched, his brow lowered, and his mouth was set so savagely, that the passing policeman looked in wonder from the dangerous face to the clerical dress. early next morning he was at no. , and learnt that mrs. brook, as the maid called her, had been very ill all night, and that the doctor was still with her. begging to see the doctor, robert found that high fever had set in, an aggravation of the low nervous fever that had been consuming her strength all the spring, and her condition was already such that there was little hope of her surviving the present attack. she had been raving all night about the young lady with whom mr. sandbrook had been walking by moonlight, and when the door of the little adjoining bedroom was open, her moans and broken words were plainly audible. robert asked whether he should fetch her husband, and mrs. murrell caught at the offer. owen's presence was the single hope of restoring her, and at least he ought to behold the wreck that he had wrought. mrs. murrell gave a terrible thrust by saying, 'that the young lady at least ought to be let know, that she might not be trusting to him.' 'do not fear, mrs. murrell,' he said, almost under his breath. 'my only doubt is, whether i can meet owen sandbrook as a christian should.' cutting off her counsels on the unconverted nature, he strode off to find his colleague, whom he perplexed by a few rapid words on the necessity of going into the country for the day. his impatient condition required vehement action; and with a sense of hurrying to rescue phoebe, he could scarcely brook the slightest delay till he was on his way to hiltonbury, nor till the train spared him all action could he pause to collect his strength, guard his resentment, or adjust his measures for warning, but not betraying. he could think of no honourable mode of dealing, save carrying off owen to london with him at once, sacrificing the sight of his sister for the present, and either writing or going to her afterwards, when the mode of dealing the blow should be more evident. it cost him keen suffering to believe that this was the sole right course, but he had bound himself to it by his promise to the poor suffering wife, blaming himself for continually putting his sister before her in his plans. at elverslope, on his demand for a fly for hiltonbury, he was answered that all were engaged for the horticultural show in the forest; but the people at the station, knowing him well, made willing exertions to procure a vehicle for him, and a taxed cart soon making its appearance, he desired to be taken, not to the holt, but to the forest, where he had no doubt that he should find the object of his search. this horticultural show was the great gaiety of the year. the society had originated with humfrey charlecote, for the benefit of the poor as well as the rich; and the summer exhibition always took place under the trees of a fragment of the old forest, which still survived at about five miles from hiltonbury. the day was a county holiday. the delicate orchid and the crowned pine were there, with the hairy gooseberry, the cabbage and potato, and the homely cottage-garden nosegay from many a woodland hamlet. the young ladies competed in collections of dried flowers for a prize botany book; and the subscriptions were so arranged that on this festival each poorer member might, with two companions, be provided with a hearty meal; while grandees and farmers had a luncheon-tent of their own, and regarded the day as a county picnic. it was a favourite affair with all, intensely enjoyed, and full of good neighbourhood. humfrey charlecote's spirit never seemed to have deserted it; it was a gathering of distant friends, a delight of children as of the full grown; and while the young were frantic for its gipsying fun, their elders seldom failed to attend, if only in remembrance of poor mr. charlecote, 'who had begged one and all not to let it drop.' above all, honora felt it due to humfrey to have prize-roots and fruits from the holt, and would have thought herself fallen, indeed, had the hardest rain kept her from the rendezvous, with one wagon carrying the cottagers' articles, and another a troop of school-children. no doubt the forest would be the place to find owen sandbrook, but for the rest-- from the very extremity of his perplexity, robert's mind sought relief in external objects. so joyous were the associations with the forest road on a horticultural day, that the familiar spots could not but revive them. those green glades, where the graceful beeches retreated, making cool green galleries with their slender gleaming stems, reminded him of his putting his new pony to speed to come up with the holt carriage; that scathed oak had a tradition of lightning connected with it; yonder was the spot where he had shown lucilla a herd of deer; here the rising ground whence the whole scene could be viewed, and from force of habit he felt exhilarated as he gazed down the slope of heather, where the fine old oaks and beeches, receding, had left an open space, now covered with the well-known tents; there the large one, broadly striped with green, containing the show; there the white marquees for the eaters; the union jack's gay colours floating lazily from a pole in the outlaw's knoll; the dark, full foliage of the forest, and purple tints of the heather setting off the bright female groups in their delicate summer gaieties. vehicles of all degrees--smart barouche, lengthy britzschka, light gig, dashing pony-carriage, rattling shanderadan, and gorgeous wagon--were drawn up in treble file, minus their steeds; the sounds of well-known tunes from the band were wafted on the wind, and such an air of jocund peace and festivity pervaded the whole, that for a moment he had a sense of holiday-making ere he sighed at the shade that he was bringing on that scene of merriment. reaching the barrier, he paid his entrance-money, and desiring the carriage to wait, walked rapidly down the hill. on one side of the road was the gradual sweep of open heath, on the other was a rapid slope, shaded by trees, and covered with fern, growing tall and grand as it approached the moist ground in the hollow below. voices made him turn his head in that direction. aloof from the rest of the throng he beheld two figures half-way down the bank, so nearly hidden among the luxuriant, wing-like fronds of the osmond royal which they were gathering, that at first only their hats were discernible--a broad gray one, with drooping feather, and a light oxford boating straw hat. the merry ring of the clear girlish voice, the deep-toned replies, told him more than his first glance did; and with one inward ejaculation for self-command, he turned aside to the descent. the rustling among the copsewood caught the ear of phoebe, who was the highest up, and, springing up like a fawn in the covert, she cried,--'robin! dear robin! how delicious!' but ere she had made three bounds towards him, his face brought her to a pause, and, in an awe-struck voice, she asked, 'robert, what is it?' 'it does not concern you, dearest; at least, i hope not. i want owen sandbrook.' 'then it is _she_. o robin, can you bear it?' she whispered, clinging to him, terrified by the agitated fondness of his embrace. 'i know nothing of _her_,' was his answer, interrupted by owen, who, raising his handsome, ruddy face from beneath, shouted mirthfully-- 'ha! phoebe, what interloper have you caught? what, fulmort, not quite grilled in the wulstonian oven?' 'i was in search of you. wait there, phoebe,' said robert, advancing to meet owen, with a gravity of countenance that provoked an impatient gesture, and the question-- 'come, have it out! do you mean that you have been ferreting out some old scrape of mine?' 'i mean,' said robert, looking steadily at him, 'that i have been called in to baptize your sick child. your wife is dying, and you must hasten if you would see her alive.' 'that won't do. you know better than that,' returned owen, with ill-concealed agitation, partaking of anger. 'she was quite recovered when last i heard, but she is a famous hand at getting up a scene; and that mother of hers would drive job out of his senses. they have worked on your weak mind. i was an ass to trust to the old woman's dissent for hindering them from finding you out, and getting up a scene.' 'they did not. it was by accident that i was the person who answered the summons. they knew neither me nor my name, so you may acquit them of any preparation. i recognized your name, which i was desired to give to the child; and then, in spite of wasting, terror, and deadly sickness, i knew the mother. she has been pining under low nervous fever, still believing you on the continent; and the discovery that she had been deceived, was such a shock as to bring on a violent attack, which she is not likely to have strength to survive.' 'i never told her i was still abroad,' said owen, in a fretful tone of self-defence. 'i only had my letters forwarded through my scout; for i knew i should have no peace nor safety if the old woman knew where to find me, and preach me crazy; and i could not be going to see after her, for, thanks to honor charlecote and her schools, every child in whittingtonia knows me by sight. i told her to be patient till i had a curacy, and was independent; but it seems she could not be. i'll run up as soon as i can get some plea for getting away from the holt.' 'death will leave no time for your excuses,' said robert. 'by setting off at once, you may catch the five o'clock express at w---' 'well, it is your object to have a grand explosion! when i am cut out, you and cilly may make a good thing of it. i wish you joy! ha! by jove!' he muttered, as he saw phoebe waiting out of earshot. and then, turning from robert, who was dumb in the effort to control a passionate reply, he called out, 'good-bye, phoebe; i beg your pardon, but you see i am summoned. family claims are imperative!' 'what is the matter?' said the maiden, terrified not only at his tone, but at the gestures of her brother of fierce, suppressed menace towards him, despairing protection towards her. 'why, he has told you! matter enough, isn't it? i'm a married man. i ask your compassion!' with a bitter laugh. 'it is you who have told her,' said robert, who, after a desperate effort, had forced all violence from his voice and language. 'traitor as you consider me, your secret had not crossed my lips. but no--there is no time to waste on disputes. your wife is sinking under neglect; and her seeing you once more may depend on your not loitering away these moments.' 'i don't believe it. canting and tragedy queening. taking him in! i know better!' muttered owen, sullenly, as he moved up the bank. 'o robin, how can he be so hard?' whispered phoebe, as she met her brother's eyes wistfully fixed on her face. 'he is altogether selfish and heartless,' returned robert, in the same inaudible voice. 'my phoebe, give me this one comfort. you never listened to him?' 'there was nothing to listen to,' said phoebe, turning her clear, surprised eyes on him. 'you couldn't think him so bad as that. o robin, how silly!' 'what were you doing here?' he asked, holding her arm tight. 'only miss fennimore wanted some osmunda, and miss charlecote sent him to show me where it grew; because she was talking to lady raymond.' the free simplicity of her look made robert breathe freely. charity was coming back to him. at the same moment owen turned, his face flushed, and full of emotion, but the obduracy gone. 'i may take a long leave! when you see honor charlecote, fulmort--' 'i shall not see her. i am going back with you,' said robert, instantly deciding, now that he felt that he could both leave phoebe, and trust himself with the offender. 'you think i want to escape!' 'no; but i have duties to return to. besides, you will find a scene for which you are little prepared; and which will cost you the more for your present mood. i may be of use there. your secret is safe with phoebe and me. i promised your wife to keep it, and we will not rob you of the benefit of free confession.' 'and what is to explain my absence? no, no, the secret is one no longer, and it has been intolerable enough already,' said owen, recklessly. 'poor honor, it will be a grievous business, and little phoebe will be a kind messenger. won't you, phoebe? i leave my cause in your hands.' 'but,' faltered phoebe, 'she should hear who--' 'simple child, you can't draw inferences. cilla wouldn't have asked. don't you remember her darling at wrapworth? people shouldn't throw such splendid women in one's way, especially when they are made of such inflammable materials, and take fire at a civil word. so ill, poor thing! now, robert, on your honour, has not the mother been working on you?' 'i tell you not what the mother told me, but what the medical man said. low nervous fever set in long ago, and she has never recovered her confinement. heat and closeness were already destroying her, when my disclosure that you were not abroad, as she had been led to believe, brought on fainting, and almost immediate delirium. this was last evening, she was worse this morning.' 'poor girl, poor girl!' muttered owen, his face almost convulsed with emotion. 'there was no helping it. she would have drowned herself if i had not taken her with me--quite capable of it! after those intolerable women at wrapworth had opened fire. i wish women's tongues were cut out by act of parliament. so, phoebe, tell poor honor that i know i am unpardonable, but i am sincerely sorry for her. i fell into it, there's no knowing how, and she would pity me, and so would you, if you knew what i have gone through. good-bye, phoebe. most likely i shall never see you again. won't you shake hands, and tell me you are sorry for me?' 'i should be, if you seemed more sorry for your wife than yourself,' she said, holding out her hand, but by no means prepared for his not only pressing it with fervour, but carrying it to his lips. then, as robert started forward with an impulse of snatching her from him, he almost threw it from his grasp, and with a long sigh very like bitter regret, and a murmur that resembled 'that's a little angel,' he mounted the bank. robert only tarried to say, 'may i be able to bear with him! phoebe, do your best for poor miss charlecote. i will write.' phoebe sat down at the foot of a tree, veiled by the waving ferns, to take breath and understand what had passed. her first act was to strike one hand across the other, as though to obliterate the kiss, then to draw off her glove, and drop it in the deepest of the fern, never to be worn again. hateful! with that poor neglected wife pining to death in those stifling city streets, to be making sport in those forest glades. shame! shame! but oh! worst of all was his patronizing pity for miss charlecote! phoebe's own mission to miss charlecote was dreadful enough, and she could have sat for hours deliberating on the mode of carrying grief and dismay to her friend, who had looked so joyous and exulting with her boy by her side as she drove upon the ground; but there was no time to be lost, and rousing herself into action with strong effort, phoebe left the fern brake, walking like one in a dream, and exchanging civilities with various persons who wondered to see her alone, made her way to the principal marquee, where luncheon had taken place, and which always served as the rendezvous. here sat mammas, keeping up talk enough for civility, and peeping out restlessly to cluck their broods together; here gentlemen stood in knots, talking county business; servants congregated in the rear, to call the carriages; stragglers gradually streamed together, and 'oh! here you are,' was the staple exclamation. it was uttered by mrs. fulmort as phoebe appeared, and was followed by plaintive inquiries for her sisters, and assurances that it would have been better to have stayed in the cool tent, and gone home at once. phoebe consoled her by ordering the carriage, and explaining that her sisters were at hand with some other girls, then begged leave to go home with miss charlecote for the night. 'my dear, what shall i do with the others without you? maria has such odd tricks, and bertha is so teasing without you! you promised they should not tire me!' 'i will beg them to be good, dear mamma; i am very sorry, but it is only this once. she will be alone. owen sandbrook is obliged to go away.' 'i can't think what she should want of you,' moaned her mother, 'so used as she is to be alone. did she ask you?' 'no, she does not know yet. i am to tell her, and that is why i want you to be so kind as to spare me, dear mamma.' 'my dear, it will not do for you to be carrying young men's secrets, at least not owen sandbrook's. your papa would not like it, my dear, until she had acknowledged him for her heir. you have lost your glove, too, phoebe, and you look so heated, you had better come back with me,' said mrs. fulmort, who would not have withstood for a moment a decree from either of her other daughters. 'indeed,' said phoebe, 'you need not fear, mamma. it is nothing of that sort, quite the contrary.' 'quite the contrary! you don't tell me that he has formed another attachment, just when i made sure of your settling at last at the holt, and you such a favourite with honor charlecote. not one of those plain miss raymonds, i hope.' 'i must not tell, till she has heard,' said phoebe, 'so please say nothing about it. it will vex poor miss charlecote sadly, so pray let no one suspect, and i will come back and tell you to-morrow, by the time you are dressed.' mrs. fulmort was so much uplifted by the promise of the grand secret that she made no more opposition, and maria and bertha hurried in with phoebe's glove, which, with the peculiar fidelity of property wilfully lost, had fallen into their hands while searching for robert. both declared they had seen him on the hill, and clamorously demanded him of phoebe. her answer, 'he is not in the forest, you will not find him,' was too conscious fully to have satisfied the shrewd bertha, but for the pleasure of discoursing to the other girls upon double gangers, of whom she had stealthily read in some prohibited german literature of her governess's. leaving her to astonish them, phoebe took up a position near miss charlecote, who was talking to the good matronly-looking lady raymond, and on the first opportunity offered herself as a companion. on the way home, honor, much pleased, was proposing to find owen, and walk through a beautiful and less frequented forest path, when she saw her own carriage coming up with that from beauchamp, and lamented the mistake which must take her away as soon as owen could be found. 'i ventured to order it,' said phoebe; 'i thought you might prefer it. owen is gone. he left a message with me for you.' experience of former blows taught honora to ask no questions, and to go through the offices of politeness as usual. but lady raymond, long a friend of hers, though barely acquainted with mrs. fulmort, and never having seen phoebe before, living as she did on the opposite side of the county, took a moment for turning round to the young girl, and saying with a friendly motherly warmth, far from mere curiosity, 'i am sure you have bad news for miss charlecote. i see you cannot speak of it now, but you must promise me to send to moorcroft, if sir john or i can be of any use.' phoebe could only give a thankful grasp of the kind hand. the raymonds were rather despised at home for plain habits, strong religious opinions, and scanty fortunes, but she knew they were miss charlecote's great friends and advisers. not till the gay crowd had been left behind did honor turn to phoebe, and say gently, 'my dear, if he is gone off in any foolish way, you had better tell me at once, that something may be done.' 'he is gone with robert,' said phoebe. 'bertha did really see robert. he had made a sad discovery, and came for owen. do you remember that pretty schoolmistress at wrapworth!' never had phoebe seen such a blanched face and dilated eyes as were turned on her, with the gasping words, 'impossible! they would not have told you.' 'they were obliged,' said phoebe; 'they had to hurry for the train, for she is very ill indeed.' honor leant back with folded hands and closed eyes, so that phoebe almost felt as if she had killed her. 'i suppose robert was right to fetch him,' she said; 'but their telling you!' 'owen told me he fancied robert had done so,' said phoebe, 'and called out to me something about family claims, and a married man.' 'married!' cried honora, starting forward. 'you are sure!' 'quite sure,' repeated phoebe; 'he desired me to tell you i was to say he knew he was unpardonable, but he had suffered a great deal, and he was grieved at the sorrow you would feel.' having faithfully discharged her message, phoebe could not help being vexed at the relenting 'poor fellow!' honor was no longer confounded, as at the first sentences, and though still cast down, was more relieved than her young friend could understand, asking all that had passed between the young men, and when all had been told, leaning back in silence until, when almost at home, she laid her hand on phoebe's arm, and said, 'my child, never think yourself safe from idols.' she then sought her own room, and phoebe feared that her presence was intrusive, for she saw her hostess no more till teatime, when the wan face and placid smile almost made her weep at first, then wonder at the calm unconstrained manner in which her amusement was provided for, and feel ready to beg not to be treated like a child or a stranger. when parting for the night, however, honor tenderly said, 'thanks, my dear, for giving up the evening to me.' 'i have only been an oppression to you.' 'you did me the greatest good. i did not want discussion; i only wanted kindness. i wish i had you always, but it is better not. their uncle was right. i spoil every one.' 'pray do not say so. you have been our great blessing. if you knew how we wish to comfort you.' 'you do comfort me. i can watch robert realizing my visions for others, and you, my twilight moon, my autumn flower. but i must not love you too much, phoebe. they all suffer for my inordinate affection. but it is too late to talk. good night, sweet one.' 'shall you sleep?' said phoebe, wistfully lingering. 'yes; i don't enter into it enough to be haunted. ah! you have never learnt what it is to feel heavy with trouble. i believe i shall not dwell on it till i know more. there may be much excuse; she may have been artful, and at least owen dealt fairly by her in one respect. i can better suppose her unworthy than him cruelly neglectful.' in that hope honor slept, and was not more depressed than phoebe had seen her under lucilla's desertion. she put off herjudgment till she should hear more, went about her usual occupations, and sent phoebe home till letters should come, when they would meet again. both heard from robert by the next post, and his letter to miss charlecote related all that he had been able to collect from mrs. murrell, or from owen himself. the narrative is here given more fully than he was able to make it. edna murrell, born with the susceptible organization of a musical temperament, had in her earliest childhood been so treated as to foster refined tastes and aspirations, such as disgusted her with the respectable vulgarity of her home. the pet of the nursery and school-room looked down on the lodge kitchen and parlour, and her discontent was a matter of vanity with her parents, as a sign of her superiority, while plausibility and caution were continually enjoined on her rather by example than by precept, and she was often aware of her mother's indulgence of erratic propensities in religion, unknown either to her father or his employers. unexceptionable as had been her training-school education, the high cultivation and soundness of doctrine had so acted on her as to keep her farther aloof from her mother, whose far more heartfelt religion appeared to her both distasteful and contemptible, and whose advice was thus cast aside as prejudiced and sectarian. such was the preparation for the unprotected life of a schoolmistress in a house by herself. servants and small tradesfolk were no companions to her, and were offended by her ladylike demeanour; and her refuge was in books that served but to increase the perils of sham romance, and in enthusiastic adoration of the young lady, whose manners apparently placed her on an equality, although her beauty and musical talents were in truth only serving as a toy. her face and voice had already been thrust on owen's notice before the adventure with the bargeman had constituted the young gentleman the hero of her grateful imagination, and commenced an intercourse for which his sister's inconsiderate patronage gave ample opportunities. his head was full of the theory of fusion of classes, and of the innate refinement, freshness of intellect, and vigour of perception of the unsophisticated, at least so he thought, and when he lent her books, commenting on favourite passages, and talked poetry or popular science to her, he imagined himself walking in the steps of those who were asserting the claims of intelligence to cultivation, and sowing broadcast the seeds of art, literature, and emancipation. perhaps he knew not how often he was betrayed into tokens of admiration, sufficient to inflame such a disposition as he had to deal with, and if he were aware of his influence, and her adoration, it idly flattered and amused him, without thought of the consequences. on the night when she had fainted at the sight of his attention to phoebe, she was left on his hands in a state when all caution and reserve gave way, and her violent agitation fully awakened him to the perception of the expectations he had caused, the force of the feelings he had aroused. a mixture of pity, vanity, and affection towards the beautiful creature before him had led to a response such as did not disappoint her, and there matters might have rested for the present, but that their interview had been observed. edna, terror-stricken, believing herself irretrievably disgraced, had thrown herself on his mercy in a frantic condition, such as made him dread exposure for himself, as well as suspense for her tempestuous nature. with all his faults, the pure atmosphere in which he had grown up, together with the tone of his associates, comparatively free from the grosser and more hard-hearted forms of vice, had concurred with poor edna's real modesty and principle in obtaining the sanction of marriage, for her flight with him from the censure of wrapworth, and the rebukes of her mother. throughout, his feeling had been chiefly stirred up by the actual sight of her beauty, and excited by her fervent passion. when absent from her, there had been always regrets and hesitations, such as would have prevailed, save for his compassion, and dread of the effects of her desperation, both for her and for himself. the unpardonable manner in which he knew himself to have acted, made it needful to plunge deeper for the very sake of concealment. yet, once married, he would have been far safer if he had confessed the fact to his only true friend, since it must surely come to light some time or other, but he had bred himself up in the habit of schoolboy shuffling, hiding everything to the last moment, and he could not bear to be cast off by the charterises, be pitied and laughed at by his oxford friends, nor to risk honor charlecote's favour, perhaps her inheritance. return to oxford the victim of an attachment to a village schoolmistress! better never return thither at all, as would be but too probably the case! no! the secret must be kept till his first start in life should be secure; and he talked to edna of his future curacy, while she fed her fancy with visions of lovely parsonages and 'clergymen's ladies' in a world of pensive bliss, and after the honeymoon in ireland, promised to wait patiently, provided her mother might know all. owen had not realized the home to which he was obliged to resign his wife, nor his mother-in-law's powers of tongue. there were real difficulties in the way of his visiting her. it was the one neighbourhood in london where his person might be known, and if he avoided daylight, he became the object of espial to the disappointed lodgers, who would have been delighted to identify the 'mr. brook' who had monopolized the object of their admiration. these perils, the various disagreeables, and especially mrs. murrell's complaints and demands for money, had so much annoyed owen, who felt himself the injured party in the connection, that he had not only avoided the place, but endeavoured to dismiss the whole humiliating affair from his mind, trying to hinder himself from being harassed by letters, and when forced to attend to the representations of the women, sending a few kind words and promises, with such money as he could spare, always backed, however, by threats of the consequences of a disclosure, which he vaguely intimated would ruin his prospects for life. little did the thoughtless boy comprehend the cruelty of his neglect. in the underground rooms of the city lodging-house, the voluntary prison of the shame-faced, half-owned wife, the overwrought headache, incidental to her former profession, made her its prey; nervous fever came on as the suspense became more trying, and morbid excitement alternated with torpor and depression. medical advice was long deferred, and that which was at last sought was not equal to her needs. it remained for the physician, summoned by robert, in his horror at her delirium, to discover that her brain had long been in a state of irritation, which had become aggravated to such a degree that death was even to be desired. could she yet survive, it could hardly be to the use of her intellect. robert described poor owen's impetuous misery, and the cares which he lavished on the unconscious sufferer, mentioning him with warmth and tenderness that amazed honor, from one so stern of judgment. nay, robert was more alive to the palliations of owen's conduct than she was herself. she grieved over the complicated deceit, and resented the cruelty to the wife with the keen severity of secluded womanhood, unable to realize the temptations of young-manhood. 'why could he not have told me?' she said. 'i could so easily have forgiven him for generous love, if i alone had been offended, and there had been no falsehood; but after the way he has used us all, and chiefly that poor young thing, i can never feel that he is the same.' and, though the heart that knew no guile had been saved from suffering, the thought of the intimacy that she had encouraged, and the wishes she had entertained for phoebe, filled her with such dismay, that it required the sight of the innocent, serene face, and the sound of the happy, unembarrassed voice, to reassure her that her darling's peace had not been wrecked. for, though owen had never overpassed the bounds of the familiar intercourse of childhood, there had been an implication of preference in his look and tone; nor had there been error in the intuition of poor edna's jealous passion. something there was of involuntary reverence that had never been commanded by the far more beautiful and gifted girl who had taken him captive. so great was the shock that honora moved about mechanically, hardly able to think. she knew that in time she should pardon her boy; but she could not yearn to do so till she had seen him repent. he had sinned too deeply against others to be taken home at once to her heart, even though she grieved over him with deep, loving pity, and sought to find the original germs of error rather in herself than in him. had she encouraged deceit by credulous trust? alas! alas! that should but have taught him generosity. it was the old story. fond affection had led her to put herself into a position to which providence did not call her, and to which she was, therefore, unequal. fond affection had blinded her eyes, and fostered in its object the very faults most hateful to her. she could only humble herself before her maker for the recurring sin, and entreat for her own pardon, and for that of the offender with whose sins she charged herself. and to man she humbled herself by her confession to captain charteris, and by throwing herself unreservedly on the advice of mr. saville and sir john raymond, for her future conduct towards the culprit. if he were suffering now for her rejection of the counsel of manhood and experience, it was right that they should deal with him now, and she would try to bear it. and she also tried as much as possible to soften the blow to lucilla, who was still abroad with her cousins. chapter xii a little grain of conscience made him sour. tennyson 'a penny for your thoughts, cilly,' said horatia, sliding in on the slippery boards of a great bare room of a lodging-house at the celebrated spa of spitzwasserfitzung. 'my thoughts? i was trying to recollect the third line of "sated at home, of wife and children tired, sated abroad, all seen and naught admired."' 'bless me, how grand! worth twopence. so good how shakspeare, as the princess ottilie would say!' 'twopence for its sincerity! it is not for your sake that i am not in old england.' 'nor for that of the three flaxen-haired princesses, with religious opinions to be accommodated to those of the crowned heads they may marry?' 'i'm sick of the three, and their raptures. i wish i was as ignorant as you, and that shakspeare had never been read at the holt.' 'this is a sudden change. i thought spitzwasserfitzung and its princesses had brought halcyon days.' 'halcyon days will never come till we get home.' 'which lolly will never do. she passes for somebody here, and will never endure castle blanch again.' 'i'll make owen come and take me home.' 'no,' said rashe, seriously, 'don't bring owen here. if lolly likes to keep charles where gaming is man's sole resource, don't run owen into that scrape.' 'what a despicable set you are!' sighed lucilla. 'i wonder why i stay with you.' 'you might almost as well be gone,' said ratia. 'you aren't half so useful in keeping things going as you were once; and you won't be ornamental long, if you let your spirits be so uncertain.' 'and pray how is that to be helped? no, don't come out with that stupid thing.' 'commonplace because it is reasonable. you would have plenty of excitement in the engagement, and then no end of change, and settle down into a blooming little matron, with all the business of the world on your hands. you have got him into excellent training by keeping him dangling so long; and it is the only chance of keeping your looks or your temper. by the time i come and stay with you, you'll be so agreeable you won't know yourself--' 'blessings on that hideous post-horn for stopping your mouth!' cried lucilla, springing up. 'not that letters ever come to me.' letters and mr. and mrs. charteris all entered together, and rashe was busy with her own share, when lucilla came forward with a determined face, unlike her recent listless look, and said, 'i am wanted at home. i shall start by the diligence to-night.' 'how now?' said charles. 'the old lady wanting you to make her will?' 'no,' said lucilla, with dignity. 'my brother's wife is very ill. i must go to her.' 'is she demented?' asked charles, looking at his sister. 'raving,' was the answer. 'she has been so the whole morning. i shall cut off her hair, and get ice for her head.' 'i tell simple truth,' returned cilla. 'here is a letter from honor charlecote, solving the two mysteries of last summer. owen's companion, who rashe would have it was jack hastings--' 'ha! married, then! the cool hand! and verily, but that cilly takes it so easily, i should imagine it was her singing prodigy--eh? it was, then?' 'absurd idiot!' exclaimed charles. 'there, he is done for now!' 'yes,' drawled eloisa; 'one never could notice a low person like that.' 'she is my sister, remember!' cried lucilla, with stamping foot and flashing eye. 'cunning rogue!' continued horatia. 'how did he manage to give no suspicion? oh! what fun! no wonder she looked green and yellow when he was flirting with the little fulmort! let's hear all, cilly--how, when, and where?' 'at the registrar's, at r---, july th, ,' returned lucilla, with defiant gravity. 'last july!' said charles. 'ha! the young donkey was under age--hadn't consent of guardian. i don't believe the marriage will hold water. i'll write to stevens this minute.' 'well, that would be luck!' exclaimed rashe. 'much better than he deserves,' added charles, 'to be such a fool as to run into the noose and marry the girl.' lucilla was trembling from head to foot, and a light gleamed in her eyes; but she spoke so quietly that her cousins did not apprehend her intention in the question-- 'you mean what you say?' 'of course i do,' said charles. 'i'm not sure of the law, and some of the big-wigs are very cantankerous about declaring an affair of this sort null; but i imagine there is a fair chance of his getting quit for some annual allowance to her; and i'll do my best, even if i had to go to london about it. a man is never ruined till he is married.' 'thank you,' returned lucilla, her lips trembling with bitter irony. 'now i know what you all are made of. we are obliged for your offered exertion, but we are not inclined to become traitors.' 'cilly! i thought you had more sense! you are no child!' 'i am a woman--i feel for womanhood. i am a sister--i feel for my brother's honour.' charles burst into a laugh. eloisa remonstrated--'my dear, consider the disgrace to the whole family--a village schoolmistress!' 'our ideas differ as to disgrace,' said lucilla. 'let me go, ratia; i must pack for the diligence.' the brother and sister threw themselves between her and the door. 'are you insane, cilly? what do you mean should become of you? are you going to join the _menage_, and teach the a b c?' 'i am going to own my sister while yet there is time,' said lucilla. 'while you are meditating how to make her a deserted outcast, death is more merciful. pining under the miseries of an unowned marriage, she is fast dying of pressure on the brain. i am going in the hope of hearing her call me sister. i am going to take charge of her child, and stand by my brother.' 'dying, poor thing! why did you not tell us before?' said horatia, sobered. 'i did not know it was to save charles so much _kind trouble_,' said lucilla. 'let me go, rashe; you cannot detain me.' 'i do believe she is delighted,' said horatia, releasing her. in truth, she was inspirited by perceiving any door of escape. any vivid sensation was welcome in the irksome vacancy that pursued her in the absence of immediate excitement. devoid of the interest of opposition, and of the bracing changes to the holt, her intercourse with the charterises had become a weariness and vexation of spirit. idle foreign life deteriorated them, and her principle and delicacy suffered frequent offences; but like all living wilfully in temptation, she seemed under a spell, only to be broken by an act of self-humiliation to which she would not bend. longing for the wholesome atmosphere of hiltonbury, she could not brook to purchase her entrance there by permitting herself to be pardoned. there was one whom she fully intended should come and entreat her return, and the terms of her capitulation had many a time been arranged with herself; but when he came not, though her heart ached after him, pride still forbade one homeward step, lest it should seem to be in quest of him, or in compliance with his wishes. here, then, was a summons to england--nay, into his very parish--without compromising her pride or forcing her to show deference to rejected counsel. nay, in contrast with her cousins, she felt her sentiments so lofty and generous that she was filled with the gladness of conscious goodness, so like the days of her early childhood, that a happy dew suffused her eyes, and she seemed to hear the voice of old thames. her loathing for the views of her cousins had borne down all resentment at her brother's folly and edna's presumption; and relieved that it was not worse, and full of pity for the girl she had really loved, honor's grieved displeasure and charles's kind project together made her the ardent partisan of the young wife. because honor intimated that the girl had been artful, and had forced herself on owen, lucilla was resolved that her favourite had been the most perfect of heroines; and that circumstance alone should bear such blame as could not be thrown on honor herself and the wrapworth gossipry. poor circumstances! the journey gave her no concern. the way was direct to ostend, and spitzwasserfitzung contained a '_pension_,' which was a great resort of incipient english governesses, so that there were no difficulties such as to give her enterprising spirit the least concern. she refused the escort that rashe would have pressed upon her, and made her farewells with quiet resolution. no further remonstrance was offered; and though each party knew that what had passed would be a barrier for ever, good breeding preferred an indifferent parting. there were light, cheery words, but under the full consciousness that the friendship begun in perverseness had ended in contempt. horatia turned aside with a good-natured 'poor child! she will soon wish herself back.' lucilla, taking her last glance, sighed as she thought, 'my father did not like them. but for honor, i would never have taken up with them.' without misadventure, lucilla arrived at london bridge, and took a cab for woolstone-lane, where she must seek more exact intelligence of the locality of those she sought. so long had her eye been weary of novelty, while her mind was ill at ease, that even holborn in the august sun was refreshingly homelike; and begrimed queen anne, 'sitting in the sun' before st. paul's, wore a benignant aspect to glances full of hope and self-approval. an effort was necessary to recall how melancholy was the occasion of her journey, and all mournful anticipation was lost in the spirit of partisanship and patronage--yes, and in that pervading consciousness that each moment brought her nearer to whittingtonia. great was the amaze of good mrs. jones, the housekeeper, at the arrival of miss lucy, and equal disappointment that she would neither eat nor rest, nor accept a convoy to no. , little whittington-street. she tripped off thither the instant she had ascertained the number of the house, and heard that her brother was there, and his wife still living. she had formed to herself no image of the scenes before her, and was entirely unprepared by reflection when she rang at the door. as soon as she mentioned her name, the little maid conducted her down-stairs, and she found herself in the sitting-room, face to face with robert fulmort. without showing surprise or emotion, or relaxing his grave, listening air, he merely bowed his head, and held out his hand. there was an atmosphere of awe about the room, as though she had interrupted a religious office; and she stood still in the solemn hush, her lips parted, her bosom heaving. the opposite door was ajar, and from within came a kind of sobbing moan, and a low, feeble, faltering voice faintly singing-- 'for men must work, and women must weep, and the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep.' the choking thrill of unwonted tears rushed over lucilla, and she shuddered. robert looked disappointed as he caught the notes; then placing a seat for lucilla, said, very low, 'we hoped she would waken sensible. her mother begged me to be at hand.' 'has she never been sensible?' 'they hoped so, at one time, last night. she seemed to know him.' 'is he there?' robert only sighed assent, for again the voice was heard--'i must get up. miss sandbrook wants me. she says i shan't be afraid when the time comes; but oh!--so many, many faces--all their eyes looking; and where is he?--why doesn't he look? oh! miss sandbrook, don't bring that young lady here--i know--i know it is why he never comes--keep her away--' the voice turned to shrieking sobs. there were sounds of feet and hurried movements, and owen came out, gasping for breath, and his face flushed. 'i can't bear it,' he said, with his hands over his face. 'can i be of use?' asked robert. 'no; the nurse can hold her;' and he leant his arms on the mantelpiece, his frame shaken with long-drawn sobs. he had never even seen his sister, and she was too much appalled to speak or move. when the sounds ceased, owen looked up to listen, and robert said, 'still no consciousness?' 'no, better not. what would she gain by it?' 'it must be better not, if so ordained,' said robert. 'pshaw! what are last feelings and words? as if a blighted life and such suffering were not sure of compensation. there's more justice in heaven than in your system!' he was gone; and robert with a deep sigh said, 'i am not judging. i trust there were tokens of repentance and forgiveness; but it is painful, as her mother feels it, to hear how her mind runs on light songs and poetry.' 'mechanically!' 'true; and delirium is no criterion of the state of mind. but it is very mournful. in her occupation, one would have thought habit alone would have made her ear catch other chimes.' lucilla remembered with a pang that she had sympathized with edna's weariness of the monotony of hymn and catechism. thinking poetry rather dull and tiresome, she had little guessed at the effect of sentimental songs and volumes of l. e. l. and the like, on an inflammable mind, when once taught to slake her thirsty imagination beyond the s.p.c.k. she did not marvel at the set look of pain with which robert heard passionate verses of shelley and byron fall from those dying lips. they must have been conned by heart, and have been the favourite study, or they could hardly thus recur. 'i must go,' said robert, after a time; 'i am doing no good here. you will take care of your brother, if it is over before i return. where are you?' 'my things are in woolstone-lane.' 'i meant to get him there. i will come back by seven o'clock; but i must go to the school.' 'may i go in there?' 'you had better not. it is a fearful sight, and you cannot be of use. i wish you could be out of hearing; but the house is full.' 'one moment, robert--the child?' 'sent to a nurse, when every sound was agony.' he stepped into the sick room, and brought out mrs. murrell, who began with a curtsey, but eagerly pressed lucilla's offered hand. subdued by sorrow and watching, she was touchingly meek and resigned, enduring with the patience of real faith, and only speaking to entreat that mr. fulmort would pray with her for her poor child. never had lucilla so prayed; and ere she had suppressed her tears, ere rising from her knees, robert was gone. she spent the ensuing hours of that summer evening, seated in the arm-chair, barely moving, listening to the ticking of the clock, and the thunder of the streets, and at times hearkening to the sounds in the inner chamber, the wanderings feebler and more rare, but the fearful convulsions more frequent, seeming, as it were, to be tearing away the last remnant of life. these moments of horror-struck suspense were the only breaks, save when owen rushed out unable to bear the sight, and stood, with hidden face, in such absorption of distress as to be unconscious of her awe-struck attempts to obtain his attention, or when mrs. murrell came to fetch something, order her maid, or relieve herself by a few sad words to her guest. gratified by the eager sisterly acknowledgment of poor edna, she touched lucilla deeply by speaking of her daughter's fondness for miss sandbrook, grief at having given cause for being thought ungrateful, and assurances that the secret never could have been kept had they met the day after the _soiree_. many had been the poor thing's speculations how miss sandbrook would receive her marriage, but always with confidence in her final mercy and justice: and when lucilla heard of the prolonged wretchedness, the hope deferred, the evil reports and suspicions of neighbours and lodgers, the failing health, and cruel disappointment, and looked round at the dismal little stifling dungeon where this fair and gifted being had pined and sunk beneath slander and desertion, hot tears of indignation filled her eyes, and with fingers clenching together, she said, 'oh that i had known it sooner! edna was right. i will be the person to see justice done to her!' and when left alone she cast about for the most open mode of proclaiming edna murrell her brother's honoured wife, and her own beloved sister. the more it mortified the charterises the better! by the time robert came back, the sole change was in the failing strength, and he insisted on conducting lucilla to woolstone-lane, mrs. murrell enforcing his advice so decidedly that there was no choice. she would not be denied one look at the sufferer, but what she saw was so miserably unlike the beautiful creature whom she remembered, that she recoiled, feeling the kindness that had forbidden her the spectacle, and passively left the house, still under the chill influence of the shock. she had tasted nothing since breakfasting on board the steamer, and on coming into the street the comparative coolness seemed to strike her through; she shivered, felt her knees give way, and grasped robert's arm for support. he treated her with watchful, considerate solicitude, though with few words, and did not leave her till he had seen her safe under the charge of the housekeeper; when, in return for his assurance that he would watch over her brother, she promised to take food, and go at once to rest. too weary at first to undress, and still thinking that owen might be brought to her, she lay back on the couch in her own familiar little cedar room, feeling as if she recalled the day through the hazy medium of a dream, and as if she had not been in contact with edna, nor owen, nor robert, but only with pale phantoms called by those names. robert especially! engrossed and awe-stricken as she had been, still it came on her that something was gone that to her had constituted robert fulmort. neither the change of dress, nor even the older and more settled expression of countenance, made the difference; but the want of that nameless, hesitating deference which in each word or action formerly seemed to implore her favour, or even when he dared to censure, did so under appeal to her mercy. had he avoided her, she could have understood it; but his calm, authoritative self-possession was beyond her, though as yet she was not alarmed, for her mind was too much confused to perceive that her influence was lost; but it was uncomfortable, and part of this strange, unnatural world, as though the wax which she had been used to mould had suddenly lost its yielding nature and become marble. tired out, she at last went to bed, and slept soundly, but awoke early, and on coming down, found from the housekeeper that her brother had been brought home at two o'clock by mr. fulmort, and had gone to his room at once. all was over. lucilla, longing to hear more, set out to see mrs. murrell, before he should come down-stairs. while the good woman was forced to bestir herself for her lodgers' breakfasts, lucilla could steal a solitary moment to gaze on the pallid face to which death had restored much of its beauty. she pressed her lips on the regal brow, and spoke half aloud, 'edna, edna sandbrook, sister edna, you should have trusted me. you knew i would see justice done to you, and i will. you shall lie by my mother's side in our own churchyard, and wrapworth shall know that she, whom they envied and maligned, was owen sandbrook's wife and my cherished sister.' poor mrs. murrell, with her swimming eyes and stock phrases, brought far more christian sentiments to the bed of death. 'poor, dear love, her father and i little thought it would end in this, when we used to be so proud of her. we should have minded that pride is not made for sinners. "favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain;" and the lord saw it well that we should be cast down and slanderous lips opened against us, that so we might feel our trust is in him alone! oh, it is good that even thus she was brought to turn to him! but i thank--oh, i thank him that her father never lived to see this day!' she wept such tears of true thankfulness and resignation, that lucilla, almost abashed by the sight of piety beyond her comprehension, stood silent, till, with a change to the practical, mrs. murrell recovered herself, saying, 'if you please, ma'am, when had i best come and speak to the young gentleman? i ought to know what would be pleasing to him about the funeral.' 'we will arrange,' said lucilla; 'she shall be buried with my mother and sister in wrapworth churchyard.' though gratified, mrs. murrell demurred, lest it might be taken ill by the 'family' and by that godly minister whose kindness and sympathy at the time of edna's evasion had made a deep impression; but lucilla boldly undertook that the family _must_ like it, and she would take care of the minister. nor was the good woman insensible to the posthumous triumph over calumny, although still with a certain hankering after kensal green as a sweet place, with pious monuments, where she should herself be laid, and the company that did things so reasonable and so handsome. lucilla hurried back to fulfil the mission of nemesis to the charterises, which she called justice to edna, and by the nine o'clock post despatched three notes. one containing the notice for the _times_--'on the th instant, at , little whittington-street, st. wulstan's, edna, the beloved wife of owen charteris sandbrook, esq.;' another was to order a complete array of mourning from her dressmaker; and the third was to the reverend peter prendergast, in the most simple manner requesting him to arrange for the burial of her sister-in-law, at p.m. on the ensuing saturday, indicating the labourers who should act as bearers, and ending with, 'you will be relieved by hearing that she was no other than our dear edna, married on the th of july, last year.' she then beguiled the time with designs for gravestones, until she became uneasy at owen's non-appearance, and longed to go and see after him; but she fancied he might have spent nights of watching, and thought sleep would be the best means of getting through the interval which appalled her mind, unused to contact with grief. still his delay began to wear her spirits and expectation, so long wrought up to the meeting; and she was at least equally restless for the appearance of robert, wanting to hear more from him, and above all certain that all her dreary cravings and vacancy would be appeased by one dialogue with him, on whatever topic it might be. she wished that she had obeyed that morning bell at st. wulstan's. it would have disposed of half-an-hour, and she would have met him. 'for shame,' quoth the haughty spirit, 'now that has come into my head, i can't go at all.' her solitude continued till half-past ten, when she heard the welcome sound of robert's voice, and flew to meet him, but was again checked by his irresponsive manner as he asked for owen. 'i have not seen him. i do not know whether to knock, lest he should be asleep.' 'i hope he is. he has not been in bed for three nights. i will go and see.' he was moving to the door without lingering for a word more. she stopped him by saying, 'pray hear first what i have settled with mrs. murrell.' 'she told me,' said robert. 'is it owen's wish?' 'it ought to be. it must. every public justice must be paid now.' 'is it quite well judged, unless it were his strong desire? have you considered the feelings of mr. prendergast or your relations?' 'there is nothing i consider more. if charles thinks it more disgraceful to marry a christian for love than a jewess for money, he shall see that we are not of the same opinion.' 'i never pretend to judge of your motives.' 'mercy, what have i gone and said?' ejaculated lucilla, as the door closed after him. 'why did i let it out, and make him think me a vixen? better than a hypocrite though! i always professed to show my worst. what's come to me, that i can't go on so contentedly? he must hear the charteris' sentiments, though, that he may not think mine a gratuitous affront.' her explanation was at her tongue's end, but robert only reappeared with her brother, whom he had found dressing. owen just greeted his sister, but asked no questions, only dropping heavily into a chair, and let her bring him his breakfast. so young was he, still wanting six weeks to years of discretion; so youthful his appearance in spite of his size and strength, that it was almost absurd to regard him as a widower, and expect him to act as a man of mature age and feeling. there was much of the boy in his excessive and freely-indulged lassitude, and his half-sullen, half-shy reserve towards his sister. knowing he had been in conversation with robert, she felt it hard that before her he only leant his elbows on the table, yawned, and talked of his stiffness, until his friend rising to leave them, he exerted himself to say, 'don't go, fulmort.' 'i am afraid i must. i leave you to your sister.' (she noted that it was not 'lucy.') 'but, i say, fulmort, there are things to settle--funeral, and all that,' he said in a helpless voice, like a sulky schoolboy. 'your sister has been arranging with mrs. murrell.' 'yes, owen,' said lucilla, tears glistening in her eyes, and her voice thrilling with emotion; 'it is right and just that she should be with our mother and little mary at home; so i have written to mr. prendergast.' 'very well,' he languidly answered. 'settle it as you will; only deliver me from the old woman!' he was in no state for reproaches; but lucilla was obliged to bite her lip to restrain a torrent of angry weeping. at his urgent instance, robert engaged to return to dinner, and went, leaving lucilla with nothing to do but to watch those heavy slumberings on the sofa and proffer attentions that were received with the surliness of one too miserable to know what to do with himself. she yearned over him with a new awakening of tenderness, longing, yet unable, to console or soothe. the light surface-intercourse of the brother and sister, each selfishly refraining from stirring the depths of the other's mind, rendered them mere strangers in the time of trouble; and vainly did lucy gaze wistfully at the swollen eyelids and flushed cheeks, watch every peevish gesture, and tend each sullen wish, with pitying sweetness; she could not reach the inner man, nor touch the aching wound. towards evening, mrs. murrell's name was brought in, provoking a fretful injunction from owen not to let him be molested with her cant. lucilla sighed compliance, though vexed at his egotism, and went to the study, where she found that mrs. murrell had brought her grandson, her own most precious comforter, whom she feared she must resign 'to be bred up as a gentleman as he was, and despise his poor old granny; and she would say not a word, only if his papa would let her keep him till he had cut his first teeth, for he had always been tender, and she could not be easy to think that any one else had the charge of him.' she devoured him with kisses as she spoke, taking every precaution to keep her profuse tears from falling on him; and lucilla, much moved, answered, 'oh! for the present, no one could wish to part him from you. poor little fellow! may i take him for a little while to my brother? it may do him good.' cilly had rather have ridden a kicking horse than handled an infant. she did not think this a prepossessing specimen, but it was passive. she had always understood from books that this was the sure means of 'opening the sealed fountains of grief.' she remembered what little mary had been to her father, and in hopes that parental instinct would make owen know better what to do with her burden than she did, she entered the drawing-room, where a little murmuring sound caused owen to start up on his elbow, exclaiming, 'what are you at? don't bring _that_ here!' 'i thought you might wish to see him.' 'what should i do with him?' asked owen, in the same glum, childish tone, turning his face inwards as he lay down. 'take it away. ain't i wretched enough already to please you?' she gave up the point, much grieved and strongly drawn to the little helpless one, rejected by his father, misused and cast off like his mother. would no one stand up for him? yes, it must be her part. she was his champion! she would set him forth in the world, by her own toil if need were! sealing the promise with a kiss, she returned him to his grandmother, and talked of him as so entirely her personal concern, that the good woman went home to report to her inquiring friends that the young lady was ready to 'hact very feeling, and very 'andsome.' probably desirous to avoid further reference to his unwelcome son and heir, owen had betaken himself to the solace of his pipe, and was pacing the garden with steps now sauntering with depression, now impetuous with impatience, always moving too much like a caged wild beast to invite approach. she was disconsolately watching him from the window, when mr. fulmort was admitted. a year ago, what would he not have given for that unfeigned, simple welcome, as she looked up with eyes full of tears, saying, 'oh, robert, it is so grievous to see him!' 'very sad,' was the mournful answer. 'you may be able to help him. he asks for you, but turns from me.' 'he has been obliged to rely on me, since we came to town,' said robert. 'you must have been very kind!' she warmly exclaimed. but he drew back from the effusion, saying, 'i did no more than was absolutely necessary. he does not lay himself open to true comfort.' 'death never seemed half so miserable before!' cried lucilla. 'yet this poor thing had little to live for! was it all poor honor's tender softening that took off the edge to our imaginations?' 'it is not always so mournful!' shortly said robert. 'no; even the mother bears it better, and not for want of heart.' 'she _is_ a christian,' said robert. 'poor owen! it makes me remorseful. i wonder if i made too light of the line he took; yet what difference could i have made? sisters go for so little; and as to influence, honor overdid it.' then, as he made no reply, 'tell me, do you think my acquiescence did harm?' 'i cannot say. your conscience must decide. it is not a case for me. i must go to him.' it was deep mortification. used to have the least hint of dawning seriousness thankfully cherished and fostered, it was a rude shock, when most in need of _epanchement du coeur_ after her dreary day, to be thrown back on that incomprehensible process of self-examination; and by robert, too! she absolutely did not feel as if she were the same lucilla. it was the sensation of doubt on her personal identity awakened in the good woman of the ballad when her little dog began to bark and wail at her. she strove to enliven the dinner by talking of hiltonbury, and of juliana's marriage, thus awakening owen into life and talkativeness so much in his light ordinary humour, as to startle them both. lucilla would have encouraged it as preferable to his gloom, but it was decidedly repressed by robert. she had to repair to solitary restlessness in the drawing-room, and was left alone there till so late that robert departed after a single cup of tea, cutting short a captious argument of owen's about impossibility of proof, and truth being only true in a sense. owen's temper was, however, less morose; and when his sister was lighting his candle for him at night, kindly said, 'what a bore i've been all day, lucy.' 'i am glad to be with you, dear owen; i have no one else.' 'eh? what's become of rashe?' 'never mention her again!' 'what? they've cut you?' 'i have cut them.' she related what had passed. owen set his face into a frown. 'even so, charlie; doltishness less pardonable than villainy! you were right to cut the connection, lucy; it has been our curse. so now you will back to poor honor, and try to make it up to her.' 'i'm not going near honor till she forgives you, and receives your child.' 'then you will be very ridiculous,' said owen, impatiently. 'she has no such rancour against me as you have against her, poor dear; but it is not in the nature of things that she should pass over this unlucky performance.' 'if it had been such a performance as charles desired, i should have said so.' 'pshaw! i hadn't the chance; and gloss it as you will, lucy, there's no disguising it, she _would_ have it, and i could not help it, but she was neglected, and it killed her!' he brought his hand down on the table with a heavy thump, which together with the words made his sister recoil. 'could honor treat me the same after that? and she not my mother, either! why had not my father the sense to have married her? then i could go to her and get rid of this intolerable weight!' and he groaned aloud. 'a mother could hardly love you more,' said lucy, to her own surprise. 'if you will but go to here,--when she sees you so unhappy.' 'out of the question,' broke in owen; 'i can't stay here! i would have gone this very night, but i can't be off till that poor thing--' 'off!' 'ay, to the diggings, somewhere, anywhere, to get away from it all!' 'oh, owen, do nothing mad!' 'i'm not going to do anything just now, i tell you. don't be in a fright. i shan't take french leave of you. you'll find me to-morrow morning, worse luck. good night.' lucilla was doubly glad to have come. her pride approved his proposal, though her sisterly love would suffer, and she was anxious about the child; but dawning confidence was at the least a relief. next morning, he was better, and talked much too like his ordinary self, but relapsed afterwards for want of employment; and when a letter was brought to him, left by his wife to be read after her death, he broke down, and fell into a paroxysm of grief and despair, which still prevailed when a message came in to ask admission for mr. prendergast. relieved to be out of sight of depression that her consolations only aggravated, and hoping for sympathy and counsel, lucy hastened to the study with outstretched hands, and was met with the warmth for which she had longed. still there was disappointment. in participation with owen's grief, she had lost sight of his offences, and was not prepared for any commencement. 'well, cilla, i came up to talk to you. a terrible business this of master owen's.' 'it breaks one's heart to see him so wretched.' 'i hope he is. he ought to be.' 'now, mr. prendergast.' the curate held up both his hands, deprecating her coaxing piteous look, and used his voice rather loudly to overpower hers, and say what he had prepared as a duty. 'yes, yes, he is your brother, and all that. you may feel for him what you like. but i must say this: it was a shameful thing, and a betrayal of confidence, such as it grieves me to think of in his father's son. i am sorry for her, poor thing! whom i should have looked after better; and i am very sorry indeed for you, cilla; but i must tell you that to bury the poor girl next to mrs. sandbrook, as your brother's wife, would be a scandal.' 'don't speak so loud; he will hear.' his mild face was unwontedly impatient as he said, 'i can see how you gave in to the wish; i don't blame you, but if you consider the example to the parish.' 'after what i told you in my letter, i don't see the evil of the example; unless it be your _esprit de corps_ about the registrar, and they could not well have requested you to officiate.' 'cilla, you were always saucy, but this is no time for nonsense. you can't defend them.' 'perhaps you are of your squire's opinion--that the bad example was in the marrying her at all.' mr. prendergast looked so much shocked that lucilla felt a blush rising, conscious that the tone of the society she had of late lived with had rendered her tongue less guarded, her cheek less shamefaced than erst, but she galloped on to hide her confusion. 'you were their great cause. if you had not gone and frightened her, they might have philandered on all this time, till the whole affair died of its own silliness.' 'yes, no one was so much to blame as i. i will trust no living creature again. my carelessness opened the way to temptation, and heaven knows, lucilla, i have been infinitely more displeased with myself than with them.' 'well, so am i with myself, for putting her in his way. don't let us torment ourselves with playing the game backwards again--i hate it. let's see to the next.' 'that is what i came for. now, cilla, though i would gladly do what i could for poor owen, just think what work it will make with the girls at wrapworth, who are nonsensical enough already, to have this poor runaway brought back to be buried as the wife of a fine young gentleman.' 'poor edna's history is no encouragement to look out for fine young gentlemen.' 'they will know the fact, and sink the circumstances.' 'so you are so innocent as to think they don't know! depend upon it, every house in wrapworth rings with it; and won't it be more improving to have the poor thing's grave to point the moral?' 'cilla, you are a little witch. you always have your way, but i don't like it. it is not the right one.' 'not right for owen to make full compensation? mind, it is not edna murrell, the eloped schoolmistress, but mrs. sandbrook, whom her husband wishes to bury among his family.' 'poor lad, is he much cut up?' 'so much that i should hardly dare tell him if you had refused. he could not bear another indignity heaped on her, and a wound from you would cut deeper than from any one else. you should remember in judging him that he had no parent to disobey, and there was generosity in taking on him the risk rather than leave her to a broken heart and your tender mercy.' 'i fear his tender mercy has turned out worse than mine; but i am sorry for all he has brought on himself, poor lad!' 'shall i try whether he can see you?' 'no, no; i had rather not. you say young fulmort attends to him, and i could not speak to him with patience. five o'clock, saturday?' 'yes; but that is not all. that poor child--robert fulmort, you, and i must be sponsors.' 'cilla, cilla, how can i answer how it will be brought up?' 'some one must. its father talks of leaving england, and it will be my charge. will you not help me? you who always have helped me. my father's grandson; you cannot refuse him, mr. pendy,' said she, using their old childish name for him. he yielded to the united influence of his rector's daughter and the memory of his rector. though no weak man, those two appeals always swayed him; and lucilla's air, spirited when she defended, soft when she grieved, was quite irresistible; so she gained her point, and felt restored to herself by the exercise of power, and by making her wonted impression. since one little dog had wagged his little tail, she no longer doubted 'if i be i;' yet this only rendered her more nervously desirous of obtaining the like recognition from the other, and she positively wearied after one of robert's old wistful looks. a _tete-a-tete_ with him was necessary on many accounts, and she lay in wait to obtain a few moments alone with him in the study. he complied neither eagerly nor reluctantly, bowed his head without remark when she told him about the funeral, and took the sponsorship as a matter of course. 'very well; i suppose there is no one else to be found. is it your brother's thought?' 'i told him.' 'so i feared.' 'oh! robert, we must take double care for the poor little thing.' 'i will do my best,' he answered. 'do you know what owen intends?' said lucilla, in low, alarmed accents. 'he has told you? it is a wild purpose; but i doubt whether to dissuade him, except for your sake,' he added, with his first softening towards her, like balm to the sore spot in her heart. 'never mind me, i can take care of myself,' she said, while the muscles of her throat ached and quivered with emotion. 'i would not detain him to be pitied and forgiven.' 'do not send him away in pride,' said robert, sadly. 'am i not humbled enough?' she said; and her drooping head and eye seemed to thrill him with their wonted power. one step he made towards her, but checked himself, and said in a matter-of-fact tone, 'currie, the architect, has a brother, a civil engineer, just going out to canada to lay out a railway. it might be an opening for owen to go as his assistant--unless you thought it beneath him.' these last words were caused by an uncontrollable look of disappointment. but it was not the proposal: no; but the change of manner that struck her. the quiet indifferent voice was like water quenching a struggling spark, but in a moment she recovered her powers. 'beneath him! oh, no. i told you we were humbled. i always longed for his independence, and i am glad that he should not go alone.' 'the work would suit his mathematical and scientific turn. then, since you do not object, i will see whether he would like it, or if it be practicable in case miss charlecote should approve.' robert seized this opportunity of concluding the interview. lucy ran up-stairs for the fierce quarter-deck walking that served her instead of tears, as an ebullition that tired down her feelings by exhaustion. some of her misery was for owen, but would the sting have been so acute had robert fulmort been more than the true friend? phoebe's warning, given in that very room, seemed engraven on each panel. 'if you go on as you are doing now, he does not think it would be right for a clergyman.' could lucilla have looked through the floor, she would have seen robert with elbows on the window-sill, and hands locked over his knitted brows; and could she have interpreted his short-drawn sighs, she would have heard, 'poor child! poor child! it is not coquetry. that was injustice. she loves me. she loves me still! why do i believe it only too late? why is this trial sent me, since i am bound to the scheme that precludes my marriage? what use is it to see her as undisciplined--as unfit as ever? i know it! i always knew it. but i feel still a traitor to her! she had warning! she trusted the power of my attachment in spite of my judgment! fickle to her, or a falterer to my higher pledge? never! i must let her see the position--crush any hope--otherwise i cannot trust myself, nor deal fairly by her. heaven help us both!' when they next met, robert had propounded his canadian project, and owen had caught at it. idleness had never been his fault, and he wanted severe engrossing labour to stun pain and expel thought. he was urgent to know what standard of attainments would be needful, and finding robert ignorant on this head, seized his hat, and dashed out in the gaslight to the nearest bookseller's for a treatise on surveying. robert was taken by surprise, or he might have gone too. he looked as if he meditated a move, but paused as lucy said, 'poor fellow, how glad he is of an object!' 'may it not be to his better feelings like sunshine to morning dew?' said robert, sighing. 'i hear a very high character of mr. currie, and a right-minded, practical, scientific man may tell more on a disposition like his--' 'than parsons and women,' said lucilla, with a gleam of her old archness. 'exactly so. he must see religion in the world, not out of it.' 'after all, i have not heard who is this mr. currie, and how you know him.' 'i know him through his brother, who is building the church in cecily row.' 'a church in cecily row! st. cecilia's? who is doing it? honor charlecote?' 'no; i am.' 'you! tell me all about it,' said lucilla, leaning forward to listen with the eager air of interest which, when not half so earnest, had been always bewitching. poor robert looked away, and tried to think himself explaining his scheme to the archdeacon. 'the place is in frightful disorder, filled with indescribable vice and misery, but there is a shadow of hope that a few may be worked on if something like a mission can be organized. circumstances seemed to mark me out as the person to be at the cost of setting it on foot, my father's connection with the parish giving it a claim on me. so i purchased the first site that was in the market, and the buildings are in progress, chapel, schools, orphanage, and rooms for myself and two other clergy. when all the rest is provided for, there will remain about two hundred and fifty pounds a year--just enough for three of us, living together.' he durst not glance towards her, or he would have seen her cheek white as wax, and her eye seeking his in dismayed inquiry. there was a pause; then she forced herself to falter--'yes. i suppose it is very right--very grand. it is settled?' 'the archdeacon has seen the plans, the bishop has consented.' long and deep was the silence that fell on both. lucilla knew her fate as well as if his long coat had been a cowl. she would not, could not feel it yet. she must keep up appearances, so she fixed her eyes steadily on the drawing her idle hands were perpetrating on the back of a letter, and appeared absorbed in shading a turk's head. if robert's motives had not been unmixed, if his zeal had been alloyed by temper, or his self-devotion by undutifulness; if his haste had been self-willed, or his judgment one-sided, this was an hour of retribution. let her have all her faults, she was still the lucy who had flown home to him for comfort. he felt as if he had dashed away the little bird that had sought refuge in his bosom. fain would he have implored her pardon, but for the stern resolution to abstain from any needless word or look, such as might serve to rivet the affection that ought to be withdrawn; and he was too manly and unselfish to indulge in discussion or regret, too late as it was to change the course to which he had offered himself and his means. to retract would have been a breach of promise--a hasty one, perhaps, but still an absolute vow publicly made; and in all his wretchedness he had at least the comfort of knowing the present duty. afraid of last words, he would not even take leave until owen came in upon their silence, full of animation and eagerness to see how far his knowledge would serve him with the book that he had brought home. robert then rose, and on owen's pressing to know when he might see the engineer, promised to go in search of him the next day, but added that they must not expect to see himself till evening, since it would be a busy day. lucilla stood up, but speech was impossible. she was in no mood to affect indifference, yet she could neither be angry nor magnanimous. she seemed to have passed into a fresh stage of existence where she was not yet at home; and in the same dreamy way she went on drawing red indians, till by a sudden impulse she looked up and said, 'owen, why should not i come out with you?' he was intent on a problem, and did not hear. 'owen, take me with you; i will make a home for you.' 'eh?' 'owen, let me come to canada, and take care of you and your child.' he burst out laughing. 'well done, cilly; that beats all!' 'am i likely to be in play?' 'if not, you are crazy. as if a man could go surveying in the backwoods with a woman and a brat at his heels!' lucy's heart seemed to die within her. nothing was left to her: hopes and fears were alike extinct, and life a waste before her. still and indifferent, she laid her down at night, and awoke in the morning, wishing still to prolong the oblivion of sleep. anger with robert would have been a solace, but his dejection forbade this; nor could she resent his high-flown notions of duty, and deem herself their victim, since she had slighted fair warning, and repelled his attempts to address her. she saw no resource save the holt, now more hopelessly dreary and distasteful than ever, and she shrank both from writing to honor, or ending her tantalizing intercourse with robert. to watch over her brother was her only comfort, and one that must soon end. he remained immersed in trigonometry, and she was glad he should be too much engrossed for the outbreaks of remorseful sorrow that were so terrible to witness, and carefully guarded him from all that could excite them. mrs. murrell brought several letters that had been addressed to him at her house, and as lucilla conveyed them to him, she thought their oxford post-marks looked suspicious, especially as he thrust them aside with the back of his hand, returning without remark to a b and c d. presently a person asked to speak with mr. sandbrook; and supposing it was on business connected with the funeral, lucilla went to him, and was surprised at recognizing the valet of one of the gentlemen who had stayed at castle blanch. he was urgent to see mr. sandbrook himself; but she, resolved to avert all annoyances, refused to admit him, offering to take a message. 'was it from his master?' 'why, no, ma'am. in fact, i have left his lordship's service,' he said, hesitating. 'in point of fact i am the principal. there was a little business to be settled with the young gentleman when he came into his fortune; and understanding that such was the case, since i heard of him as settled in life, i have brought my account.' 'you mistake the person. my brother has come into no fortune, and has no expectation of any.' 'indeed, ma'am!' exclaimed the man. 'i always understood that mr. owen charteris sandbrook was heir to a considerable property.' 'what of that?' 'only this, ma'am,--that i hold a bond from that gentleman for the payment of pounds upon the death of miss honora charlecote, of the holt, hiltonbury, whose property i understood was entailed on him.' his tone was still respectful, but his hand shook with suppressed rage, and his eye was full of passion. 'miss charlecote is not dead,' steadily answered lucilla. 'she is in perfect health, not fifty years old, and her property is entirely at her own disposal.' either the man's wrath was beyond control, or he thought it his interest to terrify the lady, for he broke into angry complaints of being swindled, with menaces of exposure; but lucilla, never deficient in courage, preserved ready thought and firm demeanour. 'you had better take care,' she said. 'my brother is under age, and not liable. if you should recover what you have lent him, it can only be from our sense of honesty. leave me your address and a copy of the bond, and i give you my word that you shall receive your due.' the valet, grown rich in the service of a careless master, and richer by money-lending transactions with his master's friends, knew miss sandbrook, and was aware that a lady's word might be safer than a spendthrift's bond. he tried swaggering, in the hope of alarming her into a promise to fulfil his demand uninvestigated; but she was on her guard; and he, reflecting that she must probably apply to others for the means of paying, gave her the papers, and freed her from his presence. freed her from his presence! yes, but only to leave her to the consciousness of the burthen of shame he had brought her. she saw why owen thought himself past pardon. speculation on the death of his benefactress! borrowing on an inheritance that he had been forbidden to expect. double-dyed deceit and baseness! yesterday, she had said they were humbled enough. this was not humiliation, it was degradation! it was far too intolerable for standing still and feeling it. lucilla's impetuous impulses always became her obstinate resolutions, and her pride rebounded to its height in the determination that owen should leave england in debt to no man, were it at the cost of all she possessed. re-entering the drawing-room, she had found that owen had thrust the obnoxious letters into the waste-basket, each unopened envelope, with the contents, rent down the middle. she sat down on the floor, and took them out, saying, as she met his eye, 'i shall take these. i know what they are. they are my concern.' 'folly!' he muttered. 'don't you know i have the good luck to be a minor?' 'that is no excuse for dishonesty.' 'look at home before you call names,' said owen, growing enraged. 'before you act spy on me, i should like to know who paid for your fine salmon-fly gown, and all the rest of it?' 'i never contracted debts in the trust that my age would enable me to defraud my creditors.' 'who told you that i did? i tell you, lucilla, i'll endure no such conduct from you. no sister has a right to say such things!' and starting up, his furious stamp shook the floor she sat upon, so close to her that it was as if the next would demolish her. she did not move, except to look up all the length of the tall figure over her into the passion-flushed face. 'i should neither have said nor thought so, owen,' she replied. 'i should have imputed these debts to mere heedless extravagance, like other people's--like my own, if you please--save for your own words, and for finding you capable of such treachery as borrowing on a _post-obit_.' he walked about furiously, stammering interrogations on the mode of her discovery, and, as she explained, storming at her for having brought this down on him by the folly of putting 'that thing into the _times_.' why could she not have stayed away, instead of meddling where she was not wanted? 'i thought myself wanted when my brother was in trouble,' said lucilla, mournfully, raising her face, which she had bent between her hands at the first swoop of the tempest. 'heaven knows, i had no thought of spying. i came to stand by your wife, and comfort you. i only learnt all this in trying to shield you from intrusion. oh, would that i knew it not! would that i could think of you as i did an hour ago! oh, owen, though i have never shared your fondness for honor charlecote, i thought it genuine; i did not scorn it as fortune-hunting.' 'it was not! it never was!' cried the poor boy. 'honor! poor honor! lucy, i doubt if i could have felt for my mother as i do for her. oh, if you could guess how i long for her dear voice in my ears, her soft hand on my head--' and he sank into his chair, hiding his face and sobbing aloud. 'am i to believe that, when--' began lucilla, slowly. 'the last resource of desperation,' cried owen. 'what could i do with such a drain upon me; the old woman for ever clamouring for money, and threatening exposure? my allowance? poor honor meant well, but she gave me just enough to promote expensive habits without supplying them. there was nothing to fall back on--except the ways of the castle blanch folk.' 'betting?' he nodded. 'so when it went against me, and people would have it that i had expectations, it was not for me to contradict them. it was their business, not mine, to look out for themselves, and pretty handsomely they have done so. it would have been a very different percentage if i had been an eldest son. as it is, my bond is--what is it for, lucy?' 'six hundred.' 'how much do you think i have touched of that? not two! of that, three-fourths went to the harpies i fell in with at paris, under charles's auspices--and five-and-twenty there'--pointing in the direction of whittington-street. 'will the man be satisfied with the two hundred?' 'don't he wish he may get it? but, lucy, you are not to make a mess of it. i give you warning i shall go, and never be heard of more, if honor is applied to.' 'i had rather die than do so.' 'you are not frantic enough to want to do it out of your own money? i say, give me those papers.' he stooped and stretched out the powerful hand and arm, which when only half-grown had been giant-like in struggles with his tiny sister but she only laid her two hands on the paper, with just sufficient resistance to make it a matter of strength on his side. they were man and woman, and what availed his muscles against her will? it came to parley. 'now, lucy, i have a right to think for you. as your brother, i cannot permit you to throw your substance to the dogs.' 'as your sister, i cannot allow you to rest dishonoured.' 'not a whit more than any of your chosen friends. every man leaves debts at oxford. the extortion is framed on a scale to be unpaid.' 'let it be! there shall be no stain on the name that once was my father's, if there be on the whole world beside.' 'then,' with some sulkiness, 'you won't be content without beggaring me of my trumpery twenty-five hundred as soon as i am of age?' 'not at all. your child must live on that. only one person can pay your debts without dishonouring you, and that is your elder sister.' 'elder donkey,' was the ungrateful answer. 'why, what would become of you? you'd have to be beholden to honor for the clothes on your back!' 'i shall not go back to honor; i shall earn my own livelihood.' 'lucilla, are you distracted, or is it your object to make me so?' 'only on one condition could i return to the holt,' said lucilla, resolutely. 'if honor would freely offer to receive your son, i would go to take care of him. except for his sake, i had rather she would not. i will not go to be crushed with pardon and obligation, while you are proscribed. i will be independent, and help to support the boy.' 'sure,' muttered owen to himself, 'lucifer is her patron saint. if i looked forward to anything, it was to her going home tame enough to make some amends to poor, dear sweet honey, but i might as well have hoped it of the panther of the wilderness! i declare i'll write to honor this minute.' he drew the paper before him. lucilla started to her feet, looking more disgusted and discomfited than by any former shock. however, she managed to restrain any dissuasion, knowing that it was the only right and proper step in his power, and that she could never have looked robert in the face again had she prevented the confession; but it was a bitter pill; above all, that it should be made for her sake. she rushed away, as usual, to fly up and down her room. she might have spared herself that agony. owen's resolution failed him. he could not bring himself to make the beginning, nor to couple the avowal of his offence with such presumption as an entreaty for his child's adoption, though he knew his sister's impulsive obstinacy well enough to be convinced that she would adhere pertinaciously to this condition. faltering after the first line, he recurred to his former plan of postponing his letter till his plans should be so far matured that he could show that he would no longer be a pensioner on the bounty of his benefactress, and that he sought pardon for the sake of no material advantage. he knew that robert had intimated his intention of writing after the funeral, and by this he would abide. late in the evening robert brought the engineer's answer, that he had no objection to take out a pupil, and would provide board, lodging, and travelling expenses; but he required a considerable premium, and for three years would offer no salary. his standard of acquirements was high, but such as rather stimulated than discouraged owen, who was delighted to find that an appointment had been made for a personal interview on the ensuing monday. [picture: he drew the paper before him. lucilla started to her feet] it was evident that if these terms were accepted, the debts, if paid at all, must come out of lucilla's fortune. owen's own portion would barely clothe him and afford the merest pittance for his child until he should be able to earn something after his three years' apprenticeship. she trusted that he was convinced, and went up-stairs some degrees less forlorn for having a decided plan; but a farther discovery awaited her, and one that concerned herself. on her bed lay the mourning for which she had sent, tasteful and expensive, in her usual complete style, and near it an envelope. it flashed on her that her order had been dangerously unlimited, and she opened the cover in trepidation, but what was her dismay at the double, treble, quadruple foolscap? the present articles were but a fraction to the dreadful aggregate--the sum total numbered hundreds! in a dim hope of error she looked back at the items, 'black lace dress: dec. nd, .'--she understood all. it dated from the death of her aunt. previously, her wardrobe had been replenished as though she had been a daughter of the house, and nothing had marked the difference; indeed, the amply provided horatia had probably intended that things were to go on as usual. lucilla had been allowed to forget the existence of accounts, in a family which habitually ignored them. things had gone smoothly; the beautiful little miss sandbrook was an advertisement to her milliners, and living among wealthy people, and reported to be on the verge of marriage with a millionaire, there had been no hesitation in allowing her unlimited credit. probably the dressmaker had been alarmed by the long absence of the family, and might have learnt from the servants how lucilla had quitted them, therefore thinking it expedient to remind her of her liabilities. and not only did the present spectacle make her giddy, but she knew there was worse beyond. the frenchwoman who supplied all extra adornments, among them the ball-dress whose far bitterer price she was paying, could make more appalling demands; and there must be other debts elsewhere, such that she doubted whether her entire fortune would clear both her brother and herself. what was the use of thinking? it must be done, and the sooner she knew the worst the better. she felt very ill-used, certain that her difficulties were caused by horatia's inattention, and yet glad to be quit of an obligation that would have galled her as soon as she had become sensible of it. it was more than ever clear that she must work for herself, instead of returning to the holt, as a dependent instead of a guest. was she humbled enough? the funeral day began by her writing notes to claim her bills, and to take steps to get her capital into her own hands. owen drowned reflection in geometry, till it was time to go by the train to wrapworth. there mr. prendergast fancied he had secured secrecy by eluding questions and giving orders at the latest possible moment. the concourse in the church and churchyard was no welcome sight to him, since he could not hope that the tall figure of the chief mourner could remain unrecognized. worthy man, did he think that wrapworth needed that sight to assure them of what each tongue had wagged about for many a day? owen behaved very properly and with much feeling. when not driving it out by other things, the fact was palpable to him that he had brought this fair young creature to her grave; and in the very scenes where her beauty and enthusiastic affection had captivated him, association revived his earlier admiration, and swept away his futile apology that she had brought the whole upon herself. a gust of pity, love, and remorse convulsed his frame, and though too proud to give way, his restrained anguish touched every heart, and almost earned him mr. prendergast's forgiveness. before going away, lucilla privately begged mr. prendergast to come to town on monday, to help her in some business. it happened to suit him particularly well, as he was to be in london for the greater part of the week, to meet some country cousins, and the appointment was made without her committing herself by saying for what she wanted him, lest reflection should convert him into an obstacle instead of an assistant. the intervening sunday, with owen on her hands, was formidable to her imagination, but it turned out better than she expected. he asked her to walk to westminster abbey with him, the time and distance being an object to both, and he treated her with such gentle kindness, that she began to feel that something more sweet and precious than she had yet known from him might spring up, if they were not forced to separate. once, on rising from kneeling, she saw him stealthily brushing off his tears, and his eyes were heavy and swollen, but, softened as she felt, his tone of feelings was a riddle beyond her power, between their keenness and their petulance, their manly depth and boyish levity, their remorse and their recklessness; and when he tried to throw them off, she could not but follow his lead. 'i suppose,' he said, late in the day, 'we shall mortify fulmort if we don't go once to his shop. otherwise, i like the article in style.' 'i am glad you should like it at all,' said lucy, anxiously. 'i envy those who, like poor dear honor, or that little phoebe, can find life in the driest form,' said owen. 'they would say it is our fault that we cannot find it.' 'honor would think it her duty to say so. phoebe has a wider range, and would be more logical. is it our fault or misfortune that our ailments can't be cured by a paring of st. bridget's thumb-nail, or by any nostrum, sacred or profane, that really cures their votaries? i regard it as a misfortune. those are happiest who believe the most, and are eternally in a state in which their faith is working out its effects upon them mentally and physically. happy people!' 'really i think, unless you were one of those happy people, it is no more consistent in you to go to church than it would be in me to set up rashe's globules.' 'no, don't tell me so, lucy. there lie all my best associations. i venerate what the great, the good, the beloved receive as their blessing and inspiration. sometimes i can assimilate myself, and catch an echo of what was happiness when i was a child at honor's knee.' the tears had welled into his eyes again, and he hurried away. lucilla had faith (or rather acquiescence) without feeling. feeling without faith was a mystery to her. how much owen believed or disbelieved she knew not, probably he could not himself have told. it was more uncertainty than denial, rather dislike to technical dogma than positive unbelief; and yet, with his predilections all on the side of faith, she could not, womanlike, understand why they did not bring his reason with them. after all, she decided, in her off-hand fashion, that there was quite enough that was distressing and perplexing without concerning herself about them! style, as owen called it, was more attended to than formerly at st. wulstan's, but was not in perfection. robert, whose ear was not his strong point, did not shine in intoning, and the other curate preached. the impression seemed only to have weakened that of the morning, for owen's remarks on coming out were on the english habit of having overmuch of everything, and on the superior sense of foreigners in holiday-making, instead of making a conscience of stultifying themselves with double and triple church-going. cilla agreed in part, but owned that she was glad to have done with continental sundays that had left her feeling good for nothing all the week, just as she had felt when once, as a child, to spite honor, she had come down without saying her prayers. 'the burthen bound on her conscience by english prejudice,' said her brother, adding 'that this was the one oppressive edict of popular theology. it was mere self-defence to say that the dulness was puritanical, since the best anglican had a cut-and-dried pattern for all others.' 'but surely as a fact, sunday observance is the great safeguard. all goes to the winds when that is given up.' 'the greater error to have rendered it grievous.' lucilla had no reply. she had not learnt the joy of the week's easter-day. it had an habitual awe for her, not sacred delight; and she could not see that because it was one point where religion taught the world that it had laws of its own, besides those of mere experience and morality, therefore the world complained, and would fain shake off the thraldom. owen relieved her by a voluntary proposal to turn down whittington-street, and see the child. perhaps he had an inkling that the chapel in cat-alley would be in full play, and that the small maid would be in charge; besides, it was gas-light, and the lodgers would be out. at any rate softening was growing on him. he looked long and sorrowfully at the babe in its cradle, and at last,-- 'he will never be like her.' 'no; and i do not think him like you.' 'in fact, it is an ugly little mortal,' said owen, after another investigation. 'yet, it's very odd, lucy, i should like him to live.' 'very odd, indeed!' she said, nearly laughing. 'well, i own, before ever i saw him, when they said he would die, i did think it was best for himself, and every one else. so, maybe, it would; but you see i shouldn't like it. he will be a horrible expense, and it will be a great bore to know what to do with him: so absurd to have a son only twenty years younger than oneself: but i think i like him, after all. it is something to work for, to make up to him for what _she_ suffered. and i say, lucy,' his eye brightened, 'perhaps honor will take to him! what a thing it would be if he turned out all she hoped of me, poor thing! i would be banished for life, if he could be in my place, and make it up to her. he might yet have the holt!' 'you have not proposed sending him to her?' 'no, i am not so cool,' he sadly answered; 'but she is capable of anything in an impulse of forgiveness.' he spent the evening over his letter; and, in spite of his sitting with his back towards his sister, she saw more than one sheet spoilt by large tears unperceived till they dropped, and felt a jealous pang in recognizing the force of his affection for honor. that love and compassion seemed contemptible to her, they were so inconsistent with his deception and disobedience; and she was impatient of seeing that, so far as he felt his errors at all, it was in their aspect towards his benefactress. his ingratitude towards her touched him in a more tender part than his far greater errors towards his wife. the last was so shocking and appalling, that he only half realized it, and, boy-like, threw it from him; the other came home to the fondness that had been with him all his life, and which he missed every hour in his grief. lucy positively dreaded his making such submission or betraying such sorrow as might bring honora down on them full of pardon and beneficence. at least, she had the satisfaction of hearing 'i've said nothing about you, cilla.' 'that's right!' 'nor the child,' he continued, brushing up his hair from his brow. 'when i came to go over it, i did hate myself to such a degree that i could not say a word like asking a favour.' lucy was greatly relieved. he looked like himself when he came down to breakfast exhilarated by the restoration to activity, and the opening of a new path, though there was a subdued, grave look on his young brow not unsuited to his deep mourning. he took up his last evening's production, looked at it with some satisfaction, and observed, 'sweet old honey! i do hope that letter may be a little comfort to her good old heart!' then he told that he had been dreaming of her looking into the cradle, and he could not tell whether it were himself or the boy that he had seen sitting on a haycock at hiltonbury. 'who knows but it may be a good omen,' said he in his sanguine state. 'you said you would go to her, if she took the child.' 'i did not say i would not.' 'well, don't make difficulties; pray don't, lucilla. i want nothing for myself; but if i could see you and the child at the holt, and hear her dear voice say one word of kindness, i could go out happy. imagine if she should come to town!' lucilla had no mind to imagine any such thing. chapter xiii an upper and a lower spring to thee, to all are given: they mingle not, apart they gleam, the joys of earth, of heaven on high; god grant thee grace to choose the spring, even before the nether spring is dry.--m. 'one moment, phoebe, i'll walk a little way with you;' and honor charlecote, throwing on bonnet and scarf, hurried from the drawing-room where mrs. saville was working. in spite of that youthful run, and girlish escape from 'company' to a confidante, the last fortnight had left deep traces. every incipient furrow had become visible, the cheeks had fallen, the eyes sunk, the features grown prominent, and the auburn curls were streaked with silver threads never previously perceptible to a casual eye. while languid, mechanical talk was passing, phoebe had been mourning over the change; but she found her own miss charlecote restored in the freer manner, the long sigh, the tender grasp of the arm, as soon as they were in the open air. 'phoebe,' almost in a whisper, 'i have a letter from him.' phoebe pressed her arm, and looked her sympathy. 'such a nice letter,' added honor. 'poor fellow! he has suffered so much. should you like to see it?' owen had not figured to himself what eyes would peruse his letter; but honor was in too much need of sympathy to withhold the sight from the only person who she could still hope would be touched. 'you see he asks nothing, nothing,' she wistfully pleaded. 'only pardon! not to come home; nor anything.' 'yes; surely, that is real contrition.' 'surely, surely it is: yet they are not satisfied--mr. saville and sir john. they say it is not full confession; but you see he does refer to the rest. he says he has deeply offended in other ways.' 'the rest?' 'you do not know. i thought your brother had told you. no? ah! robert _is_ his friend. mr. saville went and found it out. it was very right of him, i believe. quite right i should know; but--' 'dear miss charlecote, it has pained you terribly.' 'it is what young men do; but i did not expect it of him. expensive habits, debts, i could have borne, especially with the calls for money his poor wife must have caused; but i don't know how to believe that he gave himself out as my heir, and obtained credit on that account--a bond to be paid on my death!' phoebe was too much shocked to answer. 'as soon as mr. saville heard of these troubles,' continued honor, 'as, indeed, i put all into his hands, he thought it right i should know all. he went to oxford, found out all that was against poor owen, and then proceeded to london, and saw the lawyer in whose hands captain charteris had left those children's affairs. he was very glad to see mr. saville, for he thought miss sandbrook's friends ought to know what she was doing. so it came out that lucilla had been to him, insisting on selling out nearly all her fortune, and paying off with part of it this horrible bond.' 'she is paying his debts, rather than let you hear of them.' 'and _they_ are very angry with him for permitting it; as if he or anybody else had any power to stop lucy! i know as well as possible that it is she who will not let him confess and make it all open with me. and yet, after this, what right have i to say i _know_? how little i ever knew that boy! yes, it is right it should be taken out of my hands--my blindness has done harm enough already; but if i had not bound myself to forbear, i could not help it, when i see the savilles so much set against him. i do not know that they are more severe in action than--than perhaps they ought to be, but they will not let me pity him.' 'they ought not to dictate to you,' said phoebe, indignantly. 'dictate! oh, no, my dear. if you could only hear his compliments to my discretion, you would know he was thinking all the time there is no fool like an old fool. no, i don't complain. i have been wilful, and weak, and blind, and these are the fruits! it is right that others should judge for him, and i deserve that they should come and guard me; though, when i think of such untruth throughout, i don't feel as if there were danger of my ever being more than sorry for him.' 'it is worse than the marriage,' said phoebe, thoughtfully. 'there might have been generous risk in that. this was--oh, very nearly treachery! no wonder lucy tries to hide it! i hope never to say a word to her to show that i am aware of it.' 'she is coming home, then?' 'she must, since she has broken with the charterises; but she has never written. has robert mentioned her?' 'never; he writes very little.' 'i long to know how it is with him. now that he has signed his contract, and made all his arrangements, he cannot retract; but--but we shall see,' said honor, with one gleam of playful hope. 'if she should come home to me ready to submit and be gentle, there might be a chance yet. i am sure he is poor owen's only real friend. if i could only tell you half my gratitude to him for it! and i will tell you what mr. saville has actually consented to my doing--i may give owen enough to cover his premium and outfit; and i hope that may set him at ease in providing for his child for the present from his own means, as he ought to do.' 'poor little thing! what will become of it?' 'he and his sister must arrange,' said honor, hastily, as if silencing a yearning of her own. 'i do not need the savilles to tell me i must not take it off their hands. the responsibility may be a blessing to him, and it would be wrong to relieve him of a penalty in the natural course of providence.' 'there, now you have put it into my head to think what a pleasure it would be to you--' 'i have done enough for my own pleasure, phoebe. had you only seen that boy when i had him first from his father, and thought him too much of the angel to live!' there was a long pause, and honor at length exclaimed, 'i see the chief reason the savilles came here!' 'why?' 'to hinder my seeing him before he goes.' 'i am sure it would be sad pain to you,' cried phoebe, deprecatingly. 'i don't know. he must not come here; but since i have had this letter, i have longed to go up for one day, see him, and bring lucy home. mr. saville might go with me. you don't favour it, phoebe? would robert?' 'robert would like to have owen comforted,' said phoebe, slowly; 'but not if it only made it worse pain for you. dear miss charlecote, don't you think, if the worst had been the marriage, you would have tried everything to comfort him? but now that there is this other horrid thing, this presuming on your kindness, it seems to me as if you could not bear to see him.' 'when i think of their enmity and his sorrow, i feel drawn thither; but when this deception comes before me, i had rather not look in his face again. if he petted me i should think he was taking me in again. he has robert, he has his sister, and i have promised to let mr. saville judge. i think mr. saville would let me go if robert said i ought.' phoebe fondled her, and left her relieved by the outpouring. poor thing! after mistakes which she supposed egregious in proportion to the consequences, and the more so because she knew her own good intentions, and could not understand the details of her errors, it was an absolute rest to delegate her authority, even though her affections revolted against the severity of the judge to whom she had delivered herself and her boy. one comfort was that he had been the adviser chosen for her by humfrey. in obeying him, she put herself into humfrey's hands; and remembering the doubtful approval with which her cousin had regarded her connection with the children, and his warnings against her besetting sin, she felt as if the whole was the continuation of the mistake of her life, her conceited disregard of his broad homely wisdom, and as if the only atonement in her power was to submit patiently to mr. saville's advice. and in truth his measures were not harsh. he did not want to make the young man an outcast, only to prevent advantage being taken of indulgence which he overrated. it was rather his wife who was oppressive in her desire to make miss charlecote see things in a true light, and teach her, what she could never learn, to leave off loving and pitying. even this was perhaps better for her than a solitude in which she might have preyed upon herself, and debated over every step in conscious darkness. before her letter was received, owen had signed his agreement with the engineer, and was preparing to sail in a fortnight. he was disappointed and humiliated that honor should have been made aware of what he had meant to conceal, but he could still see that he was mercifully dealt with, and was touched by, and thankful for, the warm personal forgiveness, which he had sense enough to feel, even though it brought no relaxation of the punishment. lucy was positively glad of the non-fulfilment of the condition that would have taken her back to the holt; and without seeing the letter, had satisfaction in her resentment at honor for turning on owen vindictively, after having spoilt him all his life. he silenced her summarily, and set out for his preparations. she had already carried out her project of clearing him of his liabilities. mr. prendergast had advised her strongly to content herself with the _post obit_, leaving the rest to be gradually liquidated as the means should be obtained; but her wilful determination was beyond reasoning, and by tyrannical coaxing she bent him to her will, and obliged him to do all in which she could not be prominent. her own debts were a sorer subject, and she grudged the vain expenses that had left her destitute, without even the power of writing grandly to horatia to pay off her share of the foreign expenditure. she had, to mr. prendergast's great horror, told him of her governess plan, but had proceeded no further in the matter than studying the advertisements, until finding that honor only invited her, and not her nephew, home to the holt, she proceeded to exhale her feelings by composing a sentence for the _times_. 'as governess, a lady--' 'mr. prendergast.' reddening, and abruptly hasty, the curate entered, and sitting down without a word, applied himself to cutting his throat with an ivory paper-knife. lucilla began to speak, but at her first word, as though a spell were broken, he exclaimed, 'cilly, are you still thinking of that ridiculous nonsense?' 'going out as a governess? look there;' and she held up her writing. he groaned, gave himself a slice under each ear, and viciously bit the end of the paper-knife. 'you are going to recommend me?' she said, with a coaxing look. 'you know i think it a monstrous thing.' 'but you know of a place, and will help me to it!' cried she, clapping her hands. 'dear good mr. pendy, always a friend in need!' 'well, if you will have it so. it is not so bad as strangers. there's george's wife come to town to see a governess for little sarah, and she won't do.' 'shall i do?' asked lucilla, with a droll shake of her sunny hair. 'yes. i know you would vouch for me as tutoress to all the princesses; able to teach the physical sciences, the guitar, and arabic in three lessons; but if mrs. prendergast be the woman i imagine, much she will believe you. aren't they inordinately clever?' 'little sarah is--let me see--quite a child. her father did teach her, but he has less time in his new parish, and they think she ought to have more accomplishment, polish, and such like.' 'and imagine from the specimen before them that i must be an adept at polishing prendergasts.' 'now, cilla, do be serious. tell me if all this meant nothing, and i shall be very glad. if you were in earnest, i could not be so well satisfied to see you anywhere else. you would find mrs. prendergast quite a mother to you.' 'only one girl! i wanted a lot of riotous boys, but beggars must not be choosers. this is just right--people out of the way of those who knew me in my palmy days, yet not absolute strangers.' 'that was what induced me--they are so much interested about you, cilla.' 'and you have made a fine heroic story. i should not wonder if it all broke down when the parties met. when am i to be trotted out for inspection?' 'why, i told her if i found you really intended it, and had time, i would ask you to drive to her with me this morning, and then no one need know anything about it,' he said, almost with tears in his eyes. 'that's right,' cried lucilla. 'it will be settled before owen turns up. i'll get ready this instant. i say,' she added at the door, 'housemaids always come to be hired minus crinoline and flowers, is it the same with governesses?' 'cilla, how can you?' said her friend, excessively distressed at the inferior position, but his depression only inspired her with a reactionary spirit of mischief. 'crape is inoffensive, but my hair! what shall i do with it? does mrs. prendergast hold the prejudice against pretty governesses?' 'she would take venus herself if she talked no nonsense; but i don't believe you are in earnest,' growled the curate, angry at last. 'that is encouragement!' cried lucilla, flying off laughing that she might hide from herself her own nervousness and dismay at this sudden step into the hard verity of self-dependence. she could not stop to consider what to say or do, her refuge was always in the impromptu, and she was far more bent on forcing mr. prendergast to smile, and distracting herself from her one aching desire that the irish journey had never been, than of forming any plan of action. in walking to the cabstand they met robert, and exchanged greetings; a sick faintness came over her, but she talked it down, and her laugh sounded in his ears when they had passed on. yet when the lodgings were reached, the sensation recurred, her breath came short, and she could hardly conceal her trembling. no one was in the room but a lady who would have had far to seek for a governess less beautiful than herself. insignificance was the first idea she inspired, motherliness the second, the third that she was a perfect lady, and a sensible woman. after shaking lucilla kindly by the hand, and seating her on the sofa, she turned to her cousin, saying, 'sarah and her papa are at the national gallery, i wish you would look for them, or they will never be in time for luncheon.' 'luncheon is not for an hour and a half.' 'but it is twenty minutes' walk, and they will forget food and everything else unless you keep them in order.' 'i'll go presently;' but he did not move, only looking piteous while mrs. prendergast began talking to lucilla about the pictures, until she, recovering, detected the state of affairs, and exclaimed with her ready grace and abruptness, 'now, mr. prendergast, don't you see how much you are in the way?' 'a plain truth, peter,' said his cousin, laughing. lucy stepped forward to him, saying affectionately, 'please go; you can't help me, and i am sure you may trust me with mrs. prendergast;' and she stretched out a hand to the lady with an irresistible child-like gesture of confidence. 'don't you think you may, peter?' asked mrs. prendergast, holding the hand; 'you shall find her here at luncheon. i won't do anything to her.' the good curate groaned himself off, and lucy felt so much restored that she had almost forgotten that it was not an ordinary call. indeed she had never yet heard a woman's voice that thus attracted and softened her. mrs. prendergast needed not to be jealous of venus, while she had such tenderness in her manner, such winning force in her tone. 'that was well done,' she said. 'talking would have been impossible while he sat looking on!' 'i am afraid he has given far too good an account of me,' said lucy, in a low and trembling voice. 'his account comes from one who has known you from babyhood.' 'and spoilt me from babyhood!' 'yes, sarah knows what cousin peter can do in that line. he had little that was new to tell us, and what he had was of a kind--' she broke off, choked by tears. what she had heard of the girl's self-devotion touched her trebly at the sight of one so small, young, and soft-looking. and if she had ever been dubious of 'peter's pet,' she was completely fascinated. 'i must not be taken on his word,' said cilla, smiling. 'no, that would not be right by any of us.' 'then pray be very hard with me--as a thorough stranger.' 'but i am so inexperienced, i have only had one interview with a governess.' 'and what did she do?' asked lucilla, as both recovered from a laugh. 'she gave so voluble an account of her _ac_quirements and _re_quirements, that i was quite alarmed.' 'i'm sure i can't do that. i don't know what i can do.' a pause, broken by lucy, who began to feel that she had more of the cool readiness of the great world. 'how old is your daughter?' 'nearly fifteen. while we had our small parish in sussex we taught her ourselves, and her father brought her on in latin and euclid. do you know anything of those, miss sandbrook? not that it signifies.' 'miss charlecote used to teach me with my brother. i have forgotten, but i could soon get them up again.' 'they will hardly be wanted, but sarah will respect you for them. now, at southminster, our time is so taken up that poor sarah gets neglected, and it is very trying to an eager, diligent girl to prepare lessons, and have them continually put off, so we thought of indulging her with a governess, to bring her on in some of the modern languages and accomplishments that have grown rusty with us.' 'i think i could do that,' said lucilla. 'i believe i know what other people do, and my languages are fresh from the continent. ought i to give you a specimen of my pronunciation?' 'pray don't,' laughed mrs. prendergast. 'you know better than i what is right, and must prepare to be horrified by the sounds you will hear.' 'i ought to have brought my sketches. i had two years of lessons from s---.' 'sarah is burning for teaching in that line. music? dr. prendergast likes the grand old pieces, and hardly cares for modern ones.' 'i hardly played anything newer than mozart at hiltonbury. miss charlecote taught me very well, i believe, and i had lessons from the organist from elverslope, besides a good deal in the fashionable line since. i have kept that up. one wants it.' there was another shy pause, and lucilla growing more scrupulous and more confidential, volunteered,--'mine has been an idle life since i came out. i am three-and-twenty now, and have been diligently forgetting for the last six years. did you know that i had been a fast young lady?' but things had come to such a pass, that say what she would, all passed for ingenuous candour and humility, and the answer was,-- 'i know that you have led a very trying life, but to have passed through such unscathed is no disadvantage.' 'if i have,' said lucy, sadly. mrs. prendergast, who had learned all the facts of lucilla's history through the wrapworth medium, knew only the heroic side of her character, and admired her the more for her diffidence. so when terms were spoken of, the only fear on the one side was, that such a treasure must be beyond her means; on the other, lest what she needed for her nephew's sake might deprive her of such a home. however, seventy pounds a year proved to be in the thoughts of both, and the preliminaries ended with, 'i hope you will find my little sarah a pleasant companion. she is a good girl, and intelligent, but you must be prepared for a few angles.' 'i like angles. i don't care for commonplace people.' 'i am afraid that you will find many such at southminster. we cannot promise you the society you have been used to.' 'i am tired of society. i have had six years of it!' and she sighed. 'you must fix your own time,' said mrs. prendergast; 'and indeed we will try to make you at home.' 'my brother will be gone in a fortnight,' said lucilla. 'after that i should like to come straight to you.' her tone and look made those two last words not merely _chez vous_, but to _you_, individually--to you, kind one, who will comfort me after the cruel parting. mrs. prendergast put her arm round her and kissed her. 'don't,' said lucilla, with the sweetest april face. 'i can't bear being made foolish.' nevertheless mrs. prendergast showed such warm interest in all her concerns, that she felt only that she had acquired a dear friend by the time the others came in, father and daughter complaining, the one gaily, the other dolefully, that cousin peter had so hunted them that they could look at nothing in peace. indeed he was in such a state of restless misery, that mrs. prendergast, in compassion to him, sent her daughter to dress, called her husband away, and left the place clear for him to say, in a tone of the deepest commiseration, 'well, my poor child?' 'o, mr. pendy, you have found me a true home. be the others what they may, there must be rest in hearing _her_ voice!' 'it is settled, then?' 'yes. i only hope you have not taken them in. i did my best to let her know the worst of me, but it would make no impression. seventy pounds a year. i hope that is not wicked.' 'o, cilla, what would your father feel?' 'come, we won't fight that over again. i thought i had convinced you of the dignity of labour, and i do feel as if at last i had lit on some one whom i could allow to do me good.' she could not console him; he grieved over her changed circumstances with far more regret than she felt, and though glad for her sake that she should be with those whom he could trust, yet his connection with her employers seemed to him undutiful towards his late rector. all that she saw of them reassured her. the family manners were full of well-bred good-humour, full of fun, with high intelligence, much real refinement, and no pretension. the father was the most polished, with the scholarly courtesy of the dignified clergyman; the mother was the most simple and caressing; the daughter somewhat uncouth, readily betraying both her feelings and her cleverness and drollery in the style of the old friend whom lucilla was amused to see treated as a youth and almost a contemporary of her pupil. what chiefly diverted her was the grotesque aspect of dr. prendergast and his daughter. both were on a large scale, with immense mouths, noses turned up to display wide nostrils, great gray eyes, angularly set, yellow hair and eyebrows, red complexions, and big bones. the doctor had the advantage of having outgrown the bloom of his ugliness; his forehead was bald and dignified, his locks softened by grizzling, and his fine expression and clerical figure would have carried off all the quaintness of his features if they had not been so comically caricatured in his daughter; yet she looked so full of life and character that lucilla was attracted, and sure of getting on well with her. moreover, the little elf felt the impression she was creating in this land of brobdignag. sarah was looking at her as a terra-cotta pitcher might regard a cup of egg-shell china, and lucy had never been lovelier. her mourning enhanced the purity of her white skin, and marked her slender faultless shape; her flaxen hair hung in careless wreaths of ringlet and braid; her countenance, if pale, had greater sweetness in its dejection, now and then brightened by gleams of her courageous spirit. sarah gazed with untiring wonder, pardoning cousin peter for disturbing the contemplation of domenichino's art, since here was a witness that heroines of romance were no mere myths, but that beings of ivory and rose, sapphire eyes and golden hair, might actually walk the earth. the doctor was pleasant and friendly, and after luncheon the whole party started together to 'do' st. paul's, whence mr. prendergast undertook to take cilla home, but in no haste to return to the lonely house. she joined in the lionizing, and made a great impression by her familiarity with london, old and new. little store as she had set by honor's ecclesiology and antiquarianism, she had not failed to imbibe a tincture sufficient to go a long way by the help of ready wit, and she enchanted the doctor by her odd bits of information on the localities, and by guiding him to out-of-the-way curiosities. she even carried the party to woolstone-lane, displayed the queen of sheba, the cedar carving, the merchant's mark, and had lifted out stow's _survey_, where sarah was delighted with ranelagh, when the door opened, and owen stood, surprised and blank. poor fellow, the voices had filled him with hope that he should find honor there. the visitors, startled at thus intruding on his trouble, and knowing him to be in profound disgrace, would have gone, but he, understanding them to be mr. prendergast's friends, and glad of variety, was eagerly courteous and hospitable, detaining them by displaying fresh curiosities, and talking with so much knowledge and brilliance, that they were too well entertained to be in haste. lucilla, accepting mrs. prendergast as a friend, was rejoiced that she should have such demonstration that her brother was a thorough gentleman; and in truth owen did and said everything so well that no one could fail to be pleased, and only as an after-thought could come the perception that his ease hardly befitted the circumstances, and that he comported himself more like the master of the house than as a _protege_ under a cloud. no sooner had he handed them into their vehicle than he sank into a chair, and burst into one of the prolonged, vehement fits of laughter that are the reaction of early youth unwontedly depressed. never had he seen such visages! they ought at once to be sketched--would be worth any money to currie the architect, for gurgoyles. 'for shame,' said lucilla, glad, however, once more to hear the merry peal; 'for shame, to laugh at my master!' 'i'm not laughing at old pendy, his orifice is a mere crevice comparatively. the charm is in seeing it classified--the recent sloth accounted for by the ancient megatherium.' 'the megatherium is my master. yes, i'm governess to glumdalclitch!' 'you've done it?' 'yes, i have. seventy pounds a year.' he made a gesture of angry despair, crying, 'worse luck than i thought.' 'better luck than i did.' 'old pendy thrusting in his oar! i'd have put a stop to your absurdity at once, if i had not been sure no one would be deluded enough to engage you, and that you would be tired of looking out, and glad to go back to your proper place at the holt before i sailed.' 'my proper place is where i can be independent.' 'faugh! if i had known it, they should never have seen the roman coins! there! it is a lesson that nothing is too chimerical to be worth opposing!' 'your opposition would have made no difference.' he looked at her silently, but with a half smile in lip and eye that showed her that the moment was coming when the man's will might be stronger than the woman's. indeed, he was so thoroughly displeased and annoyed that she durst not discuss the subject with him, lest she should rouse him to take some strong authoritative measures against it. he had always trusted to the improbability of her meeting with a situation before his departure, when, between entreaty and command, he had reckoned on inducing her to go home; and this engagement came as a fresh blow, making him realize what he had brought on those nearest and dearest to him. even praise of mrs. prendergast provoked him, as if implying lucilla's preference for her above the tried friend of their childhood; he was in his lowest spirits, hardly speaking to his sister all dinner-time, and hurried off afterwards to pour out his vexation to robert fulmort. poor robert! what an infliction! to hear of such a step, and be unable to interfere; to admire, yet not approve; to dread the consequences, and perceive so much alloy as to dull the glitter of the gold, as well as to believe his own stern precipitation as much the cause as owen's errors; yet all the time to be the friend and comforter to the wounded spirit of the brother! it was a severe task; and when owen left him, he felt spent and wearied as by bodily exertion, as he hid his face in prayer for one for whom he could do no more than pray. feelings softened during the fortnight that the brother and sister spent together. childishly as owen had undergone the relations and troubles of more advanced life, pettishly as he had striven against feeling and responsibility, the storm had taken effect. hard as he had struggled to remain a boy, manhood had suddenly grown on him; and probably his exclusion from hiltonbury did more to stamp the impression of his guilt than did its actual effects. he was eager for his new life, and pleased with his employer, promising himself all success, and full of enterprise. but his banishment from home and from honor clouded everything; and, as the time drew nearer, his efforts to forget and be reckless gradually ceased. far from shunning lucilla, as at first, he was unwilling to lose sight of her, and they went about together wherever his preparations called him, so that she could hardly make time for stitching, marking, and arranging his purchases. one good sign was, that, though hitherto fastidiously expensive in dress and appointments, he now grudged himself all that was not absolutely necessary, in the endeavour to leave as large a sum as possible with mrs. murrell. even in the tempting article of mathematical instruments he was provident, though the polished brass, shining steel, and pure ivory, in their perfection of exactitude, were as alluring to him as ever gem or plume had been to his sister. that busy fortnight of chasing after the 'reasonable and good,' speeding about till they were foot-sore, discussing, purchasing, packing, and contriving, united the brother and sister more than all their previous lives. it was over but too soon. the last evening was come; the hall was full of tin cases and leathern portmanteaus, marked o. c. s., and of piles of black boxes large enough to contain the little lady whose name they bore. southminster lay in the trent valley, so the travellers would start together, and lucilla would be dropped on the way. in the cedar parlour, owen's black knapsack lay open on the floor, and lucilla was doing the last office in her power for him, and that a sad one, furnishing the russia-leather housewife with the needles, silk, thread, and worsted for his own mendings when he should be beyond the reach of the womankind who cared for him. he sat resting his head on his hand, watching her in silence, till she was concluding her work. then he said, 'give me a bit of silk,' turned his back on her, and stood up, doing something by the light of the lamp. she was kneeling over the knapsack, and did not see what he was about, till she found his hand on her head, and heard the scissors close, when she perceived that he had cut off one of her pale, bright ringlets, and saw his pocket-book open, and within it a thick, jet-black tress, and one scanty, downy tuft of baby hair. she made no remark; but the tears came dropping, as she packed; and, with a sudden impulse to give him the thing above all others precious to her, she pulled from her bosom a locket, hung from a slender gold chain, and held it to him-- 'owen, will you have this?' 'whose? my father's?' 'and my mother's. he gave it to me when he went to nice.' owen took it and looked at it thoughtfully. 'no, lucy,' he said; 'i would not take it from you on any account. you have always been his faithful child.' 'mind you tell me if any one remembers him in canada,' said lucilla, between relief and disappointment, restoring her treasure to the place it had never left before. 'you will find out whether he is recollected at his mission.' 'certainly. but i do not expect it. the place is a great town now. i say, lucy, if you had one bit of poor honor's hair!' 'no: you will never forgive me. i had some once, made up in a little cross, with gold ends; but one day, when she would not let me go to castle blanch, i shied it into the river, in a rage.' she was touched at his being so spiritless as not even to say that she ought to have been thrown in after it. 'i wonder,' she said, by way of enlivening him, 'whether you will fall in with the auburn-haired charlecote.' 'whereas canada is a bigger place than england, the disaster may be averted, i hope. a colonial heir-at-law might be a monstrous bore. moreover, it would cancel all that i can't but hope for that child.' 'you might hope better things for him than expectations.' 'he shall never have any! but it might come without. why, lucy, a few years in that country, and i shall be able to give him the best of educations and release you from drudgery; and when independent, we could go back to the holt on terms to suit even your proud stomach, and might make the dear old thing happy in her old age.' 'if that holt were but out of your head.' 'if i knew it willed to the county hospital, shouldn't i wish as much to be with her as before? i mean to bring up my son as a gentleman, with no one's help! but you see, lucy, it is impossible not to wish for one's child what one has failed in oneself--to wish him to be a better edition.' 'i suppose not.' 'for these first few years the old woman will do well enough for him, poor child. robert has promised to look in on him.' 'and mrs. murrell is to write to me once a month. i shall make a point of seeing him at least twice a year.' 'thank you; and by the time he is of any size i shall have a salary. i may come back, and we would keep house together, or you might bring him out to me.' 'that will be the hope of my life.' 'i'll not be deluded into reckoning on young ladies. you will be disposed of long before!' 'don't, owen! no, never.' 'never?' 'never.' 'i always wanted to know,' continued owen, 'what became of calthorp.' 'i left him behind at spitzwasserfitzung, with a message that ends it for ever.' 'i am afraid that defection is to be laid to my door, like all the rest.' 'if so, i am heartily obliged to you for it! the shock was welcome that brought me home. a governess? oh! i had rather be a scullery-maid, than go on as i was doing there!' 'then you did not care for him?' 'never! but he pestered me, rashe pestered me; nobody cared for me--i--i--' and she sobbed a long, tearless sob. 'ha!' said owen, gravely and kindly, 'then there was something in the fulmort affair after all. lucy, i am going away; let me hear it for once. if i ever come back, i will not be so heedless of you as i have been. if he have been using you ill!' 'i used him ill,' said lucy, in an inward voice. 'nothing more likely!' muttered owen, in soliloquy. 'but how is it, cilla: can't you make him forgive?' 'he does, but as honor forgives you. you know it was no engagement. i worked him up to desperation last year. through phoebe, i was warned that he would not stand my going to ireland. i answered that it was no concern of his; i defied him to be able to break with me. they bothered me so that i was forced to go to spite them. he thought--i can't wonder at it--that i was irreclaimable; he was staying here, was worked on by the sight of this horrible district, and, between pique and goodness run mad, has devoted self and fortune. he gave me to understand that he has made away with every farthing. i don't know if he would wish it undone.' she spoke into the knapsack, jerking out brief sentences. 'he didn't tell you he had taken a vow of celibacy?' 'i should not think it worth while.' 'then it is all right!' exclaimed owen, joyously. 'do you think old fulmort, wallowing in gold, could see a son of his living with his curates, as in the old sussex rhyme?-- there were three ghostisses sitting on three postisses, eating of three crustisses. no, depend on it, the first alarm of robert becoming a ghost, there will be a famous good fat living bought for him; and then--' 'no, i shall have been a governess. they won't consent.' 'pshaw! what are the fulmorts? he would honour you the more! no, lucy,' and he drew her up from the floor, and put his arm round her, 'girls who stick to one as you have done to me are worth something, and so is robert fulmort. you don't know what he has been to me ever since he came to fetch me. i didn't believe it was in his cloth or his nature to be so forbearing. no worrying with preachments; not a bit of "what a good boy am i;" always doing the very thing that was comfortable and considerate, and making the best of it at hiltonbury. i didn't know how he could be capable of it, but now i see, it was for your sake. cheer up, lucy, you will find it right yet.' lucilla had no conviction that he was right; but she was willing to believe for the time, and was glad to lay her head on his shoulder and feel, while she could, that she had something entirely her own. too soon it would be over. lengthen the evening as they would, morning must come at last. it came; the hurried breakfast, pale looks, and trivial words. robert arrived to watch them off; mrs. murrell brought the child. owen took him in his arms, and called her to the study. robert sat still, and said-- 'i will do what i can. i think, in case i had to write about the child, you had better leave me your address.' lucilla wrote it on a card. the tone quashed all hope. 'we trust to you,' she said. 'mr. currie has promised to let me hear of owen,' said robert; but no more passed. owen came back hasty and flushed, wanting to be gone and have it over. the cabs were called, and he was piling them with luggage; robert was glad to be actively helpful. all were in the hall; owen turned back for one more solitary gaze round the familiar room; robert shook lucilla's hand. 'o bid me good speed,' broke from her; 'or i cannot bear it.' 'god be with you. god bless you!' he said. no more! he had not approved, he had not blamed. he would interfere no more in her fate. she seated herself, and drew down her black veil, a chill creeping over her. 'thank you, robert, for all,' was owen's farewell. 'if you will say anything to phoebe from me, tell her she is all that is left to comfort poor honor.' 'good-bye,' was the only answer. owen lingered still. 'you'll write? tell me of her; honor, i mean, and the child.' 'yes, yes, certainly.' unable to find another pretext for delay, owen again wrung robert's hand, and placed himself by his sister, keeping his head out as long as he could see robert standing with crossed arms on the doorstep. when, the same afternoon, mr. parsons came home, he blamed himself for having yielded to his youngest curate the brunt of the summer work. never had he seen a man not unwell look so much jaded and depressed. nearly at the same time, lucilla and her boxes were on the platform of the southminster station, owen's eyes straining after her as the train rushed on, and she feeling positive pain and anger at the sympathy of dr. prendergast's kind voice, as though it would have been a relief to her tumultuous misery to have bitten him, like uncle kit long ago. she clenched her hand tight, when with old-world courtesy he made her take his arm, and with true consideration, conducted her down the hill, through the quieter streets, to the calm, shady precincts of the old cathedral. he had both a stall and a large town living; and his abode was the gray freestone prebendal house, whose two deep windows under their peaked gables gave it rather a cat-like physiognomy. mrs. prendergast and sarah were waiting in the hall, each with a kiss of welcome, and the former took the pale girl at once up-stairs, to a room full of subdued sunshine, looking out on a green lawn sloping down to the river. at that sight and sound, lucy's face lightened. 'ah! i know i shall feel at home here. i hear the water's voice!' but she had brought with her a heavy cold, kept in abeyance by a strong will during the days of activity, and ready to have its way at once, when she was beaten down by fatigue, fasting, and disappointment. she dressed and came down, but could neither eat nor talk, and in her pride was glad to attribute all to the cold, though protesting with over-eagerness that such indisposition was rare with her. she would not have suffered such nursing from honor charlecote as was bestowed upon her. the last month had made tenderness valuable, and without knowing all, kind mrs. prendergast could well believe that there might be more than even was avowed to weigh down the young head, and cause the fingers, when unobserved, to lock together in suppressed agony. while sarah only knew that her heroine-looking governess was laid up with severe influenza, her mother more than guessed at the kind of battle wrestled out in solitude, and was sure that more than brother, more than friend, had left her to that lonely suffering, which was being for the first time realized. but no confidence was given; when lucilla spoke, it was only of owen, and mrs. prendergast returned kindness and forbearance. it was soothing to be dreamily in that summer room, the friendly river murmuring, the shadows of the trees lazily dancing on the wall, the cathedral bells chiming, or an occasional deep note of the organ stealing in through the open window. it suited well with the languor of sensation that succeeded to so much vehemence and excitement. it was not thought, it was not resignation, but a species of repose and calm, as if all interest, all feeling, were over for her, and as if it mattered little what might further befall her, as long as she could be quiet, and get along from one day to another. if it had been repentance, a letter would have been written very unlike the cold announcement of her situation, the scanty notices of her brother, with which she wrung the heart that yearned after her at hiltonbury. but sorry she was, for one part at least, of her conduct, and she believed herself reduced to that meek and correct state that she had always declared should succeed her days of gaiety, when, recovering from her indisposition, she came down subdued in tone, and anxious to fulfil what she had undertaken. 'ah! if robert could see me now, he would believe in me,' thought she to herself, as she daily went to the cathedral. she took classes at school, helped to train the st. jude's choir, played handel for dr. prendergast, and felt absolutely without heart or inclination to show that self-satisfied young curate that a governess was not a subject for such distant perplexed courtesy. sad at heart, and glad to distract her mind by what was new yet innocent, she took up the duties of her vocation zealously; and quickly found that all her zeal was needed. her pupil was a girl of considerable abilities--intellectual, thoughtful, and well taught; and she herself had been always so unwilling a learner, so willing a forgetter, that she needed all the advantages of her grown-up mind and rapidity of perception to keep her sufficiently beforehand with sarah, whenever subjects went deep or far. if she pronounced like a native, and knew what was idiomatic, sarah, with her clumsy pronunciation, had further insight into grammar, and asked perplexing questions; if she played admirably and with facility, sarah could puzzle her with the science of music; if her drawing were ever so effective and graceful, sarah's less sightly productions had correct details that put hers to shame, and, for mere honesty's sake, and to keep up her dignity, she was obliged to work hard, and recur to the good grounding that against her will she had received at hiltonbury. 'had her education been as superficial as that of her cousins,' she wrote to her brother, 'sarah would have put her to shame long ago; indeed, nobody but the fennimore could be thoroughly up to that girl.' perhaps all her endeavours would not have impressed sarah, had not the damsel been thoroughly imposed on by her own enthusiasm for miss sandbrook's grace, facility, alertness, and beauty. the power of doing prettily and rapidly whatever she took up dazzled the large and deliberate young person, to whom the right beginning and steady thoroughness were essential, and she regarded her governess as a sort of fairy--toiling after her in admiring hopelessness, and delighted at any small success. fully aware of her own plainness, sarah adored miss sandbrook's beauty, took all admiration of it as personally as if it been paid to her bullfinch, and was never so charmed as when people addressed themselves to the governess as the daughter of the house. lucilla, however, shrank into the background. she was really treated thoroughly as a relation, but she dreaded the remarks and inquiries of strangers, and wished to avoid them. the society of the cathedral town was not exciting nor tempting, and she made no great sacrifice in preferring her pretty schoolroom to the dinners and evening parties of the close; but she did so in a very becoming manner, and delighted sarah with stories of the great world, and of her travels. there could be no doubt that father, mother, and daughter all liked and valued her extremely, and she loved mrs. prendergast as she had never loved woman before, with warm, filial, confiding love. she was falling into the interests of the cathedral and the parish, and felt them, and her occupations in the morning, satisfying and full of rest after the unsatisfactory whirl of her late life. she was becoming happier than she knew, and at any rate felt it a delusion to imagine the post of governess an unhappy one. three years at southminster (for sarah strenuously insisted that she would come out as late as possible) would be all peace, rest, and improvement; and by that time owen would be ready for her to bring his child out to him, or else-- little did she reck of the grave, displeased, yet far more sorrowful letter in which honor wrote, 'you have chosen your own path in life, may you find it one of improvement and blessing! but i think it right to say, that though real distress shall of course always make what is past forgotten, yet you must not consider hiltonbury a refuge if you grow hastily weary of your exertions. since you refuse to find a mother in me, and choose to depend on yourself alone, it must be in earnest, not caprice.' chapter xiv these are of beauty rare, in holy calmness growing, of minds whose richness might compare e'en with thy deep tints glowing. yet all unconscious of the grace they wear. like flowers upon the spray, all lowliness, not sadness, bright are their thoughts, and rich, not gay, grave in their very gladness, shedding calm summer light over life's changeful day. _to the fuchsia_.--s. d. phoebe fulmort sat in her own room. the little round clock on the mantelpiece pointed to eleven. the fire was low but glowing. the clear gas shone brightly on the toilette apparatus, and on the central table, loaded with tokens of occupation, but neat and orderly as the lines in the clasped volume where phoebe was dutifully writing her abstract of the day's reading and observation, in childishly correct miniature round-hand. the curtain was looped up, and the moon of a frosty night blanched a square on the carpet beneath the window, at which she often looked with a glistening gaze. her father and brother had been expected at dinner-time; and though their detention was of frequent occurrence, phoebe had deferred undressing till it should be too late for their arrival by the last train, since they would like her to preside over their supper, and she might possibly hear of robert, whose doings her father had of late seemed to regard with less displeasure, though she had not been allowed to go with miss charlecote to the consecration of his church, and had not seen him since the horticultural show. she went to the window for a final look. white and crisp lay the path, chequered by the dark defined shadows of the trees; above was the sky, pearly with moonlight, allowing only a few larger stars to appear, and one glorious planet. fascinated by the silent beauty, she stood gazing, wishing she could distinguish jupiter's moons, observing on the difference between his steady reflected brilliance and the sun-like glories of arcturus and aldebaran, and passing on to the moral miss charlecote loved, of the stars being with us all day unseen, like the great cloud of witnesses. she hoped miss charlecote saw that moon; for sunrise or set, rainbow, evening gleam, new moon, or shooting star, gave phoebe double pleasure by comparing notes with miss charlecote, and though that lady was absent, helping mrs. saville to tend her husband's mortal sickness, it was likely that she might be watching and admiring this same fair moon. well that there are many girls who, like phoebe, can look forth on the creator's glorious handiwork as such, in peace and soothing, 'in maiden meditation fancy free,' instead of linking these heavenly objects to the feverish fancies of troubled hearts! phoebe was just turning from the window, when she heard wheels sounding on the frosty drive, and presently a carriage appeared, the shadow spectrally lengthened on the slope of the whitened bank. all at once it stopped where the roads diverged to the front and back entrances, a black figure alighted, took out a bag, dismissed the vehicle, and took the path to the offices. phoebe's heart throbbed. it was robert! as he disappeared, she noiselessly opened her door, guardedly passed the baize door of the west wing, descended the stairs, and met him in the hall. neither spoke till they were in the library, which had been kept prepared for the travellers. robert pressed her to him and kissed her fervently, and she found voice to say, 'what is it? papa?' 'yes,' said robert. she needed not to ask the extent of the calamity. she stood looking in his face, while, the beginning once made, he spoke in low, quick accents. 'paralysis. last night. he was insensible when edwards called him this morning. nothing could be done. it was over by three this afternoon.' 'where?' asked phoebe, understanding, but not yet feeling. 'at his rooms at the office. he had spent the evening there alone. it was not known till eight this morning. i was there instantly, mervyn and bevil soon after, but he knew none of us. mervyn thought i had better come here. oh, phoebe, my mother!' 'i will see if she have heard anything,' said phoebe, moving quietly off, as though one in a dream, able to act, move, and decide, though not to think. she found the household in commotion. robert had spoken to the butler, and everywhere were knots of whisperers. miss fennimore met phoebe with her eyes full of tears, tears as yet far from those of phoebe herself. 'your mother has heard nothing,' she said; 'i ascertained that from boodle, who only left her dressing-room since your brother's arrival. you had better let her have her night's rest.' robert, who had followed phoebe, hailed this as a reprieve, and thanked miss fennimore, adding the few particulars he had told his sister. 'i hope the girls are asleep,' he said. 'sound asleep, i trust,' said miss fennimore. 'i will take care of them,' and laying her hand on phoebe's shoulder, she suggested to her that her brother had probably not eaten all day, then left them to return to the library together. there had been more time for robert to look the thought in the face than his sister. he was no longer freshly stunned. he really needed food, and ate in silence, while she mechanically waited on him. at last he looked up, saying, 'i am thankful. a few months ago, how could i have borne it?' 'i have been sure he understood you better of late,' said phoebe. 'sunday week was one of the happiest days i have spent for years. imagine my surprise at seeing him and acton in the church. they took luncheon with us, looked into the schools, went to evening service, and saw the whole concern. he was kinder than ever i knew him, and acton says he expressed himself as much pleased. i owe a great deal to bevil acton, and, i know, to you. now i know that he had forgiven me.' 'you, robin! there was nothing to forgive. i can fancy poor mervyn feeling dreadfully, but you, always dutiful except for the higher duty!' 'hush, phoebe! mine was grudging service. i loved opposition, and there was an evil triumph in the annoyance i gave.' 'you are not regretting your work. o no!' 'not the work, but the manner! oh! that the gift of the self-willed son be not corban.' 'robert! indeed you had his approval. you told me so. he was seeing things differently. it was so new to him that his business could be thought hurtful, that he was displeased at first, or, rather, mervyn made him seem more displeased than he was.' 'you only make me the more repent! had i been what i ought at home, my principles would have been very differently received!' 'i don't know,' said phoebe; 'there was little opportunity. we have been so little with them.' 'oh! phoebe, it is a miserable thing to have always lived at such a distance from them, that i should better know how to tell such tidings to any old woman in my district than to my mother!' their consultations were broken by miss fennimore coming to insist on phoebe's sleeping, in preparation for the trying morrow. robert was thankful for her heedfulness, and owned himself tired, dismissing his sister with a blessing that had in it a tone of protection. how changed was phoebe's peaceful chamber in her eyes! nothing had altered, but a fresh act in her life had begun--the first sorrow had fallen on her. she would have knelt on for hours, leaning dreamily on the new sense of the habitual words, 'our father,' had not miss fennimore come kindly and tenderly to undress her, insisting on her saving herself, and promising not to let her oversleep herself, treating her with wise and soothing affection, and authority that was most comfortable. little danger was there of her sleeping too late. all night long she lay, with dry and open eyes, while the fire, groaning, sank together, and faded into darkness, and the moonbeams retreated slowly from floor to wall, and were lost as gray cold dawn began to light the window. phoebe had less to reproach herself with than any one of mr. fulmort's children, save the poor innocent, maria; but many a shortcoming, many a moment of impatience or discontent, many a silent impulse of blame, were grieved over, and every kindness she had received shot through her heart with mournful gladness and warmth, filling her with yearning for another embrace, another word, or even that she had known that the last good-bye had been the last, that she might have prized it--oh, how intensely! then came anxious imaginings for the future, such as would not be stilled by the knowledge that all would settle itself over her head. there were misgivings whether her mother would be properly considered, fears of the mutual relations between her brothers, a sense that the family bond was loosed, and confusion and jarring might ensue; but, as her mind recoiled from the shoals and the gloom, the thought revived of the pilot amid the waves of this troublesome world. she closed her eyes for prayer, but not for sleep. repose even more precious and soothing than slumber was granted--the repose of confidence in the everlasting arms, and of confiding to them all the feeble and sorrowful with whom she was linked. it was as though (in the words of her own clasped book) her god were _more_ to her than ever, truly a very _present_ help in trouble; and, as the dawn brightened for a day so unlike all others, her heart trembled less, and she rose up with eyes heavy and limbs weary, but better prepared for the morning's ordeal than even by sleep ending in a wakening to the sudden shock. when miss fennimore vigilantly met her on leaving her room, and surveyed her anxiously, to judge of her health and powers, there was a serious, sweet collectedness in air and face that struck the governess with loving awe and surprise. the younger girls had known their father too little to be much affected by the loss. maria stared in round-eyed amaze, and bertha, though subdued and shocked for a short space, revived into asking a torrent of questions, culminating in 'should they do any lessons?' whereto miss fennimore replied with a decided affirmative, and, though phoebe's taste disapproved, she saw that it was wiser not to interfere. much fatigued, robert slept late, but joined his sister long before the dreaded moment of hearing their mother's bell. they need not have been fearful of the immediate effect; mrs. fulmort's perceptions were tardy, and the endeavours at preparation were misunderstood, till it was needful to be explicit. a long stillness followed, broken at last by phoebe's question, whether she would not see robert. 'not till i am up, my dear,' she answered, in an injured voice; 'do, pray, see whether boodle is coming with my warm water.' her mind was not yet awake to the stroke, and was lapsing into its ordinary mechanical routine; her two breakfasts, and protracted dressing, occupied her for nearly two hours, after which she did not refuse to see her son, but showed far less emotion than he did, while he gave the details of the past day. her dull, apathetic gaze was a contrast with the young man's gush of tears, and the caresses that phoebe lavished on her listless hand. phoebe proposed that robert should read to her--she assented, and soon dozed, awaking to ask plaintively for boodle and her afternoon cup of tea. so passed the following days, her state nearly the same, and her interest apparently feebly roused by the mourning, but by nothing else. she did not like that phoebe should leave her, but was more at ease with her maid than her son, and, though he daily came to sit with her and read to her, he was grieved to be unable to be of greater use, while he could seldom have phoebe to himself. sorely missing miss charlecote, he took his meals in the west wing, where his presence was highly appreciated, though he was often pained by bertha's levity and maria's imbecility. the governess treated him with marked esteem and consideration, strikingly dissimilar to the punctilious, but almost contemptuous, courtesy of her behaviour to the other gentlemen of the family, and, after her pupils were gone to bed, would fasten upon him for a discussion such as her soul delighted in, and his detested. secure of his ground, he was not sure of his powers of reasoning with an able lady of nearly double his years, and more than double his reading and readiness of speech, yet he durst not retreat from argument, lest he should seem to yield the cause that he was sworn to maintain, 'in season and out of season.' it was hard that his own troubles and other people's should alike bring him in for controversy on all the things that end in 'ism.' he learnt by letter from sir bevil acton that his father had been much struck by what he had seen in cecily-row, and had strongly expressed his concern that robert had been allowed to strip himself for the sake of a duty, which, if it were such at all, belonged more to others. there might have been wrongheaded haste in the action, but if such new-fangled arrangements had become requisite, it was unfair that one member of the family alone should bear the whole burthen. sir bevil strongly supported this view, and mr. fulmort had declared himself confirmed in his intention of making provision for his son in his will, as well as of giving him a fair allowance at present. there must have been warnings of failing health of which none had been made aware, for mr. fulmort had come to town partly to arrange for the safe guardianship of poor maria and her fortune. an alteration in his will upon the death of one of the trustees had been too long neglected, and perhaps some foreboding of the impending malady had urged him at last to undertake what had been thus deferred. each of the daughters was to have , pounds, the overplus being divided between them and their eldest brother, who would succeed both to the business, and on his mother's death to the beauchamp estate, while the younger had already received an ample portion as heir to his uncle. mr. fulmort, however, had proposed to place robert on the same footing with his sisters, and sir bevil had reason to think he had at once acted on his design. such thorough forgiveness and approval went to robert's heart, and he could scarcely speak as he gave phoebe the letter to read. when she could discuss it with him after her mother had fallen asleep for the night, she found that his thoughts had taken a fresh turn. 'if it should be as bevil supposes,' he said, 'it would make an infinite difference.' and after waiting for an answer only given by inquiring looks, he continued--'as she is now, it would not be a violent change; i do not think she would object to my present situation.' 'oh, robert, you will not expose yourself to be treated as before.' 'that would not be. there was no want of attachment; merely over-confidence in her own power.' 'not _over_ confidence, it seems,' murmured phoebe, not greatly charmed. 'i understood how it had been, when we were thrown together again,' he pursued. 'there was no explanation, but it was far worse to bear than if there had been. i felt myself a perfect brute.' 'i beg your pardon if i can't be pleased just yet,' said phoebe. 'you know i did not see her, and i can't think she deserves it after so wantonly grieving you, and still choosing to forsake miss charlecote.' 'for that i feel accountable,' said robert, sadly. 'i cannot forget that her determination coincided with the evening i made her aware of my position. i saw that in her face that has haunted me ever since. i had almost rather it had been resentment.' 'i hope she will make you happy,' said phoebe, dolefully, thinking it a pity he should be disturbed when settled in to his work, and forced by experience to fear that lucy would torment him. 'i do not do it for the sake of happiness,' he returned. 'i am not blind to her faults; but she has a grand, generous character that deserves patience and forbearance. besides, the past can never be cancelled, and it is due to her to offer her whatever may be mine. there may be storms, but she has been disciplined, poor dear, and i am more sure of myself than i was. she _should_ conform, and my work should not be impeded.' grimly he continued to anticipate hurricanes for his wedded life, and to demonstrate that he was swayed by justice and not by passion; but it was suspicious that he recurred constantly to the topic, and seemed able to dwell on no other. if phoebe could have been displeased with him, it would have been for these reiterations at such a time. not having been personally injured, she pardoned less than did either robert or miss charlecote; she could not foresee peace for her brother; and though she might pity him for the compulsion of honour and generosity, she found that his auguries were not intended to excite compassionate acquiescence, but cheerful contradiction, such as both her good sense and her oppressed spirits refused. if he could talk about nothing better than lucy when alone with her, she could the less regret the rarity of these opportunities. the gentlemen of the family alone attended the funeral, the two elder sisters remaining in town, whither their husbands were to return at night. mrs. fulmort remained in the same dreary state of heaviness, but with some languid heed to the details, and interest in hearing from maria and bertha, from behind the blinds, what carriages were at the door, and who got into them. phoebe, with strong effort, then controlled her voice to read aloud till her mother dozed as usual, and she could sit and think until robert knocked, to summon her to the reading of the will. 'you must come,' he said; 'i know it jars, but it is mervyn's wish, and he is right.' on the stairs mervyn met her, took her from robert, and led her into the drawing-room, where she was kindly greeted by the brothers-in-law, and seated beside her eldest brother. as a duty, she gave her attention, and was rewarded by finding that had he been living, her hero, mr. charlecote, would have been her guardian. the will, dated fifteen years back, made humfrey charlecote, esquire, trustee and executor, jointly with james crabbe, esquire, the elderly lawyer at present reading it aloud. the intended codicil had never been executed. had any one looked at the downcast face, it would have been with wonder at the glow of shy pleasure thrilling over cheeks and brow. beauchamp of course remained with the heiress, mrs. fulmort, to whom all thereto appertaining was left; the distillery and all connected with it descended to the eldest son, john mervyn fulmort; the younger children received , pounds apiece, and the residue was to be equally divided among all except the second son, robert mervyn fulmort, who, having been fully provided for, was only to receive some pictures and plate that had belonged to his great uncle. the lawyer ceased. sir bevil leant towards him, and made an inquiry which was answered by a sign in the negative. then taking up some memoranda, mr. crabbe announced that as far as he could yet discover, the brother and five sisters would divide about , pounds between them, so that each of the ladies had , pounds of her own; and, bowing to phoebe, he requested her to consider him as her guardian. the admiral, highly pleased, offered her his congratulations, and as soon as she could escape she hastened away, followed by robert. 'never mind, phoebe,' he said; taking her hand; 'the kindness and pardon were the same, the intention as good as the deed, as far as _he_ was concerned. perhaps you were right. the other way might have proved a stumbling-block.' speak as he would, he could not govern the tone of his voice nor the quivering of his entire frame under the downfall of his hopes. phoebe linked her arm in his, and took several turns in the gallery with him. 'oh, robin, if i were but of age to divide with you!' 'no, phoebe, that would be unfit for you and for me. i am only where i was before. i knew i had had my portion. i ought not to have entertained hopes so unbefitting. but oh, phoebe! that she should be cast about the world, fragile, sensitive as she is--' phoebe could have said that a home at the holt was open to lucilla; but this might seem an unkind suggestion, and the same moment, sir bevil was heard impetuously bounding up the stairs. 'robert, where are you?' he called from the end of the gallery. 'i never believed you could have been so infamously treated.' 'hush!' said robert, shocked; 'i cannot hear this said. you know it was only want of time.' 'i am not talking of your father. he would have done his best if he had been allowed. it is your brother!--his own confession, mind! he boasted just now that his father would have done it on the spot, but for his interference, and expected thanks from all the rest of us for his care of our interests.' 'what is the use of telling such things, acton?' said robert, forcing his voice to calm rebuke, and grasping the baluster with an iron-like grip. 'the use! to mark my detestation of such conduct! i did my best to show him what i thought of it; and i believe even bannerman was astounded at his coolness. i'll take care the thing is made public! i'll move heaven and earth but i'll get you preferment that shall show how such treatment is looked upon.' 'i beg you will do nothing of the kind!' exclaimed robert. 'i am heartily obliged to you, acton. you gained me the certainty of forgiveness, without which i should have felt a curse on my work. for the rest, i complain of nothing. i have had larger means than the others. i knew i was to look for no more. i prefer my own cure to any other; and reflection will show you that our family affairs are not to be made public.' 'at any rate, your mother might do something. let me speak to her. what, not now? then i will come down whenever phoebe will summon me.' 'not now, nor ever,' said robert. 'even if anything were in her power, she could not understand; and she must not be harassed.' 'we will talk that over on our way to town,' said sir bevil. 'i start at once. i will not see that fellow again, nor, i should think, would you.' 'i stay till saturday week.' 'you had better not. you have been abominably treated; but this is no time for collisions. you agree with me, phoebe; his absence would be the wisest course.' 'phoebe knows that annoyance between mervyn and me is unhappily no novelty. we shall not revert to the subject, and i have reasons for staying.' 'you need not fear,' said phoebe; 'robert always keeps his temper.' 'or rather we have the safeguard of being both sullen, not hot,' said robert. 'besides, mervyn was right. i have had my share, and have not even the dignity of being injured.' the need of cooling his partisan was the most effective means of blunting the sharp edge of his own vexation. hearing mervyn cross the hall, he called to offer to take his share in some business which they had to transact together. 'wait a moment,' was the answer; and as sir bevil muttered a vituperation of mervyn's assurance, he said, decidedly, 'now, once for all, i desire that this matter be never again named between any of us. let no one know what has taken place, and let us forget all but that my father was in charity with me.' it was more than sir bevil was with almost any one, and he continued to pace the gallery with phoebe, devising impossible schemes of compensation until the moment of his departure for london. robert had not relied too much on his own forbearance. phoebe met her two brothers at dinner--one gloomy, the other melancholy; but neither altering his usual tone towards the other. unaware that robert knew of his father's designs, nor of their prevention, mervyn was totally exempt from compunction, thinking, indeed, that he had saved his father from committing an injustice on the rest of the family, for the sake of a fanatical tormentor, who had already had and thrown away more than his share. subdued and saddened for the time, mervyn was kind to phoebe and fairly civil to robert, so that there were no disturbances to interfere with the tranquil intercourse of the brother and sister in their walks in the woods, their pacings of the gallery, or low-voiced conferences while their mother dozed. true to his resolve, robert permitted no reference to his late hopes, but recurred the more vigorously to his parish interests, as though he had never thought of any wife save st. matthew's church. home affairs, too, were matters of anxious concern. without much sign of sorrow, or even of comprehension of her loss, it had suddenly rendered the widow an aged invalid. the stimulus to exertion removed, there was nothing to rouse her from the languid torpor of her nature, mental and physical. invalid habits gave her sufficient occupation, and she showed no preference for the company of any one except phoebe or her maid, to whose control her passive nature succumbed. at boodle's bidding, she rose, dressed, ate, drank, and went to bed; at phoebe's she saw her other children, heard robert read, or signed papers for mervyn. but each fresh exertion cost much previous coaxing and subsequent plaintiveness; and when phoebe, anxious to rouse her, persuaded her to come down-stairs, her tottering steps proved her feebleness; and though her sons showed her every attention, she had not been in the drawing-room ten minutes before a nervous trembling and faintness obliged them to carry her back to her room. the family apothecary, a kind old man, declared that there was nothing seriously amiss, and that she would soon 'recover her tone.' but it was plain that much would fall on phoebe, and robert was uneasy at leaving her with so little assistance or comfort at hand. he even wrote to beg his eldest sister to come for a few weeks till his mother's health should be improved; but sir nicholas did not love the country in the winter, and augusta only talked of a visit in the spring. another vexation to robert was the schoolroom. during the last few months bertha had outgrown her childish distaste to study, and had exerted her mind with as much eagerness as governess could desire; her translations and compositions were wonders of ease and acuteness; she had plunged into science, had no objection to mathematics, and by way of recreation wandered in german metaphysics. miss fennimore rather discouraged this line, knowing how little useful brain exercise she herself had derived from kant and his compeers, but this check was all that was wanting to give bertha double zest, and she stunned robert with demonstrations about her 'i' and her 'not i,' and despised him for his contempt of her grand discoveries. he begged for a prohibition of the study, but miss fennimore thought this would only lend it additional charms, and added that it was a field which the intellect must explore for itself, and not take on the authority of others. when this answer was reported through phoebe, robert shrugged his shoulders, alarmed at the hot-bed nurture of intellect and these concessions to mental independence, only balanced by such loose and speculative opinions as miss fennimore had lately manifested to him. decidedly, he said, there ought to be a change of governess and system. but phoebe, tears springing into her eyes, implored him not to press it. she thoroughly loved her kind, clear-headed, conscientious friend, who had assisted her so wisely and considerately through this time of trouble, and knew how to manage maria. it was no time for a fresh parting, and her mother was in no state to be harassed by alterations. this robert allowed with a sigh, though delay did not suit with his stern, uncompromising youthfulness, and he went on to say, 'you will bear it in mind, phoebe. there and elsewhere great changes are needed. this great, disorderly household is a heavy charge. acting for my mother, as you will have to do, how are you to deal with the servants?' 'none of them come in my way, except dear old lieschen, and boodle, and mrs. brisbane, and they are all kind and thoughtful.' 'surface work, phoebe. taking my mother's place, as you do now, you will, or ought to, become aware of the great mischiefs below stairs, and i trust you will be able to achieve a great reformation.' 'i hope--' phoebe looked startled, and hesitated. 'surely, robert, you do not think i ought to search after such things. would it be dutiful, so young as i am?' 'perhaps you are right,' said robert; 'only, phoebe, phoebe, never let toleration harden you to be indifferent to evil.' 'i hope not,' said phoebe, gravely. 'my poor child, you are in for a world of perplexities! i wish i had not to leave you to them.' 'every labyrinth has a clue,' said phoebe, smiling; 'as miss fennimore says when she gives us problems to work. only you know the terms of the problem must be stated before the solution can be made out; so it is of no use to put cases till we know all the terms.' 'right, phoebe. sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' 'i cannot see the evil yet,' said phoebe; 'the trouble has brought so much comfort. that happy sunday with you, and my own year of being with them both, have been such blessings! last year, how much worse it would have been for us all, when i scarcely knew mamma or mervyn, and could not go about alone nor to church! and miss charlecote will soon come home. there is so much cause for thankfulness, that i can't be afraid.' robert said no more, but felt that innocent buoyancy a mystery to his lower-pitched spirit. never very gay or merry, phoebe had a fund of happiness and a power of finding and turning outwards the bright side, which made her a most comfortable companion. chapter xv happy are they that learn in him, though patient suffering teach the secret of enduring strength, and praise too deep for speech: _peace_ that no pressure from without, no strife within can reach.--a. l. waring well was it for phoebe that she had been trained to monotony, for her life was most uniform after robert had left home. her schoolroom mornings, her afternoons with her mother, her evenings with mervyn, were all so much alike that one week could hardly be distinguished from another. bertha's vagaries and mervyn's periodical journeys to london were the chief varieties, certainly not her mother's plaintiveness, her brother's discontent, or the sacrifice of her own inclinations, which were pretty certain to be traversed, but then, as she said, something else happened that did as well as what she had wished. one day, when mervyn had been hunting, and had come home tired, he desired her to give him some music in the evening. she took the opportunity of going over some fine old airs, which the exigencies of drawing-room display had prevented her from practising for some time. presently she found him standing by her, his face softer than usual. 'where did you get that, phoebe?' 'it is haydn's. i learnt it just after miss fennimore came.' 'play it again; i have not heard it for years.' she obeyed, and looked at him. he was shading his face with his hand, but he hardly spoke again all the rest of the evening. phoebe's curiosity was roused, and she tried the effect of the air on her mother, whose great pleasure was her daughter's music, since a piano had been moved into her dressing-room. but it awoke no association there, and 'thank you, my dear,' was the only requital. while the next evening she was wondering whether to volunteer it, mervyn begged for it, and as she finished, asked, 'what does old gay say of my mother now?' 'he thinks her decidedly better, and so i am sure she is. she has more appetite. she really ate the breast of a partridge to-day!' 'he says nothing of a change?' 'she could not bear the journey.' 'it strikes me that she wants rousing. shut up in a great lonely house like this, she has nothing cheerful to look at. she would be much better off at brighton, or some of those places where she could see people from the windows, and have plenty of twaddling old dowager society.' 'i did ask mr. gay about the sea, but he thought the fatigue of the journey, and the vexing her by persuading her to take it, would do more harm than the change would do good.' 'i did not mean only as a change. i believe she would be much happier living there, with this great place off her hands. it is enough to depress any one's spirits to live in a corner like a shrivelled kernel in a nut.' 'go away!' exclaimed phoebe. 'mervyn! it is her home! it is her own!' 'well, i never said otherwise,' he answered, rather crossly; 'but you know very well that it is a farce to talk of her managing the house, or the estate either. it was bad enough before, but there will be no check on any one now.' 'i thought you looked after things.' 'am i to spend my life as a steward? no, if the work is to be in my hands, i ought to be in possession at once, so as to take my place in the county as i ought, and cut the city business. the place is a mere misfortune and encumbrance to her as she is, and she would be ten times happier at a watering-place.' 'mervyn, what do you mean? you have all the power and consequence here, and are fully master of all; but why should not poor mamma live in her own house?' 'can't you conceive that a man may have reasons for wishing to be put in possession of the family place when he can enjoy it, and she can't? don't look at me with that ridiculous face. i mean to marry. now, can't you see that i may want the house to myself?' 'you are engaged!' 'not exactly. i am waiting to see my way through the bother.' 'who is it? tell me about it, mervyn.' 'i don't mind telling you, but for your life don't say a word to any one. i would never forgive you, if you set my ladies bannerman and acton at me.' phoebe was alarmed. she had little hope that their likings would coincide; his manner indicated defiance of opinion, and she could not but be averse to a person for whose sake he wished to turn them out. 'well,' was all she could say, and he proceeded: 'i suppose you never heard of cecily raymond.' 'of moorcroft?' she asked, breathing more freely. 'sir john's daughter?' 'no, his niece. it is a spooney thing to take up with one's tutor's daughter, but it can't be helped. i've tried to put her out of my head, and enter on a more profitable speculation, but it won't work!' 'is she very pretty--prettier than lucilla sandbrook?' asked phoebe, unable to believe that any other inducement could attach him. 'not what you would call pretty at all, except her eyes. not a bit fit to make a figure in the world, and a regular little parsoness. that's the deuce of it. it would be mere misery to her to be taken to london and made to go into society; so i want to have it settled, for if she could come here and go poking into cottages and schools, she would want nothing more.' 'then she is very good?' 'you and she will be devoted to each other. and you'll stand up for her, i know, and then a fig for their two ladyships. you and i can be a match for juliana, if she tries to bully my mother. not that it matters. i am my own man now; but cecily is crotchety, and must not be distressed.' 'then i am sure she would not like to turn mamma out,' said phoebe, stoutly. 'don't you see that is the reason i want to have it settled beforehand. if she were a party to it, she would never consent; she would be confoundedly scrupulous, and we should be all worried to death. come, you just sound my mother; you can do anything with her, and it will be better for you all. you will be bored to death here, seeing no one.' 'i do not know whether it be a right proposal to make.' 'right? if the place had been my father's, it would be a matter of course.' 'that makes the whole difference. and even so, would not this be very soon?' 'of course you know i am proposing nothing at once. it would not be decent, i suppose, to marry within the half-year; but, poor little thing, i can't leave her in suspense any longer. you should not have played that thing.' 'then you know that she cares for you?' he laughed consciously at this home question. 'it must be a long time since you were at mr. raymond's.' 'eight years; but i have made flying visits there since, and met her at her uncle's. poor little thing, she was horribly gone off last time, and very ungracious, but we will find a remedy!' 'then you could not gain consent to it?' 'it never came to that. i never committed myself.' 'but why not? if she was so good, and you liked her, and they all wanted you to marry, i can't see why you waited, if you knew, too, that she liked you--i don't think it was kind, mervyn.' 'ah! women always hang by one another. see here, phoebe, it began when i was as green as yourself, a mere urchin, and she a little unconscious thing of the same age. well, when i got away, i saw what a folly it was--a mere throwing myself away! i might have gone in for rank or fortune, as i liked; and how did i know that i was such a fool that i could not forget her? if charles charteris had not monopolized the jewess, i should have been done for long ago! and apart from that, i wasn't ready for domestic joys, especially to be darby to such a pattern little joan, who would think me on the highway to perdition if she saw _bell's life_ on the table, or heard me bet a pair of gloves.' 'you can't have any affection for her,' cried phoebe, indignantly. 'didn't i tell you she spoilt the taste of every other transaction of the sort? and what am i going to do now? when she has not a halfpenny, and i might marry anybody!' 'if you cared for her properly, you would have done it long before.' 'i'm a dutiful son,' he answered, in an indifferent voice, that provoked phoebe to say with spirit, 'i hope she does not care for you, after all.' 'past praying for, kind sister. sincerely i've been sorry for it; i would have disbelieved it, but the more she turns away, the better i know it; so you see, after all, i shall deserve to be ranked with your hero, bevil acton.' 'mervyn, you make me so angry that i can hardly answer! you boast of what you think she has suffered for you all this time, and make light of it!' 'it wasn't my fault if my poor father would send such an amiable youth into a large family. men with daughters should not take pupils. i did my best to cure both her and myself, but i had better have fought it out at once when she was younger and prettier, and might have been more conformable, and not so countrified, as you'll grow, phoebe, if you stay rusting here, nursing my mother and reading philosophy with miss fennimore. if you set up to scold me, you had better make things easy for me.' phoebe thought for a few moments, and then said, 'i see plainly what you ought to do, but i cannot understand that this makes it proper to ask my mother to give up her own house, that she was born to. i suppose you would call it childish to propose your living with us; but we could almost form two establishments.' 'my dear child, cecily would go and devote herself to my mother. i should never have any good out of her, and she would get saddled for life with maria.' 'maria is my charge,' said phoebe, coldly. 'and what will your husband say to that?' 'he shall never be my husband unless i have the means of making her happy.' 'ay, there would be a frenzy of mutual generosity, and she would be left to us. no; i'm not going to set up housekeeping with maria for an ingredient.' 'there is the underwood.' 'designed by nature for a dowager-house. that would do very well for you and my mother, though cheltenham or brighton might be better. yes, it might do. you would be half a mile nearer your dear miss charlecote.' 'thank you,' said phoebe, a little sarcastically; but repenting she added, 'mervyn, i hope i do not seem unkind and selfish; but i think we ought to consider mamma, as she cannot stand up for herself just now. it is not unlikely that when mamma hears you are engaged, and has seen and grown fond of miss raymond, she may think herself of giving up this place; but it ought to begin from her, not from you; and as things are now, i could not think of saying anything about it. from what you tell me of miss raymond, i don't think she would be the less likely to take you without beauchamp than with it; indeed, i think you must want it less for her sake than your own.' 'upon my word, mrs. phoebe, you are a cool hand!' exclaimed mervyn, laughing; 'but you promise to see what can be done as soon as i've got my hand into the matter.' 'i promise nothing,' said phoebe; 'i hope it will be settled without me, for i do not know what would be the most right or most kind, but it may be plainer when the time comes, and she, who is so good, will be sure to know. o mervyn, i am very glad of that!' phoebe sought the west wing in such a tingle of emotion that she only gave miss fennimore a brief good night instead of lingering to talk over the day. indignation was foremost. after destroying robert's hopes for life, here was mervyn accepting wedded happiness as a right, and after having knowingly trifled with a loving heart for all these years, coolly deigning to pick it up, and making terms to secure his own consequence and freedom from all natural duties, and to thrust his widowed mother from her own home. it was phoebe's first taste of the lesson so bitter to many, that her parents' home was not her own for life, and the expulsion seemed to her so dreadful that she rebuked herself for personal feeling in her resentment, and it was with a sort of horror that she bethought herself that her mother might possibly prefer a watering-place life, and that it would then be her part to submit cheerfully. poor miss charlecote! would not she miss her little moonbeam? yes, but if this cecily were so good, she would make up to her. the pang of suffering and dislike quite startled phoebe. she knew it for jealousy, and hid her face in prayer. the next day was sunday, and mervyn made the unprecedented exertion of going twice to church, observing that he was getting into training. he spent the evening in dwelling on cecily raymond, who seemed to have been the cheerful guardian elder sister of a large family in narrow circumstances, and as great a contrast to mervyn himself as was poor lucilla to robert; her homeliness and seriousness being as great hindrances to the elder brother, as fashion and levity to the younger. it was as if each were attracted by the indefinable essence, apart from all qualities, that constitutes the self; and haydn's air, learnt long ago by cecily as a surprise to her father on his birthday, had evoked such a healthy shoot of love within the last twenty-four hours, that mervyn was quite transformed, though still rather unsuitably sensible of his own sacrifice, and of the favour he was about to confer on cecily in entering on that inevitable period when he must cease to be a gentleman at large. on monday he came down to breakfast ready for a journey, as phoebe concluded, to london. she asked if he would return by the next hunting day. he answered vaguely, then rousing himself, said, 'i say, phoebe, you must write her a cordial sisterly sort of letter, you know; and you might make bertha do it too, for nobody else will.' 'i wrote to juliana on friday.' 'juliana! are you mad?' 'oh! miss raymond! but you told me you had said nothing! you have not had time since friday night to get an answer.' 'foolish child, no; but i shall be there to-night or to-morrow.' 'you are going to sutton?' 'yes; and, as i told you, i trust to you to write such a letter as to make her feel comfortable. well, what's the use of having a governess, if you don't know how to write a letter?' 'yes, mervyn, i'll write, only i must hear from you first.' 'i hate writing. i tell you, if you write--let me see, on wednesday, you may be sure it is all over.' 'no, mervyn, i will not be so impertinent,' said phoebe, and the colour rushed into her face as she recollected the offence that she had once given by manifesting a brother's security of being beloved. 'it would be insulting her to assume that she had accepted you, and write before i knew, especially after the way you have been using her.' 'pshaw! she will only want a word of kindness; but if you are so fanciful, will it do if i put a cover in the post? there! and when you get it on wednesday morning, you write straight off to cecily, and when you have got the notion into my mother's understanding, you may write to me, and tell me what chance there is of beauchamp.' what chance of beauchamp! the words made phoebe's honest brow contract as she stood by the chimney-piece, while her brother went out into the hall. 'that's all he cares for,' she thought. 'poor mamma! but, oh! how unkind. i am sending him away without one kind wish, and she must be good--so much better than i could have hoped!' out she ran, and as he paused to kiss her bright cheek, she whispered, 'good-bye, mervyn; good speed. i shall watch for your cover.' she received another kiss for those words, and they had been an effort, for those designs on beauchamp weighed heavily on her, and the two tasks that were left to her were not congenial. she did not know how to welcome a strange sister, for whose sake the last of the mervyns was grudged her own inheritance, and still less did she feel disposed to harass her mother with a new idea, which would involve her in bewilderment and discussion. she could only hope that there would be inspiration in mervyn's blank cover, and suppress her fever for suspense. wednesday came--no cover, blank or unblank. had he been taken with a fit of diffidence, and been less precipitate than he intended? womanhood hoped so, and rather enjoyed the possibility of his being kept a little in suspense. or suppose he had forgotten his cover, and then should think the absence of a letter her fault? thursday--still no tidings. should she venture a letter to him? no; lovers were inexplicable people, and after all, what could she say? perhaps he was only waiting for an opportunity, and if cecily had been ungracious at the last meeting, she might not afford one. day after day wore on, and still the post-bag was emptied in vain, and phoebe's patience was kept on tenterhooks, till, when a full fortnight had passed, she learnt through the servants that mr. mervyn's wardrobe and valet, grooms and horses, had been sent for to london. so he had been refused, and could not bear to tell her so! and here she was disappointed and pitying, and as vexed with miss raymond as if it had not been no more than he deserved. but poor mervyn! he had expected it so little, and had been so really attached, that phoebe was heartily grieved for him, and longed to know how he bore it. nay, with all the danger of removal, the flatness of the balked excitement was personally felt, and phoebe would have been glad, in her monotonous life, of something to hope or to fear. her greatest pleasure was in miss charlecote's return. the long watch over her old friend was over. honor had shared his wife's cares, comforted and supported her in her sorrow, and had not left her till the move from her parsonage was made, and she was settled among her own relations. much as honor had longed to be with phoebe, the savilles had nearer claims, and she could not part with them while there was any need of her. indeed, mr. saville, as once the husband of sarah charlecote, the brother-in-law of humfrey, and her own friend and adviser, was much esteemed and greatly missed. she felt as if her own generation were passing away, when she returned to see the hatchment upon beauchamp, and to hear of the widow's failing health. knowing how closely phoebe was attending her mother, honor drove to beauchamp the first day after her return, and had not crossed the hall before the slender black figure was in her arms. friends seem as though they must meet to know one another again, and begin afresh, after one of the great sorrows of life has fallen on either side, and especially when it is a first grief, a first taste of that cup of which all must drink. as much of the child as could pass from phoebe's sweet, simple nature had passed in those hours that had made her the protector and nurse of her mother, and though her open eyes were limpid and happy as before, and the contour of the rounded cheek and lip as youthful and innocent, yet the soft gravity of the countenance was deepened, and there was a pensiveness on the brow, as though life had begun to unfold more difficulties than pleasures. and honor charlecote? that ruddy golden hair, once owen's pride, was mingled with many a silvery thread, and folded smoothly on a forehead paler, older, but calmer than once it had been. sorrow and desertion had cut deeply, and worn down the fair comeliness of heathful middle age; but something of compensation there was in the less anxious eye, from which had passed a certain restless, strained expression; and if the face were more habitually sad, it was more peaceful. she did not love less those whom she 'had seen,' but he whom she 'had not seen' had become her rest and her reliance, and in her year of loneliness and darkness, a trust, a support, a confiding joy had sprung up, such as she had before believed in, but never experienced. 'her best, her all;' those had been words of devotional aspiration before, they were realities at last. and it was that peace that breathed into her fresh energy to work and love on, unwearied by disappointment, but with renewed willingness to spend and be spent, to rejoice with those who rejoiced, to weep with them that wept, to pray and hope for those who had wrung her heart. her tears were flowing as she tenderly embraced phoebe, and the girl clung fast to her, not weeping, but full of warm, sweet emotion. 'dear miss charlecote, now you are come, i have help and comfort!' 'dear one, i have grieved to be away, but i could not leave poor mrs. saville.' 'indeed, i know you could not; and it is better to have you now than even at the time. it is a new, fresh pleasure, when i can enjoy it better. and i feel as if we had a right to you now--since you know what i told you,' said phoebe, with her pretty, shy, lover-like colouring. 'that you are humfrey's ward?--my legacy from him? good!' said honora, ratifying the inheritance with a caress, doubly precious to one so seldom fondled. 'though i am afraid,' she added, 'that mr. crabbe would not exactly recognize my claim.' 'oh, i don't want you for what mr. crabbe can do for us, but it does make me feel right and at ease in telling you of what might otherwise seem too near home. but he was intended to have taken care of us all, and you always seem to me one with him--' phoebe stopped short, startled at the deep, bright, girlish blush on her friend's cheek, and fearing to have said what she ought not; but honor, recovering in a moment, gave a strange bright smile and tightly squeezed her hand. 'one with him! dear phoebe, thank you. it was the most undeserved, unrequited honour of my life that he would have had it so. yes, i see how you look at me in wonder, but it was my misfortune not to know on whom or what to set my affections till too late. no; don't try to repent of your words. they are a great pleasure to me, and i delight to include you in the charges i had from him--the nice children he liked to meet in the woods.' 'ah! i wish i could remember those meetings. robert does, and i do believe robert's first beginning of love and respect for what was good was connected with his fondness for mr. charlecote.' 'i always regard bertha as a godchild inherited from him, like charlecote raymond, whom i saw ordained last week. i could not help going out of my way when i found i might be present, and take his sister susan with me.' 'you went.' 'yes, susan had been staying with her uncle at sutton, and met me at oxford. i am glad we were able to go. there was nothing that i more wished to have seen.' irrepressible curiosity could not but cause phoebe to ask how lately miss raymond had been at sutton, and as miss charlecote answered the question she looked inquisitively at her young friend, and each felt that the other was initiated. whether the cousin ought to have confided to miss charlecote what she had witnessed at sutton was an open question, but at least honor knew what phoebe burnt to learn, and was ready to detail it. it was the old story of the parish priest taking pupils, and by dire necessity only half fulfilling conflicting duties, to the sacrifice of the good of all. overworked between pupils and flock, while his wife was fully engrossed by children and household cares, the moment had not been perceived when their daughter became a woman, and the pupil's sport grew to earnest. not till mervyn fulmort had left sutton for the university were they aware that he had treated cecily as the object of his affection, and had promised to seek her as soon as he should be his own master. how much was in his power they knew not, but his way of life soon proved him careless of deserving her, and it was then that she became staid and careworn, and her youth had lost its bloom, while forced in conscience to condemn the companion of her girlhood, yet unable to take back the heart once bestowed, though so long neglected. but when mervyn, declaring himself only set at liberty by his father's death, appeared at sutton, cecily did not waver, and her parents upheld her decision, that it would be a sin to unite herself to an irreligious man, and that the absence of principle which he had shown made it impossible for her to accept him. susan described her as going about the next morning looking as though some one had been killing her, but going through her duties as calmly and gently as ever, though preyed on by the misery of the parting in anger, and the threat that if he were not good enough for her, he would give her reason to think so! honor had pity on the sister, and spared her those words, but phoebe had well-nigh guessed them, and though she might esteem cecily raymond, could not but say mournfully that it was a last chance flung away. 'not so, my dear. what is right comes right. a regular life without repentance is sometimes a more hopeless state than a wilder course, and this rejection may do him more good than acceptance.' 'it is right, i know,' said phoebe. 'i could advise no one to take poor mervyn; but surely it is not wrong to be sorry for him.' 'no, indeed, dear child. it is only the angels who do not mourn, though they rejoice. i sometimes wonder whether those who are forgiven, yet have left evil behind them on earth, are purified by being shown their own errors reduplicating with time and numbers.' 'dear miss charlecote, do not say so. once pardoned, surely fully sheltered, and with no more punishment!' 'vain speculation, indeed,' answered honor. 'yet i cannot help thinking of the welcome there must be when those who have been left in doubt and fear or shipwreck come safely into haven; above all, for those who here may not have been able to "fetch home their banished."' phoebe pressed her hand, and spoke of trying whether mamma would see her. 'ah!' thought honora, 'neither of us can give perfect sympathy. and it is well. had my short-sighted wish taken effect, that sweet face might be clouded by such grief as poor cecily raymond's.' mrs. fulmort did see miss charlecote, and though speaking little herself, was gratified by the visit, and the voices talking before her gave her a sense of sociability. this preference enabled phoebe to enjoy a good deal of quiet conversation with her friend, and honora made a point of being at beauchamp twice or three times a week, as giving the only variety that could there be enjoyed. of mervyn nothing was heard, and house and property wanted a head. matters came to poor mrs. fulmort for decision which were unheard-of mysteries and distresses to her, even when phoebe, instructed by the steward, did her utmost to explain, and tell her what to do. it would end by feeble, bewildered looks, and tears starting on the pale cheeks, and 'i don't know, my dear. it goes through my head. your poor papa attended to those things. i wish your brother would come home. tell them to write to him.' 'they' wrote, and phoebe wrote, but in vain, no answer came; and when she wrote to robert for tidings of mervyn's movements, entreating that he would extract a reply, he answered that he could tell nothing satisfactory of his brother, and did not know whether he were in town or not; while as to advising his mother on business, he should only make mischief by so doing. nothing satisfactory! what could that imply? phoebe expected soon to hear something positive, for bertha's teeth required a visit to london, and miss fennimore was to take her to lady bannerman's for a week, during which the governess would be with some relations of her own. phoebe talked of the snugness of being alone with her mother and maria, and she succeeded in keeping both pleased with one another. the sisters walked in the park, and brought home primroses and periwinkles, which their mother tenderly handled, naming the copses they came from, well known to her in childhood, though since her marriage she had been too grand to be allowed the sight of a wild periwinkle. in the evening phoebe gave them music, sang infant-school hymns with maria, tried to teach her piquet; and perceived the difference that the absence of bertha's teasing made in the poor girl's temper. all was very quiet, but when good night was said, phoebe felt wearied out, and chid herself for her accesses of yawning, nay, she was shocked at her feeling of disappointment and tedium when the return of the travellers was delayed for a couple of days. when at length they came, the variety brightened even mrs. fulmort, and she was almost loquacious about some mourning pocket-handkerchiefs with chess-board borders, that they were to bring. the girls all drank tea with her, bertha pouring out a whole flood of chatter in unrestraint, for she regarded her mother as nobody, and loved to astonish her sisters, so on she went, a slight hitch in her speech giving a sort of piquancy to her manner. she had dined late every day, she had ridden with sir bevil in the park, her curly hair had been thought to be _crepe_, she had drunk champagne, she would have gone to the opera, but the actons were particular, and said it was too soon--so tiresome, one couldn't do anything for this mourning. phoebe, in an admonitory tone, suggested that she had seen the british museum. 'oh yes, i have it all in my note-book. only imagine, phoebe, sir nicholas had been at athens, and knew nothing about the parthenon! and, gourmet as he is, and so long in the mediterranean, he had no idea whether the spartan black broth was made with sepia.' 'my dear,' began her mother, 'young ladies do not talk learning in society.' 'such a simple thing as this, mamma, every one must know. but they are all so unintellectual! not a book about the bannermans' house except soyer and the london directory, and even bevil had never read the _old red sandstone_ nor sir charles lyell. i have no opinion of the science of soldiers or sailors.' 'you have told us nothing of juliana's baby,' interposed phoebe. 'she's exactly like the goddess pasht, in the sydenham palace! juliana does not like her a bit, because she is only a girl, and bevil quite worships her. everything one of them likes, the other hates. they are a study of the science of antipathies.' 'you should not fancy things, bertha.' 'it is no fancy; every one is observing it. augusta says she has only twice found them together in their own house since christmas, and mervyn says it is a warning against virulent constancy.' 'then you saw mervyn?' anxiously asked phoebe. 'only twice. he is at deadly feud with the actons, because bevil takes robert's part, and has been lecturing him about the withdrawing all the subscriptions!' 'what?' asked phoebe again. 'oh! i thought robert told you all, but there has been such a row! i believe poor papa said something about letting robert have an evening school for the boys and young men at the distillery, but when he claimed it, mervyn said he knew nothing about it, and wouldn't hear of it, and got affronted, so he withdrew all the subscriptions from the charities and everything else, and the boys have been mobbing the clergy, and juliana says it is all robert's fault.' 'and did you see robert?' 'very little. no one would come to such an old fogy's as sir nicholas, that could help it.' 'bertha, my dear, young ladies do not use such words,' observed her mother. 'oh, mamma, you are quite behindhand. slang is the thing. i see my line when i come out. it would not do for you, phoebe--not your style--but i shall sport it when i come out and go to the actons. i shall go out with them. augusta is too slow, and lives with nothing but old admirals and _gourmands_; but i'll always go to juliana for the season, phoebe, wear my hair in the eugenie style, and be piquante.' 'perhaps things will be altered by that time.' 'oh no. there will be no retrograde movement. highly educated women have acquired such a footing that they may do what they please.' 'are we highly educated women?' asked maria. 'i am sure you ought to be, my dear. nothing was grudged for your education,' said her mother. 'well, then, i'll always play at bagatelle, and have a german band at the door,' quoth maria, conclusively. 'did you go to st. matthew's?' again interrupted phoebe. 'yes, bevil took me. it is the oddest place. a white brick wall with a red cross built into it over the gate, and the threshold is just a step back four or five hundred years. a court with buildings all round, church, schools, and the curates' rooms. such a sitting-room; the floor matted, and a great oak table, with benches, where they all dine, schoolmaster, and orphan boys, and all, and the best boy out of each class.' 'it is a common room, like one at a college,' explained phoebe. 'robert has his own rooms besides.' 'such a hole!' continued bertha. 'it is the worst of all the curates' sitting-rooms, looking out into the nastiest little alley. it was a shame he did not have the first choice, when it is all his own.' 'perhaps that is the reason he took the worst,' said phoebe. 'a study in extremes,' said bertha. 'their dinner was our luncheon--the very plainest boiled beef, the liquor given away and at dinner, at the bannermans', there were more fine things than bevil said he could appreciate, and augusta looking like a full-blown dahlia. i was always wanting to stick pins into her arms, to see how far in the bones are. i am sure i could bury the heads.' here, seeing her mother look exhausted, phoebe thought it wise to clear the room; and after waiting a few minutes to soothe her, left her to her maid. bertha had waited for her sister, and clinging round her, said, 'well, phoebe, aren't you glad of us? have you seen a living creature?' 'miss charlecote twice, mr. henderson once, besides all the congregation on sunday.' 'matter-of-fact phoebe! perhaps you can bear it, but does not your mind ache, as if it had been held down all this time?' 'so that it can't expand to your grand intellect?' said phoebe. 'it is no great self-conceit to hope one is better company than maria! but come, before we fall under the dominion of the queen of the west wing, i have a secret for you.' then, after a longer stammer than usual, 'how should you like a french sister-in-law?' 'nonsense, bertha!' 'ah! you've not had my opportunities. i've seen her--both of them. juliana says the mother is his object; augusta, the daughter. the mother is much the most brilliant; but then she has a husband--a mere matter of faith, for no one ever sees him. mervyn is going to follow them to paris, that's certain, as soon as the epsom day is over.' 'you saw them!' 'only in the park--oh, no! not in a room! their ladyships would never call on madame la marquise; she is not received, you know. i heard the sisters talk it all over when they fancied me reading, and wonder what they should do if it should turn out to be the daughter. but then juliana thinks mervyn might never bring her home, for he is going on at such a tremendous rate, that it is the luckiest thing our fortunes do not depend on the business.' phoebe looked quite appalled as she entered the schoolroom, not only at mervyn's fulfilment of his threat, but at bertha's flippancy and shrewdness. hitherto she had been kept ignorant of evil, save what history and her own heart could tell her. but these ten days had been spent in so eagerly studying the world, that her girlish chatter was fearfully precocious. 'a little edged tool,' said miss fennimore, when she talked her over afterwards with phoebe. 'i wish i could have been with her at lady bannerman's. it is an unsafe age for a glimpse of the world.' 'i hope it may soon be forgotten.' 'it will never be forgotten' said miss fennimore. 'with so strong a relish for society, such keen satire, and reasoning power so much developed, i believe nothing but the devotional principle could subdue her enough to make her a well-balanced woman. how is that to be infused?--that is the question.' 'it is, indeed.' 'i believe,' pursued the governess, 'that devotional temper is in most cases dependent upon uncomprising, exclusive faith. i have sometimes wondered whether bertha, coming into my hands so young as she did, can have imbibed my distaste to dogma; though, as you know, i have made a point of non-interference.' 'i should shudder to think of any doubts in poor little bertha's mind,' said phoebe. 'i believe it is rather that she does not think about the matter.' 'i will read butler's _analogy_ with her,' exclaimed miss fennimore. 'i read it long ago, and shall be glad to satisfy my own mind by going over it again. it is full time to endeavour to form and deepen bertha's convictions.' 'i suppose,' said phoebe, almost to herself, 'that all naughtiness is the want of living faith--' but miss fennimore, instead of answering, had gone to another subject. 'i have seen st. matthew's, phoebe.' 'and robert?' cried phoebe. 'bertha did not say you were with her.' 'i went alone. no doubt your brother found me a great infliction; but he was most kind, and showed me everything. i consider that establishment a great fact.' phoebe showed her gratification. 'i heard him preach,' continued miss fennimore. 'his was a careful and able composition, but it was his sermon in brick and stone that most impressed me. such actions only arise out of strong conviction. now, the work of a conviction may be only a proof of the force of the will that held it; and thus the effect should not establish the cause. but when i see a young man, brought up as your brother has been, throwing himself with such energy, self-denial, and courage into a task so laborious and obscure, i must own that, such is the construction of the human mind, i am led to reconsider the train of reasoning that has led to such results.' and miss fennimore's sincere admiration of robert was phoebe's one item of comfort. gladly she shared it with miss charlecote, who, on her side, knew more than she told phoebe of the persecution that robert was undergoing from a vestry notoriously under the influence of the fulmort firm, whose interest it was to promote the vice that he came to withstand. even the lads employed in the distillery knew that they gratified their employer by outrages on the clergy and their adherents, and there had been moments when robert had been exposed to absolute personal danger, by mobs stimulated in the gin-shops; their violence against his attacks on their vicious practices being veiled by a furious party outcry against his religious opinions. he meanwhile set his face like a rock, and strong, resolute, and brave, went his own way, so unmoved as apparently almost to prefer his own antagonistic attitude, and bidding fair to weary out his enemies by his coolness, or to disarm them by the charities of which st. matthew's was the centre. as phoebe never read the papers, and was secluded from the world's gossip, it was needless to distress her with the knowledge of the malignity of the one brother, or the trials of the other; so honor obeyed robert by absolute silence on this head. she herself gave her influence, her counsel, her encouragement, and, above all, her prayers, to uphold the youth who was realizing the dreams of her girlhood. it might be that the impress of those very dreams had formed the character she was admiring. many a weak and fragile substance, moulded in its softness to a noble shape, has given a clear and lasting impress to a firm and durable material, either in the heat of the furnace, or the ductility of growth. so robert and phoebe, children of the heart that had lost those of her adoption, cheered these lonely days by their need of her advice and sympathy. nor was she without tasks at home. mr. henderson, the vicar, was a very old man, and was constantly growing more feeble and unequal to exertion. he had been appointed by the squire before last, and had the indolent conservative orthodoxy of the old school, regarding activity as a perilous innovation, and resisting all miss charlecote's endeavours at progress in the parish. she had had long patience, till, when his strength failed, she ventured to entreat him to allow her to undertake the stipend of a curate, but this was rejected with displeasure, and she was forced to redouble her own exertions; but neither reading to the sick, visiting the cottages, teaching at school, nor even setting up a night-school in her own hall, availed to supply the want of an active pastor and of a resident magistrate. hiltonbury was in danger of losing its reputation as a pattern parish, which it had retained long after the death of him who had made it so. the younger race who had since grown up were not such as their fathers had been, and the disorderly household at beauchamp had done mischief. the primitive manners, the simplicity, and feudal feeling were wearing off, and poor honor found the whole charge laid to her few modern steps in education! if hiltonbury were better than many of the neighbouring places, yet it was not what it had been when she first had known it, and she vexed herself in the attempt to understand whether the times or herself were the cause. even her old bailiff, brooks, did not second her. he had more than come to the term of service at which the servant becomes a master, and had no idea of obeying her, when he thought he knew best. backward as were her notions of modern farming, they were too advanced for him, and either he would not act on them at all, or was resolved against their success when coerced. there was no dismissing him, and without mr. saville to come and enforce her authority, honor found the old man so stubborn that she had nearly given up the contest, except where the welfare of men, not of crops, was concerned. a maiden's reign is a dreary thing, when she tends towards age. and honor often felt what it would have been to have had owen to back her up, and infuse new spirit and vigour. the surly ploughboy, who omitted to touch his cap to the lady, little imagined the train of painful reflections roused by this small indication of the altering spirit of the place! chapter xvi even in our ashes glow the wonted fires.--gray 'my dear, i did not like the voice that i heard just now.' 'i am sure i was not out of temper.' 'indeed?' 'well, i am sure any one would be vexed.' 'cannot you tell me what was the matter without being sure so often?' 'i am sure--there, mamma, i beg your pardon--i am sure i did not mean to complain.' 'only, sarah, neither your voice has such a ring, nor are you so sure, when nothing has gone wrong. what was it?' 'it is that photography, mamma. miss sandbrook is so busy with it! i could not copy in my translation that i did yesterday, because she had not looked over it, and when she said she was coming presently, i am afraid i said it was always presently and never present. i believe i did say it crossly, and i am sorry i denied it,' and poor sarah's voice was low and meek enough. 'coming? where is she?' 'in the dark chamber, doing a positive of the cathedral.' mrs. prendergast entered the schoolroom, outside which she had been holding this colloquy. the powerful sun of high summer was filling the room with barred light through the venetian blinds, and revealing a rather confused mass of the appliances of study, interspersed with saucers of water in which were bathing paper photographs, and every shelf of books had a fringe of others on glass set up to dry. on the table lay a paper of hooks, a three-tailed artificial minnow, and another partly clothed with silver twist, a fly-book, and a quantity of feathers and silks. 'i must tell francis that the schoolroom is no place for his fishing-tackle!' exclaimed mrs. prendergast. 'o, mamma, it is miss sandbrook's. she is teaching him to dress flies, because she says he can't be a real fisherman without, and the trout always rise at hers. it is quite beautiful to see her throw. that delicate little hand is so strong and ready.' a door was opened, and out of the housemaid's closet, defended from light by a yellow blind at every crevice, came eager exclamations of 'famous,' 'capital,' 'the tower comes out to perfection;' and in another moment lucilla sandbrook, in all her bloom and animation, was in the room, followed by a youth of some eighteen years, francis beaumont, an indian nephew of mrs. prendergast. 'hit off at last, isn't it, aunt? those dog-tooth mouldings will satisfy even the uncle.' 'really it is very good,' said mrs. prendergast, as it was held up to the light for her inspection. 'miss sandbrook has bewitched the camera,' continued he. 'do you remember the hideous muddles of last summer? but, oh! miss sandbrook, we must have one more; the sun will be off by and by.' 'only ten minutes,' said lucilla, in a deprecating tone. 'you must not keep me a second more, let the sun be in ever such good humour. come, sarah, come and show us the place you said would be so good.' 'it is too hot,' said sarah, bluntly, 'and i can't waste the morning.' 'well, you pattern-pupil, i'll come presently. indeed i will, mrs. prendergast.' 'let me see this translation, sarah,' said mrs. prendergast, as the photographers ran down-stairs. she looked over it carefully, and as the ten minutes had passed without sign of the governess's return, asked what naturally followed in the morning's employment. 'italian reading, mamma; but never mind.' 'find the place, my dear.' 'it is only while francis is at home. oh, i wish i had not been cross.' and though sarah usually loved to read to her mother, she was uneasy all the time, watching the door, and pausing to listen at the most moving passages. it was full half an hour before the voices were heard returning, and then there was a call, 'directly, sarah!' the dark chamber was shut up, and all subsided. mrs. prendergast stayed on, in spite of an imploring glance from her daughter, and after an interval of the mysterious manipulations in the closet, the photograph was borne forth in triumph. lucilla looked a little abashed at finding mrs. prendergast in presence, and began immediately, 'there, mr. beaumont, you see! i hope mrs. prendergast is going to banish you forthwith; you make us shamefully idle.' 'yes,' said mrs. prendergast, gravely, 'i am going to carry him off at once, and make a law against future invasions.' francis attempted loud appeals, but his aunt quashed them with demeanour that showed that she was in earnest, and drove him away before her. 'indeed, miss sandbrook,' said sarah, with affectionate compunction, 'i did not mean to speak so loud and so crossly.' 'my dear,' said lucilla, leaning back and fanning herself with her hat, 'we all know that we reverse the laws of teacher and pupil! small blame to you if you were put out, and now i hope your mamma will keep him to herself, and that i shall have time to get cool. there! read me some french, it is a refreshing process--or practise a little. i declare that boy has dragged me in and out so often, that i haven't energy to tell a noun from a verb.' mrs. prendergast had hardly descended to the drawing-room before her husband's voice called her to the study, where he stood, his broad mouth distended by a broader smile, his eyes twinkling with merriment. 'old woman' (his favourite name for her), 'do you know what a spectacle i have been witnessing?' and as she signed inquiry, 'mrs. sprydone, with numerous waggings of the head, and winkings of the eyes, inveigled me into her den, to see--guess.' 'francis and miss sandbrook in the cloister photographing.' 'old woman, you are a witch.' 'i knew what they were about, as well as mrs. sprydone's agony to open my eyes.' 'so your obstinate blindness drove her to me! she thought it right that i should be aware the close, it seems, is in a fever about that poor girl. what do you know? is it all gossip?' 'i know there is gossip, as a law of nature, but i have not chosen to hear it.' 'then you think it all nonsense?' 'not _all_.' 'well, what then? the good ladies seem terribly scandalized by her dress. is there any harm in that? i always thought it very becoming.' 'exactly so,' said his wife, smiling. 'if it is too smart, can't you give her a hint?' 'when she left off her mourning, she spoke to me, saying that she could not afford not to wear out what she already had. i quite agreed; and though i could wish there were less stylishness about her, it is pleasant to one's own eye, and i see nothing to object to.' 'i'm sure it is no concern of the ladies, then! and how about this lad? one of their wild notions, is not it? i have heard her tell him half-a-dozen times that she was six years his elder.' 'four-and-twenty is just the age that young-looking girls like to boast of. i am not afraid on her account; she has plenty of sense and principle, and i believe, too, there is a very sore spot in her heart, poor girl. she plays with him as a mere boy; but he is just at the time of life for a passion for a woman older than himself, and his devotion certainly excites her more than i could wish.' 'i'll tell you what, peter didn't like it at all.' 'peter was certainly not in a gracious mood when he was here last week. i could not make out whether seeing her a governess were too much for him, or whether he suspected me of ill-using her.' 'no, no; it was rivalry between him and master francis!' said the doctor, laughing. 'how he launched out against young men's conceit when francis was singing with her. sheer jealousy! he could see nothing but dilapidation, dissent, and dirt at laneham, and now has gone and refused it.' 'refused laneham!--that capital college living!--with no better dependence than his fellowship, and such a curacy as wrapworth?' 'indeed he has. here's his letter. you may read it and give it to miss sandbrook if you like--he seems quite dispirited.' '"too old to enter on a new field of duties,"' read mrs. prendergast, indignantly. 'why, he is but forty-four! what did he think of us for coming here?' 'despised me for it,' said the doctor, smiling. 'never mind; he will think himself younger as he grows older--and one can't blame him for keeping to wrapworth as long as the old dean of --- lives, especially as those absentee charterises do so much harm.' 'he does not expect them to give him the living? they ought, i am sure, after his twenty years' labour there already.' 'not they! mr. charteris gratuitously wrote to tell him that, on hearing of his burying that poor young mrs. sandbrook there, all scruples had been removed, and the next presentation was offered for sale. you need not tell miss sandbrook so.' 'certainly not; but pray how does peter mean to avoid the new field of duty, if he be sure of turning out on the dean's death? oh! i see--"finish his days at his college, if the changes at the university have not rendered it insupportable to one who remembers elder and better days." poor peter! well; these are direful consequences of miss sandbrook's fit of flightiness! yes, i'll show her the letter, it might tame her a little; and, poor thing, i own i liked her better when she was soft and subdued.' 'ha! then you are not satisfied? don't go. let me know how it is. i am sure sarah is distracted about her--more than even francis. i would not part with her for a great deal, not only on peter's account, but on her own and sarah's; but these ladies have raked up all manner of charteris scandal, and we are quite in disgrace for bringing her here.' 'yes,' said mrs. prendergast, 'while we lived at our dear old country home, i never quite believed what i heard of jealous ill-nature, but i have seen how it was ever since those christmas parties, when certainly people paid her a great deal of attention.' 'who would not?--the prettiest, most agreeable young woman there.' 'it may be vexatious to be eclipsed not only in beauty, but in style, by a strange governess,' said mrs. prendergast. 'that set all the mothers and daughters against her, and there have been some spiteful little attempts at mortifying her, which have made sarah and me angry beyond description! all that they say only impels me towards her. she is a rare creature, most engaging, but i do sometimes fear that i may have spoilt her a little, for she has certainly not done quite so well of late. at first she worked hard to keep in advance of sarah, saying how she felt the disadvantage of superficial learning and desultory habits; she kept in the background, and avoided amusements; but i suppose reaction is natural with recovered spirits, and this summer she has taken less pains, and has let francis occupy her too much, and--what i like least of all--her inattention brings back the old rubs with sarah's temper.' 'you must take her in hand.' 'if she were but my daughter or niece!' 'i thought you had made her feel as such.' 'this sort of reproof is the difficulty, and brings back the sense of our relative positions. however, the thing is to be done as much for her sake as for our own.' lucilla knew that a lecture was impending, but she really loved and esteemed mrs. prendergast too much to prepare to champ the bit. that lady's warmth and simplicity, and, above all, the largeness of mind that prevented her from offending or being offended by trifles, had endeared her extremely to the young governess. not only had these eight months passed without the squabble that owen had predicted would send her to hiltonbury in a week, but cilla had decidedly, though insensibly, laid aside many of the sentiments and habits in which poor honor's opposition had merely confirmed her. the effect of the sufferings of the past summer had subdued her for a long time, the novelty of her position had awed her, and what mrs. prendergast truly called the reaction had been so tardy in coming on that it was a surprise even to herself. sensible that she had given cause for displeasure, she courted the _tete-a-tete_, and herself began thus--'i beg your pardon for my idleness. it is a fatal thing to be recalled to the two passions of my youth--fishing and photography.' 'my husband will give francis employment in the morning,' said mrs. prendergast. 'it will not do to give sarah's natural irritability too many excuses for outbreaks.' 'she never accepts excuses,' said lucilla, 'though i am sure she might. i have been a sore trial to her diligence and methodicalness; and her soul is too much bent on her work for us to drag her out to be foolish, as would be best for her.' 'so it might be for her; but, my dear, pardon me, i am not speaking only for sarah's sake.' with an odd jerk of head and hand, cilly exclaimed, 'oh! the old story--the other f--flirting, is it?' 'i never said that! i never thought that,' cried mrs. prendergast, shocked at the word and idea that had never crossed her mind. 'if not,' said cilla, 'it is because you are too innocent to know flirting when you see it! dear mrs. prendergast, i didn't think you would have looked so grave.' 'i did not think you would have spoken so lightly; but it is plain that we do not mean the same thing.' 'in fact, you in your quietness, think awfully of that which for years was to me like breathing! i thought the taste was gone for ever, but, you see'--and her sad sweet expression pleaded for her--'you have made me so happy that the old self is come back.' there was a silence, broken by this strange girl saying, 'well, what are you going to do to me?' 'only,' said the lady, in her sweet, full, impressive voice, 'to beg you will indeed be happy in giving yourself no cause for self-reproach.' 'i'm past that,' said lucilla, with a smile on her lip and a tear in her eye. 'i've not known that sensation since my father died. my chief happiness since that has lain in being provoking, but you have taken away that pleasure. i couldn't purposely vex you, even if i were your adopted child!' without precisely knowing the full amount of these words, mrs. prendergast understood past bitterness and present warmth, and, gratified to find that at least there was no galling at their mutual relations, responded with a smile and a caress that led lucilla to continue--'as for the word that dismayed you, i only meant to acknowledge an unlucky propensity to be excited about any nonsense, in which any _man_ kind is mixed up. if sarah would take to it, i could more easily abstain, but you see her coquetries are with nobody more recent than horace and dante.' 'i cannot wish it to be otherwise with her,' said mrs. prendergast gravely. 'no! it is a bad speculation,' said lucilla, sadly. 'she will never wish half her life could be pulled out like defective crochet; nor wear out good people's forbearance with her antics. i did think they were outgrown, and beat out of me, and that your nephew was too young; but i suppose it is ingrain, and that i should be flattered by the attentions of a he-baby of six months old! but i'll do my best, mrs. prendergast; i promise you i'll not be the schoolmistress abroad in the morning, and you shall see what terms i will keep with mr. beaumont.' mrs. prendergast was less pleased after than before this promise. it was again that freedom of expression that the girl had learnt among the charterises, and the ideas that she accepted as mere matters of course, that jarred upon the matron, whose secluded life had preserved her in far truer refinement. she did not know how to reply, and, as a means of ending the discussion, gave her mr. prendergast's letter, but was amazed at her reception of it. 'passed the living! famous! he will stick to wrapworth to the last gasp! that is fidelity! pray tell him so from me.' 'you had better send your message through dr. prendergast. we cannot but be disappointed, though i understand your feeling for wrapworth, and we are sorry for the dispirited tone about the letter.' 'well he may be, all alone there, and seeing poor castle blanch going to rack and ruin. i could cry about it whenever i think of it; but how much worse would it have been if he had deserted too! as long as he is in the old vicarage there is a home spot to me in the world! oh, i thank him, i do thank him for standing by the old place to the last.' 'it is preposterous,' thought mrs. prendergast. 'i won't tell the doctor. he would think it so foolish in him, and improper in her; i verily believe it is her influence that keeps him at wrapworth! he cannot bear to cross her wishes nor give her pain. well, i am thankful that sarah is neither beautiful nor attractive.' sincere was lucilla's intention to resume her regular habits, and put a stop to francis beaumont's attentions, but the attraction had already gone so far that repression rendered him the more assiduous, and often bore the aspect (if it were not absolutely the coyness) of coquetry. while deprecating from her heart any attachment on his part, her vanity was fanned at finding herself in her present position as irresistible as ever, and his eagerness to obtain a smile or word from her was such an agreeable titillation, that everything else became flat, and her hours in the schoolroom an imprisonment. sarah's methodical earnestness in study bored her, and she was sick of restraint and application. nor was this likely to be merely a passing evil, for francis's parents were in india, and southminster was his only english home. nay, even when he had returned to his tutor, lucilla was not restored to her better self. her craving for excitement had been awakened, and her repugnance to mental exertion had been yielded to. the routine of lessons had become bondage, and she sought every occasion of variety, seeking to outshine and dazzle the ladies of southminster, playing off castle blanch fascinations on curates and minor canons, and sometimes flying at higher game, even beguiling the dean himself into turning over her music when she sang. she had at first, by the use of all her full-grown faculties, been just able to keep sufficiently ahead of her pupil; but her growing indolence soon caused her to slip back, and not only did she let sarah shoot ahead of her, but she became impatient of the girl's habits of accuracy and research; she would give careless and vexatious answers, insist petulantly on correcting by the ear, make light of sarah and her grammar, and hastily reject or hurry from the maps, dictionaries, and cyclopaedias with which sarah's training had taught her to read and learn. but her dislike of trouble in supporting an opinion did not make her the less pertinacious in upholding it, and there were times when she was wrathful and petulant at sarah's presumption in maintaining the contrary, even with all the authorities in the bookshelves to back her. sarah's temper was not her prime quality, and altercations began to run high. each dispute that took place only prepared the way for another, and mrs. prendergast, having taken a governess chiefly to save her daughter from being fretted by interruptions, found that her annoyances were tenfold increased, and irritations were almost habitual. they were the more disappointing because the girl preserved through them all such a passionate admiration for her beautiful and charming little governess, that, except in the very height of a squabble, she still believed her perfection, and was her most vehement partisan, even when the wrong had been chiefly on the side of the teacher. on the whole, in spite of this return to old faults, lucilla was improved by her residence at southminster. defiance had fallen into disuse, and the habit of respect and affection had softened her and lessened her pride; there was more devotional temper, and a greater desire after a religious way of life. it might be that her fretfulness was the effect of an uneasiness of mind, which was more hopeful than her previous fierce self-satisfaction, and that her aberrations were the last efforts of old evil habits to re-establish their grasp by custom, when her heart was becoming detached from them. be that as it might, mrs. prendergast's first duty was to her child, her second to the nephew intrusted to her, and love and pity as she might, she felt that to retain lucilla was leading all into temptation. her husband was slow to see the verification of her reluctant opinion, but he trusted to her, and it only remained to part as little harshly or injuriously as might be. an opening was afforded when, in october, mrs. prendergast was entreated by the widow of one of her brothers to find her a governess for two girls of twelve and ten, and two boys younger. it was at a country-house, so much secluded that such temptations as at southminster were out of reach, and the younger pupils were not likely to try her temper in the same way as sarah had done. so mrs. prendergast tenderly explained that sarah, being old enough to pursue her studies alone, and her sister, mrs. willis beaumont, being in distress for a governess, it would be best to transfer miss sandbrook to her. lucilla turned a little pale, but gave no other sign, only answering, 'thank you,' and 'yes,' at fit moments, and acceding to everything, even to her speedy departure at the end of a week. she left the room in silence, more stunned than even by robert's announcement, and with less fictitious strength to brave the blow that she had brought on herself. she repaired to the schoolroom, and leaning her brow against the window-pane, tried to gather her thoughts, but scarcely five minutes had passed before the door was thrown back, and in rushed sarah, passionately exclaiming-- 'it's my fault! it's all my fault! oh, miss sandbrook, dearest miss sandbrook, forgive me! oh! my temper! my temper! i never thought--i'll go to papa! i'll tell him it is my doing! he will never--never be so unjust and cruel!' 'sarah, stand up; let me go, please,' said lucy, unclasping the hands from her waist. 'this is not right. your father and mother both think the same, and so do i. it is just that i should go--' 'you shan't say so! it is my crossness! i won't let you go. i'll write to peter! he won't let you go!' sarah was really beside herself with despair, and as her mother advanced, and would have spoken, turned round sharply, 'don't, don't, mamma; i won't come away unless you promise not to punish her for my temper. you have minded those horrid, wicked, gossiping ladies. i didn't think you would.' 'sarah,' said lucilla, resolutely, 'going mad in this way just shows that i am doing you no good. you are not behaving properly to your mother.' 'she never acted unjustly before.' 'that is not for you to judge, in the first place; and in the next, she acts justly. i feel it. yes, sarah, i do; i have not done my duty by you, and have quarrelled with you when your industry shamed me. all my old bad habits are come back, and your mother is right to part with me.' 'there! there, mamma; do you hear that?' sobbed sarah, imploringly. 'when she speaks in that way, can you still--? oh! i know i was disrespectful, but you can't--you can't think that was her fault!' 'it was,' said lucilla, looking at mrs. prendergast. 'i know she has lost the self-control she once had. sarah, this is of no use. i would go now, if your mother begged me to stay--and that,' she added, with her firm smile, 'she is too wise to do. if you do not wish to pain me, and put me to shame, do not let me have any more such exhibitions.' pale, ashamed, discomfited, sarah turned away, and not yet able to govern herself, rushed into her room. 'poor sarah!' said her mother. 'you have rare powers of making your pupils love you, miss sandbrook.' 'if it were for their good,' sighed lucilla. 'it has been much for her good; she is far less uncouth, and less exclusive. and it will be more so, i hope. you will still be her friend, and we shall often see you here.' lucilla's tears were dropping fast; and looking up, she said with difficulty--'don't mind this; i know it is right; i have not deserved the happy home you have given me here. where i am less happy, i hope i may keep a better guard on myself. i thought the old ways had been destroyed, but they are too strong still, and i ought to suffer for them.' never in all her days had lucilla spoken so humbly! chapter xvii though she's as like to this one as a crab is like to an apple, i can tell what i can tell.--_king lear_ often a first grief, where sorrow was hitherto been a stranger, is but the foretaste to many another, like the first hailstorm, after long sunshine, preluding a succession of showers, the clouds returning after the rain, and obscuring the sky of life for many a day. those who daily saw mrs. fulmort scarcely knew whether to attribute her increasing invalidism to debility or want of spirits; and hopes were built on summer heat, till, when it came, it prostrated her strength, and at last, when some casual ailment had confined her to bed, there was no rally. all took alarm; a physician was called in, and the truth was disclosed. there was no formed disease; but her husband's death, though apparently hardly comprehended, had taken away the spring of life, and she was withering like a branch severed from the stem. remedies did but disturb her torpor by feverish symptoms that hastened her decline, and dr. martyn privately told miss charlecote that the absent sons and daughters ought to be warned that the end must be very near. honor, as lovingly and gently as possible, spoke to phoebe. the girl's eyes filled with tears, but it was in an almost well-pleased tone that she said, 'dear mamma, i always knew she felt it.' 'ah! little did we think how deeply went the stroke that showed no wound!' 'yes! she felt that she was going to him. we could never have made her happy here.' 'you are content, my unselfish one?' 'don't talk to me about myself, please!' implored phoebe. 'i have too much to do for that. what did he say? that the others should be written to? i will take my case and write in mamma's room.' immediate duty was her refuge from anticipation, gentle tendance from the sense of misery, and, though her mother's restless feebleness needed constant waiting on, her four notes were completed before post-time. augusta was eating red mullet in guernsey, juliana was on a round of visits in scotland, mervyn was supposed to be in paris, robert alone was near at hand. at night phoebe sent boodle to bed; but miss fennimore insisted on sharing her pupil's watch. at first there was nothing to do; the patient had fallen into a heavy slumber, and the daughter sat by the bed, the governess at the window, unoccupied save by their books. phoebe was reading miss maurice's invaluable counsels to the nurses of the dying. miss fennimore had the bible. it was not from a sense of appropriateness, as in pursuance of her system of re-examination. always admiring the scripture in a patronizing temper, she had gloried in critical inquiry, and regarded plenary inspiration as a superstition, covering weak points by pretensions to infallibility. but since her discussions with robert, and her readings of butler with bertha, she had begun to weigh for herself the internal, intrinsic evidence of divine origin, above all, in the gospels, which, to her surprise, enchained her attention and investigation, as she would have thought beyond the power of such simple words. pilate's question, 'what is truth?' was before her. to her it was a link of evidence. without even granting that the writer was the fisherman he professed to be, what, short of shakesperian intuition, could thus have depicted the roman of the early empire in equal dread of caesar and of the populace, at once unscrupulous and timid, contemning jewish prejudice, yet, with lingering mythological superstition, trembling at the hint of a present deity in human form; and, lost in the bewilderment of the later greek philosophy, greeting the word _truth_ with the startled inquiry, what it might be. what _is_ truth? it had been the question of miss fennimore's life, and she felt a blank and a disappointment as it stood unanswered. a movement made her look up. phoebe was raising her mother, and miss fennimore was needed to support the pillows. 'phoebe, my dear, are you here?' 'yes, dear mamma, i always am.' 'phoebe, my dear, i think i am soon going. you have been a good child, my dear; i wish i had done more for you all.' 'dear mamma, you have always been so kind.' 'they didn't teach me like honora charlecote,' she faltered on; 'but i always did as your poor papa told me. nobody ever told me how to be religious, and your poor papa would not have liked it. phoebe, you know more than i do. you don't think god will be hard with me, do you? i am such a poor creature; but there is the blood that takes away sin.' 'dear mother, that is the blessed trust.' 'the _truth_,' flashed upon miss fennimore, as she watched their faces. 'will he give me his own goodness?' said mrs. fulmort, wistfully. 'i never did know how to think about him--i wish i had cared more. what do you think, phoebe?' 'i cannot tell how to answer fully, dear mamma,' said phoebe; 'but indeed it is safe to think of his great loving-kindness and mercy. robert will be here to-morrow. he will tell you better.' 'he will give me the holy sacrament,' said mrs. fulmort, 'and then i shall go--' presently she moved uneasily. 'oh, phoebe, i am so tired. nothing rests me.' 'there remaineth a rest,' gently whispered phoebe--and miss fennimore thought the young face had something of the angel in it--'no more weariness there.' 'they won't think what a poor dull thing i am there,' added her mother. 'i wish i could take poor maria with me. they don't like her here, and she will be teased and put about.' 'no, mother, never while i can take care of her!' 'i know you will, phoebe, if you say so. phoebe, love, when i see god, i shall thank him for having made you so good and dear, and letting me have some comfort in one of my children.' phoebe tried to make her think of robert, but she was exhausted, dozed, and was never able to speak so much again. miss fennimore thought instead of reading. was it the mere effect on her sympathies that bore in on her mind that truth existed, and was grasped by the mother and daughter? what was there in those faltering accents that impressed her with reality? why, of all her many instructors, had none touched her like poor, ignorant, feeble-minded mrs. fulmort? robert arrived the next day. his mother knew him and was roused sufficiently to accept his offices as a clergyman. then, as if she thought it was expected of her, she asked for her younger daughters, but when they came, she looked distressed and perplexed. 'bless them, mother,' said robert, bending over her, and she evidently accepted this as what she wanted; but 'how--what?' she added; and taking the uncertain hand, he guided it to the head of each of his three sisters, and prompted the words of blessing from the failing tongue. then as bertha rose, he sank on his knees in her place, 'bless me, bless me, too, mother; bless me, and pardon my many acts of self-will.' 'you are good--you--you are a clergyman,' she hesitated, bewildered. 'the more reason, mamma; it will comfort him.' and it was phoebe who won for her brother the blessing needed as balm to a bleeding heart. 'the others are away,' said the dying woman; 'maybe, if i had made them good when they were little, they would not have left me now.' while striving to join in prayer for them, she slumbered, and in the course of the night she slept herself tranquilly away from the world where even prosperity had been but a troubled maze to her. augusta arrived, weeping profusely, but with all her wits about her, so as to assume the command, and to provide for her own, and her admiral's comfort. phoebe was left to the mournful repose of having no one to whom to attend, since miss fennimore provided for the younger ones; and in the lassitude of bodily fatigue and sorrow, she shrank from maria's babyish questions and bertha's levity and curiosity, spending her time chiefly alone. even robert could not often be with her, since mervyn's absence and silence threw much on him and mr. crabbe, the executor and guardian; and the bannermans were both exacting and self-important. the actons, having been pursued by their letters from place to place in the highlands, at length arrived, and mervyn last of all, only just in time for the funeral. phoebe did not see him till the evening after it, when, having spent the day nearly alone, she descended to the late dinner, and after the quietness in which she had lately lived, and with all the tenderness from fresh suffering, it seemed to her that she was entering on a distracting turmoil of voices. mervyn, however, came forward at once to meet her, threw his arm round her, and kissed her rather demonstratively, saying, 'my little phoebe, i wondered where you were;' then putting her into a chair, and bending over her, 'we are in for the funeral games. stand up for yourself!' she did not know in the least what he could mean, but she was too sick at heart to ask; she only thought he looked unwell, jaded, and fagged, and with a heated complexion. he handed lady acton into the dining-room; augusta, following with sir bevil, was going to the head of the table, when he called out, 'that's phoebe's place!' 'not before my elders,' phoebe answered, trying to seat herself at the side. 'the sister at home is mistress of the house,' he sternly answered. 'take your proper place, phoebe.' in much discomfort she obeyed, and tried to attend civilly to sir nicholas's observations on the viands, hoping to intercept a few, as she perceived how they chafed her eldest brother. at last, on mervyn himself roundly abusing the flavour of the ice-pudding, augusta not only defended it, but confessed to having herself directed mrs. brisbane to the concoction that morning. 'mrs. brisbane shall take orders from no lady but miss fulmort, while she is in my house,' thundered mervyn. phoebe, in agony, began to say she knew not what to sir bevil, and he seconded her with equal vehemence and incoherency, till by the time they knew what they were talking of, they were with much interest discussing his little daughter, scarcely turning their heads from one another, till, in the midst of dessert, the voice of juliana was heard,--'sir bevil, sir bevil, if you can spare me any attention--what was the name of that person at hampstead that your sister told me of?' 'that person! what, where poor anne acton was boarded? dr. graham, he called himself, but i don't believe he was a physician. horrid vulgar fellow!' 'excellent for the purpose, though,' continued lady acton, addressing herself as before to mr. crabbe; 'advertises for nervous or deficient ladies, and boards them on very fair terms: would take her quite off our hands.' phoebe turned a wild look of imploring interrogation on sir bevil, but a certain family telegraph had electrified him, and his eyes were on the grapes that he was eating with nervous haste. her blood boiling at what she apprehended, phoebe could endure her present post no longer, and starting up, made the signal for leaving the dinner-table so suddenly that augusta choked upon her glass of wine, and carried off her last macaroon in her hand. before she had recovered breath to rebuke her sister's precipitation, phoebe, with boldness and spirit quite new to the sisters, was confronting juliana, and demanding what she had been saying about hampstead. 'only,' said juliana, coolly, 'that i have found a capital place there for maria--a dr. graham, who boards and lodges such unfortunates. sir bevil had an idiot cousin there who died. i shall write to-morrow.' 'i promised that maria should not be separated from me,' said phoebe. 'nonsense, my dear,' said augusta; 'we could not receive her; she can never be made presentable.' 'you?' said phoebe. 'yes, my dear; did you not know? you go home with us the day after to-morrow; and next spring i mean to bring you out, and take you everywhere. the admiral is so generous!' 'but the others?' said phoebe. 'i don't mind undertaking bertha,' said lady acton. 'i know of a good school for her, and i shall deposit maria at dr. graham's as soon as i can get an answer.' 'really,' continued augusta, 'phoebe will look very creditable by and by, when she has more colour and not all this crape. perhaps i shall get her married by the end of the season; only you must learn better manners first, phoebe--not to rush out of the dining-room in this way. i don't know what i shall do without my other glass of wine--when i am so low, too!' 'a fine mistress of the house, indeed,' said lady acton. 'it is well mervyn's absurd notion is impossible.' 'what was that? to keep us all?' asked phoebe, catching at the hope. 'not maria nor the governess. you need not flatter yourself,' said juliana; 'he said he wouldn't have them at any price; and as to keeping house alone with a man of his character, even you may have sense to see it couldn't be for a moment.' 'did robert consent to maria's going to hampstead?' asked phoebe. 'robert--what has he to do with it? he has no voice.' 'he said something about getting the three boarded with some clergyman's widow,' said augusta; 'buried in some hole, i suppose, to make them like himself--go to church every day, and eat cold dinners on sunday.' 'i should like to see bertha doing that,' said juliana, laughing. but the agony of helplessness that had oppressed phoebe was relieved. she saw an outlet, and could form a resolution. home might have to be given up, but there was a means of fulfilling her mother's charge, and saving maria from the private idiot asylum; and for that object phoebe was ready to embrace perpetual seclusion with the dullest of widows. she found her sisters discussing their favourite subject--mervyn's misconduct and extravagance--and she was able to sit apart, working, and thinking of her line of action. only two days! she must be prompt, and not wait for privacy or for counsel. so when the gentlemen came in, and mr. crabbe came towards her, she took him into the window, and asked him if any choice were permitted her as to her residence. 'certainly; so nearly of age as you are. but i naturally considered that you would wish to be with lady bannerman, with all the advantages of london society.' 'but she will not receive maria. i promised that maria should be my charge. you have not consented to this hampstead scheme?' 'her ladyship is precipitate,' half whispered the lawyer. 'i certainly would not, till i had seen the establishment, and judged for myself.' 'no, nor then,' said phoebe. 'come to-morrow, and see her. she is no subject for _an establishment_. and i beg you will let me be with her; i would much prefer being with any lady who would receive us both.' 'very amiable,' said mr. crabbe. 'ha!' interrupted mervyn, 'you are not afraid i shall let augusta carry you off, phoebe. she would give the world to get you, but i don't mean to part with you.' 'it is of no use to talk to her, mervyn,' cried augusta's loud voice from the other end of the room. 'she knows that she cannot remain with you. robert himself would tell her so.' 'robert knows better than to interfere,' said mervyn, with one of his scowls. 'now then, phoebe, settle it for yourself. will you stay and keep house for me at home, or be augusta's companion? there! the choice of hercules. virtue or vice?' he added, trying to laugh. 'neither,' said phoebe, readily. 'my home is fixed by maria's.' 'phoebe, are you crazy?' broke out the three voices; while sir nicholas slowly and sententiously explained that he regretted the unfortunate circumstance, but maria's peculiarities made it impossible to produce her in society; and that when her welfare and happiness had been consulted by retirement, phoebe would find a home in his house, and be treated as lady bannerman's sister, and a young lady of her expectations, deserved. 'thank you,' said phoebe; then turning to her brother, 'mervyn, do you, too, cast off poor maria?' 'i told you what i thought of that long ago,' said mervyn, carelessly. 'very well, then,' said phoebe, sadly; 'perhaps you will let us stay till some lady can be found of whom mr. crabbe may approve, with whom maria and i can live.' 'lady acton!' sir bevil's voice was low and entreating, but all heard it. 'i am not going to encumber myself,' she answered. 'i always disliked girls, and i shall certainly not make acton manor an idiot asylum.' 'and mind,' added augusta, 'you won't cone to me for the season! i have no notion of your leaving me all the dull part of the year for some gay widow at a watering-place, and then expecting me to go out with you in london.' 'by heaven!' broke out mervyn, 'they _shall_ stay here, if only to balk your spite. my sisters shall not be driven from pillar to post the very day their mother is put under ground.' 'some respectable lady,' began robert. 'some horrid old harridan of a boarding-house keeper,' shouted mervyn, the louder for his interference. 'ay, you would like it, and spend all their fortunes on parsons in long coats! i know better! come here, phoebe, and listen. you shall live here as you have always done, maria and all, and keep the fennimore woman to mind the children. answer me, will that content you? don't go looking at robert, but say yes or no.' mervyn's innuendo had deprived his offer of its grace, but in spite of the pang of indignation, in spite of robert's eye of disapproval, poor desolate phoebe must needs cling to her home, and to the one who alone would take her and her poor companion. 'mervyn, thank you; it is right!' 'right! what does that mean? if any one has a word to say against my sisters being under my roof, let me hear it openly, not behind my back. eh, juliana, what's that?' 'only that i wonder how long it will last,' sneered lady acton. 'and,' added robert, 'there should be some guarantee that they should not be introduced to unsuitable acquaintance.' 'you think me not to be trusted with them.' 'i do not.' mervyn ground his teeth, answering, 'very well, sir, i stand indebted to you. i should have imagined, whatever your opinion of me, you would have considered your favourite sky-blue governess an immaculate guardian, or can you be contented with nothing short of a sisterhood?' 'robert,' said phoebe, fearing lest worse should follow, 'mervyn has always been good to us; i trust to him.' and her clear eyes were turned on the eldest brother with a grateful confidence that made him catch her hand with something between thanks and triumph, as he said-- 'well said, little one! there, sir, are you satisfied?' 'i must be,' replied robert. sir bevil, able to endure no longer, broke in with some intelligence from the newspaper, which he had been perusing ever since his unlucky appeal to his lady. every one thankfully accepted this means of ending the discussion. 'well, miss,' was juliana's good night, 'you have attained your object. i hope you may find it answer.' 'yes,' added augusta, 'when mervyn brings home that frenchwoman, you will wish you had been less tenacious.' 'that's all an idea of yours,' said juliana. 'she'll have punishment enough in master mervyn's own temper. i wouldn't keep house for him, no, not for a week.' 'stay till you are asked,' said augusta. phoebe could bear no more, but slipped through the swing-door, reached her room, and sinking into a chair, passively let lieschen undress her, not attempting to raise her drooping head, nor check the tears that trickled, conscious only of her broken, wounded, oppressed state of dejection, into the details of which she durst not look. how could she, when her misery had been inflicted by such hands? the mere fact of the unseemly broil between the brothers and sisters on such an evening was shame and pain enough, and she felt like one bruised and crushed all over, both in herself and maria, while the one drop of comfort in mervyn's kindness was poisoned by the strife between him and robert, and the doubt whether robert thought she ought to have accepted it. when her maid left her, she only moved to extinguish her light, and then cowered down again as if to hide in the darkness; but the soft summer twilight gloom seemed to soothe and restore her, and with a longing for air to refresh her throbbing brow, she leant out into the cool, still night, looking into the northern sky, still pearly with the last reminiscence of the late sunset, and with the pale large stars beaming calmly down. 'oh mother, mother! well might you long to take your poor maria with you--there where the weary are at rest--where there is mercy for the weak and slow! home! home! we have none but with you!' nay, had she not a home with him whose love was more than mother's love; whose soft stars were smiling on her now; whose gentle breezes fanned her burning cheeks, even as a still softer breath of comfort was stilling her troubled spirit! she leant out till she could compose herself to kneel in prayer, and from prayer rose up quietly, weary, and able to rest beneath the fatherly wings spread over the orphan. she was early astir, though with heavy, swollen eyelids; and anxious to avoid bertha's inquiries till all should be more fully settled, she betook herself to the garden, to cool her brow and eyes. she was bathing them in the dewy fragrant heart of a full-blown rose, that had seemed to look at her with a tearful smile of sympathy, when a step approached, and an arm was thrown round her, and robert stood beside her. 'my phoebe,' he said tenderly, 'how are you? it was a frightful evening!' 'oh! robert, were you displeased with me?' 'no, indeed. you put us all to shame. i grieved that you had no more preparation, but some of the guests stayed late, afterwards i was hindered by business, and then bevil laid hands on me to advise me privately against this establishment for poor maria.' 'i thought it was juliana who pressed it!' 'have you not learnt that whatever he dislikes she forwards?' 'oh! robert, you can hinder that scheme from ever being thought of again!' 'yes,' said robert; '_there_ she should never have been, even had you not made resistance.' 'and, robert, may we stay here?' asked phoebe, trembling. 'crabbe sees no objection,' he answered. 'do you, robert? if you think we ought not, i will try to change; but mervyn is kind, and it _is_ home! i saw you thought me wrong, but i could not help being glad he relented to maria.' 'you were right. your eldest brother is the right person to give you a home. i cannot. it would have shown an evil, suspicious temper if you had refused him.' 'yet you do not like it.' 'perhaps i am unjust. i own that i had imagined you all happier and better in such a home as mrs. parsons or miss charlecote could find for you; and though mervyn would scarcely wilfully take advantage of your innocence, i do not trust to his always knowing what would be hurtful to you or bertha. it is a charge that i grudge to him, for i do not think he perceives what it is.' 'i could make you think better of him. i wonder whether i may.' 'anything--anything to make me think better of him,' cried robert eagerly. 'i do not know it from him alone, so it cannot be a breach of confidence,' said phoebe. 'he has been deeply attached, not to a pretty person, nor a rich nor grand one, but she was very good and religious--so much so that she would not accept him.' 'how recently?' 'the attachment has been long; the rejection this spring.' 'my poor phoebe, i could not tell you how his time has been passed since early spring.' 'i know in part,' she said, looking down; 'but, robin, _that_ arose from despair. oh, how i longed for him to come and let me try to comfort him!' 'and how is this to change my opinion,' asked robert, 'except by showing me that no right-minded woman could trust herself with him?' 'oh, robert, no! sisters need not change, though others ought, perhaps. i meant you to see that he does love and honour goodness for itself, and so that he will guard his sisters.' 'i will think so, phoebe. you deserve to be believed, for you draw out his best points. for my own part, the miserable habits of our boyhood have left a habit of acrimony, of which, repent as i will, i cannot free myself. i gave way to it last night. i can be cool, but i cannot help being contemptuous. i make him worse, and i aggravated your difficulties by insulting him.' 'he insulted you,' said phoebe. 'when i think of those words i don't know how i can stay with him.' 'they fell short! they were nothing,' said robert. 'but it was the more unbefitting in me to frame my warning as i did. oh, phoebe, your prayers and influence have done much for me. help me now to treat my brother so as not to disgrace my calling.' 'you--when you freely forgive all the injuries he has done you!' 'if i freely forgave, i suppose i should love;' and he murmured sadly, 'he that hateth his brother is a murderer.' phoebe shrank, but could not help thinking that if the spirit of cain existed among them, it was not with the younger brother. when she next spoke, it was to express her fear lest miss fennimore should refuse to remain, since the position would be uncomfortable. her talent was thrown away on poor maria, and bertha had been very vexing and provoking of late. phoebe greatly dreaded a change, both from her love for her governess, and alarm lest a new duenna might be yet more unwelcome to mervyn, and she was disappointed to see that robert caught at the hope that the whole scheme might be baffled on this score. phoebe thought a repetition of the dinner-table offence would be best obviated by taking her place as tea-maker at once. mervyn first came down, and greeted her like something especially his own. he detected the red blistered spot on her cheek, and exclaimed, 'eh! did they make you cry? never mind; the house will soon be clear of them, and you my little queen. you have nothing to say against it. has any one been putting things in your head?' and he looked fiercely at his brother. 'no, mervyn; robert and i both think you very kind, and that it is the right thing.' 'yes,' said robert, 'no arrangement could be more proper. i am sorry, mervyn, if my manner was offensive last night.' 'i never take offence, it is not my way,' said mervyn, indifferently, almost annoyed that his brother had not spirit to persevere in the quarrel. after the breakfast, where the elder sisters were cold and distant, and sir bevil as friendly as he durst, mervyn's first move was to go, in conjunction with mr. crabbe, to explain the arrangement to miss fennimore, and request her to continue her services. they came away surprised and angry: miss fennimore would 'consider of it.' even when mervyn, to spare himself from 'some stranger who might prove a greater nuisance,' had offered a hundred in addition to her present exorbitant salary, she courteously declined, and repeated that her reply should be given in the evening. mervyn's wrath would have been doubled had he known the cause of her delay. she sent maria to beg robert to spare her half an hour, and on his entrance, dismissing her pupils, she said, 'mr. fulmort, i should be glad if you would candidly tell me your opinion of the proposed arrangement. i mean,' seeing his hesitation, 'of that part which relates to myself.' 'i do not quite understand you,' he said. 'i mean, whether, as the person whose decision has the most worth in this family, you are satisfied to leave your sisters under my charge? if not, whatever it may cost me to part with that sweet and admirable phoebe,' and her voice showed unwonted emotion, 'i would not think of remaining with them.' 'you put me in a very strange position, miss fennimore; i have no authority to decide. they could have no friend more sincerely anxious for their welfare or so welcome to phoebe's present wishes.' 'perhaps not; but the question is not of my feelings nor theirs, but whether you consider my influence pernicious to their religious principles. if so, i decline their guardian's terms at once.' after a pause, she added, pleased at his deliberation, 'it may assist you if i lay before you the state of my own mind.' she proceeded to explain that her parents had been professed unitarians, her mother, loving and devout to the hereditary faith, beyond which she had never looked--'mr. fulmort,' she said, 'nothing will approve itself to me that condemns my mother!' he began to say that often where there was no wilful rejection of truth, saving grace and faith might be vouchsafed. 'you are charitable,' she answered, in a tone like sarcasm, and went on. her father, a literary man of high ability, set aside from work by ill-health, thought himself above creeds. he had given his daughter a man's education, had read many argumentative books with her, and died, leaving her liberally and devoutly inclined in the spirit of pope's universal prayer--'jehovah, jove, or lord.' it was all aspiration to the lord of nature, the forms, adaptations to humanity, kaleidoscope shapes of half-comprehended fragments, each with its own beauty, and only becoming worthy of reprobation where they permitted moral vices, among which she counted intolerance. what she thought reasonable--christianity, modified by the world's progress--was her tenet, and she had no scruple in partaking in any act of worship; while naturally conscientious, and loving all the virtues, she viewed the terrors of religion as the scourge of the grovelling and superstitious; or if suffering existed at all, it could be only as expiation, conducting to a condition of high intellect and perfect morality. no other view, least of all that of a vicarious atonement, seemed to her worthy of the beneficence of the god whom she had set up for herself. thus had she rested for twenty years; but of late she had been dissatisfied. living with phoebe, 'though the child was not naturally intellectual,' there was no avoiding the impression that what she acted and rested on was substantial truth. 'the same with others,' said miss fennimore, meaning her auditor himself. 'and, again, i cannot but feel that devotion to any system of faith is the restraint that bertha is deficient in, and that this is probably owing to my own tone. these examples have led me to go over the former ground in the course of the present spring; and it has struck me that, if the divine being be not the mere abstraction i once supposed, it is consistent to believe that he has a character and will--individuality, in short--so that there might be one single revelation of absolute truth. i have not thoroughly gone through the subject, but i hope to do so; and when i mark what i can only call a supernatural influence on an individual character, i view it as an evidence in favour of the system that produced it. my exposition of my opinions shocks you; i knew it would. but knowing this, and thinking it possible that an undoubting believer might have influenced bertha, are you willing to trust your sisters to me?' 'let me ask one question--why was this explanation never offered before to those who had more right to decide?' 'my tenets have seldom been the subject of inquiry. when they have, i have concealed nothing; and twice have thus missed a situation. but these things are usually taken for granted; and i never imagined it my duty to volunteer my religious sentiments, since i never obtruded them. i gave no scandal by objecting to any form of worship, and concerned myself with the moral and intellectual, not the religious being.' 'could you reach the moral without the religious?' 'i should tell you that i have seldom reared a pupil from childhood. mine have been chiefly from fifteen to eighteen, whose parents required their instruction, not education, from me; and till i came here, i never fully beheld the growth and development of character. i found that whereas all i could do for phoebe was to give her method and information, leaving alone the higher graces elsewhere derived, with bertha, my efforts were inadequate to supply any motive for overcoming her natural defects; and i believe that association with a person of my sceptical habit has tended to prevent phoebe's religion from influencing her sister.' 'this is the reason you tell me?' 'partly; and likewise because i esteem you very differently from my former employers, and know that your views for your sisters are not like those of the persons with whom i have been accustomed to deal.' 'you know that i have no power. it rests entirely with my brother and mr. crabbe.' 'i am perfectly aware of it; but i could not allow myself to be forced on your sisters by any family arrangement contrary to the wishes of that member of it who is most qualified to judge for them.' 'thank you, miss fennimore; i will treat you as openly as you have treated me. i have often felt indignant that my sisters should be exposed to any risk of having their faith shaken; and this morning i almost hoped to hear that you did not consent to mervyn's scheme. but what you have said convinces me that, whatever you may have been previously, you are more likely to strengthen and confirm them in all that is good than half the people they would meet. i know that it would be a heavy affliction to phoebe to lose so kind a friend; it might drive her from the home to which she clings, and separate bertha, at least, from her; and under the circumstances, i cannot wish you to leave the poor girls at present.' he spoke rather confusedly, but there was more consent in manner than words. 'thank you,' she replied, fervently. 'i cannot tell you what it would cost me to part with phoebe, my living lesson.' 'only let the lesson be still unconscious.' 'i would not have it otherwise for worlds. the calm reliance that makes her a ministering spirit is far too lovely to be ruffled by a hint of the controversies that weary my brain. if it be effect of credulity, the effects are more beauteous than those of clear eyesight.' 'you will not always think it credulity.' 'there would be great rest in being able to accept all that you and she do,' miss fennimore answered with a sigh; 'in finding an unchanging answer to "what is truth?" yet even your gospel leaves that question unanswered.' 'unanswered to pilate; but those who are true find the truth; i verily trust that your eyes will become cleared to find it. miss fennimore, you know that i am unready and weak in argument, and you have often left me no refuge but my positive conviction; but i can refer you to those who are strong. if i can help you by carrying your difficulties to others, or by pointing out books, i should rejoice--' 'you cannot argue--you can only act,' said miss fennimore, smiling, as a message called him away. the schoolroom had been left undisturbed, for the sisters were otherwise occupied. by mr. fulmort's will, the jewels, excepting certain mervyn heirlooms, were to be divided between the daughters, and their two ladyships thought this the best time for their choice, though as yet they could not take possession. phoebe would have given the world that the sets had been appropriated, so that mervyn and mr. crabbe should not have had to make her miserable by fighting her battles, insisting on her choosing, and then overruling her choice as not of sufficiently valuable articles, while bertha profited by the lesson in harpy-hood, and regarded all claimed by the others as so much taken from herself; and poor maria clasped on every bracelet one by one, threaded every ring on her fingers, and caught the same lustre on every diamond, delighting in the grand exhibition, and in her own share, which by general consent included all that was clumsy and ill-set. no one had the heart to disturb her, but phoebe felt that the poor thing was an eyesore to them all, and was hardly able to endure augusta's compliment, 'after all, phoebe, she is not so bad; you may make her tolerably presentable for the country.' lady acton patronized bertha, in opposition to phoebe; and sir bevil was glad to have one sister to whom he could be good-natured without molestation. the young lady, heartily weary of the monotony of home, was much disappointed at the present arrangement; phoebe had become the envied elder sister instead of the companion in misfortune, and juliana was looked on as the sympathizing friend who would fain have opened the prison doors that phoebe closed against her by making all that disturbance about maria. 'it is all humbug about maria,' said juliana. 'much phoebe will let her stand in her way when she wants to come to london for the season--but i'll not take her out, i promise her.' 'but you will take me,' cried bertha. 'you'll not leave me in this dismal hole always.' 'never fear, bertha. this plan won't last six months. mervyn and phoebe will get sick of one another, and augusta will be ready to take her in--she is pining for an errand girl.' 'i'll not go there to read cookery books and meet old fogies. you will have me, juliana, and we will have such fun together.' 'when you are come out, perhaps--and you must cure that stammer.' 'i shall die of dulness before then! if i could only go to school!' 'i wouldn't be you with maria for your most lively companion.' 'it is much worse than when we used to go down into the drawing-room. now we never see any one but miss charlecote, and phoebe is getting exactly like her!' 'what, all her sanctimonious ways? i thought so.' 'and to make it more aggravating, miss fennimore is going to get religious too. she made me read all butler's _analogy_, and wants to put me into _paley_, and she is always running after robert.' 'middle-aged governesses always do run after young clergymen--especially the most _outre's_.' 'and now she snaps me up if i say anything the least comprehensive or speculative, or if i laugh at the conventionalities phoebe learns at the holt. yesterday i said that the progress of common sense would soon make people cease to connect dulness with mortality, or to think a serious mistiness the sole evidence of respect, and i was caught up as if it were high treason.' 'you must not get out of bounds in your talk, bertha, or sound unfeeling.' 'i can't help being original,' said bertha. 'i must evolve my ideas out of my individual consciousness, and assert my independence of thought.' juliana laughed, not quite following her sister's metaphysical tone, but satisfied that it was anti-phoebe, she answered by observing, 'an intolerable fuss they do make about that girl!' 'and she is not a bit clever,' continued bertha. 'i can do a translation in half the time she takes, and have got far beyond her in all kinds of natural philosophy!' 'she flatters mervyn, that's the thing; but she will soon have enough of that. i hope he won't get her into some dreadful scrape, that's all!' 'what sort of scrape?' asked bertha, gathering from the smack of the hope that it was something exciting. 'oh, you are too much of a chit to know--but i say, bertha, write to me, and let me know whom mervyn brings to the house.' with somewhat the like injunction, only directed to a different quarter, robert likewise left beauchamp. as he well knew would be the case, nothing in his own circumstances was changed by his mother's death, save that he no longer could call her inheritance his home. she had made no will, and her entire estate passed to her eldest son, from whom robert parted on terms of defiance, rather understood than expressed. he took leave of his birthplace as one never expecting to return thither, and going for his last hour at hiltonbury to miss charlecote, poured out to her as many of his troubles as he could bear to utter. 'and,' said he, 'i have given my approval to the two schemes that i most disapproved beforehand--to mervyn's giving my sisters a home, and to miss fennimore's continuing their governess! what will come of it?' 'do not repent, robert,' was the answer. 'depend upon it, the great danger is in rashly meddling with existing arrangements, especially by a strain of influence. it is what the young are slow to learn, but experience brings it home.' 'with you to watch them, i will fear the less.' miss charlecote wondered whether any disappointment of his own added to his depression, and if he thought of lucilla. chapter xviii my sister is not so defenceless left as you imagine. she has a hidden strength which you remember not.--_comus_ phoebe was left to the vacancy of the orphaned house, to a blank where her presence had been gladness, and to relief more sad than pain, in parting with her favourite brother, and seeing him out of danger of provoking or being provoked. to have been the cause of strife and object of envy weighed like guilt on her heart, and the tempest that had tossed her when most needing peace and soothing, left her sore and suffering. she did not nurse her grief, and was content that her mother should be freed from the burthen of existence that had of late been so heavy; but the missing the cherished recipient of her care was inevitable, and she was not of a nature to shake off dejection readily, nor to throw sorrow aside in excitement. mervyn felt as though he had caught a lark, and found it droop instead of singing. he was very kind, almost oppressively so; he rode or drove with her to every ruin or view esteemed worth seeing, ordered books for her, and consulted her on improvements that pained her by the very fact of change. she gave her attention sweetly and gratefully, was always at his call, and amused his evenings with cards or music, but she felt herself dull and sad, and saw him disappointed in her. then she tried bringing in bertha as entertainment for both, but it was a downright failure. bertha was far too sharp and pert for an elder brother devoid both of wit and temper, and the only consequence was that she fathomed his shallow acquirements in literature and the natural sciences, and he pronounced her to be eaten up with conceit, and the most intolerable child he ever saw--an irremediable insult to a young woman of fifteen; nor could bertha be brought forward without disappointing maria, whose presence mervyn would not endure, and thus phoebe was forced to yield the point, and keep in the background the appendages only tolerated for her sake. greatly commiserating bertha's weariness of the schoolroom, she tried to gratify the governess and please her sisters by resuming her studies; but the motive of duty and obedience being gone, these were irksome to a mind naturally meditative and practical, and she found herself triumphed over by bertha for forgetting whether lucca were guelf or ghibelline, putting oolite below red sandstone, or confusing the definition of ozone. she liked bertha to surpass her; but inattention she regarded as wrong in itself, as well as a bad example, and her apologies were so hearty as quite to affect miss fennimore. mervyn's attentions wore off with the days of seclusion. by the third week he was dining out, by the fourth he was starting for goodwood, half inviting phoebe to come with him, and assuring her that it was just what she wanted to put her into spirits again. poor phoebe--when mr. henderson talking to miss fennimore, and bertha at the same time insisting on decandolle's system to miss charlecote, had seemed to create a distressing whirl and confusion! miss fennimore smiled, both with pleasure and amusement, as phoebe asked her permission to walk to the holt, and be fetched home by the carriage at night. 'don't laugh at me,' said phoebe. 'i am so glad to have some one's leave to ask.' 'i will not laugh, my dear, but i will not help you to reverse our positions. it is better we should both be accustomed to them.' 'it seems selfish to take the carriage for myself,' said phoebe; 'but i think i have rather neglected miss charlecote for mervyn, and i believe she would like to have me alone.' the solitude of the walk was a great boon, and there was healing in the power of silence--the repose of not being forced to be lively. summer flowers had passed, but bryony mantled the bushes in luxuriant beauty, and kingly teazles raised their diademed heads, and exultingly stretched forth their sceptred arms. purple heather mixed with fragrant thyme, blue harebells and pale bents of quiver-grass edged the path, and thistledown, drifting from the chalk uplands, lay like snow in the hollows, or danced like living things on the path before her. a brood of goldfinches, with merry twitter and flashing wings, flitted round a tall milk thistle with variegated leaves and a little farther on, just at the opening of a glade from the path, she beheld a huge dragon-fly, banded with green, black, and gold, poised on wings invisible in their rapid motion, and hawking for insects. she stood to watch, collecting materials to please miss charlecote, and make a story for maria. 'stand still. he is upon you.' she saw miss charlecote a few yards off, nearly on all-fours in the thymy grass. 'only a grasshopper. i've only once seen such a fellow. he makes portentous leaps. there! on your flounce!' 'i have him! no! he went right over you!' 'i've got him under my handkerchief. put your hand in my pocket--take out a little wide-mouthed bottle. that's it. get in, sir, it is of no use to bite. there's an air-hole in the cork. isn't he a beauty?' 'o, the lovely green! what saws he wears on his thighs! see the delicate pink lining! what horns! and a quaint face, like a horse's.' '"the appearance of them is as the appearance of horses." not that this is a locust, only a _gryllus_, happily for us.' 'what is the difference?' 'long or short horns, since bertha is not here to make me call them antennae. i must take him home to draw, as soon as i have gathered some willow for my puss. you are coming home with me?' 'i meant to drink tea with you, and be sent for in the evening.' 'good child. i was almost coming to you, but i was afraid of mervyn. how has it been, my dear?' phoebe's 'he is very kind' was allowed to stand for the present, and honora led the way by a favourite path, which was new to phoebe, making the circuit of the holt; sometimes dipping into a hollow, over which the lesser scabious cast a tint like the gray of a cloud; sometimes rising on a knoll so as to look down on the rounded tops of the trees, following the undulations of the grounds; and beyond them the green valley, winding stream, and harvest fields, melting into the chalk downs on the horizon. to phoebe, all had the freshness of novelty, with the charm of familiarity, and without the fatigue of admiration required by the show-places to which mervyn had taken her. presently miss charlecote opened the wicket leading to an oak coppice. there was hardly any brushwood. the ground was covered with soft grass and round elastic cushions of gray lichen. there were a few brackens, and here and there the crimson midsummer men, but the copsewood consisted of the redundant shoots of the old, gnarled, knotted stumps, covered with handsome foliage of the pale sea-green of later summer, and the leaves far exceeding in size those either of the sapling or the full-sized tree--vigorous playfulness of the poor old wounded stocks. 'ah!' said honor, pausing, 'here i found my purple emperor, sunning himself, his glorious wings wide open, looking black at first, but turning out to be of purple-velvet, of the opaque mysterious beauty which seems nobler than mere lustre.' 'did you keep him? i thought that was against your principles.' 'i only mocked him by trying to paint him. he was mine because he came to delight me with the pleasure of having seen him, and the remembrance of him that pervades the path. it was just where humfrey always told me the creatures might be found.' 'was mr. charlecote fond of natural history?' asked phoebe, shyly. 'not as natural history, but he knew bird, beast, insect, and tree, with a friendly hearty intimacy, such as cockney writers ascribe to peasants, but which they never have. while he used the homeliest names, a dish-washer for a wagtail, cuckoo's bread-and-cheese for wood-sorrel (partly i believe to tease me), he knew them thoroughly, nests, haunts, and all.' phoebe could not help quoting the old lines, 'he prayeth well that loveth well both man and bird and beast.' 'yes, and some persons have a curious affinity with the gentle and good in creation--who can watch and even handle a bird's nest without making it be deserted, whom bees do not sting, and horses, dogs, and cats love so as to reveal their best instincts in a way that seems fabulous. in spite of the lyra innocentium, i think this is less often the case with children than with such grown people as--like your guardian, phoebe--have kept something of the majesty and calmness of innocence.' phoebe was all in a glow with the pleasure of hearing him so called, but bashful under that very delight, she said, 'perhaps part of solomon's wisdom was in loving these things, since he knew the plants from the cedar to the hyssop.' 'and spoke of nature so beautifully in his song, but i am afraid as he grew old he must have lost his healthful pleasure in them when he was lifted up.' 'or did he only make them learning and ornament, instead of a joy and devotion?' said phoebe, thinking of the difference between bertha's love and miss charlecote's. 'nor does he say that he found vanity in them, though he did in his own gardens and pools of water. no, the longer i live, the more sure i am that these things are meant for our solace and minor help through the trials of life. i assure you, phoebe, that the crimson leaf of a herb-robert in the hedge has broken a strain of fretful repining, and it is one great blessing in these pleasures that one never can exhaust them.' phoebe saw that miss charlecote was right in her own case, when on coming in, the grasshopper's name and history were sought, and there followed an exhibition of the 'puss' for whom the willow had been gathered, namely a grass-green caterpillar, with a kitten's face, a curious upright head and shoulders, and two purple tails, whence on irritation two pink filaments protruded,--lashes for the ichneumons, as honora explained. the lonely woman's interest in her quaint pet showed how thickly are strewn round us many a calm and innocent mode of solace and cheerfulness if we knew but how to avail ourselves of it. honora had allowed the conversation to be thus desultory and indifferent, thinking that it gave greater rest to phoebe, and it was not till the evening was advancing, that she began to discharge herself of an urgent commission from robert, by saying, 'phoebe, i want you to do something for me. there is that little dame's school in your hamlet. it is too far off for me to look after, i wish you would.' 'robin has been writing to me about parish work,' said phoebe, sadly. 'perhaps i ought, but i don't know how, and i can't bear that any change in our ways should be observed;' and the tears came more speedily than honor had expected. 'dear child,' she said, 'there is no need for that feeling. parish work, at least in a lay family, must depend on the amount of home duty. in the last years of my dear mother's life i had to let everything go, and i know it is not easy to resume, still less to begin, but you will be glad to have done so, and will find it a great comfort.' 'if it be my duty, i must try,' said phoebe, dejectedly, 'and i suppose it is. will you come and show me what to do? i never went into a cottage in my life.' i have spoken too soon! thought honor; yet robert urged me, and besides the evil of neglecting the poor, the work will do her good; but it breaks one's heart to see this meek, mournful obedience. 'while we are alone,' continued phoebe, 'i can fix times, and do as i please, but i cannot tell what mervyn may want me to do when he is at home.' 'do you expect that he will wish you to go out with him?' asked honora. 'not this autumn,' she answered; 'but he finds it so dull at home, that i fully expect he will have his friends to stay with him.' 'phoebe, let me strongly advise you to keep aloof from your brother's friends. when they are in the house, live entirely in the schoolroom. if you begin at once as a matter of course, he will see the propriety, and acquiesce. you are not vexed?' 'thank you, i believe it is all right. robert will be the more at ease about us. i only do not like to act as if i distrusted mervyn.' 'it would not be discreet for any girl so young as you are to be entertaining her brother's sporting friends. you could hardly do so without acquiring the same kind of reputation as my poor lucy's rashe, which he would not wish.' 'thank you,' said phoebe more heartily. 'you have shown me the way out of a difficulty. i need not go into company at all this winter, and after that, only with our old country neighbours.' honora was infinitely relieved at having bestowed this piece of advice, on which she had agreed with robert as the only means of insuring phoebe's being sheltered from society that mervyn might not esteem so bad for his sister as they did. the quietness of mervyn's absence did much for the restoration of phoebe's spirits. the dame's school was not delightful to her; she had not begun early enough in life for ease, but she did her tasks there as a duty, and was amply rewarded by the new enjoyment thus afforded to maria. the importance of being surrounded by a ring of infants, teaching the alphabet, guiding them round the gooseberry bush, or leading their songs and hymns, was felicity indescribable to maria. she learnt each name, and, with the reiteration that no one could endure save phoebe and faithful lieschen, rehearsed the individual alphabetical acquirements of every one; she painted pictures for them, hemmed pinafores, and was happier than she had ever been in her life, as well as less fretful and more manageable, and she even began to develop more sense and intelligence in this direction than she had seemed capable of under the dreary round of lessons past her comprehension. it was a great stimulus to phoebe, and spurred her to personal parish work, going beyond the soup and subscriptions that might have bounded her charities for want of knowing better. of course the worst and most plausible people took her in, and miss charlecote sometimes scolded, sometimes laughed at her, but the beginning was made, and robert was pleased. mervyn did bring home some shooting friends, but he made no difficulties as to the seclusion that miss charlecote had recommended for his sister; accepting it so easily that phoebe thought he must have intended it from the first. from that time he was seldom at home without one or more guests--an arrangement that kept the young ladies chiefly to the west wing, and always, when in the garden, forced them to be on their guard against stumbling upon smoking gentlemen. it was a late-houred, noisy company, and the sounds that reached the sisters made the younger girls curious, and the governess anxious. perhaps it was impossible that girls of seventeen and fifteen should not be excited by the vicinity of moustaches and beards whom they were bidden to avoid; and even the alternate french and german which miss fennimore enforced on bertha more strongly than ever, merely produced the variety of her descanting on their _knebelbarten_, or on _l'heure a guelle les voix de ces messieurs-la entonnaient sur le grand escalier_, till miss fennimore declared that she would have latin and greek talked if there were no word for a gentleman in either! there were always stories to be told of bertha's narrow escapes of being overtaken by them in garden or corridor, till maria, infected by the panic, used to flounder away as if from a beast of prey, and being as tall as, and considerably stouter than, phoebe, with the shuffling gait of the imbecile, would produce a volume of sound that her sister always feared might attract notice, and irritate mervyn. honora charlecote tried to give pleasure to the sisters by having them at the holt, and would fain have treated bertha as one of the inherited godchildren. but bertha proved by reference to the brass tablet that she _could_ not be godchild to a man who died three years before her birth, and it was then perceived that his sponsorship had been to an elder bertha, who had died in infancy, of water on the head, and whom her parents, in their impatience of sorrow, had absolutely caused to be forgotten. such a delusion in the exact phoebe could only be accounted for by her tenderness to mr. charlecote, and it gave bertha a subject of triumph of which she availed herself to the utmost. she had imbibed a sovereign contempt for miss charlecote's capacity, and considered her as embodying the passive individual who is to be instructed or confuted in a scientific dialogue. so she lost no occasion of triumphantly denouncing all 'cataclysms' of the globe, past or future, of resolving all nature into gases, or arguing upon duality--a subject that fortunately usually brought on her hesitation of speech, a misfortune of which miss fennimore and phoebe would unscrupulously avail themselves to change the conversation. the bad taste and impertinence were quite as apparent to the governess as to the sister, and though bertha never admitted a doubt of having carried the day against the old world prejudices, yet miss fennimore perceived, not only that miss charlecote's notions were not of the contracted and unreasonable order that had been ascribed to her, but that liberality in her pupil was more uncandid, narrow, and self-sufficient than was 'credulity' in miss charlecote. honor was more amused than annoyed at these discussions; she was sorry for the silly, conceited girl, though not in the least offended nor disturbed, but phoebe and miss fennimore considered them such an exposure that they were by no means willing to give bertha the opportunity of launching herself at her senior. the state of the household likewise perplexed phoebe. she had been bred up to the sight of waste, ostentation, and extravagance, and they did not distress her; but her partial authority revealed to her glimpses of dishonesty; detected falsehoods destroyed her confidence in the housekeeper; her attempts at charities to the poor were intercepted; her visits to the hamlet disclosed to her some of the effects on the villagers of a vicious, disorderly establishment; and she understood why a careful mother would as soon have sent her daughter to service at the lowest public-house as at beauchamp. mervyn had detected one of the footmen in a flagrant act of peculation, and had dismissed him, but phoebe believed the evil to have extended far more widely than he supposed, and made up her mind to entreat him to investigate matters. in vain, however, she sought for a favourable moment, for he was never alone. the intervals between other visitors were filled up by a mr. hastings, who seemed to have erected himself into so much of the domesticated friend that he had established a bowing and speaking acquaintance with phoebe; bertha no longer narrated her escapes of encounters with him; and, being the only one of the gentlemen who ever went to church, he often joined the young ladies as they walked back from thence. phoebe heartily wished him gone, for he made her brother inaccessible; she only saw mervyn when he wanted her to find something for him or to give her a message, and if she ventured to say that she wanted to speak to him, he promised--'some time or other'--which always proved _sine die_. he was looking very ill, his complexion very much flushed, and his hand heated and unsteady, and she heard through lieschen of his having severe morning headaches, and fits of giddiness and depression, but these seemed to make him more unable to spare mr. hastings, as if life would not be endurable without the billiards that she sometimes heard knocking about half the night. however, the anniversary of mr. fulmort's death would bring his executor to clear off one branch of his business, and mervyn's friends fled before the coming of the grave old lawyer, all fixing the period of their departure before christmas. nor could mervyn go with them; he must meet mr. crabbe, and phoebe's heart quite bounded at the hope of being able to walk about the house in comfort, and say part of what was on her mind to her brother. 'whose writing is this?' said phoebe to herself, as the letters were given to her, two days before the clearance of the house. 'i ought to know it--it is! no! yes, indeed it is--poor lucy. where can she be? what can she have to say?' the letter was dateless, and phoebe's amaze grew as she read. 'dear phoebe, 'you know it is my nature to do odd things, so never mind that, but attend to me, as one who knows too well what it is to be motherless and undirected. gossip is long-tongued enough to reach me here, in full venom as i know and trust, but it makes my blood boil, till i can't help writing a warning that may at least save you pain. i know you are the snowdrop poor owen used to call you, and i know you have honor charlecote for philosopher, and friend, but she is nearly as unsophisticated as yourself, and if report say true, your brother is getting you into a scrape. if it is a fact that he has jack hastings dangling about beauchamp, he deserves the lot of my unlucky charteris cousins! mind what you are about, phoebe, if the man is there. he is plausible, clever, has no end of amusing resources, and keeps his head above water; but i _know_ that in no place where there are womankind has he been received without there having been cause to repent it! i hope you may be able to laugh--if not, it may be a wholesome cure to hear that his friends believe him to have secured one of the heiresses at beauchamp. there, phoebe, i have said my say, and i fear it is cutting and wounding, but it came out of the love of a heart that has not got rid of some of its old feelings, and that could not bear to think of sorrow or evil tongues busy about you. that i write for your sake, not for my own, you may see by my making it impossible to answer. 'lucilla sandbrook. 'if you hold council with honor over this--as, if you are wise, you will--you may tell her that i am learning gratitude to her. i would ask her pardon if i could without servility.' 'secured one of the heiresses!' said phoebe to herself. 'i should like to be able to tell lucy how i can laugh! poor lucy, how very kind in her to write. i wonder whether mervyn knows how bad the man is! shall i go to miss charlecote? oh, no; she is spending two days at moorcroft! shall i tell miss fennimore? no, i think not, it will be wiser to talk to miss charlecote; i don't like to tell miss fennimore of lucy. poor lucy--she is always generous! he will soon be gone, and then i can speak to mervyn.' this secret was not a serious burthen to phoebe, though she could not help smiling to herself at the comical notion of having been secured by a man to whom she had not spoken a dozen times, and then with the utmost coldness and formality. the next day she approached the letter-bag with some curiosity. it contained one for her from her sister juliana, a very unusual correspondent, and phoebe's mind misgave her lest it should have any connection with the hints in lucilla's note. but she was little prepared for what she read. 'acton manor, dec. th. 'my dear phoebe, 'although, after what passed in july, i cannot suppose that the opinion of your elders can have any effect on your proceedings, yet for the sake of our relationship, as well as of regard to appearances, i cannot forbear endeavouring to rescue you from the consequences of your own folly and obstinacy. nothing better was to be expected from mervyn; but at your age, with your pretences to religion, you cannot plead simplicity, nor ignorance of the usages of the world. neither sir bevil nor myself can express our amazement at your recklessness, thus forfeiting the esteem of society, and outraging the opinion of our old friends. to put an end to the impropriety, we will at once receive you here, overlooking any inconvenience, and we shall expect you all three on tuesday, under charge of miss fennimore, who seems to have been about as fit as maria to think for you. it is too late to write to mervyn to-night, but he shall hear from us to-morrow, as well as from your guardian, to whom sir bevil has written, you had better bring my jewels; and the buhl clock from my mother's mantelshelf, which i was to have. mrs. brisbane will pack them. tell bertha, with my love, that she might have been more explicit in her correspondence. 'your affectionate sister, 'juliana acton.' when miss fennimore entered the room, she found phoebe sitting like one petrified, only just able to hold out the letter, and murmur--'what does it mean?' imagining that it could only contain something fatal about robert, miss fennimore sprang at the paper, and glanced through it, while phoebe again faintly asked, 'what have i done?' 'lady acton is pleased to be mysterious!' said the governess. 'the kind sister she always was!' 'don't say that,' exclaimed phoebe, rallying. 'it must be something shocking, for sir bevil thinks so too,' and the tears sprang forth. 'he will never think anything unkind of you, my dear,' said miss fennimore, with emphasis. 'it must be about mr. hastings!' said phoebe, gathering recollection and confidence. 'i did not like to tell you yesterday, but i had a letter from poor lucy sandbrook. some friends of that man, mr. hastings, have set it about that he is going to be married to me!' and phoebe laughed outright. 'if juliana has heard it, i don't wonder that she is shocked, because you know miss charlecote said it would never do for me to associate with those gentlemen, and besides, lucy says that he is a very bad man. i shall write to juliana, and say that i have never had anything to do with him, and he is going away to-morrow, and mervyn must be told not to have him back again. that will set it all straight at acton manor.' phoebe was quite herself again. she was too well accustomed to gratuitous unkindness and reproaches from juliana to be much hurt by them, and perceiving, as she thought, where the misconception lay, had no fears that it would not be cleared up. so when she had carefully written her letter to her sister, she dismissed the subject until she should be able to lay it before miss charlecote, dwelling more on honor's pleasure on hearing of lucy than on the more personal matter. miss fennimore, looking over the letter, had deeper misgivings. it seemed to her rather to be a rebuke for the whole habit of life than a warning against an individual, and she began to doubt whether even the seclusion of the west wing had been a sufficient protection in the eyes of the family from the contamination of such society as mervyn received. or was it a plot of lady acton's malevolence for hunting phoebe away from her home? miss fennimore fell asleep, uneasy and perplexed, and in her dreams beheld phoebe as the lady in comus, fixed in her chair and resolute against a cup effervescing with carbonic acid gas, proffered by jack hastings, who thereupon gave it to bertha, as she lay back in the dentist's chair, and both becoming transformed into pterodactyles, flew away while miss fennimore was vainly trying to summon the brothers by electric telegraph. there was a whole bevy of letters for phoebe the following morning, and first a kind sensible one from her guardian, much regretting to learn that mr. fulmort's guests were undesirable inmates for a house where young ladies resided, so that, though he had full confidence in miss fulmort's discretion, and understood that she had never associated with the persons in question, he thought her residence at home ought to be reconsidered, and should be happy to discuss the point on coming to beauchamp, so soon as he should have recovered from an unfortunate fit of the gout, which at present detained him in town. miss fulmort might, however, be assured that her wishes should be his chief consideration, and that he would take care not to separate her from miss maria. that promise, and the absence of all mention of lucilla's object of dread, gave phoebe courage to open the missive from her eldest sister. 'my dear phoebe, 'i always told you it would never answer, and you see i was right. if mervyn will invite that horrid man, whatever you may do, no one will believe that you do not associate with him, and you may never get over it. i am telling everybody what children you are, quite in the schoolroom, but nothing will be of any use but your coming away at once, and appearing in society with me, so you had better send the children to acton manor, and come to me next week. if there are any teal in the decoy bring some, and ask mervyn where he got that barton's dry champagne. 'your affectionate sister, 'augusta bannerman.' she had kept robert's letter to the last, as refreshment after the rest. 'st. matthew's, dec. th. 'dear phoebe, 'i am afraid this may not be your first intimation of what may vex and grieve you greatly, and what calls for much cool and anxious judgment. in you we have implicit confidence, and your adherence to miss charlecote's kind advice has spared you all imputation, though not, i fear, all pain. you may, perhaps, not know how disgraceful are the characters of some of the persons whom mervyn has collected about him. i do him the justice to believe that he would shelter you from all intercourse with them as carefully as i should; but i cannot forgive his having brought them beneath the same roof with you. i fear the fact has done harm in our own neighbourhood. people imagine you to be associating with mervyn's crew, and a monstrous report is abroad which has caused bevil acton to write to me and to crabbe. we all agree that this is a betrayal of the confidence that you expressed in mervyn, and that while he chooses to make his house a scene of dissipation, no seclusion can render it a fit residence for women or girls. i fear you will suffer much in learning this decision, for mervyn's sake as well as your own. poor fellow! if he will bring evil spirits about him, good angels must depart. i would come myself, but that my presence would embitter mervyn, and i could not meet him properly. i am writing to miss charlecote. if she should propose to receive you all at the holt immediately, until crabbe's most inopportune gout is over, you had better go thither at once. it would be the most complete vindication of your conduct that could be offered to the county, and would give time for considering of establishing you elsewhere, and still under miss fennimore's care. for bertha's sake as well as your own, you must be prepared to leave home and resign yourself to be passive in the decision of those bound to think for you, by which means you may avoid being included in mervyn's anger. do not distress yourself by the fear that any blame can attach to you or to miss fennimore; i copy bevil's expressions--"assure phoebe that though her generous confidence may have caused her difficulties, no one can entertain a doubt of her guileless intention and maidenly discretion. if it would not make further mischief, i would hasten to fetch her, but if she will do me the honour to accept her sister's invitation, i hope to do all in my power to make her happy and mark my esteem for her." these are his words; but i suppose you will hardly prefer acton manor, though, should the holt fail us, you might send the other two to the manor, and come to albury-street as augusta wishes, when we could consult together on some means of keeping you united, and retaining miss fennimore, who must not be thrown over, as it would be an injury to her prospects. tell her from me that i look to her for getting you through this unpleasant business. 'your ever affectionate 'r. m. fulmort.' phoebe never spoke, but handed each sheet as she finished it to her governess. 'promise me, phoebe,' said miss fennimore, as she came to robert's last sentence, 'that none of these considerations shall bias you. make no struggle for me, but use me as i may be most serviceable to you.' phoebe, instead of answering, kissed and clung to her. 'what do you think of doing?' asked the governess. 'nothing,' said phoebe. 'you looked as if a thought had occurred to you.' 'i only recollected the words, "your strength is to sit still," said phoebe, 'and thought how well they agreed with robert's advice to be passive. mr. crabbe has promised not to separate us, and i will trust to that. mervyn was very kind in letting us stay here, but he does not want us, and will not miss us,'--and with those words, quiet as they were, came a gush of irrepressible tears, just as a step resounded outside, the door was burst open, and mervyn hurried in, purple with passion, and holding a bundle of letters crushed together in his hand. 'i say,' he hoarsely cried, 'what's all this? who has been telling infamous tales of my house?' 'we cannot tell--' began phoebe. 'do you know anything of this?' he interrupted, fiercely turning on miss fennimore. 'nothing, sir. the letters which your sister has received have equally surprised and distressed me.' 'then they have set on you, phoebe! the whole pack in full cry, as if it mattered to them whether i chose to have the old gentleman in the house, so long as he did not meddle with you!' 'i beg your pardon, mr. fulmort,' interposed the governess, 'the remonstrance is quite just. had i been aware of the character of some of your late guests, i could not have wished your sisters to remain in the house with them.' 'are these your sentiments, phoebe?' he asked, sternly. 'i am afraid they ought to be,' she sadly answered. 'silly child; so this pack of censorious women and parsons have frightened you into giving me up.' 'sisters do not give up brothers, mervyn. you know how i thank you for having me here, but i could not amuse you, or make it pleasant to you, so there must be an end of it.' 'so they hunt you out to be bullied by juliana, or slaved to death by augusta, which is it to be? or maybe robert has got his sisterhood cut and dried for you; only mind, he shan't make away with your , pounds while i live to expose those popish tricks.' 'for shame, mervyn,' cried phoebe, all in a glow; 'i will not hear robert so spoken of: he is always kind and good, and has taught me every right thing i know!' 'oh, very well; and pray when does he summon you from among the ungodly? will the next train be soon enough?' 'don't, mervyn! your friends go to-day, don't they? mr. crabbe does not desire any change to be made before he comes to see about it. may we not stay till that time, and spend our christmas together?' 'you must ask robert and juliana, since you prefer them.' 'no,' said phoebe, with spirit; 'it is right to attend to my elder sisters, and robert has always helped and taught me, and i must trust his guidance, as i always have done. and i trust you too, mervyn. you never thought you were doing us any harm. i may trust you still,' she added, with so sweet and imploring a look that mervyn gave an odd laugh, with some feeling in it. 'harm? great harm i have done this creature, eh?' he said, with his hand on her shoulder. 'few could do _her_ harm, mr. fulmort,' said the governess, 'but report may have done some mischief. 'who cares for report! i say, phoebe, we will laugh at them all. you pluck up a spirit, stay with me, and we'll entertain all the county, and then get some great swell to bring you out in town, and see what juliana will say!' 'i will stay with you while you are alone, and mr. crabbe lets me,' said phoebe. 'old fool of a fellow! why couldn't my father have made me your guardian, and then there would have been none of this row! one would think i had had her down to act barmaid to the fellows. and you never spoke to one, did you, phoebe?' 'only now and then to mr. hastings. i could not help it after the day he came into the study when i was copying for you.' 'ah, well! that is nothing--nobody minds old jack. i shall let them all know you were as safe as a turk's wife in a harem, and maybe old crabbe will hear reason if we get him down here alone, without a viper at each ear, as he had last time.' with which words mervyn departed, and miss fennimore exclaimed in some displeasure, 'you can never think of remaining, phoebe.' 'i am afraid not,' said phoebe; 'mervyn does not seem to know what is proper for us, and i am too young to judge, so i suppose we must go. i wish i could make him happy with music, or books, or anything a woman could do! if you please, i think i must go over to the holt. i cannot settle to anything just yet, and i shall answer my letters better when i have seen miss charlecote.' in fact phoebe felt herself going to her other guardian; but as she left the room, bertha came hurriedly in from the garden, with a plaid thrown round her. 'what--what--what's the matter?' she hastily asked, following phoebe to her room. 'is there an end of all these mysteries?' 'yes,' said phoebe, 'miss fennimore is ready for you.' 'as if that were all i wanted to know. do you think i did not hear mervyn storming like a lion?' 'i am sorry you did hear,' said phoebe, 'for it was not pleasant. it seems that it is not thought proper for us to live here while mervyn has so many gentleman-guests, so,' with a sigh, 'you will have your wish, bertha. they mean us to go away!' 'it is not my wish now,' said bertha, pulling pins in and out of phoebe's pincushion. 'i am not the child i was in the summer. don't go, phoebe; i know you can get your way, if you try for it.' 'i must try to be put in the right way, bertha, that is all i want.' 'and you are going to the holt for the most precise, narrow-minded way you can get. i wish i were in your place, phoebe.' scarcely had phoebe driven from the door, before she saw miss charlecote crossing the grass on foot, and after the interchange of a few words, it was agreed to talk while driving on towards elverslope. each was laden with the same subject, for not only had honor heard from robert, but during her visit to moorcroft she had become enlightened on the gossip that seldom reached the holt, and had learnt that the whole neighbourhood was scandalized at the beauchamp doings, and was therefore shy of taking notice of the young people there. she had been incredulous at first, then extremely shocked and distressed, and though in part convinced that more than she guessed had passed beyond the west wing, she had come primed with a representation which she cautiously administered to phoebe. the girl was more indignant on her brother's account than alarmed on her own. 'if that is the way the raymonds talk of mervyn,' cried she, 'no wonder they made their niece cast him off, and drive him to despair.' 'it was no unkindness of the raymonds, my dear. they were only sorry for you.' 'i do not want them to be sorry for me; they ought to be sorry for mervyn,' said phoebe, almost petulantly. 'perhaps they are,' said honor. 'it was only in kindness that they spoke, and they had almost anticipated my explanation that you were kept entirely apart. every gentleman hereabouts who has been at beauchamp has declared such to be the case.' 'i should think so!' said phoebe; 'mervyn knows how to take care of us better than that!' 'but all ladies do not seem willing to believe as much, shame on them,' said honor; 'and, tell me, phoebe, have people called on you?' 'not many, but i have not called on them since they left their cards of inquiry. i had been thinking whether i ought.' 'we will consider. perhaps i had better take you round some day, but i have been a very remiss protector, my poor child, if all be true that i am told of some of mervyn's friends. it was an insult to have them under the same roof with you.' 'will you look at this letter?' said phoebe. 'it is very kind--it is from lucy.' these plain words alone occurred to phoebe as a preparation for a letter that was sure to move miss charlecote greatly, if only by the slight of not having written to her, the most obvious person. but the flighty generosity, and deep though inconsistent feeling were precious, and the proud relenting of the message at the end touched honor with hope. they laughed at the report that had elicited lucilla's letter, but the reserve of the warning about mr. hastings, coming from the once unscrupulous girl, startled honor even more than what she had heard at moorcroft. was the letter to be answered? yes, by all means, cried honor, catching at any link of communication. she could discover lucilla's address, and was sure that even brief thanks and explanations from phoebe would be good for lucy. like miss fennimore, honor was surprised by phoebe's composure under her share of the evil report. the strictures which would have been dreadful to an older person seemed to fly over her innocent head, their force either uncomprehended or unfelt. she yielded implicitly to the propriety of the change, but her grief was at the family quarrel, the leaving home, and the unmerited degree of blame cast on mervyn, not the aspersions on herself; although, as honor became vexed at her calmness, she withheld none of them in the desire to convince her of the expediency of leaving beauchamp at once for the holt. no, even though this was robert's wish, phoebe could still not see the necessity, as long as mervyn should be alone. if he should bring any of his discreditable friends, she promised at once to come to miss charlecote, but otherwise she could perceive no reason for grieving him, and astonishing the world, by implying that his sisters could not stay in his house. she thought him unwell, too, and wished to watch him, and, on the whole, did not regret her guardian's gout, which would give her a little more time at home, and put off the discussion till there should be less anger. is this weak? is it childish indifference? thought honor, or is it a spirit superior to the selfish personal dread that would proclaim its own injured innocence by a vehement commotion. phoebe rejoiced that she had secured her interview with her friend, for when the guests were gone, mervyn claimed her whole attention, and was vexed if she were not continually at his back. after their _tete-a-tete_ dinner, he kept her sitting over the dessert while he drank his wine. she tried this opportunity of calling his attention to the frauds of the servants, but he merely laughed his mocking laugh at her simplicity in supposing that everybody's servants did not cheat. 'miss charlecote's don't.' 'don't they? ha--ha! why, she's the very mark for imposition, and hypocrisy into the bargain.' phoebe did not believe it, but would not argue the point, returning to that nearer home. 'nonsense, phoebe,' he said; 'it's only a choice who shall prey upon one, and if i have a set that will do it with a civil countenance, and let me live out of the spoil, i'll not be bothered.' 'i cannot think it need go on so.' 'well, it won't; i shall break up the concern, and let the house, or something.' 'let the house? oh, mervyn! i thought you meant to be a county man.' 'let those look to that who have hindered me,' said mervyn, fiercely swallowing one glassful, and pouring out another. 'should you live in london?' 'at jericho, for aught i care, or any one else.' her attempt to controvert this remark brought on a tirade against the whole family, which she would not keep up by reply, and which ended in moody silence. again she tried to rise, but he asked why she could not stay with him five minutes, and went on absently pouring out wine and drinking it, till, as the clock struck nine, the bottom of the decanter was reached, when he let her lead the way to the drawing-room, and there taking up the paper, soon fell asleep, then awoke at ten at the sound of her moving to go to bed, and kept her playing piquet for an hour and a half. an evening or two of this kind convinced phoebe that even with mervyn alone it was not a desirable life. she was less shocked than a girl used to a higher standard at home might have been, but that daily bottle and perpetual cards weighed on her imagination, and she felt that her younger sisters ought not to grow up to such a spectacle. still her loving heart yearned over mervyn, who was very fond of her, and consulted her pleasure continually in his own peculiar and selfish way, although often exceedingly cross to her as well as to every one else; but this ill-temper was so visibly the effect of low spirits that she easily endured and forgave it. she saw that he was both unwell and unhappy. she could not think what would become of him when the present arrangement should be broken up; but could only cling to him, as long as she could pity him. it was no wonder that on the sunday, honora seeing her enter the church, could only help being reminded of the expression of that child-saint of raffaelle, wandering alone through the dragon-haunted wood, wistful and distressed, yet so confident in the unseen guide and guardian that she treads down evils and perils in innocence, unconscious of her full danger and of their full blackness. chapter xix close within us we will carry, strong, collected, calm, and brave, the true panoply of quiet which the bad world never gave; very serpents in discretion, yet as guileless as the dove, lo! obedience is the watchword, and the countersign is love. w. g. tupper on the next hunting day, mervyn took phoebe with him to the meet, upon a favourite common towards elverslope, where on a fine morning ladies were as apt to be found as hounds and huntsmen, so that she would be at no loss for companions when he left her. phoebe rode, as she did everything else, well, quietly and firmly, and she looked very young and fresh, with her rounded rosy cheeks and chin. her fair hair was parted back under a round hat, her slenderly plump figure appeared to advantage mounted on her bright bay, and altogether she presented a striking contrast to her brother. she had not seen him in hunting costume for nearly a year, and she observed with pain how much he had lost his good looks; his well-made youthful air was passing away, and his features were becoming redder and coarser; but he was in his best humour, good-natured, and as nearly gay as he ever was; and phoebe enjoyed her four-miles' ride in the beauty of a warm december's day, the sun shining on dewy hedges, and robins and thrushes trying to treat the weather like spring, as they sang amid the rich stores of coral fruit that hung as yet untouched on every hawthorn or eglantine. the ladies mustered strong on the smooth turf of the chalk down bordering the copse which was being drawn. phoebe looked out for acquaintance, but a few gentlemen coming up to greet her, she did not notice, as mervyn did, that the girls with whom he had wished to leave her had become intent on some doings in the copse, and had trotted off with their father. he made his way to the barouche where sat the _grande dame_ of the county, exchanged civilities, and asked leave to introduce his sister. phoebe, who had never seen the lady before, thought nothing of the cold distant bow; it was for mervyn, who knew what her greetings could be, to fume and rage inwardly. other acknowledgments passed, but no party had approached or admitted phoebe, and when the hounds went away, she was still riding alone with her brother and a young officer. she bade them not to mind her, she would ride home with the servant, and as all were in motion, she had enough to do to hold in her horse, while mervyn and his friend dashed forward, and soon she found herself alone, except for the groom; the field were well away over the down, the carriages driving off, the mounted maidens following the chase as far as the way was fair and lady-like. phoebe had no mind to do so. her isolation made her feel forlorn, and brought home miss charlecote's words as to the opinion entertained of her by the world. poor child, something like a tear came into her eye and a blush to her cheek, but, 'never mind,' she thought, 'they will believe miss charlecote, and she will take care of me. if only mervyn will not get angry, and make an uproar! i shall soon be gone away! when shall i come back?' she rode up to the highest part of the down for a take-leave gaze. there lay elverslope in its basin-like valley scooped out in the hills, with the purple bloom of autumnal haze veiling its red brick and slate; there, on the other side, the copses and arable fields dipped and rose, and rose and dipped again, till the undulations culminated in the tall fir-trees in the holt garden, the landmark of the country; and on the bare slope to the west, beauchamp's pillars and pediment made a stately speck in the landscape. 'home no longer!' thought phoebe; 'there will be strangers there--and we shall be on the world! oh! why cannot mervyn be like robert? how happy we could be!' beauchamp had not been a perfect eden in itself, but still it had all the associations of the paradise of her guileless childhood; and to her the halo around it would always have the radiance of the loving spirit through which she viewed it. the undefined future was hard to bear, but she thought of robert, and of the promise that neither her sisters nor miss fennimore should be parted from her, and tried to rest thankful on that comfort. she had left the down for the turnpike road, the sounds of the hunt often reaching her, with glimpses of men and dogs in the distance taking a direction parallel with her own. presently a red coat glanced through the hedge of one of the cross lanes, as if coming towards the road, and as she reached the opening at the end, a signal was made to her to stop. foreboding some accident, she hastily turned up the narrow white muddy lane, and was met by an elderly gentleman. 'don't be alarmed,' he said kindly; 'only your brother seems rather unwell, and i thought i had best see him under your charge.' mervyn was by this time in sight, advancing slowly, and phoebe with rapid thanks rode on to meet him. she knew that dull, confused, dazzled eye belonged to his giddy fits, and did not wonder at the half-uttered murmur, rather in the imprecation line, with which he spoke; but the reel in his saddle terrified her greatly, and she was dismayed to see that the gentleman had proceeded into the high road instead of offering further assistance. she presently perceived that the danger of falling was less real than apparent, and that her brother could still keep his seat, and govern his horse, though nearly unable to look or speak. she kept close to him, and was much relieved to find that the stranger had not returned to the sport, but was leisurely following at some distance behind the groom. never had two miles seemed so long as under her frequent alarms lest mervyn should become unable to keep the saddle; but at each moment of terror, she heard the pace of the hunter behind quickened to come to her help, and if she looked round she met an encouraging sign. when the lodge was reached, and mervyn, somewhat revived, had ridden through the gates, she turned back to give her warm thanks. a kind, fatherly, friendly face looked at her with a sort of compassion, as putting aside her thanks, the gentleman said, quickly, yet half-reluctantly, 'have you ever seen him like this before?' 'yes; the giddiness often comes on in the morning, but never so badly as this. i think it was from the rapid motion.' 'has he had advice?' 'i cannot persuade him to see any one. do you think he ought? i would send at once, at the risk of his being angry.' 'does dr. martyn attend you? shall i leave a message as i go home?' 'i should be most thankful!' 'it may be nothing, but you will be happier that it should be ascertained;' and with another kindly nod, he rode off. mervyn had gone to his room, and answered her inquiries at the door with a brief, blunt 'better,' to be interpreted that he did not wish to be disturbed. she did not see him till dinnertime, when he had a sullen headache, and was gruff and gloomy. she tried to learn who the friend in need had been, but he had been incapable of distinguishing anybody or anything at the moment of the attack, and was annoyed at having been followed. 'what a pottering ass to come away from a run on a fool's errand!' he said. 'some elverslope spy, who will set it about the country that i had been drinking, and cast that up to you!' and then he began to rail against the ladies, singly and collectively, inconsistently declaring it was phoebe's own fault for not having called on them, and that he would have augusta to beauchamp, give a ball and supper, and show whether miss fulmort were a person to be cut. this mode of vindication not being to miss fulmort's taste, she tried to avert it by doubts whether augusta could be had; and was told that, show lady bannerman a bottle of barton's dry champagne, and she would come to the world's end. meantime, phoebe must come out to-morrow for a round of visits, whereat her heart failed her, as a thrusting of herself where she was not welcome; but he spoke so fiercely and dictatorially, that she reserved her pleading for the morning, when he would probably be too inert not to be glad of the escape. at last, dr. martyn's presence in the drawing-room was announced to her. she began her explanation with desperate bravery; and though the first words were met with a scoffing grunt, she found mervyn less displeased than she had feared--nay, almost glad that the step had been taken, though he would not say so, and made a great favour of letting her send the physician to him in the dining-room. after a time, dr. martyn came to tell her that he had found her brother's head and pulse in such a state as to need instant relief by cupping; and that the young union doctor had been sent for from the village for the purpose. a constitutional fulness of blood in the head had been aggravated by his mode of life, and immediate discipline, severe regimen, and abstinence from business or excitement, were the only means of averting dangerous illness; in fact, his condition might at any time become exceedingly critical, though perseverance in care might possibly prevent all absolute peril. he himself was thoroughly frightened. his own sensations and forebodings seconded the sentence too completely for resistance; it was almost a relief to give way; and his own method of driving away discomfort had so signally failed, that he was willing to resign himself to others. phoebe assisted at the cupping valorously and handily. she had a civil speech from young mr. jackson, and mervyn, as she bade him good night, said, 'i can't spare you now, phoebe.' 'not till you are better,' she answered. and so she told miss charlecote, and wrote to robert; but neither was satisfied. honora said it was unlucky. it might certainly be a duty to nurse mervyn if he were really ill, and if he made himself fit company for her, but it would not set her straight with the neighbourhood; and robert wrote in visible displeasure at this complication of the difficulty. 'if mervyn's habits had disordered his health, it did not render his pursuits more desirable for his sisters. if he wanted phoebe's attendance, let him come to town with her to the bannermans; but his ailments must not be made an excuse for detaining her in so unsuitable a position as that into which he had brought her.' it was not so kind a letter as phoebe would have claimed from robert, and it was the more trying as mervyn, deprived of the factitious exhilaration that had kept him up, and lowered by treatment, was dispirited, depressed, incapable of being entertained, cross at her failures, yet exacting of her attendance. he had business at his office in the city that needed his presence, so he insisted till the last morning upon going, and then owned himself in no state to go farther than the study, where he tried to write, but found his brain so weak and confused that he could hardly complete a letter, and was obliged to push over even the simplest calculation to phoebe. in vain she tried to divert his mind from this perilous exertion; he had not taste nor cultivation enough to be interested in anything she could devise, and harping upon some one of the unpleasant topics that occupied his thoughts was his only entertainment when he grew tired of cards or backgammon. phoebe sat up late writing to robert a more minute account of mervyn's illness, which she thought must plead for him; and rather sad at heart, she had gone to bed and fallen asleep, when far on in the night a noise startled her. she did not suspect her own imagination of being to blame, except so far as the associations with illness in the house might have recalled the sounds that once had been wont to summon her to her mother's room. the fear that her brother might be worse made her listen, till the sounds became matters of certainty. springing to the window, her eyes seemed to stiffen with amaze as she beheld in the clear, full moonlight, on the frosty sward, the distinctly-traced shadow of a horse and cart. the objects themselves were concealed by a clump of young trees, but their forms were distinctly pictured on the turf, and the conviction flashed over her that a robbery must be going forward. 'perils and dangers of this night, indeed!' one prayer, one thought. she remembered the great house-bell, above the attic stairs in the opposite wing, at the other end of the gallery, which led from the top of the grand staircase, where the chief bedroom doors opened, and a jet of gas burnt all night on the balustrade. throwing on her dressing-gown, she sped along the passage, and pushing open the swing-door, beheld mervyn at the door of his own room, and at the head of the stairs a man, in whom she recognized the discarded footman, raising a pistol. one swift bound--her hand was on the gas-pipe. all was darkness, save a dim stripe from within the open door of her mother's former dressing-room, close to where she stood. she seized the lock, drew it close, and had turned the key before the hand within had time to wrench round the inner handle. that same instant, the flash and report of a pistol made her cry out her brother's name. 'hollo! what did you put out the light for?' he angrily answered; and as she could just distinguish his white shirt sleeves, she sprang to him. steps went hurriedly down the stairs. 'gone!' they both cried at once; mervyn, with an imprecation on the darkness, adding, 'go and ring the bell. i'll watch here.' she obeyed, but the alarm had been given, and the house was astir. candle-light gleamed above--cries, steps, and exclamations were heard, and she was obliged to hurry down, to save herself from being run over. two figures had joined mervyn, the voice of one proclaiming her as bertha, quivering with excitement. 'in there? my emeralds are in there! open the door, or he will make off with my--my emeralds!' 'safe, my child? don't stand before that door,' cried miss fennimore, pulling phoebe back with a fond, eager grasp. 'here, some of you,' shouted mervyn to the men, whose heads appeared behind the herd of maids, 'come and lay hold of the fellow when i unlock the door.' the women fell back with suppressed screams, and readily made way for the men, but they shuffled, backed, and talked of pistols, and the butler suggested the policeman. 'the policeman--he lives two miles off,' cried bertha. 'he'll go out of window with my emeralds! unlock the door, mervyn.' 'unlock it yourself,' said mervyn, with an impatient stamp of his foot. 'pshaw! but thank you,' as miss fennimore put into his hand his double-barrelled gun, the first weapon she had found--unloaded, indeed, but even as a club formidable enough to give him confidence to unlock the door, and call to the man to give himself up. the servants huddled together like sheep, but there was no answer. he called for a light. it was put into his hand by phoebe, and as he opened the door, was blown out by a stream of cold air from the open window. the thief was gone. everybody was ready to press in and look for him in every impossible place, but he had evidently escaped by the leads of the portico beneath; not, however, with 'my emeralds'--he had only attempted the lock of the jewel cabinet. phoebe hurried to see whether maria had been frightened, and finding her happily asleep, followed the rest of the world down-stairs, where the servants seemed to be vying with each other in the magnitude of the losses they announced, while mervyn was shouting himself hoarse with passionate orders that everything should be left alone--doors, windows, plate-chests, and all--for the inspection of the police; and human nature could not resist lifting up and displaying signs of the robbery every moment, in the midst of the storm of vituperation thus excited. mervyn could hardly attend to phoebe's mention of the cart, but as soon as it reached his senses, he redoubled his hot commands to keepers and stablemen to set off in pursuit, and called for his horse to ride to elverslope, to give information at the police station and telegraph office. phoebe implored him to rest and send a messenger, but he roughly bade her not to be so absurd, commanded again that nothing should be disturbed, or, if she _would_ be busy, that she should make out a list of all that was missing. 'grateful!' indignantly thought miss fennimore, as phoebe was left leaning on a pillar in the portico, watching him ride away, the pale light of the yellow setting moon giving an almost ghostly appearance to her white drapery and wistful attitude. putting an arm round her, the governess found her shivering from head to foot, and pale and cold as marble; her knees knocked together when she walked, and her teeth chattered as she strove to smile, but her quietness still showed itself in all her movements, as she returned into the hall, and reached the welcome support of a chair beside the rekindled fire. miss fennimore chafed her hands, and she looked up, smiled, and said, 'thank you.' 'then you were frightened, after all, phoebe,' cried bertha, triumphantly. 'was i?--i don't know,' said phoebe, as in a dream. 'what, when you don't know what you are talking of, and are still trembling all over?' 'i can't tell. i think what came on me then was thankfulness.' 'i am sure we may be thankful that our jewels are the only things safe!' 'oh! bertha, you don't know, then, that the man was taking aim at mervyn!' and the shudder returned. 'there, phoebe, for the sake of candour and psychology, confess your terror.' 'indeed, bertha,' said phoebe, with a smile on her tremulous lip, 'it is very odd, but i don't think i was afraid; there was a feeling of shadowing wings that left no room for terror.' 'that enabled you to think and act?' asked miss fennimore. 'i didn't think; it came to me,' said phoebe. 'pray, let me go; bertha dear, you had better go to bed. pray lie down, miss fennimore.' she moved slowly away, her steps still unsteady and her cheeks colourless, but the sweet light of thankfulness on her face; while bertha said, in her moralizing tone, 'it is a curious study to see phoebe taking her own steady nerves and power of resource for something external to herself, and being pious about it.' miss fennimore was not gratified by her apt pupil's remark. 'if phoebe's conduct do not fill you with reverence, both for her and that which actuates her, i can only stand astonished,' she said. bertha turned away, and erected her eyebrows. no one could go to bed, and before five o'clock phoebe came down, dressed for the day, and set to work with the butler and the inventory of the plate to draw up an account of the losses. not merely the plate in common use was gone, but the costly services and ornaments that had been the glory of old mr. fulmort's heart; and the locks had not been broken but opened with a key; the drawing-rooms had been rifled of their expensive bijouterie, and the foray would have been completely successful had it included the jewels. there were no marks of a violent entrance; windows and doors were all fastened as usual, with the single exception of the back door, which was found ajar, but with no traces of having been opened in an unusual manner, though the heavy bolts and bars would have precluded an entrance from the outside even with a false key. early in the day, mervyn returned with the superintendent of police. he was still too much excited to rest, and his heavy tread re-echoed from floor to floor, as he showed the superintendent round the house, calling his sister or the servants to corroborate his statements, or help out his account of what he had hardly seen or comprehended. thus he came to phoebe for her version of the affair in the gallery, of which he only knew his own share--the noise that had roused him, the sight of the burglar, the sudden darkness, the report of the pistol; and the witness of his danger--the bullet--was in the wall nearly where his head had been. when phoebe had answered his questions, he gazed at her, and exclaimed--'hallo! why, phoebe, it seems that but for you, parson robert would be in possession here!' and burst into a strange nervous laugh, ending by coming to her and giving a hearty kiss to her forehead, ere hurrying away to report her evidence to the policeman. when all measures had been taken, intelligence sent back to the station, and a search instituted in every direction, mervyn consented to sit down to breakfast, but talked instead of eating, telling phoebe that even without her recognition of james smithson, the former footman, the superintendent would have attributed the burglary to a person familiar with the house, provided with facsimiles of all the keys, except those of the jewels, as well as sufficiently aware of the habits of the family to make the attempt just before the jewels were to be removed, and when the master was likely to be absent. the appearance of the back door had led to the conclusion that the thieves had been admitted from within; a london detective had therefore been sent for, who was to come in the guise of a clerk from the distillery, bringing down the books to mr. fulmort, and phoebe was forbidden to reveal his true character to any one but miss fennimore. so virulently did mervyn talk of smithson, that phoebe was sorry she had recognized him, and became first compassionate, then disconcerted and shocked. she rose to leave the room as the only means of silencing him; he got up to come after her, abusing the law because house-breaking was not a hanging matter, his face growing more purple with passion every moment; but his steps suddenly failed, his exclamation transferred his fury to his own giddiness, and phoebe, flying to his side, was only just in time to support him to a couch. it was the worst attack he had yet had, and his doctors coming in the midst of it, used prompt measures to relieve him, and impressed on both him and his sister that everything would depend on perfect quiet and absence from all disturbance; and he was so much exhausted by the reaction of his excitement, loss of blood, and confusion of head, that he attempted little but long fretful sighs when at length he was left to her. after much weariness and discomfort he fell asleep, and phoebe ventured to creep quietly out of the library to see miss charlecote, who was hearing the night's adventures in the schoolroom. scarcely, however, had honor had time to embrace the little heroine, whose conduct had lost nothing in miss fennimore's narration, when a message came from elverslope. it was the day of the petty sessions, and a notable bad character having been taken up with some suspicious articles upon him, the magistrates were waiting for mr. fulmort to make out the committal on his evidence. 'i must go instead,' said phoebe, after considering for a moment. 'my dear,' exclaimed honor, 'you do not know how unpleasant it will be!' 'mervyn must sleep,' said phoebe; 'and if this be an innocent man, he ought to be cleared at once. if it be not improper, i think i ought to go. may i?' looking at the governess, who suggested her speaking to the superintendent, and learning whether her brother had been absolutely summoned. it proved to be only a verbal message, and the superintendent urged her going, telling her that her evidence would suffice for the present, and that she would be the most important witness at the assizes--which he evidently considered as a great compliment. miss charlecote undertook to go and take care of her young friend, and they set off in silence, phoebe leaning back with her veil down, and honor, perceiving that she needed this interval of quiet repose, watching her with wonder. had it been honor's own case, she would have hung back out of dislike to pursuing an enemy, and from dread of publicity, but these objections had apparently not occurred to the more simple mind, only devising how to spare her brother; and while honor would have been wretched from distrust of her own accuracy, and her habits of imperfect observation would have made her doubt her own senses and memory, she honoured phoebe's careful training in seeing what she saw, and hearing what she heard, without cross lights or counter sounds from imagination. once phoebe inquired in a low, awe-struck voice, 'shall i be put on oath?' 'most likely, my dear.' phoebe's hands were pressed together as though in preparation for a religious rite. she was not dismayed, but from her strict truth at all times, she was the more sensible of the sacredness and solemnity of the great appeal. an offence on so large a scale had brought a throng of loiterers to the door of the town-hall, and honor felt nervous and out of place as way was made for the two ladies to mount the stairs to the justice-room; but there she was welcomed by several of the magistrates, and could watch phoebe's demeanour, and the impression it made on persons accustomed to connect many strange stories with the name of miss fulmort. that air of maidenly innocence, the girlish form in deep mourning, the gentle seriousness and grave composure of the young face, the simple, self-possessed manner, and the steady, distinct tones of the clear, soft voice were, as honor felt, producing an effect that was shown in the mood of addressing her, always considerate and courteous, but increasing in respect and confidence. and as phoebe raised her eyes, the chairman's face--the first to meet her glance--was the kind ruddy one, set in iron gray hair, that she remembered as belonging to the hunter who had sacrificed the run to see mervyn safely home. the mutual recognition, and the tone of concern for his illness, made her feel in the presence of a friend, and she was the more at ease in performing her part. to her great relief, the man in custody was unknown to her. james smithson, she said, was taller, and had a longer face, and she had not seen him whom she had locked into the dressing-room. however, she identified a gold and turquoise letter-weight; and the setting of a seal, whence the stone with the crest had been extracted, both of which had been found in the man's pocket, together with some pawnbroker's tickets, which represented a buhl-clock and other articles from beauchamp. she was made to give an account of the robbery. honor had never felt prouder of any of her favourites than of her, while listening to the modest, simple, but clear and circumstantial recital, and watching how much struck the country gentlemen were by the girl who had been of late everywhere pitied or censured. the statement over, she was desired to answer a few questions from captain morden, the chief of the constabulary force, who had come from the county town to investigate the affair. taking her aside, he minutely examined her on the appearance of some of the articles mentioned in the inventory, on the form of the shadow of the horse and cart, on the thieves themselves, and chiefly on smithson, and how she could be so secure of the identity of the robber in the pea-jacket with the footman in powder and livery. 'i can hardly tell,' said phoebe; 'but i have no doubt in my own mind.' 'was he like this?' asked captain morden, showing her a photograph. 'certainly not.' 'nor this?' 'no.' 'nor this?' 'yes, that is smithson in plain clothes.' 'right, miss fulmort. you have an eye for a likeness. these fellows have such a turn for having their portraits done, that in these affairs we always try if the shilling photographers have duplicates. this will be sent to town by the next train.' 'i am not sure that i should have known it if i had not seen it before.' 'indeed! should you object to tell me under what circumstances?' 'at the photographer's, at the time he was at hiltonbury,' said phoebe. 'i went to him with one of my sisters, and we were amused by finding many of the likenesses of our servants. smithson and another came in to be taken while we were there, and we afterwards saw this portrait when calling for my sister's.' 'another--another servant?' said the keen captain. 'yes, one of the maids.' 'her name, if you please.' 'indeed,' said phoebe, distressed, as she saw this jotted down. 'i cannot bring suspicion and trouble on any one.' 'you will do no such thing, miss fulmort. we will only keep our eye on her. neither she, nor any one else, shall have any ground for supposing her under suspicion, but it is our duty to miss no possible indication. will you oblige me with her name?' 'she is called jane, but i do not know her real name,' said phoebe, with much reluctance, and in little need of the injunction to secrecy on this head. the general eagerness to hunt down the criminals saddened her, and she was glad to be released, with thanks for her distinct evidence. the kind old chairman then met her, quite with an air of fatherly protection, such as elderly men often wear towards orphaned maidens, and inquired more particularly for her brother's health. she was glad to thank him again for having sent the physician, when his aid was so needful, and she was in so much difficulty. 'a bold stroke,' he, said, smiling; 'i thought you might throw all the blame on me if it were needless.' 'needless--oh! it may have saved him. is that the carriage? i must get home as soon as i can.' 'yes, i am sure you must be anxious, but i hope to see more of you another time. lady raymond must come and see if you cannot find a day to spend with my girls.' lady raymond! so this was sir john! mervyn's foe and maligner! was he repenting at the sight of what he had done? yet he really looked like a very good, kind old man, and seemed satisfied with the very shabby answer he obtained to a speech that filled honor with a sense of her young friend's victory. there was phoebe, re-established in the good graces of the neighbourhood, favoured by the very _elite_ of the county for goodness, sought by those who had never visited at beauchamp in the days of its gaiety and ostentation! ungrateful child, not to be better pleased--only saying that she supposed she should go away when her brother should be well again, and not seeing her way to any day for moorcroft! was she still unforgiving for mervyn's rejection, or had she a feeling against visiting those who had not taken notice of her family before? mervyn met phoebe in the hall, still looking very ill, with his purple paleness, his heavy eyes, and uncertain steps, and though he called himself all right, since his sleep, it was with a weary gasp that he sank into his chair, and called on her for an account of what she had done. his excitement seemed to have burnt itself out, for he listened languidly, and asked questions by jerks, dozing half-way through the answer, and wakening to some fresh inquiry; once it was--'and did the old sinner take any notice of you?' 'the prisoner?' 'nonsense. old raymond. of course he was in the chair.' 'he was very kind. it was he who came home from the hunt with us the other day.' 'ha! i said it was some old woman of a spy, wanting to get up a story against me!' 'nay, i think he felt kindly, for he talked of lady raymond calling, and my spending a day at moorcroft.' 'oh! so the godly mean to rescue you, do they?' 'i did not accept. perhaps they will never think of it again.' 'no; his ladies will not let him!' sneered mervyn. nevertheless, his last words that night were, 'so the raymonds have asked you!' he was in a more satisfactory state the next day; feeble, but tamed into endurance of medical treatment, and almost indifferent about the robbery; as though his passion were spent, and he were tired of the subject. however, the police were alert. the man whom they had taken up was a squatter in the forest, notorious as a poacher and thief, and his horse and cart answered to phoebe's description of the shadow. he had been arrested when returning with them from the small seaport on the other side of the forest in the next county, and on communicating with the authorities there, search at a dealer's in marine stores had revealed hampers filled with the beauchamp plate, as yet unmelted. the spoils of lesser bulk had disappeared with smithson and the other criminal. chapter xx _mascarille_.--oh! oh! je ne prenois pas garde; tandis que sans songer a mal, je vous regarde votre oeil en tapinois me derobe mon coeur, au voleur! au voleur! au voleur! au voleur! _cathos_.--ah! voila qui est pousse dans le dernier galant! _les precieuses ridicules_ the detective arrived, looking so entirely the office clerk as to take in mervyn himself at first sight; and the rest of the world understood that he was to stay till their master could go over the accounts with him. as housekeeper's room company, his attentions were doubly relished by the housemaids, and jealousy was not long in prompting the revelation that jane hart had been smithson's sweetheart, and was supposed to have met him since his dismissal. following up this trail, the detective proved to his own satisfaction that she had been at a ball at a public-house in the next village the night before the hunt, and had there met both smithson and the poacher. this, however, he reserved for mervyn's private ear, still watching his victim, in the hope that she might unconsciously give some clue to the whereabouts of her lover. the espionage diverted mervyn, and gave him the occupation for his thoughts that he sorely needed; but it oppressed phoebe, and she shrank from the sight of the housemaid, as though she herself were dealing treacherously by her. 'phoebe,' said mervyn, mysteriously, coming into the library, where his tardy breakfast was spread, 'that villain smithson has been taken up at liverpool; and here's a letter for you to look at. fenton has captured a letter to that woman hart, who, he found, was always wanting to go to the post--but he can't make it out; and i thought it was german, so i brought it to you. it looks as if old lieschen-- 'no! no! it can't be,' cried phoebe. 'i'll clear it up in a moment.' but as she glanced at the letter the colour fled from her cheek. 'well, what is it?' said mervyn, impatiently. 'oh, mervyn!' and she put her hands before her face. 'come, the fewer words the better. out with it at once!' 'mervyn! it is to bertha!' she stood transfixed. 'what?' cried mervyn. 'to bertha,' repeated phoebe, looking as if she could never shut her eyes. 'bertha? what, a billet-doux; the little precocious pussycat!' and he laughed, to phoebe's increased horror. 'if it could only be a mistake!' said she; 'but here is her name! it is not german, only english in german writing. oh, bertha! bertha!' 'well, but who is the fellow? let me look,' said mervyn. 'it is too foolish,' said phoebe, guarding it, in the midst of her cold chills of dismay. 'there is no surname--only john. ah! here's j. h. oh! mervyn, could it be mr. hastings?' 'no such thing! john! why, my name's john--everybody's name is john! that's nothing.' 'but, mervyn, i was warned,' said phoebe, her eyes again dilating with dismay, 'that mr. hastings never was received into a house with women without there being cause to repent it.' 'experience might have taught you how much slanderous gossip to believe by this time! i believe it is some trumpery curate she has been meeting at miss charlecote's school feasts.' 'for shame, mervyn,' cried phoebe, in real anger. 'curates like thirty thousand as much as other men,' said mervyn, sulkily. 'after all,' said phoebe, controlling herself, 'what signifies most is, that poor bertha should have been led to do such a dreadful thing.' 'if ever i take charge of a pack of women again! but let's hear what the rascal says to her.' 'i do not think it is fair to read it all,' said phoebe, glancing over the tender passages. 'poor child, how ashamed she will be! but listen--' and she read a portion, as if meant to restrain the girl's impatience, promising to offer a visit to beauchamp, or, if that were refused till the captives were carried off, assuring her there would be ways and means at acton manor, where a little coldness from the baronet always secured the lady's good graces. acton manor was in mr. hastings' neighbourhood, and mervyn struck his own knee several times. 'hum! ha! was not some chaff going on one day about the heiresses boxed up in the west wing? some one set you all down at a monstrous figure--a hundred thousand apiece. i wonder if he were green enough to believe it! hastings! no, it can't be! here, we'll have the impudent child down, and frighten it out of her. but first, how are we to put off that fellow fenton? make up something to tell him.' 'making up would be of no use,' said phoebe; 'he is too clever. tell him it is a family matter.' mervyn left the room, and phoebe hid her face in her hands, thunderstruck, and endeavouring to disentangle her thoughts, perturbed between shame, indignation, and the longing to shield and protect her sister. she had not fully realized her sister's offence, so new to her imagination, when she was roused by mervyn's return, saying that he had sent for bertha to have it over. starting up, she begged to go and prepare her sister, but he peremptorily detained her, and, 'oh, be kind to her,' was all that she could say, before in tripped bertha, looking restless and amazed, but her _retrousse_ nose, round features, and wavy hair so childish that the accusation seemed absurd. so mervyn felt it, and in vain drew in his feet, made himself upright, and tried to look magisterial. 'bertha,' he began, 'bertha, i have sent for you, bertha--it is not possible--what's that?' pointing to the letter, as though it had been a stain of ink which she had just perpetrated. alarmed perhaps, but certainly not confounded, bertha put her hands before her, and demurely said--'what do you mean?' 'what do you mean, bertha, by such a correspondence as this?' 'if you know that letter is for me, why did you meddle with it?' she coolly answered. 'upon my word, this is assurance,' cried mervyn. 'give me my letter,' repeated bertha, reaching out for it. 'no one else has a right to touch it.' 'if there be nothing amiss,' said phoebe, coming to the relief of her brother, who was almost speechless at this audacity, 'why receive it under cover to a servant?' 'because prejudice surrounds me,' stoutly replied bertha, with barely a hitch in her speech, as if making a grand stroke; but seeing her brother smile, she added in an annihilating tone, 'practical tyranny is exercised in every family until education and intellect effect a moral emancipation.' 'what?' said mervyn, 'education teaching you to write letters in german hand! fine results! i tell you, if you were older, the disgrace of this would stick to you for life, but if you will tell the whole truth about this scoundrel, and put an end to it, we will do the best we can for you.' she made up a disdainful mouth, and said, 'thank you.' 'after all,' said mervyn, turning to phoebe, 'it is a joke! look at her! she is a baby! you need not have made such a rout. this is only a toy-letter to a little girl; very good practice in german writing.' 'i am engaged to john hastings heart and hand,' said bertha in high dignity, little knowing that she thus first disclosed the name. 'yes, people talk of children being their little wives,' said mervyn, 'but you are getting too old for such nonsense, though he does not think you so.' 'it is the joint purpose of our lives,' said bertha. mervyn gave his scoffing laugh, and again addressing phoebe, said, 'if it were you, now, or any one with whom he was not in sport, it would be a serious matter. the fellow got himself expelled from harrow, then was the proverb of even a german university, ran through his means before he was five-and-twenty, is as much at home in the queen's bench as i am in this study, has been outlawed, lived on _rouge et noir_ at baden till he got whitewashed when his mother died, and since that has lived on betting, or making himself agreeable to whoever would ask him.' 'many thanks on the part of your intimate friend,' said bertha, with suppressed passion. mervyn stamped his foot, and phoebe defended him with, 'men may associate with those who are no companions for their sisters, bertha.' 'contracted minds always accept malignant reports,' was the reply. 'report,' said mervyn; 'i know it as well as i know myself!' then recollecting himself, 'but she does not understand, it is of no use to talk to children. take her away, phoebe, and keep her in the nursery till mr. crabbe comes to settle what is to be done with her.' 'i insist on having my letter,' said bertha, with womanly grandeur. 'let her have it. it is not worth bothering about a mere joke,' said mervyn, leaning back, wearied of the struggle, in which, provoking as he was, he had received some home thrusts. phoebe felt bewildered, and as if she had a perfect stranger on her hands, though bertha's high tone was, after all, chiefly from her extremity, and by way of reply to her brother's scornful incredulity of her exalted position. she was the first to speak on leaving the library. 'pray, phoebe, how came you to tamper with people's letters?' phoebe explained. 'from mervyn and his spy one could expect no delicacy,' said bertha, 'but in you it was treachery.' 'no, bertha,' said phoebe, 'i was grieved to expose you, but it was my duty to clear the innocent by examining the letter, and mervyn had a right to know what concerned you when you were under his charge. it is our business to save you, and a letter sent in this way does not stand on the same ground as one coming openly under your own name. but i did not read it to him, bertha--not all.' 'if you had,' said bertha, more piqued than obliged by this reserve, 'he would have known it was in earnest and not childish nonsense. you saw that it was earnest, phoebe?' and her defiant voice betrayed a semi-distrust. 'i am afraid it looked very much so,' said phoebe; 'but, bertha, that would be saddest of all. i am afraid he might be wicked enough to be trying to get your fortune, for indeed--don't be very much vexed, dearest, i am only saying it for your good--you are not old enough, nor formed, nor pretty enough, really to please a man that has seen so much of the world.' 'he never met so fresh, or original, or so highly cultivated a mind,' said bertha; 'besides, as to features, there may be different opinions!' 'but, bertha, how could you ever see him or speak to him?' 'hearts can find more ways than you dream of,' said bertha, with a touch of sentiment; 'we had only to meet for the magnetism of mind to be felt!' argument was heartless work. flattery and the glory of her conquest had entirely filled the child's mind, and she despised mervyn and phoebe far too much for the representations of the one or the persuasions of the other to have the smallest weight with her. evidently, weariness of her studies, and impatience of discipline had led her to lend a willing ear to any distraction, and to give in to the intercourse that both gratified and amused herself and outwitted her governess, and thence the belief in the power of her own charms, and preference for their admirer, were steps easier than appeared credible to phoebe. from listening in helpless amaze to a miserable round of pertness and philosophy, phoebe was called down-stairs to hear that mervyn had been examining jane hart, and had elicited from her that after having once surprised mr. hastings and miss bertha in conversation, she had several times conveyed notes between them, and since he had left beauchamp, she had posted two letters to him from the young lady, but this was the first answer received, directed to herself, to be left at the post-office to be called for. 'earnest enough on his part,' said mervyn; 'a regular speculation to patch up his fortunes. well, i knew enough of him, as i told you, but i was fool enough to pity him!' he became silent, and so did phoebe. she had been too much overset to look the subject fairly in the face, and his very calmness of voice and the absence of abusive epithets were a token that he was perfectly appalled at what he had brought on his sisters. they both sat still some minutes, when she saw him lean back with his hand to his head, and his eyes closed. 'there's a steeple chase!' he said, as phoebe laid her cool hand on his burning brow, and felt the throbbing of the swollen veins of his temples. both knew that this meant cupping, and they sent in haste for the hiltonbury doctor, but he was out for the day, and would not return till evening. phoebe felt dull and stunned, as if her decision had caused all the mischief, and more and more were following on, and her spirit almost died within her at mervyn's interjection of rage and suffering. 'though they curse, yet bless thou,' had of necessity been her rule while clinging to this brother; a mental ejaculation had become habitual, and this time it brought reaction from her forlorn despondency. she could do something. twice she had assisted in cupping, and she believed she could perform the operation. no failure could be as hurtful as delay, and she offered to make the attempt. mervyn growled at her folly, yawned, groaned, looked at his watch, counted the heavy hours, and supposed she must do as she chose. her heart rivalled his temples in palpitation, but happily without affecting eye, voice, or hand, and with lieschen's help the deed was successfully done, almost with equal benefit to the operator and the patient. success had put new life into her; the troubles had been forgotten for the moment, and recurred not as a shameful burthen, caused by her own imprudence, but as a possible turning-point, a subject for action, not for despair, and phoebe was herself again. 'what's that you are writing?' asked mervyn, starting from a doze on the sofa. 'a letter to robert,' she answered reluctantly. 'i suppose you will put it in the _times_. no woman can keep a thing to herself.' 'i would tell no one else, but i wanted his advice.' 'oh, i dare say.' phoebe saw that to persist in her letter would utterly destroy the repose that was essential in mervyn's state, and she laid aside her pen. 'going to do it out of sight?' he petulantly said. 'no; but at any rate i will wait till miss fennimore has talked to bertha. she will be more willing to listen to her.' 'because this is the result of her emancipating education. ha!' 'no; but bertha will attend to her, and cannot say her notions are servile and contracted.' 'if you say any more, i shall get up and flog them both.' 'miss fennimore is very wise,' said phoebe. 'why, what has she taught you but the ologies and the rights of women?' 'the chief thing she teaches,' said phoebe, 'is to attend to what we are doing.' mervyn laughed, but did not perceive how those words were the key of phoebe's character. 'sir john and lady raymond and miss raymond in the drawing-room.' unappreciating the benefit of changing the current of thought, phoebe lamented their admission, and moved reluctantly to the great rooms, where the guests looked as if they belonged to a more easy and friendly region than to that world of mirrors, damask, and gilding. sir john shook hands like an old friend, but his wife was one of those homely ladies who never appear to advantage in strange houses, and phoebe had not learnt the art of 'lady of the house' talk, besides feeling a certain chilliness towards mervyn's detractors, which rendered her stiff and formal. to her amaze, however, the languishing talk was interrupted by his entrance; he who regarded sir john as the cause of his disappointment; he who had last met susan raymond at the time of his rejection; he whom she had left prostrate among the sofa cushions; he had absolutely exerted himself to brush his hair and put on coat and boots, yet how horribly ill and nervous he looked, totally devoid of his usual cool assurance, uncertain whether to shake hands with the two ladies, and showing a strange restless eagerness as though entirely shaken off his balance. matters were mended by his entrance. phoebe liked lady raymond from the moment she detected a sign to the vehement sir john not to keep his host standing during the discussion of the robbery, and she ventured on expressing her gratitude for his escort on the day of the hunt. then arose an entreaty to view the scene of the midnight adventure, and the guests were conducted to the gallery, shown where each party had stood, the gas-pipe, the mark of the pistol-shot, and the door was opened to display the cabinet, and the window of the escape. to the intense surprise of her brother and sister, bertha was examining her emeralds. she came forward quite at her ease, and if she had been ten years a woman could not more naturally have assumed the entertainment of lady raymond, talking so readily that phoebe would have believed the morning's transactions a delusion, but for mervyn's telegraph of astonishment. the visitors had been at the holt, and obtained a promise from miss charlecote to spend the ensuing saturday week at moorcroft. they begged the sisters to accompany her. phoebe drew back, though mervyn hurried out declarations of his not wanting her, and the others never going out, till she hardly knew how it had been decided; but as the guests departed she heard mervyn severely observing to bertha--'no, certainly i should not send you to keep company with any well-behaved young ladies.' 'thank you, i have no desire to associate with commonplace girls,' said bertha, marching off to the west wing. 'you will go, phoebe,' said mervyn. 'indeed, if i did it would be partly for the sake of giving change to bertha, and letting her see what nice people really are.' 'are you crazy, phoebe? i would not have bertha with her impudence and her pedantry go among the raymonds--no, not for the bank of england.' those words darted into phoebe's mind the perception why mervyn was, in his strange way, promoting her intercourse with moorcroft, not only as stamping her conduct with approval of people of their worth and weight, but as affording him some slight glimmering of hope. she could not but recollect that the extra recklessness of language which had pained her, ever since his rejection had diminished ever since her report of sir john's notice of her at the justice room. sister-like, she pitied and hoped; but the more immediate care extinguished all the rest, and she was longing for miss fennimore's sympathy, though grieving at the pain the disclosure must inflict. it could not be made till the girls were gone to bed, and at half-past nine, phoebe sought the schoolroom, and told her tale. there was no answer, but an almost convulsive shudder; her hand was seized, and her finger guided to the line which miss fennimore had been reading in the greek testament--'by their fruits ye shall know them.' rallying before phoebe could trace what was passing in her mind, she shut the book, turned her chair to the fire, invited phoebe to another, and was at once the clear-headed, metaphysical governess, ready to discuss this grievous marvel. she was too generous by nature not to have treated her pupils with implicit trust, and this trust had been abused. looking back, she and phoebe could recollect moments when bertha had been unaccounted for, and must have held interviews with mr. hastings. she had professed a turn for twilight walks in the garden, and remained out of doors when the autumn evenings had sent the others in, and on the sunday afternoons, when phoebe and maria had been at church, miss fennimore reproached herself exceedingly with having been too much absorbed in her own readings to concern herself about the proceedings of a pupil, whose time on that day was at her own disposal. she also thought that there had been communications by look and sign across the pew at church; and she had remarked, though phoebe had been too much occupied with her brother to perceive the restlessness that had settled on bertha from the time of the departure of mervyn's guests, and had once reproved her for lingering, as she thought, to gossip with jane hart in her bedroom. 'and now,' said miss fennimore, 'she should have a thorough change. send her to school, calling it punishment, if you please, but chiefly for the sake of placing her among laughing girlish girls of the same age, and, above all, under a thoroughly religious mistress of wide intelligence, and who has never doubted.' 'but we were all to keep together, dear miss fennimore--you--' 'one whose mind has always been balancing between aspects of truth may instruct, but cannot educate. few minds can embrace the moral virtues unless they are based on an undoubted foundation, connected with present devotional warmth, and future hopes and fears. i see this now; i once thought excellence would approve itself, for its own sake, to others, as it did to myself. i regarded bertha as a fair subject for a full experiment of my system, with good disposition, good abilities, and few counter influences. i meant to cultivate self-relying, unprejudiced, effective good sense, and see--with prejudices have been rooted up restraints!' 'education seems to me to have little to do with what people turn out,' said phoebe. 'look at poor miss charlecote and the sandbrooks.' 'depend upon it, phoebe, that whatever harm may have ensued from her errors in detail, those young people will yet bless her for the principle she worked on. you can none of you bless me, for having guided the hands of the watch, and having left the mainspring untouched.' miss fennimore had been, like helvetius and the better class of encyclopaedists, enamoured of the moral virtues, but unable to perceive that they could not be separated from the christian faith, and she learnt like them that, when doctrine ceased to be prominent, practice went after it. bertha was her jacobin--and seemed doubly so the next morning, when an interview took place, in which the young lady gave her to understand that she, like phoebe, was devoid of the experience that would enable them to comprehend the sacred mutual duty of souls that once had spoken. woman was no longer the captive of the seraglio, nor the chronicler of small beer. intellectual training conferred rights of choice superior to conventional ties; and, as to the infallible discernment of that fifteen year old judgment, had not she the sole premises to go upon, she who alone had been admitted to the innermost of that manly existence? 'i always knew jack to be a clever dog,' said mervyn, when this was reported to him, 'but his soft sawder to a priggish metaphysical baby must have been the best fun in the world?' mervyn's great desire was to keep bertha's folly as great a secret as possible; and, by his decision, she was told that grace should be granted her till mr. crabbe's arrival, when, unless she had renounced what he called her silly child's fancy, stringent measures would be taken, and she would be exposed to the family censure. 'so,' said bertha, 'you expect to destroy the attraction of souls by physical force!' and phoebe wrote to robert a sorrowful letter, chiefly consisting of the utmost pleadings for mervyn and bertha that her loving heart could frame. she was happier when she had poured out her troubles, but grieved when no answer came by the next post. robert's displeasure must be great--and indeed but too justly so--since all this mischief was the consequence of the disregard of his wishes. yet justice was hard between brothers and sisters, especially when mervyn was in such a suffering state, threatened constantly by attacks of his complaint, which were only warded off by severe and weakening treatment. phoebe was so necessary to his comfort in waiting on him, and trying to while away his tedious hours of inaction and oppression, that she had little time to bestow upon bertha, nor, indeed, was talking of any use, as it only gave the young lady an occasion for pouring forth magniloquent sentiments, utterly heedless of the answers. sad, lonely, and helpless were phoebe's feelings, but she was patient, and still went on step by step through the strange tangle, attending to mervyn hour by hour, always with a gentle cheerful word and smile, and never trusting herself, even when alone, to think of the turmoil and break up that must ensue on her guardian's arrival. all was darkness and perplexity before her, but submission and trust were her refuge, and each day of waiting before the crisis was to her feelings a gain. chapter xxi o fy gar ride and fy gar rin and haste ye to find these traitors agen, for shees be burnt and hees been slein, the wearifu gaberlunzie man. some rade upon horse, some ran afit, the wife was wud and out of her wit, she couldna gang, nor yet could she sit, but aye did curse and ban.--king james v mervyn and phoebe were playing at billiards, as a means of inducing him to take exercise enough to make him sleep. the governess and the two girls were gone to the dentist's at elverslope. the winter's day was closing in, when there was a knock at the door, and they beheld miss fennimore, deadly white, and maria, who flew up to phoebe, crying--'bertha's gone, phoebe!' 'the next up-train stops at elverslope at . ,' said the governess, staring in mervyn's face, as though repeating a lesson. 'a carriage will be here by seven. i will bring her home, or never return.' 'gone!' 'it was inexcusable in me, sir,' said miss fennimore, resting a hand on the table to support herself. 'i thought it needlessly galling to let her feel herself watched; and at her request, let her remain in the waiting-room while her sister was in the dentist's hands. when, after an hour, maria was released, she was gone.' 'alone?' cried phoebe. 'alone, i hope. i went to the station; the train had been ten minutes gone; but a young lady, alone, in mourning, and with no luggage but a little bag, had got in there for london. happily, they did not know her; and it was the parliamentary train, which is five hours on the road. i telegraphed at once to your brother to meet her at the terminus.' 'i have no hope,' said mervyn, doggedly, seating himself on the table, his feet dangling. 'he will be in the lowest gutter of whittingtonia, where no one can find him. the fellow will meet that miserable child, go off to ostend this very night, marry her before to-morrow morning. there's an end of it!' 'where does mr. hastings lodge, sir?' 'nowhere that i know of. there will be no end of time lost in tracing him! no train before . ! i'll go in at once, and have a special.' 'they cannot put on one before nine, because of the excursion trains for the cattle-show. i should not have been in time had i driven to catch the express at w.,' said miss fennimore, in her clear voice of desperation. 'the . reaches town at . . will you give me the addresses where i may inquire, sir?' 'you! i am going myself. you would be of no use,' said mervyn, in a stunned, mechanical way; and looking at his watch, he went to give orders. 'he should not go, phoebe. in his state the mere journey is a fearful risk.' 'it can't be helped,' said phoebe. 'i shall go with him. you stay to take care of maria. there will be robert to help us;' and as the governess would have spoken farther, she held up her hands in entreaty--'o pray don't say anything! i can't go on if i do anything but act.' yet in the endeavour to keep her brother quiet, and to husband his powers, phoebe's movements and words had rather an additional gentleness and deliberation; and so free from bustle was her whole demeanour, that he never comprehended her intention of accompanying him till she stepped into the carriage beside him. 'what's this? you coming?' 'i will give you no trouble.' 'well, you may help to manage the girl;' and he lay back, relieved to be off, but already spent by the hurry of the last two hours. phoebe could sit and--no--not think, except that robert was at the other end of the line. the drive seemed to have lasted half the night ere the lamps of elverslope made constellations in the valley, and the green and red lights of the station loomed out on the hill. they drove into the circle of gaslights, among the vaporous steeds of omnibuses and flies, and entered the station, phoebe's veil down, and mervyn shading his dazzled eyes from the glare. they were half an hour too soon; and while waiting, it occurred to phoebe to inquire whether a telegram for beauchamp had been received. even so, and they must have crossed the express; but a duplicate was brought to them. 'safe. we shall be at elverslope at . , p.m.' assuredly phoebe did not faint, for she stood on her feet; and mervyn never perceived the suspension of senses, which lasted till she found him for the second time asking whether she would go home or await the travellers at elverslope. 'home,' she said, instinctively, in her relief forgetting all the distress of what had taken place, so that her sensations were little short of felicity; and as she heard the . train roaring up, she shed tears of joy at having no concern therewith. the darkness and mervyn's silence were comfortable, for she could wipe unseen her showers of tears at each gust of thankfulness that passed over her; and it was long before she could command her voice even to ask her companion whether he were tired. 'no,' he said; but the tone was more than half-sullen; and at the thought of the meeting between the brothers, poor phoebe's heart seemed to die within her. against their dark looks and curt sayings to one another she had no courage. when they reached home, she begged him to go at once to bed, hoping thus to defer the meeting; but he would not hear of doing so; and her only good augury was that his looks were pale, languid, and subdued, rather than flushed and excited. miss fennimore was in the hall, and he went towards her, saying, in a friendly tone, 'so, miss fennimore, you have heard that this unlucky child has given us a fright for nothing.' the voice in which she assented was hoarse and scarcely audible, and she looked as if twenty years had passed over her head. 'it was all owing to your promptitude,' said mervyn; 'a capital thought that telegram.' 'i am glad,' said miss fennimore; 'but i do not lose sight of my own negligence. it convinces me that i am utterly unfit for the charge i assumed. i shall leave your sisters as soon as new plans can be formed.' 'why, i'll be bound none of your pupils ever played you such a trick before!' miss fennimore only looked as if this convinced her the more; but it was no time for the argument, and phoebe caressingly persuaded her to come into the library and drink coffee with them, judging rightly that she had tasted nothing since morning. afterwards phoebe induced mervyn to lie on the sofa, and having made every preparation for the travellers, she sat down to wait. she could not read, she could not work; she felt that tranquillity was needful for her brother, and had learnt already the soothing effect of absolute repose. indeed, one of the first tokens by which miss fennimore had perceived character in phoebe was her faculty of being still. only that which has substance can be motionless. there she sat in the lamplight, her head drooping, her hands clasped on her knee, her eyes bent down, not drowsy, not abstracted, not rigid, but peaceful. her brother lay in the shade, watching her with a half-fascinated gaze, as though a magnetic spell repressed all inclination to work himself into agitation. the stillness became an effort at last, but it was resolutely preserved till the frost-bound gravel resounded with wheels. phoebe rose, mervyn started up, caught her hand and squeezed it hard. 'do not let him be hard on me, phoebe,' he said. 'i could not bear it.' she had little expected this. her answer was a mute caress, and she hurried out, but in a tumult of feeling, retreated behind the shelter of a pillar, and silently put her hand on robert's arm as he stepped out of the carriage. 'wait,' he whispered, holding her back. 'hush! i have promised that she shall see no one.' bertha descended, unassisted, her veil down, and neither turning to the right nor the left, crossed the hall and went upstairs. robert took off his overcoat and hat, took a light and followed her, signing that phoebe should remain behind. she found mervyn at the library door, like herself rather appalled at the apparition that had swept past them. she put her hand into his, with a kind of common feeling that they were awaiting a strict judge. robert soon reappeared, and in a preoccupied way, kissed the one and shook hands with the other, saying, 'she has locked her door, and says she wants nothing. i will try again presently--not you, phoebe; i could only get her home on condition she should see no one without her own consent. so you had my telegram?' 'we met it at the station. how did you find her?' 'had the man been written to?' asked robert. 'no,' said mervyn; 'we thought it best to treat it as childish nonsense, not worth serious notice, or in fact--i was not equal to writing.' the weary, dejected tone made robert look up, contrary to the brothers' usual habit of avoiding one another's eye, and he exclaimed, 'i did not know! you were not going to london to-night?' 'worse staying at home,' murmured mervyn, as, leaning on a corner of the mantelshelf, he rested his head on his hand. 'i was coming with him,' said phoebe; 'i thought if he gave directions, you could act.' robert continued to cast at him glances of dismay and compunction while pursuing the narrative. 'hastings must have learnt by some means that the speculation was not what he had imagined; for though he met her at paddington--' 'he did?' 'she had telegraphed to him while waiting at swindon. he found her out before i did, but he felt himself in a predicament, and i believe i was a welcome sight to him. he begged me to do him the justice to acquit him of all participation in this rash step, and said he had only met bertha with a view to replacing her in the hands of her family. how it would have been without me, i cannot tell, but i am inclined to believe that he did not know how to dispose of her. she clung to him and turned away from me so decidedly that i was almost grateful for the line he took; and he was obliged to tell her, with many fine speeches, that he could not expose her to share his poverty; and when the poor silly child declared she had enough for both, he told her plainly that it would not be available for six years, and he could not let her--tenderly nurtured, etc., etc. then supposing me uninformed, he disclaimed all betrayal of your confidence, and represented all that had passed as sport with a child, which to his surprise she had taken as earnest.' 'poor bertha!' exclaimed phoebe. 'pray where did this scene take place?' asked mervyn. 'on the platform; but it was far too quiet to attract notice.' 'what! you had no fits nor struggles?' 'i should think not,' smiled phoebe. 'she stood like a statue, when she understood him; and when he would audaciously have shaken hands with her, she made a distant courtesy, quite dignified. i took her to the waiting-room, and put back her veil. she was crimson, and nearly choking, but she repelled me, and never gave way. i asked if she would sleep at an inn and go home to-morrow; she said "no." i told her i could not take her to my place because of the curates. "i'll go to a sisterhood," she said; and when i told her she was in no mood to be received there, she answered, "i don't care." then i proposed taking her to augusta, but that was worse; and at last i got her to come home in the dark, on my promise that she should see no one till she chose. not a word has she since uttered.' 'could he really have meant it all in play?' said phoebe; 'yet there was his letter.' 'i see it all,' said mervyn. 'i was an ass to suppose such needy rogues could come near girls of fortune without running up the scent. as i told phoebe, i know they had some monstrous ideas of the amount, which i never thought it worth my while to contradict. i imagine old jack only intended a promising little flirtation, capable of being brought to bear if occasion served, but otherwise to be cast aside as child's play. nobody could suspect such an inflammable nature with that baby face; but it seems she was ready to eat her fingers with dulness in the school-room, and had prodigious notions of the rights of woman; so she took all he said most seriously, and met him more than half-way. then he goes to london, gets better information, looks at the will in doctors' commons, maybe, finds it a slowish speculation, and wants to let her down easy; whereof she has no notion, writes two letters to his one, as we know, gets desperate, and makes this excursion.' robert thoughtfully said 'yes;' and phoebe, though she did not like to betray it, mentally owned that the intercepted letter confirmed mervyn's opinion, being evidently meant to pacify what was inconveniently ardent and impassioned, without making tangible promises or professions. the silence was broken by mervyn. 'there! i shall go to bed. phoebe, when you see that poor child, tell her not to be afraid of me, for the scrape was of my making, so don't be sharp with her.' 'i hope not,' said robert gravely; 'i am beginning to learn that severity is injustice, not justice. good night, mervyn; i hope this has not done you harm.' 'i am glad not to be at paddington this minute,' said mervyn. 'you will stay and help us through this business. it is past us.' 'i will stay as long as i can, if you wish it.' phoebe's fervent 'thank you!' was for both. she had never heard such friendly tones between those two, though mervyn's were still half sullen, and chiefly softened by dejection and weariness. 'why, phoebe,' cried robert, as the door closed, 'how could you not tell me this?' 'i thought i had told you that he was very unwell.' 'unwell! i never saw any one so much altered.' 'he is at his best when he is pale. the attacks are only kept off by reducing him, and he must be materially better to have no threatening after such a day as this.' 'well, i am glad you have not had the letter that i posted only to-day!' 'i knew you were displeased,' said phoebe, 'and you see you were quite right in not wishing us to stay here; but you forgive us now--mervyn and me, i mean.' 'don't couple yourself with him, phoebe!' 'yes, i must; for we both equally misjudged, and he blames himself more than any one.' 'his looks plead for him as effectually as you can do, phoebe, and rebuke me for having fancied you weak and perverse in remaining after the remonstrance.' 'i do not wonder at it,' said phoebe; 'but it is over now, and don't let us talk about it. i want nothing to spoil the comfort of knowing that i have you here.' 'i have a multitude of things to say, but you look sleepy.' 'yes, i am afraid i am. i should like to sit up all night to make the most of you, but i could not keep awake.' childlike, she no sooner had some one on whom to repose her care than slumber claimed its due, and she went away to her thankful rest, treasuring the thought of robert's presence, and resting in the ineffable blessing of being able to overlook the thorns in gratitude for the roses. bertha did not appear in the morning. robert went to her door, and was told that she would see no one; and phoebe's entreaties for admission were met with silence, till he forbade their repetition. 'it only hardens her,' he said; 'we must leave her to herself.' 'she will not eat, she will be ill!' 'if she do not yield at dinner-time, lieschen shall carry food to her, but she shall not have the pleasure of disappointing you. sullenness must be left to weary itself out.' 'is not this more shame than sullenness?' 'true shame hides its face and confesses--sullen shame hides like adam. if hers had not been stubborn, it would have melted at your voice. she must wait to hear it again, till she have learnt to crave for it.' he looked so resolute that phoebe durst plead no longer, but her heart sank at the thought of the obstinate force of poor bertha's nature. persistence was innate in the fulmorts, and it was likely to be a severe and lasting trial whether robert or bertha would hold out the longest. since he had captured her, however, all were relieved tacitly to give her up to his management; and at dinner-time, on his stern assurance that unless she would accept food, the door would be forced, she admitted some sandwiches and tea, and desired to have her firing replenished, but would allow no one to enter. robert, at mervyn's earnest entreaty, arranged to remain over the sunday. the two brothers met shyly at first, using phoebe as a medium of communication; but they drew nearer after a time, in the discussion of the robbery, and robert presently found means of helping mervyn, by letter-writing, and taking business off his hands to which phoebe was unequal. both concurred in insisting that phoebe should keep her engagement to the raymonds for the morrow, as the only means of preventing bertha's escapade from making a sensation; and by night she became satisfied that not only would the brothers keep the peace in her absence, but that a day's _tete-a-tete_ might rather promote their good understanding. still, she was in no mood to enjoy, when she had to leave bertha's door still unopened, and the only comfort she could look to was in the conversation with miss charlecote on the way. from her, there was no concealing what had happened, and, to phoebe's surprise, she was encouraging. from an external point of view, she could judge better than those more nearly concerned, and her elder years made her more conscious what time could do. she would not let the adventure be regarded as a lasting blight on bertha's life. had the girl been a few years older, she could never have held up her head again; but as it was, honor foretold that, by the time she was twenty, the adventure would appear incredible. it was not to be lightly passed over, but she must not be allowed to lose her self-respect, nor despair of regaining a place in the family esteem. phoebe could not imagine her ever recovering the being thus cast off by her first love. 'my dear, believe me, it was not love at all, only mystery and the rights of woman. her very demonstrativeness shows that it was not the heart, but the vanity.' phoebe tried to believe, and at least was refreshed by the sympathy, so as to be able, to her own surprise, to be pleased and happy at moorcroft, where sir john and his wife were full of kindness, and the bright household mirth of the sons and daughters showed phoebe some of the benefit miss fennimore expected for bertha from girl friends. one of the younger ones showed her a present in preparation for 'cousin cecily,' and embarked in a list of the names of the cousinhood at sutton; and though an elder sister decidedly closed young harriet's mouth, yet afterwards phoebe was favoured with a sight of a photograph of the dear cousin, and inferred from it that the young lady's looks were quite severe enough to account for her cruelty. the having been plunged into a new atmosphere was good for phoebe, and she brought home so cheerful a face, that even the news of bertha's continued obstinacy could not long sadden it, in the enjoyment of the sight of robert making himself necessary to mervyn, and mervyn accepting his services as if there had never been anything but brotherly love between them. she could have blessed bertha for having thus brought them together, and felt as if it were a dream too happy to last. 'what an accountant robert is!' said mervyn. 'it is a real sacrifice not to have him in the business! what a thing we should have made of it, and he would have taken all the bother!' 'we have done very well to-day,' was robert's account; 'i don't know what can have been the matter before, except my propensity for making myself disagreeable.' phoebe went to bed revolving plans for softening bertha, and was fast asleep when the lock of her door was turned. as she awoke, the terrors of the robbery were upon her far more strongly than at the actual moment of its occurrence; but the voice was familiar, though thin, weak, and gasping. 'o phoebe, i've done it! i've starved myself. i am dying;' and the sound became a shrill cry. 'the dark! o save me!' there was a heavy fall, and phoebe, springing to the spot where the white vision had sunk down, strove to lift a weight, cold as marble, without pulse or motion. she contrived to raise it, and drag it with her into her own bed, though in deadly terror at the icy touch and prone helplessness, and she was feeling in desperation for the bell-rope, when to her great relief, light and steps approached, and robert spoke. alas! his candle only served to show the ghastly, senseless face. 'she has starved herself!' said phoebe, with affright. 'a swoon, don't be afraid,' said robert, who was dressed, and had evidently been watching. 'try to warm her; i will fetch something for her; we shall soon bring her round.' 'a swoon, only a swoon,' phoebe was forced to reiterate to herself to keep her senses and check the sobbing screams that swelled in her throat during the hour-like moments of his absence. she rose, and partly dressed herself in haste, then strove to chafe the limbs; but her efforts only struck the deathly chill more deeply into her own heart. he brought some brandy, with which they moistened her lips, but still in vain, and phoebe's dismay was redoubled as she saw his terror. 'it _must_ be fainting,' he repeated, 'but i had better send for jackson. may god have mercy on us all--this is my fault!' 'her lips move,' gasped phoebe, as she rubbed the temples with the stimulant. 'thank god!' and again they put the spoon to her lips, as the nostrils expanded, the eyes opened, and she seemed to crave for the cordial. but vainly robert raised her in his arms, and phoebe steadied her own trembling hand to administer it, there were only choking, sobbing efforts for words, resulting in hoarse shrieks of anguish. mervyn and miss fennimore, entering nearly at the same moment, found phoebe pale as death, urging composure with a voice of despair; and robert with looks of horror that he could no longer control, holding up the sinking child, her face livid, her eyes strained. 'i can't, i can't,' she cried, with frightful catches of her breath; 'i shall die--' and the screams recurred. mervyn could not bear the spectacle for an instant, and fled only to return to listen outside. miss fennimore brought authority and presence of mind. 'hysterical,' she said. 'there, lay her down; don't try again yet.' 'it is hunger,' whispered the trembling phoebe; but miss fennimore only signed to be obeyed, and decidedly saying, 'be quiet, bertha, don't speak,' the habit of submission silenced all but the choking sobs. she sent robert to warm a shawl, ordered away the frightened maids, and enforced stillness, which lasted till bertha had recovered breath, when she sobbed out again, 'robert! where is he! i shall die! he must pray! i can't die!' miss fennimore bade robert compose his voice to pray aloud, and what he read tranquillized all except mervyn, who understood this to mean the worst, and burst away to sit cowering in suspense over his fire. miss fennimore then offered bertha a morsel of roll dipped in port wine, but fasting and agitation had really produced a contraction of the muscles of the throat, and the attempt failed. bertha was dreadfully terrified, and phoebe could hardly control herself, but she was the only person unbanished by miss fennimore. even robert's distress became too visible for the absolute calm by which the governess hoped to exhaust the hysteria while keeping up vitality by outward applications of warmth and stimulants, and from time to time renewing the endeavour to administer nourishment. it was not till two terrible hours had passed that phoebe came to the school-room, and announced to her brothers that after ten minutes' doze, bertha had waked, and swallowed a spoonful of arrowroot and wine without choking. she could not restrain her sobs, and wept uncontrollably as mervyn put his arm round her. he was the most composed of the three, for her powers had been sorely strained, and robert had suffered most of all. he had on this day suspected that bertha was burning the provisions forced on her, but he had kept silence, believing that she would thus reduce herself to a more amenable state than if she were angered by compulsion, and long before serious harm could ensue. used to the sight of famine, he thought inanition would break the spirit without injuring the health. many a time had he beheld those who professed to have tasted nothing for two days, trudge off tottering but cheerful, with a soup-ticket, and he had not calculated on the difference between the children of want and the delicately nurtured girl, full of overwrought feeling. though he had been watching in loving intercession for the unhappy child, and had resolved on forcing his way to her in the morning, he felt as if he had played the part of the archbishop of pisa, and that, had she perished in her fearful determination, her blood would have been on himself. he was quite overcome, and forced to hurry to his own room to compose himself, ere he could return to inquire further; but there was little more to hear. miss fennimore desired to be alone with the patient; phoebe allowed herself to be laid on the sofa and covered with shawls; mervyn returned to his bed, and robert still watched. there was a great calm after the storm, and phoebe did not wake till the dim wintry dawn was struggling with the yellow candlelight, and a consultation was going on in low tones between robert and the governess, both wan and haggard in the uncomfortable light, and their words not more cheering than their looks. bertha had become feverish, passing from restless, talking sleep to startled, painful wakening, and miss fennimore wished dr. martyn to be sent for. phoebe shivered with a cold chill of disappointment as she gathered their meaning, and coming forward, entreated the watchers to lie down to rest, while she relieved guard; but nothing would persuade miss fennimore to relinquish her post; and soon phoebe had enough to do elsewhere; for her own peculiar patient, mervyn, was so ill throughout the morning, that she was constantly employed in his room, and robert looking on and trying to aid her, hated himself doubly for his hasty judgments. maria alone could go to church on that sunday morning, and her version of the state of affairs brought miss charlecote to beauchamp to offer her assistance. she saw dr. martyn, and undertook the painful preliminary explanation, and she saw him again after his inspection of bertha. 'that's a first-rate governess! exactly so! an educational hot-bed. why can't people let girls dress dolls and trundle hoops, as they used to do?' 'i have never thought bertha oppressed by her lessons.' 'so much the worse! those who can't learn, or won't learn, take care of themselves. those who have a brain and use it are those that suffer! to hear that poor child blundering algebra in her sleep might be a caution to mothers!' 'did you ever see her before, so as to observe the little hesitation in her speech?' 'no, they should have mentioned that.' 'it is generally very slight; but one of them--i think, maria--told me that she always stammered more after lessons--' 'the blindness of people! as if that had not been a sufficient thermometer to show when they were overworking her brain! why, not one of these fulmorts has a head that will bear liberties being taken with it!' 'can you let us hope that this whole affair came from an affection of the brain?' 'the elopement! no; i can't flatter you that health or sanity were in fault there. nor is it delirium now; the rambling is only in sleep. but the three days' fast--' 'two days, was it not?' 'three. she took nothing since breakfast on thursday.' 'have you made out how she passed the last two days?' 'i wrung out some account. i believe this would never have occurred to her if her brother had given her a sandwich at paddington; but she came home exhausted into a distaste for food, which other feelings exaggerated into a fancy to die rather than face the family. she burnt the provisions in a rage at their being forced on her, and she slept most of the time--torpor without acute suffering. last night in sleep she lost her hold of her resolution, and woke to the sense of self-preservation.' 'an infinite mercy!' 'not that the spirit is broken; all her strength goes to sullenness, and i never saw a case needing greater judgment. now that she is reduced, the previous overwork tells on her, and it will be a critical matter to bring her round. who can be of use here? not the married sisters, i suppose? miss fulmort is all that a girl can be at nineteen or twenty, but she wants age.' 'you think it will be a bad illness?' 'it may not assume an acute form, but it may last a good while; and if they wish her to have any health again, they must mind what they are about.' honora felt a task set to her. she must be phoebe's experience as far as her fifty years could teach her to deal with a little precocious rationalist in a wild travestie of thekla. _ich habe geliebt und gelebet_ was the farewell laid on bertha's table. what a thekla and what a max! o profanation! but honor felt bertha a charge of her own, and her aid was the more thankfully accepted that the patient was quite beyond phoebe. she had too long rebelled against her sister to find rest in her guardianship. phoebe's voice disposed her to resistance, her advice to wrangling, and miss fennimore alone had power to enforce what was needful; and so devoted was she, that honor could scarcely persuade her to lie down to rest for a few hours. honor was dismayed at the change from the childish _espiegle_ roundness of feature to a withered, scathed countenance, singularly old, and mournfully contrasting with the mischievous-looking waves and rings of curly hair upon the brow. premature playing at passion had been sport with edged tools. sleeping, the talk was less, however, of the supposed love, than of science and metaphysics; waking, there was silence between weakness and sullenness. thus passed day after day, always in the same feverish lethargic oppression which baffled medical skill, and kept the sick mind beyond the reach of human aid; and so uniform were the days, that her illness seemed to last for months instead of weeks. miss fennimore insisted on the night-watching for her share. phoebe divided with her and lieschen the morning cares; and miss charlecote came in the forenoon and stayed till night, but slept at home, whither maria was kindly invited; but phoebe did not like to send her away without herself or lieschen, and robert undertook for her being inoffensive to mervyn. in fact, she was obliging and unobtrusive, only speaking when addressed, and a willing messenger. mervyn first forgot her presence, then tolerated her saucer eyes, then found her capable of running his errands, and lastly began to care to please her. honora had devised employment for her, by putting a drawer of patchwork at her disposal, and suggesting that she should make a workbag for each of robert's school girls; and the occupation this afforded her was such a public benefit, that robert was content to pay the tax of telling her the destination of each individual bag, and being always corrected if he twice mentioned the same name. when mervyn dozed in his chair, she would require from robert 'stories' of his scholars; and it even came to pass that mervyn would recur to what had then passed, as though he had not been wholly asleep. mervyn was chiefly dependent on his brother for conversation, entertainment, and assistance in his affairs; and though not a word passed upon their differences and no professions were made, the common anxiety, and mervyn's great need of help, had swept away all traces of unfriendliness. not even when children in the nursery had they been so free from variance or bitterness as while waiting the issue of their sister's illness; both humbled, both feeling themselves in part the cause, each anxious to cheer and console the other--one, weak, subdued, dependent--the other, considerate, helpful, and eager to atone for past harshness. strange for brothers to wait till the ages of twenty-nine and twenty-seven to find out that they really did prefer each other to every one else, in spite of the immense differences between their characters and habits! 'i say,' asked mervyn, one day, when resting after having brought on giddiness and confusion by directing robert how to answer a letter from the office, 'what would you do with this bore of a business, if it came to you?' 'get rid of it,' said robert, surveying him with startled eyes. 'aye--sell it, and get the devilry, as you call it, multiplied to all infinity.' 'close it.' 'boil soup in the coppers; bake loaves in the furnaces? it makes you look at me perilously--and a perilous game you would find it, most likely to swallow this place and all the rest. why, you, who had the making of a man of business in you, might reflect that you can't annihilate property without damage to other folks.' 'i did not reflect,' said robert, gravely; 'the matter never occurred to me.' 'what is the result of your reflection now?' 'nothing at all,' was the somewhat impatient reply. 'i trust never to have to consider. get it out of my hands at any sacrifice, so as it may do the least harm to others. had i no other objection to that business, i should have no choice.' 'your cloth? well, that's a pity, for i see how it could be mitigated, so as to satisfy your scruples;' and mervyn, whose head could work when it was not necessary, detailed a scheme for gradually contracting the most objectionable traffic, and adopting another branch of the trade. 'excellent,' said robert, assenting with delight at each pause. 'you will carry it out.' 'i? i'm only a reprobate distiller.' there it ended, and robert must have patience. the guardian, mr. crabbe, came as soon as his gout would permit, and hemmed and grunted in reply to the strange narrative into which he had come to inquire. acting was as yet impossible; mervyn was forbidden to transact business, and bertha was far too ill for the removal of the young ladies to be attempted. miss fennimore did indeed formally give in her resignation of her situation, but she was too necessary as a nurse for the time of her departure to be fixed, and mr. crabbe was unable to settle anything definitively. he found robert--who previously had spurred him to strong measures--bent on persuading him to lenity, and especially on keeping phoebe with mervyn; and after a day and night of perplexity, the old gentleman took his leave, promising to come again on bertha's recovery, and to pacify the two elder sisters by representing the condition of beauchamp, and that for the present the incumbent of st. matthew's and miss charlecote might be considered as sufficient guardians for the inmates. 'or if their ladyships thought otherwise,' he said, with a twinkle in his eye, 'why did they not come down themselves?' mervyn made a gesture of horror, but all knew that there was little danger. augusta was always 'so low' at the sight of illness, and unless phoebe had been the patient out of sight, juliana would not have brought her husband; obvious as would have been the coming of an elder sister when the sickness of the younger dragged on so slowly and wearily. no one went through so much as miss fennimore. each hour of her attendance on bertha stamped the sense of her own failure, and of the fallacies to which her life had been dedicated. the sincerity, honour, and modesty that she had inculcated, had been founded on self-esteem alone; and when they had proved inadequate to prevent their breach, their outraged relics had prompted the victim to despair and die. intellectual development and reasoning powers had not availed one moment against inclination and self-will, and only survived in the involuntary murmurs of a disordered nervous system. all this had utterly overthrown that satisfaction in herself and her own moral qualities in which miss fennimore had always lived; she had become sensible of the deep flaws in all that she had admired in her own conduct; and her reason being already prepared by her long and earnest study to accept the faith in its fulness, she had begun to crave after the atoning mercy of which she sorely felt the need. but if it be hard for one who has never questioned to take home individually the efficacy of the great sacrifice, how much harder for one taught to deny the godhead which rendered the victim worthy to satisfy eternal justice? she accepted the truth, but the gracious words would not reach her spirit; they were to her as a feast in a hungry man's dream. robert alone was aware of the struggles through which she was passing, and he could do little in direct aid of her; the books--even the passages of scripture that he found for her--seemed to fall short; it was as though the sufferer in the wilderness lay in sight of the brazen serpent, but his eyes were holden that he could not see it. only the governess's strong and untaxed health could have carried her through her distress and fatigue, for she continued to engross the most trying share of the nursing, anxious to shield phoebe from even the knowledge of all the miseries of bertha's nights, when the poor child would start on her pillow with a shriek, gaze wildly round, trembling in every limb, the dew starting on her brow, face well-nigh convulsed, teeth chattering, and strange, incoherent words-- 'a dream, only a dream!' she murmured, recovering consciousness. 'what was only a dream?' asked miss fennimore, one night. 'oh, nothing!' but she still shivered; then striving to catch hold of the broken threads of her philosophy, 'how one's imagination is a prey to--to--what is it? to--to old impressions--when one is weak.' 'what kind of impressions?' asked miss fennimore, resolved to probe the matter. bertha, whose defect of speech was greatly increased by weakness, was long in making her answer comprehensible; but miss fennimore gathered it at last, and it made her spirit quake, for it referred to the terrors beyond the grave. yet she firmly answered-- 'such impressions may not always result from weakness.' 'i thought,' cried bertha, rising on her elbow, 'i thought that an advanced state of civilization dispenses with sectarian--i mean superstitious--literal threats.' 'no civilization can change those decrees, nor make them unmerited,' said miss fennimore, sadly. 'how?' repeated bertha, frowning. 'you, too? you don't mean that? you are not one of the narrow minds that want to doom their fellow-creatures for ever.' her eyes had grown large, round, and bright, and she clutched miss fennimore's hand, gasping, 'say, not for ever!' 'my poor child! did i ever teach you it was not?' 'you thought so!' cried bertha; 'enlightened people think so. o say--only say it does not last!' 'bertha, i cannot. god forgive me for the falsehoods to which i led you, the realities i put aside from you.' bertha gave a cry of anguish, and sank back exhausted, damps of terror on her brow; but she presently cried out, 'if it would not last! i can't bear the thought! i can't bear to live, but i can't die! oh! who will save me?' to miss fennimore's lips rose the words of st. paul to the jailer. 'believe! believe!' cried bertha, petulantly, 'believe what?' 'believe that he gave his life to purchase your safety and mine through that eternity.' and miss fennimore sank on her knees, weeping and hiding her face. the words which she had gazed at, and listened to, in vain longing, had--even as she imparted them--touched herself in their fulness. she had seen the face of truth, when, at mrs. fulmort's death-bed, she had heard phoebe speak of the blood that cleanseth from all sin. then it had been a moment's glimpse. she had sought it earnestly ever since, and at length it had come to nestle within her own bosom. it was not sight, it was touch--it was embracing and holding fast. alas! the sight was hidden from bertha. she moodily turned aside in vexation, as though her last trust had failed her. in vain did miss fennimore, feeling that she had led her to the brink of an abyss of depth unknown, till she was tottering on the verge, lavish on her the most tender cares. they were requited with resentful gloom, that the governess felt to be so just towards herself that she would hardly have been able to lift up her head but for the new reliance that gave peace to deepening contrition. that was a bad night, and the day was worse. bertha had more strength, but more fever; and the much-enduring phoebe could hardly be persuaded to leave her to miss charlecote at dusk, and air herself with her brothers in the garden. the weather was close and misty, and honora set open the door to admit the air from the open passage window. a low, soft, lulling sound came in, so much softened by distance that the tune alone showed that it was an infant school ditty sung by maria, while rocking herself in her low chair over the school-room fire. turning to discover whether the invalid were annoyed by it, honor beheld the hard, keen little eyes intently fixed, until presently they filled with tears; and with a heavy sigh, the words broke forth, 'oh! to be as silly as she is!' 'as _selig_, you mean,' said honor, kindly. 'it is the same thing,' she said, with a bitter ring in her poor worn voice. 'no, it is not weakness that makes your sister happy. she was far less happy before she learnt to use her powers lovingly.' with such earnestness that her stuttering was very painful to hear, she exclaimed, 'miss charlecote, i can't recollect things--i get puzzled--i don't say what i want to say. tell me, is not my brain softening or weakening? you know maria had water on the head once!' and her accents were pitiably full of hope. 'indeed, my dear, you are not becoming like maria.' 'if i were,' said bertha, certainly showing no such resemblance, 'i suppose i should not know it. i wonder whether maria be ever conscious of her _ich_,' said she, with a weary sigh, as if this were a companion whence she could not escape. 'dear child, your _ich_ would be set aside by living to others, who only seek to make you happier.' 'i wish they would let me alone. if they had, there would have been an end of it.' 'an end--no indeed, my poor child!' 'there!' cried bertha; 'that's what it is to live! to be shuddered at!' 'no, bertha, i did not shudder at the wild delusion and indiscretion, which may be lived down and redeemed, but at the fearful act that would have cut you off from all hope, and chained you to yourself, and such a self, for ever, never to part from the shame whence you sought to escape. yes, surely there must have been pleading in heaven to win for you that instant's relenting. rescued twice over, there must be some work for you to do, something to cast into shade all that has passed.' 'it will not destroy memory!' she said, with hopeless indifference. 'no; but you may be so occupied with it as to rise above your present pain and humiliation, and remember them only to gather new force from your thankfulness.' 'what, that i was made a fool of?' cried bertha, with sharpness in her thin voice. 'that you were brought back to the new life that is before you.' though bertha made no answer, honor trusted that a beginning had been made, but only to be disappointed, for the fever was higher the next day, and bertha was too much oppressed for speech. the only good sign was that in the dusk she desired that the door should be left open, in case maria should be singing. it was the first preference she had evinced. the brothers were ready to crown maria, and she sang with such good-will that phoebe was forced to take precautions, fearing lest the harmony should lose 'the modest charm of not too much.' there ensued a decided liking for maria's company, partly no doubt from her envied deficiency, and her ignorance of the extent of bertha's misdemeanour, partly because there was less effort of mind in intercourse with her. her pleasure in waiting on her sister was likewise so warm and grateful, that bertha felt herself conferring a favour, and took everything from her in a spirit very different from the dull submission towards miss fennimore or the peevish tyranny over phoebe. towards no one else save miss charlecote did she show any favour, for though their conversation was never even alluded to, it had probably left a pleasant impression, and possibly she was entertained by honor's systematic habit of talking of the world beyond to the other nurses in her presence. but these likings were far more scantily shown than her dislikes, and it was hard for her attendants to acquiesce in the physician's exhortations to be patient till her spirits and nerves should have recovered the shock. even the entrance of a new housemaid threw her into a trepidation which she was long in recovering, and any proposal of seeing any person beyond the few who had been with her from the first, occasioned trembling, entreaties, and tears. phoebe, after her brief heroineship, had lapsed into quite a secondary position. in the reaction of the brothers' feeling towards each other, they almost left her out. both were too sure of her to be eager for her; and besides, as bertha slowly improved, mervyn's prime attention was lavished on the endeavour to find what would give her pleasure. and in the sick room, miss fennimore and miss charlecote could better rule; while maria was preferred as a companion. honor often admired to see how content phoebe was to forego the privilege of waiting on her sister, preparing pleasures and comforts for her in the background, and committing them to the hands whence they would be most welcome, without a moment's grudge at her own distastefulness to the patient. she seemed to think it the natural consequence of the superiority of all the rest, and fully acquiesced. sometimes a tear would rise for a moment at bertha's rude petulance, but it was dashed off for a resolute smile, as if with the feeling of a child against tears, and she as plainly felt the background her natural position, as if she had never been prominent from circumstances. whatever was to be done, she did it, and she was far more grateful to mervyn for loving robert and enduring maria, than for any preference to herself. always finding cause for thanks, she rejoiced even in the delay caused by bertha's illness, and in robert's stay in his brother's home, where she had scarcely dared to hope ever to have seen him again. week after week he remained, constantly pressed by mervyn to delay his departure, and not unwillingly yielding, since he felt that there was a long arrear of fraternal kindness to be made up, and that while st. matthew's was in safe hands, he might justly consider that his paramount duty was to his brother and sisters in their present need. at length, however, the lent services claimed him in london, and affairs at beauchamp were so much mended, that phoebe owned that they ought no longer to detain him from his parish, although bertha was only able to be lifted to a couch, took little notice of any endeavour to interest her, and when he bade her farewell, hardly raised eye or hand in return. chapter xxii when all is done or said, in th' end this shall you find, he most of all doth bathe in bliss that hath a quiet mind.--lord vaux robert had promised to return in the end of march to be present at the assizes, when the burglars would be tried, and he did not come alone. mr. crabbe judged it time to inspect beauchamp and decide for his wards; and lady bannerman, between juliana's instigations, her own pride in being connected with a trial, and her desire to appropriate phoebe, decided on coming down with the admiral to see how matters stood, and to give her vote in the family council. commissions from mervyn had pursued robert since his arrival in town, all for bertha's amusement, and he brought down, by special orders, a musical-box, all leech's illustrations, and a small maltese dog, like a spun-glass lion, which augusta had in vain proposed to him to exchange for her pug, which was getting fat and wheezy, and 'would amuse bertha just as well.' lady bannerman hardly contained her surprise when maria, as well as mervyn and phoebe, met her in the hall, seemingly quite tame and at her ease. mervyn looked better, and in answer to inquiries for bertha, answered, 'oh, getting on, decidedly; we have her in the garden. she might drive out, only she has such a horror of meeting any one; but her spirits are better, i really thought she would have laughed yesterday when maria was playing with the kitten. ha! the dog, have you got him, robert. well, if this does not amuse her, i do not know what will.' and at the first possible moment, mervyn, maria, and the maltese were off through the open window. robert asked what phoebe thought of mervyn. she said he was much stronger, but the doctor was not satisfied that the mischief was removed, and feared that a little want of care or any excitement might bring on another attack. she dreaded the morrow on his account. 'yes,' said the elder sister, 'i don't wonder! a most atrocious attempt! i declare i could hardly make up my mind to sleep in the house! mind you swear to them all, my dear.' 'i only saw smithson clearly.' 'oh, never mind; if they have not done that, they have done something quite as bad; and i should never sleep a night again in peace if they got off. was it true that they had packed up all the liqueurs?' phoebe exonerated them from this aggravated guilt. 'i say, my dear, would you tell the butler to bring up some of the claret that was bought at mr. rollestone's auction. i told sir nicholas that he should taste it, and i don't like to mention it to poor mervyn, as he must not drink wine.' 'there is some up,' said phoebe; 'mervyn fancies that bertha liked it.' 'my dear, you don't give bertha that claret! you don't know what poor papa gave for it.' 'if bertha would only enjoy anything, mervyn would be overjoyed.' 'yes, it is as juliana says; it is nothing but spoiling that ails her,' said augusta. 'did you say she was in the garden? i may as well go and see her.' this phoebe withstood with entreating looks, and representations that bertha had as yet seen no fresh face, and was easily startled; but her sister insisted that she was no stranger, and could do no harm, till phoebe had no choice but to run on and announce her, in the hope that surprise might lessen the period of agitation. in the sunniest and most sheltered walk was a wheeled chair over which miss fennimore held a parasol, while mervyn and maria were anxiously trying to win some token of pleasure from the languid, inanimate occupant to whom they were displaying the little dog. as the velvet-bordered silk, crimson shawl, and purple bonnet neared the dark group, a nervous tremor shot through the sick girl's frame, and partly starting up, she made a gesture of scared entreaty; but lady bannerman's portly embrace and kind inquiries were not to be averted. she assured the patient that all was well since she could get out of doors, the air would give her a famous appetite, and if she was able to drink claret, she would be strong enough in a day or two to come up to juliana in london, where change and variety would set her up at once. bertha scarcely answered, but made an imperious sign to be drawn to the west wing, and as phoebe succeeded in turning augusta's attention to the hothouses mervyn beckoned to robert, rather injudiciously, for his patient was still tremulous from the first greeting. her face had still the strangely old appearance, her complexion was nearly white, her hair thin and scanty, the almost imperceptible cast of the eye which had formerly only served to give character to her arch expression, had increased to a decided blemish; and her figure which had shot up to woman's height, seemed to bend like a reed as mervyn supported her to the sofa in the school-room. with nervous fright she retained his hand, speaking with such long, helpless hesitation that robert caught only the words 'juliana--never--' 'never, never,' answered mervyn; 'don't fear! we'll prevent that, robert; tell her that she shall not fall into juliana's hands--no, nor do anything against her will.' only after repeated assurances from both brothers that augusta should not carry her off in her present state, did she rest tranquilly on the sofa, while mervyn after waiting on her assiduously, with touching tenderness, as if constantly imploring her to be pleased, applied himself to playing with the dog, watching her face for some vestige of interest, and with so much gratification at the slightest sign of amusement as to show how melancholy must have been the state compared with which this was improvement. after slowly attaining her present amount of convalescence, she had there stopped short, without progress in strength or spirits, and alarms constantly varying for her head, spine, and lungs, as if the slightest accidental cause might fix permanent disease in either quarter; and to those who daily watched her, and knew the miserable effects produced by the merest trifles, it was terrible to think that her destination was in the hands of a comparative stranger, urged on by the dull augusta and the acid juliana. mervyn needed no severer penalty for having forfeited his right to protect his sisters; attached to them and devoted to bertha as the anxieties of the spring had rendered him. the sight of bertha had so far modified lady bannerman's scheme, that she proposed herself to conduct the three to brighton, and there remain till the london season, when the two younger could be disposed of in some boarding-school, and phoebe conducted to albury-street. mr. crabbe did not appear averse to this offer, and there was a correctness about it which rendered it appalling to those who had not phoebe's quiet trust that no part of it would be allowed to happen unless it were good for them. and she found her eldest brother so much subdued and less vituperative, that she thought him quite obliged by her experienced counsel on his housekeeping and cookery, breaking up his present establishment and letting the house for a year, during which she promised him all facilities for meeting a young widow, the wealth of whose stockbroking husband would be exactly what his business and estate required, and would pay off all his debts. phoebe saw indications on mervyn's countenance which made it no surprise that he was in such a condition in the morning that only copious loss of blood and the most absolute rest to the last moment enabled him to go to w--- for the trial. miss charlecote had undertaken the care of bertha, that miss fennimore might take charge of maria, who was exceedingly eager to see her brother and sister give evidence. there is no need to dwell on the proceedings. it was to phoebe on a larger scale what she had previously gone through. she was too much occupied with the act before god and her neighbour to be self-conscious, or to think of the multitudes eagerly watching her young simple face, or listening to her grave clear tones. a dim perception crossed lady bannerman's mind that there really might be something in little phoebe when she found the sheriff's wife, the _grande dame_ of the hunting field, actually shedding tears of emotion. as soon as mervyn's own evidence had been given he had been obliged to go to the inn and lie down; and phoebe wished to join him there and go home at once. both robert and sir john raymond were waiting for her at the door of the witness-box, and the latter begged to introduce the sheriff, who pressed her to let him take her back into court to lady bannerman, his wife wished so much to see her there and at luncheon. and when phoebe declared that she must return to her brother, she was told that it had been settled that she was to come with sir nicholas and lady bannerman to dine and sleep at the sheriff's next day, after the assize was over, to meet the judges. phoebe was almost desperate in her refusals, and was so little believed after all, that she charged robert--when the sheriff had taken leave--to assure augusta of the impossibility of her accepting the invitation. sir john smiled, saying, 'lady caroline scarcely deserved her,' and added, 'here is another who wishes to shake hands with you, and this time i promise that you shall not be persecuted--my brother.' he was a thin, spare man, who might have been taken for the elder brother, with a gentle, dreamy expression and soft, tender voice, such as she could not imagine being able to cope with pupils. he asked after her brother's health, and she offered to ascertain whether mervyn felt well enough to see him, but he thanked her, saying it was better not. 'it could not have been his doing,' thought phoebe, as she went up-stairs. 'how strong-minded cecily must be! i wonder whether she would have done bertha good.' 'whose voice was that?' exclaimed mervyn, at his door above. 'sir john raymond and his brother.' 'are they coming in?' 'no; they thought it might disturb you.' phoebe was glad that these answers fell to the share of the unconscious robert. mervyn sat down, and did not revert to the raymonds through all the homeward journey. indeed, he seemed unequal to speaking at all, went to his room immediately, and did not appear again when the others came home, bringing tidings that the verdict was guilty, and the sentence penal servitude. lady bannerman had further made a positive engagement with the sheriff's lady, and was at first incredulous, then highly displeased, at phoebe's refusal to be included in it. she was sure it was only that phoebe was bent on her own way, and thought she should get it when left at home with her guardian and her brothers. poor phoebe, she did not so much as know what her own way was! she had never so much wished for her _wise_ guardian, but in the meantime the only wisdom she could see was to wait patiently, and embrace whatever proposal would seem best for the others, though with little hope that any would not entail pain and separation from those who could spare her as ill as she could spare them. dr. martyn was to come over in the course of the ensuing day to examine bertha, and give her guardian his opinion of her state. there was little danger of its being favourable to violent changes, for augusta made a descent on the school-room after dinner, and the morbid agitation thus occasioned obliged miss fennimore to sit up with the patient till one o'clock. in the morning the languor was extreme, and the cough so frequent that the fear for the lungs was in the ascendant. but augusta, knowing of all this, believed her visit to have been most important, and immediately after breakfast summoned robert to a conference, that he might be convinced that there must be no delay in taking measures for breaking up the present system. 'we must hear what dr. martyn says.' 'i never thought anything of dr. martyn since he advised me to leave off wine at supper. as juliana says, a physician can always be taken in by an artful woman, and he is playing into her hands.' 'into whose?' said robert, unable to suppose it could be phoebe's. 'come, robert, you ought not to let yourself be so blinded. i am sure it is more for your interest than my own, but i see you are as simple as ever. juliana said any one could hoodwink you by talking of altar-cloths and anglo-saxons.' 'anglo-catholics, possibly.' 'well, it is all the same! it is those nonsensical distinctions, rather than your own interests; but when you are cut out, and depend upon it, she will lose no time in his state of health--' 'of whom or what are you talking?' 'i never thought well of her, pretending to drink nothing but water; and with that short, dry way, that i call impertinence; but i never thought she could be so lost till last night! why, when i thought i would just go and see how the child was--there, after calling himself too ill to come in to dinner, there sat mervyn, actually drinking tea. i promise you they looked disconcerted!' 'well they might be! bertha suffered half the night from that sudden visit.' 'and you believe that, robert! well! it is a convenient blind! but if you won't, we shall do our best to shame them, and if she dares it, we shall never visit her! that's all!' her drift here becoming revealed to robert, his uncontrollable smile caused augusta to swell with resentment. 'aye! nothing on earth will make you own yourself mistaken, or take the advice of your elders, though you might have had enough of upholding phoebe's wilfulness.' 'well, what do you want me to do?' 'to join us all in seeing that miss fennimore leaves the house before us. then i will take the girls to brighton, and you and the actons might keep watch over him, and if he should persist in his infatuation--why, in the state of his head, it would almost come to a commission of lunacy. juliana said so!' 'i have no doubt of it,' said robert, gravely. 'i am obliged to you both, augusta. as you observe, i am the party chiefly concerned, therefore i have a right to request that you will leave me to defend my interests as i shall see best, and that you will confide your surmise to no one else.' robert was not easily gainsaid when he spoke in that tone, and besides, augusta really was uncertain whether he did not seriously adopt her advice; but though silenced towards him, she did not abstain from lamenting herself to miss charlecote, who had come by particular request to consult with dr. martyn, and enforce his opinion on mr. crabbe. honora settled the question by a laugh, and an assurance that mervyn had views in another direction; but augusta knew of so many abortive schemes for him, and believed him to be the object of so many reports, that she treated this with disdain, and much amused honora by her matronly superiority and london patronage. dr. martyn came to luncheon, and she endeavoured to extort from him that indulgence hurt bertha, and that mervyn needed variety. failing in this, she remembered his anti-supper advice, and privately warned mr. crabbe against him. his advice threw a new light on the matter. he thought that in a few weeks' time, bertha ought to be taken to switzerland, and perhaps spend the winter in the south of france. travelling gave the best hope of rousing her spirits or bracing her shattered constitution, but the utmost caution against fatigue and excitement would be requisite; she needed to be at once humoured and controlled, and her morbid repugnance to new attendants must be respected till it should wear off of its own accord. surely this might be contrived between sister, governess, and german nurse, and if mr. fulmort himself would go too, it would be the best thing for his health, which needed exemption from business and excitement. here was playing into the governess's hands! mindful of juliana's injunctions, lady bannerman announced her intention of calling heaven and earth together rather than sanction the impropriety, and set off for her party at the sheriff's in a mood which made phoebe tremble lest the attractions of ortolans and burgundy should instigate the 'tremendous sacrifice' of becoming chaperon. mervyn thought the doctor's sentence conclusive as to miss fennimore's plans, but to his consternation it made no change in them, except that she fixed the departure of the family as the moment of parting. though her manner towards him had become open and friendly, she was deaf to all that he could urge, declaring that it was her duty to leave his sisters, and that the change, when once made, would be beneficial to bertha, by removing old associations. in despair, he came to miss charlecote, begging her to try her powers of persuasion for the sake of poor bertha, now his primary object, whom he treated with spoiling affection. he was quite powerless to withstand any fancy of bertha in her present state, and not only helpless without miss fennimore, but having become so far used to her that for his own sake he could not endure the notion of a substitute. 'find out the objection,' he said, 'that at least i may know whether to punch augusta's head.' honora gratified him by seeking an interview with the governess, though not clear herself as to the right course, and believing that her advice, had she any to give, would go for very little with the learned governess. miss fennimore was soft and sad, but decided, and begging to be spared useless arguments. whether lady bannerman had insulted her by hinting her suspicions, honor could not divine, for she was firmly entrenched within her previous motive, namely, that it would be wrong to remain in a family where first her system, and then her want of vigilance, had produced such results. and to the representation that for her own sake the present conjuncture was the worst in which she could depart, she replied that it mattered not, since she saw her own deficiencies too plainly ever to undertake again the charge of young ladies, and only intended to find employment as a teacher in a school. 'say no more,' she entreated; 'and above all do not let phoebe persuade me,' and there were tears on either cheek. 'indeed, i believe her not having done so is a most unselfish act of deference to your judgment.' 'i know it for a sign of true affection! you, who know what she is, can guess what it costs me to leave her above all, now that i am one in faith with her, and could talk to her more openly than i ever dared to do; she whose example first showed me that faith is a living substance! yes, miss charlecote, i am to be received into the church at st. wulstan's, where i shall be staying, as soon as i have left beauchamp.' overcome with feeling, honora hastily rose and kissed the governess's forehead, her tears choking her utterance. 'but--but,' she presently said, 'that removes all possible doubt. does not robert say so?' 'he does,' said miss fennimore; 'but i cannot think so. after having miserably infused my own temper of rationalism, how could i, as a novice and learner, fitly train that poor child? besides, others of the family justly complain of me, and i _will_ not be forced on them. no, nor let my newly-won blessing be alloyed by bringing me any present advantage.' 'i honour you--i agree with you,' said miss charlecote, sadly; 'but it makes me the more sorry for those poor girls. i do not see what is to be done! a stranger will be worse than no one to both the invalids; lieschen has neither head nor nerve; and though i do not believe phoebe will ever give way, bertha behaves very ill to her, and the strain of anxiety may be too much for such a mere girl, barely twenty! she may suffer for it afterwards, if not at the time.' 'i feel it all,' sighed miss fennimore; 'but it would not justify me in letting myself be thrust on a family whose confidence in me has been deceived. nobody could go with them but you, miss charlecote.' 'me! how much obliged mervyn would be,' laughed honora. 'it was a wild wish, such as crosses the mind in moments of perplexity and distress; but no one else could be so welcome to my poor bertha, nor be the motherly friend they all require. forgive me, miss charlecote; but i have seen what you made of phoebe, in spite of me and my system.' so honor returned to announce the ill-success of her mission. 'there!' said mervyn; 'goodness knows what will become of us! bertha would go into fits at the sight of any stranger; and such a hideous old catamaran as juliana will be sure to have in pickle, will be the death of her outright. i think miss charlecote had better take pity on us!' 'oh, mervyn, impossible!' cried phoebe, shocked at his audacity. 'i protest,' said mervyn, 'nothing else can save you from some nasty, half-bred companion! faugh! now, miss charlecote would enjoy the trip, put maria and bertha to bed, and take you to operas, and pictures, and churches, and you would all be off my hands!' 'for shame, mervyn,' cried phoebe, crimson at his cavalier manner. 'it is the second such compliment i have received, phoebe,' said honor. 'miss fennimore does me the honour to tell me to be her substitute.' 'then if she says so,' said mervyn, 'it is our only rescue!' if honor laughed it was not that she did not think. as she crossed the park, she felt that each bud of spring beauty, each promised crop, each lamb, each village child, made the proposal the more unwelcome; yet that the sense of being rooted, and hating to move, ought to be combated. it might hardly be treating humfrey's 'goodly heritage' aright, to make it an excuse for abstaining from an act of love; and since brooks attended to her so little when at home, he could very well go on without her. not that she believed that she should be called on to decide. she did not think mervyn in earnest, nor suppose that he would encumber himself with a companion who could not be set aside like a governess, and was of an age more 'proper' and efficient than agreeable. his unceremonious manner proved sufficiently that it was a mere joke, and he would probably laugh his loud, scoffing laugh at the old maid taking him in earnest. yet she could not rid herself of the thought of phoebe's difficulties, and in poor bertha, she had the keen interest of nurse towards patient. 'once before,' she thought, 'have i gone out of the beaten track upon impulse. cruel consequences! yet do i repent? not of the act, but of the error that ensued. then i was eager, young, romantic. now i would rather abstain: i am old and sluggish. if it is to be, it will be made plain. i do not distrust my feeling for phoebe--it is not the jealous, hungering love of old; and i hope to be able to discern whether this be an act of charity! at least, i will not take the initiative. i did so last time.' honor's thoughts and speculations were all at beauchamp throughout the evening and the early morning, till her avocations drove it out of her mind. she was busy, trying hard to get her own way with her bailiff as to the crops, when she was interrupted by tidings that mr. fulmort was in the drawing-room; and concluding it to be robert, she did not hurry her argument upon guano. on entering the room, however, she was amazed at beholding not robert, but his brother, cast down in an armchair, and looking thoroughly tired out. 'mervyn! i did not expect to see you!' 'yes, i just walked over. i thought i would report progress. i had no notion it was so far.' and in fact he had not been at the holt since, as a pert boy, he had found it 'slow.' honor was rather alarmed at his fatigue, and offered varieties of sustenance, which he declined, returning with eager nervousness to the subject in hand. the bannermans, he said, had offered to go with bertha and phoebe, but only on condition that maria was left at a boarding-house, and a responsible governess taken for bertha. moreover, augusta had told bertha herself what was impending, and the poor child had laid a clinging, trembling grasp on his arm, and hoarsely whispered that if a stranger came to hear her story, she would die. alas! it might be easier than before. he had promised never to consent. 'but what can i do?' he said, with a hand upon either temple; 'they heed me no more than maria!' robert had absolutely half consented to leave his cure in the charge of another, and conduct his brother and sisters, but this plan did not satisfy the guardian, who could not send out his wards without some reliable female. he swung the tassel of the sofa-cushion violently as he spoke, and looked imploringly at honora, but she, though much moved, felt obliged to keep her resolution of not beginning. 'very hard,' he said, 'that when there are but two women in the world that that poor child likes, she can have neither!' and then, gaining hope from something in her face, he exclaimed, 'after all, i do believe you will take pity on her!' 'i thought you in joke yesterday.' 'i thought it too good to be true! i am not so cool as phoebe thought me. but really,' he said, assuming an earnest, rational, gentlemanly manner, 'you have done so much for us that perhaps it makes us presume, and though i know it is preposterous, yet if it were possible to you to be long enough with poor bertha to bring her round again, i do believe it would make an infinite difference.' 'what does phoebe say?' asked honor. 'phoebe, poor child, she does not know i am come. she looks as white as death, and got up a smile that was enough to make one cry, but she told me not to mind, for something would be sure to bring it right; and so it will, if you will come.' 'but, mervyn, you don't consider what a nuisance i shall be to you.' mervyn looked more gallant than robert ever could have done, and said something rather foolish; but anxiety quickly made him natural again, and he proceeded, 'after all, they need not bother you much. phoebe is of your own sort, and maria is inoffensive, and bertha will have lieschen, and i--i'll take my own line, and be as little of a bore as i can. you'll go?' 'if--if it will do.' that odd answer was enough. mervyn, already leaning forward with his arms on his knees, held out one hand, and shaded his eyes with the other, as, half with a sob, he said, 'there, then, it is all right! miss charlecote, you can't guess what it is to a man not to be trusted with his own sisters!' these words made that _bete noire_, john mervyn fulmort, nearly as much a child of her own as his brother and sister; for they were in a tone of self-blame--not of resentment. she was sufficiently afraid of him to respect his reserve; moreover, he looked so ill and harassed that she dreaded his having an attack, and heartily wished for phoebe, so she only begged him to rest till after her early dinner, when she would convey him back to beauchamp; and then left him alone, while she went to look her undertaking in the face, rather amused to find herself his last resource, and surprised to find her spirit of enterprise rising, her memories of alps, lakes, cathedrals, and pictures fast assuming the old charm that had erst made her long to see them again. and with phoebe! really it would be almost a disappointment if the scheme failed. when she again met her unwonted guest he plunged into plans, routes, and couriers, treating her as far more completely pledged than she chose to allow; and eating as heartily as he dared, and more so than she thought phoebe would approve. she was glad to have him safe at his own door, where phoebe ran to meet them, greatly relieved, for she had been much disturbed by his absence at luncheon. 'miss charlecote! did you meet him?' 'i went after her'--and mervyn boyishly caught his sister round the waist, and pushed her down into a curtsey--'make your obedience; she is going to look after you all.' 'going with us!' cried phoebe, with clasped hands. 'to see about it,' began honor, but the words were strangled in a transported embrace. 'dearest, dearest miss charlecote! oh, i knew it would all come right if we were patient; but, oh! that it should be so right! oh! mervyn, how could you?' 'ah! you see what it is not to be faint-hearted.' and phoebe, whose fault was certainly not a faint heart, laughed at this poor jest, as she had seldom laughed before, with an _abandon_ of gaiety and joyousness. the quiet girl was absolutely thrown off her balance, laughed and cried, thanked and exclaimed, moved restlessly, and spoke incoherently. 'oh! may i tell bertha?' she asked. 'no, i'll do that,' said mervyn. 'it is all my doing.' 'run after him, phoebe,' said honor. 'don't let bertha think it settled!' and bertha was, of course, disappointingly indifferent. lady bannerman's nature was not capable of great surprise, but miss charlecote's proposal was not unwelcome. 'i did not want to go,' she said; 'though dear sir nicholas would have made any sacrifice, and it would have looked so for them to have gone alone. travelling with an invalid is so trying, and phoebe made such a rout about maria, that mr. crabbe insisted on her going. but you like the kind of thing.' honor undertook for her own taste for the kind of thing, and her ladyship continued, 'yes, you must find it uncommonly dull to be so much alone. where did juliana tell me she had heard of lucy sandbrook?' 'she is in staffordshire,' answered honor, gravely. 'ah, yes, with mrs. willis beaumont; i remember. juliana made a point of letting her know all about it, and how you were obliged to give her up.' 'i hope not,' exclaimed honor, alarmed. 'i never gave her up! there is no cause but her own spirit of independence that she should not return to me to-morrow.' 'oh, indeed,' said augusta, carelessly letting the subject drop, after having implanted anxiety too painful to be quelled by the hope that lady acton's neighbourhood might have learnt how to rate her words. mr. crabbe was satisfied and complimentary; robert, rejoiced and grateful; and bertha, for the first time, set her will upon recovering, and made daily experiments on her strength, thus quickly amending, though still her weakness and petulance needed the tenderest management, and once when a doubt arose as to miss charlecote's being able to leave home, she suddenly withered up again, with such a recurrence of unfavourable symptoms as proved how precarious was her state. it was this evidence of the necessity of the arrangement that chiefly contributed to bring it to pass. when the pressure of difficulty lessened, mervyn was half ashamed of his own conquest, disliked the obligation, and expected to be bored by 'the old girl,' as, to phoebe's intense disgust, he _would_ speak of miss charlecote. still, in essentials he was civil and considerate, and honor carefully made it evident that she did not mean to obtrude herself, and expected him to sit loose to the female part of the company. divining that he would prefer the start from home not to be simultaneous, and also favouring poor bertha's shuddering horror of the direct line of railway to london, she proposed that the ladies should work their way by easy journeys on cross lines to southampton, whilst mervyn settled his affairs at the office, and then should come to them with robert, who had made it possible to take an easter holiday in which to see them safe to their destination in switzerland. phoebe tried to acquiesce in miss charlecote's advice to trust mervyn's head to robert's charge, and not tease him with solicitude; but the being debarred from going to london was a great disappointment. she longed for a sight of st. matthew's; and what would it not have been to see the two brothers there like brothers indeed? but she must be content with knowing that so it was. mervyn's opposition was entirely withdrawn, and though he did not in the least comprehend and was far from admiring his brother's aims, still his name and his means were no longer withheld from supporting robert's purposes, 'because he was such a good fellow, it was a shame to stand in his way.' she knew, too, rather by implication than confession, that mervyn imagined his chief regrets for the enormous extravagance of the former year, were because he had thus deprived himself of the power of buying a living for his brother, as compensation for having kept him out of his father's will. whether mervyn would ever have made the purchase, and still more whether robert would have accepted it, was highly doubtful, but the intention was a step for which to be thankful; and phoebe watched the growing friendliness of the long estranged pair with constantly new delight, and anticipated much from mervyn's sight of st. matthew's with eyes no longer jaundiced. she would gladly, too, have delayed the parting with miss fennimore, who had made all her arrangements for a short stay with her relatives in london, and then for giving lessons at a school. to phoebe's loyal spirit, it seemed hard that even miss charlecote's care should be regarded as compensating for the loss of the home friend of the last seven years, and the closer, dearer link was made known as she sat late over the fire with the governess on easter sunday evening, their last at beauchamp. silent hitherto, miss fennimore held her peace no longer, but begged phoebe to think of one who on another sunday would no longer turn aside from the altar. phoebe lifted her eyes, full of hope and inquiry, and as she understood, exclaimed, 'o, i am glad! i knew you must have some deep earnest reason for not being with us.' 'you never guessed?' 'i never tried. i saw that robert knew, so i hoped.' 'and prayed?' 'yes, you belonged to me.' 'do i belong to you now?' 'nay, more than ever now.' 'then, my child, you never traced my unsettled faith?--my habit of testing mystery by reason never perplexed you?' phoebe thought a moment, and said, 'i knew that robert distrusted, though i never asked why. there was a time when i used to try to sift the evidence and logic of all i learnt, and i was puzzled where faith's province began and reasoning ended. but when our first sorrow came, all the puzzles melted, and it was not worth while to argue on realities that i felt. since that, i have read more, and seen where my own ignorance made my difficulties, and i have prized--yes, adored, the truths all the more because you had taught me to appreciate in some degree their perfect foundation on reasoning.' 'strange,' said miss fennimore, 'that we should have lived together so long, acting on each other, yet each unconscious of the other's thoughts. i see now. what to you was not doubt, but desire for a reason for your hope, became in poor bertha, not disbelief, but contempt and carelessness of what she did not feel. i shall never have a sense of rest, till you can tell me that she enters into your faith. i am chiefly reconciled to leaving her, because i trust that in her enfeebled, dependent state, she may become influenced by miss charlecote and by you.' 'i cannot argue with her,' said phoebe. 'when she is well, she can always puzzle me; i lose her when she gets to her _ego_. you are the only one who can cope with that.' 'the very reason for keeping away. don't argue. live and act. that was your lesson to me.' phoebe did not perceive, and miss fennimore loved her freedom from self-consciousness too well even for gratitude's sake to molest her belief that the conversion was solely owing to robert's powers of controversy. that one fleeting glimpse of inner life was the true farewell. the actual parting was a practical matter of hurry of trains, and separation of parcels, with maria too busy with the maltese dog to shed tears, or even to perceive that this was a final leave-taking with one of those whom she best loved. chapter xxiii tak down, tak down the mast of gowd, set up the mast of tree, it sets not a forsaken lady to sail so gallantly.--_annie of lochroyan_ 'quaint little white-capped objects! the st. wulstan's girls marching to st. paul's! ah! the banner i helped to work! how well i remember the contriving that crozier upon it! how well it has worn! sweet honey must be in london; it was the sight she most grudged missing!' so thought lucilla sandbrook as a cab conveyed her through the whittingtonian intricacies. her residence with mrs. willis beaumont was not a passage in her life on which she loved to dwell. neither party had been well content with the other, though deference to mrs. prendergast had held them together. the lady herself was worthy and kind-hearted, but dull and tedious; and lucilla, used to animation and intellect, had wearied excessively of the platitudes which were meant as friendly conversation, while her keen remarks and power of drollery and repartee were just sufficiently perceived to be dreaded and disliked. the children were like their mother, and were frightened and distressed by her quickness and unreasonable expectations. their meek, demure heaviness and complacency, even at their sports, made her positively dislike them, all but one scapegrace boy, in favour with no one, and whom she liked more from perverseness and compassion than from any merits of his own. lady acton's good offices gave the widow a tangible cause, such as was an absolute satisfaction, for her antipathy, and shook the implicit trust in mrs. prendergast's recommendation that had hitherto overridden her private sentiments; yet still, habitual awe of her sister-in-law, and her own easiness and dread of change, left things in the same state until a crisis caused by a grand disturbance among the children. in the nice matter of meting out blame, mamma's partiality and the children's ungenerosity left an undue share upon the scapegrace; his indignant partisan fought his battles 'not wisely but too well,' lost temper, and uttered sarcastic home truths which startled and stung the lady into the request for which she could hardly have nerved herself in cooler moments, namely, that they might part. this settled, each secretly felt that there was something to be regretted, and both equally wished that a new engagement should be made before the termination of the present should be made known at southminster. for this purpose, every facility had been given for miss sandbrook's coming to town personally to answer two ladies to whom she had been mentioned. a family in the neighbourhood had already been tried, but had declined her, and mrs. beaumont had shown her the note; 'so stylish, such strange stories afloat.' lucilla felt it best to break upon new ground, and wounded and depressed, had yet resentment enough to bear her through boldly. she wished to inspect owen's child, and wrote to ask mrs. murrell to give her a bed for a couple of nights, venturing on this measure because, in the old woman's monthly report, she had mentioned that mr. fulmort had gone abroad for a fortnight. it had not been an exhilarating evening. small children were not much to lucilla's taste, and her nephew was not a flattering specimen. he had the whitened drawn-up appearance of a child who had spent most of his life in a london cellar, with a pinched little visage and preternatural-looking black eyes, a squeaky little fretful voice, and all the language he had yet acquired decidedly cockney. moreover, he had the habits of a spoilt child, and that a vulgar one, and his grandmother expected his aunt to think him a prodigy. there was a vacant room where lucilla passed as much of her time as she could without an assumption of superiority, but she was obliged to spend the evening in the small furniture-encumbered parlour, and hear by turns of her nephew's traits of genius, of the merits of the preachers in cat-alley, and the histories of the lodgers. the motherly mrs. murrell had invited any of the young men whose 'hearts might be touched' to attend her 'simple family worship;' and to lucilla's discomfiture and her triumph, a youth appeared in the evening, and the young lady had her doubts whether the expounding were the attraction. it was a relief to quit the close, underground atmosphere even for a cab; and 'an inspecting lady must be better than that old woman,' thought poor lucy, as, heartily weary of mrs. murrell's tongue and her own graciousness, she rattled through the streets. those long ranks of charity children renewed many an association of old. the festival which had been the annual event of honor charlecote's youth, she had made the same to her children, and cilla had not despised it till recently. thoughts of better days, of home-feelings, of tenderness, began to soften her. she had spent nearly two years without the touch of a kindred hand, and for many months past had been learning what it was to be looked at by no loving eye. she was on her way to still greater strangers! no wonder her heart yearned to the gentle voice that she had once spurned, and well-nigh in spite of herself, she muttered, 'really i do think a kiss of poor honor's would do me good! i have a great mind to go to her when i come back from kensington. if i have taken a situation she cannot suppose that i want anything from her. it would be very comfortable; i should hear of owen! i will go! even if she be not in town, i could talk to mrs. jones, and sit a quarter of an hour in the cedar room! it would be like meeting owen; it would be rest and home!' she felt quite happy and pleased with herself under this resolution, but it was late before she could put it in practice. the lady at kensington rather started on entering the room where she had been waiting nearly an hour. 'i thought--' she said, apologetically, 'did my servant say miss sandbrook?' lucilla assented, and the lady, a little discomposed, asked a few questions, furtively surveying her all the time, seemed confused, then begged her to take some luncheon. it was so long since mrs. murrell's not very tempting breakfast, that the invitation was welcome, even though the presence of a gentleman and an elderly lady showed that it was a pretext for a family inspection, and again she detected the same start of surprise, and a glance passing round the circle, such as made her glad when afterwards an excuse was made for leaving her alone, that she might apply to the glass to see whether anything were amiss in her dress. then first she remarked that hers was not the governess air. she had long felt very virtuous for having spent almost nothing on her clothes, eking out her former wardrobe to the utmost; and the loose, dove-coloured jacket over her black silk skirt betrayed parisian make, as did the exquisite rose, once worn in her hair, and now enlivening the white ribbon and black lace of the cheap straw bonnet, far back upon the rippling hair turned back from her temples, and falling in profuse ringlets. it was her ordinary unpremeditated appearance, but she perceived that to these good people it was startlingly stylish, and she was prepared for the confused intimation that there was no need for entering upon the discussion of terms. she had been detained too late to make her other call, and the processions of tired children showed her that the service at st. paul's was over. the depression of disappointment inclined her the more to the loving old face; and she caused herself to be set down at the end of woolstone-lane, feeling as if drawn by a magnet as she passed the well known warehouse walls, and as if it were home indeed when she reached the court door. it would not yield to her intimate manipulation of the old latch--a bad sign, and the bell re-echoed in vacancy. again and again she rang, each moment of exclusion awakening a fresh yearning towards the cedar fragrance, every stare of passer-by making her long for the safe shelter of the bay-windowed parlour. at last a step approached, and a greeting for the friendly old servant was on her tongue's end. alas! a strange face met her eye, elderly, respectable, but guarded. miss charlecote was not at home, not in town, not at hiltonbury--gone abroad, whither was not known. mrs. jones? dead more than a year ago. every reply was followed by an attempt to close the door, and it needed all lucy's native hardihood, all her ardent craving for her former home, to venture on an entreaty to be admitted for a few minutes. she was answered, that the house might be shown to no one without orders from mr. parsons. her heart absolutely fainted within her, as the heavy door was closed on her, making her thoroughly realize her voluntary renunciation of home and protection, and the dreariness of the world on which she had cast herself. anxiety on honor's behalf began to awaken. nothing but illness could have induced her to leave her beloved holt, and in the thought of her sick, lonely, and untended by the children she had fostered, cilla forgave her adoption, forgave her forgiveness, forgave everything, in the impulse to hasten to her to requite the obligation by the tenderest care. she had actually set off to the parsonage in quest of intelligence, when she recollected that she might appear there as a discarded governess in quest of her offended patroness; and her pride impelled her to turn back, but she despatched mrs. murrell's little maid with a note, saying that, being in town for a day, and hearing of miss charlecote's absence on the continent, she could not help begging to be certified that illness was not the cause. the reply was brief and formal, and it only altered lucilla's uneasiness, for mrs. parsons merely assured her of miss charlecote's perfect health, and said she was gone abroad with the fulmort family, where there had been a good deal of illness. in her displeasure and desire to guard honora from becoming a prey to the unworthy sandbrooks, mrs. parsons never guessed at the cruelty of her own words, and at the conclusion drawn from them. robert fulmort likewise absent! no doubt his health had broken down, and honor was taking phoebe to be with him! she examined mrs. murrell, and heard of his activity, indeed, but of his recent absences from his parish, and by and by the good woman bethought her of a report that mr. fulmort was from home on account of his health. oh, the misery of not daring to make direct inquiry! but the hard practical world was before her, and the new situation was no longer a matter of wilful choice, but of dire necessity. she would not be hastily thrust from her present post, and would be lovingly received at southminster in case of need, but she had no dependence save on her own exertions, and perverse romance had died away into desolateness. with strange, desperate vehemence, and determination not again to fail, she bought the plainest of cap-fronts, reduced her bonnet to the severest dowdiness, hid, straightened, tightened the waving pale gold of her hair, folded her travelling-shawl old-womanishly, cast aside all the merely ornamental, and glancing at herself, muttered, 'i did not know i could be so insignificant!' little owen stared as if his beautiful aunt had lost her identity, and mrs. murrell was ready to embrace her as a convert to last night's exposition. perhaps the trouble was wasted, for the lady, mrs. bostock, did not seem to be particular. she was quite young, easily satisfied, and only eager to be rid of an embarrassing interview of a kind new to her; the terms were fixed, and before many weeks had passed lucilla was settled at a cottage of gentility, in sight of her thames, but on the essex side, where he was not the same river to her, and she found herself as often thinking that those tainted waters had passed the garden in woolstone-lane as that they had sparkled under wrapworth bridge. it was the greatest change she had yet undergone. she was entirely the governess, never the companion of the elders. her employers were mercantile, wrapped up in each other, busy, and gay. the husband was all day in london, and, when the evenings were not given to society, preferred spending them alone with his wife and children. in his absence, the nursery absorbed nearly all the time the mother could spare from her company and her household. the children, who were too old for playthings, were consigned to the first-rate governess, and only appeared in the evening. lucilla never left her schoolroom but for a walk, or on a formal request to appear in the drawing-room at a party; a solitude which she at first thought preferable to mrs. willis beaumont's continued small chatter, especially as the children were pleasant, brisk, and lovable, having been well broken in by their swiss _bonne_. necessity had trained cilly in self-restraint, and the want of surveillance made her generous nature the more scrupulous in her treatment of her pupils; she taught them diligently, kept good order, won their affection and gave them some of her own, but nothing could obviate her growing weariness of holding intercourse with no mind above eleven years old. trouble and anxiety she had known before, and even the terrible heartache that she carried about with her might have failed to wear down a being constituted as she was, without the long solitary evenings, and the total want of companionship. the first shock had been borne by the help of bustle and change, and it was only as weeks passed on, that care and depression grew upon her. lessons, walks, children's games were oppressive in turn, and though the last good-night was a welcome sound, yet the solitude that ensued was unspeakably forlorn. reading she had never loved, even had this been a house of books; the children were too young to need exertion on her part to keep in advance of them, and their routine lessons wore out her energies too much for her to turn to her own resources. she did little but repair her wardrobe, work for the boy in whittington-street, and let thoughts drift through her mind. that death-bed scene at hyeres, which had so often risen unbidden to her mind as she lay on her crib, was revived again, but it was not her father whose ebbing life she watched. it was one for whom she durst not ask, save by an inquiry from her brother, who had never dropped his correspondence with honora; but owen was actively employed, and his locality and habits were so uncertain that his letters were often astray for long together. his third year of apprenticeship had begun, and lucilla's sole hope of a change from her present dreary captivity was in his either returning with mr. currie, or finding employment and sending for her and his child to canada. 'by that time,' she thought, 'europe will contain nothing to me. nay, what does it contain that i have a right to care for now? i don't delude myself. i know his look and manner. his last thought will be for his flock at st. matthew's, not for her who drove him to the work that has been killing him. oh, no, he won't even forgive me, for he will think it the greatest service i could have done him.' her eyes were hot and dry; what a relief would tears have been! chapter xxiv enid, my early and my only love, i thought, but that your father came between, in former days you saw me favourably, and if it were so, do not keep it back, make me a little happier, let me know it.--tennyson the foreign tour proved a great success. the summer in the alps was delightful. the complete change gave bertha new life, bodily strength first returning, and then mental activity. the glacier system was a happy exchange for her _ego_, and she observed and enjoyed with all the force of her acute intelligence and spirit of inquiry, while phoebe was happy in doing her duty by profiting by all opportunities of observation, in taking care of maria and listening to mervyn, and miss charlecote enjoyed scenery, poetry, art, and natural objects with relish keener than even that of her young friends, who were less impressible to beauty in every shape. mervyn behaved very well to her, knowing himself bound to make the journey agreeable to her; he was constantly kind to bertha, and in the pleasure of her revival submitted to a wonderful amount of history and science. all his grumbling was reserved for the private ear of phoebe, whose privilege it always was to be his murmuring block, and who was only too thankful to keep to herself his discontents whenever his route was not chosen (and often when it was), his disgusts with inns, railroads, and sights and his impatience of all pursuits save bertha's. many a time she was permitted to see and hear nothing but how much he was bored, but on the whole the growls were so mitigated compared with what she had known, that it was almost contentment; and that he did not absolutely dislike their habits was plain from his adherence to the ladies, though he might have been quite independent of them. bertha's distortion of eye and hesitation of speech, though much modified, always recurred from fatigue, excitement, or meeting with strangers, or--still worse--with acquaintance. the difficulty of utterance distressed her far more than if she had been subject thereto from infancy, and increased her exceeding repugnance to any sort of society beyond her own party. the question whether she were fit to return home for the winter was under debate, when at geneva, early in september, tidings reached the travellers that produced such a shock as to settle the point. juliana acton was dead! it had been a very short attack of actual illness, but disease had long been secretly preying on her--and her asperity of disposition might be accounted for by constant unavowed suffering. it was a great blow. her unpleasant qualities were all forgiven in the dismay of learning what their excuse had been; for those who have so lived as to make themselves least missed, are perhaps at the first moment the more mourned by good hearts for that very cause. augusta was so much terrified on her own account, that she might almost have been made a hydropathist on the spot; and robert wrote that poor sir bevil was perfectly overwhelmed with grief and self-reproach, giving himself no credit for his exemplary patience and forbearance, but bitterly accusing himself of hardness and neglect. these feelings were shared in some degree by all the others, and mervyn was especially affected. there had been much to soften him since his parents' death, and the sudden loss of the sister with whom he had always been on terms of scorn and dislike, shocked him excessively, and drew him closer to the survivors, sobering him, and silencing his murmurs for the time in real grief and awe. bertha likewise was thoroughly overcome, not so much by these feelings, as by the mere effect of the sudden tidings on her nervous temperament, and the overclouding of the cheerfulness that had hitherto surrounded her. this, added to a day of over-fatigue and exposure, brought back such a recurrence of unfavourable symptoms, that a return to an english winter was not to be thought of. the south of france was decided upon at once, and as lucilla had truly divined, honor charlecote's impulse led them to hyeres, that she might cast at least one look at the grave in the stranger's corner of the cypress-grown burial-ground, where rested the beloved of her early days, the father of the darlings of her widowed heart--loved and lost. she endured her absence from home far better than she had expected, so much easier was it to stay away than to set off, and so completely was she bound up with her companions, loving phoebe like a parent, and the other two like a nurse, and really liking the brother. all took delight in the winter paradise of hyeres, that fragment of the east set down upon the french coast, and periodically peopled with a motley multitude of visitors from all the lands of europe, all invalids, or else attendants on invalids. bertha still shrank from all contact with society, and the ladies, for her sake, lived entirely apart; but mervyn made acquaintance, and sometimes went out on short expeditions with other gentlemen, or to visit his mercantile correspondents at marseilles, or other places on the coast. it was while he was thus absent that the three sisters stood one afternoon on the paved terrace of the _hotel des isles d'or_, which rose behind them, in light coloured stone, of a kind of italian-looking architecture, commanding a lovely prospect, the mountains on the toulon side, though near, melting into vivid blue, and white cloud wreaths hanging on their slopes. in front lay the plain, covered with the peculiar gray-tinted olive foliage, overtopped by date palms, and sloping up into rounded hills covered with dark pines, the nearest to the sea bearing on its crest the church _de l'ermitage_. the sea itself was visible beyond the olives, bordered by a line of _etangs_ or pools, and white heaps of salt, and broken by a peninsula and the three isles d'or. it was a view of which bertha seemed never able to have enough, and she was always to be found gazing at it when the first ready for a walk. 'what are you going to sketch, phoebe?' she said, as the sisters joined her. 'how can you, on such a day as this, with the air, as it were, loaded with cheiranthus smell? it makes one lazy to think of it!' 'it seems to be a duty to preserve some remembrance of this beautiful place.' 'it may be a pity to miss it, but as for the duty!' 'what, not to give pleasure at home, and profit by opportunities?' 'it is too hard to carry about an embodiment of miss fennimore's rules! why, have you no individuality, phoebe?' 'must i not sketch, then?' said phoebe, smiling. 'you are very welcome, if you would do it for your pleasure, not as an act of bondage.' 'not as bondage,' said phoebe; 'it is only because i ought that i care to do so at all.' 'and that's the reason you only make maps of the landscape.' it was quite true that phoebe had no accomplished turn, and what had been taught her she only practised as a duty to the care and cost expended on it, and these were things where 'all her might' was no equivalent for a spark of talent. 'ought' alone gave her the zest that bertha would still have found in 'ought not.' 'it is all i can do,' she said, 'and miss fennimore may like to see them; so, bertha, i shall continue to carry the sketchbook by which the english woman is known like the man by his "murray." miss charlecote has letters to write, so we must go out by ourselves.' the provencal natives of hyeres had little liking for the foreigners who thronged their town, but did not molest them, and ladies walked about freely in the lovely neighbourhood, so that honor had no scruple in sending out her charges, unaccompanied except by lieschen, in case the two others might wish to dispose of maria, while they engaged in some pursuit beyond her powers. poor lieschen, a plump prussian, grown portly on beauchamp good living, had little sympathy with the mountain tastes of her frauleins, and would have wished all hyeres like the shelf on the side of the hill where stood their hotel, whence the party set forth for the place des palmiers, so called from six actual palms bearing, but not often ripening, dates. two sides were enclosed by houses, on a third an orange garden sloped down the descent; the fourth, where the old town climbed straight up the hill, was regarded by poor lieschen with dread, and she vainly persuaded maria at least to content herself with joining the collection of natives resting on the benches beneath the palms. how willingly would the good german have produced her knitting, and sought a compatriot among the nurses who sat gossiping and embroidering, while maria might have played among their charges, who were shovelling about, or pelting each other with the tiny white sea-washed pebbles that thickly strewed the place. but maria, with the little maltese dog in her arms, to guard him from a hailstorm of the pebbles, was inexorably bent on following her sisters; and bertha had hurried nervously across from the strangers, so that lieschen must pursue those light steps through the winding staircase streets, sometimes consisting of broad shallow steps, sometimes of actual flights of steep stairs hewn out in the rock, leading to a length of level terrace, where, through garden gates, orange trees looked out, dividing the vantage ground with houses and rocks--up farther, past the almost desolate old church of st. paul--farther again--till, beyond all the houses, they came forth on the open mountainside, with a crest of rock far above, surmounted by the ruins of a castle, said to have been fortified by the saracens, and taken from them by charles martel. it was to this castle that phoebe's sketching duty was to be paid, and maria and bertha expressed their determination of climbing up to it, in hopes, as the latter said, of finding charles martel's original hammer. lieschen, puffing and panting already, looked horrified, and laughingly they bade her sit down and knit, whilst they set out on their adventure. phoebe smiled as she looked up, and uttered a prognostic that made bertha the more defiant, exhilarated as she was by the delicious compound of sea and mountain breeze, and by the exquisite view, the roofs of the town sloping rapidly down, and the hills stretching round, clothed in pine woods, into which the gray olivettes came stealing up, while beyond lay the sea, intensely blue, and bearing on its bosom the three isles d'or flushed with radiant colour. the sisters bravely set themselves to scramble among the rocks, each surface turned to the sea-breeze exquisitely and fantastically tinted by coloured lichens, and all interspersed with the classical acanthus' noble leaves, the juniper, and the wormwood. on they went, winding upwards as bertha hoped, but also sideways, and their circuit had lasted a weary while, and made them exhausted and breathless, when looking round for their bearings, they found themselves in an enchanted maze of gray rocks, half hidden in myrtle, beset by the bristly battledores of prickly pear, and shaded by cork trees. above was the castle, perched up, and apparently as high above them as when they began their enterprise; below was a steep descent, clothed with pines and adorned with white heaths. the place was altogether strange; they had lost themselves; bertha began to repent of her adventure, and maria was much disposed to cry. 'never mind, maria,' said bertha, 'we will not try to go any higher. see, here is the dry bed of a torrent that will make a famous path down. there, that's right. what a picture it is! what an exquisite peep of the sea between the boughs! what now, what frightens you?' 'the old woman, she looks so horrid.' 'the witch for the lost children? no, no, maria, she is only gathering fir cones, and completing the picture in her red _basquine_, brown jacket, and great hat. i would ask her the way, but that we could not understand her provencal.' 'oh, dear! i wish phoebe was here! i wish we were safe!' 'if i ever come mountain-climbing again with you at my heels! take care, there's no danger if you mind your feet, and we must come out somewhere.' the somewhere, when the slope became less violent, was among vineyards and olivettes, no vestige of a path through them, only a very small cottage, picturesquely planted among the rocks, whence proceeded the sounds of a _cornet-a-piston_. as bertha stood considering which way to take, a dog flew out of the house and began barking. this brought out a man, who rudely shouted to the terrified pair that they were trespassing. they would have fled at once up the torrent-bed, bad as it was for ascent, but there was a derisive exclamation and laugh, and half-a-dozen men, half-tipsy, came pouring out of the cottage, bawling to colibri, the rough, shaggy white dog, that seemed disposed to spring at the maltese in bertha's arms. the foremost, shouting in french for the sisters to stop, pointed to what he called the way, and bertha drew maria in that direction, trusting that they should escape by submission, but after going a little distance, she found herself at the edge of a bare, deep, dry ravine, steep on each side, almost so as to be impassable. the path only ran on the other side. there was another shout of exultation and laughter at the english girls' consternation. at this evident trick of the surly peasants, maria shook all over, and burst into tears, and bertha, gathering courage, turned to expostulate and offer a reward, but her horrible stammer coming on worse than ever, produced nothing but inarticulate sounds. 'monsieur, there is surely some mistake,' said a clear voice in good french from the path on the other side, and looking across, the sisters were cheered by an unmistakable english brown hat. the peasants drew back a little, believing that the young ladies were not so unprotected as they had supposed, and the first speaker, with something like apology, declared that this was really the path, and descending where the sides were least steep, held out his hand to help bertha. the lady, whose bank was more practicable, came down to meet them, saying in french, with much emphasis, that she would summon 'those gentlemen' to their assistance if desired; words that had considerable effect upon the enemy. poor maria was in such terror that she could hardly keep her footing, and the hands both of bertha and the unknown friend were needed to keep her from affording still more diversion to the peasants by falling prostrate. the lady seemed intuitively to understand what was best for both, and between them they contrived to hush her sobs, and repress her inclination to scream for phoebe, and thus to lead her on, each holding a hand till they were at a safe distance; and bertha, whose terror had been far greater than at the robbery at home, felt that she could let herself speak, when she quivered out an agony of trembling thanks. 'i am glad you are safe from these vile men,' said the lady, kindly, 'though they could hardly have done anything really to hurt you!' 'frenchmen should not laugh at english girls,' cried bertha. 'oh, i wish my brothers were here,' and she turned round with a fierce gesture. 'phoebe, phoebe; i want phoebe and lieschen!' was maria's cry. 'can i help you find your party?' was the next question; and the voice had a gentle, winning tone that reassured maria, who clung tight to her hand, exclaiming, 'don't go away;' and though for months past the bare proposal of encountering a stranger would have made bertha almost speechless, she felt a soothing influence that enabled her to reply with scarcely a hesitation. on comparing notes, it was discovered that the girls had wandered so far away from their sister that they could only rejoin her by re-entering the town and mounting again; and their new friend, seeing how nervous and agitated both still were, offered to escort them, only giving notice to her own party what had become of her. she had come up with some sketching acquaintance, and not drawing herself, had, like the sisters, been exploring among the rocks, when she had suddenly come on them in the distress which had so much shaken them, that, reluctant to lose sight of their guardian, they accompanied her till she saw one of her friends, and then waited while she ran down with the announcement. 'how ridiculous it is in me,' muttered bertha to herself, discontentedly; 'she will think us wild creatures. i wish we were not both so tall.' and embarrassment, together with the desire to explain, deprived her so entirely of utterance, that maria volunteered, 'bertha always speaks so funnily since she was ill.' rather a perplexing speech for the lady to hear; but instead of replying, she asked which was their hotel; and bertha answering, she turned with a start of surprise and interest, as if to see their faces better, adding, 'i have not seen you at the _table d'hote_;' and under the strange influence of her voice and face, bertha was able to answer, 'no. as maria says, i have been very silly since my illness in the winter, and--and they have given way to me, and let me see no one.' 'but we shall see _you_; you are in our hotel,' cried maria. 'do come and let me show you all my swiss costumes.' 'thank you; if--' and she paused, perhaps a little perplexed by maria; and bertha added, in the most womanly voice that she could muster, 'my sister and miss charlecote will be very glad to see you--very much obliged to you.' then maria, who was unusually demonstrative, put another question-- 'are you ill? bertha says everybody here is ill. i hope you are not.' 'no, thank you,' was the reply. 'i am here with my uncle and aunt. it is my uncle who has been unwell.' bertha, afraid that maria might blunder into a history of her malady, began to talk fast of the landscape and its beauties. the stranger seemed to understand her desire to lead away from herself, and readily responded, with a manner that gave sweetness to all she said. she was not very young-looking, and maria's notion might be justified that she was at hyeres on her own account, for there was hardly a tint of colour on her cheek; she was exceedingly spare and slender, and there was a wasted, worn look about the lower part of her face, and something subdued in her expression, as if some great, lasting sorrow had passed over her. her eyes were large, brown, soft, and full of the same tender, pensive kindness as her voice and smile; and perhaps it was this air of patient suffering that above all attracted bertha, in the soreness of her wounded spirit, just as the affectionateness gained maria, with the instinct of a child. however it might be, phoebe, who had become uneasy at their absence, and only did not go to seek them from the conviction that nothing would set them so completely astray as not finding her at her post, was exceedingly amazed to be hailed by them from beneath instead of above, and to see them so amicably accompanied by a stranger. maria went on in advance to greet the newly-recovered sister, and tell their adventure; and bertha, as she saw phoebe's pretty, grateful, self-possessed greeting, rejoiced that their friend should see that one of the three, at least, knew what to say, and could say it. as they all crept down together through the rugged streets, phoebe felt the same strange attraction as her sisters, accompanied by a puzzling idea that she had seen the young lady before, or some one very like her. phoebe was famous for seeing likenesses; and never forgetting a face she had once seen, her recognitions were rather a proverb in the family; and she felt her credit almost at stake in making out the countenance before her; but it was all in vain, and she was obliged to resign herself to discuss the pyrenees, where it appeared that their new friend had been spending the summer. at the inn-door they parted, she going along a corridor to her aunt's rooms, and the three fulmorts hurrying simultaneously to miss charlecote to narrate their adventure. she was as eager as they to know the name of their rescuer, and to go to thank her; and ringing for the courier, sent him to make inquiries. 'major and mrs. holmby, and their niece,' was the result; and the next measure was miss charlecote's setting forth to call on them in their apartments, and all the three young ladies wishing to accompany her--even bertha! what could this encounter have done to her? phoebe withdrew her claim at once, and persuaded maria to remain, with the promise that her new friend should be invited to enjoy the exhibition of the book of swiss costumes; and very soon she was admiring them, after having received an explanation sufficient to show her how to deal with maria's peculiarities. mrs. holmby, a commonplace, good-natured woman, evidently knew who all the other party were, and readily made acquaintance with miss charlecote, who had, on her side, the same strange impression of knowing the name as phoebe had of knowing the face. bertha, who slept in the same room with phoebe, awoke her in the morning with the question, 'what do you think is miss holmby's name?' 'i did not hear it mentioned.' 'no, but you ought to guess. do you not see how names impress their own individuality? you need not laugh; i know they do. could you possibly have been called augusta, and did not katherine quite pervade miss fennimore?' 'well, according to your theory, what is her name?' 'it is either eleanor or cecily.' 'indeed!' cried phoebe; 'what put that into your head?' 'her expression--no, her entire _wesen_. something homely, simple, a little old-fashioned, and yet refined.' 'it is odd,' said phoebe, pausing. 'what is odd?' 'you have explained the likeness i could not make out. i once saw a photograph of a cecily, with exactly the character you mention. it was that of which she reminded me.' 'cecily? who could it have been?' 'one of the raymond cousinhood. what o'clock is it?' 'oh, don't get up yet, phoebe; i want to tell you miss holmby's history, as i make it out. she said she was not ill, but i am convinced that her uncle and aunt took her abroad to give her change, not after illness, but sorrow.' 'yes, i am sure she has known trouble.' 'and,' said bertha, stifling her voice, so that her sister could hardly hear, 'that sorrow could have been only of one kind. patient waiting is stamped on her brow. she is trying to lift up her head after cruel disappointment. oh, i hope he is dead!' and, to phoebe's surprise and alarm, the poor little fortune-teller burst into tears, and sobbed violently. there could be no doubt that her own disappointment, rather than that which she ascribed to a stranger, prompted this gush of feeling; but it was strange, for in all the past months the poor child's sorrow and shame had been coldly, hardly, silently borne. the new scenes had thrust it into abeyance, and spirits and strength had forced trouble aside, but this was the only allusion to it since her conversation with miss charlecote on her sick bed, and the first sign of softening. phoebe durst not enter into the subject, but soothed and composed her by caresses and cheerfulness; but either the tears, or perhaps their original cause--the fatigue and terror of the previous day--had entirely unhinged her, and she was in such a nervous, trembling state, and had so severe a headache, that she was left lying down, under lieschen's charge, when the others went to the english chapel. her urgent entreaty was that they would bring miss holmby to her on their return. she had conceived almost a passion for this young lady. secluded as she had been, no intercourse beyond her own family had made known to her the pleasure of a friendship; and her mind, in its revival from its long exhaustion, was full of ardour, in the enthusiasm of a girl's adoration of a full-grown woman. the new and softening sensation was infinite gain, even by merely lessening her horror of society; and when the three churchgoers joined the holmby party on their way back from the chapel, they begged, as a kindness to an invalid, for a visit to bertha. it was granted most readily, as if equally pleasant to the giver of the kindness and to the receiver, and the two young maidens walked home together. phoebe could not but explain their gratitude to any one who could rouse bertha, saying that her spirits had received a great shock, and that the effects of her illness on her speech and her eyes had made her painfully bashful. 'i am so glad,' was the hurried, rather quivering answer. 'i am glad if i can be of any use.' phoebe was surprised, while gratified, by the eager tenderness of her meeting with bertha, who, quite revived, was in the sitting-room to greet her, and seemed to expand like a plant in the sunshine, under the influence of those sweet brown eyes. her liveliness and drollery awoke, and her sister was proud that her new friend should see her cleverness and intelligence; but all the time the likeness to that photograph continued to haunt phoebe's mind, as she continued to discover more resemblances, and to decide that if such were impressed by the christian name, bertha was a little witch to detect it. afternoon came, and as usual they all walked seawards. as bertha said, they had had enough of the heights, and tried going towards the sea, as their new friend wished, although warned by the fulmorts that it was a long walk, the _etangs_, or great salt-pools, spoiling the coast as a beach. but all were brave walkers, and exercise always did bertha good. they had lovely views of the town as they wound about the hills, and admired its old streets creeping up the hill, and the two long wings stretching on either side. an iron cross stood up before the old church, relieved by the exquisite radiance of the sunset sky. 'ah!' said honor, 'i always choose to believe that is the cross to which the legend belongs.' 'tell it, please, miss charlecote,' cried maria. and honor told a veritable legend of hyeres:--a moorish princess, who had been secretly baptized and educated as a christian by her nurse, a christian slave, was beloved by a genie. she regarded him with horror, pined away, and grew thin and pale. her father thought to raise her spirits by marrying her, and bestowed her on the son of a neighbouring king, sending her off in full procession to his dominions. on the way, however, lay a desert, where the genie had power to raise a sand-storm, with which he overwhelmed the suite, and flew away with the princess. but he could not approach her; she kept him at bay with the sign of the cross, until, enraged, he drove her about on a whirlwind for three days, and finally dashed her dead upon this coast. there she lay, fair as an almond blossom, and royally robed, and the people of hyeres took her up and gave her honourable burial. when the king her father heard of it, he offered to reward them with a cross of gold of the same weight as his daughter; but, said the townsmen, 'oh, king, if we have a cross of gold, the moors will come and slay us for its sake, therefore give us the gold in coin, and let the cross be of iron.' 'and there it stands,' said the guest, looking up. 'i hope it does,' said honor, confronting, as usual, the common-sense led pupils of miss fennimore, with her willing demi-credulity. 'it is a beautiful story!' was the comment; 'and, like other traditions, full of unconscious meaning.' a speech this, as if it had been made to delight honor, whose eyes were met by a congratulatory glance from phoebe. at the farther words, 'it is very striking--the evil spirit's power ending with the slaying the body, never harming the soul, nor bending the will--' 'bending the will is harming the soul,' said phoebe. 'nay,' was her companion's answer, 'the fatal evil is, when both wills are bent.' phoebe was too single-minded, too single-willed, at once to understand this, till miss charlecote whispered a reference to st. paul's words of deep experience, 'to will is present with me.' 'i see,' she said; 'she might even have preferred the genie, but as long as her principle and better will resisted, she was safe from herself as well as from him.' 'liked the nasty genie?' said maria, who had listened only as to a fairy tale. 'why, phoebe, genies come out of bottles, and go away in smoke, lieschen told me.' 'no, indeed,' said bertha, in a low voice of feeling, piteous in one of her years, 'if so, it needed no outward whirlwind to fling her dead on the coast!' 'and there she found peace,' answered the guest, with a suppressed, but still visible sign of weariness. 'oh! it was worth the whirlwind!' phoebe was forced to attend to maria, whose imagination had been a good deal impressed, and who was anxious to make another attempt on a pilgrimage to castle and cross. 'when mervyn comes back, maria, we may try.' the guest, who was speaking, stopped short in the midst. had she been infected by bertha's hesitation? she began again, and seemed to have forgotten what she meant to have said. however, she recovered herself; and there was nothing remarkable through the rest of the walk, but, on coming indoors, she managed to detain phoebe behind the others, saying, lightly, 'miss fulmort, you have not seen the view from my window.' phoebe followed to her little bed-room, and gazed out at the lovely isles, bathed in light so as to be almost transparent, and the ship of war in the bay, all shadowy and phantom-like. she spoke her admiration warmly, but met with but a half assent. the owner of the room was leaning her head against the glass, and, with an effort for indifference said, 'did i hear that--that you were expecting your brother?' 'you are cecily!' exclaimed phoebe, instead of answering. and cecily, turning away from the window, leant against the wall for support, and her pale face crimsoning, said, 'i thought you did not know.' 'my sisters do not,' said phoebe; 'but he told me, when--when he hoped--' 'and now you will help me?' said cecily, hurrying out her words, as if overpowering one of her wills. 'you will, i know! i have promised my father and uncle to have nothing to do with him. do not let me be taken by surprise. give me notice, that i may get aunt holmby away before he comes.' 'oh! must it be so?' cried phoebe. 'he is not like what he used to be.' 'i have promised,' repeated cecily; and grasping phoebe's wrist, she added, 'you will help me to keep my promise.' 'i will,' said phoebe, in her grave, reliable voice, and cecily drew a long breath. there were five minutes of silence, while phoebe stood studying cecily, and thinking how much injustice she had done to her, how little she had expected a being so soft and feeling in her firmness, and grieving the more at mervyn's loss. cecily at last spoke, 'when will he come?' 'we cannot tell; most likely not for a week, perhaps not for a fortnight. it depends on how he likes corsica.' 'i think my aunt will be willing to go,' said cecily. 'my uncle has been talking of nice.' 'then must we lose you,' said phoebe, 'when you are doing bertha so much good?' 'i should like to be with you while i can, if i may,' said cecily, her eyes full of tears. 'did you know us at first?' said phoebe. 'i knew you were in this hotel; and after your sisters had spoken, and i saw bertha's face, i was sure who she was. i thought no one was with you but miss charlecote, and that no one knew, so that i might safely indulge myself.' the word was out before she could recall it, and trying, as it were, to hide it, she said, 'but how, if you knew what had passed, did you not sooner know it was i?' 'because we thought your name was holmby.' 'did you, indeed. you did not know that my aunt holmby is my mother's sister? she kindly took me when my uncle was ordered to spend this winter abroad.' 'you were ill and tried. bertha read that in your face. oh! when you see how much difference--' 'i must not see. do not talk of it, or we must not be together; and indeed it is very precious to me.' she rested her head on phoebe's shoulder, and put an arm round her waist. 'only one thing i must ask,' she said, presently; 'is he well?' 'quite well,' said phoebe. 'he has been getting better ever since we left home. then you did not know he was with us?' 'no. it is not right for me to dwell on those things, and they never mention any of you to me.' 'but you will write to us now? you will not desert bertha? you do not know how much you are doing for her.' 'dear child! she is so like what he was when first he came.' 'if you could guess what she has suffered, and how fond he is of her, you would not turn away from her. you will let her be your friend?' 'if it be right,' said cecily, with tearful eyes, but her mouth set into a steadfast expression, as resolute as sweetly sad. 'you know better what is right than i do,' said phoebe; 'i who feel for him and bertha. but if you have not heard from him for so long, i think there are things you ought to know.' 'at home, at home,' said cecily; 'there it may be right to listen. here i am trusted alone, and i have only to keep my promise. tell me when i am at home, and it will make me happy. though, nonsense! my wizened old face is enough to cure him,' and she tried to laugh. phoebe regretted what she had said of bertha's impression, and believed that the gentle, worn face ought to be far more touching than the most radiant charms, but when she strove to say that it was not beauty that mervyn loved, she was hushed at once, and by the same mild authority turned out of the room. well for her that she could tell her story to miss charlecote without breach of confidence! honor's first impulse was displeasure with the aunt, who she was sure had let her speak _of_, though not _to_, miss holmby without correcting her, and must purposely have kept the whole raymond connection out of sight. 'depend upon it, phoebe,' she said, 'she will keep her niece here.' 'poor cecily, what will she do? i wish they would go, for i feel sure that she will think it her duty to hold out against him, till she has her father's sanction; she will seem hard, and he--' 'do not reckon too much on him, phoebe. yes, it is a hard saying, but men care so much for youth and beauty, that he may find her less attractive. he may not understand how superior she must have become to what she was when he first knew her. take care how you plead his cause without being sure of his sentiments.' in fact, honor thought cecily raymond so infinitely above mervyn fulmort, at his very best, that she could not regard the affair as hopeful under any aspect; and the parties concerned being just at the time of life when a woman becomes much the elder of a man of the same years, she fully expected that cecily's loss of bloom would entirely take away his desire to pursue his courtship. the next event was a diplomatic call from mrs. holmby, to sound miss charlecote, whose name she knew as a friend both of the fulmorts and moorcroft raymonds, and who, she had feared, would use her influence against so unequal a match for the wealthy young squire. when convinced of her admiration of cecily, the good aunt proceeded to condemn the raymond pride. they called it religion, but she was not so taken in. what reasonable person heeded what a young man might have done when he was sowing his wild oats? no, it was only that the baronet blood disdained the distillery, whereas the fulmorts represented that good old family, the mervyns, and it was a very fine estate, was not it? she had no patience with such nonsense, not she! all sir john's doing; for, between themselves, poor dear george raymond had no spirit at all, and was quite under his brother's thumb. such a family, and such a thing as it would be for them to have that girl so well married. _she_ would not take her away. the place agreed with the major, and she had told cecily she could not think of leaving it. phoebe saw how close a guard cecily must have learnt to keep on herself, for not a tone nor look betrayed that she was suffering unusual emotion. she occupied herself quietly, and was most tenderly kind to bertha and maria, exerting herself to converse with bertha, and to enter into her pursuits as cheerfully as if her mind was disengaged. sometimes phoebe fancied that the exceeding gentleness of her voice indicated when she was most tried, but she attempted no more _tete-a-tetes_, and miss charlecote's conjecture that in the recesses of her heart she was rejoiced to be detained by no fault of her own, remained unverified. phoebe resigned cecily for the present to bertha's exclusive friendship. competition would have been unwise, even if the forbidden subject had not been a restraint where the secret was known, while to soothe and cherish bertha and settle her mind to begin life again was a welcome and fitting mission for cecily, and inclination as well as discretion therefore held phoebe aloof, preventing maria from interfering, and trusting that cecily was becoming bertha's mr. charlecote. mervyn came back sooner than she had expected him, having soon tired of corsica. his year of ill-health and of her attendance had made him dependent on her; he did not enter into novelty or beauty without bertha; and his old restless demon of discontent made him impatient to return to his ladies. so he took phoebe by surprise, walking in as she was finishing a letter to augusta before joining the others in the olivettes. 'well, phoebe, how's bertha? ready to leave this hot-vapour-bath of a hole?' 'i don't know what you will say to it now,' she answered looking down, and a little tremulous. 'who do you think is here?' 'not hastings? if he dares to show his nose here, i'll get him hissed out of the place.' 'no, no, something very different.' 'well, make haste,' he said, in the grim voice of a tired man. 'she is here--cecily raymond.' 'what of that?' he sat down, folded his arms, and crossed his ankles, the picture of dogged indifference. 'mervyn!' 'what does it matter to me who comes or goes? don't stop to rehearse arrivals, but ring for something to eat. an atrocious _mistral_! my throat is like a turnpike road? call it january? it is a mockery!' phoebe obeyed him; but she was in a ferment of wrath and consternation, and clear of nothing save that cecily must be prepared for his appearance. she was leaving the room when he called her to ask what she was doing. 'i am going to tell the others that you are come.' 'where are they?' 'in the olive yards behind the hotel.' 'don't be in such a hurry, and i'll come.' 'thank you, but i had better go on before. miss raymond is with them.' 'it makes no odds to her. stop a minute, i tell you. what is the matter with her?' (said with some uneasiness, hidden by gruffness.) 'she is not here for her own health, but major holmby is rheumatic.' 'oh! that intolerable woman is here, is she? then you may give miss charlecote notice to pack up her traps, and we'll set off to-morrow!' if a desire to box a man's ears ever tingled in phoebe's fingers, it was at that moment. not trusting herself to utter a word, she went up-stairs, put on her hat, and walked forth, feeling as if the earth had suddenly turned topsy-turvy with her, and as if she could look no one in the face. set off to-morrow! he might tell miss charlecote himself, she would not! yet, after all, he had been rejected. his departure might not torture cecily like the sight of his indifference. but what despair for bertha, thought phoebe, as she saw the friends pacing the paths between the rows of olives, while miss charlecote and maria were gathering magnificent blue violets. at the first hint, miss charlecote called to bertha, who came reluctantly, while phoebe, with almost sickening pity, murmured her tidings to cecily--adding, 'i do not think he is coming out. he is having something to eat,' in hopes that this tardiness might be a preparation. she was relieved that bertha rushed back again to monopolize miss raymond, and overwhelm her with schemes for walks under mervyn's escort. cecily let her talk, but made no promises, and the soft gentleness of those replies thrilled as pangs of pain on phoebe's pitying heart. as they walked homewards, mervyn himself appeared, slowly sauntering towards them. the younger sisters sprang to meet him, cecily fell back to miss charlecote. phoebe held her breath, and scarcely durst look. there was a touch of the hand, a greeting, then bertha pounced on her brother to tell the adventure of the ravine; and cecily began to set maria off about the flowers in her nosegay. phoebe could only come close to miss charlecote and squeeze her hand vehemently. the inn-door was reached, and mervyn waiting till cecily came up, said with grave formality, 'i hear my sisters are indebted to you for your assistance in a very unpleasant predicament. she bowed, and he bowed. that was all, and they were in their several apartments. phoebe had never felt in such a fever. she could discern character, but love was but an external experience to her, and she could not read the riddle of mervyn's repudiation of intercourse with their fellow-inmates, and his restlessness through the evening, checking bertha for boring about her friend, and then encouraging her to go on with what she had been saying. at last, however, bertha voluntarily ceased her communications and could be drawn out no farther; and when the candle was put out at night, she electrified phoebe with the remark, 'it is mervyn, and you know it; so you may as well tell me all about it.' phoebe had no choice but compliance; advising bertha not to betray her knowledge, and anxious to know the conclusions which this acute young woman would draw from the present conjuncture. but bertha was too fond of both parties not to be full of unmitigated hope. 'oh, phoebe!' she said, 'with cecily there, i shall not mind going home, i shall not mind anything.' 'if only she will be there.' 'stuff, phoebe! the more mervyn sulks, the more it shows that he cares for her; and if she cares for him, of course it will come right.' 'do you remember what she said about the two wills contending?' 'well, if she ever _did_ think mervyn the genie, she has crossed him once, twice, thrice, till she may turn him from urgan into ethert brand.' 'she thinks it her duty not to hear that she has.' 'oh, oh! from you who know all about it; but didn't i tell her plenty about mervyn's kindness to me? yes, indeed i did. i couldn't help it, you know. it did not seem true to let anybody begin to be my friend unless she knew--_all that_. so i told her--and oh! phoebe, she was so dear and nice, better than ever after that,' continued bertha, with what sounded like sobs; 'and then you know she could not help hearing how good and patient he was with me--only growing kinder and kinder the more tiresome i was. she must feel that, phoebe, must not she? and then she asked about robert, and i told her how mervyn has let him get a chaplain to look after the distillery people, and the institute that that old gin-palace is to be made into.' 'those were just the things i was longing to tell her.' 'she could not stop _me_, you know, because i knew nothing,' cried bertha, triumphantly. 'are not you satisfied, phoebe?' 'i ought to be, if i were sure of his feelings. don't plunge about so, bertha,--and i am not sure either that she will believe him yet to be a religious man.' 'don't say that, phoebe. i was just going to begin to like religion, and think it the only true key to metaphysics and explanation of existence, but if it sticks between those two, i shall only see it as a weak, rigid superstition, parting those who were meant for one another.' phoebe was strongly tempted to answer, but the little travelling clock struck, and thus acted as a warning that to let bertha pursue an exciting discussion at this time of night would be ruinous to her nerves the next day. so with a good-night, the elder sister closed her ears, and lay pondering on the newly disclosed stage in bertha's mind, which touched her almost as closely as the fate of her brother's attachment. the ensuing were days of suppressed excitement, chiefly manifested by the yawning fits that seized on bertha whenever no scene in the drama was passing before her. in fact, the scenes presented little. cecily was not allowed to shut herself up, and did nothing remarkable, though avoiding the walks that she would otherwise have taken with the fulmort party; and when she found that bertha was aware of her position, firmly making silence on that head the condition of their interviews. mervyn let her alone, and might have seemed absolutely indifferent, but for the cessation of all complaints of hyeres, and for the noteworthy brightness, obligingness, and good humour of his manners. even in her absence, though often restless and strangely watchful, he was always placable and good-tempered, never even scolding phoebe; and in her presence, though he might not exchange three words, or offer the smallest service, there was a repose and content on his countenance that gave his whole expression a new reading. he was looking particularly well, fined down into alertness by his disciplined life and hill climbing, his complexion cleared and tanned by mountain air, and the habits and society of the last year leaving an unconscious impress unlike that which he used to bring from his former haunts. phoebe wondered if cecily remarked it. she was not aware that cecily did not know him without that restful look. phoebe came to the conclusion that cecily was persuaded of the cessation of his attachment, and was endeavouring to be thankful, and to accustom herself to it. after the first, she did not hide herself to any marked degree; and, probably to silence her aunt, allowed that lady to take her on one of the grand monday expeditions, when all the tolerably sound visiting population of hyeres were wont to meet, to the number of thirty or forty, and explore the scenery. exquisite as were the views, these were not romantic excursions, the numbers conducing to gossip and chatter, but there were some who enjoyed them the more in consequence; and mervyn, who had been loudest in vituperation of his first, found the present perfectly delightful, although the chief of his time was spent in preventing mrs. holmby's cross-grained donkey from lying down to roll, and administering to the lady the chocolate drops that he carried for bertha's sustenance; cecily, meantime, being far before with his sisters, where mrs. holmby would gladly have sent him if bodily terror would have permitted her to dismiss her cavalier. miss charlecote and phoebe, being among the best and briskest of the female walkers, were the first to enter the town, and there, in the _place des palmiers_, looking about him as if he were greatly amazed at himself, they beheld no other than the well-known figure of sir john raymond, standing beside the major, who was sunning himself under the palm-trees. 'miss charlecote, how are you? how d'ye do, miss fulmort? is your sister quite well again? where's my little niece?' 'only a little way behind with bertha.' 'well, we never thought to meet in such a place, did we? what a country of stones i have come over to-day, enough to break the heart of a farmer; and the very sheep are no better than goats! vineyards? what they call vineyards are old black stumps that ought to be grubbed up for firewood!' 'nay, i was struck by the wonderful cultivation of every available inch of ground. it speaks well for the provencals, if we judge by the proverb, "_autant vaut l'homme que vaut sa terre_."' 'ah! there she comes;' and he hastened to join cecily, while the deserted bertha, coming up to her sister, muttered, 'wretched girl! i hear she had written to him to fetch her home. that was what made her stay so quietly, was it?' no one could accuse mervyn of indifference who saw the blank look that overspread his face on hearing of sir john's arrival, but he said not a word, only hurried away to dress for the _table d'hote_. the first notice the anxious ladies had that the tedious dinner was broken up, was a knock at their door, and cecily's entrance, looking exceedingly white, and speaking very low. 'i am come to wish you good-bye,' she said. 'uncle john has been so kind as to come for me, and i believe we shall set out to-morrow.' maria alone could dare to shriek out, 'oh! but you promised to show me how to make a crown of my pink heaths, and i have been out with lieschen, and gathered such beauties!' 'if you will come with me to my room i will show you while i pack up,' said cecily, reducing bertha to despair by this most effectual barrier to confidence; but she entreated leave to follow, since seeing cecily playing with maria was better than not seeing her at all. after some time, mervyn came in, flushed and breathless, and honor kindly made an excuse for leaving him alone with phoebe. after diligently tossing a book from one hand to the other for some minutes, he observed, _sotto voce_, 'that's a more decent old fellow than i gave him credit for.' 'who, sir john?' 'aye.' and that was the whole result of the _tete-a-tete_. he was in no mood for questions, and marched out of the room for a moonlight cigar. phoebe only remained with the conviction that something had happened. miss charlecote was more fortunate. she had met the baronet in the passage, and was accosted by him with, 'do you ever do such a thing as take a turn on that terrace?' it was a welcome invitation, and in no more time than it took to fetch a shawl, the two old friends were pacing the paved terrace together. 'well, what do you think of him?' began sir john. 'there must be more good in him than i thought.' 'much more than i thought.' 'he has been speaking to me, and i can't say but that i was sorry for him, though why it should have gone so hard with so sensible and good a girl as cecily to give up such a scamp, i never could guess! i told george that seeing what i saw of him, and knowing what i knew, i could think it nothing better than a sacrifice to give her to him!' 'exactly what i thought!' 'after the way he had used her, too--talking nonsense to her, and then playing fast and loose, trying his luck with half the young ladies in london, and then fancying she would be thankful to him as soon as he wanted a wife to keep house! poor child, that would not have weighed with her a moment though--it puts me out of patience to know how fond she is of him--but for his scampishness, which made it a clear duty to refuse him. very well she behaved, poor thing, but you see how she pined away--though her mother tells me that not a fretful word was ever heard from her, as active and patient and cheerful as ever. then the holmbys took her abroad, the only thing to save her health, but i never trusted the woman, and when by and by she writes to her father that fulmort was coming, and her aunt would not take her away, "george," i said, "never mind; i'll go at once, and bring her home--she shall not be kept there to be torn to pieces between her feelings and her duty." and now i am come, i declare i don't know what to be at--i should think nothing of it if the lad only talked of reforming--but he looks so downcast, and owns so honestly that we were quite right, and then that excellent little sister of his is so fond of him, and you have stood his company this whole year--that i declare i think he must be good for something! now you who have looked on all his life, just say what you think of him--such a way as he went on in last year, too--the crew that he got about him--' 'phoebe thinks that was the consequence of his disappointment.' 'a man that could bring such a lot into the same house with that sister of his, had no business to think of cecily.' 'he has suffered for it, and pretty severely, and i do think it has done him good. you must remember that he had great disadvantages.' 'which didn't hinder his brother from turning out well.' 'robert went to a public school--' and there she perceived she was saying something awkward, but sir john half laughed, and assented. 'quite right, miss charlecote; private pupils are a delusion? george never had one without a screw loose about him. parish priests were never meant for tutors--and i've told my boy, charlie, that the one thing i'll never consent to is his marrying on pupils--and doing two good things by halves. it has well nigh worried his uncle to death, and cecily into the bargain.' 'robert was younger, and the elders were all worse managed. besides, mervyn's position, as it was treated, made him discontented and uncomfortable; and this attachment, which he was too--too--i can find no word for it but contemptible--to avow, must have preyed on his temper and spirits all the time he was trying to shake it off. he was brought up to selfishness, and nothing but what he underwent last year could have shaken him out of it.' 'then you think he is shaken out of it?' 'where bertha is concerned i see that he is--therefore i should hope it with his wife.' 'well, well, i suppose what must be must be. not that i have the least authority to say anything, but i could not help telling the poor fellow thus much--that if he went on steadily for a year or so, and continued in the same mind, i did not see why he should not ask my brother and cecily to reconsider it. then it will be for them to decide, you know.' for them! as if sir john were not in character as well as name the guiding head of the family. 'and now,' he added, 'you will let me come to your rooms this evening, for mrs. holmby is in such displeasure with me, that i shall get nothing but black looks. besides, i want to see a little more of that nice girl, his sister.' 'ah! sir john, if ever you do consent, it will be more than half for love of phoebe!' 'well, for a girl like that to be so devoted to him--her brother though he be--shows there must be more in him than meets the eye. that's just the girl that i would not mind john's marrying.' chapter xxv turn again, whittington!--_bow bells_ may had come round again before robert fulmort stood waiting at the waterloo station to welcome the travellers, who had been prohibited from putting bertha's restored health to the test of east winds. it was a vista of happy faces that he encountered as he looked into the carriage window, yet the first questions and answers were grave and mournful. 'is mr. henderson still alive?' asked honora. 'no, he sank rapidly, and died on sunday week. i was at the funeral on saturday.' 'right; i am glad you went. i am sorry i was away.' 'it was deeply felt. nearly all the clergy in the archdeaconry, and the entire parish, were present.' 'who is taking care of the parish?' 'charlecote raymond has been coming over for the sundays, and giving great satisfaction.' 'i say, robert, where's the bannerman carriage? phoebe is to be victimized there--more's the pity,' interposed mervyn. 'there is their brougham. i meant to drive to albury-street with her,' said robert, gazing at his brother as if he scarcely knew him without the characteristic knitting of the brow under a grievance, the scowl, or the half-sneering smile; and with the cleared and lightened air that he had worn ever since that little spark of hope had been left to burn and shine undamped by dissipation or worldly policy. bertha also was changed. she had grown tall and womanly, her looks beyond her age, and if her childish vivacity were gone, the softened gravity became her much better. it was phoebe's report, however, for which he chiefly longed, and he was soon seated beside her on the way to albury-street, while the others betook themselves citywards. 'so, phoebe, it is all right, and you are satisfied?' 'satisfied, grateful, thankful to the utmost,' said phoebe, fervently. 'i think i never was so happy as all through the latter part of the journey.' 'you think well of bertha?' 'i cannot call her restored, for she is far more than she was before. that meeting with cecily raymond did for her what we could not do, and she is growing to be more than we knew how to wish for.' 'her spirits?' 'never high, and easily shaken. her nerves are not strong yet, and she will never, i fear, be quite girlishly careless and merry, but she is grave and sweet. she does not shrink from people now, and when i saw her among other girls at paris, she seemed older, much deeper, and altogether superior.' 'does she think seriously?' 'she thinks and reads, but it is not easy to guess what she thinks, for she keeps silence, and has happily quite left off arguing with miss charlecote. i believe cecily has great influence over her, and i think she will talk a great deal to miss fennimore. robin, do you think we could have dear miss fennimore again?' 'i do not know what mr. parsons would say to you. as you know, she told him that she wanted to do the most useful work he could trust to her, so he has made her second mistress at the day-school for his tradesmen's daughters; and what they would do without her i cannot think!' 'she must have very insufficient pay.' 'yes, but i think she is glad of that, and she had saved a good deal.' 'i give you notice that i shall try hard to get her, if mr. crabbe will only let us be as we were before. do you think there is any hope for us?' 'i cannot tell. i suspect that he will not consent to your going home till mervyn is married; and augusta wants very much to have you, for the season at least.' 'mervyn and miss charlecote both say i ought to see a little of the london world, and she promises to keep maria and bertha till we see our way. i should not like them to be without me anywhere else. you have not told me of poor bevil. you must have seen him often.' 'yes, he clings very much to me, poor fellow, and is nearly as much cast down as at first. he has persuaded himself that poor juliana always continued what he thought her when they met in their youth. perhaps she had the germs of it in her, but i sometimes hardly know which way to look when he is talking about her, and then i take shame to myself for the hard judgments i cannot put away even now!' 'poor juliana!' said phoebe, saddened by her own sense that the difficulties of her present position were lessened by the removal of this sister. 'and little elizabeth?' 'she is a nice little thing, and her father hardly lets her out of his sight. i have sometimes speculated whether he might not ask you to keep house for him, but last time i saw him, i fancied that he was inclined to hold aloof from you.' 'i had rather he did not ask us,' said phoebe. 'why so?' 'because i am afraid bertha would not look up to him if she lived with him,' said phoebe. robert smiled, having himself become conscious of that weakness in his good brother-in-law which phoebe felt, but did not name. 'and now, phoebe,' said robert, suddenly changing the subject, 'i have something for you to do; i want you to call on miss sandbrook.' on her astonished look, he explained that he had made it his business frequently to see owen sandbrook's child, and of late to give it some religious teaching. while thus engaged, he had been surprised by the entrance of lucilla, looking wretchedly ill and exhausted, and though she had rallied her spirits after the first moment, talked of having come up from essex for a day's holiday of shopping and seeing her nephew, and had inquired eagerly and warmly for miss charlecote, he had been sufficiently uneasy about her to go afterwards to mrs. murrell, from whom he had learnt that she had avowed having consulted a physician in the morning, and had procured her address. 'and now,' said robert, 'i want you, with whom she has never quarrelled, to call on her as an old friend just come into her neighbourhood, and find out what was the doctor's opinion. i am sure she is destroying herself.' the whole was said with perfect simplicity, without shrinking from phoebe's eye, as though he had absolutely forgotten what sentiments he had once entertained; and phoebe could, neither in kindness nor humanity, refuse to be the means of reopening communication with the voluntary exile. she proposed to write and offer a call, but robert, fearing to rouse the old perverse pride, recommended that there should be no preparation. indeed, the chances of an independent expedition seemed likely to be scanty, for lady bannerman pounced on her sister as a truant bond-slave, who, when captured, was to be useful all day, and go to parties all night. 'i have told all my friends that i was going to introduce my sister, and what expectations you have,' she said. 'see, here are two cards for to-morrow night, lady jane hewett and mrs. gosling, the young widow that i want mervyn to meet, you know. clear pounds a year, and such a charming house. real first-rate suppers; not like lady jane's bread-and-butter and cat-lap, as sir nicholas says, just handed round. we would never go near the place, but as i said to sir nicholas, any sacrifice for my sister; and she has a son, you know, a fine young man; and if we manage well, we shall be in time for carrie gosling's supper. so mind that, phoebe, and don't get engaged to too many dances.' 'is there to be dancing?' 'most likely. i hope you have something to wear.' 'i provided myself at paris, thank you.' 'not mourning, i trust! that will never do! nobody thinks of mourning for a sister more than six months, and it makes me so low to think of poor juliana, and this horrid complaint being in the family. it is quite a duty to keep one's spirits up. but there's robert always so lugubrious; and poor sir bevil looks as deplorable, and comes up to town with that poor little girl all in crape, and won't eat any luncheon! i declare it gave me such a turn that i was obliged to have my little cordial before i could swallow a mouthful! and now you come in black! it is quite provoking! you must and shall get some colours to-morrow.' 'thank you, what i have is white and lilac.' on which neutral ground phoebe took her stand, and the french style and fashion so impressed augusta's maid, that she forced her ladyship to accept even simplicity as 'the thing,' and to sink back rebuked for the barbarism of hinting at the enlivenment of pink ribbons or scarlet flowers. though thus fortified against shopping on her own account, liberty even to go to see her sisters was denied her, in augusta's infinite disgust at the locality, and consideration for the horses. she was forced to be contented with the report of mervyn, who came to dinner and to go to the evening parties, and who spoke of the girls as well and happy; maria 'in her native element' at the infant school, and both in a perfect rapture at receiving miss fennimore, whom their hostess had asked to spend the evening in woolstone-lane. mervyn professed that he came entirely to see phoebe's debut in her parisian costume, and amused himself maliciously with endeavouring to delay the start from lady jane's till too late for mrs. gosling's supper; but phoebe, who did not wish to enhance the sacrifice, would not abet him, and positively, as he declared, aided augusta in her wild goose chase. he contrived to have a good deal of conversation with phoebe in the course of the evening, and she heard from him that old crabbe was more crusty than ever, and would not hear of his taking his sisters home, but, said he, that mattered the less, considering that now they would be able to be at the parsonage. 'the parsonage?' 'what! did you not know the living was in miss charlecote's gift?' 'do you mean that she has offered it to robert?' 'yes--no--at least she has told me of her intentions. highly proper in the old girl, isn't it? they will settle it to-night, of course. i'll have the grounds laid out, and make quite a pretty modern place of it. it has quite taken a weight off my mind to know he is so well provided for.' 'it will make us all very happy; but i think he will be sorry for st. matthew's, too.' 'oh! parsons think nothing of changes. he can appoint his own successor, and i'll not let things die away. and now, phoebe, is there anything you want to do? i will not have augusta tie you by the leg. i will look out a lady's horse to-morrow, and come to ride with you; or if you want to do anything, you can have the brougham any day.' 'thank you; there is one thing i want very much to do,' and she explained. 'ha!' said mervyn, 'a romantic meeting. if i remember right, mr. robin used to be much smitten with that little thing. don't reckon too much on the parsonage, phoebe.' 'what are we to do if both brothers turn us out?' smiled phoebe. 'don't talk of that. i should be glad enough to get you in--and i am far enough from _the other thing_ yet.' so phoebe obtained the use of the brougham for the next day and set off for her long essex drive, much against augusta's will, and greatly wondering what it would produce; compassionate of course for poor lucilla, yet not entirely able to wish that robert should resign the charge for which he was so eminently fitted, even for the sake of hiltonbury and home. lucy must be altered, indeed, if he would not be happier without her. phoebe had written a few lines, saying that hearing that lucy was so near, she could not help begging to see her. this she sent in with her card, and after a little delay, was invited to come in. lucilla met her at the top of the stairs, and at first phoebe only felt herself, clasped, clung to, kissed, fondled with a sudden gasping, tearful eagerness. then as if striving to recall the ordinary tone, lucilla exclaimed--'there--i beg your pardon for such an obstreperous greeting, but i am a famished creature here, you see, and i did not expect such kindness. luckily some of my pupils are driving out with their mamma, and i have sent the others to the nurse. now then, take off your bonnet, let me see you; i want to look at a home face, and you are as fresh and as innocent as if not a year had passed over you.' lucilla fervently kissed her again, and then holding her hand, gazed at her as if unwilling that either should break the happy silence. meantime phoebe was shocked to see how completely robert's alarms were justified by lucy's appearance. the mere absence of the coquettish ringlets made a considerable difference, and the pale colour of the hair, as it was plainly braided, increased the wanness of her appearance. the transparent complexion had lost the lovely carnation of the cheek, but the meandering veins of the temples and eyelids were painfully apparent; and with the eyes so large and clear as to be more like veronicas than ever, made the effect almost ghastly, together with excessive fragility of the form, and the shadowy thinness of the hand that held phoebe's. bertha's fingers, at her weakest, had been more substantial than these small things, which had, however, as much character and force in their grasp as ever. 'lucy, i am sure you are ill! how thin you are!' 'well, then, cod-liver oil is a base deception! never mind that--let me hear of honor--are you with her?' 'no, my sisters are, but i am with augusta.' 'then you do not come from her?' 'no; she does not know.' 'you excellent phoebe; what have you done to keep that bonny honest face all this time to refresh weary eyes--being a little heroine, too. well, but the honor--the old sweet honey--is she her very self?' 'indeed, i hope so; she has been so very kind to us.' 'and found subjects in you not too cross-grained for her kindness to be palatable! ah! a good hard plunge into the world teaches one what one left in the friendly ship! not that mine has been a hard one. i am not one of the pathetic governesses of fiction. every one has been kinder to me than i am worth--but, oh! to hear myself called lucy again!'--and she hid her face on phoebe's shoulder in another access of emotion. 'you used not to like it.' 'my cilly days were over long ago. only one person ever used to call me cilla;' and she paused, and went on afresh--'so it was for bertha's sake and mervyn's that honor escorted you abroad. so much robert told me; but i don't understand it yet. it had haunted me the whole winter that robert was the only mr. fulmort _she_ could nurse; and if he told you i was upset, it was that i did not quite know whether he were ghost or body when i saw him there in the old place.' 'no, he only told me you were looking very ill; and indeed--' 'i could not ask him what concatenation made honor take mervyn under her wing, like a hen hovering a vulture.' 'it would be a long story,' said phoebe; 'but bertha was very ill, and mervyn much out of health; and we were in great distress for an escort. i think it was the kindest thing ever done, and the most successful.' 'has it been a comfort to her? owen's letters must be, i am sure. he will come home this autumn, as soon as he has done laying out his railway, and then i shall get him to beg leave for me to make a little visit to hiltonbury before we go out to canada. i could not go out without a good word from her. she and mr. prendergast are all that remains of the old life. i say, phoebe, did you hear of those cousins of mine!' 'it was one of the reasons i wished to see you. i thought you might like to hear of them.' 'you saw them!' 'miss charteris called on us at nice. she--oh, lucy! you will be surprised--she is a plymouth sister!' 'rashe!--old rashe! we reverse the old transformation, butterflies into grubs!' cried lucy, with somewhat spasmodic laughter. 'tell me how the wonder came about.' 'i know little about it,' said phoebe. 'miss charlecote thought most likely it was the first earnest kind of religion that presented itself when she was craving for some such help.' 'did honor make such a liberal remark? there, i am sorry i said it; but let me hear of dear old rashe. has it made her very grim?' 'you know it is not an embellishing dress, and she did look gaunt and haggard; but still somehow we liked her better than ever before; and she is so very good and charitable.' 'ha! nice is a grand place for colporteurs and tracts. she would be a shining specimen there, and dissipation, religious or otherwise, old rashe _must_ have.' 'not only in that line,' said phoebe, suppressing a smile at the truth of the surmise, 'but she is all kindness to sick english--' 'she tried to convert you all!--confess it. rashe converting dear old honor! oh! of all comical conjunctions!' 'miss charlecote hushed it down,' said phoebe; 'and, indeed, nobody could be with her and think that she needed rousing to religious thoughts.' 'by this attempt on honor, i fear she has not succeeded with lolly, whom poor owen used to call an eastern woman with no soul.' 'she does everything for mrs. charteris--dresses her, works for her--i do believe cooks for her. they live a strange, rambling life.' 'i have heard lolly plays as deeply as charles, does not she? all castle blanch mortgaged--would be sold, but that uncle kit is in the entail! it breaks one's heart to hear it! they all live on generous old ratia, i suppose.' 'i believe she pays the bills when they move. we were told that it was a beautiful thing to see how patiently and resolutely she goes on bearing with them and helping them, always in hopes that at last they may turn to better things.' lucy was much touched. 'poor rashe!' she said; 'there was something great in her. i have a great mind to write to her.' they diverged into other subjects, but every minute she became more open and confidential; and as the guarded reserve wore off, phoebe contrived to lead to the question of her spirits and health, and obtained a fuller answer. 'till you try, phoebe, you can't guess the wear of living with minds that have got nothing in them but what you have put in yourself. there seems to be a fur growing over one's intellects for want of something to rub against.' 'miss fennimore must often have felt that with us.' 'no, you were older and besides, you have some originality in a sober way; and don't imagine miss fennimore had the sore heart at the bottom--the foolishness that took to moaning after home as soon as it had cast it off past recall!' 'oh, lucy! not past recall!' 'not past pardon, i am trying to hope. at least, there are some people who, the more unpardonable one is, pardon the more readily. when owen comes home, i mean to try.' 'ah! i saw you had been going through a great deal.' 'no, no, don't charge my looks on sentiment,' said cilla, hastily; 'there's plenty to account for them besides. one never falls into those foibles when one is quite strong.' 'then you have been unwell?' 'not to the point of giving in. oh, no! "never say die" was always my motto, you know.' 'to what point, dear lucy?' 'to that of feeling as if the entire creation was out of joint--not one child here and there, but everybody was cross; and i could not walk with the children, and my bones ached, and all that sort of thing.' 'you had advice?' 'yes, i thought it economical to patch myself up in time; so i asked for a holiday to go to the doctor.' 'well?' 'he did after the nature of doctors; poked me about, and asked if there were decline in the family;' and in spite of the smile, the great blue eyes looked ghastly; 'and he forbade exertion, and ordered good living and cod-liver oil.' 'then surely you should be taking care.' 'so i am. these are very good-natured people, and i'm a treasure of a governess, you know. i have refections ten times a day, and might swim in port wine, and the little swiss _bonne_ walks the children, and gives them an awful accent, which their mamma thinks the correct thing.' 'change--rest--you should have them.' 'i shall, when owen comes. it is summer-time, and i shall hold on till then, when it will be plenty of time to see whether this is nonsense.' 'whether what is?' 'about my lungs. don't look horrified. he could only trace the remains of a stupid old cold, and if it were more, i know of no fact of so little moment to anybody.' 'you should not say that, lucy; it is wrong and cruel.' 'it is your fault; i did not want to have talked of it, and in good time here comes half my flock. edie, reggie, flo, come and show miss fulmort what my torments are.' they ran in, apparently on excellent terms with her, and greeted her guest without shyness; but after a little whispering and shoving the youngest spoke. 'edie and reggie want to know if she is the lady that put out the light?' 'ah! you heroine,' said lucy, 'you don't know how often i have told of your doughty deeds! ay, look at her, she is the robber-baffler; though now i look at her i don't quite believe it myself.' 'but it is true?' asked the little girl, puzzled. 'tell us all the story,' added the boy. 'yes; tell us,' said lucilla. 'i read all your evidence, so like yourself as it was, but i want to know where you were sleeping.' phoebe found her present audience strangely more embarrassing than the whole assize court, perhaps because there the solemn purpose swallowed up the sense of admiration; but she laughed at last at the boy's disappointment at the escape of the thieves; 'he would have fired a pistol through the keyhole and shot them!' when she rose to go, the children entreated her to stay and be seen by the others, but this she was glad to escape, though lucilla clung to her with a sort of anguish of longing, yet stifled affection, that would have been most painful to witness, but for the hopes for her relief. phoebe ordered her brother's carriage in time to take her to breakfast in woolstone-lane the next morning, and before ten o'clock honor had heard the account of the visit in essex. tearfully she thanked the trusty reconnoitrer as for a kindness to herself, dwelling on the tokens of relenting, yet trembling at the tidings of the malady. to write and recall her child to her motherly nursing was the foremost thought in her strange medley of grief and joy, hope and fear. 'poor robert,' she said, when she understood that he had organized phoebe's mission; 'i am glad i told him to give no answer for a week.' 'mervyn told me how kind you were about hiltonbury.' 'kind to myself, my dear. it seems like a crime when i look at st. matthew's; but when i think of you all, and of home, i believe it is right that he should have the alternative. and now, if poor lucy come, and it be not too late--' 'did he say anything?' said phoebe. 'i only wrote to him; i thought he had rather not let me see his first impulse, so i told him to let me hear nothing till thursday evening. i doubted before, now i feel sure he will take it.' 'lucy has the oldest claim,' said phoebe, thoughtfully, wishing she could feel equally desirous of success in this affair as in that of mervyn and cecily. 'yes, she was his first love, before whittingtonia. did you mention the vacancy at hiltonbury?' 'no; there was so much besides to talk of.' 'that is well; for perhaps if she knew, that spirit of hers might keep her aloof. i feel like padre cristoforo dispensing lucia from her vow! if she will only get well! and a little happiness will do more than all the cods in hammerfest! phoebe, we will have a chapel-school at the hamlet, and a model kitchen at the school: and robert will get hold of all the big boys. his london experience is exactly what we want to brighten hiltonbury, and all our clergy.' hiltonbury had a right to stand first with honora, and whittingtonia had sunk into a mere training-school for her pattern parson. if there were a sigh to think that owen was exactly of the right age to have been ordained to hiltonbury, she put it away, for this was next best. her note to lucilla was penned with trembling caution, and each word was reconsidered day and night, in case the perverse temper might take umbrage. the answer came. 'my dear honor, 'it is beyond my deserts to be so kindly taken home. i have learnt what that means now. i can be spared for a fortnight; and as mr. bostock dines in town the day after to-morrow, he will set me down. your affectionate l. sandbrook.' 'miss charlecote is like a person ten years younger,' observed bertha to phoebe, when she came with the rest to 'quite a family party,' at albury-street. robert alone was absent, it being what augusta called 'a fast or something;' _i.e._ a meeting of st. wulstan's young men's institute. bertha heartily wished she could call herself a young man, for her morbid sense of disgrace always recurred with those whom she knew to be cognizant of her escapade. however, this evening made a change in her ladyship's views, or rather she had found phoebe no longer the mere submissive handmaid of schoolroom days, but a young woman accustomed to liberty of action and independence of judgment; and though perfectly obliging and unselfish, never admitting augusta's claims on her time to the exclusion of those of others of the family, and quietly but decidedly carrying out her intentions. bertha's shrinking silence and meekness of demeanour persuaded her sister that she would be more comfortable, and her womanly appearance not only rendered the notion of school ridiculous, but inspired the desire of bringing her out. phoebe might dedicate herself to maria if she pleased; bertha should shine through the season under her sister's patronage. not since the adventure with the hyeres peasants had bertha's tongue been so unmanageable, as when she tried to protest against going into society; and when mervyn came to her help, augusta owned that such hesitation was indeed an objection, but it might easily be cured by good management; cordials would prevent nervousness, and, after all, no one would care when a girl had such a fortune. poor bertha crept away, feeling as if she could never open her mouth again. meanwhile mervyn and augusta amicably agreed on the excellence of hiltonbury parsonage as a home for the girls, the latter only regretting what robert had sunk on his fancies at whittingtonia. 'i don't know that,' returned mervyn; 'all i regret is, that we never took our share. it is a different thing now, i assure you, to see the turn out from the distillery since the lads have come under his teaching! i only hope his successor may do as well!' 'well, i don't understand about such things,' said augusta, crossly. 'poor papa never made such a rout about the hands. it would not have been thought good taste to bring them forward.' 'if you wish to understand,' said mervyn, maliciously, 'you had better come and see. robert would be very glad of your advice for the kitchen he is setting going--sick cookery and cheap dinners.' 'and pray who pays for them? robert has made himself a beggar. is it you?' 'no; those who eat. it is to be self-supporting. i do nothing but lend the house. you don't remember it. it is the palace at the corner of richard alley.' 'it is no concern of mine, i know; but what is to become of the business if you go giving away the houses?' 'oh! i am getting into the foreign and exportation line. it is infinitely less bother.' 'ah, well! i am glad my poor father does not see it. he would have said the business was going to the dogs!' 'no; he was fast coming into robert's views, and i heartily wish i had not hindered him.' augusta told her admiral that evening that there was no hope for the family, since robert had got hold of mervyn as well as of the rest of them. people in society actually asked her about the schools and playground at mr. fulmort's distillery; there had been an educational report about them. quite disgusting! there passed a day of conflicting hope and fear, soothed by the pleasure of preparation, and at seven in the evening there came the ring at the house door, and lucilla was once more in honora's arms. it was for a moment a convulsive embrace, but it was not the same lingering clinging as when she met phoebe, nor did she look so much changed as then, for there was a vivid tint of rose on either cheek; she had restored her hair to the familiar fashion, and her eyes were bright with excitement. the presence of maria and bertha, which miss charlecote had regretted, was probably a relief; for lucilla, as she threw off her bonnet, and sat down to the 'severe tea' awaiting her, talked much to them, observed upon their growth, noticed the little maltese dog, and compared her continental experiences with bertha's. to honor she scarcely spoke voluntarily, and cast down her eyes as she did so, making brief work of answers to inquiries, and showing herself altogether disappointingly the old cilly. robert's absence was also a disappointment to honor, though she satisfied herself that it was out of consideration. lucy would not go up to her room till bed-time; and when honor, accompanying her thither, asked tender and anxious questions about her health, she answered them, not indeed petulantly, as of old, but with a strange, absent manner, as if it were duty alone that made her speak. only when honor spoke of her again seeing the physician whom she had consulted, she at first sharply refused, then, as if recollecting herself, meekly said: 'as you think fit, but i had rather it was not the same.' 'i thought he was your own preference,' said honor, 'otherwise i should have preferred dr. f.' 'very well, let it be,' said lucy, hastily. the good-nights, the kisses past, and honor went away, with a heavy load of thwarted hopes and baffled yearning at her heart--yearnings which could be stilled only in one way. a knock. she started up, and called 'come in,' and a small, white, ghostly figure glided in, the hands tightly clasped together. 'lucy, dear child, you are ill!' 'i don't know what is the matter with me,' said a husky, stifled voice; 'i meant it--i wanted it. i longed after it when it was out of reach, but now--' 'what, my dear?' asked honor, appalled at the effort with which she spoke. 'your pardon!' and with a pressure of hands and contraction of the brow as of physical agony, she exclaimed, 'honor, honor, forgive me!' honor held out her arms, she flung herself prone into them, and wept. tears were with her an affection as violent as rare, and her sobs were fearful, heaving her little fragile frame as though they would rend it, and issuing in short cries and gasps of anguish. honor held her in her arms all the time, much alarmed, but soothing and caressing, and in the midst, lucilla had not lost all self-control, and though unable to prevent the paroxysm, restrained it as much as possible, and never attempted to speak; but when her friend laid her down, her whole person still quivering with the long swell of the last uncontrollable sobbing, she looked up with the sweetest smile ever seen by honor, who could not help thinking that such a sight might have met the eyes of the mother who found the devil gone out and her daughter laid on the bed. the peace was such that neither could bear to speak for many seconds. at last lucy said, 'dear honor.' 'my dearest' 'lie down by me; please put your arms round me. there! oh! it is so comfortable. why did i never find it out before? i wish i could be a little child, and begin again from the time my father made me over to you.' 'lucy, we all would begin again if we could. i have come to the perception how often i exasperated you.' 'an angel who did his duty by me would have exasperated me in your place.' 'yes, that was one error of mine. i thrust myself in against the wishes of your nearest relative.' 'my thanklessness has made you feel that.' 'don't talk on, dear one--you are exhausting yourself.' 'a little more i must say before i can sleep under your roof in peace, then i will obey you in all things. honor, these few years have shown me what your education did for me against my will. what would have become of me if i had been left to the poor castle blanch people? nothing could have saved me but my spirit of contradiction! no; all that saved my father's teaching from dying out in me--all that kept me at my worst from the charteris standard, all that has served me in my recent life, was what you did for me! there! i have told you only the truth.' honor could only kiss her and whisper something of unlooked-for happiness, and lucilla's tears flowed again at the tenderness for which she had learnt to hunger; but it was a gentle shower this time, and she let herself be hushed into calmness, till she slept peacefully on honor's bed, in honor's arms, as she had never done, even as a young child. honor watched her long, in quiet gladness and thankfulness, then likewise slept; and when awakened at last by a suppressed cough, looked up to see the two stars of blue eyes, soft and gentle under their swollen lids, gazing on her full of affection. 'i have wakened you,' lucy said. 'have you been awake long?' 'not very; but to lie and look at the old windows, and smell the cedar fragrance, and see you, is better than sleep.' still the low morning cough and the pallor of the face filled honor with anxiety; and though lucilla attributed much to the night's agitation, she was thoroughly languid and unhinged, and fain to lie on the sofa in the cedar parlour, owning that no one but a governess could know the full charm of doing nothing. the physician was the same who had been consulted by her father, and well remembered the flaxen-haired child whom he had so cruelly detached from his side. he declared her to be in much the same reduced and enfeebled condition as that in which her father brought on his malady by reckless neglect and exposure, and though he found no positive disease in progress, he considered that all would depend upon anxious care, and complete rest for the autumn and winter, and he thought her constitution far too delicate for governess life, positively forbidding her going back to her situation for another day. honor had left the room with him. she found lucilla with her face hidden in the sofa cushions, but the next moment met a tremulous half-spasmodic smile. 'am i humbled enough?' she said. 'failed, failed, failed! one by my flirting, two by my temper, three by my health! i can't get my own living, and necessity sends me home, without the grace of voluntary submission.' 'nay, my child, the very calling it home shows that it need not humble you to return.' 'it is very odd that i should like it so much!' said lucy; 'and now,' turning away as usual from sentiment, 'what shall i say to mrs. bostock? what a wretch she will think me! i must go over and see all those children once more. i hope i shall have a worthy successor, poor little rogues. i must rouse myself to write!' 'not yet, my dear.' 'not while you can sit and talk. i have so much to hear of at home! i have never inquired after mr. henderson! not dead?' 'you have not heard? it was a very long, gradual decay. he died on the th.' 'indeed! he was a kind old man, and home will not be itself without his white head in the reading-desk. have you filled up the living.' 'i have offered it'--and there was a pause--'to robert fulmort.' 'i thought so! he won't have it.' honor durst not ask the grounds of this prediction, and the rest of that family were discussed. it was embarrassing to be asked about the reports of last winter, and lucy's keen penetration soon led to full confidence. 'ah! i was sure that a great flood had passed over that poor child! i was desperate when i wrote to phoebe, for it seemed incredible that it should be either of the others, but i might have trusted her. i wonder what will become of her. i have not yet seen the man good enough for her.' 'i have seen one--and so have you--but i could not have spared him to her, even if she had been in his time.' truly lucilla was taken home when honor was moved to speak thus. for her sake honor had regretted that the return dinner to the albury-street household and the brothers was for this day, but she revived towards evening, and joined the party, looking far less pretty and piquante, and her dress so quiet as to be only just appropriate, but still a fair bright object, and fitting so naturally into her old place, that lady bannerman was scandalized at her presumption and miss charlecote's weakness. honor and phoebe both watched the greeting between her and robert, but could infer nothing, either from it or from their deportment at dinner, both were so entirely unembarrassed and easy. afterwards robert sought out phoebe, and beguiled her into the window where his affairs had so often been canvassed. 'phoebe,' he said, 'i must do what i fear will distress you, and i want to prepare you.' was it coming? but how could he have guessed that she had rather not? 'i feel deeply your present homeless condition. i wish earnestly that i could make a home for you. but, phoebe, once you told me you were content to be sacrificed to my foremost duty--' 'i am,' she said. 'well, then, i love this smoky old black wife of mine, and don't want to leave her even for my sisters.' 'i never thought of your leaving her for your sisters, but--' and as lucilla's music effectually veiled all words--'i had thought that there might be other considerations.' her eyes spoke the rest. 'i thought you knew that folly had passed away,' he said, somewhat sternly. 'i trust that no one else has thought of it!' and he indicated miss charlecote. 'not when the offer was made to you, but since she heard of my mission.' 'then i am glad that on other grounds my mind was made up. no,' after a pause, 'there is a great change. she is far superior to what she was in the days of my madness, but it is over, and never could be renewed. she herself does not desire it.' phoebe was called to the piano, not sorry that such should be robert's conviction, and glad that he should not be disturbed in work that suited him so well as did st. matthew's, but thinking him far too valuable for lucy not to suffer in losing her power over him. and did she? she was alone in the cedar parlour with honor the next day, when the note was brought in announcing his refusal on the ground that while he found his strength and health equal to the calls of his present cure, and his connection with the fulmort firm gave him unusual facilities in dealing with the workmen, he did not think he ought to resign his charge for another for which many better men might be found. 'quite right; i knew it,' said lucilla, when honor had with some attempt at preparation shown her the note. 'how could you know it?' 'because i saw a man in his vocation.' a long silence, during which cilly caught a pitying glance. 'please to put that out of your head!' she exclaimed. 'there's no pity, no ill-usage in the case. i wilfully did what i was warned that he would not bear, and there was an end of it.' 'i had hoped not past recall.' 'well, if you will have the truth, when it was done and not to be helped, we were both very sorry; i can answer at least for one, but he had bound himself heart and soul to his work, and does not care any longer for me. what, you, the preacher of sacrifice, wishing to see your best pupil throw up your pet work for the sake of a little trumpery crushed fire-fly?' 'convict me out of my own mouth,' said honor, sadly, 'it will not make me like to see my fire-fly crushed.' 'when the poor fire-fly has lit the lamp of learning for six idle children, no other cause for dimness need be sought. no, i was well and wicked in the height of the pain, and long after it wore out--for wear out it did--and i am glad he is too wise to set it going again. i don't like emotions. i only want to be let alone. besides, he has got into such a region of goodness, that his wife ought to be super-excellent. i know no one good enough for him unless you would have him!' as usual, honor was balked by bestowing sympathy, and could only wonder whether this were reserve, levity, or resignation, and if she must accept it as a fact that in the one the attachment had been lost in the duties of his calling, in the other had died out for want of requital. for the present, in spite of herself, her feeling towards robert verged more on distant rather piqued admiration than on affection, although he nearly approached the ideal of her own first love, and owen sandbrook's teaching was, through her, bearing good fruit in him, even while recoiling on her woman's heart through owen's daughter. mervyn was easily reconciled to the decision, not only because his brother was even more valuable to him in london than in the country, but because miss charlecote's next alternative was charlecote raymond, sir john's second son, a fine, open-tempered young man of thirty, who had made proof of vigour and judgment in the curacy that he had just left, and who had the farther recommendation of bearing the name of the former squire, his godfather. anything called raymond was at present so welcome to mervyn that he felt himself under absolute obligations to robert for having left the field clear. when no longer prejudiced, the sight of robert's practical labours struck him more and more, and his attachment grew with his admiration. 'i'll tell you what, phoebe,' he said, when riding with her. 'i have a notion of pleasing the parson. yesterday we got obstructed by an interminable procession of school children going out for a lark in the country by an excursion train, and he began envying their keepers for being able to give them such a bath of country air. could we not let him do the same by his lot at beauchamp?' 'oh, mervyn, what a mass of happiness you would produce!' 'mass of humbug! i only want to please robin and have no trouble. i shan't come near it. you only tell me what it will cost, carriage, provender, and all, and let me hear no more of it.' he was destined to hear a good deal more. the proposal caused the utmost gratitude and satisfaction, except that honor and robert doubted whether it were a proper moment for merry-making at hiltonbury. they were in full consultation when in walked sir john raymond, who could not help coming to town at once to express his thanks at having his son settled so near him. ere long, he learnt what was under discussion, and made the amendment that the place should be the forest, the occasion the horticultural show. he knew of a capital spot for the whole troop to dine in, even including the wulstonians proper, whom honor, wondering she had never thought of it before, begged to include in the treat at her own expense. but conveyance from the station for nearly two thousand? 'never mind,' said sir john; 'i'll undertake for that! we'll make it a county concern, and get the farmers to lend their wagons, borrow all the breaks we can, and i know of some old stage-coaches in dock. if there's not room for all, they must ride and tye. it is only three miles from the little forest station, and we'll make the train stop there. only, young ladies, you must work whittington's cat upon all the banners for your kittens.' lucilla clapped her hands, and undertook that the whittingtonians should be marshalled under such an array of banners as never were seen before. maria was in ecstasies, and bertha was, in the excitement, forgetting her dread of confronting the county. 'but where's miss phoebe?' asked sir john, who had sat half an hour waiting in vain for her to appear; and when he heard, he declared his intention of calling on her. and where was mervyn himself? he was at the office, whither robert offered to conduct the baronet, and where mervyn heard more of his proposal than he had bargained for; though, perhaps, not more than he liked. he was going to an evening party at the bannermans', and seeing sir john's inclination to see phoebe, proposed to call for him and take him there. 'what is the use, phoebe,' demanded lady bannerman, after the party was over, 'of my getting all these young men on purpose to dance with you, if you get up in a corner all the evening to talk to nobody but mervyn and old sir john? it can be nothing but perverseness, for you are not a bit shy, and you are looking as delighted as possible to have put me out.' 'not to have put you out, augusta, but i am delighted.' 'well, at what?' 'we are asked to stay at moorcroft, that's one thing.' 'stupid place. no wines, no dinners,' said augusta; 'and so ridiculous as you are! if the son is at home you'll do nothing but talk to sir john. and if ever a girl ought to get married off i am sure it is you.' 'how do you know what good use i may make of my opportunities?' phoebe positively danced up-stairs, and indulged in a private polka round her bedroom. she had been told not only of the forest plan, but that sir john was going to 'run down' to his brother's at sutton the next day, and that he had asked mervyn to come with him. mervyn had not this time promised to send her a blank cover. he thought he had very little present hope, for the talk had been of a year's probation--of his showing himself a changed character, etc. and not only was this only half that space, but less than a month had been spent in england. this time he was not setting off as one about to confer a favour. phoebe heard no more for two days. at last, as she was finishing her toilette to go out with augusta, a hasty knock came to her door, and mervyn entreated to be let in. his face told more than his tongue could utter. he had little guessed the intensity of the happiness of which he had so long deprived himself, and cecily's acceptance had filled him with a flood of bliss, tinctured, however, by the sense of his own unworthiness of her constant affection, and increasing compunction for what he had made her endure. 'i don't know how she could do it, or why she cared for such a miserable scamp, breaking her heart all this time!' he exclaimed. 'you will make up for it now.' 'i wish i may; but, bless me, phoebe, she is a perfect little nun, and what is she to do with a graceless dog like me?' 'you will see,' said phoebe, smiling. 'what do you think, then?' he demanded, in some alarm. 'you know i can't take to the pious tack. will nothing else satisfy her?' 'you are not the same as you were. you don't know what will happen to you yet,' said phoebe, playfully. 'the carriage is ready, ma'am; my lady is waiting,' said a warning voice. 'i say,' quoth mervyn, intercepting her, 'not a word to my lady. it is all conditional, you understand--only that i may ask again, in a year, or some such infernal time, if i am i don't know what--but they do, i suppose.' 'perhaps you will by that time. dear mervyn, i am sorry, but i must go, or augusta will be coming here.' he made a ludicrous gesture of shrinking horror, but still detained her to whisper, 'you'll meet her at moorcroft; they will have her for the forest to-do.' phoebe signed her extreme satisfaction, and ran away. 'i am surprised at you, phoebe; you have kept me five minutes.' 'some young ladies do worse,' said the admiral, who was very fond of her; 'and her time was not lost. i never saw her look better.' 'i don't like such a pair of milkmaid's cheeks, looking so ridiculously delighted, too,' said lady bannerman, crossly. 'really, phoebe, one would think you were but just come up from the country, and had never been to a concert before. those stupid little white marabouts in your hair again, too!' 'well,' said sir nicholas, 'i take them as a compliment--phoebe knows i think they become her.' 'i don't say they are amiss in themselves, but it is all obstinacy, because i desire her to buy that magnificent ruby bandeau! how is any one to believe in her fortune if she dresses in that twopenny-halfpenny fashion? i declare i have a great mind to leave her behind.' phoebe could almost have said 'pray do,' so much did she long to join the party in woolstone-lane, where the only alloy was, that poor maria's incapacity for secrecy forbade her hearing the good news. miss charlecote, likewise, was secretly a little scandalized at the facility with which the raymonds had consented to the match; she thought mervyn improved, but neither religious nor repentant, and could not think cecily or her family justified in accepting him. something of the kind became perceptible to robert when they first talked over the matter together. 'it may be so,' he said, 'but i really believe that mervyn will be more susceptible of real repentance when he has imperceptibly been led to different habits and ways of thinking. in many cases, i have seen that the mind has to clear itself, and leave old things behind before it has the capacity of perceiving its errors.' 'repentance must precede amendment.' '_some_ repentance must, but even the sense of the inexpedience and inconvenience of evil habits may be the first step above them, and in time the power of genuine repentance may be attained.' 'still, glad as i am for all your sakes, i cannot understand it on cecily's part, or how a girl of her tone of mind can marry where there can as yet be no communion of the highest kind. you would be sorry to see phoebe do so.' 'very sorry. it is no example, but there may be claims from the mere length of the attachment, which seems to mark her as the appointed instrument for his good. besides, she has not fully accepted him; and after such change as he has made, she might not have been justified in denying all encouragement.' 'she did not seek such justification,' said honor laughing, but surprised to find robert thus lenient in his brother's case, after having acted so stern a part in his own. chapter xxvi then robin hood took them both by the hands, and danced about the oak tree, for three merry men, and three merry men, and three merry men we be.--_old ballad_ the case of the three sisters remained a difficulty. the bannermans professed to have 'washed their hands of them,' their advice not being taken, and mr. crabbe could not think himself justified in letting them return to the protection that had so egregiously failed. bertha was fretted by the uncertainty, and became nervous, and annoyed with phoebe for not showing more distress--but going on from day to day in the confidence that matters would arrange themselves. phoebe, who had come of age during her foreign tour, had a long conference with her guardian when he put her property into her hands. the result was that she obtained his permission to inhabit with her sisters the underwood, a sort of dowager-house belonging to beauchamp, provided some elderly lady could be found to chaperon them--miss fennimore, if they preferred her. miss fennimore was greatly touched with the earnestness of the united entreaties of her pupils, and though regretting the field of usefulness in which she had begun to work, could not resist the pleasure of keeping house with phoebe, and resuming her studies with bertha on safer ground. she could not, however, quit her employment without a half-year's notice, and when mervyn went down for a day to beauchamp, he found the underwood in such a woful state of disrepair, that turn in as many masons, carpenters, and paperers as he would, there was no hope of its being habitable before martinmas. therefore the intermediate time must be spent in visiting, and though the head-quarters were at the holt, the raymonds of moorcroft claimed the first month, and the promise of cecily's presence allured bertha thither, though the fulmort mind had always imagined the house highly religious and dull. little had she expected to find it ringing with the wild noise and nonsense of a joyous home party of all ages, full of freaks and frolics, laughter and merriment. her ready wit would have made her shine brilliantly if her speech had been constantly at command, but she often broke down in the midst of a repartee, and was always in danger of suffering from over-excitement. maria, too, needed much watching and tenderness. every one was very kind to her, but not exactly knowing the boundary of her powers, the young people would sometimes have brought her into situations to which she was unequal, if phoebe had not been constantly watching over her. between the two sisters, phoebe's visit was no sinecure. she was always keeping a motherly eye and hand over one or the other, sometimes over both, and not unseldom incurring bertha's resistance under the petulance of overwrought spirits, or anger at troublesome precautions. after cecily's arrival, however, the task became easier. cecily took bertha off her hands, soothing and repressing those variable spirits, and making a wise and gentle use of the adoration that bertha lavished on her, keeping her cousins in order, and obviating the fast and furious fun that was too great a change for girls brought up like the fulmorts. maria was safe whenever cecily was in the room, and phoebe was able to relax her care and enjoy herself doubly for feeling all the value of the future sister. she thought miss charlecote and lucilla both looked worn and dispirited, when one day she rode with sir john to see them and inspect the underwood, as well as to make arrangements for the forest show. poor honora was seriously discomposed at having nothing to show there. it was the first time that the holt had failed to shine in its produce, but old brooks had allowed the whole country round to excel so palpably in all farm crops, and the gardener had taken things so easily in her absence, that everything was mediocre, and she was displeased and ashamed. moreover, brooks had controverted her strictest instructions against harbouring tenants of bad character; he had mismanaged the cattle, and his accounts were in confusion. he was a thoroughly faithful servant, but like ponto and the pony, he had grown masterful with age. honor found that her presiding eye had certainly done some good, since going away had made things so much worse, and she took sir john with her to the study to consult him on her difficulties. phoebe and lucilla were left together. 'i am afraid you are not much better,' said phoebe, looking at the languid fragile little being, and her depressed air. 'yes, i am,' she answered, 'in essentials--but, oh! phoebe, if you could only teach me to get on with honor.' 'oh,' said phoebe, with a tone of disappointment, 'i hoped all was comfortable now.' 'so it ought to be! i am a wretch that it is not; but somehow i get tired to death. i should like it to be my own fault, but with her i always have a sense of _fluffiness_. there is so much figurativeness and dreamy sentiment that one never gets to the firm, clear surface.' 'i thought that her great charm,' said phoebe. 'it is a pity to be so dull and unimaginative as i am.' 'i like you best as you are! i know what to be at.' 'besides, her sensibility and poetry are a fund of happy youthfulness. abroad, her enjoyment was multiplied, because every place was full of associations, lighted up by her fancy. 'made unsubstantial by her fluff! no, i cannot like mutton with the wool on! it is a shame, though, good creature as she is! i only wanted to make out the philosophy of the wearied, worried condition that her conversation is so apt to bring on in me. i can't think it pure wickedness on my own part, for i esteem, and love, and venerate the good soul with all my heart. i say, phoebe, were you never in an inward rage when she would say she would not _let_ some fact be true, for the sake of some mythical, romantic figment? you smile. own that you have felt it.' 'i have thought of miss fennimore's theory, that legends are more veritable exponents of human nature than bare facts.' 'say it again, phoebe. it sounds very grand. whipped cream is a truer exponent of milk than cheese, especially when it tastes of soap-suds. is that it?' 'it is a much prettier thing, and not near so hard and dry,' said phoebe; 'but, you see, you are talking in figures after all.' 'the effect of example. look here, my dear, the last generation was that of mediaevalism, ecclesiology, chivalry, symbolism, whatever you may call it. married women have worked out of it. it is the middle-aged maids that monopolize it. ours is that of common sense.' 'i don't know that it is better or prettier,' said phoebe. 'and it may be worse! but how are the two to live together when there is no natural conformity--only undeserved benefits on one side and gratitude on the other?' 'you will be more at ease when you are stronger and better,' said phoebe. 'your brother will make you feel more natural with her.' 'don't talk of it, phoebe. think of the scene those two will get up! and the showing him that terrible little cockney, hoeing, as the old woman calls him. if i could only break the neck of his h's before poor owen hears them.' 'miss charlecote did say something of having him here, but she thought you were not strong enough.' 'justly judged! i shall have enough of him by and by, if i take him out to canada. once i used to think that would be deliverance; now it has become nothing but a gigantic trouble!' 'if you are really equal to it, you will not feel it so, when the time comes. bertha was miserable at the thought of moving, till just when she had come to the right point, and then she grew eager for it.' it was wonderful how much freshened lucy was by this brief contact with phoebe's clear, practical mind; but only for the time. ever since her arrival at the holt she had sadly flagged, though making every effort against her depression. there was something almost piteous in her obedience and submission. all the employments once pressed upon her and then spurned, were solicitously resumed; or if honor remonstrated against them as over-fatiguing, were relinquished in the same spirit of resigned meekness. her too visible desire to make an onerous atonement pressed with equal weight on both, and the essential want of sympathy rendered the confidences of the one mysteries to the other. honora was grieved that her child had only returned to pine and droop, charging much of her melancholy lassitude upon robert, and waiting on her with solicitude and tenderness that were unhappily only an additional oppression; and all lucilla's aversion to solitude did not prevent her friend's absence from being a relief. it was all that she could at present desire to be released from the effort of being companionable, and be able to indulge her languor without remark, her wayward appetite without causing distress, and her dejection without caresses, commiseration, or secret imputations on robert. tidings came from vancouver's land of her uncle's death by an accident. long as it was since she had seen him, the loss was deeply felt. she better appreciated what his care of her father had been, and knew better what gratitude he deserved, and it was a sore disappointment that he should not live to see her prove her repentance for all her flightiness and self-will. moreover, his death, without a son, would enable his nephew to alienate the family estate; and lucy looked on this as direful shame and humiliation. still there was something soothing in having a sorrow that could be shared with miss charlecote; and the tangible cause for depression and retirement was a positive comfort. 'trouble' was the chief dread of her wearied spirit; and though she had exerted herself to devise and work the banners, she could not attempt being present at the grand forest show, and marvelled to see honor set off, with twice her years and more than twice her sorrows, yet full of the fresh eagerness of youthful anticipation, and youthful regrets at leaving her behind, and at having nothing to figure at the show! but vegetables were not the order of that day, the most memorable the forest had perhaps ever known, since six bold lancastrian outlaws had there been hung, on the very knoll where the flag of england was always hoisted, superior to the flags of all the villages. the country population and the exhibitors were all early in the field, and on the watch for the great feature of the day--the londoners. what cheering rent the air as the first vehicle from the little forest station appeared, an old stage-coach, clustered within and without by white bibs, tippets, and caps, blue frocks, and grave, demure faces, uncertain whether to be charmed or frightened at their elevation and reception, and almost dazzled by the bright sunshine and pure air, to their perception absolutely thin, though heavy laden with the scents of new-mown hay and trodden ferns. the horses are stopped, down springs mr. parsons from the box, releases the staid mistress from within, lifts or jumps down the twenty girls, and watches them form in well-accustomed file, their banner at their head, just pausing to be joined by the freight of a rattling omnibus, the very roof laden with the like little puritan damsels. the conveyances turn back for another load, the procession is conducted slowly away, through the road lined by troops of country children, regarding the costume as the latest london fashion, and holding out many an eager gift of nosegays of foxgloves, marigolds, southernwood, and white pinks. meanwhile break, cart, fly, van, barouche, gig, cart, and wagon continue in turn to discharge successive loads, twenty children to each responsible keeper. white caps are over! behold the parish school of st. wulstan's. here _is_ fashion! here are hats, polkas, and full short skirts, but pale faces and small limbs. the country mothers cry 'oh!' and 'poor little dears, they look very tuly,' and complacently regard their own sturdy, sunburnt offspring, at whose staring eyes and ponderous boots the city mice glance with disdain. endless stream! here waves a proud blue banner, wrought with a noble tortoiseshell cat; and behind it, each class led by a cat-flag, marches the whittingtonian line, for once no ragged regiment, but arrayed by their incumbent's three sisters in lilac cotton and straw bonnets, not concealing, however, the pinched and squalid looks of the denizens of the over-crowded lanes and alleys. that complaint cannot be made of these sixteen wearers of gray frocks and checked jackets. stunted indeed they are, several with the expressionless, almost featureless, visages of hereditary misery, others with fearfully refined loveliness, but all are plump, well-fed, and at ease. they come from the orphanage of st. matthew's, under the charge of the two ladies who walk with them, leading two lesser younglings, all but too small to be brought to the festival. yes, these are the waifs and strays, of home and parents absolutely unknown, whom robert fulmort has gathered from the streets--his most hopeful conquest from the realm of darkness. here, all neatly, some stylishly dressed, are the st. wulstan's young women's association, girls from fifteen upwards, who earn their own livelihood in service or by their handiwork, but meet on sunday afternoons to read, sing, and go to church together, have books lent out for the week, or questions set for those who like them. it is miss fennimore who is the nucleus of the band; she sits with them in church, she keeps the books, writes the questions, and leads the singing; and she is walking between her two chief friends, answering their eager and intelligent questions about trees and flowers, and directing their observation. boys! boys! boys! objects in flat caps and little round buttons atop, knee-breeches, and short-tailed coats, funnier to look at than their white-capped sisters, gentlemanly choristers, tidy sons of artisans and warehousemen, ragged half-tamed little street vagabonds, all file past, under curate, schoolmaster or pupil teacher, till the whole multitude is safely deposited in a large mead running into the heart of the forest, and belonging to the ranger, sir john raymond, who has been busy there, with all his family, for the last three days. policemen guard the gates from intruders, but all can look over the low hedge at the tents at either end, the cord dividing boy from girl, and the scattered hay, on which the strangers move about, mostly mazed by the strange sights, sounds, and smells, and only the petted orphans venturing to tumble about that curious article upon the ground. two little sisters, however, evidently transplanted country children, sit up in a corner where they have found some flowers, fondling them and hugging them with ecstasy. the band strikes up, and, at the appointed signal, grace is said by the archdeacon from the centre, the children are seated on the grass, and 'the nobility, clergy, and gentry' rush to the tents, and emerge with baskets of sandwiches of the largest dimensions, or cans full of sir john's beer. the whittingtonians devour as those that have eaten nothing this morning, the wulstonites as though country air gave great keenness of appetite; the subdued silence of awe passes off, and voices, laughing, and play begin to betray some real enjoyment and familiarity. such as are not too perfectly happy in the revelry of tumbling on the grass are then paraded through the show, to gaze at peas, currants, and potatoes, pyramids of geraniums, and roses peeping through white paper. thence the younger ones return to play in the field; such of the elder ones as prefer walking are conducted through forest paths to gather flowers, and to obtain a closer view of that oft-described sight, a corn-field. some of the elder wulstonians get up a dance, tall girls dancing together with the utmost enjoyment; but at four o'clock the band plays _dulce domum_, the captains of twenties count heads and hunt up stragglers, all gather together in their places, plum buns and tea are administered till even these thirsty souls can drink no more. again the files are marshalled, the banners displayed, and the procession moves towards the little forest church, a small, low-walled, high-roofed building, enclosed by stately beeches, making a sort of outer cathedral around the little elevation where it stood in its railed-in churchyard. two thousand children besides spectators in a building meant for three hundred! how came it to be devised? there is a consultation among the clergy. they go from one portion to another of the well-generalled army, and each division takes up a position on the ground strewn with dry beech leaves; hassocks and mats are brought to the ladies, a desk set at the gate, and a chair for the archdeacon; the choristers are brought near, and the short out-door service is begun. how glorious and full the responses, 'as the voice of many waters,' and the chanted psalms, the beautiful songs of degrees of the th of the month, rise with new fulness and vividness of meaning among the tall trees and sunlit foliage. one lesson alone is read, in charlecote raymond's fine, powerful voice, and many an eye is filled with tears at the words, 'one lord, one faith, one baptism, one god and father of us all,' as he gazes on the troops on troops of young and old, rich and poor, strangers and homeborn, all held together in that great unity, typified by the overshadowing sky, and evidenced by the burst of the creed from every voice and every heart. then follow the versicles, the collects, the thanksgiving, and the blessing, and in a few warm, kind words the archdeacon calls on all to keep the bond of peace and brotherly love, and bade the strangers bear home with them the thought of the wonderful works of god. then-- all people that on earth do dwell, sing to the lord with cheerful voice, arises from the congregation in all its simple exultant majesty, forcing, as it were, every voice to break forth into singing unless it be choked by heart-swelling. the last note has died away, but there is a sweet hush, as though lingering still, ere breaking the sense that this is none other than the gate of heaven. rattle and rumble, the vehicles are coming! the children rise, and somewhere begins the indispensable cheer. the gentlemen take the lead. 'three times three for mr. fulmort!' 'three cheers for sir john raymond!' 'three for the forest show!' shouting and waving of hats will never cease, the gentlemen are as crazy as the boys, and what will become of the train? tumble them in--hoist up the girls while mankind is still vociferous. what's all this, coming in at the omnibus windows? stand back, child, you don't want to be set down in london! your nosegay, is it? here are the prize nosegays, prize potatoes, prize currants, prize everything showering in on the londoners to display or feast on at home. many a family will have a first taste of fresh country green meat to-morrow, of such freshness, that is, as it may retain after eight hours of show and five of train. but all is compared! how the little girls hug their flowers. if any nosegays reach london alive, they will be cherished to their last hour, and maybe the leaves will live in prayer-books for many a year. poor little things! it has been to them apparently a rather weary and oppressive pleasure, too strange for the most part to be thoroughly enjoyed; but it will live in their memories for many a day, and as time goes on, will clear itself from the bewilderment, till it become one of the precious days that make gems on the thread of life. mervyn! where has he been all this time? true, he once said he would see nothing of it, and seems to have kept his word. he did not even acknowledge the cheers for mr. fulmort. is not something visible behind the broad smooth bole of yonder beech tree? have mervyn and cecily been there all the time of the evening service? it is a remarkable fact, that though nobody has told anybody, every person who is curious, and many who are not, know who is to be mrs. fulmort of beauchamp. chapter xxvii when will you marry? say the bells of st. mary. when i get rich, say the bells of shoreditch. when will that be? say the bells of stepney. i do not know, says the great bell of bow.--_nursery rhyme_ there was some truth in lucilla's view of herself and honor as belonging to two distinct classes of development. honor had grown up among those who fed on scott, wordsworth, and fouque, took their theology from the _british critic_, and their taste from pugin; and moulded their opinions and practice on the past. lucilla and phoebe were essentially of the new generation, that of kingsley, tennyson, ruskin, and the _saturday review_. chivalry had given way to common sense, romance to realism, respect for antiquity to pitying patronage, the past to the future. perhaps the present has lost in reverence and refinement as much as it has gained in clearness and confidence! lucilla represented reaction, therefore her attitude was antagonistic; phoebe was the child of the newer system, therefore she loved the elder one, and sought out the likenesses to, rather than the differences from, her own tone of thought. and well was it that she had never let slip her hold on that broad, unchanging thread of truth, the same through all changes, making faith and principle one, though the developments in practice and shades of thought shake off the essential wisdom on which it grew, only to adopt some more fatal aberration of their own! thus standing between the two, phoebe was a great help to both in understanding each other, and they were far more at ease when she was with them. in october, all three went to woolstone-lane for a brief stay. honor wished that the physician should see lucilla before the winter, and phoebe was glad to avail herself of the opportunity of choosing furniture and hiring servants for her new establishment, free from the interference of lady bannerman, who was of course at brighton. she had been obliged to let her sisters go to sutton without her, as the little parsonage had not room for three guests besides lieschen, who was more indispensable to maria than even herself, and both the others were earnestly set upon accepting the invitation. cecily silenced her scruples by begging, as a proof of acceptance as a sister, that she might be intrusted with them, and promising that in her own quiet home, whence most of the family had been launched into life, they should meet with none of the excitements of merry moorcroft; and phoebe was obliged to resign her charge for these few weeks, and trust from bertha's lively letters that all was well. another cause which made honor and lucy anxious to be in london was the possibility of owen's arrival. he had last been heard of on the shores of lake superior, when he spoke of returning as soon as the survey for a new line of railway should have been completed, and it was not unlikely that he might come even before his letter. news would await him that he would regret as much as did his sister. uncle kit's death had enabled charles charteris, or rather his creditors, to advertise castle blanch for sale, and lucilla, who had a more genuine affection for the place than had any of the natives, grieved extremely over the family disgrace that was causing it to pass into other hands. she had an earnest desire to take advantage of the display of the house and grounds to pay the scenes of her youth one last visit. the vehemence of this wish was her first recurrence to her old strength of will, and honora beheld it as a symptom of recovery, though dreading the long and fatiguing day of emotion. yet it might be taken as another token of improvement that she had ceased from that instinctive caution of feebleness which had made her shrink from all exertion or agitation. her chest was pronounced to be in a satisfactory state, her health greatly improved; and as there was no longer need for extra precaution, the three ladies set forth together on the first fine day. the indian summer was in full glory, every wood arrayed in brightness; and as they drove from the wrapworth station, the banks of the river were surpassingly lovely, brown, red, and olive, illuminated by sprays of yellow, like fireworks, and contrasting with the vivid green of the meadows and dark blue water. honor recollected the fairy boat that once had floated there, and glancing at the pale girl beside her, could not but own the truth of the similitude of the crushed fire-fly; yet the fire of those days had scorched, not lighted; and it had been the mirth that tendeth to heaviness. cilla was gazing, with all her soul in her eyes, in silence. she was trying to revive the sense of home that once had made her heart bound at the first glimpse of wrapworth; but her spirit leapt up no more. the familiar scene only impressed the sense of homelessness, and of the severance of the last tie to her father's parish, her mother's native place. honor asked if she would stop in the village. 'not yet,' she said; 'let us have the castle first.' at the next turn they overtook mr. prendergast, and he was instantly at the carriage-door, exacting a willing promise of taking luncheon with him on the way back, a rest for which honor was thankful, sure as she was that this visit was costing lucy more than she had anticipated. without a word, she beheld the green space of park, scattered with groups of glowing trees, the elms spangled with gold, the maples blushing themselves away, the parterre a gorgeous patchwork of scarlet, lilac, and orange, the virginian creeper hanging a crimson mantle on the cloister. there was something inexpressibly painful in the sight of all this beauty, unheeded and cast away by the owners, and displayed as a matter of bargain and sale. phoebe thought of the strange, uncomfortable dream that it had been to her when she had before looked and wondered at the scene before her. she retraced robert's restless form in every window, and thought how little she had then augured the fruit of what he had suffered. the rooms were opened, and set out for inspection. honor and phoebe made it their duty to occupy the chattering maid, a stranger to lucilla, and leave her free to move through the apartments, silent and very white, as if it were a sacred duty to stand wherever she had stood, to gaze at whatever her eyes had once met. presently she stood still, in the dining-room, her hand grasping the back of a chair, as she looked up to a large picture of three children, two boys and a girl, fancifully dressed, and playing with flowers. the waxen complexion, fair hair, and blue eyes of the girl were almost her own. 'this to be sold?' she said, turning round, and speaking for the first time. 'o yes, ma'am!--everything, unreservedly. that picture has been much admired--by the late sir thomas lawrence, ma'am--the children of the late general sir christopher charteris.' lucilla, whiter than before, walked quickly away. in a few seconds phoebe followed, and found her leaning on the balustrade of the terrace, her breathing heavily oppressed; but she smiled coldly and sternly, and tightened a stiff, cold grasp on phoebe's arm as she said-- 'honor has her revenge, phoebe! these are the kindred for whom i broke from her! well, if charles sells his birthright and his own father, i don't know how i can complain of his selling my mother!' 'but, lucy, listen. miss charlecote was asking about the agent. i am sure she means to try to get it for you.' 'i dare say. it is right that i should bear it!' 'and the maid said that there had been a gentleman speaking about it, and trying to secure it. she thought he had written to mr. charteris about it.' 'what gentleman?' and lucy was ready to spring back to inquire. 'miss charlecote asked, and i believe it was mr. prendergast!' there was a bright, though strange flickering of pleasure and pain over cilla's face, and her eyelids quivered as she said, 'yes--yes--of course; but he must not--he must not do it! he cannot afford it! i cannot let him!' 'perhaps your cousin only needed to be reminded.' 'i have no hope of him. besides, he cannot help himself; but at least--i say, phoebe, tell honor that it is kindness itself in her; but i can't talk about it to her--' and lucilla's steps sprang up-stairs, as desirous to escape the sight and speech of all. after the melancholy round of deserted bedrooms, full of bitter recollections, lucilla again descended first, and at the door met the curate. after a few words, she turned, and said, 'mr. prendergast would row us down to the vicarage, if you liked.' 'indeed, my dear,' said honor, unwillingly, 'i am afraid of the cold on the water for you.' 'then pray let me walk across the park!' she said imploringly; and miss charlecote yielded rather than try her submission too severely, though dreading her over-fatigue, and set off with phoebe in the fly. 'you are sure it is not too far for you?' asked the curate. 'quite. you know i always used to fly upon wrapworth turf.' after some silence--'i know what you have been doing,' she said, with a choking voice. 'about the picture? i am sorry you do.' 'it is of no use for you to know that your cousin has no more heart than a lettuce run to seed.' 'when i knew that before, why may i not know that there are others not in the same case?' she said, with full heart and eyes. 'because the sale must take place, and the purchaser may be a brute, so it may end in disappointment.' 'it can't end in disappointment.' 'it may be far beyond my means,' continued the curate, as if he had been answering her importunities for a new doll. 'that i know it is,' she said. 'if it can be done at all, the doing of it may be left to miss charlecote--it is an expiation i owe to her generous spirit.' 'you would rather she did it than i?' he asked, mortified. 'nay--didn't i tell you that i let her do it as an expiation. does not that prove what it costs me?' 'then why not--' he began. 'because,' she interrupted, 'in the first place, you have no idea of the price of lawrence's portraits; and, in the second, it is so natural that you should be kind to me that it costs even my proud spirit--just nothing at all'--and again she looked up to him with beamy, tearful eyes, and quivering, smiling lip. 'what, it is still a bore to live with miss charlecote,' cried he, in his rough eagerness. 'don't use such words,' she answered, smiling. 'she is all kindness and forgiveness, and what can it be but my old vixen spirit that makes this hard to bear?' 'cilla!' he said. 'well?' 'cilla!' 'well?' 'i have a great mind to tell you why i came to southminster.' 'to look at a living?' 'to look at you. if i had found you pining and oppressed, i had thought of asking if you could put up with your father's old friend.' she looked with eyes of wonder, drew her arm away, and stood still, partly bewildered. 'you didn't?' she said, half in interrogation. 'i saw my mistake; you were too young and gay. but, cilla,' he added, more tremulously, 'if you do wish for a home--' 'don't, don't!' she cried; 'i can't have you talk as if i only wanted a home!' 'and indeed i have none as yet,' he said. 'but do you indeed mean that you could think of it?'--and he came nearer. 'it! nonsense! of you!' she vehemently exclaimed. 'how could you think of anything else?' 'cilla,' he said, in great agitation, 'let me know what you are saying. don't drive me crazy when it is not in the nature of things you should mean it!' 'why not?' asked lucilla. 'it is only too good for me.' 'is it true, then?' he said, as he took both her hands in his. 'is it true that you understand me, and are willing to be--to be my own--darling charge?' 'oh, it would be such rest!' it was as if the storm-tossed bird was folding its weary wing in perfect calm and confidence. nor could he contain his sudden joy, but spoke incoherent words, and well-nigh wept over her. 'how did you come to think of it?' exclaimed she, as, the first gush of feeling over, they walked on arm-in-arm. 'i thought of it from the moment when i hoped i might be a resource, a comforter at least.' 'not before?' was the rather odd question. 'no. the place was forlorn enough without you; but i was not such a fool as to think of a young beauty, and all that.' '_all that_ meaning my wickedness,' said lucilla. 'tell me again. you always did like the sprite even when it was wicked, only you were too good and right-minded.' 'too old and too poor.' 'she is old and poor now,' said cilla; 'worn out and washed out into a mere rag. and you like her the better?' 'not washed out!' he said, as her countenance flushed into more than its wonted loveliness. 'i used to wish you hadn't such a face when those insolent fellows talked of you--but you will get up your looks again when i have the care of you. the first college living--there are some that can't choose but drop before long! the worst is, i am growing no younger!' 'ah! but i am growing older!' she cried, triumphantly. 'all women from twenty-five to forty are of the same age as all men from thirty to fifty. we are of just the same standing, you see!' 'seventeen years between us!' 'nothing at all, as you will see when i put on my cap, and look staid.' 'no, no; i can't spare all that yellow hair.' 'yellow indeed! if you don't know better what to call it, the sooner it is out of sight the better.' 'why, what do you call it?' 'flaxen, to be sure--_blonde cendree_, if you like it better--that is the colour of tow and ashes!' she was like a playful kitten for the next quarter of a mile, her prettiest sauciness returning in the exuberant, confiding gladness with which she clung to the affection that at length satisfied her spirit; but gravity came back to her as they entered the village. 'poor wrapworth!' she said, 'you will soon pass to strangers! it is strange to know that, yet to feel the old days returning for which i have pined ever since we were carried away from home and mr. pendy.' 'yes, nothing is wanting but that we could remain here.' 'never mind! we will make a better wrapworth for one another, free from the stains of my castle blanch errors and sorrows! i am even glad of the delay. i want a little time to be good with poor dear honor, now that i have heart and spirit to be good.' 'and i grudge every week to her! i declare, cilla, you make me wish evil to my neighbour.' 'then follow my example, and be content with this present gladness.' 'ha! ha! i wonder what they'll say at southminster. didn't i row them for using you so abominably? i have not been near them since!' 'more shame for you! sarah is my best correspondent, and no one ever did me so much good as mrs. prendergast.' 'i didn't ask her to do you good!' 'you ought to have done so then; for i should not be the happy woman i am now if she had not done me good because she could not help it! i hope they won't take it to heart.' 'i hope they will!' 'what?' 'turning you out?' 'oh, i meant your throwing yourself away on a broken-down governess! there--let us have done with nonsense. come in this way.' it was through the churchyard, past the three graves, which were as trim as if lucilla had daily tended them. 'thank you,' she said; then gazed in silence, till with a sigh she exclaimed:-- 'poor edna! monument of my faults! what perverse determination of mine it was that laid her here!' 'it was your generous feeling.' 'do not miscall and embellish my perverse tyranny, as much to defy the charterises as to do her justice. i am more ashamed now that i have the secret of your yielding!' she added, with downcast eyes, yet a sudden smile at the end. 'we will take that child home and bring him up,' said mr. prendergast. 'if his father wishes it, it will be right; not as if it were the pleasantest of charges. thank you,' said cilla. 'three o'clock! poor honor, she must be starving!' 'what about her?' stammered mr. prendergast, hanging back shyly. 'must she be told?' 'not now,' said lucilla, with all her alert readiness. 'i will tell her to-night. you will come in the first day you can!' 'to-morrow! every possible day.' honor had truly been uneasy, fearing that lucilla was walking, sitting down, or fasting imprudently; but the brilliant colour, the joyous eyes, and lively manner spoke wonderfully for the effects of native air. mr. prendergast had become more absent and awkward than ever, but his extra shyness passed unremarked, and lucilla's tact and grace supplied all deficiencies without obtrusiveness. always at home in the vicarage, she made none of her former bantering display of familiarity, but only employed it quietly to secure the guests having what they wanted, and to awaken the host to his duties, when he forgot that any one save herself needed attention. she was carried off before the river fog should arise, and her abstracted silence all the way home was not wondered at; although phoebe, sitting opposite to her, was at a loss to read the furtive smiles that sometimes unclosed her lips, or the calm, pensive look of perfect satisfaction on her features; and honor could not comprehend her entire absence of fatigue after so trying a day, and wondered whether it were really the old complaint--want of feeling. at night, honor came to her room, and began--'my dear, i want to make a little explanation to you, if you are not tired.' 'oh! no--i had a little explanation to make to you,' she answered, with a flush and a smile. 'perhaps it may be on the same subject,' and as cilla half laughed, and shook her head, she added--'i meant to tell you that long ago--from the time i had the holt--i resolved that what remained of my income after the duties of my property were fulfilled, should make a fund for you and owen. it is not much, but i think you would like to have the option of anticipating a part, in case it should be possible to rescue that picture.' 'dear, dear honor,' exclaimed cilla; 'how very kindly you are doing it! little did i think that charles's heartlessness would have brought me so much joy and kindness.' 'then you would like it to be done,' said honor, delighted to find that she had been able so to administer a benefit as to excite neither offence nor resignation. 'we will take care that the purchaser learns the circumstances, and he can hardly help letting you have it at a fair valuation.' 'thanks, thanks, dear honor,' repeated lucy; 'and now for _my_ explanation. mr. prendergast has asked me to marry him.' had it been herself, honor could not have been more astounded. 'my child! impossible! why, he might be your father! is it that you want a home, lucy? can you not stay with me?' 'i can and i will for the present, sweetest honey,' said cilly, caressingly drawing her arm round her. 'i want to have been good and happy with you; but indeed, indeed i can't help his being more to me!' 'he is a very excellent man,' began bewildered honor; 'but i cannot understand--' 'his oddity? that's the very thing which makes him my own, and nobody else's, mr. pendy! listen, honor. sit down, you don't half know him, nor did i know my own heart till now. he came to us, you know, when my father's health began to break after my mother's death. he was quite young, only a deacon; he lived in our house, and he was, with all his dear clumsiness, a daughter to my father, a nurse to us. i could tell you of such beautiful awkward tendernesses! how he used to help me with my sums--and tie owen's shoes, and mince his dinner for him--and spare my father all that was possible! i am sure you know how we grieved after him.' 'yes, but--' 'and now i know that it was _he_ that i cared for at wrapworth. with him i never was wild and naughty as i was with others, though i did not know--oh! honor, if i had but known--that he always cared for the horrid little thing i was, i could not have gone on so; but he was too good and wise, even while he _did_ love me, to think of _this_, till i had been tamed and come back to you! i am sure i can't be so naughty now, since he has thought of me!' 'lucy, dearest, i am glad to see you so happy, but it is very strange to me. it is such a sudden change,' said honor. 'no change! i never cared for any one half as much!' 'lucy!' confounded at her apparent oblivion. 'it is true,' said lucy, sitting down by her. 'perhaps i thought i did, but if the other had ever been as much to me, i could never have used him as i did! oh, honor, when a person is made of the stuff i am, it is very hard to tell which is one's heart, and which is one's flirting-machine! for the other thing does simulate all the motions, and feel real true pain! but i know now that mr. pendy was safe in my rear heart of hearts all the time, though i never guessed it, and thought he was only a sort of father; but you see that was why i was always in awe of getting under robert's dominion, and why i survived his turning me off, and didn't at all wish him to bring it on again.' 'no, that you did not,' said honor, in a cheered voice, as if acquitting her. 'and i am sure if mr. prendergast only looked like using me after my deserts, as _he_ did, it would not be only a demi-decline that i should get into,' said lucilla, her eyes full of tears. 'oh! honor, think of his care of my father! kiss me and wish me joy in my father's name, and like him; for when you know him, you will see he is the only person in the wide world to whom you could safely trust your little torment!' honor could not but be carried along to give the hearty kiss and motherly congratulation as they were sought, and she saw that she must believe what lucy said of her own feelings, incomprehensible though they were. but she regretted to hear of the waiting for a college living, and at the first impulse wished she had heard of this attachment before hiltonbury's fate had been fixed. 'for shame, honor, as if you ought not to respect hiltonbury too much to tack it to my petticoat! but at least thank you, for if you could once think of committing hiltonbury to him, you must like it for me.' 'i must like what is so evidently well for you, my child! will you tell phoebe?' 'not till we go home, i think,' said cilla, with a blush; and, as if to avoid farther discussion, she bade honora good night. decidedly, she wished robert to feel more than she would like to see, or should he betray no feeling, she had rather not be aware of it. but such news was already in town as to put to flight, for a time at least, the last remnants of coquetry. robert was in the house early in the morning, and called miss charlecote to speak to him in the study. he had a packet of letters in his hand, of which he gave one to herself, a long one in owen's writing, but unfinished and undirected. 'lakeville, newcastle district, august th. 'my dear honor, 'there is no saying how much i rejoice that i can write to you and lucy again under the same roof. i hope soon to see you together again, and revive old times, but we are delayed by the discovery that the swamp lying full in the grand ottawa and superior line is impracticable, and would not only be the death of all the navvies employed thereon, but would swallow bodily the funds of the g. o. and s. company. so we are carrying our survey in other directions, before making out our report, after which i hope to be permanently engaged on the construction. this will give me three months to spend at home, in knitting up old links, and considering how to dispose of my poor little encumbrance till i can set him to make his way here. you or lucy would perhaps look out for some lady who takes indian children, or the like. i am my own man now, and can provide the wherewithal, for my personal expenses are small, and engineering is well paid. lucy must not think of bringing him out, for even at her fastest the far west would be no place for her. let her think of glendalough, and realize that if she were here she would look back on it as a temple of comfort, civilization, and civility, and this place is the last attempt at social habitation for and odd miles. it stands on a lake of its own, with an indian name, "which no man can speak and no man can spell." it is colonial to the highest degree, and inhabited by all denominations, chiefly agreed in worshipping us as priests of the g. o. and s. line, which is to make their fortune; and for their manners, least said soonest mended, though there are some happy exceptions, french canadian, lowland scots, etc. and a wiry hard-working parson, whose parish extends nearly to lake superior, and whose remaining aroma of university is refreshing. there is also a very nice young lad, whose tale may be a moving example of what it is to come out here expecting to find in the backwoods robinson crusoe's life and that of the last of the mohicans combined. that is, it was not he, but his father, major randolf, an english officer, who, knowing nothing of farming, less of canada, and least of all of speculation, got a grant of land, where he speculated only to lose, and got transferred to this forlorn tract, only to shiver with ague and die of swamp fever. during the twenty-five years of this long agony, he had contrived to have two wives, the first of whom left this son, whom he educated as a scholar, intending to finish him in england when the tide should turn, but whereas it never did, he must needs get a fresh partner into the whirlpool, a yankee damsel out of a boarding-house. by the time she had had a couple of children, he died, and the whole weight remains bound about young randolf's neck, tying him down to work for dear life in this doleful spot, without a farthing of capital, no stock, no anything. i came upon the clearing one day in the course of my surveying, and never did i see _gone to the dogs_ more clearly written on any spot; the half-burnt or overthrown trees lying about overgrown with wild vines and raspberries, the snake fence broken down, the log-house looking as if a touch would upset it, and nothing hopeful but a couple of patches of maize and potatoes, and a great pumpkin climbing up a stump. my horse and myself were done up, so i halted, and was amazed at the greeting i received from the youth, who was hard at work on his hay, single-handed, except for the two children tumbling in it. the lady in her rocking-chair was contrast enough to make me heartily glad to find that she was his stepmother, not his wife. since that, i have seen a good deal of him; he comes to lakeville, five miles across the bush and seven across the lake, to church on sunday, and spends the day with the parson, and mr. currie has given him work in our press of business, and finds him so effective, that he wants to take him on for good; but this can't be while he has got these three stones about his neck, for whom he works harder and lives worse than any day-labourer at hiltonbury; regular hand to mouth, no chance of making a start, unless the company will fortunately decide on the line i am drawing through the heart of his house, which will force them to buy him out of it. i go out to-morrow to mark the said line for mr. currie to report upon, and will finish my letter to travel with said report. '_aug._ _st._--thanks to the fire-king, he has done for the ancient log-house, though next time he mounts his "hot-copper filly," i do not desire a second neck-and-neck race with him. a sprain of the leg, and contusion (or confusion) of the head, are the extent of the damage received, and you will say that it is cheap, considering all things. i had done my miles of marking, and was coming back on my last day's journey, debating whether to push on to lakeville that night, camp out, or get a shake-down at randolf's, bringing my own provender, for they live on hominy and milk, except for what he can shoot or catch. it was so dark that i had nearly fixed on sleeping in the bush, when it struck me that there must be an uncommonly fine aurora, but getting up a little rising ground where the trees were thinner, i observed it was to the south-west, not the north. that way there lies prairie land, at this season one ocean of dry bents, fit to burn like tinder, so that one spark would set fifty square miles alight at once. all the sky in that quarter was the colour of glowing copper, but the distance was so enormous that danger never occurred to me till i saw the deer scampering headlong, the birds awake and flying, and my horse trembling and wild to be off. then i remembered that the wind was full from that direction, and not a bit of water between, nor all the way to the lakeville lake. i never knew my beast's pace on the kingston road what it was through that track, all the rustling and scuttling of the beasts and birds sounding round us, the glare gaining on us, and the scent of smoke beginning to taint the wind. there was randolf's clearing at last, lonesome and still as ever, and a light in the window. never was it so hard to pull in a horse; however, i did so. he was still up, reading by a pine torch, and in five minutes more the woman and her children were upon the horse, making for the lake. randolf took his axe, and pocketed a book or two, and we dashed off together for a long arm of swamp that he knew of, running out from the lake. when we got to the other end of the clearing, i thought it was all up with us. the wall of red roaring flame had reached the other side, and the flame was leaping from the top of one pine to another, making them one shape of quivering red, like christmas evergreens in the fire, a huge tree perhaps standing up all black against the lurid light, another crashing down like thunder, the ribbon of flame darting up like a demon, the whole at once standing forth a sheet of blazing light. i verily believe i should have stood on, fascinated with the horror and majesty of the sight, and feeling it vain to try to escape, when the burning wings were spreading to enclose the clearing and us with it, but randolf urged me on, and we plunged through the bush at the best speed we could make, the smoke rolling after us, and the heat glowing like a furnace, so as to consume all power out of us. it was hell itself pursuing after us, and roaring for his prey, the trees coming crashing down, and shaking the earth under our feet, the flame absolutely running on before us upon the dry grass and scrub, and the scorching withering every drop of moisture from us, though not ten minutes before, we had been streaming at every pore. 'i saw green reeds before us, heard randolf cry out, "thank god," and thought i was plunging after him, when i found myself on the ground, and the branches of a hemlock covering me. happily they were but the lesser boughs, and not yet alight; and at his own desperate peril, randolf came back with his axe, and cut them off, then dragged me after him into the mud. never bath more welcome! we had to dispute it with buffaloes, deer, all the beasts of the wood, tame and cowed with terror, and through them we floundered on, the cold of the water to our bodies making the burning atmosphere the more intolerable round our heads. at last we came to an island, where we fell upon the reeds so much spent that it was long before we found that our refuge was shared by a bear and by randolf's old cow, to the infinite amaze of the bull-frogs. the fire king was a hundred yards off; and a fierce shower, brought from other parts by his unwarrantable doings, began to descend, and finally quenched him in such smoke that we had to lie on our faces to avoid stifling. when the sun arose, there was lakeville in its woods on one side, on the other the blackest desolation conceivable. the population were all astir. mrs. randolf had arrived safely, and mr. currie was about to set forth in search of my roasted remains, when they perceived the signals of distress that we were making, after randolf had done gallant battle with the bear in defence of the old cow. he is a first-rate hunter, and despatched the fellow with such little aid as i could give, with a leg not fit to stand upon; and when the canoes came off to fetch us, he would not leave the place till he had skinned the beast. my leg is unserviceable at present, and all my bones feel the effect of the night in the swamp, so i am to lay by, make the drawings, and draw up the report, while mr. currie and randolf do my work over again, all my marks having been effaced by his majesty the fire king, and the clearing done to our hand. if i could only get rid of the intolerable parching and thirst, and the burning of my brains! i should not wonder if i were in for a touch of swamp fever.' here owen's letter broke off; and honor begged in alarm for what robert evidently had in reserve. he had received this letter to her enclosed in one from mr. currie, desiring him to inform poor young sandbrook's friends of his state. by his account, owen's delay and surrender of his horse had been an act of gallant self-devotion, placing him in frightfully imminent danger, whence only the cool readiness of young randolf had brought him off, apparently with but slight hurts from the fall of the tree, and exposure to the night air of the heated swamp. he had been left at lakeville in full confidence of restoration after a week's rest, but on returning from lake superior, mr. currie found him insensible, under what was at first taken for an aggravated access of the local fever, until, as consciousness returned, it became evident that the limbs on the left side were powerless. between a litter and water transport, the sufferer was conveyed to montreal, where the evil was traced to concussion of the brain from the blow from the tree, the more dangerous because unfelt at first, and increased by application to business. the injury of the head had deprived the limbs of motion and sensation, and the medical men thought the case hopeless, though likely to linger through many stages of feebleness of mind and body. under these circumstances, mr. currie, being obliged to return home himself, and unable to leave the poor young man in such a condition among strangers, had decided on bringing him to england, according to his own most eager desire, as the doctors declared that the voyage could do no harm, and might be beneficial. mr. currie wrote from quebec, where he had taken his passage by a steamer that would follow his letter in four days' time, and he begged robert to write to him at liverpool stating what should be done with the patient, should he be then alive. his mind, he said, was clear, but weak, and his memory, from the moment of his fall till nearly the present time, a blank. he had begged mr. currie to write to his sister or to miss charlecote, but the engineer had preferred to devolve the communication upon mr. fulmort. of poor owen he spoke with much feeling, in high terms of commendation, saying that he was a valuable friend and companion as well as a very right hand in his business, and that his friends might be assured that he (mr. currie) would watch over him as if he were his own son, and that his temporary assistant, mr. randolf, was devoted to him, and had nursed him most tenderly from the first. 'four days' time,' said honor, when she had taken in the sense of these appalling tidings. 'we can be at liverpool to meet him. do not object, robert. nothing else will be bearable to either his sister or me.' 'it was of his sister that i was thinking,' said robert. 'do you think her strong enough for the risks of a hurried journey, with perhaps a worse shock awaiting her when the steamer comes in? will you let me go alone? i have sent orders to be telegraphed for as soon as the _asia_ is signalled, and if i go at once, i can either send for you if needful, or bring him to you. will you not let me?' he spoke with persuasive authority, and honora half yielded. 'it may be better,' she said, 'it _may_. a man may do more for him there than we could, but i do not know whether poor lucy will let you, or--' (as a sudden recollection recurred to her) 'whether she ought.' 'poor owen is my friend, my charge,' said robert. 'i believe you are right, you kind robin,' said honor. 'the journey might be a great danger for lucy, and if i went, i know she would not stay behind. but i still think she will insist on seeing him.' 'i believe not,' said robert; 'at least, if she regard submission as a duty.' 'oh, robin, you do not know. poor child, how am i to tell her?' 'would you like for me to do so?' said robert, in the quiet matter-of-course way of one to whom painful offices had become well-nigh natural. 'you? o robin, if you--' she said, in some confusion, but at the moment the sound of the visitor's bell startled her, and she was about to take measures for their exclusion, when looking from the window, she saw that the curate of wrapworth had already been admitted into the court. the next moment she had met him in the hall, and seizing his hand, exclaimed in a hurried whisper, 'i know! i know! but there is a terrible stroke hanging over my poor child. come in and help us to tell her!' she drew him into the study, and shut the door. the poor man's sallowness had become almost livid, and in half-sobbing words he exclaimed--'is it so? then give her to me at once. i will nurse her to the last, or save her! i knew it was only her being driven out to that miserable governess life that has been destroying her!' and he quite glared upon poor innocent honor as a murderess. 'mr. prendergast, i do not know what you mean. lucilla is nearly well again. it is only that we fear to give her some bad news of her brother.' 'her brother! is that all?' said the curate, in a tone of absolute satisfaction. 'i beg your pardon, miss charlecote; i thought i saw a doctor here, and you were going to sentence my darling.' 'you do see robert fulmort, whom i thought you knew.' 'so i do,' said mr. prendergast, holding out his hand. 'i beg your pardon for having made such a fool of myself; but you see, since i came to an understanding with that dear child, i have not thought of anything else, nor known what i was about.' robert could not but look inquiringly at miss charlecote. 'yes,' she faltered, 'mr. prendergast has told you--what i could not--what i had not leave to say.' 'yes,' put in mr. prendergast, in his overflowing felicity, 'i see you think it a shocking match for such a little gem of beauty as that; but you young men should have been sharper. there's no accounting for tastes;' and he laughed awkwardly. 'i am heartily glad,' said robert--and voice, look, and grasp of the hand conveyed the fullest earnestness--'i am exceedingly rejoiced that the dear little friend of all my life should be in such keeping! i congratulate you most sincerely, mr. prendergast. i never saw any one so well able to appreciate her.' that is over, thought honor; how well he has stood it! and now she ventured to recall them to the subject in hand, which might well hang more heavily on her heart than the sister's fate! it was agreed that lucilla would bear the intelligence best from mr. prendergast, and that he could most easily restrain her desire for going to liverpool. he offered himself to go to meet owen, but honor could not quite forgive the '_is that all_?' and robert remained constant to his former view, that he, as friend both of owen and mr. currie, would be the most effective. so therefore it stood, and lucilla was called out of the drawing-room to mr. prendergast, as honor and robert entered it. it was almost in one burst that phoebe learnt the brother's accident and the sister's engagement, and it took her several moments to disentangle two such extraordinary events. 'i am very glad,' repeated robert, as he felt rather than saw that both ladies were regarding him with concealed anxiety; 'it is by far the happiest and safest thing for her! it is an infinite relief to my mind.' 'i can't but be glad,' said honor; 'but i don't know how to forgive her!' 'that i can do very easily,' said robert, with a smile on his thin lips that was very reassuring, 'not only as a christian, but as i believe nothing ever did me so much good. my fancy for her was an incentive which drew me on to get under better influences, and when we threw each other overboard, i could do without it. she has been my best friend, not even excepting you, miss charlecote; and as such i hope always to be allowed to regard her. there, phoebe, you have had an exposition of my sentiments once for all, and i hope i may henceforth receive credit for sincerity.' miss charlecote felt that, under the name of phoebe, this last reproof was chiefly addressed to her; and perhaps phoebe understood the same, for there was the slightest of all arch smiles about her full lip and downcast eye; and though she said nothing, her complete faith in her brother's explanation, and her christian forgiveness of lucilla, did not quench a strong reserve of wondering indignation at the mixed preferences that had thus strangely settled down upon the old curate. she followed her brother from the room, to ask whether she had better not leave woolstone-lane in the present juncture. but there was nowhere for her to go; beauchamp was shut up, the cottage being painted, sutton barely held the three present guests, and her elder sister from home. 'you cannot go without making a disturbance,' said robert; 'besides, i think you ought to stay with miss charlecote. lucilla is of no use to her; and this unlucky owen is more to her than all the world besides. you may comfort her.' phoebe had no more to urge. she could not tell her brother that looks and words of owen sandbrook, and in especial his last farewell, which she was at that time too young and simple to understand, had, with her greater experience, risen upon her in an aspect that made her desirous of avoiding him. but, besides the awkwardness of such recollections at all, they seemed cruel and selfish when the poor young man was coming home crippled and shattered, only to die, so she dismissed them entirely, and set herself to listen and sympathize. chapter xxviii old isle and glorious, i have heard thy fame across the sea, and know my fathers' homes are thine, my fathers rest with thee.--_a cleveland lore_ 'r. m. fulmort to miss charlecote.--the carriage to meet the p.m. train.' that was all the intelligence that reached woolstone-lane till the court-gates were opened, and robert hurried in before the carriage. 'much better,' he said 'only he is sadly knocked up by the journey. do not show yourselves till he is in his room. which is it?' honora and lucilla hastened to point it out, then drew back, and waited, honor supporting herself against the wall, pale and breathless, lucy hanging over the balusters, fevered with suspense. she heard the tread, the quick, muttered question and answer; she saw the heavy, helpless weight carried in; and as the steps came upwards, she was pulled back into the sitting-room by honor, at first almost by force, then with passive, dejected submission, and held tight to the back of a chair, her lip between her teeth, as though withholding herself by force from springing forward as the familiar voice, weak, weary, and uncertain, met her ear. at length robert beckoned; and she flew at first, then slackened her pace, awestruck. her brother lay on the bed, with closed eyes. the form was larger, more manly and robust than what she had known, the powerful framework rendering the wreck more piteous, and the handsome dark beard and moustache, and crisp, thick curls of hair made the straight, well-cut features resemble an old picture of a cavalier; nor had the bright, sunburnt complexion lost the hue of health; so that the whole gave the idea of present suffering rather than abiding illness. he seemed to her like a stranger, till at her step he looked up, and his dark gray eyes were all himself as he held out his hand and fondly spoke her name. she hung over him, restraining her exclamations with strong force; and even in the midst of her embrace he was saying, 'honor! is honor here?' trembling with emotion, honor bent to kiss his brow, and felt his arm thrown about her neck, and the hairy lips kissing either cheek just as when, smooth and babyish, they had sought her motherly caress. 'may i come home?' he asked. 'they brought me without your leave!' 'and you could not feel sure of your sweet honey's welcome?' he smiled his old smile of fondness, but dimmed by pain and languor; and the heavy lids sank over his eyes, but to be at once raised. 'lucy! home, honor! it is all i wanted,' he said; 'you will be good to me, such as i am.' 'we will sit close to you, my dear; only you cannot talk--you must rest.' 'yes. my head is very bad--my eyes ache,' he said, turning his head from the light, with closed eyes, and hand over them; but then he added--'one thing first--where is he?' 'your little boy?' said lucilla. 'do you wish to see him? i will call him.' 'no, no, i could not;' and his brow contracted with pain. 'no! but did not i tell you all about him--your cousin, honor? do pull the curtain round, the light hurts me!' convinced that his mind was astray, there was no attempt at answering him; and all were so entirely occupied with his comforts, that phoebe saw and heard no one until robert came down, telling her that owen had, in fact, improved much on the voyage, but that the long day's journey by train had brought on such severe and exhausting pain in the head, that he could scarcely speak or look up, and fatigue seemed to have confused the faculties that in the morning had been quite clear. robert was obliged to go to his seven o'clock service, and phoebe would fain have come with him, but he thought she might be useful at home. 'miss charlecote is so much absorbed in owen,' he said, 'that i do not think she heard a word about that young randolf. mr. currie is gone to spend to-morrow and sunday with his father at birmingham, but he let me have this young man to help to bring owen home. make miss charlecote understand that he is to sleep at my place. i will come back for him, and he is not to be in her way. he is such a nice fellow! and, phoebe, i have no time, but there is mrs. murrell with the child in the study. can you make her understand that owen is far too ill to see them to-night? keep them off poor lucy, that's all.' 'lucy, that's all!' thought phoebe, as she moved to obey. 'in spite of all he says, lucy will always be his first thought next to st. matthew's; nor do i know why i should mind it, considering what a vast space there is between!' 'now my pa is come, shan't i be a gentleman, and ride in a carriage?' were the sounds that greeted phoebe's ears as she opened the door of the study, and beheld the small, lean child dressed in all his best; not one of the gray linen frocks that lucilla was constantly making for him, but in a radiant tartan, of such huge pattern that his little tunic barely contained a sample of one of each portentous check, made up crosswise, so as to give a most comical, harlequin effect to his spare limbs and weird, black eyes. the disappointment that phoebe had to inflict was severe, and unwittingly she was the messenger whom mrs. murrell was likely to regard with the most suspicion and dislike. 'come home along with me, hoing, my dear,' she said; 'you'll always find poor granny your friend, even if your pa's 'art is like the nether millstone, as it was to your poor ma, and as others may find it yet.' 'i have no doubt mr. sandbrook will see him when he is a little recovered after his journey,' said phoebe. 'no doubt, ma'am. i don't make a doubt, so long as there is no one to put between them. i have 'eard how the sight of an 'opeful son was as balm to the eyes of his father; but if i could see mr. fulmort--' 'my brother is gone to church. it was he who sent me to you.' mrs. murrell had real confidence in robert, whose friendliness had long been proved, and it was less impossible to persuade her to leave the house when she learnt that it was by his wish; but phoebe did not wonder at the dread with which an interview with her was universally regarded. in returning from this mission, phoebe encountered the stranger in the lamp-light of the hall, intently examining the balustrade of the stairs. 'this is the drawing-room,' she courteously said, seeing that he seemed not to know where to go. 'thank you,' he said, following her. 'i was looking at the wood. what is it? we have none like it.' 'it is irish bog oak, and much admired.' 'i suppose all english houses can scarcely be like this?' said he, looking round at the carved wainscot. 'oh, no, this house is a curiosity. part was built before .' 'in the time of the indians?' then smiling, 'i had forgotten. it is hard to realize that i am where i have so long wished to be. am i actually in a room years old?' 'no; this room is less ancient. here is the date, , on the panel.' 'then this is such a house as milton might have grown up in. it looks on the thames?' 'how could you tell that?' 'my father had a map of london that i knew by heart, and after we came under temple bar, i marked the bearings of the streets. before that i was not clear. perhaps there have been changes since , the date of his map.' phoebe opened a map, and he eagerly traced his route, pronouncing the names of the historical localities with a relish that made her almost sorry for their present associations. she liked his looks. he seemed to be about two or three and twenty, tall and well-made, with somewhat of the bearing of his soldier-father, but broad-shouldered and athletic, as though his strength had been exercised in actual bodily labour. his clear, light hazel eye was candid and well opened, with that peculiar prompt vigilance acquired by living in a wild country, both steady to observe and keen to keep watch. the dark chestnut hair covered a rather square brow, very fair, though the rest of the face was browned by sun and weather; the nose was straight and sensible, the chin short and firm; the lips, though somewhat compressed when shut, had a look of good-humour and cheerful intelligence peculiarly pleasant to behold. altogether, it was a face that inspired trust. presently the entrance of the tea-things obliged the map to be cleared away; and phoebe, while measuring out the tea, said that she supposed miss charlecote would soon come down. 'then are not you a charlecote?' he asked, with a tone of disappointment. 'oh, no! i am phoebe fulmort. there is no charlecote left but herself.' 'it was my mother's name; and mine, humfrey charlecote randolf. sandbrook thought there was some connection between the families.' phoebe absolutely started, hurt for a moment that a stranger should presume to claim a name of such associations; yet as she met the bright, honest eyes, feeling glad that it should still be a living name, worthily borne. 'it is an old family name at hiltonbury, and one very much honoured,' she said. 'that is well,' he said. 'it is good to have a name that calls one to live up to it! and what is more strange, i am sure miss charlecote once had my mother's hair.' 'beautiful ruddy gold?' 'yes, yes; like no one else. i was wanting to do like poor sandbrook.' he looked up in her face, and stroked her hair as she was leaning over him, and said, 'i don't like to miss my own curls.' 'ah!' said phoebe, half indignantly, 'he should know when those curls were hidden away and grew silvery.' 'he told me those things in part,' said the young man. 'he has felt the return very deeply, and i think it accounts for his being so much worse to-night--worse than i have seen him since we were at montreal.' 'is he quite sensible?' 'perfectly. i see the ladies do not think him so to-night; but he has been himself from the first, except that over-fatigue or extra weakness affect his memory for the time; and he cannot read or exert his mind--scarcely be read to. and he is sadly depressed in spirits.' 'and no wonder, poor man,' said phoebe. 'but i cannot think it is as they told us at montreal.' 'what?' 'that the brain would go on weakening, and he become more childish. now i am sure, as he has grown stronger, he has recovered intellect and intelligence. no one could doubt it who heard him three days ago advising me what branch of mathematics to work up!' 'we shall hear to-morrow what dr. f--- says. miss charlecote wrote to him as soon as we had my brother's telegram. i hope you are right!' 'for you see,' continued the canadian, eagerly, 'injury from an external cause cannot be like original organic disease. i hope and trust he may recover. he is the best friend i ever had, except mr. henley, our clergyman at lakeville. you know how he saved all our lives; and he persuaded mr. currie to try me, and give me a chance of providing for my little brothers and their mother better than by our poor old farm.' 'where are they?' asked phoebe. 'she is gone to her sister at buffalo. the price of the land will help them on for a little while there, and if i can get on in engineering, i shall be able to keep them in some comfort. i began to think the poor boys were doomed to have no education at all.' 'did you always live at lakeville?' 'no; i grew up in a much more civilized part of the world. we had a beautiful farm upon lake ontario, and raised the best crops in the neighbourhood. it was not till we got entangled in the land company, five years ago, that we were sold up; and we have been sinking deeper ever since--till the old cow and i had the farm all to ourselves.' 'how could you bear it?' asked phoebe. 'well! it was rather dreary to see one thing going after another. but somehow, after i lost my own black mare, poor minnehaha, i never cared so much for any of the other things. once for all, i got ashamed of my own childish selfishness. and then, you see, the worse things were, the stronger the call for exertion. that was the great help.' 'oh, yes, i can quite imagine that--i know it,' said phoebe, thinking how exertion had helped her through her winter of trial. 'you never were without some one to work for.' 'no; even when my father was gone'--and his voice was less clear--'there was the less time to feel the change, when the boys and their mother had nothing but me between them and want.' 'and you worked for them.' 'after a fashion,' he said, smiling. 'spade-husbandry alone is very poor earth-scratching; and i don't really know whether, between that and my gun, we could have got through this winter.' 'what a life!' exclaimed phoebe. 'realities, indeed!' 'it is only what many colonists undergo,' he answered; 'if they do not prosper, it is a very hard life, and the shifting hopes render it the more trying to those who are not bred to it.' 'and to those that are?' she asked. 'to those that are there are many compensations. it is a free out-of-doors life, and the glorious sense of extent and magnificence in our woods, the sport one has there, the beauty of our autumns, and our white, grand, silent winters, make it a life _well_ worth living.' 'and would these have made you content to be a backwoodsman all your life?' 'i cannot tell,' he said. 'they--and the boys--were my delight when i was one. and, after all, i used to recollect it was a place where there was a clear duty to do, and so, perhaps, safer than what fancy or choice would point at.' 'but you are very glad not to be still condemned to it.' 'heartily glad not to be left to try to prop up a tumble-down log-hut with my own shoulder,' he laughed. 'this journey to england has been the great desire of my life, and i am very thankful to have had it brought about.' the conversation was broken off by robert's entrance. finding that it was nearly nine o'clock, he went up-stairs to remind miss charlecote that tea had long been awaiting her, and presently brought her back from the silent watch by owen's side that had hitherto seemed to be rest and comfort to all the three. owen had begged that his cup might be sent up by his friend, on whom he was very dependent, and it was agreed that mr. randolf should sleep in his room, and remain as a guest at woolstone-lane until mr. currie should come to town. indeed, miss charlecote relied on him for giving the physician an account of the illness which owen, at his best, could not himself describe; and she cordially thanked him for his evidently devoted attendance, going over every particular with him, but still so completely absorbed in her patient as to regard him in no light but as an appendage necessary to her boy. 'how did you get on with the backwoodsman, phoebe?' asked lucilla, when she came down to tea. 'i think he is a sterling character,' said phoebe, in a tone of grave, deep thought, not quite as if answering the question, and with an observable deepening of the red of her cheek. 'you quaint goose!' said lucy, with a laugh that jarred upon honor, who turned round at her with a look of reproachful surprise. 'indeed, honor dear,' she said, in self-vindication, 'i am not hard-hearted! i am only very much relieved! i don't think half so badly of poor owen as i expected to do; and if we can keep mrs. murrell from driving him distracted, i expect to see him mend fast.' robert confirmed her cheerful opinion, but their younger and better prognostications fell sadly upon honora's ear. she had been too much grieved and shocked to look for recovery, and all that she dared to expect was to tend her darling's feebleness, her best desire was that his mind might yet have power to embrace the hope of everlasting life ere he should pass away from her. let this be granted, and she was prepared to be thankful, be his decay never so painful to witness and attend. she could not let robert leave her that night without a trembling question whether he had learnt how it was with owen on this point. he had not failed to inquire of the engineer, but he could tell her very little. owen's conduct had been unexceptionable, but he had made scarcely any demonstration or profession, and on the few occasions when opinions were discussed, spoke not irreverently, but in a tone of one who regretted and respected the tenets that he no longer held. since his accident, he had been too weak and confused to dwell on any subjects but those of the moment; but he had appeared to take pleasure in the unobtrusive, though decided religious habits of young randolf. there she must rest for the present, and trust to the influence of home, perhaps to that of the shadow of death. at least he was the child of many prayers, and had not lucilla returned to her changed beyond her hopes? let it be as it would, she could not but sleep in gratitude that both her children were again beneath her roof. she was early dressed, and wishing the backwoodsman were anywhere but in owen's room. however, to her joy, the door was open, and owen called her in, looking so handsome as he lay partly raised by pillows, that she could hardly believe in his condition, except for his weak, subdued voice. 'yes, i am much better this morning. i have slept off the headache, and have been enjoying the old sounds!' 'where is your friend?' 'rushed off to look at st. paul's through the shaking of doormats, and pay his respects to the thames. he has none of the colonial _nil admirari_ spirit, but looks at england as a greek colonist would have looked at athens. i only regret that the reality must tame his raptures. i told him to come back by breakfast-time.' 'he will lose his way.' 'not he! you little know the backwood's power of topography! even i could nearly rival some of the arab stories, and he could guide you anywhere--or after any given beast in the newcastle district. honor, you must know and like him. he really is the new world charlecote whom you always held over our heads.' 'i thought you called him randolf?' 'that is his surname, but his christian name is humfrey charlecote, from his grandfather. his mother was the lady my father told you of. he saved an old bible out of the fire, with it all in the fly-leaf. he shall show it to you, and it can be easily confirmed by writing to the places. i would have gone myself, if i had not been the poor creature i am.' 'yes, my dear,' said honora, 'i dare say it is so. i am very glad you found so attentive a friend. i am most thankful to him for his care of you.' 'and you accept him as a relation,' said owen, anxiously. 'yes, oh, yes,' said honor. 'would you like anything before breakfast?' owen answered with a little plaintiveness. perhaps he was disappointed at this cold acquiescence; but it was not a moment at which honor could face the thought of a colonial claimant of the holt. with owen helpless upon her hands, she needed both a home and ample means to provide for him and his sister and child; and the american heir, an unwelcome idea twenty years previously, when only a vague possibility, was doubly undesirable when long possession had endeared her inheritance to her, when he proved not even to be a true charlecote, and when her own adopted children were in sore want of all that she could do for them. the evident relinquishment of poor owen's own selfish views on the holt made her the less willing to admit a rival, and she was sufficiently on the borders of age to be pained by having the question of heirship brought forward. and she knew, what owen did not, that, if this youth's descent were indeed what it was said to be, he represented the elder line, and that even humfrey had wondered what would be his duty in the present contingency. 'nonsense!' said she to herself. 'there is no need as yet to think of it! the place is my own by every right! humfrey told me so! i will take time to see what this youth may be, and make sure of his relationship. then, if it be right and just, he shall come after me. but i _will_ not raise expectations, nor notice him more than as owen's friend and a distant kinsman. it would be fatally unsettling to do more.' owen urged her no farther. either he had not energy to enforce any point for long together, or he felt that the succession might be a delicate subject, for he let her lead to his personal affairs, and he was invalid enough to find them fully engrossing. the canadian came in punctually, full of animation and excitement, of which phoebe had the full benefit, till he was called to help owen to dress. while this was going on, robert came into the drawing-room to breathe, after the hard task of pacifying mrs. murrell. 'what are you going to do to-day, phoebe?' he asked. 'have you got through your shopping?' 'some of it. do you mean that you could come out with me?' 'yes; you will never get through business otherwise.' 'then if you have an afternoon to spare, could not we take mr. randolf to the tower?' 'why, phoebe!' 'he has only to-day at liberty, and is so full of eagerness about all the grand old historical places, that it seems hard that he should have to find his way about alone, with no one to sympathize with him--half the day cut up, too, with nursing owen.' 'he seems to have no difficulty in finding his way.' 'no; but i really should enjoy showing him the old armour. he was asking me about it this morning. i think he knows nearly as much of it as we do.' 'very well. i say, phoebe, would you object to my taking brown and clay--my two head boys? i owe them a treat, and they would just enter into this.' phoebe was perfectly willing to accept the two head boys, and the appointment had just been made when the doctor arrived. again he brought good hope. from his own examination of owen, and from mr. randolf's report, he was convinced that a considerable amelioration had taken place, and saw every reason to hope that in so young and vigorous a nature the injury to the brain might be completely repaired, and the use of the limbs might in part, at least, return, though full recovery could not be expected. he wished to observe his patient for a month or six weeks in town, that the course of treatment might be decided, after which he had better be taken to the holt, to enjoy the pure air, and be out of doors as much as the season would permit. to honor this opinion was the cause of the deepest, most thankful gladness; but on coming back to owen she found him sitting in his easy-chair, with his hand over his eyes, and his look full of inexpressible dejection and despondency. he did not, however, advert to the subject, only saying, 'now then! let us have in the young pauper to see the old one.' 'my dear owen, you had better rest.' 'no, no; let us do the thing. the grandmother, too!' he said impatiently. 'i will fetch little owen; but you really are not fit for mrs. murrell.' 'yes, i am; what am i good for but such things? it will make no difference, and it must be done.' 'my boy, you do not know to what you expose yourself.' 'don't i,' said owen, sadly. lucilla, even though mr. prendergast had just come to share her anxieties, caught her nephew on his way, and popped her last newly completed pinafore over his harlequinism, persuading him that it was most beautiful and new. the interview passed off better than could have been hoped. the full-grown, grave-looking man was so different from the mere youth whom mrs. murrell had been used to scold and preach at, that her own awe seconded the lectures upon quietness that had been strenuously impressed on her; and she could not complain of his reception of his ''opeful son,' in form at least. owen held out his hand to her, and bent to kiss his boy, signed to her to sit down, and patiently answered her inquiries and regrets, asking a few civil questions in his turn. then he exerted himself to say, 'i hope to do my best for him and for you, mrs. murrell, but i can make no promises; i am entirely dependent at present, and i do not know whether i may not be so for life.' whereat, and at the settled mournful look with which it was spoken, mrs. murrell burst out crying, and little owen hung on her, almost crying too. honor, who had been lying in wait for owen's protection, came hastily in and made a clearance, owen again reaching out his hand, which he laid on the child's head, so as to turn up the face towards him for a moment. then releasing it almost immediately, he rested his chin on his hand, and honor heard him mutter under his moustache, 'flibbertigibbet!' 'when we go home, we will take little owen with us,' said honor, kindly. 'it is high time he was taken from little whittington-street. country air will soon make a different-looking child of him.' 'thank you,' he answered, despondingly. 'it is very good in you; but have you not troubles enough already? 'he shall not be a trouble, but a pleasure.' 'poor little wretch! he must grow up to work, and to know that he must work while he can;' and owen passed his hand over those useless fingers of his as though the longing to be able to work were strong on him. honor had agreed with lucilla that father and son ought to be together, and that little 'hoeing's' education ought to commence. cilla insisted that all care of him should fall to her. she was in a vehement, passionate mood of self-devotion, more overset by hearing that her brother would be a cripple for life than by what appeared to her the less melancholy doom of an early death. she had allowed herself to hope so much from his improvement on the voyage, that what to honor was unexpected gladness was to her grievous disappointment. mr. prendergast arrived to find her half captious, half desperate. see owen! oh, no! he must not think of it. owen had seen quite people enough to-day; besides, he would be letting all out to him as he had done the other day. poor mr. prendergast humbly apologized for his betrayal; but had not owen been told of the engagement? oh, dear, no! he was in no state for fresh agitations. indeed, with him, a miserable, helpless cripple, lucy did not see how she could go on as before. she could not desert him--oh, no!--she must work for him and his child. 'work! why, cilla, you have not strength for it.' 'i am quite well. i have strength for anything now i have some one to work for. nothing hurts me but loneliness.' 'folly, child! the same home that receives you will receive them.' 'nonsense! as if i could throw such a dead weight on any one's hands!' 'not on _any one's_,' said mr. prendergast. 'but i see how it is, cilla; you have changed your mind.' 'no,' said lucilla, with an outbreak of her old impatience; 'but you men are so selfish! bothering me about proclaiming all this nonsense, just when my brother is come home in this wretched state! after all, he was my brother before anything else, and i have a right to consider him first!' 'then, cilla, you shall be bothered no more,' said mr. prendergast, rising. 'if you want me, well and good--you know where to find your old friend; if not, and you can't make up your mind to it, why, then we are as we were in old times. good-bye, my dear; i won't fret you any more.' 'no,' said he to himself, as he paused in the court, and was busy wiping from the sleeve of his coat two broad dashes of wet that had certainly not proceeded from the clouds, 'the dear child's whole heart is with her brother now she has got him back again. i'll not torment her any more. what a fool i was to think that anything but loneliness could have made her accept me--poor darling! i think i'll go out to the bishop of sierra leone!' 'what can have happened to him?' thought phoebe, as he strode past the little party on their walk to the tower. 'can that wretched little cilly have been teasing him? i am glad robert has escaped from her clutches!' however, phoebe had little leisure for such speculations in the entertainment of witnessing her companion's intelligent interest in all that he saw. the walk itself--for which she had begged--was full of wonder; and the tower, which robert's slight knowledge of one of the officials enabled them to see in perfection, received the fullest justice, both historically and loyally. the incumbent of st. matthew's was so much occupied with explanations to his boys, that phoebe had the stranger all to herself, and thus entered to the full into that unfashionable but most heart-stirring of london sights, 'the towers of julius,' from the traitors' gate, where elizabeth sat in her lion-like desolation, to her effigy in her glory upon tilbury heath--the axe that severed her mother's 'slender neck'--the pistol-crowned stick of her father--the dark cage where her favourite raleigh was mewed--and the whole series of the relics of the disgraces and the glories of england's royal line--well fitted, indeed, to strike the imagination of one who had grown up in the new world without antiquity. if it were a satisfaction to be praised and thanked for this expedition, phoebe had it; for on her return she was called into owen's room, where his first words to her were of thanks for her good-nature to his friend. 'i am sure it was nothing but a pleasure,' she said. 'it happened that robert had some boys whom he wanted to take.' somehow she did not wish owen to think she had done it on his own account. 'and you liked him?' asked owen. 'yes, very much indeed,' she heartily said. 'ah! i knew you would;' and he lay back as if fatigued. then, as phoebe was about to leave him, he added--'i can't get my ladies to heed anything but me. you and robert must take pity on him, if you please. get him to westminster abbey, or the temple church, or somewhere worth seeing to-morrow. don't let them be extortionate of his waiting on me. i must learn to do without him.' phoebe promised, and went. 'phoebe is grown what one calls a fine young woman instead of a sweet girl,' said owen to his sister, when she next came into the room; 'but she has managed to keep her innocent, half-wondering look, just as she has the freshness of her colour.' 'well, why not, when she has not had one _real_ experience?' said lucilla, a little bitterly. 'none?' he asked, with a marked tone. 'none,' she answered, and he let his hand drop with a sigh; but as if repenting of any half betrayal of feeling, added, 'she has had all her brothers and sisters at sixes and sevens, has not she?' 'do you call that a real experience?' said lucilla, almost with disdain, and the conversation dropped. owen's designs for his friend's sunday fell to the ground. the backwoodsman fenced off the proposals for his pleasure, by his wish to be useful in the sick-room; and when told of owen's desire, was driven to confess that he did not wish for fancy church-going on his first english sunday. there was enough novelty without that; the cathedral service was too new for him to wish to hear it for the first time when there was so much that was unsettling. honor, and even robert, were a little disappointed. they thought eagerness for musical service almost necessarily went with church feeling; and phoebe was the least in the world out of favour for the confession, that though it was well that choirs should offer the most exquisite and ornate praise, yet that her own country-bred associations with the plain unadorned service at hiltonbury rendered her more at home where the prayers were read, and the responses congregational, not choral. to her it was more devotional, though she fully believed that the other way was the best for those who had begun with it. so they went as usual to the full service of the parish church, where the customs were scrupulously rubrical without being ornate. the rest and calm of that sunday were a boon, coming as they did after a bustling week. all the ensuing days phoebe was going about choosing curtains and carpets, or hiring servants for herself or mervyn. she was obliged to act alone, for miss charlecote, on whom she had relied for aid, was engrossed in attending on owen, and endeavouring to wile away the hours that hung heavily on one incapable of employment or even attention for more than a few minutes together. so constantly were honor and lucy engaged with him, that phoebe hardly saw them morning, noon, or night; and after being out for many hours, it generally fell to her lot to entertain the young canadian for the chief part of the evening. mr. currie had arrived in town on the monday, and came at once to see owen. his lodgings were in the city, where he would be occupied for some time in more formally mapping out and reporting on the various lines proposed for the g. o. and s. line; and finding how necessary young randolf still was to the invalid, he willingly agreed to the proposal that while miss charlecote continued in london, the young man should continue to sleep and spend his evenings in woolstone-lane. chapter xxix have you seen but a bright lily grow, before rude hands have touched it? have you marked but the fall of the snow, before the soil hath smutched it?--ben jonson at the end of a week mervyn made his appearance in a vehement hurry. cecily's next sister, an officer's wife, was coming home with two little children, for a farewell visit before going to the cape, and maria and bertha must make way for her. so he wanted to take phoebe home that afternoon to get the underwood ready for them. 'mervyn, how can i go? i am not nearly ready.' 'what can you have been doing then?' he exclaimed, with something of his old temper. 'this house has been in such a state.' 'well, you were not wanted to nurse the sick man, were you? i thought you were one that was to be trusted. what more is there to do?' phoebe looked at her list of commissions, and found herself convicted. those patterns ought to have been sent back two days since. what had she been about? listening to mr. randolf's explanations of the _hiawatha_ scenery! why had she not written a note about that hideous hearth-rug? because mr. randolf was looking over stowe's _survey of london_. methodical phoebe felt herself in disgrace, and yet, somehow, she could not be sorry enough; she wanted a reprieve from exile at hiltonbury, alone and away from all that was going on. at least she should hear whether _macbeth_, at the princess's theatre, fulfilled mr. randolf's conceptions of it; and if mr. currie approved his grand map of the newcastle district, with the little trees that she had taught him to draw. perhaps it was the first time that mervyn had been justly angry with her; but he was so much less savage than in his injustice that she was very much ashamed and touched; and finally, deeply grateful for the grace of this one day in which to repair her negligence, provided she would be ready to start by seven o'clock next morning. hard and diligently she worked, and very late she came home. as she was on her way up-stairs she met robert coming out of owen's room. 'phoebe,' he said, turning with her into her room, 'what is the matter with lucy?' 'the matter?' 'do you mean that you have not observed how ill she is looking?' 'no; nothing particular.' 'phoebe, i cannot imagine what you have been thinking about. i thought you would have saved her, and helped miss charlecote, and you absolutely never noticed her looks!' 'i am very sorry. i have been so much engaged.' 'absorbed, you should call it! who would have thought you would be so heedless of her?' he was gone. 'still crazy about lucy,' was phoebe's first thought; her second, 'another brother finding me heedless and selfish! what can be the matter with me?' and when she looked at lucilla with observant eyes, she did indeed recognize the justice of robert's anxiety and amazement. the brilliant prettiness had faded away as if under a blight, the eyes were sinking into purple hollows, the attitude was listless, the whole air full of suffering. phoebe was dismayed and conscience-stricken, and would fain have offered inquiries and sympathy, but no one had more thoroughly than lucy the power of repulsion. 'no, nothing was amiss--of course she felt the frost. she would not speak to honor--there was nothing to speak about;' and she went up to her brother's room. mr. randolf was out with mr. currie, and phoebe, still exceedingly busy writing notes and orders, and packing for her journey, did not know that there was an unconscious resolution in her own mind that her business _should_ not be done till he came home, were it at one o'clock at night! he did come at no unreasonable hour, and found her fastening directions upon the pile of boxes in the hall. 'what are you doing? miss charlecote is not going away?' 'no; but i am going to-morrow.' 'you!' 'yes; i must get into our new house, and receive my sisters there the day after to-morrow.' 'i thought you lived with miss charlecote.' 'is it possible that you did not know what i have been doing all this week?' 'were you not preparing a house for your brother?' 'yes, and another for myself. did you not understand that we set up housekeeping separately upon his marriage?' 'i did not understand,' said humfrey randolf, disconsolately. 'you told me you owed everything to miss charlecote.' 'i am afraid your colonial education translated that into pounds s. d.' 'then you are not poor?' 'no, not exactly,' said phoebe, rather puzzled and amused by his downcast air. 'but,' he exclaimed, 'your brother is in business; and mr. fulmort of st. matthew's--' 'mr. fulmort of st. matthew's is poor because he gave all to st. matthew's,' said phoebe; 'but our business is not a small one, and the property in the country is large.' he pasted on her last direction in disconsolate silence, then reading, 'miss fulmort, the underwood, hiltonbury, elverslope station,' resumed with fresh animation, 'at least you live near miss charlecote?' 'yes, we are wedged in between her park and our own--my brother's, i mean.' 'that is all right then! she has asked me for christmas.' 'i am very glad of it,' said phoebe. 'there, thank you, good night.' 'is there nothing more that i can do for you?' 'nothing--no, no, don't hammer that down, you will wake owen. good night, good-bye; i shall be gone by half-past six.' though phoebe said good-bye, she knew perfectly well that the hours of the morning were as nothing to the backwoodsman, and with spirits greatly exhilarated by the christmas invitation, she went to bed, much too sleepy to make out why her wealth seemed so severe a shock to humfrey randolf. the six o'clock breakfast was well attended, for miss charlecote was there herself, as well as the canadian, phoebe, and mervyn, who was wonderfully amiable considering the hour in the morning. phoebe felt in some slight degree less unfeeling when she found that lucilla's fading looks had been no more noticed by miss charlecote than by herself; but honor thought owen's illness accounted for all, and only promised that the doctor should inspect her. a day of exceeding occupation ensued. mervyn talked the whole way of cecily, his plans and his prospects; and phoebe had to draw her mind out of one world and immerse it into another, straining ears and voice all the time to hear and be heard through the roar of the train. he left her at the cottage: and then began the work of the day, presiding over upholsterers, hanging pictures, arranging books, settling cabinets of collections, disposing of ornaments, snatching meals at odd times, in odder places, and never daring to rest till long after dark, when, with fingers freshly purified from dust, limbs stiff with running up and down stairs, and arms tired with heavy weights, she sat finally down before the drawing-room fire with her solitary cup of coffee, and a book that she was far too weary to open. had she never been tired before, that her heart should sink in this unaccountable way? why could she not be more glad that her sisters were coming home, and dear miss fennimore? what made every one seem so dull and stupid, and the comings and goings so oppressive, as if everything would be hateful till christmas? why had she belied all her previous good character for method and punctuality of late, and felt as if existence only began when--one person was in the room? oh! can this be falling in love? there was a chiffonier with a looking-glass back just opposite to her, and, raising her eyes, poor phoebe beheld a young lady with brow, cheeks, and neck perfectly glowing with crimson! 'you shan't stand there long at any rate,' said she, almost vindictively, getting up and pushing the table with its deep cover between her and the answering witness. 'love! nonsense! yet i don't see why i should be ashamed! yes! he is my wise man, he is the real humfrey charlecote! his is the very nature i always thought some one must still have--the exact judgment i longed to meet with. not stern like robin's, not sharp like mervyn's, nor high-flying like dear miss charlecote's, nor soft like bevil's, nor light like lucy's, nor clear and clever like miss fennimore's--no, but considerate and solid, tender and true--such as one can lean upon! i know why he has the steadfast eyes that i liked so much the first evening. and there is so much more in him than i can measure or understand. yes, though i have known him but ten days, i have seen much more of him than of most men in a year. and he has been so much tried, and has had such a life, that he may well be called a real hero in a quiet way. yes, i well may like him! and i am sure he likes me!' said another whisper of the heart, which, veiled as was the lady in the mirror, made phoebe put both hands over her face, in a shamefaced ecstatic consciousness. 'nay--i was the first lady he had seen, the only person to speak to. no, no; i know it was not that--i feel it was not! why, otherwise, did he seem so sorry i was not poor? oh! how nice it would be if i were! we could work for each other in his glorious new land of hope! i, who love work, was made for work! i don't care for this mere young lady life! and must my trumpery thousand a year stand in the way? as to birth, i suppose he is as well or better born than i--and, oh! so far superior in tone and breeding to what ours used to be! he ought to know better than to think me a fine young lady, and himself only an engineer's assistant! but he won't! of course he will be honourable about it--and--and perhaps never dare to say another word till he has made his fortune--and when will that ever be? it will be right--' 'but' (and a very different but it was this time) 'what am i thinking about? how can i be wishing such things when i have promised to devote myself to maria? if i could rough it gladly, she could not; and what a shameful thing it is of me to have run into all this long day dream and leave her out. no, i know my lot! i am to live on here, and take care of maria, and grow to be an old maid! i shall hear about him, when he comes to be a great man, and know that the humfrey charlecote i dreamt about is still alive! there, i won't have any more nonsense!' and she opened her book; but finding that humfrey randolf's remarks would come between her and the sense, she decided that she was too tired to read, and put herself to bed. but there the sense of wrong towards maria filled her with remorse that she had accepted her rights of seniority, and let the maids place her in the prettiest room, with the best bay window, and most snug fireplace; nor could she rest till she had pacified her self-reproach, by deciding that all her own goods should move next day into the chamber that did not look at the holt firs, but only at the wall of the back yard. 'yes,' said phoebe, stoutly in her honest dealing with herself in her fresh, untried morning senses. 'i do love humfrey charlecote randolf, and i think he loves me! whether anything more may come of it, will be ordered for me; but whether it do so or not, it is a blessing to have known one like him, and now that i am warned, and can try to get back self-control, i will begin to be the better for it. even if i am not quite so happy, this is something more beautiful than i ever knew before. i will be content!' and when bertha and maria arrived, brimful of importance at having come home with no escort but a man and maid, and voluble with histories of sutton, and wedding schemes, they did not find an absent nor inattentive listener. yet the keen bertha made the remark, 'something has come over you, phoebe. you have more countenance than ever you had before.' whereat phoebe's colour rushed into her cheeks, but she demanded the meaning of countenance, and embarked bertha in a dissertation. when phoebe was gone, robert found it less difficult to force lucilla to the extremity of a _tete-a-tete_. young randolf was less in the house, and, when there, more with owen than before, and lucilla was necessarily sometimes to be caught alone in the drawing-room. 'lucy,' said robert, the first time this occurred, 'i have a question to ask you.' 'well!'--she turned round half defiant. 'a correspondent of mervyn, on the spanish coast, has written to ask him to find a chaplain for the place, guaranteeing a handsome stipend.' 'well,' said lucilla, in a cold voice this time. 'i wished to ask whether you thought it would be acceptable to mr. prendergast.' 'i neither know nor care.' 'i beg your pardon,' said robert, after a pause; 'but though i believe i learnt it sooner than i ought, i was sincerely glad to hear--' 'then unhear!' said lucilla, pettishly. 'you, at least, ought to be glad of that.' 'by no means,' returned robert, gravely. 'i have far too great a regard for you not to be most deeply concerned at what i see is making you unhappy.' 'may not i be unhappy if i like, with my brother in this state?' 'that is not all, lucilla.' 'then never mind! you are the only one who never pitied me, and so i like you. don't spoil it now!' 'you need not be afraid of my pitying you if you have brought on this misunderstanding by your old spirit!' 'not a bit of it! i tell you he pitied me. i found it out in time, so i set him free. that's all.' 'and that was the offence?' 'offence! what are you talking of? he didn't offend--no, but when i said i could not bring so many upon him, and could not have owen teased about the thing, he said he would bother me no more, that i had owen, and did not want him. and then he walked off.' 'taking you at your word?' 'just as if one might not say what one does not mean when one wants a little comforting,' said lucy, pouting; 'but, after all, it is a very good thing--he is saved a great plague for a very little time, and if it were all pity, so much the better. i say, robin, shall you be man enough to read the service over me, just where we stood at poor edna's funeral?' 'i don't think that concerns you much,' said robert. 'well, the lady in madge wildfire's song was gratified at the "six brave gentlemen" who "kirkward should carry her." why should you deprive me of that satisfaction? really, robin, it is quite true. a little happiness might have patched me up, but--' 'the symptoms are recurring? have you seen f---?' 'yes. let me alone, robin. it is the truest mercy to let me wither up with as little trouble as possible to those who don't want me. now that you know it, i am glad i can talk to you, and you will help me to think of what has never been enough before my eyes.' robert made no answer but a hasty good-bye, and was gone. lucilla gave a heavy sigh, and then exclaimed, half-aloud-- 'oh, the horrid little monster that i am. why can't i help it? i verily believe i shall flirt in my shroud, and if i were canonized my first miracle would be like st. philomena's, to make my own relics presentable!' wherewith she fell a laughing, with a laughter that soon turned to tears, and the exclamation, 'why can i make nobody care for me but those i can't care for? i can't help disgusting all that is good, and it will be well when i am dead and gone. there's only one that will shed tears good for anything, and he is well quit of me!' the poor little lonely thing wept again, and after her many sleepless nights, she fairly cried herself to sleep. she awoke with a start, at some one being admitted into the room. 'my dear, am i disturbing you?' it was the well-known voice, and she sprang up. 'mr. pendy, mr. pendy, i was very naughty! i didn't mean it. oh, will you bear with me again, though i don't deserve it?' she clung to him like a child wearied with its own naughtiness. 'i was too hasty,' he said; 'i forgot how wrapped up you were in your brother, and how little attention you could spare, and then i thought that in him you had found all you wanted, and that i was only in your way.' 'how could you? didn't you know better than to think that people put their brothers before their--mr. pendys?' 'you seemed to wish to do so.' 'ah! but you should have known it was only for the sake of being coaxed!' said lucilla, hanging her head on one side. 'you should have told me so.' 'but how was i to know it?' and she broke out into a very different kind of laughter. 'i'm sure i thought it was all magnanimity, but it is of no use to die of one's own magnanimity, you see.' 'you are not going to die; you are coming to this spanish place, which will give you lungs of brass.' 'spanish place? how do you know? i have not slept into to-morrow, have i? that robin has not flown to wrapworth and back since three o'clock?' 'no, i was only inquiring at mrs. murrell's.' 'oh, you silly, silly person, why couldn't you come here?' 'i did not want to bother you.' 'for shame, for shame; if you say that again i shall know you have not forgiven me. it is a moral against using words too strong for the occasion! so robert carried you the offer of the chaplaincy, and you mean to have it!' 'i could not help coming, as he desired, to see what you thought of it.' 'i only know,' she said, half crying, yet laughing, 'that you had better marry me out of hand before i get into any more mischief.' the chaplaincy was promising. the place was on the lovely coast of andalusia. there was a small colony of english engaged in trade, and the place was getting into favour with invalids. mervyn's correspondent was anxious to secure the services of a good man, and the society of a lady-like wife, and offered to guarantee a handsome salary, such as justified the curate in giving up his chance of a college living; and though it was improbable that he would ever learn a word of spanish, or even get so far as the pronunciation of the name of the place, the advantages that the appointment offered were too great to be rejected, when lucilla's health needed a southern climate. 'oh! yes, yes, let us go,' she cried. 'it will be a great deal better than anything at home can be.' 'then you venture on telling owen, now!' 'oh, yes! it was a mere delusion of mine that it would cost him anything. honor is all that he wants, i am rather in their way than otherwise. he rests on her down-pillow-ship, and she sees, hears, knows nothing but him!' 'is miss charlecote aware of--what has been going wrong?' 'not she! i told her before that i should take my own time for the communication, and i verily believe she has forgotten all about it! then little demure phoebe fell over head and ears in love with the backwoodsman on the spot, and walked about in a dream such as ought to have been good fun to watch, if i had had the spirit for it; and if robert had not been sufficiently disengaged to keep his eyes open, i don't know whether anything would have roused them short of breaking a blood-vessel or two.' 'i shall never rest till you are in my keeping! i will go to fulmort at once, and tell him that i accept.' 'and i will go to owen, and break the news to him. when are you coming again?' 'to-morrow, as soon as i have opened school.' 'ah! the sooner we are gone the better! much good you can be to poor wrapworth! just tell me, please, that i may know how badly i served you, how often you have inquired at mrs. murrell's.' 'why--i believe--each day except saturday and sunday; but i never met him there till just now.' lucilla's eyes swam with tears; she laid her head on his shoulder, and, in a broken voice of deep emotion, she said, 'indeed, i did not deserve it! but i think i shall be good now, for i can't tell why i should be so much loved!' mr. prendergast was vainly endeavouring to tell her why, when humfrey randolf's ring was heard, and she rushed out of the room. owen's first hearty laugh since his return was at her tidings. that over, he spoke with brotherly kindness. 'yes, lucy,' he said, 'i do think it is the best and happiest thing for you. he is the only man whom you could not torment to death, or who would have any patience with your antics.' 'i don't think i shall try,' said lucy. 'what are you shaking your head for, owen? have i not had enough to tame me?' 'i beg your pardon, cilly. i was only thinking of the natural companionship of bears and monkeys. don't beat me!' 'some day you shall come out and see us perform, that's all,' said lucilla, merrily. 'but indeed, owen, if i know myself at all, unmerited affection and forbearance, with no nonsense about it, is the only way to keep me from flying out. at any rate, i can't live without it!' 'ah!' said owen, gravely, 'you have suffered too much through me for me to talk to you in this fashion. forgive me, lucy; i am not up to any other, just yet.' whatever lucilla might have said in the first relief of recovering mr. prendergast, she could not easily have made up her mind to leave her brother in his present condition, and flattered herself that the '_at once_' could not possibly be speedy, since mr. prendergast must give notice of his intention of leaving wrapworth. but when he came the next morning, it proved that things were in a far greater state of forwardness than she had thought possible. so convinced were both the curate and robert of the need of her avoiding the winter cold, that the latter had suggested that one of his own curates, who was in need of change and country air, should immediately offer himself as a substitute at wrapworth, either for a time or permanently, and lucy was positively required to name a day as early as possible for the marriage, and told, on the authority of the physician, that it might almost be called suicide to linger in the english frosts. the day which she chose was the st of december, the same on which mervyn was to be married. there was a purpose in thus rendering it impracticable for any fulmort to be present; 'and,' said owen, 'i am glad it should be before i am about. i could never keep my countenance if i had to give her away to brother peter!' 'keeping his countenance' might have two meanings, but he was too feeble for agitation, and seemed only able to go through the time of preparation and parting, by keeping himself as lethargic and indifferent as possible, or by turning matters into a jest when necessarily brought before him. playing at solitaire, or trifling desultory chat, was all that he could endure as occupation, and the long hours were grievously heavy. his son, though nearly four years old, was no companion or pleasure to him. he was, in his helpless and morbid state, afraid of so young a child, and little owen was equally afraid of him; each dreaded contact with the other, and more than all the being shut into a room together; and the little boy, half shy, half assured, filled by the old woman with notions of his own grandeur, and yet constrained by the different atmosphere of woolstone-lane, was never at ease or playful enough before him to be pleasant to watch. and, indeed, his cockney pronunciation and ungainly vulgar tricks had been so summarily repressed by his aunt, that his fear of both the ladies rendered him particularly unengaging and unchildlike. nevertheless, honora thought it her duty to take him home with her to the holt, and gratified robert by engaging a nice little girl of fourteen, whom lucilla called the crack orphan, to be his attendant when they should leave town. this was to be about a fortnight after the wedding, since st. wulstan's afforded greater opportunities for privacy and exemption from bustle than even hiltonbury, and dr. prendergast and his daughter could attend without being in the house. the prendergasts of southminster were very kind and friendly, sending lucilla warm greetings, and not appearing at all disconcerted at welcoming their former governess into the family. the elders professed no surprise, but great gladness; and sarah, who _was_ surprised, was trebly rejoiced. owen accused his sister of selecting her solitary bridesmaid with a view to enhancing her own beauty by force of contrast; but the choice was prompted by real security of the affectionate pleasure it would confer. handsome presents were sent both by the beaumonts and bostocks, and lucilla, even while half fretted, half touched by mrs. bostock's patronizing felicitations, could not but be pleased at these evidences that her governess-ship had not been an utter failure. her demeanour in the fortnight before her marriage was unlike what her friends had ever seen, and made them augur better for mr. prendergast's venture. she was happy, but subdued; quiet and womanly, gentle without being sad, grave but not drooping; and though she was cheerful and playful, with an entire absence of those strange effervescences that had once betrayed acidity or fermentation. she had found the power of being affectionately grateful to honor, and the sweetness of her tender ways towards her and owen would have made the parting all the sadder to them if it had not been evident that, as she said, it was happiness that thus enabled her to be good. the satisfied look of rest that had settled on her fair face made it new. all her animation and archness had not rendered it half so pleasant to look upon. the purchaser of castle blanch proved to be no other than mr. calthorp! lucilla at first was greatly discomfited, and begged that nothing might be said about the picture; but the next time mr. prendergast arrived, it was with a request from mr. calthorp that miss sandbrook would accept the picture as a wedding gift! there was no refusing it--indeed, the curate had already accepted it; and when lucilla heard that 'the calthorp' had been two years married to what mr. prendergast called 'a millionairess, exceedingly hideous,' she still had vanity enough to reflect that the removal of her own resemblance might be an act of charity! and the sum that honor had set apart for the purchase was only too much wanted for the setting up housekeeping in spain, whither the portrait was to accompany her, mr. prendergast declared, like the penates of the pious aeneas! robert brought in his gift on the last day of november, just before setting off for sutton. it was an unornamented, but exquisitely-bound bible and prayer book, dark-brown, with red-edged leaves. 'good-bye, lucilla,' he said; 'you have been the brightest spot to me in this life. thank you for all you have done for me.' 'and for all i never intended to do?' said lucilla, smiling, as she returned his pressure of the hand. he was gone, not trusting her to speak, nor himself to hear a word more. 'yes, robin,' proceeded lucy, half aloud, 'you are the greater man, i know very well; but it is in human nature to prefer flesh and blood to mediaeval saints in cast-iron, even if one knows there is a tender spot in them.' there was a curious sense of humiliation in her full acquiescence in the fact that he was too high, too grand for her, and in her relief, that the affection, that would have lifted her beyond what she was prepared for, had died away, and left her to the more ordinary excellence and half-paternal fondness of the man of her real choice, with whom she could feel perfect ease and repose. possibly the admixture of qualities that in her had been called _fast_ is the most contrary to all real aspiration! but there was no fault to be found with the heartfelt affection with which she loved and honoured her bridegroom, lavishing on him the more marks of deference and submission just because she knew that her will would be law, and that his love was strong enough to have borne with any amount of caprice or seeming neglect. the sacrifices she made, without his knowledge, for his convenience and comfort, while he imagined hers to be solely consulted, the concessions she made to his slightest wish, the entire absence of all teasing, would not have been granted to a younger man more prepossessing in the sight of others. it was in this spirit that she rejected all advice to consult health rather than custom in her wedding dress. exactly because mr. prendergast would have willingly received her in the plainest garb, she was bent on doing him honour by the most exquisite bridal array; and never had she been so lovely--her colour such exquisite carnation, her eyes so softened, and full of such repose and reliance, her grace so perfect in complete freedom from all endeavour at attracting admiration. the married pair came back from church to owen's sitting-room--not bear and monkey, not genie and fairy, as he had expected to see; but as they stood together, looking so indescribably and happily one, that owen smiled and said, 'ah! honor, if you had only known twenty years ago that this was mrs. peter prendergast, how much trouble it would have saved.' 'she did not deserve to be mrs. peter prendergast,' said the bride. 'see how you deserve it now.' 'that i never shall!' brother and sister parted with light words but full hearts, each trying to believe, though neither crediting mr. prendergast's assurance that the two owens should come and be at home for ever if they liked in santa maria de x---. neither could bear to face the truth that henceforth their courses lay apart, and that if the sister's life were spared, it could only be at the sacrifice of expatriation for many years, in lands where, well or ill, the brother had no call. nor would lucilla break down. it was due to her husband not to let him think she suffered too much in resigning home for him; and true to her innate hatred of agitation, she guarded herself from realizing anything, and though perfectly kind and respectful to honora, studiously averted all approaches to effusion of feeling. only at the last kiss in the hall, she hung round her friend with a vehement embrace, and whispered, 'forgive! you have forgiven!' 'forgive me, lucilla!' 'nay, that i have forgiven you for all your pardon and patience is shown by my enduring to leave owen to you now.' therewith surged up such a flood of passionate emotions that, fleeing from them as it were, the bride tore herself out of honor's arms, and sprang hastily into the carriage, nervously and hastily moving about its contents while mr. prendergast finished his farewells. after all, there was a certain sense of rest, snugness, and freedom from turmoil, when honor dried her eyes and went back to her convalescent. the house seemed peaceful, and they both felt themselves entering into the full enjoyment of being all in all to one another. there was one guest at the sutton wedding whose spirit was at st. wulstan's. in those set eyes, and tightly-closed lips, might be traced abstraction in spite of himself. were there not thoughts and prayers for another bride, elsewhere kneeling? was not the solitary man struggling with the last remnants of fancies at war with his life of self-devotion, and crushing down the few final regrets, that would have looked back to the dreams of his youth. no marvel that his greatest effort was against being harsh and unsympathizing, even while his whole career was an endeavour to work through charities of deed and word into charities of thought and judgment. chapter xxx untouched by love, the maiden's breast is like the snow on rona's crest high seated in the middle sky, in bright and barren purity; but by the sunbeam gently kissed, scarce by the gazing eye 'tis missed, ere down the lonely valley stealing, fresh grass and growth its course revealing; it cheers the flock, revives the flower, and decks some happy shepherd's bower.--scott slow to choose, but decided in her choice, phoebe had always been, and her love formed no exception to this rule. she was quite aware that her heart had been given away, and never concealed it from herself, though she made it a principle not to indulge in future castle buildings, and kept a resolute guard over her attention. it was impossible to obviate a perpetual feeling of restlessness and of tedium in whatever she was about; but she conquered oftener than she gave way, and there was an indescribable sense of peace and sweetness in a new and precious possession, and an undefined hope through all. miss fennimore, who came the day after the girls' return from sutton, saw only the fuller development of her favourite pupil, and, in truth, maria and bertha had so ineffably much to narrate, that her attention would have been sufficiently engrossed to hinder her observation of the symptoms, even had the good lady been as keen and experienced in love as in science. poor little phoebe! equable as she was, she was in a great perturbation when, four days before christmas, she knew that miss charlecote, with owen sandbrook and humfrey randolf, had arrived at the holt. what was so natural as for her to go at once to talk over the two weddings with her dear old friend? yes, but did her dear old friend want her, when these two young men had put an end to her solitude? was she only making miss charlecote an excuse? she would wait in hopes that one of the others would ask if she were going to the holt! if so, it could not but be natural and proper--if not-- this provoking throbbing of her heart showed that it was not only for honor charlecote that she wished to go. that ring at the bell! what an abominable goose she was to find a flush of expectation in her cheek! and after all it was only sir john. he had found that his son had heard nothing from the holt that morning, and had come in to ask if she thought a call would be acceptable. 'i knew they were come home,' he said, 'for i saw them at the station yesterday. i did not show myself, for i did not know how poor young sandbrook might like it. but who have they got with them?' 'mr. randolf, owen sandbrook's canadian friend.' 'did i not hear he was some sort of relation?' 'yes; his mother was a charlecote.' 'ha! that accounts for it. seeing him with her, i could almost have thought it was thirty years ago, and that it was my dear old friend.' phoebe could have embraced sir john. she could not conceal her glow of delight so completely that bertha did not laugh and say, 'mr. charlecote is what the germans would call phoebe's _bild_. she always blushes and looks conscious if he is mentioned.' sir john laughed, but with some emotion, and phoebe hastily turned her still more blushing face away. certainly, if phoebe had had any prevision of her present state of mind, she never would have bought that chiffonier. when sir john had sufficiently admired the details of the choice little drawing-room, and had been shown by the eager sisters all over the house, he asked if phoebe would walk up with him to the holt. he had hoped his eldest son, who had ridden over with him, would have come in, and gone up with them, but he supposed charlie had seized on him. (poor sir john, his attempt at match-making did not flourish.) however, he had secured phoebe's most intense gratitude by his proposal, and down she came, a very pretty picture, in her dark brown dress, scarlet cloak, and round, brown felt hat, with the long, curly, brown feather tipped with scarlet, her favourite winter robin colouring. her cheeks were brilliant, and her eyes not only brighter, but with a slight drooping that gave them the shadiness they sometimes wanted. and it was all from a ridiculous trepidation which made it well-nigh impossible to bring out what she was longing to say--'so you think mr. randolf like mr. charlecote.' fortunately he was beforehand with her, for both the likeness and the path through the pine woods reminded him strongly of his old friend, and he returned to the subject. 'so you are a great admirer of dear old charlecote, phoebe: you can't remember him?' 'no, but robert does, and i sometimes think i do.' (then it came.) 'you think mr. randolf like him?' thanks to her hat, she could blush more comfortably now. 'i did not see him near. it was only something in air and figure. people inherit those things wonderfully. now, my son charlie sits on horseback exactly like his grandfather, whom he never saw; and john--' oh! was he going to run away on family likenesses? phoebe would not hear the 'and john;' and observed, 'mr. charlecote was his godfather, was he not?' which self-evident fact brought him back again to 'yes; and i only wish he had seen more of him! these are his plantations, i declare, that he used to make so much of!' 'yes, that is the reason miss charlecote is so fond of them.' 'miss charlecote! when i think of him, i have no patience with her. i do believe he kept single all his life for her sake: and why she never would have him i never could guess. you ladies are very unreasonable sometimes, phoebe.' phoebe tried to express a rational amount of wonder at poor honor's taste, but grew incoherent in fear lest it should be irrational, and was rather frightened at finding sir john looking at her with some amusement; but he was only thinking of how willingly the poor little heiress of the mervyns had once been thrown at humfrey charlecote's head. but he went on to tell her of all that her hero had ever been to him and to the county, and of the blank his death had left, and never since supplied, till she felt more and more what a 'wise' man truly was! no one was in the drawing-room, but honor came down much more cheerful and lively than she had been for years, and calling owen materially better--the doctors thought the injury to the head infinitely mitigated, and the first step to recovery fairly taken--there were good accounts of the prendergasts, and all things seemed to be looking well. presently sir john, to phoebe's great satisfaction, spoke of her guest, and his resemblance, but honor answered with half-resentful surprise. some of the old servants had made the same remark, but she could not understand it, and was evidently hurt by its recurrence. phoebe sat on, listening to the account of lucilla's letters, and the good spirits and health they manifested; forcing herself not too obviously to watch door or window, and when sir john was gone, she only offered to depart, lest miss charlecote should wish to be with owen. 'no, my dear, thank you; mr. randolf is with him, and he can read a little now. we are getting above the solitaire board, i assure you. i have fitted up the little room beyond the study for his bedroom, and he sits in the study, so there are no stairs, and he is to go out every day in a chair or the carriage.' 'does the little boy amuse him?' 'no, not exactly, poor little fellow. they are terribly afraid of each other, that is the worst of it. and then we left the boy too long with the old woman. i hear his lessons for a quarter of an hour a day, and he is a clever child enough; but his pronunciation and habits are an absolute distress, and he is not happy anywhere but in the housekeeper's room. i try to civilize him, but as yet i cannot worry poor owen. you can't think how comfortable we are together, phoebe, when we are alone. since his sister went we have got on so much better. he was shy before her; but i must tell you, my dear, he asked me to read my psalms and lessons aloud, as i used to do; and we have had such pleasant evenings, and he desired that the servants might still come in to prayers in the study. but then he always was different with me.' and phoebe, while assenting, could not silence a misgiving that she thought very cruel. she would believe owen sincere if humfrey randolf did. honor, however, was very happy, and presently begged her to come and see owen. she obeyed with alacrity, and was conducted to the study. no randolf was there, only pen, ink, paper, and algebra. but as she was greeting owen, who looked much better and less oppressed, honor made an exclamation, and from the window they saw the young man leaning over the sundial, partly studying its mysteries, partly playing with little owen, who hung on him as an old playmate. 'yes,' said owen, 'he has taken pity on the boy--he is very good to him--has served an apprenticeship.' mr. randolf looked up, saw phoebe, gave a start of recognition and pleasure, and sped towards the house. 'yes, phoebe, i do see _some_ likeness,' said honor, as though a good deal struck and touched. all the ridiculous and troublesome confusion was so good as to be driven away in the contentment of humfrey randolf's presence, and the wondrous magnetic conviction that he was equally glad to be with her. she lost all restlessness, and was quite ready to amuse owen by a lively discussion and comparison of the two weddings, but she so well knew that she should like to stay too long, that she cut her time rather over short, and would not stay to luncheon. this was not like the evenings that began with hiawatha and ended at lakeville, or on lake ontario; but one pleasure was in store for phoebe. while she was finding her umbrella, and putting on her clogs, humfrey randolf ran down-stairs to her, and said, 'i wanted to tell you something. my stepmother is going to be married.' 'you are glad?' 'very glad. it is to a merchant whom she met at buffalo, well off, and speaking most kindly of the little boys.' 'that must be a great load off your mind.' 'indeed it is, though the children must still chiefly look to me. i should like to have little george at a good school. however, now their immediate maintenance is off my hands, i have more to spend in educating myself. i can get evening lessons now, when my day's work is over.' 'oh! do not overstrain your head,' said phoebe, thinking of bertha. 'heads can bear a good deal when they are full of hope,' he said, smiling. 'still after your out-of-doors life of bodily exercise, do you not find it hard to be always shut up in london?' 'perhaps the novelty has not worn off. it is as if life had only begun since i came into the city.' 'a new set of faculties called into play?' 'faculties--yes, and everything else.' 'i must go now, or my sisters will be waiting for me, and i see your dinner coming in. good-bye.' 'may i come to see you?' 'o yes, pray let me show you our cottage.' 'when may i come?' 'to-morrow, i suppose.' she felt, rather than saw him watching her all the way from the garden-gate to the wood. that little colloquy was the sunshiny point in her day. had the tidings been communicated in the full circle, it would have been as nothing compared with their reservation for her private ear, with the marked 'i wanted to tell _you_.' then she came home, looked at maria threading holly-berries, and her heart fainted within her. there were moments when poor maria would rise before her as a hardship and an infliction, and then she became terrified, prayed against such feelings as a crime, and devoted herself to her sister with even more than her wonted patient tenderness. the certainty that the visit would take place kept her from all flutterings and self-debate, and in due time mr. randolf arrived. anxiously did phoebe watch for his look at maria, for bertha's look at him, and she was pleased with both. his manner to maria was full of gentleness, and bertha's quick eyes detected his intellect. he stood an excellent examination from her and miss fennimore upon the worn channel of niagara, which had so often been used as a knockdown argument against miss charlecote's cosmogony; and his bright terse powers of description gave them, as they agreed, a better idea of his woods than any travels which they had read. it was no less interesting to observe his impression of the english village-life at hiltonbury. to him, the aspect of the country had an air of exquisite miniature finish, wanting indeed in breadth and freedom, but he had suffered too much from vain struggling single-handed with nature in her might, not to value the bounds set upon her; and a man who knew by personal experience what it was to seek his whole live stock in an interminable forest, did not complain of the confinement of hedges and banks. nay, the 'hedgerow elms and hillocks green' were to him as classical as whitehall; he treated maria's tame robins with as much respect as if they had been howards or percies; holly and mistletoe were handled by him with reverential curiosity; and the church and home of his ancestors filled him with a sweet loyal enthusiasm, more eager than in those to whom these things were familiar. miss charlecote herself came in for some of these feelings. he admired her greatly in her christmas aspect of lady bountiful, in which she well fulfilled old visions of the mistress of an english home, but still more did he dwell upon her gentleness, and on that shadowy resemblance to his mother, which made him long for some of that tenderness which she lavished upon owen. he looked for no more than her uniformly kind civility and hospitality, but he was always wishing to know her better; and any touch of warmth and affection in her manner towards him was so delightful that he could not help telling phoebe of it, in their next brief _tete-a-tete_. he was able to render a great service to miss charlecote. mr. brooks's understanding had not cleared with time, and the accounts that had been tangled in summer were by the end of the year in confusion worse confounded. he was a faithful servant, but his accounts had always been audited every month, and in his old age, his arithmetic would not carry him farther, so that his mistress's long absence abroad had occasioned such a hopeless chaos, that but for his long services, his honesty might have been in question. honora put this idea away with angry horror. not only did she love and trust the old man, but he was a legacy from humfrey, and she would have torn the page from her receipts rather than rouse the least suspicion against him. yet she could not bear to leave any flaw in humfrey's farm books, and she toiled and perplexed herself in vain; till owen, finding out what distressed her, and grieving at his own incapacity, begged that randolf might help her; when behold! the confused accounts arranged themselves in comprehensible columns, and poor old brooks was proved to have cheated himself so much more than his lady as to be entirely exonerated from all but puzzle-headedness. the young man's farmer life qualified him to be highly popular at the holt. he was curious about english husbandry, talked to the labourers, and tried their tools with no unpractised hand, even the flail which honor's hatred of steam still kept as the winter's employment in the barn; he appreciated the bullocks, criticized the sheep, and admired the pigs, till the farming men agreed 'there had not been such an one about the place since the squire himself.' honora might be excused for not having detected a likeness between the two humfreys. scarcely a feature was in the same mould, the complexion was different, and the heavily-built, easy-going squire, somewhat behind his own century, had apparently had nothing in common with the brisk modern colonial engineer; yet still there was something curiously recalling the expression of open honesty, and the whole cast of countenance, as well as the individuality of voice, air, and gestures, and the perception grew upon her so much in the haunts of her cousin, where she saw his attitudes and habits unconsciously repeated, that she was almost ready to accept bertha's explanation that it was owing to the influence of the christian name that both shared. but as it had likewise been borne by the wicked disinherited son who ran away, the theory was somewhat halting. phoebe's intercourse with humfrey the younger was much more fragmentary than in town, and therefore, perhaps, the more delicious. she saw him on most of the days of his fortnight's stay, either in the mutual calls of the two houses, in chance meetings in the village, or in walks to or from the holy-day services at the church, and these afforded many a moment in which she was let into the deeper feelings that his first english christmas excited. it was not conventional christmas weather, but warm and moist, thus rendering the contrast still stronger with the sleighing of his prosperous days, the snowshoe walk of his poorer ones. a frost hard enough for skating was the prime desire of maria and bertha, who both wanted to see the art practised by one to whom it was familiar. the frost came at last, and became reasonably hard in the first week of the new year, one day when phoebe, to her regret, was forced to drive to elverslope to fulfil some commissions for mervyn and cecily, who were expected at home on the th of january, after a christmas at sutton. however, she had a reward. 'i do think,' said miss fennimore to her, as she entered the drawing-room, 'that mr. randolf is the most good-natured man in the world! for full three-quarters of an hour this afternoon did he hand maria up and down a slide on the pond at the holt!' 'you went up to see him skate?' 'yes; he was to teach bertha. we found him helping the little sandbrook to slide, but when we came he sent him in with the little maid, and gave bertha a lesson, which did not last long, for she grew nervous. really her nerves will never be what they were! then maria begged for a slide, and you know what any sort of monotonous bodily motion is to her; there is no getting her to leave off, and i never saw anything like the spirit and good-nature with which he complied.' 'he is _very_ kind to maria,' said phoebe. 'he seems to have that sort of pitying respect which you first put into my mind towards her.' 'oh, are you come home, phoebe?' said maria, running into the room. 'i did not hear you. i have been sliding on the ice all the afternoon with mr. randolf. it is so nice, and he says we will do it again to-morrow.' 'ha, phoebe!' said bertha, meeting her on the stairs, 'do you know what you missed?' 'three children sliding on the ice,' quoted phoebe. 'seeing how a man that is called humfrey can bear with your two sisters making themselves ridiculous. really i should set the backwoods down as the best school of courtesy, but that i believe some people have that school within themselves. hollo!' for phoebe absolutely kissed bertha as she went up-stairs. 'ha?' said bertha, interrogatively; then went into the drawing-room, and looked very grave, almost sad. phoebe could not but think it rather hard when, on the last afternoon of humfrey randolf's visit, there came a note from mervyn ordering her up to beauchamp to arrange some special contrivances of his for cecily's morning-room--her mother's, which gave it an additional pang. it was a severe, threatening, bitterly cold day, not at all fit for sliding, even had not both the young ladies and miss fennimore picked up a suspicion of cold; but phoebe had no doubt that there would be a farewell visit, and did not like to lose it. 'take the pony carriage, and you will get home faster,' said bertha, answering what was unspoken. no; the groom sent in word that the ponies were gone to be rough-shod, and that one of them had a cold. 'never mind,' said phoebe, cheerfully; 'i shall be warmer walking.' and she set off, with a lingering will, but a step brisk under her determination that her personal wishes should never make her neglect duty or kindness. she did not like to think that he would be disappointed, but she had a great trust in _his_ trust in herself, and a confidence, not to be fretted away, that some farewell would come to pass, and that she should know when to look for him again. scanty sleety flakes of snow were falling before her half-hour's walk was over, and she arrived at the house, where anxious maids were putting their last touches of preparation for the mistress. it was strange not to feel more strongly the pang of a lost home; and had not phoebe been so much preoccupied, perhaps it would have affected her strongly, with all her real joy at cecily's installation; but there were new things before her that filled her mind too full for regrets for the rooms where she had grown up. she only did her duty scrupulously by cecily's writing-table, piano, and pictures, and then satisfied the housekeeper by a brief inspection of the rooms, more laudatory than particular. she rather pitied cecily, after her comfortable parsonage, for coming to all those state drawing-rooms. if it had been the west wing, now! by this time the snow was thicker, and the park beginning to whiten. the housekeeper begged her to wait and order out the carriage, but she disliked giving trouble, and thought that an unexpected summons might be tardy of fulfilment, so she insisted on confronting the elements, confident in her cloak and india-rubber boots, and secretly hoping that the visitor at the cottage might linger on into the twilight. as she came beyond the pillars of the portico, such a whirl of snow met her that she almost questioned the prudence of her decision, when a voice said, 'it is only the drift round the corner of the house.' 'you here?' 'your sister gave me leave to come and see you home through the snow-storm.' 'oh, thank you! this is the first time you have been here,' she added, feeling as if her first words had been too eagerly glad. 'yes, i have only seen the house from a distance before. i did not know how large it was. which part did you inhabit?' 'there--the west wing--shut up now, poor thing!' 'and where was the window where you saw the horse and cart? yes, you see i know that story; which was your window?' 'the nearest to the main body of the house. ah! it is a dear old window. i have seen many better things from it than that!' 'what kind of things?' 'sunsets and moonsets, and the holt firs best of all.' 'yes, i know better now what you meant by owing all to miss charlecote,' he said, smiling. 'i owe something to her, too.' 'oh, is she going to help you on?' cried phoebe. 'no, i do not need that. what i owe to her is--knowing you.' it had come, then! the first moment of full assurance of what had gleamed before; and yet the shock, sweet as it was, was almost pain, and phoebe's heart beat fast, and her downcast look betrayed that the full force of his words--and still more, of his tone--had reached her. 'may i go on?' he said. 'may i dare to tell you what you are to me? i knew, from the moment we met, that you were what i had dreamt of--different, but better.' 'i am sure i knew that you were!' escaped from phoebe, softly, but making her face burn, as at what she had not meant to say. 'then you can bear with me? you do not forbid me to hope.' 'oh! i am a great deal too happy!' there came a great wailing, driving gust of storm at that moment, as if it wanted to sweep them off their feet, but it was a welcome blast, for it was the occasion of a strong arm being flung round phoebe, to restrain that fluttering cloak. 'storms shall only blow us nearer together, dearest,' he said, with recovered breath, as, with no unwilling hand, she clung to his arm for help. 'if it be god's will,' said phoebe, earnestly. 'and indeed,' he said, fervently, 'i have thought and debated much whether it were his will; whether it could be right, that i, with my poverty and my burthens, should thrust myself into your wealthy and sheltered life. at first, when i thought you were a poor dependent, i admitted the hope. i saw you spirited, helpful, sensible, and i dared to think that you were of the stuff that would gladly be independent, and would struggle on and up with me, as i have known so many do in my own country.' 'oh! would i not?' 'then i found how far apart we stand in one kind of social scale, and perhaps that ought to have overthrown all hope; but, phoebe, it will not do so! i will not ask you to share want and privation, but i will and do ask you to be the point towards which i may work, the best earthly hope set before me.' 'i am glad,' said phoebe, 'that you knew too well to think there was any real difference. indeed, the superiority is all yours, except in mere money. and mine, i am sure, need not stand in the way, but there is one thing that does.' 'what? your brothers?' 'i do not know. it is my sister maria. i promised long ago that nothing should make me desert her;' and, with a voice faltering a little, but endeavouring to be firm, 'a promise to fulfil a duty appointed by providence must not he repented of when the cost is felt.' 'but why should you think of deserting her?' he said. 'surely i may help to bear your cares; and there is something so good, so gentle and lovable about her, that she need be no grievance. i shall have to bring my little brothers about you, too, so we shall be even,' he added, smiling. 'then,' she said, looking in his face as beginning to take counsel with him, 'you think it is right to assume a new tie that must have higher claims than the prior one that heaven sent me.' 'nay, dearest, is not the new one instituted by heaven? if i promise that i will be as entirely maria's brother as you are her sister, and will reverence her affliction, or more truly her innocence, in the same way, will you not trust her, as well as yourself, with me?' 'trust, oh! indeed i do, and am thankful. but i am thinking of you! poor dear maria might be a drag, where i should not! and i cannot leave her to any of the others. she could not be long without me.' 'well, faithless one, we may have to wait the longer; though i feel that you alone would be happiest fighting up the hill with me.' 'oh, thank you for knowing that so well.' 'but as we both have these ties, and as, besides, i should be a shabby adventurer to address you but on equal terms, we must be content to wait till--as with god's blessing i trust to do--i have made a home smooth enough for maria as well as for you! will that do, phoebe?' 'somehow it seems too much,' murmured phoebe; 'and yet i knew it of you.' 'and as you both have means of your own, it may bring the time nearer,' he said. 'there, you see i can calculate on your fortune, though i still wish it were out of the way.' 'if it were not for maria, i should.' 'and now with this hope and promise, i feel as if, even if it were seven years, they would be like so many days,' said humfrey. 'you will not be of those, my phoebe, who suffer and are worn by a long engagement?' 'one cannot tell without a trial,' said phoebe; 'but indeed i do not see why security and rest, or even hope deferred, should hurt me. surely, having a right to think about you cannot do so?' and her look out of those honest clear gray eyes was one of the most perfect reliance and gladness. 'may i be worthy of those thoughts!' he fervently said. 'and you will write to me--even when i go back to the ottawa?' 'i shall be so glad to tell you everything, and have your letters! oh! no, with them i am not going to pine'--and her strong young nature laughed at the folly. 'and while god gives me strength, we will not be afraid,' he answered. 'phoebe, i looked at the last chapter of proverbs last night, and thought you were like that woman of strength and skill on whose "lips is the law of kindness." and "you are not afraid of the snow," as if to complete the likeness.' 'i did not quite know it was snowing. i like it, for it suits your country.' 'i like it, because you are as clear, firm, and pure as my own clear crystal ice,' he said; 'only not quite so cold! and now, what remains? must your brothers be consulted?' he added, reluctantly. 'it will be right that i should tell them,' said phoebe. 'from robert i could not keep such a thing, and mervyn has a right to know. i cannot tell how he may take it, but i do not think that i owe him such implicit obedience as if he were my father. and by the time you really ask for me, you know you are to be such a rising engineer that they are all to be almost as proud of you as i am!' 'god helping me,' he gravely answered, his eyes raised upwards, and as it were carrying with them the glance that had sought them in almost playful confidence. and thus they looked forth upon this life. neither was so young as not to be aware of its trials. she knew the sorrows of suspense, bereavement, and family disunion; and he, before his twenty-fourth year, had made experience of adversity, uncongeniality, disappointment, and severe--almost hopeless--everyday labour. it was not in the spirit of those who had not braced on their armour, but of those who had made proof of it, that they looked bravely and cheerfully upon the battle, feeling their strength doubled as faithful companions-in-arms, and willing in that strength and trust to bear patiently with the severest trial of all--the delay of their hopes. the cold but bracing wind, the snow driving and whirling round them in gusts, could not daunt nor quench their spirits--nay, rather gave them additional vigour and enjoyment, while even the tokens of the tempest that they bore away were of perfect dazzling whiteness. never was shelter less willingly attained than when the park wicket of the underwood was reached, just as the early twilight was becoming darkness. it was like a foretaste for phoebe of seeing him go his own way in the storm while she waited safely housed; but they parted with grave sweet smiles, and a promise that he would snatch a moment's farewell on the morrow. phoebe would rather not have been met by bertha, at the front door, in some solicitude--'you are come at last! are you wet? are you cold?' 'oh, no, thank you! don't stand in the draught,' said phoebe, anxious to shake her off; but it was not to be done. bertha preceded her up-stairs, talking all the way in something of her old mischievous whisper. 'am i in disgrace with you, too, phoebe? miss fennimore says i have committed an awful breach of propriety; but really i could not leave you to the beating of the pitiless storm alone. i am afraid malta's sagacity and little paws would hardly have sufficed to dig you out of a snowdrift before life was extinct. are you greatly displeased with me, phoebe?' and being by this time in the bedroom, she faced about, shut the door, and looked full at her sister. 'no--no--dear bertha, not displeased in the least; only if you would go--' 'now, phoebe, indeed that is not kind of you,' said bertha, pleadingly, but preparing to obey. 'no, bertha, it is not,' said phoebe, recovering herself in a moment. 'i am sorry for it; but oh! don't you know the feeling of wanting to have one's treasure all to oneself for a little moment before showing it? no, don't go;' and the two sisters flung their arms round one another. 'you shall hear now.' 'no, no,' said bertha, kissing her; 'my time for obtrusive, childish curiosity is over! i only was so anxious;' and she looked up with tearful eyes, and almost the air of an elder sister. phoebe might well requite the look with full-hearted tenderness and caresses, as she said, calmly, 'yes, bertha, i am very happy.' 'you ought to be,' said bertha, seriously. 'yes,' said phoebe, taking the _ought_ in a different sense from what she meant; 'he is all, and more, than i ever thought a man wise in true wisdom should be.' 'and a man of progress, full of the dignity of labour,' said bertha. 'i am glad he is not an old bit of county soil like john raymond! my dear phoebe, sir john will tear his hair!' 'for shame, bertha!' 'well, i will not tease you with my nonsense; but you know it is the only thing that keeps tears out of one's eyes. i see you want to be alone. dear phoebe!' and she clung to her neck for a moment. 'an instant more, bertha. you see everything, i know; but has miss fennimore guessed?' 'no, my dear, i do not think any such syllogism has ever occurred to her as, lover's look conscious; phoebe looks conscious; therefore phoebe is in love! it is defective in the major, you see, so it could not enter her brain.' 'then, bertha, do not let any one guess it. i shall speak to mervyn to-morrow, and write to robin. it is their due, but no one else must know it--no, not for a long time--years perhaps.' 'you do not mean to wait for years?' 'we must.' 'then what's the use of having thirty thousand pounds?' 'no, bertha, it would not be like him to be content with owing all to my fortune, and beginning life in idleness. it would be just enough to live on, with none of the duties of property, and that would never do! i could not wish it for him, and he has his brothers to provide for.' 'well, let him work for them, and have your money to make capital! really, phoebe, i would not lose such a chance of going out and seeing those glorious lakes!' 'i have maria to consider.' 'maria! and why are you to be saddled with maria?' 'because i promised my mother--i promised myself--i promised mervyn, that she should be my care. i have told him of that promise, and he accepts it most kindly.' 'you cannot leave her to me? oh! phoebe, do you still think me as hateful as i used to be?' 'dear, dear bertha, i have full trust in your affection for her; but i undertook the charge, and i cannot thrust it on to another, who might--' 'don't say that, phoebe,' cried bertha, impetuously; 'i am the one to have her! i who certainly never can, never shall, marry--i who am good for nothing but to look after her. say you do not think me unworthy of her, phoebe.' 'i say no such thing,' said phoebe, affectionately, 'but there is no use in discussing the matter. dear bertha, leave me, and compose yourself.' truly, during that evening bertha was the agitated one, her speech much affected, and her gestures restless, while phoebe sat over her work, her needle going swiftly and evenly, and her eyes beaming with her quiet depth of thankful bliss. in the morning, again, it was bertha who betrayed an uneasy restlessness, and irrepressible desire to banish miss fennimore and maria from the drawing-room, till the governess, in perplexity, began to think of consulting phoebe whether a jack hastings affair could be coming over again. phoebe simply trusted to the promise, and went about her morning's avocations with a heart at rest, and when at last humfrey randolf did hurry in for a few moments, before he must rush back to the holt, her greeting was so full of reliance and composure that miss fennimore perceived nothing. bertha, however, rested not. as well as she could, under a fearful access of stammering, she insisted that mr. randolf should come into the dining-room to look at a--a--a--a--a--' 'ah, well!' thought miss fennimore, 'phoebe is gone, too, so she will keep guard.' if miss fennimore could have looked through the door, she would have seen the astonished maria pounced upon, as if in sport, pulled up-stairs, and desired by bertha to find her book of dried flowers to show mr. randolf. naughty bertha, who really did not believe the dried flowers had ever been brought home from woolstone-lane! it served the manoeuvrer right, that maria, after one look at the shelves, began to cry out for phoebe to come and find them. but it signified the less since the lovers had not left the hall, and had exchanged all the words that there was time for before bertha, at the sound of the re-opening door, flew down to put her hand into humfrey's and grasp it tightly, looking in his face instead of speaking. 'thank you,' he said, returning the pressure, and was gone. 'we improve as we go on. number three is the best of my brothers-in-law, phoebe,' said bertha, lightly. then leaving phoebe to pacify maria about the flowers, she went into her own room, and cried bitterly and overpoweringly. chapter xxxi _thekla_. i should love thee. whate'er thou hadst chosen, thou wouldst still have acted nobly and worthy of thee; but repentance shall ne'er disturb thy soul's fair peace. _max_. then i must leave thee; must part from thee! _thekla_. being faithful to thine own self, thou art faithful too to me.--_wallenstein_ phoebe and maria went alone to the park to receive the bridal pair, for poor bertha was so nervous and unhinged as not even to wish to leave the fireside. it was plain that she must not be deprived of an elder sister's care, and that it would be unlikely that she would ever have nerve enough to undertake the charge of maria, even if phoebe could think of shifting the responsibility, or if a feeble intellect could be expected to yield the same deference to a younger sister as came naturally to an elder one. thus phoebe's heart was somewhat heavy as she braced herself for her communication to mervyn, doubtful as to the extent of his probable displeasure, but for that very cause resolved on dealing openly from the first, while satisfied that, at her age, his right was rather to deference than to surrender of judgment. maria roamed through the house, exclaiming at the alterations, and phoebe sat still in the concentrated, resolute stillness that was her form of suspense. they came! the peals of the hiltonbury bells rung merrily in the cold air, the snow sparkled bridally, the icicles glittered in the sunset light, the workpeople stood round the house to cheer the arrival, and the sisters hurried out. it was no more the pale, patient face! the cheeks were rounded, the brown eyes smiled, the haggard air, that even as a bride cecily had worn, was entirely gone, and mervyn watched exultingly phoebe's surprise at what he had made of the wan, worn girl they had met at hyeres. the only disappointment was bertha's absence, and there was much regret that the new-comers had not heard of her cold so as to have seen her at the underwood on their way. they had spent the previous day in town in going over the distillery, by cecily's particular wish, and had afterwards assisted at a grand impromptu entertainment of all the workpeople, at their own expense and robert's trouble. mervyn did certainly seem carried out of his own knowledge of himself, and his wife had transgressed every precedent left by his mother, who had never beheld whittingtonia in her life! phoebe found their eager talk so mazy and indistinct to her perception that she became resolved to speak and clear her mind at the first opportunity; so she tarried behind, when cecily went up, under maria's delighted guidance, to take off her bonnet, and accosted mervyn with the ominous words, 'i want to speak to you.' 'make haste, then; there is cecily left to maria.' 'i wanted to tell you that i am engaged.' 'the deuce you are!' 'to mr. randolf, miss charlecote's canadian cousin.' mervyn, who had expected no less than john raymond, whirled round in indignant surprise, and looked incredulously at her, but was confronted by her two open, unabashed eyes, as she stood firm on both her feet, and continued: 'i have been thrown a good deal with him, so as to learn his goodness and superiority. i know you will think it a very bad match, for he has nothing but his hands and head; but we mean to wait till he can offer what are considered as equal terms. we thought it right you should know.' 'upon my word, that's a clever fellow!' phoebe knew very well that this was ironical, but would not so reply. 'he has abilities,' she said, 'and we are ready to wait till he has made proof of them.' 'well, what now?' he cried in despair. 'i _did_ think you the sensible one of the lot.' 'when you know him,' she said, with her fearless smile, 'you will own that i _was_ sensible there.' 'really, the child looks so complacent that she would outface me that this mad notion was a fine thing! i declare it is worse than bertha's business; and you so much older! at least hastings was a man of family, and this is a yankee adventurer picked out of the back of a ditch by that young dog, sandbrook. only a yankee could have had the impudence! i declare you are laughing all the time. what have you to say for yourself?' 'his father was major in the ---th dragoons, and was one of the randolfs of ---shire. his mother was a charlecote. his birth is as good as our own, and you saw that he is a gentleman. his character and talents have gained his present situation, and it is a profession that gives every opening for ability; nor does he ask for me till his fortune is made.' 'but hinders you from doing better! pray, what would augusta say to you?' he added, jocosely, for even while lashing himself up, his tone had been placable. 'he shall satisfy her.' 'how long has this been going on?' 'we only spoke of it yesterday. bertha found it out; but i wish no one else to know it except robert.' 'somehow she looks so cool, and she is so entirely the last girl i expected to go crazy, that i can't laugh at the thing as i ought! i say, what's this about miss charlecote; will she do anything for him?' 'i believe not.' 'and pray who vouches for his antecedents, such as they are.' 'mr. currie and owen sandbrook both know the whole.' 'is sandbrook at the holt?' 'yes,' answered phoebe, suppressing her strong distaste against bringing him into the affair. 'well, i shall make inquiries, and--and--it is a horrid unlucky business, and the old girl should be scarified for putting you in his way. the end will be that you'll marry on your own means, and be pinched for life. now, look here, you are no fool at the bottom; you will give it up if i find that he is no go.' 'if it be proved that i ought,' said phoebe. 'and if you find him what i have told you, you will make no opposition. thank you, mervyn.' 'stay,' said he, laughing, and letting her kiss him, 'i have made no promises, mind!' the confidence that phoebe had earned had stood her in good stead. mervyn had great trust in her judgment, and was too happy besides for severity on other people's love. nor were her perfect openness, and fearless though modest independence, without effect. she was not one who invited tyranny, but truly 'queen o'er herself,' she ruled herself too well to leave the reins loose for others to seize. the result of the interview had surpassed her hopes, and she had nothing to regret but her brother's implied purpose of consulting owen sandbrook. friend of humfrey though he were, she could not feel secure of his generosity, and wished the engineer had been the nearer referee; but she did not say so, as much for shame at her own uncharitableness, as for fear of rousing mervyn's distrust; and she was afraid that her injunctions to secrecy would be disregarded. fully aware that all would be in common between the husband and wife, she was still taken by surprise when cecily, coming early next day to the underwood to see bertha, took her aside to say, 'dearest, i hope this is all right, and for your happiness.' 'you will soon know that it is,' said phoebe, brightly. 'only, my dear, it must not be a long engagement. ah! you think that nothing now, but i could not bear to think that _you_ were to go through a long attachment.' was this forgiving cecily really fancying that her sorrows had been nothing worse than those incidental to a long attachment? 'ah!' thought phoebe, 'if she could ever have felt the full reliance on which i can venture, she need never have drooped! what is time to trust?' mervyn kept his word, and waiving ceremony, took his wife at once to the holt, and leaving her with miss charlecote, made a visit to owen in the study, wishing, in the first place, to satisfy himself of the young man's competence to reply to his questions. on this he had no doubt; owen had made steady progress ever since he had been in england, and especially during the quiet time that had succeeded his sister's marriage. his mental powers had fully regained their keenness and balance, and though still incapable of sustained exertion of his faculties, he could talk as well as ever, and the first ten minutes convinced mervyn that he was conversing with a shrewd sensible observer, who had seen a good deal of life, and of the world. he then led to the question about young randolf, endeavouring so to frame it as not to betray the occasion of it. the reply fully confirmed all that phoebe had averred. the single efforts of a mere youth, not eighteen at the time of his father's failure, without capital, and set down in a wild uncleared part of the bush, had of course been inadequate to retrieve the ruined fortunes of the family; but he had shown wonderful spirit, patience, and perseverance, and the duteous temper in which he had borne the sacrifice of his prospects by his father's foolish speculations and unsuitable marriage, his affectionate treatment of the wife and children when left on his hands, and his cheerful endurance of the severest and most hopeless drudgery for the bare support of life, had all been such as to inspire the utmost confidence in his character. of his future prospects, owen spoke with a sigh almost of envy. his talent and industry had already made him a valuable assistant to mr. currie, and an able engineer had an almost certain career of prosperity open to him. lastly mervyn asked what was the connection with miss charlecote, and what possibilities it held out. owen winced for a moment, then explained the second cousinship, adding, however, that there was no entail, that the disposal of miss charlecote's property was entirely in her own power, and that she had manifested no intention of treating the young man with more than ordinary civility, in fact that she had rather shrunk from acknowledging his likeness to the family. his father's english relatives had, in like manner, owned him as a kinsman; but had shown no alacrity in making friends with him. the only way to be noticed, as the two gentlemen agreed, when glad to close their conference in a laugh, is to need no notice. 'uncommon hard on a fellow,' soliloquized owen, when left alone. 'is it not enough to have one's throat cut, but must one do it with one's own hands? it is a fine thing to be magnanimous when one thinks one is going off the stage, but quite another thing when one is to remain there. i'm no twelfth century saint, only a nineteenth century beggar, with an unlucky child on my hands! am i to give away girl, land, and all to the fellow i raked out of his swamps? better have let him grill and saved my limbs! and pray what more am i to do? i've introduced him, made no secret of his parentage, puffed him off, and brought him here, and pretty good care he takes of himself! am i to pester poor honey if she does prefer the child she bred up to a stranger? no, no, i've done my part: let him look out for himself!' mervyn allowed to phoebe that randolf was no impostor, but warned her against assuming his consent. she suspected that owen at least guessed the cause of these inquiries, and it kept her aloof from the holt. when miss charlecote spoke of poor owen's want of spirits, discretion told her that she was not the person to enliven him; and the consciousness of her secret made her less desirous of confidences with her kind old friend, so that her good offices chiefly consisted in having little owen to the underwood to play with maria, who delighted in his society, and unconsciously did much for his improvement. honor herself perceived that phoebe's visits only saddened her convalescent, and that in his present state he was happiest with no one but her, who was more than ever a mother to him. they were perfectly at ease together, as she amused him with the familiar books, which did not strain his powers like new ones, the quiet household talk, the little playful exchanges of tender wit, and the fresh arrangement of all her museum on the natural system, he having all the entertainment, and she all the trouble, till her conversion astonished bertha. the old religious habits of the holt likewise seemed to soothe and give him pleasure; but whether by force of old association, or from their hold on his heart, was as yet unknown to honora, and perhaps to himself. it was as if he were deferring all demonstration till he should be able again to examine the subject with concentrated attention. or it might be that, while he shrank from exerting himself upon randolf's behalf, he was not ready for repentance, and therefore distrusted, and hung back from, the impulses that would otherwise have drawn him to renew all that he had once cast aside. he was never left alone without becoming deeply melancholy, yet no companionship save honor's seemed to suit him for many minutes together. his brain was fast recovering the injury, but it was a trying convalescence; and with returning health, his perfect helplessness fretted him under all the difficulties of so tall and heavy a man being carried from bed to sofa, from sofa to carriage. 'poor owen!' said phoebe to herself, one day when she had not been able to avoid witnessing this pitiable spectacle of infirmity; 'i can't think why i am always fancying he is doing humfrey and me some injustice, and that he knows it. he, who brought humfrey home, and has praised him to mervyn! it is very uncharitable of me, but why will he look at me as if he were asking my pardon? well, we shall see the result of mervyn's inspection!' mervyn and his wife were going for two nights to the rooms at the office, in the first lull of the bridal invitations, which were infinitely more awful to cecily than to phoebe. after twenty-nine years of quiet clerical life, cecily neither understood nor liked the gaieties even of the county, had very little to say, and, unless her aunt were present, made phoebe into a protector, and retired behind her, till phoebe sometimes feared that mervyn would be quite provoked, and remember his old dread lest cecily should be too homely and bashful for her position. poor dear cecily! she was as good and kind as possible; but in the present close intercourse it sometimes would suggest to phoebe, 'was she quite as wise as she was good?' and miss fennimore, with still clearer eyes, inwardly decided that, though religion should above all form the morals, yet the morality of common sense and judgment should be cultivated with an equal growth. cecily returned from london radiant with sisterly congratulation, in a flutter of delight with mr. randolf, and intimating a glorious project in the background, devised between herself and mervyn, then guarding against possible disappointment by declaring it might be all her own fancy. the meaning of these prognostics appeared the next morning. mervyn had been much impressed by humfrey randolf's keen business-like appearance and sensible conversation, as well as by mr. currie's opinion of him; and, always detesting the trouble of his own distillery, it had occurred to him that to secure an active working partner, and throw his sister's fortune into the business, would be a most convenient, generous, and brotherly means of smoothing the course of true love; and cecily had been so enchanted at the happiness he would thus confer, that he came to the underwood quite elevated with his own kindness. phoebe heard his offer with warm thankfulness, but could not answer for humfrey. 'he has too much sense not to take a good offer,' said mervyn, 'otherwise, it is all humbug his pretending to care for you. as to robert's folly, have not i given up all that any rational being could stick at? i tell you, it is the giving up those houses that makes me in want of capital, so you are bound to make it up to me.' mervyn and phoebe wrote by the same post. 'i will be satisfied with whatever you decide upon as right,' were phoebe's words; but she refrained from expressing any wish. what was the use of a wise man, if he were not to be let alone to make up his mind? she would trust to him to divine what it would be to her to be thus one with her own family, and to gain him without losing her sisters. the balance must not be weighted by a woman's hand, when ready enough to incline to her side; and why should she add to his pain, if he must refuse? how ardently she wished, however, can be imagined. she could not hide from herself pictures of herself and humfrey, sometimes in london, sometimes at the underwood, working with robert, and carrying out the projects which mervyn but half acted on, and a quarter understood. the letter came, and the first line was decisive. in spite of earnest wishes and great regrets, humfrey could not reconcile the trade to his sense of right. he knew that as mervyn conducted it, it was as unobjectionable as was possible, and that the works were admirably regulated; but it was in going over the distillery as a curiosity he had seen enough to perceive that it was a line in which enterprise and exertion could only find scope by extending the demoralizing sale of spirits, and he trusted to phoebe's agreeing with him, that when he already had a profession fairly free from temptation, it was his duty not to put himself into one that might prove more full of danger to him than to one who had been always used to it. he had not consulted robert, feeling clear in his own mind, and thinking that he had probably rather not interfere. kind humfrey! that bit of consideration filled phoebe's heart with grateful relief. it gave her spirits to be comforted by the tender and cheering words with which the edge of the disappointment was softened, and herself thanked for her abstinence from persuasion. 'oh, better to wait seven years, with such a humfrey as this in reserve, than to let him warp aside one inch of his sense of duty! as high-minded as dear robert, without his ruggedness and harshness,' she thought as she read the manly, warm-hearted letter to mervyn, which he had enclosed, and which she could not help showing to bertha. it was lost on bertha. she thought it dull and poor-spirited not to accept, and manage the distillery just as he pleased. any one could manage mervyn, she said, not estimating the difference between a petted sister and a junior partner, and it was a new light to her that the trade--involving so much chemistry and mechanic ingenuity--was not good enough for anybody, unless they were peacocks too stupid to appreciate the dignity of labour! for the first time phoebe wished her secret known to miss charlecote, for the sake of her appreciation of his triumph of principle. 'this is robert's doing!' was mervyn's first exclamation, when phoebe gave him the letter. 'if there be an intolerable plague in the world, it is the having a fanatical fellow like that in the family. nice requital for all i have thrown away for the sake of his maggots! i declare i'll resume every house i've let him have for his tomfooleries, and have a gin bottle blown as big as an ox as a sign for each of them.' phoebe had a certain lurking satisfaction in observing, when his malediction had run itself down, 'he never consulted robert.' 'don't tell me that! as if robert had not run about with his mouth open, reviling his father's trade, and pluming himself on keeping out of it.' 'mervyn, you know better! robert had said no word against you! it is the facts that speak for themselves.' 'the facts? you little simpleton, do you imagine that we distil the juices of little babies?' phoebe laughed, and he added kindly, 'come, little one, i know this is no doing of yours. you have stuck by this wicked distiller of vile liquids through thick and thin. don't let the parson lead you nor randolf by the nose; he is far too fine a fellow for that; but come up to town with me and cecily, as soon as lady caroline's bear fight is over, and make him hear reason.' 'i should be very glad to go and see him, but i cannot persuade him.' 'why not?' 'when a man has made up his mind, it would be wrong to try to over-persuade him, even if i believed that i could.' 'you know the alternative?' 'what?' 'just breaking with him a little.' she smiled. 'we shall see what crabbe, and augusta, and acton will say to your taking up with a dumpy leveller. we shall have another row. and you'll be broken up again!' that was by far the most alarming of his threats; but she did not greatly believe that he would bring it to pass, or that an engagement, however imprudent, conducted as hers had been, could be made a plea for accusing miss fennimore or depriving her of her sisters. she tried to express her thankfulness for the kindness that had prompted the original proposal, and her sympathy with his natural vexation at finding that a traffic which he had really ameliorated at considerable loss of profit, was still considered objectionable; but he silenced this at once as palaver, and went off to fetch his wife to try her arguments. this was worse than phoebe had expected! cecily was too thorough a wife not to have adopted all her husband's interests, and had totally forgotten all the objections current in her own family against the manufacture of spirits. she knew that great opportunities of gain had been yielded up, and such improvements made as had converted the distillery into a model of its kind; she was very proud of it, wished every one to be happy, and mervyn to be saved trouble, and thought the scruples injurious and overstrained. phoebe would not contest them with her. what the daughter had learnt by degrees, might not be forced on the wife; and phoebe would only protest against trying to shake a fixed purpose, instead of maintaining its grounds. so cecily continued affectionately hurt, and unnecessarily compassionate, showing that a woman can hardly marry a person of tone inferior to her own without some deterioration of judgment, beneficial and elevating as her influence may be in the main. poor cecily! she did the very thing that those acquainted with the ins and outs of the family had most deprecated! she dragged robert into the affair, writing a letter, very pretty in wifely and sisterly goodwill, to entreat him to take mr. randolf in hand, and persuade him of the desirableness of the spirit manufacture in general, and that of the fulmort house in particular. the letter she received in return was intended to be very kind, but was severely grave, in simply observing that what he had not thought fit to do himself, he could not persuade another to do. those words somehow acted upon mervyn as bitter and ungrateful irony; and working himself up by an account, in his own colouring, of robert's behaviour at the time of the foundation of st. matthew's, he went thundering off to assure phoebe that he _must_ take an active partner, at all events; and that if she and robert did not look out, he should find a moneyed man who knew what he was about, would clear off robert's waste, and restore the place to what it had once been. 'what is your letter, phoebe?' he asked, seeing an envelope in robert's handwriting on her table. phoebe coloured a little. 'he has not said one word to humfrey,' she said. 'and what has he said to you? the traitor, insulting me to my wife!' phoebe thought for one second, then resolved to take the risk of reading all aloud, considering that whatever might be the effect, it could not be worse than that of his surmises. 'cecily has written to me, greatly to my surprise, begging for my influence with randolf to induce him to become partner in the house. i understand by this that he has already refused, and that you are aware of his determination; therefore i have no scruple in writing to tell you that he is perfectly right. it is true that the trade, as mervyn conducts it, is free from the most flagrant evils that deterred me from taking a share in it; and i am most thankful for the changes he has made.' 'you show it, don't you?' interjected mervyn. 'i had rather see it in his hands than those of any other person, and there is nothing blameworthy in his continuance in it. but it is of questionable expedience, and there are still hereditary practices carried on, the harm of which he has not hitherto perceived, but which would assuredly shock a new-comer such as randolf. you can guess what would be the difficulty of obtaining alteration, and acquiescence would be even more fatal. i do not tell you this as complaining of mervyn, who has done and is doing infinite good, but to warn you against the least endeavour to influence randolf. depend upon it, even the accelerating your marriage would not secure your happiness if you saw your husband and brother at continual variance in the details of the business, and opposition might at any moment lead mervyn to undo all the good he has effected.' 'right enough there;' and mervyn, who had looked furious at several sentences, laughed at last. 'i must get another partner, then, who can and will manage; and when all the gin-palaces are more splendiferous than ever, what will you and the parson say?' 'that to do a little wrong in hopes of hindering another from doing worse, never yet succeeded!' said phoebe, bravely. she saw that the worst was over when he had come to that laugh, and that the danger of a quarrel between the brothers was averted. she did not know from how much terror and self-reproach poor cecily was suffering, nor her multitudinous resolutions against kindly interferences upon _terra incognita_. that fit of wrath subsided, and mervyn neither looked out for his moneyed partner, nor fulfilled his threat of bringing the united forces of the family displeasure upon his sister. still there was a cloud overshadowing the enjoyment, though not lessening the outward harmony of those early bridal days. the long, dark drives to the county gaieties, shut up with mervyn and cecily, were formidable by the mere existence of a topic, never mentioned, but always secretly dwelt on. and in spite of three letters a week, phoebe was beginning to learn that trust does not fully make up to the heart for absence, by the distance of london to estimate that of canada, and by the weariness of one month, the tedium of seven years! 'yet,' said bertha to cecily, 'phoebe is so stupidly like herself now she is engaged, that it is no fun at all. nobody would guess her to be in love! if they cared for each other one rush, would not they have floated to bliss even on streams of gin?' cecily would not dispute their mutual love, but she was not one of those who could fully understand the double force of that love which is second to love of principle. obedience, not judgment, had been her safeguard, and, like most women, she was carried along, not by the abstract idea, but by its upholder. intuition, rather than what had actually passed before her, showed phoebe more than once that cecily was sorely perplexed by the difference between the standard of sutton and that of beauchamp. strict, scrupulous, and deeply devout, the clergyman's daughter suffered at every deviation from the practices of the parsonage, made her stand in the wrong places, and while conscientiously and painfully fretting mervyn about petty details, would be unknowingly carried over far greater stumbling-blocks. in her ignorance she would be distressed at habits which were comparatively innocent, and then fear to put forth her influence at the right moment. there was hearty affection on either side, and mervyn was exceedingly improved, but more than once phoebe saw in poor cecily's harassed, puzzled, wistful face, and heard in her faltering remonstrances, what it was to have loved and married without perfect esteem and trust. chapter xxxii get thee an ape, and trudge the land the leader of a juggling band.--scott 'master howen, master howen, you must not go up the best stairs.' 'but i will go up the best stairs. i don't like the nasty, dark, back stairs!' 'let me take off your boots then, sir; mrs. stubbs said she could not have such dirty marks--' 'i don't care for mrs. stubbs! i won't take my boots off! get off--i'll kick you if you touch them! i shall go where i like! i'm a gentleman. i shall ave hall the olt for my very hown!' 'master howen! oh my!' for flibbertigibbet's teeth were in the crack orphan's neck, and the foot that she had not seized kicking like a vicious colt, when a large hand seized him by the collar, and lifted him in mid-air; and the crack orphan, looking up as though the oft-invoked 'ugly man' of her infancy had really come to bear off naughty children, beheld for a moment, propped against the door-post, the tall figure and bearded head hitherto only seen on the sofa. the next instant the child had been swung into the study, and the apparition, stumbling with one hand and foot to the couch, said breathlessly to the frightened girl, 'i am sorry for my little boy's shameful behaviour! leave him here. owen, stay.' the child was indeed standing, as if powerless to move or even to cry, stunned by his flight in the air, and dismayed at the terrific presence in which he was for the first time left alone. completely roused and excited, the elder owen sat upright, speaking not loud, but in tones forcible from vehement feeling. 'owen, you boast of being a gentleman! do you know what we are? we are beggars! i can neither work for myself nor for you. we live on charity. that girl earns her bread--we do not! we are beggars! who told you otherwise?' instead of an answer, he only evoked a passion of frightened tears, so piteous, that he spoke more gently, and stretched out his hand; but his son shook his frock at him in terror, and retreated out of reach, backwards into a corner, replying to his calls and assurances with violent sobs, and broken entreaties to go back to 'granma.' at last, in despair, owen lowered himself to the floor, and made the whole length of his person available; but the child, in the extremity of terror at the giant crawling after him, shrieked wildly and made a rush at the door, but was caught and at once drawn within the grasp of the sweeping arm. all was still. he was gathered up to the broad breast; the hairy cheek was gently pressed against his wet one. it was a great powerful, encircling caress that held him. there was a strange thrill in this contact between the father and son--a new sensation of intense loving pity in the one, a great but soothing awe in the other, as struggling and crying no more, he clung ever closer and closer, and drew the arm tighter round him. 'my poor little fellow!' and never had there been such sweetness in those deep full tones. the boy responded with both arms round his neck, and face laid on his shoulder. poor child! it was the affection that his little heart had hungered for ever since he had left his grandmother, and which he had inspired in no one. a few more seconds, and he was sitting on the floor, resting against his father, listening without alarm to his question--'now, owen, what were you saying?' 'i'll never do it again, pa--never!' 'no, never be disobedient, nor fight with girls. but what were you saying about the holt?' 'i shall live here--i shall have it for my own.' 'who told you so?' 'granma.' 'grandmamma knows nothing about it.' 'shan't i, then?' 'never! listen, owen. this is miss charlecote's house as long as she lives--i trust till long after you are a man. it will be mr. randolf's afterwards, and neither you nor i have anything to do with it.' the two great black eyes looked up in inquiring, disappointed intelligence. then he said, in a satisfied tone-- 'we ain't beggars--we don't carry rabbit-skins and lucifers!' 'we do nothing so useful or profitable,' sighed poor owen, striving to pull himself up by the table, but desisting on finding that it was more likely to overbalance than to be a support. 'my poor boy, you will have to work for me!' and he sadly stroked down the light hair. 'shall i?' said the little fellow. 'may i have some white mice? i'll bring you all the halfpence, pa!' 'bring me a footstool, first of all. there--at this rate i shall be able to hop about on one leg, and be a more taking spectacle,' said owen, as, dragging himself up by the force of hand and arm, he resettled himself on his couch, as much pleased as amazed at his first personal act of locomotion after seven months, and at the discovery of recovered strength in the sound limbs. although, with the reserve of convalescence, he kept his exploit secret, his spirits visibly rose; and whenever he was left alone, or only with his little boy, he repeated his experiments, launching himself from one piece of furniture to another; and in spite of the continued deadness of the left side, feeling life, vigour, and hope returning on him. his morbid shyness of his child had given way to genuine affection, and owen soon found that he liked to be left to the society of flibbertigibbet, or as he called him for short, giblets, exacting in return the title of father, instead of the terrible 'pa.' little owen thought this a preparation for the itinerant white-mouse exhibition, which he was permitted to believe was only delayed till the daily gymnastic exertions should have resulted in the use of crutches, and till he could safely pronounce the names of the future mice, hannibal and annabella, and other traps for aspirates! nay, his father was going to set up an exhibition of his own, as it appeared; for after a vast amount of meditation, he begged for pen and paper, ruler and compasses, drew, wrote, and figured, and finally took to cardboard and penknife, begging the aid of miss charlecote, greatly to the distress of the little boy, who had thought the whole affair private and confidential, and looked forward to a secret departure early in the morning, with crutches, mice, and model. miss charlecote did her best with needle and gum, but could not understand; and between her fears of trying owen's patience and letting him overstrain his brain, was so much distressed that he gave it up; but it preyed on him, till one day phoebe came in, and he could not help explaining it to her, and claiming her assistance, as he saw her ready comprehension. for two afternoons she came and worked under him; and between card, wire, gum, and watch-spring, such a beauteous little model locomotive engine and train were produced, that owen archly assured her that 'she would be a fortune in herself to a rising engineer,' and honor was struck by the sudden crimson evoked by the compliment. little owen thought their fortune made, and was rather disappointed at the delay, when his father, confirming his idea that their livelihood might depend on the model, insisted that it should be carried out in brass and wood, and caused his chair to be frequently wheeled down to the blacksmith's and carpenter's, whose comprehension so much more resembled their lady's than that of miss fulmort, and who made such intolerable blunders, that he bestowed on them more vituperation than, in their opinion, 'he had any call to;' and looked in a passion of despair at the numb, nerveless fingers, once his dexterous servants. still his spirits were immensely improved, since resolution, hope, and independence had returned. his mental faculties had recovered their force, and with the removal of the disease, the healthfulness and elasticity of his twenty-five years were beginning to compensate for the lost powers of his limbs. as he accomplished more, he grew more enterprising and less disinclined to show off his recovered powers. he first alarmed, then delighted honor; begged for crutches, and made such good use of them, that dr. martin held out fair hopes of progress, though advising a course of rubbing and sea-air at brighton. perhaps honor had never been happier than during these weeks of improvement, with her boy so completely her own, and more than she had ever known him; his dejection lessening, his health returning, his playfulness brilliant, his filial fondness most engaging. she did not know the fixed resolution that actuated him, and revived the entire man! she did not know what was kept in reserve till confidence in his efficiency should dispose her to listen favourably. meantime the present was so delightful to her that she trembled and watched lest she should be relapsing into the old idolatry. the test would be whether she would put owen above or below a clear duty. the audit of farm-accounts before going to brighton was as unsatisfactory as the last. though not beyond her own powers of unravelling, they made it clear that brooks was superannuated. it was piteous to see the old man seated in the study, racking his brains to recollect the transaction with farmer hodnet about seed-wheat and working oxen; to explain for what the three extra labourers had been put on, and to discover his own meaning in charging twice over for the repairs of joe littledale's cottage; angered and overset by his mistress's gentle cross-examination, and enraged into absolute disrespect when that old object of dislike, mr. sandbrook, looked over the books, and muttered suggestions under his moustache. 'poor old man!' both exclaimed, as he left the room, and honor sighed deeply over this failure of the last of the supports left her by humfrey. 'i must pension him off,' she said. 'i hope it will not hurt his feelings much!' and then she turned away to her old-fashioned bureau, and applied herself to her entries in her farming-books, while owen sat in his chair, dreamily caressing his beard, and revolving the proposition that had long been in his mind. at last the tall, red book was shut, the pen wiped, the bureau locked, and honor came back to her place by the table, and resumed her needlework. still there was silence, till she began: 'this settles it! i have been thinking about it ever since you have been so much better. owen, what should you think of managing the property for me?' he only answered by a quick interrogative glance. 'you see,' she continued, 'by the help of brooks, who knew his master's ways, i have pottered on, to my own wonderment; but brooks is past work, my downhill-time is coming, high farming has outrun us both, and i know that we are not doing as humfrey would wish by his inheritance. now i believe that nothing could be of greater use to me, the people, or the place, than that you should be in charge. we could put some deputy under your control, and contrive for your getting about the fields. i would give you so much a year, so that your boy's education would be your own doing, and we should be _so_ comfortable.' owen leant back, much moved, smiled and said, 'thanks, dear honor; you are much too good to us.' 'think about it, and tell me what would be right. brooks has pounds a year, but you will be worth much more, for you will develop all the resources, you know.' 'best honor, sweetest honey,' said owen, hastily, the tears rising to his eyes, 'i cannot bear to frustrate such kind plans, nor seem more ungrateful than i have been already. i will not live on you for nothing longer than i can help; but indeed, this must not be.' 'not?' 'no. there are many reasons against it. in the first place, i know nothing of farming.' 'you would soon learn.' 'and vex your dear old spirit with steam-ploughs and haymaking machines.' she smiled, as if from him she could endure even steam. 'next, such an administration would be highly distasteful here. my overweening airs as a boy have not been forgotten, and i have always been looked on as an interloper. depend on it, poor old brooks fancies the muddle in his accounts was a suggestion of my malice! imagine the feelings of hiltonbury, when i, his supplanter, begin to tighten the reins.' 'if it be so, it can be got over,' said honor, a little aghast. 'if it ought to be attempted,' said owen; 'but you have not heard my personal grounds for refusing your kindness. all your goodness and kind teaching cannot prevent the undesirableness of letting my child grow up here, in a half-and-half position, engendering domineering airs and unreasonable expectations. you know how, in spite of your care and warnings, it worked on me, though i had more advantages than that poor little man. dear honor, it is not you, but myself that i blame. you did your utmost to disabuse me, and it is only the belief that my absurd folly is in human nature that makes me thus ungracious.' 'but,' said honora, murmuring, as if in shame, 'you know you, and therefore your child, must be my especial charge, and always stand first with me.' 'first in your affection, dearest honey,' he said, fondly; 'i trust i have been in that place these twenty years; i'll never give that up; but if i get as well as i hope to do, i mean to be no charge on any one.' 'you cannot return to your profession?' 'my riding and surveying days are over, but there's plenty of work in me still; and i see my way to a connection that will find me in enough of writing, calculating, and drawing, to keep myself and owen, and i expect to make something of my invention too, when i am settled in london.' 'in london?' 'yes; the poor old woman in whittington-street is breaking--pining for her grandchild, i believe, and losing her lodgers, from not being able to make them comfortable; and without what she had for the child, she cannot keep an effective servant. i think of going to help her out.' 'that woman?' 'well, i do owe her a duty! i robbed her of her own child, and it is cruel to deprive her of mine when she has had all the trouble of his babyhood. money would not do the thing, even if i had it. i have brought it on myself, and it is the only atonement in my power; so i mean to occupy two or three of her rooms, work there, and let her have the satisfaction of "doing for me." when you are in town, i shall hop into woolstone-lane. you will give me holidays here, won't you? and whenever you want me, let me be your son? to that you know i reserve my right,' and he bent towards her affectionately. 'it is very right--very noble,' she was faltering forth. he turned quickly, the tears, ready to fall, springing quite forth. 'honor! you have not been able to say that since i was a child! do not spoil it. if this be right, leave it so.' 'only one thing, owen, are you sufficiently considering your son's good in taking him there, out of the way of a good education.' 'a working education is the good one for him,' said owen, 'not the being sent at the cost of others--not even covertly at yours, sweet honey--to an expensive school. he is a working man's son, and must so feel himself. i mean to face my own penalties in him, and if i see him in a grade inferior to what was mine by birth, i shall know that though i brought it on him, it is more for his real good and happiness to be a man of the people, than a poor half-acknowledged gentleman. so much for my americanisms, honor!' 'but the dissent--the cant!' 'not so much cant as real piety obtrusively expressed. poor old thing! i have no fear but that little giblets will go my way! he worships me, and i shall not leave his _h's_ nor more important matters to her mercy. he is nearly big enough for the day school mr. parsons is setting on foot. it is a great consideration that the place is in the st. matthew's district!' 'well, owen, i cannot but see that it may be your rightest course; i hope you may find yourself equal to it,' said honor, struggling with a fresh sense of desertion, though with admiration and esteem returning, such as were well worth the disappointment. 'if not,' said owen, smiling, to hide deeper feelings, 'i reserve to you the pleasure of maintaining me, nursing me, or what not! if my carcase be good for nothing, i hereby make it over to you. and now, honor, i have not been without thought for you. i can tell you of a better successor for brooks.' 'well!' she said, almost crossly. 'humfrey charlecote randolf,' said owen, slowly, giving full effect to the two christian names. honor started, gasped, and snatching at the first that occurred of her objections, exclaimed, 'but, my dear, he is as much an engineer as yourself.' 'from necessity, not choice. he farmed till last august.' 'canadian farming! besides, what nonsense to offer a young man, with all the world before him, to be bailiff of this little place.' 'it would, were he only to stand in brooks's position; but if he were the acknowledged heir, as he ought to be--yes, i know i am saying a dreadful thing--but, my good queen elizabeth, your grace would be far wiser to accept jamie at once than to keep your subjects fretting over your partialities. he will be a worthy humfrey charlecote if you catch and pin him down young. he will be worthy any way, but if you let him go levelling and roaming over the world for the best half of his life, this same holt will lose its charms for him and his heirs for ever.' 'but--but how can you tell that he would be caught and pinned?' 'there is a very sufficient pin at the underwood.' 'my dear owen, impossible!' 'mind, no one has told me in so many words, but mervyn fulmort gave me such an examination on randolf as men used to do when matrimony is in the wind; and since that, he inferred the engagement, when he came to me in no end of a rage, because my backwoodsman had conscientious scruples against partaking in their concoction of evil spirits.' 'do you mean that mervyn wants to employ him?' 'to take him into partnership, on the consideration of a certain thirty thousand. you may judge whence that was to come! and he, like robert, declined to live by murdering bodies and souls. i am afraid mervyn has been persecuting them ever since.' 'ever since when?' 'this last conversation was some three weeks ago. i suspect the principal parties settled it on that snowy twelfth-day--' 'but which of them, owen?' 'which?' exclaimed owen, laughing. 'the goggle or the squint?' 'for shame, owen. but i cannot believe that phoebe would not have told me!' 'having a sister like lady bannerman may hinder confidences to friends.' 'now, owen, are you sure?' 'as sure as i was that it was a moonstruck man that slept in my room in woolstone-lane. i knew that cynthia's darts had been as effective as though he had been a son of niobe!' 'i don't believe it yet,' cried honor; 'an honourable man--a sensible girl! such a wild thing!' 'ah! queen elizabeth! queen elizabeth! shut up an honourable man and a sensible girl in a cedar parlour every evening for ten days, and then talk of wild things! have you forgotten what it is to be under twenty-five?' 'i hate queen elizabeth,' said honor, somewhat tartly. he muttered something of an apology, and resumed his book. she worked on in silence, then looking up said, rather as if rejoicing in a valid objection, 'how am i to know that this man is first in the succession? i am not suspecting him of imposition. i believe that, as you say, his mother was a charlecote, but how do i know that she had not half-a-dozen brothers. there is no obligation on me to leave the place to any one, but this youth ought not to come before others.' 'that is soon answered,' said owen. 'the runaway, your grandfather's brother, led a wild, leather-stocking life, till he was getting on in years, then married, luckily not a squaw, and died at the end of the first year, leaving one daughter, who married major randolf, and had this only son.' 'the same relation to me as humfrey! impossible! and pray how do you prove this?' 'i got currie to make notes for me which i can get at in my room,' said owen. 'you can set your lawyer to write to the places, and satisfy yourself without letting him know anything about it.' 'has he any expectations?' 'i imagine not. i think he has never found out that our relationship is not on the charlecote side.' 'then it is the more--impertinent, i really must say, in him to pay his addresses to phoebe, if he have done so.' 'i can't agree with you. what was her father but an old distiller, who made his fortune and married an heiress. you sophisticated old honey, to expect him to be dazzled with her fortune, and look at her from a respectful distance! i thought you believed that "a man's a man for a' that," and would esteem the bold spirit of the man of progress.' 'progress, indeed!' said honor, ironically. 'listen, honor,' said owen, 'you had better accuse me of this fortune-hunting which offends you. i have only obeyed fate, and so will you. from the moment i met him, he seemed as one i had known of old. it was charlecotism, of course; and his signature filled me with presentiment. nay, though the fire and the swamp have become mere hearsay to me now, i still retain the recollection of the impression throughout my illness that he was to be all that i might have been. his straightforward good sense and manly innocence brought phoebe before me, and currie tells me that i had fits of hatred to him as my supplanter, necessary as his care was to me.' honor just stopped herself from exclaiming, 'never!' and changed it into, 'my own dear, generous boy!' 'you forget that i thought it was all over with me! the first sensations i distinctly remember were as i lay on my bed at montreal, one sunday evening, and saw him sitting in the window, his profile clearly cut against the light, and retracing all those old silhouettes over the mantelshelf. then i remembered that it had been no sick delusion, but truth and verity, that he was the missing charlecote! and feeling far more like death than life, i was glad that you should have some one to lean on of your own sort; for, honor, it was his bible that he was reading!--one that he had saved out of the fire. i thought it was a lucid interval allowed me for the sake of giving you a better son and support than i had been, and looked forward to your being happy with him. as soon as i could get currie alone, i told him how it stood, and made him take notes of the evidence of his identity, and promise to make you understand it if i were dead or childish. my best hope was to see him accepted as my expiation; but when i got back, and you wouldn't have him at any price, and i found myself living and lifelike, and had seen her again--' 'her? phoebe? my poor boy, you do not mean--' 'i do mean that i was a greater fool than you even took me for,' said owen, with rising colour. 'first and last, that pure child's face and honest, plain words had an effect on me which nothing else had. the other affair was a mere fever by comparison, and half against my will.' 'owen!' 'yes, it was. when i was with that poor thing, her fervour carried me along; and as to the marriage, it was out of shortsighted dread of the uproar that would have followed if i had not done it. either she would have drowned herself, or her mother would have prosecuted me for breach of promise, or she would have proclaimed all to lucy or mr. prendergast. i hadn't courage for either; though, honor, i had nearly told you the day i went to ireland, when i felt myself done for.' 'you were married then?' 'half-an-hour!' said owen, with something of a smile, and a deep sigh. 'if i had spoken, it would have saved a life! but i could not bear to lose my place with you, nor to see that sweet face turned from me.' 'you must have known that it would come out in time, owen. i never could understand your concealment.' 'i hardly can,' said owen, 'except that one shuffles off unpleasant subjects! i did fancy i could stave it off till oxford was over, and i was free of the men there; but that notion might have been a mere excuse to myself for putting off the evil day. i was too much in debt, too, for an open rupture with you; and as to her, i can truly say that my sole shadow of an excuse is that i was too young and selfish to understand what i was inflicting!' he passed his hand over his face, and groaned, as he added--'well, that is over now; and at last i can bear to look at her child!' then recurring in haste to the former subject--'you were asking about phoebe! yes, when i saw the fresh face ennobled but as simple as ever, the dog in the manger seemed to me a reasonable beast! randolf's admiration was a bitter pill. if i were to be nailed here for ever, i could not well spare the moonbeams from my prison! but that's over now--it was a diseased fancy! i have got my boy now, and can move about; and when i get into harness, and am in the way of seeing people, and maturing my invention, i shall never think of it again.' 'ah! i am afraid that is all i can wish for you!' 'don't wish it so pitifully, then,' said owen, smiling. 'after having had no hope of her for five years, and being the poor object i am, this is no such great blow; and i am come to the mood of benevolence in which i really desire nothing so much as to see them happy.' 'i will think about it,' said honor. and though she was bewildered and disappointed, the interview had, on the whole, made her happier, by restoring the power of admiring as much as she loved. yet it was hard to be required to sacrifice the interests of one whom she adored, her darling, who might need help so much, to do justice to a comparative stranger; and the more noble and worthy owen showed himself, the less willing was she to decide on committing herself to his unconscious rival. still, did the test of idolatry lie here? she perceived how light-hearted this conversation had rendered owen, as though he had thrown off a weight that had long been oppressing him. he was overflowing with fun and drollery throughout the journey; and though still needing a good deal of assistance at all changes of carriage, showed positive boyish glee in every feat he could accomplish for himself; and instead of shyly shrinking from the observation and casual help of fellow-travellers, gave ready smiles and thanks. exhilarated instead of wearied by the journey, he was full of enjoyment of the lodgings, the window, and the view; a new spring of youthfulness seemed to have come back to him, and his animation and enterprise carried honor along with him. assuredly she had never known more thorough present pleasure than in his mirthful, affectionate talk, and in the sight of his daily progress towards recovery; and a still greater happiness was in store for her. on the second day, he begged to accompany her to the week-day service at the neighbouring church, previously sending in a request for the offering of the thanks of owen charteris sandbrook for preservation in great danger, and recovery from severe illness. 'dearest,' she said, 'were i to recount my causes of thanksgiving, i should not soon have done! this is best of all.' 'not fully _best_ yet, is it?' said owen, looking up to her with eyes like those of his childhood. 'no; but it soon will be.' 'not yet,' said owen; 'i must think first; perhaps write or talk to robert fulmort. i feel as if i _could_ now.' 'you long for it?' 'yes, as i never even _thought_ i did,' said owen, with much emotion. 'it was strange, honor, as soon as i came home to the old places, how the old feelings, that had been set aside so long, came back again. i would have given the world to recover them in canada, but could only envy randolf, till they woke up again of themselves at the sight of the study, and the big bible we used to read with you.' 'yet you never spoke.' 'no; i _could_ not till i had proved to myself that there was no time-serving in them, if you must know the truth!' said owen, colouring a little. 'besides, having been told my wits would go, how did i know but that they were a symptom of my second childhood?' 'how could any one have been so cruel as to utter such a horrible presage?' 'one overhears and understands more than people imagine, when one has nothing to do but to lie on the broad of one's back and count the flies,' said owen. 'so, when i was convinced that my machine was as good as ever, but only would not stand application, i put off the profession, just to be sure what i should think of it when i could _think_.' 'well!' was all honor could say, gazing through glad tears. 'and now, honor dear,' said he, with a smile, 'i don't know how it is. i've tried experiments on my brains. i have gone through half-a-dozen tough calculations. i have read over a greek play, and made out a problem or two in mechanics, without being the worse for it; but, somehow, i can't for the life of me hark back to the opinions that had such power over me at oxford. i can't even recollect the half of them. it is as if that hemlock spruce had battered them out of my head.' 'even like as a dream when one awaketh.' 'something like it! why, even _unknownst_ to you, sweet honey, i got at one or two of the books i used to swear by, and somehow i could not see the force of what they advanced. there's a futility about it all, compared with the substance.' 'before, you did not believe with your heart, so your understanding failed to be convinced.' 'partly so,' said owen, thoughtfully. 'the fact is, that religion is so much proved to the individual by personal experience and actual sensation, that those who reason from without are on different ground, and the _avocato del diavolo_ has often apparently the advantage, because the other party's security is that witness in his own breast which cannot be brought to light.' 'only apparently.' 'really, sometimes, with the lookers-on who have accepted the doctrines without feeling them. they, having no experience, feel the failure of evidence, where the tangible ends.' 'do you mean to say that this was the case with yourself, my dear? i should have thought, if ever child were good--' 'so did i,' said owen, smiling. 'i simulated the motions to myself and every one else: and there was a grain of reality, after all; but neither you nor i ever knew how much was mere imitation and personal influence. when i outgrew implicit faith in _you_, i am afraid my higher faith went with it--first through recklessness, then through questioning. after believing more than enough, the transition is easy to doubting what is worthy of credit at all.' 'from superstition to rationalism.' 'yes; overdoing articles of faith and observances, while the mind and conscience are young and tender, brings a dangerous reaction when liberty and independent reflection begin.' 'but, owen, i may have overdone observances, yet i did not teach superstitions,' said honor. 'not consciously,' said owen. 'you meant to teach me dogmatically only what you absolutely believed yourself. but you did not know how boundless is a child's readiness to accept what comes as from a spiritual authority, or you would have drawn the line more strongly between doctrine and opinion, fact and allegory, the true and the edifying.' 'in effect, i treated you as the romish church began by doing to the populace.' 'exactly so. like the mediaeval populace, i took legend for fact; and like the modern populace, doubted of the whole together, instead of sifting. there is my confession, honor dear. i know you are happier for hearing it in full; but remember, my errors are not chargeable upon you. if i had ever been true towards myself or you, and acted out what i thought i felt, i should have had the personal experience that would have protected the truth when the pretty superstructure began to pass away.' 'what you have undertaken now is an acting out!' 'i hope it is. therefore it is the first time that i have ever trusted myself to be in earnest. and after all, honor, though it is a terrible past to look back on, it is so very pleasant to be coming _home_, and to realize mercy and pardon, and hopes of doing better, that i can't feel half the broken-down sorrow that perhaps ought to be mine. it won't stay with me, when i have you before me.' honor could not be uneasy. she was far too glad at heart for that. the repentance was proving itself true by its fruits, and who could be anxious because the gladness of forgiveness overpowered the pain of contrition? her inordinate affection had made her blind and credulous where her favourite was concerned, so as to lead to his seeming ruin, yet when the idol throne was overturned, she had learnt to find sufficiency in her maker, and to do offices of love without excess. then after her time of loneliness, the very darling of her heart had been restored, when it was safe for her to have him once more; but so changed that he himself guarded against any recurrence to the old exclusive worship. chapter xxxiii but the pine woods waved, and the white streams raved; they told me in my need, that softness and feeling were not soul-healing; and so it was decreed-- that the marvellous flowers of woman's duty should grow on the grave of buried beauty.--faber easter was at hand, and immediately after it mr. currie was to return to canada to superintend the formation of the grand ottawa and superior line. he and his assistants were hard at work on the specifications, when a heavy tap and tramp came up the stairs, and owen sandbrook stood before them, leaning on his crutch, and was greeted with joyful congratulations on being on his legs again. 'randolf,' he said, hastily, 'miss charlecote is waiting in the carriage to speak to you. give me your pen.' 'i shall be back in an instant.' 'time will show. where are you?--"such sleepers to be--" i see. down with you.' 'yes; never mind hurrying back,' said the engineer; 'we can get this done without you'--and as the door closed--'and a good deal beside. i hear you have put it in train.' 'i have every reason to hope so. does he guess?' 'not a whit, as far as i can tell. he has been working hard, and improving himself in his leisure. he would have made a first-rate engineer. it is really hard to be robbed of two such assistants one after the other.' meanwhile honor had spent those few moments in trepidation. she had brought herself to it at last! the lurking sense of injustice had persuaded her that it was crossing her conscience to withhold the recognition of her heir, so soon as she had received full evidence of his claims and his worthiness. though she had the power, she felt that she had not the right to dispose of her property otherwise; and such being the case, it was a duty to make him aware of his prospects, and offer him such a course as should best enable him to take his future place in the county. still it was a severe struggle. even with her sense of insufficiency, it was hard to resign any part of the power that she had so long exercised; she felt that it was a risk to put her happiness into unknown hands, and perhaps because she had had this young man well-nigh thrust on her, and had heard him so much lauded, she almost felt antagonistic to him as rival of owen, and could have been glad if any cause for repudiating him would have arisen. even the favour that he had met with in phoebe's eyes was no recommendation. she was still sore at phoebe's want of confidence in her; she took mervyn's view of his presumption, and moreover it was another prize borne off from owen. poor dear honor, she never made a greater sacrifice to principle than when she sent her william off to normandy to summon her edgar atheling. she did not imagine that she had it in her to have hated any one so much. yet, somehow, when the bright, open face appeared, it had the kindred, familiar air, and the look of eagerness so visibly fell at the sight of her alone in the carriage, that she could not defend herself from a certain amusement and interest, while she graciously desired him to get in, and drive with her round the park, since she had something to tell him that could not be said in a hurry. then as he looked up in inquiry, suspecting, perhaps, that she had heard of his engagement, she rushed at once to the point. 'i believe you know,' she said, 'that i have no nearer relation than yourself?' 'not sandbrook?' he asked, in surprise. 'he is on my mother's side. i speak of my own family. when the holt came to me, it was as a trust for my lifetime to do my best for it, and to find out to whom afterwards it should belong. i was told that the direct heir was probably in america. owen sandbrook has convinced me that you are that person.' 'thank you,' began young randolf, somewhat embarrassed; 'but i hope that this will make little difference to me for many years!' did he underrate the holt, the wretch, or was it civility? she spoke a little severely. 'it is not a considerable property, but it gives a certain position, and it should make a difference to you to know what your prospects are.' the colour flushed into his cheeks as he said, 'true! it may have a considerable effect in my favour. thank you for telling me;' and then paused, as though considering whether to volunteer more, but as yet her manner was not encouraging, but had all the dryness of effort. 'i have another reason for speaking,' she continued. 'it is due to you to warn you that the estate wants looking after. i am unequal to the requirements of modern agriculture, and my faithful old bailiff, who was left to me by my dear cousin, is past his work. neither the land nor the people are receiving full justice.' 'surely sandbrook could find a trustworthy steward,' returned the young man. 'nay, had you not better, according to his suggestion, come and live on the estate yourself, and undertake the management, with an allowance in proportion to your position as the heir?' her heart beat high with the crisis, and she saw his colour deepen from scarlet to crimson as he said, 'my engagement with mr. currie--' 'mr. currie knows the state of things. owen sandbrook has been in communication with him, and he does not expect to take you back with him, unless you prefer the variety and enterprise of your profession to becoming a country gentleman of moderate means.' she almost hoped that he would, as she named the rental and the proposed allowance, adding, 'the estate must eventually come to you, but it is for you to consider whether it may not be better worth having if, in the interim, it be under your superintendence.' he had had time to grow more familiar with the idea, and spoke readily and frankly. 'indeed, miss charlecote, i need no inducement. it is the life i should prefer beyond all others, and i can only hope to do my duty by you, and whatever you may think fit to intrust to me.' and, almost against her will, the straightforward honesty of his look brought back to her the countenance where she had always sought for help. 'then your past misfortunes have not given you a distaste to farming?' 'they did not come from farming, but speculation. i was brought up to farm work, and am more at home in it than in anything else, so that i hope i could be useful to you.' she was silent. oh, no; she had not the satisfaction of being displeased. he was ready enough, but not grasping; and she found herself seeing more of the charlecote in him, and liking him better than she was ready to grant. 'miss charlecote,' he said after a few moments' thought, 'in the relations you are establishing between us, it is right that you should know the full extent of the benefits you are conferring.' it was true, then? well, it was better than a new world lady, and honora contrived to look pleasantly expectant. 'i know it was very presumptuous,' he said; 'but i could not help making my feelings known to one who is very dear to you--miss fulmort.' 'indeed she is,' said honor; though maybe poor phoebe had of late been a shade less dear to her. 'and with your consent,' said be, perhaps a little disconcerted by her want of warmth, 'i hope this kindness of yours may abridge the term of waiting to which we looked forward.' 'what were you waiting for?' 'until such time as i could provide a home to which she could take her sister maria. so you see what you have done for us.' 'maria!' 'yes. she promised her mother, on her death-bed, that maria should be her charge, and no one could wish her to lay it aside.' 'and the family are aware of the attachment?' 'the brothers are, and have been kinder than i dared to expect. it was thought better to tell no one else until we could see our way; but you have a right to know now, and i have the more hope that you will find comfort in the arrangement, since i know how warmly and gratefully she feels towards you. i may tell her?' he added, with a good deal of affirmation in his question. 'what would you do if i told you not?' she asked, thawing for the first time out of her set speeches. 'i should feel very guilty and uncomfortable in writing.' 'then come home with me to-morrow, and let us talk it over,' she said, acting on a mandate of owen's which she had strenuously refused to promise to obey. 'you may leave your work in owen's hands. he wants to stay a few days in town, to arrange his plans, and, i do believe, to have the pleasure of independence; but he will come back on saturday, and we will spend easter together.' 'miss charlecote,' said humfrey, suddenly, 'i have no right to ask, but i cannot but fear that my having turned up is an injury to sandbrook.' 'i can only tell you that he has been exceedingly anxious for the recognition of your rights.' 'i understand now!' exclaimed humfrey, turning towards her quickly; 'he betrayed it when his mind was astray. i am thrusting him out of what would have been his!' 'it cannot be helped,' began honor; 'he never expected--' 'i can say nothing against it,' said the young man, with much emotion. 'it is too generous to be talked of, and these are not matters of choice, but duty; but is it not possible to make some compensation?' 'i have done my best to lay up for those children,' said honor; 'but his sister will need her full half, and my city property has other claimants. i own i should be glad to secure that, after me, he should not be entirely dependent upon health which, i fear, will never be sound again.' 'i know you would be happier in arranging it yourself, though he has every claim on my gratitude. could not the estate be charged with an annuity to him?' 'thank you!' said honor, warmly. 'such a provision will suit him best. i see that london is his element; indeed, he is so much incapacitated for a country life that the estate would have been a burthen to him, could he have rightly inherited it. he is bent on self-maintenance; and all i wish is, that when i am gone, he should have sonething to fall back upon.' 'i do not think that i can thank you more heartily for any of your benefits than for making me a party to this!' he warmly said. 'but there is no thanking you; i must try to do so by deeds.' she was forced to allow that her atheling was winning upon her! 'two points i liked,' she said to robert, who spent the evening with her, while owen was dining with mr. currie--'one that he accepted the holt as a charge, not a gift--the other that he never professed to be marrying for _my_ sake.' 'yes, he is as true as phoebe,' said robert. 'both have real power of truth from never deceiving themselves. they perfectly suit one another.' 'high praise from you, robin. yet how could you forgive his declaration from so unequal a position?' 'i thought it part of his consistently honest dealing. had she been a mere child, knowing nothing of the world, and subject to parents, it might have been otherwise; but independent and formed as she is, it was but just to avow his sentiments, and give her the choice of waiting.' 'in spite of the obloquy of a poor man paying court to wealth?' 'i fancy he was too single-minded for that idea, and that it was not wealth which he courted was proved by his rejection of mervyn's offer. do you know, i think his refusal will do mervyn a great deal of good. he is very restless to find out the remaining objections to his management, and randolf will have more influence with him than i ever could, while he considers parsons as a peculiar species.' 'if people would only believe the good of not compromising!' 'they must often wait a good while to see the good!' 'but, oh! the fruit is worth waiting for! robin,' she added, after a pause, 'you have been in correspondence with my boy.' 'yes,' said robert; 'and there, indeed, you may be satisfied. the seed you sowed in the morning is bearing its increase!' '_i_ sowed! ah, robert! what i sowed was a false crop, that had almost caused the good seed to be rooted up together with it!' 'not altogether, said robert. 'if you made any mistakes that led to a confusion of real and unreal in his mind, still, the real good you did to him is incalculable.' 'so he tells me, dear boy! but when i think what he was as a child, and what he has been as a youth, i cannot but charge it on myself.' 'then think what he is, and will be, i trust, as a man,' said robert. 'even at the worst, the higher, purer standard that had been impressed on him saved him from lower depths; and when "he came to himself," it was not as if he had neither known his father's house nor the way to it. oh, miss charlecote! you must not come to me to assure you that your training of him was in vain! i, who am always feeling the difference between trying to pull him and poor mervyn upwards! there may be more excuse for mervyn, but owen knows where he is going, and springs towards it; while mervyn wonders at himself at every stage, and always fancies the next some delusion of my strait-laced imagination.' 'ah! once i spurned, and afterwards grieved over, the saying that very religious little boys either die or belie their promise.' 'there is some truth in it,' said robert. 'precocious piety is so beautiful that it is apt to be fostered so as to make it insensibly imitative and unreal, or depend upon some individual personal influence; and there is a certain reaction at one stage of growth against what has been overworked.' 'then what could you do with such a child as my owen if it were all to come over again? his aspirations were often so beautiful that i could not but reverence them greatly; and i cannot now believe that they were prompted by aught but innocence and baptismal grace!' 'looking back,' said robert, 'i believe they were genuine, and came from his heart. no; such a devotional turn should be treated with deep reverence and tenderness; but the expression had better be almost repressed, and the test of conduct enforced, though without loading the conscience with details not of general application, and sometimes impracticable under other circumstances.' 'it is the practicalness of dear owen's reformation that makes it so thoroughly satisfactory,' said honora; 'though i must say that i dread the experiment. you will look after him, for this week, robert; i fear he is overdoing himself in his delight at moving about and working again.' 'i will see how he gets on. it will be a good essay for the future.' 'i cannot think how he is ever to bear living with mrs. murrell.' 'she is a good deal broken and subdued, and is more easily repressed than one imagines at her first onset. besides, she is very proud, and rather afraid, of him, and will not molest him much. indeed, it is a good arrangement for him; he ought to have care above that of the average landlady.' 'will he get it?' 'i trust so. she has the ways of a respectable servant; and her religious principle is real, though we do not much admire its manifestation. she will be honest and careful of his wants, and look after his child, and nurse him tenderly if he require it!' 'as if any one but myself would do that! but it is right, and he will be all the better and happier for accepting his duty to her while she lives, if he can bear it.' 'as he says, it is his only expiation.' 'well! i should not wonder if you saw more of me here than hitherto. a born cockney like me gets inclined to the haunts of men as she grows old, and if your sisters and charlecote raymond suffice for the parish, i shall be glad to be out of sight of the improvements _he_ will make.' 'not without your consent?' 'i shall have to consent in my conscience to what i hate in my heart.' 'i am not the man to argue you away from here,' said robert, eagerly. 'if you would take up the young women's association, it would be the only thing to make up for the loss of miss fennimore. then the st. wulstan's asylum wants a lady visitor.' 'my father's foundation, whence his successor ousted me, in a general sweep of troublesome ladies,' said honor. 'how sore i was, and how things come round.' 'we'll find work for you,' cried robert, highly exhilarated. 'i should like to make out that we can't do without you.' 'why, robin, you of all men taking to compliments!' 'it is out of self-interest. nothing makes so much difference to me as having this house inhabited.' 'indeed,' she said, highly gratified; 'i thought you wanted nothing but st. matthew's.' 'nay,' said robert, as a bright colour came over his usually set and impassive countenance. 'you do not want me to say what you have always been to me, and how better things have been fostered by your presence, ever since the day you let me out of hiltonbury church. i have often since thought it was no vain imagination that you were a good spirit sent to my rescue by mr. charlecote.' 'poor robin,' said honor, her lip quivering; 'it was less what i gave than what you gathered up. i barely tolerated you.' 'which served me right,' said robert, 'and made me respect you. there are so few to blame me now that i need you all the more. i can hardly cede to owen the privilege of being your only son.' 'you are my autumn-singing robin,' said honor, too true to let him think that he could stand beside owen in her affections, but with intense pleasure at such unwonted warmth from one so stern and reserved; it was as if he was investing her with some of the tenderness that the loss of lucilla had left vacant, and bestowing on her the confidences to which new relations might render phoebe less open. it was no slight preferment to be robert fulmort's motherly friend; and far beyond her as he had soared, she might still be the softening element in his life, as once she had been the ennobling one. if she had formed robert, or even given one impulse such as to lead to his becoming what he was, the old maid had not lived in vain. she was not selfish enough to be grieved at owen's ecstasy in emancipation; and trusting to being near enough to watch over him without being in his way, she could enjoy his overflowing spirits, and detect almost a jocund sound in the thump of his crutch across the hall, as he hurried in, elated with hopes of the success of his invention, eager about the canadian railway, delighted with the society of his congeners, and pouring out on her all sorts of information that she could not understand. the certainty that her decision was for his happiness ought surely to reconcile her to carrying home his rival in his stead. going down by an early train, she resolved, by robert's advice, to visit beauchamp at once, and give mervyn a distinct explanation of her intentions. he was tardy in taking them in, then exclaimed--'phoebe's teetotaller! well, he is a sharp fellow! the luck that some men have!' 'dear phoebe,' cried cecily, 'i am so thankful that she is spared a long attachment. it was telling on her already!' 'oh, we should have put a stop to the affair if he had gone out to canada,' roundly asserted mervyn; 'but of course he knew better--' 'not at all--this was quite a surprise.' mervyn recollected in time that it was best that miss charlecote should so imagine, and reserved for his wife's private ear his conviction that the young fellow had had this hope in his eye when refusing the partnership. such smartness and foresight commanded his respect as a man of the world, though maybe the women would not understand it. for phoebe's interest, he must encourage the lady in her excellent intentions. 'it is very handsome in you, miss charlecote--very handsome--and i am perfectly unprejudiced in assuring you that you have done the very best thing for yourself. phoebe is a good girl, and devoted to you already.' 'indeed she is,' said cecily. 'she looks up to you so much!' somehow honor did not want mrs. fulmort to assure her of this. 'and as to the place,' continued mervyn, 'you could not put it into better hands to get your people out of their old world ways. a young man like that, used to farming, and with steam and mechanics at his fingers' ends, will make us all look about us.' 'perhaps,' murmured poor honor, with quailing heart. 'john raymond and i were looking about the holt the other day,' said mervyn, 'and agreeing how much more could be made of it. clear away some of those hedgerows--grub up a bit of copse or two--try chemical manures--drain that terrible old marsh beyond the plantation--and have up a good engine-house where you have those old ramshackle buildings at the home farm! why, the place will bring in as much again, and you've hit on the very man to carry it out. he shall try all the experiments before i adopt them.' honora felt as if she must flee! if she were to hear any more she should be ready to banish young randolf to canada, were he ten times her heir. had she lived to hear humfrey's new barn, with the verge boards conceded to her taste, called ramshackle? and she had given her word! as she left beauchamp, and looked at her scraggy pine-trees cresting the hill, she felt as though they were her own no longer, and as if she had given them up to an enemy. she assured herself that nothing could be done without her free-will, and considered of the limitations that must be imposed on this frightful reformer, but her heart grew sick at the conviction that either she would have to yield, or be regarded as a mere incubus and obstruction. with almost a passionate sense of defence of humfrey's trees, and humfrey's barns, she undid the gate of the fir plantations--his special favourites. the bright april sun shed clear gleams athwart the russet boles of the trees, candied by their white gum, the shadows were sharply defined, and darkened by the dense silvered green canopy, relieved by fresh light young shoots, culminating in white powdery clusters, or little soft crimson conelets, all redolent of fresh resinous fragrance. the wind whispered like the sound of ocean in the summit of the trees, and a nightingale was singing gloriously in the distance. all recalled humfrey, and the day, thirty years back, when she had given him such sore pain, in those very woods, grasping the shadow instead of the substance, and taking the sunshine out of his life as well as from her own. never had she felt such a pang in thinking of that day, or in the vain imagination of how it might have been! 'yet i believe i am doing right,' she thought. 'humfrey himself might say that old things must pass away, and the past give place to the present! let me stand once more under the tree where i gave him that answer! shall i feel as if he would laugh at me for my shrinking, or approve me for my resolution?' the tree was a pinaster, of lengthy foliage and ponderous cones, standing in a little shooting-path, leading from the main walk. she turned towards it and stood breathless for a moment. there stood the familiar figure--youthful, well-knit, firm, with the open, steadfast, kindly face, but with the look of crowned exultant love that she had only once beheld, and that when his feet were already within the waters of the dark river. it was his very voice that exclaimed, 'here she is!' had her imagination indeed called up humfrey before her, or was he come to upbraid her with her surrender of his charge to modern innovation! but the spell was broken, for a woodland nymph in soft gray, edged with green, was instantly beside him, and that calmly-glad face was no reflection of what honora's had ever been. 'dear, dear miss charlecote,' cried phoebe, springing to her; 'we thought you would come home this way, so we came to meet you, and were watching both the paths.' 'thank you, my dear,' said honor. could that man, who looked so like humfrey, be thinking how those firs would cut up into sleepers? 'do you know,' said phoebe, eagerly, 'he says this wood is a little likeness of his favourite place in his old home.' 'i am afraid,' he added, as if apologizing, 'i shall always feel most at home in the smell of pine-trees.' mervyn's predictions began to lose their force, and honor smiled. 'but,' said phoebe, turning to her, 'i was longing to beg your pardon. i did not like to have any secret from you.' 'ah! you cunning children,' said honor, finding surface work easiest; 'you stole a march upon us all.' 'i could not help it,' said phoebe. they both laughed, and turning to him, she said, 'now, could i? when you spoke to me, i could only tell the truth.' 'and i suppose he could not help it,' said honor. 'of course not, if there was no reason for helping it,' he said. there could be no dwelling on the horrible things that he would perpetrate, while he looked so like the rightful squire, and while both were so fair a sight in their glad gratitude; and she found herself saying, 'you will bear our name.' there might be a pang in setting aside that of his father, but he looked at the glowing cheeks and glistening eyes beside him, and said, 'answer for me.' 'it is what i should like best of all,' phoebe said, fervently. 'if we can deserve to bear it,' he gravely added. and something in his tone made honora feel confident that, even if he should set up an engine-house, it would be only if humfrey would have done so in his place. 'it will be belonging to you all the more,' said phoebe. 'it is one great pleasure that now i shall have a right to you!' 'yes, phoebe, the old woman will depend on you, her "eastern moon brightening as day's wild lights decline." but she will trouble you no longer. finish your walk with humfrey.' it was the first time she had called him by that name. 'no,' they said, with one voice, 'we were waiting to walk home with you, if we may.' there was something in that walk, in the tender, respectful kindness with which she was treated, in the intelligent interest that humfrey showed in the estate, his clear-headed truthfulness on the need of change, and his delicate deference in proposing alteration, that set her heart at rest, made her feel that the 'goodly heritage' was in safe hands, and that she had a staff in her hands for the first time since that sunday in harvest. * * * * * before the next harvest, hiltonbury bells rang out, and the church was crowded with glad faces; but there was none more deeply joyful than that of the lonely woman with silvery hair, who quietly knelt beside the gray slab, lettered h. c., , convinced that the home and people of him who lay there would be in trusty hands, when she should join him in his true inheritance. her idols set aside, she could with clearer eyes look to that hope, though in no weariness of earth, no haste to depart, but still in full strength, ready to work for man's good and god's glory. beside her, as usual, was owen, leaning on his crutch, but eminent in face and figure as the handsomest man present, and full of animation, betraying neither pain or regret, but throughout the wedding festivities showing himself the foremost in mirth, and spurring hiltonbury on to rejoicings that made the villagers almost oblivious of the forest show. the saddest face in church was that of the head bridesmaid. even though phoebe was only going as far as the holt, and humfrey was much loved, bertha's heart was sore with undefined regret for her own blotted past, and with the feeling of present loss in the sister whose motherly kindness she had never sufficiently recognized. bertha knew not how much gentler and more lovable she herself was growing in that very struggle with her own sadness, and in her endeavours to be sufficient protectress for maria. the two sisters were to remain at the underwood with miss fennimore, and in her kindness, and in daily intercourse with phoebe and cecily, could hardly fail to be happy. maria was radiantly glad, in all the delight of her bridesmaid's adornments and of the school feasting, and above all in patronizing her pretty little niece, elizabeth acton, the baby bridesmaid. it was as if allegiance to poor juliana's dislikes had hitherto kept sir bevil aloof from phoebe, and deterred him from manifesting his good-will; but the marriage brought him at last to beauchamp, kind, grave, military, and melancholy as ever, and so much wrapped up in his little girl and his fancied memory of her mother, that cecily's dislike of long attachments was confirmed by his aspect; and only her sanguine benevolence was bold enough to augur his finding a comforter in her cousin susan. poor man! lady bannerman had been tormenting him all the morning with appeals to his own wedding as precedents for cecily's benefit! her instructions to cecily were so overwhelming as to reduce that meek little lady to something approaching to annihilation; and the simple advice given by bertha, and backed by phoebe herself, 'never to mind,' appeared the summit of audacity! long since having ceased to trouble herself as to the danger of growing too stout, lady bannerman, in her brocades and laces, was such a mountain of a woman that she was forced to sail up the aisle of hiltonbury church alone in her glory, without space for a cavalier beside her. the bridegroom's friend was his little seven years' old brother, whom he had sent for to place at a good school, and who fraternized with little owen, a brisk little fellow, his _h's_ and his manners alike doing credit to the paternal training, and preparing in due time to become a blue-gowned and yellow-legged christ's hospital scholar--a nomination having been already promised through the fulmort city influence. robert assisted charlecote raymond in the rite which joined together the young pair. they were goodly to look upon, in their grave, glad modesty and self-possession, and their youthful strength and fairness--which, to honor's mind, gave the idea of the beauty of simple strength and completeness, such as befits a well-built vessel at her launch, in all her quiet force, whether to glide over smooth waters or to battle with the tempest. peaceful as those two faces were, there was in them spirit and resolution sufficient for either storm or calm, for it was steadfastness based upon the only strong foundation. for the last time was signed, and with no unsteady hand, the clear, well-made letters of the maiden phoebe fulmort, and as, above it, the bride read the words, 'humfrey charlecote randolf charlecote,' she looked up to her husband with a sweet, half-smile of content and exultation, as though his name were doubly endeared, as recalling her 'wise man,' the revered guardian of her imagination in her orphaned girlhood. there are years when the buds of spring are nipped by frost or blight, and when summer blossoms are rent by hail and storm, till autumn sets in without one relenting pause. then, even at the commencement of decline, comes an interval, a renewal of all that former seasons had proffered of fair and sweet; the very tokens of decay are lovely--the skies are deep calm blue, the sunsets soft gold, and the exquisite serenity and tranquil enjoyment are beyond even the bright, fitful hopes of spring. there is a tinge of melancholy, for this is a farewell, though a lingering farewell; and for that very cause the enduring flowers, the brilliant eaves, the persevering singing birds, are even more prized than those which, in earlier months, come less as present boons than foretastes of the future. such an indian summer may be honor charlecote's present life. it is not old age, for she has still the strength and health of her best days, but it is the later stage of middle life, with experience added to energy. her girlhood suffered from a great though high-minded mistake, her womanhood was careworn and sorrow-stricken. as first the beloved of her youth, so again the darling of her after-age was a disappointment; but she was patient, and patience has met with a reward, even in this life. desolateness taught her to rely no longer on things of earth, but to satisfy her soul with that love which is individual as well as infinite; and that lesson learnt, the human affection that once failed her is come back upon her in full measure. she is no longer forlorn; the children whom she bred up, and those whom she led by her influence, alike vie with one another in their love and gratitude. the old house in woolstone-lane is her home for the greater part of the winter and spring, and her chief work lies in her father's former parish, directed by mr. parsons and robert, and enjoying especially the sunday evenings that owen constantly spends with her in the cedar parlour, in such converse, whether grave or gay, as men rarely seek save with a mother, or one who has been as a mother. but she is still the lady of the holt. there she still spends autumn and christmas, resuming her old habits, without feeling them a burthen; bemoaning a little, but approving all the while, humfrey's moderate and successful alterations, and loving and delighting above all in phoebe's sweet wisdom in her happy household rule. it is well worth all the past to return to the holt with the holiday feeling of her girlhood. footnote. { } terrify, to tease or worry. [picture: detail from book cover]